#ONE THOUSAND YEARS AGONY

[aylinvail]

Agony in Dargonus: A Holy Week Brain Rot Ephemera Collection

Yeah, I'm this brain rotten and Catholic. It's the lack of protein finally getting to me and it's only Wednesday ouhchsjsiid

"Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame." - Song of Solomon 8:6

“My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet, not as I will, but as you will.” - Matthew 26:39

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” - Matthew 6: 34. (*cough* "Tomorrow?" "Tomorrow." Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorroe creeps in this petty pace from day to day.)

"As a dog returns to its vomit, so fools repeat their folly." - Proverbs 26:11

"Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins." - 1 Peter 8:4

"He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief." - Isaiah 53:3

"The heart is deceitful above all things, And desperately wicked; Who can know it?" Jeremiah 17:9

[keeps-ache]

gotta go put all the references up on artfight now lolll

[references below]

[kordbot]

um. posts a wip cutely

[inkskinned]

in the time loop the only way out is to leave her there but you don't ever leave her there, never in the roughly one thousand years you have been in the same day. it is probably like "50 first dates" but you haven't stooped so low as to watch "50 first dates" yet. (but who is to say what another thousand years of the same media will bring to you, maybe you will develop a new taste).

you spent about 200 of these years sulking in a bathtub or on the couch or staring at the seaside. 300 of them have been spent slowly mapping the geographical distance you can actually get before the time loop restarts. you have a list of favorite places: one library in Western Massachusetts called "The Bookmill", which has weird hours and has never raised an eyebrow to you arriving out-of-breath and panting, asking to see a specific book on a specific shelf. There is one beach without a name in North Carolina; it is an accident of geography and ownership title disputes - and it is pristine, untouched, warm and cozy. you've taken her on a lot of picnics there. Acadia National Park. One specific birdhouse in the mountains.

you were stuck in the time loop with the money you entered it with: not enough to rent a private jet. you've robbed a bank a few times, you don't like the way it ends. maybe next century you'll get the hang of it. you don't like the look on her face when you say hang on i have to stop at the bank.

you just have to leave her, and you can go back to being a person again. you took 5 years just catching a flight and sitting in the Grand Canyon. if there's one thing you regret more than anything, it's that you hadn't gotten your passport renewed before this fucking time loop. maybe you should spend some time learning forgery - but also, like, you look like an english teacher. nobody is going to be cool about you asking to see their paper printing machines.

the world is very big. that is one of the things groundhog day gets wrong. there are no consequences, so you have literally all the time (or none of the time?) in the world. in groundhog day, he does a lot of very cool things, but in reality - your muscle memory never gets better. you can't necessarily learn how to play piano or sculpt ice, because your hands never remember the practice. but hey - maybe you'll try violin next. drums. synth.

you can open any door and walk into any conversation. money isn't really an object. you can try every meal off every menu, forever. take her on helicopter tours and into every museum and on every event that is happening right-now at-this-moment. parades and funerals and calligraphy classes.

but you are somewhat trapped by the limitations of your body. if you were reading a book, you still need to get up and go back to the library and find that book again when the day resets. (thank god for the internet). it still takes like 2 hours to board a plane, and then takeoff and landing and traffic. you've gotten off to run around on the freeway. one of the little thankful things: since your brain isn't actually developing (it's a muscle too), the days thankfully don't feel shorter to you. that would be agony.

all you have to do to leave the timeloop is let that man get away with it. that's all. in every version of yourself - forever - you have stopped him.

the problem is that this experience has convinced you of the existence of the human soul. after all, how else are you forming memories? your very cells reset. information has to be transferred somehow. and if timeloops are real, you can convince yourself other magic exists. so you have two choices here: this hell, or the next. there might be a millennia where you have been worn down to the point you can accept fate's decision. this is just not one of them. ironically - she is the one thing you have left.

and besides! if you can't always find something new in your partner, aren't you failing them? there is something new about her, every day with the same morning. every brutal day with the same orange sunset.

after all, you wanted to live with her in heaven, in eternity, and, well - isn't this second-best.

[ghostresidues]

genuine question how do u handle being alone... i have forgotten how to just. hang out with myself

[toms-cherry-trees]

Cracked || Jacaerys Velaryon x Twin!Wife! Reader

Summary: No one ever said duty would hurt like this

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: Twincest targcest (Velaryoncest?), angst, spoilers if you haven't watched S2E2, for anti hating purposes is not explicitly stated but all characters are above 18.

Author's note: Won't you look at me, 7 months since my last HOTD fic! That scene with Jace tearing up definitely did something to me. My very first time writing for Jace, hopefully won't be the last!

Also a massive massive thank you and all my devotion to @moris-auri for beta reading this!

No one welcomes him when he lands in the Dragonmont. 

The flapping of Vermax's leathery wings is amplified, booming throughout the massive cavern, swirls of steam rising from the cracks on the dark stone. The only ones to witness his arrival are the dragon keepers, but even they are distracted, their focus on the exhausted dragon and not his equally drained rider. When they stride past him, they don’t acknowledge him at all, almost as if he doesn’t exist. Jace wonders if he is a ghost, because only in death could someone feel the agony that seeps from his bones and still be standing. 

He feels like a foreigner in this place. 

Even though he has lived on Dragonstone half his life, he feels like a foreigner. The fortress is not theirs. He doubts it never truly has been. They are just keepers of these ancient walls and the history they carry within. Dragonstone is a relic that will stand on that island for a thousand years to come, as welcoming as a gush of Northern wind on bare skin. The only warmth comes from its very core, from those who habit it and who've made the great fortress a home. 

But the home he left weeks prior is not the one he now returns to. The warmth has been snuffed and the hearth has been shattered. 

He walks with his head held high and his back straight, gaze always ahead and chin lifted in a gesture of near arrogance. He walks like an heir, because he is. He is now his mother’s heir and he must play his part, even if all he wants to do is lay his head on her lap and weep like a boy of ten. 

A moon ago he was just Jacaerys Velaryon. He was a son, a firstborn son, but with no more responsibility than studying and learning, mastering skills that would serve him purpose in 30 or 40 years. His greatest concerns were training Vermax properly, what desserts would be served after supper, and how to avoid falling into another of his siblings’ silly pranks. He had been betrothed long ago, but marriage itself was something distant, something that could wait out a few more years.

He was a brother of five with another sibling on the way; a sister. While most in the castle pined for a son, another boy, he secretly supported his mother’s longing for a little girl.

And now he is Jacaerys, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to his mother’s throne and crown. He is more Targaryen than Velaryon now. He is an envoy, a messenger, a warrior if needed be. He is a strategist and a politician. He is an asset and a threat; someone who has forged great alliances, but also has found strong enemies, their weapons aimed directly at the target behind his head, target painted there by his grandsire many a year before his birth. A wedding , hastily arranged, to strengthen their cause and their line of inheritance. 

He is a brother to just four now, and the crib has been left empty. 

Cregan Stark had been the one to break the news to him. Standing on a cramped lookout on the edge of the world, nothing but whiteness as far as the eye reached, Lord Stark had said that the Wall did more than keep savages and ice at bay. It held back death.

But death came nonetheless.

Jacaerys had managed to maintain his stance as a man and a Prince, receiving the news with unyielding stoicism, even when his knees felt weak and his body chilled, like ice had spread down his spine. But this ice was nothing like the one surrounding him, there on the edge of the North. This one burned, burned like dragonfire while stabbing him with a thousand knives, leaving him to bleed out while not allowing him to die. It stole the air from his lungs and the blood from his veins, and filled him with snow. His lungs couldn’t breathe, his heart couldn’t beat yet somehow he didn’t drop dead right there where he stood.

He recalls little of what occurred after, nothing more than brief, precise memories. Receiving Cregan’s condolences, and feeling the firm squeeze of the older man’s hand on his shoulder. Northerners parting silently to make way for him in the courtyard, where a restless Vermax awaited, his screeches rattling the windows of the nearby towers. Someone handing him a parcel, hastily wrapped, containing a sleek wolf pelt as a present for their Queen. The thunderstorm he traversed in the Riverlands, and the toll it took on Vermax to fly through it. 

The painful tightening on his throat as he wondered if he had encountered a similar one, not far from home.

Servants and courtiers make way for him, as he approaches his mother’s chambers. They bow and curtsy, and offer words of courtesy, lamenting the loss of the young Prince. Some stare out of the corner of their eye as he passes, waiting to see if the new Prince of Dragonstone will crumble like sand before their very eyes. But he never betrays himself; not a tear brimming in his eyes, not a wobble of his lips. The occasional flaring of his nostrils is the single telltale of the sorrow that simmers just beneath his skin. 

He hesitates briefly, pausing at the end of the vast hallway where the royal apartments are. Up the winding staircase, past the single set of double doors to the left, his mother awaits. No, not his mother, the Queen. She stopped being his mother the day the crown was placed atop her head, and the court of Dragonstone bent the knee before her. Grief and loss shaped her, morphing her into the leader and ruler she had been born to be. Jace can only admire her, and hope that he will be able to embrace his new role as effortlessly as she has done hers.

The double doors are pushed open by Ser Erryk. The Queen sits alone, gaze downcast and thoughts troubled, that much Jace can tell by the nervous fidgeting of her hands, twisting her rings almost compulsively. When her eyes rise to meet his, Jacerys sees in them a mirror of himself, the same exhaustion, the effort to push back and bury the wrenching misery, the bleeding wound left behind by their loss.

They are alone, just the two of them in that silent alcove. Jace could break down, weep like he hasn’t done in years and lay his head across her lap; let her slender, motherly fingers card through his hair as she assures him that all will be well in the end. But he can’t, he can’t because she’s more Queen than mother now and she’s grieving too, grieving deeper than he is and if she can keep it together then so can he, because he is her heir and he has to make her proud and be a man worthy of respect. 

The Prince doesn’t cry; the heir doesn’t cry. 

A man remains immovable and imperturbable.

He straightens his back, head held high and hands laced before him as he recounts his triumphs, the Houses he convinced to pledge for them and what each one has offered and asked them in return. This moment should have been his shining glory, with himself striding through the castle with pride and confidence, ready to announce to the council how he had secured the allegiance of the Vale and the North for their cause. He would bask in his wife’s admiration, drink the praises from her lips and show her he was ready to one day be a great King, with a great Queen by his side. 

Instead it is just them two, hidden behind doors, picking up the pieces falling from their carefully built masks before they completely fall apart. He brings good news, great news, but they matter little and now taste like ash in his mouth, burning and bitter. His victories mean nothing to him because his little brother is dead, gone 60 years before his time, and they don’t even have a body to burn and Jacaerys feels it should have been him, because he is the eldest and he should have protected him better. He should have faced their rageful uncle and died instead, but he didn’t and now he stands there, moving and doing because if he stays still the grief will swallow him whole and bury him in a pit of sand.

And then his voice breaks, the facade cracks and they both stop pretending, because pretending hurts, like gripping a white hot rod with both hands and refusing to let go even if it’s hurting you.

Her embrace is warm; her arms feel like home. With his head tucked under her chin, his cheek pressed against her chest, he feels young again. He feels the sobs racking her body, the tears dampening her face and his hair, her fingers digging on the fabric of his cloak. They sway slightly, rocking from side to side like when he was a babe of just a few days old, fussy and restless, keeping the whole holdfast awake at night because he refused to settle anywhere but on his mother’s arms. 

But now Jace suspects the motion is meant for her more than for him, to transport her to days past when she held her babes in her arms and they were safe under her wing and no one could harm them because she would sooner tear the world to pieces. Discreetly the places shift, now it's her forehead against his shoulder and his arms holding her steady. Jace feels the tears stinging his eyes and the lump blocking his throat, but he cannot break down because his mother is broken and someone must stand strong and whole and it has to be him. 

Soon, too soon,  his mother has dismissed him, sending him to his chambers to bathe and rest because they will have the funeral at sunset and they must not show weakness before the court. The cracks must be patched and hidden, no matter how deep they run. Not a single piece can fall out of place.

He drags his feet now; the weight on top of him has grown heavy. His posture slackens, his shoulders slump, the pretence is harder to hold. Sunset feels like a death sentence, because a funeral makes it real. It makes it true. Burning what they have because there is not even a body left behind to burn. That way he can no longer pretend that is not happening, that is all just a tale. And then, he will crack. No willpower will keep him whole because his brother, his little brother is dead and he has to face a future where Lucerys will not be a part of it.

He pushes his chamber door open with one shoulder, his mind blank of any thought; the encounter with his mother affected him deeper than he had anticipated, because even she is cracking and now is just him holding it together because he has to. 

And then he sees her. 

His wife sits before the hearth, so ethereal with the glow of the fire illuminating her face. Her head turns as soon as the door opens, and he immediately notices the red around her swollen eyes. At first he thinks she’s mourning, but she’s had her time to mourn and Jace knows she’s crying for him, crying because she feels the agony straining to break through his flesh. Just like they have felt each other’s every emotion for as long as they have lived, have anticipated each other’s words and read their thoughts. Connected by a bond that runs deeper than marriage, because they are of the same blood, come into the world together.

The last time he saw her before his departure, they had an ugly fight. Jacaerys had convinced their mother to keep her at Dragonstone rather than allow her to fly as an envoy, claiming they could not leave the fortress unguarded and with the larger dragons going in and out on their missions, they had to pile up their remaining strength. The Queen had agreed, and her word was final. 

She could not argue with Her Grace, but she certainly made Jacaerys know how she felt about what she perceived as a betrayal and lack of trust in herself and her abilities. Jace pleaded with her to see reason, to see things from his perspective. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in her, he would never dare to doubt her strength. But he didn’t trust the men she would encounter on her journey, nor did he want her to risk taking a long flight on her dragon and run into danger. She, always the hot headed one, had called him every name under the sun and refused to see him off, choosing instead to sulk in her chamber. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, to leave on bad terms with her, but he trusted they would talk it out upon his arrival. That all would be well and their problems would be solved.

He stands silently before her, and for the first time he feels small. So small and diminished, unwilling to look her in the eyes. His gaze is fixed on the floor because the tears are winning the battle and if they do he will crack open like a dragon egg, but no great beast will emerge, only his insecurities and his failures.

His lower lip wobbles, and he bites it so hard he leaves the imprint of his teeth. His nails dig deep in his palms in his attempt to steady their accusatory trembling. He breathes in and out, slow and steady, his eyes squeezed shut as he feels himself losing control. He cannot allow himself to lose it, not in front of her of all people, not when he is supposed to be her pride, not her embarrassment.

He hears the sharp drag of the chair as she stands, the thud of the heavy tome she had been reading being thrown rather carelessly over a table. Her steps are slow and calculated as she moves across the stone, approaching him cautiously like he is some wild beast ready to lash out. Like he is some fragile thing, so fragile that a gush of wind could break him apart.

Her hands are soft and warm as they cradle his face, gently coaxing him to look up, to meet her eyes. But he can’t, he fears he will see disappointment in them, he will see accusation, he will see her blame him for Luke’s death, for forcing her to remain back when it was their little brother who needed his protection the most. 

For failing the family.

He succumbs in the end, brown eyes gingerly rising to meet her own, bracing himself for the worst. But he sees nothing of what he expected. He sees no anger, no resentment, no pity. Just worry and tenderness, and a desolation that matches his own.

The first tears he has been holding back since Winterfell finally escape the barrier of his willpower and roll down his cheeks. He attempts to blink them away but they cannot be stopped, nor does he have the strength to stop them no more. His wife brushes some away with her thumbs, and smoothes back his hair in a tender gesture

“Jace.”

That little world, the call of his own name coming from her lips is all that it needs for the dam inside him to burst. The violent sobs rack his body, tears blurring his vision and he chokes on them, while also feeling like he’s breathing for the first time since that raven arrived at the Wall. He tries to hide his face but she won’t let him, and tears shine in her eyes too and that only makes the crying worse, because his wife is suffering and he cannot console her because he’s also suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

His legs weaken and his stance falters. The same apology falls from his mouth, the small words tumbling over each other and getting lost in the incessant weeping. His knees falter and he drops down; his forehead rests against her body and his hands are on her hips, fearing he will lose her if he lets go. He sobs onto her dress, not caring anymore about being the perfect Prince and heir, about being the man everyone will respect and be proud of.

His wife drops to her knees too and holds him close, allowing his head to lay against her shoulder. The scent of her body fills his nostrils, aroma of camellias and toasted sugar. It smells of happy memories and easier days, and it evokes a sense of safety in him, of tenderness, of the happiest days of his short life. His cry doesn’t stop, but it is not only for Lucerys now. It is for his mother, for his younger brothers, for himself and for all the losses to come. He cries for his twin, his wife, for now the fear of harm coming her way has increased tenfold, and the mere idea of her being cruelly ripped from his side tears a gash on his heart.

He cries until he’s sure there are no tears left to cry. Until the weight has been lifted from his chest and he is sure he can breathe again. They remain there for what feels like mere seconds and a lifetime at the same time, locked in each other’s embrace. Her fingers card through his hair and her lips press tender kisses to his temple; his arms wrapped around her, hands pressed against her back to keep her close, as close as he can to his own heart. He would gladly stay there forever, spend the rest of his days encased in her warmth and basking in her love. But the moment is broken all too soon when a servant knocks on the door to let them know that courtiers are already gathering in the outskirts of the castle for the funeral.

Jace lets himself be guided by the hand like an obedient child to sit before her vanity. She moves around him silently; unneeded words would only break the feeble spell of calmness surrounding them.

She takes care of everything for him. Wipes his face clean with a damp cloth, presses a cool spoon to his eyes so they will not appear swollen and bloodshot. He changes into a fresh tunic, and allows her to comb his hair and powder his face to disguise the redness of his cheeks and nose. 

They stand together before the ornate mirror, both of them dressed in matching red and black. She helps him pin the cloak onto his tunic, fastening it to his right shoulder with a silver dragon brooch. Jace holds her gaze in their reflection, hoping to convey with gestures the emotions words fail to do. She understands; she always does.

He is rewarded with a kiss on the cheek, and while it does not manage to coax a smile out of him, it fills his veins with a pleasant tickling warmth, the same he felt after their first kiss and the one he hopes to feel until his last breath. 

Her fingers run up his arms gently, tracing the embroiders and trimmings of the doublet. They come to rest on his shoulders and gently push them back, straightening his posture and puffing out his chest. The right index continues the ascent, tracing the curve of the neck and the still sharpening line of the jawline before settling under his chin, pushing upwards ever so slightly to lift his head. Urging him to hold himself with pride. To unapologetically show the world that he is cracked, but not broken.

She comes to stand before him at last, smoothing down nonexistent creases from his clothes until nothing but pure perfection remains. They hold each others’ gaze for a few moments, before she reaches up to steal from him a gentle kiss.  

“All ready, My Prince.” 

This time, he smiles.

[awearywritersworld]

there can be no covenants between men and lions

ryomen sukuna x reader summary: sukuna would rather contemplate your murder than come to terms with his feelings for you, but you call him out on his bullshit. w/c: 3k tags/warnings: enemies to lovers. angst to fluff. aged up!yuuji. heavy kissing. features yuuji x reader and he is, of course, best boy. cursing. sukuna decides he wants to kill you (so obviously there are mentions of murder and such) but cant even stand the sight of you upset, what a goof. i'd once again like to think sukuna's not too ooc in this but im still more than likely delusional. not canon compliant. fem!reader. no use of y/n. no manga spoilers. a/n: i was so touched by all of the love that part one received, i wanted to try my hand at part two. i hope i've done it justice! just as part one references homer's the odyssey, this references homer's the illiad because sukuna is very hot and well read. achilles, the protagonist of the novel, is discussed. i'm definitely open to writing a part three, because this one is much heavier on the angst and i miss soft sukuna from part one. series masterlist // masterlist

you and yuuji rarely argue, but when you do, it's often over his aversion toward seriousness, even when a situation calls for it. though you really should have kept your mouth shut, because in this moment, you'd give anything to see his typical carefree expression.

his eyes are regarding you intently, taking in your flustered appearance with knitted brows.

"yuuji..." you trail off, wracking your brain for an explanation of your current predicament.

despite the fact he regained control of his body only moments ago, one of his hands is curled around the back of your neck, while the other is resting on your hip.

"baby, what happened?" he presses, the tone of his voice entirely unreadable.

"s-sukuna," is all you can manage to choke out.

his eyes darken immediately, his jaw tensing in a way that intimidates you. "he hurt you."

you really can't tell if it's a question or a statement, and your response comes a little too quickly. "no! that's not... no."

the next few seconds tick by in a slow sort of agony, heat creeping up your cheeks.

he notices for the first time that his head is eerily quiet. no snide remarks, no scathing commentary. just his own thoughts as he pieces together the situation.

his gaze drops to the angry, red marks littering your neck and you watch in helpless horror as understanding passes his features.

"oh."

the word hangs in the air as you await his reaction, fully anticipating disgust and betrayal. you're positive it's only a matter of time before he throws you out of the apartment and tells you to never come back.

what you don't expect, however, is the way his shoulders relax as the tension leaves his face.

he straightens himself, arms falling to his sides, but he doesn't put any distance between your bodies.

"how long have you...?" he's not quite sure how to phrase the question.

"a few months. this was the first time anything... um... happened. we usually just talk."

he tilts his head to the side, so you clarify. "after you've fallen asleep."

mulling over the information, he hums in response, looking thoughtful for a few more seconds. then, his usual demeanor is back and he grabs your hand. "wanna get dinner? i'm starving!"

he tugs you a few feet toward the door before you come to your senses. "woah, woah. wait a second, yu."

when he looks back at you expectantly, you find that his face holds not one hint of bitterness or judgement. "aren't you angry?"

you're amazed to find that he's the one looking sheepish.

"how could i be? it's not exactly easy to be with me when i have a thousand year old curse rattling around in my body, but you stay anyway," he expresses, making your heart soften. "i just want you to be safe, so i'll take whatever relationship the two of have now over him being a threat to you."

as your hands reach up to cradle his face and your eyes sparkle with adoration, you briefly wonder how you ever found such a sweet man. he places a quick kiss to your lips, the smile on his face easy going as ever. "sooooo, i'm thinking takoyaki or maybe udon—"

"we can get whatever you want," you glance at the spatters of blood across his chest left there from the mission, no doubt from sukuna's careless slaughter. "as long as you go wash up first."

"right!" he agrees quickly, bounding off to the bathroom.

you stand alone in the middle of your living room, left with the ghost of both yuuji and sukuna's lips against yours and a sense of bewildered excitement.

back in his prison, however, sukuna is furious with himself. he should have let you die that day he kept you from being run over. better yet, he should have killed you with his own hands before the brat won back control of his body.

he is a terrible being that delights in carnage, a fact that's well known even centuries later. so why, when he could have done anything in the world, did he go to you? you even asked that same question before you—

he rejects the memory of you pressing your lips to his disdainfully.

your foolishness and your naivete are revolting. your softness and your pliancy are nauseating.

he shouldn't have been anywhere near you, if not to rip your obnoxious heart from your chest like he'd always planned. it was a situation he'd dreamt about and now it's slipped through his fingers, even though those same fingers had graced your fragile little neck.

you were nothing more than a clueless mouse in the jaws of a snake, and though the pains of hunger have been tearing at its stomach for years now, the serpent let itself starve.

sukuna retreats to his domain, fingers prodding at his temples irritably. he allows himself to wallow for a few hours, shutting out both you and the brat.

then, steeling his resolve, he begins to watch and wait like the predator he knows himself to be.

lulled into a false sense of security regarding your safety, it's clear that yuuji has let his guard down. just barely so, but enough that sukuna can see a few weaknesses in his chains. ironic seeing that, now more than ever, the king of curses wants you dead.

it goes without saying that he promptly ceases his nightly interactions with you. it's beneath him, wasting his time with a human. he knows that now.

but while he may not speak to you, he cannot refrain from stealing glances as the days stretch on. you're usually reading, completely oblivious to his watchful eye. he convinces himself it's simply to keep tabs on you, as he's deemed you his foremost enemy.

he's not sure how much time has passed when you begin calling out for him in hushed whispers after yuuji falls asleep, the hurt and confusion in your voice plain to him. it's irksome, and evidently, you're incapable of taking a hint.

his silence becomes more painful with each turn of the moon. you're a bit mortified to find that you genuinely miss him, so you just want answers. did he finally realize that you're nothing special, not worth bothering with?

eventually, growing restless, you all but beg him. "sukuna, please. talk to me. what happened? what'd i do wrong?" his chest tightens with what he believes is vexation. "you can't just make me like you and then disappear. you can't kiss me like that and then—"

"you insolent, maddening little creature!" his eye flies open just in time to see you gasp, your body jerking away from him. "shut up already! can't you see i want nothing to do with you? don't you tire of being pathetic?"

you don't dignify him with a response, swallowing thickly and turning away from him.

finally, he thinks, some fucking quiet. though if he's gotten what he wanted, why does his chest still ache?

he stares at the back of your form until the sun rises.

sukuna is no simpleton. he can be patient when he is sure of a reward, but he's thrilled that the perfect opportunity arises just two days after your encounter.

yuuji is exhausted. gojo kept him out all last night, despite the grueling mission he had today, and when he all but stumbles through your apartment door, the moon is already high in the sky.

you never mention the change in your relationship with sukuna to yuuji. even though he was so understanding, you still feel a touch awkward discussing it further. and maybe in the back of your mind, you're holding out hope that it might go back to the way it was.

sukuna watches through yuuji's eyes when you greet him, your expression half concern and half 'i told you so'. nights out with gojo usually lead to this very situation.

he showers while you finish cooking dinner and once you both eat, he helps you clean up despite his exhaustion. after whispering his thanks and pressing a kiss to your temple, he retires to bed.

you promise you'll join him soon, but sukuna knows it probably isn't true. following his outburst, you've taken to staying in the living room until you're ready to sleep.

yuuji's out before his head hits the pillow and nearly two hours later, you're still not in bed. sukuna's eager, but waits until he's sure the brat's deep in his slumber before he tries to take over. it's relatively easy, and he pushes down yuuji's unconscious mind as far as he can before rising to his feet.

this is finally it. he stretches his limbs lazily, a dangerous smirk settling on his lips. the floor creaks with each step he takes, but he pays no mind to stealth. you're no match for him.

tonight, you'll be his first victim of many and the thought of making up for his past misjudgement has him giddy with excitement.

but the sight that greets him upon exiting the bedroom— you curled into yourself on the couch, your shoulders shaking with quiet sobs— it stops him in his tracks.

he wants to move, more than anything, so what the fuck is wrong with him? is the brat taking over already?

and why is that uncomfortable sensation making it's home in the center of his chest once more?

when you notice his presence, your face shifts to him and reveals your wide, teary eyes. it's clear you're surprised by his appearance, but you quickly bury your face in your knees.

you just want him to leave you alone. you hate him for what he said, for what he did. he forced his way into your life, made you care about him, and then he just vanished. he's cruel and you feel like an idiot because you should have known that from the beginning. or maybe you did and he just made you forget.

"go away. i.. i don't want to see you."

he's disbelieving, for a brief moment, that here you are giving him orders while he stands in the doorway with the intention of taking your life.

he moves toward you, invading your space in a way that is meant to be intimidating, but when you look up at him, every emotion ranging from sadness to rejection to indignation is etched into your features. though the terror he hoped to inspire is noticeably absent.

"i said go away!" you swiftly stand up, your hands meeting squarely with his chest as you push him with every ounce of power you have.

you may as well have shoved a brick wall, as he doesn't move even a fraction of an inch. he seizes one of your wrists anyway.

"what is it you think you're doing, exactly?" he spits.

"let go of me!" you beat against his chest with the hand he left free until his fingers wrap around that wrist too.

"enough."

he's certain there isn't a being that has attacked him (if he can even call that an attack) and lived to speak of it, not once in an entire millennia.

so just end the insolent brat and be done with it, he urges himself.

but he can't and he doesn't understand why, so he just stares down at you.

"what the fuck do you want?" you mean for it to come out forcefully and full of spite, but your voice cracks before you can finish.

an excellent question, indeed. what does he want?

he doesn't answer you and it's so goddamn frustrating that you begin to cry again, rambling to fill the discomforting silence. "you've already told me i'm pitiful and annoying. it's clear you think my company is insufferable, that i'm undesirable—"

that ache in his chest is unbearable now. it claws at his ribcage and shreds the flesh of his heart. it makes his stomach twist uncomfortably and rings shrilly in his ears. he can't even hear you anymore, but he can still see the tears sliding down your cheeks and the way you gasp between words.

the truth of the matter crashes down on him and the devastating weight of it is so crushing it squeezes the air from his lungs.

that feeling in his chest isn't annoyance or repugnance. its anguish— the kind that rattles his bones and leaves him sick with regret.

it's because you're in pain, and worse yet, he is the cause of it.

sukuna pushes you back against the wall before you can comprehend what's happening. his hands find either side of your face and you're alarmed to find that he looks... frightened.

"what are you doing to me?" he pleads for an explanation, because he sure as hell doesn't have one.

how can one little human hold such power over him? it's unnatural. it defies all logic and reason.

you stare at him, open mouthed. his face is so close that his breath fans across your skin and it makes you feel dizzy.

"what are you talking about?" you finally ask.

"you should be dead right now," he frets, despair seeping into every word. "it should be easy."

it dawns on you that you should probably feel afraid, but you just don't. his touch is firm, but careful. and there's no malice to be found behind his eyes. "you're not making any sense."

he thinks back on the time you've spent together, trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here— him at your mercy, rather than you at his. he remembers the first time he made you laugh and considers that it may have been the beginning of his unraveling. for the following two weeks, you both discussed homer at length as you made your way through his poetry.

"there can be no covenants between men and lions. wolves and lambs can never be of one mind, but hate each other through and through." you blink at him, recognizing at once that he's quoting the illiad. his voice is low and unsteady in a way that suggests desperation. it makes you shiver. "therefore there can be no understanding between you and me, nor may there be any covenants between us, till one or other shall fall."

your eyes narrow as you begin to understand his his internal struggle, though you're unsure if he's attempting to reason with you or with himself.

"you quote achilles, and rightfully so i suppose, given your common qualities— exasperating pride and a penchant for meaningless violence." he looks relieved, like your seeming agreement eases his mind. it's short lived. "but you forget his passion."

his gaze shifts away from you, his hands withdrawing from your face.

"his passion?" he repeats as if it's the most incredulous thing he's ever heard.

"by the end of the story, is he not acquainted with regret, sympathy, and respect? he doesn't remain blind to the error of his ways forever."

"only a foolish human could make such fanciful deductions," he chides through gritted teeth, still refusing to meet your eye.

you actually laugh at him. "perhaps you shouldn't call upon achilles to make your point after all. at least he grows out of his utterly childish view of the world."

"how dare you?" he demands, his features growing wild as one hand finds your throat (his touch not nearly harsh enough to cause you any discomfort), the other colliding with the wall beside your head. his display doesn't fool you though. "you witless, wretched brat! you're nothing more than a blip in a universe you cannot even begin to understand. you sicken me."

you throw achilles' words in his face just as easily as he did to you. "hateful to me as the gates of hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another."

his gaze hardens, and for a split second, you think you may have been mistaken in your fearlessness, but then his fingers thread themselves through your hair and he pulls your lips to his.

it's rough and commanding, and he tells himself it's only to get you to shut up. to wipe that expression of smug pity from your face.

it's not because, despite the fact you know how awful he is, you're convinced there's something salvageable in him too. nor is it because you tyrannize his every passing thought. and it's certainly not because the feeling of you pressed against him brings him more satisfaction than ripping the hearts from the chests of a hundred men.

ultimately, his denial is overshadowed by his desire. your touch is nothing short of needy as you tug at his shirt, an attempt to bring him even closer, and god does he hope that means you feel just as desperate as he does. he deserves at least a little consolation.

as his hands roam every valley and curve of your body, he deems it unfair that a being whose very existence spells hell on earth should be so taken with such a devastatingly divine creature.

"i've wanted you so terribly," he mumbles against your mouth before he can stop himself.

"then fuck you for making us both wait," you breath out.

his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips in response and his lips shift to your neck. "watch that pretty little mouth of yours, brat."

he nips at the spot just below your ear hard enough that it makes you gasp, doubtless a punishment for your impudence. you recover quickly though, wasting no time with your flippant reply. "or what? you'll go back to plotting my murder?"

he pulls away from you abruptly, sighing deeply and pinching the bridge of his nose. "you truly have zero sense of self preservation, don't you?"

"guess so," you shrug, smiling at him bashfully. "can we watch a movie? i'll even let you pick."

you ask as if it's the most normal request in the world. as if he isn't a thousand year old curse that would be off turning the city to ash were he not here with you instead.

he rolls his eyes, scoffing at the ridiculousness of it all. "fine."

[godjo]

✮ — warrior’s executioner. 

you’re an earthquake that rocks his steady rhythm. 

tags — zoro x afab!reader. 1.3k wc. soft -> rough, like really, dappled with a lot of prose (i hope they make sense tbh). huge cock!zoro. creampie. a LOT of cum, sue me. cervix fucking. very explicit smut. minors, blank, and ageless blogs dni.

from hunter — i… don’t know. i felt so, so, soft for zoro in this fine afternoon. this fic made me vulnerable lmao. this is hardly proofread btw. ✮

imbued with an ache for glory since the sprout of his childhood, the way of the warrior lives in zoro’s skin and bones like a malignant disease of no existing palliative. he inhales the roughened edges of a samurai’s principle like air his lungs need to survive. these beliefs are claws of death that have grazed him one too many times, yet he wears the thousand cuts with pride. 

they whisper about him across the four seas: the devil wearing a human’s flesh, they say, siphoning his unyielding strength from the depths of hell. enemies see his swords like the embodiment of death, the extended hands of sharp torment, while allies revere his strength. 

his hands are tainted with blood from hard won victories. and zoro has never even thought of cleaning the proof of endless wars snaking along the lines of his palms until he’s met you. 

“are you sure you want this?” zoro asks for what seems like the third time, and for each you answer him with a feathery chuckle. “i don’t want to hurt you.” 

“you won’t hurt me, zoro.” there’s a spark of assurance in your eyes, fueled by conviction that it would take more than his tenacity to inflict pain upon you. 

zoro admires you for it; he desires you for that inelastic poise. and so he moistens his lips, guiding the raw end of his cock through your supple pussy lips. he’s been leaking like crazy, transparent lines of precum smeared all over your bare stomach where his rigid cock had been resting.

he palms his girth as if to soothe the stiffness; he’s unimaginably hard, pulsing with fierce vivacity. tremors rack zoro’s body, not on the account of anxiety, such is a distant feeling, but because of how much he wants to shove his thick cock right into your pussy, fuck you until your insides crumble.

“spread your legs wider for me,” he whispers, breath catching up in his throat when he feels the wet caress of your slabbering cunt around his flushed cocktip. 

you share a shuddering breath when he sheathes himself to the hilt, closing his good eye in concentration, in savoring the gummy embrace of your pussy around his twitching shaft. all the might and the brawn he’s built for years now melts into a thick puddle underneath his wavering feet. 

you’re an earthquake that rocks his steady rhythm. 

hovering above you, cautious as to not crush your ribcage with the weight of his immeasurable desire and wanton lust, zoro moves with calculated tempo. he pitches his head right below your chin, staggering breath fanning the crater between your collarbones. seconds— a dribble of a moment within which he loses his composure— that’s all it has taken for his gruff hand to cage the tender flesh of your waist and pull you with snapping vitality, therefore burying his hungry cock further in your insides. 

with an obscene yelp, you toss your head back. your weakened frame finds its leverage on zoro’s broad shoulders, leaving wild stripes of crimson on his golden skin with your nails. you can feel the ridges of his girth, the angry veins scraping your cunt repeatedly, making the little wet hole swell. 

“i’m sorry,” zoro confesses softly against your heated cheeks. “did i hurt you?”

you wish you can pour your heart out and say no, he’s not hurting you and he never will. tears grace the corner of your eyes, from the fluttering emotions hugging your belly, and you can only shake your head. at last, your hands find the curve of his flushed cheeks. he looks feverish, pushed into perpetual agony and terror of breaking you. like you’ve never done before, you tug him by the face and seal his lips with a kiss that quickly forms a whorl of saliva inside your mouths. you never let him go. 

zoro’s heart will burst, he swears it will. the unspoken consent triggers his primal need, the animalistic urge of wanting to prove how you drive him to the edge of insanity.

he pounds your pussy like a mad man freed from restraints. he folds your knees to fuck you properly while watching your cunt swallow his needy cock to the base. there are strings of transparent liquid connecting your pussy to his shaft, augmenting the smacking sound whenever he brings his weight down your soiled cervix. hungrily, repeatedly, mercilessly. 

“z… zoro!” your unabating and quivered chant injected with pleasure. “more… i need you— want you.”

need. 

his eye dilates as the word flows inside his system. he slides his upper body down to meet yours, a breathless yet fervent chuckle rising from his throat. zoro has been maiming your cervix with his insatiable cock for what seems like forever now. he’s been fucking you so maniacally that his bladder shudders and your pussy has turned a damped mess under his vigorous thrusts. all this is accompanied with brutal strength. 

instead of cowering away, you tell him to sink in you deeper. 

you, who emit the air of lavender blossoms and speak with honey in your mouth. you, whose featherlight touch whispers life into every withered thing. you, who keep a universe of all things soft and kind and gentle locked inside your velvet chest. 

“you’re perfect,” zoro murmurs against your mouth, pinning his cock one more time to your slabbering cunt. “and you’re mine.”

your belly heats up from the fervid claim. rapture, its pleasurable hand reaching for you, as zoro’s movements become deliberately slow. his spine moves like waves, the roll of his hips jittery yet deep. you feel it all at once when he pops your hardened nipple in his mouth. zoro suckles, salivating around the areola while maintaining his slow pace.

the heat picks up its intensity, along with the furiously lewd moan gaining strength and fleeing your lips. caged in a bubble of sensitivity that will burst at the seams with an airy touch, you clamp a hand over your mouth but zoro takes your wrist to pin beside your head. his final savage thrust sends rolling waves of euphoria squeezing your chest until the only way you can breathe again is to shout his name with a piece of your soul attached in it. 

zoro tattoos your expression in a huge part of his memory; the narrow of your brows, how your pretty lips shape his name, and the tears of release like silver satin adorning your eyes. with that image he buries his cock between your velvety walls, down and down until his cocktip meets your cervix again, and there— bouts of thick cum burst in your uterus. 

he screams your name, placing his life and his love between its syllables. you touch his face, soothing his shivers, but he just won’t stop filling your womb with fresh and viscid cum like he’s not busted a fat nut in a hundred years. zoro’s eye teared up at the sensation. 

“i… i can’t stop. fuck— it’s seeping. fuck, fuck—”

you lock your legs around his hips. “let it all out.”

zoro admits defeat and collapses on top of you. his cock continues to plug your pussy with blobs of cum. he withers beside you, then, and finally pulls out achingly. even without the grip of your cunt his swollen tip lazily oozes all over the sheets. 

“how are you feeling?” he tucks you in, securing your body with the warmth of his. 

“definitely sore,” you breathe, tracing the mark of stitches on his chest with a delicate finger. “but happy. how about you?”

he ponders at the question. how does he feel, truly? once, he wondered if his tenacity is just another word for wickedness and if shedding blood is the only purpose his unmatched strength serves. he pondered about the hunger he’s shackled in his core and whether it could only be satiated as he felled each enemy with a sword. 

zoro fears that he’ll never learn how to hold you close to his heart without tarnishing the perpetual twinkle of light in your luminescent eyes. but then he kisses you, and you do not flinch from its violence. 

zoro has found the answer, then. 

how could he ever hurt you when you make him tender?

how could he ever hurt you when you turn him to pieces?

[fastlikealambo]

holy crowns || paul atreides x black! reader

summary: it was supposed to be your sister, your bene gesserit trained sister molded by the great houses, spy for the imperium. with no warning, paul chooses you instead and changes your life forever. some call him messiah, others an abomination, but you will call him husband.this will be a multi chapter work and 18+only. note: hello! this takes place after the events of dune part two and Paul is about to become emperor. Irulan and her father are in exile and Chani is gone. thank you for reading! if you wish to see the story continue on beyond this chapter, please comment or reblog!

@drunkennunicornn

@fanfiction-addict22

@wonderpals02

@qveendiorsworld

@turn-thy-paige

@hoyoooo

@oscarissac2099

@inesven

@blahzaiblahsheep

CHAPTER ONE

THE MUAD'DIB CHOOSES A BRIDE.

Blood and roses.

     “I told you to be careful.” Your sister chided in a motherly tone, despite being only one year older than you, handing you a small handkerchief. With a mouthful of pins, you uttered a small sound of gratitude and used your non-injured hand to finish the task of placing metal rose hair pins in her braided crown. You’d be Arrakis in less than an hour but your sister wanted her last precious moments alone to be with you.

    “There, done.  My sister, the jewel of the outer world and now Arrakis, I still can’t believe this is happening. Do you think he will be kind?” You asked, straightening up to face your sister in the mirror.

 You shared the same deep brown skin and nose of your father but that was where the similarities ended. Both of your mothers had been models of the Bene Gesserit order but only one of your mothers had been made wife of a Duke, and the other a concubine, no less loved.

Until your mother passed, leaving you alone to face rumors of her madness. As you grew so did the stories of the concubine who lost her way and denied herself spice and in turn, denied you of a mother and the protection of the order that trained her and your sister.

     “Paul Atreides is an abomination, a tainted nova and your sister will make him anew, his kindness is of no importance. You may go, your sister and I need to speak.”  Reverend Mother Mohiam said from her place in the doorway.

    “I only need a few more minutes with my sister Reverend Mother, we’re nearly ready.” Your sister said, hand in yours.

GO.

A thousand and one tiny cuts into your brain, you found yourself outside of your sister’s room frozen in place.

  You still remember the day Reverend Mother came to take your sister away to train under the sisterhood.You made the mistake asking why, why could you not go together.

    “You carry your mother’s agony. You are not sufficient, there is no bite within you, human child. My order has no need of sentient infirmity.”

The Reverend Mother was correct.

What was to be your life after your sister was gone?

Where would your path lead?

There was no place for agony among the stars.

The heat of Arrakis resembled a distraught lover, sloppy kisses of sweat covered your body, the breeze that accompanied the opening of your ship doors held no comfort. 

You stood behind your sister, poised to pick up the train of her gown the moment your house would disembark the ship but for some reason, no one could leave yet.

Over her shoulder, your sister smiled, stretching her hand behind her back for you one last time. Yet before you could take it, your sister froze, a sudden faraway look in her eyes. Through your veil you watched her eyes widen, her hands clenched into fists. 

    “He’s coming here! The Muad'Dib is boarding the ship!”  A guard whispered fiercely to another.

No one seemed to notice what was happening but before you took a step towards your sister, her gaze was fixed on you. Despite the heat, you were freezing beneath her stare, unsure if it was your sister or the Bene Gesserit acolyte looking upon you.

The sound of marching feet and chanting distracted you both and all aboard the ship including fell to their knees, the Reverend Mother the only exception. You stood with the others, eyes to the floor, hands shaking as someone made their way down the line, your father making introductions as an attempt at conversation but there was only silence in return.

 You waited for the footsteps to end at your sister but they continued on, barely masked gasps filled the now crowded ship and a pair of boots entered your line of vision.

REMOVE YOUR VEIL. 

The trembling in your fingers instantly vanished and with otherworldly precision, you removed the veil from your face, the silk sliding down the back of your braids and to the floor.

The Muad’Dib was looking at you. 

      “Her.”

One by one, every Feydakin behind him took a knee and your house got over their confusion quickly, copying the motion, your sister, eyes wet, included. 

Paul Atreides bowed before you, blue within blue eyes never leaving yours.

      “Welcome to Arrakis.”

That’s our first chapter, I hope you like it! If you would like to see chapter two, please interact with this chapter, comment or reblog! Thank you for reading. 

[tteokdoroki]

☆༉ — KATSUKI BAKUGOU. in good hands.

about. katsuki experiences phantom pain in his hands from quirk usage and you try to massage the pain away.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! sfw, hurt comfort, fluff, angst, phantom pain/limb, war arc references, ptsd, mentions of therapy, descriptions of pain, bakugou being loved so tender, afab!reader + pro hero!bakugou.

the idea of giving bakugou hand massages is so intimate.

his quirk is so raw and powerful, i feel like becoming a pro-hero would only make his palms more calloused, cause aches between his fingers and scars that burn like with a phantom pain at random points during the day. and even though katsuki is smart enough to know that his scars have healed, his wounds have scabbed over and new skin has grown — he can’t shake the stabbing, tingling feeling that crawls up his arms as if a thousand tiny needles are pricking him.

the massages start when you catch bakugou on his knees in the middle of your shared bedroom, his hands clenched in fists so tight his nails have made his palms bleed. you set the fright in his eyes, the ache intertwined with the mauve brown that forms a rim around the ruby centre.

“what…what happened kats?” you’re quick to fall to your knees by his side, hesitant to touch him, worried for his safety — because katsuki hasn’t been like this in years. he’s been doing so well, seeing his therapist and taking his meds — ever since the day he came back to life.

but you know just by looking at him and listening to the ragged breaths just barely escaping his lungs, that bakugou is not okay. “i don’t fucking know,” his voice is strangled and panicked, like a deer caught in a hunter’s trap it can’t escape. “it just…it just fucking hurts a-and i can’t get it to stop.”

that day, you hesitantly reach out to touch katsuki— trying not to spook him as if he’s a frazzled wild animal. “let me see,” you whisper evenly, avoiding a croak in your voice because seeing him hurt, hurts you. slowly but surely, the blonde uncurls his fists, letting you take his hands into your own — smaller ones. at first, his strong and muscular stature flinches back, crumbles down to the ground in chunks of the brash man he used to be. “it’s okay, baby, i got you.”

your words wrap around katsuki like a tender hug, safe and secure between each and every one. your finger tips trace softly over the marred flesh of his hands, guiding katsuki through each of his painfully relived memories. trembles wrack the blonde’s body like a high magnitude earthquake — he can barely hold it back now, the tears that gather in his sun kissed lashes and burn tracks down his cheeks. but you don’t want him to hold back. you want him to feel.

thumbing the parts of his hands where the pain is centred, you lean forward to kiss bakugou on the forehead, providing an epicentre of relief. he wouldn’t call you a cure, no, it’d be too selfish to put the burden of his ease on the person he loves most. instead, he says that you help him heal, soothing the fuzziness locked between his cramping digits and extends up the muscles of his arms.

when you touch him as if he’s made of glass, katsuki knows that he can be vulnerable with you and that dull ebb of phantom agony seems to dissipate under the gentle drag of your fingertips over his skin. the two of you stay on the floor for a little longer, working through the aches pulsing in katsuki’s palms and arms until they eventually stop — just like his tears do.

“thank you,” he says, voice as quiet as you’ve ever heard it. “‘m sorry—“

“never be sorry for being in pain or asking for help.” you cut him off before his words take residence in the quiet hum of the air. shifting to your knees so that you tower over him (sitting legs crossed on the floor), you drag katsuki’s head to rest in your chest — cradling him and shielding him from the cruel world. “i don’t ever want you to be sorry for this. i’ll by your side no matter what. you hear me, baby?”

katsuki only nods, knowing doesn’t need to respond with words while his hands hesitantly come up to wrap around your waist. he pulls you into him so that you don’t disappear. and while you stroke back his hair and squeeze him so tight — katsuki realises that as long as he has you, he’ll never be weak or have to hide how much life hurts sometimes.

as long as he’s with you, he’ll be in good hands.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[mallowmaenad]

6'3" Underweight Trans Girl With Eyebags whose wearing an Oversized Black Sweater: I recently remembered all of my past lives. Most of it was spent as various plant life and fungi in the same twenty foot radius in a forest by a rural interstate route until a robin ate the seed containing my soul and flew to another forest where I reincarnated as her child. I would then die a tragic death at a young age to a local fox where I'd live a long life as her kit and eventually die of old age, I then spent several generations as various plant life and fungi in that forest which was eventually destroyed by industry.

I was a tree during that time and my plant fibers were processed to manufacture paper used to make a sticker placed on an orange whose peel was placed in a compost bin, eventually leading me to the dark yet decadent life of a worm until I then eventually expired and awoke as a tomato plant in the care of a kindly older woman, it is that life whose memories I treasure the most.

She was a very skilled and warm woman, and many of my cycles afterwards were spent as my own kin in generations of tomato plants in a blink of an eye. One day she took me into her car in a pot, I remember how she spoke to me. At the time she had named me Reynolds, she had set into a trend of naming me after Hollywood actors she found attractive. It was the day before her daughter's birthday and I was to be her gift, I could not feel bittersweet about this a the time, because I was a tomato plant.

She buckled me into the back seat of a car as if I was a child of her own and drove down a rural interstate route, illuminating the black sea of the night sky with her headlights as the shadows seemed to drown out anything but us. A deer with bone wasting disease stood in the road like a grim reaper, white eyes shining as her aching foot tried to react in time on the break peddle.

The two embraced in a bloody collision, I remember the deer in its last moments weakly nibbling at her flesh as they both bled out in an agony they were ignorant to, I wilted and died in that car along with her and that deer, I do not know what the journey of my soul was like, but my next life was as a patch of semi-feral grass on the side of a similar road caught in the mouth of a possum eating a partially full discarded box of Wendy's fries who was then promptly turned into road kill, when the day was new a burly Appalachian man whose stern demeanor hid a soft heart would legally and cleanly collect the cadaver and break it down, using the remains for a meal some yuppies would find ghastly. This man was my father- or rather my father in this cycle of life.

I know in my heart of hearts that you were that old woman who nurtured me so many times as her beloved tomato plants, you had the rare privilege to live your life as an incinerator at a crematorium, but the march of technology and nut after bolt you grew broken, a death by a thousand cuts, a death by a thousand bodies. Your massive metal cadaver was melted down over time, the raw materials eventually finding itself to a factory that manufactured bullets, a life of darkness in a cardboard prison only to be shunted into a pistol's magazine... your entire existence is interesting, stretching the meaning of what it means to be eaten and to live. The meek 24 year old boy thought nobody would mourn him when he was gone, you lived as an amorphous patch of greenery ahead of his grave stone.

A curious thing would happen during a visit to this boy's grave, his childhood dog either in embarrassing coincidence or a moment of sentience began to dig at where the body was, being wrenched back as it began to desperately sink his teeth into the soil, ripping you asunder. Almost as divine penance, you lived your next life as a member of this dog's litter, you'd be named after the boy, despite being a girl. Maybe the dog was given some precognition and wanted to eat the boy and take his soul into its mouth to get her the life she always wanted. You were unfortunately born with a chronic condition that led you to a young death, the girl's mother crying just as hard after the vet put you down. You were buried lovingly in her back yard where you became a tomato plant, your same mother not being as much of a green thumb as mine but she devoured your fruits all the same, eventually giving birth to another meek boy after growing pregnant during the time when your last tomato was picked off your wilted stem. I have pursued you since that day with my whole body and spirit, one part unintentional one part in this moment of enlightenment. I love you, and I will love you for the rest of forever.

Trans girl who dropped out of high school to make Hello Kitty breakcore who has her girlfriend's dick in her mouth and is high as fuck right now: Waash dat?

Their shared girlfriend sitting across from them playing Wario Land Shake It on her modded Wii U: Was I the deer with bone wasting disease?

6'3" Underweight Trans Girl: ... Yeah...

[ddejavvu]

Waxing jakes chest hair after he come back from deployment "Son of bitch " and him hearing your evil giggles while pulling off the strip of wax.maybe jake calling you a mother fucker while you keep eye contact

"Baby," Jake tries placating you, buttering you up so you won't put him through hell, "Please be gentle. I'm weak, I'm not used to this, this- this is cruel!"

"It's not cruel," You scoff, pressing down once more over the wax strip on his chest, "It's normal. When I lick your tits I don't want to cough up a hairball."

"And while I'd love for you to- hnngh! Lick my- my tits, darlin'," He pants, even the experimental tug you give the strip to see how much power to give your final pull making him squirm, "I don't think I can- handlethis!"

You give him no warning other than a sick grin, yanking the strip off of his pec and leaving behind a hairless - albeit red - patch behind.

"Oh- Oh my god," He groans, head thumping back against the pillows, "I think you- you ripped my nipple off!"

"Nope," You pinch the tender flesh, "Still here."

"Ow!" He jostles himself on the bed, glaring viciously at you while one of his large, calloused hands comes up to cover his pec, "I need that, y'know?"

"No you don't," You scoff, "They're just decorative."

"Well- yeah! But how weird would I look at the gym if I didn't have nipples? Or- or playing football with the guys. Do you want them to have a reason to pick on me?" His handsome features are twisted in an incredulous scowl, hand still spread protectively over his chest.

"They've already got a thousand reasons to pick on you," You begin peeling apart another wax strip, "Besides, you're gonna look weird anyways if you don't let me finish waxing your chest."

"I can't believe I'm letting you do this," He wheezes, the big breath shaking his voice. He throws his hands over his face, moaning in agony when he feels you secure the second wax strip to his skin, "If you'd told me five years ago that I'd end up stripped and waxed by some psychopath," He drops his hands to glare at you once more, fire in his eyes as you tease a tug at the edge of the strip, "I'd have called you a- motherfucker!"

[dontfearrr]

Best friends father

Heavily based on best friends brother from victorious lmfao. But this is a very funny request that you can find here

(gif not mine:)

Pairing: Thranduil x Elf!reader

Summary: Legolas and Thranduil have no idea of each others roles in your life

Warnings: none

Category: fluff, fluff, and more fluff

Word count: 1.6k

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

Twisting branches hovered high above her and all around her, whistles of the wind through the trees lingered through her ears like an eerie song sung just for her. She glanced around the path, knowing he was out there somewhere, he played this game with her all the time. However this time she was determined to win it. She felt chills crawl up her spine and she nocked an arrow in the blink of an eye, turning her body and releasing the arrow further up.

He felt the brush of the arrow graze his arm and he knew she had won. He swung from branch to branch and landed in front of her on his two feet, she watched his hair fall down back into place perfectly and she giggled, crossing her arms. “You know what, I'll give that one to you. I'm impressed.” He swung his bow back over his shoulder.

“Legolas it is quite rude to underestimate a lady” She told the white haired elf who stared down at her in amusement. “Sorry…if i'm not mistaken, i've won every single time, until now. So I think it was fair” Legolas joked back, only poking at you playfully.

She’d known Legolas for a good thousand years by now, they met during a trading with Imladris and since then they were glued together at the hip. Best friends some would say but if you asked her, she'd tell you he's some silly dumb ass who doesn't know how to handle his elven wine. 

“You just insist on making sure i know you're better than me.'' She gave him a playful eyeroll and began their walk back to the main palace, knowing they both have duties to tend to. “I assume once we return you'll be going off with your mystery lover?” Legolas teased, knowing lately she'd been quite infatuated and busied with her new asset. He was glad she had finally found someone in her life, he felt like a proud brother. (the irony im so sorry)

“You'd be correct, elf boy. Hopefully he's feeling extra nice today..” She teased, knowing Legolas hated hearing the descriptive details of their relationship. 

Legolas groaned in agony and shook his head at her suggestive and very unnecessary comment. “I have never met a more interesting creature.” He used his index finger to push at her shoulder jokingly as they approached the main gates. She gave him a playful smile and chuckled to herself as the guards let them into the kingdom.

“Farewell my friend, late nightfall?” Legolas spoke as he began to walk in the opposite direction of her, waiting for her reply before he turned around. 

“Late nightfall it is! Don't miss me too much!” 

She bowed to him dramatically and watched him turn around and walk off, she did the same. Only she waited until he was completely out of her sight before she began walking to the palace, her head facing the ground to hide from onlookers. Not that it necessarily mattered, however she wouldn't appreciate it if someone decided to gossip to the prince of her private whereabouts. She made her way down the main hall to the throne room, the guards allowing her through with the command of the king. 

She saw him perched upon his beautiful throne, his autumn crown complimenting his head and his blinding white hair fell down his shoulders perfectly, not one hair out of place. He was always a sight to see no matter how many times she'd see him. 

He caught her scent long before she even entered the throne room, his head positioned downward at the elf that approached him, her sweet presence instantly making his whole body relax from its usual tense state.

 “It is more than a pleasure to see you here, for I have missed you dearly.” his deep voice boomed throughout the entire room as he stood up and began descending from the stairs to meet her at the bottom.

 “It was like trying to swat a fly from your drink trying to get rid of him” she chuckled and met him halfway, looking up at him while his arms wrapped around her waist tenderly, pulling her flush against his body in a warm embrace. He ran a hand down the back of her head, smoothing down her hair as he placed a kiss on her forehead. “He seems persistent” he said, a bit jealous of her other companion no matter how many times she would reassure him it's not like that, nor will it ever be.

She just gave him a feigned look of annoyance and brought a hand up to place on his cheek, her thumb caressing his cheekbone gently. “My dear Thranduil, soon you will see the silliness of your jealousy.” she teased him, knowing he hated being called out on his feelings. “Do you insist on making me miserable, my lady?” He gave her a heartfelt smile and placed a hand on her back, gesturing for her to go to the private doors, doors which only the king and prince were allowed to use. They were passages that lead to everything, just quicker and more discrete. 

Every day, Thranduil took her to a new place, slowly showing her every beauty Mirkwood had to offer. His love for her grew every day and only made him want to do anything for her, anything he could. Today he was taking her to the Amaranthine Garden, the specific flora only visible to the royals. He was sure you'd love it for it is one of the few ethereal gardens amongst the elves.

Legolas was speaking with a royal guard, telling them about this morning’s duties, sending him off to go inform the rest. Right before he was about to walk back to the main quarters he was stopped by a messenger who handed him an envelope, he looked on the back seeing it was addressed to Thranduil. He cursed these damned messengers for not just giving it directly to his father, that was something he would also discuss with his father when he gave this to him.

He entered the throne room and found it empty..how strange. He never left his throne around these times unless it was severely important. He searched the room a bit and even called out for him but there was silence. That was until he spotted the private corridors left cracked. He could see the light emitting from the small opening of the door and approached it, he opened it fully but saw no one. Yet he got a whiff of a very familiar scent mixed with his fathers. It made him a little uncomfortable, he was determined to get to the bottom of this, something was up. So down the halls he went, peeking inside every single room, basically sniffing his father out like a dog.

She had her hand around his back and her body pressed into his side while he held her close, showing her the garden and telling her all about the unique plants she'd never seen before. There wasn't a second of this moment where she didn't have a smile on her face as her beloved spoke so gently. 

Thranduil bent down at his knees and carefully picked a beautiful bunch of Rhododendrons, pulling a thread from his pocket and tying the flowers at the stem, holding it out for her. She felt like a princess when she was with him, he treated her with the utmost respect. She took the flowers from him and smiled kindly. “Thranduil you never fail to put a smile on my face, you know that?” She set the flowers in her satchel and placed her hands on his chest.

“I live and breathe to please you meleth nin. I thought it was quite obvious.”

She giggled at this and felt his hands sneak to her waist, caressing her like a teenage boy, until his head snapped in the direction of the door that led back inside. 

“What is my sweet?” she looked at him with quite the confused look until she heard a voice all too familiar.

“Well if it isnt y/n and her mystery lover.” Legolas stood before them with his arms crossed as if he just caught a child sneaking into the cookie jar. 

Her head fell to Thranduil's chest in defeat, knowing she'd been caught red handed. Thranduil however was utterly confused, he hadn't put the pieces together just yet. Legolas approached them and she pulled from Thranduil, meeting Legolas in front of them. She sighed and placed a hand on Legolas’ shoulder. “To be completely fair, you see why i didn't tell you” she joked and looked up to Thranduil. 

“Meet the best friend.” she spoke sheepishly with a weak smile and Thranduil just simply sighed in utter annoyance at this childish situation. “So you were able to keep both of our identities secret from each other, and this is how we find out? You never fail to surprise me little one” He placed a hand on her lower back and gave Legolas an unimpressed look. 

“I think you might find yourself with an arrow in your chest while you sleep tonight” Legolas playfully threatened. “That's if you wish to go blind, you'll find me cosying up with your father in a not so friendly manner.” She shot back, earning a chuckle from Thranduil and a gag from Legolas.

 “I curse you woman.” Legolas turned around to leave them. “And I curse you father, you'll be lucky if you don't find poison in your wine tonight” He said before leaving dramatically, leaving her and Thranduil to laugh amongst themselves. 

“I think that went great!” she tried weakly as Thranduil simply shook his head and continued their walk through the garden.

[dusterbishop]

two thousand years of chasing taking its toll (and it's coming closer)

summary. || three timelines, you have watched remy lebeau die. you didn't believe you would earn a fourth chance to save him until you find a variant with no memory of his past, lost in a void of existence.

pairing. || gambit x f!reader (past relationship with current enemies-to-lovers)

count. || 2.5k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. warning for character death and violence. i have crushed on gambit since the animated series in the nineties so the new movie brought back a lot of feelings.

part one. || part two.

An endless spread of worlds to wander into, and this is the one you choose: Gambit crouches next to you, his breath staggering out of him in pained wheezes, his hand clasping protectively over the nape of your neck.

It is getting harder to see past the blood dripping into your eyes and the sheen of unshed tears. Your abdomen throbs in intermittent waves of little agonies, needling deep in the pit of your stomach. The shots had gone wide, at first, until you had stepped right into them. Gambit had caught you as you stumbled, swearing too fast for your mind to unjumble past the desperate rush of French.

An endless expanse of possibilities, and you are living in this one, dying in his arms. It almost makes you laugh, except it hurts to breathe, and Gambit is supporting more of your weight than he was just a moment ago.

“Now don’ go doing that again,” he manages in English. One hand on your neck, his thumb pressed over your pulse, and the other pressed tight enough against your wound to make the shadows flicker around the edges of your vision. “Mais la, there ain’ gon’ be next time, chér.”

No. There isn’t. You know it as sure as you know how much he’s hiding his own hurt. He had been blown back twenty-five feet and hit the pavement hard enough that he had laid there, stunned, unarmed. His armor had been designed to take the weight of a blow, but he wasn’t dressed for a fight. Neither of you are. So they had aimed at him, and you had made sure it wasn’t him standing there when the guns went off.

Like one breath and the next. In, and you saw his impact, saw the weapons being raised towards him. Out, and you flickered across realities as smooth as Gambit shuffled his cards, every timeline fanning out before you in a sea of possibilities. Endless, countless possibilities.

This is your last Gambit, and you’re killing him just as sure as you’re killing yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp out. Your voice trembles enough to make your lungs seize up. “Remy, I’m sorry.”

“Tant pis pout toi,” he shoots back. “Help Remy get you up, chér, ‘fore they shootin’ us.”

There is no version of you that isn’t broken that still keeps him alive, so you grit your teeth and let him haul you up, steadying yourself in this timeline. It has always been easier to tether yourself to one timeline when you have something to anchor yourself to. He sweeps you up in a bridal carry, and at this angle you can rest your heavy-list head against the warmth of his broad shoulder. He is a solid port of harbor beneath your tethering weight, a rock standing unyielding to the tide around it.

Your second Gambit had been like this, too. That variant had died with a blazing playing card in hand, his mouth twisted in rage, standing before you and the TVA headhunters with all of the bravado and confidence of a hopeless man. A final stand, he had called it. The two of you had gambled and gone all-in only for Gambit to be dead and you to be thrown into another identity.

You had told yourself that you would be better for this Gambit. No vigilante justice or petty crimes. You had gone on your first date to get po' boys and traded familiar barbs while you spun yourself into the web of a narrative that wouldn’t mark you as an oddity in this world. No strange time-skipping mutant here, only a human interested in a man with blackened red eyes and a smooth talking deck of cards.

Playing the odds, raising the bet. Your Remy would have loved that.

This Gambit, though, he dies holding you just like that, cradling you close enough that you feel the breath knocked from his lungs as the bullets find their mark against his unguarded back. You both tumble forward, the impact rattling your bones, your hands lashing out to catch desperately at the sleeve of Gambit’s coat.

Reality warps and trembles around you. You can sense the unfurling of this world’s integrity, like smoothing your hand down the ridge of Oliver or Lucifer’s back and feeling them arch expectantly beneath your touch. Of all your cats, Figaro had always preferred Remy, much to his triumph. This Gambit didn’t have cats; he admitted to being allergic during your third date, and you had to quash the rush of disappointment that rose in you. You had thought to find good foster homes for the boys, at least, in exchange for the sacrifice of loving Gambit. There is some sort of intrinsic symbolism in the fact that they exist just as you two do in every timeline you share.

Not that it matters, now.

“No,” you groan, dragging yourself towards Gambit’s body. Pain lances through your abdomen in arcs of lightning. It’s nearly as debilitating as the sight of him. He’s hunched over on his side, one hand still outstretched limply towards you, the other awkwardly twisted beneath his body. Your voice wretches out of you in a pained wobble. “No, no, no.”

You take his hand and close your eyes at the fading warmth. This is the third time you’ve watched him die. You don’t know what to do anymore. The pain in your abdomen is a vicious throbbing ache in beat with your heart, a clashing crescendo descending upon your head just as disorienting as the footsteps picking their way towards you. They will shoot you in the back and call it a well-fought battle. They will destroy your body with Gambit’s and never speak your names to anyone in this world’s timeline again. As if you are nothing.

As if this version of Gambit, with his purring accent and smooth-striking dealer hands, is nothing more than an obstacle in the way of the true prize of killing you where you lay bleeding.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper to Gambit. You have to let go of his hand so you don’t take his body with you, and then you let reality shift and expand around you, demanding the timeline to come to heel, shuffling the next five minutes into a ribbon-spread of flashing images.

One minute: you come to your feet. This is almost the hardest part. You have to find a version of yourself that is stable enough to handle the staggering weight of the transition. Your body has been operating in survival mode for far too long, especially in this timeline where you met the new Gambit in the throes of angry grief. You hardly recovered before you threw yourself into society with a desperate hope to attract him back into your orbit. This version of your body feels calm and refreshed, which must mean it’s from right after your second date with Gambit, when he escorted you home and wished you goodnight and you fell asleep with a smile on your face.

Two minutes: you see Gambit. His eyes are half-open and glazed with death, staring far into a horizon you can never reach. He would still be alive if you had never crossed timelines to search him out. This world’s version of you had been killed while you were still young and unpracticed in hiding your power. It had been easy to slip into the vacant space and fill it up with a new identity. He had never known your real name, just the mask you wore to allure him closer to you. You see him, laying there, and all you can remember is his shocked laugh when he noticed the way you ate your sandwiches with a fork and knife. Chér, ought’a you honte, non?

Three minutes: you kill them all.

Four minutes: every single one of them. This is the easiest part.

Five minutes: you have to exchange your borrowed body with your current one, and that is the hardest part. You can feel the seams of your borrowed self strain under the weight of your rapid time-skipping, further stretched thin by the pain of your current self. A wounded body decays far faster when you aren’t occupying it. It’s a reluctant exchange, and you stumble beneath the sudden weight of your current self as it wraps around your consciousness. The impact to the ground is faster than your changing, too fast to feel the echo wave of pain. You retch blood and bile, turning your face to avoid choking on it.

You will be nothing more than another corpse beside Gambit’s in a minute. You can feel the timeline of death fogging your mind, muffling your reflexes. You have exacerbated your own death by orchestrating theirs. It’s not a surprise: when Gambit fell, his breath knocked right out from him, you had felt that same jarring finality.

Only this time, only for you, when you close your eyes in death, you open them in another world entirely.

It's a battlefield.

Not surprising. Your hand automatically goes to the small of your back, fingers curling around the cool polished wood of your bo staff. With one fluid flourish, you pull it out from its sheath and extend the length, timelines humming in your hand with the same buzzing tempo of Gambit's kinetic energy. Unlike his power, your staff doesn't glow blazing violet. In one moment and the next, it simply snaps into its full length, the air hissing with displaced energy.

Once, with your Remy, he had settled himself in an armchair in your shared apartment, half-drunk with one of the cats in his lap, and he had demanded to watch you cross timelines. It took small objects, at first. A coffee cup across the room, a pair of your underwear from the bedroom, the cat purring underneath his very touch. You had been a little less drunk from your night out together, but it had been exhilarating to perform for him in a way that affected you far beyond the influences of alcohol. The weight of his black-red eyes lingering over the curve of your figure could take you apart as sure as any timeline.

He had been mystified yet delighted at your display of prowess. Y’a natural Houdini, eh, chér?

 That wasn’t quite true, though. You didn’t disappear, you simply… rearranged yourself to exist in a state of your choosing, from a time of your choosing. You had explained it to Remy like this: like choosing the channels on T.V. until you found a show you liked. Except instead of old reruns of some sitcom, you were settling on a state of existence.

Your weapon of choice - the bo staff, much like the one Remy trained you with - comes from another version of yourself. It weighs a perfect balance in your palm because it was made for you, even if you were not the one to personally commission its design. The staff whistles sharply as it cuts through the air, singing its anticipation as you swing into action, adrenaline from the fight with the hunters still raging in your veins. It’s a relief to be distracted from the last image of Gambit, dead.

Instead, you revel in the finesse of an unfair fight.

There seems to be four men surrounding you, their faces a blur of distant familiarity. Some part of you had met them, before, in another time. You could have tried to find the names to their faces if they weren’t fully committed to trying to kill you. Battle comes to you easier, and perhaps you are indulging in the violence when you could have stepped away and gone to another time.

But, perhaps, you are so fucking tired of being anything other than a violent, selfish thing.

It’s all smooth motion, to fight like this. Alone. No need to worry about a Remy LeBeau by your side in case the reckless fool got himself killed trying to protect you. You think to your Remy: I told you nothing was going to happen to me, LeBeau. I exist in so many timelines that it doesn’t matter what happens to me.

It doesn’t matter what happens to you. Not even when one of them strikes you across the face with the sharp bend of their elbow, cutting your cheek against your molars and filling your mouth with blood. You merely shuffle the deck, pull another card, draw a version of yourself with no blood and just as much battle-hardened pain tolerance. So many versions of you can handle the aftershocks of pain that your stride hardly stutters as you swing your staff and sweep his feet out from under him. Another swing, a sickening crack of a wood impact to an unprotected skull, and you keep moving to the next target.

Another hit to your ribs, hard enough to knock the breath from you. Shuffle, pull, draw. Your new borrowed body takes the hit without notice and crushes the faceless attacker’s windpipe, cutting off his shriek of pain in a gurgling wheeze. The next one tries to make a move while your back is turned, and you move to meet him, staff swinging, mouth twisted in a grimace. You can feel the timeline bending to stretch thin around you, taut with the rapid succession of your draw. Your blood thunders in a raging crescendo in your ears. There is a limit to how much you can take before you splinter apart.

You just don’t know if you care to heed that limit, anymore.

Another swing. Shuffle, draw, pull. This version of you switches from the long reach of your bo staff for the more intimate versatility of twin blunt-ended sticks. It works well for close combat. So well that your opponent has to keep to the backstep to avoid your blows, shuffling out of range.

So well, that you forget that there were four.

The pain that cracks across the back of your skull sends you to the ground in an instant. Your hands spasm and release the sticks, but not fast enough to soften the blow of your sudden fall. The timeline whines a high-pitched whir around you, unsteady in the relentless time-skipping.

Too bad, you think distantly. This is a quick life for this timeline of yours. A violent, lonely one. It is grim, but there is a quiet relief in the end beckoning you closer. The quick ones are the easiest. It only really kills you when you have to linger in the shadow of your self’s presence. A living ghost. That’s all you really are. You just haunt the narrative of your own lifetimes.

You, and Gambit.

Blazing purple flashes across your vision, and the timeline whirs again, except it isn’t, because you haven’t used your dealer’s hand. It isn’t your power charging the air with magnetic energy. It is all Gambit’s. Of course it fucking is.

How ironic for you to find him now, in this timeline where he has never known your name, when you are already dead? You close your eyes to silently curse out whatever pathetic higher being found fit to orchestrate your life into this circus sideshow.

“Cherchez la femme,” he says. His accent is lilting in its coyness. “Found ya’, chér.”

[kidfur]

one day a sinkhole formed in my backyard

it swallowed up the garage, left nothing behind

“thats normal” everyone said, “sinkholes are inevitable”

nobody seemed concerned as it grew bigger

dad just sighed and shrugged his shoulders when it ate his lawnmower

mom just sighed and shrugged her shoulders when it ate her car

it just kept growing bigger and bigger

i found myself walking outside every day just to look at it in horror

the corner of my room started sagging

my closet was the first to go

but it just kept eating

it ate my phone and my computer and my tv and my bookshelf

my parents wouldnt let me sleep in the living room

so every day and every night i sat in my bed and stared at it

i dared it to come closer

“this is normal” i said

“sinkholes are inevitable”

i promised myself as it ate me too

it was one thousand million years of darkness before i woke up again

and everything was put back just the way it was

and everyone remembered the sinkhole, how much it ate

how much of our lives it took away

but still didnt seem concerned 

nor surprised that i had survived somehow

dad cut the grass, mom drove to work

and as i struggled and gasped and whined and moaned from the agony of being alive again

every single bone and muscle and nerve and cell in my body on fire

i wondered if my parents were feeling this pain too

and i wondered why i was the only one who cared about the sinkhole in the backyard

[blueariel3-blog]

Rest Now, Darling

Pairing: Azriel X Reader

Just as Elain had finished preparing tea for you, the door to Rhys' study closed. You snapped your head up to the sound and prayed to the mother that everything was alright. The debrief from the mission could take hours and you always waited in anticipation of Azriel's mood. 

You silently sipped your tea and counted the minutes as they sat in the room. Elain had gone out to her garden at some point and Feyre walked through the house to her room to change out of her leathers and into her painting clothes. Nesta dropped by to return one of your books as the sky began to creep into darkness. 

All the while you sat silently on the couch, eyes gazing into the fire as if you could extend some of its warmth to the brooding male upstairs. 

The door gently opened, a shuffle of feet across the carpet, and the click of Azriel's door. You sighed and stood from your spot, stretching the knots in your back that had developed since you first sat on the couch hours ago. Rhys was intently reading something on his desk when you entered. 

His head rose slightly, swimming eyes meeting yours as he inclined for you to close the door. Silent steps across the room as you sat perfectly still in the seat still warm from Azriel's earlier occupation. His scent gently rose to meet you and you inhaled, smoothing the wringles in your pants out as you tried to detect any scent of blood. 

"He's fine. Physcially. Mentally, he may be brooding for a few days. Go with him, I'll have the twins leave some plates in the fridge if you get hungry." 

Not needing a dismissal, you gently rose from the seat and set out to find the shadow singer. The soft click of the door was all that could be heard in the hallway as you made your way to his room. The lights were off, the shadows quietly breezing through the air and wrapping around your wrist in a comforting manner. 

You took small steps toward the figure hunched over his knees that sat on his bed. His thoughts ran wild as he replayed the scenes over and over; the agony washing over him was unbearable. As much as he needed to reach out and assure himself you were safe, he had no energy to do so. His shadows whispered in his ear that you were moving towards him and he exhaled some of his worry. 

You gently touched his head, running your finger through the soft, dark curls. His forehead came to rest against your chest and his arms hung limply around your legs. You continued to offer him this soft comfort in the quiet, knowing that he needed it. 

No words were said as you gently pulled the top of his leathers up. You ran your hands over his smooth skin comfortingly as you pulled it off, careful to mind his wings. His head continued to droop as you silently motioned him to stand up and remove the rest of his clothes. A pair of bottoms floating over on a shadow appeared in your hand and you quickly slipped them over his legs. 

The covers pulled back by the force of the darkness and you let him slip into bed. His eyes continued to stare blankly at the ceiling as you changed your clothes into one of his t-shirts. His skin was cold as you placed a hand over his heart, only to reassure yourself that he was alright. The sheets were soft against your skin as you moved closer to him. 

As you lay agsint the pillows next to him, he suddenly shifted and lay atop you. It was not a sexual act, but an intimate one for certain. He lay sprawled over you and the rise and fall of his chest pushed against yours. You placed your hands along his back and head once more to continue the mindless scratching that seemed to soothe him. 

Azriel wanted quiet as his thoughts ran wild. He wanted to be alone as he had to remember every detail of what he had heard and seen. He always wanted your touch, craved it like a man who had been without water for a thousand years. He need you there to ground him. 

The beating of your hearts was in time, but not yet tethered together. 

Azriel fought against the darkness that wanted to drag him into a place of Hell, but the comforting whispers of his shadows and soothing motions of your hands seemed to lull him there anyways. There was nothing he could do as descended into his thoughts. 

"Rest now, darling," you whispered into the night as his wings cocooned around you. Despite the turmoil he was feeling, you would be there in the morning to face the day with him. And every day after that.