#there are. no words for how devastating this has been

[aquaticmercy]

Waste a Moment / Part 13

Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.

Requested by :  @remoony

Word count : 2.7k

Note : uhhhh I might extend this to 18 parts instead of the 17 planned. Please let me know if I miss anyone on the tags! Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

“Beast to the Wild”

Sunday afternoon.

Yelena arrived as quickly as she could.

She found Sam standing outside the control room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked like he wanted to punch a hole in the wall but was holding himself back, his usual calm composure cracking under the concern furrowed in his eyebrows.

“He’s in there,” Sam said, nodding toward the closed door. His voice was subdued in a way that sent a chill through her spine. “Hasn’t moved since it happened.”

Yelena frowned, glancing at the door. “How bad is it?” she asked, though the answer was already clawing at her stomach. 

“Bad,” Sam sighed, his eyes drifting down to his shoes.  “You know he gets when it’s her.”

Yelena did know. Too well. She nodded, swallowing hard and squaring her shoulders.

She paused at the door, steeling herself. She already knew what was coming—the anger, the accusations. She could already hear his voice in her mind: “Are you happy now? Are you happy that she knows? Are you happy now that she’s gone?”

But when she stepped inside, the words she braced for didn’t come. 

Bucky was hunched over the console, his shoulders bowed as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. His hands were in his hair, fingers raking into his scalp like he could pull himself out of whatever hell he had occupied. The screens in front of him flickered with useless data: satellite feeds, news updates, and endless blank logs that told him nothing. 

Yelena’s heart twisted at the sight of the grieving supersoldier. She almost hesitated.

But she couldn’t stop— not now. Not when it was you. Not when it was her best friend.

She stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind her. 

“Barnes,” she said, her voice fragile but steady.

He didn’t look at her. His teeth clenched, and for a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to respond. He had an emptiness in his eyes— no rage. No anger. Just all-consuming guilt.

Then he exhaled, ragged and uneven. It was like it hurt him just to breathe. 

“I fucked up,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “She’s gone, and it’s my fault.” 

Yelena froze. She had expected yelling, had braced for misplaced blame. But this—this quiet, devastating admission—was worse. She took a slow step closer, her fist clenched at her sides. 

“What exactly happened?” she asked carefully, her stomach knotting.

He laughed, but it was a bitter, hollow sound. “What didn’t happen?” He finally looked up at her, and the disbelief in his eyes hit her like a punch to the gut. “She broke in. She ran. She disabled tracking, cloaked the jet. I can’t—” His voice broke, and he dropped his head into his hands again. “I can’t find her.”

Yelena’s chest tightened. 

You were out there somewhere, unreachable, and Bucky was destroying himself for it, piece by piece. 

“She’s strong,” Yelena said, her voice firm even as fear clawed at her insides. “Rhodey said she’s doing great on her flight training. She’ll be okay.” 

“Will she?” Bucky snapped, looking up sharply. His voice faltered, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it had flared. He slumped back in his chair, his hands trembling as they rested on the desk. He tapped a frantic rhythm on the wood. “I should have been honest with her from the start, I should’ve listened to you, I should—fuck, what if she’s in danger? What if she—” 

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Yelena could see it in his eyes— the fear that was eating him alive, torturing him from the inside out.

She knew how capable you were, but she also knew the risks of going rogue like this, cutting yourself off from your lifeline.

“She’ll come back,” Yelena said firmly, though not entirely convinced. 

Bucky shook his head. His blue eyes were distant, staring at the horizon as if he was imagining you coming back to him. “What if she doesn’t?”

The silence that followed was unbearable, thick with unspoken fears neither of them were eager to vocalise. Yelena bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay calm, to keep a level head. But inside, her thoughts were racing. If something had happened to you—if you didn't return—she didn’t know how Bucky would survive it. 

In all honesty, She didn’t know how she would survive it.

"That's not an option," Yelena said again, her voice quieter. "And when she comes back, you're going to fix this. We’re going to fix this."  

Bucky swallowed hard, his throat tightening around the air he needed so desperately to breathe. "That’s what we got wrong," he said, his voice trembling. "She didn’t need fixing. She never did." His muscles tensed as the realisation sank in. He’d been so consumed with trying to shield you, rearranging your life to protect you from the truth, that he couldn’t see the damage his silence was doing. And Yelena—she lacked the courage to tell you when he failed. She’d built a friendship with you, but always held herself at arm’s length, unwilling to face the thought of you shattered, bruised, or hollowed out. In their misguided attempts to fix you, Bucky had kept you blind to the truth, while Yelena had refused to acknowledge away from the parts of you that were still lost, too afraid to confront what lay beneath. "She just needed a push,” Bucky continued.

"Then we’ll give her that," Yelena said softly, her own voice crackling.

Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on the screens in front of him, scanning for something, anything, that might tell him where you were. 

But there was nothing. 

Just static and silence.

Yelena pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. They were both terrified for you, for what might have happened, for what still could. But she wasn’t going to leave him alone in this. And maybe, she needed someone who understood.

Monday.

The days that followed were nothing but an endless stretch of anxiety, a string of minutes that dragged into hours, into days. Bucky paced the compound like a caged animal that had been wounded, unable to rest, unable to let himself sleep, not while you were out there—wherever there was. 

You could be anywhere.

The first night, he’d convinced himself that you’d return before sunrise. You had to. He had barely let himself leave the command room, his eyes glued to the screen as if he could will a blip to appear on the radar. But hour after hour passed, and there was only silence. 

Tuesday.

The second day, Sam had finally pulled him aside, brow furrowed with a look of worry he had only seen on his friend’s face a few times before. “You need to sleep,” Sam had said, trying to talk some sense into him. But Bucky waved him off, his chest tight, his pulse thundering with a primal fear he didn’t know how to control.

Wednesday.

By the third day, his hands trembled. 

He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t even thought about it. His world was confined to the four walls of the control room, where every incoming call, every email, and every intel update had no real consequence, and every dead end became a reminder that you were still missing. Yelena kept coming in, putting her hand hesitantly on his shoulder from time to time.

Yelena was exhausted too, every ounce of her strength spent holding herself together. It took everything she had not to retreat to the solitude of an empty apartment and break down, the way she had the first time.

She didn’t offer empty reassurances anymore— she knew Bucky wouldn’t believe them. She gave him the updates as they were: no news, no sightings, no leads.

Every minute chipped away at his mind. You could be hurt, or worse—

He didn’t let himself finish that thought. 

Outside the window, the sky cycled through night and day. The compound, usually bustling with heroes and friends alike, felt quiet. Everyone helped  in any way they could— Rhodey going on daily flights to scan surrounding areas, Scott scouring the cyber security networks for any sign of you. They even got Bruce and Clint to search for leads.

Bucky would glance up from the monitors, hoping to catch a glimpse of you walking through the door, half-dazed, explaining how it was all a misunderstanding. But the doorway remained empty. 

He remained alone.

Somewhere between the updates, Sam tried to get him to rest again, even pulled a chair over, but Bucky barely listened to him. His mind was too noisy, a nonstop assault of what-ifs and maybes.

When Yelena reported back for the fifth time that day, her voice a desperate apology, Bucky had wanted to scream. He was so damn tired of nothing, of waiting, of feeling useless.

“Bucky,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re going to burn yourself out. You need—”

He shook his head, the words too hard to find, too tangled in the mess of vines growing like weeds in his chest. “She’s out there, and it’s my fault,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “I can’t just… stop.”

Yelena didn’t argue.

She knew that until you were safe, Bucky would not rest. Could not rest.

Another hour. Another dead end.

And then another.

Thursday.

The fourth day was cold and grey, as if the sky itself was scolding him of his failures as a partner— as a friend. The weather disturbances had rendered the radar useless, and there was nothing he could do but wait it out. 

Bucky hadn’t left the command centre in over seventy-two hours, his bloodshot eyes glued to the monitors that had long stopped giving any useful information. He was exhausted to the bone, but the thought of you out there kept him wired, kept his muscles tense, his fists clenched. But even his supersoldier physiology was working overtime, and he knew that at some point, it would catch up with him.

Yelena was beside him, uncharacteristically still. Even Sam, who usually had a quip ready for any situation, had fallen silent, his hands folded tightly as they all waited for something they didn’t know would even come.

Then, without warning, the heavy security doors of the compound opened with a metallic creak that shattered the silence. 

Bucky’s eyes shot up, and his heart stopped for a beat. He’d imagined this moment so many times in the past few days that he couldn’t believe it at first. 

But there you were, standing in the doorway.

Except you were barely standing.

Blood smeared your arms, your knuckles so bruised and raw that he could see the whites of your bones underneath, your clothes torn in places he didn’t want to look too closely at. Your face was marked with cuts, some shallow, others deep enough to have left trails of dried blood down your cheek. 

And in your hand, glinting dully, was a golden blade encrusted in cryptic symbols, the artefact he’d decided you weren’t ready for. The one he’d postponed for your own safety, to keep you from facing too much, too soon.

Bucky felt his chest seize as he looked at you, relief and horror washing over him in equal measure.

Relief that you were here, you were alive— but gut wrenching horror at the state you were in.

No one dared to speak as you strode forward. There was no remaining a softness in your gaze, no relief in your expression. Just in unwavering, simmering anger as you approached the table in the middle of the room. Without a word, you threw the artefact down, the metal hitting the surface with a loud, echoing clink. The dagger gleamed in the dim light, almost mocking them all with its careless beauty.

Bucky’s chest tightened as he fought to breathe, to form the words that could somehow repair the chasm between you, but nothing came. Nothing except the sharpness of your stare, carving into him with the precision of a blade. 

Bucky moved toward you instinctively, his hand reaching out. Before he could speak, you took a shaky step backward. He could see it then, the way your body was barely holding itself together, the exhaustion painted in every line of your face, the pain you were trying to hide. 

Sam was the first to break the silence. "Y-you alright?" he asked softly, his voice filled with worry, his brow creased as he took in your injuries.

You didn’t answer; it was a stupid question. Sam Wilson had eyes, did he not? You pressed your lips into a thin line, and your gaze shifted from Sam to Bucky.

“You didn’t think I could do it,” you said finally, your voice rough and broken from what had to have been hours of screaming or fighting. “So I went alone. I got it alone.”

Bucky’s heart pounded. Every part of him wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—that would make you understand. 

You swayed slightly, a tremor running through your legs, but you stubbornly held yourself up, refusing to let the pain break you. “You think I’m not ready for this,” you continued, your voice trembling with anger. “You think I can’t handle it. But I got the job done, didn’t I?”

Bucky flinched at the accusation. He’d spent days trapped in the fear that he’d lost, that his choices, his need to protect you, had driven you away for good. 

“Didn’t I?!” you repeated. And now, here you were, throwing it all back in his face, reminding him of every time he had second-guessed you, every time he’d tried to make decisions for you.

He couldn’t bring himself to respond. All he could do was stare at you as he took in the damage you’d suffered. It was my fault, he thought.

“I don’t need you,” you snapped at him.

He wanted to argue, to beg, to crumble before you and tell you how wrong he’d been. But all he could do was stand there, drowning in the horror of his own failure and the unbearable truth that you might mean it.

Yelena’s breath caught in her lungs, her composure cracking for just a moment as her eyes swept over the bruises, the cuts, the blood staining your skin. She winced, the sight hitting her harder than she’d expected, but she forced herself to keep looking. You deserved that—deserved to be seen, not turned away from like some broken thing. You deserved respect, even in your battered state, even when her gut twisted at the thought of what you’d endured, your mere presence demanded that she hold your gaze and acknowledge your strength. She was no longer going to threaten people behind your back to try and save you. If she had something to say, she would have to say it to your face. “I—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, your voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough to silence the room. You didn’t need her apologies, didn’t want her pity.

But your strength had limits. And as you stood there— the adrenaline finally crashing, your body sagging in the aftermath of the exhaustion— the toll of what you’d gone through catching up with you. 

Your knees buckled, and before anyone could react, you collapsed, your body crumpling to the floor.

Bucky was at your side in an instant, his arms slipping around you, supporting you as gently as he could despite his own shaking hands. He pressed his hand against the back of your head, his fingers in your hair as he whispered your name, his voice breaking. 

You were unconscious, breathing shallow, your face finally softening in the grip of sleep.

For a moment, no one spoke. Bucky’s gaze remained on you, his thumb gently tracing the line of a bruise on your cheek, his heart breaking as he truly saw the cost of what you’d done to prove yourself.

Sam stepped forward, his hand settling on Bucky’s shoulder. He didn't say anything, didn’t need to. Yelena hovered nearby, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes swimming in sadness that matched the guilt in her eyes.

As he held you, he vowed he would make it right. He didn’t know how, he knew that when you woke up—when you opened those furious eyes— he would be there. 

He wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t try to hide anything from you.

Because he’d learned, far too late, that you didn’t need protecting. You needed trust. 

And he would have to earn it back one step at a time.

-to be continued…

Taglist: @hzdhrtss @irisk12 @tayyyystan @seventeen-x 

@greatenthusiasttidalwave @avatarofthetimelords @bckynatt @winchestert101 @zemosprincesa 

@nngkay @hiireadstuff @sapphirebarnes @thatesqcrush @bethexo07 

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@otterlycanadian @lifeisbutadream444 @mostlymarvelgirl @ozwriterchick @m1cky-y-y

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@one-lengthiness36 @chimchoom @waitingformysandman @eanthedeadqueen13 @hi172826

@starsmoonn @notsostrangerthing @wintercrows

@lomlbuckybarnes gets a special shout out for figuring it out🫡

[reignpage]

Lil angst idea ........ how do you think jjk men would react if reader defected?? (If possible could we get both pre and post defection suguru 👉👈)

Gojo:

DEVASTATED words cannot even explain the crash out this man would experience (I have a fic on this actually, still writing it tho) I think he'd go off the rails Starts hollow purpling everything That isn't a joke btw, like that's how I see it play out He'd lose hope and faith

Pre-Geto:

He'd go catatonic for a while Thinking about what went wrong and trying to figure out where he stands But he'd end up joining reader

Post-Geto:

Happy Feels reassured about his masterplan Because he definitely had moments where he doubted himself

Choso:

Confused Would try to reach out to understand Would be very conflicted about where he stands It'll drive him wild trying to choose between reader or his brother Very similar crash out like when he realised Yuji was his brother after attacking him

Toji:

I don't think he'd care He's really the type to just go with the flow Always been apolitical and just focused on himself so he'll go wherever you go Won't really take an active part in your plans but if you asked him to do something e.g. kill someone, he'd do it

Nanami:

Woah You know in a zombie apocalypse, where the crazy weirdo has a tied up zombie of their loved one that they talk to and think is genuinely okay, like living in fantasy land That would be Nanami He'd be sent to kill you, but would capture and hold you captive instead Comes in multiple times a day to clean and feed you Talks to you about his day like nothing's wrong In hopes you'll return to him

Sukuna:

He'll pat himself on the back lol You know that scene in Barbie when Ken says SUBLIME Yeah that's our man

Yuji:

Poor boy wouldn't understand He'll be traumatised Forever changed Just like Gojo was It'll force him to reaffirm his belief and faith in jujutsu society but there'll be a darkness that follows him everywhere

Megumi:

Mad at you So so so mad Mad at himself too Feels a strong sense of responsibility and blame Thinks you're stupid and you were manipulated or something But doesn't try to seek you out He's too cowardly

Inumaki:

Suffer in silence Would stop speaking all together Might start chasing you down though Thinks he can use his technique to bring you back Spiritually demolished if he tries and fails

[nowimjustastranger]

I don't know if this has already been asked before but has Stcmo Ford ever had to intervene in a world where Stanley took the journel(where that world's Ford wasn't sent through the portal) and planned for it to be the last thing he'd ever do before dying?

As he was trudging through the snow back to his car, Stan couldn't help but hear Ford's words play on an endless loop in his head, drowning out everything else. Stan had wanted so badly to shove the journal back at Ford after his brother had branded him, but he couldn't. Ford was right, he was always right.

So he kept the fucking diary and stormed out.

Ford didn't follow, so Stan must've said something about giving in to his brother's will before leaving, but he couldn't remember what had come out of his mouth. His head was swimming in a nauseating way as his shoulder screamed at him, his body shook violently with every gust of wind.

He already knew that he wasn't going far. He just needed to get to the car, then he'd burn the stupid fucking journal and drive himself off the nearest cliff. He was tired. So very tired and hungry and cold. He had dropped everything just to come when his brother called, hoping against all hope that maybe they could finally talk.

He should know better than to entertain hope by now.

He didn't even realize someone was in front of him until he literally ran into them, stumbling back with a curse as he clutched his arm, a new burst of pain surging through his shoulder. He blinked the black spots out of his vision, squinting at the weirdo who was wearing a flashy all-black getup in the middle of a blizzard.

He would've noticed that something was off sooner if he hadn't been so worn down.

But, as it stood, he heard a sharp twang before a bolt was rushing past his ear from behind. Stan stiffened, adrenaline flooding his body when Ford yelled at him, ordering him to run to his car and get out of town as fast as he could.

He took a total of three stumbling steps toward his car before an arm was curling around his throat, getting him into a firm headlock. The stranger wasn't choking him though, so small mercies. Actually, it seemed like the guy was actively avoiding his brand, which was weird because why would that matter if he was gonna take Stan hostage anyway?

Stan tried to hold on to the journal, he really did, but the asshole pulled it away from his icy fingers with ease. Stan choked on what might've been a sob, devastated that he had failed the one task that he'd been given. How did he manage to keep fucking everything up so spectacularly? He should've never been born.

"Stanley!" Ford shouted with no small amount of distress, clearly upset about his journal falling into the wrong hands on his front lawn. Stan couldn't look at him, couldn't bare to see the disappointment and anger that were surely coloring Ford's face right now.

"You can either have the journal or your brother." The stranger's voice carried over the howling wind, Stan's wide eyes darting to the book in the man's other hand with a sinking feeling in his gut. Stan already knew what Ford would pick, he had proved time and time again that he cared about his research more than he loved his brother.

"Let him go!" Ford seethed, the anger far more familiar to Stan, who finally braved a look at his brother. Ford was surprisingly close, only a few feet away with his crossbow loaded and aimed at the stranger. His expression was a mixture of terror and fury, his bloodshot eyes darting from Stan to the stranger several times.

He didn't look at the journal once.

"Is that your choice?" The stranger asked, the arm around Stan's neck slowly tightening, Stan's hands frantically prying at the dark fabric and flexing muscle with a pitiful wheeze that had Ford making an aborted movement toward him.

"Yes! Yes! I choose him!" Ford's voice cracked, face crumpling like he was about to burst into tears. Stan grit his teeth and swung his elbow down to bury it into the man's kidney, the grip on his neck loosening just enough that Stan could twist and punch the asshole right in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.

Stan lunged for the journal, wrenching it from the man's grip as he kicked the bastard's knee, hearing the joint pop out of place. The guy grunted in pain as he went down, Stan scrambling toward his brother, who had lurched forward to meet him. Stan couldn't see what was happening, but he heard another bolt fire and then Ford was dropping the weapon to grab at Stan.

"He's gone! He's gone! He left!" Ford gasped as he dragged Stan to his feet, using his body as a crutch to keep Stan upright as the two of them unsteadily made their way back to the shack. Stan's legs gave out on him as soon as they were inside, Ford slamming and locking the door behind them with an urgency that bordered on manic.

"Ford..." Stan panted, slumped against the wall, and Ford was beside him in the blink of an eye.

"What? What is it? Did he hurt you?" Ford asked in rapid-fire, shaking hands fluttering over his body. Stan caught one, Ford flinching at how cold Stan's hand was.

"I... the journal... I got it back." Stan said breathlessly, weakly raising his other hand to offer it to Ford, who looked stunned as he stared at it. Maybe he didn't think Stan would bother to grab it? Just how little did Ford trust him?

It was Stan's turn to be speechless when Ford took the journal from him and carelessly set it aside before he was back to fussing over Stan, who was too busy blinking dumbly to stop Ford from accidentally touching the brand while searching for wounds.

Stan cried out, hunching on on himself as Ford profusely apologized, scurrying away after assuring Stan that he'd be back with his first aid kit. Stan kept his head down as he nodded, teeth grit against the pain. He was used to waiting. Waiting for the millions to miraculously come pouring in, waiting for Ford to reach out first, waiting for his next meal, waiting for those rough hands to stop touching him.

Always waiting.

He heard Ford making a racket further in the house and decided that he could wait just a little longer.

[hello-vampire-kitty]

Servamp chapter 148 spoilers

"It feels like..I'm breaking...His soul is screaming...Crying out your name."

I screamed as well when I saw that Tsurugi is in there!

That's what I hoped for. I couldn't accept that he was truly dead in spite of what happed to his body!

He heard Touma's name being called out and that made him wake up!

If Mikuni let him live because he thought that he'll not pose a threat if Germaine-the creator of Servamps, who is supposed to be stronger than anyone, takes over his body, well...he underestimated my boy.

Touma: "Let's go home, Tsurugi." Tsurugi: "Tai-chan..!"

Upon hearing his name being called out by Touma, Tsurugi managed to break free from Germaine's control. Like I mentioned previously, Tsurugi must have been underestimated.

Recall what he said in chapter 67.

My boy 😭 It made me happy seeing that he managed to expel Germaine and I that he will be alright, but Tanaka-sensei was like, "Yeah about that..."

AAAHH! I'm devastated! There's only one more chapter left...Could there still be hope for him to come back?

Note that I haven't properly read the lines, as in I haven't looked up all the words, but from what I understand, Touma explained to Mahiru that Iori created a save state of the world, a precaution against damage in a decisive battle and Mahiru asks if he means that day when Tsubaki showed up at the hospital (ch 84).

According to this chapter, when Iori 'died', which by the way, his act was referred to as 'suicide by magic' he actually put himself in suspended animation and inserted himself as a 'bookmark' in the timeline and he acted as a guidepost to correct the timeline.

Yeah, so it's impressive. I think most of us believed, especially given the previous chapter that Mahiru and Kuro will be the one to defeat Mikuni. I also thought there will be a confrontation with Germaine, like I was expecting that he will be the final boss.

Alright, so, maybe after I read the chapter probably it will be clear, but Mahiru asks if it's possible to go back to that moment in time, (the period from when Tsubaki showed up at the hospital), but Touma says there's not enough to pay the price to go that far in time, however Touma says that he wouldn't mind paying a price 'to pull a life from the bookmark'.

So...he wants to bring Tsurugi back by exchanging his life, however, Mahiru mentions that he died once before and he's suggesting to exchange his life.

Note how he trails off at the end. I'm expecting that he will be cut off by someone, most likely Kuro who will give him a lecture.

Don't let your mother's sacrifice be in vain, Mahiru! :(

Kuro and your friends won't let you sacrifice yourself so easily

The last thing I want to talk about is the possibility that maybe there won't be sacrifices, because there will be drama CD which has a track titled "Re：One morning, when I woke up". (title of chapter 80).

Because it has 'Re' in the title, which stands for 'restart', 'redo', 'repeat' etc, it could mean that the scenario might be about returning to that period in chapter 80.

That chapter opened with Tsurugi waking up at the hospital after the incident at C3.

Although it's the same title as the chapter, maybe it doesn't mean going back to that time, but rather it's tied to the imagery. What I'm trying to say is that, the scenario of the drama might begin with Tsurugi waking up, like in chapter 80.

We only have once chapter left...Tanaka please, my baby has to meet his grandpuppy Gear and no one should sacrifice themselves!

[impala-dreamer]

In The Arms of Sleep

A Supernatural Story

~ Death has been hunting him, turning every moment into a painful dream of blood and pain. His only hope for a moment's rest lies in her arms...~

Dean Winchester x F!Reader

2,985 Words

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of death and show level blood, Allusions to sex. Set right before the series finale. | Originally Published to Patreon 9/11/2023

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

He probably should have called first.

Probably should have at least texted.

It was too late now though.

She’d just have to deal with it.

The highway stretched out before him, undulating and twisting like so many tentacles of some viscous midnight monster. Black and unforgiving; poised to devour him should he jerk the wheel in the wrong way at the wrong moment.

Suddenly, the thought of a crash crossed his mind and he couldn’t break away from it. How many miles had he driven in his life? How many times had he transverse the country, weaving back and forth across the yellow lines; crossing state borders without a second thought. Impossible to count. And yet- he’d been in so few accidents that it was almost comical. It was statistically impossible that he hadn’t careened off a cliff in New England and plummeted into the icy waters of the Atlantic, or been mesmerized by a heat mirage outside of Phoenix and missed a turn, crashing into the rocks, his last moments spent hearing the sickening crunch of metal and bone.

For a moment, he saw himself, half alive and wheezing, chest punctured by the wreck of the steering wheel; both legs broken, face shredded and bleeding as he crawled from a mess of black steel. The Impala crumpled, smoke billowing from beneath the hood while fluids mixed on the blacktop below. He clawed at the dirt, nails breaking painfully as he struggled to pull himself from the rubble. Each movement sent white-hot pain through his body, but he kept going, desperate to save himself as flames licked at the upholstery, turning the slick, shining chrome to blazing orange.

Shaking himself, Dean cleared the vision from his mind and shifted in his seat. The soft leather cradled him perfectly and he sank into it a bit, letting himself relax even as he tightened his grip on the wheel.

Things like that had been happening more and more. Nightmares were common in his life, but bloody daydreams were a new phenomenon. They often came out of nowhere too, making it almost impossible to stay calm and on task. One moment, he was playing on his phone or fixing dinner, and the next, he was watching as bullets tore through his chest, blood erupting from the punctures in slow motion cascades of crimson. More often, it was some monster attack, something easy that he could handle on his own that caught him. He’d turn a corner in a farmhouse and be ripped apart by massive talons, feasted upon by wolves, drained by an earth-covered vampire.

Every moment now, he saw his death. Every breath he took sent images of the end into his mind. He was plagued by the sights, haunted by the feeling, exhausted and helpless. Despite his best efforts at drinking the scenes away, the whiskey only made things worse. He’d tried talking about it, but it sounded insane. Tried writing them down, but he wasn’t good with words, couldn’t get the emotions right, couldn’t describe the anxiety. Hell, he’d even tried meditating, but that only proved to make the thoughts more vivid and devastating.

He needed something that he couldn’t find back at home.

Needed something he knew would soothe him, even if only for one night.

He needed Y/N.

So, he drove. Miles and miles, wheels spinning so fast that human eyes couldn’t see the treds turning, gripping, biting at the roads. So fast that it felt as if the car would leave the blacktop and float on the wind, fly him right to her front door.

He wasn’t so lucky.

He drove through the day and deep into the night, stopping only for gas in Oklahoma and then to take a piss a few hours later. Landscapes changed outside the windows, trees growing tall and full; the earth deepening from deep yellow to rich green. The world outside passed by, but he couldn’t see it. All he could see was blood.

A little after two in the morning, he reached her street. The little blue house was set back a bit from the road, tall bushes fencing in a modest lawn. She’d inherited the property when her parents were killed; the same time she’d met Dean.

He’d saved her life that night, and many more times, she’d done the same for him. Whether she knew it or not, she was always on his mind.

Dean slowly slid into the empty space in front of her house and cut the engine. He switched off the headlights and peered up at the front left window. Her light was off; the house dark and quiet.

He should have called first.

Exhausted, he closed his eyes for a moment and considered leaving. He could drive back straight away and be home before Sam got to worrying or Miracle missed him too much and chewed up his slippers. He fingered the ignition key, running his thumb across the dull ridges, ready to jam it back into its place.

He took a breath and a muzzle flare ignited in his head; the silenced gun taking him down with a shot perfectly executed right between his eyes. He jumped and willed the vision to dissipate, but it refused, growing brighter as his soul darkened.

A light flipped on in the window above and Dean’s heart jolted out of rhythm.

He made it to the front door just as she pulled it open and green eyes flooded with tears.

“Dean?”

Her voice was like a balm to his aching soul and he slumped forward into her outstretched arms.

“I heard the car,” she whispered, chin digging into the crook of his neck. “I thought I was dreaming.”

Dean clasped his arms around her back and held on, refusing despite the cold night air that swirled around them, to let her go and follow her inside. He needed a moment. Needed to lay his troubles down before crossing the threshold.

“Not dreaming,” he answered in a sigh. “But I may be.”

She smiled and placed a hand on the back of his neck, holding him to her. “You OK?”

He laughed bitterly, body shaking against her. “Not even a little.”

Y/N pulled away just enough to look into his eyes. The green was darker than she remembered, his soul burdened with so much pain that the color was fading, growing deeper than the evergreens that lined the back of her property. She lay her hand softly against his cheek and his eyes fluttered shut. He leaned into the touch, desperate for any human connection, desperate for her. He took a choppy breath and set his jaw tight. She felt the muscles flex beneath her palm, and she pressed her fingertips into the side of his face, giving him something real to feel.

“Hey…”

Her voice was calm and sweet, hiding the worry in her heart. Dean’s lashes lifted and he looked down into her eyes. She smiled.

“You’re gonna be OK.”

He wanted to believe it, needed to put his faith in her words, but blood was dripping from the deep, imagined gashes in his mind, puddling at his feet, flooding the concrete steps.

Subtly, he shook his head. “I dunno about that.” He tried to smile, to sprinkle in a bit of Winchester charm, but he had none left. He closed his eyes again and once more, the sight of his flayed body floated by, and he shivered.

Y/N’s fingers tensed, her middle finger pushing lightly against his temple. “Dean…”

He opened his heart, but not his eyes. “Y/N, please-”  His voice cracked around her name; pathetic and spent.

Y/N’s hand slid from his cheek to his hand, closing around it and pulling him along as she turned.

They didn’t speak. The only sound in the darkness was the door closing behind them and his boots hitting the old hardwood floor. The white pine planks were thin and long, stretching out down a hallway that barely seemed familiar to him. She had painted since last he’d been there, but it was too dark to see the shade of green she’d chosen.

Y/N held his hand and walked straight down the hallway and to the left. If memory served him, it was her bedroom- a small rectangular room with a big antique brass bed pushed into the corner and hand painted art on the walls. She flipped the light switch and a dim lamp by the bed turned on. It did little to illuminate the room, but it was enough to guide them across the thick carpet.

She stopped by the side of the bed and turned to him.

“Boots off,” she said firmly.

Dean’s forehead creased in question. “Huh?”

She sighed and nodded to his feet. “You’re not getting into my bed with those filthy boots on.”

He drew his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down hard. He wanted nothing more than to slide into her arms, but something was blocking his movements. A strange tightness grew in his chest, spreading outward like clinging ivy. His throat closed, his breathing quickened. Tears welled, but he refused to let them fall.

Slowly, Y/N lifted her hands to slide the canvas jacket from his shoulders. “Relax,” she whispered, tugging the fabric off his thick arms. Carefully, she folded it in half and laid it on the corner of her bed. The army green popped against the pale rose comforter and Dean set his gaze upon the contrast, desperate to hold onto it and push the phantom blood aside.

He let her pull off his flannel; open his belt. When she reached for the hem of his gray tee, his hands shot around her wrists.

He shook his head. “Y/N…”

She smiled softly. “Let me.”

His grip released and she lifted the cotton up over his head. He sighed deeply as the sweaty shirt caressed his cheeks and he emerged with half a smile.

The room was cool. A vent in the floor to his right pushed a light breeze into the air and it chilled his exposed skin. It felt good.

Y/N tried not to linger too long over his naked chest, tried to ignore his soft belly, the dip that lay across his broad shoulders. Unconsciously, she lifted her hand to cover the ink on his chest, the same design he’d insisted she get tattooed on her hip. They were connected in that strange way, and sometimes she wondered if he could feel her tracing the arms of the pentagram on her own skin late at night.

Dean stared down at her, awed by her gentleness, her shadowy beauty. The lamplight danced on her cheeks, cut out the lines of her lips; highlighted the fringe of lashes over her eyes.

She could feel his eyes on her and looked up, meeting his gaze. He shivered as her fingers slipped down his chest, sucked in a breath as her nails bit lightly into the tender flesh of his hips, exhaled slowly when she tugged his zipper down.

As his jeans sank to his ankles, Y/N turned away and lifted the thin nightshirt from her body, leaving her naked but for a pair of lilac panties. She didn’t look back as she slid into bed and tucked herself in the corner by the wall. When she was in place, she rolled over and lifted her arms, calling Dean to her side.

He kicked his boots off, let the denim rest beside them. He kept his boxers on and gracefully climbed in beside her.

His head sank into the pillow and her scent flooded his senses. The cushion was cool and comforting, the blanket heavy in a delicious way that made his body finally relax. Y/N tucked him in and then cuddled closer, pressing her flesh against his.

Dean could feel her firm breasts against his side, the soft curve of her waist, the heft of her hips. He bathed in her heat and rolled towards her, ready to unburden his soul. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat but no words would form.

He struggled.

She smiled.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she assured him, scooting up a bit on the bed. “I’ve got you.” She shifted quickly and Dean fell against her chest, cradled in her arms.

He pressed his ear to her heart and closed his eyes. Every beat pulsed through him and he breathed slowly with her, letting the tears finally come.

The harder he cried, the tighter she held him. She ran her hands through his hair, rubbed at his shoulders, kissed the top of his head, again and again reassuring him that he was safe with her, cared for, and loved.

Dean slid his arm around her waist and held on, feeling more like a whimpering child than a man. Forty years hung on him like lead, threatening to twist his bones and break his spirit.

He cried it all out as Y/N held him. Every hunt gone wrong, every death and resurrection. He cried for his parents, he cried for Sam. He cried for every soul he’d tortured in Hell, every life on Earth he’d failed to save. He cried for Charlie and for Eileen; for Kevin and Crowley. He cried for Lisa, cried for Ben. He cried for his youth, his wins and losses. He cried for Cas.

Y/N absorbed every tear, soothed every sob. She rocked him gently as his body shook, traced circles in his back to give him something else to focus on. She never let her grip waiver, never let a second go by without touching him in some way.

Night lifted slowly and the sun poked at the curtains. The windows glowed with pink and golden light and Dean stirred.

He lifted his head from Y/N’s arm and blinked into the growing light. She was fast asleep, chest rising and falling gently with each breath. Half circles darkened the flesh beneath her eyes and her hair was a mess, but she was nothing short of beautiful in his eyes.

Dean breathed easy for the first time in a long while. He felt lighter. When he closed his eyes, he saw the empty darkness of his eyelids and nothing more. No death, no blood, no hiding dangers. He smiled.

Daring to wake her, he slid his fingers lightly across her forehead and tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear.

Y/N pulled in a heavy breath and her eyes fluttered open. She saw his face and smiled.

His eyes were brighter, his cheeks pink and warm.

“Mornin’,” he whispered, leaning closer to her lips.

“Good morning.” She licked her lips and looked down at his. Plump and wet, they pushed out a bit, reaching for hers. “You seem better…”

He smiled. “Thanks to you.”

She bit her lip, tugging the corner of her mouth between her teeth. Shyly, she looked up into his eyes and knew that, if only for a little while, he would be alright.

His kiss was heavy and needy, tongue pressing between her lips before she was prepared. She gasped into him, slid beneath him when he tugged her closer.

His weight was crushing and devastatingly arousing and Y/N spread her legs, wrapping herself around his waist. She could feel that he was as ready as she was, and reached down between them to pull her panties aside.

Dean propped up on his aching arms and gazed down at her. She was everything in that moment- lover, friend, nurse, savior. He licked at her lips again and closed his eyes, breathing every drop of her in. He held his breath, memorizing her taste, her scent, her warmth, and tucking it away for later.

He’d always need her.

Always love her.

They showered together; unwilling to part.

They held hands over slightly burned pancakes and chewy bacon.

They lingered in the doorway, clutched in each other’s arms.

“You sure you can’t stay?” she asked, refusing to let go.

Dean kissed the top of her head and gave her arms a squeeze. “I have to get back.”

“Places to go, people to save, right?” She laughed sadly and pulled back, giving him a faint smile. “I missed you, you know.”

He sighed and looked down for a moment, feeling the weight of everything pushing down on him again. Guilt rattled in his brain and he chewed his lip, rubbed her hand between both of his.

“I’m sorry-” His voice was deep and heavy.

She shook her head. “Don’t be. I’m just… I always miss you, Dean.”

He smiled. “I miss you too,” he confessed. “A lot.”

Y/N grabbed his hands and swung them playfully at their sides. “So… maybe don’t stay away too long next time, huh?”

“I won’t.” Dean dragged her hands to his lips and kissed the knuckles on each hand. “I promise.”

One last kiss goodbye, one last press of her body against his.

The road home was just as long but a little bit easier. He carried the feel of her home with him, kept her face in the back of his mind. She was like a soldier in his head, forever poised and ready to defend him, to cast away the visions that plagued his daydreams, to set his heart right when his faith began to dissipate. An angel there to keep him safe and guard his nights, a gentle love to make everything alright.

Death would come for him soon enough, but for now, he drove the highways and unpaved backroads home with a new sense of hope. He could watch the trees fly by, enjoy the changing horizon and let the light seep into his soul.

He felt better.

He felt strangely OK.

He was glad he hadn’t called.

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raised on little light (2/3)

rise of the tmnt word count: 4k pairing: mikey & oc big thank you to  @soldrawss for the art included in this chapter and to  @mykimouser for making me insane about neutral!michelangelo at all hours of the day title borrowed from northern attitude by noah kahan read on ao3

x

2031

Mikey is looking for his little brother. It seems like he spends half his life doing that these days. 

The TV is on in Splinter’s room, door ajar but equally as unapproachable as the door to Donnie’s lab, which is shut tight, as usual. Raph’s door is standing open, but his room is empty, because he leaves early for work on the weekdays. 

Mikey maneuvers past the closed doors and empty rooms like a professional. He doesn’t even have to think too hard about it anymore. 

Rounding the corner to the dining room, Mikey’s stride slows and relief punches an exhale out of him. He doesn’t realize how tense he is until he deflates like a balloon. 

Gio is asleep at the table, face half-buried in his folded arms, crossbow and maintenance supplies spread out in front of him. It’s disappointing, but not surprising. He rarely stays in his own room, as if he’s afraid of taking up space that isn’t really his. As if they’re going to change their mind and tell him they do still need it for storage, actually, and he wants to be ready when they do. Mikey’s pretty sure he never fully unpacked his bag. 

Sometimes he leaves the lair entirely, and since he’s the most unreliable texter Mikey knows, and has never met a phone call he would answer without a gun held to his head, he might as well fall completely off the grid each time he’s gone. Mikey stays up on those nights, keeping busy in the kitchen, worrying worrying worrying. 

He feels too much like Raph when he doesn’t know where the kid is. He understands intimately how overbearing big brothers could be, remembers how a tiny rift had formed between him and Raph when they were young because of it—childish and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things to come, but devastating at the time. 

So he tries to channel Leo instead, who had always trusted Mikey to know when to ask for help if he needed it. Tries to make sure Gio never feels like he can’t come home again, with a smile ready for him as soon as he slips silently back through the door. 

But last night Gio must have stayed in. There’s a blanket draped over him that Mikey didn’t put there, and Splinter almost certainly hadn’t left his room to put there, which leaves two possible culprits. Raph and Donnie don’t know how to make gestures that Gio can see for what they are, hardly know how to be in the same room as the kid without seeing a ghost superimposed where he’s standing. It leaves a lot of the emotional heavy-lifting on Mikey’s shoulders, but it’s fine. A brother could never be a burden to him. 

Mikey can’t give Gio everything he deserves to have, everything that should have been his from the very beginning, but he can give him some things. 

And we’ll start, Mikey thinks with the kind of absurd resilience that wouldn’t have been out of place at the actual end of the world, with breakfast. 

Gio wasn’t trained in ninja like the rest of them were but his senses are as sharp as any other turtle genetically modified for war. Mikey woke him up with a touch once and the fear response only lasted a handful of seconds but it was enough that Mikey made the executive decision that no one would ever do that again, or else. 

Mikey pulls a chair out beside the smaller turtle and sinks into it soundlessly. He traces the newly-familiar white spots on that smoky gray-green face with his eyes, counting and recounting them, even though he knows how many there are. Everything about Gio is at once brand-new and well-loved to him. 

After a moment, the only other sound the ancient Snoopy clock counting seconds in the kitchen, Mikey starts to hum. Three little birds sat on my window…

He can’t help remembering another morning just like this one, what feels like a lifetime ago. Mikey, all of thirteen, had insisted on being woken up to make breakfast so he could try a new crumble muffin recipe, but he’d stayed up too late the night before and sleep clung stubbornly to him despite the row of alarms he’d set. Their resident insomniac had been the only one awake, by virtue of not having gone to bed in the first place, and he’d parked himself in the beanbag under Mikey’s hammock and hummed the same song over and over until Mikey woke up. He had it stuck in his head for the rest of the day. They sang “GIRL PUT YOUR RECORDS ON” in the kitchen at the top of their lungs until Donnie sent the group chat a PDF of a noise complaint form, completely filled out. 

Mikey hadn’t realized he was taking any of it for granted back then. He would do anything— anything—to wake up that way again. Just one more time. 

Beside him, Gio stirs. Once he’s awake he’s alert fast, those big dark eyes sliding open and staying that way, head coming up off the pillow of his arms. He has that look on his face that Mikey would be tempted to call earnest on anyone else. 

“Rise and shine, Clementine,” Mikey says brightly, reaching over to rub the back of his fingers against a spotted cheek affectionately. “I was craving breakfast empanadas today and was hoping my best sous chef would be willing to help me out.” Then, deliberately light-hearted, he adds, “Little turtles who skip dinner have to eat extra breakfast, you know. That’s house rule number one.”

Gio blinks at him, his face giving nothing away to the casual observer. 

“I thought house rule number one was ‘always get it in writing’.” 

Mikey’s smile widens, surprised and pleased every time he plays along. 

“That’s number three, actually. Right behind ‘don’t do anything you wouldn’t want recorded and replayed at family functions.’ If you want, I can tell you exactly why that one’s a rule, and why it’s entirely Donnie’s fault.”

Gio does that thing where he assesses Mikey’s expression and tone as though he’s looking for the trap. Mikey weathers it, makes sure his smile doesn’t slip an inch. 

Donatello is more of an urban legend to Gio than his actual living brother. After a few hesitant attempts to approach the older turtle that had been shut down completely each time, Gio made the informed decision that that road was closed permanently. 

Sometimes Mikey will tell a story, or April, on one of her increasingly sporadic visits to the lair, will lean over and show him a video on her phone, and Gio will listen or watch like he has no idea who the guy they’re talking about could possibly be. 

They do their best, but there’s no way to really introduce the Donnie that they know to Gio, because that Donnie only still exists in their stories and videos. The Donatello who was silly, who loved music and theater, who burst into the living room with some new invention or gadget to boast about, had been replaced by one who rarely spoke, who didn’t even have Spotify on his phone anymore since it took up too much space, who kept the lair running only because it was where his family lived but not because he had any lasting attachment to the place, and he certainly didn’t make any unnecessary tech just for fun. 

I know you’re still in there, Mikey thinks sometimes. 

He’ll bring Donnie lunch and leave it on the table in the lab, and then hold out his arms. Sometimes, Donnie won’t look at him. Sometimes, Donnie will put his tools down and let his little brother crowd in for a hug. He’ll tuck Mikey under his chin and hold him tight, like they were children again and nothing was wrong that couldn’t be made right. 

Thank you for staying, Mikey will think, clinging for every second he’s allowed to. I know it’s hard. It’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. 

The grief is always encroaching, like floodwaters. Rising slow and steady, swallowing up cars and street signs and single level houses, changing the landscape of his hometown until it’s an unfamiliar place. No end in sight. No sign of land. 

Someone send us a boat, Mikey wants to cry hysterically. But he knows how stupid that is.

He is the boat. 

—

When he met Giorgio for the first time, Mikey was twenty-five and Leo had been dead for ten years.

“Sorry,” Mikey said. His fingers felt numb around the phone. “Could you say that again?”

“A turtle,” Hueso had replied shortly. “I would not have called, but he has familiar eyes. He is not aware of any family in the area. Would you like me to ask him to wait for you?”

Mikey hadn’t tried his portals again since the last disastrous time—since Raph had made him promise to stop—so he knew it couldn’t be Leo. He knew it. Hueso would be able to pick his sobrino out of a million turtles and would have led the call with that. And Leo wouldn’t have stopped for pizza before running back to them, he wouldn’t have stopped for anything. Leo would have been the one to let them know Leo was home. 

Still, there was a tiny warbling hope in the bottom of his heart that wailed “maybe, maybe, maybe.” Still, it hurt to feel that hope shrivel up and die when Mikey slammed into the private dining room and found Hueso talking to an unfamiliar mutant with white spots and a black shell and—it was undeniable—Hamato Yoshi’s eyes. 

The turtle was small, dressed in dark grays and greens, a strap across his chest that made it clear he was armed by something resting out of sight on his back. He stood with his arms crossed, in a manner that was probably supposed to read as stubborn or defiant, but Mikey clocked instantly as nervous. 

This kid didn’t know what he was doing here or who the hell Mikey was and he looked about as comfortable with all the attention as Donnie would have been at that age. 

Mikey felt himself soften, some distant part of his heart sitting in disuse and disrepair lurching to life again. Ancestral magic that he had largely turned his back on suddenly stirred, ninpo reaching out fragile feelers toward the person in the room that it recognized as immediately as if it was looking at its own self in a mirror. 

“This is one of my creations,” Draxum announced, confirming what Mikey’s heart had already decided. “It must have survived after all.”

“Elaborate,” Mikey said, in a tone that didn’t match the gentle smile he had for the spotted turtle. 

“How old are you?” the alchemist had asked instead, which seemed an odd first question to have and didn’t explain literally anything. 

“Eighteen,” the spotted turtle replied. Mikey’s brow made a bid for his hairline. He would have been less surprised if the kid had said fifteen. Was he that scrawny as an eighteen year old?

“You hatched at about the same time as the red one,” Draxum said dispassionately, “so you should have been about his age, and he is twenty-seven. And how did you come to be here?”

Gio’s eyes slid away from him, over to Mikey. Mikey didn’t know what his face was doing. He hoped it was encouraging. 

“I went through a yellow door,” Gio said. “And I ended up here.” 

“By yellow door, I’m assuming you mean a rift in space-time,” Draxum said. “What possessed you to walk into it?”

“Felt safe,” Gio said, and that was the last thing he said about it, expression closing up in a way Mikey was intimately familiar with as I’m done talking and liable to bite if provoked. But Draxum was a lot of things, genius among them, and seemed to already have an idea of what had happened. 

Portals could be capricious. The night of Splinter’s mutation and escape from the Hidden City, a machine in Draxum’s original lab had gone haywire as the structure collapsed. Draxum watched as it snatched up various tools and equipment and finally one of the experiment enclosures that Splinter had not been able to reach in time to save its occupant with the four he already carried. 

With the machine destroyed, it was impossible to even begin tracking the experiment down to wherever it had ended up. And there were unfortunately small odds that the creature would have survived long on its own wherever the portal deposited it. Draxum had written it off as dead. 

But there he was. Ten years displaced, but living and healthy and whole. Apparently he’d been in another dimension all this time, and only came back again because a portal he encountered had looked inviting. 

—

And now he’s in Mikey’s kitchen, listening studiously to his brother’s chatter and following instructions with exacting precision, still wearing the ridiculously oversized red sweater Mikey bundled him into the day before. It made Raph’s face do something funny when he saw Gio in it at lunch, but he hadn’t said anything when he saw Mikey hauling it out of the dryer earlier that morning, and he didn’t say anything at the table either.  

Over the years and countless wash cycles it’s been worn to unbelievable softness. It used to be that Raph couldn’t keep it in his closet if he tried, caught as it was in a constant rotation between little siblings who loved to wear it, floppy sleeves and sagging hem and all. It’s almost strange to see it again, here under the kitchen lights in this new country they all live in. 

Stealing clothes was a baby brother right of passage. And it was just collecting dust in storage anyway. 

Gio sees Mikey looking and glances down self-consciously. Then he jolts, and drops the ball of dough in his hands, lifting and twisting his left arm to put it more in the light. Near the elbow of the sleeve is a smudge of flour. 

He thumbs at the spot, preoccupied by it. His body language is shrinking because he always makes himself a smaller target when he starts to get anxious. 

One day, Mikey is going to find whoever taught him to do that and have words. For now, he rounds the island to Gio’s side and leans against it so he can duck down and peer into that little spotted face. He makes sure to plant his own elbow in the flour dusted across the butcher block counter, sending up a little poof of it as he does. 

“Hey, sweet kid, don’t worry about this old thing. It’s already been through everything you can possibly think of,” Mikey reassures, tweaking the hood playfully. “It survived the Paintball War of 2017, it’ll hold up to a little baking accident.”

Gio’s dark eyes lift to meet his, attentive and absorbing everything he sees and so, so careful. 

“Raphael won’t get mad?” 

Mikey keeps smiling, even though he’d like to start crying. 

Of course he won’t, he wants to say. He’s your big brother and he loves you. He’d move heaven and earth for you. He doesn’t know how to say it these days—he doesn’t trust himself to hold people the way he used to, doesn’t know who he is anymore since the shield he used to be was broken—but he’s still Raph. Our Raphie. I promise, it’s still him. 

Gio had never been lifted up into strong arms and tossed in the air until he laughed, caught safely and held tight like those arms would never get tired of holding him. He had never crawled under the blankets in a room humming and blinking with electronics after a nightmare, resting his head on a broad shoulder and falling asleep to a low voice rattling off his favorite explanation of gravity—a force that held everything down, pulled everything together, that could always be counted upon to keep you. He had never snuck out for brunch, just him and someone who saw him more clearly than he could ever see himself, who knew when a stack of French toast and a string of Snapchat selfies and a little mischief was exactly what he needed. 

Gio had never had any of that. He had been alone since he was freshly mutated and abandoned by pure chance, and now he was barely nineteen and he didn’t know how else to be. He didn’t have the first clue, but he was so willing to learn. He soaked up attention like a plant starved for sunlight, petals reaching endlessly for an end to the dark.  

I wish you had been there, Mikey thinks sometimes when he looks at him, heart breaking with the truth of it. We would have held you. You wouldn’t even know how to be alone. You wouldn’t be worried about a stain on a sweater. 

“He won’t get mad,” Mikey says instead. He channels his most charming brother, the one who could sell water to a fish, who could talk his way out of anything, who convinced his family to keep hoping even when all hope seemed lost. “And hey, if he brings it up, we’ll just blame the cat.” 

The corner of Gio’s mouth twitches, and then he smiles despite himself, as buoyed along as Mikey always was when Leo was silly with him, and says, “We don’t have a cat.” 

“Maybe I’ve just been waiting for an excuse to get one!” 

At that point, a burst of white noise from the living room cuts over whatever Gio might have been about to say. It sounds like the roar of wind from an open window of a car going seventy down the highway. It cuts off, and then something clatters noisily, and Gio’s reluctantly amused expression vanishes into alarm. 

They don’t exactly get a lot of surprise visitors down here. He wouldn’t recognize the familiar sound of transportation-by-time-scepter, followed by the even more familiar sound of its clumsy wielder tripping and knocking something over immediately upon arrival. 

“Oops—helloooo?” 

“In here, Renet,” Mikey calls back, nudging his shoulder into Gio’s so he knows not to worry. 

The timestress bumbles in, scepter tucked into the crook of her arm so she has both hands free to fix her braids. She’s smiling all big and crooked and sweet, mouth open to greet Mikey the same enthusiastic way she always greets him, but she stops dead in the doorway when she catches sight of the second turtle in the room. 

Renet takes one look at Gio and says, “Oh! Well, you don’t belong here at all, do you?”

It’s been a long time since Mikey has felt like screaming at her, but the way his little brother absorbs that blow without flinching is enough to get him on his feet. 

“Hey, Nettie, can we talk in the hall?” he says with a brightness he doesn’t feel. “Georgie, I’ll be right back, okay?”

Gio dips his head in a nod, slowly rolling dough in his hands again, and Renet follows Mikey out of the room like someone who knows they’re about to face the firing squad. 

“I did not mean it like that,” is the first thing she says when it’s just the two of them. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Mikey does know that somewhere in the back of his mind. Renet is his friend and she’s never been anything but kind to him. If they had met when they were children, they probably would have gotten along like a house on fire. 

There was a time when he only saw the best in people, but the idealism had been carved out of Mikey when his portal to the prison dimension failed to open.

Some days, Mikey looks at Renet and can only see the person with time itself at her disposal, the past and future spread out like a choose-your-own-adventure book—the person with the power to help, to change things, who took Mikey’s countless, desperate pleas to be allowed to save his brother and held them tenderly like they were important to her and still told him no. 

Some days, that “no” is the most significant thing she ever said to him. 

“He’s my brother,” Mikey says. “He belongs wherever we are.” 

“Of course he does,” Renet says, brown eyes soft. “Mike, of course he does. That’s not what I meant.”

When they move back into the kitchen, introductions are made properly, and Renet makes it a point to clarify that she’s glad to finally meet him. 

Giorgio is watching them with those eyes that take in everything. Deep and trusting when he looks at Mikey, sharpening into something calculative when he shifts his gaze toward Renet. 

Looking back, Mikey will recognize it as the moment he lost him. 

“Smells pretty good in here, boys!” Renet says, swanning over to the stovetop. “Oh, is that chorizo? Mike, tell me you’re not making empanadas! I already ate on my way over!” 

“Then you won’t need to stay for breakfast,” Mikey sing-songs, feathers still ruffled. Then, because he feels bad for the way she deflates at the blatant dismissal, adds, “If you want to stick around, you can take some back with you to Null Time. Just don’t let that jerk Savanti have any, I don’t like his vibe.” “I swear,” Renet says, hand to her heart. 

“You talk about time travel like it’s something you can do,” Gio says suddenly. “Is it?”

The air in the room suddenly feels much thinner than before. Renet looks at Mikey quickly before answering.

“Sure, Gio. I’m a timestress—or, you know, I’m a student now. Basically an unpaid intern. But one of these days I’ll be the real deal.” She winks at him, and Gio gazes back at her placidly. 

“So you could send someone back in time? To stop something bad from happening?”

Oh, no, Mikey thinks. 

“I could,” Renet says. To her credit, she doesn’t sound as bone-tired of this conversation as she must be. “But I can’t. There are so many rules, and for good reason! One little slip-up could be an absolute disaster. It won’t do you any good trying to change the past if you end up destroying the present and the future while you’re at it, right? I’m barely allowed to look at this thing, much less use it,” Renet goes on, wagging the priceless time scepter around like it’s a rubber spatula. 

“But you could,” Gio says. “If we followed all the rules. If we figured out a way—”

“Georgie,” Mikey interjects. 

“I’ll tell you what I told Mike, baby,” Renet says gently. “It can’t be done. He belongs here.” 

Gio says, “But I don’t. You said that.”

“Stop,” Mikey says, not recognizing his own voice. 

But it’s too late. It was too late when he tried to open a door inside the prison dimension, because Leo was already dead inside. 

He was already dead inside, Draxum had said, clinical in a way that helped to distance himself from the hurt, but also distanced himself from the ones hurting, clinical in a way that made Mikey bare his teeth and say things he couldn’t take back. That’s why you couldn’t reach him. It wasn’t your fault. There wasn’t a point for you to anchor off of, there was no other end for your line to reach. He was already dead inside. He was already gone. 

Mikey stares at Gio, the tuck of his chin as he looks back down at the dough on the counter. He’s unwilling to argue with Mikey, but that stubbornness is an innate family trait. There’s no way he’ll give it up now that he’s got his teeth sunk into the idea. Mikey knows what it looks like when a brother is about to leave. Mikey knows what it feels like when they’re already gone.   

When he was younger, he was so angry. He was bursting with potential, with possibilities, his magic a wounded, snarling creature in his heart. It’s not fair that he failed. It’s not fair that he didn’t save his brother, that his love wasn’t enough to punch through the prison dimension and wrap Leo in warmth and light and bring him home. It’s not fair that no one was willing to help him. 

Fine, he had thought, fine! I’ll do it myself! 

Renet had explained to him over and over that his power had more to do with space than time. Casey Jr. said that he’d been sent back in time by his Uncle Michelangelo, but that wasn’t necessarily true. Casey’s arrival in the past had created another universe, parallel to the former. That was Mikey’s power—he could affect and even create other timelines, which was powerful and amazing, but not true time travel. Nothing he did could change his own reality, the one he was living in, because he had already lived it. He couldn’t get back what he had lost. 

Mikey plunged ahead anyway, desperate. He could make it work. He could make a change. Even if it didn’t change anything here, he could find another world and save its Leo and—and maybe that could be a start. Maybe he would finally get his head up above water, and stop drowning for just one second of the day, maybe he’d be able to take a full breath for the first time since his brother disappeared on the other side of a closed door.  

He didn’t wait for permission or approval. He slunk off into a tunnel a mile away from home and drew the circles himself. Lifted his hands and filled them with power, until it felt like he was holding the sun. And it hurt, of course it did. It burned all the way through. But he was hurting anyway. 

A portal opened, a pale yellow window. Mikey looked through it, and saw himself on Staten Island, ripping open a hole in the universe and saving his brother. 

What?

He looked again, over and over, at least half a dozen times—and every time, he looked into a universe where Leo didn’t die. Where Mikey saved him, or Raph scooped him up before he went diving off the Technodrome to catch Mikey and Donnie, or Donnie flew back up to Leo with a rocket and yanked him back through the door before Casey managed to close it. Over and over and over, Leo didn’t die. 

So it’s just me, Mikey realized. I’m the one who got it wrong. 

Raph followed the detonation of ninpo and hysterical screaming through the maze-like tunnels and found him suspended in midair. Rock and rebar were flying around Mikey, everything not nailed to the earth turned dangerous projectiles, his arms burning and flaking away into pieces that disintegrated when they met open air. 

His big brother’s expression had been terrified as he pulled Mikey down into his arms and held him through the shrieking storm he’d made. One hand on the back of his head to keep his face tucked safely into Raph’s scarred shoulder, the other arm cradling him like he was half his age, like he was still someone’s baby. 

“Angie, it’s okay,” Raph had said, low and aching. His voice was a rumble beneath Mikey’s ear, barely audible but just loud enough. “It’s okay. You can scream, you can bring the whole damn city down if you want. But you gotta let go, sunshine. Let go, Mikey.” 

I don’t want to I don’t want to I don’t want to I don’t want to! Mikey wailed, clutching at Raph’s jacket with hands that felt like two white-hot points of pure agony, clinging, holding on. If he let go, Leo stayed gone. If he let go, he really didn’t love Leo enough to save him. 

But Raph pressed his cheek to the top of Mikey’s head, and his next breath shuddered in his chest, and he whispered, “I know you don’t want to, I know. But this isn’t gonna save him. You’re just hurting yourself and L—Leo would hate that. He’d tell you to stop.” One hand crept over to cover both of Mikey’s, squeezing them tight. “Come on, big man. It’s okay. Let go.” 

He let go. The magic faded, dropping everything it had picked up back to the tunnel floor with dull thuds. His hands spasmed wildly, grip nonexistent, and Raph just kept holding them as he carried Mikey home. 

Mikey sobbed for the rest of the night, what felt like hours and hours. Raph reverted to turtle sounds when nothing he said seemed to get through, and Donnie crept under the blanket and plastered himself to Mikey’s carapace so that they had “A little citrus sandwich!” Leo would cheer, the silliest and sweetest turtle in the world until Mikey finally cracked a smile. 

His family made him promise not to try again. It’s not worth it, they said, a unified front—and as much as the words hurt Mikey to hear, it must have hurt his siblings and father just as much to say them. We can’t lose anyone else, they were ready to beg, because they didn’t know it was his fault Leo was gone. They didn’t understand how badly he’d failed them all. If they did, they wouldn’t have been so grimly determined to protect Mikey’s life from his own hands. 

It felt like a betrayal at the time, but he understands now. 

It’s not worth it, he thinks, staring at Gio. I can’t lose anyone else, he’s ready to beg. 

But Mikey knows what it looks like when a brother is about to leave. Mikey knows what it feels like when they’re already gone. 

What he doesn’t know is how to love someone well enough to keep them. 

[urdreamydoodles]

Can we have some headcannons about the comic X Men characters seeing their lover going absolutely animal during battle due to losing control and thinking the enemy killed the character they're paired with?

X-Men x Reader

You think the enemy killed your lover

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Cable & Hank McCoy

Logan Howlett aka. Wolverine

- When Logan finally regains consciousness, he sees you in the midst of battle, a blur of primal fury tearing through your enemies. There’s something raw and unhinged about the way you move, like an animal unleashed, and it takes him a moment to realize you’re fighting as if he’s already dead. His heart clenches as he understands just how deeply his supposed “death” has shattered you.

- Watching you like this is both breathtaking and terrifying for Logan. He’s always respected your strength, but this is different—this is vengeance incarnate. He recognizes the wildness in your eyes, a mirror of his own rage when he loses himself. Logan knows he needs to reach you before you spiral further, but he also knows you won’t stop until every last threat is eliminated.

- Logan makes his way to you, dodging blows and gunfire, his voice rough as he tries to get through to you. He calls your name, over and over, louder each time, but you’re in too deep, consumed by grief and fury. The sight breaks him a little, knowing he’s the reason for your pain. But he’s never been one to back down, so he keeps pushing, shouting until his voice is hoarse.

- Just as you finish off the last enemy in a brutal display, Logan manages to reach you. He grabs your wrist, his grip firm but gentle, and he says your name in a tone that cuts through your haze of anger. When you finally turn to face him, there’s a mixture of disbelief and relief in your eyes, and he can see how hard it’s been for you to lose control.

- Logan pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly as your anger fades into exhaustion. He murmurs reassurances, his voice softer than it usually is, telling you he’s okay, he’s here. You cling to him, breath hitching as the realization settles that he’s alive. Logan just holds you, whispering that he’s not going anywhere, grounding you as your mind returns from the edge.

- Later, when you’re both safe, Logan sits beside you, a hand on your back as he tells you how much it meant to him that you fought for him like that. But he also makes you promise that you’ll never let grief take you that far again. With a quiet intensity, he says he never wants to see you lose yourself like that, no matter the cost. You nod, grateful for his honesty and the steady comfort only he can give.

Remy LeBeau aka Gambit

- Remy never thought he’d see you like this, an unstoppable force ripping through your enemies as if they were nothing. His heart sinks as he realizes what’s driving you—thinking he’s gone, that he’s been taken from you. The raw anguish in your movements, the way you fight with reckless abandon, hits him harder than he could have imagined.

- Struggling to regain his own strength, Remy watches you, pain and admiration swirling within him. You’re beautiful even in your fury, and there’s something heart-wrenching about how much you care, how much his loss has devastated you. He knows he needs to reach you, but he’s almost afraid of what you’ll do when you see him.

- As you land blow after blow, Remy starts calling out to you, his voice a mixture of desperation and tenderness. He knows you can’t hear him through the storm of your anger, but he keeps trying, putting everything he has into reaching you. “Chérie, it’s me! I’m here,” he calls, each word laced with the hope that it’ll get through to you.

- Finally, when he’s close enough, Remy catches your arm, spinning you around to face him. For a heartbeat, there’s only shock and confusion in your eyes, and he braces himself, waiting for you to process that he’s alive, that he’s standing right here. His hand comes up to your face, and he whispers soothing words, his thumb tracing soft circles against your cheek.

- As you finally realize he’s okay, you collapse against him, the weight of the battle and your grief crashing over you. Remy wraps his arms around you, pressing gentle kisses to your temple, murmuring that he’s safe, that he’d never leave you. He holds you close, grounding you in his warmth, his presence pulling you back from the edge.

- Later, as you both recover, Remy teases you gently, his voice filled with warmth. “Didn’t know you cared so much, ma belle,” he says, though there’s a hint of seriousness behind his grin. He tells you he never wants to see you suffer like that for him again, that you don’t have to shoulder that pain alone. You smile back, grateful for his understanding and the promise of his steady presence.

Kurt Wagner aka. Nightcrawler

- When Kurt wakes to the sight of you battling with reckless ferocity, he’s taken aback. He’s always known you were strong, but this is different—this is a primal, almost desperate rage that’s tearing through your enemies. It’s clear you believe he’s gone, and the realization stings, leaving him both moved and horrified by the depth of your grief.

- He watches you, his heart aching as he sees the agony etched into every move you make. Kurt has always admired your strength, but seeing you like this, driven by heartbreak and fury, is almost too much to bear. He knows he needs to get through to you, to pull you back before you lose yourself completely in the anger.

- With a deep breath, Kurt teleports closer, his voice steady and calm as he calls your name. He keeps his distance at first, understanding that you might not recognize him right away in your state. But he keeps talking, his words gentle yet insistent, hoping to break through the storm of emotions raging within you.

- When you finally turn to him, your eyes widen, a flicker of disbelief crossing your face. Kurt approaches cautiously, reaching out a hand to you, his touch featherlight as he reassures you he’s alive, that he’s here. He whispers soft words in German, words meant to soothe and comfort, and slowly, the tension in your body begins to ease.

- Kurt pulls you into his arms, holding you close as you tremble, the weight of your grief finally lifting as you realize he’s okay. He strokes your hair, murmuring reassurances, promising that he’ll always be here, that you won’t have to bear this pain alone. His touch is gentle, his presence grounding, a balm to your wounded heart.

- In the aftermath, as you sit together in quiet reflection, Kurt speaks softly, thanking you for fighting so fiercely for him. But he also makes you promise that you won’t let grief consume you like that again, that you’ll remember he’s here with you, no matter what. You nod, touched by his words, and the bond between you feels stronger than ever.

Scott Summers aka Cyclops

- When Scott sees you tearing through the battlefield, raw anger and sorrow radiating from you, his heart breaks. He knows what’s fueling you—that you think he’s been taken from you, that he’s gone. He watches in shock as you fight, your moves a chaotic blend of power and desperation, and he realizes just how deeply his “death” has shaken you.

- Though Scott is weak, he pulls himself up, calling out to you, his voice firm and steady. He knows how much his presence means to you, and he needs to reach you before you lose yourself entirely in your grief. “I’m here!” he shouts, but he can see you’re too far gone to hear him, lost in the haze of pain and rage.

- As you take down another enemy with a brutal blow, Scott gets close enough to grab your arm. You whirl around, anger flashing in your eyes, but the moment you see him, there’s a flicker of recognition. He meets your gaze, his hand steady on your shoulder, grounding you in his presence, letting you know he’s real, that he’s here.

- The realization hits you like a wave, and Scott gently pulls you into his arms, holding you as you shake. He doesn’t say anything, just holds you, his steady heartbeat a quiet reassurance against the storm inside you. You cling to him, letting his presence bring you back from the edge, the warmth of his embrace anchoring you in the here and now.

- Later, as you both catch your breath, Scott speaks softly, his tone serious yet tender. He tells you how much he appreciates the strength you showed, but he also asks you not to let grief drive you to that place again. He doesn’t want to see you suffer for him, and his words are filled with a gentle but firm conviction.

- With a quiet smile, you promise him that you’ll try to keep that darkness at bay, that you’ll remember he’s here, even in the toughest moments. Scott nods, his hand still on yours, and there’s a silent understanding between you—a shared strength that will carry you both through whatever comes next.

Jean Grey aka. Marvel Girl / Phoenix

- The battle had taken its toll, and you were certain Jean had been lost. The surge of grief within you erupted into raw power, your abilities igniting in a way that scared everyone around you, including yourself. You tore through the enemies with an unrelenting fury, the thought of avenging her the only thing grounding you to the fight.

- When Jean finally managed to regain consciousness, she saw you surrounded by chaos, your power crackling in the air like a storm barely contained. The pain in your expression cut through her heart—seeing you like this, thinking she was gone, was unbearable. She called out to you softly, her voice strained but filled with urgency.

- At first, her words couldn’t reach you. You were too consumed by rage and despair, tearing apart anyone who dared come near. But Jean didn’t give up, pushing herself to stand, her telepathy reaching out to your mind, whispering gentle reassurances: I’m here. I’m alive. Please, come back to me.

- Her presence in your mind broke through the haze, and your powers faltered. You turned toward her, disbelief and hope flashing in your eyes. Jean reached out with both her hand and her thoughts, anchoring you as you stumbled toward her. The moment you touched her, the flood of emotions spilled over, and you collapsed into her arms.

- She held you tightly, her own tears falling as she whispered comforting words, grounding you. Jean didn’t shy away from the storm you had unleashed; instead, she understood the depth of your pain and vowed to help you carry it. Together, you stood amidst the wreckage, leaning on each other for strength.

- Later, as the two of you sat in the aftermath of the fight, Jean gently cupped your face and told you she’d never leave you, no matter what. Her words were a promise etched into your soul, and you held onto her, knowing she meant every word. The bond between you both deepened, forged in fire and grief but tempered with love and understanding.

Ororo Munroe aka. Storm

- The storm within you matched the one raging in the sky, lightning cracking and thunder roaring as you unleashed your fury on those who had taken Ororo from you. You fought like a force of nature, your movements wild and untamed, your grief fueling every blow. The thought of her death had broken something in you, and you didn’t care if you fell with the enemies surrounding you.

- Ororo awoke to the sound of the storm and the sight of you at its center. She could feel the raw, unrestrained power radiating from you, and it frightened her to see you like this. She understood your pain, but she knew that if you didn’t stop, you would destroy yourself in the process.

- Using the last of her strength, Ororo summoned a gust of wind to push the enemies away from you. Her voice rang out, calm and steady despite her exhaustion: “I am here. Look at me.” The words were soft yet commanding, cutting through the chaos surrounding you.

- When your eyes met hers, the storm inside you faltered. You stumbled toward her, disbelief evident in your expression. Ororo reached out, pulling you into her arms as the tension drained from your body. The storm around you began to calm, the skies clearing as her presence soothed your anguish.

- Ororo held you close, her voice gentle but firm as she reassured you. “You are not alone in this,” she said, her words wrapping around you like a warm embrace. She didn’t admonish your actions but instead helped you find balance, her wisdom guiding you back to yourself.

- In the quiet moments after the battle, Ororo took your hand and looked into your eyes. “Your strength is remarkable, but you must learn to wield it with purpose,” she said. Her words weren’t a reprimand but a promise to help you grow. With her by your side, you knew you could face anything.

Anna Marie aka. Rogue

- When you thought Rogue had been killed, something inside you snapped. The world around you became a blur as you fought with unrelenting ferocity, your grief manifesting as raw, untamed power. You didn’t care about the consequences; all you wanted was to make those responsible pay for taking her away.

- Rogue regained consciousness just in time to see you in the middle of the carnage. Her heart ached at the sight of you, consumed by pain and rage, and she knew she had to stop you before you destroyed yourself. She pushed herself up, calling out to you with a voice full of both urgency and tenderness.

- At first, you didn’t hear her. The sound of your own anguish drowned out everything else, and you continued to fight, blind to the world around you. But Rogue wasn’t one to give up easily. She pushed through the chaos, reaching out to you with a determination born of love.

- When her hand finally touched yours, you froze. Her voice, soft yet steady, broke through the storm raging inside you. “Ah’m here, sugar. It’s me,” she said, her Southern drawl wrapping around you like a lifeline. The sight of her alive and well shattered the walls of your grief, and you collapsed into her arms.

- Rogue held you tightly, her own tears falling as she whispered reassurances. She didn’t shy away from your pain but embraced it, her presence a steady anchor in the aftermath of your fury. She stroked your hair, her touch grounding you as she helped you come back to yourself.

- Later, as you both sat together, Rogue cupped your face in her gloved hands and smiled softly. “You’re stronger than you know,” she said, her voice filled with affection. “But you don’t have to face this alone.” Her words were a balm to your soul, and you leaned into her, grateful for her unwavering love and support.

Erik Lehnsherr aka. Magneto

- When you thought Erik had been killed, your grief erupted into raw, unbridled power. You tore through the battlefield with a vengeance, your abilities surging beyond control. The air around you crackled with energy as you fought, determined to make every enemy pay for what they had done.

- Erik regained consciousness to the sight of your fury, and for a moment, he was both awed and terrified by your power. He had always admired your strength, but this was something else entirely—a manifestation of the depth of your love for him. He knew he had to reach you before you destroyed everything, including yourself.

- Summoning his strength, Erik called out to you, his voice sharp and commanding. “Enough!” he shouted, the weight of his authority cutting through the chaos. His words startled you, and for a moment, your rampage faltered as you turned to face him.

- When your eyes met his, the world seemed to stop. Erik’s gaze was steady, his expression calm but filled with concern. He took a step toward you, his hand outstretched. “I am here,” he said, his voice softer now. “You don’t have to fight alone.”

- The sight of him alive broke something inside you, and you collapsed into his arms, your anger giving way to overwhelming relief. Erik held you tightly, his presence grounding you as he whispered soothing words. He didn’t chastise you for your actions but instead reassured you that he understood your pain.

- In the aftermath, Erik sat with you, his hand resting on yours as he spoke. “Your strength is extraordinary,” he said, his tone filled with both admiration and caution. “But you must learn to control it, to channel it wisely.” His words weren’t a reprimand but a promise to guide you, and you nodded, knowing you could face anything with him by your side.

Charles Xavier aka. Professor X

- When you believed Charles was gone, the world tilted on its axis. Grief consumed you, and in that moment, every lesson about restraint and control he'd ever taught you was forgotten. Your power erupted like a tidal wave, obliterating anything and anyone that dared stand in your path. The connection you’d always shared with Charles was severed, leaving a void that felt unbearable.

- Charles regained consciousness to the chaos you had unleashed. He immediately felt the intensity of your anguish, the raw and untamed energy you were emitting. Reaching out telepathically, he tried to connect with you, his mind brushing against yours with a gentle, familiar touch.

- At first, you resisted his presence in your mind, too consumed by your emotions to recognize it. But Charles persisted, his voice calm and steady in your thoughts: I am here, my dear. You are not alone. The warmth of his words broke through the storm raging inside you, and you turned to find him standing there, alive.

- Your legs gave way beneath you, and Charles caught you, his arms steady and reassuring. He held you as you wept, his mind offering soothing reassurances that you were safe and that he was still with you. The connection between you, once frayed, grew stronger as he shared in your pain and guided you back to yourself.

- Later, as the battlefield grew quiet, Charles spoke to you softly. “You are remarkable, both in your strength and your love,” he said, his tone filled with admiration. “But grief cannot define you.” His words carried a wisdom that only he could impart, and you nodded, finding solace in his presence.

- Together, you returned to the team, your bond stronger than ever. Charles promised that no matter what challenges came, you would face them together. His unshakable faith in you became your anchor, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, you were never truly alone.

Wanda Maximoff aka. The Scarlet Witch

- When you thought Wanda had been killed, the world seemed to unravel. Your emotions became a catalyst for your abilities, and reality itself twisted and bent under the weight of your grief. You lashed out at the enemies surrounding you, determined to make them pay for taking her from you.

- Wanda’s consciousness stirred as she felt the fabric of reality shift. She knew it was you—your power was unmistakable—and her heart broke at the thought of you in such pain. Gathering her strength, she reached out with her magic, creating a beacon of light to guide you back to her.

- At first, you didn’t notice her presence, too consumed by your anger and sorrow to see the light she had conjured. But Wanda persisted, her voice a soft plea that resonated in the air around you. “I’m here, my love. Look at me.”

- The sound of her voice cut through the haze, and you turned to see her standing amidst the chaos. Relief and disbelief flooded through you as you stumbled toward her. Wanda caught you in her arms, her magic wrapping around you like a protective cocoon.

- As the two of you stood together, Wanda whispered soothing words, her hands gently cupping your face. “I’m alive,” she said, her voice filled with both love and reassurance. Her presence calmed the storm within you, and the world around you began to stabilize.

- Later, as you sat together in the aftermath of the battle, Wanda held your hand tightly. “We are stronger together,” she said, her eyes shining with determination. Her words were a promise, and you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them side by side.

Pietro Maximoff aka. Quicksilver

- When you thought Pietro had been killed, the world seemed to slow in contrast to the speed of your grief. Your pain erupted into a flurry of action, every movement driven by the need for vengeance. You moved with a singular purpose, tearing through enemies with a ferocity they couldn’t escape.

- Pietro wasn’t down for long. When he came to, his first thought was of you. He spotted you in the distance, your powers wreaking havoc, and he immediately knew what had happened. Despite his own injuries, he pushed himself forward, racing toward you at a speed that blurred the edges of reality.

- It wasn’t easy to stop you. You were lost in your emotions, your every action fueled by the belief that Pietro was gone. But he didn’t give up. He zipped in front of you, grabbing your face with both hands and forcing you to look at him. “I’m here,” he said, his voice urgent. “I’m not going anywhere.”

- Your movements faltered, the sound of his voice breaking through the storm inside you. You stared at him, disbelief etched across your face. When his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, the tension drained from your body, and you collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest.

- Pietro held you tightly, his usual cocky demeanor replaced with a rare vulnerability. “I’m sorry you thought you lost me,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “But I’m here, and I’m not leaving you.” His words were a balm to your soul, grounding you in the moment.

- Later, as you both rested in the aftermath, Pietro refused to let go of your hand. “You scared the hell out of me,” he admitted, his tone laced with both concern and affection. His honesty reminded you of how deeply he cared, and you vowed to protect each other, no matter what.

Emma Frost aka. The White Queen

- When you thought Emma had been killed, the pain was unbearable. Your emotions surged, and your powers manifested in ways you couldn’t control. You fought with a cold, calculated fury, determined to make the enemies responsible suffer for what they had done to her.

- Emma’s telepathic presence was the first thing you felt before you even saw her. She reached into your mind, her voice cool but firm. Enough of this dramatics, she said, her tone laced with both affection and exasperation. I’m alive, darling.

- You froze, her words cutting through the fog of your grief. Turning, you saw her standing amidst the chaos, her diamond form glinting in the light. Relief washed over you as you stumbled toward her, your emotions spilling over in a way you knew she would tease you about later.

- Emma caught you in her arms, her diamond exterior melting away to reveal her softer side. She brushed her fingers through your hair, her voice low and soothing as she reassured you. “You’re stronger than this,” she said, her tone both a challenge and a comfort. “And I won’t have you falling apart over me.”

- Her words brought a smile to your lips, even through the tears. Emma wasn’t one to coddle, but her presence was enough to ground you. She helped you regain your composure, her sharp wit and unwavering confidence reminding you why you loved her.

- Later, as you sat together in the quiet aftermath, Emma looked at you with a rare vulnerability in her eyes. “You’re important to me,” she admitted, her voice softer than usual. “But don’t you dare lose control like that again. We’re in this together.” Her words were both a warning and a promise, and you nodded, knowing she meant every word.

Laura Kinney aka. X-23 / Wolverine

- When you thought Laura had been killed, a savage rage overtook you. The thought of losing her, someone so important to you, drove you to a breaking point. Your normally measured demeanor was replaced with unrelenting fury, and you launched yourself into the fray, fighting with an intensity you didn’t even know you possessed.

- Laura wasn’t down for long. Her healing factor kicked in, and though her injuries were severe, she pushed through the pain. When she saw you fighting with such reckless abandon, her heart twisted in an unfamiliar mix of pride and worry.

- She approached you cautiously, not wanting to startle you mid-rage. But when her voice broke through the chaos, calling your name with that rare softness only you ever heard, you stopped in your tracks. Turning to her, your chest heaved with exertion and emotion as you saw her alive, battered but breathing.

- “I’m not that easy to get rid of,” she said, her lips quirking into a small smirk. Her words were light, but her eyes were filled with a rare vulnerability. She stepped closer, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You’re okay now. I’m here.”

- The adrenaline drained from you in an instant, and you collapsed into her arms. Laura wasn’t one for big displays of affection, but she held you tightly, her claws retracting as she whispered, “I’m sorry you had to think that, even for a second.” Her voice carried an earnestness that melted your anger into relief.

- Later, as you both sat together in the quiet aftermath, she took your hand and squeezed it tightly. “You don’t have to go berserk for me,” she said, her tone teasing but serious. “I’ll always come back. Always.” Her words were a promise, one she intended to keep, no matter the odds.

Wade Wilson aka. Deadpool

- When you thought Wade had been killed, the world went silent, as if the universe itself had paused in shock. But grief quickly turned to fury, and you channeled every ounce of your anger into the fight, determined to avenge the man who had brought chaos, laughter, and unexpected love into your life.

- Unbeknownst to you, Wade had already regenerated and was watching your rampage with equal parts admiration and amusement. “Damn,” he muttered to himself. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

- He let you have your moment for a bit before dramatically announcing his presence. “Honey, I’m home!” he shouted, striking a ridiculous pose mid-battle. The sheer absurdity of his reappearance caught you off guard, and you froze, staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

- “Miss me?” he said with a wink, dodging an enemy attack as if it were nothing. Your emotions hit you like a freight train—relief, anger, joy—and before you knew it, you were storming toward him. “Whoa, whoa! Easy on the merchandise!” he joked as you threw your arms around him.

- Wade wrapped his arms around you tightly, his usual banter softening as he whispered, “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to scare ya, but hey, I’m kinda hard to kill.” His voice carried an uncharacteristic sincerity that made you hold him even tighter.

- Later, as the dust settled, he leaned into your space with a playful grin. “So, did I earn some hot, passionate, ‘thank God you’re alive’ kisses, or what?” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling, knowing that only Wade could turn such a harrowing moment into something ridiculous and comforting all at once.

Nathan Summers aka. Cable

- When you thought Nathan had been killed, something inside you snapped. You charged into battle with a ferocity born of desperation, pushing your limits to ensure no one else fell. Every attack, every movement was a testament to your grief and your unwillingness to let his loss be in vain.

- Nathan woke up groggy but alive, his body slowly regenerating thanks to his techno-organic enhancements. When he saw the carnage you were wreaking, his heart clenched. He knew you loved him, but seeing the depth of your despair took him by surprise.

- “Stand down, soldier,” his gruff voice called out, cutting through the chaos. At first, you didn’t believe it—you thought it was your mind playing tricks on you. But then you turned and saw him standing there, bruised but alive, and your world came crashing back into focus.

- You ran to him, your emotions overwhelming you as you buried your face against his chest. Nathan wrapped his arms around you, his massive frame providing the stability you desperately needed. “I’m here,” he murmured, his voice steady and reassuring. “I’m not going anywhere.”

- As the adrenaline faded, the reality of what had happened hit you both. Nathan cupped your face in his hands, his eyes filled with unspoken promises. “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he said, his voice heavy with guilt. “But you’re stronger than you know. Don’t forget that.”

- Later, as you sat in the aftermath of the battle, he pulled you close, his arm draped protectively around you. “We’ve got each other’s backs,” he said firmly. “No matter what.” His words were a vow, and you nodded, knowing that no force in the universe could break the bond you shared.

Hank McCoy aka. Beast

- When you thought Hank had been killed, the rational part of your mind shattered. Logic and reason were replaced by an all-consuming grief that fueled your every move. You fought with a precision that was almost mechanical, each strike a desperate attempt to make up for his absence.

- Hank, though injured, managed to pull himself together. When he saw you fighting so fiercely, his heart ached. He admired your strength but hated that it came from a place of such profound pain.

- “My dear,” his deep, soothing voice called out to you, breaking through the haze. At first, you thought it was a hallucination, a cruel trick of your grief. But then you saw him, standing there with a gentle smile despite his injuries, and your heart nearly stopped.

- You ran to him, tears streaming down your face as you clung to him. Hank wrapped his arms around you, his fur soft and comforting against your skin. “I apologize for worrying you,” he said softly, his voice tinged with regret. “But as you can see, I am quite resilient.”

- His calm demeanor helped bring you back to yourself, and you managed a shaky laugh. “You scared me,” you admitted, your voice breaking. Hank brushed a hand over your hair, his touch gentle and reassuring. “And I regret that deeply,” he replied. “But you showed remarkable fortitude. I’m proud of you.”

- Later, as the two of you sat together in the quiet aftermath, Hank held your hand in his massive paw. “No matter what challenges we face, we’ll face them together,” he said, his tone unwavering. His words filled you with a sense of peace, and you knew that as long as he was by your side, you could handle anything.

[starleska]

Are you gonna give us that Jack Frost/Reader we know you wanna write?? 😆

oh god yes yes YES PLEASE I WOULD LOVE TO 😳💖 there is an absolutely tragic lack of x Reader fanworks for this man, which is devastating given how much he craves attention...i think he needs a little love to warm him right up 😉

Jack Frost x Reader headcanons 💙❄️

❄️ when You first meet Jack, he flatters You like you're the only person in the world who matters. he presses earnest kisses to the backs of your palms and showers You with compliments. you're taken in by his glittering smile, and the ease with which Jack makes You feel ever so special. but with time, You notice Jack's long game. there's a shallow affect behind those attentive eyes which clues You in; he's not only always watching You for any glimmer of approval, but watching everyone else too, all of the time. every phrase is perfectly engineered to give him the response he wants, and what he wants is attention. so, You decide to turn the tables on him. You make it your life's goal to make Jack Frost melt. ❄️ when You confront Jack on his scheming behaviour, his persona cracks like ice. his smile drops instantly and he takes on a mocking, scathing tone. "You think you've figured it all out?" he scoffs. "Please. Your gullibility would give the April Fool a field day. Why don't you scootle along now, before you get yourself hurt?" but You see it: the hurt flickering behind those frost-blue eyes. You step closer to him, and don't miss the way he flinches. "Aren't you tired of all this, Jack?" You ask quietly. "Always calculating. Always trying to get on top. You're trying so hard to make people like you...you can't see it when they actually do." Jack's hands are ice-cold when You slip your fingers through his own. he blusters in protest, tripping over his words as he tries to formulate a witty retort...but a light dusting of pink blooms along his cheekbones.

❄️ sincere affection is a foreign notion to Jack, and he skitters around it like a deer on a frozen lake. years of hypervigilance and rejection have him distrustful of your motivations, even when You speak your mind. "Surely this is some elaborate trick," Jack tells You once afternoon, when the pair of you are bundled up together under one ultra-long, snowflake-patterned scarf. "I'm still waiting for the big reveal, and I'm sure it'll be a showstopper." yet you're used to the pitfalls of Jack's paranoid mind, and You ask him, "What if the big reveal is that I think you look really cute when you're flustered?" without waiting for an answer, You capture his lips in a kiss. Jack is immediately reactive and whines softly into you, but You slide your arms over his shoulders and lock your fingers behind his back: reassuring him. keeping him safe. telling him it's okay to be vulnerable here. ❄️ nothing could have prepared you for what Jack's real love looks like. remarkably, Jack is restrained when he's being insincere: the actual depths of adoration he has for You are astonishing. he's physically clingy: always having a hand rest on your shoulder, or brushing his thigh against yours under the table. when you're alone he loves to envelop You, whether that's by drawing You in for an impromptu hug or falling asleep cuddling You like you're a teddy bear. his kisses (frequent and soft) leave small trails of ice crystals along your bare skin, and he always grins when You shiver. "Oh dear, are you cold, darling?" Jack asks with a wink. "It would appear my efforts to warm you up have been in vain. However...there's no harm if I keep trying, is there~?" ❄️ although he's freezing cold in the extremities, Jack isn't frozen all the way through. a gentle warmth exudes from Jack's chest, and You often spend your evenings intertwined with your head resting there, listening to the curious flutter of his trapped, searing heart. You murmur gentle words of affirmation into his neck, and delight in how he keens beneath You. when You look up at him, You adore the way his eyes sparkle. Jack is beautiful in the way only a snowflake can be: wholly unique, with hidden complexities even a lifetime wouldn't allow You to observe. Jack is wonderful. and Jack is yours.

[therealsaintscully]

Thank you for the tag, lovely @crepesuzette2023! It's been nice to take some time to think about my fics!

How many works do you have on ao3?

20; 18 are Johnlock (BBC) and two, the most recent ones, are mclennon.

What’s your total word count?

306,378 (I was stunned to see this, I had no idea).

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

All are Johnlock: Mark Your Calendars, my beloved Erosion, Detours, Plus One and Turned - Part I : Queen and Country.

Do you respond to comments? Why/why not?

I try to be very good about it and respond as often as I can, but the truth is I'm a bit of an emotional wreck so when there's a rush of comments I get overwhelmed and over emotional about them, and tend to put it off for a while. I read them ALL, and I often go back and re-read them.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I had to refresh my memory but it's def Every Other Universe ("What if in every other universe John Watson leaves?"). It's one of my very earliest ones and I cringe a little reading it, but it's a very neat idea. Gretna Green Waltz, a mclennon fic, is very devastating if I may say so myself, and was written as such knowingly. It only reflects reality, though, and that's just as devastating.

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

I think Mark Your Calendars has the happiest ending, judging by the numbers of kudos, but for me as the writer, the cosiest, most joy-bringing ending was that of Simon (or: Love Calls You by Your Name).

Do you write crossovers?

The sadly abandoned Turned series is a crossover with Homeland.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not hate, but some less-than-considerate "when's the next chapter???" comments. I don't bother with them.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes I do :)

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Don't think so!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I remember being asked, but I'm not sure what happened with it! Some of my fics got podficced, though: Mark Your Calendars is available as podfic, and so is I Have not Lingered (thanks to the lovely @helloliriels)

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, I'm so neurotic and particular I don't think I'm cut out for that.

What's your all-time favourite ship?

Mulder and Scully are DEFINITELY the mothership and always will be. I still sigh about them in a special, exasperated way about three times a week. I'm still here with Johnlock of course, but I'm pretty sure mclennon has been in the back of my mind for decades, but I was too haunted by other ships to fall down that rabbit hole. Look at me, though, here I am.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

Turned, very sadly. So much so that I've considered taking it off AO3 but I'm so proud of what I did achieve with it.

What are your writing strengths?

I think my best writing moments are the ones that hook unto my real, personal experiences, not just a general idea of life situations. Erosion is based on my own personal grief and family losses, and Gretna Green Waltz is a retelling of my biggest heartache. I have noticed readers can tell when you're really putting your heart into a story.

What are your writing weaknesses?

English isn't my first language, which means I have to rely on betas which for me sadly slows me down - I want to be able to just write them and post them otherwise I overthink. I'm also a screenwriter irl, and I noticed a pattern that is another weakness - I always have banger openings, or first acts to my stories/screenplays, but sometimes I don't know the ending and I get lost and hesitant. That's why Gretna Green Waltz was SUCH a surprise - much like Junk, the song that haunts Paul throughout the fic, came to him in one piece, GGW landed in my head as a full story. I wrote it in TWO WEEKS! That NEVER happened before!

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

It really depends on how it's done. If it's 2-3 sentences and they're simple I assume the readers will Google Translate it. Jinglebell stands out as someone who did it really well in multi-chapter fic that's all about Sherlock discovering that John is a polyglot, so it can be done well.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Johnlock (for which I started writing during covid in 2020), although as a reader it was TXF, back in in 90s and early 2000s.

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

The X-Files. I've had a Scully character study in my head for years that I just can't get right.

What's your favourite fic you've written?

With Johnlock it would have to be the now-abandoned Turned, and mclennon it would be Gretna Green Waltz. I am very proud of both.

Tagging @menlove, @discordantwords, @saint-mona, @totallysilvergirl @m1ssunderstanding @slippinmickeys @kettykika78 @agrlsname @arwamachine @calaisreno @aggressivewhenstartled and anyone who sees this who wants to participate :)

[simptasia]

my mum has stage four cancer

[qimir-the-stranger]

We get it, Disney. We get it.

Star Wars is not for women.

Star Wars is not for Black people.

Star Wars is not for Asian people.

Star Wars is not for Queer people.

Star Wars is not for anyone who is marginalized and has different lived experiences.

Nope. Star Wars is ONLY for cishet white men. We hear you loud and clear. We know you don’t care about us at all.

[introspectivememories]

buggy who turns to shanks one night after they've reunited and says softly, with indecipherable look in his eyes and says, "i'm not in love with you anymore." and shanks, shocked beyond belief, heart aching with a want he didn't even know he had, with a need he hadn't even realized was there, thinks quietly to himself, i didn't know you ever were

[sportsthoughts]

.

[yr-fallen-comet]

i've never drawn jellie before, but i feel i should give her a fitting sendoff.

goodbye, jellie. your memory will live on.

2006-2024.

[penguinkyun]

kana and ruby are both characters who have been abandoned, whether it was unintentional or intentional, so kana deciding to take this heartbreaking step all to help ruby by appearing to abandon her knowing the devastation she is about to wreak because she's experienced it herself but doing it anyway because kana arima has never been more important than other peoples dreams and goals has always been the one to be sacrifice she does it again because she will be fine she always has been shes always been alone (right?)

(maybe a part of her is finally happy to say it all to let it all out but she buries that part because its shameful, isnt it? why should she take catharsis when shes caused her friend pain?)

and ruby who has been left behind being suddenly blindsided by this betrayal from kana, the one whos always supported her, on top of every other betrayal she has experienced left doubting every relationship she has wondering why why why why do people keep leaving?

[immamapletreekid]

instead of grinding for finals i lost hours to a one piece wiki spiral