#wallowing in my grave

[mascotpride-headcanons]

Uni-ku and Canon are T4T !

req. by @benchitheidiot​!

[sapphicslut777]

no i think YOU should be scared!!! 😤

[genericmain]

I'm upset. That bitch who refused to clean her blood? She just started more drama and tried to publically humilate us. She got away with berrating my husband for 20 minutes, before I got out the car. In 10 minutes, not only had I completely changed the mediator's viewpoint, exposed her lying ass, and proven our point, but she legit went unhinged feral mode and showed everyone the side of her I've been seeing for months. I have no doubt that they're talking about her membership to that group rn. Her own boyfriend legit went "I cannot do this" over her antics, AND not only that, he asked if she was serious because she asked him to pick. He knows. He's finally seeing what we've been saying. & she's showing her abusive self centered entitled ass self to everybody all at once.

Girl one day you're gonna land somewhere less pleasent for the way you treat people. Like jail.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

TENDER CARE. 18+

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary. you’ve been feeling insecure lately and your boyfriend, bucky knows just the way to make you feel pretty

word count. 2847

warnings. 18+ only!! hurt/comfort, reader feeling insecure, lots of hand kissing bc that shit makes me weak, kissing in general, praise, body worshiping, oral (f receiving) little bit of titty stuff, unprotected pinv sex, bucky being the best bf. minors dni

It was late, the evening quiet - the winter moon, a bright slither of silver amongst the dark blue sky. 

As you lay in your bed, admiring her -the moon’s- beauty through the condensation of your window, your mind begins to drift, irrationality throwing hurdles at you. Your brain darting back and forth to those same thoughts you've been having more of lately - ones where doubt and insecurity flood any sense of logicality. 

You knew you had no reason to feel this way. Your boyfriend always went to grave lengths to ensure you felt loved and appreciated, showing you nothing but tender care. Though, there was just something in your brain, that little green gremlin instilling distrust within you - no fault to him.

You felt isolated with your sense of humility, often feeling as though you didn't have someone to confide in, someone to talk to. It wasn't an easy topic to bring up, and although you felt comfortable enough with Bucky to share your mind freely, this was something that you just could not stomach. 

Not only were you thinking about yourself, you were thinking of Bucky. The thought of admitting to him you felt insecure in your relationship felt like the highest form of betrayal. To confess to the man who's been torn apart and stitched together more times than one can count - that you felt unlovable, was something you couldn't bear. 

The amount of hurt you would cause him simply by sharing was enough to deter you. So, for that reason alone, you kept it hidden. Letting yourself wallow in the crappy feeling unaided. 

Your phone vibrates on your nightstand beside you, the screen obnoxiously bright - the white almost blinding you within your dim bedroom. Teary-eyed, you peek over at the caller ID, your boyfriend's name displayed beside his picture. 

You wanted to talk to him - to hear his voice, but you knew your wavering tone would give away your dismal state. So, you let his call go to voicemail, like all his others from this evening. 

Feeling guilt-ridden for declining his calls, you pick up your phone, deciding to send him a text instead. But when you unlock your phone, you see a pile of missed messages from Bucky, each text growing more and more worried at your sudden disappearance - his last one reading, 'I'll be over in 10' which was nearly ten minutes ago. 

You exhale in frustration, cursing yourself as you wipe your eyes - carefully blotting the sensitive skin with one hand, the other typing a response. You decided on a small, white lie, replying, 'sorry, I was sleeping.'

The second your thumb presses send, you hear a frantic string of taps on your door - the repeated sound of knuckles knocking. You take a moment to situate yourself before making your way to your front entrance, socked feet paddling over to answer. 

You peek through the peephole, your boyfriend on the other side - visibly distressed as he rakes through the front strands of his hair. You reach for the handle, unlocking the door with an expression you were sure to be disgrace. "I'm so sorry. I was in—" you start.

"Are you okay? You didn't answer. I got worried— I thought something happened," Bucky cuts you off, walking past you and stepping into your apartment.

You close the door behind him, turning to meet his frazzled features. "I know, I know. I'm really sorry. My phone was on silent, and I was in bed. I didn't see anything til just now," you confess, sharing parts of the truth.

He deeply exhales, gaze softening as he looks over you. He pauses, seeming like he's analysing you, eyes honing in on your evading ones. "What's wrong?" 

You knew your gag would be up sooner or later, but you didn't expect it to be this soon. Sometimes, it was like your boyfriend knew things about you before you even did yourself - as though you failed to remember who you were talking to.

"Nothing," you smile, kissing his cheek as you step past him. "Just tired— didn't sleep properly."

"Yeah?" he hums, not quite believing your half-truths. He kicks off his boots and follows you into your room, soft footsteps behind you like a shadow. "How was your day?" he asks, talking like he's scoping you out.

You sit on the foot of your bed, shrugging at him dismissingly. "Same old. How was yours?"

He steps towards you, eyes darting around your room before focusing on you - everything becoming more apparent. "Fine. Good," he nods, softly groaning as he takes a crouch in front of you, kneeling on the floor between your legs so he's level with you. "What's wrong? What's going on?" he asks, eyes following you with the movement of his head, brows narrowing.

"Nothing," you reply, speaking faintly. Responding minimally in case your voice were to break.

"No?" he questions, placing a delicate hand over your knee - the palm emitting warmth onto your skin through the fabric of your pyjamas.

You shake your head, bottom lip beginning to waver under his attention. 

"Then what's on your mind?" he asks gently, his tone warm and concerned.

"I told you," you avoid his eyes, looking down at your hands on your lap. "Didn't sleep well."

He sighs at your tenacity to push him away, head cocking to the side. He adjusts the stance on his knees, and your hands scramble for him - reaching out and holding onto him as if you were to stop him from leaving. Though only he wasn't leaving - he was just getting more comfortable. 

"I wasn't leaving," he murmurs, slipping his hands into yours, thumb brushing over the back of your hand assuringly. "Did you think I was going to leave you?" he asks, lips lining into a faint frown.

You notice his brows tug upwards in the middle, the tell-tell sign he was beginning to think too hard. "No, I was just— I... don't know."

"Well, I'm not," he responds shortly, speaking like he was being stern with you - tough love. "Now, what's going on with you?" he asks, his grip on your hand tightening with a reassuring squeeze, the silent act encouraging you. 

You inhale steadily, letting the air fill your lungs. "I haven't been feeling good."

He keeps his eyes on yours, following you. "Okay, why?" he questions shortly, wanting to get to the root of the problem as quickly as possible.

"I've been sad."

"Why?

You shrug. "I just have."

"I need more than that. Why have you been sad?"

"I don't know."

"Why?" he repeats, brows straightening.  

"Because I feel... ugly."

He hesitates, his shoulders slumping at your confession, visibly digesting your words. "Ugly?" he recites, the remark leaving a foul taste on his tongue. "Honey," he lingers, softly shaking his head.

Bucky stills, his forehead creasing with what you perceive to be pity. His mouth opens as though he's going to say something, only for it to snap back shut. He faintly sighs, bringing your hand to his lips. "You know that's not true, right?" he rhetorically asks, pressing a kiss into the back of your hand.

You don't say anything, the only reply being a short exhale and an awkward smile.

"Because I think you..." he pauses, kissing another patch into your hand. "Are the prettiest," a slow smile lining his lips - an expression that's now mirroring yours.

It was so simple. Everything Bucky did to reassure you - he did with ease. Just the tiny, loving act instantly melting the tension in your mind. His care for you pushing away any sense of self-doubt.

He peppers another kiss into your hand. And another - littering a short string of them over your wrist. "Don't listen to your brain, okay? She's not always right," he murmurs, expression softening like it was reassuring his words.

"I know," you nod, weakly smiling at him. "Just—"

"Hard. I know," Bucky finishes your sentence, nodding at you understandingly. 

He leans forward and places a soft kiss on the centre of your lips - his own brushing over yours sweetly, the action grounding and comforting. He pulls away first, eyes half-lidded as they glance over you, focusing on the almost pleading look on your face.

Your free hand reaches up to his face, palm enclosing his jaw as you bring him back in for a kiss - lips working over his more urgently than the time before. 

"Thank you," you mumble against his mouth, merely pulling away to show your appreciation. "You're so kind to me."

His grip loosens on your hand, now sliding both up to your face, cupping your cheeks as he deepens the kiss - tongue slipping into your mouth willingly. His lips leave yours, trailing a line of kisses along your jaw and down the side of your throat. 

"Always," he murmurs, the short word muffling into your skin. Whispering, "I want to show you just how pretty you are."

A soft whine-like hum vibrates in your throat, the noise accepting his words eagerly. Your hand trails into the short strands of hair at the back of his head, fingers grazing his scalp as you hold him to the crook of your neck. Neck tilting to the side, allowing him more access to you as you reach for his jacket, pushing the fabric off his broad shoulders. 

He presses a final kiss into a patch of your skin and pulls away, looking at your ever-softening features - eyes and brows growing pliant under his attention. His hands slowly roam down to the hem of your t-shirt, fingers hooking under the fabric as they lift, pulling it off your head in a steady, swift motion.

You sit in front of him, chest bare and on display in front of him, letting him take you in - not shying away like you did earlier.

Bucky remains quiet, his eyes fixed on the lewd sight before him, silently storing the image for safekeeping. He brings his hands up towards your tits, cupping under each - holding them in his palms. "So beautiful," he hums, leaning in to place a kiss on the swell below your nipple, giving his attention to each breast.

He rolls them in his strong hands, delicately playing and toying with them, thumbs skimming over your sensitive, hardening nipples, pressing kisses into the skin above. He looks up at you from between your tits, eyes full of love, full of warmth - looking up into your blissed ones with nothing adoration. 

He places a hand over your middle - fingers spread wide as he nudges you backwards, silently and carefully laying you down. Your bare back against the covers with him kneeling on the floor between your spread thighs. 

Barely leaning over you, he reaches up to kiss a trail over your abdomen, lips skimming along your jittering stomach as his fingers slip into the waistband of your underwear and pyjama bottoms. He pulls them down - light tugs as he drags them off your hips and down your thighs, grazing kisses over your now-exposed skin as he undresses your lower half. 

Pulling the fabric off your ankles, he sets it aside, replacing the material that just covered you with kisses - lips grazing up the length of your legs, chaste pecks over your skin like he was worshipping you. The kisses trail higher and higher, reaching up to the crease between your thigh and cunt where he continues the worship, tongue faintly swiping over the skin.

Your hands worm into the roots of his dark hair, fingers locking on the shorts as you hold him to where you want him, guiding him to the needy little spot between your thighs. Chest rising and falling, inner thighs twitching as the anticipation builds in your stomach.

He situates himself in front of your pussy, lips mere inches away as he softly breathes over it - teasing you, his eyes locked on your trembling stomach above. He places a peck on the bottom of your slit. And another. Lining a stripe of kisses up your cunt til he reaches your clit where he skates past the nub, tongue skimming over it.

Hands working over your thighs and to your hips, he adjusts you, placing your legs over his shoulders - letting them drape freely over his blades as he delves in deeper between your thighs, caressing your plushy folds with his lips and tongue. 

You murmur the first half of his name only to be cut off by a whine, the desperate noise catching in your throat when he nips at your clit, his lips wrapping around the mound - tongue skillfully flickering across. 

The noises he muffles are lewd and obscene - gruff, soft groans as he adulates your pussy, pushing his mouth in closer. Your fingers tug tighter on his roots at the consuming feeling, back lifting from the bed in an arch, mindlessly grinding your cunt into his face. 

Within minutes, you become a twitching, moaning pile of mush, coating his chin with your slick as you cum - thighs clamping around Bucky's head between.

He places a final kiss on your pubic bone before pulling away, standing up with a chubbed-up cock in his pants, the area tenting after tasting you. You hold his gaze, looking up at him with blissed eyes and a stir in your stomach - the sight of him making your cunt twitch. 

He wipes the wet from his chin on the back of his hand, briskly drying his stubble before undressing his lower half - tugging down on his combat pants and boxers, letting the material pool around his ankles as his cock springs free. Full length hard and ready, tip leaking precum. 

You scooch up your bed, resting flat with your head on the pillow, eagerly awaiting him. Your thighs instinctively spread as he crawls up the bed and between your legs, slotting his lower half between you - anchoring his weight on his hands either side of your head.

He leans in to kiss you, making you taste yourself on his tongue, the residual creamy slick transferring onto your own. Cock absentmindedly rubbing up against your pussy, the faint friction making you whimper into his mouth.

Your hands hook into the hem of his t-shirt, fingers gripping the bottom of the fabric as you guide it up his back, pulling it over his head as you break the kiss - his chest now bare and up against yours. 

Balancing on his left metal hand, he dips the other between you, reaching for his cock, wrapping his fingers around the base. He gives himself a few short strokes, guiding his head towards you - pushing his tip through the slick of your folds, coating his cock in your wetness before sinking into you.

You take him at your own pace, walls fluttering and loosening around his shaft as he eases more of himself into you - your pussy swallowing little bits of him at a time. Your hand paws at his wrist placed on your hip, fingers enveloping around the thickness, silently pleading and begging him to get closer.

He looks down at the lewd sight of you spread out in front of him: your brows knitted, eyes soft, lips bitten - natural, unadulterated beauty all desperate and malleable for him. He notices the bliss cloud in your eyes and gives your glistening, stuffed pussy a final once over before hovering back over you, chest lingering above yours. 

His lips skim over your jaw, trailing even more kisses down the side of your throat, giving you easing, reassuring pecks as he slips more of his cock into you - distracting you from the dull ache. 

"You are so beautiful," he whispers into your skin, sealing the compliment with a kiss. "You really are," he adds, pressing kisses into your shoulder. "I don't know how you don't see it."

You bend at the knee, holding it at his side - the new angle opening your hips wider, allowing that last bit of his cock to slide in, head hitting at the hilt. You keep him snug to you, arms lazily wrapped around his neck, your other leg entangling with his as your lips shadow each other. 

The moonlit room fills with soft, wet clicking - the sound of your pussy and sticky skin hitting cuts through the bliss-filled noises that slip past both of your lips, lewd noises surrounding you in the dark.

Bucky pulls his forehead from the crook of your neck to look down at you, eyes hinting at something - like his mind was temporarily elsewhere.

"Earlier," he starts, his voice hoarse as his hips wind into you, cock rubbing your walls so nicely. "When you said that thing," he adds, following your eyes when they bashfully divert away. "You tell me when you feel like that... I'd be happy to remind you just how pretty you are."

a/n. I had an idea for myself, what?? and my first full fic in almost a year??

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

03 — MY COMPASS, MY TRANSPORT

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

“I have nothing else to live for.”

It’s a truth. A deep, earnest one – and it’s the only option you have.

Without Graves, without your Shadows, you have nothing. No income, no family, no support. You're left with the clothes on your body and the shoes in which you stand, with no hope of finding your footing.

In the darkness, the only light shines from the headlights of the truck, and the red of the radio. It’s silenced, of course, but it serves as a beacon of something between you all.

“I don’t – I have no other choice,” you say, voice trembling. You would not break in front of them, but you could feel yourself cracking; porcelain underneath a harsh grip. Turning yourself so you’re completely facing the two, your expression turns desperate. “I want to help you both, and I want to save Phi– Graves.”

You correct yourself at the final moment, wary of your slip up.

“Save ‘im? From what? Feckin’ charges for war crimes? Getting his ass handed to ‘im?” Soap chokes out, incredulous, eyes wide where they meet yours. He winces when he moves forward too quick, straining his arm.

“He’s…” You look down at your hands, merely watching for a moment as they close into a fist and open again. Blood crusts underneath your fingernails. “He’s all I have. I’m sure he just needs a wake up call, someone to snap him out of it.”

“He tried to kill us,” Ghost speaks up, matter-of-fact, but quiet. As if at any moment, his words will wake up the entire city. If there were any civilians left in it, you supposed. Your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“...And I had to kill some of my men.”

It’s a confession of sin. Like poison on your tongue, yet at the same time, an anecdote to an evil in your veins. You’d killed your men. You’d… done that.

You still haven’t quite allowed yourself to realise it, not yet.

But if it’s enough to keep you alive right now, so be it. You hadn’t gotten this far just to give up over something as inconsequential as pride.

“Ye will tell us everything you know about ‘im. And’ll help us until we figure out what to do. We’re our own bosses now, Sweetheart,” Soap commands, that fucking nickname of his seeming to stick. You don’t dispute it – not right now, not when this is quite literally life or death.

“I promise,” you say, resolute and stern. There was no time for self-pity or wallowing, only time for action and conviction – something you had in spades. “I’m yours for as long as you need me.”

You hadn’t known how true those words would be – not then, and not for a good while. But they were a prophecy, if such a thing could at all be possible for a woman like you.

Soap and Ghost share a look; a brief, yet important one, before Ghost gives the Scot a short nod. Soap turns once more to you, his face betraying the answer of their silent agreement.

“...So?” You suggest, impatient considering the consequences of the next few moments. 

Bringing a hand up to stroke at his stubbled chin, Soap makes an act of pretending to ponder – and it succeeds in stoking the flames at your core, fury burning through you like a liquor-soaked rope.

“I dunno, lass,” he says on a sigh, his ocean eyes betraying a mischief in their depths. “Yer kinda mean to me.”

You might choke him.

Actually, check that, you will choke him. He’s impossible – an arsehole to the nth degree – somehow worse than Ghost in his… foolishness? Was that the right word? Or just straight frustrating-ness?

Seeming to sense your thinning patience, Soap’s hand falls from his jaw with a mirthful smirk, proud of himself. 

“If ye say pretty please, ye can join our lil’ duo.” He finishes the statement off with a wink, and you don’t realise that your hands have curled into fists until the sharp pain of nails digging into your palms force you to resort back to your senses.

You let out a slow, loud breath. 

Neither of them move a muscle, except for the twitch of Soap’s dimple. You hate that you recognise such a small movement, but you easily blame it on the fact that it’s a drilled-in mentality.

“...Please,” you acquiesce, however quiet. 

Ghost’s eyebrow raises. How you’re aware of that, considering his mask, is a props to him. 

“That’s not what he asked for.” His voice is a low, husky thing, and the title of guard dog suddenly doesn’t sound so incorrect.

With your teeth gritted and cheeks straining, you mutter out, “Pretty please.”

Soap’s responding smile is nothing short of beaming, and you almost immediately wish that you could take those words back. Was death really so bad? Would it even be a mercy, compared to deciding to share a threadbare camaraderie with these weirdos?

Too bad time control isn’t exactly a well-researched military weapon.

“Let’s go then,” Ghost slaps his gloved hand against the steering wheel, before looking one last time towards you with purpose, “Sweetheart.”

Soap laughs.

You get out and slam the door in his face.

“Och! You feckin’ bastard, lass,” you hear him screech, before the door opens once more and Soap hops out, fuming.

Turning away, you fall behind Ghost, and quickly take a look around at the vast, empty area that is barren suburbia. Not before responding, however.

“Next time you get shot, I’m not taking care of your ass,” you threaten. “And I’m giving the rest of my sweets to Mr. Melodramatic.”

Soap’s returning mock gasp is, in all fairness, pretty comedic. “You have more sweets? Gimme those and ye lovely bedside manners ‘nd I’ll get a cavity!”

Your returning glare could cut steel. “Keep that up, and you’ll end up with bigger issues than a cavity.”

“I think ye are already the bigger issue,” Soap snaps back, but it’s not inherently malicious. It’s… borderline playful, and that sudden thought has you internally slapping yourself.

“Both of ya – quiet,” Ghost warns.

You both shut up immediately.

With wary steps, the three of you go to step up towards the front door, when Ghost swings out a hand, stopping the lot of you in your tracks. The night doesn’t allow for any of you to see well, but he must’ve picked up something that you hadn’t.

The thought is an immediately terrifying one.

“Pressure plates,” Soap murmurs under his breath, eyeing the square linoleum tile. “Nice catch, Lt.”

Ghost doesn’t respond, instead motioning for you to follow him towards a glassless window. Gravel crunches underneath your light footfalls, easily heard in the deathly quiet, as you move to swing your leg over the access point and drop to the floor inside.

Landing with a soft thud, you go to unfurl from your crouching position, before a loud warning shout from Ghost has you freezing.

Flinching where you stand, your eyes dart to where Ghost has flung one of his daggers, the sharp metal splintering a wooden beam further into the dark room. Realising that Soap sits at your flank, you shift your gaze to spot a red light focused in on his forehead – between his eyes.

“¿Quien esta ahi?” An unfamiliar, accented voice calls out from behind the beam. You could slap yourself for being so careless, in not realising that someone else was in here before Ghost had saved your arses. 

“Rodolfo!” Soap calls out, relief flooding his tone as he rights his position, shoulders back.

A man peeks out from behind the wood, eyes wide and slightly panicked, before they soften at the sight of the two men behind you. “Soap! Ghost! You’re alive!”

Stepping out from around the beam, he reaches for Ghost’s dagger, pulling it away from where it had dug into the oak with undeniable ease. His appearance is striking, with a set jaw and gentle features – he’s quite pretty, but not at all in a way that you find yourself attracted to the man.

“Affirmative,” Ghost responds, accepting the knife back when the man – Rodolfo – hands it to him hilt-first.

“Good to see you, amigos,” Rodolfo smiles, before his appraisal sets on you, confusion sparking in his deep brown eyes. He looks to the two men at your side for an explanation, hesitant in the way he does so.

“This is…” Soap trails off, before coming to a realisation. “Feckin’ hell. I never even asked for yer name, Sweetheart.”

Rodolfo blinks. Once, twice, before his eyebrows furrow and his mouth settles into an uncomfortable grimace.

You shoot a glare Soap’s way, before gifting Rodolfo a polite, yet stilted, smile. Extending your hand, you give him your name, and then your official title.

“Colonel? Graves’ colonel?” Rodolfo repeats back, utterly taken aback by such an introduction. He doesn’t seem to know what to do, quickly hissing to Soap in unamused Spanish, “¿Has perdido la cabeza?”

“I saved his life,” you interrupt, before any verbal sparring begins. “And I’m on your team. I don’t agree with what Graves is doing – and I’m sorry for what he’s already done. But I want to help you. I swear.”

Rodolfo regards you for a moment, his internal walls still heavily locked in place. But he seems… softer, now, in a way. More understanding, maybe, less hesitant as he slowly appraises you, inspecting you under his critical analysis.

The silence stretches, before the soldier raises his hands placatingly, the left side of his mouth twitching into a smooth smirk. “No accusations from me, Corazón,” he reassures, the pet name sliding from his full lips like butter over warm toast.

“Aye, none of tha’,” Soap warns, and Rodolfo’s amusement deepens. Whatever the Scot is about to say next is abruptly stopped by Ghost’s booming demand from behind you both.

“Anyone outside of these walls is now considered a hostile – we’re a team now. This happened under my watch, and I’d bloody well do good to fix it.” His posture is stiff, hand unconsciously flexing around the blade strapped to his belt as he delivers the order. It’s the most you’ve ever heard him speak in one shot.

You figure he’s stopped speaking, when suddenly his heavy gaze is on you, any ounce of solidarity snuffed out like a match’s flame. “You fuck up once, Sweetheart, and I won’t hesitate when I shoot ya dead.”

It’s as good of a compromise as you’re going to get from the hulking Lieutenant, but you weren’t made Colonel for your talents in stepping down.

“You forget that I outrank you,” you challenge, chin raised and eyes flinty. “And that I saved your mutt.”

“We don’t have a feckin’ dog,” Soap starts, but when he sees the way Ghost side eyes him, and how you give him an unimpressed look, his jaw drops. “Ye bastard! Shoulda killed ya –”

Rodolfo’s hand wraps around Soap’s forearm, the grumbling man twisting in his hold, but not putting up anything close to a fight. “She’s just stirring you up, hermano,” Rodolfo placates, his large eyes meeting yours with a hint of respect in them. It has you straightening your spine, and your resolve.

“We sort this out as equals,” you state, folding your arms over your chest and bucking your hip. Ghost doesn’t, for a single second, shift your mutual eye contact. “And you will all tell me what the fuck’s going on – and what we’re doing.”

“Alejandro,” Ghost quips, sharp and to the point. Finally, you think, his near-black eyes drift to Rodolfo. “We need him back.”

“He’s the only other lad we can trust out there,” Soap adds, his pout easing slightly. Rodolfo finally drops his hand, clapping it hard against the petulant man’s shoulder with a firm nod.

“Already got a head start, hermanos,” he gestures for the three of you to follow him further into the room, before his calculating eyes glance back at you, “y hermana.”

It’s an unknown, entirely different feeling that erupts inside of your chest at the inclusion. Rodolfo was clearly the most soft spoken man of the three, but he had an intelligence to him that you couldn’t wait to unpack. And he trusted you. Or so you had gathered, anyway.

However.

First things first.

“...Where’s Alejandro? I thought he was Mexican Special Forces?” It was, admittedly, a unique kind of embarrassing – how out of the loop you felt, considering you were a colonel under Graves’ command. You’d heard the man’s name before, but it was usually just paired with barracks gossip and warnings to steer clear. Some joke about how the only one who could kill Alejandro, was the soldier himself.

Moving along with Rodolfo, you’re surprised when it’s Soap who supplies you the answer.

“Your fuckwit of a Commander’s got ‘im,” he curses, the words grating and harsh. Deserved, of course it was deserved, yet it was still odd hearing such disrespect for the man of whom you’d idolised for so long.

Of whom you’d given everything.

Switching a light on, Rodolfo stops in front of a large table, a map laid out across the top of it. Your eyes go wide at the intricacies – focusing as the man leans over and presses a finger towards a highlighted spot, watching the three of you where you stand on the other side. Dust floats near the source of the lamp, and the scent of grime hits you a moment later, a familiar thing.

“Graves is holding him here,” Rodolfo explains, his previously mischievous expression settling into a firm, military-grade frown.

“His own personal black site prison,” Soap scoffs, subconsciously flexing his fingers around the straps of his vest. His focus is utterly devoted to the map in front of him, but his anxiety shows itself through the tiniest of movements.

Rubbing his spare hand down his face, Rodolfo lets out a long, strewn-out sigh. “My men are locked in there, too.”

“Then let’s get them back,” you supply with a small shrug when all eyes shoot your direction.

“That’s obvious, lass,” Soap says, lacking any hint of his previous vitriol when he looks around the room. “How we get ‘em back is the question.”

“By breaking in,” Ghost answers, the retort as simple as breathing.

If you weren’t so receptive to body movements, to the smallest of expressions, you’d’ve missed it. Even then, you doubted that anyone could miss how Soap’s eyes soften when he looks to his Lieutenant, how his breath softly hitches in his throat.

You want to claw out your eyes with a rusty spoon.

By the look on Rodolfo’s face, he feels much the same – until he catches you staring, and then his face twists into something much more cryptic. Like a man trying to solve a puzzle without all of the pieces, being forced to jam spares into spots that just won’t fit.

“We need weapons,” you startle out, the words surprising even yourself. You don’t go back on them, don’t even think to. “If we want to stand a fighting chance – we need firepower.”

“Who said you’re with us?” Ghost questions snarkily, but when you go to reply, you find that Rodolfo’s moved to the corner of the room, switching on even more lights, displaying a wrought iron door.

Sliding it open, you feel like a kid on Christmas morning as you take note of the supplies within.

Rodolfo shrugs, but the small, smug grin on his face doesn’t dispel. “It’s well-stocked. This is Ale we’re talking about.”

The affectionate nickname is something you store away for later. ‘Well-stocked’ is certainly an understatement – guns of all types line the walls within the room, all types of bombs and grenades along with it.

“Alright,” Ghost huffs out, the closest to appreciative that a man like him can get.

Soap is much more upfront about his joy. “My man!” He laughs, his dimples etched into his features like the light spattering of freckles over his upper cheeks and nose bridge. “We’re gonna need new wheels. Preferably up-armoured.”

Digging into his pocket, Rodolfo pulls out a set of keys, tossing them over to Ghost with relaxed shoulders. Turning, shock must be evident on all of you, because Rodolfo lets out a low chuckle. “Your wish is my command, hermanos y hermana.”

To the far end of the room, within the adjoined stables, is a fully-armoured forward drive of some sort – sleek and black and fucking perfect.

“Alejandro thought of everything,” Ghost admires, and when you look to him, you swear that you can see a hint of hope shining in his darkened eyes. Your heart skips a beat on its own accord, and you’re absorbed by the all-consuming want to pull it out of your chest with your bare hands, just so it never does such a thing again.

“Yeah, he did,” Soap whistles, before turning back around to face your small band of misfits. With a determined grin, he says as if it’s an afterthought, “Let’s go get ‘im.”

With a stern resolve and an even sterner disposition, you walk alongside your newfound teammates, and get ready for the most difficult mission of your military career.

*

When you’d, stupidly, recklessly, decided to play good guy and helps out the 141 and Los Vaqueros, you hadn’t taken into account how you’d be at the bottom of the totem pole.

While the three men you were working alongside were all considerably close, you were an outsider. At that, an outsider who had, only a few hours ago, decided to swap sides from enemy to ally.

Being paired with Ghost is, arguably, the most gut-wrenching job in your life. By the time that Rodolfo finds Alejandro through the CCTV system, you’re nearly entirely covered in dried blood, and your head thumps with a headache.

Not a headache from war – a headache from the fucking twat with a shitty DIY job for a military get-up.

“You’re seriously the worst,” you grit out, wiping off a bit of Shadow blood that’s been sprayed on your cheek. “I seriously can’t fucking believe that any one of your mates can tolerate you.”

“Who needs ‘mates’ when I have my boys?” Ghost quips back, wiping off his bloody dagger onto his vest, before slotting it back into its rightful position on his belt. His ability to blend into the night, even with the prison lights on, is uncanny – the only tell the white of his stitched-in skull.

You mock a disgusted sound, sticking out your tongue. “You sound like a fuckboy.”

“A what?” And, although it sounds nothing like a choke, you’re sure that it’s an instinctual question.

The sound of a helicopter up ahead has the two of you pausing in your tracks, feud coming to a quick halt. Looking up, you struggle to see the vehicle in the black of night, but you manage to spot the slowly circling heli above the prison.

“Ghost, Sweetheart, what’s yer status?” Soap’s voice trickles in through your comms. Ghost glances at you, before he answers on your behalf, ever the control-freak.

“Comin’ your way.”

Falling into step side-by-side, you focus on the wet gravel underneath your feet, avoiding making any communication with the man to your right.

“Copy. We’re on the move,” Soap replies, before Rodolfo cuts in.

“Heads up on the helo,” he warns. You find that you much prefer him over the other two – in fact, under any other circumstance, you could see the two of you becoming good friends. Maybe, if everything goes well, that could be a possibility – a positive in your world of negatives.

“Don’t think we’re in his line of sight,” you respond, double-checking your route and the helicopter's position in the sky. Rodolfo had warned you all, debriefing in the drive here, that helicopters would likely show up at some point.

Minutes pass, with small comms between the lot of you, when you finally spot the familiar figures belonging to the other half of your precarious team. 

Soap and Rodolfo stand at the entrance, before the two turn at the sound of your and Ghost’s footsteps. They both seem to visibly loosen their stiff shoulders, seeing you both uninjured – and if you do the same, you pray that no one notices.

“The door’s locked,” Soap informs you all, gesturing to the steel entrance5.

With a small hum, Rodolfo reaches for the pack on his vest. “We’ll need to breach it,” he explains, but before he can grab a charger, Ghost raises a hand to stop him.

“No, Rudy –” And that is a nickname that you’ll be using later, “Knock.”

Rodolfo seems apprehensive, but he agrees anyway, giving all three of you separate glances. “On me…”

All of you getting into readying positions, Rodolfo knocks on the door, the sound echoing loud enough to have your blood pounding in your ears.

A moment later, a Shadow – one you don’t recall having met – pushes open the door and moves to step outside. However, Rodolfo and Ghost are quick to neutralise him, softly dropping his body to the floor.

Pushing through the entrance, everyone except for you shoot a Shadow dead – clearing the room in less than twenty seconds. It’s impressive, how smoothly run the operation is, considering the lack of proper authority or guidance.

You’re the first to spot some more Shadows moving your way, down the stairs – calling it out. “More Shadows from the second floor – watch out!”

This time, you find yourself the cause of two men falling to the ground, blood pooling underneath their lifeless bodies. Your team doesn't give you time to second guess, to mourn, before they’re encouraging you to follow them up the stairs.

“Ale’s up here, let’s go!” Rodolfo urges, his voice bordering on a kind of desperation reminiscent of a boy enlisting for the first time.

Like expected, Alejandro’s cell is down the hall, sat to the far right. Two Shadows guard the steel door, but Soap and Rodolfo are quick to light them up, successfully clearing the entire two floors. You’re ashamed of how relieved you feel, being gifted the small mercies of not having to kill your previous subordinates, unless necessary.

You feel, more than see, Ghost’s heavy gaze on you. When you look back up from the gun in your hands, however, he’s turned completely away – and if you were a less accurate person, you’d have thought you were imagining things.

“There’s Alejandro’s cell.” Stopping at the steel door, Rodolfo adjusts his grip on the gun, before giving you an encouraging jerk of his head. “Open it up, me and Soap will cover you.”

Another small mercy, you think, as Ghost reaches into his backpack and pulls out a set of bolt cutters, regarding you stiffly. “When I pop this lock, you push in,” he directs you curtly, and you bite back a retort. You knew the process like the back of your hand – you had no need for an explanation.

The ‘especially from him’ goes unsaid.

With precise, practised movements, Ghost positions the bolt cutters, and pushes open the door.

As soon as you take one step into the cell, a large hand wraps around the back of your neck, slamming your face into the concrete wall, a blinding pain shooting through your retinas. Letting out a small yelp, your chest rattles as your hands wildly raise in an imitation of surrender.

“Alejandro! Let go of ‘er! It’s us!” Soap calls out, and you swallow unhealthy amounts of air. That hit had taken more out of you than you’d expected – and your harsh breaths were making that incredibly apparent.

The grip on the scruff of your neck slackens when Rodolfo shoots off in quickfire Spanish, “Coronel, relájate, cabron, somos nosotros.”

Your cheek aches and your head pounds as the hand removes itself entirely, allowing for you to take in lungfuls of oxygen.

“Soap, Ghost!” Alejandro bursts out, and as you rise to your feet unsteadily, you watch as he thumps both of them on the back of their shoulders, before turning to Rodolfo with an expression that could only be described as longing. “...Rudy.”

“Didn’t think we’d leave ya, did ye?” Soap chuckles, oblivious to the thread of tension between the two men. 

Whatever silent conversation had occured between the two enforcers is quickly cut as Alejandro accepts the shake of Soap’s hand, a feral grin wide on his features. “What took you so long, pendejos?”

“A traitor with an attitude is what,” Ghost inputs, and really, how much self control can a Lieutenant lack? Wiping at your cheek, you let your hand fall once more to your side as you meet Alejandro’s inquisitive gaze head-on.

“I’m Graves’ previous colonel,” you extend your hand, “And I’m your best bet at getting your base back.”

You expect suspicion, uproar, maybe – or at least questioning, similar to that of Rodolfo’s.

Instead, all you’re met with is Alejandro’s manic smile sharpening, and a slap on the back of your own. Ruffling your hair, he uses his free hand to accept the gun Rodolfo’s extending towards him, shooting you a knowing glance.

“Sounds good, hermana. Welcome to how real men fight.”

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re

[daydreaming-paradies]

Genshin Men and Their Flower Language(s)

ᡣ𐭩 Summary:Every flower has its own language. What flower language do these genshin men have?

ᡣ𐭩 characters: Xiao(201), Aether(107), Venti(105) and Alhaitham(128)

ᡣ𐭩 Warnings: Fluff(Alhatiham + Aether), Hurt no comfort/angst(Xiao and Venti){Yes I am doing this bc i can :3}, Major character death{reader dies on Xiao and Venti's part} Alcoholism as a coping mechanism on Venti's part, mentions of blood and fighting in Xiao's part

ᡣ𐭩 ~ Want to Continue?~ Part 1

art belongs to @/eriimyon on X/Twitter

Alhaitham

Rosebud- A heart innocent of love

Why is your heart filled with innocent love? That is Alhaitham’s question every single day. Ever since he had met you, you always smile and greet him whenever you two see each other. The thing is..you still did even when you two were dating. Most people describe Alhaitham as a emotionless, blunt and heartless scribe but to you, he is your bookworm and unique lover and you will burn the world for him. Now you have caused him to blush and had to hide his face from others. If he can pick out a flower for you every day, it is rosebud. You are too innocent and lovely for his heart..stop it, you’re figuratively killing him with your love!! He is literally red in the face!!!

Aether

Lily-of-the-valley: You’ve made my life complete

Aether thinks that the archons have blessed him with a cutie pie because he can not fathom how you appeared in his life but what he does know is that he is not letting you go. Searching for his sister is tiring and he often felt lonely but with you, he finally started to see that life has its upsides and downs. Yes you may feel like the world is against you, you felt that you are lonely in this unfamiliar world but..Aether now has you in his arms, just smiling like a goofball. Lily-of-the-valley is Aether’s flower. Why? Well...you have made his life complete.

Venti

Dark Crimson Rose- Mourning

People come and go but for Venti, he did not want you to go. He had to watch your life drained from your eyes. He had to bury you near the tree in Windrise. He uses alcohol to cope with your passing. He was so lost without you..he can’t even live without you but he had too. Everyone who sends their condolences to him but it is not the same. You were haunting his mind as he grew drunk, wallowing in pain. Dark Crimson Rose is perfect for Venti since he will never let go of you. Your memories will always be his songs.

Xiao

Sweetpea- Departure, Goodbye

Where there is life, there is death. Xiao himself has been mortals who live their lives to the fullest to their peaceful demises. Xiao, standing in the Wangshu Inn , staring at the night sky filled with the stars. He thinks back to the memories in his mind. Memories of you and him, your smile, your happiness, how you make his world more lively. He thinks back to how you always give him almond tofu and gifts that remind you of him. Then memories of your death flashes in his mind. The sight of your blood tainted the green grass after a harsh battle. He visits your favorite place in Liyue, with a bouquet of flowers. He looked at the tombstone in front of him and placed the bouquet on the grave. “You are my sun and I am you are my moon. Life may continue forward but..you will never leave me in memories. My heart belongs to you and you alone. Rest in peace my love. May you smile in my presence. I will never forget you. Goodbye..{name}.” Sweetpea is a perfect flower for him. A flower for this moment. A flower to say goodbye to everyone you love.

~Taglist: @husky-studies @purpleqilinwrites @yoghurtsan @ryuryuryuyurboat @windblume-wishes @thestarswhisper @the-guardian-kitsune @sanzach @dailypenpen @asoulsreverie @ainescribe @amxto @kitsuvil @kalims @mccnstruck @rrxaiky / @rx-lounge @dxmoness @areislol

[thebibliosphere]

hello, this is just me kinda sharing unsolicited Batman related feelings that i’m wallowing in, don’t mind me

i started playing Gotham Knights after seeing a few of your posts about it, and i’ve had a bit of a Batman/Justice League/Batfam fixation for the past few weeks. i was enjoying it! the environments were interesting and the combat was cool, and i loved listening to whatever Alfred had to say.

however, i made the mistake of finding Gotham Cemetery as Nightwing and thinking, “wait, is Bruce…?”, followed my gamer instincts (which is usually something along the lines of “follow the lights”), and ended up climbing to a higher vantage point to see if i could spot Bruce’s grave.

welp, all i had to do was spin the camera a little and oh. i’m standing next it. my boy Dick is already standing next to his father’s grave. it’s cleaner, newer than the surrounding headstones, there’s fresh flowers on it, and the rain made for a scene that kinda wrote itself.

somehow that hit me harder than the video Bruce left behind, harder than the funeral. i got so sad i had to quit the game and start reading some Batman comics :’) i wasn’t expecting me the player to also process grief along with all the characters, damn.

anyway, hope you’re having an awesome day!

Oh man, yeah. I did the same thing and then spent a lot of time walking through the cemetery, looking at all the names. I really liked that they carved Wayne Tower out of his stone so that when you look through it at a certain angle, you can see the Gotham skyline through his headstone. (And then the game dragged me back there later for one of Dick's cutscenes, and I went through all the stages of grief all over again. I had a similar reaction to Barbara visiting her father's monument. I won't spoil it, but man. Man.)

The makeshift memorial outside Wayne Tower also left a lump in my throat the first time I saw it. As did the #ThankYouBruce hashtag they have on the electronic billboards showing Bruce's face in profile against the city.

IDK, just something about the idea of Dick having to walk past that every time he gets dragged into a shareholder meeting fucks me up.

The game has many issues, but its ability to wring every emotion known to man and some kaleidoscopic ones only known to shrimp out of my jaded husk of a soul is not one of them.

I hope you continue to enjoy playing it! And take breaks. I ended up mainlining an entire season of Wayne Family Adventures after I finished my first playthrough 😅

[stormhearty]

Pairings: Former Rhysand x Reader, Feysand, Tarquin x Reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Triggers: mentions of depression, relapse, attempts at suicide

Summary: It has been two decades since you left Night Court, leaving the life you had always known. It had been five years since you were in Dawn Court, slowly healing with the help of its High Lord. Now, you had resided in Summer Court, Tarquin by your side through your healing process. But when a mating bond snaps between the two of you when your health turns for the worse, how would you process something that you never thought would happen in your immortal life? And when you decide to confront your former family, would you forgive them for their past discretions? The story of the aftermath of your broken heart of glass.

Note: From this request! Thank you so much for wanting a second part to “Breaking Like Glass”!! I love that everyone enjoyed that fic’s immense angst, so I will gladly give you guys the fluff, romance, and healing the reader needs. And I do hope this isn’t cheesy. I struggled a bit on writing this, whether to debate to make it angsty, but I feel like, it has enough of the balance. Please do enjoy!

Breaking Like Glass | Masterlist

“You know, my stardust, you don't have to do this… We can have our mating ceremony with our family. We don't have to invite Night Court…”

You let out a thoughtful hum as you lounged in one of the lounging chairs in Tarquin’s office, book in hand. You placed a finger on your page before looking over your shoulder at the High Lord of Summer, who looked at you with concern etched on his beautiful features.

After centuries of being with Rhysand, you had always thought that you would be content in not finding your mate. You had thought, and wished, that you would have eternity with the High Lord of Night Court. However, with the fiasco two decades ago, all you wanted to do was heal — fix your broken heart and mind from your torture from Under the Mountain, to fix your broken soul from being ripped apart by your family. You did not want to fall in love — you didn’t want to give your taped-up heart to someone and be worried about having it torn apart again.

You had safe-guarded your heart behind high, metal walls with a fog of darkness to protect it — to protect you from breaking all over again, and losing yourself once more.

But what you had never dreamed of was a mating bond to snap.

And you never thought it would be with another High Lord.

The very moment you had stepped into Summer soil, Tarquin had been nothing but kind and gentle, helping you through your decade of healing. He allowed you to take your time — he allowed you to wallow, he allowed you to be silent, he allowed you to grieve, something that you never were able to do while you were in Valeris. He allowed you to cry in anguish, he allowed you to cry in pain — he allowed the forty-nine years of suffering to seep out of your aching body. And he was silently there, beside you, watching over you… to ensure you were safe and well cared for while you did.

And that was all you could have wished for while you were healing. You didn’t need words, you didn’t need condolences… Tarquin allowed you to heal in the way that your heart and mind needed.

All the while Tarquin healed your broken soul that came upon the betrayal from Night Court, you would be sent back to Dawn Court to mend your mind and body from the tortures of the Attor. The two High Lords worked in tandem with one another… all for you. Both Tarquin and Thesan realized your worth, both realized your importance and believed it was worth their power and time to heal you.

It had been five years since you came from Dawn Court when the mating bond snapped between you and Tarquin.

It was when your nightmares had resurrected themselves from the grave, haunting you thoroughly to the point you had relapsed back from your progress.

You had screamed and clawed against everything that had neared you, your eyes frantic at the absolute fear and dread of returning to that moment in your life — the pain of the Attor and betrayal of your husband, that still lurked in the darkness of your fear. You had hurt yourself, multiple times during that relapse — skin broken with knives, daggers, broken glass — anything that your hands got to… hoping for the pain to seep out of your skin.

But Tarquin was there through all of that — grabbing and hiding everything that you could try to hurt yourself with. He fought tooth and nail to get to you, whispering sweet nothings — that you were worth it, you were worth the pain and anguish, that you were worth everything. And that you would get through the pain — and that he’d be right beside you through it.

You couldn’t feel it, the glow of the mating bond between the two of you — for you were too shrouded in your fear to notice.

All the while, Tarquin felt every emotion you had felt — the despair, the anguish, the pain that wracked your body. He fought back all the tears as he held you against him, pouring as much care and love through the newly found bond.

The relapse had taken an immense hit on your health — you were sick for weeks on end, going in and out of consciousness barely able to make out who had been taking care of you.

When you had been well enough, you had learned that Tarquin, himself, had been the one to care for you during your illness. And you, though you shouldn’t have been, was surprised at that fact. The High Lord of Summer Court took time away from his busy schedule to tend to you. He had owed you nothing… and yet he had taken time to care for you.

“Why did you do that…?” you had asked, storming into his office, pausing mid-step when you had seen Thesan and the Captain in the room. It seemed that you had interrupted an important meeting between the two High Lords — possibly about your condition.

Tarquin looked at you for a moment, a gentle sigh escaping his lips as he looked at Thesan and gave him an apologetic nod of his head. Thesan glanced between the two of you before standing up from his seat on the plush couch and heading your way. The High Lord of Dawn smiled at you, leaning down to press a kiss onto the crown of your head, “Hello, my child… be nice to him…”

The request was confusing to you as you allowed the High Lord and Captain to step out of the room, the click of the door resonating behind you — leaving you and Tarquin alone in that grand room. The atmosphere grew awkward and you couldn’t help but bite your lower lip, you glanced everywhere besides the High Lord, and you heard him let out a chuckle.

You frowned, glaring at him slightly before watching him stand up and walk towards you, reaching out a hand for you to hold, “We have much to talk about, (Y/N)…” he murmured.

You stared at his hand, sighing softly before reaching over to place you had on top of his. His had always radiated warmth that you seemed to want to grasp onto often — it was warm and inviting, much like the summer sun he had ruled over. You followed him further into his office, walking past his desk and onto the large balcony overviewing his Court. There was a large settee that Tarquin led you to, sitting you down before he sat next to you, leaving a gap between both of you.

“Now… What was it you were saying, (Y/N)? About why I did that?” he questioned, turquoise hues staring at the massive land of his Court, allowing the summer breeze to greet the two of you.

Relaxing against the settee, you remained quiet for a few moments, eyes fluttering close at the breeze that tickled your skin. When you opened your eyes once more and turned your attention to the High Lord, you were slightly startled when you noticed he was staring at you — something in his eyes sparkling that you were unsure of… or slightly denied.

“…Why did you take care of me when I was ill?” you asked him, not bothering to beat around the bush, “You didn’t owe me anything, this… arrangement between us is only until I get better and can move on from my nightmares—”

“When did I say that this… arrangement is only until you get better?” he interrupted you with a raised brow, “I did not say anything like that. I am allowing you to stay until you want to leave… I’m giving you the choice to stay and to heal the way you need, unlike your time in Night Court. And, I took care of you because I wanted to, (Y/N). I couldn’t let you hurt yourself like you did, to be so haunted by your nightmares every waking second… I couldn’t let you suffer the way Rhysand let you for all those months…”

You flinched at the name of your former husband. It still ached — no matter how long it had been, it still ached hearing his name. Usually, Tarquin and Thesan avoided saying his name around you, both afraid of a possible relapse. You let out a shaky breath, as your eyes stared at something beyond him, a distant stare — feeling yourself move out of your body, a sensation that had started to become normal for you ever since you were in Dawn Court.

Feeling Tarquin’s warmth again, you blinked twice before focusing on him again a small smile tugged on your lips, and shook your head, “…I’m fine…” you whispered, head tilting down to look at your intertwined hands. You took deep breaths, something that Thesan had taught you after your moments of distance.

Tug, tug… you felt something in your chest. Your head tilted in confusion until you felt it again — tug, tug… You lifted your head and looked at the High Lord once more. You saw a twinkle in those turquoise hues, a hopeful look hidden within those depths.

“…What…” you muttered in disbelief, and you felt another tug in your chest.

“You felt it, did you not, (Y/N)?” Tarquin questioned, leaning forward slightly, warm hands gently gripping yours — as if preventing you from running away.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded your head, too scared for any words to escape you.

How could a mating bond happen? After everything that happened to you, your mind and body were broken, being held together by pieces of tape held together by Tarquin and Thesan — you could barely hold yourself together. Your healing process for the past fifteen years was slow, and there were many times when you believed you would never be okay again. How can someone like you be mated to another High Lord? How can someone as broken as you be another leader of a Court?

Thoughts of insecurities passed through your mind, unknowingly sending them down the newly formed bond. You were startled out of your thought by Tarquin’s hand gently caressing your cheek, forcing you to look at him.

“You do not have to accept the mating bond, as of yet, (Y/N)… I will wait, you can heal. Just know that I accept you, even if you are broken and torn. You still have years of healing to do, but I will be by your side — always.”

Tears ran down your cheeks as he shifted closer, pressing his hands on your cheeks to wipe them away. All you can do is nod. Allowing the love and warmth of the bond to slowly heal you.

It had been another five years since then. A little over two decades after you left Night Court to accept the bond. For five years, Tarquin had courted you, cared for you… loved you the way you needed. He did not force anything onto you and allowed you to fall in love with him in such a natural way that it felt second nature to you.

“…(Y/N)…” your mate called out to you, snapping out of your trance.

You blinked and refocused on the present, eyes focusing on Tarquin who had moved from his spot at his desk to you, hands rubbing your shoulders. Tilting your head back, you gave him a smile, reaching up with your free hand to reach up to run your fingers against his cheek as he looked down at you.

“No… I would like to invite them. I think… I need closure from my time there. And…” there was hesitance in your voice at the next words, “I do miss them. I lived with them for centuries, and all of a sudden I cut them off my life for a good reason… there are times when I missed them.”

Tarquin hummed understandingly as he squeezed your shoulders, “Understandable. We will invite them… But I worry—-”

“—- I won’t relapse. I promise…” you moved from your lounging position to sitting up, shifting so you were on your knees, at eye level with him. You felt him wrap his arm around your waist so you were steady as your hands placed themselves on his biceps, playing around with the fabric of his outfit, “I’m better — well, as best I can be — but I know you’ll be there… I will be fine.”

There was reluctance in his features, those turquoise hues trying to find any lie in your words before he gave you a nod.

“I concede…” he murmured and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the hesitancy in his words. Pressing a gentle kiss on the High Lord’s cheek, murmuring a thank you before moving back to your position on the lounge chair, picking up your book once more.

You looked back up to just miss the shake of his head, before he wrapped a hand around your neck, tilting your head up so he could lean down to press a kiss on your lips, “After our mating ceremony, I wish for you to initiate our kisses, my stardust…”

Feeling the warmth of your cheeks you stared up at him, “If that is the wish of my High Lord, then it shall happen…”

He let out a low chuckle before pressing another kiss on your lips, your book forgotten on your lap.

The ceremony venue was extravagant, to say the least — Tarquin, as well as Thesan from what you had gathered, pulled all the stops. The throne room of Summer Court was flourishing with flowers and the summer sun radiating down through all the large windows.

You were a nervous mess sitting in your room. It was still several hours before the ceremony, that you weren’t too nervous for; it was the fact that you were going to meet your old family once more.

The Captain of Dawn, your dear friend, had informed you that the Inner Circle just arrived at the outskirts of Summer Court. And that set off your nerves completely.

You had requested, when you had sent the letter to Night Court, to meet with them before your ceremony — to officially close the wounds between all of you.

And so when a knock startled you out of your worries, you turned around in your chair from your vanity where you were getting ready. Watching those doors open to reveal your old family.

There stood Rhysand, in his Night Court attire along with Feyre, who was at his side. There was a pang in your chest, the pain of their betrayal somehow festering its way back into your heart. But it was slowly soothed out by the warmth of the mating bond that Tarquin seemed to have sent your way. The doors closed behind the Inner Circle, and you noticed the Captain of Dawn stationed at the door.

Thesan’s lover is quite a busybody isn’t he…? You had sent down the bond to your mate. And all you felt was Tarquin’s chuckle as you focused back on the now.

You slowly stood up, a small smile on your features before you watched from the corner of your eye Mor heading to a sprint and giving you the biggest hug.

“… I’m so sorry, (Y/N)…” she apologized, the words repeating on her lips as she squeezed you, burying her head into your neck.

Tears pricked the edge of your eyes as your arms wrapped around her and you buried your head to the crook of her neck, letting the blond curls tickle your face.

“… Mor…” you whined her name.

A sob wracked through the blonde’s body, “I’m just glad you’re okay. That you’re better…” she whispered before pulling back and staring at you, “I’m glad you found your mate. I’m glad that he’s making you happy — that you deserve happiness — after all the shit you went through and everything we had put you under…”

You smiled at her as you felt her cup your cheeks, nodding your head, “… — Thank you, Mor. I’m glad to see you again, truly. I missed you so much…”

A smile tugged on Mor’s features, “We will see each other more… if you let us.”

You nodded your head as she stepped away, allowing the rest of the Inner Court to greet you — hugging you and whispering their utmost apologies and congratulations.

Cassian had lifted you into his arms, something he used to do often when you were his Lady still, giving you a spin, “You will always be my Lady, (Y/N)…” he whispered into your ears, pressing a kiss against your cheek before literally handing you off to Azriel.

A giggle escaped your lips as you hugged the Spymaster as he pressed a kiss on your opposite cheek, “We will forever live with the regret of losing you…” Azriel hummed out, “We had and always will love you… But I wish for nothing but happiness for you…”

Your heart flourished at the words of your former family — the words that you had wished to hear two decades ago — slowly piecing your heart and soul back together. You had known, while you were healing, that they had always cared for you and that never meant to put so much pressure on you, unknowing of your nightmares and struggles after being Under the Mountain.

When you were settled back onto your feet, you turned to face Rhysand. The tension between the two of you was still high and you fought back all the urge to just run away from this confrontation between the two of you. You gave him a small smile before focusing your attention on Feyre who stepped up, reaching out to hold your hands.

“I am truly sorry…” she whispered, leaning forward to press her forehead against yours.

You understood why Rhysand fell in love with Feyre. You had heard of the great deeds she had done for Night Court, for Prythian… she was something you could never have been next to Rhysand. The true High Lady of Night Court.

And somehow, you were okay with it.

Shaking your head, you looked at the High Lady, “…You were just following the feeling of the mating bond. Like I said that night, I cannot fault you for choosing your mate. I cannot fault you for following the tug… I — I would like to extend my congratulations —-”

Feyre shook her head, brows knitting at your words, “Do not, please. I will not accept that not when I have unknowingly broken you along with the rest of your family. ”

You looked at her, nodding your head as you felt her step back and the familiar scent and presence of your former husband taking her place. You lifted your eyes to look into violet ones — ones that sparkled with regret, ones that you were in love with for so long.

Even if it was two decades that passed, you felt like you were still in sync with him, knowing what he wanted. Turning onto your heels, you made your way to one of the furthest balconies, Rhysand following your steps. The large window doors closed behind you, leaving both of you in a pocket of privacy away from prying ears. You could see, from the corner of your eye, the Captain making his way closer to the doors and all you could do was hold a hand up — signaling that you were fine and safe.

Turning back around, you focused on Rhysand who’s eyes were solely on you. Stepping past him, you made your way to the railing, pressing your hands on the warm marble, as you basked in the summer sun.

“(Y/N)…” Rhysand whispered one that was so quiet that the wind barely was able to carry it to your sensitive ears.

“I… I cannot forgive you, Rhysand…” you declared, eyes still closed as you let the warmth of your new home wash over you, to comfort you as you confront your past, “I cannot and do not fault you for choosing her. I can see why you had fallen for her — she’s beautiful, both inside and out. But I cannot forgive you for it. You had broken me so much, that there were many times during my healing that I wondered why I wasn’t enough for you to choose me. Wondering what I have done to make you choose someone else other than your wife who stood next to you for centuries.”

You could hear the shaky breath that Rhysand exhaled as you felt him stand next to you on the balcony.

You couldn’t look at him, every fiber in your body shaking to break again if you looked at him. You needed to be strong — for yourself and for the people around you who worried immensely for your health.

“I know… I know you would never forgive me, (Y/N). I have accepted that truth… I just wish things ended differently, you know? I wanted to let you know, that there was not a moment in our centuries together as husband and wife that I wished you were my mate… that there was not a moment that I did not love you…”

A broken laugh escaped your lips as you opened your eyes and looked up at him once more, seeing those unshed tears in violet hues.

“… And there was not a time where I wished you were my mate… But it seems that Mother had a different path for both of us. One that led us away from each other.”

You reached up, with shaky hands, and attempted to touch him; however, your body paused, and with furrowed brows, you dropped your hand back onto your side. You could see Rhysand’s body slouched slightly as if missing your touch. A forced smile tugged onto your lips as you stepped back, creating a significant distance between the two of you, “… I hope you enjoy the ceremony, Rhysand…”

He knew when he was dismissed and he smiled at you before stepping out of the balcony. You watched with longing and pain as he and the Inner Court stepped out of your room.

“… Probably it wasn’t such a good idea to have the two of you alone together…” The Captain commented, stepping onto the balcony, worry in his tone.

“I’m fine… just give me a moment…” you whispered, pressing a hand against your chest, to calm down your heart. You slouched against the railing for a few minutes, feeling the bond in your chest to help your racing heart.

“…Do you need me—-”

“No… I don’t need Tarquin or Thesan right now. They’re in their own state of panic already…”

The Captain let out a chuckle, “That is true… They have set their mind to ensure that this ceremony would be perfect…”

After calming your heart, you straightened up and gave the Captain a light smirk, “…Busybodies the lot of them…” You stepped back into your room, allowing yourself to fix yourself up before the ceremony, the Captain following your trail.

You stood on the dias of the throne room, Tarquin by your side as the priestess started the ceremony. Your gown was a lovely mixture of blue, much like the oceans that crashed below the castle. The priestess’ words had gone deaf in your ears as all you could do was stare up at the High Lord of Summer, love and affection in your features as well as through the bond.

When the priestess had asked for the two of you to exchange vows, Tarquin looked at you with the same look as you did to him, a soft smile on his features.

“Never in my life, I would have thought to find my mate. I had thought that I would rule my Court without a High Lady by my side. But that fateful day I had whisked you away from Thesan and Dawn Court, all I had wished was for you to be mine.

“My stardust…” the nickname always made your heart skip in your chest, “I had fallen in love with you… despite your broken soul and heart. I was honored that you had trusted me enough to help mend your soul from the nightmares that haunted you, and that still haunt you till this day. But I couldn’t let you know of my affections, not when you had set yourself into healing. So I waited, waited for years and when that mating bond snapped, I knew I couldn’t hold out for much longer. I needed you in my arms, I needed to have your eyes set on me — rather than looking into your past. And when you had your relapse… I had to let you know. I had to let you know that you have someone, your mate, to be with you every step of your healing process.”

You felt tears trickle down your cheeks as Tarquin wiped them away, “You deserve this bond after everything that you have been through… the Mother has gifted you this bond. And I am honored to be at the end of that string.”

A sob escaped your lips and you couldn’t even find the words for your own vows. All you could mutter to him as he pressed his forehead against yours, “Thank you… I love you, I thank you, and I am also honored and blessed by the Cauldron to have you as my mate. Thank you for mending my heart. I am glad to give it to you, and not worry about it breaking…”

You watched through a tearful gaze, Tarquin giving you a radiant smile before leaning down to press a kiss on your lips, “And I would never break it… not your heart that is precious like gemstones…”

You laughed as applause reached your ears, leaning up once more to kiss your mate.

Your heart was safe — mended together once more — and you knew it would never break again.

Tagging list: @cleverzonkwombatsludge @abysshaven @prythianpages @leahoneil @rachelnicolee

[zahri-melitor]

...I think one of the reasons I just get bored by a lot of meta and stories about Jason, is that fundamentally I have this issue where for me the most interesting part and the topic I grew up on was the loss that Bruce existed within for essentially all of post-Crisis, rather than Jason feeling that he was failed.

Because I've read and are more invested in comics about Bruce Wayne published between 1989 and 2011.

Because the story of dealing with a traumatic loss of someone before their time, and about Bruce's pain and coping mechanisms (and the pain and coping mechanisms of everyone else around him), is just so much more compelling to me and speaks to my own pain and loss and regrets.

Because of Bruce standing at Jason's grave with Cass on his 18th birthday and trying to talk to Cass about someone she's never met, someone who she only can know by the shape of the loss of those around her, as he talks about the terrible ways parents can love and his regrets. Because he can't even face doing this with Barbara or Dick or Tim.

Because of Bruce's slow progress to see a world again, beyond his loss. To pass through his grief and find a way to face continuing to live and to prevent himself from spiraling back.

Because of the stories Bruce has to tell himself, as he sorts through what he can know and what he can never know, to try and find motivation and reason. And how we know that Bruce will look away from the obvious, searching for another reason and for justification at times when the truth is too close to him.

And every time I see people siding with Jason, mad, that Bruce is so stubborn and firm about his boundaries and personal motivations and what he will and will not do.

It's like. Oh. You don't know and feel that bone deep loss, and understand how fragile yet resilient Bruce's healing is. That he did the right thing, the healthy thing, the only thing he could do to cope...and moved forward. The loss is still there, but he's developed layers of protective callus over it so that he can think about things other than the loss.

Because Bruce chose to live. He chose to move forward. And the fact he largely does not allow himself to wallow is a good thing and the demands that he should turn his back on all that healing because his coping mechanisms are not the ones that Jason Todd, resurrected, thinks he should have had?

Jason wasn't there. He couldn't have been there. And fundamentally he does not have the right to determine Bruce's reaction, because it wasn't about him. It was about Bruce, himself.

[thefallennightmare]

Just Pretend-Chapter Twenty Nine Teaser

We are finally at the end folks! Two more chapters left which will be JAM PACKED! I plan on making a long ass post once the final chapter is posted on how I feel. JP means so much to many of us and please know that my heart is shattered it eventually has to end.

Enjoy the little snippet from Chapter Twenty Nine below the cut!

I sat with my back against the headboard, knees pulled up to my chest as my sketchbook lay across my lap. It had been a very long day, and I only wanted to lay in bed while wallowing in my own failures. Noah knew something was bothering me and tried to talk to me about it throughout the day, but I kept brushing it off with the excuse of needing to focus on our job for the day.

My fingers were black from the charcoal clutched between my fingers while Kuma lay at the end of the bed and Salem perched on Noah's pillow. I hummed a quiet tune, finding myself deep in the zone that helped keep the moment from earlier this morning out of my mind. All of my hopes and dreams were crushed in a matter of minutes. I refused to let Noah know what happened. It was a seceret that I planned on taking with me to my grave.

"Angel?"

"Hm?" I answered Noah, not bothering to look away from my sketch.

"What's this?" He asked, voice stern with anger.

Glancing over to his frame as it stepped out of the bathroom, I sucked in a breath when I saw what he'd been holding. All of the colors drained from my face as the room around us shifted on its axis, everything falling away from me without giving me a chance to grasp it.

Shit.

@blueskylinesx @missduffsblog @hayleylatour @sleepyomens @loeytuan98 @artificialbreezy @marvelousmal @bngurngheart @lma1986 @dsireland86 @wild-child-7747 @calleyx13 @illmakeyousaywow @jaded-and-hollow-souls @exitwoundsx @shayzillaaaa @badomensls @princesspeach-00 @shadowseve @collective-heartbreak @klutzy-kay24 @sorrowsofsilence @sweetlittlekitsune @shilohrosechicken @itsafullmoon @toospooktocute @niicoleleigh @thatchickwiththecamera @hoe-for-daddywise @whenthesummerdies @cookiesupplier @thisbicc @sammyjoeee @joe9cool @ozwriterchick @teenblues @malice-ov-mercy @krisslee18 @xxkittenkissesxx @happi-goth @embracethereaper42 @softvgold @cncohshit @heyyoplayer @rain-down-on-me @bloody-delusion-expert @respectfulrebel @reader13000 @koskeepsake @malerieee @cheyyyyr @myownthoughts12 @noahsbong @laurpartyprogram @cloudykoookie @jessiskyee @a1ex-ba1ex @sideeyenoah @emzandthevoid @bellaboo967 @waake-mee-up @rxdlstgn @anthemheatwave @lobolocaamo @amelia-acero @karenfranco @collidewiththesavannah @xserenax-13 @bleachampion @thepastelfae @supersquirrel1996 @madomens @themodern-daywednesday @oxythoughtin7715

[bipanicoverthegravessiblings]

May I make a request? How does yandere Ashley Graves react when she finds out that her darling is getting married to someone else? Like an arranged marriage thing.

You may!

TW: Drugging, Kidnapping, Forced Kiss, Yandere themes

Yandere!Ashley Graves x Arranged Marriage Reader

It wasn’t fair

This wasn’t fair

Ashley thought arranged marriages died with the fucking bubonic plague but nooOooo!

No, no they just had to be a thing still- somehow!

And given her luck, it came for her beloved

First she screamed, then destroyed her and Andrew’s room in her frustrations, and then like most of her fits, had a huge cry within the rubble

But crying wasn’t going to get you back to her

Crying wasn’t going to kill that hussy who took you

Most people would give up, cut their losses and accept that a future with you was not possible

….but Ashley Graves was not most people

You paced around your room- well, technically it wasn’t your room- it was the hotel’s- but still your room regardless.

Your parents had chosen this place to have the wedding, the place having a vast array of rooms beyond the lobby downstairs, most ceremony halls for occasions such as this. Weddings. Your wedding.

The shockwaves hit you all at once again, making you stumble back til you were sitting on your bed. Your hands clutched the sides of your head, only semi aware to not mess up your hair. You were getting married, and to a person you barely knew. It was a struggle to write your vows for this occasion- what were you supposed to say?!

“Hey stranger, we’ve only known each other for three months and I can count the number of dates we’ve had on my hand but- I’m happy to be marrying you! Yaaayyyyyy, this totally won’t backfire!”

You managed to schlop some cheese fest of wedding vows together, best not ruin this for your future partner. Though frazzled, this probably wasn’t what they wanted either. No, this was a decision made by your parents for their benefit- not your own.

You could just walk out. Leave quietly but- no. You can’t do that. You can’t embarrass your future partner like that. They didn’t ask for this. Neither of you did.

Your wallowing was interrupted by a knock to the door, causing you to perk up and look over. The knocking continued, clearly whoever was on the other side was too impatient to wait 5 goddamn minutes. You stood up with a huff, running your hands over your face as you trudged over.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” The knocking continued, and you almost threw it open- your glare fading as you looked at who it was.

Standing behind the door with a disheveled looking cleaning cart was one of the hotel’s maid staff. The lower half of her face was obscured by what looked like a surgeon’s mask, her black hair spilling over her shoulders as she awkwardly stood with a toilet scrubber.

“Uhh- cleaning?” She waved the scrubber a little, her voice slightly muffled by the mask.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I- Can this wait? I’m still kinda…in here.” You gestured to the room behind you, but the maid took that as a welcome rather than a ‘fuck off’. She pushed the cart past you, nearly running over your feet.

“Nope! Can’t wait at all! You’re the last room on my route and I want my break now!”

You watched as she began working on your room, tossing your things off of your bed without care to half hazardly fold it. With a sigh, you stood back up, checking to see if your shoes were scuffed, “Fine, whatever…I won’t be in here much longer anyways.”

You shut the door, your back to the maid as she worked away. You wanted to be alone, to have some quiet…but she didn’t exactly take the hint.

“You’re….one of the people getting married today?” She inquired, not hard to deduce given your outfit and general lack of pep in your step.

“Yup,” you grimaced, “And I’m so- happy…”

Why bother hiding your disappointment, you didn’t care anymore. You also probably would never see this woman again so who cares if you’re being depressing. Rustling behind you caused you to perk up, and you spotted a glass in the corner of your eye. You turned, outstretched to you was a glass of water.

“Here,” she offered, “Maybe a drink will help.”

You went to take it, before retracting your hand with suspicion. Where did she get that from?

Sensing your hesitance, she sighed, “Relax, it’s not dirty cleaning water or whatever- it’s one of the complimentary bottles.”

Easing your worries, you took the glass and drank. The water was lukewarm, feeling almost thick in your mouth. Warm water sucked, but it was better than nothing. She wasn’t lying, you did feel a bit better….if not tired now.

No longer fueled by dread, the stress from this situation must’ve overtaken you- leaving you drowsy and tired. You set the glass down on the nearest surface, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hands.

“Here,” the maid took your arm and led you to the bed for you to lie down on, “The ceremony’s not for a bit…how about you rest your eyes, and sleep off all this stress.”

Her voice was- comforting almost, lulling you further into sleep as your vision became blurred. Though obscured, you could see the maid looking down at you, removing her mask and brushing her hair back with her hand. Her pink eyes stared directly into yours as she smiled.

“Don’t worry…this’ll all be over soon..”

You don’t know when you came to, but when you did- everything felt worse

Your head hurt, your body hurt- almost like you had been folded in half for a long period of time- your clothes were a mess, and to top it all off

You were on longer in your hotel room

No, no you found yourself in a completely new room- one different to you

You were slouched on what looked to be a bathroom- laundry room combination. In front of you was a shower head with a few products in the small basket suctioned to the grimy wall. Slightly obscured by the wall next to you was a sink with a hose shoved into it, which went beyond your vision allowed you to see.

Looking beside you was a toilet, which you were handcuffed to

Your cuffs jingled as you yanked your hand, attempting to either break the handcuffs or the pipe you were cuffed to. It was rather futile though, as you were still tired from having just woken up.

“Oh, good, you’re awake!”

In a rather cheery tone, you spotted someone walk out from behind the wall- a cheerful smile on her face. The maid from the hotel…except- this wasn’t just a maid…

“Ashley?….” You narrowed your eyes to get a better look.

“Bingo baby!” She shot you a finger gun, crossing closer to your slouched body and kneeling down, “Happy to see me beloved? I’m happy to see youuuu.” She booped your nose, to which you flinched at in response, “You have no idea how much of a pain it was to drag you all the way here.”

You had- so many questions, none of which you could coherently sort through before shouting out, “My wedding!”

“Oh? That,” Ashley glared to the side, “Don’t worry about that silly thing. You didn’t want to get married anyway, you told me yourself.”

She had you there- but you still weren’t too keen on being kidnapped!

“How-“ you shook your head to collect your thoughts, “How long was I out?"

"The dose I gave you shouldn’t have knocked you out for long- I’d sayyyyyyyy, you’d been out for about 24 hours at least.”

24 hours. Oh god.

Your eyes widened as all of this hit you, you- you had to get out of here! Your hand yanked at the cuff, to which Ashley promptly grabbed. Her nails dug into your skin, making you wince.

“Fucking chill okay!” She snapped, “Look- don’t even try getting out. This- this is for your own good.”

She relented her grip, moving her hand from your wrist to interlock her hand with yours. She shifted her stance, now overtop of you. You moved your head back to keep your distance from her lips as they got closer, though the wall behind you limited your escape.

“Relax sweetheart..” she ran her hand down your chest, her eyes as lulling as ever, “You didn’t want to marry that hussy anyways, so why are you fighting this?” Her lips just barely ghosted above your own, “Maybe now….you can marry someone you actually want to? How’s that sound?”

Before you could give your objection to this ceremony, Ashley silence with a kiss. Your protests muffled against her lips, and the wall preventing you from pulling away.

The kiss felt like an eternity, the jingling cuffs eventually stopping and your protests dying down as you relented and returned the kiss. Her lips felt soft, but her teeth were sharp- practically cutting your lip.

She pulled away, a wide grin planted firmly on her face while you remained dazed and confused.

“You may now kiss the bride!” She giggled dopily, pressing her forehead against your own. In unholy matrimony.

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Congratulations on your milestone!

If it’s not too late, I’d like to request Spencer/Reader post prison with this lyric.

“You’re the cure, and your eyes have dug me out of my grave more times than I could ever count. You’ve always been the one to breathe me back to life - The Cure by The Movielife

Thank you.

Oh how I love post prison angst! And this was the perfect song for, thank you darling!

You’re the Cure

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Summary - you’ve always been the ray of light in Spencer Reid’s often dark life. But in the wake of his incarceration, can you be his cure?

CW - past drug addiction, past parental abandonment, mentions of Maeve arc, prison arc, emotionally distant Spencer, break ups, bad mental health, mentions of not eating and bathing, an almost relapse, heavy drinking, maybe one swear, tears, hopeful ending.

WC - 4.4k

Spencer Reid had never seen himself as someone who needed saving. Being forced to grow up at ten years old when his father abandoned him and his sick mother, had a way of instilling in him that when things went wrong, he could only rely on himself. 

His drug addiction only went to further perpetuate the notion that he was on his own. Even when his brain was muddled by the dilaudid he knew his team was aware of what was going on and not a single one of them ever said anything. 

So Spencer got used to fending for himself, keeping his emotional issues internalised. He loved his friends but he learnt not to count on them. As such he made a habit of keeping his cards close to his chest, never letting anyone in fully. 

Spencer Reid could only truly depend on one person and that was Spencer Reid. 

But then he met you. 

You admittedly joined the BAU at the worst possible time. Spencer was off work while he dealt with the grief of losing Maeve and he heard all about you through stories from Garcia and JJ. Both women described you as a bouncy, happy-go-lucky, ray of human sunshine. And to be perfectly honest, that filled Spencer with dread. 

It was one of the darker moments of his life and the idea of someone coming in and trying to force their light onto him was the last thing he needed. Spencer liked to deal with his trauma by wallowing in it on his own, he didn’t need other’s trying to cheer him up, to drag him out of the shadows. He wasn’t looking for someone to try and make it better, to take his pain away. 

And then you showed up and you breathed him back to life without even realising you were doing so.

From the moment he met you he had instinctively gravitated towards you, like you were magnets of opposing poles who were inherently drawn to one another. But his wounds caused by Maeve’s death were still so raw that he wasn’t in a position to open his heart up again. 

So the two of you fell into a wonderful friendship, probably the best one Spencer had ever had in his life. You were the light to his dark, the sunshine on his cloudy day. You were the first sip of coffee in the morning, the crisp pages of a new book. You were his favourite song. 

You were his cure. 

The whole team joked about the two of you, often referring to you as work husband and wife. Truthfully what you had was essentially a romantic relationship minus the intimacy. And at some point Spencer found the scars start to heal and his heart began to open up again without his realising. 

Almost two years after you joined the team, when Spencer kissed you for the first time, it was like the most natural thing in the world. 

You’d been leaving work together one night and you offered him a ride home like always but somedays Spencer enjoyed taking the metro to clear his head after particularly long days. 

He walked you to your car nonetheless and as you were saying goodbye he leant in and kissed the corner of your mouth as though it was something he did all the time. And then he kissed you again, this time directly on the lips and the strangest part of it was how it didn’t feel strange at all.

You never talked about what it meant but you didn’t need to. The next time the two of you went to the movies he slid his hands in yours as you walked towards the theatre. He spent the night with his arm protectively around your shoulders while you snuggled against him. 

And outside of your door after he walked you home, he kissed you again, this time much more passionately. You’d subsequently invited him in and the two of you finally took your relationship to a whole new level. 

You never defined your relationship per se. Somewhere over time Spencer started referring to you as his girlfriend and it was just so simple. 

Your relationship had grown and blossomed as though it was the easiest thing in the world, like you’d always meant to be together. Up until he’d met you, Spencer’s life had been full of complications but you were the least complicated thing in the world. 

You were the full stop to the end of all his paragraphs, you banished all the darkness from his life. You were the cure for everything that ailed him. 

But then he was arrested. 

Being locked in a cage for two and half months for a crime he didn’t commit brought all those demons out of the shadows that you had chased away with your light. He was sure even your sunny aura couldn’t bring him back from this. 

And after his release, he started shutting down. 

It started in small ways, ones in which you didn’t even really notice at first. Conversations became more one sided, his casual touches were few and far between. Then he started leaving for work earlier and earlier and you started getting used to waking up alone in an empty bed. 

During his stints of mandatory leave from the BAU you barely saw him and you knew that was by design. It became apparent that he was avoiding you, pushing you away along with the rest of the team. 

But you weren't the rest of the team. You were his partner, you shared a home together; a life together. You were once able to pull him out of any hell he was going through without even really trying. But this time he seemed so lost you worried he’d never find his way back to you. 

Even when he was home, mentally he was elsewhere. Perhaps he was still stuck inside a prison cell at Milburn, or maybe he was trapped in a perpetual nightmare that revolved around Cat Adams. 

You tried to comfort him, to offer him a reprieve from his dark thoughts but after so many attempts you gave up trying. There was only so much you could do and to be perfectly honest, you didn’t think there was any way of freeing him from the clutches of his monsters. 

Seven months after his release from prison, the two of you called time on your relationship. 

You moved out of his apartment and in with Penelope as a temporary measure while you found your own place. You took an indefinite leave of absence from the BAU while you worked on piecing your life back together. 

You didn’t see or speak to Spencer for several months that followed the break up. You made Penelope promise you not to tell you anything pertaining to him, it wasn’t your job to worry about him anymore. And even thought it killed her to do so, Penelope agreed to do this one thing for you. 

Spencer had allowed himself to get swallowed up in the darkness and this time even your magnificent light wasn’t enough to cure him.

***

Three months after the break up you still felt just as fragile as you did the day you moved out of his apartment. Your heart had taken a beating, it was bruised and battered and it would take a long time for it to heal, you knew that. But after three months you thought you might have made some progress. Instead you were still stuck at square one.

You’d moved out of Penelope’s last month into a tiny little studio apartment not far from Dupont Circle. You hated it if you were honest, but it was better than continuing to put Garcia out by sleeping on her couch. 

You hadn't been back to the BAU since the break up and had recently started looking for other jobs. You’d interview at the DC Field Office and were hopeful to get an offer, but it would be bitter sweet. You loved the BAU, you didn’t want to leave, but you knew you couldn’t work with Spencer again. Not with the way your heart shattered everytime you simply thought his name. 

You were trying to move on, it was all you could do. But what you didn’t realise was Spencer living in a whole new level of hell. 

***

The final nail in Spencer Reid’s coffin was when you moved out of the apartment. And what made it a harder pill to swallow was the fact it was his own fault you’d done so. 

He’d thought he’d been protecting you by bottling up his emotions and not dragging you down into the pit created by his time in prison. He thought if he didn’t talk about it, it would go away. This was one thing you couldn’t shield him from, one thing he needed to work through on his own the way he’d grown so accustomed to doing before he met you. 

But he’d pushed you too far, right out the door. And from there his life simply spiralled out of control. 

He left the BAU, just up and quit one day without any warning. He knew it was terrible timing with you taking a leave of absence but he couldn’t stop himself. He woke up one day and decided he’d had enough. 

For the months that followed he didn’t leave his apartment much at all. He wasn’t eating properly, wasn’t showering as frequently as he should and barely sleeping more than a couple of fretful hours a night. 

To be alone with himself like this for eternity would be agony. Without you there to breathe him back to life his appetite for living died. 

On one of his rare trips outside of the four walls of his tiringly lonely apartment, he brought a vial of dilaudid. He kept it in the middle of his coffee table for weeks, unopened, just as a reminder that he could take it if he wanted to. 

But thankfully it never did come to that. Instead of getting high, a particular rabbit hole he may never find his way out of, he drank. 

In actuality, it wasn’t much better and he knew that. Just because he’d never had a dependency to alcohol before didn’t mean he couldn’t develop one, clearly he was susceptible to addiction. But drinking was the only thing that helped numb the pain, aided in distancing himself from his tormented thoughts. 

Without you the demons were able to sneak closer and he lived with them among the shadows. You were always the one to shoulder the brunt of his misery but now he had to face it alone because he’d pushed you away. The lightness in your heart that he had always envied was gone, casting him forever into blackness.

He needed you here, the cure when his thoughts turned to cyanide, when he was going out of his fucking mind. 

He’d been drunk for more days straight than he could count and with each passing day the dilaudid grew more tempting. He moved it from the coffee table more often, rolling the vial around his hand, tapping his nails against it; contemplating the sweet release that would come with just one hit. 

But it never would be just one hit. 

The things he’d seen and done in prison haunted his every waking breath and seeped over into the small window of sleep he managed. He was never going to be the same after that experience, it had hardened him in a way he never realised possible. 

It had created a shell around his heart, a solid armour snugly encasing the organ in order to protect himself from his own emotions. But ultimately it hadn’t just been himself his emotions had been locked away from. 

In the seven months you stayed by his side after his release he hadn’t once been able to tell you he loved you. It only occurred to him after you walked away that he hadn’t said that to you since the morning he’d left for Mexico. 

In seven months the most physical contact the two of you had was a few occasions when you’d dared to place a kiss on his cheek. You hadn’t kissed properly, hadn’t been intimate, hadn’t even so much as held hands since before he made the decision to go to Mexico. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t think about it. There were multiple times he’d almost initiated something, almost drawn you into his body when you were laying in bed side by side yet miles apart. But he always stopped himself.

The sad fact of the matter was: Spencer didn’t trust himself to be with you anymore. But in order to survive in prison he’d had to become someone he didn’t recognise and it wasn’t so easy for him to shed that new persona. And as if to really drive that point home, when he’d had Cat pinned against the wall with his hand around her throat, he knew he would never trust himself with you again. 

The darkness was inside of him now, leaching into every pore. If he was the kind of man who could have killed Cat, or Scratch, and slept well afterwards, who’s to say where he would draw that line? 

As much as he missed you with every strangled beat of his shattered heart, keeping you away from him kept you safe. And he only ever wanted you to be safe. 

But without you, he may well meet his demise at the bottom of a bottle, or the bottom of a vial.

You were the cure. Your eyes have dug him out of his grave more times than he could ever count. You’ve always been the one to breathe him back to life. 

And so maybe it was inevitable that he called you, perhaps it was a feat in itself that he’d managed months on his own. But when he found himself on his bathroom floor, half a bottle of whiskey clouding his brain and a needle full of dilaudid in his hand, the only thing that was going to stop his relapse was you.

He didn’t expect you to answer but he prayed you would. And maybe someone was looking out for him, maybe there was some kind of higher power smiling down on him because you answered after three rings. 

“Spencer…” your voice was barely above a whisper as you spoke his name. Just those two simple syllables from your lips wrapped him in a blanket of your warmth. 

“H-hi Y/N.” His own was hoarse, run down. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken out loud and it showed. 

Tears rolled down his cheeks, heavy and thick as the hand holding the needle trembled. 

“Did you…did you want something?” Your voice held the weight of the pain he’d cause you and made even more tears fall. 

“Uh…” he stared at the needle, brushing his thumb along the plastic tube. This was so unfair of him. He couldn’t do this to you, drag you back into his mess like this. He knew if he asked you would come running in a heartbeat. But it wasn’t fair of him to ask. “It’s nothing. Forget I called.” 

“Are you sure?” Your tone was riddled in concern. 

“Y-yeah. Sure. V-very sure.” He stuttered, choking a little on his own tears. 

Before you could reply he hung up the phone before he could change his mind and beg you to come and save him from himself. He tossed the device aside and focused on the needle. He leant back against the bathroom wall, pulling his knees up to meet his chest. 

The cool tile on his bare feet was a nice repreve, but the dilaudid would be better. 

His shirt sleeve was already pushed up to his elbow, the tie was already secured around his bicep. The needle was full, all he had to do was press it into his waiting vein and all of his problems would melt away. 

But this was one grave he may never be able to dig himself out of. Once he relapsed there would be no going back, no getting sober this time. But his sobriety didn’t mean as much to him as it once had, and perhaps it was worth succumbing to his demons for a chance at peace.

***

Despite how hard he tried to sound like himself, it was easy for you to see through Spencer’s thinly veiled lie. And as much as you didn’t want to involve yourself anymore, you couldn’t help yourself. 

Taking care of Spencer Reid came as naturally to you as breathing. You didn’t intend on doing it, and most of the time he didn’t need looking after. But you did it anyway in small, every day ways. 

You did it in the way you made him coffee every morning before work. You did it in the way you ran your fingers through his hair after a stressful day. You did it in the way you grasped his hand when he needed something to ground him, when you offered him a soft smile of encouragement when he needed it. 

He’d always called you his cure, as though you were the antidote to all the horrors in the world. He’d told you that your smile was the sweetest medicine, that your mere presence in his life was therapeutic. 

So if there was any way you could help him, even after he’d pushed you away and caused you to leave, you would find it and you would do it. Which was why after he hung up on you, you were quickly jumping in your car and driving across town to the apartment you used to reside in. 

The door wasn’t just unlocked but it was open a crack. Immediately your heart started to race and you were so glad you hadn’t officially quit the BAU yet and you were still in possession of your firearm. 

Your hand shook as you pulled the weapon from your holster, nudging the door further open with your shoulder. You made quick work of taking in the room. It looked to be ransacked, like someone had broken in and turned the place upside down in search of something. 

You held your breath as you silently started across the room, manoeuvring in and out of piles of debris left behind in someone's wake. You headed towards the closed bedroom door, gun pointing right ahead of you. You focused your hearing but thus far couldn’t make out any distinctive sounds. 

Pushing open the door, you found the bedroom in much the same state as the living room. You tried not to allow yourself to get sentimental as your eyes swept across the unmade bed and you thought back to late nights and early mornings snug beneath those sheets with Spencer. The bed that was so big but you’d never know it as he always kept you as close as humanly possible. 

The bathroom door, like the front door, was open a crack and a light pooled from inside. It was then you heard the sound of haggard breathing punctuated by loud sniffing, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to well and truly stand to attention. 

As you listened to the unmistakable sounds of a grown man sobbing, you lowered your gun and tucked it back in your holster. 

A deeply disturbed and troubled man had ravaged this apartment but it was not the work of some petty criminal. Spencer had turned his home into a reflection of his own tortured mind, you had no doubt. 

You were somehow more tentative after you knew someone hadn’t broken in. You had never seen Spencer cry before, he always liked to put up a tough exterior, probably something to do with him being the baby of the BAU for so many years. 

You’d seen him vulnerable, probably more than he’d ever let anyone else see him, but you’d never witnessed him with his walls stripped away completely. And honestly, the thought of it scared you a little. 

But no matter how scared you were, despite how much he had hurt you, you pressed on. 

You inched open the bathroom not wanting to startle him and found him on the floor, hugging his legs to his chest and sobbing into his knees. But the truly terrifying part was the vial and needle discarded at his side. A silk tie was fashioned into a tourniquet around his arm.

“S-Spencer?” You gasped, covering your gaping mouth with your hands. 

He stiffened and slowly lifted his head from where it had been buried in the fabric of his slacks. His eyes were red rimmed and tears silently streamed down his cheeks. His hair drooped lifelessly onto his forehead and his face clearly hadn’t seen a razor in months. 

He somehow looked even worse than when you visited him in prison. 

“Why are you here?” His voice cracked and his words were slightly slurred. 

“You didn’t sound like yourself on the phone. I needed to see you with my own eyes.” You heard the sadness in your own tone, unable to hide it. 

“I’m not myself.” He exhaled a breath that sounded like he had been holding it in for years. “I haven’t been since prison.” 

You swallowed, daring to take a few steps further into the bathroom. Spencer let his legs fall and stretch out in front of him on the linoleum and you slid down to sit next to him, the only thing separating you was the drug paraphernalia. As if reading your mind he exhaled again before he spoke.

“I didn’t take it.” He wouldn’t look at you, instead he looked down at his hands. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.” 

“Why are you slurring then?” You watched the side of his face. He clenched and unclenched his jaw several times. 

“Whiskey. Not dilaudid. I swear.” 

“I’ve never known you to drink.” Of course it was a relief that he hadn’t taken the drugs, but hearing that he was drunk wasn’t a whole lot better. 

“I hadn’t had a drink in nearly ten years. I gave it up around the same time as I quit dilaudid, I guess I worried it would become one vice replacing another. But I needed something. And alcohol was the lesser of two evils.” He was still slurring but he was surprisingly coherent. 

It didn’t surprise you in the least that Spencer could still string a logical sentence together when he was inebriated. 

“Why did you call me, Spencer? Of all the people you could have called, why me?” You whispered as though you weren’t entirely sure you really wanted an answer to that. 

He finally looked at you, glancing to his side with his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip in contemplation for a moment or two as though formulating a carefully curated answer. But really, the answer was incredibly simple. 

“Because you’re my cure.” He shrugged, his tears had dried up but the stains on his cheeks remained. “And right now I am in desperate need of remedy.” 

“Spencer…” You sighed, your own eyes misting over with tears. “I was always here for you, you could have talked to me about anything but instead you shoved me aside and tried to deal with things on your own.”

“I’ve never been very good at asking for help. I’ve only ever been able to rely on myself. People leave. People aren’t reliable. But you…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “You brought the kind of sunshine into my life I could only dream of. You have saved me in more ways than you will ever know. Your mere existence in my life has been more help to me than I can explain to you. That’s why I call you my cure, because it's the best way I can think to describe what you are to me.” 

“I knew you would be different after prison, Spencer. No decent man can go through an experience like that and come out unchanged. But in your bones you are still the Spencer Reid I fell in love with.” You tried to tell him much like you had countless times in those torrid seven months. You hoped this time he might actually hear it. 

“I’m really not sure that I am, Y/N.” He raked his fingers through his tangled hair with a meek shake of his head. 

“I am.” You nodded. “I’m sure. Spencer, whatever you had to do inside was for your own protection. It was every man for himself and you did what you did to survive. And Cat…? After everything she’s done to you, I wanted to strangle the bitch too.” 

Spencer’s eyes widened, looking a little like deer caught in headlights. He was gnawing on his bottom lip haphazardly as he stared at you. 

“Really?” 

“Yes, Spencer.” 

“Do you really think I can come back from this?” 

“Yes, Spencer.” You repeated, defiance in your voice. “And I’m going to help you. Whether you want me to or not. Because my love for you is stronger than the pain you caused me. I will be by your side, showering you in light until there is not even a sliver of a shadow for your demons to hide in. Let me be your cure, Spence.” 

You reached out your hands towards him, palm upwards and fingers spread to create enough space for his own to slot between them. He glanced between your face and your hand a few times before his lip quipped up ever so slightly at the corner in a small smile. 

And then he reached for you, his fingers finding those spaces between your own that always seemed like they were made intentionally to fit his. It was as though someone had crafted you both perfectly for each other. 

Spencer had never been a believer in higher powers but it was the only reason he could fathom for how you had found him. 

In a world consisting of nearly eight billion people, what were the chances of the two of you meeting? What were the odds of two perfectly imperfect people finding each other and slotting together in such an inconceivably faultless way? 

As you sat there hand in hand, Spencer knew he would do anything to keep you by his side for as long as he lived. Even if it meant allowing you to see all his flaws, all his cracks. Because he was certain now you would love every one of his broken pieces. 

You were the light casting away his shadows. You were the air being breathed into his lungs. You were the thread holding him together. 

You were the cure. 

[barbiegirldream]

Saw a tweet that was saying for all the importance Tsumiki supposedly held to Megumi why didn't he say anything at her grave. And I agree Gege didn't do Tsumiki great she is a girl in jjk after all.. However I think there is a canon way to view it. And these are my expanded thoughts on that.

Megumi didn't say nice things to Tsumiki in life. The hard truth is he just Didn't know her all that well. She was his sister and she took care of him but she wasn't much beyond that. And then she was gone just asleep and never going to wake up. So Megumi built her up in his mind. This good person this person who was humanity and deserved a better world. He imagined all these things he'd say when she woke up. And then he didn't. He didn't say any of it. And by his own hands he killed her.

But someone else was there that Megumi didn't just imagine as the purest of humanity. No Yuji Itadori is someone Megumi has fought harder for than anyone. Yuji Itadori is the unwavering humanity that Megumi was honest with. All the words meant for Tsumiki he said them to Yuji. He wants to be happy. He wants good people to get good things. But he just can't have that. And Yuji said okay I understand I'll miss you though. And Megumi made a choice. He made a choice he let Tsumiki go.

He dropped the eternal torment of his sister's suffering that weighed on his soul and he reached out for Yuji. Sukuna tried to claw into him about Tsumiki, to admonish his soul but Megumi just looked down upon him with contempt and said he would live for someone else. Megumi picked a reality with Yuji over a fantasy with Tsumiki.

So Megumi made a call when separating from Sukuna to not wallow in Tsumiki's death like he had her cursed sleep. Megumi then woke up himself and he was alive and in control. Yuji and even Nobara are right in front of him. And they as a group lost Gojo but pretty much everyone else is okay. Megumi goes with Shoko to Tsumiki's grave and there are no words to say. Megumi used them all on Yuji. He wasted every single chance he had in her life to tell Tsumiki how he really felt. And maybe he thought it would be too selfish to now where she can't hear him say what she deserved to hear before.

[violet-shadows]

Moving On (Part Four)

⊱ Previous Part ❈ Next Part ⊰

Masterlist

Summary: After loving Azriel in secret for years, you decide it’s time for you to move on.

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (She/Her)

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: drugging with the implied intent to commit SA, attempted kidnapping, vomiting

⊱ —————— ❈ —————— ⊰

 Hope is a fickle thing. It can be a blessing, carrying us forward when the darkness seems infinite and giving us the strength to persevere. It can also be a curse, lingering despite logic and reason, making disappointment all the more crushing. You had tried to rid yourself of hope for so long where Azriel was concerned. You even thought you succeeded a few times, accepting that your feelings would never be returned. But then, a flicker of hope would spark, only to be snuffed out once again, plunging you into darkness. Last night, when Azriel said those fateful words, the hope that bloomed within you was all but explosive, fierce as a wildfire but as brief as a candle in the wind. In the end, it left you breathless and aching. And, as always, kicking yourself for your foolish whimsy. 

“Do you not understand how precious you are to me?!”

The words echoed in your mind long after you left the House of Wind, twisting like a knife in your gut. You knew he didn’t mean it the way you wanted him to, and yet, for a brief moment, you had hoped you were wrong.

“Precious to you… as a friend.”

“Right.” 

You replayed the memory, focusing on how he recoiled, grimacing as he clarified. As if the alternative was revolting. It had taken everything in you not to crumple as you sought out Cassian, keeping your head high and jaw tight when you asked him to fly you home. Your friend had read the look on your face but mercifully didn’t press when you shut down his line of questioning.

You spent the rest of the day shut up inside, numb and wallowing in self-pity and embarrassment, and when the sun finally set over the City of Starlight, you lay in your bed and cried. 

⊱ —————— ❈ —————— ⊰

“So who’s next on the roster?” 

Mor startled from her place at her desk, pushing shiny blonde locks out of her face as you entered. She blinked owlishly, not answering, and you clarified, “For dates?”

“Dates?” Mor echoed, cocking her head to one side. “More dates? I thought… I figured… after what happened…”

“I’m not going to let one bad experience ruin everything,” you declared with a shrug, forcing yourself to remain the picture of nonchalance. Acting like something didn’t bother you was your specialty, and you weren’t about to switch up now. “Besides, it wasn’t one of your picks that turned out poorly.” 

Mor shifted nervously, her previous enthusiasm over playing matchmaker gone. “I just thought you might want some time…” she trailed off. “Or maybe you and Az…”

“Me and Az what?” you prompted her when she didn’t finish her sentence. 

“Nothing,” Mor said, plastering on a bright smile that you knew meant she was changing the subject. “If you want back in the game, we’ll get you back in the game.” 

“Yep, I’m ready,” you replied, flopping into a chair across from her. Neither of you missed the way your voice wobbled with uncertainty, despite your assurances. This seemed to give Mor pause, and she was quiet for a long moment as she glanced between the fireplace and you. 

“Before we go through my roster, as you call it,” Mor began, folding her hands in front of her on the desk, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” you shrugged.

“Have you ever considered… would you ever consider giving Az a chance?” Her tone was gentle, almost pleading, and you shot her a questioning look. 

“Az? As in… Azriel?” you asked. She nodded her expression remaining grave. “What do you mean? Give him a chance to what?” 

“You know what I mean,” she pushed. “Give him a chance… to see if there’s a spark. There’s no pressure! I was just wondering if you had ever considered.” 

“I’m not following,” you felt your eyebrows pinch together as you tried to unravel her words. “How would I give him a chance? He doesn’t feel that way about me.”

“Very funny,” Mor snorted, rolling her eyes in good humor, but her eyebrows shot up when she saw you were completely serious. “You’re serious.” 

“Of course I’m serious,” you exclaimed. “Did you hit your head or something? Are we talking about the same Azriel? Tall, dark, handsome, speaks to shadows… that guy?” 

“Yes, that Azriel,” Mor replied. “The same one who is completely in love with you.” 

The air rushed from your lungs and you sputtered, you gasp soon turning into a high, keening giggle as you took in the absurdity of Mor’s statement. “That’s a good one, Mor,” you said, shaking your head. “But you really shouldn’t tease people.” 

Instead of joining in as you expected, Mor shook her head in apparent exasperation and sighed. “Look, I usually wouldn’t meddle,” she began, earning an incredulous look from you. “Not in something this personal, at least. But apparently, you’re dense enough that you need a little help, so I’ll spell it out for you. Azriel is head over heels in love with you and he has been for a while.” 

“You’re serious,” you said, shock sobering you. 

“Completely,” Mor nodded. “By the Mother, we all thought you were just great at pretending not to notice. You really didn’t know?!” 

You opened your mouth, only to shut it again when words failed you. “I don’t think… that can’t be…” 

“Well, it is,” Mor said. “You’re the last to know, apparently. And now that you do know, what do you think?”

“What do I think?” you echoed numbly. Your face felt numb and a ringing filled your ears as if Mor’s revelation was a physical blow. “I don’t understand.” 

“Look, if you don’t want things to change, they don’t have to,” she said. Her voice sounded distant like she was speaking from the other end of a long tunnel, and try as you might, you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the fireplace to look at her. “I just thought I’d throw it out there as an option.” 

The roaring in your ears grew, and if you hadn’t already been sitting, you were sure your knees would have buckled. Surely, Mor was joking… or just plain wrong. But one look at the pensive expression on her flawless face told you otherwise. Mor, as usual, was Truth, and she was being honest at this moment. 

“Y/N?” the sound of your name brought you out of your thoughts, and you took a deep breath before making any reply.

“He’s not in love with me,” you said. Your voice sounded flat and dull, the polar opposite of the chaos that was roiling within you. 

“He is,” was Mor’s retort.

“He’s not,” you insisted. Shock was giving way to irritation and you wanted to scream. Surely, you had enough crushed hope to last a lifetime by now. “I would know.”

Mor simply laughed at that. “Apparently, you wouldn’t know,” she said, “because he totally is.” 

To your horror, helpless tears sprang to your eyes. It wasn’t her fault. Your friend didn’t know of your feelings for Azriel, so she couldn’t know how much this was ripping your heart out. But it was, and your composure was beginning to crumble. “You don’t understand,” you averted your eyes, furiously blinking back tears. “He can’t be.”

“Why not?” Mor’s voice had lost its teasing edge as she rounded her desk to sit next to you. When you finally looked up, concern and confusion were all you could read on her face. “Make me understand, Y/N.”

“He can’t be in love with me,” you said again, staring at the fire as you steeled yourself to make the confession. “He can’t be, because I’m in love with him.” 

⊱ —————— ❈ —————— ⊰

Azriel took deep breaths as he approached the Townhouse and worked to adopt the calm facade he usually wore without effort. There were very few things that could make the shadowsinger truly nervous, and you were at the top of the list. It had been more than a day since your last conversation, and while Azriel told himself he was giving you time to cool off, he knew that wasn’t the whole reason he had stayed away. In truth, Azriel needed time as well. Time to shore up the gaping hole in his chest and to tamp down the impulses that your presence had brought out. He had been so close to telling you the truth, and yet, he had never been further. The worst part was, he couldn’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse that you left before he lost his cool entirely. Part of him wished he’d just blurted it out if only to get the burden off his shoulders. But he knew you, knew your heart, and it would be selfish to put you through the pain of rejecting him. 

So, when you rushed out of the House and into Cassian’s arms, he went to the roof instead of chasing after you. He stayed up there for several hours, punching and kicking and running until his knuckles bled and his legs shook from exertion. When he finally stopped, it wasn’t because the roaring of his thoughts had quieted or the yearning within him had ceased, but the insistence of his shadows, who were growing increasingly agitated as he ignored their pleas to rest. He acquiesced eventually, long after the sun had set over the city, and trudged down the steps towards his now empty room. 

Cassian caught him in the hallway, his customary humor nowhere to be found as he appraised the shadowsinger. “Are you okay?” he asked. It was a stupid question and one they both knew he wouldn’t answer honestly, but Azriel appreciated the invitation to open up, nonetheless. Even after five hundred hears of his taciturn nature, Cassian still offered an ear every time. 

“M’fine,” was all Azriel had muttered, brushing past his brother without a second look. He hadn’t thought about the way your smell would linger in his rooms, and when he opened the door, it drove the air out of his lungs as if he’d been walloped. Something like grief settled within him when he flopped down onto the sheets that smelled so strongly of you. The feeling weighed heavy in his chest, following him into his dreams when he finally drifted off.

When he woke the next morning, he ignored the tug in his chest as he inhaled, struck once more by the unyielding urge to search you out. He had only just avoided laying himself bare before you, and now he was itching to throw himself back in the fire. He wondered if this qualified as a form of masochism, to subject himself to the thing he wanted most but could never have. Perhaps it was, but the realization didn’t help and soon his wings were carrying him towards the Townhouse where you dwelled, driven by self-destructive tendencies and the selfish craving to see you again. 

He stood outside the Townhouse door for a long minute after he arrived, debating whether or not to knock. On one hand, it seemed like the polite thing to do. On the other, he did technically live in the Townhouse from time to time, and not letting himself in would probably be seen as odd. In the interest of maintaining a facade of normalcy, he took one last moment to screw his features into a neutral mask and walked in. 

The lower level of the Townhouse was empty, but he could hear the faint muttering of two feminine voices coming from the second floor. Mor had taken to living at the River House most of the time and had recently converted her old bedroom into an office. She said it was to get some peace and quiet away from Rhysand, but Azriel wondered if she did it to stay closer to you. 

At one point in his life, he thought he was in love with Mor. He was sure his feelings for the blonde were as intense as they could get, that she was it for him. Then he met you, and the affection he’d felt for his friend paled in comparison. It was nearly laughable, in hindsight, that he had been so hung up on Mor. Now, he envied her, for the friendship she had with you. 

He contemplated the change in his feelings as he ascended the stairs, his steps silent as ever. When he reached the landing, he paused before turning the corner into Mor’s office, his ear pricking as he caught the tail end of your sentence. 

“He doesn’t feel that way about me,” you were saying to Mor, your tone slightly sad. Were you talking about a suitor? A friend? Azriel froze, torn between making his presence known and learning the context of that sentence, his shadows already swirling around him, concealing him from sight. 

Before he could make a decision either way, Mor let out a scoff, “Very funny.” There was a pause, and Azriel resisted the urge to send his shadows around the corner, to ask them to describe the look on your face. “You’re serious,” Mor said after a long moment, sounding incredulous. 

You spoke up, then, sounding almost scandalized. “Of course I’m serious. Did you hit your head or something? Are we talking about the same Azriel? Tall, dark, handsome, speaks to shadows… that guy?” Azriel’s mouth went dry, his heartbeat stuttering when you said his name. Now he was sure he should make his presence known. Eavesdropping was one thing, but listening in on a conversation about himself was too far. Aside from the obvious invasion of privacy, did he really want to know what you would say behind his back?

He willed himself to cough or move, to stop the conversation from progressing before he heard something he didn’t want to hear, but his feet remained rooted in place. A heartbeat later, Mor was responding in the affirmative, and Azriel’s stomach dropped. “Yes, that Azriel. The same one who is completely in love with you.” 

Azriel’s heart seemed to stop in his chest as time ground to a halt. Mortification and dread swamped him and his shadows pulled in tighter, ready to ferry their master away from the nightmare unfolding just around the corner. He remained frozen in place, though, unable to resist the temptation of hearing your reaction. Distantly, he felt slightly betrayed that Mor had revealed his secrets, but he supposed he had his own lack of subtly to blame for that. Despite how his friends thought his affections for you were obvious, though, he had managed thus far to keep you from suspecting. Until now.

The silence that hung after Mor’s words seemed to stretch on for minutes while Azriel stood paralyzed. Then, a laugh rang out, so out of place he all but jumped at the sound. It took him a moment to figure out the laugh was coming from you, and his stomach dropped. He didn’t know what he expected, but laughter felt like a particularly cruel twist. It reminded Azriel of the way adults giggle at children when they make outrageous declarations, amused, and almost pitying. Was it really so preposterous, to picture Azriel at your side? He knew the answer, but a small part of him still hoped it wasn’t.

Azriel was traveling through shadows before he made the conscious decision to leave, unwilling to subject himself to further torment. He hadn’t heard the full conversation, hadn’t really known that you were laughing at his expense, but his insecurity filled the gaps in his knowledge, edging out logic with self-loathing and melancholy. Despite all of this, he wasn’t angry at you. You had every right to reject him. It was nothing less than expected, and he had been mentally preparing for it for years. He always knew you would reject him. He’d even made peace with it. So why did he feel so devastated? 

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[violetlichen]

Strawberry Seed

Sydney knocks you up. Now you have to tell Sirris. - Male Corrupted!Sydney/AFAB Reader (gendered terms used, girlfriend, mother, etc.) only one single use of Y/N which I hate and try to avoid but I felt like it was necessary for the moment! - Also found on AO3 here!

"So careful…"

"...my dad…"

"...we're okay…"

Sydney is close to wearing a hole in the floor as he paces nervously around his living room. You watch from your spot on his couch, your face pale and stricken, and you only half listen while Sydney occasionally mutters words to himself that you can't quite catch in your stupor.

On the coffee table separating you lies a pregnancy test, with two faint positive lines.

"We haven't… our vows…" Sydney mumbles as he walks the length of the hallway again. His hands gesture manically in his imaginary conversation.

"Jordan…"

At the mention of the Temple's priest, you finally snap your head up to look at him. "Syd?"

Your boyfriend either cannot hear you or doesn't want to, and he continues his measured strides while muttering under his breath.

Even though Sydney had taken a considerable step back from his duties at the Temple since the two of you made your vows to each other and fallen head over heels into an exploration of life's more carnal pleasures, he still can't seem to shake the hold Brother Jordan has on him, or the shame that follows closely behind at the thought of being punished for the product of this sin you've committed together.

"We're promised to each other… he knows that… we're okay…"

You both know what sort of punishment would've waited for you if this had happened outside of your Promise, and you can't help but utter the same words in your own head now as you remind yourself that's not the case. We're okay. It's okay.

You slowly get up from the couch and maneuver around the coffee table, your eyes fixed on Sydney's pacing form to avoid looking at the dreaded pink lines in front of you. He takes no notice of you until you plant yourself in his way, gingerly taking his clammy hands in yours as he comes closer.

Your heart breaks at the look on his face. He only recently traded in his glasses for contacts, and now there is nothing to obscure the guilty furrow of his brows or the sorrow behind his eyes as he finally looks at you properly. But before you can say anything, more frenzied words tumble out of him.

"I'm sorry," he bites out, gathering you in his arms and nuzzling his face into the crook of your shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

You embrace him tighter as tears sting your eyes. You grit your teeth and run your fingers through his loose strawberry blonde hair, the action soothing yourself more than him.

"Why are you sorry?" you ask, trying your best to keep your voice light and strong. "It's my fault, too."

Sydney shakes his head as much as he can in his position against you. "I did this to you," he insists, his voice muffled.

"Syd," you say as you pull back to look up at him. You cup his face in your hands. "It takes two to tango, and we tango a lot. We tango all over the place. We're tango fiends."

He fights a soft grin forcing its way onto his face, and his own hands swallow yours as he grabs onto them tightly.

"Don't make me laugh right now," he whines through his smile, appreciative of your attempt to cheer him up but refusing to let go of the grave mood that has taken over his empty house. The grin quickly fades away, and a new somber, sober look replaces it as he says your name. "I really am sorry."

"I know," you nod, ducking your head slightly to avoid eye contact and hide the cracks in your brave façade. "Me too."

There's no point in wallowing, you think. You've never been one to catastrophize. But this is different, and you can't help but feed off of your boyfriend's nervous energy. So you smile up at him; love, affection, fear, and everything in between gleaming in your eyes despite it all.

Sydney takes you in, his heart swelling over your determination to stay sane through this moment. It's hard to believe a piece of him now grows inside of you as you speak, a little fragment of your love and adoration for each other. He's sure his heart will burst, from fear or excitement he isn’t sure, and he gathers you closer in his arms and tucks you against his chest, allowing the smell of your hair to calm him before he has a heart attack in front of you.

"What do we do now?" you ask into his chest after a brief moment.

Sirris will be home soon. The thought comforts Sydney more than it frightens him, as his dad will certainly know how to answer that question. He leads you back to the couch and holds you while the two of you wait and listen for the car to pull into the driveway.

Sydney knows how he wants to answer you. As frightened as he is, there isn’t a single part of him that wants to get rid of the baby. It's yours. You made it together.

But he loves you more than anything, and he knows ultimately the decision is yours to make. Your lives will never be the same if you decide to keep it. It will never be the same if you decide not to.

He refrains from voicing these thoughts as he holds you. As for what comes next...

The Temple will require you to marry, of course. Pregnancy is common after the Right of Promise, and the more Sydney strays away from the Temple's doctrine the more he comes to realize the Right is little more than a way to create more Initiates and ensure its members' devotion didn't falter.

But he knows that even if there weren't pressure from the Temple, he would want to propose to you. He wants you forever. This was just expediting it.

He's less sure that he wants to bring a child into the kind of life he had been living before you came along. A life of ignorance and strict, unyielding rules. Shame, guilt, repression, the list goes on. A surge of protectiveness swells in him, makes his chest ache and urges him to place a hand over your belly. Instead he tightens his hold on you at the thought of involving the Temple in this moment, or any moment after. That instinct alone tells him all he needs to know.

It's not too long before lights strobe through the partially open blinds in the window behind you, and the sound of wheels on pavement comes to a slowing halt outside.

"Want me to do the talking?" you ask, your voice small and resigned.

A car door slams shut. Sydney shakes his head, nuzzling his nose against you as he does so.

"No. I'll do it," he answers. Despite your sound logic that you are both equally responsible, deep down he still feels it's his fault, and he refuses to add to your stress by making you lead this discussion.

Sydney presses one more kiss into your hair for good luck before the front door opens, and his dad steps through. He smiles once he notices you both sitting on the couch, a briefcase in hand.

"Hey, you two," he greets, shutting the door and tucking his car keys into the pocket of his pants.

Sydney peels himself away from you and moves to stand. Sirris notices and raises an eyebrow in interest, immediately knowing something is wrong. He carefully sets his briefcase down on the side table near the door before turning to the two of you.

"What’s going on?" he asks casually, and it only adds to the awkward, suffocating tension.

Sydney takes a moment to gather his courage. From your spot on the couch, you slip your hand into his and give it reassuring squeeze. He squeezes yours back, and releases a shaky breath before turning his attention back to his dad.

"We have to tell you something."

Sirris stills for a moment like he's bracing himself for whatever it could be, peering over his glasses and prompting for his son to go on.

"Alright."

He doesn't sound angry or upset, only suspiciously patient, but no more words come from Sydney. His free hand works itself into a fist, while Sirris tilts his head expectantly. He hasn't noticed the test on the coffee table yet, and for some reason the thought of him seeing it is shameful to you. It triggers you into panicked action, like you need to beat him to the news before he can come to the conclusion himself.

You pull yourself up forcefully, almost tugging Sydney back down onto the couch as you use him as leverage to meet Sirris' eyes.

"I'm pregnant," you blurt out.

Sydney sputters and corrects his balance just as Sirris' gaze moves to you, and then finally falls to the pregnancy test. His eyes have widened from your outburst, but the surprise on his face is brief, and it settles into something calculatedly calm.

“I see,” he says. He takes a few steps towards the table and peers down at the test as if wanting to read the results for himself. His posture is relaxed, and he hums to himself once he sees the two faint lines. "This certainly would indicate that you are."

You and Sydney are still as Sirris nods to himself, and you watch quietly as he settles into an armchair, crossing his legs and pushing his glasses up with his finger. You sit back down on the couch, easing Sydney down with you. He's washed in a shameful silence as he settles beside you and waits for his dad to continue, but his hand instinctively reaches for yours.

Sirris sees your fingers interlock, sees Sydney pull your joined hands into his lap as his other hand shields them. It's interesting to him, interesting that his son uses two hands to hold only one of yours.

"I'm assuming you used protection?" he asks.

You nod sheepishly. "Yes, sir."

Next to you Sydney blushes, but his brows furrow with irritation. "Of course we did."

"You've taken more than just one test to confirm?"

"Yes," Sydney huffs.

Sirris eyes you both over. He's not pleased, but he would be a hypocrite to be angry. Sydney himself was an unplanned surprise. He lets you both squirm under his attention as he continues to probe into your sex life until he feels he's been cross for an appropriate amount of time.

"Well, I can't say I'm all that surprised," he finally says. "You are promised to each other, after all."

An amused smile ghosts his lips. He doesn't buy into that Temple rubbish, but he had always fostered anything Sydney showed an interest in. Even if it was something as insufferable as organized religion, or this strange, quiet orphan.

Sydney can't help but roll his eyes at Sirris and his gracious sarcasm, and for a moment he forgets that he's breaking the news to his father that he had knocked up his girlfriend. Now he's just annoyed, muscle memory of past conversations and debates about science and the Temple overriding his nerves, and it makes Sirris chuckle. He's done posturing.

"What's done is done." He claps his hands and stands up, looking down at you and Sydney. "Now we must deal with it."

You blink up at your science teacher, bug-eyed and mouth gaping at the sudden change in atmosphere. Sirris launches into how Sydney was conceived similarly, and all the things he and his wife had to prepare for and consider. Sydney blushes and groans from embarrassment, hiding his face in his hands as Sirris walks over to his briefcase to open it with a satisfying click. He rifles through several papers before grabbing a specific pamphlet and calls your name.

"You might recall getting one of these in class," he says as he walks back over and hands the pamphlet over to you. It's one from the teen pregnancy segment he did a few months back. Unbeknownst to him, the condoms he handed out that day were almost immediately used up by you and Sydney.

"I guess I didn't read through it that carefully," you mumble.

You open the pamphlet up to make Sirris happy, but he's saying your name again, gently this time, before you can read much.

"We'll get you an appointment at the hospital. But then you have an important decision to make," he says gravely. "We will make sure you're sufficiently informed of your options, and will be here to support you no matter what you decide."

You look over to Sydney. He's already staring at you, his expression full of affection, his eyes tender, as he soothingly brushes a hand up and down your arm. His eyes stray over your lips, and he nods in agreement.

"What do you want to do?" you ask softly.

He opens his mouth to speak, but he stops himself. "It doesn't matter what I want."

"Yes, it does," you frown at him. He's already shaking his head before you finish speaking, so you rearrange yourself to face him head on. "It matters. It matters to me."

Sydney sighs. "I know," he pecks a kiss into your temple to soothe you. "That's why I don't want to influence your decision."

To his surprise, your face twists in anger. You grip his arm tightly.

"We're in this together. I don't want to make this decision without you."

Sydney feels his resolve crumbling the more he looks into your eyes, sees the sternness behind them and the set of your jaw. You'll make a great mother, he knows, whether it's nine months from now or years in the future. He sighs again, this time in frustration, but it isn't directed at you.

You've both almost forgotten Sirris is still in the room with you, and he clears his throat as he peers down at you, his arms crossed.

"Nothing has to be decided on tonight," he begins to move towards the kitchen to give you some privacy. "Soon," he calls over his shoulder, "but not tonight. Have you both had dinner?"

Sydney looks at you once more and can tell you're not ready to move on from this yet, but you're tired, and you slump down further into the couch as he calls out an answer to his dad. He leaves you on the couch as he follows into the kitchen where Sirris is reheating leftovers from the day before.

"Can she stay here tonight?" he asks.

Sirris pokes around the buttons on the microwave. "I suppose so. It's not like any more surprises can come from it," he shoots his son a look as he continues to flit around the kitchen looking for silverware.

Sydney grimaces, and he deflates against the counter. "Dad," he breathes, looking down at his hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't... I should've..."

He's not sure what he's trying to say, but Sirris seems to know anyway. He sets his plate down on the counter and wraps a hand behind Sydney's head, bringing him in for a hug. Sydney relaxes into it and feels like he can breathe again.

"It'll be alright," Sirris murmurs, and he shoots him a wry grin as he pulls away. "You're living proof of that."

Later that night, you and Sydney crawl into his bed. It's a tight fit, but it's never stopped you before, and any need for personal space had been snuffed out of Sydney quickly after he met you. You face each other, your hands tucked under your cheeks, exhaustion from the taxing evening overtaking you both. His arm hangs loosely over your waist, but he drags it along the length of you to cup your thigh and drape it over himself so that you slot together more snugly.

"I love you," he says. You're still quiet, thoughts swimming in your brain, and he feels the need to remind you.

Your hand glides up under the sleeve of his shirt to run your fingers against the cool, smooth skin of his upper arm. "I love you, too."

Neither of you say anything for awhile, but despite how tired you both feel, sleep eludes you. A low fire burns in its place, deep in your bellies; one that, for Sydney, never truly dies down completely. Especially not when he's this close to you.

He can't bring himself to touch you that way right now. Not when he can feel you tremble beside him, your anxiety causing your foot to tap incessantly under his sheets and preventing you from truly relaxing. His fingers graze your lower back, sliding up under your shirt, just as desperate as you are for any kind of skin-to-skin contact.

"I'm scared," you mutter, surprising him. He had resigned himself to continuing the conversation tomorrow. "Are you scared?"

Sydney nods, continuing to brush his fingertips against your spine.

"Shitless," he admits with a chuckle. He supposes now is the time to tell you what he wants, and he commits to it in the privacy of his room. "Becoming a dad... I thought I'd have more time to become less scared." He squints down at you the best he can in the dark without his contacts in. "But I want it, Y/N. I want everything you're willing to give me. Even this." He feels himself smiling. "You know how greedy I can be."

You roll your weight into him, huffing laughter into his chest as you do so, and he scoops you up in his arms with a cheeky grin.

"Yeah, I do," you agree, a smile in your voice. Then you sober up again. "I'm not sure what I want. I just know I want you."

Sydney can't help but lower his hand to your ass, giving it a chaste squeeze meant to lighten the mood. You're smiling again.

"You have me," he says earnestly.

You prop yourself up onto your elbow and snake your other hand up his chest to cup his jaw. Your lips graze his softly, and you only break apart for a brief moment before his arms envelop your waist completely, drawing you in closer for a firmer, more heated kiss.

You slide your hips over his as the wet heat of your tongues massage each other, and Sydney finally slides his hands under your sleep shorts to cup your ass properly and squeeze the flesh. You rock into him and his firm grip helps you meet his own arching movements, until you're a heaving, panting mess.

When you fully lay your weight back down on top of him he takes the opportunity to urge you onto your back. He hovers over you and meets your lips again, relishing the sounds they make when you break apart over and over. These kisses are quick and chaste, taking every free moment he can to press them into your mouth as he helps you slide out of your shorts. His shirt is stripped from him and thrown somewhere onto the floor as well, and he gives you one more fervent, smacking kiss.

He sits back to push your shirt up and expose your breasts. He mouths at a nipple, sucking roughly and wetly, shooting sparks straight down between your legs.

Something similar sparks within him, a glint in his eye that reminds you of why you're both here and what has led to this night. It's a possessive look you've only seen once before, in the Prayer Room, and have only seen hints of since.

You watch as he attaches himself to your other nipple, and you know you're both now imagining each breast full and aching with sustenance for your child. Sydney looks up at you knowingly, tongue flicking the swollen bud.

Then, for the first time since finding out you were pregnant, Sydney places a hand over your belly, and it finally hits you. The stirring of life inside of you, something precious and uniquely yours. Something you're not sure you want to give up. You can see it so clearly; his hand on your stomach as it swells with each month that passes. His hand in yours as you usher this new life into the world. Each of your hands holding your child's as you walk together down the street, the way you saw other families do when you were younger.

You're not dumb. You know it's not that simple, that that's not all there is to it. There's so much to consider. You haven't even told Bailey yet.

But you want it. Oh, do you want it.

None of that matters once Sydney dips his head between your legs and licks into you diligently. You finish as quietly as you can on his tongue while he ruts into his mattress, your hands gripping tightly at his hair the way you know he likes.

Once he sits back on his heels and wipes your slick from his mouth, he groans in frustration. You ask him what's wrong.

"I wasn't gonna fuck you tonight," he groans again, pawing at his dick as it chubs up in his pants.

You arch an eyebrow at him in disbelief.

"I mean it!" he grins, and you're grinning now, too. "I really wasn't. I was just gonna hold you all romantically."

A laugh bursts from you, the kind made worse knowing you had to be quiet so Sirris didn't overhear. Sydney laughs too, boyishly and dumbly, and collapses into you. He traps you in his arms and kisses you more. Soft, peppering kisses you can't wait to wake up to in the morning.

Despite what he says, he fucks you twice, and you fall asleep slotted together like spoons, his big, warm hand protecting your belly.

[galahadwilder]

Give me an Adrien who finds out that his dad was Hawkmoth and says, “no. This was not my fault. I could not possibly have done more to stop this. I literally died a hundred times to fix this, I gave all I could give, and that’s enough for my conscience.”

Give me an Adrien who looks at his dad and says, “this man was never my family.”

Give me an Adrien who chooses life and love over wallowing in death. Give me an Adrien who looks at the monster that grief has made his father into and says “never again.” Give me an Adrien who has his friends, has his Lady, has the Dupain-Chengs and Nathalie and Nino and Alya and his found family and says that that is enough for him, he will not waste any more time grieving over a man who would never grieve for him.

Give me an Adrien who, when random people tell them how sorry they are, thinking that his life must be over, says, “I’m better off now actually. And happier,” and means it.

Do not stand at his grave and cry.

He is not there.

He did not die.