bay!donnie x female reader, angst/hurt/comfort; technically nsfw but this is not a spicy fic
ah fuck. cws: negative thoughts? negative self-image? I... think that's all?
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Truthfully, you should've seen this coming. Work has been hard lately. You've been feeling a little down and a lot stressed out for a while now. Tired all the time. That negative voice in your head speaking up more frequently, other people's words cutting a little deeper than usual. Amplifying the negative and brushing past the positive, letting things get to you even though you know sometimes your brain is a lying asshole.
So, really. You should've known. You should've said something. Something about how sensitive you're feeling. How normally you love a good mixture of degradation and praise but right now you really, really need him to stick with praise. You should've said something.
But you didn't.
The tears come suddenly. The dull ache in your chest sharpens, like a shard of glass, wedging itself between your ribs and pressing in further with every inhale. You feel like you're not getting any oxygen at all, your lungs seizing as your breaths quicken. You can't- you can't breathe.
Just a stupid fucktoy, Donnie had called you. And normally you love that. Normally that's perfect - you've come to the sound of those words plenty of times before. But now…
Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. A stupid fucktoy. That's all you're good for, isn't it? You can't do anything right except be used. But, oh, you can't even do that right, can you? Because now you're crying, and he's stopped using you. He's stopped, and you're truly useless now, and you're so so fucking stupid.
He calls your name. Takes the gag out of your mouth. Gently wipes at the tears streaming down your cheeks and asks if he's hurt you. If he went too fast, if you weren't fully prepared. If you want him to stop.
You can't speak, but you shake your head.
“Dove, what is it? What's wrong?”
Nothing. Everything. You. It's just you, you're what's wrong. You're wrong and useless and stupid, and you can't breathe.
“Hey, hey, you're okay. It's okay, here, come here, it's okay.”
He's holding you. Cradling you to his chest as you sob like the pathetic thing that you are. When the soft cuffs that held your hands behind you are released, you can't help but cling to him and bury your face in his neck. The sounds you're making are so ugly, so whiny, and you- you hate yourself. Fuck, you're pathetic. He's murmuring sweet words, brushing a hand up and down your back, trying to soothe you. He’s kind, and gentle, and you…
You don't deserve it.
Donnie is confused. You can tell he is, and you want to explain but at the same time you don't. It doesn't really matter, though. You wouldn't be able to make yourself speak even if you did want to. Everything is too much right now, and you still can't breathe, and you're starting to feel sick to your stomach.
Stupid. Why are you so goddamn stupid?
You cry. And cry. And cry. Muscles stiff, face swollen, you're miserable and exhausted and fucking mortified. Donnie was feeling good. He was enjoying himself, and you ruined it with your tears. Ruined it. Stupid girl, you ruin everything.
You try to apologize. It comes out garbled, but somehow he understands.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Dove. You've done nothing wrong.” Donnie presses a kiss to your hair, still running a hand up and down your back. Soothing, kind, gentle, he's everything. And you don't deserve him.
Time passes. Sobs turn into sniffles, which start to come farther and farther apart. When you finally go completely quiet, he's still murmuring sweet words into your hair.
You feel sick. Tense. Nauseous and shaky and gross. Inside and out, you feel wrong. Hollowed out, scraped clean of everything except this ache in your chest that won't go away.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
Donnie moves, still cradling you close with one arm as he leans forward and reaches for something. A blanket is draped over you. You hadn't even realized how cold you were, but the relief is instant. Your muscles start to fully relax, and you find yourself melting into his hold even further.
He presses another kiss into your hair. “What happened, my love?”
You swallow thickly, glad that your face is hidden in his neck. You don't want to tell him. It feels so- so stupid. For you to have reacted like that. For you to be so affected by nothing. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Nothing, nothing, that's all you are. Nothing.
“I'm going to list some things. Just shake your head or nod for me, okay?”
After a moment, you nod against his neck.
“Did I go too fast?”
You shake your head.
“Did I hurt you?”
You hesitate for a moment, then shake your head. There's a stretch of silence where you swear you can hear him thinking, analyzing your hesitation.
“Was it what I said?”
You should nod, but you can't make yourself do it. There's a thick, heavy anxiety there, keeping you from confirming even though you're not sure why. Donnie understands anyway, because of course he does. He's perfect, and kind, and smart, and you're just so-
His arms tighten around you. He doesn't say that you should've told him you were feeling down. He doesn't say that you should know better, that you should know that he doesn't mean it and that it was just part of the fantasy. He doesn't say any of that, because he understands. He understands, as he always does, that what you need is for him to keep murmuring kind words into your hair. To keep gently caressing your skin, holding you like you're something precious. To combat the venomous thoughts that are holding you hostage.
He understands.
It's okay, Dove. You're okay. Everything is alright. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, okay? You're not stupid. You're not whatever mean things your head is saying right now. You're perfect, and I love you so much. I love you so much, Dove. You're perfect just as you are, okay? My pretty girl. Right here with me, where you belong. You're so good, sweetheart, so good. I've got you.
His words are like a balm on your soul, and you drink them up greedily. Holding onto him like he's a lifeline - because he is. He is.
The tears come back. You can't help the ugly keens, the way your body shakes. Through it all, he holds you close and soothes you inside and out in the way only he can.
Not stupid, Dove. Smart. Kind. Brave and capable and good. You're so good, and I love you so much. I love you, I love you, I love you-
You'll never understand how he does this - how he makes that feeling of wrong wrong wrong fade away. But he does. The sharp tangle in your chest is unraveling, and you're finally able to breathe and actually feel like you're getting oxygen. You're so grateful, and you're so fucking lucky, and you love him so much. By the time you start to drift, with his soft voice echoing in your ears, both you and the keratin you're resting against are warm.
Later, when you wake, fully soothed and capable of speech once again, there will be more to talk about. But for now, Donnie holds you. Soothing you with his voice, his hands, his everything. And you finally, finally let yourself rest.
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Wip Wednesday babeeyy
eyy I've finally remembered that wip wednesday exists!! here's some proof that i'm working on something, and that something is the follower milestone gift i said i was going to do and i promise i'm doing it! i'm doing it it's happening i promise!
so here's a little taster!!!! and here's Part One if you want a refresher!
And then the kid just vanishes.
In the blink of an eye, in the time it takes for him to look down, screw his face up because this is all confusing as fuck, and look back up, he’s just gone. There’s nowhere to hide, there’s nowhere to go, Jason can see everywhere around him—but he can’t see Danny.
“Well… shit."
“What, what happened?” Dickybird hisses in his ear, the unsaid, exasperated “now” very clear in his voice.
As much as he loathes to admit it, Jason is feeling very much the same way right now. What was meant to be a simple case of “investigate the potential child abuse and put an end to it” has instead become something… less simple. When is it ever simple in his life?
Still. If working with supers, metas, vigilantes, whatever, has taught Jason anything, it’s that just because you can’t see someone doesn’t mean they’re not there.
“Hey, kid… Danny. Listen, I’m not here to hurt you and if you’re still here, if you can still hear me, then, I don’t know, do you want to get a bite to eat or something? I just want to talk. I just want to figure out what’s happening.”
Jason doesn’t hold his breath.
Okay, no, that’s a lie. Jason holds his breath, but he swears he’s holding it so he can more accurately hear if Danny is still around. That’s all it is, he’s not attached to this kid already. He’s not.
When no answer comes—not even a whisper of a breath or the scuff of a sneaker on the pavement—he suppresses a frustrated growl and opts instead to breathe deeply and pinch the bridge of his nose.
“So…” Tim begins, drawing out the word.
The urge to growl—hell, the urge to pull out his comms and smash them on the floor—grows.
“The kid’s a meta, then. Potential powers including but not limited to: invisibility or teleportation. You think he’s still there?” There’s no reason for the kid to still be around, not at all. If it was Jason, he’d have scattered as soon as he realised the stranger impersonating his dad wasn’t the guy he thought was impersonating his dad, and honestly, wasn’t that extra fucked up? That someone impersonates people in this town often enough that it’s not a surprise? The way Danny spoke about him… What was his name?
Amorpho. Amorphous. Without shape.
A shapeshifter?
Whatever. It’s a mystery for another time, because there’s still a more pressing mystery in front of him.
Or,. rather, not in front of him.
Yes, there’s no reason for Danny to still be here, but…
Jason sighs.
“I’m going to Bat—Nasty Burger. Really? Is that the best burger joint here? Nasty Burger? Whatever, I’m going to get some fucking fries.”
Jason feels fucking stupid talking the air like this. He must look fucking stupid, too, but the thing is… There’s a prickling on the back of his neck, a rolling taste of green on his tongue when he glances through his peripheral, the vague weight of an unseen eyes on him.
Call it wishful thinking, call it a hunch, call it something else, but Danny’s still here.
“There’ll be a burger waiting for you, too, if you want it. My treat.” Jason turns in a full circle, examining everything in his surroundings. Nothing seems out of place, nothing screams wrong to him. “I just want to talk.”
He waits for a full minute with no success, which makes Jason feel even more stupid, before clicking his tongue and making his way to the, hopefully ironically named, Nasty Burger.
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