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onestepbackwards · 6 months

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Love That Bites Pt. 10

Hi there! Welcome to part 10 of my Dracula x Reader fic! It's a little later than I had hoped, but I hope you enjoy!

Summary: After waking up the next day, you contemplate your situation, trying to find a way to make the best of it. It all starts to come together until you get an unexpected visitor. At least Dracula seems insistent on taking care of you? CW: Injury mention, threats of harm, hints at an abusive situation Word Count: 5224 words! Like my work? Come check me out here: Link every little bit helps me out!

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Tag List: @onewiththebeanbag, @starrlo0ver, @sleepyendymion, @dame-sunflowers, @sapphicsfordracula, @ursamajor17, @maorizon, @marshmelloe, @tinystarfishgalaxy, @rvautomatic,

First: Here!Last: Here!Next: Here!

Your dreams were surprisingly pleasant that night.

Given the fact you had actually even fallen asleep in your family’s enemy’s castle, it was something you were a bit taken aback by.

The dreams you had were confusing and odd, but almost comforting. Once again, like a few times before, you were in a comforting presence. As if being protected, something you haven’t felt in a long time.

Like something was holding you. Comforting you. Someone was whispering as they held you, too. However, no matter how hard you strained your ears to listen, you could not make out what they were saying.

You couldn’t see, it was as if you were wrapped in a blanket of darkness, but you did not feel worried. It was as if whatever was holding you seemed to scare off any danger that would consider hurting you.

It was arguably the most at ease you had felt in years.

Which is why you were so incredibly confused when you woke up.

“...What…?” you sleepily asked, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

However, you suddenly sat up, realizing you had no idea where you were. Your instincts screamed at you, and you had a moment of panic, before you felt a twinge of pain.

Looking down, you noticed your wrapped up injuries, and suddenly you began to remember just exactly where you were.

You were in Dracula’s castle. Castlevania.

Your heart still thudded in your chest, but you felt yourself beginning to calm down as you remembered everything that had happened.

Dracula was back, alive and presumably well. You had accidentally broken him free from his prison, with your own blood no less.

Good going, you. Bringing back the potential end of humanity while in a manic state!

Sighing, you turned to lay on your side.

What’s done is done.

But… you were surprised.

Dracula had every reason and means to kill you. By all accounts, he should have.

You were technically his greatest living enemy, or at least the living descendant of the clan that killed him over and over again. Your family has foiled his plans for centuries, killing him many, many times.

He had every right to want to kill you.

But he didn’t.

From the moment he was freed from his stony prison, he had done nothing but show you concern. It was incredibly jarring for you. Where his hand should have been sharp and piercing, his touch had been gentle and careful. He had carried you to a guest room and patched you up himself, telling you to rest.

The thought stirred feelings up inside you. When was the last time someone cared enough about you to ask you to rest?

Then he came back, with food for you.

It was more or less broth, sure, but he had taken time to have some made in a castle full of the supernatural, and gave it to you himself.

All while patiently listening to you mumble and talk while still in a frazzled state of mind, and answering a few questions you had.

You don’t remember much after eating. After getting something in your stomach, you remember growing increasingly exhausted, past the point of being able to fight it.

After everything you had been through, you weren’t entirely surprised you crashed.

Though you felt your face grow hot when you realized Dracula must have sat and watched you fall asleep, taking your bowl and tucking you back into the bed.

Some scary vampire hunter you were, when your ‘worst enemy’ was tucking you into bed.

You curled into the covers further, your face no doubt bright red.

Why did the thought of him caring so much please you? Make you feel warm inside? Were you really that desperate for positive affection after all these years, receiving it from the King of Vampires made you blush like a teenager?

“I must still be horribly injured. Easy.”

Deep down, you knew that wasn’t entirely true.

As much as you wanted to ignore it, you can’t deny you had gotten attached to the man when he had been trapped as a statue. It wasn’t healthy, and you knew there was always the possibility he would not have heard you, or would have killed you right away.

You had just been in too deep to stop.

His statue and castle had grown on you. You knew coming back over and over again would have consequences.

But…

Sighing, you pressed your face into the soft pillow.

You were so fucked.

Why did it have to be Dracula though that was taking care of you? Did fate like doing this to you, making you and your family its own personal chew toy? It was beginning to feel increasingly personal at this point.

With a groan, you looked over to the side, seeing your whip on the pillow next to you. Even when Dracula had carried you here, you had never let go of it, having it hang on your hip. Before you slept, you kept it next to your pillow, keeping it close for comfort.

After a moment, you reached for it, and pulled it close to your chest.

You weren’t anticipating any sort of attack, not really. However, your whip had always been a comfort for you, for as long as you could remember. It especially was an emotional crutch for you after your mother passed, being something she used all her life before handing it to you.

Even if you didn’t really have any real or close family anymore, you at least had the whip.

It was funny. Despite being deep in enemy territory, you were inclined to believe you actually didn’t need to use it.

At least, you hoped you wouldn’t have to. You’d keep in on you just in case.

You trusted Dracula’s word, yes, but you didn’t trust all his lackeys. Most of them had free wills of their own, and would probably love to take a shot at you.

In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to set you up later if Dracula tells them they can only attack in self defense. If they can convince everyone you attacked first, then it was free game.

Perhaps it’d be best to keep your phone on you as well, and to keep it charged? You never know when you would need to take photos or a video.

You’d like to think Dracula would at least give you the benefit of the doubt, given he has been rather fair so far. But if several monsters ganged up on you and tried to provide false testimony? You wouldn’t blame the Lord of the Night for taking their side.

Gripping your whip tighter, you scowled.

Funny how you trusted the King of Vampires more than his underlings. Something you never thought you’d think. Maybe you should start a list, with how often you found yourself thinking that?

You stayed in bed a few more moments, before sitting up. Your stitches tugged, and you winced. No doubt you’d need to clean those soon.

Carefully, you swung your legs over the edge of the massive bed, and shakily stood on your feet. Whip loosely in hand, you walked over to a nearby chair.

Dracula had at some point, set your bag on the chair before tending to you. As much as you didn’t want to leave the warmth of the bed, you wanted to grab your phone in case you needed it later.

Gently picking up your bag, you turned around, and totally did not let out a short scream.

Death itself was hovering above the bed, staring down at you.

“U-Uh… Can I… Help you?” You asked, swallowing thickly.

The air had grown unsettling cold, as if the air itself was sapping your heat from your body. Your feet felt like they were stepping on ice from how cold the floor had become, and your heartbeat was pounding in your ears.

You had never encountered Death before, having only read descriptions of it from your ancestors in their journals.

None of the journal’s descriptions could compare to seeing Death in person, while you were critically injured, and very, very vulnerable.

The Deity looked down at you, and you weren’t sure if it was from curiosity, or disdain.

Just how long had Death been in here? Since you got up? Or had it been here the whole time and had been hiding its presence?

The answer didn’t really matter. It was Dracula’s castle, and Death was his most loyal lieutenant. For all you knew, he was assigned to keep an eye on you so you didn't do something stupid. Or, perhaps he wanted you gone. Who was to say?

Shaking, you forced yourself to keep your whip lowered. You were a guest, you reminded yourself.

You would not attack or threaten unless struck first.

Though it was hard to keep that in mind when literally staring Death itself in the face.

Death gripped its scythe tight, before floating close.

Your mouth went dry as you struggled not to panic and fight your instincts.

Not just your hunting instincts, but your survival instincts as well.

After all, it was only natural for any living thing to have such a reaction to seeing Death with their own eyes.

Death’s sockets were empty, besides two small glowing blue and white fires where each eye should be. They seemed to zero in on you.

“Little Belmont…”

Death’s voice felt unnatural, in a way that felt… inhuman. No vocal cords.

It was as if it were a mix of strings on an instrument untuned, while being nothing more than an echo in the wind. Your brain was barely able to grasp it.

It was speaking again, and the chill down your spine felt like someone pouring cold water on top of you.

“Just what are your intentions here? What are your plans with my master?”

Death’s question almost had you shocked out of your stupor.

Plans? What plans?

“Pardon?” you asked, a bit confused. Death looked at you closely, and you tried to ignore how your body was breaking out into a cold sweat.

“What do you intend to do to my master?” he asked. Despite the absurdity of the situation, his question had you thinking.

Just what were your plans? Challenge Dracula to a duel to the death? You wanted to laugh at the idea.

No. You still wanted to see what possibilities are ahead of you. Given Dracula wasn’t hostile towards you, perhaps the future wasn’t too bleak for you.

After a moment, you spoke up.

“I… Have no idea.” you spoke, the words slipping off your tongue. Death was quiet, and you continued speaking.

“If I’m being honest, I hope I don’t have to fight him at all.”

You turned away from Death, and sighed. It was the truth. You didn’t want to fight the Vampire King.

Death was patient, as if sensing your thoughts, waiting for you to continue.

“Not because I’m scared to, no doubt I’d be afraid if I were to fight him to the death. But…”

Lightning flashed outside the window, followed by a loud crack of lightning. You swore it was beginning to rain.

“...Ever since I entered this castle months ago, seeing Dracula as a statue, I have not wanted to fight him. If I had to, I wanted to make it an honorable one, not attack him when he could not fight back. Not out of pity, mind you.”

Gripping your whip slightly, you remembered how you felt that day.

“But when was the last time any of my ancestors talked to him? All my family has taught is that he is the ultimate evil to be killed. The journals passed down by my ancestors talk about his desire for destruction and how he would do anything to achieve it. My mother taught me to think otherwise.”

Death seemed interested in what you were saying. At least, you think he was interested. The deity was floating above you, and seemed to give you some space as it stared curiously. You looked it in the eyes.

“My mother taught me to ask questions if I can, that nothing is black and white. She didn’t know if I’d be fighting Dracula or not, but told me to question things. My family only paints one side of the picture, after all.”

It felt kinda weird admitting this to Death itself, you’d admit. However, it was most certainly the truth. Your feelings were very conflicted, and you felt like a broken record at this point with how often you have thought about it, and have stated this fact.

Thankfully, Death was considering your words.

“So you wish to find a common ground? A compromise?”

Death’s voice had gone from feeling like a scratch on a chalkboard, to a weird empty echo. Somehow you were getting the feeling Death had made its voice like that originally on purpose to intimidate you.

You were quiet for a moment.

“Yes. I’d like that.”

Once again, you felt by saying those words, something was stirring inside you. Like signing a contract, or making a vow.

Death tilted its head.

“I see…”

Another part of you was surprised the deity accepted your answer so readily, no longer seemingly cold and accusatory.

Then again, Death was a part of the divine, yes? Perhaps it could see your honesty? How unsure you were about the whole thing?

Death was silent for a while more, though it didn’t feel as if he was about to blast you off the face of the earth, or decapitate you with its scythe.

“How curious…”

Death seemed to study you, and the posture the deity carried seemed less hostile than before. You hoped that was a good thing.

“Young Belmont, honest to a fault, just like the rest of your ilk.”

You tried not to take offense to how he said that.

Death paused, as if considering its words, before speaking once more.

“I can see souls, you know. Belmonts can not hide from me. Your souls have a very distinct glow. Each and every one of them is different, but always have similar features unique to your family.”

Death suddenly leaned in, and gave you what you could only describe as a crooked grin. The air around the specter felt like it was sapping the warmth from your very core.

“Therefore, knowingly lying to me is pointless. So imagine my surprise that you seem to be telling the truth. Perhaps my master was right when he said he saw something special in you. Of course, I had to see for myself if you were going to cause trouble…”

That made sense. No doubt Death had its reservations about you staying in the castle. If you were in his shoes (cloak?), you would probably have checked it out too.

Seemingly satisfied with the conversation, Death hovered away from you.

“For now, I’ll trust your word and my master’s judgment. However, I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Little Belmont.”

The fire in Death’s eyes grew red hot.

“Just know this. If you betray him and his trust, I will personally be the one to devour your soul.”

Swallowing thickly, you nodded.

“Uh… sure thing, sir…”

The fire died down in the deity’s eyes, and he nodded. The room then slowly began to grow darker once more, as if the shadows were reaching out to Death.

“Till we meet again, Belmont.”

With a flash of darkness(?), the deity was gone, and your room began to warm up and brighten.

Slowly, as if in a daze, you walked over to the bed, and fell face first into it. You groaned into the sheets as your wounds throbbed from the sudden pressure, and you tossed your bag to the side.

“Fuck me.” you mumbled, and you felt the tension in your body release as you groaned into the sheets.

Death. You met Death. Death didn’t point at you and obliterate your entire existence.

That was a plus at least.

“My life is a fucking joke, and I’m the damn punchline.”

For some reason, you began to wonder if every Belmont before you felt the same way to various degrees for different reasons.

Though you’d admit, you think your situation feels like it takes the cake. What Belmont can say they accidentally freed Dracula after growing attached to a statue of him and get lightly warned not to fuck up by Death?

You had a feeling it was probably a pretty slim number.

Taking a deep breath, and letting out a long sigh, you forced yourself to sit up. Sitting now at the edge of the bed, you grabbed your bag and dug around for your phone. Pulling it out, you held it for a moment.

The last thing you wanted right now was to see any ‘concerned’ messages from your fraud of a family. It wouldn’t be the first time they had done so to get you back home and under their thumb again. No doubt guilt tripping you, to threatening you if you didn’t listen.

When you bit the bullet and turned the screen on, you were actually pretty surprised you didn’t see any messages. Not yet anyways.

For all you knew, they were actually giving you a few days before getting pissy about you being gone. You did throw them around a little, so perhaps they were also licking their wounds and their pride.

You’d take any bit of peace you could get.

As you sat there, staring at the screen, a sudden knock was at the door. You let out a yelp, and your phone slipped from your hands. Comically, you tried to catch it, but it merely bounced out of your grip a few times before smacking the floor.

The person waited a moment, before seemingly hesitantly knocking again.

“Come in!” you spoke up, trying to awkwardly reach for your phone from the bed, ignoring the twinge of pain. You glanced up, seeing Dracula entering with what you assumed was another first aid kit. Presumably to check on your wounds.

Looking back down, you try reaching for your phone again.

Just as you almost had it, you nearly jumped when a large, pale hand grabbed your phone for you.

Glancing up, your face was hovering just a few inches away from Dracula’s. All the while, amusement seemed evident in his eyes.

“Shouldn’t you be resting, and not straining your stitches?” He asked. It might have been your imagination playing tricks on you, but it sounded a lot like he was teasing you, rather than him scolding you.

You could practically feel your face blossom red, both from embarrassment, and just from how close he was in general as he teased you.

Sitting up quickly, Dracula rose next to you, and gently handed your phone out to you.

Looking between him and your phone for a moment, you carefully reached out and took it. His hand was cool against your own as he slid it into your hand, and you tried to fight back the shivers that went down your spine.

Just how touched starved were you?

“Thank you. The knock had startled me, and I dropped it. I… Reached for it without thinking.” you finally spoke, trying to get your blushing under control.

Dracula looked you over for a moment. You had a feeling he was still amused by the whole scenario.

“Perhaps it would be wise to remember your wounds ahead of time then.” He spoke, and again, you couldn’t help but feel he was lightly picking on you. His tone wasn’t scolding at all.

Walking over, he sat the medical kit next to you on the bed.

“Now, may I redress your wounds? It isn’t sanitary to keep such injuries in the same wrappings for too long, and I would like to see how well they are healing. The last thing you need is an infection to spring up, and with how far you pushed yourself, I would not be surprised if you were fighting one.”

Someone who actually cared about your injuries? A man after your own heart.

When Dracula barked out a laugh, you jumped, and felt heat rushing to your face once more.

Had you said that out loud?!

“Forgive me, that had caught me off guard. I was not laughing at you, honest.”

Your face was still warm, though you were a bit hypnotized. You must still be a bit out of it if you couldn’t watch your mouth.

His laugh had you feeling as if your brain was stuck in a loading screen.

This just was not fair. How can he be pretty, have a nice voice, and a hot laugh? Life was a game and somehow he had rigged it.

Just from that small interaction, it wasn’t hard to tell Dracula was now in a good mood. Somehow, he seemed a bit lighter, the air around him not as… suffocating? Intense? Drowning?

You weren’t sure what to call it, but hey, if he was in a better mood, that was better for you.

Dracula then tapped the top of the medical box, grabbing your attention while giving you an amused look.

“Now, you still haven’t answered my request. Would you let me redress your wounds? I wish to see if they are healing well, and if any need more attention in case of infection.”

With a sigh, you nodded.

“Yes, of course.”

May as well let him. He did an amazing job yesterday, and you figure he probably knew even more than you when it came to this stuff.

Sure, it hurt your ego a little bit, but you knew it was the truth. You wouldn’t get anywhere fighting him on it.

Though if you were being honest, the fact he still wanted to treat your wounds so much was very… touching.

Dracula didn’t waste any time after you gave him your consent to look over your injuries. He started with your head, once again summoning an orb of some sorts, and having you look at it.

“How is your head faring? Does it ache?”

You winced a bit.

“Yeah, a little. It’s throbbing a little bit. Though it hurts kinda often anyway.”

His eyes flickered to your face, before looking back at the wound.

“I see…”

He gently looked over the knot on your head for another moment, and you didn’t see his eyes narrow at your words.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why does it hurt so often? Migraines?”

Blinking for a moment, you thought as you registered his question. Was he making small talk?

“Ah… Yes? It has for a while, really. Since I was younger, though I started getting more a little over a year ago. I think it’s stress and past injuries.”

Dracula hummed, before pulling away. His face was neutral, though you couldn’t help but feel he didn’t like that answer.

Was it from the fact you had migraines so often? Or something else? You held back from shaking your head, almost unbelieving that Dracula cared that much.

He then kneeled down, hand hovering over your shirt. Dracula’s red eyes flickered to you, and it hit you he was waiting for permission.

“O-Oh, uh, here-”

You went to move your shirt, before his large, cool hand covered your own.

“Easy. I can do it, don’t push yourself.” He told you gently, his hand carefully over your own.

You had to hold back the shock you felt run down your spine from touching his hand.

After a moment, you let go, and he gently began to lift your shirt. You had to suppress the shudder that went through your body at his tenderness, or when his cool hand briefly touched your skin.

Somehow, he still noticed, though seemed to assume you were shuddering from his cool skin touching your own.

“Apologies.” he murmured, gently trying to peel back the wrappings.

“It’s okay… no worries…” you mumbled back, feeling your head swim. His hand actually felt nice against your skin, which was still incredibly warm. It may not have been as feverish as yesterday, but his cool skin still felt nice against your own.

You didn’t want to think too much about that, especially when your head and feelings were seemingly everywhere for some reason.

Now was not the time to have conflicting feelings about your enemy/savior. Why did your head insist on being weird about it?

When Dracula pulled back the wrap, you found yourself gasping when some of your skin tugged, and Dracula gently shushed you. His eyes softened as he looked at your wound, which looked irritated.

“Ah, as I thought. You are fighting an infection. I will clean the wound and help you rebandage it to fight the infection.”

Swallowing thickly at his words and the way he gently held your sides, you nodded.

“Okay.”

‘I trust you.’ The words almost fell off your tongue, before you clamped your jaw shut. Did you really trust Dracula?

That itself was a loaded question in itself, but right at this moment?

You watched as he pulled out some medicine, and began to tenderly tend to the wound on your side.

Perhaps you could trust him to at least genuinely take care of you.

Like last time, his movements were quick and precise, yet surprisingly gentle. When you felt him apply some medicine to a more tender spot and sucked in a breath, he hummed.

“Good. You’re doing well. I’m almost done.”

You didn’t know if you should be horrified or not to learn you seemed to have a thing for being praised while The King of the Night tends to your wounds.

He was faster than yesterday, not having to worry so much about patching you up so much as checking up on you. Throughout the whole time, you inwardly were fighting with yourself in your head as he would praise you for staying still when an injury stung.

Being in a better state of mind, you didn’t have as much of an excuse growing almost hypnotized to his voice.

So when he started asking you questions and making more conversation, you nearly missed what he was saying.

“...Ah, sorry… What…?” you asked, feeling your cheeks burn again, this time more in embarrassment.

His eyes bore into your own, though there wasn’t any sign of anger or annoyance like you were used to seeing from home. More like there was just underlying concern.

“How did you get some of these wounds? Was it… from a hunt?” He asked, seemingly curious. When he saw your eyes widen, he looked back down at your leg, which he was currently tending to.

“You do not have to answer that if you do not wish to, although I will not take offense if it was.”

You were silent for a moment, trying to figure out how to answer him. As it may, you didn’t exactly want to air out your dirty laundry to Dracula of all people. Why would he care about shit your family has done to you?

…But then again, why should he care about you at all? Here he was… tending to your wounds.

“Personal issues, that’s all.”

You didn’t feel like telling him everything. What would he even do? Try and talk to you to make you feel better? Ask your step family to stop? The idea almost made you want to laugh.

It was pointless anyway. It’s not like Dracula could do anything about your family issues anyway. You even wondered if he would find it amusing how far your clan has fallen from grace.

His eyes flickered to you, and you could practically see the curiosity in his eyes. However, he didn’t speak, simply going back to patching you up.

“I see.”

If only you knew how much Dracula wished to ask you more.

Ever since he had seen you injured, he wanted to destroy whatever had laid its hands on you. At least it wasn’t a random monster he would have to hunt down, though now he had to figure out how to get you to open up.

He couldn’t just go on a warpath without information, after all. Though he had his suspicions.

You telling him it was personal issues only had those suspicions grow.

But this was a step forward. You answered him this time, and gave him means to make deductions. Educated guesses, sure, but he had a starting point.

Right now, he was at least 60% positive it was family or friend related. Presumably family, if he had to make a wager.

You hardly talked about them when he had been a statue, though it was clear from what little you mentioned, you didn’t seem to care for them.

Why was that? What had the Belmont family become? What had they done to you to get your ire?

The only exception seemed to have been your mother, who he figures has passed. A shame, really.

He disliked Belmonts, but you seemed to get your wisdom from her, so she must have been quite the lady.

Dracula had to tread lightly here though. If this was a family matter, it no doubt was messy. As much as he didn’t like to think about it, he knew all too well how badly messy family relationships could end up.

The vampire lord knew he was a powerful player here, considering this was a Belmont of all people. One wrong move on the board could send everything into chaos.

He could lose you, lose your trust, and be thrust back into this needlessly endless struggle between ‘good and evil’.

Bah.

However, he couldn’t not do anything. Your injuries had been horrifying. With how bad they were, and how much you had pushed yourself, you were very lucky to be alive.

There were also the migraines you had mentioned having. He knew they could simply be chronic, but he had a feeling in his stomach that settled like a rock.

Sure, it was just as likely to be from stress from whatever you were dealing with, or from a past injury.

However… He couldn’t help but feel almost anxious. Something wasn’t right.

Hopefully, if he gained more of your trust, you would let him examine you a bit more. He worried that it may not just have been from some injury.

If presumably your family had done this to you, who is to say they weren’t doing more? The feeling in his gut burned, and he had to hold back his eyes from flashing black and red.

A part of him, the darker side to his mind, was snarling. It thrashed, tearing at the edges of his mind wishing to be freed. It was a piece of him that only came out when his wife had passed. A much darker part of his mind that wasn’t human, one that he had to put in effort now to lock away.

That shadow in his mind demanded vengeance. He wouldn’t admit it, not outloud, but he had grown possessive over his Little Belmont. Whoever had hurt you needed to pay. Vlad wouldn’t just let your fire be smothered. He considered you under his protection.

And Dracula was very protective of those he considered his.

#castlevania #dracula #vlad dracula tepes #castlevania dracula #dracula x reader #castlevania x reader #x reader #vlad dracula țepeș #reader insert #belmont!reader #love that bites #long post #cw injury #cw abuse mention

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lehguru · 6 months

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LATINO SONGS + ONE PIECE CHARACTERS

latino songs i relate to one piece characters and why!

info: not proofread as always, put spotify links in all of them, open to suggestions if yall want this to b a lil series or sum lol, mentions of stabbing (?)

PORTGAS D.ACE : SOU MUSA DO VERÃO - marshmello, luísa sonza

there's something about this song that makes me think of ace in the most... unhinged way. the main chorus is the thing that really stands out to me, because not only he would look gorgeous in a edit with that, it have the same hot energy that ace exhales. he is the kind of man we would see shirtless and imagine things that become a concern to feminism; and that song is exactly what we all, ace simps, want to say to him.

NAMI : ASSANHADINHA - pocah, mc durrony

nami gives the vibes of someone that does not care, period. she just does what she wants and is not afraid to own it too. i can definitely see this song on her playlist too, not only because of the way she relates to the lyrics, but also the beat itself. another big reason is simply: my girl likes to throw it back, and this is a great song to do it without problem.

NICO ROBIN : PILOTO - flora matos

i put piloto as robin's song, because 1. i ship her with franky; 2. she would totally be the type of person (the 'pilot') that is described in the song. careful? caring? loving? a good person? a scholar? pays attention? courageous? a mate? truthful? a armor bearer? if you need, dangerous? she is all of those things and much more. and that's why she will be forever the woman that holds my heart and she should hold yours too.

SABO : EU VOU COM CARINHO ELA QUER COM FORÇA - mc don juan, mc g15, mc davi

this one i will keep short and simple. a loooong time ago i saw a tiktok that had this song as a "sabo sounds like this" and i couldn't unhear it since (i cant find it again, im sorry); plus the lyrics match very very well. thats it. i cant elaborate further.

USOPP : PAPIN - mc kevin o chris, mc caja

the lyrics say everything i need to say: "fell for my talk, it's over". it's proven over and over again that usopp can lie to people easily, when he wants to. and, after the live action, i can't stop thinking about usopp trying to win you over with a sweet talk, his eyes and voice tone nervous, but so sweet it wins you over. plus, the song weirdly fits his vibe.

SANJI : RITA - tierry

i kinda refuse to explain this one, because it's almost a joke for myself, but i shall translate some of the lyrics (think that he's singing it to you): "oh love, come back. come back, love, and i will forgive the stabbing. oh, love, don't leave me alone, come back and i will pull out the charges."

DRACULE MIHAWK : ME RECLAMA - mambo kingz, dj luian, luigi 21 plus, ozuna

THIS SONG IS SO MIHAWK CODED, IT MAKES ME SICK. he knows he's the best, he always goes to you when you call him and he's not afraid to tell others that it's "not his fault he is the one you call for". his entire persona with this song in the background makes me shake, he would look extremely ethereal with his hand on your waist, pulling you closer, and his head tilted – all while his lips are whispering sweet spanish into your ear.

2023 © content belongs to lehguru, but the characters used in them belong to their respective creators!!

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leasstories · 3 months

Text

I Need You Here With Me

Eddie x gn !reader (Eddie is 21 and reader 23)

TW: Reader is insecure; mention of emotional abuse and neglect; past abuse/toxic relationships

WC: ≈2.2K

January 28th, 1988

You grew up in a really messed up household. Your dad was an alcoholic who always told you to act tough and your mom spent your life, until you decided to break off all ties with them. You were never good enough for her, and when your feelings got the best of you, your dad would blame you and call you a crybaby.

This childhood didn’t allow you to develop a self-esteem. You never feel confident and since you’ve been dating Eddie, you’ve never felt good enough for him. Another consequence of your troubled childhood is that you’ve been looking for love from anyone who could give it to you, and that’s how, before meeting Eddie, you’ve been in several toxic relationships. Relationships that broke you even more. When you’re dating someone, when you love someone, you’d do anything for them. That’s something that toxic people seemed to notice. And that’s how, before Eddie, you’ve had your fair share of abusive boyfriends and friends who took advantage of you.

Eddie and you met in January 1987, your boyfriend of the time was invited to the same New Year Party as Eddie and brought you along with him. You were his little “trophy” in public. In private though, you were his punching ball. Eddie found you on the owner’s house bathroom sobbing. He carefully approached you and asked you what happened. It was the first time ever that someone noticed that your life wasn’t perfect and so you literally did trauma dumping on him. Later, Eddie helped you break up with your boyfriend, protected you from him and offered you a place to stay.

A few months later, when you started healing from your past relationship, in March, Eddie and you started dating and officially became partner in April. But with your baggage, you don’t know how to navigate a healthy relationship, and you’re clingy. You’re conscious that you might be too clingy for Eddie. It isn’t healthy. But you don’t know how to love, you’ve never been loved before and no one taught you how to love properly. And you know you and your baggage might be a bit too much, especially since he is younger than you.

Don’t get us wrong here, Eddie has his own baggage. He has had a very difficult childhood and he experienced something in 1986 that gave him the physical and mental scars he has, but he never told you what happened. All you know is that he often wakes up screaming. But his baggage is easy to handle for you. All you want is to give him the world, protect him and be there for him 24/7.

Eddie is currently grocery shopping. Today, he went alone because he heard from a friend of his that your ex is back in town for the weekend which means he won’t let you go out of the weekend.

As soon as Eddie left, you tried reading your book, but you miss him too much, you can’t focus. You know that your boyfriend should be able to go grocery without you missing him. You know that. You also feel that you being clingy annoys Eddie, you’re afraid it’ll scare him away. You start overthinking and feeling insecure, thinking the real reason Eddie went grocery shopping alone was because he was fed up with you. You start imagining the worse scenarios, telling yourself that it is too good to be true. You can’t be with a man like Eddie Munson. You don’t deserve him. And how can he love you? How can you be loved? You wonder. You even go as far as to imagine that he might never come back from grocery shopping. You get stuck in your own head to the point that you don’t hear Eddie come back in the house.

“Baby?” Eddie asks.

You do not answer, you don’t even hear him.

“Baby?” Eddie says while entering the living room.

Eddie sees you, dissociated and sat on the couch, tears prickling at your eyeline.

He crouches down in front of you and take your hand in his, that’s when you notice his presence, you can’t help yourself and hug Eddie, what Eddie finds unusual, is that as soon as you realize what you did you leave Eddie’s arms and avoid his stare. Eddie caresses your knees, knowing that it is one of the things that reassures you the most. You still avoid his gaze and get up, not caring his hand is on your knee.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Eddie asks.

You turn to him, eyes shining with tears. “Am I too much?” you ask, voice trembling.

“Hey, hey, hey, look at me” Eddie tells you reassuringly.

You shake your head no, eyes glued to your feet.

“Hey baby, you are not too much…” Eddie softly tells you.

“Am I not enough?” You shyly ask.

“No!” Eddie says raising his voice, which makes you flinch.

When you flinch, Eddie takes a step back and looks at you apologetically, but you don’t see it, your eyes still fixed on your feet, tears running down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry baby, I shouldn’t have raised my voice… I’m so sorry.” Eddie is distraught by your sudden self-doubt. Eddie knows about your childhood and your past relationships, but you’ve never felt insecure with him, or at least you never voiced it. He doesn’t know how to handle the situation. He isn’t mad at you, he is mad at your parents, at your previous partners and friends who used you, mistreated you and made you feel unloved.

“’S fine” you say while sniffling. “’m sorry I upset you…” Now you feel even more like a burden, you’ve managed to upset the only person who showed you nothing but love.

“Hey, hey, stop that. You didn’t upset me love. It’s not you who upset me. It’s just the idea that your parents and past relationships broke you so much that you need to ask me such questions as if you are too much or not enough.” Eddie says, in a calmer tone.

“’m sorry” you say again, still sniffling.

“What are you sorry for honey?” Eddie asks, trying to be as comprehensive and patient as possible.

“’m too clingy and it might make you run away… I don’t know how to love Eddie… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry” you keep repeating.

Eddie takes a step toward you and when he sees you don’t flinch or move away, he put his hand on your cheek.

“Stop apologizing baby. Listen to what I have to say and don’t cut me off, can you do that for me.” Eddie kindly asks.

You nod, still sniffling, tears still running down your cheeks.

“Good, that’s good.” Eddie says. “You remember when we weren’t a couple. Every time you didn’t sleepover in my room, I found it hard to sleep and every time we are apart, there is a pain in my heart that won’t go away. You’re clingy? Maybe, but I love it and even if I could, I would change nothing about it. Trust le when I say that I love you the way you are. And I know you have trust issues, I know you have had a difficult past, but I want to help you see that you are loveable. I want you to see that I love you and that I’d never hurt, neglect, nor abandon you.” Eddie continues.

“I’m sorry for being such a crybaby…” you say while wiping your tears.

“You’re not a crybaby love, you are traumatized. You have to acknowledge that, and I’ll help you acknowledge it, I’ll help you heal from that, I promise to be here every step of the way.” Eddie tells you.

“I’m sorry for not knowing how to love properly…” you tell Eddie.

“None of that baby, you love me properly, of course you still have things to learn, but I feel loved by you. And you know my past with my family, you know about my High School years, not a lot of people loved me, but I’ve always felt it. And I feel it coming from you.” Eddie explains.

“Does that mean the fact that I’m telling you that I love you so many times a day is annoying? Suffocating?” you shyly ask.

“Baby, you’re always saying the words I want to say. It is not suffocating. You could tell me you love me every single second that I wouldn’t feel it suffocating.” Eddie reassures you.

“What about the excess of physical touch?” You ask, still insecure.

“Baby… I need you here with me, at all times. The closer the better.” Eddie tells you.

“But I’m clingy…” you repeat once again.

“And deep down, I’m as clingy as you, I just try to hide it.” Eddie tells you with nothing but love in his eyes.

“’m sorry for getting all worked up… I just missed you so much while you went grocery shopping that I imagined the worse scenarios possible. I got stuck in my own head.” You tell Eddie, ashamed.

“Don’t apologize baby. I know your past and I should have known what as wrong as soon as I arrived home and I shouldn’t have raised my voice. I know it’ll take time for you to realize that it is true, that we are made to last. If I need to repeat it every single day for the rest of my life I will.” Eddie tells you while caressing your cheek.

“Can I ask why?” you ask.

“Why what?” Eddie asks.

“Why did you talk to me at that New Years Party?” you ask, unsure.

“For three reasons: first one I found you so gorgeous. Second reason, I saw you were sad, I was actually looking for you and when I found you in the bathroom it wasn’t just a coincidence. Third reason: your boyfriend didn’t even acknowledge your sadness and he didn’t even look for you when you left so I thought someone had to.” Eddie earnestly answers.

“Thank you… thank you so much for everything you did for me Eds. I’m sorry I’m not a better partner…” You apologetically tell him. You need him to know how grateful you are to have him in your life.

“Thank you for allowing me to be your boyfriend, for allowing me to love you, for letting me help you. You’ve come so far since the first time we met. Yes, you are my insecure little baby, but you became stronger, you became happier. I want to make up for all the assholes who treated you badly in the past. I want to help you heal; I want to help you blossom.” Eddie says before softly kissing your lips. You kiss him back, putting your hand in his hair. You both make out until you can’t breathe and then reluctantly part. Eddie put a strand of hair behind your hear and smiles softly at you.

“So, do you still believe I’m gonna leave my little baby heal all alone?” Eddie asks.

“It might take time for me to fully believe it. But you reassured me a lot so thank you. Thank you for being so patient with me…” You tell Eddie.

“Baby, I’ll always be patient with you. I love you so so much. And now it’s my time to thank you. Thank you for trying your best every day. Thank you for accepting me how I am, with my qualities and my flaws. Thank you for being patient with me when I have a nightmare and for never asking about what happened to me in March of ’86. You’re the most respectful, loving and caring person I’ve ever known, and I fall with you even more every single day.” Eddie declares.

You start quietly sobbing in your hand, this time you’re not crying because of anxiety or pain, no, you’re crying because of Eddie’s speech, because of how much he loves you and how much you love him.

“’m sorry for being a crybaby…” you say once again.

Eddie hugs you and gently whisper in your ear. “You’re not a crybaby, you’re sensitive, there’s a difference. You’re allowed to cry and to let your emotions out. It’s healthy and normal baby.” Eddie says while caressing your back, still hugging you.

Once you part Eddie asks. “Will cuddling in bed make you feel even better?”.

As soon as you nod, Eddie throws you over his shoulder and walk to your shared bed. He lays you on the bed and joins you on the bed, opening his arms. You crawl towards him and put your head on his chest, listening to his heart beating. Eddie loves having you in his arms, as he already told you and will remind you for as long as you’re insecure, his love language is physical touch. If he could, Eddie would never part from you, he would stay in this bed, cuddling with you forever.

Eddie is the first ever person to make you feel loved, he is the first ever person to treat you with respect. He is the first partner to ever love you and treat you as his equal. You know it’s going to take time to fully believe it, but for the first time ever, you allow yourself to dream of an entire life with Eddie.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x yn #eddie munson comfort #eddie munson x gn!reader #eddie munson is a sweetheart #eddie munson lives #Spotify

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killersfool · 5 months

Note

hiiii i’ve a wee fluff imagine idea for bobby!! : )

bobby and the reader live together in a flat in dublin and the reader goes to trinity uni to study english literature (or smt else that has like a lot of reading and essay writing anol that craic) and she’s falling behind in a lot of her assignments and it’s all piling up and she’s just all overwhelmed and doesn’t know how to cope.

she ends up breaking down into sobs or shutting down at random points in the day due to stress and rob hasn’t got a clue what’s wrong and keeps noticing these random break downs throughout the week.

basically he comforts reader and helps to organise herself and just all fluffy cute comfort fic <333

If I could flip back time, bend the seconds and go back three years ago, I would do it right now.

Pile after pile of flashcards, annotated books with pastel post-it notes shooting out of the sides, folders of Irish poetry I can hardly understand, tattered photocopies of Hozier lyrics, every work of Shakespeare staring at me from my overcrowded booksheld — dusty, messy, probably even dank. Miss Carter has decided to set three more assignments onto my workload for the week. An essay on crime fiction (I haven't even read the first book on the reading list), my creative writing portfolio and then another essay analysing a piece poetry of my choice. Reading and highlighting Hozier's lyrics of 'I, Carrion (Icarian)' is the only thing keeping me going. Phoebe Bridgers blasts through my ears. It's quarter to 11. I need a break. An early night would be nice. Or TV. But do I really want to sit next to Robert whilst he watches his weird YouTube videos?

I kick my table. Not out of anger. Not out of irritation. I just want to see all of my notes topple ontp the floor. They do. Then I'm kicking the table three more times. Or maybe eight. All my flashcards are on the carpeted floor, next to my discarded, empty packet of pinballs. I'd stolen them from Robert's stash. He'll never find out.

Climbing over my pile of unread books by my doorway, I push open the door. It squeaks. Some oiling would be nice. Trinity college really provides the best for their students!

I still wish my roommate was also doing English, someone to bond with over shared trauma, to gossip about our nightmarish teachers and fellow students. But no, this guy is doing a degree in bloody mathematics. The complete dichotomy of English. No similarities. No way of comparing the courses to eachother. Him and his terrifying videos that he watches with his shoes up on the armrest, cheek in his open palm, drinking a cup of tea. Like it's that simple. Numbers and sin, cos, tan and circle theorems and whatever tragic nonsense is being spouted in his lectures.

He hardly speaks to me. Three years together and I barely know him. Sometimes I tag along with him when he goes out for breakfast. Once every two weeks. Sunday morning. We talk about school, about friends, about anything that pops in our heads. Yesterday we spoke about music. He originally wanted to pursue a career in music. A band. But they didn't work out. He took a gap year to pursue this group. So he's a year older than all of the other third years. He doesn't let that faze him. When he told me stories about his band, 'Inhaler', I had to lose eye contact, look down at the pink marshmellos floating about in my cup. He looked lost. This wasn't the place for him. He missed the confidence upon stage, the ability of making something out of nothing. Life is unfair. That is when I realised it. Hearing about shattered dreams and names of songs that were never produced.

I also realise life is unfair right now, as I accidentally bang my hip onto the kicthen island, the knife-like corner lodging itself into my skin. It's like the world is against me.

Sometimes I wonder if Robert thinks I'm an idiot. I feel like I'm an idiot when I walk past his bedroom, hunched over his laptop, headphones on as he works through the most difficult maths questions I've ever encountered in my life. He makes university seem easy. Has his allocated times for study, going out with friends, the gym, practicing bass, going though record shops, meals, watching TV. Everytime he gets home, he drops his things down in the kitchen. I sneak a glance at the big green 'A*' on all of his test papers. I look up to him. His intelligence, his masterful management of time. I'm always too frightened to ask him how he does it. He'll think I'm stalking him.

Me, on the other hand, I waste time. I don't have balance. I never have time to be with my friends. Always locked up in my room. A prisoner. Essay after essay. Poem after poem. Book after book. A constant cycle I've been in for three whole years. The stress is weighing down on me like a hundred bags of bricks. I need to stop for a second. To breathe in. To calm down.

So I do the last thing I would normally do. I go into the living room and sit beside Robert on the sofa. He's half asleep, jeans cuffed, hair all over his face. He sees me walk in, glances up, eyes big and speculting. He instantly moves his spindly, spider-like legs from the armrest to give me some space. I can hear some sort of maths video playing on the TV. I'm scared. At least it's not English. I'm immune to maths. It doesn't affect me anymore. Whatever logorhythmic scale this American YouTube man is yapping about isn't making my face contort at all — it's like sorcery.

This could be a way of winding down. Maths. I'm calmer now. No changes of focus or narrowing of perspective. No pathetic fallacy or magical realism. Just messes of words that don't really make sense at all.

"'D'you want to watch TV? I can turn this off if you want." Robert has his thumb on the home button.

"Leave it on. I just need a moment."

He dubiously puts the remote back down. He yawns, stretching out his arms and leaning back. I hate it when boys do that. With his parted, manspreaded legs, adams apple bobbing, head rolled back. It's idiotic. Completely idiotic. He doesn't seem too intrigued by Mr American man. The video is a guy next to a whiteboard writing millions of brain-numbing equtions. Robert is nodding along. I think I'm going to cry. I don't know why I want to right now. My hip is actually starting to throb and ache. I look down at my jeans. There's a hole in them. There's blood. It's wet. I hadn't noticed before. It's properly pouring out blood.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I exclaim, hand pressing down onto the cut through my jeans.

Robert swiftly nears me. He's looking at me up and down, hands trying to find a place to move to. It's dark in the room. He reaches for the lamp switch. "What is it? Are you okay?"

"I'm bleeding. Jesus christ. That kills. Fuck me."

He passes me his jacket and says, "Apply some pressure."

Then he runs out of the room. Fast as a plane. A man on a mission. Long curls dancing to the rhythm of his steps. Mr American man won't shut up about algebraic expressions. He's got a really bald head. Glimmering.

Robert is back. He has bandages. I don't know where he got those from. Antiseptic wipes, plasters, sweets, even a cup of tea. He was only gone for about five seconds. How did he manage to get all of that? He hands me the cup of tea and sweets whilst asking, "What happened?"

"I walked into the island like an eejit. I'm so feckin' stupid."

"Just breathe, okay. You're not an eejit. I do that every day."

I have to unzip my jeans to let him check the cut. Which is awkward, to say the least. He's looking at me like a doctor — not really caring about seeing my skin — but I'm still so shy around him. He sees me struggle with the button. He undoes it, fingers coming in contact with mine. They're slender. So very perfect for the bass guitar. Then he's unzipping my jeans. Only the tiniest bit. A mere centimetre of my knickers appear out of the top. Any more than that and I'd be flush as a tomato. I've always had a little crush on Robert. Being stuck with a really smart bass guitarist with the dreamiest eyes for three years is enough to make a person fall. The reason I've been avoiding him lately has been due to that fact. I don't want to make it obvious.

He finds the cut. It's bled through my knickers, making a big blot of dark red. He pulls down the waistband of my pants, prepared to wipe the wound. I have to grind my teeth together to prevent a sob from escaping me. I'm crying. Stressed and hurt and just wanting to dissolve into nothing. The cold draft of wind isn't improving the situation. If only there was no such thing as coursework and I couldn't glide my way through university like Robert.

More and more blood. I think I might pass out. The blue-eyed boy is knelt down on the floor, knees biting into the carpet so that he can properly see where to put the bandage.

"So how's English going?" He's not looking at me. Only at the wound. I don't think he's noticed that I'm crying. I don't want him to. I cover my face with bloody hands, accidentally smearing the metallic substance onto my nose.

I don't know what to say. Do I tell him how much I regret picking it? Do I make this already awkward situation about ten times worse? I hate when people pity me. I hate when I feel like eyes are lingering for far too long when I cry. But when Robert looks at me, it's different. The pools of serenity circling his iris aren't looking down at me with a sort of aristocracy. That's how my English peers stare me down. No, instead, he's looking at me like there's a billion questions rushing across his forehead. He just needs to decide which one to ask. Or to simply say nothing. Like I am. We've both learnt how to cohabit in silence. To walk past eachother and ignore the feathers of conversation falling between us. We're busy. Always busy. Except for those perfect Monday mornings that I always look forward to. Especially the one time when he showed me around his favourite record store. He had asked me to choose him a record to buy. I walked through the entire shop, fingers shifting records, reading unfamiliar artist names. Then, I saw it, the — now bane of my existence — Hozier's 'unreal unearth'. He bought it. He'd told me he only really knew 'Take Me To Church'. I'd leant against the till as he paid and said, 'it'll change your life.' Then he'd locked himself in his room. Through the ever so thin walls — paper thin — I could hear each track hum into my room. I never got the chance to talk to him about the album. I think the thought of bringing it up made me feel sick — due to the English essay upstairs still waiting patiently to be finished.

Now there is an excuse. To talk. I'm injured. I don't want to move. He's still attempting to wrap a bandage over my stomach, then across my back until it's around my torso. I feel his fingers graze my skin with every subtle movement, along my spine, the small of my back, my abdomen, my hip bone. He's still looking at me. Searching. Like I'm a new island and he's an explorer trying to name me.

"What's up, sweetheart?" He finally talks again. His words are throaty, emananting from the pits of his throat. He's still wrapping, waiting for an answer.

"Just college. You know. It's killing me."

He shakes his head. "You're so smart."

"Says you."

He shakes his head. "Look, this might be a bit weird but sometimes when you leave random essays lying around or even creative writing. I read them. They're incredible. Your mind just works in such an interesting way."

I'm at a loss for words. He reads those? Those are usually just failed attempts that I toss aside. Scrap paper. Strange drawings. I don't even want to look at them.

"You get top grades in every test," I sigh. "I'm barely passing. I'm the worst in the class. My professors hate me, I've got so much work, I'm falling behind in every assignment—"

Then I'm properly crying. Sobbing. Breathing so heavily I think I might collapse. Heaving. Sniffling. Covering my face so he can't see me. I'm like a child. Pathetic. Stupid. Worthless. I was never good enough for Trinity. Why did they let me in?

Warm arms, press of skin. Just above the wound, over my chest, arms dig into my body, hugging me from behind. Head burrowing onto my shoulders, knees into the sofa. His lips ghost the back of my neck. Tears are falling down. He turns me around to face him. I hate how he's seeing me like this. My cries are usually saved for when he's out with friends or blasting music on his record player. He's never seen me this vulnerable, just utterly ripped into shreds by the hands of life. His scent is making me feel better, the tissue now on my cheek makes me feel better, the quiet words of 'breathe, let it all out, it's okay' make me feel better. He's calming me down. I start to forget what I was even crying about when I look into his eyes. This intense eye contact. Remembering his height. Even sat down, his torso is far longer than mine.

"I've got an idea," he murmurs, peeling his body away. I miss the warmth. I miss the touch.

"What is it?"

"We should go somewhere. Get out for a bit. Say it's a 'mental health field trip'." He curls his fingers to accentuate the apostrophes."Maybe down to the Cliffs of Moher. When you're all healed up of course."

"Give me a week."

"A week? I'll be the judge of that." He raises an eyebrow, now tying up the bandage.

"Where did you learn all this?"

"I'm actually first aid trained. Did it in my first week of uni." He takes a deep breath, settles back onto the sofa.

I take a sip of my tea. My eyes are surely blotchy and red. I bet there's mascara all over my face. "Thank you so much."

"No problem at all. Do you want to tell me what's going on? Is there any way I can help?" He's referring to my school work. "I was alright at English in high school. No where near as good as you are. But maybe another opinion might help you."

"I'm really stuck on a Hozier analysis."

"I never told you how much I love that album. It's perfect." His eyes glow like they do when he's talking about something he loves. Usually it's caused by talking about playing bass, but right now it's due to the beauty of Hozier's music. "I learned the bass line of De Selby part two."

"Show me. Now." I don't even ask. It's simply a demand. Anything to take my mind away from that cut still bleeding profusely. A little concert would be nice. Especially if said concert involves watching Robert play bass. I sometimes peek through the crack in the doorway to see him sat down on his bed, pick between his index and thumb, bass guitar on his lap, headphones over his ears. The pure concentration on his face is unparalleled. Notes thrum quietly through the room. He falls into any piece of music.

"Alright." He laughs at my enthusiasm. "Then I'll help with your English."

"Thanks." This is probably the most I've ever spoken to him. I'm mumbling each word, not wanting to look into his eyes.

He disappears once again. This time I hear the thudding footsteps over creaky floorboards. I hear a door squeak open, the faint patter of rain upon the ceiling, the quiet murmur of distant sirens as night blooms. It's tranquil. For a moment, I'm at peace. Until I remember the stack of unread books in my bedroom. I groan into my hands. Everything just keeps getting worse and worse and—

He's back. Not empty handed. Bass in one hand, Hozier lyrics and my pencil case in the other.

"I emailed your professor about the trip. I'm sure she'll be okay with it." He's off again. He comes through the door with his amp and lead. He plugs both in.

"You're a life saver, Rob," I say.

He starts twisting around the knobs on the bass. Volume up. Then he's tuning. He smiles up at me. I think I'm staring. I think he can tell. His long fingers, tattoos, rings. It's all too much. My fingers are restlessly tapping the armrest. My legs are up on the coffee table. He pulls out his phone and plays the song. Then I'm lost in the music. His eyes are closed as he slides his fingers up and down the neck of the bass, as he stomps his feet down on the carpet to every drum beat. If only I could go back to the days I'd go to concerts every day. If only I could go back and see 'Inhaler' on a world tour, watch Robert from the crowd, completely in his element. Exhilarated, chanting, knowing every lyric like it's my mother tongue. Sometimes I wonder what life could've been like if the band had worked out. If the world did realise just how incredible they are. But, here, appreciating each pluck of every string, the grin as he watches me. I can't take that for granted.

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leomeoi · 10 months

Text

Happier

The title is from the song "Happier" by Marshmello Bastille. The lyrics "I want you to be happier. Know that means I'll have to leave." spoke to me. Please read the wonderful @tapakah0's comic and watch the amazing animatic they did that this work is inspired from. (Please forgive any out of characterness or grammar mistakes, I had no Beta Reader and wrote this in one sitting.) Thank you so much to Tapakah for drawing this amazing comic and answering my questions, as well as allowing me to write a fic for their work.

Oh, obligatory warning. This is angst. There is major character death, violence, and sadness. It ends unhappy (for now.) Proceed with caution and make informed decisions!

Click here for a link to the Archive Of Our Own version!

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Today's a big day.

Arguably, every day that they go out to fight the Krang that have infiltrated every nook, cranny, and crevice of their lives all those years ago is a big day. Raphael can't help but feel the bone-crushing load of responsibility that weighs down on his shoulders as he watches the hubbub of activity from the head. As he scans the faces of each person—human and mutant alike—with his one good eye, Raph feels as if his shell might just crack. He's not naive. There's nothing normal about this. He knows that they won't be able to save everyone, there'll be casualties. Their days are numbered, and the world just isn't fair in that way. The Krang aren't merciful. It could be anyone that they lose, there's no off-limits, and there's no way of predicting what shade of grief they'll experience today. As more and more days go by, Raphael can't shake the feeling that every victory they have is just a pyrrhic one. Even still, they fight. Everyone currently in the shelter of this hangar does. They all hope for a better future, a chance to reclaim all that they lost and there's not a single person who isn't willing to sacrifice it all. There's nothing more important than to ensure the success of this battle they're about to fight in the world war they've been waging against the invading advanced alien species.

He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to think about all the people that they've lost. It sends ripples of agony tearing through his chest, a physical ache that he can feel permeate even his plastron. It's a horrid fact that death is actually the most merciful thing the Krang can gift them with. They've lost countless others to infection, the result of that blasted plague yielding pink, fleshy atrocities, the host twisted and manipulated into a mere shell of their former self. They cannot be qualified as a person by then, bestial creatures hellbent on destruction and controlled by the very violators that infected them to begin with. It's a fate worse than death, the loss of will and self; they move only to the will impressed upon them. Raph's arms cross even tighter across his broad chest, his teeth grinding. The cold metal of his right arm reminds him that he's gotten off lucky. His fingers dig into his elbows as he stands, a grim and foreboding figure against the thoughts that plague his mind. He knows that he's gotten lost under the pressure of his thoughts when he stirs only at a warm touch against his forearm.

"Raph? You okay, big man?"

The sound of Leo's voice snaps him out of it further. His tone is bright, but Raph can hear the undertow of concern. Raph tears his gaze away from the milling crowd and looks down, meeting his brother's gaze. Even though it's been years, Raphael still can't help the flare of pride every time he sees Leo and how much he's changed over the years. It seems like yesterday that Raphael had to scold, nag, and practically plead with his younger sibling to get him to take things seriously. He knows that being the leader was a pressure that Leonardo never wanted, but once he's received it, he'd learned the gravity of the role. Sometimes, Raph thinks Leonardo has outgrown him, just the way that Raphael thought he would. A lesser turtle would have broken under the pressure, but Leonardo is as strong as he is stubborn. He stands against the test of time and loss, brave and unrelenting. He now leads with a certainty that has saved them on numerous occasions, and Raphael truly couldn't be prouder of how much he's grown into the role given to him.

Leonardo must see the way Raph's eyes soften because the sharp grin on his face loses its charming edge, too. Raph's chest feels tight as if his heart would burst out from the confines of his plastron. It's an entirely different reason than just a few seconds before when the grim reality was moments from overwhelming him.

He really is so proud.

"Yeah, Raph's okay. Just thinking." Raphael flashes his snaggletooth in a wide smile, and Leo mirrors it.

Normally, the conversation would end there. Raph wasn't the best at expressing his feelings, and Leonardo was even less so. He doesn't have the same connection to Leo that Donatello seems to have—they are self-proclaimed twins after all. They communicate almost solely on looks and gestures as if that's enough to convey exactly what it is they want to say. They leave nearly everything unsaid, but that's simply not something Raph can do. It's easy to communicate with Mikey; he's the best of them all. Still, there's so much that he wants to say to Leo, but it's almost time to leave. Raph can tell by the way things are quieting, the chaos of getting prepared sinking into the hum of calm and determined poise. Even with it all, Raphael is gripped with the unshakable feeling that he simply needs to get out. He doesn't know what it is, but it's an undeniable urge.

Leonardo's about to turn away. Despite the eternity that Raph feels like he just went through in his struggle to find the right words, mere seconds have passed. Raph decides that he doesn't need pretty words like Donnie, or the innate ability Mikey has to say exactly what a turtle needs to hear. Leo will understand. He knows Raph. He knows that they're connected and understand each other in a way that only those who have and are responsible for the lives of many can.

"Leo," he starts, and Raph almost winces at how serious he sounds. Leo blinks at the sudden change in tone, but he doesn't falter. His easy grin changes almost immediately, and the fact he no longer tries to deflect serious conversation with humor when it comes to Raphael brings yet another wave of pride. Leo stands before him, waiting. He's listening.

Raphael nods to himself, lifting a hand to place on Leonardo's shoulder. He squeezes and shakes Leo lightly, a reassuring gesture. His snaggletooth makes even more of an appearance as he smiles wide. "Raph is so proud. You've kicked ass and grown. You don't need lil ol' me anymore. I could not be more proud."

Surprise flits through Leo's eyes before it's replaced by something else. His gaze is piercing, eyes dark and almost unreadable. Almost. In another time, Raph wouldn't have ever thought that he'd know Leo so well. The feeling is potent, and Raph can feel it, too. It charges him with strength, and a new lightness finds his spirit. The iron trust that Leo has in him shines in his eyes, and Raphael had almost felt too small to withstand the weight of it once. Now, it gives Raph the strength he needs to continue on.

It seems to have been the right time to say what he was thinking.

Leonardo's shoulders square, and he seems to grow even taller before Raphael's very eyes. "Don't kid yourself, Raph," Leo chuckles. He slaps at Raph's arm lightly with a pat. "I'll always need my big brother." They both laugh at that, the serious mood broken up as their chortles sound in the room. With that, Leonardo turns away, moving his attention to something else that they need to be as prepared as they ever will be. Raph doesn't really concern himself with that anymore unless Leo needs him to. Bolstered by warmth, Raph knows that he needs to make his own rounds. He walks through the crowd, and people part way for him to accommodate his bulk. He stops and talks to a few, bumps elbows with April, and high-fives Cassandra. Somewhere along the line, Cass and Raph had grown closer. Undoubtedly, it was because of a certain young individual they spent any spare moment they had with.

Somewhere in the middle of that, Raph finds who he's looking for. "Donnie," he calls, and his brother whirls towards him. Donnie's battle shell remains engaged in what seems to be furious typing, his purple holographs buzzing with ninpo. A fond smile lights up Raph's face—even in the midst of preparing for a big battle, Donatello is always moving. His mind is always working, and Raphael wonders if it's because it's so loud that Donnie rarely ever sleeps.

"Raph," Donnie greets, the lenses of his red and blue goggles whirring as they adjust to parse Raph. Then, Donnie groans. "What did Nardo break now? I swear, I told him I'm gonna kick his shell if he breaks one more damn thing, so he decides to send you to break the news? I'm gonna find him-" He starts to grouse, and Raphael is sent into a frenzy trying to placate him.

"No, no! Leo didn't break nothin'. Just... Raph just wanted to talk to you. Before everything." Raphael shrugs, his hands outstretched and spread to show his surrender. Donatello squints and it's obvious that he's suspicious. His drawn-on eyebrows arch, and Raphael can't help but laugh again. There is no doubt that Donatello is the most expressive one of them all. His eyebrows only add to his charm, and over the years, he's grown into his skin even more. Raph thinks that Donatello is also the one to hide his emotions the most, choosing pragmatism and logic over the pursuit of emotions at all times. It's also why Raph thinks that Donatello's mask—the persona that he adopts—rivals Leo's.

In truth, Donatello is generous. He's a genius, a maniacal scientist, and Raph knows that his mind works in ways unmatched. He knows that it's because Donnie is Donnie that they've been able to maintain a semblance of a life. Raph knows that Donnie works himself to the bone for them, and fixes every problem that crops up that others don't even know where to begin. The thing with Donnie is that he's so, so generous, with a heart that's about as soft as his shell. Raph knows that he doesn't want anyone to know. Donnie gives them his all every day, every minute, and every second. It's enough for Raph to worry that one day, Donnie will give, give, and give until there's nothing left. Raphael has always silenced that voice, knowing that it comes from a selfish part of Raph that wants his brothers cared for, apocalypse be damned. Now, though. Raph thinks he can convey what he wants to say to Donnie at least once in a way that he can't be misunderstood.

Taking Donnie's suspicious look in stride, Raphael reaches up to rap his knuckles against his metal prosthetic. It makes a sharp sound each time he does, and Raph grins in spite of it all. "I know I've said this already, but Dontron... Thanks again. I know that this-" Raph gestures to all around him, and then again to his arm, "-couldn't have happened without you." Donnie seems to have been caught off guard by the sincere way Raphael is saying what he wants to say. Still, he recovers fast.

"Why, of course. I'm glad you realize that you need my brilliant mind and recognize that this is all in courtesy of the great Donatello, a.k.a. moi." Donatello's eyes are half-moons, his goggles retreating to the top of his head. His grin is smug, but Raph can see the genuine curls of delight that cause the corners of the said grin to twitch into an almost smile. Donatello's arms outstretch to gesture to the entire facility, and the simple movement makes him look bigger than life. It's grandiose, enthusiastic, and just as bombastic as Raph would have expected Donnie to respond with. Raphael doesn't bother stopping the laugh that escapes him, and his deep laughter seems to infect Donnie, too. He laughs with Raph, a small rumble mixed with the beginnings of a chirp. After the laughter dies down, Donnie gives Raph another grin. "Okay, now that you have me sufficiently buttered up, what did you break?" Donnie asks, his voice teasing. Raphael recognizes it for the jest that it is, and he snorts again.

"I keep tellin' you, nothing's broke!" Raphael's hands lift and they settle on Donatello's shoulders. He can't be too serious. Donnie will be too busy trying to make light of the words leaving Raph's mouth in his mind to truly understand what he's trying to say. Raph smiles. "Just tryna say thank you, Dontron. You're right, we need your brilliant mind, but that's not all we need," he gently reminds the younger turtle. "You're our Donnie, too. Our brother. Raph just wants to make sure that you take care of yourself, too. Less coffee, more sleep." He shrugs, his voice light. For a moment or two, Donnie says nothing. His eyes are wide, fixated on Raph's. It's enough to make Raph nervous and wonder if he's gone too far, but his fears are dispelled when Donnie's shoulders slump slightly under his hands.

"When did you turn all Dr. Feelings? Isn't that Michelangelo's job?" Donnie jokes and makes a face, but his voice shakes just enough to convey that he understands what Raph is trying to say. Raphael chooses to act mock-offended, going along with the bit.

"Hey! Are you saying Raph can't say that he loves his brothers?" He huffs, and Donnie rolls his eyes. The heavier moment dispels and Donnie's attention is suddenly needed elsewhere, judging by the beeping that he can hear. Raph lets his hands fall from Donatello's shoulders.

"Duty calls. No rest for the wicked." Donnie sighs, somehow dramatic and sincere at the same time. His eyes are closed as he says this, but he peeks out at Raph. That's enough for Raph to spot the gentle glint in his brother's eye. "But..." he intones, combining the sound with another sigh. "I'll try." Raph grins.

"All I ask." He nods, and Donnie hums. He's reorienting himself, Raph has heard that noncommital hum too many times to not know. "I'll see you later, Dontron," Raphael says before he loses Donnie in a string of mutters, and Donnie gives him a wave as his goggles return to his face, already focusing on what had pulled him away.

Raphael keeps walking. He dodges children, people, and mutants. It's not easy with his build, and he sticks out like a sore thumb from size alone. Still, it's not enough to deter him from finding Mikey. Mikey's as easy to spot as it is to spot Raph in a crowd. His powerful ninpo rolls off him in waves, mysticality crackling under his fingertips. It surges through his entire body, and it's almost impossible to miss. He's often haloed in a golden light, something that's as warm as his spirit. Over the years, Mikey has only grown more powerful, but with his abilities, so does his wisdom. Mikey is no longer just the goofy turtle he'd been before; he is wise beyond his years, capable, and strong. He's the inspiration within the Resistance, the ever-burning beacon of hope. Raph has leaned on him for support more times than he can count, and Mikey has more than once single-handedly born the grief of hundreds after a bad battle. Many turn to him for guidance now.

Raph finds him in the exact position that he thought he would.

"Mikey," he says, trying to hold back laughter. At Raph's voice, Mikey looks up, expression bright.

"Raph! Hiya, bud. Apparently, my hair's getting too long!" He says, voice full of cheer and contentment. He's surrounded by an ethereal glow, and floating. His legs are crossed, and there is a gaggle of giggling children running around him. They dip below him from where he's floating, dodging each other while they play tag. The innocence of the view seems to heal all the old wounds and the scars littering Raph's heart momentarily. There's another taller child with her fingers in Mikey's hair, and upon closer inspection, she's braiding it. Mikey already has multiple little braids here and there in his hair, and it's a sight that makes Raph's caught laughter burst free.

"Really? Raph thinks it's fine." He tilts his head as he inspects Mikey, and he's sure his expression mirrors Mikey's. Raph edges closer before he sits down with a mighty groan, and maybe a bit of a heavier thud than he'd wanted. The children crow as the ground shakes a little when Raph sits down, and he's swarmed. They crawl all over his legs, chattering excitedly, and Raph sits and listens. He and Michelangelo both do. They bask in the simple joy that the children exude. They ask him all kinds of questions, and Raph answers the best he can. They tell him nonsensical stories, about everything Mikey has been telling them, stories of times before the Krang. It's a bittersweet experience, knowing that there's a chance that these children will never experience what they had. Still, the tenacity and hope these children hold to someday seeing all that they've been told of is infectious. It reminds him of something their dad has always told them.

Hope is a ninja's greatest weapon.

Eventually, the children go off to Mikey's gentle shooing, as if he knows that Raphael has something important to say. The bond they share is close to the silent bond that Leonardo and Donatello share. In the past, Raphael and Michelangelo had clashed on more than one occasion. Raph knows he could be overprotective. He had been, back then, and Raph is old enough to admit that. Michelangelo had been the youngest, and even though he still is, Raphael trusts that he can protect himself now. That he can protect all of them. More than anything, Raph trusts Mikey with the Resistance. He trusts Mikey with their family. It's an all-encompassing trust that's hard to explain, even if he tries. After the Krang, after they'd been forced to grow, their relationship had changed forever. It was for the better. They'd grown closer, and the need for verbal communication has nearly faded from existence. Michelangelo can read Raph like a book. Even now, he waits for Raphael to collect his thoughts because he knows that his older brother has something to say. Raphael is grateful for it, just like all the times before.

After another few moments of silence, Raph wordlessly leans. He leans enough that their shoulders touch. He can feel the warmth spilling from Michelangelo, and it's comforting in ways that he can't describe. Mikey hums, but he doesn't say anything. His short braids are slowly coming loose, and they both stare from the sidelines as their people gather the rowdy children, scooping them up for hugs and kisses. Raph swallows. The heavy feeling from earlier returns. How many of these children would end up orphaned after this fight? He ignores a palpable thought about Casey Jr. that flits through his mind as fast as lightning. He doesn't want to think about that now. Raphael knows that Mikey can sense the dread that is approaching, the muted fear and grief that is already threatening his horizon. In front of Mikey, Raphael doesn't really find the need to appear as strong as he feels he needs to be around everyone else. He knows Mikey understands.

"Mikey," he starts, his voice suddenly hoarse around the lump in his throat. Michelangelo doesn't respond, just nudges his shoulder into Raph's harder. Raph takes a deep breath. He needs to say what he actually has on his mind, or he might burst. He's mentioned it to Donatello before, but Donnie hadn't let him finish. He'd dismissed the notion, he'd been angry with Raph for thinking such things. Raph hadn't broached the subject again. Now, he thinks it's a good time to. "If Raph doesn't make it back, please take care of our family." He smiles, feeling a hot pressure starting to build behind his eye. He knows that it's tears. Michelangelo still doesn't say anything. Raph presses on. "If- Donnie said somethin’ before about the mission goin' wrong and said that it's likely going to be Leo who's out for the count. I dunno if Donnie's goin' to be right, but it's Donnie. He probably is." He laughs, trying to free some of the building pressure in his throat. He swallows, again. Harder this time.

"Don't let Leo blame himself. Or Donnie. An'... An' I don't want you blaming yourself either. Okay?" Raph finally turns his head to look at Mikey and finds that Mikey is staring at him. Michelangelo is looking at him with a pained expression on his face. He doesn't bother hiding it. He knows what Raph is talking about, and even if he doesn't interrupt, Raph knows that Mikey is struggling already with the thought of something going awry. "I know it's goin' to be hard. But... But you're the strongest of us all, Mikey. In here." Raph reaches over, placing a hand over his brother's plastron. "They're gonna need you. It's not fair, I know. But they are. Just... Just remember me for me, an' the good things. Keep goin'. Keep them goin'." Raph's smile is trembling, he knows. He sees Michelangelo struggle for a moment or two before he feels and sees Mikey let out a harsh, near-guttural breath. His eyes are glassy as if he's holding back tears. Then, Mikey nods.

"Okay," Mikey whispers. Raphael keeps the smile on his face and nods back. Then, Raphael pulls Mikey into a hug. He hugs him tight, and he can't help but notice just how small Mikey is compared to him. He feels even more sorrowful, knowing that Mikey is still the youngest but Raph is asking so much from him. He's come to realize and know that Mikey is incredibly powerful, and because of that, sometimes he forgets just how young Mikey still is. Raph tightens his grip. That seems to be enough for Michelangelo. He hugs back, and they stay that way for a few heartrending moments. Raphael eventually pulls back, and if he did so with a sniffle, no one is going to call him out on it.

Raph gives Mikey's shoulders one last squeeze before he releases his brother. He swivels his head back to their people, and Raph knows that they're ready. He finds his way back onto his feet and pushes through the crowd again, heading towards the front lines. He sees Leo. He's waiting for Raph. Raphael takes a deep breath to collect himself before he lets his focus overcome the dread that he'd experienced mere moments ago. He finds his rightful place next to Leo.

"You ready?" Leo's voice is quiet, a muted question. There's the slightest hint of uncertainty, and Raph knows more than anyone what Leo's feeling.

"Ready." Raphael agrees, and his response seems to bolster Leo. He grins. Raph returns it with a smirk, straightening as he turns to face the crowd. "We're moving out soon! Everyone get ready!" He rumbles, voice filling the hangar. There are a few cheers, and everyone scrambles to get last-minute preparations underway. Among them is Cass. He watches as she stoops to hug her son. Raph watches, his heart in his throat as Casey giggles in his mom's arms, his little head poking up past Cass' shoulder. He squeals when he's lifted up by his mom, and Raph feels like he shouldn't intrude on the moment. He turns away despite his aching heart. He's about to walk away when he hears Casey's unmistakable voice. It's not Casey's voice that stops him dead in his tracks. It's what he says.

"Pap?"

For what feels like an eternity, Raph's brain blanks. He stands still as his brothers all laugh, equal parts disbelief and amusement. All Raph can do is flounder. Flashes of Splinter enter his mind, memories of their father dancing before his very eyes. Suddenly, it all makes sense. It's like his world realigns. What his brothers say becomes mush, and he can't seem to process anything but the single word he'd heard. The tears that he's been holding back well up, and Raph turns around on his heels. He strides forward and then stoops down, making himself as small as possible with a waterlogged smile. "Casey!" Raph calls, and his voice cracks, arms reaching forward. His chest is impossibly tight again, but he doesn't care. This is all that matters.

Cassandra's expression melts from one of stark surprise to a quiet fondness, and she crouches to let Casey back onto the floor. Upon the sight of Raph's outstretched arms, Casey races over to him. There's no hesitation until he reaches Raph, and suddenly, Raphael doesn't know what to do with himself. He's become this small human's pap, and he loves little Case with all of his heart. His hands shake, and he can't seem to stop them. He hovers, more concerned than ever that he would somehow hurt Casey. It turns out that his uncertainty doesn't matter. Casey blinks at Raph owlishly, then turns towards the hand that isn't a prosthetic. Raph's heart clenches. Casey reaches out, settling his tiny hand in Raph's. It's barely big enough to circle around one of Raph's fingers halfway. Casey smiles, holding onto the hand even tighter. He hugs it with his whole body, and Raph can only stand so much. His throat burns and his tears make an appearance as he pulls the child—no, his son—close. He holds him against his face, eye closing. He's so small. Everything is clear now.

This war, this fight… It’s for their future. They fight for their right to hand down a world that is secure, safe, and bright. They fight for the right to live freely. They fight to ensure that their children will never have to face the same hardship that their guardians did. It's worth fighting for, down to the last drop of blood, and the last shred of breath.

Raphael doesn't want to, but he knows he has to. He pulls back, releasing Casey from his hug. Case giggles again in response, and his small hands reach for Raph's face. "Oh, Casey. Papa will be back very soon." He smiles through his tears, and Casey grows serious. Raphael can't help but be startled at the determination on Casey's young face, and he has to hold his breath as Case brushes away the tears from his face. Raph nudges his forehead against Casey's one last time, gentle and loving. He pushes his child towards the crowd that's accumulated to bid them luck and goodbye. Despite his young age, Casey seems to realize that it's time to say goodbye. He backs away, but he waves to Raphael the entire time.

With newfound strength and courage fortifying his soul, Raph can feel his ninpo practically crackling. He's going to bring down the Krang, no matter what. For his brothers. For the Resistance. For all those that he lost. For Casey. He lifts an arm to scrub at his face, getting rid of the remainder of his tears. When he talks again, his voice is strong and booms through the halls. "Let's move out!"

Raphael leads the entourage. His expression is set in stone, and his remaining eye burns with untamable fire.

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

Somehow, Raph has always known that it would end this way. He's not one for grand maniacal plans like Donnie, not strategic like Leo, or even as mystically talented as Mikey. There is one thing that he knows how to do, something that he's better at than anybody else.

He knows it'll take everything he has.

But that's okay. It gives his brothers, Casey, April, and everyone in the Resistance a fighting chance. A shot at a better future.

He doesn't tell anyone that his mind is already made up. The chaos of the battle rages around them, but all sound is muffled to Raphael. There is an eerie calm descending on him. He can feel the dead weight of Leo in his arms. He glances around, and that's all he needs to conclude that they're in trouble. They're out of options. The sound of screams and cries of their people fighting—and losing—echo. It pierces through the shrouded veil that is surrounding Raphael. A newfound clarity settles, and the knowledge of what he's about to do makes him ache for all those he's leaving behind.

I'm sorry, Casey, he thinks, swallowing. Papa won't be making it home.

"Donnie. You were right," Raphael chuckles, the sound dry and wretched. He looks toward the holographic screen that has Donnie's face. "It is Leo that gets knocked out." At his words, Donatello's face twists. A flicker of understanding seems to bode before it disappears, a fierce look of denial taking over the lines of his face.

"Yes, well, I'm almost always right. 99.99% of the time," Donnie responds, his voice wrecked. It's a low sound, full of pain and a new kind of desperation.

Raphael lays Leonardo down, his ministrations endlessly careful and gentle. He forgets about his strength often because he's a tank; he's as destructive as he is obstinate. Even still, he is careful with his unconscious brother. Leo's prosthetic is destroyed. Raph glances at his own.

A Krang hound overwhelms Leo while he fights hundreds of others; it manages to sink its teeth into the metal of Leo's arm. Raph can do nothing but watch in horror as the hound shakes Leo like a ragdoll. The hound continues to slam the turtle around repeatedly with brutal strength as if it was determined to rip Leo's arm out of its socket as it had already done once before. In Raphael's hurry, he tackles the dog with his full body weight after he wrestles his way closer, sending Krang creatures sprawling from the sheer force he plows through them with. Leo slams into the ground, and the impact is hard enough to knock him out cold with a pained grunt. Raphael growls, the sound twisting into a bone-chilling snarl. His hands grasp the top of the Krang mutt's jaw in a crushing grip, the other latching onto the lower jaw. With a furious cry, Raph wrenches the dog's mouth open. Unnatural howls leave the creature's mouth as it struggles, its screams of pain growing more frequent. Raphael doen't stop there. Once the alien releases the wreckage that had once been Leo's prosthetic, Raphael gives a mighty heave accompanied by a roar of rage. How dare the Krang take Leo's arm again?

The gory sound of bones snapping and the wet, horrid sound of skin ripping fill the air until Raph releases the remains of what had been a Krang creature from his hands. He sucks in deep breaths of air, panting from the extra exertion of strength. He steps away from the bloody carnage, stumbling towards Leo. He presses his head to Leo's plastron, relief flooding in at the sound of a heartbeat. "Leo," he calls, throat hoarse. He shakes his brother, hoping to rouse him. "Leo!" There is no response. He's out cold, injured, and without an arm. Raphael has no way of getting him to safety.

His closed eye opens. Raphael shakes himself out of his reverie of recounting memories. He knows what he has to do. "Don, how long until the shuttles arrive?" He questions. He sounds calm, even to his own ears. He sees Donatello look away towards his wrist screen, and Raph knows what the answer is before Donnie even says it. Donnie's eyes are distant, his brain racing. It's going a mile a minute only to come to the same conclusion. Nothing. Donnie can't move, Mikey is overwhelmed and fighting to get people to safety, and Leo is unconscious. Raph is the last mutant standing.

"Donnie." Raph calls again. He still wants to hear the answer. His gaze is fixed on the holo screen, and Donnie looks back at him with fervent eyes.

"15 minutes." The answer is delivered in a voice that sounds small and defeated. Raphael nods. His nod is more to himself than anything. Everything comes at a price.

"Don. Remember what Raph said, okay?" That's all Raph has to say before a wretched cry sounds from Donnie.

"No! There's another way, we still have time! Raphael, don't fucking do this!" Donnie's panic, rage, and pain are imprinted clearly in his desperate plea. He knows what Raphael is about to do. Raphael only looks at him through the holo screen. He knows what he looks like. He looks grim, determined. Fierce. Donnie reads his intentions loud and clear and tries again anyway. Raph feels as if someone is twisting a katana in his heart when he sees the way Donatello's face crumples, the way his head slumps. He tips his head downwards. "Please, Raph. Please, don't do this. Please," Donnie begs, but there's nothing Raphael can give him as an answer. They have no choice. Donnie knows this. Raphael looks away from the screen. He looks down at Leonardo and the destroyed prosthetic. Wordlessly, Raphael smiles. It's soft, affectionate. Leo looks so young like this. Raph reaches over, and his large fingers find the spot he's looking for on his arm. His prosthetic detaches with a hiss. He presumes where he's going, he won't need this. He hears Donnie make a sound that sounds like a mournful, cut-off cry. Donatello is smart. He's already put together why Raph is doing this. There aren't many supplies to rebuild prosthetics anymore. Raph carefully places his metal arm over Leo. It positions over him as if it's cradling and holding the younger turtle.

"Donatello." The use of his full name forces Donnie to look up, and there are tears running down his face without reserve. Raphael grins, his infamous snaggletooth making an appearance. "Take care of yourself. Raph will always be with you. Don't blame yourself, or anyone else. I know you all, and I know you will keep fighting. Beat them for me. Then, when you win, like a boss-" Raph emphasizes, his voice trembling for just a moment, "-remember me. Tell everyone how much I love them." Donnie says nothing. He's looking away from Raphael now, and Raph understands.

Raphael stands up. The dust and wind generated by the battlefield whip the tail ends of his bandanna around. He takes a deep breath. His mind flashes to all the people he's met in his life. Behind his eyelids, all his memories play out. Mikey. Donnie. Leo. April. Splinter. Barry. Cassandra. The Resistance. Casey. His heart seems to swell. It's for them. A fierce inferno suddenly sparks to life, fueled by all his grief, love, and passion. He's doing this for them. He will protect them, even if it's the last thing he does.

When Raph opens his eye, it glows red. Surges of energy crawl over his body as electricity would, and his teeth grit. There is no more fear. He takes a step forward, and the very ground shakes from the force. Already, his ninpo has grown his size. Bigger, he thinks.

Another earth-shattering thud. Pain surges through him, his body warning him of its constraints. He ignores it. Bigger.

This time, the earth cracks open under his foot as he takes another step. The pain is excruciating. Raphael can see the red lines spidering through his flesh, the cracks he absorbs with his entire body. His form remains solid. With each movement, his body is falling apart. He knows that if he continues, his body will tear itself apart. He will break like glass, and he will die. The thought doesn't do anything for him, and it only emboldens him to go faster. "Bigger!" He roars, his voice carrying through the battlefield in a cry so searing and fierce, he gains the attention of the lead Krang.

Krang creatures scatter from under his feet. Those that don't, he crushes. He is far from caring. He moves his way forward, soul on fire. If he can protect his people, his family, Raph will gladly feed his soul as fodder to his ninpo. His eye is fixated on the lead Krang as he fast approaches. Even from this distance, he can see the way the disgusting pink flesh alien's arrogance melts away into pure, unadulterated fear. It feels good. Raph grins, and he knows that his form follows suit. By the time the Krang realizes his intentions, it's too late. The roar of rage, fear, and defeat that Raphael hears is music to his ears as he grasps the Technodrome. His sheer size dwarfs the once massive ship. It fits into his hands the way a ball would, and his sudden fury at the thought of all those he lost to this alien ship causes his fingers to grasp tighter. His fingertips dig into the ship, and the groaning creak it gives as he crushes it bit by bit is exhilarating.

Raphael lifts it above his head. His ninpo holds strong, but he can feel every molecule of his body breaking under the pressure. He looks up at the sky. He'd wanted to see the blue skies with everyone at the end. At least, this way, he could help them do that, even if it's without him. His eye closes. I'm so proud of you all. I'll see you again. For now, this is Raph out. Like a boss. With a heaving cry that threatens to cleave the sky open and rip the very fabric of time, Raph opens his one eye. Tears fall from it as he fixates it on the lead Krang, his savage smirk only growing wider. He swings his raised arms down, slamming the Technodrome ship down with all of his strength. He screams, channeling every fiber of his being into ensuring that the ship is completely, utterly destroyed. They will never endanger their people with this ship again.

There is a burst of light accompanied by an earthquake that topples buildings and splits the ground, dust clogging the sky in a dirty mist that is impossible to see through. With it, shards of red float and swirl through the air. Everyone who knows what it is also knows what it means.

Raphael is gone.

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There's nothing Mikey can do. He watches as his brother tears himself apart to fight against the Krang. He watches in horror as Raphael screams in equal parts fury and agony, destroying something that is a detrimental blow to the Krang. His hands shake, and his vision blurs, but he can't look away. A sob rips from his throat as he holds Leo, his eyes fixated on the crackling red figure in the distance. One hand cradles Leo while the other is clenched tightly on Raph's prosthetic arm. Somehow, Raphael knew. Somehow. Mikey doesn't know if Raphael is able to hear him, but he grasps the fingers of Raphael's prosthetic as if he is clutching onto his hand. "I'm here! Raph, I'm here! You're not alone, I'm here!" He screams like a wild animal; his tears and grief are unending. He screams as loud as he can, hoping, praying, willing that Raphael hears that he's not alone and that Michelangelo will keep his promise.

He looks until he is forced to close his eyes at the burst of light. There is no one but Mikey to catalog Raphael's final moments. He has to remember, to see everything.

When he opens his eyes. all he sees is a crumbling red figure. It deteriorates, shards floating in the air before it disintegrates. Almost like it never existed. As if Raphael never existed. Mikey stays where he is, too stunned and grief-stricken to even cry out anymore. He watches as Raphael's ninpo disappears. He feels reality slipping from his grasp. His mind can't help but shy away from the possibility that Raphael is truly gone. He denies such a reality, but even that comes to a stop. Something red flits down from the sky, and Mikey reaches up. His ninpo grasps the item, and when he brings it closer, Mikey feels his heart shatter. In his trembling hand is Raphael's bandanna. The only remnant of their brother's body. The only proof that he existed, other than their ashen memories. With shaky hands, Michelangelo brings it closer. He lays Leo down and looks around. Almost numbly, he takes Leo's abandoned odachi. He ties the strip of red around the handle, closes his eyes, and presses his forehead against it. He's only like that for a moment before his eyes open again. The fire that burns within is an anger that burns brighter than magma in a volcano.

In another time, Mikey hadn't understood the word hate. The concept had eluded his grasp. Now... Now he knows what hate is, and more. His loathing now knows no bounds. He hates the Krang. He loathes them. The embers of his hate lodge in his throat as he snarls silently, eyes beginning to glow a fierce yellow. He burns with the force of the sun, his usual warm rays of light turning cruel. He will destroy them all. His orange bandanna falls from his face in ashes, and with it, his hair is released. He faces the enemy that has regrouped shakily from Raph's attack. The enemy that now has set their eyes upon their allies and the rest of them. Mikey knows that the shuttles have landed. He is the last line of defense against the enemy and his allies that need time to escape.

He's never been more glad for that fact. His power crackles, surrounding him like a violent whirlwind. The power surges through his body, and he can feel it chipping away at the years he has left in his body. His hair grows longer, blowing in the wind of his rage without his bandanna to hold it back. He floats, rising higher and higher into the sky as his power builds like a hurricane. He raises his arms, and Michelangelo holds onto his ninpo with a savage ferocity that almost outweighs the pain at the knowledge that Raph is now gone. His fury reaches new heights.

The coals that burn in his throat finally give, and the scream he lets out is like a banshee's. With it, he releases his ninpo. His power is as unforgiving and brutal as the sea, waves of light matching the caliber of a primordial force perhaps as old as time. It floods over the battlefield like an ocean, golden light rolling in with the strength of a tidal wave and the speed of a riptide. He screams again, but it is a wordless cry of unmatched wrath. Michelangelo will burn them. He will destroy every single one until there's nothing by ash and death. They will suffer the way that they have suffered. The blinding wave of light engulfs the approaching Krang, and with inhuman, blood-curdling shrieks, they burn in the fire of Michelangelo's hate.

Mikey lands down, his feet on the ground. He pants as he looks at the razed land before them. Suddenly, all his strength ebbs from him as he falls to his knees. He feels empty. With a sudden hiccuping sob, Michelangelo raises his hands to his face, burrowing into them as he cries uncontrollably. Raphael is still gone.

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Donatello numbly watches as his wrist pad notifies him that the shuttle is arriving in 10 minutes. He feels detached. Everything is hazy, layered in a white fog. He feels as if nothing matters. He stays where he is, his eyes distant. His thoughts are quiet, for once. There's just... Nothing. He stares blankly at the horizon. He hadn't been able to see Raph's sacrifice. He isn't sure if he should feel grateful for that or not, so he doesn't think about it at all. There are other Krang and people fighting, but Donatello can't seem to pull himself together. It's all just so... Distant. Like he's not with this reality anymore. The logical part of his brain wonders if the powerful surges of energy and the earth-shattering showdown that has occurred have somehow transported him into a different universe. He almost laughs at the thought. Why does he feel nothing?

The shuttles arrive. The shuttles arrive but Donatello doesn't move. He watches as others run to the shuttle. He can't help but feel a little resentful towards them, a dull flare in the dark abyss. Do they know what sacrifice just occurred to save their lives? Are they grateful? A distant part of him observes from its detachment the observation he makes is unfair. Donnie doesn't care. In the far distance, he sees April looking around. He can even see her face wet with tears as she searches. Some part of him knows that she's looking for him. She's looking for Leo, Mikey, Raph, or him. His distant thoughts suddenly screech to a stop. Raph. Raphael. She... She won't be able to search for him anymore. She won't find him. Suddenly, everything becomes too sharp. Too clear. The agony that rushes in almost makes him wish for the detached daze he had just been in.

It's at that time that he hears Mikey's scream. It emotes all that he's feeling, and it delivers a blow so gut-wrenching that whatever breath is left in Donnie's lungs is stolen away. Another blinding white light envelops the field, and this time, he knows that it's Michelangelo. This knowledge makes this new reality jarringly, horrifically real.

Raphael is dead.

Just as the numb daze is about to return, Donatello is made aware of the hiccupping sobs that undoubtedly belong to Mikey. All his doubts disappear, and he is confronted with the reality that they've gone from four brothers to three. It's here that Donnie realizes—he'd never gotten to say goodbye. He'd never been able to tell Raphael that he loves him, too. Something wet trails down his face. He's shocked for a moment before he realizes, once again, that it's his tears. They run hot, splashing down his cheeks and onto his collarbone. Then, it's like the floodgates open. His shoulders shake as he wails, face upturned towards the sky as he screams, shouts, and rages. He can't breathe, but Donatello doesn't care. He doesn't. Everything hurts. Raphael had died alone, protecting them.

Donatello's sobs join Mikey's as they howl at the sky like feral, wounded animals, their grief raw and insurmountable. It presses on both of their shoulders, through their plastrons, and into their chests; the weight is so heavy that Donatello wonders if he'll ever be able to stand up again.

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