#(sorry-not-sorry)

[doused-in-cheap-perfumee]

( let it be known that this is far from elevator music )

[scifigirlgamez]

So the other day Foolish showed Philza his new shark fin boots which have cute little faces on them and give him both water breathing and dolphin's grace

Foolish: yeah its kinda weird it makes me think when I put them on I'm putting my feet like... either into that or-

Phil: Yeah, I wouldn't think too much about it

It was at that moment I was reminded that these things exist and now headcanon that Foolish's new fin shoes are actually these cursed fish slippers

Do you see my vision? Cuz I sure wish I didn't and if I have to think about this I'm taking you all down with me.

[lured-into-wonderland]

Continued from [here] with @estarion

She looks at him; her blue eyes now dark and cloudy.

“…the thief…” – an unwelcome recognition, an involuntary slip of words. Yet Nunnally doesn’t regret that they have escaped her lips. She’s glad, almost relieved. Yes!; perhaps she had wanted to talk (again), to find some trace of what once was…

...but she will not tolerate any insults from him.

She waves her hand dismissively. His assurance is not needed; it changes nothing. Nunnally neither believes him nor disbelieves him. His words are just echoes, meaningless sounds in a space already hollowed by (her) disappointment.

“Let’s get things straight…” – she demands, taking a seat, carefully arranging the folds of her dress until they fall like a small masterpiece  – “He’s not my husband. He’s never bedded me, has he?” – if so, then their marriage is nothing: invalid under the rules of royal blood.

“The laws of royal lineage.” – Nunnally repeats, her voice quieter now, as if testing the weight of those words against the silence. Against him. Against Regulus’s thief.

[rosy-cheekx]

from the fluff prompts! 17: “come here, i need to hug you”

hehe this is not fluff. I wish I could say I was sorry but I'm not. (CW canon-typical body horror, Stranger content. There’s fluff at the end.)

-

Familiar Faces

Tim, Sasha, 1.5k

The woman in front of him was blonde, tall, high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. She was swearing a smart blazer, had pursed lips as she clutched files to her chest. Her hands were…wrong, somehow. He couldn't pinpoint what was off but Tim couldn't stop staring at them.

“Tim, you’re not quite looking yourself.” Sasha smiled at him, sweeping her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Maybe you should take the day off.”

Tim didn’t respond, not daring to take his eyes off her.

“You—?” He tried, though his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. The words came from his lips muffled, as if something was covering them. Without thinking about it, he raised a hand to his lips. His fingertips came away slick, skin that was not his own stifling the sensation on his face. Tim’s vision tunneled, zeroing in on the face of the woman who was Sasha, wasn’t Sasha? He wasn’t sure anymore.  Looking down, Tim saw his hands were slick tendon and bone, skin peeled away in neat strips, fingernails embedded in the fat that had once been underneath.

Tim felt his stomach churn. Eyes back on the woman that couldn’t be Sasha, Sasha wouldn’t do this, he saw a grin peeling her face apart, wider than a normal smile should be. The files in her hand were a mirror and she turned it to him, raising it so his shoulders aligned with her frame in the reflection.

Tim’s vision swam as he focused on what he saw in the mirror, something in him unable to look away. He was sure he was going to be sick, but there was something in him that forced him to look, see what had been done to him. To Danny. The stitches were clumsy, close together but clearly amateur, reminding him of his brief stint into embroidery. They were uneven around his jaw; Danny’s face had always been rounder than his. Blood was smeared down his chin, but it was impossible to tell whose it had been, once upon a time, especially since there was no other skin to compare it to. Of all the things, Tim was struck by how much tanner Danny’s face was than he had remembered.

“Tim?” The woman who Was Not Sasha asked from behind the mirror, and Tim watched his lips, Danny’s lips move in his reflection, straining against some of the stitches with each word. “You look quite peaky. Maybe some time off will do you some good, get you feeling like yourself again.”

Tim balled his raw hands into fists, forcing all his energy into moving his lips, tearing the stitches apart. Slowly, gummily, he parted his lips. “Fuck. You.”

--

“Tim. Tim, wake up.”

His eyes were open now, peering up at a bleary ceiling and about a third of Sasha’s face, dark curly hair hanging over most of it. He exhaled sharply and inelegantly shuffled into a seated position, checking his hands for a moment before rubbing them over his face. They came away wet but, as Tim was sure to check, for a different reason. The pair sat in silence for a moment, neither sure how to approach the situation.

“Are…you okay?” Sasha asked eventually, hand hovering between them, like cautioning a wounded animal. “You looked like you needed help.”

Tim bit back a breath, sucking on his lower lip as he contemplated what to say next. His eyes followed her hand, and yes, they looked normal now. The dream came back to him piecemeal, the woman who called herself Sasha and his hands and the mirror, all fragmented images whirling away too fast to form a comprehensive picture. Sasha’s eyes were big and brown, studying his face like a practiced therapist. Her hands had looked wrong because they had been missing her vitiligo, the pale spot that curved around her wrist and looked just like Germany. Her hair was in unbound curls, mussed from sleep and other bedtime activities, and she was tall but curvy; round and warm. Not the thin, angular woman from the dream, mirror held in front of her with such menace.

Tim was staring. Sasha’s brow was wrinkling. She was worried. He processed these facts in slow motion like his mind was moving through molasses, tongue thick with the taste of Danny’s blood on his lips.

Danny. Tim threw a hand to his mouth, feeling the smooth seam of his lips and skin that was his, the five o’clock shadow he really should have shaved this morning tickling his fingertips. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“I…I had a bad dream.” No shit, Sherlock. He fished for words, fingertips tracing the edges of his jawline, his temple, finding no clumsy seams to be torn off.

“You weren’t you. You were blonde a-and horrible and your voice was like…sandpaper.” Tim realized his hands were shaking when he felt the cool fingers of Sasha pressing on his own gently, steadying them.

“I was…me. But my skin was missing. A-and you were teasing me about something. You showed me a mirror. And I was…” Tim chewed on his lip. Biting it had always been a nervous habit but the reminder that they were his lips was comforting enough as well.

“They had put Danny’s face on mine.” The last words were a whisper, barely able to say it out loud before he felt a shudder rip through him and felt the wind knocked out of him once more. “I-I couldn’t look away.” He pulled his hand from underneath Sasha’s to wrap around the back of his neck. “It was...” He swallowed thickly. “It was hideous.”

Sasha, saint that she was, listened dutifully as Tim haltingly put together the information from his dream, nodding in silence but eyes full of tender patience and compassion. When he was done, the silent tears halted to sniffles and deliberately careful breaths, she drew a knee to her chest and pursed her lips.

“I’m so sorry, Tim. That sounds awful.” Hand out in a quick search of approval, she gently began to rub his back, slow circles in time with her breathes. “His anniversary is coming up, isn’t it?” Her voice was almost a whisper. He nodded.

“You know I’m me. I’m Sasha James, your best friend, the one you can count on to get you out of a scrape. I like Thai food and purple and sweets and you think I have a spot in the shape of Thailand on my back, which is why you think I like it so much.” She paused for a moment, eyeing him. “Helping or hurting?”

Tim nodded, barely eking out a whisper of ‘helping,’ and she continued. “Your name is Timothy Stoker. You work seven and a half feet away from me, but somehow you always find an excuse to scooch your chair closer. You like to be touched constantly except when you’re angry. You drink iced coffee year-round and think heist movies are the superior film.” She wrinkled her nose good-naturedly. “You like to be kissed in the spot between your eyebrows. I like to pretend your snoring bothers me. You like when I bring you a snack from the café because you like being remembered. I like to braid your hair when it gets shaggy. You’re allergic to peanuts. I’m allergic to red food dye.”

Her hand had slowed as she had rattled off facts about them both, a heavy warm weight resting behind his lungs. He focused on her words and breathing into her hand, letting the smoothness of her voice wash over his anxieties; the disturbing imagery not gone but filed away in a smaller, more manageable package.

“I think…I think we know each other too well,” he mumbled, managing a small smile.

“You take that back,” Sasha grinned, pressing a kiss to his temple. “No such thing. Now, what do you need from me? Tea? A distraction?”

“Come here,” Tim asked softly, eyes meeting hers. “I need to hug you.” I need to remember what’s real and solid; I need to feel you in my arms and know the you I saw back there was an imagination, a figment, a neuron gone fritzy. I need to know that they didn’t take you like they did him.

He didn’t say of that, but Sasha seemed to get the message. She pulled him gently into her, burying her face into his neck. Tim inhaled the scent of her shampoo, a soft pine scent mixed with lavender, and that was Sasha. He knew her from that smell. They balanced precariously between the pillows and their seated arrangement for who-knows-how-long, just taking in the silence and touch of someone else, grounding Tim to reality in waves until he felt firmly centered once more.

Sasha fell back to sleep eventually, still tangled in each other but more comfortable now. Instead of sleep, Tim studied Sasha’s face in the slow-rising daylight, the splashes of pink against her dark skin, the mole under her ear, the way her hair curled back on itself when it got long in a confusing pattern, the way her jaw rounded against her throat. This was his Sasha. He was sure of it. He would never forget her face again.

[savvy-devine666]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 66/? Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel, The Black Order (Marvel) - Fandom Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Corvus Glaive/Proxima Midnight Characters: Ebony Maw, Proxima Midnight, Corvus Glaive, Thanos (Marvel), Black Dwarf/Cull Obsidian, Gamora (Marvel), Nebula (Marvel), Kaldera (Marvel), The Black Order (Marvel), various original characters Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Fluff, Family, Dysfunctional Family, Romance, Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Drowning, Injury, Sickfic, Alternative Scenes, mention of terminal illness, Arguing, Possessive/Jelous Behaviour, Temporary loss of sight, Slice of Life, Couple getting interupted, Rough treatment of children, Thanos A+ parenting, Sparring, Suicide, Sudden adult death Series: Part 1 of In The End It's Him And I Summary:

A collection of Oneshots about Proxima Midnight and Corvus Glaive (My OTP) Maw, Thanos and Obsidian will be around too and Nebula and Gamora will make apperances here and there

Euregatto, Killijin, Thisismyaccount are some of the writers that inspired some of these works - check them out they're so good!

[not-jencartooner]

Gen: I'm thinking a spring wedding, or maybe fall, I don't want it to be too cold though.

Senkuu: ...wtf? We aren't even engaged.

Gen: SO THAT'S WHAT I FORGOT TO DO LAST NIGHT!

[sorry-for-you-blog1]

Just keeping it real 💯 %

You can’t coddle a person with demons. You have to stand by their fucking side and help them overcome their demons. Trust me I know this is true… and I’m not a fragile flower. If I was going to break, I would’ve broke a long time ago. We empower those we fear, by FEARING them. So with that being said, I could either live my life in fear of my demons, waste my whole life fighting my demons…, or I can acknowledge their presence and accept the fact of why they are here and make friends with them. It’s all about perspective. A glass can be half empty, half full, or just be a fucking glass of water! 😂 all I am doing is accepting that my situation isn’t the best and that there is nothing I can do about it. I can spend my life being upset about it but why would I want to feel sad when there are so many things to feel happy about… and being sad gives you wrinkles. 💯 just thought I’d give you guys some words of wisdom. -Zoey Wilson