#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

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

- - - - - - - - - -

[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

[angelicvee]

Anyone else but you

writer's note: so I noticed there are barely any Annie January x Victoria Neuman pieces out there so I though fuck it! I don't really post my work very much but the small amount of starburst shippers needed it. I'm working on making an AO3 account to publish this on properly but for now I will be posting here!!

Anyone else but you

Chapter one: intertwined, sewn together

of all the people in New York… why her?

—---

Why was moving on such a difficult task? Why was it that everytime Annie January walked into her local grocery store alone she just had to skip the apple section? Green apples to be precise. Perhaps this sort of yearning wasn’t normal. Maybe it was just the cruel reminders of her old friend plastered practically everywhere that stopped her from progressing past highschool. 

Hughie was a great guy. No he wasn't quite perfect but.. He made her happy. Although, Vicky made her happy too. Happier than she had ever been. FUCK! When did food shopping become such a depressing task?

The blonde felt a little silly, actively mapping out the best way to skip the apples and tapioca snack packs. Victoria loved tapioca. She couldn't bring herself to enter any New York bodega. Not without M.M or Hughie with her. God the only thing she could still face was probably weed and whiskey. 

Why was it that Hughie had pursued a career in supernatural affairs? Of all the job’s in New York he just had to choose that one. Really Hughie? Annie had never really mentioned her past with Victoria. It was something she wanted to forget. Well not really but if she lied to herself enough maybe, just maybe she could believe herself. 

The night she found out was like some fucked up fever dream. The mention of simply her name sent emotions rushing forward. A pit forming in the blonde’s stomach. She couldn’t get Victoria’s face out of her mind. Annie could practically feel the woman’s silky brunette hair running over her fingers. Something she often missed. Oh and those big bambi eyes. The ones that always betrayed her pathetic attempts to seem nonchalant as a teenager. That was a problem long gone now. Those eyes once so expressive now seemed empty and tired. 

 It had been years since they’d last spoken, years since Annie had been forced to turn her back toward everything she once knew. Back then, Victoria Neuman had been her everything. The two girls spent every waking hour together. They were conjoined at the hip. Nothing romantic had ever happened but it was undeniable. The tension between them was always there, simmering beneath the surface, but before it could come to a boil, life and Vought had pulled them in different directions.

But  now, Hughie, sweet, kind, naive Hughie was working for Victoria. Annie hadn’t wanted to believe it when he first mentioned her name. Part of her wanted to laugh it off like some sick joke. Instead her heart nearly stopped. Victoria Neuman. The name that held so many memories, both beautiful and painful. 

Annie idly tapped her fingers against the marbled kitchen counter, trying to steady her breathing. The wound of their separation was still raw, festering beneath the surface. How could Hughie not know? How could he not see the turmoil in her eyes when he mentioned Victoria?

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing herself to calm down. Hughie had no idea of the history between her and Victoria. She couldn't blame him for that. But it didn't make it any easier to swallow.

—--

An upscale Manhattan hotel ballroom, warm light cascading from chandeliers, the hum of mingling voices filling the air. It screamed opulence.. Which was a little strange. Atleast in the blonde’s mind. Yes victoria grew up with money due to her adopted father but.. Well she never really acted like it. Not when she was younger.

Annie January tugged at the hem of her dress, the fabric smooth and cool beneath her fingers. She had chosen something understated—a navy blue, almost black with little gold stars embroidered into it. Very on brand.. Just how vought liked things to be. Now, standing at the entrance of the opulent ballroom, the weight of the past felt as heavy as the glittering chandeliers above her.

Hughie was at her side, his hand a reassuring presence at the small of her back. The dress allowing skin to show through.  She glanced up at him, his face beaming with a mixture of pride and nerves. He had no idea how hard she was trying to keep the edges of her smile from fraying.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low, meant only for her.

Annie forced the smile to stay in place, nodding. “Yeah, just…not really my scene, you know?”

He squeezed her hand gently, his touch familiar and comforting. “I know, but it means a lot to me that you’re here. And you’ll love Victoria—she’s really something special.”

Annie’s stomach clenched at the mention of the name she had been trying to keep at bay all night. She had prepared herself for this moment, gone over the possibilities in her head a hundred times. But hearing Victoria’s name flow out in Hughie’s casual tone, as if it meant nothing more than another colleague, felt like a punch to the gut.

There was a time when Victoria’s smile had lit up Annie’s world more than her V induced abilities ever could, a time when her voice had been the soundtrack to Annie’s best and worst days. But that was before, in a different life, a life Annie had left behind when everything fell apart.

Now, Victoria was a rising star in politics, a name everyone in the country knew. But to Annie, she would always be the girl who had stolen her heart right from its spot in the blonde’s chest.

Hughie led her through the crowd, weaving between groups of suited men and women in cocktail dresses, his hand never leaving hers. Annie’s heart screamed with each step, the anticipation building like a storm on the horizon.

And then she saw her.

Victoria Neuman stood near the centre of the room, her presence commanding without effort, as if the crowd simply bent around her. She was dressed in a sleek cobalt blue suit, her hair styled in soft waves that framed her face perfectly. She hadn’t changed much, she had only become more poised, more confident. The years had refined her into someone who looked every bit as powerful as the position she held.

Annie froze like a deer in headlights, the world narrowing down to the space between her and Victoria. For a moment, it was just the two of them, and everything else faded into the background. The laughter, the clinking glasses, the conversations—none of it registered. All she could see was Victoria.

And then Victoria turned, her eyes scanning the room before landing on Annie. Recognition flickered in those dark eyes, followed by something Annie couldn’t quite name. Surprise? Amusement? A shadow of the old hurt? It was gone before Annie could be sure, replaced by the smooth, practised smile of a politician.

“Victoria,” Hughie’s voice broke the spell, his hand guiding Annie forward with ease. “I’d like you to meet Annie, my—”

“Annie January,” Victoria interrupted, her voice warm but with an undercurrent that only Annie could detect. “Of course. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Annie managed to find her voice, though it felt like a stranger’s. “Congresswoman Neuman” she smiled warmly, a show she had developed over the various interviews and appearances for Vought and at pageants. It was practised and precise. Victoria could definitely see through it though. And if she couldn't see it on Annie's face… she could certainly hear it in her heartbeat.. Although the blonde didn't know that. She had no idea the woman was a supe. Why would she? They were only friends for nearly ten years.

[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.

[pparkerized]

misery loves company || tasm roleswap au (rewrite)

ao3 | old version

summary: the one where peter searches for a way to exact vengeance following the death of his uncle. unfortunately there are always consequences to such drastic actions.

word count: 2,066

While Peter crumples against the floor, his body convulsing as agonized screams tear his vocal chords apart, he wonders how he even got to this point.

He can recall, through the broken shards of his collapsing mind, that he had only resorted to this because he wanted something. No, he had needed something. What he desired was a necessity, even through the crippling pain that was clear to him. Revenge, he thinks numbly, clawing at the floor like a wounded animal. He knows that much, he had done this for a reason and that reason was because he needed revenge. 

The pieces of his mind start to reassemble, though his body feels like it's still being stung by a dozen fire ants. A sharp buzzing makes its way through his entire body, causing him to violently shudder. There's a metallic taste in his mouth and he hacks up a mouthful of blood and saliva. His vision is blurred, hazy, his head throbs and feels as if he's just been hit with a truck. He feels as though he's dying. Yet his body, even though it's been torn apart from within, doesn't give in. 

Revenge. Peter grasps that one coherent thought by the strings before he can lose it, so he doesn't lose himself to the pain instead. He knows why now, in the haze of all the burning he'd almost forgotten. Uncle Ben. Peter wonders if his Uncle had felt much pain when he had died, had he felt his life ebbing away like this? Peter wasn't sure if he was dying or not, but he suspects this is as close to what it feels like as it can get.

His Uncle had been shot dead by a petty criminal five months earlier. And Peter had been too weak and feeble to do anything about it. During those months since, he'd withdrawn from society, from everything. There had been something growing within him since that fateful night when his Uncle was murdered in cold blood. Something twisted, bitter, something ugly. It was that same thing that had driven him to this point.

Oscorp. Spiders. Spider-Man. He remembers asking the new vigilante for help in his search for his Uncle's killer. But Spider-Man, ever noble, had refused him that. Spouting some bullshit about how it was far too dangerous for someone like himself - scrawny, weak - to put himself in harm's way. So Peter had snapped at him in anger, vowing that he'd find a way to do it himself. Which led him here. 

He gasps for breath, the burning restricts his airways, like a pair of hands gripping his neck tight and refusing to let him go. But the fire is less warm now, no, it's ice cold. He isn't sure which is worse, but it hurts just as much and all he wishes is for it to stop. Black spots dance in the corners of his fogged vision, he squeezes his eyes shut, his body convulses  as another wave of nauseating pain washes over him. 

At this moment, he regrets his choice. As desperate for revenge as he is, part of him thinks the pain isn't worth it. The spiders were dangerous, the experiment unstable. They had given Spider-Man his abilities, ones that Peter could only ever dream of having. But perhaps he's simply too weak to handle the process of change, maybe he'll die, never really achieving anything but a stupidly long death. He wishes he'd never come here, he wishes he'd never stuck that syringe in his arm. 

He's dying. It's agony. He hates it. He thinks about Aunt May, she'll have to relive the rawness of grief all over again when they find his body, she'll end up alone with nobody to help her. He thinks about Harry Osborn, his best friend - the boy he loves but is too much of a coward to confess - who had only just returned from Europe. Their friendship, which had withstood the test of distance and time for years, was miraculously intact. It had been as if they had never been parted in the first place.

He doesn't want to die.

Maybe he won't die. But there are fates far worse than death. It's hard to think now, but he has a rather startling thought about ending up like Doctor Connors, though as a spider mutant, rather than a mutant lizard. But Connors' mistake hadn't been his own, not entirely. Peter had helped develop that formula for him. He had given him his downfall on a silver platter.

And now, he's given himself that very same platter.

The fire burns, both warm and cold now. Peter feels numb, the pain doesn't bother him. He isn't even sure if it has completely subsided yet, but he feels lighter. A lot more than he had been earlier. How long has he been here writhing on the floor, screaming himself hoarse? With a trembling hand he starts to push himself up. He fails once and he falls back down, his jaw hitting the floor with a slight crack. It doesn't hurt as much as it should have. The thought should've bothered him, but Peter can't bring himself to care.

Finally, he manages to drag himself to one of the desks. There, he uses all the strength he can muster in order to pry himself up. He puts all of his weight on the sleek, metal table, staggering to his feet. He wavers, his movements sluggish, slow and unsteady but he finds his balance soon after. He feels charred and raw, his mind scattered and his thoughts still scattered. He isn't sure what to think.

But despite all odds, the immense physical and mental torture he'd just endured, he's alive. 

His chest heaves with the effort to breathe, the remnants of suffocation still linger, but it's easier to deal with now. His vision clears and briefly his gaze catches the empty syringe on the table, a single droplet of green liquid drips onto the table and dissolves. Peter watches that spot for a moment, unmoving, his expression completely blank. When he turns away, he finds himself staring instead at his own reflection in a broken circular mirror on the desk, which apparently he must have knocked over at some point.

The longer he stares at himself, he realizes that something isn't quite right with him

His brown hair had always been an utter mess, but it was even more disheveled than usual, and that was saying a lot. But that wasn't the thing that had a creeping feeling growing in his gut, no. It was the fact that his skin is far paler, just as sickly looking as the rest of him. That alongside the hollow bags underneath his eyes make him appear even more like a walking corpse. His ears are slightly pointed, barely noticeable, but the change stands out to him. His irises, which had always been a delicate brown, are flecked almost completely with green that give them an unnatural glow. His veins, which he only now notices, are also green - though much darker, trailing up from his neck and onto his cheek.

Absent-mindedly, he lifts a shaking hand to feel the strange face in the mirror. His eyes catch how unnaturally sharp his fingernails have become, how dark veins now stand out against the once healthy looking skin on his wrists. What had he become?

Better. His mind supplies. It feels eerily like that same thing from within that had been festering for months. So much better.

His mind feels horribly broken, there's damage done that Peter knows he can't fix so easily. But he doesn't know the extent of it. He only knows that his thoughts are becoming less scattered, but more frenzied. He's filled with adrenaline now, his body burns, but this time it isn't in pain. Oh, what had he become?

He grits his teeth. His canines are sharper too. He lowers his head, brown curls brush against his eyes. His expression twists as his head races with thoughts, memories. Something screams and screams in the back of his mind, something that he can't quite make out. It grew louder and louder, whispering unintelligible demands.

A breathless sound escapes Peter's lips. Then another, and another until he finds his chest heaving with uncontrollable, breathless laughter. He leans against the table as his knees almost buckle beneath him, keeping himself upright. Still, he laughs. Part of him doesn't understand why, but he does it anyway. There's something so amusing about the whole situation to him, but he doesn't get the punchline. Only a sense of cruel irony. 

After a few more seconds of laughter, now bordering on hysteria, a strangled noise catches in his throat. A choked sob. The crazed smile that had been painted onto his features becomes mangled, appearing more like a grimace. There's a hollow feeling in his gut, but something else within his mind, they clash together and it makes his head hurt even more.

He's different, he knows that much. Something feels wrong. But if he knows that, then why doesn't it bother him as much as it should?

He doesn't have time to dwell on much when piercing alarms fill his ears. Flashing red lights blare around him and he looks around in a panic. There's only him and the only exit, which was now blocked by steel shutters. He spins on his heel and his gaze locks onto the display in front of him. Behind a layer of protective glass, lies his escape. A hoverboard, coated in a shiny black shell, that seems to be tinted with green. It's no ordinary hoverboard, more like a specialized glider, and it's his only shot at escaping without being caught.

Without hesitation, he forces a fist through the glass - which, either isn't as reinforced as he assumed it to be, or something worked. He registers faint footsteps thundering towards the room, despite the distance. Eyes gleaming, Peter takes the glider and activates it before stepping onto it, he wavers slightly, but quickly manages to find his balance. Just like skating. He thinks idly, slowly rising from the floor.

Peter's head swivels round just as some members of security enter the room, shouting and yelling unintelligibly. Before they can even see him, he's already gone, breaking through the skylight and gliding through the sky. He shakes some glass from his hair and focuses on keeping his feet planted firmly on the glider, as well as getting as far away from Oscorp as possible. No doubt they'd be sending out search parties for the mysterious thief who had stolen a prototype glider.

Prototype. He can work with this. Maybe even make it better.

He adjusts to steering fairly easily. Leaning his body in each direction to test out the flow. But he doesn't want to test his luck, god knows he's been unlucky enough as it is lately, so he sets the glider down on a rooftop far from Oscorp and in the cover of multiple skyscrapers. Peter watches the city from above, he's never really seen his home from this angle before. He expects it to feel invigorating, to give him a new perspective on things. But as he looks down on it now he feels no semblance of such a thing. Instead, something twists in his gut.

Displeasure. He hates it. The city had never done anything good for him, one of its people had taken his Uncle's life. People aren't good, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Peter agrees. He and his poor Aunt May had been left to suffer because people didn't care about others less fortunate, like them. Anger burns through him at the thought, as bright as the fire that had left him charred within earlier. 

Misery. He thinks, his gaze still lingers on the less than thrilling view of New York below. This place brought him nothing but misery.

Well, something curls in Peter's stomach, that same dark feeling resurfaces again. Once hollow brown eyes now gleam with something akin to mania within a haunting green glow. He flexes his fingers, once, twice and his lips pull back into a chilling grin. The whispers in the back of his mind chant in a chorus and this time, just this once, Peter understands them.

Why doesn't he give a little misery back in return?

[lady-squid]

Hypocrites With A Cause Ch2/2

Summary:

The family returns to their home after the Krang invasion. Leo and Donnie are both hurt but are too anxious about the other to take care for themselves. Luckily big brother Raph is here.

Words: 2926

Chapter 2: POV Donnie

Donnie was glad to finally be home, the old brick walls of his subway tunnel sanctuary providing a small peace the invasion had not allowed throughout the day. The turtles, their father, April, and Casey made it to the makeshift home after the traumatizing day, As much as he wants them all here he feels a bit claustrophobic. The genius doesn’t think there's ever been this many people in the tunnel home at once and it’s making him anxious. The group seemed as relieved as he was entering the subway station, a small weight lifted from their shoulders. they didn’t have time to feel relieved though. Everyone’s worried and focused on Leo. 

Donnie’s shell throbbed in pain from the Technodrome. He can still see Mikey’s concerned face upon removing his outer armor, not fully trusting the idea. He knew he was right, the thought of removing his battle shell outside of his home felt wrong let alone in the technodrome. But it was the only way he could think of to connect with the ship. 

Falling shell first into the Krang was pure agony, the slimy tendrils wrapping around him and crushing his soft shell. In the flesh of the ship, he truly thought there was no way the body could take any more pain than he was in. He was quickly proven wrong. The Krang forcefully pulling him from the ship was so, so , much worse. The force of snapping tendrils ripping and lacerating his shell was like white-hot fire. 

The teen knows he’s going to have nightmares for years. Luckily the others hadn’t gotten a good look at his shell with all the action. As soon as the group got home the purple ninja sneaked back to his lab, retrieving another battle shell, trying hard to ignore the agony that placing the heavy metal on his fresh wounds caused. His family needed to focus on Leo. He couldn’t let himself become a distraction, so he hid behind his purple shell. His purple walls. 

It doesn’t matter that he is in pain, it doesn’t matter how much he wants to scream till his voice is raw and destroyed. Leo needs him, Donnie is the second-best medic they have after Leo. The blue brother has always helped him, even when he was hurting. The least Donnie can do is push through some pain to help him. 

Donnie sneaks back to the group from behind, hoping no one noticed his absence. He sees his injured twin falter, Casey catching him before he can stumble. Only ensuring the idea in Donnie’s head that he needs to hide his shell further. Casey swings Leo’s arm over his shoulder holding him up. God the kid’s a godsent. Creeping behind his family, trying hard to ignore the pain of his battle shell rubbing against his soft shell, he makes a mental note to properly thank Casey later for all he’s done. 

“Leo take it easy, can you go three minutes without hurting yourself?” Donnie quips from behind like he has been there the whole time. “Where’s the fun in that Dee?” The purple teen rolls his eyes, Leading the two to the living room. His twin will be the death of him, his destructive and rebelling nature has already gotten him hurt, and next time… he might not be so lucky. The idea of living without his twin is scarier than anything the Krang could throw at him, and it almost happened. “Don, you ok?” He almost stops in his tracks. Is he ok? His brother, who was just trapped in a space prison with a psycho alien trying to beat him to death, was asking if he was ok. “Am I-Leo how could you be asking if I’m ok?!” Donnie raised his voice as a tremor ran through his body. He could not believe his twin right now, why is he concerned about him ? “You’re the one who almost-” He stops himself, all fight leaving his body. No, not now. Sighing he runs a three-fingered hand down his face. “I’m fine Nardo, just focus on getting better, ok?”

 The whole team followed closely behind as Donnie led Leo to the living room. Donnie knows they care, that they are just as worried about Leo as he is, but the hovering of his warm-colored brothers, April, and Dad only makes him more anxious. They're close, too close, too close to his shell. Casey carefully lowers her sensei onto the chair. Leo tried but failed to suppress the pain it caused. 

“You’re all being dermatic!” Leo attempts to smile, waving his hand dismissively as he speaks. “I’m fi-” His face scrunches in pain as a hiss escapes his lips making Donnie's soul ache. Or is that ache coming from his back? He isn’t sure. “Like hell, you’re fine!” Ralph's distress snaps the genius from his thoughts. Kneeling in front of the teen he carefully takes Leo’s arm to inspect it. The younger twin is as gentle as he can while looking over his brother's arm, he notices how tense he is. I guess we have that in common, Donnie thinks. The discomfort of others looking after them, he knows what he’s feeling, it’s like a twin thing. They have more in common than Donnie would like to admit. The abnormal bend of Leo’s arm along with the intense red swelling told Donnie everything he needed to know.

“God- Leo.” Donnie stands, gently placing Leo’s arm on the chair armrest. “It’s broken.” The soft shell tells Raph to fetch a first aid case he keeps in his lab, then gets to bandaging up Leo. The rest of the family stay close, not wanting to leave till they know Leo’s alright. Donnie hates kneeling beside his hurt twin and having all these people hover above him. He feels like they can see through his battle shell, that all eyes are on him. It’s worse than the throbbing pain.

As the teen genius looked over Leo the rest of the crew checked each other. He noted Casey wrapping Mikey’s hands. Ah, right. The mystic magic had cracked his hands open causing them to bleed. From what he saw they aren't too bad, just dried and chapped, though he wouldn’t be surprised if they give him difficulty in the future. Splinter and April seem to be making sure Raph is well taken care of, looking after his eye. Donnie trusts the pair and Casey so he mentally checks making sure his other brothers are ok off his list.

God Leo looks like hell, well, He just got back from hell. He double-checked his twin, he couldn’t miss anything. He had to do this right. He already failed him once today, Leo wouldn’t be hurt if he had flown the Technodrome into the portal faster, Leo wouldn’t be in pain if he had pulled through the agony of his shell faster, Leo would be ok if he was stronger. “Donnie?” Leo’s voice was quiet, not wanting the others around them to hear. He hadn’t realized he'd been staring at Leo's arm, not working. He looks… Worried? Why does Leo look worried? Is he hurt somewhere he hasn’t found yet? Is he-

“Donnie, Can you hear me?” Oh, it’s him. He’s the problem. Leo is hurt, Leo is in pain, and he’s thinking about him. The blue teen has a look in his eyes like he knows Donnie is hiding something. “I’m fine, Leo.” He attempts a reassuring smile, hoping to ease Leo’s distress, but it wavers. Leo’s tired eyes can see right through him. Of course they do, they always do. He hears talking around him, but the people’s voices are far away from his mind, like echoing at the end of a cave. Leo is ridiculous, he shouldn’t be worried about him when he’s clearly hurt. Not when it’s Donnie’s fault he’s hurt in the first place. Suddenly there's a firm hand on his shoulder. “ Don’t .” He wheezes pathetically, his voice is raspy and quiet, grabbing the intruder's wrist. They're going to hurt him, they're going to touch his shell, they’re going-... It’s raph.

Raph is safe. Raph wouldn’t hurt him… anymore. “S-Sorry…” It’s quiet and timed, so unlike his usual confident voice. He lets the leader go, turning back to Leo finishing wrapping the last bandage. Raph hasn’t moved from his spot behind him. He can’t bring himself to turn and look at him, he already knows the look the red teen is giving him. Worry, worry he doesn’t need let alone deserve. damn it why can’t he see that he’s busy? The purple brother sat back, admiring his handy work. “I’m done.” Their father, Casey, April, and Mikey take that as their cure. Standing quickly from their spots on the floor to crowd Leo. 

Donnie backed away, giving the others the space, avoiding eye contact with Leo. He needs to stop thinking about everyone else when he’s clearly hurt. He is far too selfless. Donnie hadn’t noticed someone put on a Lou Jitsu movie in the background. It’s Leo’s favorite. The film is suddenly too loud for him despite not even knowing it was on mere seconds ago, the group of people beside him was loud, his own heart was loud, the throbbing in his shell was loud, everything was loud, loud, loud .

There’s a voice, it’s louder than the others. Closer? That would make the most sense. “Don-... you ne-...” The voice is muffled and hard to hear like it’s underwater, only being able to make out small bits of what it’s saying. A hand hesitantly holds his own. He recognizes those hands, they are big and rough but oh so gentle. “Raph.” It came out pathetic, almost inaudible. “Yeah Don, It’s me-... you… lab?” Lab, he recognizes that word. Lab is safe, lab is quiet. The distressed teen nods. Raph gently guides him out of the room and down the hall, away from the constant loud noises. Donnie’s eyes are downcast, his head suddenly becoming heavier. He can feal the adrenalin wearing off, giving way to exhaustion. The feel of concrete to metal on his feet tells him they made it to his lab. 

Donnie is led to his office chair where he not so gracefully plops, the sudden contact of shell with the back of the chair sending a bolt of pain through his body. “What’s wrong?” Shit, he forgot Raph was there. He didn’t even try to hide the pain his chair caused. “Are you hurt?” No, no he’s fine. It’s Leo they should be worried about, not him. “Don you gotta breathe.” Breath? Oh. He hasn’t been breathing. The soft shell tries to take a deep breath but is caught in a coughing fit, the movement making his shell hurt more than it already did. “Hey, hey it’s ok. Just take it slow.” 

The mutant teen tries again, this time more successful. It takes a couple of minutes for Donnie to regain control of his breathing, Raph whispering praises the whole time, aware that if he talks any louder his little brother will break. This is ridiculous, Donnie thinks to himself. Leo is hurt and he’s making this all about himself. He’s acting like a child. “Stop.”

The teen looks up to his older brother kneeling before the chair, confused. “Stop using that big brain of yours for five minutes and just breathe.” It’s like the leader could read his mind, he knows his brother well. Knows the dangers of his overactive brain. “Tell me Dee, what’s going on?” He’s fine, Donnie’s fine. 

“Why aren’t you with Leo?” The question earns him a sad smile from the red turtle. “Because I'm worried about you Donnie.” He’s taking up his time, he’s pulling him from Leo. “I-I’m fine Raph.” The older brother is not amused. “Raph isn’t as much of a dum dum as you think Don, you just had a panic attack for Pete's sake.” Dam it. This won’t be easy to get out of. But that won’t stop him from trying. “Leo is hurt badly Raph, you should save your worry for him, not me.” Donnie starts to stand, attempting to put an end to this uncomfortable conversation, only for Raph to grab his arm and not so gently pull him back down. 

Donnie couldn’t help the hiss of pain that left his lips as his shell hit his chair again. Ralph's face turned from frustration to concern. “Stop deflecting Donatello, you're clearly hurt!” Full name, he’s serious. There’s no convincing him now. The snapping turtle let out a sigh, running his hand over his face. “You are so much like Leo, both pains in my ass…” He mumbled into his palm before removing it to make eye contact with his brother. “You are the only one that hasn’t gotten checked for injuries Don, just let me make sure you are ok. Ok?” He knew there was nothing he could say to change the mutant's mind, so he let him. Raph may not be their best medic, but he knew enough to take care of Donnie.

The older ninja left to grab another first aid kit before returning by Donnie’s side. Raph went over his body, making sure not to miss any scrapes. Gently cleaning cuts and applying bandages where needed. He finished with the soft shell's skin, turning to him with a concerned and unsure expression. “Donnie… You asked me to get a med kit from your lab for Leo…” He faltered trying to make eye contact with Donnie, but he just couldn’t. Couldn’t look at his older brother's face without breaking, already teetering on the edge. “One of your battle shells was missing…”

 Shit. “You came here and put it on when we first got home… Didn't you? You weren't wearing it before.” He places his hand on the soft shell's shoulder, making sure he can see him before he does so he can pull back if he doesn't want the touch. “Why are you hiding your shell, Donatello?” 

Donnie froze, breath catching in his throat. Logically he knows it needs to be looked after, that what he was doing was dumb, but putting his family through even more distress, taking attention from his dying brother, seemed so much worse than the physical pain and the possibility of infection. The red leader’s eyes were searching his own, hoping for some confirmation, before they went wide.

“Shell. off. Now.” The change was instant, His lax shoulders turning rigid as he glared holes into Donnie’s armor. Raph’s sudden change made the purple teen flinch away from the hand on his shoulder. Panicking his thoughts raced, Was Raph mad at him? Had he finally gotten sick of his shit? His eyes followed Raphs line of sight to his battle shell. Oh. He hadn’t noticed the blood that began to escape from under the shell's armor, steadily dripping onto the now-ruined office chair. 

“Donnie, please .” He couldn’t handle it anymore. The fear and desperation in Raph’s voice, the eyes on his shell's armor, the pain coursing through his body. He cried. Raph startled, his concern only rising. Donnie never cries . Gripping his skull with his nails Donnie curled in on himself, his breath getting faster. “Ok, ok, you’re ok.” Donnie isn’t sure who he’s reassuring anymore. “Raph’s got you, Raph’s gonna make sure you're ok.” He held out his hands for Donnie to take, seeming surprised by how fast he sought out his comfort. “C-Can’t” He wheezed out, hands grasping at his larger brother’s plastron. “Can’t br- breath.” Is he having a panic attack? He isn’t sure, his chest hurts. His breaths got caught in his lungs which burned like fire. The plastron under his hand began rising and falling dramatically. “Deep breaths Don, come one with me.” 

Following his brother's example, the soft shell tries to slow his breathing. They sit like that till Raph seems to deem that they’ve made progress, Donnie’s breaths no longer desperate but still not entirely steady either. Coxing the younger brother to sit on the floor, Raph positioned himself behind Donnie. Continuing to take deep exaggerated breaths for him to follow. The tech enthusiast can feel Raphs finger hovering over the button on his shoulder that releases the battle shell, hesitation evident. “D-Do it.” The soft shells voice shakes. “Just do it.” Taking a deep breath himself, Raph removes the shell from his brother's back.

Pain, holy hell all he feels is pain. Pieces of his sliced shell peeled with the armor, reminding him too much of the tentacles that were ripped from his back. A gasp escaped Raph, hands hovering over his mess of a shell. Donnie can’t see him, see his face, but he doesn’t need to too know it’s bad. He feels fuzzy and weightless, that's probably not good. “Alright, Don you with me?” Said mutant only nodded, not trusting his voice. “Ok, Ok, good. I’m gonna get Dad ok?” No, no, not ok, don’t leave him here, don’t leave him in the ship don’t-

“Don ,Don your ok. Shhh.” Rough hands from behind gently but firmly held his shoulders, grounding him. “I’ll be right back, ok? I promise.” He is scared, He doesn’t want to be alone again. Alone in the flesh interior of the Technodrome. But he isn’t, He’s home, Donnie knows he’s never truly alone at home. So he nods. Raph will get dad, and he will be ok. Leo will be ok. Maybe not now, maybe not for a while, but someday, they’ll be ok. 

Roses are red, 🥀 Violets are blue, 🔵 The twins are a disaster, 🧑🤝🧑 What else is new,💀

[halogalopaghost]

Shroud

read on AO3

After all the screaming, the silence that settled over the triage tent was deeply unsettling.

April remembered Casey sitting on the couch at her old place and watching TV a million years ago, before the world ended. He grimaced at a hockey game and announced that no matter how badass a guy was, if his knee was bent the wrong direction, he was gonna scream like a little girl. That Caseyism had been proven to her time and again over the last eight years they’d spent trying to save the human race, by the biggest and baddest of asses and even Casey himself. Still, some little part of her, the same part that saw him as her little brother and maybe a little bit invincible, must have thought Raphael was the exception.

He was not.

They had a hard time at first figuring out why he was screaming. There was so much going on around them, so much chaos and blood, there was no saying how much of his crying was caused by the physical versus emotional. Either way, the syringe of fentanyl had taken care of it.

The resistance usually hoarded those drugs like precious gold. They were only being manufactured in very small amounts these days, and even then they were nigh upon impossible for the resistance to get their hands on. The turtles were no exception to this rule—they had endured countless wounds and even surgical procedures that they really should have been sedated for, all without anesthetics or narcotic pain medication. And even though April was the one they all called commander, everyone knew Leonardo was a close second; so when he told the medic to knock his brother’s ass out, that medic did as he was told.

Leonardo stood at April’s shoulder as she sat beside the surgeon, watching him stitch Raph’s newly-empty eye socket closed. Her own eyes were swollen and raw from crying, and she had yet to even get through the worst of it. She knew she was in for a second, more volatile breakdown later when the reality of it really hit her. When she laid down to go to sleep and Casey wasn’t there, when the other half of the bed was empty—

“I’m sorry,” Leo whispered. “I wouldn’t let him go back in. I—” he cut himself off and took a breath.

April usually would have pressed him to go on and not hold back for her sake—she was leading the goddamn resistance, she needed to know everything and not be protected even by these turtles who spent most of their time by her side, these days. But today, just this once, she was going to let him shield her from the gory details. Maybe someday she’d want to hear the story about how her brave, stupid husband went out in a blaze of glory, but not the very same day as that death.

“I didn’t want to lose either of them, but I didn’t want to lose both of them,” Leo finally finished. "I'm so sorry." He rested his hand on April’s shoulder, and she leaned into the touch.

“You did all you could, Leo. This is just what war is.”

He was quiet for a moment. The surgeon tied off the last stitch. “Still sucks.”

“Yeah. Still sucks.”

Raph's awareness came to him in bits and pieces. Hearing came first, as it always did, and was accompanied by an unpleasant ringing. High pitched screaming from all around him that he couldn't shut off, because he had a habit of standing a little too close to explosions. H It wasn't new to him, just somehow worse than usual. Beyond the ever-present screech he could hear the soft sounds of life—someone shifting in a chair, feet scuffing concrete floors, the groan of the wounded somewhere nearby.

The pain filtered in after that, and he sucked a breath in through his teeth. Son of a bitch, his face was on fire. His head felt like it was in a vice, and his leg didn't feel real good either, but he was pleased to find that he could wiggle all ten fingers and toes. Still doing better than Mike.

He tried to open his eyes and a whimper of pain escaped him. Fuck, his face hurt! Why'd his face hurt so bad? It hadn't even hurt this much that time he fractured his cheekbone.

"Raph?"

April's voice. He stiffened. He couldn't remember exactly why, but he knew he didn't want to see her at the moment.

He couldn't think through the thick fog of pain on his mind, the searing pain on his face was far more pressing than whatever reason he was avoiding April this time. He thought fondly of ibuprofen. Remember that? He asked his body. Remember ibuprofen? He could go for about eight hundred of those bad boys.

A hand slotted into his, small and cold, even to him. He squeezed her fingers. I hear you.

An almost-unnoticeable sigh of relief. More chair squeaking as she adjusted. "You haven't been out too long, only about a day. If you wanna go right back to sleep, I won't tell."

He forced himself to breathe through the pain. You gotta breathe deeply, Donnie always said, even if it hurts. I'm not treating your sorry shell for pneumonia.

He missed his brother. He would trade any and every painkiller in the world for his know-it-all brother. Hell, he'd trade the world itself.

He lifted his other hand to his face, searching blindly for the reason it hurt so badly. April lurched forward to stop him, but it was too late. His rough, calloused fingers caught on the cotton gauze, and he stopped cold.

It all came back to him at once. The fire, the searing heat, that last glimpse of Casey he caught right before the boiler blew—

His head was splitting open like an egg, brain running down his face. It had to be. Nothing else could hurt this badly. He felt tears rush to his eyes and bit back a cry of pain. Why did his goddamn face hurt so much? He dug at the hurt with the heel of his hand—and the world around him shook.

April grabbed his hand and wrenched it away from his face. "Raph, stop! You're gonna hurt yourself!"

It was too fucking late for that, it already hurt. It hurt it hurt it hurt, the tears, the loss, the burns, the everything. It stung and burned and fucking hurt all over.

"You need painkillers," she said. It wasn't a question.

"No," he hissed. "I'm fine. Save 'em, I'm fine."

He heaved a few unsteady breaths. He could control this, he could do it. He just...needed a minute.

"What's the damage?" His voice was too thin. He needed a drink.

April's long silence was telling. Raph touched the gauze again, gentle and cautious this time.

"Whole thing's gone, huh?"

"Shrapnel ruptured the sclera and pierced the musculature behind it. You're lucky it didn't end up in your brain." She didn't say I'm sorry, they all stopped saying it a long time ago. It was an unspoken constant; they were all sorry.

"'S what I get," he mumbled. He dropped his hands to his chest and let out a breath. The pain still raged on, but he could tune it out. "And—is he...did Casey make it out?"

All the air in the room turned to ice. Raph knew his hearing wasn't really that sensitive anymore, but he woulda swore he heard April's heart beat faster. Every second passed like an eon in the horrible moment between dread and knowledge.

"No," she whispered.

Raph’s fists clenched. He could learn to live without the eye. Fight without it, do life without it, keep hope alive without it. But without Casey—? He clutched at the gauze as white-hot, urgent pain ricocheted around in the empty socket. The rush of tears burned.

It tore a hole in his fucking heart. He couldn't do this without Casey, without his best friend that stood by him through thick and thin and unwaveringly supported him. His big brother, his confidant, the only person outside of his immediate family that ever really understood him and saw all of his inner struggle. His chest heaved with empty breath. And April—fuck, April was a widow. He couldn't save her husband, the one constant that she had. She didn't even have anything to bury. Raph failed her, he failed to bring Casey home even if it was in a body bag.

"Leo told me what happened."

No wonder she was here, she was waiting for him to wake up so she could tell him how many ways he could go fuck himself. He didn't say I'm sorry, it wouldn’t change a thing. She was probably real sorry too.

April's hand closed around his forearm, and it burned like condemnation and hellfire. "You can't blame yourself. Don't."

He sucked a sharp breath in. “What?”

Tears shimmered in her eyes. “He wouldn’t want you to blame yourself, Raph. You know that.”

“It—it was my fault. He wanted to fall back, he said we needed to cut our losses—”

“And he was wrong. You gave the extraction team the extra few minutes they needed, he—” the tears finally spilled over and she paused to sniffle. “Casey was the only one who didn’t make it.”

That…was really good. That was the lowest fatality rate of a rescue mission in a long time. And with the prisoners they freed…they’d actually come out with positive numbers, rather than total losses. Casey would be damn proud of that. Of them.

Raph got real quiet.

There was a time that he would have let April gather him up into her arms and hold him until the sorrow had eased. There was a time, too, when he would have gotten out of bed and screamed and punched the walls, broken whatever he could get his hands on. But he used up his sorrow when Donnie went away, and after Splinter left, his anger was exhausted too. He just laid there with tears silently running down his face, eyes covered and body trembling silently. He had nothing left.

“I’m sorry,” he said through clenched teeth. Even though he didn’t have to. Even though it didn’t mean anything. “I’m so fucking sorry.” A sob caught in his throat and he strangled it into an anguished swear. He didn’t deserve to cry when his best friend’s widow, his fucking sister, was sitting there mourning beside him.

“Raph, it’s not your fault. It’s Shredder.”

That’s what she said every time they lost something else to this fucking godforsaken war—it’s not your fault Splinter died, it’s Shredder, it’s not your fault Mikey’s radius and ulna were reduced to fucking atoms, it’s Shredder. Well who failed to stop him in the first place, huh? Of course it was his fault, of course it was.

Silence, long and uncomfortable and condemning, stretched on in the sickbay. There wasn’t any privacy in the apocalypse—on the other side of the dirty shower curtain barely three feet from Raph’s cot, there was another guy mourning some other loss. Another wounded, another mourner, another dead, another I’m sorry that didn’t mean a damn thing. It never ended.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” April eventually said. “Considering.”

Considering the one-less-eyeball. Raph finally peeled open the one functioning eye he still had and took a long look at April. She was blurry—if his vision hadn’t been so good before the total loss of depth perception, it was shit now. Still, he didn’t need to see in HD to know her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red.

“Are you sure you don’t need meds?”

He nodded. The deep, stabbing headache would keep him in bed, but honestly, he didn’t care. He wanted to curl up and drown in the misery just for a little while. “You should sleep, Commander.”

She smiled bitterly. “Do I look that bad?”

“Dunno,” he answered honestly. “From here ya just look fuzzy. Am I wrong?”

She sighed and scrubbed tears off her already-raw face. “You’re right.” A beat. Then, barely audible, “Bed’s awful empty.”

Without a second thought, Raph scooted to the side of the narrow cot until his shell met open air. He patted the mattress, and April curled up in the vacated space beside him. She wasn’t even fully settled in before the first heartbroken sob tore out of her throat.

Raph held her close and closed his eye. Fuck this. Fuck Shredder. Fuck everything.

  Making the choice to leave came easier than he expected it to.

The same day that the medic cleared him to leave the sickbay, Raph went to his bunk and started packing. He just couldn’t take it anymore—the constant battle, the loss, the grief, but most of all, the constant fear. As long as there were loved ones nearby, there was fear. Mikey, April, Angel, shit, even Leo—there wasn’t a second of the day that he wasn’t pants-shittingly terrified that they would be next, and he couldn’t take any more! He just couldn’t take any more. Donnie, Splinter, now Casey too? He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t take any more empty graves.

He couldn’t even bring Casey’s body home to his wife.

His eye, the one that still had an eyeball in it, burned with unshed tears as he shoved his shit in a bag. He didn’t know yet where he was gonna go; the sewers weren’t safe anymore, central park was razed ages ago. He was gonna have to leave the city. Maybe the farm up in Northampton was still safe, none of them had been up there since the summer Donnie went missing.

He reached into the drawer of the beat-up bedside table and his new lack of depth perception finally got him, he slammed his hand right into the back of the drawer and cursed.

Mike blearily peeked out from the top bunk, then grinned. It was the middle of the day, but he looked half asleep. He must have been on night watch. “Arr, matey, it be good to see ye up and about. Hah, eyepatch humor.” His smile flickered at the sight of the bag. “Where—where are you going?”

Raph looked down. “Leaving. I can’t fuckin’ do this anymore, Mike.”

He scoffed. “You’re kidding. You can’t just run off and do your lone-wolf thing anymore Raph, it’s not safe.” A long silence passed. “Come on, be real, dude. Where are you gonna go?”

“I dunno. But I am leaving.”

There was a brief silence. “Fuck you.”

Raph one-eyed blinked.

“What, are you going on some one-man suicide mission against the Shredder or something? We aren’t kids anymore Raph.”

“No, I’m just—I’m leaving, okay? It’s none of your fucking business.”

“Fuck you,” he repeated. He rolled over in his bunk and disappeared into his scratchy wool blanket. “You’ll be back in a week.”

Raph didn’t bother with the contents of the drawer. On his way out of the barracks, something thwacked him on the shoulder, then fell to the concrete. He caught a rustle from Mike’s bunk as he knelt to pick it up.

It was a red mask with one eye stitched closed.

He moved on to the kitchen and stole some rations—nothing crazy, just a few days’ worth. It wasn’t difficult. Everyone knew who he was, everyone knew the turtles were April’s second-third-fourth in command, so no one questioned him as he gathered shit up.

He didn’t go out of his way to say goodbye to Leo. He wouldn’t have said anything to Mikey either if they hadn’t shared a bunk. Leo had tried to stop him from leaving a hundred times before—both back when they were kids and since they had helped form this ramshackle ‘resistance’—and this time he wasn’t going to give him the chance. He tossed the bag over his shoulder and headed out on foot.

He expected Leo, was braced to argue with him and even fight past him if he had to. He wasn’t expecting April. In fact, April might have been the last person he wanted to see. It was her that he was running from, after all.

She stood propped against the wall by the gate with Casey’s giant bomber jacket draped over her shoulders. It was just starting to get chilly out in the evenings, barely cold enough for her to need it. Just the sight of the thing made him want to curl up in a ball and cry his guts out.

She looked up as he approached and of course—of course she didn’t look angry. She looked hurt.

“Don’t try to talk me outta it.”

She shook her head. “Why? I don’t get it.”

He sighed and looked away. Even blurry, he couldn’t stand the sight of her so heartbroken. “Why can’t you just be mad at me already? Yell at me, hit me, get it over with.”

“Raph, I’m not going to be—”

“You should be!” he yelled. “I couldn’t even bring him home in a body bag! He wanted to get out and I stopped him!” His empty eye socket burned again, it truly was insult to injury that crying hurt so much. “He should have come back—he shoulda been the one that came back, and not me.”

April pushed away from the wall and came to stand in front of him. He had caught up to her a little bit height-wise, but she would always be a little bit taller. She cupped his cheek in her hand and chewed on her lip for a moment. “You’re my brother, Raphie.”

He stood there in her grasp, choking back the tears that ran down his face anyways.

She tilted his head forward and planted a soft kiss on his head, then shrugged out of the jacket. She slung it around his shoulders instead. “You’re really going?”

“I have to. I—I gotta get outta here, April.”

She sniffled, then sobbed quietly, but she nodded. She wasn’t going to try to stop him. “Don’t forget about us, okay?”

He wiped tears off his own face and nodded. “Okay.”

There was a moment of hesitation, and before he could second-guess himself, Raph pulled her into a tight hug. She felt so small and breakable in his arms. Mike would watch over her—he was probably the one who sent her out here to begin with.

Dusk turned to night as he held on to her. She didn’t move or complain, content to hold on as long as he would let her. Eventually he had to let go. They both sniffled, but nothing else was said.

She watched him go, Casey’s jacket around his shoulders, until he faded away into the night.

[crowfeatherquill]

Reunion

Fuck this. Fuck this stupid city and this stupid season and the fucking rain oh and also my entire life. Why couldn’t they have buried me in fucking Bermuda? Why did I have to come back in the middle of winter? Why did I have to come back at all?

Jason sniffed dejectedly and shoved himself back closer to the alley wall he was trying to use as shelter from the winter downpour. The sudden movement startled a rat that had been boldly investigating near one of his feet, and he watched, dully, as it scrambled away into the gloom. Little bastard certainly had a bit more get-up-and-go than he did. 

Losing sight of the rat, he glanced back down toward his feet, realizing as he did that he wasn’t actually sure how long the rat had been there. He could barely feel them on the edge of his bodily awareness, well past the painful stages of cold and into that distant sort of numbness that warned of hypothermia. Vaguely, he considered that he also wasn’t sure when he’d stopped shivering. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath of frigid air that made his lungs tense with the instinct to cough, and heaved himself to his feet. He wasn’t going to get any dryer or warmer just sitting here and waiting for the weather or the infrastructure to take pity on him. That much he could say for certain. Gotham had no pity for those who couldn’t afford central heating. Or a roof. Or anything resembling weather-appropriate clothing.

His stomach cramped, fruitlessly attempting to digest air.

Or food that wasn’t scrounged out of a dumpster.

He leaned heavily on the wall for a moment to wait out the dizzy spell and then started to walk, no particular destination at the front of his mind. He let his thoughts wander as he went, running back over recent events almost compulsively, like prodding at the wound left behind in the wake of a missing tooth. Most of his memories were tangled, hazy and tinged with green around the edges, but there were some things he knew for certain.

He remembered waking up in the thick oak coffin. He remembered having to pound his way out of it. Remembered nearly drowning in dirt and mud on the way up. He couldn’t remember whether he’d done enough to make sure his raw knuckles didn’t get infected. Now they were covered in old gauze and bandages and stuffed into ratty gloves and he hadn’t really had the stomach to check.

He remembered ditching the suit he’d been buried in as quickly as he could -- no point in holding onto it and getting mugged when there was nothing for them to take. Oddly, he remembered not remembering the suit. Remembered feeling as though he should be more attached to it. He couldn’t remember how long he’d grappled with himself over that.

At that point, not wanting to risk straying too far from the Bowery, he’d lifted a sweatshirt and a beanie from a run down thrift shop, swearing up and down to himself that he’d go pay them back as soon as he could. God only knew when that would be.

He thought of his heavy leather coat, probably still hanging in his closet at the manor, and shivered, wretchedly. He’d never gotten the chance to ‘grow into it’ the way Bruce had always said he would. Idly, he considered that it might actually fit him pretty well now. Shame he’d never get the chance to check.

Thinking of the manor -- of Bruce -- twisted his guts. He did his best to stop. It was about that time he noticed where he’d wandered to.

It wasn’t exactly what anyone would describe as the really nice end of town, but it was certainly no Crime Alley. He recognized the quaint little sign hanging in front of the cafe before he’d even really had the chance to read it and he could practically feel the color draining out of his face. He couldn’t be here. He could not be here--

Turning on his heel to go back the way he’d come, he rammed head-on into an approaching figure he hadn’t quite noticed over the sound of the rain and his own blood rushing in his ears. The two of them spoke practically on top of each other, Jason giving a mumbled apology and the stranger saying:

“Oh- apologies, lad, watch your step there.”

Jason froze.

He almost didn’t dare to look up, but there was some part of him buried deep in the back of his head that had to know--

The man standing in front of him was staring. He had that oh-so-familiar look of mild-mannered concern painting his features. There were more gentle wrinkles, maybe, and he hadn’t thought it was possible for there to be more white in his hair but that was there too, and even despite all that somehow he was also still exactly how Jason remembered.

“Are...you quite alright?”

“Alfie?”

A moment of silence as tense as piano wire passed between them as Alfred seemed to be trying to decide between shock and outrage and suddenly Jason could feel panic setting its teeth in him for the first time since he’d woken up in that damned oak box.

“Wait- shit, no, I’m sorry, please don’t-” he snatched at his beanie, hoping that somehow, maybe, seeing his whole face and the white streak in his hair might prove something, “Alfie it’s me, I-”

Jason could not remember the last time he’d been held by anybody. He had died alone and in pain, woken up alone in the dark, and wandered the city alone from then until now. But in the span of a heartbeat, he was being clutched so close to Alfred’s wool-covered chest he thought the both of them might stop breathing. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d mind going out like that if he didn’t think he’d take Alfred with him.

He didn’t even realize he’d started crying until a wrecked, warbling noise forced its way out of his chest. He could feel the vibrations of Alfred speaking against the side of his face, but he’d be damned if he could make out any of the words.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there. Wasn’t sure if the shaking was because he was crying, or because he was freezing, or because his blood sugar was probably somewhere below sea level. Wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to ever let go. But at some point, he could feel Alfred pushing him back by the shoulders, holding him out at arm’s length to get a better look at him, and he still hadn’t quite stopped crying, but it was raining too so it was hard to tell, and he counted himself lucky for that.

“How in the world…?”

Jason shook his head, sharply.

“I don’t- I don’t know, Alfie. I don’t- please just-”

He felt Alfred’s hands tighten on his shoulders as the old butler shook him gently out of his stammering.

“Alright. Alright.” He straightened a little, and though there was still an unfathomable storm of emotions playing over his face, he did his best to find his composure. He pulled in a deep breath, scanning over Jason a bit more critically. “You...you are in a sorry state, Master Jason. Have you-”

He seemed to think better of the question before he could quite finish it, but even the implication of it hanging in the air made Jason duck his head, ashamed.

“I...I can’t. Alfie I can’t, it’s- I don’t know…”

“It’s alright, lad. I shouldn’t have asked.” Alfred’s brow furrowed, and he looked suddenly very tired and very sad. “Would...let me see to you, at least. You look-”

“No, c’mon, Alfie, you don’t have to-”

“Of course I do!”

Jason stopped short, wholly unaccustomed to Alfred so much as raising his voice a bit for emphasis, let alone shouting like that.

“Of course I do, Jason. That is all I do. Let me see to you. Please.”

Of all the things that Jason Todd had the fortitude for, saying ‘no’ to Alfred Pennyworth had never been one of them. Evidently even death couldn’t change that.

Over the following few hours, he found himself tugged along in Alfred’s wake as he was taken first to a quiet little out-of-the-way bistro where he was instructed to eat as much as he liked and not concern himself with what it cost, and then -- after a very brief but heavily charged back-and-forth -- to another thrift shop to get some warmer clothes. By the end of it, he’d been put up in a hotel for a few days and told that ‘arrangements’ would be made to find him someplace more permanent to stay.

As he laid, still somewhat dazed, in the hotel bed, he thought back over the parting words they’d exchanged.

“Don’t tell Bruce. I- I know he’s broken up about it, but I can’t- not yet. Just. Just don’t mention anything yet.”

“As far as I am concerned, Master Jason, until you are ready to come home, this was all a very strange dream I had.” Alfred had paused, and that damned worry had worked its way onto his face again, sticking in Jason’s guts like so many needles. “You will, though, won’t you? Come home eventually?”

He’d sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. In some ways it sort of was.

“I...I dunno, Alfie. There’s some...stuff I gotta do first. Stuff the old man probably wouldn’t be too fond of. Hate to go turning the house into a boxing ring over my unfinished business.”

Something in Alfred’s expression had hardened, minutely. Jason had chosen to interpret it as a kind of understanding.

“I think I catch your meaning. I suppose I had hoped-” Alfred had shaken his head ever-so-slightly. “Ah, well. No method is infallible. Not even Master Bruce’s. You will...at least keep in touch, though?”

“With you? ‘Course. Dunno about anyone else, but...you I don’t mind. I mean, I dunno what ‘arrangements’ is supposed to mean but I’d bet you’ll probably have the address. So. Y’know.”

“Just so long as I know I have your permission, Master Jason. That way, should you decide to be difficult later, I can refer you back to this conversation.”

Jason hadn’t quite been able to help laughing at that.

“Always thinkin’ ahead, aren’t you, Alfie?”

“Of course, Master Jason. Someone has to.”

As he shut his eyes against the dark of the room and the encroaching threat of another wave of tears -- though this one was certainly gentler than the first -- he found he really didn’t mind the idea of visits from Alfred every once in a while. Maybe...maybe some things could stand to be a little closer to normal.

Come the morning, upon exploring the room a little further, he would find more clothes tucked neatly into the dresser, some simple groceries occupying the kitchenette along with a couple of recipes in a fine, familiar hand, and a single occupied hanger in the closet bearing a thick leather jacket with a neatly folded note in the front pocket.

To keep the rain off. - A