#the inevitable heat death of the universe

[nommp]

saw a meme about the inevitable death of the planet via being swallowed by the sun and it made me have ThoughtsTM. like yes, yes, whether it’s the ever-onward march toward old age that comes with our mortality or the inescapable heat death of the universe, one way or another, we’re all going to die, and the hand pulling the strings behind everything’s death? that hand belongs to time. there’s a lot we dont know about time and the universe we live in, but based on the trends we’ve seen in our relatively short lifespans we can assume that time gets the best of everything, eventually.

but what if time could kill the universe a lot faster than we typically imagine?

thats very vague. specifically what i mean is, what we know about the space-time continuum is limited at best. we really don’t know what would happen if we were able to break it, or how delicate it actually is, or if it’s already been broken before. but it’s safe to assume that there is a chance the consequences could be devastating, and it is also possible that no one has managed to break it yet in the lifetime of the universe so far (given how young the universe is). and yes technically black holes “break” the space time continuum, sort of, but my anxiety is asking you to bear with me here.

so assuming that it is possible to do irreparable damage to the space time continuum, according to the law of truly large numbers (as there are not many useful numbers as large as the lifespan of a universe) there is at least a chance that (accidentally or through technological advances) someone in the universe could find a way to mess with the space time continuum, and then irreparably break it, before the universe dies via reaching thermal equilibrium.

and the chances of us being the most technologically advanced species in the universe are slim to nonexistent, so if it happens, there is a good chance that we won’t know about it until we’re experiencing the consequences.

which could mean the sudden unraveling of space-time as we know it. at any moment. completely outside of our control.

it could never happen. it could have already happened. it could happen today. and we have no idea what the consequences would be, but they could be on a universe-devastating scale. and we would never see it coming unless it happened at our hands.

yes it’s 1:44am and yes i’ve eaten far too many pringles in the past hour and yes i know i need to see a mental health professional but listen. im fucking terrified. the inevitable heat death of the universe? definitely won’t happen for an inconceivably large amount of time. the potential shattering of space-time because humankind or another species did a little fuck up? if it’s possible, then it could happen at any time. yes thats a very big if, but… maybe universe-scale catastrophes are more likely and closer to today than we might think.

[tikycuki]

thinking abt the inevitable heat death of the universe

[mossy-graveyard]

If I see one more person compare KENDRICK LAMAR DUCKWORTH to fucking LIN MANUEL MIRANDA even one more time, everyone on this site is losing music privileges until we learn to BEHAVE.

[otterwithatophat]

It's me day!!!! :DD

[fanficfanattic]

My air has been fucked once again. And like…I will never find a place with this much room for this little price. But I cannot fucking endure how hot it is. It’s been between 77-80° for like two weeks.

Do you know what temperature I keep my apartment at normally? 68° (I’d prefer 66° honestly but I can be comfortable with 68).

Which means it has been ten or MORE degrees above what I actually find comfortable.

[narwhalandchill]

thinking back on skirks dialogue again and like. theres a tidbit on the narwhal that might end up inconsequential but caught my eye all the same so whatever here goes

bc skirk starts out noting that childe and the narwhal ran into each other/started throwing hands (unclear if shes surprised by them reuniting to begin with or just the fight breaking out part tho) much sooner than she wouldve expected right? and straight up referring to what to me logically has to be abt skirk herself letting those events occur as a "blunder" that she expects to be reprimanded for.

and like. obviously it could just as well also be that the blunder refers to the general messiness of what went down with the narwhal and fontaine at the time when skirks assignment was supposed to be just a simple training session with it. but idk i think its interesting she says this right after her comments on childe and the narwhal

bc as we all know the reason ajax was ever trained by skirk to begin with has everything to do with him awakening the narwhal and with 4.2 lore in all likelihood surtalogi himself taking note of this event and sending his own disciple to look after whoever managed such a feat after the narwhal had been inactive for who knows how long. and given surtalogi is, well, the guy keeping an all-devouring narwhal as a pet of all things despite how very. non ideal it is as one. he definitely has his reasons to be keeping it. just as he would have his reasons to send skirk to train a 14yo ajax freshly fallen into the abyss. and childes already told us that his training by skirk was said to be in preparation for some greater purpose in the future.

and this combined with how skirk describes the narwhal as uncooperative nuisance yet we Know it to possess a more complex sentience than just a simple beast to be used as a tool. just makes me wonder if theres any specific designs and potential motives in store from surtalogi regarding when/how/where childe and the narwhal are supposed to be allowed to encounter one another? and whether the narwhal explicitly calling for childe of its own accord is a part of that "uncooperative" nature if it very much led to them meeting much sooner than was supposed. like idk. its interesting. and if skirks blunder and ensuing penance is indeed about letting the narwhal successfully call for childe before surtalogis plans, why is keeping them apart such a big deal?

obviously could just be something straightforward along the lines of skirk/surtalogi wanting ajax at a specific power level before cultivating his connection with the narwhal to the next level as opposed to the current scenario where he did end up in an incredibly poor shape after the fight but. i also find it very curious to consider there possibly being something more to it too.

like the narwhals connection to childe is clearly deeply personal in nature? its literally his constellation and he physically carries traces of it on himself. but at the same time we really dont know how a being of its scale feels about being reduced to a "pet" dependent on another entity at all. and we really have no clue on the nature of surtalogis plans for the narwhal and ajax. if theres any conflict of interest there.... thatd be something. its interesting to speculate

but yeah none of this is anything concrete just yet im just Thinking. narwhal rent free in my head

[waltwhitmansbeard]

low lights make me know that you're there (a my fair lady one-shot)

@crispysnake successfully peer pressured me into writing this, so you are welcome. based off of this post and this ask. please note that this takes place before some nights just seem forever lasting, so certain things have not happened yet! as always, you can find the entire my fair lady fic here and it has been inspired by @romeoandjulietyouwish's medieval au!

Winter's Crest is always one of Keyleth's favorite times of year. Yes, she loathes the way the dark creeps in earlier and earlier each night and the way the biting cold nips at her ears and nose until she is forced to retreat inside each day, but still, there is a magic in the air that even the frost cannot chase away. This year, the war with Draconia has once again put something of a damper on the general atmosphere of frivolity, but even war cannot prevent Zephrah from hosting its annual Winter's Crest Ball, widely considered to be the Ashari event of the year. Nobles, diplomats, and friends of the crown are invited to come celebrate the longest evening of the year with dancing and lights, and Keyleth, who usually hates any and all social gatherings, particularly ones in which she is to play hostess, cannot help but enjoy the glittering gowns and the air of levity and the wonderful community that comes together to mark the occasion.

She is most excited for this year's ball because of its newest guest. Vax, who spent last year's gala shadowing her in his capacity as her personal guard, has been given leave to attend as just himself, a sign of the sovereign's gratitude for a job well done. Keyleth has, as casually as she can, requested Percy's help in dressing Vax for the occasion, as Vax owns no vestments appropriate for such a formal event. Keyleth herself has chosen a flowing gray ball gown overlaid with sparkling stars and sheer sleeves to represent the thousands of lights that will be on display during the ball. The skirts are long and rippling, but not so much that they will interfere with dancing, which is, under normal circumstances, the last thing Keyleth ever wants to do in front of so many eyes. Tonight, however, she has the opportunity to dance with Vax, truly dance with him, and she will not let silly skirts prevent her from doing so.

It is actually about an hour into the official start of the ball before she sees him. Her attention is so consumed by greeting all of their guests that it takes a while for her to spot him near an enormous ice sculpture of a stag, seeming for all the world as though he is deeply out of his element. She politely excuses herself from whomever she's speaking with, some halfling mage who has apparently been helpful in the war effort and whose name she has already forgotten, and makes her way over to Vax, who bows appropriately low at her approach. "Your Highness."

Those words, when spoken out of duty and not teasing affection, cut like a blade. "Vax'ildan, are you finding the festivities to your liking?"

His eyes travel the length of her gown, hug the curves of her bodice and seem to count each star along the skirts before he answers. "I have never seen an evening of such beauty, Your Highness."

Keyleth can already feel her skin getting warm, too warm for such a cold evening, and her own eyes are drawn away from his face to admire the tight fit of his deep blue doublet and the magnificent sparkle of his silvery breeches. "Well, the sovereign is as ever grateful for your...dedication to my safety and well-being."

His gaze burns into her skin. "There is little I care for more than your...well-being."

Her cheeks heat even more; she cannot be sure that he is attempting innuendo, but she hears it all the same. "Well I would hate for your first Winter's Crest Ball to be spent hiding behind ice." She extends a hand out toward him. "Would you care for a dance?"

His brows furrow in a doubtful question, and she smiles to reassure him. He places his hand in hers, and she draws him out toward the dance floor, where several dozen others already spin around to the music of eight or so of the Ashari Nation's most talented musicians. He bows, then pulls maddeningly close, keeping his hand respectably high on her back. They begin to twirl, and she is surprised by his ability to lead.

"Where did you learn to dance so well?" she asks, keeping her voice low.

His cheek is so close to hers, she imagines he must feels the heat from her flush. "Syngorn. Father cared for little else but our proper education."

She hums. "Well, I see it is to my benefit, then, for you are most excellent on the dance floor."

His answering laugh makes her toes curl. "I am always happy to be of service, Your Highness."

Oh, to be able to spin him away, off of this dance floor, far from the guests and the wine and the music, to take him under the long night's stars and finally find out the extent of his exquisite services. "This is such a gift," she whispers, so quiet she worries he might not even hear her. "To dance with you. To hold you, in front of others." She watches his throat bob at her words. "It is such a cruel thing, to get the taste of one's deepest desire, only for it to end when the song does."

His arm pulls her in just a millimeter closer. Her heartbeat is an unsteady rhythm. "Shall I come to you tonight? Will you be as excited to see a fancy man in full feather, as opposed to your usual man of the shadows?"

Keyleth turns her head just enough to catch his eye. "You always excite me, Vax. Your shadows and your feathers."

Vax blinks, and it breaks her heart, the surprise in his stare. Does he not understand? Does he not see? She is enamored, besotted, consumed. This is the longest night of the year, but here in his arms, she feels as though she is bathed in midsummer's heat. If she could, she would take him by the hand and present him to each and every guest at this ball, make them genuflect before him, step back and say look at him, look at him.

"What of your sister?" she asks, breaking the moment before either of them makes a costly mistake. "Surely you would like to spend Winter's Crest with her."

"We celebrated this morning." A teasing smile curls the edges of his mouth. "I believe she will be passing this long night with Lord Percival."

"Ah. When do you suppose they might retire this game they play with each other? This pretending that there's no feelings involved, whom do they believe they're fooling?"

"Well, that's Vex'ahlia for you: the game is her favorite part."

And this is Keyleth's, the feeling of his hand in hers, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he leads her through the steps. She is so accustomed to leading, so familiar with guiding the steps of those around her, that to give in to him, to let him pull her between the other dancing couples to the rhythm of the music, feels like the greatest luxury. She has to stop herself from resting her cheek against his shoulder and letting her eyes slide closed, because her body is never more relaxed than when pressed against his.

The song is winding to its close, and in just a few moments, they will have to separate. The very thought of pulling herself away from his warmth could make her weep. As the last notes drift away, they stop their spinning, and for just one heartbeat, he tightens his hold on her, brushing their cheeks together. Then he is gone, bowing low, and she can barely move her limbs enough to duck into a curtsy. Her mind still swirling with the loss of his presence, she's swept away into another dance, though for the life of her she does not know with whom. As she spins, her eyes find his, wherever he may be, wherever he watches her, and though this ball is such a lovely, bright affair, she cannot help but count the minutes until it is over, and her true Winter's Crest celebration can begin.

.

Though he must admit to even himself that he cuts a fine figure in these borrowed vestments, Vax feels most uncomfortable in such formal attire. He is far more used to the cotton and leather that allows him to move without restriction. Still, he found himself preening, just a bit, when Keyleth eyed him hungrily during the Winter's Crest Ball, which is why he moves through the catacombs now still in Lord Percival's doublet and breeches. There's a strange twinge of pride in his chest in being able to look his best for her, to earn that spark of heat he could feel in her skin as he twirled her around the dance floor.

Oh, what a feeling, to pull her in, splay his fingers across her back, and spin her around, her ethereal skirts whirling around them like the stars in the heavens above. For those brief minutes, she was his, entirely and unequivocally, and every person in that ballroom could see it. They could tell themselves that the dance was chaste and professional all they like, but he and Keyleth knew the truth behind every step, every breath. She smelled like jasmine, delicate and night-blooming, and every inch of him yearned to draw his nose up the column of her neck, breathe in the most tantalizing scent of her.

He stands before the secret door to her chambers, and he must take a few deep breaths to slow his racing heart. As much as he wants her, as keenly as he wishes to peel back her layers until he has seen every piece of her that she has never shown another soul, he must remember that she is a princess, one whose reputation and virtue are of utmost importance. His own base desires should never override his sense of honor, and so as he quietly taps to be let in, he steels himself for the sight of her.

When the door opens, the first thing he notices is that she is glowing. He has to blink to understand what he's seeing: her in that dress, already crafted with some sort of magic, surely, to make it sparkle like crushed diamond in the moonlight, but now she is lit not by the grand chandeliers and candelabras of the ballroom, but rather hundreds of tiny, barely-flickering candles, surrounding her from behind on every flat surface of her rooms. She's looking at him with that smile that he's come to know better than his own face in the mirror, the one in which her doubt for his coming just masks her excitement for his arrival. She is the most beautiful thing he has ever beheld, and for a moment, he is stunned, unable to move or speak.

"Well?" She reaches forward to grab his hand and tug him inside. "You'll catch a chill if you stay down there all night."

His hands drop to her waist, hugging the curve of her bodice. "You are..." He can't find the words, so he abandons the effort, instead looking around in awe at the countless candles casting infinite dancing shadows on the walls. "How have you done this?"

She wrinkles her nose. "I'm a princess, if you've forgotten. Procuring candles for Winter's Crest is the least difficult thing I've done in a month." Her mocking grin turns sheepish. "I thought...I don't wish to make any sort of presumptions about what your celebrations with your sister are like, because they are obviously personal and precious, but...I just thought, I don't know, I'd show off a bit. Give you the kind of royal Winter's Crest that I have taken for granted all my life."

She looks almost apologetic, which is the most ridiculous thing Vax can imagine, because how could she be sorry for bringing him into this most incredible world, one full of light and warmth? She's right to assume that he's never celebrated the occasion in such a magical fashion before; this morning, he and Vex'ahlia lit the customary single candle in their window and exchanged their gifts before both too-casually mentioning vague 'plans' for the evening. But this, all these tiny flames like fireflies, her in this enchanting gown, this is an experience unlike anything he could have imagined for himself.

He ducks his head to press a lingering kiss to her lips. "How lucky your people are," he murmurs, "to have such a kind and generous princess."

He can feel the heat rushing to her cheeks. "I—well. I also have a present for you." He reluctantly lets her pull away from him, watches her cross the room to her bedside table and pull out a long, thin box from the drawer. Instead of returning to him, she walks to the settee in front of the fire and sits. He joins her, excited and curious by the box she hands him. "I had this made for you by one of Master Gilmore's contacts in Kraghammer. Go on, open it."

He pries open the lid and his jaw drops. Inside the box, nestled in a bed of blood red satin, is a dagger, wonderfully shined and coming to a curved point. The handle is matte black and has vines and tiny blossoms etched all along the grip, with the Ashari crest carved into the pommel. It is simple, but effective in its beauty. He lifts it from the box and gasps at its weight, or rather its lack thereof; it is the lightest, most well-balanced blade he's ever held, and he knows instantly that if he were to throw it, it would hit its target true with very little effort on his part.

"Kiki..." he breathes, twisting the hilt around and around between his fingers. "This is a thing of beauty."

She's beaming with pride. "I told them I wanted the lightest, most effective dagger they could create. I had a bit of an influence over the design, including..." She reaches out to gently pry his fingers away and turn the blade so that the short side of the grip is facing up. He lifts the dagger closer to inspect it, and he sees, just barely visible, the words my life in your hands in curling script. He looks up at her, and her eyes shine in the firelight. "I just want you to know. How much I trust you. Completely. Implicitly. Not just with my life, but...with everything that I have, everything that I am."

Vax's heart flutters in his throat. For half a moment, he wonders if she's talking about what he thinks she's talking about, but he shakes the thought away, determined once again not to let his better sense be subsumed by his want for her. He takes her hand from the blade and brings it to his lips. "That is the greatest gift I could receive, Kiki. As exquisite as this dagger is, no object will ever mean as much as your trust in me. I do not accept it lightly."

She brushes his cheek softly. "Thank you. It is not always easy for me to give." She pauses. "If you should not care for the dagger then..."

He whips it behind his back. "Absolutely not. It's mine and you're not getting it back."

She laughs. "Very well then." He can see it in her eyes now, the desire to ask for her present conflicting with her unwillingness to presume she will be receiving one. He could string her along, just to tease her, but after her remarkable generosity, he cannot bear to make her suffer the uncertainty.

"I suppose you should like your gift now."

She gives a little half-shrug. "You know you don't have to get me anything."

He hums. "I know. But I enjoy that face you make when I surprise you too much not to get you something anyway."

Her eyes narrow. "I do not make a face."

"Is that so?" He leans back into the settee with a satisfied smile. "Go on then."

She frowns, confused. "What?"

He waves a hand toward one of her bureaus. "Second drawer from the bottom."

Her eyes dart between him and the bureau suspiciously, and then she stands and walks over to it. She opens the door and gasps, pulling out a large, bulky package wrapped in burlap and twine. "Vax!" She scurries back to the settee, her face bloomed in surprise. "However did you hide it there?"

"You always forget that I am first and foremost a spy, Your Highness. Sneaking in here to hide a present, why that was child's play." He leans forward to tuck her hair behind one hair. "That, by the way, is the face of surprise I love so much."

She sticks her tongue out at him petulantly before carefully untying the twine to open the package. When she does, she finds a thick knitted blanket in the colors of the Ashari crest, with a white border into which small images have been stitched. Eyes wide with curiosity, she inspects them, and finds small references to their relationship, from the flowers curling around the corners to the flickering fireplace to the queen and knight chess pieces reflecting the many times he has been utterly humiliated by her in the game. Her face shifts through a myriad of emotions as she passes the fabric through her hands, seemingly mesmerized by it.

"Our next door neighbor, Rami, you remember her? She's the one whose chickens terrify Simon—anyway, she very kindly crafted that for me. She is quite the talent, and excellent at not asking too many questions."

"It's gorgeous, Vax," she whispers, hugging it close to her chest. "And quite warm; are you sure this isn't more of a gift for you?"

Gods, she is so beautiful when she's teasing him. "I will not be mocked for being cold, Your Highness. I am from the south; this weather is unnatural and I will not apologize for it."

"Well, let me warm you up then." She leans forward and kisses him, slow and languid, and sure enough, he is warmed down to the toes in his boots. "Between this lovely blanket and tonight's dance, this is the best Winter's Crest that I could have ever asked for."

He cups her face with one hand. "Never forget that you are the greatest source of light and warmth in my life. No darkness, no cold could ever touch me while you are near."

She smiles and presses her face into his palm. "When I am with you, I am, for the first time in my life, not alone, and for that you will always have my love."

"Come here." He pulls her in, tucks her against his chest so they are lying together before the fire, both still in their evening's finery. As he strokes her hair down her back, he closes his eyes, and knows that on this, the longest night of the year, there is no one under the gods' watchful eyes as warm and content as he is now.

[strixhaven]

still of the firm opinion that vampires and werewolves are honestly both pretty overrated and i overall don’t have much interest in either, but “would you rather be a vampire or a werewolf?” is such a no-brainer in werewolves’ favor. i love being hairy i couldn’t live without garlic i love feeling the warmth of the sun and frankly i think it’d be nice to go completely apeshitt with the moon every once in a while. and you can still be goth with all that too like it’s a clear win for werewolves out here

[heyitsnyixie]

Immortality sucks because, eventually, nothing besides tormenting the innocent will provide enrichment. Eventually, even that too will become numb.

"immortality sucks because all your friends die" all your friends die anyway. those we do not mourn are those who mourn us.

"immortality sucks because you forget who you are" we always forget who we are. do you remember who you were at four years of age? who you were at fourteen? "who i am" is a shadow cast on the wall.

"immortality sucks because" skill issue. skill issue. skill issue. give me your liver

[redtunicpodcast]

Episode 066 - Conversation with game developer Rami Ismail

In this episode I speak with Rami Ismail, co-founder at Vlambeer, game developer consultant, one-third of The Habibis podcast, and PressKit maintainer

0:00 Intro

15:00 How Rami got into making games

24:00 Words of wisdom from his experiences

27:00 Games that made them get into development

30:00 Favorite games

43:00 How they enjoy gaming now

48:00 Life outside of gaming

55:45 Where to find and wrapping up

To follow Rami check out ⁠https://www.ramiismail.com/⁠ to get easy access to everywhere they are

Check out Rami's mom on Twitch at ⁠https://www.twitch.tv/momvsffxv

[the-patron-saint-of-heelys]

Yeah I know, the rot consumes, but could it pause for me to finish this edible? The whole “cycle of life and death” thing is really killing my vibe.

[adobe-outdesign]

Hey have you seen the new pokedex entries for Gothielle???

What the fcuk.

I wish I could be even half as goth as this bitch that goes goes around showing people the inevitable heat death of the universe

[impulsivelycontentious]

I once described the choice between doing the dishes or disposable plates as "sisyphus or entropy".

I stand by it.

So you're telling me, after I finally got the laundry in the washer, I also have to wash the dishes? But that's it, right? They're clean forever after that, right? No more laundry, no more dishes ever again? Okay I'll be all right then I can do that much.

[dixons-sunshine]

Breathe With Me | Young!Daryl Dixon x Young!Fem!Reader

Summary: With you and Daryl being in a good place, kissing coming naturally to you both and cuddling no longer awkward, it was inevitable that your make out sessions would start to heat up into something else. However, in the heat of what should’ve been a hot moment, Daryl’s mind started to wander to it’s usual self deprecating depths. Luckily, you were there to help him through it.

Genre: Kinda angsty but mainly fluff

Era: Pre outbreak.

Part of the Shopping Spree, Hangout Dreams universe.

Warnings: Swearing, suggestive themes, self deprecating thoughts, hyperventilation/panic attack.

Word count: 1.2k

A/n: Another young!Daryl fic in a span of not even two days? Who would’ve thought it was possible? It’s mainly because I’ve been enjoying writing for young!Daryl recently, and I'd be happy to get any requests for this au. Also, I’ve never personally experienced a panic attack myself and this is all based off of what Google told me, so if any of it is inaccurate, please let me know so I can fix it. Other than that, I hope you enjoy!

“Shit, girl. Yer gon’ be the death of me.”

“Oh, fuck.”

You giggled against his lips, allowing him to push you down onto the bed. He followed soon after, moving to hover over you before reattaching his lips to yours hungrily. He used one of his hands to hold his weight up, the other one wandering over your exposed stomach. Your shirt was already disposed of and long forgotten, leaving you clad in only your shorts and bra.

To your surprise, when your hands wandered under Daryl's shirt, he only hesitated for a quick moment before withdrawing from the kiss and tugging his shirt over his head. Old and new scars were on display for you, leaving Daryl completely vulnerable under your gaze.

You smiled at him and pulled him down for another kiss, a silent way of thanking him for trusting you. It wasn’t the first time that you had seen his scars—you had helped him with his wounds too many times too count, leaving you familiar with all of his scars—but you always tried to make sure that he knew you didn’t judge him. You loved every part of him, scars and all.

You gasped against his lips when he let his hand trail down, his fingers lightly tracing over your clothed cunt. His tongue entered your mouth and he groaned at the taste. He pulled back momentarily to look at you, his pupils blown with lust.

“Fuck, yer so perfect,” he whispered, leaning down to leave a trail of kisses from your jaw to your neck.

You moaned when he kissed a particularly sensitive spot, leaning your head back to grant him better access. Your mind was starting to get cloudy, the only thought on your mind being how good Daryl was making you feel. Admittedly, you were also nervous, since this would be your first time doing something like this, but you trusted Daryl. He wouldn’t ever hurt you.

Daryl was thoroughly enjoying himself. However, when he felt you subconsciously grind your hips against his, his mind zoomed in and focused on one thing—you would regret this. You would regret giving your first time to someone like him. He would be terrible at this and you’d finally kick him to the curb after figuring it out. He didn’t deserve to have you in this way, in your most vulnerable state.

In an unexpected move, you managed to roll you both over. Daryl’s eyes slightly widened in wonder, before smiling and leaning up for another kiss. His hands settled on your waist, allowing you to take the reigns for the moment.

You would regret him.

Daryl’s breathing started becoming erratic. Although you could’ve easily misinterpreted it as him simply getting more turned on, something told you it wasn’t that. You pulled back from the kiss and looked at him, noticing the slightly pained expression on his face. His breathing was quick and choked off, and he seemed to be in some sort of daze. You instantly knew something was wrong.

“Daryl, hey, look at me,” you whispered, cupping his cheek and gently urging him to look at you. When his blue eyes met yours, you could very clearly see the panic in them.

Instantly, all previous lustful thoughts left your mind, concern for your boyfriend taking root in their place. You knew exactly what was happening; Daryl was busy having a panic attack. You helped him into a seated position, still straddling his lap. You grabbed his hand and placed it on your chest right above your heart, hoping to divert his attention away from whatever negative thoughts were plaguing his mind.

Still looking deeply into his eyes, you gently caressed his cheek with the hand that wasn’t holding his over your heart. “Try to breathe with me, okay?” you whispered, starting to breathe in a controlled rhythm.

Daryl nodded and began to copy your breathing, his sounding more choked up than yours. He tightened his grip on your waist with his hand that was still resting there, desperately trying to ground himself back to reality. It took a while, with you soothingly rubbing your thumb over his cheekbone and breathing with him in a controlled rhythm, but soon he was calming down.

Daryl felt ashamed of himself. There the two of you were, half naked and sharing what should’ve been a blissful, enjoyable experience, and he let himself get into his own head. He let his own insecurities get in the way. He should’ve just sucked it up, but instead he just had to ruin the moment.

You frowned slightly and gently grabbed his face with both hands, urging him to look at you. “Hey, it’s okay,” you assured him. When he shook his head in denial, your grip became more firm. “It is okay. Don’t blame yourself for something that was out of your control, alright? Do you wanna talk about it?”

“M’sorry,” he muttered, looking down to avoid what he thought would've been a disappointed stare.

Daryl hesitated for a moment, but nodded slowly. “I jus’ got into my own head. I was nervous and convinced myself ya would regret givin’ yer virginity to me. Started feelin’ overwhelmed. M’sorry.”

You pressed a kiss against his forehead, giving him a reassuring smile. “Don’t be sorry. I get it. I was nervous too, you know? But I wouldn’t have regretted anything. I trust you. There’s no one I’d rather do this with. But it’s okay if that doesn’t happen right now. I’m ready whenever you are.”

Daryl gave you a small smile before leaning forward to rest his forehead against your shoulder. “M’still sorry. I was lookin’ forward to this.”

“Me too, but it can wait. Let’s get you taken care of, okay? And I don’t wanna hear any buts, mister.”

Daryl nodded. “Alright,” he agreed, but made no effort to lift you off his lap. Instead, he pulled you closer to him, hugging you tightly. “Thank you for understandin'.”

“Of course.”

There was a lot of things going through Daryl’s mind at that moment. Despite your reassuring words, he still felt awful for what happened, his mind continuing to shame him. However, with your hands now gently threading through his hair to bring him some comfort, not giving a damn that you were still half naked and straddling him, he forced his mind to shut up.

And in that moment, it was confirmed in his mind—Daryl Dixon knew that he was never letting you go.

©dixons-sunshine 2024. I do not give permission for my works to be copied, modified, adapted or translated to any other site or platform without evidence of my given consent.

[13rurururi]

I'm Your Lover: Haganezuka Hotaru x Reader (SFW Oneshot)

in which Haganezuka thinks he lost the love of his life

Pairing: Haganezuka Hotaru x Female! Reader

Content: angst, hurt/comfort, you have an argument with Hotaru, near-death experiences, etc.

Synopsis: Seeing your long-term lover, Haganezuka, battered and bloodied — with gashes etched across his body — filled you with overwhelming dread. Unfortunately, the ever-stubborn swordsmith upholds his craft over his own health, and you exchange heated words neither of you truly mean. Hotaru thinks you overreacted, and he believes his fresh cuts and wounds aren't worth an ounce of worry; that is, until he saw you in the same state — on the brink of death.

The pain from a wounded heart is shared with one's true love.

Your night is sleepless and engulfed in excruciating dread. Pacing within the quiet gardens of the Demon Slayer Corps Headquarters, you try to steer your attention away from your pounding heart by listening to the crinkling leaves below the soles of your feet.

It was a futile attempt, for you inevitably return to the spiral of paranoia clouding your mind.

"The Swordsmith Village is under attack!"

You remember how your heart dropped to your stomach when you heard the shrill caw of your Kasugai Crow. It has been a few hours since the dreadful news, and no updates are yet to be shared.

As an esteemed Hashira, you are entrusted with protecting the fragile lives of humans against the evil deeds of demons. You act with honed composure and impressive calmness. However, in this moment, no sort of breathing can alleviate your clammy hands and panicked eyes. After all, in this moment, you are none other than the lover of a man who resides in the endangered village.

You blink away the tears framing your waterline as you internally plead for the safety of your betrothed — your soon-to-be husband — Hotaru.

You remember having your forehead touch the ground as you lurched yourself in a desperate bow, begging for the secret village's location to be revealed to you. You have to ensure your lover's safety, and you would never forgive yourself if he found himself in irreparable harm.

Oyakata-sama — the frail, sickly, and kind leader of the Demon Slayers — could only offer a gentle and genuine smile as he said, "I believe in the combined strength of Kanroji and Tokito. Please, raise your head."

If this were any other situation, his calming voice and presence would have reassured you, but the anxiety of whether or not Hotaru is still alive overwhelms any other thought. With that, you pace around tirelessly, restlessly under the glaring moonlight.

Soon, your body grew tired with the weight of your exhausted mind, and you curl yourself into a ball under a solemn tree.

Please, Hotaru — please be safe.

One shall traverse the universe to reconnect fragile hearts.

You vigorously clamp your sweaty hands onto the uniform of the Kakushi carrying you on their back. The sun is already brightly plastered amidst the blue skies, and you eagerly await your arrival in the — supposedly wrecked — village.

That morning, you awoke in an anxious jolt to your crow's pitched cries, "Upper Moon Four and Five were defeated by the Hashiras and slayers in the village!"

Without a doubt, you wasted no time in traversing the convoluted route towards the Swordsmith Village, heart nearly pounding out of your chest due to immense concern for the well-being of your beloved Hotaru.

Is he well? Did he get attacked? Is he alive?

Your crow thankfully delivered news that made you kneel and shakily sigh in relief: Hotaru is alive; however, he sustained injuries from an encounter with Upper Moon Five — that idiot, he can't even cease his work for the sake of protecting himself.

Your thoughts are interrupted when the Kakushi gently urges you off their back, "Here we are, Hashira."

You remove your blindfold and can't help but lightly gasp at the heaps of wrecked houses that initially stood beautifully in the serene village. All the masked swordsmiths are scurrying about, trying to recover whatever belongings they could find under splintered planks and crumbled concrete.

You feel your lips twitch in a concerned frown when you note how each villager appears to have bandages wrapped around various parts of their body — the attack was that bad, huh?

With a light shake of your head, you sprint towards the nearest familiar face — well, mask — that can inform you of Hotaru's whereabouts. He always had a tendency to hide himself away for days, and (at least today) you don't disregard the prospect of tearing down the decrepit village even further just to locate your beloved.

To your relief, you spot Kanamori Kozo, a close companion of Hotaru (even if the latter will never verbally admit to it). He spots you before you can utter a word, and as if he can read the desperate worry on your face, he says,

"Ah, if it isn't our beloved Hashira. Please, try to wipe off the worry in your eyes. Haganezuka-san is fine; he's his usual stubborn self, as always."

"Kanamori-san, thank you — but do you have any clue where he is?" Your shallow breaths are more of a testament to your suppressed worry than exerted stamina, and Kanamori gently places a hand on your shoulder as kind reassurance.

"The last time I saw him, his wounds were already bandaged, and he persisted in returning to his workspace in the mountains."

You don't outwardly react to this information, but you feel yourself swallow a lump of frustration. Hotaru's choosing to return to swordsmithing hours after the threat of death? Stupid, stupid man.

Kanamori flinches at the aura of infuriation emanated by your figure. He continues, "He will be healed fully in time," he appeases you. "It's a miracle he only lost his left eye—"

"What?" Your chilly voice rings through the morning air, and you hear a light yelp of fear from the man beside you. "His eye — what happened to his eye?"

Kanamori flings around his bruised arms, suddenly forgetting his dull pain amidst your bubbling rage. "He was too focused — it was both impressive and foolish — the Upper Moon wanted him to stop sharpening the blade, so he took out his eye." Kanamori's voice falters by the end of his sentence, a look of concern adorning his features behind the Hyottoko mask.

"I thought he would have sent you a letter prior to your journey here." His usually collected voice, now barely a whisper, is laced with bewilderment.

You feel your jaw clench as veins pop on your forehead. Stupid man — you're engaged to a stupid, reckless man! Suddenly, as if thrashed around by harsh waves, you feel your anger falter with sadness. Why hadn't Hotaru sent you a letter to inform you of his state? Is he unable to comprehend how stressful your night was while all he did was dedicate his whole being to a sword?

Turning away from Kanamori, you bid him your quiet gratitude and rushed towards the mountains where you are sure to find your tactless lover.

Behind you, Kanamori sighs to himself and mutters, "I started a quarrel, didn't I? Haganezuka-san, please be considerate to your one and only lover!"

However, cowardice shields one from facing their bruised, weeping soul.

You try to suppress the frustration from fully seeping through your figure, briskly stomping towards the collapsed pile of wood and dirt — Hotaru's work shack.

You instantaneously see your lover's bulky figure crouched down and digging for whatever tool he was searching for. Your body and heart react in a conflicting flurry of emotions: you feel relief wash over you, and you blink away tears that were beginning to pool; on the other hand, your head feels like it's overheating from anger — anger towards how Hotaru deliberately forgot about even sending a measly letter to the love of his life.

Perhaps it's the combination of heart-wrenching stress and sleep deprivation, but you find yourself grasping onto Hotaru's shoulder, making him aware of your presence as you twist his upper body to face you.

"Stupid! Stupid! Unbelievably stupid!"

Before Haganezuka can even express his bewilderment at your arrival, you snuck your fingers under the thin string of his Hyottoko mask, removing it to reveal his face: his wounded, cut-filled face accompanied by a left eye that can't even open to reveal one of his brilliant amber irises.

"Why — why didn't you send me a letter?" The lump of sadness sitting in your heart is veiled by stuttering annoyance; with that, Hotaru simply places his rough palms on your shoulders, slowly standing up to his full height (which prompted you to crane your neck to look at him).

"I was going to send you one, but I figured I needed to salvage some materials first. You see, that Tanjiro brat needs this new Nichirin blade and—"

"Enough with swords, for goodness sake! You lost an eye!" You cut him off as your lips trembled. "You're bleeding through your bandages because you're not supposed to work after being nearly killed!"

"Hey, it wasn't a big deal. I didn't even realize I was being attacked. Calm down," Hotaru's (limited) patience begins to waver, scrunching his nose to hopefully deter you from becoming too angry. However, Hotaru does not seem to understand that it upsets you more to hear him downplay his health after hours of you ruminating whether he was alive or not.

"I spent the entire evening mulling over your safety, and you're here casually rummaging through rubble because swords are your priority," your sentence stops before you could mutter 'over me.'

Rather than deciphering the hidden sorrow behind your words, Hotaru becomes defensive, misinterpreting your sentiment. "I'm a swordsmith; of course it's my damn priority," with an angry huff, he stared you down with his eye. "Is my work not flashy enough for you, Hashira?"

"That's not what I said!" You felt your heart crack with how distanced Hotaru is at the moment.

"These wounds aren't a big deal, alright? Stop worrying over nothing and go back to your Hashira priorities. I'm not the only one who has work to do," with a light 'tsk' of his tongue, Hotaru turns away from you, ready to return to the pile of discarded materials.

Although, you weren't pleased with his attitude, and the dam holding your tears and overwhelming emotions broke.

"I am your lover! We chose each other, and you have a commitment to me that you should uphold!" Your voice wavers in inconsistent pitches, and you try to choke back your tears. "Right now, I'm in front of you as someone you are engaged to — worried sick because my beloved had his life at risk!"

Hotaru doesn't face you, and he doesn't respond with even a hum of acknowledgment. It is silent, and only after a few minutes of your flowing tears and his stubborn front did he speak,

"Right now, I'm a swordsmith, and I have work to do. Go home."

Hearts of fiery anger fizzle into hearts of dampened yearning.

Haganezuka regrets what he said to you. It has been a few days since your sudden visit to the ruined village, and he didn't even embrace you in his arms nor did he properly acknowledge your feelings.

He heard your hiccups and sobs, yet he rooted his feet on the ground and offered no solace. He feels nothing but guilt and a desire to see your lovely face again.

He rolls the quill on his fingers, unable to write anything but your name on the paper spread on his desk. He urges himself to write an apology — or even to bid you to visit him in the temporary village they were residing in — but his hands are stagnant and his mind is empty of everything but the throbbing ache of regret.

"Haganezuka-san, you really messed up," Kanamori was shameless in scolding him. In any other situation, Haganezuka would have angrily responded in a nearly comical manner. However, Kanamori is right:

He did mess up.

Just as he writes the first word of his letter to you, a Kasugai crow abruptly enters his hut, making him curse under his breath and glare at the raven-colored bird.

The crow intently looks at Haganezuka, making the man feel an eerie shiver of dread run up his spine. The crow then opens its beak to deliver a message that makes Hotaru drop his pen in sheer horror,

"The Hashira — your betrothed — is in critical condition after protecting a town from powerful demons."

To feel a lover's warmth once again,  one would relinquish everything.

Hastily running on the dirt path to the Butterfly Mansion, Hotaru's mind is tortured by the image of your body rendered immobile and weakened on a hospital bed. His rush to see you made him forget his Hyottoko mask, for he only bothered to bring himself and an apology at the tip of his tongue.

Soon, he rushes through the gates of the Insect Pillar's abode, ignoring the surprised stares of Aoi and the other girls of the mansion. Afraid that he might wreck havoc in his emotionally volatile state, Aoi yells, "Haganezuka-san, she's resting in one of the guest quarters! She's stable!"

However, it did little to quell his worry, for he continues to run through the wooden floors of the mansion with only one thought in mind: you.

He then hears the distant sound of voices conversing with one another in a relaxed manner. One of the voices he immediately identifies as Kamado Tanjiro, and the other — sweet, kind yet tired — is your voice.

With a desperate hope bubbling in his chest, he opens the door without an ounce of hesitation, and he sees you — adorned in white bandages all over your limbs and temple, small scars littered on your cheeks, and a dumbfounded look on your face.

"Haganezuka-san!" The bandaged Tanjiro yelps in surprise, eyebrows furrowing in a mix of concern and shock.

"Out," Hotaru spares no glance at the redhead, for his gaze is locked in your hardened one. "Get out, brat."

Haganezuka does not even pay attention to the boy limply scurrying out the room, muttering flustered apologies as he closes the wooden door shut.

"Hotaru, he was just keeping me company," you lightly scowl at your ever-so immature lover, huffing a puff of tired breath.

"Yeah? Well, I'm your company now." Hotaru brings his large figure closer to your bed, but you twist your head to avoid looking at him. Rather than becoming frustrated, Hotaru feels his heart squeeze with the same regret that plagued him for days.

"My love, I'm sorry." His voice was quiet, weak, and vulnerable — entirely opposite to the gruff, deep voice that angrily curses at any miniscule annoyance. Hotaru kneels by your bedside, taking your bandaged hand in his calloused one. You initially flinch, but you relent and relax in his comfortable, familiar hold.

"I want you to know that I regret what I told you that day. I am a swordsmith — that's true — and I pride myself on my role, but I also pride myself on being your lover." His genuine tone makes your eyes water, and you blink hastily to rid of the tears.

"I was so worried — so, so worried — and you were so mean to me, Hotaru," you can't suppress your sobs as you face him again, tears cascading down your bruised cheeks.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry," he gently shushes you, nuzzling his face onto your temple as he sighs deeply. "I didn't understand why you were so worried about me, but seeing you in this state," he swallows down a sob, his tone wavering. "I thought — I thought I lost you, and I realized how you must have felt when the village was under attack."

"Yeah? You got a taste of your own medicine, that’s good," you try to playfully tease him, voice tired and raw with emotion. Hotaru’s face contorts into a half-hearted smirk as he settles down on the foot of your bed, not once unlinking his hand from yours.

His expression turns solemn once again. " I mean it when I say I want to be a better lover to you and soon — a good husband." His honest declaration of love makes your heart swell in warmth, flaring brightly when he brings your battered knuckles to his lips. 

"I want to live a long life with you, and I’m not leaving you anytime soon — not even when we age into cranky old people with wrinkles and frail backs." He presses his tender lips against your knuckles once again, feeling himself relax at the sound of your quiet breaths of relief and contentment. 

"Let’s take care of ourselves and each other, yeah?" He bends down to kiss your quivering lips lightly, hand still holding yours as his other palm gently combs through your hair.

"Yeah."

Once you part, you can only stare at him with unbridled love — his scarred cheeks, unusable eye, and the damp locks of dark hair stuck to his temple; despite all that, he’s still Hotaru, your unbelievably handsome, reckless yet amazing lover.

Hotaru’s face holds a raw emotion reserved for you and no one else. Your scarred face and puffy eyes do nothing to hinder your magnetic beauty — your gorgeous soul — from shining so brightly, and he feels like he’s falling in love all over again.

You bask in each other’s presence for hours, making up for lost time as you share warmth, comfort, and hushed promises of a better tomorrow. By the time the room is painted by the moon’s grace, you whisper,

"Hotaru, don’t you need to restore Tanjiro-kun’s new katana?"

"That can wait. I’m not a swordsmith right now."

"Hm?"

"I’m your lover."

Souls can be healed, no matter how nasty the scar, as long as you give the right person your heart.

A/N: There's a shortage of angsty Haganezuka posts — hope you like this one.

[ivystoryweaver]

Day 24: Danger (Poe Dameron)

Angstember Prompt Post || Word Count: 750

Notes: This is the prompt for day 24 but it's day 26. Still wanted to finish it tho. Fear, mentions of death and dying, hurt/comfort-ish. Poe is afraid he's lost you.

Terror stabbed his thundering heart as dread mounted with every step. The First Order attacked and Commander Poe Dameron raced into action, frantically calling for you over comms.

Fingers trembled as he pulled and yanked his flight suit into place, running full speed as he ordered his droid not to wait for him.

He rounded the corner to the hangar when blistering heat surrounded him as a powerful, concussive force knocked him back.

Although disoriented and partially deafened, Poe struggled to clamber to his feet, but fresh terror reared up within him, choking him as Finn rushed to his side.

Despite his best friend's inquiries, every thought, every emotion - the fear, the war, the whole galaxy narrowed like a laser down to one, most important thing.

You.

"She's in there," Poe croaked, eyes wild and frightened as the realization took hold, weakening every limb.

His bones seemed to liquify as the blast doors closed, sealing you and all your commrades in an inevitable fiery death.

"No," he choked out, crawling forward with his arms, even as Finn tried to pull him back.

Blood frozen in his veins, Poe stretched out his hand, trying to explain. "She's in there. She's trapped in there!"

"It's too late!" Finn jerked him up by his flight vest. "I'm sorry. Come on, it's not safe here."

The fear and the heat and the force of the blast throbbed inside him, suffocating him. He was stricken and lifeless, unable to force his insolent body to respond appropriately to the danger surrounding him.

"Please...she's in there..." He rasped out before everything went black.

Poe floated in an endless dark sky full of stars. Debris drifted all around him and war raged in the distance.

He thought fleetingly, that he must be dead. Either that, or he was blasted out of his X-wing and was now dying in the sky - the death of a warrior. Probably the death he deserved, even craved. A life given in the service of freedom. Like all the rebels and Resistance fighters before him.

Like you.

His gut clenched with anguish at the thought of this war extinguishing your light from the universe. Then a sliver of hope danced through his heart at the thought of somehow seeing you again.

As if he wished himself into your presence, his ears, no longer ringing with the deafening blast's effects, picked up on the sound of your sweet voice.

Calling his name.

'Where are you?' Words he felt deep and limitless in his very soul, as if the most raw, real part of him stretched out to find you, even here.

"Poe."

He felt you then, soft hand on his cheek, leaning so close he could feel your breath ghost his lips.

"I saw your eyes open. I know you can hear me."

Wherever you were, that's where he needed to be. The night sky illuminated itself and dissolved somehow, into a blinding overhead light.

"There you are. Poe? Come back to me, baby, please."

Nothing had ever sounded so compelling, so enchanting. Struggling to open his eyes fully, he clawed his way out of darkened space and into the brightness of your countenance.

"Hey," you tearfully whispered, raking your fingers through his curls as one tear dropped onto his cheek.

"Found you," he murmured, throat parched with thirst.

"Yeah, that's right, you found me," you tenderly encouraged. "Thought I lost you for a bit."

His eyes fluttered closed again, but peacefully, rather than distressed. "At least we're together."

"Of course we're together." You frowned, confused. "Hey, stay with me. Don't go. Don't you dare leave me!"

Forcing his eyes open, he lazily smiled. "You look good."

Gasping out a laugh, you struggled to understand. "I look what? You're crazy."

His eyes darted around him as he eased into full consciousness. "Where are we?"

"Med bay. You almost got incinerated. The blast in the hangar knocked you into a wall. You've got a nasty concussion." Sniffling, you granted him a weak smile. "But you'll live."

Realization seeped into the contours of his handsome face, making his lip tremble and his eyes leak with fresh tears. "You're here? I thought you were - "

"I know, Finn told me," you softly reassured him. "I wasn't in my ship. Not yet."

"You're here," he gasped, relief surging though his frayed nerves and battered body. "You're here."

Gingerly climbing into bed beside him, you pressed your cheek over his beating heart. "That's right. We're here. We're okay."

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