#What happened to you

[wr0wn]

Pain breaks the rhythm

[scribe-of-hael]

She was a bird I was an arrow Both of us sure we were Sword and a sparrow

Still when we flew We never knew-

[independentmother]

Learned Trauma

I often wonder how much my learned safety habits my son learned from me. At one time they got me through traumatic events. They still linger onto my body consistently comforting me, letting my mind and body know that I am Ok. My body trying all so hard to bring my stress hormones down to a more reasonable level. Only now I see my son doing the same things I know all to well. Wondering if it is his body doing the same thing as mine, or did he learn it from watching me. Not knowing he was learning from my trauma.

At night he would sleep with pillows blankets and stuffed animals sometimes so many I wondered how he fit. Only falling asleep if he had one of our cats to sleep with or to exhausted from his day. Sleep would hit him as fast as his head hitting the pillow. I would wonder if it was from all those years only being able to fall asleep with hm in my arms. My learned safety mechanism to know that nothing would happen to him while I was sleeping. Never sure of what the drunk sweating body next to me would do next. Or was he just a kid and it was fun to sleep with so many things, like The Princess & the Pea.

At the end of his school day he would find comfort in creating his own little bubble, normality in the living room. He old play with his toys on the side of the couch, write story’s or work on making something for the cats all with a show consistently on in the background. Was this a trauma or something that just worked for him.

As a kid I would often shut myself in my room all day. I would make my bed into my bubble and draw for hours with a tv show on in the background. When I first left his father I would find myself doing the same thing. Only this time he was there helping distract me from the world outside my bedroom door and all I had to face.

Maybe they are all learned from me and I know they are there from my trauma. Or maybe I know enough about trauma. The reaction my body has to cope with it that I can recognize it in my son. Knowing all to well that the whole time he was in my belly and rolling around on the floor the trauma of his father and I arguing was seeping into his skin forever changing his wiring.

[space-blue]

If you lockpick Zevlor's chest...

:|

"A fine but well-used sword. It seemed to have once belonged to a holy order, but the indication of rank and patron deity at the hilt have recently been filed down."

[cr3at1ve-us3rnam3]

It’s you.

Despite everything, it’s still you.

[corvusalbus93]

Need to get this off my chest. A part of me had hoped the armour just looked like his as a nod to the fans, but nope; Hemlock called him Scorch. My boy in Legends:

I could go on, get out the novels... Anyway, TBB:

[dartalias]

Kuruk christmas (or holidays) fanart

Based on this song:

(I thoght on Yangchen singing the chorus and it just consumed my brain)

[thingspeoplesayintoontown]

[scrollonso]

Please. — Marcmarc

It was the week before Christmas, and the season had just ended. Tavullia was quiet, it's cobbled streets dusted with a thin layer of snow, and Marco's small apartment felt even quieter. The radiator clicked as it tried to fight off the chill, but Marco barely noticed. He stood by the window, staring out at the frost creeping along the glass. Outside, the fairy lights strung across the neighboring buildings blinked softly, their gentle glow reflecting like tiny stars.

His thoughts were heavy, tangled with memories he couldn’t escape. The pit in his stomach twisted tighter, the kind of unease that only one person could bring. He knew Marc was on his way. He always did. It was something in the air, a weight that settled on him whenever Marc was near. It was equal parts anticipation and dread, the two emotions locked in a tug-of-war that left him feeling raw.

When the knock came, Marco’s breath hitched, his heart leaping in a way that made him hate himself just a little more. For a fleeting moment, he thought about ignoring it. Pretending he wasn’t home. But he knew better. He always let Marc in. Always had, always would.

He opened the door, and there he was — Marc Marquez, leaning casually against the doorframe, his crooked, feline grin already in place. His dark hair was tousled from the cold, his cheeks pink from the wind. In his hands was a small, neatly wrapped box, the paper shimmering faintly in the dim light of the hallway.

“Merry Christmas, Bez,” Marc said, his voice low and warm as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

Marco stepped back automatically, his chest tightening as Marc brushed past him, the familiar scent of his cologne filling the small space. It was always like this. Marc’s presence filled the room, filled him, and left no room for anything else.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” Marco said, his voice steady, though it cost him more effort than he’d ever admit. He closed the door and turned to face Marc, who had already set the gift on Marco’s cluttered table.

“I wanted to.” Marc shrugged, his tone too casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But Marco knew better. The tension in Marc’s shoulders, the way his eyes darted around the room, betrayed him.

“We need to talk,” Marc said finally, his voice softer now.

Marco’s stomach dropped. Of course, they needed to talk. That’s all they ever seemed to do these days — they’d talk. Or fight. Or fuck. Pretend everything wasn't ruined.

“What’s the point, Marc?” Marco asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, leaning against the counter as if it were the only thing holding him up. His voice wavered, despite his best efforts to sound resolute. “You’ll just say the same things you always do. That it’s complicated. That you care about me, but—”

“But I do care about you!” Marc interrupted, his voice sharp, almost desperate. The words sliced through the tension in the room like a blade, their force making Marco flinch.

“You care,” Marco said, his voice soft but raw with pain. “But not enough.” His arms tightened around himself as if trying to keep his breaking heart from spilling out. He turned his gaze away, staring down at the chipped linoleum floor as tears threatened to escape. “Not enough to stop lying to her.”

It was always about her. Marco tried to convince himself it wasn’t — tried to blame Marc, blame himself, blame the world — but deep down, he couldn’t help but think of her. Gemma. The name tasted bitter on his tongue, though he never said it aloud. He blamed her, hated her, envied her. And yet, he knew none of it was her fault. She was just as trapped in Marc’s web of indecision as he was.

“Not enough to stop hurting me,” Marco added, his voice breaking.

Marc exhaled a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his messy hair, the gesture as familiar as it was infuriating. “It’s not that simple—”

“It is that simple!” Marco snapped, his voice rising, trembling with the force of his frustration and grief. He finally looked up, his tear-filled eyes locking onto Marc’s. His anger flared, hot and consuming, burning away the vulnerability he’d tried so hard to hide. “You don’t get to show up here every time you feel guilty. Every time you want to tell me how much I mean to you but never enough to actually choose me!”

Marc flinched at the words, his face twisting with pain. He stepped forward instinctively, his hand half-reaching toward Marco as if he could somehow soothe the storm he’d caused.

But Marco held up a hand, palm out, his body stiff and trembling. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Just... don’t.”

The space between them felt impossibly wide, a chasm filled with unspoken words and broken promises. Marc froze, his outstretched hand falling limply to his side, his expression crumbling into something unreadable. Marco could see it — the guilt, the regret — but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. And it never would be.

“Ti voglio tanto bene, Marco,” Marc said, his voice barely more than a whisper, the words trembling as they left his lips.

Marco closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words wash over him, but they didn’t comfort him. Instead, they twisted the knife already buried in his chest. “Then why does it hurt more?” he whispered back, his voice fragile, as though speaking too loudly would shatter him completely. His eyes flicked up to meet Marc’s, brimming with unshed tears. “Why do I feel my pain more than I feel your love?”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of it pressing down on both of them. Marc looked down at the floor, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. Marco could see the storm raging in his dark eyes, the conflict, the guilt, the love he claimed to feel but never acted on. He always looked like this when they reached the inevitable breaking point—torn, but never enough to make a choice.

“You should go,” Marco said at last, his voice hollow, barely audible. He turned away from Marc, staring at the window and the blinking fairy lights outside, the soft glow mocking the darkness inside him. “It’s Christmas, Marc. Go be with her. She’s waiting, I’m sure.”

Marc’s breath hitched at Marco’s words, and for a moment, he stood frozen, as though waiting for Marco to take them back, to beg him to stay. But Marco didn’t. He stayed rooted where he was, his arms wrapped around himself, his back to Marc, a silent but final wall between them.

Marc hesitated, the weight of his indecision visible in the way his body tensed. But then he nodded, the movement slow and reluctant. He walked to the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. When he opened it, the icy December air rushed in, swirling around them both, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of their unresolved emotions.

At the threshold, Marc paused, his hand on the doorframe. He turned back one last time, his dark eyes pleading, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “Marco, mi amor…”

Marco finally turned to face him, his expression unreadable. He forced a smile onto his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes — it was brittle, fragile, as if it might crumble under the weight of the moment. “Merry Christmas, Marc,” he said, his tone steady despite the ache in his chest. “Please don’t call.”

The words hung in the air between them, final and unyielding. Marc’s shoulders sagged, his hand falling limply to his side. Marco stepped forward and gently closed the door, the soft click of the latch echoing like a gunshot in the silence of the apartment.

On the other side of the door, Marc stood frozen, his hand hovering over the wood as if he could push it open again, as if he could undo everything — as if he could stop himself from turning into the villain in his story, into Rossi. He rested his forehead against the door, his breath clouding in the frigid air. For a moment, he considered knocking, begging Marco for one more chance. But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned and walked away, his boots crunching against the snow, his shadow growing fainter as he disappeared into the cold, empty night.

Inside, Marco leaned back against the door, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees. The tears he had fought so hard to hold back finally spilled over, silent and unstoppable. The fairy lights outside kept blinking, their cheerful glow a cruel reminder of everything he had just let go.

And somewhere, Marc walked through the streets of Tavullia, carrying the weight of his choices, knowing he’d never hear Marco’s voice again. He'd never speak to his Bez, his amor, all that was left was Marco Bezzecchi. The most talented rider Aprilia had ever seen — in Marc's eyes at least.

[iwritewhump]

"what happened to you?" + recapture + new clothes

day sixteen of whumpember

760 words

warnings: bashing someone's head in, kidnapping (technically)

a/n: this one is a little underbaked as far as my writing goes but i like the concept! if enough people remind me about it after september i might try to rewrite it eventually

~

Living Weapon resituates on the couch, tucking its legs underneath itself hoping to find a perfect position to fall asleep in. It lays its head on the armrest and watches the documentary.

Lights flash in the corner of its eye and its heart drops. The frosted glass around the doorframe lights up a few more times and Living Weapon stares hopelessly outside. It looks at Caretaker, the TV reflecting on her sleeping face.  It blinks and looks ahead, counting the flashing lights in Caretaker’s driveway. By some miracle the flashing light doesn’t wake her up and Living Weapon walks up to the door. 

It slides the bolt over and cracks the door open. The flashing lights stop and Living Weapon steps out onto the porch. The concrete has been warmed by the sun and it relishes in the moment, closing its eyes for just a second. The car honks and Living Weapon springs to life. 

It slides into the passenger seat and stares at Caretaker’s house. Slowly, it relaxes into the seat and looks at Handler. The lines on his face are more defined, softening him almost. Living Weapon bites the inside of its cheek until it tastes blood. It inhales sharply and looks at Caretaker’s front door. 

“Glad you came out, I didn’t want to break in.” Handler says, tapping irritably on the steering wheel. 

Its breath hitches and it looks at its hands. Almost whispering, it asks, “How did you find me?” 

“Oh please,” Handler scoffs. “I never lost you.” 

Living Weapon nods solemnly and takes a shuddering inhale. “So what now?” 

Handler huffs and reverses out of the driveway. He stares at the road and sighs, “Now you’ve hopefully found out that everything I do is to help you. Not to hurt you. Now we go home and fix whatever Caretaker did to you.”

Living Weapon picks at its cuticles as Handler turns and twists and travels back to the cabin in the forest that he called home. 

Blood beads out of Living Weapon’s nail bed by the time Handler parks the truck. He jumps out of the truck and motions for it to do the same. 

Its feet sink into the mud and when it pulls its foot out of the mud, its sock stays. Living Weapon jumps to the small mat outside the door and wipes its feet, doing its best to get all the mud off of its feet before walking inside behind Handler.

He whistles and throws a bundle of clothes at it, “Put these on.” They fall onto Living Weapon’s feet and Handler seethes. 

“What happened to you?” 

Quickly, Living Weapon plucks the clothes off the ground and smears the mud around, working it into the fabric. “I’m tired, I wasn’t expecting it. Nothing’s happened.” 

Handler chucks his shoe at it, “I think you’re slow. I think Caretaker coddled the killer instinct in you and now you can’t keep yourself alive. You rely on her.” 

Living Weapon spits and hurls the shoe back at Handler. “You’re wrong!” it stomps up to Handler and hovers a hand over his chest. “She made me stronger than you ever could.” 

It takes a deep breath and lowers its hand to its side. Handler exhales shakily and blinks a few times, forcing a laugh. 

“Then why did you come back with me? If you’re so strong?” 

Living Weapon grins, its teeth showing, “To do this.” 

Without a moment’s hesitation, it charges Handler and shoves him up against the kitchen wall, hands around his neck. Handler gasps, a hand flying up to his throat and he tries to claw Living Weapon’s hands off of him as the other gropes behind him, hopelessly searching for something to help. 

Living Weapon pulls him away from the wall and slams him back, his head making a sickening cracking sound at impact. Handler’s mouth makes a strangled sound and his head falls forward, nose brushing Living Weapon’s arm. 

Living Weapon lets him go, his body falling forward onto the kitchen floor. Blood spills onto the tile and Living Weapon watches it spread. The blood reaches its feet and Living Weapon steps in the puddle of it, letting it get sticky underneath it. Slowly, it reaches into Handler’s pocket and pulls the keys to his truck out. 

It peels its feet up from the ground and walks out of the cabin. This time, it avoids the mud and climbs into the driver’s seat. 

The music blares through the speakers, deafening Living Weapon to its thoughts as it drives back home to Caretaker.

[torifuckingspring]

Everyday I wake up and think about all of us strangers then I kill myself

[wr0wn]

I'm a star

[coldswarkids]

in 2006 when I was 10, i was on neopets forums under the handle steelclaw-skyclan roleplaying that i was a 16 year old high school sophomore boy named Christoph who roleplayed on neopets forums. and no one dared to call me out for this

[buzzzkillpoetryassassin]

You did exactly what you said you wouldn't - tell me something is okay when it isn't, only to drop the bomb later on that it was never okay, causing me to question all the memories I considered precious.

You promised me you would never do that.

You promised many things.

[katafalque]

Therapy is more about building new associations, making new, healthier default pathways. It is almost as if therapy is taking your two-lane dirt road and buildng a four-lane freeway alongside it. The old road stays, but you don't have to use it as much anymore.