#hurt/minimal comfort?

[blankweiss-sb]

Gift "Drabble"

For @hiding-in-the-vault

TW: Prison Arc + Post Prison, references to torture and eye removal

Summary: Eventually, Dream found a cave and hunkered down. He didn’t dare making a fire pit, didn’t know whether he could, but it would surely reveal his position. Instead he curled up in the warmest, most wind-safe spot he could find – and slept.

Or

Dream doesn't escape unscathed – mentally or physically.

The red stone pistons fired, the deep grumble distinctive from the ever present hissing of the lava. Dream didn’t dare lift his head or move his cheeks from the grimy, sticky floor of his cell.

Rule number whatever: Either be on your knees head bowed, or you better not have moved from the position Sir left you in.

Was Dream slightly bitter that even thinking Sir immediately called up an image of Quackity and tides of fear and anger? Yes. Would he show that bitterness? No. (Maybe Quackity would think he’d finally broken Dream but he hadn’t. Dream wasn’t quite broken yet, just brittle and fractured. If – when he got out, he’d just pour gold into all those cracks.)

Faintly, Dream heard it – the rustle of small feathers that could be crushed so very easily, the tapping of fingers against the wooden handle of a tool or weapon and a slight hum, the hum of a song Sap had loved. The lava curtains gurgled – please, red stone, fail, a moment of weakness gave itself a voice – before it fizzled out.

Sir bounced into the cell.

“Hullo, Dreamie, how are you? Comfy?”

Dream knew better than to answer. Quackity didn’t care, he just loved the sound of his voice too much. If Dream was lucky, Quackity would gloat, maybe kick Dream a couple of times and leave. That, Dream could endure, he could endure anything, anything but –

Fingertips stroked along the curve of Dream’s face, the one not pressed against crying obsidian and sticky maroon, and it was only the terrors of existence that prevented Dream from flinching. But nothing could have prevented Dream’s throat from releasing a whine when Quackity gently carded through Dream’s hair, almost petting him like a beloved dog.

“Awww, you’re doing good but being greedy, I see.”

Fuck you. Fuck you, Quackity, Dream thought as his head leaned into the comforting touch Sir was offering. It was his body seeking comfort, not Dream. It was his body being pathetic, wanting his torturer to be gentle. It was his body. Not Dream.

“You can be cute. But that’s not why I’m here, not today, puppy!” Don’t call me that. “I’m giving you a gift, look –“

Quackity burst out in little giggles, giggles Sapnap used to gush about. Sapnap had called them more adorable than a baby piglin. Dream had teased him about that, by that time already missing George pressed against his side and joining in on the fun. Teasing his brother had always been one of Dream’s favorite things and George loved to needle Sapnap, too.

A sharp of burst ripped through Dream’s skull as Quackity’s hand grabbed his hair tightly and pulled Dream up until Dream’s scalp was burning. “Listen to me.”

“Yes, Sir.” Two, three seconds more and Quackity let Dream’s head fall, huffing.

“And here I was about to clean you up, wash you, but no. You had to be bad. A bad puppy.” Dream flinched and Quackity’s laugh was more than delighted, echoing between obsidian walls. “Anyway, here you go, you’re going to need this.”

Something cold settled on Dream’s face and – comfort washed over Dream as he realized it was the cold porcelain of a mask, a mask Dream knew quite well. Greedily he sucked in some air and through the stale scent of copper coils and bracken water and burnt out embers, he caught a whiff of earthy flowers.

(“Earthy flowers? Are you serious?” Dream had laughed, pressing his shoulders against Sapnap’s. George had already been snoring, his legs hanging over Sapnap’s lap and his head nuzzling Dream’s stomach.

“Man, you asked me how you were smelling. Earthy flowers. Deal with it, it’s sort of disgusting.” But the tips of Sapnap’s ears had been a brilliant red.

“Someone’s lying~ But that’s ok. I like your hearth embers and George’s bark and petrichor, too.”

“Pe – tri – chor,” Sapnap had mocked. Yet he had relaxed into Dream and – they had slept, together and bonds untorn.)

It was Dream’s mask, not a replica, but his own.

Despite this meaning nothing good, Dream sank into old comfort. The safe feeling was soured by Quackity once again running his hands through Dream’s hair. “Things are going to get exciting,” he crowed, no, that’d be an insult to the death goddess and her harbringers, Quackity quacked. “Better to keep a few things mysterious, right? I’ll be generous and let you rest up.”

Dream didn’t know what Quackity meant until the next day when the pistons fired up and someone swaggered over the bridge. The bars slammed down, Techno grunted as he sprung the trap and it clicked in Dream’s mind.

Time passed.

Sir didn’t enter the prison.

How Techno didn’t realize one tiny but largely important fact was beyond Dream but he couldn’t help being grateful.

How Dream managed to escape with Technoblade was also beyond him.

(Sir had managed to shatter Dream – after Technoblade vanished. Sir had not only dug into all the cracks he’d made but also ensured that not even respawning would ever give back Dream’s sight. There had been a slight, incredibly miniscule chance that Dream could have regained his eye sight but… hard to do that without the vital part of eye sight.

Sir had left Dream cold and raw and – there had been moments.

Dream had even hallucinated at one point, must have imagined trembling hands cleaning him up, a lullaby he hadn’t heard since he was ten being sobbed against his ears and a determined vow being seared against his temple. The voice had sounded like Bad, but Bad hated him, guarded him even, offered suggestions like Dream’s loathing of being alone in the dark to Sir. )

“I refuse. You have done more than enough, he can look after himself now.” The coldness in Philza’s screech was more than biting, was cutting when Technoblade didn’t refute his statement.

Once again Dream’s weakness took over and he wasted a minute on hope, begged Technoblade without the right words or gestures but surely, surely Technoblade picked up on it – “See ya later, nerd, stay safe.”

I’m not seeing anything, settled heavy on Dream’s tongue but – Philza was there, feathers scraping against wooden planks. He must be flaring his wings before refolding them. Rinse and repeat.

It wasn’t pride stopping Dream from saying those words. It was Caution. Philza already was irritated with Dream – Dream, objectively, had harmed the man’s family greatly and in various ways. And in an altercation, there was no world in which Technoblade wouldn’t side with Philza.

So Dream bowed, once, the proper Admin way, and darted off into the forest, barely hearing a sudden intake of breath behind him, probably Philza’s. Technoblade wasn’t an Admin, he wouldn’t have known what Dream’s bow had meant.

They didn’t chase after him, anyways.

That first night Dream almost died five times.

The server refused to reconnect to him – a weak Admin was something no World wanted, vulnerability was undesired – and so Dream had to trust his ears and nose, rather than an innate sense of the World.

Twice the rattling of Skeleton bones was barely enough to get ready for the screeching of arrows flying through the air and aiming directly at Dream’s heart. Muscle memory was, thankfully, enough for Dream to land crits against the Skeletons, even though his own frame didn’t differ much from the Skeletons.

Once a zombie almost ripped into Dream’s leg and would have infected him. Dream was already on the ground, having tripped over a root and landing on a patch of ice that sent him careening through the snow. He’d been contemplating just curling up and sleeping when the zombie fell over him. A kick and crit had taken care of the zombie.

Twice, the environment itself, the World – hadn’t that smarted – had turned against him, giving him no warnings as ravines opened up in front of him. Only hearing the echo of stones crumbling and falling, falling, falling before the unbreakable hit the bottom and shattered into a thousand pieces not even gold could glue back together had warned him.

Eventually, Dream found a cave and hunkered down. He didn’t dare making a fire pit, didn’t know whether he could, but it would surely reveal his position. Instead he curled up in the warmest, most wind-safe spot he could find – and slept.

That first night ended and his first day in freedom dawned – judging from the birdsong sneaking through the tree leaves and into Dream’s cave.

Dream didn’t have the energy to stand up.

More hallucinations haunted his sleep – if it was sleep. His body felt too heavy, his thoughts too hazy for him to be sleeping but – at one point, the hallucination of Bad took root in his mind. Dream heard Bad coo, felt Bad heave him into a bed that Dream certainly hadn’t made, cried while Bad tucked him and drew covers tight around him.

“Sleep tight, good dreams will arrive, cupcake,” the hallucination’s voice quivered as rough, scarred fingers slipped underneath Dream’s mask and tugged it off. The hallucination wanted to card through Dream’s hair and it did, detangling the knots, casting Dream’s drifty mind back to the days of happiness and – “Shh, Clay. I’ll protect you, don’t worry.”

Dream wailed, his throat giving out on him. All the while, the hallucination kept touching him, gently, like Bad loved him, like Bad was here, like Bad cared.

(Love and care were two different shoes. Surely, Sapnap and George still loved Dream but they had shown that they didn’t care for him.)

(Dream was forgetting something. Or someone. Heat was lancing through his brain, pain a deliberating force on everything that was him. How his mind still had enough force to call upon a hallucination with the ability to mimic the sensation of touch he didn’t know. But there was someone else, an agenda, Dream was forgetting.)

(Clay hated getting sick, not only because he couldn’t play with Pandas but because he couldn’t help demanding attention. To be fair, Bad would always give it to him.

“I’m dying,” Clay sobbed, writhing against the covers Bad had forced him under. “It’s too hot, it hurts, I am dying!”

“Shh, you silly, silly cupcake.” Bad chuckled, gently stroking over Clay’s head. Those fingers were so good, they spanned half his head and… Bad was starting to mindlessly but gently tug at all of Clay’s knots, tutting whenever another appeared in the long locks of Clay’s hair. “You’ll be ok, I’m here.”

Whenever Bad acted like this, Clay could pretend that Bad wasn’t only Pandas’ Dad but also his own, and fierce, fierce love wrecked Clay’s body together with the many illnesses he suffered.

One day, one day Clay would create a server for them, for Bad and Pandas and himself and anyone else he loved. He knew he was strong enough, as were his convictions and dreams.)

Energy trickled back into Dream, day by day. The hallucination stayed, far longer than Dream expected it to, offering comfort and safety and the weakness was too strong. Dream, shamefully, gave in.

Until one day the rustle of wings, the wind whistling through feathers just outside his and his hallucination’s cave broke the spell.

“Mate?”

Not Sir, not Sir at all but –

“Get out.” His hallucination growled and the air pulsed with heat and old power – and there was no way that Dream’s stitched together mind could have replicate Bad’s aura when he was pissed and protecting someone. (Someone, not something, an important distinction.)

“Bad Boy Halo, I –“

“Leave before I make you leave. You offered no help, worse, you rejected sanctuary.”

“I didn’t know.”

Bad snorted and responded. Philza said words as well but – Dream had already lost the thread, his mind fuzzy with realizations and too full, too broken to comprehend anything. Until –

“Had I known he was blind and a baby Admin, he wouldn’t have left my house!” Feathers hit the stone walls. Or did feathers scrape along obsidian, crying in sync with the dripping walls? Sir was back, wasn’t he –

Scarred hands cradled Dream’s cheeks and a pair of leathery wings sneaked around and under Dream’s frame. The hands didn’t move. They just held his face and provided an anchor for his mind.

“Bad…” How to say the things he had to say, how to ask questions, how –

Dream’s head is pressed to a dark throat and his breath hitched. Too often Dream had been in this position whenever the world got too big, or he got too big for the world and it bared its fangs at him. Being settled against the thrum of Bad’s heart hadn’t rightened all the wrongs in the world but it had always – always – made them manageable.

“I’m here, Dream. Don’t you worry.”

Dream believed him and let himself fall into trust.

One more time.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Hi! I hope this is okay but I would love to hear more of ur thoughts about the Yunmeng siblings because they are important to me and your tummy hurt comic hasn't left my brain as just,,, such good immediate characterization! ^^ Thanks!

I have too many thoughts on the Yunmeng siblings to fit into a succinct post, but I can offer you a Jiang Yanli addendum to the tummy hurt alignment.

[bigassmoonchild]

Nothing

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Simon claims nothing would've taken him away from you, but it's clearly a lie. You feel nothing, nothing at all, until you are filled with the worst pain of your life.

Content Tags: Hurt/Minimal Comfort, Abandonment, Original Characters (no name, no gender, just a person), Pregnancy, Slight shit-talk of Simon, Even more Hurt/Minimal to No Comfort (more tags will spoil this, but if anything is triggering please let me know and I'll add tags), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha! Ghost, Omega! Reader, No Use of Y/N

A/N: surprise!

Part 1 | Previous, Next | Headcannons, Masterlist

There's nothing. Nothing in your room- yours and Simons- when you return back to it. Rephrasing it a little better, a majority of his stuff is gone when you finally drag yourself back to the room after spending hours crying. Some paperwork between rounds of crying, but mostly crying.

There's nothing there. His scent is slightly fading, but when you look around you can see the drawers of the dresser left open, clothes half dragged out. The closet is left alone, your nest sitting there all pretty and proper. Maybe a few things shifted from pulling something out.

There is nothing of Simon's left in your room and you are panicking. The room is partially destroyed and you are adding to the damage, throwing other drawers open and tossing blankets around, trying to find something to reason through what's happening.

You feel nothing. Sure, you can feel your heart pounding in your chest and your head, you can feel the cold prickle of fear riding through your body but you truly can't feel anything. Your vision is tunneled and suddenly you can't feel anything.

Dropping to your knees, you can feel the hot tears pouring down your face but you can't feel anything. Nothing feels real. You can feel the pup, kicking angrily, but can you really feel it? Sure, the sensation is there but you aren't able to fully process it.

Your vision is blurry and there is really nothing that you can see but your blinking aggressively. The tears are still pouring but they aren't clouding your vision as much when you're blinking, and now you're seeing the little speck of white buried under a few blankets in the nest you'd destroyed.

Struggling up, you stumble to the nest and drop yourself in. There's a paper there, crinkling under your knees before you're pulling it out and looking at it. It's folded and wrinkly, slightly torn in one place but your opening it up and looking at it.

Mission called. I would have come seen you, but it's an emergency. I shouldn't be going, the pups due far too soon but they won't be able to do much without me.

I love you. I truly, truly do. I'm sorry I can't be all that you need, but I will try and be back as quick as possible.

Si

The paper is suddenly in your face, the scent of him is just barely washing over you. It's faint, but it's there and it's all you need. It's there until it isn't, and suddenly you can't smell anything on the paper anymore.

There's nothing left of Simon, and you are sitting in your nest, weeks, maybe a month from giving birth to his pup. Alone. Alpha has left you alone and now you're so, so scared.

But you feel nothing. There is nothing there and you are suddenly back to yourself, staring at the wall. Thoughts aren't processing, it's all empty but there's so much in your head that you are completely unsure of everything.

A knock is what brings you out of your stupor. Your head turns slowly to look at the door, blinking carefully as you stand. One foot in front of the other and now you're opening the door.

John's Omega.

They smile, eyes crinkling just a little from it, but there's worry in their eyes. "Hi, honey," they whisper, pressing you back into your room and closing the door behind them. "John told me they left suddenly, wanted me to check in on you," and they wipe your tears from your cheeks.

You give a weak smile, trying to push out a short thanks but they're pushing you into your nest and you can feel the exhaustion settling over your body. Your eyes are blinking shut, and suddenly there's nothing.

They hadn't seen anything like this in a while. Sure, John had mentioned how destroyed your relationship with Simon was, but seeing how destroyed the room was? It scared them. Horribly.

Maybe Simon was hurting you, but they couldn't really tell. There weren't marks, but you were so destroyed over something like this that they were so, so worried. Had it been emotional abuse this whole time? Simon hadn't ever seen like the type of person to do that, but maybe they'd read him wrong.

Maybe it was all a ruse. Just make him look good until you gave birth and he could kick you to the curb, pull the 'baby trapping' bullshit a lot of other Alphas often did. They hoped, for the sake of John and their relationship, that Simon didn't do that. That he wasn't that type of person because John would be getting hurt if he knew.

They decide to clean up the room. There's clothes hanging out of the dresser drawers, the blankets are tossed from the bed and the blinds are shut tightly. The first thing they do is go to open the blinds, but glance down at you sleeping.

It could wait, so they decided to go on and start cleaning up the clothes laying about. Folding them, figuring out if something was actually dirty and tossing them into the hamper, putting them away.

They drag the hamper to the laundry room, tossing everything in and going back to your room. It looks a little better, it's a little dusty but there's enough stuff there that it would make sense. They could tell what was mostly yours, and what was Simons contributions. Your stuff might not have been overly large or colorful, but just from interacting with you a few times they could sense your style.

It was alright, John wasn't too dissimilar to Simon in that way. He didn't like having things to clutter everything up, he was more of a person that found use in the items he kept around. He didn't want something pretty to look at, or something that just brought happiness.

Christ, you needed all the happiness that these little items could offer. The room was dark and dingy, rather small considering you were a mated pair. Maybe they should mention it to John when he returns.

Get you a better room, especially once the pup is around. But maybe there was an apartment, a home where yourself and Simon lived that held the things you needed. Gave you the room that you would need with a pup.

Everything was cleaned up, all they were waiting for was the laundry to finish. Sitting on the freshly made bed felt wrong, but it was that or the desk.

The desk. It had a paper on it, and they felt bad but they grabbed the paper anyways. And they blinked. And blinked. And blinked once more as they read through it, seeing the bland words and shit handwriting.

Simon was a shell, they decided. A shell of a person, nothing inside of him. Truly, a person who mated an Omega needed to care for them, did they not? That was what they grew up knowing, grew up understanding. There is little else that was needed for a mated pair, other than the love of the other half.

That's what mated pairs were. Two halves of a whole, trying to become closer and, hopefully, become one. Maybe their mating to John was lucky, maybe it was something that very few were lucky to get.

And over the next few days, they had time to investigate a little further. Speaking with you was interesting, something they hadn't had much time to be able to do during the few times they were with you. You're personality was slowly coming through, your humor finally being unveiled.

You cracked little jokes here and there, humoring both them and yourself while sitting in your little office filling out more paperwork. You had to hand off the duties, you'd explained.

"Once I'm out, they don't really have a 'doctor' on duty left," they nodded with your words. "They need me to sign off somebody to have the same abilities I have, someone I trust to be able to run this place in my absence," it was interesting. A job where there wasn't just somebody available to fill your spot in place of emergencies.

How had they been able to fill your role when you'd gotten hurt? John had come home short with everyone and they'd been able to get it out that Simon was sulking about you getting hurt.

Boo-fucking-hoo, they thought. Simon was an adult, and so were you. You could make your own decisions. He seemed more and more like a controlling freak with everything they'd learned.

"I love him so much," you whispered during dinner once.

"Huh?"

"This whole... thing," you started, pushing food around on your plate, "was entirely an accident. I don't know how much Price has told you, but it was a huge accident," they nodded with you. "I was assigned with them on a mission, trying to find an extremely dangerous aphrodisiac. It sounds like one of those weird fanfictions, but I mean it genuinely," they snorted at your comment.

"We all have to enjoy the occasional fanfiction," you laughed, head tossed back and mouth open. A little grunt stopped your laugh, hand clasping over your belly.

Clearing your throat, brows still furrowed, you continued. "It was Soap and Gaz, I think, who were clearing the way. Simon was supposed to guide me, body guard me so I'd be able to get a safe enough sample of it, but shit went downhill. We were getting shot at, Simon took a tranq to the shoulder so I just... jumped into action," your eyes were glazed over with tears, looking off into nowhere.

"Jumped into the hall and got a tranq myself, woke up somewhere hot. Everything was so hot and my mouth tasted sweet. They dosed me and Simon, we'd have died if we didn't fuck. He marked me, and now we're here," you whispered. They looked at you, eyes wide and shock filling their features.

Christ, you really were in a shitty situation. Everything seemed to be getting worse and worse the more they learned. "Are you serious?" You nodded, hand grasping at your stomach once more.

They looked down to your belly. "I'm fine, pups just been moving a lot more," you looked away, eyes once more cast over with a glaze and seemingly just gone from the world.

It was quiet, for some time, and in that moment they wanted nothing more than to beat Johns ass for not telling them the whole truth. Lies are shitty, but half-truths are even worse. For some time after that, when they laid in bed, all they could do was think.

Were you happy? Were you just stuck in a shitty situation that became shittier each day? Maybe it was nothing, but with the way your eyes glazed over when you spoke on stories about Simon, they doubted there was much wrong.

Just two people, stuck in a situation that was made worse and worse but the two of you were trying to make everything better.

It's late, very fucking late and you are exhausted. Laying in bed had been incredibly uncomfortable, but laying in your nest was worse. Your back was spasming, you assumed from bending over to pick something up a few hours ago, but you could feel the pup settling down for what felt like the first time in ages.

The pain from the pup moving was now coated in the general pain of your stomach. You thought everything was just fine, even if you were even more tired and you just wanted to curl up in your nest.

You had a few more things to do before going on maternity leave, and god be damned you were going to get it done. Even if you didn't sleep all night, even if you were in your office at 6 in the morning.

And you were. Signing a few more documents, just confirming everything. The pain wasn't all consuming, but it was getting there. The pup wasn't moving at all, and maybe that should be worrying you. Maybe it was nothing, but the knock on your door brought your attention from staring at the same document you signed some twenty odd minutes ago.

Johns Omega was back, and they were smiling widely at you. Their phone was held to their chest, covering the microphone and shuffling over to you.

Your name came over the speaker, Simon.

"Hi, Si," you whispered, staring down at the phone screen. It was quiet, for some time.

"I don't know when I'll be back," he whispered, gunshots echoing around him. "We've got some leads, but a lot of the people we've got aren't working with us. We're in Mexico, but that's all I can tell you," he whispered.

"Mexico?" He hummed. "Is it someone you're looking for?"

"You know I can't really tell you much more," and you winced, a little groan falling from your lips. "What was that?"

"Nothing, 'm alright," you whispered, eyes falling shut as you rubbed at your belly. "I just miss you," you added.

He hums, a few more gunshots echoing around him. "I miss you too, lovie, but I should be returning within two or three weeks," you made no noise.

"That's about the time I'm due," you whispered and he sighed audibly. The gunshots sounded louder, much closer, and you could feel the hairs on the back of your neck rising. You could feel the innate fear that came with these situations.

"I've got to go. I love you, Omega, through and through," and you returned it, feeling tears pricking at your waterline. Handing the phone back, you winced once more. A little groan fell from your lips, the pain wracking up before slowly drifting off.

John's Omega disappeared, looking at you carefully as they walked out of the office. You needed to get one more document signed, and you could go back to your room and sleep for a week.

The pen felt heavier and your hands felt shakier. The signature was a little off from what you were normally able to do, but if it was what got everything done, you were more than happy.

Dropping the papers into the slots outside of your office, you shut and locked the door. The walk back to your room was horrible, you had to stop every few moments to breathe. Just breathing was a little painful.

You want to crawl into your nest as soon as the door shuts behind you, but the bathroom door that's cracked open calls to you. A hot bath is all you want, and your shed your clothes as you nearly stumble to the tub.

Carefully settling yourself down into the tub, you shift around to get comfortable enough to and plug the drain. The water that starts isn't the warmest, but it seems to quickly heat up.

You aren't entirely sure where the time has gone and suddenly the tub is just a few inches short of the top and you're struggling to turn the water off.

You're in so much pain and all you can do is rock yourself in the water. You can feel your eyes shut tight, the pain just a little bother compared to what you're feeling.

Time is incomprehensible. One moment, you're alone and crying out in pain what feels like every few seconds, and the next you have John's Omega and a few doctors surrounding you.

Things are stuck against you, something is stuffed inside of you and you nearly bite the person.

"...looks good..." you're only grasping little bits and pieces. "...little early... looks safe..." and you can feel a hand slip into yours before your ears are ringing and Christ is that you screaming?

It burns. You can feel your body lunge forward nearly over the side of the tub as you shout, fingers digging into skin and tub. It seems to be lasting forever, but your head is a little fuzzy and all you can see are little dots littering your vision.

There are voices, now, filtering into your mind as the cool of the tiles underneath you bring your focus back. You're still naked, but you can't feel most of the parts under your waist. There's a weight on your chest, and you can hear someone shouting about 'getting that god damned Alpha back now, his pup is here' but your head is a little fuzzy.

With a dry mouth, you lift your head up a little and look down, seeing something laying on your chest before your hands rise and cup it. Oh. The pup.

But you can still feel cramping pains stabbing through your stomach and the pain of your head dropping onto the tile does nothing to you. Your vision is suddenly black, when had your eyes squeezed shut? Your body is cramping down and all you can do is scream.

Once more, your vision is a little hazy but you've been moved again. You can feel soft things underneath you, and when you looked down you've got two pups lying across your chest.

They're wrapped tight in blankets and all you can do is just blink down at them. Little, tiny creatures. Things that were once nothing are now something.

You can faintly feel some stabbing pains in your lower body, but you're blinking blearily at the pups. They're so beautiful, and you think you can feel tears falling from your eyes but there's no way you are moving your arms when they're sleeping so cozily in them.

Suddenly, you can hear Simons voice and it's crackling and breaking but you still feel adrift. Like you're floating, nothing left in your body as you watch from a distance. John's Omega is holding a phone close to you but you're just blinking, maybe you were looking over your own body at one point.

And suddenly the weight over your arms are disappearing and you can feel your mouth pull back in a snarl. The sound comes from low in your chest, something you'd never heard from yourself, and it's what brings you out.

They're standing there, pulling the pup from you. "I'm just going to go clean the pups up, they're still gross from the labor," they whisper and press a hand against you, the phone dropping into your lap.

"Lovie, please, are you there? What's happened?"

"Simon," you giggle, head falling back. "Simon, Simon, Simon," you whisper. "Pretty name, what should we name them?" He's whispering something, maybe actually saying something but the pup is wailing suddenly and your first instinct is to press them against your breast.

There's more voices coming from the phone but the wailing is no longer there, and you can faintly feel the pup latch. "What's happened? Is that a pup? Please, lovie, did you have the pup?"

You giggled again. "Had two of them, popped them both out but I don't remember it. Can't feel half my body, lil things are feisty," and you can hear a few other voices from Simons end of the phone.

"Two?" You can almost hear a whine in his voice, some more jeering from the background but suddenly John's Omega is there and you have no idea how long it's even been until they're pulling the pup from your chest and plop the one they'd been cleaning onto the other breast.

It feels like hours before you finally have both pups back on you, watching as they sleep quietly. You'd love to sleep like a baby. Just like them. Not a care in the world, but Simons talking again and you can't really understand what he's saying for a few moments.

Things seems to come back to you, feeling the other Omega curl up beside you in your nest. "What're their names?" You shrug, looking down at the pretty little pups.

"I dunno," and you're giggling again. Whatever the hell they gave you, it was amazing. It's quiet for some time, you're just watching the pups. Maybe it was only a few minutes, maybe it was a few hours, but you can slowly feel yourself coming back. It is a slow realization, and you can feel the tears filling your eyes. "You weren't here," you whispered, and now there's another whine coming from him.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to be there with you, but I can't," and you can almost hear a sob or two come from him but you're trying not to wake the pups.

Nothing. You almost feel nothing, but there's the little prickle of love filling you as one of the pups shift in your hold and you're brought back to the present. With your little family. Alone.

Taglist: (Please send an ask/DM to be added)

@sae1kie @shinebright2000 @zechie-spams @itsmadamehydra @smiley-roos @enrapturedbythemoon @stargatenovus @cowboydisaster @josieguts @the-queen-of-england183 @littlelovebug98 @cringeycookies @averytiredfanfictionwriter @kariiiel @http-paprika @snorklingfae @lukneetoonz @wise-owl @waves-against-a-cliff @megkviss @ducks118 @404lunar @zoom-zoom77 @hollowmasque @bootabo2000 @ducks118 @bunnyvs @perfectus-in-morte @itsmytimetoodream @the-occasional-artist1125 @lunamoonbby @ghostslittlegf @teddywebby

To my favorite people: This is not the end. I want to clarify, if you'd like to finish reading here, that is perfectly fine. I have not intended this to be the end, I may have one or two more chapters left, but there will not be much more. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to a general tag, or if you'd like to be fully removed from my future taglists.

If I have missed you and you wish to be added, I apologize. Please send me another request, and I can add you!

Thank you for your patience. I can go in depth with my disappearance, but I will leave this here.

Much love :)

[sootical]

Permanence

->Wilbur Soot x Reader (hinted but never explicitly stated) ->No use of Y/n ->I tried to be as gender neutral as possible.

*Hurt, minimal comfort, hopeful ending TW: Su*cidal ideation, Self destructive thoughts and actions, SH mentions/references, depression, lots and lots of depression. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK Summary: You are stuck in a multi-month long depressive episode, and it's gotten so much worse. You're on your last leg, and you need someone to help you. Good thing best friend(?) Wilbur and his band are there to help :] Word Count - 2.4k

Wilbur Soot. Twitch streamer turned famous musician, heartthrob—you get it. He’s everything anyone could want in a partner. Trust me, I would know. He’s been my best friend since form. And since then, he’s only ever been kind and considerate and just overall an amazing person. What a guy right? With his stupid brown hair that covers one of his eyes when it’s outgrown. Stupid brown eyes that have just the right amount of dark and light brown in them. It’s stupid of me really, to ever hope for a future with him that involves us being more than friends. I can only hope though, right? He’s up there, in the states, singing his heart out on a stage. While I’m stuck, on the other side of paradise–more like purgatory–lamenting on how many people adore him. I’m feeling sorry for myself, rotting away in bed at 2 in the morning. It’s not like I have to work in three hours–whaaaat nooooo… A knot develops in my stomach at the mere thought of leaving my bed. Maybe losing my job isn’t so bad. Wilbur has told me time and time again he’d pay me to edit for him. But I could never make him do that. Never would I take advantage of him like that. I’d feel like more of a burden than I already do. The thought of him having to support me financially makes me want to vomit. It makes my skin crawl, so it’s okay if I waste away. If I end up rotting away in my bed. It’s fine. At least then I wouldn’t be able to consume too much of Wilbur’s time. Taking up too much of his time has always been my biggest fear. To me, it came true a long time ago and I’m finally reaping what I sowed. It sucks really, how I thought I'd have a shot. Just for it all to blow up in my face. Now he’s somewhere in America–having the time of his life. Good for him. Bad for me.

Reaching over, I grab my phone. My coworkers probably hate me. I keep asking them to cover my shifts so I can rot in bed for another day. It’s been like this since–September? It started off just once every few weeks. Now, it being almost December, I’ve not gone to work in over two weeks. What’s the point anymore anyways? I can’t do this. I can’t do anything. Deep down, when I started doing things for myself–I knew I wouldn’t be able to do this. That was two years ago. I guess I’m finally breaking.

Pulling the duvet over my head, I try not to think about how my breath smells, and the uncomfortable way the oil sticks to my face. I shove my head into the pillow. Trying to block out the sounds of people existing below my apartment. It’s so much easier to rot away when people don’t rely on you. When you have no reason for existence. I don’t want to die. But at the same time I don’t want to live. I’m too much of a coward to do anything about it, so I lay and wait. I wait for some omnipotent being to strike me down and judge me for how I’ve managed to mess up any and all relationships I’ve ever had with anyone. Me and Nikki haven’t spoken in almost a year. Me and Wilbur haven’t even seen each other in months My family doesn’t talk to me.

I wish I could say “The world is fucked and everyone hates me.” But that’s not the truth. The truth is I am my own undoing. I have destroyed everything I’ve worked for. Any relationships–platonic and romantic–have fallen through because of my own emotions and insecurities getting in the way. It’s not fair for anyone. Well, anyone except for me. I brought this upon myself. My phone is the only thing lighting up my face. I looked at the time. Suddenly it’s six in the morning, and I’m late for work. The thought makes me want to cry, but I can’t. I can’t tell if it’s apathy—or dehydration. 

I call my boss. She answers. “Where are you?! I haven’t seen you in weeks! I’m worried about you hun, do you need me to call someone?” She opens, sounding both relieved and shocked I even called. I clear my throat the best I can, swallowing saliva feels like eating sandpaper. “I uh..I was calling to let you know I won’t be coming back. I’m quitting. And I’m sorry for not putting in my two weeks. It’s not–” Something foreign is bubbling up in my throat, I force myself to swallow it down. “-It’s not fair to you. And I’m sorry.” I whisper, hanging up shortly after.

I feel terrible for worrying her. I feel terrible for upsetting her. I feel terrible. I am terrible. I’m a parasite. I always have been. Mooching off of others in order to help myself get by. My thoughts fall back to Wilbur. I’ve been mooching off of him for however long we’ve been friends. I want him to be happy. I don’t want him to feel like he needs to be my friend to keep me alive. But at the same time–I can’t do this anymore. I can’t look myself in the mirror and tell myself it’s me. I can’t. I’m not the person I thought I’d become. I’m not the person I thought I was. I’m useless. My phone rings again. I go to decline it, I can’t. 

Wilbur’s face greets me. His contact photo, the two of us at the amusement park I helped them film for Tommy’s vlog channel. We’re smiling. His arm over my shoulder, and my head on his arm. I remember that day. Wilbur held me for a bit while Tommy and Phil were off filming a different part of the vlog with Russ. I was overwhelmed and so was he, so we took the time to chill by the snack stands. He got tommy cotton candy, and we split popcorn even though he couldn’t really taste it. We spent a good time just taking funny pictures with each other. I remember that day, it was a great one.

Tears breach my eyes before I can stop them. A sob ripping through me, I force my face into the pillow to muffle it. The ringing stops. My tears don’t, and that makes me feel so much worse. My chest convulses as my sobs reverberate through the room. I’m a mess. I’m laying in my bed, rotting. Wasting away and feeling sorry for myself. Everything is terrifying, every breath I take reminds me of how I’m alive. Reminds me of how I can’t escape the feeling of impending doom that washes over me. I’m going to die here. I’m going to die. I was never permanent. 

I knew I couldn’t do this. I’ve been lying to myself, little lies, white lies. To convince myself everything was okay. That it was fine for me to fall in love, it was fine for me to believe I wasn’t just taking up space. That I wasn’t slowly getting tired. 

Contemplating whether or not cut myself some slack–but ending up just cutting myself loose. I lift the duvet from my head, staring at the ceiling. My eyes flick to the ground, clothes and food everywhere. Some of it’s moldy. It makes me feel worse about myself. Turning my head, I look to my PC. I should sell it. Someone else would be much happier with it. I haven’t used it in a while anyways. I can’t take care of any of the stuff I have can I? 

My phone rings again, this time I do answer. 

“Oh my god–” I hear multiple people take a sharp breath in. I can’t stop myself from making a small noise of confusion. “Hey..Your boss–called us.” I recognize the voice to be Joe. I lift the phone, checking the caller ID. It was Wilbur again. “Wil—?” It hurts so bad to talk, I haven’t used my voice this much since the end of October. I hear a choked noise and whispers. “We’re gonna—come over there okay? The tour ended last night, no gigs for a while. Wil’s been missing you y’know.” I can’t tell who said that, “I–no. Sorry.” I don’t know why I said that. I don’t know why I hung up either.

Maybe deep down I did want them to help, I do want their help. But logically–It’s for the best.

I swing my legs over the side of my bed, cringing at how my clothes hang off of me. My back hurts something awful. I’m so tired. 

Yet I stand on two feet and walk to my bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t recognize them. My hair–too long and too oily for it to be mine. My skin is pale and the bags under my eyes are so dark they could rival a racoon. 

It’s then that my legs decide to give out. I can feel my knees split as I hit the tile. I’m so tired. I look down at the sweater I’m wearing. It’s one of Wil’s. I can’t remember when I put it on. I can’t remember a lot of things recently. Like when this got so bad. Or when my arms started to sting. My eyes are heavy, I can barely keep them open. Maybe a nap wouldn’t be so bad.

When I wake up it’s to voices around me. I’m laying on something warm–It’s moving. I can’t find it in myself to open my eyes. My breathing picks up, and I hear an intake of air accompanied by a hand on my forehead. My eyes are shooting open in fear before I’m trembling. He’s above me, looking down at me like I could break.

I look around, there's two other people. I can barely make them out. Joe and Ash. It’s hard to think. It’s so hard to think. 

“There you are..” Wilbur whispers, his pointer finger gently stroking my cheekbone. “What happened to you love?” I can’t tell if it’s his tone, or the fact he looks so broken. But I can’t stop my eyes from watering and my body from turning into him, hiding myself away. Embarrassment filled me, they’d seen it all. The moldy food, the dirty clothes. They probably saw the abundance of mail I'd gotten as well. People are walking out the room. Not Wilbur, he stays. He stays and makes me look at him. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, I’m gonna help you shower, and they’re going to clean and get you food. Okay?” My eyes widened. I shake my head so quickly it hurts. His face falls, he looks down at what I’m wearing. His face falls even more. “Love…” He whispers. “I don’t–I can’t. Don’t make me.” I whisper. Wilbur wipes away my tears and shakes his head. “No. You’re going to get clean, eat, and then you will sleep for however long you need to.” He lifts me like I’m nothing.

He sets me on the toilet, turning to the tub and turning on the faucet. He waits for it to get warm before he’s plugging the drain and helping me get undressed. He brushes the hair from my face, he frowns at the sight of the back of my head. He looks down at my arms before I can see him clenching his jaw. “We’ll work on the matts too.” He picks me up again, placing me in the tub and going to shut the door. He grabs a towel from the cabinet, as well as a washcloth. He swipes the comb from the counter.

“I’m sorry.” I can’t help but whisper. He sighs. “I know. But it’s alright. We were worried about you.” Was all he said before he’s dousing my hair in water. He keeps a hand on my forehead, stopping the water from getting into my eyes. And with that, he applies conditioner and starts to de-matt my hair. An hour and countless tub refills later, my hair is de-matted and I’m clean. Feeling slightly better too. Wilbur gave me the crewneck he was wearing for comfort, before planting a kiss on my forehead and leaving the room to grab other clothes. The sounds from the outside are a lot less foggy now. I can hear the boys outside bickering and talking. “Are they okay Wil?” “What happened?” “From your face, I can tell it wasn’t good.”

I can’t help but stand weakly, the towel wrapped around me. I look in the mirror. I look a little more like myself. I touch my face, I look pale. I am pale. My hair is a bit longer now. I don’t smell bad anymore. I do feel better, but I can’t help but think I’m making Wilbur do this.

Wilbur reappears, he looks at me and smiles. He hands me the clothing he picked out before leaving the room once again, though he stands just outside the door.

I dress quickly. Slipping on Wilbur’s crewneck once I have my shirt on. I walk out, giving Wilbur a small smile. “You uh–You didn’t have to do this.” He takes my hand and leads me through my now clean apartment. “I did. Because if I didn’t–If we didn’t, you’d be dead right now, or you’d have killed yourself soon.” He says, sitting me down at the table that’s been cleared off. “Now, be honest. When is the last time you remember eating something?” He asks. 

My face drops. That’s the thing–I can’t. “Uh–Tuesday?” I say, like I even know what day it is, his face falls. “It’s Friday.” He deadpans before going into the kitchen, he comes back with Ash, Mark, and Joe. They each have both in their hands. Wilbur has two.

“It’s just soup. Easy on the stomach.” Joe pipes up before sitting on my right, Wilbur sits on my left, and Ash and Mark sit across from me. “We don’t need to talk about things right now, no one is going to make you. But you need to talk to someone soon. Maybe not us, but someone.” Wilbur said, putting his hand on my knee. “Yeah. I think I can do that.” They smile, I eat my soup, and for the first time since September–I feel permanent. 

[marionluth]

Title: Shattered

Fandom: Batman (all media types)

Summary: AU: Jason, a few weeks after his return to Gotham and 2 and a half years after his resurrection, is struggling. Having revealed his identity to Bruce and Dick, knowing Tim replaced him as Robin (and son/ brother) and that Bruce not only didn’t kill Joker, but is also now actively stopping Jason from doing it, Jay loses it. Betrayed by those he loved the most, resentment and thirst of revenge engulfing him entirely, he is coping by not coping. When Batman encounters a scene of brutal massacre he knows Red Hood was behind, he seeks him out to confront him, only to find him in a broken catatonic state.

Status: Complete One-shot

Rating: T

Pairings: None/Gen

Warnings: Alluded Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Drug Use

Links:

AO3

FFNET

[sb-1495]

cw hallucinations, brief description of violent imagery (torture)

They’re investigating a ruined dungeon when it happens.

The crew was separated after they came across some lone pirate who claimed to be an archaeologist, much to Robin’s amusement. He was trying to dig up some sort of relic that makes everyone who disturbed it “go mad,” supposedly. Though, the more they talked to him, it was clear that he was messing with things out of his depth, the surrounding ruins leaking with something sinister. And as the crazed man struck the wall with his pickaxe, the ground crumbled beneath them and swallowed them whole.

Which is how every Straw Hat found themselves stranded in a labyrinthian ruin.

Zoro’s not afraid, because he knows he can keep his senses about him.

More so than usual, the place is a goddamn maze and Zoro keeps hearing little sounds like the shift of blowing sand and water dripping somewhere that he can’t pinpoint. But no matter how loud he yells, he doesn’t hear a single one of his crewmates call back. He considered just smashing through the walls, but he recalls Robin emphasizing the flimsy structural integrity; one load-bearing wall could bury everyone, and Zoro doesn’t feel like digging that much.

So he stomps aimlessly through the quiet rubble, ducking through worn stone arches, listening for anything, any familiar voice that could lead him out.

“Help…”

Zoro freezes in his tracks. That was. A voice.

“H-Help…!”

Zoro clenches his jaw. He knew that voice. But at the same time he didn’t. That was the stupid cook’s voice. But it didn’t sound right.

It wasn’t right.

“S-somebody… please… I ca-can’t—”

Zoro starts to walk again. That couldn’t be the cook. It sounded exactly like him. No way was he mistaking that grating voice for someone else, it could only be him. But it didn’t sound any way the cook sounded like before. It must be a trick.

“An-Anyone… I’ll even take… th-the moss head at this point, haha…”

A pained gasp reverberates against the pathways, choking on something, and Zoro realizes he’s been holding his breath. It was a trap, that sounded like Curly, but it wasn’t. When the cook was down in a fight, he was either gritting his teeth to get back up, or he was out cold. He might yell out for backup if he was still standing and conscious, or grumble towards some unspoken agreement if he was back-to-back against Zoro. If he were really backed into a corner, maybe he’d scream angrily.

“Stupid… marimo…”

Zoro steps on something. A cigarette butt, he thinks. He doesn’t pause to check.

But the cook never begged for help. Never sounded so defeated and helpless, the calls Zoro heard just faint whispers against stone. This had to be an illusion, concocted by some sick bastard cloying through his mind for something that would distract him. An odd choice, surely one he’ll laugh about later to his crew once they find each other. He’ll laugh and tease the cook about begging him for help, another point for Zoro in their never-ending games.

“Z-Zoro…”

Except that Zoro can’t laugh right now. He has felt terrible agony. Imagined terrible scenarios. Yet he couldn’t fathom how a sound could fill him with such despair until right this very moment.

“Zoro..! Help, Zoro…!!”

A sob echoes through the halls and Zoro is running.

Something pulls at him, leading him where he needs to be, his feet carrying him so fast that his shoulders are checking chunks of stone out of entryways, and he can’t remember what Robin said about the structure of this place because his voice is calling to Zoro for help and Zoro needs it to stop.

In his mind flashes the scene of a bloodied cook being tortured, with blades stuck through his hands to keep him against the floor, with his legs snapped and sprawled beneath him, his spirit broken and begging for it to end, and Zoro knows this can’t be true, it’s all made up because Sanji is razor-sharp steel just like him, and there’s no way that could happen to him, he couldn’t let that happen to him, and as Zoro climbs steps towards a room with a light, he’s still holding his breath—

“MOSSHEAD, STOP!!!”

Fingernails dig into his arm as he’s pulled back, his leg hovering just shy of the last step.

He breathes. The fog clears. He stares at the ground in front of him. The stairwell he climbed dropped off into a deep, dark pit, several stories of floor having collapsed a long time ago. The light he saw earlier was gone, the echoing voice quieted, and Zoro blinks away the memories as best he can. It takes a few moments to will himself to turn back to the hand on his bicep.

It’s Sanji.

It’s the cook. A little banged up, but no more than usual. He’s alive. He’s fine. And he’s staring at Zoro like he does when he’s half-dead in the infirmary.

“Idiot, you nearly fell to your early demise!!” He yells, finally releasing his grip on Zoro’s arm. He doesn’t mention how the cook was holding it so hard, there were red indents. “Even you couldn’t survive that fall, and I’m sure there are spikes at the bottom of that chasm! There’s some freaky shit going on in this place but I’ve found Chopper and—“

Zoro’s only half listening. It wasn’t real. He knows it wasn’t real. Knew it wasn’t. He was hearing things. He was right, it was a trick. He’s still gasping for air. And as Sanji opens his mouth to shoot a jab at him, he stops.

Zoro belatedly realizes that he grabbed Sanji’s hand at some point, thumb pressed into the palm like he’s searching for some give in his skin. A scar or wound that should be there, but isn’t. He waits for a kick that doesn’t come, his breath still uneven, and oh how he hates that. Hates his body losing control. He tries to take deep breaths, Sanji’s hand an anchor. And when he refocuses on Sanji’s face, it’s softened, brow furrowed in concern, not confusion.

He understood, somehow.

Zoro doesn’t let his grip up. Sanji doesn’t make him let go.

They don’t say anything as they start walking back together, their crewmates clearly unnerved by the sight when they reunite without a fight.

It’s only when they’re back on the Sunny, smoking and drinking by the railing under nightfall, that either of them speaks.

“What did you hear?” Sanji whispers, so quiet that Zoro nearly missed it. He could ignore it if he so chose, and the cook is fully aware.

Instead, he looks ahead, biting the inside of his cheek before replying. “What did you?”

He’s ready to be hit with a retort about dodging the question, but that doesn’t come either. The tension makes Zoro wish that Sanji would just hit him with a kick or a verbal jab. But instead, a sidelong glance spots Sanji twisting his cigarette in his mouth, thinking. Slowly, like trying not to spook a wild animal, he reached out to grab Zoro’s bicep, in nearly the exact same place he grabbed last time.

“Help.“

Zoro’s eye widens, Sanji slowly turning to meet his gaze.

“You were calling… for help.” He says, trying to keep his face level even as his voice cracks.

And Zoro wants to look away, to make a joke, throw a tease, say something, ANYTHING, to make the memories go away, to force himself to forget knowing exactly what Sanji heard, to chuck them out like a bottle to sea, to be found any other day than today.

But instead he nods, a mournful grimace creeping on his face.

“Yeah,” Zoro whispers, the quiet night stretching between them. The only sounds to be heard are the gentle shifts of Zoro’s hand over the cook’s, and the drip of Sanji’s tears against the Sunny railing.

[the-baby-storyteller]

If you’re still doing bthb… would you want to do tortured for information and cradling someone in their arms for gen whumpee/caretaker? Maybe even painful wound cleaning thrown in for fun ✨

I am, and I like how you think!

(Fun fact, I didn’t register the gen at first so I wrote this whole thing as romantic.🥲 But then I fixed it so, enjoy!)

BTHB - Tortured for information

“I’m not going to tell you anything!”

A eyed the torturer carefully as they stared off at one another.

“So stubborn.” Torturer tutted, “So foolishly stubborn.”

They circled around their chair, eyeing A calmly.

“You do understand that I won’t take no for an answer?”

A growled and tugged their chest against the ropes holding them to the chair. They glared at the torturer.

“Then you’ll be here for a while.” A remarked.

“Oh, dear,” Torturer said, chuckling, “it’s you who’s going to suffer more from be being here for a while, not me.”

They pulled out a taser.

A stiffened.

Without warning, the torturer jammed the taser into their chest.

Instantly A convulsed, simultaneously not sblr to move at all.

The pain was excruciating. They couldn’t see, couldn’t think. They felt blinded by the pain as they struggled but couldn’t get away. Just when it started getting hard to breathe, it pulled away.

A fell forward as much as they could with their restraints, heaving in breaths and coughing.

“Shall we go again?”

Before they could look up, Torturer thrust the taser to their neck and this time it hurt much more. They screamed, face twisting and tears streaming down their face. Their muscles spasmed and they felt like they were choking.

Torturer didn’t stop this time. They didn’t let A breathe as they came closer, pushing the taser further and further into their neck, never giving them a break for minutes until A was a stiff yet limp, warbling mess under them.

After an interminable number of minutes, Torturer finally pulled back and A’s muscles loosened for a split second before seizing, twitching and convulsing. They gasped trying to gulp in breath but every movement of their throat made their muscles scream.

Torturer moved behind them and grabbed their hair, taking their head back and so painfully straining their sore throat, and they choked.

“Who has the key to the hideout?” Torturer asked coldly.

“I a- already told you-” A stammered, weakly forcing out words.

“I know,” the torturer narrowed their eyes, “you were lying. Now tell me.”

“Who knows how to get in to our base.” They pulled A’s hair harder with each punctuation. “Which one of your filthy teammates infiltrated us?”

A’s lips trembled but they stayed silent.

Torturer walked around and kicked them in the gut, drawing a painful yelp out from them which only tore up their throat further.

“I’m not-“ A gritted out, breathing heavily, “Telling you anything.”

“Are you sure about that?”

They looked up. The torturer had brought out an assortment of absolutely terrifying looking knives. Some had spikes, some were long, almost like swords.

“Which one should we start with?” Torturer asked, relaxed.

They picked one up and twirled it around in

“Let’s see how long you last.”

A shuddered. This was for them. For the team. They wouldn’t give up, no matter what. They were strong. They would hold out.

- -

Three hours later and was no longer just screaming.

Their whole world was blurry. The torture never stopped.

Their body was bloody; Torturer had carved into their arm and tasted right onto their insides. Every team member had held out for torture before, was experienced in it, but this.

They barely knew where they were they were so bloody disoriented. Everything was hazy and all they could register was pain pain pain that never went away and only got worse because Torturer never stopped-

“What a bore. You’ve held out all this time.”

Torturer pouted, then brightened.

“Shall we amp it up?” They asked.

Amp. It. Up? What kind of amping was worse than three hours of torture?

Then they saw it. The water tub.

Torturer hauled it out from under a table, dirt and grime floating in the water. A wouldn’t just choke. They’d swallow everything in there too. A turned white as a sheet.

“N-no please,” they started blubbering, “you don’t have to- we don’t have to do this-“

“Oh, but we do,” Torturer said stalking forward, “unless you decide to tell me what I want to know.”

They couldn’t. They couldn’t. But they couldn’t hold out and drowning terrified them but they couldn’t betray the team-

They started hyperventilating as Torturer just smiled and just drew closer.

A closed their eyes as they tensed against the ropes, mind fighting internally as they grappled with the fact that the torturer was about to waterboard them-

Debris flew everywhere as the door burst down. A’s head flew up just as five figures swarmed in through the doorway. They instantly pounced on Torturer, yelling furiously, and the water tub fell to the floor.

The team.

Thank all that was beautiful.

A stared in disoriented awe as the team swept through the area. They hadn’t thought anyone would come for them. A let out a little sob.

“Shhh shhh.”

They turned, coming face to face with B. A’s glossy eyes struggled to see them, but they just made out B’s face and they hiccuped a breath.

Caretaker’s face looked just as distressed, but they hid it better.

“Come, we need to get you out of here.” They spoke, “You shouldn’t be here any longer.”

They registered that their ropes were now somehow cut, and Caretaker pulled them, (more like dragged their entire weight), out of the room.

- -

“We’re so, so sorry we let this happen. It should have never-” B growled under their breath. “Torturer.”

A didn’t want to hear it anymore. They just wanted to be safe, to feel to warmness and assured comfort of B arms around them. They were finally out of that terrible room, laid on the floor with B knelt next to them in a different one of the chambers they had been led through. The whole place was safe now; the team had wiped everybody out before getting to A. Before A could control it, they let out a little whine.

B instantly turned back to them. Even in their mess, A burned with embarrassment. Why the hell had they done that?

B smiled lightly, thought, shoulders dropping and losing the stress they were previously holding.

At least I could make them relax, A thought.

Slowly, their eyes started to well up with tears.

“Oh, Whumpee,” B gasped, “Come here.”

B drew A into their lap and brought their arms around them. A’s muscles ached, and their crying picked up, and B stroked their hair, muttering softly:

“It’s okay. It’s okay, I know. We’re here now. I’m here. You’re not going to be hurt, you won’t be hurt.”

“It-“, A started, throat clogged by distress, “it was so hard and it hurt so much and I was so scared-”

“Shhhh,” B soothed, drawing a hand down their chin, bringing them back from hyperventilation, “Shhh, it’s okay. Calm down, we’re here now.”

A’s sobs turned into sniffles as B continued whispering sweet, comforting words into A’s ear.

“It’s all alright, I know, I’m so sorry,” B said, softly wiping away tears from A’s pain-stricken face, “You did such a good job, you’re so good, and we’ll never let that happen to you again. It’s alright now.”

B continued to pet their hair as A calmed down.

“Listen, I need to asses you, okay?” B said when A was a little bit more coherent, “I saw the stuff they had back there and it looked…bad. So I need to examine you and have you respond and comply. Can you do that for me?”

A hesitated, but nodded slowly, gingerly.

“Good job. Very good.” B praised.

A exhaled shakily. They were safe. Safe with B.

A heard B turn and mutter to themself, we can’t deal with the tasing now unfortunately, and look back over to A.

“I saw the water.” B started. “You didn’t inhale any of it did you?”

“N-no, I-,” A stuttered,” “you guys came before Tort- they could make me.” They muttered quietly, digging their chin into their chest.

They thought they saw B’s jaw tick but by the time they looked up to confirm it was gone.

“Okay,” B breathed out. “I can definitely see some injuries they’ve made.” B said unpleasantly. A’s weakened state was the only way they resisted gulping nervously. They didn’t like B when they were angry.

B pulled out their extensive first aid kid they always made sure was filled to the brim with supplies A didn’t even know existed.

“We’re gonna have to clean these cuts. They’re pretty deep and that room was not the pinnacle of cleanliness.”

A froze, then started up.

“W-wait no please,” they begged, straining against B’s arms encircling them, “Don’t it’ll be too painful I can’t, no- You don’t have to, do you-”

“Hey, woah, wait,” B’s eyebrows shout up as they held A down easily, A’s muscles too worn out and weak to do anything even mildly strenuous. B held them more securely on their lap, making them squirm, fighting B.

“Hey, no fighting me.” B scolded and A let out a pitiful cry. “I know, shh, I know it’s painful and scary. But I have to do it, you know, okay? You know this.” They reached their top arm over, grabbing alcohol and a pad. A whimpered.

“It’s alright.” B tried to soothe. “Can I get help over here?” A heard B call to a teammate who must have come in recently. Soon they were backed up against another guest and held in place firmly with arms stronger than B’s. They wiggled and worked, but the arms tightened and they yelped, quickly dying down and letting their body go limp in their teammate’s arms.

The alcohol pad was brought to the deepest cut on their arm and they immediately screamed. A felt their body tense up with effort, and couldn’t help themself from again struggling against their teammates. But their muscles were silk and hard and every movement hurt, only making them cry out more.

“A, you have to calm down.” B implored, Please try to be still. You agreed to comply, remember?”

A sniffled hard, tears streaming down their face as they heaved and choked. Their breaths were closer to shudders and they trembled in their friends’ arms.

B didn’t wait for them to say yes.

The second time the swab hit their arm, it went even deeper, and they only got to see blinding white light for two seconds before they passed out.

- -

A woke up go a light, soothing pressures appeared on their head. It pressed and nudged and soothed the tension perfectly and they let out a sigh despite themself.

They opened their eyes and saw B’s free hand massaging their scalp. B smiled down at them softly.

A blinked, then looked around. They weren’t in the chamber’s rooms anymore. Now they were in a tent, their team’s tent.

The team must have moved me back, A thought, trying not to blush at the embarrassment of a teammate holding their limp form.

“Sleep.” B voice pulled A back to their gaze. “When you wake up again, I’ll still be here. Rest.”

A wanted to contest, to make B speak about what happened and tell them everything whumper said and how in danger they were-

But B’s hands only added more glorious, perfectly placed pressure to their scalm and their limbs loosened without their permission as they exhaled, sinking deeper into B’s arms.

“Sleep.”

A shuddered, the last of their body’s energies expending themselves as they finally, finally, had reached safety, and they went limp as all went black.

[ruewrites]

Helloo! I dunno if your requests are still open or if you forgot to change it. If that is the case, feel free to ignore this.

I wanted to request a platonic scenario with Simeon and Solomon. I was thinking of a hurt/comfort where Simeon comforts Solomon when he is going through a bad time, probably something related to his immortality or the people he lost during his long life. I mean, that is a suggestion, but you can do anything you want, I just want Simeon comforting Solomon because their friendship is very cute <33

Pray for Us

AO3

Word Count: 1917

Warnings: light mentions of Solomon forgetting to eat (I know this is a little canon, our wizard not taking care of himself, but I still want to put the warning here)

A/N: I think... it may still have turned out a little sadder than I intended... But I hope you still enjoy Anon! I'm sorry it took me so long to write :,) I hope you enjoy!

It started out as a trick of the eye, a feather that only appeared to be less than perfect due to a trick of the light. It wasn't anything, it would never be anything. Yet it lingered in the back of Simeon's mind, floating and drifting among his thoughts. 

He had all intents and purposes to ignore it entirely, to swat it away like a pesky mosquito. But the mosquito bit him, and soon the mark graduated from an itching rash to a burning wound. He couldn't deny what was happening anymore, he couldn't ignore Raphael's presence in Purgatory Hall.

Now it wasn't so much Raphael himself that was the issue, but it was what he represented. 

Simeon knew something had been brewing for a while now. He could feel it deep within him and now that it was coming to light. Acknowledging it was something he absolutely couldn't do. It was out of the question. Because even if it was happening, acknowledgement made it real.

It was easy to ignore.

He was content with sweeping up the feathers he left in his wake.

But it would all come crashing to a head.

It had been a gloomy day already, no one had left the house. Rain pounded on the window outside and the occasional boom of thunder ran out in the distance, stepping ever so closer to Purgatory Hall. No one had seen a wink of Solomon in a few days at this point, so Simeon decided it would be appropriate to bring him some soup and hot tea. He knocked once, then a second time. After no answer he slowly opened the door.

He figured it would be safe, it wasn't like Asmodeus was paying a visit.

But looking back, maybe he should have left the items by the door and left. He could have sent a text, but his nature wouldn't allow him. 

Solomon was hunched over his desk. Cups of lukewarm coffee and tea were scattered all throughout the room. Some were even completely cold, left long forgotten in the depths of the room. Some were in ceramics and some in disposable cups from various cafes. No doubt those had been brought to him during hours he definitely should not be substituting them for sleep. His foot brushed against one of the aforementioned cups, sending it gracefully gliding  across the floor. 

Finally, the human seemed to be snapped out of whatever daze he was in and slowly turned his head to look at Simeon.

And he looked terrible.

The bags under his eyes were dark and his eyelids were heavy. A haze still had a hold on him, but he was fighting against it just enough to feign normalcy. It was a slight cue that screamed ‘ignore this, pretend it never happened’. 

Sure, there were times the angels chewed their human roommate out for neglecting to care for himself. But there were also times, where Simeon sensed it was best to ignore the chilling wrongs hiding beneath thin veils of normalcy. And it chilled him every single time. 

Solomon offered a nod and looked down at the food in Simeon’s hands. 

“Lunch time already?”

“Dinner actually.”

“Ah.”

You skipped two meals once again.

Simeon knew it wasn’t on purpose. Sometimes it felt like Solomon forgot that time still moved around him, that it hadn’t stopped entirely. 

“I can leave it on your nightstand if-”

“No,” Solomon stopped him, raising a hand, “Would you mind staying actually? I could use the company.”

Simeon froze. 

Then, swallowing the tight knot in his throat, he moved to sit on the edge of Solomon’s bed. Solomon joined him, pulling the nightstand over as a makeshift table for the meal. 

Solomon stared at the bowl in front of him for a second too long for Simeon’s comfort, and for a moment he reflected his age. 

“Soup.”

“I figured it would be nice on a day like this. Your room is freezing.”

“I like it cold,” he murmured, lowering his eyelids and bringing the spoon to his lips.

Simeon couldn’t help but note how frail and vulnerable he looked. 

Eyes closed, he took his first sip, and then a soft smile spread across his features, “It’s wonderful. Did you use herbs from the Celestial Realm?”

“I did.”

“Fascinating,” Solomon turned back to him, “You’ll have to show me where to get them one day, or bring some back for me. I’d love to use them.”

How much longer did he have to go back?

How fast was that unforgiving clock ticking along?

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," Solomon continued, bringing another spoonful of soup to his mouth, "It's been an incredibly long time since I've been this happy. I used to isolate myself, the whole immortality thing makes human connection a little more depressing. But now, I don't have to worry about losing my connections anymore."

They made eye contact and suddenly breathing became an impossible task. His chest heaved but the air never came. He started heaving and Solomon rose with a start. 

Why had those words shaken him so much?

He knew the answer, but in the same breath he refused to acknowledge it. 

Acknowledgement made it real.

“Simeon? Did I say something that upset you?” Solomon asked. His chair creaked as he stood. This wasn’t at all how he wanted Solomon to find out. He’d wanted to sit him down when he finally settled his nerves, or perhaps he would have never told him at all in lieu of finding a remedy for his ailment. But that wasn’t how it would happen. Simeon couldn’t conjure up incredibly good lies on a good day. Now Solomon was approaching him, eyes full of concern and curiosity.

Now he was here, standing before him, the room silent except for the ticking of a clock, counting down the final seconds until Simeon shattered. 

“Simeon?”

Solomon’s voice felt so distant, echoing in the deepest recesses of his mind. His own voice felt strange and foreign to him, “That reality you mentioned, I’m afraid it may be no more.”

As if on cue, another feather fell from his form, drifting to the floor as the final punctuation to his statement.  He couldn’t bring himself to look at his companion’s face as he processed the words. It was cruel what Simeon had just done to him, beyond cruel. Would it have been an even more unforgivable act if he had continued to let Solomon believe such a pretty little lie? Perhaps even let him believe it until the day Simeon hair went gray. How long did it take them to do that?

Words failed them. There wasn’t a thing either one of them could say. Nothing could remedy the tragedy playing out, and Simeon had no power over the pen crafting his narrative. For the first time since The Celestial War, Simeon was completely, and utterly, helpless. 

It was Solomon who finally broke the silence, “Will you still spend time with me?”

There was no question of why. It honestly surprised Simeon. He expected Solomon to bargain and plead, to immediately search for a solution. It wasn’t like him to accept the unacceptable. Was it shock? The complete shattering of the reality he had just come to accept? Perhaps Simeon was much crueler than he’d realized he’d been. Ing He had completely broken this man he cared so much for.

Solomon was in pieces, and it was his fault. 

How could he deny him more time?

“Of course I will.”

The silence lingered, continuing where it left off as they sat together. Solomon tapped his fingers against the table before them. Eyes transfixed on something beyond his own sight. Simeon watched his features for any ounce of a betrayal of his emotions. 

“Is there anything I can do? Anything we can do?”

Simeon toyed with his fingertips, wishing for a moment that he had anything else to do with his hands. He knew what Solomon was asking, yet he saw no need to conjure up some pretty lie for him, no need to veil the truth he was coming to accept. That would only make it hurt more. Solomon didn’t need sweet lies, but Simeon could deliver the truth as gently as he could. 

“Take care of Luke for me would you?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s the future you know,” Simeon’s voice wavered, “I don’t want to destroy a bright future.” Simeon’s feather wasn’t the only thing that fell to the floor. Luke was all the hope he had. He was the only good thing left he could have seen about the Celestial Realm, and now he would be the only good thing left about the Celestial Realm. Simeon had wanted to guide and mentor him through all the growing he would have left to do, wanted to be there to watch him grow into a fine young man. Now he would only be there for a fraction of his life. He wouldn’t get to see him grow, not really. Simeon would only be able to picture what his future would bring as he aged so much faster than him.

And Solomon-

Poor Solomon.

Simeon genuinely looked forward to all the growing he would do as well. He was the most powerful and interesting human he’d ever met. Strange yes, but that was part of his charm. What would Luke’s future look like with Solomon there? Most likely Michael wouldn’t let him with Solomon full time. Oh Michael…. What would Luke be like under his care? The idea of him being Luke’s only caretaker made Simeon feel quite bleak. All the work he’d done, all the lessons he tried to teach, would it all be for nothing? Would Michael close the blinds that Simeon had worked so hard to lift.

There weren’t many young angels anymore.

Luke was the future.

And the future seemed uncertain and fragile, and Simeon was powerless.

“No.”

Solomon’s voice wasn’t sharp, and yet it still managed to cut through the room. It was a tone so foreign, not one Simeon had ever heard before.

“What? Solomon-” he barely had time to turn before Solomon’s arms were wrapped tightly around him. His fingers fastened around the fabric of his shirt. Solomon’s grip was suffocating, desperate.  Simeon wasn’t sure what to do with his own hands, and so they fell to his side, limp and useless. 

“I’m not doing that,” Simeon swore he heard his breath hitch, “Because I’m going to find a way to fix this. There has to be a way, there has to.” 

His shoulder was dampening now, it crept into the fabric leaving a cold and uncomfortable wetness as the seconds passed.  More feathers fell to the floor each time Solomon moved. All it did was continue to make Simeon’s poor heart ache. Eventually his hands lifted to Solomon’s shoulders, a soft and mournful smile forming on his lips as he leaned into Solomon’s sorrowful embrace. 

“Perhaps we should start praying,” the words were ironic, he knew this, and yet he couldn’t help himself, “For us.”

The rain continued to fill the silence, and Simeon couldn’t bring himself to let go. Solomon was a determined man, Simeon knew this. There wasn’t an ambition he couldn’t capture, an obstacle he couldn’t solve. Yet as they sat there in silence, and as he enveloped Solomon in what remained of his wings, he couldn’t help but wonder.

Was there a prayer in Heaven left for him?

[oxymoronicmoron]

nosramus x reader i dont have any cool title ideas please bear w me

Slender fingers entwined with yours, a gentle hold, a quiet show of affection. “When will you be back?” The man before you asked. His voice was silent, silent enough for his words to be mistaken for the wind, had you not been paying attention. “You know I cannot answer that.” Your response seemed to have hurt him just as much as it hurt you, his displeasure obvious by the look on his face. His hands were pale and freezing… and trembling. Trembling against your own. “I can’t know if I’ll ever be back.” You continued. God, how you wished your words were untrue. How you wished you could remain by his side, listening to his rambles and watching as he worked. You could tell he enjoyed the company, judging by how he acted in your absence. You couldn’t help but wonder if he notices the change in his mood when you’re gone, it would be safe to assume you were his only friend. Were you even friends anymore? Or something more? Were the acts you had committed born of mutual attraction, or pure need? You could not tell. “I suppose it is quite the gamble in these dungeons, is it not?” You laughed, he joined you. The man’s laugh was airy and pained, though his movements remained graceful still. He was a sight for sore eyes, a kind soul trapped inside the dungeons out of his own will. But you had other plans, plans that required you to leave this place, and had it not been for him, you would have already gone through with them. But he made you want to stay, a diamond hidden behind rubble, treasure buried feet deep inside the earth. His work could only be done here, and yours could only be done out there, and you hated it. You wanted to take him outside, to take him with you, to never let go. He was the comfort you needed in this God-Forsaken place, he did everything in his power to ensure your safety and stability, and you’re taking away those exact things from him due to your own selfish goals and aspirations. You took away his everything and now you’re leaving, and you know that you won’t be able to look inside the mirror and see yourself anymore, only the person that this hellhole has shaped. But for now, he is still before you. For the limited amount of time you have together, he is here, as are you. You find yourself taking a step closer, burying your head in his chest, staining his beige robes with your tears, and in turn he embraces you, wrapping his arms around you and placing his chin atop your head. He feels your pain, he understands you, and he too wishes he could stay by your side. At times, he has considered it… he’s an immortal being, and you are not. Maybe he could leave the dungeons, join you for the duration of your life, and return once you are fully gone, but he knows his limits. He wouldn’t be able to handle that, the hurt and the pain it would cause him or the insecurity it would cause you. He knows that your departure is for the best. And when you’re finally ready, when you finish sobbing into his chest, when you finish shaking like an abandoned puppy… …He lets go of you. As do you. And with a nod, you leave. And none of you know if you will ever return.

[badlydrawn-brostrider]

This blog is gonna make me spontaneously combust i swear to fucking god i cannot take the feels/pos

/ / Oh no, don't spontaneously combust!! If you do you'll miss out on all the Bro angst and hurt I've got planned.

/ / I'm sure you don't wanna miss it >:]

[steviewashere]

So, earlier this month, I could've sworn I posted a Wayne Munson grieving Eddie ficlet. But, for some reason it's gone? Like completely deleted. If it is already on my dashboard, oh well. So here it is again, it's sad. And not that happy. Enjoy!

(Can also be found on Ao3)

--------

It was a catastrophe what happened to Eddie, Wayne Munson understood. To his nephew, his only son, his world. The person that used to rise thirty minutes before school had to start. Who took showers vigorously (always claiming that "It's fine, Uncle Wayne. My hair is just hair." To which Wayne would show off his own balding head and chuckle when Eddie screeched). Who sat on the middle cushion of the couch, hunched over the low coffee table, scratching away at story building notes for the games Wayne still doesn't understand, and draw glorious pictures of extinct creatures and fabled warriors and fire breathing dragons. The person, especially, who set out with two left feet on the world, only one goal in mind: "No person will feel alienated or forgotten or scared, like I did, like I was growing up."

He knew that Eddie was always a good person. With impossible courage and a multitude of talents, some less important to the machine of existence, but all amazing in Wayne's eyes. Eddie was like that tree in the Shel Silverstein poem, giving and giving, expecting nothing in return, but he still did it anyway. In hopes...Wayne isn't sure what, but he can only silently pray, now, that Eddie got whatever fortunes he always wanted—even if it all remains astral and far away and never to be seen on Earth.

But he was good. Amazing. Important and worthwhile.

Scrawny and ill-tempered. Colorful and descriptive. Careful and kind, never begrudgingly those two, but Wayne suspects that there was still a mask that Eddie crafted. Because that's what he did. He made up a persona for all the people of Hawkins to see, just so he wouldn't get hurt the way he had when he was little.

Wayne has always suspected that there was a great amount of loss and responsibility driven through Eddie. No matter how many times he'd been assured, "No, Ed, whatever happened to your daddy and your mama had nothing to do with you," and "Bubba, bad things just happen. No way around 'em, but always a way through 'em. It ain't your fault." And now, here's the aftermath.

Here's the aftermath: A sunken trailer, and a lisp-bitten kid, and a blood crusted guitar pick hanging around Wayne's neck. Here's the aftermath: Silent and dark hours spent in the cafeteria of a school that hated Wayne's son, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that Eddie would never be satisfied with (always one to portion out the condiments to his exact liking), and new missing person posters being put up—despite knowing that Eddie's not missing and he'll never return, despite knowing that if he were to return, he wouldn't be able to live, and despite knowing that there's still blood on both of their palms and only one of them would do time for it.

And the after of the aftermath: Wayne doesn't know what to do anymore.

He scurries around with a pack of people; teenagers and fresh twenty-somethings and a few adults that he could'a sworn were called crazy and declared dead. He used what he learned back in 'Nam to patch others up and to take cover and to close eyes of strangers he'll never get the chance to know, and in those moments, he shuts his eyes and mutters a prayer and tells his son to "Take care of 'em, you know what to do." He fights evil and feeds good people and squeezes their shoulder as a term of endearment, as silent praise, because there's no Eddie to receive it; just that Dustin Henderson kid and his gaggle of teenaged friends, Steve Harrington and his unlikely companions. He helps them out because he knows, now, that Eddie gave his life to save them and the town, and he'll carry on that duty, because what else is there to do? Tuck tail and run, Wayne used to say. You get yourself outta there, he'd mutter some time back. Run when it ain't good. But above all else, you remain good and kind and confident, and if there's nowhere else to turn, you be brave, but smart. Damn it, you be smart, Edward.

He tells the others the same. They heed their warnings. They know when to quit.

Nobody dies, not this time. But still, Wayne left his soul spattered in places, where Eddie once stood and where he once talked and where he once cried when it was all that was left to do.

So in the after-after of the aftermath: Wayne cries. Not quietly like he did when given the guitar pick necklace. Not subtly when he first heard of Eddie's disappearance.

No, it's like the fucking Hoover Dam cracked in two giant, crumbling pieces. With all the water and all the ground and all the sky that there is to offer. He crumples like the paper bag that Eddie used to give him for his late-night work lunches. His body contorts over his own knees, like threatening to throw up on his boots, and he heaves air as if it'll save him. From what, again, Wayne isn't sure. He flexes his fingers on his knees and gasps for air and he tastes blood on his tongue when he breathes a little too hard, and he is reminded of the way Dustin sat down to describe Eddie's final moments.

"Blood everywhere, in his mouth and on his cheek and in his hair. Laying still like a calm lake. Limp and warm, somehow still warm," Dustin had said, voice flat and distant. He was like Wayne's soldier buddies, the ones that grip to cans of Miller and go gravelly with the remembrance. "I held him until he went cold. It was cold down there, Mr. Munson. But he had been warm. And I held him, like you would a baby. And I told him I loved him. I told him I love him." And Wayne had held the poor kid between his arms, like he was an eight year old Eddie Munson on his doorstep, shaved hair and one of his canines missing and a duffel bag the size of Texas, loose clothing and skin so pale you could've seen through him if you squinted. But they swayed a little. They cried together, like grieving people should, Wayne had thought. And he was reminded all over again about Eddie, because everything reminds him of Eddie—even the twisted, burnt ends of cigarettes, and fingertip callouses, and Honeycomb crumbs still etched into the soles of Wayne's boots.

He wishes Eddie had been messier. He wishes he'd been less careful with everyday life, not this. Never this.

Wayne cries until there's nothing left to cry. And then he cries some more for the sake of doing so. And he stands to his full height like a wilting apple tree, brushes his palm over what remains of his hair, and sighs something caught between a cough and a billow of smoke.

Holes himself in a corner apartment that's as sterile and lifeless as every hospital Wayne will ever imagine. Thinks of it as his chunk of the universe, the one that should've been twenty years from now, where he's completely bald and rippled by arthritis and he's retired to some senior home, where Eddie ambles in with a shag-cut and a thousand new stories of grandkids or his spouse or a new restaurant he recently tried, where they sit under an awning clutching mugs of warm hot chocolate and watch all the stars in the sky—he listens to Eddie describe constellations and wonders just how his son grew to be so intelligent. And he'll ask, he always asks.

Eddie responds, "Learned it from you, old man." And Wayne digs into him for calling his uncle old. And Eddie always responded, "You'll always be the same to me. Don't change, Uncle Wayne. Don't change."

Wayne just chuckles and whispers, "That's my line."

And he is able to imagine, when visiting time is done, the way Eddie angles down to kiss Wayne's forehead. Whispers something under his breath. Says something like, "I love you." And goes home, to safety. To somewhere that Wayne remains.

In the apartment, though, Wayne will create a space where Eddie always remains.

Starting with his music. Loud and crazy. If only to fill the space. If only to understand Eddie as a beautiful catastrophe, not a sad one.

Never a sad one.

--------

A/N: Grief is mourning and then finding life all around you, where that life no longer lives.

[arsenicflame]

Hurt/no comfort for the tropes ask game?

thank u!! this is a gooooood one to think on

C: Neutral. A good author might be able to sell it, but a bad one will kill it deader than dead.

i LOVE a good whump moment. i love putting characters in awful situations and making them s u f f e r. but! all of that is on the basis that they get a hug (or something) at the end. i need at least the implication of comfort to have a good time reading hurt fic, ESP if it verges DD:DNE anywhere. i would trust authors who i know to do it well, but its still not my favourite thing.

in izzyfic: if hes kidnapped, he needs rescuing, if were messing with hornigold, i want him to get out. if something goes wrong on the ship? we talk it through. its just, not my thing otherwise!

(possessed by the spirit of Stede for a sec there, my bad)

Give me a fanfiction trope and I’ll grade it

[typically-untypical]

Echoes of the Past - Day 2

Prompt: "You know how sometimes you tell yourself that you have a choice, but really you don't have a choice? Just because there are alternatives doesn't mean they apply to you."

CW: Extremely brief mention of Homophobia

"Sometimes, you tell yourself you have a choice, or had in this case, but you really didn't have a choice, Roman." Picani was leaning forward on his plush chair, his notebook in his lap. He was the epitome of relaxed but attentive, the epitome of calm. The room smelt like vanilla like it always did, but today it wasn't comforting. Today the vanilla was choking, too sweet for the state of mind Roman was in. "Just because there are alternatives, doesn't mean they applied to you. You were a kid, and yes, I strongly believe that 14 is still very much a kid. You didn't have the means or capabilities to enact some of these alternatives you have told me about, and what's more, even the ones you technically could have done would have left you in a very bad position, probably emotionally, financially, and security wise. You did what you had to do, and it's okay."

Roman wasn't looking at Picani, how could he? The doctor was far too nice to him, giving him excuses for not saving his brother. Roman had been battling with this for years now, going through ever scenario when he couldn't sleep at night and he knew in the deepest parts of his heart that he had failed. "But I just let him leave. He was alone and I didn't stand up for him."

"Trying to get him to stay would have hurt him more, you told me yourself that the two of you were in a bad situation at the time, and going with him would have put you in a bad situation. You did the best you could for the age you were at."

"But now he won't speak to me." Roman lamented the loss of his brother. When they were both 14 their parents had kicked Remus out, he was apparently too much to handle and the police in their small town were completely wrapped around the Mayor and her husband's fingers.

"That's his right. I know it's hard to hear, but even if you did the best you could, Remus was still hurt. What he went through had to be horrible, and he is still healing from that. You can't force a relationship, but you can be there when he is ready." Picani said with a soft sad smile, "He has to be ready to reach out to you. Sometimes, when bad things are happening, they can't be fixed. Sometimes you just have to wait out for everything to be okay."

Roman didn't like that answer. He didn't like the idea that he wouldn't be able to make up with his brother, that the two of them would be separated forever because of something their parents did and, in his mind, something he failed to do. The typically proud man was curled up tightly in a ball, fighting back his urge to run out and find Remus, to shake him until he accepted their brotherly bond again.

Dr. Picani held out a box of tissues to him and Roman took it carefully, still feeling like he shouldn't even be crying over something that was his fault.

"How about this? Why don't you start writing Remus letters, maybe even ask him if you could send them to him. You shouldn't expect anything from him, especially not at this stage of your relationship, but maybe it will help. It would give you an outlet to get all of your anxieties regarding the situation down on paper. Now that you have found him again, letters might be a good start."

Roman finally blew his nose, nodding. "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea." It was something small he could start on, something that would help him move forward a little bit when it came to getting Remus back. Even if he couldn't fully get his brother back, this was at least a start. 

"Thank you Dr. Picani,"

"Of course, we are almost at the end of our session today. I think we are making a lot of headway and I want to talk more about some of these things later, but for now, I think it's a good idea that you do some self-care tonight. Do something nice that reminds you that you are worthy of care and affection. You aren't your perceived mistakes Roman, even when it's difficult to see that. And remember, not all options are ones that you have access to. Just because you think you could pilot the black lion, doesn't mean the black lion will accept you, and that's okay."

Picani gave him a smile, and Roman attempted to smile back as he stood. "I... I will think about it and try to remember that." He saw the slight dip in Picani's smile, but it disappeared almost instantly and Dr. Picani just nodded. Great, another person he had disappointed. 

"That's all I can ask. Have a great day Roman, and I'll talk to you next week." He saw the way Dr. Picani began to scribble down some notes, saw the way his mind was already moving and turning. Roman wasn't sure if he felt better having someone so actively care, or worse having someone dissect him like that.

Instead of dwelling on it, he nodded silently, pulling open the door and slowly closing it behind him. Therapy wasn't always rough for him but some days were worse than others, and today had been extremely hard. This whole week had been hard, after worrying for such a long time that his brother was dead, Roman had finally found Remus again, but Remus wanted nothing to do with him, and Roman didn't know how to handle that. 

His breath was shaky as he walked to his car, sitting down and letting the tears fall. He hadn't even fully processed the idea that Remus was still alive, and it seemed like his brother wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe it was better to think of Remus as still being dead... maybe it was better to leave his brother behind again.

Scrambling for his notebook, Roman rested it gently on the steering wheel as he began to write. Dr. Picani had said to write so that's that he was going to do. He probably wouldn't send this one to Remus though.

"Dear Remus,

I'm sorry that I couldn't have been a better brother back then. I have regretted it every single day."

@simplestoryteller @fantasticfangirl21 @joylessnightsky @melaniidarling @tsshipmonth2020

[rvnwtch]

The bat fic is finished!!! Hurray!!

Fennorian gets stuck as a bat and Orietta doesn't know it's him!

Finally, after sorting through the third or fourth bottle of reagents, Orietta couldn’t take it anymore. “Fennorian. What are we doing?” He squeaked for a minute in response. “I still don’t speak bat, Fennorian.” Fennorian huffed and went back to what he was doing.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

Last night I was struck by the most grotesquely self indulgent naruto fic idea 😵‍💫

[nny11writes]

Accidental Six Sentence Sunday because I made myself sad so now you get to suffer with me

CW: Suicidal Ideation CW: Suicide note

Catra, as per usual, is not having a great time. This is also a, uh, just a-HEM just a little tiny bit longer than 6 sentences. Don't worry about it don't worry about it don't worry about it, this is fine! :) I will find the perfect place for this :)

This has nothing to do with Carter in the Cult. This sentence is designed to torture one or two of you specifically.

Don't worry about it :)

My dedication to self destruction should be applauded. 

None of the rest of you have found a way to kill me yet, but at the rate I’m going I’ve found it for you. So, you’re welcome! I’ll do the hard work and the dirty work, and you can stand there to shake your head sadly and say shit like:

“She’s in a better place now.”

“At least she isn’t suffering anymore.”

“I knew she was unwell, but…”

“It’s actually a relief to not have to worry about her anymore.”

And you’ll post your sorry online brownie point stories about me and the times you tried to help me, but gosh I was just so fucking far gone if only you could’ve done more. You’ll end it telling the people you actually care about “if you are ever feeling this way please reach out to me!” and you’ll post the number to a hotline that will call the cops on any poor fucker who calls it. 

And you’ll feel better. You will feel better.

That’s what it’s all about right? I’m a nuisance, a pest, a nightmare. You can’t stand me at my best or worst, you think I’m a bitch, you think I’m scum. You tell your friends to avoid me because “oh that Catra is a bad one, just likes drama”. Just likes drama, your judgment from on high where you push back and sometimes push first but sure I love the “drama” of it all. Or maybe your friends just said that for you, and you let them puppet you about; afraid to speak up.

Well, it doesn’t matter much I suppose.

When I’m gone you’ll feel bad, but not in a way that will change you. Just enough to want to get rid of it as quickly as you got rid of me, so you make your post and have an outpouring of support from well wishers and people who wished they could’ve seen the signs.

I mean, I made each sign with sweat and tears and blood, I bent the glass tubes carefully and turned them on in neon red and green.

You saw the signs.

You just hoped they wouldn’t mean what you feared they could, and the worst part is I don’t know if you feared it because you actually cared about me or if you feared the cleanup and guilt you knew would come. Always have to make things right after all, always have to clean up my messes. If you can’t control me, you want to control the aftermath and the first step of that is to make it all about you, right?

Well don’t worry about it. It’s not your problem. I’m absolving you of that guilt, this wasn’t your fault.

I made my mistakes, and now I have to live with them, right?

As if I haven’t spent my whole life living with this. Struggling against it. Pushing the weight up for moments at a time to gasp in air before it crushed me again. (Do you remember when you used to hold me and promise I didn’t deserve that kind of misery? I do. I miss the you that believed in me, but I guess that’s my fault too.) I’ve lived with it and like everything else in my life, it just isn’t worth it. Nothing is worth it anymore,.not since you   

Listen to your friends now. They’re better than me, smarter than me, kinder than me. They never liked me and they might’ve been on to something. When they tell you that it’s not your fault, it’s true. When they tell you I was unstable, it’s true. When they tell you this was inevitable, well, I think that’s true too.

Third try’s the charm right?

…

Well. Wish me luck, and do me a favor- I know I don’t deserve one, but do me one last favor.

When the mortuary asks who will pick up my remains? Leave them there. They cremate the unclaimed and I can sit in a dusty box in the basement, and when enough time passes maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll throw me away with the rest of the trash. Don’t keep me on your desk to mourn, I don’t want you to cry over me. 

I want me gone. You should too.

So do me a favor and don’t claim me. Choose yourself for fucking once.

Trust me, you’ll thank me later.