Is this bait? Yes. Will i use it as an excuse to post the guys with tourettic!reader? Fuck yes.
Soap is always willing to go out in public with you. His easy confidence makes it hard to feel ashamed of your tics, and he's perfected the "fuck off, asshole" look for anyone who tries to bother you. He's also surprisingly good at predicting your tics. Even if all your drinks are put in your special cup specifically so they won't spill, he's always catching it anyway. "Good trainin' aye? Keeps me on mah toes." Is his response after literally vaulting a shopping cart to catch your phone.
Ghost is a bit stubborn and emotionally constipated, but he's your best choice for days with violent tics. Mostly because you could stab this man and all he does is let out a muffled 'oof'. So you can slap and punch at him without guilt because he literally doesn't feel it half the time. "Huh? Why would I be upset at you tapping me? I live with Johnny." Also if you start to punch or hurt yourself he's always placing a hand between your hands and your skin to soften the blow. Somehow does it without looking??
Price is there to prevent tic attacks. No, he doesn't care about your shitty sleep schedule, you're not getting caffeine. If he senses you already feel overwhelmed he's sending you to his office so you can either nap or relax on the shitty couch he's got tucked into the corner. More often than not you're wearing his jacket around base because you left yours at home and he refuses to let you be cold. "No need to suffer more than necessary, kid." Is what he always says when you try to deny the jacket and just deal with the tics.
Gaz is there for after the tic attacks because sometimes theyre unavoidable. Depending on how you feel later he's got a bath and your favourite bath bombs ready, but if you just want to sleep he's also got heating pads for your sore muscles and Tylenol for the headaches. He's definitely the best when it comes to dealing with your shitty mood. He doesnt push you to feel better or cheer up because he knows the reality isnt fun. "Take your time, kid. No ones watching." So he dims the lights and tosses on a comfort movie for you before settling down himself, content to let you feel how you feel without interruption.
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Summary: Ever since your ex-wife left you because you became "too much" you've kept everyone at a distance so why is this R2 you're keeping things casual with getting under your skin?
word count: 4.2K
Warnings: chronic pain flare, disability, mobility/health struggles, nausea, medication mention, emotional vulnerability, fear of abandonment, past relationship trauma, argument/miscommunication, jealousy, self-worth issues, implied sex/casual hookup dynamic, hurt/comfort.
Authors note: This kind of started out as an idea for my The Pitt OC, but I really wanted to write about these two so here it is in x reader format!
You'd already been awake a few hours when Trinity woke up in your bed. You were over in the kitchen area of your studio apartment. Typing away on your laptop. Updating some of your documents for work tomorrow.
"Oh you're awake." Trinity spoke. Normally she'd have slipped out before you were up.
"I was in a lot of pain. It woke me up so I decided to get some work done." You told her, not really looking up.
"Oh...well then I guess I'm gonna get dressed and go. I have to meet with someone." She says getting up from the bed.
"That was fast." You deadpanned.
"Not like that. Baran asked to meet up to discuss some things about the ED." Your eye physically twitched. You had stopped typing for a moment.
"Okay."
"Is it?" Trinity asks, walking over in nothing but one of your old band shirts.
"I said it is." Her arms wrapped around you from behind.
"Its okay of its not...or if it makes you jealous." She spoke softly, sending a shiver through you.
"Im not going to repeat myself Trinity." There was a bite to your voice. Your walls are going up and she knew it.
Trinity’s smile faltered just slightly at the tone.
Not enough that most people would notice it.
But she’d spent enough mornings tangled in your sheets by now to recognize the difference between your sharp edges and your hurt ones.
Her chin rested against your shoulder anyway, stubborn about it.
“You get this wrinkle right here when you’re pissed,” she murmured, brushing her thumb between your brows. “Usually means I should start apologizing.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Mm.” She didn’t sound convinced.
You stared at the spreadsheet on your screen without actually reading it anymore. The cursor blinked accusingly in the middle of a half-finished sentence.
Behind you, Trinity shifted carefully, mindful of your body in that instinctive way she’d gotten lately. One hand stayed light against your waist instead of squeezing. The other rubbed slowly over your shoulder.
“You know,” she said softly, “most people would just say ‘yeah okay have fun.’”
“Most people aren’t me.”
“That’s true.” A tiny grin ghosted across her voice. “You’re meaner.”
That got the barest twitch at the corner of your mouth.
Trinity caught it immediately.
“There she is.”
You sighed through your nose, shoulders tight. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Manage me.”
Her arms loosened instantly.
Not offended. Not dramatic. Just enough space to show you she heard the boundary.
“You think that’s what I’m doing?”
You swallowed.
Your ex-wife used to talk to you like this too near the end. Gentle voice. Careful hands. Like every emotion you had needed to be diffused before it became inconvenient.
You hated how fast your mind went there.
“I think,” you said slowly, “that this is casual. And casual means I don’t get jealous when the girl I’m sleeping with runs off to see someone else in the morning.”
Trinity went quiet behind you. She stepped away from the chair and started gathering her clothes from around the apartment.
You tried to go back to typing, but you couldn’t focus. Your pain had settled deep into your joints overnight, leaving you exhausted and raw. Usually you were better at keeping the walls up when you felt like this.
Usually people didn’t stay long enough to notice the cracks.
Trinity disappeared into the bathroom for a minute, then came back dressed in yesterday’s clothes. She walked over to the kitchenette quietly, opening cabinets like she already knew where things were.
You frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Making coffee.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
The coffee pot clicked on.
You watched her move around your tiny apartment with annoying familiarity. Pulling down mugs. Finding the coffee grounds. Opening the fridge without asking.
Domestic.
Dangerously domestic.
“You’re staring,” she said without looking back.
“I’m trying to figure out why you’re still here.”
That finally made her turn.
There was something unexpectedly open in her expression now. Softer than her usual smirk.
“Because,” she said simply, “you were hurting before I even said Baran’s name.”
Your throat tightened. Trinity walked back over slowly until she stood beside your chair again.
“You don’t have to date me,” she said. “You don’t have to promise me anything. But I’m not gonna pretend I don’t care about you just because someone else taught you that caring always comes with conditions.”
You looked away first.
“You know Baran’s divorced.”
“I know.”
“You could go for her. I’ve seen how she looks at you and how you light up at her praise.”
“And she’s like fifteen years older than me.”
“And I’m almost ten years older,” you reminded her, finally looking up from your laptop with a raised eyebrow.
Trinity blinked.
Then huffed out a laugh.
“Okay, first of all, you are way hotter than Baran.”
“That wasn’t the point.”
“It was a point.”
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, but Trinity caught the way your mouth threatened to turn upward.
“There,” she said immediately, pointing at you. “That face. I’m winning.”
“You’re annoying.”
“And yet you keep letting me stay over.”
Your lips pressed together again, trying not to react to that one.
Trinity softened a little after a second.
“For real though,” she said more quietly, “you know I don’t care about the age difference, right?”
Something vulnerable flickered across your expression before you could stop it. Because it wasn’t really about the number. It was about history. About being left behind for someone easier. Healthier. Less complicated. Less tired.
“You don’t need someone with so much baggage, Trinity.”
Trinity seemed to read enough of that off your face that her teasing faded completely.
“You know what I actually think this is?”
"Tell me oh wise one. What do you think this actually is?"
Trinity’s grin came back immediately at the oh wise one.
“There she is,” she murmured. “Mean and sarcastic. My favorite version of you.”
You snorted softly and leaned back in your chair just enough to look at her properly.
“Well? Enlighten me.”
Trinity shifted her weight against the counter, arms folding loosely over her chest. For once, she didn’t immediately go for a joke.
“I think,” she said slowly, “you decided a long time ago that needing people is humiliating.”
The words hit harder than you expected.
Your expression flattened automatically.
Trinity noticed.
“And I think,” she continued carefully, “that every time someone gets close enough to matter, you start looking for proof they’re gonna leave anyway.”
“That’s psychobabble.”
“You literally just got jealous over me getting coffee with my boss and you’re a psychiatrist!”
“She’s not your boss.”
“She signs my evaluations,” Trinity deadpanned.
That dragged a reluctant breath of laughter out of you.
Trinity smiled a little at the sound before stepping closer again, slower this time, giving you plenty of room to shut her out.
“You know what else I think?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You think a lot for someone who just woke up.”
“I’m serious.”
That softened something in your chest despite yourself.
Trinity rested a hand lightly on the back of your chair.
“I think you’re used to people seeing your disability before they see you.” Her voice had gone quieter now. “And when they finally realize pain doesn’t magically go away? When things get hard? They leave.”
You went very still.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
Not completely.
Your ex-wife had loved you when you were still “manageable.” Back when the bad days were occasional instead of constant. Before mobility aids became normal. Before exhaustion started carving pieces out of you.
Trinity’s eyes searched your face carefully.
“So now you keep everything casual because if nobody’s allowed to matter,” she said softly, “then nobody gets the chance to abandon you.”
The apartment suddenly felt too quiet.
You stared at her for a long moment before looking away first.
“You can leave now, Trinity.”
The softness vanished from your voice completely.
Cold.
Sharp enough to cut.
Trinity blinked at the sudden shift. “Hey I didn’t-”
“I mean it.”
She straightened slowly from where she’d crouched beside your chair, confusion flickering across her face before frustration started creeping in around the edges.
“You’re seriously kicking me out because I said something true?”
Your jaw clenched.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you know me.”
Trinity scoffed softly, incredulous. “I am getting to know you, that’s literally the problem.”
“I said leave.” Your voice cracked like a whip this time. “Now.”
That finally shut the room up.
Trinity stared at you for a few long seconds.
You could actually watch the moment her expression closed off.
Not completely.
But enough.
She grabbed her jacket off the back of the couch harder than necessary.
“Whatever,” she muttered, anger bleeding into her voice now because hurt and anger always looked a little similar on her. “You’re pissed because I’m right.”
You didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because if you opened your mouth right now, something ugly and vulnerable would probably crawl out of it.
Trinity shoved her arms into the sleeves of her jacket.
“I’m still gonna be around though Y/N,” she said tightly. “I’m not disappearing, so just…” She laughed once without humor. “Text me when you wanna hook up again, I guess.”
The words landed like a punch. Because suddenly she sounded exactly like what you’d been trying to make this. Casual, easy, nothing important.And for some reason hearing her say it made you feel sick. Trinity hesitated at the door for half a second like she was waiting for you to stop her.
You didn’t.
So she left.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the cheap frames on your wall.
Silence flooded the apartment afterward.
Heavy.
Immediate.
Your breathing felt uneven suddenly.
“Fuck,” you whispered, your hands came up to cover your face as your elbows rested on the desk.
Pain still burned through your body, hot and relentless beneath your skin, but it barely registered now over the ache opening up in your chest.
Because Trinity had been right.That was the worst part, it wasn’t the jealousy or the argument. It’s the fact she’d seen straight through you in a way nobody had in a very long time.
And instead of letting her or letting someone care about you without conditions…you’d shoved her out the second it got real. Your fingers curled against your forehead.
“Good job,” you muttered bitterly to yourself. “Really fucking nailed that one.”
The apartment still smelled like her shampoo.
Her coffee sat untouched on the counter.
And somewhere beneath all the anger and panic and instinctive self-protection was a horrible creeping realization that you might’ve just blown up the only genuinely good thing you’d let yourself have in years.
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
It took you a week to text her. A full week of typing messages out and deleting them. A full week of staring at your phone after shifts, wondering if Trinity was angry enough to ignore you now. Wondering if maybe she should.
In the end, the message you finally sent was painfully simple.
you busy tonight?
Trinity responded four minutes later.
depends. you gonna kick me out again?
You stared at that one for a long time before replying.
No. I promise.
Another pause.
Then:
okay. i’ll come by after shift
And somehow that almost made you throw your phone across the room from nerves alone.
By the time evening rolled around though, your body had other plans. One minute you’d been trying to clean your apartment, the next your joints felt like someone had poured molten glass into them. Nausea rolled through you hard enough you barely made it to the bathroom the first time.
You got yourself set up in bed, barely made it really.
You took your meds, hoping they’d help soon enough to still be able to do things with Trinity. You crawled into bed in one of your oversized sleep shirts, and told yourself you’d rest for twenty minutes before texting Trinity not to come. Instead, you passed out completely.
The knock at the door never woke you, but the sound of it opening did. Your eyes cracked open blearily to the sound of footsteps moving through your apartment. For one disoriented second panic flashed through you before your brain caught up.
Trinity.
“...shit,” you croaked. Your throat felt dry. You pushed yourself up slightly, immediately regretting it as pain flared through your spine, the room spinning a bit.
From the other room, Trinity froze. Then she appeared in the doorway a second later.
The tension that had been sitting between you both all week was obvious immediately. You could see it in the way she stopped short instead of walking in fully.
She looked exhausted from her shift. Backpack still slung over one shoulder. Hair down from the way she’d keep it up at work. Hoodie half unzipped.
But the second she actually saw you, her expression changed.
“Oh.” Not annoyance, concern; real, immediate concern. “You’re not feeling well.”
“I’m fine,” you mumbled automatically.
Trinity’s eyebrows shot up.
“You look like death warmed over.”
“Wow. Charming.”
“You invited me over and then I had to sneak in.”
“How?”
“You gave me the code like three months ago.”
Right.
You closed your eyes briefly. “Forgot.”
Trinity stood there another second, watching you carefully. You hated that she could probably already tell.
The heating pad cord sticking out and keeping your lower back in a pleasant state. The untouched water on the nightstand. The trash can beside the bed just in case the nausea came back.
A flare up, a bad one. Suddenly embarrassment burned hotter than the pain did.
Because this,this was exactly why you kept people at arm’s length. You looked away from her. “You don’t have to stay.” The words came out quieter this time. Your voice almost cracking. Like you were expecting her to leave just like your ex. You were just hurt and tired. You’d been through this song and dance before.
Trinity didn’t answer immediately.
You heard the soft thud of her bag hitting the floor instead. Then her footsteps crossed the apartment toward the bed. When the mattress dipped beside you, you still couldn’t look. You knew she was studying your face with that same frustratingly perceptive expression. Then a hand under your chin, soft, helping guide you to meet her gaze.
“You took meds already?”
You nodded once.
“Nausea?”
Another nod.
“Pain scale.”
You gave her a flat look. “Absolutely not.”
“C’mon, humor me.”
“Trinity.”
She reached over and brushed your hair carefully back from your forehead anyway. The touch was gentle enough it made your chest ache.
“Baby,” she said softly, “what number?”
Your breath caught a little at the word. Not because she seemed to notice she’d said it, but because she didn’t. Like it had just slipped out naturally.
“…Eight,” you admitted finally.
Trinity exhaled quietly through her nose.
“Okay.” She glanced around the room once before looking back at you. “Did you eat anything?”
You hesitated too long.
“Oh my god.”
“I was gonna…”
“You invited me over while actively dying.”
“I wasn’t dying when I invited you.”
“Debatable.”
Despite yourself, a weak laugh escaped you.
Trinity’s face softened instantly at the sound, like she’d been waiting for proof you were still in there underneath the pain and pride and shame.
“I’m gonna make you toast,” she said, already standing again.
“You don’t have to take care of me.” She paused halfway to the kitchenette. Then looked back at you.
“I know.” Her voice was very quiet now. “I’m doing it anyway.”
You watched Trinity move around your tiny kitchenette in a strange sort of silence. Opening cabinets, finding the bread, filling a glass with fresh water like she already knew your routines.
It felt…weird…not bad. Just unfamiliar in a way that made your skin feel too tight.
Your ex-wife used to sigh when your flares got bad. Not always intentionally cruel about it. Sometimes just tired. Frustrated. Burnt out from the repetition of it all.
Another appointment. Another medication. Another ruined plan. Eventually she’d stopped asking what you needed altogether.
But Trinity had already asked three times in under ten minutes.
You swallowed hard and looked away when she glanced back toward the bed.
“You don’t have to hover.”
“I’m literally making toast.”
“You’re hovering emotionally.” You point out, tilting your head slightly.
That snorted a laugh out of her.
“God, you are impossible when you feel like shit.”
“I’m impossible all of the time.” You pulled the blanket higher over your stomach. “You worked all day.”
“So?”
“So now you’re here stuck playing doctor with me.”
The words came out sharper than you intended. Trinity slowed and took in your expression.
“My ex used to hate this part,” you admitted quietly before you could stop yourself. “The flares. The meds. Me cancelling things.” Your jaw tightened. “Said she already spent enough time taking care of people at work. She didn’t wanna come home and do it too.”
The apartment went still. Trinity set the butter knife down carefully. Then turned toward you fully. For once, there wasn’t a trace of teasing in her face.
“That’s what you think this is?” she asked softly.
You immediately regretted saying anything at all.
“Forget it.”
“No.”
You looked away stubbornly, but Trinity crossed the room anyway, carrying the plate over before sitting carefully on the edge of the bed again.
“You think I’m here because I have to be.”
“I think you’ve already spent twelve hours getting puked on and yelled at by patients,” you muttered. “I don’t exactly make a great after-work activity.” You mumbled out, looking down and playing with the edge of the blanket.
Something flickered across Trinity’s expression then.
Hurt.
Not offended hurt. The kind that came from hearing someone talk about themselves like they were fundamentally difficult to love.
She handed you the plate.
Your hands shook a little while taking it.
“Look at me for a second.”
You didn’t want to.
Which was exactly why she waited instead of pushing.
Eventually your eyes lifted to hers.
“I am here,” Trinity said carefully, “because I wanted to come here.”
Your throat tightened.
“I answered your text in four minutes,” she continued. “I spent the whole week wondering if you were gonna talk to me again.” A tiny huff of laughter escaped her. “I almost didn’t come tonight because I thought maybe you changed your mind.”
Guilt twisted low in your stomach.
Trinity leaned back slightly, giving you room to breathe.
“You know what I see right now?” she asked quietly.
You stared down at the toast in your lap. “A disaster?”
“I see someone who’s hurting.” Her voice softened. “And who’s so used to handling it alone that being cared for feels embarrassing.”
Your eyes burned suddenly. You looked away before she could notice. Except of course she noticed.
“You don’t have to perform being okay around me,” she said. “You don’t have to earn softness.”
A shaky breath left you.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“No,” she said gently. “It’s easy for you to believe you’re only worth loving when you’re easy.”
Silence settled between you after that.
Trinity reached over eventually and tugged the blanket a little higher around your legs when she noticed you shiver.
The movement was so absentmindedly caring it almost hurt worse than the flare itself.
And for the first time in a very long time, you let someone take care of you without immediately pushing them away.
You managed a few bites before your hands started betraying you.
Tiny tremors.
The kind that got worse when your pain spiked or when you had forgotten to eat all day. You tried to hide it at first by adjusting your grip on the plate, but Trinity noticed immediately because apparently nothing escaped her attention when it came to you.
“Here,” she murmured softly. Her hand settled against your back, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. It was so soft, so gentle. It was as if she wanted to do something, anything to make it better.
You swallowed hard around the strange tightness in your throat and kept eating while she sat beside you, warm and steady against the mattress. Every so often she’d help in small ways without making a thing out of it. Moving the water closer when your reach faltered. Taking the plate before it became too heavy for your wrists. Adjusting the heating pad on your back.
Tiny acts of care so casual they almost undid you. The meds were finally taking the sharpest edge off the pain by the time you spoke again.
“We can’t do our usual, so…” Your eyes stayed fixed on the blanket in your lap. “You don’t have to stay late.”
The room went silent for half a second. Then Trinity turned toward you fully.
“You trying to get rid of me just because we can’t have sex?” she asked incredulously. “You think that’s why I stay around?”
Your face heated immediately. “I didn’t mean…I just…”
She paused suddenly, considering.
“Well,” she admitted, “that thing you do with your tongue is incredible.”
You let out a horrified noise while she burst into laughter.
“Oh my god, your face right now.”
“Trinity.”
“I’m being honest!”
“You’re the worst.”
“Mm. And yet you invited me back.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. Trinity’s expression softened almost immediately at the sight of it. Then she leaned over and bumped her shoulder gently against yours.
“But seriously,” she said quieter now, “I love spending time with you. I like being here.” Her fingers brushed lightly against your arm. “We can just lay here and veg out. I don’t care.”
Something warm and dangerous unfurled low in your chest at the words. Because she sounded sincere. Not trapped or obligated. Like she genuinely wanted this. Wanted you.
“H…” You cleared your throat softly. “How about a movie?”
Trinity brightened instantly.
“Okay. But it has to be your all-time favorite.”
You groaned. “Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.”
“You’ll judge me.” You whined out.
“I already sleep with you. The judgment stage has passed.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real heat behind it anymore. Trinity shifted closer while you reached shakily for the remote, until her thigh pressed warm against yours beneath the blankets.
Comfortable. Easy. The kind of intimacy that had nothing to do with sex at all and somehow that scared you more than anything else. The movie had barely been on ten minutes before you realized Trinity had slowly migrated closer. At first it was small things. Her knee brushing yours beneath the blankets. Her shoulder bumping against your arm whenever she laughed quietly at something onscreen. Then somewhere along the way she’d ended up fully pressed against your side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You became acutely aware of it all at once. The warmth of her. The steady rise and fall of her breathing. The way one of her hands rested lazily against your stomach beneath the blanket, absentmindedly tracing tiny patterns through the fabric of your shirt.
Your chest tightened strangely. Not panic…not exactly. Just…awareness.
You shifted slightly against the pillows and immediately regretted it when pain tugged through your hips.
Trinity noticed instantly.
“Sorry,” she murmured, already trying to pull away. “Am I squishing you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
You hesitated a second too long.
Trinity started moving anyway, but before she could fully pull back, your arm was around her, tugging her back against you. It hurt a little, but it didn’t matter to you. The movement surprised both of you.
You swallowed hard.
“I just…” Your voice came out quieter than intended. “You’re okay. I promise”
Trinity went very still beside you.
Then softer than before, “Yeah?”
You nodded once, eyes fixed stubbornly on the TV instead of her face.
Because admitting you liked this felt weirdly intimate. More intimate than sex had ever been between you two. Trinity settled back carefully after a second, slower this time, making sure not to put weight on the parts of you that hurt. Her head ended up tucked near your shoulder.
You could feel the faint brush of her hair against your jaw.
Neither of you spoke for a little while after that.
The movie played quietly in the background while the rain tapped softly against your apartment windows.
And somewhere in the middle of all that warmth and exhaustion and lingering ache, you realized something deeply unsettling: you couldn’t remember the last time another person’s presence made you feel better instead of trapped.
Trinity’s thumb brushed once across your stomach absentmindedly.
“You literally attached yourself to me like a barnacle.”
“Mm.” You could hear the grin in her voice without looking. “And yet you pulled me back in.” Your fingers tightened slightly around the blanket. Because she was right.
Again.
Instead of answering, you let your head tilt carefully until it rested against hers. The smile Trinity gave at that was small.
Tiny request for twin reader with damian mabye they were seperated at birth aka talia gave bruce twin reader and kept damian but win reader has some kind of disability like walking with crutches and as soon as damian moves in he goes into protective brother mode and always tries to help twin reader
“I’m your protector.”
Damian Al ghul-Wayne x Disabled! Twinreader
Summary: separated from birth, Damian finds out you are disabled from walking. Knowing that you are his blood sibling, he can’t help but be protective over you
After Talia revealed to Damian he had a twin (brother/sister) that she gave away to his father all because you were disabled. He felt anger towards his mother and a little bit of betrayal.
How could she keep such a secret from him and the fact she just gave you away made him feel…protective.
He wants to know you are okay. He wants to make sure you are okay. So when he moved into his new room, he got a knock on his door. He opens it to see, you. You had crutches, smiling as your hand grip the crutches handle. “Brother! Oh my, we do look the same!” You were excited, happy. Damian immediately observed you, he sees you are pure of light. He was right to feel protective when you don’t know much of the words he is saying with his high vocabulary.
He draws and colors on your crutches, he likes to see the light in your eyes when he draws what you like on your crutches.
You both may be different, but his brotherly love is not. He’s always sitting by you, dinner, breakfast, lunch out of the manor, events, galas. He’s always there. Sure Bruce would try and tell Damian that you can protect yourself, maybe even that you can do things without his help. But you’re ten, just like him. So what did he do? Not listen to his father like he always do.
He’s happy to know you never wanted or tried to be Robin. His heart would break knowing that his precious half would try and fight. But that also meant you never learned how to protect yourself and fight mostly, making it worse for Damian to grasp.
Damian tried not to baby you much, but he couldn’t help but feel anxious at those random thoughts in the back of his head. “They’re gonna fall one day, what if no one is there to pick him up.” He would sometimes just sleep on a chair in your room incase you fall off your bed.
Damian would train Titus for whenever you fall and you can’t reach your crutches. He would have Titus use his body and guide you somewhere so you can get up.
“I’m your protector.” He would say when he sees you trying to get up and grab your crutches. But titus and him are already up and helping you. You laugh thinking he’s joking, but he’s not.
If you’re sick? Protectiveness levels are off the charts when he sees you cough and shake. Yeah he’s not going to school until you’re better. No way he’s leaving his sibling at home!
Would call pennyworth off his phone if you are homeschooled. Always checking up on you no matter what, it doesn’t matter if Alfred says you are okay. He wants to hear you say it.
If someone dared to make fun of you, he’s after them like the devil himself. If they dared to try and take your crutches, it’s gonna get wicked. Even god himself won’t be able to take Damian off the assailant.
Say you were also on the artistic route, he would absolutely treasure your art work. “It’s bad..” you said once, and Damian straight up lectured you about how art takes time and how beautiful your art work is to him no matter what.
I can see Jason saying it’s true the artwork looked terrible, and Damian just straight up chased him around angrily while you try to tell Damian it’s okay.
Titus adores you, and you adore Titus which makes Damian feel even better that Titus likes you. I mean who wouldn’t when literally you are the sunshine of the family.
Damian definitely have written letters to you when he was on “punishment” is what he called it when he had to go work with the titans. So when you visit him at the titans tower, he made sure most things were safe proof for you. Kory already knew you because of Dick. Kory tries to reason to Damian as he literally rips something apart because he deemed it as “unsafe.” But did he listen? No.
When beast boy playfully was play fighting with you, Damian was ready to cut Garfield’s head off. Only for you to wipe the floor of the green shapeshifter by using your crutch as a bat. Damian hid his sword with a smirk, maybe he doesn’t need to protect you much.
The explosion had been nasty. Your leg had been blown off and the rest of your body was heavily burned to the point you barely looked like yourself. After waking up in so much pain, you felt like screaming. They should've just let you die. You weren't yourself. You were a monster.
The prosthetic you were hastily given while they made you a custom one was.. horrible. You had to learn how to walk again - how to live again.
While on supervised rest, Simon had heard you beg in your dreams to let you die. The mumbled "please let me go let me die please I don't want to live like this" a repeated mantra that plagued your dreams.
Simon knew a thing or two about being mutilated, burned, scarred - and he would promise himself to take care of you.
When you finally got your fitted prosthetic leg, he held your hand - figuratively and literally - throughout the process of getting used to walking again. Then running, then jumping, then so on. He helped you fight again. He helped you use your leg as an advantage.
You couldn't feel it? Great. Kick the shit out of your enemy. He'll feel it.
He would massage your shoulders and neck in the quiet moments where you stare off into existence like you're not fully there. He would hold you when you sob about not being able to feel anymore. He was there when you had moments of PTSD when one of Johnny's explosives went off a little too close for comfort.
You learned a lot about Simon. About his past, about.. everything. It made him feel less unreachable and more human.
On the last day you were required to be under medical attention, Simon pressed a small but meaningful kiss to the crown of your head. He had murmured: "you did it, love." and then he left you alone with the gravity of your achievement.
Kyle
Fluff and rage-baiting
You were hard of hearing, which wasn't too bad for you in combat. You didn't need noise-cancelling headphones or stuff like that. You didn't flinch at explosions or gunfire or loud aircrafts overhead.
But it was a struggle in day-to-day life.
Kyle would try to get your attention while you munched on a sandwich in the corner of the mess hall, practically yelling his ass off and still you couldn't hear.
But what he didn't know, you had been given hearing aids from Johnny after he convinced the medical staff to order you some. That being said, you could hear Kyle perfectly fine and chose to ignore him.
One recruit in passing tapped your shoulder and pointed to Kyle, and you looked up and followed his gesture. There Kyle was, screaming his heart out at you, and you pretended you couldn't hear him.
"What?" you would yell back.
"I said, give me back my hoodie!" Kyle replied, hands cupping his mouth as if that would do anything.
"What??" You repeated, expertly hiding the smirk on your face with the sandwich.
Let's just say he ended up stomping over to you and dragging you by the ear like a grandma to make you give him his hoodie back.
Price
Hurt/comfort-ish
Suffering with fibromyalgia ruined your life. Constantly fatigued, always in pain, all of it with no relief.
Because it wasn't something that's "visible", it's often discounted as you being "too lazy" or "dramatic" when everything you experience is ten times worse than a bullet through your body.
So you've decided to just... shut up about it.
They can't see it, so why should you express the discomfort you're in. Everyone thinks you're lying, anyways.
But then Price confronts you. He's seen the way you wince when you think nobody's watching. How you massage your wrists and roll your shoulders for almost five minutes but to what looks like no avail. How you flinch at loud noises and how you constantly doze off in the corner of the rec room.
He himself suffers with chronic pain - albeit not the kind you're used to. As he gets older, the stereotypical "old man pain" places start to hurt. But he pushes through, because a captain can't be weak. Can't be vulnerable.
One day, he comes up to you and just... hugs you. He lets you feel seen without the words, without the explaining. He holds you tighter, a silent "I see you, you're so strong" in the gesture.
Johnny
fluff but stern fluff if that makes sense
You, with a heart disease, should NOT be participating in an energy drink chugging contest. As soon as he heard your voice amongst the clamoring of the recruits, Johnny rushed over and ripped the drink out of your hand.
"The fuck is wrong with ye?" he scolded with a glare that told all the recruits to scram. "You could die from this, ye know."
You, in return, roll your eyes. "I know my limits." You didn't. You just wanted to feel included - wanted to feel normal. Johnny looked you over once and shook his head. He pulled you closer and rested his head atop yours.
"It's my job to look after ye, and I can't do that if you're willingly throwing yourself into a state where your heart'll act up." Patting your shoulder, he let go of you. Upon seeing your pout, he smiled reassuringly.
"I'm not telling you to stop, love, I'm telling you to tone it down, aye?" Johnny then walked away after ruffling your hair.
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I love your disabled reader stories, how would you feel writing a low vision/blind reader. Any driver you want for it, also maybe reader possibly having a guide dog. Keep up your amazing writing and have a lovely day.
Lowkey in the hospital rn (not ER, no worries) so this is a nice distraction :)
Drivers with Visually Impared Reader
M, Verstappen, Piastri, Tsunoda, Hamilton, Alonso
Max Verstappen
Whenever you and Max run into signs that don't have braille, he tweaks out
Even if you're kinda used to it, Max is always infuriated by the ableism of Europe and the Motorsports community
If you use a white cane he always gives anyone who walks on blind paths the nastiest stimk eye
If you have a guide dog, whenever it's off duty it's just the bestest friend with Max's pets
Racing is actually very hearing oriented, so he is very exited to teach you to sim race
He gets 3d models of the tracks and teaches you how to listen for how fast you're going
He loves being able to share his passions
There is nothing hotter to him than his boyfriend sim racing
Oscar Piastri
When you guys first get together Oscar wants to know what it's like to be blind, so he tries to walk around his apartment blindfolded
He doesn't even make it an hour, and aquires tons of bruises
He doesn't tell you he did that until you'd been dating for over a year, and says it really helped him understand what your life is like
He also learns the importance of dulled furniture
And he makes sure his mom's house is also disabled friendly
Which she does without question of course
Yuki Tsunoda
He puts 亀吉 on your service dog's back all the time
Part time service dog, full time taxi
Japan is actually pretty Blind-friendly, so he really likes taking you there
It makes him happy to see you not be treated like an other, instead just be treated like a person
Whenever you come to the paddock he gets really protective of you
Like he sticks by your side because he knows someone is gonna be rude, but maybe they won't if they know he's about to punch them
Lewis Hamilton
As soon as you decided to move in together Lewis spent an entire day making a 3d model of his apartment for you
It is perfectly to scale
He also makes sure that any corners of his furniture aren't sharp in case you bump into them when you're still getting used to the apartment
Whenever your service dog is off duty he will spend hours playing with it and Roscoe
He gets a customized service dog vest with Ferrari/Mercedes colors for when you're in the paddock
Even if you can't see it, he'll make sure that you still slay
Pierre Gasly
Whenever he's away for races, he record audio books for you
He says that his voice is better that the boring monotone ones
He loves having cuddle piles with Simba, your service dog, and you
All his pretty boys
He's very sweet with you, and loves going on walks with you, but if you run into someone being rude and getting in your way, he'll snap
He's very protective
He knows you can hold your own, but he also wants to take care of you
having a bad bad symptom flare up. did you know that Conrad "husband material" Fisher is actually obsessed w taking care of you? well he is. here are some headcanons cause that's a lil easier for me rn:
connie knows every one of your symptoms, triggers, treatments
he knows what all your meds do (both prescribed and over the counter) and just when you need them
he knows how you like your tea and which ones help you depending on how you're feeling
he knows what electrolyte flavors you like, what snacks are easy for you to eat, what protein shakes go down easiest
conrad knows how to style your hair no matter what length or texture or style it is
if you wear protective styles he WILL learn to braid. have you seen his hands?? even on a bad day he'll get you nice and comfy, rolling you onto your back or side or stomach so he can make sure that your hair is healthy and groomed the way you like and that he's taking care of you
he knows how to do your whole skin care routine and doesn't mind doing it either
there is nothing and I mean NOTHINGGGG to small or personal for him to help you with
you could literally be shitting and sobbing and throwing up during an IBS or IBD or crohns disease flare up and he does not bat a goddamn eye
he'll rub oatmeal lotion and whatever creams you need when your eczema flares up. he'll mist the spots with cool water and layer you up with aloe to stop the itching and burning
he's LITERALLY qualified to care for you both as a boyfriend AND a med school resident. he can give you shots if you need them, check your blood sugar if that's an issue, if he COULD open you up and manually fix your body from the inside out, HE WOULD DO IT.
tldr conrad fucking LOVES his chronically ill and/or disabled partner. he loves you so fucking much he has several degrees in loving you properly. he sleeps well at night knowing he's RIGHT THERE to take care of you.
warnings: reader uses a cane (has a bad leg), reader teaches at the FBI academy, nickname "Nemo" is used, r struggles with something akin to depression, non-sexual nudity, a little kissing, weed consumption.
summary: Though you're used to doing everything by yourself, maybe it wouldn't be that bad to let someone in. Especially if that someone is Will Graham.
Author’s note: Hey anon I hope this is what you imagined when you requested a fic. It's not very long, and it's way softer than my previous work, so I hope you like it. I did my best, and chose an ailment I'm familiar with, so I hope you enjoy it :))
The wheelchair sits in the corner of your room like an insult to your humanity, as it does every morning. As you do every morning, you ignore it, maneuvering your stiff, useless leg out of bed, leaning heavily on everything your hands touch, reaching for your cane in a pitiful movement. Every day starts the same, with regret and heavy limbs, phantom pain and barely disguised distress as you struggle to the kitchen for some coffee, struggle to accomplish the simplest tasks.
But, as you do every day, you succeed without so much as considering outside help.
Destructive hyper-independence, multiple therapists had told you. But it was never destructive, simply salvation. People tend to say you always take the difficult road, but you don’t, you do what you do because you want to. Because you have nothing and everything to prove to yourself, and to others.
The FBI is a hostile environment, you’ve come to realize, easily comparable to a ghost-ridden forest forgotten by humankind. It’s cold and clinical, invisible stains of blood litter your hands, your notes, a stranger’s violence lodges itself between your words during lectures, when you stay cemented to your chair, refusing to give your spectators the show of their limping professor.
You’re not an agent per se, more an honorary member of the academy’s teaching staff, a cynical and perceptive student in philosophy with an unsettling curiosity for the brutal and macabre, who got roped into teaching about the human mind by Jack Crawford. You don’t exactly regret your choice, or resent your position, but you find yourself living in the liminal, not quite there, yet persistent in the minds of those who listen to you speak. You’re translucent, yet inevitable. From there stems your vaguely derogatory nickname amongst your coworkers: Nemo. Nobody, yet something large enough to require a name.
Comfort comes rarely, and often conditional, it lays at the bottom of the cup of the good coffee you sometimes treat yourself to, in the feeling of finally being alone at the end of the day, with nobody to witness your traipsing and stumbling. It also comes in the form of Will Graham’s slightly trembling and acerbic voice, when you have more than five minutes to discuss something other than the horrors you witness and analyze for a living.
The amphitheater is empty, save for yourself, and it feels like the faint scratching of your pencil against paper is resonant, too loud in such holy silence. Your desk is littered with various files, papers you haven’t bothered to put away just yet. Outside, impenetrable darkness and thick rain seem to press obstinately against the window panes, looking for the faintest crack, the smallest way in. You keep the shadows at bay with the vague light of your desk lamp, the quiet humming that escapes your lips from time to time. It’s become routine, for you, to linger this late, in this grandiose room that somehow always shrinks around you, to stay here until you can no longer bare it, a measly excuse to stay away from your home, that unavoidably reminds you of who, or rather what, you are.
Your leg is stretched out underneath the desk, arranged in a position that’s somewhat comfortable, a dull, inexistant ache ripples through your body constantly. You’re minutes away from relenting, packing your things in your battered bag and leaving. But you’re interrupted.
“You’re still here.” Will stands in the doorway, clad in his coat, ready to leave.
“It seems like I’m always here, doesn’t it?” you muse, voice soft and scratchy from disuse. “You’re still here too, anyways.”
He chuckles faintly, but the tension remains in his eyes, bright like fire. You recognize it effortlessly.
“Your class was interesting today. Arendt and the nature of evil.”
“You came?” The words slip out from your chapped lips like a glass tipping over. You can’t help it.
“Yeah… Yeah, I try to come by when I can.”
You busy yourself packing your belongings, avoiding the treacherous chasm of gratitude that’s splitting your mind open. You don’t want to fall in, to have to ask for help to get out.
“For such horrid concepts, you talk about it beautifully,” he says softly, gaze heavy and heady on your skin, in your guts.
“I talk about things as they appear to me. Human nature is a beautiful, complex thing.”
You stand up with a soft grunt, tired limbs resisting efforts of cooperation, and you’re leaning too heavily on your cane, threatening to topple over. You don’t notice Will move closer until a large hand on your shoulder gently steadies you. You tense, move out of the way of his assistance, don’t bother to thank him.
He follows you wordlessly as you leave the amphitheatre, steps short and breathing labored, like you’re trying to inhale something that might save you, some sort of divine substance in this temple of education. It doesn’t come. It never does. You’re trapped in your condition.
“I read the book you told me about last week.”
“You read East of Eden?”
He nods, eyes never leaving yours as you turn off the lights and step out of the auditorium. He holds the door open, you walk through too quickly, unwilling to linger on his services.
“I really enjoyed it.”
“I’m glad you did.”
Your answers come out sharp and curt, you profoundly hope he doesn’t hold it against you. You don’t mean to be like this, you just are. Will doesn’t leave, doesn’t speak either, just walks with you quietly out to the parking lot, holding up an umbrella for the both of you.
You watch the droplets roll off the edge in straight lines, splattering noisily on the ground. The buzz of the rain drowns your thoughts, the thick, humid smell fills your head like a drug, and you’re grateful for the pseudo-intoxicated respite.
“How are you getting home?” you hear Will ask.
“The bus. There’s a station not too far.”
“Let me walk you there.”
His words linger uncomfortably in the air as you don’t dare respond. He guesses your answer at the unease in your eyes.
“At least take the umbrella,” he pleads, pushing it into your cold, stiff hand. You don’t answer, just take it, fingers lingering for a second too long on the warmth of his skin.
“See you tomorrow, Will.”
“Get home safe,” is all he says before you force yourself to walk away, force yourself to not look back at his drenched form, looking at you with those big, careful eyes.
The commute home is unsettling, Will’s face lingers in your mind, his words echo endlessly in your ears as you beg your mind to quiet down, your heart to stop fluttering.
The thing is, despite everything you’ve promised yourself, Will Graham seems to have this inevitable effect on you, the kind of feeling that makes you want to crumble, break down your own walls, and let him in. But you know better. Or, at least, you think you know better.
The rain, the cold wind really got to you, your leg is stiff and every joint in your body hurts in a way that makes your eyes water in frustration. You’ve tried a warm bath, you’ve tried tea and useless massages and too much painkillers and distracting yourself with a bad movie and chinese food. God only knows you’ve considered chopping off your limb and dousing yourself in acid to dull the pulsating, creaky pain that haunts you. So you resort to the one thing you know might just dull the ache.
The blunt glows treacherously between your limp fingers as you bring it to your lips, inhaling the sweet, heavy smoke, feeling its tendrils spread underneath your skin, within you tired, dead flesh. The comfortable haze soon engulfs you as your head tips back, eyes glossy and worries forgotten. You know it’s less than ideal, highly unrecommended by any sane individual, but then again, when have you ever been proven to be sane? When you sit up, the room dances around you, and your movements destabilize you violently as you try to regain some excuse of composure. Hours blur together, work forgotten on your desk as you sing an eerie tune languidly, forgetting the lead-footed presence of your body as your mind wanders far, far away from everything, floating into realms unknown where red wine flows in rivers and sex goes hand in hand with the sharp blade of a knife. You don’t realize the darkness swallow you, don’t notice your body go limp and fold into itself, against the couch, rolling up on the cold floor. And yet, through everything, his face still haunts you, you can hear him on the couch behind you, murmuring inexistant promises, swearing on his meager life that he’s here for you, always here for you. You feel the phantom of his hands wander on your back, dipping lower, pressing into your flesh like he’s really there, like there’s something underneath the composure you wear like a mask worth undressing you for.
But he’s not there. You’re alone, alone in your own predicament, and you fall asleep on your living room floor with salt on your lips, from the tears you can’t hold back and blood from the spot you can’t stop assaulting with your teeth.
Morning comes like an insult, brutal and unexpected. The bright, cold winter sun harasses your tired eyes as you feel your body unfold, bones feeling broken and muscles pulled taunt. Everything hurts, the night has dug its claws deep into your mortal flesh and pulled you apart, left you to cry in despair on the floor. The clock tells you you're late, very late, hours late, the stale smell of smoke reminds you of your previous mistakes. Outside, the rain has dulled down, left the world in that strange, newborn state, where everything is slick and shivering as they try to remember what sunlight feels like. The grass is a dull green, the sky is a dead shade of blue that mirrors your tired eyes. Your phone announces many missed calls that you decide to ignore as you force yourself on your feet, utter hopelessness pulling a cry from your throat as your body betrays you, limbs moving slowly and foolishly. You relent, crashing onto your couch and painfully manoeuvring your leg to stretch it out in front of you.
Everything hurts.
You have blades for blood today, it seems.
Hours pass and you refuse to move, not when your stomach grumbles in hunger, not when you can feel the press of your bladder. You watch dust float above you and pray the particles to take you with them, away from the curse that is your body. You don’t move when your phone starts ringing, don’t move as the day crawls by, face sticky from tears of exasperation. You consider just staying there forever and forgetting to live, until a soft but firm knock on your door jostles you out of your torpor. You don’t flinch, at first, just drag your eyes to your front door and waiting for confirmation that you hadn’t hallucinated. The knock repeats itself, this time coupled with a voice you’d recognize anywhere.
“Nemo? Is everything okay?”
The nickname sounds sour in the crackly air, a reminder of what you’re seen as.
“Are you alright?”
You don’t answer, but somewhere deep inside you, you find the strength to stand up, grabbing your abandoned cane as you stumble gracelessly to the door, your limbs protesting with every movement, diaphragm struggling to let you breathe. You wipe your face in your sleeve to make yourself somewhat presentable, though the smell that coats you and your crumpled work clothes from the previous day don’t help. You unlock the door to find a concerned looking Will on the other side. The words on the tip of his tongue stutter and die down as he sees your state, and he doesn’t utter a word as he steps inside. You marvel at how easily you let him in.
Because you know your house looks and smells like a grave.
And you know everything that lingers betrays your person, but you still let him in.
And you don’t protest when an arm loops around you to help you walk, you let him pull out a chair in the kitchen for you to sit, you stare at the cup of oversweetened coffee he sets in front of you.
“Why’d you come here?” Your voice is hoarse and scratchy from disuse and dehydration.
“I was worried,” he states simply, settling in front of you.
“You could’ve called.”
“I did. Multiple times. You didn’t answer, which only worried me more.
“I guess you got drowned out by Jack’s calls.”
He chuckles softly, and you look up at him, face relaxing slightly, though something bitter lingers on your lips. You reach for the coffee, but he nudges your hand away and presses a glass of water against your palm.
“Thank you… for coming, I mean,” you mumble before taking a long, welcome sip of the cool water.
“Of course… I was worried something bad might’ve happened.”
“Oh, you know, just the usual crippling self-loathing, nothing special.”
He laughs at that, but he catches that it’s not all a joke. He doesn't mention it, you’re grateful for that.
You finish the glass of water, then the cup of coffee, in utter silence, but you feel his gaze heavy on your movements.
“You don’t take care of yourself like you should.”
Your head snaps up, looking like a wounded animal.
“I do. I just have some bad days, that’s it. We all have bad days, you should know that.” Your tone is more violent than you want it to be, but these words can’t be said any other way.
“I just want to help you, Nemo.”
“Don’t… call me that. That’s what they call me. You’re not them.”
He says your name, softly, like it’s a full sentence, and something childish and fragile breaks within you.
“I need to shower,” is all you manage to say, gaze running away from his. He moves to help you stand up, walks with you all the way to the bathroom door, but you don’t close it when you step inside, just send him a pleading look, a desperate invitation. Because you don’t want to say it, but you’re thinking it a little too loud for your liking.
Help me, please.
He steps in, helps you steady yourself, peels off your wrinkled, sweaty button-up as you divest completely, shy but unashamed.
Because it’s Will.
Because you know it’s different with him. You’re not scared.
He helps you step into the shower and stays there, just in case, just because. He helps you clean yourself, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and it goes by quietly, softly.
It’s not sexual, it’s not meant to be. It’s just a quiet understanding of your wild mind and stiff limbs.
So, you don’t flinch when his hands run gently down your back, when he wraps you in a soft towel and dries your hair, when he leads you back to your bedroom and helps you settle on the edge of your bed. You dress in silence, watching him as he stands with his back to you, looking out the window, overcome by sudden modesty at seeing your bare form.
“Are you hungry?” he asks softly.
“Not really,” you lie. You doubt you’d be able to keep anything down, even though hunger eats at you from the inside, like something vicious. If he can tell you’re lying, he doesn’t say anything, just sits beside you and allows you to rest your head on his shoulder. You vaguely hear him say your name, and you turn to face him, resting your chin on his shoulder.
His intense blue gaze catches yours, and things seem to stop around you, within you. It lasts a few seconds, or your entire existence, you’re not sure, all you know is that your lips end up against his, softly, tentatively. And it’s not hungry, or desperate, or arousing at all, it’s just firm, a promise engraved in your flesh, because he doesn’t move away, and neither do you.
That night, Will stayed, made some tea for you as you talked to him about little insignificant things, about the last movie you watched or the last book you read.
That night, Will walked with you to your bedroom when he noticed your eyes drooping, and didn’t question you when you beckoned him closer, inviting him closer to your warmth.
That night, you fell asleep with his handprints still warm on your stiff leg, chest against chest, arms entangled and fingers linked together.
That night, the pain wasn’t nearly as bad, replaced by a tranquil, buzzing sort of contentment that lodges itself in your heart when Will brushes his lips against yours in a final kiss, when he murmurs short promises for only you to hear.
