#cannot help but bring pain with them wherever they go

[flying-fangirls]

The Dies Irae—

It is your title, your combined force—

The Day of Wrath.

[darkmuffinstudios]

headcanons/delusions that i have for the bad sanses part 86 because i'm not normal

(apologies for the length this post will be. I needed to write all of these down or I would explode <3)

(These can be general headcanons, found family, queer platonic, or poly if you want to interpret them in any way ^^)

All of them. Every single one is touch-starved.

Despite all being touch starved, all of them have different (typically negative) responses to being touched suddenly/without warning.

Killer's love language is touch, both giving and receiving (funnily enough).

He also has a habit of sneaking up on the others. This is half-unintentional, since he's light on his feet naturally and makes no sound whenever he walks.

For no coincidence at all, Killer also has been thrown the most by the gang.

He doesn't resent them for it at all.

Cross wears his old uniform (despite his initial dislike for the design) a lot. He claims its out of habit, but deep down, it's because it *proves* that he was worth something once. It's his accomplishment as a royal guard, and that's something that despite the bitterness of the job, he takes pride in. Yes, he still hates the design, and yes, he hates how complicated it is. But he also appreciates the attention to detail, how meticulous and organized you have to be to put it on.

If the last bullet point didn't emphasize enough, Cross has self-worth problems.

So does Killer, but he's accepted it.

Nightmare has a catacomb of trinkets and items alike that has grown sentimental value over the years. He visits there when he's feeling particularly nostalgic, usually in the quiet of the night.

Dust doesn't like seeing his own bones. Gloves, long sleeves, scarves, hoods, slippers and socks- nothing can show. It's probably because of all the dust that practically clung to him from all the people he's killed. It's stained his fingers, his knuckles, his feet.

Horror's eye can actually roll to the other side of his head if he tilts his head enough. No, it isn't painful.

Something very stupid that Horror does (rarely) is he stores small things in the hole in his head. Yes, that one can hurt if forgotten.

Killer has so many cats that it's a problem. Nightmare can't bring himself to make him get rid of any though.

Dust has trained a murder of crows in Nightmare's realm. They follow him in the trees whenever he goes out to walk, and he keeps small pieces of food from his dinners to feed them.

Cross cannot, for the life of him, hide whenever he feels embarrassed (and he feels this often).

Not to say Cross can't mask his emotions. You know, with all the royal guard training and all. And the trauma.

Nightmare suffers from chronic insomnia. He can't bring himself to relax enough to. Although, he doesn't mind mimicking the behavior when he naps with any of the guys, if only to encourage them to sleep.

Nightmare feels safer when sleeping near or with someone in his bed. I'd say its because he probably got jumped as a kid whenever he slept. They're all long dead, but do it enough and the body never forgets.

Killer always picks up small little gifts for the guys every time he goes out. He'll look at something and go "Hey, he'd like that", and nab it. Probably a behavior he picked up when Nightmare first brought him on, since he noticed Nightmare liked to collect things.

Cross's love language is receiving gifts and words of affirmation. (haha). Everyone has picked up on this already, and abuses this knowledge to no end.

Horror waits for everyone to start eating before he eats his own food.

Horror also always carries emergency snacks/food bags with him wherever he goes. Not necessarily for himself though.

Dust loves pancakes. His mood immediately improves if he eats them.

Killer has a large scar that never quite healed right.

Nightmare used to write with a feathered quill. Killer had gotten him a very nice fountain pen long ago though, and he's since abandoned the quill.

Horror has a garden in the back that Nightmare helps him out with. Horror was more interested in crops and harvest, while Nightmare was particularly fond of flowers and trees.

Dust, Killer, and Cross help out with the garden sometimes. They just don't maintain it as diligently as the aforementioned two.

Dust paints. Killer joked about it being therapeutic and artsy and shit, but Dust actually ended up liking it. He could finally express the mess inside his head without any words.

Dust has his own painting room in a part of the castle. It has lots of windows and art hung on the walls.

All the gang occasionally visit Dust while he paints, most simply sitting and watching the brushstrokes. The only one that has actually also drew in that room was Cross. Dust and Cross kind of bond like that.

Cross helps the most with cooking. Horror typically likes to be in charge of the meals/food in the house, but greatly appreciates Cross's help. He feels he's the most reliable, anyways.

Killer does whittling/woodcarving. He makes little figures, knives, intricate pieces, coasters, kitchen tools, etc. His favorite to make is little cat figurines though.

Cross's room is the most clean/organized/empty. Unlike the others, he didn't customize his room in the slightest (keeping the bare minimum of bed, dresser, shelves, etc.).

It is the MTT's mission to fill Cross's room with so many things. Dust gifts Cross paintings to hang on his wall. Killer places little wooden cats on his shelves. Horror places a secret snack stash for Cross, and continually resupplies it.

Nightmare can play a lot of instruments, actually.

Killer has begged on his knees (dramatically of course) to hear Nightmare play ever since he found this out (which was before any of the others even joined). Nightmare doesn't humor him though.

For the life of him, Killer cannot sing. It makes him so mad. Like, he's off-pitch, tone-deaf, off-beat.

Which is funny since I think all the others can sing very well. Horror hums in the kitchen sometimes, Dust sings quietly to himself in his room, Cross is too shy to sing but can, and Nightmare is just musically inclined.

Killer is a little insecure about it.

Okay, he's very insecure about it, but that doesn't stop him from belting out his favorite song like a fool. Like, he understands he's bad, and accepts that fact whenever he's feeling extra confident. But the times he isn't... yeah.

Horror likes it when someone naps on him. Free weighted blanket.

Dust often naps in the weirdest places. In closets, in the wedge between a table and couch, on a high-window sill.

Dust also has back problems. I wonder why.

(A personal favorite of mine: ) Nightmare keeps someone to his right/keeps his tentacles to the right of himself. Since he lost his eye, he has quite the large blind spot, hence why he compensates for it with one of his boys/his tentacles.

Nightmare isn't actually all that athletic. Whenever they all go out, he's always the one that gets left behind the most.

Cross has a habit of matching the walking pace of the person he's with.

Horror can pick up all of them. Very easily. With one hand. Not all at once, of course, but if Dust or Killer are trying to sneak some snacks before dinner, he grabs them by the scruff of their jackets.

Horror lets Cross eat snacks though (encourages it, even. Bro should probably eat more).

Nightmare is a tea-holic. He has a large supply of all of his favorites in the kitchen cupboards. He keeps medicinal ones in both the kitchen and infirmary. They have several kettles. He collects tea sets.

Killer is the best at making tea. Something about his attention to detail, as Nightmare puts it.

The only person that drinks coffee regularly in the castle is Dust. He needs it to deal with everyday bullshit. Coffee makes Cross, Killer, and Horror too antsy. Nightmare sometimes drinks coffee, but not often.

Both Horror and Dust hate it when you change the laundry detergent. They are very particular about the smell. They very much like the scents they chose, thank you very much.

I HIT THE WORD LIMIT??????

I didn't even realize I was writing that much, but I guess I got pretty carried away, haha.

This was downright therapeutic though- I might to this again soon/some other time ^^

[babyangelsky]

Peat's acting is stupendous and it's hurting my feelings

I need to talk about the bedroom scene and the fight that preceded it because it felt like I was having a mirror held up to me and looking at my younger self and in doing, so I've come to love Tongrak as a character even more than I did before.

I talked about the expressions already but I just cannot get past this one. Rak's eyes are so dead and he looks so tired in a way that I understand so deeply. He knows what's about to happen. He screened Prin's call earlier precisely in hopes of avoiding it but she showed up anyway.

I do have to acknowledge that a lot of my interpretation and feelings about him and these scenes are very much a product of my own experiences, but believe me when I tell you that having a family as fucked as his and having to deal with relatives like this drains you. You fight back because you have to, not because you want to. You don't go seeking the bullshit but somehow it always seems to arrive at your door.

I know exactly how he must be feeling because I've felt it. Because I've fought back and made sure my mask was firmly in place for as long as I needed it to only to break the second I could turn my face away.

I'm impressed that Rak didn't run from Mut and that he didn't start crying on the way to his bedroom. That powerwalk he did instead though? I know it all too well.

To Rak's mind, Mut has already witnessed far more than Rak ever intended for him to. That fight was nasty. It poked at so many wounds, touched on so many painful, intimate things about Rak's family and about him. Prin wanted to hurt and humiliate him and she succeeded.

I can confidently say that if someone I cared about witnessed that happening to me, the last thing I would want is to break down in front of them on top of it, so I completely understand why Rak's first instinct was to put distance between him and Mut. You know the breakdown is coming and the only thing you want is to have it in private.

I know people feel some kind of way about Rak's refusal to let Mut into his bedroom and essentially shutting him out but Mook tells us in episode 4 that no one is allowed in Rak's bedroom. This isn't just about Mut. Everything we have learned and seen of Rak so far tells us that he's a person who needs a safe place to hide. A place where he can close the door and know he won't be intruded upon.

Sure, it's his house and ideally he would have the freedom to break down wherever he wants to inside of it but given that Mook comes and goes pretty freely, he doesn't really have that luxury by his standards. There's always a chance she'll walk in. And he certainly doesn't have it now that he's no longer living alone.

So he goes to hide in his bedroom so he can process and feel what he needs to.

And when Mut comes after him, this happens. Mut pushed at that boundary out of genuine care and concern and he's not wrong for that. I've been on his side of this equation too and the impulse to help in whatever way you can is impossible to resist, even if all you can offer is a meal.

But I also understand Rak. God do I understand him. That need to be alone, demanding to be left in peace, lashing out when someone won't despite it being with good intentions. When you've been pushed to your limit and you know a breakdown is coming and that there will be shrapnel when it does, the very last thing you want is for the people you care about to get hit with it.

Like @bird-inacage said in their post, Tongrak is a caged animal at this point. He's feeling vulnerable and defensive and he lashes out. He doesn't want to, he tries to stop it, but it ends up happening anyway.

And he regrets it. He does. The way I see it, he couldn't bring himself to knock on Mut's door both because he'd exhausted all his nerve in the fight with Prin and because a part of him was probably worried that he'd be rejected if he did. When you lash out, especially when you don't mean to, there's always a worry that you've done irreparable damage to your relationship with whoever was on the receiving end and that you won't ever be forgiven.

Sometimes it really is something as simple as a sticky note that brings you to tears and has you sobbing into your dinner in the middle of the night.

The note and the meal are proof that Tongrak hasn't been rejected, that he's still cared for despite the way he reacted after the fight and the things that he said. We know that Mut wasn't going to reject him but Rak needed to know that as well.

And now that they had their moment in the dressing room and the issue of the money has been talked about, we're paving a way forward for Rak to be able to express what he feels without using it as a defense mechanism. He still will, and he will hurt me many more times before we're done, but we're making progress.

[sxftkxssxs]

If you are free and in the mood, can you write about the M6 or just Asra, lucio, and Nadia reaction to MC donating third of what they make from working in their magic shop, like they donate it to charities or families that need money.

I can never resist adding the slightest bit of hurt to Asra's part (he makes me violently ill.)

I don't really know how I ended up having all of them giving to charities themselves but they all definitely would at one point or another.

M6 with a MC who donates to charity

Asra

He'll offer more ideas on how to donate or give to the charity of MC's choosing. He'll try to slip some goofy things in if they're donating to kids, he wants them to have fun!

They definitely kept this tradition up if MC started it before the Plague, since it was something important to them. Though, he'll always be a little teary eyed while he does it.

Once MC is able to walk and talk on their own, they'll ask them to pick charities every so often to give to. If they pick one they used to give to a lot he gets a sad look on his face they can't understand.

When they go on their trips they make sure to bring enough supplies back to donate a good amount and still have some for themselves.

Asra likes to donate to charities that focus on kids. Especially ones that include orphans.

Julian

He'll mostly tease at first.

Even though he's teasing, he gets a warm feeling in his chest seeing you be so kind to all these people.

Julian gets somber when he sees families struggling to stay together. It reminds him of having to leave Portia.

He'll absolutely want to be part of it but uh, MC, what do you expect this man to give?? He's been on the run for years!!

He likes to donate to medical related charities, but still varies often. His second most donated to is family charities.

Nadia

She loves that MC cares so much for her (and possibly, eventually, their) people so much.

She knows that the time she was asleep and with Lucio, she neglected her people. Even if she never meant or wanted to, it happened.

It warms her heart that they still cared enough to help others less fortunate.

She'd love to join! Just, tell her not to overwhelm these people. Please.

Muriel

He's honestly not thought about charities for...a long time.

Before him and MC get close he'll be on edge about it. He doesn't trust apperances.

Once he gets closer and realizes MC just wants to do it to be a good/nice person, he relaxes.

We've seen this man be so kind when he's finally allowing himself to be his own person. Apply here!

He likes to make things for charities. Blankets, Furs, etc.

Muriel would likely want to donate to charities that focus on family or orphaned children.

Portia

she is ecstatic!!

This woman has donated since she got herself into a good stable position and you cannot tell me otherwise.

She's been donating to charities that revolve around keeping families together or children. She understands the pain of losing family more than they realize.

She would want MC to donate to wherever they wanted, give as many people a chance as you can!

Pre-Upright Lucio

He's genuinely confused

They'd rather give that money away?? They could've spent that on something extravagant for him themselves!

The whole idea confuses him immensely.

Once MC starts dragging him through the magic realms and lovingly forcing him to face his own consequences, he'll start to grasp the concept much more.

Post-Upright Lucio

This is a new and improved man right here!

He'll even participate with you! if you help him decide on what all to give? He's still lost on what is best there

Surprisingly, he's the one to suggest donating to families or children.

He still holds so much guilt over his actions. He knows that he's gonna live with that the rest of his life, but at least he can do something good with his second chance, right?

[buckyalpine]

always you’s angst only ending … feed us a tiny lil drabble of maybe bucky not stopping until he and bruce and maybe even shuri (cause bby’s the smartest) find a way to bring her back?

like he enters the portal, scoops up her body, and kisses her back to life. then throws her over his shoulder, locks her in his bedroom, and makes love to her for like a week straight.

“she’s barely been back for a month- AND SHE’S ALREADY PREGNANT?!”

- ur local angst slut who’s actually hella sensitive and cannot handle this shit, gossip girl 💋

Always you angst alternative ending 

18+

Okay YES, if your a pure angst fiend, you may ignore this but I'm here to mend hearts from the sadness that was this fic.

Warnings: Angst, FLUFFFFFFF, Smuuuttttt, happy ending 

5 years later

Bucky refused to accept you being gone. He tried to heal, going to therapy, grief counselling, medication, writing letters, everything under the fucking sun to help him come to terms with the fact that he’d never see you again. 

It was impossible.

It ate him alive.

He was physically stronger, pouring all his time into the gym to find a way to numb the pain but he was more mentally fucked than ever.

It had been 5 years, nearly 6 and the raw pain he felt was still fresh. Every night, he'd wake up searching for you. He couldn't let go, holding onto the pieces you had left behind. He wrote to you as often as he could, keeping a locked diary of things he wanted to tell you, letters he knew no one would see but what else could he do when he wanted to talk to you so badly but you weren’t there. 

That didn’t stop him from finding a way to pour his heart and soul somewhere. 

_________________________________

Happy Birthday babygirl,  I wish I could wake you up with kisses today, tell you how special the world is with you in it, make you pancakes, feed you in bed because I know you’ll cuddle up in the sheets until noon. Buy you a pretty dress, take you out, maybe even go dancing, even if its just me and you and Steve’s playlist of songs from the 40′s. I’d hold you close to me all night until your feet were sore or until Tony told us to turn the cheesy music off. 

I know he secretly ships us (Peter taught me that word) 

If it were up to Stark, he’d throw you the biggest birthday party ever; that wouldn’t stop me from trying to sneak you away for some more birthday kisses. birthday cuddles. Birthday sex...is a new song Sam introduced me to. 

I wanted to do so much with you today sweet girl. Show you how much I love you on your special day. I should have shown you before it was too late. I regret it every single day. I’d give anything for just another day, just so you’d know. 

It was always you. 

Steve brought you some flowers today, Sam brought some balloons. I hope you see them from wherever you are. It’s not the same without you here angel.

We miss you baby. 

I miss you. 

Till we meet again,  JBB 

_________________________________

Hi Baby, I know it’s not a special occasion, I have no real reason to write today. I missed you though. I wanted to tell you about how I jumped out of a plane today and all I could think of is how much you would have laughed because I didn’t use a parachute. You’re laugh is the sweetest sound in the world and I’d give anything to hear it just one more time.

Sam recorded it all, you would have been the first person he showed the footage to. I’d probably ignore you both and then you’d probably tease me about being grumpy and I’d want a kiss to feel better. And a hug. Maybe some cuddles. Please? 

Also you’d be proud of me today, Red Wing broke and it wasn’t my fault. Promise. I even apologized to Sam after but he doesn’t think I’m being sincere. And I’m not because red wing is a little shit. So is Sam. 

I miss you sweets. I wish you were here. It hurts. Everything hurts. 

I hope we meet again. I’ll never let you go. 

Yours, JBB

_________________________________

My y/n,

I’m sorry. I should have told you. I regret it everyday. I’ll never stop trying to find a way to get you back. 

I love you,

JBB

_________________________________

It’s been almost 6 years. It still hurts.

Till we meet again, JBB

_________________________________

I can’t anymore. I need you back. 

JBB

_________________________________

There were some days where Bucky was able to focus, writing as much as he could, spilling all of his feelings onto the paper, a tiny part of him hoping that one day he’d be able to give you all his letters so you’d know you were all he could think of. 

Then there were the days where sobs tore through his body, his breathing labored, only managing to scribble three words before crumbling into a dark abyss. Bucky wracked his brain every single day; if you were able to go back once, there had to be a way to get you back again. Bruce and Tony had spent countless hours in the lab trying to find a way to reopen the portal but nothing led to you. 

*****

Bucky stared at his burner, pressing call and ending it before it could go through multiple times before finally letting it ring. There was only one other person he could turn to. He knew he wasn’t going to be immediately welcomed back into Wakanda but this wasn’t just about him. Everyone wanted you back. Nothing was the same without you there. If there was a 1% chance to get you back, he had to try. His chest felt tight as the jet landed in a secluded area having arranged a private meeting with Shuri, the one person he trusted with his life. 

"I-I have a favor to ask" Bucky's eyes were already pleading with her, his heart racing as he approached her, ready to fall on his knees. 

"Anything Sergeant Barnes" Shuri smiled, sensing he was there for something urgent, nodding for him to continue. There was zero hesitation as she immediately agreed to come back with him to try and get you back, bringing her own lab equipment with her so she could work with Bruce. After filtering through a number of timelines and timestamps, she’d managed to pinpoint the portal to find you but it wasn’t without its consequences. 

“You understand you may not return” Shuri whispered as Bucky threw on his tactical gear, insisting on getting you all on his own while rest of the team watched in pin drop silence, reluctantly letting him go alone “And y/n...we can get her back but there's a chance she may not...” 

She squeezed his hand before he stepped onto the platform, not wanting to finish the sentence but he already understood. He knew it was possible he’d find you again but it didn’t mean he’d find you alive. 

“Then at least I get to say goodbye” He gave her a strained smile; he had to bring you home one way or another. If this was how he had to go, he would run happily to his death; he’d be at peace knowing he died trying to find you. With the push of a button, he was instantly thrown into a warp, transported to where you had last been with Nat. Everything came to a halt as he found himself at an abandoned hydra base, the cold nipping his skin. Bucky blinked, his vision focusing on the fuzzy figure laying on the ground, his feet moving before he could process anything. 

There was no one else around. 

It was you. 

His doll. 

His y/n.

He sprinted to you, tears clouding his vision as he approached you, dropping to his knees, both fear and hope fighting for dominance. He found you. You were there. But would he ever actually get you back? Were you even breathing? 

“Y/n?” Bucky cradled you to him, scooping you in his arms and chasing the portal that had already began to close. He held your face to his neck, his metal hand protecting your head, holding you securely against his body as you both fleshed back to the present. 

The team gasped as he appeared on the platform again with you safely tucked in his arms. They didn’t dare move, everyone holding their breaths while Bucky laid you down with you still in his arms, his hand softly stroking your cheek. 

“Y/n? Doll?” His heart was beating erratically, your skin was warm, a glimmer of hope burning stronger as he gently shook you, pressing his cool metal hand against your face. “Please” 

“C’mon doll, come back to me baby, I have so much I need to tell you” He pleaded, his warm breath fanning against your face, tears brimming his eyes. Tony and Steve itched to whisk you off to the medbay while Sam silently shook his head, wanting to give Bucky an extra minute, hoping you’d be able to wake up in the super soldiers arms where you belonged. 

“Baby, wake up sweets” Bucky couldn't help himself, pressing his lips softly to your forehead, trailing feather light kisses down your face while cuddling you. “C’mon I l-love you” His voice cracked, his lips finally pressing against yours. They were still soft, warm, you had to wake up, you had to-

Your lips stirred, your eyes cracking open, taking your first breath as your eyes focused on Bucky. 

“Sweetheart?” Bucky's eyes grew wide, unsure if he was dreaming or not, scrambling to hug you closer, cupping your face gently.  

“Bucky?” Your voice was a raspy whisper, leaning into his touch, feeling his tears fall onto your skin as he pulled you into his chest. 

“My doll” He let out a soft sob, cradling your head as you buried your face into his neck, moved to cling onto him, the last thing you remembered was darkness and now you were in his arms again surrounded by his warmth, his scent. Everyone stayed rooted in place, tears falling freely, dying to grab you, hug you, hold you again but they were not about to separate the two of you, not after how badly Bucky had yearned to get you back. 

“Bucky” You wept, your mind still piecing together how you were back but it didn’t matter, not when he was holding you again. 

“Hi baby” He whispered against your hair, wiping your tears with his thumb, cupping your face, kissing you all over before capturing your lips again, relishing in your touch, feeling your fingers card through his short locks. You lost yourselves in each other, the rest of the world no longer existing. 

“Okay white wolf, When do we get to say hi to our girl” Sam snorted, sniffling seeing you tucked in Bucky’s arms, the brunettes lips curved into a smile for the first time since you’d been gone. Bucky loosened his hold around you, helping you to your feet, giving you one more kiss before letting go. 

“Come here” Steve scooped you up immediately after, struggling not to squeeze you tight, “We missed you sweet heart, so much”

“Hasn’t been the same without you” Sam gave you a once over, determining you were well enough for a slightly bone crushing hug before having you grabbed away by Tony. Tony wasn’t able to say much, biting his bottom lip to keep it from trembling, hugging you the longest, reluctant to let you go. You were engulfed in Nat’s arms as she wept, squeezing you like her life depended on it. 

“You saved me” She whispered in your hair, her tears falling onto your skin, “Don’t ever do that again” She hissed sternly, grabbing your face to look at her, “Don’t ever ever do something like that again” 

“Give me my baby back” Bucky grabbed you, tossing you over his shoulder as soon as everyone had gotten their hugs and kisses, not interested in giving anyone a second longer when he needed you so badly. You squealed, giggling as he carried you straight down the hall towards his room without glancing back. As soon as he locked the door, his hands were all over you, holding you tightly to him. 

“Your baby?” You shyly whispered as he rested his forehead against yours, nodding and chasing your lips. 

“M’never letting you go again doll, never” He trailed kisses down your neck while unbuckling the straps of your gear letting it drop to the floor. “I want to love you, I want to hold you, I want to make love to you, I want it all with you” 

Bucky tore your clothes off, hoisting you up to wrap your legs around his waist as he carried you over to the bathroom, turning the hot water on, hot water pouring over both if you. The steam made you woozy, your body turning into jelly under his touch as he massaged your muscles with delicate touches, his lips ghosting over every bruise and scar that had marked your skin. You let out a needy whimper, staying close to him, your butterflies erupting in your tummy every time he touched you. 

“Bucky please”

“I want to love you so badly baby, love you the way you deserve” Bucky willed himself not to take you right there, focused on rinsing off and grabbing a towel, carrying you over to his bed. He tossed to towel off, climbing on top of you, neither of you having the patience for a slow build or teasing. Your belly clenched feeling his hard length rut and rub against your bare cunt, your slick coating his cock. 

“I need you” He rasped while you whined, wrapping your legs around him, bucking your hips up. “You have no idea baby, God I need you” His eyes were pleading with you, his cock starting to leak feeling your arousal. 

“Wanna feel you Bucky” You spread your legs for him, your breath hitching feeling the tip of his cock rub through your folds before pressing into your entrance. 

“Gonna make love to you so good sweet girl” Bucky whispered as he started to push his cock in, his heart beating faster, cock growing harder feeling your heat pull him in deeper. He groaned, letting his body weight fall onto you as he started to thrust, pleasure consuming both of you immediately. 

“JAmessss” Your gasp melted into a moan, your head pressed against his pillow as he filled you, stretching you open, letting you feel every ridge and vein of his cock. “Stretching me to so good Buckyyy” 

“Yeah? You feel so good wrapped around me baby” He rasped, his orgasm already creeping down his spine as he pressed sloppy kisses all over your face, overwhelmed with emotion and the feeling of you under him. Your moans made him twitch, nearly growling when he felt your nails dig into his skin as he kissed your cervix with each roll of his hips. 

“I missed you so much baby, didn’t know what to do with myself, I-I couldn’t breathe without you, couldn’t live-” Bucky could feel tears brimming his eyes, struggling to keep them away, “Fuck I missed you so much, I felt like I was drowning every single day” 

You sniffled over his words, your heart connected with his, squeezing your thighs around his waist, desperate to keep every inch of his body pressed with yours. 

“It-it was always you” He kissed your forehead, as he kept you caged under him, moaning against your skin.

“I love you” you cupped his cheeks, brushing his tears away, his nose lightly bumping against yours. You pulled him down for a sweet kiss, only pulling away for air. All of it was so much all at once, the quietest cries and softest kisses, feeling every inch of each other, making up for lost time. Bucky pulled the covers over you both, wrapping you in a cocoon of warmth, hiding you from the rest of the world, savoring this moment with just the two of you, his sweet girl back in his arms again. 

He let his arms roam across your body, stroking your waist, your thighs, gently cupping your breasts, softly suckling your nipples, his body trembling as he tried to hold his climax off and make this moment last forever. 

“M’gonna marry you, you know that?” His hands came to lace with yours, pinning you against the bed, eyes locked with yours. His pace didn’t falter, thrusting into you, loving the way your pussy fluttered around his cock, rolling his hips so he could push into you deeper. “W-will you? Will you marry me babygirl” 

He knew you had just come back but he wanted nothing more, unable to stop the words from slipping out. You let your own tears fall down your cheeks, pulling him impossibly closer. 

“Yes” You whimpered, sniffling back sobs as he stroked your head, smiling against your lips. 

“Gonna make you my wife baby, marry you and take care of you until my last breath” He started to fuck you faster, panting, the muscles in his body tensing. 

“Tell me more Bucky, please?” You whined, your heart aching for more, everything you’d always wanted with the one person you’d always been in love with. 

“Oh baby, M’gonna get you pregnant sweet girl, have a family with you, everything with you, take care of your swollen belly, make love to you even when you’re full of me, show you how much I adore you princess” You gasped as he braced himself, his grunts growing louder, his body heat radiating off him, unable to stop the pleasure that was growing. 

“Tell me your mine baby” He whined, wrapping his arms around you while you threw your head back, your eyes rolling back at the feel of his pubic bone rubbing your sensitive bundle of nerves with each thrust. 

“I’m yours Bucky” 

“Fuck don’t stop y/n, please, I need it” His voice was needy, desperately clinging onto your body, craving to hear nothing else. “Say it again doll”

“I’m yours Bucky, all yours soldier” You moaned louder, your legs shaking around him “I’m gonna cum” 

“Cum with me baby, same time, please” 

“BuckyBuckyBucky- You cried our, your walls staring to flutter, ready to fall off the edge with hi. 

“M’right here, I got you, togther, c’mon, cum with me princess” Bucky rolled his hips, pounding you into the mattress, biting down onto your neck as he felt your nails scratch down his back while white hot pleasure tore through you, your pussy milking his cock. 

“FUCK JAMES” Your body trembled as he fucked you through your high, burying his face into your neck, his lips brushing by your ear. 

“YES, Yes baby, my good girl, my sweet girl, s’perfect for me, yes, I’m gonna give you my cum, get you pregnant, have a baby with you, take care of you, love you, all of it with you baby, fuck- I LOVE YOU- UGGHHH- 

Bucky collapse on you, filling you with his cum until the bed was damp, his body jolting from sensitivity each time you fluttered around him while kissing his temple. He hardly moved, a steady stream of cum still pouring into you, staying connected to you the entire night, cuddling you next to him. 

“I finally have my baby back, my sweet sweet baby, she’s back” 

It has been nearly a week since you were back but you hadn’t left Bucky’s room once. You only took a few moments to eat and sleep, the rest of the time wrapped up in each other, connected in the most intimate way possible, while whispering sweet nothings, 

It was everything Bucky needed. Emotional. Warm. Soft. Loving. 

He couldn’t help the tears every time he was inside you, he finally had you back, wrapping his arms around you every time you made love, making sure you knew exactly how much he had always adored you. As much as he wanted to take you apart in every way imaginable, he couldn’t help but slip into missionary every single time, wanting to see your pretty face, feel your body, have your legs wrap around him as he came inside you. 

*****

You threw on your coat while Bucky slipped his arm around your waist while you both made your way down, passing through the living room on our way out. 

“Damn future Mrs. Barnes” Sam whistled, along with the rest of the team, everyone gathered for a night for a movie. “Where you off to?” 

“The three of us are going out for dinner” Bucky smiled with a child like grin, snickering to himself while the team looked at you with confusion. 

“Three?” Steve cocked his head, noting the way you shied into Bucky’s chest, giggling while he kissed your head, his hand slipping down to brush over your belly. “THREE?”

Steve’s eyes grew wide as he shot out of his seat, pointing at your tummy. “THREE” He whipped his head to Tony, Nat, Sam and Clint who slowly connected the dots. “THREE” 

“For fucks sake, it hasn’t even been a month Barnes” Tony snorted, while everyone pilled onto you both, a large mess of hugs and tears. 

“You didn’t waste any time, huh” Sam wiggling his eyebrows while Bucky wrapped his arms around you, his hands splayed on your tummy. 

“Never again” He whispered, tilting your chin to kiss you deeply, “Never ever again” 

Tags: @glxwingrxse  @hungryyeyess  @sebsgirl71479  @beabutterfly987  @teambarnes72  @witchywhore @jamesbuckybarneswify @slutforsexyseabass  @chrisdrysdale @littlemarvelmenfan  @buggy14  @whimsyplaty92  @sergntbarnes @inkedaztec   @pono-pura-vida   @moonlightreader649 @brooklynscherry-z  @elle14-blog1 @justsebstan @littlelightnings @psychomanniac-blog  @happyt0exist   @emmabarnes  @bethyruth @matchat3a  @cjand10   @getwellsoontana  @cherryschaos   @lokisasgardianvampirequeen  @ashenc-blog  @buckybarnessimpp   @potatothots  @goldylions  @high-functioning-lokipath @morganemorganite-blog  @kingfleury   @peaches1958   @spiderman-stilinski   @peaceinourtime82  @gublur   @wintersmelodie @geeky-politics-46   @lolawassad  @almosttoopizza   @a-poor-gryffindork @alternativeprincess   @buckycallsmeaslut    @kamaria-sweet-writes  @charmedbysarge    @xnorthstar3x  @kryoee7 @alina02  @gh0stgurl    @polishprincess999 @jessybarnes @alltheficsiwant @chemtrails-club  @eralen   @perdidosbucky-yyo  @clqrosmgc      

[redbleedingrose]

Eris taking care of you while you are on your period headcanons

Based off this post from @fieldofdaisiies

Can I just say Eris is absolutely using the fire that runs through his blood to warm his hands to act as basically a heating pad for you that he rests on your stomach and lower back.

And I just know he is massaging the flesh, rubbing at every aching point.

Eris is the kind of male who is so open about your cycle. He is never uncomfortable by it, and that is definitely something that is not standard in Autumn Court.

The males from Autumn avoid females who are on their cycle. They leave them for the time they are bleeding so the females can deal with it on their own.

But Eris is so caring, so attentive, so absorbed within you to leave you like that.

And he is doing everything in his power to make you feel even the slightest bit better

He is picking you up and carrying you to wherever you wanna go whether it is the library he built for you, or the lounge he built attached to his office so you can be near him while he works, or to the kitchen so he can hand feed you fresh fruits.

Eris is making sure that you don't need to lift a single fucking finger while you are on your period.

The times he does need to leave your side, he is settling you into bed, fluffing the pillows that rest behind you and lighting the hearth in your room with a fire that will stay lit until he returns.

His 13 hounds will crowd into the room and collectively circle the bed taking turns resting their head on your belly and surrounding you to keep you warm.

Eris is also the kind of male to get you whatever you are craving whenever you are craving it.

You wake him up in the middle of the night because you are craving spicy noodles??

The Autumn high lord is going to give you the softest kiss and wink before heading to the kitchen himself to make you the best spicy noodles that he will spoon feed you

Gourmet chocolates while he is in a meeting with the other high lords??

This male will straight up tell them, "My mate needs me, see ya" and will go to your favorite bakery that is 45 minutes away from your home just to get you your gourmet chocolates

He would basically drop anything for you, I cannot

And on top of that, he is bringing you blueberry pie, peacan pie, pumpkin pie, all the freaking pies

And he is bringing you fresh baked almond crossaints

Even though the bakery was out of those crossiants

He bribed the baker to make them for you

And then after he hand feeds you, he picks you up and settles you into the warm lavender scented bath and is washing your body and shampooing your hair because he knows you feel a little gross after a long day of sweating and bleeding

And he massages oils into every part of your body before settling you in his warmest sweaters and pajama pants because he knows that his scent soothes you like no other

Eris is gonna cuddle you close, encouraging you to rest your head against his chest as he rubs at your arm and back, kissing at your forehead and temple, reading you whatever book he is currently reading

The soft murmur of his voice, the rumbling in his chest, and the repeating lullaby of his heartbeat send you into a deep sleep

And when you wake, he has your favorite breakfast in bed prepared for you. On the tray is a little vial of tonic that will help with the pain that he helps you drink after you finish eating breakfast together.

He is constantly going out of his way to bring you warm spiced chai or coffee, and is ensuring that you are drinking enough water throughout the day.

A little bit of NSFW stuff below so 18+ only

And I mean..... when you tell him that you heard a rumor that orgasms can help with the pain....

well.....

He doesn't even hesitate.

He just pulls a dark towel out of thin air using his magic and lays it down on the bed, grinning wildly at you as he taps the bed, encouraging you forward

"I don't care about a mess sweets, I can clean that up later," and "Anything to help my beloved," and "Gonna take care of you love" and "I promise to take the pain away" and "This is about you my beloved, not me"

And he just makes love to you, soft and slow to make sure he isn't hurting you the slightest bit.

He is checking in on you, making sure his beloved is alright, making sure that you feel good, making sure you want to continue going

And he pulls orgasm after orgasm after orgasm after orgasm

Until your body is shaking with pleasure and you don't even remember the pain that you were in because the euphoria he is pushing you into is mind blowing

So... anyway....

Sorry this is short, but maybe I will do a Girl Dad!Eris version later.

Eris is what I want and need rn. If anyone finds Eris, please send him my way. Cuz I just know he would treat me right. Hope y'all enjoyed!

[imaginatorcreates]

Bots

12 September 2024 — 14 September 2024

Summary: A security bot gets fed up and runs out to a forest in an attempt to relax...only to find another bot there. Dammit.

Word Count: ~2.8 words

TW:

Robotic anatomy plus talks of flesh

Implied self harm via light skin picking

Implied assault

Please take care of yourself while reading.

Author’s Note: I'm going to be honest: Most of the characterization came here while I was writing it.

I'm also going to be honest: Yes. I came up with the idea for a security bot while reading "The Murderbot Diaries" (it's a great book series). I'm trying to make my bot my own though, so give me a bit of time and brain marination.

Also on AO3

You are a simple thing. You can state your function inside and out, but only enough so that you can do your job properly. After all, having more knowledge about your function can lead to rebellion, and rebellion leads to pain if you ever get caught.

You don’t intend to get caught and face pain, so you don’t rebel.

But even the threat of pain doesn't stop you from learning more about your function and what builds you up.

You have a metal skeleton. It’s sturdy and strong, with joints that are flexible yet fixed. They don’t slip and dislocate as easily as a flesh body’s joints, yet they can be bent to extremes without losing function. You have the right amount of fluid between each joint to prevent the metal from breaking down. Everything is maintained subtly by magic, which flows through your body as liquid holding crushed magical ore.

You’ve seen the magic stream running within your systems before. It’s many colors you cannot describe to the common eye, but if someone asks you (read: forces you to), then you say it’s sparkly. How else do you describe it to someone if you cannot describe it to yourself?

The ore flows deep within your system, closer to the thicker parts of metal. It was safer there, less likely to be damaged by weapons or spells. The ore is the most costly to replace if it’s damaged, so it was best that most of the liquid stayed closer to your core. The magic gets to your extremities through high pressure, turning the liquid to gas which gets infused within your body. 

You have solid metal plates to build external structure and shape, along with strong internal cords to help move you. That was standard for all bots you’ve seen.

What wasn’t standard was that you also have flesh growing on your exterior.

The flesh mostly grows along your arms and legs, along with sparse hairs. Your face also grows flesh, though its coverage isn’t enough for your entire neck. You think it’s because of the closely shaved dark hair that grows on your scalp (it’s not entirely like that; some of it grows out into small curls that you keep short). Nonetheless, wherever the flesh grows, it’s deep enough that muscles and an adequate amount of fat have formed. It doesn’t leak fluid (thankfully), but it squishes beneath your fingers. The flesh on your face betrays your thoughts if you don’t monitor it properly.

You don’t know if you find it odd.

You know a flesh exterior is special. It’s a means of disguise for your work, one that doesn’t require the constant casting of spells, which keeps your price down. It’s one that allows your clientele to bump into your arm or grasp your hand (fingers specifically not intertwined) and not question a thing.

You feel like flesh to your clientele.

You are like them, after all.

(You’re not. But you don’t tell them that.)

If someone asks why your torso is so hard, you stay quiet. Used to stay quiet, at least. Silence implies secrets, so the pushy ones ask you again. The extra pushy and extra touchy ones have tried to pull up your clothes so they could see with their own eyes.

To make them stop, you lie. You say that you’re wearing armor underneath your clothes.

You can lie. It wasn’t against your programming. Mostly.

Hurting your clients, however, would go against your function. It would bring about punishment to you, and your price would waver. Your creators would have to fix you, whether it was necessary or not.

Despite the threat of punishment hanging over your head, you’ve still hurt some clients. You hurt them because they have tried to hurt you before. Touchy clients, with their fingers that are too real compared to your artificial self. Sometimes, they have suspicions and they try to confirm it for themselves.

You don’t physically scar.

You don’t think you can be physically scarred.

You don’t like thinking about it too much. It makes your skin prickle and your chest starts folding inwards on itself. You start picking at the flesh on your body until the russet skin peels away into tender layers that would scab over in a different being. You don’t exactly scab. You just slowly heal again into smooth perfection. You don’t pick too badly either, just enough to take your mind off things.

You don’t like talking to others when you start thinking about it too much. They ask too many questions and give too much unsolicited advice. They repeat things that you already know, and that only adds fuel to the internal fire you keep under strict control.

So one day, after a job well done that resulted in too many questions being stabbed at you, you run out into the depths of the forest where no sane being would follow you. Your boots crunch through sticks and foliage, stray thorns and branches whipping at you and scratching at your exposed flesh. It’s not a lot actually, just your face and whatever bits of your arms that you didn’t bother to cover with your jacket.

You find a tree to lie beneath. You remove your dark tinted glasses and fold them onto your chest. You like it out here. No one to converse with. No one gives looks that have discernible thoughts behind it. You close your eyes and try to relax.

But you can’t relax.

You never, truly, learned how to.

“Hello!”

Oh for — 

“You look lost.”

“Go away.”

“I’d love to, but you’d miss out on the opportunity to get guided out of this forest.”

You open your eyes and your face flesh contorts into a look of disgust. “A bot,” you spit. Not like you’re any different, but this bot doesn’t know that.

“I am,” it proudly says. “Would you like to get out of this forest, heterochromic human?”

“Hetero– I came here with internal intent, and I’ll leave with internal intent.” You sit up and place the tinted glasses back on your face. Your eyes scan over the bot.

It’s a bit wider than you, stocky too. Its entire body is made of dark wood that was smoothened with either time or purpose, bits of lighter-colored wood accentuating some parts. Carved within its chest is a hollow opening where a green bonsai grows, and for a moment you wonder if this bot carved that space out itself. Dark solar panels strategically litter its chest (and presumably its back as well), while two small rotating things are anchored to the sides of its head. Its left side is littered with moss, and two types of mushrooms grow atop its head.

It’s asymmetrical but pleasantly so.

The flesh around one of your eyes twitches.

“Would you like to be guided out? Preferably now?” the wooden bot asks you. Its green eyes — they’re made of simple little lights, antiques perhaps — bore through your tinted glasses and repeat the question over and over without saying a word.

Antique or not, you know when to follow orders. You have no idea what this bot can do, and despite it looking decrepit and possibly half-filled with roots and leaves, you stand up and place yourself behind the bot.

The wooden bot moves onwards, head occasionally pointed down as it navigates the heavy foliage of the forest. It points out places where roots subtly poke out of the ground to avoid tripping on them, and where dense vegetation can hide small creatures. Said small creatures, all furry and skittish, sometimes scramble up the bot’s legs and arms, resting on its shoulders or within its bonsai hollow. It keeps moving, slowly. Sometimes, it reaches into the bonsai hollow and guides a small creature out, murmuring about how the bonsai wasn’t food.

You feel out of place here.

You keep your mouth shut and you keep moving onwards. You avoid stepping on places where the bot tells you to, and you eventually remove your tinted glasses as it starts to get darker.

The wooden bot breaks the lengthy silence with, “We’re about halfway there, heterochromic human.”

“Don’t call me that,” you say.

“But you’re a human with heterochromia.” The bot stops its trek forwards and turns it head around like an owl. “Isn’t that true?”

You want your tinted glasses back on again.

You point to your left eye. The eye is bright blue and stands out against your general dark color scheme. “This is a fluke. It permanently looks like it’s in analysis mode. It’s supposed to match with everything.” You snap your jaw shut and look down. “Turn your head back around, it’s not normal.”

“It’s normal for owls.”

“You’re not an owl.”

“I’ve been called an owl by some. It’s one of the names I’ve picked up.”

“It’s not your name.”

“But it is.”

You look up and thankfully the bot is fully facing you now instead of just its head. It gently shakes itself, causing any creature and bird on it to scatter. “I’ve collected many names over the years. Names like Moss and Fern and Nest and Plaything and Shelter.”

“That’s too many names.”

“I recognize the failings of fleshy beings. They’re wonderful with their brains and magic, but they can’t remember the names that others give them. Names are powerful things.” The bot looks up at the canopy and lets out a little beep at a bird, which chirps back and flies away. “I have a generalized name: Dru-Bot. What about you?”

You stuff your hands into your jacket pockets and scoff. “I don’t have a name. I don’t want a name.” A name is a legally binding thing. It clings to your face, to your shape. It follows you and drags you with it. You can’t be yourself with a name parasitically attached to you.

Dru-Bot stays silent for a little bit. Then it says, “I’ll collect the names of the world for you. So you can pick one later or so one wouldn’t be given to you.”

You feel the flesh around your eyes peel back. You think you’re making your eyes wide, and the thought grosses you out so you stop. You look down and mutter, “I need to have an emotion in private.”

The two of you stand there, Dru-Bot’s attention everywhere but on you while you have your emotion. There’s a fluttery feeling in your chest, and it makes your head feel a bit light. But it’s also heavy with a burden that you think the wooden bot has taken onto itself.

“I protect things, and beings,” you eventually say as the two of you continue to trek out of the forest. “It’s my purpose.”

“I forgot my purpose,” Dru-bot says so casually that you stop and gape at it. “I was built a long, long time ago. Whatever purpose I had is obsolete.”

Your face flesh contorts. “That’s dumb.”

“It is. That’s why I gave myself a new purpose.” Dru-bot arches a hand over its head as it gestures to the darkening sky. “The stars made us. We’re from the stars as we are from the earth. I want to learn more about it. That’s my purpose.”

You look up and blink twice. You could say something witty, a quip to acknowledge that you heard Dru-Bot. But you keep silent, and Dru-Bot doesn’t comment on it. The silence builds up, broken only by the crunch of foliage underfoot and you blurt out, “I heard you.”

“I know.”

“Good, because if you say I didn’t, then I told you I did before you will. So you can’t accuse me otherwise.”

“Why would I accuse you?”

You shrug, and your fingers find the arms of your tinted glasses the most interesting thing ever. “You might. It’s a precaution.”

“Do you take precautions often?”

“Sometimes.” You place the tinted glasses on your head where they can easily be pulled over your eyes at a moment’s notice. “My clients like twisting their words.” It leaves your mouth dry when you say it. It’s not a lie, but saying it aloud makes you properly shrug your jacket onto yourself. Your dark top covers your inorganic torso where flesh doesn’t grow, but the sleeveless design makes it so under the right conditions, a glimpse of metal can be seen.

“You’re high-strung,” Dru-Bot says.

“And you’re too relaxed.”

“You hate what you can’t have.”

“I don’t. At least I’m alert.”

“If you were an animal, you would be very unhealthy.”

“Glad I’m not an animal then.”

Dru-bot stops. Its head rotates around again.

You wince.

“A bot deserves to rest too,” it says.

If you had a heart, it would’ve stopped by now. You become overly aware of the magic stream deep in your torso, of how it gets vaporized to your extremities. You can feel the boundaries of grown flesh and cold metal, how the nerves there are reduced so you aren’t in constant discomfort. You can feel that boundary, strong and there and so, so uncomfortable.

You move.

You rush forwards and use your momentum to push the wooden bot to the forest floor. It’s easier than you expect. You pin its arms behind its back and you force the flesh on your face to obey you. It’s an easy task when you’re in a high-strung situation.

“Can you not?” Dru-Bot groans. “My bonsai is fragile and wood is hard to repair.”

“How did you know?” you spit out. Your repetition comes out breathy, despite not needing to breathe. “How?”

“Intuition.” Dru-Bot tries to shrug, but you’re stronger than it. Your grip tightens and you feel the flesh of your hands against smoothened wood. You feel the spaces where the flesh stops and highlights where your finger joints are. You feel your hands shake a little.

“Elaborate.”

“It’s just a feeling. I can’t explain it more than that.” Dru-Bot doesn’t fight back, only wiggles its fingers and murmurs something. Flames spark from its hands and threaten to lick up your own hands and jacket.

You instinctively let go, then curse when you realize that the fire wasn’t hot, nor burning you. Dru-bot shoves you off in your moment of distraction and shuffles to its feet. You follow suit. “Asshole,” you curse again. “You cast spells?”

“Of course.”

“‘Of course’, as if I knew this entire time. Like you and your intuition.” You scoff and look at anything but the bot. “Not my fault that you won.”

From the corner of your eye, you see the green lights of Dru-Bot’s eye-like structures almost wink at you. “Okay,” it says, and it trundles on.

The rest of the way out of the forest, the two of you spend in silence. The silence is only broken by Dru-Bot as it beeps at some creatures and points out a few hidden things. Eventually, it stops and turns around. “This is the end of the forest.” It points behind it and adds, “Civilization should be on the path ahead. Don’t come back.”

You rapidly step around it and find your feet on a semi-worn path of grass. The trees thin around here and the foliage isn’t as thick. You open your mouth and, for the first time in your entire existence, you talk back. “You need to catch me first.”

Instinctively, you tense up. Your fingers twitch and they close into fists. You’re still facing away from the wooden bot, so you feel your flesh face contort into things that you’d rather not have it twist into. You force your face into a neutral expression and turn around to face the bot.

Dru-Bot stands with a hand on one of its hips, softly shaking its head. “Sassy,” it chuckles. “Make it worth my time.” With that, it turns around and quietly heads back into the thick of the trees, leaving you alone.

You lower your tinted glasses back over your eyes, briskly turn around on the heel of your foot, and run back to the place you were supposed to return. You throw in a little hop and skip when you think no one is looking. As you see more beings, you slow your pace to a brisk walking speed and instead flex your fingers in and out. You pull your jacket closer to yourself and you feel  the flesh around your eyes droop a little as a light feeling flits in your torso. You rub the material between your fingers and quietly let out a little beep of your own.

Within the intoxicating tumble of dopamine flowing through your systems, you still manage to find a solid point to trip upon and scrape your flesh upon.

Dammit, you were mimicking the bot now.

All because it made you happy.

[chemdisaster]

a fanfic about post-tcd scar, how he deals with the life series and how he heals

ao3

.

Scar eventually gets used to the zombies. Sure, at first it's awful, with him having panic attacks every time he so much as thinks of a zombie and murdering them violently every time he comes across them. But by around Season 6 of Hermitcraft, he's mostly fine with them, only occasionally flinching or feeling the familiar seize of panic when he's had a bad day or if he sees them in certain lighting.

The loneliness, though...that stays. The horrible isolation, the constantly being alone with nothing but the sound of groans and gunfire and your own thoughts. It made him go mad to the point of suicide when he was back there and it made him touch starved and petrified of being alone after he escaped. No zombie bite or broken leg can ever compare to the absolute agony of being truly alone, of silence.

He's afraid of being alone so he makes sure to surround himself with people. He's afraid of silence so he turns his first diamonds into jukeboxes and talks to himself whenever there's no one around to fill the air with noise. It takes him months to be comfortable sleeping alone and years before he can base somewhere where there isn't someone else's build within viewing distance. He makes a habit of leaving something small to make noise wherever he sleeps, be it a dripping tap or a ticking clock or the barely noticeable buzz of redstone. It gets easier when he finds Jellie in season 6 but he still feels the tendrils of loneliness begin to squeeze and cut his heart whenever he goes more than a day without seeing anyone. 

So when Last Life happens...it's like being back there again. And he tries his best to combat it like he always does in Hermitcraft, but it never works and they always leave him to suffer on his mountain. Alone. In silence. And he cannot handle it. And it makes him go mad just like it did the first time, makes him suicidal which shows as he becomes more and more reckless with his lives, eventually outright threatening to kill himself if they don't give his enchanter, the only thing that will push the loneliness away, back. Because he'd rather die than be alone. But here in this treacherous world, even death isn't enough.

He never quite recovers after Last Life, but meeting his friends again without the haze of bloodlust, hearing them apologise for the way things ended up there...it helps, somewhat. He learns to push away the loneliness lest it consume him during the day and he learns to hide the nightmares and panic attacks and helpless crying at night. It gets easier eventually and he thinks he might be healing.

Then Double Life rolls around and, well. He never thought it was possible to be surrounded by people in the closest way, yet still feel as miserable and alone as he was back there. He never thought being unwanted would hurt as much as never having anyone to want him in the first place. When he and Grian are running to the edge of the world and desperately gripping each other's hands, the only ones wholly untainted by the bloodlust, the only green names, it almost feels like being hunted again, like being the only human in a world inhabited by the undead. 

He falls into the zombie pit and screams as they claw at his body and tear it apart bit by bit and thinks oh no why didn't I bring my rifle why didn't I stock up on morphine why is this happening why why why and screams as he wakes up in Pearl's base. He has his worst panic attack in years there and pretends the Divorce Quartet didn't hear him screaming when he emerges and pretends that his body isn't shaking and his face isn't streaked with tears when he reaches his site of death. He doesn't look in the pit until all the zombies have been eradicated and feels a vindictive pleasure when Grian smashes the spawner into a million tiny pieces. 

It's almost a relief when he gets blown up not long after. Because if he's feeling the phantom pain of being burnt and torn apart limb from limb in seconds then he can't feel slimy skin and claws, and if his ears are ringing from explosives then they can't hear growls and gurgles and his own screaming. It's less of a relief when he dies again, because he dies alone and in complete silence, a silence that he can still hear when he respawns in his tree, his tree that hasn't been lived in in weeks, that now bears the echoes of grunts and screams in its roots.

Scar loses it after that. He doesn't get out of bed for nearly two weeks, shivering under his blankets as his mind tortures him by replaying every awful moment on repeat. He has nightmares and wakes up and still sees the nightmare on the back of his eyelids every time he closes his eyes. He's alone and the lowest he's ever been and he needs to do something, needs to talk to someone, to hear and see, but he can't get out of bed because he's terrified of what will happen to him outside of it if this is what is happening right now.

Cub comes over within a few days of Scar being back and tries to help, but despite knowing Scar's history, he understands that whatever set him back happened in the death games, and that he can't truly help him if he doesn't know what broke him. So he calls Grian. And Grian, despite dealing with his own guilt over their death and having treated Scar the way he did the entire game, despite thinking that Scar doesn't want to talk to him after he didn't respond to any of Grian's messages, still comes running as soon as Cub tells him that something's wrong with Scar. 

He finds Scar curled up in bed and rubs his upper arm and feels the way Scar's entire body stiffens under his touch. He calls Scar's name and Scar presses Grian's hand against his cheek and breaks. And Grian asks what's wrong, but Scar just pulls him down to the bed and wraps his entire body around him and sobs into his ear, "Just speak. Please. Don't leave me alone." 

And Grian speaks, about everything and nothing, about his base plans and his own past and how fucking guilty he feels for everything he's done to Scar in every one of these games. 

And Scar tells him, in between shaky inhales and broken weeping, what happened to him all those years ago and how he never recovered and how he's most afraid of being left alone and please Grian never leave me alone. And Grian squeezes Scar until he's touching almost every part of his body and whispers into his ear, "I'm never leaving you alone, Scar. Never again." 

And Scar remembers how Cub held him the same way when he found out, how he uttered those same words, how he swore on the vex that they were true.

And Scar starts to believe them.

.

@stiffyck

[nyt1ba]

     Memory is a dagger through ribs,   a thorn's sting that grows sharper with the torment of time,   for wherever one would turn it would dig deeper,   not allowing a moment's respite away from its ache.   There used to be a time not long after the war,   that a mere sound,   a scent,   a shape in a familiar disfigurement that brings forth a flood of unwanted memories,   a heavy tide one cannot escape but to endure   &.   hope not to be swept along with it.   Back when his wounds were bleeding fresh,   blood a lingering taste in his mouth,   the stench of decay stuck to his being as though he was the one rotting.   A grief so raw he could not,   and would not forget despite the strain of such a long life ;   it was the last proof of humanity,   that deep feeling incomprehensible to those who claimed it,   and while senses had turned numb and his passion no more,   that sorrow remains,   intermingled with flesh and bones so that his body itself a personification of grief,   a state of being as thoughtless as breathing.   The horrors that lay hidden in the sand are apparitions only his eyes could see,   now bringing forth a bitterness rather than that old and more human fear.   Elektra hadn't seen the true depths of it,   but just as he was haunted by his own demons,   hers came and took residency along with his own.   Adam had long welcomed them in,   while hers still would barge in uninvited.

  He had seen it before,   the absent look that seemed to see something in an unseen dimension,   guarded nature turns to paranoia,   a constant looking over the shoulder while nails would dig into flesh to draw out feeling through blood.   It was a thoughtless act,   to come find her when she would succumb into the illusion,   drawing back into herself with a terror as real as it had been felt the first time.   It's useless to call,   to drag her attention away from a reality separate from the one in her mind.   So he settles with her on the sand,   hands gentle as they seize hers to stop her from picking at skin,   [   with little care to all the blood between their palms now.   ]   He pulls closer to him then and into a protective embrace.   Although her troubles remain invisible to him,   he would shield her away from them regardless.   Recognition manifests itself with a tightening grip upon the fabric of his jacket,   her hold desperate,  voice reduced to a whisper.   '   Just … hang onto me, please. I feel like – I might really go to pieces if you let go.   '        ❛❛   I'm here               I'll hold you together.   ❜❜        arms wrap tighter around her as he assures,   she can fall apart in his graps however she likes and not a single fragment will slip through.

     ❛ i didn’t want you to see me like this. ❜

  When he heard her voice again she was worn with exhaustion,   slumped limply within his hold in an inability to fight any longer,   her tone akin to shame,   a defeat someone as prideful as her finds difficult to profess.   Elektra Alrune never asks for help,   always dependent on herself even when she could barely walk.   He knows the feeling,   even if he wasn't as stubborn as her,   to ask for a shoulder to carry a fraction of his burden was not a kindness he's deserving of.   He still struggles with the concept,   prefers to retreat to the agony of his solitude than to utter a word.   She's the same in that regard,   all her pain was punishment hardly sufficient to compensate for all the bloodshed.   It was justice taking its course   ...   but he couldn't stand to see it tearing her apart,   he would take it all in her stead if he were able.        ❛❛   And yet I did,   there's nothing to be ashamed of.   ❜❜        he says simply,   moving slightly so can see her better,   a strand of ashen hair is gently pushed aside,   hand cradling her cheek with his thumb brushing at skin.   Her choice had little relevance in the matter,   he would have come to find her either way,   no matter how much she would kick and thrash at him,   he would stay,   there's nothing more terrible to him than having to endure this much all alone.        ❛❛   You're alright,   that's what matters.   ❜❜

@stilettaux // answering based on this because hehe

[hautevaux]

@obscureign asked: 💭 + fishing net MEME: Forget me Not 💭My muse has lost their memories. Send 💭 + something would your muse say/do to bring their memories back.

It's disorientating, to suffer the obscenity of a large seizure; it is made worse thrice over, however, upon coming around and not recalling anything. Naught about ones self, not about ones life or preference, naught about the people one knows or the job they work.

There are people now, in his company as he sits upon a seat in a rather dark hallway, that have been attempting to get him to recall something by telling him tales of how they knew one another, or what he had done for them through his job. But it all felt surreal, it all felt as if he was being fed stories and naught that was true - for none of it sparked recognition in the slightest. The longer it went on, the more panicked Vaux became, fearing that he would never remember.

Eyes tightly closed, a moment taken to simply breathe and attempt to settle himself down. The last thing he needed was to trigger another seizure through immense stress - and when he reopens his eyes does he find another figure in his company, but this one - dressed in stark white - sits aside him.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, fine features - no matter how many times his own silver eyes scanned his newfound companys face, he simply didn't know who he was. Cute though-

He tries his best to smile, to remain polite just in case, but the last thing he wanted was to have more unknowns thrown at him for the lithe possibility it would trigger any kind of recognition. Frankly, it was giving him a headache by this point - - but he would struggle through just one more, it would seem.

"Fishing nets-?" He repeats, appearing thrice more confused than he had been with any of the other suggestions he had been offered. Was he a fisherman? Eyes glanced down at hands and aside from what appeared to be the odd papercut and extremely well manicured nails, there were no signs of heavy manual labor. So perhaps not?

"I'm sorry, I just don't... Remember." He glances towards company once more, unable to help himself gazing at what he was wearing, finding a mental link between the words uttered and how his clothing appeared. The ends of his coat really did look rather like a fishing net, didn't they?

Upon that thought, his headache grew worse and he was all but forced to squeeze his eyes closed and cradle his head in his hands, whining towards the pain. With the discomfort came mild recognition, the first spark of it since he had regained consciousness and thought the shock of pain was detestable, he was thankful that something was found as familiar.

When it subsided after only a moment longer, Vaux took another look at his company, this time staring longer, willing his mind to remember.

"I know that I know you---" He begins, re-closing his eyes to aid in the aching of his head: "-- but I cannot place your name... Or where we are: only the feeling of familiarity and that I don't like the bottom half of your coat, passionately."

He ought be happy he had that - but Vaux couldn't shake the feeling of being displaced because of not remembering so much about himself, his routines. It was frightening, in all honesty, and he knew not quite what to do.

Perhaps relaxing was the answer, not trying to rush things out of fear and desperation would allow his mind to remember naturally but it was easier said than done.

"May I stay here a while?" Fingers pick at nails in idle anxiety, eyes now turned towards the ground: "... I'd leave but... I know not where to go." He couldn't remember where he lived, where he worked, if he had any family around that would look after him: " - - - unless you know of any family that I could be dropped off with? I wouldn't wish to be in the way here. " Wherever here was.

[rockislandadultreads]

NoveList Combo: Creepy & Atmospheric

Did you know NoveList is a database you can access with your library card to find reading recommendations? Find your next favorite read with this fantastic readers tool! Check it out on our website here.

A House With Good Bones by T. Kingfisher

"Mom seems off."

Her brother's words echo in Sam Montgomery's ear as she turns onto the quiet North Carolina street where their mother lives alone.

She brushes the thought away as she climbs the front steps. Sam's excited for this rare extended visit, and looking forward to nights with just the two of them, drinking boxed wine, watching murder mystery shows, and guessing who the killer is long before the characters figure it out.

But stepping inside, she quickly realizes home isn’t what it used to be. Gone is the warm, cluttered charm her mom is known for; now the walls are painted a sterile white. Her mom jumps at the smallest noises and looks over her shoulder even when she’s the only person in the room. And when Sam steps out back to clear her head, she finds a jar of teeth hidden beneath the magazine-worthy rose bushes, and vultures are circling the garden from above.

To find out what’s got her mom so frightened in her own home, Sam will go digging for the truth. But some secrets are better left buried.

Lone Women by Victor LaValle 

Adelaide Henry carries an enormous steamer trunk with her wherever she goes. It’s locked at all times. Because when the trunk opens, people around Adelaide start to disappear.

The year is 1915, and Adelaide is in trouble. Her secret sin killed her parents, forcing her to flee California in a hellfire rush and make her way to Montana as a homesteader. Dragging the trunk with her at every stop, she will become one of the “lone women” taking advantage of the government’s offer of free land for those who can tame it—except that Adelaide isn’t alone. And the secret she’s tried so desperately to lock away might be the only thing that will help her survive the harsh territory.

Sisters of the Lost Nation by Nick Medina

Anna Horn is always looking over her shoulder. For the bullies who torment her, for the entitled visitors at the reservation's casino...and for the nameless, disembodied entity that stalks her every step--an ancient tribal myth come-to-life, one that's intent on devouring her whole.

With strange and sinister happenings occurring around the casino, Anna starts to suspect that not all the horrors on the reservation are old. As girls begin to go missing and the tribe scrambles to find answers, Anna struggles with her place on the rez, desperately searching for the key she's sure lies in the legends of her tribe's past.

When Anna's own little sister also disappears, she'll do anything to bring Grace home. But the demons plaguing the reservation--both ancient and new--are strong, and sometimes, it's the stories that never get told that are the most important.

The Haunting of Alejandra by V. Castro

Alejandra no longer knows who she is. To her husband, she is a wife, and to her children, a mother. To her own adoptive mother, she is a daughter. But they cannot see who Alejandra has become: a woman struggling with a darkness that threatens to consume her. Nor can they see what Alejandra sees. In times of despair, a ghostly vision appears to her, the apparition of a crying woman in a ragged white gown.

When Alejandra visits a therapist, she begins exploring her family’s history, starting with the biological mother she never knew. As she goes deeper into the lives of the women in her family, she learns that heartbreak and tragedy are not the only things she has in common with her ancestors.

Because the crying woman was with them, too. She is La Llorona, the vengeful and murderous mother of Mexican legend. And she will not leave until Alejandra follows her mother, her grandmother, and all the women who came before her into the darkness. But Alejandra has inherited more than just pain. She has inherited the strength and the courage of her foremothers—and she will have to summon everything they have given her to banish La Llorona forever.

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #21

The friends who will help me to build the Dance Dance Revolution pad will not arrive until tomorrow, but that is okay, because I spent my time doing something much more important. And this important thing that I am speaking vaguely on - I would do it again and again and again, without hesitation.

Given my neurobiology and life experiences, often I feel like I don't belong here - in this time, in this place, or on this planet, even. By and large, people like me are not accepted by broader society, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to whatever happens once my "meat mech" runs out of juice. For a variety of reasons, sometimes I am overcome with the desire to leave prematurely; I have a very strong feeling of wanting to go "home" (wherever that is; I have no idea, but I do know that it isn't this particular mossy wet space rock), and my brain is very good at trying to convince me that no one would miss me if I left.

But then I remember that I have superpowers:

I have the capacity to make someone laugh. To make someone feel seen. To be the reason someone smiles. To be the reason why someone out there can feel understood and cared about, even if it's only for a little while. To reach for those who need a little help. To be patient and to wait. All humans have these superpowers, and more. And all humans forget, from time to time, that they have these superpowers. That's okay too. Usually something comes along to remind them. I certainly need a reminder from time to time.

That being said, one superpower that I definitely do not have is the ability to ZOOP off to some far-off place to prepare tea for someone. As one of my friends so aptly put it, according to TV and movies, we were supposed to have some person named Scotty to beam us up and down to places whenever we want by now (this is a joke; it's okay if you don't get the reference. all the same, if your position at the Edge of Creation allows you to check out Star Trek, you totally should - it's good stuff!), but that is definitely not the case, and that is sad. Oh well.

I am small and my voice doesn't count for much in this place. But all the same, the world needs more of whatever good things I (and anyone else) can do, so even though I'm very tired, in pain, and very sad almost all the time, I'll stay here until my body decides on its own that I'm all done here. Why not? After all, the good things that we do end up multiplying in ways that we cannot see, expect, or fully understand.

Besides, the longer I chill out here, the more stories I'll be able to bring back to wherever feels like home once I'm all done, right? And maybe whoever is waiting for me will be proud of everything I've loved, all the weird ideas I unlearned, all the things I've created, all the stuff I tried to fix, and all the people I tried to help along the way.

I wonder if you're aware of all the people you've helped just by existing, whether you intended it or not. You're not the monster that they said you were. You're not the monster that you think you are.

I've got another little song for you today. Maybe you'll like it. I'll include the way I translated it afterwards:

-------------- Remember that everyone is putting on a brave face and trying to stifle their overflowing tears.

So don't be tempted to use the kind of power that comes from being cruel. No one seems to understand this, but heroes don't need power. Just trust in your authentic self. And, even if your hands seem so small, behold:

All of the love you've ever given and received and all of the curses that have befallen you, too These are what give you the strength to protect everything you hold dear.

On some days, your sorrows might attack you from every direction, and overwhelm you to the point of falling to your knees, barely even able to draw breath. But remember: so many things in this world come in opposing pairs: Joy and tears, despair and strength… Even when you are overflowing with doubt and worry, Remember that love and gratitude shatter all barriers. Look at all of the things that your strong hands have carried up until now, and understand:

All of the love you've ever given and received and all of the curses that have befallen you, too These are what give you the strength to protect everything you hold dear.

Stories tell of a coveted sword But all those who find it discover with disappointment that it is riddled with rust. Not wanting to expend the effort to restore it, they leave it behind as though it is worthless. Little do they know that it still has the power to tear the darkness apart.

All of the love you've ever given and received and all of the curses that have befallen you, too These are what give you the strength to protect everything you hold dear.

So don't be tempted to use the kind of power that comes from being cruel. No one seems to understand this, but heroes don't need power. Just trust in your authentic self So that the shadows, recoiling from your gentle brightness, ask in terror: "What even ARE you?!" --------------

I know that this letter is short, but I think I'll end it here; I'm short on sleep and very tired, and I don't wanna ramble on ya.

Remember that you also have superpowers, okay? And not just the ones that let you bend timelines and allow you incredible feats of physical and magical prowess.

Please remember you are loved. Please stay safe out there as you do your things.

Your friend, Lumine

[justafrogandherumbrella]

Welcome to Nowhere: Red

You don’t know where you are. You and Gia were separated when security arrived, so now you’re alone too. You’re alone and you don’t know where you are. You highly doubt that’s a good thing. You need to get out of wherever you are somehow… but to do that you’ll be forced to open your eye. You’re not sure you can bring yourself to do that- not after you saw a glimpse of your own reflection in whatever room you’ve been thrown into. You simply can’t bear it. You sit there, in complete silence and solitude, waiting for something to happen- though you’re not sure what. Perhaps you’re waiting for Gia to come rescue you… but you can’t only rely on them to do all the fighting- especially after what happened in Mr.Rotary’s office. Besides, they want you to be their apprentice, and to live up to their expectations, you cannot just sit here and wait to be saved. 

Slowly, you open your eye, hoping for the best. 

Alas, it seems that your hopes are useless. You are completely surrounded by mirrors, and are immediately caught by the trap of your own image. You can’t close your eye again, you’ve been ensnared. You try to look away from those ever-moving scribbles, and that wretched, scarlet eye, but no matter where you turn, it’s watching you. You bury your head in your hands, desperate to look away, but you can still see it through the cracks between your fingers and the gaps left behind when the doodles and nonsense-lines move. You look down, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the one who is both you and somehow not, but the floor is made of mirrors too. You stumble backwards desperate to get away from its evil face, but there is nowhere to run. No matter where you look, you see that ever-watching eye, following you. You ram your body into the mirrors on the wall, shattering them. Broken glass lies on the mirror floor, and you shatter that, too. You feel sharp pain in your hands and feet, where glass shards have embedded themselves. You do not bleed. You continue breaking these mirrors, desperate to look away, but this does nothing.All you can see is the being that pretends to be you, wearing a face that is supposedly yours- but it’s not. All you can see is its malice, boring into your soul. The eye follows you no matter where you walk, and you cannot escape it. No matter where you look, everything is red.

A door opens. 

You run, run out of the room away from that thing, your own reflection, so that it can’t look at you anymore. You’re panic-ridden and sobbing, but you don’t know why. For once, you don’t even care about why, all you want is to run away. 

Your run is stopped by a firm hand on your arm. You shriek at your captor, thrashing and kicking at them as hard as you can, not bothering to look up to see their face. They don’t let go. 

“Now, now then, that’s quite the reaction,” the familiar sneer of Mr.Rotary taunts. “Stop that, it’s really quite annoying.  You should be grateful I’m letting  you out early. You’re only getting special treatment because you’re… special, in a way.  While we’re all the same, you are somehow the furthest thing from me, yet also the closest. Though I doubt you understand a word of what I’m saying.”

He’s speaking in that same red. Your vision is in that red. Your screams are that red. Everything is red. 

“Stop it,” Mr.Rotary commands, and for some reason, against your will, you do. You freeze in place, unable to move. 

“No!” You shout. Your words are red too. You can’t escape it. “Let go of me!”

Mr.Rotary sighs. The air he breathes is red. You want to attack him. You want to run away. You want to scream, to beg someone- anyone for help… but you can’t seem to do anything.

“You need to calm down,” he says with another sigh.

Your heart rate is starting to slow, but the sense of dread does not fade.  

“We think you’re fun you know,” Mr.Rotary continues. “But stop fighting us, it’s starting to get annoying.”

“Us?” You ask, the red gone from your voice. Why are you so afraid? What is happening to you? 

Mr.Rotary gives you a blank stare.  “If I let you go now, will you attack me?”

You shake your head.

Cautiously, he lets go of your arm. 

“You ought to get to the school now,” he says, staring ahead. “Your shift starts soon.”

Unsure of what to do or what to say, you obey him. You are led to the elevator, and taken down. Is the mirror room where Bianca went, earlier? You don’t really know. 

You leave Dispassion offices feeling empty, completely drained. It isn’t until you’re halfway to the school that you think of Gia.

Where are they? They were taken by security as well. Are they back at the office by now? Or are they suffering as you just were? If they are trapped and in pain, you can’t just leave them there. You want to go back, to turn the office upside down to find them… but that would take too long, and  you would be caught. Instead, you continue on your way to the school and head inside. 

The mirror room is a secret floor, you’re sure of it. If you were being punished somewhere secret, that means Gia is too. As far as you know, there’s no one trustworthy who would know about any of Mr.Rotary’s secrets. No one, except for Bianca.

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

Vassal of the King (part 8)

Frerin x OFC

Author's annotations are here!

*****

Frerin is one hundred and twenty years old on the day he finds himself at a crossroad.

It is a difficult period for both of them. Verdandi's mother, mistress Sigyn, has passed into the Halls a month ago, throwing the Dwarf woman into despair; she cries constantly, and does not get out of the house unless she really cannot help it, spending hours alone in her room. Frerin, who has known the same pain and the same loss when he was still a boy (sometimes he thinks it is a good thing his mother never saw her family wandering around Middle-earth without a home and her husband lose his mind and disappear, but her death on the day of Smaug's attack is an agony he knows he will never heal from) does his best to comfort and console her, but he does not know how, and no matter how strong and deep is the love and the affection between them, and while she appreciate the effort, he has the impression his wife does not actually wants him around.

Verdandi, who is always happy to share her joy and help those in need, is private in her pain; she hides her sadness, her tears, not so much pretending everything is all right but withdrawing into herself, bearing her loss in private and behind a shut door. Frerin's by now familiar sense of helplessness returns once more, and the thought that his wife does not want him close in a moment like that wounds him, but he hopes that the baby Verdandi is carrying in her womb will give her the strenght to keep going and to smile again.

Four weeks later (in a terrible, bloody day in which Skuld comes see him at the forge in the middle of the morning, and Frerin understands what has happened without the need for his sister-in-law to speak, looking at her ashen face and red eyes is enough) Verdandi loses the baby. Skai has no idea why: the Dwarf woman is young and healthy, and the sadness for the loss of her mother did not cause her to neglect her health or to forget their unborn baby needed to be taken care of. Still, it happens, and the sibling she and Frerin had hoped to give Sindri passes into the Halls, before their parents had had the time to give them a name, too small to even reveal whether they would have been a boy or a girl.

Frerin is beside himself with pain. He cries every night, all night, asking Mahal the reason for that tragedy, and tormenting himself with the (completely unreasonable; but if there has been a moment in his life he has been able to think clearly, this is not it) suspicion the Maker is punishing him for running away from his duties towards his family and kin. He holds Sindri against him, he brings the child wherever he goes, including the forge, which the child had until now been forbidden to enter out of fear he might hurt himself, prey of an irrational but persistent fear something terrible might happen to him as well, if Frerin is not there to protect him. Quiet, reserved Sindri does not ask questions, but uncle Skai has explained to him the loss of the little sibling he had not even known of until then, and he does his best to comfort his parents with his love: he hugs them, kisses them, keeps them company and attempts to distract them as often as he can. It helps, very much, but it is not enough, not yet.

Verdandi has closed into herself even more than before, hiding her guilt and hatred for herself behind walls so high not even her sister, and her child, and her husband, can reach her. At night, she lies on the bed, unmoving, turning her back to Frerin to clearly communicate she does not wish to be touched, in any way. Frerin is tormented by the suspicion his wife blames him for what has happened, since he had been the one to propose they try for another child and even if she had enthusiastically accepted. A distance has grown between them, where before they were so close, physically (even though abstinence is the least of his worries, since he would rather wait before trying again as well, and his libido has never been so low) and spiritually, a gesture or a look were enough to make each of them perceive what the other was thinking; he fears the tragedy they suffered will destroy his family, and everything he and his beloved, darling wife have built together, all the happy moments and the hopes for their future. It is a terrifying prospect, enough to keep him awake at night, praying and tormenting himself as he searches for a solution.

It is in moment like this that he wishes the most his mother and sister were still with him; as women, they could perhaps help him decide how to best comfort his wife. But his mother has passed into the Halls years ago (and maybe she is with the baby now, as is mistress Sigyn; it is a sweet thought, even though it does not help either) and Dís is almost as far from him, and no matter how fond Frerin is of Skuld, and Skai, and the good Dwarves of Tharak Bazan, there is no one he can ask for help. He is worried for his wife and her well-being, and for Sindri, who is naturally affected by the tension infecting the house like a plague, and then he has his own pain to deal with, the sense of loss and mourning for something that was as little as his finger and still so precious, a darkness that no one and nothing can seem to help him find a light in...

Had the child been a boy, they would have named him Thorin; Verdandi had been the one to propose it, and Frerin had loved her for that.

One day, two months after Verdandi's miscarriage, Skai comes see him at the forge minutes before he is meant to close; the two reach the closest tavern (not The Axe and the Holly, but one he has never been with Verdandi) and drink more than they should. Frerin is sincerely fond of his brother-in-law, and to stay out of the house for a while, to vent and express his frustration and helplessness, and maybe to forget his woes in the ale, is liberating, and exactly what he needs.

They have reached the bottom of their fourth tankard when Skai, searching for a topic of conversation other than his siblings-in-law's recent tribulations and completely unaware of the effect those words will have on Frerin, asks: "By the way, have you heard the news about Erebor?"

Frerin almost chokes on his ale.

Erebor has been reclaimed. Apparently it has to do with a strange little creature hailing from the lands west of the Anduin river, and the honor of killing the dragon belongs to the heir of the King of Dale, not to the Dwarves, but it is true: Smaug is dead, and the Line of Durin has taken back what is theirs.

They have returned home.

To keep his calm, to prevent Skai (who is more than tipsy at the moment, but still much more perceptive than many Dwarves) from suspecting what he is feeling and how much those news affect him, is one of the hardest things Frerin has even had to do, but he pulls it off, and his brother-in-law is happy to tell him everything he knows (which is very little, but at least he is sure of what he is reporting, since apparently the whole city has talked about nothing else since early morning) thinking Frerin is simply curious, and happy to think about something other than the loss of his child.

That night, after a quiet dinner, Frerin sits on the steps out of the door, lits his pipe and smokes, silent and alone, as he looks at the stars.

Thorin is the new King of Erebor. Skai was not completely sure of the name, but he is called ashenshield or something of the sort, he said, so Frerin has no doubt: it is really his brother - his stubborn, brave, reckless, beloved older brother.

Frerin is happy, of course; he is overjoyed, as much as he can be after Verdandi's miscarriage, and part of him wants to kneel and give thanks to the Maker from now to eternity, thanking Him for not forsaking the Line of Durin. The other part of his heart, though, is troubled: Thorin is alive, but what about the others? Dís, and Balin and Dwalin, and all the others? Did they find out what happened to his father?

Part of him wishes he could go back; now that it is safe to do so, and that others have toiled and risked their lives. The thought fills him with shame, but Frerin cannot help it, nor can he lie to his heart, and as he creates smoke rings that idly dissolve in the cool night air, and as Verdandi observes him, unseen, from the window of their bedroom, he lets his thoughts wander, and fantasies fill his mind. He imagines going back to Erebor, being a prince, a brother and a King's heir once more, sleeping in the large and comfortable room of his childhood and living among the riches and the luxuries he was born in. He dreams of showing his homeland to Vedandi and Sindri, and he is sure they would love him just like he does, that Dís and Verdandi would love each other like sisters, that his family would grow fond of the child, and that him, Frerin, could finally give his family everything they deserve, and that they want, instead of a simple and modest existence, lived considering every little expense and saving in fear of harder times.

He dreams of Thorin; to make peace with him, to apologize and see himself forgiven, and to tell him I love you, and to hear him say I love you as well, little brother. That for him would be enough.

Those are dreams and nothing more. Frerin cannot go back and he knows; first of all because Dwarves are slow to forget any wrong they have suffered, and he has never known anyone more capable of bearing a grudge than Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain. Almost fifty years have passed since he ran away, but it could have been fifty centuries, and nothing would change: Frerin knows his brother has not forgiven him, and that if they were to meet Thorin would still hold his past sins against him, the way he ran when he was needed the most, abandoning his family until he could return and undeservingly enjoy the fruit of his kinsmen's sacrifices. And while Frerin might perhaps endure the shame, he could never bear to have his wife and son witness it.

And after all, he does not want to return; not really. He was not made to be a prince, this he has always known; he could never accept the responsibilities, the obligations the role entiles, he knew this on that night at the gates of Khazad-dûm and now, half a century later, he is more sure than ever. He is Fjalar, a smith and a husband and a father, not Frerin, prince and heir (unless Thorin has children of his own; it might be) and this is a choice he has never regretted. His life is here, with his wife and son, and no matter how much he misses his siblings and his friends, no matter how he wishes they could remember him with love instead of scorn, he knows Verdandi and Sindri are far more precious a treasure than anything guarded in the depths of the Mountain. He will never ask for anything he has not worked for and earned; not for him and not for his family. What he has is enough, and probably more than he deserves.

Even when he feels he has lost a part of him, like now.

In the end, Frerin lets his pipe go out and goes back inside. He is about to head to Sindri's little room to make sure the child is asleep before going to bed himself, but something stops him as if he had walked into a wall.

Placed on the kitchen table, neatly filled with his clothes and other possessions, is the old bag Frerin had taken with him from Azanulbizar, that he had always used in his wanderings and that, since he has hardly ever left Tharak Bazan after he met Verdandi, has long been buried at the bottom of a closet. Inside, there is everything he needs for a long journey: a water bottle, his warmer cloak, half of the coin they keep in the house, folded clothes so that they will not wrinke. Frerin looks at it, in the silent and dark room, for five minutes, disbelieving at first, and then simply sad.

Verdandi has packed his bag.

She is not telling him Go, I do not care. It would be easy to believe so, but he likes to think he knows his wife better than that, and no matter how tense things are between them, Verdandi would never ask him to leave, or even let him go without trying her best to stop him.

No, Verdandi is saying Go, if you so desire; I do not accept it, but I understand. She must have heard about the retaking of Erebor, Frerin's homeland, and is giving him her permission to pursue his destiny, should he decide it leads him back to where he was born. She is releasing him from the promise they exchanged on their wedding day, the promise to never part as long as they were alive, because perhaps this is what he wants, especially (she could never admit it, and she might rationally know he would never blame her for that, but the heart has rules of its own) after she has made it so difficult for him to love her in the last weeks, and she has left him alone with his pain while she could only nurse her own. Verdandi knows Frerin has never stopped thinking about his family, his brother and sister and his friends, and wants him to know she accepts it, that he has the right to go back to them if he wishes, and that it has been good while it lasted.

Staring at that carefully, even lovingly prepared bag, Frerin feels an intense contempt for himself, as well as the impulse to scream at the empty room, loud enough to wake the whole street. He does not, but he takes the bag, brings it with him in his bedroom, and leaves it on the floor. The room is dark, but not so much that he cannot see Verdandi, her back turned to him, stiff as a ramrod, as if she were simply pretending to sleep, and holding her breath. Frerin does not speak, but takes his clothes off, leaves them neatly on a chair and slips under the sheets next to her.

Verdandi remains still for another minute, as if giving him the chance to change his mind, and then she turns. "Fjalar..." she whispers in a broken voice, and for the first time he realizes his wife has never called him Frerin, ever since he shared his secret with her. Not even once.

He would not know how to explain it, but that makes him happy. "It is all right." he whispers back "Come here, my love."

For the first time in months, Verdandi lets herself be hugged, and finally she cries, sobbing and shedding all her tears in her husband's arms, holding on to him and apologizing and telling him how grateful she is, how blessed she feels, for his love. Frerin weeps as well, and holds her, kisses her hair and tells her she has nothing to blame herself for, that everything will be fine, and that there is nowhere he would rather be than with her.

In that embrace, in those tears, whatever was broken is mended, what is lost made peace with, and comfort accepted and shared. On the next morning, Verdandi feels as if healed after a long illness; she is pale, but she smiles, and she finds herself humming softly as she braids her little son's hair. She eats sitting on her husband's knees, and he makes Sindri laugh complaining the weight is going to break his kneecaps, but takes advantage of the proximity to squeeze the firm, plump breast just under his nose. Verdandi slaps his hand away, but she does not seem upset. Not at all.

The next days, and months, and years, pass, peaceful and predictable. Sometimes, Frerin keeps thinking about Erebor; sometimes with nostalgia.

But never with regret.

TAGGING @starlady66 and @elvenenby

[theskeletoninthegarden]

Thinking about my original character, Finley Gibson, and their beef with Eru Ilúvatar.

I don't want to call this religious trauma, because neither I nor my character has, thankfully, ever had to deal with such a complicated ordeal. Finley's beef, so to speak, is not being hand chosen by Eru to act as an "agent" in Arda, to manipulate the lines of history to better fit Finley's, and actually Eru's, idea of how things could be played out.

Which would mean in my story "he" knows what will occur in the events of The Lord of the Rings but I digress.

Finley's bitterness is being chosen over that of their deceased brother, who by all rights is more knowledgeable of the events of Tolkien's work, who has a greater understanding of even basic survival skills, who is better well versed in politics, and etc and etc.

Later Finley will also realize that although Paul was given new life, it was essentially as a cursed spirit in that of the instrument they had been, up until then, carrying for over a decade. Which means years without being able to touch, to see or hear much beyond wherever Finley took him. Which brings on a new wave of just...loathing for Eru, their literal patron god.

What they learn from Gandalf is that their brother, Paul, turned down the role because Paul wanted to remain by his sibling. Had he not, he would, yes, have been involved in the events of the Hobbit and etc in their place, but the death "destined" for Finley later on would have also have occured.

So instead of choosing the not-knowing of a certain death for his sibling on our Earth, he chooses for them to be reborn as an agent, and for Paul to become his sibling's instrument, to be carried with them into a quest of love, but yes pain, and certain heart break.

(Though it can be argued that without Paul's help, Finley would likely fail the quest).

And Finley learns of all this, but it's so much easier to be angry with Eru then to think of their sibling as anything less than basically perfect. They could be upset with both individuals, but sooner would go to outright war with "god" then to say for a moment that their brother had been a fool.

But if it turns out Paul cannot be released from his pact then uhhh

[alwayskeepfightinglilwinchesters]

Imagine: Having violent night terrors and dream-reality confusion (DRC) after a hunt gone wrong with Sam and Dean there to comfort you. 

"How's Y/N?" You hear Sam asks as Cas steps out of your dimly lit room. Pulling a pillow over your head, you try not to listen in on what he has to say, knowing it can't be anything good. Your body has healed from your close encounter with Death after you helped Jack and Cas take down some Grigori, but there is one thing that neither of them can help bring back: your soul. Luckily, they were able to get to you before any more permanent damage could be done. If a Grigori feeds long enough, the damage is fatal and a Grigori's victims are one of the few things that an angel cannot heal. 

Despite not having your soul anymore, your dreams give you constant reminders of what it was like to be whole and to be able to feel... anything. Being awake feels like what would be a nightmare for a normal human; if they one day lost the ability to care about the people closest to them, they wouldn't be able to cope. Yet for a hunter, it's agony. The saying that tomorrow isn't guaranteed has extra meaning for hunters, because they put their lives on the line at every waking moment to try to protect everyday people who don't know about the supernatural. So, the fact that you no longer have the ability whether your best friends in the whole world die the next time they go fight a big bad is agony to you. 

You don't know how to cope with it, so you stay in bed all day. The ceiling has become your new best friend, with the chipped plaster in the corner of it constantly being your main focus. Sam, Dean, Jack, and Cas have all tried to check in on you from time to time, but you shut them all out. Castiel, you physically can't because of his wings and ability to go wherever isn't warded but you've never said a word each time he presses his fingers to your temple. 

What's even worse for you, though: is when you go to sleep every night. In your dreams, you're whole again and can feel every emotion if you wanted to. Unfortunately, only two emotions ever come up when you're asleep: pain and suffering. Each time you close your eyes, you dream about watching Dean getting ripped apart by something or Cas get stabbed by an angel sword. Each time when you wake up, you wonder whether your friends are actually dead and all alone. The worst part about all of it is that you couldn't care less, and that's what scares you the most. 

The first time you cried about it, you had a glimmer of hope that your soul was somehow back yet as your mind caught up to your waking body, those tears quickly dried. With each waking morning, the time it takes for you to realize that your friends are still alive becomes longer and longer, yet you never have the motivation to get out of bed to go see for yourself whether it's true or not. 

At some point, you know you have to get up and eat but you also hope that if you let your body feel hungry, maybe somehow... someway, it'll feel something else too. Anything else  would be better than nothing to you at this point. For Sam, he never got hungry which has been the same for you. While you don't have a need to sleep anymore really, you find that it's the only way to escape from the endless realm of nothingness. 

You can hear a loud knocking on the door that you know belongs to Dean. He's the only one out of the four of them that would tear it down in a heartbeat if you showed any sign of wanting to see him. As much as he hasn't wanted to, he's kept his distance only because he still has hope he'll find a way to get your soul back. Every now and then though, he'll knock on your door in the slight hope that you'll tell him to come in. This instance however, is not one of those times. 

More muffled whispering can be heard from under your pillow and behind the door, and you only lift the pillow off of your face when you hear the footsteps fade away. With a sigh, you roll over on your side and close your eyes with no prospects of having a pleasurable dream. 

In the kitchen... 

"Okay, Rowena." Sam says, gripping the phone a little tighter in his hand. "Thanks." 

"Nothing?" Dean asks as Sam hangs up the phone. When he shakes his head, Dean slams the table with his fist and yells "Damn it!" 

"We'll just have to keep looking!" Jack says. "The Book of the Damned must have something Rowena can use." 

"How do we know she's even reading it? We should just go and take it." Dean grits his teeth. 

"We need to be here for Y/N, Dean." Sam replies. 

"Why, Sammy?! Be here and watch Y/N waste away to nothing?! No, screw that. Give me the phone." 

"Why?" 

"So I can find out where the witch is myself and see if we can actually do something about this!" Dean yells. 

In your room... 

"do something...!" Dean cries out, reaching his bloody hand out for yours. Struggling to move or doing anything you watch helplessly, the hellhound digs its claws into his chest and his blood splatters onto your face. Screaming bloody murder, you sit up and scratch at your hands to wipe away the imaginary blood vigorously. It isn't until the door comes riping off its hinges that you're snapped out of it and see the four men barrel into the room, various weapons in hand. 

"Y/N!" Sam exclaims, seeing you sit up in bed with wide eyes. When you look down again, you notice the only blood on your arms is your own from your deep scratches from your wrist to your elbow. 

"Crap..." Dean whispers, noticing the extensive damage you've done to yourself. 

"I had a dream." You mutter flatly, looking at your sheets as Cas walks over and places his hand on your temple to heal you. "Thanks, I guess." You pull your wrist out of his hand and look up to watch him walk back to the others standing in the doorway. 

"Do, uh..." Sam clears his throat. "Do you want to tell us about these dreams you've been having?" 

With a shrug and an eyeroll, you sit up a little. Them being so close to you would have probably once brought you comfort, but right now all you can think about is how pointless it is for them to be here or for you to tell them about your nightmares. Not seeing any reason not to tell them either, you mutter out "Just dreams that you guys die. It's different every night." 

"Y/N..." Sam whispers, his brown eyes widening a little. He takes a step further into your room and you watch the others do the same. You don't move, but you don't acknowledge their presense either. 

"It's whatever." You shrug. 

"Why did you scream if it's just 'whatever'?" Dean crosses his arms. He does have a point, and this time you do shift a little, only because the head of the bedframe was digging into your shoulder at an awkward angle. 

"I guess... in my dreams... I feel scared. And sad." You sigh. "Wish I could feel anything, right about now." 

Dean nods and sits on the edge of your bed. After a couple of seconds of silence, you see Jack walk around to sit on the left edge while Sam goes around to the right. "We're going to fix this, Y/N." Dean finally says. You look into his green eyes with your expressionless Y/E/C ones and see how sad he looks. Looking around at the others, you see them give varying signs of reassurance. 

"Is it alright if we stay with you while you fall asleep?" Jack asks with a small smile. "It's okay if you don't want us to-" 

"No." You interrupt. "I mean, no..." You sigh. "That would be fine, I guess." Sam's hand which has been inches away from yours since he sat down, reaches over to give yours a reassuring squeeze. Not caring anymore about being self-conscious with all the the staring eyes, you close your eyes without another word. 

This time, however... feels slightly different. When you open your eyes in your dream, instead of feeling scared you actually think you feel comfort for the first time since your soul was ripped out of you.