#but it always comes back to his nature. he tries so desperately to heal but he destroys everything he touches

[jakowskis]

tumblr user ojibwa / gooseberry by james goss

[shakingparadigm]

Seeing all those analysis posts about how Till liked Mizi because she was gentle while not giving the same attention to Ivan because he wasn't... how Ivan might have made Till uncomfortable because he expressed his admiration for Till through violence because he liked how Till had the courage to fight back...

I was wandering if Ivan ever realized that the way he went about showing his feelings wasn't positive for Till and he fucking did. "I wish I had been kinder" he fucking regrets dude, fuck me man.

(This veered wildly off-topic I am so sorry.)

Coming back to this ask after the most recent R6 update is interesting.

I've always wondered why they chose the title Cure in particular. I was expecting a song title along the lines of Star or something abyssal. Then I thought about Till's affiliation with experiments and drugs and the various ways he was hurt. Cure... It also brings to mind how the content for Ivan highlights his "oddness", how he's framed as someone different, almost wrong in a sense. There's something that he lacks, something that he feels the need to fix, to cure.

In the recent ROUND 6 production post, the true meaning is revealed. You're right on a certain level, but as always, it's complicated.

Both Ivan and Till seek a certain type of "healing", maybe to compensate for their pain, their oddness and their loneliness. They wish to be cured of their suffering somehow and they seek the solution in other people.

QMENG states that Till desires a type of healing that Ivan cannot provide, and vice versa.

It goes without saying, pretty common knowledge at this point, but Till is a lot softer under his rebellious front. As someone who's been beat and abused his whole life, it makes sense that that type of love he'd want is something gentler, something stable. It's incredibly obvious in the way he acts towards Mizi. She's so genuine, so bright, untainted by the cruel reality of the world. Till softens around her, since she has only showed him kindness he in turn shows her the sweetest side of himself. He's had nothing stable to cling onto before, so he immediately becomes attached to this idealized version of Mizi. He believes she's the only person who can provide him with what he needs, the only one who can "heal" him.

It's outright stated that Ivan cannot provide that type of "healing" that Till is looking for. Ivan does try, of course. Unfortunately, he lacks something fundamental. Because of this he expresses himself in rather childish ways, which may involve a little cruelty and attention-seeking. A lot of Ivan's actions are muddled by his complicated feelings as well, as its stated that his true emotions and intentions are difficult to grasp. With Till, Ivan wants to save and be saved, hurt and heal him, keep him and set him free. Live for him and die for him. He criticizes Sua on the ethics of self-sacrifice and then goes on to do the same himself. With Ivan, everything contradicts.

He tries desperately to be the cure that Till needs, but due to his incredibly complex nature that "healing" will never be just healing. It may come with more pain and confusion despite his best efforts.

I don't think Till refused to give Ivan attention because he wasn't gentle enough, rather I think it's because everything was so complicated whenever Ivan was involved. Ivan is there for him in his times of need and causes a fair bit of trouble during the rest. He's strange and hard to grasp, but he's familiar. Calling each other "friends" seemed like such an inadequate label because they're simultaneously too close and not close enough. Ivan does wish he was kinder, though. Not only to Till, but to Sua and most likely a few other people as well. There's a lot of aspects in which Ivan wishes he were different, and it's tragic to hear how he deprecates himself in his final moments for it.

There's the second half of QMENG's statement as well, "vice versa". Till cannot provide what Ivan needs either, but Ivan desperately desires it anyway.

Ivan views Till as his cure. He wants to not only "heal" Till, but to be healed by him as well. This desire can be seen in the lyrics of Cure:

Notice my pain

And mend me right now

To quiet my fears

I'll drown in you

(The wish for "healing" is stated.)

In your gaze, where I’m seen

Consume me, yes, me, oh, oh

(Ivan urges Till to "consume" him like medicine, he wishes to be what Till needs.)

Ivan lacks something, and he believes that Till can make up for that lack which is why he's so fascinated by him. If Ivan is a black abyss, Till is a supernova, bringing life to an empty void. Unfortunately, Till is explosive and rather inept at handling his own extreme emotions, which causes him to either lash out violently or retreat further inward and push Ivan away. He's also a thoroughly destructive and hurt individual, seeking his own cure in another form. He cannot provide what Ivan needs.

Both Ivan and Till are incredibly volatile. That's not to say they don't have their gentler sides, but overall they've been doomed from the start. Ultimately it's no fault of theirs, they did what they could with their complicated feelings and fought through their own respective hells.

In the end, Ivan had to come to terms with the fact that he couldn't get the "healing" he needed and could never be what Till needed, either. That's why he finally acted on his impulses and let his complicated feelings win over, resulting in his death. Despite all the heartache, his final thoughts are a statement of gratitude. Truly a tragedy.

[the-dork-urge]

Wicked Urges || Durge X Gortash

SUMMARY: Durge has a hard time getting a certain man out of her mind. She tries one final distraction. But to no avail.

WORDCOUNT: 1387

NSFW

Her turmoil knew no bounds; Enver Gortash lingered in her mind. Not even the crimson stain of her darkest deeds could purge the persistent ache that gnawed at her soul, pushing her to the brink of madness. In the night's embrace, she would slip away into the shadows, her blade gleaming with the promise of release. Yet, even as she carved her path through the flesh of her victims, their anguished cries, once a cacophony that drowned out the clamor of her inner turmoil, now played second fiddle to the relentless image her own mind had conjured – his eyes, piercing into hers, his large hands exploring her flesh with invasive intent, her nails digging into his skin with desperate urgency.

To entertain the notion of a Banite, to allow herself to be drawn into the gravitational pull of Gortash's allure, was to court damnation in its purest form. And yet, with each rendezvous in the recesses of her mind, she found herself dancing dangerously close to the edge of her Father's disapproval. Thus, she stood before her final avenue of escape.

He was exquisite, graceful, and lean, with gentle eyes and soft skin—a fair elf. His aesthetic starkly contrasted with the one she struggled to expel from her thoughts. The courtesan batted long eyelashes as he extended his hand. She accepted it, more than just taking it—she claimed it as her own. He was now hers, to employ as she pleased.

She pushed the elf down onto the bed, his graceful body sinking into the red, silken sheets, eyes fluttering, fixed on the ceiling. The scene was almost familiar, reminiscent of a morbid masterpiece—a body displayed against a canvas of blood.

Urgency gripped her as she shed her armor, each piece clattering to the floor. Naked she crawled onto the bed, her skin bare and exposed, mirroring the man beneath her. She prowled over the elf, her hands gliding over his soft skin, her mouth nuzzling at his slender neck. Beneath her touch, she felt the steady thrum of his pulse. Despite his ethereal beauty, he remained as mortal as any other.

It was a thrilling thought, the realization that he remained oblivious to her true nature, unaware of the depths of her capabilities. To allow a killer to come so close, to let them feel the steady pulse of life beneath their touch, all while remaining ignorant of the potential for sudden cessation—it sent shivers down her spine.

Perhaps, she thought, she ought to kill the Banite snake, for slithering his way into her brain. Making a canvas much prettier than the one she saw before her.

She leaned in to kiss his neck, pushing aside thoughts of Gortash. Moving up to his jaw, his cheeks, the taste of inexpensive cologne lingered on her tongue as she delved deeper into his mouth. Hunger drove her as she sought his tongue, while his hands roamed over her scarred body, tracing delicate fingertips over her healing bruises. He responded in kind, wrestling with his tongue, his hands finding their way to the back of her head, pulling her closer. Their mouths melded together in a fervent kiss. She sank her teeth into the elf's lower lip, drawing blood. She kissed him again, with even more intensity, savoring the ironic taste on her lips and in their mouths. Yet, amid the heightened moment, thoughts of Gortash intruded—his lips between her teeth, the sweet tang of his blood on her tongue, and the fantasy of his body beneath hers.

Feeling the stirring of desire within her, she allowed her hands to glide along the elven body, envisioning Gortash beneath her fingertips instead. As her touch trailed down the smooth chest of the elf, she imagined Gortash's dark hair, always peeking out from his clothing, his gentle curves where she now felt muscles, and the trail of hair leading down as she settled between his legs. The elf shuddered at her touch, twitching under her palm as she teased him. She wrapped her hand around the elf's cock, before she slowly started stroking. Every whimper or moan he let out was stifled by her mouth on his. She wondered what noises Gortash would make as she touched him, and what it would feel like if he'd run his hands over her skin. She tried to dispel the improper thoughts of him again, but they lingered, like a cheap perfume.

The prostitute's hands wandered towards her thighs and his fingers travelled upward to her heat. With gentle fingers, the elf teased her, spreading her wetness. As she kept stroking his cock, he moved his fingers inside. They were too slender, and she longed for Gortash's plump fingers. She cursed at the intrusive thoughts. But the thought of it set her body alight and before she could stop herself she spoke: "More," her voice a sultry command, as she pressed herself against him. The elf responded, adjusting the intensity of his touch to meet her craving. Despite the disparity between his fingers and the ones she longed for, the sensations he evoked stirred a primal desire within her. "Fuck me." The tantalizing thoughts proved too arousing to resist, and she abandoned the struggle against the fantasy. Bhaal. Father. She pleaded for his forgiveness.

Her mind swirled with imagined sensations - the scent of Gortash, the phantom touch of his hands, the image of his cock inside her. With a deep breath, she positioned herself just above the elf, gradually lowering herself down. His head eased in slowly, and she couldn't help but groan at the fantasy of Gortash stretching her out. As she sank down, taking all of him, she clenched around his cock, relishing in the illusion.

"You feel fantastic," the prostitute whimpered, his voice shattering her brittle illusion.

"I didn't pay you to talk," she bit out, covering his mouth with her hand as she started riding him. With each thrust, she immersed herself once again in her fantasy. In her mind's eye, it was Enver's cock pumping between her legs, pounding into her again and again. Though she dared not speak his name, it danced on her lips, stifled by the bite of her lip. In her visions, she heard him vocally - grunting as sweat dripped down his chest, cursing as he filled her up.

As the fantasy unfolded in her mind, she felt every imagined sensation with vivid intensity. Enver's hands gripped her hips firmly, guiding her movements as he thrust into her relentlessly. Each powerful stroke sent waves of pleasure coursing through her body, building a mounting tension that threatened to consume her completely. She moved her hand toward his neck, slowly digging her fingers in, relishing in the sensation inside her wet cunt. Softly, she whispered his cursed name as it seemed to burn on her lips.

Reality faded completely as she saw Gortash's eyes staring back at her from beneath her, pleading, glistening with desire.

With every movement, she felt him deep inside her, stretching her to her limits and igniting a primal desire she could no longer suppress.

In her mind's eye, she visualized Enver's powerful thrusts, his hips grinding against hers in a rhythm as old as time itself. The image of his sweat-drenched chest, his muscles straining with each movement, fueled her arousal even further. She imagined the sound of his voice once again, low and guttural, filling the room as he voiced his desire for her, his words sending shivers down her spine.

As she rolled her hips forward even faster, drawing her own orgasm, a scream escaped her lips, followed by his name, "Enver."

For a moment, she released her hold on his neck, her body shuddering as she rode out her climax, spilling her wetness. Beneath her, the man's body shuddered as well, and she smiled as she pushed herself off the bed, his semen spilling down her legs.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, Durge found herself returning to reality, breathless and spent. Yet, even in the aftermath, the name of her obsession lingered on her lips.

"Enver Gortash. Really?" The prostitute's amused whisper cut through the silence, his grin betraying a hint of curiosity.

"I told you not to speak," she warned him, her tone sharp as she scanned the room for her belongings. A thought crossed her mind, dark and insidious, as she considered the consequences of leaving a witness to her forbidden desires.

With a calculated calmness, she retrieved her clothes, her mind already set on a course of action. There could be no witnesses to her longing for the Banite snake; it would be a stain on her honor that she could not bear. He had to die.

"Come and get your pay, elf," she beckoned as she watched him crawl from the bed, wrapping the crimson sheet around him. It was perfect, she thought, a sly grin spreading across her face as her hand trailed to the knife concealed in her clothes.

Atleast this way she could please her father. But it was a long road to make up for her transgressions. One she was afraid she just started traveling.

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Hello, I’m too shy to admit who I am, but I just want to say I recently found your stuff and I just love your writing, I’m the one who requested the Eri reader with RoR, but I was wondering if it would be alright if I ask for some more content for that, but also One Piece, I was planning to ask for multiple parts for the different arcs (Or segments for said arcs since some are my personal faves, with specials being Filler Arcs and Movie arcs)

I LOVE Eri (She’s precious, adorable and I will defend her smile with my life, in fact I would go to war to protect her smile) and it’s really hard to find fanfic writers who are in Wano along with multiple different Animes (I really, REALLY like your work, and I hope I don’t sound rude or weird, I feel like I always have to mention I’m Autistic, so I have a hard time telling if I come off as rude, weird or annoying, if so, I do apologize)

Part 1 of the Platonic Yandere Straw Hats!

Koby meets Luffy… and a cute little girl named Y/N, and after battling Alvida, go to recruit the name called ‘Pirate Hunter’ Zoro along (And Koby parts ways) with the current 3 members then meet the infamous Captain Buggy and the mysterious Nami, and to syrup village and meet their sniper, Usopp as they fight off Kuro and earn a ship and sail off to find a cook

Luffy is very protective of Reader (He only becomes enraged when someone tries to take his straw hat or harms/injures or tries to kidnaps his ‘little sister’ Reader) and is the only person he’s willing to share his food with (He also says her horn is ‘super cool’)

Zoro, Nami, Usopp and future Straw Hats Will become very protective of Reader, especially after learning of her traumatic past

Hello love, don’t worry, you’re not being annoying at all and I’m happy to write this request. For this request, since One Piece is such a broad series, including filler and movies (to be honest I actually haven’t seen too many of the movies, only the most recent ones), the posts may be a bit shorter, but will cover wide time frames, so I can cover more things that are requested. I hope this will be to your liking.

-You remember the day well, when you first met your big brother, Luffy, when he rescued you from Alvida, who had been keeping you as a slave, forcing you to use your abilities to ‘rewind’.

-Many thought it was a Devil Fruit, but it wasn’t, it was called a quirk, something that you were naturally able to do once you were old enough.

-You were transported to this world where people only had quirks if they ate things called Devil Fruits, and your abilities were quickly discovered and you were once again locked up to use your abilities against your will.

-When Luffy broke the cage you were being held in and reached a hand down to you, you instantly knew this person wasn’t bad like so many of the others and you instantly leapt into his arms, clinging tightly to him, arms around his neck.

-He instantly adopted you, calling you the first member of his pirate crew!

-You knew of pirates, from story books, but they were always painted as bad guys, but Luffy wasn’t bad, not even close and you wanted to see him become King of the Pirates!

-Thus, you, Luffy, and Koby, left together, in search of another person, Pirate Hunter Zoro, to recruit to Luffy’s pirate crew.

-Zoro was hurt and tied up when you found him, in the middle of a big field, taking the punishment of another.

-You nearly cried when he ate the rice balls out of Luffy’s hands, seeing his desperation but also his strength to do what was right.

-Despite being a ‘pirate hunter’ Zoro stood beside Luffy, fighting back against those who imprisoned him.

-Zoro was immediately taken by you, after seeing you peek out from behind Luffy’s leg, giving you a wide grin, despite being injured, to not scare you.

-You took his hand when he introduced himself to you and your horn instantly grew bigger as your quirk flared to life and you healed Zoro’s wounds.

-Luffy scolded you lightly when you came down with a light fever from overusing your ability, but he wasn’t able to be mad at you.

-When you met Nami, you could tell she was putting up a front, acting tougher than she actually was, but with you, unlike with Luffy and Zoro, whom she yelled at, she patted your head, giving you a warm grin, telling you to keep an eye on those two idiots.

-She actually stole you for a short while, taking you shopping to get you new clothes, as you were still in the dress you were in when you first arrived in this world.

-When they saw your scars, finally removing all the bandages which were also dirty and tattered, all three of them were furious, seeing the scars littering your body.

-You were scared to talk about them, finding it hard to breath, until Zoro patted your head, “All that matters now is that you’re safe. Nobody will be able to hurt you again.” And Luffy was quick to agree.

-Nami got you a dress and clothes with long sleeves and leggings, to hide your scars and you had so much fun playing dress up with Nami, while Zoro and Luffy ate at a restaurant nearby.

-When the two of you met up with them, Luffy picked you up, spinning you around, making you giggle in delight, giving the first real smile which made him cry comically.

-Nami was quickly able to see that they both doted on you, Luffy sharing his food with you and Zoro wiping your cheek off that had some rice, she thought the three of you looked so cute.

-When you saw Buggy, your eyes sparkled lightly, seeing a clown, thinking he was a nice person, but you were wrong as he attacked your brother.

-Nami grabbed you and ran, hiding you to keep you safe before she ran back to help Luffy, kicking Buggy between the legs, halting the assault.

-Your hands were over your mouth in shock as you saw this, eyes wide; but she later told you, when she joined the crew as the navigator, that kicking between a man’s legs was the quickest way to take a man down.

-Luffy and Zoro both yelled at her, telling her to not teach you weird things!!

-Usopp was such a brave man, telling you all sorts of stories when you first met him, until Nami told you he was just telling stories and was actually a coward.

-You were hesitant to be around Usopp until your family was fighting Kuro, tears filling your eyes as he hurt everyone while you were hiding behind a rock.

-When Kuro spotted you, he started over and you were in awe, feeling a pressure around Luffy, one you couldn’t explain, as he kicked the glasses wearing man back from you, “STAY AWAY FROM HER!!”

-You hid, covering your ears and clenching your eyes tightly shut during the fight, having flashbacks to Overhaul and to Alvida, both who hurt you so terribly, unable to move, unable to help your crew- your family!

-Nami scolded you when you healed Usopp, Zoro, and Luffy, making you a bit scared until she ruffled your hair lightly, telling you that you shouldn’t over do things, because it would make you sick.

-You never…you never had anyone who told you that before, to not overuse your ability, as they were worried about you.

-You liked the warm fluffy feeling in your chest at this.

-When you saw the Going Merry, yours and Luffy’s eyes were both bright sparkles, you mimicked Luffy who threw his fists to the sky, cheering about having a real ship.

-Luffy pointed out to the horizon, deciding his next crewmate was going to be a cook!

[kangals]

less than one month ago I brought Boone to the vet for his twice-yearly recheck with his physical therapist. he bounced into and out of the car eagerly, always excited to take a ride. the doctor asked me how much exercise he gets - he does well, I said, we go on a 30-40 minute walk every morning and he’s slow but he keeps up fine. he eats his meals and enjoys a romp in the yard. he has some stiffness in his spine, the beginnings of some minor nerve defects in his legs, but otherwise received good marks. “keep doing what you’re doing,” I was told.

today, he is dying.

he walks gingerly, his head held low and body stiff. his back legs tremble to support him for more than a few moments, collapsing back into his bed. just walking to the back of the yard leaves him exhausted. he sniffs half-heartedly at food, but refuses to eat. he does not play, or romp, or dig at his bed to make it comfortable or stretch his long back or watch dutifully out the window when the mailman comes. ive been ignoring the signs, trying desperately to believe this is not the end, that one morning everything will be better, but it’s so vibrantly, painfully clear. his eyes say, “I am tired. I hurt. I am done.”

it’s all happened too fast. his body hasn’t yet had time to reflect the malignancy that’s taking over his insides. his muscles are still toned, his coat is soft and silky. he’s barely lost any weight. a few still-healing scabs litter his legs - I can’t stop focusing on them. look, I think, his body is healing itself! a dying body can’t do that! then I see the glassy eyes and see him stare emotionlessly at his surroundings and know it’s too late.

when was the last time I took him for a long walk in the woods? the last time he ripped into his toy box and gleefully scattered them across the room? the last time he dug in his heels and raced around the yard, obeying a millennia of instincts to run, run, run? I don’t remember - I never expected to have them suddenly stop. I don’t remember these last expressions of health, of happiness. these should have been monumental, important moments. I took them for granted.

I wanted his last days to be peaceful - full of his favorite things. I’d spoil him with cheeseburgers and Chinese food, give him all the treats he wanted, take him to the beach and the woods to sniff to his hearts content.

but he won’t eat, and he can’t walk. all I can do is sit by him and try to let him know I’m still here. I wish I could do more.

looking at the box full of his prescriptions, the fridge stocked with dozens and dozens of different foods, I feel so despondent. they didn’t help. they couldn’t - nothing could. nature dictated that my dog will die, and that is where we are. i tried so, so hard to make him better, and i might as well not have tried at all.

in a way, this diagnosis is a horrible blessing. it allows no room for arguments - it’s done, it’s over, this is the final entry to his life. even with the most aggressive treatment and the luck of a good response, it would buy us less than two months time. I know that’s not an option. I know he is too tired, and ready to go. he’s done - has been for weeks, even if I wanted to believe otherwise.

I know so, so many people with dogs they loved just as much and more, who did not get as much time together as we did. who didn’t get this chance to say goodbye. we had almost 9 years together, with so many wonderful memories.

but still, I don’t think it will ever be enough.

[tragedy-for-sale]

Bedrock Headcannons: Captain Rex

Bedrock headcannons are headcannons that I regard as a fact in the personality of a character I write about. They range from small details to a huge part of a character's backstory. These headcannons are a constant underlayer in all of my fics that involve these characters.

﹄『❝ Rex ❞』﹃

Rex is the clone that fell out of the gunship with Padme in AOTC and when Anakin found out, his fondness for Rex was instant.

Rex and Padme hang out regularly now. Padme invited Rex over for lunch countless times before Anakin even knew. The two were watching some holodrama talking shit about the characters when Anakin came in beyond confused to see Rex, because how did Rex not tell him this? Anakin panicked thinking he was gonna have to pull out an excuse but Rex just downed his apple juice and told him to sit down because he was blocking the TV.

Anakin was very surprised that Padme didn't tell him that she told HIS Captain they were married. And that Rex didn't bring it up. Anakin feels a little left out because the two of them have inside jokes and matching apple juice glasses.

Rex's favorite drink is apple juice and Padme always has some in her fridge for him.

He is not a loud emotions type of guy. He cannot handle it and wants to evaporate from the situation. He'd be teamed up with Ahsoka and maybe she'd start crying or get really mad and starts yelling. Rex doesn't know how to respond. Anakin will laugh loudly and pull Rex into a side hug and he just shuts down. He doesn't know what he'd say because he's so scared of saying the wrong thing.

Rex is a natural blond.

Anakin had explained to Rex he'd never have a padawan, Rex very much agreed. The battlefield wasn't a place for a child. But then Ahsoka came and at first, Rex resented this grubby little kid who kept asking him for his snacks. But then they'd be on the bridge watching blaster fire and she'd grab his hand, scared of getting hurt. Ahsoka started waking up in the middle of the night and find Rex because unlike Obi-Wan and Anakin, he wouldn't tell her that everything was okay, he'd just sit with her in the dark so she knew she was safe. He didn't know when he started considering Ahsoka his little sister, but she'd always considered him her brother.

Rex has a crush on Anakin that he thinks is quite inconvenient because he thinks Anakin is ugly. But then Anakin will make him laugh or smile at him and Rex feels like his heart is going to stop.

After Ahsoka left the order, Rex reached out countless times. He wanted to talk to her, give her credits he borrowed from Anakin's wallet, tell her to go crash at Padme's because she has a really nice guest bedroom, he wanted to give her hug and tell her that she'd always be his little sister. But she never answered him, she never reached out, she never even said goodbye.

Rex was the first person Padme told that she was pregnant, so for nine months, Rex couldn't say anything to Anakin. Rex thought he might explode. They'd already lost Ahsoka, but in nine months maybe Anakin wouldn't be so unhappy? Maybe his heart wouldn't be so broken? Maybe Ahsoka would come back and they'd be a family again- In nine months, Rex knew everything would change.

Everything did change. Ahsoka came back, but Rex never saw Anakin again and there was no Padme, there was no babies. Their family never healed, it only fell apart.

After Order 66, Rex broke. He didn't have anything left within him. He clawed at the dirt and debris in desperate search for his brothers until his fingers were smashed. He'd search for days and Ahsoka would find him often passed out from dehydration and exhaustion. If he managed to sleep, he'd wake up screaming, he didn't want to scare Ahsoka more than he already had been, so he tried to stop sleeping. But that only scared her more, she couldn't lose him too, she wouldn't survive it. Rex didn't speak, he always had a distant look on his face, he was paralyzed by grief. For weeks, Rex was unable to do anything but sit silently in his grief because if he spoke then he'd yell and he didn't want to yell because then it'd all come out. "Why'd you take my chip out? Why didn't you just kill me?"

﹄『❝ Rex ❞』﹃

[v3nusxsky]

Talent show | fluff

*A/n~ I take full responsibility for this fic like it's my prompt to myself this time. In just vibing living in my own writing bubble I am absolutely loving you loving my fics and al the sweet comments I'm getting. Thank you for healing my broken heart doves*

Prompt~ y/n writes a song (can I be him - James Arthur) about Larissa. Morticia finds it and gives it to Larissa to sing at the talent show. Y/n is in the crowd when she hears her song and realises it's time to come clean.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Therapy isn't always laying on a sofa spilling your guts to a stranger. No. For you it was more of a creative approach. For you, music was your therapy. Listening but also creating. You find you often express your feelings better in this form rather than actually trying to speak. If you tried you'd stutter and fail. Despite your natural talent for music, you choose to keep any of your compositions completely private. In fact, all the songs you composed lay in a thick black note book. This book came everywhere with you. After all you never know when inspiration would hit. Or when you'd need that release.

Recently your work had been focused on someone in particular. Your muse being the stunning tall blonde girl who was Morticia Addams roommate. Despite rooming with the most popular girl at Nevermore Academy, Larissa was focused on her studies, she was kind and caring and extremely intelligent. Shes just perfect. You always looked forward to the lessons you shared with her. Although you never spoke too much other than work related things. Your shy nature gave off the wrong impression to your crush.

On this particular day, your notebook had vanished from your desk. You had only turned to grab your bag and it was gone. Panic flooded through you as you panicked and searched the area. Only then was it exactly where you'd left it. Extremely odd. You quickly examined it and was relieved that nothing was amiss. If only you knew what had happened then maybe we wouldn't be telling this story.

Nevermore Academy decided to hold a talent show. Not something you were planning on attending due to the crowds of people. Lots of people means lots of noise and that was something you didn't enjoy. But morticia was bragging about her entry with her roommate. That is what got your attention. Larissa. Curiosity got a hold of you as you listened in. So Morticia was going to be doing some kind of gothic one women show and had convinced Miss Weems that she needed a person to sing as a part. Larissa singing? Not something you imagined but it was good to know she had an interest in music. Could she get anymore perfect?

And that is how you got where you are right now. Sat in a crowed hall watching act after act. Desperately waiting for Morticia and Larissa to head on stage. Your companion for the night was Morticia's boyfriend, Gomez Addams. He was nice enough despite his almost sickening love for the gothic girl. You could tell they would be raven king and queen again this year. Nevermore's most popular couple.

Finally the principle announced their act and you sat up straighter in your seat. Morticia started off strong. After all she was good at doing drama. Her whole Nevermore experience was filled to the brim with drama. Always somehow managing to be the thick of everything. It was only when some notes filled the hall that you stiffened. Those notes seemingly too familiar. You tried to rack your brain on how and where you knew then from. It was only when you saw the now shifted Larissa Weems and heard the family wording of your song that you realised.

Your notebook disappeared in a lesson that you shared with Morticia, Morticia's insistence that Larissa help her and even the seating arrangements. Gomez shifted slightly indicating his discomfort. He clearly knew what Morticia had planned.

"You walked into the room and now my heart has been stolen

You took me back in time to when I was unbroken

Now you're all I want

And I knew it from the very first moment

'Cause a light came on when I heard that song and I want you to sing it again

I swear that every word you sing, you wrote them for me

Like it was a private show, I know you never saw me

When the lights come on and I'm on my own

Will you be there to sing it again?

Could I be the one you talk about in all your stories

Can I be her?"

Her voice was honestly making your song sound so much better than it had in your head when it was created. The girl it's about was singing it. No idea she's the muse.

"I swear that every word you sing, you wrote them for me

Like it was a private show, but I know you never saw me

When the lights come on and I'm on my own

Will you be there to sing it again?

Could I be the one you talk about in all your stories?

Can I be the one

Can I be the one

Can I be the one"

If only she knew she was indeed the one. Your one and only muse. But why would she notice the shy girl who hardly spoke. The girl who more often that not was scribbling into a black notebook. You waited on bated breath for the results of the show. And to no surprise Larissa and Morticia gained first place. You couldn't help but feel pride amongst the fear and upset of Morticia taking your song. Your song helped gain first place and everyone seemed to love it. Not only was music your therapy, but others were enjoying your creation.

Larissa made her way to you in order to avoid any spot light.

"Y/n you came!"she exclaimed coming up to hug you in her excitement. You stiffened at the contact which spurred the taller girl into a flurry of apologies.

"I'm sorry y/n. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable I just I'm so happy you came" she explained in a hurried tone.

She thought you were uncomfortable? If only she knew how much you craved to be in her embrace. It was all just too much for you. Which is why you took her hand and lead her to the quad. The air helping calm the nerves you felt.

"Y/n? Are you okay? I'm sorry I really didn't mean to offend you. I just I really like you and I know your probably not even into girls god I'm sorry I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable I'm so sorry please don't hate me" she mumbled in a rush her words blurring together as she raced to get it all out.

"I swear that every word you sing, you wrote them for me

Like it was a private show, but I know you never saw me

When the lights come on and I'm on my own

Will you be there to sing it again?

Could I be the one you talk about in all your stories?" You sung out to her effectively stopping her rambling.

"You sing beautifully y/n, really you do. But I'm confused why are you singing Morticia's song?" The confusion evident and her puzzled expression making you want to laugh. She was truly an adorable idiot sometimes.

"A few days ago my notebook went missing..." you trailed off only to have Larissa fill the gap, "your black one you take everywhere? Look it's even here now? So you found it?" You nodded and took a breath. "I found it a few minutes later. Now you can imagine my shock when I hear my song sang by this angelic voice. And then it all made sense." You could tell by the way she was looking at you, she'd not made the connection just yet.

"Larissa, Morticia took it. She took my song and gave it to you, then made sure I'd be here tonight to hear you sing it" you explained and watched as realisation fell onto her facial expressions. "But why?" She queried. "Because I - it's about you" you blurted out in a panic. "Me?" You nodded looking anywhere but the taller girl. This was not how you planned to tell her. You weren't ready to tell her yet, but Morticia had other plans and you were struggling to be upset with her.

"You're my muse Larissa. I want to be the one you are with. You didn't make me uncomfortable earlier I just wasn't expecting you to want to hug me. I don't like crowded space and already on edge I'm sorry I made you feel that. I understand my feelings are rather out there and a girl like you wouldn't want a girl like me." You trailed off wondering why you gave away so much information.

"I want to be your one too" she whispered back to you before coming closer to place an innocent kiss to your cheek. You blushed instantly at the action. This had to be a dream no way could she return your feelings. "You write beautifully darling" the pet name gaining another blush from you, "it was a wonderful song. I'm sorry that Morticia took it. I had no idea." She reassured. "It was only beautiful because you sang it so perfectly." You complimented her back smiling at the fact she was now also blushing.

"Y/n, can I kiss you please?" She whispered coming impossibly close. You nodded and then you felt her hand come up to cup your cheek as if you were the most fragile human and then her lips pressed against yours ever so lightly. Butterflies exploded in your stomach as you kissed her back. Only when you pull apart do you become aware that it's no longer just the two of you. If the half hushed whispers of morticia and Gomez are much to go by. "I told you they would be fine look see I was right Mon Cherie."

Word count~ 1714

*A/n~ I just love James Arthur also please make sure you're all drinking and taking care of yourselves*

[dent-de-leon]

Obsessed with the idea of Molly being terrified of Lucien, wanting nothing to do with him and insisting that that person is dead because he was scared that Lucien just naturally desired to be cruel and that was something he never ever wanted.

But then Lucien comes back and Molly realising that Lucien largely doesnt WANT to be cruel. But he's been so warped by pain and fear that he thinks that control and possession and manipulation is the only way to keep people from hurting you.

And Molly is like "Oh honey no.... let's get you some therapy."

Molly never wanted to be cruel, ever. But helping someone in pain learn to open up to gentleness and vulnerability? To show kindness? That scares him a lot less and it's what finally leads to their peace. To Kingsley.

Acknowledging and healing Lucien's pain and fear allowed them both to be better

yES!! Mollymauk is so haunted by the little glimpses he sees of Lucien's past, lives in constant fear of those terrifying moments when another life bleeds through. "Whoever it was came to that end, and I want nothing to do with that. Whatever it was, it doesn't feel good when I--when something creeps through, I don't like it. I don't want anything to do with it. I was happy! I liked the circus! The circus was great!"

He crawled his way out of an unmarked grave and woke all alone in the world, reaching for a red moon in the dark. He's always been aware just how fragile his life is, afraid that he'd be sent back to the grave, that his charmed little life at the circus could be torn away from him at any moment--as could his loved ones, like Lestera.

Mollymauk always seemed to believe his time was short, so he always tries to make the most of it. Which involved running away from the past--from anything that could shatter the tentative peace he tried so hard to keep. Whoever Lucien was, Molly knows just enough to instinctively fear him, to believe that all his loved ones would abandon him if they ever knew the truth. During the Zone of Truth, he confesses that, "A lot of this was in the hopes that maybe it would never happen; keep moving, keep quiet."

So I can't agree more--watching Mollymauk face his greatest fear, seeing him finally confront Lucien after all this time--and he's still kind and compassionate enough to try and help him? After everything he did? It's such a pleasant surprise, and just a testament to his character and bleeding heart. I don't think there's many people who'd be able to look at this dark mirror of themselves and have the capacity for love and forgiveness that Molly does.

But of course Mollymauk still wants to help him, still genuinely cares for him. It's, "That's not how we are, Lucien. We love broken things the most." And, "I know what the others think, but the truth is...How do I put this...The world is harsh and cruel, and I don't seem to be able to just walk on by. You see a wrong? You fix it." He saw how much Lucien was suffering, he saw just how painfully alike they are--that they were both "broken," shattered souls--and he couldn't just leave him. He couldn't. Mollymauk just can't bear to abandon someone, and it breaks my heart.

And I think a big part of Lucien's fall also stems from just how much self loathing and disgust he wallowed in, how he clings so desperately to the idea he has this "glint." That he was meant for bigger, better things, that he's somehow fated for so much more--that there's an escape from his painful, bloodstained past in Shadycreek. I think Beau really struck a nerve when she asked, "Do you think you're special, Lucien? I mean, someone who wakes up every day, and thinks they're different, blessed." Because god, he wants to be. He wants to be someone capable and powerful and worthy, craves it more than anything, even as he keeps running away.

He holds onto a stack of letters from his sister that he absolutely treasures, yet he doesn't dare answer any of them--too paralyzed with fear at what she'd think, terrified she'd see the person he'd become. He thinks he's not good enough to go back to her, has nothing at all to offer her. And I think that's part of why he bought into the Somnovem so quickly; he was desperate for a way out. A chance to be more. He needs to have this glint Cree mentioned, because then there's still hope. He can still be someone fortunate enough to take care of his sister, to get them away from Shadycreek forever. He can still be one of the heroes in the little plays he used to perform. He can still change his fate. And, most tempting of all, he can bring his family back.

And it's so sad that his self-depreciation and guilt started so young, that even as a child, he was tormented by all the atrocities his parents forced him to be complicit in. Until Lucien couldn't bear what they'd turned him into anymore, and he makes sure they can't hurt anyone else ever again. "After a while I couldn't let it go on, couldn't look at myself or live with myself, so I burned the caravan with all three of them inside, took my sister, and that was that...No more little songs. No more farces."

Mollymauk is fascinating, because he's another facet of Lucien. He was born from the very same soul. So in one sense, I think Molly reconnecting with Lucien is so beautiful, because it really does feel like a kind of self love and acceptance. But in another way, I think they're almost like family too. It really struck me that Kingsley called Molly a "brother;" just the way that he said, "Everyone should have a brother." It's such a sweet sentiment, especially considering that Lucien had a brother--someone he lost so long ago.

A corpse left buried in the snow. An empty puppet. A hollow, ghastly reminder of the person he once knew. Lucien had a brother, and they were killed, their body desecrated by their own parents. He had a sister, who he was willing to sacrifice everything for, and it still wasn't enough. In the end, even she doesn't trust him anymore, and he's entirely alone. So then here's Molly, and he does the one thing that Aldreda and the rest of his family never did. He decides to stay with Lucien. To reach a hand to him when he needs it the most.

In many ways, Molly is the family that Lucien always wished for. Ironically? If they actually were siblings, I think Lucien would've been very protective of him. Even as things are, Lucien still starts to grow a bit fond of Mollymauk in spite of himself. Starts to slowly regret the life he'd taken from him, as loathe as he is to admit it. "Nothing about this has been easy, and our hard work is at an end. Our chats have been...edifying. Goodbye, Tealeaf. You won't survive where I'm going."

I do think the end of the novel really did reassure me about a lot of why I found C2 heartbreaking, because I like that Molly and Lucien both decided to come back together. That it was a choice they both made, and they both live on as Kingsley. It's Molly getting another chance and yet deciding to bring Lucien back with him, because Molly thinks he deserves it too. It's neither of them being alone. It's both of them returning to the Nein, hand in hand, and deciding to try again--

[masqueradeassane]

Sometimes Gale wishes he didn't understand Astarion so well.

That he didn't understand how it felt to hide something awful with something that seemed worse on the surface.

Hunger, Astarion wore it so well, like a cloak, always gleefully showing his desire for blood.

But so, so careful when it comes to showing the need. To showing the ugly, beastiel nature, the desperate starvation.

Gale was the same, though in a different way.

He could sustain himself on the artifacts, he repeated it, he clung to it.

Truth was, the magic, he could feel it, taste it in the others.. in Shadowheart, Wyll, Halsin. Demonic, Divine, it was still magical.

It tasted like a feast on the tip of his tongue that he could never swallow.

And How Gale hated,and he was sure Astarion did, at least a little as well, how easily Halsin saw through them both.

He'd walked into the forest to clear his head, instead he'd run into Halsin, as large and calm as ever.

The druid had clearly just finished bathing in the nearby river, and Gale could see some newly healed bite wounds along his neck.

The druid just smiled as Gale tried not to stare, clearly he had no issues with Astarion's needs.

As he watched, the druid's smile softened even more as he observed Gale closely.

Without a word, he rested his broad back against a nearby tree. After a minute or so, Gale felt as much as saw the gentle green glow of whatever druidic prayer or magic Halsin was weaving.

But it didn't seem to have any obvious meaning.

"... Honestly.. come, you are as bad as The little Star when it comes to hiding your actual needs."

Until it wasn't.

"I don.. I don't need.."

"...Ignoring the fact that you're already halfway over here..."

The soft green lighting pooling in Halsin's palms looks refreshing... More than that, it looks.. sustaining.

".. I don't.."

But he doesn't resist as Halsin gently settles him in his lap.

He wonders, a little, how it must look to someone who might look towards the river.

He, a standard sized male wizard, settled in a large druid's lap while said druid held a hand to his lips like a parent feeding a stubborn child.

He tells himself that's why he leans over and starts suckling on the magic pouring from Halsin's fingers like cool water so easily. So that there's less time for someone to look around, to find them... to see.

It's harder for him to pretend he can't feel his own teeth bite into the tips of Halsin's as the feeling of being properly, magically FED, for the first time in days hits him.

He knows from the wrong angles, they probably look obscene, he's fully clothed, but Halsin has barely gotten dressed and he knows the noises he's making at the feeling of finally eating, in the purest magical form he can are... undignified.

But now that he's started, he can't help it.. He feasts.

Maybe he does have less self control than Astarion, even though the diet is different.

Halsin doesn't seem to mind, and this Oakfather he bonds himself to doesn't seem to be skimping on what Halsin offers Gale.

Instead he just let the wizard take his fill.

Full up and worn out, Gale sleepily slumped on Halsin's chest slowly falling asleep.

"My my, this is a state to find you two in."

Gale groans and tiredly lifted a middle finger up in the general direction of the sarcastic voice.

He pretends not to hear the quieter. "I'm glad, starvation is never pretty, no matter what form it takes."

For his sake as much as Astarion's, as he slowly falls into a satiated sleep.

[katsigian]

𝔚𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 ℌ𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔯 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢 ℑ𝔰 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔒ℭ?

I was tagged by @devilbrakers @swanfey @saevus-brutalis @morganlefaye79 to do this quiz, thank you all 🩵 You can find the quiz here - there's some slight body horror, so if horror isn't your thing, feel free to skip this one.

Tags: @rindemption @noirapocalypto @spicyraeman @halsin @bunfey @breezypunk @kharonion @humberg @balverine2077 @nuclearstorms @reaperkiller @florbelles @vincentmatthews @hydrasshole @indorilnerevarine @feykiller @aelyosos @uldwynsovs @ncytiri @f001onthehill @togepies @cybersmallz @vivanightcity @nokstella @necroticpetals @cyberneutral @thefrostyshepard @cyberpunkaddict if you were already tagged, feel free to ignore <3 As always, there's no pressure or obligation to like this post/share your results if you'd rather not. Also, this can be done for any OC from any setting.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✧ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

𝔙𝔞𝔩𝔢𝔫 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔩𝔞𝔴 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔦𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔢

a knife to your back is your first memory– it will also be your last. you cannot help but let things into your heart, such is your nature. time and time again, however, they hurt you and leave you to rot. but your heart remains open, and you continue to let more in. is it kindness, at that point, or is it sacrifice?

Ahh, I see 😭 how do these things always come back around to love? It's almost like Valen's entire violent, blood-soaked existence is because he so desperately wants to be loved and doesn't know how to separate pain and violence from love anymore. The reason why I like this result is because he's opened up his heart so many times to the wrong people, begging them to love him back. They didn't, and he'd be sacrificed yet again for their own needs. But Valen keeps trying, even as he's hurt and aching, his heart remains open. That's the thing about him - as many times as he's been torn into and sacrificed, he still looks for a warm place to sleep. As bad as he can be, as aggressive and as brutal he can get, he still hopes that one day someone will love him and he won't need to be a weapon as a means to keep them around. He hopes that finally someone won't lay him out on an alter to their own selfish wishes and cut out his heart in front of him (spoiler, he did find that person and he does heal).

𝔙𝔢𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔩𝔞𝔴 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔉𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩 𝔊𝔦𝔯𝔩

you're very tired, aren't you? thrashing and fighting and trying to survive– it has taken its toll, but that has not stopped you. you'll continue to gnaw and scream and bare teeth until you can free yourself from this mess, even if it means being the last one left. there is rest at the end of this hard battle, i promise you. there is a time when the fight will be over– but fighting is all you know, isn't it?

Yeah 🥺 Vesper's life, much like his brother's, has just been one long fight - a fight to not be like Callen, a fight to prove himself, a fight to survive. Vesper didn't have it easy, growing up and rebelling and then quickly realizing how far he'd fallen but it's too late to turn back because now he needs to be the thing he tried so hard not to be just to make it out alive. He's had it rough. As boyish and silly and carefree as he can be, Vesper has the same dark shadow following him that Valen does. He has a harder time coming to terms with the things he's done, but he needs to do them anyway. One day, all of that will spill over and Vesper may be just as dangerous as his brother is.

[daughter-of-melpomene]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆… 𝐌𝐘 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐘 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐋𝐘𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐍

❝ For almost as long as she’d known she was a half-blood, Lydia had wanted to go on a quest. Being an adventurous kid by nature (as well as a dramatic and overly perky kid, according to Camp Half-Blood’s notoriously surly head counsellor), she ached to venture out and retrieve some important magical object or face some terrifying monster on behalf of her father, to carry out a mission that would make for the summer of her life and get her some glory in the process.

Unfortunately for her, a quest didn’t seem to be the will of her father, Apollo - or of anyone else in her life, for that matter. Chiron kept insisting that she wasn’t ready, wasn’t trained enough, to put herself in danger like that; her moms, when she was home, practically forbade her to go even if her father did call her on one, not wanting her to be in danger; even her best camp friend Annabeth, for all she was desperate to go on a quest herself, didn’t think she was good enough to succeed. It didn’t even matter that Lydia was one of the rare Camp Half-Blood campers with an actual power from her godly heritage, that she could cause smaller wounds to heal if she just focused enough; she was always too cheerful, too trusting, too weak for anyone to take her seriously, let alone allow her to put herself in danger just because she wanted the thrill of adventure.

As much as it hurt - as much as she knew everyone else was wrong about her, they had to be - Lydia had resigned herself to always being blocked from what she wanted. She trained as hard as she possibly could every summer, in combat and survival skills and even honing her healing power, striving like Tartarus to be good enough that Chiron would finally deem her ready, and in the meantime, she hung out with Annabeth and dreaded going back to school when the summer ended and tried, always in vain, to get Mr. D to agree to let her arrange a camp-wide musical production. But she’s been going to Camp Half-Blood since she was seven, and now she’s twelve, and it’s starting to seem like the opportunity for her to go on a quest is never going to come… until Percy Jackson stumbles into camp having just killed a minotaur and is told he’ll have to locate Zeus’s Master Bolt and prevent an Olympus-wide war.

Seeing her chance finally arriving, and not about to let the fact that half-blood quests are typically done in threes stop her, Lydia sneaks out of camp and follows Percy, Grover, and Annabeth, gleeful when it’s too late to send her back by the time they even realize she’s come along. She’s absolutely thrilled to finally be taking part in a quest, to experience the high stakes and adventure she’s been aching for for so long - until their little band nearly gets turned to stone and killed by a chimera in rapid succession, and Lydia starts to think that maybe everyone was right about her not being ready for this after all.

Still, though, Lydia does have her best friend, a really nice satyr, and a sarcastic forbidden kid who’s actually kind of cute, as well as her typical bright smile, boundless determination, and arsenal of classic musical theatre songs. So maybe, just maybe, this quest that she isn’t even supposed to be on might not turn out so terribly after all.

If Zeus doesn’t smite her for helping the kid he suspects to be a thief. Or her father doesn’t smite her for going on a quest without his permission. Or her moms don’t ground her for life when they find out, or Chiron doesn’t give her that disappointed look he does so well, or all four of them don’t get killed along the way, or - okay, why did she leave camp again? ❞

General Taglist: @hiddenqveendom, @auxiliarydetective, @foxesandmagic, @artemisocs, @reyofluke-ocs, @endless-oc-creations, @stanshollaand, @ginevrastilinski-ocs, @luucypevensie, @ginger-grimm, @arrthurpendragon, @fakedatings, @impales, @claryxjackson, @dancingsunflowers-ocs, @eddysocs, @lucys-chen, @oneirataxia-girl, @ocappreciationtag.

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐔𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐨

An unexpected end to a day out leaves you reeling, but somehow, as it always is, everything would be okay in the end — one way or another.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✰ Biker!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ✰ 2.5k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ✰ Hurt/comfort, graphic description of a car accident, graphic descriptions of blood and injuries, use of CPR on a child, PTSD, delving into Bucky's military past (implied death of a child), medication/sedative usage, fluff

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 ✰ I swear there is a happy ending with this one — it kinda veered away from what I planned and I struggled to write it, but it turned out okay in the end. ✰ Fanfiction is healing — woohoo.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔 ✰ House of Pain by The White Buffalo ✰ Soldier's Eyes by Jack Savoretti

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ✰ Whumptober 2022 —  Masterlist

𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

A day out with Bucky had been on the cards lately, only postponed thanks to the new partnerships the club had ventured into. The interstate was surprisingly empty on the ride back home, almost suspiciously so, but Bucky didn’t seem to have any worries about it as the bike revved and purred at a steady speed. 

The pannier by your legs was stuffed full with a picnic blanket and empty Tupperware containers that once held the snacks Bucky had devoured without a second thought. 

“This is meant to be a romantic lunch, Buck!” You chastised, your eyes narrowed at the pig headed nature of your boyfriend sat across from you. You could have sworn with the way he acted, the man never ate. 

Bucky, ever oblivious, had turned to you with wide eyes and spoke around a mouthful of food from the once neat charcuterie board between you. He looked like a damned chipmunk. “Wha- I’m sor-”

You rolled your eyes when Bucky coughed against the crumbs falling down his throat and he glared at you when you couldn’t help but laugh. “Serves you right.”

The memory made you chuckle again and you squeezed Bucky’s middle, your chin resting atop his shoulder while the wind whipped the loose hair from your helmet back. 

Freedom had never felt so good.

It was late afternoon by the time you reached the exit for home and you were more than ready to collapse on a bed and nap through a food coma, when it happened. It could not have been more than a second, but it stretched on much longer than eternity. 

Bucky tensed in your hold and adjusted his hold on the brakes like he had anticipated it. 

The crunch of metal and the screech of brakes against the bitumen were deafening, a roaring possibility of the wreck that rolled over and over before the two of you was being guided by the Grim Reaper himself. 

“Fuck!” Bucky yelled over the roar from the engine of his bike against the sudden deceleration. “Hang on!”

Your arms clasped around his middle like a vice and you held on for dear life, a squeak of fear leaving your throat when Bucky swerved the bike to the side only just avoiding the debris of smashed glass and scraps of parts. 

“Oh, shit,” Bucky said suddenly and you looked up from his back. There was no sound of scraping metal or the roar of his bike - you were at a standstill next to the wreck of what used to be a car. “Babe, I need you to call 911,” your phone was in your hand before he finished asking. 

Suddenly, to your horror, you heard screaming coming from the back seat of the wreck. It was a child. 

“Bucky!” You cried, your hands shaking too much to dial for desperately needed help. 

“Call!” Bucky yelled over his shoulder, his feet carrying him faster than you’d ever seen him run towards the wreck of the car where the screams were coming from. You watched transfixed as Bucky ripped the door clean off its hinges to get to the child inside and you tried to ignore the splatter of blood on the now visible interior of the door. 

The dial tone was only just audible over the pounding of blood in your ears and you jumped to your feet to run towards the driver's seat. A woman, no older than yourself sat slumped over the wheel - unresponsive and covered in blood. 

“Easy there, little guy,” Bucky spoke softly over the wailing of the little boy strapped in his car seat. “Babe,” you looked into the backseat with wide eyes. “Does she have a pulse?” Bucky gestured to the woman slumped over the wheel - she must be his mother.

Hastily you felt along her neck until you felt a rapid beat. “She’s alive!” Bucky nodded and looked around the back seat of the car.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

You gasped suddenly at the voice and looked at Bucky, his eyes set and determined as he tied a makeshift tourniquet on the little boy’s leg above a deep gash. 

“There’s been a car accident,” you said quickly before rattling the location off with practised ease - thank god Bucky was here, otherwise you’d be a hysterical mess. “There’s a young woman and a child.”

“Can you see the extent of their injuries?” The dispatcher questioned. Somehow, you could hear the click of their keyboard in the background. 

You looked over the woman again, desperate to find a source for the blood that covered her torso and head. “No, I can’t see how or where the woman’s hurt but she’s unresponsive,” you urged over another ear splitting cry from the little boy. 

“Do not move her unless the vehicle is alight,” the dispatcher ordered and you nodded quickly - even though they wouldn’t see. “I need you to tell me how badly hurt the child is.”

Bucky was working quickly despite the screams right next to his ear, and his hands were covered in blood when he pulled away to look at the child’s arms. The sight of blood on his hands sent you down a spiral of panic entirely unrelated to what had unfolded before you. 

Bucky, the love of your life, your king - was going to be triggered beyond hope once this was over. The look in his eyes was methodical, a well oiled machine in the face of literal turmoil and destruction. God, be kind to him when this is over, you pleaded in your mind. 

“He-” You started but your voice failed when the little boy fell silent, his small body falling limp in his seat. “Buck!”

“What’s happening?” The dispatcher asked quickly. “I need you to tell me what is going on, ma’am.”

“The boy-” you gasped with the dawning realisation that he wasn’t breathing. “He’s not breathing! Bucky!”

With inhuman strength, Bucky ripped the child seat out from the back and hauled it out onto the road where bystanders crowded around with towels and blankets in hand. “You need to perform CPR on the child,” the dispatcher ordered and you ran around the car to kneel beside Bucky who was pulling the child from the seat. “Put me on speaker and I’ll walk you through it.”

“No need,” Bucky deadpanned and you winced. “I know how.”

A couple of bystanders broke from their shock and fell to their knees on the other side of the child. “We’re here for when you get tired,” one said and Bucky grunted in acknowledgement, his helmet the only thing keeping his swaying hair from his eyes on every press of his hand against the child’s breastbone. 

The wail of sirens could be heard over the chaos of the scene and you let a flicker of hope begin to build at the sound. Help was here. 

Bucky was still doing compressions with minimal guidance needed from the operator and once the trucks pulled up to the scene, you thanked her and hung up. Men and women clad in dark uniforms swarmed around Bucky and you tried to pull him back. 

“No!” Bucky growled, fighting against your grip against his shoulder. “I have to-”

Oh, fuck.

“James, I need you to look at me.” 

Bucky froze and looked up at you, his face cast in shadow from your figure leaning over him. “That’s it,” you soothed, pulling him gently away so the EMTs could get to work. “Come with me, c’mon.” He went to protest but you shushed him gently, pulling him along to the shoulder of the interstate by his bike. 

Carefully, you sat him down against the fence so you could kneel between his splayed legs. His bike shielded him from view and he could not look past it to see the crash scene. 

“Babe,” you whispered and Bucky looked straight at you, only his eyes were glazed over and haunted. It was like he couldn’t see you. “Can you hear me?”

A small nod. You placed your hands on his biceps and squeezed. “Where are you, sweetheart?”

Nothing. 

You were no stranger to these episodes. Granted, they were becoming far and few between lately, but this one seemed to take the place of the worst one yet. Through his time in the Army, you learnt through Steve that during some sort of exercise - he never divulged more than that - Bucky had endured such a horrific situation that your stomach baulked at the very thought of it. 

There was a reason Bucky was so kind with children. After losing an orphan to an IED that the rebels planted, he took it upon himself to make sure no child suffered around him if he could help it. 

Survivor's guilt was a monster.

His hands began to shake violently and you jumped into action. The pannier of his bike always held a kit for these moments - it was unorthodox for a biker to carry around a bag of medication strong enough to tranquilise a horse and just this once, you were relieved that for once Bucky listened to Stephen.

“Okay, sweetheart,” you said quietly, settling between his thighs once again. “I need you to open your mouth, and I’m going to put the medication on your tongue.”

Wordlessly through his tremors, Bucky opened his mouth and allowed you to place the pill on his tongue, chasing it with a mouthful of water. “That’s it,” you tried to sound reassuring against the wave of anxiety beating in waves against your chest. “I’m going to call the guys, alright? They’ll come pick us up.”

You got to your feet and walked over to Bucky’s bike while your phone dialled Steve. One ring and it connected. 

“Hey, sweets!” Steve greeted but for once, you couldn’t manage a smile. “Where are you and Buck? We’ve been worri-”

“Steve,” you interrupted and he fell silent. “I need you to come pick us up, Bucky’s stuck… y’know, we saw an accident and there was a kid.”

“Oh, fuck,” Steve said simply and you almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Where are you? Can he ride?”

You rattled off the location again and sighed. “I’ve given him his meds and he’s just sitting there. He can’t ride.”

“Okay, I’ll get the guys and we’ll bring the van. Sit tight, darlin’.”

The call ended and you fished for your purse in the pannier when an EMT and police officer approached. “Ma’am,” the officer greeted and you tensed. Cops were bad news. “Your partner,” he pointed at Bucky’s who was resting against the fence, “saved that little boy’s life today. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I didn’t see what happened, only the aftermath.”

The officer nodded and wrote something on his notepad. “Is he hurt?” You looked at him confused and the officer pointed back at Bucky.

“Oh, no, he’s not,” you looked over your shoulder to see Bucky staring back at you blankly. “He’s just-” 

“Understood.” The officer said and smiled softly when you met his gaze. “I will need to take your details for the report, I suspect discussing this at a later time would be the better course of action.” You nodded and supplied your own details and said goodbye to the officer, but the EMT hadn’t moved. She had a kind face and she was holding some sort of bag in her hand. 

“Are you injured?” You shook your head and picked up your purse again. “Very well.” She turned and walked away back to the ambulance, leaving your company. 

Quickly, you clutched your purse to your chest and turned back towards Bucky who was still watching you silently. His hands had become lax against his thighs. “Hey, you,” smiling softly, you knelt back down between his legs and unzipped your purse, pulling free a packet of wipes. “I’m gonna clean you up a bit, all right?”

Bucky nodded minutely and remained still when you grabbed his right hand first, gently running the wipe over his fingers and knuckles, then his palm and wrist. 

“You’re a hero, baby,” you said quietly as you moved to his considerably bloodier left hand. “You saved that boy’s life.”

“I couldn’t leave him,” Bucky croaked. His throat worked as though he was swallowing glass and he winced.

“I know, and I’m so proud of you,” you reassured as you pulled free another wipe. “My hero.” Bucky’s lips twitched up into a smile briefly.

The rumbling sound of an approaching bike caught your attention and Bucky watched as his brother’s came to a stop by his bike, away from all the trucks and first responders. “Time to go home, baby, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed and shifted his legs as though to get up but you stopped him. 

“Baby, you’ve had your medication and I can’t catch you,” you rushed and you got to your feet as Steve and Sam approached. “Let them help you, please.”

“Well, hello there,” Steve smiled and he pulled you into a hug as Sam walked towards Bucky who had begrudgingly remained seated on the bitumen. “You doin’ alright, sweets?”

You nodded and pulled away. “Just wanna get him,” you pointed to Bucky who was glaring up at Sam, “home. It’s been a long day.”

“That it has,” Steve agreed and turned to Bucky. “You ready to go, Buck?”

Bucky nodded and you turned towards the van where Peter was waiting with the passenger door opened. The sounds of the two men taking Bucky’s weight was almost comical and you were tempted to fire over your shoulder that he wasn’t that heavy - but you resisted, just this once. 

“Hey, Pete,” you greeted instead and Peter smiled softly, his hand resting on your shoulder as you passed him to sit in the middle of the bench seat. 

“Make room, brooding oaf incoming!” Sam cried as they approached the door and you snorted a laugh. Bucky wasn’t amused and made to shove Sam in the shoulder but he stopped when he stumbled slightly. 

“Behave!” You called loudly out the window and Sam just grinned back. 

Peter helped them manoeuvre Bucky’s slumping frame into the passenger seat next to you and buckled him in. “I’ll ride Buck’s bike back,” Steve said and pointed to Sam. “He’ll lead and I’ll be right behind you.”

“Ride safe,” you whispered and Steve smiled. 

“Always.”

The door closed and Bucky looked at you blearily, the hooded lids of his eyes giving away just how well his medication actually worked - despite his constant protest that they never did. 

“Okay,” Peter started as he jumped in the driver’s seat. “We good to go?”

“Hell yes,” you stated simply. You wanted to go home, be back in your bed so you could hold Bucky close and soothe him from the nightmares that’ll no doubt plague him in the coming days. Peter chuckled and fired up the van while Sam’s bike roared to life in front. 

You looked at Bucky and smiled - he was watching you still and you reached out your hand to tuck his head into your shoulder. He grabbed at your hand clumsily and you adjusted his grip so you could run your thumb over his tattooed knuckles slowly. “Let’s go home.”

Peter caught your eye and smiled. “You did good today, you know. We’re proud of you.”

You couldn’t help the swell of pride in your chest at his admission, and you squeezed Bucky’s hand tighter when you heard his light snore. “Thanks, Pete.”

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭|𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

[sbi-au-ideas]

Tommy can speak to animals.

Normally, someone with this power would become a vet, or work in a pet shelter- but Tommy saw potential in his power- and after months of grinding and saving, he finally burrowed away enough money to do what he’s always wanted to.

He makes a coffee shop- for people and animals.

Now, Tommy knows that stray cats and raccoons don’t seem like wealthy company, but if he communicates with them appropriately, he can turn his 4-legged friends into petty thieves.

Because one thing that all of nature can agree on, is that shiny = good.

So while people are coming into his shop for coffee, idle talks, and a little free entertainment from his company; the crows are bringing him jewelry and stray coins, the raccoons are retrieving broken technology from the garbage, and the stray cats and dogs are bringing in customers.

Tommy, in return for the animals hard work, gets them “gifts.” As much of a gift that you can give creatures that don’t care for money or things that are particularly more tasty than the last thing they ate.

So, the crows are fed to the brim with seeds and dishes overflowing with bread crumbs, and while they eat they rest on his shoulder and nip at his ears while he works. He talks to them while customers are low, and they show off what amazing customers they are by chirping and crowing right back. No one else can understand them, but Tommy does, and he cackles loudly along with the murder of crows resting on his countertop.

When the raccoons wander into his shop, grumpy and untrusting as always, he directs them to a dish of fresh water to clean off in and listens to their chitter chatters, nodding solemnly as they review their memories with him. They’ll leave his shop cleaner and more well-fed than when they entered, and return the next day with gifts from the garbage to acquire another dip in fresh water and a warm biscuit.

The stray cats and dogs are interesting characters with varying needs. They might just be looking for a temporary shelter, or maybe they want saucer of water and ground beef. Sometimes their requests are more time consuming than others, like the dogs that wander up to his counter and whine for a bath to get rid of any flees and ticks. There was even a cat who demanded he stop his work and scratch behind her ears immediately. When he tried to resist, she gave him some pretty aggressive scratches. Well, some customers are nicer than others.

He feels good about his work. He especially feels good when he looks at the statistics of animals on the streets, which have gone down dramatically from his cafe keeping them clean and fed, raising the number of strays that get adopted or taken in by shelters.

Everything is going well!

Until a murder of crows fly up to his door at the end of a long shift, carrying one of the most powerful objects in the world:

The Power Orb.

The Power Orb is a powerful ability enhancer- once they figure out how to utilize it, anyway- that the Heroes and Villains have been fighting over for months, desperate to gain an upper hand over the other in their ongoing war of morals and superpowers.

And Tommy has it in his hands. The ones that are covered in flour, age-old coffee burns, and faint red claw marks.

…

It’s smaller than he was expecting it to be… and was there always this giant crack in the side?

Phil clutches the Power Orb in his arms as he runs through the chaos. Neither side knows he has it yet, so the fighting continues, abilities clashing in magic, fire, water, lightning, and illusions. His side is bleeding thickly, and his right wing burns as his healing ability fights to keep up with the damage he’s sustained.

There’s a crack in the Orb. No one knows what or who caused it, but the fighting only crescendoed when the Orbs power leaked into the air, uncontrolled. Even now, as Phil hugs the blue, translucent ball to his chest, he can feel his legs shake as it hums throughout his person.

He whistles sharply when he makes it far enough away from the fighting, some dingy alleyway on Southside. Quickly, his crows descend around him, cawing and crowing in a cacophony of sound.

He hands them the damaged Power Orb, rattling off orders about finding a safe place to keep it, and his voice cracks painfully as his entire body shakes with adrenaline.

The murder flies off just as quickly as they arrived, and Phil collapses to the ground, his hand reaching up to cover his mouth as bile crawls up his throat. He hits the emergency button on his wrist, before rolling over to rest his back on the dirty alley wall, gasping in air greedily.

Fuck. He can only hope those damn birds even know the definition of a “safe place.”

[lady-rose-moon]

I shall heal you || Fluff-a-thon || Loki ||

A/N: sorry that these requests haven't been completed, I have been particularly busy as of late but here is one request finally completed, I will be able to focus on these again now. Sorry for the long wait to those who requested.

Link to my fluff-a-thon masterlist is Here!

This wasn’t what you had planned when going on that mission. You had just imagined a quick mission with Stark and Tasha but no, you were the one that had to be hospitalised in critical condition for getting too close to land mines. Stark hadn’t warned you in time and now you were here, covered in bandages and forced to stay away from everyone so that you could heal naturally on your own. 

The result meant that you also had to stay away from Loki. You and the God had grown so close before you got injured. The God had sought you out when he was first brought back to Avengers tower to train to become an Avenger to redeem himself, he saw you as a breath of fresh air away from all the judging glares of the other Avengers. 

You missed his snarky replies, his cocky smirk as he leaned against the wall you were facing, a book cupped in one hand and the other gesturing wildly as he explained his view of the story as it went along. Even the books that he claimed to hate were always laid on your bedside table the next morning with a kind note on the top thanking you for lending him the book.

When you became a couple, you became increasingly inseparable. Loki was always seen with his arms around your middle or at the very least, your hand in his doing anything. That was how you liked it, you could never look far to see Loki there for you.

The morning of the mission, Loki had cuddled up to you and whispered to you that he wished you didn’t need to go, that you could stay in bed with him but you had insisted that you needed to go, that you needed to prove to the team that you were still an Avenger even without him beside you. Unwillingly, Loki’s arms unwrapped from around your waist and he kissed down your neck while whispering, “come back soon.”

His smile was burnt into the back of your eyelids as the mines blew up around you. You were panicked for a moment that you would never see him again but when you woke up in the hospital, you were relieved and immediately asked for Loki only to be shot down by the doctor.

“I’m sorry Miss Y/L/N,” the doctor had said with a disappointed voice as he looked down at his clipboard, “we cannot allow anyone to come in here until you are healed. You are highly exposed to any illnesses they may be carrying as your immune system was affected by the blow and is repairing itself. I’m sorry.”

“So…” you whispered brokenly, your eyes flicking around desperately as you tried to search for something to say, “when can I see Loki?”

The doctor looked back to his clipboard before raising his eyes to meet yours, “three weeks, Miss Y/L/N.”

That had been a week and a half ago and you were dying of boredom. Sure, the doctors had provided you with books but without Loki there to rant about them to you, they weren’t exactly interesting for long. The TV that was brought out quickly became monotonous as you weren’t into the British sitcoms without Loki there to mock them with you about their pathetic plotlines recurring constantly. 

You wanted your Loki by your side, helping you through the night when the pain meds wore off. His gentle hands would massage your aching muscles and his gentle caresses would make sure that you felt safe in this large white room all the time. Most nights, it wasn’t the pain that made you cry yourself to sleep. 

It wasn’t long into the second week of your quarantine that you began to get desperate to see Loki again, constantly asking the doctor if Loki could simply come inside with the protection that they were wearing, just to spend a few minutes with you but you were quickly denied and told that you needed to heal. 

‘Fuck healing,’ you spat in your mind as you glared at the doctor, ‘I want my Loki.’

That night, you were furiously wiping the tears from your face as you rewatched Loki interviews with Jimmy Fallon, James Corden or fuck even Ellen! Suddenly, you heard something clatter to the floor and you screamed, shooting up in bed before freezing when you saw Loki standing before you with his hands up. You stared at him in shock, unable to process the sight before your eyes and you shakily whispered, “Loki?”

The God of Mischief smiled happily and strode over to you, sitting on the side of the bed and cupping one of your bandaged cheeks. You stared at him in shock before tears welled up in your eyes. He looked as regal as you remembered, cheekbones high and mighty, displaying to anyone that saw him that he was a Prince. His hair hung longer than it had when you’d last seen him and bags were hanging underneath his eyes, signs that the God hadn’t been sleeping.

“I missed you,” he whispered weakly, wiping away the salty tear that cascaded down your cheek as you took him in, “they cannot keep me from you for long, my dear. I am here.”

You sobbed and leaned into his touch, your dry lips pressing to his palm as you watched his features soften. “But you shouldn’t be here,” you whispered softly, “I need to heal in quarantine alone. That’s what the doctor has been pleasantly telling me.”

Loki’s expression darkened before he shook his head and lay beside you, wrapping his arms around your middle as he buried his head into your bandaged neck. “I care not for what the Midgardian doctor told you, beloved,” Loki whispered against your skin, “my seiðr can heal you in twice the time. Allow me?”

You nodded eagerly and sighed at the peaceful thrum of his magic dancing down your body, his healing seiðr kicking in almost instantly to bring you to full recovery. That is why you needed him so much, he could heal you in triple the time that normal Midgardian medicine could. 

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

Hope you enjoyed!

@lokisgoodgirl @lokisninerealms @evelyn-kingsley @slpnbty2001 @jennyggggrrr @hahaha12123445 @ozymdias @holdmytesseract @itsybitchylittlewitchy @lovingchoices14 @xorpsbane @huntress-artemiss @muddyorbs @nerdy-fangirl-65 @lonadane @silverfire475 @chantsdemarins @iamsherlocked1479

[karmic-toast]

"𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮...♥"

Wc: 742

Tw: Mentions of death and injuries and blood, not too graphic tho. Angst with no comfort.

“Xiao… I’m so so sorry.” you choke your words through gut-wrenching sobs. His broken form, which you cradle in your arm twitches.

'Don’t be. It’s not your fault.' He wanted to say, but his words got caught in his throat. Sharp, agonizing pain from his karmic debt had dulled to a soft throb, as his gaze starts to drift. He was barely aware of you calling out to him.

Strangely, he felt peaceful. A feeling he used to be familiar with before he became an adepti, before he became Xiao, when he first met you.

A meek villager he had encountered after one of his massacres.

You, a sweet innocent minded do-gooder had helped him out, oblivious to his true nature. But Xiao- no Alatus knew that even if you had seen him kill, torture, and murder, you wouldn’t have been able to leave him to die like that.

Alatus had always taken care of himself after these fights, with his master not caring about him enough to even help him heal. It was normal. But that day… Alatus felt different. He was tired. Tired of killing, tired of fighting, tired of living. 

Then you came. In your angel-like glory, you descended from the skies above to come to his aid and nursed him back to health. You showered him with encouraging words and affection, support he had been deprived of for far too long. Soon he recovered, physically and emotionally, and for that, Alatus owed you.

He promised to protect you, to care for you, and to treat you as kindly as you did to him. The more time the two of you spent, Alatus showed you a side of him that many would deem impossible to even possess.

Love.

Alatus kept true to his word, fighting everyday, just so that he could cherish that sweet smile of yours, just for a day longer.

Until Alatus's sweet little secret was found out. His master spent no time, destroying the one thing that Alatus truly loved.

By the time Alatus had arrived, everything was ridden with destruction. Your village, your house, your family. Nothing was spared. And it was all his fault.

He stares at your bloody body, a complete loss of words. Alatus felt guilty, worthless, his one promise, his one love, died in the very arms that swore to protect. A horrible feeling arises in his gut. And his vision gets blurry. Alatus had never felt this way before. Then droplets of water form in his eyes, and he cries for the first time in his life.

And for the first time, Alatus felt grief.

As time past, Alatus became Xiao. He made new friends, which he lost over time. But Xiao... he desperately tried to keep your memories. To honor you. Of how you gave him affection, or how you scolded him for being to harsh on himself. But as all things would, his memories of you started to fade. But just as Xiao was about to give up, your reincarnated self walked by him during the lantern rite, and Xiao knew that it was you.

Xiao cursed himself for his foolishness. He'd lost the chance to have any relationship with you the moment he brought harm on you. Yet why does he keep coming back to you, eating Almond Tofu, and making flower crowns together, only to be slowly getting attached to you again?

But what he didn't realize was that you still harbored the same feelings for him in your past life.

Your broken sobs bring him back to reality.

"Y/n?" his raspy voice calls out softly, momentarily ceasing your cries. You hadn't heard of such name before, yet you felt like you had known it all your life.

His glassy gaze stares straight ahead, and you don't know if he's all there. But you do know is when he whispered "I love you." that he meant it. How his eyes clouded up with immense fondness for you, his one and only love.

"I love you too." you respond, and gripped his hand a little tighter.

Then he smiles. The biggest smile you've ever seen on his face.

His chest heaves up as he takes a breath, and he used the last of his strength to whisper "i love you..." one last time.

Then he grew still.

Masterlist

Previous works!!

-The most favorite (Sagau)

-Genshin High School AU

For those who took emotional damage, here's some Xiao fluff.

[taizi]

first of all your fic has me sobbing (i'm not exaggerating like i really am sobbing), second of all what was it that mikey said in his sleep though 👀

walk with open hands

x

Splinter goes from the rooftop battle to the lair in seconds and he’s staggered by the sudden shift. The calm and safety of his hidden underground home is disorienting. His heart is still racing with adrenaline. He curls forward and clutches his youngest child close to his chest and prepares himself for the next wave of danger. In that moment, Splinter would be willing to tear through Saki with his teeth. 

A footfall in the doorway snatches Splinter’s attention. His gaze snaps that way and lands on Leonardo, who looks at him like he’s seen a ghost. It’s a look that makes Splinter’s fur stand on end. He’s never seen his eldest look so brittle and diminished, as if he’s buckling under the weight of the world. 

And then Leonardo’s eyes dip lower, to the weight in Splinter’s arms, and fear chases everything else out of his expression like hounds running down a fox. Iron shoots through his spine and he crosses the room in two running leaps, already shouting behind him for his brothers. 

Because Michelangelo is writhing like a creature possessed. His arms are a horror, green skin flaking away as gold eats its way up in jagged, crooked lines. 

The boys come together like a well-oiled machine, scrambling desperately to help, every other thing they must be feeling shoved aside in favor of fear for their youngest. 

Leonardo leans over the smallest of his siblings and soothes him in a shaking tone, wiping away his tears in such a clear echo of Shen that it seems impossible she didn’t raise him herself. 

“Leonardo,” Splinter says, “qigong, now.”

His eldest hurries to obey. He’s clearly overwhelmed, clearly terrified, but the given task allows him a sense of purpose that clears the storm in his mind. His hands don’t shake or fumble, because he can’t afford them to. 

It takes several long moments. Longer than it should. That golden light wants to keep living in Michelangelo, has found a place in his soul it doesn’t want to leave. Splinter pours as much of his qi into the healing hands as he possibly can, determined to chase it and all the pain out. 

Finally, Michelangelo’s anguished thrashing tapers off. He heaves a great, shuddering breath, and all the tension in his body blows away with the exhale. Splinter sits back on his heels and feels about a hundred years old.  

“Infirmary,” Donatello says at length, his voice low and blunt. It’s unclear who the order is for, but everyone moves at the same time. Splinter leans forward to lift Michelangelo back into his arms, and tries not to notice the way Raphael yanks his hand away before it comes into contact with his father’s. 

The weight of one of his sons is a familiar thing to carry. Splinter has done this a thousand times before—the early mornings after movie nights, those accidental sleepovers when pre-teen plotting ran late—and he finds himself grateful that they’re still small enough that he can manage it. 

They’re still so small. What has he been doing, leading them headlong into this war? The second he became aware of the Shredder in New York City, he should have bundled them all up and fled with them as far as he could. 

Michelangelo is dwarfed by the infirmary bed and his eyes are half-lidded but he resists sleep with ferocious stubbornness. The same stubbornness that always managed to outlast his brothers’ difficult moods, that made him a force of nature in the dojo only when he wanted to be, that saved Splinter’s life on that rooftop moments ago. It takes all four of them to convince him to pry open his hands and release wakefulness and slide away through the darkness into healing sleep. 

Then Donatello is all business, blinking past the wet sheen in his eyes and drawing the blanket away from his younger twin. He reaches for a pair of shears on a nearby work table and begins cutting through the pink jacket.

“Hey,” Raphael says without heat. 

“It’s ruined anyway,” Donatello fires back. “And I want to look at his shoulder.”

Donatello has always put more stock in medicine than qigong, and it’s fair of him to be concerned about the source of all the blood staining the bright material a stomach-turning rust color. Leonardo leans in to help, eyes boring into Michelangelo’s pale, tear-stricken face as though committing the latest in a long line of personal failures to memory.

Splinter stands out of the way, hands folded in the sleeves of his ripped robe, watching the process from over their heads.

He has seen Michelangelo in this particular jacket three times now. 

The first memory comes rushing back—the meadow in the shadow of the mountain, the little river spirit in an inexplicable pink hoodie—the way it trembled where it stood, as if it couldn’t feel the warmth of the sun, and how clearly Splinter could recognize pain when he saw it. And despite all of that, the spirit smiled at him. It offered apology, and thanks, and even love. It spoke with the simple integrity and powerful empathy characteristic in children. It was definitely, Splinter had realized with a sinking heart, someone’s baby. 

He revisited the memory in a dream, not even a full decade later, and recognized that little river spirit instantly as his baby. Splinter sprang out of bed with all the strength and speed he possessed, sweeping down the tunnel into the room that functioned as a nursery. The turtles were too small for their own rooms and still preferred to slumber together in a pile, and Michelangelo was comfortably squished beneath Donatello, their little faces peaceful and untroubled. 

Splinter sat beside their nest for the rest of the night, his heart pounding. Michelangelo was so tiny and fragile in his sleep, when his limitless energy and manic good cheer didn’t make him appear two times larger than life. Splinter couldn’t begin to imagine how he could have ended up in that meadow. He couldn’t summon any reasonable explanation why the precious child would cry and apologize so earnestly. 

When Michelangelo got a little older, and he and his brothers were progressing effortlessly through their training, Raphael made the executive decision that the four of them should wear masks, like the heroes in their Saturday morning cartoons. Splinter obliged him, and took the boys into the side tunnel he used for storage, allowing them to pick from the fabrics he had available. Michelangelo went straight for a sunny orange color as if it had always been his. And in a way, Splinter thought, feeling both unrelentingly fond and quietly apprehensive, it always had been. 

The second memory of the turtle in the pink jacket did not stand out the way the first and the last did. On an unremarkable afternoon, Splinter had happened upon a frenzied Michelangelo in the den, pacing in restless circles. It only struck Splinter as odd because his sons had left for April’s apartment not even twenty minutes ago. But when he made his presence known, Michelangelo had whipped around with a lethal speed that spoke more of hard-earned experience than it did of training, and his eyes were as wide as the moon. 

It had been a long time since Splinter had worried about the troubling vision of his youngest in Japan. As a parent of four high-energy children, his mind was often occupied by a thousand things at once, each more pressing than the last, and distant memories of dreamlike encounters could not always be in his top ten priorities.

It was not the pink jacket that tugged at recollection that time. It was the way his sweet boy’s face had crumpled, the way he plucked at his sleeves and choked out, “I’m sorry, papa.”

“I should have been good. I’m really sorry.”

And suddenly, Splinter was terrified. Suddenly it felt as though they were on a one-way road and picking up speed, barreling towards an inevitable end. He held Michelangelo as tight as he dared and wanted more than anything to protect him from whatever was coming. All he could do was impress upon the child that he was good, that he was loved, that he never needed to apologize to Splinter—the simple act of existing was a gift Michelangelo had given his family that was impossible to repay, and they would be lost without him. 

Then he let Michelangelo go chasing after his brothers, and wondered if it would be enough. 

The third memory—the rooftop. Coming up on the end of fate’s one-way road. 

Splinter had raised his sons to trust their instincts. To put stock in the things their hearts told them. To listen to the voice in their minds when it urged them to move. It was an order of a magnitude more difficult for some of them than it was for others. Donatello and Leonardo had an inclination towards practicality and the arts they could study and practice. Raphael was too stubborn and righteous to do anything but the right thing, whatever the cost. But Michelangelo was a whirlwind of intuition. Michelangelo could breeze through life on a hunch if he wanted to. 

And on the rooftop, he was a coiled spring, waiting, waiting, waiting for some cue from the universe. He was so hot to the touch he nearly burned, and his arms were glowing through the sleeves of that pink jacket, and his eyes were fixed without blinking on some point above and behind Splinter’s shoulder. 

When the Shredder arrived, Michelangelo was ready. And now they’re here. They’ve crashed through the roadblock at the end of fate’s path and this is what comes after. This unmapped territory, unfamiliar ground. 

“What the hell is that?” Raphael says sharply. There’s a small clock resting against Michelangelo’s plastron, glowing gold and putting out heat like a furnace. 

“Don’t,” Leonardo says, throwing out an arm when Donatello’s hand drifts towards it. “Don’t touch it. Do you have something you can cut the chain with?”

A moment later, the chain around Michelangelo’s neck is broken, and Donatello is lifting the clock away at arm's length with the sort of exacting precision Splinter would attribute to a bomb disposal technician. The second it’s gone, Michelangelo stirs and starts to cry. 

“Wait—don’t go,” he says, and his siblings all jump in surprise.

“It’s okay,” Leonardo starts, but Michelangelo won’t be comforted. 

“I’ll get it right this time,” the child babbles, word salad. He still seems to be half-dreaming. “I’ll try again. Again. Again. Let me try again.”

“Hey hey,” Donnie says, touching his twin’s sweaty forehead with the calloused tips of his fingers, a gentle tap-tap-tap that is a secret code between just the two of them. “Angie, it’s all over, you don’t have to do anything.”

“I can fix it,” Michelangelo sobs, so much pain in every word that it wrenches at Splinter’s heart. “No one’ll know I’m gone. No one’ll miss me.”

Raphael’s eyes are bright and furious and wet. His fists would be curled into dangerous weapons, if both his hands weren’t already curled carefully around one of Michelangelo’s.  

“We’d miss you,” Leonardo says, only barely above a whisper. The grief in his voice is old, but the fear is brand-new. He’d come dangerously close to losing something important, something he might not have survived losing. “We’d miss you every single second you weren’t here, Mikey. What would we do without you?”

Michelangelo sinks back into sleep, never fully awake to begin with. Raphael lowers his head onto the bed, on the pillow of one folded arm, and doesn’t let go of Michelangelo’s hand. The room is tense and silent, all of them waiting for something. Waiting for the thick, clouded atmosphere to break open and finally give into rain. 

Splinter lays a hand on his eldest son’s shell, unsure if the touch will be welcome. Leonardo flinches and goes terribly still. Then his shoulders start shaking. 

“We had a funeral,” Leonardo chokes out.

“You died,” Donatello bites out. He’s unwilling to leave his little brother’s side, but all of his menacing focus is pointed at Splinter like a knife.  

Splinter had made that connection, somewhere in the quiet back of his brain—between the clock and the knowledge that Michelangelo’s best friend is a Timestress and those memories of Michelangelo that stand out in Splinter’s mind, that don’t quite fit in the chronological places they should, and the way his turtles look at him now. It still hurts to hear it. 

“I’m sorry,” Splinter replies, his heart well on its way to breaking. He says it again, “Moushiwake arimasen deshita. The last thing I wanted was to leave you.”

They will certainly need to talk about it in depth at another time. Splinter, of all people, knows trauma when he sees it. But it isn’t a conversation they’re ready to have right now. They’re barely clinging to their composure as it is. Splinter will let them go at their own pace.

“Mikey thinks—” Leonardo starts, and can’t bring himself to finish. 

“We let him think it,” Raphael says. “We all fell apart.”

“I’m not letting him go anywhere without me ever again,” Donatello says bitterly, sinking into a chair beside the bed. “I’m invoking grounding rights. The next time he goes on a time-traveling odyssey, he’ll have a chaperone.”

Leonardo is surprised into a smile. All isn’t lost. “Three chaperones,” he says. 

“Five, once April and Casey hear about this,” Raphael adds, muffled because he refuses to lift his head. 

“That is incorrect,” Splinter interjects. His sons look at him, conflicting expressions on their faces, and so he adds, “There will be six of us. We are a family, and wherever we must go next, we will go together.”

It’s too late now to sweep his children away to some safe, far-away place. They have friends and loyalties and memories tying them to this city. It is their home in a way it never quite managed to be Splinter’s. He missed the opportunity to be the best father to them that he could be. His life is a series of missed opportunities. 

But he has been given, of all wonderful, impossible, undeserved gifts, a second chance. 

“I won’t waste it,” Splinter says, gazing down at Michelangelo’s sleeping face. He still sees his baby sleeping there, untroubled and unburdened and full of light. “I won’t waste another second.”