#they still hold a tiny shard of myself

[tiffaluvr]

me when it's pride month so I remember those two ocs I had that had this complex romance but ended up being boyfriends and decide to pull them up from the void again

[deerlysacred]

↬ cedar closets ⧼ young!dean winchester x witch fem!reader ⧽

𐂂 𝄢 { the day after your dad's funeral, someone knocks at your door... }

𖣂 𝄢 angsty, reader's dad was emotionally absent, reader has daddy issues, some insensitive dark jokes between dean and reader with the shock and the awkwardness of the situation. dean and reader are at least 18 years old.

♪ inspired by the song 'peter' by taylor swift.

‼️ 𝄢 i do not own supernatural or any of its characters; all rights belong to their respective creators. this is purely a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, with no intention of profit.

The warm water ran scalding hot, but you didn't flinch. It poured over your hands like punishment, reddening skin already raw from too much scrubbing, too much soap, too much cold in the middle of the freezing February, too much time spent trying to wash away thoughts that wouldn't rinse clean, now stuck to you like a birth mark. The sink was filled with cloudy water and bubbles, tiny remains of vegetables and meat flushing away, some of them sticking to your fingers, finishing the last of the dishes from the funeral luncheon yesterday. The gray daylight were lightening your palms where you were gripping the sponge too tightly. If you pressed any harder, you could have break the plate between your fingers.

You wished you would. At least that would break the sickening silence.

The funeral ended yesterday, but the house still smelled like wilted flowers and too-sweet perfume scent lingering from the guests. The whole place smelled and looked like a hospital basically, soulless and unsettling. It felt like a hospital room too. You looked at the pale white lilies that sat on the kitchen counter, their scent thick enough to choke on. You didn't remember who brought them. You didn't remember much about the service, actually— just the tightness in your throat, the ache in your chest (that still lingered), the weight of eyes on you, and the priest's hollow words, the words you were pretty sure he recycled from the last funeral he went to.

"Good man. Brave. Family meant everything to him."

Family.

Your grip tightened around the chipped plate in your hands, and for a moment, you thought about hurling it against the wall just to hear something shatter. But you didn't. You never do, actually. Instead, you scrubbed harder, scraping at the dried remnants of some casserole an aunt or cousin left behind, making the cracks on your knuckles bleed ever so slightly.

He was a good man. And that was the worst part, right? He meant well. Loved you, in his own way. But love doesn't hold much meaning when it mostly involves never-kept-promises and just a kiss on the forehead, does it?

"We'll go fishing this summer, kid. Just you and me." Never happened. "I'll be there for your graduation this time." Missed it again. "I love you more than anything, sweetheart." Maybe true, but love was a quiet thing with him, stretched thin like old elastic— ready to snap if you pulled too hard.

The plate slipped from your numb fingers and hit the floor with a sharp crack. You flinched, your heart thudding like you've been caught doing something wrong. But there was no one here to notice. No one ever really was, was there?

Well, Dad. Guess I learned how to clean up the messes all by myself.

You dropped the shards into the trash and turned back to the sink. There was still a little more dishes.

You were just about to open the faucet back when the sudden knock knock knock at the door made you jump. Your heart stuttered, you weren't expecting anyone. Your family knew you'd come by later, it couldn't be any of the relatives since they were all at your aunt's house right now. Your mom had nearly collapsed this morning, grief catching up to her all at once, and all of the relatives took her with them to your aunt's house. You had stayed there too until your mother was stable, then slipped back home with the excuse of tidying up. But really, you just needed the quiet.

You eventually moved towards the front door, Dear God, please— don't let it be another person coming to say how sorry they are. You hesitated just long enough for another knock to come, firmer this time. You pulled it open, and the first thing you saw was a brown leather jacket.

Then green eyes.

Then flowers?

Your brain took an extra second to catch up, cataloging the details— the boy in front of you had a little dishevelled yet charmingly styled dirty blond hair, his jawline was sharp, the brown leather jacket on him (though it looked a little oversized) suited him, there were freckles dusting under his eyes and on his nose, he held himself there like he wasn't used to standing still for too long. He was around your age, maybe a little older, and something about his face was… guarded. Like he wasn't sure how to do this either.

"Uh, hey. Y/N, I suppose?" His voice came rough, then he cleared his throat, shifting on his boots. "I'm Dean. My dad —John Winchester— he, uh, couldn't make it. Sent me instead. Hope that's alright."

Your fingers curled into the doorframe, grounding yourself against the swirl of emotions in your chest. Winchester. John Winchester. You knew the name. You'd heard your father say it before, in passing, in stories about hunts and after-hunt celebrations they drank and hung out. You knew about his sons, how John basically drags them all over the country trying to find the demon that killed his wife and the mother of Dean and Sam.

Your gaze flickered to the white roses he held, then back to him.

He was fidgeting now a little, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand, like the silence between you was stretching a little too long for his liking, where it just became awkward at some point. His expression shifted to something more shy, something uncertain pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Oh God, say something.

Your throat felt tight when you finally spoke quietly. "I… um. Yeah. That's fine."

You cleared your throat, stepping back just enough to let him in. "You —uh, you can come in, if you want." Your voice was still quieter than you wanted it to be. You should sound normal. Like a person who knows how to talk to other people.

Dean hesitated, then stepped inside. He glanced around, taking in the neatness, the dim yellow glow of the lamps against the cold gray light from the window. He didn't say anything about the smell of lemon cleaner or the way everything looked like someone had been moving just to keep from thinking. But it was the nose thing you notice. He barely crossed the threshold before his face pinched, and he wiped at his nose with the side of his hand, trying to be subtle about it.

Oh my God. Did I actually clean so hard I fumigated the house?

Your cheeks heated up. You'd been too focused on cleaning non-stop to not think about your dad to realize the lemon cleaner was practically radiating off the walls. It was not just 'clean' in here; it was chemical warfare.

He held out the bouquet, a little stiffly. "Uh, these are for you. Or your mom. Or— y'know. Whoever needs 'em."

You blinked at the flowers, then up at him.

For a guy who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, he was trying. Really trying.

Your fingers brushed against his when you took them, the touch brief, but enough to send a tiny jolt of awareness through you. You ignored it. Not the time, brain. Not the time.

"Thanks," you murmured, voice softer now. The weight of the moment pressed in again, the reminder of why he was here, why any of this was happening at all. You swallowed, hugging the bouquet against your chest for a second before nodding towards the living room. "You can, um. Sit in there. If you want. My mom's not home."

Dean hesitated again, then followed your lead, stepping carefully into the quiet space you had just been cleaning. And there it was again— that almost imperceptible twitch of his nose. He rubbed at it with the side of his hand, trying to be cool about it.

You bit your bottom lip, fighting the urge to shrink into yourself, embarassed. "Uh," you blurted, shifting the bouquet awkwardly in your arms. "Sorry if it smells like a citrus crime scene in here. Got a little… carried away earlier."

Dean snorted, the corner of his mouth tugging up like he hadn't meant to find that funny. "Yeah, I was startin' to wonder if someone died from lemon poisoning."

You blinked when you heard that. He froze, looking like he mentally slapped himself.

"Shit, I didn't mean—" he muttered, eyes widening like he wanted to take the words back and swallow them whole.

"No, no, it's fine." You cut him off quickly, you laughed weakly to not make it weird (which made it even weirder now that you actually laughed at his kinda dark joke), your voice cracking a little. "Accidentally making insensitive jokes at wrong times, happens to best of us. I actually even came to the brink of laughing during the funeral — not that any of it was funny… It just feels annoying and absurd when you see your cousins fighting for the last meatball on the plate while you try not to throw up thinking about your dad's death."

Well, that definitely didn't make it any weirder. Good job.

The (even darker) joke hung awkwardly for a second, both of you standing there like badly programmed NPCs who glitched mid-conversation. Dean nodded and tried to smile, shifting his weight.

"Right, still. Sorry."

You nodded, looking down at the roses— too perfect, too bright against the dull ache of the house. You moved towards the side table near the hallway, where an old ceramic pitcher sat empty, setting the bouquet down. "Umm… I'll just… put these here." you mumbled.

The silence crept back in, thick and suffocating. Dean settled awkwardly onto the couch, his fingers tapping against his knee. You could tell he wasn't sure what to do with himself, just sitting there with all the heavy silence pressing in, eyes flicking from the flowers to you and back again. The awkwardness made you fidget and stall a little.

"Okay," you said, this time too loud, too sudden. "Window. Gonna open a window. Before you suffocate and add another funeral to the roster."

Dean huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Appreciate that. Didn't really plan on goin' out via lemon-scented asphyxiation."

God, it's a contest for who makes more insensitive and unfunny jokes at this point.

You darted towards the nearest window, flipping the latch with more force than necessary. The cold air hit you like a sharp slap, slowly clearing out the smell. You cleared your throat as you turned to him, glancing down at your hands, then back at him. "Uh, do you want something? To drink, I mean. Water? Tea? Coffee?"

Dean perked up a little, nodding, he spoke with a gentle tpne. "Coffee'd be great, actually."

You nodded back and turned towards the near kitchen, grateful for the excuse to move. The whole situation felt surreal— this random boy sitting on your couch, his presence both unfamiliar yet strangely comforting in a way you couldn't quite place. Handling grown adults were fine, there was supposed to be a respectful and distant dynamic naturally. But people your age? And to top it all, a boy? That was a whole other deal, you hated this. You absolutely hated having to keep conversation while there was no one else, especially when you were grieving like now.

As you poured the coffee, you could hear him shifting on the couch, clearing his throat like he was gearing up to say something. "So, uh… you're a witch, huh?"

Your hands paused over the cups for half a second before you forced yourself to keep moving. Of course, he'd bring that up.

"Yeah," glancing at him over your shoulder. "My mom's the witch, my mom's bloodline. My dad wasn't."

Dean nodded slowly, like he was treading carefully. "Right. Gotcha." He hesitated, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Not gonna lie, that's… kinda new for me. Usually, when I hear 'witch,' it's not in a good way."

You smirked a little, walking back to the living room and setting his cup down on the coffe table in front of him. "Well, I promise I didn't put any weird potions in it."

Dean huffed a quiet laugh, and the tension in the room lightened just a little. He took the coffee with a murmured thanks, blowing on it before taking a sip. Then, after a moment, he set it back down and cleared his throat again.

"You need help with anything?" he asked, glancing around the too-clean house.

You shook your head quickly, you said "No." quickly. Too quickly. Too defensive. Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. His green eyes sizing you up as he tilted his head like a confused puppy.

"C'mon, there’s gotta be something. I mean, you've been running around cleaning for so long, obviously. I'm sure there's lots of work to be done, I can't just sit here."

You hesitated, gripping your own cup a little tighter as you spoke quietly, admitting. "I… I was gonna sort through some of my dad's stuff. In the attic. But I can do it later."

Dean nodded, thoughtful. "Or, we could do it now. Y'know… together."

You bit your lip, looking down at the steam curling from your cup. You wanted to say no. You should've said no. But the idea of going up there alone, of shifting through your dad's things with nothing but silence around— it felt unbearable.

"…Okay," you finally said, barely above a whisper. "Yeah. Alright."

Dean stood up with a small, relaxed smile. "Lead the way."

You two climbed up carefully, the attic ladder creaked under your weight as you climbed up first, carefully pulling yourself onto the wooden floorboards. The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of aged wood, the gray light was shining through a small window. Dean followed close behind, his boots thudding against the rickety steps.

"Woah, there's a lot of stuff here.” he muttered, brushing cobwebs off his sleeve as he straightened up. His eyes flicked around the attic, taking in the assortment of stacked boxes, old furniture covered in sheets, some closets and a few worn-out hunting tools shoved in the corners.

You hugged your arms around yourself, exhaling. "Yeah… My dad never threw anything away. Said everything had a memory attached to it. My mom hated this habit of his, lots of stuff and junk led to a mess naturally."

Dean laughed quietly. "Sounds like my dad, except replace 'memories' with 'potentially useful crap'. Old man still keeps a damn broken tape and unnecessary maps of the forests located at the other side of the world."

That pulled a small smile from you. Dean kicked at the dust on the floor, then turned his attention to the boxes. "So, what are we lookin' for? Just… anything?"

You nodded, kneeling beside one of the boxes. "My mom will eventually donate some of these stuff, I'm sure of it. I just want to go through around here, see what's worth keeping. At least, for me to keep for myself."

Dean crouched down beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. "Yeah. I get that."

You glanced at him, hesitating. "Did you ever keep anything of your mom's?"

Dean was quiet for a second before he shifted, lifting his right hand. You saw a silver ring on his ring finger, he rubbed the ring with his thumb.

"This was hers," he said, voice softer than usual. "My dad said she'd used to wear it all the time. When she… y'know… my dad kept it. Didn't let me have it for years. Guess he thought I was too young or somethin'. But I wanted it. Needed it. It was all I had of her."

You watched the way his thumb brushed over the ring's surface, like it was instinct— like it was second nature to hold onto it, to make sure it was still there.

You spoke softly. "That's nice, having something to keep with you."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. It helps."

You swallowed hard, turning back to the boxes. You opened one, sifting through old books, worn-out leather wallets, and a few faded polaroids. But it wasn't until you reached into the bottom of another box that you felt something cool and metallic against your fingertips.

You pulled it out slowly, dusting off the grime to reveal an old, bronze necklace. The chain was simple, but the pendant—a small, circular sun shape with an engraved design— felt significant.

Dean leaned in, eyes narrowing. "That your dad's?"

You nodded, running your thumb over the pendant. "I think so. He never really wore jewelry, but I remember seeing this in old pictures. Probably from when he was younger."

Dean studied it for a moment, then exhaled through his nose, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You should keep it."

You hesitated, gripping the necklace a little tighter. "I don't know… it feels weird. Like it's not really mine."

Dean huffed, reaching out and plucking it from your hands before you could protest. "Well, it is yours now," he said simply, unclasping the chain. "C'mon, turn around."

You blinked up at him, your cheeks warming up. "What?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Turn around."

You hesitated before turning your back to him. The air felt heavier, your skin prickling as his fingers brushed against the nape of your neck. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as he fastened the clasp. The cool weight of the pendant settled against your collarbone.

"There," he murmured, his voice close— too close that you could feel the warmth of his breath, it tingled your insides. "Looks good on you."

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how warm the attic felt. You turned back around, fingers instinctively tracing over the necklace.

"Thanks." you said quietly, smiling.

Dean shrugged like it was nothing, but there was a softness in his expression, something almost shy. "Yeah. Anytime. Uh… Shall we?" He pointed to a nearby closet. You nodded, keep searching without really knowing what you were looking for. You focused on the closet, pulling out an old leather jacket that still smelled faintly of your dad's cologne. The scent hit you like an old memory, catching you off guard, but you swallowed it down and carefully wore the jacket, deciding to keep it for yourself.

"Hey." Dean muttered, catching your attention.

You turned your head to see him pull a slightly crumpled piece of paper from a folder. The edges were yellowed with time, and there was a faint smudge of ink where someone —probably you— had pressed too hard with a pen. That was a child's drawing— your drawing.

It was shaky, the proportions all wrong in the way kids never quite get right. A stick-figure version of your dad stood tall, with big hands and a lopsided smile. Next to him, a smaller figure —your younger self— clutched onto his hand. Above, a huge sun and some cloud figures, a couple of trees and flowers were there too. Above the drawing, in messy, unsteady handwriting, were the words: 'Me and Daddy!!!' with some heart drawings.

Dean chuckled softly, looking at you. "This yours?"

Your heart ached. Your fingers moved before you could stop them, reaching out and taking the paper from his hands. Not in an unkind manner but sudden, instinctive.

Dean blinked, clearly catching the movement, but he didn't say anything at first. He just watched as you stared at the drawing, your grip careful but firm, like you weren't sure whether you wanted to protect it or crumple it up entirely. After a short minute, Dean spoke, voice softer than before. "Your dad must've been a real good father."

A sharp exhale left your lips. You swallowed, blinking a few times, but your throat still felt tight.

The words should've been easy to agree with. He was your dad. You should be able to nod and say yeah, he was great, and let the conversation move on.

"He tried," you murmured, voice unsteady. "He wasn't… bad or anything. He just— he was never really there. Not in the way that mattered."

You wet your lips, fingers tightening around the drawing as you kept speaking. "He loved me, I know that. But he was always… distant. Like, he'd be in the same room, but it was like he wasn't really there. Always thinking about something else. Work, hunts, whatever it was that kept him busy." Your voice wavered, but you pushed forward. "He sometimes showed up for things —birthdays, school stuff— but never in the way I needed him to. I could feel him not really wanting to be there, he would just want to get over with it and move on as soon as that event passed. He never showed effort in a way that felt… enough."

Dean's jaw tensed, his gaze flickering over your face. He nodded, almost to himself, like he understood that very well. "Yeah, I get that."

You looked up at him, your chest feeling tight. "You do?"

Dean let out a small breath, running a hand through his hair. "My dad, he… he was there, technically. Raised me and Sam. Taught me everything I know. But mostly, it was about hunting. Orders. What we had to do. Didn't get a whole lot of time for… y'know. Other stuff." He glanced at you, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. "Guess I always told myself that's just the way things had to be after mom's death. We could never have a normal life, I accepted that since I was a kid. That's just… how my dad was supposed to be. He was a man grieving. He was a guy who was angry all the time. A guy who didn't really see me unless it had somethin' to do with a hunt. I used to think if I did everything right— like listened to him, followed orders, never messed up, hunted a freakin' werewolf on my own— he'd actually look at me, y'know?"

You nodded, your grip on the drawing tightening. "Yeah, I know. I used to leave drawings on the fridge. Every time he came home, I thought —maybe this time, he'd look at them. Maybe this time, he'd say something about them. But he never did. Same thing with gifts, I never actually saw him use the cups I bought for him, or wear the clothes I chose for him. Hell, I even ditched school and didn't study for my grades just so he could scold me, even if that was a bad light he saw me in. He would say something, do something that would show he actually cared for me. "

You swallowed hard, staring down at the drawing, the drawing that the child in you reflecting and cheering the perfect dad she had. "At some point… I just stopped fighting for his attention, I stopped believing him."

Dean's brows furrowed slightly, his gaze sharpening. He didn't say anything, just let you keep talking.

"He always had these big promises," you murmured, voice cracking even more. "He'd say we'd go on a trip, or that he'd teach me how to do something— fix a car, go fishing, just… normal things. Things dads are supposed to do. And I believed him. Every time. Even when he forgot. Even when he didn't show up. But after a while, I just… stopped." you admitted, feeling something in your chest twist painfully, you were full of anger for that naive child in you, full of grief for her too. "Stopped believing it. Stopped waiting for him to keep his word. I didn't even ask anymore. I just knew— whatever he was doing was always going to be more important than me. There was always going to be a last-minute excuse, another 'I'll make up for it later' thrown into the broken promises jar. And now there's no way or time to make up for it, he's fucking dead. And I feel absolutely horrible complaining about this right now, I hate how I feel like I'm being a brat about his memory. Because at least he was there, I had my dad, showing me his effort or not. I had him, fuck, I miss him… Now it's too late, I can't even stay mad at him for not keeping his promises or not remembering things."

Dean's jaw ticked, and his hands flexed on his sides like he wanted to say something but was holding back.

You inhaled, pushing past the lump in your throat. "And when he did remember? When he actually showed up and acted like he cared?" You let out a small, humorless laugh. "I didn't even know how to react. It felt weird. Uncomfortable. Like— like he wasn't supposed to do that, y'know? I'd spent so long without it that when he actually tried to be affectionate, it just felt… wrong."

Dean finally spoke, his voice quiet. "Like a stranger tryin' to play house for a day."

You nodded slowly, putting the drawing away. "Yeah. Exactly like that."

A heavy silence stretched between you two, but it wasn't awkward this time. It was something else. Something real, something common you both felt.

Dean exhaled through his nose, looking down at his hands. "I, uh… I know the feeling. My dad, he—" He hesitated, then huffed a quiet laugh. "Man, I used to fight so hard for his attention. Always did what he wanted. Always tried to be what he needed me to be. Thought maybe if I did everything right, he'd—" Dean's jaw clenched for a second before he shook his head, clearly struggling to talk about his emotions. "Didn't work. Nothin' did. I stopped fighting for it too. Didn't mean I stopped wanting it, though."

Your chest ached at that.

Dean sighed, leaning back against one of the old trunks. "Guess we both know what it’s like to be second place."

You swallowed thickly, looking back down at the unstable lines, the little girl with the lopsided smile. You whispered, wiping the tears that you didn't realize have fallen. "Yeah, guess we do."

You weren't used to crying in front of people. You weren't used to people seeing you like this. And Dean— he was still sitting there, watching you with a worried expression, his brows slightly furrowed, his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. His hands clenching like was turning something over in his head.

Then he seemed determined, like he finally decided. He took a step forward, slow and careful. He hesitated for a second— just a second, like he wasn't sure if he should, then he reached for you. Before you could even think, his arms were around you. The scent of leather and faded cologne curled around you as he pulled you in, his grip strong but not suffocating. One arm around your back, caressing your hair; the other around your shoulders, anchoring you to him. His chin rested lightly on top of your head, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

He pulled you even closer if that was possible, like he could feel the way you slowly, finally let yourself melt into it. Relax in his hold, his arms.

"You're good," he muttered against your hair. "Just breathe."

You did. You didn't even realize you'd been holding it.

Your nose ached with the sudden sob you barely held back. "Promise?"

Dean patted your back, that gesture alone was enough to make you free that sob, letting him in. "Promise."

[shotmrmiller]

im ngl i've been driving myself insane with the thought of harboring Ghost in your home. Like in the 09 mission The Hornet's Nest where Roach falls off the one roof?

Yeah, make that Ghost and there's no other choice but for the guys to leave him behind. The LZ is too hot, the enemies are swarming like moths to a flame.

The floor comes to him.

He grits his teeth at the agony, choking back a scream. Ghost just fell off a height that should've broken at least a couple ribs; maybe they did, he doesn't know, there's too much adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He's seeing duplicates, the buildings in front of him blurred. There's buzzing in his head, loud like bees. His chest aches, it burns with the lack of oxygen. His throat feels swollen as he wheezes; each breath feels like shards of glass in his lungs.

The white noise dissipates slowly. His vision realigns, lines and details sharpening. The unseen force that squeezed his throat finally lets go, setting him free from its deadly hold., his chest expanding to the point of discomfort— deep inhale, loud exhale.

Breathe. Focus.

There's radio chatter in his ear— Price snarling at Nikolai to fucking wait, that they can't leave him there in the hornet's nest but even with his vision blurred, Ghost can see that they're getting lit up, and he's not gonna have the entire team blow to bits in the helo over him.

He's just one man, and there's a whole world to save.

There's a searing pain in his arm when he shifts, he can't remember the last time his eyes welled up with tears, but fuckin' hell does it hurt.

His hand trembles violently, and it takes him a couple of tries to finally get his thumb to firmly press down on the button of the radio in the front of his tac vest.

"Leave me! Just go!" he roars.

Price argues back that no man is to be left behind, but Ghost can hear far too many voices in a different language get louder. They'll be killed hovering in the air like that.

"Price! Go!"

The voices in his ear are deafening. He rips off his headset, letting it sit around his neck.

The helicopter above him disappears.

Good.

The avalanche of footsteps gets closer and with a strangled noise that scrapes the back of his throat, he moves. Move to safety, get away from them, hide.

Ghost pushes forward until he stumbles, falling onto one knee— using his injured arm to stabilize. White hot pain licks from the wrist up, flames threatening to consume him whole.

A few stray tears escape the corners of his eyes.

He's too blinded by the throbbing in his body to realize that someone is grabbing his other arm.

"Can you hear me?"

Ghost thinks he might be hallucinating your voice. His agony is transcendent.

"Hey! We don't have much time!"

He turns his head to his left, and there you are. A civilian, by the looks of it. And you're trying to lead him away. Where? Are you leading him to a trap?

"Quickly! They're almost here! I can hide you, but you need to get on your feet!" you piped.

Ghost gets up without a fight, decision-making dulled by everything he's feeling.

"Come on, this way!" Your hand grabs his forearm tightly as you drag him away. He trudges behind you, breathing ragged.

Clarity comes and goes, but then he feels your small palms push him forward, into your tiny home.

His eyes drag as he takes in his surroundings. A tiny television in the living room to his left, and an ugly brown couch placed in front of it. To this right is your kitchen, food still steaming on the stove, and a scratched teak dinner table with just two chairs sits by a dirty window.

Quaint.

"Okay, okay. They shouldn't come in here, but if they do, I want you to go to the bathroom and sit in the tub with the curtain closed. Understand?"

His chin tips forward unbidden.

"Good. Uhm, I saw that your right arm is injured. A makeshift splint will have to do, alright?" You briskly walk away, opening the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink.

Ghost stiffens, swallowing thickly. If you pull anything underhanded, he's going to have to kill you.

The tension melts from his shoulders when he sees that you're simply pulling out a first aid kit, and some other stuff to wrap his most likely broken arm up.

You pull out a chair before opening the kit. "Sit. I'm not standing while I do this."

He huffs but complies. "Yes, ma'am." Unafraid to order a stranger around. How peculiar.

The minutes drag on, each one more agonizing than the last. It's a relentless cycle of pain... until it finally stops. The residual pain makes him dry heave.

"Whoa there, please don't puke."

Ghost gives a pained chuckle. "I'll try."

Your fingers tighten the knot in the fabric. "Can't say it's pristine, but it's better than having your arm dangle uselessly, I think." You stare at your handiwork for a second longer, before rising from your seat.

"I'm not sure who you are, but you look like actual military and not a thug with a gun. Did you have a team?" you quietly ask as you put away the medical supplies.

He cuts his eyes to you and doesn't answer.

"Yeah, I suppose it wouldn't be smart of you to blindly give information I don't need to know."

He shakes his head imperceptibly.

"Right. Well, I'm sure you know that we need to lay low, so unfortunately, that means no tv. Sorry." How cheeky.

Ghost simply hums in response.

He looks down at his injured arm. It's wrapped tightly, enough to keep it from moving but not enough to cut off his blood flow.

Not the work of a regular civilian.

You must've noticed him scrutinizing your work because you speak up. "I've worked in the medical field before. Nothing spectacular, but I can deal with a broken bone or two."

He closes his eyes, feeling the exhaustion of the day creep up on him.

So bloody tired.

Ghost takes a breath and opens his eyes. No rest for the wicked, he thinks.

He puts his headset back on, as well as he can with his one arm.

There's a crackling sound in his ear.

[cloudedmoonofficial]

 Frondsway couldn't believe he was actually talking to her. Her heart still pounded as it did when they were young... and yet the  shards of its broken pieces made her chest ache. Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked him over, his eye missing, his face scarred... all her fault.

  "Frond... please don't cry..." Tornleg's soft voice threatened to send her over the edge again, and she burst into tears and sobbed again, like she did most nights after the accident. Seasons and seasons of sadness, with long stints of dissociation placed in between so she could focus on her duties as a Ranger... no longer an Herbalist... no longer trusted by the Colony.

 "I'm so sorry..." Frondsway sobbed, "I'll never forgive myself."  Tornleg let her cry for a moment before he finally took the leap, he hadn't touched her in seasons, they had been apart, ignoring each other's existence for so long... He reached forward with one paw and nudged her chin up. They gazed into each others faces, "You need to." He whispered, "Everyone else has. I have... that's... that's why I asked you to meet me here. It's not your fault."

 "Everything is ruined!" She pulled away from his touch and threw her gaze to the leaflitter at their feet.

 Tornleg sighed, "But it's not." He smiled warmly, reminiscent of his journey after that day. His leg was mangled, but the rest of him had become stronger. His eye was gone, but his other eye had become sharper. He was often in pain, but it made him enjoy his good health days even more. He had been offered something that most cats would never understand: perspective and peace.

Frondsway shivered and then looked up... how could Tornleg be smiling? She said nothing, but her muscles relaxed, she couldn't help but calm down as she studied his face, the face she still loved.

Tornleg's brows softened with relief as Frondsway seemed ready to listen, "I'm proud of my accomplishments. My limited physical ability can't stop me from being a good Ranger, or a good Mentor."

"I'm better for it!" He stood tall suddenly, but she just stared at him. He shrugged wrapping his broken tail around his paws, "Well... not perfect," he sighed, "I'm not... happy that I was injured... but I love who I am because of it. I wouldn't change it... except," he moved place a paw on hers, but hesitated and dropped it to the ground again, "Except to see you smile again... So please... forgive yourself."

Frondsway's eyes glistened and he thought she might dip back into despair, but then her mouth curled into a tiny smile and he felt her paw on his. His heart leaped for joy as she gave him the tiniest nod, "...Okay... I'll try..." she whispered.

Tornleg stood on all three of his able paws and leaned in, licking her forehead once in gratitude. "I go for walks every day to keep my strength up and enjoy the forest..." he told her, "Would... would you like to walk with me?"

Frondsway knew that things would never be the same, but perhaps their future could hold something better than what they had. Maybe it wouldn't go back to normal, but what is 'normal' anyway? Perhaps their new normal was a deeper friendship... a new appreciation for what they did have and not what they'd lost.

"I would love to..." she blinked softly.

-Art by Snap

[st4rlvr]

Beyond the tide ||LFX

The garden was alive with its usual symphony of nature: the rustling leaves, the whispering breeze, and the gentle hum of bees flitting between blooms. It was a place that most garden fairies would consider paradise, but for me, it was missing something.

Beyond the edge of my flower-filled sanctuary, past the rolling meadows, was the ocean. It stretched out endlessly, glittering like shards of glass under the sun, its waves whispering secrets I could never truly hear.

I wasn’t supposed to go near it. Everyone knew that garden fairies and the ocean didn’t mix. The saltwater, while harmless to most, could weaken and eventually destroy my magic if I got too close. But even warnings couldn’t dull the pull it had on me.

I found myself drawn to the tide every evening, standing on the edge of the sand where the waves reached but never crossed. The cool breeze carried the scent of salt and adventure, and I often imagined what it would feel like to dive beneath the surface, to explore a world so different from my own.

That’s when I saw him.

It was just before sunset, the sky painted in shades of gold and pink, when the water rippled in the distance. A figure broke through the surface, his silhouette shimmering as droplets cascaded down. At first, I thought he was a trick of the light, a mirage conjured by my longing. But as he swam closer, I saw him clearly: a mermaid.

His hair, golden and damp, clung to his face, and his tail—oh, his tail—shimmered with hues of silver and blue that seemed to catch and reflect every ray of light. He stopped just a few feet from where I stood, his amber eyes locking onto mine.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, his voice carrying easily over the gentle crash of waves. There was no accusation in his tone, just amusement.

I crossed my arms, trying to mask my nervousness. “And you are?”

He grinned, revealing a row of perfectly straight teeth, and shrugged. “Fair point. I’m Felix.”

“Y/N,” I replied softly.

And just like that, my quiet evenings by the shore were never the same.

Felix and I met often after that first encounter. He’d appear just as the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky still glowing with twilight. I’d sit on a rock or the soft sand, and he’d rest in the shallow water, his tail flicking lazily as we talked.

“You’re always staring at the waves,” he said one evening, tilting his head as he watched me.

“Because they’re so… vast,” I replied, my voice filled with wonder. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to live beneath them.”

His lips quirked into a small smile. “It’s not so different from your world, you know. We have gardens, too, but they’re made of coral and seaweed. Our skies are the open ocean, and our birds are schools of fish.”

“It sounds beautiful,” I said wistfully.

“It is,” he admitted, his smile fading slightly. “But it’s not without its rules. Just like your world.”

We both fell silent, the unspoken truth hanging heavy between us.

Despite the divide, Felix and I found ways to share our worlds. He started bringing me small treasures from the ocean: smooth seashells in shades of lavender and cream, pieces of sea glass worn smooth by the waves, and even a tiny starfish once, carefully placed in a small jar of seawater.

“For you,” he said, holding up the jar with a proud smile.

“You saved it,” I whispered, touched by his thoughtfulness.

“Of course,” he replied. “It’s the least I can do for someone who’s given me so much.”

I blinked in surprise. “What have I given you?”

Felix glanced down, brushing a hand through his golden hair. “Your stories. Your laugh. Your flower crowns.”

At his mention of the crowns, I smiled. I’d started leaving them by the tide for him, weaving together the brightest blooms from my garden. He’d place them on his head or around his neck, wearing them like precious jewels.

“They remind me of you,” he said once, adjusting a crown of daisies and lavender. “Your magic, your light. I’d keep them forever if I could.”

But no matter how much we shared, the divide remained. There was an ache that grew with each passing day, a longing to reach across the boundary and truly be together.

One night, as the moon hung full and bright over the water, I voiced the thought that had been eating away at me.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Felix’s gaze met mine, and I saw the answer in his eyes before he even spoke. “Every day.”

He swam closer, his tail brushing against the sand beneath the water. “But we can’t change what we are, Y/N. You belong to the land, and I belong to the sea.”

Tears pricked at my eyes, and I blinked them away quickly. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” he agreed, his voice heavy with sorrow. “It’s not.”

A storm came the next day, fierce and unrelenting. The waves crashed violently against the shore, and I spent the night huddled in my garden, worry clawing at my chest.

When the storm finally passed, I rushed to the tide, my heart racing as I searched for any sign of him

The beach was a mess. Seaweed and driftwood were scattered across the sand, and the ocean looked darker than usual, restless even as the storm had ended. I scanned the waves, my heart pounding as I searched for him.

“Felix?” I called out, my voice barely audible over the crashing waves.

There was no answer.

Panic bubbled in my chest. What if he hadn’t been able to make it through the storm? What if the ocean had pulled him too far away? I shook my head, refusing to think that way. Felix was strong. He had to be okay.

As I turned to leave, defeated, something caught my eye.

A small glass bottle lay half-buried in the sand, sealed with wax. I hurried to pick it up, wiping away the damp sand. Inside was a rolled-up piece of parchment. My hands trembled as I uncorked the bottle and carefully pulled out the note.

Y/N,

I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you last night. The storm kept me away, but I wanted to let you know I’m safe. I’ll come back to you as soon as I can. Until then, I wanted to leave you something. Look near the rock where we first met.

Felix.

I clutched the note to my chest, relief washing over me. He was okay. Without wasting a moment, I hurried to the rock he mentioned, my feet sinking into the wet sand.

There, nestled against the base of the rock, was a small bundle wrapped in seaweed. I carefully unwrapped it, revealing a collection of treasures: a large, glimmering pearl, a piece of coral shaped like a tiny tree, and a string of shells tied together like a bracelet.

My breath hitched at the sight. These weren’t just trinkets—they were pieces of his world, gifts he had chosen specifically for me.

I held the pearl in my hand, its smooth surface cool against my skin, and whispered, “Thank you, Felix.”

It was two days before I saw him again. The moment his head broke through the surface of the water, relief and joy flooded through me.

“Felix!” I called out, rushing to the tide’s edge.

He swam closer, his smile wide and genuine. “Miss me?”

“Don’t ever do that again,” I said, my voice trembling with emotion.

His smile softened. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I held up the shell bracelet he’d left for me. “Thank you for this. For all of it.”

“It’s nothing compared to what I wish I could give you,” he said, his voice heavy with longing.

I stepped closer, the waves lapping at my feet. “You’ve already given me more than you know.”

As the weeks passed, our bond grew stronger, and so did the ache of being apart. The gifts we exchanged felt like pieces of a bridge that could never fully connect.

One evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, I made a decision.

“I want to try something,” I said, standing at the water’s edge.

Felix tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “What is it?”

“I want to touch the ocean,” I said firmly, though my heart pounded with fear.

His expression darkened immediately. “Y/N, you can’t. You know what it could do to you.”

“I know,” I said, my voice trembling. “But I have to try. Just once.”

He swam closer, his brow furrowed. “I can’t let you hurt yourself for me.”

I smiled softly. “I trust you, Felix. If anything goes wrong, you’ll save me. Right?”

He stared at me for a long moment before nodding reluctantly. “Always.”

I stepped forward slowly, the cool water brushing against my toes. A strange sensation rippled through me—part exhilaration, part fear.

Felix extended his hand, his fingers just above the surface. “Come closer,” he urged gently.

I inched forward until my hand hovered above his. Slowly, carefully, I lowered it, our fingertips finally touching.

A surge of warmth rushed through me, and for a moment, it felt as if the divide between us didn’t exist. His touch was firm yet gentle, and I marveled at the way his skin felt against mine.

But the moment was fleeting. A sharp sting shot up my arm, and I gasped, pulling back quickly.

“Y/N!” Felix exclaimed, concern etched across his face.

“I’m okay,” I said, though my voice was shaky. “It just… stung a little.”

He looked at me, his eyes filled with guilt. “I shouldn’t have let you do that.”

“It was worth it,” I said softly, meeting his gaze. “Even just for a moment.”

From that day on, Felix became more determined to find ways for us to be together without risking my magic. He brought me more gifts, each one more intricate than the last. In return, I left him flowers and small jars of honey from my garden.

But no matter how much we shared, the divide between land and sea remained.

One evening, as we watched the sunset together, I asked, “Do you think we’ll ever find a way to truly be together?”

Felix was silent for a long time before answering. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll never stop trying.”

And so, we continued to meet, defying the rules of our worlds in the only ways we could. Though the ocean would always separate us, it also connected us, its waves carrying our love like a secret song.

For now, that was enough.

[arctickat2400]

Love You More ~ Henry Cavill

Henry Cavill x Reader

Word Count: 2470

Warnings: insecure!reader, fluff, angst, tiny bit of blood, negative self talk

A/N 1: You can picture yourself wearing whatever you want in this, but I've originally pictured myself wearing a cropped tank top and underwear cuz even though I'm insecure about my body, I love chilling around the house without pants, and in my head I know Henry loves it too lol

A/N 2: You will see in this imagine that I mention a blanket. It is a type of sensory blanket, a small square of fabric that my mom made me that contains eight tags made of ribbon around the edges. It helps me when I'm anxious (which is basically 24/7) in which I will rub the tags between my fingers to calm my mind, keep my mind and hands occupied.

Hope you enjoy!!

***

You hate what you see when you look in the mirror - your soft belly, thick thighs, wide hips, love handles, cellulite-covered skin. You loved when friends and family complimented you, but your mind never believed them. Looking at each and every detail of your body, your mind becomes overwhelmed and your emotions become too intense. A shrill scream escapes your throat as you ram your fist into the glass, shattering it to pieces. You watch in tears as the shattered glass falls from the surface before your legs give out and you collapse to the cold tile floor. 

Henry had just gotten home about an hour ago. You had seemed fine then, happy to see him as usual, jumping into his arms as he pulled you into a sweet ‘hello’ kiss. However, as he sat at the kitchen island on his laptop reading over his script waiting for you to join him again, Henry knew that that had all changed when he heard your heart wrenching scream.

Henry paid no mind to the bar stool toppling over as he stood and ran up the stairs toward the sound that scared him most, Kal right on his heels. Rushing into the bathroom to see your curled up in tears on the floor, Henry doesn’t hesitate to kneel down beside your shaking body. Taking your trembling body in his arms, Henry tries to keep his own tears at bay when he sees the blood and tiny glass shards on your knuckles. Looking up at the now non-existent mirror and the shattered glass across the floor, Henry knows exactly what’s going on in your mind, holding you tighter in his strong embrace as you cry in agony. Henry looked at Kal sitting patiently in the bathroom door, and he knew he was just as worried as his father was about his mother. 

You’ve always been insecure about your body, even though Henry never ceases to tell you how much he loves your body. He thought that after you met him, you were getting better. And you have, but still, on those not so rare days, you’ll break down in tears. He hates that nothing has been able to help you long term. But, Henry is always there to hold you and take care of you, no matter what, and he vows to always be there for you. 

“It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you,” Henry whispers in your ear softly as he rocks you in his lap. You hold on to his arm, squeezing his bicep in your grip despite the pain in your right hand. Henry runs his fingers through your hair, placing a kiss to the top of your head, trying to soothe your angered mind. 

Henry listens as your labored breaths begin to calm, looking down to see your eyes closed. He let out a sigh of relief, even if it was only temporary, when he realized you had fallen asleep. 

You’ve been suffering with chronic fatigue for so long and it’s taken a toll on you physically, mentally, and emotionally. It prevents you from doing certain everyday things. Henry’s been there for you through it all and you can’t imagine how hard it would be without him. You could never thank him enough for how amazing he’s been since you met. But he hates that neither of you have been able to find a way to help. Some may say that what you’re going through needs to be fixed. However, Henry doesn’t want to fix you, because he doesn’t believe there’s anything broken. You just need a bit of extra love and care, and he has vowed to spend the rest of his life giving you that and more.

Henry, still holding your sleeping form in his arms, your head lying against his chest, leans forward into the bathroom cabinet under the sink to grab the rubbing alcohol and a washcloth. He takes a pair of tweezers and begins pulling out the small, yet knowingly painful shards of glass from your skin. He was thankful you were out cold so you didn’t have to experience the pain consciously. Kal, having laid down in the doorway, cried out after having smelled the blood and watching Henry take care of his mum. 

“It’s alright, bear. Mum’s alright,” Henry assures his dog, looking over with a half smile to see Kal’s face lying on his paws, staring at the scene in front of him. 

After all the pieces were out, Henry washes over your knuckles with the alcohol, cleaning the blood from your cuts and down your hands where the blood ran. Once clean, he wraps gauze around your hand before picking you up and carrying you bridal style to your shared bed. Henry places you down carefully, covering you in the comforter before placing a sweet kiss to your forehead. He patted the bed softly for Kal to jump up and keep you company while Henry went back into the bathroom to pick up the broken glass. 

Henry couldn’t bear to leave you after what you just went through, so after cleaning, he sat in the recliner beside your bed, looking over you to make sure you were okay. Smiling sweetly at the sight of Kal’s large, fluffy head laying down on your thigh, Henry picked up his book from his bedside table to read. He always kept an eye on you, looking up every now and then when you would stir, only to turn over to get more comfortable in your sleep. 

After a while, it seems Henry had been reading the same sentences over and over, having trouble comprehending the words on the pages. His mind was plagued with thoughts of you and how all he wanted to do was help you, take care of you, love you so you wouldn’t think such horrible things about yourself anymore. 

The anxiety got the best of him, needing to get up and walk around instead. Henry stood up, placing a kiss on your forehead and, making sure you were still alright, he headed down the stairs quietly, Kal staying behind while cuddling up next to you. Henry paced around the loft - through the living room, down the hall, even going back up the stairs and into the bathroom before coming back out and passing you again on the bed. Kal raises his head each time Henry would pass before laying his head back down beside you. 

Henry finally ends up back downstairs and in the kitchen, leaning on the island, rubbing his face in slight distress. Henry hated seeing you in such pain. He hated that he couldn’t take the pain away, or at least some of it, take some of the weight off your shoulders and help you carry it. He hated that he couldn’t help you and make it all better. But he also knew that he would not stop trying, and he would continue to love you through it all.

Henry is in his own world when you decide to make your appearance, Kal following you down the steps and into the kitchen. He hadn’t noticed either of you until you came up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, laying your head between his shoulder blades. 

“Hey, darling,” He greets softly, a sweet smile coming to his lips at just the mere presence of you. He brings one hand up to smooth over your bandaged hand that’s placed across his chest, intertwining your fingers. Henry turns in your embrace, taking you into his arms and holding your head to his chest, brushing his hand through your hair, his other hand gently rubbing your side.

The longer you stand there, the easier it is for your mind to become overwhelmed again with negative thoughts. Henry feels you start to shiver, hearing your soft sniffles as tears cascade down your cheeks.

“Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay, baby. Everything’s alright,” Henry tries calming you before placing his hands under your thighs and picking you up. You wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, clinging to him like a koala. He rubs your back as he carries you to the couch. Sitting down, he holds you in his lap for a little while longer, Kal jumping up on the couch and laying beside you, placing his head on your thigh, looking up at you with sad eyes. As your sniffles and cries die down, Henry, with a bit of hesitation of your own, pushes you back, holding you close enough to be able to see your beautiful, but sorrowful red eyes. 

“What’s going on, sweetheart? Tell me what’s on your mind,” Henry requests as he brushes his thumb over your red, tear stained cheeks, looking into your eyes with such worry and sadness, yet the love and adoration never ceases.

You look down at your hands, picking at the skin, before Henry takes both your hands in his while leaning forward to grab your blanket from the coffee table, handing it to you. 

“I’ve just… I’ve been so tired lately. And I’ve been eating so much that I’ve gained weight. I’ve hardly been able to control my hunger and my mind is plagued by food, and all I can think about is how much I hate myself and my body because I can’t control any of this and I’m sick of being so damn tired all the time!” You pause, your breathing becoming heavy and labored, tears rushing from your eyes, as you smooth your fingers over one of the tags on your blanket. 

“And it doesn’t help that the thought keeps coming to me that you didn’t sign up for this and I’m scared you might feel like you’re stuck with me and how could you still love me like this?” You almost scream in tears, Kal letting out a worried whine in response. Henry takes you back into his arms, a look of panic on his face as he holds your head against his chest, his other hand smoothing down over your hair.

“Hey, hey, hey, no, baby. I’m right here. I’m not leaving you. This is the only place I want to be. If I could hold you forever, that’s exactly what I’d do,” Henry holds you tight as you cry for the next several minutes, fisting his shirt in your grip as you couldn’t keep your tears at bay. 

“Can you look at me now, princess?” Henry asks you, placing his hands on either side of your face, pulling you back to look at him. You sniffle as you lock eyes with his mesmerizing cerulean blue eyes. He gives you a reassuring smile, rubbing his thumbs across your temples.

“Listen very closely, my love. I have told you so many times, and it will never cease to be the truth, darling - no matter how you look, how much you weigh, how much you eat, now matter how much of literally anything you do, I will always, always, love you, no matter what. I don’t care if you lose or you gain weight. I love you for you, and I will always love you. There is not a single thing about you that could change that.” He has to repeat some things so he knows that it will be ingrained in your mind.

“Because the truth is, baby,” Henry pauses briefly with a smile, chuckling. “I can only ever love you more. Every day, when I think I can’t possibly love you more, you will do something crazy or silly, or say something absolutely outrageous, and it just makes me love you so much more. I still don’t know how you do it, but you never cease to amaze me, my sweet baby girl. And nothing about your body will ever change that,” He says it all with a huge smile on his face, his eyes never leaving yours, and you find yourself crying not sad tears, but happy ones now as you rush into Henry’s arms.

“I love you so much,” You whisper in his ear, holding onto him tight, your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“You, my love, are the most magnificent woman I’ve ever met, and there will never be a day where I stop loving you, because it is impossible for me not to love you,” Henry admits, his arms tightening around your torso. He kisses the side of your head before you pull back, placing your hands on either side of his head now, leaning in and pressing your lips to his in a passionate expression of pure love and devotion. 

“Now, if you are ever thinking anything negative about your body again, my beautiful girl, you make sure to come straight to me and I will do everything in my power to make those thoughts go away, promise me?” Henry demands, firmly but in sweet assurance. 

You nod your head with a small smile, “I promise.” Henry smiles as he looks down and begins rubbing across your tummy with his knuckles.

“You do know that even though I’m not with you for your body, I still believe you are absolutely, breathtakingly gorgeous? There is not a single day I don’t look at you and think, ‘Damn, how did I get so lucky to be able to hold this stunning human being in my arms everyday?’ I mean how could someone not love this adorable belly of yours?” Henry chuckles as he leans down and blows a raspberry against your tummy. A deep red blush comes to your cheeks as a laugh erupts from your lips.

“I think it’s the other way around, my love.” You giggle, calming down as Henry, still with a smile on his face, comes back up and looks up into your eyes while rubbing your soft sides, his thumbs brushing over your belly. “How did I get so lucky to meet not only the handsomest man on earth, but the most caring, loving, warmest man with the biggest heart of gold who never ceases to tell me how much he loves me?” You smile shyly, your thumb brushing across his bottom lip. 

“We’re just a match made in heaven, my darling,” Henry says as you both laugh softly together, meeting in a sweet kiss, Henry’s hands on either of your thighs, holding you to him. 

You feel something cold against your arm and you both look down to see a smiling Kal looking up at both of you. “Hi, sweet boy,” You smile at Kal, running your fingers through the thick fur on his head while you lean forward to lay your head on Henry’s shoulder as he wraps his arms around you, thanking God for this extraordinary woman he gets to call his. 

[cokoweee]

EHEHHEE Now I get to the DEEP STUFF~

Let's begin.

LOOK AT THIS LITTLE MANNNNNNNN EEEEEEEEE He's seriously so cute- he's like a flying metal kitten and I can't STAND IT- Also, I noticed that Shelldon's dialogue isn't the same either. Before, there would be numbers hidden between the letters- but it seems he's "grown" out of that with this mini upgrade!

Also seeing a genuine smile on Kendra's face is REALLY needed right now. She's just legitimately happy to see the lil robot again, safe and sound. (And NOT a kraangified creature bent on killing her.) These two's little interaction was quite nice to watch and I hope we get to see more of their dynamic. :) Note the fact that here, Kendra's dialogue is also becoming her signature pink again as well... <3

Okay back to the plot.

Now Kendra and Draxum have a... iiiiinteresting dynamic to say the least. It began a bit awkward with the care and medical treatment Draxum had to give her after she was stabbed- but then it began to mellow out by the time Kendra began to get sick. Even so, she never gave him permission to use her name. But here- she does. Here, she actually opens up a tiny bit, allowing this crazy weird old goat to actually call her by her first name. Kendra may be spiraling- but there are some healed pieces of her still shining through the broken shards. <3

Also- THE NECKLACE. Bro- WHY didn't I THINK OF THAT-

And here it is... what we've all been silently dreading~ the answer for Kendra's continued deteriorating health... When we get a peek at her expression here- man it's not a comforting one. She knows something's wrong with her. She knows it's not going away. And her face here is drowned in dismal acceptance.

Draxum goes on to explain as best he can where the problem must have originated from, and it confuses Kendra. (Me too, if I'm being honest. I always thought she got sick because of the knife stab. MAN WAS I WRONG.) Anyways, Draxum begins describing that the origin of the sickness must have infected Kendra at the farmhouse. Then he goes a step FURTHER and tells Kendra that what's attacking her body is the same that killed Raphael.

(I realize now how much her dream was really telling us... Coko you SNEAK.)

And then there's one more thing that I noticed about these panels: How the words referencing Cali the kraangified are highlighted BRIGHT PINK. (Just like Kendra's dream...) Which again, just proves that it was Cali who infected her all along.

I think we now see where that little scar on Kendra's shoulder came from. 0-0

...

EXCUSE ME HUH!?!??! C-Come again, Draxxy?? SIR???

THIS RIGHT HERE. This- haaaaiyyyaaaa this is foreshadowing at its finest. What's the cure? How will Kendra be saved?

Her shoulder... has to be... amputated. Her shoulder, as in her entire ARM???? Like- HELLO???? This is some really... heavy news. AND I LOVE IT. This kind of moment needs to be held with seriousness, and Coko, you aced it. :) Incredible work as always.

This series continues to impress me with your storytelling and foreshadowing. As well as the teeny tiny details that you need a magnifying glass to see. Then there's also the obvious details that are always so clean and beautifully illustrated. Your BG's. MANNN ALIVE THE BACKGROUNDS.

Seriously, Coko. Your work is extremely impressive, and I hope you know that at least by now, after so many like myself have loved it and looked forward to it. :) Thanks for giving me a new thing to look forward to and analyze the crap out of. ~^^~

That's all for now. :) See you after your next update!

~ Melissa

OKAY I had to hold onto this till after work just cause I barely had any time

SHELLDON’s new text!- I wanted to try something new and use the Genius Built font for him. It’s nice seeing ya interpret him as growing up a lil despite getting smaller lol

Kendra and Draxum have a bit of a weird relationship. They don’t chat it up often but they’re both pretty okay enough with eachother where they can have a meal together in peace. They’ve got some mutual respect for eachother

AND MAN YALL I WAS AUUGHHH every time someone blamed bishop, big mama NOPE IT WASNT THE HINT WAS ALWAYS THERE! Pink is not Kendra’s signature text color. I’m absolutely awful I make my hints at shit so stupid so subtle that it’s HORRENDOUS

Ok last lil thing cause im losing track of what im saying. Actually I’ve completely forgotten BUT I LOVE READING THESE RARARARARRARAAR

[sashaisready]

This Must Be The Place: Chapter 4 - Pick me up

Biker!Bucky x Femme Reader

Back at your beloved late grandmother's home to pack up her house, you have a run-in with the town's biker gang 'The Howling Commandos' and find yourself entangled with the metal armed President.

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Brief mention to reader’s (small) injury, references to past motorcycle accident and life changing injury.

Thanks so much for the response to this story so far, I'm aiming to update at least once a week - hopefully more some weeks - but life is quite busy at the moment. All your reblogs and comments are so appreciated, thank-you!

You sat awkwardly on a rickety old desk in the backroom as Bucky carefully pulled the tiny shards of glass from your arm with a tweezer. He’d already checked out your head injury, which was barely an injury at all really, a mere scratch and small bump. After a few tests he seemed satisfied you weren’t concussed, so he’d moved on to the glass wound.

He still seemed mad, so you kept quiet, trying not to concentrate on his proximity. His fingers moved agilely and delicately despite his hefty frame, but you supposed it made sense that someone who worked on cars and motorcycles most of the day would be good with their hands.

Your mouth pulled into a grimace as he pulled another shard out and then quickly cleaned the area with antiseptic, causing you to hiss.

“Almost done…” he said monotonously.

“Thanks” you replied.

Your tone was sheepish, you felt a little embarrassed that he was now patching you up after you’d clapped back at him. Your mouth sometimes got ahead of you like that. But it was hard not to feel aggrieved when he was also making you feel like a kid who’d been sent to the principal’s office.

“Hold still…” he scolded.

Yeah…just like that.

“I am still”.

“No…you’re moving. Cut it out”.

“You cut it out!”

He sighed heavily. “Whatever…”

The two of you stewed in silence for a few more minutes until he pulled the final piece out and cleaned and bandaged the wound, then meticulously packed everything back into his medical kit. You thanked him and kept your head down, running your fingers across the bandage as you wondered what to say. You didn’t normally feel shy around Bucky, but the incident with the customer and your subsequent squabbling had thrown you off. Your general feelings towards him seemed to oscillate between sheer lust and intense annoyance.

“So…I guess you’ll be quitting then” he said glumly as he turned around and put the kit back into a desk drawer.

You looked up, surprised. “Huh?”

“After this, I mean” he cleared his throat. “I guess you’ll be quitting the job”.

“Why?”

He turned towards you; confusion and annoyance evident on his face. “…Because you got assaulted by a customer and I didn’t stop it?”

You tilted your head in sudden understanding. “That’s why you’re being so pissy? You think I’m going to quit?”

He frowned; his tone clipped. “Why wouldn’t you? You don’t need this shit on top of all your house stuff”.

Well…he was sort of right. You didn’t really need the money (although it helped), and you really didn’t need to be dealing with drunk guys trying to bottle you…but…in all honesty? You’d dealt with worse over the years. A drunk guy with bad aim wasn’t pleasant, but you liked this job – you liked the MC, you liked the regulars, you liked that it gave you something to do in the evenings rather than aimlessly wander Granny’s house, you liked…Bucky.

“I’m not quitting, Bucky” you told him defiantly.

He looked genuinely surprised, his blue eyes narrowing. “What? Look…I’d understand, we fucked up – we should’ve been there to protect you and we were fuckin’ around playing pool”.

You frowned. “Look…don’t feel guilty. I should’ve called you over and not tried to manage him by myself when he started getting rowdy…I guess I just, didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it…” you told him quietly.

He chuckled fondly. “Sugar…I know full well you can handle it. I’ve seen the way you can handle yourself. But drunks can be unpredictable. You need to tell one of us if things get ugly, okay? That’s why we’re here”.

You nodded. “Alright”.

“Promise me you’ll call me or one of the others over if someone so much as raises their voice to you”. His tone was stern, he was clearly very serious about this.

“Scout’s honour” you replied sunnily as you held up your fingers in a mock salute, trying to ease some of the strange tension that was in the air.

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with your answer, but the stern look on his face was still there.

“And you’re really staying? Because if you wanted to quit..”

“No…Bucky, I’m staying”.

The silence hung awkwardly between you until you cleared your throat, looking over at the cabinet where he’d put away the kit.

“So uh…I didn’t think you’d have First Aid training”.

“You learn a few things after you come off your bike a couple of times” he sighed gruffly.

You nodded silently in response, but he caught your eyes briefly darting to look over at his metal arm.

“Yes…” he wiggled his metal fingers. “That was one of those times…can’t fix that with our First Aid box though” he muttered.

“Oh God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” he softened. “I don’t mind talking about it. Really. Long time ago now. Got knocked off my bike by a truck and got pretty badly mangled. They couldn’t save it…”

“Jesus, Bucky, I’m SO sorry. I had no idea…”

“It’s fine,” he said pragmatically. “Accidents happen. Life goes on. Besides, got an upgrade out of it…” he smiled grimly and flexed the robotic arm.

“And you still get on your bike every day, even after all that?” you asked with disbelief.

He nodded, a smile lighting up his face. “It’s what I love. Nothing could stop me doing what I love. Yeah, I was a bit shaky at first. But you adapt. That’s what life is about, isn’t it?”

You smiled back at him. He was like regular Bucky again. You admired the way his face lit up when he spoke about his passion, quietly impressed by his determination to get back in the saddle. You wished you could be more like him in that way, rather than cowering in your indecision when things went south. You looked back over at his metal arm.

“I mean…it’s amazing. So intricate. I’ve never seen a prosthetic like it. How do you even go about getting a robot arm?”

“Friends in high places,” he tittered. “Tony Stark threw it in as part of a deal…”

Your eyes widened. “Tony Stark…the weapons magnate?”

Bucky just winked in response.

“Why would you and Tony Sta- No…you know what? I don’t need to know…”

“Yeah…probably for the best,” he laughed.

You rolled your eyes, but you were secretly relieved that the tension between you both had eased. Back to dumb jokes and sassing each other.

He smiled back at you for a second, but it faded so quickly that it made your stomach flip. He looked over at you forcefully, his eyes dark. It was a look you hadn’t seen before.

“Bucky…what is it-”

“I’m sorry again…that you got hurt,” he said gravely. “I would never…if I’d known…” he sighed. “I just mean…the last thing I’d ever want is for you to be in harm’s way…”

You paused, struck by the sincerity in his voice. You stared back at him, nodding sluggishly as he moved closer to you, unable to tear your eyes away from him. Time seemed to slow as he leaned towards you. Your eyes widened as he tilted his head, his expression intense. He leaned in closer and closer, and you found yourself moving too, like a moth to a flame. As his lips met yours it was like a lightning bolt, your breath caught in your chest as you suppressed a gasp and let yourself melt into him. His tongue was in your mouth before you knew what was happening, and you reciprocated greedily. Suddenly his hands were on your thighs, moving up your hips, your waist. The heat of his touch searing. Your own fingers grabbed at his kutte, pulling him closer and closer but still never close enough as his mouth moved to your throat. You practically mewled as his lips met the flesh of your neck, you tilted your head back to allow him full access. Your eyes closed as you bit your lip, his mouth ghosted over your skin and-

The heavy knocking sent you crashing back down to earth with a cruel bump, a tiny gasp escaping you as he pushed you back down against the wood.

“Buck…” came the muffled voice from behind the door. “We need to go. Sorry. Does your best employee need a ride home?”

“What is it, Sam?” Bucky snarled as he stood and moved towards the door.

“Rumlow…he’s apparently making a move…”

Bucky exhaled, he turned to look at you for a second, opening his mouth to speak before shaking his head in silent apology. His eyes said more than his lips ever could. You nodded in return.

He swung the door open and Sam stood there. He didn’t seem to be embarrassed or awkward to interrupt, so he was either being polite enough not to mention it, or simply hadn’t picked up on the slight heaviness in your breathing, or the way you were somewhat splayed across the desk.

“Goddamn. Alright. Let’s go,” Bucky instructed. “Sugar…you need a ride?”

“N-no. I drove. All good” you stuttered as you regained your composure.

“Sam…have someone ride back with her. Just in case”.

“Bucky I’m fine I-”

He looked at you warningly, raising an eyebrow.

“Alright…” you sighed. “Give me the motorcycle escort”.

His hard expression softened for a split second; a hint of a smile sent your way. The beginnings of a sparkle in his baby blues.

And then he was gone.

[ms-m-astrologer]

2025 Pisces Crescent Moon

Saturday, February 1, 22:20 UTC, 28°19’ Pisces

The key phrase for the Crescent lunar phase is “gather and mobilize resources.”

A trippy one, all right - as I (try to) write this, approximately 72 hours before maturation, I am feeling it already. The Moon in this chart is technically void of course, but when she’s in the sign Pisces (and not adversely aspected) we can just carry on and ignore that.

Moon conjunct Venus conjunct Neptune conjunct North Node, all in the tiny sliver of Zodiac between 28°-29° Pisces. “Trippy” is the right word, to be sure. Pisces resources aren’t remotely like other signs’ resources. Fog? Daydreams? Seeing things that aren’t there? Not seeing things that are there?

Something to remember, to (try to) ground ourselves in, is that Venus has entered her pre-retrograde shadow. Whatever this phase invokes, we’re going to revisit - in fact, on March 28 we’re going to revisit the same quadruple conjunction of Moon, Venus, Neptune, and the North Node. Except it’ll be the Balsamic phase - by that time, Saturn will be close enough to the action to be included - Mercury Rx too - and, there’s a solar eclipse on March 29.

And the next day, transiting Neptune enters Aries. (Not to stay, this time, it’s just dipping in a toe, but still.)

In other words, this measly-seeming Crescent Moon has the potential for dissolving all our assumptions, presumptions, and so forth. This is such a huge shift; I can’t seem to emphasize enough (or even begin to wrap my own head around) just how profound “things” are going to get.

Wherever our heads seem to be wandering - me, I’m apparently calculating how many wrong trees I can bark up, at one time - there are our resources. Sort of. It’s maybe not so much the actual things, as the feelings they evoke. Terror, exasperation, wonder, bliss, confusion, boredom. Is there an overall theme? What is it trying to tell you? Do you need to let go of it, or do you need to surrender to it?

Or maybe - quoting myself again - there is “something wonderful you don’t dare believe could be meant for you.”

Perhaps out of the various shards of imaginative impressions, we can piece together a new paradigm to shift ourselves into. I don’t think it’s going to be remotely an instant process - maybe incomplete until the final Venus-Neptune conjunction (May 2, at 1°09’ Aries); maybe not even complete until February 20, 2026, at the one and only Saturn-Neptune conjunction this go-round (0°45’ Aries).

What house in your birth chart holds 28°19’ Pisces? In the 10th, you’ll be visible, perhaps holding a leadership role. In the 3rd, tell us all about it!

(It’s in poor Ms M’s natal 5th - and opposite her progressed Moon, to boot - not only is her usual writing style being ground to Pisces pieces, but she’s in anguish about never being loved back the way she wants to be.…)

The upcoming First Quarter lunar phase - Wednesday, February 5, 08:02 UTC, 16°46’ Taurus (ruled by Venus) - may give us opportunities to “ground” ourselves in what this Crescent phase summons forth.

[ibrowjo]

Strands of Freedom

Part 1: Shattered

warnings: trichotillomania, broken glass, self-deprecation

word count: 773

a/n: this is based on personal experience, as i've been going to therapy and working through my trichotillomania, and this is part of it. it will have three parts (or strands), much like a standard braid, and each part will be a tiny little self-indulging blurb that will all become one continuous story. hopefully if you deal with this or something similar, you can read this and know that you aren't alone. <3

My stomach dropped, leaving a cold pressure in its place. My head was twisted as close to 90 degrees as I could get it while still being able to see my reflection in the mirror, and there, towards the back of my head that my eyes were straining to see, was a bald spot. It had only taken a couple of days for me to yank that much hair from my scalp, the hair coming out in long strands and big chunks. If I knew why I did it, I’d stop, but it isn’t exactly easy to just get rid of your compulsions. It wasn’t until I looked at the floor of my car and next to the stool at my desk that I fully realized how much hair I had been losing to my overactive fingers’ searching, digging, tugging, ripping.

Struggling to get a full view, I searched in vain for a handheld mirror in the cabinet next to the sink, and when I found it, I held it up behind me so I could see its reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Did I want to cry?

Did I want to throw up?

I wasn’t sure.

I just knew I was angry at myself.

I lowered the handheld mirror and looked down at my reflection, watching myself clench my jaw and furrow my brow. And then emotion seized me, and I brought the mirror up over my head before smashing it down on the ground, not worried about bad luck or the sharp shards littering the floor.

Tears hit my eyes, and I tried to hold it in before failing and letting out an angry sob. I fell to my knees, my jeans the only layer of protection against the broken mirror.

I didn’t pay any mind to Sam’s heavy footsteps running down the hall, yelling, “Dean! Where is she?” or the second set of hurried footsteps that joined him, but when both brothers appeared in the doorway and took in the sight, I looked back at them, my hands shaking in my lap.

“What happened?” Sam asked me as his boot-covered feet stepped on the glass before stopping next to me. He leaned down and grasped my hands in his as he pulled me up. “Are you okay?”

I didn’t want to look up into his eyes, and I didn’t want to look at Dean either, with his fists clenched by his sides and his gaze boring into me. I didn’t answer Sam’s question, and Dean stepped forward at my silence, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Answer the question,” the elder brother urgently said, his voice firm but still dripping with concern.

I gasped in a deep breath, collecting myself, and looked up at the boys. “Sorry,” I said, wiping my face. “Just having a minute of stress, but I’ll be fine.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dean spat. “What’s going on?”

Sam still grasped my hands in his, giving me a reassuring squeeze before pulling me closer to his chest, where he placed my arms around his waist and moved to hold me, sensing my hesitation. 

My face buried in his chest and my tears starting up again, I mumbled, “I’ve been pulling my hair.” Sam brought one hand up to hold the back of my head while he pulled my body closer to his with the other.

“You’ve been…pulling your hair?” Dean asked, confused but still worried all the same. “What’s the big deal? I’ve yanked your ponytail like a million times, and I-”

“Dean,” Sam muttered softly, shaking his head and giving his older brother a silent warning with his eyes.

I lifted my head away from Sam’s chest long enough to say, “I found a bald spot.”

Sam held me an arm’s distance away and bent his head down to my level. “Why have you been doing that?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I just can’t believe I did this to myself. What if I can’t ever stop it?”

Dean spoke up. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t- I just-” He sighed. “I can’t imagine.”

“I’m just so mad,” I groaned. “And sad. I feel like if I can’t stop this, I’ll eventually just be…ugly.”

“Oh, come here, Boss,” Sam whispered, his nickname bringing a little peace to my mind. I leaned back into his side as he draped one arm around me, and I breathed a sigh of relief, letting him absorb my frustration. “Don’t say that.”

Dean took a couple of steps toward us, and I held out my hand to grasp his. He reached back out and took mine, his eyes burning with tears. “We’ve gotcha, sweetheart.”

Taglist:

@dianawinchester03

[rowdyhughesy]

Don’t run away, not now - Trevor Zegras

“ I’m burnt out, shit I need some rest. But how can I escape you if you’re in my head? “

- chase atlantic

requested: no

wc: 870

song fic inspired by This is what a broken heart feels like by Marina Lin

You gave it all away

Didn’t even let me in

You gave the worst goodbye

And people ask me how I've been

I wished relationships would come with a trailer, that you could watch it before you fall in love and decide if you wanted to continue. That if the impending heartache that could follow is truly worth it. If those two years filled with kisses on Saturday mornings, the smell of burning toast coming from the kitchen, warm fingertips drawing invisible shapes across my back in the early hours.

The fights when neither of us want to admit we've been wrong, when Trevor threw dirty laundry on the bathroom floor or forgot to put the dishes away.

Or when I let my insecurities become an obstacle I had problems crossing on my own. He would be there with a smile so big the ends of his eyelashes kissed the apples of his cheeks. Soft pink lips placing butterfly light kisses on my temple. Whispering how I was the most beautiful thing he's ever laid his eyes on.

How I wish I could've seen the trailer and been prepared for the ending. Saved myself the numbing ache that followed when I walked inside that door. Trevors facial expression void of any emotion as he breaks my heart into a million tiny glass pieces. 'I don't think it's working out.' Echoing inside my skull every damn time someone asks me how I'm holding up.

Replaying like a broken record that won't stop no matter how much I scream or cry. Palms pressed over my ears crying for it to shut up. Begging for silence. If only for a second

Friday nights got me feeling lonely

Saturdays are when the bottles empty

Why'd you have to leave me?

Dani strokes a comforting hand over the top of my head. Trying to smooth out the tangled rats ness I call hair her other arm wrapped around my body, cuddling me close to her side. Mumbling words of encouragement in my ear as I press my cheek closer to her chest. Hot tears wetting my skin as they run down, leaving small dark splotches on her sweater in their wake.

Throat sore from the cries of a broken heart I’ve been letting out for the past couple of hours.

It’s been two months since Trevor left but the tears still haven’t run dry. Every day there’s new ones along with the clenching feeling in my ribcage. It’s like someone has a tight grip on my heart and slowly but surely the grip becomes tighter and tighter. Squeezing with everything it has until the pain is all I can feel. Until it’s all that’s left.

‘Why did he have to leave Dani? What did I do wrong?’ Voice cracking as another wave of tears bubbles up. Eyes bloodshot, glassy from yet unshed tears and eyelashes clumped together.

‘You didn’t do anything wrong honey you did absolutely nothing. Do you hear me? This is not on you.’ Dani rests her chin on my head. Hand having left it’s previous position in my hair so both her arms are now cradling me close.

Small drops of her own tears that’s managed to slip out landing on my head. Troy gives her a sad smile from his place on the armchair across the coffee table. Trying to hold back all his frustration at his teammate for leaving someone so hurt and broken. For hurting a girl he’s considered as his little sister for two years.

But all he and Dani can do is be a shoulder to lean on and someone to confide in as the girl tries to get over the boy who left without warning.

Don't leave me

Don't leave me

Don't leave me

It’s hard to explain the feeling that crawls up your chest when you come across your ex boyfriends Instagram post. To see those light blue eyes and big smile that used to make your body tingle, lips twitching up at the corners and heart feel like it doubles in size.

Just that this time it’s shards of glass ripping through my skin and into my bones. Tears pricking at my waterline and breath getting knocked out of my lungs. Whole body deflating when I notice the pretty girl standing with her arms wrapped around his middle and kiss pressed to his cheek.

Love you to the moon and to Saturn typed underneath.

And the realisation that he’s never coming back crashing over me like a building being torn down. Rubble and dirt all that’s left behind along with my heart.

Flashes of a face red from crying as I beg for him to not leave, tell me what I could do to make him stay. Without even knowing that he’d been one foot out the door the whole time.

Heart already belonging to someone else. That I was the obstacle he had to get over to be with someone new, someone that would never be me. Not ever again.

[phneltwrites]

Hi ! How are you ?

This is 🎬 Behind-the-Scenes Fic Asks 🎬 !

Can you answer 17 and 21 for sliding doors goodbye ?

omg hiiiii

sliding doors!! my magnum opus! (jk. but not really)

17. hardest scene to write is the scene where Wilhelm talks with Erik's former commander. I rewrote that many many times. In an original version of the fic there was a lot more time at the reception too, because. ok this is a big digression one sec.

There's an emotional climax moment where Wilhelm is talking with Simon and Felice and he says:

Simon’s finger stabs a hole in his thin skin. It all comes pouring out. “Because I can’t.” Everything is splintering and collapsing inside of him. All of the facets of all the reasons why he can’t face Erik’s death, Erik’s life, Erik—all of the shards stabbing into him. “He was my brother and—” he was his whole world. He was Wilhelm’s belief that someone could love him, he was his aspiration, and his protector, and his best friend, and—”everything he wanted from me, I’ve betrayed. What gives me the right to move on?”

But originally what Wilhelm said was "I didn't know him! How can grieve someone I didn't know?"

So the original version had a lot more at the reception so that Wilhelm could get to know all of these people who knew Erik in different capacities and sort of come to the conclusion that he could never know Erik fully and that's true even if Erik was alive, but he gets to a place of deeper understanding and appreciation. I realised like halfway through writing the fic that that was not the fic I was actually writing. Sliding Doors isn't about getting to know Erik it's about Wilhelm coming to a place of emotional integration such that his anxiety isn't blocking him from being honest and trusting with the people he loves.

So even though I cut a lot of that, I was still left with this scene that I still had to write with this commanding officer because Wilhelm needed to confront the thing that had set off his first big panic moment and spiralled the whole loop. And now it had to kind of hold the entirety of this plotline about Wilhelm growing in confidence that he did know Erik. A lot of burden for a tiny scene.

Also I knew that guy was going to be a lad's lad and I find that tiring.

21. something i didn't expect ppl to gravitate towards. again v grateful for everyone who reads my fic and chats with me and makes me feel like omg im connecting with other people, fun

i think for this one it's the way this fic uses locations. I was working on a theme here about how Wilhelm's anxiety literally closes off the world to him. He can't go to the gravesite, then the reception, then Simon's room, then outside at all because he's thinking about these things that didn't even really happen! Because of the time loop. So the way anxiety poisons the future and strangles the now, making the world feel too tight for Wilhelm. And I was like well this is a fun thing I put in for myself cause I gotta put in these little extra challenges to keep my brain engaged so when people were picking up with how he relates to spaces i was like eeee ok we're both having fun with the challenge.

[pencap]

I miss writing.

No, that's not it. I miss telling stories obliquely. I miss telling the kind of stories that could only be told obliquely.

My creative writing professor once told me my poems needed to be more direct about the story I was telling. I didn't know how to explain to her that for me poetry has always been about breaking the story apart into tiny pieces. About shattering the story and piecing the shards together like a jigsaw puzzle. About finding the pieces that are pathetically honest for me, and pathetically honest for you, even when we are telling two different stories. The pieces have always been where the truth lives, for me. At least, the kinds of truth that I don't know how to tell any other way.

I miss that kind of honesty. That kind of vulnerability. That kind of clarity that still make me ache and weep and bleed nearly a decade later. I am not the person that I was a decade ago, except in the ways that I am, except in the ways those same words still call to me.

Going back through this blog feels like sorting through little kernels of amber holding moments of my life. I read words I wrote a decade ago and I feel as I felt then. I remember, a snapshot so vivid it's almost like inventing time-travel. I miss having those snapshots. I miss making those snapshots. Sometimes that stretch of my life without poetry feels like a dream, not quite vivid or solid enough to be real.

I think I wrote poems to say the things I didn't know how to say in prose. It was easier when I wasn't listening for it, when I forgot about poetry. But now I'm listening, and the silence is heavy. That part of me has been silent for years now. Did I stop wanting to speak, or did I force myself silence? Which is worse? Which is better? Do I still remember how to speak that way? Do I dare try?

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

😭

...for the character comforting thing 👀

and i'm ready to have my heart broken

The next chapter

Masterlist

A/N: Hi anon! Thanks for the ask! You shouldn't have mentioned being ready to have your heart broken, because I've been in a mood...

(This was written from a promt from this ask game!)

Characters: Syverson

Summary: You come home to an interesting situation...

Word count: 557

Warnings: Angst

@deandoesthingstome @geralts-yenn @ellethespaceunicorn @mayloma @keanureevesisbae @summersong69 @ylva-syverson @peaches1958 @sillyrabbit81 @livisss @peyton-warren

You carefully close the door behind you. It’s unusually quiet and dark in the house. There’s music coming from the living room. Lionel Richie’s ‘Endless Love’ is just ending. When it starts again, you get suspicious, and carefully walk towards the living room, unsure of what you’ll find.

The lights are dimmed, there are candles everywhere, and about two dozen balloons are stuck to the ceiling, with printed out photos dangling underneath them from strings. There’s an enormous bouquet of roses on the coffee table, along with champagne and chocolate covered strawberries – the good ones, from that place you forget the name of because you don’t go there on account of it’s fucking expensive. For the particular occasion, however, you understand more than perfectly.

In the middle of this scene, you find him. Sy. On the floor, with a tiny box in his large hands. In it, a ring; a white gold band with a pear-cut topaz. It’s simple, but absolutely gorgeous.

“Sy?” you ask carefully. “What is this?” As soon as you start speaking, a soft sob escapes him. Fuck.

“She said no.” His voice breaks halfway through the sentence, and so does your heart. You drop to your knees beside him, take the box from his hands and snap it shut, and toss it onto the table.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask in a soft voice as you run a hand through his hair. You’ve always liked doing that; his buzzcut feels nice on your skin.

“Sugar, I can’t begin to tell you how much I don’t want to talk about this night ever again,” he sighs. He points to the other side of the room, where his phone is on the floor, next to a pile of glass shards that used to be the mirror on the vanity that’s standing against the wall. You carefully retrieve the thing. It looks comically tiny when Sy is holding it, but this thing is so big that you could never use it with just one hand. The screen is cracked – no shit – but it still works.

It opens on a text – what he seemed to have been reading when he threw the thing across the room.

Sy, Please believe me when I tell you that every time I thought about what it would be like if you proposed to me, it ended with me saying ‘yes’. Needless to say, when push came to shove, I didn’t. It wasn’t something you did, Sy, I promise. Everything was exactly as I’d always hoped it would be. Except that – and I honestly can’t think of a nice way to say this – when you popped the question, all I could think about was how much I don’t see myself marrying you. I’m sorry.

By the time you’re done reading, and re-reading, and re-re-reading the message, you have tears in your eyes.

“Four years,” he says softly, “gone.” You drop the phone on the coffee table, next to the ring box, and grab the champagne, pouring two glasses and handing Sy one before you sit next to him on the floor. He rests his head on your shoulder for a second before looking at his glass.

“To the worst night of my fucking life.”

“Wrong,” you say as you pull his head back to your shoulder, “to the next chapter.”

[disease-danger-darkness-silence]

I'm working on making Raven a replica of the 4th Doctor's scarf. The 4th Doctor is their favorite and his scarf is iconiqué lol. This and the ring I'm going to make them (out of titanium, because they're allergic to like... Every metal but titanium, tungsten, and platinum) is my marriage gift to them.

I like titanium; it's strong, and Raven doesn't think they're strong but they are, they're the strongest person know. Their birthstone, alexandrite (or pearls but that's not a stone, fuck that) is extremely tough, as well, and I'm hoping to score some shards of alexandrite to do a tiny Warhammer inlay for them. I'm going to get a titanium ring inlay blank, because honestly, I don't have a lathe right now, especially not one that can handle titanium, and the absolutely tiny forge I have cannot melt the shit - it barely melts iron and aluminum.

@nagia-pronounced-neijia once wrote a silly, fun, comfort-food sort of fanfic that I still adore to this day: Operation: Exploding Jellyfish! I love it so much. I remember it, almost 20 years later, because I loved the opening scene where Cloud talks about the ring he wants to propose to Tifa with.

Very few things that glitter are actually gold. At least, not in Edge. It had been the same way in Midgar.

Good thing for Cloud he wasn't shopping for gold. Or silver. Gold and silver were soft metals, worthless save for their shine.

No, Tifa deserved something special. Unique.

Strong.

Diamonds and steel. He wanted diamonds and steel.

I think about that every time I think about Raven and jewelry in general. I never buy or make them jewelry, even though I can, because they deserve the vest.

Titanium and Alexandrite. They're my diamonds and steel.

Anyway, back to the knitting.

I'm an idiot and decided to use chunky yarn (just the Hometown line from Lion yarn. It's soft, it's cheap, and I can get it anywhere bc it's sold at Walmart. I'm poor) on a basic-ass #5 knitting needle, because the OG was knitted and not crocheted.

I should have just gone with crochet, even though it won't look right, because my hands are KILLING me. I can only add a few rows a day because of my arthritis and the current weather. God, I'm old.

The original was stockinette, but stockinette always made my hands hurt bad, even before my arthritis got this bad.

I'm also not making it 24 feet long, like the original. I'm aiming for 10-12 feet once I've blocked it, so it can still wrap around the neck. I'm making the stripes the same lengths as the original, because Four used it to measure all the time. So all of the bits are going to be specific lengths.

The "inside" (where all of the color transitions will be, because I'm very lazy with my knitting transitions and have a stripe on one side) will have small hidden pockets for doodads, like a yoyo or a sonic screwdriver (yes, I'm making a 4th Doctor screwdriver replica because why not? I have a 3D printer, may as well), or a cell phone or keys. They'll be designed to be in the bit that wraps around the neck, so it won't bulge on the parts you see.

It's a basic-ass scarf but I'm putting a lot of love into it for them. They're always cold, too, so...

Anyway, I'll be trying to update about the scarf here as a way to hold myself accountable, but I'm also gonna like. Crochet more.

As we start packing for our indeterminate time away from Carson City, I am gonna need to keep myself in line with something physical. Knitting and crocheting (with a brief departure for sewing a present for my daughter) is basically gonna be my thing.

Well, that and Darktide.

[proendovents]

(there's some imagery of trauma and stuff in here, it's just how I write, sorry, no idea what warnings (if I'm meant to do that idk) I should put here.)

(I also want to clarify that I am okay, I'll be okay, I just need to tell someone, anyone, this. Sometimes the lonely just hits me hard, at least if I tell someone it feels more real, like I'm not just faking it for attention.)

For a collective that constantly co-fronts, I'm so lonely. Not even headmates are enough to save me from that.

I can barely get out of the house due to health issues, I have one irl friend that I can somewhat consistently see, and none of my online friends really seem to want to chat anymore. I'm scared they're getting bored or I'm being annoying but I'd do anything to just talk to someone.

I live with my mother (and her partner when he's here), but I barely trust her because of the things she says, maybe in good faith, maybe out of ignorance. It's been years, I've always felt abandoned, she (and my bio father) gave me abandonment issues and now I live with it.

I need people, I'm going insane. Humans are social creatures, I'm confined to a cage I physically cannot break free of. Chains I've fought so hard to break, trauma that's bound me for years, and slowly I feel it creeping back.

I have extreme social anxiety, I can't reach out first without it being almost debilitating, but no one ever reaches out to me.

Constantly telling myself that I can't break because the other frontiers (new, still dealing with source things, not their fault!) need me more.

Constantly feeling like vines are creeping up my body, threatening to drag me back to the place I fought so hard to escape.

I genuinely feel as though everyone pushed me into a box, poked me back until I stayed, and then still expects me to be the one to initiate conversation after ignoring me over and over.

I tried, I really did. I just want friends. Why is it so hard to make friends. I make them, then they all vanish because I can't reach out first and no one understands.

Being plural isn't enough to save me from this, not in the dead of night, not when that tiny shard of composure I still have shatters under the pressure of the burden I hold, day in, day out.

I want to tell people about my work, the things I'm proud of, but every time I try, I feel like I get shut down. Either they ignore my messages, say one or two things and nothing more, or tell me "[I] always talk about this, I should talk about something else" (thanks mother.) or other such things.

I try sharing them on my blog but it's not the same, it's never the same.

"Just make friends." They tell me. "Talk to people." I tried. "Join servers." I did. I don't understand why it's so easy for everyone else. In the end, I'm just told I'm "impossible to help" and I don't "help myself".

I'm with two people, two headmates, but that doesn't help, I know they're there, but they know the same as me, they know the hyperfixations, they know my stories. It's not the same.

I'm so lonely, I don't think I can ignore it right now, and it hurts.

- 🍂☘️ . @anonyleaf (previously 🍂☘️ anon)