#and sometimes healing is screaming or going to a rage room

[scary-lasagna]

Jane: We are healing girlies~ Nina: We are healing girlies! Clock: FUCKIGNG AAAOAUAAAGHHHH Jane: ...Are you okay? Clock: Just healing! <3

[elixrr]

Within the frame, you.

— They're still stuck on you, even after your death.

ft. various genshin men + star rail men

cw. angst, no comfort. your implied death.

He stares at a portrait of you across the room. Beneath their dull expression, a world of chaos, despair, and rage explodes and drives him to madness.

– Xiao, Alhaitham, Diluc, Wanderer, Dr. Ratio, Blade

Your death has already passed. You have come, and you have gone; he knows that this is simply the way of life, but he can't let it go. You meant the world to him— you mean the world to him. He dares not to say a word, nor is he able to bring himself closer to the portrait. You stare uncomfortably back at him, but your eyes are so full of life. You're dead, your body hones no being, but in there, in that photo, your eyes sparkle with life and prosperity. In that photo, you captured a special kind of love and light, and he can never feel it— never touch it again. He will never feel your light; he will never feel your love.

Yet, he still feels your hands. Your hands in the photo stick out to him, and he is reminded of your ghostly touch lingering across his hands. He can not tear his eyes away from your portrait, your hands, your smile, your bright eyes— it fills his own with tears. It's irrational, it's incomprehensible. The tears rapidly stream from his eyes, and he begins to sob. Alas, he breaks free from your gaze, but he is not free of you.

You were his, he is yours.

It is irrational, yes, but he will never let go. Not of you.

He can't stop crying over your death. He knows that, in order to heal, he needs to throw your photos out, but he can't bring himself to.

– Lyney, Kaveh, Venti, Freminet, Yanqing

Why you? Why did it have to be you? He can't handle your death, hell, he can't even bear to look at you! You've stolen his heart, and now he can't ever have it back. He's managed to turn all of the photos he has of you around, letting himself breathe once again. There was one instance where he had turned every portrait of you except for one in the hallway, and he broke down for a good ten minutes when he saw your illuminating glow.

Thoughts of you began to resurface, and he cursed at himself for letting this happen to you. He thought of your face, your eyes, the way your clothes swayed and swept with the winds. You were everything, and he let you slip past his fingers—

He stood up. He couldn't take this anymore. He stumbled from his seat and to the door, yet he stumbled too much and fell on a table. Crap! Photos of you wobbled and fell off of the table, and he managed to catch one picture. Involuntarily, he turns the frame over and looks at you.

And yet, at the sight, he drops the photo, and he realizes what happened: three portraits of you have fallen and shattered, and pieces of you and glass have scattered across the floor.

Everything, every part of you fell, slipping past his fingers, and you laid there. In each photo, you were full of life. But now? The message screams loud to him, like the glass shards, the realization stabs his heart a million times over, and he falls to his knees.

You're dead.

He starts sobbing; he can no longer hide the hurt. You're dead, the love and light of his life has shattered and dulled, you've disappeared. He pleads, begs, and cries for you to come back to life—he can't take another day of waking up knowing that you're gone.

He lays on the ground and sobs, scrambling the floor any piece of you he can find and grasping it tightly, no matter how much he bleeds.

He's been healing significantly, yet he still sometimes ponders back on the thought of you.

– Kazuha, Zhongli, Neuvillette, Wriothesley, Albedo, Welt, Jing Yuan

You've brought him comfort and happiness, but you have passed. Most days, he can bring himself to work, to travel, to do things he'd normally be able to do before your death, but sometimes he finds his mind lingering back to you. He still keeps a photo of you with him, and sometimes– like today– he pulls it out of his pocket or bag, and he stares at what once was, what he once had and took for granted.

He will not cry over it anymore, not like he used to, but it still sinks in his heart. When he looks at you, he yearns to feel your touch, to feel your presence, but that alone is impossible, lest he visit your grave with one of his own. Yet, he still longs to hear your voice, to feel loved by you again, even if those are things unreachable. He knows that, though, and he has managed to distract himself from his longing for you.

He's tried rebounds once or twice, but his love for you remained, and none of those new relationships got anywhere. You have his heart, but he doesn't regret it. Someone will take it from your grave, perhaps. If not, then he doesn't mind being single.

Besides, he'll then be able to die, too, and reunite with you.

But for now, he safely tucks the photo of you back into his pocket, and he continues on with his life. (Albeit, still trying to live comfortably without you).

[hughiecampbelle]

Malignant (Homelander Oneshot)

((TAKES PLACE IN S4E4))

Character/s: Homelander

Word Count: 1,468

Warning/s: gore, sort of all the basic warnings The Boys typically has

Requested: Hii! I’ve just found your blog, read some of your works and loveee them! Especially The Boys Preferences and imagines! May I request a platonic Homelander x reader with the prompts: Fury, Shooting Stars, “Get away from me” ? Thank youuu! - anon

A/N: Y'all when I tell you you're not ready!!! When I say I love this I mean I cannot stop smiling!!! I am Victor Frankenstein and this is my monster lol. Thank you for requesting my love! I hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

Requests are open! 🔮

Get away from me. The words come out as a whimper, barely above a whisper. His features contort: insecurity, rage, struck dumb by your reaction. Despite himself, he smiles, trying make sense of it all. This is what we’ve always wanted. They deserved it, all of them. Why can’t- why can’t you see that? He takes a step closer and you react by moving further back, through the doorway. Your shoe makes a squeaking sound. Beneath the sole something squelches, wet and gummy. You don’t have to look down to know what you’ve stepped in. It’s splattered across the walls and ceiling. The entire room painted red. Faceless, headless, limbless bodies dropped across the floor. You’ve stepped on someones intestines, their insides strewn across the floor like shooting stars. Here and there are articles of clothing, a shoe without their twin, a name tag or Vought issued ID. You don’t recognize them. Many of them new hires. They weren’t around all those years ago. They took no part in what happened to you, to either of you. Bile rises in your throat. It’s the smell that’s the worst. Metallic. You can taste the iron on your tongue. Not just that, though. The heater was still on. Though the body was ash, the stench of burned skin and hair lingers. It’s thick, and hot, and disgusting. The warmth radiates off it, seeping into the rest of the lab. It leaves you fighting your nausea, your hatred, the two churning in your stomach. Why, why are you mad at me? He’s drenched in their blood. It’s dried across his face, his suit and in his hair. How long has he been with the bodies? You killed them, John. You killed them all. 

Despite what the media portrayed, your childhood wasn’t baseball games and apple pies. There was no mother to rock you to sleep or father telling you you were a great kid. There were no little sisters to play with or teasing from big brothers. No white pickett fence or a sweet, yet obedient, dog running around. There was sterility. There were test tubes, and locked rooms, and tests. There were knives, and guns, and fire. You and him, you were invincible. They wanted to test that. They wanted to see just how far you could be pushed before you broke. Your skin was impenetrable, but that didn’t mean it didn’t burn every time they shoved you into that chamber. You’d pound your fists against the door, begging and screaming, every inch of you engulfed in flames. Sometimes it still felt like you were burning. In dreams, maybe when the weather was warm. You were just a little kid. You thought (feared) this time would be the last time. This is how you would die. Your tears evaporated before they could fall. You’d call out for them, for the pseudo father figures. When that wasn’t enough, when they refused to move from their charts and lazy game of paper ball, you’d cry for John. Your companion, your brother, your friend. He’d be enclosed in his own hell. Eventually you learned to be quiet. Eventually you learned you would survive. No one was coming to save you. No one was going to stop this. You’d watch, day in and day out, first your skin, your muscles, until the fire kissed your bones. You’d come to hours, days later, completely healed. Not a single scar carved into your flesh. No evidence except your memories. 

If you were good, if you were well behaved, you might be rewarded. Taught a new game or trick. Tic-tac-toe had been an exciting discovery at the time. You’d liked playing O’s. John liked X’s. Hangman was another. Always with a dull pencil, just in case. You’d be sniffling, hiccupping, leftover from the sobbing, when they’d sit you on the lab table and ask you to guess a letter. They weren’t the kinds of words children should have heard, but how could you have known? Psychopath. Indestructible. Malignant. You didn’t know the meanings or, for a long time, how to spell them, but you heard them a lot. They were household names. If they were feeling generous, kind, they might give you more chances: add a face, a hat, a bowtie. Through tears you’d laugh at the ridiculousness, pointing out that the hanged man could not possibly be as accessorized as they were making him to be. You never liked when the game was over. Win or lose, it always meant the same thing. One man, much older than everyone else, would lift you up and carry you back to your cell as if you were his own. You’d cling to him, his shirt, clutching tight with your chubby, dimpled hands, watching over his shoulder as someone else would discard the pieces of paper, throwing them away. You wanted to keep them, have them to laugh at the silly stick figure when it was dark and you were all alone, but you wouldn’t dare ask. If not the man, then a young woman who’d lead you back, hand in hand, full of promises you both knew she would not keep. Talk of real games, with boards and pieces and cards. But when the time came again, when you did as you were told, all you were allotted was a piece of paper and pencil. 

Her body was the first you recognized. Faceless yes, but you knew her as well as you knew yourself. Barbara. She was like a mother to you. Albeit, a terrible one. A cold, uncaring, aseptic woman who studied you, who created you, made you the person you are today. Wasn’t that all mothers? She’d hush your cries, ask why you were so upset. You didn’t have the words, the vocabulary, and so she’d grow tired. Bored. When you could articulate yourself better, then you would be worthy of her time. Truthfully, you weren’t all that sad she was dead. She must’ve known what was going on. She must’ve seen or heard something. At night, when they came into your room. When they made you promise to keep it secret. Couldn’t she tell? Couldn’t any of them? Armies of psychologists couldn’t get the truth out of you, not that they were trying to. Their alliances rest elsewhere. Fear of abandonment had been ingrained into you. You’d cry even harder, begging her not to leave, not to go. She’d pretend she had no other choice, that it was your fault. You were a crybaby. A sissy. An imbecile. If you could not pull yourself together and act like an adult, she would have no choice but to get up. Beneath the hurt was a fury, a burning, but they had you trained well. Instead you screamed, begged, throwing yourself to the floor, into walls, harming yourself for an ounce of her attention. Affection. Circles of red stained the walls where your head had been bashed. Your clothes ripped and torn. Your tantrums were spectacular. Fantastical. Eventually you’d grow tired, exhausted. Bloody, you’d sit very still and breathe and wait for her to come back. Then, and only then, would she grace you with her presence.

You hoped the bitch suffered. 

Marty rests limp, his face crushed in, a hole lasered through his groin. You knew the story, the nickname. He tried to get you to call John that peculiar name, too. Try to get you in on the joke. You never did. He had names for you, too. Just as vulgar and perverted. No one ever stopped him. No one ever said it was inappropriate. You guessed when you were being gutted, sliced from collarbones to pelvis, turned into a living autopsy, harassment wasn’t such a big deal. You stepped over his body without a second though. Footsteps to follow from his skull (what was left of it) to where John stood. This is very bad. You find your voice again, inspecting the lab around you. The cake sits melted in it’s pink box. The lights flicker. There is an unsettling silence. But I, I did it for you. His eyes are wide, his pupils dilated. His grin is hysterical. John, you start, but the rest of your sentence clatters to the floor. He watches you, desperate for your approval, your appreciation. They did terrible things to you. They let terrible things happen to you, unspeakable things. Why should you be upset? Why should you mourn them? Why should their gruesome deaths fill you with anything but satisfaction? They deserved it. They were asking for it. You slide away the mans large intestine, wiping the blood from your shoe.  Thank you, you say finally, placing your hands on his shoulders, squeezing them. He breathes out a sigh of relief. Thank you, it means a lot.

[ask-elliot-doorman-fam]

Pain (Tera Doorman Character Study)

(Hey! Mod here! I've decided to dump these character studies here instead of my main, it just makes more sense. I promise it's the last bit of angst for her... moving onto other members of the cast next.)

The solver is a perfectly fine condition to live with 85% of the time, Tera thinks. It's made her tall, given her access to weapons and abilities she otherwise wouldn't have, and keeps her connected to the rest of her family.

Sure it has downsides. She overheats faster, is kinda scary looking compared to other drones. And there's… the rage. But she feels fine most of the time.

Most of the time…

Because there's one more- much more physical downside.

It starts in the morning, the creaking and groaning of her frame as she gets up to start the day, most of it is simply the overwork of her joints, it's a busy day of school, then patrol, and sometimes she'll pull an all nighter or two…

The majority of the time, the stiffness works out as she gets moving, something not even noticed as she goes about her daily activities.

But sometimes…. sometimes it doesn't.

Those are the days where she wakes up with her back- her wing scars, stinging and sensitive like they're fresh, her back and shoulders sore and aching- and those are the bad days.

Where any minor touch to her back sends jolts of pain to her core, even the rubbing of her clothing sets it off, leading to less layers- or no layers of she can get away with it. If it's a lazy day, it's not so bad; it's just her hanging out shirtless in her room until the sensitivity dies down.

If it's not a lazy day, it sucks a little more. School has the desk digging into her back, her clothes are irritating at best, and patrols are an inch shy of driving her crazy; especially if there's actually something to fight. But it's still manageable.

And then there are the really bad days…

Where she'll wake up overheating, clammy and still exhausted. The scars that marked her wings becoming seeping wounds, inflamed and angry, bleeding out onto her bedsheets and soaking through her clothes.

Which leads us into now, her ripping off her pajama shirt with extreme prejudice as her back leaked oil, closing her eyes as her hands tremble and she bites her lip to keep from voicing the scream that wants to claw it's way out of her throat.

On the really bad days, it becomes something she can't hide, despite her efforts. School's a no go, if someone even politely touches her shoulder it would end in her upping her body count against her will. Patrols and Hunts were similarly impossible- combat is rough with two open wounds on your back.

So she calls in sick, strips, and lays belly down in utter misery until her own body decides it's done mauling her back and they heal back over, letting her continue her life normally.

Which is what she's doing now, listening to music with her head hanging off the side of the bed, writhing in pain. Four different fans blowing on her from different directions to keep her temperature down, and a stockpile of oil N had put put for her the second he'd caught wind of one of her “Bad Days.”

There's a knock on the door.

“Hey Jellybean. How's it going?” It's Uzi, she walks in without waiting for Tera to answer, making her roll her eyes and grumble.

“That's a dumbass question.” Tera snapped, feeling her scars throb with a wave of pain. “Sorry. That was rude.” She apologizes a second later.

“Yeah, but it was a valid answer.” Uzi just hums, not insulted in the slightest. “Guess it hasn't let up any?” She asks, using the solver to pick up any carelessly thrown articles of clothing.

“No.” Tera grumbles back, muffled under the pillows she's stuffed her head in.

“Do you need anything?” Her mother asks, and Tera can't help but smile a little.

“I'm okay. It'll be over soon.” Is her response, it's deadpan, thankfully Uzi speaks angsty teen.

“Mm. “I'm okay" is a complete lie. I'm sitting here watching you writhe like you got kicked in the core.” Uzi said back, very much feeling like she was having a conversation with herself; but younger and somehow even more angsty.

“Be better if I had no nagging.” Tera grunted, giving her mom an impressive side eye. Uzi just chuckled, “That's fair…”

“Just shout if you need anything okay?” Uzi said softly, walking up to her much taller daughters figure laying on the bed and pressing a light kiss on her forehead.

“Ew gross.” Tera mumbled, but her tail still wagged regardless. “I'm literally almost eighteen.”

“Yeah? Tough, if I'm able to take care of you you bet your ass I am.” Uzi snapped back, “I'm your mom, it's my job.”

She then sighed again, “Try and get some sleep, I know you didn't get any, okay?”

Uzi ruffled her daughters hair, she hadn't bothered putting it up that morning, so it just hung around her limply.

“Yeah. I'll Try, thanks mom.” Tera replied, as Uzi walked out; fresh pile of laundry suspended in the air above her with the solver.

It took a couple of minutes before she decided to wrangle herself out of bed, she was starting to be able to feel the oil stick to her back, so it was time to wash off… great.

She got to the bathroom, already wearing nothing but a pair of shorts she'd probably stolen from Rad at some point, and sat on the stool there.

A drone bathroom was different then a human one, no toilet for starters, but there was a washbasin, really just a big wooden tub filled with collected rainwater and heated with salvaged heating coils.

She grabbed a rag and braced herself, dousing it in warm water before reaching back and beginning to wipe away the oil.

She winced, making a pained hum as the rag made contact, pushing more oil up to the surface and running down her silicone. She took a deep breath- and kept going.

It was a slow process, filled with whimpers and grunts of pain and small breaks to catch her breath. It would have probably been leagues better if she had someone to help, but she didn't trust anyone else to not be too rough, or even see her like this to be frank.

When she was done, the rag was stained with black and red and the washbasin had a thin veneer of oil shimmering on the top and she sighed and held her visor.

Most days were better.

Today was not.

[sqquidzz]

How would kny characters hurt you in an argument?

Includes: Tanjiro Kamado, Kyojuro Rengoku, Giyuu Tomioka, Sanemi Shinazugawa

A/N: Hello readers! This is an idea I got from a hc post on here, I'm not sure who made it but I give credit to them for this hc idea. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

KAMADO TANJIRO:

I feel like most arguments would start because of Tanjiro's protectiveness of his friends

He would probably start scolding you for doing something he thought was reckless while fighting a demon

Especially if Nezuko we're to be the one to save you and get injured, he would probably be pissed off

Tanjiro is the type of person to bottle his emotions up, so he really just snapped at you

He seems like the person who yells and cries during an argument

He would bring up the fact that you had jumped into danger without thinking, calling you selfish for thinking only about the battle and not of your friends

If someone had gotten injured protecting you, like Nezuko, she wouldn't be able to say anything since she was healing and unable to stick up for you

You would just be too shocked to even say anything to defend yourself, along with everyone else, since no one has seen Tanjiro like this before

Once he finishes, he simply excuses himself quietly, saying that he's tired from dealing with this

Bonus!

Zenitsu would immediately rush to your side to comfort you as tears spilled down your cheeks

This would be especially hard if you had past problems with arguments and yelling

RENGOKU KYOJURO:

Now Rengoku seems like a type of person to be less of a yelling type at the beginning, but slowly builds up his anger to the point that he starts yelling

Usually the arguments are about how Shinjuro treats Rengoku and Senjuro, with Rengoku insisting that he can convince his father to be better

You try to tell him that Rengoku should ask for help to deal with his father, but Rengoku stubbornly disagrees

His demeanor during arguments is different, his eyes looking darker and it seems like he loses his friendly glow

When Rengoku argues back, he usually uses something your sensitive about, like if you had a bad relationship with your parents

He would claims that he's at least trying to fix his relationship with his dad, hitting you hard and causing you to go speechless

rengoku usually just stomps away from the fight when he's done saying his mind, leaving you teary eyes and with a broken heart

TOMIOKA GIYUU:

Giyuu always wants to avoid arguing as much as possible, always shutting you down when you want to talk about some problems

This causes you to get frustrated and start bombarding him with questions, like why is he avoiding their problems

Giyuu seems like the type of person to talk more than yell, but his voice is still strained as if he's holding back from yelling at you

Giyuu knows exactly where to hit you to make it hurt, taunting you about problems that you could never solve

His words would go to the point that he makes you burst out crying and run out of the room

He immediately regrets whatever he said in the argument, and ends up going to bed alone, covering himself in the sheets as tears of regret slide down his face

Bonus!

Giyuu wouldn't be able to face you for a few days after the a t in fear of hurting you again with his words

It takes a lot of reassurance from you to get him outside again

SHINAZUGAWA SANEMI:

Sanemi is the type of dude yo go all out during arguments, yelling and screaming at you, even sometimes going as far as you throw things into the ground in rage

You both seem like you're at each other's necks, not backing down from proving your side right

Sanemi seems like the type of person to call you degrading names, such as coward, selfish, etc.

You try to stay calm at first, but you have yo resort to yelling to get your point across

Sanemi is usually arguing to you about staying out of his and Genya's relationship, saying that it is non of your business

You end up running out of breath before he does, simply listening to him yell at you for a few more minutes before he storms out the room and slams the door

By the time he's gone, tears are already streaming down your face, breathless and tired from screaming your lungs out as you collapse to your knees, sobbing

[inamagicalhallucination]

au where atsushi gets hit w/ an ability and is in a coma and is fighting for his life

atsushi has a strong desire to live sure but also thinks that itd just be better (and that he deserves to) if he went and died in a ditch

becuz of this, so close to death, atsushi has little will to fight

mayhaps he's been feeling not good for a while but didnt realize how not good

anyway thats not important whats important is as per the ability he can still observe the world and the ppl he might leave as a ghost of sorts

he's floating around the hospital or following his friends, observing

he watches as kyouka cries holding his body's hand, begging him to fight, begging him to not leave and leave her alone - refusing to leave his side until someone has to take her away

he watches kenji try to pretend every things fine - reassuring anyone who'll listen that atsushi is strong - and talk to atsushi as if he's simply closing his eyes for a bit - seemingly in denial about everything

he watches junichiro alternate between trying to comfort everybody, trying to process everything and having fits of rage and hurt where he screams and yells and completely breaks down

he watches kunikida be there for anyone and everyone and try to continue as normally as he can but always being a little off - a little too slow, a little too tired - but still putting up a front until its just him and atsushi's body and he's apologizing for letting this happen begging atsushi to wake up

he watches dazai's face stay blank the entire time he's there only to drink more and more and get scarier and scarier - visit oda and ask the stone what to do - curse his own ability for not stopping the ability thats hurting atsushi - being too scared to go anywhere near atsushi in the fear that atsushi's regenerational abilities will stop working and he'll hurt even more

he watches ranpo put up a strong face - take on more cases - find the ability user quickly but be unable to find any other way for atsushi to get better other than just getting better - he knows theres no way but still he pushes it becuz there has to be but even the ability user breaks down in a session w/ him and dazai and admits there isnt but there has to be

he watches yosano try and heal him over and over - through her ability and her actual knowledge in being a doctor - watches her stay by his side through everything - there to fix any small inconvenience he may have like a too bright room or a non fluffy pillow, waiting, obsessively checking his vitals

he watches the president hold everyone together - keep the ada floating and offering support to anyone who wants it - watches his face grow more and more tired as he waits - as they all wait - watches him visit atsushi's body and give him updates on whats happening, waiting

he watches naomi fill his room with gifts, keeping a bright smile on her face whenever she enters only for it to drop the second she's far away enough so that when he wakes up he cant see it

watches the clerks take turns visiting him w/ gifts and encouragement, helping the president hold down the agency, while trying to be strong

watches lucy spill hot tea on her hands because she's worrying about him again - watches her get upset and angry when anyone so as much hints that atsushi won't get up - watches her talk to him and try to convince him to wake up

and atsushi grieves becuz of his own lack of understanding on how loved he has become

akutagawa doesn't falter when he learns about atsushi and atsushi kind of wishes he did - when he sees atsushi he doesn't blink or react, simply nods and leaves - and atsushi feels strange at having confirmation that he does not matter much to him - sometimes akutagawa visits - not always and never in a pattern - random and quick visits where he only watches atsushi for a moment before leaving - in the end, atsushi follows him becuz watching the ada and lucy gets too hard - he expects akutagawa to go about his day, atsushi in the back of his mind - maybe a little concern for him as his partner but nothing to fret about

atsushi spends his day with akutagawa wishing he could reach out and touch him and hold im as he watches one of the strongest people he knows give in to their grief and fall apart, with no agency members to see him, no friend there to see what akutagawa surely calls his weakness, only him, atsushi's ghost, and gin's hurried footsteps as she comes home

anyway

why did i write this

[nowritingonthewall]

I think the Moon Boys would be very affectionate fathers. You know how some children always want to be held and it can understandingly be exasperating for some parents? I think that if the Moon Boys did have a little snuggle bug that they’d be content to just wear them around in a baby bjorn whenever their little one wanted to. I think that because of their past especially they would relish in sort of shielding their little ones with their body, loving being able to be protective and soothing.

My dearest Nonnie, I could write whole essays about how the boys would be the most wonderful and affectionate fathers in the universe 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

!Trigger warning for reader inserts ahead!

💜 As much as Steven is the complete opposite of a morning person, he is usually up and out of bed, gently telling you to go back to sleep, before you’ve even had the chance to fully register that your little one has started to cry. You usually try to give them a few minutes before getting up yourself because you know how much it means to Steven to share parenting duties and responsibilities and to never give you the feeling that you’d have to shoulder them all on your own.

Sometimes you can’t help yourself and have to peek around the corner, watching your husband cradling your child, alternating between making cooing noises and giving the softest kisses to their forehead, and letting them play with his already sleep-tousled hair, until they fall asleep against his shoulder again. Sometimes he brings your little one over to your bed when he feels like your skills are required. And sometimes you walk into the living room to find them both asleep on the couch together, waiting for Mommy to join them.

💜 Marc prefers structured baby carriers (I had no idea that they were called baby björns 😊) to buggies and strollers. With his kids safely secured to him, it’s so much easier to keep his hands free for fighting off villains and potential kidnapping attempts. Even while constantly scanning your surroundings, he keeps checking on your kids every few seconds, making sure that they are still comfortable and their head doesn’t loll into a weird position. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the warm feeling that caresses your heart whenever you see his eyes soften as he looks down at your child in complete awe, the little wonder so close to his heart.

And he never never ever leaves your little ones to cry on their own. Especially after you have reassured him that it is literally impossible to love and comfort a baby too much.

As soon as he hears the tiniest of sobs in the next room, he needs to check on them. Always careful, never overwhelming them with his protective yet calm manners, but always there in case they might need him. And your little ones know that he’ll be their safe haven as soon as they reach out their little arms for him.

Now and then he has to stifle a sob over how trusting your children are towards him. Even though you always notice, he usually acts as if it was nothing. But he’ll still allow you to pull him into a hug and melts into you as you gently stroking over his hair, placing a loving and knowing kiss on top of his head.

With every reassuring word from you, the raging screams of his mother in his mind are fading a little more and every time that his kids are reaching out for him with nothing but endless trust in their eyes, another wound in his heart begins to heal.

💜 The first mission that Jake goes on the minute that he learns that you are pregnant (and that never really ends) is to make your flat as save for your little ones as possible. One day you come home and are briefly convinced that your flat has been burgled. Not only are all of Steven’s books stacked neatly on the shelves, but the floor has been completely cleared of every single tripping hazard as well. Of course, convincing Steven to tidy up his own personal library and doubly securing all the shelves was the easy part. For every potential danger eliminated, it seems like Jake finds five more potential death traps for your little ones. During one particularly extensive shopping trip to B&Q, the shop assistant briefly considers asking him what he would need 20 fire extinguishers and all those smoke detectors for, but immediately changes his mind upon one raising of the eyebrow™.

It is terribly hard for Jake to face the reality that he won’t be able to keep your little ones away from harm forever. And it certainly won’t stop him from trying.

Your little ones love to fall asleep curled up on Jake’s chest. And somehow he manages to never ever fall asleep himself, knowing (and fearing) how dangerous that can be. Though he doesn’t mind at all watching over you, whenever you drift off with one of your children snuggles up against you. No matter where they fall asleep, somehow he always manages to move them to their crib without waking them up. Sometimes they can’t be persuaded to let go of his hand, though. Not having the heart to let go, he’ll hold their little hands for hours, as they lie in their crib right next to your bed and you gently spoon him, resting your head against his shoulder, gently whispering that you can’t believe how lucky you are.

[urdepressedslut]

Stray ❝part four❞

♡ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader/The Winter Soldier x Fem!Reader

♡ Summary: It’s the next day and both you and Bucky don’t want things to change. He doesn’t want to leave, and you don’t want him to.

♡ Warnings: angst, fluff, hints to child abuse, hints to character death, hints to PTSD, hallucinations, self hate

Italics are flashbacks

Part 5

You tapped your fingers against the stone, trying to create a melody. Your vision blurred, the hit to the back of your head continuing to bleed. Wincing from a particularly harsh throb, you started to tap harder against the stone, dust floating around the air.

“Tom—” Your throat was raw from screaming, sending you into a coughing fit, “Tommy… What’s your color?”

You forced yourself to speak, your throat irritated from overuse. Your little brother Tommy was unfortunately trapped into another room, unlucky in avoiding Mom and Dads rage. The wall closer to the ceiling was made of a different material, it was thinner. It was the only way of communication you had with him. You’d check up on him occasionally if you weren’t unconscious, asking him for a color.

Green was fine. Yellow was hanging in there, but hurting. Red was bad.

You halted your tapping, listening for Tommy’s voice. A cry, cough, anything. The sound of your painful breaths were the only thing that could be heard, leaving you to think of the worst. Your nose burned at the thought of your baby brother beaten and left alone on the floor of his room. You were his big sister, and you failed at the one thing you were meant to do as his sister. Protect him.

“Tommy?” You called out again, “You awake? Please Tom, answer me!”

Your attempts continued for hours, sobbing, screaming, despite your throats irritation. You continued to receive no response, no sign of life. You felt defeated, empty of life the longer you sat down here. Your heart felt it was gone, ripped from your frail body as you let your mind fall into the abyss.

You could faintly hear the sound of the door opening from your brothers room, having you perk up at the sound.

Your body jumped as your Mothers screaming filled the two rooms, bouncing and echoing through the small space.

“My baby boy! No please come back!” Your Mother cried.

Your Mother might as well stomped on your heart, crushing it before your eyes. Your eyes filled with tears that you feared would be never ending, and you begun to wail along with your Mothers cries.

It was sick really, listening to a person grieve so violently. Even sicker when it was by their own doings.

☾

You sat on the front porch, waiting patiently for the sun to rise. Your hand holding a picture so tightly, it threatened to fold. Your body shivered from the cool dawn air, your blouse and dress not warming you enough. You found the cold to be refreshing after a sleepless night, waking in a pool of your own sweat.

Staring down at the picture, your eyes watered at the sweet smiling boy, face full of innocence.

With the sadness came anger that he was taken away far too young. Having missed out on his whole life, robbed of memories, experiences, everything.

Sometimes you would catch a whiff of the decomposing stench randomly in the air. Despite being free of that hell, you’d be sent back into that room. Body going into full blown panic, clawing at the air as if the walls were closing in, scratching up your arms in attempt to grab ahold of something. Then in a blink, you’d be standing in the open fields, hand full of crumpled up flowers.

Time would heal. Maybe that was true for some, but it was different when you were alone. Your thoughts seemed louder, with no outside input to interfere. You felt like you were still trapped in that room.

You felt like the same scared little girl from the first day it happened, confused, bleeding, betrayed. You trusted your parents, you loved them. Even now, you wanted to love them because you just didn’t want to believe that your parents would do such a thing.

A hazy figure to your right from your peripheral vision snapped you back to reality, causing you to flinch back from the intrusion.

Your head whipped to the figure, focusing your gaze suddenly on nothing. The figure was gone, the empty front porch the only thing filling your view. You blinked rapidly, glancing around in paranoia, wondering if what you had seen was real. If someone was lurking, watching you from afar.

The creaking of footsteps suddenly sounded from behind you, causing you to jump up from your spot, whipping around to see. Your eyebrows furrowed, eyes going wide, darting around when you were met with… Nothing.

Freaking out you were whipping your head around in paranoia again, breathing heavy from feeling terrified. You turned towards the house and ran inside, not risking another glance back at the door, in fear you’d find the figures following you inside. Shaking your head, you attempted to clear the fog that filled your brain.

Is it possible for an insane person to know they are insane?

Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can just stop. The battle wasn’t about reality. It was within your own mind. You had been molded by bloodied hands, raised to be imperfect, taught to do sinful acts. Though, you had a strong conscience, and you weren’t physically capable to follow in your parents path.

Yes, you were insane. But you were also a person who struggled to remain calm, clinging desperately to the general flow of life, without ever actually being included. You were aware that things didn’t make sense, the illusions of ghosts seeming to be impossible. But there was an overwhelming lack of control, horrifying thoughts overriding your clear ones.

Maybe you were getting used to it, or maybe this was just how things were gonna be for you.

That was the only explanation of how calm you could feel, only moments after dealing with an episode. But it didn’t matter how much you were used to it, you would always feel afraid.

Coming closer to the kitchen, you slowed your footsteps at the sound of loud chewing. It almost sounded like someone was scarfing down food. Tip toeing to the doorway, you peaked your head in, your heart warming at the sight of Bucky indulging in the breakfast you made.

You had assumed he wasn’t going to attempt to touch anything you had made, but you had hoped in the back of your mind that he’d help himself.

You had caught yourself frozen in a memory, losing yourself to your mind when you had accidentally made enough food for a family of four. The innocent looking gesture was all it took for you to excuse yourself, heading outside to the front porch. That’s how you ended up clinging onto Tommy’s picture in a fraught grip.

Your chest was warm in satisfaction at the sight of Bucky enjoying himself. Happy that at least someone was having a good day. You allowed your mind to fill with Bucky, your mind feeling more at ease with just him wandering your thoughts.

He was mysterious and broken, but behind what appeared to be a soldier, was someone gentle. You didn’t know what he’d been through, and you didn’t know if you’d ever find out, but you still couldn’t believe his words that he’s a monster.

You knew what the real monsters were like, having been stuck for twenty something years trapped with them. You knew what a monster was like, and he wasn’t one of them.

You couldn’t stop yourself from letting a giggle bubble up, the soft sound alerting Bucky of your presence. The sight of this fairly large man hunched over at the island, munching on waffles like he was in love with them, entertaining you.

Bucky on the other hand was slightly embarrassed at you catching him ravaging your homemade waffles. But he found it easy to ignore the awkwardness, from the shock that your sweet laugh had given him. It was the lightest sound he’d ever heard, igniting an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. But the feeling wasn’t unpleasant.

You watched his face go through too many emotions to depict and you couldn’t help the concern you felt for him.

“I’m guessing you like my waffles.” You stated, giving him a gentle smile. Walking further into the room, standing behind the island facing him.

His cheeks flamed with red, using his right hand to wipe the syrup from his lips.

“Yes, they taste really good.” He told you, starting to push his plate away, though he was still hungry. He felt awkward to eat in front of someone.

“Well, don’t stop eating on my account.” You spoke, noticing his discomfort suddenly. “I accidentally made too much food, so there’s plenty for you to eat.”

He nodded, wondering why there was so much food to begin with. With just the two of them, it wasn’t necessary. He still had doubts whether you were being truthful the night before, about your family. He hadn’t wanted to snoop around the house, but your suspicious behavior made him want to. He didn’t sense any other heartbeat, or any other being causing noises besides you. Surely his mind was playing tricks on him, maybe you were just a little odd.

“I was thinking… About uh— Making you some lunch before you go. For the road, I suppose.” You offered, fiddling with your fingers nervously.

Bucky stayed silent while listening, greatly appreciating the gesture. But he couldn’t help the frown that settled on his face, the thought of leaving— scaring him. But the thought that maybe you wanted him to leave, made him feel miserable.

Despite still having just met you days ago, you were starting not to feel like a stranger to him.

“I can make some sandwiches, or I can chop up some fresh fruit, veggies… Well, I gotta go pick some from the fields— But that’s no issue really.” You rambled on, Bucky continuing to watch you with an unreadable expression.

“That’s really not necessary, I have to be going.” Bucky mumbled, scratching the back of his neck with his left arm, exposing the flash of silver.

“Wait— what is—”

Bucky followed your gaze, and realized you had seen his arm. He’d totally forgotten you hadn’t seen it yet.

“Uhh… This— Uh…”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable I just— I’ve never seen a prosthetic arm look like… Well, look so cool.” You rushed out, obviously staring at his arm, taking in all the intricate ridges, the bright red star.

Bucky cringed from your compliment, he didn’t believe it should be given. This arm was stained with the lives of so many innocents, it was tainted by the souls he had taken. It was a weapon, not a limb.

“Are you okay?” You snapped him out of his degrading thoughts, making him realize you’d been calling his name.

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

You watched with worried eyes and made another note to yourself.

Prosthetic arm: Sensitive topic

You would never truly understand for yourself how losing a limb could be taxing, and you’d respect him by not bringing it up. You’d felt guilty for mentioning it in the first place, the shock of seeing it had caught you off guard.

“So um… Lunch? What would you like?” You offered again, not minding to change the subject. His strange behavior was starting not to phase you.

Maybe it did, but you felt like you shouldn’t ask. You had your fair share of secrets, weird quirks that you were sure he noticed. A huge part of you appreciated that he didn’t seem to mind yours.

Bucky found you refreshing, you never pried. The second he was uncomfortable, you’d back off. It was odd to be so respected, especially after seventy years of being treated the opposite. Though he appreciated it, he felt he didn’t deserve it.

“I really shouldn’t stay any longer.” He told you with a frown.

“You running from someone or something?” You asked playfully, but your smile disappeared when you met his serious expression.

“Kind of, yeah.” He confessed shamefully, lowering his gaze to the leftover waffles.

“You’re very mysterious.” You thought out loud.

“It’s not safe for me to be here. It’s not safe for you.” He told you so suddenly, causing you to frown.

“I’m… not safe here?”

“You’re at risk with me around.” He informed you, watching your face scrunch with confusion.

“Why?”

“There are people looking for me. Bad people.” He said, his gaze intense.

“The bad people is who you’re running from, right?” You asked, trying to connect the dots on your own. You didn’t want to pry, but his words that you were in danger had given you the right to investigate.

Bucky on the other hand had felt surprisingly relived talking to you. Despite you not fully understanding how bad of a situation he was in, he was able to let someone else know what was happening. He felt less alone.

“Yes.” He whispered, his flesh hand closing into a fist.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but, I kinda live in the middle of nowhere.” You started, coming up with an idea.

You had obviously enjoyed having someone else around, the company being something you had missed.

Bucky furrowed his brows, a part of him had wanted you to ask him to stay, he didn’t want to get his hopes up. But deep down he knew he shouldn’t.

He nodded for you to continue, seeing as he didn’t have anything to say.

“Nobody ever comes up here— I don’t even think anybody knows there’s a house this way.” You stated, “As for the cemetery… It’s an old one, it’s been years since someone’s been buried here. So… No visitors.”

He listened intently, waiting to see where you were going with this. Again, he didn’t want to assume anything.

“You could stay. Here… With me.” You whispered, anxious that he’d reject your offer, leaving you here alone.

Bucky was taken aback, he was hoping you’d say just that, but to actually hear you say those words was almost unbelievable. Nothing ever worked to his favor. The never ending view of the fields, fenced by walls of towering trees had become something of comfort to him. It was peaceful and private, a place he could hide away.

You weren’t wrong— Yes, he had stumbled upon this place. Merely because he didn’t have a destination, the further the better. But this place was practically invisible, the grass looking untouched by anyone other than you.

He couldn’t help but want to trust you, you haven’t given him a reason not to trust you. He found it slightly terrifying that he was so willing to, but he had been trying to get a read on you the second he saw you. He didn’t come up with anything that might pose as a threat, instead he wondered if you were broken like him?

“You want me to stay?” He asked in disbelief, still thinking he imagined you saying those words.

You walked up, leaning against the island, holding his hesitant stare in a soft gaze.

“You can if you want.” You told him, wanting him to stay because he wanted to.

He had gone awhile without ever wanting anything, he was taught not to want, only to obey. But he didn’t want to obey anymore, he wanted to live how he wanted.

“Yes, I want to stay.” He confessed, the words feeling sour on his tongue. But the relief felt too good to focus on the anxiety. It was an overwhelming feeling of control he suddenly felt he had. He almost didn’t welcome it.

You smiled, watching his tense posture relax.

“Well, I’m gonna go pick some fresh fruit and veggies. I still wanna make you some lunch— And if you liked my waffles, just you wait.” You teased, “Be back in an hour.”

You reached under the sink, grabbing some old grocery bags, and headed towards the door. Beginning your adventure to gather food for lunch. You had a skip in your step, happy that Bucky had chosen to stay.

Meanwhile, Bucky watched your skipping form bounce out the door, and for the first time it felt like in forever… He genuinely smiled.

A/N: ahhh im overwhelmed with the support for this mini series, im so happy y’all like it🥹 let me know what you think of this part🤍

TAGLIST: @delicatecapnerd @buckybarnesandmarvel @viperchick47 @hunitweet @vixi-3303 @mirtaqueen @buckyb-stan @happinessinthebeing

[liaragaming]

A Reunion

Solas & Lavellen reunite in Veilguard - because I have feels god dammit and they need to be written out.

Angst.

Rating: Teen & Up.

When they tell her they've found him and he wants to talk, she almost doesn't go. He has no idea the hell she's been through - how many years she's hoped, and searched, and waited, only to come up with nothing time and time again.

She'd seen him in dreams so often, never knowing if it was really him or just her imagination. He doesn't know how she'd wake in tears, wishing she could go to him. How she'd grown to resent those dreams and the pain they put her through. Until one dream when she screamed all of her rage at him and told him she never wanted to see his face again. He'd vanished to mist like always, but she never had those dreams again. He doesn't know how much she'd hated herself for losing her only connection to him.

She's tried to move on, like all her friends had told her to. And sometimes she thought she’d succeeded - only to have some seemingly insignificant detail send her spiraling. He'd poisoned every potential new love that might have turned into something if only she could have stopped seeing him in their kind eyes and gentle caresses.

She was tired of hurting. What was the point of longing and striving for someone who wasn't doing the same for you?

She doesn't want to see him again and listen to whatever rehearsed apology - or gods know whatever he actually wants to see her for.

But she has to, she realizes. Ten years and the wound never seemed to fade. If she wants to heal... what choice does she have?

So she goes... and seeing him again is like being trampled by a bronto.

Everything they'd had. Everything they'd shared. Every dream, every kiss, every hope and touch and gentle whisper... All of it comes back to her all at once, and she gasps under the weight of it.

He looks at her with his sad eyes, dejected and regretful. She's seen that look dozens of times, and it no longer makes her want to hold him. Instead, it makes her blood boil.

She wants to smack it off his face.

"Vhenan."

The word rattles her, rippling through her like an electric shock. How dare he. How dare he use that word like they were still lovers - like what had been between them hadn't burned and died by his own arrogance.

"Don't," she says.

He flinches like he hadn't expected the venom in her voice.

"You don't get to call me that."

He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and nods. "My apologies, Inquisitor."

How can he act so calm? How can he stand there and act like seeing her again is nothing when her insides are tearing themselves apart?

Rook speaks. She'd forgotten they were still here. "I'll give you two a moment."

They leave, and Lavellen nearly goes after them. She doesn't need this. She's felt this pain over and over again. Why does she keep subjecting herself to it?

But she remembers she has to. She came here for closure, and she won't get it by walking away. "Just say whatever you brought me here to say."

He opens his mouth to speak but no words come. She watches as every intention dies from his eyes.

There are no words, she realizes. There is nothing he can say to ease the pain she's in, let alone all she's suffered. He called her here, but anything he might say or do would fall hopelessly short. He has nothing for her. Just the two of them, staring at each other in this room with everything hanging between them.

She turns her face away, fighting back the tears threatening to overwhelm her. "You're such a fucking asshole."

His lips part, perhaps to offer some defense or apology. But he falters again.

She turns to him, hot tears burning her eyes. "How could you? How could you?"

Even she isn't sure what she's asking. She could be demanding anything and everything. And she probably is.

He stares at her with those sad eyes. She hates that he won't react. That even in this, he has nothing to give her.

She strides toward him and hits her first against his shoulder. "You're such - an asshole - you - you!"

She hits him again and again, tears falling from her eyes. "How could you? How could you do this?"

At last, his hands take her wrists. She struggles until the tears overwhelm her, and she breaks into sobs. She falls to her knees, and he falls with her.

Moisture falls into her hair. "I'm sorry," he says. His voice is watery. "I'm so sorry."

She clings to him, grasping at him like maybe the pain will die if she just holds tight enough. He does the same, his sobs shaking her as much as her own.

She doesn't know how long they hold each other, their tears mingling on their skin. But for the first time in forever, she begins to feel like she hasn't carried all this pain alone.

[frogspond200]

Can you do general yandere headcanons for steven universe? I would prefer gender neutral reader but fem is also fine 🙂

Anyways, love you boo <3

❖𝚈𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜❖ (love you too!)

❖ when you think about it, It's basically impossible for you to run away from this man, when watching we see all the new powers he got and how he abused them, which he uses on you too. From using the wall to push you towards him or trap you in his room, utilizing his healing abilities anytime you try to die or get hurt, to using his speed so you don't get out.

❖ Steven’s nature would lead him to develop an intense and delusional love for you. He might create idealized fantasies in his mind, believing that you are meant to be together and that your connection is destined. This delusion could distort his perception of reality and lead him to act possessively.

❖ Steven would exhibit extreme possessiveness over you, believing that you belong to him and him alone. He might become jealous and paranoid when you interact with others, trying to isolate you from friends or loved ones to ensure his control over your life. His possessiveness could be suffocating and restrictive. Make sure you don't leave the house, and he can make that happen, home world is always his plan b...he is still a diamond after all.

❖ Due to his tendencies, Steven would be excessively overprotective of you. He might view any potential threats or perceived romantic rivals as dangerous obstacles that need to be eliminated. This overprotectiveness could result in him taking drastic measures to keep you safe, often disregarding your own desires and boundaries.

❖ In a scenario, cuddling with him might become a forced and uncomfortable experience. He might insist on constant physical proximity, disregarding your boundaries and personal space. Being forced to cuddle with him could feel suffocating and claustrophobic, as he might cling tightly to you and not allow you to leave his embrace. Hugging you to the point where you feel like you can't breathe until you give in and nestle him right back. Sometimes there are bruises left on your arm and back from it.

❖ Steven’s behavior around you would be intense and unpredictable. He might oscillate between extreme displays of affection and bouts of possessive rage. One moment he could be showering you with adoration, and the next he could become volatile and manipulative if he feels his control over you slipping away...

❖ So let's say he catches you trying to run away, he’ll just catch up with you, creating a barrier and pushing you into his arms, in that moment you know your fucked when you hear a pop in your wrist, a few seconds later you screaming and crying for him to let you go only for him to put a bubble over your head to keep you quite, but don't worry hell carry you back... After all he's not a monster...right?

[casuallivi]

it’s a beautiful thing, being able to be someone's safety zone.

For Elriel Month 2023. Prompt 5: Darkness Lets the Light Shine @elriel-month

Set: the events vary from post ACOMAF to post ACOWAR. 

Faint feminine crying ignites his conscious back to life.

The pain is excruciating. Everything hurts, every muscle and tendon in his body burning as if he had been bathed in corrosive acid, his magic struggling to purge the poison and power from the king of Hybern. A swarm of angry shadows stop anyone from approaching. The healers gather in a corner, not knowing what to do.

“Help! Help!... Father!... Nesta!... Help me!”

In his mind, Azriel is sure he’s moving, broken ribs and cracked bones protesting as he fights to sit up, determined to aid her.

“No! Stop, stop it! Please, stop.”

In reality he doesn't move, can't move, prone in a stretcher, the only proof to his distress being the frenetic movement happening behind his closed eyelids, the smallest tightening of his knuckles in the former white sheets now smeared with blood. His blood.

She’s crying now. Choked whimpers evolving to full on sobbing. It's agony, this suffering, piercing his ears so loudly not even his shadows’ whispers can cut through her pleas. Her pain. His pain. He doesn't know what hurts more. Can't tell the difference anymore. Pleas for help merge with a strangled scream, then everything goes silent. His breath catches. His heart stops.

What happened?

Where is she?

The room trembles, chunks of stone dropping from the walls. Screams come from the medical bay now, healers running out of the way from his shadows, darkness engulfing everything. Azriel can't calm them down; they mistake the agony as his own. He urges his shadows to go to her, but they refuse to leave him, high on alert, too worried about their master, set on protecting him now that he lays vulnerable.

It feels wrong, this silence. Unnatural.

Help, he remembers. He can help.

He’s a Shadowsinger, a spymaster, a powerful Illyrian warrior turned Carynthian from effort born from blood, sweat and tear. His brother’s blood as well.

Go, he pleads. Go, now. It’s no use.

He can't help. He wants to. He can't.

Seconds. His moments of lucidity last for seconds.

Azriel passes out again.

~~~

In and out of conscious he goes.

Distorted images flash behind his eyelids. His father’s cell. His hateful siblings’ cruel laugh. The earth-shattering shriek from his mother. Fire blazes and burns and scars. He doesn’t cry. He never cries.

The shadows are his only friends, his everlasting companions. Illyrian cockpits are always covered with fallen children, bruised and broken –but not beyond repair, at least not until the rite. In his High Lord’s office, bookshelves are overturned in a raging fit, paranoid about his child growing night-kissed power. Screams of terror fill the dungeons nestled deep down the Court of Nightmares, a predatory smile stretched in his face, the blood of others dripping down his mask.

Wherever he goes, havoc follows. Destruction. Despair. Not a single face is welcoming at the sight of him unless he’s disguised. His brother fears him sometimes. He understands him, truly. Most nights he fears himself. Scared that, even for a millisecond, he might come to lose control of the darkness brewing in his soul. Might let free the shadow-being that can shapeshift into him; the being that lives for ruination and mayhem.

What is time, if not the meaning you attach to the memories you make?

Memories are his own personal Hel.

Azriel would rather forget them all.

~~~

A dark shape comes closer, withered bony hands probing and prying

Tension radiates from his head to his toes.

‘Madja.’

His quiet sight of sigh of relief is missed by the female.

‘Healer.’

The weary low whisper of his shadows are a balm to his ears.

If can hear them again, he's getting better.

Azriel will heal.

He'll survive.

~~~

Her silence is deafening.

He can’t take it no longer.

Azriel pries one eye open.

Brightness is blinding.

Closed it is.

His voice is rough from disuse, painful to push out.

"You wail like an old lady.”

It’s the wrong thing to do; announce he is conscious, able to speak, to an over emotional Cassian. His brother takes his jab as an invite, jumping on top of him, nearing crushing his half-healed body in a bear hug. Coughing hurts. Cassian helps him to sit up.

Exhaustion is hard to combat.

~~~

Once awake he leaves the healing bay under hard protest from the elderly female. His shadows know where to go even if he doesn't. It's not hard to find her. He does let himself be seen by others.

She lays in bed all day.

He can see Nesta constantly tries do feed her, but for the looks of it, her efforts are not fruitful.

Her light is dimmed, hollowed, wrong. There's no smile to rival the sun now. Silent tears fall down her face, their scent filling the bedroom with salt. It’s a horrible sensation to feel powerless again after so long. For a moment he’s nothing but a boy, alone in the dark. Azriel hates it. He needs the sun to live.

‘There’s no one here,’ his shadows sing. ‘Far away. Gone.’

The statement leaves him puzzled. She is right in front of him, yet they speak as if she left the place, only traces of her sadness lingering behind.

Rhysand doesn't voice his intent, but Azriel knows all the same. The shadows are quick to inform his brother wants to meddle in her mind, nudge her out of bed, oblige her to eat. Azriel’s hand flies to his chest by pure instinct, fingers curling over his shirt.

“Don't."

"This little girl has not eaten a single morsel since she got here."

He knows. But they have all been there before. Struggling with the harsh reality of life. All immortals do.

"Give her time."

“How do you expect me to explain to Feyre her sister died from starvation? She will eat.” Not his brother anymore, not now.

The male in front of him is every inch of a High Lord, the imperative tone leaving no place to question whether this is a request or an order. Azriel doesn’t care. He stands taller. Wings flaring behind his back.

“She will. When she’s ready.” He doesn’t want his brother in her mind. Wandering, prying, exerting influence.

Azriel knows Rhysand well; knows his habit of acting “in favor” of the ones he cares for. A beautiful disguise to cover his own selfish agenda. To protect them, he says, to protect you. Azriel knows better. Knows the seeds he can plant in one’s mind, knows the gates are left wide open for him to return whenever he seems fit, do whatever he judges necessary.

“Let her be.”

“I do not understand you.” Cunning violet eyes set on the shadows gathering over him. “Is this girl a problem to my court? Is that why you are set on killing her?”

Hazel eyes gleam with violence. No one’s dying on his watch. Not her. Never her. Still, the mention of death sends his siphons flaring to life, a cobalt haze engulfing the corridor, Rhysand’s own night power rises in alert, his wings snapping into existence, expanded to their full length. Azriel's are bigger, they both know it. Smirking, Rhysand myst his away, feigning not to notice he came up short.

“Calm down.” His High Lord demands. “What is wrong with you?”

Illyrian pride, Azriel feels no pleasure in recognizing, burns in veins as he tucks his wings.

“Nothing.” He wouldn’t understand. None of them do. “Nothing at all.”

Azriel turns back to her bedroom door, warding her with the most reliable weapon he has; his shadowsinger magic. Ancient, powerful, inconspicuous. He trusts no one. Never has. Is how he survived for so long.

Azriel watches his brother’s every move, makes sure he’s not crossing lines meant to be respected.

Rhysand stays out of Elain’s head.

As long as Azriel stays near to guard her.

~~~

Elain finds her way to the library.

The windows are closed, heavy rain tapping against the glass where her palm is pressed, forehead glued to the surface, peering down at the fat dark clouds, the city far underneath. She's finer, brittle. Shadows slithering into the room, hiding between the crevices of the hardwood floor, mingling with the shades cast by the faelights.

‘She’s back."

"She’s here.’

The message is delivery to his ears alone, yet, Elain moves as soon as they speak, head snapping to her left. Toward the shadow who ventured closer to her, curling under the armchair leg.

“I want to go home.”

A heavy weight settles on his chest. How could he tell her that there was no home left to return to? Now that she was made into High Fae, there would be no warm welcoming for her in the human lands ever again.

Her lips tremble. “You don’t know that.”

Her forehead returns to the cold glass. “He is waiting for me.”

Is not wishfulness he hears when she speaks. Is assurance. Unbreakable trust. Blind faith. Elain is sure her fiancé is worried about her. Waiting for her to return. Azriel clasps his hands behind his back to hide the shaking.

The scent of the older Archeron burns his nostrils as she barrels in the library, gasping at the sight of her sister; out of bed, bathed, dressed in fresh cloths. Speaking. Nesta has not heard Elain’s voice in weeks.

“You are up.” She marvels. “How are you feeling?”

Azriel can hear the quake in her voice. He knows she’d never cry in front of one of them. Nesta’s tears are reserved for the privacy of her own room, in the dead of night, when she thinks all of them have gone to bed.

“I want to go home.” Elain repeats, not looking at them. “I want to go home.”

It’s too much for him to bear.

Azriel leaves the House of Wind.

He doesn’t fly far, doesn’t land anywhere.

It’s not long before he’s back. Alert and vigilant.

Azriel has many eyes and ears spread along the realm, fae eager to please him and prove their value, even if through the menial task of watching a female who spent most of her days in a catatonic state.

Azriel doesn't delegate.

None of them are trust worthy.

None of them are good enough.

None of them is sharper than the spymaster.

~~~

Her lower lip is trapped between her teeth, face lost in concentration. With a sigh, Elain pushes the board game away from her.

“I give up.” She looks over her shoulder, eyes fixed on the empty sofa. “I cannot figure how to play this.”

One blink and Azriel materializes from the shadows, elbow perched on the arm rest, chin in hand.

“It’s a game for two.”

Elain stands, rounding the table to pull the other chair with a flourishing gesture. A silent invitation. It never occurred to Azriel how difficult it is to hide a smile. He doesn’t have the habit of doing so.

His steps are calm and assured, Azriel going to the opposite side of the table, pulling her chair. Elain quirks one brow up, nodding at the chair she has classified as his. He never sits with his back to the doors or windows, so the chair whose back remain to the stone wall are, by default, his.

“I believe I was sitting you.”

“Ladies first.” A human custom. One to be mocked, and frowned upon, by those brought up by a race where females are downgraded. He's made sure to learn them all.

There's no price to the glow in her eyes.

He pushes her chair back in.

Azriel wears no armor today –haven’t for a couple of days now. His gloves come off like a second nature, carelessly shoved in the pocket of his pants, a single siphon dangling in a chain under his black shirt, shifted into a necklace. At least one has to remain. It's safer this way.

Elain interlace her fingers beneath her chin, watching him settle each piece in its correspondent place, long scarred fingers organizing the thirty-two ivory miniatures with careful precision. Dragon and horse-rider are put side by side, but all the goblins stay in the front, like a protective wall. Elain cocks her head to the side, the pattern turning recognizable.

“Is it… fae chess?”

She sounds “fae” like a curse. A forbidden word that should not be said by well-bread ladies. The sharpness of her mind is always a thing of wonder for him.

“Similar.”

“Are you good at it?” Elan asks softly, as if she’s afraid of disrupting his concentration, or being responsible for him misplacing a knight.

“I'm adequate.”

“You are good at it.” She declares.

Her innate confidence in him has his wings jerking behind his back, a quick sharp flare he's even quicker to tame. Shadows skitter in delight. What’s wrong with you. Behave.

"I haven't play it in roughly a hundred years."

"A hundred years!” A small laugh escapes her. “So dramatic."

“Am I?”

Elain lifts her eyes from the board, ready to shower him with reasons for judging him so, when they catch on his wings. Two large membranous appendages shaped like the ones of a bat, thick veins running under the leathery skin which expand and contract, before comfortably fitting between the slits in the chair.

Wings.

Because he is not human.

Neither is she.

The room spins, walls closing in on her. The gurgling of water is deafening, black dots edging her vision, ghost hands tugging her legs. Oh no. Azriel’s lips are moving, but she can’t hear a word he’s saying. She can’t hear anything but that heinous cackling laugh, mocking her, the same way it did when she drowned. Elain hyperventilates.

Her hands fly over the boardgame, meeting his halfway, colorful ivory pieces falling down with a loud thump. She grabs onto him, short nails digging on the bump curves of his scars. His scars are real. Azriel is real. He’s not speaking anymore, just breathing, deeply, the painful squeeze of her hand instigating her to follow. She does.

Azriel is aware Elain is remembering she’s no longer human, knows unwanted memories are striking her the same way they do to him in the dead of night. He knew she was about to be triggered the moment her gaze locked in his wings, eyes widening together with the quickening in her breath, confusing swiping her features. They are more infrequent now, her panic attacks, but every once in a while, he witnesses them. Feels her despair as if it was his own, even if he’s not around to help her ride the wave.

It’s a painfully long process to help her calm down. Time matters not to him.  Azriel has only Elain in his mind.

Slowly – so, so, slowly – Elain feels the walls retroceding to their original place, the ceiling high and above, not even close from crushing her skull. Her suffering sigh of relief breaks the tense silence, vexed shadows quieting at the feet of their master but refusing to vanish, the everlasting eyeless watch following her with keen attention.

One of his hands start to leave hers.

"Don't let me go!" Elain yelps helplessly.

"I won't." The hand doesn't go far, cradling her face, his thumb swiping the solitary tear running down her cheek. "I won’t."

He stays with her.

Azriel stays with Elain and does not let go.

~~~

“You are letting me win.” Elain sulks. "Stop that."

Azriel finds her complain endearing, but then again, many things she does can be classified that way.

"I'm teaching you. Enjoy while it last."

"You have the power to destroy me."

“Where’s the fun in that?” Elain moves her remaining dragon to eminent extermination. He holds her hand before the piece can touch the board – losing the right be moved– guiding her to place it two squares below the one she aimed for. "I can teach you better tactics," he wiggles his brows, "war strategies."

“No, thank you. I want to bargain.”

Hazel eyes find her so fast Elain feels a little dizzy. He tends to do that to her, steal her breath.

"Bargains are more than an agreement between the fae." He begins carefully.

"I know." Elain says calmly.

"They cannot be broken."

"I know."

"We'll be bound by magic."

"I'm aware."

"And you still want to bargain?"

"Yes."

"With me?"

"Yes."

"Over a match you'll certainly loose?"

"I will not lose." Elain scoff with confidence. Azriel places a hand in front of his mouth. She slaps it away. "Do not laugh, I will not lose."

He shouldn't do it. Azriel knows he should not do it.

"Name it."

He never had a chance. Azriel is a slave to competition.

“We’ll have another match. If I win, I want you to teach me how to winnow.”

“We don’t need a bargain for that. I can teach you regardless.”

“No,” Elain shakes her head, declining politely. “I want to earn it. I win, you teach me. And if you win,”

“When I win,” he corrects her, relaxing on his chair. Elain rolls her eyes.

“If you win,” she begins again with annoyance. “I’ll grant you a wish.”

“The conditions?”

“None.” She states with a little shrug. Azriel sits properly, the devil in him giving her his full attention. “I’ll grant you a wish of your choosing. Any wish.”

“Any wish?” He asks, not believing his ears.

“Any wish.” She confirms.

The Shadowsinger rattles his cage, anticipation filling him with energy.

“You should really stipulate more rules.”

“I don’t need to.”

“It’s dangerous to make such a loose bargain.”

“I trust you.”

Well, fuck him.

Elain shouldn’t trust him so easily. Elain shouldn't trust him at all. At this point, Azriel has nothing but bad intent in mind. He tries to scold his features. Is impossible. His lazy smile soon turns into a grin from ear to ear, eyes going wholly black. Azriel rolls his shoulders in a dramatic maneuver, feigning to stretch his muscles, before extending a hand towards Elain.

“My lady.”

“My lord.” Her smirk is supposed to be threatening. She could not be cuter if she tried. “May the best one win.”

“That one happened to be me.”

They shake on it. Magic instantly zaps between them, rising up his arm. Their hairs stood up a little. They move at the same time, Azriel returning her curls back in place as Elain flattens his. They smile at each other.

“Best be ready to lose.” She sings excitedly, smoothing his ears after she's done with his hair. Contouring the round shape of it. “I have a secret up my sleeve.”

She doesn’t.

Azriel wins

~~~

It isn’t until much later that he realizes she lost on purpose.

Because Azriel learns from Cerridwen that Elain has known how to winnow since Fall.

~~~

The pungent stench of burnt food brings her back to reality, where she stands frozen in the middle of the kitchen, dark smoke rising from the oven. Elain knows is useless, but she still rushes to save her pie. In her hurry, she forgets to put the gloves, burning her hands in the hot pan, which she hastily drops in the counter.

“Shit!” the hushed curse is inevitable.

People curse so much in this household, is beginning to rub on her.

Elain holds her injured hand to her chest, breathing heavily as the images of her vision flash one last time before her eyes, the details fogged, hazy. What was it that she saw? It has vanished now, she cannot remember.

On her peripheral view, Elain can see a body emerging from thin air, a silver fork shining in a scarred hand as he nicks a piece of the pie.

“Wait!” She gasps.

Her warning comes too late. He’s eating it already.

Elain covers her mouth in horror, watching him chew a generous piece of the burned pastry, eyes trained on the movement off his strong jaw, the elegant bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows the lumpy mix. Her mouth feels dry.

She licks her lips, feeling unsettled for an entirely different reason. “I don’t think that’s edible…”

“Uncooked and burned at the same time,” Azriel comments, staking the fork in the middle of the pie. “That’s some skills you have there.”

“Just spit it out.” She asks with shame, looking around the messy kitchen, mentally moping about all the cleaning she has to do before remaking the desert.

He’s behind the counter now, the beautiful cobalt stone on top of his fingerless gauntlet flickering quietly as he asked for her hand, the pale skin of her palm turned to a raw pink. She hisses as he touches the edges, their eyes meeting briefly.

‘Does it hurt much?’ His say.

‘I’ll live.’ Hers answer.

Azriel turns the faucet on, briefly testing the temperature.

The back of her hand rests on his open palm as cold water cools the wound. They stand close, the hard muscles of his torso pressed to her side, brushing against her with every rise and fall of his chest.

“It’s superficial,” he tranquilizes her, “give it an hour and you’ll be good as new.”

An hour. A wound that before would have peeled her skin, blistered and swollen, before probably leaving a scar would now heal within the hour. A shiver runs down her spine.

Azriel notices her tension right away; the scrunch of her nose, the downward tug of her lips, the twitch of the fingers on his hand. He makes not comment, doesn’t chastise or console her either, letting her process her emotions at her own time and pace. He knows Elain struggles with her new body, but it is not his place to comment when he cannot stand his own Illyrian features from time to time –the facial structure that resembles his father.

Her eyes fall closed, ears twitching at the array of sounds. His controlled breathing, rhythmic heartbeat, nose buried in her hair, the subtle inhale of her scent, his lips pressing ever so slightly on the top of her head. Elain is getting used to dampening her super hearing, but sometimes... Sometimes she let her abilities unchecked.

The faucet is turned off.

Elain opens her eyes, silently watching as he calls a shadow, a small metallic container appearing on his previously empty hand. Azriel unscrews the lid, applying a generous coat of a greenish ointment on her skin, soothing the burn. A moan of relief escape from her lips. He smiles.

“You are quite vocal.” Azriel comments.

“You make me feel good.” She sighs contently.

Azriel pauses, and so does Elain, gauging his reaction. It’s a genuine confession, not one stirred from the act of care he’s demonstrating right now, but one born from the combination of all the ones done before that.

“Azriel."

He doesn't trust his voice to answer.

"Mmh?"

"You make me feel good.” Elain repeats. Feelings she’s been trying to tame bleed out from her heart. Pouring like a torrent.

He drowns in it.

Gladly.

One kiss to her palm, then he is pressing it to his heart.

“You make me feel good too, sweetheart."

And she does.

Azriel feels like he has it now.

Light.

Not to purge the darkness.

But to shine the brightest where his darkness is.

[codenameredkrystalmatrix]

Colours (Savage Opress X Reader)

Their colours change as he spends more time with you. He changes as he spends more time with you. (Cross-posted on AO3)

Red

When you found him at a wreckage site on Phu, his burning eyes and scowl told you he wasn’t the friendliest being. While he was passed out, you tried going through what was left of his flight log. The only pattern was that there was no pattern…

“Listen. Either you come with me, or whoever you’re avoiding catches up. And between and me, you don’t look ready for what they could be packing.”

A nod.

You’d bluffed well, and for your reward, were now the caretaker of a raging Zabrak male. His name (which you found out when he just about screamed it at you during a rant) made sense. Savage Opress. Any conversation you tried to have was shut down either with silence or a snarl.

He would stare daggers into your back while you worked. You couldn’t help the way your palms broke out into sweats. Things were getting out of control when you realized you could barely even pilot your own ship with him nearby. It was just…overwhelming. You’d thought it over and had decided that it would really be better if you both went your separate ways. At least, that was the original plan.

A bone-chilling scream echoed through the rooms. You jumped out of your cot, knocking your head against the wall in your wild twisting. Swearing, you doubled over and stayed put until you could stop seeing stars. But the screams weren’t letting up. Every urge in your body was telling you to get back to bed, huddle up and forget you heard anything. This was too much for you- how could you help? His health was none of your concern. Nothing would save him from whatever demons were-

“Hey! Wake up!”

You didn’t quite know how you’d gotten there so quickly, but you dismissed it. His eyes snapped open, and immediately the pupils narrowed. Sitting up from the floor where he’d been thrashing, he slumped. You realized your hands had found their way to his shoulders.

“Bad dream?”

He rose and silently sat cross-legged in another corner. Whatever he was running from, it haunted him. In such a state, you didn’t have the heart to leave him alone.

“I can’t afford any parts for this ship, got that? So, you better stop denting my floors.”

Still nothing. You huffed, returning to your room. Cargo deliveries  had just gotten a little more complicated.

Black

If there was one thing that was certain about your fellow traveller- he knew his way around combat. He’d slash his way through opponents with speed and brutality that made you shiver. The problem of running into a couple of goons was often resolved in seven seconds- maximum. But for the bigger fights (like intercepts by rivals of your clients), he’d put himself in serious danger, and sometimes narrowly miss death.

In the dim light of the medical room, his eyes were flat and dark after times like those. Half-closed, and drifting in and out of awareness, they seemed almost lifeless. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest showed he lived. You tried to be gentler with him, asking how he felt after he’d fully awakened.

“I live.”

“How about I help out a bit? I know a couple older tricks.”

“I will tend myself.”

“You pass out halfway through it.”

Another stare, so you continued. “That won’t help. I’ll do it, so you get back into fighting form quicker.”

He didn’t object- either to you patching him up, or to you rubbing some cream in so slightly older injuries healed better. After one such session, you saw him looking at you.

“You cannot feel the Force.”

“Nope. Why?”

He couldn’t answer that. There was just…he wasn’t sure what to call it. The Dark Side only offered anger to suppress the pain for a while. There would be no true healing for him. But this...what he felt around you... was not unfavourable.

His skin was soothed with the creams. He slept more deeply with the scent of herbal oils lingering in the room. Savage found himself stretching his limits, battering his body to be melded together again under your touch. Something prevented him from drawing on the full depth of his anger. So, he avoided meditation altogether. It had always been a waste of time better spent in combat.

“I swear- it’s like you want to get killed.” You griped, working some ointment into his lower back after a more serious run-in.

“It would not be something I avoided.”

He regretted speaking, as his words caused your hands to still.

“Savage? You…”

“I am tired.”

“You…I…Savage. You’re…”

The Force within you reached out to him, begging in ways words could not articulate to not say that. It stretched to someplace within his hearts, hurting for him. What…was this? Turning to look at you, he tried deciphering your intent, but found nothing that the Force had not revealed. A little tremulously, you laid a hand on his chest.

“I’m really sorry.”

And, if he were almost any other being, Savage Opress would have broken down into tears. As it was, he simply closed his eyes.

Brown

Once he noticed, it was impossible to ignore it. He liked that little path in the Force that bent around the shape of your being. It reached out to him- like what he’d imagine a loth-cat’s tail would be like wrapped around his soul. Not the insidious coaxing of Mother Talzin, or the durasteel-cold of Count Dookoo. And not the white-hot mass of rage that had pulsed from his brother. It was quieter. He could feel the fear that most beings did around him, but something just under that drew him in. He stayed with you more to sense it.

You noticed his thoughtful silence. Maybe some air would do him good. “Would you like to come to the markets with me?”

A silent stare. Not pointed, but not exactly welcoming either. He did, however, nod after a bit. After that first trip, he made it a habit- standing as soon as he saw you with your bags. He’d lift things too heavy for you and offer protection. Well, “offer” wasn’t quite the word. It was more that he’d stay at your side and chillingly glare at anyone who stared at you for more than 3 seconds. During one such trip, you saw a parent walking with their child. 

“Ever thought about it?” You cocked your head in their direction. He looked up at the sky, eyes less harsh than they used to be, but distant. Something…heavy came over him.

“I kill.”

“You killed. You can stop.”

His head darted down to you, expression asking.

I can?

He seemed surprised that he could be anything besides a monster. That left you with food for thought once you re-boarded.

After another unsuccessful meditation upon leaving your side, Savage stood. He looked to the corner of his area, where you’d left a costly lotion. What little rage he had mustered faded away, bringing clarity. It wasn’t that he’d been prevented from using his anger. It was that there was less anger in him to be used. Should he be worried about that?

He'd ignore it. He’d only wanted to be strong enough to fight alongside his brother. Dark power meant nothing if it could not bring him back. In any case, he felt too tired to tread that path any longer. There was another he wanted to wander down.

You worked around and with each other, settling into a routine over time. Savage served as your very-effective bodyguard and co-pilot, working the guns as needed. Your financial situation stabilized, and improved. So, it was time for a little treat.

“Ta-da!” You walked in with two boxes. “Gotcha some stuffed puffer pig.”

You sat in the opposite seat of the cockpit, passing him his food. If you hadn’t been so busy enjoying your algae crisps, you may have caught the surprise on his face, that melted into satisfaction as he ate with you.

As you took his box from him to throw it away, your shoulder brushed against his. A pleasant thrill caught him off-guard. He must have reacted outwardly, because you glanced at him.

“Everything ok?”

Catching your free hand, he guided it to his chest. Another floaty feeling. He leaned in and manoeuvred himself until you were nestled against his chest the way he’d seen others do. Unease, worry that you would break away. But despite that, every cell within him sang.  

“You could have just asked, Savage.”

And when you tightened the embrace, he became convinced there was power in you that the Jedi and Sith could only dream of. Something that somehow both weakened him and eased the tension from his body. You couldn’t respond to any of his questions when he asked, and he could tell you were being truthful about your lack of Force-sensitivity. He let it drop, content to experience the effect you had on him.

Yellow

Sometimes you’d brush fingertips. Other times, his hand fit itself in the small of your back. Others, he’d simply stand behind you, fascinated by the soft curves of your body against himself. You’d glance back, and…was that a smile on his face when you teased him? Even the way he moved was shifting. His predator’s stalk was slowing- stretching into a smooth, easy stride that often directed towards you. Something fond peeked through his once-impassive stare.

Once, as you sat in the cabin, he took one of your hands to the base of one of his horns. Under his guidance, your fingertips rubbed the flesh at the point where they started to jut out. His torso relaxed, and carefully- making a choice and surrendering to a wish- he laid on your thighs. You continued slowly, in awe of what this gesture was doing to him. When he looked at you, his eyes seemed to hold the beginnings of peace. You beamed.

He…could cause happiness? Savage could not for the life of him believe that he was the reason for those looks. He wanted to see them all the time. Was there more he could do? After cycles of deliberation, he approached. He reached forward, forward, but then stopped. Was this a mistake? What if you frowned or glared at him? His hearts squeezed. He couldn’t remember if, before this, his hands had ever trembled.

You took them halfway. Thumbs slid along bruised and cybernetic knuckles alike. Then, with all the gentleness in the galaxy, you stretched up and kissed his cheek. A gasp, and his eyes widened.

“I’ll take it slow.”

Over time, many more caressed his cheeks, forehead, nose and, eventually, his lips. Every time, he’d close his eyes, letting relief flow through his jaded body. His meditation sessions grew once more, but with the addition of this beautiful creature sound asleep in his lap. He felt himself smile when you were like that. It was no longer the Dark Side that fuelled him.

Days were spent stealing embraces while you worked. Fingers always lingered more than what was strictly necessary. During lazier times, you’d set the ship to autopilot while you relaxed in the cockpit. He’d have you snuggled against him, planting the occasional forehead kiss. And as you responded gently along his neck and shoulders, he’d hold you just a little closer.

Nights were spent on his bed, where scented oils were massaged into his aching muscles. Contented rumbles would fill the ship, and, with either tenderness or near-unbridled passion, he’d kiss every inch of you in gratitude. Instead of nightmares, peaceful blackness waited on him as he closed his eyes.

…o0o…

If there was anything you loved about him, it was how close he kept you. Be it the way his hand always found yours as you walked together, or the way his arms steadied you in your weakest moments. In your current position, his organic arm was wrapped around your torso as you laid on his chest. The cybernetic one had been taken off- something he did only when he was sure he could have a long, peaceful moment with you. And that he’d had- being able to rest after a successful delivery.

Harsh lines made up his face, but with a relaxed expression that softened you. Reaching out, you traced the path of the bridge of his nose, then across to his cheekbones, along his jaw…

His chest vibrated with a hum. You giggled at that, and the corner of his mouth turned up. Savage rolled over to straddle you. The pads of his fingers skimmed your wrist, and he left a tender kiss to your neck. As he pulled back, those eyes finally opened to the colour you saw most in recent times. The colour of the flowers you’d decorated his horns with after you’d raced through a field. That of the bracelets he’d given you as a declaration and a promise. That of the new sunrise of hope in your lives.

Beautiful, burning, heart-melting…

Gold

[skycapt4in]

@bruz3r / “ I broke the lock. You were screaming. ”

Years ago, probably somewhere in his early twenties when he'd started to see too much of the horrors of the universe, Noah had 'processed' the nightmares that followed by creating a creature in his mind.

The face-stealer was exactly what it sounded like, an entity that would take the faces of people he knows and cares about and pretend to be them, they'd make him go through the same terrible events he'd lived through before, it would say terrible things to him that would plague him in waking life in those rare quiet moments and no matter where he went or how far he flew away from the scenes of his misdeeds and crimes, the face-stealer would always find him.

A fucked up coping mechanism, a horrible one really, but therapy for the things he's seen and done was far too expensive.

It visited him frequently, sometimes many times in one night if the conditions were right and lying in a strange bed, in a place he's unfamiliar in on a planet that's still alien to him while healing from minor wounds, was enough to check the needed boxes.

Once he'd scanned his surroundings and processed that the other man in the room was just Bruce and not the rotting, raging monster that resembled his older brother, was when he put his dagger back under his pillow and took a deep breath. It wasn't exactly an impression he'd wanted to leave; not only does he not shut up when he's awake, but he screams when he sleeps too. Excellent work, he's glad he's not being paid to be here. “ Uh. Sorry. ” He finally says, unsure of what exactly he's supposed to say as usually this is an event endured alone. “ I should've been awake to pick the lock for you, given that's my area of expertise. Can't have you stealing my thunder, can I? ”

dreams and nightmares prompts / accepting

[nvrcmplt]

Healing, is a term that Cyan's only recently began to understand the meaning of. Away from Penacony and in the shadow of Gallagher ( @avaere ), the Halovian has begun to think back and what he is and what he became under the regime of those above him. Using him to hurt Sunday, to bargain his fragile and easy to bend mental to forge him into this ghost of a shield. A creature that wasn't himself nor what he was remembered to be in the eyes of the two Halovian's of the Oak Family.

So, when he was taken aside, in the fall of Sunday's defeat after being transformed by the Family's deep desires and Sunday's selfish need to take everything on to protect his Sister, Robin. Cyan, fell into his own world of the underknown, to be guided aside with his fragmented heart, mind and memories. He stored his hurts away until he could finally crumble in the safety of the unknown in the dark corners of Gallagher's offered aid.

Healing in the eyes of Cyan is not that of fixing what it broken, but understanding what has broken. It wasn't like he got to this point on his own however, if at all, in fact it was Gallagher's prompting. A roundabout way of conversations, showing him things that felt like dreams and being guided through his own mirror maze of what he once though to be of a strong foundation of a stable mind.

Many nightmares and many dreams, fantasies and myths poured from Cyan's mind, the idea of being able to hold Sunday, to laugh with Robin, to live in peace away from the world and listen to Robin sing as she did so much as children. To read with Sunday and enjoy the warmth of their shoulders touching and the sun on their necks. To caress head wings and shine halos together, giggling at the tickling sensations they bought on even though there was barely on sensation at all.

Other times, Cyan's waking in cold sweats, holding his rifle to Gallagher's face, finger twitching on the trigger. Sometimes he's on the floor, screaming and raging and sobbing under the knee and arm-grip behind his back as Gallagher caught him before he could ruin the room he was borrowing. Sometimes, Cyan woke with little light in his eye, with a dull hollowness and tears of ice pouring from dead eyes…

Healing, was hard.

It wasn't a welcoming sensation of warmth and invitation to become something easier.

It was hard and harder to see the end of it all but Cyan was one thing and one thing only; stubborn.

He'll see to it in the end, it was just going to take one stubborn step at as a time.

[theauthor2103]

Thanks so very much to @nbdummy for breaking my heart and activating my attachment problems after the latest wonderful chapter on Adaptions. And before anyone cancels me yes I got permission from them to write a fanfic based off adaptions. And yes, yes I am indeed a loser 🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲 Yeah, I think y’all already know what’s up with this oneshot. Cmon let’s all gather up and cry together cuz I’m we were ALL sobbing after this chapter

Ever since Alcina woke up things had been rocky between the two of you. She refused to speak to you, let alone see you. Alcina spent most of her time away from you and with Daniela watching over her. She was so angry with you that she couldn’t even spare you a glance. It hurt. To say it hurt was an understatement, it felt sick.

You tried seeking her out in the beginning, but it seemed to push her away and further upset her. Alcina was absolutely livid with you after what happened with Daniela and Cassandra. The brunette’s cheek had finally healed and Daniela was well on her way to healing, but it didn’t change how Alcina felt towards you.

It hurt that she blamed you for what happened to the girls, hurt that she couldn’t talk with you, hurt that she was taking it all out on you, hurt that she refused to even see you. Maria was kind enough to let you stay in her room, even though you had both shared it at one point. She was always a great comfort to you, but she spent a lot of time with Daniela during the day and you weren’t able to spend time with her given that Alcina was also with Daniela. Even Petr remained with Cass and Daniela, and Ophelia was busy in the kitchen. There wasn’t anyone you could go to to seek comfort.

It got to a point where you started blaming yourself, stopped eating and showering, and shut yourself up in the workshop. You would spend the entire day in the worship crying your eyes out and screaming for hours at a time. Sometimes Ophelia would send one of the cooks to bring you a plate of food, but you usually fed the food to the animals and took only a little. No one bothered you in the workshop and it felt so incredibly lonely being by yourself. It was almost a form of punishment to lock yourself up in the workshop, although you didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. Alcina was too upset to look at you and blamed you for your Daniela’s near death.

And you did too. Everyone told you it wasn’t your fault, that you were only trying to protect your beloved fiancé, that if it weren’t for you, Alcina would likely be dead. Even so, it was your fault for what happened to Daniela. You didn’t want it to be true but you couldn’t put that blame on anyone else. If you had just trusted Alcina to fight off those creatures and protect the daughters, Daniela wouldn’t be a pile of flies. The look on Alcina’s face, a mixture of betrayal and rage when she found out what happened to Daniela haunted you. You’d never be able to get that look out of your mind.

You didn’t feel welcomed in the castle anymore, it no longer felt like a home to you. It felt more like a prison to you, like nobody wanted you there, not even Maria. You wondered if she blamed you for Daniela too….

The only comfort you had was the plants. You moved a few of them from the greenhouse into the workshop with the help of Therese. The girl was nice enough to lend a hand. You spent a little time in the greenhouse under the UV lights, but just enough to stay energized. You needed answers. What were those things? Those creatures that attacked the castle that night. What the hell were they? And where did they come from?

The tree branch you found had flourished ten times over. You kept it hidden from sight in the workshop where no one would find it. You figured it was safer to keep it out of the castle and away from all the others in a place where you could watch it. It was unlike any plant you had ever seen in your life, and you wondered how the moldy moss was able to grow from a tree branch. If you focused hard enough and concentrated on it, you could see glimpses into the plant’s insides. Visions would appear before you but not enough to know what you were seeing. Sometimes you would hear an all too familiar voice from somewhere far away and as soon as you’d get close to the truth, it would vanish. You’d pass out, unable to fight the nausea the plant emitted and feel overwhelmed with sickness.

You became obsessed with the plant and now decided to spend all your time in the workshop. You moved a UV light from the greenhouse and kept it above the plant. The light helped you fight the sickness and you found you were able to stay awake and concentrate on the feeling the plant gave off better. You grabbed a few blankets from your room, a pillow, and stocked up on firewood to keep the workshop as warm as you possibly could. You made a bed out of straw and animal hides close to the fire and spent the nights in the workshop.

The UV light gave you enough energy to feel fed, although you couldn’t remember the last time you had a proper meal. You didn’t know how long it had been since you showered or how many nights you spent in the workshop…. When was the last time someone came out to visit you?

None of it mattered. You needed answers from the plant and needed to know what those creatures were. Daniela had almost died, along with Alcina and Cassandra, and that was entirely your fault. You couldn’t explain how you knew it, but you knew you were connected to it somehow. You knew you were responsible for what happened the night the castle was attacked. It was safer for everyone else if you kept yourself locked in the workshop and away from everyone else. You didn’t want to get anyone else almost killed.

Ophelia, Petr, Maria, and even your mother tried to talk to you and pleaded with you to come out. “You didn’t do anything wrong, YN! None of this is your fault!” “Kid, you need to eat something! Please, you must be starved!” “You can’t blame yourself for what happened.” “Please, come out and see us! Everyone misses you, even Alcina’s been asking about you!” They would all say.

“I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE!” you screamed. The plants around you shook in your rage, one of them tumbling out of their pot and falling to the ground.

“YN….”

“I SAID LEAVE!” After a few minutes, you heard footsteps walking away and soon you couldn’t hear their voices anymore. You wiped your tears away and smashed your fists on the desk. “I don’t need help. I need answers!” Your hands were shaking with rage and fury as you redirected your attention to the plant that sat in front of you. “Show me,” you said to it. The plant seemed to glow and again, a familiar wave of nausea came over you.

Sweat trickled down the side of your face and you wiped your forehead taking a deep breath. “Come on,” you growled. It felt like your stomach was doing backflips, your whole body was shaking, and you continued to fight through the sickness. “Show me!” The plant opened up slightly, a little white orb inside of it. Black spots appeared before your vision and you shook your head trying to stay as focused as you possibly could. You fought with all your might to stay awake and not throw up. Something wet and warm trickled down your nose but you paid no mind to it and continued fighting the plant.

You could hear your heart beating in your ears like a drum, your vision was blurry, blood was pouring out of your nose, and your whole body was shaking like mad. You heard something tapping on the door but focused your attention to the plant. “Come on!” The world was spinning around you, you felt dizzy, your body felt like it had just been in a car crash, and just as the door opened up, you crashed to the ground.

“YN!” Alcina shouted as your body began to convulse on the ground. She raced over to you and moved you away from the table, protecting your head from hitting anything as your body seized on the ground. She had finally decided that it was time for you both to talk and asked Maria where you were. When she told her that you had locked yourself in the workshop for days refusing any meals and screamed at your friends and mother to stay away from you, she became worried. Daniela was almost fully healed and it helped to ease her mind and allowed Alcina to think. The redhead could speak again, although not very well as her face was still forming. Alcina knew she had to see you, she missed you and needed your comfort. It wasn’t fair to keep you shut out and treat you like this. She loved you and she knew she was wrong for blaming you. When Alcina had learned about how you were fairing, she quickly became concerned. But she did not imagine things to be this bad.

Once you stopped seizing, Alcina scooped your body up in her arms, taking note of the strange plant on your workbench, and raced back to the castle. “Oh shit, what happened!?” “Are they okay?” “Why are they passed out?” Your friends asked Alcina as she swept passed them and headed for the greenhouse. She laid you down on a lawn chair underneath the UV lights, now able to see you better.

You looked sickeningly thin and pale, almost like a ghost. The familiar brown spots on your skin were visible, your hair was a mess, your eyes were glazed over, you were sweaty and shaking, blood poured out of both nostrils, and you looked so sick. Alcina felt her heart break and placed a hand over her mouth as tears came to her eyes. How could she have treated you so terribly!? How could she have abandoned you and hurt you like this? “Oh, darling,” Alcina whispered, wiping your nose and cleaning up the blood with a handkerchief.

Bela and Cassandra came in with Maria, Petr brought a bucket of warm, soapy water, and Ophelia had made a hearty plate of all your favorite foods. Your mother had already laid down for the night and Alcina felt it was best if she didn’t see you like this, especially since she hadn’t even met her yet. “What happened?” Bela asked as they all peered down at your sickening form. You looked so unhealthy and unwell that it scared everyone.

Alcina explained what had happened in the workshop, how you had seized and bled from your nose. She took a towel from Petr and wet it in the bucket before cleaning dirt and blood off your face. “They had a seizure?” Ophelia asked, brows raised in concern.

“How did that even happen?” Cassandra asked.

“It’s that damned plant they took with them to the workshop!” Maria said angrily. “They wanted to study it more and it must’ve caused this,” she gestured to the brown spots on your body.

“But why would they do this?” Cass asked.

“I don’t know. They said they wanted answers from the plant, but they wouldn’t say anything more,” Maria explained.

“I don’t understand what answers they could possibly expect to find,” Alcina said angrily. “How could they even believe they would be able to understand that strange plant?”

“I don’t know, but they said they’ve seen… visions,” Maria said.

“Visions?”

“Yeah, it’s true. Right before YN decided to start sleeping in the workshop, they said they were starting to understand that weird plant in the greenhouse, said it was showing them something.”

“I never should have let them out of my sights,” Ophelia sighed. An uncomfortable silence stretched on for a few minutes.

“So, what exactly have they seen?” Cassandra asked, breaking the silence.

“They didn’t say,” Maria responded.

“We can ask them once they wake up,” Bela said.

“Yeah, but it might be days before they wake up. Remember how long it took when they got sick last time?” Cassandra said, folding her arms across her chest.

“Yeah, but this time they have the lights to help. It shouldn’t be too long before they wake,” Maria replied.

Alcina finished wiping your now clean face and held your hands. Your friends say with you for the next couple hours chatting among themselves and trying to figure out what had occurred. Cassandra and Bela helped Daniela down to the greenhouse and settled her in a recliner next you. One of her flies flew over to you and rested on your chest comfortably.

After a couple of hours, you grimaced and clutched your stomach, turning on your side. “Darling? Are you awake?” Alcina asked, putting a hand on your shoulder. The world was spinning madly and your stomach felt like it was inside out. You fell out of the chair and felt yourself getting sick. Your body shook and sweat trickled down your body as you threw up. “YN! Are you alright?” someone asked.

“Grab a bucket or something,” another person said. You could feel someone’s hands on your back rubbing you softly as you continued pouring your stomach out. “What is that stuff?” You opened your eyes and sniffed, wiping your tears on your shirt. Whatever you were throwing up looked black and gross, like a mossy gel. Your heart was hammering in your chest as you shook on the floor trying to piece together everything that had happened.

The familiar lawn chairs and plants were around you so you knew you must be in the greenhouse, although you don’t remember ever leaving the workshop. “Are they done?” you heard Cass ask.

“I don’t know,” Bela said.

“Sweetheart?” Alcina’s voice asked. You felt a cold sensation sweep over your body and went numb. “YN? I need you to look at me,” she said. You couldn’t. You could not look at her face, did not want to see it. The last time you looked at her still haunted you, the image of betrayal and rage painted on her face. You could not bring yourself to look at her and instead sank further on the ground, too afraid to face Alcina.

“Hey kid, come on,” Ophelia said, moving the lawn chair out of the way and coming to your side. “Look at me,” she said, helping you to sit up and catch your bearings. As soon as you sat up, a pounding, head splitting headache overcame you. “Woah, easy there,” Ophelia said. You grabbed your head and felt blood leaking down your nostril as images of something white flashed before your eyes. “Oh! Ahhhhh!” Alcina caught you as you fell back and held you on her lap.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as your body began to shake violently. “Oh, shit! YN!”

“What do we do?”

“Are they okay?”

“Do they look okay!?”

Your body twitched and convulsed against Alcina, blood flowing down from your nose and onto your shirt. After a few moments, you went limp and still once again. Everyone waited anxiously to see what would happen next, a thick layer of hopelessness sinking over all of them. Your eyes were closed now and your arms were spread out bald eagle style on the floor as Alcina continued holding you.

“My love… what’s happening to you?” Alcina asked.

😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛

So there ya have it, just one of the many daydreams/theories I have about what may or may not (and probably won’t) happen in the next chapter. May or may not write a part 2 to this, but probably won’t. I have some other angst/ hurt/ comfort ideas to write about this so lemme know if u wanna see more.

Again, this is just a fanfic based of a fanfic written by the amazingly talented @nbdummy to their sequel Adaptions. It’s an awesome story and you should def check it out!

[lost-technology]

I was about to respond to someone directly on their thoughts in the ether, but I decided that I didn't want to harsh their buzz or cause a fight, so I'll just let out my thoughts here. Someone was talking about Wolfwood's grief-reaction in Badlands Rumble to thinking that Vash died. How he wrecked the red fridge in his hotel room (I also see red things and think of Vash. I've had a few things named "Vash" because they were red - good thing Wolfwood wasn't anywhere near my old tower computer). How he donned Vash's sunglasses to go to battle. Vashwooders point to that and go PROOF OF THE SHIP! and I'm like, huh? Really now. I don't think it's just because I'm an asexual. I think if people want to use that as romantic subtext, it's fine. I just think that it's proof of closeness, whatever the form. This is a problem I have with fandom in general, actually - people taking any and every interaction and making an entire thing on it and acting like people who see things differently are wrong. I am going to share a sad story now. I lost someone very dear to me this year. A found-family / chosen family nephew who was also my best friend. (An adult). This was back in January. A huge part of my grief-reaction early on was anger... like pure unfiltered rage without direction. I didn't put my fist through a fridge but I did other things. I screamed at so many people who did not deserve it. I actually had to quit the fast food job I had at the time because I feared that I was going to beat this one snide high school kid who worked there who liked to purposefully antagonize me upside the head with a greasy spatula and decided that getting therapy was better than getting an assault charge. (He did not know my situation, he was just a jerk in general, but I knew that he would be evil if he knew and I was just... not well). Another part of my grief reaction and subsequent healing has been surrounding myself with Eevees. I spent many days doing a canvas painting of a frolicking Eevee. I made careful displays of my nephew's Eevee figurines. We bought a big Eevee-plush for his memorial service that now lives on my bed. This was because my nephew loved Eevees and I associated Eevee as his icon. Either that or Optimus Prime. I can tell you absolutely that if my nephew had been murdered by a bandit rather than a random heart attack and it was time for me to go to battle to bring said bandit-gang to justice, I'd be ornamented with every Eevee-related item I have in his honor. We never banged. We never wanted to bang. We were Aunt and Nephew. We were peas in a pod geeks. And I think that is lost to people in fiction fandom sometimes - the value and importance and even the possibility of other kinds of relationships. I think it's because our society puts so much importance on romance and sex that all else is forgotten. It is perfectly okay to see certain Vash and Wolfwood interactions and reactions to each other as romantic. I know full well that my little Vash x Meryl heart SOARED during that scene in Stampede where Vash comes out of his Plant-coma and tells Meryl that he heard her (Rem's) voice through her / "I heard your voice, too." depending on whether you're watching dub or sub. I don't think it makes Vash x Meryl canon in any way and the relationship is just as easily friends / "Hey, some humans like me!" But, yes, I understand the impulse. It's just... it's not the only way to interpret it or "irrefutable proof" for all fans.