Shit. I'm not gonna lie, today kinda sucks for me. Nothing like a national holiday all about dads to remind you that you're an orphan, huh? There's not many people out there who are able to celebrate exactly like they did before the Vanishing, so at least I'm not alone.
This time last year I was still feeling kinda weird about calling Castle "dad," even if he promised he was cool with it, so we kinda just didn't talk that day, which wasn't that weird because it's not like we talk every day anyway. We're both busy people.
But this year, I dunno, I was feeling more comfortable, and I figured Fathers Day has also gotta suck a whole bunch when your kids are dead, y'know? Even if he has had way longer to come to terms with it.
I thought it might be better for both of us if we weren't alone, so in the morning I went to the Vanishing memorial to talk to my dads, and he went to visit his family. Then I got takeout from his favorite Sicilian place and we watched a movie (Max Max: Fury Road, natch).
He tried to act like it was no big deal, but I know him too well. Besides, I think we both needed a night off.
Elrond would enter Mandos with one thing in mind — to find the feared, but loved tall red haired Feanorian he loved dearly and viewed as a father!
He would be panicking not able to find him — plead and annoy Namo until he said the whereabouts of Maedhros.
When Namo the poor underappreciated and overworked bastard has no other choice — brings Elrond to Maedhros.
Mae's back would be to him— his mind lost in the past and would not hear Elrond.
Namo quietly leaves in respect — and Elrond quietly makes his way over to Mae.
He would slowly walk around and appear in front of the fallen crown prince.
Seeing that Mae still hasn't seen him — Elrond would reach his hands forward and cup the red haired soft baby giant's ellon's face — just like he did so many times when he was a little elfling — hoping to comfort his depressed father.
Mae would be shocked— and suddenly look up to lock his eyes with Elrond.
The touch familiar and warm to him— and it alone brings tears to his eyes and looking to warm chocolate brown eyes — for a moment he sees Elrond — his Elrond, the little elfling that climbed on his back or clung onto his leg or showered him with affections and remembers Elrond was inspired to became a healer through him — because he wanted to help him — cure a small part of Mae if he could.
"Elrond. . ."
Mae's voice would be soft and unbelieving — his eyes slowly widening.
"Ada!"
Elrond would cry out and wrap his arms tightly around the Feanorian and hug him tightly.
"I missed you so much, Ada. . ."
Elrond would breakdown in his arms — finally feeling at home — like he could breathe again — all heavy burdens lifted off his shoulders and he could just be his Ada's child again.
Mae being shocked Elrond called him 'Ada' — would take some time to hug back.
"My son. . ."
He whispers back— holding him tightly and patting his back — like he did so many times a long time ago to help the elfling fall asleep.
"You have been here for too long! — Am taking you back!"
Elrond would demand through his tears.
"My punishment isn't over, Elrond."
Mae's sighs.
"Yes— it is! You're prolonging it because of your guilt — well am taking you back! I won't let you be lonely here again — am taking you home and I have every right to do that!"
After a long moment — Mae ponders on it while stroking Elrond's hair.
"So be it, my son. . ."
He finally agrees.
Elrond pulls away a little bit and pet's the mighty first prince of Feanor— his Ada's head affectionately again.
Mae's tears fall — not having felt anything so warm and affectionate in so long and Elrond would wipe those tears away.
Enter Namo with a victory dance — now all the Feanorians are no longer his problem
YOU CANNOT CONVINCE ME THAT THIS GIF ISN'T THEM! — THIS IS THEM! LOOK ME IN THE EYE AND TELL ME AM WRONG 👁👁
Look ^^^
It was not me — blame my friend @aeonianarchives — they asked for it @i-did-not-mean-to @doodle-pops @spidergirla5 @mslizziesblog
This was written especially for @winters-buck, from the request: “soft intimacy with David™”
Amazing gif by @beccaplaying
Warnings: indulgent angst, non-explicit smut.
You don’t know what he does, on his long days and overnight trips, and you don’t ask. He comes to you for this, this quiet intimacy, and you give it to him, for yourself as much as for him. The late summer breeze flutters the curtains as you lay next to him in the rumpled sheets of your bed, fingers idly tracing the cartography of his little scars - a crescent here, a healed gash there, and he breathes almost silently, his chocolate brown gaze tracking you, and when you hug him, his heart beats steadily under your ear, and it’s enough.
“Do you think you’ll ever retire?” you ask into the quiet of the room.
York’s fingers tunnel into your hair. “Guys like me get fast-tracked straight to death, usually,” he says, and there’s such bland acceptance in his tone that your stomach sinks.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why? It’s true.” He rolls on to his side. The morning light spills on to his golden skin, kissing the planes and valleys of his body. He’s hard in some places, soft in others. The first time you’d been naked together, you’d spent hours mapping his ridges and curves, trying to learn the lines of him into your skin, in case he never came back.
“Because it makes me afraid.”
York cups your face, his thumb smoothing the tear that falls from your eye. “There’s a plan, you know. If I can’t come to you. You’ll…. Be informed.”
That he’s made a plan for this eventuality breaks your heart further. You suddenly don’t want to talk anymore. You snuggle into him, breathing in the scent of strong coffee, freshly cut grass, and the faint tang of gun oil. It’s inevitable that one day, you’ll wake up in a world where David York is no longer alive. Will you feel it? Or will you just be told, and expected to pick up the pieces of your life, afterwards?
He wraps his arms around you, and you press your face into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, willing yourself not to cry. You can do that later, when he’s gone, when he shrugs on the invisible armour for the job he does that you don’t ask about.
“Baby..” he murmurs, burying his lips in your hair. You cling to him, loving him, hating yourself for doing so. “Don’t cry.”
“Not crying,” you snuffle. “Just raining on my face.”
He cuddles you tight, as tight as you can bear, and you adore these full body hugs. You slide your legs in between his, tangling your limbs together.
“You make me want to come back,” he whispers against your hair. “You give me something to think about beyond all the things I’ve done. Things I can’t take back.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask, half-fearing he’ll say yes.
“No. I don’t want…. Work in our bed.”
Neither do you, so you roll him over, straddle him. His hands slide up your belly and over your ribs to cup your breasts, his touch setting off sparks inside you. Just being near him feeds this insatiable fire that you don’t think will ever go out.
“David,” you murmur, leaning down, brushing your core over his erection, both your breaths hitching.
You touch your lips to his, butterfly kisses, and he tastes sweet, like a promise that will always be just a gasp out of reach. York bucks his hips into you, and you let him, and you just rub up against each other for moments that stretch and stretch.
“More,” he bites off, his hands sliding to your hips and squeezing, just a little. You lick into his mouth as you lift your hips and sink slowly down on to him. When he’s fully seated you both sigh with the pressure and pleasure of it. You clench your muscles around him, wish you could keep him like this forever, in your bed, in your body, safe, yours.
York rolls your bodies so you’re underneath him. He braces himself on his forearms and you wrap your legs around his hips, holding him as close as you can, cupping his face between your palms. His five o’clock shadow tickles your skin and you touch your thumb to the corner of his mouth. His tongue flicks out to lick your skin, his eyes soft and dark, and you think: he’s beautiful.
You pull his face down for a kiss, and it’s more urgent this time, as you move your hips to seat him deeper inside you. He bites off a curse against your mouth and then he starts to thrust in and out, and the pleasure splinters like a million fragments of light, and you clench your hand in his hair and pray that he stays alive and comes back to you, so you can do this dance again.
After, he lays heavily on top of you, and you welcome his weight, drawing lazy circles on his back with your finger; it makes him shiver as he softens inside you.
“Come back to me,” you whisper into the curve of his shoulder.
He presses a kiss to your temple, his arms tight around you, and he nods silently, even though you know he can’t make promises.
Tagging everyone in The Pit: @agirllovespasta @dornish-queen @songsformonkeys @heatherbel @alldatalost @cryptkeepersoul @abuttoncalledsmalls @mrschiltoncat @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @a7estrellas @littlelewcat12 @themandadlorianbod @kindablackenedsuperhero
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
It wasn't until Luke had returned to the corridor, the double doors banging shut behind him, that something occurred.
You're not going to kill him, are you? he sent, padding the words with all his worry.
Pay attention to your own mission, his father admonished.
That's not a no. How can I concentrate when for all I know you are—
I have yet to be given any reason why he should not remain alive, and so he will. Now, see what you can find out.
His father closed the link, and Luke rubbed his head, hoping he wasn't going to leave here regretting the day he'd even heard of this entire career assignment.
My partner is writing me slowburn fan fiction about the Punisher.
Is this love? Yes.
Am I going to marry her? Yes.
Is this version of the Punisher anti-military, anti-cop, pro-fascist-killing, anti-racist, aggressively feminist, and also a bisexual mess? Of course he is.
