#mend their bodies together at the shoulders and stuff

[eights-world]

i think ive gotten better with their whack ass proportions

the absolute hops im making between fandoms us giving me whiplash

[transformers-spike]

Heyy I noticed that you put TFO among the stuff you might write for. Pls pls, if it's alright w/ u, Megatron x reader angry sex? Like, you might be a human he found after being banished and kept with him, and he trusts you bc u are nice, pose no real threat and ur good to blow off some steam :))))))))) but ofc he cares abt u, so it's more like angry sex + tender aftercare thank uuuuuuu i love my big metallic man with anger issues

My brain decided to do its own thing and for the sake of not writing a full length novel about it, I had to cut it short (and of course I made it sad because the boy is just dripping with angst - so I'm going to give him more.) So here:

He was advised to abandon you. Found in the deepest recesses of a Quintesson ship they’d shot down, you were still shaking from the crash. Not Cybertronian. Nor Quintessonian. A completely different being, with soft mesh, warm extremities and strands of something falling from your helm. An animal perhaps? Much like the strange quadrupeds traveling the surface? No, your optics move with intention, taking in your surroundings and wrinkling your optical ridge in clear contemplation. You are incredibly tiny, even next to a cogless miner. He wondered, briefly, when he first saw you, if you were another casualty of Sentinel’s tyranny, a forgotten being he sold off to the Quintessons without a second thought. He does not understand your language, nor can you speak his, but you observe the context and carefully come to associate certain words with objects, actions and designations. You cannot reproduce the subtle tones of Cybertronian with an organic vocalizer, much like the Quintessons – but you do not reject it. You learn to live despite your muteness. Many times he’s watched you draw figures in the sand with a twig the size of your arm, depicting what he could only assume to be a spaceship flying away from a distant planet as the Quintessons surround it. Sometimes you draw more of your kind, together in an embrace. You would stand over your creation, watching wistfully as the wind erased the fine traces of sand. A memory of your people. He wishes he could tell you about him and Orion, the pain of losing him, the crater in his chassis that will never mend – but guilt keeps him at bay. Soon enough, your provisions will run out. What they found on the Quintesson ship were rations made for your specific type of biology, with no guide to recreate them from, not even Shockwave could reverse-engineer the process. It’s simply too late. One orbital cycle, your life will come to an end, but he will give you the dignity of dying at his hands, painlessly. He is no stranger to starvation, but unlike him, you must refuel at various intervals during an orbital cycle, else he senses how you grow restless on his shoulder, fiddling with your servos, mesh growing pale and optics sluggish, growls emanating from your inner mechanism. You are not made for suffering Your life will come to an end, and you know this better than any other Decepticon; as though reading his thoughts behind the permanent scowl scratched into his face. Perhaps this is why he indulges in you even if he’s been advised against it. You’re eager despite your size, pressing yourself against his frame, ignoring your discomfort. He’s still getting used to his new body, including his strength for better or for worse. Yet you do not fault him when he leaves bruises. You kiss him and rub up against his spike, transfluid trickling down to his valve even before he comes undone. You squirm and laugh and pull him into a hug, helm to helm, a moment so perfect he’s ready to rip the cog from his chassis if it means staying like this forever, servos clenched into fists as he curses at Primus for the happiness he will shatter.

[according2thelore]

oh GOD that ask answer was everything i dreamed and more. es!dean literally cannot imagine the kind of torture sam went through with lucifer. (which, incidentally, is one reason why ls!sam could never really replace ls!dean with him. he wakes up hyperventilating in the middle of the night and that slender boy is not enough. he needs his mountain man of a brother who Knows what’s out there.) and that kills him because he needs to know Everything About Sam. but sam is so so right to keep it from him - i don’t think es!dean could live with the knowledge, say, that sam is raped one day. i think it would actually end him.

ugggh i lvoe this au so much. you are a genius.

GRAHH you're so right!!!

sam wakes up one night straight from a nightmare and stumbles into the hallway, needing to find dean's room. he runs into ES!Dean, who's all it's okay, sam. it can't hurt you, it's just a vision--because he doesn't know! ES!Sam's nightmares can be soothed with gentle hands on his neck and shoulders, brushing bangs out of his eyes, dean promising that they'll fix it, and sam's safe.

but LS!Sam is going to throw up because this isn't a fixable thing. he feels suffocated by ES!Dean's firm hands on wrists, held down, and he pushes him away, hard.

LS!Dean shoves ES!Dean further away like you can't restrain him like that and ES!Dean pales bc he things he's caught on: someone held sam captive, maybe because of his powers. how could LS!Dean have arrived so clearly late, late enough that sam still carries the scars into his dreams?

and LS!Dean keeps muttering about first stones and c'mon sammy breathe with me and look at me and this is real. and LS!Sam kind of crumples and shoves himself under LS!Dean's arm, trying to make himself small and holdable, and ES!Dean just stands there and burns.

because there is clearly something here that's not right. something that LS!Sam&Dean have survived together, learned how to deal with, spent years adjusting to each other, and that's something ES!Dean is starting to realize they'll never tell him.

sam has always been a little inaccessible--he used to refuse to tell dean details about his girlfriend-of-the-weeks, he kept stanford a secret until he got his acceptance letter, he wouldn't tell dean what he was writing in all of those notebooks--but never the truly big, life-or-death stuff. and now sam--LS!Sam, anyway--is inaccessible. and it kills dean. dean wants to shrivel up and die because sammy is his. his responsibility, his to watch out for, his to mend, his to kill for.

he has never felt more purposeless or rudderless than he does right now--watching someone else comfort sam.

what he doesn't know, of course, would kill him. the fact that sam asks to be locked into a cage in hell, and dean will let him. the century of torture and rape and psychological hell that sam went through is a chasm that dean will never be able to fix. he can build a bridge, but that's all he can do.

it would kill ES!Dean. and LS!Sam knows it. so he reaches out a shaky hand in the gap between LS!Dean's arm and body, where he's wrapped sam in a bear hug.

ES!Dean rushes forward and grabs it, life finally having meaning again as sammy looks up at him with bloodshot eyes, with fingers that shake, and a voice that cracks when he says, "i'm okay, dean. thank you. i'm fine."

AGH!!!! anon, you get it <3 <3 hurt/comfort is my FUCKING bread and butter!!!!!!!! esp when it goes both ways!! because with these bozos, it literally would be!!

-lizzy

[marzbix-crystal]

[Image ID: A page of annotated and fully-coloured digital drawings featuring an interpretation of the character Apophyllite from Land of the Lustrous, on the right is a full body drawing of the character facing the right, they have grey-blue hair that reaches their chin with one side partially covering their face, they wear the winter uniform with a shirt, tie, puffy sleeves, flared shorts, and flat shoes with bows on them, they also wear white knee-socks and elbow-length gloves, In the lower centre is a headshot of Apophyllite looking towards the left with their hair obscuring their face, in the lower left is a stylized drawing of them with one hand on their hip and the other holding a broom, finally in the top left is an image of Apophyllite crystals, and a Manga screenshot depicting a Lunarian mentioning the gem, with a red circle and arrows pointing to the name. /End ID]. Annotations will be rewritten below

APOPHYLLITE She/Her Pronouns Mohs Hardness: 4.5 Nicknames: Phyll or Poppy The Fourth Elder Gem. She pulled everyone together when Kongo Sensei lost consciousness. She's a lovely gem, but very strict on how she runs things- she's always fussing the youngsters about their uniforms, sleeping quarters, and even their posture. Apophyllite is a jack of all trades, she can teach, fix broken gems, mend clothes, she can even make quality paper. But she prefers cleaning above all else- dirt and clutter beware!! Some stuff I didn't write on the drawing: She is the Head Cleaner, and while she has a team of cleaners to keep the school tidy all year-round, she begins rallying every gem to get things (mostly) spotless before winter hits.

[Image ID: A page of annotated and fully-coloured digital drawings featuring an interpretation of the character Pink Fluorite from Land of the Lustrous, on the right is a full body drawing of the character facing the right with their head turned to the left, they have long, sleek, reddish pink hair that hangs around their shoulders like a scarf with a strand of hair drooping from the top of their head, they wear a suit with a waistcoat, shirt, tie, rolled-up sleeves, trousers, and high-heeled shoes, In the lower centre is a stylized doodle of Pink Fluorite from the waist up, they have their hands on their hips and they have a disgusted expression on their face, the word "disgusted" is written in bold letters on their left, in the lower left is a bust drawing of the character facing the left while looking over their shoulder at the viewer, their hair is tied into a bun, finally in the top left is an image of a Pink Fluorite crystal, and a Manga screenshot depicting a strategy board where the character Phosphophyllite mentions them, a red circle and arrows point to the name. /End ID]. Annotations will be rewritten below PINK FLUORITE She/He Pronouns Mohs Hardness: 4 No Nicknames: Use their full name or refer to as "Sir" A total etiquette freak, far too strict to be a Mediator, but she still does her best to uphold the rules to the best of her ability. He was once the Delinquents' worst nightmare, but he started to mellow out a while ago. She had a weird one-sided rivalry with Labradorite, but she has mostly grown out of it. Mostly. Several-hundred years shy of Elder Gem status, but he still pulls the age card like it's a badge once in a while. She's weirdly agile for a gem that doesn't fight. He often ties his hair up into a bun, a very prim and proper gem. Some stuff I didn't write on the drawing: Pink Fluorite is actually quite elusive nowadays, he's usually holed up in the Library, making sure everything is in the right place. Despite her cold demeanour, she gives pretty good advice to those looking for it. --------------------

ALRIGHT OK ALRIGHT!!! I'm so happy with these I posted them together because I didn't want to just, idk bloat?? my profile?? I don't know how to say it but ANYWAY I realise these are a bit messy but I don't really mind it? I got my thoughts down and that is what matters. All three of these gems (Sphalerite, Apophyllite, and Pink Fluorite) looked VERY different to when I first thought about them, it's a shame I didn't draft those out, but I' so so happy with how they ended up. Although it's been very hard not to write "Pink Floyd" instead of Pink Fluorite I will be doing some proper art soon ish, I have several ideas, but not not all of them will be pretty rock related, so if you're tuned into my other blogs you can keep an eye out if you want :]

[imagine-darksiders]

Hi Ellie! First time asker here so kind of nervous but I love your stuff so I’m finally gonna stop lurking! I was wondering, a few months after death resurrects humanity if y/n had like a serious ptsd episode about like being attacked by demons, what would the horsemen do about it if they felt she was a serious danger to herself and humans around her? Maybe she got her hands on a weapon and barricaded herself up somewhere and is shooting at whoever gets near?

Anyways thank you and I love your art and your amazing, talented brain!!

Hi hi! Thanks so much for this interesting ask.

I got a little carried away with this one, admittedly :)

Very self indulgent with lots of overprotective Horsemen, but I want it on record that I don't suffer from this kind of PTSD, and I may not have accurately portrayed the symptoms, which I hear are nearly innumerable and very difficult to define.

CW - flashbacks, triggers, blood, mentions of death, threat to children.

Kind of an idea-dump about how humans are adjusting to life after the Resurrection.

Spoilers, not all of it is good.

----------

Haven is a city full of ghosts.

On every street corner, in every dark alley, in every building from the dingiest apartment to the grandest skyscraper, there exists the haunting echo of death.

One hundred and five years ago, the Biblical Apocalypse had proved itself to be more than just a story, and in a mere matter of weeks, all of Humanity was wiped out, reduced to a single, lonely number.

One.

Just one.

You.

Slung over the shoulder of one of the very Horsemen who was supposed to start the Apocalypse, you’d watched as Haven City – your home – burned alive around you.

Everywhere you looked, you saw the mangled remains of your fellow humans, strewn about like withering, autumn leaves. Innumerable. Lifeless. And always looming over them, the very demons that had come to eradicate your species from the chronicles of History.

Iron and rust slicked the back of your throat with every breath you took. The city screamed, seven million souls rattled the windows and howled through the streets, joining together in the most bloodcurdling, ongoing orchestral note ever to have split the sky asunder.

One hundred and five years ago, everyone died. Not just Haven City – The entire human race.

But the thing is… they didn’t stay dead.

Ironically, it was Death himself who restored the souls and bodies of more than eight billion people in one, fell swoop.

Eight billion were brought back, mended by ancient magic, right to the place they’d died.

But for humans, one hundred years hadn’t passed.

To them, between one blink and the next, they’d died and were subsequently reborn with their bodies and minds intact, with their last and lingering memory being solely that of the monsters who had been bearing down on them.

The world had screamed anew.

That was the worst of it, you suppose. The remembering.

It didn’t take long before everyone realised that humans could recall how they’d died, and as such, the city itself became wrapped up in terrible, haunting memories. And when enough bad memories gather in certain places, the sorrow seeps like rot into the infrastructure, turning every building into a tomb, even without a body to keep it company.

Everyone could point out a different place where they’d been cut down or crushed or burned alive or swallowed whole. Some could still see themselves laying there, glassy eyes pinned wide open, staring up at the fiery sky.

People were haunted by their own ghosts.

Haven is a city full of ghosts.

But on this night, as you meander down a residential street with your nose tipped towards the sky, breathing in the crisp, October air, you can’t help but note that there are far more ghosts flitting about than usual.

Though these, at least, are a little more palatable.

You can scarcely believe that Halloween has rolled around for yet another year.

A small blur of white darts past you down the path, almost tripping over the long, tattered bedsheet that’s been thrown over their head. You’re rather proud that you only flinch at the unexpected movement, you don’t recoil entirely. Bemused, you watch the little, orange bucket swing perilously from the ghost's elbow as they totter through a garden gate and hammer on the front door of a house, belting out a well-practiced ‘trick-or-treat!’ before the residents have even turned the handle.

Somewhere across the road, a different child screams.

Yours isn’t the only head that immediately whips towards the sound.

Naturally, when you and at least fifteen other adults turn to look, you only see a little girl being hoisted up onto her father’s shoulders, whooping and shrieking with gleeful excitement. To his credit, the man’s mouth is pulled into a grimace, and he raises his hand to offer the onlookers an apologetic wave as if to say, ‘It’s all right. She’s safe. Carry on.’

He knows what they’re thinking.

The whole street seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Everybody starts to move at a normal pace once more, though it had all happened so quickly, no one really even broke their stride.

When the sky burst open over a century ago and rained hellfire and demons down onto an unsuspecting Earth, nobody had been spared.

But it was the children – weaker, smaller, slower – who had fallen first.

Everyone remembers the sound of a whole city dying.

You know of several parents who still struggle to sleep at night, because when they do, they’re plagued by the cries of their children who they simply couldn’t save. The children, of course, are alive and well today, but there’s no forgetting that there was a time when they hadn’t been, not until Humanity was brought back from the dead by Death himself.

Nightmares are so much worse when they echo the past.

You may not have children, and you may have been spared a miserable end on Earth thanks to the actions of one Horseman of the Apocalypse, but you still have license to say that you too have felt the terrors that haunt Humanity.

In cruel clarity, you remember the day the world ended.

Heaving out a shaky exhale, you watch a jet of white air puff from your parted lips as you carry on down the leaf-strewn road, sidestepping a young boy whose face has been painted to look like a tiger.

You smile approvingly at the choice, all the while trying not to jump at every sudden noise.

Kids were the ones who wanted to bring back Halloween, while the older folks, yourself included, were a little more hesitant about the matter.

There was something… different about the holiday following Humanity’s resurrection.

People used to say that All Hallow’s Eve was a time when the veil between Earth and other hidden realms is at its thinnest, allowing spirits, demons and monsters to pass through an invisible barrier, all to cause havoc for one, glorious night.

Of course, then you’d all discovered that demons are real.

So are monsters.

So are spirits.

And suddenly, Halloween seemed a lot less like a harmless, fun tradition meant for children to enjoy.

You have first-hand proof that the veil isn’t thin. It’s completely passable, all the damn time, apparently.

But children don’t care about that.

For most of them, Halloween is still the fun, if spooky night where they can don their costumes and stuff themselves so full of confectionary that they’re nearly sick.

And so, it was brought back. But not without a few stipulations put into place.

It seemed to be a unanimous, but unspoken decision that sporting any imagery pertaining to demons was a big no-no.

Out went the little, red horns, the plastic pitchforks, and the spade-tipped tails. Even fangs were discarded. Nobody wants to see a visceral reminder of the very things that killed them running through the city streets.

The same rule eventually extended to white, feathery wings and halo headbands, avoided out of general politeness for the angels who’ve started frequenting Earth enough that it’s now a relatively common occurrence to see one soaring over the city skyline or bothering librarians for human literature.

In the case of the demons, however, ditching their imagery had been more for humans’ benefit than out of any mark of respect or an attempt at maintaining social cordialness.

You weren’t even killed by a demon, and you still feel that bubble of apprehension rising in your throat if the Hell-born merchant, Vulgrim, pops up in your path without warning.

You’d seen what his ilk did to yours, even if the glimpses you caught were brief and blurred.

So, for humans who were cut down by a demon, you can only imagine what harrowing thoughts must ricochet through their heads if they ever catch sight of one.

Of course, demonic visits to Earth are very few and far between, and if ever they do occur, their presence is heavily monitored by at least one of Humanity’s ferocious protectors.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, world-enders turned world-savers, and your best and dearest friends.

It occurs to you that they may already be waiting for you at your apartment, no doubt arguing over which of your horror movies they want to watch first.

It’s rare that you manage to get all four of them in a room together nowadays, rarer still if you manage it without anyone suffering a bloody nose, but human holidays, it seems, have become important to them.

Strife says it’s because you’re important to them.

But then, Strife says a lot of things.

A dainty smile wobbles tentatively across your face at the thought of them waiting for you, so, with a slightly lighter heart, you round the corner of the last house and continue on your path towards home, your steps a little surer than before.

Behind you, you can pick up the distant chatter of a group of youngsters following the same path as you, likely heading home after filling their pumpkin buckets to the brim with sweet things.

It’s as you’re strolling past a nondescript, dead-end alley that it happens.

The sound of rustling alerts you to the presence of… something. You’ve spent enough time around Death to be a little more in tune with your surroundings than you used to be.

In a snap, your head whips towards the shadowy entrance to the alley.

At the exact same moment, something tall, sinewy and dark lurches towards you.

“SHIT!” you holler, stumbling backwards, your heart soaring up into your throat as the thing howls shrilly into the night.

You catch the flash of a red face, pointed teeth protruding from black lips, horns that spiral towards the sky.

That’s all you see before a switch in your mind flips, like something inside you has snapped in half, and the world around you goes blank and quiet, only impeded by the ringing in your muffled ears.

-----

War is not overprotective.

He’s simply honouring the duty he set out for himself. Keeping you safe is not unlike a mission, and the youngest Horseman has always adhered to his missions with a dogged and unrelenting tenacity.

That said, if he could somehow find a way to glue you to him, perhaps keep you nestled safely in the depths of his soul, he’d certainly be a lot less agitated every time you’re left on your own for too long.

Tonight, for instance, he was the first Horseman to arrive at your home, squeezing himself through your front door with begrudging care. You’d seemed so distraught the first time he simply bulldozed his way inside, shoulder pauldrons tearing off enormous swathes of your doorframe, and he’d rather avoid a repeat of the scathing looks his siblings had sent him for a week after the fact.

It wasn’t long before he was joined by his brother, Strife, who spent a few moments griping that he wasn’t the first Horseman there before he quickly got over his minor annoyance and began to make himself right at home, kicking his boots up on your coffee table and burying himself into your well-worn sofa.

They were soon joined by Fury, and finally, Death.

But still, there was no sign of you.

They managed to wait together for all of twenty minutes before someone – Strife – had made the tentative suggestion that you might be in trouble.

And after that…. well.

There was no harm in just… checking the surrounding area, was there?

Death stayed outside your apartment building to wait for you, just in case you came back, though he’d sent his crow, Dust, to scour the city for you in his stead.

In the meantime, Fury, Strife and War set out to roam the blocks surrounding your home, summoning their steeds to cover more ground.

The youngest Horseman has to keep his horse’s reins in check.

Ruin - an ebony beast of a stallion with a mane of smoke, and legs like molten rock – can sense his rider’s agitation, keeping his thick neck arched high, nostrils round and wide as he tromps heavily down the road, sending sparks flying from his hooves with every step.

Without warning, Ruin throws his enormous head up, ears shooting forwards to point down the street, and his muscles tighten rigidly beneath the saddle.

“Y/n?” War asks his steed, standing in the stirrups and squinting through the streetlights to try and spy anything recognisable in the darkness.

Tossing his smoking mane, the almighty horse’s body suddenly jolts as he lets out a deep, guttural bellow, more akin to a roar than a whinny. The sound echoes over the rooftops, until it’s swiftly answered by a shriller, metallic neigh from several streets back.

Mayhem, at least, has received the message.

The street goes quiet again, and that’s when War hears it.

The unmistakable sound of crying.

Metal-clad heels have barely tapped Ruin’s flanks before the horse launches forwards into a dead gallop, thundering down the street towards the noise that drifts out from the darkness of a narrow, unlit alley.

War pulls his arm back as they draw close, gauntlet fisted around the heavy chain that serves as his horse’s reins.

With a squeal, Ruin plants his hooves against the tarmac and digs in, sparks flying as the pair come careening to a halt just outside the alley’s entrance.

The dim glow cast by Ruin’s legs isn’t much, but it’s just enough to allow his rider a glimpse into the shadows.

It takes much of War’s self-restraint to keep himself from gasping out your name.

There, in the gloom, you stand before him, hunched shoulders, still as stone, eyes ablaze in Ruin’s molten firelight.

War’s eyes flick rapidly over you from head to toe. His first instinct is to scan for injuries.

But although your nostrils flare and your arms are spread wide out to either side of you, palms tilted backwards, he can’t discern anything glaringly obvious.

Even still, the Horseman isn’t satisfied with just a brief glance.

Shaking his boot from the stirrup, War heaves himself out of the saddle and drops heavily to the ground, shaking the earth as he lands.

And you crack like a whip.

An arm is thrust forwards at the Horseman with a jolt, tiny fist clenched as though you’re holding an invisible weapon. You widen your stance to stabilise yourself and rip your lips back, revealing blunt, unimpressive teeth. As you move however, War hears it again, crying. More specifically, a loud, childish sob.

But the sound hadn’t come from you.

All at once, he stops in his tracks, shifting his eyes down to the shadows behind you.

Three pairs of wet, glistening eyes blink back at him.

War’s brows shoot up into the darkness of his crimson hood, taken aback by the trio of human younglings cowering against a brick wall behind you.

Now, War isn’t the type of Horseman who would ever proclaim to be out of his depth in any situation… But when human younglings are involved, he’s only too willing to let Death, or even Strife take the lead. He has a hard time wrapping his head around how small you are compared to him. Children leave the titan especially perplexed.

As if summoned by the mere thought, the sound of hoofbeats steadily swing around the corner at the end of the street, galloping hell-for-leather towards him.

Ruin’s head twists sideways and he wickers deeply in greeting. An answer follows, the haunting, melancholy whinny of Despair.

War doesn’t tear his eyes off you though, not even when the powerful presences of three, ethereal steeds skid to a halt behind him, nor when their riders immediately launch into a frenzy of questions, each crowing to be heard over one another at the same time.

“War! Is she here?”

“Mayhem just turned and bolted over. The Hell is goin’ on!?”

“We heard Ruin’s call. Y/n. Is she all right?”

Rather than add his own voice to the confusion, War merely jerks his chin towards the alley, guiding the eyes of his siblings inside it.

Death is the first to spot you, and he’s the first to slip silently from Despair’s saddle, taking a slow, testing step towards you.

“Y/n?” he murmurs.

The very fact that you don’t even twitch at the sound of his voice is indication enough that something is very wrong.

“Death-“ Strife’s voice cuts in, armour clanking as he leans forwards in the saddle. “-She’s got kids with her…”

Kids…?

Their eldest lowers his gaze from where it had been studying your blank expression, and… Ah.

Three little ones - the tallest standing no higher than your hip - are squashed together against a wall, only a foot or so behind you, half hidden by your wide, protective stance.

Death would be embarrassed to admit that he’d missed them upon initial glance, especially given their bright, painted faces and unorthodox clothes indicative of tonight’s festivities. He’s supposed to be the observant one, not Strife. But in the moment, all the old Reaper could focus on was you.

“My,” Fury muses from her seat on Rampage’s back, “She really has been busy since we last saw each other…”

Despite her flippant tone, Death and his brothers know their hot-headed sister well enough to catch the strain in her words. She’s trying to pick apart this mystery, just as they all are.

“It’s the Horsemen,” hisses a boy wearing a straw hat best suited for a scarecrow.

Cowering behind your right arm, an older girl stammers, “That… that means, they can help us? Right?”

The Four give a rapid blink, all at the same time. It isn’t often they meet humans who have accepted the fact that the Horsemen are on Earth as protectors, not destroyers.

The girl turns her eyes onto Death, and he has to commend her effort to meet his stare before she drops it again, quivering under his gaze. Green makeup is swiftly washed away as tears stream in rivulets down her face.

“She won’t let us leave,” she hiccoughs at the ground.

There’s no question as to who ‘She’ is.

You don’t react to the voices around you. But the sudden clang of metal… that does garner a reaction.

Strife can never do anything quietly, it seems. He’s too preoccupied with getting to you; his best and only friend. So, when the sharpshooter drops from Mayhem’s saddle and lands with a cacophonous clamour that doesn’t sound a million miles away from a gun’s retort, Death is hardly surprised that you duck your head as if you’ve been shot at, back-peddling towards the children until you end up pinning the smallest between the wall and your leg, arms once again throw out wide to keep the other two restrained against the brickwork.

All three of the younglings let out bleats of alarm, and the smallest pushes half-heartedly at your calf, sniffling and shaking, her eyes glued to the Reaper. She looks as though she can’t decide whether she wants to stay concealed behind you or take her chances with the fabled Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

“Damn it, Strife,” Fury reprimands.

But her brother isn’t looking her way. In fact, he can’t seem to take his eyes off your face, his own expression crumpling slowly underneath his metal visor as you stare through him, face blank and empty. You’ve gone quiet. So quiet. And so still, just as Death had numerously ordered you to do when you travelled with him across this ruined city all those years ago.

But it isn’t your silence and stillness that troubles Strife so.

You’d recoiled from him.

And perhaps it’s testament to how highly he holds you in his regard that your supposed fear of him is so crushing.

He takes a step towards you, hand outstretched and ready to try and rebuild whatever rift has grown between you.

His stomach nearly bottoms out when you stiffen in response, shoulders prickling like a furious stalker.

“Brother, stop.”

War’s immense gauntlet drops heavily onto his shoulder, jerking him to a halt.

If Strife hadn’t once promised you that he’d make an effort to stop antagonising his siblings so much, he’d have thrown his brother’s arm right back into his face, or perhaps he’d have simply wrenched the prosthetic off in frustration. There’s something upsetting his human, and it isn’t something he can shoot, so the pressure is building up inside his chest like a submarine filling with water.

“War?” Death calls lowly, stepping back and flicking a glance across at his youngest brother, “You’ve seen this before?”

“Not in her,” War replies, studying the eerie stillness of your chest. Are you breathing? You must be, if you’re standing upright.

And then Death utters something in the Nephilim language, a sharp, harsh word that rises on the second syllable, rolling from the back to the front of his mouth. Nephilim isn’t an easy language to speak, nor is it really put into practice now that the species has been reduced to four.

But War understands why his brother uses the word here. He doesn’t know of its translation into the Common tongue. If he were pressed to translate it, the closest he might come is something along the lines of ‘battle-trapped.’

“Mm,” he nods, his crimson hood rustling in the Autumn breeze as he repeats the word.

Strife and Fury share a glance upon hearing it, their gazes sharpening in sudden comprehension.

The former turns his helm towards you, raucous and righteous anger churning in his gut. “So, what did this?” he growls unevenly.

“That’s the problem. It could have been anything, or perhaps nothing at all,” Fury returns, no less incensed on your behalf. You’re not afraid of them. Hell, you’re probably not even seeing them right now. You aren’t really looking at her, nor at her siblings. Your gaze is centred past all of them, blind to everything around you except for whatever it is that only you can see.

They have seen this before, War more-so than the others, given his extensive history with large-scale conflicts.

“We have to get her out of this fugue,” Death addresses his fellow Horsemen, “We’ll worry about why this happened when she’s home.”

There’s a silent moment of agreement that passes between the four of them before their eldest returns his attention to you.

“Y/n…” he murmurs, and his siblings know better than to raise their brows at how gentle his voice is, “It’s us. Death, my brothers and sister. We’re all here.”

There are very, very few beings in the Universe that could draw even an ounce of gentleness from the ancient Nephilim. The fact that you’re one of them told his siblings all they needed to know about what you meant to their eldest brother from the moment you were first introduced to them.

“The area is clear,” War jumps in, “Fury and I swept the city. You’re safe.”

“So are the kids.” This time, it’s Strife who speaks up, following his brother’s lead, “You kept ‘em safe until we could get here.” Then, as an afterthought, he lowers his voice and adds gently, “You did good.”

Death’s keen eye immediately picks up on the minutest slouch of your shoulders.

He’s almost surprised. The Horsemen are not naturally a comforting bunch, but apparently, if it’s for you, they’re willing to make changes to their own nature. You’d always told Death not to underestimate what a powerful force friendship can be.

Seems you were right.

“Keep at it,” he tells his siblings, trying not to let on how shocked he is that they actually seem to be saying the right things for once.

Luckily, it doesn’t take much more coaxing before they see a little more life flickering across your face.

“… Wha-…” you breathe sharply, squeezing your eyes shut and prying them open again in a painfully slow blink, “What’s…? Guys?”

At once, Strife’s expression brightens, Fury’s fearsome scowl grows a touch softer, and War dips his head to hide his eyes behind the shadow of his hood, letting them slip shut in a moment of selfish relief.

You, however, immediately shrink in on yourself, drawing your arms up against your chest, breaths coming hard and fast.

“It’s all right, you’re safe,” Death shushes.

It’s all you can do to shake your head rapidly from side to side and blurt, “I… I think I have to go.”

“Hey, slow down,” Strife coaxes, “Take a breath, you don’t need to-“

But the Horseman is interrupted when your head snaps up and in a shrill voice, you shout, “- No, I have to go now! I-I can’t be in this fucking alley!”

It takes enormous effort to peel your feet off the ground, but you start to take a strident step towards the road, your vision tunnelling into an inherent and desperate need to get out of the open and into somewhere familiar and secure. But just as you begin to move, somebody whimpers behind you, and you’re ashamed to say that you whip around with a defensive snarl curling your lips back… only to come face to face with a trio of small, wide-eyed children.

The tips of your fingers turn to ice, but in your chest, there burns a feverish heat that feels as if it’s creeping up your throat to suffocate you.

“I’m… I sorry,” you insist shakily, trying so hard not to wince at the uncertainty plastered across their faces, “l… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

You’ve turned away before you can even finish your own sentence. Every molecule is insisting that you get away from this alley. Something bad happened here. Something terrible wanted to hurt you. Your body flushes with sudden, scalding panic that lights a fire beneath your heels and sends you hurrying straight to War’s side.

When Death introduced you to his siblings, War was the last Horseman you approached. There was nothing about him that signalled an interest in getting to know you. Strife had been only too eager to snatch you out from under Death’s wing and bully his way firmly into your day-to-day life. Fury had at least spent time learning about humans and found you worthy of respect, especially after hearing of the trials you were subjected to on her eldest brother’s quest.

But War? War was just… there. Like a mountain looming on your horizon, always in the periphery of your vision, always with that severe glower on his face that would have been terrifying if Strife didn’t tell you that it’s just his default expression, and that War was simply taking his role as your personal guard far too seriously.

That was the first you’d heard of the Red Rider’s apparent undertaking. It wasn’t just Fury who’s respect you’d earned by staying at Death’s side until the very end.

Now, if ever you’re in the mindset to look for safety, War’s side is the first place you head for.

He stands still and unaffected as a statue as you slot yourself carefully next to him, not close enough to touch him, but close enough to feel his powerful presence engulf you as tangibly as the natural warmth his body kicks out. The Horseman knows better than to press you to step closer. With your arms wrapped defensively around your torso, chin tucked almost to your chest and your eyes fixed solidly onto the glow of Ruin’s hooves, you’re all but radiating agitation. If he tries to touch you and you lash out and strike his impermeable armour, it won’t be him getting hurt.

Strife tries to inch his way over to you, but a deep, thrumming growl from his largest brother halts him in his tracks. When War gets a mind to guard your space, he can sound like the engine of something very large and very powerful revving itself, warding off potential intruders.

The sharpshooter clicks his tongue irritably but is at least wise enough to maintain a safe distance, opting to try and catch your eye instead.

“Hey. What happened?” he murmurs.

It is, evidently, the wrong thing to ask.

Your head is suddenly thrown from side to side with a ferocious refusal, the words locked behind your gritted teeth. You don’t want to think about it. You just want to go home and forget it ever happened.

“It was… Leon…”

You’re equal parts relieved to hear someone else speak up in your stead and mortified that a child has to explain for you.

Christ, but you’re tired…

It’s the youngest of the three children who steps forwards, wringing her tiny hands together and swallowing thickly when the Four apocalyptic riders turn to look down at her in curiosity.

Dwarfed by the giants in her path, she points a trembling finger at you and says in a voice as small as she is, “I think he scared her. My daddy gets real scared like that when he sees red wine…”

The other two younglings are gaping down at her as though she’s grown a feline tail to match the badly drawn whiskers flecked across her cheeks.

Death bends to one knee in an effort to appear smaller, less threatening, though with a countenance so grim, the endeavour is in vain. The children still cower from him as though he’ll pounce on them like a hungry panther. If only they knew how seldom the Horseman takes a knee, they might not be so frightened.

“Who is this Leon?” he questions, urging his anger to remain at a safe, unprovoked simmer. It isn’t the fault of these young ones that he’s growing impatient, but he for one would rather like to know the whereabouts of the wretch who scared his human.

Wide eyes peep up at him, squinting curiously at his mask for a moment before she speaks again, a little emboldened by his manner, if not his appearance. “Leon Korby. He’s a bully,” she tells him firmly.

“He’s just some teenager who lives on our street,” the older girl pipes up, sweeping a calculating look at the Horsemen. It occurs to Death that she hadn’t thrown in the word ‘teenager’ by chance.

She probably thinks she’s just saved the boy’s life, believing that his age might deter the Nephilim from tracking him down and putting the fear of an uncaring god into him.

She’s probably right.

… Probably.

“Teenager? The guy turns twenty next month. He’s been bragging about his stupid plan for weeks,” the boy grumbles, deeming the Horsemen safe enough, now that his friends have already engaged with them. “He said he was going to get a demon mask and use it on Halloween to screw with people’s heads.”

Fury’s teeth gnash and she spits out a Nephilim word that you’d likely tell her off for if she said it in Common in front of children. Force of habit has Death grunting reproachfully at his sister, but he has to admit, he concurs with her sentiment. Whoever Leon is, teenager or no, he really does sound like a little shit.

“Dumbass,” Strife hisses poisonously, earning a hard glare from War.

“You walloped him good though!” the littlest human points out, though she only serves to make you bury your face in your hands, mortified.

“I did,” you agree miserably as your memory stirs up a flash of wide, startled eyes gawking at you through the holes of a red, horned mask. And it was a mask, you realise, struck by a wave of vivid mortification that threatens to knock you off your feet.

Just a dumb kid in a cheap, plastic mask who was too young to foresee the consequences of his actions and took a fist to the face for his error in judgement.

You’d punched a kid.

Your stomach twists itself into a knot of coiling, curling guilt that only seems to wind tighter and tighter with no end in sight.

You don't know how long you stand there, drowning under the weight of regret and embarrassment whilst Death picks a few more details out of the children you'd inadvertently tried to 'save.' Everything seems to blur around you as fatigue sets in, an emotional crash that drains the muscles in your legs of any strength.

You only start paying attention again when Death rises to his full height.

“Fury,” he announces, turning to face his sister who still sits astride Rampage. Ever since they were reunited, she and the horse have been inseparable, as if she’s glued herself to the saddle and is simply too embarrassed to admit she can’t dismount.

Pale, white eyes burn through the darkness at Death as he continues, “See these children home.”

“What?” she hisses between her teeth.

“Make sure they get there safely.”

“And why am I the one assigned to be babysitter?” the irate Horseman bristles, “Strife loves humans so much, let him escort them!”

One of Death’s eyelids twitches as he heaves a rough sigh and relents. “Fine” the word leaves his lips like it always does; reluctantly. But he isn’t in any mood to argue with Fury, not while your state of mind remains to be determined. “Strife?”

The Sharpshooter’s head lifts in acknowledgement, and he turns his golden gaze onto the trio of younglings huddled together in the alley’s entrance. Death regards him coolly for a moment, knowing that there’s an internal struggle in his brother’s mind right now, with one side anxious to stick by you, whilst another part of him – the part that’s slowly grown fonder of humans since meeting you – urges him to see a bunch of scared younglings safely to their caretakers.

“We don’t need a chaperone,” the oldest girl states testily, “Our houses are just around the corner.”

It isn’t clear whether her defiance or the promise of a short trip is what ultimately sways Strife’s decision, but in the next second, the Horseman has banished Mayhem to the outer realms and planted his metal gauntlets squarely on his hips. “Yeah? Damn, n’here I was hopin’ to come with you, and maybe catch a couple of houses on the way back. What’d you call it? Track or tricking?”

It’s a shame you don’t have it in you to smile because Strife’s attempts to add levity to a grim situation are usually rather grin-inducing.

At least the children, specifically the little girl, indulges him in a giggle. “It’s Trick or Treating,” she corrects him in that exasperated way only the young do when they’re convinced an adult is being dense.

“Oh yeah,” Strife perks up, cocking his avian helm and gesturing down at himself, adding, “Wonder how much of the sweet stuff folks’ll give to a costume this cool.”

Suddenly, the older two children look a little more interested, and you feel your pulse tentatively start to ease itself back to a normal pace.

Turning briefly to his siblings, Strife mutters, “Get ‘er home safe, got it?”

It’s bold of him to phrase it like an order, not a request, but neither Fury, Death nor War can honestly say they wouldn’t command the same thing of each other if roles were switched.

As it stands, the other three merely offer their brother resolute nods, or in Death’s case, the tiniest upward lift of his chin. Acknowledgement.

They all know how important you are to Strife.

You watch on in idle contemplation as your friend ushers the children from the alleyway, a spring in their steps, each gazing up at the towering, armoured giant with varying levels of curiosity and fascination.

You’re glad it’s no longer with horror.

Vivid, blue light flares across your shadow for a moment as Rampage plods up behind you, tossing his electric mane and stretching his neck out to flex his wide nostrils into your hair inquisitively.

“Would you like to ride with us?” Fury asks when you tilt your head to glance blearily up at her.

Even in the dulled state of exhaustion you find yourself swept up in, you have enough of your wites to recognise that you’re being offered a very rare opportunity. Even as endeared to you as she is, it isn’t often that Fury invites you up onto Rampage’s saddle.

Sucking down a steadying breath, you haul the corners of your mouth into a weary smile and raise an arm towards her, knowing very well that you won’t be allowed to take no for an answer.

----

You get a lot of looks on the ride back home, though most are fleeting, a passing curiosity. Most people around here have grown accustomed to seeing you sitting astride at least one of the almighty steeds.

“I’m sorry to drag out here like this…” you mutter under your breath, stretching your hand forwards to twist cold fingers into Rampage’s erratic mane.

“Don’t be foolish,” Fury is quick to reprimand, her tone sharp like the whip strapped to her saddle. She must have felt you tense against her stomach, because when she next speaks, her voice has a tad less edge to it. “You couldn’t drag us anywhere we didn’t want to be…”

Letting her words sink in, the Horseman falls silent, turning to catch the eye of her youngest and oldest brothers, who’ve both guided their horses into stride at each of Rampage’s flanks.

War, to your left, scans the street ahead of you, blue eyes narrowed to guarded slits, as if any of the kids dressed up as vampires and werewolves might actually pose as much of a threat as the very creatures they’re trying to portray.

To your right, Death and Despair glide along, though you can’t help but notice that the rider is just as vigilant as his brother. At least Death is being subtle about it.

Lowering your head, you say, “I still can’t believe I hit some teenager.”

“From what I gather,” Death huffs, “It was a warranted hit.”

Drawing your brows into a hard scowl, you reply, “That’s no excuse… Shit… What if it happens again…?” You trail off for several seconds, listening to the distant sounds of chatter and laughter intermingling underneath the steady plods of enormous hooves on the tarmac.

“What… if I hurt someone else?” you finally whisper, shrinking backwards into Fury’s torso, “I… didn’t even know what the Hell I was doing. I could have really hurt those kids, just because, for like… a second, I couldn’t tell the difference between a real demon and some dumb teen dressed in a shitty, plastic mask.”

“Sometimes…” War grunts, shifting in Ruin’s saddle to look down at you, “… a second can be the difference between life and death. Surely you learned that travelling with my brother.” He sends Death a pointed look whilst you press your lips together miserably.

“But I’m not travelling with Death now, am I?” you utter, “It’s over. I… I know the Earth is safe, I do. I just-…”

But the words fail to emerge.

A familiar burn starts up just behind your eyelids, and you try to hurriedly swipe a palm across your face, smearing flecks of mascara across your cheeks. You fail to notice the three Horsemen exchanging glances over the top of your head.

“Perhaps,” Death sighs, “This is a conversation you can have after you’ve had some rest.”

You’d protest, insist that you’re not tired, but you know it’s written plain as ink across your downcast face.

It isn’t far to your home, and you’re only a few metres from the front door by the time you hear hoofbeats cantering up the road behind you. As is the norm, you hear Strife before you see him.

“Sorry we’re late,” he announces, pulling Mayhem up short to trot alongside Ruin, “Got distracted scorin’ those kids some candy.”

“I trust you didn’t keep any for yourself?” Death asks.

“C’mon, does that sound like somethin’ I’d do?”

The ringing silence from three of the Four Horsemen is telling enough, and you even find yourself smiling a little easier for the first time in what feels like hours.

Strife mutters something that’s muffled underneath his visor, but he doesn’t press his innocence, for once, instead angling Mayhem towards the door of your building and surging ahead, swinging himself out of the saddle. This time, at least, he makes sure to land with considerably less force.

He’s joined quickly by War, who similarly dismounts and strides over to Rampage, hardly waiting for Fury to draw her steed to a halt before he’s reaching up and taking you by the hips, pulling you gingerly from the saddle.

Hanging back, Death watches you safely onto solid ground once more. Then, when he’s satisfied that your legs aren’t going to collapse from under you, he raises his voice and calls out, “War, Strife. Get her inside… Fury. With me.”

“Wait. Where are you going?” you immediately cotton on, squinting up at the Reaper.

Feigning boredom, he merely twists his mask away from you and nonchalantly replies, “Just performing a standard perimeter check. You know we always do them when we visit.”

“Death? Death!” you snap as Strife takes you by the shoulders and begins to coax you towards the door, “Look, just – Just don’t you do anything stupid, okay?”

“Y/n, you do wound me. When have I ever?” the Nephilim returns breezily, though his response does nothing to soothe the suspicion on your face.

Even though it would be only too easy for Strife to simply drag you inside, you plant a hand on the doorframe and root your feet to the ground, twisting about to glare up at Death around War’s hulking mass. “I mean it,” you reiterate, frowning at him meaningfully, “I’m okay. I promise.”

The Reaper only peers back at you for several, silent seconds before at last, he dips his head in a slow nod, ebony locks falling about his mask. “Get some rest,” he tells you, “We’ll return shortly.”

At once, your face falls slack into quiet resignation, and you allow yourself to be shepherded through the door by an insistent Strife. War follows after you closely, blocking you from view entirely as he fills the doorway with his immense frame, though not before he spares his brother and sister a departing grunt, telling them without words that he’ll take care of you.

And in another moment, he shoulders the door closed with a resounding slam, leaving two of the Four outside in the cool, Autumn night, their steeds puffing plumes of white condensation into the air.

“So,” Fury breaks the silence, giving the reins a tug and turning Rampage around to face the street beyond your apartment, “You have a plan, I take it?”

Death tilts his head in a so-so manner as he too nudges Despair around. “In a manner of speaking.”

Restless, the horses begin to paw at the tarmac, shaking out their manes and whickering impatiently.

Fury’s hum is skeptical as she glances at her brother from the corner of a narrowed eye. “I hope you’ve thought it through, at least,” she grumbles, “Y/n will never forgive us if she finds out we tracked down this Leon Korby…”

“You make it sound as if I mean to hurt the boy,” Death responds coolly.

“Mm. You wouldn’t be the only one…” Cracking her knuckles, Fury sends him a wicked grin and continues, “So, what is the plan then?”

Behind his bone-mask, Death’s countenance remains solid and unaffected, business-like, one might call it. Nudging Despair with his heels, he moves the horse into a steady trot, back up the street they’d escorted you down, his sunburst gaze rigidly focused on the path ahead.

“I think it would be prudent of us to pay the boy a visit,” he remarks, hearing Rampage swiftly fall into a brisk pace at Despair’s side, “So that we may remind him why it may not be the wisest idea to pretend to be a demon. Why, suppose he were to be mistaken by the wrong person? A Horseman, for instance, whose purpose it is to rid the city of any rogue demons that might pop up to threaten the human population.”

He doesn’t need to look to see his sister’s gleaming teeth bare themselves in an eager, primal grin.

[moondust-imagines]

Who gets the girl? (Adam Copeland x Fem!reader)

Reader isn’t the nicest person in this one :)

2000 Backstage at Monday Night Raw

Adam’s hands felt heavy on your hips as he guided you to grind on his jean clad thigh. His lips captured yours in a steamy kiss to dampen your quiet moans. The cool wall behind you was almost a welcome contrast to the heat radiating from you. Neither of you had time for this, someone was bound to be looking for one of you by now. He just couldn’t help himself.

“Adam!? Where the fuck are you we need to get ready” Christian called

Adam pulled away from you reluctantly. You instantly missed the warmth of him pressing against your body. He threw you a quick wink before disappearing around the corner, hopefully to divert Christian long enough to let you tidy up your dishevelled appearance before he suspected something.

Adam reappeared with Christian in tow not long after. You were touching up your lip gloss in the mirror, Adam caught your eye in the reflection and flashed you a grin.

“Think you can fix his ugly mug?” Adam joked as Christian sat in your make-up chair.

“Not a miracle worker I’m afraid but I’ll see what I can do” You teased, earning a playful glare from the man. You attempted to run your fingers through his hair to get it out of his face but got tangled in the knots.

“What have I told you about using conditioner? You’ve got a damn birds nest up here” You scolded

“Maybe you should shower with me to remind me” He replied quietly. You gave him a gentle slap to the shoulder, hoping Adam hadn’t heard his flirtatious comment.

“You’ve got the Hardys tonight right?” You asked while searching for your comb in the slightly organised chaos of your table.

“We sure do, speaking of which I should go find them while you’re dealing with bird brain here” Adam said, making a quick exit.

“He’s going to get suspicious if he hears you say stuff like that” You chastised Christian quietly, trying to brush through his hair as gently as you could

“So what? He’d probably congratulate me on following in his womanising footsteps” He joked “You know I’d tell the whole damn roster about us if you’d let me”

“I don’t get involved with co-workers Christian, you know that” You sighed

“Yeah? You seemed pretty involved with me in the locker room shower last week” He replied with a grin

-

You hadn’t meant to hurt Christian, you were young and too wrapped up in your own feelings to think about what you were doing to him. He was devastated when he had finally caught you and Adam. His sadness had quickly turned to rage then simmered to resentment over the years. You thought they had mended bridges a few years ago, Christian had been one of the groomsmen at your wedding.

Then Adam made his debut in AEW a few years later and that resentment reared its ugly head once more.

-

“I should go out there and talk to him” Your husband muttered. You were clutching his bicep while watching a monitor. Christian was running his mouth in the ring and you could feel the agitation rolling from Adam.

“You’re not going to change his mind Adam” You sighed “If you go out there, all that bad feeling is going to be out in the open again”

You shuddered at the memory of the harsh promos he had cut on you and Adam when the wound of your betrayal was still fresh. Being put on blast in public like that wasn’t fun, but maybe it was what you deserved.

“Baby, we have a whole life together! We’ve been married for years, we’ve got two beautiful girls. If he can’t see that we were meant to be, then he’s no longer the man I grew up with” Adam exclaimed

So Adam went to the ring and confronted him. And you watched on anxiously.

“You think you get to come out here and give me the big nostalgia speech? One last run? Hell no. You’ve taken everything from me: championships, recognition, you even got the girl! This is my turn, my turn to get my flowers!”

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears not to run. You knew he was right, he deserved his time in the sun. You just wished he didn’t feel the need to step on his best friend to get it.

[dirtytransmasc]

I like to think that Tonowari likes to hold hands with Spider, he knows that Spider craves for physical contact even if he doesn’t admit so. And Ao’nung likes to carry Spider around in bridal style, like he’s showing of to the others his baby brother.

physical affection HC's for Hi'tsyil te Fkew'Weopx Tonowari'itan AU

Tonowari

He's the physically affectionate dad, he always has a hand on spiders shoulder at the very least, though he much more normally holds onto spider hand/arm or keeps a hand on top of his head. the pride and honor he feels with spider as his son is palpable, and it's especially true with how he presents spider in public; spider is his son, a gift of eywa, to be respected just as much as Ao'nung, because even if he doesn't become the next Olo'eyktan, he is still the chiefs son, and training to be his big brothers advisor and hand. he is also the parent spider physically clings to the most, and tonowari will drop everything he has to do in a day just to give spider the comfort of having a place he knows is safe to nap or just rest. when spider splits off to the beach when his head gets a little too loud, tonowari joins him, letting him curl into his side, simply so he can offer his son some comfort. when spider does sleep within his general vicinity, he normally finds himself tracing his features; he knows all his children, his mate, even his spirit sibling, but touch alone. he knows the slope of his nose, he angle of his chin, the round edge of his cheek. he knows his sons lips, all bit up and scarred; his eyes and soft lashes.

Ronal

she isn't as physical as tonowari, but she still keeps constant contact with spider, pulling him to lean against her, or keeping a hand in his hair. she holds him more than anything else, typically having him curled up in her lap, or right off to the side with his head on her leg she too presents him to the village with pride, but she typically stays behind him, almost like a body guard, and even after he wins over the whole village, she remains behind him, or right next to him with her tail favoring his side. most of her physical affection comes in acts of service/quality time, so doing his hair, taking care of his skin (cause his human form was not meant for pandora's water, sun, or physical day to day activities), mending the wounds he gets from day to day life (being in the water all day with skin not meant for that lifestyle results in weaker, softer skin, that does not fair well with his constant climbing), or painting his stripes. she is also a hands on teacher, and when she teaches spider new crafting methods, she typically sits right behind him to guide his hands (this leads to many instances of spider looking up his mama all proud and looking for acknowledgment and ronal just beaming at her child), and when they sit and craft together, she normally has their knees touching, or something of that sort.

Tsireya

tsireya is like her mother in a lot of ways, including how she shows physical affection. though she is more playful, like we see briefly see between her and ao'nung, she is mostly reserved. she is definitely his emotional support, so when she does show him physical affection its normally when she's acting as his rock; grounding him, trying to ease a racing mind, typically with him tucked in her side and her tail wrapped around him. like her mother, she typically sits close while the craft together, and their idea of quality time is naps out in the sun.

Ao'nung

he is the proudest big brother you have ever met, always fucking with spider, slapping or pushing him around (jokingly), carrying him around simply because he can, and there are few moments that they aren't trying to beat the shit out of each other. he defininitly does the big brother "arm over the shoulder, but pulling you in way too close to be irritating" and putting him in a choke hold so he can give him noogies, type stuff. and the presenting him to the village thing? it's constant. does he pretend he's mocking spider when he calls him the "miracle child" or any other synonymous nickname? absolutely, but only he can do that, and everyone else knows that he means it with the utmost love and respect. they also know that if they tried it he would actually murder them, he would feed them to an akula before the words leave their mouth. he is the most classic big brother ever and spider thrives under it, cause he finally has someone that protects him, that will stand in front of him when there's a threat, that will get on his level and comfort him, that will make him laugh, that will make him feel like he belongs. in my (sick, twisted, angst addicted) mind, they are a parallel to neteyam and lo'ak, do with that what you will

[username-was-spoken-for]

Customs💫

@writing2sirvive wrote this on my lunch break so bare with me 😔

I am by no means a professional I just like to type for fun!

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

Wally West x GN! Alien reader

“Will you go out with me?”

And just like that it felt like a weight was lifted off Wally’s shoulders. Even if (Y/N) said no Wally could go to sleep knowing that he finally confessed his feelings to his other worldly teammate.

What he did not expect was for said teammate’s lip to start to quiver and eyes become wet with tears. Oh god what had he done?

“Or we don’t have to i-it’s okay (y/n)” Wally said as he awkwardly tried to comfort the alien while also mending his own broken heart. But that seemed to only upset (y/n) even more as they wailed!

Wally was at a complete loss and didn’t know what to do!

“Hey guess who just got the lates-“ Robin stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the scene in front of him. Wally’s face was red all the way to his hairline, eyes wide and body language just screaming for help. Meanwhile (Y/N) was hiccuping as large tears went down their face. Robin came to the quick conclusion that he did not want to be here right now.

“Yknow what, I’ll just tell you later” and just like that Robin retreated back into the shadows.

A whimper brought Wally back to the matter at hand. Wally went over this scenario a million times and not once did he ever think that (y/n) would react like this. He thought the worst thing (y/n) could say was no!

(Y/N) joined the team a couple of months ago after a run in with the Justice League. (Y/N) was strong and only after a fight with Superman and some coaxing from Wonder Woman did they finally calm down. After they were detained it had turned out that (y/n) was seeking refuge from their own home planet.

Seeing as (Y/N) was a teenager by earth's standards it was decided that they would stay at the cave until further notice. Though everything was new and foreign to (Y/N) they were extremely happy to be on earth!

They were curious and took in earth's customs with open arms! That also included friendships so they warmed up to the team relatively fast. But surprisingly it was Wally who ended up befriending (Y/N) first. No one could explain it but they just seemed to click. The two spent almost all their time together.

Whether it was missions or just lazing around in the cave they were together. So of course after a while Wally realized that his feelings were stronger than friendship. And after months of figuring out those feelings and then finally gaining the courage to act on them, Wally thought that maybe their relationship could go further. Well until this very moment at least.

“I-I’m sorry Wally” (Y/N) whispered as they wiped their eyes.

“No no it’s okay (y/n) I get it if you don’t feel the same” but it did sting.

(Y/N)s shoulders sagged as they looked at Wally with wide eyes.

“But Wally, I do feel the same.”

Wally choked on nothing when those words left (Y/N)s mouth. (Y/N) liked him back that should be a good thing right, right?

“That’s great!” Wally gasped out. “B-but if you like me back then how com- I feel like I’m missing something here (y/n).”

(Y/N)s blinked owlishly, something that Wally found adorable by the way.

“Wally, I don’t understand? I mean don’t humans court the same a-Oh!”

Then suddenly (Y/N) froze.

“What, what is it?” Wally exclaimed as he became worried.

“Wally, aren't we not already in relations with each other”? (Y/N) asked eyebrow lifting and head tilted.

“I-uh, well do you mean are we a couple?” (Y/N) shook their head vigorously in response.

“Well actually no, I thought we were just friends? To be more than that we would have to go on dates and stuff. And couple stuff like hug and kiss, wait did you already think we were in a relationship?”

Now it was Wally’s turn to tilt his head as he tried to understand this conversation.

“Well yes, I mean we hold hands and hug. We stay up partaking in what you all call the sleepover. Invited me into your hollowed out fortress. You even asked me to break bread in the fine dinery that you call a pizza shop! How could I think any differently?

How could Wally be such an idiot? They are literally from outer space! And not only that but M’gann has pretty much given him a crash course in extraterrestrial customs. Earth and other planets can be quite similar but also extremely different. All the embarrassing things Wally was feeling quickly dissolved into a warm puddle. Wally could feel the laugh bubbling up inside of him and he tried his best to contain it.

“N-no (Y/N) those are all things FRIENDS do. I didn’t realize how those may have come across as something more”.

Wally chuckled out as he reached out to grab (y/n)s hands. (Y/N) was more than happy to meet him in the middle.

“ I mean I did flirt here and there but I didn’t actually mean it in a romantic way. Well at first at least.”

Wally felt his cheeks get warm as (y/n) started to smile bashfully.

“This is what you humans call, embarrassing. I’m so sorry for the way I reacted.” (Y/N) gently placed their hands on Wally’s face and tilted his head up to look at them directly.

“You see, on my home planet we are not a very tactical species. So things like touch are seen as something more intimate. And public displays of affection are often reserved for couples who have formed a special bond. From the moment you introduced yourself to me by putting your arm on my shoulders, I was more than certain that was what your intention was!”

(Y/N) cringed as they started to hug themself. “So when you asked me if I wanted to go out. I thought that was your way of telling me that you wanted to end things.”

Wally couldn’t help the snort that came out. (Y/N) retaliated by plucking him in his forehead.

“Geez ow (Y/N)! Wally complained rubbing his forehead but there was a dopey smile on his face.

“So this was just all a big misunderstanding?”

(Y/N) shook their head but they also had a smile on their face.

“Yknow we're gonna look back on this and laugh right?” (Y/N) rolled their eyes but embraced Wally in a crushing hug.

“Well maybe we can laugh about it during our-what was it called again?” (Y/N) asked as they let Wally go to get some air.

“A date!” Wally exclaimed as he inhaled deeply holding onto (y/n) for balance.

“And I’ve got the perfect place for us to go!”

Wally held his hand as he led (y/n) to the zeta tubes. (Y/N) gladly accepted and gently grasped Wally’s hand.

“And just to be clear THIS, is officially how people on Earth court each other!” Wally said as he typed in the coordinates to the couple's destination.

“Though your customs sometimes elude me, I think I like it!” (Y/N) squealed excitedly as they bounced on their toes. They couldn’t wait to see where their NOW, boyfriend Wally was taking them!

[ethanhuntfemmefatale]

i just wanted to say that i am a huge fan of dick (your oc not the appendage -_-) from what i've seen in his tag he just fascinates me. your mind is magnificent etc etc..

I cannot thank you enough for saying this. He says hi

:-) <-thats him

he's my player character for a ttrpg im doing...his name is dick wayne, erectile dysfunction joke partially intended (he's trans!) & also batman reference intended. he's basically a play on the stereotype of the dumb brute, I made him to play with a lot of ideas about vigilantism and violence in the family that are woven throughout the rpg. He's become a bit murky and complicated as a character because I use him so much as an outlet. The core concept of him is as a powerful guy who treats his body like a tool that he hands over to someone else to use however they see fit. He ran away from his mom as a kid but he never was able to get away from the ideas she taught him...when he was fresh out of (dropping out of) college he fell in with an older man who stoked his anger issues and taught him to fight crime. They took in a kid together! And in the end he wasn't able to stop the man from teaching those same ideas to their kid, passing the violence on.

A LOT has happened in the rpg at this point, he's almost died about 20 times, he's got like one and a half boyfriends and the one boyfriend has another version of himself who's pretty hot, etc. Now he's at a crossroads and he's trying to get better for the wrong reasons. Trying to rid himself of violence so he doesn't "infect" anyone else with it, not because he wants to get better. He's struggling with the growing horror of realizing that he has power over his own life, which means that everything that's happened because of his passivity is on his shoulders. And things are about to get worse! He's gonna die and get resurrected, for the SECOND TIME, and come back as a shambling zombie who's also kinda fey, still very powerful in all the wrong ways.

My concept is that he'll ultimately learn how to give up the one thing that he believes makes him useful and loved--his ability to fight for & protect people--in order to have a shot at real peace and contentment. before he died the second time (a really great phrase) he was a mechanic! it was the only thing he had that was his, that brought him satisfaction even through everything. he's constantly commenting on people's cars in the rpg, which is partially my own way of living out my car guy fantasies. and he has a car that's his best friend (named daisy.) I have this idea that after he gets resurrected, he'll have lost all the knowledge he had about cars, all the muscle memory, everything from this one skill that kept him tethered to the world and grounded in his own body and humanity. And at the end of the story, he'll slowly start to teach himself those skills again. Because it's not about competence, it's about the love of the work, and the love is still there! It's basically the idea of--there's no going back or undoing what's been done to you, or what you've done to yourself. the conventional happy ending (the world is saved, the status quo is restored, hurts are mended) is essentially impossible after horrible trauma. Things have changed, there are still scars, you're still older and you're still in the life all that stuff happened in. But taking the step to take care of yourself despite all that is better than a happy ending--it's meeting your life where it's at, looking at it honestly and making a commitment to it.

forgive me for being sappy i just am very invested in this. Dick is important to me at all times but especially right now cause I'm trying to use him as inspiration to deal with my own struggle to . well. give up the one thing I believe makes me useful and loved in order to have a shot at real peace and contentment.

anyway. dick wayne! he's a bear! he's a slut! he's even aro!

i love you thank you for the ask. hope you're doing great<33

[paranoidginger]

Lab-rat part 10

Tw: N/A

Bait sat in the common room, a small smile on his face as he listened to one of the Scout's many stories, a blanket wrapped snugly around his shoulders.

"So I'm out with my brothas, right? All reallllll rough and tumble types ah' guys, I'm only fifteen, and I see this person who I think is a cute chick, I'm only seeing her back, and she's got this super nice long hair. My older brotha, he notices me eye'n this broad, and he's all 'Shoot ya shot, man' so I look at him, all nervous n' crap, and go walk over to her. This. Now this is where it starts to get good, right? Because I go over and try to talk to her, and she turns around and turns out she was a whole man. He's got this super thick moustache, and I immediately recognize him. Dude's wearin' a wig, and he looks at my brotha and they both start losing their damn minds, 'cause the guy was my oldest brotha's best friend! Then the pieces fall together, 'cause my brother would never be that encouraging to me when it comes to a cute chick, he'd always, and I mean always, be the one to start hittin' on em, and then I think, and I realize that it's April freakin' first. They went through this whole plan, just to make me have a crush on my brotha's best friend. It didn't work though, I mean, I already decided to like girls, and I couldn't just go back 'n betray all the hot babes that wouldn't ever have a chance with me if I liked fellas, you know?"

Most of what the man said didn't make much sense to Bait, but Scout sounded so happy whenever he told his stories... It felt nice to be the one he could share whatever he liked with, just because he would listen...

The pair were interrupted as the Medic approached them, his boots clicking softly on the hardwood floors of the base.

"Sorry to intrude, but zhe shipment came in for our friend! Bait, if you are ready, we can get started on getting you put back together." The Medic smiled slightly, although it wavered slightly as he spoke the Clone's name. It felt wrong, filthy, even... But it was what the other team had called him, and what he continued to answer to while he tried to think of a name for himself.

"I'm ready..." He spoke quietly, getting to his feet and extending a hand so that he could be guided to the infirmary.

"He's... He's gonna be okay, right doc?" The Scout asked cautiously "I know you've got a knack for that kinda stuff but... I don't know, I'm- I'm just nervous. After what happened the other day when he wasn't wakin' up..."

"You know Zhat he is in safe hands, I von't let anyzhing go wrong, Junge." Gently, the medic took the clone's hand, beginning to lead him down the hall to where the procedures would be done.

Hours passed in an unconscious state, Bait's body laying on the Medic's operating table as he diligently worked, removing the horrid stuffing within the clone's body and replacing it with what belonged, saving his eyes for last.

The most delicate of procedures as nerves were mended together, and fine muscles reattached until finally, he could look at the clone's face and see that it was whole again. All of him would be whole again, for the first time in who knows how long.

Eventually, the young man slowly came to, a strange pressure in his face that he wasn't yet used to... And yet he still could not see. It wasn't the same as it had been before, though, his vision filled with simple darkness, as opposed to the void beyond it... But why was it still so dark? Slowly, he sat up in his little recovery bed, carefully touching his face, finding himself bandaged with gauze covering his eyes.

He turned his head to the door as he heard it open and shut, the familiar voices of the Medic and Spy.

"I'm glad to see zhat you're awake! Herr Spy vanted to be here for vhenever I took zhe bandages off." The Medic explained moving to sit on the edge of Bait's bed. "I have zhe lights off for now, being able to see again vill most likely be a very big transition for you." With that, the Medic carefully unraveled the bandages from around the clone's head, and he was finally able to open his eyes.

He took a deep breath, the motion easier than it had been before as he looked around the room, in shock as he was able to take in everything around him. A shaky laugh escaped him, and he began to smile. After a moment, he pulled the medic into a firm hug, his laughter turning to small sobs, tears of joy running down his face as he felt an extra set of arms around him, just for a moment.

As he pulled away from the Medic, wiping his tears with the heel of his palm, he looked up at the Spy, who had a rare genuine smile on his face.

"I told you the docteur would treat you well. Everyone here has been rooting for you, mon garçon... Myself especially."

Part 9

@thatonesimp-e @realccre

Another sweeter chapter, before everything goes to hell.

[mickmundy]

sniper's loft bed headcanons pls 👁️👁️

omg.,., ehehe.,., i’m soo glad you asked this is something i am Not at All Insane About.,., ehee.,., and i actually think its probably for the best that i elaborate on this here since there really isn’t a graceful way to fit posts like this within a fic SKDFKSD so!! let’s get to it! starting off by saying i’ve been in and out of motorhomes, trucks with camper shells, vans, etc my entire life (though i would be doing it a lot more in my adult life if i could find ways to not have Every Bug On Earth eat me alive ;_; gwah!) so i guess i’m just a little biased for what i see In My Mind. i have yet to sketch out/floorplan out sniper’s van layout itself In My Mind but let’s just keep it vague enough to say it’s nothing flashy, but it’s cozy and Aged and… lived in! i’ve talked about it before in one of my Many headcanon posts but i think he was always taught that he doesn’t need material things and while i wouldn’t say he’s a hoarder by any means, i think he tries to convince himself everything in his home has a Practical Application just so he can justify hanging onto it! i think sniper is v sentimental and the stuff he chooses to keep might be a little “unconventional” by average standards (ie he doesn’t have lots of photos of his family, but kept his mum’s handmade quilts and his dad’s old knife and hunting rifle. also presses flowers and would keep the eggshell of when he and medic first ate breakfast in bed together, etc) but i could ALSO make a whole other post about just little knicknacks i think you’d find in sniper’s home at any given time HEHE… but i’m doing my best to stay on track so!!

i’m going to preface this with IM SORRY for the “pinterest looking ass” photos to describe what i’m talking about but just use this as a Basic Jumping Off Point. Not as the Literal Visual. work with me here… so i think sniper’s bed has LOTS of pillows and blankets. if you’ve ever slept in one of those loft bed camper van beds you’d know that those walls are cold and hard and don’t really hold heat in all that well! i think the blankets are a combination of furs he has (though he rolls up and stores them when its hot out), sherpa/wool, knit blankets and quilts, etc. all of different sizes and weights. whatever makes him comfortable! pillows are extremely worn in (as are the blankets; you could find lots of mends on them!) and comfortable just the way sniper likes them. i think he has so many layers because he sleeps naked and likes to be able to adjust what parts of his body are covered and what parts aren’t. he’s the king of sticking one of those loooong legs out of the covers, or having only his tummy covered and the rest of him exposed, etc! he likes being able to change things quickly to suit his needs. this is also great for draping something over his shoulders when he’s laying out on top of his van at night watching the stars or sitting in a lawn chair feeding hoots!

the space is small, so i think he’d also have a “nightstand” which really is just a “coffeetable book” (ie a big-ish hard cover book) of some subject he’s interested in that he’d keep pressed against the “long wall” of the camper that has just a battery-powered plastic lantern (for reading before bed ehe) on it, a worn-out old book of poetry or some kind of book he’s read a thousand times that he likes skimming before bed (this is not to be confused with the Utility Books he reads at others times about survivalism, gun cleaning, etc. this is a Wind Down Specific book), and aheh, when he starts really falling for medic, something else too… but i’ll discuss that later in my fics! ;-) if i’m being really self-indulgent i think he also has a stuffed animal from his childhood that he’s still hung onto all these years, but he keeps him stored away safely in a pillowcase because he doesn’t want it getting lost or damaged! :’( also he’s just a huge cuddlebug imo, so he likes having things he can Grab or fling his leg or arm over in his sleep (pillows, bunched up blankets, etc)! the space is small but he makes it very homey! HEHEHE

[novelmonger]

What are some headcanons (if any) that you have about Steve and Bucky and their friendship?

When I first approached this answer, I got a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights feeling, because there are so many of them - particularly because I write a lot of AUs, which is basically a headcanon writ large. But for that sort of thing, I'll just drop a link to my fics on AO3.

But here's a list of headcanons (some major, some minor) I have that aren't tied to a specific AU, and are canon-compliant (with the movies; I don't really give the same weight to stuff from the comics or other sources, though I might draw inspiration from there):

George Barnes and Joseph Rogers were brothers-in-arms in WWI, and became best friends. Joseph died when George's gas mask got broken, and then they were hit with mustard gas. Joseph gave George his and covered him with his body to protect him. Hearing this story growing up, Steve promised himself that if he were ever in a position to do the same, he would make the same sacrifice his father did (hence throwing himself onto a grenade without a second thought in Basic).

Because of George and Joseph's friendship, the Barneses became family friends with Sarah Rogers and helped her out as much as they could, which is how Steve and Bucky originally met.

Steve's favorite color is blue; Bucky's favorite color is red.

Steve drinks his coffee black. Bucky has a massive sweet tooth, though he didn't particularly like chocolate; in the war, he would trade the chocolate from his rations with the other Howlies. Post-Winter Soldier, however, Bucky will happily devour anything sweet, chocolate or not.

[I don't know if this counts as a headcanon or not, but Steve's love language is acts of service and Bucky's is touch.]

Steve smells really nice and gives the best hugs ^/////^

Steve's favorite season is spring, because that's when everything starts coming to life again, and the weather finally begins to warm up. Pre-Winter Soldier, Bucky's favorite season was winter, because that was the season for snow, Christmas, and several family birthdays including his own. Post-Winter Soldier, his favorite season is summer, the season of warmth and light.

Steve and Bucky both know how to knit and sew, in order to cut costs during the Depression, though their skills have probably gotten a bit rusty since then, besides minor mending.

The Barnes family was always very physically affectionate, sharing hugs and kisses all around. The Rogers family was more reserved, but after spending so much time around Bucky and his family, Steve became quite comfortable with that sort of thing too.

Steve did in fact move in with Bucky after his mother died, and they lived together until the war.

After the serum and Hydra experimentation, Steve's body temperature tends to run a little high and Bucky's tends to run a little low. Cue cuddling scenes! :3

Just as Steve calls Bucky "Buck," Bucky calls him "Stevie." It started as a joke, but it stuck.

Bucky has an uncle named James, which is why he goes by his middle name instead.

Steve's cooking is rather boring; he sticks to like five recipes and just cooks them over and over again. Bucky can follow a recipe, but when left without supervision is liable to mess something up.

Bucky has four sisters. He's the oldest. His oldest sister, Becca, is two years younger than him. (But I...haven't really thought through any of the others ^^')

After breaking free of Hydra's control, Bucky struggles with self-harm and suicidal thoughts related to the guilt and shame he feels over what he was made to do.

Because of the metal arm, Bucky has a lot of trouble with back and shoulder pain, to the point he needs regular chiropractic and massage work done on it. It gets much better after he gets the vibranium arm, but still isn't perfect.

Steve is really good at giving back rubs and shoulder massages. The Howling Commandos used to come up with excuses for why they needed regular massages from him, and he was too nice to say no.

Before the war, Bucky was something of a ladies' man. After the Winter Soldier, however, he doesn't end up romantically with anyone. It's hard for him to let himself be that vulnerable with anyone, and even harder to find anyone who could relate to everything he's been through, so he just decides not to bother. His bonds with his closest friends and their families are enough.

Steve and Bucky have almost a sixth sense about when the other is in serious danger, almost like twins. It's not a superpower or anything; they've had this since they were kids, which is how Bucky was able to come to Steve's rescue so many times. This also comes into play when Bucky is at his lowest; Steve starts feeling like something is off when Bucky is on the verge of killing himself.

When hugging or lying side by side, Steve still likes to tuck his head under Bucky's chin, like he used to when he was much smaller.

But the most important headcanon of all...

The Two Steves Theory:

This headcanon is one that @sergeanttomycaptain and I came up with in the first half-hour after seeing Endgame for the first time, and in my mind remains the only way to be truly satisfied with Steve's ending. If you'd rather read it in story format, you can read my fic "Let This One Remain."

But in short, here's how it works:

Everything in the movie happens the same way it does. It's just that they cut five minutes too early. What you should have seen was that after old!Steve gives the shield to Sam, suddenly they hear someone else coming up behind them. It's another Steve. Or should I say, the same Steve who just took the Infinity Stones and Mjolnir back in time. The first Steve.

This Steve, or Steve Prime as I like to call him, explains that he went back in time and put the Stones back as the plan was. He considered going to some point where he could settle down with Peggy and live the life he'd always wanted...but ultimately, he realized that actually wasn't what he wanted after all. He wasn't the same person he'd been in WWII when he'd fallen in love with Peggy, and he was no longer right for her. He might not always feel like he belongs in the 21st century, even still, but he recognizes as he travels back and forth through time that he wouldn't belong in the 1940s either. Besides, he's built a life for himself in the 21st century now. He has friends there. He has Bucky. He has Sharon. And that's actually where he wants to live out his days.

But, before going back as planned, he made one final trip to London in 1945, and talked to the version of himself who was sitting in that bar, mourning Bucky. He told that Steve that Bucky was still alive and captured, and that he needed to give his coordinates to Peggy when he brought the plane down, so they could find him sooner and they could go rescue Bucky. Then Steve Prime goes back to where he left Bucky and Sam waiting.

So old!Steve is actually the one that Steve Prime went to talk to. Peggy and Howard were able to find him, and then they rescued Bucky before he could be completely turned into the Winter Soldier. They went back to the States, Steve married Peggy, they had children...in short, they lived a full, happy life. The scene at the end where Steve and Peggy are dancing? That's that Steve.

Steve Prime, meanwhile, comes back to live with his friends, and to try to pick up where he left off with Sharon, now that she's been un-Snapped. Sam takes up the mantle of Captain America, and Steve retires.

And they all lived happily ever after.

[littlewalken]

mar 11

Okay depression is a choice think happy thoughts people- I'm all moved in to one of the nicest safest places I've ever lived, I have food and utilities, I am able to pay my current bills, I have three years of projects that have been in gay baby jail to catch up on, my body hasn't found any new aches and pains that I wasn't expecting with my current age, so why do I still feel like shit?

And why is feeling like shit such a normal feeling for me that my brain appears to be fishing in my memories for Bad Things to bring up when I had previously been doing well with processing my past traumas?

~sigh~

Now that I've got a good stitch setting on my mending machine between the pattern and number dial I was able to put the Xmas strips together in preparation for becoming a bargello. They're even, the one red one is smooshed because of bed lumps.

If the sewing muscles want to cooperate today I'm going to do some pairing up of the purple precuts with some black precuts, if not they'll wait until next designated sewing machine day. But it looks like when it comes to machine sewing that having a designated day will work well in the scheme of having astronaut time.

I made all the string things in the picture too. The pastel blanket is a repeating sc-dc-tr-tr-dc-sc shape in alternating colors. The thing in the lower right is a shoulder warmer in the Eagle colorway from the lion mandala yarn. The brown thing peeking out in the upper right hand corner is a bunch of lion Homespun put together in a thing that is too warm for hot flashes and too much little itchies so it'll probably go. Nothing on there is worth frogging.

Got to go out and give more things to the thrift store, the Mormon one loved our collection of ustaholds, and half the crap is the smothering unit's shopping habit going back to them. Her money her choices as long as her half of the bills are paid. And she discovered how much more she had when not covering the mooch's bills too.

On the writing side one of the leads in the Hollywood story will definitely be a butch bisexual who lives publicly as a man for several reasons that finds herself wondering what to do when she falls in love with a lesbian.

I'm glad I reread, took notes, and decided to start the story again because it just sort of... A combination of the story its self sort of falling apart and as I said before I must have been really mad at a couple of the characters.

I know it's stuff someone not so deep in the story could have helped me spot and fix but... Whole sub plots had to be dropped, the character who's the butch had to become more sympathetic, and apparently too many activists have pooped in the pool to make me even want to consider a couple of the plot roads I was going to go down.

Keep it up and I might go back to describing the appearances of some of the characters I left a bit more ambiguous because I thought it would make them more relatable, in the sense that ___ has a distinct nose or ___ looked like their face had been in a sand blaster.

[cybrsan]

Treasure — J.WY [Pt.5]

SUMMARY: Don't let yourself get too comfortable; the desert is full of danger.

PAIRING: Waterbender Jung Wooyoung x Non-Bender F!Reader

RATING/GENRE: M ; angst, fluff, eventual smut ; ATLA au, enemies to lovers

WORD COUNT: 2.4k

WARNINGS: Violence, injury, slight gore

LINKS: Ode To ATEEZ Masterlist | Together in Harmony Masterlist | Cross-posted on AO3 and Wattpad

↞ Previous | Masterlist | Next ↠

“Morning,” you say, nodding your head in Wooyoung’s direction. He doesn’t respond, instead focusing intently on packing up his supplies. You frown; did he not hear you, or is he ignoring you? “Morning, Wooyoung.” Again, silence. You roll your eyes. “I thought we were past this!”

You continue to ramble, but then you notice his shoulders are shaking slightly. He bursts into laughter. “Sorry, sorry, I couldn’t help myself. We’re good, promise.”

“Asshole,” you say, chucking your crumpled-up blanket at his face and smiling when he isn’t able to swat it away in time.

He quickly retaliates, opening his waterskin and bending some water out of it, forming it into a small, rippling ball. It hovers menacingly in the air a few inches from your face. “Don’t start a fight you don’t plan on finishing,” he teases. “I’m sure it would be uncomfortable to travel with your clothes soaking wet.”

Just then, San peeks his head into the tent and immediately panics. He sends a small burst of flame out from his palm, causing the water to dissolve into steam. “Wooyoung, what the hell?”

“What is it?” you hear Yunho yell from outside the tent.

“It looks like they were about to fight!” San replies, heading back out. “Yeosang, I thought you said this was supposed to make them get along?!”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes at the theatrics. “Let’s get out there and explain before they really start to believe we were gonna kill each other.”

Laughing, you quickly pack up the rest of your stuff and throw your bag over your shoulder before you and Wooyoung walk out one after the other to rejoin the group. Seonghwa immediately rushes over to the two of you, eyes flitting over your bodies as if scanning for injuries.

“Everything okay?”

You lightly pat his arm. “Seonghwa, it’s fine, really.”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung continues, “We weren’t fighting.” He says the second part loudly enough that the others can hear.

San looks between the two of you incredulously. “You had a water orb aimed at her face!”

“We were just joking around,” you laugh. “Promise. We’re all good.”

“Good.” The mood drops instantly as Hongjoong leaves his tent and pulls his hood up over his face. The bags under his eyes have worsened as if he didn’t sleep at all, and you feel a pang of sympathy for him. “We can’t afford any distractions if we’re going to find Pandora.”

Wooyoung’s lips form a tight line, and he nods stiffly. “Of course.”

You frown watching their interaction, unease settling in your gut. It’s none of your business as you are only a temporary addition to their group, but you can’t deny the fact that you want to help Wooyoung and Hongjoong mend the rift between them, even if it is only for Wooyoung’s sake.

Curse you and your bleeding heart. You hoped that after a good night’s sleep, you would wake up refreshed, ready to focus on the mission and not on Wooyoung. You have your own problems to worry about—the last thing you need is to get involved in someone else’s. Though a nagging in the back of your mind has you realizing you probably already are.

Wooyoung smiles at you before walking over to Jongho, and you practically melt. Okay, you definitely are.

Yeosang flits over to you, eager for you to fill him in on the obvious change in your relationship with Wooyoung. “How was your night?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You know, I really underestimated you. You’re a menace.”

“Me? Never.”

“Mmhmm, sure,” you laugh. “Anyway, it was… good.”

“You talked?”

“Yeah, we did. We aired everything out.”

“Really?” His entire face lights up. “I’m so glad. Wooyoung is a good friend to have, and I think you guys will really get along.”

You watch as Wooyoung teases Jongho about something and Jongho grapples him into a headlock, unable to keep from smiling at their antics. “I think you’re right.”

Noticing your gaze, Wooyoung frees himself and jogs over to the two of you, throwing an arm over Yeosang’s shoulder. “Come on, Yeo, don’t hardball her.”

Yeosang grimaces dramatically and shrugs his arm off. “I am doing no such thing.”

Wooyoung raises an eyebrow at you. “Y/N, do you confirm or deny?”

“Confirm.”

“Alright then. He’s off the hook—for now.”

It’s weird the way things have fallen into place between the two of you so naturally. One night was all it took for all the animosity to fade into affection. Though you suppose a lot of it has to do with Wooyoung; you think he probably acts like this with most people. If it wasn’t for his premonition, the two of you probably would have been like this from the start.

With the entire group getting along—minus Hongjoong—the second day of traveling goes a lot more smoothly. The heat isn’t as blistering after the rain, and everyone seems in good spirits, eager to find Pandora. At one point, Mingi makes an offhand comment about the ground shaking, but no one but him feels it. He shrugs it off, saying it must have just been a dune collapsing in the distance or something like that.

Oh, how you wish it was.

It’s near sunset when the ground splits open beneath your feet. If not for Wooyoung grabbing you and pulling you out of the way, you would have fallen into the fissure. Your group is now split into two, with you, Wooyoung, Yeosang and Jongho on one side and Hongjoong, Mingi, Yunho, San, and Seonghwa on the other.

Before you can even comprehend what just happened, a gigantic sandwyrm emerges from the earth, towering over you. Sand cascades off of it as it rises, sending particles flying. You tug your hood down over your eyes, trying to protect yourself from it as much as possible. When the wyrm extends to its full size, it seems to dwarf the sun. Everything seems to fall into its shadow, yourself and the others included.

You find yourself almost instinctively looking toward Hongjoong. You aren’t sure what for—reassurance, maybe? As if his not being scared would mean everything is going to be alright. But even his eyes are wide as he takes in the behemoth, and his clenched fists tremble slightly.

You’ve been scared many times in your life, but nothing could possibly compare to the primal fear that you feel now.

The beast surges forward, its gaping maw lined with three rows of spiked teeth threatening to swallow Hongjoong whole. He immediately dodges, flipping out of its reach as his feet kick out a blast of fire. The flames sizzle on impact, burning away some of the sand that surrounds the wyrm like a shield, but more takes its place as if nothing ever happened. The others jump into action, using their bending to attack it, and you watch, wide-eyed, as the same thing happens. Their bending won’t penetrate, and neither will your weapons—not until you figure out a way to get rid of its shield.

Mingi stomps his right foot and a wall of hardened sand and dirt shoots out in front of you, protecting you from the monster’s wrath and any misfired bending. You curse and crouch down, feeling useless. You can’t help them in combat, at least not until the shield is down, but you can strategize. You rack your brain, trying to think back to your time in the Earth Nation.

You remember your mistress boasting about her sandwyrm tooth necklace to a potential client, trying to sell some matching jewelry. You overheard their conversation because you were on cleaning duty that day and were dusting some bookshelves in the sitting room. The client, knowing how ferocious these creatures could be, was hesitant to believe the teeth were authentic. She dazzled him with a story about how a trained bender had apparently cleared away the shield just enough to expose a weak point on the underside of the wyrm’s belly. You don’t know if the story was true, or just one of her many lies, but it’s the only information you have to go off of.

Here goes nothing.

You sprint out from behind cover, running over to Hongjoong and filling him in on your plan. His eyes harden with determination, and he quickly barks out orders. Though Mingi doesn’t specialize in sandbending, he’ll try to part the sand just enough to clear a path to the weak spot. Then, using his windglider, Yunho will carry San in the air so he can pierce the wyrm’s underbelly with his lightning as everyone else continues to hurl attacks as a distraction.

It seems to go well, at first. Mingi is able to make an opening, exposing the weak spot. You cringe away from the sight—it’s a beating heart, glowing red from the inside as it presses against the translucent skin of the wyrm’s underbelly. Yunho is able to bring San close enough, but for some reason, the lightning doesn’t pierce. San even tries a second time, the air crackling with energy, but it doesn’t work. It doesn’t make any sense—even from here, you can feel the force of impact.

After deploying a wall of fire to protect Seonghwa from being whipped by the wyrm’s tail, Jongho gets everyone’s attention as best he can. “Look! Once you attack, a piece of its shield breaks off and covers the heart! You need to get underneath it.”

“Shit,” you curse. Of course, it couldn’t be easy.

“Y/N,” Hongjoong shouts. He sprints towards you, forced to slide on his knees to avoid another attack. You cringe, watching the way blood stains his tattered robes when he stands, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “If Yunho flies you up there and Yeosang propels you with an air blast, do you think you’d be able to figure out a way to get access to the heart?”

You hesitate, watching as the wyrm flails, attacking whoever is in its reach with devastating power. Before you can answer, Wooyoung joins the both of you and, having overheard Hongjoong’s suggestion, looks just as anxious as you feel. “You can’t ask her to do that; it’s too dangerous.”

“She’s our best chance. If she doesn’t try, we might as well give up and die here.”

Even as they continue to bicker, Wooyoung notices the wounds on Hongjoong’s knees and silently bends some water out of the pouch at his hip. You watch as it moves to engulf the firebender’s skin, glowing white as it heals him. He jumps at the sensation and almost stutters over his words; you can tell he wasn’t expecting it.

“Don’t think healing me will get me to drop this argument. She needs to do this—it’s our only option.”

“She doesn’t need to do anything—”

“I’ll do it.”

Wooyoung whips his head, looking at you in disbelief. “What? Are you insane? You can’t get close to that thing.”

“Hongjoong is right. I’ve got the best shot at actually killing this thing.”

“Y/N…” Wooyoung trails off, frowning. He knows you’re both right, but he obviously isn’t thrilled about it.

You pat him on the shoulder. “Careful, Woo. You keep acting like that, and I’ll start to think you actually like me.”

Without waiting for a response, you sprint over to Yunho, ready to jump into the action and finally help the others. You fail to notice the way Wooyoung’s eyes trail after your figure as you go. Not long after, the group is ready to give the plan a try for what will hopefully be the final time. Yunho nods at you, the determined look in his eyes matching your own.

“Ready for this?”

“Let’s do it.”

He runs, windglider spread behind him, and takes off into the air just barely before grabbing you with his free arm and propelling himself with a burst of air. Wind rushes past you, caressing the skin under your robes, and any other time you would bask in the feeling of it. Maybe you can ask him to take you for a lift again when you aren’t headed directly toward a giant sandwyrm.

Once you get close enough, he counts to three and drops you. You free fall for a terrifying moment before you’re launched forward by a burst of air. Unsheathing two of your kunai, you dig them into the wyrm’s exposed skin, latching on as best you can. The wyrm wails and tries to retreat into the sand but is stopped by a barrage of firebending, making the ground too hot for it to traverse.

You try to gain purchase on the wyrm’s underbelly with your feet, but it’s near impossible with the smoothness of its skin and the way it flails, doing its best to fling you off. Gritting your teeth, you begin to climb your way upwards to the heart, relying solely on your upper body strength to do so. It doesn’t take long for your arms to begin shaking and you waver, your grip loosening. Just as you’re about to fall, water envelops your feet, helping you continue your ascent. You look down to see Seonghwa smiling up at you, giving you a nod of support as he helps you as best he can.

Black blood seeps from each wound you inflict, but it’s not enough to put a stop to the wyrm. You need to stab the heart. It’s right in front of you now, a disgusting, pulsing thing. Sensing that danger is near, a tiny shield of sand rotates in front of it. You try to disperse it with one of your bolas, but it reforms each time in less than a second. The wyrm thrashes erratically, and you know it won’t be long until you’re thrown to the ground. You have no other choice.

Gritting your teeth, you maneuver your right arm underneath the shield while holding on with your left, screaming as the sand cuts into your skin like a blade. You bear the pain as best you can and stab at the heart, but the grip on your kunai is too weak and, though you manage to puncture it, it’s not enough to kill it.

“Y/N!” You hear Wooyoung shout your name and the fear in his voice makes your head swim. You wonder what he sees that is making him sound so scared.

The blood loss is making you dizzy, but you can’t give up. You won’t let this monster kill you, or him, or anyone else. You have to make it to Pandora. With the last of your strength, you thrust your kunai forward, plunging it into the sandwyrm’s beating heart. And then, suddenly, you’re falling. 

NETWORKS: @cromernet @kflixnet @pirateeznet

TAGLIST: @nebulousbookshelf @ad0rechuu @seonghwaddict @sanniesbunnie @wooya1224 @tournesol155 @ja3hwa @pocketjoong-reads @lovandr @yeoyeoland @huachengsbestie01 @baeksofty @deltamoon666

[mirkwoodmunson]

eddie has his chin resting on your shoulder, his body wrapped around your back with you sat between his legs, lounging on his bed together. you lean your temple into him, both of you just quiet and comfortable and enjoying the proximity as you pull a threaded needle in and out of his dio vest.

“i know you know how to sew, dude,” you say softly, amused, nudging against him, to which he snorts and turns his head — you’re already squealing when he blows a raspberry into your neck, makes you jolt and then elbow him playfully.

“yeah, well, i like watchin’ you do it,” he whines, replacing his chin on your shoulder and winding arms around your middle to hold you close.

“you just like when i play housewife for you,” you sigh with false dejection, shaking your head wistfully, and eddie snorts harder and squeezes you and shoves his face into you, muffling his ‘nooooooo that’s not truuuue~!’ you grin and reach up to scritch affection through his hair and laugh with him, turning your head to smooch his cheek.

“you’re just so cute when you’re all focused n’ stuff,” he breathes against you as he settles.

you smile wide as you relax and lean into each other again, eddie watching your hand bring the needle and thread through the denim of his vest to reinforce the stitching of his iron maiden patch — stitch stitch stitch stitch.

he could definitely do it himself — had done many times. but how could he deny himself this view? your lashes low and hiding intent, focused eyes, hair falling around your face as your tongue pokes through thinned lips, deep in concentration. cheeks a little pink from your combined warmth but you nestled into him happily anyway. you took such care with something that was so important to him and sometimes he just needed to see this, needed to watch this physical manifestation of your love for him. not that he’d ever doubted you, but that sometimes eddie doubted himself — that you were real. needed to just sit with you like this and remind himself you wouldn’t spend all this time with him in silence while he watched you mend his vest if you didn’t enjoy it.

you feel his hold on you grow a bit tighter in the ensuing silence as he thinks about you, and you lean closer into him. you tie off the thread and snip it, nudging your nose into his cheek as you hold up the vest, iron maiden firmly sewn back on.

eddie shoves his lips onto your cheek with a loud ‘mmmmmMMMMWAHH,’ and then you practically screech as he holds onto you tight and throws himself back with you in his clutches, rolling with you as you laugh and squeal and he alternates thanking you in between the onslaught of wet smooches.

[viviwritesss]

The Songcord

Neteyam × female! Omaticaya! Reader

Some believe waiting is the strongest act of love one could ever do, for time is ever so ungrateful and cruel that it never hesitates to tear longing lovers apart. But when the pain of loss is too much to bear, perhaps one last glimpse at him could mend your broken heart.

Word count: 2.5k

Tags: angst, mentions of blood, mentions of death, soft Neteyam that dislikes killing and all that stuff.

A/n: Hello again! First of all, I'd like to thank you all for supporting the last post I made! I received a couple of requests, and I'll try to get to them as soon as possible! If any of you wish to make a request, I'd be glad to receive it! Anyway, remember reader's name is Zoraya, and also I would recommend you to listen to 'The songcord' by Zoe Saldana while reading this, it's a beautiful song :)

It had been a while since you last saw Neteyam. 

Perhaps such a turn of events was for the best. Not knowing about him, not speaking to him, not touching him, not seeing him, made the whole situation more bearable, if only a little. Yet your mind couldn't help but wander everywhere but on the tasks you had to get done. Wander back to when you would look at him and smile without this pain in your woeful chest, when the two of you would laugh over his pitiful attempt at braiding your hair, when he would carry you around on his back because he knew how much you enjoyed it, back when your heart didn't seem to burn whenever you laid eyes on him.

He used to swear you two would stay together forever. Back in your childhood days, on the most distant memories your tired brain can still fathom, Neteyam often mentioned how he wished to be your loyal knight, like those his father used to tell him about in fairytales. Only the best of knights is suited for a princess such as Zora, he would repeat, before taking your hand and running off towards the forest. And as little time went on, Neteyam pronounced, now with a smidge more of common sense, that, rather, he wished for you to be his bride. For you to be his.

Perhaps neither of you understood the weight of such claims all those years ago, however, you would always answer with an enthusiastic nod, and a big smile on your face.

Since those days you knew you were betrothed to Neteyam. At least you felt like you were, even after he grew up and, little by little, stopped bringing up the idea. 

In time, his eyes darkened, tainted and forever stained with burden, with responsibility and a duty that, one day, would abruptly befall onto his shoulders. And his hands –before soft and tender– dripped blood since youth, blood of his enemies, carrying on his palm yet another burden; the burden of murder. Of spilling the blood of those weaker than him, unable to stand against a trained warrior such as himself. 

You still remember the first time he killed. A memory ever so vivid that you still carry it within your skin. You awaited his return, expectant, scared, for he always expressed with adamant regret how he wished not to rip out someone's soul out of their body, a brutal, cruel act that, according to him and his soft heart, he never wished to commit unless necessary. Yet he was commanded to do so. And so he did. For he was expected to do it, because he is Neteyam Sully, the firstborn.

That day, he returned to you first –before even reporting to his father– in the middle of the night, crestfallen, regretful, woeful and empty, oh so empty he could only look at you with those dark eyes of lacking color. Covered in blood that wasn't even his. 

No words were exchanged that night. He wasn't even able to muster the strength of cleaning himself up, which is why you did, and with a wet, warm cloth, you wished to cleanse both the stain of blood on his skin, and the stain of pain in his heart.

He was always so gentle, so kind hearted and benign, that it hurt your soul to see him so utterly shattered. So delved in his misery, in a weight so heavy upon his back that made him crack.

That cold night, Neteyam held you closer than he ever had, as if you would get snatched from him for eternity. He placed his trembling, bloodstained hands on your waist, clinging to your warmth with such desperation that had you cradling his head on your chest, the sound of your heartbeat being the sole anchor that refrained him from falling apart.

And such encounters continued for a long time, for Neteyam was strong at fights, yet weak at heart. A cursed man, so young yet so haunted. Burdened since birth, condemned since the day he opened his very eyes, all for being a Sully; for being the firstborn.

Thoughts about him swallowed you whole, flooded your brain and drove you mad, mad from love? Who knows. You were losing your mind, that's for sure. Maybe you wouldn't mind such a thing, if at least you had him by your side, if at least you knew he was still alive and well, and if at least you knew how his thoughts had been treating him as of late.

Little more could you do than to cling merely onto a hazy remembrance of him, promising the world to you once he returned.

Once he returned…

Then again… how long has it been…?

The Sully family had been away for more moons than you can count, perhaps even years, and with each passing day, the unbearable pain of getting left behind by your loved one left you dwindling. So much so that the image of Neteyam in your head started fading in time. The thought of forgetting his face terrified you, for it was tied to the idea of permanently losing him; of losing the hope of living the happy life he told you about before he left, a long time ago. It petrified you so much that you found it in yourself to try and draw him, draw what hazy details you remembered of him and of his kind features, to try and at the very least commit him into paper. Perhaps that way… you wouldn't forget. You attempted such portraits many times, yet upon glancing at the finished piece, you just knew something was missing, something was wrong, that is not Neteyam.

And then one day you finally realized. You forgot how he looked. Not only that, but the sound of his voice vanished from your memories. Finally, the only thing left of him you had was the songcord, which he promised would be the beginning of your story together just before leaving you behind.

Time never stopped, and as such, neither did your longing. Everyone knew this yet you were already of age, older, actually, for you were not betrothed out of respect to your decision and Neteyam's of waiting for his return to become his mate.

To your dismay, such an event never transpired, so you were soon to be betrothed to a good male of the tribe. A kind na'vi who knew beforehand that your heart already belonged elsewhere, in the hands of another man, despite the time that passed.

Yes. You hadn't seen Neteyam in a while. In years. Which perhaps made your betrothal more bearable. Yet, even then, you couldn't stop thinking about him. You started to believe you never could.

And one day, the sound of a foreign Ikran was heard. 

"Zoraya!" A young girl approached you frantically and out of breath, tugging desperately at your hand with an unreadable expression on her face. "In the village, the Sullys, they…!" Your eyes widened. "They have returned!"

You left out an exasperated breath, feeling your heart quickly grow mad upon the news. Your chest started feeling terribly tight, as if concealed within iron claws, so much so that it felt as if you couldn't breathe properly.

Neteyam… he… he is back…!

You dropped the basket full of fruit you held without hesitation, to proceed to run desperately towards the village with little concern of your surroundings and without care of the cut and scratches you acquired while sprinting hectically through the forest.

Neteyam… Neteyam came back to me…!

Just the thought had you increasing your speed, ignoring the fleeting pain of wounds, disregarding whatever it was that got in your path.

I want to see him…!

Upon your arrival, you quickly made your way through the crowd, squeezing between the people surrounding the family that just arrived, and letting out quick apologies to try and reach them. Reach him.

Neteyam… finally, I can tell you one more time…

You locked eyes with Neytiri.

How much I love you…!

She looked at you with misery.

Your smile quickly vanished.

The whole family was silent, staring at you with narrow eyes, gazes so pitiful that had you taking a step back, embracing yourself in nervousness.

You couldn't see Neteyam.

"Where is Neteyam?" Your voice wavered, dwindling under sad gazes and the cruel realization that he was not there.

Jake appeared crestfallen, unable to look at you in the eye once more; unable to bear your helpless expression which still tried to seek out his son.

A son that was no more.

Neytiri was the one to look at you, strong face yet weak heart –just like her son– as she locked eyes with you. She choked on her words, obvious rage and sorrow coming out of her expression.

She could only shake her head at you in regret.

Your heart shattered.

A pain like none you've ever felt in your chest got you falling expressionless to the ground, water pooling in your eyes as you grabbed your heart in misery, clinging to the songcord he gave you as you felt your heart get ripped out of your chest.

You couldn't remember more from that day. Memories faded, yet pain lived vivid within you.

You felt empty, even if he left a long time ago and you knew nothing about him, it felt as though a part of you was violently ripped out of you along with his departure.

You often wandered off alone to the spirit tree. It made you feel close to him, even though death cruelly interfered. He finally went to a place you couldn't reach, a realm so far that your feet could never touch, not as long as your lungs drew air. He left, and this time, you couldn't follow.

The tree of voices felt quiet. Awfully quiet and dreadful, as if sensing your loss and the pain dwelling in your chest. 

You sat down, taking deep breaths, trying to remain calm. You couldn't stop thinking about him; your mind, stained with love, would not let you rest, would not let you go a moment without wishing to see him one last time, to finally mutter what remained untold, to tell him how much love you harbored for him ever since you were kids.

You closed your eyes, feeling the wind envelop you in its cold embrace, a surge of emotions flowing through your body and a sense of vertigo coursing through your flesh.

And then you opened your eyes.

And he was in front of you.

You were no longer under the spirit tree, rather, it seemed you were between his arms, a wet, warm cloth in your hand, while he gently placed his hand on your waist.

You still remembered that night, the night he seeked you out, covered in blood. The night he murdered for the first time.

You left out a choked sigh, looking down at him, being met with his head, gently placed on your chest.

The both of you shared a burning warmth, sitting on the floor, with you sitting on top of him, seeking the contact of skin so fervently it hurt.

Your sight wavered upon meeting his form, a striking sadness making your eyes wet with tears. You could feel him, finally, after all this time, the longing within your chest felt less heavy, yet the sense of not being able to see him again lurked deep in your head.

He held you close, strong arms surrounding you with ease, as his big palms caressed your waist with care.

"Neteyam…" you cried out in a whisper, your voice heavy with pain, which had him looking up at you, at your hurt expression.

And then you saw him, his face, and it was as if your memory never forgot about him in the slightest. You placed both hands on his cheeks, smiling weakly through your tears at him and his concerned features.

He was still as handsome as you remembered.

And he was there. He was with you, and you could feel his warmth, feel his skin against yours and, this time, it was not a distant dream.

"Why are you crying…?" He spoke so softly, so tenderly and loving and it made you shatter, realizing how deeply you missed his voice. He removed his hands from your waist, placing them below your eyes to wipe your tears with his thumb, as he worriedly scanned your face for answers.

"I'm just happy to see you." You said, unable to stop the relentless tears from falling off your face, as with your palms you held his cheeks, trying to get this last moment with him ingrained in your brain.

You would never allow yourself to forget. Not again.

"I'm happy to see you too." He said, weakly smiling at you as his forehead connected with yours.

You embraced him like you never had before, knowing this would be the last time you were ever permitted to do so, placing your head in the crook of his neck as he protectively hugged you with the same intensity. 

"Neteyam?" Your voice was worn out, tired, as with your hands you clung to his back, wishing to stay inside this memory for as long as possible. He merely hummed questioningly at the call of his name, and you sighed with delight upon realizing that, finally, you could say what you wished to confess ever since he departed. "I think I'm in love with you." You faced him, a sad smile on your face. "I'm terrible, am I not?" You laughed, further attempts to wipe your tears remaining fruitless. 

He looked at you tenderly, his dark eyes regaining the color they lacked, shining under your gaze.

"Hardly," He mumbled, kissing your eyes, soft lips upon your eyelids. It all felt so terribly real it made your heart stirr. "I feel the same." He all but whispered those words, and you felt your world regain a little color. "You just said it before I could." You furrowed your brows in sorrow. He loved you as well, yet a timeless force separated you both in such a cruel way, that fate would never let you stay by his side. 

You sobbed at the thought, and, once more, Neteyam grabbed your cheeks between his palms in an attempt to understand the cause of your sorrow.

"Why do you cry still, my love? I'm right here. Right by your side." He exclaimed with sageness, as water flowed down your cheeks, staining his hands with your tears. You could never achieve a shared future with the man you love, he would slide from between your fingers ever so gently, and you would get left behind once more. "I'll never leave your side, yeah? I'll stay for as long as you wish. So please, don't shed tears for me."

You could only nod, clinging to him in desperation, as you felt him vanish from between your grasp. You tried to maniacally hang onto his memory, but before you knew it, he was gone. He was not by your side anymore.

You were left alone with your thoughts again.

A pained chuckle escaped your lips.

He lied.