#Scar is chaos incarnate | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

notanactressyayy · 9 months ago

Text

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫

— ₊⊹ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 . Natasha Romanoff x reader

— ₊⊹ 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 . in which she finally feels heard, seen.

— ₊⊹ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . angst, emotional breakdown (panic attack), swearing, mentions of scars (sh), mentions of suicidal ideologies. Nat being honest and open about her feelings for once. hurt/comfort.

— ₊⊹ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 . english is not my first language (🇧🇷) so i apologize for any spelling errors. rainy days, match sad stories. venting.

divider credits: @saradika-graphics ༉‧₊˚.

the heaviness of the afternoon air settled over Natasha — weighting down what was already heavy. her mind, her body.. everything felt like a weight, a weight she carried since she was born, or even before her soul was incarnated in her body. she felt— no, she knew that she was born in bad news, cursed, and there was no way of getting out of this. it's funny, those were the exact same thoughts she had ever since she was a child— 10, 11, maybe? and in that age, crossed her mind that probably when she grew up, those ideas would vanish and she would be free to have a normal life.

but that certainly didn't happen. and now, she found herself trapped. trapped in web that the more she struggled, more stuck she got, and that was a routine that repeated over and over and over — optimistic, optimistic delusional thoughts that came to battle with the bad ones, telling her that things would someday be okay, and the real, coherent ones, that crushed all the hope, the little sparkle of hope she had within her, making her mind a complete and total mess. chaos behind chaos. sleepless nights, restless days.

god, how good would it be if at least, her body wasn't enchanted. how perfect would it be, to throw herself down a building and don't feel anymore, instead of having just a few scratches here and there. the blade helped, even with the acknowledge that a normal person would feel 10 times more than she did. because the pain was still little, when comparing to everything this woman already endured. the red lines on her arms and thighs were just a reminder of the red on her ledge, and that it was now impossible to wipe away.

in moments like those ones, her brain desperately searched for any solution, any thought to refute her current state — it was the human instinct to survive. (yeah, she's human). her eyes squeeze tight, feet stumbling forward and hands gripping tightly the trailer's window rail, knuckles turning white.

inhale, exhale. inhale— no, let's stick to panting.

her mind would drift back to the little girls who she shared her life with in the red room, remembering each of their personalities, what each one of them would do in a situation like this. ironically, for Natasha, they deserved to be listened and helped. but herself? nah. but in the deep end, she didn't know if they were still breathing, still in this world. what was the point..?

"come on..." she mutters, hissing loudly as her legs start trembling, knees ready to give up. "stop, stop, stop, stop..."

her heart never felt so filled with anguish and pain like right now — yes it did, but it was always like that: whenever that happened, the past experiences felt like they never existed — and the now felt like too much to handle. her ears buzzed, the sounds of the wind blowing across the tree leaves around her went down to volume zero — the hair on her legs and arms went up in a deep shiver, and eyes went wide — realization.

the same fucking realization as always. nobody listens, nobody cares. no one will ever know her true story. no one will ever fix her. she won't be remembered. her life's a waste— why was she even born, when everything that happened was disgrace after disgrace. that's when the thread snaps, and her body reacts before her mind can follow.

her throat closes, as if suffocating — body falling backwards, hitting the floor with full force. her fingers run through her hair and tug on the strands, pulling them strongly, even breaking a few of the auburn locks. tears of desperation threatens to fall down her cheeks, but she doesn't really realize that yet. she's just so out of air, that's impossible to control any other action.

"why won't that fucking—" Natasha manages between gasps. she groans, grabbing on the skin of her thighs and squeezing them harshly, creating moon-shaped little marks, enough to draw blood. "won't it— stop!"

then, she sobs. wait, but.. why did it felt like.. relief? perhaps because now, she was in your arms.

a foreign, strange sensation of warmth, warmth of another human being, enveloped her. she didn't recognize who it was, nor did she care. with pure instinct, her arms wrapped around the person's midsection, clinging for dear life. and now, with the sense of security, she was able to cry freely. she cried silently, something you didn't like. her chest heaved with emotion, but you wished she was louder. she was taught that widows didn't feel pain, wether it was physical or emotional. that's why her small cries sounded as painful and miserable as loud ones. you, sitting on the floor with her, scooped her weeping frame into your arms and held her — her side against your chest, head tucked in the crook of your neck.

sadly, it wasn't the first time, and you knew it wouldn't be the last. you were always in the trailer with her when she had breakdowns like this one. and that was what broke you the most — her brain subconsciously would tell her she was alone, and she didn't know how to deal with intense feelings like those: thus, she didn't know how to ask for help, how to come to you so you both could prevent those mental draining episodes.

when you first met Natasha, the first thing she asked you was to forget that she was a deadly spy, an avenger, or whatever the hell else people knew her as. at least for a day, so you could see where things would go. this fact only, meant that since the beginning, she had a feeling about you.. one she couldn't quite put a finger on, but which made her want to be herself, with no masks or titles around you.

it was common sense everything she went through. but only you knew about her true point of view. when her own self felt like an outside observer regarding to her own life, you were always there to remind her of who she was.

"you're safe... you're safe, i am safe.. we're both safe.." you whisper, running your hand up and down her shivery arm, putting the cold away. "okay, Nat? you are safe. i am right here, ready to fight whatever evil that befalls you.''

"i don't know.. i-i just.. i'm exhausted... i'm s-so tired.." she manages between small cries, eyes pleadingly looking up into yours. her hand reaches out and intertwine her fingers with your own, grasping on every sense she had of your presence — because she knew it could fade again, that she could fall in the loop again. and it was torturous. "i never.. no one ever listened to me... i never.. told anyone.. about.. a-about..."

"i know." you nod, arms tightening around her. you crawl a little backwards, just so you could reach the blanket that laid upon the couch and grab it. you wrap it around her with one hand, not letting go of her own. she subconsciously brings the fluffy fabric closer to herself and snuggles up against your body. "but you can tell me. isn't it clear, malyshka? that you're stuck with me?"

malyshka. the endearment term in russian she had taught you. she loved it, so goddamn much. a little weak smile tugs on her lips, the kindness you were showing her easing the tension — as if you were offering to carry the weight with her. compassion, empathy. so foreign.

"i just.." she shakes her head, sniffling and taking a deep, shaky breath. she stays silent for a few minutes, and you wait. voice so quiet, small.. and scared. "before you.. no one ever.. held me. i never had anyone holding me. i never had a touch that didn't mean harm. never had anyone to listen."

"i know, Nat. and that pains me more than you think." you confirm, running your fingers through her hair, and nuzzling the side of your face against her cheek, resting on your shoulder. "but trust me, i will listen for hours, days, years and centuries. if you wanna share every single second of your life with me, i'm here to listen."

"that doesn't make any freaking sense to me." she chuckles humorlessly, a soft groan escaping her throat. she was feeling a little tired. "but.. the truth is.. few people understand what i went through. the little people who lived in the same circumstances as me are probably all dead.. and... i truly don't want you to understand. i don't want you to try and live the same horrors as i did. all i wish for..."

you take a moment to stare at her when she pauses. hurt arms, tear filled face. oh, what you wouldn't do to protect this heart. to keep it safe. never let anything harm it again.

"all i wish for, is for you to be here. to hold me like you're doing, to share your own experiences with me, to live with me. to whisper sweet nothings in my ear by the night. handle my body gently. just be here. be here and i know i'll be forever safe."

that was it. everything you ever wished for. you exhale deeply and shift her carefully, so she was on your lap. she looks down at you, and at your hand.. that slowly comes up to land on her cheek. she leans against it and breathes heavily. you smile, waiting for her next expected words.

"can i..." she clears her throat, hands shyly gripping your shoulders, eyes looking at you from below her eyelashes. "can i cry more?"

"of course." you cradle her again and settle her thighs around your hips. her arms wrap around your neck, and she gently leans her head on your shoulder... allowing herself to cry.. out of relief.

your right hand tenderly caresses her leg, tracing over the self indulged scars she had. the left one, makes slow, soothing circles on her spine, moving up, and down her back. she was letting all her emotions out, all the pain inside her heavy heart, was flowing out of her being. thanks to your patience, your gentleness, and your love.

turns out, love wasn't only for children. goodness gracious, how good it was to be loved...

"god," she sobs, squeezing you tighter, nose brushing against your hair as she allows herself to.. let go. "god, i need you."

"i'm here." you confirm quietly, looking up and kissing her temple. "i'm here, i'm not going anywhere."

#natasha marvel #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff hurt/comfort #natasha romanoff comfort #natasha romanoff #mcu #marvel #mcu x reader #mcu x you

434 notes · View notes

earthlybeam · 3 months ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/earthlybeam/773181417454731264/could-i-request-how-glorfindel-celebrimbor-and?source=share

Please Thranduil, Gil galad and Adar version.🙏🏻

How would Thranduil, Gil-Galad, Adar react to a reader who possesses magical healing powers similar to Rapunzel in Tangled?

The you the reader’s long as (your own hair colour) but turns golden and glows when you sing a special song, releasing healing magic that can heal wounds, cure sickness, and even restore life. Their magic, known as “Healing Magic” or “Sun Magic,” is connected to the power of the sun and can even reverse aging.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The battlefield was chaos incarnate, a cacophony of screams and the relentless clash of steel against steel. The once-pristine forest now bore the scars of war—trees felled and splintered, their ancient roots charred by fire; the earth trampled and soaked in blood. Smoke hung low over the field, thick and suffocating, carrying with it the acrid stench of burning flesh. Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, stood at the heart of the fray, a vision of deadly grace. His twin swords gleamed silver, moving with an elegance that belied their lethality. Each stroke was precise, each step deliberate, his cloak of rich green and gold billowing as he cut through the oncoming horde of orcs. He was a storm given form, the light of his kingdom’s ancient glory flickering amidst the dark tide of death.

His every movement was a dance, his swords singing as they found their mark in one foe after another. The king’s fair face was streaked with ash and blood, his long platinum hair pulled back and gleaming even in the dim, smoke-streaked light. But even he, for all his centuries of skill, could not outpace every shadow on the battlefield. It happened too quickly. A hulking orc, its monstrous figure obscured in the gloom, stepped into view behind him. Its mace—a jagged, cruel thing bristling with spikes—rose high into the air. Thranduil sensed it a moment too late, the looming presence casting a shadow that fell across him like a shroud. He turned, his blades already lifting to counter, but the swing came faster. The weapon descended with brutal force, slamming into his side.

The sound was awful: a wet, crunching thud as the spikes of the mace punctured his armor, rending both metal and flesh. The impact sent him flying, his body twisting through the air before he hit the ground with bone-jarring force. Pain exploded in his ribs, sharp and unrelenting, spreading through him like wildfire. His breath left him in a choked gasp, the coppery taste of blood rising in his throat. For a moment, the world tilted, the edges of his vision darkening as the cacophony of battle grew muffled. Thranduil’s silver and leafed crown, once a proud emblem of his majesty, was knocked from his head, tumbling into the dirt and disappearing amidst the debris of war. The blood pouring from his side stained the fine emerald and gold embroidery of his robes, the fabric now torn and clinging to his trembling frame. He lay there for a moment, his hands clutching at the earth beneath him as he fought to draw breath. The air felt thick, heavy with smoke and the weight of his wounds.

But Thranduil was no ordinary elf. Pain did not cow him; it only sharpened the fire that burned in his heart. With a groan that turned into a snarl, he forced himself onto his knees, though every movement sent searing agony through his battered body. His twin swords, once extensions of his will, now lay discarded in the dirt mere feet away. He reached for them, but his hand faltered, trembling as his strength waned. Blood dripped from his fingers, mingling with the darkened earth. His vision swam, but he refused to fall further. Raising his head, he cast his gaze upon the enemy advancing toward him. His ice-blue eyes, piercing and unyielding, burned with a fury that not even the weight of his injuries could extinguish. His face, marred by streaks of blood and ash, was a portrait of defiance—a king who would not bow, not even at the edge of death. His lips curled in a snarl, sharp and regal, a promise of retribution to all who dared cross him.

The orcs closed in, their grotesque laughter and guttural snarls filling the air as they saw the king of the Woodland Realm kneeling, vulnerable yet unbroken. His breath hitched, each intake shallow and ragged, but his eyes never left them. He would not beg. He would not surrender. He would face them as he always had—unyielding, even if the next moment would claim him. The ground beneath him was stained with his blood, but it would not claim his spirit. For even in his pain, Thranduil was a king, and his defiance was eternal.

But then, through the din of battle, a sound reached him—faint at first, like a thread of light breaking through a storm. It grew louder, clearer, cutting through the oppressive haze of pain clouding his mind. “Thranduil!” It was your voice. Desperate, raw, and filled with something that pierced deeper than any blade. His eyes, heavy with exhaustion, opened just enough to see you. You were a vision amidst the chaos, a beacon of light in a world consumed by darkness.

Your hair, flowing behind you like a cascade of starlight, caught the faintest glimmers of light from the fires raging around you. You ran toward him, the edges of your robes sweeping over the blood-soaked ground, heedless of the danger that surrounded you. “No,” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the chaos. The word tore from his throat, hoarse and pained. “Stay back… it’s not safe.” His chest heaved with the effort, the agony radiating from his wounds threatening to pull him back into darkness. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t falter. His warning fell on deaf ears as you reached his side, dropping to your knees with a grace that seemed incongruous amidst the destruction around you.

The sight of him—the proud Elvenking brought so low—struck you like a dagger to the heart. His once-pristine armor was battered and streaked with blood, rents in the metal exposing pale skin that now glistened with sweat and the crimson stains of his own lifeblood. His hair, always so immaculate, was matted with ash and dirt, tangled around his face. His ice-blue eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, were dulled by pain, their focus flickering. And yet, even in his broken state, there was a defiant beauty to him—a majesty that the battlefield could not entirely strip away.

You bit back a sob, your hands trembling as they reached out to him. Gently, you cupped his face, your fingers brushing away streaks of dirt and blood. His skin was unnaturally cold beneath your touch, and the realization sent a jolt of fear through you. “Thranduil,” you whispered, your voice breaking with the weight of your emotions. “Hold on. I can save you.” His brows furrowed faintly at your words, his expression softening into something almost apologetic. He tried to shake his head, but the effort was weak, a mere twitch against your hand. “Futile,” he murmured, his voice rough, a shadow of the commanding tone it once held. “You cannot—”

“You can’t tell me that,” you interrupted, your voice fierce despite the tears that threatened to spill. “Don’t you dare give up on me, Thranduil.” Your fingers moved to your hair, trembling but determined, brushing through the silken strands as if seeking something. “Trust me,” you whispered, your tone laced with an urgency that left no room for doubt. For a moment, he looked at you—truly looked at you, as though seeing you for the first time. He wanted to argue, to demand that you leave him, that you save yourself and let him face whatever fate awaited him alone. But there was something in your eyes, a conviction so powerful that it stilled the words on his tongue. He exhaled shakily, his gaze softening, the fight leaving him as he closed his eyes. “Do… what you must,” he whispered, his voice so faint that it was almost lost to the cacophony of the battle raging around you. His head fell forward slightly, resting against your hand, as though surrendering to the only hope left to him—you.

You pressed a section of your hair to his wound, your hands trembling as the silky strands turned dark with his blood. The sight of it—the contrast between the glowing silver of your hair and the deep crimson staining it—was almost too much to bear, but you steeled yourself. Your heart thundered in your chest as you leaned closer, your lips parting to release a melody that seemed to rise from the very depths of your soul. The words were ancient, a song of healing passed down through countless generations, yet it felt as though they were yours alone in that moment. “Flower, gleam and glow, Let your powers shine, Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine. Heal what has been hurt, Change the fates’ design, Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine, What once was mine…”

As the melody spilled from your lips, it seemed to weave itself into the very air around you, a thread of light in the darkness. The battlefield, filled with the clamor of swords and the screams of the wounded, seemed to fade away, drowned out by the power of your voice. The air shimmered, bending to the ancient magic that laced your words. Your hair began to glow, softly at first, then brighter, golden and radiant as though a thousand stars had descended to touch the earth. The light spread from the strands touching his wound, rippling outward in waves that illuminated the battlefield in a warm, otherworldly glow. It wrapped around Thranduil like a cocoon, the edges of the light flickering and pulsing in rhythm with your song.

Thranduil gasped softly, the sound almost imperceptible beneath your melody. His breathing hitched as the warmth of your magic seeped into him, driving out the icy chill that had begun to spread through his body. He could feel it—the jagged edges of his wound knitting together, the sharp agony replaced by a gentle tingling warmth. It was unlike anything he had ever known, this power—ancient, unyielding, yet impossibly tender. It felt as though it carried not just magic, but the essence of you: your love, your hope, your determination. You continued to sing, your voice unwavering even as tears slipped down your cheeks. Each word carried a piece of your heart, the raw emotion of your plea saturating the melody. The light around him grew brighter, until it was as if the darkness of the battlefield had been banished entirely.

When your voice finally faltered, the last notes of the song lingering in the air like a soft sigh, you opened your eyes. Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them away, desperate to see him. The sight before you stole your breath. Thranduil lay still for a moment, but the deathly pallor of his skin was gone, replaced by a healthy, luminous glow. His face, once twisted with pain, was now calm, his breathing steady and deep. The terrible wound that had marred his side was no longer there; in its place was smooth, unbroken skin, as if the injury had never existed.

He stirred, his body shifting slightly as a soft groan escaped his lips. Slowly, his lashes fluttered, lifting to reveal the piercing blue of his gaze—those sharp, icy eyes that you had feared you’d never see open again. His gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, the world stilled. The chaos of the battlefield, the distant cries of war, the acrid stench of smoke—all of it melted away. There was only him, alive and breathing, his eyes filled with a depth of emotion that made your heart ache. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with unspoken feelings. Then, tentatively, his hand lifted. His fingers, long and elegant despite the strength they carried, brushed against your glowing hair. There was a reverence in his touch, a gentleness that seemed to belie the fierce warrior you knew him to be. His fingers lingered, tracing the silken strands that still shimmered faintly with the remnants of your magic.

“This power,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and heavy with wonder. “It is… beautiful.” His gaze softened as his fingers continued to brush through your hair. “You are beautiful.” The sincerity in his voice broke something inside you. A laugh, shaky and raw, escaped your lips, but it was edged with the sob you were desperately holding back. “You scared me,” you admitted, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “I thought I’d lost you.”

He exhaled slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “You saved me,” he said, his tone soft but filled with a gravity that left no room for doubt. “You brought me back from the edge.” His hand moved from your hair to cover your own, where it rested against his chest. His touch was warm and steady, grounding you in a way nothing else could. “You are a light in this dark world,” he continued, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. “A gift unlike any other.” The intensity of his words stole your breath. His gaze held yours, unflinching and full of a gratitude so profound it felt almost sacred. For a moment, the battlefield felt like a distant memory. It was just the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of your magic and the bond that had grown between you—stronger now, forged in the crucible of pain and salvation.

With a quiet groan, Thranduil began to sit up, his movements slow but steady as his strength returned. You instinctively reached out to steady him, your hand brushing his arm, but he managed to rise on his own. Once upright, he turned to you, his face inches from yours, and cupped your cheek in his hand. His palm was warm against your skin, the touch as tender as it was deliberate. “I owe you my life,” he said, his voice low but resolute, the words carrying the weight of a vow. “And I do not give my loyalty lightly.” His thumb brushed gently against your cheek, the gesture almost reverent. “Whatever happens next, know this—you will always have my gratitude…” He hesitated, the pause laden with emotion. “And my heart.”

The breath hitched in your throat, his words wrapping around you like a promise. Your lips parted to respond, but no words came. What could you possibly say to match the depth of what he had just given you? Before you could find your voice, the distant clash of swords and the roar of battle intruded, reminding you both that the world outside this moment still burned with chaos. Thranduil’s gaze shifted briefly toward the horizon, his expression hardening as he returned to the present. He rose to his feet fully now, the regal air of the Elvenking settling over him once more. Reaching down, he retrieved his twin swords, the blades gleaming wickedly in the faint light. Yet even as he turned his attention to the battle, there was a tenderness in his movements—a lingering connection that tethered him to you.

He looked back at you, his expression fierce but softened by the depth of feeling in his eyes. “Stay close to me,” he commanded, his voice carrying the authority of a king but tempered with a warmth reserved only for you. “We will finish this together.” You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest as you rose to your feet. The faint glow of your magic still clung to you, casting a soft light around the both of you as you prepared to rejoin the fray. As he turned and led you back into the chaos, his steps sure and steady, you knew this moment had irrevocably changed everything. Thranduil, the proud and unyielding Elvenking, now carried a piece of your light within him. And as you followed him into the darkness, you knew that bond—born in pain and sealed in magic—would endure, unbroken, through whatever trials lay ahead.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

The battlefield sprawled endlessly, a bleak wasteland of shattered bodies and broken steel, shrouded in a choking veil of smoke that turned the midday sun into a faint, amber glow. The acrid stench of blood mingled with the sharp tang of burnt wood and ash, thickening the air with the weight of destruction. The earth beneath your feet was churned and uneven, soaked with the lifeblood of countless warriors. Broken banners lay tangled in the debris, their colors dulled and meaningless amidst the carnage. The distant clash of swords, the guttural cries of orcs, and the anguished screams of the wounded faded into a dull, unrelenting roar, like the heartbeat of the dying world itself. Yet none of it mattered.

Your eyes locked on the crumpled figure just ahead, half-hidden in the shadows cast by a shattered marble column. The remnants of the once-proud structure jutted into the ashen sky, stark against the ruin, a silent testament to the fury of the battle that had raged here. And there, slumped against its jagged base, was Gil-galad. His silver armor, which had once gleamed like starlight, was a grim ruin. Deep rents marred its surface, the intricate etchings of elven craftsmanship obscured by the soot and blood that coated every inch. The flowing blue of his cloak was torn and blackened, clinging limply to his frame, weighted down by dirt and gore. His once-proud form, so commanding and unyielding in the heat of battle, now seemed small and vulnerable, as though the world itself had turned against him.

A jagged gash tore across his chest, the edges of the wound raw and angry. Blood pooled beneath him in dark, viscous streaks, soaking into the dirt and spreading like an ominous shadow. Each shallow rise and fall of his chest was an agonizing labor, his breath coming in uneven, rasping gasps that rattled through his body. His head, once held high with the regal bearing of a king, rested limply against the column, his hair—normally as radiant as molten silver—now clinging to his face in damp, matted strands streaked with grime. “Ereinion!” you cried, your voice breaking as you rushed toward him, your heart pounding with a desperate urgency. Dropping to your knees beside him, the impact sent a jolt through your body, but you hardly noticed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, as you struggled to comprehend the sight before you. The image of him—majestic and unshakable—was seared into your mind, making the frailty before you all the more unbearable.

His head lolled weakly toward the sound of your voice, the faint motion almost imperceptible. The once-brilliant light of his eyes, so piercing and filled with unyielding resolve, was dulled and unfocused, shadowed with pain. His gaze flickered, struggling to find you through the haze that clouded his vision. “You…” he rasped, his voice faint and broken, barely louder than the rustle of the wind through the battlefield. “You shouldn’t… be here.”

Each word was a laborious effort, his breath hitching between syllables, as if even the act of speaking threatened to drain the last reserves of his strength. His lips, cracked and pale, trembled as he tried to form more words, but the effort was too much. He winced, a low, pained sound escaping him as his body sagged further against the column, his armor groaning faintly with the movement. “It’s… not safe,” he managed at last, his voice no more than a whisper. His eyes met yours for a fleeting moment, and in their depths, you saw a desperate mixture of fear and defiance—a king still trying to protect his people, even as he lay broken and bleeding on the battlefield.

Tears stung your eyes, blurring the devastation around you, but you refused to let them fall. Shaking your head fiercely, you denied the weight of his words, even as they pressed down on your heart like a stone. “I couldn’t leave you,” you whispered, your voice trembling but steady, a quiet plea wrapped in defiance. The quiver of emotion was undeniable, yet behind it burned the resolve of someone who would not—could not—abandon him. “Not like this,” you added, your fingers curling into fists at your sides.

For a fleeting moment, a faint, shadowed expression crossed his features. Was it a smile? Or a grimace of pain twisted by fading humor? It was impossible to tell, and yet it brought a flicker of warmth to the icy fear that gripped you. His lips, pale and bloodied, twitched faintly. “Stubborn,” he murmured, his voice rasping and soft, as if the word cost him more strength than he could afford to lose. There was a glimmer in his dimmed gaze—a whisper of the man you knew so well—but it was fleeting, almost drowned beneath the sheer effort of staying conscious. His hand moved, a barely perceptible twitch at first, his gauntleted fingers trembling as they struggled to lift from the bloodstained ground. The motion was agonizingly slow, faltering and weak, but it was unmistakable—he was reaching for you. The gesture, though small, carried with it the weight of his unspoken thoughts: a need to hold on, to connect, to find something in you that could anchor him to the rapidly slipping thread of life. Yet his strength failed him, and his hand fell limply to his side with a soft, metallic clink, his breath hitching as the motion sent a fresh jolt of pain through his body.

For Gil-galad, each breath was a battle, a desperate effort to push against the darkness that loomed closer with every passing moment. The gash across his chest throbbed with unrelenting fire, the raw edges tearing at his resolve with every shallow rise and fall of his lungs. The world around him felt distant now, muted and slow, the roaring of the battlefield reduced to a dull hum in his ears. Even the smoke-filled air seemed to press down on him like a suffocating weight. Yet through the haze of pain and weakness, there was you. Your voice, tremulous but determined, broke through the fog, and it grounded him, calling him back from the brink. He wanted to tell you not to waste yourself on him, not to sacrifice anything for a life that was already slipping through his fingers. But even as he tried to speak, his chest tightened, the words caught somewhere between his heart and his throat, where they burned unspoken.

He felt the warmth of your presence, the way your trembling hands hovered near him with desperate purpose. It cut through the cold spreading through his limbs, a fragile thread of comfort in the encroaching void. He couldn’t see clearly anymore; his vision blurred with pain and fatigue, but he thought he caught the golden shimmer of your hair, bright even in the smoky gloom. And then, a strange sensation stirred within him as you began to move, deliberate and measured, as if you were preparing for something monumental. Through the fog of his thoughts, he felt the lightest brush of your fingers against his chest, the silken strands of your hair brushing the edges of his torn armor. It was a delicate touch, gentle but unyielding, and somewhere deep within him, the faintest flicker of hope awoke—a fragile thing, like a single spark in a vast, dark void.

For Gil-galad, it was a strange mixture of sensations a deepening awareness of his own fragility, the oppressive weight of his injuries, and yet, beneath it all, the soft hum of your power stirring against his skin. It was faint at first, like the distant rush of water in a still forest, but it began to grow—a steady, rhythmic pulse that reached into him, seeking out the places where he was broken and fragile. He wanted to speak again, to ask what you were doing, to tell you it wasn’t worth it. But even as he opened his mouth, the words faltered. Instead, he let himself drift into the sensation—the warmth of your gift pushing back the cold, the hum of life within your golden strands, and the steadying presence of your will. For the first time since he had fallen, the pain seemed to recede, just slightly, and in its place was the faintest whisper of hope. It was fragile, precarious, but it was there.

Closing your eyes, you drew in a deep, shuddering breath, forcing your emotions to settle into stillness. The noise of the battlefield, the lingering cries of the wounded, and the acrid scent of smoke and blood faded into the background as you turned your focus inward. And then, without thought or effort, a melody welled up within you, rising like the dawn. It was ancient and familiar, as though it had been etched into your very soul, waiting for this one moment to emerge.

Your voice, soft and hesitant at first, trembled on the first note, the words tumbling forth like a fragile stream. But with each passing breath, it grew, steadied, and strengthened, carrying with it all the love, hope, and fierce determination that burned within you. “Flower, gleam and glow, Let your power shine. Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine. Heal what has been hurt, Change the Fates’ design. Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine… What once was mine.” The melody swirled around you, weaving itself into the air like a living thing, delicate and ethereal yet unyielding in its purpose. As the song poured from your lips, the very world around you seemed to hold its breath. The clash of swords and the distant cries grew faint, the weight of the battlefield retreating, as though time itself had slowed to honor your plea.

A faint, golden light began to bloom, first from the tips of your hair, then spreading outward like the first rays of sunlight piercing a heavy fog. It was warm and luminous, chasing away the gloom and shadows that clung to the edges of the ruined field. The glow radiated through each strand, spilling down to your hands where they hovered over Gil-galad’s broken body. The light wrapped around him, tendrils of golden radiance curling and twisting, seeking the places where his wounds ran deepest. Slowly, the glow seeped into the jagged tear across his chest, its soft, unyielding warmth mending torn flesh and shattered bone with a gentle but deliberate grace. It wasn’t harsh or sudden—it was like the steady growth of a tree, natural and full of purpose, filling the spaces where death had begun to creep.

As the magic coursed through him, you felt his body stir beneath your hands. A low, pained groan escaped his lips, weak but unmistakably alive. The tension in his frame, once so taut with pain, began to ease as the warmth suffused him, chasing the chill from his limbs. His breathing, shallow and labored only moments before, grew deeper and steadier, each breath less of a struggle. Color returned to his pallid face, faint at first but spreading with every moment, a soft flush blooming in his cheeks. The harsh lines of anguish etched into his features began to soften, his expression relaxing as the weight of his injuries faded. And then, slowly, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing silver-grey eyes that shone brighter than you had dared to hope.

His gaze found yours almost instantly, locking onto you with an intensity that sent a tremor through your chest. There was clarity in his expression now, a sharpness that had been dulled by pain and exhaustion before. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the world around you forgotten. His eyes, still lined with the echoes of his ordeal, held a silent question, a mixture of awe, gratitude, and something far deeper. You didn’t need to answer him—not with words. The glow that lingered in the air around you spoke for itself, as did the steady hum of life now coursing through his body. He was whole again. He was alive. And for the first time, you dared to believe he would stay that way.

“What…?” His voice, though hoarse and still faint, carried a steady strength now, a grounding quality that hadn’t been there moments before. He struggled to lift his head, his gaze trailing over the glowing strands of your hair, then settling back on your face with a look that made your heart ache. “Your light…” he murmured, awe thickening his tone. “It is like the Silmarils… like the Trees of old.” His voice faltered, not from pain but from reverence, as though he were speaking of something sacred. The wonder in his eyes was enough to take your breath away.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, unchecked, a mix of relief and the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume you. The fear, the helplessness, the agonizing moments where you thought you would lose him—all of it fell away, replaced by the quiet, profound joy of seeing him alive. “You’re safe now,” you managed, your voice breaking and trembling under the weight of your relief. “You’re going to be alright.” For a moment, he simply stared at you, as if trying to reconcile the miracle of what had just happened. Then, slowly, his trembling hand lifted. Though the movement was unsteady, it was deliberate, his fingers brushing gently against the strands of your hair. The light still lingered there, soft and radiant, casting a warm golden glow over his pale skin. His touch was barely there, reverent, as if he feared disturbing the fragile magic that had just saved his life.

“You…” His voice broke, thick with emotion. He swallowed hard, his silver-grey eyes never leaving yours. “You are a miracle,” he said finally, his tone raw, each word weighted with meaning. “I thought I was lost. I thought I had fallen too far. But you…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line as though words could never fully express the depth of his gratitude, or the wonder you had awakened in him. Your hand found his, stilling its trembling with your touch as you brought it to rest between you. “You owe me nothing,” you said softly, the sincerity in your voice unwavering. Your other hand still rested over his chest, where the wound had been, as if grounding yourself in the knowledge that he was whole once more.

“Just stay with me. That’s all I ask.” His eyes searched yours, deep pools of emotion swirling in their depths. There was pain there, yes, but also resolve and something else—something fierce and unbreakable. “I will,” he promised, his voice quiet but filled with a steadfast determination. “For as long as I draw breath, I will stay by your side.” The words settled into your heart like a vow, binding in their simplicity and power. Around you, the battlefield remained—a grim tapestry of ruin—but in this moment, it felt as though the world had stilled. All the pain, the chaos, the shadows of despair fell away, leaving only the connection between the two of you.

The golden glow of your hair began to fade slowly, retreating into the silken strands until it was just a memory of warmth and light. Yet even as the light dimmed, its presence lingered—soft, radiant, and unforgettable. Gil-galad’s hand tightened slightly over yours, his strength returning, a silent reassurance that he was still with you, that he would not leave. You gazed at him, the bond between you forged anew, stronger now than it had ever been. It felt eternal, a connection born not just of love, but of trust, of sacrifice, and of something neither of you could fully name but both understood. You knew, with every beat of your heart, that this bond would endure, unyielding even in the face of the storms that lay ahead.

🔥𝓐𝓭𝓪𝓻

Adar was not one to show weakness easily. His centuries of life had been filled with war, loss, and burdens that would break lesser beings. He had carried the weight of kings and battles, the anguish of personal sacrifice, and the scars of old wars. Yet, now, as he staggered back from the sharp blow that had struck him, a gnawing realization crept through him—the inevitable truth that perhaps this time, his strength might not be enough. The gash across his side was deep, the jagged edge of the wound still bleeding freely, crimson staining his armor and the ground beneath him. It was a pain unlike any he had known before, not just from the physical injury, but from the suffocating weight of something far more pressing—the slow, creeping sensation of his life force ebbing away with every labored breath. His body, usually a pillar of endurance, now felt fragile, betraying him in a way he could not ignore.

His hand, once steady and resolute, trembled as he pressed it to the wound. His fingers, slick with blood, failed to staunch the flow. Each pulse of his heart sent a sharp pain through him, as though his very veins were protesting. He could feel the coldness creeping up his spine, seeping into his bones, and it was as if every fiber of his being was being pulled toward the ground, toward something darker, something final. His breath grew ragged, his chest heaving in shallow gasps, as though he were trying to hold on to something that was slipping further out of reach with each passing moment.

The battlefield around him—once so vivid, filled with the sounds of clashing steel, shouts of victory and defeat, and the sharp cries of the fallen—now seemed distant, muffled, like the echoes of a dream fading with the dawn. The smoke, thick and choking, hung in the air, curling around him like tendrils, making the edges of his vision blur and shift. The screams of the dying seemed far away, as though they were happening on another plane, not here where he stood. His world was narrowing, his mind sinking into a fog as the weight of his years and the exhaustion of the battle pressed down on him. For the first time in centuries, Adar felt the unmistakable pull of mortality—of being human again. In his long life, he had endured so much, but this wound, this agony, seemed different. The sensation of his life slipping from him wasn’t just physical—it was spiritual, as though he were being drawn into the shadows, away from the living, from the war, from everything he had fought for.

He staggered slightly, trying to hold himself upright, his knees buckling as the world around him seemed to tilt. His once-proud stature faltered, and he could feel the weight of all his choices pressing down on him, the ghosts of his past whispering in his ears. Yet he fought to hold on, to remain anchored to the world he had fought so hard to protect. But the cold was relentless now, and his vision—already clouded by the growing darkness—began to fade. His body felt heavy, as if it were made of stone, and every movement, every breath, seemed like a struggle against an inevitable force. For the first time, Adar wasn’t sure he could fight it.

But then, like a beacon cutting through the storm, you appeared. Through the haze of blood and exhaustion, Adar’s bleary eyes strained to make sense of what he was seeing. His body was failing him, but still, there you were—moving toward him with a grace that seemed to defy the chaos of the battlefield. Your presence pierced the dissonance around him, a light that cut through the crushing darkness, a warmth he hadn’t known he still longed for. His heart, which had long since learned to steel itself against all emotions, gave a weak flutter at the sight of you. He wanted nothing more than to reach out, to pull you close and shield you from the brutality that had consumed him, but his body refused to obey. The gash on his side burned with a ferocity that seemed to steal what little strength remained in him, and the darkness, relentless in its grasp, began to creep back over his vision.

Through the fog, he heard your voice—a sound like the calm before a storm, full of resolve and something else he couldn’t quite place. It was a lifeline, a tether pulling him toward the last remnants of himself. “Adar!” you called again, your voice edged with fear, but not for him. No, it was the fear of what was to come, the fear of losing him. He tried to speak, to reassure you, to tell you that this burden was not yours to bear. But the words, the familiar comfort of his own voice, refused to come. His throat felt like dry stone, his breath shallow and ragged. Instead, he could only manage a faint sigh, a sound that conveyed the weight of everything he couldn’t say. His body was failing him in ways he had never imagined, yet in that fleeting moment, as he lay there before you, there was something else—a flicker of hope sparked within him, kindled by your unrelenting presence.

You didn’t hesitate. There was no fear in your gaze, no hesitation in the way you moved toward him with such purpose. It was as though nothing else in the world mattered except reaching him, saving him. And there was something else there too—something deep in the way you looked at him. Something ancient, something far beyond the mortal realm. In that moment, the pain of his wound faded into the background, overtaken by the force of that unspoken connection between you.

You knelt beside him, your hands steady despite the storm of emotion swirling in your eyes. Your touch, gentle but firm, brushed against his bloodied side. Adar’s breath hitched at the contact. The tenderness of your touch sent a shiver down his spine, and for a brief moment, he forgot the battlefield, forgot the war, and forgot the agony wracking his body. It was as if you had reached into the very core of him, grounding him, reminding him of what it felt like to be human again, to be cared for, to be seen. “Hold on,” you whispered, the words soft but filled with a power that seemed to resonate with something far beyond your years. Your voice was a balm, and despite the dark tide pulling him under, he felt a warmth spreading from the place where your hand rested on him, steadying him in ways that no blade could ever do.

His heart raced, a desperate echo of life, fighting against the pull of oblivion. But with you there, with your gaze unwavering and your touch so sure, he felt the stirrings of something—something more than hope. It was as if, in that moment, he was no longer alone. And though he could not move, though his vision blurred and the cold crept in, he found a new strength rising in him, a quiet defiance against the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole. It wasn’t just a flicker anymore. It was a spark. And that spark, ignited by your presence, was enough to keep him tethered to this world—at least for a little while longer.

You reached for his injury with the care of someone who had touched the very fabric of life itself. Your hand brushed lightly against his bloodied side, and the sensation of your touch sent a tremor through his body, a shiver that wasn’t born from cold but from the sheer force of the energy you radiated. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was imagining it—the way the light seemed to gather around you, how the very space around you seemed to hum with something beyond him, beyond anything he had ever known. His breath stilled in his chest as he watched, wide-eyed, as your long, (your hair colour)—once lifeless and heavy—began to shimmer. The strands of it caught the dim light of the battlefield, then glowed with an ethereal radiance, soft and vibrant like starlight reflecting on the still surface of a deep lake. The glow pulsated gently, almost as if it had a life of its own, curling in the air around you like an extension of your being.

With a steady, graceful motion, you leaned closer, the light from your hair wrapping around his wound like a warm, shimmering ribbon. It was as though your hair itself had become an extension of your will, an instrument of healing—its glow bathing him in a tender warmth, coaxing his body to respond, to fight against the ravages of injury. Your voice broke through the chaos, a soft yet powerful melody that seemed to echo in his very soul. “Flower, gleam and glow, Let your powers shine, Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine, Heal what has been hurt, Change the fates’ design, Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine, What once was mine.” The words, unfamiliar and yet oddly comforting, seemed to wrap around his heart, wrapping him in an embrace that transcended the physical realm. As you sang, he could feel the magic pouring through him, like a river of light and warmth filling every corner of his being. The wound on his side, deep and cruel, began to respond to the energy surrounding him. The jagged edges of his torn flesh smoothed themselves, the bleeding slowing and then ceasing altogether. It was as if time itself bent to your will, erasing the pain, erasing the damage, and with each passing second, the agony that had once clung to him began to fade away. The blood-soaked fabric of his tunic no longer clung to his skin, the crimson stain receding as though it had never been.

Adar could feel the weight lifting from his body, the exhaustion that had pulled at him for so long beginning to ease. His breath, which had been shallow and labored, slowly began to even out, the tightness in his chest loosening with the soothing magic you invoked. The light from your hair wrapped around him like a blanket, gentle but insistent, coaxing the wound closed, mending what had been broken. Each pulse of the glow seemed to pull him further from the edge of darkness, and though he could barely grasp the magnitude of what was happening, he felt the healing begin to take root in him.

The gash that had once seemed so insurmountable was now no more than a faint line across his side, the skin already knitting itself back together, leaving only a trace of the injury behind. His body, once heavy and unresponsive, now felt lighter, as though the burden of the battle had been lifted from his shoulders. And though the pain still lingered at the edges of his awareness, it was no longer the consuming force it had once been. Instead, there was a quiet calm that settled over him, a peace that only deepened as the last notes of your song faded into the air. His breath, once ragged and strained, grew more steady and assured with each passing moment. Slowly, the fog of exhaustion began to clear, replaced by a sharpness that he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. The clarity in his mind came as a surprising relief—like the mists parting to reveal a sky he thought he’d never see again. Adar blinked, feeling the weight of his body ease, but he was still weak, still trembling slightly from the ordeal. And yet, he could now focus, his eyes locking onto yours.

The glow from your hair bathed you in an ethereal light, casting a soft radiance that made everything around you appear to fade into insignificance. It was as though you were not entirely of this world, something more, something beyond. In that moment, as he looked at you, there were no words that could encompass the depth of his feelings. He had lived a life filled with loss, pain, and the burdens of responsibility, but in this instant, before him, was something he had long ago abandoned—a flicker of something beautiful, something sacred. Something that made the world seem just a little more bearable.

“You…” His voice came out hoarse, weak from the strain of the battle and his body’s fragile state. He cleared his throat, trying again, but the words felt too small, too inadequate for what he was experiencing. “What are you?” It was a question born from awe, from confusion, and from something deeper—something that had stirred in him the moment your magic had touched him.

You smiled softly, your lips curving into something gentle, something reassuring. Your hair, still glowing faintly, pulsed in time with your heartbeat—a rhythm that somehow felt like a promise. “I am just someone who won’t let you fall.” The sincerity in your words struck him with the force of a thunderclap, and something in his chest clenched painfully. The raw, unguarded emotion in your voice—how it came from a place of such quiet strength—made his heart ache in ways he had long forgotten how to feel. In all his years, he had seen many faces of suffering, many moments of hopelessness, but never had he encountered something so purely selfless. The magic you wielded, the way it flowed from you with such ease, was beyond anything he could comprehend. It was not just a force of nature—it was a gift. A gift so rare that it seemed as though it had no place in the broken world they lived in.

Adar’s trembling hand reached out instinctively, as if drawn to you, as though he needed to touch you to make sure you weren’t some fleeting illusion. His fingers brushed against the soft strands of your hair, and a strange sensation washed over him, as if by touching you, he was touching something far older than even himself. It was as though the very fabric of the world itself had passed through him in that brief connection.

“I owe you my life,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion—rare, raw, and unguarded. The words felt foreign on his tongue, yet they were the truest he had ever spoken. He had always been one to carry his burdens alone, to face the storm without ever asking for shelter, but now, in the wake of your magic, there was no denying it. He owed you more than he could ever express. You shook your head, a soft, almost imperceptible motion, and gently, your hand closed around his. “No,” you murmured, your voice tender and firm. “You owe me nothing. Just live, Adar. That’s enough for me.” The weight of your words settled into his chest, heavier than anything else, and for a moment, the world seemed to still around him. In that quiet space between the past and the future, he felt the enormity of what you were offering him—not just life, but the chance to live without the burden of guilt, without the crushing weight of a world that had never been kind.

He couldn’t speak at first. The words that hovered on his tongue felt too insignificant to capture the depth of what he felt in that moment. But when they came, they were a whisper, barely audible yet clear in their sincerity. “I will stay, for as long as you’ll have me.” And in that moment, surrounded by the ruins of a battle, amid the wreckage of war, there was a warmth that seemed to push back the cold shadows that had once threatened to consume him. The light of your hair, still glowing softly in the aftermath of your magic, seemed to envelop them both. The world outside seemed distant, almost irrelevant, as the promise in your eyes shone brighter than any star could. Whatever came next, whatever storms the world would throw at them, it no longer seemed like an insurmountable challenge. Not with you by his side.

#thranduil #thranduil x you #thranduil x reader #thranduil of mirkwood #Gil galad #Gil galad x you #Gil galad x reader #gil galad rings of power #gil galad of lindon #Adar #Adar x you #Adar x reader #daddy adar #adar rings of power #adaration #lord of the rings #the hobbit #lotr elves

134 notes · View notes

solxamber · 5 months ago

Note

On my hands and knees sobbing throwing up combusting into dust signs my soul away to you THAT WAS SO SO SOOOOO CUTEEEEEE GUAYAYYAYYUUUUUAUAGAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! Poor Rollo thinks hes just being nice meanwhile poor yuu is so used to people digging underneath the bar that he's literally prince charming incarnate. Rollo clearly needs to adjust their standards and do what the villains could not by kissing yuu softly while they take a nap. And also threaten crowley to give them money for food. ANYWAYS!!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR FEEDING ME AND THE 5 OTHER ROLLO FANS THAT SURVIVED THE FAMINE (/j) I OWE YOU MY LIFE!!!!! This message is getting so long, but you deserve to know how awesome your writing is and that I look forward to whatever you post for real. I slide over a crisp 5 maddol and ask for when you feel like it (and if you even want to ofc!!) A part 3 where maybe they're deeper in the relationship and are doing heinous things like m*king out and grimm thinks they should be executed for making him walk into this horror. (He didn't knock. Bc he's grimm. He claimed to be scarred for life until Rollo busted out the premium tuna suddenly we should get married asap) . ANYWAYS SORRY FOR THE LONG RAMBLE. IM BARKING AND CRYING AND EXPLODING AND PROPOSING TO YOU. Signed with love, rollo anon 💗💝💖

Rollo Flamme x reader

i just saw this and this almost made me cry 🫶 also sorry for the very long wait

Part 1 ; Part 2

Rollo was nothing if not diligent. Whether it was reorganizing the shelves at the library, fixing the perpetually squeaky door in Ramshackle, or chastising Grim for yet another snack-induced fire hazard, he was always helping in his quietly intense way. It wasn’t just duty—he genuinely seemed to enjoy making your life easier, which both baffled and warmed you to your core.

You, of course, did what you could to return the favor. Helping him clean up after unruly magic festival events, proofreading his endless notes about anti-magic policies, and gently reminding him to relax when he got that telltale furrow in his brow.

And you were in love.

Like, grossly in love. The kind of love where you found his huffy rants about magical irresponsibility charming and he tolerated Grim's chaos just to spend more time with you. It was a weird, wonderful balance you’d somehow managed to strike.

Which led to this particular evening: you and Rollo, tangled on the old, creaky couch in your room at Ramshackle.

It had started innocently enough. You’d been reviewing a new book he'd brought for you—something philosophical, of course, but he’d chosen it specifically because he thought you’d enjoy it. You were teasing him about his insistence on leaving a handwritten note inside the front cover (“Who even does this, Rollo? It’s adorable, but—seriously?”), and he had flushed in that way that made you want to pinch his cheeks.

Then one thing led to another.

Now, his lips were on yours, one hand cradling your face with the kind of reverence that made your heart twist. His other arm was around your waist, anchoring you against him. Rollo might not have been an experienced romantic, but he made up for it in sheer, focused intensity. When he kissed you, it felt like you were the only thing in the world that mattered to him.

“You’re—mmph—very distracting,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and tinged with amusement.

You grinned, tugging him closer. “Says the guy who started this.”

His only response was to kiss you again, deeper this time, until your brain was reduced to a pleasant, fizzy blur. The world outside the room ceased to exist. It was just you, him, and the creak of the couch as you shifted closer—

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY?! MY EYES! THEY’RE RUINED!”

Grim’s shrill scream shattered the moment like glass.

You froze, pulling back to see Grim standing in the doorway, paws dramatically covering his eyes. “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME? ON MY COUCH?”

“Grim, it’s my couch,” you said, face burning.

“You’re the henchhuman; it’s ours by default!” Grim wailed. “And now it’s a place of SIN!”

Rollo, to his credit, had already straightened up, his expression transitioning from flustered to composed in record time. “Grim,” he said, voice calm yet firm, “surely you’ve barged in enough times to anticipate that privacy should be respected.”

“Oh, I respected it,” Grim sniffed. “But my henchhuman clearly has no shame. And you!” He pointed an accusatory paw at Rollo. “I thought you were better than this! But no, you’re—”

Rollo, completely unbothered by the tirade, reached into his bag and produced a can of… premium tuna?

Grim’s rant ground to a halt. His ears perked up as he sniffed the air. “Wait. Is that—?”

“Indeed,” Rollo said smoothly, holding it up like a peace offering. “A gift I intended to give later, but it seems circumstances call for a different approach.”

Grim’s eyes lit up with unrestrained glee. “You know what? I’ve never doubted you for a second, Rollo!” He scurried forward, practically salivating as he swiped the can. “You’re clearly the best thing that’s ever happened to my henchhuman. You two should get married. Tomorrow. I’ll get a priest. I’m sure Crowley owes me a favor.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands as Grim popped the can open with zero regard for decorum. “Grim, you are the worst.”

“Correction: I’m the best,” Grim said, already devouring the tuna with gusto. Between bites, he added, “This guy’s a keeper. Don’t mess it up, henchhuman.”

Rollo’s lips twitched, a hint of amusement breaking through his otherwise composed demeanor. He leaned closer, whispering just loud enough for you to hear, “Shall we take his advice?”

You gave him a playful shove, laughing despite yourself. “Not helping, Rollo.”

But deep down, as Grim devoured his bribe and Rollo sat beside you with that quietly pleased look, you couldn’t deny that the idea didn’t sound all that bad.

The exhaustion of the day had finally caught up to you, and you’d collapsed onto your bed with a sigh of relief. “Wake me up for class, okay?” you mumbled to Rollo, who was sitting at your desk, meticulously organizing the scattered notes you’d left behind.

“I’ll make sure you’re on time,” he replied, his voice carrying that steady assurance you found oddly comforting.

You barely managed a hum of acknowledgment before sleep claimed you, leaving the world behind in a haze of warm, peaceful quiet.

When you stirred again, it wasn’t the sound of your alarm or the creak of the floorboards that woke you. It was something far gentler.

A warm, featherlight pressure on your forehead.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, and the first thing you saw was Rollo leaning over you, his expression soft in a way that made your heart do an Olympic-level somersault. He was close enough that you could see the slight flush on his cheeks, though his composure never wavered.

“Good morning,” he said softly, his voice a gentle murmur. “It’s time to get ready for class.”

You blinked at him, your still-sleepy brain struggling to process what had just happened. “Did you… just kiss me awake?”

His blush deepened, but he stood his ground, meeting your gaze with quiet confidence. “You looked so peaceful. I thought it would be a more pleasant way to wake you than simply shaking your shoulder.”

Your heart melted on the spot. If there was a scale for romantic gestures, this one had just broken it.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, though your voice betrayed how utterly smitten you were.

“Perhaps,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But you didn’t seem to mind.”

You didn’t bother arguing because he was absolutely right. Instead, you reached out, tugging him down for a proper kiss this time.

When you finally pulled away, you smirked at his flustered expression. “If you keep this up, I’m going to start napping more often.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “If that’s the case, I’ll have to be even more diligent about ensuring you don’t oversleep.”

You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest as you sat up and stretched. “Thanks for waking me, Rollo. Really.”

“Of course,” he said, his tone earnest as ever. “It’s the least I can do.”

The man was going to ruin you with how thoughtful he was. And as you got ready for class with a lingering smile on your face, you couldn’t help but think that waking up like this every day wouldn’t be so bad.

It started with something simple. You were both sitting in the courtyard of the chapel, enjoying a quiet moment together. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over everything, and Rollo was, as usual, the picture of composure. He was reading a book—some historical text you’d never have the patience for—but his attention drifted when he noticed you staring at the horizon, lost in thought.

“Are you cold?” he asked, setting his book aside and leaning slightly closer.

You blinked out of your reverie, shaking your head with a soft smile. “No, I’m fine.”

He studied you for a moment, then pulled his scarf from around his neck and gently draped it over your shoulders anyway. “Just in case,” he murmured.

It wasn’t anything extraordinary—just a scarf—but the gesture made your heart swell. The scarf smelled faintly of lavender, and the warmth of it felt like an extension of Rollo himself.

“Thanks, Rollo,” you said, voice soft.

He nodded, but when he saw the way your smile lingered, something shifted in his expression. His usual composed demeanor softened into something… almost reverent.

“You deserve this,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically tender.

“Huh?” You tilted your head at him, confused.

“You deserve to be cared for,” he clarified, meeting your gaze with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “You give so much of yourself to others. It’s only natural that someone should do the same for you.”

You stared at him, heart racing. “Rollo, I… That’s really sweet.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, though not at you. “It’s concerning that such basic decency stands out to you,” he muttered, almost to himself. “What kind of environment is this school fostering?”

The thought of Rollo, grimacing at the thought of NRC’s questionable population, made you burst into laughter. “I mean, you’ve met Grim, right? The standards here are subterranean.”

Rollo’s expression softened again when he saw how amused you were. “Even so,” he said, taking your hands in his with surprising gentleness, “you should never feel as though you’re asking for too much when you expect kindness or respect. It’s what you’re owed.”

Your heart did a little somersault, and you couldn’t help but giggle, ridiculously touched. “Stop, you’re going to make me cry,” you teased, though the slight quiver in your voice betrayed how close you were to actually tearing up.

He smiled faintly, leaning closer until his forehead nearly touched yours. “If you cry, I’ll simply have to dry your tears,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “Though I’d rather see you smiling.”

You let out another helpless laugh, pulling your hands free so you could lightly swat at his arm. “Stop being so romantic! I can’t handle this!”

Rollo chuckled softly, pleased with your reaction. “If it makes you happy, then I’ll consider it a worthwhile effort.”

And he meant it. He was genuinely, utterly content to see you so touched, so happy. Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet but fierce determination grew. The villains and miscreants of NRC may not have treated you with the respect you deserved, but he would make it his mission to ensure you never doubted your worth again.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #twst rollo x reader #rollo x reader #rollo x you #rollo flamme #rollo flamme x reader #rollo flamme x you #rollo

258 notes · View notes

marvelousels · 4 months ago

Text

THROUGH THE STATIC | 1

(pt 2 here!)

authors note — sorry but im just so delusional wishing this was true, i love imagining that my fav characters randomly come to our world and "I DO BELIEVE THAT A MULTIVERSE EXISTS!" i say as i get dragged to the mental asylum.

pairings: jinx x fem!reader (js freinds for now ig)

DISCO! — Nessa Barrett FT Tommy Genesis playing!

The dim glow of the television screen bathed your living room in shifting hues of blue and purple. You lay sprawled on the couch, a half-empty bowl of popcorn resting precariously on your stomach. The credits for the latest episode of Arcane had just finished rolling, and the Netflix autoplay countdown ticked ominously toward the next. But you didn’t hit “Skip Intro.” Not yet.

Jinx. There she was again, center frame in your mind. Her wild, electric energy. Her piercing blue eyes. That wicked grin that danced somewhere between childlike joy and dangerous insanity. Something about her had always captivated you, far beyond any rational explanation. She was chaos incarnate, yet there was a vulnerability beneath her bravado that pulled you in like a magnet. Watching her felt like staring into a storm: terrifying, exhilarating, and impossible to look away from.

You sighed and reached for the remote, ready to plunge into another episode, when the screen suddenly froze. A flicker. Then another. The sound cut out, replaced by a low, staticky hum. Frowning, you sat up, placing the popcorn bowl on the coffee table.

“Oh, come on,” you muttered, hitting the power button. Nothing. The screen stayed on, the image of Jinx’s manic grin distorting slightly as if she were underwater.

The hum grew louder. A sharp crackle followed, and the colors on the screen began to bleed together in a way that made your eyes ache. You got up, hesitant but drawn closer by a mix of curiosity and unease. Maybe the TV was just overheating. Maybe the signal was—

Without warning, the screen flared bright white, and a shockwave of static knocked you backward. You hit the floor with a grunt, shielding your eyes from the blinding light. The air felt charged, humming with an almost electric tension.

When the light finally dimmed, you lowered your arm cautiously. The TV was off. The room was eerily quiet except for your own breathing. Then you heard it. A groan. Not yours.

You froze. Slowly, you turned your head toward the sound, your heart pounding in your chest.

Lying sprawled across the floor, half on top of you, was Jinx.

At first, your brain couldn’t process what you were seeing. She was impossibly real. Her wild blue braids, the smudged makeup around her eyes, even the faint scars on her arms—every detail was vivid, tangible. She groaned again, shifting slightly, and you felt the weight of her pressing down on your legs.

“What the hell?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Her eyes snapped open. For a split second, they were unfocused, darting around the room in confusion. Then they locked onto yours. Blue and intense, just like on the screen, but filled with a raw, terrifying energy that made your breath catch.

“Who the fuck are you?” she demanded, her voice sharp and accusing. She scrambled to her feet, grabbing for a weapon that wasn’t there. Her hands patted down her sides frantically before she cursed under her breath.

You sat up slowly, your hands raised instinctively in a placating gesture. “Whoa, whoa, hold on. I—I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She narrowed her eyes, backing up until her shoulders hit the wall. Her gaze darted around the room, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The modern furniture. The framed photos. The TV. Her expression shifted from defensive to bewildered.

“Where am I?” she muttered, almost to herself. Then, louder, “What is this place?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but no words came out. What were you supposed to say? Hi, welcome to my living room. You’re supposed to be a fictional character.

“Hey!” she snapped, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “I asked you a question.”

“You’re… in my house,” you stammered. “And… uh, you came out of the TV?”

Her brows knitted together in confusion. She glanced back at the darkened screen, then back at you. “Bullshit.”

“I swear!” you said quickly, holding your hands up again. “One minute I was watching you—I mean, watching Arcane—and then the screen freaked out, and you…” You gestured vaguely at her. “You appeared.”

Jinx’s eyes narrowed further, but the initial panic seemed to ebb slightly, replaced by a cautious curiosity. She took a step closer, looming over you with an almost predatory intensity.

“You know who I am?” she asked, her tone somewhere between suspicion and amusement.

You swallowed hard. “Uh, yeah. Jinx. From… Arcane. You’re… kind of famous here.”

“Famous?” Her lips curled into a grin, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you’re a… a character. From a TV show.” The words felt ridiculous as they left your mouth, but there was no other way to explain it.

Her grin faltered. She stared at you, her head tilting slightly as if trying to gauge whether you were messing with her. Finally, she sighed and ran a hand through her braids.

“A TV show,” she repeated flatly.

You nodded. “Yeah. You’re… fictional. Or, you’re supposed to be. I don’t know how you got here.”

Jinx’s expression darkened. Her eyes darted back to the TV, then to her hands, flexing her fingers as if to reassure herself she was real. “Fictional,” she muttered, almost to herself. “That’s… no. That’s insane.”

“Trust me, I’m just as confused as you are,” you said. “But you’re here. Somehow.”

She paced the room, her movements jerky and restless. “This has to be some kind of trick,” she said, half to herself. “Some sick game. Did Sevika put you up to this? Or Silco? Is this one of their mind-fucks?”

“I don’t know who—” You cut yourself off, realizing it was pointless. Of course she thought this was some kind of trap. Her whole life was a series of betrayals and manipulation. Why would this be any different?

“Listen,” you said carefully, “I don’t know how or why you’re here, but I’m not your enemy. I’m just… a random person who happened to be watching TV when you showed up. That’s it.”

She stopped pacing, her gaze snapping back to you. Her expression was unreadable, her blue eyes scanning your face as if searching for any hint of deception. Finally, she sighed and ran a hand through her braids.

“Okay,” she said, though her tone was far from convinced. “Let’s say I believe you. What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

You hesitated, unsure how to answer. What were you supposed to do? You were just an ordinary person. You didn’t have the faintest idea how to deal with something like this.

“I guess… we figure it out,” you said finally. “Together.”

Jinx raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Together, huh?”

You nodded, trying to muster some confidence. “Yeah. I mean, you’re stuck here, right? Might as well work with me instead of against me.”

She considered this for a long moment, then shrugged. “Fine,” she said. “But don’t get any ideas, ‘cause if you try anything funny…” She mimed an explosion with her hands, grinning wickedly.

You couldn’t help but laugh, though it was more from nerves than amusement. “Noted.”

And just like that, your ordinary life had been turned upside down. As Jinx plopped onto your couch, grabbing a handful of popcorn like she owned the place, you couldn’t help but wonder what the hell you’d just gotten yourself into.

Hours later, the reality of your situation began to sink in. Jinx had settled into your living room like a storm that refused to pass, alternating between questioning you about this world and exploring the space with a manic, childlike curiosity. She’d found your stash of snacks and immediately laid claim to a bag of chips, cramming them into her mouth with zero regard for crumbs.

“So this world,” she said around a mouthful of chips, “you’re saying it’s nothing like Zaun or Piltover?”

You shook your head, watching her from the other end of the couch. “Nope. No Hextech. No shimmer. No… well, no war, at least not like yours.”

She snorted. “Sounds boring.”

“It’s… peaceful,” you offered.

She rolled her eyes. “Peace is overrated.”

You couldn’t help but smile. Despite the chaos she radiated, there was something oddly endearing about her. She was a whirlwind of contradictions—reckless yet calculating, wild yet wounded. And now, she was your problem.

“So,” she said, turning her attention back to you, “how do we fix this? How do I get back?”

“I… don’t know,” you admitted. “I’m not exactly an expert on… whatever this is. Reality-hopping? Dimensional travel? It’s way out of my league.”

She groaned, flopping dramatically onto her back. “Great. Just great. Stuck in a world full of… what do you even do here? Sit around and stare at screens all day?”

“Pretty much,” you said with a chuckle. “But hey, maybe it won’t be so bad. You might even like it here.”

She gave you a skeptical look but didn’t argue. Instead, she propped herself up on her elbows, her gaze lingering on you longer than felt entirely comfortable.

“You’re weird,” she said finally, though there was no malice in her tone. If anything, it sounded almost… amused.

“Takes one to know one,” you shot back, surprising yourself with the ease of your response.

Jinx blinked, then grinned. A real grin this time, not the manic, unhinged one you’d seen earlier. For a moment, she looked almost human. Almost.

“Maybe this won’t be so boring after all,” she said, grabbing another handful of chips.

You weren’t sure whether to feel relieved or terrified. Either way, one thing was certain: life as you knew it was never going to be the same.

#arcane #fanfiction #jinx arcane #jinx league of legends #jinx #jinx x you #jinx x reader #oneshot #writing #alternate universe #crossover #reader insert #fem reader

131 notes · View notes

huicitawrites · 6 months ago

Text

Diaries of the Priestess of The Malevolent Shrine

Yandere! Heian Sukuna x Fem! Reader tags: @a-tiny-teez @kazusan7yanderekun @eleventhdoctorsangel @sircatchungus warnings: yandere, “slow burn”, violence, death and torture, slavery

Diary Entry #?, The Harvest Festival

all entries

-It has been two years since you've become his priestess.

You sit on your knees, head bowed, the scarlet hakama folded perfectly beneath you, your pristine white kosode a mockery of the purity expected of a priestess.

What a joke, you think bitterly.

The being in front of you is far from holy—he is the devil incarnate, Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses.

Hesitantly, you peel one eye open.

His huge, muscular form sits without a care for modesty, one knee raised, the other placed open, his four arms slouching around his body. His four bloodshot eyes hold no emotion, and his two-sided face remains blank. The harvest festival, so sacred to the people, means nothing to him. All that mattered was that he would be revered.

They would pray to him, treat him as a god, and with that thought, his ego was fed. His lips twisted into a smug smile.

You felt dirty despite your clean robes. After all, being his priestess meant serving his blasphemy.

His grin caught your attention, and your eyes were drawn to his face. But when his gaze locked with yours, you quickly looked away.

You heard a deep chuckle rumble through his broad chest.

You despised making eye contact with him. You couldn’t bear those crimson, bloodshot eyes. They were seared into your memory, a scar etched into your soul on that day.

The day your clan was massacred. In your weakness, you surrendered to his mercy and betrayed the legacy of your parents. You became his ‘priestess.’

A fancy title for a slave, nothing more—a pawn in the hands of the King of Curses who sought to be a god. A God of Chaos, a God of Suffering, a God of Carnage.

The drums began, a slow, steady thud that echoed through the temple halls, shaking you from your thoughts. The festival was starting. You remained kneeling beside Sukuna, just behind his massive form, your hands folded neatly in front of you. The beat of the drums reverberated in your chest, growing louder with each passing moment, as the priests below began their solemn procession.

They moved in tandem, their steps perfectly synchronized with the rhythm, white robes swaying like ghostly apparitions. Incense wafted into the air, thick and cloying, its sweet scent filling the temple as it curled upward to the dark rafters. You felt trapped beneath the weight of it all: the suffocating smoke, the oppressive atmosphere, and the sheer force of Sukuna’s cursed energy beside you.

The chanting began, a deep, guttural sound that filled the courtyard. Ancient words, meant to honor the gods, now twisted in purpose, directed at the devil sitting next to you. The villagers and priests alike believed this to be a sacred festival, a prayer for a prosperous harvest, but you knew the truth.

This was no prayer to the gods. This was a celebration of him, Ryomen Sukuna, so that he may be more willing to spare their lives. The villagers and priests would leave tonight, grateful just to have survived the day under his gaze.

You glanced at Sukuna again, careful not to meet his eyes this time. His expression was as indifferent as ever, his four eyes half-lidded in boredom. One arm rested lazily on his knee, while the others hung loosely by his sides. Uraume stood by his right side, ever faithful, the perfect servant.

The villagers knelt outside the temple, their foreheads pressed into the dirt, offering their fear and devotion in the only way they knew. None of them dared look up, too terrified of the consequences. Sukuna’s smirk grew, feeding off their terror, and you could feel the faint pulse of satisfaction that radiated from him. This festival—this display of submission—was nothing more than fuel for his inflated ego.

The chanting grew louder, the rhythm of the drums quickening, as the priests raised their hands in supplication. Before Sukuna, they laid baskets of rice, fruit, and incense.

You stood there, silent and still, your head slightly bowed in mock reverence.

But as the chanting reached a fevered pitch and the drumbeats pounded in your ears, you felt a shift in the air. The festival was only just beginning, and for some reason, your gut was screaming at you, warning you to not lower your guard.

Then, a figure emerged from the crowd. It was a half-naked woman—her kimono slipping from her shoulders and wide open. Her wild eyes locked onto Sukuna the moment she saw him, and something changed in her expression—a manic grin spread across her face, unrestrained and desperate.

“Yorozu-sama, wait!!” you heard a young voice plead.

But as you turned your face to comprehend just what in the heavens was going on, a venomous voice whispered in your ear, "Out of the way, bitch."

“From now on, I will be the one to stand by his side!” Yorozu’s voice rang out, high-pitched and gleeful.

And then it happened—a swift, brutal kick struck you in the side, sending you flying off the wooden altar. You gasped as the air was forced from your lungs, landing hard on the floor below. The gravel dug into your body as the world around you spun and blurred.

You winced, barely able to lift your head, blinking a few times as your vision recovered.

The sight of Sukuna made your stomach twist. He hadn’t moved, but his expression had changed—the casual indifference wiped away, replaced by a deep, disgusted frown. His eyes burned with fury, a heat that seethed and promised destruction.

Uraume stepped forward quickly. “How dare you,” they snarled, standing between Yorozu and their master. Their voice was cold and sharp, the tension palpable. They wouldn’t allow such disrespect to stand.

Yorozu, however, ignored Uraume entirely. She didn’t even look at them, her eyes only for Sukuna, her fixation unwavering. She was completely enamored, her entire focus on him and no one else. Uraume’s presence meant no threat to her.

You groaned and coughed, your chest heaving with each breath. The pain was sharp, but you could feel a servant’s hands on you, lifting you gently, trying to help you sit upright. You leaned into their support, struggling to regain control over your breathing.

The servant whispered in your ear, their hands delicate and soft as they tried to calm you. “Forgive my lady's actions, please, stay still. You’re hurt.”

Yet your focus—no, all eyes—were on the woman standing in front of Sukuna, her half-naked form still and eerily focused. Yorozu, crazed and delirious with adoration, stood as if she had discovered something divine.

"Sukuna…!" the mad woman praised, her voice shaking with reverence. "You are magnificent! Seeing you in the flesh—" Yorozu took a step closer, eyes bright with infatuation. Her words of praise drowned in the background noise of hushed whispers as you felt the gentle hands from before pat your shoulders.

You turned to the servant holding you, and your eyes widened in fear. It was a boy, surely no more than ten. Your eyes jumped from the child to Yorozu and then to Sukuna. Back and forth, you repeated this pattern.

“You look… lonely. I can feel it. Allow me to be the one to cure your loneliness! Let us turn this world into a cursed chaos—

Amidst her blabbering, the realization befell you, and as the boy tried to lift you up, your hands twisted the fabric of his yukata.

"Run. Flee at once!"

"Miss, you need to calm down! I need to take you to the healers—"

-a world fit for the King of Curses! A world where—”

“Shut up.”

Sukuna’s deep voice cut through Yorozu's words with finality, cold and disdain. Before she could react, Sukuna moved.

With barely a flick of his wrist, he unleashed his cursed technique, faster than a heartbeat. An invisible slash of cursed energy sliced through the air, clean and precise. Yorozu’s words choked into a sharp gasp, her eyes still lovesick and lidded as her body crumpled to the ground, lifeless in an instant.

The priests and villagers cowered, their terrified murmurs drowned out by the overwhelming pressure of Sukuna’s presence. Blood splattered the gravel floor beneath her, pooling around her as if her life had never mattered. Silence hung heavy once more.

Your breath hitched as you tried to stand up and move the shocked child away. The pain in your chest flared up again, making you struggle against your coughs. But before you could get away with the child in hand, a shadow loomed over both of you.

In one swift motion, you felt yourself being lifted off the ground, strong hands wrapping around you, pulling you up effortlessly. Your body was pressed against Sukuna’s massive form, his cursed energy suffocating as it crackled in the air.

You heard a thud behind you and turned your head sharply to assess the child's well-being.

Yet two of his arms held you firmly, immobilizing you. One hand gripped your waist, the other snatched your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Look at me,” he commanded. His crimson eyes inspecting every detail of your face. “Are you hurt?” he asked calmly.

Your heart raced, panic flaring as the blood from Yorozu pooled around the gravel. “The boy—please, he’s just—”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed and his grip tightened, “Pay attention to me,” he said, his voice a dangerous command “Answer me—are you hurt?”

The words barely escaped your lips. “I—I’m fine, my Lord,” you stammered, feeling utterly vulnerable within his caging arms.

Satisfied for the moment, Sukuna turned his attention back to the villagers, who now knelt in terror, prayers spilling from their lips, frantic and desperate. His voice dripped with dark amusement, the very embodiment of menace. “Quite the rude hosts, don’t you think?” he remarked, his eyes gleaming with malice. “They seem to have forgotten their place.”

As he raised his spear, glimmering ominously in the dim light, the air turned thick with tension. You could feel it before it happened—a wave of pure, unfiltered chaos. Carnage ensued.

Screams erupted as Sukuna cut through flesh and bone, a whirlwind of death and destruction. The villagers, once fervent in their prayers, now fled in terror, but there was nowhere to hide from the King of Curses. They fell around you, bodies littering the ground like discarded offerings.

Pinned in his grip, your eyes were shut but you were forced to withstand the sounds of the massacre. Sukuna’s eyes gleamed with a primal excitement, the thrill of slaughter igniting a fire within him that was terrifying. Each swipe of his weapon, each agonized scream, only served to fuel his insatiable bloodlust.

“Such chaos… it’s intoxicating,” he mused, his voice laced with a dark satisfaction that sent chills down your spine.

As the last echoes of terror faded into silence, Sukuna’s gaze turned back to you, his grip still firm around your waist. His eyes darkened, holding a predatory intensity that made your heart race.

With a twisted smirk curling his lips, he leaned closer, the scent of blood and incense clinging to him. “Consider this a reminder,” he murmured, voice low and chilling, the warmth of his breath grazing your skin.

"Uraume", he called out and the cursed-ice user made no haste to come close and kneel, "Let's go."

"Yes, Sukuna-sama"

And so, as he carried you away and Uraume left in tow, your eyes desperately secanned for any hint of survivors, but you only found a torn piece of that poor, innocent boy's yukata on the pools of blood.

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere fanfiction #yandere blog #self insert #yandere writing #yandere jjk #yandere sukuna #yandere sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader

125 notes · View notes

agentstarkid · 5 days ago

Text

WHAT THE GODS TRIED TO BURY ✦ 03

✦ WORD COUNT: 4K

✦ WARNINGS: ANGST, violence, language, gore, moral ambiguity, a wee bit of 'down bad' situation from our girl, unrequited love (OR IS IT).

✦ MAY'S RADIO: Forgot to ask before, how good are your symbolism skills, besties? Y'know, just... curious 👀 A lil flashback in this chapter and... uhm... let's pretend a Commander comes before (under?) a General because I don't know how these military ranks work. Ah once again, Rhys can fuck off <3

< previous | series masterlist | next >

It felt like trying to hold back a tide with bare hands.

She stood amidst the chaos, mud sucking at her boots, blood drying on her fighting leathers. The battlefield stretched endlessly, painted in shadow and flame. Screams echoed like war drums, and still, the enemy pressed forward, ruthless and tireless.

An attacker lunged from her blind side—too fast, too close. She spun, blade flashing, and met him with a snarl. Steel met flesh with a wet crunch, and he crumpled at her feet.

She pivoted on her heel, eyes scanning the ridge ahead where the enemy’s forces were surging, their armor obsidian and unholy. Their power churned the wind, thick with dark magic that clawed at her skin like nails. Behind her, Rhysand was somewhere deep in the skies, shielding them with the last dregs of his strength.

Her family was fighting. Cassian’s sword gleamed; he dragged his left wing as he fought, gory and barely holding himself upright. And still, he moved like a warrior carved from legend—unyielding, unstoppable, heart laid bare in every swing.

Mor moved like a blade of light, bright even beneath the smoke-choked sky—beautiful and devastating, the very embodiment of battle-born grace.

Amren had her hands raised as a crackling burst of silver fire erupted from her palms, obliterating the enemy line in a flash of unforgiving power. She was wrath incarnate, ancient and terrifying and utterly magnificent.

And Azriel—

Her heart clenched. Azriel had vanished into shadow minutes ago, and her soul had gone with him.

She hated that part. The part where he disappeared and took her peace with him.

“Commander!” a voice barked through the chaos—it belonged to one of the Illyrian warriors under her command. She knew they hated calling her that. Hated being led by a female. For an Illyrian male, it was the ultimate insult. Well, fuck their fragile egos, she thought with a quiet chuckle. Blood soaked the warrior’s leathers, but he stood tall, defiant. Just like the others. Just like she had to.

“Hold the line!” she shouted, her voice ringing out like steel over the chaos. The curved Illyrian blade in her hand gleamed as she lifted it high, golden eyes blazing. She was no High Fae. No Illyrian. She didn’t even know what she was. But Rhysand had called her sister. Cassian had shed blood beside her. Amren, strange and ancient as she was, had taken her under her wing with a rare kind of quiet allegiance. Mor had defended her place in this Court like a lioness guarding her pride. And Azriel…

Azriel, against all odds, had become the light in the heart of her darkness.

But to him, she was just his sister. Of that she was sure.

His eyes never looked at her like she was something worth unraveling. They returned again and again to Mor. She could never hate her for it. Mor was starlight and elegance; the kind of creature you worshipped. She, on the other hand, was all jagged scars and forgotten origins. A nameless female who woke up on a rotting ship nearly two centuries ago, drifting into the Night Court like a curse whispered in the dark.

“What, planning to take a nap in the middle of a battle?” Cassian tsked teasingly beside her, blood running freely down his temple. “C’mon! You’re not dying here, Commander.”

She let out a grim chuckle. “Neither are you, General.”

Cassian gave her a tired but fond smile before rushing back into the fray.

The sky screamed above them as Rhys roared—and then, at last, a blur of midnight and cold steel tore into the fray.

Azriel.

His siphons blazed white-hot, twin blades slicing through enemies like a silent storm. But there was no relief. Not yet.

Because his wings—gods, his wings—were torn, shredded along the membrane, blood streaming in ribbons behind him.

And still he flew. Still he fought. He moved like he wasn’t hurting. Like pain was just another shadow he knew how to command. He was agony wrapped in silence, devotion made flesh.

She watched him, breath caught in her throat, heart breaking and swelling all at once. He was magnificent. Terrible and beautiful and brave in a way that made her want to fall to her knees. And to her, he had never looked more like a star—brilliant and achingly divine.

In a blink—

She watched it unfold like a nightmare in slow motion. One wing dragged uselessly, his siphons sputtering out, his dagger knocked from his grip. He hit the ground hard, vanishing beneath a wave of enemies.

She screamed before she even knew she had.

A raw, primal panic surged through her chest, wild and foreign, as if her very bones were being ripped apart from the inside. The world tilted.

Her heart stuttered and then roared to life, thundering with something that didn’t feel like fear. It was deeper. Sharper. As if the very air had turned to ice in her lungs, and some invisible tether inside her had been violently, cruelly pulled.

She couldn’t breathe.

If she didn’t reach him, if she didn’t see him breathe again—

Something inside her cracked at the thought.

It wasn’t the sound of bones or war cries—it was inside her. A pressure, building in her ribs, searing through her veins. Not pain. No. It was flooding her with warmth. Familiar. Like an old friend who had simply been sleeping.

The wind whipped around her, tugging at her hair, rustling the bloodied banners overhead. It howled like something alive, and yet she did not flinch.

She couldn’t.

Her knees trembled, her fingertips tingling with something electric. Her teeth ached, her chest grew tight—tight in the way storms press against the earth before they break.

She looked to the skies and didn’t realize they were darkening with her grief. Her rage.

Azriel was lying still. The seconds stretching into something unbearable, each heartbeat screaming that he wasn’t getting up fast enough.

And that’s when she felt it—like lightning threading her spine, like static across her skin. The charge of it. Her nerves sang with it, her blood surged with it. The very air bent around her.

She didn’t understand what it was.

Only that it wanted out.

Then—

Nothing.

A flicker in her mind.

And the warmth vanished.

The wind fell still.

And the world pressed down like it wanted her to stay still. To kneel.

She blinked, confused, as though suddenly waking from a dream. Her limbs—gods, they were heavy. Like the weight of the world had settled on her bones. Her arms wouldn't lift. Her legs refused to obey. A scream sat caught in her throat, strangled and unmoving. She tried to command her body, tried to fight—but it was like her limbs belonged to someone else now. Heavy. Numb.

And then the first arrow struck.

A sharp burst of pain tore through her shoulder, her body jerked under the force of it, a choked breath slipping from her lips. A heartbeat later, another embedded itself in her leg, dragging her to the mud-slick ground. She gasped, breath shallow and wet. Her fingers twitched. That was all she could manage.

And still, she could not scream. Could not move.

Something was wrong.

The pain was sharp, red-hot—but distant. Like it wasn’t hers.

Not just pain. Not just blood.

Her veins felt heavy, sluggish, like ice was crawling beneath her skin.

A cold, smothering weight settled over her limbs, heavy and unnatural. Like her very essence had been severed.

She tried to rise—but her limbs lagged, slow and unresponsive. Her breath came shallow. Her vision blurred.

Something was…very wrong.

Faebane.

The word flared in her mind like a curse.

The arrows…, her mind whispered in alarm.

She could hear them—feel them. Her name, like a lifeline, ripped from Mor’s throat. Cassian’s bellow of rage. Even Azriel, distant and hoarse, calling out for her.

But she was trapped inside herself. Floating. Watching.

She looked up, desperate for something—someone.

And she found him.

High above, silhouetted against the darkened sky, his wings stretched wide like a judgment, was Rhysand.

Her High Lord.

Her brother.

Her savior.

Their eyes met—and her heart nearly broke with relief. She pleaded silently.

Rhys, I can't move. The arrows—the arrows are poisoned. Help me. Please. They're coming.

But he didn’t move.

He just… looked at her.

Her chest heaved, lips parting to form a soundless cry. Why wasn’t he helping? Why was he just watching? Was this it? Was this how it was meant to end? Maybe this was her purpose all along—to be the sacrificial piece. To die for the family who had taken her in.

But how could she fulfill that if she couldn’t even move?

Maybe the Cauldron had a cruel sense of humor. Maybe the Mother watched with idle amusement as her lamb was readied for slaughter, unable to run or fight back.

Then, aurulent eyes met violet once more. And that’s when she felt it.

A subtle shift.

Something foreign—not in her body, but in her mind.

It wasn’t just panic or dissociation or her body's failure under pressure.

No.

This was someone.

Him.

A presence. Familiar, suffocating, powerful. Slick like shadow and silk.

And suddenly she knew.

It wasn’t her body that had betrayed her.

It was Rhysand.

Deep in her mind. Subtle as fog and just as overwhelming. Holding her still. Containing her.

Paralyzing her.

And the look in his eyes—she understood it now.

He wasn’t her savior. Not then. Not ever.

Something fractured. A flicker of emotion crossed his face. Something that looked—was it sorry?

Or… was it pity?

She couldn’t tell.

She couldn’t understand.

This.

This was betrayal.

And from him.

Her brother—not by blood, but by bond, by time, by war and memory. The male who had welcomed her into his Court, who had named her Commander of his forces.

Had this been his plan all along?

Was she always meant to be a sacrifice? A pawn to burn out quietly so the rest could carry on?

Her thoughts spiraled, panic latching onto grief, confusion twisting into something far darker. Were the others in on it, too? Mor, with her bright smiles? Cassian, with his booming laugh? Azriel, whose silences used to feel like safety?

Azriel.

The betrayal gnawed at her ribs like a starving thing, matching pace with the blood pumping faster and faster through her veins. The stronger the feeling, the quicker her heart worked—spilling her lifeblood from the arrow wounds that pierced her like a doll torn apart at the seams.

Time slowed. Sound warped. Everything around her muffled, like she was submerged underwater.

But her heartbeat—it roared in her ears like a funeral march. A steady, impending beat of the end.

And then—

She felt it.

The talons of Rhysand’s mind retracting from hers. Slipping away.

Too late.

She gasped—choked—and tried to move. Crawled, inch by inch, through mud thick with blood and death. Every pull of her shattered body screamed, ribs grinding, arrows dragging through flesh and tendon.

She screamed. At least, she thought she did.

In her ears, it was a hollow echo.

No voices answered. No hands reached out. No wings soared above her.

Where were they?

Where was Cassian?

Mor?

Amren?

Azriel?

Azriel…

Nothing answered. Only smoke. Only mud. Only the iron-stench of spilled blood and the looming, choking certainty of defeat. Of death.

Maybe, if she was lucky, it would come swiftly. Maybe the Cauldron would show her a single mercy and take her soul gently—before her body suffered more.

But she kept crawling.

For what felt like days.

(Maybe it had been only minutes. Maybe seconds. Time had stopped meaning anything at all.)

Then, she felt a presence behind her. A breath too close.

Her fingers stretched, trembling, toward the hilt of a discarded sword lying half-buried in the muck. Hope, stupid and fragile, dared to rise in her chest.

But before her fingers could close around it—

Agony.

A scream tore from her throat as cold, unforgiving steel punched through her hand—pinning it to the mud.

A blade. Driven down from above.

She couldn’t breathe.

And this time, she knew for sure—

No one was coming.

The moment he felt the wards stir around Velaris—felt them bend around two familiar presences—Rhysand exhaled a slow breath.

He pressed a final kiss to Feyre’s temple, smoothing his hand down Nyx’s dark curls before gently untangling himself from his family.

“I won’t be long,” he murmured.

Feyre said nothing, only looked up at him with those soul-deep eyes, the ones that knew him too well. There was no judgment in them. No condemnation. Only quiet, patient understanding.

He stripped out of his fine black suit and pulled on the Illyrian leathers, ones he hadn’t worn much in the last years. The air in his lungs shifted—heavier now. Older. He poured himself a glass of whisky, let the amber liquid settle like courage in his palm.

Then he winnowed.

The House of Wind was silent when he arrived. But it was the silence before a storm—thick, taut, expectant.

He stepped onto the training ground, the familiar stone beneath his boots, and waited.

Because this was how it would be.

They were Illyrians. And this kind of grief—this kind of betrayal—had never been settled with just words.

So he drank the rest of his whisky—slowly. Let it scorch down his throat like penance. Set the glass down on the railing with a quiet clink that rang like the tolling of a bell.

The shadowsinger landed like a meteor, wings flared, shadows roiling off him in waves. His voice cracked through the quietness of the House of Wind like thunder:

“Rhysand!”

Cassian’s landing followed seconds later—less rage, more heartbreak in his roar. “Rhys!”

Rhysand said nothing. He didn’t move.

Azriel didn’t hesitate.

The punch came fast and brutal—Rhys barely raised his arms as a shield in time before the impact cracked through it. Azriel launched himself at his High Lord, his brother, fists already bloodied by the sheer force of his fury. The moment his knuckles collided with Rhysand’s jaw, something deep in the mountain seemed to quake

“You lied to us,” Azriel growled, every word a dagger. “You let us mourn her—grieve her—for centuries, and she was alive all this time?!”

Rhysand didn’t strike back. Didn’t counter, didn’t throw a single punch. He merely blocked, deflected, absorbing the storm Azriel had become.

“I had to,” he said, breath shallow. “You don’t understand—”

Another punch, a knee, a growl ripped from Azriel’s chest. “Don’t you dare—don’t you dare tell me I don’t understand what you took from me.”

The commotion must have echoed through the entire House because footsteps thundered up the stairs, and then Nesta and Elain appeared at the edge of the training ring, eyes wide.

“Azriel?” Elain’s voice was tentative, soft, panic brushing her tone. “Azriel, stop—”

Cassian held an arm out, blocking both females before they could step closer.

“Don’t,” he said grimly, eyes locked on his brothers. “Let it play out.”

Nesta frowned. “What the hell happened?”

Cassian shook his head, jaw tight. “Everything.”

Elain made a move again, her voice breaking now. “He’s getting hurt, Cass—he’s losing it—”

“I know,” Cassian murmured, but he didn’t budge. “He needs this.”

Because this wasn’t just rage—it was heartbreak. The kind that sat under Azriel’s skin like fire and shadows and old, unspeakable grief. For years, they had mourned her. For centuries, Azriel had lit candles for a ghost. And at one point, he had looked at Elain, convinced himself it could be something, that it made sense, that he could fit into the idea of loving her.

But none of it fit. Not really.

Because deep down, something in him had always waited for her.

She, who had been dead and wasn’t.

She, who had been his and never was.

She, who now lived beyond their reach.

And Rhys had let them believe she was gone.

Azriel’s fists didn’t stop. Even with shadows dancing madly around him, even as blood trickled from his knuckles and smeared across Rhysand’s brow, he kept going. Snarling like a wounded, cornered animal.

“You stopped me from going back,” he spat. “I begged you—I knew. Something in me knew.”

A roar of frustration left him—and this time, it wasn’t a punch that came, but a shove that sent Rhys skidding across the ring.

Cassian stepped in then.

His wings flared wide, a warning to both of them as he moved between his brothers. “Enough.”

Azriel didn’t back down. “Get out of my way.”

Cassian didn’t. Instead, he took one look at Rhysand’s bleeding lip and nose, the dark bruises blooming on his jaw—and then, with a deep breath, punched him in the ribs hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

“One for me,” he muttered. Another hit to the stomach. “And that’s for her.”

Rhys staggered but stayed upright.

Cassian caught Azriel’s shoulder and turned him around, his voice quieter now. “He made his choice. We’ll deal with that. But we can’t lose ourselves in it, brother.”

Azriel’s chest heaved. Shadows curled tighter around his form like armor, like a threat—whispering unceasingly, full of venom.

Liar. Liar. Liar. Killed her.

“I’m not done,” he muttered.

“I know,” Cassian said. “But we might lose her again if you don’t get your shit together.”

Those words stilled Azriel more than a punch ever could.

Behind them, Elain was still standing with a hand clutched to her chest, watching Azriel with wide, devastated eyes.

But Azriel didn’t look at her.

His gaze went to the sky. To the horizon. As if he could still see clearly her retreating body from here.

Azriel’s chest was still heaving, blood smeared across his hands, his jaw tight with everything he couldn’t say. But the silence that followed the fight was worse than the violence—it crackled between them like static, thick with betrayal.

“You knew,” Azriel hissed finally, shadows still flickering like fire. “You knew she was alive.”

Rhysand wiped the corner of his mouth where blood still dripped and met his brother’s eyes. “I suspected,” he said hoarsely. “There’s a difference.”

Azriel’s snarl was pure, broken rage. “Bullshit.”

Cassian’s brow furrowed as he stepped between them again—not to stop another blow, but to stand witness to the truth finally unraveling. “Then why didn’t you tell us?”

Rhys’s violet eyes swept over them—the only two beings in the world who had stood beside him through everything, who had bled with him, laughed with him, mourned beside him. And he’d lied to them.

“Because I had to make a choice,” he said, voice low and cold, like it had frozen over centuries ago. “To save this Court. To save all of you. I had to leave her behind. Not because I didn’t love her—but because I knew what was coming. And I couldn’t risk it.”

Azriel stepped back like Rhys had struck him. Like the words themselves had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“You chose to leave her?” Cassian asked, stunned. “You—chose?”

“I did,” Rhys said, the admission searing. “It was the only way I knew how to keep the rest of you alive. I knew she didn’t die on that battlefield. I didn’t know what became of her. I didn’t even know if she’d survived what came after. I suspected—but I didn’t know.” As if the words themselves bore the weight of his failure, he added quietly, “I spent years searching for her, but I couldn't find her.”

“You let us believe she sacrificed herself to buy us time to escape,” Cassian said, the betrayal raw in his voice. “You said she was gone. That she never made it out.”

Azriel’s voice dropped to a broken rasp. “I was going to go back for her.”

It was betrayal that burned in his brother’s eyes. It was heartbreak and disbelief and something far more dangerous: hope that had been twisted into a blade.

Cassian’s wings twitched once. His jaw clenched. He looked like a man who had buried a sister once—and had just found out he’d done it for no damn reason at all.

Rhysand’s throat bobbed. “I remember.”

“You told me it was too dangerous. That she was already gone. That there was nothing left to find.”

“I needed the rest of my family alive,” Rhys said softly. “I needed to keep the court standing. I couldn’t risk losing you, too.”

Cassian’s head snapped toward him, disbelief flaring into fury. “Family?” he echoed, the word sharp as steel. “Wasn’t she your family too?”

Rhys didn’t answer.

Cassian stepped forward, voice trembling now with more than anger—with something raw and wounded. “What does family even mean to you, Rhys? Convenient loyalty? Selective grief? You let us think she was gone.”

Azriel said nothing, jaw tight, shadows coiling tightly around him, waiting to strike. But he pulled them closer, reining them in with a force of will that trembled at the edges.

“You lied,” Cassian spat, venom in every syllable. “You let us burn a pyre for her. Let us mourn her like she was ash and memory. And it was all a fucking lie.”

“I grieved her too,” Rhys said softly. “Every damn day. But I can't change what I've done.” He closed his eyes, as if the words themselves carved into him. “And I’ve lived with that every day since.”

Azriel’s voice cracked, bitter and hollow. “You heard the stories, didn’t you? That’s why you’ve sent me to investigate them. You heard these tales of a being haunting the wild lands of the continent. You knew. You knew it could be her.”

“I heard whispers,” Rhys admitted. “Tales passed through myth. I didn’t know for certain. But I didn’t let myself believe them. Because if they were true… it meant I’d left her to whatever came next. Alone.”

Cassian looked like he might be sick. “She was our sister.”

Something in Rhysand’s eyes shattered. “I know.”

Azriel’s wings trembled. “You stole her from us.”

“I did.”

“You stole centuries from us,” Cassian said, his voice breaking. “And for what? Fear? Cowardice?”

“For survival,” Rhys whispered. “For this Court. For all of you.”

Azriel’s voice was colder than ice. “I swear to the Cauldron, if we lose her again—if she disappears because of this—”

“We won’t,” Rhys said, almost pleading. Like it was a prayer. Like he needed to believe it, too. “I swear it.”

Azriel’s wings twitched. He didn’t answer. His shadows moved in restless coils around him, curling close—like they were trying to soothe him. Hold him together.

Because he knew better than anyone: some promises were just words.

And when it came to her, Rhysand’s promises meant nothing anymore.

“Elain…” Cassian warned softly as she stepped forward.

But she didn’t stop.

“Elain,” he said again, firmer this time.

She reached out, voice trembling. “Azriel, please—”

He flinched. Almost imperceptibly, but enough.

And then—he stepped back.

Not just a step.

His wings flared wide in a sharp motion, dark and vast against the sky. For a heartbeat, his eyes met hers.

But whatever lived in that gaze wasn’t for her. Not anymore.

Without a word, he just launched into the sky, a silent blur of dark wings and storm-touched fury disappearing into the misted horizon.

Elain’s hand dropped slowly to her side, fingers curling as if they ached. The space he’d left behind felt colder for it.

Cassian watched the sky where his brother had vanished, jaw clenched tight. His shoulders were rigid, his heart an unsteady beat in his chest.

Nesta stood beside him, her arms crossed over her chest, expression carved from stone—but her eyes were molten.

Rhysand finally looked up, but neither of them spared him a glance.

No one did.

A gust of wind swept through the training ring, and Cassian didn’t know if it was the storm rolling in or something else entirely.

Because for all the hope Azriel had tasted—for all the centuries of grief and silence and love buried in ashes—

Cassian knew one thing with devastating certainty.

She had no intention of coming home.

< previous | series masterlist | next >

#what the gods tried to bury #wtgttb #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel spymaster x reader #acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #azriel fanfic #azriel angst #azriel fanfiction #azriel series #azriel fic #azriel drabble #acotar drabble #acotar x reader #acotar x you #x reader

76 notes · View notes

tyxaar · 6 months ago

Text

LIFE SERIES SPOILERS!!!!!

Okay okay BUT this new series ABSOLUTELY fits with the whole "winners determine the next game" theory because Scar is chaos incarnate who changes faces and masks a bunch and a constantly shifting gimmick fits that SO DAMN WELL. Like seriously. All the different hats and personas, and his wildcard nature, it's amazing.

#if it wasn't 1:30am in the middle of semester I'd be doodling rn.#tyx's ramblings #life smp #life series spoilers #goodtimeswithscar #wild life smp

144 notes · View notes

airybcby · 4 months ago

Note

Hiiiii, I love your writing and also think that the blue lock matching with spotify wrapped us so fuuun!! I was wondering if I could get a match too, my top artist was Mother Mother ;))

ofc!!

if your top artist was mother mother i'd pair you with...

charles chevalier

જ⁀♡⊹｡° getting on a mountain

♡ a/n — for my spotify wrapped event!

♡ content — charles chevalier x gn! reader, gn! reader, charles has high standards for himself,

♡ synopsis — perfection is something that cannot be contained, but to Charles Chevalier...it was what he needed to be.

The first thing you noticed about Charles Chevalier was how flawless he was.

Every movement was deliberate, every word perfectly said. He carried himself with an air of untouchable elegance, as if he'd long mastered the art of existing above the chaos of life.

You thought people like him didn't make mistakes, not because they couldn’t, but because they simply didn’t allow themselves the room for failure.

That was why it was such a shock to find him here, in the empty locker room, slumped against a bench with his head in his hands.

“Charles?” Your voice echoed in the cavernous space, startling him enough that his head shot up, his carefully guarded composure flickering into something raw before he could mask it.

“Ah,” he began, clearing his throat as though to erase the moment of vulnerability, “I didn’t think anyone else would still be here.”

You stepped closer, hesitant but concerned. “I was waiting outside, but you didn’t come out after the game. I thought something might’ve happened.”

His laugh was dry, humorless. “Happened? Nothing has ‘happened.’ I merely played beneath my standards today.”

Beneath his standards? You’d watched the match. He was brilliant, as always, threading passes and controlling the game like a conductor directing an orchestra. But maybe that was the problem. To everyone else, Charles was perfection incarnate, but perfection wasn’t a plateau—it was a steep, endless climb.

“You were incredible out there,” you said, trying to sound reassuring.

He scoffed, leaning back against the lockers with a thud. “Incredible? If that’s true, why does it feel so... empty?”

You hesitated, watching him carefully. Charles was never one to let the cracks show. You’d seen glimpses of his humanity before—an offhand comment about the pressure he faced, a rare smile after a victory—but this was different.

He looked exhausted, drained of the poise he clung to so desperately.

“Maybe it’s because you’re always chasing something that doesn’t exist,” you said softly, taking a seat on the bench opposite him.

His sharp gaze snapped to you, as if offended by the suggestion, but you held your ground. “Perfection. Control. Whatever you want to call it. It’s not real, Charles. You’re setting yourself on fire trying to reach it.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then, he sighed, running a hand through his hair—a gesture so uncharacteristically messy that it startled you.

“I’ve always thought,” he started, voice quieter now, “that if I can control everything—if I can be perfect—then nothing will hurt me. No one will have the chance to tear me down if there’s nothing for them to criticize.”

The weight of his confession sat heavy between you, a reminder that even someone like Charles Chevalier had fears, insecurities, and scars he worked tirelessly to conceal.

“You know,” you said, leaning forward slightly, “there’s nothing wrong with not being perfect all the time. People care about you, not the image of you that you think you have to be.”

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, as if trying to determine whether you meant it. Slowly, he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

“maybe,” he murmured, almost to himself, “maybe I can start to believe that.”

You smiled, standing and offering him a hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

For the first time that night, Charles smiled—a small, tired thing, but genuine. He took your hand, and as you helped him up, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, he was starting to let go of the weight he carried.

Bit by bit.

usually i would've played into his absolute insane personality, but mother mother gave me no other options

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

#★ · airybcbyy #airy posts #blue lock #bllk #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #airy answers asks :)#charles chevalier #charles x reader #charles chevalier x reader #bllk charles #bllk charles chevalier #blue lock charles #blue lock charles chevalier

64 notes · View notes

mirensiart · 6 months ago

Note

I love your pain sharing AU as much as the next guy (it's a lot, I love it a lot), but do you have any other projects you're working on you want an excuse to talk about? Doesn't even have to be Zelda

aah you’re so sweet 🥹💖 I do have a few original characters that I need to draw more of…..I’m gonna use your ask as a way to show them off a little bit hehe

I haven’t done a lot of world building, but the main characters are a knight named lady ira, an apothecary lady named flora (they’re in lesbians with each other), the bastard prince of the kingdom named ancel and once thief and outlaw but now reformed boy named lowen

✨ THE PLOT ✨

ancel is the youngest prince of the kingdom and also a bastard, the only reason why the king keeps him around is because ancel is the only one of the royal kids who’s adept at magic! this means the royal kids, the queen’s children, really despise him and constantly try to get rid of him (kidnapping/assassins)

Thanks to this, he is often assigned a body guard (babysitter) as a way to protect him of his half siblings and also cause ancel is a menace when it comes to magic and can’t really control it very well, so the guard is also to protect the general public from him lmao

Lady Ira used to be a high ranking knight until she fucked up and was demoted and assigned as ancel’s bodyguard, which she resents as first since she feels her talents are being wasted looking after the king’s bastard

She gets attached cause obviously lmao imagine the “old grumpy man gets attached and adopts a little girl” trope but it’s a lesbian and a little boy lmao

Lady Ira eventually meets Flora thanks to shenanigans involving ancel being poisoned, flora being an apothecary is able to save the boy’s life

Lady ira notices that flora has an X scar on her mouth, turns out flora is cursed! The scar prevents her from speaking, if she speaks the X scar opens up as a wound causing her unbearable pain, it closes back when she keeps silent (clearly someone didn’t want her to speak hehe)

Lady ira offers to help her find a cure for her curse as a way to thank her for saving ancel

So flora + lady ira go on a journey to find someone who can counter the curse, lady ira leaves ancel under the care of one of her trusted knight besties, but the kid is like chaos incarnate and escapes to join up with them since he also wants to help flora out

Lowen gets dragged into all of this, since like, he used to be a thief and a wanted man until lady ira pleaded for him and got him a job in the royal stables, lowen feels indebted to her and also thanks to this job, he found a best friend in ancel

Those two are like, the most chaotic duo ever since lowen enables ancel’s weird antics lmao anyway, ancel grabs his bestie to join in the ✨adventure✨and lowen agrees cause if it means helping lady ira he’s in

So yeah, it’s basically two lesbians and their weird chaotic kids find out flora’s curse is important and pivotal to a conspiracy going on in the kingdom

I do like the doomed yuri trope, so yeah it’s doomed yuri lol ANYWAY have art of the sad lesbians

and here they’re happy but not for long…!

#miry’s ask box #my OC’s!!#I never draw them I need to draw the lesbians….

72 notes · View notes

ltash · 6 months ago

Text

Him

He is the devil she's been praying for

And

She is the angel he's been looking to hunt.

The chow hall was alive with the quiet chatter of soldiers, yet none of it reached your ears. It was just background noise, irrelevant, unimportant, because the only thing that existed was

Him.

Across the room, Ghost’s gaze held you captive, fierce, and unyielding. His eyes, dark with an intensity that stole your breath, traced the curve of your neck, the slope of your bare shoulders. You felt his gaze before you even saw him, its weight tangible, as though it could press you down, make you fold in on yourself. The marks he’d left on your skin, small tokens of his hunger, glistened in the dim light, remnants of a night that still tingled in your veins.

A shiver raced down your spine, but you couldn’t look away. His stare was suffocating and intoxicating all at once, like a flame that both scorched and seduced. Even clothed in something as simple as casual wear, stripped of the armour that usually encased him, Ghost emanated a raw masculine energy that wrapped itself around you, holding you in place.

He was a storm, and you were caught in the eye, drawn into the depths of his unspoken desire. Every breath, every heartbeat felt like it belonged to him.

Around you, the others carried on, laughing, talking, and unaware of the heat simmering between you and Ghost. The distance between you was nothing, just space that he could close in an instant if he wanted to. And the way he was looking at you, with that dark, possessive hunger in his eyes, made it clear he wanted to.

It was more than desire. It was a pull, something primal that went deeper than lust. His eyes spoke of a hunger that had nothing to do with your body alone, it was the kind of hunger that could consume you, devour you whole. You could feel it pulling at you, tugging at some buried part of yourself that craved his darkness.

And the more you fought it, the more you resisted the magnetic force that drew you to him, the stronger it became. It lured you closer, whispering in your mind to surrender, to step willingly into the flames. He was danger incarnate, each rough edge of him sharp enough to cut, and yet you wanted to feel the sting of those blades, to press yourself against the jagged edges of his being.

His demons danced just behind his eyes, shadows flickering beneath the surface of his calm facade. And you? You were entranced by them, drawn to the chaos that lingered inside him. He was a man who had seen the edge of hell and come back scarred but stronger. That darkness in him, it lured you in as much as it warned you to stay away.

But you couldn’t heed the warning. The more you tried to suppress the yearning, the more it consumed you. It was as if his gaze reached out and touched you, fingers ghosting over your skin, igniting a fire that spread through your veins. You could almost feel his hands on you, even though he hadn’t moved. The weight of him pressed against your chest, his stare making your body respond in ways you hadn’t thought possible.

It was dangerous, this attraction, this pull between you. It whispered of things that could break you, ruin you, tear you apart from the inside out. You knew Ghost wasn’t a man who could be loved softly. He would be a brutal, raw, relentless, an unforgiving force that would shatter you if you let him.

And yet, despite the warning bells ringing in your mind, your body wanted more. It wanted to be consumed by him, to step willingly into the chaos that swirled around him. There was no logic to it, no reasoning that could pull you back from the edge. Only instinct, pure and primal, urged you forward towards him, towards the fire that you knew would burn you alive.

Ghost was more than a man. He was a storm, a force of nature, and you were ready to surrender to let yourself be swept up in his darkness, even if it meant being destroyed in the process.

67 notes · View notes

plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 19 days ago

Text

indigo!reader

❤︎❤︎❤︎

Without further ado: Saturn

She is the night sky incarnate—celestial, unknowable, and just a little bit cursed.

There’s a kind of ache to her beauty, like looking at the moon too long and feeling it pull at something buried deep in your chest. Saturn doesn’t walk into a room; she drifts in like smoke from a candle you didn’t realise had gone out. Her presence is quiet but devastating, like a storm building in the bones.

She smells like vanilla and firewood. Keeps a half-melted pack of blue M&M’s in every coat pocket. Has a collection of knives like other girls have lip gloss. Her fingers are always nicked. Her heart, too.

Her apartment is lit only by candles and constellations. There’s a galaxy map pinned to the wall above her bed, and every night, she traces the orbit of Saturn with ink-stained fingers like it’s the only truth she trusts. She says she feels safest under open skies, especially if they’re angry—thunder makes her feel alive. She doesn’t just like the beach at night, she belongs to it—sits barefoot in the cold sand, sugar between her teeth, daring the ocean to swallow her whole.

Her favourite band is Sleep Token. She listens like it’s scripture. And she kisses like she means to haunt you.

She believes in soulmates and slow destruction. In love that burns and scars and brands. She’s the kind of girl who’d rather die for something than live for nothing. Every poem she’s ever loved ends in blood. She doesn’t fear the dark. She is the dark.

She met Ben during a thunderstorm. She was sitting on a rooftop with her boots over the edge, eyes on the stars. He was bleeding—bad—dragging himself out of a botched op, high on rage and pain. She didn’t flinch when he showed up. Just offered him a half-empty bag of M&M’s and said, “You’re leaking all over my view.”

He blinked at her. Then laughed. The first real laugh in years. She stitched him up by candlelight. Didn’t ask questions. Played punk records and told him the moon was in Scorpio, which probably explained why he was acting like such a self-destructive bastard.

He told her she was crazy. She told him he was worse. Then she kissed him like a dare.

They’ve been circling each other ever since—planets locked in gravity, knives and kisses and every storm in between. She doesn’t soften him. He doesn’t tame her. They’re just two chaos-born creatures who finally found someone who bites back just as hard.

She calls him her walking catastrophe. He calls her his end of the world. And maybe they’re both right.

❤︎ first meeting ❤︎

To be continued...

a/n: let me know what y'all think, please!!! <3

#pfiahc writes #my writing #soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy fic #soldier boy x female reader #the boys fanfiction #the boys fanfic

32 notes · View notes

itsgooditsbad · 4 months ago

Text

When life gives you melon... | Jungkook x Reader | Prologue

Summary: A young resident doctor, worn thin by long nights and lingering family strains, braces herself for another routine emergency. But when an unexpected face from her past emerges in the hospital’s frenetic halls, she must decide whether to hold on to old wounds or open herself to something new.

Genre: boxer au

Chapter 1

It’s been three straight nights without proper sleep, and I’m beginning to forget what it feels like to be fully awake. My world has narrowed to the hospital’s fluorescent glare and the antiseptic scent clinging to everything I own.

I’m holed up in the resident on-call room, an old medical text balanced on my knees, a stale sandwich lying half-eaten beside me.

The hum of the overhead lights sets my teeth on edge, and when I close my eyes, all I see are afterimages of patient charts and test results.

My phone vibrates again. I glance at it and see “Mom” flashing on the screen—Mrs. Kim, to be exact. Seokjin’s mother, not mine.

She’s probably calling about some family matter, wanting to check in or ask why I haven’t visited. I’m too tired to consider giving her an answer.

These days, all I can manage is surviving my shifts and making sure I don’t collapse in the middle of a hallway.

I let the call ring out, then fade into silence.

I adjust my posture, rubbing the stiffness from the back of my neck, thinking maybe I can steal five minutes of rest—just five minutes.

But, of course, fate has other plans.

My pager goes off, shrill and urgent.

The intercom follows instantly: “Dr. Han, you’re needed in the emergency room. Please report downstairs immediately.”

Great. So much for five minutes.

I toss the sandwich in the trash, grab my stethoscope, and push off the bed.

My body protests with every step, knees threatening to buckle from exhaustion, but I shove that feeling down.

The patient waiting below is my priority now. I leave my phone behind, the missed call from “Mom” still glowing on its screen, unanswered.

Downstairs, the ER is chaos incarnate. Fluorescent lights glare off polished floors as nurses and doctors move in a frantic dance around a single incoming stretcher.

I hear the roar of the ambulance fading outside, the paramedics already rushing the patient inside, shouting vitals and conditions.

The air is thick with urgency, the sharp tang of disinfectant barely masking the coppery scent of blood.

I hurry toward the center of the storm. He’s young—oxygen mask strapped tight to his face, chest exposed, angry bruises already forming beneath the bright lights.

Machines beep and flash like anxious witnesses, and I focus on the rapid-fire medical shorthand swirling through the room.

I lean in to check his eyes, to get a better look at his face—and my heart stutters.

I know that jawline, the shape of those eyes, that scar at the brow.

It's like I’m back in high school again, I never imagined a reunion like this. My pulse thunders in my ears, and for a moment I’m frozen.

He’s older now, rougher around the edges, but it’s him. I’m sure of it.

A nurse jostles my shoulder and time speeds back up.

I inhale sharply, forcing my professional mask back into place. Focus, Jaehee. Don’t lose yourself now.

I turn to the paramedic, voice strained but steady: “What’s his name?”

The paramedic, sweat beading at the hairline, answers without looking up: “Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.”

The name hits me like a punch to the chest. Jungkook.

It’s him.

And now, he’s here—on my table, in my ER, fighting for his life.

#jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic

41 notes · View notes

starlostfish · 3 months ago

Text

Alrighty, first off, i wanted to make some basic redesigns for this au lolol i never drawn armor before sorry!

Why i called this au status effect related?

Although i have half baked plans for the other status effects (poison, frostbite, death blight etc.) This au focuses primarily on 4 status effects (for now) with a few elden ring concepts mixed in. I’ll do my best to explain when it comes up!

Also with some of the elden ring related lore, i used SOME unused lore for this au so plz don’t take this as a 100% accurate interpretation ㅠㅠ

Also also in this AU Shido is a puppet leader and yaldaboth is this worlds hidden leader/king(?) atm

Ren and Goro are travel companions, trying to take the throne (they’re united by a goal but hiding their true agendas from each other lol)

ok heres the info dump/ramblings: Warning, its a lot lol

Goro- has control over a power/concept called the Frenzied flame

The Frenzied Flame is pure chaos incarnate in Elden Ring. It is a unrelenting force that seeks to melt everything, to “Incinerate all that divides and distinguishes” through the spread of madness/chaos. Basically a contagious mind virus that could empower a person while also making them go insane. If you can even slightly tame it you will be rewarded with the strength of chaos itself.

When a person accepts The Frenzied flame into themselves, they get these weird finger print markings/scars on your body (goro was “grabbed” by the Frenzied flame) and their eyes start having a yellow glow to them. The frenzied flame is stored in a persons eyes, even shootings out of their eyes when wielded (Like this!)

Ren has control over sleep to a degree and could see into dreams. (But his true power/strength is sealed away…)

Sleep is acts differently in this world. There’s normal sleep and other types of sleep, sleep you can control/wield.

In Rens case, he has power over a special type of sleep, A sleep that does more than restore the body and its energy. This sleep feels like a gentle embrace that takes away turmoil, even dulling the senses to an extent , preventing agitation to give a feeling of true peace & clarity. The type of sleep that could actually temporarily quell madness and frenzy..

The other is more straightforward. It’s called eternal sleep. im sure you can guess what that does lol.

Ren is like a spectral, he can be interacted with, seen and touched BUT he doesn’t have a living body, meaning even if you “kill” him he’ll just reappear.

Also he can just choose to appear/disappear (like this!)

Extra incoherent ramblings below:

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

Goro makes himself psychotic in p5 and in elden ring you can make yourself a lot stronger by literally inflicting yourself with madness. I thought Goro would probably be angry/crazy enough to adopt the Frenzied flame, annnnd having the Frenzied flame is said to be pretty painful but also euphoric(?) and that kinda sound like its up Goros alley lol. Also (I just remembered this!) IN GOROS 3RD AWAKENING, HE SAID HE’D “SOW CHAOS AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE” AND THE SAYING ASSOCIATED WITH THE FRENZIED FLAME IS “MAY CHAOS TAKE THE WORLD”

There is so much sleep symbolism/sleeps connections to death in persona sooo I thought it made sense to make Ren the one who has control over sleep /𝓓⃥̸𝓮⃥̸𝓼⃥̸𝓽⃥̸𝓲⃥̸𝓷⃥̸𝓮⃥̸𝓭⃥̸𝓓⃥̸𝓮⃥̸𝓪⃥̸𝓽⃥̸𝓱⃥̸

Also sleep and madness have matching icons lolol that’s definitely not the main reason I thought of this au…lolol…

Sleep is one of the few things that could temporarily alleviate madness and the Frenzied flames influence. Ren is trying to help(save) Goro, while also struggling with the fact that he was supposed to kill anyone who has the Frenzied flame since it can kinda end the world, and the fact that he’s the only one who has the power to do it.

Meanwhile Goro just wants revenge and the power to make him as strong as possible and to make the revenge as painful as possible. Unfortunately that power is also slowly making him lose his mind and take a lot of effort to keep under wraps. Goro is very very exhausted but as you’d expect, spite keeps him going lol

The cure to madness: okay.. im still working on how to make sense of this and I WILL expand on it later on, but just know it involves kasumi, sumire and maruki. The angst will be strong with this one lol

The status effects they’ll be associated with is

yoshizawas sisters:Scarlet Rot

Maruki: Heart stolen

Theres A LOT more but i feel like this is enough for today lol

i really really hope this makes sense lol If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask! Im open to answer anything about this au lolol

#ok #goro akechi #persona 5 #p5 #akechi #akechi goro #ren amamiya #akeshu #persona 5 akechi #akira kusuru #PR5 au #Sorry for any grammar mistakes #i really suck at typing lol

38 notes · View notes

sapphia · 2 years ago

Text

okay hear me out. dream teams for next season:

grian & etho (grian wants it soooo much, please etho 🥺)

jimmy & scar (chaos incarnate, and i want them to torment grian)

joel & scott (scott's had so much betrayal this season, he deserves a loyal teammate)

cleo and tango (*marge voice* i just think they're neat)

skizz and bdubz (wholesome, i think they’d be hopeless but they’d have fun)

pearl and impulse (i think they both have interesting ideas, are loyal to their team, and could be kinda dangerous working together)

bigb and martyn (bigb was so untrusting this season and martyn is so untrustworthy. i want to watch them like bugs under a microscope)

#i’ve assumed all two-person teams which isn’t the norm and probably won’t happen unless the game mechanic demands it #limited life #limited life smp #life series #life series smp #3rd life smp #3rd life series #grian #goodtimeswithscar #scott smajor #tangotek #ethoslab #bigbstatz #jimmy solidarity #joel smallishbeans #skizzleman

841 notes · View notes

blu3-ja3 · 5 months ago

Text

It's time for my forgotten baby boy Roach! Please know that while I truly try to keep the 141 in character, I may go a bit OOC. I didn't put this in Soap's post but all of these will have 5 short stories.

1) A Rule O'Connor put in place for the boy

2) The boys first time seeing O'Connor's scar properly

3) O'Connor and Price have a chat

4) Boy learns a little more about O'Connor's Son

5) Something O'Connor learns from the boy after a moment of vulnerability.

!TRIGGER WARNING! Collapsing, Blood, Self Imposed Exhaustion, Dehydration

1) Strung Up

Roach is chaos incarnate, I see him in my office more than anyone else when we're on base. He constantly has a new scrape or bruises that Gaz or Soap drag him into be seen. They both have a standing rule that if they see Roach hurt they have to bring him into my office. Roach is creative with his boredom, one of his favorite hobbies to pass the time is to climb as high as possible. If Roach finds a spot he'll stay there, only coming down to do the essentials like eating at the mess. If he can, Roach would sleep in his little perch.

It was a quiet day at Bastion. I was sat in my office doing nothing in particular when Gaz appeared in my office door. He looked around very frantically.

"Cig? What're you looking for?"

"Have you seen Roach? I've not seen him since yesterday when we got back."

"Not even for breakfast we had muffins."

"No! It's why I'm looking for him, Soap saved him two muffins."

"Well where have you looked, it's a large base."

It took everyone an hour to finally catch a glimpse of Roach, he was tucked into a random corner at the very top of the hanger hidden behind a half wall. Ghost spotted the young man's boot, it could only be seen from a certain angle. Roach wasn't responding to anyone and it was getting nerve wracking.

"Does anyone see a way to get up there? I'm not sure we have a ladder tall enough to get up there."

"I think I have an idea. Price can you see about clearing out this hanger. Gaz go, get the climbing equipment and two body harnesses, they should be in the left closet of the rec room. Ghost go, into my barracks and grab the bag that's closest to the bed. Soap I need you to find something that's heavy but we're able to throw over those rafters." I rushed into my office and grabbed my stethoscope, blood pressure gauge, and some liquid Pedialyte.

I reappeared to the same spot at about the same time as most everyone else, Ghost was the last to come , carrying my bag. Everyone immediately started getting to work. We decided it would be best for Gaz to go up and rig Roach, they're both light and it would be easy for me and Ghost to heighten and lower the two.

Roach was up all night, not able to sleep and found the first spot he couldn't be disturbed. How he got up there even he doesn't know. I told him that for now on he has to check and make sure at least one of the 141 could get up there as well. He was also given a map of all the bases and buildings and was told to write down every spot he has.

2) Carrie

I'm on a semi-undercover operation with Roach, we've made our way into a butchery that has the potential to be a front for some not so savory activities. This was a last minute lead but it's our only lead for the missing General so here we are. Neither of us have our typical gear so I'm a little on edge checking every room before entering. We know there's likely no one here as Ghost and Soap are enacting a distraction plan. But we had to make this quick.

Roach moves ahead of me and pushes open the door. I hear it and move before processing what's happening. Diving forward I shoved Roach through the door as liquid spilled onto my head and down my back. The smell of iron and acrid, a smell I know all too well. Blood, I was covered in blood and who knows what else.

"Doc? Shit we've got to get you cleaned up! What the bloodly hell was that?"

I felt a hand grab me, before I pulled myself away. "DON'T! Don't touch me! Roach we don't know what is in this! We have to get out and quickly can you radio Price?" I grab my shirt and pull it off, wiping off my head and face while Roach finishes calling Price.

"Do you want my hoodie?"

"Keep it we need to slip out quickly, we'll deal with all of this once at the safe house." I grab a nearby butcher's smok and ran. The whole time I feel like there's eyes on me, staring at my scar. It puts me even more on edge as we move through the streets.

Once back at the safe house I pushed past quickly and made my way towards the shower. I kept it cold and drenched myself quickly, removing what clothes I could salvage. I did my best to wash away the blood in my hair and on my skin. I was lucky that it only seems to be blood and nothing else. But only time will tell, here's hoping.

"Um Doc?"

"Yes Roach, I'm okay!"

"Well my hoodie is hanging on the doorknob... Since your shirt is ruined!"

I poke my head out and grab the hoodie before slipping it on. Its fit was slightly baggie on my frame, because despite the fact that I'm taller than Roach he was definitely bigger than me. I left my hair down to dry easier and thankfully my shirt was the only article of clothes covered in the blood.

"Thank you for the hoodie, Bug."

"There's an extra set of clothes here but the shirt is a short sleeve. I know you like to keep covered up because of the ya'know scars... OH! Not to say that you should keep covered up I just meant-"

I hold up my hand with a soft smile.

"It's fine Bug, it's a creature comfort. I really do appreciate it."

"Yeah! I like that, creature comfort."

The conversation continued until Soap and Ghost returned and we all made our way to extraction. After going through the quarantine protocols and being cleared I made my way to Roach and returned his hoodie.

3) Playful Pup

"Are you positive he can handle this kind of responsibility. I love Roach but the boy forgets to take care of himself when we're on base, do you really think he can handle a dog?"

"Yes, I think he'll take better care of himself with the dog. Trust me John, I saw how he looked at the pup. He was enthralled and so focused."

" If he can't handle it you'll be the one to take the dog away? I'm not breaking that boy's heart."

"I promise, if Roach can't handle the dog I'll be the one to be mean. But I know it won't come to that. I really do think this will be the best thing for Roach."

4) A Face To The Name

I step into my office only to notice a figure sitting in my chair. They're hunched forwards staring at something in their lap so it takes me a moment to realize who's in my office.

"How's she cuttin' Bug?"

I see the young man jump a bit before whipping his head towards me, his mouth, nose, and neck covered by one of his masks. Freckles cheeks stained by tears, his dark brown eyes welling up with fresh tears. I rush towards the young man before crouching down next to him.

"Roach! What's wrong lad?" I let go of his hands as he begins frantically signing.

'I didn't mean to go through your desk but your office is always so quiet, I needed a place to calm down! Then I got bored!'

I look down at what Roach has in his lap. My heart jumps to my throat. A small framed picture of a young man smiling into the camera, he's wearing a simple blue shirt that makes his curly ginger hair almost glow. He's smiling, there's a healthy blush on his freckled cheeks. His blue and brown eyes have a spark of pure glee and life.

Tears begin well up in my eyes, it has been a little too long since I've seen my son. I forgot I even had this here. I take a deep breath and reach to rub the tears from my eyes.

'Is this him? William?'

I nod to Roach. I don't trust my voice right now and I can't seem to get my hands move, so I can't sign back to Roach.

'Yes, this is the last photo he took before...' I vaguely gestured.

I pick up the framed picture and stand up. I take a deep breath as I walk to a shelf behind my desk and find a spot to place the picture of my son.

I turn back to Roach and eventually we make our way to the mess hall. I chatted with Roach, answering every question he has about William.

5) A Little More Trust

I stand outside with Soap as we watch the rest of the 141 comes of the Boeing. I'm still recovering from several fractured ribs and Soap's currently waiting for his broken arm to heal. They've all arrived from an op near Urzikstan, I didn't get many details from Price or Laswell. I'm happy to see most everyone back in one piece, Price was helping Kyle off the Boeing.

I learned that about mid-way through their op Gaz took a lovely little tumble tweaking his knee. After getting Gaz check out everyone meets up in the cantina and chatting. Roach isn't here yet so we wait for a bit, the cantina clears out. Its an empty room aside from our little table, Gaz and Soap are chatting together while Ghost has a very cuddly Soap at his side. Gaz is leaning back against Price with his leg propped up on the bench.

The tall figure of Roach appears beside the table, he's pale with heavy bags under his eyes and a bit of sweat on his temples. I open my mouth to ask him if he's feeling alright before the boy collapses next to the table. Ghost is quick enough to grab him before he falls completely to the floor but not fast enough to prevent the sergeant from knocking his head against the table.

"Shit! Gary? Lad!"

Price moves to the other side of Roach's collapsed form. Everyone begins to move to check on their friend and help get him to my office. He's carried to the cot on the far side of the room and set down. I shooed everyone back while I work to remove unnecessary articles of clothing. He's wearing tons of layers so I remove enough for me to check everything, I feel bad removing the boys mask so I don't. I work the best I can and check everything I can to find out the cause for Roach's collapse is. I tell everyone to go eat and I'll come get them once Roach wakes.

I'm sat writing a baseline report of Roach's condition and what could likely be the culprit. He seems to have severe dehydration and a heavy lack of sleep. He over worked himself while on op and got very little sleep. The dehydration was a bit extreme even with the climate they were in, so it's likely that Roach has been wearing the multiple layers while in the field. Eventually Roach wakes up, I moved towards handing him a water bottle and an apple.

"Roach darling? Are you okay?"

"M'fine, gotta a bloody pounding in my head."

I nod before pushing "Roach, you collapsed. You've been out for a few hours and you're severely dehydrated."

"You know where we were sent, yeah? Everyone's a little lackin' Doc."

"Roach, I'm trying to be nice. What's with all the layers lad? I could tell by the smell you've not taken them off for a bit ya?"

Roach nods "Not feeling very comfortable in my own skin, the layers helped. Brought some comfort, kept eyes off of me. The more layers felt better, it was hot but I could handle the heat."

"But the only eyes were the boys, none are going to judge you Roach."

"Then why do you still wear your long sleeves around them? We've all seen your arm and neck but you still wear your long sleeves Doc... Bit hypocritical isn't it?"

" A little but I haven't collapsed."

"Yet."

I sighed "Go to the mess, get some food then get to the rec everyone will meet you there."

I make my way into my barracks after escorting Roach out of my office. Once inside I pull off the turtle neck long sleeve and go to my trunk, I dig to the very bottom grabbing a tank top, then my hoodie, and put both on. I walk into the rec room to find everyone there.

"How's she cuttin' boys?"

I walk over and sit down on the couch next to Ghost, Soap is next to him in a cushioned chair. Roach is across from him with Gaz and Price taking the smaller couch. On the table in the middle is a game of Uno. After the round ends I join in as well. We got about half through when I set my card face down and stood up. I pulled off my hoodie and sat back down.

"You're sleeves looking good Maevis, see you finally got the skeleton."

"Nice new canvas for you to color on Johnny, nice for it not to be me for a change."

I smiled towards Roach and gave him a small nod. I sign 'No Pressure but they won't judge us'

He nods and takes off his hoodie as well leaving in a grey shirt but he keeps his mask on. We continued our game chatting about everything from what my next tattoo would be, to what Ghost might to get tattooed next, to Price cheating somehow. This continued into the night before we called it and turned in for the night.

COD Master List

31 notes · View notes