#like... there is still some old wounds that will always be raw and painful but overall? she's in a good place rn so imma just

[duskroots]

anet: the commander is suffering. haunted by the ghosts of the past both literally and figuratively. they're just so so tired. yet they cannot rest. traumatized. abandoned. mental wounds that will never heal. forgotten by those they once called their closest companions. what a dreadful existence. what a lonely life. when will the horrors for them end??!!?!?

me, personally: my commander is the most stable and well-adjusted they've ever been. just so relieved the dragon cycle is over, tyria is still standing, and her loved ones are safe and happily moving on to lead their own lives. she's finally been able to relax the past year, pick up a new hobby or two, spend some quiet time with her family. what a time for them to be alive!

[underoossss]

can I request a hurt/comfort with steve, where maybe the reader gets hurt in the upside-down and he is taking care of her? you are one of my favorite steve blogs!

I love a good old hurt comfort!!! And this time though r is hurt Steve is getting comfort cause that boy sure blames himself for no apparent reason. You’re so sweet thank you! It means the world to me you like the stories I write for y’all💖 I hope you like this! 1k.

••••

“I can’t lose her!”

Steve’s scream still echoes at the back of your mind, fuzzy and distant but it’s still there. The panic, the pain, the anger, they’re all there burned in your brain. You were in a dizzy state, half present and half gone after your last trip to the upside down had left you with a pierced leg and a bleeding wound. Vecna was gone which is all that mattered, yet instead of celebrating Steve hovered over you making a makeshift tourniquet for your leg with his belt – Nancy and Robin trying their best to calm him down. That's when he snapped, voice raw and cracking with emotion; it was clear he didn't mean to, but if you were in his shoes you're sure you'd have done the same. You wanted to reassure him, tell him you were fine, but things were hazy after that.

Steve's quiet now, lying down on his bed next to you.

His torso is bandaged just like your leg; his wounds clean and treated, yours got ten stitches covered with two layers of gauze and clear medical tape. He's done nothing but look after you since you got back, making sure you had everything you needed, driving you to his place and helping you get upstairs. He even washed your hair, gentle and caring and careful, pretending he's alright when you know he isn't. His hands still shake no matter how much you hold onto them, you can tell he's holding back tears from the way he clears his throat before speaking. Yet he only wants to take care of you.

"You should try to get some rest." Steve says, one hand gentle on your cheek as his thumb rubs softly at your skin. "It's late."

You glance sideways at him, his face is golden in the glow of the nightstand lamp. Hair almost dry from his shower earlier, eyes red-rimmed, a soft grin that's holding everything back. You know this boy the same way he knows you. "I can't sleep lying on my back." You whisper over a frown.

"We can figure it out." Steve's smile is a fraction more genuine this time, always happy to help you. "Here, let me sit up."

It takes some minutes but Steve rearranges the pillows and helps you sit up, mindful of your injured leg. He lies back against the headboard with you slumped sideways against his chest, head resting on his shoulder and patched up leg extended in front of you. It's not the most comfortable position but it's better than before, especially now that you have your arms around Steve.

"I'm not hurting you?" You ask quietly, closing your eyes at Steve's touch rubbing up and down your arm.

"No," You feel Steve shake his head. "I like this better."

You snuggle closer to him, wanting to be as much as possible as someone who thought would lose the other only hours ago. Steve hums and kisses your temple which makes you look up at him. When you see the tears he's holding back, you break.

"I'm so sorry Stevie." You mumble through an aching throat. "I didn't mean to get hurt and scare you like that."

Steve closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You don't have to say sorry."

"I wanted to tell you I would be okay, reassure you that I would be." Your words are rushed through your tears, lips pulling downwards with sorrow. "It all happened so fast."

Steve's arms go around you and pull you closer, his shoulder shaking as he cries into your hair. You'd squeeze him tight in return if he wasn't injured, so you settle for kissing the middle of his chest as you cry with him. The idea of the roles being reversed makes your blood freeze with panic. "I thought I was going to lose you." Steve confesses, "I don't think I've ever been so scared."

"You'll never lose me." You pull pack to look at him in the eyes, red and full of tears just like yours. "I will always fight to stay by your side, Steve. I can't even imagine being without you; if I can keep you from going through that, you know I will. Just like I know you'd fight too."

Steve closes his eyes and nods, "Every time."

You grab his face in both your hands. "I love you, so much."

He looks calmer when he opens his eyes, still shaken but better than before. "I love you too."

"Tell me what you need?" You ask in a whisper, wiping the last of his tears away and kissing the corner of his mouth. "Please, if I can make it better I'd like to."

"I just need you." Steve brings you towards his chest again with his arms around your waist. "This is all I need."

You look up at him and smile when you see some of that previous fear melt away from his face. Your beautiful boy slowly becoming himself again. "I can give you a kiss too. I don't think we've ever gone this long without kissing you know."

"Tell me about it." Steve's smile appears then, before he leans down and captures your lips in a sweet kiss.

masterlist

[librababe99]

ive had this idea stuck in my head for weeks. friends to lovers w Wade. I love your writing! would love to see you do something with this :DDD

Nikki, friends to lovers is one of my favorite tropes! The fact you've are my first request for Wade has me sooo stoked too😊

I hope you enjoy this!!

Title: More Than Just Friends

Tags: MDNI, 18+ ONLY, Wade Wilson, Female Reader, Set during the 2016 Deadpool Movie Summary: Wade is used to hiding his pain behind sarcasm, but after a brutal night of mercenary work, the one person who always patches him up--His best friend--makes him confront feelings he can no longer bury. WC: 1.0K

It was late, but that was typical for Wade. The nights when he didn’t come home covered in blood, bruises, or worse, were rare. His apartment was as much a sanctuary as it was a warzone. Every time he came back, it was always with a new wound, and every time, you were there. Not that you minded.

You sighed as you climbed the stairs to Wade’s dingy apartment, the bag of medical supplies in your hand. You’d been getting calls from Wade for a while now, ever since he’d been discharged from the Canadian Special Forces and started taking on freelance mercenary jobs. The two of you had been close before—best friends, even—but this work had brought him back into your life in a way you didn’t expect.

It started as a few nights of patching him up, laughing at his stupid jokes while you taped him back together, but it had become routine. A strange routine, but a routine nonetheless. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d gone a week without seeing him, usually in some state of disrepair.

You knocked on his door, hearing a grunt from inside that signaled Wade’s familiar, albeit exhausted, voice.

“Door’s open,” he called, his voice rough, and you entered.

He was slouched on his old couch, blood smeared across his shirt, which was barely hanging on by a few threads. The sight of him in this state wasn’t new, but something about the way he wasn’t immediately making a joke unsettled you. His usual bravado, the sarcastic remarks, the teasing grin—none of it was there. Instead, he looked… worn down.

“Wade?” you called softly, setting your bag down on the coffee table. “What the hell happened to you this time?”

“Just another Tuesday,” he muttered, trying to crack a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You knelt in front of him, already assessing the damage. His knuckles were split open, bruises darkening around his ribs, and a cut on his cheek was still bleeding. You bit your lip, shaking your head as you grabbed a cloth and some antiseptic. He watched you in silence, his gaze following your every movement.

“This doesn’t look like a ‘just another Tuesday,’ Wade. You look like someone ran you over with a semi-truck.” You tried to keep the tone light, but his silence was unnerving.

He winced as you pressed the cloth to the cut on his cheek, and for a moment, you expected a snarky comeback. Something about how he’d gladly take a semi-truck if it meant seeing you in scrubs. But nothing came. He just closed his eyes, leaning into your touch slightly.

“Wade?” you said softly, pausing. “You okay?”

His eyes opened slowly, meeting yours. There was something there, something raw that you hadn’t seen before. It made your heart skip.

“I’m fine, just… rough night,” he finally said, though his voice lacked its usual strength.

You continued tending to his wounds, the silence between you growing heavier. Normally, Wade would have filled it with crude jokes or exaggerated stories of his fight, but tonight, it felt different. It was like the weight of his life—the mercenary work, the violence, the loneliness—was catching up to him, and for once, he wasn’t hiding it.

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” you asked quietly, wrapping a bandage around his hand. You’d wanted to ask him this for a long time, but it never seemed like the right moment. Now, with him this vulnerable, it slipped out before you could stop it.

Wade blinked, his gaze shifting away from yours. “Someone’s gotta do the dirty work, right? Might as well be me.”

“But you don’t have to,” you insisted, your hands stilling on his. “You’re not alone in this, Wade. You don’t have to keep putting yourself through this hell.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just looked at you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen. His usual mask of sarcasm and humor had fallen, leaving the man underneath—the one who felt too much but never showed it.

“I’m good at it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And it’s all I’ve got.”

You frowned, shaking your head. “That’s not true. You have people who care about you. You have me.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavier than anything you’d said before. Wade’s eyes widened slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. You felt the tension rise, the room suddenly feeling much smaller.

“Do I?” he asked, and there was something vulnerable in the way he said it, like he genuinely didn’t believe it.

“Of course, you do, Wade,” you replied, your voice soft but firm. “I’ve been here, haven’t I? Every time you get hurt, every time you need someone. I’m always here.”

Wade swallowed hard, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. Instead, he looked at you with something closer to fear—fear of what he might say next, of what it might mean.

“I’ve always joked around, you know,” he began, his voice shaky. “Flirting, teasing… but… you know I care about you, right?”

Your breath caught in your throat. You weren’t sure how to respond. Wade was always so flippant with his feelings, always hiding behind his humor. But now? Now he was serious.

“I know,” you whispered, feeling your heart pound in your chest. “But do you know?”

He looked at you, and for once, there was no joking, no sarcasm—just Wade, raw and real. “I’ve been scared, I guess. Scared that if I said something real, I’d screw it up. I’m good at screwing things up.”

Before you could respond, Wade did something you never expected—he leaned forward and kissed you. It wasn’t his usual playful, teasing kiss. It was soft, tentative, almost as if he was afraid you’d pull away.

But you didn’t. You kissed him back, your hands resting on his chest as you leaned into him. The kiss deepened, and all the tension, all the unspoken words, melted away.

When you finally pulled back, Wade rested his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “That wasn’t a joke,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “I meant that.”

You smiled softly, your heart swelling as you looked into his eyes. “I know, Wade. I meant it, too.”

For once, there were no jokes, no walls. Just the two of you—more than just friends.

[sidekick-hero]

(steddie | teen | 1.7k | tags: established relationship, rockstar!eddie, soft boys, Steve takes care of Eddie, Vecna aftermath | @steddielovemonth Love is a warm hug by @unclewaynemunson | AO3)

They made it. They really did it.

Corroded Coffin play in front of thousands of people in a sold-out Madison Square Garden. Every single person seems to know their songs by heart and is singing them back at them loudly. They cheer and scream their names and Eddie feels like he's flying so high he's on his way to the moon.

This moment right now, right here, is what he has been dreaming of ever since Wayne gave him his old acoustic guitar for his fourteenth birthday and showed him how to play his first song. He always knew he'd end up here, deep, deep down. Never lost hope.

Well, that's not exactly true, but nobody knows that but Steve.

Because it was Steve who helped him to find that precious hope again, to rekindle the wild spirit inside him that only wanted to be heard with his music. He had almost lost that gift along with his left nipple.

The bat bites had been bad, of course. Pieces of his flesh were missing, gnarled scars littered his body, even as he decorated it with a plethora of new tattoos. They'll always be there.

But the worst part hadn't been the flesh wounds. It had been the infection. Robin hadn't been so far off in her fears back in the Upside Down, because while neither he nor Steve had gotten rabies, the bat's saliva hadn't been the most sterile substance to get into his wounds, and more than one bite had become infected as a result. The worst one had been on his left forearm and had caused some severe nerve damage.

The doctors had been able to save his arm and most of the feeling in his hand, but relearning how to play the guitar had been excruciating. The pain had been really bad, but even worse was the frustration, the white-hot rage he felt at this cosmic injustice. It wasn't enough that he was basically an orphan (because his father could be dead for all he knew, Eddie hadn't heard from him in years at that point), living in a trailer park and being labeled the town freak who everyone still thought had murdered several people. No, he also had to get mauled by demonic bats in an alternate dimension, nearly die, and fight his way back to his feet only to find out that he couldn't do the one thing that had always given him at least some peace of mind. His ticket out of this hellhole of a town, just gone. Poof.

It had been one of those summer days, so hot and humid that it felt like warm water was filling his lungs and dripping out of every pore of his body. He had been sitting on his bed in just his boxer shorts and a crop top because any clothes were too much, with his guitar on his lap. Eddie had been so focused on getting this one simple tune right for hours now, his fingers raw and aching, his nerves screaming at him to please stop. Only he couldn't.

He couldn't stop, because to stop would be to give up. It would mean accepting this new reality in which Eddie Munson had lost a vital part of himself; his music.

The pain had been almost unbearable for the better part of an hour by now, but it wasn't until his fingers cramped so badly that he couldn't even hold it anymore that he threw his beloved acoustic guitar off his lap and onto the floor with enough force that it was a wonder it didn't break.

"Fuck," he yelled with bitter resignation, rising like bile in his throat and spilling out in the form of hot tears from his burning eyes, and then "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck," a repetitive mantra of pain and sorrow as sobs broke from his aching chest.

He was brought back from the brink of a meltdown by the pressure of a warm hand on his knee, another hand cupping his burning cheek.

"Eddie, hey, man, you're scaring me. Can you look at me, please?" Steve's voice filtered through the anger and grief that constricted his chest, and Eddie lifted his wet eyes to meet Steve's hazel ones. They were bright and warm, even with his eyebrows knitted with worry. They had become close friends over the past few months and Eddie could read his face like an open book.

"That's good, you're doing so good," Steve's voice soothed some of the ragged edges of the broken pieces that had once made up a whole person. His warm hands found Eddie's left hand, still bent into a misshapen claw, and began to massage it gently.

It felt heavenly, even if it still hurt, the gentle but firm pressure slowly loosening the tightly curled digits. Eddie's breathing had slowed, as had his heartbeat, and by the time Steve had finally stopped massaging of Eddie's hand, the sun had begun to set outside.

"Thanks," he had whispered, suddenly ashamed of his outburst, "you didn't have to do that." What he meant was, 'You shouldn't have had to do that. You shouldn't have had to see that.'

Still holding Eddie's hand loosely in his, Steve simply said, "I know. I wanted to. I always want to." The hazel eyes searched and held his again. "You want to tell me what happened? You don't have to, but I have it on good authority that I'm an excellent listener."

That had made him laugh. "That's only because Birdie speaks for both of you when she starts rambling."

"Takes one to know one," Steve had teased back, and the rest of the tension had seeped out of Eddie's body. He had told Steve everything then, about his hand, his fears, his shattered hopes and dreams. Steve hadn't lied, he was a great listener. Attentive and calm, he let Eddie talk without once interrupting.

After Eddie had finished, Steve had been quiet, clearly thinking about what Eddie had told him. After a while of comfortable silence, Steve finally broke it by asking, "Is it possible that you want it too much?"

"Huh?"

"To be able to play the guitar like you used to, I mean. I feel like maybe you want it so much that all the pressure you're putting on yourself is making you so tense and stressed that it's only getting worse."

Eddie wanted to protest, to tell Steve that there was no such thing as wanting too much, but then he stopped himself. Steve had proven himself to be far smarter and more insightful than anyone had ever given him credit for, so instead of denying the possibility outright, he had asked, "What makes you think that?"

Inexplicably, the question had made Steve smile. "When Nancy left me for Jonathan, I was kind of desperate. It sounds silly now, but I thought I needed to find a girl to help me get over it, to prove to myself that I was still attractive, still a catch. Still lovable." The smile had vanished from his face at those words. "I tried so hard, it wasn't even funny anymore, just kind of sad. Robin even had a whole board dedicated to my failures. She told me to just be myself, to let it come to me instead of chasing it like a dog after a bone. It was hard to hear at the time, but you know what? She was right."

Eddie only ever knew the Steve who never had any trouble picking up girls, so it was strange to hear him talk about a time when he clearly didn't.

"So all I'm saying is, maybe take it easy on yourself. Play for the same reasons you started, not because you want to recreate someone you no longer are. None of us is who we were before. None of us ever will be. But you can become someone new. It's up to you who you want to be instead."

After his little speech, Steve had gotten up to get them a couple of beers, and they had just hung out for the rest of the night, the guitar forgotten. It stayed in a corner of his room where Eddie wouldn't see it for a week, until Eddie felt a genuine desire to play something that had been stuck in his head whenever he thought of Steve.

It was the first tune he could get through on his guitar. It was the first song he ever played just for Steve, before he leaned in and caught Steve's lips in a soft kiss for the first time. It became the song he hums whenever Steve wakes up from a nightmare, either while holding Steve in his arms or over the phone when he's on tour.

So it's no surprise that this is the song they play as an encore at Madison fucking Square Garden.

"Hey everybody. This last song is for someone very special to me, so please let's hear it for the love of my fucking life". The crowd goes wild and Eddie winks at the camera that projects his face onto the big screens behind them. "This is for you sweetheart, thank you for always believing in me. You knew I could be someone new long before I did. I wouldn't be here without you and I don't want to be. Nothing makes sense without you. This song is called 'Someone New' and someday I want to play it at our wedding."

He gives it everything he's got, forgetting the last 90 minutes he's been on stage, to make these four minutes the most intense of their whole set. Everyone holds up a tiny flame with their lighters, and when they're done, there's a reverent silence before it breaks into thunderous applause. They cheer, they whistle, they scream.

Eddie doesn't hear any of it, his senses attuned to just one person he's spotted at the edge of the stage exit. He puts down his guitar, walks over to the tall man waiting for him with open arms, and sinks into them as if coming home.

"You did it, baby," Steve whispers into his ear and Eddie just buries himself deeper into his boyfriend's body. "I'm so, so proud of you."

"I love you," he replies simply, the only thing that matters with strong arms wrapped around him, the familiar scent of Steve filling his senses, and the steady beating of Steve's heart against his, the metronome of his new life as sure as ever.

It doesn't matter that they made it, not as much as the man holding him tightly, lovingly.

Eddie's new life is right here in his arms.

[n0cturn4]

𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜

Character: Jason Todd x Reader Summary: Your silent love for Jason Todd Word Count: 2365 Music: "Disfruto" by Carla Morrison

You have always been an observant soul, more inclined to listen to the whisper of the wind than to get lost in the chaos around you. Ever since you discovered the gift of astral projection, time became an old companion, unraveling secrets while stealing parts of your essence. Each journey between dimensions drained you, the weight of eternity touching your skin, but with Jason, time became something suspended, malleable, almost irrelevant.

He entered your life like a storm, abrupt, unpredictable, carrying winds of change. Under Bruce’s guidance, you both navigated between shadows and redemption. Jason, with his raw rebelliousness, fascinated you in ways that words could never capture. There was a beauty in his stubbornness, in the way he challenged the world, accumulating invisible scars.

The love that grew for him wasn’t made of momentary sparks but of a slow and steady fire. It wasn’t grand gestures that moved you, but the shared silences, the almost complicit peace. You knew that true love was patient. Jason was still learning to find his healing, and you waited, like a safe harbor waiting for his arrival.

In the moments you shared, there was poetry. The furrow of his brow when words failed, the rare glimmer that appeared when he smiled genuinely. These were the precious moments that marked you, where the world seemed to pause, and love became a battle won in the quiet, far from missions and external struggles. For you, the real challenge was being the rest he so deeply needed.

Over time, you understood that loving wasn’t about grand declarations. It was about the gentle touch after a hard night, the coffee shared in the silence of the morning. It was about holding his hand in moments when the weight of the world felt crushing. Your patience, in truth, was a science—a science that Jason needed. He needed someone who understood his chaos, without trying to fix or save him, but who was willing to love him exactly as he was.

In moments of greatest vulnerability, when silence fell heavily between you, you would simply move closer. Your fingers would glide along the nape of his neck, and he would close his eyes, finding peace in your gentle touch. You offered no solutions, just your presence, constant and silent but unwavering. That was what he needed more than words.

There, in the space between what he showed and what he hid, you understood the pain he carried. It was an invisible scar, the result of a life filled with struggles and losses. And instead of lightening his burden, you loved him wholly, shadows and all. On the nights he disappeared on missions, returning hurt and exhausted, you didn’t question him. You simply cared for each wound, knowing that some battles he would face alone, but others could be shared.

Over time, Jason began to realize that the love you offered was not an obligation but a choice. You chose to be by his side, to navigate through his storms without expecting calmness. He, who had always seen love as something fleeting, discovered that with you, love could be constant, even amid chaos.

In every silence, on the nights when words were lost in the vastness of what could not be said, there was something greater than understanding itself. What bound you both together was not shaped by clear promises but by the depth of a connection that defied logic. Each touch, each shared glance without haste, revealed what Jason feared most: the vulnerability of allowing himself to be loved.

You saw beyond the layers of pain and the armor he erected. You knew that behind every impulsive gesture was a heart that had been broken countless times but still insisted on fighting. Jason was not just made of anger or a thirst for justice; he was composed of nuances that few dared to see. And you patiently understood that love was not about changing the other, but about offering a safe space where he could be who he truly was.

As he got lost in missions, seeking a sense of redemption that he might never find, you remained a constant. Not as an anchor that held him down, but as a guiding star, offering direction when he needed it most. Jason began to notice that even when the chaos around him seemed uncontrollable, with you by his side, there was always a way back. You were not a refuge of forced calmness but a space where he could be himself—broken, imperfect, but genuine..

In brief moments, when the city seemed to be asleep and the two of you shared a rare instant of peace, Jason allowed himself to relax. It was in these moments, between silence and the simple touch of your hands, that he found a piece of himself that he thought was lost. And you, with your constant presence, showed him that love didn’t have to be fleeting, that the bond between you wasn’t as fragile as so many others in his life. He began to understand that no matter how much the world around him crumbled, there was something unchangeable between you two.

The true beauty of this love lay in the little things: the way your gazes would meet amidst the darkness of Gotham, the sound of a shared breath as danger receded for the night. Neither of you needed to speak to know that, despite everything, what you had was real. This love, built on silences and small gestures, was an unbreakable force, even in the face of the greatest storms.

And so, even without certainty about what tomorrow would bring, you both pressed on. Each day, each mission, each shared wound strengthened what seemed inexplicable. Because loving Jason was understanding that life by his side wouldn’t be easy, but you were willing to face every shadow and every battle. For you, love was this: being beside him, without haste, expecting nothing, just existing together in a delicate balance between chaos and stillness.

In the quiet of the longest nights, when Gotham slept in its infinite darkness, you found a singular truth in the moments shared with Jason. There was a vulnerability he rarely showed to the world, a delicate side that only you knew. He didn’t allow himself to be fragile in front of others, but with you, he let his guard down. Not completely, but enough for you to see beyond what anyone else ever could. And that was what made your love for him even deeper, more meaningful.

Jason carried with him a pain that couldn’t be measured. The physical scars were easy to identify, but those that marked his soul were invisible, intricate like a tapestry of broken memories. Each wound, each loss he had endured, shaped the man he was. Yet, somehow, you could see something he himself tried to ignore: a kindness hidden beneath layers of anger and determination, a heart still capable of feeling, even as he tried to suffocate that ability.

You knew he would never say the words aloud—Jason was not the type to proclaim his love easily. But you didn’t need to hear them. There was love in the way he rested his head on your shoulder during rare moments of fatigue, in the way his fingers intertwined with yours when the city became an unbearable weight. There was love in the most subtle gestures, in the way he sought you out amidst the chaos, as if knowing that in you, he would find his only true peace.

In the quiet of the longest nights, when Gotham slept in its infinite darkness, you found a singular truth in the moments shared with Jason. There was a vulnerability he rarely showed to the world, a delicate side that only you knew. He didn’t allow himself to be fragile in front of others, but with you, he let his guard down. Not completely, but enough for you to see beyond what anyone else had ever seen. And that was what made your love for him even deeper, more meaningful.

Jason carried a pain that couldn’t be measured. The physical scars were easy to identify, but those that marked his soul were invisible, intricate like a tapestry of broken memories. Each wound, each loss he had suffered, shaped the man he was. But somehow, you could see something he himself tried to ignore: a kindness hidden beneath layers of anger and determination, a heart that was still capable of feeling, even if he tried to smother that capacity.

You knew he would never say the words out loud – Jason wasn’t the type to proclaim his love easily. But you didn’t need to hear it. There was love in the way he rested his head on your shoulder in rare moments of exhaustion, in the way his fingers intertwined with yours when the city became an unbearable weight. There was love in the subtlest gestures, in the way he sought you amid the chaos, as if he knew that in you, he would find his only true peace.

And over time, you became accustomed to loving in this silent way. You didn’t expect declarations, you didn’t ask for promises. You understood that the love between you was something built in the margins, in the stolen moments between one mission and another, in the shared glances in a dark corner of Gotham. It was a love that bloomed in subtlety, in the whispers that never needed to be spoken but were deeply felt.

Sometimes, in the rare mornings when you woke up together, you allowed yourself to dream of a future where Jason could find the peace he so desperately sought. But you knew that his path was filled with thorns, and that his internal battle was something no love could heal completely. Still, you remained by his side, knowing that love wasn’t a cure but a beacon that could guide him back when he needed it most.

The nights in Gotham were like a heavy cloak stretched over the city, tinted with shadows and secrets. But amid the flickering lights and the whispers of the wind, there was a sacred space that only you and Jason knew. It was a refuge in the midst of the storm, a place where the outside world became irrelevant and the only thing that mattered was the connection you shared.

Jason had a peculiar way of dealing with feelings, as if emotions were a battle to be won. He built walls around himself, surrounding himself with an ice that made him unshakable. But you were stubborn, and every gesture of yours, every tender look, was a small spark, an invitation for him to allow himself to feel. In those moments, you became the sun that melted the coldness of his defenses, a warm light that seeped into the cracks of his armor.

And so, in the small things, your love revealed itself. A lovingly made coffee in the silent dawn, the soft music that filled the air while you danced barefoot through the room, trying to coax a smile from Jason after a difficult day. He would resist at times, as if laughter were a luxury he couldn’t afford, but the persistence of your affection had a strength of its own, and somewhere within him, the barriers began to give way.

You remembered one particular night when the rain poured torrentially outside. The sound of the raindrops on the roof was a familiar song, a backdrop that helped create the intimacy you shared. Jason was sitting in a worn armchair, his shoulders heavy, his expression distant. You approached him, sitting beside him, saying nothing, just allowing the silence to speak for you. The connection was palpable, and even in the absence of words, there was a conversation happening – a mutual understanding that you were both there, ready to face whatever came.

He looked at you, and in the glint of his eyes, you saw the storms he carried. “I’m not easy to deal with” he said, almost as a warning. But you just smiled, a smile that overflowed with understanding. “And I’m not here to make things easier. I’m here to stand by your side, no matter what happens.”

That was a pivotal moment, an instant when vulnerability became a stronger bond between you. Jason began to realize that he didn’t have to be perfect to deserve your love. That, in fact, his imperfections were essential parts of the tapestry that made him who he was. He didn’t need to carry the world on his shoulders. He didn’t need to fight alone.

Weeks turned into months, and while Jason devoted himself to his missions in the shadows of the night, you became his safe harbor during the day. And with each return, he found in you a home he never knew he needed. The marks of the battles he faced became visible on his skin, but there was also a new spark in his eyes – a reflection of the hope you cultivated within him.

Moments of laughter became more frequent, and deep conversations about fears and dreams became a new normal. You talked about the future, about what it meant to build a life together, even amidst the chaos of Gotham. With every exchanged word, with every shared laugh, Jason allowed himself to open his heart more, freeing himself from the idea that he had to be strong all the time.

One night, while walking through the quiet streets of the city, Jason stopped and looked at you with a seriousness that made your heart race. “You really love me, don’t you?” The question, so simple, carried the weight of all his uncertainties and fears. And you, with the honesty that always guided you, replied: “I love you, Jason, with all your flaws and the beauty that resides within them. I don’t expect you to be perfect. I just hope you will be yourself.”

The expression on his face changed, as if something within him had broken. There was a fragility in his eyes, but also immense gratitude. He leaned closer, and in that moment, you felt the world around you disappear.......

[eternal-ascensionism]

Hey! Would you be willing to write a Sleep Token fic where fem!reader is touring with ST (maybe as part of another band, makeup artist, etc). Vessel is really sweet but shy, and reader discovers that he has a crush on her… then things become very spicy…😈

Warnings: smut, angst if you squint. Oral, penetration with fingers, that’s p much it for this one. MINORS DNI

Reader is somewhat fem aligned but it’s mostly gn!reader. Also: Don’t @ me for this but the title is from Naked Love by Adam Lambert bc the Trespassing album had a cultural impact on 12 y/o me the size of a mf crater

Word count:1.9k

Roll The Dice - Vessel x Band Member!Reader

♥️

He screams until his throat is raw, searching for common ground in the dim lighting of a sold-out arena. Having complex emotions can be a blessing and a curse; on one hand, he feels most validated when he finds the right words to capture his view. On the other hand, it’s isolating when the words won’t flow so easily from his lips. It isn’t until Vessel meets you that he begins to feel the burden of speaking his mind has lifted a bit. You were placed together on a tour through the states, your band just beginning to show out as a rising name in the scene. The man couldn’t say for sure whether he’d heard of you before, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to listen to one of your songs before a show to get a read on your music style.

As the last few notes rang out, Vessel found himself staring into space. Lost in the agony laid bare to all who listened closely enough. It was a sort of primal yearning he’d felt before. One that was imprinted on his very bones. He’d written it out and heard it discussed a million times over, yet the way you captured pain tugged at his heartstrings. From then on, Vessel couldn’t deny his fascination with you. He would never show it, of course. You were both professionals. Since this was your first real tour experience, he couldn’t risk tarnishing it by following you like a lost puppy.

Vessel had never been as smooth with conveying his affections in spoken word as he was with his songs. Although you seemed sweet and approachable for the most part, he was a shy man by nature. That said, something about you made him want to open up. Vessel desired to bond with you, sharing old wounds and their resulting scars. It was roughly two months before he mustered up enough confidence to have a one-on-one conversation with you. After that, the dynamic between you two seemed to shift. Words flowed easier, compliments became abundant, and suddenly you were his confidant. Ves settled on being friends and tour mates, packing away his growing feelings for your sake. But he wasn’t the only one pining in silence, unbeknownst to him.

You began this tour with rather low expectations. Your band was new to all things business-oriented, and you weren’t familiar with most of the lineup. You set your standards to surviving and hopefully making a friend or two. Then you met him. Vessel seemed reserved; you never saw him around without some form of mask to shroud his identity. You knew it was part of Sleep Token’s personas, and it never bothered you much. Who were you to demand someone’s true self or their face time? So you’d always respected their privacy, turning around when one needed to lift a mask for water or to replace it with a less sweaty backup.

——

Tonight hadn’t gone according to plan. Your poor, uncoordinated bassist had clocked his head on the edge of the cabinet door when trying to pack away the communal copy of Cards Against Humanity. You had quickly sat him down and examined the spot; it wasn’t too bad, but it seemed to be bleeding like a stuck pig. With the other members asleep and no first aid kit on hand, you give Chris a towel to hold pressure on the laceration and head for the bus two spots down. III was the one to open the door after you knocked rather quietly. You weren’t sure they’d still be awake, but the lights in the windows gave you hope.

“What can we do you for?” Came his cheery tone, stepping aside as an offer to come inside. You shook your head.

“Sorry to bother you guys, but Chris smashed his forehead on the corner of the cabinet and it’s bleeding pretty bad. He’s alright but we used up our kit after that broken beer bottle incident last week.”

He nodded, seemingly racking his brain for something. “I think we might have one, I know there’s plasters somewhere if nothing else. I’ll look around and come over there.”

You turn on your heel and walk briskly back in the direction you came. Upon arrival, Chris was in the small kitchenette holding the blood-stained rag to the affected area. You both settle on a bench seat next to the counter and wait for word from the guys. When the tall man crossed the threshold of the front door, you almost did a double take. You hadn’t been expecting to see him out of his stage gear, but it made sense given the hour.

Vessel held a flashlight in one hand and a small, red box in the other. “Hey, heard you guys had an accident. You alright, mate?”

Chris nodded the best he could, in spite of his splitting headache. Vessel made quick work of cleaning the wound that had mostly stopped bleeding. His long fingers unraveled the gauze pad and carefully placed it before securing it with two larger band-aids. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight; for all his mystery and moody aura, Ves was a lover at heart. You hadn’t taken notice of it before, but it seemed obvious now. The man cared deeply for those around him. You feel a thud against your shin, and lock eyes with your friend. You’re met with a knowing smirk.

“With the way you’re looking at him, you’d think he was bandaging you up!” Chris chuckled as you prod him sharply in the side with one finger. Vessel’s head was down, a hint of red across his cheeks. Cute.

“I wasn’t looking, I’m just admiring his kind nature. Not like you’d know; remember the time you and Amanda took me out with the pool noodle? Y’all just laughed at me like maniacs after I swallowed all that pool water!” You made a sweeping motion with your hands to paint the picture for the taller male. He shook his head with a smile.

“I’m just trying to help out. Besides, gives me a chance to talk with you more.”

Wordlessly, Chris stand up and claps his hands together. “Well, it was a pleasure seeing you Ves. Thanks for the patchwork. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to give you two lovesick freaks some space. Talk, bond, kiss. Just keep it down so I can maintain my plausible deniability.” With that, he disappeared to the back bunks of the bus.

The silence that followed was all-consuming. Neither of you were sure how to move forward. The connection was evident. The tension was palpable. But you both had long histories of anxious behaviors, and old habits die hard. That said, you only lasted about 30 seconds before deciding the potential reward was worth the risk. Scooting closer to Ves who now sat on the same bench seat, you chanced a look at his face. His eyes held something akin to amusement.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Your gaze falls back to the floor where your slipper scraped repeatedly against a loose thread of carpet. It was a soothing motion as you awaited an answer.

“I think I’d like to know how long you’ve liked me.”

“Well,” you began, “I’ve honestly been into you since before we met. When I saw you guys live for the first time at that festival last summer, the one where we played on the small stage. I caught you guys’ set after we wrapped, and I was absolutely enamored.”

Vessel inched closer, his right hand coming to rest gently over your left. “Yknow, I saw you that time. You managed to get to the front and the first thing I noticed was your pretty eyes. They sparkled when the sun came.”

You took the leap to close the gap between the two of you, Ves meeting you halfway for a soft kiss. You practically melted. He smelled like soap and a hint of incense, you wanted to bury your face in his threadbare tee and never come up for air. He gently guided you to lay back against the cushioned bench while his warm hands slid down your sides. His fingers dipped just below the fabric of your sleep shorts to press into the plush skin of your hips. The firm kneading movements elicited a strangled noise from you.

“It’s okay, baby, I’m right here. Gonna hold you and make you feel good.” He murmured against your lips before making his way down to your neck with sweet pecks. One hand remains at your hip, massaging while the other slips your loose fitting bottoms to the side. A deep satisfied hum sounds through his chest, and it makes you ache. He carefully pushes your legs up and apart once again to admire the view.

“You really are gorgeous everywhere, darling.” A quick peck to your lips. “Magnificent.” Another peck against your shoulder. “Breathtaking.” He’s now level with your groin, eyes taking you in like a desperate animal. No more words leave his lips before they attach to where you crave him most.

Bucking your hips, your hand flies to your mouth as you fight to stay in control. Your band has seen you in many embarrassing situations over the years, but this would be one you’d never live down if anybody caught you. Vessel moans against you, and you bite down on the heel of your palm to stifle your own needy sounds.

It isn’t long before he has you on the edge. You were so close to your release, but you just needed a little more to push you over the line. Mustering what rational thought you had left, you plead for Ves to add a finger. You swear you hear a growl, and then there’s two long digits pushing lightly into you. He prods and curves expertly until finding the spot that makes your hips pause as you grind down on his hand. You let out a whimper as you feel the dam finally burst, making a mess of yourself and Vessel in the process. He lets you catch your breath and relax for a moment before slowly removing his fingers. You pull him in for a kiss, hands beginning to roam before he takes them in his own and looks at you.

“Hey. I really like you, like a lot. I don’t wanna rush anything. I know that’s a bit odd to say after I just had my mouth on you, but I’d really just like to take you out proper before we go any further. Would that be okay? I just…I wanna make sure I do this right.”

You feel a lump forming in your throat as you gaze into his eyes, a sea of uncertainty beneath. Nodding, you give him a smile and pull him closer for a hug. “I’d really like that, Ves. I wanna give us the best chance at working out, we can go as slow as you feel comfortable with.”

Vessel beams at you, lifting you up to relocate to the comfier loveseat in the middle of the bus. “Wonderful. I say we watch some cheesy horror movies for our first date.”

You chuckle and nod while grabbing the remote, “agreed. You pick the movie, I’ll make the popcorn.”

♥️

HI IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK ME LIKE A MONTH TO GET DONE I HAVE BEEN GOING THRU IT BUT THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE AHHHHHH

Okay screaming over, thank you for real for the requests and all the inspo it’s helped refresh my writing skills and as always, feedback is appreciated! If this does well I can make another part where they actually have their first time together (not as in virgins but as in first time with each other)

[yourlocaltreesimp]

Could you maybe write the chain + koridai and courage (and maybe mask) reacting to a guide with self harm scars.

I know it's a tall order and a bit of a controversial ask but it would make this former self harmer quite happy. And if not thanks for taking the time to read.

^⁠_⁠^. ^⁠_⁠^. ^⁠_⁠^ ^⁠_⁠^

Only wrote Courage, Koridai and Mask, but i would definitely expand this to the rest of the chain if that’s what y’all would like! Please please let me know if any part of this is insensitive or tone deaf.

@triplecatattack come get your boys.

tw: self harm/self harm scars, familial abuse mentioned, sexual abuse loosely implied, physical abuse mentioned

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

The scars never truly stopped hurting. The blood would stop, a scab would form, the scar wouldn’t be as tender, but it still hurt to look at. It didn’t matter whether it was from the perspective of a picture or the reflection in the mirror— it didn’t change the mournful cry in your chest that always threatened to bubble out.

Still, you sat with your tunic looped through your forearms while your eyes remained caught on the old wounds. There were days they were easier to ignore. Days it didn’t matter who you were at your worst. But in the days you find yourself reminded that the you of the past lives living within the you of the present, they’re a little harder to leave be. It’s a just little harder to not wrap your arms around yourself in an attempt to console that aching bit of yourself.

At some point, each memory finds its way swimming to the surface all at once. It’s uncanny, how accurately the mind can recreate the sensations of memories and pain it once tried so hard to surpress. All at once you’re reminded how it feels to hold your life in your hands, your nerves suddenly back to raw and frightened. To be left with only your sorrows and the hope to carry through. That primal part of your mind, in its panic, telling you to hide as the door to your inn room opened. It urges you to cover your wounds— lest someone see the most fragile parts of you and decides they are simply too much.

Courage’s hands ached with the heavy bags of equipment and boxes the inn keeper had requested he help with. A day's worth of walking up and down stairs and monotonous lifting meant that he’d gotten quite… grimey. But despite the hard work, even he could admit, the nicer room and sauna were perks worth his work.

Sure, he was no smart man. There weren’t any schools for miles around, and even then he doubted his family would have the money to spend his and his brothers’ education.

But for what he lacked in scholarship, he made up for in strength. Not in the simple manner of labouring like his father— no. He was proven to be far, far beyond that. He could finally fight back.

To the world and its cruelty.

To his father and his drunken swings.

To his brothers and their torment.

To evil as it was.

He counted it as odd— the glassy look of your eyes as you stared at the mirror. But as soon as your trance was disturbed, it was broken. You offered a small, gentle smile to him in your reflection as you fiddled with the towel around your shoulders. You seemed ok, not perfectly content, but nothing that raised alarm bells. Your worries tugged at his nerves, but the last thing he’d ever choose to be towards you is overbearing.

He loved that small upturn of your lips, something so soft that it couldn’t be fabricated (such a detail he learned during his time as a knight, smiling is the mask of any good wealthy person). He had been so out of touch with genuine endearment during his time as a decorated knight, flirting with whichever noblewoman draped herself over his shoulder, that he wouldn’t be all too surprised if he’d fallen head over heels for you right then and there. He’d lived his life in a daze up until the, playing to his strengths within the court. He’d almost forgotten such a sense of genuine attraction.

He’d made it a point after you to not flirt with you— or not in the same manner he did with the noble folk of the court. You deserved far more grace and honour than lewd innuendos and wandering hands. Someone who stirred such a pure sense of hopeless romance in a heart as beaten as his deserved only his best treatment.

He gathered his swimwear and led you down the halls to their hot springs, keeping close watch for any prying eyes or wandering hands that may find you as their target. His most beloved deserved his protection. It didn’t matter if his blade had shattered and his bones had splintered, he’d fight to his dying breath if it meant keeping you safe.

Which is why the sobs from the adjacent row changing rooms were so concerning.

“My love?” He knocked softly on the door, not wishing to escalate the situation if it didn't call for it.

“Are you alright?” The weak hiccups and strained breaths only increased. His brow furrowed as he felt his heart squirm beneath his ribs.

“Dearest, what’s wrong?” There were only a few small shuffles before the lock clicked open. You looked at him through the crack with a level of concern that mirrored ashamed. He feels the way his face softens and he has to try and stop his hand from reaching towards you. Your hands cover your arms as your shoulders curl inward to appear small and shrunken.

“I-“ You choke on the syllable as you force words out, “I look horrible” You shuddered as you exhaled, the sound morphing back into your cries.

He can, at first, only manage to hold you as you cry. If he cannot rid the pain from you immediately, he can at least kiss each tear so they’re welcome. He would not let you believe your emotions are anything but beautiful. Because they are an extension of you and your life. How could anything of you not be beautiful?

When he gives you space he can see the irritation around the scars, scratch marks overlaying the fragile skin. Blood pokes through in a few of the less healed areas, and all at once he gets it. He nods wordlessly, embracing you with his own scarred arms.

“You’re so beautiful” His voice is filled with such awe and splendour you can’t even consider if they’re anything aside from pure candor.

“All of you.” His lips press against the inside of your wrists, right where your veins are visible.

“And you’re so sweet” He speaks into your skin as he works his way toward your elbow. Through his lashes you can see him looking up at you as he snickers at his own joke.

“And My, how I'm so lucky to love you.” He kisses where your scars end before diving back up to capture your lips.

You two aren’t so different, he thinks. You suffer similar demons. But if there’s anything that he can do to ward them off, it’s tell you all the things you make him feel. That life is worth living. That people care about you. That it’s ok to cry. That you’re worthy of love— in all its facets and forms.

۵♡۵

If there was any way to describe the way Koridai would present his affections to you, it would be through finery.

Many say that most people choose to interact with the world in a similar manner to the way they wished the world would treat them. He was no such exception.

Sure, while he certainly was held to a standard of respect and dignity, he wasn’t as much a fool as he pretended. He could tell that he was, no matter how much heroics he did, an outsider. Where we saw his livelihood spent protecting them, they saw a jester of sorts.

His service to them was expected.

There were days he wished that he were born into that life. That he could understand their intricacies when interacting and that perhaps, with prestige he could prove himself more than just a performer.

He wished he had such finery as a good and simple life. But, he could not so simply provide that to himself. He had not the money nor the means. The wealthy wanted their entertainment and it wasn’t easy to leave them unsated.

Where he could not provide for himself, however, he provided to you. Full meals, fine jewellery and clothing… his pockets were lined, but he’d empty them for you. The shine in your eyes as you opened a gift from him was far better than any rupee.

It had taken an only slightly embarrassing amount of time to get your ring size discretely and find a jeweller he thought fit for the job.

Even then, there came the incredibly precise matter of picking out a style for both yours and his own engagement ring. The styles had to complement one another without forgoing the practicality of something that would be worn on one’s hands. Not too fragile nor bulky, not overly simplistic nor egregiously bold- You get the deal.

Then, obviously, came the matter of finding a wizard to enchant the ring (because of course it needed enchantments) for which was a task he found to be needlessly difficult. But with careful management and months spent stealing books from the castle’s library, a wizard was found and an inn booked and the travel started.

He didn’t want to leave you in the room while he added the final touches to the rings, but he’d be damned if he didn’t propose to the culmination of his joy at the perfect place. So he left you to ‘get ready’ as he hiked up a comically large mountain towards a tower surrounded by swirling clouds and crackling lightning.

Some six or seven odd hours later, he was back down said mountain and incredibly fortunate to see both the sun and his sun again. He was light on his feet, gliding through the flow of people with an unfamiliar grace. He’d gotten a few odd stares regarding his soaked clothes and dopey grin, but it didn’t matter to him. It didn’t matter so long as it was the same smile you kiss before bed.

Now, it’s not that he was expecting any sense of divine perfection when he opened the door. You already embodied that to him, no matter if you walked the span of the world or fell down a cliff.

But it was concerning to see you crying.

It was more so to see how you tried so hard to cover it up.

His smile was wiped off his face as he moved with the same speed as before to your side. His hands cradled both of your shoulders in an attempt to block out whatever harmed you. But of course, he cannot easily block out what’s already inside.

“Hey hey hey- what’s wrong, pretty?” His voice must’ve been around as fragile as you felt, your head shaking no as you tried to pull back. He retreated slightly, granting you space if that’s what you wanted.

“D- I- Don’t. I’m not-“ You could hardly cough up the words. He reminded himself to breathe, forcing shaky lungs to draw breath.

“Not ok? Tell me what’s wrong lovely, I want to help” There was some crazed fear in the way you looked at him, like you’d been caught in some trap. Foxes and the like in similar situations would knaw their legs off if it meant escaping.

He hopes you know there’s alternative options.

He can save you too, if you’d let him.

“How could you say I'm beautiful when I look like this?” Your voice is hoarse. Instinctively, he goes to grab a glass of water, but he freezes in the motion. He swivelled to look back at you as you shrank away, your hands haphazardly moving to cover patches of cut skin.

“My love-“ He doesn’t quite intend for the way his own voice sounds strangled, but he never intended for you to be in pain. Even if it were from before he could’ve helped you, he could only wish that in the fire you’d know you wouldn’t be condemned to suffer alone. Not so long as he’d be there to hold you as you cried and begged for forgiveness from a sin you didn’t commit. Not if he were there to kiss every inch of skin if it helped with your discomfort.

Not so long as he loved you.

Not so long as he breathed.

۵♡۵

Bonus!

The door opened too quickly for you to tug your tunic back on. Much to your relief, you were only met with the eyes of the youngest hero. You flinched slightly in shock before settling back down where you sat.

He haphazardly climbed up onto the bed to sit by your side as you continued to get ready for another long day fighting. Your shoulders only ached familiarly as you tugged on your pack.

“Ready Kiddo?” He replied only with a nod and a grin lacking a few teeth.

It wasn’t until well past noon that you could find a moment to sit down and eat. You savoured the cold breeze as it ruffled the grasses and trees. You did, admittedly, savour it less when it covered the sound of Mask creeping up. Smaller hands seized your tired shoulders in an attempt to tackle you. His ambush was ultimately unsuccessful, warranting him air jail. He crossed his arms in unamusement before turning his attention to the handful of yellow blooms in his right hand.

“And what exactly are those for, mister? Poisoning?” You asked, bemused at his little smirk. He shook his head, extending them out to you.

“For me?” He nodded enthusiastically. “Why thank you, my knight”

“For your injuries.” His tiny voice corrected.

“Injuries?” You looked down to double check that you weren’t, in fact, bleeding.

“Your arms. They’re scarring.” He stared at you blankly. Your arms? Oh. That makes a little more sense now.

“That’s right, I forgot” You treasured the bright smile on his face, a sight that didn’t often greet you.

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Congratulations on your milestone!

If it’s not too late, I’d like to request Spencer/Reader post prison with this lyric.

“You’re the cure, and your eyes have dug me out of my grave more times than I could ever count. You’ve always been the one to breathe me back to life - The Cure by The Movielife

Thank you.

Oh how I love post prison angst! And this was the perfect song for, thank you darling!

You’re the Cure

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Summary - you’ve always been the ray of light in Spencer Reid’s often dark life. But in the wake of his incarceration, can you be his cure?

CW - past drug addiction, past parental abandonment, mentions of Maeve arc, prison arc, emotionally distant Spencer, break ups, bad mental health, mentions of not eating and bathing, an almost relapse, heavy drinking, maybe one swear, tears, hopeful ending.

WC - 4.4k

Spencer Reid had never seen himself as someone who needed saving. Being forced to grow up at ten years old when his father abandoned him and his sick mother, had a way of instilling in him that when things went wrong, he could only rely on himself. 

His drug addiction only went to further perpetuate the notion that he was on his own. Even when his brain was muddled by the dilaudid he knew his team was aware of what was going on and not a single one of them ever said anything. 

So Spencer got used to fending for himself, keeping his emotional issues internalised. He loved his friends but he learnt not to count on them. As such he made a habit of keeping his cards close to his chest, never letting anyone in fully. 

Spencer Reid could only truly depend on one person and that was Spencer Reid. 

But then he met you. 

You admittedly joined the BAU at the worst possible time. Spencer was off work while he dealt with the grief of losing Maeve and he heard all about you through stories from Garcia and JJ. Both women described you as a bouncy, happy-go-lucky, ray of human sunshine. And to be perfectly honest, that filled Spencer with dread. 

It was one of the darker moments of his life and the idea of someone coming in and trying to force their light onto him was the last thing he needed. Spencer liked to deal with his trauma by wallowing in it on his own, he didn’t need other’s trying to cheer him up, to drag him out of the shadows. He wasn’t looking for someone to try and make it better, to take his pain away. 

And then you showed up and you breathed him back to life without even realising you were doing so.

From the moment he met you he had instinctively gravitated towards you, like you were magnets of opposing poles who were inherently drawn to one another. But his wounds caused by Maeve’s death were still so raw that he wasn’t in a position to open his heart up again. 

So the two of you fell into a wonderful friendship, probably the best one Spencer had ever had in his life. You were the light to his dark, the sunshine on his cloudy day. You were the first sip of coffee in the morning, the crisp pages of a new book. You were his favourite song. 

You were his cure. 

The whole team joked about the two of you, often referring to you as work husband and wife. Truthfully what you had was essentially a romantic relationship minus the intimacy. And at some point Spencer found the scars start to heal and his heart began to open up again without his realising. 

Almost two years after you joined the team, when Spencer kissed you for the first time, it was like the most natural thing in the world. 

You’d been leaving work together one night and you offered him a ride home like always but somedays Spencer enjoyed taking the metro to clear his head after particularly long days. 

He walked you to your car nonetheless and as you were saying goodbye he leant in and kissed the corner of your mouth as though it was something he did all the time. And then he kissed you again, this time directly on the lips and the strangest part of it was how it didn’t feel strange at all.

You never talked about what it meant but you didn’t need to. The next time the two of you went to the movies he slid his hands in yours as you walked towards the theatre. He spent the night with his arm protectively around your shoulders while you snuggled against him. 

And outside of your door after he walked you home, he kissed you again, this time much more passionately. You’d subsequently invited him in and the two of you finally took your relationship to a whole new level. 

You never defined your relationship per se. Somewhere over time Spencer started referring to you as his girlfriend and it was just so simple. 

Your relationship had grown and blossomed as though it was the easiest thing in the world, like you’d always meant to be together. Up until he’d met you, Spencer’s life had been full of complications but you were the least complicated thing in the world. 

You were the full stop to the end of all his paragraphs, you banished all the darkness from his life. You were the cure for everything that ailed him. 

But then he was arrested. 

Being locked in a cage for two and half months for a crime he didn’t commit brought all those demons out of the shadows that you had chased away with your light. He was sure even your sunny aura couldn’t bring him back from this. 

And after his release, he started shutting down. 

It started in small ways, ones in which you didn’t even really notice at first. Conversations became more one sided, his casual touches were few and far between. Then he started leaving for work earlier and earlier and you started getting used to waking up alone in an empty bed. 

During his stints of mandatory leave from the BAU you barely saw him and you knew that was by design. It became apparent that he was avoiding you, pushing you away along with the rest of the team. 

But you weren't the rest of the team. You were his partner, you shared a home together; a life together. You were once able to pull him out of any hell he was going through without even really trying. But this time he seemed so lost you worried he’d never find his way back to you. 

Even when he was home, mentally he was elsewhere. Perhaps he was still stuck inside a prison cell at Milburn, or maybe he was trapped in a perpetual nightmare that revolved around Cat Adams. 

You tried to comfort him, to offer him a reprieve from his dark thoughts but after so many attempts you gave up trying. There was only so much you could do and to be perfectly honest, you didn’t think there was any way of freeing him from the clutches of his monsters. 

Seven months after his release from prison, the two of you called time on your relationship. 

You moved out of his apartment and in with Penelope as a temporary measure while you found your own place. You took an indefinite leave of absence from the BAU while you worked on piecing your life back together. 

You didn’t see or speak to Spencer for several months that followed the break up. You made Penelope promise you not to tell you anything pertaining to him, it wasn’t your job to worry about him anymore. And even thought it killed her to do so, Penelope agreed to do this one thing for you. 

Spencer had allowed himself to get swallowed up in the darkness and this time even your magnificent light wasn’t enough to cure him.

***

Three months after the break up you still felt just as fragile as you did the day you moved out of his apartment. Your heart had taken a beating, it was bruised and battered and it would take a long time for it to heal, you knew that. But after three months you thought you might have made some progress. Instead you were still stuck at square one.

You’d moved out of Penelope’s last month into a tiny little studio apartment not far from Dupont Circle. You hated it if you were honest, but it was better than continuing to put Garcia out by sleeping on her couch. 

You hadn't been back to the BAU since the break up and had recently started looking for other jobs. You’d interview at the DC Field Office and were hopeful to get an offer, but it would be bitter sweet. You loved the BAU, you didn’t want to leave, but you knew you couldn’t work with Spencer again. Not with the way your heart shattered everytime you simply thought his name. 

You were trying to move on, it was all you could do. But what you didn’t realise was Spencer living in a whole new level of hell. 

***

The final nail in Spencer Reid’s coffin was when you moved out of the apartment. And what made it a harder pill to swallow was the fact it was his own fault you’d done so. 

He’d thought he’d been protecting you by bottling up his emotions and not dragging you down into the pit created by his time in prison. He thought if he didn’t talk about it, it would go away. This was one thing you couldn’t shield him from, one thing he needed to work through on his own the way he’d grown so accustomed to doing before he met you. 

But he’d pushed you too far, right out the door. And from there his life simply spiralled out of control. 

He left the BAU, just up and quit one day without any warning. He knew it was terrible timing with you taking a leave of absence but he couldn’t stop himself. He woke up one day and decided he’d had enough. 

For the months that followed he didn’t leave his apartment much at all. He wasn’t eating properly, wasn’t showering as frequently as he should and barely sleeping more than a couple of fretful hours a night. 

To be alone with himself like this for eternity would be agony. Without you there to breathe him back to life his appetite for living died. 

On one of his rare trips outside of the four walls of his tiringly lonely apartment, he brought a vial of dilaudid. He kept it in the middle of his coffee table for weeks, unopened, just as a reminder that he could take it if he wanted to. 

But thankfully it never did come to that. Instead of getting high, a particular rabbit hole he may never find his way out of, he drank. 

In actuality, it wasn’t much better and he knew that. Just because he’d never had a dependency to alcohol before didn’t mean he couldn’t develop one, clearly he was susceptible to addiction. But drinking was the only thing that helped numb the pain, aided in distancing himself from his tormented thoughts. 

Without you the demons were able to sneak closer and he lived with them among the shadows. You were always the one to shoulder the brunt of his misery but now he had to face it alone because he’d pushed you away. The lightness in your heart that he had always envied was gone, casting him forever into blackness.

He needed you here, the cure when his thoughts turned to cyanide, when he was going out of his fucking mind. 

He’d been drunk for more days straight than he could count and with each passing day the dilaudid grew more tempting. He moved it from the coffee table more often, rolling the vial around his hand, tapping his nails against it; contemplating the sweet release that would come with just one hit. 

But it never would be just one hit. 

The things he’d seen and done in prison haunted his every waking breath and seeped over into the small window of sleep he managed. He was never going to be the same after that experience, it had hardened him in a way he never realised possible. 

It had created a shell around his heart, a solid armour snugly encasing the organ in order to protect himself from his own emotions. But ultimately it hadn’t just been himself his emotions had been locked away from. 

In the seven months you stayed by his side after his release he hadn’t once been able to tell you he loved you. It only occurred to him after you walked away that he hadn’t said that to you since the morning he’d left for Mexico. 

In seven months the most physical contact the two of you had was a few occasions when you’d dared to place a kiss on his cheek. You hadn’t kissed properly, hadn’t been intimate, hadn’t even so much as held hands since before he made the decision to go to Mexico. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t think about it. There were multiple times he’d almost initiated something, almost drawn you into his body when you were laying in bed side by side yet miles apart. But he always stopped himself.

The sad fact of the matter was: Spencer didn’t trust himself to be with you anymore. But in order to survive in prison he’d had to become someone he didn’t recognise and it wasn’t so easy for him to shed that new persona. And as if to really drive that point home, when he’d had Cat pinned against the wall with his hand around her throat, he knew he would never trust himself with you again. 

The darkness was inside of him now, leaching into every pore. If he was the kind of man who could have killed Cat, or Scratch, and slept well afterwards, who’s to say where he would draw that line? 

As much as he missed you with every strangled beat of his shattered heart, keeping you away from him kept you safe. And he only ever wanted you to be safe. 

But without you, he may well meet his demise at the bottom of a bottle, or the bottom of a vial.

You were the cure. Your eyes have dug him out of his grave more times than he could ever count. You’ve always been the one to breathe him back to life. 

And so maybe it was inevitable that he called you, perhaps it was a feat in itself that he’d managed months on his own. But when he found himself on his bathroom floor, half a bottle of whiskey clouding his brain and a needle full of dilaudid in his hand, the only thing that was going to stop his relapse was you.

He didn’t expect you to answer but he prayed you would. And maybe someone was looking out for him, maybe there was some kind of higher power smiling down on him because you answered after three rings. 

“Spencer…” your voice was barely above a whisper as you spoke his name. Just those two simple syllables from your lips wrapped him in a blanket of your warmth. 

“H-hi Y/N.” His own was hoarse, run down. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken out loud and it showed. 

Tears rolled down his cheeks, heavy and thick as the hand holding the needle trembled. 

“Did you…did you want something?” Your voice held the weight of the pain he’d cause you and made even more tears fall. 

“Uh…” he stared at the needle, brushing his thumb along the plastic tube. This was so unfair of him. He couldn’t do this to you, drag you back into his mess like this. He knew if he asked you would come running in a heartbeat. But it wasn’t fair of him to ask. “It’s nothing. Forget I called.” 

“Are you sure?” Your tone was riddled in concern. 

“Y-yeah. Sure. V-very sure.” He stuttered, choking a little on his own tears. 

Before you could reply he hung up the phone before he could change his mind and beg you to come and save him from himself. He tossed the device aside and focused on the needle. He leant back against the bathroom wall, pulling his knees up to meet his chest. 

The cool tile on his bare feet was a nice repreve, but the dilaudid would be better. 

His shirt sleeve was already pushed up to his elbow, the tie was already secured around his bicep. The needle was full, all he had to do was press it into his waiting vein and all of his problems would melt away. 

But this was one grave he may never be able to dig himself out of. Once he relapsed there would be no going back, no getting sober this time. But his sobriety didn’t mean as much to him as it once had, and perhaps it was worth succumbing to his demons for a chance at peace.

***

Despite how hard he tried to sound like himself, it was easy for you to see through Spencer’s thinly veiled lie. And as much as you didn’t want to involve yourself anymore, you couldn’t help yourself. 

Taking care of Spencer Reid came as naturally to you as breathing. You didn’t intend on doing it, and most of the time he didn’t need looking after. But you did it anyway in small, every day ways. 

You did it in the way you made him coffee every morning before work. You did it in the way you ran your fingers through his hair after a stressful day. You did it in the way you grasped his hand when he needed something to ground him, when you offered him a soft smile of encouragement when he needed it. 

He’d always called you his cure, as though you were the antidote to all the horrors in the world. He’d told you that your smile was the sweetest medicine, that your mere presence in his life was therapeutic. 

So if there was any way you could help him, even after he’d pushed you away and caused you to leave, you would find it and you would do it. Which was why after he hung up on you, you were quickly jumping in your car and driving across town to the apartment you used to reside in. 

The door wasn’t just unlocked but it was open a crack. Immediately your heart started to race and you were so glad you hadn’t officially quit the BAU yet and you were still in possession of your firearm. 

Your hand shook as you pulled the weapon from your holster, nudging the door further open with your shoulder. You made quick work of taking in the room. It looked to be ransacked, like someone had broken in and turned the place upside down in search of something. 

You held your breath as you silently started across the room, manoeuvring in and out of piles of debris left behind in someone's wake. You headed towards the closed bedroom door, gun pointing right ahead of you. You focused your hearing but thus far couldn’t make out any distinctive sounds. 

Pushing open the door, you found the bedroom in much the same state as the living room. You tried not to allow yourself to get sentimental as your eyes swept across the unmade bed and you thought back to late nights and early mornings snug beneath those sheets with Spencer. The bed that was so big but you’d never know it as he always kept you as close as humanly possible. 

The bathroom door, like the front door, was open a crack and a light pooled from inside. It was then you heard the sound of haggard breathing punctuated by loud sniffing, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to well and truly stand to attention. 

As you listened to the unmistakable sounds of a grown man sobbing, you lowered your gun and tucked it back in your holster. 

A deeply disturbed and troubled man had ravaged this apartment but it was not the work of some petty criminal. Spencer had turned his home into a reflection of his own tortured mind, you had no doubt. 

You were somehow more tentative after you knew someone hadn’t broken in. You had never seen Spencer cry before, he always liked to put up a tough exterior, probably something to do with him being the baby of the BAU for so many years. 

You’d seen him vulnerable, probably more than he’d ever let anyone else see him, but you’d never witnessed him with his walls stripped away completely. And honestly, the thought of it scared you a little. 

But no matter how scared you were, despite how much he had hurt you, you pressed on. 

You inched open the bathroom not wanting to startle him and found him on the floor, hugging his legs to his chest and sobbing into his knees. But the truly terrifying part was the vial and needle discarded at his side. A silk tie was fashioned into a tourniquet around his arm.

“S-Spencer?” You gasped, covering your gaping mouth with your hands. 

He stiffened and slowly lifted his head from where it had been buried in the fabric of his slacks. His eyes were red rimmed and tears silently streamed down his cheeks. His hair drooped lifelessly onto his forehead and his face clearly hadn’t seen a razor in months. 

He somehow looked even worse than when you visited him in prison. 

“Why are you here?” His voice cracked and his words were slightly slurred. 

“You didn’t sound like yourself on the phone. I needed to see you with my own eyes.” You heard the sadness in your own tone, unable to hide it. 

“I’m not myself.” He exhaled a breath that sounded like he had been holding it in for years. “I haven’t been since prison.” 

You swallowed, daring to take a few steps further into the bathroom. Spencer let his legs fall and stretch out in front of him on the linoleum and you slid down to sit next to him, the only thing separating you was the drug paraphernalia. As if reading your mind he exhaled again before he spoke.

“I didn’t take it.” He wouldn’t look at you, instead he looked down at his hands. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.” 

“Why are you slurring then?” You watched the side of his face. He clenched and unclenched his jaw several times. 

“Whiskey. Not dilaudid. I swear.” 

“I’ve never known you to drink.” Of course it was a relief that he hadn’t taken the drugs, but hearing that he was drunk wasn’t a whole lot better. 

“I hadn’t had a drink in nearly ten years. I gave it up around the same time as I quit dilaudid, I guess I worried it would become one vice replacing another. But I needed something. And alcohol was the lesser of two evils.” He was still slurring but he was surprisingly coherent. 

It didn’t surprise you in the least that Spencer could still string a logical sentence together when he was inebriated. 

“Why did you call me, Spencer? Of all the people you could have called, why me?” You whispered as though you weren’t entirely sure you really wanted an answer to that. 

He finally looked at you, glancing to his side with his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip in contemplation for a moment or two as though formulating a carefully curated answer. But really, the answer was incredibly simple. 

“Because you’re my cure.” He shrugged, his tears had dried up but the stains on his cheeks remained. “And right now I am in desperate need of remedy.” 

“Spencer…” You sighed, your own eyes misting over with tears. “I was always here for you, you could have talked to me about anything but instead you shoved me aside and tried to deal with things on your own.”

“I’ve never been very good at asking for help. I’ve only ever been able to rely on myself. People leave. People aren’t reliable. But you…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “You brought the kind of sunshine into my life I could only dream of. You have saved me in more ways than you will ever know. Your mere existence in my life has been more help to me than I can explain to you. That’s why I call you my cure, because it's the best way I can think to describe what you are to me.” 

“I knew you would be different after prison, Spencer. No decent man can go through an experience like that and come out unchanged. But in your bones you are still the Spencer Reid I fell in love with.” You tried to tell him much like you had countless times in those torrid seven months. You hoped this time he might actually hear it. 

“I’m really not sure that I am, Y/N.” He raked his fingers through his tangled hair with a meek shake of his head. 

“I am.” You nodded. “I’m sure. Spencer, whatever you had to do inside was for your own protection. It was every man for himself and you did what you did to survive. And Cat…? After everything she’s done to you, I wanted to strangle the bitch too.” 

Spencer’s eyes widened, looking a little like deer caught in headlights. He was gnawing on his bottom lip haphazardly as he stared at you. 

“Really?” 

“Yes, Spencer.” 

“Do you really think I can come back from this?” 

“Yes, Spencer.” You repeated, defiance in your voice. “And I’m going to help you. Whether you want me to or not. Because my love for you is stronger than the pain you caused me. I will be by your side, showering you in light until there is not even a sliver of a shadow for your demons to hide in. Let me be your cure, Spence.” 

You reached out your hands towards him, palm upwards and fingers spread to create enough space for his own to slot between them. He glanced between your face and your hand a few times before his lip quipped up ever so slightly at the corner in a small smile. 

And then he reached for you, his fingers finding those spaces between your own that always seemed like they were made intentionally to fit his. It was as though someone had crafted you both perfectly for each other. 

Spencer had never been a believer in higher powers but it was the only reason he could fathom for how you had found him. 

In a world consisting of nearly eight billion people, what were the chances of the two of you meeting? What were the odds of two perfectly imperfect people finding each other and slotting together in such an inconceivably faultless way? 

As you sat there hand in hand, Spencer knew he would do anything to keep you by his side for as long as he lived. Even if it meant allowing you to see all his flaws, all his cracks. Because he was certain now you would love every one of his broken pieces. 

You were the light casting away his shadows. You were the air being breathed into his lungs. You were the thread holding him together. 

You were the cure. 

[lorelune]

(cw: brat reader, self destructive reader, asphyxiation, minor gojo satoru x reader, past satosugu, implied yandere getou suguru if you squint, dark content if you squint)

getou suguru is going to kill you.

it's your first thought when you walk onto the grounds of his compound. when you feel the barrier ebb and shake, your technique rendering it useless for just a moment. a clear, noticeable cut you've left him.

'i'm back, baby.' it says. it's a siren song for someone with a temper like his.

you don't bother going to the main building. you splay out on a bench nearby, light a cigarette, and wait. suck down smoke and let it billow in the cold. you leave your pack and lighter next to you, and offer it with an open palm the moment getou suguru graces you with his presence.

"honored and revered one," you praise, voice sickly sweet. you stand and bow, cigarette high as you head goes low. "would you do me the honor of sharing a smoke?"

"i thought you'd left."

"hm?" you ask, a cheeky smile tugging at the corner of your lips. you light his cigarette. "whatever do you mean?"

he takes a drag, an odd thing to see when he's in his full monk get up. "you disappeared."

"i had work to do."

"'work'?" suguru's expression twist, something venomous lighting his eyes. "you hardly do work around our precious home— what dragged you off so far?"

you feel his cursed energy thrum. the angry loud kind that makes blood speed in your veins. you want to eat him whole.

"well." you smile a viper's grin. "satoru gojo still has my number. he got drunk. booty-called me. and i answered."

"did you now?" his smile feels wicked at the corners. you revel in it. "satoru doesn't drink."

"he does, actually. apparently he has a tradition of getting shit-faced on his ex's birthday." the cherry burns close to the filter. you're sure getou won't mind if you indulge in another. "and... yesterday was february third."

the silence of the compound is deafening. you swear even the tree birds have gone quiet in the hills, the river song silenced even as getou suguru stares you up. you imagine he's pondering whether or not to kill you.

"sorry to pick up your scraps." you light another, exhale in his face. "you've been busy lately, dear. i got bored."

"bored?" he laughs, cackles. there's cracks around the edges of him, you revel in them. what you wouldn't give to crack him in your own hands. "fucking an old bedmate of mine is how you satiate such a feeling?"

"absolutely." you want to split him.

suguru's cursed energy fluctuates, so quickly you don't have a chance to try and sidestep or avoid him.

"must i keep you on fucking leash for you to behave?"

a whip-like cursed, thin and covered in eyes, flicks and cuts the air. it wraps around your throat and you dare not to touch it. you can feel the poison of its half-flesh already seeping into you.

"really?" you ask, voice breaking. "isn't this excessive? i pwomise i won't ever fuck your ex behind your back again. though, satoru did seem pretty hurt, still, and i think he'd be down for a three-way—"

the cursed tightens and drags you down in to the ground. your knees hit pavement and you don't even have the air to spit an insult at suguru. always so childishly physical with his reprimands. your grin hardly wavers the curse drags you forward, on your knees at his feet.

suguru's expression is unreadable. you like that you've stumped him. rubbed at wound that isn't new or raw, not even festering, just healed wrong. the glee of it is exhiliharing.

he holds the cigarette to your lips and you take a drag.

"it would do you well to learn some manners, i suppose." getou sighs and exhales a lungful of smoke into your face. "if you'd like to paw for scraps like a dog, then i'll treat you like one."

he grabs a fistful of your hair, pain sparking at your scalp and you wheeze out a laugh.

"as if you don't already treat me like your l-lapdog already." your words break at the end, vision wavering at the edges.

you enjoy this too much, probably. getou suguru is a well-veiled man and finding his weak points has become your mission in your time within 'his family'. your technique is indispensable to him, both of you know it, and thus you know you have more rope than the rest of your 'kin'. you use it well. poke him. prod him.

force him to expend a curse on you, just to get you on your knees. the power you wield over him makes you dizzy. the ability you have to get under his skin is yours alone, and both of you know it. you think he hates you for it sometimes. sometimes, you think its why he loves you.

you know, later, you'll regret such thoughts. you'll be sore and aching and unable to sit properly and you'll wonder if it was a good idea to return to the compound while still dripping with the cum of jujutsu world's god. you'll consider that, perhaps, you've pushed getou suguru too hard.

you suppose, as suguru presses his lips to yours, bites at your lip until you're bleeding— it's best to save your regret. suguru is the most fun when he's angry, wounded in a way that he couldn't possibly be sane about.

so instead, you let him lick the blood from your lips, suck in air when the leash lets up (just enough)— if you've truly pisses getou suguru off enough to have him consider ending your life, you might as well enjoy the high of it.

[cocorulesz]

𝐀 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 - Chapter²!

𝐚/𝐧 . 𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐲’𝐚𝐥𝐥! 𝐢’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝟐 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 😭, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢’𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐜𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐝 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫!!

-----

- please do not steal, copy, use, translate or repost/remake my work anywhere. i work really hard on these and the image alone took some time. you get me? igh, COOL!😛

- i don’t swear😭 (expect no cussing)

- warnings: none .

tags: @trippinsorrows @shes2real

word count: 790+ (baby steps yall..baby steps.)

——————————————

Mariella’s feet pounded against the treadmill, but her mind was miles away…

The dream had returned, uninvited and unwelcome, dragging her back to that painful day. She hadn’t thought about it in months, had convinced herself she was over it. But now, as she ran, the memories flooded back, vivid and raw. Josh’s face, the fear in his eyes, the way he had said “I do not” instead of “I do”—it all played out in her mind like a cruel movie on repeat. She tried to shake it off, focusing on the rhythm of her steps and the steady beat of her heart. But the dream clung to her, a shadow she couldn’t outrun.

Why now? Why, after all this time, was she dreaming about it again? She had worked so hard to move on, to build a new life for herself and rid of the old one. Yet here she was, haunted by the past, unable to escape the pain and embarrassment of that day that she had struggled to forget.

As she moved to the free weights, she felt a mix of anger and sadness. Anger at herself for still being affected by it, and sadness for the love she had lost. She lifted the weights with determination , each rep a way to channel her frustration. She needed to understand why the dream had come back, what it was trying to tell her. Was it a sign that she hadn’t truly healed? Or was it just a reminder that some wounds never fully close? Either way, she knew she had to face these feelings, to confront the past head-on if she ever wanted to find peace.

Finally, she moved to the punching bag, her favorite part of her routine, and let out her frustration with each punch. The gym was her sanctuary, a place where she could clear her mind and find some semblance of peace. But today, it felt like a battleground. Every punch was a release of the anger and confusion she felt. She needed to understand why the dream had come back, what it meant. Was it a sign that she hadn’t truly healed? Or was it just a cruel reminder of a past she couldn’t escape? Either way, she knew she had to confront these feelings head-on, just like she faced every challenge in the gym. Mariella’s favorite workout was always the punching bag. There was something incredibly therapeutic about the rhythmic thud of her fists against the heavy bag, the way each punch seemed to release a bit of the tension coiled inside her. It was her go-to exercise whenever she needed to clear her mind, and today was no exception. The dream had left her feeling unsettled, and she needed the familiar comfort of her workout routine to regain her balance. As she punched the bag, she felt a sense of calm wash over her. The repetitive motion, the physical exertion, it all helped to quiet the storm of thoughts in her mind. She loved the gym for this very reason—it was a place where she could find peace with herself and God, even if just for a little while. It was a stark contrast to her day job as a hair stylist, where she spent hours weaving, braiding, and styling hair for black women and girls. She loved her work, loved the way she could transform someone’s look and boost their confidence, but it was demanding. Gym in the top 3 of her favorite things and places. Hair, however, was her escape, her way of recharging.

Life had thrown her some curveballs, but she was resilient. She had built a successful career, created a life for herself that she was happy to settle in…

Something was missing. Mariella didn’t know what exactly was missing, but she knew something was missing. Although this was undeniably the best place she had ever been in her life, the successful woman still felt empty, like a part of her was floating somewhere unknown. She never thought about it, until today, right now; the dream reminded her that some wounds still lingered, that there were parts of her past Mari hadn’t fully dealt with. As she continued her workout, she resolved to face those feelings head-on, just as she faced every challenge in the gym. She was strong, both physically and mentally, and she knew she could handle whatever came her way.

Putting the boxing gloves down and leaving the boxing area, she walked to the bathroom to freshen up. The gym was buzzing with activity, but she found a quiet moment to herself as she splashed water on her face and looked in the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, the remnants of her dream still lingering in her eyes. She took a deep breath, reminding herself that today was a new day, and she had clients waiting for her.

With one last look in the bathroom mirror, she grabbed her bag and headed out. The dream had shaken her, yes, but she was determined not to let it affect her day. Mariella King had a shop to open and clients to take care of, and she was ready to face whatever challenges came her way. As she walked out of the gym and into the morning light, she felt a renewed sense of purpose.

Today was a new day, and she was ready to make the most of it.

- - - - - - - - - -

[bluepeachstudios]

Oh my gosh... if Ghost was THAT interdependent with his brothers, it must have HURT when he got ripped away. His emotions must have been a MESS; he's used to a four person emotional system and now it's just him alone? No wonder he isolated himself for so long. And no wonder the SAINW boys fell apart!! There's an essential piece missing, the system is broken. Did they feel it when he disappeared? Did they know he was gone? Did they know they were broken?

Leonardo woke in the middle of the day. He was a light sleeper, it wasn’t unheard of, but instead of the usual rustling of Mikey out for a midday snack or the sound of Donny still working on a project, it was eerily quiet. There was the regular creak of pipes, the distant rumble of the city far above their heads, but nothing unusual.

He got out of bed anyway to check on his brothers.

It had been a rough few months. Travelling all the way to the floating city of Beijing to set it back down safely into place (the wrong way around), the return of the Y’Lyntian people in the underground city, stopping a nuclear bombing by H.A.T.E., the… thing beneath Wall Street that had sent them spiraling into their worst nightmares.

All of that overlaid with whatever the Shredder was up to now. Leo’s nerves were at an all time high. Raph’s temper was shorter than ever. Donny was working later into the days and sleeping less and less. Mikey was doing his best to keep the mood light and joking.

It had been a rough few months, but they had stuck together, they’d supported each other through nightmares and flashbacks and aches and pains. They’d rested together when one of them felt too exhausted to continue doing this.

They would always have each other, no matter how bad things got.

But something felt wrong.

He found Mikey asleep in his room, up in his bed, curled up with a comic hanging from his hand over the ledge. Leo carefully extracted the comic and set it aside for Mikey to find when he woke.

Raph was twitching in his hammock, a frown on his face. Another nightmare. Leo carefully rubbed over his shell and Raph sucked in a breath, mumbling, “Leo? Whaddya doin’?”

“Just checking on everyone,” Leo murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

“Hmph. Make Don go to bed if he’s still up.”

“Got it.”

Leo walked out of the room and headed to Donny’s. As expected, he wasn’t there, so Leo hopped down to his lab.

Surprisingly, that was also empty.

Leo frowned as he stepped inside the old subway car, looking around. Some things had been knocked over. There was broken glass across the floor. The machine Donny had been working on was still humming faintly. A glass of water sat untouched. Donny’s shell cell was still on the table.

Something felt wrong.

“Don?” Leo said, stepping out of the lab.

He checked the kitchen next, but didn’t find his brother hunting through the cabinets. He didn’t find him in the storage room either, or the bathroom. He even went up to check the garage and didn’t find him.

When he stepped out of the elevator, Raph was waiting there for him, frowning.

“Somethin’ felt off,” Raph muttered before Leo could ask. “What’s Donny doin’ up in the garage?”

“He’s not,” Leo shook his head. “I’ve searched the whole place for him.”

Raph’s mouth twitched downwards. “He’s gotta be around here somewhere. Maybe he got a call from April?”

Leo took out his shell cell and called as Raph began searching the rooms. It was enough for Mikey to come ambling out yawning as April finally answered.

“Leo?” She asked, surprised. “Aren’t you guys usually asleep by now?”

“Is Donny with you?” Leo asked. “Or did you call him?”

“No.” Her frown could be heard through the phone. “Maybe he went to the junkyard? Or Casey asked him to help with something? He’ll turn back up, don’t worry so much.”

“It’s…” Leo paused. He didn’t know how to explain it. He knew something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut, in the way it was churning and twisting and tightening. His nerves felt frayed, raw, like an open wound. “I don’t know. Something feels off, April. We’ll check the junkyards and Casey’s. Thanks.”

“Sure, Leo… Are you guys alright?”

“Yeah, we’ll be fine.”

“Mikey told me about you guys seeing Bishop again. And Karai.”

Leo was quiet for a moment, before he took a breath to calm himself. “I’ll talk to you later, April. I wanna find Donny first.”

“Okay… Bye, Leo.”

“Bye.”

He took a breath and rubbed his hand over his face.

“Why would he go to the junkyard during the day?” Leo muttered. “Without his shell cell, too…”

“I can’t find him, Leo,” Raph scowled as he stalked up to him. “Where the shell did he go? Why is there broken glass in his lab?!”

“I don’t know, Raph,” Leo said quietly. “We’ll find him. Call Casey and see if he’s heard from Donny.”

“Want me to wake up Splinter?” Mikey asked.

“Not yet.” Leo frowned towards Donny’s lab. “He might’ve gone into the tunnels.”

“I’ll check the pond,” Mikey said, heading over to it. “The diving gear is still here so he can’t have gone far.”

There was a splash as Mikey dove in, and Raph dialed Casey.

Leo stood there, waiting with his breath held, watching Raph, who was looking more and more irritated by the second.

“Casey, you heard from Donny?” Raph blurted into the phone. He scowled quickly. “I dunno! I was hopin’ he’d gone over to your place or somethin’. He’s not with April, he’s not in the garage, he wouldn’t have gone out durin’ the day, he left his shell cell here–”

Raph was cut off by Casey saying something, and Leo realized how tense his shoulders were. He tried to force them to relax, to try and calm Raph as well, but he saw Mikey pop back up from the pond and shake his head as he climbed out.

Leo was becoming more and more aware that his frayed nerves felt like disconnection. Some part of him was missing that he hadn’t even noticed was there before. It made his stomach churn. He could feel it in his bones, in his throat.

Donatello wasn't there anymore.

[oceanlipgloss]

HALLMARK

ANDREALPHUS.

+ warnings: angst, mentions of blood.

+ female mc, feminine pronouns.

Spoils of war are of endless incarnations. So much violence, so many forms. Like white feathers soaked in crimson, for instance.

Some wounds always throbbed, bled and wept—raw forever, impossible to forget. Plasters or bandages aren't the only way to silence them for a minute. Sometimes, a kind hand makes for a proper disinfectant. Light and temporary, yet ever so tangible.

Old scars and white feathers, fresh blood and a soiled halo—those are his hallmark. They are the souvenirs of pain and death. They are the vengeance that holds his destiny and drips with the weight of tragedy, red and ugly. They are the invisible photographs of a black past.

It is said that change leaves no existence untouched; it caresses the sun, the moon, the stars; it strokes the brain, the soul, the heart. It aims for the universe and paints the sky.

A truth, or a lie?

Lie.

Lie.

Lie.

What a cruel lie. How could it ever be perfectly true when some things never change—never different, eternally the same?

Like his sorrow, like his pain.

Love is not a healer. Care is not an ointment. They may make things better, but never for forever.

Right, or wrong?

Right.

Right.

Right.

If change has such a generous touch that reaches all, however, could it not let delicate hands alter his hallmark, just for now, just this once?

Burgundy smeared the halo in her hand. Haloes are a craft of paradise, but where was the heaven in all this sorrow? The halo itself was dainty, but it was burdensome to hold, massive with the weight of the past as it was. Heavy.

His body was warm and his lap was soft, but there was something cold and hard in his heart.

Devils don't have white wings, but the symbol of angelic flight burdened his back.

Blood dyed the feathers between her fingers. One after one she removed them, one by one they fell off his hair and sunk to the floor. Marred wings dropped to the ground like lifeless souls.

New beginnings might be real, but they may as well also be a myth. They depend on one's heart. They take time to come true. Grand things begin very small—tiny step after the next.

New beginnings might not last, but that may very well be alright. Perfection isn't summoned by the first try.

Soft waves was his hair under her fingertips. The braid was broken now. She was weaving it anew.

A little change.

There was nothing to see either way, so he closed his eyes. Serenity ghosted its palm over his lids for the first time in a very long while.

A few seconds of peace, foreign and quaint.

Why did she touch him like he was made of glass? She was the fragile one.

But...perhaps he was, too, sometimes. On the inside. His wounds were still fresh with hot blood and oozing pain.

He felt an unfamiliar rubber band constrict his braid.

Maybe, just maybe, he could cherish the tranquility of this night—but it doesn't really matter if the trophies of revenge lay on the ground at the moment.

After all, the past never once only took the form of defiled hearts, crimson feathers and dripping haloes. A dead angel's glowing scythe can't rip apart the bodies of despair and bloodlust.

And so, tomorrow the past will seal his heart again. It will turn him into a vicious hunter again. Because...some wounds are never meant to heal; they are fated to forever throb, bleed and weep.

+ MASTERLIST

+ AO3 POST

©𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨

[duraxxor]

Good Morning

This is a story designed to catch all of you up on recent events. And is told from the perspective of the duality that is Duraxxor. Please enjoy!

A phrase that I have not known for some time. There was always this bittersweetness in basking in the rising of the day star. The myriads of hot colors that are often shown through in the atmospheric reflection that is our skies. It’s like… an ozone autumn one may say. It always reminded me of the Sin’dorei homelands. Wait, why does it also remind me of… someone?

“A dragon. It reminds us of that dragon of Azeroth’s blood. Delicious blood as it is, Azalora is a fresh slate. Much like we were. Or should I say… I was. Fate has dealt her a chance, unlike I. “

Hmmmm. A fresh dawn, one might say that one is. That’s right, meeting her was an interesting turn of events to start off with returning to Azeroth. Life always seems to find a way, in the strangest of places. That includes unlife. As logical as her mind is, she still has a lot to learn in her experiences.

“And that isn’t just about how she likes her cut of meat and flavor? Everyone knows there is only one way to eat a steak. Hahahaha… “

Ha! I do hope that we meet again soon. It was a most pleasant experience to have a new face to look at you as helpful and not entirely a threat. Although, that may come back to bite one in the tail. Wait… Why am I talking to myself?

“Really? We have fought against aberrations and had voices in your head so many times and you are surprised to be speaking to yourself of all people? Oh Alphus, you really haven’t been yourself for some time, have you? I suppose that comes with the fact that we haven’t been whole for so long. It reminds me of the current conflict between the Gravekeeper and the Courier. Oh, that was a most painful night, one I won’t soon forget. “

Ah. I take it you are the part of me that is Duraxxor, the name we have gone by for the past what? Decade?

“It’s been a little over fifteen years, old friend. “ 

Old friend? Look, we aren’t exactly separate entities like the two involved. You aren’t a leftover of my past; you are every bit as part of me as much as I may dislike the notion of me being a blood sucking monster. Why do you think you chose to meet with the Courier and hear her story out if she so wishes to share it?

“On the contrary, I have my pessimistic opinions that she won’t fully share. Remember, while Annaliese Handhour is a death knight, she was also a warlock in life. And with warlocks come complicated stories. Complications that they wish to not share. That is how we wound up absolutely getting our shit rocked when we tried to bargain with the Gravekeeper. We overstepped a boundary line, one might say. “

As if you really hoped to care about overstepping boundaries. That’s always been your specialty in these desolate years of conflict. Let us hope she at least forgives us for doing so in the future. Then again, you already plan to tread in waters that could already place her on our bad side by meeting with the Courier.

“Now see here, I have betrayed no one’s trust. If anything, there have already been a few betrayals already. When one doesn’t quite share their details, it is already a sign of bad faith and trust. And after we worked so hard to bring her back from her second death. “

Didn’t we also have a second death? . . . 

“That is highly exaggerated. That was merely a setback, and we are fortunate enough to have had the Lady in Red as a dear friend. An ally who understands the raw potentials of what it is we have tried to accomplish! An evolution that will secure our birthright to no longer be a curse! A monster fraternizing with another monster. “

Is that really what you tell yourself? You and I both know if she had to choose between herself and us, it would always be herself. Even so, I can’t help but feel like I know her from the past. A deep, forgotten memory that goes all the way back to my childhood? Why do you think that is? 

“That is precisely the point I wish to make about your confusion in speaking amongst yourself. Though the name Duraxxor may have come from the Scourge itself, I have always lived within you, Alphus. I am as much Alphus as you are. And yet, I am your shadow within your soul. “ 

. . . The darkest thoughts that were born from our curse. The beast of rage and the chaos that swirls within our heart. You mean to tell me you are exactly what was learned within the Shadowlands? You are that fragment of my soul that is foul and destructive? 

“I suppose if you wish to look at it that way? Yes. Except I am the beast, as you put it, that has kept us ongoing ever since you crumbled into tiny, little shards of a mirror that were once your core memories. Memories that have only returned because we finally. . . “ 

You are trailing off. You realize it too, don’t you? The woman before us at this moment. She was the key, and she has always been that key even before I died. I wish I had known sooner who I originally was in life. I wouldn’t be sitting here, holding her hand with a severed ring finger. My beloved wife. . .

“It’s not entirely your fault, Alphus. What could you do? If anything, it was my fault. It was I who chose to believe in the bitter rumors that were plastered into the minds of even our blood children. Ravlynn and Aiden couldn’t know. The legacy of that foul man was nothing more than a children’s bedtime story in their hearts. Instead of investigating that claim all those years ago, I bitterly snarled and refused to acknowledge the emotion that is love born of understanding and kindness. That is why I made the mistake of trying to wed one of my own kind. A lie in a lie. All this time, I had been chasing pieces of your wife because of old emotions I didn’t quite understand. Because as much as it pains me to admit, I am quite the malevolent thing when it comes to what makes Duraxxor. “ 

We both have our sins, Duraxxor. I have over five hundred years' worth of questionable morality. It’s not about the wrong and right we do. It’s about how we choose to live. To fight. People live and they also die. For what purpose, that is up to them even if another force chooses to intervene. And this lady. This woman. She chose to continue to live even in the worst possible conditions because she chose to hold onto hope. Hope that WE will come for her. 

“Hmph. You mean YOU come for her. This isn’t some fairy tale that w- “

Cutting yourself off again, I see. You know that was always a nasty habit. Tell me, how did the story go again? The one she told the kids. You heard it once from them, right? 

“. . .Once upon a time there was a monster, most feared by all in the land. It was a terribly angry thing, all teeth and claws. Where it walked, death followed close behind. There was also a very sad princess, who lived in the land. They say she cried so much that she put the rains to shame. The king and queen wanted the princess to marry a grand duke, but he was ugly and wicked. Rotten straight to the core. The princess cried all day and all night, because she didn’t love the duke. She could never love a man like him.”

And with good reason. Ostidal Tindervale always was quite the pisspot of a noble.

“Now that I have had the luxury of meeting that excrement, quite so. Anyhow, she told the man that she didn’t want to marry the duke, that her parents were leaving her no choice. The man took her hand, stared deep into her eyes, and told her she -always- had a choice. “

Oh, that sounds vaguely familiar. It almost sounds like something you have said once before. That WE have said before. There is always a freedom of choice.

“Are you going to keep interrupting me? The man told the princess that she could run away. He took her far away… and even though her family sent many men to retrieve her, the man killed them without mercy to protect her. that he would protect her, help her get far away from there so that she could finally be free. He was so brutal in his efforts, that it was only a matter of time before the princess realized that the man who saved her was also the monster that everyone else feared. It didn’t matter to the princess though, because by then she’d realized that she’d fallen for the monstrous man… and he was with her. “

Here comes my favorite part of the whole thing. . .  

 “They ran away together, married, KISSED… and lived happily ever after! ~ Mwah Mwah Mwah Mwah!~ “

It’s a wonder you and I haven’t died more than twice with how insufferable you can be, you know that? Do you understand now what I am getting at?

“Of course I do! Duke the puke was a horrid pisspot that never let things go. History has a tendency to repeat itself and the monster in the story was always. . . Me. “ 

It was you and I both, wasn’t it? That numb feeling even before death where one after another, we killed people that threatened our livelihood. Her livelihood. It didn’t matter who they were, what their status quo was, or even if they were the Regent Lord himself, we fought for what we felt was the right choice to make. We didn’t let others dictate it. The shadow that turned monster because the world labeled us the moment we came out of the womb. 

“And speaking of Arrydhalia, I believe it’s time I let you have the floor completely. I have… certain, internal affairs to take care of. I’m sure you will intermingle really soon. “ 

The timing was always impeccable for us both. But, as usual, he wasn’t a dishonest creature by any means. I looked upon the face of the storyteller that had passed my legacy onto our children through story. Sunken eyes with discolored skin begin to crinkle and stir as the light of the daystar bled through the window. The grasp onto the hand that lacked a wedding finger tightened. Where said finger would interlock like, the tips of chew nubs pressed against one another like some sort of a pact. No other would have this finger, just as she promised in her own, darkest hour. And yet, as the light caressed her dark curls and brought those azure eyes to creep open, I felt this desire to sing an unfamiliar song about the day.

So Good mornin’ Good mornin’ Sunbeams will soon smile through. Good mornin’ Good mornin’ to you and you and you and you.

[ Tagging for direct mentions: @azalora-the-azerite-dragoness , @gravekeeper-anna , @safrona-shadowsun , @sanguinesorceress , and a special thank you to @nyyght not only for Arrydhalia's character but the fairy tale story that started it all. ]

[ Art credits also go to the following: @frrrozi for Azalora, @handhourgalleries for Gravekeeper and Safrona, and @caladhel-iarian for Malakortana and me for the shot of Arrydhalia sound asleep. ]

[merwgue]

"My name....." SIDE A

Summary: during interrogation, Keir, former Lord of the Hewn City, reflects on the pain and injustice that shaped his life, revealing the darkness that turned him into the villain he's become.

A/N: villain week!! I've been thinking of this fic idea for ages, now I finally made it happen. Its probably going to flop but I'm just happy I managed to make my dream fic a reality😭

Interview Transcript: Keir, Lord of the Hewn City

---

Interviewer: “State your name for the record.”

Keir: “Keir. That’s all you need.”

Interviewer: “Fine. Tell me, Keir—what led you to this? To where you are now?”

---

For a moment, I stare at him. This pompous little scribe, ink-stained hands that never held anything heavier than a quill, sitting here as though he could possibly understand. He wants a story. The tragedy of a villain. Fine. I’ll give it to him.

“I’ll start with my father,” I say, my voice a low rasp. “Since that’s where it all began.”

He nods, quill poised to write, and the memories flood back, hitting me like a storm.

“I was born in darkness. Not just the literal kind—the caves of Hewn City are always in shadow—but the kind that clings to your soul, suffocates any chance of light before it even reaches you.”

My father was the High Lord’s favorite. I was meant to be his heir, his legacy. But he didn’t pass down a kingdom—no, what he gave me was the kind of lessons a man learns with his fists.

He’d come home smelling of blood, sweat, and iron. His eyes cold, harder than steel. There wasn’t a day when I wasn’t walking on the edge of his temper, waiting for the crack of his hand across my face, the boot to my ribs. He called it teaching, training me to be strong. But what he was really doing—what he enjoyed—was beating the weakness out of me before I even had the chance to show it.

“I learned early that love was a weapon,” I murmur, the words thick in my throat. “Something you could use to bend people to your will, to control them. My mother—gods, she tried to show me something different. She would whisper to me at night, tell me stories of places with sunlight, with peace. But that was all they were—stories.”

I swallow, the memories cutting deeper now, tearing at old wounds.

---

“Do you know what it’s like,” I ask the scribe, my voice tightening, “to watch your mother die in front of you? Not just once, but over and over again? Every time she stepped between my father and me, every time she tried to stop him from hurting me, he turned his rage on her. And I had to stand there and watch, powerless, knowing that it was my fault.”

The scribe’s quill slows, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. There’s a glimmer of pity in them, and I hate him for it. I don’t need his pity. I don’t need anyone’s.

---

“When she finally died,” I continue, voice raw, “it wasn’t in some grand act of heroism. No. She died quietly, in her sleep, because her heart couldn’t take it anymore. And I—I couldn’t even grieve. I had to act like I didn’t care, like her death didn’t break something inside of me, because if I showed weakness, my father would have killed me too.”

The scribe’s face pales, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. The words keep tumbling out, each one more bitter than the last.

“My father expected me to be just like him. Cold, cruel, ruthless. And for a time, I was. I thought it was the only way to survive in this world. I became his shadow, carrying out his commands, doing things that still haunt me.”

---

The memories flood back—so much blood, so much pain. I was barely a boy, maybe sixteen when my father first sent me to “take care of” one of his rivals. I’ll never forget the sound of the man’s screams, the way his eyes bulged as I slit his throat.

I tell myself it was for survival. But the truth? A part of me enjoyed it. The power. The fear in his eyes. I had become everything my father wanted, and I hated it—hated myself.

---

“And then there was Morrigan.”

The name feels like a wound in my mouth, like a piece of glass I can’t spit out. I close my eyes, trying to block out the memories, but they come anyway.

“She was… different. I thought—hoped—maybe she could be my way out. My salvation.”

I laugh bitterly. Salvation. What a lie. I didn’t want to save her. I wanted to own her, to possess her the way my father possessed my mother. To make her mine, to carve out a piece of her light for myself.

“But she was never mine,” I whisper. “She was always his. Rhysand. And when I realized that, when I saw the way she looked at him, I knew there was no saving me. I was my father’s son. Broken. Twisted. Unworthy.”

---

The scribe shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. I can feel his unease, his desire to get this over with. But I’m not done yet. Not even close.

“I tried to protect my court,” I say, my voice rising with anger. “I tried to hold onto the little power I had left. But Rhysand—he took everything from me. He waltzed into Hewn City, into my life, and made me a puppet. He made me bend the knee, made me grovel before him like I was nothing.”

I slam my fist on the table, the chains rattling as the guards step forward. But I don’t care. Let them. Let them hear the fury in my voice, the anger that has burned inside me for decades.

“Do you know what that does to a man?” I shout, leaning forward, my eyes blazing. “Do you know what it’s like to have your life stolen from you, to be made a pawn in someone else’s game? Rhysand, with his pretty words and his false promises—he’s no better than my father. He took everything I had left.”

---

The room falls silent, the air thick with tension. I can see the scribe’s hand trembling, his quill hovering over the parchment as if he doesn’t know what to write next.

I lean back in my chair, the chains pulling tight, and close my eyes.

“I never wanted to be this,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “I never wanted to be a monster. But this world—it doesn’t give you a choice. Not if you want to survive.”

---

When I open my eyes again, the scribe is staring at me, his face pale, his eyes wide. He thought he’d hear the story of a villain. But what he got—what he needed to understand—is that villains aren’t born. They’re made.

And in Hewn City, we’re made from blood and darkness, forged in pain and fear. The world twists us, breaks us, and we become what we must to survive.

“Anything else?” I ask, my voice flat.

The scribe shakes his head, quickly packing up his things, eager to leave. But before he can stand, I speak again, my voice low, dangerous.

“Tell Rhysand,” I say, eyes hardening, “that his day will come. And when it does, I’ll be there. Waiting.”

---

The door creaks open, and I’m pulled to my feet, chains rattling as the guards drag me back to my cell. But this time, I don’t feel the weight of them. This time, I feel something else. Something sharp and bitter.

Hope.

Because I know one thing for sure:

No one stays in power forever.

@sjmvillainweek ..... okay I may be a bit too obsessed with law BUT COME ON ITS GOOD SHUT UP

[dent-de-leon]

Tealeaf surreptitiously slid his hand across the table and tentatively laid it over Caleb’s own. In a flash, their gaze met. King felt Caleb’s hand flinch and fall still, just the faintest pulse of tension thrumming beneath the skin like an electric current. A sharp intake of breath caught in his throat, but Caleb made no move to pull away. 

Kingsley squeezed Caleb’s hand and let the pressure ground him, holding on until his breathing evened out. This close, King can see every neat line of scarring deliberately scored into his deathly pale skin, crawling up his arms and still eating away at him. Weaving vines of ivy choking out the life from him. Hands the chalky white of crumbling marble, of ancient statues and abandoned temples—sacred, desecrated—cracks splintering and breaking. Caleb bows his head. A faithless man moved to prayer.

Confession and penance at the temple can be costly, depending on the god you aim to please. But Kingsley isn’t so demanding, and his readings are only five copper a piece. 

Real salvation runs steep. Caleb’s body lying still at Lucien’s feet, Jester crying when her spell strikes true, fractured memories twisting into nightmares. Fractals and fractals of a pattern spinning into dozens more. Nine eyes. Nine butterflies. Death and rebirth. The cycle endlessly repeats.

Lucien got a taste of godhood, a peek into something beyond, a little glimpse behind the curtain—and sometimes, Tealeaf's soul still feels chained and bound, everything too muted, ancient ache of a phantom limb. This world is more, it’s supposed to be more, and he was connected to it once, all of it, and now he’s permanently cut off. Always chasing that rush. Nothing could compare to the high of godhood. 

Ichor tastes sweeter than ale. Bleeds prettier than blood. 

Ale. Right. They’re drinking, some shitty ale at some shitty tavern, him and—

“Caleb,” King chokes out. Reminds himself. Runs his forked tongue over teeth, raps his claws on the table and just tries to fucking think. 

Looks down at the scars again. Caleb…

He wore bandages before, Kingsley knows. Kept them covered up in dirty old rags yellowing with age, singed and charring at the edges. Mollymauk was no stranger to wounds left to fester; he ached to take Caleb by the hand and delicately unwrap each filthy bandage, peel all the layers away and scrub his skin clean, wash and lather him with lavender scented soaps, gentle touches dancing on his skin. He wants to soothe and treat all the pain carved into him. 

“I know you’ve had a run of bad luck,” King says. 

Caleb’s roaring laughter makes him choke on the watered down tavern ale, sputtering until he’s nearly crying. 

“That would be an understatement,” he chuckles, still shaking his head in wry disbelief. “Luck is…generous, Mr. Tealeaf. It implies the fault was not my own.”

Caleb’s voice is always a little muted. Breathy. Wrung ragged by a bone deep weariness that claws at his throat in a hoarse rasp. Silken smooth when he’s laying all his cards on the table in a coldly calculated gamble. Skewing a tad gruff and husky when he’s caged and cornered and lashing out, despondently desperate. A little rugged and rough around the edges, bleeding raw. Attractive--that's dangerous.

Kingsley could fall asleep to the sweet lull of that voice. 

“You are staring, Tealeaf,” Caleb admonishes. 

King can’t hide his creeping grin. “Can you blame me? You’re pretty to look at."  

His nimble fingers fiddle with the cards again, shuffling them with a deft hand. He knows each one by heart, as surely as the lifeline of his own palm--and the matching array of gruesome scars.

When King feels the warm touch of a familiar kiss upon his brow, soft and comforting--for a moment, he's whole and radiant again. Blessed and divine.

[dreamersbcll]

Wounded

it doesn’t matter where, i just don’t wanna be alone

——————————————————————————

Sam was twenty-four years old when she decided to stop sitting at the edge of bridges.

There wasn’t a clear explanation, which was the most frustrating part. She had this, this thing that lived within her, a virus of some sort. No, maybe a tumor. It lived beneath her ribs, tucked next to her heart, eating away at it. No matter how much she tried to clean herself out from the outside in, it stayed. It lingered, swallowing every drop of peace she could ever have.

She could feel it there in the middle of the night, thrumming against her ribs, a second heartbeat that overtook the first all too quickly. It was starving, desiring the flesh that encased and held it in place. All it wanted was to be free, be alive, to live.

But Sam couldn’t allow it to grow, so she did what she could to kill it alone. Cheap vodka and weed worked at first, numbing the sting.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t ever enough to stop the pain, stop the bleeding. No matter how much she tried to clean out the body she sinned so profoundly with, the pain was always lingering.

Fuck, there was so much pain, and she just couldn’t stop noticing it.

So she tried to drown it out. She had to; it was the only way she would be able to fucking breathe.

Most nights, if not all, she found herself on the bridges around Woodsboro, staring at the streams and rivers that gurgled through the town.

She should’ve gone to New York with Tara. She shouldn’t have stayed back, in this godforsaken town.

All she did was punish herself, anyway. Why couldn’t she do that with her reconciled sister at her side?

It was too painful to be open, raw, exposed. It was far too much to inflict more pain because she couldn’t handle her own— especially on the person she had just got back.

But Sam was selfish. She couldn’t help but share the pain that lived within her.

Most nights, if not all, Sam would stand on the edge of the bridges and imagine what it would be like to jump off and become one with the water. What peace it must be to be able to disappear forever. No bills, expectations, serial killer fathers, or cruel intentions to bother her anymore.

Freedom. Complete and honest freedom.

Yet, before she could jump, she always made a phone call, just in case. Most of her friends didn’t answer- knowing that Sam was a headcase and bound to slip up anyway. It was easier to pretend that Sam was okay if it meant they could still live their lives.

But she tried anyway.

Just with someone she couldn’t afford to lose.

It took Tara three rings to answer, three long, lonely rings. Sam knew her little sister saw her name and sighed, knowing it was never a good call. Sam never called with good news.

Only with reminders of how fucked-up she was.

Once she heard Tara say hello, she burst into conversation.

“There isn’t, ah, there isn’t anyone left to call. I’ve burnt a lot of, um, bridges, I guess,” she said, wincing at her poor choice of words.

Tara sat on the other side, silent. Sam could feel her face flush uncomfortably, her throat starting to ache as well. Shit. She was too open, wasn’t she? Scaring away everyone who ever loved her, cared about her. It was better to be silent. It was easier to be quiet.

Why couldn’t she just choose the easy route and just jump already?

“Why should I stay?”

Sam paused her train of suicidal thoughts, her heart squeezing uncomfortably. Her little sister, always asking the questions Sam preferred to avoid— because deep down, she knew the answer.

There was no reason for Tara to stay.

But she tried anyway.

“I think, I think this pain has a purpose. That maybe, in a fucked up way, it’s worth it, you know? If I hurt myself just enough, it’ll all make sense. Fuck, I’ll make sense, yeah?”

“Sam,” Tara softly chided, her voice laced with impatience—a warning.

“Just wait, okay? I take chances. I hold the gun to my head and never pull the trigger, but I never turn the safety on. It just feels good knowing I am in control, even if I never really was. Ever. It hurts to feel good and feel in control. But lately,” Sam paused, taking a deep breath.

“Lately, since we started talking again, it hurts less. I don’t know why. It just slows down, and I realize I can’t keep standing on the edge, hoping a gust of wind will relieve me of the damage I've caused. In some sick way, hearing from you helps me figure it out. It helps it hurt less.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Sam breathed out, shaking. This was nowhere near quick, easy, or fair. But she had to expel all the words within her mind and make them come to fruition. Tara needed to hear them, and Sam needed to let them go.

Sam knows she should let Tara go, or herself, at the very least. She should free Tara of her dirt poor health and allow her sister to thrive without knowing what a royal fuck-up her big sister is. It was better when nobody was worried about Sam.

It was better when she was balancing on bridges in the midnight glow, her impending death a blissful experience.

Swallowing hard, Sam winced, knowing the more she talked, the more the feeling of regret taints her mouth.

She also knows that Tara is everything she wants, even if it’s so goddamn wrong; but Sam was everything Tara regretted.

But she couldn’t stop the pain that forced her to keep talking.

“I should've never let myself leave. I should’ve stayed in this town, should’ve stayed with you. And I know this isn’t fair, and this is a bad idea— and I know I’m only making it worse. But you make it hurt less. You make me hurt less.”

Silence.

She cupped her mouth by the receiver, her following few words barely above a whisper. She didn’t need the world around her to hear her beg. It was a fruitless plea they knew all too well. “Just don’t go. Stay. Please, stay.”

Swallowing hard, Sam looked up at the midnight sky, the starless night staring back at her. “I don’t want to be alone anymore,” she whispered, her words stilled in the night air.

A beat passed. Then two. Until all Sam could hear was the crickets in the grass and the rushing water beneath her feet—all cruel reminders of the person who didn’t die at eighteen like she was supposed to.

It hurt less when Tara was on the other line, but now, Sam wasn’t sure anymore. Everything was the same, identical, unwavering. Her reality wasn’t hers but one owned by everyone who wanted to buy in.

She must have been fun to watch as she lost her mind. Who wouldn’t want to see a fuck-up kiss the shadow of death each night? It must be a real circus show, watching the mirrorball spin and morph into whatever anyone wanted to see.

Sticking out her foot, Sam wobbled a bit, testing out her balance. Two steps, and she could be free, tossed in literal waves, letting her body be thrown against the wet rocks and become one with the river. Blood may be thicker than water, but it all looked the same through a rushing stream.

Until she heard it.

“I wish you didn’t go. I wish you had come with me,” Tara softly said, sniffling a bit.

Tears. She hadn’t heard that crying voice in a while. Naturally, Sam had to cause them to listen to them again— a malicious attempt to get what she wanted.

She hated that she succeeded, but she was so goddamn relieved that Tara was talking. Maybe this would work. Perhaps she would live through the night.

“You know, it’s never too late. To come here. We could share a room. Like when we were young. We could make it that easy, we could make it hurt less together, yeah?”

Despite herself, Sam smiled, her teeth bared to the starless sky. All she really wanted was somebody to want her, someone who wouldn’t disappoint her and would stay when Sam was determined to end her life there and then.

It was almost too much, knowing that someone was there. Maybe her pain was all for nothing; it was just futile acts of superficial self-sacrifice. Perhaps she was just a bitch, always crying wolf for the attention she was receiving anyways.

Why was she so goddamn selfish?

Sam squinted at the sky, blaming her tears away. It hurt less, but goddamn, it still hurt. “Why do you want me to stay? All I’ve done is found ways, creative, sick ways, to hurt you. Hurt us.”

“Hurt Yourself. You hurt yourself more than you could ever hurt me, Sam. It’s hard to know that no matter how much pain I feel, you’ll always feel one hundred times worse. And that reminds me how human you are and how you’re still my big sister. And I still love my big sister,” Tara gently said, her voice wobbling.

Tears. Tara was crying. So was Sam. Was it raining in New York, too?

“Why do you still do it? It’s rotten work, you know. I’m always going to be two steps from death, even on my good days. I’m nothing but a ticking time bomb,” Sam said, her tone husky with tears.

Her little sister hummed, sniffling a bit. “It was never rotten work. It would never be rotten work. Not if it’s you, not if it’s us.”

Sam cleared her throat, her chest aching with tears she said wouldn’t let fall. All she could say was one word, afraid that if she tried for a novel, she would fall short. “Yeah?”

Without hesitation, Tara was there.

“Yeah. Get off that bridge, Sam. Don’t burn it down. Come home. Come to New York. Come to me,” Tara urged, her raw voice softened with love.

Above her, the starless night sky was unforgiving, cold, and lonely, but it wasn’t completely alone. If she looked hard enough, she could see the moon hidden behind a few clouds. It was as if the moon was waiting to be seen, to be acknowledged.

How could Sam ever deny the beauty she neglected?

“Sam?” Tara said, her voice tinged with concern.

Tilting her head, Sam took in the moon, watching as it began peering from behind the clouds. It didn’t look like it would come out ultimately, but just enough to be seen, to be heard.

To be noticed enough to make the loneliness hurt less.

“I’ll come home.”

Taking a deep breath out, Sam stepped off the lip of the bridge, away from the edge.

Away from her cruel intentions.