#my heart is aching just a bit

[titsthedamnseason]

wait wait wait wait wait wait i feel like i have whiplash. WHY DID THE BEGINNING OF EVERYTHING FOR YOU JUST HAVE A FOUR YEAR TIME JUMP I WASNT PREPARED FOR THAT WHAT THE FUCK

[slavhew]

And I just have to tell you that I

Love you so much these days,

[beetlethebug]

Thinking about a Lucanis who is in love with Emmrich but cannot find the courage to request his company. He hates the taste of tea, but there's a box of Emmrich's favorite brew on the top shelf. If he stretches on the tips of his toes, he can just reach it. There's a note written by Emmrich himself tucked under the lid, advising fellow tea enjoyers that the recommended time to steep the leaves is far too long for this particular blend.

Lucanis going through the motions of preparing a cup. He's observed Emmrich often enough to know the way he prefers his tea, even if he's still not bold enough to make a cup for him himself. He lets it steep to Emmrich's preference, adds enough milk and sugar, and for a long moment, he just holds the cup in his hands. It's warm, and the weight of it is nice. If he didn't know that Emmrich's hands ran cool from the way Bellara had squealed one evening when he touched her shoulder, he could almost imagine it was Emmrich's hand in his.

Lucanis spending the night working on contracts and paperwork, gaze drifting to the cup of tea sitting on the table. Complete with a little doily that only Emmrich ever bothers to use. When his eyes are starting to ache and the words blur, he lifts the cup to his face and inhales deep. It holds the tea-leaf scent Spite associates with the man, and some of the floral notes. Paired with the ink from his pens (one of which was brought by Manfred, graciously allowed to stay in his care because Spite refused to part with it), he can almost pretend that Emmrich is here beside him. That they are somewhere warm and comfortable, each attending to their work.

And in the morning, Emmrich is the one who finds him asleep at the kitchen table. Finger curled through the handle of the teacup that is dangerously close to his face. Emmrich, who hears the low murmur of, "Don't go, please," when he tries to remove the cup from Lucanis' grasp. Who gets to hear Spite's cheerful crow of, "He missed you. He wanted to sleep next to you. This was as close as the coward got."

[hungergameshyperfixation]

Idk if this was mentioned already or not but with the synopsis Haymitch confirmed has a “sister like” figure in his life AS WELL AS HIS BROTHER WHO BOTH DIE‼️‼️‼️ AND HE WATCHES MAYSILEE DIE AND COMFORTS HER AS AN ALLY❓❓❓ AND THEN HIS MOTHER AND GIRLFRIEND DIE ALSO ❓❓❓ damn the 50th games were truly his rock bottom weren’t they-

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

505 live at bbc studios, 2010 (x)

[mitskiluvr]

watched the haikyu movie thinking it was going to be normal but unfortunately i came out battered bruised bleeding and 5 years younger, back in 2019 watching haikyu on my couch and trying to get my sister hooked on it

[daddy-long-legssss]

sometimes i think if i put as much effort into other things as i did as arctic monkeys/tlsp stuff, i could be so successful.

why can't my passion BE my job???!

[sentientsky]

"I forgive you." It came out like a blood clot—like an artery dripping gore—like an oil spill. Crowley felt his shoulders rise, fall, fall, fall. The air between them hummed, the tension of six thousand years turning every atom electrified and silently screaming. Breath shuddered out of him, human and terrible and hollowing. He had never been more grateful for the swallowing darkness of his glasses, for the way they hid the centuries of pre-emptive grief and wicked terror. The air was suffocating, the once familiar bookshop turned catacomb.

And then, hating himself for it but seeing no other way forward, he spoke the words aloud. "Don't bother". And then he was out in the middle of Soho and the breeze was harsh against his too-warm skin. Stepping out into the sun felt like rising to the surface of some great ocean—the gasping, desperate feeling in his lungs, the sudden crash of noise. A woman across the street called for her wife. A car horn. A dog barking. Laughter, cruel and far-off. He pulled breath into lungs that didn't need it, winced as he felt slivers of cold drive into the soft flesh of his throat.

So that was it; five and a half million years of want and need and burning, aching somedays, cyphered pleas for "our side". All gone in the space between shaking half-breaths and a kiss still seared against his lips.

Fuck it.

He'd ruined it the first time, had forced them both to look directly into the sun, to face the thing they'd been dancing around for the better part of six millennia. He could do better—would do better. At a music café some years ago, a human had been playing the piano—something soft and slow. A jazz number, if the demon remembered correctly. But the remarkable thing wasn’t the song itself, but that they were playing it with their eyes closed. Aziraphale had pointed this fact out to Crowley, excitement lilting in his voice (even then, the sound had thrilled him, sent a stab of warmth through his heart). It was only after the final note reverberated through the room that the artist opened their eyes, blinking in the sudden rush of stage lights. Aziraphale, ever the music connoisseur, approached the musician. The pianist had explained that, for them, reading music never came easy. Rather, they learned by touch, by the way the keys felt on their fingertips. In fact, the only way they could play a song was with their eyes closed. If they watched their hands as they played or thought too hard about their next move, they got confused and tripped over the notes. Muscle memory, they’d said.  It was muscle memory—the galactic familiarity of finding the space between seconds and prying—that guided Crowley now. He hadn’t done it since Not-Armageddon, but it came easily to him just the same. Time, you see, operates kind of like sound, like music; it loops and sways and carries forward in waves. If you know where to look (as the demon did), you can disrupt the flow, send it back towards the shore. 

And this was what Crowley did now. Drawing his hands through the ripples of minutes and seconds and hours and millennia, time stilled around him. It was natural. Easy, like breathing or sleeping. Or loving Aziraphale.  Slowly, the world turned backwards; humans retreating from whence they came, cars driving in reverse, the wind blowing in the opposite direction. If Heaven had taken notice of their "half-a-miracle", Crowley expected them to be able to see this from every edge of the universe. He likely only had one shot at this.

The world aligned itself once more, and time returned to its regular, steady gait—a rubber band snapping back into place. Something hummed in Crowley’s chest. Something bright and burning and the shape of a neutron star.  Hands shaking, he reached for the handle of the bookshop and pushed. The bell above the door rang, clear and and too-loud in the morning air. Aziraphale whirled around, a trembling half-smile on his face. Oh. Oh, somebody, this was going to be harder than he thought. It felt like all the oxygen, all the courage, had been punched clear out of him "Crowley!" A beat, a shuddering breath. "Angel". He pressed his still-trembling hands into his pockets and strode forward. "Oh, Crowley, dear, I've been looking for you. I have excellent news." His stomach did a little flip, something deep within him growing hollow and fearful. "We have to talk," he managed to choke out around the heart still lodged in his throat. "Yes, I quite think we do. I have something to tell you." Aziraphale strode forward, all grins and beauty like a flickering star, all plasma and heat. He could practically feel the agitated warmth roll off of his angel. Crowley shivered. "I just met with the Meta—” "No. Wait," the demon held up a hand, pausing the rushing torrent of Aziraphale’s words. "Just let me say my thing, please." "My dear boy, just—oh, what is that lovely human expression—"

"Hold that thought," Crowley muttered. His eyes burned behind his glasses. Aziraphale looked pleasantly taken aback.

"Yes, how did you know? I—" "No." The angel's eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "No?" "No," he repeated, enunciating each letter with perfect clarity. He was going to do it right this time. He was going to keep him from leaving. He could be good. Right? "I’m gonna speak, and I want you to listen to me without interrupting, m'kay?" Words were building in the basin of his sternum now, pushing up on his airways. He was going to have to say it outright this time; no more waltzing around this frenzied galaxy of emotion. Willing his hands to steadiness, he pulled his glasses from his face, and tucked them into the collar of his shirt. Aziraphale's breath seemed to catch for a moment, meeting the ferocity of the demon's gaze head-on. A deer in headlights. And then, "Crowley, I really—" (Eons hurtled through his mind in a split second, the serrated knife's-edge of want like a being all its own. Aziraphale in the garden. Aziraphale in the tavern, on the cliffside, on the West End stage, in the Bentley, in the bookshop, in the very marrow of Crowley’s bones.) "I love you," he rasped, ichor writhing in his veins.

There, he'd said it., said it fully and completely, without so much as flinching. It was the same love he'd expressed for the past several thousand years in a million little, unspoken ways: an ox rib, a revolution, a church, a burning bookshop and the bottom of a glass and a lost best friend. A yellow Bentley, a lifetime of tethering his life to Aziraphale's, of trailing after him like a moth to flame—like a dog to its owner. "I love you," he pushed on. They were both looking directly into the sun again, Crowley urging them to stare straight into the heat of it all. The words were spilling out of him now, a heaving, thrashing current falling to the bookshop's hardwood floors. "I love you and you can't go to Heaven." Aziraphale froze, pupils blown wide and unblinking, for just a moment. Tension stretched out like a thread between them. And then he pulled in breath like a drowning man (who wasn't really a man at all), and tears were gathering in the corner of his eyes, and oh god, he'd made his angel cry. Fear and guilt and horror slammed into him at a million kilometers an hour and left him halfway between dizzy and nauseous. His fingers tensed at his side, desperate to do something, fix what he'd so obviously broken. Heaven would be on the front step any moment. It was too late, wasn't it? It was always too late. "Crowley—what?" Aziraphale breathed, mouth twisting into a brutal, terrible, heart-wrenching sob. Crowley ached, panic lancing through him like a knife. "I—I really, I can't. You could come with me." He stepped forward, moving to place his hands on the demon's shoulders. Crowley leaned into the touch, almost unconsciously. "Don't go," he croaked, tears beginning to prick his own eyes once again. This time he didn't reach for his glasses, didn't try to hide his fear. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. And then Aziraphale could hate him and his desperate, hungry, reverent love in the aftermath. "Don't go where I can't follow. Please".

His angels blue-grey eyes searched his own, and the weight of his gaze was impossibly heavy, pressing down on his chest like a river-smoothed rock. "Crowley, please. I don't understand. The Metatron said—" His palms found the sides of Crowley's throat, thumbs resting gently on the side of his jaw. Crowley sucked in a breath. "Angel," The scent of earl grey—of old books and soft tartan chairs. Aziraphale's hands were shaking. "I know what the Metatron said," he intoned, soft as rainfall. "You can't go. It's not—they won't change. You're better than that." "But you could be an angel. With me," he murmured, soft thumbs running across sharp cheekbones. "Be my second-in-command." "Don't want to be. Want t' be an us," he felt tears—traitorous, burning tears tip over the edge of his lashes and fall against his face. "Crowley, darling, please." A beat. "I love you." The bottom of the world dropped out from under him in that moment. Aziraphale loved him. He loved him and he'd said it aloud and now it was out there in the world and it was as though every nerve on his body was on fire. His angel pushed on, "Truly, I love you. I need you with me. Please, come with me. We can do good, I know it." He could never say no when his angel asked something of him. Especially not when his kind, gentle hands were holding him like something good, something precious. Especially not when Aziraphale had just admitted to needing him, had injected the word with so much warmth he thought his all-too-human heart might beat clear out of his chest. But there was a first (technically, second) time for everything. He drew in a heavy breath, and tilted his head, breaking his angel's hold on him. Aziraphale's hands—now empty, still shook. He made a soft whimpering sound, and Crowley ached to kiss his fingertips, banish the fear. But instead, he looked up towards the ceiling, to a God who was not there—who maybe had never been there at all. He felt the Heavenly Host drawing near, a sense of hollow emptiness, the scent of absence. This was the time of last-ditch efforts, of holding his heart out and hoping Aziraphale might take it as it was, bruised spots and all. "I can't. I won't. I need to be here, on Earth, with you." "Crowley, please. I don't think you understand what I'm offering you," he huffed. A residual shard of anger stabbed at him then, and he turned his gaze sharply back to the angel before him. "Oh, I understand perfectly well, angel. I'm fairly certain I understand better than you do." Aziraphale's mouth drew into a thin line, tears welling fresh in his eyes again. And still, Crowley ached. A beat. Something in the angel shifted, then, turned on its edge—the walls beginning to go up again, and it was just like it had been not fifteen minutes ago. He was watching the same moment play out over and over again; some cyclical, torrential nightmare. "I would like you to come with me, but," Aziraphale paused, voice breaking in the middle. "But I'm leaving, with or without you." And there it was, like it was predestined. Despite the love, despite the want, despite every shared bottle passed between them, every half-accidental touch and glance and whispered word—despite the way he would’ve let Aziraphale run a sword through his chest... It wasn't enough. It was never enough. They were re-enacting their old magic trick, right there in the bookshop, this time with Crowley staring down the barrel, letting Aziraphale pull the trigger. Aim for my mouth, but shoot past my ear. Aziraphale wasn't shooting past his ear. His bloody ribcage felt as though it might splinter apart. Wingbeats in the distance, a grief wide enough to drown the sea. Crowley reached down, pulled his sunglasses from their resting spot against his clavicle. And then the hunger in his eyes was once more hidden, and he was walking towards the door like a man headed to execution. "Crowley—" Aziraphale nearly keened, the wall crumbling for a split second. Without turning, Crowley said the only words he could think of. "I forgive you."

[spiritsong]

it's 6am as I'm writing this so I'm scheduling this to post later but

I finally finished the game

holy fuck

[3416]

his profile 😵‍💫

[fefairys]

this post makes me feel the same as when i was watching the truman show in my high school psychology class and there would be a moment that made me feel a deep, aching pain for truman and had me nearly on the verge of tears, and my classmates were laughing because they thought the same moment was hilarious

[luminousnotmatter]

And He’s Yours

b.r.b. for my bee 💗 @bradshawsbaby

Sometimes

Your job

Its days and weeks

Demand and take

Leaving you empty

Tired

And aching to your bones

Your mind and heart

Just as drained

Just as sore.

But when you’re home

And he’s home

He’s yours.

You drop away the day

Purse

Work junk

Other metaphorical baggage

The front door closes

Shuts

Solidly behind you

Closing out the world

Life with its demands

Is unwelcome here.

You’re home

And he’s home

He’s yours.

His frame

Tall

Broad

Strong and safe

Fills the kitchen doorway

Almost to overflowing

Spilling toward you

On his eager steps.

Jet-calloused hands

Reach for you

Arms fold you in

And he’s home

He’s yours.

Some sweet name for you

Sighs from his lips

Over yours

Before they’re his

By right of capture.

No happier prisoner

Is there

In your mouth.

His kiss tastes of tenderness

Of peppermint and sweat

Hints of strawberries.

And he’s home

He’s yours.

The night will go on

All soothing sweetness

Dinner

Wine

The yellow roses on the table.

Your laugh he adores

His curls falling loose.

A soak in the tub

Limbs tangled

Bodies close

Hot and bubbly and unhurried.

Maybe he’ll sing to you

Soft and loving.

And it’s good

Perfect

Just what you need.

But

Your favorite

The best part

Is

Him

And you

That’s Home

You are his

And he is yours.

[send-up-my-heart-to-you]

you know when youre having a good day and life is so awesome and oh my god im so glad im healing my state of mind is so much better

then one of your friends takes something and your mind takes it as "youre gonna get replaced" and all of a sudden you wanna cut everyone off and die in a hole somewhere and hope that no one finds you

[doomednarrative]

Personally I cant do really early days STARS/RPD era Chreon for a lot of reasons, one being I'm just not interested in it because theyre cops at the time, but the other reason is that like. Part of what Compels me about these two as a pairing is seeing them years down the line when theyve already been in the fight for awhile against bioweapons and all that and theyre on equal footing in their own right. Chris is a BSAA captain, Leon is a capable agent, it puts them on equal ground but it also means that they've already seen so much shit that they Know what each other has been through this whole time.

I think both of them struggle with the notion of wanting a relationship, and even just with friends at times, because they don't to involve anyone on the outside of the fight who doesn't understand the depths of things. People who don't understand that this will probably end in death or heartbreak, or even just watching someone you love get hurt a lot and having to deal with that pain. And its That unique situation that makes Leon and Chris compelling to me personally, because here's two guys in the thick of it who Know the risks and the threats inside and out and they chose to say "No, I'm going to care about you reguardless because its better to go thru this together than alone, even if it hurts" and I dunno man, something about that kind of defiance, especially with how headstrong they are just as separate individuals, it gets me.

[lululawrence]

1 please?

absolutely, my dear!

page 1 of my bookmarks on ao3 includes...

Home Is Nest to You by crimsontheory / @ireallysawanangel

Being an omega, Louis was well accustomed to nesting. He had lost count of the number of times he'd nested throughout his life. But, there were five times in particular that he'd never forget.

Remember Me As A Time Of Day by justanothershadeofblue (zjofierose) / @justanothershadeofblue

It's the 20th anniversary of the One Direction hiatus, and the powers that be have decided that it's time for a reunion tour, and ideally, an album. Can five middle-aged lads thrust into a house in the middle of nowhere to make music sort out two decades worth of hurts, grudges, and resentments and come together with enough love to make a show - and a relationship - that works?

Better is the End by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup

Louis stands at the entrance to the labyrinth, and knows that this is the end. No one escapes from the labyrinth. No one can defeat the monster inside and make it back out alive.

He steps into the darkness and knows that he’ll never see the sun again.

Deep within the twisting, turning corridors of the labyrinth sits a creature who’s been trapped in darkness for as long as anyone can remember.

Maybe, if everything goes right, this story won’t end the way it began.

Choose one of my 103 pages of bookmarks in AO3 and I'll give you a random selection of fics from that page!

[faerune]

lowkey obsessed with the dynamic between triss and mystra