Hurt/comfort - Tumblr Posts

Teen And Up Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

M/M

Complete Work

11 Feb 2023

Tags

No Archive Warnings Apply Gabriel John Utterson/Dr. Hastie Lanyon Dr. Henry Jekyll/Gabriel John UttersonDr. Henry Jekyll/Dr. Hastie Lanyon Dr. Henry Jekyll/Dr. Hastie Lanyon/Gabriel John Utterson Mr. Poole (Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde)Gabriel John Utterson Dr. Hastie Lanyon Dr. Henry Jekyll Hurt/Comfort Suicidal Thoughts

Summary

Henry gets comfortable by Hastie & Gabriel

Never Going to Leave You by Eye_Collective

Fandoms:Batman - All Media Types

General Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

M/M

Complete Work

02 Oct 2023

Tags

No Archive Warnings Apply Bernard Dowd/Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent Tim Drake Kon-El | Conner Kent Bernard Dowd Janet Drake(mentioned) Jack Drake(mentioned) Sickfic Tim Drake-centric Hurt/Comfort Emotional Hurt/ComfortDay #02 Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake Tim Drake Needs a Hug Tim Drake Gets a Hug Tim Drake Has Abandonment Issues Tim Drake has Anxiety Suicidal Thoughts Angst with a Happy Ending Angstober 2023

Summary

Tim gets sick,but Bernard and Kon are stuck going to places. So, Tim stuck with his thoughts.

Day 2: Anxiety

Complete Work

08 Oct 2023

Tags

No Archive Warnings ApplyAlfred Pennyworth & Bruce WayneAlfred Pennyworth Bruce Wayne Dick Grayson(mentioned)Tim Drake(mentioned)Jason Todd(mentioned)Damian Wayne(mentioned) Hurt/Comfort Good Parent Alfred Pennyworth Alfred Pennyworth is the Best Alfred Pennyworth-centricAlfred Pennyworth is Bruce Wayne's Parent Angstober 2023

Summary

Bruce asks about lines on a teacup

Day 5:"Dried and cracked"

Helped written by our amazing friend @alisters-nonsense

Batman - All Media Types

Teen And Up Audiences

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

M/M

Complete Work

11 Oct 2023

Tags

Graphic Depictions Of Violence Roy Harper/Jason Todd Roy Harper Jason Todd Sheila Haywood Joker (DCU) Emotional Hurt/Comfort Hurt/Comfort Nightmares Established Roy Harper/Jason Todd Jason Todd Needs A HugJason Todd Gets A HugJason Todd Deserves BetterJason Todd-centric Married Roy Harper/Jason Todd Blood and InjuryBlood and Violence Angstober 2023 Day 06

Summary

Jason has nightmare about Joker beating him,his husband Roy helps him.

Day 6: "what's wrong?"

Series

Part 6 of Angstober 2023

Major Character Death Arthur Lester & Arthur Lester's parents Arthur Lester Arthur Lester's parents Suicide Canon Universe Canonical Character Death Canon Compliant Pre-Canon Angst Sad Ending No Romance Overdosing Minor Original Character(s)They are there for plot reason Suicidal Thoughts hurt/Comfort Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Summary

Arthur goes to wake up his parents but little did he know their fate

My Reasons to Live by Horroreyecollective

Fandoms:Malevolent (Podcast)

Teen And Up Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Gen

Complete Work

21 Aug 2024

Tags

No Archive Warnings Apply John & Arthur Lester Arthur Lester & Faroe Lester Arthur Lester & Peter "Parker" Yang Arthur Lester & Bella Lester John (Malevolent) Arthur Lester Faroe Lester Bella Lester Peter "Parker" Yang (Malevolent) Lilly the Buopoth (Malevolent) Blood and Injury Injury Episode: Coda (Malevolent)Angstober 2024 Implied/Referenced Character Death Hurt/Comfort Emotional Hurt/Comfort Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism

Summary

Arthur thought about his five reasons to live.

Day 02: Countdown

Series

Part 2 of Angstober 2024

Language: English Words: 527 Chapters: 1/1

Hi! <3

I saw your Jim headcanons in time of crisis, and boy i’m glad! They were very nice and i loved them. I’m kinda having a bit of a bad day, the usual, so…

I wanted to kinda request some headcanons (or one-shot, whatever works for you) of Jim Hawkins with a sad gn! (or fem if you’d prefer that) reader. Just they’re very emotional, crying some, watching sad childhood movie scenes (cough Married Life from Up cough) and just needing some comfort and reassurance.

So sorry to bother, i wasn’t totally sure if your requests are open so i wanted to give it a shot, no pressure to write this whatsoever! You could literally just write something soft for Jim and i would be over the moon. Remember to take care of yourself first! <3

hello love! thank you so much, i'm so sorry you're having a bad day :( and don't worry! i love getting requests <3 i hope this is alright, i adore this idea, thank you 🤍 (take care as well!!)

What. A. Disaster. Not only are the skies filled with an unpleasant and dreary forecast, but you totally failed today's test at the Academy. Everything this past week--no- month has gone wrong. Unbearable sadness and stress have been building up inside you- with no outlet to escape. You can barely think a coherent thought. All that occupies your mind is the burning question: "when will it get better?" As you trudge through the squishy, muddy, path home, an idea strikes you. If you had one wish in the world, it would be to go back to being a kid. No responsibilities, besides chores of course. No anxiety, no sadness, just glee and bliss. (or so your mind believes) One way to live that dream is to re-watch your favorite childhood classics. Yes- that's it! That'll cheer you up for sure, who doesn't love those movies? Maybe this day would take a turn for the better. You enter your shared apartment, making sure not to bring in mud on the fresh floor. Tossing your bag on the floor, you make your way to the shower. The LAST thing you want is to catch a cold. The warm water wraps around you like a big toasty hug, giving you at least a couple minutes of serenity. But as soon as you step out, the only warmth is the steam on your mirror. And the sadness returns. After drying your hair, you slip into your precious comfy pajamas and make your way to your bedroom. Your covers greet your body, and you're ready to relax and reopen memories that haven't resurfaced in years. You decide to put on "Upward," (wink wink) you remember watching this movie every night as a kid. A perfect pick. Everything was fine, your body was melted into the mattress, the lights were off, soft pillows surrounding you, until that scene came on. Oh. What you didn't remember is just how heartbreaking this movie actually is. Your sugarcoated nostalgia charmed you to pick a movie you thought would make you feel better, which in turn, made you feel worse. So. So. So much worse. The screen became blurry, blocked out by the tears swelling in your eyes. That was your breaking point. All of the sorrow and pain built up comes rushing out, a neverending collection of tears stroking your face. Hiccups, sobs, and whimpers escape your lips, and the sadness completely swallows you up. That is, until your loving boyfriend, Jim, opens your door. "Hey star, just wanted to let you know I'm home." He gently speaks, peering through the small crack in the door. All he hears is the soft hum of a movie, and... sobs? "Star?? Are you alright?" His voice now has a tone of concern. He enters the dim room, eyes trailing up to your crying figure. "oh..." Jim rushes to your side, slipping under the covers with you. You lean your head on him, only wanting to be held by him. He holds your body like you're porcelain, caressing you as you cry into his arms. "Do you... want to talk about it?" He softly whispers into your ear. The only response he gets is a choked-back sob. "I'm guessing not. That's ok, you don't have to talk." He pauses. "I'm here for you, I always will be. I know what abandonment feels like, and I want you to know whatever you're going through, I'll always be by your side." Your dry yet also tear-stained eyes look up and meet his loving eyes, then you cry even harder because he's just amazing, more than you could ever ask for. You cling to his shirt, afraid if you let go he'll fade away, like a dream gone too soon. Jim rubs his hand along your back, tracing shapes and patterns in an attempt to soothe you. (spoiler alert: it's working) You swallow dryly as the sobs finally stop, finally feeling that sleepy sensation you get after a good cry. The calm after the storm. You snuggle your head into his chest, collecting the warmth radiating from him. Before you can thank Jim, or even actually say a word, your eyes heavily close, and your breaths mirror the beginning of sleep. Jim notices this shift, and chuckles softly. "Even stuffy and red, you're still my beautiful star.." --☆--☆--☆--☆--☆--☆--☆--☆--☆--☆--☆--

20. How long did you think you could hide that? with Shouta, please! I feel like you'd be one of the best writers for it. (:

↳ aizawa shouta x reader → ❝look at me❞

summary: you get locked in a building while it's under attack, the last person you expect to come to your rescue is your ex boyfriend. word count: 2.6k+  tags/warnings: january hurt/comfort event, light descriptions of head attack, injury, and blood a/n: thank you for your prompt! a late addition to the january event.

masterlist

Having an ex-boyfriend that was a hero was not the best thing. Picture it, you’re facing one of the scariest moments of your life. In dire need of help and then your ex shows up.

It’s really a nightmare scenario.

The day started normally, you just had to run one errand then you could spend the rest of your day relaxing. All you had to do was go to city hall to pick up some papers then you were free to do nothing.

You made it a point to get up early and head over there early so you could enjoy your day off. That was the wrong choice evidently and you were quickly punished for your attempt at being productive.

You were walking down a hallway when lights began to flash and alarms sounded. Lockdown.

The city hall was under attack and it was under lockdown.

Quickly you took shelter in an open office under a desk, not fully knowing the threat yet.

It was loud, there was commotion in the building. It was clear something was happening but you weren’t sure what yet.

The next thing you heard was the office door open, you held your breath in fear.

“Is anyone in here?” You heard a man’s voice.

Peeking around the corner of the desk you tried to see who was talking. Surely a villain wouldn’t ask that. Right?

The last thing you wanted to see was Aizawa Shouta, otherwise known as the pro hero Eraserhead.

Maybe you wished it was a villain.

“Aizawa?” You said, coming out of your hiding spot.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was steady but you saw through his calm demeanor. You had been with him long enough to read him.

“I-I was just here to pick up paperwork.” You said. “What’s happening?”

Aizawa sighed. “There’s a gang of villains disgruntled with the mayor. They’re going after everyone in the building.”

“Oh no,” That was bad. Why did you have to be here right now?

“Stay here, okay?” He said. “I’m going to clear this floor and I’ll come back and get you out of here. Put a chair to block the door. I’ll knock when I’m back.”

You nodded. There was a conflicting feeling of not wanting to be alone right now but also not wanting to be around your ex.

“Okay.” You said. Aizawa nodded before closing the door. You took the chair and wedged it under the handle praying that they wouldn’t try getting in.

Sitting on the desk you wondered how your peaceful day off had turned into this. The last person you wanted to see was Aizawa Shouta.

You had done all you could to push away any thought of him. Despite the time that had passed since he broke up with you the wound still felt fresh.

Aizawa was your everything. You had met him by accident, he had come to your rescue one night. You offered to get him coffee and the two of you hit it off. You kept running into him and before you knew it you were falling for him. The two of you started to date.

You had dated for over a year and you thought everything was going great. You had even moved in together. Then one day he broke up with you, with no warning, no explanation.

It devastated you. You loved him more than anything, you thought the two of you would get married. Just like that you were alone, it was hard. He had moved out leaving you in the apartment where you had shared so many beautiful moments. It felt like living with a ghost.

You moved out to an apartment on the other side of town. You didn’t care if it meant being far away from work you just wanted to be away from all the places you had memories at.

It still hurt, one day living with the love of your life, the next he’s gone refusing to explain why. It ruined your confidence, took away the future you had in your head, and left you feeling empty.

The memory still hurt.

“What do you mean you’re breaking up with me?” You asked him in disbelief. If he was the type you’d think he was pranking you.

“This isn’t working out anymore, I want to move my life in a different direction.” He said all emotion gone from him.

“Did I do something?” You questioned, tears already burning in your eyes.

“No, things have just changed.” He said.

“Did you meet someone else?” You asked heartbroken at the thought.

“No.” He said quickly. “It’s just- Things are different now.” He said.

“What things?” You asked feeling desperate for an answer.

“I’ll be moving out.” He said. “I’ll be back tomorrow while you’re at work to get my stuff.”

He left with a packed bag and it felt like your world had fallen apart. You had created every horrible reason he would have left you since you never got a real reason from him.

A bang at the door brings you back to reality.

It’s not a knock and as you hear more noise you realize that someone is trying to break in. You get up and hide under the desk again hoping that they won’t be able to get in.

Your hopes are dashed as a loud noise tells you that the door has burst open. You curl up as small as you can and hold your breath. Maybe there’s a chance they don’t search the room.

Footsteps sound around the room as the man looks around, throwing furniture as he goes. It’s silent for a moment before the chair covering your hiding spot is torn away.

Before you can even react you’re grabbed by the ankle and dragged out. The villain above you is much larger than you and try as you might you can’t fight him off.

You’re picked up and thrown onto the desk. You scream for help, Aizawa can’t be far away, he’s always come to your rescue in the past and despite your split, you believe he still will.

There are a few more moments that feel like they last forever before the villain is pulled away and tossed to the side. You watch as Aizawa makes quick work of the villain.

His gaze turns to you, concern on his face. “Are you okay?” He asked you.

You start to stand up and you feel a pain in your stomach, your hand moves under your jacket and you feel something there. When you touch it, it hurts and you quickly realize what it is.

“I’m fine.” You told him.

He nods. “Okay, the floor is clear. Let’s go to the stairwell and I’ll get you out of here.” He said.

Aizawa leads you out of the room and down the hallway. It feels like every step hurts more and more but you keep pushing. You know it’s stupid, that you should tell him you're injured. That he should probably carry you out of the building but you can’t stand the thought of telling him.

In your head, there are only two options. One, that his reaction is stoic and he treats you like he would any other victim he would help as a hero. Or two, that you would see something more in his eyes and it would give you some hope that maybe he still felt the same way you did about him.

Getting to the stairwell you could feel more blood leaking from the wound, you knew the knife was still in the wound so it would keep you from bleeding too much. You were starting to feel light-headed as you descended the four floors to the ground level.

It was when you were almost at the ground level you missed a step, slipping down the last few steps. Aizawa was quick to grab you by your shoulders pulling you up. “Are you okay?” He asked.

“I-I’m fine.” You said trying to stand but your legs were shaky.

“Is that blood?” He asked spotting the red spreading through your shirt and now jacket.

You moved to try and hide it but you realized it was too much now. “I’m fine.” You said trying to sound more confident now.

Aizawa moves your open jacket out of the way to see the knife in your stomach. “You’re not fine!” His voice is harsh and you can see in his eyes how upset he is.

“I-” You start but he cut you off.

“How long did you think you could hide this?” His voice was firm but still upset.

Your eyes move to the ground, not wanting to look at him.

Aizawa lets out a heavy sigh. “We need to get you to medical now.” He said. “I’m going to carry you.

Before you can argue he picks you up carefully, holding you in a princess carry. He moves out of the stairwell through the lobby and to the lockdown checkpoint.

You hate it, you hate the memories of the times he carried you like this while you giggled and nuzzled your face into his neck. You hate the way his hands are so gentle around you. You hate the way you miss him so much even after all this time.

The sunlight should feel like relief, feel like safety but all you can think about is how you wish you never had to leave his arms.

Aizawa sets you down on a gurney at the triage tent set up for this disaster. Laying down you feel dizzy and sick but you have this overwhelming want to have him stay.

Maybe it’s the fear of the knife still stuck in your stomach or the attack you just faced but when Aizawa turns to move you grab his wrist.

“Please-” Your voice is weak. “Stay.”

“I-” Aizawa’s voice is low. “I just need to get a medic. I’m not going to leave.”

You’re surprised, you think that he should probably go back in and help the other heroes to stop the villains there but the last thing you’re gonna do right now is argue.

Aizawa returns to your side and you’re shocked when he takes your hand in his. A doctor approaches you and assesses your wound.

“We need to get her to a hospital, if we remove this here she will bleed out.” They said.

“I’ll go with her,” Aizawa said shocking you again.

They loaded you into the ambulance and Aizawa stayed by your side. You didn’t understand why he was staying with you and you felt conflicted. Every part of you wanted him here but you didn’t want to face the moment he walked away.

At the hospital, they’re able to stabilize you and get a scan to confirm the wound hasn’t hit any organs or major arteries. Aizawa stays by your side as much as he can and when they finally are ready to remove the knife and stitch you up he’s there holding your hand.

“It’s going to be okay,” He said as he held your hand, you hate how much you love it. You close your eyes as they pull the knife out, it doesn't hurt because they’ve numbed you but the sensation is still disturbing and you let out a gasp.

You need something to distract you.

“Why did you break up with me?” The question leaves your mouth before you can stop yourself. Out of the corner of your eyes, you can see the doctor who is stitching up your wound glance over at you for a moment before resuming. You know this isn’t the time or place but you aren’t sure if you’ll ever get it again.

Aizawa stares at you for a moment before sighing. “I was scared.” He said. You’re surprised that he answered you but you’re even more surprised by his answer.

“What?” You asked confused.

“I broke up with you because I was scared of losing you.” He explained.

“I would never leave,” You said.

“I didn’t think you were going to leave- I-” He paused, his eyes glancing away before returning to your gaze. “A friend of mine, a hero, she lost her husband. It was really hard to watch, she fell apart- I couldn’t stop wondering what would happen if something happened to you.”

“Shouta-” You said softly.

“I obsessed over it, and when you had that run-in with a villain because they targeted you because you were close to me- it was the breaking point. I didn’t want to put you in danger and I didn’t want to lose you.” He explained.

“And here we are,” Probably not the right time for a joke but you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “You’re right. I realized a while ago that I was wrong for breaking up with you. It was cruel to do that to you with no explanation and I ruined the best thing I’ve ever had in my life.”

You stared at him surprised by his words. Your attention was fully off the discomfort of being stitched up.

“I regretted it from the day I broke up with you but for months I told myself it was to protect you but the reality is I was scared and I should have just dealt with my feelings in a healthy way instead of pushing you away.” He said. “I’ve been a coward, avoiding you when I should have been at your door begging you to forgive me and take me back.”

Maybe you died. That was your first thought at his words. How many times had you wished Shouta had come to you and asked for you back? And here you were, being stitched up by a doctor for a stab wound and Shouta was holding your hand telling you he should have never left.

“Shouta-” You said looking up at him. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve wished you would come back, how many times I wanted to chase after you and beg you to explain what happened.” Your eyes started to burn with tears.

He looked relieved, a soft smile on his lips.

“You’re all stitched up, we’d like to move you to a room so we can keep you overnight to make sure you don’t have an infection.” The doctor said feeling hesitant to interrupt your moment.

You looked at her feeling awkward that you just had that moment in front of a stranger. “Thank you.” You said.

After being moved into a regular room Aizawa sat at your side.

The room was quiet for a moment before he spoke. “I know I don’t deserve another chance, I know what I did was hurtful and immature and I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you like that.” He said. “But I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t ask you if you would ever consider taking me back. I love you, I never stopped loving you and you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”

Maybe it was the pain medicine but you stared at Shouta for a moment in disbelief.

“I’ve missed you so much.” You said, maybe it was the stress of the day but you started to tear up. “I never stopped loving you, all I’ve ever wanted is you back.”

Aizawa looked at you with soft eyes. He moved closer, leaning in to press a kiss against your forehead. “I was so scared today when I saw all that blood. I thought the worst.”

You grabbed his arm, gently pulling him closer. “Thank you for saving me, for getting me out.”

He looked at you with warm eyes, you could feel his love through his gaze. “I will always be there to save you,” He said softly. “I promise, I’ll never leave your side again.”

Your hand moved to the back of his neck, pulling him down for a soft kiss.

You didn’t know what the future held but it didn’t matter now that you had the love of your life back at your side.

Katsuki Bakugou x Reader "Still love you the same"

Tw: implied domestic abuse with comfort ofc

Pro hero AU

It was a rainy day and you and Katsuki both had the day off. Katsuki's presence alone normally soothes your mind, but today the universe has other plans. You hadn't meant for him to see it, you had just wanted to get a book from the shelf, and your shirt lifted up just enough to be able to see the scar. A shitty reminder of being hurt by someone you loved and trusted. You froze, feeling his gaze on your back. Katsuki stepped closer, his expression unreadable. You felt your body wanted to run, not out of fear or shame but because you didn't want any pity he had to give. "Are there anymore? You never told me about this " he asks softly but yet you could still feel the emotions in his words. You felt his hands hovering over the scars, the warmth of his hands radiating onto your skin. "Who did this?" He asks his voice firm and is still calm when he does. "It doesn't matter it was a long time ago Katsu" His gaze softens but doesn't leave you. You knew he wouldn't push but you knew the thought of someone hurting you was hurting him. "I don't want your pity" you say before you are cut off "Scars visible or not are nothing, they don't define you"

"it was my fault, I didn't leave when I should have.." you said feeling the tears swell into your eyes. He pulled your towards him "You didn't deserve that regardless of if you stayed. Don't be stupid and blame yourself "

You could feel the tears falling and your throat cloging up, "I wish I had been there"

"well you're here now right?" He wraps his arms around you giving you a sense of safety and comfort. "Nothing will hurt you, no one will lay a hand on you as long as I'm around. I promise." He says followed by a quiet "I believe you"

He cups his hands around your cheeks kissing you softly on the forehead then on the lips. You closed your eyes feeling safe and comfortable. Katsuki made you feel safe and vulnerable at the same time and that's why you love him so much.

Sorry for not posting I've been going through it, please leave any requests you have !

Prospects Document #1

Scenario #1, Prompt: Someone sings a song, reminiscing in the form of a lullaby to the child.

“Days seem sometimes as if they'll never end.”

The voice was barely there, barely audible, barely a voice, but the words were no less than echoing. At least, to the child.

“Sun digs its heels to taunt you.”

The world was quiet, yet the child has never been more overwhelmed in their life.

“But after sunlit days, one thing stays the same.”

The child breathed.

“Rises the moon.”

“Days fade into a water color blur.”

Sometimes, the child’s mind wanders further than they think it should.

“Memories swim and haunt you.”

Where did they come from? How did they get here? And why has this person stuck to them this entire  

“But look into the lake, shimmering like smoke”

All they remember is the cold feeling of water.

“Rises the moon.”

“Oh-oh, close your weary eyes.”

Tears were gathering in their eyes once more.

“I promise you that soon the autumn comes.”

Who is this person,

“To darken fading summer skies.”

And why is that voice the most beautiful thing they have ever heard?

“Breathe, breathe, breathe.”

It’s so…sad.

“Days pull you down just like a sinking ship.”

The hand carding through their hair lightens, and the child wouldn’t have even noticed it hadn’t the voice faded ever so slightly.

“Floating is getting harder.”

It is.

“But tread the water, child, and know that meanwhile”

The child’s hand twitches, wanting to hold onto the person, hold onto them, don’t let them leave.

“Rises the moon.”

“Days pull you up just like a daffodil.”

The tears pouring down their face shines in the light of the celestial in the sky.

“Uprooted from its garden.”

The breeze picks up, and they shiver. The person holds them closer.

“They'll tell you what you owe, but know even so”

The child does not fight it.

“Rises the moon.”

“You'll be visited by sleep.”

The child doesn’t want to sleep.

“I promise you that soon the autumn comes.”

But they do not fight it.

“To steal away each dream you keep.”

The wisp of the cold is obvious, as the child lay in the arms of their person.

“Breathe, breathe, breathe.”

They only breathe.

Word Count: 359

Inspired by Rises the Moon of liana flores

I physically need someone to make me a whump, hurt comfort fanfiction in which Colin and the 1800s Avengers-wanna-be fail to stop the balloon and Lord Debling (we love you plant boy) gets wounded from shielding Penelope. So she starts to take care of him (or at least be there for him and they genuinely fall in love)

Not as planned

Dean Winchester x little sister!reader

John Winchester x daughter!reader

Summery: You failed a hunt and your father is very disappointed. He always thought little of you. And now he is really done with you. But luckily your older brother is here to comfort you

Trigger warning: John Winchester 🤢, swear words, use of Y/N

Word count: 1.1k

A/N: This is my very first story. I hope that you guys like it. Please let me know what I can do better. And also english is not my first language and you will be able to tell. I'm sorry about that!

❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥

You have been begging your father to go on a hunt with him for months now. He never agreed. John was firmly convinced that you would never be able to keep up with it. Yet you never stopped trying to prove to him that you are made for the hunting life.

Now that Sam is gone of to college and Dean is the only one left accompanying John on hunts, he decided to give you a chance to prove yourself. He could use some extra help from time to time.

That's how you found yourself in your current position. Cold and covered in vampire blood. John standing in front of you screaming at you like his life depends on it. But you don't hear it. Your ears are ringing and your gaze is stuck on the dead headless body laying ten feet away from you.

That headless body laying disgracefully in the dirty ground was a girl you once knew. Maria. You have only met her four days ago. She was staying in the motel room next to yours. She was your first friend.

But now she is dead. Died by the hands of no other than John Winchester.

Maria was one of them. How could you have been so stupid? You should have seen the signs! But you were so happy and excited that you finally found someone your age who you can hang out with, that you didn't pay attention to the suspicious way she acted.

At some point through your father's lecture you felt his hand forcefully grab your jaw, taking your gaze away from Maria and insted set it on his harshly cold glare.

"You fucking look at me when I talk to you Y/N"

You flinched hard at his cruel tone. However you don't say anything in return. Your father tugged roughly on your jaw again.

"Did you understand what I just said?! This whole thing could have been mostly avoided if you wouldn't be so stupid! " His eyes express a deep burning fury towards you. "Yes sir" You don't dare to call him anything other than sir. Not after what happened. Not after tonight

"Good. Now go back to the car. I don't want to see your face right now. You are a disgrace at this point" You can hear the clear disgust in your father's voice. So you numbly turn around and walk back to the Impala. His words keep replaying in your head.

Deep in your heart you always knew that John only tolerates you when necessary. After all John Winchester never wanted a daughter, especially not a weak one.

You sit in utter silence. Cold tears dangerously close to rolling down your blood covered cheeks. But you suppress it. To afraid that your father might come back at any second and see you crying. To afraid that he would lash out on you again. But your thoughts get interrupted by the car door slamming close and John sitting down on the drivers seat. He doesn't say a thing instead he starts driving off to the direction of the Motel. You sit completely still, trying to make yourself as small as possible. Fearing what he may do if you did move even an inch.

Your father drops you off in front of the Motel before storming away, probably to the local Bar. The first person you see once you enter your Motel room is Dean laying on the bed watching TV. You simply walk past him to get to the bathroom so you can finally scrub all the blood of your skin.

"What in God's name happened to you Y/N? and where the hell is dad?" A worried Dean says frantically as he walks over to you and gently grabs your arm. However you pay him no mind and instead you pull your arm away from his grasp and walk past him to the bathroom and close the door.

The hot water feels amazing against your aching muscles. You wish you could wash away all your thoughts. Even for just couple minutes.

A deep sigh escapes your lips as you exit the bathroom. Unfortunately Dean is impatiently waiting for you. "Kid you better tell me right now what happened" Dean's voice is stern and you can clearly tell he is not playing right now.

"The hunt went wrong." That's all you answer him while you sit down on the other bed. Dean rolls his eyes. "What do you mean the hunt went wrong? Be more specific" Dean's voice is still stern but once he sees your sad expression his tone turns softer.

"Maria the girl next door was a vampire. She pretty much used me. She is dead now" You keep it as short as possible. Your also keep your head down trying not to breakdown in front of your big brother.

"Oh shit. I'm sorry your first hunt went this bad. And sorry about Maria" He tries his best to reassure you but you just simply stay quiet head still down.

"Where is dad?"

Dean can see you shrug and how your expression turns dark. "I don't know. He is probably at a bar drinking everything away like always"

Dean sighs walk over to you. He sits down. "Y/N are- are you ok?" That's all it takes for you to just completely break down. Tears streaming down your face, loud sobs coming out your mouth.

Dean immediately wraps his arms around you. Even though he is not a big fan of physical touch, he can clearly tell that you need his comfort.

"Dad called me a disgrace" You sob out against his chest. Dean pulls away and gently grabs your face to make you look at him

"Hey Hey listen to me you are not a disgrace. You hear me?" His tone is a mix between firm and gentle at the same time. "What he said to you is completely wrong and he shouldn't have done it"

All you manage to do is nod and quietly sniffle. For Dean that's enough. He smiles softly at you. "Alright kid. How about we go to that store down the road and buy that favourite pie of yours? What do you say?"

A little smile immediately spreads out on your face at the mention of pie.

"Yes please what would be really amazing"

And of course without hesitation the two of you go get that pie and enjoy it quickly before John even comes back from the bar.

Your big brother has always known the best way to cheer you up whenever you needed it. He will always be there for you if you need it. No matter how big or small the problem is.

Quiet sister, concerned brothers

Dean and Sam Winchester x little sister!reader

Summery: Dean and Sam Winchester have a 15 year old half sister who often feels neglected and overlooked by her brothers. Her sadness and loneliness build up until she can no longer hide her feelings.

Trigger warning: way to much use of Y/N, emotional neglect

Word count: 1.5k words

A/N: I used a different perspective this time. Please please let me know which one you prefer so I know what to continue with! Thanks.

The creaky old bunker was silent, a rare occurrence given the nature of it's inhabitants. Y/N sat on her bed, the flickering light from a nearby lamp casting long shadows on the walls. She hugged her knees tight to her chest, feeling the weight of another day spend in the background.

Sam and Dean, her older brothers, had been on a hunt all day. She texted them but unsurprisingly received no answer from any of them. They returned the next day around noon with stories about demons and near-death experiences, hardly acknowledging her presence as they recounted their tiring adventures.

Y/N was used to this. As long as she can remember, she had been the quiet, shy girl who stayed in the shadows while her brothers were always the center of attention.

She loved them dearly, of course she did. They have raised her, they gave her a family. Something she never new before them. But the constant feeling of being forgotten gnawed at her heart. She knew they didn't mean to emotionally neglect her, it was just how things were. Sam and Dean are hunters and she is just…. there

….

A week later they were on the road again, driving to a small town in Nebraska where strange disappearances had been reported. Y/N joined them this time. She felt as if she is going to suffocate if she stayed in that bunker for any longer.

She sat in the back of the Impala with her head resting against the cold window. The low rumble of the engine was almost comforting, a familiar sound in her otherwise tumultuous life.

Dean glanced at her in the rear-view mirror, a frown creasing his forehead. "You okay back there kid?"

Y/N forced a small smile. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Sam turned around in his seat, giving her a concerned look. "You sure? You've been pretty quiet lately. More than usual. You barely talk to us." "Yeah I'm fine, just tired", she lied, hoping they would drop the subject. She didn't want to burden them with her feelings. They had enough to worry about.

Dean just shrugged and turned up the music, and Sam went back to his research. Both of them just believing her lie for now. None of them had the energy to deal with it at the moment.

Y/N closed her eyes, trying to push away the sadness that threatened to overwhelm her.

The hunt went relatively well. Sure it could have gone way better but it's not the worst one they've had so far. Turns out the disappearances were caused by a little groupe of vampires. Fortunately for them it was easy to track them down to an abandoned warehouse. The killing part was a bit more tricky though.

Y/N helped out a lot this time. She was quite proud of herself for that. Thought that Sam and Dean would be impressed but did they even acknowledge her hard work? absolutely not.

"You did good kid but you could definitely improve your skills with the machete and you also need to work more on your stamina you are way to slow." Those are the first words she hear from Dean as they walk back to the car. Of course it hurts. She tried so hard to make them acknowledge her skills but apparently all they see is her weakness or simply nothing at all.

Sam doesn't confirm Dean's criticism but he also doesn't defend his sister in any way. The walk back to the car is just silent and tense. A feeling Y/N is simply sick of.

It doesn't get any better in the car so all she does is put her headphones in to listen to music to drown her loud bad thoughts and her brother's voices.

....

The next time they went on a hunt didn't go differently. Y/N was allowed to join again. She even tried to show of her great skills against the witch they had to fight but once again it went mostly unnoticed by the two brothers. The only thing that stuck with them was how slow she moved and how much she apparently hesitated when shooting the witch.

She kept quiet for the whole ride back to the bunker. What was she supposed to say anyway.

Back at the bunker Dean is the first one to break the silence between the siblings. "Hey kiddo remind me to teach you how to use a gun properly. You suck a little at that" He said as he went to grab a beer. His words were meant in a playful way but for Y/N it's enough to set her off completely.

"Can't you just stop with that?!" Sam and Dean both turn to look at her with a confused frown. "Stop with what?" Dean asks bewildered.

"With t-this! I just can't listen to you constantly telling me that I am not good enough. Every time I do something good you find something bad to say. Both of you just completely ignored the fact that I killed the witch on the hunt today all that was important to you was to tell me I suck at shooting! And when you don't criticize everything I do, you just don't talk to me. I simply get ignored. That's not fair!"

Y/N stopped once she ran out of breath but she was not anywhere near done letting everything out

"Y/N what-" Sam immediately gets interrupted by his sister. "No! I'm done. I'm done with hunting. I am done doing anything in my power to make you acknowledge my hard work for nothing and I am done with seeking your validation and attention at all times!"

None of the brothers get a chance to say anything because the second the girl is done she storms off to her room. Not that they knew what to say anyway.

The silence that follows is a tense one. Both brothers are at loss for words. Her speech was something none of them expected to hear. "Should we go check up on her? That was pretty intense"

But Sam shakes his head at Dean's suggestion. "No, we should let her cool off for a bit. I'll check up on her later"

....

Dean can't help but think about every interaction he had with his sister after every hunt and he unfortunately has to admit to himself that what Y/N said was true. The guilt is more than visible on his face it seems as if he is drowning in it. Sam isn't feeling any better. He is trying his best to no stand up and rush into his sisters bedroom and apologize for everything he and his brother said to her to make her feel as if she was not good enough.

He is holding that urge back fairly well but the moment he heard loud crying from her room he decides he is done with waiting and giving her space. He just needs to see if she is alright and fix this.

He walks up towards the door of your bedroom and softly knocks on it. "Hey...do you mind if we talk for a moment? I just want to make sure you're okay" Sam waits for a couple seconds which feels like minutes to him. But he receives no answer from the girl on the other side of the door. So he tries again but yet he gets no answer this time either.

Sam knows her silence is answer enough and turns around to leave. Not even two steps later he hears the door opening and his little sister's sad sniffles. He turns towards her and the mere sight of his sibling standing there with red rimmed eyes and a tired expression, was enough to break his heart into many pieces. Especially because he knows he is at fault.

"We can talk if you want" Her voice sounds raspy and her words come out quiet. A big indicator that she has been crying for a long time.

Sam simply nods and follows her into her room. Both sit down on the bed. Y/N looks towards her hands and keeps her gaze fixated on that.

"I wanted to apologize for making you feel as if you are not good enough. That was really not alright. You are great kid. You help us out so much. Doesn't matter if it's with research, or hunting or just helping around the bunker. Dean and I appreciate it. We appreciate you"

Y/N scoffs which slightly takes her older brother by surprise. "Well none of you know how to show that said appreciation"

Sam sighs since he knows she is right. "I know we don't but I really mean it when I say that we do care and do acknowledge your help and hard work. Even when we tell you about the thing you could improve. I also know how harsh Dean's words must have sounded to you and he feels bad. He really does."

The teenaged girl stays silent for a moment before finally nodding. "I forgive you. But I still want to take a little break from hunting. I'll help with research, sure but that's all. It's just too much right now" Sam agrees with you. "Sure that's fine. I understand, kid. And so will Dean"

Y/N looks up from her fidgeting fingers and turns her head towards her brother while wiping her tears. "Thank you Sam"

"Don't thank me, sweetheart. Please" Another silence follows after Sam's words. Yet this time it's not tense or heavy. It's comforting.

fear

- gojo satoru x reader

his best friend’s defection is still a hard topic for him to swallow, and it leads into an unexpected argument that spurs you to leave, only to unlock a new fear in him when you get into an unfortunate accident afterwards.

genre/warnings: angst, gojo being mean, one scene with a worried nanami *wink*, injured reader, hurt/comfort, fluff in the end

notes: *sigh* my coping mechanism is still gojo’s past arc, which is why this piece takes place on that timeline. just a little context: reader is in the same class with nanami & haibara and was in the same mission that took haibara's life. this is probably the longest oneshot i've written so far sooo… enjoy! :)

series masterlist | oneshot masterlist

A year and a half had passed since Suguru embarked on his path as a curse user. In that one year and a half, Satoru had finished his last year at Jujutsu High, and now was in the halls of his alma mater, speaking to the newly appointed headmaster who was none other than his teacher.

"You're applying to become a teacher?" Yaga asked again with a frown. He still couldn't wrap his head around it. Granted, he was his most troublesome pupil. "Why, Satoru?"

"If I said it's because I want to train young sorcerers to be strong, would you believe me?"

That was not a lie. It was actually 50% of his main reasons anyway. The other 50% was to repent what he missed with Suguru when he chose his dark path—his contempt with the current system of this jujutsu world.

"I would," Yaga responded gruffly. To him, Satoru was irritating, but he also knew that he was also extremely capable, and thus everything he did wasn't just out of nowhere. "But you still have to submit your applications. We can't make an exception even if you come from a prestigious clan."

"That's fine with me," he grinned. "Thanks, sensei."

On summer days, he'd get reminded of Suguru and silly things they had done together. Eating shaved ice, cycling together, driving either you, Shoko or Nanami mad. Satoru missed those days, it hadn't been the same ever since. Not knowing if his best friend was alright—if he was still alive at all—was exhausting.

Sometimes, he felt like he was the only one who was affected by his departure, the only one who stayed right where Suguru left him. Shoko didn't seem ruffled, if anything she just went to more bars and pachinko parlors as of late. Nanami was always a recluse, he never disclosed his feelings. You mourned him, but it was clear that most part of you would always be more focused on Haibara's death.

Satoru understood that he couldn't force anyone to feel what he felt, and he had no right to. But sometimes, he just wanted someone to connect with at his level. Someone to get him just like Suguru did.

And so when he got back to his condo that night—just right next to the one he rented for Megumi and Tsumiki, since he had moved out of his dorm—to find his girlfriend there with a big smile and a tray of cupcakes, unaware of everything and anything, he merely scoffed to himself.

"Satoru, you're back," you acknowledged, beaming like the sunshine you were. "I just baked these for the kids. Do you want some?"

Usually he'd smother you, throw some pickup lines here and there and say yes, but today, he just felt drained. "No." And with that, he stalked away to the bathroom, not glancing back at you.

It was wrong. But tonight he just wanted some peace and quiet, and so keeping his silence seemed to be the best choice as he didn't want to start a pointless argument with you. But you weren’t anything but observant, and definitely noticed that something was amiss with him.

"Are you... alright?" You approached him warily after he came out of the bathroom with wet hair. "Where were you today?"

"Just somewhere," he replied curtly. Afterwards he turned on the hairdryer, drowning the whole place with the noise even as you stood behind him with a visible question mark.

But you were still there after he dried his hair. "Is something bothering you?" you asked with a tilt of your head, concerned. By all means, you mean well. You just wanted to know if he could use your help at all.

When you pulled that expression, he couldn't help but feel annoyed, like he wanted you to take a hint, but you just didn't. "If you know, then just shut it."

It was probably the first time since the two of you got together that Satoru actually said something harsh. But you still tried to be reasonable though, bless you.

"Satoru, I don't know what got into your nerves like this, but I think sleeping through it might help. Have a rest."

"Why are you talking as if you know it?" he snapped, finally turning to you with his cold gaze. "You might not know anything, so don't be a know-it-all. Just mind your own business."

Now you were frustrated with his reply. "Once again, I don't know what happened to you. But if you're taking it out on me because I'm the closest you have—"

"Who said that?" Satoru didn't know where he got all this venom from. It was just at the forefront of his mind and he just got the urge to spew it. "You're considering yourself closest to me? Where did you get that big head from?"

You were aghast, and you blinked a few times to get your bearings. "Let me guess, it's about Geto-san, isn't it? Or the higher ups. Either of that must be what causing you to blindly place your anger on me."

"So what if it was? It isn't like you'll understand anyway."

"Satoru," you started, trying to even your breathing. "What happened to Geto-san isn't your fault. I've been telling you this. It can't be helped—"

"Can't be helped?" he jeered. "Do you know why it's come to this?" his tone took a dangerous edge as he stepped closer. He reached for you, grasping your wrist.

"Maybe because I was too blind back then. If it weren't for you—if only I didn't spend that much time on you, maybe he would still be here."

Did he just say that? Did he just imply that he had regretted the two of you getting together?

You felt your lower lip start to tremble and something seemed to obscure and blur your vision, making it hard to see him clearly. "You... don't mean that."

"Really?" the corner of his lips curled into a disparaging smile. "You never know. Before you know it, this can be over already. After all, I could have anyone out there that I want. Maybe someone less nosey than—”

That did it. You wrenched your arm out of his grip violently, as your first tear fell. His smirk vanished too, replaced with a total stillness to cover his sudden panic that was followed by a sudden sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"You selfish, self-obsessed jerk," you hissed through watery eyes. He was taken aback, even amidst your anger and possible fear of him, your still managed to throw daggers at him. "Fine. You have it. I'll see myself out."

Satoru never wanted you to leave. Honestly, he would've made you stay. But he wasn't in the right state of mind and it was too late to take back what he said. He didn't want to mess this up even further.

You left the cupcakes, even throwing it away just to spite him. Driven by pain and humiliation, you choked back your sob and didn't spare a glance at him as you shut the door.

Peace and quiet. There he had it, he thought as he clenched his fists, at the cost of everything else.

Leaving that condo, every step you took felt like needles piercing your shattered heart. You wiped your tears roughly. No, you refused to cry over such asshole. He made it clear, didn't he? Whatever it was that you two shared, it was at the cost of his best friend leaving him. So now the blame was on you.

If you were thinking clearly, you would've understood that his words were likely a result of his own pent-up pain and frustration that he had kept to himself for some while. But you had no patience for that or even pinpoint what you felt right now—anger, disappointment or dread, or perhaps all three. You just felt wrongly accused.

Your feet brought you back to your dorm in the school. Now it wasn't as bustling as it once were, after Satoru and Shoko's graduation, you didn't really get close to anyone. There was Ichiji, but he treated you more like a mentor rather than a classmate.

As you sank into the comforts of your bed, You replayed the events, trying to find where it went wrong—and found nothing. After all, you already said all that could be said. It wasn't just him who lost Geto, but you, Shoko and Nanami did too, but it was more convenient for Satoru to blame everyone else rather than trying to understand that they too shared this pain.

Nevertheless, you were disappointed. You didn't expect half of what he spouted, and it got you doubting everything you had.

"You've royally fucked up."

Satoru exhaled, glaring at Shoko through the corner of his eyes. "Yeah, maybe."

The reverse cursed technique user threw him with a blank stare, taking in everything from his disheveled hair to his wrinkled trousers. "Gojo, as much as I can’t care less about your sorry ass, I'm saying this not out of concern for you, but rather for Y/N. You are an asshole."

The puff of smoke she blew expanded to create a cloud-like shape. "Yaga-sensei was our teacher. His student is now a mass murderer and wanted dead. Can you even imagine how he feels? And I can't believe I'm saying this—but weren't there three of us?"

A week had gone by and instead of doing the right thing like trying to get into your good graces, Satoru was in Shoko's infirmary in the headquarters instead. He didn't exactly know what he was looking for by going here. Maybe some lingering taste of his happier student days, and Shoko was the only one remaining.

Three of us, huh... she was right. That was precisely why he came here after all.

"You're just sulking because it seems no one cares about your best friend being the best there is. But have you thought about how our juniors also lost Haibara? Right in front of their eyes? Haibara was our friend too."

He was wrong, of course he was. Satoru realized that now. But it felt wrong to ask for your forgiveness now, not to mention the disrupting thought he had—should he let you go for good altogether?

The phone suddenly rang with such fervor that made Shoko utter a swear word. She was on call duty for the rescue team today, and it was supposedly a peaceful day until Satoru decided to barge in to become her company. "Hello? Ichiji? What—speak clearly, I can't hear you."

She switched it to loudspeaker. "...iri-san! Ieiri-san—h-help—please—"

It was noisy, and blaring at the same time, and Ichiji was... Sobbing? Choking? His voice was terribly muffled and—

"L/N-san!" he cried, and Satoru remembered at that moment that you should be in a mission with Ichiji, he remembered you telling him before.

"Hic—s-she fell... hic—she fell! B-blood! She i-is bleeding so much! I-Ieiri-san—hic—s-send help! Please!"

"Hey, stay awake. Breathe. Just breathe."

Everything hurt. Most notably, your head. You could hardly think straight when all you felt was blinding pain and how your breaths came in short wheezes. 

Your vision was blurry. The numbness had started to set in and chills ran up and down your spine. You couldn't make out who in front of you was. Was it Ichiji, who went with you in this mission? The only thing that glared was blue.

"You can't sleep, you hear me?" the voice was commanding, willing you to do his bidding. It was familiar, but usually his tone of voice was much lighter, happier.

Satoru.

But why was he here? He wasn't in this mission. It was supposed to be a mission for you and Ichiji.

You remembered getting the cursed spirit after manifesting your domain expansion, until in its last ditch attempt, it went after Ichiji. You had no choice—even when your cursed energy had burned out, you still shoved him away at the cost of being flung from the top of a building.

Not again. Not after Haibara. You’d gladly pay the price if it meant you didn't have to see anyone die in front of you again.

"I..." You managed to croak out—breathing hurt, and you felt your hands being grasped tightly.

"Hey, just breathe. Y/N. Look at me.” Through your blurry haze, you focused on that cold blue, and you saw him. Satoru's sharp eyes, pursed lips and frown. He's really here.

Satoru always said that if there was a cursed spirit apocalypse, then Ichiji would be the first to die. You used to scold him for that, but now as you a laid here possibly dying in your own pool of blood, you found it to be true.

Yet at the same time you knew that with him here, Ichiji must be safe already, and it gave you reassurance so great even when you were on the verge of dying. "I... can't..."

"Yes, you can. Just look at me," he firmly rebuked, his voice came out in a hiss. For all the time you had been with him, you had never heard him so forceful. "If you close your eyes now, I won't forgive you. So please, just hang in there."

It was a struggle to take in any air and darkness encroached on your vision as your consciousness began slipping away.

And everything faded to nothingness.

Satoru honestly thought he had no fears. His worst fear had fully realized after all—Suguru going away into the darkness. What more could he possibly fear?

But when he heard Ichiji's distress call for rescue team, about how you fell from a rooftop of a building and unconscious, he realized that it was a fear he didn't know existed. His mind got disoriented and he teleported to the scene on impulse. He just had to see it for himself. With their petty argument still lacking closure, he felt even worse.

And the sight before him gave him so much fright he never thought was possible.

It was a mistake, he should have brought Shoko along.

You had laid there like a broken doll, eyes dim, and not been able to breathe. He desperately tried to keep you awake, his presence beside you, yet it didn't seem to matter. He watched helplessly as you passed out in his arms.

Satoru felt nothing. The panic that had set in was suddenly gone as your limp body slumped against him, replaced by incessant ringing in his ears and tremor wracking his nervous system. It wasn't long until the rescue team came to retrieve you and even then he still felt numb. He rejected the idea that you might possibly die on him.

That went on until Shoko, who assisted in the emergency treatment, came out of the surgery, sweat on her forehead.

"It's even worse than the aftermath of the guardian deity mission last year," Shoko explained with a grim expression. "Her brain has sustained damage and it affects everything. It may take her quite a while before she can go back to the field."

When she said that, Satoru felt the terror washed over him again. You almost died—was all he perceived.

The two of you had no contact for a week just because of his ego. He could still recall that day with vivid clarity, feeling a burning ache in his chest. If someone were to ask him what heartbreak was like, now he certainly would he able the to tell them the two instances in which he experienced them. What he felt now mirrored the same stinging sensation he had felt when Suguru had left him.

He visited you when he was allowed to, and you were still unconscious, with many machines connected to your body. It was a sight he still couldn’t bring himself to get used to. He had seen you injured before, but never seen you in your own pool of blood, so this made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Stupid," he whispered, gently rubbing your forehead. His eyes remained fixated on you as you rested, his insides still churning with emotions. "You're not weak, and you're not hopeless." Once upon a time, Satoru might have thought of you as weak, but now he knew better.

"So why you always pick the worst decision?" The more he thought this could've been avoided, the more irked he was. The thought that he could have done something to prevent it intensified the sting of guilt, and he continued to punish himself with it.

And the more he dwelled on the idea that he had hurt you prior to this, the tighter his breath became.

But that was who you were. Self-sacrificing to a fault. And he loved you for that. There was no way of him letting you go now.

It astonished even himself—that he was capable of this love thing. At first it was an attraction, but now that you had been going on for more than a year, it felt like it was no longer a silly infatuation after all.

"Hurry and wake up, will you?" Satoru gently brushed your hair aside, his eyes fixed on you. He didn't know it even as his gut twisted, his frown deepened and his touch quivered, that he was worried sick. "I have a lot to make up for."

And he left you with a tender brush of his lips against your forehead.

Nanami Kento was the first person you saw when you awoke from coma.

You struggled to regain your senses, still feeling absolutely broken. The dull throb on the back of your head was still there, and as if you had found yourself trapped in a fog, you were only able to move sluggishly.

"You're awake?" his gruff voice greeted, laced with concern. In his hand were a bucket of fresh flowers and fruits basket, which he soon placed at the table next to your bed.

It was unexpected, because ever since the tragedy that costed Haibara's life, the two of you had been drifting apart.

You nodded, and let out a hum in response—all you could manage at the moment.

"Thank God." Nanami sounded relieved as he pinched the bridges between his eyes, and you were moved that he had shown this degree of concern. Your remaining classmate, who suffered the burden of Haibara's life just like you. He was always quiet or brooding somewhere, hiding his own feelings.

You felt tears prickling at the corner of your eyes. The fact that he visited you meant that he hadn't decided to cut you out of his life yet.

"Gojo-san is out today, but he'll be back by afternoon," he said, mistranslating your tears as some sort of a want to have your annoying—ex?—boyfriend at your side.

The two of you were still not on talking terms, weren’t you?

You so badly wanted to say thank you to him—and tell him that no, you weren't looking for Satoru—but it came out hoarse and barely above a whisper.

"Huh?" Nanami then realized what you were trying to say, and a faint smile graced his lips. "Just... get well soon, L/N. Have a good rest."

Just before you drifted back to sleep, you could hear him sigh and mutter, "Hello, Gojo-san? L/N has awakened. Just letting you know is all.”

You weren't sure how much time had passed when you woke up the second time, but the curtains were already drawn and only darkness came from the window. Your body felt lighter, but you still felt like a mess and and couldn't help but groan in discomfort.

Satoru was there, he perked up at the noise you made. And you realized that it was the first time in about a week that he faced you after that disasterous almost-breakup.

He walked up to you, his expression was more hopeful than you had ever seen him before, like a kid whose wish had been granted. He slowly shifted to sit beside you.

"Hey, welcome back." His voice was soft. It was a change of pace for him, as you were used to seeing him all loud and silly.

Now your voice no longer sounds like a lead. "Hey."

"How are you feeling?" he asked and you took a moment to look at him. He was smiling, but exhaustion reached his bright eyes, dimming them. "You know, with the whole you passing out and almost dying thing?"

His words were almost humorous as he spoke, like he didn't know what else to say except try to lighten the mood, but there was also a strain on his tone, like he was holding back.

"I'm quite fine now, I suppose..." You still felt the lingering pain and dizziness as you slowly sat up. Satoru reached out to steady you—and you realized how his fingers trembled when they made contact with your body—as his brows furrowed with worry when you winced.

"You don't look like it though." His voice dropped and the humor was gone, replaced by this haunted look. You blinked. It was probably the first time you had seem him this ruffled.

He immediately pulled you into a hug, cradling your head to his neck gently, as if to protect and shield you from the world altogether. Exhaling heavily, he leaned on you. "You scared me, you know that?"

You wondered out loud if you really had that hold over him. "Did I?"

"You can't do that to me, you hear?" Satoru stroked your hair, nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck. His voice quivered. “Don't ever do that again.”

He pulled you tighter against him, but still careful not to crush you.

You let out a snicker, letting go of everything you felt during this horrible week. "Heh, afraid to lose me, huh?"

"Shut up. What were you thinking anyway? How did you calculate that freefalling is better than letting that cursed spirit attack Ichiji?"

"He was defenseless. He could die, you know that."

"And you also can," he quipped, upset, pulling away enough to look you squarely in the eyes, his eyes devoid of any expression, yet filled with a raging wave that you could only interpret as undiluted concern.

The emphasis in his tone made you recoil and feel guilty. If you were in his shoes, you probably would've said the same thing and so you had nothing to say to that.

But the more pressing agenda in the list was the unspoken silent treatment the two of you saw fit to use against each other for the last few days. Satoru was the one who decided to address it first.

"About that night..." he faltered, looking away. "I didn't mean what I said. I'm sorry."

Satoru always had trouble processing emotions. This time too. He must've a hard time dealing with the anxiety caused by the possibility of him losing you for good, no matter how much he tried not to be unaware of it.

"..." You wanted to respond, to make him understand your point, but somehow right now you were just too weary. And he sensed your reluctance. So you blurted the first thing that gnawed at your mind.

“You said you could have any other women out there—”

"No, really—" he started to panic, and it was blatantly too, which surprised you. "I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry. I don't regret anything. Us. I’m not breaking up with you. Being with you is the happiest I've been ever since Suguru left."

“That's...” you blinked, before letting out a small sigh. “Okay, fine then. Let's just put it behind us for now.”

“I—” he almost wheezed, his bright blue eyes were overtaken with sheer urgency to explain how wrong everything had been that night. “You must know that I didn’t mean any of it. And that I hate hurting you the way I did. Y/N, I won’t—”

"Satoru, I understand," you let out another sigh, fidgeting with your fingers. "Sometimes when I’m reminded of Haibara, I also get sad. I don't want to presume but I think I know how you feel. Just next time, maybe," you shifted your gaze on him, seeing how you had his attention fully. Gojo Satoru, the strongest now, was looking at you as if you had his fate in your hands. "Just tell me if you need space and I would have understood."

"Yeah, okay, sure," he responded immediately, relieved, before a lopsided grin appeared on his face, turning him back into your dork slash boyfriend. "So, am I forgiven now?"

"A thank you would be nice."

In the end, he chuckled, seemingly resigned. "You should sleep more."

He positioned himself into bed next to you, and you let him pull you into his chest again. You could feel how his taut back started to relax upon the contact. He pressed his lips on your forehead in a fleeting kiss.

"Promise me you won't pull that stunt again.”

You smirked. "I can't. What if Ichiji—"

"Then just let him die."

You swat his arm playfully, pressing your head to his chest as he continued to run his fingers on your hair. He cushioned you carefully, and you felt the tension in him slowly melt away with each breath you took. In your mind, you figured he needed this closeness more than you did, if anything, for the sake of his sanity.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered by your ear, kissing it lightly.

“Mmhm.”

As you felt Satoru's calming presence, it helped ease you into slumber. You soon found yourself in a deep sleep, comfortably held in his embrace.

Epilogue

Ichiji gulped as Satoru stared him down, sizing him up as if he was the most despicable creature on this planet.

Okay, he might be. He was a coward, all he could do was trembling in the face of evil. But he had come in peace, even bringing fruits as an offering! He felt bad too that he was the partial cause for you to be this injured.

He was used to Satoru terrorizing him—calling him names, slapping him, and whatnot—and he could take it. Just this time, he really looked like he could murder him on the spot if he wanted to. A small part of Ichiji mourned that you were his girlfriend, because that pretty much sealed his fate that Gojo Satoru could indeed murder him on the spot because he had a valid enough reason to.

"You are—"

"No! I'm sorry, Gojo-san! I'm sorry for my incompetence!"

"Hah?"

If he was mildly irked before, now Satoru was visibly irritated.

"You're not cut out to be a jujutsu sorcerer," he started. "You're useless. You just get in the way most of the time."

Ichiji kept his head down. No, no. He can't cry!

"Get your driving license or I'll slap the shit out of you."

"Oh?" and before he knew it, Satoru had stalked away, leaving him in the dust. How rude! But...

Get a driver license? Quit the jujutsu work?

Hey, that sounds like something I can do!

Heya! I'm the greenflower request sjxnks

I really don't have preference

But you can make something connecting with when they live in Darkley, like, Brad or Lloyd remember something similar happened in their children's

Maybe after the s8, or any season after s8 likee s10 or s15

Ok! :D also i realized like a sentence or two before I finished it that I didn’t really have lloyd sick- i was more focused of hurt/comfort and like darklys and all- im really sorry, if you want I can do a part 2 where it focuses more on lloyd being sick, again i’m really sorry. But i hope you enjoy and also if you do end up disliking this fanfic please tell me and and I can always remake it- so the fanfic will be under the cut and also if you do not know, I am dyslexic so to anyone reading, please don’t be rude or mean if I misspell anything wrong or phrase stuff wrong, you can always politely tell me and I will gladly fix it, please and thank you! :D

Heads up

This is after seabound/season 15

I hc that after nya left lloyd ran away to live with brad in a apartment so that’s where lloyd is :)

This takes place after the burning fate oneshot :P

Trigger warning

Suicidal thoughts

Cussing

Depression

Implied Self harm

Implied and mentioned Child abuse(different parts)

Mentioned Suicide attempt

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and I Drink The Poison From The Same Vile

The rain was falling around Lloyd as he blankly looked over the balcony and into the busy streets on the busy city. He often stood here, just wondering what would happen if he jumped off and ended it all… would anyone miss him? No. No one would. 

He was letting him tired mind wonder in this moment of sorrow. He thought about many things… Nya, The others, His parents, Master Wu… He was thinking about it. How this was all his fault. If he wasn’t the fucking green ninja none of this would’ve happened. Nya would still be here if he wasn’t a shitty leader or friend. 

He wonders how different life would be if he hadn’t gotten kicked out of Darklys… would Nya still be here? Yes. She would. Because then Lloyd likely wouldn’t have become the green ninja and so she wouldn’t of had the sacrifice herself for his stupidity. 

Hair falls in his face but he doesn’t have the strength to move it… he’s so tired and his wrists sting so badly and he’s so fucking tired form being unable to get sleep without having night terrors. But he deserves it, does he not? He doesn’t deserve to be content and happy in life. Not after he was the reason Nya, his (adopted) sister, is gone. 

Everyone probably hates him. Why hasn’t Brad broke up with him? He’s a monster. He killed his own sister. All he does is kill. His father, Harumi, Zane with the overlord, Morro, and… Nya. He could’ve saved all these people or taken their place and things would’ve been so much better. But no, their paying the price. The price he deserves, not them…. Okay maybe Morro does deserve to die… but… Even if he did hurt Lloyd so much, Lloyd still feels sick thinking like how Morro does. 

“You’re going to get sick like this, Lloyd…”

The sudden voice made Lloyd jump and he quickly looked back into the apartment balcony door to see Brad, his boyfriend, give him a worried look… Lloyd still can’t get that look out of his face from when Brad “saved him” from committing. The absolute terror and sadness Brad had in his eyes that day… it as only a couple of weeks ago. Lloyd feels like a absolute dick for making Brad so worried. He’s such a burden for Brad. He should just jump. Maybe this time nothing will be in his way and he would make Brad so much happier.

Lloyd flinches a bit when Brad took Lloyds hand in his. Gently intertwining their fingers and giving Lloyd a soft smile. He gently pulled Lloyd into the apartment and closed the balcony door behind him. Brad pulled Lloyd to the couch, which Lloyd followed him with hollow eyes that kept their gaze on the ground. 

Lloyd didn’t say or do anything as Brad sat him on the couch with a soft but worried expression. Ever since Lloyds last attempt Brad has been even more protective and watchful of Lloyd. 

His dull green eyes looked up to see Brad walk into their bedroom and walk out with a blanket a second later. When Brad walked up to Lloyd he draped it across his shoulders and Lloyd looked to the ground as Brads soft blue eyes tried to lock with his.

Brad gently sighed and plopped on the couch next to his blonde lover. The blue eyed boy wrapped his fingers around the green eyed boy’s. A look of love was on Brads face as he looked at the beautiful blonde. 

“Do you want to talk about it Lloyd…?”

Brad tried to tilt his head so he could be in Lloyd’s field of vision but Lloyd turned his head to the side so he couldn’t look at brad. Lloyds shoulders tensed and he shook his head.

Brad was upset but he knew it would only get better if Lloyd talked about it, he gently squeezed Lloyds hand in his and rubbed his thumb across the back of Lloyds hand as he said in a soft voice.

“Please, I just want to help.”

Lloyd knew that Brad wouldn’t stop until Lloyd told him what was bothering him so Lloyd just sighed and leaned onto Brads side and whispered with his voice filled with guilt.

“I was thinking about Nya… and how different things would’ve been if I was never kicked out of Darklys. Like… would I still be the green ninja? Would Nya still be here? Just so many questions….”

Brad flinched as Lloyd mentioned Darklys, the place was hard for them both. But especially Lloyd. The teachers knew how good Lloyd was so they thought that beating it into him would “fix” him. It didn’t. It just made him more traumatized. 

So, Brad thought for a moment of how to respond to Lloyd. He wrapped his arm around Lloyds shoulders and kissed his cheek, Lloyd glanced at Brad with that but then looked away. Brad understood how much pressure Lloyd put on himself… so he didn’t mind. He knew Lloyd loved him.

“Lloyd… I think, in full honesty, being kicked out of Darklys was honestly the best thing for you… I don’t think you would’ve… I don’t think you would’ve survived. They were so brutal, and to you the most. You… You were so skinny and always had cuts and bruises… And with Nya. That wasn’t your fault. It was no one’s. Nya choose to do that, and I don’t think she would want you to blame yourself for her decision.”

Lloyd sat quietly thinking about it, he laid his head on Brads shoulder as he looked up at Brad. He tensed when Brad mentioned how harsh Darklys was… he understood why Brad thought that, but maybe just give Lloyd a few years and he would’ve been just like his father in that hellhole. 

Then he thought about what Brad said about Nya, and how she wouldn’t want him to blame himself. Now, he can see that. But that doesn’t stop him. He feels like a failure, and that’s never going to go away. He’s the leader. It’s supposed to be his role to keep everyone safe, and he failed. He couldn’t save her. He quit when she needed him most…. ninja never quit? Well he must not be a ninja then. 

Brad carried his fingers through Lloyds soft blonde hair, and kissed his forehead. Lloyd felt like melting at the affection. But at the same time he felt like yelling at Brad and telling him to stop, Lloyd doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve Brad. Or anyone for a matter of fact. 

Instead of doing anything though Lloyd just laid in Brads arms. He was still a bit wet and shaking from standing in the rain… Brad was right, Lloyd would get sick… great. 

He wrapped the blanket from Brad more around himself and then sneezed. His noise started to leak and Brad playfully rolled his eyes and joked to Lloyd.

“Now, what was it I said about you getting sick by standing out there?”

Lloyd just whined in response and Brad playfully rolled his eyes. He stood up and handed his hand out to Lloyd as he smiled to him.

“Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

Art's Silent Language (Lukai Hwei x GN!Reader)

Warnings: small injury

Chapter 2: The Hidden Canvas

(part 1 here)

Summary: Hwei stumbles upon your secret art place, finding art books that showcase artwork resembling his own. This discovery leads him to realize that you have been studying his work. Simultaneously, you come across Hwei's secret art pieces, exposing a remarkable and dark talent within him. As the sun sets, a conversation between you and Hwei unfolds, initially filled with concern but escalating into an argument.

The hot golden sand shifts beneath Hwei's feet as he treks through the ruins, brushing aside low hanging vines and crumbling walls. Sweat gathers on his brow in the afternoon heat, but he presses on, driven by a singular goal - to find you.

The ruins, once a grand testament to opulence and extravagance, now stand as a faded testament to the passage of time. Ornate carvings adorn the crumbling walls, their intricate details fade and wear, barely recognizable. Delicate plasterwork, once a showcase of artistic prowess, hangs in tatters, revealing the skeleton of the structure beneath.

Hwei steps further into the ruin, his footsteps echo through the desolate halls, a melancholic symphony of solitude. The remnants of what were once grand chambers and lavish salons now lie in ruins, their faded grandeur whispering tales of a time long past.

The ceilings, once adorned with elaborate frescoes, lose their luster, their colors mute and fade with the passage of time.

Chipped and cracked mirrors, remnants of a once luxurious vanity, reflect a distorted image of Hwei as he passes by.

Nature begins to reclaim the space, with tendrils of ivy and moss intertwining with the remnants of the architecture. Vines snake their way through broken windows, casting intricate shadows on the worn marble floors below. It is as if the ruin itself becomes a living canvas, merging the beauty of nature with the faded splendor of human creation.

Hwei knows that you have a secret place, a sanctuary where you pour your heart and soul into your drawings. He believes that he will find you there, lost in the depths of your artistic expression. He can barely wait to show you his latest art idea.

Over the past months, the two of you have formed a close bond through sharing your works in progress, debating techniques late into the night by the light of the moons. You understand each other in a way few others can.

Yet as Hwei picks his way deeper into the ruins, he finds no signs of life. Only your discarded paintings from past sessions remain - landscapes, portraits, glimpses into vibrant imagined worlds. Your attention to detail astounds him, as it always does.

In the corner of the room, Hwei stands, his gaze fixated on the artwork studies and meticulous notes spread out before him.

The atmosphere is filled with a sense of abandonment, as if time has forgotten this place. The room is dimly lit, with shards of sunlight piercing through cracks in the worn-out wooden shutters, casting golden rays upon the dusty air. The air itself carries a musty scent, a reminder of the forgotten years.

As Hwei examines the studies, his eyes sparkle with delight. You have taken the time to study his art, to delve deep into the intricacies of his creations. He feels a surge of gratitude and validation, knowing that his work has resonated with another soul. It is a rare and cherished feeling, as if he has found a kindred spirit in the realm of art.

With gentle fingers, Hwei picks up a notebook filled with meticulous sketches and annotations. The pages are worn and aged, evidence of the countless hours spent in thoughtful contemplation. Each stroke and line captures the essence of his art, the emotions, and stories he seeks to convey.

Hwei's eyes wander across the room, and his gaze falls upon a stack of sketchbooks tucked away in a dusty corner.

With anticipation, he reaches out and pulls one of them towards him. These are the studies of his artworks that he has never shown to his temple masters, the hidden pieces that represent his unfiltered desires and untamed creativity.

As he flips through the pages, Hwei's heart sinks. Each sketch holds a glimpse into a world of imagination that he has kept locked away.

These are the art pieces that are deemed too unconventional, too unrestrained for the watchful eyes of his masters.

Hwei's eyes flicker across the room, drawn to a glimmering display of well-crafted jewelry nestled amongst the art and sketches. With cautious curiosity, he approaches the collection, his fingers trembling with anticipation and intrigue. Each piece is a testament to the skill and dedication of its creator, someone who pours their heart and soul into the art of jewelry-making.

As Hwei lifts a delicate necklace, he marvels at the intricate design and the meticulous attention to detail. The craftsmanship is exquisite, capturing the essence of nature's beauty in every shimmering gem and carefully wrought silver. He can feel the passion and dedication that goes into creating each piece, a resonance that echoes his own artistic journey.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Meanwhile, you cautiously enter Hwei's room, your heart racing with a mix of curiosity and worry. You also have been searching for him.

Upon adjusting to the gloomy atmosphere, your eyes are immediately drawn to a large canvas placed against the wall.

The artwork before you is a revelation, a powerful testament to Hwei's talent. It is unlike anything you have seen before, an embodiment of surrealism that both fascinates and unnerves you.

The canvas depicts a haunting forest, its trees swathed in shades of black and grey that seem to devour the light around them. The atmosphere is heavy with an eerie stillness, and the clouds overhead are painted in dark blues and purples, casting a sense of foreboding. It is as if the darkness itself has taken physical form within the artwork.

Your gaze follows the brushstrokes that reveal a glimpse of sunlight penetrating the dense foliage. But even the rays of light are tinged with darkness, painted in shades of orange and red, as if symbolizing a raging inner fire. The contrast between the somber trees and the fiery light creates a chilling atmosphere, as if the very essence of Hwei's inner turmoil has been captured on the canvas.

To your surprise and shock, hidden among the twisted branches and shadows are barely visible demon-like creatures. Their distorted forms and malevolent presence send a shiver down your spine.

The details are so vivid, yet subtly hidden, as if they are meant to be discovered only by those who dare to venture deeper into the artwork's eerie depths.

The demon-like creatures, once mere brushstrokes on the canvas, begin to stir. Their twisted forms contort and writhe, as if they are breaking free from the confines of the artwork. Your eyes widen in horror as their eyes, glowing with an otherworldly light, fixate on you.

Panic sets in as you realize they are no longer confined to the world of art; they are now tangible.

The first demon, with elongated limbs and a hunched posture, scuttles towards you on all fours. Its cracked, pale skin is stretched taut across its skeletal frame, revealing sinewy muscles that writhe beneath. Its face, contorted into a grimace, holds eyes that burn like fiery coals, casting an eerie glow upon its surroundings. Jagged teeth, sharp as razors, jut out from its deformed mouth, dripping with a viscous, black ichor.

Another demon, with a grotesquely elongated neck and a face that resembles a twisted visage of anguish, floats eerily above the ground. Its elongated limbs end in razor-sharp claws that scrape against the floor, leaving deep gouges in their wake. Its translucent, ethereal form seems to flicker and distort, as if it is constantly shifting between dimensions. Hollow, empty eyes peer out from sunken sockets, devoid of any trace of humanity.

Suddenly, one of the demons lunges forward, its grotesque hand wrapping around your trembling arm with a vice-like grip. The sensation is horrifyingly real, as if their malevolence has transcended the boundaries of paint and canvas. Despair and terror grip your soul as you struggle against the demon's relentless pull.

With a surge of adrenaline, you summon every ounce of strength within you and manage to wrench your arm free from the demon's clutches. The sensation of liberation is accompanied by a surge of relief, but the horror is far from over. Without looking back, you sprint away from the painting, each step echoing in the room.

Glancing over your shoulder in anticipation of the pursuing demons, an eerie sight greets your eyes.

The painting remains motionless, as if frozen in time. The demons, once animated and menacing, are now still, their malevolence trapped within the confines of the artwork.

You stand there, your heart pounding, trying to comprehend Hwei's artistic expression. You have never known him to delve so deeply into the macabre or to conjure such haunting imagery. It is a revelation, a glimpse into a side of him you had never imagined existed.

In that moment, you understand that Hwei possesses a talent that reaches far beyond what you had previously believed. His ability to capture the darkness and transform it into art is both unsettling and mesmerizing.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

As you venture back to your secret art place, a secluded haven where you can immerse yourself in your creative process, you are taken aback by an unexpected sight. There, standing amidst the vibrant artworks and sketches that adorn the walls, is none other than Hwei himself.

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you realize that Hwei has stumbled upon your collection of art studies, meticulously crafted to capture, and understand the essence of his creations. You never intend for anyone, especially not the artist himself, to discover your private exploration of his art.

Hwei examines the sketches with curiosity and intrigue. It is as if he can see the depth of your admiration and the effort you have put into unraveling the secrets of his work. The vulnerability of having your hidden passion exposed makes you feel exposed in turn.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Breaking the silence, Hwei's voice carries a hint of surprise and gratitude.

"You honor me by studying my art," he says, his tone tinged with disbelief. "But I must confess that I do not believe I deserve such admiration."

You pause for a moment, taking in his words before responding. "Hwei, your art is nothing short of extraordinary," you reply, your voice filled with sincerity. "The way you bring your visions to life, with vibrant colors and captivating imagery, it is truly remarkable. You have a gift, and it deserves all the admiration it receives."

"I appreciate your kind words," he murmurs softly. "But sometimes, I cannot help but feel that my art falls short of the beauty I envision in my mind."

Hwei turns around, his eyes scanning the walls of your secret room, filled with artworks and inspirations.

He poses a question that lingers in the air, "Don't you feel lonely living in your own little world?"

A smile graces your lips. "Don't you feel powerless living in other people's worlds?" you reply softly.

His brow furrows in curiosity, and you continue. "Art, in all its diverse expressions, holds a captivating allure for us as human beings. We are instinctively drawn to music, poems, quotes, writing, and visual art because, at our core, we yearn for companionship. We possess an intrinsic desire to escape the clutches of solitude. We seek solace in the knowledge that we are not drifting into the depths of madness alone, but that there are others who comprehend the intricate nuances of our emotions. The profound connection that art fosters satiates our hunger for assurance, affirming that our thoughts and emotions are shared by kindred spirits."

"Hwei, I stumbled upon your secret artwork in your room, and I must say, it's truly beautiful. The way you bring your artistic visions to life is awe-inspiring. But... I can't ignore the sense of unease that it evokes in me. There's something dangerous hidden within your art, something that makes me worry about you."

Caught off guard by the expectation that you would understand and appreciate his creations without reservations, Hwei's expression hardens as he listens to your words. His voice carries a hint of anger as he responds, "You are supposed to understand, to appreciate the depths of my art. It's not just about beauty; it's about expressing the complexity of emotions and experiences. Can't you see the power and meaning behind it?"

The conversation quickly escalates into a heated argument, with your emotions colliding like waves in a stormy sea.

Hwei's frustration and disappointment fuel his words, while your concerns and fear make your voice tremble. Your once harmonious exchange of ideas turns into a clash of conflicting perspectives.

In the heat of the moment, Hwei's control over his paint magic falters. Unintentionally, a surge of colorful energy bursts forth from him, colliding with you. The impact sends you stumbling backward, pain radiating through your body.

Hwei's eyes widen in horror as he realizes what he has done. "No! I... I didn't mean to hurt you," he stammers, rushing to your side. His anger quickly transforms into guilt and remorse, his hands trembling.

Through gritted teeth, you manage to speak, your voice strained with both pain and disappointment. "Your art is undeniably captivating, but there's a darkness within it that I can't ignore. I wanted to understand, to support you, but I never expected it to lead to this. We need to find a way to control your power before it causes harm to others."

Burdened by guilt, Hwei feels the weight of the pain he has unintentionally caused, prompting a surge of remorse. Overwhelmed by the situation, he harbors an intense desire to distance himself, believing it best to leave you and prevent any further harm.

But before he can voice his thoughts, you look into his eyes, your voice filled with determination and an unwavering love. "Hwei, I want you. All of you," you say, your words cutting through his guilt. "Your flaws, your mistakes, your imperfections. I want you, and only you."

He kisses you. Without warning, without permission. Without even deciding to do it, but simply because he couldn't have done anything else. He needs that breath you are holding.

He knows he has no right to touch you, to crave you like air, but he does both. And when he puts his mouth on yours, he recognizes the taste of you, as if you have been made just for him.

With a gentle yet firm touch, Hwei's hand found its way to your cheek, his fingers tracing delicate patterns along your skin. The touch ignited a spark within you, sending waves of electricity coursing through your body. The softness of his touch contrasted with the fervor building between you, intensifying the desire that burned within.

With a whisper against your lips he says, “I never used to let people come too close. But then there was you, that came in and settled in the depths of my soul.”

Feeling the magnetic pull between you, you close the remaining distance, your lips meet in a passionate and hungry kiss. The world around you fades away as your mouths move in perfect harmony, exploring each other with fervent desire. The taste of Hwei, sweet and intoxicating, consumes your senses, leaving you craving more.

With his hand still cupping your cheek, Hwei tightens his grip, drawing you closer and intensifying the intimacy of the moment. His other hand finds its way to the small of your back, drawing you tightly against his body. The sensation of his warmth against your skin sends shivers of ecstasy cascading through you, igniting a fire that burns with an insatiable hunger.

"My biggest fear," Hwei whispers, "is that eventually, you will see me the same way I see myself."

You bury your face in his shoulder as he holds you. All that you could think is that you need him. You need his arms around you, need him to hold you and whisper that you would find a way to be together.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

While walking back to the Koyehn temple after your argument, a soft silence envelops the air. The tension between you slowly dissipates, and without saying a word, your hands find each other, intertwining gently. The moonlight casts a gentle glow upon both of you.

In that moment, you turn to Hwei, your voice laced with vulnerability. "I am scared of the love I have for you," you confess, your words carrying the weight of truth. "Because I know it will ruin me. And I also know that I will let it."

As you find yourself gazing up at the vast expanse of the night sky, the twinkling stars above serve as a gentle reminder of the intricate dance of love that unfolds within the human heart. The eternal beacons of light, scattered across the celestial canvas, evoke a sense of both awe and contemplation.

In the presence of those luminous specks, you can't help but ponder the origins of our existence. A whisper of wonder escapes your lips as you wonder if, in some cosmic design, humanity might trace its roots back to the stars themselves. The concept of being made from stardust resonates deeply within you, igniting a spark of connection to the vastness of the universe.

However, as you reach the temple's entrance, a figure stands in the shadows, patiently waiting. There is something unsettling about his presence, a feeling that sends a shiver down your spine.

You should have listened to your feeling.

blood stains and butterflies

includes: Soap, Ghost warnings: PTSD, panic attack, vomiting, gore length: 4,000 some words summary: Ghost isn't all too happy that Christmas showed up months early. A/N: uh... Boo. I'm alive! Anyways, new obsession time. Also, ik tumblr goes crazy with bots but where did they all swarm me from?? Enjoy though, and please give me feedback.

Ghost stumbles, nearly slipping in the pummeling rain. His gloved hand hardly catches traction on the slick side of their stupid fucking safe house that's spat up 30 miles past bum fuck nowhere.

The sky is as dark as the field that surrounds him, clouds hiding the moon away like it's something shameful.

I'm shameful, Ghost's brain spits as he gasps as quietly as he can. He can feel his throat closing up tight- too tight- tighter than anything he can handle.

Oh sure, because waterboarding and gasoline is nothing compared to stupid, god awful-

"Creepin' Jesus, L.t.-"

Ghost hardly has the wherewithal to yank his mask just over the bridge of his crooked, fucked up nose before he's spilling what little bit of lunch he ate before they were sent on this lousy mission.

"Ghost, what's goin' oan? Ye alright?"

Shut up. Shut the hell up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

He's dry heaving so much that something is stinging somewhere deep behind his eyes.

A hand, steady yet uncertain, touches his shoulder and Ghost feels flames licking at his skin, even through the ever persistent rain storm.

"Don't fucking touch me," he seethes, baring his teeth like a rabid animal, feet clumsily scrambling further away, leaving his arms to weakly try to compensate. The last thing he needs is to bust his ass on his own throw up.

Soap jerks his hand away like he is the one being burned. The rain is so loud, but not even shelling could drown out the sound of Soap's breath catching in his throat.

"I'm fine," Ghost rasps, sounding impossibly fragile even to his own ringing ears. "Go back inside before you get yourself sick, Soap."

"Sick like ye?"

Ghost is gagging on bile before he can spit fire back. Instead, he spits up the last of his pathetic lunch.

"I said I'm fine. They're just-" Christ, he's shaking so hard he might slip again- "fucking Christmas lights. Nothing's wrong with me."

If Ghost would stop being a little bitch for a second, he'd see the way Soap's eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion with a single blink.

"This is aboot th' holiday decor?" Soap asks desperately. Ghost can hear a puddle splash as Soap inches closer.

Ghost would rather be buried alive again than admit that he is having a breakdown over some lights speckled with blood. Hell, he'd rather gulp down gasoline than speak anything ever again.

Ghost screws his eyes shut in hopes of- of what? Hiding? He's such a shameless coward.

"L.t. please. What's goin' oan? I don't understand- what's wrong with th' lights?"

The door was kicked open, windows smashed in, and they were dead long before he jerked his car in park.

He wanted- needed- them to be alive so badly, so desperately, he skimmed over the fact that more of Joseph's brains were on the wall than in his skull for fuck's sake-

He's retching again, but tears are making his vision too blurry to see what he's hurling onto the muddied clump of grass beneath his feet. Rain, actually. The rain is making his vision blurry.

"Come back inside 'fore ye hurt yerself more. Please, Ghost." There is a noticeable hesitation and Ghost hopes Soap will just go back inside and leave him in shambles.

Soap doesn't go anywhere, but Ghost crumbles anyway from what he says.

"Ye're scarin' me…"

"You're scaring me! Tommy, stop it! Please- please stop!"

Tommy sneered behind the cracked skull mask, and Simon felt his lower bunk dip with his brother's weight. The pillow under his head was snatched from him.

"Don't ever beg anyone for anything, Simon. Hasn't dad taught you that?" The sneer bled into a sickening grin. "Here, let's practice."

His pillow was shoved over his face before he could even choke out the word 'no'.

Ghost loses his footing and falls to his knees, hands weakly grasping for any leverage on the side of the safe house. There isn't any. His left knee digs into the mud as he stumbles.

Soap, the persistent, heaven-sent bastard, is by his side before Ghost slips any further.

"I don't-" Soap hovers by Ghost like a lost dog, buzzing with confusion and concern. "A'll take it doon, Lt. A'll get rid of it all."

Ghost vaguely hears Soap's footsteps trailing off, the pummeling of the rain and the rushing in his ears nearly drowning it out. But then Soap stops and the footsteps rush back his way. Ghost shudders in the rain, in his thoughts, fingers weakly dragging against the dirt as he presses his back against the side of the shelter. Soap is so quiet that Ghost can almost pretend he isn't there.

But, fuck, he is. Standing right there, thinking God knows what, and Ghost's mask is still above his scarred, vomit-laced mouth-

Ghost drags his soaked sleeve over his mouth and chin so rough he feels a strap jerk against a scar. He grits his teeth and bares it and yanks his mask back over the rest of his face.

"Give me yer knives."

Ghost startles- fucking jumps out of his skin. He thought Soap was gone. Scratch that- he hoped Soap was gone.

Ghost slaps together the meanest glare he can muster. He's pathetic like this; a mess in the mud, his own vomit washing away in the rain next to him, being waterboarded by his mask.

Soap doesn't even flinch. Hell, he reaches his hand out, expectant.

"Ye might…" Soap takes a breath, his fingers curling into his palm just a little. "I don't want to come back oot 'ere to find that ye did something stupid to yerself."

"You think-" Ghost has to take a short breath, his voice shredded and raw and so god damn fragile. "You think that I'm-"

"I don't know what t' think," Soap rushes, sounding as desperate as Ghost hates to feel. "Just promise me ye won't."

Ghost screws his eyes shut, wondering if a promise like this only counts for the moment, or if he has to keep it for the rest of his miserable life.

"Am beggin' ye, Ghost."

"Did you beg them, Tommy? Did you?" Simon heard himself say as he stared at his brother's limp body dangling in a bloody mess of Christmas lights from the rafters. Fitting it was, that he suffocated. "Or did not have the chance to?"

"Simon-"

"Don't you- Don't fucking call me that," Ghost rasps.

Soap opens his mouth, desperate as a drowned man gasping for air, but Ghost beats him to it.

"I won't, fuck. I'm not bloody insane." Although he sure as hell felt that way.

Soap's jaw tightens, teeth clenching against each other as he draws his hand back. He is still hesitant to leave Ghost alone; alone with his thoughts and feelings. And knives.

"I won't," Ghost breathes quietly, Adam's apple bobbing as he gathers what little pieces of him were left. "I wouldn't, Soap."

Soap nods, gaze lingering as he turns his body away towards the shelter. "A'll kill ye, if ye do."

Ghost chuckles, heartless and hurt and so pitifully wrapped in his head. What a perfect way to go, that would be. That's the only way he can see himself dying, being taken out by Soap. Ghost wonders how he would do it.

Soap hasn't moved.

"I promise, Johnny."

That seems to do the trick because seconds later, Soap is taking off through the rain and heading inside the house.

Ghost is, blessedly, devastatingly, alone. But he's left with his thoughts. And they begin to wander before he beats them down.

The whole fucking shelter is done up with Christmas decorations, and it makes him wonder how many layers of dust are on every light and ornament. It makes him wonder what happened to the people who strung them up.

He doesn't wonder, however, how the blood splatters got there.

It's not even near the holiday season, either, which really pisses him off because it's just his luck. He thought he'd be safe from his holiday horrors, months away from Christmas. Of course the world slams a curveball right in his face and spits on him while he's down.

He doesn't notice that his hands are gripping at the top of his mask. They would be tugging on his hair, but he's a spineless, faceless coward. No wonder everyone thought Tom was the better brother. They were fucking right to, weren't they?

Christ, they're all he can see. Tom, hanging from the rafters by the Christmas tree lights, his throat a mangled mess. Beth, a crumpled mop of blinding white ribs and heavy dark blood, her Santa hat mostly red and somewhere underneath what was left of her. His mom, stabbed in the neck, blood soaking into her newest ugly sweater she was so proud of. Joseph's head and reindeer antlers headband was blown off with a bullet, his blood and brains and matter covering the various paint splotches on the wall where Tom and Beth couldn't decide on a new color.

Joseph's toy airplane kicked to the side, forgotten white wings stained with pieces of the boy.

He wanted to be a pilot when he grew up, Joseph did. He used to make Simon hold him above his head so he could stick his little arms out real far like they were wings on a plane. Simon would carry him all around the house; pretended to be the panicked control tower, telling pilot Joseph that he couldn't use the runway- the hallway- because there were fallen trees- a broom and a mop- blocking his path. Pilot Joseph was always a quick thinker, and he would land his plane further down the way, on an empty back road- the couch. And Simon would toss his beaming nephew on the ratty old brown couch and listen to his giggles as he shouted, "Again, Uncle Simon! Again!"

God, the pure joy on the kids face whenever Simon bought him that little toy plane for Christmas one year was burning at the back of his brain. Fucks sake, all Simon could afford at the time was a little figurine. It wasn't remote controlled, no doors could open- hell, the propeller couldn't even spin. But Joseph loved it more than anything in the world.

The sound of glass shattering behind the shelter has Ghost choking on his breath.

Simon would've killed to have been deaf when he took Tom down from the rafters. Glass shattered, body thumped, glass shattered, glass shattered, glass-

Bile scorches the back of his throat as his memory supplies the imagine of blood splattered Christmas ornaments. He tumbles forwards onto his hands and knees, frantically tugging his mask above his lips again. One hand claws at the dirt, the other, supported by his elbow in the mud, holding the bottom part of his mask out of the way as he retches and dry heaves until he swears he could be spitting up blood.

Ghost curls in on himself and falls to his side, a deflated, crumpled heap of shame.

It's all his fault. It is. If he had gotten there sooner, if he had seen it all coming, if he had never gotten compromised, if he had never joined the fucking military- none of it would have happend. It's his fault, all his fault.

"My fault," he heaves, blurry eyes boring into where the dark, starless sky seamlessly bleeds into the black, rocky mud. He's drowning in the stifling nothingness.

Tom could be coming home from work, kissing Beth hello, playing 'pilot' with Joseph. But he's not. He's a rotted corpse six-feet under the dirt. That's how Simon should be. It's his fault that it didn't turn out that way. His fault, all his fault.

"I'm sorry," he breaks, shaking his head, bringing his muddy glove to his face, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead. The other half hides, burying into the ground, like he could dig his own grave like this.

Joseph would've been in high school by now, driving and going to meet friends. But he's not. He's stuck in a wooden box next to his parents. That's how Simon should be. It's his fault-

"Please-"

"Ghost?"

Ghost's eye snap open, body tense and frozen. He vaguely notices that he's hyperventilating. Christ alive, he's breathing so fast but he can't get any air. He can't breathe, no matter how hard he tries. He might as well be buried alive again-

"…-ost, look at me. I need ye to look at me Lt."

Ghost's blood shot eyes snap in Soap's direction- when was he sat up against the shack's wall?- and his breath hitches somewhere deep in his throat before he feels his heart pitter faster. It's trying to break out of his ribcage, slamming into his cracking bones, threatening to bleed openly into Soap's hands. Soap has such nice hands. He'd hate to soil them.

"Where are we reit now?' Soap asks, carefully crouching in front of him, both hands resting open palm facing up on his knees.

Ghost feels his eyebrows furrow at that one. Has Soap forgotten? Your location seems like an awfully important thing to know.

"Ghost, I need ye to tell me where we are," Soap insists, the tendons in his neck pulled so taunt. Ghost worries. He worries that Soap will hurt his neck, straining how he is.

"Manchester?" he murmurs so low that he can feel how his vocal cords vibrate with it. Soap's neck pulls over his Adam's apple as it bobs rough. Ghost wonders what it would take to snap the stretched tendons there. Ghost thinks he'll kill anything that dares to graze them.

"Nae. Nae, Ghost. Look around. Look around ye an' then tell me where we are."

Ghost's eyes carefully draw away from Soap's vulnerable, tense throat, and move to meet his gaze. Soap is scared, he realizes slowly, the thought dawning on him as slow as the sun rises. Ghost furrows his eyebrows, a frown tugs his lips down at the side. Hesitantly, his eyes drift to the trees surrounding him. He can hardly pick up anything distinctive through the rain, but he feels his eyes widen.

"We're at a safe house. But- but then I-"

"That's reit, Ghost. We're on a mission waitin' for exfil. Do ye remember what our mission was?" Soap speaks like a kindergarten teacher. One who wears long, gray skirts and a yellow button-up blouse, has the thinnest heels on her black shoes, and always has her hair done up in a relaxed bun. Ghost vaguely remembers hating his kindergarten classes; he could never focus. Ghost thinks he would hang on every word if Soap was his teacher. "Stay with me, Ghost," Mr. Soap snaps his fingers once or twice, the sound dancing away through the rain.

"Gather intel on the terrorists' bio-weapons… Destroy the sample. Get out with no one the wiser." Ghost holds his breath for praise, for Soap to tell him he's right. Tell him thats he's not a fuck up, not weak or stupid or not masculine enough. To tell him that maybe, he deserved everything that happened to him

"Yeah, that's right. There ye go, Ghost." Soap's lips twist into a pitiful, beautiful thin-lipped smile. "Thought I lost ye for good there, L.T."

"Never," Ghost rasps before he can shut his big fat mouth.

Soaps lips quirk up more at that, and Ghost has half the mind to get on his knees and ask for repentance. Acceptance, even.

"Are ye alright to come inside?" Soap asks carefully, words treading carefully like Ghost was a minefield.

Sometimes he feels that way, if he were ever honest with himself. He feels like a wired ticking time bomb, bound to explode at the smallest of missteps.

Well, Soap just happens to be a demolition expert, doesn't he?

"Ghost? Did ye hear me?"

Ghost feels himself blink, and when he opens his eyes, he can only look at Soap's lips.

It's unfair, really, how it all slams into him at once, after everything.

He thinks about it. He thinks about it so vividly that he can almost feeling his rough lips against Soap's, feel his clean shaven jaw rub against Soap's stubble.

He takes a shuddering breath when the thought of betrayal and blood and Christmas lights flood his mind.

He doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve Soap's lips or stubble or- hell- his being. He isn't good enough.

Besides, it'll only get Soap killed faster. More brutal. They'd make Ghost watch, too. He couldn't shoulder that.

Ghost startles slightly when Soap's gloved hand waves in front of his eyes once or twice.

"Don't get in yer heid. Stay with me, L.T."

Ghost feels his lips tremble. Soap always knows his tells.

" 'm sorry, Johnny," Simon murmurs, blinking against the shine in Soap's eyes.

Soap softens at that, concerned frown morphing into a lopsided grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"No need to apologize, Ghost. Ain't yer fault," Soap hums.

Ghost grunts at that, and if it was in acceptance or disagreement, Soap could only hope to flip a coin.

Soap takes off one of his gloves, his pale skin free from the inky, filthy glove. He holds this hand out like an offering, palm up and fingers outstretched, inches away from Ghost's chest.

"Ready to dry off, L.T? I mean, we could keep showerin' out here if ye want to, but…" Soap trails off, eyes following the dark, angry clouds moving in from the west.

Soap has the bluest eyes. Like Scorpion grasses. Those invasive beautiful bastards spread like wildfire in his mother's dingy little garden one year and she could never get rid of them. Hell, she made the whole damn garden full of Scorpion grass.

Ghost leans his head closer- ever so minutely- to get a closer look at Soap's eyes.

Yeah. Soap's exactly like Scorpion grass.

He's certainly invasive. Ghost didn't want him at first, but he kept coming back. Over and over and over again. And, well, Ghost certainly can't stand to get rid of him now. Soap calms his jumpy fucking nerves too, just like the flowers. He smoothes out Ghost's worries like it's as easy as spreading melted butter on toast.

Forget-me-nots.

That's right- they're also called forget-me-nots.

Ghost couldn't forget Soap for anything. He'd know him anywhere, anywhere at all. On earth, in hell, somewhere in the gray in between. Ghost could be blind and deaf, yet still know Soap if the man was near him.

Scorpion grass might just be his favorite flower if he allows himself that much.

"…Ghost? Ye alright?"

Ghost blinks, ripping his gaze away from the vast ocean he almost drowned in. With another, deliberate, blink, he realizes Soap is blushing. Pink dusts over his cheeks, his eyes struggling to hold their place on Ghost.

"Somethin' on my face?" Soap chuckles, the sound high and tense.

Ghost swallows, breath catching in his throat so suddenly his mouth dries up. He tugs his mask all the way down again, and fixes it firmly in place.

None of it matters anyway. Not a single bit of it. Not the way Soap looks at him like he's the most important thing in the room, not the way his face heats up when Soap punches his shoulder before they load out on a mission, and definitely not the way his heart pitter-patters oh-so quickly when Soap smiles at him when he says a stupid, corny joke.

None of that matters because the Scorpion grass in his dead mother's garden flopped over and went to hell when Ghost tried to care for them after she was gone, and so will Soap.

"Get out of yer head, Ghost."

Ghost flinches his head back, the sternness in Soap's tone sending him reeling.

"I'm was not-"

"Ye were. Ye had that 1,000-yard-stare glossed over yer eyes," Soap squints at him.

"I always have that stare, Soap. It's part of the fucking job," Ghost bites back.

"Sure, but when ye're out of it, it looks different."

"It does not-"

"Yes, it bloody does!" Soap sneers, the genuine anger in his face catching Ghost off guard. Ghost watches Soap as he sucks in a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his jaw, before swallowing behind the perfect columns in his neck. "It does. And I am sick and tired of losin' ye to yerself."

Ghost looks at him, really looks at him for any sign of- hell, he doesn't fucking know anymore. Resentment, maybe? Soap has every right to hate him.

Soap sighs, running his ungloved hand through his hair. His shoulders seem so weighted. Ghost wants to hold it all for him; carry everything even if the weight of it all breaks his bones twice over.

"Let's get inside, L.T." Soap reaches out his hand again, stronger this time and no longer shaking. "Before the rain makes ye more sick. We're both soaked to the bone and the fuckin' shack doesn't have any heating. Nothing 'sides a little fireplace. Hope ye don't mind strippin' down to yer tighty-whities near me."

It kills Ghost. It kills him that Soap doesn't speak a word of Ghost's several outbursts and breakdowns that have happened in the span of… of- Christ above, what time is it? How long has he been smothered in his head over Christmas lights?

Ghost takes a weary breath before he fully gets 'lost in his head' again.

The look of relief that breaks across Soap's face when Ghost strongly grasps his hand is enough to make the man's knees weak.

"Can't wait to see your Hello Kitty briefs again, Johnny," Ghost deadpans as Soap pulls them both to their feet. He knows Soap sees the way he sways with the rain, the way he uses the wall for support- Ghost can see it in his eyes. He's thankful, graciously thankful, when Soap doesn't mention it.

"That was one bloody time. Was Gaz's fault anyway," Soap grumbles, still holding Ghost's hand in his as he leads them inside.

As Ghost tentatively steps into the safehouse again, he realizes that Soap is a saint. Even though he's technically a mass murder, his sins are washed away with the simple act of rearranging a small shack.

Everything remotely Christmas themed is out of sight. No ornaments, no tree, no stockings, no snowmen, no Santas, no paper snowflakes- and not one single Christmas light. Ghost feels his face warm up a stupid amount as he tracks his eyes over the firepit.

The blood is gone.

Soap cleaned the fucking blood.

Ghost whips his head around, and in a rare moment- one of many so far tonight- his mouth is open without a sound coming out.

He wants to say something, really he does, but what can he say when Soap is busying himself with acting as if nothing has changed. As if this is the first time they've walked into the dump.

As if he isn't making a vile, almost forgotten feeling crescendo up in the empty void behind Ghost's sternum.

"Let's raid the place, yeah?" Soap says, looking over the layout. "There's the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. Though, that's fucking generous to call it that, eh?"

Soap is right; the living room and kitchen combined couldn't be more than 12 feet across and 10 feet wide. The bedroom is more of a closet with a pile of blankets against the wall. But, still, the kitchen has cabinets and the living room has a fireplace… that hopefully works.

"You search the kitchen, I'll see if the pit is functional," Ghost murmurs, ignoring how the words grate against his raw throat. Away from the rain, the chill of his soaked clothes is settling on his skin. He's ready to get warm and sleep away the pounding in his head.

"Copy that, L.T." Soap beams, sparing one brief glance before turning on his heels to ramble through the cabinets.

"And Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Johnny gives a lopsided smile that makes his eyes shine. "Of course, Simon."

dreams and daiquiris

includes: Ghost, Soap, Price

warnings: nightmares, PTSD, graphic gore, mention and brief depiction of suicide

length: 6,008

summary: Ghost can't stop dreaming, always. They're getting bad. He's loosing pieces of himself and he can't take it anymore. Luckily, Soap is there, ready and waiting with two fancy glasses.

A/N: Make sure to look over the warnings! Anyways, this may or may jot be a vent post... Of you squint... A lot. Also, don't "take care" of yourself like Simon jfc

"Hell's bells, it's bloody boilin' oot there," Johnny whines, stretching himself out on the scratched up wooden floor with a groan. He's long since forgone his shirt, the top tossed carelessly somewhere over the couch. "Th' floor ain't even braw nae more."

"English, MacTavish."

Soap gives him a rather crude look. 

"It's really fuckin' hot. Floor isn't cold," he spits, the anger more directed at the sun rather than Ghost. "Ah just ken yer aboot to burn, L.T," Soap stresses, ruling onto his stomach.

"Can it, Johnny."

Although in all fairness, Soap is right. Ghost's mask is a sopping puddle at the base of his neck, under his jaw, and around his hairline. The desert isn't exactly accepting of black cloth wrapped around his face.

He doesn't know why they're here, doesn't know their mission and the details and whatnot, but he does know Johnny is with him. 

That's all he cares about.

He busies himself with cleaning his rifle, back to Soap as he keeps his eyes on the void-like horizon out of the window.

"Ghost…" Johnny whines, and Ghost rolls his eyes, ignoring him.

The heat is unbearable as is, he doesn't need bitching along with it.

"L.t." Johnny says again, voice high and tight. "'t's hot…"

Ghost huffs obnoxiously to get his point across for Johnny to shut the hell up.

"It hurts, Simon."

And, fuck, that pinched and ragged tone, the way Johnny's fighting for every word, makes Ghost whip around so fast he might have whiplash.

"Johnny-"

The words get caught in his throat, and he can't breathe anymore. 

Soap's burning. 

Johnny is on fire.

"Johnny!" The name tears from him before he can help it, and he's scrambling from the window to save him and-

Christ, Soap is screaming. Screaming bloody murder as the smell of charred flesh and thick smoke fill up the safe house. He's screaming and screaming and burning and Simon can't stop him, can't put him out-

Johnny is going to die.

He rushes to the sink, stumbling over himself on the way there, but the faucet is busted and dry as the desert they're in.

The screaming isn't stopping, not even letting up, and he's going to go deaf with the sound of Johnny fucking burning alive.

All of a sudden, Ghost is screaming too. He is in agony, his shoulder flaring up with the heat of the sun. He forces himself to turn around, to find why it hurts so much.

Soap is grabbing at him, at his shoulders, scrambling for a hold but… He isn't Soap anymore. He's not Johnny. 

But Ghost knows him.

It's a civilian, one from years ago. A young boy, barely twelve. And he's still fucking on fire.

"Why didn't you save me?!" the boy screams, reaching for Ghost, reaching to set him ablaze, reaching for help.

"I-" and Ghost is gagging on the smell of burned flesh. His throat burns with it, eyes water, and he blinks through it to look around.

I tried.

"Why didn't you save us?!" 

And Ghost screws his eyes shut, trying not to breathe.

I wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry.

He hears the boy choke on his last breath, hears him crumble into the dust. He makes the mistake of forcing his eyes open, to see where they are, to find Johnny again. 

There are people all around him, each one of them lit up like a bonfire.

He's with Roba again. 

Simon can feel the way his heart drops.

Please, not again. I can't go through this again.

Simon starts to run- run as fast as his legs will let him.

He doesn't get far.

He screams when a metal hook tears through his back and out in front of his ribs. Caught, like a fish on a line.

His fingers claw at the dirt, the screams now choking in his throat as he dragged backwards, back towards the burning, towards him.

Roba pulls him closer, like he were nothing more than a tug-of-war rope. And no matter how hard Simon claws into the dirt, how hard he forces himself to breath through the agony, how hard he begs-

He can't escape.

Simom wakes up screaming so loudly that he can feel it tearing the inside of his throat raw. With the tail end of a plea on his lips, he crashes to the floor, his legs tangled up all kinds of ways in his thin sheets.

Christ alive, he can't breathe. He can't even move and fuck-

One of his hands clutch at his pounding heart while the other claws against the floor in hopes of escaping him.

He needs to get away, needs to get out of here as fast as possible- but his legs won't move right and he can only crawl so far with one lousy hand and he just can't get any traction-

The door slams open, rattling on its hinges, and the room floods with blinding light. Someone's yelling, and he barely makes out, "Get down!"

Simon can't see. He can't see. Can't move or breathe and some is yelling, and he's fucking terrified, so he buries his head in his hands and curls up into a ball the best he can.

He feels like he needs to vomit out whatever is caught in his throat so he can catch a breath, to rip his heart out of his chest just so it'll slow down, to carve out his brain so the screaming will stop.

"Ghost?! Creepin' Jesus, what's-" 

"Ghost? Ghost where-" the yelling pauses, catches itself in the air before settling into a low, hurried, murmur. "Ah, hell- Simon…" The door cracks almost shut, and the voice orders, "Go on back to your barracks! False alarm, everything's fine." 

But it's not. It's not fucking fine because he knows he knows that voice, but he can't place it, can't stop hyperventilating to put a face to it-

The voice doesn't speak up again, and there's footsteps, a few, that shuffle away and down the hall. 

And, eventually, somewhere in the midst of the calming chaos, his ears stop ringing. The high pitched whining fades away, and after a moment, his vision slowly clears. The black fuzz in his peripherals let up and nothing is blurry. He blinks, and notices the lights in the room aren't as assaulting. 

"You with me, soldier?" Price murmurs from where he's crouched down across the room. 

Simon opens his mouth to say he's fine, but all he can do is choke on his breath.

"Hey there, easy, Simon. You're alright," Price soothes, a sad look in his eyes. "Just breathe, kid. No rush."

¤¤¤¤¤

When he does calm down and he's no longer in his head, he speaks. His voice is gravelly and raw and it hurts just a bit, but Ghost speaks.

"What was with the bloody search party? Everyone wakes up yellin' now and then. Comes with the fuckin' territory."

Price presses his lips into a thin line as he hands Ghost his mask.

"Yeah, but not everyone begs for their life. Certainly not you, Simon." The name earns him a harsh, tired glare.

"I wasn't…" he feels his lips curl down more without his permission, the nightmare still whispering its giggles in the back of his mind. "I wasn't begging for anything. I don't beg."

Price gives him an odd look, one he's seen before but can't quite place. 

He's fucking sick of that, not being able to place what he's experienced before.

"What were you dreaming about?"

Ghost clenches his jaw instantly, trapping his confession far behind his teeth. He beats the words down until they are nothing but a speck deep inside. Buries them together into the ground, in an unmarked grave, in the middle of nowhere.

Price runs a slightly shaking hand through his tousled hair and sighs, "Don't do this to yourself anymore. Just one word, that's all I need." 

Ghost closes his eyes, and the image of Johnny and the boy and flames and the hook flash in the darkness. He shoots them open and feels his breath stutter in his throat. 

Ghost can't. He won't. He's not that god damn pathetic.

"It's alright, son."

Fuck it all. 

What else is he supposed to do but talk? How can he say nothing when Price talks to him like that? Like he's worth waking up for?

"Roba," he whispers like a curse.

And Price understands, because of course he does. 

¤¤¤¤¤

He has another terrible one within the next week.

It's his fault this time. He should know better- he does know better.

It's all because tries to sleep with a weighted blanket. 

Ghost figures he needs a tiny, controllable change. Besides, he read somewhere that the weight would help him sleep soundly.

God knows he needs a good night's rest.

So he wills himself to go out into the world off base and brave his local 24 hour convenience store for the stupid thing. He buys the first one he sees that isn't psychedelic and bleeding with color. It weighs a good 20 pounds through the whole blanket, but Ghost figures he's a lot to cover.

After an odd look from the short man at the register, Ghost goes back to the base to call it a day, a bit bitter from the silent interaction.

So what if he buys blankets an hour after midnight? Piss off.

He just… Wants to sleep everything away.

And so he tucks in for the night, hopeful, swapping the military grade sheet for his new weighted blanket that, actually, is quite nice. Eventually, after forcing every muscle to relax one by one, he falls blissfully asleep.

Soap's stupid mohawk was a mess of blood as he was dragged, kicking and begging, through the mud. Ghost was murdering men left and right to get to him, killing without a thought to save him, the blood soaking into his hands, leaving nothing but thin scars behind. 

And then he sees it; the all too familiar grave. Unmarked and hardly four feet, just like he remembers.

And the Sergeant- Soap, MacTavish, John, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny- is carelessly tossed like a rag doll right into that grave.

And Ghost dives after him.

He has to save him because he couldn't save everyone else.

He has to.

But he can't.

Now that they're here, he can't get them out.

The dirt is piling on top of them too quickly, and he can't dig them free fast enough and Johnny is screaming and crying and fighting and-

And then he's silent. Quiet as the earth.

Ghost searches for him, wide-eyed despite the dirt all around him. And he sees. He sees his Johnny.

Sees that he's a corpse. 

Rotted, at that. Old- days old, at least. There's no grin on his melted face anymore, no glint of mischief in his rolling eyes.

Ghost is too late. None of his sacrifices matter. 

Still, he tries. 

He tries to get out, scrapes and digs and hopes to get free, get on top, look down at the grass.

But he's only getting deeper- so, so much deeper- into the ground and he doesn't know why, he doesn't understand how-

It's Soap. It's Johnny. He's digging the wrong way, rotted flesh and tiny bones scraping in the wrong direction.

"Other way!" Simon shouts past the dirt in his mouth. 

And John stops, skin sliding off of his face as he rattles his bones at Simon, unable to talk with his lips a puddle in the hole they're in. But he sees it, Johnny's wicked smile of teeth and a touch of gums. 

Hears it, when he speaks into his brain: Oh? But, Simon, hell is this way.

¤¤¤¤¤

He's going to personally hunt down the author of the book that told him weighted blankets were a good idea.

Hell, maybe they are a good idea. At least, for anyone who doesn't dream of being buried alive.

The clock tells him it's been hardly two hours, but his body says it's been a lifetime. 

Everything aches, more than normal, but he can't manage to sit still with these nerves eating at his skin. It feels like he's clutching a live wire instead of his pillow that's planted in front of his stomach and held up by his arms and knees.

It's going to be a long fucking day.

¤¤¤¤¤

He was right.

The day drags on forever.

By the end of it, Ghost considers killing everyone in the building, and then himself.

He feels too big for his skin, like he has to shed it like a snake, grow another one that's a better fit. Every breath he takes, he forces it to be slow and deliberate, focusing on filling his lungs completely. 

Ghost spends most of the day in the gym. He tried working on what little paper work he's yet to do, but the words kept blending together and dancing from the page. And even if he wrangled them back, they weren't sticking. He had to read the same line four or five times in a row because his brain decided that English wasn't going to work today.

So he stays his ass in the gym.

Can't think if everything hurts, can you?

He starts with the treadmill and sprints for a mile, until his knees threaten to give way and he nearly slips. He moves, shaking, to the bench press, and makes the choice to work on lighter weights so he doesn't need a spotter. When that isn't clearing his mind, he makes his final destination the punching bag.

Maybe he gets lost in his head regardless. Maybe he loses himself. Maybe he bends a finger.

He only stops when Price practically drags him into the kitchen, still sweaty and gross and dead on his feet.

It wouldn't have been all too bad, if Price had kept the silence going.

"Therapy is a normal thing, Ghost, especially in this line of work. Everyone on the task force goes, even Kate."

And Ghost knows this. He knows how much it has helped Soap through the aftermath of Las Almas and Hassan and everything before, in between, and after. 

Ghost knows therapy worked for them. 

And he knows he's too damaged for therapy to fix. 

Ghost moves his jaw just enough to pass as a nod, just to appease Price.

He can't find the honey for his tea and he's just a breath away from giving up on it and heading to the sniper range with a raw throat and trembling hands.

He doesn't understand where the honey went. It was right here. He left it right here yesterday morning. It's always right here. Always. 

So where the fuck is it?

Price makes a noise, something between clearing his throat and huffing.

Ghost faces him at it, and snags the small container of honey before Price can question him. 

Fucks sake, he almost spiralled because of honey.

He's pathetic.

"Where was it?" he murmurs, because it'll drive him up the wall for the rest of the day if he doesn't know.

"On the counter, Ghost. Near the fridge. No need to get ansty over it," Price answers easily before adding just as quick, "you know, I could enforce that therapy be mandatory."

"You wouldn't." 

Price wouldn't.

Right?

"But I could."

"You could do anything, sir."

"Except help you, apparently."

"I don't need any help."

"You did with Roba."

The tea scalds his hand when he spills it all over the counter. Seeps into his glove and threatens to burn him alive, and he grits his teeth hard enough to feel his jaw creak. He pulls the glove off with his other shaking hand, and gives a once over to his pale hand that's now quickly turning an irritated shade of pink.

"Simon, at least think about it," Price sighs with the weight of the world. He's already carefully cleaning the hot tea from the counter.

"I have," Ghost bites, moving to the sink.

Price goes quiet as the cool water from the tap runs lightly over Ghost's hand, over his oddly bent finger. Ghost hopes that the conversation is over. He knows it's not.

"New orders, soldier."

Ghost takes a breath, stiffening and resisting the muscle memory of moving at attention, or at least parade rest.

"Sir?"

"You're drinking with the 141 at the end of this month."

Ghost lets himself whip his head around, and he can feel the fire in his eyes, the protest on his tongue.

"Don't cut me off."

And Ghost clenches his jaw to shut himself up. 

Price hardly ever pulls rank on his team; he doesn't need to, with the respect the 141 has for him regardless. This? This right here is the closest he ever gets.

Price quietly huffs, looking over Ghost's hand that's still under running cool water. 

Price holds the tone he always has when he's discussing the workings of a mission. "You'll drink with us, here on base in Soap's office. You'll try to enjoy yourself. Then, after two hours, you can peel off. Fuck about for all I care, but stay involved for two hours, at lease. Understood?" 

Ghost thinks the old man has gone fucking senile.

"Understood."

"Involved, Ghost. Offer your two cents here. Say a shitty joke there. Have a drink or two."

"Sir."

Price huffs again, his mustache twitching with the force of it. He carefully cradles Ghost's burned hand. He's got a rag, wets it with the cool water, and lays it gingerly over Ghost's hand. 

"Just… Consider it, Simon. Really, this time." Price murmurs, patting Ghost's shoulder with his dry hand. "And get your ass to medical before you terrorize the gym again."

Ghost doesn't know if he wants to strangle the man or hug him. 

¤¤¤¤¤

They're standing on Ghost's favorite watch tower, Soap and Ghost, overlooking the quiet woods behind the base. 

Johnny had wanted to see his knife collection, and for some godforsaken reason, Ghost shows him.

And as Ghost hands Johnny his favorite one, perfectly balanced and sharper than the devil's tongue, Johnny speaks something dangerous.

"I love you, Simon."

And Simon startles, gasps quietly as his heart beats faster and faster.

Is that just how it is? Effortlessly said, as if those words haven't been plaguing him for months? As if it's really just that easy? 

Simon hopes so. Hopes that it comes naturally to him like it does to Johnny.

But he knows better than to hope.

There's not love in the world for people like him.

"Let me show you how much I love you," Johnny beams, switching his grip on Ghost's knife.

"Johnny…?"

Johnny stabs himself just above his navel with Ghost's knife, the slick shhk of the blade echoing in the abyss as Simon can do nothing but watch. 

Blood pools over John's hips, down his strong legs, puddles at his feet, but the man is standing there, smiling and looking at Simon like he just hung the moon. 

"John- Johnny," Simon forces, rising from his spot on the ground, trembling hands refusing to move from his sides.

"I have a gift for you," John smiles, like he isn't forcing the blade up his torso, carving himself open like a fish. He flexes what's left of his abs, and his small intestines tumble out of him like a massive snake. They fall on the floor at first, but a section somewhere in the middle tips over the side, and gravity sends the organ free falling from the edge of the watchtower, and his large intestines peek out from behind John's flesh. "Ready for it?"

Simon doesn't speak. He can't, mesmerized by how Johnny's free hand pulls the rest of his intestines free like they were as normal as rope.

Johnny then holds the bloodied blade between his teeth, taints those perfectly pearly whites, and uses both hands to dig inside himself.

His left kidney, maybe his pancreas, and his liver are carelessly tossed onto the floor. And Johnny is still smiling at him from beyond that knife. Standing there playing Operation on himself with hearts in his fucking eyes. 

With a handful of yanks, his lungs are pulled free, dropped to the floor like the others. They're still functioning, too; expanding and relaxing, providing oxygen for a body a yard away. 

And then finally, finally, he tugs his heart out of place with a fond chuckle from behind the blade.

He passes Ghost his heart tenderly, both of John's hands cradling it like it was the most precious thing in the world. And, fuck, it is. Of course it is. Simon tenderly takes the still-beating heart into one of his hands. The rhythmic beating of it sings to Simon, lulls him into a trace.

It's not bloody, Simon notices numbly. It almost seems to be glowing, even. Perfect and radiant and lively, all beautifully John Mactavish. 

And Ghost crushes it. 

Closes his hand in a fist so suddenly, so violently, that Soap's heart practically explodes. 

He doesn't feel a thing when he does so. Blanky watches as Soap's face pales impossibly further, and his lungs, that are still on the floor, stop filling up. 

Soap's dying.

He's murdered Johnny without a second thought.

Funny, how that works.

He really is a monster.

Simon wakes up with wet cheeks and blurry eyes. He gasps, shaking and silent. Tears slip down his face again when he blinks away the teasing remnants of the dream.

He gets his bearings together relatively quickly, but not even honeyed tea could stop the shaking in his hands.

He avoids Mactavish for the entire day.

It comes with a little bit of trouble, as the man sticks to him like glue, but Ghost manages. It's his job to disappear, to be a ghost, to be dead.

But fucking hell, maybe Mactavish is a medium.

Ghost will catch glimpses of him, in the mess, in the bath, in the gym, the range, the track, the gym again, the barracks hallway, near Price's office- everywhere.

He eventually gets cornered when he has to take a fucking piss.

Ghost hears Soap coming from miles away, but it doesn't matter. The determination in the man's steps alone make him huff as he tucks himself away. 

Hell, Ghost is already running from his past. Adding MacTavish to that list isn't helping him.

He starts washing his hands the best he can with the small splint medical gave him when he feel eyes on his back.

"Sergeant," he murmurs.

There's a scoff, full of bravado and vinegar. "Lieutenant."

Ghost feels his jaw shift as he cuts the water to dry his hands. The bitterness in his chest at the title, foreign coming from Johnny, processes. 

He's being hypocritical. This is how Johnny must feel.

"Can I help you?" Ghost says anyway.

"Can I help ye, he says," Soap grin to himself but it doesn't reach his eyes, doesn't sit right with his snarky tone. "Aye, ye can bother t' explain why ye've been dodgin' me like th' bloody plague."

Because I don't want to hurt you.

Because you're important. 

Because I'm scared.

Ghost sniffs once, tossing the paper towels into the trash.

"Need some time to myself. Ain't nothin' personal, Johnny."

At that, Soap loses some of that tension in his shoulders, stops looking like a caged dog. He lets out the smallest of breaths.

"Aye…" he murmurs, hesitating. He licks over his bottom lip- Johnny often does that when he isn't sure what to say, tries to taste the words before deciding to serving them out or not- and takes a glance at the suddenly interesting floor. "Just… ah'm here, ye know? If… Ah don't know… If ye don't want time to yerself for too long."

"Yeah…" Simon lets out, accidentally. He recovers quickly, or tries to, anyway. "We'll see."

And Johnny licks his lips again, after a quiet nod. But he doesn't say anything. Maybe he didn't like the taste of his words this time.

¤¤¤¤¤

He dreams again and again. Always, he dreams. 

Most recently, he dreams of Johnny.

Simon can't stand it. 

It's affecting his waking moments now. It's making him affect Soap's waking moments.

After dreaming of that night in Chicago, of missing that shot on Hassan, of watching, hearing Johnny fall just about 50 stories to his death, Ghost spent a week straight making sure Soap stayed away from the high watch towers. He went as far as swapping patrols or having something 'suddenly come up' that 'needs the Sergeant right fucking now'.

After dreaming of missing Hassan, and shooting Johnny, he trained for hours and hours straight at the sniper range, foregoing meals and drinks and piss breaks just to make sure that his aim was perfect every time. Soap was forced to waste his evening by slowly convincing Simon that enough was enough, that he needed to eat, drink water, and get some fucking rest. 

After dreaming that Johnny blew up into dozens of pieces of meat chunks protecting him, Simon had a panic attack when Soap was at the demo-range and an explosion went off. Despite not even a cut on him, Ghost forced Soap to medical (once his own breathing was stable enough). He banned an outraged Soap from the range for two days.

Once, he dreamed that Johnny killed himself. Put a barrel in his mouth and looked at Simon. Pulled the trigger without hesitating. Simon knew, just knew, it was his fault.

After every dream of Johnny dying in front of him, or worse, by his hands, Simon crumbles. Loses another piece of himself.

He doesn't know how many pieces of himself he has left to lose.

¤¤¤¤¤

When the night comes to drink, Ghost considers going AWOL. 

Thinks about staying true to his call sign and vanishing into thin air, never seen again. He plans it out, even, knows what little to bring, what time to leave, where to walk to.

He stares at the mask he wears on base, just the balaclava with the infamous skull print. His gloved thumb runs over where a piece of the jaw design is cracking. He shifts his own jaw in time with his thumb.

Maybe there's no Simon left, he thinks, delusional. 

Maybe it's just Ghost, after everything.

Now would be the time to slip away, Ghost reminds himself, and his grip on the mask tightens, threateningly pulling at the jaw bone design.

Now.

He slips the mask over his head, and slowly breathes. He considers.

The faint smell of cigar smoke worms its way under his door and into his room. He hears Gaz laugh somewhere down the hallway, hears Soap's soft footsteps padding towards his room.

No. 

He stands wearily, takes another deliberate breath, and stalks to the door.

There's a knock, just as his hand reaches for the knob. A familiar pattern, one that makes him force a feeling that could possibly be described as giddiness down into the abyss behind his ribcage. 

Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock.

He could still run. Now's the very last chance he'll get. Johnny won't let him out of his sights when this night starts. Ghost should vanish- it's now or never.

He swallows past the sting of bile in his throat and returns with a quiet knock of his own.

Knock, knock.

He hears Soap laugh quietly on the other side.

Never, he choses. Never.

Ghost opens his door, and there is Soap, leaning against the wall with a grin so wide that it could crack his face. His eyes brighten when he sees Ghost. His grin drops a little when he sees what look Simon has in his eyes.

Johnny furrows his brows slightly, darts his eyes up and down in a quick one-two. 

Ye alreit?

Ghost shifts his jaw before steps into Johnny's space, just a little.

I'll be fine.

Johnny squints at him before dropping the silent conversation. He pushes himself off the wall and starts talking about a new project he's working on at the demolitions range. 

Ghost follows him to his office, and hangs on every word.

¤¤¤¤¤

Soap's 'office' is more of a play room than anything, all regulation thrown to the wind.

Spotless, but filled with personal trinkets and such. Soap reminds Ghost of a crow, collecting little shiny things to bring home to show others. It would be almost cute if Ghost would allow himself to think that way. 

Gaz isn't here, though. Neither is Price or Laswell, or anyone else.

Just him and Johnny. 

He doesn't think about it too much, because if he does, he knows it's the old man's fault.

Johnny doesn't pay any mind to the lack of the other three, and instead buries his head around his thousand-and-some shelves to find 'the right glasses'. 

"What are we drinkin'?" Ghost asks when the sound of rummaging starts to grate on his nerves.

"Oh, he does speak. Bless th' Saints, ah thought ye went mute,'' Johnny grins at him. Ghost narrows his eyes. Maybe he should have ran. The hum Johnny gives while pretending to think on it, possibly, changes his mind again. "Daiquiris," he settles on.

"What?"

"Ye know, those fruity, fancy cocktails."

Ghost could walk out the door right now. He should. 

"Fuckin' hell, Johnny," Ghost drawls, casting his gaze to the draw that seemed to be the one Johnny was looking for, if his air fist bump was anything to go by. He pulls out two daiquiris glasses, one of them clear around the middle up and with the base a cool blue. The other- "What the fuck."

Johnny laughs at that and holds the other glass up proudly. It's hot pink with a little touch of purple at the rim and with a mini pink boa scarf at the base.

"Don't like it?" Johnny grins so bright it feels like Ghost is getting flashbanged.

"You would have that," he murmured instead.

"Yeah, yeah. Yer lucky 'm givin' ye the blue one. Gotta keep up yer masculine image, eh?" 

"Whatever you say, Johnny," Ghost huffs, settling into the plush spare seat across from the desk. "Make it strong, yeah?"

Johnny hums quietly, his eyes lingering on Ghost's face.

Two hours. That's all he needs before he's calling it a night and fucking off. 

¤¤¤¤¤

He doesn't know exactly when he got drunk, but he does know that he ended up with the pink glass two drinks ago. Maybe four. 

Johnny isn't wasted like him; the fucker's been nursing his second drink for about an hour. 

Right, fuck, he was supposed to leave…

He forces his eyes to drag up to the oddly silent clock on the wall. Ghost remembers Johnny telling him all about how he managed to rig the clock in a way the ticking sound doesn't happen. He said it drove him bat shit crazy, having to hear it over and over again. It was adorable.

Fuck, no, he needs to focus. The clock, the time. 

Ghost tries again, squinting at it for extra measure. 

Jesus, he was supposed to be out of here three hours ago. 

"Ye alreit?" Johnny asks from his spot next to Ghost on the floor. Ghost hums at him in question. "I asked if ye're alreit, Ghost."

Ghost blinks at him, considering the question for an awfully long time, long enough for Johnny to sit up and gain that adorable furrow between his eyebrows.

"L.t? Seriously, are ye okay?"

He takes a small breath.

"Nah," he offers simply, running his hand through his tousled hair. 

Simon dropped the mask all of thirty minutes ago. He finally got pissed off about having it bunched up on his nose and abandoned the thing.

Johnny blinked at him a time or two, the gears turning in his head at Ghost actually being honest.

"No?"

"Yeah, no."

Johnny blinks again and that furrow grows.

"Yes?"

"Nah."

"No?"

"Yeah," Simon grins at the stupidness of the conversation. 

Johnny shakes his head with an exasperated sigh. 

"Alreit, what th' fuck," Johnny tosses his hands up.

And Simon laughs.

He doesn't know that he is laughing until his sides ache with it. Johnny's laughing too, at first in disbelief and then with Simon at the situation. And when Simon comes down from a high he hasn't felt in decades, Johnny is staring at him- through him, deep into what's left of his soul. 

"Wha'," Simon slurs, lips morphing into an odd, lazy grin.

"Nothin'."

"Nothin'?"

"Aye." Johnny's eyes linger lightly at his mouth before they harden and he sits up a bit. "Hell, Si, ye've got me all side tracked. This is important."

"Wha's important?"

"Ye are. Ye not bein' alreit," Johnny insists.

"Ah, sure," he murmurs, laying his head back on the side of Soap's desk.

"Ah'm serious," Johnny shifts closer, and Simon's eyes open lazily. "Why aren't ye alreit, Simon?"

Simon.

The abomination almost sounds pretty coming out of Johnny's mouth. 

Ghost gets his shit together.

"You wanna know?" Ghost rasps, drinking the rest of his too-sweet daiquiri in his too-frilly glass. 

"Aye. If ye'd tell me."

And Ghost gathers his drifting thoughts, pieces them together as he breathes slowly.

"I have killed you… Countless times." Ghost waves his hand simply, almost like he were shooing a fly. "Shot you, stabbed you, lit you on fuckin' fire, made you-" he forces a sharp breath. "Made you off yourself, just like that." His throat is getting tight, and he lifts the glass to his scarred lips again, knowing damn well it was empty. 

"Simon," Johnny breathes, slow and steady hands taking the glass from him to set it aside. His hands return quickly, and it's placed on top of Simon's.

"I don't- I won't take it anymore." A sob desperately tries punches through Simon, and he covers his face like the coward he is. "I want to hold you, want to have you, Johnny."

And the fucking gleam in Johnny's eyes could fly Simon to the moon and makes him bring back arm fulls of stars for him. 

"But- but everything I touch dies. And I can't… can't lose you to myself." The sob tries Simon again, and this time, it wins. He's crying, and he doesn't know how to stop, and it scares him. Scares him so badly that he can't do anything but press the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn't care that Johnny's hand falls away.

Really. He doesn't. Not… Not at all.

Christ, he is absolutely shameless.

Seriously, has he no pride? Breaking down over a couple of dreams? Crying in front of his Sergeant?

He feels his teeth grind together, feels his skull build up with the pressure of a thousand words, and by God and the devil, he has to let at least some out before they kill him.

"They felt so fuckin' real," he seethes past his locked jaw. "Woke up sometimes, 'n' I didn't bloody know if you were really dead or not. Felt like seein' a ghost everytime we passed."

Johnny's hand comes back, steady and tender, and guides Simon to lessen the pressure on his eyes. 

Past the blur left over from the tears and the force, he catches Johnny licking his bottom lip.

"Ah'm not dead. Ye've touched me and ah'm still breathin' jus' fine, Simon. Promise- Swear I am," Johnny carefully caresses Ghost's forearm. "Ah'm not goin' anywhere." He grins a little. "Yer not that lucky to get rid'a me."

Simon takes a deep breath, one that shakes his rib cage and stretches his lungs. With Johnny's encouragement, he breathes slowly. 

"Yeah," he murmurs, leaning his shoulder on Johnny's.

"Aye," Johnny agrees, leaning in time with him.

They sit there for some time, taking each other in, feeling each other's warmth. Simon nearly doses off to the feeling of Johnny's chest rising and falling. 

"Yer gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow," Johnny chuckles, combing through Simon's hair.

And, honestly, Simon is powerless against the chuckle that breaks through. 

sometimes we all just need a reminder that being strong isn't the same as being alone 🧡

*comes into ask how with a shaky smile*

Howdy there Hon. I hope the New Years been treating you alright so far, and I wish that it will continue to bless you with the goodness you deserve ✨🧡

Sorry to bother your inbox again, but this is “Independent Woman” from a request a couple weeks ago and I've had kind of a rough day, and your writing always makes me smile.

If it's not too much to ask, may I request a follow-up on that prompt please? How the Bayverse/Rise boys would react to their stubbornly independent SO having a rough day to the point that they cave and ask for cuddles?

No stress, no worries if you're not in the mood for it. I totally understand. Please take care of yourself first and foremost! Please drink water and know you are appropriated! 🧡✨

howdy anon-chan! 🧡

i'm so sorry that you've had a rough day. i hope at this point it's going a little better and that you're able to get the rest you need. there's a quote that i like to think about when i'm having a rough time: "Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says I'll try again tomorrow." -Mary Anne Radmacher

anyway, i hope this helps you smile!

(here's the other post)

Leonardo

Leo has been waiting for (hoping for, praying for) this, for you to come to him in your time of need. He feels bad, he doesn't actually want you to have a bad time or a rough day, but at the same time he loves to be needed. He already has a plan in place.

Mikey scampers off at his signal, and Leo escorts you to his room. There he encourages you to get under the covers and mess up his bed however you need to in order to get comfy.

Then he climbs in with you and holds you. He doesn't ask about what's wrong, doesn't try to talk to you about anything. He can tell that isn't what you need right now.

Mikey comes in (quietly for once) with some tea. He sets the tray down on the bedside table and smiles at you before quickly leaving. Leo tells you that the tea is there if you want it, then goes back to quietly holding you.

You realize, after laying in his arms for a while, that he is meditating. You try to match your breathing to his, and you see a small smile steal across his face when he feels what you are doing. You fell right into his trap.

The two of you breathe in sync for a while, just soaking in each other's presence.

If you decide to talk about it, Leo listens very closely to you. He's not confident that it will happen, but he hopes that you'll tell him if it's something he can help with. No matter what though, if you just need to vent or need advice or need him to do something for you, he will respect your wishes.

Raphael

Raph's first instinct is to find out who hurt you so that he can go take care of them. Fortunately, he goes with his second instinct, which is to bundle you in his arms and carry you to his room.

Once there, he climbs into bed and rearranges the two of you until you are both comfortable. He makes sure you are completely covered with him, his strong hands rubbing your back. "I've got ya sweetheart. What do ya need?"

Raph isn't quite confident in his ability to comfort you, so he does need some guidance. But once you let him know what you need, he's on top of it.

If you just want to curl up on his plastron and be held, he will stay with you as long as you need. He will rub your back. He will be your own personal weighted blanket. Gentle touches or rough hugs, hell if you need him to distract you he will. Anything for you.

(Raph finds that he wants to give you the gentle touches. He wants to hold you gently, he wants to show you softness. But if that's not what you need, he'll just have to talk to you about it later. This ain't about him.)

If you want to talk about it, if you need to vent, Raph'll listen. He'll empathize. He might growl or mutter as you talk, but he won't interrupt. If you want advice, he'll do his best to give it to you.

Anything you need, he'll get it for you. Drink, food, more pillows? It's there almost before you ask for it. You won't have to lift a finger or do anything if you don't want to. "I'll take care of you princess."

Donatello

Donnie immediately has so many questions, but he sets them aside. You asked him to help you learn how to be cared for, so he's going to do just that.

He takes to the lab, because the bed there is comfier than the one in his room. He puts on some music you like and turns down the volume. He encourages you to climb in and climbs in behind you. He lays down and lets you climb on him however you want.

Once the two of you are comfortable, he asks if you want to talk about it. He realizes that you need to be guided into asking for what you want, and he's prepared to do that. Your answer is the beginning of the mental flow chart Donnie created specifically for caring for you.

If you do want to talk about it, Donnie first asks if you want advice or if you just want to vent. Once that's established, he is an active listener. He asks questions and gives you nudges if he thinks you need it. He'll make those snarky comments that make you laugh. He checks in periodically to make sure that you're still okay. Talking to Donnie will always make you feel better.

If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay too. He'll ask if there's anything you need, then send the drone to zap Raph into getting it for you. Once Raph is gone (rubbing his arm and muttering murderously), Donnie settles in for a nice long cuddle session with you.

If you're okay with it, he pulls up some work. He asks if you want a distraction, and if so he'll start telling you about what he's doing. Donnie works with one hand while the other absentmindedly rubs your arm. He still checks in every once in a while to make sure you're okay and ask if you need anything.

Michelangelo

Mikey, much like Leo, hates that you're upset but is so happy that you came to him so he could care for you. This is a huge step, you're making progress! Now it's his turn to make progress, to show you how he can care for you.

He asks if you need anything first, so he can grab it without interrupting the "epic cuddle session" you're about to have. (Later, when you ask him to get you something, he'll interrupt the cuddle session anyway with zero complaints. He just wants you to be happy.)

Once that's all taken care of, he hustles you off to his room, hand on your back. Thank the pizza gods that Leo had forced him at sword point to clean it the day before. You both get in bed and get comfy.

He holds you as if you are a treasure, a beloved teddy bear. It is hard to believe that Mikey can be this gentle. He wraps you in blankets and props you up with pillows until you are surrounded in softness and him.

Then he starts to talk. He chatters on about anything and everything, whatever comes to mind. His skateboard tricks, their latest encounter with the Foot, Raph breaking his most recent lifting record... you are caught up on ALL the turtle gossip.

Mikey doesn't stop until he gets a smile out of you. When he sees it, his answering smile lights up the room. He asks if you are feeling better. If you are, he starts being silly, kissing your face and tickling you until you are crying from laughter. If you aren't, he asks if you want to talk about it. He'll listen and commiserate with you, and support you no matter what.

I forgot to add the tags sorry

7+8 of hurt/comfort with glitchy red?

7) "Because nobody cares about me!"

8) "Because I care about you!"

..........

When Red finally managed to escape that game with your help, of course you weren't expecting him to become your best friend right away.

After all, he never really trusted anyone who managed to get ahold of the GBA with the hacked cartridge inside it--the latest person being you.

He thought you were just like the "others": players who'd mess around the code and force him to see things that caused his sentience to begin with..which set him on the path to a torturous existence he didn't ask for.

No matter how much he resisted, they'd always find a way to make the code work in their favor. And because of that, it took him a while to realize that you're only hacking the game to give him a way out. Yet he would still fight back and beg you to stop, insisting there was no point in saving him.

Yet by some miracle...you did.

As now he was in your room, looking down at the GBA and its cracked screen on the floor from which he emerged. It was a shock to see that tiny little machine was his prison since his creation..and to finally stomp on it and crush it to pieces felt liberating.

Except...

He still felt the same anguish as before, even as he stared down at the broken pieces.

You promised him that getting out of the game would bring him peace, and he decided to believe you and trust you, since you genuinely saw him as a person trapped inside that hellish thing.

That being said...why was his heart still full of hatred and misery?

Why didn't he feel better?

But as he began to realize he could actually interact with this world, he took one look at you...

And he felt rage overcome him as you stood there, not saying a word. You were simply surprised that your plan worked, and stunned that of course you managed to free him.

Though Red didn't see it as that at all. He thought you were afraid, or having second guesses.

He still didn't know what your ulterior motives were for helping him. But he firmly believed you were just going to abandon him now that you were "finished", seeing you back towards the door as he approached you.

He couldn't get to any of the players before, but now you two were on the same plane of existence.

This was his chance to exact revenge.

And that's what he did as he lunged at you without warning, easily overpowering you and leaving a deep scratch mark along your torso. It turns out, his glitchiness was still a part of him as he managed to unhinge his jaw and bare his teeth like a wild animal.

He thought being free would make him human...yet he felt the opposite.

"You said you'd fix me, but you LIED!!" He screamed, furious that his voice sounded the same as it always did: ran through a bitcrusher program. "Why do I sound like this still?! Why am I...still broken?!!"

"..R-Red..I..I only said I could help you get out." You tried to reason with the raging glitch that had you pinned against the wall. "I'm sorry if that wasn't enough but-"

"Oh, it was plenty enough." He huffed. "But I guess I should thank you...because now I can take my revenge on you sickos who tormented me for fun."

"I...wasn't tormenting you.."

"Yeah, but you reminded me of all that pain. Honestly..I think freeing me was the stupidest decision of your life-"

"It's true I've made tons of stupid decisions, but..th-that wasn't one of them. I wanted to help you."

Blinking in surprise, Red raised an eyebrow. Though he just scowled at you again, unwilling to let his guard down. "No...you don't mean that. You only freed me so I'd shut up about it...so I'd stop haunting your stupid little game. No sane person would do that out of "kindness"."

"That's not true." You huffed, annoyed that he was refusing to believe you after all you've done. "What makes you assume I don't care-?"

"Because nobody cares about me!!" He snapped. "Nobody has for years, and they never will. So just stop pretending...it'll make this easier for the both of us." His hands went to your throat.

Yet despite knowing he could easily snap your neck, you refused to fight back or even struggle a little bit. And he quickly noticed this, frowning. "What's wrong? Too scared to fight because you know you lost? Because you know you shouldn't have freed this monster?" He taunted.

"You're not a monster-"

"STOP LYING!!"

"...I'm not lying to you, Red." You firmly insisted. "I believed you were a real person from that start. I couldn't leave you in that game to suffer! I spent days trying to figure out the coding. I lost sleep over this, but you still think I don't give a shit, huh?"

Finally, you managed to catch him off-guard with that response. And for the first time...he began to wonder why he was doing this to you.

All you've ever wanted to do was help him.

And this is how he repays you?

Still, he doesn't understand the "why" of it all. Why you'd lose sleep over someone like him..or why you don't seem afraid anymore.

You must've wanted something for sure.

"Why go through all of this for me?"

"Because I care about you!" You blurted out, embarrassed but relieved to get the truth out to him. "I never stopped caring since the day you talked back to me. I-I know I can't make you forget what you've been through...or find the people who made you this way, but...I just wanted to give you a better life in this world. That's all."

"And you...want nothing in return?" Red blinked, feeling himself calming down from his rage.

"Not a thing." You smiled a bit, showing him you were sincere. "I know you're angry and hurt, and I'm an easy target. But I promise I won't leave you like they all did. You can stay with me as long as you want."

"...you won't throw me out?"

"Why would I do that?" Gently, you put your hands over his gloved ones, slowly bringing them away from your neck. But you didn't let go of them, holding them tightly. "But there you have it...that's the real reason I wanted to let you out. So we can be together and you can be happy."

For a while, he didn't say anything back, as he had averted his gaze to the ground. Though moments later you heard a sniffle, which worried you.

Especially when you saw small water droplets splattering onto his shoes.

"Red?"

Reaching over, you gently cupped his face, making him look up at you. Not only was he completely free of glitches...but he was also crying.

At last, he showed vulnerability.

"It's okay," you reassured him, happy that he was finally willing to trust you. "You're safe now. You won't be abandoned ever again."

Tears streamed down his cheeks, some of which you gently brushed away with your thumb. He sniffled again and nuzzled against your palm, slowly becoming addicted to this feeling of comfort.

It was so foreign...yet it felt so right.

"..s-sorry, now I feel like an asshole after all that stuff you said." Closing his eyes, he just tried focusing on your kind touches, trying to forget about all the pain he endured. "It just..hurts so much. I'm tired.."

His head fell against your shoulder, but you just rubbed the back of it, letting him rest for as long as he needed to.