#(that you forget to grieve in those quiet moments)

[nikachansstuff]

Imagine five hundred years of longing

Five hundred years of wanting. 182.500 days of needing from afar. Respecting boundaries, never taking action. The small gestures were all rejected.

The endless hesitation. The eternal control and vigilance.

Your hand, those deeply scarred hands, dare to reach her for one second. One impulsive moment, and the rejection was so sharp it burned. Burned you like your brothers did all those years ago.

So you keep yourself in the shadows, only watching the Truth keeper you swear will be your forever love. The one the Cauldron promised.

Five hundred years.

And then, sunshine.

It starts with just a flash of light, similar to when you forget that small glimpse in the curtains and it stings your eyes in the morning.

She asks you about flying. You tell her about how the wind sings.

The days passes, the sun is not always shining bright. But your hands, those deeply scarred hands, are enveloped by soft skin. And you swear you heard as she whispered beautiful. No one has ever called you beautiful before. Not your past lovers, not even Truth keeper.

Your hands burn again, but for a different reason this time.

She grieves and stare at the void. Those were the cloudy days, so you take her to the gardens. She also enjoys the silence, like yourself. But with her presence, the quiet is no longer cold. She is light, and she is warm.

In those tempestuous times of war, the enemy dares take that sunshine away. Suddenly living another five hundred years doesn’t seem as important. You would risk it all in getting her back. Because without this new found hope inhabiting the globe, what is the point?

Still chained, she kissed you in the open, in a display of gratitude. That warm light again; hitting your senses.

She saves the world armed with a part of yourself. And with a smile that lights up everything in the room, she expresses the wish of building new gardens. To give the world life and hope.

Five hundred years of restlessness are not heavy anymore. Because for once, you’re not alone.

She sees you. From your wings, your traumatized hands to your chronic headaches and silent brooding.

She sees you, religiously. And that’s when you first question…

What if the Cauldron was wrong?

Because you’re touching her and it feels right. In the gardens, by the kitchen. Brush of fingers, longing glances.

In your endless imortal time, that primal need is unheard of. Seasons change, and it still pulses there. You had changed houses, but the sleepless nights followed you everywhere.

You’re not supposed to be craving someone promised to another.

So you risk it again. In the longest night, you offer her what you have, she gives you permission to take it. In your hands, those deeply scarred hands. The promise of unrestrained touch nearly brings you to your knees.

But once again, fate fails you.

You’re interrupted. Initially by your brother, but it’s the High Lord speaking. Ordering you to stay away. To go into the shadows again, until you’re nothing, nothing at all.

You miss sunshine. Everyday.

W hat if the Cauldron was wrong?

[waltricia]

Bridgerton season 2 episode 3, “A Bee in Your Bonnet” is ✨magic✨ and let me tell you why.

For those of us who didn’t read the book and knew nothing of what was going to happen, we truly went on an incredible and surprising roller coaster of an experience.

We start the episode with seeing the guy from Hellboy and being like ‘oh yay, it’s the guy from Hellboy!’

… only for him to die three minutes later. And that scene is rough. It’s sudden and abrasive. And the sounds are jarring. The death is scored by tense strings. Then a moment of quiet. Then the AMAZING Ruth Gemmell begins taking us on Violet’s traumatic grief journey, which starts with her jolting Anthony (and us) out of the quiet.

And a thunderous heartbeat threatens him as he walks toward this entirely altered, unwanted life path. And that’s obviously the beginning of his PTSD.

In the other flashbacks throughout the episode, we continue to hear horrific, heart-rending pain radiate out of Violet while Anthony must not only attempt to endure it, but cover his own grief. Anthony and his siblings (and again, we the audience) all have to listen to Violet grieve while she’s giving birth! Screams on top of screams.

And the last flashback is technically quiet, but just as devastating because, like the moment of Edmund’s death, the quiet is weaponized. It signifies the death inside Violet.

It should go without saying that Jonathan Bailey is also a brilliant actor, but I’ll say it now anyway. Damn, he good! He and Ruth partnered perfectly in this grief journey. Serious props to them both because I felt this shit.

And then finally we come to the end. We had been immersed in the horrible aftermath of that striking tragedy. Between the flashbacks- in the present day- we had followed Anthony through the rooms and grounds where he had suffered silently. We had seen Edmund’s grave. We had learned that Anthony’s greatest fears and insecurities all stemmed from that tragic event ten years prior.

And then another fucking bee comes along.

And I swear to god, the first time I watched this, when Kate got stung, my heart was pounding, I was terrified, and my instinctive reaction was “oh my god, is she going to die?!” In hindsight, it’s obviously insane to think that she would be killed off at all, let alone in this scene. But the very fact that, for a moment, that was a legitimate fear I had is exactly why this episode is so god damn brilliant. I felt what Anthony felt. And I’m not the only one! I’ve seen other people’s similar reactions to this scene. The episode really is a roller coaster; easy, lighthearted moments (pall mall, drug tea), interspersed with the terrifying drops and loops that are Anthony’s painful memories which constantly haunt him. And then it brought us right back to that first traumatic moment. Because Anthony has PTSD! And that’s what PTSD does. Anthony is right back where he was, literally not far from the same spot outside Aubrey Hall, standing in front of a person he loves, watching them get stung by a bee on almost the same spot on their body. The tense string scoring comes back and Anthony panics because he’s completely helpless again.

And all of those elements- the setting, the scoring, the acting- combined to terrify us and make us forget something critical: most people don’t die from beestings.

And here’s where it gets really profound for me. Because it’s not just about how we feel Anthony’s fear. It’s also about how Kate completely obliterates it. Without knowing that history and without realizing the full extent of what her actions would mean, she does exactly the right thing. Rather than die and rather than also panic or shy away from his vulnerability, she meets it with her own in the form of care and steady assurance, which is true strength. And in so doing, she stops this cyclical moment in its tracks and completely alters the trauma. She puts his hand on her heart, and the heartbeat comes back. But this time, it’s not threatening. It’s inviting.

And just like in the first scene, the moment is over all too quickly. Just like in that scene, Anthony is thrust onto a new path. But where that moment was damaging, this one is healing. And we feel that too. And it’s the greatest experience that art can give us.

It’s catharsis.

And that’s why this episode is magic. 🐝✨

[scummy-writes]

Normalcy Bias

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Gilbert/Reader, Roderic/Reader

Words: 1383

Tags: Gilbert Route Spoilers, she/her refered to reader, angst, major character death, grieving, grieving sex, this is not dubcon.

Summary: It's an outcome that the four of you knew was possible, but only Gilbert had made the preperations in advance. Now, you're left struggling facing the inevitible.

It’s a desperate seeking of relief- one that seems to surprise you as much as Roderic.

The door closes shut behind the two of you, a faint click dissolving into the silence of the room, melding with the ringing echoing in your ears. Composing yourself seems impossible, you’ve been outwardly sobbing for hours, to the point of Roderic having to carefully remove you from the room before you cemented yourself to the spot, refusing to let your eyes stray from your lover for the last time.

Gilbert’s body would see no casket. There wouldn’t be an elaborate display fitting for his royal blood, nor a chance for you to say a final goodbye. His cremation would be swift, handled by Walter. His final order was in paper written long before you, a blatant refusal to let you take part any further from there. You knew there were a multitude of reasons for this, yet you still bit your lip near to the point of blood, trying not to seethe at your lover’s last wishes.

Irrationale blazed through you, difficult to keep in check as the thoughts raced. Walter would be the only one to have a proper farewell, to have the respite of an eulogy, the calm in having a say in his final words. To be at peace as he watched Gilbert’s body burn to ash, his remains left only to Walter’s knowledge.

Whereas you, the queen of Obsidian, would not even be privy to where your lover’s soul may rest.

A breath stuck in your lungs, clawing at your throat the more the visuals plagued your mind.

Those moments, where you clung helplessly to his corpse, biting through curses and tears until forced away against your will-  that was it. Your final exchange with the one so near to you was a storm of emotions you swore to never show to him, and yet that’s what you left his body with. A bitter memory, words of malice towards fate thrown his way, everything aside from the words of love you wished you could leave now.

Heard through your ruminations, there’s a quiet shuffling behind you, cloth pooling onto the floor. You don’t want to glance back, you don’t want to accept what will happen next, but with your eyes downcast you can see Roderic’s robe forgone, familiar boots in your vision.

An intake of breath is what causes your voice to slip out, a feeble but determined don’t. It’s hoarse, pleading, but Roderic wasn’t to listen to you. He remained loyal, even with death between him and his lord.

His fingers find your chin, your jaws clenched tight as he gently tipped you up to face him. To see a shadow of Gilbert, a perverse gift left behind for you. 

For the second time this day, you act out in ways you never wanted. It’s faster than your thoughts, yet Roderic’s cheek is twinged red all the same, his eyes wide for just a moment. In that crack, the first feel of violence held in your palm, you recognize all too much at once. How easy it was in your fury to strike another, how much of an illusion the man in front of you is.

Instead of rightful anger, instead of a dangerous glint in his eye, the grip on your wrist is with a tenderness you don’t deserve.

“It’s just a bad dream, little rabbit.”

“Don’t.”

“That’s all it is. And what do we do with bad dreams?”

It’s too much to look at him, to hear his voice come from those lips. Your gaze stubbornly looks aside, even as he pulls you closer to mutter in your ear. 

“We do our best to forget.”

.

It’s wrong. Your skin crawls between the waves of heat running over your body, the claw of your grip a mixture of disgust and longing. Despite that, your heart sings, falling for the delusion currently massaging your inner thighs, spreading your legs apart to slot himself between.

How much could you be blamed for allowing it? For giving in through the tears, desperate for something more pleasant to be left in your lover’s wake? To look past the brief moments of hesitation, the uncharacteristic gasps and unsure touches.

But no matter how much you pleaded with your mind, none of it was the same. Just a pale shell of what used to be. His fingers were like a ghost upon your skin, mimicking familiar situations but askew from your memories just enough to send foreign shivers through you. Each drag of his cock along your inner walls, each kiss given to your lips and neck, so close to being him. But so far removed in reality. 

Was this a sin? Was allowing your lover’s replacement to gaze upon your skin like he had - to etch his seed into your walls, to carve out a place of his own within you - a disservice to what you had called loyalty to your love?

The questions burned inside of you, while the twisting flurry of lust deep inside you burned just as bright. The emotions of shame and despair melded within your neediness, the imitation within your grasp eating away at your clarity.

It was wrong. You knew it to be so. But his skin still flushed with lust, eyes clouded over with the same neediness that screamed inside of you. Despite it all, how you wished to push him away and mourn differently, your warmth still clamped down on him all the same.

.

Sleep felt pointless. So out of reach and impossible to fathom, not while you stared up at the ceiling, the room draped in night. The moonlight barely gave the area a passing glance, yet instead of the childish fear that used to overtake you when he was still around, you felt nothing in your heart.

All that remained was apathy. The ache of your muscles, the nails you dug into your skin. A critical acceptance for the sins you committed tonight. An acceptance that, at the end of it all, Gilbert had known you far more than you knew yourself, knowing that you would fall so quickly.

A solemn prediction, that no matter the love and cherished memories you shared, you would still find comfort in his replacement in the end. That for all that was fought for, it was still never written for Gilbert to survive as long as he had. For Gilbert to be the last one fully encompassed in your love.

You don’t want to look at the man beside you, even as the sheets shuffle. 

The apathy within you wells up into disgust at your desperate, primal urges, and Roderic is the outlet you crave to pour it into, repeatedly. An unfathomable rage, a grief so deep you wanted it to be etched onto another- to try and have a shred of equality in your sorrows.

Unreasonable, selfish thoughts- wanting to carve your frustrations out upon his skin, again and again, until the one mimicking your lover refused to look at you once more.

But for you, that too was never written.

Despite how you seethe, how you bite against his calm words and touches, there’s still a gentle caress to your cheek. So unlike the man you love(d). It’s shy, skittish even, and it takes you a moment to understand it’s partly due to the tears trailing your skin.

A wounded animal, that’s all you had been twisted into, regardless of the boiling under your skin.

You hate that he acknowledges that.

He notices the way you flinch away from him, the heat between you dissipated enough for false emotions to fade away, and the touch against your skin falters. Yet, persists in other ways. Through the trailing of the curve of your cheek, through your hair, until it lays at his side again.

The silence stifles you, makes your throat burn the more you’re forced to register your surroundings, the lingering scent of him still in abundance. The implications of that make your hands clench, digging nails into skin yet again to abide the pain.

Roderic’s voice is low, a whisper against the thunderous anger welling up once more inside of you, but the moment he speaks, ice cascades over your skin.

“I lost him too.”

[folds hands] well. well.

I was watching hannibal, and as spoiler-free as I can manage, the topic of funeral sex came up. They discussed, loosely, how after funerals or heavy losses, whether through death or another form of it, people will have sex as a way to handle the grief. Not all of the time, but sometimes the emotions would get overwhelming.

And I had to pause the episode midway through and I immediately slapped down like 300 words to this.

It's not perfect, but I wanted to explore the idea of what could happen when Gilbert dies, especially if it's pretty early on in their relationship. It made me realize how much lack of closure anyone in the situation would get. I have her irrationally angry at Walter, but in truth he'd likely have to hurry and dispose of Gilbert's body before anyone else saw it, and so he'd have a short amount of time for goodbyes as well.

I also wanted to put forth the consideration towards how Roderic may feel in all of this. I hope it's pretty clear that this was not dubcon or noncon, but just an abundance of overwhelming emotions getting to both of them. That their grief drove them to impulses.

coughs. anyway. I listened to the album 'hospice' three times while writing this and wanted to shrivel away. Thank u claudia, dice, mimi, and aqua for watchin me stream this wip and hear me ramble about it.

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[king-crawler]

Haunted Dreams

AKA. a very short & spooky Wreck-It Ralph oneshot i wrote in 1 day 870 words -- [Ao3 Link]

Game Central Station isn’t a scary place during the day. 

The hub is always bustling with characters, people from all sorts of games, all kinds of different eras. A place for everyone to congregate and travel. Pretty noisy too, always filled with 8-bit chatter. Can’t forget the Sonic PSA that’s on loop for hours and hours… That thing is practically ingrained into everyone’s heads by this point. But Game Central Station gets dark at night- dark… and unusually quiet. The power strip lays behind the shadows of cabinets after the sun goes down, casting it in darkness. By this time, everyone is usually settled back at their own games, at least those who decide to sleep. Not Clyde though, as ghosts don’t tend to sleep.

It was a late night at Tappers. He went less so for the drinks because of non-corporeality and such, more so for the company. He makes his way back to Pac-Man, floating past the empty outlet, which unfortunately always has to be passed by on the way back. Unlike the other terminals, this one lacks any of the usual scrolling LEDs overhead… no game. An abandoned venue… During quarter hours the empty socket is actually quite a beautiful sight, albeit bittersweet. Broad rays of sunlight would shine down through the slits- ‘God rays’ as some call them, something treated with reverence by everyone. But almost as if to balance it out, after sunset it becomes an abyss. No… It’s darker.

Not just in terms of absent lighting, but… it feels threatening somehow. Not even the ambient orange glow of Clyde’s spectral form could provide any comfort near that looming archway. Not after what had happened there… After all, it had only been a year since the incident. 

Like echoes in his mind, he remembered the vases of flowers around the entryway in memoriam as people grieved. Many people actually had a chance to talk to the racers of RoadBlasters, congratulating them, welcoming them to the arcade. It was common courtesy to do so whenever somebody new got plugged in, but this instance was only for one night. The residents of Pac-Man were especially on edge after it happened. Their game was briefly unplugged and replugged the same day so it could be moved next to Fix-it Felix Jr; to fill that new empty space. It was an extra scare for sure, thankfully nobody was inside. But now, they live their day-to-day lives knowing they share a plug with what used to be…

Clyde regretfully glanced at the skidmarks on the tiled floor. The others made a solid effort to scrub it away, but you could still make them out if you knew where to look. He didn’t like thinking about it, he frequently hovered past and shoved those thoughts to the back of his mind. But this time it felt… different. Like tonight the void was beckoning him. Suddenly, he heard… something. A sound that was strange and faint at first… the rhythm of rickety creaking and whining. Is it getting louder..? 

…

In an instant, his semiphysical form was instilled with paralyzing dread. That’s impossible. 

An unplugged outlet can’t have a train car. It’s by design, it’s supposed to travel through the cord. And yet… there it was, idly rattling down the track. Terribly rusted and scratched up, appearing to be mere moments from falling apart. And there, on the far end of the train car, was a pale figure enshrouded in darkness. It sat hunched over, its face turned away.

A chilling, staticy feeling filled the dead air between them, or maybe that was just Clyde getting lightheaded. Everything about this felt terribly wrong, like he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to. Like if he someday remembered this, something bad would happen. As much as he wished he could, he simply couldn't pull himself to look away, or even blink- not on the offchance that whatever was inexplicably happening might cease to exist on second glance. 

The train whined as it docked at the station. After a moment of silence that felt like hours, the figure’s head began to slowly turn, its face overshadowed in pitch darkness by the rim of its helmet. That damn helmet. Even if it was only his name being circulated, nobody could forget what he looked like, even if they wanted to, thanks to the recurring nightmares. The awful, unforgettable sound of his voice being butchered and bitcrushed, cars being torn apart into an unrecognizable jumble of code and colors… They could only watch.

It was only now that Clyde realized everyone deemed Turbo to be dead for their own sakes. They couldn't bring themselves to imagine what might have happened to him otherwise. It was too much. The thought he could’ve turned into something else. 

In a daze, Clyde arrived back in the ghost pen, the other ghosts off somewhere else in the Pac-maze. Suited him- they always acted like he was the underling anyways. He took the isolation as an opportunity to do something he hadn’t done in a long time. Sleep. If he did, maybe he could convince himself that what he saw tonight was nothing but a bad dream. 

Just as everyone else had.

[argisthebulwark]

To the ends of the earth, with my dying breath

summary: short drabbles about the first time saying "I love you" in a relationship. gn reader, no pronouns or y/n used. feat: Miraak, Brynjolf, Farkas, Vilkas, Erandur warnings: canon typical mentions of blood/injury/death

Miraak will only admit that he loves you at the very end of your final fight. When all else is forgotten and Apocrypha crumbles around him he will clutch you to his chest and plead for you to remain together. His words are full of regret, his first and last "please, I love you" laced with the years spent yearning. Blood and tears mingling together when he tells you how badly he wishes to do it all over, to forget his search for power and simply love you as he's always wanted. "You have to know." His voice is raspy when he holds you closer, gloved fingers tangled in the mess of your hair. "You have to know that I would give it all up for you."

Brynjolf barely hears himself mumbling those words when he learns that you're alive. Days spend grieving melt away when you collapse into his arms. For weeks he'd fretted over finding the perfect moment to say them but when he sees you again they come spilling out. He can't process anything other than the fact that you're alive, you're safe and you came back to him. He feels you swiping away his tears and promising that you'll never scare him like that again, professing your love for him while every other thief struggles not to stare. "Never again." He mutters into your hair, arms like a vice around your sore body. "Please never leave me again."

Farkas hasn't given much thought to vocalizing his feelings for you - it seems so natural, so obvious through his actions. But when the skies are clear and moonlight guides your way through the Whiterun plains it feels right. He's busy bandaging a wound on your leg, fingers careful to not add to your pain when you break the silence. "You should know," he's looking up, drawn by the nervous tone of your voice. "I'm in love with you, Farkas." Delicate fingers smooth down the cloth bandage, placing a kiss over your wound. His heart's racing in his chest and he has to resist the urge to swing you around - you'd lost some blood in that last scuffle. The last thing he wants to do is hurt the person he loves.

Vilkas would tell you he loves you when he realizes how content he's become. When you're relaxing in the hall together, one leg tossed lazily over his and sharing some mundane paperwork. Other Companions mill about, drinking and laughing when it hits him. His entire life has changed since you entered Jorrvaskr demanding to join the Companions and it's all your doing. "Thank you for all you've done since joining us." He pauses, unsure of how to say it. His voice remains low so only you hear. "I love you."

Erandur has known for a while that he loves you. He lives for your touches, your smiles, your teasing comments. Yet he holds himself back - he wants the first time those words pass his lips to be special. It isn't until he fully relaxes that it feels right. When he realizes that all duties have been fulfilled and quests completed at your side. Your insistent hands tugging him into the hot spring and the easy expression on your face put him at ease. "I am in love with you." It is said in a rare moment of quiet. He watches your eyes flutter open, hand gripping his under the warm waters. "I revere you, Dragonborn. I would fall to my knees and worship if you asked."

[corrupte3d-mindz]

The Ghost of You

Grieving! Thomas Shelby x F! Ghost Reader??? Summary: Thomas is still grieving your death, he blames himself. Wordcount: 4.3k Warnings: Messy plot, idk nor do I care

sad! Thomas, soft! Thomas, blaming himself, angst, coping.

Inspiration: Who Is She? - I Monster

Thomas sits alone in his office, a sanctuary from the chaos of his life, the dim light of a few lamps casting long shadows across the room.

He's seated behind a large oak desk, strewn with papers and the occasional empty whiskey glass. The air is heavy with the scent of smoke and old regrets, the only sound the occasional crackle of burning embers in the fireplace. In front of him, on the desk, rests a framed photograph. The glass catches the flickering light, causing her image to momentarily come alive. It's her smile that draws his gaze every time—a smile that once lit up his world with a warmth he hadn't known he craved until it was gone. The photograph captures her essence, frozen in time, a stark contrast to the darkness that now envelops Thomas's life. He reaches for the whiskey bottle, his fingers tracing the smooth glass neck as he pours another measure into his glass. The amber liquid swirls hypnotically, mirroring the turmoil in his mind. Each sip burns, not just his throat but his soul, a bitter reminder of all that he's lost. He doesn't drink to forget; he drinks to remember, to feel something other than the crushing weight of guilt and grief.

The weight of her absence presses down on him like a physical force. It's been a year since she left this world, yet her presence lingers in every corner of his existence. He blames himself, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. She wasn't just a casualty of his world; she was the unintended victim of his choices, caught in the crossfire of a life steeped in violence and power struggles. As he stares at her photograph, his eyes trace the contours of her face, memorizing every detail as if afraid he might forget. Her eyes, once bright with laughter and love, now stare back at him from behind the glass, haunting him in their stillness. He lifts the frame gently, running his calloused fingers over the smooth surface, feeling the coldness of the glass against his skin.

"Y'know," he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, thick with the unmistakable Birmingham accent that defines him. "Every fuckin' day, I wake up and expect t'see you here, like you never left. But your gone, ain't yah? An' it's all my bloody fault."

He takes another sip of whiskey, the bitterness mingling with regret on his tongue. The wedding ring on his finger catches the light as he touches it absentmindedly, a token of a promise made and broken by fate. When they buried her, he couldn't bear to part with the ring that symbolized their forever. It belonged on her finger, just as she belonged by his side.

"You were my light," he continues, his voice thick with emotion. "An' now, all I got left are these memories. Sometimes I wonder if your still out there somewhere, watchin' over me, or if you've moved on, free from all this bloody mess."

He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. The room feels suffocatingly quiet, save for the distant sounds of the city outside, oblivious to the torment within these walls. Memories flood his mind—of quiet moments shared, of whispered promises and dreams for a future that now exists only in fragments. Closing his eyes briefly, he allows himself to drift back to a time when her laughter filled the room, when her touch could chase away the darkest of his demons. The pain of her loss is a constant ache, a reminder of the fragility of life and the inevitability of death in his world.

He remembers the way she looked at him with those piercing eyes, full of love and concern, as she tended to his wounds after yet another violent altercation. The pain of her loss is a sharp ache in his chest, an ache that refuses to dull with time. The memory of her voice echoes in his mind, teasing and caring all at once.

"Sometimes I wonder if you've got a brain up there, Thomas," she had teased, her voice a gentle chide as she carefully cleaned the blood from his face, delicate fingers picking out tiny shards of glass embedded in his skin.

"I've got one up here, love," he had replied with a faint smirk, though a wince betrayed the pain as she deftly removed a larger piece of glass from his cheek. She wiped away the blood with a tenderness that belied her strength, leaning in to press a quick kiss to the small wound before pulling back slightly.

"Does that make it feel better?" she asked, her smile warm and reassuring as she dipped a small rag into a bucket of stinging alcohol, preparing to disinfect his injuries.

"It does, love," Thomas admitted quietly, his gaze lingering on her face with a mixture of gratitude and affection. He reached for a cigarette, the tremor in his hand barely noticeable as he brought it to his lips to light it. But she stopped him with a gentle reprimand, her concern evident in the furrow of her brow. "You really don't have a brain sometimes, Tommy..."

"It's just one, settle down," he retorted with a hint of amusement, his voice low and tinged with the rough edge of his Birmingham accent. "Yes and...this is flammable, Tommy," she reminded him softly, her tone teasing yet filled with genuine worry about his brain. "Then let me have this one, and then you can finish," he countered, a small smile playing on his lips despite the ache in his heart.

The room around them fades as the memory takes hold, enveloping Thomas in a cocoon of bittersweet nostalgia. He remembers the warmth of her touch, the scent of her hair mingling with the sharp tang of alcohol in the air. The office, usually a bastion of business and strategy, becomes a sanctuary of shared moments and unspoken understanding. Her presence, even in memory, soothes the jagged edges of his soul, momentarily easing the weight of his responsibilities and the darkness that often clouds his mind. Each detail of that moment is etched into his consciousness—the flicker of candlelight casting shadows across her face, the softness of her lips against his skin, the way her laughter could turn his world on its axis.

But reality intrudes, as it always does. The memory fades, leaving Thomas alone in his office once more, surrounded by the trappings of power and ambition. The pain of her absence returns with renewed intensity, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the fleeting nature of happiness in his world. He lights another cigarette, the flame casting a brief, flickering light over his face as he exhales a plume of smoke. The scent of nicotine mingles with the ghosts of memories, intertwining with the ache in his chest. In the silence that follows, he finds himself longing for her presence once more, yearning for the comfort of her touch and the warmth of her smile.

Thomas Shelby, hardened by years of brutality and loss, carries the weight of his memories like armor. Each scar, physical and emotional, tells a story of a life lived on the razor's edge of danger and desire. And yet, amid the shadows and the chaos, he holds onto the memory of her—the light and angel in his cold and dark life—like a lifeline in the storm. As he leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling where shadows dance, he whispers her name into the quiet of the night. "_______..." The sound lingers in the air, a whispered prayer for forgiveness, for understanding, for a peace that may never come.

"You were my angel," he whispers, as if confessing to the empty room. "An' now, I'm left here, drownin' in me own regrets, with nothin' but your photograph and this bottle for company."

He places the photograph back on the desk, its presence a silent testament to a love that transcended the chaos of their lives. The room feels colder now, the fire's warmth unable to thaw the ice around his heart. He knows he can't change the past, can't bring her back. All he can do is carry her memory forward, a burden and a blessing intertwined. With a sigh, he picks up the glass once more, its contents dwindling with each swallow. The night stretches out before him, endless and unforgiving. Outside, the city sleeps, unaware of the man who sits alone in his office, wrestling with ghosts and shadows, haunted by a love that refuses to fade.

"And every night," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the dying fire, "Your here, in my dreams, like you never left. But you did. An' I'm left 'ere, wonderin' if I'll ever find peace."

The photograph catches his eye again, her smile mocking him with its eternal happiness. He raises his glass in a silent toast, a gesture of defiance against the cruel hand fate has dealt him. For tonight, like every night, he will drink to her memory, hoping against hope that somewhere, somehow, she knows he still carries her with him, in every beat of his broken heart.

Every morning was a struggle, waking up to a world without her. He threw himself into his work with a ferocity that bordered on manic. The Shelby Company Limited had never been more efficient, yet the cost was steep. His family watched him with wary eyes, sensing the storm brewing beneath his composed exterior. Polly, especially, noted the subtle tremors in his hands, the glassy, distant look in his eyes. But every attempt to reach out, to bridge the chasm of his grief, was met with a wall of steel. Thomas had fortified his heart, locking away the pain where no one could touch it, not even him. The Garrison was bustling, filled with the laughter and chatter of patrons, but to Thomas, it was all a dull roar. He scanned the crowd, his eyes always searching, always hoping. And then, just for a fleeting moment, he would see her. A glimpse of golden hair, a familiar silhouette. His heart would leap, pounding against his ribs like a caged bird, only to crash back into desolation as reality set in. It was never her. It couldn't be her. She was gone, and no amount of wishful thinking could bring her back.

Walking the streets of Small Heath, he heard her voice in the wind, a soft whisper that sent shivers down his spine. "Tommy," it called, tender and loving. He'd turn sharply, eyes wild, but there was no one there. Only the ghosts of his past, haunting him with relentless cruelty. Nights were the worst. Alone in his grand but empty house, he could feel her presence. The scent of her perfume lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of what he had lost. He'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, her name a silent prayer on his lips. His dreams were a tapestry of memories, vivid and heartbreaking. He'd see her smile, feel the softness of her touch. They'd walk hand in hand through fields of lavender, her laughter ringing like a sweet melody. But then, the dream would shift, and he'd be back in the grim reality of her final moments. Her lifeless body, the blood, the horror. He'd wake up drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, the image seared into his mind. Work offered a brief reprieve, a distraction from the relentless torment. He was ruthless, driven, a man possessed. Deals were made, enemies crushed, all in the name of the Shelby empire. But beneath the surface, he was unraveling. Meetings blurred together, the faces of associates merging into a faceless mass. He'd catch himself drifting, staring out the window, lost in thoughts of her.

The family dinners were the hardest. He'd sit at the head of the table, trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy, but the empty chair beside him was a stark reminder of her absence. Polly would watch him with those sharp, knowing eyes, seeing the cracks in his façade. Arthur's attempts to draw him into conversation were met with monosyllabic responses. Ada's concerned glances went unnoticed. The laughter and banter around him felt hollow, a cruel mockery of the happiness he once knew. One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Thomas found himself in her old studio. The room was untouched, her paintings still adorning the walls. He traced a finger over the canvas, feeling the texture of her brushstrokes. Each piece was a fragment of her soul, a glimpse into the woman who had captured his heart. He picked up a half-finished portrait of himself, her final work. The eyes were hauntingly lifelike, a mirror to his tormented soul. "_______," he whispered, voice cracking. "Why'd you leave me, love?"

The nights grew longer, the days more insufferable. He found solace in the bottom of a whiskey bottle, the burn of the alcohol a temporary relief from the ache in his chest. But even in his drunken stupor, she was there. He'd see her reflection in the glass, her eyes filled with sorrow. "Tommy, you have to let go," she'd say, her voice echoing in his mind. But he couldn't. Letting go meant admitting she was truly gone, and he wasn't ready for that. His sleep became more erratic, plagued by nightmares that bled into reality. He'd wake in the dead of night, convinced she was there beside him. Reaching out, he'd grasp at empty air, the coldness of the sheets a stark contrast to the warmth he craved. Her laughter would echo through the halls, a ghostly serenade that kept him on edge. He'd pace the floors, her name a desperate chant. The weight of his grief began to affect his decisions. He became more reckless, taking risks that left his family on edge. A botched deal with a rival gang nearly cost them everything. "Tommy, you're not thinkin' straight," Arthur had yelled, grabbing his brother by the collar. But Thomas had merely shoved him away, his eyes burning with a fierce determination. "I know what I'm doin', Arthur. Don't question me."

Some more time had passed and it was getting worse. Across the table, Polly watched him with a knowing gaze. She had seen the cracks in his facade grow wider, the moments when his control slipped and the anguish bled through. She knew he was breaking, and she knew he wouldn't come to her willingly. But tonight, something had shifted. He had asked her to stay after the family meeting, his voice a low, strained whisper that betrayed his desperation.

"Polly," he began, his voice barely more than a rasp. "I need to talk to ya."

Polly leaned forward, her expression softening. "Alright, Thomas. What's on your mind?"

He took a deep breath, the weight of his grief pressing down on him like a vice. "It's her, Pol. I can't... I can't stop thinkin' about her. Every night, she's there. It's like she's still 'ere, but... she's gone."

Polly's eyes softened with understanding. "She's been gone a year, Tommy. It's no wonder she's still in your thoughts. She was special to you."

"She was more than special," he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. "She was... she was the light in my life. An angel in all this darkness. And now... now it's all just cold and dark." Polly reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her touch gentle yet firm. "You've been carryin' this alone, Thomas. You can't keep doin' this to yourself. You need to find a way to let go, to find some closure."

Thomas shook his head, his jaw clenching. "How? How do I do that, Pol? She's gone. Nothin' can bring her back."

"Go to her grave," Polly suggested softly. "Talk to her, one last time. Tell her everything you never got to say. Maybe then, you can start to heal." He looked up at her, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and hope. "You really think that'll help?"

"I do," Polly replied, her voice unwavering. "You've got to face it, Tommy. Face the pain, the loss. Only then can you begin to move forward."

Thomas rose before dawn, the weight of another sleepless night pressing heavily on his shoulders. The morning air was cold, crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth he once knew in her embrace. He dressed in silence, the routine mechanical, each movement a reminder of her absence. His eyes, hollow and tired, mirrored the emptiness that had taken residence in his heart since the day she was taken from him. The streets of Birmingham were eerily quiet as he walked, the city still wrapped in the blanket of early morning fog. rose before dawn, the weight of another sleepless night pressing heavily on his shoulders. The morning air was cold, crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth he once knew in her embrace. He dressed in silence, the routine mechanical, each movement a reminder of her absence. His eyes, hollow and tired, mirrored the emptiness that had taken residence in his heart since the day she was taken from him. The streets of Birmingham were eerily quiet as he walked, the city still wrapped in the blanket of early morning fog. He sat down on the grass of her grave, leaning against her headstone.

"_______," he began, his voice raw, trembling with the weight of unspoken words. "It's been a year, love. A year without you, and it feels like yesterday. Every day I wake, I hope it’s all a bad dream, that I'll find you beside me, smiling like you used to. But you're gone. And I'm here, alone."

His hands trembled as he reached for the flask in his coat pocket, taking a long, burning sip of whiskey. It did little to dull the pain but gave him the courage to continue. "Life's... life’s been hell without you, _______. The business, the family... none of it matters like it used to. Not without you. You were the light in this dark world of mine, the one thing that made it all bearable. Now, it's all just... cold. Empty." He could feel the tears welling up, the grief threatening to spill over. He fought it, biting down on his lip, but his voice wavered. "I regret so much, _______. Not telling you enough how much I loved you, not protecting you better. You trusted me, and I failed you. If I could trade places with you, I would. In a heartbeat."

His gaze dropped to the ground, his fingers tracing the letters of her name on the headstone. "Do you remember that night at the Garrison, when you told me you'd always be by my side? I believed you. And you were, in every way that mattered. Now, I come here, and I talk to you, hoping you can hear me, hoping you’re watching over me. I tell you about my day, about the struggles, about the times I almost broke down but didn't, because I knew you'd want me to be strong. But it’s so hard, love. So damn hard."

The sky began to lighten, the first rays of dawn breaking through the fog. Thomas’s tears fell freely now, unchecked. "The family’s falling apart, _______. Arthur and John are lost without you, Polly’s trying to hold us together, but we all feel your absence. Ada’s strong, but even she’s struggling. And me? I’m barely holding on. Every deal, every plan, it all feels pointless without you to share it with. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of making you proud, of not letting your memory down."

His voice cracked, the emotions overwhelming him. "I miss your laugh, your touch, the way you’d look at me and make everything right. I miss waking up next to you, knowing I could face anything because you were there. Now I wake up to silence, to the cold reality that you’re not coming back." Thomas wiped his face with a trembling hand, his breath hitching. "I see you in my dreams, you know. Every n light. You’re there, smiling, just out of reach. And then I wake up, and it’s like losing you all over again. It’s torture, _______. Pure torture."

He leaned his head back against the headstone, closing his eyes. "But I can’t keep living like this. I know that’s not what you’d want for me. I need to find a way to move forward, to honor your memory without being consumed by it. I need to let you go, even though it feels like it’ll break me." The dawn light grew stronger, casting a soft glow over the grave. Thomas took another sip from the flask, his mind a tumult of memories and pain. "I’ll always love you, _______. That’ll never change. You were my light, my angel, and I’ll carry you with me every day. But I need to find a way to live again, to find some semblance of peace. For you. For me." His voice was barely a whisper now, the grief ebbing, leaving a hollow ache. "I’m so sorry, _______. For everything. I hope you can forgive me. I hope you can rest easy, knowing I’ll do my best to make you proud. To live a life that honors the love we shared."

Thomas stood slowly, placing his cap back on his head. He looked down at the grave, a final tear slipping down his cheek. "Goodbye, my love. Until we meet again." He turned and walked away, the weight of his sorrow still heavy but slightly eased. As he left the cemetery, the first light of day breaking over the horizon, Thomas felt a glimmer of hope. It was faint, fragile, but it was there. A sign that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to move forward, carrying her memory with him, but no longer letting it consume him.

Thomas sat in his office once more, just staring at her photo on his desk. The door creaked open, and Arthur stepped in, his presence a stark contrast to the ghostly memories that had filled the room. Arthur's eyes, always sharp and perceptive, softened as he took in the scene. "Tommy," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You alright?"

Thomas nodded, a slight movement that spoke volumes. "Yeah, Arthur. Just... thinkin'."

Arthur moved to the desk, his gaze falling on the photograph. "It's time to let her go, Tommy. She wouldn't want ya stuck like this."

Thomas looked at his brother, the truth of his words sinking in. He knew Arthur was right. She had been the light in his life, but she wouldn't want him to dwell in darkness. He reached for the photograph, holding it gently as if it were a precious relic. "I know," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it's hard, Arthur. She was everything." Arthur placed a hand on Thomas's shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort. "Aye, she was. But you got us, Tommy. And we need ya."

Thomas nodded again, feeling the weight of his brother's words. The Shelby family had always been his anchor, and now, more than ever, he needed them. He placed the photograph in the drawer, closing it slowly. It was a symbolic gesture, a step towards healing. Her memory would always be a part of him, but he couldn't let it consume him any longer. He stood up, the chair scraping against the floor. The light in the room seemed brighter, a reflection of the new path he was determined to take. He looked at Arthur, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Let's get to work, then."

Arthur grinned, a rare sight that brought a sense of normalcy back to the moment. "That's the Tommy I know."

Together, they left the office, the door closing behind them with a sense of finality. Thomas felt a weight lift from his shoulders, the burden of the past easing just a bit. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he was ready to face the future. Her memory would always be with him, a guiding light in the darkest of times, but he wouldn't let it drag him down anymore.

Outside, the streets of Birmingham were bustling with life, the noise and chaos a stark contrast to the quiet reflection he had just left behind. He walked with purpose, each step a testament to his resolve. The Shelby family needed him, and he would not let them down. He would honor her memory by living, truly living, not just existing in a haze of regret and sorrow. As he made his way through the familiar streets, he felt a sense of peace settling over him. It was a new beginning, a chance to rebuild and move forward. He knew there would be challenges, moments of doubt and pain, but he was ready. For her, for his family, and for himself. Thomas stopped at a street corner, looking back towards the company he built. The building stood tall and imposing, a symbol of the empire he had built. It was a reminder of all he had achieved, and all he still had to fight for. With a final glance, he turned and walked away, the light of the morning sun casting long shadows behind him. He knew the journey ahead would not be easy, but for the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of hope. He would carry her memory with him, but he would not let it define him. He was Thomas Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders, and he was ready to face whatever the future held.

Author's Notes:

To be real with you, don't know think its a good fit but I like it kinda... idk tbh. But here it is and hopefully someone likes it, also I finshed this at like 5 in the morning soooo if its sloppy oh well, jk.

AND the people who asked for fics, are being worked on don't worry I SWEAR THEY WILL BE OUT I PROMISE!

[bleuangel88]

If there's one thing that one can take away from this series so far, it is that the friendship among the trio is one of the show's most wholesome, endearing, feels-inducing aspects.....No matter what, can we just protect Mickey, Spoon, and Ema at all costs?

With so much going on surrounding the mystery of who is after Ashley Kent and why, the Dylan Shakes connection, and the teens still trying to go about their lives as teenagers, sometimes it's easy to forget that Mickey hasn't been able to fully grieve or parse through his feelings about his father's "death" and his mother's absence.

He's distracted himself so much with these other things that we don't get many of those moments of reflection about where he is regarding his father's death and how he's coping with any of that.

It's why those quiet moments with Mickey confiding in Spoon are so heart-wrenching and heartwarming at once.

Jaden Michael and Adrian Greensmith have such great chemistry that you get completely engrossed in their scenes whenever they share the screen.

Spoon Spindell is a consummate friend and ally, endlessly supportive, rational, willing to throw himself into any fight to defend Mickey to his own detriment, and this emotional safe space for Mickey to lean on and confide in at every given moment.

How he knows Mickey so well and intimately in such a short period is one of the season's highlights.

It's incredibly gratifying to see two young men get to discuss their emotions, be affectionate with each other, and have such emotional maturity and a healthy relationship.

It's not to dismiss any potential undertones of something more. Shippers are going to ship, and it's certainly an avenue for it.

But it's so rare and thus touching to see such a strong depiction of an emotionally open and vulnerable male dynamic that isn't rooted in toxic masculinity that every second of Spoon and Mickey being emotionally supportive and affectionate with one another is a treasure.

Spoon is a great sounding board for Mickey because he has an innate ability to cut right to the heart of something, leading with kindness, understanding, compassion, and reasoning with a level head that doesn't feel condescending or dismissive.

He knows that Mickey can't afford to doubt his father when it's not a question that Brad was a good man who loved his son endlessly, and that's not something to question.

And I loved that he offered to go to Brad's grave with Mickey and reminded him that he has people to lean on and doesn't have to go through this alone.

Spoon Spindell is nothing if not a trusted, loyal companion in the purest sense.In an hour where Spoon was constantly the supportive friend and trusty sidekick character, it was nice to have that moment between him and Agent.

Spoon is a character who has more to him than meets the eye, and it's apparent that he hides behind his humor and quirkiness.

It's heartbreaking to think that he's experienced darkness, but it's also not that surprising, and the real concern is Agent's cryptic message that Spoon will experience more losses.

And the temporary tattoo Agent gives Spoon was interesting, too. It was the badass biker type with the bleeding, broken heart held together, and Agent left a space for a name. But what is the meaning behind that?

Does it imply that Spoon will place someone he loves there because they're healing his broken heart, or does it mean that someone he loves will break his heart or hurt him somehow?

Is it one of intimacy and a loving tribute or something more complex? And what's the over-under on the name that Spoon puts there?

Is it one of intimacy and a loving tribute or something more complex? And what's the over-under on the name that Spoon puts there?

Is it wrong that the first name that came to mind was Mickey?

I don't think Spoon has loved anyone as much as he loves Mickey Bolitar, and he shows that constantly. He wears that on his sleeve. He's never had what he's had until Mickey showed up...

[callmehopeless]

Prompt

Idea: "True Love's Kiss Motif". In which a prince is cursed to live an immortal life. He enjoys life at first but grows bored easily. Begins his search to find true love's kiss by courting various women throughout his life. Playboy phase (multiple women)?

Grows old and has never found true love. And he tries to off himself more than once to many failures.

But one day, he somehow awakens right before he's brought back to life at the crossroads between worlds. He meets Death. He decides then and there that the only way to truly die is to obtain a kiss from Death. But while he courts Death and shows him/her/them how to live-- he finds himself falling for him/her/them.

(Can be any characters or pairings? Go wild with funny antics, angsty, Happy Ending or Bittersweet… I love everything you write <3)

Moo loaded a shotgun and pointed it right at my chest.

BETWEEN SPACES

Ominis Gaunt x Male!OC (very nonspecific)

Word Count: 1500ish

This is just incredibly painful angst with very small comfort, PLEASE ENJOY!

Ominis Gaunt met him, in the shadow and the night.

Long after life should have left him - after his bones ought to have been dust, and the world had turned without him. Long after his friends had passed into nothing, and on, and on: onward, until the world had changed irreparably.

Anne had gone first. Lovable, gentle Anne. Anne, who had survived so much: who had courted death and run from him. Anne had gone in quiet slip - somewhere in the middle of her life. Ominis had grieved her, so sudden and quick - and asked death to take him, too.

Death had not.

And so Ominis Gaunt had sought. Bony hands, pale fingers; undressing women with the talents of a gentleman. The efforts of a man of his station: the Prince of Slytherin, and the heir to all of its curses and wants. He had fallen into desperation, almost: feverish, to find meaning and purpose and something to explain it all.

Once, a handful of years ago - a boy had whispered something in his ear.

“Don’t you grow tired of all of this?”

 They had been sixteen, then, and he had not known kisses or love. He had known of stories, and music, and had liked to imagine them as things that were real, and proper, and meaningful as anything.

He could fall in love. He could.

His face had been a mysterious thing - only felt a handful of times, and only in the throes of the moment. He had been alive, in the creases of those cheekbones. When the pad of his thumb had run over those lips.

And then - that boy had vanished, too. And he had forgotten entirely that life could be vast, and music could be good. Stories could have meanings, and not simply morals.

But that was long ago. And the days turned to months, and the months into years.

Sebastian was next. His brother, and his life. War. Muggles have always liked war, and Sebastian had always been fit to raise one. When he received the letter, and his wand traced the paper of it: he had not cried. Not properly.

He had drank, and drank, and tried to forget. He had lain in the grass and tried to picture the colours of the sky. He had wondered what he should feel - whether someone who had lived half as long would feel twice as much. Whether the curse that had been laid at his feet meant, in the end: he would slowly feel himself seeping through the cracks of the pavement, worn away by the bombs dropped from afar.

The Great War came, and ended. Another. Another.

He had fucked his way through it. Women - always women. Always the curves of them against him: and never too much of anything else. Anything else would hurt, too much, too quickly: too many things lost along the way. And he had kissed, and fucked, and touched, and lit matches under himself that burned out. The fifties had come, and he had looked much the same. Not that he had known that, of course - but he had kept himself well, and groomed.

Smoked? He had smoked most in the sixties. He had wondered if it was yellowing his teeth, or making him smell acrid - but he stopped caring by the seventies, and he yearned for the old smoking bars. The comfort of the continual rise of it. The coughs, and the jackets. Christ, but he missed the dinner jackets.

The time passed in a haze. Everyone was gone, by then, and he was frozen. A piece of time, long antiquated. Most of his days spent in vague states of removal from reality. He missed Anne for most of it, and Sebastian for half of it (though that half, he thinks, was an agonising half). He found he missed the gargoyles in the classes, and Professor Binns’ innocuous droning. He missed everything.

Wizarding War. He had a brief, painful realisation of the truth of it. His own flesh and blood. That inclination would have inspired something in him, if his life hadn’t been so bloody long.

But then it was done. And then the eighties. And then the nineties, and he only briefly measured that a boy came to stop what would try to pass.

The millennium came over the Thames, and Ominis Gaunt would sit and listen to the cars, and the water, and the traffic as it moved over Tower Bridge. His heart would barely oscillate - he would go home, some nights, and lay on his bed.

Once, a handful of years ago - a boy had whispered something in his ear. He forgot. He forgets the words.

It is a night in November, and the first frost is skating over London.

He has always preferred the cold. Ominis thinks, like him: it touches everything, and then melts away. Leaves it no better nor worse for the privilege. Entirely the same as it has always been, and that is quite alright. His felt coat wrapped tight, and he walks to the bridge. Breath clouding in the air.

His wand is barely needed, now. But he holds it in his sleeve, as he has for a hundred years. A presence, on the bridge: a man. Tall, and imposing. The rest left to the air and the sky.

“How many years has it been?”

The man asks him, and the voice is strange. The elocution is beautiful; sharp, and from another time entirely. The moment Ominis hears it, something within him balks. Hairs stand on end. The planet, in its wisdom, feels as though it slows.

“I’m sorry–?”

He has missed feeling confused. The world has become full of certainties.

Snow falls, soft and cool. Kisses on skin. The touch of cold fingers.

“You have run for so long. Don’t you grow tired of all of this?”

Oh.

Tired. Dear God, but he is tired.

He used to sleep in the Transfiguration Courtyard. His head on a thigh, and his heart in his throat. Someone was there; someone warm, and loving. Someone who kissed him, quietly. A boy who loved him before he could love himself - and perhaps long after he stopped.

A step forward. Another. A third, and he reaches out with his hand.

A robe meets his fingers, and he tugs on it. Soft, smooth; draped. He has not aged much since he was sixteen, and neither has Ominis Gaunt. Somewhere, in the madness - a curse had fallen on him, and all things had stopped.

Everything has its time.

“Where did you go? I–”

Ominis’ voice cracks. Something in him wrenches. His eyes burn, and it is the first time in so long that it feels like lead.

“--it wasn’t a mercy. It wasn’t. I would’ve gone with you years ago. I loved you–I’ve loved you all my life.”

Through loving Anne, and Sebastian, and Noctua. And the wars, and the moments between them: there has been blood, and sex, and pain, and knowledge, and a sadness that goes on and on.

Death is cold. Death is so terribly cold.

He would have loved Death all his life, if he could have.

He has always loved the cold.

Death reaches out to him, and the hands are not so cold as he remembers. Not really. They feel like Anne, in her soft whispers at the end. Like Sebastian: the steadfast drive of him. The way he would never depart from what he needed. Death came for them both, and loved them just as much.

“I’ve loved you all these years,” Death tells him, with a gentle movement of his voice. The snow is softer, then, and Death reaches out with both hands.

Ominis does not take them.

Instead, he leans forward. His own fingers - cold and dry as they are, and full of youth - reach up, and they touch the boy’s face.

Hard lines, and soft skin. He isn’t cold; he is warm, and kind, and good. Death did not snatch - Death carried. Death held, and Death let everything be where it ought. In its time, in its way: everything to its nature.

To gentleness; Death brought kindness. To fight; Death brought war.

But to love–

A swallow. Ominis’ glassy eyes move about, unseeing, and he traces his thumb over the pad of a lip. Over the curve of the flesh, there, and he wishes for a taste of it. It is all he has wished for. He cannot think of anything else he has wanted more.

The snow falls on the Thames, like smattered, pressed kisses in the dark.

“Kiss me,” Ominis pleads. He pleads, and remembers.

And Death does not hesitate for a moment. Death does not judge him the years; nor spend another second without him. Death does not think on promises that were not made, nor things lost.

Death has waited so long,

And Death has loved him so much.

I'm not crying, fuck you, you're crying.

(Much love, Totomoo! Thank you so much for your support <3)

Feel free to send requests!

[jazjelspen]

the world we knew.

“now over and over I keep going over the world we knew”

you now walked through the mirror that would eventually take you back home as the prince of briar valley watched with disassociated and pitiful eyes, deep in his lonely heart Malleus thought that maybe you would eventually realize that home was with him. 

“days when you-”

He should’ve tried harder, he thought, he should’ve treated you like a goddess instead of a queen..he should’ve given you diamonds instead of gold, countless barrels of blood red roses instead of just a few, he instead should’ve crowned you queen and not simply called you ‘my queen’..he should’ve loved you harder than he did before. 

or maybe you just didn’t love him enough to stay with him in his world,

he wasn’t even sure anymore.

“--used to love me”

just that here he is, having watched the love of his life and his only obsession slip right through his hands. he couldn’t help but feel as if maybe he just should’ve gone with you and leave the throne behind.. since to him being on the throne meant nothing if his queen wasn’t beside him. in that one moment he tried to imagine his future with you in your world--whatever it looked like in his head with the stories and descriptions you gave him-- he tried his best to imagine a domestic and harmonizing life with you and him and some future children he always wished to have with you in the picture as well. the issue was that he simply didn't have you in his world anymore and this was a permanent decision you’ve made since the moment you stepped a foot into Twisted Wonderland.

“over and over I keep going over the world--”

as the sounds of shuffled footsteps fade behind him, indicating that your friends and some classmates who watched you leave were now leaving as well. some were quiet and some were in soft tears or aggressive sobs while others just took a couple more seconds to watch the mirror that you walked through just a few minutes earlier as a way to pay respects on the impact you’ve made on them and those around. eventually everyone was gone from the scene except Malleus, his entourage of three left earlier after noting that the prince needs a moment of solace to mourn and grieve, maybe even come to terms with the missing presence of you.

but c’mon, how can Malleus Draconia come to terms with the permeant absence of the one person who never treated him like those around him did, who even after knowing his true identity never treated him any less kindly or lovingly than the day before. he thought that for once he found someone who was truly willing to understand him and was going to stick by him till whatever kind of end came first. to him you were truly one of the only ones who ever made his lonely and pathetic heart glow and soar.

“--we”

but there was just absolutely no way he would be able to come to terms with this, nor ever forget you for the next millennia. 

heck it’s most likely, that the image of your features that he loves so deeply, would still be burned and engrained in his mind till he is resting peacefully on his death bed.

he just knew that you’ll forever be in his mind, and most importantly.. forever in his now bleeding heart.

“knew.”

[quinntell]

Hi so uh little rant 

(I am absolutely terrible at grammar and such so if it’s fucked up don’t mind it please)

Ok so I’ve noticed how no one talks about how /fit/ is alone, like /no one/ really talks about it. I think the reason the characters and the viewers and even q!fit himself overlooks it is because q!fit has always been alone. Pac is used to company, and when mike his platonic soulmate and richarlyson his child went missing he wasn’t used to it. The comfort that he had known most his life was taken from him so suddenly. But with fit he has always been alone so there would be no reason for him to be hit so hard by all of this right? WRONG. my man was in a wasteland where the moment you got attached to something it was gone, and then he came to a place that’s wasn’t so hardcore and He was not only allowed but  ordered to take care of something, he was hesitant and a little annoyed at how he had to take care of some egg he was just supposed to complete his mission and finally have at least a little peace , but slowly he started to get attached to the little boy and eventually that kid became /his son/. But then his partner, the man he was supposed to team up with, the man who was supposed to be his partner in parenting their child left without even a goodbye or a real reason as to why he left so he had to tell his son and everyone on the damned island that he left to get cigarettes. Of course fit isn’t really all that bothered by it, I mean he’s used to being alone and he barely knew that guy. But still…maybe he should monitor his future friends. just to make sure they don’t dump their responsibility’s on him of course. But time goes by and he for the most part forgets his absent partner. 

Then his son loses his first life. 

And then it became Ramon before the mission. He would never say it fully out loud but he would give up the mission and just about everything for that kid, it was /his/ kid, dragon be damned and he wasn’t going to let this kid be alone. He wasn’t going to let his kid be alone. 

And then more time passes, everything is fairly quiet and normal, well as normal as quesadilla island can be, yes he don was kidnapped once but all it took to get him back was a weak dungeon it was nothing

Then he was told his son would leave and never come back. He was told he had only had 6 days left with Ramon from a fairly traumatizing video. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make those 6 days count. 

Then the 6 days pass and he accepts that he will be alone once again. And he goes through the day grieving but pushing on, moving forward and so on. Besides he doesn’t have time to dwell since there are new members here, most of them don’t seem like they will be that much of a problem, and there are two who seem to be fans of his work he did while at 2b2t one of them seems particularly nice

And guess what! His son is back, Ramon is back! He’s not alone! But now his son is cracked. He needs to be extra careful now especially with the so called ‘federation’ that claims the kids were returned safely 

More time passes, and his son is a fairly good engineer! All is (for the most part) well , he’s making friends with those two Brazilians (known as tazercraft) and they tired out to be quite the trouble makers, he doesn’t fully trust them but they are friends- real friends not just ones he has to be friends with in order to make his mission easier 

Ok I realize im ranting too much so I’ll sum it up

Fit is supposed to be used to being alone, but it slowly starts to get to him, he’s starting to not be used to being alone to the point he now has separation anxiety instantly, almost everyone he has genuinely cared for on this island has disappeared or been kidnapped at least once, and he can’t take it anymore, he’s trying his best to go back to not caring but he’s getting closer and closer to a particular Brazilian (pac) and he’s not sure what to do, he said he’d take baby steps but even those seem too fast, and now his son and everyone else’s is gone, and they have no clue where they are and only a bit of a clue if they are ok. 

But I’m just saying that without Ramon, if we don’t count pac fit is alone, him and phill are friends but he’s not close enough to tell him about his mission and the same goes to tubbo, especially tubbo actually, since the kid is a big trouble maker (be it on purpose or accident) and has his own suspicions on fit himself

Pac has the other favela members but fit has no one is what I’m trying to say 

[pearlsinmyhair]

𓇢 a gasp, then silence.𓇢𓆸

synopsis: how mo’at discovers that neteyam is gone.

warnings: angst. cannon character death, non-cannon interaction and reaction. brief mention of death during childbirth and the battle of home tree.

word count: 600 (it’s itty bitty)

an: i’m so sorry. i had to do it.

𓇢𓆸

mo’at learned quickly that the way of eywa was not fair, nor was it kind.

she had watched innocents suffer. saw children crushed by the home tree when it fell. saw mothers in labor lose their strength.

but after all her suffering, she had prayed to the great mother to at least spare her grandchildren. she knew eywa could make no promises, just as much as she knew that many others had prayed for the same for their own loved ones.

who was she to demand mercy? to take it away from another? to dare question the great balance?

from the moment she had held neteyam, a part of her whispered doom. he was so light, so precious, so very fragile in this dangerous world.

he grew, of course, a strong shell growing around his kind heart. she hated to see him hide it away, but she knew it was there. she had watched him rise to the occasion of war with concealed fear.

she had lost her husband and a son-in-law to the sky people. she couldn’t bare to lose her grandson.

so when they flew to the distant islands of the metkayina, she thought they were safe. surely no one would find them amongst thousands of villages.

she should have known better than to hope.

𓇢𓆸

she awoke sweating and breathless, wheezing as she processed the empty room of her tent.

she had seen blood behind her eyes, a wail of pain and sorrow, a heart beat stopping.

eywa’s messages were always cryptic. but this was easy to piece together.

it was more mo’at’s own will that prevented her from fully interpreting it.

the silence of her hut beat against her ears, so very unusual.

she was used to it being full constantly: of injured, of children, of voices dead and alive.

now, there was nothing. as though the great mother was giving her time to grieve.

she refused.

she pulled on clothes quickly, sliding her blade into its sheath as she set out for the tree of voices.

mo’at may have been old, but she knew the path well. eywa showed her some respect in clearing her path of creatures, allowing her to walk without worry.

the forest was quiet, too, sensing the lose, sensing her rising fear and sadness.

she approached the tree slowly, bringing her queue over her shoulder. her chest tightened with grief, with rage.

neytiri’s scream filled her ears.

she connected her kuru to one of the hanging strands.

it took a few minutes of meditation and searching, but soon she found him.

“hello, grandmother. is everything alright?”

“yes, neteyam. i just wished to see you.”

she did not dwell in the spritual realm of her grandson’s memories, lest she show too much emotion. neteyam did not know he was dead, and she would not try to tamper with that fact.

she disconnected her queue, and the titters of animals around her stopped.

she knelt there for what felt like centuries, hands clenched into fists in her lap. she felt like a child, wanting to scream and rage and wail and holler.

but she did none of those things.

instead, she layed her head against one of the many roots of the tree and wept.

neteyam’s breath in her ear, soft and steady.

in and out, went his lungs when he was born.

in and out, he repeated to himself when he completed his iknimaya.

in and out, he practiced as he prepared to leave his home for a strangers refuge.

in and out.

in and-

a gasp.

then silence.

masterlists.

this is completely unrelated to breath of venus if you were wondering. i just really wanted to write this. i think we forget about mo’at a lot in this fandom.

[lilpunkrock]

where you go (i will go) — part viii

Summary: You find kinship with a fellow immortal, then are presented with a gift...and a threat.

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x f!reader

Word Count: 6.6k+

AN: It's a long one, lovelies! I hope you all enjoy the angst and fun in equal measure. As always, thank you all for your support!

. . .

“I don’t know, I just can feel it in the atmosphere;

And if I’m wandering, I’ve wandered into just the right spot.

You are the fire inside me, you are the reason I dream;

And just for when we’re apart, I’ve got a piece of your heart.”

Piece of Your Heart, Mayday Parade

. . . 

part viii

“You know, you don’t have to check on me as you do.” 

“What, you don’t like my visits? I’m hurt.” 

You roll your eyes at Death’s feigned insult, her mock gasp of hurt. The two of you stand side-by-side amidst rows of tombstones, unseen spectators to the funeral taking place several yards away. A green storge attachment glows brightly between a father and son, rekindled with the passing of their wife and mother. They grieve quietly, the father’s hand clasped around his son’s shoulder, a sign of solidarity, of estrangement forgotten. 

Death is wrong–you’re grateful for these times in which your functions overlap. It is intoxicatingly good to see someone outside your own little world. That only makes it ache more when it’s time for you to part.

“The Fates may call you their ward, but you were mine first,” Death presses on, her eyes wide and earnest. “I welcomed you into this world when you were just a babe, and I intended to follow you through to the end. Sure, things didn’t go as expected, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still be here for you.” 

“I don’t want you to check on me out of obligation,” you admit quietly. 

“I don’t. I care about you, Love. And I know that this transition must be hard.” She pauses, eyes searching yours, imploring. “Now, tell me what’s going on in that head of yours. You’ve been downcast the last several times I’ve seen you.” 

You smile wistfully, your expression tight. It’s amazing how she can read you like a book. You suppose eons spent meeting humans in the biggest highs and lows of their lives would make her adept at doing so. You look inward, searching for the answers she seeks. Being vulnerable is like a muscle, and your ability to do so has atrophied in your self-imposed solitude. “I just don’t understand what’s wrong with me. This work that I’m doing…I love it. I really, really do. The feeling that I get when I fulfill their bonds…words don’t do it justice.” You inhale, growing breathless at the mere thought of it. “It’s extraordinary. Transcendent. And yet, something feels missing. I don’t feel…whole.” You swallow thickly, your mouth dry as cotton. “I can still feel it. What it felt like to love him. I know that it had to be powerful for…for it to linger as it does, even after all that happened. I’m longing for something I don’t even remember.” You purse your lips, images of those final moments flashing in your mind. “Something that, apparently, was never real at all. And yet, it still haunts me.” 

Death is quiet for several long moments. You watch as the father offers his son a handkerchief to dab at his glistening eyes. Their green thread thrums in response. “I know what you’re experiencing,” she finally says. When you turn to look at her, her gaze is knowing. “It’s mourning. For the life you might have led, for what was taken from you. Grief never goes away, but it does get a little easier to bear.” She smiles softly at you. “Trust me, I speak from experience.” 

“I don’t know. I just can’t help but feel that the wrong person was picked for the job. A love goddess who put her heart in the wrong hands.” You offer her a strained, lopsided grin. “Seems a little convoluted, doesn’t it?” 

This time, it’s Death’s turn to roll her eyes. After a playful shake of her head, she gazes at you with conviction. “You said you remember how it felt? The love that you had for him?”

How could you forget? Maker knows you’d tried, to no avail. When you close your eyes, you’re back in the dream meadow, the place where your memory of those final moments begins. You think of the way your skin had sung at his touch, the way your heart had swelled so large, you’d felt it could swallow the world whole. “Yes.” 

Death’s hand is gentle on your arm. “They need that. And if you’re able to hold on to that feeling, to believe in it, even after all that has happened, then you’re the right one for the job. Though what happened to you was a tragedy, one I wish I could take away, one good thing came of it, Love. You.” 

. . . 

Death was right. With time, the grief does become easier to bear. When the bittersweet pangs of yearning and envy pierce your heart, you’re able to forge onward. Where your heart once sang for him, it now sings at the feeling of giving love to others. The feeling of his skin against yours, the sound of his voice, fades from the forefront of your mind, slipping into little more than a distant memory. The feeling of brokenness, though never gone, grows smaller inside you. With time, happiness begins to come more easily. 

Guarding your heart is a small price to pay for keeping it.

. . . 

You shudder against the early-December breeze, tugging your beanie more fully over your ears. The radiant colors and dipping temperatures of fall have long faded, transitioning into shades of blue, foggy breath, and frosted grass. Your fingers curl tightly around the to-go cup in your hand, relishing the warmth of the coffee that seeps through the paper. 

Dream of the Endless, impervious as ever, walks beside you without so much as a shiver. The collar of his black wool coat conceals his sharp jawline, one hand tucked into his pocket. The other caresses a to-go cup of earl grey tea. Steam wafts from the lid’s opening as the Dream Lord brings it to his pursed lips to take a sip. 

The sight makes you smile. Walking down the busy street on a weekday morning, two companions sharing warm beverages on the way to work, you truly feel almost human. The past two months had been imbued with a sense of calm and contentment that you savored. Your partnership with Morpheus had been going swimmingly. Though not all of the attachments you’d fulfilled with Morpheus’s help went according to plan, you had seen a significant and sustained improvement since adding first words into the dreams of lovers and soulmates. When you walked through the Realm of Attachment, fewer and fewer black threads caught your eye. 

Their master was even more elusive to you. You hadn’t seen Desire since the day in the park with Matthew. The thought both thrilled and unnerved you. You had expected their retaliation to be quick and fierce. You weren’t sure what to think of the fact that it hadn’t come at all. 

Still, it was easy to push such thoughts from your mind when your days were as busy as they were. Your daily time spent with Matthew, Lucienne, and the other residents of the Dreaming were some of the brightest hours of your days. You’d found yourself waking earlier and earlier, becoming more efficient with your duties, all in your eagerness to travel to the Dreaming. Your heart, lonely and starved of connection for so long, finally felt fed and full. Between your time spent in the Dreaming and with Theo, you’d barely had time to retreat into yourself for your nightly rest. 

Out of all of it, moments like these were some of your favorites. You were delighted on the occasions when the Dream Lord would accept your invitation to observe your function or walk in the Waking World. You enjoyed showing his curious soul bits and pieces of the mortal world, watching him drink in the human experience. As the Dreaming had introduced you to Fiddler’s Green, the House of Secrets, and the House of Mystery, you had introduced its creator to the simple pleasures of sipping tea as the sun rose, finding the darkest place in the city to glimpse the stars, and the satisfaction of spending an afternoon reading a good book rather than working. Though these breaks in routine were only occasional, you treasured them. These moments almost made you feel…normal. The memory of your anxiety and petrification at your first meeting with the Dream Lord nearly made you laugh now. 

Eyes still trained on Morpheus, the collision takes you by total surprise. Blunt force contacts your front with a start. A splash of heat douses the front of your coat as your coffee cup is crushed against your chest. Startled, you blink rapidly, gathering your bearings. A college-aged boy peels himself from your front, his hair disheveled, earbuds popping out of his ears from the impact. His eyes are wide with mortification as he looks at you, his phone still in his hand. “Oh shit, I– I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention,” he stammers. 

His guilt is palpable. You smile kindly at him, seeking to assuage his embarrassment. “It’s really okay.” You glance down at the dark brown stain that now adorns the front of your beige coat. “You know, I’m not sure why I thought it was a good idea to buy a light-colored coat anyway. I’m surprised I didn’t spill something on it way sooner.” 

The boy laughs breathlessly, shoulders relaxing slightly as he realizes he’s not about to be cursed out for this incident. Still, his dark brows are furrowed as he begins to dig into his pocket for his wallet. “Here, let me can give you money for a new one–” 

You place a hand on his arm, and his movement stills. You smile again as his hesitant green eyes meet yours. “Really, don’t worry about it,” you say with gentle firmness. “You did me a favor, honestly. You just gave me an excuse to go get a coat I won’t end up ruining with a massive coffee stain. Which is definitely something I would have ended up doing.” You give his arm a soft squeeze of reassurance. “So thank you. Just maybe look up a little more often next time.” You raise your eyebrows at him. “Not everyone’s looking to buy a new coat.” 

The boy stares at you for a moment, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. Then, he smiles tentatively. “Yeah, right. Thanks. Have a great rest of your day.” He tucks his phone into his pocket as he slips back into the crowd. 

As he disappears from sight, you look down at the stain with a soft sigh. As you walk toward the nearest trash bin with your now-sadly-empty coffee cup, Morpheus follows you like a shadow. “It astounds me how seamlessly you intermingle with them,” he murmurs quietly. With a quick toss, your empty cup sails through the mouth of the trash bin, a hole-in-one. “You act like one of them.” 

On instinct, your mind says, I am one of them. You open your mouth to say the words, then quickly bite your tongue. Because even though your sense of self-identify lies somewhere on the muddled plain between mortal and deity, you know that, at the core of it, you’re not one of them. Not anymore. 

Morpheus’s bright, attentive eyes miss nothing. His gaze is curious, his brows lifted as he says, “I’ve noticed a consistent shift in your demeanor when the subject of your past as a human is broached. Why?”

The question catches you off-guard. Pursing your lips in thought, you wave him toward the awning of a boutique a few steps away, slipping away from the throng of people walking down the street. “I don’t know. It’s…hard to explain.” You gnaw at the inside of your cheek in thought, his curious gaze heavy upon you. “I mean, imagine. You’re born mortal, a human, living in the mortal world amongst other humans. Being mortal is your identity–it’s all you know. But then, suddenly, you’re thrust into a world of gods, goddesses, and Endless. Everyone’s telling you that you’re immortal now, that you’re not human anymore, but you don’t look any different. You don’t think or act any differently. Hell, you don’t even really feel any different. Excluding your new magical ability to foster love connections between mortals, of course.” You chuckle softly. “I may not be able to remember my mortal life in its entirety, but I imagine I had loved ones, plans, hopes, dreams. The thought that all that went unfulfilled–I don’t know. It’s just hard to reconcile, in a way. Even after all this time.” You shy away from Morpheus’s blue eyes, the thoughtfulness that lies within them. “Your sister called it ‘mourning’ once. And I agree with her. Though it does get easier, it never goes away. Talking to Matthew has helped. He might be the only other person in the world besides me who understands how it feels.” 

Morpheus is quiet for several long moments, processing your words. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Just as you’re about to ask if he minds walking back to Cliff’s with you for a replacement coffee, he speaks. “I know of someone you should quite like to meet.”

. . . 

The two-story, red-brick building before you is quaint and unassuming. Tucked off a side-street, it’s the type of place you would have never found without prior knowledge or guidance from word of mouth. The chimney breathes a steady stream of smoke into the pale blue sky overhead. The emerald green curtains adorning the bottom floor windows are drawn open, inviting visitors to come in for reprieve from the winter chill. Several tables with green umbrellas surround the outside of the inn, pops of color against the gray of London. You follow Morpheus as he leads you through a patch of grass toward the inn’s front door. “‘The New Inn?’ Whatever brought you to this place?” you ask curiously.

“This inn is owned by an old friend of mine,” Morpheus responds. He reaches the green door first. A small string of bells tied around the handle jingles as he opens it. “A friend I think you might appreciate making an acquaintance of.” 

You blink, surprised. This is the first time you’ve heard the Dream Lord refer to anyone as a “friend,” and your interest is instantly piqued. You follow him through the doorway, relishing the warmth that flushes your cheeks as you step over the threshold. The room has a distinctly vintage personality, complete with brocade-esque cream wallpaper and lit sconces. An elaborate mahogany bar spans one wall with several sets of wooden tables and chairs surrounding it. For the inn being off the beaten path, it’s surprisingly busy at this time of day. Several patrons sit about chatting with partners, friends, and loved ones, sipping a beer, coffee, tea, or all three.

As if he knows precisely where to go, Morpheus skips the bar, walks past an ornately-carved fireplace along the far wall, and dips left into a second room off the main bar. This room is smaller and cozier than the main gathering room. A staircase to your left leads up to what you assume are the guests’ quarters. Only one patron is present in this room–a middle-aged gentleman seated at a small table in the corner opposite the staircase. He nurses a beer slowly, reading a newspaper by the light of the wall sconces above his head. 

Morpheus walks toward him without hesitation. “Hob Gadling,” he calls. At the sound of Morpheus’s voice, the man’s head snaps upward. You watch as his eyes widen in surprise, followed by the slow dawn of joy overtaking his expression. A dazzling smile warms his handsome face, pronouncing his cleft chin and dark eyes. He rises to his feet instantly, flinging the newspaper onto the wooden seat beside him. 

“Old friend!” The man–Hob–exclaims, stepping around the table to meet Morpheus in the middle. Your eyes settle on his dark hair, the crinkles by his eyes, his affectionate grin. His features resonate somewhere in the depths of your mind. You swear you’ve seen him before, and you suppose it’s likely that you have. After all, you meet most everyone at least once. Still, as young as he looks, you would have thought his face would have been more familiar to you. “You’re early, my friend. Very early.” 

Morpheus dips his head slightly, looking at Hob with knowing eyes. Is that the ghost of a smile on his lips? Before you can get a better look, the Endless begins to speak. “Indeed, I am. It is a special occasion that brings me to your establishment today.” Morpheus beckons toward you with one hand. You take a couple steps forward to stand at his side, giving Hob a friendly smile. “I would like to introduce you to my…colleague, Love.”

Hob’s eyes turn from Morpheus to you. He’d been so excited to see the Dream Lord that you’re not sure he’d quite noticed you until this moment. His eyes flicker back and forth between the two of you, his wide grin taking on a cheeky edge. “Colleague, eh? I know what that means.” He raises his eyebrows, his expression now deathly serious. “You two are snogging, aren’t you?” 

Your heart leaps into your throat in an instant. “No,” you say hastily, waving your hands in front of you. You refuse to look at Morpheus’s expression, certain that you’ll find confusion, mortification, or a muddled mix of both. Does he even know what snogging means? “No, really, we’re just–” 

Your denial is interrupted by a snort erupting from Hob. Mouth twisted tightly from holding back a grin, he finally gives in, his deep, throaty laughter filling the small room. “I’m just kidding you, darling. Sorry, I shouldn’t be poking at you when we’ve just met.” He reaches out with a kind smile, taking one of your hands in his. Your heartbeat begins to slow as you meet his warm brown eyes. “My name is Robert Gadling, but you can call me Hob. I’m the owner of this inn and a long-time friend of this one.” He tosses a cheeky look at Morpheus before turning back to you. “So, colleague, eh? Maybe you can finally answer some of my questions about my mysterious old friend.”

You open your mouth, unsure of what to say. Looking to Morpheus with wide, questioning eyes, you find him gazing at Hob with vague amusement. “Hob Gadling, I should think you know better,” Morpheus says lowly. 

“I know, I know. Trade secrets and all.” Hob releases your hand gently, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his brown suede jacket with a roll of his eyes. “I’ve known this man for a long time now, and still know next to nothing about him.” 

“Over six hundred years,” Morpheus says matter-of-factly. 

Both you and Hob fall deathly silent. Over six hundred years. Your lips part slightly in awe and understanding. Suddenly, your vague remembrance of this man makes complete sense. When you look at Hob, you find him staring at Morpheus with a turbulent mix of shock, horror, and confusion. “I– No– Wait–” he stammers. Morpheus inclines his chin slightly, an answer provided in physicality rather than words. Hob’s denials suddenly catch in his throat as understanding dawns on his own face, slow and sweeping. “Wait– She– Really?” An incredulous grin overtakes Hob’s face as he looks at you with new eyes. “Oh, wow. This is fucking mental.” 

And then, a sight you never thought you’d see: The Dream Lord smirks. Only the slightest upturn of the corner of his pink lips, but it’s there. For three months, such a sight had eluded you. You study his face in awe, unsure of how long this break in his stoic exterior will last. It’s incredible how the smallest of gestures seems to soften Morpheus’s sharp jawline, his high cheekbones. The stars in his eyes seem to glimmer with more fervor than usual. 

The low rumble of his voice draws you out of your thoughts. “You two should have much to discuss. I will take my leave.” And with that, he turns and exits the room in a blur of black.

The two of you stand in silence for a moment, watching as he slips away. You’re still stuck on the fact that you just saw the Dream Lord smile. Fates, you’d thought you’d never see the day. After all, he was– “A bit of an uppity prick, isn’t he?” Hob interjects into your thoughts. When you turn to him, you find him watching you with a smirk of his own. “All said in love, of course. I’ve known the man for over six hundred years, and he once gave me the cold shoulder when I implied that he might want a friend, so I think I’ve earned the right to say so.” You hide a snicker behind your hand, and Hob grins wider. He offers you his hand, and you accept it with a firm shake. “Allow me to introduce myself again. I’m Hob Gadling.” 

You smile at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Hob Gadling. You can call me Love.” 

Hob sweeps his hand toward the table he’d been sitting at with a flourish. “Well, Love, please, have a seat. Let’s chat.” A perfect gentleman, he pulls out the chair across from him. You accept it with a smile, sitting down as he finds his own seat. “So, how do you know my old friend?”

“We’re colleagues. Co-workers,” you say truthfully, echoing Morpheus’s statement from before. You’re unsure of exactly what Hob knows about Morpheus’s state of being, and you don’t intend on revealing anything the Endless might wish to hold close to his chest. 

“Co-workers,” Hob echoes. He leans toward you conspiratorially, quirking a curious eyebrow at you. “You know, he’s gone now. If you two really are snogging, you can tell me.” 

You shake your head with a laugh. Maker, you like this Hob Gadling. “No. We really just work together. How does the saying go? ‘Don’t mix business and pleasure?’” 

Hob leans back in his seat with a smile, raising his mug of beer to his lips. “Funny, mixing the two has worked out great for me,” he says as he takes a long drink. He sets the mug back onto the table with a soft thunk. “So…if he’s brought you here to see me, then I assume you are…?” he trails off. 

“Immortal,” you offer. It’s the first time you’ve admitted as much to someone who wasn’t a deity or an Endless. Your heartbeat quickens as the words pass over your lips. 

Hob’s eyebrows jump upward. In spite of the fact that he obviously assumed as much, to hear it spoken aloud still seems to take him by surprise. He quickly regains his composure. “Fucking hell. Me too. Well, then. This is my first time meeting another immortal. Besides our mutual friend, of course.” He pauses, pursing his lips. A question dances in his eyes. After a moment of debating, he asks, “So, how did you…how did it happen?”

You pause. It’s evident that Hob knows Morpheus is immortal, although it doesn’t appear that he knows much else about the Endless. What should you say? How much truth should you tell? Your mind drifts to the past few months, to how your honesty and vulnerability has been rewarded with new friendships in Lucienne and Matthew. How it’s made your partnership with Morpheus stronger. You decide to take a chance, to make the leap. “Oh, you know. Tragic death. Resurrected by Death and the Fates as a goddess.” You speak the words with forced nonchalance, hoping it will help keep from startling him. You offer him a warm smile. “How about you?” 

The innkeeper’s jaw truly drops. You have to bite your bottom lip to keep from laughing at his astonished expression. He quickly tries to save face, smoothing his expression into one of only moderate surprise.  “Well, shit. I just said I refused to die in a bar once with my mates. Next thing you know, I’m a six-hundred-plus-year-old innkeeper.” You chuckle at him, and Hob smiles, clearly pleased. “So, judging by your name, I assume you’re the goddess of love.” You nod. Hob’s eyebrows furrow as he leans across the table toward you. “If you’re a goddess, then what is he?” he asks quietly. 

Oh, how you’d love to satisfy his curiosity. His eagerness to ask questions reminds you of a certain broody Endless, although Hob Gadling seems much less likely to hold his cards close to his chest. You smile kindly at him. “That’s not for me to say. Though I will admit that I understand your curiosity about him. There’s plenty that I’m still learning, myself. Perhaps one day we’ll both get the answers we seek.” You pause, smiling wider. “But I’m not here to talk about him. I’m here to talk about you, Hob Gadling.” 

Hob’s lips downturn ever so slightly, just for a moment. You hate to disappoint him, but you suspect he’s well-accustomed to being denied answers when it comes to Morpheus. He rebounds quickly, leaning back in his chair with a friendly grin. His face is an open book as he takes another drink of his beer. “Well then, Love, let’s talk. If you haven’t noticed already, I’ve got plenty to say.” 

. . . 

Hob’s self-restraint is impressive. He’s divulged the details of his six-hundred-year-long life and learned a little more about your function before he finally asks the question you imagine has been on his mind for the past hour or so. “So, did you ever work on me?” His voice is intrigued, tentative. 

You smile warmly at him. It doesn’t surprise you that he wants to know. After all, if you came face-to-face with the goddess of love, wouldn’t you want to know if she’d played a role in your own relationships? You wished that there had been a deity of love before you’d come along. You would certainly have questions for them. “Yes,” you say softly. 

Hob breathes a long sigh. The smile on his face is part pleased, part wistful. He seems to look at you differently now, as if he’s gazing at someone he’s met before. Just in a way one might not expect. “My Eleanor, my family…they were everything to me,” he says quietly. There is a vague tightness in his voice, a swell of thinly veiled emotion. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “After a while, when the initial brunt of the pain started to become more…bearable, I tried to find it in someone else. That same feeling.” He sighs again, the sound rich with longing. “But I never could. It just wasn’t the same. Eventually, I stopped trying.” 

Your gaze softens with empathy, eyebrows furrowing as his nostalgia settles over the room. You make a mental note to look for his book the next time you’re in your library. To see what the future might hold for him. “Real love is indescribably precious. To revel in it is the highest of highs. To be parted from it is the lowest of lows.” 

Hob chuckles quietly, running a hand through his dark, shoulder-length hair. “Yeah, I suppose you would know all about that.” He sighs once more, the wistful smile slipping from his face. “I don’t know. I’m not sure that kind of life is in the cards for me anymore, being immortal and all. A normal life like that…I’m not sure how it would even work.” 

Your hand slips across the table on instinct, fingers curling over his knuckles gently. You give them a faint squeeze. “You never know, Hob. Who’s to say what the future might hold?” 

Hob’s dark eyes meet yours, holding your gaze. You recognize the spark that alights within them, flickering like a flame. Hope. Yes, you will find his book in your library. Any of the love attachments listed within it–you will ensure them all. 

A slow smile warms his expression. He lifts his free hand, patting yours once. “Yeah. Who’s to say?” he says quietly. 

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment, Hob nursing his beer, your gaze affixed on the tabletop. You gnaw at the inside of your cheek, weighing a question of your own in your mind. It burns within you until you simply have to set it free. “Do you ever get sad thinking about what could’ve been?” you ask, lifting your gaze to meet his. 

Now, it’s Hob’s turn to eye you with empathy and understanding. He leans forward in his seat, clasping his hands in front of him. “Sure, sometimes, yeah. I mean, how could you not? You’d be crazy not to,” he says reassuringly. He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then presses onward. “When I get that way, though, I try to put things in perspective. In the end, what matters is the here and now. I’ve learned that getting stuck in the past, drowning in ‘would haves’ and ‘could haves,’ only stands to blind you to the happiness that may be around you now.” He pauses, eyes dancing in the golden light of the room. “So, are you happy?” 

His question takes you by surprise. If he had asked you three months ago, before you’d met the Dream Lord, Matthew, and Lucienne, the answer would have been no. Sitting here, reflecting on your life Before, you’re certain of that fact. Sure, you had your work, Theo, and visits from Death on occasion, but something had always been…missing. The contentment was surface level, true happiness eluding the lonely heart at your core. But now…things felt different. “Yeah,” you breathe with a slight nod. The ghost of a smile dances over your lips. “Yeah, I think I am.” 

Hob’s grin is warm and assuring. “Then follow that feeling wherever it takes you. I’ve found it’ll lead you right where you’re supposed to be.” 

. . . 

The string of bells on The New Inn’s door gives a soft jingle as it closes behind you. The darkness of night swaddles the quiet street like a blanket, interrupted only by the golden glow of light streaming through the inn’s windows. You blink, giving your eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. You’d been so engrossed in talking with Hob that you hadn’t even realized how much time had passed. 

The street outside the inn is empty save for one lone form. The Dream Lord waits for you beneath a lampost, his dark figure a stark contrast to the golden glow of the lamplight. It casts his alabaster skin in a warmer tone than usual. You smile, seeking to meet his clear blue eyes. “Thank you for today. That was very thoughtful of you.” 

Morpheus regards you thoughtfully, his hands tucked into the pockets of his wool coat. He raises his eyebrows at you, eyes glistening with stars. “You stated that you felt alone in your experience of being a human thrust into immortality. I only saw it fit to show you that it wasn’t so,” he says matter-of-factly. 

You grin cheekily at him. “You really are heeding Lucienne’s words to become a more adept listener. What’s next? Deep confessionals? Trading our most well-kept secrets?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly, though no smile reaches his lips. Your mind wanders to the smirk that graced his face earlier while talking to Hob. Would you ever be able to draw such a reaction from him? “Do not press your luck,” he says lowly, though there is no bite behind his words. 

You bow swiftly in mock apology. “Of course, your Endless-ness, All-Powerful Dream, I would never.” Having had your fun, you straighten with a smile. “So, work tomorrow. I suppose I’ll see Matthew at our normal time.” 

“Actually, that won’t be necessary.” Your eyebrows furrow in confusion at Morpheus’s words. You watch as he draws one hand out of his coat pocket, revealing a small cloth pouch. He reaches out and places it in your waiting palms. There is a familiar shifting sensation within the pouch as you cradle it in your hands. Sand. 

“This…” you start, the words catching in your throat. You don’t want to speak them if they’re not true. 

Morpheus speaks them for you. “This is a pouch of my sand. The grains are everlasting; each time you use them, the pouch will refill. You have my permission to enter and depart the Dreaming as you please by using them.” Your eyes slowly rise from the gift in your hands to meet his. He raises his eyebrows expectantly at you, his hand retreating back into his pocket. “My trust is not widely given. It is earned. If you intended to disrupt or bring harm to my Realm in some way, I suspect you would have done so by now.” 

There is a shift in your chest at his words, at the implication behind them. You divert your eyes from his, looking instead to the pouch in your hands. A sequence of emotions rushes through you: Awe, denial, hope, acceptance, elation, gratitude, awe again. The onslaught overwhelms you, scrambling your thoughts. Your mouth feels like sandpaper. Working past the lump in your throat, you quietly admit, “I don’t know what to say.” 

Morpheus turns from you to gaze back through the window of The New Inn. His eyes settle on the patrons inside, but you get the feeling that he is not so much looking at them as he is giving you a moment of privacy. “You need not say anything. Matthew has insisted for weeks that I give them to you. As much as I believe he enjoys your morning conversations, I am under the impression he was not privy to early rising in his human life.” The pressure in your throat eases slightly at his words, and you chuckle, a quiet, contented sound. Morpheus’s gaze slides to you, meeting yours from the corner of his eye. “I suppose you could say I finally…listened.” 

You smile warmly now, catching the slight inflection at the end of his sentence. You slip the pouch of sand into the pocket of your coat. “Listening suits you well. Goodnight, Dream Lord.” 

Morpheus backs away from you slowly, retreating from the lamplight. As his dark, slender form slips into the shadows of the night, you catch the familiar glisten of sand spilling from his pocket, whirling around his feet. “Goodnight,” he says, disappearing in a flurry of sand. 

You laugh once, a breathy sound. Leave it to Morpheus to exit in simultaneously the most dramatic and subtle way possible. Your hand finds the cloth pouch in your pocket. You give it a gentle squeeze, relishing the weight of it in your hand. A weight that tells you this is not a dream. 

Alone on the street, a voice abruptly cuts through the darkness, sending your mind lurching. As your stomach drops, you wonder if this is, perhaps, a nightmare instead. “Love, darling. Long time, no see.” 

You spin to the left, eyes frantically searching the darkness. You spot their eyes first–two pools of molten gold glowing from within the darkness. Their lithe form emerges from behind the silhouette of a tree in the grassy patch by the inn, slipping from the shadows with feline fluidity. “Or, should I say, a long time since you’ve seen me. Because I’ve been watching you, darling.” Desire’s eyes are wide as saucers as they stalk toward you. Bone white teeth flash from behind their blood red lips. “Though you’ve been lurking about in my dear big brother’s Realm quite a bit as of late, you’ve certainly given me plenty to see in your own. You didn’t forget that I could travel there, too, now did you?” 

Your heart hammers in your chest, demanding, relentless. Your mind reels back to your last encounter with Desire of the Endless, to the dizzying rush of fear that had overtaken you, the suffocating helplessness that had stolen your breath away. No. You would not allow yourself to feel that way again.  For Desire to be here, to be this angry, could only mean one thing: They’ve noticed your work. That meant you had leverage. “How could I forget? I see traces of your handiwork there every day,” you say lowly, pressing back against the warble that threatens to sneak into your voice. 

Desire raises their eyebrows dramatically. One hand reaches outward to point a red-tipped finger at you, accusing. “And, you see, that’s exactly why I’m here. My handiwork,” they hiss. They take another step toward you; you take one step back. “I’ve been watching you, Love. I am all too aware of what you’re doing. Using my own blood against me? Taking advantage of my brother for your own gain?” Desire’s eyebrows furrow, their face falling in mock disappointment. “I would have thought better of you than that.” 

Anger rears its ugly head within your chest, roaring and defensive. You set your jaw tightly. “I am not taking advantage of anyone. Your brother chose to help me.” You quirk an eyebrow at them, rage blurring your judgment. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have meddled in his affairs. If you hadn’t, maybe he wouldn’t have chosen to help me.”

Desire’s eyes blaze with indignance. They take another step toward you. This time, you don’t step back. “I am Desire of the Endless. I will do as I please, and I always get what I want.” Their fingers curl around your chin, their fingernails sharp against your skin. Despite the pounding of your heart in your ears, you force yourself to hold their gaze, to stand your ground. 

Desire’s eyes scrutinize you, lingering on the defiance in your angry brow, your clenched jaw. After a long, tense moment, their blood red lips curl into a sickeningly sweet smile. The sight startles you, unexpected. “Well, well, well, now there’s something new. Fire. Defiance.” Desire grips your chin a little tighter, fingernails digging painfully into your skin, before releasing you suddenly. “I like it,” they coo, their breath hot against your face. 

You swallow thickly, forcing down the stinging sensation that fights to creep up your throat. Your voice is but a whisper as you say, “It’s time for you to go.”

“Is it now?” Desire whispers in return, their tone taunting. A dark chuckle rumbles through their throat, a menacing cross between a purr and a snarl. When they speak next, it’s with an aloofness that frightens you more than their wrath. “You know, you’re right. I really ought to be running along. I have scales to disrupt, you know.” Another wicked grin, a gleam of teeth in the lamplight. “I just wanted to pop by and let you know that the time for warnings is over, darling. You’ve shown me you want to play dirty, so let’s play dirty. After all, that is my favorite game.” 

Slowly, delicately, five slender fingers come to wrap around your throat. Muscle memory jerks you in the opposite direction as white hot adrenaline surges through you. Your brain screams, AwayAwayAway– but when you move to retreat, Desire’s other hand catches you by the shoulder, holding you in place. “When I find what you love, I will take it…and squeeze.” Fingertips burrow into the soft flesh of your throat. Though your mind demands you flee, your muscles remain locked in place. 

With one final jerk of your chin, Desire releases you. Their face is eerily serious as they step backward, slipping into the darkness. “You’ve been running from me since the day you died, Love. But the time for running is over.” All that remains are two eyes of molten gold, hovering in the shadows. “Everything would have been so much easier if you’d just stayed dead.” 

When Desire’s voice slips away on the December breeze, only the darkness remains.

[lewis42]

It’s been a long day (and all I’ve gotta say is make it strong)

Astarion x f!Tav. Ao3 link

Even after being allowed to drink from Tav, Astarion doesn’t feel safe in camp. When a battle goes badly, he braces for the worst.

Rating: Mature for topics discussed. No smut

Tags/TW: discussion of child death, aftermath of violence, Astarion needs a hug, Tav needs a drink, pre-relationship

Word count: 3.5k.

Chapter 1/1

A/N: I accidentally killed the goblin kids while freeing Halsin and I had Feelings about it.

——————-!

Astarion was packing

He didn’t want to be packing, he wanted to be having a nice, quiet little panic attack. In the fight to free the druid, one of the goblins had not only summoned a giant spider, but had cast blindness on Astarion. For ten agonizing minutes he’d been in a blackness no darkvison could penetrate. It had sent him right back to that year Cazador had locked him away, the hunger and the darkness and the maddening, maddening silence. Even now thinking about it made his hands shake.

He’d rather have been eaten by the spider.

All other things being equal, he should be curled up on his bedroll right now drinking sour wine and trying to forget. But things were never equal for him, because life couldn’t give him a godsdamned break. And if he was to be run out of camp, he’d take as much as he could with him.

“Astarion,” a voice sounded from outside his tent, the last voice he wanted to hear, and the only one he’d been expecting. “May I come in?”

Astarion shoved his pack into the corner with one foot and tried to look as indifferent as possible. “if you must.”

Tav pushed her way into the tent. She had taken her chest armor off, but still wore the light shirt and leg guards. There was blood in her pulled-back hair. “So eager to see me that you couldn’t stop to bathe?” Astarion asked, wrinkling his nose. “Or is it a religious requirement that clerics of Kelemvor smell like the dead?”

Tav just raised her eyebrows at him. As usual, any attempt at disdain rolled right off of her. “I’m checking on everyone before I get cleaned up and turn in for the night. That was a brutal fight.”

“Well, don’t worry about me darling,” Astarion said. “I enjoyed the carnage.”

“Did you?” Tav said, tilting her head. Astarion braced himself. Here it comes.

“Because I saw your face when that blindness spell hit you,” Tav went on. and gods that was her cleric voice, the one she surely used at funerals, a gentle, nonjudgmental tone meant to comfort the grieving and sooth the dying. “I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

Astarion refused to be soothed or comforted. How dare she pretend to care about him, especially now?

“Feel free to tell me to mind my business,” Tav said, “I just know you said you were a slave to Cazador, and I’ve met more than one slave with a justified fear of the dark.”

Astarion hated her in that moment with the power of a thousand suns. “You should mind your business,” he snapped viciously “I didn’t survive 200 years of torture to be pitied by an idealistic chit with no common sense and…and a snub nose!”

Tav froze, eyes wide as a fawn’s. More at his tone probably than his words, those hadn’t been his best insults. But the anger was real and he could see she knew it.

“Forgive me,” Tav said at last, “I will be more mindful of your privacy in the future.” Then she turned to leave the tent.

“Is that it?” Astarion said, incredulous. “You’re really going to make me wait for the hammer to drop? I knew you were pathetic, but I didn’t think you were cruel.”

“What?” Tav took a deep breath and rubbed her forehead. “Okay let’s start over, because I feel like we're having two different conversations. Why do you think I came in here?” She sounded so patient, and it flamed the deep rage in Astarion’s chest.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he snarled. “We both know you came here to tell me to get out of camp, so drop the games and fucking do it already!”

“Why the fuck would I ask you to leave camp?” Tav said, clearly bewildered. Astarion wanted to shake her.

“Because I killed two kids today!”

The words hung in the air. Tav’s face crumpled, and it made something deep within Astarion hurt. But he couldn’t stop.

“I killed those goblin kids. And I know that you know it was me because I saw you praying over them before we left. I know how you feel about kids. All of us know how you feel about kids. ‘Children are what adults make them Astarion’ ‘We don’t charge for children Astarion.’ I still have their blood under my fingernails and between my teeth, so don’t stand there and tell me that you don’t care!”

There was a moment of silence.

“I do care,” Tav said at last. She rubbed her hand over her face. “Gods I’m tired. Can I sit down?”

“Ugh, fine,” Astarion gestured to the bedroll. He wanted to strike out again, make her get on with it, but Tav looked…broken. Broken in a way he hadn’t seen before. It was unsettling.

Tav sat down cross-legged on his bedroll and indicated one of the bottles nearby. “Is that blood or wine?”

“Wine,” Astarion said. “It’s terrible.”

“That’s fine, I don’t want it for the taste. May I?” He nodded and Tav reached for the bottle, giving it a healthy swig. “Ack, this one is nasty.” She took another drink. “And I know you took those kids down. I saw you do it.”

“Can’t keep your eyes off me, even in battle?” Astarion purred. “I’m flattered.”

“I was watching the kids,” Tav said, ignoring him. “They were running for help, and I was trying to figure out how to stop them. But you did it for me.”

Astarion said nothing.

Tav took another drink, then carefully set the bottle aside. “The truth is, it’s my fault. I thought I could bluff my way through like I always do, but things escalated and I lost control of the situation. I should have planned better, put Shadowheart near the exit maybe. And when I realized there were children involved, I should have backed off until I figured out how to knock them out or get them out of the way safely. But I didn’t do any of that, and now they’re dead. That’s on me, not you.”

Astarion hadn’t even considered using non-lethal options. The first kid had been pure adrenaline. He’d registered someone running for help and run to take care of the problem. The second one…. The second one had been instinct. He’d been blind and terrified and full of remembered hunger, and then something small and warm-blooded had run past him. Like a rat but larger. He hadn’t even fully realized what he’d done until the blindness spell wore off.

“Look, I promised you I’d never bite an innocent,” Astarion said, letting some of his anger drain away. “I broke that promise. You can take responsibility if you like, the gods know I don’t want it. But that doesn’t change the fact that I basically ate a child.”

Tav rubbed her forehead with two fingers. “No, no it doesn’t.” She looked up. “Was it good?”

Astarion frowned. “Was what good?”

“The goblin kid you drained. Was it tasty? Satisfying?”

“Are you seriously asking me this?”

“Yes,” Tav said, still calm, still watching him. “Was it good?”

“Well…” Astarion felt oddly lost. This conversation was so far from what he expected. “I guess? The blood wasn’t as robust as an adult’s and the flow wasn’t as strong, so I only got a couple swallows.”

“So if you had a choice, you’d pick an adult to bite? Or an animal?”

“I mean, animal blood is rather nasty,” Astarion said. “But no, on the whole it wouldn’t be worth the effort. Not if there was better prey available.” He pulled himself back to reality. “What the hells does it matter anyway? Even if you’re willing to let it go, it’s not like the others will. They already think I’m a bloodthirsty killer.”

“There’s more than one of those in camp,” Tav pointed out. “Although you’re more literally blood thirsty, and Lae’zel is more in line with the traditional sense. Besides the others don’t know.”

Astarion stared at her. “What do you mean they don’t know?”

“Just what I said.” Tav shrugged. “Halsin was dealing with the worgs, Karlach was fighting a giant spider, Shadowheart was trying to get across the grease that other goblin threw at us. I’m pretty sure no one saw you but me.” She eyed the wine bottle again. “And I did a little clothing adjustment when I said a prayer over them to cover the bite. As far as everyone else is concerned, you took down both those kids in your usual way. Considering it kept us from being overrun with goblins, I doubt anyone will hold it against you.”

“You covered for me?” Astarion couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“Yeah.” Tav shrugged. “Look, no one else was anywhere near that door. If you hadn’t stopped them from sounding the alarm, we’d probably be dead. And the tieflings and their children would be dead. And who the fuck knows what this Absolute cult would do to Faerun. I don’t like doing that calculation, and I don’t like that I screwed up. But the truth is, you saved us.”

“And you trust me not to do it again?” Astarion said. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Tav took back the bottle and took a swig.

“I can’t decide if you are suicidal or just a fool.” Astarion couldn’t keep the bitter bite out of his words. There were few things he despised more than naive heroism. The world was a desert of blood and power and whatever rivers of goodness or kindness there might be would never change that, never reach the people who needed them the most.

He should know, after all.

But Tav’s next words shocked him into silence.

"You mean for trusting you?” Tav said. “I don’t, really. Or I suppose you could say I trust you just as much as I trust most of the people in this camp, which is very little.” She waved the bottle. “What I trust is your sense of self preservation. You’re far too smart to risk being staked or run out for a bite-sized snack that you’ve admitted doesn’t even taste that good.”

It was certainly nothing compared to yours, Astarion thought, then refocused on Tav’s words. “You don’t trust anyone in camp? But you’re so.. so… nice.”

“Thank you!” Tav said brightly. “But kindness and wariness can co-exist you know. I trust Withers because we’re…well, we’re colleagues of a sort. And I trust Karlach for the most part. But not the rest of you. Not yet.” She peered at him, her eyes slightly unfocused. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that we’re basically one devil or deity’s command from being murdered in our beds.”

Astarion had not noticed that, and now that she’d pointed it out, he was miffed at himself. He’d only considered his companions in light of the direct threats they posed: Gale’s orb exploding, Lae’zel putting a stake through his heart, etc. He’d been more worried about being abandoned then being killed. But apparently there were other risks too, ones he’d missed.

Honestly the idea was rather fascinating.

Astarion plopped down on the ground, all his anger forgotten. “Walk me through it,” he said. “Lae’zel would absolutely stab us if that gith queen of hers told her to, that’s true. And Shadowheart’s a little too zealous for her dark goddess. But Gale? Wyll?”

“Gale’s a man who had love and power and doesn’t have it any more.” Tav said. “Plenty of people have done terrible things for less reason. And while I don’t doubt Wyll’s honor, I am a little wary of how easily Mizora was able to lie to him. He might be wiser now. Time will tell.”

“But you trust Karlach?”

“Karlach spent ten years doing nothing but killing on the orders of someone else. I’m sure she has a lever, because everyone does, but she’s the least likely to betray us in that way. She’d refuse on principle.”

“That’s probably true,” Astarion said. “As for me, we both know I’d sell the whole camp to Raphael for a ham sandwich.”

“You would not,” Tav said, and hells, she sounded almost affectionate. “But if you were offered freedom from the tadpole and Cazador, I don’t think you’d hesitate. Especially if you could keep the sun.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Astarion admitted. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for such an offer. “I like to think I’d hesitate a little though.”

“Awwww, that’s sweet. Maybe we’re all further along than I thought.” Tav sighed. “The point is, I trust all of you to have priorities and loyalties of your own, and I don’t trust a mere five days acquaintance to have much sway against those priorities. Hopefully we’ll get into actually trusting and valuing each other as we go, but I don’t think we’re there yet.”

“That’s…. incredibly astute. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“It’s the face,” Tav said. “I have permanent nice face. And a snub nose. It makes people underestimate you.” And then the chit actually winked at him.

Cheeky pup.

“So what’s your lever?” Astarion asked, trying to regain the upper hand in the conversation. “Especially regarding my good self. After all, Kelemvor condemns all undead, or so I’ve been told.”

Kelemvor was one of the only gods Astarion hadn’t bothered to pray to in his two hundred years of torment. He’d considered more than once begging the God of Death for a quick extinction, but in the end he’d been too stubborn--or too cowardly--to do it.

“Eh. It’s complicated. As long as you aren’t making more undead or actively preying on innocents, most clerics are happy to leave you alone and focus on the real problems.” Tav grew thoughtful. “Would I be willing to protect everyone if I had to kill another cleric of Kelemvor to do it? I honestly don’t know. Fortunately, that’s unlikely. Especially when you consider that Withers is helping us.”

“You know what he is?” Astarion said, leaning forward. “Do tell.”

Tav tapped him lightly on the nose. “Sorry, trade secrets,” she said with a grin. Then she sighed, putting down the bottle. “That’s more than enough for me, I’m afraid. It would be hard to lead with a massive hangover, and we still have three goblin leaders to kill. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I’ve mustered the will to stand up.”

For the first time since she’d entered his tent, Astarion actually looked at Tav. The tired slump of her shoulders, the lines around her eyes. There was a loneliness and a sadness to her that he’d not seen before. He wondered if it had always been there, hidden under her cheerful care.

“You can sleep here if you like,” Astarion said impulsively. “If you trust me not to drain you dry and run for the hills.”

“Please,” Tav scoffed. “Without the artifact, you wouldn’t make it a day before the Absolute got to you, and you value your freedom too much to let that happen.”

Now that he knew more of her mind, Astarion could read between the lines. I know you never want to be a slave again. He was grateful to her for not saying it out loud.

He could try and steal the artifact, but it might not allow itself to be stolen. Besides Shadowheart would hunt him down and Karlach and Wyll would help her just to avenge Tav.

Astarion would bet a full meal of bear’s blood that Tav knew all that already. That she’d known it when she offered him her neck on the day she discovered his secret. Tav didn’t trust him to be good, she trusted him to be smart enough and selfish enough to work with the group for his own--and everyone else’s--benefit.

She trusted him to be exactly who he was.

Being seen so clearly was uncomfortable. It made something coil in Astarion’s gut, a feeling that was something like fear and something like hunger. Instinctively he took refuge in the tools he’d always used.

“There are other dangers you know,” he said, moving closer to Tav and tracing the tip of one finger over her soft chin. “I could take advantage of you… carnally.”

Tav’s eyes were wide and open in the dim light, and her lips and cheeks were flushed with wine. He could smell the sweetness of her blood pumping as her heart rate picked up. Her chest rose and fell under the thin linen shirt, the plush breasts teasing him. Astarion had a sudden vision of his fingers digging into Tav’s hips, of burying himself inside all that soft, carefully guarded warmth. The wave of lust made him dizzy.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t enjoy it,” Tav said. “Not tonight. Too many thoughts and too much wine.”

Not enjoy it? The nerve. Astarion cradled Tav’s jaw, tilting her head up. “Darling, you wound me. I could drive every thought out of that pretty little head and make sure you sleep better than you’ve ever slept in your life.” His lips were close enough to Tav’s for their breath to mingle. He could hear her heart pounding.

“Astarion,” she breathed.

“Yes, sweet one?”

“I don’t want to have sex while I smell like the dead.” She pulled back, a smile playing around her soft mouth.

Astarion chuckled, he couldn’t help it. The woman kept surprising him. “Touché, my dear.” He released her and sat back. “Genuinely though, you’re welcome to stay. I’m not planning on closing my eyes tonight, and we can’t have our fearless leader stumbling across camp. You might fall into the fire. Besides,” He reached out and tapped her nose in turn. “I don’t think you want to be alone tonight.”

Tav inclined her head, acknowledging the hit. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“Just don’t make it a habit,” Astarion said. “I don’t like dirty girls in my bed.”

Now it was Tav’s turn to laugh, but sadly she didn’t rise to the bait. “Goodnight Astarion.”

“Goodnight.” Astarion watched her snuggle in under his blanket, feeling oddly pleased. It was probably just relief. Tav wasn’t kicking him out and she wasn’t angry. He was safe for another day.

As quietly as he could, Astarion started to unpack his things, enjoying the richer silence that comes from having two people in a room instead of one. Then a noise caught his ear. The tiniest of choked sobs.

Tav was turned away from him, but he could hear her faintly ragged breaths, and smell the saltiness of tears. She was so quiet that Astarion doubted anyone without the senses of an elf or a vampire would have noticed. But he did, and he recognized it: the silent crying of someone long practiced in hiding their grief. Someone who couldn’t risk drawing attention.

Astarion had given up on the comfort of tears a hundred years ago or more, but he still remembered.

He didn’t stir, barely breathed until Tav’s own breath smoothed out and she sank into sleep. Then he crept over to look closer. There were tear marks on her face and on his pillowcase, and Tav herself had curled up so tightly it was like she was trying to make herself disappear.

Astarion remembered doing that too.

“What secrets are you hiding, darling?’ he whispered, lightly brushing some wayward hair from her forehead. Tav didn’t answer but he thought she relaxed a little under his touch. Astarion sat back, thinking hard.

He’d assumed--they’d all assumed--that Tav was a simple cleric: a decent fighter with a flair for creative strategy and an open heart. But she was so much more than that. Under that sweet, unruffled demeanor was the practical mind of a master tactician. In five days Tav had found everyone’s deepest emotional levers, and used that knowledge, not for manipulation or judgement, but for planning. For threat assessment.

She hid her hurt on instinct, she froze when she felt threatened, she was keenly aware of everyone around her. Astarion had been a predator for a long, long time and he recognized the signs. Sometime in the past, Tav had been prey.

And still…she was kind.

Astarion looked at the cleric sleeping peacefully in his bedroll and knew two things for absolute certain. One: in her own way, Tav was the most dangerous person in camp. And two: Astarion needed to become a priority to her, fast.

He needed a plan

[reyesstrand]

self promo saturday

thank you for the tags @orchidscript & @fitzherbertssmolder <33

the only rules: list 5 fanworks you're proud of

wait in the fire (tarlos, 4x04 coda)

Carlos rubs at his wrist, his thumb moving over the thin skin that's chafed, and TK's breath catches as he notices the stark redness of his knuckles; the split skin and the swelling that still hasn't gone down despite the on-and-off icing in the hospital. It's a mark of his bravery just as it's a mark of his final, desperate attempts at freedom, and TK hates imagining what must've been going through Carlos' mind in those final moments. TK gently brings Carlos' hand up to his mouth and kisses over every swollen knuckle.

His fiancé's face softens instantly. It lasts for a beautiful thirty seconds, until his eyes flash with a memory. His voice is low and wobbly as he says, "I think I broke his nose."

wanna be still with you (tarlos, 2x08 coda)

He's too focused on keeping himself upright, feeling woozy from the exertion, that there's a sort of hazy quality to everything around him. TK hears his name being called, and he's—he's certain it's his mind playing tricks on him; he has to be in some dreamlike state where Carlos has found them. But then he feels hands on him—big, sturdy, warm hands he would recognize blindfolded—and he turns his head and sees worried brown eyes and he just about crumbles. Thankfully, he has Carlos there to catch him.

to which there is no reply (tarlos, honeymoon fic)

Everything about TK makes him forget. But then it all comes back to him slowly, not unlike a spark to kindling, leaving Carlos swallowing down his grief like the fire it is—trying to consume it all by himself so he’s the only one who feels the burn. He glances out the half-open window, and sees the white dots of birds drifting on the low tide, and he wonders how he’s supposed to leave it all. The salty air, the pleasant sun, the way TK walks without a line of tension in his shoulders. He knows they’ve transcended all different sorts of honeymoon phases since they gave their relationship a real go a few years ago; he knows that they’ll still be them once Owen picks them up from Austin-Bergstrom and they go home to the loft and work and responsibilities and Lou II. But he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to go back to a life without his father.

hold on to me (nancy/marjan, post-2x02)

She tries to keep herself focused on tiny tasks as she prepares to go home; the shower had been blissful, but now she longs for her own bed. Cap had told them they’d be able to take a few days off to grieve, and so she grabs the dog-eared paperback Carlos leant her a week or two ago and her headphones from her bunk and stuffs it all into her bag, approaching the stairs as she goes. It’s then that Marjan hears it, tiny but distinctive in the quiet firehouse: a thud, followed by the sound of frustrated cries, all suspiciously coming from the ambulance bay. Marjan moves quickly, maneuvering deftly around workbenches and supplies in the bay, biting on the inside of her cheek when she sees the source of the noise: Nancy, hunched over in front of Tim’s locker, staring down at the box of his belongings that’s tipped over onto its side.

from wing to wing (tarlos, 4x16 coda)

Carlos has been there through it all, has loved him through it all, and TK blinks back tears as he grabs Carlos’ hand and laces their fingers together, kissing the heel of his palm, the pulse point under the thin skin of his wrist, needing him to feel it—feel everything that’s too big to name—too. “

No matter what, okay?” Carlos reminds him, squeezing him tight around his middle. He hears it again—I’m not running, TK—in the cadence of Carlos’ voice, and he nods, and lets himself be held closer.

leaving an open tag because i’m getting to this near the end of the day!! <3

[gingerbreadmonsters]

return to me

or: learning, growing, walking hand in hand.

gn!reader, no content warnings except blake-typical creepiness, some yandere-flavoured obsessive goodness. in the emptiness of night, you’re all he sees. look. i had a lovely little idea for blake that was all ready to go - he was going to get a nice day out with his listener, i was going to humanise him, show that he's not all bad… and now look what he's done! well. this is what you get for crossing me. enjoy your grapes, mr blake. i hope they're sour. a big big thank you to my love @haradasaya for proofreading! 💕💕 limerence, inspired by R.E.M.’s nightswimming and fe3h: cindered shadows chapter 6. the moon is low tonight. blake being left in awe in just over 2400 words.

There are very few beautiful things in the world, anymore.

(Some, but not many.)

Beauty is, unfortunately, a vanishing art. Everywhere, all around, at every moment the world becomes more and more diseased, more and more dull. The earth turns to rot, the water turns to scum, and beauty is swallowed by oblivion.

It's simply a fact of the universe. Entropy. All things tend towards their own destruction.

You might argue, of course. You might say, of course not! There are plenty of beautiful things out there still - all kinds of places and creatures and objects. There's a whole universe full of things out there! And everyone has different ideas of what's beautiful anyway, so how can you even measure how many beautiful things there are in the world to begin with?

Well then, if you did say that, you would be met with disbelief, probably. A look, incredulous, that tells you don't be stupid, honey. Not all things are beautiful, and there are some things that aren't beautiful to anyone. I ought to know.

You see, there are some very special people who just understand the order of things. Who just feel it, the natural order of the world, the way things are supposed to be. A feeling that can't be taught, but cultivated - a feeling that Blake, himself, is learning at this very moment to know and comprehend.

And because he's one of these precious few, one of those fortunate enough to have been shown the truth, he knows. Humans have always been funny about extinction and the loss of things. Take and take and take until there's almost nothing left, then either praise its survival as a miracle, or grieve its final death as gone too soon. He knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, how rare and precious beauty truly is these days. Something reserved only for the most unique, most particular, most wondrous of things.

There is an order in the world, he has learnt. All things that do exist must exist within the laws of the world that allows them to be, and those laws dictate exactly where they fall in that great hierarchy of being that natural existence requires. That is to say, in all the world, there can only be one thing that is the most beautiful. Only one thing that stands above the rest, a single prize that puts all else to shame.

Is it any wonder, then, that he holds you so dear?

It's true, I'm telling you, he would say, if you laughed. You'd probably laugh. Entirely uncaring, unaware of the gospel that he imparts to you, and yet so utterly charming in your blissful ignorance. Everything has its order, everything has its place. Not everything can be beautiful to everyone, and some things aren’t beautiful to anyone at all. Seriously.

You might stare at him, incredulous, disbelieving. Yeah, right. How can you say that? It’s impossible. Where do heads end and necks begin?

Very well, trickster god, he would say, taking your challenge head-on. The museum is quiet, nobody there but the two of you. Let me explain it a different way.

Take a map from the display stand, take a badge from the visitors’ information desk. Exhibition hall is up the steps straight in front of you, and don’t forget to exit through the gift shop. The explanation wouldn’t be very complicated. You’d have no trouble understanding if he helped you.

Let’s start at the beginning. The most basic. All things that exist must exist, right? The criteria for being 'a thing that exists' is 'it must exist'. And if it exists, then it must have properties of some sort. Physical or metaphysical, it must have some sort of properties that distinguish it from all of the other 'things that exist'. Otherwise, all 'things that exist' would by definition be identical, because they would have no defining qualities to separate them from each other, as 'existing' is their only quality. Does that make sense?

You’d nod. I… think so? Never took you for the existential type. The tourist map creases in your hand as he leads you across the main museum floor..

So, we now know that all things that exist have at least one property that defines them as separate to everything else that exists. All of them must possess a unique combination of properties that distinguishes them from every other thing, in order to exist as a single, discrete thing. Look around you. Everything you see, every individual thing, is different. Colour, shape, size, volume, weight, material, age, spatial location - no two things are the same. In the whole universe, there can be no two truly identical things.

You’d look a bit more unsure on that bit, but he’d power through. It’ll all make sense in a minute.

If no two things can be truly identical, then surely it stands to reason that all things can be categorised. Can be ordered. By some measure, by some means, all things can be sorted. No two things can draw with one another, there’s no need for tiebreakers - one by one, all things must stand in line. If you can differentiate all things, then you must be able to put them into distinct categories.

It makes sense, right?

Each thing can fit into several different categories at the same time, but my point still stands. If you can put them into categories and they’re still unique - as we already know they must be - then you must be able to categorise them again. Over and over, smaller and smaller boxes, until everything fits neatly into place. Until everything is in order.

Hmm. You probably wouldn’t look convinced. Not to worry, it’s not that important just yet. The first time is always the hardest.

Leaning over a display case, examining the contents, your breath might mist on the cool glass. But what about things you can’t see? Things you can’t touch? Things that not everybody experiences the same way? Like feelings, or colours, or sensations. Which colour is the best? Which rollercoaster is the most fun? You can’t put them all in order. There’s no empirical way to do so. Your theory falls apart.

Does it? Your point is fair, considering that you don’t know any of the metaphysics at play here yet. If you could feel those feelings forever, you’d be able to compare them. It’s true, you can’t capture the best moment of a rollercoaster in a bottle. But if you could, wouldn’t that let you sort them just like anything else?

You’d open your mouth to retort, but he’d beat you to it. He always does.

We don’t have the means to do that, of course. But theoretically, if it were possible to measure every moment of your life - and it is, we just don’t know how to do it yet - then you’d be able to break them down to their base components. And once you’ve done that? Well. The only thing left to do is order. The only thing left at all is order.

You’d shake your head. Gently, he’d hold your chin as he repositioned your audio guide from where it would be about to slip.

You always sound so cute when you think you’re right. But everyone feels things differently, and not everyone will feel the same about the same things. If you’re terrified of rollercoasters, you won’t call them fun at all, but if you love them then you’ll say they’re the most fun you’ve ever had. By your logic, all people will have different categorisations for different things, which necessarily means that there can be no single universally applicable categorisation for everything.

Oh, you’d look so proud of yourself, voice echoing in the corridor as he holds the door to the next gallery open for you. Checkmate.

You poor thing. If only, little trickster god. You put up a good fight, but alas - the metaphysical theory behind it disproves you.

But h-

We can talk about it later, dear. He’d pretend to examine the object label on the wall to your left, brushing off your misplaced concern - you don’t really need to hear him explain all that. Far too boring, far too dense and dull. A singular waste of time and effort, especially considering how precious little time he gets to spend with you as it is.

Marble and varnished wood and wrought iron. The museum is vast and full of fascinating things. Easily enough to fill an afternoon and then some. Take your time.

Walk with him.

Beauty, it is said, is in the eye of the beholder. Blake disagrees. Whoever said that had clearly never met you. It’s difficult to understand, and harder to accept, but the black-and-white of it is undeniable - surely someone has to be the one to know. Surely there must be someone who bears the precious burden of truth. Eight million people. Why shouldn’t it be him?

(Perhaps he’s biased. Forgive him. He is, after all, only human.)

Ugliness and filth and corruption. How is it that you stand above it all? So perfectly ordinary, yet more than he could ever hope to imagine. Circumstance tries to destroy you, time and time again - maybe you realise, maybe you don’t. It doesn’t matter. He knows, and as long as he’s here, you will always be protected. What’s the point of power if you can’t protect the things you love? You are beautiful, it's true - but weak, naïve, deprived of the knowledge of the world that you so desperately need, bereft of the guiding hand of truth. A flimsy, delicate creature. A precious, fragile soul. Nothing more than a butterfly, wandering blithely towards a hurricane. Blake has always been handy with a net.

(Nobody could deny it. Say what you will about Blake, but he's never been the type to take things for granted.)

It’s one thing, to have been shown the realisation of ruin. It’s another, to rally against it. Don’t you understand? He had to go away, to leave you lonely for a while, but it wasn’t his fault. He had to know the truth, and the truth is painful, the learning even more so. What man wouldn’t feel lonely, without you by his side? You’ve spoilt him with your presence, and in your absence a plan was made. Well, perhaps not made. Finalised. Solidified. Crystallised. The seed of the feeling has always been there, ever since you met - at last, it was time to water you, each tiny drop by his own careful hand.

The old Blake, that helpless, stupid creature - now remade in the dawning of the new day, baptised in the ocean of righteousness. The architect of his own future, and now yours too. Truth is truth is truth, and the audio guide in your ear speaks with his voice.

After all, who did you think made this place?

The victorious curator, hand in hand with his prize exhibit. Your frozen form, lovingly suspended in smooth resin, falling eternally but never hitting the ground. It’s all dedicated to you, it’s all for you, every shelf and hook and souvenir postcard. Would you call it greedy? Would you call it selfish? What is an archive, if not for the preservation of the collector? What is a museum, if not a prison cell of the past? Wall to wall, every facet of your being shimmers under the light. Every smile, every breath, every eyelash that you've ever wished on, kept forever in endless magnificence. If he’s selfish, so be it. His most glorious altar, and the god to which it is dedicated.

Turn up the volume of the audio guide, darling. Are you listening?

(It's funny, he guesses. He spends all this time waxing poetic about how all things are unique and special in the universe, in a world that doesn't even really exist. At least, not to anyone else. If it looks real, seems real, feels real - how are you meant to know the difference? Some people are just born lucky, and how fortunate, then, that he is the way he is. Puppets very rarely know the faces of their masters, and Blake has always been gentle with your strings.)

High ceilings catch the echo. This place, his greatest gift to the one he loves more than all else. Galleries go on forever and the cinema room plays an endless loop. People like to have weddings in museums, don't they? The sky outside is bright and white and nothing at all, and nighttime means nothing to a world that cannot end.

Look at you. Oh, just look at you. Encased in glass, resting gently on your wire skeleton, arm outstretched towards the skylight. Submerged in vinegar, no bubbles, leaning your head against the side of your big glass jar. Ice crystals glitter on your frozen tongue, marble fabric hangs immobile from your granite shoulder, familiar pairs of painted eyes gaze across the exhibition floor. You’re right behind him. You’re all around him. Every wall, every case, every frame - your lovely form fills them all. All things are equal on the altar of his adoration and he is your greatest disciple, raising the knife up in his hands and swearing on your name that he will bring you back to life. Watch over him, bless him, smile upon him. Just you wait. One last miracle.

Butterfly nets on every window. If you love it, never let it go. Here, you have always been perfectly preserved.

If only, if only, if only. The rest of the world would be so much simpler if that, too, were in his hands. The chosen one, with you eternally his first choice. As it is, he surveys his domain - marble stretches leisurely out in front of him, and a gilded ceiling hides the panicked wings tangled in the mesh, fluttering mournfully just outside his field of view. Sunsets come and go, the audio guide sings and sings, and the dust never settles.

Flesh and stone and the unending centuries of you. He kneels before you, kisses your hand, gazes into your eyes. The sound of church bells rings throughout the universe. Here, he doesn’t have to wonder. As ever, your devotee.

(It is said that the statue of a saint might speak to a believer. What are dreams for, if not the realisation of miracles?)

Tell me, honey. Your smile is as beautiful as ever. Do you think this is real?

Maybe, this time, you’ll reply.

masterlist

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

[critter-genfic-events]

Holidays: A Critical Role Gen-fic Rec List

Well hello friends! Please enjoy these eight amazing fics that are all about Holidays! Oh, and don't forget to show the authors some love if you liked their work!

Turn of the Season by enkelimagnus (1139,Not Rated) Warnings: None Pairings: Beauregard Lionett & Caleb Widogast

Beauregard helps Caleb Widogast celebrate the new year.

Reccer says: It's always great to get more Jewish rep in fandom, and Caleb's characterization is perfect.

The Day of Renewal by sockablock (7660,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings: None

The Mighty Nein end up celebrating the Renewal Festival in a small town, only for one of the members in particular to notice that things are not all as they seem...

Reccer says: It's extremely fun and has an amazing prank in it!

Day of the Dead by Ffwydriad (888,General) Warnings: none Pairings: none

Vex observes the Night of Ascension in Whitestone

Reccer says: It's an amazing image, and a compelling exploration of Vex's grief

all is calm by SongOfWizardry (802,General) Warnings: none Pairings: Caleb Widogast & Yasha

It's quiet, it's late, and Caleb's reading is interrupted by Yasha. Featuring soft conversations and too many descriptions of lights.

Reccer says: It's a sweet, quiet moment between two characters that typically don't get to interact as much in fic.

A Knock on the Door on Winter's Crest Eve by Monarchetype (1102,General) Warnings: none Pairings: none

On the day before Winter's Crest, young Percival de Rolo hears a knock on his door and gets an early gift.

Reccer says: I liked it

Zadash Pride by elizabethemerald (1247,General) Warnings: None Pairings: The Mighty Nein, all canon ships

The Mighty Nein march in the Zadash Pride Parade

Reccer says: Perfectly captures ideal Pride vibes

Festivals of Light by Operafloozy (21202,Teen) Warnings: none Pairings: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, Astrid Beck & Eadwulf Grieve & Caleb Widogast, Fjord/Jester Lavorre, Essek Thelyss & Verin Thelyss

A collection of holiday stories for those who have complicated feelings about the holidays. Members of the Mighty Nein observe their own holidays, with emotional complications.

Reccer says: I really like the way the fic individualizes each of the Nein's approach to celebrations and family.

Up To Snow Good by Inkelf (888,General) Warnings: None Pairings: Percival & Vox Machina

Percy's holiday rumination is interrupted by a snowball sneak attack.

Reccer says: I really enjoy the silliness of it all, as well as the lovely found family vibes

If you liked this rec list, follow along for more! We'll be posting a new list with a new theme each Monday. And if you would like to make a rec yourself, feel free to reach out to @professor-rye to request access to the submission form! Next week is the first Monday of the month, so we're doing another Character based List! This upcoming week is going to be all about Laudna!