#I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THIS IS CANON

[littlelostmabari]

Day 8: Sovereigns

Spoilers for Cullen's Lyrium ending, post-Trespasser.

Word Count: 1k, CW: hurt / no comfort, lyrium addiction, lyrium withdrawal, major character death

This is absolutely not my canon ending. I hate it. I hate that it wrote itself. I need a hug.

"Please, I'll take anything!"

"Get your hands off me!"

The man in dark dockworker clothes pulled himself away from the beggar and hurried on to whatever dockworkers do in Val Chevin when their shift was done. The vagrant collapsed into himself, slumping against the stone walls of the alleyway with a whimper.

His clothes were different from when she last saw him. His armor was gone, and the warmth of the city on the Waking Sea allayed the use of fur and feather pauldrons. He had no shoes, but that knowledge took a bit of extra attention — mud and street filth caked soles that peeked out from the huddle that he had pulled himself into, appearing at first as worn slippers.

His hair had grown, revealing its natural curl, and the scruff that the Inquisitor had often run her hands across when they thought they were alone had grown into an unmanageable beard. It's coloring was a pale representation of the autumn wheat that had adorned him five years ago.

The street was full of passersby, unwilling to look upon the man who once would have commanded their attention simply by walking into a room. He rabidly collected a pair of tossed copper into the rag of a cloak that sat bunched in front of him, a nest of shiny coins that would determine if he slept tonight.

It was hard to sleep without the blue.

The boy had once called it his chains, but he didn't think of them that way anymore. His chains were the atrophied muscles in his legs that couldn't hold him upright; they were the hands that shook and kept him from working a job that would provide even the most mental pay. The chains were the eyes of the faithful as the Mother Superior turned him down again — their gaze, their opinions of her the ropes that moved the woman's mouth in her denial. They were puppets, all of them. Puppets of wealth and prestige and opinion and the embarrassment of a forsaken man and he could do nothing but thrash against those strings.

Unless he had the blue. Unless a sympathetic heart gave him enough for the two sovereign fee in the alley behind the brothel, or unless a knowing brother gave him half a ration — if only to assuage the knowledge that he was them in a few years time. The blue let his mind rest, let him sleep, quieted the voices that called to him from the Void and from his muscles and from the memories that appeared and blurred and faded before he knew he was even seeing them.

Harding found a part of the alleyway fifty feet or so away that she could wait in — wait and wonder and hope that the eyes she had trained to see the smallest details would convince her that what she saw was false. Afternoon turned to evening, turned to night as she watched him slumped in the same place. She watched his head sink to his chest for only a minute or two before he woke with a shout and a plea for mercy. She watched this happen time and again, until his head didn't sink anymore, and the quiet alleyway was filled with the whimpers of a man in terrible pain.

She stood then, slowly, and made her way to the man she once called Commander, then Cullen, then friend. She lay a soft hand on his shoulder. It was still broad, but skeletal under the torn and filthy fabric. His head lolled to the side to meet her gaze.

"Please, please leave me," he muttered. She almost did, before she realized that his eyes looked up and past her shoulder into the face of a person she could not see. His hazel eyes were rimmed with red, his cheekbones prominent under the unkempt hair and beard. "Please do not torment me any longer, I beg you. I have nothing left. I have nothing left that you can take." She pressed an elfroot tonic to his lips, and he drank greedily, sputtering when it was not the taste or viscosity he craved. Then as the elfroot did its work, his eyes did meet hers.

"Ah, the new recruit! Good to see you!" The tone shift startled Harding, but she left her hand on his shoulder, tucking away the empty glass. "I apologize, it seems you've found me in a moment of disarray." He moved to stand, and she released him just long enough for him to stumble to his feet.

He took one step, and fell again, the chains of weakness dragging him back to the ground.

"Let me help you, ser," Harding rushed to say, lifting him with all her strength to lean him on the wall. Her mind bounced, trying to find something that would — "The Inquisitor has tasked me with making you comfortable here." Cullen's eyes betrayed his confusion.

"The Inquisitor? You're not here on behalf of the Knight-Commander?"

Harding grimaced. "Yes, of course. I got my orders through the Knight-Commander's office. She— they told me that you could help me get settled." He nodded.

"That I can. It's good you've come to me." He began to list off the duties expected of a new Templar in Kirkwall, espousing thoughts about their 'charges' that had Harding schooling her face away from a grimace. Mages were dangerous, they weren't people, she had to be on her guard at all times because even one mage could, in a fit of pique… the Commander she knew would never —

but this wasn't the Commander she knew.

He was telling her about where to get a new Templar-issued sword and shield when he lost his train of thought again, distracted by the view of the night sky that created the roof in this dark alleyway. It was properly devoid of the lights of Val Chevin, and the stars peeked out through vanishing clouds.

"Look, Rosalie," he murmured, falling onto Harding's shoulder with care. "Drakonis is out tonight. It's beautiful."

He didn't feel what came next, and Harding was glad for it… even if she would never forget the punch of air and the contented sigh.

She was the only one who knew the last words of Cullen Rutherford, former Commander of the Inquisition's forces, were of his family and the night sky.

[lovelucybradford]

WHAT IS THIS I HEAR ABOUT DEAD DEREK HALE?!!!

First Bellamy, now Derek… I stg if they kill Tim off I’m never becoming invested in a tv show again.

My sad bois deserve SO much better.

[pocket-dragon]

Oh to be a tiefling fresh out of Avernus, surrounded by gorgeous, older, elf-ish women.

[purarupu]

mashle rkgk

[margoshansons]

Dreamfyre you’re still the mother of Daenerys’s dragons in my heart and will be until GRRM comes out of his hole to tell me otherwise

[otaku553]

Quite frankly still obsessed with the three of them

A little procrastination doodle

[happypeachsludgeflower]

Me, staring at mxtx side ships that aren’t canon and are apparently straight: if not gay why gay shaped??

[lazylittledragon]

I like that in game the companions are always wearing very cunty high fantasy clothes and you always draw them in comfy sweaters/cardigans/pyjamas. as they deserve tbh

they deserve COMFORT!!!

[welcometogrouchland]

I understand that literature nerd Jason Todd is kind of overblown in fanon compared to it's actual presence in canon (a few issues during his pre (and post?)crisis Robin tenure that highlight it) BUT consider that I think it's hilarious if the unhinged gun toting criminal has strong opinions on poetry

[thebeardlyben]

I started the sketch of this during my Pride Month art stream but I can finally call it done.

My bugbear druid Jerry Goodberry and Burly floating above the Witchlight Carnival in a bubble.

Yes, this happened in-session! <3

[elsecrytt]

masochist gojo. gojo who's in love with pain, so much that it feels like pleasure, he can barely distinguish between the two anymore.

gojo who's so starved for touch. who's had an infinite space between himself and the whole world for so long, for so many years, every day in and day out.

gojo who's survived off glancing presses when a barista hands him a coffee, the rare hug from his students (who are mostly orphans) that he can't bring himself to decline.

gojo who craves more but can't bring himself to accept it except in fleeting moments with strangers or students.

his hands that long to be held. he wants it so bad that he teases a cursed spirit, laces his fingers with its own, right before he utterly crushes the being in battle, untouchable all over again.

gojo whose skin is hungry for someone else's. he hasn't felt the warmth of a hand in his own in so long. not since - since his youth.

gojo who sometimes wishes he could get hit. who sees the impact of curse techniques on his infinity and feels a wild, strange desire for them to go straight through and strike him.

he imagines it, vividly, being impaled by a long spear (inverted spear) that goes straight through him. how it would lance his flesh so cleanly.

being struck so hard, across the face, in the stomach, enough to knock the wind out of him.

enough to feel it with his whole body.

gojo who wants to be touched so bad he doesn't even care if it hurts anymore. infinity couldn't protect him from geto's betrayal.

gojo who keeps infinity up not because he doesn't want to get hit, but because he's terrified of what he might do when it happens.

gojo who got hard whenever geto sparred with him. he still doesn't know if it was because of geto, or because he had no infinity back then, no way to block the strikes.

he dreams of his youth. bruises littering his pale, pretty form like kisses, proof that he was human, there, that there was someone who could reach him.

dark purple things that turned pretty colors as they healed. he remembers pressing into them, relishing the hurt, feeling like he was getting hit (touched, reached, connected) all over again.

nothing ever touches him again. not like that. not like anything.

he never feels it. he never feels anything.

satoru gojo who wants, so very very badly, to feel something.

pain is a choice for him, always a choice. he alone has the privilege of deciding whether or not anything can touch him.

he could try to let more strangers touch him. one night stands, discreet arrangements. he had a pretty face and a body to match. there was no shortage of willing partners.

he lets them touch him, lets them hurt him. lets them drool over his body and use it at their leisure. they tell him he's beautiful, and he believes them.

white hair, blue eyes, sprawled out with a lean, unmarred body full of bare flesh for them to bite and scratch and bruise. he finds people who will do it, do it hard, fuck him up until he's lost entirely in the feeling of being touched, having someone against him, with him, above him.

it makes him feel like a piece of meat. it makes him feel good.

or he thinks it does, anyways.

sometimes, when he's gone particularly long without sleep, when his partner has gone particularly hard, he gets a real rush.

heart racing out of his chest. a cold sweat that overwhelms him. breaths coming in labored gasps. he can heal himself, he's physically fine, so this must all be in his head.

he acknowledges that information, distantly, like it's not happening to him. it doesn't help.

it feels like part of his body has been ripped away from him, something vital and important, and it's about to get up and run away.

always, always, it happens when his partner is no longer touching him. when he lays alone in the sheets, by his own volition, because of course these partners are not meant to be attachments.

love is not a privilege, though, not for the strongest sorcerer. it's a curse.

it's the only curse which infinity cannot protect him from.

so gojo stays untouchable. distant.

but the hunger doesn't go away. never.

he likes to imagine that suguru swallowed this one last curse before he died. something sweet and bitter, like losses at the arcade, sunny days at the beach, walking together with shoko, nanami, haibara.

but even suguru couldn't have absorbed this curse. it's in his bones, deep, longing and wanting even after he's dead and gone.

gojo is hungry. he is so, so hungry. and he has nothing to eat that will not leave him just as empty as before.

touch-starved. love-starved. pain-craving.

if someone could hurt him then it wouldn't matter that he was terrified of attachment. they could latch onto him, into his heart, under his skin. bury themselves in his chest like they belonged.

they could kill a hundred and twelve people and it wouldn't matter, because he wouldn't be able to kill them.

gojo is hungry, so hungry.

please feed him.

[vaguelyaperson]

wait wait wait wait,

Izuku barely saw his friends because schedules didn't align???

you're telling me he didn't even get an apartment or something with one of his friends??? that bkdk, the goddamn bonded pair of swans, weren't moving in together after graduation??? that he wasn’t kicking Mr. Midoriya's classroom door down randomly like "what up nerd, it's bring your childhood friend to work day"???? what do you MEAN he barely saw his friends??? the same ones who chased him down during his vigilante arc??? who fought a war with him??? why is it implied this includes his goddamn "inseparable" Kacchan???? HOW

[jakeotters]

you have no idea how much i love bts scott content 😭😭😭 its canon in my heart

[bullborn]

Miss Broflovskiiiii *twirls hair*

[lilisette]

An Astute Observation | Caleb/Reader

About: A short what if scenario wherein you noticed Caleb didn't get any snacks at all. Who could've thought you catching eye of that would change the outcome of the story?

Pairing: Caleb/Reader

“We’ve been outside for too long. Gran’s going to be worried.”

“You’re doing it again. Go inside by yourself. I’m not your sidekick.” You huffed at Caleb, watching him approach the front door of Grandma’s home. But instead of following him, you paused. “Wait. Did you even get the snacks I asked for?”

“I thought you said you’re grown up now? Get it yourself.”

You pouted. The gall of this man you have as a childhood friend. You were about to retort, the words forming on your tongue like old times, until realization hit you.

“So you were following me this whole time!” You accused him, and he had the guts to look unfazed, merely blinking at your words. You’ve expected him to trail after you, as he has always been protective of you since childhood. But somehow it… hurt, like he didn’t trust that you would be fine on your own.  

Not wanting him to pick up on the conflicting feelings within you, just as he always did with one glance at you, you turned away to hide your face from him, and began to make your trip to the store.

“Hmfph fine! I’ll go get them myself, I don’t need you to help me anyway.”

And just as expected, Caleb grabbed your wrist before you could take another step.

“...Are you really going to walk around with a wound like that? You’re going to hurt yourself like that.”

“Didn’t you say I was a grown up? I can take care of myself–”

The odd tension that hung in the air this entire time suddenly snapped, and instinctively you yanked Caleb backward, shielding him from–

-

“Hey! Hey pipsqueak! Help is on the way, don’t fall asleep–” “Dammit– Focus on me–”

-

“She will wake up soon, go and get some rest first.”

“Thank you Zayne.”

Caleb sighed the moment Zayne, or Dr. Zayne now, stepped out of the room. It’s been hours since the blast and while he and you were fortunate enough to have survived the disaster, Grandma��� wasn’t. 

He pulled a chair to the side of your bed and sat, observing your sleeping face as he grasped your hand tightly, as if scared you would be out of reach if he were to let go. 

You shielded him from the blast with your own body, thus protecting him from the shockwave and debris that flew out. He remembered cradling you afterwards, trying to keep you conscious to no avail. The emergency response team tried to convince him to get himself checked for injuries while they treated you but he refused, citing that he was fine and he never let you out of his sight until Zayne appeared.

He was forced to get himself looked over after Zayne took her into the emergency ward. And during the medical examination, a question came to the forefront of his mind and stayed there. 

If he had went in as planned, would the little argument he and you had beforehand be the last conversation before he…

And if he did go in… That meant you would be alone. Alone against this world that he was desperately trying to shield you from.

He lowered his head at that thought, bringing your hand to his lips and murmured. 

“You still have me… I will protect you to my dying breath, I swear to it.”

[friendlygirlswag]

rip gale dekarios you would’ve loved abba