#had a panic attack thinking too much about if this med doesn’t work

[clueless1995]

ok reading a book by candlelight CANCELLED due to my brain

#had a panic attack thinking too much about if this med doesn’t work #well. having #tw self harm #im still really overstimulated or maybe understimulted but the only way i could start to calm down is cutting myself #which by the way is so embarrassing like im an adult i’ve been in therapy for years why do i still do this #it’s not even out of self hatred anymore it’s just the only thing that relieves the pressure of Being for a why #while* #anyways. i am going to have a cry and try to sleep #it will not work due to me having a three hour nap this afternoon #but it is something #sorry for whinging so much on here again. just gotta make it to monday

[lesbianbarbaragordon]

Well, if you wanted honesty (that's all you had to say)

He slumps against you now, once everything is set and done, leaning his sweaty forehead against your shoulder. His bangs, wet cold from the rain outside, tickle at your back. You don’t think much of it when you settle a hand on his back, nearly cradling him. He needs the comfort just as much as you do. pairing: tim drake x reader warning: brief mention of anxiety medication, implied panic attack word count: 1.6k

Red Robin would have been more lucky had he landed on your neighbor’s apartment just next door instead of yours.

You are majoring in journalism at college, despite how much your mother would have wanted you to become a doctor, so you have few first aid knowledge or even the cool head to deal with the shock. 

So really, he would have been better off slipping through her window and not yours, but it’s a friday night and you declined her invitation to go out around an hour ago, so you know he would have just found an empty apartment.

He has you, and only you, for better or for worse.

It’s a terrible, gruesome sight; a dark silhouette in the shape of a man slumped against the wall and a trail of blood following from the window.

You’re alone in your apartment, clad on some old pajamas and a messy bun. There’s an empty ramen cup on the coffee table leftover from your dinner and some trashy reality show playing in the background. You’d rather die a hundred times over before having a vigilante see you like this, uncared for and wide open, and the embarrassment still lingers even after the horror has long since settled in.

It’s silly, and stupid, and so so inconsequential in the mortal scheme of the scene playing out right in the middle of your living room, but you’ve been infatuated with Red Robin since he was just Robin, and a decade worth of daydreams crashes hard against your predicament. You didn’t want to meet him like this.

It takes you half a minute to adjust. Your hands are shaking when you lean against the sink of the bathroom, looking through your cupboard in search of your anxiety meds. If you’re already barely useful to Red Robin as you are, you’re definitely useless on the verge of a panic attack. By the time you are back to Red Robin’s side it’s easier to breathe and you bring a first aid kit with you. You hope you don’t look as terrified as you feel.

Red Robin is breathing through his mouth, clutching both hands to a belt buckled around his hips. A big puddle of red has started pooling around him on the floor, and it takes you a minute to realize the red around his belly is darker than his suit. You grab at his hands and take a deep breath, thinking your words over.

“I need to see the wound.” He is eerily quiet and tense to the touch. He doesn’t trust you and you don’t trust him either. Despite your fondness for him over other vigilantes you don’t know him, he showed up uninvited and you are scared. This is a situation of wary hospitality, some sort of leap of faith between the both of you.

Slowly he relents, perhaps because he’s too tired and hazy to put up a fight, or maybe because he sees good faith in your eyes. Whatever the case, you get to work.

The belt doesn’t come off easily and at some point you just settle on cutting it off. Red Robin weakly gestures to one of the pockets, where you find more first aid supplies; a medical needle, stitches, painkillers and some sort of dark lump that reveals itself to be a retractable tourniquet when you accidentally press a bottom. 

The implication that he has to carry around a travel size tourniquet makes you dizzy, thinking about just what kind of job he expects to take on, but you don’t dwell on it because you have already taken a dose of your meds and another one would be no use.

His suit is skin tight and he has to help you lift the shirt to see the wound. His body is sticky with sweat and the blood doesn’t make it any better. For a fleeting moment you think about calling emergencies, what do heroes do when they get hurt? Surely you would have seen more of Batman’s cryptic team during your childhood at the hospital if that were the case. Perhaps some sort of private clinic for vigilantes, paid for by the Justice League? Maybe they just dropped in unannounced at a stranger’s house expecting patching up and it was like one of those things everyone knew but no one mentioned.

“Believe me, this is a first.”

There’s a slight smile teasing at his words and despite the situation you shudder, followed up by an intense blushing in your cheeks and ears. God, did you really say that outloud?

“I just-” you stop in your tracks for a minute, focusing on the blood in your nails and fingers, “this doesn’t make any sense,” you admit, frowning slightly.

Red Robin leans his head against the windowsill, letting out a shudder. His shoulders relax the slightest bit, you hear the beating of his heart and his ragged breaths. He’s in pain, awake perhaps only because he can’t afford to fall asleep on a stranger. You never thought you’d find yourself here.

“It doesn’t make any sense to me either,” he whispers in the end. You can’t tell if he’s looking you in the eyes because of his domino mask, and there’s resentment in your mind for a second because he barged in, seeing you at your most vulnerable, while you can’t even know the color of his eyes. It feels a little unfair and it makes you understand, in a way, all those criticisms of secret vigilantes and superheroes whose identities the public doesn’t know.

But you don’t entertain the thought, because even if just from the remains of your childhood wonder, there’s the littlest of belief in Batman and Robin.

Red Robin tries to guide you, but he slips in and out of consciousness throughout and you can’t remain stagnant while he’s out of it. He tells you he’s bleeding from a bullet wound and that his communications were cut short before he had to run for it and look for shelter. By the time he realized, he was alone, half delirious and in desperate need of medical aid. He doesn’t tell you why he went to your place, exactly, and you have half your mind to know it wasn’t a mistake. Bats don’t make reckless decisions, especially not Red Robin, but you bite your tongue and hold it in. Distrust would do neither of you any good.

Thankfully the bullet pierced cleanly all the way through and you don’t have to look for bits or pieces to take out. By the time you’re done disinfecting Red Robin’s taken a few painkillers and he doesn’t sound as in pain, if not a little hazy from blood loss. The staple you got earlier from his belt saves you the trouble of sewing the wound, the bleeding has already stopped and you can comfortably work on it while he drinks some cold water from the fridge, hissing whenever you place a new stitch.

Sweat dots your brow once you’re done, letting out a heavy sigh. Red Robin is much the same, cold to the touch and yet hot when he breathes against your neck. As time passed he leaned closer and closer to you, whispering and instructing, sometimes even leaning on you for support when a sudden wave of weakness hit him and he was left stumbling.

He slumps against you now, once everything is set and done, leaning his sweaty forehead against your shoulder. His bangs, wet cold from the rain outside, tickle at your back. You don’t think much of it when you settle a hand on his back, nearly cradling him. He needs the comfort just as much as you do.

The TV sets an eerie light on the both of you, and in the quiet of the room you help Red Robin stand up and settle on your couch. His white bandages a contrast against the colorful cushions and a blanket you hand him without a word.

“I’ll leave in the morning,” you hear him say sleepily once he’s tucked in, looking at you almost shamefully. You come to a full stop on the doorway, just about to leave for the corridor and then your bedroom, ready to settle for sleep just as much as Red Robin. Now that everything is over, you are uncharacteristically sore for the one that hasn’t been shot.

“I know,” you say, after taking a moment to drink him in. You know his face from photos, or at least what you’ve seen over the years of ever changing masks and cowls. His youthful cheeks that were once Robin’s baby features are gone, replaced by a sharp jaw and cutting features. He’s grown up much like you, even if he’s felt like an eternal teen boy heartthrob crush for your high school years.

You don’t know what to make of it, of him, of this or even of you, of the you that’s resurfaced today even if just for the smallest of moments or the quiet bond that’s bloomed between you. Because it means something to you, and luckily it’s the same for him.

“Don’t stain my cushions,” you say, the slightest hint of amusement in your voice. “Even if you’re Red Robin, i’ll foot you the bill.”

He blinks owlishly at you, hit by your shamelessness into quiet bafflement.

“Goodnight,” you say at last, leaving before he gets out a word.

In the morning he’s gone just like he said, and yet you are surprised to see a single note on the counter.

‘I’ll bring you new cushions, thanks for the help’.

It’s signed only with ‘Red’, but you didn’t expect much else. It makes you wonder though, when exactly he’ll bring over those new cushions.

an: i'm soso sleepy rn i'd elaborate on my process but its rlly late and i have class tmrw, i hope everyone enjoys this mwah !!!

#tim drake x reader #tim drake #batman #red robin x reader #tim drake imagine #red robin imagine #dc comics imagine #batfam x reader #batfam imagine #batfam x you #tim drake x you #red robin x you #tim drake x y/n #red robin x y/n #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you #batfam x y/n #tim drake one shot

[beholdthesword]

Personal post alert -

Last week I talked to an old friend on the phone and ended up telling her probably more about my sexuality than I had ever really told anyone else which wasn’t a lot because I don’t really talk about it and I think it cracked open the well of loneliness inside of me that I pretend doesn’t exist

A few days later I spent the morning reading tlt fanfic and jerking off, a combination that sometimes has the opposite of the desired effect and instead of enjoying myself I felt like I was just sinking further into feelings I didn’t want to have

i was doing better! i had plans! I was going to go outside and be with my friends in the afternoon but it didn’t matter all that mattered was that I was reading fic that hurts me to read and I couldn’t stop I wanted to know that broken people could find each other and survive but it hurt because it wasn’t true, it wasn’t real, it’s just fic. It’s one thing to read it but it’s another to believe it and i just couldn’t believe that id ever crawl out of this hole where I’m so alone and no one will ever care

In honor of pride month I decided to read a bunch of queer stories as a vehicle to get me out of my book slump. i started with stone butch blues. i was surprised how quickly it pulled me in. I’m almost at the end and in the midst of the pain and confusion there’s a beautiful moment of love. “I can’t believe I finally found you.” i had to put the book down.

I just saw a post with a quote from Nona the ninth and I want to reread it because I remember how I cried. it hurt to read and I still don’t know why but I feel like that again now

there’s so much love and I try (oh my god do I try) to put love out into the world, to do things for my friends for no other reason than I love them and think it will make them happy and I KNOW I get it back but I can’t FEEL it I can’t believe it and I can’t make myself believe that I’m worthy of anything more than I get because this is all I’m left with -

I wanted this to all go away. I started some meds, was feeling better. Waking up isn’t so hard anymore. I can do tasks a little easier. But I just had to stop in the middle of making this post because I was crying so hard I gave myself a panic attack and couldn’t keep it in

Happy pride month to me I guess. I’m not really out - (not that I even know what that looks like when half the time I just pretend I know what’s going on with me (do I want love do I want sex do I just think I want sex do I actually want love? could I even find love? I know I don’t feel the same as everyone else - but what if I do? What if I just don’t recognize it what if I’m just too disconnected from myself to realize it - then what? how do I possibly begin to unpack repressing myself for my whole life, how could I expect anyone to deal with that but how scab I do it alone) as if I’m not constantly beating back fear (that it too late for me to even try, I’m too far removed from sex and intimacy, my inexperience will be a dealbreaker, how could anyone ever want to wait for me to try, I’m fifteen years behind everyone else, what if I’m disappointed, disappointing? how could I ever crawl back to this version of existence after that? how can I live with it now?) - I’m not really proud (the labels just feel like another box I don’t really fit into)

I spend all my time searching for ways to be, as if I can read enough to finally figure out how to exist in this realm of reality where things make sense to me, where I can understand how people form relationships and how they keep them how they navigate the minefield together. as if I can observe enough people so that I can understand how people are supposed to work how I’m supposed to be

I don’t know if I know what love feels like. I don’t know that I could recognize it if I do. I know it must be there but I can’t feel it and it drives me crazy. I cry myself to sleep at night for want of love and I don’t even know how I would recognize it. I surely wouldn’t believe that it’s for me. how could it be when I’ve been alone this whole time? i take care of everyone I know the best way I know how and I don’t know what it’s like to feel cared for and I’m afraid I never will

If I ask for it (help, care, love) how do I know it’s real

sometimes I wish I didn’t have to feel anything at all

#this went really off the rails #sorry for the incoherency to anyone that reads it #don’t read it please read it #I’m desperate for connection but afraid of what it means #I should really talk to my therapist about all this but I’m so scared to let it out #i can hardly write it down how can I ever put it into words out loud #but two loneliness/sexuality relate panic attacks in a week is probably not a good sign

[marvelingjules]

As typical when I only have one weekend day off, it ended up very busy.

My phone’s battery was needing recharging way too often - 2-3 times throughout the day - and with my upcoming out of state trip I decided I’d feel more comfortable with a new phone that had a good battery. Mine was a good 6 gens back so it had an upgrade due anyway. Guy misunderstood the size I wanted and I didn’t catch it until after the transaction had been done but oh well. Ordered a good phone case for it that should be at the house for me tomorrow.

Did some laundry, got groceries again - enough for work lunches this week and next once I’m back, and for dinners this week and a little next. Plus some stuff I just hadn’t got yet - like a swiffer mop - during which I found some potential new dinner box mixes. Had one tonight - still too big for just me but I’ll take leftovers for lunch. It was good though I’d add more noodles and my own, better bacon. (I made it with turkey, since that’s what I had, instead of chicken too.)

Later this week I will need to restock Bailey on wet food, and I’m looking for a replacement ribbon toy, since he’s been loving his from the holidays to death.

The store was so much more crowded than I expected, and money is such a stressor for me (always has been, more so now with the apartment), that by the time I got to the self check I was legit shaking. I didn’t feel panicky in the way a lot of people describe panic attacks; I never do really? I go one of two ways - I cry hard for a good 20 mins and go numb, or I like… zone? Idk how to describe it, but I am almost hyper aware of all the noise-people-too-much of my surroundings and can’t think much past “don’t like this too much uncomfortable don’t like this”. Which writing down, yeah, okay, sounds like panicking but it doesn’t feel panic-like. Just overwhelmed.

Anyway, once I realized I was legit shaking I checked into myself and realized I was breathing a little fast and shallow - probably not noticeable to anyone else but I’m very aware of my breathing; asthmatic after all - and clenching my jaw hard and how tight my muscles were. So. I handled it, took some of my in the moment meds (because there was another store and back to my folks’ house after that too), and just took slow measured breaths.

And then when I was supposed to go back to my folks’ house tonight to pick up the air/dry laundry, I let them know I would be by tomorrow instead, because I just was done for the day. Yay for me letting myself have limits, instead of pushing past them bc I’m worried about inconveniencing others!

Still. There goes my day off. I work the next four, have Friday to trip-final-prep and then we’re heading out Saturday morning! Super excited!

#Jules rambles #anxiety sucks

[sanriosratz]

Super Sad! Ciero AU

this AU isn't as good as tbstashteb au, but by fuck is it angsty.

@eldritch-hall-asylum I know you're not interested in it, but eh. Do what you want with this.

TW // suicide attempt, mention of self-harm, mention of alcoholism, mention of overdose (on pain meds, not like drug-drugs) mention of disordered eating, mentioned trauma

After Ciero’s initial breakdown and months spent in the psych ward, they were allowed back home and cleared to work again. After a long and serious conversation with her family, she decided that, despite everything, she was working as a social worker again. 

He loves his job, he loves making a difference, and it means the absolute world to him. 

But, despite it being his dream job, every day at work is like hell.

It’s okay, though, because they’re helping people, getting children out of horribly abusive places, and helping parents get back on the right track. It's worth coming home with a fresh black eye; a broken, bloody nose; or a mark on their neck from being choked. 

It’s worth seeing even more dead bodies and being threatened with death.

And just like last time, she hides it with a bright smile and empty promises to tell people when it starts getting bad.

There’s so much stress and significant trauma going on in their life that eating is more of a chore than it ever was—there’d be times when Ciero wouldn’t eat for days because they were just so stressed.

The panic attacks and flashbacks he was experiencing before were minor compared to the ones he was having late at night, paralysed with fear, sobbing hysterically, and unable to breathe when struggling to hide his problems from the others.

It’s not long until she’s getting drunk almost every night, sitting on the cold kitchen floor, giggling drunkenly with legs like jelly and a mind full of stuffing. She doesn’t have to think about what she’s seen or experienced.

Eventually, she was suffocating in feelings of helplessness; she’d feel useless and broken. She was constantly in pain, always tired, always upset, and always hurting inside, and no matter how many people she helped, it never went away.

So, she tried to feel it on the outside. Discreetly, of course, so she didn’t alarm people, so long sleeves and trousers or skirt and tights were her go-to.

—

All of this built up until one fateful day when Ciero decided it was their last. 

They had probably the best day at work ever, which was nice. 

When they came home, they already had a plan devised. It wouldn’t take too long to set up and would be easy to carry out.

And so, once Ciero was sure that everyone was asleep he took his bottle of Codeine, a bottle of vodka, a blade, and a boxcutter into the downstairs bathroom. 

First, he carefully taped his note to the mirror and then opened the bottle of vodka, drinking about half before he took his sharp blade and boxcutter and attacked his arms and thighs with cuts and large gashes. 

He was close to passing out at this point and shakily opened the bottle of Codeine, shaking them into his mouth and swallowing them.

Leaning heavily against the wall, black spots began to overtake their vision at uneven intervals, and they felt their breathing get slower, each inhale leaving them begging for more air. They felt vomit rise from their stomach and were forced forward by a strong heave as vomit fell from their lips and they collapsed, unconscious.

They were found later by Jack G, who had gotten up to get some water from the kitchen and heard a crash in the bathroom. When he noticed the bathroom was locked, he got either Zephyr or Octavian (Octavian more likely) to break down the door, where they would then find Ciero’s bloody and mutilated body on the floor.

An ambulance is quickly called as Ciero is moved from the bathroom to the living room, where they can easily assess them.

They noticed their breathing was slow and laboured, their skin was cold and clammy, and despite how hard they were shaken or how loud they said their name, they didn’t respond.

—

When Ciero would later wake up in the hospital, she would be surrounded by worried family. But, most importantly, standing at the foot of the hospital bed was Patrick, who simply stared at her with a loving, yet cold gaze, and said what everyone in the room knew and wanted to say themselves. 

“You’re going to quit social work. It’s done nothing but almost kill you, quit the job.”

There could be a possible visit to the psych ward again, but I don’t know. 

Additional tidbits

In this AU Ferris would appear much later, like after the attempt instead of after the breakdown

Elspeth would definitely worry the most out of the entire family, based on the fact that she lost her twin to suicide and didn’t notice any warning signs for either (Elliot or Ciero)

^ If Ciero had succeeded, she would have most definitely blamed herself.

Because Ciero survives his attempt, there’d definitely be daily check-ins from all of his family members so that they can help when things get bad.

Would probably be diagnosed with BPD a little while after the attempt.

#tw suicide attempt #tw suicide #tw self harm #tw self harm mention #tw alcohol #tw alcohol mention #tw eating disorder #tw disordered eating #tw trauma #super sad ciero au

[restforthe-burdenedsoul]

I’ve typed and deleted and posted and deleted a lot over the last few days.

I am upset with my level of ability to handle everything that is going on. I look at others who work full time, go to school full time, are full time parents and they are (seemingly) doing this all relatively fine.

I watched my friend struggle through full time work and full time grad school and I know it was so hard for her but she pushed through and graduated. She was very real with her journey.

And I don’t know if this experience is usually like the former or the latter, and I guess ultimately it doesn’t matter because I not any of these people.

I keep searching for reasons why my mental health is declining so rapidly over this and I feel ashamed that it is.

I know I am capable of seeing this through and I know I will sacrifice my mental health and everything else because the fear and shame of failure are screaming at me to keep going.

But what if I don’t want to? I want my degree (I think) but I can’t handle the panic attacks and the tears and the loneliness. Every part of my life is suffering right now and I am only in ONE class. Work is only starting to pick up speed. Next semester is two classes together, October is when work starts getting slammed. The holidays are coming and I feel like I’m not going to get to be present at any of them.

I didn’t do any school work yesterday because I had to work 10 hours because my 7-3 schedule isn’t working out. There’s too many meetings and too many referrals and intakes and too much paperwork. I was too tired to do school work. Today I’m too sad.

I struggled really hard with my mental health in undergrad. I was worried about this happening in grad school, but felt I’d be better because I am older, I have more coping skills, I’m on anxiety meds, I thought I had more support this round. But I really only have M, who’s family is going through it with his grandmom. I have friends that are states away who seem too busy for me lately (which is fine, we all have our lives). So I’m just here by myself most days. Struggling on my own.

I’m trying to reach out about my mental health but the “duh, grad school is hard” attitude isn’t helping me. Grad school IS hard but is it crying in the shower, collapsing on the stairs from a panic attack, chest burning can’t breathe hard?

Why do I feel like this? Why can’t I just suck it up and push forward? What is wrong with me that it feels so hard????

I feel ridiculous and childish. Is this really not that hard? Do I just make things harder on myself ? I clock in at 7am and I do homework until 11pm. Sometimes I play on my phone a bit after 11 which I’m sure doesn’t help me sleep, but when am I supposed to do anything to make me feel the least bit connected to others or to make myself feel happy?

I understand my job, I am good at my job but I am not good at the paperwork that is building and building and taking over my apartment. I am good at grad school, I get 100s and know what I need to say, I am not good at finding the resources or writing quickly. Everything takes so much time and energy and I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.

And because I didn’t do any work Wednesday or Thursday, yet again I cannot go see my mom for her Birthday.

I go away for 7 days next week and I am dreading it. It’s for my BAchlorette party and I just feel so angry about it. I don’t have the time to go away. I don’t know why I thought I could do that while in grad school. It’s Been planned since march tho. I thought I would be capable of it. But I am not. There is too much to do. And I tried my hardest to get ahead but it wasn’t possible. By Sunday’s I am barely hanging on, struggling to get my work in on time as things are due Sunday’s. M doesn’t even wanna be around me on Sunday’s because I am so panicked. I don’t think my friends want to talk to me anymore either hence being too busy.

I don’t want to keep doing this for another 15 months.

#journey to msw #grad school #MSW #masters of social work

[scribblelegs]

So I Can’t remember if I posted this or not but I had an MRI and EEG and it came back that my medication’s are slowing my brain waves which is affecting my memory loss. The MRI came back fine the EEG is where they found that. They said I was probably misdiagnosed and most likely I’m not schizo, but probably do have a bipolar or mood disorder. Of course I still have anxiety, and PTSD which could’ve progressed. But they think I have ADHDL O L and that I say duh. And then I wonder to myself why all these doctors just ignored me all these years, and I feel really much like I was just a learning tool for doctors. To see how these medication’s work on people, because a lot of the times I was getting sample meds and the doctors were getting kickbacks for that. And I had a lot of adverse reactions and my body and mind both paid for it in return.

So I’m gonna be going through some more tests to find out if I have attention deficit disorder or possibly obsessive compulsive disorder

I don’t know a lot about these things however every teacher family member friend person that I met usually asks if I have ADHD. So I’m shocked that it took this long for someone to say that and me not to say it first. I was literally crying to the doctor, because my nurse practitioner is working at a state run facility on a sliding scale and they’re overworked with too many patients. And she uses her political views, religious views, and a personal views to get in the way of her work her work.

She’s really unprofessional and kept bringing up things like well did you used to do a lot of Molly or do you used to abuse benzos. And that I said no, I did not abuse Molly, and the benzos were prescribed. And I said I used to use m3th , But not for nearly as long or as much or as many different medication’s as I had been prescribed LOLOLOL

so she just doesn’t get it and she’s hell-bent on the fact that I use drugs to self medicate in the years that the doctors refuse to listen. And they were plenty of years that I did exactly what they said and even quit smoking weed, quit drinking, and with diet and exercise because they said it would help. OK well whatever I kept ending up in the psych ward and I have a feeling that it was because of environmental factors like it witnessing trauma going through things that were traumatic and seeing things that were messed up, as well as the extreme amount of anxiety and panic attacks that I had all my life. That went untreated,

So I just wonder if you can get triggered into a psychosis when you’re under that type of stress, or depression. Because I found some papers from an admission and it said that I had like severe depression with psychotic features. Which would be psychosis

&I don’t think everybody that suffers from psychosis has a schizo spectrum disorder. I think it’s something that an every day person can suffer from based on what happens to them in their life and they just don’t know enough about it so they just keep giving people these blankets diagnosis is like schizo affective disorder. I think any one that suffers something traumatic or is under extreme stress, or anything that could affect your normal day could possibly be hard for the brain to process thus going into psychosis to protect yourself. Very much like repressing memories. To the point where I’m like maybe a repressed all this stuff and that was like a reset, and it happened 2 to 3 times a year for six years and never again.

Schizoaffective is a lazy diagnosis that they know nothing about and that’s a way for them to say well you’re suffering from a psychotic disorder and a mood disorder so here’s your diagnosis have fun. Take a bunch of meds that probably won’t help that’ll ruin and destroy your mind and body and yeah good luck with that. We’ll see you in a few months.

I just feel relieved and scared and that’s it and then I’m gonna end this cause it’s so long and I’m sorry it went on but thank you for reading lol

 The doctor said that my memory loss could be from the fact that I’m having such a difficult time focusing, listening, and all that other stuff and it’s causing me to get frustrated and forget. To the point where I can’t get anything done or remember what I did yesterday or what I’m doing tomorrow or I’ll be talking and forget midsentence what I’m saying

And it’s embarrassing 

Oh yeah I also have a racing thoughts so my boyfriend thinks I could be cyclothymic and my brother just got diagnosed that as well. My grandma had bipolar disorder and so does my aunt, so it’s totally possible that it could just be a rapid cycling of thoughts my brain not knowing how to process it throwing me into psychosis under the pressure of my environment during my younger years not understanding. Now that I’m older I know the signs and the triggers and yeah I protect myself. I sleep, I eat, I hydrate. I mean I was suffering from a severe eating disorder till I was 22 and I’m sure that had something to do with it too. Having my body depleted of vitamins and being emaciated for so long it probably was a shock to be eating food

So yeah I keep going over things in my head as to why they didn’t just ask these questions and figure these things out from the get and it’s so much simpler when you step back and look at it from the bigger picture

I can’t control my emotions too

😬😑😬😑

[ruvelli]

Reasons Why I Need an At Home, Task OrientedJob Part 1:

Had to call out again after having called out just last week after calling out two weeks before that. Why?

Read below for a rant.

Caution: Mentions of IBS, though beyond a gross metaphor nothing graphic.

Caught a bad cold (always happens with every new environment I work in), then this past weekend caught the flu (3 people at my roomy’s job and two at mine had it—stop coming to work when you’re sick!!), and then my body tried to kill me through non-contagious, chronic, gross means known as IBS all before work yesterday (I zoomed to work to not be late, made it just a minute late), throughout work (so much I almost left early but because shift was only 6 hours I forced myself to continue despite nearly shitting myself multiple times and intense pains), through the night, and still a little today.

My torso is aching and my left side is on fire.

Because of issues I didn’t recognize as my insides about to shove a metaphorical fist through my intestines (because thankfully really bad IBS “attacks” don’t happen too too often for me) I also had little to no sleep for four days and my sleep and mood regulating meds I can’t access until maybe Monday.

Good chance I’m losing my job 👍

I personally think that even with an at home you should rest properly through the flu, mind. I’m too delirious personally from fever to even do basic tasks, but IBS is a different matter.

I’m also less likely to get sick at home even with my room mate exposing me. This has been proven.

People are so conditioned/forced to go to work that they will come to the job while contagious with something and people like me who have a crappy immune system (usually due to other complications) get exposed over and over.

“Then get an at home job”. Yeah. I’m trying.

I even joined an IT program in the hopes of expanding my skill set enough to find an at home job that is task oriented.

I’m sick of being sick all the time, can’t afford insurance, and I’m burned out on customer service to the point that being on a register half the time threatens to send me into a panic attack, and having managers who disappear when one is always to be at the front in case of issues all the time doesn’t help.

For instance, I was already dealing with a Karen and both managers leave. I accidentally scanned something twice… have to wait nearly half an hour with a growing line because both managers decided to go while one dealt with the cash drawer. Only one needs to deal with that, and she chose to do it during the rush. We only have three working registers. One only took cash.

Same managers have the gaul to get pissed at people when the lines build up because they “have a headache” and think aggression is a fine answer to that.

My current job is not as bad as past jobs, mind. Just lots of random drama. I can handle co-workers much easier than customers, though, because I can’t defend myself against customers.

My worst customers and managers is another post for another day.

I just wanna work. Even if it’s a lot all at once I can handle lots of both tedious and hard tasks. I don’t mind having a constant stream of things to do. I’m so freaking sick of people.

#Ibs #customer service #work #frustrated so complaining just to get it off my chest #hopefully things improve soon

[shaevira]

I feel so disappointed in myself. Even though I know I have no reason to be. I stopped taking my anxiety meds about 6 months ago, I was doing alright. I thought I was.

But over those past few months I have been thrown into new situations that have reignited my anxiety. I’ve gotten over a few of them, but I can’t help but to look back now and think how much I’ve changed. It doesn’t feel for the better.

Yesterday, I had a major panic attack. I say major because it went on for several hours. I’d have my panic attack, fall asleep, wake up and rinse repeat. I called in to work sick.

I’m avoiding things. I want to avoid them so badly. 

Them being people. I had one little bad thought about someone, a situation, and my brain spiraled right out of control. I don’t even know if my thoughts are valid. Hell, they might not even matter in the bigger picture. But what gets me is my loss of self-control. 

Part of me wants to say, “You should’ve known better. This is why we don’t get close to people.” and I hate that. People scare me. I want to make friends so badly, but when the tough gets going, I want to fucking run. I don’t want to be seen. Don’t want to be cared for. I want to disappear, but without the dying part.

Nobody wants some overly self-involved anxiety ridden girl who lives and breathes with pity parties.

That’s the thing though, I sell it. I sell it so well, that I am just so well put together. But don’t most people? I know I’m not the only one. I know that there are thousands, hundreds of thousands of people with the same internal struggle. 

But I’m so so fucking tired of pretending like I have my shit put together. And all of this makes me realize how much I need to be back on my meds. Probably therapy too.

I hate trying to make new friends even though I desperately want them. 

Just wish it didn’t have to be like this.

#personal #might delete later but just need to get my thoughts out #panic/anxiety disorder

[rainbowchristy]

Let the Human In (Chapter Sixteen - Learning)

Summary: It’s just a regular workday for Phil. Doing rounds with his patients, helping out with the occasional emergency department case. The only difference? He has one new patient in the ED. One found unconscious on the street. One who starts throwing up from seemingly nothing. One, with a very dark backstory and no hope for the future.

Or, Dan is being sex trafficked and Phil’s a psych resident who just wants to help, even if everyone around him is telling him he’s too invested.

A/N: This fic is heavily inspired by the character Danny Jones from Chicago Med but you don’t need to know anything about the show to read this!

TW: Mention of panic attacks, heavily implied sexual content, mention of murder & talk of suicide.

Ao3 Link

Chapter 1 | Last Chapter

-

Phil doesn’t end up visiting Dan before his shift. A violent panic attack in the psychiatric ward results in sedation. After that, Phil’s tired. Holding down a thrashing patient hard enough to leave bruises – something necessary to keep them still for the injection – tends to do that.

When Kyle finds him sitting in Dr Forrest’s office, he’s typing on his laptop, perched on his knees because he’s sitting on the floor with his feet pulled up. His computer is at eye height; it’s not a good position to be in for an extended period of time, nor is it super productive, but, well, it’s what Phil felt like when he was deciding where to sit.

“Hey,” Kyle says. Phil looks up at him and sees him smirking sheepishly. He’s not sure how ‘sheepish’ and ‘smirk’ go together, but Kyle seems to make it work.

“Hey.”

“What are you up to?”

Phil looks back at his laptop, with the empty word document open, and back to Kyle. “Honestly, I think I’ve been staring into the void that is a blank white page.”

Kyle snorts. “Well, I’m here to save you from the void. Did you wanna go get dinner then go to Marcus’? I’ve had a day and a half too.”

Phil smiles. “That sounds great.” He puts his laptop away in its case and then into his book bag. He finds Dr Forrest and confirms with her that it’s okay if he leaves a half hour early – it is – and he says he’ll see her tomorrow.

As they’re walking for the elevator, Kyle takes and squeezes his hand before quickly dropping it again to press the elevator button.

They both order burgers because that’s what they’re in the mood for. Phil’s comes with a side of salad, even though he hates salad, while Kyle’s comes with fries.

“Why again did you order salad?” Kyle asks with an eye roll. Phil swallows the leafy greens in his mouth and shakes himself out to expel the unpleasantness.

“Because it’s healthy. With all the gore you see every day that is the indirect result of bad diets, you think you’d be a bit more cautious.”

“Yeah, but those people aren’t on their feet for twelve-hour shifts, running around for each new trauma that comes in.”

Phil shrugs. “Still.”

“You do you, Lester. I’m gonna enjoy my fries.”

Phil squints at Kyles before quickly reaching over and stealing a fry.

“Hey!” Kyle shouts, watching as Phil shoves the fry in his mouth. He looks defeated, making Phil grin at him in innocence.

“What?” Phil asks, tilting his head.

“You’re a fiend.”

“I think it’s pronounced ‘friend’.”

Kyle just shorts before picking up his burger.

~~~~

Marcus’ is busy tonight, but he always makes room for Phil and Kyle.

“What can I get you boys?” he asks as he wipes a glass dry and hangs it on the overhead rack.

“Usual?” Kyle asks, looking at Phil. He nods, so Kyle repeats the word, no longer a question, to Marcus. He gives a firm nod before reaching for the glass he just put away.

An hour later and they’ve had a little too much to drink. Phil’s not sure how they got so pissed so quickly. I mean, they were here on Sunday and didn’t get drunk. Though, to be fair, the atmosphere that night was nothing if not sobering.

Phil manages to order a cab for them while Kyle pays their tab. Phil loves that about their friendship. They don’t keep tabs on who’s spent more on the other; it’s just whoever happens to pay for it first.

As they’re walking out of the bar, Kyle swings his arm around Phil’s shoulders. At first, Phil thinks it’s to keep himself stable – Kyle is pretty drunk, after all – but he quickly realises that, no, Kyle – or, more specifically, drunk Kyle – has some other ideas.

“When we get home, I’m gonna fuck you so hard,” he whispers into Phil’s ear, making him shiver. He’s always cringed at whispers. Hearing someone’s lips move, especially when the speaker is drunk and slurring, is absolutely horrific. But still, despite the unpleasant shiver, his body reacts to the words.

Right. They aren’t friends who don’t keep track of each time they spend money on each other. They’re boyfriends.

It’s still weird. And surely Kyle thinks it’s still weird, despite what he says. Phil can’t take it at face value – he’s pissed out of his mind, after all.

The cab arrives after a short time, and they clamber into the back seat, Phil somehow more graceful than Kyle. He’s not as drunk, but he is still naturally very clumsy. Kyle must be well drunk to be tripping over his feet more than Phil does on a daily basis.

They get home quickly, Phil unlocking the door to his apartment. Kyle’s lips are on his neck the second the door is closed. He’s pushed Phil up against the hallway wall, shoving his hands up under Phil’s shirt and rubbing at Phil’s barely-there abs. It only takes a few seconds for Phil’s body to react, and he can feel himself growing in his pants. They’re uncomfortably tight, so he reaches to undo his belt just to get a little release.

Kyle shoves his hands away, though. “None of that,” he says before taking over the job himself and quickly but clumsily undoing Phil’s belt, pulling it out from the loops in his jeans. “Bedroom,” Kyle says. Phil thinks it’s a question but the way Kyle says it makes it sound almost like a demand.

He’s not sure he should let this continue. No, scratch that. He knows he shouldn’t let this continue. Kyle’s unbelievably drunk, and Phil is, too. But, well, simply because of that, and because of the way Kyle is grinding against him, Phil can’t find it in himself to push him away.

~~~~

The sun is shining directly onto his face in the morning. As it always does when he forgets to close his blackout blinds. That’s why Phil got them in the first place – so he can sleep in after a late night at the hospital – but he barely ever remembers to close them when he gets back so late.

Maybe he should start closing them before he leaves when he knows it’ll be a long day. But then he feels that his room would get too musty. He chooses not to question how the sunlight, without any open windows, can prevent his room from getting musty. It makes sense in his brain, and that’s all that matters.

He rolls over and sees Kyle, still fast asleep, drooling onto the other pillow. Phil tips onto his back and drops his head back with a sigh. He’s sore from last night, and, honestly, he can’t even remember anything but the basic ‘they had sex’.

Deciding that a shower will help clear his head, he gets out of bed and focuses on the kitchen. Drugs first, then shower. He pops some extra tablets out of the blister pack for Kyle and fills a glass of water. After putting them on the bedside table, he wobbles back to the bathroom.

The water, despite being the usually-perfect temperature, is burning hot today. He has the hot water tap almost entirely off before it’s an acceptable temperature.

“Shit, this is freezing,” Kyle says, surprising Phil. He hadn’t heard him come into the bathroom, let alone the actual shower. Phil spares a second to think about how easy it’d have been to murder him had Kyle been someone wanting to hurt him. He’s facing the door, but it’s ineffective at stopping serial killers because his eyes are closed. Not to mention the cool water is rushing over his face and down his body, effectively deafening him to the outside world.

Phil jumps, utterly silent in his brief panic. He’d be easy to kill; he just stands there like a deer in the headlights. He’s not sure what he did to warrant being stabbed to death, but this is his fate. He hopes someone tells his patients. He hopes someone tells Dan.

“Sorry,” Kyle says, holding his hands up in surrender despite the not-at-all-guilty smile on his lips. “Morning.” Kyle leans in and pecks Phil on the lips.

“Morning,” Phil chokes out in reply. He’s not sure what’s going on. The day before yesterday, Kyle was hesitant and awkward in his actions with Phil. Now, Kyle’s smirking at him in the shower and dropping to his knees.

~~~~

“Good morning, Dr Lester,” Dr Forrest greets, waving him over.

“Morning. How are you?”

“I’m all well and good. How are you?”

Phil nods. “I’m good, thanks.”

“I was wondering how you were going with Will? I believe he’s the youngest you’ve looked after,” she says, but it’s partially a question.

Phil confirms, “Yeah. He was upset yesterday, but I think I’m getting a better idea of what’s going on for him. I’ll let you know more after today?”

Dr Forrest nods. “That sounds perfect.” Her pager goes off, and after a quick look, she points over her shoulder with her thumb. “Best be going.”

“Yep.” Phil watches as she rushes off before turning to unlock her office door.

He gets set up for the day, putting his coat on, pocketing his pager and sorting through his plans. It’s not long before he’s off to check on his first patient. He usually checks in with his in-patients first, as he talks to them twice daily, and their care is often more intensive. However, he missed checking in with Dan yesterday – not that Dan is his patient anymore.

Dan’s stoic when Phil comes in. It gives Phil déjà vu; it feels so much like when they first met. He’s unresponsive, despite being awake. Phil waves his hand in front of him, trying to get his attention, and there’s nothing; no indication that he’s in the present moment.

Phil sits and waits. He’s seen patients like this before – catatonic – and knows there isn’t much to do but wait it out. Sometimes, patients are lost in memories. Other times, they’re so deep in thought that they’re unaware of their surroundings. Some patients are aware of their surroundings, but no matter how hard they try, they can’t get their body to respond to the environment. They’re the patients that panic most afterwards. They can’t understand how they can be fully conscious but with a body that has shut down.

Phil cannot know what type of catatonia they’re experiencing until he talks to the individual. He can speculate – he thinks Dan may be trapped in memories – but that’s only a guess based on what he knows.

He stares out the window while he waits. There’s a children’s playground a ways away from the hospital; it’s part of the childcare facility on University College London’s campus.

There’s a sharp gasp that pulls him away from the window.

“Dan,” he says, observing that he is now awake. “How are you feeling?”

Dan’s eyes are zipping all over the room, another strong indicator that he was reliving the past; he needs to reorient himself in the present. Phil sees his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. His speeding eyes catch the cup of water on the table next to his bed, and he reaches for it, quickly drinking half of it.

He’s calmer after that. He’s still looking around, but it’s less panicked. It doesn’t take long for him to be looking at Phil.

“Hey,” Phil says. Dan blinks some more.

“Phil,” he ends up saying, breathy.

“How are you feeling?”

Dan looks around again before turning his head back to Phil. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital.”

Dan nods. “Yeah, yeah, I’m in the hospital. That makes sense.”

Phil’s concerned, an emotion that can be seen through his creased eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t– I don’t know. I– can’t remember.”

“Well, what can you remember?”

“You helped me. You– you were nice and didn’t treat me different.”

“Who treated you different, Dan?”

He looks to his lap. “No one.”

It’s a lie; Dan’s tone gives him away. “It’s okay. You can tell me. You’re safe here, remember?”

Dan blinks, looking at Phil again with watery eyes. “The lady you said would help me.”

“Cassie?” Phil asked, confused. She was a good doctor; surely, she wouldn’t have treated Dan differently. He’s seen her work, and she’s nothing if not compassionate.

He nods. “I’m sorry.” He folds in on himself when Phil slides his chair a little closer to the bed.

“No need to be sorry. If you don’t feel she’s the right fit, that’s perfectly fine. There are plenty of other doctors here who can help you.”

Dan shakes his head. “No.”

“‘No’?”

“I don’t– I can’t– it hurts.”

Phil’s brows furrow further as he stands up. “What hurts?” He’s got his hands hovering in front of him, ready to check wherever Dan says is hurting, but he just shakes his head more.

“She was asking me about it. She wouldn’t let it go.”

Phil stays silent. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say in this situation, so he just takes a seat again and waits for Dan to turn his thoughts into sentences.

“You never did that.”

“Asked you about it?” Phil asked for clarification after Dan didn’t continue. Phil has asked about it. Repeatedly. Sure, he’s never pushed too hard, only taking what Dan was willing to give, but he has asked about it and pushed a little.

“Like she did,” Dan corrects.

“And how did she ask you about it?”

“Asking. Again and again. Even when I said no.”

Phil nods. “And how do I ask you?”

“Stories,” Dan says as if the single word is a complete answer.

“I don’t understand,” Phil says because he really doesn’t.

“You tell stories, and I add bits.”

Phil initially believes Dan is talking about Phil suggesting events in Dan’s past, which he’s never done because it is entirely unscientific, immoral, and bordering on illegal. But it doesn’t take him long to realise what Dan is actually saying. Phil’s way of psychotherapy with reluctant patients is to make it into a conversation.

When Dan wouldn’t talk to Phil at first, he shared his own information based on context. Dan had an oversized jacket when he first came into the ED, and Phil used that to learn trivial, unrelated things about Dan. Like that he hates the cold. He learned that by telling Dan about how he’s from Manchester and even got a laugh out of Dan about liking snow but hating the cold. It was a chat, not a therapy session.

That must be how best to treat Dan. But he also knows from experience that his way of doing things isn’t particularly common nor preferred among his colleagues. It’s too indirect for them, too slow and inefficient. But to Phil, it’s effective, a quality that outweighs its slow pace. Slow and steady wins the race, or something like that.

“You like my stories?”

Dan smiles then. It’s small but noticeable. “Yeah,” he says. His voice is soft as he watches his hands smooth out the blanket on his lap.

“I’m glad. If you want to, I’d love to hear some of your stories.”

Dan looks at him then, eyebrows drawn in. “Maybe,” he says, without continuing.

Abruptly, Phil remembers that Dan is not his patient. He’s a friend now, and apparently, that distinction is going to be harder to remember than he thought it’d be.

Still, Phil nods at Dan’s words. “Whenever you’re ready.” Friends listen to each others’ stories; he can do that with Dan without crossing the boundary into patient and doctor. “Do you want to talk to Cassie?”

Dan shakes his head. “It’s okay. Just don’t like it.”

“Is that why you weren’t responsive when I first came in?”

Dan blinks. “Cassie was here. Next thing, she’s gone, and you’re here instead.”

“That’s okay,” Phil says, nodding to confirm what he’s saying.

They talk for a bit longer but eventually, Phil needs to go and see his own patients. After all, he is on the clock and isn’t paid to visit a friend.

He checks in on Will next because he’s the newest addition to the psych ward and because he’s young. He’s bound to be scared. So he heads for the children’s psychiatric ward, directly above the adult ward. All his current patients are there, sadly. Maybe he should talk to Dr Forrest about having some older patients so that he can get experience working with all age groups. He makes a mental note.

“Hey, Will,” Phil says, opening the door he’d just knocked on.

“Phil!”

Will’s not as nervous as Phil thought he’d be. In fact, he sounds rather excited. He’d have to ask the nurses if that’s been the whole time or if it was a unique emotion related to Phil’s presence. With how distressed he became earlier, Phil wouldn’t be surprised if it was the latter.

“How are you going?”

Will shrugs. “Good, I guess.”

Phil nods. “You said you’re good, but you shrugged. Are you truly ‘good’, or was that answer automatic?”

He shrugs again. “At least there’s no arguing here.”

“And how’s that make you feel?”

“A little less shit than I usually do.”

Phil chuckles a little. “Well, that’s all we can really ask for right now, isn’t it.”

Will just shrugs again.

“I was hoping to get a bit better of an idea of what your experiences are.”

“Okay,” Will says, but he doesn’t continue. When Phil waits patiently, Will raises an eyebrow. “Well?” he asks. “What are you hoping for now?”

“Sorry?” Phil asks, confused.

“You said you were hoping, past tense. That means you have a different plan now.”

Phil blinks. “Oh. Um, I’m still hoping for the same thing. I’d like you to tell me more about your experiences,” Phil says, careful with his wording this time.

“Still not helpful,” Will says with a huff. “Ask me what you want to know specifically, or piss off and stop wasting both our times.”

Phil takes a second to reseat himself in the armchair. The sudden change in the atmosphere took him by surprise, and he needs a few seconds to reset his thoughts.

“Right, sorry,” he says, mainly out of habit. He’s constantly apologising – it’s a habit he thought he’d broken by now. “Well, I suppose as a starter, what would you be doing if I wasn’t wasting your time?” He makes sure his tone makes it obvious that he doesn’t agree that he’s wasting their time, that he’s just using Will’s own words.

“I don’t know.”

“You said you like engineering. Is there any particular project you’re working on at the moment?”

Will looks away. “No. I didn’t– After my last project– I didn’t want to leave a project unfinished.”

Phil understands the hidden message. He hadn’t felt there was a reason to start a new project, hadn’t thought he’d be alive to see it finished.

“That makes sense. Does that mean the attempt was planned in advance?” Phil asks, needing clarification. He assumed it was a spur-of-the-moment thing – most are, in the end.

Even after all his training, he’s still learning not to make those kinds of assumptions. Sure, expectations based on past knowledge help him do his job, but assumptions generally cause more harm than they’re worth.

Will stares at his lap. He’s picking at the skin around his nails, but Phil focuses on the conversation right now. Problematic behaviours can be targeted later, so long as they aren’t hindering his progress. “Yeah.”

Phil tilts and lowers his head, trying to catch Will’s eyes. “Can you tell me more about that plan?”

He shrugs. “I guess. I planned it probably a month ago, maybe two– no, definitely closer to one. Things went to plan, mostly. Other than the outcome, obviously. I kept the grocery bags mum got from shopping, and I had like five cause I wanted to be sure there would be no holes. But then I was reading about how slow suffocation is and how hanging is generally a better option cause you can’t chicken out.

“So I used my pocket-money to buy some rope and, well, yeah. Learned how to make a noose, set up and got started. But apparently, the world hates me because I accidentally kicked the chair into my bedside table, which made the whole thing fall over. I don’t remember much more than that.”

Phil nods slowly. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I know it mustn’t be easy to remember those events.”

Will just shrugs. “It’s whatever.”

“You are very brave, Will,” Phil insists. “Sure, you tried to end it all, but you’re still here. And being able to talk to me about it? That’s huge.”

Will just scoffs. “I’ve had enough questions. I’m tired now.”

Phil doesn’t mention how he only asked one question and then a follow-up one. He just nods. “I’ll come back in a bit and check-in. How does that sound?”

Will rolls over with a nod. It’s not a rude gesture – the rolling over – so Phil still thinks they’re on good terms, even with Will’s sarcastic comments.

Next, he’s got to check on Liz and Luke. He hopes they’re doing better than Will. And Dan. Not that he’s Phil’s patient anymore. Dan can do as good or as bad as he wants, and it really shouldn’t concern Phil. But, well, it does, and he can’t help that.

#phan #phanfiction #phanfic #phandom #daniel howell #danisnotonfire #philip lester #phil lester #amazingphil #christy's writing #Let the Human In Fic

[loving-bucky-is-easier]

deliverance

leave what's heavy, what's heavy behind • two

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 6.3K

Summary:

Almost three months to the day since you’d woken up in the med bay with his hands wrapped around yours, since you’d finished your first kiss in a hospital bed and he’d stayed with you until Helen shooed him away. Almost three months of dating Bucky Barnes, which was lovely and confusing, because how many couples got together because of an accidental confession of love mid-argument post-torture in a terrorist facility?

Warnings: 18+, smut, a certain promised shower 😏, unprotected sex (wrap it up, people), mild violence, discussion of previous violence and injury, PTSD, panic attack, me making up rules for the cradle and hoping they’re close to right, angst, fluff

Minors--this is not for you. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Please be discerning. Do not interact.

A/N: I was blown away by the response to deadweight--y’all are the sweetest. This is the fluffier and smuttier sequel; still quite a bit of angst, because I can’t not, but a happy ending, because I can’t not do that either. You may be able to enjoy this fic independently, but I think the payoff is much better if you know what they’ve been through to get here. Feedback is welcome and appreciated--comment, message, or send me an ask! Tags are at the bottom.

Edit: This reader is white-coded in both this piece and it's predecessor, in that she blushes pink or red when flustered or embarrassed. This trait is mentioned multiple times by both the reader and other characters. This was an oversight on my part when writing, and I've done my best to ensure that all fics written since have avoided traits like this.

read deadweight

“Really? You’re not messing with me?”

“No, Y/N,” Helen smiled, although it looked a bit more like a smirk. “I am not messing with you. The cast can come off today, and then you are cleared for active duty, as well as whatever...extra-curricular activities you may be interested in pursuing.”

There was that familiar pink blush again. You had seen a lot of it in the past three months. A certain super soldier found it to be very endearing, which only deepened the pink to a nice tomato red.

“We haven't done anything,” you protested, trying to cross your arms over your chest, but struggling with the bulkiness of the cast. Of course, the damn thing would have one last laugh before it finally came off.

“Right,” Helen teased, eyes narrowing.

“I’m serious,” you insisted. Then, grumbling under your breath: “He’s been really fucking annoying about it.”

Helen laughed. “Well, at least one of you can follow instructions, although I wouldn’t have guessed it would be James Barnes.”

You wouldn’t have guessed that either.

.....

“You’re not serious.” You were perched next to Bucky on the edge of his bed. Cheeks flushed, chest heaving, shock written clearly on your face. A kiss that was definitely moving towards something more having been swiftly interrupted.

“Doll, please don’t make this harder.” He was panting too.

“That’s what she said.”

“That’s what who said?”

“I...never mind. But really...you’re serious?”

“Y/N, Helen specifically said--”

“Screw what Helen said! It’s been a month! That’s long enough!”

“No, Y/N. Please believe how much I want this. I want you. God, I want you. But...fuck, Y/N, you still have the cast.”

“I can work around that.”

“I’m sure we could,” he chuckled. “But I’m not putting your recovery in jeopardy to fuck you, as much as I may want to. Not when we’ve been given explicit instructions not to.”

“I’m not going to break! I’m fine. The cradle--”

“Doesn’t fix everything,” Bucky cut in gently. “It doesn’t fuse bones back together, although knowing Helen, I’m sure that’s coming soon. Your body needs time. And you, my love, are worth the wait.”

You sighed, heart rate finally fluttering back under control, and you leaned into his chest, arms threading around his waist. “You’re worth the wait, too,” you grumbled.

“Such conviction,” he teased, jabbing lightly at your side, and you giggled.

“I never figured James Barnes for a rule follower. Always thought that was Steve.”

“First of all,” Bucky spoke so sharply it made you jump, “Steven Grant Rogers is not a fucking rule follower. He’s a dumbass vigilante with good branding. Second...” He pulled away enough to meet your eye, voice softening. “I follow the rules that keep the people I love safe.”

You huffed. How could you object to that?

“Besides,” he continued, a wicked grin forming on his face, “I believe I was promised a shower, and we can’t really do that with a cast.”

.....

Bucky had been true to his word. Almost three months to the day since you’d woken up in the med bay with his hands wrapped around yours, since you’d finished your first kiss in a hospital bed and he’d stayed with you until Helen shooed him away. Almost three months of dating Bucky Barnes, which was lovely and confusing, because how many couples got together because of an accidental confession of love mid-argument post-torture in a terrorist facility? 

Almost three months of wonderfully normal dates. Walks around Brooklyn: a record store, a coffee shop, a farmer’s market. Dinner and a movie, because Bucky was a classic. A concert that you left early because you could see the crowds and the jostling getting to him, exchanged for a dance on the roof of the compound, the playlist you’d made for him a lifetime ago humming through the speakers.

Almost three months of figuring each other out, learning the details, although those honestly felt trivial when compared to the understanding you had after that ill-fated mission. But they were a joy to learn nonetheless, each insight adding a new thread into the life you were weaving together. How Bucky took his coffee--no cream, two sugars. The scar on your knee from falling during a theatre production in high school. The song his sister used to play on the piano any chance she got, because it was the only one she knew. Your favorite flower: a lotus, although you didn’t mention that but once, because they were hard to find for bouquets and you didn’t want him to go to the trouble.

He bought you a necklace with a lotus stamped into the pendant for your birthday, and you hadn’t taken it off yet.

Almost three months of dating this man, and you were dying. Figuratively, of course, but dying all the same.

Dying because in-a-relationship Bucky was a whole new Bucky, and you couldn’t get enough. Flirty comments. Playful touches at any chance he got—God, this man needed more positive physical touch in his life. And compliment after compliment after compliment that turned your face into a blushing mess.

“I think the shade of pink your face turns might be my new favorite color,” he’d said once. What the hell were you supposed to do with that?

Dying because you didn’t think you could love Bucky more, but every new little thing you noticed about him made you fall even further. The playlist you’d made him was on when he drove. When he read. When he showered. And good Lord, he sang in the shower. A little out of tune, but gorgeous nonetheless. Maybe he just didn’t know how to make a new playlist, but your smile practically touched your ears every time you heard it.

And in those rare moments where you got him flustered, he fidgeted with his hair, tucking it behind his ears, then ruffling it back forwards. Fuck, it was endearing.

Dying because Bucky had asked that the two of you keep your own rooms until you had fully healed—“I just don’t think I could keep my hands off you, doll”—and you were sleeping alone. Sleep was...challenging to say the least, after everything that had happened in that cement room, and you knew it was hard for him too, that it had always been. You wanted so badly to hold him through his nightmares and for him to hold you through yours, to fight off each other’s demons. But Bucky had set boundaries, and dammit, you were determined to respect them.

Dying because every kiss tasted like more and sparked a heat pooling in your stomach, and even if he wasn’t calling you the love of his life and sweeping you off your feet, which he was, he was a sight to behold. 

Okay, maybe you weren’t dying. You had experienced something close to that, and this certainly wasn’t it.

But it still took every measure of your self-control not to sprint out of the med bay the second your cast was off, and you took the stairs two at a time to the gym, where you knew he would be finishing up a sparring session with Sam.

You paused for a moment outside the door, trying to control your breathing, but to no avail. You tucked your left arm behind your back and pushed into the room, only to collide directly with a wall of muscle.

Bucky caught you with ease, sweeping you into a dip and capturing your lips in his like a pose out of a movie. Your heart fluttered, and you vaguely registered Sam nearby groaning at the two of you to get a room. 

If you insist, Sam.

Bucky drew back. “Hi, doll,” he grinned. His steel blue eyes full of affection, his face glistening from his workout. Fuck, you were so ready for this. He leaned in again, but you pressed a finger to his lips. 

“Buck.” You scrunched your nose. “You need a shower.”

Mild frustration twisted his features. “Geez, doll,” he grumbled, setting you back on your feet. “Way to kill the mood.”

You grinned. “No, Buck,” you whispered, raising your left arm and wiggling your fingers teasingly. “You need a shower.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed for a split second as his eyes flicked from yours to your recently liberated appendage. Realization hit, and his pupils dilated, stormy blue almost eclipsed by inky black. “You’re cleared?” he breathed, his voice lower than you’d ever heard it.

You couldn’t contain your smile as you nodded.

“Sorry, Sam,” Bucky said evenly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Raincheck on that cool down. I have something better to do. Or rather, someone.” He grabbed your hand and nearly dragged you out after him. You giggled as you turned back to wave at Sam, who was rolling his eyes, a smirk plastered on his face.

“Have fun!” he called.

If you insist.

Bucky didn’t let go of your hand until the elevator doors closed. He was silent as he pressed the button for his floor, and you couldn’t help but notice him fidgeting with his hair. Was he reconsidering?

“Bucky, if you aren’t rea--”

“You’re sure you want this?”

Your jaw dropped. “Bucky, I’ve wanted this since we got back. Before that, even. Of course I want this.”

“Okay, it’s just--I don’t want you to feel obligated. I don’t expect you to honor a stupid deal you made on your deathbed.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, a teasing smile on your lips. “Excuse me, Sergeant Barnes. I take my deathbed deals very seriously, and I hope you intend to live up to your end of the bargain, or--” The rest of that threat died in your throat, cut off by Bucky’s lips on yours. His hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you to him, as he peppered kisses from the trace of the scar on your forehead, down your jaw and onto your neck.

“Bucky,” you giggled, his scruff tickling your neck. “Bucky--oh--” He nipped at the pulse point on your throat. “There--there’s a camera in here.”

“I don’t care,” he growled, his metal fingers teasing through your hair. “We’ve waited long enough.”

Damn right.

His lips found their way back to yours and his tongue pressed in. You sighed against him, and his hands slid down to the backs of your thighs, prompting you up. You gladly obliged, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck.

The kiss didn’t break as he carried you through the opening elevator door and down the hall, hands firmly planted on your ass. It didn’t break as he fumbled with his door behind you, your back pressing against the surface until it finally gave way. It didn’t break as he shouldered into the bathroom and perched you on the counter. It didn’t break until you couldn’t breathe and you finally pulled away panting, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Ah,” Bucky heaved. “So there’s more than one way to see my favorite color.”

“Shut up,” you groaned, fingers fumbling at the hem on his shirt. You slid it up over his head, discarding it somewhere on the floor. One look at the man before you, and the warmth that was tensing in your stomach clenched tighter. Bucky was an Adonis—glistening and carved chest and stomach, a v-shape disappearing into the stripe of his boxers that peeked out over the top of his sweats. Jaw tensed. Flyaways disturbed by the shirt sliding over his head framing his face like a halo. Metal arm glinting in the light. You wondered what those fingers would feel like inside you. As chance would have it, you wouldn’t have to wonder long.

He slid your own shirt off, and you rued even that split second your vision of him was obscured by fabric. You started to reach for his sweats, to free him of those, too, but he caught your hands in his.

“Let me take care of you first,” he breathed. If you had been standing, your knees would have buckled.

Bucky eased you back further on the counter, and you leaned against the mirror, raising your hips up to push your leggings and panties down. He slid them the rest of the way off your legs, and you were left panting on the counter. Bare to him except your bra, knees fighting to press together in self-doubt.

One look into his eyes and that dissipated. “So fucking beautiful,” he growled. “Fuck, Y/N, I already knew you were perfect, but somehow you’ve passed that too.” He planted his hands on your knees and eased them apart further.

“Can I—”

“Fuck, yes.” Bucky was between your legs in a split second.

You gasped as his tongue licked a stripe straight up your core before stopping to circle at your clit. Fingers teased at the edges of your inner thighs, the discrepancy in their temperature sending a delicious muddle of sensations arching through you.

“You’re so wet for me, doll,” he panted, brushing his thumb around that sensitive bundle of nerves in slow, teasing loops.

“Well, you had me waiting for three mon—ha—” Your toes curled as his lips wrapped around your clit again and sucked, and one of the fingers on his right hand teased at your entrance. He ran it gently along the folds for a moment, skimming through the slick, sending little tingles coursing through you that were nowhere near enough, until finally, he eased it in. Your eyes fluttered and your head arched back at the feeling of his finger pumping inside you, joined quickly by a second. His warm tongue still teasing at your clit.

“More,” you started to plead, and then his fingers curled, brushing over that spot, and you saw stars. He pumped them a few more times, each curl drawing something between a pant and a moan from you, before sliding them out. You missed them immediately, but were almost sated by the sight of Bucky drawing himself back up to his full height and sucking his fingers clean.

He leaned back over you, a teasing grin on his face, pressing a kiss to the lotus pendant laying on your chest, lips ghosting over the hollow of your throat, and you started to protest, wanting more—

A shiver that racked your entire body coursed up your spine as a very cold silver finger drew lazy strokes around the edges of your folds.

“Bucky,” you whined. Your hands gripped at the edge of the counter so hard you thought you might crack the stone.

“Yes, doll?” he asked innocently. “What is it you want?”

“Buck,” you breathed. Those lazy circles dipped closer to your core, so cold, still not enough. “Buck, please.”

“Words, sweetheart.” Fuck.

“Please,” you panted. “I need more.”

Those words weren’t really much clearer, but Bucky was too impatient to hold out much longer. Two cold silver fingers pressed into you, curling like their softer predecessors had, and it was all you could do not to come undone.

“Doll, you look so pretty like this,” he breathed, pumping those damn metal fingers over and over again, a galaxy of stars exploding in your brain.

He dipped back down to your clit, tongue latching onto it again, and you fell over the edge. Entire body tensing like a fist, core clenching around unyielding metal. Chest heaving, sweat dripping down your back. And then release, the release you’d been craving for three damn months.

“Now, who needs a shower?” he teased, pulling his hand away. You sat up, trying to compose a smirk on your face.

“Oh, I hope you don’t think we’re done yet, Sergeant.” You pushed yourself up off the counter, a bit weak in the knees, but definitely ready for more.

You pushed past him without a glance, opening the glass door of the shower and turning it on. The thrumming of the water wasn’t loud enough to drown out the pants of anticipation coming from the man behind you. Still not bothering to look at him, you reached back and unclasped your bra, letting it fall to the floor.

Finally, you spun to face him, silver pendant swinging to slap against your bare chest, as you backed slowly into the shower, a teasing grin on your face.

“Fuck, doll. Look at you,” he groaned. And look at you, he did. Eyes scanning hungrily down your naked form, now glistening with the spray of the shower head. A muddle of love and desire painted across his face like a damn masterpiece.

His sweats and boxers hit the floor, and you almost did too. Holy fuck.

He was on you in a second, shower door slamming behind him, pressing you against the cold tile, his hands sliding up your ribs and cupping under your breasts. His lips wrapped around one of your nipples as metal fingers teased at the other. Your arms flailed a bit, knocking shampoo bottles to the floor, and you had to grab onto his shoulders to keep yourself upright. Delicious conflict as the nerves on your chest received both hot, wet kisses and cold, unyielding flicks and strokes.

Your feet skimmed along the tile, searching for traction, for leverage, and finding none. Your fingers threaded up into dark, damp hair, and you pulled him back, gasping as his mouth left your breast.

“Bucky,” you whined. “Need you...” You could hardly breathe, the steam of the shower flooding your lungs. “Need you inside me.”

Bucky grinned, planting both hands on either side of your head, caging you in between his arms, mismatched but both perfect. His lips brushed against your ear, and he chuckled. “God, I’ve been waiting for this.”

He wrapped his right hand around your thigh, hiking your leg up to wrap around his hip, and then his tip was teasing at your entrance, probing at the slick folds. You pressed your heel into the small of his back, spurring him forward, and he obliged. Slowly, achingly sliding in. So patient, allowing you to adjust.

“Bucky?”

“Hmmm?”

“Would you stop being so damn gentle and fuck me?”

He laughed, and the sound made your walls clench around him. The laugh dissolved into a groan. “Careful what you wish for, sweetheart.”

He thrust the rest of the way into you, and the stars were back, spinning and dancing—fuck, they may as well have been doing an Irish jig—as he pressed in again and again, hips slamming into yours. Your hands were back on his shoulders, fingers raking down his back hard enough to leave marks. You wondered absentmindedly if you looked as good through the glass door as you felt. You were sure Bucky did.

The air was thick with steam and sex and moans and heavy breaths. Your whole world was the glimmer of steel blue flickering behind dark lashes as he gasped and panted and railed you against the shower wall, three months of a promise in the making, and even longer of mutual desire the two of you had been too damn blind to see. God, did you have lost time to make up for.

And then those metal fingers were on your clit, snaking between warm bodies, and that lost time lost all meaning. You tumbled over the edge with a breathy cry, and Bucky chased right after, spilling warmth into you and down your legs to join the sweat and the steam.

Nothing was said for a moment as you both came down, heavy breaths and pounding water filling the silence.

“That was...” you panted as he slid out of you. Fucking hot. Incredible. Better than I’ve ever had.

“So damn worth the wait,” he teased, earning a shove to his shoulder. But Bucky was immovable, and the resistance knocked you off balance, your feet sliding out from under you.

Perfect arms caught you right before your head smacked against the wall, pulling you back in. Your chest pressed against his, and you could feel his heart racing beneath the muscle, flying just as fast as your own. You pulled him down just enough, rising on tiptoes to press soft kisses to the scars on his shoulder.

Bucky moaned. “Hold on doll,” he pleaded. “I have no intention of waiting that long ever again, but maybe round two should be somewhere a bit less slippery. A bed, maybe?”

You pulled away to find a grin matching your own. “This better be the fastest damn shower you’ve ever taken, Sergeant.”

.....

“You want to what?”

Bucky sighed. “Take you out, doll.”

“Like on a date?”

“Well I’d rather not assassinate you, so...” She jabbed at his ribs, but winced at the impact on her unprotected nail bed. He grabbed at her hand. “You’ve gotta stop doing that, doll. You're not gonna heal if you keep trying to beat me up.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” he half-teased, looking her over for what was probably the millionth time. The cradle had worked wonders for Y/N, but she was only two days out of the med bay, and it showed. A cast on her left arm, paired with a sling, and some sort of metal brace that wrapped around her left hip that she was supposed to keep on for the next week. Dapples of green, the last remnants of bruises, painting a sickly cast over her, despite the warmth in her cheeks. Three missing fingernails on her right hand, promised to grow back in the next sixth months. 

And then there were the scars.

The cradle was a masterpiece of innovation, seemingly miraculous in its ability to generate tissue and knit wounds back together, as it had done with the numerous ruptures hidden beneath the surface of Y/N’s body. But it didn’t do so without leaving trace. 

Dozens of reminders of the cement room and the explosion before it littered her body, patches and stripes of skin shinier than the rest. Small nondescript nicks with no particular memory attached, paired with a handful that made Bucky’s blood run cold if he let himself remember the screams that came with them. A slice across her forehead. A ring around her wrist. A quarter-sized circle on her collarbone.

“Hey. Buck. You with me? You were trying to ask me something?” 

Bucky flinched, drawn back to the woman before him. “Yes. Right. I did ask you. But I want to take you out on a date.”

“Bucky.” She shook her head helplessly. “First of all, look at me. I’m not exactly date material right now.” He started to protest, and she held up a hand to silence him. “Second, I feel like we’re a little bit past the whole first date thing, given, you know...everything.”

“Y/N. First of all,” he threw back at her, “you are never not date material. I never want to hear you say anything resembling that ever again.” It was her turn to protest, but he didn’t let her get a word in either. “Second! Who gives a fuck if we go a bit out of order? I’m going to treat my girl right, and I want to take her out on a proper date.”

“A bit out of order?” she teased.

“Fuck you.”

Her smile nearly split her face in two. “Fuck me, yourself,” she giggled.

He fidgeted with his hair a bit, but he wasn’t able to resist drawing that blush onto her cheeks. “Oh, trust me, doll. I will. Later.”

The blush reached her ears this time. So fucking adorable. “But first,” he continued, “a date. We can at least get that right.”

She paused, as though contemplating, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Music. Mission. Shit hitting the fan. Confession of love via screaming match. Near-death experience. Love confession again, mutually. Making out. A date--”

“Hopefully more than one,” Bucky interjected ruefully.

“Multiple dates,” she corrected. “And then...later.” She winked. “Sounds like a reasonable arrangement to me.”

.....

The shock from sleep into the waking world was normally a welcome one for Bucky, pulling him from a haunted reality into slightly brighter one. But Bucky fought it this time, clinging to the dregs of a dream where a beautiful girl had her arms wrapped around his neck, swaying in the chill air. The fading strains of music lingered in his ears, but they were cut off sharply by a low whine.

Bucky was accustomed to waking up to sounds of anguish, but they were normally his own. Instead, his eyes shot open, adjusting quickly to the darkness. He was tangled in the sheets of his own bed, a reminder of the round two that he had promised Y/N, and the round three that had followed, before the pair had fallen asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

Now, though, Y/N was tensed at the far edge of the bed. Eyes scrunched shut, face contorted with pain, flinching away from an unseen attacker.

“No,” she pleaded. “No, n—” Bucky’s heart nearly stopped as a shattered scream ripped from her throat, and for a moment he was back in that fucking cement room, trapped behind crisscrossing metal as the woman he loved writhed in metal restraints, under the hand of the man with the brown eyes all over again.

But a broken “Please, please” from her lips drew him back. She needed him here.

“Y/N,” he pleaded, a hand reaching hesitantly towards her. He didn’t want to startle her, but he knew from experience that the shock was worlds better than the reliving.

“Y/N, you’re okay, doll. I’m right here.” He eased closer to her trembling form.

“You’re safe, love.” He had hardly brushed his fingers across her shoulder before she bolted upright, and Bucky vaguely registered a stinging on his cheek.

Y/N’s eyes were wide with panic as she scrambled away from him, feet tangling in the sheets. She nearly pitched off the side of the bed, but he caught her by the arm and eased her away from the edge before backing off immediately.

Her chest was heaving, eyes darting around the room, waiting for more attacks that he wanted to promise would never come.

“Y/N,” he whispered lowly, “you’re safe. We’re at the compound. You’re okay.” Palms out in surrender, reaching slowly towards her.

“Y/N, he’s gone. He can’t hurt you ever again. It was a dream, love. I know it felt real. Trust me, I know. But you’re safe.” His hand landed lightly on her clenched fist, and she flinched, but didn’t recoil.

“Y/N, can you hear me?” She nodded absently, but her eyes were distant. Still in that fucking room.

“Y/N, honey. Come back to me, doll.” His voice was thick with tears, but he choked them down, steadying his breath. He pulled her hand gently to him, resting it on his chest, her fingers still locked in a fist.

Bring her back.

Bucky cleared his throat, searching for words, any words, and landing on the fading remnants of his dream. “Do you remember our fourth date?” No answer.

No questions. Don’t ask questions. Just talk.

“I think it was my favorite one. Don’t get me wrong, I love all of our dates. But this one was special.” He felt her fingers soften, just barely. “We went to this shitty concert down in Queens. That was our first mistake, I think. Going to Queens.”

Y/N didn’t smile, but her eyes flicked to his for just a second before flitting away again.

Keep going.

“The venue was gross. The music was bad, although I think you liked it anyway. I can’t even remember the guy’s name. And there were so many fucking people there.” The fist relaxed into a palm pressed hesitantly against his chest. “I made it through four songs before you told me you wanted to leave. I didn’t really believe you. You had been dancing and singing along and it was so damn cute. But you knew that it was too much for me. Too loud. Too full. Too many people bumping into me.”

Her eyes seemed to slide a bit more into focus, fixated on the hollow of his throat. He pressed on with his story: “You dragged me out of there without a second thought, and I knew all over again that I was a goner for you. We went up to the roof of the compound, and put that playlist on for the zillionth time, and we just swayed under the stars.”

Y/N startled to tremble, her hand fidgeting on his chest. 

Almost.

“I held you, listening to the same song that I fell in love with you to, and you were the only thing in the world. You still are. The only thing that matters, anyway.”

And then she broke. Choked sobs racked her body, and her eyes locked on his for a moment before she collapsed into his chest. His arms wrapped around her, hands coming to rest on her back and in her hair.

“It’s okay, honey,” Bucky soothed. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re okay.” She heaved against him, choking breaths coming too fast. “Breathe, Y/N. You have to breathe, doll. Try to match mine. You’re okay.” Tears streamed down his own cheeks as he held her close, feeling her breath slowly return to something resembling normal.

When she had been quiet for a little while, he cleared his throat. “Y/N. How long have these been happening?” There was no way that had been the first.

She didn’t answer, and Bucky’s heart sank. “Has it been the whole time?” he asked helplessly. She tensed against him, before nodding very slowly.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, tears falling down his cheeks and into her hair, “why didn’t you say anything?”

She pulled away, eyes fixing on her hands in her lap. “I—I didn’t want you to worry, and I know sleep is already so hard for you, and you were set—setting boundaries...I wanted to respect that.”

“Doll, you still have to speak up if shit like this is happening,” he said gently. “I appreciate you wanting to respect boundaries, really. But this is so much more complicated, and the solution is not for you to shoulder through it by yourself.”

He paused, a debate raging in his head. Screw it. Let’s get this all out there. “Doll, I didn’t ask you to stay in your room because I didn’t think we could handle it. Granted,” he smiled ruefully, “you are fucking hot and I’m amazed I survived these three months. But the truth is that before you were released from the med bay...and for a while after...I saw you...and heard you...in that room. Every time I closed my eyes.” She still wasn’t looking at him, but her eyes welled up with tears again.

“You didn’t say anything,” he continued. “I thought you were doing okay, although I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how. I was a wreck. But when they let you go back to a normal room, I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want you to see me like that, or to have to remember anything because of me.”

Eyes still downcast, she snaked a hand into his own and pulled it into her lap, her thumb running small circles over the back of his hand. His eyes fixed on the invisible loop she drew over and over again.

“I thought that your time to recover physically would be enough. And for me, it was. Mostly. Because those nightmares have been all but replaced by everything that’s happened in the last three months. They’re not gone entirely, and it probably would have been a hell of a lot easier to wake up from them and see you safe beside me. But I didn’t want to put that on you.”

Silence for a moment, and then: “I guess you’re just a self-sacrificing dumbass, then,” she whispered. Bucky looked up to see a sad smile on her face, and he matched it.

“This coming from the woman who told me to abandon her in a Hydra compound. Like...four times.” Her eyes fell again.

He grimaced. “Y/N...this is something we need to sort through together. I know that’s not really either of our thing, but...”

She nodded. Tears spilled over again as she whispered, “Buck, does it...does it get easier?”

His heart broke. “Oh, sweetheart.” He pulled her hand up and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “So much better. It’s not linear, ever. There will be days when it feels like you’re starting all over again. But so much better, love. You didn’t know me when I first got here. Even if you’d been here you wouldn’t know me, because I was a shell of anything that I’d ever been.” He paused. “I’m not the man I was before the war either. I don’t think I’ll ever be. But that’s not the goal, is it?”

Bucky ran a thumb along her jaw, gently pulling her gaze to his. “I love you in the broken and the better. In the version that’s here today, and the one that was there yesterday, and the one that’ll be here when we’re old and grey and you’re still telling me to ‘fuck me, yourself.’ Although I suppose I’ve already accomplished the old part.” She giggled, and Bucky felt his whole body exhale at the sound.

She stopped when her eyes fell on his cheek. Three thin lines, already clotted over, but lined with blood all the same. She reached hesitantly towards his face, stopping short. “I—” Her voice broke. “I hurt you—”

“Doll, stop. I’m fine. This is nothing.” He could tell she didn’t believe him. Tears were spilling over again. “I stabbed Steve once.”

That brought her back. “You what?”

He nodded, a trace of a grin on his face. After everything he’d done, everything he’d been through, she was worried about a couple scratches on his face that he’d already forgotten about, that would be gone by morning. He remembered for a moment the concern on her face at a shard of metal lodged in his thigh, while she lay bleeding and pinned under a pile of concrete.

Self-sacrificing dumbass. A matching pair, they were.

“A week after I got to the compound, Steve realized I was having nightmares. He asked FRIDAY to notify him when I had them so he could come pull me back...I didn’t know he did that. And he didn’t know I was sleeping with a knife in my hand. A knife that I promptly buried in his shoulder the second he touched me.” He reached behind him to the nightstand, carding through the contents of the drawer before coming up with a dark metal blade, three inches before the handle. Y/N’s jaw dropped.

“He was fine,” he assured her. “Clearly, he’s fine. He didn’t even have the heart to give me grief about it. Although he started bringing his shield with him whenever he came to wake me up.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and he knew she meant for more than the scratches.

“Love, don’t be sorry. You have so much to heal from. Your body got the focus, but everything else has to catch up. And I’m here for whatever that looks like. Maybe you try one of the psychologists Helen recommended. Or we could go together. As much as I hate to agree with Tony, he swears by it, and I think he’s right on this one.”

Her hands fidgeted, her eyes searching his. “You—you’d go with me?”

“Of course, doll. Hell, it’d probably be good for me too. And,” he continued, “I will always be here to fight the demons away. Maybe you can meet mine sometime, too.”

She huffed. “I’ll kick their fucking asses.”

“Of course you will, doll. C’mere.” He pulled her back to him, wrapping his arms around her and easing them both back down onto the bed. She settled with one hand pressed to his chest, the other tracing soft lines in the divots on his shoulder. His chin rested on the crown of her head, his hands wrapped around her waist and fiddling with her hair. Breathing as one. Ready to fight the demons away.

“Y’know,” Bucky said after a moment. “I think I definitely upgraded.”

“Hmmm?”

“I swapped a knife for a badass woman in my bed. I think the latter is more dangerous. And definitely much sexier.” He didn’t have to look at her to know the pink that was painting across her cheeks, but he couldn’t resist. He hummed at the sight, swooping in to press a kiss to the tip of her nose, then a second to the scar on her collarbone. “My favorite color.”

“You ass,” she grumbled, unable to hide the smile tugging at her lips.

“Doll, you should know right now that I have made it my mission in life to see that blush as many times as I possibly can.” She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling in earnest now.

“Please tell me that a few of those times will come from what we do...later.” The blush was deeper now, and he chuckled.

“Oh doll, far more than a few. You wound me even to ask.” She laughed, and Bucky fell in love all over again. He expected he’d be falling every day of his life.

“I love you, Bucky.” She was a quiet for a moment, and then: “Even if you are a self-sacrificing dumbass.”

He grinned. “You’re one to talk, doll.”

He brought her hand to his lips, peppering her knuckles with kisses. “I love you so much, Y/N.” She sighed into him, shifting closer. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

Bucky couldn’t help the traces of a quiet hum falling from his lips as Y/N’s breath evened against his chest. Hints of a tune from a bay window and jostled shoulders, from a cold rooftop and her arms around his neck and a sky full of stars.

Listen to “Heavy” by Birdtalker Here

A/N: This fic was never one that I intended to write, but once the suggestion/request was made, I couldn’t stop thinking about where these two would go next. Many thanks to those who loved Deadweight so much that they inspired a whole new piece (tagged below).

I know the structure of the piece is a bit atypical, as the long-awaited smut is usually the plot climax (no pun intended). But that was how I felt this particular iteration of Bucky and the reader would process the events of Deadweight. Neither of them are really written to be the type to ask for help, and I think they would have felt that physical intimacy would be the best solution to the trauma they experienced. It certainly didn’t hurt, and in fact, created the vulnerability they needed, but in this case the sex was more of a stepping stone to emotional healing.

On the subject of smut, this is my first attempt. I’m mostly pleased with how it came out, but I’m not sure that it’s my forte. I think angst, whump, and a bit of fluff are more my speed for now, so feedback and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Goodness knows there are some very skilled smut writers on this site, and perhaps some of you could provide some suggestions for improvement.

Lastly, I think this plot line ends here, at least for the foreseeable future. I’m a sucker for a happy ending, so please feel free to fill in the blanks yourself for the remainder of their healing process, which would certainly not be a linear one, and would more than likely take the remainder of their lives, as healing tends to do. But I’m confident in the victory of these two, as individuals and as a pair.

Thank you so, so much for reading!

Tag List - Comment, message, or send me an ask if you’d like to join!

@buckysbabygorl / @soullessheartlesshumanoid / @justanothermarvelfanaccount / @pspice639

For deadweight

@shawnie--jo / @barnesofrivia / @catgirl1321 / @kinanabinks 

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic #bucky whump #bucky angst #bucky fluff #bucky x avenger!reader #bucky x hurt!reader #marvel #marvel fic #tw panic attack

[midnight-on-pluto]

Could I get some parental Aizawa with a reader who has anxiety please? (And maybe undiagnosed adhd?) thanks!!

Parent!Aizawa with anxiety / ADHD reader

A/N: I have ADHD so i got this IN THE BAG you know how many times i’ve thought about parent Aizawa it’s so cute!! ahhh i love you 💕

Warning: swearing

╰➤ Aizawa is so parenting to his students so you know he’d 100% be the best dad

╰➤ He falls asleep everywhere and you know he falls into a DEEP SLEEP there’s definitely been times when you thought he was dead

╰➤ Once had a panic attack when he was asleep because you were like “oh my god my father is dead and now i’m an orphan” and he just like woke up in the middle of it. You literally slapped him, such an ass. He apologized about it too but you were like “WHY DID YOU SLEEP ON THE TRAIN AND THEN JUST NOT BREATHE”

╰➤ He’s so sweet about your anxiety too, he’s definitely done research and he was the one who originally brought you to get diagnosed when you were younger because you know he’s educated on mental illness

╰➤ Makes sure you take your meds if you have some, your ADHD brain will forget sometimes and completely ignore your alarm(s).

╰➤ Somedays you’re stubborn and he just goes “take your pills,” and you’re just like “no,” he’s tired of this shit please he just wants sleep

╰➤ Will FORCE it down your throat and then nap because HOLY SHIT you are strong please just take the pills bb

╰➤ He’s so patient with you! If you’re struggling with any homework and can’t focus he’ll sit with you to help and calm you down. He isn’t fussy with grades so if you’re not doing too well he won’t scold you, but he’ll help you if you’re failing so you at least pass

╰➤ If you’re having a super bad day with anxiety, he’ll sit with you and make sure you’re okay. If you want alone time he will just sit up, shuffle to his bedroom, and sleep until you come to wake him up

╰➤ Speaking of waking him up if you’re having an anxiety attack and need him, or you’re feeling overstimulated and need him, he doesn’t care if you come over and wake him at any time. He can easily fall asleep after anyways and he’d much rather make sure you’re okay

╰➤ Due to anxiety you may get anxious when he goes away on hero work. Aizawa is very cautious when he’s working, in fact your one of the main reasons he took a teaching position. He gets less hero work and more teaching work, so he can spend time with you and it takes some of the stress off

╰➤ When he does have to go for work, he makes sure to give you constant check ups, messaging you every hour and every second he gets just so you aren’t anxious. He doesn’t think it’s a bother, and it’s not annoying to him so you don’t need to worry about bugging him.

╰➤ When you were younger he made Present Mic look after you while he went on missions. He always called at night before bed and required Present Mic to be giving him constant text updates

╰➤ Now that you’re older he just makes Mic check in on you, but trusts you to be home alone majority of the time

╰➤ As for ADHD, if you’re feeling overstimulated (holy fuck this is the worst) he stays right next to you. Mental breakdowns are common with both your anxiety and ADHD so as much as it hurts, Aizawa has really gotten used to seeing you with tears streaming down your face

╰➤ There’s nothing he can really do with overstim, you just gotta wait it out or distract yourself, but he tries his hardest

╰➤ If you lash out at him he doesn’t mind, but makes sure you know to apologize when you’re feeling better. He understands that you’re feeling overwhelmed and need some space, so he’s willing to give you just that

╰➤ Aizawa is such a good dad and would do anything to make you happy. He’d be the first to take you to a doctor for diagnosis and he’s always supportive. Please, if any of you have kids be an Aizawa.

#pluto’s asks 🌙 #aizawa headcanons #aizawa sensei #shoto aizawa #my hero academia aizawa #mha aizawa #aizawa hcs #father aizawa #dad aizawa

[kai-writes-fan-fiction]

could you write avengers x ocd!reader? 🥺 ty

I’d love to! I feel like OCD is such a stigmatized disorder, and I’ve been diagnosed myself. To make it more inclusive, I’ve done some extra research. This piece includes a few triggers like extreme Germaphobia, panic attacks, sensory symmetry, my safe numbers are anything divisible by five, my favorites are 10. 50, and 100, so for the sake of this sort, those are the numbers I’ll be using.

You were diagnosed with OCD at the age of 12

When you weren’t on your medication, your symptoms were pretty severe

You joined The Avengers at 13, and it’s been 2 years, so you were 15

You’d learned how to cope really well, but your symptoms fluctuated, and were often too much to handle without meds

Only Fury knew, and you asked him to keep it in between the two of you

He obliged, but advised you tell them eventually to prevent incidents

One day, you needed to go get your prescription refilled, but you were below the legal driving age

Instead of risking the reveal of your well guarded secret and asking someone to just take you to the pharmacy, which was, in no way, waking, flying, or running distance from the Compound

You decided to just suffer and get your prescription when you were in the city

You spent the next agonizing days in your room in fear of the rest of The Avengers thinking your routines, counting, taping, and whatnot was you just being a crazy teenager overreacting

Little did you know, all the time you’d been spending in your room was suspicious to the rest of the team and they began hypothesizing whatever you were doing in there for such a long amount of time

“I bet you she isn’t even in there!” -Sam

“She could be on her period or something.” -Tony

“Ew!” -Peter

“First of all, Tony, that’s inappropriate, secondly, Peter, don’t be immature it’s natural, thirdly, I’m with Sam she could be on one of her “teenage escapades”!” -Natasha

“What’re we taking about?” -Steve

“We’re trying to come up with reasons (Y/N) hasn’t left her room in a few days.” -Bucky

“Oh, my money’s on her being on her period.” -Steve

“EXACTLY.” -Tony

“S T E V E, NO.” -Natasha

“Instead of thinking about what she’s doing, why doesn’t someone check on her?” -Bruce

“Great. Thanks for volunteering Bruce!” -Tony

“But I didn’t-“ -Bruce

“I’ll go. I’m her favorite.” -Peter

“Only because you’re her age, spiderling.” -Tony

Peter went to your room, you didn’t respond, still worried about their judgement

“(Y/N), could you please let me in? I’m worried about you. Are you ok?” -Peter

On the verge of a panic attack “I’m ok! Please go away!” -you

“Ok, but can you come out later today? Please?”

“I’ll think about it.”

You were left alone until dinner

“(Y/N)! Dinner! I’ve got your favorite! If you come out you can have some!” -Bucky

Feeling better you decided to come out, as your symptoms had calmed down

You came and ate with the team, and they could tell your behavior was different

You washed your plate and silverware 5 times before you served yourself

You were counting things, and trying to tap things inconspicuously, which wasn’t working

You looked really grossed out when Sam sneezed and when Peter double-dipped the salsa (If you double-dip, and it isn’t your personal sauce/salsa/guacamole/etc. ew what’re you doing)

Natasha finally decided to break the tension

“(Y/N), why have you been in your room all week? Are you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Then why were you in your room? I bet on it being your period.” -Tony

“Dude, seriously? I wasn’t on my period. I’m fine.” -you snapped

“Are you sure?” -Steve

“I’m sure. Thanks for dinner.”

You went back to your room, and you already felt yourself getting riled up again. This was going to be a very long night

“She’s not ok.” -Peter

“Yeah, no duh. I’ll go check on her.” -Steve

Steve straight up walked into your room and found you in the middle of your bedtime routine

“Ever heard of privacy?” -you

“Nope. What’re you doing? And seriously, are you ok?” -Steve

He had good intentions, and you were done with the “I’m emotionally stable” charade, so you told the truth

He looked confused, and you immediately regretted E V E R Y T H I N G

“We can refill it tomorrow, I’ll drive you. You should’ve told us! We care about you and we wanna know what’s going on in your life. How about you tell the rest of the team?” -Steve

“Ughhhh fine.” -you

You told the rest of the team, and you watched as they exchanged money. Had they been betting on what you were doing?

“You guys are stupid.” -you

“We know.” -Sam

“Shut up Sam. You don’t need to hide stuff from us (Y/N).” -Natasha

“Yeah, I know, but I didn’t want you guys to think I’m crazy or just being a moody teenager or something.”

“Hey, having OCD doesn’t make you crazy! If you ever need anyone to talk to, we’re always here.” -Tony

“Thanks guys. I’m going to bed now though. Nighhhttt.”

You left all of them in the common room, and you went to bed

You were thankful for their kind words and happy you could go get a refill

They always checked on you when you were feeling anxious

They could somehow tell when something that wasn’t OCD friendly was bothering you, and it was always fixed

BONUS YAYYYYAYAYAYAY

“So that was unexpected.” -Loki

“When in the hell did you get here?!?” -Steve

“Been here the whole time. Night!” -Loki

“Man that was a lot though.” Strange

“When did YOU get here?!?” -Steve

“20 minutes ago. Anyway, goodnight.” -Strange

“Ok, who else is here that wasn’t here for dinner?” -Steve

“Me!” -Zemo

“YOU’RE IN PRISON WHAT?!?”

Shoot this kinda turned into a story sorry guys

#avengers au #avengers fic #avengers x child!reader #avengers x fem!reader #avengers x platonic reader #avengers x plus size reader #avengers x teen!reader #avengers x you #the avengers #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky x enhanced!reader #bucky fanfic #mcu memes #mcu #ocd #tony stark x stark!reader #tony stark x y/n #tony stark smut #steve rogers x teen!reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #natasha x you #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader #sam wilson #peter parker x stark!daughter #peter parker x platonic!reader #peter parker x reader

[maddiwrites]

Family Troubles

Pairing: JJ x Routledge!Reader, mostly John B x Routledge!Reader sibling dynamic 

Summary: (Requested) After the death of your brother, you move to the mainland with a nice foster family. Months later, you get the biggest shock of your life that leaves you questioning what you want.

Note: I’m so sorry this took so long. I hope this is what you were looking for!

Word Count: 4.6k

You peek your eyes open to another sunny autumn day as your alarm echos off the walls of your room through your phone. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t dread the day ahead of you. Because you feel like you’re finally living a life worth living. 

It’s been about three months since John B disappeared. The worst three months of your life. You never would have imagined living a life without your twin brother. It was lonely and heart wrenching. You didn’t think you would get through it. And living with the Cameron’s didn’t make your life any easier. Ward tried blocking you off from the rest of the world. He was afraid of what you could do to his reputation despite knowing most people wouldn’t believe you. You were just a Pogue with a criminal background.Your word means nothing to Kooks and cops alike. Nonetheless, Ward didn’t want to take any chances. 

It wasn’t until you finally got in touch with Cheryl, your social worker, that your life started to change for the better. You couldn’t believe the irony of running to your social worker for help when you’ve been running away from her all summer. Surprisingly, she did hear you. She listened to you. She believed you! Although there wasn’t much she could do about Ward, she could help you get out from under his neglectful guardianship. 

She placed you in a foster home with an eager Spanish American couple on the main land. Of course you weren’t ecstatic about it. Foster care was never something you wanted to be placed in. Especially without your brother. But at the time, anything was better than living with Ward Cameron. 

The worst part of the process was telling your best friends. Kie and Pope, although disappointed, were happy for you because they knew this was what was best for you. JJ, however, didn’t understand how you could be so cool calm and collected about moving. Losing you to Figure Eight was hard enough and now he was going to have open water separating you two? He didn’t cope well with the news. He barely talked to you as you gathered your stuff to leave, almost didn’t show up to say his final goodbye with Kie and Pope. But he came as you were about to get on the ferry with Cheryl. The two of you cried and told each other you were sorry. You kissed his cheek and slipped a small piece of paper with your new address into his pockets. JJ reluctantly let you go with a promise that he will visit you as soon as he could and you believed him. Because he was your best friend, your soul mate, and partner in crime.

JJ saves up every week to take the ferry to visit you. He usually comes every Sunday, respecting your foster parents’ wishes that he not stay the night. At first they were wary of him coming over - they know about your past from the social worker and the News and how JJ was a part of it. They wanted you to have a new beginning. A fresh start. They believed you when you said your brother wasn’t a murderer and that you and your friends did nothing wrong. They were just afraid that JJ would convince you to come back to the Outer Banks (which he’s tried), or make you regress to past trouble making behaviors. But you explained to Maria and Luis, your foster parents, how important JJ is to you and that he needed to be a part of you life no matter where you were living. So they allowed him weekend visits, always making sure to keep an eye on you when he was here. 

Someone lightly taps on your door until you say, “Come in.” 

Maria pokes her head in and smiles when she sees you’re awake. “Morning, honey. Your appointment is in thirty minutes. Will you be ready to leave soon?”

You offer her a smile and nod. “Yeah, I’ll be down in ten.”

Maria nods. “Okay.”

She closes the door gently, leaving you alone to get ready for your appointment with your therapist. You agreed with your new foster parents to go to therapy once a week. They thought it would help you move on and grow and get rid of the nightmares that sometimes terrorize you at night. You went because you felt like you owed it to them to make an effort. They weren’t like the other foster couples you hear horror stories about. If they were gonna be there for you, you were gonna be there for them too. 

The therapy sessions were working. You’re more open to talking about what you went through. The therapist never gave you any inclination that she was judging you or analyzing you. She just listened and asked you how you were feeling about everything. She helped you adjust to this new life on the mainland and taught you new coping strategies that didn’t involve getting into fights or arguing with the cops. She helped you through your anxiety about starting a new school and making new friends. She even prescribed you some anxiety meds that helped with your nightmares and panic attacks.

Both Maria and Luis drive you to your therapy appointment. You silently question why the both of them felt the need to accompany you to your appointment. You mentally list all the reasons as to why they both would want to come when usually it’s just one or the other. You’re too afraid to ask, thinking they’re about to drop a bomb on you and send you back to the island. You don’t want to hear it, procrastinating the inevitable for as long as possible. 

When Dr. Hildegard greets you in the waiting room, she waves not only you but your foster parents as well into her office. The three of you take a seat on the brown leather couch in front of her chair. You awkwardly glance between your therapist and your foster parents, trying to read the room. You dig your nails into the skin of your hand to keep yourself calm, focusing on the slight stinging pain it leaves you.

“Good morning, Y/N,” Dr. Hildegard says. She takes notice of your fidgeting hands and smiles. “I know you must be confused and anxious right now. But Maria and Luis have something they want to ask you and felt you would be more comfortable having this conversation with me present.”

“Okay...” You say wearily. 

Luis and Maria hold each other’s hands as they turn to look at you. You feel a little better when you see a smile on their face, making you think it isn’t going to be bad news. 

“Y/N, how would feel about officially being a part of our family?”

You glance between your therapist and your foster parents and tilt your head in confusion. “I don’t understand...”

“Y/N,” Dr. Hildegard says. “Maria and Luis would like to adopt you.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Meanwhile, back at the Outer Banks, JJ is getting ready to leave his house to make the last ferry to the mainland. He had to pick up another shift to afford another boat ride and a date for tonight, which left him racing against the clock.

Someone knocks on his front door. “Shit,” He curses and looks at the clock. 3:04. He needed to leave twenty minutes ago. He doesn’t have time to talk to anyone right now. He figures it’s his dad’s probation officer or druggie looking for money. So he ignores it so he can find his wallet. 

But the knocking persists. 

“Fuck,” JJ grunts and storms to the front door. “He’s not here -”

JJ freezes as he rips the door open. He didn’t know who he was going to find, but he definitely wasn’t expecting his dead best friend to be standing on his door step. 

John B smirks up at his shocked reaction. “Hey, stud. Miss me?”

JJ’s brain is doing flips inside his skull, knocking around with so many questions and curses and phrases and shouts. But with that is the immense excitement and relief that takes over his entire body. 

JJ jumps on him and wraps his arms around his best friend’s shoulders. Tears inevitably prick his eyes and he physically holds onto John B. He’s in utter disbelief. He never thought he would get this opportunity again. To see and hold his best friend - the best friend that’s supposed to be dead. 

“Wow. Who knew JJ Maybank could get so emotional?” John B jokes, trying to hide his own tears through his laugh. 

JJ removes himself from John B and shoves him back by the shoulders lightly. He wipes his upper lips with the back of his hand and sniffles back the rest of his tears. “Shut up, bro.” JJ narrows his eyes at the dead man in front of him and asks, “What the fuck happened? Where’s Sarah? Is she -”

"Sarah’s fine. We’re trying to lay low right now. No one knows we’re back.”

“What -”

“Look, I know you’re confused and there’s so much I need to tell you guys, but first I need to see my sister.” John B says with a sweet grin on his lips at the mention of his sister. He was most excited to see her - his first best friend and partner in crime. “Is she here?” JJ’s face falls at the mention of Y/N because he doesn’t know how John B is going to take the news that she’s no longer on the island. John B notices JJ’s hesitation and immediately get’s worried. “Where’s Y/N, JJ?”

“She’s not here.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

You trail behind Maria and Luis as they unlock the front door to their house. The car ride home was awkwardly silent. You didn’t know what to say.

“Oh...” You said. You weren’t expecting that. You thought they’d be telling you the complete opposite. Yet, you didn’t know how to feel about their proposition. 

Maria and Luis looked at Dr. Hildegard for some insight or ice breaker since you froze up on the spot. You looked back down at your hand and pressed your nails even harder into your skin, leaving half crescent moons indented in your palm. 

Dr. Hildegard kept her calm smile and said softly, “Why don’t Y/N and I speak alone and I’ll grab you guys at the end?”

Maria and Luis, although a little disappointed by your reaction, agreed and stepped out of the room.

When the two of you were alone, Dr. Hildegard asked, “How are you feeling right now, Y/N?”

“I uh...” You stammered. “I don’t know. Shocked, I guess.”

“Usually when kids in foster care are offered adoption, they’re excited. Do you like living with Maria and Luis?”

“Yeah, they’re great. It’s just...” The last time someone offered to take you in as part of their family, it didn’t end well. It changed your life for the worst, you lost your only living family member left, and is the reason why you were here today. Although foster care isn’t that much different, you didn’t expect to stay with Maria and Luis past 18 years old. 

“Rebuilding a sense of trust can be difficult after past traumas. But taking those necessary steps, of letting new people in your life, can help you over those humps.”

“Why don’t you get ready for volleyball practice? I’ll take you there when you’re ready,” Luis says as the three of you walked inside. 

You nod silently and quickly hide in your room. You fall back on your bed that suddenly feels different than it did this morning. Like a reminder that it didn’t belong to you.

But maybe it could. 

You get changed for volleyball in a pair of spandex and a t shirt. When you close the drawer, something falls on your dresser, catching your attention. 

You pick up the fallen picture frame of you, John B, and the rest of the Pogues on Memorial Day Weekend. Kie had taken a selfie with all of you making silly faces at the camera in the middle of the marsh. That day always brings back amazing memories for you. Oh how you wished you could have another day like that. 

You stare a little longer at John B in that photo. What would he say if he was with you right now? Would he say yes to Maria and Luis like he did to Ward? Or would he encourage you to be more careful about who you trust with your life?

Maria knocks on your door and says, “You ready, sweetheart?” 

You place the frame back on the dresser and walk out into the hall to meet her. “Yes.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

“So this couple....” John B says as he follows JJ off the ferry on the mainland. 

“Maria and Luis,” JJ says. On the way here, he told John B everything. About how horrendous your life was after John B “died.” How Ward treated you like a prisoner. How you practically begged Cheryl to help you. How you ended up on the mainland with a lovely married couple. 

“Are they...nice?”

JJ shrugs. “They seem like good people. You can tell they don’t like me around, but that might just be because they associate me with all the bad shit that happened to us because of Ward.”

“Does she like it here?” John B says as he takes in his new surroundings. As he and JJ walk towards your neighborhood, which isn’t too far from the ferry, he thinks about what your life could become here. Nice neighborhoods, friendly towns. It’s definitely better than the Cut. But it wasn’t home. 

“She’s learning to, I think,” JJ answers honestly. “She doesn’t like being so far away from the Pogues.”

“Yeah, I can understand the feeling,” John B says. Although it was nice to have Sarah around while they were gone, he couldn’t help but feel like a giant chunk of his heart was missing. And that was the Pogues. 

“This is it,” JJ says as they reach the end of a short driveway on the outskirts of town. A two story baby blue home with white shutters and a rose bush. Bigger than the houses on the Cut and smaller than the houses on Figure Eight. 

“This is where she’s been staying?” John B asks. Something swarms inside his brain. He doesn’t know if it’s betrayal or jealousy. 

“Yup,” JJ says, popping the ‘p’, “Her room is on the side.”

JJ knocks on the front door and looks down at his watch while he waits. Somehow, he managed to be about ten minutes early. Probably because of John B’s hustle to find his sister as soon as possible. 

Luis opens the door with a friendly grin that quickly falters when he sees who accompanies JJ. 

“Good Afternoon, Mr. Morales. Is Y/N, here?”

Luis looks between the boys and inhales a deep breath. He knows John B from the pictures on the News, the stories in the paper, and the cries of his name when Y/N was terrorized with nightmares in the beginning of her stay. 

Although the adoption process just started, he and his wife felt like they were finally forming a family-like bond with Y/N. Dr. Hildegard suggested starting over would be in Y/N’s best interest, encouraging new friendships, joining extracurricular activities at school, staying away from the Outer Banks for a while. Luis and Maria made an exception for JJ, seeing how happy he truly made Y/N. But they never expected to see John B. 

And he didn’t know what that meant for his family. 

John B notices Luis’s hesitation and politely holds out his hand. “I’m John Booker Routledge. Y/N’s brother.” 

Luis reluctantly shakes his hand, although apprehensive, never rude. He coughs awkwardly and looks back at JJ without saying a word to John B. “Tonight’s not a good night -”

“What do you mean? Sunday’s our day. She didn’t tell me she was busy -”

“I’m sorry, son. Maybe next week.” Luis shuts the door before JJ or John B could argue. 

John B knocks again and even rings the doorbell. “Mr. Morales! Hey! Come back!”

“Here,” JJ pulls John B by his arm. “Come here.”

JJ and John B round to the side of the house where your window sits right under the middle point of the roof. JJ find’s the nearest and smallest rock and tosses it up at the glass of your window. 

“What are you? Fucking, Romeo?” John B glares at his friend.

“You have a better idea?” JJ glares right back. “Trust me. I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Morales to call the cops if we kept banging on his door. They’re pretty protective of Y/N, which means they’ve never been truly fond of me.”

“Maybe she’s not here,” John B suggests. 

“She’s always -”

JJ freezes when he hears a car pull into the driveway. They both look at each other before walking back to the front of the house. JJ notices Maria first when she steps out of the car. She has a smilier reaction to John B as her husband which makes John B bounce on his toes nervously. 

You don’t see him at first, with your back turned to grab your bag. Then you spot him immediately. 

You stiffen when you see both JJ and....your dead brother standing on the lawn.  Suddenly your mouth feels dry and your heart is beating the crap out of your ribs. 

“Y/N...” Maria says wearily. 

“Hey, Dimples,” John B says with a smile, using the nickname he and your father use to call you when you were younger due to the deep pits in your cheeks when you smiled. 

Your eyes shift to JJ who looks at you with pinched eye brows. He was expecting a different reaction. One where you run into your brother’s arms and squeeze the shit out of him in a tight hug. 

But instead, you were feeling numb. You never expected to be face to face with your brother ever again. You convinced yourself he was really dead because holding onto hope that he was still alive was slowly killing you and even holding you back. You needed closure and that closure was accepting the truth that John B was dead and to never be found.

Yet, here he is. Standing and breathing and watching your reaction with a hurt expression. 

“Y/N...” Maria says again and lightly touches your shoulder. 

“I’m fine,” You finally speak, flinching at the way your throat feels scratchy. You swallow and turn to Maria and offer a polite grin. “I’ll be right in.”

“I don’t know...”

“Please, Maria,” You say, this time a tad more forceful but not rude. 

Maria hesitantly nods and blocks herself away with the front door. 

“I - I don’t - “ You huff. “How?”

“The Phantom...” John B licks his lips nervously. “Capsized...and Sarah and I...well...a shipment boat found us. Took us right to the Bahamas.”

“The Bahamas?” You repeat, taking two steps closer to him. 

“Yes. There’s so much I have to tell you -”

“Like the part where you couldn’t call?” You say accusingly. 

John B sighs. He should have expected it, but he didn’t prepare for it. He thought you’d be happy to see him, but now he’s realizing how hurt and confused he’s truly left you.

“It’s a long story -”

“Yeah, I’d expect the summary of your last few months to be a long one.” You look at JJ. “Did you know about this?”

JJ shakes his head. “He showed up on my way here.”

John B sighs. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t find a way to contact you, but we couldn’t! We didn’t want the cops realizing we were alive and we were looking for the gold -”

“The gold?” You laugh humorlessly and your hands run up your head to your scalp. Your fingers tug on the roots of your hair in frustration. “The gold’s gone!”

“It’s not! If you would just listen -”

“I don’t want to listen, John B! Because I don’t care about the gold. That gold took everything from me!” You yell as tears begin to build in your eyes, thinking back to what happened last summer. “I lost Dad, you, my home... I can only see my boyfriend once a week. And I was treated like a prisoner in the house of a murderer!”

“I know that it couldn’t have been easy for you but -”

“No. You have no idea what it was like for me when you were gone. Because you weren’t there!” You cry. “You left! You were living it up in the Bahamas, searching for gold, while the rest of us cried over your death and suffered the consequences!” Tears were now silently streaming down both John B’s cheeks and JJ’s as they watched you break down. “I couldn't sleep for weeks. I barely ate. Ward locked me in a room so I couldn’t tell anyone about what he did.”

“I’m sorry,” John B says. “I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Back home -”

“Home?” You scoff, shaking your head. “I have a home.”

“This isn’t your home,” John B says defensively. 

“It has been. For the past few months. But you wouldn’t know that, would you?” You say with a glare. You look at the house behind him, noticing Maria and Luis snooping through the curtains of the window. You think back on what happened today and the options you had. At first it was a hard decision to make and now it’s damn right near impossible. “Maria and Luis offered to adopt me.” You say honestly.

John B inhales sharply and JJ furrows his brows. 

“What?” John B says.

“I didn’t give them an answer yet. But this is an opportunity to start over.”

John B glares at you. “Think about your family!”

“I am!” 

You suddenly feel exhausted and weak, like the day has lasted over twenty four hours. Your head begins to throb and your neck aches. 

You sigh, “Look, I’m happy you’re all right and safe and unharmed, from the looks of it. But...I just need some time. Okay?”

“Y/N...”

“Please, John B?” You’re practically begging. 

John B sighs and reluctantly nods his head at your request. At the end of the day, you owe him nothing and he owes you everything.

“Okay,” He agrees. 

You walk past him without giving him a hug or anything, afraid you’ll break down in sobs and follow his lead back to the Outer Banks. But you need to be strong and figure out what it is you need in life, tired of following the path that always leaves you broken and alone. 

You kiss JJ’s cheek as you walk by him. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

JJ squeezes your hand before you disappear into your house. When the door shuts behind you, you slid down it onto the floor, finally letting your sobs wrack through your body. Maria and Luis run to comfort you to the best of their ability, but they don’t know how to truly help you. 

Later that night, over a cup of tea, you tell Maria and Luis everything. From start to finish. How your dad was obsessed with finding the Royal Merchant, to the compass, to Ward taking you in, finding out he murdered your father and covered up Sheriff Peterkin’s murder by using your own brother. 

Maria and Luis glance at each other nervously. They know how important family is, which is why they want you a part of theirs so badly. But they never want to take you away from one you already have and love. 

“I think you should think long and hard about what you want over the next couple of days,” Luis says. “And we’ll help you in any way we can.”

“I’m sorry,” You say, wiping away your tears with a napkin. “I know you didn’t sign up for this.”

“Honey,” Maria says, wiping another tear with her thumb. “We don’t want you to worry about that. This changes nothing for us, okay?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The next day at dinner, Maria and Luis sit you down and offer eager grins. Just like they did at your last therapy appointment. 

“Y/N...we have something we’d like to discuss with you,” Luis says.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

With the help of JJ, you meet John B at the Wreck with the others for a civilized conversation. Now that you’ve had a few days to think and calm down, you’re able to really appreciate how lucky you are to have John B back in your life. 

When you see him standing in the middle of the restaurant, you run to him and squeeze him around his waist as he wraps his arms around your shoulders. You cry into his T shirt, telling him how sorry you are for your outburst. 

“It’s okay,” John B cries into your hair. “You don’t have to be sorry. I should be the one apologizing.” 

You pull away and wipe away your tears. “I think we’ve both been through hell and back and did what he had to do to survive. Neither of us should apologize.”

After giving the other Pogues a hug, the five of you sit down and recap each other’s last three months. John B tells you about his time in the Bahamas, how Sarah is laying low until she gets her shit figured out with her own family, and you describe life at a new town and a new school.

“It’s weird. There’s no division. No Kooks vs. Pogues. I don’t know if I like it or miss my enemies,” You say.

When the five of you are ready to say your goodbyes, you pull John b aside and say, “Actually, I think there’s a couple of people I’d like you to meet.” John B furrows his brows and follows you to a park where Maria and Luis are waiting at a picnic table.

When they see the two of you approaching, they stand and reach out to shake John B’s hand, officially introducing themselves and apologizing for being rude a week ago. 

“It’s okay. I understand,” John B says. “Thank you for taking care of my sister.”

“Pleasure’s all ours,” Luis smiles. “We’re lucky to be able to meet you.”

“Y/N’s told us such great things,” Maria adds. 

You roll your eyes playfully and look at John B to read his face. He seems to be enjoying himself. 

“That’s a first,” He even jokes and looks your way.

“There’s actually something we wanted to ask you,” Luis says and takes his wife’s hand like he did at Dr. Hildegard’s. He looks at you to see if you want to explain. “Y/N...”

You take a deep breath and face your brother. “I have agreed to be adopted by Maria and Luis.”

“But -” 

“Let me finish,” You cut John B off. “We talked about it and the three of us are going to move back to the Outer Banks to be closer to you and the Pogues.”

“But...” Maria says like a song with an excited grin.

You mirror her smile and say, “But...Maria and Luis want to know if you would like to a be a part of their family too?”

John B’s brows jump up in surprise. “Seriously?”

“I know it’s a big decision,” Luis says.

“And if you need time, that’s fine,” You say. “But, I think this will be good for the both of us.”

John B looks between you and your foster parents, who he can tell care about you greatly. Of course he wants that too, but just like you were, he’s nervous.

“Are you sure about this?” He says softly as to not offend the couple in front of him.

“Yes,” You nod. “I’m sure.”

John B inhales a deep breath and nods. “Okay. I’m in.”

#jj maybank #jj x reader #jj maybank imagines #jj maybank x reader #outer banks imagine #john b routledge #obx imagine #routledge!reader

[clusterbuck]

measuring heartbeats (you held me together)

1.7k, rated G, complete read it on ao3

three times eddie definitely does not panic, and one time he does

Here’s the thing about Eddie: he doesn’t panic. He puts his head down and he steels his spine and he does what needs to be done, and he does not panic.

This is the way the army trained him. This is what his parents ingrained in him. This is the foundation upon which he builds his life and his career. Eddie is steadfast and steady and he is cool in a crisis, and he does not panic.

--

Five weeks after the shooting, when he wakes up gasping for breath feeling the hot asphalt pressed against his cheek with visions of Buck’s blood-splattered face floating in and out of focus, he does not panic. He’s had too many nightmares in his life not to know how to ground himself again; it doesn’t require much conscious thought anymore.

So he sits there in the darkness and takes deep breaths, and reminds himself of things he knows to be true. He starts small and works his way up: his name is Eddie Diaz. He is at home, safe in his bedroom, and his son is safe down the hall. He was shot, but he’s recovering. The sniper is dead and can’t hurt him anymore. Buck was never shot; Buck is okay. He is okay. Everyone is okay.

He doesn’t panic. What does he have to panic about? The sniper is dead, and he’s alive and healing and home with his son. Everything is fine.

Two months after the shooting, when he’s walking down a busy street framed by skyscrapers and his brain tries to overlay everything he sees with memories of that day and his chest begins to tighten, Eddie does not panic. He blinks away the images of the ambulances and the battalion car, lifts his gaze from the street when the pool of blood refuses to recede.

Beside him, Christopher turns to peer up at him, wearing that expression Eddie is getting achingly familiar with. The one that means he’s concerned, that he thinks something’s up. He hasn’t asked, not yet, but Eddie’s pretty sure he’s building up to it.

But for the time being, Eddie looks at his son and he reminds himself that they’re out in the middle of LA, just the two of them, and Christopher is counting on him to get them home again. So he puts a hand on Christopher’s shoulder and reminds himself of the facts. There are no ambulances in the street, and there is no blood on the pavement. He has not been shot; he is healing, and he is out for ice cream with his son. The sniper is dead and can’t hurt him anymore. Buck has reassured him time and time again that sniper attacks are exceedingly rare, and the chances of two unconnected attacks in the same city this close to each other are so small you haven’t even heard of these fractions, Eddie.

He doesn’t panic. He has responsibilities, a son to look out for—and the sniper is dead. What does he have to panic about?

--

Three months after the shooting Eddie is back at work, and when he encounters a patient with a bullet wound in the same shoulder as his, he does not panic. His vision blurs around the edges and the memory of blood is bitter on his tongue, but he picks up the med kit and goes to where Buck is waving him over to the other patient.

These are the things he knows are true: he is at work. He was shot, but he has healed, and now he has a job to do. People are counting on him; people need him. Buck is counting on him. Buck needs him.

Buck looks up when Eddie kneels beside him and Eddie looks right back, and with every breath, the world comes back into focus a little more. By the time he turns his attention to the patient he is laser-focused once more, all of his attention on his job. What does he have to panic about, anyway? He isn’t the one bleeding out on the ground, not anymore. His sniper is dead.

--

Four months after the shooting, a well-meaning store clerk refers to Ana as Christopher’s mother, and Eddie freezes. He thinks his heart might have stopped but that can’t be right, because the only sound he can hear is the thundering of his own pulse.

I don’t panic, Eddie thinks, and tries to remind himself of the facts, but he can’t find anything to anchor himself with. There is nothing to grab onto, because the facts are these: it’s a reasonable enough assumption. He and Ana have been together for almost a year, and if they continue on their current trajectory—continue taking next steps, like meeting each other’s families—she will become a permanent fixture in their lives.

The fact is this: Ana says I’m just a friend, and the realisation hits Eddie like a punch in the gut. He never wants to hear her replace it with stepmother.

His gasping, strangled breaths are familiar, but the facts don’t steady his lungs like they usually do. There is no comfort in them. Eddie is lost, untethered, and instead of reeling himself back in he collapses onto the floor.

Ana kneels above him, but she barely registers. The only thing he can see is the future stretching out in front of him, and it’s only now that he realises he is staring down the barrel.

--

The doctor says panic attack and Eddie scoffs, because he doesn’t panic. He can’t panic. She thinks he’s hung up on masculinity, but it’s not about being a man so much as it is about being this particular man.

Eddie doesn’t panic. This is a fundamental piece of who he is. He doesn’t know who to be—how to be—if it’s dislodged.

Ana asks him about it exactly once, and he knows they both hear the rough edge in his voice as he dismisses it. She doesn’t bring it up again.

Buck, however, is a different story. From the moment they walk past Dr. Salazar and Buck realises something is going on, he doesn’t leave the subject alone. And as much as Eddie really doesn’t want to talk about it, he wants to talk about it in front of other people even less.

Which is how he finds himself dragging Buck into a hospital supply closet and turning to glare at him.

“Will you just leave it alone?” he snaps. “I’m fine.”

“If you’re so fine, why did you drag me into a closet to talk about it?” Buck challenges.

Eddie presses his fingers to his temples. “Because I don’t need you bringing everyone else into this.”

“Into what?” Buck demands. “You still haven’t told me why you were seeing a cardiologist.”

“Isn’t it enough if I just tell you everything is fine?”

“No!” Buck says, and the force of it takes Eddie by surprise. “Eddie, you told me I’m responsible for your kid if you die. So that kind of makes it my business if you’re dying.”

“Jesus, Buck, I’m not dying,” Eddie says, but it’s not as harsh as he was moments ago. Buck’s concern—overbearing as it is—makes sense.

“Okay, then what?” Then Buck narrows his eyes. “You thought you were having a heart attack, but you didn’t—Eddie, did you have a panic attack?”

“I don’t panic,” Eddie repeats, more stubborn still than he had been with the doctor.

“Eddie,” Buck breathes, and Eddie feels Buck’s hand find his arm in the semi-darkness. “Would it be so bad if you did?”

“Yes,” he says, a decade’s worth of expectations packed into the weight of one word. “I don’t panic. I can’t panic.”

“Says who?”

“Says—I don’t know, everyone,” Eddie says, and wonders how this foundational piece of him isn’t more obvious to Buck. “Can’t be a good army medic if you’re panicking. Can’t be a good firefighter if you’re panicking.” Can’t be a good dad if you’re panicking, he doesn’t say out loud, but he thinks Buck might hear it anyway.

“Says who?” Buck asks again, softer this time. “I mean, I’m not going to pretend to know anything about the army, but—I get panic attacks, sometimes. You saying I can’t be a firefighter?” There’s just a hint of challenge in his voice.

“I—no,” Eddie says. “You have panic attacks?”

“Not that often,” Buck says. “Not anymore.” Then, as if sensing that Eddie’s going to ask: “I talked to Dr. Copeland. A lot.”

Eddie sighs.

“The only way out is through,” Buck says. “Have you been seeing Frank?”

“Not as often as I should,” Eddie admits.

He waits for the reprimand, but it never comes. “Okay,” is all Buck says. “So we’ll start there and see how it goes. And if Frank isn’t working out, it can be someone else. It just needs to be someone, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie mumbles, and part of him thinks it shouldn’t be this easy. But most of him knows it only feels easy here, in the liminal space that is a hospital supply closet in the middle of a blackout, with Buck’s reassurance in his ears and Buck’s hand on his arm. Most of him knows that it’s going to be anything but easy, once he keeps his word and goes back to Frank.

But here, in the shadows of the closet with Buck right beside him, it feels like maybe he’s going to get through this. Maybe he’s still going to know who he is when he comes out the other side. Maybe admitting he needs help doesn’t have to mean sacrificing part of himself.

Maybe knowing that he’s not alone in this is what makes all the difference.

“Okay,” he murmurs again, an admission and a benediction.

“Good,” Buck says. “I need you to be okay, you know. I love Chris, but I don’t want to raise him without you.”

There’s a weight to the way he says without you, like he wants to make sure Eddie knows that’s the part he doesn’t want. Eddie swallows.

“You’re just worried you’d never live up to me,” he manages, and Buck cracks a smile so bright Eddie can see it through the darkness.

“Please,” Buck says, “I could take you any day.”

#911fic #buddie fic #eddie diaz #i just have a lot of feelings about eddie 'i don't panic' diaz ya feel #shush emma #emma writes

[bokoutoe-retired]

— #43 “i love you to the moon and back” & #44 “you’re stealing the blankets”

characters; gojo satoru, gn! reader, ft. itadori yuuji, fushiguro megumi, nobara kugisaki

synopsis; working at jujutsu tech comes with it’s risks, but with your husband at your side you think everything will turn out just fine

total w/c; 1475

warnings; canon-typical violence, blood, major injury, hospitals, iv’s, uhhh, non-canon timeline ig? i haven’t read the manga so i apologize for any inaccuracies about how curses and jujutsu sorcery works

「a/n」 thank you to @construct-witchlyght for requesting!! i’m so sorry it took so long but i actually really had fun writing this and i feel good about it! hope you enjoy it <3

being a counselor at jujutsu tech never really meant just being a counselor. sometimes it means being a teacher and instructing a couple classes, other times it means getting called out for exorcisms. despite your job title, it’s shockingly rare you get the chance to actually, you know, be a counselor.

and this was certainly not one of those times. the grade 2 curse you, itadori, fushiguro, and kugisaki are currently dealing with is not relenting. whatsoever. it’s attacks are quick, fast, and calculated. the four of you have done a good job avoiding them so far, but you're not sure how much longer you can keep it up. both you and itadori are hustling to land your blows, slowly chipping away at the almost overwhelming defenses of the curse. nearby fushiguro’s shikigami are working in rhythm with the flying nails of kugisaki’s hammer to take out the weird army of cursed goonies the grade 2 has. they’re not powerful by any means but their numbers add up. the two first years are doing a good job of dwindling their forces

the fight drags on and on, hit after hit, and dodge after dodge, it’s tiresome but necessary. by some miracle, there’s a glimpse of the end as yuuji lands a hearty punch on one of the chins of the curses many mouths. as it makes contact it’s accompanied by a loud, resounding clap, the cursed energy packed behind the hit leaves the air of the abandoned warehouse buzzing. the powerful attack brings the curse down to its last legs, yet it’s still angry, and determined to take you all out. you glance over to check on the other pair, and see they’re exorcising the final lackey. 

‘good, they’re safe now’ you think, but you’re allowed only a mere moment of relief before your attention is directed back to itadori and the grade 2. itadori is still stumbling from the blowback of his own power as the curse lets out a booming roar and you see it gear up for an attack with the sharp claws on one of its four arms. he’s stumbling right into the claws’ path and doesn’t have nearly enough time to completely dodge. panic boils over  in your chest and you feel your body move before you think about it, out of pure instinct to protect your kids. the long arm of the curse swings down and you rush towards the pink haired first year, shoving him out from underneath the approaching claws. hot, searing pain rips down from your shoulder and through your chest. your vision immediately turns spotty but you can see itadori tumble a few feet away from the force of your push. you must’ve screamed without realizing it because immediately all three students are calling out your name and rushing to finish the curse off.

you register that somewhere near you the curse bursts into smoke and spare puffs of cursed energy. it’s finally exorcised, but you're too focused on the feeling of warm, sticky blood seeping from your wound and the bitter taste of copper in your mouth to take note of who officially finished it off. the energy from the curse tapers off into nothing but residuals and suddenly three sets of footsteps are rushing towards you.

“y/n-san!” itadori is the first to reach you, calling out and falling to his knees at your side. “why would you do that?!” his words are frantic but his actions are gentle as he moves your head to rest on his knees. you can almost see the tears welling in his eyes from, in your opinion, misplaced guilt. he looks around searching for help of the other first years. behind him nobaras foot taps incessantly against the cold stone floor. she’s hurriedly dialing someone on her cellphone, presumably ijichi and fushiguro is tearing off his jacket. he does much better job of hiding his worry, but if your eyes were a little more focused you’d be able to see the slight shake to his movements as he bundles the fabric and presses it to your wound. you little out a little grunt of pain, the coarse texture agitates it but does a good enough staunching the steady trickle of blood. despite their lack of experience, it’s not hard for them to recognize this is bad. nobara finishes her call, before pocketing her phone and joining the boys on the ground next to you. she takes the edge of her sleeve, wiping off the small bit of blood dribbling from you mouth. you weakly attempt to swat her hand off, the last thing you wanted was to worry your kids or have them fuss over you.

“‘toru would kick my ass if i had let one of you kids get hurt” your words are slightly slurred but you speak with a little chuckle, referring to your husband while trying to make light of the situation. you even reach up to pat yuujis cheek reassuringly a couple times.

“well now gojo-sensei is gonna kick my ass for letting you get hurt!” he looks like he’s about to continue but the sound of screeching car tires interrupt him.

“ijichis here, lets get her up. y/n-” you can hear megumi talking, but your consciousness is slipping and you can’t decipher exactly what he said. you feel three pairs of hands start to lift you off the ground, the blood making it a little more difficult. as you look up the dots clouding your vision get bigger and bigger, the last thing you see is the crease of nobaras brows as she yells out to someone.

when you wake up, you feel your situation before you see it. the first, and maybe most important thing you feel, is the presence of your husband cuddled into your side. you feel his hair tickling your neck, his body pressed against your uninjured side and his fingers intertwined with yours. just knowing he’s there is enough to instantly put you at ease. your eyes finish adjusting to the bright morning light streaming in from the window and satoru shifts in his sleep, unawarely tugging the thin hospital blanket from your body. 

“you’re stealing the blankets,” you whisper to him as you squeeze his hand in yours, but your voice comes out a little more strained than you had expected. even with his blindfold on, you can tell he’s woken up as he lets out a little hum and adjusts himself on the small hospital bed. with the both of you it’s a tight fit, but you make it work. he’s careful not to jostle you as he sits up and gently brings you to lay on his side instead of him on yours. he’s mindful of your ivs and monitors, all while keeping your hand in his and making sure to drape the blanket back over you.

“rough night?” he asks, the hand of the arm wrapped around you comes to lightly brush over the bandages wrapped snug around your torso. the pain isn’t nearly as bad as it was before you blacked out. whatever meds they’d given you had turned the sharp stinging into a dull ache. but if you were being honest your whole body ached. a long, strenuous battle on top of a deep wound would do that to a person.

“rough night.” you confirm with a little chuckle, relaxing even further into his hold. the room is silent for a moment as he catches your eyes searching the empty room for something that’s not there. he presses a kiss to your temple, bringing your attention back to him.

“they went back to the school,” he states, already knowing that you were looking for the trio of first years, “and before you ask, they’re fine. all three made it out with nothing more than a couple scratches.”

“good, thats good,” you respond while smiling up at him. if those three were okay, any pain, wound, or hospital visit would be utterly worth it.

“i’m lucky i get to say the same for you, my love. itadori told me what you did” he lifts up his blindfold and gives you a look that resembles that of one he would give a student while scolding them. but behind it, you can see the deep amount of worry held in his bright eyes.

“i did what i had to, they're just kids” you shrug as best as yougiven your condition.

“i know, i know. very admirable of you,” he jokes a little before his tone turns serious “but please, don’t scare me like that ever again. you mean the world to me and i don’t know what i’d do without you. i love you to the moon and back, my dear y/n”

“i love you too satoru, to the moon and back”

#Jujutsu Kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen megumi #jujutsu sorcerer #jjk #jjk oneshot #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #megumi fushiguro #nobara kugisaki #itadori yuuji #gojo satoru oneshot #gojo fanfic #gojo fluff #gojo satoru fluff #gojo satoru fanfic