#Hurt comfort

[deansbeer]

♡ a hunter's journey to fatherhood ⎯⎯ dean winchester.

📖 LIBRARY !

SYNOPSIS. dean struggles with anxiety about fatherhood, avoiding you until guidance from mildred helps him embrace love, vulnerability, and hope.

WARNING(S). slight angst | hurt comfort | f!reader | anxiety | self-doubt | dean's fear of failure as a new father | emotional vulnerability | moments of crying | mentions of childhood trauma (a big FUCK U 2 john winchester) | alcohol use (though not excessively) | avoidance | isolation | pregnancy.

kari talks ◞ i saw these gifs of dean n mildred pop up on my feed this morning so i had to write something w a lil fluffy angst <3 don't hate me bc it does have a happy ending !!! + this may sound rushed, has not much dialogue at the end, n repetitive :) my apologies !

dean winchester is an anxiety-riddled mess.

you’ve always known he’s carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but ever since you told him you were pregnant, he’s been distant. not outright cold, but the kind of distant that eats at you—quiet moments stretched too long, averted gazes, and excuses to leave the room.

it hurts.

you knew dean had his doubts about himself; he’s never been shy about the scars his childhood left behind. but you didn’t expect him to pull away like this.

every time you thought about asking him where he stood—whether he was happy, scared, or maybe regretting it altogether—you stopped yourself. you didn’t want to burden him more than he already seemed to be.

so you busied yourself with little things, distracting yourself by cleaning the house, organizing your shared bedroom, or just sitting on the couch with a book, hoping he’d come around.

but tonight, dean isn’t home.

he’d slipped out a few hours ago, mumbling something about needing air. you didn’t push. you’d seen the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flexed and tightened at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

what you didn’t know was that dean had driven into town, parked the impala outside the local dive bar, and gone inside to drown his thoughts in whiskey.

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the bar was dimly lit and half-empty, perfect for someone who didn’t want to be noticed.

dean sat at the counter, nursing his third drink, his mind spinning.

he couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you. about the baby.

him, a dad.

he snorted bitterly into his glass. what the hell did he know about being a father? he’d barely survived his own childhood. john winchester had been a lot of things—strong, determined, relentless—but a good dad? not even close.

and what if dean turned out just like him?

the thought made his chest tighten, panic clawing at his throat.

he closed his eyes, swallowing hard. the whiskey wasn’t helping; it was only making his emotions come faster, harder.

he slammed a couple of bills on the bar top and left, walking out into the cool night air.

he sat in the impala, gripping the steering wheel as his breath hitched.

and then it hit him—hot tears stinging his eyes, rolling down his cheeks before he could stop them.

he wiped at his face angrily, cursing under his breath.

what the hell is wrong with me?

but then, through the fog of his thoughts, he remembered mildred baker.

she’d helped him and sam on a hunt years ago, and she’d been one of the few people who’d ever managed to get through to him. she was kind, wise, and had this way of making you feel like everything was going to be okay, even when it felt like the world was falling apart.

before he could second-guess himself, he started the car and drove to her place.

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mildred greeted him with the warmth he hadn’t realized he needed.

“dean winchester,” she said with a smile, stepping aside to let him in. “to what do i owe the pleasure?”

he hesitated for a moment, standing in her doorway like a lost kid.

“uh... sorry for showing up so late,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “i just... i didn’t know where else to go.”

she frowned slightly, concern flickering across her face, but she didn’t ask questions.

“come on in,” she said gently, motioning for him to sit on the couch.

once they were seated, mildred folded her hands in her lap and waited patiently.

“so,” she said after a beat, her voice soft. “what’s got you all tied up in knots?”

and that’s when it all came tumbling out.

words spilled from dean’s mouth faster than he could stop them—about you, about the baby, about how terrified he was of screwing everything up.

“i just... i don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “hell, i don’t even know if i can do this. what if i screw the kid up? what if i screw her up? she deserves better than me. they both do.”

mildred listened quietly, her expression soft but unreadable.

when he finally stopped, his chest heaving slightly from the emotional release, she reached over and placed a hand on his arm.

“dean,” she said gently, her voice steady. “you’re not your father.”

his head snapped up at that, his green eyes wide and vulnerable.

“but what if i am?” he whispered.

she smiled softly, shaking her head.

“you’re not,” she said firmly. “you’ve already proven that by coming here tonight. you care, dean. you care so much it’s eating you alive. and that’s what makes you different. john winchester loved you boys, but he didn’t know how to show it. you do. and that’s all that matters.”

dean swallowed hard, his throat tight.

“but what if i mess up?” he asked, his voice small.

“you will,” she said with a chuckle. “because that’s what parents do. we mess up. we’re human. but as long as you love that baby and love itd mama, you’ll figure it out.”

her words settled over him like a warm blanket, easing some of the tension in his chest.

“you’re gonna be a great dad, dean,” she said, her voice soft. “just follow your heart.”

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later that night, after mildred helped him sober up, dean drove back home.

the house was quiet when he walked in, the only sound coming from the soft clinking of dishes in the kitchen.

he followed the sound, stopping in the doorway when he saw you standing at the sink.

you were wearing one of his old flannels, the sleeves rolled up as you washed the few remaining dishes from dinner.

he leaned against the doorframe, watching you for a moment.

god, you were beautiful.

even now, with your hair slightly messy and your focus on the task in front of you, you took his breath away.

he took a deep breath, gathering his courage, and stepped toward you.

you didn’t notice him at first, too lost in your own thoughts.

it wasn’t until he wrapped his arms around you from behind that you startled slightly, your body tensing before relaxing into his embrace.

“baby,” you said softly, your hands stilling in the soapy water.

he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.

“where’ve you been?” you asked, your voice gentle but cautious. “are you okay?”

“yeah,” he said, his voice muffled against your skin. “i’m okay.”

you didn’t push for more, not when he mentioned he’d gone to see mildred.

instead, you leaned into him, letting his warmth settle around you like a shield.

he rubbed small circles on your stomach, his lips brushing against your neck.

and for the first time in weeks, you felt a flicker of hope.

but when you opened your mouth to ask him where he stood on the baby, he didn’t let you speak.

instead, he started rambling, the words tumbling out in a rush.

he told you how scared he was, how he’d been afraid he’d ruin everything, that he’d turn out like his dad or disappoint you.

“but i want this, sweetheart,” he said finally, his voice breaking slightly. “i want you. and i want this baby. i just... i needed to figure out how to not screw it up.”

tears stung your eyes as you turned to face him, cupping his face in your hands.

“dean,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion. “you could never be like him. you love so much, sometimes too much. you’re going to be an amazing dad. i know it.”

he closed his eyes, leaning into your touch as a single tear slid down his cheek.

“thank you, baby,” he whispered.

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after you’d finished the dishes, you drew a bath for the both of you.

you knew he’d been sore and achy from a recent hunt, and you figured the warm water would help.

he sat behind you in the tub, his arms resting on either side of the rim as you leaned back against his chest.

you brought the soapy cloth to your chest, letting the warmth soothe you before handing it to him.

he took it, running it over his own chest before reaching down to gently rub your shoulders.

the quiet intimacy of the moment was enough to ease both your minds, the tension of the past few weeks melting away.

when the water started to cool, dean helped you out of the tub, wrapping a fluffy towel around you before leaning down to kiss your stomach.

you weren’t even showing yet, but the gesture made your heart swell.

he wrapped a towel around himself, and the two of you went through your nightly routines before climbing into bed.

dean was already lying down when you joined him, his hands behind his head as he waited for you.

you turned off the lights and crawled into bed, settling on top of him with your head on his chest.

his hand rested on your lower back, the other cradling the back of your head as he pressed a soft kiss to your hair.

the two of you talked quietly about what to expect, about names and nurseries and everything in between.

and when you finally drifted off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you knew everything was going to be okay.

because dean winchester was going to be the best damn dad in the world.

[its-hitoshi]

a place to call home (sevika x reader)

sevika and reader domestic moments focusing on massage, silence, and books :) [will have p2!]

content warnings: angst

If Sevika had a purpose, she would never say, but think that she was born to work. First it was in the mines for her family and now towards the freedom of Zaun. Breaks consist of nights at the bar, gambling and drinking with a cigar pinched between her teeth. Ah, what the hell. She smoked everywhere. It was one of the things she inherited from her father, after all. That and her drinking and her gambling, though she remembers being told at some point, her father shouting at her with bloodshot eyes, that her mother drank too. Did she think this was only his sin? No, her mother was worse. Shared whiskey with others while on the clock. It’s why she died. Did Sevika want him to die too? He will. Shut up about his drinking. He won’t be around much longer.

(Sevika knows now that the whiskey her mother drank was often a method used to keep workers warm in the mines, when they reached areas the sun could not. It was easier to supply than proper protective equipment, not that Sevika had ever heard of such a thing before she became a councilor. Did many eventually end up abusing that whiskey? Yes.)

When she was very, very young, her mother would massage her fingers into Sevika’s scalp, combing through her hair. She sat on her mother’s lap as she sang and hummed songs into Sevika’s ears, the words lost to time. Sevika wonders if that sickly sweet scent on her mother’s breath was whiskey. Once upon a time, she hadn’t known what that was. Now she does and she can only remember her mother through song and the smell of whiskey.

That’s why your touch means so much more to her than she’ll ever say. If she tries, her tongue gets heavy and thick in her mouth. Thank you is the most she’ll offer up if she’s in a good mood. Other days, she’ll bring by whatever you like – a flower, a new dagger. You get the drill. Touch for the two of you is simple. Fleeting, really, but it’s enough. You know.

It starts, one day, with the both of you sitting on the couch. She’s leaning back, groaning with her eyes squeezed such. It emphasizes the crows’ feet at the corner of her eyes – it’s cute. You never comment on it though. It’s the way you both are. You chat about her day at the council, and inexplicably, Sevika’s feet end up in your lap. Perhaps she also fell asleep at some point, and you helpfully adjusted her.

“What are you up to?” She croaks out, squinting at you.

You smile. “Trust me.”

So she does.

You start with her feet. Stretching them gently before you press your thumb into the arches, and Sevika hisses as you do this. You’re pressing and squeezing sores spots as you move up to her calves, thick and stiff. The Lanes never left Sevika, even as she spends most of her days in a hoity toity room filled with hoity toity people she hated. On her off days, she did patrols around her city, making sure all was well.

It's quiet, slipping out of her mouth like a soft sigh. You feel her melting into your hands as you continue to your work. She had told you once, that her name meant servant of god. Which god, she doesn’t know. Janna, maybe? That’s the goddess all the children pray to down here, you included.

(there’s no need to anymore. For the first time in your life, you breathe in fresh air as you walk through the lanes. Sevika did it.)

This becomes part of your routine as well, though by your own hand more than Sevika’s. She sits next to you on the couch as you both read, refusing to just prop her feet up on your lap. You have to wait until her she nods off, head dipping into her book about Shuriman theology you found for her before you take the book out of her hands yourself and pull her legs up. She’d brought you a fountain pen today with a full set of multi-colored ink.

(late at night, when you both are tucked into bed besides each other, Sevika makes sure to take your hand in hers, as though she’s examining it. And she is, looking at your writing calluses, if there’s any weakness in your fingers, before rubbing her thumb into the center of your palm. Your shoulders relax, your head bumping against her shoulder. Once she’s done with your other hand, she presses it to her lips. Good night. Sleep well. I— )

Another day, you’ve come home late from work . She’s sitting on the couch you both share.  Not only did your school have an absurdly long meeting today, but the librarian had asked you if it was possible to have a ‘quick meeting’ about the latest project regarding Zaun’s history. With Zaun being its own nation now, it needs to have its own history. Yet most of the written history within Piltover’s libraries paint it as only a ghetto, a place where the impoverished and deplorables live. There are no records, written or oral, detailing the worship of Janna within its depths and the reason why. Piltover is a city of industry, of progress – where does all its detritus fall?

The fail-safes for all its machinery lie deep underground, right next to Zaun’s lands. Oil and chemicals dripped into Zaun’s waters.

When you were six, there was an earthquake that shook your home. It turned other houses into rubble – even caused a cave-in within the mines. Only now, pouring through Piltover’s records of extremely rare and unfathomable accidents, are you able to know its cause: an attempt to mine deeper than what was typical in an attempt to reach the dormant brackerns below the earth to see how they could be used. The brackerns were in fact, not, dormant. Only two Pilties were injured, one killed, the one operating the machinery.

No deaths in Zaun were recorded, nor injuries. Your best friend had a lame leg after she was pinned under the rubble.  You remember your parents talking about the incident in low voices. So many slips of paper had been burned the following week.

You’ll help remember them. But for now, you tip-toe behind your wife until you’re just behind her. She must be really exhausted if she hadn’t turned around by now.

Sevika. You murmur.

Her head snaps up, finally. Gold-rimmed reading glasses frame her grey eyes so beautifully. You cup her cheek. I’m home.

[patrice-bergerons]

i have plans tm for this verse, but for now enjoy a bit of luxurious rossier and fitzier h/c, hehe

Francis is drifting in a cold, pitch-black ocean, tossed on the rumbling waves like a piece of driftwood.  He has no body, no lungs with which to inhale the freezing waters, nor limbs with which to wade.  Perhaps he is dead.  It is just as well; there is no before in this place—nor an after—but he thinks he was rather exhausted with the business of living.

Please, God.  Please do not say that.

Hm.  Is he dead too then?  Francis is greedy—he will take the company.  He will devour it.  Still his heart gives a little pang; he would have wished better for his friend.  His James.

Francis, he calls to him.

If only Francis had a tongue with which to speak that dearest of names himself.

Francis, open your eyes for me.

What eyes?  To behold what light?  Does James not know that there is only darkness in this place? 

Still for him, Francis would do anything.  For him, he will try.

He groans.  When he pries his eyelids open—heavy as boulders—what greets him is . . .  A blur.  Too dark for a canvas tent and yet not nearly dark enough for the ocean.

“Francis?  There you are.  Hey.”

It is.  It is him.  There isn’t a corner wretched or remote enough in this world—or in the next—Francis would not know that voice.  A hand comes to cup his cheek.  Warmth floods his skin.  He wants Francis to look at him.  Francis would rather screw his eyes shut and drift again than to risk discovering that James is with him but in imagination, the plea of a desperate mind, that they will never meet again just as he’d feared.

“James?” he whimpers, his voice a foreign ungainly thing.

“I’m here.  Francis, Francis will you look at me?”

Well then.  There is nothing for it.  Francis takes as deep a breath as he can manage—then he looks.

James Clark Ross, in all his glory, is sitting beside his bed, smiling at him. 

His hair is longer than Francis remembers; his handsome, beloved face is strained with worry; they are not in a tent but rather on a ship, in a cabin.  A broken sound escapes Francis’s throat, tears stream down his cheek of their own accord.

“James,” he whimpers again, “James, James,” reaching for him with arms that are no longer under his command—James appears to be real, but how can he be–

Oh.  James catches Francis, and he is no phantasm; arms wrap around him in an instant, and they are perfectly solid, warm, real.  Francis lets out another sob.  The only word that will leave his lips is his friend’s name.

James.  James.

James.

Last thing he remembers, they were on the shale, on King William’s Land; they were in a tent, and James—his other James—had asked him to–

He digs his nails deeper into James’s shoulder.  “James–” he croaks, against the tidal wave of comfort his friend soothes him with.  “Fitz– Fitzjames– is he–”  He was terribly ill; his wounds had re-opened; he had asked Francis to–

But James Ross only laughs, a sound as light as the spring breeze.  Francis has missed him more than he can put to words. 

“He will be here in no time.  I deserve a medal for succeeding in persuading him to leave your cabin for long enough to get a few hours’ sleep.  He would not yield.”

Francis clings to James and tries to let the touch centre him, so that he may parse the meaning of his friend’s words.  His other James was . . . here?  He is–

“Alive?”

James Ross lets him go at that only just enough such that they may look one another in the eye, one hand still gently and deftly brushing away the tears that will not stop falling from his eyes.

“Yes,” he says with a radiant smile that leaves not even the smallest room for doubt, “you are the one who gave us a fright in that department, old man.”

That makes–  Francis glances around himself, the cabin, the gentle sway of the ship in open water, the clean, unsoiled blankets on top of him.  None of it makes sense.

“How?”

James rubs his arm.  Francis has missed it so much, the motion alone threatens to swallow what little there is that remains of his sanity. 

“You collapsed—on the quarterdeck.  Gave us a bit of a fright.”

Francis has no memory of it.  The last ship he was on was the Terror, abandoned there on the ice.  He coughs and a cup is placed to his lips; the water tastes divine.

“When?” he asks, when he has drunk his fill.

“Two days ago.”  James’s brow draws closer together, and if his smile remains intact it is only through the power of a Herculean will.  “We did not know whether you would–” James cuts himself off, leaning on his smile and letting his knuckles brush against Francis’s cheek.  “Well, you are awake now, and little else matters.”

“Francis.”

God, Francis would know that voice in the most wretched or remote corner of this world or the next, too.  He cannot see him, for James—Ross—blocks the way; he tries to sit, he needs to see, only his muscles appear to have turned into floss. 

His Jameses resolve the problem for him.  Fitzjames steps into the berth and Ross leans back, granting Francis a better view.

“Fitzy,” he greets the newcomer with warm ease.

Fitzy?  Since when?  But if Fitzjames is offended, he does not show it.  He stands there—he is able to stand and stand tall, even if he leans on a cane for support—a brilliant smile lights up his face—his eyes—their fire, once dimmed, is back now in full force—no bruises or sores mar his face—his figure, if still thin, is no longer gaunt.  He has cut his hair.

Francis stares and stares, fresh tears renewing the tracks on his cheeks.

“I shall leave you to it,” Ross says, standing up.  Fitzjames takes the chair vacated by him and Francis cannot help but reach for his hand. 

It is given to him freely.  James, to his delight, is just as solid too; his hand is just as cold and insistent as before, interlacing itself in Francis’s as a matter of course.  Francis takes a moment—several in fact—just to bask in its glory, alongside the dear visage peering down at him.  Short hair suits James.  It is a blessing beyond words to see him well.

And yet.

“We are on a ship,” Francis says slowly on account of his still not fully cooperative tongue.  “Last I remember. . .”

He frowns, groping in the depths of his memory for the several weeks—if not months—he must be missing.

But James completes the thought for him.

“We were on the shale?”  Well, that–  He cannot help but nod, and James lets out a sharp breath, says, “I was dying.”

“Aye.”  Francis’s voice sounds so small even to his own ears.  He holds James’s hand tighter in his own and is grateful when James reaches out with his other hand to brush his knuckles over Francis’s cheek.

He is neither a mirage nor an apparition.  He is here, alive, hale.

“How?” Francis asks again.  His head is pounding now, body already exhausted as if after a full day of hauling. 

“I haven’t a clue.”  James shakes his head.  “I awoke here two days ago and– you were–” A dark look settles on his face.  “I did not want to die, before, but not if that was the price–”

Francis gives their linked hands a squeeze.

“Not dead.”  A reminder they both need, evidently.  Although, on that note–  “The others?”

James smiles, revealing gums that no longer bleed.  Despite it all, Francis cannot help the way his breath stutters with relief.  With relief too, when James says, “all well—not Mr Hickey.”

Blanky then, Jopson, Edward.  Oh.

“None think our rescue queer or find anything amiss.” 

Francis lets his eyes drift shut again, rubbing at his forehead with his free hand.  It’s not unlike being pissed out of one’s mind and trying to run a command meeting, this.  The world, the facts, they slip from his fingers before they can be grasped.

Rescue, a ship, James Ross.

James, this James, strokes his shoulder. 

“Rest now Francis,” he commands, “all else can wait.”

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Hurt/Comfort Dialogue Prompts

Part IV

"It's going to be okay. I promise you."

"Let me feel your temperature."

"Can you just look at me? Please?"

"You can trust me. I hope you know that."

"Is there something I can do to make it easier?"

"Please talk to me. I need to hear you."

"We'll be fine. I know it."

"Let me wipe those tears away."

"You're doing amazing, I'm so proud of you."

"It would make me feel better to know that you're alright."

"Can't you see that you are being loved?"

"Do you want me to hold you?"

"You're comfort is more important to me."

"Thank you for sticking by my side."

"I never want to be a reason for you to hurt."

Hurt/Comfort Masterpost

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[space-blue]

Drunken Dreams

On AO3 | On Twitter | For @arcanefandomweek's Arcane Visions

[comfort-questing]

waking up a sick or hurt character... hesitating by their sleeping form, because maybe for once they're almost peaceful, or maybe they've taken so long to reach sleep in the first place. but in the end they have to do it, to help them drink water or take medicine, or maybe to move them from their place to somewhere safer or more comfortable. so they regretfully, gently shake their shoulder or run a hand over their sweat-slick forehead, speaking in a soft voice, soothing them in their dazed drowsy confusion. it's all right, just a moment, I'll let you rest again in a moment.

[whumpster-dumpster]

Absolutely feral for Caretaker cupping Whumpee's face, thumbing away blood/sweat/tears with utmost gentleness aaaaaaa

[mellowmusings]

Blessed mistakes | part 3 part 2

Azriel x reader

A/N- i have finals coming up soon so...

Summary- After over 5 centuries of waiting Azriel hasn't found his mate, given up all hope of any chance of finding her he decides to start pursuing Elain, not seeing what was in front of him all along.

For over five centuries, Azriel had waited. Waited for the one the Cauldron had supposedly crafted just for him, for the bond that would snap into place and make sense of all the loneliness, all the silent yearning that had defined his existence. But centuries passed, and nothing. No tug in his chest, no invisible string tying him to another soul. Nothing.

So he gave up.

He buried the dream of a mate deep beneath duty and shadows, convincing himself that he didn’t need a destined match to find love. That he could choose it instead.

And so, he chose Elain.

Sweet, gentle Elain, who smiled at him in a way that made the coldness in his chest thaw, who looked at him without flinching, without fear. She was kind and warm, and for a while, that was enough. He let himself believe that perhaps this was what fate had planned for him all along—an unspoken understanding, a quiet, tender kind of love. He convinced himself that he could be content with it, that he didn’t need some grand, fated connection to be happy.

He pursued her in small ways at first—a lingering glance, a fleeting touch, moments stolen in the corridors of the River House. And she did not pull away. She smiled at him, laughed softly at his rare jokes, spoke to him in that soft, lilting voice that made his shadows retreat as if they, too, were comforted by her presence.

But something always felt… off. Like he was reaching for something that remained just out of grasp. Like he was trying to force a puzzle piece where it didn’t quite fit.

He ignored it. Ignored the way his chest tightened whenever she looked past him, whenever she spoke of a future he could never quite picture. Ignored the way his mind wandered in the dead of night, haunted by memories of someone else—someone who had been gone for far too long.

Y/N.

He told himself he had moved on. That she had disappeared of her own accord, and if she had wanted to be found, she would have been. And yet, no matter how deep he buried her memory, she remained. A whisper in the back of his mind, a ghost lingering in the empty spaces of his heart.

And then, years after she had vanished without a trace, he heard her name again.

A mission had taken him to the edges of the mortal realm, tracking down remnants of Hybern’s scattered forces. Most had gone into hiding after the war, but some lingered, clinging to their fallen king’s ideals, desperate for a resurgence of power. It was during one such hunt that he heard it—a rumor murmured in the dark corners of a war camp, spoken in hushed, reverent tones.

A healer.

A powerful one, unlike any they had ever seen. Taken by Hybern’s remnants, forced into servitude, hidden away where none could reach her.

Azriel had nearly left it at that, dismissing it as just another tale spun from desperation.

Until they spoke her name.

Y/N.

The world tilted. His breath caught, his heartbeat a thunderous roar in his ears. For a moment, he thought he had misheard, that his mind had conjured the name from nothing more than longing.

But no. They had said it. Y/N. Alive.

Taken.

And suddenly, nothing else mattered.

Rhys barely had time to protest before Azriel was gone, shadows curling around him as he vanished into the night, his mission shifting into something far more personal.

He would find her.

And this time, he would not let her slip away.

The journey was relentless, a blur of blood and shadows, of interrogations whispered in the dead of night and blades pressed to the throats of those who would keep her from him. He tore through Hybern’s remnants like a storm, like death incarnate, the thought of her—alone, trapped, suffering—fuelling his every move.

Days bled into nights, and still, he hunted.

Until finally, he found her.

A ruined fortress, half-buried in snow and shadowed by the skeletal remains of a long-dead forest. The air was thick with damp and decay, with the unmistakable scent of old blood. And beneath it—so faint he might have missed it—her scent.

Y/N.

He moved without thought, cutting down the guards who dared to stand in his way, his shadows curling around him, around them, swallowing their screams before they could echo. A door splintered beneath his hands, revealing a dimly lit chamber lined with rusted chains and iron bars.

And there she was.

Huddled in the farthest corner, wrapped in a tattered cloak, her skin marred with bruises and old scars. But her eyes—those eyes that had haunted him for years—snapped up to meet his.

Shock. Disbelief.

Then, a whisper. His name.

His breath caught, his chest tightening painfully as he took a step forward, then another. And then she was in his arms, trembling and real, her heartbeat thundering against his own.

He had found her.

And this time, he would never let her go. @anarchiii @darkbloodsly @sunnyspycat @er1023 @clementine111002 @buubblles @onebadassunicorn @donnadiddadog @ren-ni @lilah-asteria @rcarbo1 @tele86 @sillyfreakfanparty @sopheeg @secretlyhers @isa1b2h3 @readinshadows @thesunloveschips @generalmoonpolice @kathren1sky-blog

[icarusredwings]

Thinking about Wade's Adhd and rejection sensitivity. Getting upset about inconveniences he can't control even when not mentally small, just becoming irationally overly upset over things that don't really affect much.

How he's been talking about a certain sandwitch all day long. Since noon, throughout the entire mission, and now he's yapping about it again on the 6 block walk to said sandwitch joint ran by a small immigrant family.

He keeps talking about how great it is. Logan didn't have this place in his timeline, so Wade is ampled excited to show him. Logan jokes with him how he sounds more excited to eat this sub then he is to suck dick.

Wade, with the most serious face, goes, "I can get dick anytime. They're only open 4 days a week and only from 1 to 5."

Logan notes this in the back of his mind for the future.

Just as they get there, Wade is telling Logan that they used to be open 10-5 but their daughter went to college, so now they are on their own. How these people have been so kind to him and told him that they started this shop for their daughter specifically. To give her a good life, they've been working hard to send her to college since day one.

As they roll up to the door, Wade's face drops. All of the glee and joy from his body evaporates and immediately he's just staring at the sign.

"Sorry, we're closed. Come back -" and then a small plastic clock that shown when they opened again tomorrow at 1 pm.

They're too late.

"Oh... well, that sucks." Logan mutters, hands in his pockets as he watches Wade look so utterly disappointed that even he begins to feel bad for him.

He puts a hand on his shoulder. "We can always come again tomorrow."

"B-but I...i wanted.." He starts to tear up, quickly moving to wipe his eyes, sniffling and shaking his head. "It's fine... okay.. tomarrow." He whispers, not only feeling pathetic for being so upset over a sandwitch store being closed, but now they had to walk all the way back home.

"...are you okay?"

"Yeah.. it's fine.." But it's clearly not fine. He fully understands that they were late, and thats why they were closed. He's not angry at them. He's not angry at logan either. Not even himself, really. He must have miscalculated the time. A pure mistake.

But on the way home, it's very obvious that this is a big deal. He's quiet. Staring at the ground as he walks, biting his nails, wiping a tear once inawhile.

It makes Logan frown, uncomfortable with the silence, knowing his mind was no where near silent at the moment. He knew it was turmoil in there, a loud and pouting mess.

"....do you want to get something else?"

"...no..." He whispers.

Logan observes his body language, watching how his eyes kept flickering and filling with a tear every now and again. How distant he becomes and almost... hugs himself... at one point. He knows that this is a much different response from when small him throws a tantrum or sulks. He looks as if he genuienly didn't want to be upset but just... is. As if he couldn't stop his overwhelming emotions from flooding his mind.

He takes his hand. "...is it because you wanted to show me?"

"No.. I mean.. kinda? But I just... I really wanted it."

"We can get it tomarrow?"

"I know. I can't... its hard to explain."

Logan gives his hand a squeeze, talking quietly.

"... is it a safe food?"

Wade nods, wiping another tear on his sleeve. It was one of the few things he could eat without puking. But that still wasn't why he was upset.

"Do you want me to make you a sub?"

He shakes his head. "It won't be the same."

"Im sure I can make it the sa-"

"No.. I mean... yes?? Im sorry, Peanut. It's... It's an experience thing.. I've had it in my head all day to go and get a sub from them. And now I can't check it off until tomorrow."

Oooh.. that makes sense. He had a checklist in his head. Something he needed to finish before he could go to bed. And now that this wasn't finished? He would have a hard time moving forward.

When they arrive home, Wade goes to hide in the corner of their bedroom, quiet and trying to think of something else he could do to distract his mean brain from yelling at him.

'What are you doing? You were supposed to go to the shop! Stop being lazy and just go! Come on! We've been waiting all day for this! ... Logan said he would eat a sub with us...But we were so good today...' They said.

"I know.." he muttered, putting on his headphones, hoping to drown them out.

It doesn't work. Now hes just laying in bed, rotting and staring at the ceiling while tears travel down the sides of his face. He's breathing a bit shakily.

'Why are we crying? Its just a sandwitch. It has nothing to do with the sandwich dipshit!! Are we bad..? Did we misbehave? Is that why Logan dosn't want to eat with us? Hey! Hello?? Were kind of starving here. Haven't even had anything today since breakfast. Im not hungry anymore. You're really pathetic you know that? Almost 50 years old crying over a fucking sandwitch.'

They were so loud that even with the volume up so high, he didn't hear Logan come in.

"Wade?" He waves a hand in front of him, watching as he jumps, looking up with such puffy red eyes.

"W-what?"

He puts down a plate. It's a sub.

Looking at it, he glances between him and the food multiple times, watching as Logan takes it, taking a bite and sitting next to him.

He doesn't say a word.

Now, Wade is crying for a different reason, his eyes softening as he smiles, gently leaning into him. "... Can I have a bite?"

"Of my dick or my sub?" He asks, glancing to him with a teasing look painted on his raised brow.

Wade giggles, nuzzling into his shoulder as he takes a big breath, sighing. Glancing at the door, he mutters. "Do you see this shit? And you all call me the nasty one."

Logan only smirks, a bit too proudly. "Says the guy who once-"

"Woah woah woah peanut! That's enough. This episode is rated pg. Sorry about that. God, such a potty mouth." He snickers, sitting up as Logan lets him take a bite from the end of the sub, Lady and the Tramp style.

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

Sweeter Than Revenge Masterlist

Summary: A surprise visit to see your brother turns sour real quick when he doesn't share your hopes of mending your strained relationship. Rudely dismissed by Scott, you seek to give your brother the biggest possible middle finger by joining forces with his rival. Yet the more time you spend with Tyler, the more you begin to discover that there are some things sweeter than revenge.

TW: Romance (potential eventual smut), Fake Dating Becomes Real, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Language, Family Drama, Strained Family Relationship, Reader is Scott's Younger Sister, Tyler Picks Up Reader, Brief Description of Reader's Clothing, f!reader, more to come/specific's listed on each part

Status: Completed (with the possibility of one-shots in the future)

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Epilogue

One-Shots:

Coming Soon

Headcanons:

Will Reader go on another chase after everything that happened?

Tyler and Scott's relationship blurb

[cirilee]

you're gonna have to wait for @mareeoth 's episode to find out what caused alvin to overheat (AGAIN) — rest assured, isi's got it all under control. yes. definitely

[jordanstrophe]

Whumpee abruptly woke. They tried to sit up, but a strap was loose around their chest and waist.

"Where... m' I?" Whumpee groaned. Just using their voice made them wince.

They squinted around, blurry structures whizzed past them. There was a towel over their chest covering their body.

-And covered in blood.

A hand touched their forhead. Whumpee could see the arm was bloody and shaking.

"We're going home." Caretakers' voice reponded. Whumpee could hear stress in their voice.

"I'm taking you home. You- ... You're going to be okay."

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Hurt/Comfort Dialogue Prompts

Part III

"We will get through this. Together."

"You can hold my hand, if it makes you feel safer."

"It will become easier. Maybe not today, but soon."

"Lay your head on my shoulder and try to sleep."

"There is nothing wrong with needing a bit of help."

"I'm here for you. Today, tomorrow and every day after."

"Please trust me to help you."

"Thank you for getting me through this."

"I'm really hoping to see you smile again soon."

"Nothing a good night's sleep can't fix."

"Show me that bruise please."

"I'm taking care of you now."

"Do you feel safe enough to come with me?"

"Let's dry those tears and get you some water."

"I'm going to be here when you wake up."

"This will all soon be in the past."

"Can I please hold your hand?"

"Sorry, I'm being so difficult for you."

"Don't apologize for needing help every now and then."

"Let's get you in the shower and we'll take it from there."

Hurt/Comfort Masterpost

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[thatmexisaurusrex]

What if in the big first disaster mini-arc of season 8, Tommy's helicopter crashes close to where the 118 are. Gerrard decides that the helicopter, and everyone that is in it, is a lost cause and that they shouldn't be wasting resources or his team trying to help anyone out of the crash. What if the entire team mutinies to go find Tommy, his team, his helicopter, and the patients he was transporting?

What if the people in the helicopter crash are scattered - some in the helicopter, some flung out of it? What if Tommy was one of the people flung out of the helicopter; lost and out of range?

What if the 118 manages to find the helicopter, only to see that Tommy is missing? But they have to secure the scene, they have to call for back up, they have to make sure everyone still in the helicopter is okay. But maybe Hen takes over the scene and tells Chimney and Buck to keep searching the woods for other survivors.

And Buck feels guilty that he's relieved that Hen chose him to go sift through the woods of this mountain for other survivors, but there's really no time to think about that. There's no time at all.

Lives are on the line.

Tommy is out there.

And in the woods, Tommy is hurt. He's hurt, but he can hear someone calling for help. So, he moves despite knowing full well that might be bad for him. He moves because he's a first responder and will always try to help someone in need. And he finds one of his patients worse off than before. And he feels guilt that due to bad weather conditions and how the fire in the woods traveled (did I not say there was a fire? There's a fire and it's threatening to reach their side of the mountain at any moment), he lost control of the helicopter (and I would like to think there would be another twist too, like the 118 find something was already messed up with the helicopter to begin with, so it was a miracle that Tommy could even fly it at all).

But Tommy could do this.

He could save this one person.

So, Tommy's doing his best. He's working through his own pain as he puts a splint on this person's leg, as he pops this person's dislocated arm back in, as he makes the split decision to burn a cut closed because he doesn't have the supplies and that was the best he could do without the person bleeding out during a hike. And he makes a fucking board out of low branches he rips off trees. And, damn it, he knows his radio is basically busted, but he tries for help, only getting broken static back.

But he is going through.

He just can't hear the other end.

But his words are getting through the radio - they're reaching Buck. And Buck is desperately trying to answer back, he's trying to far longer than he should, he should have realized the first four tries that Tommy can't here him.

But he knows which direction Tommy is going. Because he and Tommy hiked up this mountain before. Buck knows which trail Tommy is trying to get to, so it's a race against time - will Buck and Chimney get to Tommy and the patient before the fire gets to them?

And the answer is that they get there just as the fire does. Nipping at Tommy's heels, but it ends up being stopped by a water drop just in time. Tommy is stunned when he sees Chimney and Evan, he's truly stunned.

He didn't think anyone heard him.

He didn't think they were going to be found in time.

And Buck calls it in, asks for backup, asks for help. Chimney checks on the person Tommy did first aid on.

And Tommy.

And Buck.

They run to each other.

They collapse into each other's arms. Exhausted and running on adrenaline alone. And they're checking if the other is okay - both are very worse for wear. And things seem okay as they wait for help to get to them. Things are going great for Hen too, she successfully saves everyone else in the helicopter crash with Eddie and Ravi's help.

But then.

A tree nearby is unstable.

Tommy sees it just in time.

And Tommy pushes Chimney out of the way, only to be caught under the tree.

And this is bad.

Back breaking bad.

Body crushing bad.

Buck tries not to panic, but it's clear this has shaken him. Chimney is doing his best and is calling for more help.

Help gets there, help finally gets there. And they manage to pull the tree off Tommy. Buck rides with Tommy to the hospital, holding his hand. He paces, distressed, as he waits for the longest surgery in his life.

And Tommy? Tommy should make it. But he's out, he's been put into a medically induced a coma as he heals. And at first, that's okay. Buck can be there. He can make sure Tommy's warm. He can hold Tommy's hand and read to him, and sleep in a rolled in bed.

Until that stops.

Mysteriously, he's not allowed into Tommy's room.

He's not allowed any information.

He's not Tommy's family.

And Tommy's parents are, somehow, technically still Tommy's next of kin - they're in charge of his medical treatment. They're in charge of who sees him.

Buck tries to explain who he is.

They reject the very idea of it.

And it's devastating. Buck didn't think about this. He didn't know this could happen. Tommy hadn't spoken to his parents in over twenty years, yet they're just allowed to come and do this to him.

Buck doesn't know what to do. He can't eat. He can't sleep. People have to force him to do anything for himself as he wonders how Tommy's parents are treating him.

Are they reading to him? Are they spending time with him? Are they making sure he's warm? Are they doing anything at all? Is this all for spite?

Somehow, other people are allowed to visit.

Just not Buck.

Buck is blacklisted.

Eddie is allowed; Christopher too. Chimney, somehow; probably because Tommy had saved his life. Maddie, even. Hen isn't, they can tell something is queer about Hen. Ravi isn't either. Bobby was allowed at first, before he made a case to the Kinards to let Buck see Tommy and it went south.

But definitely not Buck.

And Buck? Buck is camped out in the waiting room. The waiting room he kissed Tommy in. He basically has grown a short beard in that waiting room, he hasn't been shaving.

And all Buck can ask when he sees Eddie or Chimney or Maddie is - how is he doing? Is he doing okay? Is his favorite blanket still on him? What did you talk to him about? What did you read him? How did he look?

And the nurses - they know Buck. They've known him for years. And some take pity on him one night, and let him at least near the room when the parents are gone.

And the parents file for a restraining order against Buck, but it was worth it just to see Tommy.

Tommy looked better than last time.

That was good.

That was what mattered.

And a few more days go by like that with Buck in the waiting room, unable to leave.

Until Tommy wakes up.

He wakes up.

He asks his parents to leave.

He asks for Evan.

And a band of nurses and maybe Chimney rush over and tell Buck the news.

And Buck is running.

Sprinting.

To get to Tommy's room.

He knows where it is.

He memorized where the room was.

And he sees Tommy awake.

And part of him hadn't realized that he wasn't sure if Tommy would wake up. That some little, horrible part of him thought that Tommy would never wake up and he would never see Tommy again.

Tommy makes a joke about how Evan looks like a caveman.

Buck laughs. And cries. And sobs as he rushes frantically over to Tommy and collapses into a hug.

Tommy holds Buck as best as he can in his state while mumbling fondly that Evan smells like a caveman too. Buck offers to go, get cleaned up, but Tommy holds onto him.

Asks Evan to stay.

Apologizes for his parents, that he hadn't expected them to come. That he is going to change his will as soon as he can.

And he just wants Evan there.

With him.

And Buck stays.

[ made a fic based on this on AO3 in my Denial-Verse series ]

[comfort-questing]

drifting in and out of consciousness throughout a journey, blinking eyes open and shut to fragmented sights of familiar scenery, wincing at bumps in the road or starts and stops as they go. someone's steadying them, maybe, putting a guarding hand to hold them upright ahead of them on a horse or next to them in a wagon or car seat. sun glinting in their eyes, perhaps, or streetlamps flickering past, faint beyond their closed eyelids. almost home now.

[whumpster-dumpster]

100 Ways to say "I Care"

See the original 100 Ways to say "I Love You" list here: [x] I was inspired to make one of my own for caretaking themes 💕

"I'm here."

"Stay still."

"Trust me."

"You're safe."

"I've got you."

"I don't mind."

"I'm not mad."

"Lean on me."

"I understand."

"It's no bother."

"I'll clean it up."

"Take my coat."

"Need a hand?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'll handle this."

"Happy to help."

"Get some rest."

"Can I hug you?"

"I'll get the light."

"I can't lose you."

"Shh, don't cry..."

"My door's open."

"Take small sips."

"Stay behind me."

"I'll walk with you."

"Feel better soon."

"You're not alone."

"How'd you sleep?"

"I just want to help."

"I've got your back."

"Please be careful."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I'm a good listener."

"Let me help you up."

"When I say run, run."

"I'm glad you're okay."

"You're not a burden."

"I made your favorite."

"I'll see what I can do."

"How are you feeling?"

"We'll get through this."

"That's it, just let it out."

"I'm worried about you."

"I'll start a bath for you."

"I'm coming right back."

"I can stay up with you."

"I wish you had told me."

"It's okay to not be okay."

"Your health comes first."

"You need a ride home?"

"Sit tight, I'm on my way."

"I'm not here to hurt you."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Just looking out for you."

"I'm sorry, I know it hurts."

"Let me worry about that."

"Stay as long as you want."

"I'll take care of everything."

"It's fine, I'll take the couch."

"I came as soon as I heard."

"You really gave us a scare."

"I'm not leaving you behind."

"I'm never too busy for you."

"I'll stay until you fall asleep."

"You don't have to apologize."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"It's okay, it was just a dream."

"You ready to eat something?"

"Don't strain yourself, I'll get it."

"I've missed seeing you smile."

"Do you need another blanket?"

"You didn't deserve any of this."

"Follow my breathing. In...out..."

"Don't scare me like that again."

"I'll wake you in a couple hours."

"It's really me. I'm here, I'm real."

"I won't let them near you again."

"You first, I'll be right behind you."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"I know I don't have to. I want to."

"You can hold my hand if it helps."

"I've got your next round of meds."

"Let me put on some fresh sheets."

"It's good to see you up and about."

"I'm with you every step of the way."

"I'll be outside if you need anything."

"Hey, you're supposed to be resting."

"You're the strongest person I know."

"Is there anyone you want me to call?"

"If you're not up for this, let me know."

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"I just hate to see you hurting like this."

"Tell me what you need most right now."

"I called off work. You've got me all day."

"You've got my emergency contact info."

"I know you. You don't seem like yourself."

"I have a change of clothes ready for you."

"I'm so proud of you, and how far you've come."

"Call me if you need me. I don't care how late it is."

"They want to get to you, they'll have to go through me."