#And it's angst lmaoo

[sheepydwagondraws]

Look into my eyeholes, tell me what you see

[alovember]

"I know why you are the way that you are, but you're still being an asshole"

[ladeldee]

When you're trying to introduce yourself to the new people but your husband will not stop hyping you up.

[svquence]

It’s no surprise that Gojo had his first love before you. You didn’t mind at the start, having fallen for each other in your mid 20’s, it was only natural that you wouldn’t have been his first.

They do say however, that you never forget your first love. Which is proven to be true, especially in your case. And you try your hardest to fight for a place in his heart, scraping and digging to find yourself a place in his ice cold heart like a dog. You want him to love you the way you love him, the love you’ve craved from the start of your relationship. That pure, unconditional love. Don’t misunderstand him, he does love you, but you’re not who he truly wants you to be. It has you so torn.

Having witnessed his first love bloom while you were a young sorcerer alongside him, you couldn’t have been more hurt. You know you shouldn’t be, but you’re oh so jealous.

And oh my god, you reminded him so much of him. But he just couldn’t love you the way you wanted to be loved, because you are not and never will be him.

Betrayal comes in all forms, everyone has experienced it. The way gojo’s first betrayal happened the moment his first love turned his back to him, it happened to you when your first love only ever loved you because you’re so similar to his first love.

When you silently and slowly grew into a different person with time, as one does, you noticed your boyfriend growing more and more distant. You were no longer a piece of him. You were you.

Gojo was selfish, as much as he was aware. He knew the real reason behind your relationship, but he just couldn’t let go of you. The moment you changed however, it’s like it was his primal instinct to leave. You were no longer a patch suitable for his wound.

That’s until the moment you took the final blow instead of him. You couldn’t handle seeing him suffer, nor could you handle suffering further yourself. That’s when you allowed yourself to bleed out on the ground in front of him, with no return.

And he finally realized. He loved Geto more than anything, but he also eventually learned to love you for you, even if neither of you knew it. When he finally realized, however, your last breath grazed his skin oh so gently, like you always treated him. He was so unfair to you. That’s when he finally realized he ended up killing both of his best friends, his loves.

As your crimson blood stained his shirt, and his salty tears warmed your cold, lifeless face, his own demise came from around the corner.

And he promised to make it up to you, to him, to both of you. But even in the afterlife, both of you knew you would not come first. Even after death, he could never bear to put you first.

[salsakiyoomi]

Hiii, I have a request! Ok so hear me out, what if Sukuna finds another woman and replace reader. make it as angsty as possible with a happy ending pretty please with a cherry on top🥹

a/n : absolutely!! you can read this for more context. cw : extremely suggestive towards the end, vulgar language

you couldn’t believe your eyes.

the sight in front of you was one for sore eyes, and it made your heart pang in your chest — sukuna with his arm wrapped around a pretty blonde, a very pretty blonde in fact, with the bluest eyes you had seen and pretty cherry red plump lips.

it’s not the first time you had seen him around with her. It’s been two weeks since he had seen you coming out of that guy’s dorm room covered in hickeys and whatnot, and it’s been two weeks since he had stopped talking to you and started hanging out with that girl.

you weren’t sure why your heart hurt so much and why your shoulders were heavy as you watched him kiss her temple and tug her closer — he never did that to you, in public at least, he insisted that since the two of you weren’t official there was no need for pda, nobody even knew that you had any connections to sukuna, most of the time he’d ignore you in public, but when night came? it was like you were the only girl for him.

so why was he holding her like that? like she was the only girl for him — were they dating? is he in love with her? no, impossible.

sukuna didn’t do love, that's what he always told you.

the only thing left is that he was doing this to spite you — replace you with someone else, and right in front of your eyes too, he was making it painfully obvious.

your heart sinks in your chest as his gaze catches your and there is the tell tale of burning in your eyes as tears begin to well up — why were you crying? for a man like him? he didn’t deserve it.

for a moment, you think you see a flash of pity on his face, but the blonde is up in his lap leaning in for a kiss and — 

you turn away before you could see it.

hot tears stream down your face and you wonder if this is it, if that’s how everything ends — you knew you were getting into a mess once you involved yourself with the infamous drummer, that he wasn’t necessarily a good guy.

but still.

you spend the rest of the day in your dorm room, crying your eyes out for the most of it and eating ice cream — classic, but you didn’t have anything else to do, nothing to take your mind off of things.

it was around eleven pm when you considered going to that dude’s dorm, the one that you slept with two weeks ago — you really needed something to get your mind off of things.

you decide you will, and when you get up to go open the door to get out, lo and behold, it’s nobody but sukuna, and it looks like he was about to knock on your door.

your eyes widen and instantly there is a scowl on your face, “fuck off.” you grit out.

his face is of indifference, staring down at you intimidatingly you could almost shrink down under his gaze — you always do.

“we need to talk,” he says and you scoff, “the fuck we don’t — hey! get your hand off of me —” he’s gripping your arm and leading you back inside the dorm room, maybe manhandling you a little bit, he shuts the door behind him and leans on it, staring you down.

“what do you want?” you ask, and there is a slight wobble in your voice and once more, the burning in your eyes — you didn’t want to cry in front of him.

he doesn’t respond at first, and a moment passes of him just staring at you and you avoiding his gaze, before he is shifting himself off of the door and taking a step closer to you, his hands at your waist.

you try to slap his hands away but his grip is firm, “oh, come on, don’t you have the pretty blonde whore to fuck?” you say bitterly and he cringes.

“she’s nothing to me,” he says and you roll your eyes, “then why was she all over you?”

god, it hurt so much, to have seen him like that with her, and you could only wish to be her in that moment.

he stays silent for a moment and you stare up at him, letting out a noise that was close to a whimper, “you hurt me, ryomen.” you say meekly.

you catch the slight twitch of his lips into a pout, but it’s quickly gone, “you fucked me up, too.” he says, “sleeping with that fuck boy.”

you scoff — does this even make any sense anymore? the two of you agreed it was nothing exclusive so why the hell were you so attached to each other?

“i was drunk that night,” you murmur, and you can’t believe you actually feel bad for sleeping with that guy, “and stupid…”

sukuna huffs, his hands moving up your body and you stare up at him with innocent eyes and god, he can’t resist you like that.

ho he presses his lips to yours in a firm kiss, and pulls you closer to him, letting his hands wander all over your body, “i don’t even like that blonde whore you’re talking about,” he murmurs against your lips before going back to kissing you and your body is on fire.

his hands wander up your shirt and his touch is like electricity to your skin — god, you missed his touch so bad, it’s been almost a month and half since the two of you had done anything.

you moan softly and you feel him smirk against your lips, “that desperate, huh?” he hums and your stomach twists in knots.

he takes your shirt off, leaving you in nothing but your bra and shorts, his hands wander up all the way to your breasts as he trails his kisses from your lips to your jaw and neck.

you shiver under the cold tips of his fingers, your lungs are constricting and there are butterflies in your stomach, and he can tell, he can absolutely tell the way you inevitably melt under his touch.

“bet that fuckboy couldn’t make you feel as good as this,” he murmurs against your skin, before sucking harshly — he’s determined to leave his marks on you tonight.

“ryomen,” you moan softly and oh how the way his name falls from your lips make him so heated, especially when you let out a pretty moan like that.

he fiddles with the clips of your bra as he continues to trail kisses down to your collarbone, and you’re leaning into him, melting under his touch and you forget anything bad he has ever done to you, you don’t care to remember, not when it feels as good as this.

and sukuna is addicted to you too, you were like a drug for him, no matter how much he tried to pull away, he always found his way back to you — he was addicted to the way his name rolls off of your tongue when you were breathless and under him, he was addicted to how soft your skin was compared to his calloused hands, how pretty you sound when he was deep inside and he was addicted to how you completely crumble under his touch.

he unclips your bra and the clothing falls to the floor and he’s smirking against your skin as he can practically hear your heart thumping in your chest.

“let’s go to the bedroom, yeah?”

[crystallizsch]

guess who (re)watched everything everywhere all at once and cried (again)

[sulfies]

🌊Sweet Slumber✨

———————————

Shh dont wake him up, he is resting…finnally

[applestruda]

The two remaining

Its ok guys, after this they went and rebuilt the sand castle and lived happily,,

[iilmunchkiin]

"Rude. (2/2)"

This was a shitpost, but I accidentally made it too realistic.

The shitposty part of this was supposed to be what Ceroba said in the previous comic and how absurd it was but even with it's.. yikes.

My craving for ansgt is so bad when I try to make a shitpost it becomes depressing ... (´。＿。｀" )

Chapters: One || Two

[fraternum-momentum]

[mushtoons]

doodled this in between commissions 💕 more au doodles for the soul

[jasonsbruce]

[foolsocracy]

I can't help but notice you haven't posted any angst in a while and I'm suspicious

whipped this one up just for u anon

[eph3merall]

let's talk some more about toxic!chris . . .

you can't help the giddy feeling in your stomach at the sight of chris' "omw" text. all thoughts of trying to convince him into a relationship disappear into thin air when he says that he can make everything better. who are you to decline that?

the wait felt like forever. it was probably ten minutes or so, and soon enough you're laying comfortably on your bed with chris in between your legs. his hands shove your knees up to your chest, the position uncomfortable at first, but any pain got replaced with pleasure with how chris' nose nudged at your bundle of nerves.

"tastes s'good, baby, jus' needed me to make it all better, right?" the words are mumbled against your cunt, and he didn't exactly realize he was the problem in the first place, though. you were about to reply, only for the words to die on your tongue and get replaced with a hoarse sob at how chris' tongue prodded at your entrance.

he licked a stripe up your cunt, eyes lifting up from underneath the brown curly tufts of hair on his head to playfully meet yours. he's quick to dive back in however—lips wrapping around your clit to suck gently on. he doesn't miss how you're thrashing, trying to grind down on his face, ringed hands holding the back of your thighs down to keep them pinned in place.

he's eating like a man starved, beard covered in your slick and hair slightly damp from sweat. mumbled praises are said right against your pussy, making you buck and tremble. and before you know it you can feel the knot untwisting in your stomach, a hand reaching down to grip desperately at chris' hair. "gonna cum, chris, 'm gonna cum—"

"come on, give it t'me," and his tongue is licking broad stripes and then alternating into fast flicks and you're coating his face in your slick with a few loud sobs and moans. his hands slowly ease up their grip on your thighs and he's wiping his face and lips off when he rises up onto his knees.

chris is so pretty you forget you were trying to convince him to date you. he's so sweet that you forget you saw him with multiple other girls at a party just a few days ago. you forget that you saw him drag some girls away into a private room.

forget, forget, forget. that's what chris wants you to do. because he can't get into a relationship with you. no matter how sweet you are. how loving.

in the midst of him cleaning you up, you forget that he's an absolute fucking asshole.

that text message photo in my header made by me!! cred if u wanna use

omg! smut!!! wowie

masterlist coming soon (+ lots of matt stuff)

was this good pls give feedback lollsjsba

—

©eph3merall 2024

[xxlady-lunaxx]

it had been completely run on by alcohol. unless the alcohol had only loosened his tongue, letting the words he’d reigned in finally slip free. it would make sense, really. sanemi had been acting more distant recently. even so, giyuu hadn’t paid it too much mind. until now. until sanemi had drunk one too many sips of sake and had laid his thoughts out on the table.

“i don’t think we can keep doing this,” he’d said, turning to look at giyuu. he spoke casually, a small smile playing on his lips. he looked half out of it.

“doing what?” giyuu gently pushed the sake away from sanemi’s reach.

“this. us.” sanemi waved vaguely between them. “us dating.”

giyuu froze. “what do you mean?”

“it’s not really working.” sanemi sighed, sitting back up and shifting on his chair to look at giyuu. he shrugged. “you know?” his hands tucked between his thighs, fiddling with his sleeve. “i feel like we clash badly. like colors. like, uhm… i dunno. what colors look bad together?”

“but… why?” giyuu pressed, ignoring sanemi’s ramble about colors.

sanemi leaned back—only to jolt up again as he realized there was only empty air behind him. he scrambled to turn, his back resting against the counter. his head tilted back and his hair made a show of swooping down. “why? ‘cause… you know. we’re both boys. we’re gonna die anyway. how many years…? two left? also we never worked well before, yeah?” sanemi mulled this over. “i used to hate you. ‘cause you were so annoying and i thought you were an arrogant piece of shit. i don’t hate you now, but still. don’t you hate me for hating you?”

he crossed his legs, sitting back up and cocking his head towards giyuu. “you’re not stupid, giyuu. i think.” he paused. “oh yeah. i’m the stupid one. you’re the educated one.”

he laughed. held out his hand. “where’s the sake?”

giyuu shook his head. he was in some state of shock, so it took him a moment to catch up with everything. “you’ve wanted to break up? for how long?” he asked, his voice hitching slightly. he reconsidered the questions. “why do you want…? i thought we were doing well?”

sanemi huffed, scanning the counter for the sake. his eyes lit up as he caught sight of it and he reached over. giyuu intercepted his attempt, holding him back and simultaneously shoving the sake away. sanemi shot him a look but gave up, apparently too tired to bother.

“are you going to answer me?” giyuu said with a slight frown. he had to ask before the alcohol left sanemi’s system.

“answer what?” sanemi slumped onto the counter, glowering at the sake that was much too far for his liking. somehow, he’d forgotten he could walk. so he resorted to resting his head in his arms. he closed his eyes, letting out a breath.

“why do you want to break up?”

“i do?” sanemi sat up, looking suddenly alarmed. he stared at giyuu. “since when?”

“oh. uhm. well, you were heavily implying it.”

sanemi thought that over. “i don’t want to break up. i just think we’re not gonna end up well. not a lot of relationships do. i’m just being realistic.”

“more like pessimistic,” giyuu mumbled. “how won’t we end up well, though? we’ve been fine.”

“it’s just…” sanemi hesitated. he shook his head. “my head doesn’t fucking make sense. can’t think.”

giyuu sighed. “sometimes, i don’t understand you.”

“me neither.” sanemi went back to resting on the counter. his eyes fluttered close again. “‘m just worried that i’ll fuck up and leave you with the consequences or something. never mind. gonna sleep, now. night.”

[flowercrowngods]

okay due to popular demand (3 people mwah!), here's all i have on prisoners ranger!steve, bard!eddie, and the royal entourage accompanying the diplomatic mission that went so horribly wrong

Steve’s whole body is made of pain, and has been for the past few days. His feet are aching and raw from trying to keep up as they were bound to horses and dragged along. His skin is chafed and bleeding where the unforgiving rocks have managed to destroy his clothes after one too many falls, and every smallest of cuts feels like his body is nothing more than a pulsating mess. 

Worst of all, though, is the dizziness. He doesn’t know if his head is still bleeding or if the wetness he can feel running down his temple is his body’s testament to the unfamiliar heat, but it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. 

There’s only pain. And nausea. His eyes are open but he needs a second to understand what he’s seeing — and what he’s seeing is a ceiling made of sand coloured stone. Distantly, he hears a door clanging shut, but that might just as well be a memory. 

He’s going to throw up. Tough luck when you don’t even know where up is. 

A groan leaves his mouth as he tries to take a deep breath and fails miserably. Instead, he can add two broken ribs to the list of misery. 

Gods above — whichever of them are listening — he’s tired. But he fears that if he closes his eyes, he might not open them anymore for the sheer release that would bring. He can’t sleep, can’t rest, not when— 

“Easy now,” a gentle voice interrupts his less than coherent thoughts and just moments later, a tender hand is combing through his blood-crusted hair. “You shouldn’t move, my friend. There’s nowhere to move to anymore.” 

Steve frowns, his brain trying and failing to provide any information at this point. The hits to his head must have been worse than he thought if his short term memory refuses to work with him anymore. 

“We have reached Capital City,” the voice continues and Steve has to blink the fog away to make out its owner. When he does, it must show in his eyes, for the worry in Theodore Munson’s eyes makes way to the briefest of smiles before returning even stronger than before. “Do you not recall?”

Steve just stares up at him. That’s all his wrecked body and mind allow him to do right now. That’s all they want to do when gentle hands comb through his hair and chase away some of the pain. 

It is then that reality slowly comes back to him and he realises where he is. Where they are. What is at stake if they fail any more, if they decide to torture information on Elanor and William out of them — out of him. He’s not sure how much he can take. They have been held prisoner for weeks. Steve has been hurting for even longer.

Shame rises in him and he has the urge to apologise to Jim, to explain, but moving his head to the side, he sees that his old master isn’t any better off. He appears to be sleeping, his face bruised, and a teary-eyed Maxine is wiping blood away from his face with a piece of her cloak. 

Steve blinks once, twice, and takes in the man who practically raised him, watches the steady rise and fall of his chest and listens, beyond the pulsing rush of his own blood, that his lungs are not rattling. Shame makes way to satisfaction when he sees that none of their party has taken as many hits, kicks and punches as himself. His distractions have worked, then. 

That’s good. Now if only they didn’t make him so nauseous. So tired. So…

“Don’t fall asleep, Steven,” Eddie demands, and the world tilts slightly, which makes everything worse until… soft. It’s softer now. 

Eddie has moved him so his head is resting in his lap now. 

“You don’t look too good, Ranger. Sleep is dangerous in your state, no matter how badly you might need it. Give it a few hours, please.” 

A beat passes where Steve tries to process the words that are just too many. Since when does Eddie talk with him so much? 

“Lies,” he says after a while and with greater effort than should be necessary.

“Lies?” 

“I look very good. You just can’t see it under all the blood and the bruises.” He tries to crack a smile, but even the huffed breath jolts his head too much. 

Eddie does him the favour of a brief chuckle, and Steve feels better for it. Lighter. Light is good, he finds. Maybe all he has to focus on is Eddie and his hands working out the clumps of dirt and blood from his hair, maybe all he has to do is make him smile and the world will be a bit less painful. 

His world narrows down to all the ways Eddie is close to him and it does keep him occupied, but it also gets his mind wandering, the adrenaline of the past days wearing off. 

“Keep doing that and I will fall asleep,” he says after another beat of silence. Fall asleep and dream. Dream of what this could mean. Dream of smiles that make me feel lighter. 

“Keep doing what?” Eddie asks, and Steve senses a trick to just keep him talking, no matter how slurred his speech is. He needs a moment to remember what he said.

“This,” he says eventually, and Eddie only hums. Finding words is hard. He tries. And tries again. “Being gentle.” 

Another smile, and Steve wants to close his eyes to keep it there to hold on to. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, my friend.” 

“Can’t not be gentle?” He’s losing force on the consonants. The pain is getting stronger, his nerve endings more frayed and his vision blurry. This is familiar. He gives himself another quarter of an hour at most before he will lose his consciousness, no matter how hard he tries to stay here. With Eddie and his wavering smile. 

“Not with my friends, no.” 

This time it’s Steve who smiles at the word friends. He likes to be Eddie’s friend. The man, as it turns out, is admirable, he’s strong, he’s wise when he wants to be and gentle with young Maxine. He’s kind, he’s quick-witted and patient, and his hands are impossibly soft. 

“I know you said not to sleep, and I’m not normally one to deny a well-respected bard’s command, but…” He swallows. Words are hard. He’s not sure they come out as planned, but he perseveres. “I’m afraid I have to prove to you now how stubborn the Queen’s Rangers can be.” 

Another hum from above him and Steve opens his eyes he hadn’t even noticed closing. The world is fading, but still Eddie is at its centre. 

“I’ll be here when you wake up, then, stubborn Ranger.” 

Will you smile at me still? Steve wonders. 

“Always,” Eddie says, but before Steve has time to wonder if someone else has said something, darkness has swallowed him whole.

———

Steve wakes to something cold touching his forehead, moving to his temple where suddenly a jarring pain wrecks his body and he can’t quite suppress the flinch. 

“Forgive me,” comes a quiet voice from above and Steve opens his eyes to the darkness of a cell, only faintly illuminated by the flickering light of a torch somewhere and the redness of the setting sun. “But I am glad to see you awake.”

The voice belongs to Eddie, who is looking down at him, a piece of cloth in his hand. Gently, he presses it to Steve’s forehead again and the cool sensation comes back, gentler this time. It takes a moment for Steve’s tired and frayed mind to catch up with reality, but when it does, he realises that the bard is washing away the dried blood and cleaning his wounds. 

What an odd picture they must make.

“Tell me,” he says before he has time to consider his words. “Is it normal for a bard of Northlands to take care of wounded Rangers?” 

“No,” Eddie says and there’s something to his voice Steve can’t quite identify. He’s not sure he likes it, not sure what it does to his insides. “There are never any Rangers there.” 

Even through the dim light, Steve can see the mirth in his eyes and it makes him laugh – if only briefly, for his body is quick to remind him that any sort of movement is a bad, terrible, truly horrid idea. He just barely manages to suppress a groan, but nothing could get past the bard’s eyes, and his hand moves from Steve’s forehead to his cheek almost immediately. 

“Careful, my friend. You shouldn’t be laughing.” 

“Stop making me laugh, then. That would make it all so much easier.” There’s no heat behind his words and he doesn’t even try not to lean into the touch. 

Eddie hums but stays quiet otherwise and keeps wiping Steve’s face clean, watching his every reaction. A frown slowly forms between those brows and Steve wonders what that is for. Did something happen while he was out of it? Time passes differently in the desert, yes, the sun and moon following different paths, but he can’t have been unconscious for more than three hours. It is barely yet nightfall, their cell colder than before. 

Three hours. And Eddie still sits cross-legged with Steve’s head on his thigh. 

Guilt and embarrassment shoot through him and he wants to move, wants to get up and release the bard from his demeaning task of playing nurse to a wounded Ranger, but his ribs protest and his head pulses with white-hot pain before it sends his world spinning again and Steve sags back into the warmth of Theodore. 

“I must be painting the most pathetic picture of her Majesty’s Rangers. I swear, most of us are better than this.” 

It comes out light hearted as always, despite the pain it leaves inside his chest to be presenting himself like this. Representing all Rangers to the kingdoms of the South with his weakness. All that on top of losing Will. Again. 

He closes his eyes against the pity he is bound to see in Eddie’s eyes. 

“You paint a picture of bravery such as I scarcely saw it before. Never in my life did I see a man move so slowly, so unseen unless as I was looking right at you. You are excellent with the sword and the bow, and even the weapons of the desert folk are natural to you. I can imagine the pain and suffering you have seen, some of which you must have caused in the name of justice, yet you carry inside yourself a light-heartedness that is refreshing to say the least.” 

Steve swallows, has never been good at taking compliments, and luckily hasn’t been in the position to accept them in quite a while. 

“Light-hearted?” he rasps. “You can’t be talking about the same Rangers I know, surely.” 

“I was talking about you, Steven,” Eddie admits quietly, and his voice is so tender when he says his name that it makes Steve’s breath hitch. 

“Oh,” he says intelligently. Swallows. “Then the head injury must be severe.” 

“Admirable of you to hide a concussion for so many days. I think healers of all kingdoms would have a lot of questions for you if they knew.”

Steve huffs and smiles through the pain of his undoubtedly broken ribs protesting. “My apologies, Eddie. Queen Joyce of the West and Sir James himself would both have my head if I taught you our concussion-hiding ways.”  

“A pity,” Eddie says and there’s that smile in his voice again that doesn’t show on his lips, at least in this light. Steve doesn’t care, though, as he smiles up at him. 

This moment in time belongs to the both of them as Steve finds he can’t quite look away, and it’s not the pain that keeps him. 

Eddie opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it again. The frown reappears between his brows and Steve wants to reach out and smoothen the creased skin above his nose. If only moving his arm didn’t require such strength that keeps evading him, the night weighing heavy on his limbs.

After another minute, Eddie does find his words, though they are quiet this time. “I worried.” 

“About what?” Steve asks when he doesn’t continue. 

Eddie resumes his endeavour of washing the crusted blood from his hair and face, the sensation soothing his skin but not his nerves. Steve does reach up this time to still his hand, and the bard meets his eyes again. 

“That you wouldn’t wake up.” It comes out small, void of that usual easy confidence. 

Steve swallows every comment on the tip of his tongue about how the rest of their group could easily keep Eddie entertained without any concussions bothering them. It’s not often that he has control over his tongue, but in the face of such open worry and vulnerability, his heart aches and he wants to say the right thing. 

“I’m awake, Theodore Munson. It takes far more to put me out for good.”

It’s a lie, he knows. It would not have taken that much more, but Eddie doesn’t need to know that. 

“Don’t let them hear that, they will take that as a challenge.” 

Steve only gives a non-committal hum and closes his eyes again. If he didn’t, the darkness of the cell and the kindness in Eddie’s eyes would have made him say stupid things like, Let them, if that means everyone else is safe. That would surely dim the light in those black eyes and very likely make Jim throw a boot at him. And Steve really doesn’t want to have to deal with either of those things. 

Eddie resumes his task of gently cleaning him, and Steve gets the feeling that the bard must be doing it for himself just as much as for him. It’s something to keep himself occupied, and the way he talks betrays his intentions in turn of keeping Steve awake and occupied, too. 

A gesture that is almost too kind to bear, as dusk turns into night and the silver light of the full moon illuminates their cell. 

———

Jim lies just a few feet beside them, and now that his eyes have had the chance to adjust to the darkness properly, the concussion already weaker than it was earlier, Steve can see that his eyes are open. Or, one eye is; the other is swollen too badly. Another wave of guilt and shame clouds his senses for a moment and he has the urge to ask forgiveness. He feels responsible, even though he knows Jim would hit him over the head if Steve so much as mentioned that.

His eyes cut back to Eddie above him when a yawn interrupts the bard’s steady movements with the cloth that is barely wet anymore. 

“You never got any rest, did you?” he asks – stupidly, because the moment the words leave his lips Steve remembers the very reason for Eddie’s wakefulness. He winces before the other man even gets the chance to answer. “Right, my fault. Forgive me.” 

If the ground beneath him could open now, he would have a banquet in its honour. With a groan, he moves to sit up and free Eddie of his dead weight, the motion pulling on his cuts and bruises, irritating his broken and burning ribs in a way so sudden it steals his breath for a second. Steve is well acquainted with pain, but the all-encompassing nature of it right now is thoroughly unwelcome.

Hands come up to steady him, guiding him to sit up and lean against the stone wall, his own shoulder coming to rest against Eddie’s, who only slowly lets go of him. 

“Thank you,” Steve breathes, looking at him out of the corner of his eyes. 

“It’s hardly a question of fault,” Eddie says in that calm, soothing way of his that keeps making Steve want to reach out and hold on. Hold him. “And it was no hardship to stay and… be gentle.” 

Something in the back of his mind wants to tell him something but it’s too foggy to grasp. 

“Gentle,” he says, inquiring, as though saying the word out loud would tell him its meaning. 

“Even Rangers of the Kingdom deserve gentle hands and smiles. Even if they are too badly beaten and concussed to recall their request.” 

Eddie’s words aren’t making sense, but what they do is make his heart beat faster for some reason other than shame and embarrassment. He presses his lips together and tries to find his voice.

When he finds it again, it’s barely more than a whisper hidden in the moonlight. “Allow me to return the favour, then. Rest, Eddie. Find some sleep while I ensure it is safe.” 

Something shifts in those black eyes and Steve wants to chase it. Eddie cast in silver light of the moon is different than the golden figure of the past days. Less imposing and more… fragile. Gone is the teasing, replaced with something more… More. It suits him, the light of the moon, as much as it makes Steve’s heart and mind race. 

“Will you smile at me still?” Eddie asks at last, and even the darkness cannot veil the quiver in his voice. 

Steve is reminded of something he must have dreamed of earlier, but he cannot focus on that, not with the way the moonlight catches in those dark curls that have managed to slip out of the band keeping his hair bound at the back of his skull. Not with the way it illuminates the twitch of his lip or the impossible way he is looking at Steve still. 

“Always,” he says before he can even think about it. Always, he thinks. However long that may yet be.

Another smile twitches and tugs at the bard’s lips, lingering in its nature as he closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall behind them. It can’t be comfortable, and Steve has half a mind to offer his own lap, but there is something about seeing Eddie so calm. He doesn’t dare to interrupt him. 

He waits until Eddie’s breathing has evened out before he gives in to the urge to brush the treacherous curl behind his ear. It leaves his fingertips with a tingling sensation that makes him want to do it again, so he does. Sitting there, trying to breathe through his broken ribs and his fluttering heart, Steve doesn’t dare to do it a third time, as much as he yearns for it. 

He rests his own head against the wall, too, and watches the bard, because watching him is easier than letting his gaze wander and be reminded of the situation they’re all in. 

The moonlight guides his gaze towards Eddie even as he tries to look away, and Steve watches as it caresses the bard’s features in such a way as though that is what it has been sent here to do. 

It makes Steve smile even as the ache in his chest grows stronger. He is starting to realise what this is, and he’s too weak to fight it. Not in this prison cell, not in this foreign country where the sun is out to kill you and the moon will watch you shiver helplessly. 

How could he fight the moonlight and its tender caress, the world tinged in silver as he lets it work its magic on him? Only a fool would be able to resist. 

“Steve.” 

He just barely manages not to flinch as Jim’s rasping voice rips him away from his musing – no, his yearning. Turning his head, he finds his eyes in the dark, though he can’t make out any question or command in them. Has Jim caught him? Does his old mentor know his thoughts regarding the bard, has he seen the twitch in Steve’s fingers as he refused to let them reach out and touch? 

Jim’s silence is as good a command as any, and summoning all his might not to let his face betray the pain shooting through his body, Steve gets up with a suppressed groan and walks over to his old mentor. 

As slowly as possible without giving away the pain that feels like his ribcage is being both torn apart and pressed together, he sits down beside Jim, guiltily thanking the swollen eye and the darkness, for he seems none the wiser to Steve’s injury. 

“Don’t do that again.”

Steve freezes, his thoughts tumbling over themselves trying to figure out what exactly Jim refers to — the guilt still warring inside him insists that there are many things he should not have done. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, feeling like he is but a green student again, getting berated by his mentor after he did something wrong. 

“Take a beating for me. I understand why you would do it for the others, but—” 

“Jim,” he tries to interrupt him with a gentle sigh, but the old man won’t have it. 

“No, Steve. They hate me more than you, we don’t need you riling them up and making things worse for yourself.” 

“I will not let them break your arms and ribs, James. I can take it, I’m—” 

“If you say you’re younger, Steven, I’m going to throw you out of the window..” 

An innocent grin spreads his lips and he inclines his head, meeting Jim’s good eye. “But I am.” 

He sees the hand coming, shooting out from below, but his range of motion and reflexes are still heavily impacted by his injuries that he can’t manage to get out of Jim’s reach in time. Before he knows it, Steve loses his balance and falls flat on his back without any grace but with all the more agonising pain. 

Nobody would have been able to hide broken ribs and a nearly split skull like this, but Steve still mentally kicks himself as the wheezing groan of pain leaves his lips.

All traces of mirth leave Jim’s expression and everything turns into worry as he, too, sits up with a groan to check over his former apprentice. 

“By the Gods, Steve, are you okay?” 

Another groan that is supposed to be somewhere between “Just peachy” and “Fuck off”, but even that sound is pathetic with the way the air has been pushed out of his lungs at the impact. All he manages is a whimper, and he doesn’t try to open his lips for more than that.

He doesn’t even attempt to sit up this time, can only try to catch his breath and breathe through the agony with more wheezing, rattling whimpers. Hands hover over him in the dark, but he shakes his head rapidly, scared that Jim would try to touch and feel the injury, only to find a broken rib or two. Or five, at this point.

His lungs don’t work right and he can’t quite catch his breath. It is only experience that tells him this is normal, this will pass, he will breathe right again. Hopefully. 

“For God’s sake, why would you hide an injury like that, Steve? Why would you… You idiot!”

There is movement around him in the cell, the others waking up from Jim’s anger and worry and guilt, but Steve keeps his eyes closed lest the tears fall. 

“Breathe,” Jim tells him, and Steve finds that to be a wonderful idea, actually, so he tries. And he tries again. “Yes, good. Breathe, Steve. It’s all going to be fine, you’ll get through this.”

“Have to,” he presses, barely any sound to his wheezing. “So you can throw me out of the window.” 

“Fucking moron,” Jim mutters, though Steve can hear the emotion in these two words. It makes him smile despite the situation.

“S–sorry,” he wheezes again, and trusts that Jim understands that he means more than his sarcastic retorts or the hiding of the wounds. Sorry for losing Will again. Sorry for not saving Elanor in time. Sorry for failing the mission. Sorry for being weaker than you need me to be. Sorry for—

“It’s alright, Steve,” Jim promises and there are fingers in his hair again, wetness running down his cheek. Did the fall open his head injury again? The situation must truly be dire if Jim is being outright gentle and worried. “Just don’t do it again. Let me take them next time.” 

He wheezes again, but won’t make that promise. If their captors come back, he knows he won’t sit and watch them hurt his friends, won’t sit and watch them treat Jim the same way they treated him on the journey here. 

It takes a moment for the world to right itself again and for the cell to become quiet, but somehow Steve manages to get his breathing under control and the pain subsides from agonising to miserable, like before. He rolls his head and looks at Jim through a blurriness in his eyes that he has to blink away. 

“You think we’ll make it out of this alive?”

Maybe it’s the pain clouding his mind, maybe it’s the darkness that has always made it easier to ask such questions, but Steve finds the words falling from his lips easier than they should have. 

Jim’s expression that just a moment ago has been filled with worry and anger sobers now, and Steve doesn’t quite like what he sees. 

“Will is still out there,” he says, evading the question and answering it in the same moment. 

“Yeah. He is,” Steve says, not sure if he believes it or not. Not sure if it changes anything. “You’re right.”

They stare at each other for a moment, the moonlight catching Jim’s eyes in a way that highlights the emotions in them. The desperate hope that Will is out there, alive, and reunited with his sister — they have their ways of finding each other against all odds. Always have. Steve likes to believe that they won’t stop now, that a desert can’t keep them apart. That they found friendly faces who won’t betray them, and bring them home. 

Bring them home even when Steve and Jim can’t follow them. And Maxine. Princess Elanor would turn the desert into an ocean before she left Maxine to die. But down in their cell, the ocean would leave them to drown all the same. 

Jim has hope, though, and Steve decides to follow his mentor again. Just for tonight, when all he feels is pain, when his head is being split open, his chest crushed and bursting, his limbs bloodied and bruised. Just for tonight, he will allow himself not to think, not to worry, and to trust Jim blindly like he did all those years ago. 

“Sleep, Steve,” Jim says then, and only now does Steve realise how tired he is, his eyes closed long ago.

He spends a brief moment thinking about Eddie and the promise he made the bard to be there when he wakes up. It’s silly, because he’s merely a few feet away, but it still hurts to have abandoned him to lie there by himself while everyone else has company. When he never moved while Steve himself was asleep.

“You should sleep, too, Ranger.” A sudden wave of warmth washes over him when he hears that voice with its foreign inflections. “You both need your rest, I can stay awake for some time to keep watch and wake you up at the first sign of danger.” 

“Eddie, I really don’t mind—“ 

“I insist, Ranger James. You two have taken the most of their hatred and displays of power, it’s the least I can do.”

Jim seems to hesitate for a moment, but Steve doesn’t open his eyes to look. His lids have become far too heavy, even heavier still when a certain hand is back in his hair to comb through it in even movements, mindful of his wounds. He doesn’t fight the secret smile this time. 

“Well, if you insist, bard,” Jim finally concedes, never one to really pass up an opportunity for sleep. “Good night to you, then.” 

“Goodnight, my friend,” Eddie says in that calm, kind manner of his that is still new to them, and Steve feels as though he breathes easier for it. “And you, Steven,” he lowers his voice, appearing closer now, “truly are a fool.” 

“Oh?” he says, wishing that it wouldn’t hurt to laugh or even just to huff. “What happened to brave, kind-hearted, and whatever else you said earlier?” 

“You can have those back when you stop lying about being injured.” 

“Keep them then,” he says, and it’s meant in jest, but that doesn’t translate well when you barely have enough strength left for a voice, he finds. 

“Sleep,” Eddie repeats, gentler this time, though he sighs long and hard after. “You impossible man.”

It makes Steve smile again, even as an impenetrable darkness wraps around him. 

He’s sure that the hum and the whispered, “I see you’re keeping your promise still,” are figments of his imagination, his tired mind playing tricks on him. But it’s a dream he likes to sink into, filled with moonlit skin, gentle hands, and kind words.

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