#recovery is non-linear after all

[randaccidents]

I am. Pretty Tempted to talk about post-recovery for Heartless AU. About Heart learning to live again. About Heart, freshly emotional once more, grieving all that he lost so intensely that it almost sets his progress back again. About Perseverance and Penitence holding him up and moving forwards while finally finally acknowledging his emotions like he always wanted. About figuring out his new limits. About Heart trying desperately to remember the feeling of wings on his back because forgetting feels like the ultimate sin, but he's getting used to not having them and he doesn't want to forget.

About Perseverance and Penitence, being more thoughtful and accepting. About both of them helping Heart with these emotions, because they experienced something similar but lesser when Heart was unconscious. About them giving Heart gifts and how those little acts are what holds Heart together.

About them moving forward into the future. About how it's not perfect, but its mine.

...mostly I am just thinking really intensely about Heart's reaction to his lost wings.

#rambles #rand.writ #Heartless AU #Heartless story #yeah no I just really like writing the emotions of a scene #and Heart is absolutely perfect for it #rip me locking that ability away behind a lot of other things #but post recovery for Heartless is not going to be smooth sailing either #recovery is non-linear after all

[seiwas]

the blade bleeds longer than the wound takes to heal | simon riley

wc: 2.2k

summary: progress is non-linear. simon is learning just that. 

contains: any warnings that apply to cod, blood, mentions of serious injuries, recovery and healing, kind of non-linear, simon-centric with a splash of romance, hurt/comfort

a/n: first time writing simon and he's a tough one!! but i'm really happy with how this turned out! + a very belated birthday gift for @vierisqe! forgive the jumble of american + british english in this one (i've reread this so many times that it's mushed together in my head and i can't tell the difference anymore djhfbjas) i hope i wrote him well!!

Simon picks up a knife in the dead of the night. 

At 2:00 a.m., the wind whistles outside your window, a wayward branch being thrown aimlessly against glass. The branches drag roughly against the delicate surface, scratching and banging in the gust of a predicted storm. 

Simon wakes up, eyes shooting open as his fingers instinctively reach for the small blade slotted underneath your mattress, sandwiched between soft cushion and the wooden panels of your bedframe. He keeps it there—

“For monster hunting. Sneaky fuckers only appear when lights’re out.”

—in case anything happens, he doesn’t say. 

(But you know old habits die hard, and Simon sleeps better with a weapon only layers away from his skin.) 

You’re curled up on his chest, hanging tightly onto his bicep as your breaths lull in the steady beats of slumber. His eyes blend dark blue against the backdrop of the night, and the only light casting itself into your bedroom diffuses from the streetlamp a few flats down. 

“We should keep a night light,” you’ve told him a few times before—if only to avoid small accidents, like tripping over folded carpets or bumping into the sharp edges of your dresser. 

“No ghosts here but me, love.” is all Simon replies.

(You take his cheekiness and keep it close to your chest, sporadic as it is, snorting as you let go of the topic.) 

He sees better in the dark—better than most, he’d like to think. 

His gaze flits to the window, watching intently as the branches move haphazardly; the sound hits the glass like bullet cases clinking against marble flooring. The same white marble bloodied deep red—

An inhale tickles his side, a phantom sharpness despite his ribcage being fully healed. There is no puncture, no gaping wound like that day 8 months ago—only scar tissue formed thickly along the outline of the knife that pierced through him. 

He breathes out, slow and steady, taking one last look at the window, before moving over to the door, checking for shadows and any suspicious movement. Then, his gaze rests on you—your hair splayed across his shoulder as you sleep soundly.

It’s okay. You’re okay. 

Everything is okay. 

.

Some days, he can breathe just fine. 

Spring blossoms through the flowers in your garden, white chrysanthemums that give Simon the worst spring allergies but he insists you keep. Despite the morning sniffles, when pollen seems to dust his dawning breath, he finds breathing easier on these days than most. 

You do your best to snip away at the blossoming buds, preparing to bundle them far away from the burly man they weaken. 

But Simon stands beside you with a watering pot, tilting the spout to drizzle life onto the blooms he knows are your pride and joy. 

He owes it to them, he supposes, for keeping you company months at a time. 

. 

It’s at the fizzling end of summer when Simon returns to you. 

Captain Price had contacted you weeks prior to inform you of the incident—just three things Simon requested be divulged: 

One, that he had incurred a stab wound to be monitored for a few weeks, most likely in military facilities. 

Two, that he’ll be discharged soon after. 

And three, that you stay put and be calm; that you not worry. 

(Your hands shake throughout the entire call, your knees giving way as you fall to the bunched up carpet of your bedroom floor. 

To you, Simon is untouchable. 

To you, Simon is impenetrable. 

He never divulges any more than he has to, but you’ve always known he was good at his job. The silent yet commanding confidence he carries can only be born from years of expertise, his senses sharpened and tuned to the slightest sign of danger. 

Over the years, without fail, Simon has always come back to you in one piece. 

So when he walks into your flat with staggered breaths, smelling of antiseptic and sterile sheets, your heart aches.) 

You give him a look, eyes glassy with your hands clenched on your sides as if avoiding to touch, should he be fragile; he holds that stare for a few seconds too long until he decides to fuck it, pulling you closer to his chest. 

Fuck doctors’ orders that his stitches haven’t fully healed. Fuck doctors’ orders that he should ‘minimise thoracic pressure’. 

Fuck doctors’ orders that he should watch his breathing, keeping it slow and steady only. 

“Quit all ‘o that,” he clears his throat, hiding a wheeze from the impact, “Didn’t get me killed, ‘n it won’t. S’no grave to cry over.” 

You can’t help it though, he knows, your fingers clutching tighter onto the ends of his jacket as you rest your forehead on his collarbone. The pain muddles together in his chest, soaked by the tears seeping through the fabric of his t-shirt. 

There are many things Simon doesn’t tell you, many more that he won’t—

His body holds a litany of injuries, scars built upon scars; some lie on the surface of his skin, others residing deeper than any knife can sink into. 

—last month, he nearly died. 

A miscalculated raid had led him straight into a trap, isolating him from the rest of the 141. He was concussed and sedated, senses dulled by the chemicals injected into his bloodstream. It happened too fast—a blade, inconspicuously small but sharp, piercing through his ribcage; the hits that followed dealt greater damage. 

Price found Simon lying in a pool of his own blood, deep red against the white brinks of death. 

Three broken ribs—two that stabbed through his lungs along with the knife, and one that managed to puncture his heart. Doctors warned that breathing during recovery would be difficult, but he hardly finds it to be the most challenging part. 

The paranoia is worse. 

He’s been more fidgety since, constantly wary; uneasy. Worse compared to usual. 

Every professional he’s spoken to has told him that progress is non-linear—

“So, give yourself some time. Some days can be easy and difficult the next, but the day after that might be—” 

To that he says, fucking ‘ell. 

.

You cut yourself while trimming your chrysanthemums. 

It’s a small nick on your thumb, but that finger always bleeds more than the others do; blood red drips onto a few white petals—a striking contrast.

Simon finds you that way. 

He moves on autopilot, rushing in to grab the first-aid kit you keep in one of your kitchen cabinets. On the surface, he is calm, face set straight and hardly rattled by the accident. This is the only good he sees in the snail-pace of his recovery—his jagged breaths conceal the real reason his hands tremble slightly holding yours.

A small cut shouldn’t need bandaging. A small cut shouldn’t need gauze and waterproof plaster. Simon shouldn’t insist on taking over, especially when the pollen clogs his nose. 

But your white chrysanthemums should not be red. 

He tells himself he’ll get you a pair of those cut-resistant gardening gloves. 

Those petals should not be red. 

.

The knife isn’t the problem, it’s what surrounds it. 

Simon hasn’t been the same since his return, and you’ve begun to notice.

For a big and hefty man, he prefers keeping himself away from as much fuss as he can. Weekend markets with him have always been pleasant; he carries all the produce and you stop at food stalls to feed him bites of whatever catches your eye.

Not this time.

This time, Simon glues himself behind you, your back pressed against his chest as he navigates you both through crowds. He zeroes in on every single person brushing against you, searching for anything sharp. 

When you wait by a food stall, he scans the area; his focus shifts from a family of four settling their toddler on a stroller, then to a man older but not nearly as large as he, bringing in sacks of flour inside a bakery. Off in a corner is a teenager, swallowed by the thick fabric of a hoodie similar to his own; Simon observes him a little longer, drawing suspicions about the movement concealed inside the kid’s pocket. 

(You notice it when you ask whether he prefers peaches or mangoes for the crepe’s filling, only to be met with no reply.) 

Then, a faint trail of smoke wafts out of the boy’s nose—it’s just a vape. 

Simon turns away. 

By brunch, which you always somehow seem to drag him into, you settle into your seat and ask the server for a butter knife. 

(Simon stays silent most times, with the occasional dry retort or witty quip directed at any silly thing he notices, but he’s been completely quiet this entire day. The slightest bit of tension pinches the skin between his brows as his eyes dart from one person to the next—like roaring waves rushing to catch the shore.) 

It happens all too quickly, how he pins the server’s wrist down onto your table when you’re handed the butter knife. 

Everybody in the restaurant pauses to look at you two.

The shock on your face mirrors the server’s. 

Simon lets go immediately, mumbling his apologies as his hands dig inside the pocket of his hoodie. You turn to the server sheepishly, standing up to follow him to the cashier. 

(You know Simon well enough that he hates all the attention, so you quickly settle everything with the manager, explaining as best as you can that it wasn’t intentional. The server is kind enough to let it go, his wrist red but otherwise uninjured from Simon’s grip; you still give him a tip, for the shock and trouble.) 

The whole trip home is tense. Simon can’t look you in the eyes, and even when you both walk into your flat, he heads straight for the kitchen, preparing to clean and wash the vegetables.

He rolls up his sleeves and opens the tap, rinsing carrots and potatoes, along with some of the lettuce you managed to pick up for half off. 

(Something stabs at your heart seeing him curl into himself even more, but Simon will talk when he wants to—never before or after. 

So, you walk towards him instead, wrapping your arms around his waist as you rest your cheek against his back.) 

He stops moving, and the water continues running. 

(You can hear his heartbeat, feel each slow breath he’s taking.)  

Simon doesn’t tell you of the sleepless nights, of the terrors that plague his waking mind more than nightmares do. He doesn’t tell you that he sees you in his spot that very same day, on that same marble floor—your own pool of red against the very same white that your chrysanthemums bloom into. 

“I’m okay,” you whisper against his back, landing kisses on each of his shoulder blades. The fabric of his hoodie is soft and thick, but he feels you through it. 

“You always do a good job of keeping me safe.” 

Your words layer on him like tactical gear, arms tightening around his abdomen akin to the belt that holds his ammo. 

“Let me take care of you now,” you close your eyes, voice a little shaky, pleading, “okay?” 

Simon holds his breath. 

.

Your chrysanthemums sit in a vase by your kitchen sink, water droplets catching onto the petals and leaves. 

Simon sneezes every time he washes his hands, but he’s the one who put it there—

“S’called exposure therapy, love.” 

(And who are you to argue with a man on a mission?) 

—along with the cut-resistant gloves he stores in a drawer near your kitchen tools. 

From the corner of his eye, he watches you drag your chef’s knife to fillet a chicken breast. He keeps his gaze locked on your every movement, fingers twitching as if they itch to reach for you. Pain tingles at the side of his chest, a faded remnant of how it felt when the wound was still fresh. 

You fillet the breast successfully, and he releases a breath.

Simon has keen sight and he uses it to his advantage—sniping, scoping, watching. He notices the sharp edge of the open cupboard door over your head and reflexively lays his palm over it, cushioning the impact when you hastily move to the side.

If you notice, you don’t show him any signs.

Tonight’s menu is honey glazed soy chicken, a recipe you’ve been wanting to test out. He’d offered to help but you insisted that he sit back and relax; and of course, in typical Simon- fashion, he only partially heeds your advice. 

He sits back and relaxes all right, but on the barstool by the kitchen island, ready to spring into action whenever you need him. 

And he sees it all—that near-mishap by the cupboard, how dangerously close your fingers are from your chef’s knife; your cut-resistant gloves are ready-to-use in the drawer next to your garden tools. He still keeps that small blade between your mattress and bedframe. 

Old habits die hard, the aftereffects of near-death moreso, but Simon is a man on a mission, and when he watches you hiss away from the brief ‘pop!’ of oil splattering from your pan, he stays right where he is, convincing himself he can leave you to handle it. 

You’re okay. 

This is progress. 

It’s a start.

a/n: this turned out a lot more serious than i intended, but i enjoyed picking simon to see how he would act in a period of adjustment back to regular life, especially after something potentially traumatic. i find simon an incredibly difficult character to write because he carries so much with him and i could go on about this, but the tldr is: i think he's become desensitised to a lot of things, which is why i don't think he's afraid of wounds or knives no matter how much he's been hurt by them. i don't imagine him being afraid of dying either, because it's what they do—it comes with the job. i do think though, that his close call with death here shifts his fear to the idea of loss, particularly, losing you. and as a protector, he finds himself responsible for that.

thank you notes: to @soumies my gawd!! for helping me with dialogue and proofreading, practically beta reading this entire thing!! you are the heart of this fic 🥺 simon would not be simon in this without you!! love u love u love u!!!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #cod x reader #simon x reader #call of duty x reader #shotorus.writes #cod #ghost

[mistydeyes]

the butterfly effect: you die because of their actions

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summary: The butterfly effect "the idea that small things can have non-linear impacts on a complex system. The concept is imagined with a butterfly flapping its wings and causing a typhoon." Everyone never believed the saying, that was until you died at the hands of your love.

pairing: 141 x fem!Reader

warnings: SWEARING, character death (previously established relationship)

a/n: my first angst piece for the rest of the 141!

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price

Price's mind raced as he shoved the doors open to the post-operation recovery wing. If he had known you would end up on the end of a gun, he would have never put you in this position. He never would have introduced you to General Shepherd.

When you met John, still known as a Lieutenant at the time, you were a First Lieutenant in the US Marine Corps. You were an expert at planning travel and assault routes and the SAS used your skills to their advantage. You worked together in a joint-op in Canada, one that required you both to find refuge in a snowed-out cabin. No one was surprised when you both emerged as a couple. Now after 13 years of dating and a happy marriage, you lived a comfortable life together. You had two daughters, both away in college, and lived close to Price's home in England. You made sacrifices, dividing your time in the English countryside with an apartment in DC.

Price was away on a mission as you sat in your countryside home. Last you heard, he was in Amsterdam with Sergeant Garrick. He was unreachable but you knew there was a fair share of times when you had the same status. Laswell had informed you that something had gone on with his unit and after reassuring you John was safe, she encouraged you to stay low in your home. You informed your daughters and they would soon be escorted to your house. Laswell had arranged a security detail for you and you sat at your living room table with a concealed firearm for protection.

As you tried to drink some tea, a series of knocks were heard from the door. You recognized it and holstered your gun as you answered. You opened the door to reveal General Shepherd, an old friend that John had introduced you to at a military ball. "General Shepherd, what a pleasant surprise," you said as you ushered him in, "can I get you anything?" "Just some water if you don't mind, Captain," he said and followed you into the kitchen. As you turned your back to him, he made polite conversation. "Captain, you didn't tell John about the op in the Middle East, right?" he asked and you remembered providing input on a cargo route earlier last year. "Of course not, General," you answered as you finished pouring the glass." "Then no harsh feelings, Captain," was the last thing you heard before you fell against the counter, a bullet lodged in the back of your head.

Back to the present time, Price shoved past the queue and slammed his fists on the receptionist's table. Laswell informed him that he was needed at the hospital immediately as you were in critical condition. He had taken the first flight home from Chicago and was now helplessly begging to see you. "Where is my wife?" he roared as the nurse sheepishly asked him for the name of the patient. "Captain Y/N Price," he said and she quickly typed it in for him. "She's not here, sir," she said quietly as he shook with rage, "she's in the morgue."

Your funeral came with all the proper traditions for a Captain. As the decorated Marines played Taps and folded a US flag, Price held onto your daughters' hands tightly. As a soldier presented him with the flag and your dog tags, he broke down in tears as your daughters joined. The last Price saw of you was your casket being lowered into the Arlington dirt.

As Price prepared to finally kill General Shepherd, he clutched your dog tags and wedding ring close to his neck. He pulled out a picture of you and your wedding day and kissed it before heading to finally end the bastard.

soap

After months of waiting the day was finally here. You and Johnny were expecting your first child after trying for so long. As you rested in a recliner, he had decorated the nursery with all the preparations for a newborn. You decided on a space theme for their room and Johnny would call the baby "our little astronaut." For the last month before you were due, Price let Johnny head home to be with you as he had known this is when you needed him most. When your water broke that morning, Johnny quickly rushed you to the hospital. The baby was two weeks early and you could feel the painful contractions as you entered the delivery room. You were in agonizing pain as the doctors delivered an epidural. Johnny could only watch helplessly as you were in labor for 10 hours.

He held your hand tightly as you screamed. "I see a head!" the doctor exclaimed and the nurses encouraged you to continue pushing. Even with the epidural, you felt dizzy and your eyes watered from the torment of childbirth. The room smelled of iron and blood as it pooled around your body. The doctor's hands were coated in the red liquid as you continued to push. "Almost there, love," Johnny reassured you as his hands turned white from your grip. "She's coming out beautifully, Mrs. Mactavish," the doctor reassured. "You hear that, it's a girl," Johnny exclaimed, "she's going to have my charm and your looks." You gave him a weak smile as the doctor updated him on how far out the baby was.

Finally, as the child exited into the doctor's arms, you released Johnny's hand. You slumped back into the bed as a nurse tended to your sweating face with a washcloth. The doctor delicately wiped the baby and swaddled her in a fresh blanket. "You can cut the umbilical cord, Dad," another nurse said as your baby girl cried. "Hi little one" he whispered as he cut the umbilical cord. He held her small hands with his and went to give her to you. But as soon as he turned, he saw your face was ghostly white. The monitor loudly beeped as the nurses and doctor began to panic. "She's losing a lot of blood," the doctor said as the room was thrown into chaos. Your vitals were beginning to drop and a nurse screamed for a crash cart. The delivery unit's PA system informed other attending nurses of a Code Blue and a variety of new staff rushed into the room. "Sir, you need to leave," a nurse demanded as he saw someone perform chest compressions. "She's not breathing," someone else yelled and Johnny tried to fight his way to the front. Everything was happening in slow motion as he held the baby close and saw you convulse under the shocks of a defibrillator.

"What's happening to her?" he demanded before he was shoved into the hallway. The nurses quickly closed the curtains as Johnny pounded on the glass. His hand grew numb as he fell defeated with your daughter in his arms. After 5 minutes, the doctor emerged. "You better tell me right fucking now what's going on," Johnny screamed at her. "I'm sorry sir, she's gone," she said and he could barely hear her say that you flatlined after a tremendous loss of blood. When she finished, he broke down and let the entire hospital hear his cries and screams.

As he cradled your daughter's head, the baby wailed and Soap joined his heartbroken song. A new life in exchange for one lost.

gaz

"Kyle, I don't know about this," you said as you boarded the plane. "C'mon love, teenage recruits do this," he encouraged as you both strapped in. Kyle had heard about a skydiving experience and convinced you to go. He used the fact that it was his birthday and you swallowed your doubts about flying. As the plane ascended, you gripped his hand tightly. You always had a fear of flying and even had a psychic tell you that flying would be involved with your death. Kyle comfortingly drew circles on your hands as you approached the descent level.

“Alright, flyers! It’s almost time!” you heard the pilot announce through the cabin. Kyle helped you unbuckle and guided you to the tandem diver. He introduced you both and the tandem diver promised a safe descent. “This is my 1000th flight, doll, you’ll be fine,” he reassured and helped to strap you in. You smiled nervously as Kyle similarly strapped into his flyer. He insisted you take a picture together as you shakily gave a thumbs up.

“Here we go!” Kyle’s tandem flyer shouted and they leapt out of the airplane. You tried not to look down as you swallowed your fear. You then felt your legs leave the plane as you and your flyer jumped into the sky. As you felt the rush of air on your face, you kept your eyes shut closed. “Look at me baby!” you heard Kyle shout and you peeked through your fluttering eyelids to see him smiling widely and holding his arms out. You tried to emulate his actions but as you looked up at your flyer, you could see him panic.

Something was wrong as Gaz also saw that your parachute had not yet deployed. He saw the tandem diver struggle to deploy the reserve but that too seemed to fail. He screamed at you as you both flew closer and closer to the ground. You looked up at him in fear and tried to reach out before gravity and the lack of a chute pulled you forcefully to the Earth's surface.

Gaz could only watch helplessly as you and your guide plummeted to the ground. He let out a flood of tears and screams but they too fell and followed along with your deadly descent.

ghost

Ghost watched in horror as two people sat next to one another on a platform. From what he could see, one of the people was a clear head taller than the other and they squirmed in their bindings. Their heads were covered in burlap and they both were sporting matching jackets that hit their figure. "Make the choice, Simon," Makarov said as his voice crackled through the comms, "your wife or best friend." Ghost's eyes dilated in horror as he realized Makarov's implications. "Before you try to be the hero, just know that I'm watching you," he taunted and Ghost knew there was no way out.

His mind flooded with any possible solution but he could not find any. This was supposed to be an easy fucking recon mission that only he and Johnny had to handle. Now he was without allies, without options, and an alternative plan. He shakily put his hand on the sniper's trigger as he fluctuated between looking at you and Soap. Beads of sweat pooled at his neck as he tried to think of any way to get you both out of this alive.

"Time is ticking, Simon," Makarov spoke again, "If you don't choose, they'll both die." That moment, two fluorescent dots appeared on your heads and he knew that somewhere two snipers were ready to take you both out if he didn't decide. Ghost's mind was clouded, he wondered if there was any way to save both of you but came up empty. The deadline and the thrashing of the two figures under their restraints made him finally decide. He made the most difficult decision of his life, he would save you instead of Soap. He couldn't live without you.

He said a silent prayer for his friend as he lined his sights. "Just stay still, Johnny," he painfully whispered as you both fought against your bindings. He knew a bullet straight through the heart would result in a quick and painless death. He held his breath as the gun fired, making a direct target with the body. It fell back in with a sickening thump and Ghost dropped the gun before rushing towards you.

Makarov was always one step ahead of the team. Ghost ran to the scene to see that the chair's size had deceived his eyes. One of the people who Ghost had assumed was taller than the other, was sitting on an elevated crate. The other figure thrashed about but Ghost was more focused on the one in front of him. As he went to pull the bag over what he believed was Soap's body, he was horrified to discover it was you, a single gunshot through the heart. A bullet he had sent into you. You died choking on your blood because of his actions.

As Ghost clutched your body in agony, his tears and screams echoed in the empty lot. In his haste, he had killed you and was now alone again in the world.

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#task force 141 x reader #task force 141 #cod x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod mwii #modern warfare 2 #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #soap x reader #price x reader #kyle garrick x reader #john price x reader #Johnny mactavish x reader #mw2 imagine #madebyizzie #izzie is writing

[cripplecharacters]

Hi there!

I'm working on a character for a story I'm writing, where all the people have wings. The main character is a burn survivor, and it rendered her left wing useless when it came to flying. However, I wanted to have her get a kind of reconstruction surgery or a wing prosthetic to help her fly again. I've read a number of your posts, so I'm considering reworking this, but I wanted to know your perspective on it.

Also, if you can, do you have any resources on burn survivors and daily burn scar care?

Thanks!

Hi!

I think that you have a couple options when it comes to making her fly again!

Making her able to fly the same as before could be disability erasure somewhat, so I would warn against that. But that doesn't mean she can't fly at all!

If you decide to make her fly again;

It will take time. She shouldn't be able to relearn mobility in a week. Show it as a slow, time-consuming process. Depending on the exact injury it could be months or years.

Include physical therapy! Potentially other types as well, like occupational therapy. If it's a society where everyone has wings, I'm sure there would be specialists for this kind of stuff like we have for legs.

Recovery takes a lot of effort. It shouldn't come to her too easily. A lot of it is pain and fatigue and taking breaks to recover from recovering.

She might not be able to fly the exact same as before, even if you go with the above. You can have her fly shorter distances, have pain while doing it, or be fully unable to do it on some days.

When she does start to fly again, she could end up damaging her other wing via an overuse injury (her damaged wing wouldn't be able to keep up for at least a while). Recovery is a very non-linear process, and she could be coming back to physical therapy for new problems even after she relearns flying. That is a part of life for a lot of disabled people, for example manual wheelchair users having to do PT for shoulder strain injuries caused by pushing the wheelchair.

This way you can show the recovery process without erasing her disability at the end! Some disabled people do get better, but the point is to not make it a Magic Surgery that just fixes everything because that's not how it works most of the time. Sometimes it even opens up the doors to new problems - remember that both prosthetics and especially surgeries have very real complications.

For burn care, I recommend this post I made!

I hope this helps!

mod Sasza

#mod sasza #liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiily #burn survivor representation #fantasy disabilities #fantasy species #acquired disability #cure trope

[mightymizora]

The thing I love most about Gale actually is how he is both how the fandom often depicts him (full of puns, jovial, quick to try and connect with people, capable of great love) but is also completely on the edge of nihilism. In constant chronic pain that is only alleviated slightly. Completely grieving not just the relationship that defined him but moreso the promise that he had.

He was always the best, always the most talented at the thing he loved above all other things. What is he without that? He can’t even conceptualise what he is if not the most gifted mage of his generation. And he doesn’t want to! He doesn’t want to try and consider who he might be if not that. As the game goes on and his pain is temporarily relieved he shifts from just trying to survive the day to day into having the space to be angry, fucking furious at what he’s been dealt. His plans for godhood are so driven by a desire to prove himself still, to show that he’s better than a discarded toy. Then he also thinks that death might be the only way for him to still be the person he dreamed of being, because it’s the way he can always be known as a great wizard. Both things are true at once and he veers wildly between them and honestly I don’t think that’s bad writing, I think that’s what it’s like!

Because that’s the thing they don’t tell you, when you do survive catastrophic shit in your life. The longer you survive and try and build a new version of yourself, the more you realise that grief isn’t something that goes. You grow around your grief, and that’s what Gale does in his non-Godhood and non-Sacrifice endings.

The game only shows us six months after and I know that they wanted the epilogue to be fluffy and fanservice so they’re not going to explore this, but I can imagine a huge crash would come for him not long after that point. Recovery is hard, it’s not linear, and often especially in the early days any time you feel better you are tempted back to old habits and unhealthy ways to engage. Given what we literally see in game with his pursuit of godhood, I can’t imagine Gale isn’t dealing with that push and pull for decades after the game.

It’s really hard actually, to live your life as a process of surviving and not thriving. To see your contemporaries keep rising, building lives when you have to keep things modest. To see them, be asked what you’re doing, and have to bite back the edge of ambition when you tell them of the things that make you content. Because they do! They do make you content! But you were supposed to be the best, and you will always crave it and be fighting the impulse to go back to how you were, to chase that adrenaline, that adulation.

#god does this go in the tags or is it too personal #anyway I relate to Gale #and I am in my grief era

[flyingwargle]

bokuaka fanfic recommendations!

i am uncharacteristically nervous about posting this haha i read a lot of fanfic and always enjoy looking at other people's recommendations, so i thought, why not share some of my favorites?

all these recs are sfw!

oneshots!

banana bread by leuralo_1 gen. 2.1k words. bokuto pov. bokuto and his roommates have too many bananas and akaashi takes the train overnight to make banana bread with it. that's it, that's the fic. it's so cute, i'm begging you to read it.

spending all, spending all my time (loving you) by hyeyu gen. 3.4k words. bokuto pov. akaashi is a dimension traveler and gets nailed in the head by bokuto's serve, so he stays until he fixes his dimension travel device. one of my first bokuaka fics that i read, very cute and the pining is palpable.

in the same room, at the same time by quel_nightmare teen. 21.5k. alternating pov. marriage proposal fic! i read this all in one sitting and my heart was ready to burst by the end. very cute, i won't spoil anything other than that <3

astronomy in reverse (it was me who was discovered) by flumes teen. 22.1k. akaashi pov. a non-linear narrative about akaashi pining over bokuto from high school to the future. very poetic and lyrical, with the boys discovering their feelings for each other in the end. i also read this all in one sitting.

longfics!

background check by ghostystarr gen. 2 chapters, 8k words. msby4 changes bokuto's lockscreen picture for fun since he doesn't lock his phone, but the game changes when he changes it to a picture of akaashi. a very fun and cute fic with the msby4 gang helping their bro out.

truth is such a violent force by inaminute teen. 8 chapters, 41k. it starts with akaashi's 1st year at fukurodani and explores his dysfunctional family, growing relationship with bokuto, and deals with homophobia. i love the fukurodani boys in this, and how supportive they are of one another. there's also a sequel that is just as heart-wrenching as this one! (both have happy endings, don't worry)

flightless owl by volleydorkscentral teen. 31 chapters, 57.6k words. bokuto gravely injures his leg and has to sit the rest of his third year out. this fic focuses on his recovery, his relationship with akaashi developing, and overcoming the pain of his injury. has a happy ending, as well!

the way you look at me by mocaw teen. 36 chapters, 79.2k words. bokuto sees train guy every night on his commute after practice until he decides to take the first step and introduce himself. this fic is the reason why i ship bokuaka. it's slowburn, deals with anxiety and ptsd, developing relationships, and is just beautifully written (i am also extremely biased because this shaped my undergrad years). please read it, i'm begging you.

the death of our hands by bershlate teen. 25 chapters, 109k words. this longfic explores akaashi's ocd, his dysfunctional family, and an amazing oc older brother, along with his relationship with bokuto. i read this recently and finished it in a few days because of how gripping the story is <3

i'll let you shatter me with your pain by kuromantic teen. 23 chapters, 160.4k words. akaashi is an empath and when he brushes against bokuto, he gets the biggest shock of emotions of his life. this fic is very heavy, dealing with abuse, malnutrition, trauma, and homophobia. it has a happy ending, and our boys do get together <3

i'll reblog this from time to time to add more recs as i keep reading! of course, feel free to check out my own bokuaka fics >:3 i might post more?? for other pairings and general recs?? and for genshin too since i have a lot there haha okay enjoy bye!

#text #fanfic recs #haikyuu fanfic recs #personal #if you can tell what kind of fics i like to read based on my recs #its a lot of angst and fluff #i like to make sure both boys suffer equally #since they're in love and all #also i don't like reading about too dark themes #there's enough suffering in the world #let our boys be happy #bokuto koutarou #akaashi keiji #bokuaka #fukurodani

[childofthewolvess]

Healing from spiritual psychosis—a survivor's journey from delusion and depression, to happiness and purpose as a practicing pagan.

❗❗This post may not be suitable for audiences under 18. TW: psychosis, mania, delusion, suid*dal ideation, ab*se, religious trauma, manipulation, and mental health struggles in general. Reader discretion is highly advised.❗❗

This one is gonna be long. As a disclaimer, this story is a highly interpersonal journey to me and unique to my experience. I absolutely do not speak for everyone who has experienced spiritual psychosis, and if you want to know more generally about spiritual psychosis, check out my post on spiritual psychosis, what it is, and how to recognize the signs.

To say that I have a crazy story would be an understatement. I kid you not, this will probably be the craziest, most roller-coaster thing you read this entire week. Buckle up, because we're going in.

By telling this story, I hope that I can both help to spread awareness of the dangers of spiritual psychosis, and that recovery is possible. My wish is that this post will help to comfort another person who is still in the healing process from spiritual psychosis, because you are not alone! It is possible to live a religious and spiritual life following a spiritual psychosis episode.

But I will be honest—it is a battle, a journey, and a fight. I was not practicing any religion for close to two years. It wasn't easy, healing isn't all sparkles and glitter, and this story does not go through a linear healing process. In fact, I've been brainstorming how to just format this post for weeks. I'm going to attempt to follow this story chronologically with titles separating different sections.

My background as an autistic military kid and my susceptibility to spiritual psychosis

I have always been fascinated in the occult and drawn to the unusual. As early as I could remember, I had a tendency to see my spirit guides in my rest; I would pray to wolf spirits; I was obsessed with astrology as soon as I learned about it; I would make potions and spells without knowing what I was doing. I was born with an inherent trust and fascination in the mystical—I am an open individual to new ideas, highly imaginative (I write fantasy, after all), and did not grow up in a hyper-religious household. My mom always assumed it was my creativity and imagination speaking in a strange way, but never seemed to be worried about curious religious beliefs when I was a child and teenager. In fact, my family didn't go to church. We were vaguely Christian, celebrating Easter and Christmas, but I was not grown up under a strict, "if you don't believe in God you're going to Hell."

I never grew up scared or fearful of the mystical or religious; I grew up under a highly scientific and militaristic background. I was a military kid. I moved every couple of years to a new place. This shaped my entire perception of the world around me, very quickly—I was an outsider, even from the very start. I was the new kid, the outcast, always feeling like I didn't belong and questioning where I belonged in the first place. I was extroverted, loud, and autistic as well, but since I grew up amongst non-stop change packing up my life and moving on every couple of years, I didn't experience any fear for change. This... created so many problems. That's a story for my therapist.

It created problems, though, specifically in my adaptability and trust. I have always known myself to be an outsider, and because of that, I was not afraid to view myself as an outsider in the religious world. Being a military kid was a massive factor in fueling my spiritual psychosis, because as a teenager, I was in desperate search for a purpose and a sense of family/community. I grew up without stability, and learned to create my own stability. This would be my ultimate downfall and greatest strength as I grew older.

The other major factor that set me up for susceptibility to spiritual psychosis were my disabilities. I learn quickly and deeply with my special interests. I jump from topic to topic with a massive amount of energy with my ADHD. I am prone to obsessions and wanting to check them, as I have lived with extremely severe (now-medicated) Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder my whole life. This, combined with growing up as a military kid, brewed the perfect storm to strike me down when I was a teenager.

How my spiritual psychosis began, and how deeply it impacted all parts of my life

When I was 14 years old, after living in a state for 4 years (the longest I'd ever lived anywhere and finally felt a sense of stability), my life was thrown for a massive loop when I had to move to an entirely different state and go into a high school with complete strangers. I'm not exaggerating when I say that was rough on me. My mental health rapidly declined after I moved states. I was stuck in a transitional period—while I was in a new high school with people I didn't know, I was still talking online to my friends in my previous state. It was gut-wrenching for me to see them having fun with each other in high school while I felt like a silhouette, back to being the autistic new kid amongst a massive school of thousands I didn't know. But this time, it was high school, full of cliques I couldn't fit in, and judgement for who I was.

At this time, I was communicating with one spirit guide in particular. I was still identifying as a Christian, but I had an animal spirit guide who I'd met before I even moved. I would do meditations routinely to ask for this spirit guide's advice and knowledge. I built trust with him (the guide) very quickly, as prior to moving, there was no reason for me not to trust this guide.

Literally mere months after I moved, I started slipping quickly into spiritual psychosis. When I had been previously su*cidal and chronically depressed, I suddenly entered a rapid mania and happiness to the point where I believed there was absolutely nothing wrong. I was placed on a new hormonal medication for my chronic disorder that made me even more susceptible to delusion due to the hormone. It began with the belief of twin flames; this was a coping method because A), I didn't like men and had a shit ton of internalized homophobia, and B), I thought my twin flame was one of my previous friends living in the other state. Another friend from said state affirmed this belief, unfortunately, and this would lead to a chaotic and fast borderline-schizophrenic downfall. Nothing is more dangerous than an outside force reassuring someone with OCD that their delusional obsession is real.

My spirit guide confirmed and reassured me that I was correct in my friend being my twin flame (this wasn't true). I began meditating every single night, as soon as I got home from school slipping into a trance to talk to my spirit guide. I then started to believe that I was a healer chosen by God, and that's why I met my twin flame so early in life. This cascaded into the belief that I received "visions" of my future with my "twin flame" (it was maladaptive daydreaming). Then I started to believe that I was talking to the spirits of my future children with my twin flame. Then I believed I was literally pregnant with an angel spirit, gave birth, and visited heaven. I was taking care of a ghost angel child every moment of my day. And then, catch this, after stopping my belief in that, I believed I was an angel living on earth sent to heal others. I was not at all existing in the real world.

This all was affirmed by my spirit guide at the time, even though it wasn't true, whatsoever. I literally built a spiritual family and world that loved me because I was lacking it in the physical. And it was encouraged by my spirit guide.

Sure, I was a band kid, and sure, I forced myself through my homework, but in my head, I was nowhere near the present, constantly dissociated and losing more and more sleep to meditations where I'd "travel" to the spiritual realm to talk to these "spirits" (again, it was maladaptive daydreaming, lol). This lasted over a course of six months while gradually worsening. To my parents, I looked like I was fine—it was all happening in my head, and I was highly isolated within my bedroom. I did appear to be happy. But if you look at pictures of me during this time, it is incredibly, terrifyingly visible how I was not occupying my physical body and the world around me.

Let's compare that photo of me in 2018 (16 years old) to a photo that was taken of me in 2023 (20 years old), happy and healthy post-healing from spiritual psychosis:

Notice the difference?

Directly after snapping out of spiritual psychosis, and being in a vulnerable state, I was taken advantage of.

This spiritual psychosis would dramatically crash down on a random Wednesday my sophomore year of high school. Both the friends that were related to my spiritual psychosis suddenly cut me off right before I realized it all wasn't real. I got off the medication that I was prescribed directly before my spiritual psychosis began. I woke up in the middle of the night with the sudden awareness that nothing I had experienced was real. It sent me into the worst depressive episode I've ever lived through. To this day, I struggle to describe to others the massive loss that I experienced when I snapped out of my mania. I quite literally grieved a family that I had built, my whole world, and my life got flipped upside down as everything I knew to be real was suddenly not. I was completely, totally alone, in a world that I was unfamiliar with, around people I hadn't known, in a body that I hadn't been in for months due to dissociation. It was the ultimate Tower moment. I had no idea who to talk to, how to ever trust myself ever again, let alone the intense guilt that suddenly plagued me from the sense of knowing that I hadn't found my twin flame, and I had been imagining sick and twisted fantasies of living my life with him.

I realized I was obsessive. I said goodbye to the spirit guide previously guiding me. I had a snow leopard guide for a few months, as I still connected with the idea of spirit guides, but strictly didn't allow her to tell me anything even remotely associated with religion. She was there for comfort, for guidance, and I will forever be thankful of this short-lived spirit guide's protection and care to help me to stay alive in my darkest night.

After stabilizing my mental health, I began to see a black wolf run alongside me in my dreams; the same black wolf I saw as a child. He was familiar, and I began to work with him. I immediately noticed a massive difference in how he communicated with me, versus how my spirit guide during my spiritual psychosis communicated with me. I began to learn healthy communication from spirit guides, and he would stay by my side even when I had no religious beliefs as I healed and reevaluated my entire morality and faith structure. I knew that he was a real spirit, and that I could trust him—he would tell me as it was, he wouldn't glorify, he would protect me from my own self. He was a voice of reason, and I understood quickly that he had been waiting for my previous spirit guide to depart to help walk me back to who I was before I experienced spiritual psychosis. He encouraged me to restart in college, follow my heart, and realize that high school was temporary.

And then I got a warning from him. The first time I'd ever received a warning from a spirit guide. A warning that told me I was about to be in deep, deep trouble.

I received my OCD diagnosis. I relied on my writing to escape, forced myself to try to make friends, but that was... unfortunate. I didn't know or understand how to make a good friend as a teenager; how could I, when I hadn't even been in my body for months? I'd only had friends in middle school, and I hadn't yet learned social dynamics as an autistic person. With all these factors, I was incredibly vulnerable. I was sadly taken advantage of by my abuser. I had maybe a six month gap in between spiritual psychosis and being forced into a relationship with an incredibly manipulative and life-threatening abuser. He would deliberately attack every aspect of my life that were already damaged and unsteady. I was nothing, and that is no exaggeration—I was only a writer knowing I wanted to survive solely so I would finish my book. Though I didn't slip back into spiritual psychosis, I was basically reduced to a body without a soul by this said individual as he had a plan to k*ll me. He'd get away with it morally, if I was worthless and better off dead, anyway.

And knowing that he was trying to make me nothing, I decided to fight. My spirit woke back up that day. I was suddenly alive again to survive.

So, yeah, I went through spiritual psychosis and then immediately got into a relationship with a psychopath with serial killer tendencies. I wish I was joking about that. That's my luck, y'all.

During this intense and severe trauma lasting over a year before I moved to college, I was protected by my black wolf spirit guide. He was a force of comfort, of wisdom, and I inherently understood in myself he wanted me to survive with my own strength. Not delusion; not escape; but instead the power within myself to stand up against my abuser, take hold of my life, and get out. He helped me in my discovery that I was a lesbian, and I would end up breaking up with my abuser for this reason.

I moved to college after about 6 months of healing at the end of high school from that previous situation. It was a massive restart, one that my wolf spirit guide led me to because of my newfound love for nature and its truthful guidance.

I had completely abandoned most of my spiritual and religious beliefs by the end of my senior year in high school. I fought out of my abusive relationship and stood back up, and with my anger and spirit reawakened, I decided I'd move for myself and get away from anything and everything that was connected to that damn state and my high school experience.

I instead learned to make friends when I moved to Colorado through nature and hiking. I began living my life authentically, healing my wounds through laughter and joy. I found my place in the trees, in the forests, by the river, in security. I switched my major to ecology and wrote poetry about the healing hand of nature itself. Though I wasn't religious, I would still do tarot readings with a new deck with my black wolf spirit guide. I trusted his wisdom, I trusted him not to guide me into delusion, as I understood he had been waiting for me to return to my childhood joy.

Quite literally, I found how to be a kid again. I found it in the Colorado snow, in a group of friends, in my autism/ADHD diagnosis. I fell in love; I fell out of love. I moved to Yellowstone National Park to honor my love for the wolf, and then last year to Alaska to become a naturalist. I got contracted by a literary agency for my writing. I went to a therapist every week for three years, working through each and every piece of trauma in high school. I got medicated for my OCD and ADHD and saw a massive improvement in symptoms. I found the divine in nature, began truly smiling, and healing my heart. I started to work out, became confident in my identities, and let go of labeling myself. I found my passion and purpose in teaching about nature's wonder and power. I started saving up and working toward getting a service dog to help with dissociation for my PTSD, and was successful. Each and every night, I'd work on reflecting through poetry. To this day, I have ~40,000 words of poetry documenting and detailing my healing journey, finding love within nature, and happiness in my own independence and self.

I spent an absurd amount of time not touching the mystical with a 10-foot pole, besides my one spirit guide, a deck of tarot cards, and sensing energies in nature itself. I found how to ground myself, how to balance my logic and emotion, how to discern daydreaming escapes from intuition. I redefined my intuition and how it felt. I completely separated from anything and everything to do with high school. It was critical to step away from my craft for a couple of years to fully rebuild who I was.

"So, was that really a spirit guide, then? How could I ever trust any spirit guide again?"

I struggled with this question for a very long time. I swung between wondering if that spirit guide was even real, or if I had made him up, too. I had experiences that I couldn't describe, and a spirit guide I trusted, and I would get confused and stumped.

I first learned to become thankful of that spirit guide during my psychosis. If I hadn't gone through that psychosis, I wouldn't have been alive. It was the only true way for me, at the time, to survive the circumstances I was in. My spirit guide was absolutely real, and he absolutely lied to me, too. But he did it to keep me alive, to allow me a glimpse of what I wanted—stability, strength, love, and family—in an unconventional way. It would motivate me to find my dream life. That spirit guide did what he knew best, and saved me. He understood that I was predispositioned to spiritual psychosis, and when I began slipping into it, he had a choice—he could either abandon me and leave me with absolutely nothing, or let me believe in what was making me happy and keeping me alive. And I said my thanks to this guide years later, but respectfully stated that I would never allow that sort of trickery and lies in my craft again, not when I understood myself, my purpose, and what happiness is to me.

Even later, I would learn that specific spirit guide was sent by Loki, one of the deities that has been guiding me for most of my life. At first, I was angry. I didn't want to talk to Loki, I was uncomfortable with the fact that he would do such a thing, but then I remembered that it was simply the only way to save my life, at the time, when I was already falling into psychosis without the guide's encouragement.

I further learned that my black wolf spirit guide, who had been with me as a child and left during my spiritual psychosis, could not be my guide at that time. Loki wanted me to trust this spirit guide. If my black wolf guide had been my guide at the time of my psychosis, I never would have trusted any sort of spirituality again, nor the wolf spirit that had been sent by my ancestors to protect me. His (wolf) purpose was to protect me, keep me safe, and guard me from delusion (rather that be my own or someone else's). Loki was forced to assign the not-wolf guide to me to keep me alive. Classic Loki, too, sacrificing the painful and deadly truth for the convenient lie. I respect Loki's decision, because I understand now.

Finding the divine in my life before and after psychosis: where are we now?

One of the toughest moves I would make would be listening to the energies of the deities calling to me. Loki would visit my dreams. I had been told by 3 different readers that Loki wanted to work with me. I had to learn how to even trust deities, as I could barely trust my own intuition considering how badly I slipped into psychosis before.

I started to see the divine before, and after, my psychosis, in the form of energy. Not the form that would talk to me and say things I didn't like; not the form that would invade my space; but instead the gentle energy surrounding me in moments where I was grounded and smiling.

I found Loki in my love and passion for storytelling. I found his essence lingering in the Alaskan rainforests, in the chaos of being a deckhand on the Pacific. I found his energy trailing in the form of the sheer chaos I've always lived in, in my deep desire for change. I found it in the laugher from others when I told stories, in the wild with orcas following our boats. I found his energy in my child self, prior to my psychosis, telling stories to my classmates and being my bold self, sticking out like a sore thumb but embracing it.

I found Aphrodite in my poetry, hidden in my heartbreak and deeply interwoven concept of romance. I found her in my love for the ocean as a child. I found her in the smiles of the first girl-friends that I had in my life, in going to a spa with them. I found her in my own sandy blonde hair, in my carefully-crafted prose surrounding a romance in my book.

I found my two wolf spirit familiars (previously, black wolf was my guide) in my excited passion over the wolf. In playing and having fun in nature. In family, in the understanding that I was never alone, and never could force myself to be alone. In the rain, in the trees, in my footsteps on dirt trails, in the smell of the river on a warm day. I felt their energies happily protecting me throughout my life, not forcing a belief onto me or immediately agreeing with one of my opinions, but instead protecting me and acting as holders of the truth.

I realized that my deities are not just new forces, but forces that have existed around me for longer than I can even remember. They are parts of me. I am a part of the universe, and so are they. I began to trust, understanding the signs and symptoms of spiritual psychosis. I recognized that not only was I much older, but medicated, stable, and happy. My spirituality wasn't centered around someone else, it was centered around my perception of the natural world and how special it was. I got into herbalism, deity worship, and at last stepped into who I wanted to be as a child. Not a delusional person in psychosis, but as a spiritual individual respecting my divine team and living my purpose of spreading the joy that nature brings.

What's the lesson to take from this?

The signs and symptoms of spiritual psychosis, and the recognition that anyone can experience spiritual psychosis. Also, that it wasn't all fake, and that the divine does have impact in all aspects of life.

You are never alone! Even if it feels like it, it will get better. You will find the strength, and though in one moment your life may feel worthless, healing is entirely possible.

It is possible to trust the divine again. Give yourself time. Let yourself heal. Ground. Find your truth, build your beliefs on the perception of reality. Do not be afraid to restart and run off to distant lands to heal—it works!

If you made it this far, thank you for reading this one hell of a story. I hope that this will help to inspire someone or reach someone who needs to hear it.

#witchblr #paganism #pagan witch #pagan community #eclectic pagan #hellenic witch #norse pagan #witchcraft #heathenry #lokean #familiar spirits #spirit work #animal spirit #spiritual awakening #spirituality #spiritual psychosis #psychosis #healing #healing journey #self healing #gratitude

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

Still beating

What - dealing with grief as the dust finally starts to settle. Dealing with grief regarding one specific character's death in particular. You know the one.

Genre - heavier, but we get devoted husband/father Daryl out of the mix. And we don't end the chapter on a bummer, never fear. This ain't a French movie, slowpokes

Relationships - wife Reader and husband Daryl as well as your baby. Familial affection with Rick, and that balance between friend and clergy for Father Gabriel.

Perspective - 3rd POV Daryl, and 2nd POV You

Pronouns - she/her

When - time jump! we've briefly hopped to post season 8, pre season 9 (but before The best kind of damn weird). This chapter takes place during the earlier phases of recovery and rebuilding after the war. The previous chapter, Scary as a sleepy kitten, took place during season 2.

TWs - grief, PTSD (including after SA), depression, self-loathing, and some cussing. This chapter is also kinda lengthy, friends, and had to have exposition. (Might should've sliced the chapter in half, but then we'd have another two-parter on our hands :P)

But how long though? - ...20 minutes or so?

Story references and Masterlist link? - under the cut

And is there a pic at the end as a prize for finishing? - yes :D

Have fun and happy reading!

References to other chapters - what we learned in The Interview. There is also grieving/anger as seen in The first Christmas 'without' Part 2 and its conclusion in I don't hate you, a happy reference to Happy 8th of July!, reference to those lovely tugging strings as found in Invisible Tugging Strings, Part 1 and Part 2 (Part 2 I reckon is still glitched and showing as labeled mature, the poor thing's been cleared about 7ish times via help ticket XD ).

There are a lot more details you might recognize, pop on by to the Official Masterlist here, or for those who prefer linear over non-linear, the Chronological Slowpoke Masterlist here

-----------------------

Still beating

She was doing real bad. The past few days had been especially bad. Grief has nasty ways of settling in and rearing its ugly head.

He didn’t know too much about what to do to help her, he’d never been good at that stuff. And there was no fixing all that happened, especially not when the last thing that happened was the worst thing that could’ve.

Other than if TJ or Judith died, it was the worst thing. And part of his wife died right alongside Carl.

Hell, she’d been the one to wait after Carl died, then turned, to pull the trigger.

Now, she felt dead, too.

Gabe had to suggest that she check her pulse when it got bad enough.

Just then, TJ started to wriggle and hum in an attempt to root at Daryl's bicep, which pulled him out of his worry for a second.

Gently, he began to bounce to try and keep his baby lulled. He knows Y/N wanted to breastfeed only to get her production up (and so TJ’s suckle could get stronger after the surgery), but Y/N was finally asleep.

Beginning with when Denise was killed, Y/N hadn’t been making as much as she first had. Then, the Saviors stopped the RV and surrounded them, and Negan did what he did. Then Daryl himself got taken away, then there was all the fighting.

And then Carl died.

Getting her milk to come back had been proving damned hard.

A handful of not-very-good times, they’d supplemented what milk she did make with watered-down formula and/or watered-down goat's milk.

One very bad time, they’d used sugar water to fill the babies’ bellies until Jesus got back with goat's milk. Just the one time they had to use sugar water, everybody made damn sure of that.

For now, Daryl could crack into what was still left of the goat's milk in the cooler, right? The two women in the Kingdom who had little guys had sent over actual breast milk with Carol a few days ago, but it was used up yesterday. That stuff had been a God-send, he couldn’t thank the ladies enough.

Between the two babies in Alexandria, TJ and Gracie, everyone had to be smart about using what formula was left. And given that the power got cut, keeping the goat's milk fresh was another problem, hence the cooler.

There was still a shit ton of clean-up had since the Saviors nabbed Alexandria’s storage, then firebombed the town. To make things worse, those assholes had their own compound destroyed, and Hilltop and the Kingdom got screwed, too. Even the beach women took another beating. Hell, and them junkyard people were literally all fucking gone except their leader chick.

So, Y/N breastfed the two babies as much she was physically able because there was no other option right now, all while working as the only other doc left standing in all five communities; she was running herself into the ground.

And with Carl gone…

It ain’t fair that she couldn’t make enough — it was Negan’s goddamned fault.

Which leads to what just went on: so Mich had told him, Y/N’d lashed out at Negan and the new doctor kid with the facial hair, what was his name, Sidney?

Daryl hadn’t been at the infirmary when it happened, but, according to Mich, she’d had to pull her out of the room. Once out, Y/N asked her about TJ, Judith, and Gracie to make sure they were safe, then disappeared after Mich had turned around. Straight up and bolted.

Daryl had checked the escape-closet first, but she wasn’t in there or the attic it connected to, wasn't on the roof that lead to.

He’d then checked the burned church. She’d been there, he recognized her boot prints, but she'd moved on. From there, he was able to follow her sooty tracks in the direction of the place he should’ve known to check first.

Sure enough, Y/N'd been at Carl’s grave.

His wife could barely look at him when he approached. He'd simply kissed her on the head and quietly walked her back home. Once home, he'd cleaned and bandaged her hand while she, again, tried to pump enough for TJ and Gracie.

Mich had told Daryl she’d get Rick for her, so he’d be here soon.

Daryl wracked his brain, he even prayed to learn what do to try to help carry Y/N through this shit.

At first, Y/N’d been pacing around the room, crying but trying not to, arms wrapped around her picture frame with a photo of Carl in it as if it was the only thing keeping her afloat.

He'd been able to persuade her to lay down, and ended up laying in bed with her and holding her tight, TJ next to them in little bassinet.

Initially, him holding her and pressing kisses to her neck had made her feel worse. More guilty, that is. A handful of days ago, something got into her head that she needed to give him a damn "annulment."

Nah, for real, she’d even said (to Gabe) that the two of them not having ever done the deed yet was "grounds" to give him one. “Grounds to free him,” were her exact words. It was a whole thing, and the couple of failed attempts at trying to do the deed after getting hitched some months back probably made her feel worse.

Father Gabriel had Daryl's back the whole time during the conversation, though, decent dude.

And no, Daryl wasn’t angry or even real hurt that she’d thought she had to ‘free him’ and shit, he knows it was the grief and physical exhaustion that got her to that point. His woman had full-on blacked out and hurt herself that day, which is why he'd brought her to Gabe in the first place.

But the, um, the walls were thinner than Daryl had expected, which is how he overheard from the person that he was gonna love and stay with and stay faithful to until he dropped dead softly confess that she was “selfish” to keep him “stuck” with a “batshit m-mess” like her and “a baby that ain’t his.”

The fact that Y/N kept maintaining how much she loved him and how she didn’t want no annulment helped it hurt less when she’d sounded just about convinced that it was “loyalty to me ’cause we’re close, loyalty to Rick,” and because of “he’s got so much shame. He feels responsible for what the Claimers did,” that made him marry her those months ago. "He loves our ch—my child, and might love me, but it's not fair to him. He deserves better, h-he needs better, the man's been trapped all his life. I-I don't want him trapped, I want him happy!"

Gabe never played into her fears. He been no nonsense about all of it, told Y/N that she needed a damn rest, and asked her to tell him what she thought about it when she woke up.

The good thing was that after a 5 hour period of uninterrupted sleep (during which they used some of the goat's milk for TJ and Gracie), she woke up in a daze at why she’d thought an annulment was something Daryl needed or wanted.

The bad thing was, she was then socked in the gut with more unearned guilt for it, then with worry that she was too far gone, or crazy, all that.

Been a bad, bad few days.

Been a lot of Daryl showing her love that she felt not worth being shown. So that she fell asleep in his arms today was such a damn win!

After getting up to take a leak and finding that Y/N was miraculously still asleep, he thanked whoever was up there, then tried to figure out what else he could do to help her get through today…and right at that moment, TJ started to rouse, so he got his answer: keep their baby comforted. More shut-eye could only do his woman well.

Deftly lifting the little bundle into his arms, he'd kissed the scar above the baby’s upper lip and tiptoed out to the hall, where he was now.

Lightly he bounced, softly he shushed. He held TJ like a football and moved back and forth, back and forth. Babies smell so damn good, and make the cutest damn noises!

After a couple minutes, through the open door, he peeked at his Y/N.

Shit. She was already sitting up and blinking off the sleep.

Whatever it was she did and said today, she felt low as hell about it, that much was clear. Without looking, she grabbed the now-broken picture frame and clutched it to her middle.

"You're supposed to be asleep, slowpoke," he tried to tease.

Her clothes had ashes from where it looked like she’d knelt down then sat down in the burned church. There was some dirt on them, too, from when she’d been at Carl’s grave. Daryl made a note to shake the sheets out later and pick the tissues up off the floor.

That's when the front door opened downstairs.

Was that Ri—good, that was Rick’s voice, he was finally there. There was a second voice, too, was that Father Gabriel’s? It was soft like Gabe's voice was.

Daryl looked downstairs.

Yup, it was Rick with the rev.

He waved them upstairs, but it must’ve been the clunking of the Gabriel’s new cane that got Y/N stumbling out of the room.

“Rev! I would’ve come to you, y-you need to be takin’ it easy.” She hugged the picture frame in one hand, gripped the banister in the other and started to go downstairs, asking Gabe how he felt, urging him to sit down, had his vision worsened, all that stuff.

“Y/N, more rest won’t stop me from losing sight in this eye,” Gabriel responded in his quiet way, remaining on the second step, not going up or down the stairs. He smiled. “You could say I’m the one making a house call to a patient this time."

She held back a sob and bowed her head. Then, she subtly slipped two fingers around the inside of her wrist…

Rick stepped the rest of the way up the stairs and put his hands on her shoulders. “What's going on, weirdo?”

“Ricky, I'm s-sorry."

He leaned closer and took her in for a hug. “Heart still beating?” he murmured.

Her inhale was shaky. “Mmhm. Yours?”

“Beating strong.”

TJ perked up and began to whimper upon hearing her voice. Y/N unzipped her hoodie to—she still had a gun on her?

Okay, that'd been stealth as fuck, it hadn't even been printing. He'd been literally holding her, how had he not noticed?

Daryl shared a glance with Gabe. Minus her screwdriver, she'd turned in her weapons after what happened the other day.

Y/N handed the small gun to Rick, who looked wary, but accepted it without question. She hesitated before reaching into her boot to hand over her screwdriver, too.

Daryl slid his hand around his wife’s waist to guide her back to the room. Without looking him in the eyes, she cupped his cheek and told him he was a good father. Then, frame still gripped under one arm, she took the baby into the other.

“Let’s try havin’ a snack before I go with Uncle Ricky awhile, okay, chickpea?” she murmured, then unbuttoned the top of her shirt.

Daryl took off his vest to give her some more coverage. When he draped the vest around her, she turned her head to kiss his hand. He felt his cheeks warm when she did that.

Walking into the room again, she softly told Daryl that he and Rick could sit on the beds. First, she placed the picture frame on one of the mattresses. Next, she took TJ and went beside the end table at the window to sit down on the floor beside it. The way she sat, it was kinda as if she were using it as a shield.

“Rev, please take the chair,” she mumbled to Gabriel with a glance at the only piece of furniture in the room at the time, other than the bassinet, a nightstand, and the end table. Negan had specifically left the rocking chair as a 'gift' for her. The piece of shit...

Anyway, Daryl had got them their two twin mattresses back (hey, squish them together and you get a big-ass bed) the first trip to and from the Savior’s compound after the war ended, once the Alexandrians had begun to move back from the Hilltop. Only, no bed frames yet.

“And sweetheart, I’ll-I’ll take the pumps with me for while I’m in there. Wanna make sure you and Aaron have enough for them,” she said to him, voice still raw. Y/N turned to him and gave him a wobbly smile. “Sorry I used up so much of the tissue supply,” she tried making light, but got close to tears again, so stumbled through asking “Can I, um, Rick, m-might can I bring my pillow? Is that okay?”

Go with Rick where, and take the breast pumps and her pillow, why? He made eye contact with Gabriel, who looked just as puzzled. So, he turned to Rick.

Rick lowered his eyebrows as if he didn’t know what she meant, either. He squatted to sit down on the mattress beside Daryl, and looked at his sister. “Y/N, where are we headed?”

Glancing up from the baby to him then to Daryl, she adjusted TJ’s position on her breast while she figured out how to answer, by the looks of it. Another glance at her husband as if she were worried about his reaction...

“Rick, I thought you was here to…escort me?”

?

Daryl had no clear idea what she meant, it was the rev who understood first.

“No,” Father Gabriel told her gently. “Y/N, you aren’t under arrest.”

Under arrest? Daryl fought between the urge to get angry or dead-ass laugh. 'Under arrest??'

It was for real, though. His wife’s tears started flowing again as she turned her attention to Rick and began to stress, “There can’t be no special treatment—”

“—Is this why you handed me your weapons? Why would you be under arrest?” Rick cut her off to question.

She stared as if he’d grown antlers. “I s-struck a patient, and, and—”

“—And I slit his throat open, which is why that 'patient' is in there in the first place,” he cut her off again, firm.

Thankfully, TJ let out a wail the same time mama wailed, “Ricky, y-you weren’t his medic!” pausing any further arguing.

Y/N gulped, pressed down on one breast, then the other. “I know there’s not much in ’em, Teddy-bear, but it-it’ll get better. It’ll come back,” she shushed, lifting him up and tucking herself back in. With a few kisses, she shushed, “You’ve gotten so much faster at drinking, babycakes”

Daryl got on the floor with her and took TJ back.

She avoided eye-contact again, and her lip wobbled again as she pulled the top of her shirt higher. That told him there’d been not much milk in there. And he could see all over her face that it was switching her on the legs with more false-ass, unearned guilt.

The familiar string in his chest suddenly tugged in her direction—next thing, he was resting his forehead on hers. “Hey. You’re makin’ more every day, angel,” he whispered in her ear. "And you're a damn good ma."

The way her expression softened and her body relaxed toward his felt better than fireworks going off on the Fourth 8th of July.

And as if he were back in that Georgia-in-July heat, Daryl just about melted right there on the floor when he saw his TJ, neck lifted high, making a face-scrunching, gummy smile at him. "Look how strong your neck is getting, ’lil badass, you’re rockin’ it!”

Shit, their kid was the best damn thing.

Y/N leaned against him and reached to lightly fluff their baby’s hair and rub their baby's teeny feet.

Gabriel sat in the rocking chair quietly, hands resting on his cane. He caught eyes with Daryl and nodded his head toward Y/N, glad to see her no longer convinced she needed to ‘free’ her husband.

Absorbed in the photo, Rick exhaled, then spoke up. “Y/N, how about we start from the beginning? What happened at the infirmary?”

She pressed tighter against Daryl as a pained noise left her throat. “Did you talk to Siddiq yet?” sounded very small.

“I want to talk to both of you.”

“And Michonne?”

He nodded. “She told me some.”

The big watch she’d kept from Dale tick-tick-ticked on her wrist. Then came the sound of light metallic clinking. Daryl didn’t have to look to see that she must’ve pulled out her brother’s necklace and was tugging on it.

“What I did ain’t excusable,” came out raspy and thick.

“It is," Rick answered.

“It’s not, especially not what I said to Sid—” a sob choked her response. She used Daryl's leather vest to hide her face before hugging it around herself like a blanket.

“Walk me through what happened first, kiddo, before you hit Negan with this?” Rick subtly gestured to the broken picture frame.

So she had smacked Negan in the face? Hot damn, Daryl was more in love with her already.

Y/N swallowed and shook her head. “They’d been lookin’ at it, the both of 'em.”

“At the picture?”

A tiny nod. “I’d left the room, and when I got back, they was looking at it. Siddiq brought it over to him. Tried to make like Negan was sad, too. Fuck that!”

TJ started rooting on his bicep again, but Daryl was on it. “Sorry, pipsqueak, I don’t got the right parts for that.” He started to massage the baby’s belly, and TJ quieted.

“It’s okay to let ’em cry a little, it-it helps restock these,” his wife tried joking, nodding down at her chest.

“Y/N.” Rick was delicate about coaxing her for more details. “You got back into the room, Siddiq and Negan were looking at the picture.”

“Negan’s filthy hands were on it,” she grit. "Lookin' at Carl and me, you with Shaney." The sounds of the pendant being pulled across the chain filled the room along with TJ’s soft cooing.

“Is that when you hit him with the frame?” Rick asked.

“No. I told him not to look at it again or touch it, and if he did, I’d hurt him.”

“Angel, slow your breathin’,” Daryl interjected at the same time that he figured out why those words sounded familiar: it was similar to how she'd warned the last Claimer fuckhead, the one who’d had Carl pinned down and was gon——Daryl shut down this brain for a sec, it was best not to think about that night.

He turned his head to see Rick, red-eyed, tracing his thumb along the photo of Carl, Y/N, Shane and him. Seems as if Rick had recognized her words, too.

“And when was it that you did hurt him?” Rick pressed on.

Y/N swallowed. “About half a minute later when he tried to act like it wasn’t his fault.”

Rick’s composure staggered and collapsed. His voice was hoarse when he managed to say, “It’s not his fault.”

But Y/N was fast to shut it down. “Don’t for one more second make like it’s yours, Ricky, you get that monkey off your back,” she comforted and somehow scolded both at once. “Negan was doing what Negan does when he, when he told you that. It was manipulation, nothin’ real. How C-Carl—” another choked-down sob, more tears.

Daryl noticed her press her fingertips to the spot under her chin, beside her jaw, checking her pulse to prove it was still beating.

“Negan had nothing to do with how Carl got bit,” Rick whispered. “You know it’s true, kiddo.”

“No—our boy wouldna ended up out there, w-with-with Siddiq, if it hadn’t been for Negan.” Her tone got louder and angry, her stress stutter became more noticeable, the way she tugged the necklace turned rougher. “He and his followers was why we weren’t able to trust no n-newcomers like Sid, which is why Sid was still out there alone, and, and, and why Carl went to him! It, it was because of Negan and his, and his, his-his cult!”

TJ seemed freaked out by the louder voice, the baby’s dark, blue-black eyes grown big.

Daryl spoke Y/N’s name to try and bring her back to herself, but she seemed to have very suddenly calmed.

She was blinking at her hand.

Daryl looked, and then saw the two halves of her brother Shane’s chain, broken.

“How many times did Carol warn me that this would happen when I tugged it,” she muttered to herself. "Good thing I didn't decide to tug on the rosary, huh?"

Inhaling, she leaned her head against the wall behind her, staring into space, fingers to her wrist to check her pulse again.

From beside her, he covered her hand in his. Then, pressing his lips to her fist, Daryl took the necklace from it. He could fix it.

“I lost my temper again, I’m sorry,” she spoke to all in the room, her hand cupping Daryl's cheek a moment. Then, more quietly, she looked at Rick. “How many days’ll I be in there?”

Which sent Daryl straight back to disbelief he was hearing those words, what absolute bullshit. “Y/N, you ain’t going nowhere.”

“You’re not going to a cell, Y/N,” Rick echoed.

“No special treatment,” she softly repeated. “If I were anybody else—”

Rick interrupted her “—It’s not about who you are.”

Father Gabriel had gotten up and was making his way to Y/N by then.

Y/N shook her head at the conversation, tired. “If I were anybody else or had any other orle, and if he were anybody else,” she caught her breath, “there’d be reper-re-rep—” a few more tries, and she had to choose a different word, “consequences. Assault and battery on an un-unarmed person—a patient—from their medical provider, that’s serious.” Her hand was back to covering her face. She sat pressed against the wall, knees at her chest.

“You and Siddiq are the only doctors left. We couldn’t just put you in a cell even if you had earned it.”

“I ain't a doctor, at best, I’m a medic,” she grunted. “And I did earn it, just ask him and Michonne. As for my,” she made a shaky inhale, “my duties, I can be escorted out.”

“And TJ? Gracie?” Daryl put out there, hoping to guilt her out of insisting she get jail time, like, what the fuck. What kind of conversation was this?

Screw this, he couldn't even sit. He stood, shaking his head and pacing around the room, still holding TJ.

The expression on Y/N's face should’ve been enough to calm him down, along the defeated, quiet way she reasoned, “I’ll pump and y’all will visit. It’s—no, sweetheart—it’s only for a few days,” when he started to dead-ass leave. As if her being in there ‘only for a few days’ would help this bullshit make sense.

But that’s when he ended up snapping, “This is goddamn bullshit! You bopped a sick fuck on the nose with a picture frame, who the fuck will care? Rick, why you even entertainin' this shit?” and he regretted doing so as soon as he barked it out.

The old, invisible knee rammed him in the nards harder when Rick cautioned, "Brother," and Gabe finally opened his mouth, and louder than Daryl had ever heard him speak. “She cares, Daryl. So do I.”

And to make it all worse, their baby had given a start in fear when he’d shouted, and now the poor kid was screaming—and TJ doesn’t scream, shit, shit, he blew up while holding his child?

“M’sorry! M’sorry," he hushed to his baby, "I love you so much, kid, I’m so sorry I scared ya. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” With a kiss on TJ’s wild head of hair, he murmured, “Pipsqueak, your old man is an idiot.”

Y/N rushed over when TJ screamed, but she didn’t take the baby away from Daryl. Instead, she caressed her husband’s forearm and the tricep and spoke to their child. “Your daddy’s got you safe,” she soothed.

He knew she was trying to look him in the eyes, but he couldn’t return it. He’d just scared an infant because he couldn’t check his temper. Their infant.

His wife’s quiet assurance cut through the rushing in his head. “Daryl? TJ ain’t hurt, sugar, and you’re not a bad father. Do some skin to skin, okay?” She pecked a kiss on his cheek. “And that's a dollar for cussing, pay up later.”

She then sat back down on the floor next to where the rev had made his new seat. Daryl took the now-empty rocking chair, unbuttoned his and TJ’s shirts, then nestled the kid on his chest.

Y/N then told the room the rest of what happened, how after Negan croaked out with what voice he had left, saying it 'wasn’t his fault Carl was dead', that she’d turned around and whacked him across the face with the frame.

Siddiq had reacted by grabbing her shoulders from behind to pull her away from Negan — so she had shoved back and kneed him in the dick plus rammed her head against his, dropping the frame in the process. The frame broke as a result—and when it broke, she'd lost her cool, said some shit, and threw some shit. Mich heard the hubbub and intervened, then Y/N hid herself away cause she 'knew' she was 'gone crazy.'

As far as Daryl was concerned, the new doc was lucky all he got was a shove, a knee to jewels, a clunk on the head, and some words and maybe a clipboard thrown at him, because Y/N could fight damned well. She'd had it drilled into her how and when to do it. Freely taught others moves, too.

When she’d showed Carol some techniques, way back, it was one of the things that sent him falling for her.

And…Y/N might’ve not said it out loud, but when she described how Siddiq grabbed her from behind to pull her away, everyone in that room got why it caused her to react strong.

What she described herself as doing would’ve been instinct.

Siddiq wouldn’t know why. Negan might, the fucker had watched the tape of her Deanna interview.

“See?” Y/N blew her nose again, sniffed, and stared at the floorboards. “It’s not right to Sid or the community to, to have what I did go unchecked. And what I said to Siddiq was so cruel. What’s worse is I meant it. Fuck, I still do.”

What she'd said was basically that she wished he’d gotten bit instead of Carl, and that it was just as much Siddiq's fault that the boy was dead as it was Negan’s. That 'he should be dead.'

She grimaced, then caressed the watch on her wrist. Must’ve been thinking of Dale. “Ain’t fair to…Negan, neither. If there’s anything Carl taught us, it’s that,” she whispered.

Rick lifted the frame to kiss his son’s picture, wiped a couple tears away. “When I talked with Sid, he was…alarmed. Worried. He thought it was off-character.”

Y/N went rigid where she sat. “Siddiq wasn’t there two years ago.”

Daryl lifted the baby higher on his chest and snuggled closer.

Rick shook his head. “You wishing someone dead, or, dead instead of another, is very off-character, it’s not you. No—don’t shake your head, Y/N.” Her brother maintained, “Even back then, after what happened, you didn’t wish me dead. You wished that Shane was still alive, not that I was dead instead. Even if you did say those things, it wouldn't have been the truth, just the hurt speaking.”

“I attacked you and told you I would kill you. And I-I meant it at the time, you know that.”

“And for a couple days, you left, because you didn’t actually want that. You knew it was wrong.”

“Which is why I need to get put away for a couple days. I decided to hurt a patient and his doctor, my own fr—” She wasn’t able to say what was probably the word ‘friend.’ Y/N bit her lip, and continued, “Then hurled words at him what nobody should get hurled at them.” She swallowed a cuss and grabbed another tissue.

“You’re exhausted, Siddiq knows that.” Rick pointed out. “We’re not ourselves when we’re—”

Y/N wasn’t having it. Probably too exhausted, to tell the truth.

“We’re all exhausted. C’mon, man, you just lost your son!” A sob left her and she tried to breathe through her nose. Checked her pulse again.

“You were also reacting to how he yanked you back, kiddo. That's not nothing.”

Daryl gave Rick a warning glance.

Rick saw, nodded, and held up a hand, which made Y/N turn to see what Daryl was doing. But Daryl simply kissed TJ on the head, not saying nothing.

She wasn’t fooled. When Y/N looked back at Rick after giving her husband a look of it’s okay, Daryl gave Rick another warning glare, then a nod.

“You didn’t react like that without reason, Y/N. There’s no shame to admit it was a trigger.”

She grumbled at the word. “Trauma ain’t an excuse to traumatize others.” After exhaling, she ran her hands over her face and took a moment. Hardly louder than a whisper, she challenged, “Ricky, not all my problems stem from the rapes. I’ve always been too hot-headed.”

At that moment, Daryl wanted to scoop her and TJ up and drive them away from everything, keep the two of them safe and unbothered for a month or two or four.

“Getting grabbed like that m-might, y’know, might could’ve reminded me of it—when they—" She ran a hand through her hair. "Okay, it did get me going. But, I,” she paused. “It wasn’t that I saw red or blacked out, I chose to keep goin’ once I’d started. I threw stuff because I was raging, I didn't want to stop because I thought he deserved it.”

Y/N fiddled with Dale’s watch, and turned to Father Gabriel beside her and almost smiled at him, close to the way she used to smile at Glenn, as if he were in on a joke. “Here I’d hoped I was re-domesticated by now.”

“Let us give thanks that you’re still housebroken,” he responded, taking Daryl by surprise. "You're...still housebroken, are you not?"

The way Y/N then cracked up and grinned woke up the butterflies in his stomach.

“Y/N, you’ve come miles since I first met you,” Gabriel told her softly, smiling back.

“All the way from Georgia,” she joked back, then grew more serious. “You’ve grown a whole lot, too.” She wiped her eyes, and Gabe closed his.

“And Y/N,” he shook his head. “You aren’t losing your humanity. I know you’re frightened of that, after what you told me happened to your other brother.”

It hadn’t even registered in Daryl’s mind that Shane’s memory would be scaring her. She loved her brother like hell, but she was always terrified of going down the same path he did.

He looked to Rick to see what his reaction was. His reaction was tear-rimmed eyes and a nod of his head toward TJ, silently asking if he could hold the baby awhile. Daryl nodded, Rick stood, and returned Y/N the frame as he walked by to pick up the little one.

Hands empty, Daryl took out his army knife and the broken chain from his pocket so he could fix his woman’s necklace. Wasn’t gonna be hard.

He heard Y/N whisper, “Hey, punk. Miss you. Miss you, too, loser.” He let his eyes travel to where she sat under the window, and watched her kiss the picture and well up. It was the old one of her and preschool-age Carl photobombing Rick and Shane, after one of them got some kind of cop award.

Clutching it once more to her belly, she and Father Gabriel then started to talk in low voices with one another.

“The red haze in your right sclera is so close to begin' clear. Did you talk to Rosie today? She’s been seeming less depressed.”

“I thought this was me visiting my patient, not the other way around,” Gabe gently hinted. “Y/N, please talk to me.”

Daryl heard her sniffle. “Rev, but I don’t want to have meant those words. I’ve been workin’ on it. It-it might be his fault, but I know he’s innocent, he’s humane—Sid even counts walkers like I do, man, yet still, I—” her breathing shuddered. “After whatever this mess is kicked in, every time I see him now, I hate him. Why do I hate a decent person?”

“Grief,” he offered simply. He gave her another shrug and small smile. “Keep doing what you have been. It will get easier every day, the same way your, um,” he was careful about his wording regarding her tits, “that you have more for the little ones every day.”

She huffed but didn’t raise her voice again, she stayed quiet as could be. “It don’t feel like none of that’s happening.”

“Our perception of things doesn’t always equal the truth, Y/N.” Gabe seemed to take a moment. Maybe he was praying.

Y/N’s fingers found her pulse again.

“We are all healing,” Gabriel next said, and smiled again. “Your heart is still beating, is it not?”

Y/N stared for a few moments, caught in the act. Eyes meeting Daryl’s for a moments, she removed her fingers from her neck, and inclined her head at the reverend. “What about yours?” she asked softly.

“Still beating. And that’s the proof,” he assured her just as softly. “Y/N, as for the way you understand your actions and your emotions toward him as not being right, I would like you to take it as a comforting sign. And, you just handed over a weapon you plainly wanted to keep concealed, you didn’t use said weapon to hurt Negan, either,” he pointed out, for which Daryl was grateful. “Perhaps, if you begin to make excuses, begin to feel no sense of having done wrong when you have, I will worry.”

Weirdly enough, he next grinned up at the ceiling. “But I am not, because you are simply broken and in need of healing. You’ll get there, as will I,” he held his hand out to the room. “As will your brother, your husband. All of us.” He sighed. “So long as our hearts are still beating.”

Daryl looked back at his wife in time to see her bit her wobbling lip and nod. Her gaze turned to Rick with the baby. He was kissing TJ’s scrawny little feet.

Her face softened seeing them, and as Daryl’s stomach fluttered again, she turned to look at him. His stomach full-on did a happy flip (and, yeah, he lost his grip on the necklace’s broken link and dropped it).

Y/N said to Rick, “Well, we still need to show ’em that Alexandria—that you—are accountable and fair. How many nights will do, you think?”

Rick shook his head. “Zero. But, because you have a point and won't take 'zero' as an answer,” he quickly added, “how about one?”

“For a piggy, you’re actin’ awful chicken.”

He was unmoved by the cop joke. “Bawk, bawk.”

And Y/N laughed, for what it was worth. And it was worth everything, hot damn was that laugh the best sound.

Daryl figured he might as well check, “What about bail, that still a thing?”

“Not with you owing a whole dollar. That’ll take weeks to pay off,” she said, back to doing her best to lighten up things. He loved her so fucking much, goddamn.

“Supervision when outside the cell,” she stated to Rick.

He shook his head again. “I have a better sentence in mind. When I saw you wearing Lori’s belt earlier today, it reminded me of it. See, and you left this at the infirmary.” He reached into his jacket pocket.

Recognition swept across her face when he held it out. “Do you think he’ll feel safe?”

“The headphone cord is too thin to choke him with, it’d snap.”

“Ricky, that joke was very dark,” she lightly chided.

He squinted, kissing TJ’s feet one more time first. “I hereby sentence you to one night—”

“—Three.”

“One in lock-up,” he spoke over her, then was fast to tack on, “with Daryl and this one as guards.” He motioned to the baby.

"Women shouldn't have male guards," she dryly droned.

"Overruled. You'll also get supervised outings for your duties tomorrow and the day after, including the trip to the Hilltop for Maggie’s prenatal visit. And,” he held up the music player, “you’ll need to listen to music with Siddiq on this. We know it works.” He cocked his head. “Let’s start with 20 minutes per day, like you and I had.”

Some tears slipped out even though she was smiling. She mouthed I love you to him, then asked out loud, “How many days?”

Rick squinted. “Fourteen.”

---------------------------

You

“You pick the songs. Whatever you like,” you told him, staring at the photo and rubbing the ‘22’ pendant over your lips. Daryl fixed the chain for you shortly after you’d broken it. You really love him.

Sid accepted the mp3 player out of your hand.

You and he each had one earbud in, one apple beside you, and Michonne sat nearby with Judith. Supervision was your stipulation, yet being proactive about ensuring it had done nothing for how humiliating it was.

Still, you took an objective look and figured Siddiq should know that his safety mattered, that your people were fair and held themselves to standards.

Just looking around the place, it looked as if standards were a given here. That Alexandria’s power grid and some panels were already repaired within three weeks of Negan’s razing was almost unbelievable.

Sucks for the Saviors Cult that the community had been built to withstand up to magnitude 4.1 earthquakes and be fairly fire-safe as part of its self-sustaining (and for-politicians) model, so in the least, a good number of the homes were still standing.

Carl's gazebo was another story, as were other similar structures, like the church, but the ash had been washed off by the rain, and the communities' walls were back up.

Next to you, Siddiq asked you how to work the mp3, citing, “Carl had been the one to…”

Had been the one to work it when he borrowed it to visit you out there, in order to show you some kindness. Before he got himself bit because of you.

The words festered inside of you. Whatever. Let them fester, you felt dead anyway.

As you went to point to show him, the picture hung from your outstretched, bandaged hand. The pic you'd chosen this time was another older one from the before-times, not one of the newer polaroids. You'd been the one to take it, actually, using a disposable camera about five and a half, maybe six years ago.

It was blurry, Lori and Carl had been being silly and stopped posing, Rick was mid-comment. You loved this one.

It felt so unreal now, felt fake.

Felt dead.

You checked your pulse. Still beating.

“The, um, just use-use those two buttons there for up and down to search,” you mumbled, tucking the photograph into your shirt pocket. “That one is for back, that one for options. Press down on the middle to click.”

He went huh. “Here’s the Indian music playlist,” he chuckled. Appears he’d found the Desi Party! playlist. Carl told you he’d played it for him.

Before he’d gotten fucking bitten.

How could your heart rage and ache so much if you were dead?

“It’s got all sorts on it,” you replied blankly to Siddiq. Remembering your oldest sister who’d made all the playlists before handing her mp3 down to you, it felt like she was made up. Felt like everyone was made up, fake. Dead.

“My mother was a big filmi fan,” he shared.

But you simply repeated, “Pick to whatever you like, you’re in charge of the songs.”

There was no emotion in your voice. You didn’t want to chat with him, didn’t want to nerd out about Bollywood music, and also didn’t want to face him after saying such awful things to him early today.

Hating him felt right. It felt "deserved," which is a word you'd learned to not use, thanks to Dale.

Granted, hating Siddiq felt wrong, too, which invited shame to take a seat on your lap.

So, you followed the rev’s advice and took comfort in the shame because it meant your conscience was still ordered in a good direction. It meant you weren’t fully dead yet.

You checked your pulse again to remind yourself that it was still beating. Life was still going.

Father Gabriel had also told you that feeling dead didn’t make you a bad mother or a bad wife or bad person, it simply meant you were broken and grieving.

“Y/N?”

“What?” you growled — and immediately wished it hadn’t come out that way. In your head, you told Carl you were sorry, you’d do better next time. Then, you prayed to stop hating the sight of Siddiq, the sound of his voice. Wished Dale or Hershel or T-Dog or Deanna or Denise or Sasha were there for, for—advice, support, you don’t know…

And because the rev has enough on his plate and needs to rest, maybe later you’d risk everyone’s ire and sneak away to visit Mr. Jones at the junkyard. At least he wasn’t dead yet, too. Maybe visiting him would convince him to move back to Alexandria.

“I never apologized for pulling you backward like that,” Siddiq said to you, a little short. Couldn’t blame him.

In truth, you had done all you were going to do to Negan after smacking him the once, but Sid wouldn’t have known that. Wouldn’t have known how grabbing you like that would flip an alarm, either.

No use moping, if your positions were reversed, you’d have wrangled him back, too.

And yet, you just caught yourself licking your teeth and sneering in response to his apology.

But it wasn’t out of anger or hatred so much as…you still aren’t certain what the emotion was. Grief, depression, shame, all three. You supposed it didn’t make a difference. Didn’t feel like much of anything.

Briefly, you put two fingers to your neck to check your pulse again. Still beating. Still alive.

Alive, and needing to eat some crow, as it were.

“Don’t apologize, you were protectin’ our patient. What I did was wrong,” you recited. “I-I threatened a patient and then whacked him across the face.” Your conscience then prompted you to apologize again for what you’d said to him. “And, just—Siddiq, what I said to you was bullshit and lies and m'sorry I said it. Cruel bullshit, naught else. Don’t go believing a word of it.”

He wasn’t clicking through the playlists and songs anymore.

Appearing uncomfortable, he peeked at you before he put his attention back on the mp3. “Michonne said pulling you like that was a trigger, which is why you, um…I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t know.”

First, you relaxed your jaw. “Ain’t your job to know. It’s mine to learn past it.” Next, you spackled on something of a smile and added quietly, “It’s good that you, that you stepped in. Thank you.” You did mean it, for what it was worth.

How many minutes until the twenty was up, you wondered, and tried to not be obvious about checking the time on your wrist. Eyeing Michonne, she seemed more preoccupied with Judith than with being punctual regarding your penance/sentence.

“PTSD is serious. That’s why I’m sorry, I, um,” Siddiq faltered. He went back to clicking through the music choices.

“We all have at least a little PTSD, bud.” With a light nudge to try and convey camaraderie or something, you attempted to tease, “C'mon, you chosen at least one song, yet?”

“Sorry, let me just, uh…” and with a few more clicks, the first song started. It was Bohemian Rhapsody.

“You chose the playlist ‘Songs Everyone Likes.’”

He chuckled awkwardly. “Yeah, figured I couldn’t go wrong with that one.”

The memory of belting out this song with Carl, Glenn, Beth, and Maggie before your group even found the prison whooshed back and you started to smile—until you remembered that Carl was gone now. He was dead.

You’d forgotten all of that for hot second, but your Carl was dead. So was Glenn. So was Beth. So was Lori, who'd joined, so was T-Dog, so was...

Maybe you were dead, too. You felt dead—so, you pressed your fingers to your neck to feel for a pulse.

Still beating.

The lyrics of the song began to register. You know, the early parts like ‘I don’t wanna die,’ and ‘carry on, as if nothing really matters.’ Sounded a little too personal, tell you the truth.

And just like that, the song was skipped. You glanced at Siddiq.

He shook his head. “Not the right mood for it.”

“Mm.”

The intro to the next song in the shuffle was very bouncy, and ‘Dance to the Music’ started to jive through the earbuds. You didn’t sway along like you naturally would have. No urge to.

The song played, finished.

“First time I heard this was in Shrek,” Siddiq made small talk while munching on his apple. “Love that movie.”

You might’ve hummed in acknowledgment, you aren’t sure. He handed your apple to you, you took it. Held it.

The next song started, ‘Young Hearts Run Free.’

The song played, finished.

Siddiq made more small talk. “I remember that one in Romeo + Juliet, the one with, um, Leo DiCaprio. We watched that version in high school after we finished reading it.”

You hummed again. Pressed your fingers to your wrist, just in case. But no, your heart was still beating.

The next song started, ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash.’

“A lot of oldies,” he commented once the singing began. He took the final nibble off his apple.

“But goodies,” you responded, willing yourself to sound less stiff and monotone. “Modern stuff is on this playlist, too, don’t worry.”

The song played. Finished.

The next song started. ‘Another One Bites the Dust.’ Siddiq promptly skipped it once the refrain started and the lyrics sank in.

“Good call,” you grunted.

The next song started. ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.’

“Oh n—please skip this one, too." You loved that one, but you’d queued it up for Glenn at his and Maggie’s wedding, and it was not the time to go reminiscing. You swallowed the lump in your throat. Checked your pulse. Still beating. "Please skip 'Thunderstruck' if it comes on, too?”

The mp3 player clicked as Siddiq skipped the song. Next on the shuffle was ‘Under Pressure.’

He adjusted his seat and coughed. “This one fits.”

A combination sigh/groan was your contribution, because he was right. The two of you were the only doctors major medical personnel left standing.

The song played. Siddiq’s knees and wrists bounced to the rhythm where he sat beside you. You stared at your boots. Where’d all the soot and dirt on them and your clothes come from, you couldn’t remember…

…

It was when a strong gust of cold wind blew that you noticed that the music had stopped, your earbud was out, and the sky wasn’t as cloudy anymore.

When did that happen?

You sat up and blinked a few times, your apple still in one hand, Shane’s necklace in the other.

“Hey,” you heard Siddiq call.

What, why were your cheeks wet? “S-sorry, I,” you dropped the necklace, wiped your eyes with your sleeve, and put the apple down, “must’ve, um, checked out.”

“I’m not sure how long it was after it began when I noticed the change,” he let you know. “Is…this what happened earlier?”

You closed your eyes and shook your head. “Earlier was somethin’ else. This was just—” ‘Dissociation,’ was a misunderstood word, so Denise taught you. And you didn’t want to use the word for that reason.

You really wanted to keep a shred of dignity for yourself in the eyes of that guy. He didn’t even know that you’d hurt yourself when you’d ‘blacked out’ the other day…so, you decided upon a white lie highly euphemistic layman's term. “I spaced out.”

He nodded, but his brows sunk, as if he weren’t buying it.

And when he did that thing where someone slightly opens their mouth because they’ve put together a response, you changed the subject. “Listen to anythin’ good while I was in space?”

Siddiq wasn’t swayed. “Do you still feel detached?”

“A little,” you answered truthfully, breathing deep and checking your watch to try gauging how long you’d been out. Except, you had no recollection of what time it had been earlier, so it was a bust. God save you, you were a mess.

“Sid. I’m sorry you’re trapped dealin’ with this shit, it ain’t fair to you. If, if you wanna bounce early, don’t feel obligated to stay, and, and—like, if you don’t wanna do this whole music thing, it’s fine. W-we don’t want you feelin’ unsafe.”

“Unsafe? Y/N, I…” he paused. “I forgive you for what you said earlier. And I’m not scared of you. Hitting Negan wasn’t okay, but…” another pause. “Compared to the way most others are baying for his blood and how you defended saving his life, I mean—you helped me save him, Y/N—” He lifted his hands, palms to the sky. “You’re my friend, we work together, it’s not like I can’t see that you’re drowning.”

Nothing prepared you to hear that.

He was calling you a friend and was still trying to be understanding, after all that…

You wanted to slam your head on a hard, rough surface and cry from the shame and simultaneous relief. You also didn’t want to accept it, and so pushed back: “You were alone out there too long. Friends d-don’t tell friends they wish they were dead.” And mean it, you did not confess.

But of all things, he merely raised one shoulder and snorted. “I’m a really good friend?”

Tears spilled at the same time that you almost laughed. No, it's true, you almost laughed. Things felt a little unreal again, but in not a bad way. The most you could do right then was send up thanks for the mercy that came out of the mess. You pinched your wrist first, then felt for your pulse.

“Compared to a few minutes ago, do you feel more like yourself now?” Siddiq made sure.

Huh. You used to ask Shane a very similar question, when he was forgetting his goodness.

You kept feeling the small beats at your wrist, reminding you that you were indeed alive, therefore capable of healing and growth.

“Heart’s still beating,” you sniffled, making yourself smile at him. The hatred and disgust you’d felt earlier seemed to you less like a fact and more like a bad dream.

Then, from the far right of the oak tree, you heard Aaron’s voice saying, “Not yet, man, they’ve got four minutes left.”

Aaron and Daryl then came into view. They waved to you as they walked by with the babies, another reminder that you that you weren’t fully dead inside. Gracie was in a stroller, TJ was bundled in Daryl’s arms. Your husband lingered behind, eyes on you as he absently pecked a kiss to your baby’s covered head.

Something stirred, and your chest fluttered and tugged in their direction, reminding you again that your heart was still beating. So was Maggie’s, so was her and Glenn’s baby’s, so was Rick’s, so was Aaron’s. Life was still going. You had a child, a husband; lifelines. Their hearts were still beating, too.

The unexpected wink and the way Daryl’s gaze softened as he looked at you made you feel as if you’d been freezing and someone just handed you a cup of cocoa with mini marshmallows. The way he next moved his lips to pronounce ‘troublemaker,’ however, you ought to have seen coming a mile away.

The heaviness in your body eased a bit. A smile started prodding the corners of your mouth. Shyly, you returned the wave and mouthed ‘mangy hick,’ your wrist bumping against the photograph sticking from your shirt pocket.

Aaron noticed him acting like a dope lagging and gestured for him to keep up. “Four more minutes and we’ll come back to get her.”

Daryl called out "slowpoke," and waved your baby’s little arm to the two of you as they walked away. He kept peeking behind him, too, it warmed you. When they reached far enough, you once again took the photograph out from your pocket.

With a final peek at Carl’s picture, you sent up a prayer and reaffirmed the promise that you’d made to him. That you’d live for him, do him proud.

So long as your heart was still beating, you’d try to do him proud. “Seems you and I got four more minutes, Sid. What’ll we pick?”

-------------------------

> Masterlist link here

and our teeny tiny taglist :D

@spenciepoo338 @its-freaking-bats​​​​ @whistlesalot​​​​ @buffy-the-assbutt-slayer​​​​  @dreamingaboutthewonderland @kwazii-kat​ @darylsmavis​​​​​  @outlanderhornet22​​​​​ @battinsonrobs @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @multiifandomhoe @writingmybeloved @boomergirl123 @iheartathena0 @moonliight-luv @suniloli

(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore,  just let me know, we’re all friends here and your comfort level is important!)  

---------------------------

And here's the picture prize for getting through the long chapter!

#twd #the walking dead #twd fanfiction #the walking dead fanfiction #daryl dixon imagines #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x reader #twd daryl #daryl twd #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction #canon compliant #rick grimes #father gabriel #gabriel stokes #father gabriel stokes #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl x y/n #wife reader #husband daryl dixon #dad daryl dixon #the slowpoke series #daryl x reader #daryl x you #grief #siddiq twd #dadyl #carl grimes

[mathmusicninja]

TMNT Fic and Comic Recs

An ongoing list. Feel free to drop more in the notes!

(tw: strong language for the majority of these. Mind the tags and be safe!)

AO3 Authors:

T33la, (mostly ’03 with a heavy IDW influence), anything they write is great—a little spooky at times, but always with lots of comfort in the end. Personal favorite at the moment: “The Gauntlet” (but all of their stuff is seriously so good)

Flynne, (mostly ’03), I’m still reading all of their stuff (lots of one-shots with a few longer fics), but liking what I see so far, lots of really good hurt/comfort. Personal favorite fic at the moment: “Collector”

Halogalopaghost (halogalopaghost), (’03), mostly one-shots to fill in between the lines of canon. Personal favorite fic at the moment: “Doctor On Call”

AO3 Fics:

"Pretend that I Never Left" by redstringraven (sirimiri), ('03 x HZD), tw violence, during the Ultimate Drako fiasco, Mikey is taken to a different reality where animal-like machines roam the land and people live in tribes. Technically a crossover with Horizon Zero Dawn but no prior knowledge of the game is necessary! Mikey-centric long fic

"How to accidentally kidnap yourself several times over" by Camildeni, (Rise x '03 x '12 x Bayverse), instead of getting himself out of a sticky situation, Rise!Mikey accidentally brings more of himself into it. Very fun and creative

"Looking for a Furr-Ever Home" by The67ImpalaDragonChild, ('03), each of the boys gains a new companion through various means. Adorable, also has hurt/comfort and holiday feels

"Little Kid with a Big Death Wish" by remrose, (Rise), tw dissociation and suicide attempt, Leo-centric recovery fic after the movie, very well written and focuses on non-linear (but upward!) healing. Can be intense at some parts. Excellent hurt/comfort

“I May Be Invisible, But I Still Look Good” by Dandy (@dandylovesturtles), (Rise), Leo gets mystically separated from his body and his brothers go through a lot to get him back. Dandy also has other Rise one-shots that I enjoyed (especially “Tapping Out”)

"Underdark" by Nekotsuki, '03, Mikey-centric, a bit of a whump fic but with a happy ending, very well written and one I go back to a lot

“A Tale of Spirits” by unorthodoxx (@\unorthodoxx-page), (Rise x atla), I don’t usually do cross-fandom fics like this, but this one works for me. The Rise boys end up in the atla universe because of mystic stuff and no one believes them when they say they aren’t magic spirits.

“Ghost in the Shell” (’03 x Rise), “Fusions” (’12), “The Great Skittle Heist of 2105” (’03 au), and the “Please Just Let Them Hug” series (’03 canon compliant one-shots) by AmevelloBlue (@\amevello-blue). Good hurt/comfort

“Carapace” by SkeletalConstellation (@\kettle-bird), a Rise fic based on some events in the IDW comics

“Picking up the Pieces” by Andromedabrown, GalacticDreamer, ParvumAutomaton, (Rise) pretty long but has very intricate plot. Leo accidentally ends up mystically connected to his shattered sword and his brothers go on a wild adventure to get him back

“The Last Ronin Becomes a Discord Admin” by MelonPalooza (@\melonpalooza), (’03 x ’12 x Rise), a classic in the fandom. Has some great humor and drama. Also has a one-off crossover with “Ghost in the Shell” that was a wild ride.

“Sanctuary” by RealityBreakGirl, (’03), just a nice and fluffy one-shot, Donnie and Raph centric

“A truly French experience” by Get_dunked_off, (Rise), one-shot of Leo defending Hueso’s honor from rude customers

"Ice Cream Makes Everything Better" by mathmusic8 (yours truly :D), ('03), a series of canon compliant one shots to fill in some comfort gaps for the '03 show

"Wow, What a Coincidence" by mathmusic8 (me again ^.^), ('03 x '12 x Rise), a separated AU where the '03 boys get lost and each raise one of the Rise kids and then the kids all end up in the same summer camp. The '12 boys are camp councilors. Rise-centric. Crack fic treated seriously

Tumblr Comics:

“Cass Apocalyptic Series” by @\somerandomdudelmao, (Rise), fandom classic, bad future timeline comic, this series (the “Can you carry your uncles” episode in particular) got me interested in tmnt in the first place, canon compliant

“Aftermath” (also on AO3) by @\happyfoxx-art, (Rise), aftermath of the Rise movie, very good hurt comfort (no language!)

“Replica” by @\kathaynesart, (Rise), fandom classic, bad future timeline comic, canon compliant

“2 Arms Left” by @\intotheelliwoods, (Rise), the softest peepaw au in existence (until it isn't--mind the tags for later comics)

Tblsomedoodles (@\tblsomedoodles) does a combo of comics and fics, mostly Rise but also ’03. Has some adorable Rise x ’03 AUs

"Swantello" by @\tangledinink, (Rise), a rottmnt x swan lake crossover we didn't know we wanted

"Krang Infection" by @\abbeyofcyn, (Rise), set a year after the movie. Donnie gets a krang parasite that makes him go feral turtle for a while

"Unmutated Donnie" by @\onejellyfishplease, (Rise), Donnie ends up as an unmutated softshell turtle but keeps his brain. Very cute, fun, and Donnie's snoot is the best thing on the planet XD

"Kid Leo Au" by @\angelpuns, (Rise), when Leo came out of the prison dimension he accidentally turns himself into a kid, very cute and has good hurt/comfort feels

@\heckitall has a bunch of mini comics (mostly Rise, some '03): Masterpost. Also check out "What will it be" by clandestineclairvoyant for a fanfic of heckitall's "Same as it Never Will Be" comic!

#fic rec #comic rec #tmnt fic rec #tmnt comic rec #sorry for the tags y'all #mathmusicninja talks

[ancientevangelions]

Hello! I'm new here! Just the other day I was going through the AsuShin tag, found your fics, and loved them! I also spent some time reading your thoughts and theories. Which brings me to ask, how do you perceive the changes and (lack of) relationship between Asuka and Shinji from Evangelion, EoE and Rebuild?

Specifically regarding Rebuild, I found it disheartening how they set Shinji and Asuka aside so easily. I'm not talking strictly nor only about shipping. I grew up watching the 90s Evangelion. And a big part of the story and its exploration of psychological themes and characters's psychology and motivation was Shinji's relationship with Asuka. Most of all in EoE, which, to me, is the ending I find most fitting.

It was dreadful to watch the redone beach sequence where Shinji thanks Asuka for admitting she used to like him, then him saying he used to like her back. Only for them to have that "everything is suddenly happy now" ending. This sequence seems to discredit most of the themes and sacrifices made in the original story, and does not satisfactorily brings their story to a close, but instead seem to try to brush it aside or bypass it somehow. Again, I do ship AsuShin but my grievance has much more to do with the way Rebuild handled them, I don't think in a story like Evangelion we could ever have had hopes of them living happily ever after or even be together necessarily

Hello!

Thanks for being here. I wanted to answer this as thoughtfully as I could! Asuka and Shinji are definitely a complicated pair. Regardless of shipping, they require care and attention to understand.

In NGE/EoE, the focus of the series is on their interactions, especially with the End of Evangelion. Episode 9 onward is focused primarily on the interactions between Asuka and Shinji, their highs and lows, the back and forth and their eventual downfalls. I always find it funny how people are highly critical of the interactions between the kids. From my memory of high school/being a teen (2004 to 2009 mostly), it was very much like this. A lot of back-and-forth denial of feelings and messiness trying to avoid pain, not wanting to speak your feelings due to embarrassment, and a lack of knowledge on consent or anything romantic or sexual. It all was a very realistic portrayal of my teen years, primarily because of the depression and mental illness (spoken as an undiagnosed mentally ill teen).

The realism with Asuka and Shinji and the non-linear progression/recovery felt extremely important to me. It was evident that they had a massive attraction to one another. Still, they fell into the trap I had in my youth of being unsure how to communicate my feelings without being rejected or experiencing pain. Even without romantic or sexual feelings, Shinji and Asuka live together, attend school, and work together. They are often abandoned by Misato at home alone, left to their own devices. They are two kids competing to see who can grow up faster. They have a compelling dynamic because they are so messy! In NGE, we see their ups and downs, learning about each other, fighting together and building trust, kindness, rude words, misunderstanding, poor communication, etc.

I love End of Evangelion. I don't need to see what happens after Asuka returns; I know now Yui was telling the truth that anyone can return when they are ready. Of course, it would be Asuka next after Shinji; their destinies are intertwined. She has every right to show him compassion AND to still be angry after all he did to her. The point of the ending scene is that there is love and affection in the world, but it's not forced; it's not a given; it's realistic. No one owes you anything, not love, not compassion, but when we choose to be kind, how amazing is that? Asuka and Shinji can continue to learn, grow and survive together. There is hope; they can be happy, but they must rebuild, work together, and try to find that happiness. 

Rebuild of Evangelion is so Shinji-centric at times it feels like it doesn't care about anyone else's motivations or backstory. Rebuild disappointed me so much with its focus on cinematic fights over substance. Rebuild also falls into the trap of forcing a perfect happy ending, which is unrealistic and annoying. Real change is messy and takes effort, years and years of action, and instead, we find perfection in imperfection. It's okay and expected if everything doesn't go exactly as planned. Rebuild needs more focus. It's evident that there was no overarching plan for the 4 films and that they underwent rewrites and delays for years. Of course, ideas would change. It took years to finish the series. It went from "Evangelion for new fans, a retelling that doesn't require you to watch NGE" to "The action sequences are good; let's make money off of sexualized children."

A lot of the AsuShin content is added on later in canon bonus material later added to 3.0 + 1.0 to clear up misconceptions about the relationships. It's subtle, and it feels tacked on. Shinji spends so little on-screen time with any of the characters that we don't get the same interactions, world-building, or character development and the flatness of the characters bothers me so much. What are their motivations? "Well, he cooked for her, so she likes him." Okay… that seems flimsy since she spends all her time alone, and he spends all his time alone… 

Shikinami might as well be 14, screaming that she is an adult now. For all the ways she has changed between 2.0 and 3.0, stewing in her anger doesn't seem very adult. The children telling us they are adults really doesn't convince me. The time skip accomplished nothing as no one reflected on 14 years passing in a realistic way. Shinji didn't grieve lost time or grapple with being an adult in a child's body. The deus ex machina at the end might have been "And then Shinji woke up, and Wonderland was gone" or "Asuka clicked her red heels and said there's no place like home."

Pixar films are popular because "Life doesn't always go according to plan, but you can still find happiness in the mess of life." The idea is that things are imperfect, and we make the most of what we have. Sometimes, what we want is different from what we need. Rebuild fails to capture this and instead falls into a trap I see in YA novels where the epilogue is much too neat. We see ourselves in the characters, and we identify with the struggle, but then the ending is too tidy. The protagonist gets a hetero-normative end with children and a picket fence and marries one of the love interests introduced early on. The protagonist becomes unrelatable to us because they fall into complacency where they have a 9 to 5 job and do nothing to better anything after the "fall of the tyrant." To quote The Who with their song Won't Get Fooled Again: "Here comes the new boss, same as the old boss." How can we, who are struggling daily for our survival and happiness, find the changing of one problem to be satisfactory in solving all issues? No more Evas, cool, but now he is under capitalism which we all know SUCKS. Sounds perfect, Shinji. Thanks for making your lives miserable in a new way. Trapped in wage labour sounds excellent. 

That's why I'm not a fan of "happy" endings. I only need some of the problems solved. I want to see work to build a new world. In the Rebuild ending, I dream of Asuka and Shinji working side by side to rebuild cities, prevent new child soldiers and be active in a community that fears them. We don't need a dream of paradise. We need hope that WE can make a difference, too. 

#shinji ikari #neon genesis evangelion #rebuild of evangelion #evangelion #asuka langley shikinami #asuka langley #asuka langley soryu #theory and analysis #short essay #anon ask

[pigeonwhumps]

"That's gonna scar"

MD-264N masterlist

Febuwhump day 5: "that's gonna scar"

Asha sews up Morgan's gunshot wound when it refuses to close.

1.3k

CWs: self-dehumanisation, stitches, implied past non-con drugging, mentioned brainwashing, mentioned expectations of death, conditioned whumpee, living weapon

"Are you sure you don't want any stronger painkillers?" asks Asha, concerned. All Morgan's consented to taking are a couple of paracetamols, and while Asha can understand why after seeing the track marks on their arms, she's spoken to Rhian and she's not sure it's going to be enough today. She's not sure it's enough normally, honestly, but Morgan's gunshot wound isn't healing properly after the packing and now it needs stitches. Which means far more intense pain.

"No, thank you, sir. Asha."

Asha exchanges a glance with Rhian. A bit of a setback, but that's to be expected after yesterday. At least they're using her name as well.

"If you're sure. This is going to be painful, so let me know if you change your mind and need me to stop at any point, alright?"

"Yes, Asha."

"Good."

"You can squeeze my hand as much as you like," says Rhian softly, resting her hand in Morgan's. They wrap their fingers gently around it.

"Morgan, can you lift your leg so your ankle's on the pillow here? It's covered in a towel, even if we make a mess it'll be fine. I need your ankle slightly elevated and for me to be able to get to it easily." Morgan swings their leg up on the bed and turns slightly, leaning against Rhian, back to her chest. "That's it. I'm going to start now, you don't have to watch."

"Concentrate on your breathing," says Rhian, as Asha unwraps the bandage around the wound and winces. "Nice and deep and even, copy me."

Morgan does their best as Asha cleans the area around the wound before picking up her needle and thread. This is going to be the painful part. Her patient squeezes their eyes shut at the sight of the needle touching skin.

Asha pushes through the skin with only a little resistance and Morgan whimpers. They bite their lip, clutching Rhian's hand tight, letting out pained cries as Asha pulls the thread through.

Rhian starts humming.

It's a low tune, a soft lullaby that Asha recognises as one of Rhian's self-soothing techniques from when they first joined. It seems to be working wonders on Morgan too, their eyes drifting shut. After a couple of verses they join in hesitantly, the humming replacing their sounds of pain. Their breaths are still hitching, their face is white, but they're a little better.

Asha smiles slightly to herself as she stitches up the wound. They're perfect for each other. Rhian's doing much better with someone to care for, and Morgan's recovery is going better than Asha could ever have predicted.

"Alright, I'm all done with the stitching. This'll probably scar but at least it has a better chance of healing now." Morgan snaps their eyes open and watches intently as Asha wraps a bandage over the top of the stitches. "That should keep it clean and stop you catching the stitches on stuff."

"Thank you, sir. Asha."

"No problem. You were very brave. Would you like a fruit pastille?"

Morgan's eyes light up and they nod. Asha grins. Rhian was right, they really do have a sweet tooth. She holds out the jar. "Here. Take a couple."

"Thank you."

Once Morgan's chewing on a sweet, Asha says carefully, "How are you both? You look exhausted."

Morgan glances back at Rhian, who nods, squeezing their hand. "This weapon malfunctioned last night. It, I, I had a nightmare. And it disturbed Rhian and it is so sorry."

"I told you, it's fine, sweetheart," murmurs Rhian, before turning to Asha. "It was worse than they've had in over a week. We barely slept at all."

"Hey. You'll get better, Morgan. Maybe not all the way, but recovery's never linear. Rhian can tell you that."

Rhian nods. "Definitely."

"If you're okay on your own for a moment, I need to speak to Rhian quickly."

Morgan nods, and Rhian slides out from under them, following Asha across the room. Her voice is hushed.

"What is it?"

"It wasn't just Morgan's nightmare last night, was it? You look too distressed for that."

Rhian sighs and shakes their head, raking their hand through their hair. "I had a nightmare too, but that's normal. Nothing unusual about it. Been having them for years. But Morgan… they said that they didn't understand why we wanted a malfunctioning weapon. They asked why we hadn't decommissioned them yet. I mean, what do I say to that?"

Asha feels queasy. Morgan's barely grown and already they're expecting to die for being emotional and hurt.

"Reassure them we care, for as long as they need. And hopefully they'll understand our intentions eventually."

"Right. Hopefully. And maybe they'll consider themself a person eventually, too. Is that all you wanted to ask about?"

"Yeah. We can go back over now. I have their present with me too."

Rhian grins. "You finished it!"

"Of course I did."

They head back over, Rhian pulling Morgan gently against her under the window as Asha packs away her equipment. She can just hear Rhian whispering soothingly to Morgan, very obviously trying to contain her excitement. Asha pulls a lumpy package wrapped in scrap paper and string out of her bag, and hands it to Morgan. They frown down at it.

"It's a present for you. I meant to finish it a while ago but I got ill and then I was busy, but here you are."

Morgan blinks. "For me?"

"Yeah. Nothing bad, I promise. Go ahead and open it."

Morgan examines it for a full minute, Rhian almost bouncing behind them, before pulling at one end of the string, undoing the bow. The paper falls with the string, revealing a toy owl made out of scraps of fabric. It's not amazing, the wings are uneven and so are the button eyes, and the fabric's a bit of a mish-mash of anything she and Rhian could find regardless of the colour or texture, but Morgan picks it up delicately, like it's a treasure. They look a little bewildered.

"Morgan? What's wrong?"

They swallow, looking up at her. "What's the purpose of this gift? If it should be obvious this weapon apologises, but it does not understand."

"It's just a present, sweetheart," says Rhian. "It doesn't have a purpose. Though I guess if you need one, we can say it's to help you recover. You can cuddle it and it'll hopefully make you feel better. And the different textures are a great sensory thing. I have a similar one, you've seen it."

"It is only a weapon, it is not worthy of such a present. But it is very grateful."

Asha smiles, noticing that Morgan's already clutching the owl close to their chest. "Do you want to name it?"

"Archimedes," they say after a pause. "If that's acceptable."

"Archimedes," repeats Rhian thoughtfully. "Good name."

As Morgan sinks further into Rhian, eyes full of badly-hidden relief, Asha wonders if they ever watched The Sword in the Stone before they were brainwashed by the government. Maybe it was their favourite film. Maybe it was a sibling's favourite. Did they watch it over and over again? Did they learn the songs, did they annoy their family with them? Did they get annoyed by them?

Asha doesn't know. None of them do.

Until now, it hadn't occurred to her just how much they don't know about the newest member of their family. They don't know how old Morgan was when they were taken, where they lived, who they loved and were loved by in return (because surely, surely someone cared). They don't even know what their name was. Blue's working on hacking the retrieved memory card that may well have helped Morgan escape, but until then…

Just who do they have in their care?

#whump #whump writing #self dehumanisation #stitches #medical whump #non con drugging #← past #← implied #living weapon whump #living weapon #whumpee and caretaker #multiple caretakers #conditioned whumpee #conditioning #febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday5 #md 264n #morgan the weapon #rhian the fighter #asha the medic

[mwolf0epsilon]

The Umbaran Pathogen - Day 17: Hypothermia

Summary: Fives, Kix and Rex arrive at the medical facility first, which doesn't help them all that much considering they have no idea what they are looking for.

Warning: N/A

Prev / Next

[In which the events on Umbara are worsened by an unknown pathogen taking hold of both the 501st and 212th. These series of drabbles will follow a non-linear timeline based on the AI-less Whumptober prompt list for 2023.]

THIS STORY IS ALSO ON AO3

---

"It's freezing in here..." Rex hissed between chattering teeth, immediately regretting having taken off his bucket as soon as they entered the Umbaran medical facility.

The Captain was right too. The quick preliminary scans that Fives had done upon the trio sneaking in, revealed that the entire building was at almost sub-zero levels of cold. For what reason, he couldn't be sure, but it probably had something to do about storing bacterial culture samples or whatever the hell it was that natborn doctors did with the stuff they collected off their patients during tests.

He had already lived through a lifetime of medical tests performed by plenty of Long-Necks and Droids, that didn't particularly care about his or his vode's comfort during said procedures. He didn't really need to know what the nattie docs got up to outside of the war efforts.

"Put your helmet back on." Kix ordered as he uneasily looked around the hall they'd ended up in, after climbing out of the dusty ventilation system. "Your armor's thermal regulation system should keep you from freezing your shebs off."

"Tell me something I don't know..." The blond grumbled as he put his bucket back on, sighing in relief as the bitter cold was chased away in mere instants. "Much better... But moving on, we need to find a floor plan for this place..."

A wise idea, as they couldn't waste time running around blindly. If they got their hands on a map of the facility's various floors, they'd be able to find what they were looking for much faster, rather than risk getting lost in a maze of recovery areas, operation theaters, or even storage closets.

There was no telling how long they'd have before General Kenobi and the 212th could no longer stall for them, and with no word from Coric's group things were starting to look a little grim.

Getting to the facility itself had been a struggle. Between hiding from the Umbaran scouting parties, avoiding the aggressive wildlife, and keeping an eye out for the infected, the journey had been a constant uphill battle where they couldn't even resort to using their blasters. Unwilling to bring unwanted attention to their positions.

Given that they hadn't encountered the other medics, they assumed the others were struggling just as terribly. If not worse. They had no idea if they'd escaped from the base unscathed. For all they knew, Coric, Pitch, Twitch and Sponge had already been caught. Or worse...

And with only a vague idea that they needed to access a database to seek out some critical (but not very explicitly elaborated upon) information, the trio really wasn't all that prepared for this sort of excursion.

One medic would definitely not be enough, should they find a cure. That much they figured, considering the number of infected troopers in the 501st alone. Kix wouldn't be able to tackle the issue on his own.

"You think the others are ok?" Fives asked as he looked around, somewhat unsure if the way they'd chosen to go first would get them anywhere of use. He was walking slowly, steps as light as the bulk of his armor would allow, keeping an ear out for trouble.

"They're tough." Rex nodded slowly. Trying to be optimistic, considering he knew how frighteningly stubborn the medics could be, but still coming off as somewhat unsure in the end. The circumstances weren't easy ones after all. "They're probably just being careful, like we were..."

"Yeah... Yeah probably." The ARC nodded back, before motioning for the other two to stop near a corner where the hallway turned. He had a very quick look, and then gave them the all clear. Moving just a bit quicker now that he had a goal in sight.

Down the hall was a flight of emergency stairs. Besides it, attached to the wall as per standard safety regulations, was the digital emergency floor plan. The three rushed forward to have a look, barely containing their elation as they realized the interactive floor plan had pages that displayed the other floor layouts.

Thumbing through the available information, they saw exactly what they were looking for. The main datahub, which would contain all kinds of data-banks stock full of useful medical information.

"Basement floor." Fives groaned. "Of course the dang thing is in the creepy basement..."

"Not so much creepy, as probably absolutely frozen over..." Kix shook his head in disbelief. Sounding somewhat put-off at the possibility of facing even lower temperatures. "The entire basement of this huge building is dedicated to computers and the server banks. The amount of heat generated would need to be mitigated by considerably frigid mini-climate..."

"Kix, it's already pretty cold out here. I doubt the basement will be much worse..." Rex pointed out. "That said, if it IS worse, we should be as quick as possible. Even if our armor will protect us from the bitter cold, it won't do us any good if we stall and end up overworking the thermo regulation system. We'd freeze on the spot."

"Wouldn't want a case of frostbitten tootsies." Fives nodded, sounding morbidly amused at the idea. "Or hypothermia."

"If there ever was a place to catch your death, I suppose a hospital isn't the worst of options..." The medic responded with his own amusement.

They carried on, hoping their fellow troopers would meet with them soon. They could really use some help looking for the correct data at least... Hopefully the cause for their delay was indeed caution.

#Eps Writes #star wars #the clone wars #whumptober #Umbaran Pathogen AU #arc trooper fives #clone medic kix #captain rex

[hms-tardimpala]

Goldsickness collection: the recs!

Dragonsickness is a theme I love, it resonates with me with very much, and I had a great time reading fics to make this collection. Here are the eight I love the most and that make up this 376-pages-book.

As Befits a King by Ladysisyphus (explicit, 4,7k)

It was all too much to think about, so he thought about Thorin's hands.

This fic strikes a good balance between angst, hope and hot possessive sex. Thorin is teetering on the edge of madness here, despite Bilbo's best efforts.

Chains of Gold by Plooby (explicit, 4k)

He had not been in the king's chambers since their arrival, not since his youth, and the massive gilt doors opened only with groaning reluctance under his hands.

This is actually a sequel to the fic above, the authors worked on a series together. It's just as brilliant, hot and well-written. You can see the old Thorin under the madness.

What was promised by Paranoid_fridge (unrated, 6,9k)

Perhaps Bilbo is being selfish. But even though he knows that Thorin's mind has grown clouded from cursed gold, he is unwilling to give up on the intimacy they share. And when Thorin - with his mind still bespelled - asks for his hand, Bilbo does not decline either. With armies before the gate and a battle to come, things must come to a head.

Interesting concept: Thorin and Bilbo get married while Thorin is dragonsick. It raises the question of consent. The battles scenes are great and Bilbo is a badass.

Lay your troubles down by Avelera (explicit, 24k)

An extended version of "the acorn scene." Bilbo sees his chance to snap Thorin out of his madness, and takes it.

This fic is a great, slow deconstruction of Thorin's illness by Bilbo. The author goes all the way to the bedrock of the character to start healing him, and there are setbacks and false starts (which is what I prefer in fics where Thorin heals).

Covet by Pomgore (explicit, 33,3k)

"How is he?” Bilbo asked softly, trying to keep the worry from his voice. Balin’s face went dark, and he sipped thoughtfully on his tea. “... It’s slow, but his fever has begun to break,” he said. “Still, it’s the worst I’ve seen him. I think it’s the worst he’s ever had.” ~~~ Thorin recovers from both physical and mental afflictions. As with all recovery, the path of healing is non-linear and agonizingly difficult.

This is also a fantastic healing fic (this one post-canon) that treats dragonsickness as a mental illness, with relapses in the recovery. I loved that portrayal, I recognized myself in it. And the fic scratches some specific itches of mine.

Red Lines in Dark Stone by Elenothar (mature, 4,3k)

After BOFA Thorin is wrecked by guilt, convinced that most of the bloodshed is his fault (see: the arkenstone debacle). As king and responsible for Erebor, he decides that he will do anything to stop himself from succumbing to the gold sickness again, even if it means hurting himself. When his family and friends find out, they don't react as he'd expected them to.

Self-harm is another theme that's dear to me. This is an excellent portrayal of self-harm, the author got it perfectly right. It's good to read a post-canon fic where, even when he's past the goldsickness, Thorin still suffers its consequences.

Of Monsters and Men by MsThunderFrost (mature, 1,3k)

Thorin will protect Bilbo from everything. Even if that includes himself.

Look, I love dark and twisted stuff, so this fic was an absolute bitter candy for me, I dig it. Heed the warnings!

Burning with a magnificent madness by EmilianaDarling (mature, 7,3k)

Thorin’s madness had been like a dam bursting; fast and brutal and incomprehensible, like water rushing out and devastating everything in its path. For Bilbo, it’s more like a slow trickle over the course of a lifetime. Out of sight and out of mind - and almost imperceptible until he’s already drowning.

This is an incredibly moving study of madness in Thorin's and Bilbo's lives, caused by the gold and the One ring. Bilbo's life is really tragic and it's heartbreaking to see him sink into addiction to the ring. Prepare tissues.

#ficbinding #fic rec #the hobbit fanfic #bagginshield

[danpuff-ao3]

Doshu, @vdoshu, wherefore art thou Doshu?

Um...all over, basically? Doing all sortsa things! And wow, your mind, friend. I am in awe. All the silliness, all the darkness, and everything between. You've written so much, and you write it so well!! So very imaginative and creative, and bold! Unafraid to explore all sorts of tropes and kinks and highly questionable content. I have big respect and big admiration. Doshu has much to offer fandom, but I've selected 7 top notch fics to start you off! (Or for you to reread, if you've ready read them 😉)

Anniversary

Harry/Tom. Rated: E. Words: 3,726. Voldemort wins. Established relationship. Unhealthy relationships. Dub-con. Referenced non-con somnophilia. Referenced war crimes. Referenced canonical child abuse. Mind games. Sleeping potions.

There’s a feather-light touch to Harry’s scar, one that lingers before trailing around the side of his face, coming to rest over his lower lip and tugging it slightly.

Harry steels himself, then opens his eyes.

“Hello, husband,” he says, facing Voldemort’s hungry gaze. “Happy anniversary.”

Clip, Ravel, Cleave

Andromeda/Bellatrix. Andromeda/Ted. Rated: E. Words: 15,151. Sibling incest. Unhealthy relationships. Toxic codependency. Dark magic. Addiction and recovery. Non-consensual pregnancy. Memory loss. Blackcest Fest 2022.

Before Andromeda met Ted, she was a Black, through and through. While years later the story was told that she’d turned her back on her family’s dark ways, in truth, nothing was so simple.

In the beginning, it was just Andromeda and Bella. And it was just the two of them until it was too much.

Fault Line

Regulus/Sirius. Rated: E. Words: 9,123. Undearge. Sibling incest. Non-linear narrative. Substance abuse. Addiction. Dub-con. Unhealthy relationships. Blackcest Fest 2022.

Bloodline. Front line. Bottom line. Sirius’s life is made up of lines.  Fault line: The crack running through his family. The fracture in his conscience.

Sirius may have crossed a few lines before he ran away, back when he was a Black. But he can’t ever take back those actions, and would much rather forget them entirely.

Regulus will never let him forget.

Leathers and Lace

Marcus/Oliver. Rated: E. Words: 7,654. Professional Quidditch. Injury recovery. Getting together. Idiots in love.

Things were much less complicated when Wood played for a different team.

Leftovers

Harry/Slug. Rated: E. Words: 2,988. Crack treated seriously. Horror. Extreme dub-con. Bestiality. Captivity. Cannibalism (if you squint.) Open ending. (un)Holy dead dove. 💀

The darkness is vast, unchanging, empty.

Harry takes his time, feeling the air around him, dragging his bare feet along the smooth ground in the hope that if there is something here, he doesn’t miss finding it.

After a long expanse of time, filled with painstakingly slow exploration, he finds nothing.

Instead, it finds him.

Seldom Used, To Date

Harry/Tom. Rated: E. Words: 3,142. Slice of life. Murder husbands. Knifeplay. Bloodplay. Scarification. Ritual magic. Minister Tom.

Harry finally takes Tom to task over his ‘frankly ridiculous’ collection of ritual knives.

Tom has a few things to say as well.

Zabini's Zucchini

Blaise/Ron. Rated: E. Words: 7,226. Crack treated seriously. Hogwarts 8th year. Non-linear narrative. Daddy kink. Food as sex toys. Voyeurism.

There have been rumours about Zabini's massive zucchini. Ron Weasley needs to investigate.

for an explanation about Mutuals March, or to figure out why i wrote you a thing, please check out this post.

#mutuals march #doshu #fic recs #danpuff recs

[73chn1c0l0rr3v3l]

For the made-up fic titles post: -Down the Garden Path -Handle with Care -Or Not to Be

Ooo, these are fun!

So for Down the Garden Path, I'm picturing some kind of lotus eater sort of situation. Maybe something with Discovery - Tilly and Michael getting hit with magic mushroom spores, or maybe they're being kept by weird aliens who want to have human pets of some kind, and they have to get out of the garden (& also sober).

Handle With Care - ooo, consider; Valarie. Valarie after the events of the audios, where she's recovering from... all of the everything that she had to face. Something about how recovery is non-linear & complicated & sucks but is also vital.

Or Not to Be - Something with an alternative universe. Maybe a time loop? I would love this with... anyone, honestly? Someone gets shot with a science fiction thing & they keep seeing things that happen, but they're not to be!

[belovedcorvid]

❣ | @sleeplesswork :: plotted thing about Cora's scary Marine Uniform |

---

His clumsy hands still struggled with the buttons, the cufflinks.

Maybe now more-so, he supposed, than when he had when he'd last had to wear this formal sort of uniform ages ago. It had all but disappeared with covert work, and that was one thing he'd enjoyed about it - there was none of this posturing, no obsession with rank and casting a specific, imposing image for one's colleagues. When he was on assignment, he could be just a person, just a guy... and usually a guy whose hands didn't have to deal with very many tiny buttons. Even after months of recovery, of learning to walk again and write and a thousand other things, to feel thwarted in this moment by such a small task was a very familiar kind of exhausting. What was meant to be a sigh of exasperation came out more like a pained huff as he hung his head and leaned heavy on his crutch, letting go of the shirt he'd been fussing with in favour of just starting over once he noticed he'd misaligned the buttons. The bandages that still dotted his hands, his face, his torso were thin and mostly protective, meant to keep set stitches from catching on things now that he was upright and moving again (kind of). Unfortunately, upright and moving again also meant that there would be work things for him to do; they'd been patient with him and his very slow, very non-linear recovery after all - Rocinante was sure they thought so.

So caught up was he in proving that he could do this small, simple task by himself that he failed to hear Law's quiet feet as he padded into the room. It wasn't until he'd finished the buttons and winced at the weight of his officer's coat on his shoulders that he caught sight of the other's eyes in the mirror he'd been standing in front of, looking at him so strangely that he had to pause - task he'd been in the middle of momentarily forgotten. It had taken a while to learn to read Law because he was so used to keeping others out, had taken time travelling together to see him have other feelings and expressions besides angry and afraid; this expression looked complicated, and wasn't something Rocinante wanted to brush over or ignore. He turned in place carefully - always careful and slow, these days - to face the other a little more directly.

" Law ? " speaking was easier now, extensive physical damage to his lungs notwithstanding - he didn't try to hide the uncertainty or the concern that crept their way in to his voice, " You feeling okay ? "

#sleeplesswork #| v :: to be tagged | #| let me know if you'd like this adjusted in any way! | #❣ | out to sea :: queue post |