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samwhump · 1 month

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a (very inexhaustive, wincest-heavy) sam whump reclist

@transfemmesam asked me for Sam whump recs a few days ago, and I've had other requests in the same vein before (I can't imagine why.../s) so I thought I would throw this together, since these authors deserve all of the love and support for their contributions to our li'l fandom corner.

like I mentioned in the title, this is not at all a comprehensive list; I have at least ~200 more fics in my to-read queue that could thematically fit here, but alas, I have stupid shit like a job and a body and a dog to take care of, so. I'm always happy to get recs along these lines, so if you notice anything important missing, hit me UP. (and don't take any omissions as any specific commentary by me -- it's likely I just haven't had the chance to read it yet, haha.)

disclaimers:

some (most, honestly) of these contain potentially triggering and dark content, including but not limited to rape/noncon, torture, and suicidal attempts & ideation. I have tried to note content warnings where applicable, and most of the works are hosted on ao3, so the tags should have most of the information you need to make an informed decision. that being said, tread with caution. all of the summaries provided are from the original author, with warnings added after by me.

the list is in alphabetical order and separated into wincest and gen categories. a lot of the gen is also focused on the sam & dean relationship, because...I am what I am. and what I am a sucker for these two dipshits. there is also a brief section at the end with a few fics that don't fit into either category.

gen

All That Goes Unspoken by amnesiawife:

A case forces Sam to confront something long kept buried. (Set nebulously in season 12.)

CW: discussions of past rape/noncon, victim blaming

Beneath the Trees 'verse by Lise (5 works total, starting with Beneath the Trees, Where Nobody Sees):

Sam doesn't go to Stanford. Everything goes downhill from there.

CW: suicidal ideation

a boy is a cage by ad_castra:

After expelling Gadreel from Sam's body, Dean thinks they're in the clear. If only they were that lucky. // S9 fic wherein Gadreel's grace causes some adverse side-effects in Sam's mind.

CW: past referenced rape/noncon, body horror

body of proof by Askance (doomcountry):

There are things Sam hasn't told his brother. They're all in the envelope laid on Dean's pillow.

CW: heavy discussion of past rape/noncon

break these bones 'til they're better by redskyatmorning:

After Sam’s torture at the hands of the British Men of Letters, the latest in a long string of violations, he is rescued by Dean and Mary – and forced to ponder his broken relationship with his own body. Months later, when Sam is resurrected and tormented by Lucifer yet again, Dean confronts Mary and Sam gets his revenge against the devil.

catching my death (staring out an open window) by ad_castra:

Sam gazes at the window, catches the faint pink hue tinting the sky. It’s so realistic - he could breathe in the fresh air if he were really here. ----- They got Sam out. Sometimes, just knowing that isn't enough.

CW: implied past rape/noncon

Death of Convenience by WilsonTheMoose:

It should have been easy. Wendigos are no joke but daylight slows them. The weather's been unpredictable though and perfect, idyllic hunts don't exactly stay that way where they're concerned. Or Sam has one card to play and never stops to think that Dean would care if he killed himself.

CW: suicidal ideation, references to suicide

Echoes of Hell by The_Nightbreaker:

It wasn't real. He wasn't in Hell anymore. That's what he tried to tell himself over and over. But two centuries of torture don't disappear in a day. Sam struggles with visions of Hell, fighting to maintain his grip on reality. Dean hates that he can't protect his brother from what isn't real—but curse him if he doesn't try. When the boys stumble on a case with ties to the Devil himself, will they be able to pull themselves together in time to stop the sacrifices? Or will the echoes of Hell finally overtake them? Aka, season 7, but the plot is Hell trauma, not leviathans.

CW: suicidal ideation

Evening Shadows by withthekeyisking:

Sam is hallucinating the monster who tortured him for nearly two centuries, Dean feels like he's failing his brother, and a diner waitress bears witness.

CW: past rape/noncon

Everything Dies Given Time by Lise:

AU from 5.03. Sam discovers something wrong with himself, and learns to live with it. Only a lot less functional.

CW: suicide/temporary character death

The Freedom to Be Loud by jribbing:

It hadn’t occurred to Dean that maybe Sam remembered so much about that little nowhere town because something memorable had happened there.

CW: referenced past rape/noncon

golgotha by redskyatmorning:

There’s a vacancy on the throne of hell, and Sam is desperate enough to save Dean from Michael’s possession to give into the abyssal depths of his own darkness.

Head Space by ameliacareful:

A witch curses Sam leaving him blind, deaf, and bedridden. Left with only the inside of his own head and the occasional touch, Sam begins to unravel.

CW: suicidal ideation

Hiraeth by inkandpaperqwerty:

(n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past "Dean... I made a really big mistake." For a second, Dean actually thought things were going okay. He was out of Hell, Sam agreed to stop drinking demon blood, they had just wrapped up a successful hunt... for once, everything was okay. And then it wasn't. "I overdosed." Not at all.

CW: suicide attempts, suicidal ideation

if i could leave (i would've already left) by serendipity0930:

“I have a mission from God for you,” the Angel whispers to the man. “It is time for you to do what you were born to.” The man’s face twists into a smile, delighted over being chosen by Him, a purpose from God digging into his heart, carving out a place to fester. “Hunt.” ... 05x03 AU where Zachariah is even more determined to keep the brothers apart and hunters are all too willing to take Lucifer's True Vessel off the board for good

CW: referenced suicide

It's A River (But Not In Egypt) by Lise:

He's still a liar. Maybe always has been.

CW: toxic Sam/Lucifer dynamics

Kindred Instruments by PinBitch:

They’re in a tug of war and Sam is the rope. He doesn’t need to be alive for that. OR Sam dies in detox, being flung against the walls of a metal box will do that to you. Dean and Ruby pick up the pieces.

CW: temporary main character death, permanent supporting character death

lazarus trick by katsidhe:

Sam's alive, so everything is gonna be okay. 13.22 coda.

Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence by Lise:

Sam's back. He's in one piece. That's the problem.

CW: self-harm

love is like ghosts by redskyatmorning:

I’m poison, Dean had said instead of I’m sorry. Well, Sam wants to say, what does that make me? What the hell does that make me? (A look into Sam's mind in the aftermath of the Gadreel possession.)

The Other Brother by RadioFriday:

Sam and Adam are pulled from the cage at the same time. Sam is not right, and Adam, stuck as his caretaker, is not pleased.

Oxygen by inkandpaperqwerty:

“Cas! Cas, please! Please, answer me! Cas!” Castiel ignores Dean for several minutes, but then Dean gives him an opening that might help him complete his mission. So, he goes to investigate, and what he finds is a very bloody, nearly dead Sam. Dean tells him where the injuries came from, and Castiel quickly becomes confused. It doesn't make sense, but Dean tries to explain it to him, and slowly... Castiel begins to understand.

CW: suicide attempt

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc by AmberSock:

Sam waits, kneeling, for his execution. What if Dean hadn't missed?

CW: temporary character death

Safety In Distance by GalaxyThreads and SpiritClusters:

The Mark of Cain is a brand of violence. Sam was an idiot to think that he'd be exempt from it, just because he and Dean are siblings.

sometimes a kind of singing by adi_rotynd:

Sam gets cursed. They're dealing with it. Jack can see souls. That one they're not dealing with quite as well.

CW: past referenced rape/noncon

Soul Windows by GalaxyThreads and Spirit Clusters:

A few months after his birth, Jack learns how to see souls. Then he comes to a realization about the Winchester brothers, Sam in particular, and it's not a pleasant one. (gen)

Starry Night by keepcalmsmile:

Sam attempts suicide-by-monster. Dean tries to help. It sort of works...until it doesn't.

CW: suicide attempts, suicidal ideation

such fragile, broken things by The_Bookkeeper:

Sam wishes that Dean would just get it over with already.

The Tale of Sir Galahad by keepcalmsmile:

Sam once said he could never be clean like Sir Galahad. Dean assumed he was just talking about the demon blood. Turns out, Sam was talking about something else too. WARNING: Extended discussions of the aftermath of rape and childhood sexual abuse (but NO description of the actual events). Happy(ish) ending, but potentially very triggering.

CW: past rape/noncon, mentioned CSA

They Hammered in His Teeth by jribbing:

Sam has a secret.

CW: suicidal ideation

today's troubles (are history tomorrow) by a_good_soldier:

"It's not really something I know how to share," Sam had said. In which Dean figures he ought to help Sam out a bit.

Touch and Go by themegalosaurus:

Tag to 9.19 (Alex Annie Alexis Ann) in which Dean realises why, exactly, Sam is so angry about what happened with Gadreel.

trust fall by ad_castra:

“I’m nothing like you,” Sam hisses. Nevermind relating to the anguish of going it alone. Nevermind that he knows what it is to be strapped down and forcibly cleansed against his will. Sam wonders if these trials are purifying Crowley as well.

Words Like Glass by broken_cinders:

Dean never figured the cage wouldn't leave a mark. He was prepared for memories, flashbacks, and nightmares. He wasn't expecting the words Sam brought back with him or the way they made him seem just a breath beyond Dean's reach.

Wound and Unwound by fascra:

Sam stops eating spring of his freshman year.

CW: eating disorder

wincest (dean/sam)

Brittle by thecapn:

Sam Winchester has an eating disorder.

CW: eating disorder

Don't You Cry No More by sixtysevenlmpala (schittyfic):

The first time Sam gets badly hurt on a hunt, he doesn’t cry. Dean does.

Fall On Your Knees by dollylux:

Sam doesn't quite make it home on the last day of school before winter break.

The Fall Will Probably Kill You by killabeez:

Set between 7.04 and the aftermath of 7.07. Dean is not as okay as he'd like you to think. Neither is Sam.

CW: self-harm

Feels so good to feel again by Trojie:

The pain keeps Lucifer at bay, at least to start with.

Follow In Your Form by withthekeyisking:

Sam is hallucinating Lucifer in the wake of Cas bringing his Hell Wall crashing down. To make matters worse, it seems like this has his dormant powers flaring back to life.

Last Temptation by merle_p:

Sam is running a fever again, the kind of fever no Ibuprofen or cold compress will bring down, the kind of fever that is eating him up alive, eviscerating him from the inside. He is too hot and too cold and too pale, delirious and shaking, resonating with whatever divine energy the trials are subjecting him to, and Dean is not sure how much longer he can stand to see him be in this state. Because Sam is quite possibly dying, and there is nothing Dean can do to stop it. Because Sam is dying, and he just. Won’t. Shut. Up.

CW: mentioned past rape/noncon

leeches by Anonymous:

Sam discovers a spell to make everybody forget him. He’s convinced it’s for the best. Pre-Stanford.

CW: attempted kidnapping/torture

Make Thick My Blood by themegalosaurus:

“You’re going to kill me, Dean,” Sam says, eventually. And all Dean can say is, “I think I am.” A season 10 AU, set after 10x14 ('The Executioner's Song'). Cas finds a solution that might cure the Mark of Cain; but if they're going to go through with it, Sam has a terrible price to pay.

CW: mentioned past rape/noncon

Prophecy of an Abomination by ashitanoyuki:

Sam is kidnapped by fanatically religious hunters and crucified. Coming back from this won't be easy. Canon-divergent from midway through season 2.

Recall by De_Nugis:

Sam's having a hard time telling what's real and what isn't, especially when it comes to some voicemails from Dean.

The Room Upstairs by brokenlittleboy:

Sam comes back from hell, but he’s inside-out and all wrong, and Dean can’t fix him.

CW: mentioned past rape/noncon

Ruin You (and its companion fic Worth) by Mumble_Bee:

Cole fucks Sam with Demon!Dean watching from a devil's trap, snarling that anyone would dare touch what was his. “I told you I don’t care what you do to his face or his blood or his fucking nose,” Dean growled, “but you put your dick anywhere near him and I will end you.” “Better hurry up then, Dean, because I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

CW: explicit rape/noncon

Snowed In by HelloStarlingFics:

When working a case, Sam and Dean get stuck out in a shack in the woods when the snow comes in hard and fast. Trouble is, Sam’s hated the cold ever since the Cage. Time for Dean to step up and look after him.

Wake by minchout:

Gadreel has had Sam for four years, and Dean, lost in guilt and obsessed with finding a way to get his brother back, has isolated himself in a cabin in the Missouri Ozarks with nothing but the woods, a stray dog, some chickens, and all the books the Men of Letters had to offer to keep him company. Then Sam shows up one day without his passenger, and Dean learns quickly that it doesn't matter that Sam is with him again - there is still a lot of work to be done before they can find their way back to each other.

Wanting to Forget by morganaDW (morgana07):

1-shot. S1 fic. After getting Sam freed from the Benders Dean thinks all he has to cope with is some bruises and cuts. He learns quickly just how wrong he is when Sam wakes up with a nightmare, reliving his brief but bad captivity in every detail. Sam just wants to forget & Dean has to try to get him to let him help. Will one night of cruelty and pain ruin what’s been formed between them?

CW: referenced past rape/noncon

when I wake up I'm afraid, somebody else might take my place by quake_quiver:

Sam doesn’t remember the last time he cried for Dean like he did that night. And now it’s been…two weeks. Maybe more. Sam is tired, and in pain, and starting to doubt that Dean’s going to show up. He’s weak and shaking from a combination of constant pain and hunger. Sam longs for Dean. Dean would make it better. Dean would fix it.

CW: rape/noncon, body horror

Wire Inside Me by merle_p:

There are a lot of things Sam hates about his current condition, to the point where he sometimes feels for the gun under his pillow at night, blindly toys with the safety, imagines pressing the muzzle into the underside of his chin and pulling the trigger just to make it stop. But there’s nothing he hates as much as the shadows he sees in Dean’s eyes whenever his brother is looking at him these days. It’s not an expression he remembers ever seeing before, but Sam thinks it’s probably something like revulsion. Horror. Disgust. What else could it be.

CW: referenced past rape/noncon, body horror, forced pregnancy

Worth (and its companion fic Ruin You) by Mumble_Bee:

Episode 10x01 "Black" where Dean is a human, and very, very, pissed off to hear someone has hands on his brother. “It’s nothing personal,” Cole whispered into Sam's ear, too quietly for Dean to hear, “but I need to kill your brother, and I need him off his game when he gets here. I don’t wanna hurt you, kid, but I’m going to, anyway. I’m going to hurt you a lot."

CW: explicit rape/noncon

you'll never see us again by according2thelore:

Then finally, his eyes trail over to Dean. His pupils are pin-point thin, and his hair is straggling in his face so Dean can’t see most of what expression lies there. Sam usually wakes up from nightmares in one of three attitudes: confusion, fear, or calm. A scary, sense-prickling calm that Dean hates more than anything else. Resignation, almost. Or: Sam suffers from nightmares and touch starvation post-Cage. They do their best to deal.

other Sam/Lucifer noncon

Cage Fight (No Way To Do This Right) by Dyed_Red:

Sam’s visit to the cage is already going awry, but Dean’s one-man rescue ends up skidding it sideways into territory neither him or Sam are ready for. (Gratuitous episode scene re-write. If Cas hadn’t come till after, if he hadn’t been there yet when Dean ran down to the 'parole' cage after hearing Sam scream - how bad could it have got for the brothers before he made it?)

CW: graphic rape/noncon

Into Being by withthekeyisking:

When Sam wakes up in the cave on Apocalypse World after having been killed by vamps, it's not just to find Lucifer there with him. It's to find him in him.

CW: graphic rape/noncon, necrophilia, forced pregnancy

Reggie/Tim/Sam noncon

a pointless resistance for you by withthekeyisking:

Sam doesn't know how long he's been with Tim and Reggie by the time Dean shows up and tries to take him out of there. Long enough that's he's already lost one baby and is pregnant with the next. Long enough that this life is starting to feel like all he knows.

CW: graphic rape/noncon, forced pregnancy & miscarriage, victim blaming

screaming birds sound an awful lot like singing by withthekeyisking:

Sam has done his best to move past what Tim and Reggie did to him, pretending it never happened at all. But running into them again makes that very difficult—especially when Dean gets involved.

CW: referenced past rape/noncon

Waste 'Em All by withthekeyisking:

When Tim and Reggie try to force the demon blood down Sam's throat, he spits it back out. He has no interest in being turned into their own personal attack dog. They don't...take it well.

CW: explicit rape/noncon

#sam winchester #sam whump #supernatural #supernatural fic rec #wincest

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wangxianficfinder · 4 months

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Canon Divergence pt.2 (general) (pt.1)

~*~

The Scarlet Lotus by rainbowninja167 (M, 137k, WangXian, Marriage of Convenience, Secret Identity, Fix-It, Angst with a Happy Ending, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Canon-Typical Violence, canon-typical war crimes, Yunmeng Bros, the mortifying ordeal of getting seduced by your own husband, nonlinear chronology we die like cql, just kidding nobody dies in this fic, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Miscommunication)

stay, fury, your wrist wrapped in silk by spookykingdomstarlight (E, 228k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, YLLZ LWJ, LWJ loses his golden core, yiling wei sect, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Major Character Injury, Injury Recovery, Temporary Character Death, War Crimes, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Revenge, temporary impotence, growing intimacy)

I Know How Those in Exile Feed on Dreams of Hope by rabbit_habits, saltedpin (E, 474k, WangXian, NieLan, XuanLi, ChengQing, Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Canon-Typical Violence, Presumed Dead, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Political Marriages, Ensemble Cast, minor non-canonical character death, 3zun | Venerated Triad Dynamics, the dynamics are 'UST', Canonical Character Death)

Hand in Hand Together (All Your Life) by sami (T, 41k, WZL/JC, WangXian, Queerplatonic relationship, Implied future MingLi, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon Divergence, Time Travel Fix-It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Slow Burn)

The Dreams of Youth by sami (E, 85k, WangXian, YZY/TLJ, Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Fix-It, Family, Not Lan Sect Friendly, Bad Dads, good dads, JFM's A+ parenting, Qingheng-Jun's F- Existence, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Sort Of, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Some People Live/Not Everyone Dies, Canonical Character Death)

An Elegant Solution by giraffeter (E, 205k, niewangxian, canon divergence, arranged marriage, friends to lovers, fix-it, everyone lives au, courtship, polyamory, smut)

🧡 Stunted, Starving Juvenility by TomatenMark (E, 742k, WangXian, WIP, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Feelings Realization, Getting Together, Sexual Tension, Supportive LQR, Light Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, WWX learns about his parents, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, LWJ is confused, Then he is 100 percent on board, Kink Discovery, Kink Exploration, Bisexual WWX, Dual Cultivation, Slow Burn, Fix-It of Sorts, Not JFM friendly, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Blood and Gore, Supportive LXC, Protective LXC, Canon Divergence, Inventor WWX, Eventual Smut, Possessive LWJ, Genius WWX, Cultivation Sect Politics, Scheming NHS, Cultivation Discussion Conferences, Pre-Sunshot Campaign, Minor Character Death, NHS gets himself a beard (not the facial kind), POV WWX, Fluff and Smut, Burning of the Cloud Recesses)

🔒Instead by apathyinreverie (T, 27k, wangxian, fix-it, darker gusu lan, manipulative elders, but in a good way?, golden core transfer fix-it of sorts, not Jiang friendly, or anyone friendly, except wangxian, cultivation world critical, fluff, sunshot, politics, courting rituals, genius WWX, no demonic cultivation, talismans, possessive LWJ, protective LWJ, WIP)

no step had trodden black by Stratisphyre (T, 32k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Madam Lan lives, Past Rape, Golden Core Reveal, Hurt/Comfort, References to Attempted Suicide and Suicidal Thoughts, Canon-Typical Violence)

to hell and back for you by blumeraki (G, 5k, WangXian, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Universe, Protective WWX, Protective LWJ, Everything Hurts, Implied/Referenced Torture, Hurt WWX, Hurt LWJ, Branding Iron, Whipping, discipline whip, jc saves the day, Canon Divergence)

these colours fade for you only by doodlebutt (T, 36k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everybody Lives, Golden Core Transfer Fix-It, ...eventually, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, bed sharing, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Sunshot Campaign)

🔒 Blossoming flowers in a full moon - 花好月圆 by ThisIsWhereTheMagicHappens (T, 64k, wangxian, canon divergence, happy ending, fix-it of sorts, wangxian cuddle to immortarility)

🔒🧡 rain falls and soaks into the earth series by RoseThorne (T, 53k, WangXian, WIP, Near Death Experience, Attempt Drowning, Madam Yu Bashing, Recovery, No war AU)

Ties series by WithBroomBefore (M, 15k, NMJ/WQ, wangxian, canon divergence, fix-it, not everyone dies au, family feels, no golden core transfer, sect leader JYL, canon typical violence, sick fic, trans NMJ, sunshot campaign, WQ pov, happy ending)

🧡 Company by WithBroomBefore (T, 29k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Pre-Relationship, Getting Together, POV LWJ, Fix-It, Pre-Canon, at least to start, WWX goes to Cloud Recesses, But Not In The Usual Way, fear of character death, Everybody Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Light Angst, good teacher LQR, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, brief discussion of past minor character suicide, Kitten, Not YZY Friendly)

The Devil That You Forgot by pottedplnt (Not Rated, 20k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, BAMF WWX, YLLZ WWX, Rogue Cultivator WWX, WWX Isn't Adopted by the Jiāngs, Angst, Sentient Burial Mounds, Demonic Cultivation, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Sunshot Campaign, Chronic Pain, JFM and YZY Bashing, Bad Parent YZY, Jiāng Family Bashing)

To Ride A Stygian Tiger by Madyamisam for Duochanfan (M, 111k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Time travel, Angst with a happy ending, BAMF WWX, Dark LWJ, Slow burn, Family Feels, Misunderstandings)

Those Who Defy by qurbat (G, 31k, wangxian, LWJ & LSZ & WWX, canon divergence, found family, everyone who matter lives au, justice for wen remnants, WIP)

Cultivating immortality by KizuKatana (E, 231k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Rogue Cultivator WWX, Mutual Pining, BAMF WWX, BAMF LWJ, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, unreliable narrator, Found Family, First Time, novel canon relationship dynamics)

🧡 a paper friend by soft_wanning (G, 4k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Fluff, Paperman!WWX, Identity Porn, Meet-Cute, Different First Meeting)

❤️ By Any Other Name by ShanaStoryteller (Not Rated, 31k, Wangxian, Canon Divergence, Crossdressing, Misunderstandings, Identity Porn, Identity reveal)

Heart of the Beast by WaitForTheSnitch (E, 386k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Protective NMJ & NHS, Soft NMJ, Pining LWJ)

A Good Placement by madwriter223 (T, 12k, wangxian, Canon Divergence, What if YZY had been the one to find WWX AU, Emotional Manipulation, Lies, Street Child WWX, Fluff and Angst, OOC but YZY is doing that on purpose, Found Family, itty bitty Wangxian, Bittersweet Ending)

Until The End by abCEE (M, 365k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, war changes people resulting to OOC, no Pining, Established Relationship, wangxian are married and have a son, Mpreg, Good Uncle LQR, a little grey LWJ, a bit of JC bashing from LWJ, BAMF JYL, 16 years of yearning, mainly CQL verse but has scenes from the novel as well, LSZ is WangXian's Child, WWX Has a New Golden Core, Canonical Character Death -WWX, Canon Rewrite, Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts)

🔒❤️ shades of grey by cl410 (M, 58k, nielan, wangxian, Hurt/Comfort, Accidental Sibling Acquisition, Single Dad NMJ, NHS & WWX Friendship, Fluff, Humor, Happy Ending, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Protective NMJ, Some angst, Blood and Injury, Kidnapping, Protective Siblings, Found Family)

🔒Dear Fellow Traveler by Netrixie (Not Rated, 13k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alive WWX parents, immortal BSSR and family being rogue cultivators together, meet cute, travel partners falling in love, Flirting, Yearning, Sharing a Bed, Fluff, Sweet, good parental figures only, Pre-Relationship, Getting Together)

🧡 close your eyes, feel my heartbeat by ThatDesiGirl (T, 11k, WangXian, blind!WWX, Angst with a Happy Ending, Rewriting Canon, not a fix-it but a what-if, Golden Core Transfer)

🧡 Resplendence by FrozenMarVel (E, 166k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, CS Lives, Different first meeting, Fluff, Crossdressing, Love at first sight, Fix-it of sorts)

🔒Wújī by FairyTaleDreams (M, 55k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, WCZ & CS Lives, Rouge cultivator WWX)

you can have the best of me, baby by stiltonbasket (Not Rated, 12k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Pre-Relationship, Dual Cultivation, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Sunshot Campaign, Getting Together, a-yuan is wangxian's baby, Happy Ending)

There are (no) (un)written rules by Winxhelina (T, 33k, WangXian, Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, madam yu is madam yu, Misunderstandings, Angst and Humor, Mutual Pining)

You don't have to go home (there's a long way to go) by AmiraAlzilu (M, 28k, WIP, WangXian, XuanLi, not Jiang friendly, Jiāng Family Bashing, Fluff and Angst, Family Feels, WWX Has a Family, Getting to Know Each Other, Getting Together, BAMF WWX, Self-Reflection, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Fix-It)

🔒 the thread may stretch or tangle but it will never break by RoseThorne (E, 91k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Soulmates, Self-Esteem Issues, Fix-It, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, PTSD, Handfasting, Panic Attacks, Getting Together, First Time, Aftercare, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, /Referenced Torture, Scars, Chronic Pain, Golden Core Reveal, First Time, Switching, sex-related injury, LWJ Stays at the Burial Mounds, LSZ is a Wèi, Good Sibling JC, Dissociation, Burial Mounds Settlement Days)

#Wangxian Fic Rec #The Untamed #wangxian #MDZS #wangxianficfinder compilation post #long post

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alavestineneas · 3 months

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The star reborn

pairing: young!coriolanussnow x fem!reader summary: But most importantly, her eyes. Bloodshot. Sharp. Intelligent. The eyes he tried so hard to ignore, the eyes he will undoubtedly try as hard to forget—they are his eyes, even if the colour is different. Inside them, there's nothing of the person he painted or conditioned her to be—those eyes are neither of prey nor of a sheep. No, the dreamy, unblinking orbs are the curved mirrors reflecting the truth he fears to control. warnings: canon-typical violence, narcissism, character death, implied sex, implied/referenced suicide word count: 3,5K

PART 1 IS HERE

author's note: hiiii! chapter 2 is finally here!! please let me know what you think of it in the comments - I did leave my comfort zone a little with this one. also, it is kinda angsty - be sure to be in a right headspace before reading it. Love you - enjoy!!

The lights above her head shine with dull, warm colours, casting their heavy shadows on the green, heavily painted walls. The silver lining of the ceiling opposes almost sickening stuffiness. YN's eyes follow it through half-opened lids: hot and cold, the contrast so vibrant it hurts already irritated senses. Was it alcohol? The half-full bottle of sugary liquor stood as if trying to hide, beside the gigantic bed. It couldn't be; her body was long used to the fire spreading through its small canals. The feeling, although equally unpleasant, was different—like a hidden bruise she took too long to notice, its purple hands stretching down her abdomen.

It was supposed to be just a one-time thing, a job she could handle without any complaints—like she did every time. Maybe it was, but soon one time turned into twice a week, then whenever he felt like it. It was good, sensing the want, and need every time his figure appeared at the doorframe—almost too good. Staining her lips with taste, his taste, sending her head round and spinning. A twisted carousel with countless bed sheets, counters, and extravagant salons of the latest cars instead of smiling animal figures.

Coriolanus's breath was hot on her skin; his whispers marked it with unreadable praises that YN knew he didn't mean—they still landed right on her chest, sinking their way into her lungs and clouding the air her brain desperately needed. He curses and swears, so far from the professional persona he puts on every time he finishes. The feeling of cold, long fingers on her hips pulling YN's body closer turned into electric-like impulses, crashing into her flesh and mixing with the rhythm of her poor, booming heart.

It's easy to guess the patterns of his movements, his broad shoulders covering almost the entire room from her eyesight—a minute more, and all of YN's vision would be taken by the knitted blonde brows and silk-like lips. Coriolanus's eyes draw motifs on her bare body, drinking everything down to the slight twitches of her legs, but never meeting her own. She almost feels sad about the fact; after all, she deserves to see how they grow dark, changing from sky-like blue to almost sapphire, heaving along with his breathing.

His hand changes its position, clasping YN's throat instead of the bedframe. It's brutal and animalistic to feel him holding onto the last bits of self-control to not let his guard down completely, in an attempt to regain the power back. YN closes her eyes—the sensation of his trembling limb is poisoning her insides with the sweetest taste of fear. The heartbeat in her temples, echoing in the empty chamber of her chest—the tempo of prey running from its hunter, the pace of the chase of an illusive prize. She feels Coriolanus twitch, the grip tightening along with her before finally relaxing. Caught. Eaten.

She doesn't mind the feeling of heaviness his body seems to plant in her own; he lays his head near, chest rising and falling, the smug, satisfied ghost of a smirk lingering on his swollen lips. YN doesn't remember when exactly she became content with it; it seems something inside of her has always craved him. Coriolanus squints his eyes under the light of the ceiling lamps, but all she sees is a wolf. A hunter sizing up the sheep before sinking his white, pearly teeth in the soft waves of flesh. Now, he is full, although no one knows for how long. YN guesses the hunger never entirely goes away.

Hers doesn't. She devours until she's sick, and does it again, again and again. His touch is too much, and YN wants to leave, hide, and scrub it off until her fingers bleed—and at the same time, she craves it more than anything. If he is a hunter, what does that make her? Prey. Deer. But does the prey have teeth as sharp as she does? Does she bite as often, tearing her way to survival? Maybe, and maybe not—YN is never in the habit of putting a label on her head and eating at it until there is nothing left of her but a hollow shell.

''Is there something wrong?''

YN almost cringes at the sound of her voice; its sound travels the room, circling the bed she was lucky to call her escape before finally landing on the tip of Coriolanus's tongue. He doesn't turn to her, taking in the ball of nerves she called a question before answering.

''The reviews of Games become more and more disappointing—game makers, although they change each other quickly, don't bring anything new. People don't want to watch.''

The hum of understanding escapes YN's dried lips before she can think twice about it. Coriolanus leaves her mind a dessert, an arena she thought she left behind, left as a victor, making her fight for existence once more. His next words prove it.

''You gave a show with all the weaponry skills, especially because they aren't typical for your district. How?''

She shouldn't feel pride in what sounded more like an interrogation, but YN never liked to do as she should've—that's why her naked body is now interwoven with his, the rising heartbeat in her ribcage sending waves to his fingertips. ''I trained with stones and butter knives. When you learn how to kill a bird with them, the human body is nothing.''

Coriolanus chuckles, the deep vibration resonating against her head on his chest. ''Impressive. But why risk getting caught preparing for something that might never happen to you?''

Maybe it's the way his hands draw circles around the lines of her neck, or maybe it's the way the lights flicker, but the slumped words from YN's mouth become more difficult to pronounce. ''You see the games as punishment, but the real punishment is life outside them—the arena is a golden ticket, and to compete is a privilege. Once more people get that into their heads, they will fight to even have a chance to put on a show for you. Of course, if you turn a blind eye to the preparations: can't impress with excessive knowledge of gemstones or fabrics, can you?''

His silence could've meant a lot to people who didn't know better, but the slight, almost invisible nod of the blonde-crowned head suggested understanding. If YN had been a little more attentive, she would've noticed the subtle shift in his pose. That way, the voice booming into her ear wouldn't have caught her by surprise.

''Turn on your stomach.'' Coriolanus only commands, and never asks. His pale cheeks are not yet free from colour, and the glimmer in his eyes reeks of determination.

YN wants to refuse; she wants to open her mouth and bite him right where a vital vein pulsates on his neck, draining the life force mixed with the scent of his bitter cologne. She doesn't; she hides her teeth in the silk pillowcase, its soft fabric making a home in her opened mouth. It wasn't the closure she craved, but YN knew better. You take what you can get, and with Coriolanus, you take what he gives. She needs to be adored, to be worshipped—he turns a blind eye to her every time he gets what he wants. Maybe that's what she gets for loving a man like him—he knows she is just a woman and tolerates her despite that. In the end, it doesn't really matter; he is still a god, and she is still on her knees, begging until they grow raw.

It was harmless fun at first to have her around. In addition to his small collection, a limited edition of the human she was—the whole world underneath her pretty heel, her eyes only on him. It fed his ego; Coriolanus will admit that much. Like a golden watch on his left hand or a new-tinted car, YN revolved around him. An ode to status, a testament to his power. But all things have to end—the lights are turned off after the long day of work, and the plates are cleaned after dinner.

He watches the buildings change rapidly, their warm windows mixing with tall structures of concrete. Even now, in a silent car, he finds their ever-changing looks captivating—the city jungle is never asleep, its loud voices covering the streets with a thick coat of isolation. Among men, he still stood alone. Undefeated. Victorious. Coriolanus doesn't bother to turn to the woman beside him. He played this conversation in his head too many times; now, there is nothing of the initial curiosity that used to sparkle. ''I think it would be better if we stopped seeing each other; the press is too relentless, and it's becoming dangerous for our image.''

He doesn't even have to come up with something plausible—rumours are circling of a ''new mysterious man" who was seeing the Panem's favourite star. But no one suspected it was him, and even if they did, who would dare to question him? The reason behind his decision is less poetic—the one he is somewhat reluctant to admit, even to himself.

''What?''

Her voice cuts the air, pulling Coriolanus out of his thoughts. He almost feels her figure tense up, her manicured hand gripping a stunning purse with all the power she has. It looks like claws, which he notices with humour. He imagines the same nails digging into the skin on his back, just like they did a few nights ago; the feeling sends a pleasant wave down his spine. ''You will continue with modelling and photoshoots, just like before. It even might be better—there are a couple of new projects I want you to take on.''

''Do these ''projects'' include other men that you promised to keep me safe from?''

She is mad. Coriolanus, it seems, tastes the venom dripping from her painted lips on his tongue, its bitter acids burning his throat. Maybe it's that lingering sensation, or maybe it's the air conditioning in the car—his body grows a little hot, and his head turns a lot more annoyed. He swallows; the car is almost at the mansion's driveway. A few more minutes and a starch of fresh air will get to his lungs.

YN doesn't wait for the car to fully stop; she opens the door abruptly and closes it right in his face, her boots stomping on the expensive lawn, leaving small holes in the green scenery. Her long coat flies as she walks, ignoring the shouts he throws her way. The wind, or him, leaves her eyes watery; the thick black mascara is already smudging and creasing under her beautiful lashes.

''YN! YN, wait! Woman, why won't you stop for just a fucking second?''

She doesn't answer, pushing through the buttler into the huge hall and throwing the leather bag onto the grand staircase. Fleeing, escaping—the actions stir something in Coriolanus—a mixture of anger and strange excitement. He grabs her by the shoulder, showing her back, but YN twists away, turning to face him instead.

''Why won't I stop? You are planning on leaving me, on selling me like a used car, and you have the audacity to ask me to stop?''

''YN, darling, let's just quit shouting for a second; you are overreacting.''

''Me?'' Her eyes are mad, maniac—nothing of the stoic beauty he is so used to enjoying. She yells, backing her way into the living room and throwing anything that gets under her hand at him. Coriolanus watches as the books, vases, and small statues fly over and into him, crashing against the walls and crashing into small pieces. ''I am overreacting, asshole? I have given you everything I had, every fucking piece of me that you wanted, and now you demand that I stop?''

He only plants his feet and abandons chasing her when the coffee table is in her hands, its golden lining matching the buttons on her blouse. Coriolanus lifts his hands in surrender; they both know she is not above launching it at him. So, he leaves her be.

YN's figure slides down the wall, her body trembling with anger and cries. They echo inside his head, a strange melody of defeat and desperation. Coriolanus watches her from a safe distance on the sofa, his head resting against the soft pillows. He can wait—this is likely the last time he gets to admire the beauty the world has graced her with.

The carefully styled hair that now resembled nothing of its original form, the freshly applied makeup that now streaked across her face. Even the way her neck bends to allow her a better view of him. YN's gaze follows his every move—it seems one wrong step—and the newly bestowed stillness will flee from his grasp again.

But most importantly, her eyes. Bloodshot. Sharp. Intelligent. The eyes he tried so hard to ignore, the eyes he will undoubtedly try as hard to forget—they are his eyes, even if the colour is different. Inside them, there's nothing of the person he painted or conditioned her to be—those eyes are neither of prey nor of a sheep. No, the dreamy, unblinking orbs are the curved mirrors reflecting the truth he fears to control. Coriolanus desires her; Coriolanus requires her; and if there is a want, there is a need. That's why he doesn't wish to see her anymore; if he does, she will eat him alive.

''Don't leave me,'' YN's voice is a siren's call, softer than any other sound. She crawls to him, carefully placing her head on his lap, searching for something, anything, on his face.

''You should get help, darling, for a little bit. What do you say? A nice place near the mountains—just a few months to wait for the press out.''

YN looks up at him, her face deprived of any emotion. ''Promise you will have me back?''

Coriolanus just nods, his large hand running down her back. The matter is already decided. He is not safe just because he owns her. If YN feels like it, she will stain her mouth with his blood, too.

''Hi Maggie!''

YN's voice booms through the speaker of the phone Mags holds tightly to her ear; finally, her friend is allowed to answer her calls. ''Hi! How are you? Are they feeding you well?''

That's probably not true—the mental health institutions have a history of underfunding, but Mags hopes Mr President was kind enough to choose a better place for his ex-mistress. She wasn't shocked when she heard of YN's mental breakdown; on the contrary, Mags thinks the hospital is just what her friend might need—the life of a victor isn't all glamour.

''Good enough! You know I can't put on too much weight; the designers won't forgive me for that!''

She sounds happy over the phone like this—if she is, Mags is too, no matter how much she wants to cry at the sound of her voice.

''Did he say something about me?''

Mags knows who she is asking about but hesitates to answer. She doesn't have the heart to tell her that the Snow family just announced the pregnancy of his wife, so she does what any good friend would do—Mags lies. ''I don't think so. But! The new law was just put in place—1, 2, and 4 are allowed to train their tributes from now on!''

''Oh, that is wonderful! Maggie, I am so sorry, but I have to go now. I promised I would help with books in the library. But I will call you as soon as I can!''

''I'll be waiting, YN. Be on your best behaviour; I would like to see my best friend soon!''

YN laughs. It's not very clear, but the warmth radiating from it translates definitely. ''I would never leave you, Maggie. Even as a ghost, you will never get rid of me—not for a moment.''

Mags hopes it's true. It's hard being YN's friend sometimes, but no one deserves to be alone in this cruel world. The phone call ends before she can answer; all that is left are long beeps.

The same beeps she is left with after the next call. It is answered by a different voice; this one is more mature and not as lively at all.

''We are sorry to inform you that Miss YLN lost her battle to depression on Friday, the 25th, at…''

Mags doesn't listen after that; she throws the phone across the room, bringing yet another death to delicate machinery. She has no point in keeping it in her house now for a simple, mundane reason: there is no one left to call. That is when the feeling she tried so hard to escape all her life finally nestled in her stomach, swallowing her from the inside. Hatred.

She hates the games, Panem, the Capitol, and the people who live there. Hates newspapers, hates tabloids, and hates interviewers—the people flooding the centre where the funeral is held. She doesn't want to see any of them—to see them cry and hug, whisper and tell long speeches about a person they murdered—YN didn't know any of their names, yet somehow all of them ''grieve with the world at the loss of their dearest friend''. But most of all, she hated the one who didn't even bother to show up, the one who had caused all of this.

Mags doesn't even bother remembering her own pain; it is greatly overshadowed by the cold body of her friend in a coffin she would've hated—nothing bored YN more than simple colours and ''refined tastes''. If Mags could, she would've filled the room with clashy patterns and as many shiny things as possible and served the cheapest burgers one could find in Capitol—just how she liked it. But all she can do is stare at the cold ground and a freshly planted bush of pearly-white roses on top of it. Her hands itch to dig it up, to stomp on it and replace it with something else—she doesn't. YN would've wanted them to stay.

She told her that one time, a year or two after her death—every time she appeared at its anniversary, exactly a month before the reaping. The first time Mags saw her, she thought she was going insane, but then the fear adjusted to never-changing grief. YN was harmless, even kind, although she communicated only with hand gestures—those are the rules, she told her, and rules should be followed.

The sky already grows dark, but YN hasn't shown up yet - Mags is too tired of a long day of teaching in the academy to ponder why. Maybe, after the fifty years that passed since, her friend finally found her peace. If so, Mags is happy for her. She can't wait anymore—the old woman picks up a coat from the locker and puts it on, closing the classroom before starting her journey to the exit.

The halls of the training grounds are empty; all of the children have already gone home. It pains Mags to remember who inspired the careers, and it fills her heart with immense pride at the same time. YN, to this day, is the golden standard of tribute; she is forgotten, neither by the people of Capitol nor by her own. Mags can't even count how many times the young victors of one hesitantly came to her with an old magazine in hand, asking to share something about their idol's life. She would often only smile; those children learned it by themselves sooner than she would like them to, most suffering the exact fate at the hands of the same man. The only thing that brought hope to Mags's heart was her declining health; she was getting older, and so was Coriolanus Snow. And as much as he would like, no one was immortal; he would pay for all the deaths on his hands, she would make sure of that.

''Excuse me, Miss?''

''Yes?'' Mags thinks that she heard it wrong and that her hearing is getting worse. But no—a boy, not younger than fourteen—leaves his spot at the bench near the gates and stands up, coming closer.

''Are you Maggie?'' The childish voice contrasts with the muscular build; the boy is definitely a student. ''I was just practising knots when Miss came up to me and said Maggie could help with that.''

The air leaves her lungs suddenly. Mags grips onto the coat, her hands desperatly in search of the headache pills. It all must just be her imagination, right? But the boy looks real, studying her face in curiosity. ''What woman?'' she finally breathes out.

''I don't know,'' the boy shrugs. ''Not from here. In a pretty white dress with stars on it. I asked her where she bought it, but she just laughed.''

Mags smiles weakly—that does sound like something YN would do. ''Did she say anything else?''

''Yeah!'' The boy beams excitedly, showing a missing-tooth grin. ''She said I will be the brightest star there ever was if I work hard enough!''

''That sounds about right," Mags says, her voice filled with nostalgia. "You know what? Find me tomorrow after your classes - I'll help you with knots. What was your name again?''

''Finnick, Miss. And thank you!'' The boy turns on his feet, not listening to whatever she has to say, and hurries home. ''Bye Miss Maggie!'' he shouts on his way before disappearing in the maze of brick buildings.

An impulse to correct him and remind him that her name is ''Mags'' crosses her mind, but she decides against it. After all, the name was too special to forget. The stillness of the evening lands on Mags' shoulders, and she continues the way to the victor's village. She has a lot to do - the 65th games are starting in a month, and then she will have a chance to finally rest.

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afreakingdork · 4 months

Text

Weak Spot - Chapter 50

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

Do not be afraid! You're alright unlike Don in this week's chapter art by @garbagemilkshake

Warnings: Aged-up Turtles, Romance, Meet Cute, Villain Donatello, Cussing, Crushes, Xenophobia, Fear, Intimidation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Love, AFAB Reader, Vaginal Sex, Sex Rough, Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Teasing, Scent Kink, Sexual Tension, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Marathon Sex, Somnophilia, Bondage, Feral Behavior, Feral Donatello, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Public Sex, Dom Donnie, Human/Turtle Relationships, Turtle Noises, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay

Synopsis: A love story of villainous proportions! Though it hadn’t come easily, as these things rarely do, you found yourself in a whirlwind romance with a handsome and mysterious mutant. His idiosyncrasies had been easy to ignore as attraction grew into something more. However, will love endure when the unknowns about him end up being far darker than you ever considered?

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

Waking had been more of a nightmare than you initially imagined. From the crust of dried fluids to the film in your mouth, extracting yourself from bed was a process of scraping the rust off old machinery. The parts needed a firm scrub with a wire brush and until you could garner that facsimile, you were grinding ancient gears. It was a stumbling affair to the bathroom, where you locked yourself in unintentionally.

Priorities askew, you randomly selected what seemed pressing from the pile and brushed your teeth. Going long over to devastate slept in plaque, you then ambled to the shower to sit under a hot stream. Head to the wall as you had seen in some movies, reenactment was the furthest of your thoughts. Your life was a satisfying one with nothing to mourn and your head was mostly empty until you got a hold of a loofa. Clearing the debris brought clarity and by the time you remembered to wash your hair, you could form thoughts for the day.

Thankful it was officially the weekend, there was late breakfast to attend to and then presumably cleaning. There had been a mishap with the souffles which had dried into the floor even if you had eaten the leftovers in a stupor. Shaking off having eaten a long cold egg dessert, your stomach hadn’t seemed to notice and you finished up. Donned in more than one fluffy towel for the sake of leisure, you came out in what you imagined was a puff of steamy smoke to find your partner still asleep.

Dropping the charade, you crept quietly and got dressed in something comfortable before going to inspect the damage. The desserts had splattered a lengthy stripe that reminded you of the sauce Donnie had once smeared on fancy dinner plates. Giving a moment of silence to fallen comrades, you wondered about the dishes until you turned to find an enormous leaking bundle in the kitchen. Remembering how Donnie had flung the candlelit dinner contents, you glowered at the package.

Without a way to move it without waking your partner, you awkwardly worked around it to grab yourself some breakfast. Emergency rations from the freezer, you gnawed on something meant for busy ease and thought over how to clean. The food smears would need minor soaking and the mess of broken dishes was best stuffed out the window if only there were a dumpster underneath.

Not so lucky on the latter’s front, you sprayed the smears of lost souffle before addressing the bundle. Sat in its sad puddle, you picked lightly at the knot Donnie had made. One of a twist like a balloon, you wiggled it a bit until it started to unravel. Thankful for cotton’s resistance to stay tied, you were slow to release the binds. With only the light clicking of broken dishware, you waited and listened to see if that was enough to wake your partner.

Finding little sound and imagining he’d groan upon waking, you were methodical in gathering up the shards. Nothing had survived the onslaught, so you doubled up on bags to trash the pieces. You then disposed of the entire bundle since it had already done your sweeping for you before returning to now softened souffle residue. Wiping it and the kitchen puddle up, you dusted your hands of the matter and went to rest.

Just as you had found a comfortable position on the couch, you heard an annoyed grunt from across the apartment. Rolling your eyes, you decided to let him have a similar morning to you. As you scrolled, Donnie made a variety of exhausted noises as the land of the conscious was thrust upon him. Repulsion came with a near gag at the state of his body and his footsteps were hurried as he disappeared into the bathroom with a similar locked latch as your own.

His shower started sooner than yours and you almost wondered if he’d brush his teeth amongst the stream. Not something you particularly cared to find out, you ended up closing your eyes and getting close to a doze by the time he emerged. Humidity changing and a clean scent announcing his reentry into the bedroom, you languished in his soap’s smell until he padded into view.

On a mission in the kitchen, he downed an entire pitcher of water before his nose tested the air. Presumably picking up on all the cleaning you’d done, he turned an exhausted, but thankful look on you. Enough to get you on your feet, you moved to greet him properly. He opened himself up as an indication that he would receive you and you buried into the faint dampness that clung to his scales.

Nuzzling into his plastron, a vibration echoed above your head and you blinked wide at the feeling.

Donnie gave a single sharp inhale.

It did nothing to stop the roiling hot tub noise.

The jets continued to rumble.

Feeling your partner’s muscles tense, he tried giving a snort to stop the onslaught. One not the trick, he gave several in quick succession that amounted to only a few hiccups amongst an ongoing churr.

You looked up at him curiously and, in doing so, the noise amplified.

In a swift move, he caught your shoulders and pushed until you were at an arm’s length.

The sound stopped.

Watching him, he studied you with a furrowed brow until he began to reel you back in.

As soon as you got into what you considered his personal space, the churr started right back up.

A tittering excitement ran through you and he shoved you back to the safe distance.

“No, no, no…” His pupils wobbled at the forefront of a spiral.

“It’s cute.” You reached up and cuffed the wrist holding you at bay.

As if tapping into the source, you felt the vibration of his churrs increase through the connection.

You giggled.

The completely wrong sound, he vanished.

“Donnie!” You called out after him and slowly tracked his disappearance.

You found him at the foot of the bed, standing with a pin pricked gaze that swam in sclera whites.

“It's okay…” You ushered, trying to break through his bothered exterior.

“I’ve lost control.” He spoke with a weighty horror.

“Slow down, it’s only been a few minutes.” You held back from getting close as you approached. “Are you up to talking about it?”

A fearful flick from him came with an unsteady in and out of breath. “What to say…?”

“Maybe… explain what a churr is exactly? I’m not sure…”

It took a moment for the information to penetrate, but when it did, he moved to look at you. “It’s a…” He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “A contented… sound as I label it.”

You tried not to let your surprise show.

You didn’t want him to read it wrong.

It wasn't the meaning.

You could surmise as much.

It was the connotation.

Your mind was unusually faster to connect the dots.

If he knew what the sound was then he’d felt it before.

It went against what you knew of his past and you weren't sure what to make of that.

“There’s a worrying amount of extrapolation. Depends on the species. Depends on the sound. Some are too low a frequency to be heard by humans. Some deny its existence. Others tout fiction.” He grit his teeth and rounded the bed for a little more distance.

Now worried you’d jumped to conclusions, you went to clear up confusion. “Have you made it before or is this from research?”

The question wounded him and he had to sit down.

You ached as you waited at the foot of the bed.

“Yes to both…”

“Donnie, I don’t want to judge, but this reaction seems…” You headed toward the window and tried not to see how he’d react. “… a little dramatic?”

“Repercussions!” A snarl escaped him before he slapped a hand over his mouth.

You twisted a hand into the curtain where you’d caught it out of nerves. “Um…”

“This!” With another snap of his teeth, he leapt backwards out of the bed and crossed the room. “Control! These emotions are connected! A precarious balancing act has been disrupted! A leak of contaminants!”

Leaning into the sheers, you pulled the fabric close as you thought. “How you were still holding back.”

“Yes.” He spat.

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know.” He clicked angrily before giving a bitter sigh.

Quiet, you pinched some gauze. “What did you do before?”

“When?” He inspected a dresser.

“The last time you churred.” You felt guilty having been envious of an imagined age old Donnie finding minor comfort in a blanket or something of the sort.

“A few days ago?” He retorted with a daggered edge.

You were taken aback.

His features scrunched up with his own bafflement.

You stood in a confused stand off before you both went to dispel it.

“What are you talking about?”

“Y/N please, it’s been happening for months.”

“Months?!”

“You’ve noticed!” He refused to take a step, but addressed you with the whole of his irritation.

“Noticed what!? You purring like a cat?! I think I’d remember something like that!”

“You didn’t-a cat?!” He hissed against his point. “You’ve said many an inane thing, but that-!”

“It literally shares the same word ending!”

“Turtles don’t have vocal cords! It’s a completely different sound!”

“I don’t know! You talk!”

“I’m a mutant!!!” He roared, throwing his hands up. “I can’t…” He shriveled around his rage. “I can’t do this…” Dropping with abject terror, he bolted for the partition between the bedroom and living.

“Donnie, wait-!” You made it a few steps before the wrap of the curtain held you back. “Damnit!”

A green hand appeared and helped uncoil you.

“Donnie!” You turned on him, but he stumbled away before falling over.

“Stop!” He held his hands up as if you were attacking him.

“It’s okay…” You dropped down to your knees and methodically placed your hand to the ground in a non-threatening way. “It’s okay. I'm not chasing. I'm not going to do anything. I just…”

His eyes flew around your figure and he had one fist raised nervously to his chest.

“You can go. If that’s what you need to do, that’s fine.”

“But…?!” He flared at your silence.

“That’s it.”

“That can’t be it! This is the part where… where…” His mind stumbled over his thoughts and he was left swinging his gaze back and forth as if reading the broken repeating letter on a typewriter.

“I’m not going to pretend I know what you’re going through. Even with everything I’ve seen; I don’t know anything. Nothing at all. I don’t know what you mean by months. I don’t. I wasn’t trying to stop you. I just.. Didn't want you to leave like that. Not running away. I wanted you to know that I’m here for when you're ready and it's okay if you need time.”

“You’re…” He hinged and threw his palms up to press into his eyes. Grunting, he smacked his head a ruthless few times and you helplessly reached you. You couldn't stop the strikes and he slowed only to give a heaved breath. “I need to move.”

“Go. It’s okay. I promise.”

“I’m coming back.”

“I know.”

“Y/N.” He inched back a bit before righting himself.

“Yes?”

“I’m coming back.”

“Donnie, I know. I’m not worried.”

Raised to his knees, he stared and you gave him an encouraging nod.

He took it as strength which he transferred to his legs. Standing a little off balance, he stumbled one step before you watched his legs tensed to leave. Lowering your gaze in case that was keeping him in place, you moved to stand yourself. Coming up found a green foot and a prosthetic still standing across from you and you kept your eyes glued to the floor as you retreated further into the bedroom.

You made it one step before he was around you in a bracing hug from behind.

Only touching a hand to his forearms in return, you felt him give over to a full body churr.

He let it linger until he had to growl himself out of it and in a whoosh of air he was gone.

Waiting a few stale minutes just in case he changed his mind, you trailed to the kitchen to shut the window he’d run from. Leaving it unlocked, you surveyed the kitchen and how it was still clean. He hadn’t gotten to eat and you hoped he’d grab something while out. Knowing that unlikely due to him having disappeared in sweatpants, you sighed and trailed the empty apartment.

Feeling the yearn of movement yourself, there wasn’t anything to do. Having already cleaned and you listlessly walked the apartment without an outlet. Hopeless with a lack thereof, you ended up sitting on your side of the bed. Across from you stood the dresser that Donnie momentarily ran to and you watched a phantom memory of him flinch away from his own anger.

He’d compared his emotions to a leaking package. It didn’t sit right with you, but it felt like a moot point. You thought otherwise. You thought he was making progress. He’d seemed like he was on a steady incline to happiness. Each day he opened up for what you considered his true purpose.

He’d also mentioned otherwise more than once.

He considered you the anomaly and this trend of happiness to not be the true him.

You could have sworn the opposite was revealed, but right now you weren’t sure. You almost felt a form of shock. His set back had occurred without warning. You knew progress wasn’t linear. You knew that there was no inevitability to healing. You knew that each day was simply to be taken in whatever form it could, but that was all knowledge and not done in practice.

When the time came, you’d belittled his meltdown.

Head sinking, the moment of you calling his feelings silly replayed like a haunt.

You deserved the torment of it and swore to yourself that’d be your first apology.

Had you even tried to get through to him?

He’d lashed out, but he’d also be undeniably scared.

You’d registered those emotions and then swiftly undermined them.

Swirling in that distress, you got to your feet.

You needed something in your hands.

Something tangible to manipulate.

You opened a dresser drawer.

In it, you’d never actually put everything back to the way it had been prior to Donnie mixing it up. The system didn't really matter, but for the sake of it, you moved to reorganize. It meant methodically emptying each cabinet and repiecing the collection, but it was better than sitting around berating yourself.

In the grand scheme, it was another known fact that was easy to say and harder to exercise.

Things got messy.

You both were bound to make mistakes.

Neither of you were perfect.

Your underwear had been split between three drawers as of current and you filed them into a tidy row to all go into one.

What mattered was how you handled it.

Things could get heated, but it was how you moved forward that mattered.

As Mikey had said, you could only try to be better.

Scooping up a heavy load of winter clothes that should have been more readily accessible considering the month, you set down the stack only to graze something square. Any oddity in what should have only been cloth, you dismantled the stack to find a rectangular bulge folded up in a holiday sweater. Something ugly once purchased for a party, you unfurled the garment to find a pristine looking white apparel box.

Something you imagined was for fancy dress shirts, you slid your fingers along the edge to find it wasn’t taped shut. Deciding it wasn’t a gift and since it was amongst your clothes, you lifted the lid to find finely folded tissue paper. Another marker of a high price tag, you took care in peeling back the billowy edges. Undressing the wrapping in what felt like a literal sense, you revealed a large swatch of what looked like purple satin. Running a finger over the item found it to be much smoother than you anticipated.

Digit halting, it almost seemed like it was silk and your hand lifted at the possibility. Not knowing how to check, you looked the box over to find it offered no indication of its contents. That meant you’d have to pick whatever this was up and the thought that you could be intruding on something else of Donnie’s reared your head. His gifts weren’t ever something you’d stumbled upon before and it seemed unlike him to have hidden a gift amongst your possessions, let alone ones you would need considering the weather.

Caught though you were vaguely aware you were talking yourself into it, you ghosted over the fabric until you found the top edge. Something that felt like a hem, you pinched at it and finally lifted the object to find out what it was. Having revealed a row of clasps, you turned the garment around to find a sort of skimpy corset. Not traditional of anything you’d seen before, it was the shape of it that caused your head to jar.

With a faint curve to its top edge, it was clear this wasn’t meant to accentuate the chest. It would probably skim across your collar and seemed more for creating a sharp waistline. As it went down, it curved further inward until it tapered into two half moons before finishing up with a squared bottom. The whole created a nearly identical shape to Donnie’s plastron.

Much shorter and something that would absolutely not even reach your mons, you held the garment further away as a blush took your face. It was such an oddly specific creation that it seemed made for you. Eyes flicking down to the box, you saw more traditional lingerie of silk and accompanying lace. An entire set, you traded to the corset for lacy strips and found them to be crotchless underwear. Layer after embarrassing layer, you then found nylon which you identified as thigh highs hooked to what had to be a garter belt. Reaching the end of the ensemble, you revealed a folded slip of paper.

Nabbing it with an anxious ferocity, you flipped the card open.

Might as well lean into the interspecies freak -Coral

Slamming the lid back on the box, a memory sucker punched you.

Two housewarming presents. You gotta find ‘em but when you do you’ll know.

You’d completely forgotten.

You'd found the astronaut, but forgot there was another.

Dropping to squat on the floor, you were torn between rage and mortification.

It had been months.

Did Coral even remember?

Knowing her, she surely did.

You probably hadn't put it together as she hoped, but you’d also found it at the worst possible time.

Rising up in a flurry that stung your knees, you made quick work of burying the set back into its box. Clear and hopefully having not messed it up, you messily folded it back into the ugly sweater before shoving it back into its stack. Toppling all the folded clothes in the process, you groaned loudly as you were forced to slow down. Humiliation setting in, you took your time in the second go around and properly snuck the gift where it had once been. From the outside its placement was unrecognizable and you wondered if Donnie had found it in his clothing shuffle.

Remembering your boyfriend, you stopped short of the wardrobe laid out on your bed.

Was it okay to forget that you wronged him?

Stewing didn’t feel good, but moving on from the subject entirely didn’t feel like the correct route either.

Keeping him in mind like a screensaver, you returned to your original task. With everything laid out, it took less time to put it back where it belonged. The physicality of the space in order, it did little for your mental state. Not something you expected to have been fixed by this anyway, there was a faint sense of accomplishment that you allowed yourself.

Carrying it along, you moved to the living room and threw something familiar on the TV. Animated for your comfort, you watched it for a tepid relief and found it a sort of balm. For turning the unnecessary off, it helped. By the time the credits rolled, you felt little pangs of hunger and remembered you’d eaten the definition of a breakfast on the go. Not balanced and of a low calorie count, you approached a cabinet with the intent to prepare something.

Thinking Donnie could have some when he got back, you pulled out a slow cooker as nothing seemed pressing. Readying ingredients in a lull of silence, you listened to how the knife sliced. A different sound and sensation for whatever ingredient, you threw things into the pot and then added various liquid and spices. Already smelling like a meal, you turned the dial on, placed a lid overtop, and left it to properly simmer. Approaching the late afternoon light streaming through the window, you cracked it and had a final thought that maybe the smell would welcome him back.

Scrolling turned into an impromptu nap and you awoke to the faintest creak of a jamb. Blinking in registration that someone had entered your apartment, you found Donnie’s back to you as he slid the window closed. Framed by darkness, he lingered there and you let the scents of the crock pot wash over you. Sitting up, you rubbed an eye and wondered if you should welcome him back.

He turned and his movement hitched as he saw you.

You rose your hand in a sort of wave.

His gaze dropped along with your heart.

Did he hold it against you?

Stopping the trickle of nerves in your chest, you threw your legs off the side of the couch.

“Smells good.” Donnie spoke, soft and unsure.

“Wanted something easy.” You shrugged, not sure whether to commit.

You heard him give a little hum of agreement.

Did you let it be?

He’d needed time.

He wasn’t ready.

“Donnie-”

“Y/N-”

You both stared openly at one another before smiles grew on your faces. The commonality of you both breaking the ice at the same time had you moving and he went to meet you. Stopping short to prevent the dreaded churr, you gave him an obvious once over. Not necessarily dirty, he had a winter’s musk to him that said he’d been outside a majority of the day.

“Are you cold?” You asked first.

“I’d like to shower.” He seemed almost bashful. “I may have reconstructed a small city's worth of air conditioning units… “

You couldn't help but smile at the image. “Go ahead. Want me to get a bowl ready for you?”

“Please.” He gave a nod that was nearly a bow and excused himself.

Thinking your hunger was still faint, you set his bowl aside for closer to when he’d emerge and scooped yourself up some dinner. Eating it right there, standing in the kitchen, you listened to the faint sounds of water hitting his shell. A vision of him exhausted and letting the heat melt into his sore muscles.

Thinking of the labor he'd put himself through, you lounged in a pinup of him in messy coveralls until you heard the sound of water shift. Scooping out a steaming bowl and stirring the potted mixture to prevent further sticking, Donnie emerged in what you considered his comfort outfit. Not for eye candy, but a full body safety blanket of coverage with baggy sweats and a matching hoodie, he’d approached and you held out his bowl to him. He took it, a utensil, and almost seemed to not know what to do next until he decided to plop down on the couch. There he examined his fork, a tine at a time, before he worked on getting a bite with a little bit of everything.

A culmination, your lips parted in a miming as the meal entered his mouth. Closing around it and a subtraction of his utensil, he sat there with a heated mixture surely burning his tongue. He gave a chuff, remembered himself, and finally picked up eating at a ravenous pace. Consuming yours languidly and watching him from the kitchen, he cleaned his plate before getting up with obvious intent. Moving out of the way, he ladled himself another full portion and scarfed it down right in front of you.

“Careful.” You mused, trying to curtail your smile.

He gave a dismissive grunt as he filled his third bowl.

Finishing yours as he was losing steam, you let him be as you left the kitchen. Immediately faced with a choice of the living room or bedroom, you waffled. It was all pleasantries and as much as you disliked it, you wanted to give him the space he needed to process. Your regrets not nearly as important, you decided farthest was best and flittered toward the partition.

“Y/N.” Donnie addressed just as you were about to pass the threshold.

“Yes?” You slowed and gave a half turn.

“Would you-” He swallowed. “-Could we…?”

Making a full rotation, you faced him.

His gaze fell and he looked ashamed. “Were you… going to bed?”

“No.”

He squirmed in place. “Bathroom?”

“No.” You couldn’t help but laugh a little.

“Something… else?”

“Do you want me to?”

“To?” He shyly met your gaze.

“Be busy. You don’t have to force yourself.”

“That’s not…” He tapered off with a whiny noise in his throat.

“What do you need, Don? Please tell me.”

“Talk. We should… talk.” Flinging his head to the top right, a faint annoyance twitched his lips. “I haven’t prepared to but we should.”

“Donnie, you-”

“No.” His eyes closed. “No avoidant behavior. No indulging me further. I’m… a mess. I don’t… want you to see me like this.” He sneered.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” You took a tentative step forward.

“I’m worried about snapping at you, hurting you. My disposition. These… feelings that are still… vicious.” He made a swirling gesture. “I haven't recaptured them.”

“Container, capture, control, it reminds me of something cartoonish.”

He looked at you with tinged distress.

“Not you.” You clarified. “There’s this trope where someone has to rush to clean up a room so they shove everything into the closet. It looks clean, right? But everything is only shoved out of sight.”

Donnie didn’t react, but you could tell he tracked you as you inched forward.

“There’s always this inevitable moment where the closet opens and everything falls out. There was no way it could stay like that. Those things need to be dealt with.”

“They were.”

You perked up at his voice.

“It was fine… I was…” He looked at you, his lips moving to say something, but his expression broke. “It wasn’t, was it?”

You shook your head, feeling a weepiness seize your throat.

“This is a dangerous change. I’ve explained.” He rounded the kitchen counter, but held onto it like a tether. “I’ve shown enough weakness, going out with you. Openly…” He hesitated before worry pinched his gaze. “Laughing, smiling, I’m sure channels have been alerted. You’re at risk. I’m…”

“When will you be allowed to be you?”

“I won’t.” He sighed as if those were the two words he’d been dreading all along. “I never will. I can get as close as I’m allowed, but there will never be true peace.”

“The churring-”

“Well broken. A final straw. You are incredible.” He was in motion towards you.

You wanted to catch him, but flexed your fists.

He looked over them fondly. “You make me…” A smile broke through his discomfort as he encircled one of your hands.

Near immediately, you heard a rumble waft off of him.

He brought your appendage up and pressed it near his larynx where it vibrated against your hand.

“You are my peace. You set me at ease. I can’t help it. Your being satiates mine.” Catching your other hand, he brought it up for a kiss.

“You said months?”

He smiled into your hand and rubbed it against his cheek. “The sound would start and I would cut it off.”

“I never noticed.”

“You’d look at me…” He studied you with a much more even gaze than the last time this was brought up. “There’d be twitches. You’d feel it.”

“I’m sorry, it must have been involuntary. I didn’t actually know…”

Taking your truth, he gave a saddened smile. “I’d been concerned.”

“About me noticing?”

“Its imminent arrival. It was getting harder to offset. You giving it voice was how I imagined it loosed.”

“’What’s that sound?’”

Closing his eyes, he buried into your hand for what you could feel was your scent. It turned up the volume of his ever-present churr.

“You’re getting better at talking around it.” You stepped a little closer and he accommodated.

“What choice do I have?” He gave a faint groan.

“Think this is like touch before?”

Languishing in your palm, he stubbornly fought to look at you.

“You’re holding back right. Could it be like when we first started touching? If you give into it maybe…?”

“That poses a dangerous precedent.”

“I’m not dismissing that I just-oh!” You pulled free of him only to grab his face. “Donnie, I’m so sorry!”

“W-why?” He stuttered around both his rumbling churr and his face being squished.

“I told you that you were being dramatic! You weren’t! I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t forget this relationship stuff is new to you and it's hard… You’re… You’re such a good partner.” You gave a teary chuckle. “I know, but because of that I sometimes forget.”

He forced his head through your hands so he could properly smile. “Thank you.”

You nodded.

Tucking his fingers into yours he languidly stroked your hold. “You were saying?”

“… That…?”

“Precedent.”

“You really can’t have both?”

“Both?”

“Being able to express yourself how you want without danger.”

“Both…”

“That’s two things.”

“Peace and freedom.” He specified.

“Yes.”

He gave what was almost a sigh and mulled it over. “A herculean effort with no true end. There is no fleeing the choices I’ve made.”

Your gaze dropped.

“They made me. For better or worse. No atonement.”

You gave a single nod.

“United, that falls onto you.”

Looking at him, you smoothed his cheeks with your thumbs.

“Marriage and what comes after. If our family increases. I will never be able to truly let my guard down.”

You stilled.

“Do you still choose me?”

Your lips parted with an instant confirmation, but his thumb pressed into the plump to silence you.

“Think. You’re overly familiar with the repercussions and I can assure you that you’ve only seen a small sampling. Worse may never come, but that doesn’t mean the possibility is nigh.”

His digit held.

“I know your immediate answer. I want you to consider it another way.”

You fluttered your lashes as a go ahead.

“I’m asking if you’ll accept this is what you’ll get of me. You have the whole of me, but you will never see it. You’ll come close and that is a finality.”

He released and you sat with parted lips as his words sank in.

With a little shimmy, he got out of your slack grasp and left you to think.

Hearing him clatter in the kitchen, you knew he was putting dinner away and you finally continued your trek into the bedroom. Sitting on your side of the bed, you looked out at the dresser, now rearranged. In its new old format, it felt a strange comparison to what you’d been told. An unplaced feeling, it was neither sad nor disappointing. A strange fact of life, it was almost something finally given definition that you’d been carrying all along. Settled with its now known knowledge, you felt there were too many running themes.

Donnie approached his side of the bed behind you and you turned.

“Will you stop churring?”

He gave it honest thought. “I will need to find a way to curtail it at every touch.” He rolled his eyes. “What special meaning does something constant have?”

“You're kidding?”

He watched you.

“It’s my second favorite sound!”

“Oh?” He got a knee up on the bed.

“I don’t want to name the first. Someone told me that if I asked about certain noises then there'll be an escape.”

“Sounds like something a moron would tout.” He crawled over to you.

“Can I hug you?”

“Now I know that dummy has clarified this.”

“Part of me will always ask if I remember. To be sure you know it’s always a choice.”

He churred sweetly before reaching you and wrapped you up in his arms.

“It sounds different.” You nuzzled into him and he took you to the sheets.

“I have theories forming.”

“I’m all ears.”

“You’re all nonsense.” He squeezed and you squeaked with a giggle. “You might not have realized, understandably, but today’s noises have been different than yesterdays.”

“When we were having sex?”

He nodded into your hair.

“Does it mean something else?”

“Do you remember what I told you about turtle language?”

“It’s not specific.”

“It’s emotions.”

“You described it as contentment.”

“Imagine it as a word with different meanings based on connotation.”

You wiggled free enough to see his face and brought a hand to his throat. “What's this one say?”

“Content with the sprinkling of desire.”

“Last night?”

He clicked his tongue. “More intangible. There was a certain distracting fog, but devotion and lust.”

You stroke his Adam’s apple. “Clicking is angry. Chirps probably have the most meanings. There’s those squeaky sounds that are usually surprise, but sometimes fear.”

“Very good.” He brushed his lips to your temple.

“Teach me?”

“Am I not?”

“To do it. I want to be able to respond.”

His gaze widened. “Y/N…”

“I've done it before… I… It was something like…” It had been quite a while and done in a stupor, but you summoned your throat as best you could and gave the greeting trill.

The response popped out of him and both of you stared at one another, stupefied.

He rolled you over to crush and you laughed beneath him.

Plied with kisses, you got through a nightly routine glued to one another before resuming the same snuggle where Donnie ran you through chirp after chirp trying to capture some nuance that you weren’t sure your human vocal cords alone were capable of. Growing drowsy, but still giving faint squeaks, he hushed you with a soothing churr that went straight to your eyelids. Lulling them and coaxing you to sleep, you were just about to let go of consciousness when you heard human speech.

“I love you.”

Whispered near silent, he unwound to sleep of his own.

Still adrift, it meant your heart rate couldn’t spike and, though your whole body rallied against it, sleep had you in its hold. Wanting to savor his proclamation even a second more, you waged a mental battle that only allowed you a single prize before granting you a merciful end.

A clarity.

A now known unknown.

He’d been doing this every night in secret for what had to be as long as he’d been churring.

Going into the new year still thankful for my best betas @tmntxthings and @thepinkpanther83

#weakspotfic #rottmnt #rottmnt donnie x reader #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt x reader #donatello hamato #donnie x reader #rise donnie #rise donnie x reader #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt donatello #me #fanfiction #my fanfiction

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dsudis · 1 month

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To Be Brand New: Chapter 16 is up!

Check out all the art by @fishfingersandscarves

To Be Brand New || Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling || Explicit || 16/25 || 89,094 words

Book 7: Brief Lives (The Sandman), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, at least during this story, Age Regression/De-Aging, Slow Burn, like the slowest burn, Like One of Them Is A Pre-Sexual Child for the First 100K, What If The Red String Of Fate Was Also A Toddler Leash, Touch-Starved Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Protective Hob Gadling, Cuddling & Snuggling, Caretaking, Bathing/Washing, Sharing a Bed, Crying, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Illnesses, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Explicit Sexual Content, Masturbation, Not Exactly Loss of Virginity But Kinda?, Implied/Referenced Monsterfucking, Happy Ending

On a rainy day in the Dreaming, Dream of the Endless watches the dreamfolk doting on Daniel Hall, and wishes he could be someone small enough to be loved. Hob Gadling has waited a long time for a chance to be closer to his stranger. This isn’t the way he ever imagined it happening, but he does love nothing better than being surprised.

Please note: The warnings for Depression and Suicidal Thoughts continue to be relevant in this chapter, but we'll be starting to turn the corner by the end.

Chapter 16: "Where is my book?" Dream asked.

[Go straight to Chapter 16 here!]

#the sandman #dreamling #fic #to be brand new #smol dream #de-aged dream #depressed dream #but he's getting better!#eventually!

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deancasbigbang · 6 months

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Magdalena

Author: Mme Yersinia

Artist: Robin

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Dean/Cas, Sam/Rowena

Length: 150000

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, heavy angst, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced suicide, torture, self-harm

Tags: Redemption arcs, slow burn, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Domestic fluff, mutual pining, s13 canon divergent, dysfunctional family, angst with a happy ending, Castiel whump, kid fic

Summary: Castiel swore to protect Jack at all costs. If that means taking him away from the dark dungeon of the bunker and away from the harsh words and hands of Dean Winchester, then so be it. Castiel takes Jack and runs. He finds them a safe town, a battered rental house, a little job and a little life. He wants Jack to have a normal childhood; to grow up safe and loved, not in a windowless basement. Dean tracks them down, of course. He begs forgiveness, of course. Redemption is a long, slow road. It’s paved with ginger cats and broken-down Hondas, stolen kisses and dusty libraries and bathroom repairs. Dean and Castiel find themselves growing closer in the haze of domesticity. Dean moves from sleeping in the car, to the sofa, to Castiel’s bed. It’s not easy to carve out a place for themselves in a world that doesn’t always want them. But strange things start to happen in the home they’ve made. Neighbors complain of shadows in the night. Monsters appear that don’t belong. Coincidences line up. Wherever peace and happiness try to grow, there are adversaries who would snuff it out. The love holding their family together just might be the last weapon they have against the evils of the world.

Link to Fic | Link to Art

#dcbb 2023 #masterpost #2023 masterpost #deancas #destiel

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greetingfromthedead · 3 months

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Tempest Wind Masterlist

Through a destined meeting, Vash found you, a lost soul much like himself, under the weirdest of circumstances, and he made a promise to follow you across any desert. That turns out to lead both of you down a path of self-discovery, love, and hurt. Vash's unlucky shadow drives the two of you from one crisis to the next, but there's nothing you can't overcome together.

Tempest Wind is a 18+ Vash x F!Reader fic with some spice, some gore, a bit of action and a lot of fluff, for added flavor there's angst too ofc.

The rating of 18+ comes mainly from the occasional dark themes and not so much of the smuttiness (as those parts are labeled and can be skipped without it really affecting the story).

NB: The content is mostly Trimax canon-typical violence/gore/themes, but I give warnings and summaries for the heavier chapters and smut so you can skip them if you want!

Tags/CW below the cut!

Tags/CW: Romance, Fluff, Angst, Action, Adventure, Slow Burn, Hurt, Emotional Baggage, Reader-Insert, badass female character, Eventual Smut, Healing, Immortality, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Implied/Referenced suicide, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, powers, Mentions of impregnation, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Experimentation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Canon-Typical Violence, Gun Violence, Blood and Violence, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Established Relationship, Pre-Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Pining, Tragedy, Protectiveness, Pre-Canon, Canon Universe, Injury, Not Beta Read, POV Alternating, Tenderness, Illnesses, Scars, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Caretaking, During Canon, Creature Vash, Angel Vash, Body Horror, Body Worship, i'm shit at tagging, idk what im doing

COMPLTETED: 84 Chapters / 165k words

C1: In Death

C2: Tracking Through the Desert

C3: Acts of Kindness

C4: Night Watch

C5: Birdbrain

C6: A Heavy Heart

C7: Midnight Run

C8: Odd Job

C9: A Wild Beast

C10: Wounds

C11: Laundry Day

C12: Language of Flowers

C13: Unlocked Horrors

C14: Sweet as Sugar

C15: Resemblance of Normality

C16: Taking Out the Trash

C17: Unfamiliar Experiences

C18: Moving On

C19: A Gut Feeling

C20: Gods and Angels

C21: Perfect Morning

C22: Renewed Conviction

C23: Dusty Memory

C24: Unexpected Visitors

C25: Guardian Angel

C26: Calamity J

C27: Playing Doctor

C28: Otherworldly Lullaby

C29: Patchwork

C30: Burn

C31: Towards New Horizons

C32: Stormy Emotions

C33: Tempest

C34: Desert Night

C35: Mayfly of Love

C36: Sign of Appreciation

C37: Plotting

C38: Execution

C39: Hands

C40: Storm Clouds

C41: Truth Unfurled

C42: Ray of Hope

C43: Lucky

C44: Sandstorm

C45: Back in a Lab

C46: Signals

C47: Glimpse of the Past

C48: Nature of Your Being

C49: Irises

C50: Frozen Dream

C51: Spring

C52: Worship

C53: Breakfast

C54: Experimented

C55: United Again

C56: Rest of Eternity

C57: Subject 0325

C58: Project HUMAN

C59: Comfort in Knowledge

C60: First Day of the Future

C61: Puzzle Pieces

C62: Day and Night

C63: Daylight Robbery

C64: Journey to December

C65: Snatchers

C66: Last Calm Breaths

C67: Dark Underworld

C68: Rescue Mission

C69: A Bloody Demon

C70: Time Catches Up

C71: Blame

C72: On to the Next Crisis

C73: Last Night

C74: Goodbye

C75: Fragments

C76: Talk of Love and Peace

C77: Uncanny Valley

C78: Lover's Face

C79: Ghost of You

C80: Happy Birthday

C81: A Paradise for You and Me

C82: Breaking of a Will

C83: Life and Death

C84: Epilogue

Demo Chapters modified into oneshots:

Womanizer - confined spaces affects Vash in a strange way and he has turned on his charm to try and seduce you.

Perfect Morning - domestic fluff, intimacy, mild smuttiness, shy Vash

Festivities - delusional bliss on an unfamiliar planet with weird traditions, ice skating and sweet Vash

Burn - basically smuttiness with little actual plot

Desire - no plot, just porn. Often the quiet and shy ones surprise you...

Happy Birthday - You find yourself on a furry side quest and it turns into a very special birthday celebration that Vash puts on for you.

You can also read it on other platforms: AO3! Wattpad! Quotev!

Check out my other stuff: MASTERLIST.

#Tempest Wind #Trigun

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redfoxwritesstuff · 23 days

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Another Day in Paradise- Chapter 1

Pairing: Eventually Alastor x OFC, later- Alastor x ofc x Lucifer Rated: E for eventual smut Content warnings: It's Hazbin Hotel- this feels redundant. Sex, eventual smut, referenced implied suicide to be discussed in more detail later, drugs, drinking, poor coping, toxic behavior, controlling behavior, cannibalism, idk, it's fucking Hazbin Hotel, if it's worth a content warning it's probably going to come up at some point?

AN: Coping with mental heal spirals with new fandom crack? Fuck yes we are. Did I think I was over simping for cartoons at 33? Also fuck yes, but here we are. Idk how long this will be but hey, it'll get finished eventually if there's interest in it. I'm playing some with the timeline, starting off prior to season 1 and we're running through it.

Chapter 2

Summery: Amber hated her life but she smiled and took what it gave her. She had tried to be a good Christian wife. She tried to give the to God everything he was due. She tried to be devoted enough. She tried to survive the cult she was raised in. She tried until the day she couldn't try anymore and then, she had hoped to never have to try again.

Instead of an eternal sleep as her punishment for not trying hard enough, she woke in the very place she had been taught was a lie fed by false Christians- Hell. With her body changed, her resilience gone and no way to get her feet under her in her new afterlife, she pulled herself up the hill to the newly renamed Hazbin Hotel, tail between her legs and without anything to offer in exchange for mercy and charity.

Could the safety of the hotel provide her what she needs to finally blossom? And what, if anything, could she blossom into? And why is Alastor interested? And what role could she fill for the King of Hell himself?

~~~~~~~~~~<3~~~~~~~~~~<3

Amber opened her eyes, which was something she shouldn’t be able to do. It was supposed to be over. Everything was supposed to be over. It was supposed to have ended. So why was she still alive?

Sounds flooded her ears as she regained her faculties. That was another thing she was never supposed to do again. Yelling, screaming, explosions, engines and the simple sounds of city life which made no sense. She didn’t live in a city, she lived in bum fuck rural ass no where and more pressingly, she was dead. Or she should have been.

That was something she had personal seen to, for fucks sake.

“Good, you’re awake.” A voice that was soft as velvet spoke from a distance. The voice sounded like bells, musicale.

“Where am I?” She pushed herself up against the wall.

The room she was in looked to be abandoned, a thick layer of dust covered the ground and trash had gathered in the corners. There was an open exterior door, giving way to what looked like a busy street and the source of the trash. Next to her was a golden office door that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. Another wall housed a closing elevator door.

It was from the elevator that the voice seemed to come.

“For your sins, you’ve been sentenced to an afterlife in hell. Sorry, that sucks.”

“What?”

~~~~~<3

That was how her first day in hell went. She had woken up, dumped on a dirty old office floor with a tank top and cargo pants that didn’t belong to her. She didn’t even have shoes on her feet.

It took less than a month for her to end up exhausted in front of the hotel that promised to rehabilitate sinners. Amber didn’t know if she wanted to ascend to heaven but she did know she wasn’t going to survive on the streets of Pentagram City for much longer.

She was weak. she was tired. Her body was starved. In her short time in hell she had learned that she like many of her fellow residents, didn’t have fuck all for powers and no way to defend herself. Unlike many of the others however, she struggled to find the fight to gain a foothold.

After spending a lifetime being told to be smaller, meeker, and weaker, she simply had no bite to her. No one wanted to hire a girl who was too timid to keep their shop from being robbed. No one would rent a flat to a girl who couldn’t manage the income to afford food, let alone the rent.

Sleeping on the streets, on benches and in whatever alley she could find provided little rest. More often than not she’d wake with a start, hands on her. When she was lucky, they’d just take what little things she had managed to acquire. Other things it was her body itself they wanted.

Those that bothered her were so much like her though, weak. Powerless. Timid. Easy to frighten. She easy target for them when she was asleep but as soon as she woke, like cockroaches they would scatter. It was better to not sleep.

Refocusing on the present, she took a deep breath and tried to gather the courage she needed. Her heart was in her throat as she stood at the door.

In life, you didn’t knock on hotel doors and wait to be let in. It was weird. This was weird. She had almost convinced herself to walk back down the hill when the door opened.

“Hello~” The tall woman swept the door open with such cheer and energy, attention focusing on Amber in a instant. “Are you here for a chance at redemption?”

“I don’t know.” Amber answered reflexively, honestly. She had heard tell of how kind the Princess of Hell was but being faced with the first ounce of kindness in her afterlife left her speechless and feeling the urge to run just as much as she would have if faced with aggression. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”

The Princess watched her as she turns to leave and though Amber couldn’t explain it, it was like a switch flipped in the tall woman. The kindness and warmth remained but it subdued as she took in Amber’s appearance.

The Princess’s eyes took stock of the girl in front of her. She was wearing much the same clothes she would have arrived in hell in, if not the very same- it was near standard issue. The girl outside the hotel looked simply rough, hair dirty and tangled.

“Are you alright?” Amber flinched as the Princess reached out, snagging her fingers. Amber jerked away from the contact on reflex, sure she was going to be hurt.

“I don’t- I’m not- redemption isn’t for me.” She settled as she backed away a few more steps.”

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Stepping outside of the hotel, the Princess allowed the door to close behind her before she continued. Amber didn’t know it at the time but she was seeing something few had gotten the chance to see- Princess Charlotte caring for one of her people, not Charlie the over energetic dreamer.

“I’m Charlie. It looks like you’ve had a rough start to your life here. I’m sorry for that. Mom used to have staff that greeted new sinners, helped them find their feet but Dad- He’s fallen away from that. It makes for a rough landing, I bet. Why don’t you come in?”

~~~~~<3

The princess of hell was in possession of a bleeding heart that made her eager to collect the stray fox regardless of her weak protests at the door.

The reality was, Amber didn’t have the strength to offer much protest at all, though she did try. Trusting in theory was a lot less scary than trusting in reality, she discovered as the Princess dragged her inside the hotel. There were eyes on her as she walked, head down and shoulders slumped but Amber didn’t dare face them. Bitter tears stung at her eyes.

Charlie led her through the halls and to a room to call her own. It was a modest room, though mainly at Amber’s insistence. She had no money to pay for her stay, no hope for redemption and nothing to offer. She wouldn’t take a nice room that they could give to someone better deserving.

“Stay as long as you want. All I ask in return is that you help or participate, even if you don’t think anything will come of it.” Charlie said, as she stood just inside the room.

“Why?” Amber hated that her eyes stung with emotion she didn’t want to name. “Why are you letting me stay?”

“Because you came for help and this place; it’s about helping people. Clean up, take some time for yourself and when you’re ready, come down. We have dinner at six, if you want you’re welcome to join. You’re safe here.”

~~~~~<3

Amber didn’t have anything to store in her room. It wasn’t like she could unpack to kill time. She’d have to make do with what she had been ever so generously provided, and she would, without complaint.

The bed called to her. She was so tired. The call of the shower, of being clean was stronger though. She wouldn’t dirty the bed with the mess that was her clothes, hair and body.

Dragging herself to the bathroom, she stripped and started washing out her clothes in the bathtub. Dirt, blood and god knows what else dislodged from the fabric while she did the best she could to clean it. It was disgusting.

It was humiliating but she reminded herself that this wasn’t the first time she had washed her laundry in a bathtub. It wasn’t as uncommon as it should have been in her living life. It wasn’t like she had another option, anyway. She didn’t have any other clothes.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when there was a knock at her room door. “Hold on!” Amber called, searching for something to cover herself with.

“It’s me again.” Charlie’s voice came through the door, “Can I come in?”

Amber wrapped a towel around her and left the soaked clothes in the bottom of the tub where they made a dirty puddle of water as she made her way to the door. Opening it, she peeked out at the tall woman.

“I brought you a change of clothes.” She said, passing the bundle to Amber. “They’re some of my girlfriend’s old stuff, she doesn’t really wear them anymore and she’s shorter than me so they’ll fit you better than anything I have. I hope that’s okay?”

“Why?” Amber could feel the way her ears sagged, nearly flat against the crown of her head.

“It’s okay.” Charlie smiled down at the little fox demon, so beaten down by the world she was sentenced into. How could someone so meek and timid manage enough sin to end up down here? “I want to help you.”

Amber nodded, shoulders sagging as she tried to will the burning from her eyes.

“What’s your name?” Charlie asked as she rested her hand on a bare shoulder, softly rubbing while she watched the girl try to hold herself together.

“Amber.” Her voice was hardly more than a whimper.

“Do you want a hug, Amber?”

Amber nodded weakly and stepped into the Princess of Hell’s embrace. Charlie’s arms wrapped around her and held her tight. Amber nuzzled her head under Charlie’s chin as the tall woman stroked her hand down the waves of red hair.

At first, Amber didn’t realize she was crying. She hadn’t had a chance to grieve until now, the life she had lived and all that she had lost. When death encroached on her, she had thought it was over and she could rest.

Sobs ripped through her chest as she clung to Charlie’s jacket, trusting the towel to stay in place where it was tucked into itself. Amber grieved for the life she had lived and the sins she had committed. She cried for the bodies she saw ripped apart in the streets over the last few weeks. Her shoulders shook with the power of her grief until the tears finally tapered off, soothed away by the soft weight of the Princess’ hand running down the length of her hair.

“Go get yourself a hot shower, okay? Throw out those ‘welcome to hell’ issued spawn clothes. I don’t know how long you’ve been here but you can start your life over. You can have happy days in hell.” Charlie spoke softly, glancing down the hall and locking eyes with her worried girlfriend before returning her attention to the small girl in her arms. Amber hadn’t realized she never let the woman in, instead stepping out in just a towel.

“Okay.” Amber sniffled before forcing a smile that felt as weak as it was forced. “I’m sorry for crying on you. So much for everyone being tough in hell.”

“It’s okay. It’s hell, not everyone’s big bad and tough but everyone is broken.” Charlie smiled down at her and couldn’t resist resting her hand on Amber’s head, fingers stretching between the soft ears.

~~~~~<3

Soaked clothes were left to drain in the sink while Amber sat in the tub under the burning spray of hot water. Pain, lovely sweet pain she could control filled her senses as she continued to grieve. She had thought she had run out of tears in the Princess’ arms but she had found a new well to tap when the hot water hit her skin.

Eventually, the tears stopped and she pulled herself off the floor. Mechanically she used the complementary soaps to wash her body. Washing her hair was a struggle, she accidentally sent water and suds into her ears more than once. It wasn’t a great experience but it did manage to shake her out of her sadness and replace it with indignant annoyance.

“How the fuck do I do this?!” Amber grumbled to herself, pinching an ear between her fingers and pulling it painfully down, trying to block the water from entering the stupid tall ear while trying to rinse suds from the fur and hair around it.

It took a her a moment to decide what was the proper thing to wash a tail with, a debate that felt surreal. Did you wash a fur covered body part with shampoo or a body wash bar? Dogs were washed with shampoos, she decided, so that was what she would use but God above, she’s never felt so uncertain on how to clean her body in her life.

It felt weird to her still, to touch her tail. The changes her body had undergone upon her death were strange but easy enough to forget about as long as she didn’t touch them or look at them too long. She could pretend her nails were just freshly manicured for Halloween into claws. While running, hiding and scavenging, it was easy to not see herself and forget about the new form of her body.

This was the first time she had a chance to come to terms with the changes. It was also the first the she had no choice but to acknowledge them. Still, it was weird.

In a way, she was thankful all in all. She’d seen imps that look more like monsters and people that looked like massive bugs. She’d seen ogres and people that looked more beast than man. There were people with more than two arms or legs, only one eye or far more than two eyes. Things walked the streets covered in scales and fur and yet she looked oh so similar to what she had in life.

Why was that? Why did she seem to look so human? Amber wasn’t sure there was a rhyme or reason to anything in hell.

She squeezed the water out of her tail after wringing out her hair. This was the most she had handled her tail since realizing it existed. Thick dark red fur ran down the length until it gave way to white at the tip. The fucking thing could hold a lot of water in all that fur, that was for sure. When it was wet, it was heavy and uncomfortable.

Wrapping herself in a towel and stepping out of the tub, she prepared to properly face her reflection for the first time. Glimpses in mirrors, glass and puddles had been the most she had braved looking until now.

There wasn’t a reason to put herself through that stress while trying to survive in a world of monsters. She’d seen people stabbed to death and some man with a dog’s head step over the still warm body as if it was nothing.

Now she was safe. Or at least, Charlie said she was and it seemed like she could be trusted. What a world Amber had woken up in, where she drags herself to the devil’s daughter’s hotel for charity. And gets it!

A giggle at the thought threatened to spill from her throat. It was misplaced, a reaction to stress and anxiety. Wiping off the steam from the mirror as the giggle died down, she took a deep breath and faced herself.

In life, her skin had been olive and kissed by the sun. Now she looked washed out, pale as a corpse. That was a common skin tone, she had noticed in the last few weeks. Everyone looked pale as the dead if their skin wasn’t covered in fur, even those with darker skin tones were washed out and ashen.

Curly brown hair had been replaced by bright red waves. The eyes that looked back at her should have been rich chocolate brown and instead they were inhumanly green. That wasn’t the only inhuman feature about her. Her face was more angular and her teeth sharp points in her mouth.

On top of her head sat tall red ears, tipped with black. She watched as they twitched, seeming to communicate her curiosity. It reminded her of how the husky she had as a child would express himself with his ears, always flicking and flattening to tell his mood. It wasn’t something she was very good at controlling but she found she could intentionally move them.

It was weird. Lifting the hair at the side of her head, she looked at where her ears should have been. It wasn’t just that the ears were missing, the hairline was shifted, going to her neck in a smooth curve rather than dipping back around where the ear would have been.

Weird. This was so fucking weird.

She was just thankful looking at herself in the mirror didn’t add much to her trauma or make herself vomit. It was more of a curiosity than anything. The woman looking back at her was so much like herself and yet in every way, wrong.

She had no bra but thankfully her new body didn’t come equipped with a particularly sizable bust. She would have liked the support and security of a bra for the normalcy the feeling would have provided but beggars and all that shit. The shirt was long and thin, a pretty basic tee shirt that was almost a dress, reaching to her upper thighs.

That was good because Amber didn’t know if these clothes were to keep or to be returned. She tried stuffing her tail in the pants but decided quickly that it didn’t work. There wasn’t a way to fold it up so the pants could rest where they should have.

It was painful to try.

The pants were very much like leggings and she rolled the top down so it rest low on her hips.

“Welcome back to the 2000s,” Amber mumbled to herself as she looked at how dangerously low the pants sat. This allowed the pants to sit so that her tail could hang out overtop.

It wasn’t comfortable but if she stuck her tail out a good bit but it worked.

#alastor x oc #hazbin alastor x oc #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbinhotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel fic #hazbin fanfic

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ikolaiigh · 1 year

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Tainted Graveyard

•𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀...As a geek in high school, you were in the pit of the school's hierarchy - That stays like that until you gain the Decay of Angels- the most popular trio in Yokohama's High, attention. Everything was supposed to be simple until an unstable boy stumbles into your life, What was supposed to be a joyous Senior year, turned out to be the most daunting, death-ridden year, and him being the reason for it.

•𝑮𝑬𝑵𝑹𝑬...angst, hurt/comfort, Dark content, Heathers AU, a little bit of fluff if you squint

•𝑻𝑾/𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺...Gaslighting, trauma, murder, gore,Dazai is extremely unhinged and fucked up, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, violence,smut, Mentions of abuse, sexual assault, Suicide, forged Suicide, Gun violence, bullying, Mental Breakdown, bomb threats, blood and injury, abuse, physical abuse, violent thoughts, death threats, suicidal thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Mental Health Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships, Alcohol, Drugs & Smoking, Every chapter when release will have its own warning.

•𝑷𝑳𝑨𝒀𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻...

𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍

𝐓𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞 (𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐢𝐭)

•𝘈/𝘕..Hey guys! First series and fic ever that I am posting, Probably due to school it will be difficult to finish it but oh well. This is a Bsd Heathers AU, Each chapter will have its proper trigger warnings (since Heathers + bsd is a whole tw bomb) and for the sake of the fun, Reader even though is going to be Veronica in this, they're gonna have some questionable morals, also you'll probably gonna see drawings abt this AU.

•𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺...

𝘚𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 1𝘴𝘵 1989, 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘺- (Coming Soon)

𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘦-

𝘚𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦?-

̶...𝘛𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥

𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻...

@yuugen-benni

#bsd #dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #fyodor x reader #atsushi x reader #bungou stray dogs #bsd dazai #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu #dazai oneshot

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sugoi-and-spice · 1 year

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Chapter Three - Careful What You Wish For

Pairing: Bully!Dabi x Fem!Reader, (3rd Person)

Summary: If a boy is picking on you, it means he likes you. She could almost laugh. By that logic, Dabi must’ve been fucking in love with her. That thought was what finally made the tears start to spill. Not because of how ridiculous it was or how isolating it felt.

But because it was exactly what she wanted.

CW: Alternate Universe - No Quirks (My Hero Academia), Dubious Consent, Unhealthy Relationships, Bullying, Manipulation, Humiliation, Childhood Friends, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Power Play, Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Drugs, Alcohol, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Attempted Sexual Assault, Rough Sex, Hate Sex, Smut, Porn With Plot, Explicit Sexual Content, Angst and Porn, Sadism, Loss of Virginity, Unreliable Narrator, Suicidal Thoughts, Dirty Talk, Name-Calling, Depression

A/N: An extra little content warning, there are instances of displaced anger and resentment, as well as suicidal ideation in this chapter. I feel this is a good time to remind readers that both Dabi and the MC in this story are unreliable narrators - they think things that are objectively untrue due to their traumas.

Remember, it is never a child's responsibility to save another child from abuse. And living a purposefully destructive life is a form of suicide.

Read Full Chapter on AO3

[excerpt]

When she was eight years old, she fell out of a tree in front of Touya’s house and hit her head on the concrete.

Despite the many warnings from her parents, she and Touya played in that tree all the time. What was she supposed to do? It was way too big and twisty to pass up, a tree almost custom-built for climbing. She hadn’t even gotten the highest that she’d ever climbed that day, and Touya was several branches up ahead of her, teasing and goading her to follow him, catch him— faster, faster!

One moment she was climbing — her foot catching on a strangely pliable-feeling branch — the next, Touya was holding her in his arms, sprinting to her house as he cried for her mother. She didn’t even remember the fall really, she was pretty sure she had blacked out. But she remembered the pain and fear after, the tears already gushing down her cheeks when she came to, not to mention Touya’s own as he held his hand tight to her gushing forehead.

She’d made it out of the ordeal with a skull fracture and some stitches, not to mention a good old-fashioned concussion, but overall okay. When she returned home from the hospital, however, she was distressed to see that the tree was gone and that Touya had a black eye. He’d told her that it was because he fell too. And she believed him.

At the very least, she could honestly say that her head right now didn’t hurt as bad as it did that day.

But it was pretty damn close.

She lifted to her elbows with a groan, trying to rub some of the blur from her eyes. Things did get clearer as she blinked away the last of her sleep, but it wasn’t quite right yet. Blue. Everything was blue. And unfamiliar.

It looked like she was in a hotel room, a small one. It was more like a ship cabin, just large enough to fit a narrow walkway around the king-sized bed to one of two doors, and to open the drawers of the dresser doubling as an entertainment center with its surprisingly large flat-screen. The one currently turned on to some late-night variety show.

“Look who decided to wake up.”

She snapped towards the voice, where Dabi sat up against the pillows next to her in just his white undershirt and boxers. He didn’t even look at her, seemingly more interested in whether or not the idol on screen could guess what was in the box she was currently sticking her hand into, than anything to do with her .

“Where—?” she started to sit up, glancing down as she felt the bed sheet fall down into her lap, then froze.

She was wearing nothing but her thin little white bra and (luckily, upon quick further inspection) panties.

“Oh my God!” she yelped as soon as she realized, yanking the covers up to her nose, “D-D-D-Did we…?” She couldn’t even finish the thought.

Dabi scoffed, “Hell no.”

“But… W-We’re not wearing any clothes.”

“That’s because you threw up all over them.”

And here she’d thought it was impossible for her to get any more embarrassed.

“I-I did…?”

“You’re lucky this place has laundry services.”

“Oh God,” she groaned.

A rush of nausea ripped up her throat before she could get any other question or apology out, brought on seemingly by the bloodrush of sitting up fully, and made even worse by the dry, rancid taste she was suddenly feeling on her tongue.

Dabi sighed, grabbing one of three water bottles off of the shelf behind him and tossing it into her lap.

“Drink.”

“I—” she gagged again at the thought, “I don’t think I can.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

He didn’t need to tell her twice with that tone. She quickly tore off the cap and started to down the water like no tomorrow. Dabi watched the frantic bobbing of her throat, sighing as a not small amount of water spilled down her chin and chest in a frustratingly not unattractive way.

“Yeah alright, enough. You drink the whole thing that fast and you really will be sick,” he tapped her arm with the back of his hand before pulling a little Altoid tin from the shelf behind him and popping it open, “Take three of these.”

She eyed the tin of pills nervously then looked back up to Dabi.

“W-What are they?”

“Vicodin,” he said, completely stone-faced, “That’ll knock that hangover right out of your system.”

Her eyes widened commedically, “N-No, I don’t think I—!”

“It’s Tylenol you dipshit.”

She was relieved, of course. Although, not completely.

“...I read that you’re not supposed to mix Tylenol and alcohol.”

He groaned, loud and obviously annoyed. What the hell was he even doing here at this point? He’d met the requirements to not be a shitty person when he’d brought her to the hotel in the first place, he should’ve just fucking turned around as soon as she’d dropped onto the bed. She had a roof over her head and a door with an automatic lock, his duty was done. So why the fuck was she actively trying to make him regret sticking around even more than he already did?

“Do what you want, girl scout. I literally couldn’t care less,” he barked, snapping the tin closed and moving to climb off the bed.

“W-Wait,” she breathed, after a particularly rough throbbing knocked her brain, “I’m sorry, can I… Please?”

Luckily, he didn’t give her any extra flack for her indecision, just tipping a few pills into her hand.

“Small sip, alright? I mean it,” he said, “I’m not gonna clean up your puke twice tonight.”

She nodded sheepishly, popping the Tylenol into her mouth — all three at once.

“What time is it?” she exhaled after her last sip, not really worrying too much about the answer yet.

But that’d change on a dime.

“Three A.M.”

“W-What?!” she shrieked, throwing the covers off her, “Oh my god, oh my god, I gotta get home!”

As soon as her feet touched the carpet, a giant wave of dizziness crashed over her, causing her to lose her balance and fall back onto the bed.

Dabi just rolled his eyes at the sight.

“Fucking relax,” he spat, “You’re in deep shit anyway, right? What’s an hour later? Might as well wait until the trains are running again at least.”

She couldn’t exactly argue with that logic, although it did very little to ease her anxiety. That seemed to matter even less to Dabi, she noticed, as she hazarded a look back at him. He just returned to flipping through channels, tired of this particular game show and fruitlessly searching to find something at least slightly more engaging.

He was being just as aloof and uncaring as usual, not giving her even the slightest time of day outside of taunting and demeaning her.

But still, the fact of the matter remained…

“...you stayed with me.”

Continue on AO3

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wangxianficfinder · 6 months

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In the mood for...

~*~

1. Thank you fabulous mods for all you do! Itmf wangxian fics where Wei Ying recovers from starvation or struggles with eating.

💖 the absence of hunger by parsnipit (M, 27k, wangxian, angst w/ happy ending, eating disorder, PTSD, food as a metaphor for love)

a kind of emptiness by ScarlettStorm (E, 11k, wangxian, Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Eating Disorders, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, featuring WWX's fucked-up relationship with food, and his own body, Eating Disorder Recovery, tricking your brain into better habits, bad choices, followed by good choices, low angst, Happy Ending, Tender smut, Frottage, Praise Kink, Additional Warnings In Author's Note)

The Second Hand Unwinds by trulywicked (E, 20k, wangxian, JYL/JZX, Time Travel Fix-It, not JC friendly, not Yúnmèng Jiāng Sect friendly, not Jiāng Family friendly, not YZY friendly, Time Travelling LWJ, Protective LWJ, Fluff, Minor Angst, Minor Character Death, JGS is his own warning, Wooing, LWJ is romantic af, Inventor WWX, Genius WWX, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Protective Gūsū Lán Sect, Supportive LXC, Good Uncle LQR, WIP) It's only 3 chapters in & idk where the author plans to take it, but there's discussion of WWX being starved in the past & he is put on a special diet to make up for that

my eyes got used to the darkness by curiositykilled (M, 4k, JC & WWX, JC & WWX & JYL, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Body Horror, Implied Cannibalism, Dehumanization, Sunshot Campaign, YLLZ WWX, Demonic Cultivation, PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Ghosts, Disordered Eating, Referenced Animal Abuse)

~*~

2. hi, thanks to the mods and everyone for all the recs! i have a few requests for itmf if i may 🙏🏽

a) could people recommend their fave non-english fics (ao3 or not)? i know mtl isnt that great but i'm hoping it's passable enough to enjoy fics that I've missed (peferably wx/gen but anything's good!)

b) yiling sibs feels? or bm family? even if it's not the focus of the fic! canon or modern (truth will out is one such brilliant example)

c) i saw a fun post that the juniors (or jl and lsz) each experienced canon as a different genre of YA protag. are there similar fics, of like, canon retelling/divergence but as the junior in question Goes Through It? (full quartet is great too of course!) @danmeiireader

2A)

【羡忘】落花时节又逢君 by Faywangper (E, 245k, wangxian, ABO, Alpha WWX, Omega LWJ) My favourite non-English fic is a very long and delicious AU written in Chinese

2B)

so you’ve been robbed by a museum by yukla (M, 5k, WangXian, JC & WWX, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, yearning tm, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, immortal cultivators in a modern world, JC is a good brother, WWX has a couple self-worth issues)

Lynchpin by ShanaStoryteller (Not Rated, 103k, WangXian, JC & WWX, Time Travel, Fix-It, Lynchpin [PODFIC] by Opalsong, [PODFIC] Lynchpin by Gwogobo)

And Time Is But a Paper Moon by sami (M, 139k, WangXian, XiChengQing, Time Travel, Fix-It, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Healing, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, BAMF WWX, BAMF JC, BAMF LWJ, BAMF JYL, Getting Together)

2C)

❤️ kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight by AlfAlfAlfAlfAlf, tardigradeschool (T, 75k, WangXian, Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eventual Happy Ending, Getting Together, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, Inspired by The Parent Trap (1998), Kid Fic, teen shenanigans, two a-yuans, Fluff and Angst)

~*~

3. Are there any fics where Madam Lan's death actually pushes LWJ into being a (secret?) rebel instead of a perfect disciple?? I think I read an SBWY fic (I think it was Pancho's privated fic that someone looked for a few fic finders back) with something vaguely similar, but I would love to read if someone explored that idea! Thank you!

Following the Rules by BegrudginglyTumbling (SarcasticSmiler) (T, 2k, wangxian, gusu lan rules, fluff & humor, LWJ being a little shit) Not quite what the request asked for because it doesn't really delve into the why, but this has LWJ rebelling via malicious compliance

Awaiting Your Return by Karmiya (E, 114k, wangxian, burial mounds settlement days, found family, opposite of slow burn, WIP) has Lan Wanji basically acting as a rogue cultivator only rarely returning to the cloud recesses, though that is a relatively small part of the fic

~*~

4. Hello!!! I'm looking for some wangxian (a)stripper aus, and (b) prostitution aus

All Old Things are New Again by The Feels Whale (miscellea) (M, 51k, WangXian, XuanLi, ChengQing, Reincarnation, Modern AU, canon still happened, extreme post canon, Sugar Daddy, Kink Negotiation, gentle dom!LWJ, canonical levels of consent play, Modern Cultivators) though not quite either A or B, All Old Things Are New Again has Camboy!WWX

4A)

Wuji Club Remix by babybeets (E, 30k, WangXian, Modern AU, College/University, fancy rich prep school flash back, Library Sex, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Deepthroating, Aftercare, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Getting Together, Friendship, lan zhan FUCKS, Dancer LWJ, Addled WWX, WWX & WQ Friendship)

please forgive my most passionate disruptions by pumpkinpaix (E, 65k, WangXian, Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Modern AU, Modern with Magic, Modern: Still Have Powers, stripper!WWX, Graduate School)

little bun by eightroses (E, 6k, WangXian, Modern AU, Stripper AU, PWP, bunny tail plug, Dirty Talk, Lingerie, Double Penetration, Trans WWX, Sex Work, First Time, Confessions, Trans Male Character)

~*~

5. Hiiii!!!

I'm on the mood for a fic where Lz has his hair cut when he's punished with the discipline whip.

All Exits Look The Same by Ahlai (T, 14k, LSZ & LWJ, LXC & LWJ, Madam Lan & LWJ, wangxian, Canon Divergence, Madam Lán Lives, Family Feels, Healing, Grief/Mourning) They cut his hair when he leaves the sect in this one

my life’s journey is far from over by thelastdboy (E, 148k, wangxian, Modern Cultivation, Canon Divergence, Madam Lán Lives, JYL Lives, WQ Lives, Post-Sunshot Campaign, POV WWX, Slow Burn, YLLZ WWX, Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Healing Is a Slow Process, therapy is good actually, All women deserve better, mlm/wlw solidarity, the mortifying ordeal of discovering you're into bdsm while you're caught up in political intrigue, Kink Negotiation, Kink Exploration, Not Everyone Dies au, WWX Lives, Mental Health Issues, References to Depression, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Burial Mounds Ensemble as Family, Single Parent WWX, Selectively Mute LWJ, Eventual Smut, Light Dom/sub, Happy Ending)

~*~

6. hi, do you know of any royalty wangxian AUs where wwx is the royal instead of lwj? ty!

travelers through the empty gate by stiltonbasket (M, 99k, WIP, WangXian, Royalty, Emperor WWX, Mistaken Identity, Poor LWJ, Bookshop owner LWJ, Intrigue, Court Drama, Forced Marriage, Confused WWX, POV Alternating, Parenthood, Misunderstandings, Empress LWJ, Requited Unrequited Love, Fluff, Humor, Married Life, Angst with a Happy Ending)

Silver & Silk Series by farawayanddreaming (M/E, 55k, WangXian, Established Relationship, Emperor WWX, Concubine LWJ, Implied/Referenced Sex, Light Bondage, Devotion, No Plot/Plotless, vibes only, Bottom LWJ/Top WWX)

Conquering the Emperor by catbrainedschemes (E, 21k, WangXian, Historical, Imperial China, Emperor!WWX, General!LWJ, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Historically Inaccurate, Misunderstandings, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Light Angst, Slow Burn, Happy Ending)

Son of Heaven and Frost General Series by Aki_no_hikari (M/T, 7k, WangXian, Royalty, Historical, Emperor/General, Fade to Black, Romance)

The Last Concubine by deliciousblizzardshark (T, 13k, WangXian, Royalty AU, Emperor WWX, Concubine LWJ, LWJ Whump, Forced Marriage, Starvation, Non-physical spousal abuse, Fluff and Angst, Doing the Wrong Thing for the Right Reasons, Happy Ending, WWX Takes Care of LWJ)

The Most Important Man in the Empire by Marayanna (G, 14k, wangxian, Royalty, Emperor WWX, Secretary/head of state LWJ, overworked WWX, Supportive LWJ, POV WWX, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, competent LWJ, Happy Ending, Inspired by the book The Hands of the Emperor, But you don't need to know it to read the fic, Competent WWX, LWJ Takes Care of WWX, As much as he is politically able to, Is 'working together to make the world a better place' considered flirting, it should be)

~*~

7. hello, how are you. For the next itmf

(a). Fics where lan wanji is incredibly inlove with wei ying. Whether is Canon or Au but he is just showering wei ying with love

(b). Fics where wangxian are the shameless couple. People will be finding them kissing in the corner or they are keeping cloud recess awake with their noice. It can also be canon or an Au.

(c). I would also like bamf weiying.

🧡 Stunted, Starving Juvenility by TomatenMark (E, 712k, WangXian, WIP, Fix-it of sorts, Talisman master WWX, Not JFM Friendly, Study Arc, Getting together, Fluff and Angst, Engagement) kind of answers all three requests

7A)

Snow by kuro (M, 38k, wangxian, Modern, Snow, Sick Character, Caretaking, Fluff, Sugar Daddy, only they're like… bad at it, Angst, Rabbits, Food, Sexy Times, occasionally)

A Matter of Time series by mrcformoso (E, 70 k, WangXian, Time Travel Fix-It, POV LWJ, POV JC, Dark LWJ, Manipulation, Grooming, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Consensual Underage Sex, Except problematic please read warning in first chapter, Blood and Violence, Insane LWJ, Manic LWJ, Conditioning, WWX is a Lán, Minor Character Death, Confused JC, Golden Core Reveal, Good Friend NHS, WWX Isn’t Adopted by the Jiāngs, Abusive Jiāng Family, Jiāng Family Bashing, Jiāng Family Critical, POV NHS, Dark NHS, Anal Sex, Marathon Sex, Dual Cultivation, Qīnghéng-jūn Lives, LWJ Has a Big Dick, WWX Self-Lubricates, Plot Twists, Porn With Plot, Scheming NHS, Manipulative NHS, BAMF LWJ, BAMF WWX) (also fits 7C) i think they'll enjoy A Matter of Time but heed tags and warnings

7B)

Wangxian’s Time-Travelling Shenanigansseries by pupeez4eva (M, 18k, wangxian, time travel fix-it, Humor, Love Confessions, PDA, Wangxian being their shameless selves, Nothing will ruin WWX’s confession, Not even dozens of very confused disciples, or confused family members because LQR and JC are not amused, time travel at the most inconvenient moment, Everyone is just very confused, Wangxian elope with no explanation and leave everyone else to deal with the aftermath, LXC is a very good big brother, JC is probably going to end up killing WWX, Canon Divergence, Featuring: many horrified bystanders, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, AU of Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now, The many moments that Wangxian could have travelled to, POV Outsider) Features WWX & LWJ being shameless throughout & part 3 of the series has them keeping CR awake with their noise

~*~

8. Hi friends!! do you know of any fic where Lan Wangji moves into the burial mounds right after Wei Wuxian takes the Wens there? I’m not sure what to even search on ao3 for it but I would owe you my life if you knew any! @spectrelle

wide enough and wild by impossibletruths (E, 64k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Getting Together, Canonical Accidental Baby Acquisition, Families of Choice, References to Depression, Happy Ending, I Swear To God I’m Giving Them A Happy Ending, Overzealous Use Of Imagery, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Well Except WN But He Was Already Dead So, Fix-It of Sorts) WWX doesn't stay in the Burial Mounds in this, but LWJ joins him anyway, so idk if this counts?

A Narrow Bridge by FrameofMind, Jo Lasalle (Jo_Lasalle) (E, 700k, WangXian, Time Travel Fix-It, Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Getting Together, First Time, Pining while fucking, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, Angst with a Happy Ending, CQL Verse, almost everybody lives/almost nobody dies, epistolary-ish, canon-ish side pairings, radishes)

Home and the Heartland by Witch_Nova221 (T, 210k, wangxian, JYL/JZX, Burial Mounds, LWJ Stays at the Burial Mounds, Slow Romance, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Fix-It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Self-Discovery, Golden Core Reveal, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon Divergence, the burial mounds aren't always a happy place, but wangxian do their best)

no one ever said the single-plank bridge had to be walked alone by roserocksrapidly (T, 174k, wangxian, Canon Divergence, Yílíng Wèi Sect, Fix-It, Not Everyone Dies au, LWJ Stays at the Burial Mounds, Fluff, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Slow Burn, LWJ and WWX get to be Dads together, the healing power of homoerotic flute/guqin duets, Happy Ending)

Also re: 8 - Requester might be interested in the tag Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī Stays at the Burial Mounds

~*~

9. I've got another itmf request. Does anyone know of fics where nhs gets angry or criticizes nmj/the nie sect for their part in what happens to wwx? Or ones where nhs shows that he's protective of wwx to the nie sect/cultivation world whether that's covertly or overtly. Thanks all!

and having a marvelous time by varnes (E, 108k, WangXian, Yúnmèng Siblings, Sound of Music AU, (i know!!! i know. stay with me on this.), Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Family Feels, spies to lovers???, Protective Siblings, Sometimes You Just Want Your Dads To Admit They’re Your Dads, Angst with a Happy Ending)

A Matter of Time series by mrcformoso (E, 70 k, WangXian, Time Travel Fix-It, POV LWJ, POV JC, Dark LWJ, Manipulation, Grooming, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Consensual Underage Sex, Except problematic please read warning in first chapter, Blood and Violence, Insane LWJ, Manic LWJ, Conditioning, WWX is a Lán, Minor Character Death, Confused JC, Golden Core Reveal, Good Friend NHS, WWX Isn’t Adopted by the Jiāngs, Abusive Jiāng Family, Jiāng Family Bashing, Jiāng Family Critical, POV NHS, Dark NHS, Anal Sex, Marathon Sex, Dual Cultivation, Qīnghéng-jūn Lives, LWJ Has a Big Dick, WWX Self-Lubricates, Plot Twists, Porn With Plot, Scheming NHS, Manipulative NHS, BAMF LWJ, BAMF WWX) (link in #7A) i think they'll enjoy A Matter of Time but heed tags and warnings

~*~

10. Can you find me a fanfic where wei wuxian doesn’t die, instead he goes into a mountain and takes orphans in to take care of them and one day lan wangji stumbles upon his mountain. Kind of like baoshan sanren except there is no immortal thing, but it’s ok if there is ofc. Also it should have a good amount of wangxian with a happy ending

~*~

11. Hii , are there fics where wei ying becomes the wen sect leader , if so can you please recommend some? 🙏 @karinasnowwwx

assuming this is for the Wen remnants, the user might want to try the Yiling Wei sect tag

uncertain if this is asking for wen zongzhu wwx or yiling wei fic so one of each!

To the Heavens and the Earth by IsilmeLasgalen (E, 77k, WangXian, NingSang, XuanLi, MingXu, ChengYu, WWX is a Wen, POV LWJ, Good Parent LWJ, Marriage of convenience, Accidental Marriage, Implied Mpreg, Time Travel, Canon Divergence, WWX isn't adopted by the Jiang's, CSSR and WCZ Live, BAMF WWX, BAMF LWJ, Cultivation Sect Politics, Bottom LWJ, Top WWX, POV NHS, Protective LJY, Good Person WRH, Protective LXC, Immortal LWJ and WWX, POV LXC, Mpreg, WangXian in Love, Soft WangXian, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, POV JZX, Emperor WWX, Emperor LWJ, Past WWX/Other(s), Everybody Lives, Fluff, Angst, Smut, LWJ is LJY's Parent) wen sect leader wwx

~*~

12. Is there a Pacific rim AU for wangxian? I would love to read one. Trying to quit smoking, need a good distraction.

Lightning’s Call, Abyss’ Song by DiamondCrystalInk (T, 37k, WangXian, Pacific Rim Fusion, Slow Burn, Happy Ending, but i guess, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drift Compatibility, but also..., Soulmates, Sword fights but romantic)

The Weight of the World by KouriArashi (T, 67k, WangXian, XiYao, XuanLi, Pacific Rim Fusion, Robots, Monsters, robots fighting monsters, Family, Romance, Developing Relationship, Angst, (but not about the romances), Hurt/Comfort, Politics, Happy Ending)

or for a whole list, including ones I have not read

The 'whole list' link under 12 does not work. The asker might use the shiptag and then use 'Pacific Rim' in the 'Search within Results' box to get that list.

~*~

13. Hi, thank you for all your hardwork!!

I come here for "I'm in the mood for", I would like a any good fic with some bickering between Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng like 'Brothers in law', even if it is the main thing of the fic or just a passing scene. Don't have any preferences if it is canon or not.

Thank you once again. @anime-trash-parody

Time Kept Flowing by notoneforreality (T, 201k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Grief/Mourning, major character death is wwx, who comes back, Family, Autistic LWJ, Kid Fic, JC and LWJ raise the kids, Co-parenting is hard, Emotional Hurt/Comfort)

none lives forever, brother, and nothing lasts for long by eena (M, 38k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, LSZ raised at Lotus Pier, JC found him first, Twin Prides of Yúnmèng Dynamics, Yunmeng Bros Reconciliation)

whatever comes of you and me (I’d love to leave my memory with you) by sami (E, 12k, XiCheng, WangXian, references to past emotional manipulation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Recovery, Family, Brotherhood, Correcting for Poor Interfamily Communication, JFM’s A+ parenting, Not MY Friendly, Not JFM Friendly, Modern AU, Angst with a Happy Ending)

A Bell That Tells Us to Rise and Fight by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee (T, 120k, wangxian, JC/WQ, JYL/JZX, SL/XXC, Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Everyone Lives au, Everyone Needs A Hug, Women Being Awesome, WQ is a goddess, content warning for JGS, content warning for XY, content warning for JGY, WWX's terrible awful brilliant plans, Yunmeng Bros, JYL is an angel, BAMF Women, I take it back NMJ still dies, Minor Character Death, NMJ is BACK and he is NOT HAPPY, MM is not paid enough for this shit) has a fun sort of brothers-in-law feeling between lwj and jc

This is our Get-Along Night Hunt by hmc73 (T, 28k, WangXian, Post-Canon, JC & WWX Reconciliation, LWJ has Feelings, canon-typical horror elements, POV LWJ, Canon Compliant, Fluff with Knives, It starts off funny but WATCH OUT, Case Fic, Good Sibling JC, Fluff and Angst)

~*~

14. Hi, me again, I have been looking for fics, Modern, with cultivation, conferences and the like, where Wei Wuxian is not treated well, were things similar to cannon happened and he's not recognised as a great cultivator and Lan Wangji and his family, Jiāng Yànlí, Jiāng Chéng or Wen Qíng and Wen Ning aren't ok with this and try to help him deal with reputation and things. they can be long or short. Please help. Be well @monicaop21

Hi, I'm number 14 in the last In the mood for…post!! I just wanted to share the fics that started my obsession with modern fics that speak well of WWX in the cultivation world!! One is My Zhiji's On Broadway by ScarlettStorm and the fic inspired by this beauty Let Her Leave Your by Worldspacewitchbot Both of them in Ao3 So amazing both of them!! More sequels!! ;) Be well and tons of thanks!! You are awesome!!

My Zhiji’s On Broadway by ScarlettStorm (E, 15k, wangxian, modern with cultivation, drunk LWJ, drunk shenanigans, getting together, first time, minor angst, major comedy, smut)

Let Her Leave Your World by spacewitchbot (E, 10k, MM/OFC, JC/WQ, JYL/JZX, modern cultivation, Seattle, Conventions, Getting Together, Jet Lag, One Night Stands, Alcohol Breastfeeding in public (not in a sexy way,) Infant Care, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, #metoo movement, Not quite everybody lives but more people do, People listen to Mianmian, That actually fixes a lot of stuff)

~*~

15. Hi! For the next ITMF, do you have a recommendation where LQR secretly fond of/have a soft spot for WWX? Thank you! @idontknowwhattowriteforusername

through the eyes of elders series by Fleetling (T, 13k, LXC & LWJ, LXC & LQR, wangxian, LXC & WWX, LQR & WWX, LQR pov, LQR is a good uncle, LXC recovering from the whole JGY thing is a major part, Wingman LXC)

💖 Lessons relearned by Iamnotawriter (T, 44k, WangXian, LQR & WWX, Not Madam Yu Friendly, Time Travel Fix-It, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inventor WWX, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, No Golden Core Transfer, YZY Bashing) LQR goes back in time & learns to appreciate WWX

~*~

16. For the next ITMF: life of wwx or/with lwj after the revelations at the Guanyin temple. Preferably long fic, around more than 5 or 10 chapters or more than 10k words, and completed. Thank you!

💖 Germination by taotrooper (M, 14k, wangxian, post-canon, honeymoon, domestic fluff, comedy, teaching, character study)

Imprints by Lisa_Telramor (G, 47k, wangxian, post-canon, humor, panic attacks, phobia recovery, poor life choices, JC & WWX reconciliation, dogs)

Between The Lines by Witch_Nova221 (M, 153k, wangxian, WWX & LSZ & LWJ, WWX & OCs, Epistolary, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Letters, Falling In Love, Love Confessions, Love Letters, Long-Distance Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Canon-Typical Violence, Post-Canon, Idiots in Love)

Agapé (home is in your arms) by estel_willow (G, 15k, wangxian, fraternal bonding, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Wwx is oblivious, LXC is patient, LSZ remains the best son, Most of these characters could do with a good therapist, Wwx uses his words, Wwx is an unreliable narrator, Light Angst, canon-typical self dislike from our favourite chaotic disaster bi)

Vagabond by xantissa (E, 65k, wangxian, Slow Burn, Mystery, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Frottage, Case Fic, murders, Supernatural, Angst, Fluff, those two are so in love it hurts, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, badass LXC, Canon-Typical Violence, topLWJ, Bottom LWJ)

~*~

17. Hii! I saw a lot of tiktok that got me in the mood to read wangxian again! I love canonverse fics, but bc they’re so angsty (tho i do like a bit of it as one should) I wanted to ask for canondivergance fix it fics, prefferably with xicheng too! (*by fix it i mean shijie doesn’t die and a-cheng doesn’t hate his brother bc of it) 🥹 thank you!

~*~

If you didn’t get an answer to your ask here, don’t forget to make use of @mdzs-kinkmeme and MDZS KINK MEME on Dreamwidth. Authors actually do use them for ideas. You may get what you order!***Your prompt doesn’t have to be kink! Fluff, crack, whatever - it’s all good!***

#wangxian #mdzs #wangxian fic recs #i'm in the mood for a fic #the untamed #wangxian fic search #wangxianficfinder #long post

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steddieunderdogfics · 3 days

Note

For time loop and travel weekend, I'd like to rec two of my favorites:

Right Where You Belong by WabiSabiPapi, a thoughtful and extremely well plotted Time Traveler's Wife AU with a tender love story and great humor

and

Echo by CaptainHoney. Thrilling, engrossing and sometimes brutal, this is a wild ride of a fic, as Eddie is trapped in a time loop on his last day on earth. The rare story where jumps in character perspective totally work as we jump from loop to loop.

Right Where You Belong by WabiSabiPapi

@arimakes

Rating: Explicit

32,826 words, 4/4 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Car Accident, Family Member Death, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, A small helping of selfcest, Time Travel, Inspired by The Time Traveler's Wife, Happy Ending, Gay Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Librarian Eddie Munson, First Meetings, like there's a couple first meetings, Getting Together, Alternate Universe - The Time Traveler's Wife Fusion, Self-Worth Issues, HAPPY ENDING I REPEAT HAPPY ENDING

Summary:

“...Eddie?” the guy chokes out. Huh. Interesting. He maintains a strict no name policy out in the wild. Sharing it is bad practice with the crime and trying to cover his tracks and all. “Uh, that’s me,” he offers an uncertain smile and a slow nod. “Anything I can help you find?” “You look so young. Your hair. I—” The guy shakes his head. Seemingly astonished. “I can’t believe you’re really here.” Eddie and Steve find one another at different stages of their lives. At very different points in time. A story about discovering and rediscovering, falling in love, and healing childhood wounds.

echo by CaptainHoney

@grandmastattoo

Rating: Explicit

30,342 words, 1/1 chapters

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character Death

Tags: Time Loop, Heavy Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, character study through a funhouse mirror, content warnings for pretty much everything, Violence, Blood, Suicide, Murder, Murder-Suicide, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, non-graphic drug overdose, implied eating disorder, Henry Creel | One | Vecna is His Own Warning, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, time loops should count as their own warning, eddie is trapped in a time loop, Multiple Perspectives, Non-Linear Narrative, he may be trapped in a timeloop but he's still horny, hitting the ground running with this one, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, a really rank blowjob, Gore, overuse of the word 'viscera', the return of steve's strawberry scented lube, death death so much death, Bisexual Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, apologies in advance

Summary:

Loop 6 - Steve Eddie bleeds out in his arms. Loop 27 - Steve Eddie bleeds out in his arms. Loop 304 - Steve Eddie bleeds out in his arms. Loop 368 - Steve Eddie bleeds out in his arms.

Thanks for the recs!

These recs are a part of Theme Weekend. The theme this weekend is Time Loops & Time Travel.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

#steddie #steddie fic recs #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #stranger things #theme weekend #time travel #time loop #rated e #major character death #angst #angst with a happy ending #no upside down au #movie au #fix it

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makunezu · 3 months

Text

hi for anyone who plays honkai star rail, heres a content warning for one of the quests, "envision a rose forthcoming".

it has some dark/uncomfortable topics such as suicide (not even referenced, it's literally on screen), implied emotional abuse/manipulation, and kind of slut shaming/accusing someone of sleeping with people at work to get a better position

#hsr #honkai star rail #penacony #hsr 2.0

26 notes · View notes

steviewashere · 5 months

Text

Decorate My Silence While I Figure Out How to Breathe

(also on ao3)

CW: Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide in a Minor Character, Self-Harm (Without Realizing That's What it is) This is rated mature on ao3 for a handful of reasons, including the content warning. Please take caution and care for yourself.

wc: 10,624 (I know, it's a doozy), Steddie Tags: Post Vecna, Post Season 4, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Steve Harrington is a Mess, Self-Hatred, Worried Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Bathing/Washing, Steve Harrington Has Shit Parents

(I apologize for how long this is, but I just don't feel comfortable separating it into different posts.)

Heed tags and all content warnings, please!

—

The night was silent. Except for the wind. It was whispering in Steve's ears. Muttering soft things, soothing him, blowing air back into his lungs.

He's sitting in his backyard. On his diving board. Jeans cuffed to mid-calf, feet dangling in the cold water, beer between his hands—it wasn't cold at all, pulled straight from the box and warmed with the setting sun. He watched it disappear over the horizon, dipping down between the trees, tucking itself into the soil. He wishes he could do that. Maybe if he could mingle with the worms and the centipedes and the forgotten pinecones, the night wouldn't seem so lonely.

It's July 1st, 1986. Steve's anticipating the onslaught of fireworks. Waiting for the hissing of fuses, billowing of smoke, and shout of color overhead. Over the last week, he's kept his ears on high alert.

In case, he tells himself.

Though it's silent, with the wind brushing against his back, he can hear a heavy accent spitting words between his eyes. Can feel blossoming bruises and fresh, dripping blood. Crunchy hair stuck to his tacky cheeks. Burns across his body from what kept him tied up to Robin.

Speaking of Robin, he wonders how she's doing. What she's doing. Her parents ushered her out of Hawkins to a lake trip. He hopes she can still call. Her voice is constant when he's so absent to the world. Maybe she's in the wind. Maybe she never really left. Maybe she's just as bad off as he is.

He shutters when the wind stops teasing his spine.

It's late. The sun is asleep. His feet are numb from the water. And the beer has been sipped once.

He's not really a beer drinker anymore, not since Barb's death. How did I get here, he wonders.

Steve is sitting alone in his backyard, staring down a beer tab, longing to go under the freshly cleaned water, and sink to the bottom. Lonely and tired and desperate for the phantom touches to go away, that's his life post-Upside Down.

He sips his beer. It fizzes against his lips and leaves a sticky trail under his nose. Drips down his Cupid's bow. Trails across his wobbling lower lip and chin. Then, it settles atop his thumbs, not tracing along the ridge of the can. Sharp under his fingertips, scraping across the sensitive skin, giving him a taste of muted pain.

Terribly he wonders, If I dug a little deeper across the rim, would I bleed? (Maybe he should put the beer away, drain it into the pool, and let it swirl across the surface.) Would I bleed? Would I seduce the monsters below me? Could I be nothing just for the next few days?

He takes a deep breath. Lets it fill out like a balloon and pop between him and the gravestone embracing his feet.

It's late and Steve is tired. Stuck in a dredge as sticky and lukewarm as the beer in his hand. The silver spoon he ate from as a kid digging into his sternum, melon-balling his cigarette stained lungs and beaten, but broken heart, ladling his blood like pasta sauce, and pouring it across the world for all of Hawkins to see. For the demogorgons to taste. For the people he calls his friends to stumble upon, gag over because it's the essence of Steve Harrington spattered across the poolside, and scrub at like taping over a wedding video.

He aches and sizzles. Burns and shrivels. Drinks and drowns.

Nothing bad is going to happen again. Nothing as dangerous as having to pull Eddie Munson from the Upside Down, protect Robin Buckley from Russians with sharp teeth and blunt force, save young Lucas Sinclair from Billy Hargrove, and defend oneself from being eaten alive—by bats and friends and own self-hatred.

Nothing terrible is going to happen again. So, why does Steve Harrington want to throw himself into danger so bad, why does he yearn for it, why can't he feel bad for himself? What does he do if the person he needs to protect the world from is him?

Let the fireworks come, Steve threatens. Let them rain upon me. I can't care anymore.

---- Steve wakes up in his bed the next morning. Unaware of how he even got to his room.

The sunlight is pouring through his window, spilling across the carpet, and staining his duvet. It's warm. Makes his skin itch and burn.

He's still tired, he finds. Aches erupt behind his eyes, under his thumbs, across his cheekbones. Fresh bruises. Belts digging into skin. Blood across his drooping eyelids. Everything hurts and tenses and rips into him.

The spoon digs deeper. Closer to his bare back. Travels to the bottom of his ribs. Scrapes against every bone in his abdomen, squelches every inch of his intestines. He wants to scream, but the energy to pull sound from his lungs hurts.

In the sun drenched room, warmed by rays and birdsong and gentle sway of trees, Steve wants to disappear into the world. Melt into his mattress, if possible. He wants to sit straight in his bed, hands cupping under his chin, mouth gaping with saliva, and project acrid yellowish beige puke across his fingers, escaping through the gaps to his lap. Wants to sit in the mess for a long while and realize, there's no point in cleaning himself up if he's going to do it again.

There's no point in a lot of things post-Vecna. The party is almost the same age he was when all this shit had started, they're about ready to run off and rebel against the damned world they swore to protect. Robin and Nancy and Jonathan are leaving to go to school. Eddie will surely go off and do his own thing, always too big for such a small town. His parents weren't present before and they've already communicated they won't come back.

So where does that leave Steve? The kid who had everything laid out for him. A future promised by his name. Friends who were on par with him; not that his new friends aren't, they just are bigger and better than what he could ever imagine for himself. He doesn't deserve them or this current life he has.

He's decided, he doesn't deserve anything. All his life he's been handed the better deck of cards. Been boasted over. Has been a bully though and through; major aggressions like the breaking of Jonathan's camera, minor aggressions like threatening to knock Dustin's teeth out, a joke that would have never landed. Got Barb killed by his own selfish needs and tired to persuade Nancy to move on; that was too fast and he knows that now. If only I hadn't been so stupid, he muses. Couldn't get into college. Or make his parents proud. Has nearly gotten other people killed too.

I should've died, he laments. Which, shouldn't that be true? The demogorgon in 1983, those demodogs and Billy in '84, Russians in '85, bats and Vecna in '86. He had every chance to get himself killed, to show that he's done his job, that he's taken the hits for the people that mean so much more than whatever pathway he's dug. He couldn't even do that right.

And now...now it's just a countdown to the next thing that could get him killed. Hoping for once, that nobody goes after him or is there to be his aid. To let him slither away, be beaten beyond pulp, and pulled apart like pork. Even then, would his killers be satisfied? But he knows he should die.

Maybe he can conspire that in his bed. Where he doesn't move from. Maybe a stray firework will come crashing through his bedroom window. He hopes that it will explode and drench him in stray fire. Hellfire, drown me in hellfire, he wants to beg to nobody in particular.

Steve rolls to face away from the window. He wraps the blanket tighter over his shoulders and buries his face into the pillow. It smells like night terrors. The skin on his face is slick with sweat. Torso ripped by scars. He doesn't want to move. Isn't hungry. Isn't thirsty. Doesn't want anybody to find him.

He doesn't have much energy, but he forces himself out of bed. Only to go down to his front door, hide the key on his porch, and lock it behind him. He pulls shut all the curtains. Climbs the stairs like a mountain and slams the bedroom door behind him.

In hindsight, maybe he should call someone to say that he's sick or something. That he wants to be left alone. He doesn't though. Maybe he should shower and eat and force himself to have a good day. But he doesn't. Won't.

Can't. That's going to be his favorite word. And who's going to shut him up? Nobody. They can't.

---- It's July 4th.

Steve hasn't left his room in two days. Well, only three times to use the bathroom. But otherwise, he's kept his promise. Successfully made himself a shadow, a silent specter.

When the phone rings, he covers his ears. Everything is so loud, he realizes. The fireworks and neighborhood kids screaming. Cars driving by. Even the smell of smoking barbecues, which really doesn't make sense, but it's so much.

His stomach growls, but his limbs are stiff. Unable to shift and get food. At the very least crackers or soup. Even then, he can't.

Steve's starting to smell ripe. Which is pretty unusual for a guy so high maintenance. The mere thought of standing under a shower stream or having to strip his clothes or having to even turn the bathroom light on is, daunting, to say the least. There's only ten feet between him and the upstairs bathroom and even then, he only goes for emergencies.

With the way he smells, he could envision himself rotting. Turning green from the outside. Turning red and mushy on the inside. If a mirror were placed in front of him, he could watch the way his eyes turn white and glassy. See the areas of his skin that are burned red from the pooling of his blood. He could watch the life literally leave his body. He could watch his body warp into spirit and then continue to haunt his childhood home. I've already rotted, he thinks. I'm already a ghost.

The phone rings and rings. His fingernails dig into the soft flesh around his ears. He pulls at the roots of his hair. Grips to his biceps and squeezes. Makes himself hurt over and over and over again. To escape his senses. To feel something else.

There's an emptiness where his lungs are. It's sucking down every bit of his insides. Enveloping him in a dry-heaved breath. Where he would usually cry and swallow down his guilt over how he's survived, there's nothing. He feels every last awful thing of himself, but not the tears. Can blink and be spitting in Jonathan's face. Take a deep breath and be recommending Tina's party to Nancy. Bite his lip and hear the way Dustin's name spill from his mouth to the Russian bastards. And he can rub across his skin, feel the way his scars aren't as deep as Eddie's. But he can't cry. Can't make himself feel better. And he doesn't know if that'll ever be a possibility for him again, if he's stuck this way. If he'll be forever broken. Ruined.

Because this is new to Steve Harrington. Not once has he ever felt so in the dark about himself. But now that the fights are over and everybody is safe and living as large as possible...Now he's left with what didn't happen, what should've happened, with the question on the tip of his tongue: Why am I still here? And he can feel himself crumble under the weight of his own breath. And though he's miserable, he aches to feel this way forever.

This is karma. This is what he deserves, right?

---- A rustle and drop break Steve out of pulling his hair.

There's something downstairs in his home. It could be a demogorgon or a demodog or a demobat or Vecna. Something dangerous could be lurking in house. But he can't pull himself up to find his nailed bat. Can't come to his dull senses and put his fists in front of his face.

He can't pretend to care.

Footsteps cause a stampede on his stairs. Heavy with each step. Loud on purpose. To alert Steve most likely, but he can't bring himself to be alarmed.

The thing hasn't even made it to his bedroom door. But all he can feel, for once over the last few days, is relieved. This is his moment of release. The moment that should've come during the first Upside Down encounter; Steve Harrington's untimely demise.

He holds his breath. Untangles his fingers and lets them drop across the pillow. He swallows all the saliva pooling in his mouth.

The door swings wide open and a breath is released into the air.

Nothing happens after that. The thing's presence is standing in his doorway, but it doesn't move or breathe or prowl. It assesses, but doesn't do anything else.

Steve doesn't drown in a pool of his blood or get ripped to shreds or strangled by a rope-like tail.

He cracks his eyes open. And there, watching his form, is Eddie Munson.

Eddie's hair is wiled, more untamed than his everyday. Like it was in the Upside Down. As if he fought to get over to Steve's house. His clothes are nothing usual. Sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, Reeboks still on his feet. There isn't a jacket or a vest or several chains. He's normal, regular citizen, must've rolled out of bed, Eddie.

When his eyes finally meet Steve's, he whispers, "Oh, thank God." He even does the Sign of the Cross with his eyes closed, finishing by kissing the edge of his t-shirt's collar, where a cross would lay. His eyes reopen to gaze at Steve once more. "Oh, thank God," he fervently presses into the air.

His eyes are too intense. Steve looks away without speaking. He buries himself further into his blanket and stabs his fingernails back into the meat of his biceps.

Eddie hastily makes his way to the side of the bed that Steve lays on. He slowly crouches down to land on his knees. Brings his hands up to lay on the space between Steve's heated body and the spare room on his mattress. His eyes roam. They map every exposed bit of skin, the drooping, greasy hair, rumpled clothes. He reaches outa hand to lay atop Steve's, to try and pull his fingers away.

Steve flinches backwards and growls, "Don't."

"Okay," Eddie placates. He pulls his hands back towards the edge of the mattress. Lets there be distance between them. Steve hates it, but he can't express that. There's no way he can express anything other than apprehension. "I just," he stammers. "I came to check on you. The backdoor was unlocked. You weren't answering your phone and both Robin and I were getting worried."

His voice is soft and sad and concerned. It makes Steve's skin itch.

"Well, you're here," Steve flatly states. "And I'm alive."

Eddie is taken aback by the tone of his voice. He winces like he was slapped. And maybe the lack of intensity, yet the severe intensity of Steve's voice, really has that power.

"Well apologies, asshole," he spits back. "But when somebody in the group doesn't fucking answer, we tend to get worried. We thought you weren't alive," he barks. He pushes his body up and looms at his full height. With one last look thrown in Steve's vague direction, he makes his way to the door.

Steve knew he couldn't say anything in return. Not yet, at least. Because how would he respond to that? "I wish I was dead. Sorry for worrying you, but I think you'd be terrified to know what I'm thinking about."

So instead of saying something as treacherous as any of those responses, his body betrays him differently.

Right before Eddie crosses the threshold to go back into the hallway and down the stairs, Steve lets out a wounded whimper. He lets several loose into the tense air. Maybe he will cry, he can't, but it could happen, but it can't, and it will, but he so badly wishes it wouldn't.

"Steve?" Eddie whispers over his left shoulder, eyes pierced to where the lump of his friend stiffens with every sound. He feels his heart breaking like a brick wall struck by a wrecking ball. His ribs are collapsing. His heart is sifting through stomach acid to try and float back to his chest.

Steve's body convulses with every breath. He stammers, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm s-sorry." Over and over until each word is unintelligible. "Don't go," he pleads between each staccato intake.

He feels warmth crowd over him. Like the sun. There's a hand hovering over his shivering shoulders. But it doesn't touch him. As if, to Eddie, it can't.

"Sweetheart..." he coos sadly. "What's wrong?" He watches Steve's face turn red. Sees the tremble of his eyelids as it tries to contain whatever pressure is building there. How his chin wobbles.

Steve doesn't really respond. He mutters "Wrong" on repeat and "Dunno," but each word is slurred. Eddie sits down and asks to touch him, when he gets a nod in return, his hand digs into the greasy hair. He lightly scratches his scalp. Untangles knots. Repositions certain strands of hair to where they'd normally sit.

Eddie notes how pale Steve is. The indents of fingernails on his biceps and areas of red, irritated skin where his hand teases hair. How wrinkled his pajama bottoms are, indicating how long they've been worn. His hair is an easy giveaway. He can hear his stomach growl. He realizes how resigned and numb Steve appears. The way there's no other emotion on his face outside of accepted misery.

He sweeps his hand to cover Steve's exposed right ear. His thumb is careful as it caresses his cheekbone.

"I don't know what's happening, but I've got you, Stevie." And as if that was all the permission Steve needed, he begins to sob. Wet and congested and rough. "I've got you," Eddie whispers. Soft like the wind.

Every screeching sound leaving Steve's barren chest ripples through the air like an ocean in a storm. Each gasp rocks Eddie's body and settles tense like a fresh scream. The noises are that of several sheep being slaughtered brutally by the hands of unkind men. Calloused is his breathing. Innocent are his cries.

The spoon has cleared all the way through Steve. In its wake is a gaping, frayed crater. Each seize of his lungs squirts blood halfway across his room. If he squints, there's droplets the size of beads bedazzling over Eddie's left side. The sprays seep into his clothes and harden the carpet and stain his closet door. In every part of the house, though he's been cooped up in his room, Steve can feel his soul being ripped apart and strewn over; every corner occupied with pre-1983 him and every seam in the hardwood now glued by the residual sweat from his last run through the Upside Down. The carpet contains his footprints. But his room is a slaughterhouse; in his bed is him, the version of Eddie pre-occupied by the last swirl of demobats, but by his dresser is Nancy fresh from the pool, and out his window is Barb grasping to a cement edge, being dragged by her feet, and taken for all she both was and wasn't. His house is a morgue and a graveyard and a funeral home; it's a last resting place and a crime scene. There's death everywhere.

And that's why it would be perfect, right? For Steve to rot there?

He has been. He still is. He can't stop.

When the room has fallen silent, so has every emotion Steve could possibly feel. His eyes burn like they always do after he cries. But, his chest is loose, yet tight. There's a new hollowness to him. And it's exhausting every stretch of his muscles.

Eddie is still caressing his face like he's something worthwhile. He's gentle. Even if he's usually boisterous in conversation, violent in his mannerisms, brash across his clothes.

Steve's breath quakes in his throat as he chokes, "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Eddie whispers. "You needed that, it's alright."

He shakes his head at that. "No, I'm sorry for being so mean," he swears. "I didn't mean it, I didn't mean to be that way, I didn't," he garbles and gargles and drowns.

The hand on his face shifts to his back. It taps across his spine and presses between his shoulder blades. "I know, honey. I know you didn't mean it. You're okay," Eddie coos once more.

"Somethin' is wrong," Steve tells him. "Bad."

Eddie's face glows with fear. His eyes widen as two black holes. Mouth wrinkled downwards. "What do you mean? Do I need to call Joyce?" he tries to not frantically question. Reaches out, too, to grab Steve's right hand, squeezing over his fingers, thumb massaging against his bones.

Steve turns to strangle his face in the pillow. Mutters, "No, no, no...with me. Not Vecna, just me."

And then there's silence. Nothing now. The wind is stagnant. Eddie's hands have stilled.

Steve isn't sure what to do with so much swirling inside of him. What he's willing to let spill across his mattress. If there's a way to go back in time to when Eddie was just about to leave, stomping out the front door, and for his underwhelming, sad, decomposing body to be left here; he wants to figure out that science.

"Steve," Eddie calls. "Can you tell me what's wrong? Maybe I can help you out." He continues to rub Steve's back. Squeezes the hand he's holding too.

He waits a while to hear a response. Steve is still pressed into the pillow. But he positions his face to look out over the side of his bed, not looking directly at Eddie, though it's nearly the same.

"My body hurts," he whispers. He inhales as deep as he possibly can, exhaling what feels like shards of crumbled glass. "And I'm heavy," Steve states. "Like...like somebody set a cement block on me. And I can't get up." His voice is small and worn and stretched thin.

Eddie acknowledges by humming and rubs against the veins in Steve's hand.

"But I also don't want to get up? Not in the lazy way, but in the..." he trails off. His breath catches in his throat, knocking around the tunnel of his windpipe. There's a ruthless, scalding burn settling in his chest. "In a way that would make a lot of people unhappy, but I can't stop thinking about it. And I know maybe I shouldn't think that way, but it won't go away. And I wonder..." He doesn't finish.

"What kind of thoughts, Stevie? What are you wondering?" Eddie calmly asks. Inside though, he knows the answer. Has heard it before from his own mother. Came across her in the after of those aforementioned thoughts, seen the way life had been cruel. How life chose, so full heartedly, to take goodness from the Earth.

"Why does it happen to good people?" He had asked Wayne at one point. His uncle's response, "I'm not sure, Bubba. I wish I could tell you." And Eddie had whined, "That's not fair." Wayne responded, "I know Ed. I know."

So, though Eddie could relay to you the words he knows are building in Steve's chest, he's freaking out. Trying to connect the dots as to when this all started. Asking himself if it's possible to go back in time and prevent these horrendous thoughts from building inside his friend. Praying too that they may never come, that he can be safe from torment. But none of that can happen, won't, wouldn't. He'll forever be stuck in a time where he's met Steve Harrington as a great person to the universe, where he beats himself internally for things outside of his control, where he walks across hot coal just to make himself feel alive.

"I wonder if—if maybe dying would make it stop," Steve admits, shamefully. "I think I've been wanting it for so long that it doesn't surprise me, but I've never felt like this." Eddie's fingers begin to tremble from how hard they grasp to Steve's slick skin. "I can't stop it and I think I deserve it, Eddie. I really do."

His body nearly seizes with the intensity of his breathing, willing himself to not cry. He's never been so ashamed to be the person he is. And the person he isn't. Every word cuts across the roof of his mouth and scrapes against his lips. He wants to be evaporated into the hole in his chest. Waits, practically, for the universe to collapse in on itself now that his confession is out in the open.

Instead though, gentle hands continue to traverse his frame. They squeeze passionately at any tense muscle. Not once do they pull away or become sharp in nature or shove him.

"You don't deserve death, Steve. Nobody does. Not for anything like this," Eddie whispers. "I can't say that I know, but I want to understand. And I want to help you not feel so bad."

"Why?" Steve breathes. "I'm not worth that."

"Because you deserve good things. You deserve kindness," Eddie replies, factually. "I'm not sure how to stop those thoughts. But maybe I can help you feel fresher? If you'll let me?" he offers. His eyes are full and earnest, hand still careful, breath warm across Steve's skin where he now bends to gaze into his eyes.

The offer rattles in Steve's skull. Eyes searching over each one of Eddie's features; his beautiful, brown eyes, bulbous tipped nose, his chewed lips, and small freckles; each one reads: "I'm telling the truth, I want to do this." He's never been offered help as large as this. And he hates the way he feels, yet finds he can't do anything about it. This would be good, his brain says. Then you can rest, it adds.

"What did you have in mind?" Steve asks. His eyes drift down to where his hand is being held. He brings his other fingers to tap across the back of Eddie's hand, toying with his sharp knuckles.

Eddie swipes his thumb across Steve's ear. He hums thoughtfully. "I was thinking of running you a bath. So that you can sit instead of stand? And while you soaked or whatever, I make you something you'd like to eat. Then, I'd change out your bedding, but I would put it in the dryer for a little bit so that it's warm when you get tucked back in. And the rest is up to you," he lists. "Is that some stuff that you'd like to do?"

He caresses the side of Steve's face. Patiently, he waits.

The energy used to keep talking is depleting rapidly. He isn't sure how much longer he'll be able to keep up with Eddie for the day. For the night, more like. It's already 8 PM, fireworks sounding distantly. But Steve remains heavy in his bed.

"Sounds nice," he eventually breathes. "But, can you stay with me in the bathroom? I don't want to be alone," his timid voice shakes. As if asking such would turn around to punch him across the jaw. He swears he can feel the pain bloom from his chin, an unsettling pop tossed around the room, echoing across his plaid walls.

"Of course, Stevie," Eddie murmurs. His face is soft. Dimples barely appearing around his mouth, but still he gives Steve a gentle smile. It pays to see Eddie at night; quiet and careful and less devious than when he's around everybody in the party. "I'll do whatever you need right now."

----

Eddie's sitting in Steve's bathroom, filling up the tub with warm water. He's got a plastic cup sitting on the ledge, a mountain of bubbles threatening to spill out onto the tiled floor, a washcloth, and two towels; one for Steve's body, one for his hair.

Steve still hasn't left his room. He's currently sitting up on the edge of his bed, staring down at his bare feet in the carpet. His torso is curled over his knees and his head pounds. There's hair falling into his eyes, but he can't bring his fingers up to swipe them away. He's only wearing sweatpants; but his heart is worn across his chest in a splattering of reds and pinks and muted blues. With every beat there's that creeping itch to collapse onto his back and crawl through the mud that is sleep. He yearns for the firm mattress to comfort his exhausted muscles, a pillow to smother himself in, his blanket to cover the errors of each Upside Down fiasco; drag scars, torso chunks, plate cuts, crooked nose.

He wants to close his eyes against the brightness curling into his bedroom from the hallway, so he does. Lets his head droop down to curve the top of his spine. Blood settles along his lower back, sloshing down the tops of his thighs, anchoring to his toes. There's almost a calm within being so weighted, to being too heavy for words and sounds and lights and movements. With each breath, the crevice from the spoon begins to stitch. Not entirely. It won't ever close up completely, but he can feel the sinew of muscle reattaching; blood seeping across his chest hair, tacky across his sternum, threatening to pour back into his belly button.

Eddie opens the door and tiptoes to the bed. He settles on his knees in front of Steve.

Though he can't bring himself to stand, he can feel Eddie's warmth. And he yearns for it.

"Ready to go to the bathroom?" Eddie questions. Not loud. Mellowed and pastel in the way it breaks through Steve's collapsing lungs. Steve shakes his head.

"Not yet," he whispers. "Can't."

Instead of being shamed, like he would be when he was home from basketball practice and too sore to move, he's left with softer words, "That's alright Stevie, take all the time you need. I can always refill the bath." Eddie stands and sits next to Steve on his right. His hand tucks hair away and tickles down his earlobe, settling warm across the back of his neck. Thumbs dig into the top of Steve's spine, lightly scratching over several moles and freckles; connecting them into various constellations. Eddie doesn't say anything for a while. Just hums random notes and heaves breathing exercises when Steve seems to seep inwards.

Steve raises his head ever so slowly, every vertebrate realigning. He tilts from side to side, reintroducing his muscles and nerves to the normal of sitting straight. "I'm ready. I think. Can I—" he begins. There's a voice in his head that screams: Don't ask for help, you don't need it. Don't ask for help, you don't deserve it. A battle twitches between his eyebrows. The muscles throw grenades and stab arteries and shred arms like raking soil. He tentatively asks, "Can I lean into you while I walk?"

Without answering, Eddie stands in front of Steve. He grasps onto his hands, heaving his body fully, steadying him when he wobbles on shaky knees. One of Steve's arms goes across Eddie's waist. "Put your head on my shoulder, I got you," he whispers.

They make their way and when they cross to the lip of the tub, Steve feels heavy with no emotion; only one cracks through him though.

Adoration.

That's the first thing outside of being bodied by emptiness and loneliness and weighted cowardice, that Steve can feel through every limb, in every vein, at the edges of his frayed nerves and still beating heart. For a mere moment, he is able to tally away one reason why he shouldn't disappear. And that makes his heaviness lighter, he sits like a bag of bricks, but his toes begin to tickle like feathers.

Eddie is silent and attentive in the way he undresses Steve. With his eyes as they roam over wilting hair and kissed-pink puckering scars and knotted muscles. And with his deft fingers as he plucks away the sweatpants' waistband, shimmies them over Steve's knobby knees, and bunches them over his long feet. He folds the dirtied laundry and sets them on the floor by the sink. Tucked away, yet noticeable for later; whether Steve cleans up or Eddie does by proxy when he changes the bedding for a warmer set—a duo of sheets covered in dainty lavender flowers and a duvet dusted with pink stitching.

He dips his elbow in the sudsy bath water, nods to himself over the temperature, and then carefully maneuvers Steve's legs to face inwards. His left hand holds steady to Steve's and his right massages over the other's shoulders. Simply just smearing his palm's softness over the spattering of back moles; previously connected by careful lines, shining bright like an array of white fireworks in the dimmed bulb of the bathroom.

Once Steve is submerged to just under his pecs, Eddie whispers featherlight, "Does everything feel okay?" His hand cards through stringy hair, timidly cautious when he meets a new knot he hadn't quite untangled.

Steve nods. Words feeling too big for his sullen mouth.

"That's good," Eddie states. "Do you want me to help you with washing up or would you rather I sit here and talk?"

He isn't sure how to respond quite yet and Eddie doesn't seem upset at his molasses responses. In fact, when Steve looks over him, his eyes boring and at ease, he finds that Eddie is just patient. Which normally, he's stubborn with his temper and anxious to get things moving and for his voice to be heard. But in this moment, he longs not to be heard, but to be understood. And that's enough for Steve to request, "Please do both."

Eddie's hand slips through the ends of his hair and easily reaches over for the washcloth folded neatly on the toilet lid. He dips it under the mound of bubbles and brings it back to wring out. His movements are languid, wary, but not in a fearful way. As if when his body settles over his heels, he's gauging Steve's reactions, as subtle as they are.

"Do you want bar soap or body wash?" He kindly asks. And Steve feels warm without sweat at the question. He's never had the choice before when he took baths as a kid; his mom always ran a bar of soap between her hands and then gently stroked it over his body.

"Bar," Steve croaks.

The washcloth is set on the edge of the tub. Eddie leans over to the bathroom's counter and grabs a handful of boxed soap bars. Each one has a different label.

"I found these in the cupboard. There's a peach scented one, vanilla musk, whatever that means, and the classic Irish Spring. Is there one you're more particular to?" He asks, holding each box up as he goes, and then placing them on the edge alongside the rag.

"You smell like Irish Spring," Steve observes.

The scent had brushed him once at a gathering in the Wheeler's basement. It had been a warm day in May and the A/C was running, but everyone and their mother was sweating. He had been invited to watch a campaign oneshot. "Something short enough to keep your attention," Dustin had said. The kid genius had been right, of course. Though, Steve paid attention differently on that day. He noticed this new awfulness he resides in start to creep across his skin, light like the hum of the air conditioner. He was fighting with himself during that little get together, but Eddie had came over during a snack break, long arms, slim figure. Plopped down on the worn sofa and slung an arm over Steve's shoulders. His t-shirt was damp with sweat, but all Steve really could smell was the citrus and bergamot disguised in green.

The feeling of Eddie's arm was comfortable. And so the scent stuck to the inside of Steve's nostrils. When he left that night, he stopped by Melvad's and bought a bar. With the intention of eventually using it, but he had to work through his body wash first.

He is given the option here. He can ask for it.

Eddie chuckles, "I guess I do. It's my favorite soap. Wanna use it tonight?"

Steve nods and whispers, "Please."

So, the washcloth is redipped in the warm water, rung out so it's not sopping wet, and the bar is ran through ever so carefully. Eddie starts with Steve's neck, rubbing small circles across his skin. The dead skin flakes away over the coarseness of the cloth. It's worked over the slope of his shoulders, into his chest hair, his biceps, and pecs.

But Eddie skips his hands and instead moves down to his legs. Each swipe like a paintbrush marking a sunset sky. The reverence in which Steve is being treated with is so foreign that he begins to tear up. His lips tick into a tiny smile, only an inch wide, but brighter than any firework beyond the windows.

"Still doing alright?" Eddie asks when he rings the washcloth out once more and hangs it to dry over the toilet.

"Doin' better," Steve whispers. Though, there's still a fault line fracture in his soul and a bullet would scar from that spoon.

He inches his fingers to settle over the surface of the water. They're pruned. Over the lip of the tub, he dances them until he's touching Eddie's pointed elbow.

Eddie gently takes his hand. Intertwines their fingers. He smiles without teeth.

"You're really good at this," Steve mutters through a sigh.

"Used to do this with my mom. I don't mind doing it," Eddie responds.

Steve hums. He licks his dry lips. Feels each one of Eddie's words settle over the bathwater and drown his limbs in sorrow. Ever so carefully, he shifts his hand back into his own lap, and watches with regret as Eddie's beautiful face sours. He sucks on a lemon in the time their hands separate. And Steve is so tired.

His throat stings. Scratchy with oncoming tears. His eyes water. Bubbling with something he didn't know he had to feel that night.

Remorse.

It seems that being gone to the world for days on end, for a while so it's been said, really brings down everybody. At one point, Steve was okay with being alone on weekends and holidays and birthdays. He was doing just fine inviting over Tommy and Carol for stale beer his dad forgot about or muck water weed. In his evenings, he was settled with laying in his giant, cold bed; tucked under a duvet that smells like a different detergent than his childhood. And it seems that's how life moves. Steve grows bulky and remorseful and regretful. He grows ashamed and bastardly and inside this need to be constantly admonished.

Never in his life did he imagine he'd feel so greatly, yet so few. Would be left with a rusted spoon in his grip and a body feeding from survivor's guilt. He wants to scoop the rest of himself from his ribcage and serve his rot to the world. Force Mother Nature to birth a son and kill a son and start his grass anew.

If younger Steve knew that he'd grow to not only disappoint, but also make his friends sad, he would have gone missing or ran away or been found dead by age ten. His mind flashes with Tommy yelling at him in that convenience store parking lot, a cold Coca-Cola forgotten in his tyrant rant. A sign reading: Nancy "the Slut" Wheeler. Jonathan's hardened face over being called queer. And Robin's original distaste for him. The way Dustin had to call him out over the teeth joke. Eddie's initial bias over his popular jock persona.

Now, he's looking at Eddie's crumpled face. Hearing back his concern and Steve's blatant disregard for the tremble in his voice.

I should just drown in this tub, his inner-monologue hisses.

A tear he couldn't feel drips down into the rapidly cooling bathwater.

Eddie's hand scrambled to cup Steve's face. He says, "Steve, it's alright. It's okay." But those words fall upon deaf ears.

Steve flinches back hard enough to slam his head into the ceramic tile backsplash. His voice trembles, "I'm sorry that I made you sad. Maybe you should go, I'll finish in here and then I'll go back to bed and you won't have to deal with me anymore. I'm so sorry, so so sorry. I didn't mean to." There's wetness coating his cheeks, an erupting pulse of pain in his head, an empty ache in his chest.

As he begins to sob again, albeit quieter than before, Eddie begins to speak. "No, Steve, no. You didn't do anything wrong, I promise." His voice is all passion and alighted flame and bursting firework. "You were caving again and I was getting worried, you're alright. You're alright," he whispers when Steve's body shivers and his crying slows. Hesitantly, cautiously, he shows both his hands and floats them closer. "Can I check the back of your head? Just to make sure you didn't crack or split anything." Steve nods with the smallness of an injured child fallen on hard pavement.

Eddie combs his fingers through hair, separating along Steve's part. His fingertips lightly trickle over and around and through. He doesn't miss a single spot. With care, he massages at the irritated red patches from where the hair had been pulled. "Nothing damaged, but let's be careful," he breathes against Steve's ear. He settles back on his heels and assesses.

Steve won't look at him. Can't look at him.

"Steve," Eddie whispers. He doesn't get anything in return. Steve's body sits like a Raggedy Andy doll that's been shoved onto a high shelf. And that's really who he is, isn't it? He's been placed somewhere he can't get down from and needs somebody to pull him away. He keeps pushing back, flailing, and then the other person gets hurt.

His eyes close. Throat bobs with the force of his swallowing. He takes a dangerous moment of peace in the silence. With it, his skin crawls. But he doesn't mind. When he does breach the quiet, he asks, "Can you hold my hand again?"

Eddie obliges. Both of his hands wrap around Steve's left.

His skin is hot. Not uncomfortably. Not in a sexy way either. The heat reminds Steve of soup and saltines when he was sick as a kid. Reminds him of late night bonfires with old friends out by Lover's Lake in the fall. Heated pool late at night. That beer from a few days prior. The sun.

He's decided that Eddie is both the wind and sun.

Bright. Yet calm. Brash. Yet timid. Burning. Yet soothing.

And that's really Eddie's essence, isn't it? Some bigger, more necessary, more constant thing. Washed between trees and light all around. Creeping his way through billowing curtains and gaping doors and finger gaps. Looking to nestle and maneuver and cushion. In his consistent, over-bearing, tumultuous everyday normal; Eddie is all around in smaller ways, hesitant moments, and manicured silences. He's worked his way to being somebody Steve can expect as being reversed in his mannerisms; going from big to small to mild. In each sense, Steve's been wondering where the sun and wind are. They're here in his bathroom, holding his hand so lightly it's as if they're merely brushing skin with feathers.

Eddie knows how to decorate Steve's silence.

So, gently and shamelessly, Steve requests, "Tell me about your mom?"

"Do you want me to wash your hair while I do?" Eddie asks. Steve just nods. He grabs the shampoo and squirts a small amount into his palm. "Well, she's a good woman first. One of the best people I've ever come to know." Once it's warmed in his hand and frothy, he gently rakes through Steve's hair, not going to the ends. "Very kind. Warm. Soft. It's a wonder that I ended up the way I did, guess we can thank my dad for that," he snorts.

Steve's eyes are drooped, body lax against the back of the tub. He whispers, "I think that you're all those things."

"Yeah?" Eddie breathes across the crown of his head. His hands scrub fervently, precisely, and painlessly meticulous. Steve hums. "I think you are too," he states.

He fills the plastic cup with warm water and leans Steve back. One arm wrapped around his neck and back of head. His thumb massages where skull meets spine. He doesn't pour the water all at once, rather trickling small waterfalls over and over. When the suds aren't as noticeable, he eventually does pour it all. And then, he begins on the conditioner. Warms it the same as the shampoo.

"My mom, she dealt with what you're going through. I think almost as long as I got to know her." He rubs the conditioner over the ends of Steve's hair, bunching it as he goes. "She had her ups and severe downs. Sometimes we'd go out for days on end; basking in the sunlight, feeding ducks at the pond, going out for ice cream. Those were great days." Steve watches a wistful smile ripple in like a small tidal wave. Intense in the nostalgia and the childhood and the ache. "Her down days...Toughest fucking days I've ever had to endure. Saying something, I suppose, considering all that was spring break."

"I'm sorry," Steve sympathizes. Though, he can taste empathy like a packet of salt on his tongue. Violent in flavor, buried in his teeth, roaming through his saliva. Each swallow burns.

"It's alright," Eddie whispers. He works water through hair again. "I was with her on those days. May have been tough, but at least I got to spend time with her." He assesses Steve's hair. Wonders very briefly if he should do one more shampoo rinse. He does, a smaller amount filling the well of his palm. "She did what you've been doing. Laying in bed, not really doing much, but that was all she could do. Several days she'd go without washing herself or eating something, sometimes just drinking water was too much on her mind."

He shutters through his next breath. It stutters warm and cold over Steve's skin. Audibly, he swallows. As if he was consuming whatever was left of his mother. The bad days. The good days. The end.

"She lived in those thoughts you've been having," Eddie adds. Barely makes a sound. If Steve weren't sitting so close, so heavy to the world, he would have missed it. "I could just tell some days when she was lost in one. Had to hide things around the house. Medicine and sharp things and cleaning products," he lists. Each word cutting against his throat, deeper and deeper. "Dad had told me about all of that. In case he wasn't home. He rarely was considering his criminal history, but at least he taught me something valuable."

His hands travel down Steve's neck and the slope of his shoulders. Works all the way down to hands, wrinkled like old skin. And Eddie thinks, I want to see him like this.

Eddie keeps his eyes on the shriveled tips of fingers. "One day I came home and she was just still. Silent." His throat clicks through the next swallow. "I didn't get much time with her. Only twelve years, but each day I spent with her was the best. Whether it be that we walked to the park and she pushed me on the swings or I washed her skin the way I've been washing yours. As long as I could help her feel at least cleaner, it was a good day."

He falls eerily silent. Steve uses any mustered strength to squeeze at his veins, his fingers, his palms.

"So, whatever we need to do today, I'm willing to offer. Because I love you so much, Steve. I can't even find all the right words. I'd say you're everything," he whispers. "Everything," he urges. "And I want you here, and I have the chance to help those thoughts simmer. So, let's get you dried off and reclothed and then I'll make you some food. How does that sound?"

"Like music," Steve shares. His eyes burn, his breath cuts, his brain is silent. For the first time in two months, his brain hears silence.

----

After several minutes, Eddie sits Steve down at the dining table. He sweeps wet hair away from his forehead and gazes into his eyes. Steve's face is dim and hard-set, wrinkled with loss.

"I'll make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, get you some ice water too," Eddie whispers between them.

Steve hums. "Can I have mine without crusts, please?" he sweetly asks. His lips curl up and his eyes are consuming. Color starts to wash over him, painting hues like a sunset, a billion red and blue fireworks, the deep magentas and light pinks of cosmo flowers.

"Of course, sweetheart," Eddie breathes into his left ear. Before he evades Steve's space, he presses a light, simmering kiss to his temple. His lips brush skin as he says, "I'll turn on music too."

So he slithers away to the kitchen and turns on Mrs. Harrington's radio in the window. Usually, he'd tune it to a heavy rock station, but today he turns on pop. He mutters under his breath, hoping that Wham! plays. The ingredients aren't hard to find and neither are the utensils.

His hands keep busy while Steve sits at the table. Back hunched over tangled hands. Set down onto a hardwood table that used to house family dinners.

Visions of his father at one end, his mother by his side, him across form his mom. They eat Chinese takeout because it's a Friday night and nobody has to work or go to school over the weekend. Steve's dad eats sweet & sour chicken directly from the box. His mom eats rangoons with her dainty hands. And Steve slurps noisily at sauced noodles, successfully coating his lips in something sticky and his cheeks with a deep color. Mr. Harrington sticks the chopsticks under his upper lip, mustache tickling over the edge, and he barks like a walrus. Steve laughs so hard that tears spill down his cheeks, water spraying from his nose. Mrs. Harrington giggles too. In this, they're happy.

But now, Steve is—he's muddled. Eddie notices how cold the downstairs is. The scrapes in the hardwood from chairs digging and being shoved around. He recalls a time a while back where Steve had mentioned his parents purchasing a new home in Southern California. The postcard he got in the mail reading, "Greetings, From Sunny California." There was a return address, but specifics about not contacting them. Not visiting. That they'd handed him the home in Hawkins, his responsibility now, cursing his name for digging his feet in retail and Barbara Holland disappearing from their backyard. Disappointment being scrawled in bold, black, scratchy handwriting. And then, when Eddie chanced a look at Steve's face, he was resigned.

Like he is now.

He wonders if that postcard had been the start. If Barb's disappearance eventually settled in his lungs after Nancy's Vecna vision. Maybe it wasn't familiarity that Steve was looking for in the Upside Down, but rather, protection from himself. A time where things were simpler and happier and smaller. Where his life wasn't on the line.

Now, he's looking for that sign. For that moment of brevity where Satan climbs through the forest floor and creates a vortex to Hell. A whispering through the wind, vicious and hissing, telling him to "Climb in."

Maybe if Nancy wasn't the one that Vecna trapped, it would've been Steve.

Eddie realizes, he probably would've broken out of it. And he would've been upset to hear Steve swear, "I'm still alive!" like a slur.

Steve is a teenage boy still, even if he's freshly twenty years old. But, his maturity certainly hit him all at once. Whether that be the last time the Harringtons were all in the same room or when that nailed bat was being swirled around in the air, Eddie isn't sure. Somewhere though, Steve lost his sanity. Lost his patience. Lost himself.

He comes back to the table with two sandwiches wrapped in paper towels and a tall glass of ice water. Wham! is on the radio.

"Thank you," Steve murmurs when he takes his sandwich. He takes a bite and hums. "Like when my mom made them."

"That a good thing?" Eddie asks.

"Yeah, I like to think so," he mutters. "Also, you don't like this music, how come you're playing it?" His big eyes land on Eddie's.

Eddie grins. There's crumbs on Steve's lower lip. Water in the corners of his mouth. He reaches out without thinking and drags his thumb to wipe away the wetness. "You like it," he answers. "Anything you like, I like." His thumb rests on the divot under his lip. Gently holding his chin.

Steve's chewing slows and he swallows. His eyes fill with something. A sparkle where they were once vacant and drowning. "You're too nice to me," he whispers. His head swivels back to his food, leaving Eddie's hand to roughly drop onto the table.

And his eyes clear once again.

"You know, you don't have to stay here with me. I'm probably just going to be like this for a while," Steve hollowly states. That spoon is back again. Playing his ribs like a xylophone; hitting hard enough to crack and disturb. He wants to throw up the little bit of food he's managed to swallow.

He just wants to disappear.

Eddie opens his mouth to say something, but he eats his sandwich instead. Slowly, too. The room is heated with tense energy, crawling under his t-shirt, scraping against his spine, and ripping his hair.

His friend, best friend he considers, curls smaller. Hands picking at the crustless edges. Balling corners of paper towels, eyes half-lidded and just empty.

In another life, Eddie starts to think, we would be eating sandwiches and watching fireworks. His hands tremble on the surface of the table. In another life, he begins, we are sitting at this dining table creating a grocery list, arguing whether or not we should get orange juice with pulp. Steve's not eating anymore. Head firm in his hands, elbows on the table, so informal. In another life, he muses, he is so happy, overflowing with it, body warm with it, eyes shining with it.

In another life, Steve doesn't cry into his hands at the dining table. He doesn't fall in love with a boy. He certainly doesn't work measly retail. Or have scars across every inch of his back. He doesn't sit by his pool late at night, wondering if he could die by proxy.

In the next life, he can only hope he's treated with reverence like this, from birth in screams and blood to death in whispers and halted breaths.

The radio fizzles. Batteries dead. Fireworks quiet for the night.

Every inch of the Harrington house is silent. Surfaces coated in stale breath and curdled blood. Bathwater cold and getting colder. Beds stiff and empty and too wide.

The silence is so loud.

And so hungry.

Steve aches. He confesses, "I love what you're doing Eddie, but I'm tired. And I'm so empty. And I don't know what to do. I can't—" His chest stutters so hard that the muscles in his back spasm. "I can't do this everyday." His arms fold crossed onto the table, head hitting his forearms.

Eddie scoots his hand close and gently brushes his fingertips over Steve's left forearm. "What do you mean, Stevie?"

His fingers tremble where they rest.

"I can't be like this forever. I feel like I've been stuck since we got back from the Vecna shit." His hands reach up to rub harshly at his face. "What if I never get better? You don't want to take care of me everyday and I can't do it by myself. I mean, God—" His palms press harshly into his eyes. Hands turning white from the pressure. "I've been in bed since the first. What if I just stay in bed for weeks, Eddie? That's hardly living. I can't do that to you or anybody or myself."

Eddie's palms firmly grasp his arms. They pull Steve's hands away from his face. There's blooming redness across his eyebrows and waterlines. Snot threatening to drip across his lips.

The shuttering breaths that Steve explodes into the air are breaking Eddie's heart further. Crumbling into thousands of little pieces like bread crusts.

"Steve, I need you to listen to me okay?" Steve doesn't respond, but Eddie continues anyway. "I want to help. I'm sure our other friends would be willing to help too. It's daunting, but eventually you may have to talk to somebody. We won't be able to help with everything, but we can do our best." He swallows every awful emotion making itself known on his tongue. Flashes of his mother and her death. "If you need to rest because your brain is telling you to, then you rest. Even if it's for weeks or months. Fuck, Steve, you could lay in bed for years. You've been through so much awful shit and it's all over. Of course you're stuck right now. You aren't in overdrive. It's okay to be this for a while," he breathes.

His breath leaves him hot and wet. Choked in muscles and blood. Rippling through ribs and fingers and toes. "You don't have to be anything right now. If you have days like these, then that's okay. I would rather be here taking care of you, helping you, whatever you need. I'd rather clean your home or change out your bedding or run you a hot bath. I'd rather do all of these things than..." his voice wavers and thins. "Than go to your funeral. Because you deserve to be here Steve, no matter what your brain says. I know that it's being unkind and that you think this is it for you, but I promise it's not.

"It's not. And we'll figure out what we need to do when we get there. But for now? Let's finish our sandwiches and I'll change your bedding and then, you can just sleep. If that's what your body is asking for, then we oblige. No need to do anything else, do you understand?" He asks, smoothing his hands to hold Steve's. Eddie's eyes are wet, he knows that. His eyelashes are anticipating the need to clump. But for now, he gazes at Steve's form, watches it fight and breathe and shiver.

Steve nods and squeezes in return. He doesn't let go with his left hand, but with his right he continues to eat his sandwich. It's sweet and fulfilling and warm in a comfort sort of way.

Eddie eats too and they both end up with crumbs on their lips.

----

By the end of the night, nearing eleven, Eddie has warmed Steve's bedding and tucked him under the duvet.

Steve's hair is unstyled and wavy and spread like a halo around his head. There's a crumb still nestled on his mouth, but neither make a move to brush it away. Eddie lays across from Steve, gazing, memorizing, creating memories.

In eight hours, Eddie will wake up with strains against his spine. Each vertebrae will pop and settle and his blood will be warmed. Steve will still be asleep most likely. And what he looks like in that state, Eddie can't wait to see.

For now, he holds his breath and counts Steve's moles. Over and over three times. Making sure he doesn't forget. Because, what misery would it be if Steve was forgotten in these silent hours? Terrible, it would be. There's something new to ogle at. A freckle birthed from the sun. Those damned bread crumbs. Flecks of gold and green and honey brown in each eye. Stray blonde hairs nuzzled into his hairline—baby hairs.

His palm holds Steve's left cheek. Thumb dotting over two moles. Then, it sweeps under his eye, catching in an eyebag divot. "You can sleep, honey," he murmurs.

"Can't," Steve mutters back. "Don't wanna lose you."

"You won't, I promise," Eddie fervently swears. "I'll still be here in the morning."

Steve hums. His left palm cradles Eddie's wrist.

His head scoots closer to Eddie's. He basks in this. How pleasant they both smell, wrapped in the same scents and breath; peanut butter and strawberry jelly and bergamot. Though that crater still throbs in his chest and his mind swirls and teeters, there's something settling inside him. With each swipe of thumb, each careful cradle, each promise whispered like prayer, Steve feels one thing.

Contentment.

He knows that tomorrow he will get up feeling like an untreatable basket-case. With a new gruesome idea and unpleasant ending. In the sunlight, he will drown and try to save himself by scooting away from the window. The fireworks will be silent, but the imagines of Barb's wretched screams will wash through Steve like a shipwreck on shore. He'll pick apart his brain, wood buried under sand, and find the sunken eyes of her teenaged body; still vulnerable and venerable.

Steve will bury himself in blankets and wish it was dirt. He'll burn and shiver and sob and choke. Each hour spent in bed will feel like eternity. And he'll rot from the outside in, then the inside out, and in each corner, the tub, down the stairs, out the front door.

He'll have to call Robin. And he will berate himself as she rambles down the phone how worried she was, how miserable her night had been because she spent each second twisted with nausea and anxiety and panic. He is going to remind himself that she doesn't mean it in a "you're an asshole" way, but rather, "I thought something terrible happened and I'd come home to you gone."

I'm still apologizing, he thinks. I deserve everything bad, he will think.

There will be a memory of this week when he's eventually out of his rut. And it may be shameful, but he'll be fond.

"I'm glad you came over," Steve admits. "I'm sorry that I'm so...bleh."

"That's alright," Eddie whispers. "We'll do this together and maybe you'll get sick of me."

"Never," Steve promises through giggles. "I love you."

Eddie presses another one of his wet forehead kisses into Steve's skin. Sweet and long and reverent. "Love you too, now get some sleep. I'll bring you pancakes in the morning."

And so, though tomorrow will be hard, possibly the next day too, Steve snuggles closer to Eddie. Head on his shoulder, one arm wrapped around his waist, thumb rubbing into his side. And he sleeps.

Dreams of Irish Spring soap and warm duvets and kind, unwarranted comfort.

—

Apologies, again, for how long this was. I just really love this one that I wrote some months back, thought it was worth sharing here, too. Take care of each other <3

#stranger things #fanfiction #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #angst #heavy angst #hurt/comfort #heed the tags #heed the warnings

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