#and how they all grieved when they thought he was gone..

[seumyo]

I WANT TO BE FOREVER YOUNG

PROMPT. How they mourn when you were gone too soon. You did worry about getting old, didn’t you?

FEATURING. Midoriya I., Bakugou K., Todoroki S., Shinsou H.

NOTE. I’m testing the waters with angst content + formatting style for multiple drabbles—so forgive me if it’s not that good!

MIDORIYA IZUKU — Sees you in someone else.

Midoriya Izuku found passion in teaching. It’s a life-changing job that molds each and every student into the person they want to become with the help of people like him.

His students, vibrant and full of life, were so much like his old classmates—and among them was Takashiro Ayane, her laughter light and melodic as she teased one of her friends about their clumsy landing during training.

It reminded him of someone. Someone close.

You.

And the thought always came to him, even when he didn’t mean to. Even at the most random times.

Ayane’s resemblance to you was uncanny. It wasn’t just her kindness or the gentle way she spoke; it was in the way she held herself, her subtle but unwavering resolve. Midoriya could see flashes of you in her—the friend who had once been a constant source of warmth in his turbulent journey at U.A. High.

As Ayane reached up to adjust her headband, smiling brightly, Midoriya felt a pang in his chest. The sight was like a memory brought to life, a reminder of your soft-spoken encouragement and the way she always stood firm despite her fears.

God, it felt like seeing you all over again.

“Sensei!” another student called out, pulling him back to the present. “Did you see that move? I think it might actually work in combat! Or support, if I feel like it.”

Midoriya blinked, shaking off the haze of memories. “Y-Yeah, it looked great!” he replied, mustering enthusiasm. “Your timing’s improving a lot—keep it up!”

He tried to push the thought aside, focusing on the here and now, but it was no use. The resemblance was too striking, and his heart felt heavy with the weight of unspoken grief. You were gone, after all. Gone too soon.

As the students broke into laughter again, something about the carefree sound and the dynamic of his students triggered a reflex. Without thinking, he spoke, his voice soft yet audible enough to be heard.

“[First Name], I—”

Your name left his lips before he realized it, and the world seemed to freeze. The students fell silent, their laughter replaced by curious stares. Ayane tilted her head; confusion could be seen in her face.

Midoriya’s heart sank as he realized his mistake. He quickly forced a smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I mean Takashiro,” he corrected, craning a hand to the back of his neck.

“Sorry about that. Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

The students exchanged glances, a few offering polite chuckles before moving on. The moment passed, yet for Midoriya, the weight of it lingered. He stayed behind as the students began their walk back to the main building, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Everything came flooding in his mind. Like a relentless tide that swept him away. Your jokes, your laugh, and the countless little moments that had defined your friendship.

He hadn’t spoken your name aloud in years, not since your passing. Now, saying it felt like reopening an old wound, one he had carefully avoided for so long. But he could only do so much avoidance ‘til he has to terms with it.

“Sensei?”

The gentle voice startled him, and he looked up to see Ayane standing a few steps away. Her expression was concerned; her head tilted slightly as she studied him.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly. “You seemed... distracted earlier.”

Midoriya hesitated. The words caught in his throat as he wrestled with how to respond. How could he explain to his student that she reminded him of his dead friend?

What kind of teacher would he be if he were to say that? The awful, grieving kind, he bets.

“I’m fine, Takashiro,” he said finally, forcing a smile. “Just a little tired, that’s all. You know how these long training sessions can be.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced but nodded anyway. “If you ever need to talk, Sensei... we’re here for you too. Fighting!”

“Midoriya, grow a spine! Fighting!”

Her words hit too close to home.

“Thank you,” he could only murmur.

Ayane lingered for a moment before turning to join her classmates. He remained there, rooted to the spot as the sun began to dip lower in the sky. The golden light bathed the empty training grounds, and the silence felt heavier than usual.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ve tried to move on, but I see you everywhere. In everything. In everyone.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, a mix of regret and longing washing over him. “You were right about so many things,” he continued, his voice barely audible. “I just wish you were here to see it—to see how far we’ve all come.”

But you weren’t here anymore, and that’s the problem.

Bakugou Katsuki — Mourns you longer than he’d known you.

Cemeteries never brought discomfort to Bakugou. Not until you died, that is.

The place stretches out in solemn silence; the faint rustle of leaves in the hedges are the only sounds he heard as he trudged along the familiar gravel path. His boots made dull, deliberate crunches against the fallen leaves, the heaviness of his steps matching the weight in his chest.

In his hands, he carried the usual offerings: a bouquet of red spider lilies tied neatly with a ribbon, a box of your favorite sweet treats—melon pan today—and the incense sticks he always lit with care. It had been years since your passing, but for Bakugou, the loss felt as raw as if it had been yesterday.

He approached your gravestone, its surface polished and pristine, just as he always left it. Your name was etched into the stone with delicate precision, the sight of it both grounding and crushing. As if to remind him that you weren’t coming back because you’re just here, waiting for someone to visit you.

Bakugou knelt, his movements stiff and reluctant, as though even now he couldn’t fully accept your absence. Why can’t he accept it?

“Yo, dummy,” he muttered under his breath, pulling the lilies from their wrapping and placing them carefully at the vase near the gravestone. He adjusted them twice, three times, until they looked just right. His eyes lingered on the name etched into the cold stone, a bitterness creeping into his tone.

“Brought your damn flowers again. Hope you appreciate it.”

The sarcasm in his words was thinly veiled; beneath it lay the unmistakable ache of someone who had loved and lost far too deeply.

He pulled out the incense sticks next, lighting them with a practiced flick beneath his palm. You would’ve loved to see him do it in person; maybe light up a candle or two when the power goes out during your high school dorm days. The smell of sandalwood quickly mingled with the damp earth, and Bakugou leaned back on his heels, staring at the curling smoke.

“Another week down,” he began, his voice quieter now. “Another round of saving people, making headlines, being the ‘Great Dynamight.’ ” He spat the title out like it was poison.

“It’s what you always said I’d do, isn’t it? Go big; make my mark. But, damn it, [Last Name], none of it means anything without you here to see it.”

He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as the familiar wave of guilt and frustration washed over him. His head dipped as he let out a long, ragged breath.

“I thought time was supposed to make this easier,” Bakugou admitted, his voice rough. “It’s been... what? Seven years now? And every damn day, it still feels like you’re just gonna show up out of nowhere, like you’re gonna annoy the hell outta me with one of your stupid jokes.”

The thought made his lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile, though it was laced with sadness. He could almost hear your voice—that gentle yet persistent tone you’d use whenever she tried to drag him along to something.

“C’mon, Bakugou, I’ll need someone to bail me out of jail! You’ll regret it if you don’t come along.”

And you were right. He regretted it now. Every single refusal, every grumbled excuse, every moment he could’ve spent with you and didn’t.

“You were annoying as hell,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “But you were... you were good. Too good.” His fists loosened, his hands falling limply to his sides.

“And you didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to go like that.” Bakugou remembers the time he almost stained his conduct by almost killing the villain that got to you.

It’s unfair, isn’t it? The villain got to live behind bars, while you lost yours.

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves in the trees above. Bakugou tilted his head back, glaring up at the overcast sky as though it were to blame for everything.

“They don’t tell you how much it fucking hurts,” he said bitterly. “To lose someone like you. They don’t tell you that the longer it’s been, the harder it gets, ‘cause every year just reminds me of how much more I’ve missed. How much quicker I could’ve been.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, weathered notebook. It was yours, something your family had found amongst your belongings after you passed. They wanted him to have it since his name was always frequently mentioned. The edges were frayed, the pages creased from countless readings, but it was his most treasured possession.

Bakugou would rather die than even let a single drop of water meet one of its pages.

Flipping it open, he scanned your handwriting, some neat and some looking as though you couldn’t be bothered with basic penmanship. He stopped on a page that always gutted him.

Life’s short. Spend it with the people who matter. Don’t let moments slip away! :P

His thumb brushed over the words, his jaw tightening.

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed. “You don’t have to keep reminding me, you know. I get it. Too late, but I get it.”

He placed the notebook on the gravestone, letting it rest there for a moment before tucking it back into his pocket. His hand lingered on the cold stone, his fingers tracing the engraved letters of your name.

“You were supposed to stick around,” he said softly. “Supposed to keep bugging me, keep dragging me out of my own damn head. Now I’m stuck here, talking to a rock, and it’s not the same. It’ll never be the same.”

The clouds began to part, a faint beam of sunlight breaking through and casting a soft glow over the gravestone. Bakugou stared at it, his eyes unreadable. He’s thinking.

“I’ll keep coming back,” he finally said, his voice steadier now.

“Every week, every month, every damn year. You’re not gonna be forgotten. Not by me.”

He stood slowly, his body heavy with exhaustion and grief. Adjusting the incense sticks and flowers one last time, he stepped back, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“See you next time, dummy,” he murmured, his voice low. “Don’t forget about me or whatever, whever you are.”

As Bakugou walked away, the wind carried the faint scent of incense and the quiet promise of a man who would mourn you longer than he’d ever known you.

TODOROKI SHOUTO — Learns things that reminded him of you.

Todoroki knows that he’s been busy. It’s in the way the white camellias he brought you months ago are now wilted, showing their dried-up state. His fingers brush against the wilted petals, lingering as if to apologize for not visiting sooner.

“I still remember the last thing you said to me,” he murmured, his voice soft yet filled with an ache he couldn’t quite put into words. “It wasn’t even anything serious—just you scolding me for not eating enough during lunch. You were always so good at taking care of me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

He glanced down, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint, bittersweet smile. The image of you—scolding, your hands on your hips as you tried to hide your worry—was etched so vividly into his memory that he could almost hear your voice.

Todoroki’s gaze traveled to the offerings he had brought with him: a fresh bouquet of camellia, a neatly folded scarf he had knitted in one of his new hobbies that he took up classes for, and a small pack of your favorite matcha-flavored sweets. “I know you’d laugh at me for picking up knitting,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But... it’s calming. I think you’d appreciate that. You always said I needed to find something that made me happy outside of being a hero.”

The scarf was simple, a pale green color that reminded him of the shade you loved wearing. He had spent hours perfecting it, thinking of how you might have joked about him for being so precise yet ultimately praised his effort.

“I hope you’d like it,” he whispered, setting it down carefully beside the gravestone. “I thought about giving it to someone else, but it felt wrong. It’s yours.”

Todoroki draws in a breath, closing his eyes, letting the stillness of the place envelop him. Yet in the quiet, his mind raced with so many thoughts all at once.

“I also learned how to cook,” he tells you—he tells your grave. “It’s not as good as yours, but Bakugou’s been helping.”

He thought of your childhood, how you had been his only light during the dark days of his father’s strict training. How you had been this bubbly girl that the teacher often praised, how you had stood by him when he was still new to making friends at the nursery, offering him a hand when he thought he didn’t deserve one.

“You were the best person I knew. And I pushed you away. You didn’t deserve that, [Last Name]. You were my friend when I didn’t know how to be one back.”

The pain of those words hung heavy in the air, and Todoroki’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He had spent years replaying your interactions, wishing he had done things differently. If he had done things differently, you would’ve been here, probably teasing him for taking up chopstick-making classes.

“I was so angry back then,” he confessed, his gaze fixed on the gravestone. “At my father, at myself, at the world. And I took it out on you, the one person who never stopped trying to help me. I told myself I didn’t need anyone, but... I needed you.”

Another tear slipped down his cheek, and he hastily wiped it away, frustrated by the way his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. He was the Number Two Hero now, a symbol of strength and perseverance. Yet here, in front of you, he felt like the lost, broken little boy that longed for his first friend.

“I need you now, please.”

The sound of a bird chirping nearby pulled him from his thoughts, and he glanced up at the sky. The sun was setting, casting a hue that reminded him of your warmth.

You did like sunsets, didn’t you?

“You’d probably scold me for crying,” he said with a faint chuckle, though his voice still wavered. “You always hated seeing me upset. But I think it’s okay this time. You’re worth crying over.”

He knelt down again, his fingers brushing over the engraved letters of your name.

“Shoucchan! You can’t cry! We can be partners—the best partners!”

Yes, partners. The best partners for as long as you’ll have him.

“I’m trying to live the way you wanted me to,” he continued. “To find happiness outside of being a hero. To be someone you’d be proud of. But it’s hard, [Last Name]. It’s hard without you.”

He stayed there for what felt like hours, speaking to you as though you were sitting beside him, as though your gentle presence could somehow reach across the veil of death. He told you about his hero work, about the classes he was taking, about the little moments of joy he tried to find in a life that often felt too heavy.

Finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon, he rose to his feet. His knees ached from kneeling for so long, but he barely noticed.

“I’ll come back,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the tears that still shimmered in his eyes. “And I won’t let you wait so long again. Next time, I’ll bring something better than just a flower. Maybe one of those awful paintings you always said I should make.”

As he turned to leave, he hesitated, glancing back at the gravestone one last time. As if you’d be there with open arms, waiting for him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, the words carrying a weight that only you could understand.

He walked away slowly, the sound of his footsteps fading into the stillness. The cemetery grew quiet once more, the only reminder of his visit the small offerings left behind—silent testaments to a bond that even death could not sever.

SHINSOU HITOSHI — Avoidance by all means necessary, until he finally caves in.

If you were to ask Shinsou what his prized possession was, he’ll tell you that it’s a shoe box. A shoe box that seemed to hold the world—your world, with remnants of a friendship that had lasted his entire life—a lifetime with you.

Shinsou sat on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands hovering over the box as though touching it might shatter him. He had been avoiding this moment for weeks. The funeral had been a blur, the condolences—a cacophony of words that didn’t mean anything because he knew that they couldn’t possibly understand how it feels. Everyone seemed to know the right things to say, except him.

All he had wanted was for you to be there, to laugh at how awkward he was with the whole ordeal.

Now, it was just silence.

With a deep breath, he finally reached into the box, pulling out the first item: a knitted scarf, a rich shade of violet. It was slightly uneven, the handiwork amateur at best, but it was one of the first gifts you’d ever made for him. He could still remember your smile when you handed it over during your middle school years.

“I thought it’d look good on you,” you had said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Don’t laugh! It’s my first try. Nuh uh, I’m taking this back—Hitoshi!”

He hadn’t laughed. Ok, maybe just a quiet chuckle, but he had worn it every winter since.

He leaned forward again, staring into the box. Inside were the tokens of a life intertwined with his—handmade crafts, small souvenirs, and letters tied with ribbons in colors you knew he liked. Each item was a story, a piece of you you had given him, never expecting you would be taken away so soon.

He gently picked up a small ceramic cat figurine, its paint slightly chipped. It was from one of your family trips abroad.

“I saw this and thought of you!”

Younger Shinsou blinked, confused.

“Me?”

You nodded. “You’re like this cat. All serious, but secretly soft and comforting.”

Shinsou chuckled softly at the memory, though the sound was tinged with sadness. He had teased you for it back then, calling it tacky, but it had ended up on his desk at home. Now, it felt like a sacred relic.

Setting the figurine down, he reached for another item. Shinsou pulled out a small, framed photo of the two of you at a summer festival. He was scowling at the camera while you grinned beside him, holding up two sticks of cotton candy. It was one of the rare times you had dragged him out, insisting he needed to “experience life beyond his walls” when he just wanted to sleep in.

He’d go to every summer festival in the country—even if it meant losing sleep—as long as he gets to do it with you.

The frame trembled slightly in his grip as he swallowed the lump in his throat.

He pulls out a well-worn journal. It was yours. He hesitated, knowing that opening it would feel both comforting and unbearably painful. After a moment, he gave in, flipping through the pages.

Inside were your thoughts—notes about school, sketches of the two of them, and half-finished poems you had written during quiet afternoons.

The prince has been so stressed lately.

I wish I could take it all away.

He deserves the world, but he won’t let himself believe it.

Maybe one day he’ll see himself the way I do.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. You had always been like that—putting everyone else first, even when you had your own struggles. He closed the journal and held it to his chest, his breath shaky.

“I should’ve told you,” he whispered. “I should’ve told you how much you meant to me.”

The tears that had been threatening to fall finally spilled over, sliding down his cheeks as he sat there in the coming twilight. He thought back to the nights they had spent stargazing, sharing their dreams and fears. You had been his constant, his answer, his light, even when he didn’t know he needed one.

His phone buzzed again, a reminder that the world kept moving even when his had stopped. He glanced at the screen—it was a message from his secretary.

Meeting tomorrow at 9, Sir. You told me to remind you.

Shinsou scoffed bitterly, tossing the phone aside. Work didn’t matter right now. Nothing did.

He looked back into the box and pulled out a small, intricately folded paper crane. He had almost forgotten about it. It was from your high school years, during a particularly tough exam season.

“This is for luck,” you had said, carefully handing it to him with an awed expression. “And if it doesn’t work, at least it’s cute, right?”

He remembered stuffing it into his pocket, too embarrassed to admit how much it meant to him at the time. Now, it felt like a lifeline.

As he unfolded the crane carefully, a note inside revealed itself. The ink was slightly faded, but your handwriting was unmistakable.

You’re going to be amazing. Always.

A choked sob escaped him, and he clenched the note tightly in his fist. You had believed in him, even when he hadn’t believed in himself. He wished he could’ve seen this sooner.

When it got dark, Shinsou didn’t bother turning on the lights. The silence felt appropriate—a space for his grief to exist without judgment.

“I miss you,” he confessed, his voice trembling. “I don’t even know how to keep going without you.”

He glanced at the small collection of gifts and letters spread out on the table. Each one was a reminder of the life you two had shared—a life you had enriched with your thoughtfulness and love.

Though the pain was overwhelming, Shinsou knew he couldn’t let your memory fade. You had given him so much, and the least he could do was honor you by living the way you would have wanted—fully and without regret.

“I’ll keep going,” he said softly, almost as if speaking to you. “You’d probably get mad if I slept in.”

The room remained quiet, save for the faint sound of the wind outside. But for Shinsou, it felt as though you were still there, your presence lingering in every corner of his heart.

SEUMYO © 2025, PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[bekkarific]

Playing With Fire:

Pairing: Frontman|In Ho x Fem OC

Chapter One - Where There Is Smoke

Chapter Masterlist

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If you play with fire you’re going to get burned, that was what Ji Ah’s Oppa used to say to her. Fate only knew how right he would be.

————————————————————————

Coffee, that was the only thing that that kept Ji Ah awake for these long shift’s. Sweet coffee was normally her favourite, but Ji Ah would take anything with caffeine. Which is why when a hot cup of sweet coffee was placed on her desk, she almost wanted to kiss her beloved police partner Jun Ho. But she doubted he would appreciate the public display of affection, however platonic it may be.

Taking a sip of the sweet nectar of the gods, she instead sighed a simple “thank you” to her partner, who smiled in return.

This is how their partnership was, having worked with each other for about 5 years, since being promoted to detective, Jun Ho was like her other half. Whilst she felt nothing more than sisterly affection toward him, they held no secrets.

Which is how she ended up on her 14th hour of her original 8 hour shift, working through any leads in the case to Jun Ho’s missing brother, In Ho. She had never met the man in person, but she felt like she knew him having picked through the last few years of his life with Jun Ho, trying to decipher what might have caused him to suddenly disappear. Her heart ached when Jun Ho told her the story of how In Ho lost his pregnant wife to a sudden illness, having lost his job for taking supposed bribes, he could no longer pay for her medical care. Jun Ho commented often on how she reminded him of his sister in law, both stubborn (she liked to think of it as a positive), intelligent and kind hearted. She liked to think of these a good things, however given the sad look in his eyes when talked about it, Ji Ah was not so sure.

Shaking her head to refocus on the facts of the case, In Ho had been missing for several days, no concrete leads on when he was last sighted, unpaid rent and a history of bribes, things where not looking good to his current circumstances and probability of finding him unharmed. Ji Ah was reluctant to say this out loud, like speaking it out into world will make it real and she did not want that inflict that grieve onto her partner who loved his brother dearly. She was hesitant, this wasn’t like her, she did not want to be the person who told Jun Ho his brother may be gone, but the reality clawed at her, In Ho’s disappearance was not just a case any more; it was personal.

Whilst all this was racing through her head, Jun Ho was sat opposite in quiet contemplation, this hands twirling a card with shapes on the back.

“Is there something you need to tell me ?” Ji Ah asked with a pointed look toward to card in his hand.

With a sigh, Jun Ho reached his hand out toward Ji Ah with the card stretched outward. Ji Ah took the small card and pulled her face in immediate confusion, small shapes where on the front and on the back a simple phone number.

“What has this got to do in In Ho?” She questioned, her eyes still examining the card for any clues.

“I found this card in In Ho’s apartment in a small present box, I thought it odd at first, then reports of crazy man coming into the station today, saying about being forced to play a game of red light, green light -“

“The children’s game?” Ji Ah interjected

Jun Ho nodded taking a sip of his coffee “he stated - well ranted apparently - that he and many others where forced to play the game and that those who lost where shot”

“What does the card have to do with this?” Ji ah asked, eyebrows scrunched.

“The man stated that he was approached by a man in a suit at the train station, and after playing rounds of Ddakji for money, the man in a suit handed him a card to join the game. He called the number on the back, was told a pick up point, then stated he was drugged and woke up in a room with other competitors, in numbered clothes” Jun Ho finished solemnly

“So let me get this straight, the guy was invited to play children’s game from a stranger in the subway, and after presumably winning, was given an card like this” she held it up between her index and middle finger “and was invited to play more, he was then kidnapped, woke up in a strange room with other people on in a same situation and then forced to play red light, green light in which the losers where executed” Ji Ah summarised, trying to keep the scepticism out of her voice.

Jun Ho nodded, not meeting her eyes.

Ji Ah sighed, she could tell this was a thread he was not going to let go of “you think this is somehow related to In Ho’s disappearance” she stated more than questioned, knowing her friend too well.

Jun Ho finally met her eyes and nodded. Everything in Ji Ah was telling her this was crazy, the man was clearly mentally deranged and Jun Ho was looking for anyway his brother might still be alive. She wanted to tell him as much, but one look into those sad brown eyes and she crumpled. It would feel like kicking a puppy.

“Okay” she breathed, taking a gulp of her coffee “police work with evidence, so let’s look at the evidence, both your brother and this guy received a card as in invite to a dangerous game days ago, this guy explained people where killed, he returned and we have yet to hear from In Ho” Jun Ho nodded, a frown marring his features. “So we follow the lead” Ji Ah explained trying to remind positive “What do we know about his guy? Surely someone took a report, even if they did think he was crazy”

Jun Ho looked up, breathing a small sigh of relief that his friend was with him on this. “Yes, the desk Sargent said he gave the name Seong Gi Hun from Ssangmun-dong”

“So let’s go” Ji Ah stood, downing the last gulp of coffee and tossing the empty cup. She knew the lead was tenuous as best, but it was all they had. One way other, they were getting closer to truth, she had to believe it.

Stunned by the sudden change, Jun Ho takes a a minute to respond. He looks at his friend, black jacket on, she moves her hair from her collar and holsters her gun at her hip. Looking at him expectantly.

Jun Ho’s tired eyes softened, he couldn’t hide the faint flicker of hope in his eyes as she looked at Ji Ah. She was always the grounded one, the logical one. But they both couldn’t ignore the feeling in their guts that this could be a dead end.

“Ready?” she said shaper than intended, but it did the job.

Jun Ho nodded as he stands, eyes more enthusiastic as before, ready to head out to a far fetched lead. But he is willing to follow path that leads him closer to In Ho.

[pall0r-mortis]

That was one of the unfortunate side effects to growing up any place where the population was vastly Magicks; Sid really didn't even think about the fact that people wouldn't just assume he was one himself because that was the norm, or at least it had been the norm that he was used to. He didn't bother to inform people that he wasn't Mundus, because he thought they just assumed that automatically, in a Magick-friendly town he was led to believe that the larger part of the population was in fact Magick.

So even with James, as little as the other man knew about him, Sid had never considered that he had to say outright that he was a Magick. That line of thought would have actually been somewhat baffling.

"Well I wasn't going to be the one to say it, but yes." He agreed; although he didn't dismiss it either because if James wanted to be morbid then whatever, he wasn't going to police that sort of thing when it came to grief. That worked very differently for different people, and frankly he didn't know the first thing about James' father so he couldn't really have much of an opinion on the matter.

The guy could have been an absolute asshole or a first class saint, and even if he was one extreme or the other James would still have seen him differently than most people simply because he was his father. Clearly he was grieving, so there was something to grieve; Sid couldn't say that he wasn't just a little jealous of the idea of a relationship with a parent that was worth being sad over if they were gone.

It didn't really seem like the best time to point out that he would have quite gladly traded positions if that had been possible, because wouldn't that have solved his problems with Paul so easily and clearly solve some problems for James with the prospects of having his father back as well, but that was in poor tastes even for him.

The sarcasm did seem to be an improvement though, not that he was keeping track, but if he was keeping track it would have been signs of a little more life from James. He tipped his eyes up in a roll, barely putting the hint of amusement over that sarcasm him show before he carried on.

"So how long are you stuck in that thing," he shifted the conversation instead with the nod to the chair, noting that somewhere during the conversation they had gotten closer to their destination in gradual degrees, "I'm guessing that you're going to be in physical therapy a while but they're going to be able to do something reconstructive." He wasn't entirely certain what, his father was a plastic surgeon after all, but he'd mentioned reconstructive surgeries for things like amputations on occasion and how bad some of them could be but still be recoverable, so it wasn't impossible really, was it?

"I mean feel free to tell me to fuck off about it; but I figured it was a little more optimistic than the dead dad conversation. But if you want to go back to that one feel free, don't let me spoil your moment there."

@captainjamesjoneshook

The world was too big to Sid, and some part of him did find that embarrassing in a way; it shouldn't have been because he was the sort of person that shouldn't have had limits. Wasn't that the biggest appeal to the coven? When a person had a community that allowed those that excelled to go as far as they wanted it should have meant there wasn't anything stopping a person. But there are a lot of things stopping Sid, and the most resounding one he didn't want to admit had absolutely nothing to do with magic and everything to do with a wistful sort of feeling that he refused to acknowledge that had mostly grown stale and stopped feeling real a long time ago.

There was a nostalgia to thinking about home; the tarnish on the memories was his family but the place itself? Sid loved the Isles, but it always been where he thought he would never leave.

"I mean you don't even have a proper market here, and people probably would argue that Bonesborough looks like some Gothic medieval town but have you seen this place," Sid offered a vague gesture around to the neighborhood itself, "other than a few houses that actually have some personality it's bland. Doesn't that feel suffocating?" A surprisingly honest question rather than an accusation, because that was one thing that he could not understand; why would people want to live surrounded by so much stark conformity in the copy and paste versions of manicure yards and houses.

Maybe it was a different sort of comfort in the normality that did not seem normal to him and it was puzzling, that much managed to slip into his tone.

"I'm not actually trying to be an asshole here, not about this specific topic anyway," Sid clarified, "I just don't get it; I don't understand how people don't feel buried under that false sense of normality. But I'm probably overthinking, probably just-" he trailed off, then shook his head. He didn't like to talk to people too much because then he would actually start talking to them. And some very ugly place in the back of his mind reminded him that James saw him just as much as the weird neighbor as everyone else in that place did. "Anyway, the Boiling Isles it's hard to describe, that was my point," he shrugged, even though for a moment James' interest had snared him and Sid had almost let himself talk about home like he knew it.

Sid uttered a curse under his breath, because that was an unexpected lapse he hadn't intended. He was saying something stupid, that's how it always seemed to go. Those pinprick sensations of irritation crept back up his spine but he didn't really know what angle to take to start an argument that time to divert his thoughts because James was asking questions that tripped him up.

"Well, life does tend to be the one thing that nobody survives, despite their intentions otherwise," Sid mumbled, tasting the bitterness in his own words, because he didn't want to answer the question. He also did want to though. Sometimes the pressure behind his eyes and his chest that built from that thought felt like it was going to crack through his skull, his ribs, felt like that was what was going to undo him faster than anything else.

But he didn't, he tossed some non-answer James' direction and tried to steer aside the conversation instead, squaring his shoulders again.

"That is a delightfully morbid topic for a date there, Princess; I do realize I brought it up but you latched onto that one pretty quick." It was just a little trouble, sure, but there was an underlying curiosity there as well.

@captainjamesjoneshook

[denouemente]

gaara is my favorite character not because he and naruto are foils and essentially share the same backstory but because of how he reacts to it. he ( and naruto ) have every single right to want everyone dead but he GOES AND BECOMES THE BEST KAZEKAGE THE SAND HAS EVER SEEN

[luckyagain]

.

[the-kipsabian]

grieving

[shvdwscng]

her  silence  and  evasiveness  had  certainly  left  the  commander's  mind  spinning  each  time  he  attempted  to  inquire.  now,  as  curious  as  he  was,  he  had  been  careful  in  his  inquiring,  never  too  direct  but  slipping  in  tidbits  of  his  own  childhood  in  day  court  in  hopes  that  she'd  share  hers.  what  she  did  share  however  were  vague  bits  that  did  began  to  connect  over  time,  but  never  quite  fully  forming  a  complete  picture.  the  only  thing  she'd  offered  him  entirely  was  tales  of  her  travels  as  he'd  once  requested  from  her  but  whenever  the  topic  circled  to  her  court,  it  wasn't  hard  to  miss  how  nerina  went  out  of  her  way  to  either  change  the  topic  or  return  it  to  him.  what  she  did  share  was  how  beautiful  her  court  was,  what  her  people  were  like  as  whole  but  of  the  dragomirs?  nothing.  it  certainly  had  fueled  his  suspicions  of  what  was  spoken  between  him  and  cedrian,  of  whatever  he  could  uncover  from  high  lady  alina  -  which  was  also  not  much  it  seemed.  perhaps  another  in  his  place  would  see  this  as  something  to  wary  of,  but  it  seemed  neither  his  high  lord  nor  alistair  himself  would  ever.  it  did  nothing  to  dissuade  the  commander,  when  he'd  all  but  found  himself  tangled  into  a  complication  of  wanting  this  lady  in  his  arms  more  than  anything  else.  he  should  be  wary  of  what  he  could  find,  but  he  was  not,  only  perhaps  a  different  ache  of  what  had  gone  in  her  family  that  left  her  so  tight-lipped.  so  when  he  urges  her  to  share,  even  now  as  he  all  but  reveals  how  much  he  wishes  to  be  with  her,  wants  to  embed  himself  in  every  bit  of  her  being,  her  words  do  cause  him  to  pause.  his  gaze  shifting  fully  to  meet  her,  not  entirely  surprise  of  her  words  but  in  the  manner  that  she  spoke  them.  "i  will  give  you  all  the  time,  so  long  as  you  intend  to  open  yourself  to  me."  he  knew  he  couldn't  push,  but  what  he  could  do  was  show  her  how  he  would  be  here.  that  their  little  game  that  had  began  had  evolved  into  something  that  neither  expected  and  neither  could  fight.  tucking  her  hair  gently  behind  her  ears,  he  pressed  a  kiss  to  her  temple,  "i  will  do  what  i  can  to  make  it  just  a  bit  easier  for  you  each  day."  it  was  then  he  knew,  without  a  doubt,  she  had  never  allowed  anyone  and  it  was  a  terrifying  thought  for  her,  but  then  wasn't  it  for  him,  too?  a  man  who  never  wished  to  settle,  certainly  not  after  watching  his  best  friend  grieve  his  wife  and  the  love  his  life  as  he  had,  now  wanted  nothing  more  than  to  call  this  captivating  his  lady  own?  it  was  gamble  for  him  too.  her  words  do  send  his  racing,  "together."  he  repeats  in  a  lower  murmur,  relieve  settling  in  him  to  hear  her  confirm  he  wasn't  alone  in  this.

truly,  it  was  hard  to  believe  she  thought  herself  as  a  wallflower,  when  nothing  about  her  from  her  beauty,  to  her  quick  wit,  and  sense  of  humor  would  ever  have  another  draw  that  conclusion.  he  supposed  he  hadn't  helped  matters  when  he  knew,  they  both  knew  he'd  perused  initially  only  for  his  high  lord's  sake.  then  so  had  she,  he  was  aware  of  this  too.  did  his  actions  somehow  add  cause  to  her  thoughts  of  herself?  he  supposed  he'd  be  working  every  moment  they  had  together  to  prove  to  her  she  was  nothing  of  that  sort  in  his  gaze  .  everything  about  her  was  unforgettable,  how  else  would  he  describe  every  night  he'd  laid  awake  in  his  bed  longing  to  go  to  her?  how  he  was  counting  minutes  and  hours  until  he  could  see  her  next  when  he  was  tied  up  in  commander  duties.  "it  never  was  true,  just  because  you  believe  so,  doesn't  make  it  so,  my  lady."  he  murmured,  but  his  words  and  voice  were  entirely  firm.  "nothing  about  you  can  be  mistaken  for  a  wallflower.  perhaps  you  did  not  notice,  but  i  did,  of  every  male  gaze  here  that  turned  in  your  direction  when  you  made  your  way  to  me  here."  alistair  took  great  pleasure  in  this  because  she  had  been  focused  on  the  commander  that  she  did  not  notice  her  admirers.  he  doesn't  waste  a  moment  when  he  see's  the  yearning  in  her  gaze  that  reflects  his  own,  claiming  her  mouth  in  a  searing  kiss  that  left  no  room  for  doubt.  the  moment  she  returned  kiss  with  equal  passion,  she  had  told  him  all  that  he  wished  to  know.  she  was  his.  he  never  quite  denied  himself  his  desires,  but  with  her  it  had  been  a  first  he  had  waited,  showed  such  an  incredible  amount  of  patience  that  certainly  had  been  worth  it.  "i  will  always  be  here  to  catch  you,  nerina,  i  swear  on  my  life.  you  don't  trust  easily,  i  will  prove  to  you,  i  can  be  trusted."  he  pressed  another  lingering  kiss  to  her  lips,  shifting  back  enough  to  peer  into  her  gaze.  "do  you  still  wish  to  be  here?  i  wish  to  be  alone  with  you."  he  would  leave  it  up  to  her  what  she  wished  to  do,  but  he  was  certain  he  wasn't  mistaking  her  desire.

the  way  she  was  raised  had  created  a  tangle  of  memories  with  sharp  edges  and  wounds  that  never  fully  healed.  spots  in  her  soul  that  scarred  over  and  still  ached  from  time  to  time.  nerina  didn't  like  to  think  of  her  childhood,  of  the  sounds  her  father's  feet  made  as  they  echoed  through  the  halls  of  the  summer  court.  children's  laughter  wa  rare,  warm  hugs  forgotten,  and  care  from  a  parent  all  but  impossible.  staff  stepped  in,  tried  to  help,  but  it  could  only  do  so  much.  her  siblings  were  distant  portraits  more  than  close  friends,  even  if  that  changed  as  of  late.  her  father  was  a  myth  more  than  a  man,  focused  on  his  own  vices  and  alina  rather  than  the  rest  of  them.  and  her  mother  ?  a  ghost  that  lingered  in  nerina's  reflection  but  never  stayed  long  enough  to  actually  help  the  girl.  in  truth,  if  nerina  talked  of  her  childhood  it  would  come  across  as  if  she  didn't  love  her  siblings,  and  she  did  so  incredibly  fiercely.  but  love  wasn't  enough  to  save  them  from  their  childhood,  and  in  their  adulthood  it  wasn't  easy  to  navigate  one  another.  the  way  they  grew  up  all  formed  their  traumas,  and  nerina's  had  taken  on  the  habit  of  being  incredibly  guarded  and  running  away  from  everything.  so  in  her  unwillingness  to  share  her  family  with  alistair,  it  had  far  more  to  do  with  her  mind  and  her  upbringing  than  not  trusting  him.  his  request  makes  her  bite  her  lip,  and  the  only  words  she  can  share  are,  "  be  patient  with  me,  alistair.  some  parts  of  my  soul  are  hard  to  share.  "  the  admission  flies  from  her  tongue  with  an  ease  she  hadn't  expected,  and  she  hopes  that  he  understands.  she  needs  him  to  understand.  even  if  it  hadn't  been  meant  to  happen  –  if  alistair  was  meant  to  mean  nothing  to  her,  bounding  into  her  life  with  his  charm  and  arrogance,  a  tongue  slicked  with  wit  and  dangerous  intentions  –  he'd  changed  all  her  plans.  that  flirty  banter  of  his  no  longer  seemed  laced  with  bad  intentions,  but  desires  that  threatened  to  pull  her  under.  his  sharp  arrogance  turned  into  a  charming  confidence,  and  nerina  found  that  she  wanted  to  linger  in  his  orbit  just  a  little  longer  each  time.  he  wasn't  just  another  face  in  the  crowd  anymore,  not  a  temporary  thrill  to  pass  the  time.  he  was  someone  she  wanted.  letting  him  in  would  be  terrifying,  but  she  knew  she  needed  to.  alistair  wasn't  someone  who  wanted  to  tame  her  either,  he  was  someone  who  complimented  her  very  soul.  "  i  think  we're  already  doing  that  together.  "  she  mumbles,  caught  up  in  the  heightened  moment,  the  emotions  swirling  in  her  chest  taking  over.

nerina  had  always  been  a  wallflower,  even  when  she  was  surrounded  by  friends  or  family  who  spoke  to  her  there  had  always  been  a  part  that  lingered  in  the  shadows.  she  preferred  it  this  way,  safe  and  able  to  observe  at  the  edge  of  the  space.  it  was  safe  there,  quieter.  for  someone  who  wasn't  a  social  butterfly  unless  she  needed  to  act  like  one,  wasn't  happy  to  be  at  events  like  this,  it  was  quite  substantial  that  she  would  happily  endure  it  with  alistair  at  her  side.  he  changed  her,  he  saw  her  in  a  way  nobody  other  than  her  siblings  ever  had  before.  and  he  found  her  in  the  place  she'd  often  gotten  overlooked.  they  didn't  meet  on  her  ship,  or  in  a  tavern  where  she  came  to  life,  they  met  at  court  where  she  remained  at  the  edge  of  the  room.  "  maybe  not  anymore.  "  she  agrees.  her  siblings  were  used  to  her  disappearing,  they  wouldn't  look  for  her  because  they  knew  she  was  fine.  it  wasn't  a  lack  of  care  but  an  understanding  of  who  she  was.  but  alistair,  he  may  know  her  but  he  would  still  notice  anything  she  did.  and  when  they  kissed  it  felt  like  sealing  her  fate  in  a  way  she  never  expected  to  want  before.  the  taste  of  him  lingered  on  her  lips,  a  promise  and  a  challenge  all  at  once.  alistair  was  something  entirely  new  to  her,  someone  who  didn't  fit  into  her  life  but  carved  out  a  space  for  himself  that  none  other  could  ever  fit.  she  couldn't  get  enough  of  him  either,  so  when  he  deepened  the  kiss  she  was  happy  to  let  him,  the  flavor  of  his  lips  bursting  in  her  mouth  and  making  her  want  more.  she  wouldn't  have  pulled  away,  but  the  distant  sound  of  music  reminds  her  that  they  are  still  at  the  festival.  his  words  send  a  thrill  down  her  spine,  and  she  feels  herself  clinging  to  him  at  this  point.  "  only  if  you  promise  to  always  catch  me.  "  because  stars,  she  was  already  falling  so  hard.

[hyacinth--girl]

.

[hargreeves-duncan]

Can I request five x reader (takes place in s2) where reader (five’s partner) gets sent to Dallas around a year before five comes and after he does and reader sees him, she immediately tackles him on the spot and gives him many kisses. Maybe reader manages to work at a casino too

a/n: hi, thank you so much for your request! i haven’t written in a while so i'd love to hear your thoughts, enjoy!!

summary: it's been far too long since you've seen your boyfriend - he learns that the affectionate way.

warnings: reader works at a casino but there’s no actual gambling so🤷‍♀️

word count: 1.4k

You had to hand it to yourself, for someone who’d known next to nothing about life in the 1960s, you’d adapted pretty well. In no time at all, you’d managed to land yourself a job as a waitress in a casino. A very good one. It seemed in this timeline, Jack Ruby thought a casino would be a better investment than a night club - and for your part, you couldn’t say that he was wrong, nor could you complain.

The hours were long, but the pay was good enough and the other girls had taken you in as one of their own. You quickly began to excel. Strolling between the tables and flashing smiles was easy, second nature even. You developed the wit and charisma to charm the casino’s patrons without second thought, which meant you got more drinks served, more loyal customers and bigger tips to go along with them. 

Most nights the new life you’d built for yourself was more than enough but sometimes, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t help but yearn for what had come before - who had come before.

There was always a dull ache in your chest whenever you caught a fleeting glimpse of a lone, brown-haired man at one of the tables. In those moments, you could never stop yourself from believing for a slither of a second that Five had made it and he’d come right back to you.

You’d waited for him in that dingy, old alley for two weeks straight, because you knew that Five would never abandon his family like that. That something must’ve gone wrong, but it was okay because he’d come back and everything would be fine. That was what you told yourself. You were so sure he’d show up and solve everything in an instant, because that was what he always did. And when he hadn’t, it had almost destroyed you.

The first few months were gruelling, taking your first steps in the new world had taken a while. Grieving Five had taken longer. The obvious truth was staring you in the face. A year without contact from him or any of the other Hargreeves siblings? The probability was that you were the only one who had survived.

It was a truth that you were reluctant to admit, even now. One that led you to where you are today, starting yet another night shift, beside the casino’s bar, to serve a particularly rowdy Friday night crowd of patrons.

As you begin to set up, Mary-Anne, one of the other waitresses on shift, sidles up to you. Her honey-blonde curls bouncing around her ears as she leans against the bar. Trying to stifle her laugh, in her southern drawl, she says, “Has he tried talking to you yet?”

You raise an eyebrow at her, tilting your head to the side, “Has who tried talking to me yet?”

Her grin grows wider as she gestures to a table on the far corner of the room, laughing, “That little boy. Haven’t I said a million times that we oughta get tighter on the security in this place?”

She sighs, resting her hands on her hips, “I went over to him - trying to tell him that we don’t allow minors in here - and what’d he do?”

Deciding to humour her, you smile, looking down at her, “I’ve got no idea, tell me.”

She scoffs, shaking her head as she smiles, “He told me that he more than knew his way around place a place like this and that I had nothing to worry about with him. Can you imagine having the nerve like that at his age?”

The thought made you laugh. It reminded you of Five. His haggard temper in the body of his younger self always seemed to shock people in the very same way. You paused. It couldn’t be him, couldn’t it? You must be jumping to conclusions. After all this time, it’d make no sense if he was here now and yet…

“He said that?” You ask, eyebrows furrowing as you glance between the table and Mary-Anne. You squint, trying to see if you could recognise him.

A part of you felt silly and girlish for still holding out hope but this kid’s description was just too similar and besides, you were a teenager again, you were allowed to be lovesick and entirely delusional. It was practically your god-given right.

Mary-Anne nodded, loading her tray up with drinks of all shapes and sizes to cover her half of the room, “He did.”

Your eyes were locked onto the distant table, practically pleading for the kid to just turn around and let your hopes down already. Still, all that greeted you was the back of his head and the green fuzz of the poker table in front of him.

When you didn’t tear your eyes away, Mary-Anne looked you up and down, her baby blue eyes swimming with concern, “You alright there?”

Looking back at her, you sigh, already pent up at the possibility of Five being so close, “Yeah, I just… What did he look like?” You ask tentatively, biting your rouge-tinted, bottom lip between your teeth.

Mary-Anne hums in thought as she loads your tray for you, “Gosh, I don’t know - he had dark hair, was wearing a suit. It had the funniest, little emblem on it.” She says, tapping her chest in place of where it would’ve been.

Your eyes widen in shock and excitement as you process her words, “An umbrella! It was an umbrella, wasn’t it?”

Mary-Anne grins, giggling, “It was… how’d you know that?”

You couldn’t even answer her. You were already starting to tremble and hyperventilate, entirely overcome with nerves and joy and pure, unbridled excitement all at once. A year of being apart and now he was no more than a few strides away. Your smile brightens up like no other.

You slip your tray from over your head and place it down on the bar as you say, “Hey, cover for me, would you? I’ll be two seconds.”

Without waiting for her answer, you dash across the room - a flurry of giddiness bubbling up inside of you the closer you get. You tousle your hair and straighten your uniform, anything to keep your anxious fingers busy and to better yourself for something you’ve waited for for far too long.

Hearing heels coming towards him again, Five sighs in frustration and turns around in his chair, “Lady, I already told you-“

The breath feels like it’s been stolen from your throat as he turns to face you. It’s really, truly him. Your boyfriend is right there in front of you and you’ve never felt more relief than in this moment.

“Y/N.”

You’re not sure if you want to cry or scream or simply just take him in for the first time all over again. As you look over him, his piercing gaze, his dark hair and the freckle on his right cheek that you can’t count the number of times you’ve kissed, your eyes can’t help but be drawn to his lips.

God, how you’ve missed the feeling of them. You barely have time to think about what you’re doing before you’re cupping his face and pressing your lips against his once more, savouring every part of him in a way you’d never thought to before.

Your hands trail over every callous in his skin, memorising him with your fingertips, and as you pull back, Five’s gaze softens like nothing else as he smirks, “Hello, you.”

His hands reach out to cup your face, gazing over you as if he’s not entirely sure that you’re real. After all your time apart, you’re not sure either. You smile, nodding, “It’s me. It’s you. You’re here, you’re really here!”

You cup his face in return and you can’t help but press another kiss to his lips. He smiles fondly as you do. And so you kiss him again… and again on his cheek… and on his freckle… his chin… his forehead. Everywhere your lips can reach, you press them.

After a moment, he laughs weakly and reaches up to pull your hands away from his face and intertwines them with his own fingers instead, “Okay, love.” He says chasteningly, “Let’s calm down there, shall we?”

Your smile grows shyer as you right yourself, “Sorry.” You say, brushing your hair away from your face.

He shakes his head, brushing your hair back for you and then guiding you by the waist to the seat beside him, “No, don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry. Believe me, I’m just as happy to see you. Really.”

It’s him who initiates the kiss this time. He’s soft, delicate almost, in the way that he kisses you, as if each movement of his lips is a new way of giving all of his love to you and promising that he won’t ever let you out of his sights again.

[augiewrites]

"valley reverie" - sebastian

summary: the timeline of sebastian and the farmer’s relationship based on canon dialogue

pairing: sdv sebastian x farmer

word count: 2.5K

a/n: this may be my magnum opus

The sun was beginning its descent behind the mountains when Sebastian emerged from the house for the first—and only—time that day.

He shot a glance to his mother and Demetrius, who were standing at the edge of their property, looking over the valley bathed in golden light. His mother sent a small smile back, followed by a pointed disappointed look at the carton of cigarettes held loosely in his hand. Demetruis didn’t acknowledge his existence.

Sebastian knew it was a nasty habit, but he spent most of his life with not much thought to the future—he was surprised he made it this far. Maybe his life would have been different if he had planned better; if he had considered for a moment that there was such a thing as life past sixteen, then eighteen, then twenty-one. He supposed he should start to consider a life past twenty-four, but quickly dropped the thought as he placed the cigarette between his lips and continued his stroll to the lake.

He saw it then, as his lighter sparked to life and helped the cigarette take eleven minutes off his.

Someone was sitting in his spot. A humanoid blob of denim focused intently on the bobber floating in the water.

He hesitated, then decided to keep moving—his trajectory now locked in past the stranger and across the rickety planks of wood to the smaller islands in the middle of the lake. His mother had been saying for years that she needed to build something more structurally sound, but had yet to get around to it.

As he got closer, he took in more of the scene. There was a muddy bucket next to the stranger, and he noticed a couple slimy carp flopping around inside. Whoever this was, they clearly didn’t have enough experience to catch the tricker creatures in the lake.

Just as he was about to slip past toward solitude, he locked eyes with the stranger. Their bored expression quickly turned to worry.

“Sorry, am I in your spot? Robin said it was okay for me to fish here.”

Recognition sparked in his brain—his mother had told him about the new resident of Pelican Town. The words she had used to describe them flashed behind his eyes: sweet, a little lost, cute. That last one was sent his way with an exaggerated wink and met with a scoff from him.

“Oh. You just moved in, right? Cool.”

The farmer didn’t respond, just looked on waiting for an answer to their question. Sebastian didn’t gratify them with a response, instead looking across the lake at the tree line and abandoned quarry.

“Out of all the places you could live, you chose Pelican Town?”

The farmer scrunched up their mouth slightly, beginning to reel in their line. There was nothing but a limp worm dangling from the hook. Sebastian took note of the grieving look flashing on their face before it was gone in a blink.

“Better than where I was.”

Sebastian didn’t bother responding as the farmer heaved up the bucket—they were a lot stronger than they looked—and walked away without another word.

Robin smiled at the farmer with a wave and shouted goodnight before sending another disapproving look to her son.

_________________________________________

Sebastian heaved open the door of the house, exhausted from band practice. Sam was his best friend, and he enjoyed spending time with him more than he would admit, but the newest addition to the band was definitely a hindrance.

He didn’t dislike Abigail, and he couldn’t deny that she was a talented drummer, but he had been hoping for years that her little crush on him would fade away. He could only take so much of puppy dog eyes and over exaggerated laughter at his quips that definitely aren’t that funny.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts on how to shake off the purple-haired girl—more importantly, how to shake her off without actual confrontation—that he didn’t notice the farmer leaning against the shop counter until their voice pierced through. His mother was nowhere to be seen, so they had to have been talking to him.

“What? I didn't hear you...I'm busy thinking about something. What do you want?”

The farmer narrowed their eyes at him, leveling him with a glare. “You know, I get that you’d rather be listening to My Chemical Romance and jerking off to Nietzsche than interacting with a human being, but you really need to work on your people skills.”

Well, he hadn’t been expecting that.

He expected avoidance from the farmer, based on their first meeting and subsequent run-ins where they gave him a nod of acknowledgement before going back to acting like he didn’t exist.

He realized that the farmer wasn’t as timid and one-dimensional as he let himself think.

The moment was saved by Robin entering the shop room and dropping a workbench on the floor with a heavy thud. “You’ll make better use of this than I have lately—it’s pretty old,” she looked up from the dusty bench, noticing her son frozen in the doorway, “oh, hi Sebby.”

“Sebby?” the farmer questioned with a smirk.

Sebastian rolled his eyes, brushing past his mother to get to his lair.

“Sorry about him,” he heard his mother as he descended the stairs.

“It’s fine,” the farmer laughed, “he’s cool.”

He couldn’t help the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. _________________________________________

Sebastian looked down at the frozen tear in his hand with a neutral expression on his face, though his heart was quickening its pace.

“Gunther told me it’s fabled to be the frozen tears of a yeti.”

He met the farmer’s grin with one of his own, “I really love this. How did you know?”

They shrugged, “Seemed like some emo shit you’d be into.”

A breathy laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “Well…thanks.”

“No prob. I’ll keep an eye out for more when I’m in the mines.”

“The mines?,” his brow furrowed, “how far down did you go?”

“Not super deep, I think I stopped at sixty since it was getting late.”

Sebastian gaped at the farmer—who he now realized he really misjudged—as they shouldered their backpack and turned toward the door.

“Oh,” they stopped just shy of the threshold, “your code is wrong, by the way. Third line down.”

He looked to the screen, baffled, seeing that there was, in fact, a mistake in his code.

He began to ask the farmer how they knew that, but they were gone. _________________________________________

The sun was setting on the valley, and Sebastian found himself sitting by the lake’s edge with the farmer, who was reeling in sturgeon and bass with ease.

“I’m sure the city’s different for other people, but it was corporate hell for me,” the farmer spoke softly as they baited their hook—it was different than any bait he had ever seen, and the farmer had informed him that the wild man living behind their house had taught them the recipe.

Sebastian hummed, “I guess that makes sense.”

“You guess?” the farmer teased him, flicking water at his face.

He blew a puff of smoke in their face.

The farmer coughed, then began to laugh as they fanned the smoke out of their face, “asshole.”

Sebastian grinned, leaning back on the palms of his hands and gazing across the water.

They sat in comfortable silence as the farmer cast out their line and half-heartedly focused on the bobber—they didn’t really need it anymore, but liked the safety net.

“You and Sam are probably my only friends in this town.” Sebastian broke the silence, but continued looking straight ahead.

“Well I am very likable.”

Sebastian knocked their shoulders together with a scoff.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” _________________________________________

Sebastian was indifferent—and sometimes loathful—toward most events held in their little town, but tonight was an exception. It was hard to not be in awe of the midnight jellies, and he was excited for the farmer to see them for the first time.

They were perched at the edge of the dock, along with Sam and Abigail, their feet dangling inches above the water.

It was a lot colder than expected, and the farmer was bundled in his black jacket. He couldn’t help but feel bad about the sad glances Abigail was sending their way.

The farmer looked content, and Sebastian recalled something they told him at the beginning of the season—the used to be terrified of the ocean before moving to the valley.

He nudged their shoulder with his own. It didn’t take much effort—they were sitting a lot closer than he realized. A light blush dusted his cheekbones.

“I thought I saw something moving in there…” he pointed to the void of the ocean and leaned closer to their ear, whispering, “something big, something dark.”

The farmer’s eyes widened as they looked across the vast darkness before they narrowed and turned to him.

“Just trying to scare you...” Sebastian laughed.

The farmer smiled, knocking their knee against his, muttering an all too familiar “asshole.”

It wasn’t too long before Lewis sent out the first lantern, and the water surrounding the docks was filled with glowing jellyfish.

“It’s beautiful,” the farmer breathed out as their head landed on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” his eyes landed on a glowing green jelly before looking down at the farmer, “it is.” _________________________________________

Sebastian never saw the farm in its full glory—before the farmer’s grandfather grew old and passed away—but he had been there plenty of times when it was overgrown and abandoned.

He had told the farmer this as they sat on the newly installed swinging bench on their porch. They joked that they would be suing him for trespassing, since it was technically their property at the time, even if they hadn’t known it.

It was a chilly fall day, but the farmer had made a pot of coffee to keep them warm.

“I thought this was your busy season,” Sebastian lit up a cigarette and moved the ashtray closer to where he sat. It was a newer addition to the farmer’s decor. He thought about the prideful look on their face as they held it up and told him that Leah let them use her pottery wheel. It was painted with little creatures that looked like the much happier cousins of the slimes living in the caves.

The farmer hummed, holding their mug close to their face, but not taking a sip, “Yeah…a lot busier than I thought it would be, actually.”

He grinned at them, “so, you’re slacking today, huh?”

The farmer laughed.

“I’d rather hang out with your sorry ass than work.” Despite the insult, the farmer’s tone was soft and earnest. Sebastian felt his cheeks heat up.

“Could you picture me living on a farm? It seems ridiculous, but I have been thinking about it lately.”

“If I could do it, then so could you,” the farmer linked their pinky with his, “it’s a lot more freeing than you’d think.” _________________________________________

Boxes filled with Sebastian’s things lined the walls of the farmhouse, but Sebastian and the farmer lay in bed, choosing to ignore them. 

They had all the time in the world.

The farmer was twirling the pendant dangling from Sebastian’s neck, “there’s steam coming out of your ears, Seb,” the farmer giggled and smoothed out the wrinkle between his brows with their finger.

“I’ve just been thinking,” Sebastian turned his attention from the ceiling to the farmer, “The older I get, the less I'm drawn to the city. It had a certain mystique to it, once. But it turns out that was just a romantic fantasy. The city's so busy, so full of people... I don't belong there. I'm a loner.”

A beat.

“Present company excluded, of course.”

The farmer laughed, “Well I would hope so,” they tugged gently on the pendant, pulling him closer, “because you’re stuck with me.” _________________________________________

Sebastian and the farmer had joined his family for dinner, and his mother had shooed them away with one hand as she cooed at the bundle held tightly in her other arm.

The valley was coming to life, but the ghost of a winter chill was in the air. They settled down by the lake despite the cold. It was no longer his spot, but theirs.

The farmer was skipping stones across the lake when he grumbled about how being in that spot made him want a smoke.

“No one’s stopping you,” the farmer laughed.

“I am.”

The farmer still held a loose smile as they raised their eyebrows at him, “oh?”

“I'm trying my best to quit smoking now that we're married…” He avoided their gaze and brushed some mud on the palm of his hand onto his jeans, “I don't wanna die on you. It's a bad habit. I want to have a future together.”

A baby cried in the distance. Sebastian and the farmer smiled at each other. _________________________________________

The farmer was surprised to find Sebastian’s side of the bed empty when they woke up. It wasn’t a rare occasion, as they usually found Sebastian in the kitchen after a restless sleep, but he was nowhere to be found.

They couldn’t help but worry a little bit as they pulled on their boots and opened the screen door. They paused out of instinct to let the dog run out before them only to realize that the dog wasn’t hot on their heels like usual.

They had only gotten two steps onto the porch before a mass of fur and slobber crashed into their legs.

“Oh hello baby,” they cooed down at the dog as it rolled onto its back, breathing heavily out of excitement, “good morning stink.”

“Good morning to you too.”

The farmer was so caught up in giving the dog attention that they hadn’t noticed Sebastian leaning against the porch railing.

They straightened from their crouch, smiling at him as the dog whined from the loss of affection.

“I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I went ahead and fed the animals,” he pushed off the railing and took a few steps forward to fix a rogue piece of the farmer’s hair, “one less thing for you to do.”

“Thanks, Seb,” the farmer said softly, suddenly bashful, “I’m going to check on the pumpkins. Thought I could make some soup tonight if any of them are ripe.”

They took a few steps off the porch, “feel like being a country boy today? Or did you get your fix?”

He smiled, leaning his forearms against the railing, “I'll just watch you from here. I enjoy watching you.” _________________________________________

Sebastian and the farmer found themselves sitting on the porch swing once again. It was a mild summer evening, and he was looking on as a toddler played with the dog in the yard.

He tore his attention away from the rowdy scene in front of him to look at the farmer, who was curled up at his side reading a book. He felt his heart swell.

“This is so different from my old life, but I'm really starting to like it. I feel like I really belong here.”

The farmer looked up from the book in their lap, smiling.

“I don't often show it, but I'm really happy that I'm your husband. Marrying you was the best decision I ever made.”

[flwrkid14]

Tim and Danny: The Couple That Could Have Been

Tim Drake and Danny Fenton weren’t just Gotham’s it couple—they were the couple.

Tim, the poised and brilliant CEO, and Danny, the charismatic streamer with a chaotic streak, were the kind of pair that inspired faith in love. Their relationship was public but never performative. The candid photos, the impromptu livestreams where Danny would drag Tim into the frame to tease him about his “ridiculously expensive suits,” the way Tim would smile when he thought no one was looking—it all seemed so real, so untouchable.

For years, they were inseparable, the picture of what love should look like. And Gotham believed in them. People joked that they’d be together in every timeline, every universe, because how could they not be? They were made for each other.

So when Danny uploaded a new video one unassuming Tuesday, everyone thought they knew what was coming.

The engagement announcement.

Danny’s setup was different this time—gone were the familiar vibrant backgrounds and playful chaos. The walls were bare, his face somber, his voice quieter than anyone had ever heard.

“Tim and I…” He paused, swallowing hard. “We’ve decided to go our separate ways.”

What?

No, that couldn’t be right.

This was Tim and Danny. The couple everyone was convinced would make it through anything. The couple people joked would find each other in every timeline, every universe, because it was always them.

But Danny kept talking, his voice trembling as he explained—without really explaining—that they couldn’t make it work. No details, no messy drama, just a quiet goodbye that left everyone feeling like the air had been stolen from the room.

———

The Batfamily found out the same way everyone else did—through Danny’s video. They hadn’t even realized anything was wrong. The last time they saw Tim and Danny together, they’d been the same as always: teasing, bantering, comfortable in each other’s presence.

Bruce was the first to confront Tim about it, cornering him in the Manor with that familiar stern frown.

“Tim, what happened?”

Tim didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because he didn’t know either.

Danny had been the one to end it. One day they were fine—perfect, even—and the next, he was breaking up with Tim over coffee, quiet and somber, like he was grieving something Tim couldn’t see.

“I just… we can’t,” Danny had said, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry, Tim. I love you. I’ll always love you. But we can’t keep doing this.”

And that was it. No further explanation.

Now, Tim was left packing up his things from the apartment they’d shared, trying to piece together what went wrong. Danny was on the other side of the room, just as quiet, boxing up his own belongings. They didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

The space between them had never felt so vast.

“I love you,” Danny had said, his voice breaking. “I’ll always love you. But I can’t… we can’t keep doing this.”

And just like that, it was over.

And Danny? Danny knew exactly why.

———

Danny Fenton was a coward.

He’d gone to Clockwork for help after the first heartbreak, unable to bear the thought of living in a world without Tim Drake. He couldn’t undo the pain of losing Tim to the Justice League’s doomed mission, but he could relive the good years.

Clockwork had hesitated.

“This is dangerous, Daniel,” he warned, but Danny didn’t care. He didn’t want to forget Tim. He didn’t want to move on.

So Clockwork granted him his wish.

Again and again, Danny went back. Every time their relationship reached the point of no return—where Tim’s inevitable death loomed on the horizon—Danny would break up with him, retreat to Clockwork, and start over. He couldn’t bear to see Tim die, not again.

But the cycle wasn’t perfect. The cracks showed with each repetition. Danny’s breakups became harder to explain, his excuses more transparent. He could see the hurt in Tim’s eyes, the way his walls went up higher and higher with every iteration.

And still, Danny went back.

Because he couldn’t stop.

Because he couldn’t let go.

———

This time, though, it was different.

This time, as he packed his things, Danny felt the weight of what he’d done pressing down on him like never before. Tim wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even questioning it anymore.

He just looked tired.

And Danny hated himself for being the reason why.

The world moved on, but Gotham felt the loss of Tim and Danny like a phantom limb.

The bats watched Tim retreat further into himself, his work becoming his sole focus, an impenetrable wall between him and everyone else. They wanted answers, but Tim wouldn’t give them. And Danny? Danny disappeared from Gotham entirely, his absence leaving a wound that never seemed to heal. Maybe that’s why Tim would find himself on that mission, before Danny's loop restarted everything again—caught in the endless cycle of fate, unaware of how close he was to losing it all for good.

Clockwork didn’t say anything when Danny returned again, his face pale and his hands shaking. He just stared at Danny with quiet pity, his form shifting through time as if he were trying to decide what version of himself could make Danny stop.

“You can’t keep doing this, Daniel,” Clockwork said softly.

Danny didn’t answer.

Because he knew he’d be back.

Because he couldn’t stop.

Because he’d rather relive the heartbreak a thousand times than face another world where Tim Drake was gone for good.

[zabchan]

Big Moana 2 Spoilers ahead. Beyond the cut is the Samoan to english translation of maui's 2nd song for moana. (And the context it appears in)

ladies and gents of the moana fandom, thanks to the effort of samoan speaker @yuki685 on youtube, and my buddy @rykierykerman for hooking me up with the text and screenshots

what i'd like to discuss with yall today is not only sharing the translation for this song, but some of the character implication this has for maui, especially when you look at how his OG legends depict him.

LYRICS:

(Maui singing in Samoan):

Aue, aue, le faigata / Aue, aue, how difficult it is

Ua pa'ū fa'anoanoa / Falling into sadness

Aue, aue, fa'ataga ola / Aue, aue, please allow this life to continue

Lenā La'u talosaga / This is my prayer

---

(E manu malo) / May there be blessings

(Opataia Foa'i and Te Vaka singing in Tokelauan)

Tele tele mana e o te vavau (Vavau) / Great, great power of mana

Tau ke tu ke Manumalo / Fight, stand tall and be victorious

Ke Manumalo / Be victorious

---

(Grandma Tala)

Aue, aue, mana e o te vavau / Aue, aue, the power of mana

Tau ke tu ke Manumalo / Fight, stand tall and be victorious

Ke Manumalo / Be victorious

Ke Manumalo / Be victorious

Ke Manumalo / Be victorious

_____

The piece that made me flip my shit when I read it was the confirmation that this song is a PRAYER

when I first heard this song before the movie I assumed it was a funeral rite. a dirge, followed by a choral revival. during the film, when maui and then the ancestors sang it over moana's lifeless body and I had no subtitles to go on, I thought perhaps it was a spell, or maybe a lullaby from Maui's far distant past, then taken up by the ancestors as a comfort to the grieving Maui- then back to the spell theory as Moana awoke to the powerful music and emotion channeled by tala and her crew.

even my first google translate search of the lyrics missed the word prayer, which goes to show that AI translation is no match for native human insight.

Maui's song being a prayer is a friggin big deal.

Maui's stories span the width & breadth of the pacific islands, and each culture arising from those island tells variations on that legend. some emphasize his rebellious side, others his inventiveness, still others his drive, his humor, his ingenuity, his pride. But a common theme in most is that this man, this demigod- he does NOT get along with the majority of his ancestors or the gods. Even when he's not outright malevolent to them, he's tricking them or undermining their effort. He's usually stubbornly self-sufficient, if he gets help from someone divine, its usually because he tricked them into doing it. Maui does not beg, he does not plead. (at least, not with any lasting sincerity). he's a charmer, a schemer.

But here he is, his tattoos stripped away, his hook gone, his beloved Moana growing colder and colder- he's out of tricks. he's out of time, out of power. he's as helpless as the day he was thrown into the ocean to save her. rock bottom, figuratively and literally.

he does the absolute last thing he can, born of pure desperation. pure grief, pure need. He prays.

he prays not expecting an answer. he prays, knowing that the gods and all his family would relish the chance to tell him to fuck all the way off. he prays, even if to no one but moana's lifeless body.

i often joke that maui is bad at feelings. but really what i mean is that maui is bad at regulating his feelings. he represses them as hard as he can, denies them, wraps them in humor and when that fails he straight up tries to out run them. its a maladaptive coping skill he's had to pick up over his immortal 3000 year lifespan because otherwise, he'd be wallowing in endless grief as friend after friend either dies or lives long enough to become his antagonist. boy has some serious trauma built up and no good examples of how to handle it in a healthy way.

until moana.

moana provided an example of how to be vulnerable without being weak. a safe space where he could share his heart and be met with understanding and validation. we see him mature, even fractionally, and in the sequel he's not nearly so closed off. he worries openly about moana, admits his concerns about the mission, even returns moana's favor from the first film and gives her a sincere, supportive pep talk.

but all his progress in processing his emotions seems to backfire in this moment. the first time he'd opened his heart to a fragile mortal friend and here he is, exactly as he feared, devastated at her passing. He had invested real time and care and attachment into this human and he's utterly shattered that its all coming to an end so fast. that he'll never experience her voice or her smile or her wit ever again.

she's precious to him. he cant bear to lose her. his sadness in more crushing than the ocean he's surrounded by, denser than the rock he kneels upon. even if he got his powers back, even if he pulled up a million islands, if Moana isn't there to land on them...there's no point.

less than 10 minutes ago he was ready to die for her.

3 minutes ago in movie time, maui faced his own mortality. powers stripped bare, down to his last ounce of strength, frying in impossible lightning heat, he kept struggling. the first look he gives moana is fear, raw and unfamiliar on that handsome face. but in this penultimate moment, his eyes meet moana's. his grimace gentles, eyebrows lift, gaze softens into a regretful, heart melting smile. he finds small comfort in seeing moana for one last time, seeing her unhurt, hearing her call his name. the rope slips from his grip, and somewhere in the milliseconds between lightning flashes, he relaxes, relief skitters across his features. perhaps he thinks "ahh, at least she's ok." "at least she'll outlive me". perhaps he has a moment of acceptance for his fate, knowing she's proud of him, knowing he did his very best. maybe he thinks ,"this way ill be sure to meet her again, in the afterlife. its for the best."

or maybe, just maybe, he thinks

"see you out there, moana."

but now, 3 minutes later, its once again the worst case scenario. any relief he had in that last smile at her is obliterated in the wake of his grief. its once again the worst case scenario. he's not thinking now of the curse being broken or his hook or his tattoos. a world that she's not in, whether he be human or demigod, is not a world he can stand to exist in. he cant do this without her. he needs her.

so he digs deep inside himself, through the pain or losing her, through his own family trauma and antagonism towards authority, and pride, to beg, on his knees for help from a higher power. its unclear to us if he's intending to pray to the gods or to his own ancestors or both or neither. to anyone who can help. to anyone who will listen.

and its neither of those sources who answer, at least, not as directly as matai vasa or tala do. its moana's kin, her loved ones, (eventually including the ocean), who answer from the great beyond. he looks them in the eyes and they weep with him. they sing power over moana and the impossible happens.

(salacious handholding occurs)

the stars are put back in maui's eyes, the sun back into his sky.

does this mean...

yes.

his tattoos are still cooler than hers.

even when theyre mad at him. (same, little guy, same.)

bruh.

now kiss

[cupcakedieabetes]

DPXDC PROMPT: DEMON TWINS, BUT DANYAL NEVER REVIVED

Imagine Danyal never getting revived by the Pits after he had to battle Damian to the death. Ra's instantly destroys the body at the last breath that Danyal takes because he knows that his daughter will have a moment of weakness and he wasn't willing to let a weak one live. I'd like to put them around the ages of 5-6 ish.

Damian thought it was normal, and treated everything as fine because it was always expected of him. His twin was the weaker one after all. All emotional and soft despite the training. He has never called his brother "Akhi" bc he was weak and refused to acknowledge him as a brother

Meanwhile, Talia was grieving her son. Danyal who was just like his father where the people in League would call weak because he was reluctant to kill and was very soft at heart. That's when she made plans to remove her only remaining child from the League and overtake her father.

So Damian was sent off to his father.

Now, Danyal Al Ghul has been reincarnated into Daniel 'Danny' Fenton. He was born and raised in the Fenton's family and has no idea about his past life.

Now, I kind of want Danny to get turned into a ghost at a younger age. Maybe age 10 so Damian would be 16, so there would be an age gap of 5-6 years.

Damian has lived with the Waynes for years now. When he was younger, he didn’t and had never regretted killing his brother. After all, was it a surprise that the moment he entered the Manor, he tried killing Tim? He had already killed one brother, more over his own blood, so what is another, if not an inferior one due to having no relation to him at all?

But now, he regrets it so much. But it's been years, and he barely even remembers Danyal's face. He didn’t tell his family bc he didn't want them to grieve over a family that was long dead. That was practically destroyed the moment he died, so there was nothing left of him. He has no memories of his brother either, only his name, so how could he offer comfort to the other bats when he couldn’t even tell some stories about him either?

The bats are now tied up by a cult, and Damian was in the center of the sacrificial circle.

The cult was summoning someone of Damian's deceased family or something like plot convenience for a summoning. To use them to fight against the bats bc how sad it would be bc they would have to fight against a dead family member that was controlled by them. Damian was struggling bc it could be anyone from the League.

Then, to his horror, it was his brother who was summoned. He was suspended in the air in a fetal position asleep, but he appeared transparent with a tail.

"Danyal" He said, horrified. He appeared older for some reason, but the instant he was summoned, he knew it was him.

Batman, who was trying to reach for Damian, stared at the sleeping ghost. He appeared similar to Damian and his mind did the mental math. He didn’t know exactly when did the ghost died, but judging by his age, he looked to be about the age Damian came to the Manor. And judging by how anguished Damian looked, he came to the right conclusion that the ghost was Damian's brother, his son.

He mourned. This was simultaneously the oldest and the youngest he would have ever seen.

That is also what the rest of the bat thinks and comes to the conclusion of. They broke out of their restrains due to fury and stuff, and the circle is erased, the ghost gone before they had a chance to use him against them.

Meanwhile, (pre-Ghost King maybe) Danny just jolted in bed, confused about what happened bc he had a feeling he turned into a ghost. But he shrugged it off and went back to sleep.

[ir-abelas-vhenan]

Don't mind me, just revisiting the plot (again) and dying over this line (again). (These screenshots are going to be abysmal, but you'll get the point).

"To stop now would dishonor those I have wronged to come this far."

Yeah he's talking about Mythal (earned or not) and Felassan and Lavellan and Varric...but the way it applies to HIM, too, is what absolutely guts me.

Long post ahead...

Solas realizing that Lavellan doesn't care about how others see him or want to use him under the inquisiton, that HIS motivations as he has shared them are enough for her and worth defending against those who would tell him he's something he isn't. Solas, for the first time, being confronted with the realization that one these new elves he does not see himself in will still go to bat for him.

"You came here to help, Solas, I won't let them use that against you."

(Is he duplicitous? Yes. But intent on working against Corypheus? Undoubtedly).

“How would you stop them?”

“However I had to.”

“...thank you.”

Solas grappling with the fact that it wasn't just a one off, that this Dalish woman being faced with "hypotheticals" he's desperately been trying to get her people to entertain is jumping in head first, pushing back and disagreeing with him but never treating him worse for their differences and always admitting when he's helped shape a changing perspective. Solas daring to ask for help and marveling at the fact that he receives it, that the same woman who asked if it might some day be possible to live alongside spirits, who did not immediately shoot down his critique of THE CHANTRY REFUSING TO ACKNOWLEDGE SPIRITS AS LEGITIMATE BEINGS (GAH), who did not laugh at him for saying he preferred their company most days, this woman, is going to drop time and resources during war time preparations to personally help his friend.

And then, when he is too late and has once again failed someone he considers a friend, he disappears within himself, where he has always gone to exact punishment for the weight of the lives he believes he's betrayed. It almost works, too.

Psych. Lavellan doesn't want him to grieve alone, to stare at the place in the Fade where his friend used to be and think of all he should have done differently.

“The next time you have to mourn, you don’t need to be alone.”

“It’s been so long since I could trust someone.”

“I know.”

“I’ll work on it. And thank you.”

And still she unbalances him, accepts him, wants more. Solas is sharing a personality that brings him the closest he has ever been to his spirit form, and it is ENOUGH for her. Existing as he has always dreamt of is all takes to earn her loyalty, respect, and eventually love.

But does she stop there? No. She doesn't chafe at this random apostate who speaks with certainty and unapologetically delves into a past he believes worth preserving, even at the cost of questioning her culture as it currently stands.

The very woman he once thought of as a mistake that HE unleashed upon the world is asking to be a part of his, not because of what he can bring to the table, not because she needs a right hand man, and certainly not because she thinks he has some well of power and intelligence critical to winning over enemies she’s willing to join for "supervisory" purposes (cough cough hi Mythal). She bears the weight of choices that can and will lead to death, to pain, and when it wears on her she relies on him, not for solutions but so that at the end of it all she might smile with someone who knows her heart and the good she tried to do amidst a sea of terrible options. She wants to be known, no inch of her unturned, and worse, she thinks she knows him. But how could she? This is no longer who he is, it is merely the remnants of what he destroyed to make a world at Mythal's whim.

“You’re an admirable man. Not many people know who they are the way you do.”

“Thank you. Both for saying that and…for seeing that. Few in this world can see me instead of just seeing a pair of pointed ears”

She. Sees. Him. Every part he slowly is realizing he wants to be known for and even a few he thought he could hide. And then he gives it all up. Because he woke to a new world where spirits and elves and mages were so far removed from the role they played in Arlathan that it can only be yet another mistake he caused and must fix, never mind the fact that the dwarves have forgotten why they fled underground millennia ago in the first place.

The friend who tore him from the world he loved, urged him to take physical form? She is dead, too, never mind the fact that she ignored his urging for a different path, nevermind that he killed and tore and hurt in her name because otherwise what was losing the part of himself he loved for?

"A spirit becomes a demon when denied its original purpose.”

“It hurts. It always does, but I will survive.”

“You bound it to obedience, then commanded it to kill. That is when it turned.”

He may no longer recognize where the Dread Wolf ends and where Solas begins, but if he gives up now and permits himself the chance to remember, the pain he caused himself and others means nothing, because he did it all for Mythal and in his final discussion with her, regardless of what Veilguard tries to convey, she does not release him from his position as her agent.

And maybe that's part of why I'm so angry, because EVEN BEFORE TRESPASSER, the fragment of Mythal that ends up in Morrigan could have freed him, but she does not.

"I am sorry." He whispers.

"The failure was mine," he tells her, voice trembling. "I should pay the price."

Silence.

And do we get that "what we did, we did together" psuedo-fake ass-absolution, the one that, if given enough time and safety to put himself first he may have realised he doesn't truly need to pursue the things he deserves, that make him feel finally like himself again? No the fuck we don't.

"As am I, old friend." She murmurs.

Looking through the lens of Veilguard, this isn't an apology, it's a condemnation. It's Mythal tormenting him one more time, twisting the knife deeper, agreeing that it is Solas alone who has brought them to this point, who deserves to be punished. And then she reminds him what they are to each other, what he is supposed to be to her. What he must become again.

"It isn't abuse if I ask," Cole says in his personal quest.

"Not always true," Solas shoots back.

So he recommits to the friend he gave up his nature for, he refuses to let himself remember that Lavellan learned the full truth of his identity and still begged him not to mourn alone. Even so, he still cannot quite forget.

Var lath vir suledin. Our love will persevere.

I wish it could, vhenan.

And so he pushes onwards, spending almost a decade denying himself his true nature and regretting that he ever gave it a chance to come through because now he KNOWS that this world is different and a little broken, but it's a world he could be a part of because of the woman and the friends that made a place for him. It is a world that doesn't necessarily need to be restored as much as it might need renovation, but that is not the world Mythal demanded of him when she let him kill a remaining piece of her. And any solution but that means the hurt of taking a body, of hurting the titans, of time and time again being called on by one evanuris to fix a problem they all caused, was for nothing.

And a Pride of that magnitude, that sinister an origin, has a long, long way to fall.

And then that same uppity little shit has the audacity to tell him it's not too late, that he can turn back.

He kills again. He kills again. He kills again.

He kills a friend.

He fails to prevent the Evanuris from wreaking havoc a second time, wrenches another innocent into his war, and when they ask him about the woman he calls vhenan, he feels the mask stifling him begin to suffocate. But he never lets it fall, because to surrender now is to place her broken heart atop the pile of regrets he's been holding up like Atlas crumbling beneath the weight of the world itself. Because he still thinks it selfish to want the things that make him feel like himself again, so they need to be taken off the board entirely.

"To stop now would dishonor those I have wronged to come this far."

If he gives up now, his entire corporeal life has been a betrayal of many, but worst of all, he will have ruined himself for nothing.

But then she's there. A little older, a little sadder, and still looking at him like she did the night he almost broke and instead carefully removed any suggestion that she had ever belonged to anyone but herself.

"Didn't you hear me?" Her every action screams as she kneels to meet his gaze like he did the day he took her arm (another failure, another sacrifice he cannot let be for nothing).

The tombstone in the fade is his greatest fear, but it is not his fate. Why? She will not let it be. It cannot be his din'anshiral if she is not beside him.

Lavellan may not have understood the depth of exactly WHEN Solas first came somewhere foreign and uncertain to help, but she never once failed to keep her promise. She refuses to let his initial desire to do good be held against him any longer. And when she sees him accept that not-quite-absolution-definitely-more-of-a-power-play from the god that saw what he was capable of and molded him into a weapon, she finds her in to make sure he doesn't walk off alone to mourn again, never again will she lose him to the expectations others have of him. No doubt she wants to find a way to sink the fingers of her good hand into that spectral visage and tear it away like he wishes to do to the veil. But she is not here for Mythal. She is here for her heart, and for the man who has been carrying it since the moment her lips met his in the fade ten years ago.

“No orders to kill, no conflict with its nature, no demon.”

She forces him to see that the only remaining betrayal is to lock himself away one more irreversible time. All that's left to lose is the piece of himself he cherishes more than his greatest victories: all that he has to gain comes from making sure the love that was given to him at Skyhold, in the moment where Varric saw all he was capable of and still tried to bring him back home, was not given in vain.

"There is no fate but the love we share." She tells him as soon as Mythal's too-little-too-late platitudes send shudders through his body.

Banal nadas ar lath'ma vhenan.

It will not be so terrible a place, so unforgivable a betrayal if he can finally dare to put himself first. If, unlike that night in Crestwood, he finally gives in not to break, but to make himself whole.

There's a codex entry in Inquisiton about a spirit of wisdom who is summoned by researchers and only after a very pleasant conversation do they realize they made a mistake and never successfully bound the spirit in the first place, that it chose to speak with them of its own accord.

"I am not certain the spirit would have talked so freely had it been shackled at the time," writes the author of the entry.

I keep thinking about this alongside the datamined line of Morrigan saying, "And so, the Dread Wolf is stopped by, of all things love."

But that isn't quite right, is it?

Because in the end, of course the Dread Wolf could only ever freed by, over everything, love.

[deputyrook]

In Her Absence: Lucanis/Rook/Spite.

A03 link! Female Crow Rook x Lucanis. Lucanis POV.

Takes place when Rook is in the fade prison, because 1) I love angst and am a big softie; and 2) I wanted to try to work out the logistics of what the team did in Rook's absence, and how they managed to reach her.

---

In the four days that Rook’s been gone, the Veilguard has devolved completely into infighting.

Taash wants to know why they can’t just “break into the fade and pull her out.” And no one really wants to hear Emmrich’s overly technical explanation as to why that’s not feasible, least of all Taash, who’s grieving and angry. Davrin keeps saying that it should have been him instead, which isn’t helping, and no one even wants to think about what’s happening to Bellara right now. 

Harding is dead. Bellara is kidnapped by Elgar’nan and Maker knows where. They’re a mess as a group, angry and hurting. And Rook...

Rook’s gone.

Neve is the only person who remotely has their shit still together, and for that at least, Lucanis is thankful. 

Because he absolutely does not have his shit together. Maybe the others can’t tell, since he’s not arguing or yelling or breaking down, but his thoughts are spiralling so badly that he’s barely said a word in three days. All he can think about is Rook.

He loves her. He loves her. And she’s lost somewhere, trapped and alone, and they have no plan whatsoever on how they’re going to get her back. 

He never told her. It’s tearing him up inside. The thought that he might never hear her voice again. Never hear her make some stupid pun, or hear her teasing, or hear her give them all one of her legendary pep talks. Never hear her laugh again-

“Lucanis,” Neve’s voice is firm, dragging him out of his despondency, “You need to focus.” 

How can he possibly focus? “You’re right,” he says instead, voice tight, because Neve is right. Standing around brooding isn’t getting them any closer to getting Rook back. What he needs to do is act- but how?

Solas is a God, and even he couldn’t break out of that prison. This isn’t the kind of problem Lucanis can solve with a dagger. He can’t stab at the prison walls until they crumble away- but Maker knows if that could work, he would stab until his daggers shattered and his body collapsed. 

What is he supposed to do? What can he do? How can he help them, when all he knows how to do is kill things?

No. Spite says to his left, his voice hard and determined, No! We will find Rook. Won’t leave them there. 

Neve puts a hand on his shoulder, and gives it a squeeze. 

“When has Rook ever been content to sit and wait to be rescued?” Neve says, and he lets out a long, even exhale, because it’s exactly what he needs to hear. “I’m worried too. But Rook would chew off her own leg to escape a trap. If there’s a way to get out, she’ll find it. Have some faith in her. In all of us- and in yourself.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice quiet. After a moment, he adds, “…Someone should let Viago and Teia know.”

That, at least, is a burden he can bear. 

But the days stretch into weeks. Elgar’nan seizes control of an already broken Minrathous, and even Neve has a hard time keeping herself together after that one. 

Lucanis is in no place to offer comfort. Without Rook’s leadership and steadfast optimism, the lighthouse has gone dark, leaving them all ships to smash into a rocky coast. He won’t soon forget the way Viago’s eyes widened when he told him what had happened to Rook, nor the look of horror that flashed across his face before his expression settled into stony devastation. 

Strangely, it’s Spite that keeps him from falling apart completely. He refuses to accept that Rook is gone. Every time that Lucanis’ mind whispers to him that this happened because he wasn’t good enough, and that he’ll never see Rook smile at him again- Spite cuts him off with an angry, defiant hiss of NO. 

Rook is strong. Rook is smart! Rook will not allow herself to die in a prison. She would not let you die in prison, either. We will not let her. We will find her. We will find her!

He repeats the words in his own head, holding onto them like a buoy. Right, yeah. She’s good at prison breaks. It’s enough to make it through the day.

Sometimes- although Lucanis would never admit it to the others- he realizes that Spite is the one who has been moving his body,  keeping him working while he’s been stuck in his mind, ruminating and aching with missing her. It’s been Spite that’s forcing him to eat, to bathe, to sleep. Spite is keeping him alive. 

Will not let you do this to us. Rook needs us.

It’s that thought that ultimately gets Lucanis to snap out of his despair. 

It’s not over yet. He agrees, finally. Rook needs us. 

Finally! Spite snaps back.

---

First, they try to make a copy of the dagger. Something that will be able to slice through the fade prison, so that they can cut Rook out of it. That’s how Solas left, after all- by tricking her, and stealing the dagger to cut himself free. 

But a dagger of pure lyrium isn’t exactly easy to replicate. Brilliant as they are, Emmrich and Neve can only do so much. So after days of meticulous work, they end up with a dagger that looks identical to the real thing, but doesn’t actually work. Great.

Next, Emmrich hypothesizes that in order to get to Rook in the fade, they’ll not only need to figure out how to access the fade prison, but also to figure out where the prison actually is, physically within the fade.

It is, apparently, not as simple as yelling out “ROOK? CAN YOU HEAR US?” from the top of the Lighthouse, which has been Taash’s strategy. Spite, too, is ready to start just travelling through the fade, for as long and as far as he needs to until he finds her. Lucanis is doing what he can to support the group, cooking the meals and making sure Emmrich and Neve are able to stay on their feet.

Word gets to them that Solas is in Minrathous, keeping the rebellion alive. The news poisons Lucanis so thoroughly with hate that he nearly can’t stomach it. Spite has been so determined to save Rook that Lucanis almost forgot how it felt when he was really, truly spiteful. 

Hearing Solas is pretending to be a hero in Tevinter, after consigning Rook to take his place in a prison? Yeah. That’ll do it. The things he’d wanted to do to Illario after his betrayal had left him conflicted. He is not remotely conflicted about what he wants to do about Solas.

What they want to do. Spite agrees with him on this one. He hurt our Rook.

Finally, Emmrich and Neve work out a real plan, with the help of the Veil Jumpers. It’s based largely on luck, but it’s something. It’s a sliver of hope. It’s enough to keep them all going.

First, they need to find a spot where the veil is particularly thin, where the fade peaks through the seams of reality. Then, they need to use an artifact of the Veil Jumper’s to do… magical, fade, location-y… stuff. Emmrich actually uses a bit of Rook’s blood for this part, located on some stained clothes that Assan had dug out in her room. 

Blood magic. Ordinarily, Lucanis would be opposed. But no one says a word against it. They are all desperate for this to work. 

The first day they try it, it doesn’t work. They make some adjustments, and try again.

The second day, it doesn’t work. They make some more adjustments, and they try again.

On the fifth day, Spite says it in his ear, voice sharp with excitement.

I can smell her- I can smell Rook!

Lucanis’ heart feels like it’s about to burst from his chest. He’s yelling, “Rook?” into the rift before he can stop himself, but the team’s caught on already that this isn't like the other times they’ve failed to make their plan work. The rift is spitting and spasming sparks of magic, and they can see through it in a way they’d never been able to before. They can see a light in the rift.

Emmrich seems to throw caution entirely to the wind, rolling up his sleeve and plunging his arm into the rift. The energy is wild, unrestrained, and they’re all calling out to Rook, reaching and trying to get to her.

“I’ve- I’ve got her!” Emmrich yells out, and Lucanis swears he can see Rook’s wavy form on the other side of the rift. Like looking through a fishbowl, or the walls of the Ossuary.

He reaches in too and grabs her hand with Emmrich, and they yank. Rook stumbles out, collapsing onto the ground.

“Varric’s dead,” she says, voice hollow and wobbly.

Neve shoots Lucanis a confused, concerned look, but he’s too relieved to care. He’s grabbing at her shoulders, pulling her into a tight embrace, and his throat feels like it’s closing up on him. Tears prick at his vision. She’s safe. She’s alive, she’s free, and she’s safe. She’s back with them.

They all want to hug her, and make sure she’s actually, really okay. But Lucanis gets to first.

Told you. Told you, told you! Spite repeats, ecstatic, She’s back!

“Are you okay?” He murmurs, pulling back and looking her over critically, trying to see if she’s been hurt or if anything has changed. But no. It’s just her. Like not a day has passed.

Rook nods slowly, and Lucanis smooths a hand down her hair, before cupping her cheek in his hand. All he wants to do is hold her, but he can’t be that selfish and drag her away from the others. Not yet, anyway. 

Pulling back, the others take the moment to rush in, making similar careful assessments and doting over Rook. The last few weeks have been almost unbearably difficult. There’s been little to celebrate. But this is joy again. Hope. With Rook back, not everything is completely fucked.

Davrin pulls her into a crushing hug, and Taash joins in, and they’re all hugging and crying a little. The trip back to the Lighthouse is a blur, with Rook thanking the Veil Jumpers and swearing to them she’ll get Bellara back.

How she can already be so determined, so ready to act, Lucanis will never know. He is, as he has so often found himself, in awe of her ability to forge forward, the light cutting through the swathes of dark that seem to surround them.

Spite is just about ready to try to crawl out of their skin in impatience, but they have work to do first. They all brief Rook on what has happened in her absence, and learn- horrifically- that she’s somehow been brainwashed into believing Varric has been alive, for months, by Solas.

Not for the first time, Lucanis feels anger and spite bubbling in his veins and vows to himself that he will not let Solas get away with hurting Rook. God or not. He finds it hard to fathom why he would mess with her head like that, if he wanted her to succeed in at least stopping Ghilan’nain. It reminds him too much of the mind games that his captors would play on him when he was in the Ossuary, tormenting and confusing him for no other reason than to break him down. Was that what Solas had tried to do to Rook, too? To break her down mentally, so she’d be easier to manipulate and trick?

It seems to take forever, but finally, Lucanis gets to see her alone. She’s lying down when he enters her quarters, her eyes closed, but the words spill out of him before he can even consider leaving her to rest.

“I cannot believe we found you,” he says, voice soft. All of the fear he’s felt for weeks, the doubt and the despair that Spite had helped him just barely keep at bay… the relief, now, is making him lightheaded. 

“I’m a little surprised too, honestly.” It’s a testament to the gravity of the situation that she’s not trying to make light of things. The words aren’t meant as a joke. 

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he admits.

“And I didn’t think I’d ever get out of there,” Rook tells him in turn. It leaves him cold, to think of her there, alone and believing she might never be found. “How do I know if I really did? This could be... more of the fade.”

Lucanis realizes then, that he’s never seen her vulnerable like this before. Emotional, yes, but lost? Frightened? Rook has always been the solid centre of the group. Unmoving, unyielding, steady. Utterly dependable. 

It’s almost surprising that she’s not actually invincible. She’s so consistently been their guiding light. But more than shock, more than anything else-

He wants to protect her. He wants to hold her until her worries melt away, to chase away the horrible memories of the last several weeks and see her smile at him. He wants her to know that he won’t let anything hurt her. He wants to kiss her until she feels safe and warm again. 

So he does. Kneeling down in front of her, holding her hands in his own, Lucanis reassures her she is real. There’s so much he wants to tell her, that he’s been praying he’ll get the chance to say. But now that Rook’s in front of him again, he can’t seem to find the words for everything he’s been feeling.

So he kisses her. So, so gently. And when he keeps kissing her, pressing her back against the chaise as she wraps her arms around his neck? It seems Spite is right there with him, because the wings unfurl right in that moment, curling around them both protectively, like he wants to help shield them from anyone in the world who might try to hurt them.

[blasphemousclaw]

ok I keep seeing takes that shadow of the erdtree fumbled the hornsent because they made them too unlikeable and unsympathetic and enabled all those “total hornsent death” weirdos but I wholeheartedly believe that the writers have been portraying the hornsent sympathetically from the very beginning. like just because the story spends time on the darker aspects of hornsent society doesn’t mean that it’s arguing that Marika and Messmer were in the right? in fact I think it’s pretty obviously arguing the opposite? 

some of the first sights you’ll see in the Shadow Lands are the scorched ruins, which are surrounded by hornsent grave markers — wooden stakes each with a horn affixed to it, horns being seen as sacred objects in hornsent society. the victims’ shades (by the look of them, ordinary people; farmers, merchants, and laborers) can be found wandering around the Shadow Lands and are often non-hostile; they can be found kneeling, weeping, stacking small stones, or clasping their hands in silent prayer.

there’s a courtyard in Belurat completely filled with hornsent graves, and it’s also the place where Queelign invades you… the sheer number of graves here is horribly sad, and the fact that Queelign attacks here even after all those people were killed honestly makes him seem like an absolute monster

just look at this menace. knocking over the graves of the people he murdered. shame on you Queelign

further into Belurat there’s a very small, missable room where you can pick up the Dried Bouquet talisman: 

“A quaint bouquet of dried flowers, offered to a small grave. Raises attack power when a spirit you have summoned dies. The sorrow that flows from the untimely demise of a loved one is a tenderness shared by all, regardless of birthplace.” 

this description is pretty directly saying like, “hey, these people are human beings just like you who grieved the loved ones they lost, who couldn’t sympathize with that?”

my personal favorite examples here are the scorpion stews, which are given to you by Hornsent Grandam after defeating Divine Beast and wearing its head: 

Scorpion Stew: “Scorpion simmered in a black soup. Traditional meal of the hornsent. Boosts physical damage negation temporarily and gradually restores HP. Once made with love by a certain elderly woman for the family table. Having long gone cold, this soup gives off a rank, sour smell.” 

Gourmet Scorpion Stew: “Scorpion simmered in a black soup. An exquisite dish chock-full of mouth-watering scorpion claws. Boosts physical damage negation temporarily and gradually restores a great amount of HP. The thoughts and feelings of the cook melt and blend into the stew, but those who can distinguish the taste of love are few and far between. "Partake, partake, until thou art sated.”” 

how can you claim that the hornsent are dehumanized when grandma literally cooks you a traditional hornsent meal made with love!!! how heartbreakingly sweet is that!!! especially with the dialogue you get from Hornsent if you share the stew with him:

“What’s this? Do you think me in need of alms? Ah… but this dish. Tis fare o’ the tower. I remember fondly this kin-clad scent. …Brings back memories I’d all but forgot. This, by my troth, is but a dismal copy. Indeed, I think it rather plain to see… things once broken can never be the same.”

we’re presented with the image of a delicious traditional meal that hornsent families used to cook and eat together, and then we remember, Hornsent Grandam is all alone, she has no one but us to cook stew for, and Hornsent has no family anymore to share his stew with. 

before wrapping this up I want to mention Leda’s dialogue about the hornsent because I think it describes the situation pretty well (surprisingly well maybe, given what she’s like): 

“Long ago, Queen Marika commanded Sir Messmer to purge the tower folk. A cleansing by fire. It’s no wonder the hornsent holds the Erdtree in contempt. That aside, man is by nature a creature of conquest. And in this regard, the tower folk are no different. They were never saints. They just happened to be on the losing side of a war. But it’s still a wretched shame.”

the hornsent were not a perfect society. far from it. but no society is perfect, and the hornsent need not have all been saints for what happened to them to have been wrong. no person has the right to act as judge, jury, and executioner for an entire civilization of human beings. if people want to take the very worst of hornsent society as representative of their entire population and argue that every single one of them deserved to die then I’m afraid that’s their problem, because the game absolutely does not agree with them