brace set


summary: Thirty-two years of sisterhood sounds like forever, she thinks, but is is not enough.

sort of post ep for paper clip. part of my series of fics i’m writing as i rewatch the x files.

“I think it’s about something we have no personal choice in. I think it’s about fate.” - Fox Mulder, 3x02 Paper Clip


They’ve discussed names, a little unseriously. Bill had insisted that it would be another boy, so they had agreed unofficially on Charles. (He liked to name the children after family members; there was Billy, and then Melissa was after his mother and Charles after his father. But they hadn’t discussed girl names.)

“I liked that one name you suggested,” Bill offers the next morning. They know the routines of early parenthood well, but he is no less fascinated by the baby, moving his fingers through the sunlight for her to track. “What was it… Dana.”

Maggie smiles; Dana was her favorite of the considered girl names, but she’d figured Bill would never go for it since it wasn’t traditional. “Dana Katherine,” she offers, stroking her daughter’s downy red hair. The baby snuffles, turning her face into Maggie’s shoulder. “For my grandmother.”

They take the baby home after a few days. Bill goes in first - wisely enough, Missy and Billy tend to be rambunctious, especially right after breakfast. Maggie’s mother has been staying with them, and she embraces Maggie at the door before leaning over the baby carrier. Missy and Billy leap at her before their father stops them. “Go and sit on the couch,” he says in that kind but stern way he has. Billy sticks out his lower lip and stomps over to the couch. Bill scoops up Missy and sets her next to her brother; she swings her legs in excitement.

The kids have been arguing for a few weeks now about whether or not the baby would be a brother or a sister (Billy in favor of the former and Missy of the latter). Maggie opts to sit between them with the baby in her arms so they won’t come to blows over who was right. “Kids,” she says. “This is your new sister, Dana.”

Billy pouts, flopping back against the back of the couch, and Bill and her mother swoop in to scold him. But Missy is intrigued, crawling closer to get a look. Dana half-dozes, tiny hands waving in the air. Missy pokes her foot. “Day?”

“Dana,” Maggie corrects, amused. “Don’t poke her, sweetie, you have to be gentle.”

Melissa reaches for the baby again, and Dana catches her sister’s finger in her little hand. “Day,” she says, satisfied.

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insanitia  asked:

26 with Calum??? 😍

Calum / 26. “The diamond in your engagement ring is fake.”

You examined the shimmering rock wrapped wrapped in white gold - the light refracting and bouncing off to give the illusion of a rainbow - and found yourself smiling insipidly as you twisted the ring on your finger. The moment sure as hell wasn’t one from a romantic comedy or straight out of fairytale. It wasn’t a moment where you found yourself braced in a public setting with all eyes on you. It also wasn’t in a close, intimate place that was special to either of you. In fact, your now-fiancé dropped to one knee in the kitchen of yours and your roommate Calum’s apartment with a few pairs of eyes remaining trained on you in anticipation for your answer. It was a quiet yes that came out more like a question than a definite answer. And now, you were left alone with your thoughts and a solemn Calum, your fiancé and his friends making a trip for booze to celebrate.

You stifled a sigh, glancing at your roommate; his fingers toyed with the sleeve of his leather jacket. The very second your fiancé dropped to one knee Calum hadn’t uttered a single word, so much as meeting your gaze. After a couple of years spent living together and over a decade of being the closest of friends, you’d become accustomed to the difference in his silences. Sometimes there was comfort and solace. Sometimes there was anger or disappointment. But you weren’t sure this time. Silence sometimes speaks volumes to the point where this was practically deafening.

Part of you wished he would say something. Anything.

“The diamond in your engagement ring is fake.”

And there it was. Ask and you shall receive. Your mouth hung agape as your scrambled thoughts scratched and clawed to find the right words to say, but you only came up empty. All you could manage was a meek, “What?”

“You really think that fucking asshole would go out of his way to get an actual diamond,” Calum scoffed. “Hell, weren’t you two just arguing the other day when he conveniently forgot to bring his wallet. Again. God, (Y/N), when are you going to wake up and realize he only sees you as arm candy?”

His once soft, fawn-like Bambi eyes now seemed to bore into you. You felt an unnerving chill snake along your spine but resisted the urge to shudder. You wanted to argue, defend yours and your fiancé’s relationship, even if it left your throat practically raw from screaming out of…rage? But you couldn’t seem to find the words, or emotions to even back up what you may or may not be feeling.

A quiet “I’m sorry” was all you could muster — which fluttered from your lips with what felt like a choked breath — though you weren’t entirely sure why you apologized. For agreeing to — what could be — a lifetime of potential misery that inevitably end in heartbreak? For doing something that obviously left him hurt? Or angry? Why the fuck couldn’t you feel anything? Happiness? Utter rage? Disappointment? Something?

“(Y/N),” Calum said in a low voice, “you deserve more than cheap cubic zirconium, and you know it.”

And with that, he stalked away to his bedroom and made sure to slam his door in the process. Out of anger or out of spite, you still weren’t sure of his feelings or the reasons behind them. You were sure, however, that you weren’t happy. Not happy with your engagement, not happy with Calum’s reaction, and not happy with yourself. After nearly gnawing off your bottom lip, you heaved a sigh; twisting the band off your finger, you set the ring on the countertop and gave it a small twirl with the tip of your index finger before massaging your engagement band’s intended home on your left hand.

Not exactly my best, but words are definitely jumbled in my mind now. But…first week of summer break. Hope everything is swell with all of you. And like I said before, I’m sorry for being a bit rusty at this, but all criticism is appreciated. Love you all. xx

Drabble Challenge

the space between stars :: s2 fix it fic - chapter one

A/N: This is rewrite of season two which consists of basically taking the bulk of season two and tweaking most if not all of the elements and completely rewriting certain aspects of it. The last thing I want is for this fic to be a disappointment to those who, like me, were already disappointed with season 2 in many ways.

This fic is an attempt to write season two the way I would have done it, developing all the characters and their relationships in a way that is perhaps unrealistic to expect of a TV show, but I digress. Although I am developing all of the Voltron team (especially Lance and Hunk, since they got the least screen of the Paladins this season) there will be a heavier focus on Shiro and Allura than perhaps the rest given the sheer amount of unexplored potential between the two and the rest of the team in season two, however I hope to give everyone about the same amount of page time. I am still learning how to write everyone else, so if you have any tips for how to write a certain character/relationship, please let me know, I’d love to hear them.

I’ll preface this by saying right now the fic will be more Shallura than Klance centric due to the narrative arc I’m developing, my comfort level with characterization, and personal preference. That being said, all relationships between the characters will be explored and developed, and none shall be romantic aside from the two previously mentioned.

Above all else, I hope you enjoy this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it thus far, and I’d LOVE to hear your thoughts.

You can also read this fic on ffn & ao3

Now, without further ado: go to 1x11 of Voltron: Legendary Defender, “The Black Paladin”, and come back once you get to the end.


CHAPTER ONE: Across the Universe (I)

Allura had never felt so helpless in her entire life. Discounting the 10,000 years in the cryo-pod, she had never been forced to watch all her hopes shatter and spin madly out of control right before her eyes. The fall of Altea had been destruction but with a rising, desperate hope swelling in her chest. She and her father had the Lions; they could still win this.

They could still win this.

She forced herself not to yell as the Paladins fell into the current of the wormhole, washing over them ocean waves, tangling up their tails and heads, metal panes rattling as their screams echoed over the commlink. Shiro’s, loud and raw, mingled with the pain of the injury Haggar had given him, was worst of all, ringing in her ears long after it had stopped and the blaring of the castle alarms took its place. Red lights flashed as the control panel blocked her at every opportunity.

“They’ve vanished in the temporal rift!” she cried, her panic getting the better of her for a moment. “The Lions are gone!”

“Let’s check the rift-exiting positioning monitor,” said Coran, his fingers flying across his keyboard as fast as her heart was pounding, “to see where this wormhole is taking us.”

“Coran look! There appears to be something on the other end. We’re heading right toward it.” Her shoulders hunched over slightly when the next realization set in, bracing her legs to keep herself steady.

“Scanners show there’s no exit. It’s just nothingness. Find an exit before we run smack into the void.”

“I can’t. I’ve lost control of the Castle.” Angry red signs blared up at her against Altean blue, and her heart sank. There was no way out.

“Brace yourself―we’re about to hit it!”

Or was there?

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Overwatch actor AU

Hanzo is always taking on roles where he’s the stoic big bad antagonist. His fine jaw and beautiful cheek bones could murder anyone. He’s a skilled actor and takes his job seriously.
Because of this people assume he’s cold and upfront with everyone. So the first day on set McCree braced himself to be working with a stuck up prick as the stunt director. To his surprised he mets Hanzo early morning hunched over a scripted in a D. VA brand hoody muttering lines nervously not having noticed McCree.

Needing the mats Hanzo is sitting on McCree greets him only to startle him into dropping the script. Embarrassed Hanzo apologizes repeatedly for intruding and using the stunt storage area to read.

Perplexed McCree offers him the place to go over the script and work on anything else he needs so long as he doesn’t get in the way. Later that day on set he sees just how Hanzo preforms and is stunned to see just how much of an air of confidence and cruel demeanor the man has compared to their first encounter. McCree brushes it off as early gitters and keeps bracing himself to deal with Hanzo sooner or later.

Being an actor is easy for Hanzo. Growing up being whoever they want him to be. Pushing himself into the mold of the character is not easy but he does it without flaw. Growing up in a family that expected a perfect son and nothing short of it he put on personas beautifully. being forced to be something he didn’t want to be and not question it gave him years of experience. Being himself on the other hand was very hard.

As a model he had to wear constricting clothing nothing like the lose sweats he likes to cozy up with. The soft hoody he wears when reading scripts as a good luck charm to not forget his lines given as a gag gift by his brother but treasured by Hanzo. He’s not sure what kind of person McCree would like him to be. Hanzo definitely wants his attention but everytime he approaches McCree he’s always so standoffish only giving him an air of professionalism. Not sure how to grab McCree’s attention Hanzo tries pouring out a facade gauging to see how he’d react.

McCree slowly grows annoyed with Hanzo. feeling confused everytime the man comes by him to chat about scenes he feels like he’s talking to a different person each time. McCree notices how differently he speaks to just him. The rest of the crew tells him Hanzo was quiet yes but polite. No one had seen him speak in the ways McCree describes. It throws him through a loop until one-day he has enough and snaps at Hanzo to stop using him to practice different personas off stage he’s not his acting coach.

Startled Hanzo panics and stutters to explain that’s not what he was trying to do. Not really giving a straight answer McCree just brushes him off having to go deal with things that need his attention. With a heavy heart Hanzo calls his brother asking for advice. Genji and him have a good relationship often a teasing each other but supportive of what thier respective interests. So when Genji hears about Hanzo’s way of getting the stunt man’s attention he scowls his brother for thinking he should change who he is for someone and recommends he just be himself. Knowing this his going to be hard Genji tells him to take up the offer to just be around him and not force conversation. Hanzo tries the next day early morning on the mats of the stunt area in his favorite hoody in hopes of finding McCree and explain himself better. He had written a small letter and had been rereading it that morning hoping to not trip up or ruin what Lil friendship he had with McCree. Once again McCree startles Hanzo dropping his letter and struggling to confess.
Sighing McCree relents and accepts Hanzo having him to practice his acting. When he picks up the letter Hanzos heart drops.
Inspecting the paper McCree hmms and tells him if he’s trying to branch out from action into romance movies it’ll be hard considering hes notorious for being a villain. Handing him his letter McCree makes to leave to only have Hanzo reach out and stop him and present him the letter only managing to squeak out saying its not from a script it’s for him.

Stunned McCree reads it over thoroughly this time. He reads Hanzos explanation and why he was so weird and asking for a date if he’d like that. Once finished he looks over at Hanzo who’s fidgeting waiting for McCree to give him an answer. His flight instinct is growing stronger and finally relents to it n flees when McCree just stares back stunned.

Feeling like an idiot hanzo avoids McCree for the day. Its not till McCree knocks on the man’s trailer that Hanzo sees him again. Cornered hanzo puts on his best stoic persona while his heart beats a mile a minute. McCree finally speaks and gives him a yes to the date and he’d definitely like to get to know him more the real him and not those personas he had played.

Gear Head Works CZ Stock adapter and Tailhook makes one of the best best Pistol brace set-ups available. Stock adapter shipping later this month.

No NFA Paperwork needed with this set-up, considered a pistol with stabilizing brace.

anonymous asked:

May I throw a prompt your way? Sterek - Learning to sleep with each other. Not having sex, but actually learning to SLEEP with each other. Learning to share a bed when you're used to sleeping along, learning to compromise on bedtime habits, learning what does and doesn't work, etc.

Stiles and Derek move in to their new apartment one sunny Saturday in October, and it is easily the best day of Derek’s life. They laugh while filing up the rickety stairs with their cardboard boxes, give up assembling their new bedframe and have sex on the bare mattress, and then again on the couch cushions while the couch is still in pieces. 

They’ve been dating for a year, and it’s a big step, Derek knows, and he’s so incandescently happy. Them, together, starting a new chapter of their lives together. Derek likes the way their socks look together in the drawers, the way Stiles’ deputy uniform looks next to his teaching clothes in the closet. The cheerful colorful mugs that were Stiles are now Derek-and-Stiles. 

They’d forgone Stiles moving into Derek’s loft (too big) or Derek into Stiles’ apartment (too small) and instead found a new place all their own.

That night, Derek’s heart is content as he drifts off to sleep, Stiles tucked under his arm.

And then he gets an elbow in the mouth.

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Don’t Move

Septiplier - [Jacksepticeye x Markiplier] About Septiplier, I know it’s not an actual thing. It’s called fanFICTION for a reason. Just enjoy the story and its characters.

Summary: Jack uses a little game to decide in an argument with Mark, and Jack loves the game too much to stop. [WARNING: THIS IS A TICKLE FIC]

I love feedback! Critique is greatly appreciated! Okay so i took a small idea and just kinda went off topic. It starts as Don’t move then just derails into general tickling. Still cute tho. Anyways enjoy!!! Also I did this cause i was craving some ear tickles and Mark’s got ticklish ears. Makes for the cutest damn tickling scenes ever. 

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Keep Me Where The Light Is - A Moriel Fic

For @acotarshipweek moriel smut week day 1 prompt: ‘I’m sorry’. I am Late. I am very late. I want to do a couple of other prompts for this week and they will probably be…very late. I am garbage. We know this. Thank you my dearest, @pterodactylichexameter for betaing this for me!!

Title: Keep Me Where The Light Is

Summary: Prompt: ‘I’m sorry’ established relationship, set a few decades after the projected end of ACOWAR. Azriel returns late from a particularly harrowing mission. Mor finds him alone and in pieces in the training room and helps him heal. Lots of angst. Lots of sin. That’s really all you need to know. Azriel’s POV. Obviously NSFW. 

Teaser:  Mor leads him through the quiet, dark house, the door closing behind them as silently as it had opened. It might have felt like bars slamming shut on a prison cell, or the stone wall of a crypt sealing himself inside his own tomb but it doesn’t. With Mor’s hand slipping gently into his the dark house feels like an escape and he has left his demons at the door. They are not allowed in this place that she has warded with her light and her peace. She is the only thing with the power to bring him to his knees that is permitted to touch him here.  

Link: AO3

Azriel stalks into the training halls beneath the House of Wind a second, haunting soul tethered to the broken, battered one that resides within his body. The one that once was his and his alone. Now it belongs to all those who have stolen pieces from it over the decades, the ones he has killed or tortured or blackmailed or threatened for the sake of his court. His body has become a cemetery for all those he has claimed, having their revenge each day for what he did to them. It is a graveyard of monsters; his ghosts were demons long before he shattered their minds and buried them with the remnants of his soul.

That knowledge doesn’t ease the burden that threatens to finally break him at last.

Six hundred years. There are scars he’s carried upon his heart, his mind for six hundred years that have refused to fade as stubbornly as the marks upon his hands. Every day he wakes with the reminder of what his brothers did to him, the reminder of that fire, their cruelty, that terror written upon his skin. And upon his soul is the reminder of what he has done, his own cruelty, his own sins, inked in blood and screams and just as inescapable. Too much. He has crossed some line, some line he didn’t think existed. But this is too much. This is finally too much.

It had taken hours to break the deserter, hours to understand the reasons behind his betrayal, why he had slaughtered four of his brothers, what he had hoped to gain, what secrets he had hoped to sell to their enemies. Those secrets died with him. Azriel was the last person ever to hear them and all those others who were involved have since been taken care of. His people are safe, his family is safe but he…he….

The screams still bother him. They shouldn’t, surely, after all this time. But they do. They still cut through him like that first day. He still remembers the soldier, his first. Rhys’s father had stood outside the room and looked down at him, his eyes the same violet as his brother’s but…Cold, dark, utterly devoid of Rhys’s compassion. He had told Azriel the man was an enemy, was working to destroy everything they knew, everything they had built. He had told him to discover what the male knew then to…take care of him. Azriel had done as commanded.

He still does as commanded. He knows that if he ever felt the strain becoming too much, if he went to his brother and told him that he couldn’t do this anymore, that six hundred years of death and nightmares filled with agony were too much that Rhys would let him step down immediately. He could shake off the role of spymaster, live somewhere quietly, peacefully, with Mor without the need for these grisly interruptions in the life they loved so much. He also knows that it would leave the court undefended, that no-one can do what he can. And he would never wish them to, would never wish this upon anyone.

For all that they haunt him now he knows that if a day ever comes when the screams inside him go silent, when they no longer haunt his every step…that will be the day he becomes a monster in full and more of a danger to this court than he could ever be a guardian.

But he still wishes it would stop now, wishes he could stop reliving the last few hours, wishes he could find a moment of peace, just for a second, just a second, please, please.  

The training hall is dark and quiet at this hour, no-one else is out of their beds feeling the need to hit something, to work off the terrible, raging, consuming frustration that seems as though it’s about to burst free of the restraining cage of his bones. He is the only one awake now…And his ghosts.

He steps to one of the corners of the hall where several braced pads have been set up, soft wood covered by layers and layers of thick fabric, making them solid but safe to hit. Along the wall behind them, set out in neat rows like soldiers, like the neatly printed orders that find their way to his desk and tear another chunk of him, are variously sized gloves meant to be worn in the ring or when training alone with the targets. He ignores them.

His hands are still covered in dried blood from his last mission and he doesn’t bother to try and cleanse them, to rid himself of that reminder of what he has done, what he is. Monster the darkness whispers to him. He shivers at the accusation but can’t bring himself to feel betrayed by it. When they had come to him in his childhood and promised him power, promised him salvation, the shadows that sing to him had not promised him comfort or sweet words. They had only promised truth. That was all they had ever given to him in the six hundred years they had served him.

Settling into the stance that’s as familiar to him now as breathing, Az sets his eyes upon the pad before him. His punches start off rhythmic and controlled, careful taps gauging distance, then stronger flurries of blows taught in the training camps and drills. But those aren’t enough, aren’t enough to quiet the roaring in his head, aren’t enough to douse the fire boiling his blood, aren’t enough to silence the screams rattling through his bones.

He increases his pace, his attacks becoming less practiced, less rhythmic, more wild and untamed as he feels himself slipping. Control, through all these years control has been his sword, his shield, his armour, his anchor. Keeping himself in check had always meant keeping himself alive. But sometimes, in the dark, in the quiet, the monsters slip out to reclaim their own.

His arms swing in wide arcs, wasting time, wasting power, all the things he was specifically taught not to do. His hands strike harder and harder and the sudden blaze of pain that sparks up his arms is a welcome feeling. It grounds him and for a moment it helps. It’s a release, an expression of the things that he must keep inside, that he must not let escape, that he must bind tight to himself lest they poison anyone else. The pulse of relief is only ever temporary.

His vision blurs and the room around him dissolves, reforming into another that is dark and cramped and smells strongly of blood and despair. He is crouched on the floor, his expression cool, composed even as he crumbles into ruins on the inside, as the man screams before him. His fist makes contact with the pad at a blinding speed and strength again and again and again and the harsh, unyielding rhythm is the only thing that’s stopping him from sinking to his knees and letting the darkness within overwhelm him at last.

The skin between his knuckles splits and blood seeps from the cracks in his self. He ignores it, even as it pulses in thin scarlet ribbons over his palms and the backs of his hands, thick and hot and wet, clenched between his fingers. But he’s too focused on the screaming in his head, in banishing it, in chasing the past that tugs at him, tries to slip its arms around him and draw him back towards it, like a scorned lover. But he won’t let it, can’t let it, if he gives into that now there will be no saving him, no finding him, no dragging him from that abyss, not for anything.

The one corner of his mind that can think past his pain and his fear dimly registers the sound of distant footsteps, frantic, running, running towards him.


The scream rips through the thick veil that’s shrouding him from his surroundings, pierced only by the soft pulses of pain that come from the continued striking of his fists against the pads. His name. Her voice. His name in her mouth. The running footsteps, hers too he realises vaguely, get closer, faster, louder, thundering like a heartbeat against the smooth stone floors of the training hall.

“Azriel! Azriel stop, please stop, Az-“ He shudders, her voice growing more distant, her words blending with the words of his captor as he had begged for an end.

“Azriel, Az look at me, look at me, listen to me.” She doesn’t touch him but her voice strikes a chord in him like a physical blow all the same as he registers the deep throb of fear and agony that runs through it. He raises his head, looks over at her, his vision still slightly bleary, as though he’s seeing her through a thick, choking fog. “Stop,” she whispers, orders, pleads. “Stop, Az.”

This time, for her, he obeys the words.

Trembling he lets his hands drop. They’re stiff and sore from the damage done to them and the fresh blood that’s starting to dry over the old. Mor’s eyes are fixed on them where they hang limp and useless at his sides, wide and horrified at what he’s done. Reaching down she tries to gently take hold of one of them but the moment her skin brushes against his he jerks violently away from her.

Centuries worth of disgust and doubt well up in him and overwhelm him. Though they’ve been together for over fifty years now and though he loves her and knows and accepts that she loves him- in that moment, the sight of her soft, smooth, unmarred hand brushing against his burned, twisted, bloody one is unbearable to him.

The brief flash of hurt that flares in her warm brown eyes twists in his gut a moment later and she pulls backs, pain flooding her beautiful face. All she wants, he knows, is to be able to reach out to him, to help him, and his rejection stings with the weight of five hundred years of distance and denial.

His remaining strength crumbles at the sight of what he’s done to her and the words come to his lips in a hoarse, breathless rasp, “I’m sorry.” Her eyes flick back up to his but he drops his gaze almost the moment they connect, unable to bring himself to look at her. His chest is still heaving from his recent exertion, his blood still drips quietly onto the stone floor at their feet, his vision still swims and blurs but he breathes again, “I’m sorry.”

Mor opens her mouth to answer but it turns into a cry of alarm as he sways on the spot a moment before his knees buckle. Faster than he can see she darts forwards, her arms sliding around his chest, and catches him. Sinking to the ground with him she lowers him down with heartbreaking tenderness, gentling his fall.

Her fingers stroke lightly through his hair as she steadies him but he can’t stop saying those words over and over and over apologising for a multitude of sins. He’s sorry for getting into this state in the first place but more so for letting her see him like this. He’s sorry for what he’s done, what he’s become, what he’s had to do to stop their court from drowning. But he’s also sorry for the things that he didn’t do, the things that he didn’t stop, the people that he didn’t save with his brand of death. And he’s sorry for her. Sorry for ever thinking that he could be with her, that they could make this work, that it could ever last- a dreamer and a nightmare in love.

As though she can hear these thoughts Mor pushes back his hair and cups his face between her hands, lifting it up to hers. “Look at me,” she whispers when he closes his eyes, averting his gaze, “Look at me, Azriel.” He can’t deny her anything, not her, and he makes himself meet those usually soft, tender brown eyes which he now finds blazing with fierce intensity. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she whispers to him, pressing her lips to his forehead and then touching her brow to his, her thumbs gently stroking his cheeks, “Nothing.”  

Unable to help himself he lowers his head again, shaking. What he’s done- But she picks up that dropped thread of thought as well, “You’re a good person,” she breathes and he snorts in derision before he can control the impulse. Anger flashes through her and with it a lashing of her power crackling through the air around them, “You are,” she growls.

Her voice softens but still radiates with that unmistakable power as she says those words, the ones that bind her to the magic that thrums in her veins, “I am the Morrigan,” she murmurs, “You know I speak the truth.”

He raises his head and opens his eyes to watch her as she repeats the words, “You’re a good person, Azriel. You do what you have to, for your court. You do too much,” A crease appears between her brows, this isn’t the first time she’s said something like this, expressed her unease at the things he has to do, at the cost of keeping them safe.  “But you don’t take any pleasure in it, you never have. We all have to do things, become things we would rather not…” She trails off and he knows that she of all people understands that, she who spends more time in the Court of Nightmares pretending to be something she’s not, pretending to be something darker, something worse, than any of them.

Taking a breath she goes on, “It doesn’t change who you are.” Then, softer, “It doesn’t change how I feel, what I want…What I chose.”

He meets her eyes again at that, searching them for he doesn’t know what, yet he finds it. “I fell in love with you, Az,” she murmurs softly, “With all of you.” He swallows tightly, watching her, barely daring to breathe, to move. “I always knew,” she continues quietly, “I knew what you were, I knew what you did for this court, I knew how you would come home to me sometimes-“ Despite her attempts at reassuring calm and certainty her voice trembles and cracks a little as she looks at him, the state he’s in. But it’s perfectly steady once more when she resumes. “I chose that,” she says, firm, certain, “I chose you. I love you.” She leans forwards and brushes her lips with aching tenderness against his, “I always will.”

Reaching down she lifts his hands up and examines them, wincing at the mess of bruised, bloodied flesh he’s made of his knuckles. Absently taking what she needs from a pocket realm she produces water and cloths and proceeds to clean enough of the blood to see through to the injuries below. Light blazes from her palm and he tries not to fidget as her magic heals him, his bones resetting themselves and sealing together, muscle and skin knitting seamlessly together again. She can’t do anything about the extensive burn scars that mottle his hands but when he flexes them it’s almost impossible to tell the damage he had done to himself. The only evidence of the abuse remaining is a faint pale flush to the new skin.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice low and quiet, not quite looking at her as he speaks, not wanting to see the pain or the disappointment on her face at what he had done to himself.

He realises a moment later, as he turns his hands over, examining them, that she’s cleansed all of the blood from his skin, not merely his own.

Azriel lets his arms slide slowly around her, holding her close, breathing in her scent, grounding himself in her instead of the pads behind them. Mor shuffles into his lap and slides her arms around him as well, easing her fingers deeply into his hair, pulling him close.

“Are you ready to talk about it?” she murmurs quietly. She never asks him if he wants to talk about it, knows from decades’ worth of experience not to ask if he wants, or needs, almost anything because the answer would always be ‘no’.

He shakes his head slightly, his face still buried in her neck. He still only wants to escape from himself, from the torrent of memories and pain and terror that still rakes at him. He isn’t ready to face it yet. She nods, gently kissing the crown of his head, not pushing him or trying to coax words from him that he doesn’t have. Even though she’s never insisted upon this in all the years that he’s known her, a faint rush of gratitude for her understanding still spills through him in response.

Mor’s fingers stroke softly through his hair and she shifts slightly in his lap, hips pressing against his. “What do you want, Az?” she asks him quietly and he knows that she’s perfectly aware what he wants, what kind of escape he seeks now, the need that’s blazing through his blood like a poison to which she is the only cure.

You he wants to whisper, wants to growl the word, the need, into her ear and feel her shiver against him in answer. He wants to drag her hair back and kiss her neck, place a necklace of pale red marks around her throat and with each one whisper you onto her skin, press it there like a tattoo, let it fill her up until she’s drowning in it. But he holds himself back. He knows that after their time apart she likely wants this too, would be more than happy to oblige him but…The way that he wants her, the extent to which he wants to lose himself in her tonight…He’s not sure if he can ask that of her, not sure if he can even give voice to it and permit her to hear it.

As with so many things left unspoken between them however, this isn’t something that she needs to hear him say to know. Her fingers gently grip his hair, the action somehow intimate, erotic, with the way she rocks against him once more. “Let me take you home,” she whispers softly. “Let me help you, Az,” she breathes quietly. “It’s all right,” she murmurs as he opens his mouth to say something, to protest, to quiet her, to agree with her, he doesn’t know.  

“It’s all right.” Her voice is soft and warm and so soothing he wants to sink into it, wants to sink into her and forget that the rest of the world exists, forget that he is a monster with a bruised and bloodied soul. He wants to let her heal that as she had his hands.

“Let me take you home,” she says again, softly, words tinged with desperation.

“Yes,” is all he murmurs in response.

Darkness envelopes them as Mor holds him close and then her power wraps around them, pulling them through the fragile fabric of the world around them, winnowing them back to the small cottage they share nestled in the mountains just outside Velaris. It’s a lonely, quiet place, isolated but beautiful and peaceful. Relief flares through him like a heartbeat along with a rush of gratitude that she chose this spot instead of their townhouse. Even though it resides on the outskirts of the city it would still feel too restrictive, too caging and overwhelming for him now. And she knows that, knows him.  

Azriel stands, quiet, breathing in the chill night air, willing it to settle in his bones and quiet the roaring fire burning through his blood. Mor’s fingers slip softly around his wrist and the touch rouses him, causes him to open his eyes again. Her eyes on his she presses her other hand against the door of the cottage. It responds to her touch, swinging in on silent hinges to admit them. Only them. This is their place, near sacred for how strictly they adhere to that rule.

Mor leads him through the quiet, dark house, the door closing behind them as silently as it had opened. It might have felt like bars slamming shut on a prison cell, or the stone wall of a crypt sealing himself inside his own tomb but it doesn’t. With Mor’s hand slipping gently into his the dark house feels like an escape and he has left his demons at the door. They are not allowed in this place that she has warded with her light and her peace. She is the only thing with the power to bring him to his knees that is permitted to touch him here.  

She doesn’t pause or falter as they pass through the kitchen and living room into the small bedroom at the back of the house. Only once they’re safely ensconced within it, the door closed, making the scene feel even more private and intimate despite the fact that they’re already the only living beings for miles around, does she turn to face him. With a faint flicker of thought she kindles a few candles behind them and the room fills with a warm but soft glow, her eyes never leaving his even as the light no doubt throws the shadows in his eyes into greater relief.

Smooth and supple as warm honey she steps forwards until there’s nothing but a faint breath of air between their bodies. She holds herself just a little away from him however, her lips slightly parted, her hands trembling with the desire, the need to touch him, but she restrains herself, allowing him the choice, the affirming action, of closing the distance between them. He does, unable to stand being this close to her but not touching her, not letting her touch him. Moving in until their bodies press against each other and he can feel the sigh of relief ripple through her body as she lets herself melt against him, Azriel gathers her against him, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her in close.  

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another hc rl quick that doesnt actually tie in w my canon views and is only for au purposes tbh; 

dave who has crooked teeth as a kid and who has braces for his teen years and then like the sweetest smile when hes in his twenties (his teeth are straight yet his smile is still crooked). 

When we have been overwhelmed by trauma or PTSD (especially early in life), our nervous system develops a habit of hypervigilance. Our stress response keeps playing itself out, triggering a perpetual anxiety loop and causing our body and mind to respond to small stresses as if they were big threats. The reptilian brain (responsible for preserving life) and limbic brain (responsible for emotional reactions) do not distinguish between a real or potential threat, making it easy to get locked in chronic fear, worry and tension. Even when there is no danger, the reptilian brain keeps our muscles tight and braced in case there is need to take action. We may feel perpetually on alert, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or we may feel depressed, numb and sapped of energy. These are normal responses to living with a stressed nervous system.
—  Abby Rose
Far Away

Characters: Sam x Reader

Word Count: 1051

Summary: When the reader is left waiting for Sam to return from a hunt, long buried feelings make themselves heard.

Warnings: Smut, Blood, Injuries, Close calls, Angst, Fluff (Sorry if I’ve missed any.)

A/N:  Inspired by “Far Away” by Wolfmother.  I love this song.

Originally posted by samcentric-fics

Not my gif.

The silence was overwhelming as you limped across the atrium.  You focused on the task at hand, ignoring the fears that swarmed your mind.  The straps of your backpack were heavy and wedging your crutches under them was cumbersome.  

Your bra dug into your shoulders, pinched by your bag, but you kept moving, sweat beading on your upper lip. You swung your body forward, mindful to keep your brace off the ground, grunting with each step.  

Finally, you reached the kitchen.  Leaning against the island, you balanced on your uninjured leg and slung your backpack over your shoulder, dumping its contents from the grocery across the counter.  You paused catching your breath.  

In that moment of reprieve, the thought that had been plaguing you crept back into your mind.  

He hasn’t called because he’s dead.

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