#but it is a very cautious and weary space because like

[cementcornfield]

huh. not super sure how i feel about this :')

[natureismynature]

Okay I HAVE to talk about Cellbit, Jaiden, and Foolish or else I might actually combust- They are just. So. INTERESTING to me it's actually insane how much of my brain they occupy. Most specifically, I want to talk about how they seem to orbit around each other's space quite a lot.

The three of them were the first who developed a strong and strange relationship with the Federation but in VERY different circumstances. Cellbit hates the Feds, but he infiltrated and chose to work for them in order to save his best friend. Jaiden isn't that fond of the Feds, but she is VERY fond of Cucurucho and has been confirmed as a past worker of some sort. And Foolish has neutral opinions on the Feds, but is willing to kiss up to them in order to get what he wants.

All three of them has and are currently working for the Federation for very different reasons. Reasons which heavily contradict each other, and they know that. They hide secrets from each other, they are cautious around each other, and yet, they understand each other better than anyone else on the server (BBH who has whatever he has with Foolish is an outlier and should not be counted)

Cellbit, despite knowing Jaiden and Foolish's positive outlook on Cucurucho (the bear who traumatized him greatly), still trusts them. In a way. He still tells them important information. He still lets them have a spot in his very anti-Federation organization. He still trusts them not to betray him. He knows them. He knows what they're capable of. He knows Foolish is smarter than he lets on. He knows Jaiden isn't just doing Federation tasks for no reason. He knows they are keeping things from him, but he still treats them like family. He still believes in them.

"Jaiden is one of the only people I fully trust"

"Foolish, you like to act innocent and clueless, but you know more than you let on"

Foolish, selfish, observant, family-oriented, Foolish. He's not an idiot. He knows how Cellbit and Jaiden's minds work. He knows how Cellbit overthinks, he knows how Cellbit strives to learn, he knows how Cellbit cares about his family more than anything. He knows how loyal Jaiden is, he knows how much Jaiden cares for everyone, he knows how little she actually trusts. And he uses that to his advantage. But he also holds that knowledge with respect. He trusts Cellbit to always know and he trusts Jaiden to always believe.

"I trust Jaiden with my life"

"Cellbit, I know that you know that I know that you know I didn't do it"

And Jaiden. Jaiden who cares about everyone but trusts almost none, has put her faith into these two sketchy men (and Roier). They are both very important to her, but she tells more to one than the other. She knows why Cellbit is so angry at Cucurucho and she knows why Foolish is so determined to befriend it. She tries to tell everything to both of them, but she doesn't want to be at odds with Cellbit, so she holds back some information. But she trusts him always be there for her, the same way she knows Foolish will always choose her side.

"I promise you my silence, Foolish. Your secret is safe with me"

"Thank you for coming, Cellbit, I knew I could count on you"

They are family, the three of them. They love each other. They care for each other. But they also weary. They know each other's capabilities and the secrets they hide. They have a dance they practice, Foolish and Jaiden always a pair, Cellbit and Foolish usually at odds, and Jaiden and Cellbit often cooperate.

They help each other despite their differences. They understand why they do what they do. But sometimes it's confusing, sometimes it doesn't make sense, sometimes they don't understand. And that's okay. Because at the end of the day, they always come back together. They always find each other. They always make it work.

There are a lot more things that Jaiden and Foolish hide from Cellbit, but he hides a lot of things from them too. And that's just how things will be. Everyone has secrets on this Island. Some too great to reveal for now.

[candyheartedchy]

Even though I should draw out some of this stuff for my ship with Danger Planet, and I kinda talked a little about this in the past, I wanted to share more on how my sona and her whole dynamic with the cast from the pilot is like.

The Captain (the green hair human in the pilot) and my sona I think have the funniest dynamic since Captain is very straight forward and doesn’t mess around while my sona is very cautious and meek. So you have Captain who’s determined to get the baby from Danger Planet and Lift to safety (unless there’s another reason they never got to explain in the pilot since the baby was on a ship to earth to begin with, like why was this baby in space by itself anyways??) and while my sona is on board of wanting the baby safe and all, but with Captain being more aggressive about the situation, my sona is more gentle about it. Like Captain is implied to kick anyone’s ass if necessary and my sona would have to hold her back by because of this. But I like to think that even though they have their differences on how to handle things, they still make a good team and balance each other out. And the whole visual dynamic of them being tall and slim vs short and fat amuses me because Danger Planet and Lift kinda has that dynamic too. So all four of them kinda mirror each other in a way. Appearance and personality.

Which brings me to Lift for this part.

Lift is very monotone compared to both Captain’s anger and Danger’s wide eyed wonder. So with his dynamic with my sona, he’s the level headed one in the group while my sona is always on edge from being a perfectionist with her work and eventually worries about the baby’s needs to the point of asking if him and Danger needs anything for the baby.

And that’s where her relationship with Danger Planet comes into play.

Danger is naturally curious and clueless about humans. All he knows is that he was created to be play with due to being an arcade machine. One day when Captain reports on the two bots having the baby, my sona tags along to try to get the baby from them only to catch a crush on Danger Planet right away. She ends up finding herself feeling torn on allowing the two bots taking care of the baby or helping the Captain take the baby away. Danger of course is weary of my sona, knowing full well she works with the Captain, but also takes the advantage of their meetings to learn more about humans and any advice on raising the baby. So once in a while they allow her to help out since she’s the only one around with motherly instincts. And because she’s a mechanic, my sona repairs the two bots constantly due to the alien on the planet trying to get to the baby too. And with my sona having to fix up Danger more and more for the sakes of him being functional to look after the baby, the two find it more harder to be around each other because of this.

[alexanderlightweight]

Could you write downworlders seeing and reacting to Alec hanging out with Madzie or protecting Magnus before he can even respond.

this is a continuation to my incompetent shadowhunter fill a and I hope you enjoy it!

-

Magnus snarls, sending out a spear of magic without a look as he opens up a portal.

Once again, he’s on a battlefield and this time he has his own people to protect as well and while they are helping maintain the shields around them, they can’t protect themselves at the same time.

It’s almost more work, protecting them and closing the rifts rather than doing it all himself and Magnus needs backup and it’s without a second thought that his magic insistently, demandingly finds who he wants.

There’s no time to send a message and Magnus sends a tendril through the portal, hoping the possessive familiarity of his magic will do the trick.

Alexander steps through seconds later.

He’s in boots and sweats but otherwise bare, a towel around his neck and his hair dripping wet.

Magnus closes the portal and grabs him, manhandling him close so he can press greedy hands to the bare, runed skin available to him.

It’s only been a week and they’ve both been busier than ever, but Magnus ignores the battle to soak in Alexander’s damp warmth and to pull him even closer.

“Magnus?”

“I need you—” Magnus tells him, voice a low demand. “I need your strength, your skills, your authority. Will you give it to me, Alexander?”

Alexander sways towards him but an explosion catches his attention and Magnus hisses as he closes himself off. An arm around Alexander’s waist keeps him from stepping away and Magnus lets his fingers dip past his waistband.

“Okay—” Alexander shrugs like it’s not a big deal, “take what you want Magnus. I’ll handle the rest.”

Magnus is greedy and he isn’t cautious or polite this time.

He gets a hand in Alexander’s hair and tugs him into a feral kiss, with teeth and blood and Magnus tongue-fucking into his mouth with a claim that Alexander will taste until the battle ends.

Magnus lets him go with a final, delighted sigh.

Once again, he’s brimful and sated and the power of Edom in his veins is temporarily tamed, nipping at his heels and begging to be used.

Alexander wavers and Magnus magicks him into better gear, using his own clothing and using magic to tailor it to fit him. He nods, already distracted as he summons his weapons and then he hesitates before he leans over and kisses Magnus.

Clumsy and almost hesitant, none of his cold authority or feral rage.

It’s hauntingly sweet and Magnus croons into the kiss and wants to stamp a brand to Alexander’s soul. Instead, he comforts himself with the knowledge that Alexander is brimming with Magnus’ energy and his lips are bruised from Magnus’ pleasure.

Then Magnus focuses back on the rifts.

Alexander will protect Magnus’ people, perhaps not out of the goodness of his heart, but because Alexander is a battlefield commander, and he considers every accidental causality a failure on his own part.

Which means he’ll protect Magnus’ people more than he’ll protect the other shadowhunters on the field.

Because Alexander has already written them off as fodder.

—

Valois steps through the portal and wonders when time stopped aging his body but continued to age his bones.

He feels weary, down to the very core of himself and it’s with a deep and exasperated exhaustion that he traverses space. It will be his job to evacuate any exhausted warlocks as well as check on Bane.

Magnus is powerful but he doesn’t normally have to deal with so many difficulties and another warlock was supposed to follow him and cover those protecting the entire field.

However said warlock apparently had too many ales in a pub and was nursing off a hangover and about to be found by Catarina Loss.

Valois was given the option to stay and witness her fury or go and aid Magnus and completely remove himself from her line of fire.

Valois is nearly six hundred, he knows when to fight and when to retreat and, knowing that Catarina Loss is about to string a warlock up by their magical veins and thrash them until they never make the mistake of endangering Magnus Bane again.

So, Valois gets there and sighs, already tired especially when he sees the shadowhunters all focused on themselves and leaving the warlocks trying to help them unprotected.

A demon peaks in the air, wings beating furiously, and Valois readies a spear only for it to drop, something gleaming and red protruding from its eye.

It explodes as it falls, a mess of ichor and ash and Valois watches as a shadowhunter calmly notches another arrow and sneers across the battlefield.

He’s protecting everyone the best he can from long distances, but he’s not with the rest of the nephilim and Valois watches shocked as Magnus, the closest to him, suddenly turns.

Magnus pulls down the shadowhunter by his quiver-strap and kisses him, it’s a lewd, risky move for a battlefield but Valois can feel the ebb of a deep magic, older than his rocking between the two men before it settles into place.

Magnus looks visibly refreshed, like he hasn’t been fighting on this battlefield for eight hours alone and Valois realizes that Magnus hasn’t been fighting alone.

[winterwakesthewolf]

Wolves They Both Must Be

Jon Snow x Sansa Stark

Summary: “Did you bend the knee to save the North, or because you love her?”

Jon snaps his head up at Sansa’s question. Her eyes are brimming and hot and he can suddenly see this is not the argument he thought they were having. This is something else. Something deeper and much more intimate.

OR

The missing scene we deserved in 8x01

Author's Note: I first published this one shot on AO3 in 2019 and then a few years later I wrote a sequel that just sat in my google docs collecting digital dust. I may turn it into a series if there's enough interest so please let me know by liking, commenting, and reblogging if you want more.

Disclaimer: 18+, smut, (I'm serious, if you're not over 18 then scram), cousin incest, presumed half-sibling incest.

Word Count: 1.7K

part one - part two

“Did you bend the knee to save the North, or because you love her?”

Jon snaps his head up at Sansa’s question. Her eyes are brimming and hot and he can suddenly see this is not the argument he thought they were having. This is something else. Something deeper and much more intimate. 

She tries to conceal the dread in her eyes, but he knows her. This attempt to hide her heart from him makes her pain all the more transparent. He sees in her eyes that she is breaking and the sight of it breaks him too.

It cracks him wide open. 

Every memory and every touch, every heated quarrel like the one they are having now, every smile and tear, and every racing heart. Every night he took himself in hand when the temptation was too intense to ignore. Every shameful, possessive, and obsessive thought he tried to bury deep has been unearthed by this moment, by this unspoken admission of hers. By the unshed tears in her pale blue eyes, and the foreboding he finds in them.

He fears he is mistaken to think that she might love him the way he has tried not to love her. But they have so little time before the dead march down their doorstep, and he has grown beyond weary of this lie. 

So he treads carefully and takes a measured step forward. 

“Sansa, I don’t love her.”

A heavy, shuddering breath escapes from her lips. The undeniable relief is evident in the softening of her shoulders and the smoothing of the crease between her brows. In the way the corner of her mouth lifts slightly. 

It gives him a surge of hope and he realizes this may be his last chance. As hard as he will fight he knows they may very well die in this battle. He wants not for either of them to perish without Sansa knowing how desperately and deeply she is loved.

“There is only one woman who possesses my heart, Sansa,” Jon confesses, her name rolling softly off of his tongue before his voice takes on a guttural tone, “and it is not her. It has never been, and never will be her.”

Sansa’s eyes narrow and she draws in a slow breath, her chest gently heaving in what looks like defense, and he hopes more than any hope that his instinct has not deceived him.

“To whom does your heart belong?” She asks him, trepidatiously. 

“You know,” Jon whispers, so quietly he thinks she may not have heard him. 

But then she reaches out her trembling hand to him and he clasps it in both of his. Gazing down at the soft skin cradled between his calloused palms, a teardrop lands upon her knuckle and he brings it to his lips to kiss the cool saltiness away. 

She sweeps her fingers over his forehead, pausing to gently rub her thumb across the scar above his eyebrow. His eyes slowly slide shut at the sensation of her attentive touch. And when she cups his bearded jaw he leans into it, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding since first he laid eyes on this red-haired specter at Castle Black.

Sansa steps gingerly into his space, careful and cautious as if he were an untamed animal. And maybe he is. What came back from death must have been half-beast at least. There is no other way to explain the twisted affections he has held for his father’s daughter all of these many moons. 

But she is leaning into him as well. She is pressing her forehead to his, setting his heart to race, pounding wildly back to life again (and again and again). If this love makes him a beast, then wolves they both must be because she is whispering his name like a honey-sweet song. And hers are the fingers twining through the curls at his neck as she softly bumps her nose against his. 

Her breath, hot upon his mouth, beckons him to open his eyes and when he does he finds the fear in her own has been replaced by a wild hunger he never imagined she would possess for him. A sudden ferocity claims him and he tempers a growl. His fists find her hips and he pulls at her skirts, tugging her body closer to his.

He breathes her name. It’s almost a groan and definitely a question. Pulling his forehead from hers, he finds the answer in her eyes, now a deeper blue than he has ever seen them. They shift swiftly from his lips to his eyes and back again. She inclines her head forward ever so slightly and it is enough to give him the courage to lift his hands to her face and take her lips softly, gently into his.

The kiss is tentative and soft at first like drifting snowflakes brushing his skin. She opens her mouth to him and he relishes the taste of her lips, committing the sweetness of her perfect mouth to memory as he sweeps his tongue across hers. 

Their hands roam, slow and careful at first. Releasing her face from his gentle grasp, he runs his fingers through her hair and slides his rough palms to cradle her neck and grasp the small of her back. He clutches her tightly to him, so close he knows not where he ends and she begins. The realization of it overwhelms him and he whimpers in relief. She hums in response.

Her delicate fingers pull at the leather strap in his hair and she grabs fistfuls, tugging gently at the freshly unbound curls.

A pulsating heat spreads from the core of Jon’s belly, intensifying at the sounds of Sansa’s soft, melodic moaning. The vibration of her song emanates into the lips that she begins to bite. He snarls at the delicious throbbing her teeth creates. It is everything Jon can do to keep from curling himself into her. From grabbing the back of her thighs and wrapping them around his waist to carry her into her bedchamber. From laying her down beneath him so that he may kiss the soft skin of her thighs and the wetness between them until she is breathless and howling his name.

But he refuses to test her limits, allowing her to take control and show him what she wants.

And as if sensing his intentions, she pushes herself into him until the back of his thighs bump against her desk. She grabs him by the waist and steers him to her chair. As she breaks away from their kiss she drags her hands up his chest and to his shoulders, pressing him down slowly onto the seat, all the while never taking her dark and heady eyes away from his. He gazes up at her perfect lips, swollen and reddened by his own. She is breathless and radiant and panting as heavily as he is. 

And as he whispers her name, she pulls her skirts up to her knees and climbs onto his lap. He is hard beneath her and if she hadn’t noticed before she surely knows it now, and yet it doesn’t deter her from relaxing into him. She cradles his face in her hands and proceeds to kiss him deep and slow. It makes him bold enough to take hold of her hips and rub circles into the sharp bones there with his thumbs. She moves her mouth to his neck and tastes his racing pulse with her hot tongue, licking and nipping a trail up to his ear where she breathes his name on a quivering sigh.

He knows it’s wrong but the thrill that sends wave after wave of chills, and the deep-seated coiling in his gut at her ministrations, make him forget his honor. Or hers. And when she begins to arch and grind herself into his lap he can’t help but dig his fingers into the flesh of her thighs, pushing himself up to meet her movements and claim her mouth once again. 

He has wanted this for too long, longer than he can even admit to himself. The feel of her softness, of her heat so close to his, sends his desire climbing so high and so fast he nearly spills right then like a green boy. 

“Sansa,” he groans, reluctantly pulling away from the sweetness of her lips. 

“Hmmm?” 

He meant to put a stop to this most depraved entanglement, to tell her that he will not dishonor her. But as he gazes into her hooded eyes, so full of hope and desire, and remembers that soon they might both be dead, he can’t think of any reason to end a moment so deliciously akin to his shameful fantasies. And maybe the fact that he knows this is not just a reverie makes him daring enough to speak his most hidden secret into existence.

“Sansa, my heart is yours. Only ever yours.” The confession staunches the relentlessly bleeding ache in his chest and he is desperate for the relief of it. 

“It has been yours since the moment I clapped eyes on you at Castle Black. It was then I knew why I was brought back from the nothingness of death. It is why I pushed myself out of that pit of men on the battlefield that day you came to save me. Why I swam to the surface of the freezing wight-infested water. It was for you. To protect you as I promised I always would. Everything I have done since then, all of it, has been to return home... to you.”

Sansa releases a tremulous breath and gently sweeps her thumbs across his cheeks. She kisses away the lingering dampness that the tears he hadn’t even realized he shed left upon his skin. With her hands on his chest, she pushes herself up and climbs away from his body. It aches from her sudden absence. And then she takes his hand in hers, pulls him up from the chair, and leads him quietly to her bedchamber.

Jon knows he should stop her. When she closes the door behind her. When her dress falls to her feet. When she undresses him and lays him down upon the furs atop her bed. But when he kisses her scars, and she kisses his, he forgets to care about all the reasons why they should stop. 

And when he buries himself inside of her and draws her pleasure out, bringing silent tears from her shining eyes, he refuses to regret any love they make between them, forbidden or not. 

And if they soon should die, at least for now they truly live.

~

Taglist: @thaisthedreamer @bluedaffodil21 @ilargizuri

[figurecollection]

I don’t think I’ve had any particular run ins so far, but what tips do you have for avoiding bootlegs?

If buying new, make sure to stick to trusted sites if you can. it's fairly easy to work out if a site is trustworthy or not by searching for reviews and making sure their emails and details are contactable, but some decent first hand sites include amiami, cdjapan, dekaianime, solaris, ninningame, otakumode, hobbysearch, mandarake (second hand but trusted)...

check myfigurecollection and see if the figure in question has recorded bootlegs. if it doesn't, you're probably safe, especially if they're prize or trading figures, but be cautious anyway, especially if they have been released very recently.

if the price is too good to be true AND the product listing is brand new with only stock images, it probably is. take a look at some trusted sites, sold ebay listings, and MFC listings to see what the average price is.

if you're on ebay or other sites that people can list things on, check to see if the product is labelled "china version" or something similar.

if you're looking IRL or at pictures of a box taken by the seller themselves, check the box for misspellings, bad box quality/printing, stickers of authenticity and compare to legitimate box images online.

if buying second hand from online groups or sites like depop, don't be afraid to reverse image search if something seems dodgy, and be sure to check people's reviews and sale history. be weary if they have no sales or buys at all.

if unsure, message the seller for more pictures. if they refuse then be cautious. any decent person selling second hand will usually give you extra images if available. if they keep making excuses for not having extra pics, there's a chance they're either pulling a dropship scam or straight up do not have the product.

if you have the figure and you're worried it might be a bootleg, theres plenty of videos and pictures online of most figures. compare things like painting quality (correctly aligned facial features and making sure the paint isn't horribly messy) check for brittle joints or bad paint/plastic texture.... and bootlegs tend to have a pretty weird plasticy smell that is very strong.

At the end of the day, no matter if a product is legitimate or bootleg, if you're unsatisfied with the quality, i suggest not keeping it. i find keeping disappointing figures or figures that make you anxious because you're not sure if they're real or not ect. to be a waste of space and energy. Check out the return and refund policies of whoever you're buying off and keep it in mind. AND NEVER SEND MONEY OVER PAYPAL'S FRIEND & FAMILY OPTION IF PAYING FOR SOMETHING!!!! I hope this helps!

[skiyoosmi]

if fate permits

⤷ chapter twenty five: because that's what you deserve

prev < masterlist > next

Miya Atsumu was a man full of marvels, a diamond that never loses its shine despite the harsh beatings of reality - he was the epitome of the word beautiful, a sight to behold. One look can deceive others and make them think he was a perfect human being but you knew better than that. If anything, he was far from it… way too far. Beneath the “strong” mask he adorns is also a child who has yet to know more about the world he lives in, a lost soul seeking for the hand of his fated one, and a soft heart that gets hurt and hurts back so easily at the same time. Despite the eye-candy smile he initially sports in front of other people, Atsumu can be a raucous lad once he opens that rather foul mouth of his and spits the nastiest and most cruel words he can think of. 

And even if it was never your plan to do so, that’s the very reason why you were here, feeling your heart break more and more each second that passed by, watching as your thread finally loses all of its color and life. It’s only a matter of time before your memories with him do the same. 

But the fault was in no way all his. As you lie on your bed, you are hit by the thoughts of what could have been if you just had the courage to say that one sentence instead of spouting countless lies to him. You can only wonder what you could’ve had with him if you trusted his heart just a little bit more, trusted him to give you the love you sought and wanted. But then again, regret comes a little too late. You’re engulfed with guilt as you realize that once again, you made another lie to him as you are about to break the promise you made with him. Yet at the same time, as you recall his words, you feel your heart give in to the weariness that it held throughout all these years.

Miya Atsumu was a man full of marvels, a diamond that never loses its shine despite the harsh beatings of reality - he was the epitome of the word beautiful, a sight to behold and as you flutter your eyes close, a stray tear falls down your cheek as each and every thing of him and you flashes into your mind like stars making up the constellations in the galaxy. So, so beautiful and haunting. You tell him an apology for one last time then suddenly, all fades into black and you find yourself drifting off to the abyss. 

The sunlight peeks through the small space between your blinds, hitting your face and waking you from your slumber, to which you let out a small groan of annoyance. You turn your back to it in hopes of returning to the dreamland but the knock on your bedroom door beats you to it. Heaving a sigh, you sit up and finally open your eyes properly, watching as your brother walks inside and looks at you with cautious eyes, as if waiting for something.

“What do you want?” your hoarse morning voice speaks up, stretching your body as soon as you stand up before making your bed. He stands still, clearing his throat, “Do… do you remember anything from yesterday?”

You halt your movements. What were you dreaming about again? 

“Funny thing. I actually don’t. Did something happen?” you respond in a lax manner, much to his dismay and relief at the same time. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t know how to feel. Does he feel happy because his dear twin’s no longer hurting, or sad because you basically lost the most crucial parts and memories of your life? Either way, he thinks it’s not his place to tell you about that. Not when your face is practically glowing for the first time in years. So he tries to reply in the most casual way,

“Nothing much. Get ready. Your flight’s in seven hours, remember?” 

You roll your eyes, “Of course, I do. I’ve been waiting for this for months!”

He nods, finally doing what he’s actually supposed to do and rolling out your suitcases out your room, just so you and your mom don’t have to worry about such things later on. He was already halfway out the door when you suddenly spoke up, “Hey, ‘Yoomi. Is it just me or I feel like I’ve forgotten something really important?”

He gulps, gripping the handle of the suitcase so hard his knuckles were almost turning white. He swallows before replying, “Maybe it’s something you have to take to California with you. Just do a double check of your things.”

You hum in agreement before sauntering towards the bathroom to prepare, unaware of the heavy and relieved sigh he released as soon as you closed the door. He makes a mental apology towards a certain blonde before continuing on what he was doing.

Meanwhile, you stood in front of the mirror, squinting in confusion as you took note of the swelling of your eyes as well as the tears that dried up around it. Was your dream that scary or painful that you even unknowingly cried? Lifting your hand up to rub the said part, you halt and feel your heart hammer against your chest as you finally see your thread. 

“Why… why is it black?” you whisper, your voice starting to shake as panic started to rise within you, “why can’t I… why can’t I remember my soulmate? Who… who was my soulmate?”

Frantically, you ran out of your room and headed straight downstairs, startling your family who was gathered around the dining table, obviously waiting for you to come and eat with them, “YN, honey, what’s wrong?”

“Mom... my thread… it’s black… w-why is it black?” you choke out, hearing a gasp from her as she and your father stood up, managing to catch your figure before it slumped to the floor as you bring your hand to your chest, crying out, “Why… why can’t I remember anything about my soulmate too?”

Just a while ago, Kiyoomi had no idea of what to feel at your current situation… but as he watches you break down in the arms of your parents, he finds himself clenching his fists, gritting his teeth in anger as he begins to walk towards the front door, grabbing the car keys and ignoring the calls of your mother who was asking where he’s heading off to.

I might just punch a man to death today, Mom.

Kiyoomi was a levelheaded man, he knows that. He has his own regime when practicing and playing volleyball, he has an exact ratio of the meals he eats, from breakfast to dinner, he strictly follows the time he sets for sleeping and waking up — everything about him was full of sense and logic. Yet for some odd reasons, the rationality he upholds becomes nonexistent when it comes to you, the sister he’s supposed to protect from all kinds of pain in this world. 

So here he was, towering over the blonde who used to be your fated one, taking deep breaths after landing a sudden punch on him, “Are you happy with what you’ve done, you selfish prick?”

Atsumu doesn’t look at him, refusing to see the loathsome sneer plastered on your usually-calm brother. He hangs his head down in shame instead, quietly responding, “I’m sorry.”

Once again, that’s all he could say and it’s so pathetically embarrassing. 

The angry noises from Kiyoomi ceases as he finally regains his reasoning back, “She’s leaving. What are you doing? You’re not going?”

The blonde shrugs, “I don’t deserve anything of her, not even a glimpse of her. Not after all that.”

Kiyoomi hollers a sarcastic laugh, “You’re right. You really don’t,” he begins walking out of the university’s gymnasium, stopping right at the doorway, “But you should… See her finally leave your ungrateful ass so you could be more miserable…

Because that’s what you deserve.”

[2:30 PM] Mom the Second (Kiyoomi): I’m parking the car already. Where are you?

[2:31 PM] YN: Where have you been? You’ve literally been gone for hours?

[2:39 PM] Mom the Second: That doesn’t answer my question.

[2:42 PM] YN: Ugh, asshole. We’re by the entrance, waiting for you. You know we won’t be able to see you once we go inside after checking in, dummy.

[2:50 PM] Mom the Second: Okay. I can see you now. 

You scoff at his reply, locking your phone and shoving it inside your bag. Looking around, you spot the familiar curls of your brother, jogging his way to where you stood. It was only a matter of minutes before your flight gets called for boarding hence why you should bid your goodbye’s to him and your father.

Engulfing your family in a very tight hug, you ignore the grunts of annoyance from your father and brother and whisper, “I’m going to miss the two of you so much, although you’re both assholes.”

“This is your father you’re talking to, young lass,” your dad states monotonously, rolling his eyes when your mother only giggled instead of reprimanding you. 

“This… is another reason why I’m the older twin and you’re the younger one,” Kiyoomi flicks your forehead lightly before placing a light kiss on it, “Be careful there, YN. I don’t want to beat up some random guys just because they made you shed a few tears.” 

You nod, starting to tear up because this was the very first time you’ll ever be separated from him, “Beat yourself up then. You made me cry just now.”

Before you could continue your small bickering with your family, the attendant finally announces your flight for boarding, giving out a few instructions and directions as to where you’re going. Your father ruffles your hair, a small smile on his face when you whined, “I’ll see you soon, my dear Moira.”

“Finally, goodbye, you annoying little baby,” Kiyoomi sarcastically cheers, “I’ll miss you too, by the way… just a little bit though.”

You grin, beginning to pull your suitcase beside your mother who was already walking yet waving at them at the same time. You were already steps away from them when a hand gets a hold of your wrist, gripping it so tight that it almost hurt, “I…I’m sorry”

You turn your head swiftly, eyes widening at the sight of an unknown blonde in front of you. From your peripheral vision, you could see your brother making his way to you, long legs seemingly taking quicker steps than normal but the lad doesn’t let go, “Uhm… who… you’re scaring me here… who are you?”

Atsumu gasps, staggering back and finally taking notice of your fear-filled eyes and the anxiety in your voice. He chuckles nervously, “hey… what are ya talking about? It’s me… Tsum… I get that yer mad… but surely ya can’t forget me overnight…”

“I think you’re mistaking me for someone else… Mr. Whoever-you-are, it’s not me… I’m sorry but I have a flight to catch.”

With that, you turn around, continuing to walk.

“Is this yer payback? If yes… then okay, I understand… but I just wanna say I’m sorry for everything I did.” 

You look at him once more, your eyes twitching in annoyance, “Look, Tsum-san, was it? Stop being weird and dramatic. I don’t even know who you are so why should I do something like a ‘payback?’”

It was the naturality in your response that finally convinced Atsumu that this was the real deal. As he recalls your words during the time you refused to cut his thread, the realization finally dawns upon him. Was… was this the consequence you’ve been desperately telling him?

He opens his mouth but the words don’t come out. As he tries to approach you once more, a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, stopping him from going near you. Kiyoomi nods at you, “YN, I’ll handle this. Go, mom’s waiting.”

“Yeah. Be careful with that… stranger. We’ll call you when we land. Love you, ‘Yoomi. Tell dad that too.”

Atsumu stays still, only watching as your figure becomes smaller and smaller until it’s gone. He only stands even when the plane you’re riding finally takes off and brings you closer to your dreams, to a life that doesn’t involve him. A lonely tear falls down from his cheek - in the end, no promises made you stay; in the end, he lost you and he doesn’t have anyone to blame except himself,

“D-don't... please don't forget me... take it back... please...”

Kiyoomi stands beside him, finally removing his grip on the blonde’s shoulder, “I told you, didn’t I? You deserve to be miserable… way more than what you made her to be.”

note. pspspsps surprise! here's an update because i finally have a week break from school owo

[the-lonelybarricade]

Loved your latest chapter and Im so excited to see what happens under the mountain!

I was wondering if I could request a one-shot?(up to you how long and you can do it in your own time)something along the lines of:

Feyre( from either ACOWAR, ACOFAS or ACOSF) time travels back to ACOTAR, but instead of finding herself back in her human body i the spring court, she's still in her fae body and ends up trapped in velaris, having to explain to the rest of IC who she is and why she cant go free their highlord(add some mistrust from the IC)

🙈🙈Id its very similar to what youre doing rn with your other fic but, if you find the inspiration sometime could you please do this? Ive wanted to read a fic for ages were feyre rime travels and meets pre-acomaf inner circle who dont know/trust her, but Ive never found a fic like that

Thank youuu

Hi lovely anon! It makes me so happy you enjoyed my latest chapter! I’m supposed to be working on a project for uni, but I couldn’t resist gratifying my lovely friends (because you're anon and won't be notified I was getting sad at the idea of you checking my blog and not seeing me respond) <3 I’ll admit I’m a bit scatterbrained at the moment, so I hope it’s okay!

I was having trouble brainstorming a reason for Feyre getting sent back in time because I didn't want to borrow the reasoning from ACoFD. So I was vague and twisted the pre-existing rules around the Ouroboros, and ended up getting quite carried away with the story since I don’t like not giving things a happy ending (even though it’s a little cheesy, sorry)

Anyway, I hope this is what you were looking for! I know you wanted the angst of not being able to save Rhys but... I couldn't just leave my poor bat-boy behind, you know? ;)

Also if this didn't quite scratch that itch, I'm always happy to take more requests

Word count: 4,446

The Ouroboros.

It was a massive, round disc—as tall as Feyre was. Taller. And the metal around it had been fashioned after a massive serpent, the mirror held within its coils as it devoured its own tail.

Ending and beginning.

From across the room, Feyre could not see it. What lay within.

She forced herself to take a step forward. Another.

The mirror itself was black as night—yet… wholly clear.

She watched herself approach. Watched the arm she had upraised against the wind and snow, the pinched expression on her face. The exhaustion.

She stopped three feet away. She did not dare touch it.

It only showed Feyre herself. Nothing.

Feyre scanned the mirror for any signs of… something to push or touch with her magic. But there was only the devouring head of the serpent, its maw open wide, frost sparkling on its fangs.

Feyre stared and stared, but all she saw was herself. There was nothing else. Then—

Feyre woke with a gasp, sitting up in bed to shake away the cobwebs of sleep and the strange, foreboding feeling that felt draped around her shoulders like a weighted cape, pulling her down. It hadn’t been a particularly horrifying nightmare. In fact, it was perhaps of the tamer dreams she’d had in the last year.

Yet something about it clung to her, perhaps a lingering agitation that she’d yet to retrieve the mirror the Bone Carver had requested. That must be it.

The bed space beside her was cold. The sun peaking through the window was not high, it couldn’t be long past dawn. However worrisome her own dream, her mate’s must have been worse to draw him from sleep so early. Worse still for him to sneak away.

Feyre rose from the bed, reaching absently for Rhysand’s dressing robe to wrap around herself. She always loved to steal her mate’s clothes, to be wrapped in his scent.

With gentle steps, she made her way to the study, where she could only assume Rhys had sequestered himself in the lone hours of the night. She’d noticed the weary draw to his shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes. This war was weighing on him heavily, and he was nervous. Feyre wished he didn’t insist on shouldering the burden alone.

“Rhys?” Feyre called softly as she got to the study, knocking on the door before she cracked it open.

Peeking her head around the door, she was met with the sight of Rhysand’s abandoned study. The scattered papers and war maps that had become characteristic of his desk space were surprisingly missing. In fact, the whole space had been cleared away and there was a thick layer of dust on every surface as if no one had been in here in years.

Feyre frowned at the sight, and how different it had been just the day before. Where had all the dust come from? And more importantly, where was Rhys? Perhaps he’d taken a morning flight to clear his head.

Where are you, love? She called to him through the mating bond, but was met with silence.

“Who are you?”

The voice was cold and venomous. Feyre turned, coming face to face with Mor, whose face was twisted into a threatening scowl.

“Mor?” Feyre asked, confused by her friend’s cold demeanor. “What do you mean? Have you seen Rhys?”

Mor’s face turned deadly, a look Feyre had only ever seen from Mor in the Court of Nightmares. “Is that some kind of joke?” she snarled.

Then, before Feyre could process what was happening, Mor had gripped onto Feyre’s wrist and they were enveloped in darkness. They stepped into the House of Wind, into the dining room where Cassian and Azriel abruptly stood up.

“Mor?” Feyre questioned when the blonde didn’t release her steel grip. She looked to Cassian and Azriel quizzically. “Guys? What’s going on?”

Cassian crossed his arms, assessing Feyre with a hostility that put her on edge. “Who’s this, Mor?” he asked gruffly.

Feyre frowned as she watched Azriel reach for Truth-Teller.

“Is this a joke?” she asked, flitting her eyes to each of her friends. Where she sought that friendly warmth in each of their gazes she was met with hard stares, filled with distrust, ready for a brawl. She couldn’t make sense of it. Was this an act Rhys had put them up to?

“I found her in the townhouse,” Mor said. “I don’t know how she got in there. She was in Rhysand’s study.”

“And she’s wearing his dressing gown,” Azriel noted dryly. Cassian did a double glance, his eyes going wide, then narrowing with a rage Feyre had never seen from the male. Certainly never directed at her.

There was a whisper of shadow, then suddenly Azriel was behind her, Truth-Teller poised at her throat.

Feyre startled. “Azriel!” she said sharply. Even if it was a joke, Feyre couldn’t imagine Rhysand would sanction this kind of threat. And the energy in the room was off, the tension too thick. “Stand down.”

“And who are you,” he breathed in her ear, his voice coated in shadow and nightmare, “to command the Shadowsinger of the Night Court?”

“I’m your High Lady,” Feyre answered steadily, not letting Azriel’s shadows, nor cunning voice, shake her resolve. “Now, I don’t know what is going on with the three of you, or what strange joke you’re trying to pull, but you will listen to what I say. Put. Your. Knife. Down.”

“High Lady?” Cassian repeated with a snort of disbelief. “You’ve got balls, little girl.”

Truth-Teller danced across the skin of her neck, pressing lightly enough to intimidate without breaking skin. “Do you even know to whom you speak? You should be bowing before the acting Queen of the Night Court.”

Too stunned to properly resist, Azriel kicked his feet out to knock Feyre to her knees in front of Mor. His fingers slid into her hair, gripping it tightly to pull her head back as Truth-Teller resumed its threatening position at her throat.

“Breaking into the High Lord’s personal residence, impersonating a high position within the Night Court, lying to the Morrigan’s face,” Azriel listed, increasing the pressure of the blade with each transgression. “You throw our High Lord’s generosity and protection in his face, something we as his acting Court do not take lightly.”

“Acting court? Acting Queen?” Feyre repeated, feeling as if she’d woken to a different reality. “What are you talking about? Where’s Rhysand!?”

“We’re the ones asking the questions here,” Cassian growled.

Feyre looked to each of her friends, studying their faces. Beyond their militant expression, she could see their grief. Could smell it. She repeated, “where is Rhysand?”

She felt the snarl that rumbled through Azriel’s chest behind her, vibrating against her back. When the question was once again unanswered, Feyre abandoned all sense of patience.

Darkness exploded through the room. She heard Mor gasp as the walls of the House shook from the might of her power. Feyre folded into the shadows, winnowing out of Azriel’s grasp so she stood in the center of the three of them.

“Az, Cass, Mor, you are my friends and I do not want to hurt you. But I am also your High Lady and you will answer me this instant, where is Rhys? Where is my mate!?”

Siphons gleamed red and blue through the thick tendrils of night, illuminating the Illyrian males’ faces. Cassian’s jaw had fallen open, while Azriel was studying her through narrowed eyes, wisps of shadow surrounding him. Feyre wondered what they were whispering to him.

“Mate?” Cassian echoed, the first to break the heavy silence.

Mor took a cautious step forward, her countenance completely changed. Her pupils were blown wide, twin brown depths churning with sorrow and gentle astonishment. Azriel went rigid at Mor’s approach, but no one moved to stop her as she came face to face with Feyre.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered, taking Feyre’s left hand, eye fixed on her mating band. On the sapphire-star ring that once belonged to Rhysand’s mother.

All eyes befell the subject of Mor’s attention. Cassian swore softly in recognition.

“It’s my mating band,” Feyre answered measuredly, still puzzled that the inner circle, her family, didn’t seem to have any memory of it. Nor of her. “I won it from the Weaver, as was the task set by Rhysand’s mother. But you were all there for that. I don’t understand what’s going on. Where. Is. Rhys?”

“Under the Mountain,” Mor whispered, her voice soft and pained.

The darkness ebbed away like a receding tide. Feyre felt her heart sink as she tried to process this information. “He—What?”

“He’s been Under the Mountain for the last 50 years,” Mor said, firmer this time. “And if you were his so-called mate, you would know that.”

“No,” Feyre said, shaking her head vehemently. “No, that’s impossible. We got out. We—”

This was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare, and she just hadn’t woken up from it.

“Amarantha’s dead,” Feyre insisted, mostly in an attempt to console the unparalleled grief and panic that were raging inside her. “She’s dead, and Rhys and I got out.”

The grim faces of her friends said otherwise. They stared at her, in unbearable mixtures of pity and horror.

“I think she’s having a mental break,” Cassian said, not unkindly. “Should we get a healer?”

“Let me show you,” Feyre said meekly, casting her magic out to tap on their mental shields.

They all tensed, clearly not aware they’d been in the presence of a daemati. Trained well by Rhys, they all cracked their shields just enough for Feyre to send her conjured memories through. She showed them going Under the Mountain as a human, winning the trials and being resurrected, falling in love with Rhys, and eventually becoming High Lady of the Night Court. In turn, the three of them pushed back their own memories, of the current state of the world. Of Rhysand sacrificing himself so that his Court and Velaris would be safe.

A sob broke out of Feyre. “How is this possible? How am I here?”

It was Azriel who immediately went for the jugular. “More importantly, if you’re here as a High Fae, how is Rhys going to get out? How do we stop Amarantha?”

Feyre fell to her knees, grief-stricken by this realization. She was no longer human. She couldn’t stride in as Tamlin’s human lover and undergo the trials. Feyre had her powers, but they were untested. Would she be able to take on the whole of Amarantha’s court?

“What do I do? How do I save him?” she whimpered, staring in mute horror at her mating band.

Mor tentatively reached forward, laying a comforting hand on Feyre’s shoulder. “Rhys sacrificed himself to keep the people he loves safe. He wouldn’t want you getting yourself killed trying to save him.”

“I have to try,” Feyre answered desperately. “Amarantha she’s…” Feyre couldn’t bring herself to say the word, rape. Not to his family, who wear his sacrifice for them like an open wound. “She’s doing unspeakable things to him. He’s suffering so much. I can’t leave him to that fate. I have to try.”

With renewed conviction, Feyre accepted Mor’s outstretched hand and picked herself to her feet. “Rhys said it himself once. Amarantha’s biggest weapon is that she keeps the High Lord’s power contained. She can’t access them herself. But I… I have access to all the High Lords’ powers. And that bitch has my mate. My wrath will be plenty to take her down.” She faced her friends, who watched her warily. “You have my word as your High Lady,” she swore to them. “The High Queen of Prythian is going to fall by the night’s end.”

⟡⟡⟡

Winter had not yet fallen in the Mortal Lands. Feyre wondered if across the world, there was a version of herself curled in a bed with her sisters, clinging to any shred of warmth and survival.

That version of Feyre was very different from the version who strode up the sloping hills of the Spring Court with Azriel by her side. Rhys would be furious that Feyre had allowed him to accompany her. Should anything go wrong, it would destroy her mate to know his family had been put in harm's way after everything he’d done to protect them. Which was why it was only Azriel who came with, the only compromise she could reach with his Inner Circle, who insisted on coming with.

Who better to sneak into the Mountain with than the very soldier who taught Feyre the art of stealth. He was the obvious choice, since Mor needed to stay to rule the Night Court and Cassian was too heavy-handed to handle such a delicate task.

Their footfall was silent. Feyre wrapped them in the shadow of Night as they winnowed through the cave network. Her heart hammered in her chest, panicked to be back in the source of so many nightmares.

But Rhysand was more important than her fear. For him, she would not falter.

With the Shadowsinger by her side, Feyre snuck through the winding tunnels until she came to a familiar passageway. They slid into a massive, dark bedroom, lit only by a few candles.

To attack Amarantha in the throne room would be too messy. Too many variables to contend with, should Amarantha have enough wit about her to use any faeries as a shield. Especially Rhysand.

After several hours of waiting, the lock on the door clicked and swung open. Darkness swirled around the room as Rhysand took in the sight of Feyre and Azriel on the bed.

Immediately, the door slammed shut.

“No,” he whispered, voice dripping with horror. “No.”

“Rhys—” Feyre started, but her mate wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was looking at Azriel as if his whole world had shattered.

“Leave,” he said, his voice cold and commanding. This was no happy reunion between brothers. This was Rhysand’s worst nightmare. “Leave this instant, you stupid fool. That is, if you’re lucky enough to have avoided detection when you passed under her wards.”

“I took down the wards,” Feyre said. They weren’t particularly strong, either. Amarantha had gotten lazy, perhaps thinking herself secure with the only spell-cleaver under her control. Or so she believed.

Rhys turned that quiet fury towards her. “And who are you?”

“Your mate,” Feyre answered steadily, tipping her chin up.

Rhysand laughed. A desperate, humorless sound. “Then you are just as foolish as my idiot brother. And you have both sealed your deaths by being here. Do you understand that?”

Feyre scratched along those familiar adamantite shields. Rhys’s eyes flickered in surprise, but otherwise he looked unruffled as he cracked a sliver open for her.

It would be unwise to underestimate me, mate.

I wouldn’t be going around boasting about such a thing, if what you claim is even true, came his icy response. And I wouldn’t count on a few party tricks to save you, either.

And what if I told you, she purred, that I possess the power of all seven High Lords?

That, at least, garnered a reaction from the stoic male. He narrowed his eyes in disbelief, studying Feyre carefully. His gaze caught on her hands, at the lace tattoos that flowed to her fingers. And the mating band she still wore.

Feyre watched those violet eyes go wide, the silver constellations dancing in astonishment at the sight of his mother’s ring.

Where did you get that?

It’s a long story, love, but you’re going to have to trust me. She lowered her mental shields completely. Have a look for yourself. I’m telling you no lies. I am your High Lady, and I am here to free my husband.

She felt those familiar talons wrap around her mind. A foolish thing to do, to give a daemati unrestricted access to her mind. And if it were anyone but Rhys, it would have been. But his touch was gentle, and he took only the information he needed.

“I don’t understand how this is possible,” he whispered, breaking the silence of the room. Azriel had been waiting patiently, but looked relieved to be included in the conversation once more. “And I hate that you’ve put yourselves in danger for this, but it could work.”

Rhys considered for a long moment, then he looked between Feyre and Azriel and said, “do it when she’s sleeping. That bitch has been playing dirty for 50 years, you might as well level the playing field to give yourselves the best chance. Let’s do it tonight. I’ll leave the door unlocked, wear her out, and signal you once she’s asleep. Her spell prevents me from harming her, but I’ll make sure she’s restrained. All you have to do is drive the ash dagger through her heart, but have your magic ready for damage control.”

⟡⟡⟡

Feyre and Azriel waited in Rhysand’s bedchambers for his signal. There was a revelry tonight, as there was every night Under the Mountain, and Rhys was expected to be in attendance. Afterwards, he’d join Amarantha in her bed and make sure she was, in his words, “thoroughly exhausted”.

It was torturous for Feyre. To know exactly what the implication in those words were, to have to use her mate’s body in such a way. She wanted to roar at the Mountain, at the Cauldron, at anything that would listen, but instead she was next to the quiet, brooding Shadowsinger, and lamented in silence.

She’d begged Rhys to reconsider, to perhaps help them stage a more physical encounter that didn’t rely on his own suffering. But he’d denied any plan but the one he’d proposed, insisting it would cause him more anguish to but Feyre and Azriel in harm's way.

So they waited the long, agonizing hours until she felt a delicate pull at her chest. She’s asleep, Rhys called. Be on your guard.

He sent her directions to Amarantha’s bedchambers. There were guards outside, but Feyre and Azriel winnowed past them, cloaked in night and shadow.

Amarantha’s bedchambers were huge. Feyre had never been inside them before, but she was unsurprised to see they provided any luxury a High Queen could wish for.

Atop a large bed of red, silken sheets, lay her mate and Amarantha, both stark naked. The smell of sex clung to the air, Rhysand and Amarantha’s scents intertwined. Feyre thought she might be sick.

Even more sickening was the sight before her, of Amarantha’s arms restrained to the headboard in cloth. A clever way for Rhys to restrain her under the guise of sex, but horrifying nonetheless, to see the proof of what they’d been up to. The female was fast asleep, so convinced of her authority that she could fall asleep tied-up and not feel vulnerable doing so. How satisfying, Feyre thought, that such arrogance would be her downfall.

Feyre warded the room, putting up a shield of darkness so that no sound would break through to alert the guards. Rhys watched their approach warily from where he perched beside Amarantha, so still Feyre was convinced he held his breath.

He wouldn’t risk moving to wake her up, which terrified Feyre. Should something go wrong, her mate would be susceptible to Amarantha’s wrath. Naked, vulnerable, and completely under her control. It was such a dangerous game they were playing.

The room was as quiet and still as the bewitching hours of the night, their footsteps silent as they picked across the room. Azriel held the ash dagger. If Rhys could not kill Amarantha, his brother wanted to do it on his behalf. Meanwhile, Feyre summoned tendrils of night that carefully wrapped around Amarantha’s legs, slithering up her body like a snake, ready to constrict and restrain.

The female stirred in her sleep, perhaps feeling the ghostlike touch of Feyre’s magic. But she did not wake. Not as Azriel raised the dagger over her chest, and not as he plunged it down.

Amarantha’s eyes shot open as the dagger pierced her chest. She let out a shriek of agony and ire, moving to claw at her attacker. She raged against the restraints, spewing obscenities until they died at her lips as the blade sunk into her heart.

Rhysand’s chest was heaving as he watched the female still, then slump. He looked from her dead body, to Azriel and Feyre.

Feyre’s heart sank as she watched her mate process that it was truly over. There wasn’t a trace of elation in his eyes at being liberated, but she understood why. Rhys would finally be returning home, but as a much different man than the one he had been. He’d survived, but not unscathed, and he’d need time to process this.

Feyre came to him, reached towards her mate with the hand that bore his mother’s ring. Rhys looked to it, then up to her. His eyes were clouded with sorrow, with a melancholy she could only hope to chip away at in time. But she could see stirring beneath it was a breath of hope, perhaps the first he’d allowed himself in a long time.

“Let’s go home, Rhys,” she said gently.

Slowly, Rhysand nodded, moving to grasp her hand. She felt him jolt at the touch and, as she glanced at him questioningly, she saw his lips part in wonder.

I suppose you weren’t lying about being my mate, he whispered, the words a sensual brush in her mind. Thank you for coming to rescue me, High Lady.

Feyre grasped onto Azriel, and together the three of them stepped into darkness.

Then, they were above the House of Wind, tumbling through the night sky. Feyre unfurled her wings before Rhys could move to catch them, worried that her mate would struggle after 50 years without flight.

Both males stared in astonishment at the sight. Rhysand’s eyes danced in awe as Feyre, albeit clumsily, carried them to the training ring on the roof.

Rhys snapped his own wings open as they landed. Feyre watched him tilt his head back in rapture as he felt the wind against his wings for the first time in decades. Then he opened his eyes, his expression shifting to reverence as he beheld the night sky.

“I was beginning to think I’d never see it again,” he whispered, his voice a heartbreaking blend of exaltation and disbelief. “And for this gift… for my salvation to be courtesy of my mate and of my brother… I’m a bit overwhelmed,” he admitted sheepishly.

Feyre hesitated. If this was the Rhysand from before, the one to which she was mated and married, she would come to comfort him. But this version of Rhys had only just been freed from enslavement, and she didn’t know what he needed.

As though sensing her hesitation, Rhys cast his eyes back to the sky. “I know they’re all waiting for me downstairs, but I’d like a little bit of time with the stars. Will you let them know, Az?”

Azriel nodded, though he seemed conflicted. His reunion with his brother was perhaps not as merry as the male had expected. But right now, she knew the Inner Circle would hardly deny Rhys anything. Perhaps for a long while yet. So Azriel headed downstairs to inform their friends, who were sure to be anxiously awaiting their arrival.

Rhysand regarded Feyre carefully once the two of them were alone. “Mate and High Lady,” he mused. “You seem to wear many hats.”

“You forgot ‘wife’,” Feyre said lightly.

“Yes, and ‘Salvation’, ‘Queen Killer’, ‘Most Beautiful Female in Prythian’, it seems there’s many things I could call you. Could we start with your name, perchance?”

Feyre was shocked. She’d assumed he’d taken such information out of her mind earlier, but it seems he’d been even more respectful than she’d expected.

“Feyre,” she answered. “My name is Feyre.”

He looked wonderstruck. “Feyre,” he repeated, testing the name on his lips. A gentle smile curled at the corners of his mouth, the first she’d seen from him yet. He extended his hand towards her. “Would you like to watch the stars with me, Feyre?”

It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. Her hand found his with all the casual grace of a dancer, as if it were a routine they’d been perfecting their whole lives. Their fingers interlocked and as one, they stared up at the dazzling night sky.

This reality wasn’t perfect, Feyre thought. This Rhys was different from her own, and he still had a lot of healing to do. But if she could be there for him, to help him in a ways she hadn’t before, then she would be grateful to the strange eddies of the Cauldron for bringing her here. For allowing her to end his torment early. For giving them this extra time.

She watched a shooting star dart across the sky and smiled as it passed. There was nothing she could wish for except that her mate find peace in all that he’d endured the last half century.

His deep, velvety voice cut through the silence. “Do you often wish on stars, Feyre?”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was watching her with a heart-wrenching wistfulness.

“Only when I have a wish worthy of the stars.”

“And do you?”

Feyre looked to the northernmost star, which shined brightest in the sky. “I wished for a light in the darkness,” she told him. “I don’t think the stars would ever begrudge such a wish.”

Rhysand nodded solemnly. “It’s true that they would be begrudging themselves in doing so. But I see no need for you to wish for such a thing.”

Feyre looked to him. He was still watching her, but something in him had shifted. He was smiling at her gently, that lingering sadness already receding. “Why’s that?” she asked cautiously.

That gentle smile widened, showing off his brilliant teeth. “Why, Feyre, to find such a thing, all you’d need to do is look in a mirror.”

[anarchy-and-piglins]

I know he just said it as a possibility and cPunz shut it down pretty quickly but like... if cDream DID kill cPhil. just a thought (also the syndicate only being Techno and Niki would kill me)

This is blatant Connereatspants erasure and I won’t stand for it

You know, actually that bit puzzled me because it seems hmm... I won’t say out-of-character, but c!Dream is supposed to be a very perceptive guy, a plan maker, somebody who’s cautious and calculated. He’s always been very upfront about keeping Techno as an ally (or at least a neutral party) because he knows the threat Techno can be when provoked. You’re telling me Dream didn’t consider that killing Phil would likely piss off one of the only people on the server he seems actively weary of? I don’t know man, I wonder if there’s something more going on there-

Regardless, I kind of want it to happen. On one hand for the very predictable reason that I enjoy Techno angst. On the other hand: it would just be darn cool to have those two go up against each other for once.

For the entire duration of the dsmp, Techno and Dream have always more or less been on the same side. They’ve kinda floated in that ‘allies of convenience’ space forever and the closest they came to actually going against each other was during exile, when Tommy was under Techno’s protection.

I just want to see them throw down man!

[cozycryptidcorner]

Monster Match #13

A monster match and super big thank-you to @sea-hag-dominion​ for being so awesome!

My name is Brooke, I'm in my late 20s. I've got curly blonde hair that I'm proud of! I'm about 5'4 and I've got a bunch of flower tattoos! I'm an ENFJ, and I would say I'm a very outgoing, happy go lucky person! My feelings can get hurt pretty easily, and I can hold a grudge, but I try hard to stay confident and not let people ruin my day. I adore reading!! Obviously monster smut is my favorite, but I read all across the genres! I also like to run (slowly) and go camping as much as possible. My favorite spot to be is where the forest meets the water, like the beaches at on the Great lakes! I love animals, especially kitties. I really enjoy metal music and cultivating houseplants. don't have tons of dislikes, but I don't like people who treat others poorly! Sexuality wise I'm attracted to men (unfortunately some days). I like pretty, long hair and guys who are nice to everyone and easy going, but still are assertive. I can be a pushover, so I like having someone in my life who can help me stand up for myself!

The age-old question he tends to get more often than not is “what do selkies do?”

It’s loaded, mostly because of the secrecy surrounding his people, but asked from a place of curiosity rather that malicious information-digging. What do selkies do beneath the waves? How close are they to humans? Do they have tools? Do they create art? Everyone who is familiar with the legends will also know they have a deep love for dance and music, but he supposes that humans sense that’s just the tip of the cultural iceberg.

Yes, there’s a whole kingdom lurking somewhere beneath the waves, carved from volcanic rocks and dead coral with the skill of master craftsmen and architects. The structures are grand and intricate, built by a process that involves magic; opening up lava flows, guiding the melted rock upwards in grand, beautiful spires. Everything must be planned before construction, one structural error would not be easily fixed due to the intense nature of the lava free-flows. They can also make class through a combination of sand and crushed coral powders, magically charged to create windows that would rival the most beautiful of cathedrals on the surface.

Some of the rooms are fully underwater, with corridors working as a kind of jet stream to get from place to place quicker. Others have been drained, the convenience of thumbs not lost on the people of can turn into seals. Algae and moss that cling to the walls filter out the air, and runes shared by the neighboring Fishfolk help expedite the production of oxygen if the area is more crowded than usual.

Your selkie is one of the architect that designs spaces for the retreating merfolk, each species that lives beneath the waves shrinking further and further back from humanity’s reaches. There’s an intricate map showing the most frequently used channels, magic talismans set up to refract any sonar technology from sensing their kind beneath the waves. Not that their existence is a secret, it’s just better for most Fair Folk in general to avoid the problem of human curiosity. Also, imagine if Jeff Bezos tried to create underwater drop points to expand his Amazon empire. Imagine the pollution that would follow.

Your selkie is a touch adventurous, going to a human art school on a diversity scholarship. His family was a bit concerned because of how far away he would be from the rest of the group, but he was determined to try to figure out how to build structures that could exist both under the sea and above it. Since most Merfolk architects need to be weary of how the pressure of the water will react with the materials and shapes, especially since water has a habit of wearing through volcanic rock after prolonged periods of time.

He goes to a university in a beach town, so he always has access to the water. Also, just to be very cautious, he buries his sealskin out somewhere very private just in case someone tries stealing it. Even though most people wouldn’t, it’s best to prepare for the worst. Most people like him, but there’s this one fucker who doesn’t seem to like their flawless spotlight taken by someone with a more interesting life experience than them.

He’s good looking, devastatingly so. Despite the inherent nerdiness of his architecture, he’s got a bit of jock in him as well. Not to push the cliche of the Merfolk person enjoying surfing, but he does, and is good enough to compete in small contests. That’s how he gets a little spending money, since he’s dirt poor while working for his master’s degree. He works his ass off both academically and physically so he has the cash to eat at Chipotle when he wants (Chipotle is probably what he would miss most if he could never step foot on dry land again, to be honest).

Your selkie’s interests lie in shape and movement within his designs, always trying to push the materials of the sea further and further. He deeply admires the marriage between the organic and geometric shape types, and seems to hold a fascination with retro-futurism and solar punk designs. Wanting to create an environment of global unification throughout the species, he’s designing a type of oceanic research center that unites scientists from all walks of life. Since his people have already created environments where those who need to walk and breathe air can, while those who need to swim can.

That’s essentially what his master’s thesis is on. His eyes light up when he talks about it, eager to bounce ideas off anyone since all the nitty gritty needs to be ironed out. When he talks about ideas, he uses his whole body to articulate, wide, sweeping gestures for different concepts. He has so many ideas to help unify the people for the betterment of everyone- humans aren’t the only ones who pollute, there are plenty of Merfolk filled with greed and lust after power just the same.

He’s a bit of a dumbass- the kind of male who is so smart in so many ways but would lay down and cry because he can’t figure out how to turn the stove on. Sure, he can do insane calculations to make sure the surface pressure of his buildings can survive long-term without risk of collapse, but he doesn’t know how to boil an egg and at this point he’s afraid to ask. Google is his personal lord and savior, no matter how stupid the question, it always has his back. Still, there’s just some parts of life that a surface-dweller just knows and those born beneath the waves need to learn the hard way.

So in conclusion, selkies do a lot! Or at least, this particular selkie does. Sure, the occasional wild beach dancing orgy does happen, but they all have lives outside that. His sister is the equivalent of an undersea OB-GEN who has saved countless pregnant selkies when they were at high risk. His brother is a lawyer who handles small-claims. They all have deeply intricate lives outside the naked dancing on shorelines, just as your selkie does.

[sooibian]

Catch These Hands

Pairing: Baekhyun x Fem!Reader

Description: Living with Baekhyun comes with its own challenges

Themes: Fluff (surprise!!!!), established relationship, make up artist and masseur Byun, a little bit of byuntae, and one (1) Eminem reference lol

Prompt: @/notyourenglishprofessor : You SAY you didn’t eat in bed but these crumbs say differently.

A/N: Happy Birthday @is-that-baekhyuns-shirt​ !!!! here’s your biggest pet peeve woven into a bbh fic! Hope you enjoy it XD

Word count: ~ 1.7k

Nights out have never agreed with you. It’s 2 a.m. and your feet hurt from the heels, your head hurts from the drinks, your little black dress (your best friend sure does have a penchant for party clichés) is mocking your food baby, your makeup feels clumpy - maybe you overused the setting powder but you wouldn’t know because the complex art of blending cosmetics has always eluded you. How do they make it look so easy in YouTube tutorials?

As you’re keying in the passcode to your apartment, despite all the malaise, a sudden surge of comfort courses through your veins at the thought of your adorable boyfriend asleep in a clean, cozy bed, engulfed in warm and fresh sheets that exude the fragrance of a spring meadow - courtesy of your brand new laundry detergent. You imagine he is dressed in his snuggly pajamas, with his lips slightly parted, dark hair tousled, and your ostrich plushie clutched to his chest. Ever since you started living with him, you’d never spent a night away from home but the one time you returned after a weekend long Neuroscience conference, you found your plushie resting in the comfort of his arms. The next morning he insisted that he didn’t know where it came from.  

‘Time to catch him red handed’, you smile to yourself.

Kicking off your heels and scraping your hair up in a bun, you tiptoe to your bedroom and the faint melody of Baekhyun singing in a highly expressive croon falls upon your ears.

Tell me you’ll love again, come back to me again..

He should’ve been long asleep and while you can’t wait to crash out either, you allow yourself the pleasure of eavesdropping on his heavenly vocals that always sound especially sweet when he’s wrestling sleep. Until..until you hear it.. the sharp crunch of plastic which sends you barging into the bedroom with exasperation painted across your features. 

Baekhyun clamps his mouth shut. 

Instead of jumping out of bed to wrap you in his arms, he uncharacteristically stays burrito-ed in his duvet, fixing you with an apologetic gaze. Elbow crushing the pillow underneath him, shoulders crouched, lips pursed, hair dishevelled, pajama bottoms scrunched up to his calves, he tries to blink away the very apparent guilt in his eyes. Your ostrich plushie lay on your side of the bed as if its neck had been snapped like a popsicle stick. 

As you loom over him, lower lip wobbling, he pushes his weight further down the pillow but the tail end of the red Orion choco pie wrapper teasingly peeks from underneath it, glimmering in the cozy golden lighting of the bedroom, already chuckling at the drama that is to ensue.

You’re too tired for this.

Without a word to him, you grab a bunch of blankets from the dresser, shut it with a loud bang and stomp out of the room while Baekhyun’s bearing is that of a frozen frame. As you’re questioning your life choices and are about to vent your frustration on the irreproachable couch, your weary gaze finds the bane of your existence again - crumbs. White, inelegant fragments of food conspicuous against your tan sofa.

They say the more you try to avoid something, the more you create it. This was unequivocally the worst quote you’d ever read. You created nothing! You were not the one to leave this slew of crumbs on the sofa neither did you leave a pile of crumbs on the bed! It was all Baekhyun! 

You’re way too tired for this.

Drowsy, you lie down on the floor, curled up in the many blankets, although still cautious as your piercing eyes doggedly probe for more evidence of Baekhyun’s insolence. Surprisingly, the rug was clean-ish. It was almost as if he had planned on you sleeping on the floor tonight. This thought fuels the rage bubbling in the pit of your stomach so you force your eyes shut to avoid a shouting match this late in the night. 

The shuffling sound of footsteps grows closer and you’re determined not to give him the satisfaction of even a glance. The sound comes to a halt and you feel a gentle caress of warm fingers ghosting over your cheeks which is quickly replaced with a smooth and cool touch of a cotton pad against your eyelids, cheekbones, jaw line, with a distinct scent of micellar water wafting in the little to no space between Baekhyun and you.

You continue to play dead as he’s quietly and deftly taking your makeup off while delicately holding you up by the back of your neck and you coyly move your face from side to side to allow him better access to every inch of your skin.

“Too much setting powder”, he whispers.

Darnit!

“Still so pretty”, he remarks in his dulcet voice. Your head now rests in his lap and he’s gently moving his thumbs in tiny circles under your brows, working his way from inside out and continuing the movement all around your eyes and ending back at the bridge of your nose, almost lulling you to sleep.   

At this point every cell in your body is waging a war against your now weakened spirit that’s continuing to disregard him yet you find yourself revelling in his mellow affections.

“It’s a rookie mistake. Not to worry, baby, I’ll help you get it right the next time.” He reassures, planting a soft kiss on your pout.

“Right”, eyes still wilfully shut, you chastise him, “maybe when you find the time from eating in bed.”

“Yah! Don’t be like that.” Baekhyun whines, prying your eyes open with his fingers, not-so-gently.

You smack the back of his hand and sit up cross legged facing him. He stretches his hand out to pat your head and you smack it again invoking a look of pure confusion in Baekhyun’s soft features. His hand is now barely an inch away from your lips and he commands with a raised brow, “Now kiss it better.” 

“Ew!” Your hand strikes the back of his, again. “How many times do I have to tell you not to -”

“Not to eat in bed!” Baekhyun completes your sentence with a deep sigh, “I know and I wasn’t -”

“Do not lie to me Byun Baekhyun!” Warning him, you wag your finger as annoyance betrays your voice, rendering your pitch shrill. Dusting the corners of his mouth with the pads of your fingers, you sneer, “These crumbs say otherwise. You know I hate it when you eat in bed! It’s ...It’s….disgusting! And -”

“And?” 

“You always ignore my post-its!”

Baekhyun huffs and runs a hand through his hair. Letting on a forced smile, he reasons, “We’ve been living together for three years now. I think it’s time you stopped leaving ‘do not eat’ post-it notes on everything you buy!”

Tilting your head to the side, you explain animatedly, “First of all, you won’t let me buy snacks on our grocery runs because they’re unhealthy or whatever and you want to bring about a stupid dietary reform in the household which, by the way, is failing miserably - ”

“Yah!! We’re still in January, don’t be such a pessimist!”

“Do not interrupt me! The few that I do manage to sneak into the cart are mine and mine alone!”

“It’s just that..the ones that you buy taste better”, he mumbles, unveiling the most powerful weapon in his artillery - the pout.

“That is the most ridiculous thing that’s come out of your mouth today aside from the crumbs! I imagined you’d be...”, it’s nearly 3 a.m. and you’re starting to descend into a fugue state, “you’d be...curled up in bed like a...like a... cooked shrimp with a plushie clutched to it’s chest!”

Visibly offended, he flicks your forehead and bellows, “Cooked shrimp!? It’s called the fetal position. Look it up!”

“I know what it’s called!” Your livid expression eases into a rather ill meaning smile, “My apologies, I took you for a grown man.”

“What in the world - I am a grown man!” His lips stretch into a wide grin and the tips of his fingers tease the sensitive spot on your neck, “would you like to see?”

“You’re disgusting, Byun Baekhyun! A grown man does not eat in bed!” You smack the back of his hand. Again.

“Strike four! You’re obligated to kiss it better now!” 

Tears start to well up in your eyes at the sight of his hand dangling so close to your face. “I’m tired”, you cry, burying your face in your hands as exhaustion and exasperation take over, “I really need you to stop eating in bed.” 

“Babe, I -” His eyes grow into large brown circles at the sight of your distressed state and he freezes.

“I feel like the crumbs will, like, turn into ferocious ants and nibble at my skin while I’m asleep”, you break into full blown sobs and Baekhyun takes you in his arms, holding you tight against his warm and comforting frame and patting your head to calm you down.

“Hush, baby”, he sing-songs, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! You go get changed into something comfortable and I’ll dust the bed, okay?”

“Can you change the sheets instead?” Sniffling, you ask him with wide, pleading eyes, a sly smile playing at your lips.

His eyebrows shoot upwards and he exclaims, “It’s three in the morn-”

“Please?” You sing-song, a little too loudly.

He lets out a deep sigh, “Okay! I’ll change the sheets.”

With his slightly dispirited face sandwiched between your hands, you ask cheerfully, “And you promise to never eat in bed again?” 

“I promise to never eat in bed again.” A dejected Baekhyun says to his knees. 

“And you won’t steal my snacks?”

You had now started to push your luck with him, but it was a risk you were willing to take.

He flicks your forehead a little harshly this time making you squeal. “Can you stop with the stupid post-its, already?”

Rubbing your forehead, you surrender and get up. “Fine! I’ll go shower now.”

Baekhyun wraps his arms around your waist. Nuzzling your neck, he coos seductively, "I’ll join you.” 

“Byun Baekhyun!”

[ficsnroses]

All at Once; - John Wick x Reader

—   ❝  when a partner holds a lover's hand, or engages in touch, their heart rates and breathing rates sync and their pain subsides, research shows. ❞  

summary : you hold john closer when he’s tense in his sleep, to match his restless breath with your calmer one. 2k words.

warnings : x f! reader. lots of fluff! slight angst perhaps?

notes : hi friends! hope you enjoy this little thing. feedback is so so appreciated, hope everyone’s having an amazing week :) 

.

Love comes slow, slowly, slow, as drifting to sleep,

Then all at once.

All at once.

That was exactly how it felt, falling in love with John. Something about him held that certain sincerity; gazing into his eyes for the first time you’d seen it, you remember. The feeling of it enveloping you, that gentle warmth in his dusty oak orbs. Something kind resides within him, something that had your every breath promise to intertwine with his from that moment on.

John hadn’t ever felt the treasure of someone other’s skin against his. Alone, solitude, he’d spent the dismay of his life merely on his own; he’d forgotten when it stopped stinging. When you’d first met him, a glisten struck in those sincere, honey drop eyes. He didn’t even seem human back then, simply a hallow heart; a corpse walking around tied to limbs. Behind the confine was an old, kind soul who’d longed to walk along yours; sought someone-

         to die for.

The sin that stain his hands longed to paint yours with gentle holds, and loving rosy kisses.

John holds you close on tiresome nights in a way you’d dreamt of; in the way you’d been told in tender age,

to marry a man who reminds you of the way you’d raise your son, to be.

When you’d need most, heavy arms wrap around your waist like irons, strong, unbending, drawing you secure back against a warm chest. John was always warm; John, had become home. And you thought that it would be slow, the unravelling of his skin. The barriers he’d built; the forgotten dreams he’d ceased to dream. Yet, John is a miracle to be what he is, where he’s come from. Life does have a way of shaping out to be more beautiful than tragic,

and beautiful,

it had been.

Life with John became your dream, a dream you’d wake up to each morning, watching him exist in a world where his past was exactly, just that.

A past. A dark, dreary remembrance that you’d battle each day to keep from conjuring in his scarred mind. Yet, beneath the hard-shell exterior, you know deep and well, familiar.

Your John still bleeds, a hurt still pours from his bones. And although you understand certain scares never heal; you remember,

         That even steady drops form a stream.

The life that was chosen for your mountain of a man, still haunts him, even if he’d never let the flowers he’d decorate in your hair each day, overhear so.

He’d never say, and you’d never stop listening. You’d hear the whispers; you’d note the murmurs. Your John wallows within, welters, sears, burns, and burns, and blisters. And it kills you; it hurts you the same as the scorch that burns in his skin.

Falling in love with John had been easy, and loving him unconditionally, until the day your heart ceases to beat within his, comes easier.

On uncertain nights as tonight, as troubled rain pelts, cascading down the roof of your shared home secluded in the quieter part of New York, the shared heat of your bodies encapsulates, enveloped around in the cozy sprawled duvet. Life with John was a dream, everything you’d wanted and more. As he lays beside you, nestled in a sea of silky sheets and quiet slumber, the gentle peddle of his mellow snores had lulled you to bed hours prior. The feel of his skin to yours, the weight of his frame tucked within you; the feel of his shuffle in sheets when he’d turn sides beside you had become achingly familiar.

In the AM light, his lips move slow and searching for yours each eager morning, you travel your fingers through his chocolate covered mane lovingly before sunlight dares intrude your sleepy lids.

Having him in your space had become vitally familiar. You weren’t sure if you could go without, now that you’d tasted how sweet it had all been with him by your side.

       The rain pelts,

       Crashes,

       Winds howl,

gradual rumbles of thunder meddle sleep, and a croak of the oak trees outside encumber you awake. The pitch dark night falls in velvet waves across the sky, the light of the bedside clock illuminating a premature 3:00AM.

A heaviness falls around the bed frame, the sound of weary exhales and hastened breaths; a thud beats in your lover’s chest, a storm rages within, lone from the rampant wind outside. Previous from the serene you’d fallen asleep to, his eyes now flicker; his demeanour has sharpened.

His breathing is erratic; heavy, his heart beats in rhythms far too hasty to keep you content.

John had had poor, restless episodes prior to tonight. This awful weight, edge that rests to his shoulders seems to become heftier on certain nights. His heart remembers what masks away in daylight; becomes far too real when he’s whisked away from the beautiful reality you’ve created together. Through dreams, he remembers; darkened nightmares. When John lays awake, with you, the pain seems to subside.

But his heart, it remembers. It hurts recalling the battles he’d endured; the rage his fingertips carry. As the storm quenches thirst to the earthy planes outside, John’s mind falls unsteady within the cage of his own dreams, memories. You feel him unsteady, shaky breathes and bustling exhales similar to the brew wavering out your white paned bedroom windows.

Slow, cautious, you raise the weight of your upper half, resting with a weak hand held to the bed as you move closer to John. With his back turned to you, his arms rest to his frames, lengthy locks shielding rapid eyes behind closed eyelids, frantic for asylum. His chest thuds, and pounds, a quickened beat of his heart breaks yours in return.

He bleeds behind closed doors, he bleeds beyond what he’d ever tell.

Movements slow, gentle, collected, you shift closer to your love, gentle raising soft sheets higher up your bodies. Making sure the blankets fall around his frame, you tuck them around, sighing with a gentle hand rested to his bicep.

Your heart falls heavy; the mere sight breaks that something inside you.

A remedy brews in your mind, beats, illumes. A solution that aids on uncertain eves such as tonight, helps bring John back up from the depths he’d been seeing murky revelations within.

Touch,

Synching your heartbeat, with his.

Your calmer, steadier beat, with his rushed, frantic one.

It was a pattern you’d noticed through out. John would often keep mum on his frets, yet you; you could always tell by the beat of his heart. Touch was something you offered John very often, more often than he’d ask.

You’d never want him to forget the feeling of being touched with love, affection. You’d never cease to show him how much you adore each part of him, regardless. Through half executed reassurances, John would often tell you he was fine, and only needed a good nights sleep to recover whatever energy had been lost. Through drowned out features and tired eyes, he’d smile, and offer you a kiss sweeter than summer blossoms and honey kissed bees. You’d adore the way the laughter would roll up his chest, a rich baritone rampant to keep you out of worry.

However, you’d known him as the back of your hand. It would be then that you’d ask him for an embrace; a chance to feel his warm skin pressed to yours.

         And through those warm, inviting holds, you’d save him, in a way he wouldn’t even know.

         His heart and yours, are old, old friends. And through touch, they’d be reminded.

Your touch would fix any raging storm, could wash away any impending worries. You did that for him, you’d forever do that for him, asking for nothing in return.

Slowly, you inch closer, worry for your love dense on your mind. With a gentle palm, you stroke his toned bicep, gentle shaking in attempt to see if he’d flutter awake. Slowly, lovingly, you quietly speak his name, sure to lean your rosy lips closer to his ear, sure not to startle.

“John, honey?”

A beat passes, the rain flows still. Restless and lost, John’s plight ceases not. Perhaps, whatever tale plays in his mind tonight was something he’d have to fight on his own. And that was something you’d understood.

His pain is his, and his alone. He will heal, on his own. Time will heal whatever scares within. All you could do, was be there with him each step of the way,

and hold him. You’d allow him to heal on his own time, holding his hand, each tough step of the way.

Gentle, slow, you lift your hand, brushing a stoke to his dark groomed cheek delicately. A thumb softly caresses under his eye, soothing the skin, allowing your softer lips to kiss a quiet peck to his temple. Quietly, your gaze locks to him for a moment, taking in the beauty of his splendour.

John Wick is a good, good man.

And his pain, won’t be forever. It can’t be forever. The universe won’t allow it.

       You wont allow it.

Gently, softly, your lips emit a tiresome yawn, slowly snuggling in closer to John’s body. Tucking yourself against the skin, your lips dot a small kiss to his shoulder, lingering for a moment longer as they stay pressed. Your fingers brush away the stray locks that curtain his face, tucking them securely behind his ear, and a softer kiss falls to his cheek, reassurance thick on your mind.

You’d always reassure John, even if he wouldn’t hear it. Because deep down you knew, you knew well. He’d felt it. “You’re gonna be okay, baby.” you whisper gently against his ear, voice calm, mumbled lightly.

Finally, as you draw his body closer, your own nestles behind, chest pressed to his back. With your arm snaking under his, your hands soothe, travelling up his chest, resting to his warm skin; your left hand rests just where his heart lays, and you tuck your cheek just into the crook of his neck, breathing in that comforting scent of his masculine skin.

You hold dearly, pressing your skin to his as tenderly as could, allowing the phenomenon of touch, to lullaby his worries away. And fade away, they did, as the feel of John’s formerly quick heartbeat subsides,

       leisurely coming down to sync with yours.

You make sure to take longer, slower, deeper breaths, allowing the feel of your heart against his skin to help him relax; to ease whatever tempest drafts in his bones. His breathing slows, becomes more deliberate, and you smile calmly to yourself, against his back. You curl into him, voice strained as you hold him, offering calm, tender strokes to his skin, leaving mindlessly kisses speckled to his skin whenever you’d please. “I love you.” You quietly whisper, hoping that somewhere, wherever he was right now in his mind, the reach of your voice would touch him, and he’d hear.

       That he’d remember, that someone out here, in the real world, loves him so wholly, so endlessly.

       That someone waits for him, on the other side.

To you, nothing is stronger than your love’s heart, which shattered over and over throughout his lonesome existence before you, yet still lived. Still lived, thrived,

       to find solace in yours.

And quietly, softly, you crumble next to him. Your eyes fall heftier, your hearts sync, beating as one, and love comes.

Love comes slowly, and slowly,

       Then all at once.

➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴

My taglist will be posted in reblogs, let me know if you want to be added or removed! 

[spookyheaad]

Haphephobia talk

BIG TRIGGER WARNING: brief mentions of rape/coercion, mentions of suicidal ideation, self harm, physical and mental abuse, as well as dehumanization. This one is kinda heavy.

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Hi again! Currently horizontal on my couch because I have full body aches from the second covid shot and my head is killing me, but I expected this to happen as it’s normal for the second vaccine to knock you out for a day or two.

Anyway, I had a realization earlier that I write both Gild Tesoro of “One Piece”, as well as Death from “Darksiders” with Haphephobia - which is “a fear of touching or being touched”. While I write them with this phobia, it manifests within them differently, and I figured I would share some differences, and headcanons for both characters (it’s been so long since I’ve talked about my sassy depressed Nephilim husband; I miss you, Death ❤️❤️). Also with Death, I ship him with an OC I created, named Zemira. I don’t think I’ve shared a lot about her on tumblr, but I’ll be making a whole post about her another time; just know I’ll be mentioning her occasionally.

So I’ll be talking about Death’s haphephobia first, it’s a little more heavy (deadass trigger warning here for the brief mentions of rape. Skip this part if you need to):

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So I must start out with the obligatory mentioning of that accursed chapter from The Abomination Vault:

Death and War have to seek out Lilith and gain information from her. Death is viciously adamant for War to stay outside & away from that woman, but war protests and wishes to come in with him. Death, nearly resorting to beating his brother into submission, demands him to stay outside, and War finally relents.

When the eldest Horseman goes in to see Lilith, one of the first things she says to him is something along the lines of “this isn’t a social call, is it?”. I truly forget what else is mentioned, but there are a few times where Lilith tries to mention things of a (supposed) sexual nature towards Death, and he abruptly and angrily cuts her off. The one thing I remember Lilith saying to Death was her saying that Death was always a “sensitive boy” which makes my stomach fucking churn.

What is heavily implied in this scene, to me, is that Death and Lilith at some point in the past, had sexual encounters with one another that Death is very much extremely embarrassed and ashamed of, and with Lilith’s ability to seduce any being regardless if they want to partake or not, it’s safe to say that Death could have possibly been coerced into said sexual activity. Lilith’s ability to seduce is described almost like a date-rape drug to me, it causes people to fall under some kind of spell or go into a trance; what is a big uh-oh to me is when Death describes that War would be weak to Lilith’s wiles, or her tricks. So she is definitely capable of coercing people in any way to get what she wants. Also fucking keep in mind that Lilith refers to Death as her SON, which adds a whole new level of “what the fuck” to that situation; it’s just icky.

I feel that Death, because of this run in (or run-ins) with Lilith, developed a massive fear of being touched, which is backed up in canon in Darksiders 2. He does not allow anyone to physically touch him under any circumstance; when Death arrived in the Makers’ realm, Eideard touched his chest where the amulet pieces are embedded. Death recoils quickly and with a venomous growl, states: “Don’t touch me!”

Then of course when he goes to visit Lilith, she touches his chest as well, and he physically pushes her hand away from his body. She also refers to herself as Death’s mother, and Death angrily states: “You are not my mother!” Also from the moment Death sets foot in Lilith’s domain, he is not thrilled to be there, and acts very different towards her; more defensive, more on guard it seems.

So this headcanon stems from all of that; he will not let anyone touch him, it’s just that severe. Where my OC comes in, I actually have a story on AO3 titled “Haphephobia” and it shows how Death & Zemira try to get past this aversion to touch, so 1.) Zemira can give him affection and 2.) Death can allow himself to be loved. I’ll link it here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860320/chapters/73476759

Death cannot even bring himself to hold her hand in the very beginning. So Zemira started there, holding his hand, physical closeness, and very slowly, started working to larger forms of touch. Obviously this gave Death massive amounts of anxiety, so this is why the process is extremely slow. It makes it even more important to go slow because Death tries to hide any weak emotions, so the physical and mental stress he puts himself under is tenfold.

I think that’s all for Death. His Haphephobia is extremely severe, from the specific traumas he has experienced, possibly being forced into sexual activity with his god damn “”mother””, as well as hiding his sensitivity and kindness (my headcanons for why he does that is a whole other post waiting to be written) and just not believing he is deserving of such love and care.

Ok, now for Tesoro (specific Trigger warnings here for mentions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, physical/mental abuse)

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So I just recently realized that I wrote Tesoro with symptoms of Haphephobia; also compared to Death, it isn’t as severe or debilitating, but no less harmful to the person going through it.

For Tesoro I think it was sparked by a mix of guilt and insecurity, obviously as well as his past abuse from both his mother and the Celestial Dragons. But in Film Gold it’s obvious that he doesn’t have an issue with being touched, I’m referencing the scene with the pool girls. I think in canon, he’s on high alert when someone goes to touch him, especially if it’s someone he is not familiar with, or does not like. It’s more of an automatic thing that he learned to suppress over time, especially because he absolutely craves attention and affection, and his fear of touch gets in the way of that.

So in a way, he did learn how to work through it, but it wasn’t proper or healthy, and because of that it’s still there in the back of his mind. I also believe that he doesn’t like people pinning him by the wrists/hands/arms or holding him down in any way, or being bound (sexual or non sexual, he does not like it). It triggers severe panic and flashbacks, so, it’s a big no.

In terms of if he were to be around Stella, it becomes heightened. It’s not that he’s afraid of her; he knows her well. He is afraid for her sake, that he would hurt her in some way simply by allowing her to touch him. All through his life, Tesoro was made to feel like he wasn’t worth the space he took up in his existence. His mother did not love him, the one person that could have given him some form of gentle gesture. She instead hurt him, screamed at him, made him feel worthless. Then we all know about the celestial dragons; they didn’t even see Tesoro as a human, and that mixed with the beatings from both the celestial dragons and his mother, he is weary to allow others to get close.

After Stella died, In his heart of hearts Tesoro genuinely thought that he was unloveable, mainly because of his mother. The one woman who brought him into this world didn’t care about his dreams or his well-being, so then how can anyone else? Then, when he found the single person that cared about him, she was whisked away from him without a second thought. Tesoro feels doomed to observe yet never experience the love and kindness that the world had to offer.

That mixed with Haphephobia makes him very cautious of others, and in the case of Stella, vehemently afraid. He loves her, and she loves him in return; Tesoro knows this full well, (we’re headed to the “if Stella survived” AU) after they reunite he is so afraid to touch her and it’s painful to him when she touches his body. It’s another source of frustration and anger because he knows that he is still in love with her, but his own body is trying to push her away. He would tear open his body for the apprehension to leave, to finally feel the comfort he yearned for within Stella’s embrace. No more fear, no more being brought to tears because he felt he didn’t deserve her kindness, no more guilt.

Both he & Death feel unloveable but for different reasons:

Death feels unloveable because of the atrocities he has committed, specifically the Nephilim Genocide & the creation of the Grand Abominations. He feels knee-crushing amounts of guilt for taking part in such events, and he puts up a facade of being an uncaring monster, when he is very much the opposite. He has kindness to give, yet is afraid to show it because of that idea that he is to be seen as nothing but an attack dog for the Charred Council. But this is also the same Nephilim who was so tired of making things that took life, and chose to make something that gave life instead, and gifted said item to his sister, Fury. This is the same Nephilim who took his own life to prove that his youngest brother War did not start the apocalypse. He cares so deeply, has insurmountable love to give, yet feels incapable of doing so.

Tesoro thinks he is unloveable because the world conditioned him to view himself as such. The extreme abuse he suffered told him that he is trash; an afterthought whose only use is as a punching bag or a wasted body to rend flesh from. Ants had more worth in this world than he, and Tesoro knew it. All it took was Stella, one person, for him to see that he is worthy of such a thing, that nothing that went on in their pasts was his fault, and that he does deserve to be given gentle touches, soft reassuring hugs, feather-light kisses, and that he is able to be loved.

[boop-le-snoot]

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previously on...

Star is getting better, Sam is getting a friend, Stephen is a Sad White Boy™. A layover chapter. I'm not very happy with how this turned out but hey, it's an update and its still pandemi-lovato outside, we gotta be gentle on ourselves. PA turned out to be way more serious than I planned it to be anyways and I think that's very yeehaw of me to expand my writing from the usual almost-crackfics that I write. Love you all 3000.

Days stretched like a piece of chewed up gum, bleeding into one another at a snail's pace, one dull grey NYC afternoon after the other. The hospital wing I was forced to camp out in Tony's tower was top notch but everything, starting from the constant beeping to the sharp, chemical smells, irritated me, and what little strength I had to communicate was mostly spent on listening to Sam's tall tales.

Odette had stopped by shortly after the first wave of weakness had set in; no, I didn't dramatically faint or suddenly develop third stage cancer, I simply turned into a near-catatonic vegetable, devoid of any emotion or will to exist. My bones were like Jell-o, my thoughts - sluggish, sparse clouds that rarely swam in the grey plains of my overtired mind.

My boss was fussing over me for hours, I heard faint echoes of her and Stephen's argumentative conversations before she flipped out and shut the door to my hospital room, strong aromas of incense and smoke briefly overshadowing the bleach and plastic stench every hospital seemed to have. I

I became mostly coherent after her ministrations; enough to see the dark circles under her eyes and the ghastly tone of her skin. More often than not, I couldn't even properly focus my vision, things like using the bathroom and eating three times a day were the worst chores I'd ever had to do.

My body was trying to convince me to wither away, to simply allow the vessel for my spirit to become one with the Earth once more. I had no energy to process what had happened on the foreign planet; when I slept, I didn't dream, I didn't have nightmares, time just flowed like a fast, untamed river, my weary body drifting along the calmer streams of the shoreline and occasionally bumping into a stone of daily routine.

My stubbornness, however, was an inherent part of me. I had considered, many times, simply giving up; the voices in my head whispered at me their poisonous ideas. It would be so easy, to fall asleep and never wake up. They baited me with the promises of afterlife, of golden halls and spaces full of light and warmth.

Sam had started spending a lot of time at my bedside absolutely unprompted; sometimes, he'd hold my hand, gentle, tender fingers drawing senseless squiggles on the inside of my palm. Faint echoes of his aura told me he was worried for me, but also grateful for what I did for Stephen and angry at someone. I tried not to think about the last part: I could sense their pity and their unease every time one of his teammates stopped by my hospital room.

A healthy-looking young woman spending most of her days blankly staring at the wall wasn't a picture-postcard view. Sam wasn't bothered by it in the slightest, and when I finally clawed my way out of the dredges to be able to answer questions with a simple 'yes' or 'no', he promptly lit up, speaking to me in a happy tone that almost wasn't forced.

Tony stopped by, too, usually late in the evening, when he thought I and everyone else was asleep. He sat next to me, his intelligent brown eyes fixed on my face for twenty, thirty minutes at a time before he'd stroke my hair or run a hot, calloused palm over my arm, and then took his leave, slow, shuffling footsteps quietly receding into the hallways. I really didn't know what to think about Tony, he had always been quite quirky, but his gestures were... Nice.

Stephen... Him, his actions, I understood the least. He had argued with Tony, argued with Odette and I was sure I heard him and the Black Widow scream at each other during lunch time. Sometimes I thought I heard his voice, at night, the darkness behind my eyelids suddenly bursting with golden sparks and green bokeh but when I finally mustered up the strength to open my eyes, the empty, white walls were all that greeted me.

Stephen never stopped by, I rarely heard his voice outside of my room and almost always it was one bickering or another, mostly with Sam muttering a few choice words as he noisily sat down on the chair next to me. As much as I hated to admit it, it bothered me. Near-death experiences tended to leave a strong imprint on the human mind and whether Stephen liked it or not, we were connected for life.

"Then Steve, the dumbass, just jumps out of the plane. No chute, no warning," Sam's voice, drifting between fond and annoyed, snapped me out of my stupor. "Robot-brain curses, yells at his boyfriend like he can hear him and just... Does the same fucking thing," the exasperation made a tiny spark of mirth settle in me. I flexed my fingers despite the dull ache, gripping Sam's fingers in my palm. I didn't need to see him to know he immediately perked up. "Meanwhile I'm standing there with my wings, trying to figure out where in life did I take the wrong turn to end up with these two idiots."

"You should get them," I swallowed, my throat dry, my vocal cords tense from the lack of use. "One of those... Backpack leashes," the words were a battle to get out, it was a fight with a brick wall to force my brain to string sounds into a sentence, but I persisted.

"Should I say 'welcome back'?" Sam's optimism is cautious.

"Gettin' there," I forced my eyes to meet his, to see the life bustling in him. To feel alive, even by proxy.

"I should get Strange here, he's been running himself ragged these days, tryin' to figure out how to bring you back," Sam's free hand scrambled for his cell as I struggled to raise my eyebrows. "Yeah, yeah, I was as surprised as you were, Tony barely gets the wizard to sleep and eat."

Faint pangs of shame wormed into my headspace, for assuming the worst when I knew that his façade of vitriol and sarcasm was just that - a wall to protect himself. My rediscovery of the ability to feel, even if it was gooey shame, grounded me in this plane of existence, forcing me to face reality and return to it.

"I feel like shit," for once in my life, I allowed myself to openly, publicly complain about my state of being.

"Yeah, I couldn't tell," Sam's tone was refreshingly teasing. "Odette and Strange explained what you did. Well, sort of," the man scratched his chin. "I understood about half of it, really, but what matters is that you were badass as fuck!"

I struggled to hold onto that sense of being present. "Well, it wasn't my choice," I felt the need to state the fact. "I'm a conductor, of sorts."

Sam's eyebrows rose, both of his hands encompassing my lax palm. "Wizard-man said you consciously directed the energies, or whatever."

I felt the tiniest laugh bubble up from the bottom of my throat, my dry, chapped lips stretched on their own accord. "Because it tickled and itched. It was annoying," I belatedly suspected that there was something... Off, about my explanation.

Sam's gaping expression, exasperated disbelief, put me on edge. "You thought that radioactive ash tickles and severe nerve damage itches?" His head shook from side to side, as if he was trying to get rid of a persistent mosquito.

"Um," I had the decency to look away. "I didn't know it was radioactive," I meekly supplied as the door to my hospital room all but flew open.

Stephen looked - not much better than me, if I had to guess, with the exception of a highly anxious face instead of the (probably) dead inside high school drama club goth that I looked like. The Cape billowed behind him despite a lack of any wind, wiggling as my eyes widened in response to the fabric moving on its own.

"You're okay," Stephen's baritone had me snapping up to meet his stormy eyes with a speed I wasn't aware I possessed at this stage of my recovery. The sorcerer stood silently, eyeing me in turn.

"I'll go get some coffee," Sam delicately interjected, giving my hand a brief squeeze and all but running out the door.

"Radioactive?" I repeated the question that bothered me the most. Shock seized my chest as I fully faced the implications of our impromptu adventure, but I welcomed the acrid sensations, desperate to feel anything at all.

"Yes," the sorcerer took a few long, hurried strides before crashing into the chair. "I didn't notice at first, but then you grabbed my hand and," a jerky inhale followed the confession. "I felt the healing burn, I felt how your body rejected the particles," his speech stuttered. Slender, gloved fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'd be dead in an hour, maybe, if not for..."

I was equally at a loss for words, it seemed. "Weren't we... Harmful to others when we..?" I struggled to form my thoughts.

"You burnt it all off," Stephen replied curtly, puzzled. "Your whole being rejected everything that came from that wretched place. Tony insisted we run tests, do scans. Neither of us have even residual radiation from past x-rays," Stephen's fingers twitched. "But that's not all."

"Your hands?" I offered, remembering some of Sam's words.

A sharp inhale coming from the sorcerer answered my question, if not in detail, and the man himself hesitated to reply for a reason I did not know. I didn't undo the damage, this much I knew was true. He swallowed loudly, eyes firmly planted on the wall opposite me. "They do not hurt anymore," the words were barely louder than a whisper.

I chewed on my lip, slowly, idly, letting Stephen process whatever bothered him that much. He should have been happy, or so I thought, that there was one less thing in this world that had the potential of giving him a headache. "Good," I simply replied, attempting to shrug.

"No, you don't understand," he suddenly lifted his eyes, staring at me hotly. "You did so at the expense of your own life, your lifespan, you energy, your ability to have child-"

I stopped his rant, lifting up one shaky, and my feeble gesture instantly made the tired, broken man deflate into someone that reeked of shame and regret. His shoulders dropped, head briefly touching the side of my bed. For all purposes, I nearly acquired a lapful of kicked puppy Stephen.

Mustering up my very last dregs of energy, I scoffed in his direction: "Don't fucking tell me what to do, wizard," before the familiar weight of apathy began taking over me again. One sluggish thought after the other, I came to a conclusion that he was experiencing a sort of survivor's guilt, except I didn't die.

Or maybe I did? Maybe I'd left some unknown, invisible part of me on the irradiated plains of a foreign world, coming home as a shell of my former self. To their eyes, at least, it could have looked the part; not too long after Stephen's departure, I mustered up the strength and the courage to look into a mirror, to properly see the damage I'd done to myself.

An ashen undertone to my skin, my eyes had sunken deeply into my surprisingly angular face. I had the look of a person who'd survived famine and torture, at least. I appeared to be as dull and disgusting as I felt. For what felt the first time in ages, I carefully, slowly ran myself a hot bath with some of the fancy toiletries placed in the bathroom, because of course Tony would have a full size bath in a hospital room, the steaming, herbal-smelling liquid almost instantaneously giving a boost to my blood flow and speeding up the living energies within my exhausted form.

Sam was waiting for me when I stepped out heated and pruney, a lopsided tilt to his lips and the mouthwatering smell of coffee gathering saliva in my mouth for the first time in days.

"Stephen needs to see a fucking therapist," I grouched, sitting down on the bed, bundled up in a fluffy bathrobe.

Wilson's responding eyeroll was pure reflex. "They all do," he reached out for his thermos, having noticed me eyeing it. A paper cup was promptly filled and given to me. "I can recommend a few, by the way. That specialise in unusual circumstances," he eyed me with kindness, gesturing towards the hospital room with a wide wave of his hand.

I chewed on my lip. "I don't think it will help much, at least right now, since all my hurts are- eh, magical," I shrugged. "I gotta figure out how to stop my limbs from feeling like cooked spaghetti noodles first." The coffee tasted like the usual hospital sludge but somehow, after being devoid of all feeling, it was the single best thing I've had in the past week.

"Seems like a solid plan," Sam agreed. "Your boss is a scary lady, by the way. And I mean it respectfully."

The corners of my mouth tilted up. "Yeah, but she's also very experienced and very kind. She knows her stuff."

Sam quickly looked to the side and as I followed the direction of his stare, i spied a pile of empty Tupperware boxes, causing me to lift an eyebrow at the suddenly bashful man.

"What?" He tried for indignant but it came out as a squeak. "I'm a man, god dammit! I am given free food, I take the free food!"

The realization set in. "She's feeding you now? Did you hit on my boss to get food, Sam?" I wagged my fingers, enjoying the face expressions the man was making, probably, a little more than I should. He looked like a right bird when disgruntled, all puffed up and glaring.

"No!" He almost shrieked. "She cornered me, said I was doing God's work by sitting and talking to you! She just started bringing those... Casseroles, every time she stopped by," the agitation in his voice was quite funny to me. "Not like it's a chore, I actually like the peace and quiet. You've been the best listener I've had in the past year," Sam's grin grew more genuine. "And I don't have to see RoboCop's mug all day or listen to someone argue over the best pasta shape."

"Your house sounds like a nightmare," I supplied conversationally, remembering my own peculiar place and the set of rules and- SHIT, I belatedly realized, someone might went to my apartment to get my stuff and gotten in trouble. "Sam, who went to my place to get my stuff?" I asked, trying to force down the bubbling unease.

"Some lady stopped by, I think her name was also Sam?" He quietly questioned. "Had two kids with her, the boy kept staring at me like I'd stolen his lunch money," the man finished off his coffee, gathering the trash and noisily throwing it in the bin.

"Yeah, that's my neighbor. And Armin is a cool little dude, he's just very shy," I offered absent-mindedly, inwardly breathing a massive sigh of relief.

"He looks like the boy from 'I see dead people' movie," Sam deadpanned, opening a large drawer and extracting my gym bag from it. "I'll leave you to get dressed," we nodded to each other before Sam left the room, phone to his ear and a relaxed atmosphere around his whole being radiating warmth and contentment. That was a nice change from the tense, grim atmosphere of the days past. I could get used to it, could re-learn how to let myself feel like a living being again.

I was eager to return home; stepping in through the portal, my living room greeted me exactly the way I left it the day I went to work, a few books scattered on the couch, my fleece blanket hanging halfway off the couch. Stephen hovered behind me as I set my bag down on the table, immediately surveying the state of my plants and my altar.

"Do you need, um, help with anything?" He was fidgeting, all but vibrating behind me.

Apparently, Sam had talked some sense into the wizard because he stopped by a few times since that day, for a short small-talk or a cup of coffee, the kicked puppy look back on full display.

I told Sam off, of course, saying that I was an adult and so was Strange, but something in his knee-jerk reaction told me that he was so used to playing referee, it didn't even register with him that I might be able to handle my own business. I told Sam that much, taking his hand in me: I wanted a friend, not a parent, not a therapist. It went pretty smoothly.

"No, not really," I figured I could water my own plants and vacuum my own floors. My phone buzzed at that moment, a number saved in my phone as "Tony 😎" coming through with an absolutely outrageous message.

"I'm bringing pizza in 20. You better have Netflix. Tell Dumbledore to pick up his phone."

I promptly thrust the phone in Stephen's face, who instantly developed an equally annoyed and fond expression, as he searched the numerous pockets of his robe for the sleek, light StarkPhone. "Resistance is futile," he sighed, sitting down on the couch as I went to change into something fresh and water my plants while Stephen flicked through my Netflix. I heard him mutter to himself: "Grey's anatomy? Sixth season? Oh my God," with the tone of a man tortured.

"I had a roomie in college who majored in Medical History," I snorted. "When she had a bad day, she'd absolutely pick apart every single thing in the show. From the doctor's misconduct to the way a surgeon was holding the scalpel," I explained, seeing Stephen's eyes sparkle with amusement. "She was absolutely vicious and it was the most hilarious thing."

The sorcerer stroked his chin, leaning back into the couch. "That's acceptable. All medical shows are rubbish," he stated firmly. His phone beeped, causing him to sigh and conjure up a portal within seconds, in the corner of my apartment I had aptly designated to be the landing pad to myself. Tony stepped in, a bottle of wine and three steaming pizza boxes in hand. Smiling at his boyfriend, Stephen turned to me with a curious look: "What did you major in?"

Taglist: @couldntbedamned @mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins @mostly-marvel-musings @persephonehemingway @schemefrenzy @lillsxd @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites @xoxabs88xox @secretly-a-weeb @stuckybarton

[eivor-basim]

An invitation

Also available here on AO3

Pairing: female Eivor/Hytham

Genre: fluff and a little hurt/comfort

Warnings: none

Word count: 1.7k

Summary: Eivor and Hytham are passing a lazy afternoon together in Ravensthorpe when she notices a letter he’s received from the hidden ones’ brotherhood.

————

It was a rare lazy afternoon in Ravensthorpe, and Eivor had sprawled out across the ornate red carpets of the hidden ones' bureau. Golden sunlight poured slow-like-honey into the room. Its warmth weighed comfortably on her bone-weary limbs, beckoning her into the haze just-before-sleep. She tilted her head back idly to watch Hytham quietly toil away at his desk.

He was a welcome sight. Even in the shadowed corner stacked high with dusty maps and letters, enough light filtered through to dance amber-copper across his soft hair and skin. Like the colored glass windows in one of Aelfred's god-houses.

Beautiful and frustratingly beyond reach.

Eivor sighed. “Why can you not simply take a break and come hunting with me? What is it that the hidden ones do anyways? Other than occasionally sending me to lay siege to a pesky castle.”

“My love, our work is secret. There are some things I dare not share even with you,” he said without looking up from his scrolls, but the corner of his mouth twitched ever-so-slightly. “Besides, you have been away for so long. I believe you would benefit from one day of relaxation.”

She propped herself up on her elbows, narrowing her eyes. “You are saying I need a nap? Are you mocking me, Hytham?”

He finally returned her gaze, neatly setting his quill down and feigning an expression of innocence. It was a thin veil for the mischief sparkling in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t dare, Eivor Wolf-Kissed, for you are a mighty warrior and would surely have me at your mercy before the insulting words had left my mouth.”

Her mock-indignation quickly morphed into a sly smile as she rose to her feet and approached him slowly. Like a wolf closing in for the kill. She planted her hands on the desk and leaned over, fixing Hytham with a teasing look that seemed to freeze him in place.

“At my mercy, you say?”

“I— I wasn't— your—” he stammered as a sweet red-pink flush spread across his cheeks. Beautiful, she thought. To his credit, he held her gaze, wide-eyed and white-knuckled clutching at his now-forgotten papers.

She savored the moment, wetting her lips with a quick flick of the tongue that Hytham’s eyes followed oh-so-closely. Then she cleanly snatched the parchment from his hands.

“Eivor!”

She chuckled and spun away, already scanning the text as she paced across the room with Hytham hot on her heels. “Acolyte Hytham, we were dismayed to learn of—”

The words died in her throat.

She stilled and lowered her arms slowly, almost mechanically, the paper fluttering at her listless fingertips. It was a simple task for Hytham to pluck it away as she stared blank-eyed into the distance.

He stood at her side, looking down at the letter before turning his gaze on her soft-and-sweet. There was no trace of irritation left. Only sympathy.

“Eivor... I confess I selfishly did not want you to read this,” he said. His voice was sweeping-swallowing seawater, rising and falling with a deceptive gentleness that concealed its engulfing undertow.

I will not fall into it, she thought. I would not rise again.

“I understand, Hytham,” she said heavily. “Some things are meant to be private. I should not have pried. You are… you are leaving Ravensthorpe, then?”

She could not look at him. Nevertheless she heard him shuffle, tuck the letter away. Felt his hand on her shoulder and leaned into the comforting gesture despite herself.

“You misunderstand me. I did not wish to hide this from you… I merely did not know how to tell you. Our moments of peace are rare enough. I could not bring myself to shatter this one.” He hesitated. “The brotherhood has called me back and it is my duty to answer their summons.”

Oh-she-did not mean to curl her fingers into fists but the unspoken sadness under her tongue tasted like blood. The familiar iron-tang of losing another person who was supposed-to-be-there always.

“Yes, it is your home. Your people. You must, of course, return.” She crossed her arms, shoulders tensing against his touch. His hand fell away and she did not allow herself to mourn its loss.

“That… that is not why. You have made my home here, Eivor. Since the day I first arrived on your icy shores, you have opened your arms to me. Even when I did not initially extend the same trust to you.” He took a cautious step towards her and extended a hand, warily as if approaching a cornered animal.

With a sigh of acquiesce, Eivor accepted his embrace, burying her head against his chest and shutting her eyes tightly against the tide of salt-tears. Seawater I drown in. Seawater I give myself to.

Small though he was, Hytham’s arms wrapped around her sure-and-strong and his familiar warm scent enveloped her senses-- ink and paper, sandalwood and something earthy-sweet. He smells of home. The realization ached in her chest. Turned ice-cold in her stomach.

“I thought… I had hoped Ravensthorpe had become a true home for you. That you might stay,” she murmured the words without lifting her face, internally wincing at how her voice wavered and threatened to break altogether.

“Eivor, habibti, I have spent years watching you build this town into a place worthy of calling home. I and everyone who lives here owe you a debt that can never truly be repaid. But I know in my heart that my home is not here,” he said, pausing to tenderly tilt her chin upwards, urging her out of hiding. Tear-streaked and red-eyed, she reluctantly met his gaze. “This is because my home cannot be found in any one place. You have not only built Ravensthorpe. Day by day, year by year, you have built me a hearth-warmth love within which I find myself resting more contentedly than I ever have before. And now… now my home is found wherever you are, always.”

“Hytham,” she managed, but all the disjointed poem-words racing through her mind were not enough. They fluttered away like falling leaves and left her empty-handed. So I will fill my hands with what I have in front of me.

Without a second thought, Eivor curled her fingers into his hair and pulled his lips against hers with an urgency unlike any she’d ever known. He followed willingly, gladly, gasping softly before returning the kiss with fervent longing. I will put all of my love into this kiss so that it tastes of sunshine to him. Sunshine and honey and the promise of a hundred-kisses-more.

She reached one hand around his waist, discontent with even the small space between them, pulling him flush-against-her and deepening the kiss slow-sweet. Demanding more, more, more. He whimpered faintly and she smiled against his mouth at the noise. Resting there for a moment before pulling away just enough to press her forehead against his, that she might see him and he might see the adoring smile he had brought to her lips.

He returned her gaze with reverence, blue eyes wide and kissed-red lips still slightly parted. In his eyes, she found the words she had been missing.

“I do not pretend to understand,” she began, “the strange threads of fate that have brought you from afar and woven you into my life. All I know is that I am grateful.”

“As am I,” he breathed, then smiled brightly. “Come with me, Eivor. Come with me to meet the brotherhood. I need not leave home behind when I leave after all.”

She smiled back melancholy-sweet. “It is a lovely thought. But I am needed here. My clan, my brother, Ravensthorpe. What if something were to happen while I am off venturing carefree into the unknown? All I have worked for and protected could be lost.”

Hytham leaned back and bowed his head, considering her words. “Do you never stop giving of yourself, Eivor? You have poured your life-blood into securing a peaceful home for your family. Now that it is safe, allow yourself to rest. Do not build shelter for others and leave yourself in the rain.”

“Ah, but someone must stand guard in the rain so that the people inside may sleep without fear through the long night,” she answered.

“And there are others who can stand guard, who would be happy to help should you but ask. Remember you are not alone,” he said. “Do you think Randvi would prefer you to remain silent rather than trust her to protect the clan in your absence?”

“She would be insulted that I did not confide in her,” Eivor laughed breathlessly, stepping away with nervous energy as something-like-hope blossomed in her chest. She turned in place, surveying the little bureau they had built together, eyes flicking from one object to the next. The carefully-exact map of England she had watched him draw, his brow furrowed in concentration. The small bed in the corner where they’d lain for hours, legs intertwined, speaking of everything in the night-quiet. The shelves she’d pressed him back against to steal a kiss, sending scrolls flying.

Somehow, imbued with memories of their time together, the room had taken on a life-breath of its own.

It spoke clearly now and she heeded the words.

“Yes,” she said, turning back to Hytham. He stood patiently, hands clasped. The very stance he had adopted on the dock in Fornburg all-those-years ago. “Yes, yes, I will go with you. Of course I will.”

“I— thank you.” Relief sparked in his eyes as the invisible weight of doubt lifted from his shoulders. She only smiled.

“Do not thank me, you have reminded me that I must live my life for myself and choose with my heart. It is something I needed to hear. When do we leave?”

“Soon, I think, but not today or tomorrow, habibti,” he closed the gap between them, grasping hold of both her hands and looking up at her earnestly. “I did mean what I said earlier. You have long been away and should rest. Reacquaint yourself with Ravensthorpe before setting off once again. The journey will be long and newly-rekindled memories of loved ones will make our steps lighter.”

“And I will rest,” she rolled her eyes good-naturedly, “And I will spend time with my brother and Randvi and all the others. But right now, I have missed you and I believe you owe me a hunting trip since you are no longer preoccupied with your oh-so-secret work.”

“You are implacable, my love,” he said fondly. “Very well. And after?”

She smirked.

“Well, I have a few ideas for after.”

The sight of his reddened cheeks and shy smile was enough to fill her heart to the brim with warmth.

[zet-sway]

Spiritual Shrios Summer Fill: Godless

This is a prompt fill for @rosenkow's Spiritual Shrios Summer! Prompts | release | oasis | moan | delirium | pray | sweat | whisper | afterlife | contaminated | skin | worship | incense | godless | petals | taste | nectar | caress | mirage | ripe | sundown | hallucinate | salt | intoxicated | soul | embrace | hunger | wet | adrenaline | breathe |

PROMPT WORD: GODLESS | WORDS: ~1800

Rated: "G" - General Audiences AO3 Link: "The Frozen Sea" Pairing: Thane / FemShep Summary: The ocean licks at her knees - not to claim her, but to mark her. 'One foot in the grave,' as the human adage goes.

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Shepard looks forward to being the first one up and awake.

Her cabin is suffocating. There are nights when she appreciates the privacy, but the silence of her isolated quarters makes her insides itch in an uncomfortable way. Just before the common area lighting begins to grow from the dim cadence of the night cycle, she leaves her room and greets the morning, intangible as only time on a starship can be. First she checks on the night crew, then starts coffee for Gardener. Finally, she makes her way down to the shuttle bay for PT. Alone.

It's unexpected when she has a visitor one quiet morning.

"Sere Krios," she says, rising from a deep stretch on the mat.

He smiles warmly, equally as surprised to see another soul at this hour. "Commander, good morning. And please, just Thane if you wouldn't mind."

Thane is the newest member of her crew and they've only spoken twice before. Maybe it shouldn't come as a surprise that he has his daily rituals as well, given his condition. He's dressed simply. Black pants, a sleeveless shirt, his defined, green chest exposed for all the world. Drell and humans share some attractive qualities. He's easy on the eyes.

She's staring, she realizes, and looks away. Thane takes his place on the mat and begins his own warm-up.

Day after day, he joins her, and they build a routine. Together, they begin with stiff, groggy stretches; then there's cardio, sweat, and strength training. Their conversations are light and technical. He respects her silence. She respects his discipline. On leg day, they limp back into the elevator in tandem. If she's lucky, she has time to join him and the crew for breakfast after her shower.

When she's alone, she quietly recalls how the light bends around the contours of his body.

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He's there as usual when she steps off the elevator and into the shuttle bay. Fully armored, helmet under one arm, weapons holstered, but ready.

"Shepard. No training today?" He rises from his place on the mat where he's been exploring the human practice of yoga, per her suggestion. It suits him. Yoga is all about breathing.

"I was beginning to think you tired of my company."

She gives him a weary smile and shakes her head.

There's a new, abnormal tension between them and by his gaze she knows he feels it too. She likes Thane. She knows hardly a damn thing about him, but he's a comfortable presence, follows orders... doesn't ask intrusive questions. However, she's breaking their routine unexpectedly, and in the moment, his gaze is almost painful.

"Is there something I should know about Alchera?"

Okay, maybe he does ask intrusive questions.

His voice is a hot knife through her muddy thoughts. The detour to Alchera hadn't been on their flight plan, but somehow, he knows. Times like this, his eidetic memory puts her on edge. She asks herself how many other kernels of obscure knowledge are locked away in his mind.

Stepping up to prep the shuttle, she weighs the consequences of lying to his face. Only six people on the ship know where she's going and why, and she doesn't want to talk about it with any of them. The words are too hard to say out loud. This is where I died.

"Alliance HR," she says finally. A partial truth.

His brows rise and his posture straightens just a bit. "Human remains." Fuck if he isn't perceptive, but if he has questions, he keeps them to himself.

She nods once, happy to have stopped this conversation in its tracks. Then she changes the subject.

"PT tomorrow," she offers with a smile. "I can't be lifting without my spotter."

"Of course, Shepard. The pleasure is mine," he responds with an acknowledging nod. She feels bad for interrupting his training as he leaves on the elevator, but she doesn't want to face her team until her task is done.

Let's just get this over with.

Alone with her thoughts, she exhales a breath she didn't know she was holding and starts her pre-flight checklist.

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It's well past dinner when she comes to him. The doors at his back swish open and she stands quietly inside the threshold. A fistful of clinking metal dangles from her hand and he knows she's come to have the conversation she avoided earlier.

"Did I catch you at a good time?"

"You did," he says smoothly. "Was there something you wanted to discuss?"

She sits across from him and the metal spills from her fist. Dog tags. Twenty of them. Her gaze is fixed on them and she appears shrouded in a fog of thoughts.

"Did you know them?" The question is gentle, he's almost afraid to know the answer.

Shepard takes a deep breath and blinks slowly. "Yeah. They were my crew."

Thane can feel a chill, as though the icy surface of the planet is still clinging to her long after she's left it. "Your ship went down on Alchera?"

She nods.

"...and you were among them."

"Yes."

He realizes now why she brushed off his words earlier. It strikes him as odd that she would bring this to him instead of Garrus, Tali, Joker, or Chakwas. All of them served on that ship with her, although he isn't sure if they were on board during the attack. She chose him for this, maybe because he'd asked, unknowingly, down in the shuttle bay. Regardless, she's here now and he struggles to understand her needs.

Thane refocuses. There's a pile of dog tags before him and each one represents a human life, now in the arms of Kalahira.

"May I read them?"

She glances up at him then, surprised. "Won't you remember them forever?"

"I'd like to."

Her lips twitch just slightly in the most cautious of smiles, and she nods. "Knock yourself out," a quietly uttered and somehow charming human expression.

Thane picks up each tag one by one and passes his eyes over them. Every name, a life extinguished. Stories unfinished. Loved ones mourning for years without closure or a body to bury. Memories percolate in his mind and he pushes them back because now is not the time. For each name, he offers a silent prayer to the goddess for their eternal peace. When he finishes, the tags are a neat horizontal stack before them.

Hands folded, he looks at her. "I don't see your name."

It's less of a question and more of an observation, but she dips one hand into her shirt collar and produces a pair of clinking metal tags. They dangle from a new chain but the metal scorched and scuffed almost to a state of illegibility. One from the Alliance, the other from the Spectres. Her name is heavily embossed into each one.

SHEPARD DECEMBER HUMAN SYSTEMS ALLIANCE

His expression lifts and he smiles, hopeful. "You survived."

Shepard shakes her head. "I was spaced."

"But you must have-"

"No, Thane." Her tone is firm, unwavering. "I was spaced."

Her intense green eyes pierce through him. There's a twinge in her voice that makes his insides clench. "I read the data on Project Lazarus. I died."

It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. Thane tries to control his features but her assertion shakes the very foundations of his faith. Many had said she died, but he'd always understood it as a metaphor - a near death experience.

He reaches into himself for calm and a memory rises, unbidden. "Jesus and Lazarus, from the Christian bible. '...I am the resurrection and the life.'"

"Kalahira..." he breathes. "Shepard, I didn't know."

She grunts out an ugly, short laugh and tears her eyes from his. "I can't believe you read the bible."

Her words fly past him without acknowledgement. He sees her as though through fogged glass, thoughts spinning. "Kalahira released you from the sea." When the words leave his mouth, they sound like irrefutable truth.

There's silence while she fidgets across from him, and then she asks, "Do humans go to the sea too?"

"We believe all life does."

He has a thought, then. "What do you believe, Shepard?

Her expression is mildly uncomfortable. "Before or after I died?" But then she shakes her head, reconsidering. "The universe is grand enough that maybe it is god's design. But I don't think god gives a damn about us. Agnostic, I guess." Shepard pauses and looks at him, but her eyes are distant. "Maybe I'd like to believe in your sea. Right now it feels easier to accept."

"To bring comfort in dark places is the purpose of spirituality. It does not matter what you believe as long as it brings you peace."

"Some humans would disagree with you."

Aware of the myriad of human religions and their conflicts, he brushes off her statement. "This is my truth. Their opinions don't concern me."

Shepard's gaze is searching, revealing the cracks in her armor, slivers of well-hidden vulnerability. "So I went to the sea. And now I'm back."

"If I am to accept what you say, I can offer no other conclusion." He doesn't ask what she remembers, he knows he might not like the answer.

"Then what am I now? Besides a soggy, undead cyborg?"

Her voice is laced with sarcasm but Thane thinks over her question carefully, aware he will be turning it over in his mind for days to come. Kalahira, Irikah, Siha, the gods and their angels, his lover and confidant, memories and oaths... regrets and comforts.

A heavy veil of epiphany descends on him, awestruck, painfully aware of his mortality, and prickling with a primal, deeply buried fear. Once human and now something in between, she is Commander Shepard, avatar of the Sea, chosen of Kalahira. The ocean licks at her knees not to claim her, but to mark her. 'One foot in the grave,' as the human adage goes.

The fist of tension in his gut calls to mind the image of Irikah's eyes in his scope all those years ago. I thought she was the goddess Arashu. But it's not Arashu who sits before him now, but Kalahira. Her icy breath howls across the inhospitable surface of Alchera, her unfathomable currents gathering those courageous enough to follow her into the abyss. How appropriate that she appeared just as he sought his demise in the Dantius Towers. She will be the one to ferry him into the unknown when they finally breach the relay. He prays she will be merciful.

Placing one hand over hers, Thane squeezes reassuringly. He doesn't linger, the gesture is as much for him as it is for her; he wants to know that she is real, as he finally answers her question.

'Then what am I now?'

"A woman with a purpose so great, the goddess herself answered the galaxy's cry for your return."