#and carrying him to his grave and carefully burying him alone all with JUST HIS HANDS

[roserocksrapidly]

You ever think about the progression of vashwood's relationship through hands and wolfwood's "I'm no longer fit to hold you guys" and "hold them in your arms and don't let go!" and how wolfwood forces vash's hand to point a gun at his head and how vash has one hand that is a nuclear bomb and the other hand was lost to a brother and replaced with another weapon and how wolfwood often carves detailed little birds with his hands and the way they reach for each other and just barely miss throughout volume 10 and how vash's hand digs into wolfwood's back when they finally do catch other because he's just realized what's going to happen and how they meet with a handshake and part with a toast and how a gun is something you have to use with your hands and how vash and wolfwood are both living weapons and how a bird does not have hands but wings and how this story ends with vash reaching out a hand and sprouting wings. I do. I think about it a lot 🥲

[spacebarbarianweird]

Widower Astarion Headcanons

Ok, we wanted pain - I bring you pain. @astarionsbeloved @wickedwitchofthewilds @sleepykitty21 @starlight-ipomoea

Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion isn't an idiot; he knows you are mortal, a topic you've discussed before.

Jokingly, he suggested you find a vampire lord, but even if one were found, Astarion would never allow you to turn into a vampire.

"It hurts, it's painful. The existence of a vampire is miserable. I will never do this to you."

The price of mortality is death.

You made him promise not to step into the sunlight and to keep living, carrying memories of you into the future.

You die as you always wanted: in a glorious battle, or safe and comfy in your bed, or brought home by Astarion to a place you grew up in.

You die with no regrets, sorrows, or complaints.

Astarion is numb; all the feelings he learned how to express are gone with your last breath.

He dissociates; it's not him, not now, not real—he is somewhere else.

He hides in the shadows, safe in the darkness and lonely.

Unfortunately, Astarion has never learned how to be alone; you never left him on his own for a long time.

He realizes he can't meditate; there is a mental block preventing him from doing so in your absence.

It's even worse since he can't give himself a break.

Eventually, some friends of yours give him a Potion of Angelic Slumber. He sleeps for a few days in a row, without dreams and nightmares.

When he wakes up, the first thing he does is look for you, and then he realizes you're gone.

In this moment, Astarion breaks down, crying and cursing in Elven and Common.

His back hurts as if there are flesh wounds; the cold grip of darkness holds his undead heart. The tears burn the crimson eyes.

He mourns, grieves, wishes to be dead, but the given promise and the innate desire to survive prevent him from going into the sun.

For the first few years, he lives as a hermit in your shared house, starving himself by not hunting and spending months on your side of the bed without moving at all.

It's not life; it's an existence, miserable and hopeless when he imagines you alive.

A wake-up call is sudden but almost divine.

Deep in his thoughts, he finds himself in his own grave in Baldur's Gate, seeing you six feet above him as young as you were back during the tadpole adventure.

"I didn't get you out of this grave to let you bury yourself. Come on, you promised to me to live! Then, live! This is my last gift."

He wakes up, starving and cold, goes up and leaves for hunting. He hunts for a few days, satiating himself with animal and sentient beings' blood.

As his mind returns to him, Astarion washes and repairs his clothes, brushes his hair, makes himself look decent.

He ravages through your things, collecting them carefully in one place. You wouldn't want a shrine, so he sells the things he won't be able to use anymore.

He puts on your wedding ring (now he has two identical rings) and also a necklace you always liked.

He re-sews one of your gowns into a shirt; now, it feels like you are still with him.

Astarion leaves his first forever home and starts his own journey, taking the role of a sole adventurer - a monster hunter, a protector of the weak. He has always had this heroic side in him, just never admitted.

The most difficult thing is to stay alone; people praise him for saving someone from a monster, but they fear mingling with a vampire.

Sometimes, Astarion cries in his tent, cursing the evil gods for taking the only good thing he ever had.

He constantly talks to himself, imagining you standing beside him.

He actually enjoys these one-sided monologues because he can pretend you are still here.

Years pass, memories of the happy life fade. Astarion joins groups of adventurers here and there but always feels off.

Eventually, he finds the strength to live up to his promise, to enjoy what he has.

He explores places he has never been to, does things he has never done, and hears stories he has never heard.

He makes friends, mostly among long-living creatures. "Oh, my young vampire friend! It's been a while!" A wizard elf greets him with open arms. "I am 400 years older than you, idiot," Astarion chuckles and returns a hug.

Most importantly, he preserves the memory about you, paying bards and storytellers, talking about you at campfires, and putting you as an example of kindness and bravery.

Once, Astarion hears a song, "The One Who Saved Baldur's Gate." The motive and words are nice, but the more he listens to it, the more in shock he is.

This song known to every decent bard in Swords Coast is about you, a distant memory, a long-forgotten story.

He has fulfilled your promise, made sure you live in people's hearts. This day is bittersweet; he cries his eyes out, listening to that song over and over again.

But he feels happy, the first time in years.

With decades to pass, Astarion creates the Blood Guild - a union of vampires and dhampirs who prefer to hunt monsters rather than be ones. They also keep an eye on other vampires who are a danger to mortals, especially those who make spawns and thralls out of innocent victims.

Having immortal undead friends feels nice; having friends who understand his issues, too.

He finds himself in the position of a mentor; vampires come to him for advice and emotional support.

Then he meets a person, a runaway spawn, angry with what happened to them, determined to do whatever it takes to break their chains. Astarion agrees to help; they constantly bicker about every single thing—views on life, personal experiences, shared interests.

This new person is annoying, obnoxious, brave, and lovable. Suddenly Astarion realizes he doesn't want to stay in his tent alone; he doesn't want to speak to himself anymore.

The long-forgotten feeling of loving someone aches in his undead heart, but now it's not his turn to confess.

"You know, I've been manipulating you into helping me. I am sorry. if you want, I will go away."

"You are a good person, Astarion. No one is like you. But you deserve honesty and something real."

Astarion smiles back and hugs this person.

This relationship is different; the runaway spawn is nothing like you, different in every way possible—personality, appearance, behavior, views on life, everything.

At first, there is profound guilt, as if he betrays your memory by having another romantic relationship.

They talk, sharing the darkest and saddest parts of their immortal lives—crimes they had to commit, lives they lost.

Eventually, Astarion tells them about you—how wonderful you were, how kind, how brave, how much you meant to him. His new love smiles and takes away a strand curl from his face.

"So, this is the person I must thank for you?".

He helps his new love to break the chains by killing the vampire lord.

Returning back, Astarion starts talking about the future.

Adventures? Of course! His partner is also a spawn, they need healing and freedom the same way he needed many years ago.

And then - who knows? Life is full of cruel wonders. Especially, for immortals.

--

Tag list

@tragedybunny @caitlincat-95 @tallymonster @astarionsbeloved @lumienyx @fayeriess @elora-the-slutty-songstress @veillsar @astarion-imagine-archive @micropoe10 @starlight-ipomoea @herstxrgirl @theearthsfinalconfession @ashrio20 @not-so-lost-after-all @vixstarria @wintersire @marcynomercy

[luxaofhesperides]

my sister, who died young, takes up the task

Yoo Joonghyuk is/was an older brother. Yoo Mia is/was his little sister. What is a brother if not someone to mourn a sister?

also on ao3. inspired by this poem by the same title.

In his sleep, his little sister arrives. She is never older, forever young, always his little sister.

He watches in silence as she smiles at him, cheeks round with youth and hair falling out of her pigtails. It's been a long time since he's fixed her hair. She sits next to him, holding an apple, and a small knife appears in her hand.

The blade of it shines softly. It is not a weapon here. It is just a tool that begs no blood.

She peels the apple carefully, the skin of it curling off in a thin spiral. The flesh is white and firm, ripe, juice dripping onto the floor and filling the air with sweetness.

The peel drops away to her feet. She lays the bare apple in her palm and goes to cut it into smaller pieces, pressing the blade down to her small hand.

Stop, he says, I'll cut it for us.

No, she answers, Let me do this one thing alone.

Yoo Joonghyuk does not cry when he wakes. This grief has visited him so often he's run out of tears to greet it with.

It has been a very long time since he has cried.

Yoo Mia is a distant memory now. She is a regret he revisits endlessly, hoping that this time he will see her through to the end of the scenarios.

He saves his sister and leaves her behind and outlives her each time. He's long since accepted that he will never get to see her grow up.

It's routine to find her after the first scenario, to hold her as she cries, and then hide her away as he continues ever onward until they're both dead again. The first few rounds had been the most difficult; in some, his companions were able to help him weather the loss of her, to push him forward until they could go no farther. In others, Yoo Joonghyuk cradles her small body and picks up his sword, then opens his eyes to that train carriage, back at the beginning of hell.

He has outlived her in a thousand lifetimes. The ache of losing her never leaves, even when she is by his side again, unknowing of how many graves she's laid in.

In this round too will he bury her.

This is the only way he can love her: with a shovel.

Let me do this one thing alone.

Yoo Mia will always been small in his eyes, even in his dreams. There's a plate of apple slices between them, and she steadily works her way through the last half, cutting thin slices to arrange before him. He is not accustumed to being still, to letting the weight of action rest on someone else's shoulders.

He has cooked for her all her life. After death, she repays the favor with a single apple.

The kitchen of their old apartment is bare and empty. He hasn't seen it in many, many years. The layout of it escapes him, but the breeze coming in through the window is familiar, and the doorway still has the notches in the wood where he marked out how much she had grown each year before the scenarios began.

She's growing even now, in these grief-driven dreams, cutting fruit the way he always did for her. She never got the chance to do this while alive. He wonders if she resents him for not teaching her more.

Mia, he says soundlessly.

She passes the plate to him. The knife is gone. I did it better than you, oppa. Don't you think so?

You did, he says. You did.

"I didn't know you had a sister," someone says. He can't remember who; the rounds blur together in his head, and everyone he loves has died so many times he doesn't know who still remains alive with him for this moment.

"She's been dead a long time," he replies. "There's no point in talking about her."

He walks away before the conversation can continue. He's met many people over the course of his regressions. Some refuse to think about their loved ones dying, who carry on as if they never had anyone to lose. Some only live through the memory of those they lost, living in their stead. Some say the names of everyone they loved and lost as soon as they wake up just to keep some part of those people in the world.

Yoo Joonghyuk is surrounded by ghosts who will be alive again come next regression. He mourns every version of them, misses them while they stand in front of him, wishes he never met them at all. He has been all of these people after the end of the world, mourning in any way they can while still carrying on.

Yoo Mia died in his first regression. She's been dead ever since.

I held your corpse, he thinks, looking down at her as she shivers and clings to him, staring out at the destruction of Seoul. I've known you dead more than you've been alive.

She dies again and again and Yoo Joonghyuk keeps fighting and dying and digging graves.

There is no better master in loss than him.

He outlives his little sister. No cruelty the Star Stream forces onto him is worse than that.

He never moves in his dreams. It is only Yoo Mia who moves, who breathes, who is alive in those brief hours of sleep. She's barefoot and clean of blood, walking around him in a kitchen that no longer exists.

Here, he is the one whose limbs are stiff and cold, helpless as his little sister cuts him an apple and insists one doing this one thing alone.

Before he was a regressor, he was an older brother. The greatest responsibility in his life was his little sister. She never did anything without him; even apart, she followed in his footsteps, walked where he walked, did as he did. Who else would teach her how to live? Who else would show her how to tie neat bows and wash the dishes and oil the squeaky hinge of her bedroom door?

She never grows older, but here, she grows up. Yoo Mia doesn't need him for this.

Here, she says, pressing an apple slice into his hand. Eat. You're the one who told me never to go to bed hungry.

He can't move. The sticky juice of the apple rolls down his palm, pools between the lines etched into his skin, drip down his knuckles.

When did you grow up, Mia? he asks.

She smiles at him in a way that he hasn't seen since the very first regression, free of pain and terror and stress. I've always been grown up. You just weren't ready to see it.

How could I, he wants to say, but his voice disappears. How could I see you grow up when I keep watching you die young?

She has no answer for him. She can't hear him anymore. Yoo Mia walks out the door into an apartment long gone and he's alone again.

In the future, Yoo Joonghyuk wakes up. He spends a few minutes staring out the window to a Seoul slowly being rebuilt, the sun rising in blue skies over streets free of monsters.

Even now, he can't believe that this is real. The scenarios are over. They overcame the final wall and can finally be in peace.

He does not live with the rest of Kim Dokja's Company, but lives close by. Yoo Mia is with him, alive and unburied, in an apartment fixed up and given to him by other survivors. It is not the same place where Yoo Mia grew up, but it's familiar. It's normal. It's something lost returned to them.

She's already up when he enters the kitchen. It's hard to believe that she's grown up. She's taller than he's ever seen her, and she's cut her hair shorter, electing to put it up in a ponytail the way Lee Jihye does.

There's a plate of apple slices beside her where she stands at the counter, cutting up other fruit.

Familiar grief surges up in him, a tidal wave over his heart. There's no place for it here, nowhere for him to put it down.

She turns her head and smiles at him, pushing the plate of apple slices across the counter, closer to him.

They used to have a footstool in the kitchen, he remembers suddenly. She could never reach anything on her own and complained about not being able to get snacks until he bought something to help her. She has no trouble reaching the high cabinets now. Yoo Joonghyuk can't remember the last time she asked him to get something for her.

"Come here," he says. The words tumble out of him without warning. He hears them distantly, as though they came from a dream.

Yoo Mia squints at him curiously, but puts the knife down and obligingly walks over.

He guides her to the doorway, positions her so her back is flat against the wood, and takes a pencil left forgotten on the table to mark her height in a solid line. She's up to his chin now. He never once thought he'd see her get so tall.

She doesn't need him for much anymore, Yoo Joonghyuk realizes. She can grow up properly now. She has a future now.

Perhaps it's finally time to let her go so she can reach it.

[which-qsmp-egg-would]

The First Memory

-----

Tequilla wakes up slowly in the dim morning light, his sibling still fast asleep next to him. It's laying nearly sideways in their bed, clutching a blue bunny stuffie that has been here far longer than he has. Their leg twitches as they dream. He's been happy, living here for this past month.

Has it really only been a month? He feels like there should have been some kind of celebration for that milestone.

He's been getting those faraway feelings for as long as he can remember. Which, admittedly, is not that long. His earliest memory is waking up in that forest all alone, wander for several days foraging for scraps, running and hiding (where did he learn those skills? Who taught him?). He wonders if his memory has always been bad. Poll told him that she hasn't noticed him forgetting anything lately, so maybe he just bumped his head. That's how it goes in the cartoons. You just bump your head a little and get amnesia, right? Then your friends show you something familiar and every memory comes back all at once.

Maybe they've been doing it wrong or something. The child's drawing, the bedroom, even his own grave haven't stirred any memories. Not even the items he's carried in his bag for weeks have stirred anything. Sometimes he considers getting rid of them, they're junk items anyways, but there's a weird gut feeling that makes him feel icky if he tries.

He wishes he knew what happened to them. He hopes they know he's okay. They seemed to care about him.

He wishes he missed them.

Tequilla paws at his eyes and sniffles. He's got to be the big kid now.

His mind feels fuzzy from sleep, eyes bleary.

From the kitchen, a voice emerges, loud and happy and full of love.

"Tequilla, my little peanut, come get your breakfast!"

Carefully, he slides out of bed. Poll's papa doesn't make breakfast very often, so this must be a special treat. Maybe it's for that celebration? He really feels like a month is cause for celebration.

The click of his claws on the hardwood echos in his mind as he pads down the hallway. The light from the windows startles him temporarily, and he rubs at his eyes to make the feeling go away. "Stardust," he mumbles, "what d-did you make for br-breakfast?"

...

He blinks a few times at what he's seeing.

There's a woman in the kitchen. Her curly brown hair cascades down her face and up into a bun, held up by a ribbon bow. Her face is full and wonderful, with golden eyes and large curling horns adorning her head. Her ears droop like his, but with soft brown fur on the inside and outside. Her outfit is overwhelmingly pink, consisting of a large poofy dress with many layers of tule and puffy short sleeves, frills decorating the ends of the sleeves and collar. Around her waist, nestled under her breast, is a large pink ribbon. Her feet are bare, but her wrists are adorned with large golden bands. She's a fat woman, something she always took pride in. She's only a few inches shorter than Dad.

"M..." Tequilla reaches out towards her, taking a short step forward.

She smiles and laughs, extending her hands out in an offering of a hug. "C'mere baby."

"M-momma!" He sobs, running to her with reckless abandon, burying his face in her plush dress.

She hugs him close and wipes the tears from his eyes. "What's wrong baby? Did you have a nightmare?"

Tequilla nods, leaning into her hand. "Momma I mmissed you s-s-so m-much." He struggles to speak through his sobs.

She tuts, crouching down to his level. He feels like a hatchling again, crying over breaking his marker by accident. "I'm not going anywhere, peanut."

"Wh-where did you go? Why can't I ffind you?" He asks through tears.

She cups his face. "I haven't gone anywhere, baby, I'm right here. That must have been some nightmare you had, huh?"

"I guess." He mumbles. "Where's... Wh-where's..." He trails off.

"C'mon golden boy, I've got your breakfast over here." She pats his shoulders, stands up, and pulls him along behind her.

He looks around the room, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Everything feels tilted in his mind's eye, slightly too bright. Too saturated.

"Momma? Where's... Wh..." His tail wraps around his leg. "Why can't I remmember their n-names? Why can't I r-remember their f-faces? What happened to mme, Momma? Where did I g-go?" He shakes her arm, tugs on her dress, does anything to get her to turn around and look at him.

Finally she turns around, a gentle smile on her lips. Her face is obscured now, like it's been scrubbed away by a sponge and covered over with marker. The bright world around him peels and bleeds away like an old painting, leaving just him and the woman in a dark void.

He hugs her tightly, eyes closed so he doesn't see what used to be her face. She strokes his hair as everything melts away.

Slowly, the world around him returns. He can feel the tears streaming down his face, the cold tile under his claws, the lights of the early morning. He squeezes tighter onto whatever he's holding onto.

What is he holding ont-

Tequilla jolts back, looking up at a concerned Stardust. His eyes catch onto their goatlike horns.

His cheeks burn. "S-s-ss-s-s-" He covers his mouth. "S-sorry, Stardust," he says with a little more concentration. "I d-d-don't know what that was."

It looks at him in the same way it looks at Poll when it communicates.

"S-sorry, I still can't understand you. I'll-I'll go wake up Poll."

Stardust grabs his hand, stopping him in his tracks. It holds his hand between two of it's own. It presses his hand against his heart, and it's own where a human heart would be.

He hasn't figured out how to understand Poll's papa yet, but it's meaning seems clear.

"Th-thankss, D- Stardust."

He walks back to the bedroom, tracing the markings on his arms.

[dany-elwen-ffxiv]

To the Past

What kind of questions did I have? What could I even say? Ask? Think? Feel?

I imagined my mother sitting across from me as I settled back into my room in Sharlayan, the fireplace roaring. Alone, but embracing the temporary solitude, I sank onto the floor and stared at the rose-colored cushion adjacent to me.

Imagining my mother was sitting there, with me, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the crackling of the wood.

What questions would I even ask her?

Korven and I had enjoyed our time in Foundation. It was a great way for us to bond, and I loved seeing where he grew up and learning all about his family. But Arslan's visit weighed heavily on my mind, and even though I had to tell Korven about it, it still didn't feel like it came out of my mouth in a normal way.

Because nothing about Arslan's visit was normal.

The illness that he had described my father dying from...was the same illness my mother died from as well. A rapid loss of memory, lucidity, and mobility...pale yellow skin...and then death.

Is that my fate? To die like my parents before me?

Holding onto fear wasn't healthy, but it was the only feeling I had. Arslan wanted me to go to Dalmasca - he wanted to bring me back to the resistance, to the people who had loved my parents. He wanted me to experience the culture I'd never known.

And he'd had my portrait.

Standing up, I went to my dressing table, on which lay the tiny portrait Arslan had given me. It was unmistakably me. My father had carried the portrait around with him all this time.

Why didn't you tell me, Mother? Why didn't you tell me that my father was a hero? That I was the daughter of two heroes?

At that moment, there was a knock on my door, and it was the AEON clerk that manned the front desk. "Madam," he said with a light bow, "your mysterious Au Ra friend is here to see you again. He's waiting outside."

Arslan. Speak of the devil. "I'm coming," I said hastily, grabbing my shawl and wrapping it around my shoulders before rushing outside, where that looming, familiar shadow stood at the gate, just like previously.

"Arslan," I said in greeting as he bowed and kissed my hand. "I was just thinking about you."

"And I you," he said with a kind smile, a little sparkle in his eyes. "I hope you've decided to join me to Dalmasca. We leave in three days."

"Yes," I said quickly, not even hesitating. "But I have someone who wants to join me," I added, speaking of Korven. "I also may...I also may request that other members of AEON join me."

At that, Arslan's brow shot up. "Surely, there's no reason to alert your friends," he assured. "It is a long journey, and there's no danger. Garlemald is no more."

"Yes, but..." I paused, hating myself for pausing. I was unable to describe what I was feeling.

Fear. Fear, fear, fear.

He seemed to have read my mind. "I know you have so many questions, and only those in Dalmasca can answer them," he soothed. "And we can find a way to bury your parents together."

"I'll need help exhuming her," I stammered.

"Of course," he said, his voice still soothing. "I'm sure your friends at AEON can help with that, too."

I nodded, my mind whirling. "I don't like the thought of my mother being on a different continent than me," I admitted weakly.

He paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. "We do not have to bury them together," he said softly. "There's no need to disturb her current grave if it is not your desire. YOU, and YOU alone, are Yyelexi's child."

I wrinkled my brow. The thought of my mother lying buried for all eternity on a different continent from her love made me feel sick. Surely, she would rather be buried in her homeland, where she grew up, where she fought against the empire, where she gave birth to her daughter.

"We'll exhume her," I said decidedly, rubbing my nose. "I just will miss her."

"Of course," he said quickly, leaning against a nearby pillar and studying me. "And make no mistake, you can bring as many friends as you like. This is your personal journey, a journey into a past that you don't remember or know at all. If bringing friends would ease your worries, then of course they can come."

I nodded, swallowing, and then looked into his eyes. Kind eyes. They were so concerned. "I'll assemble AEON and those willing will meet you at the Sharlayan port in three days," I said quietly.

He smiled brightly at that. "Good!" He gestured to the AEON headquarters behind us. "I look forward to our journey together, Danaela. There will be so many questions, and hopefully more answers." He paused and then grinned wider. "And worry not about airfare - I will cover every penny."

I blinked. The generosity of this man was astounding. "Thank you," I whispered in shock.

"No, thank you, Danaela," he said with a deep bow before turning on his heel to leave. "You have given my life purpose again."

And as he disappeared into the foggy afternoon, I stared at the place where he'd vanished for some time, before heading back to my room, my mind awhirl.

And I took out my linkshell, and made a call.

[damistrolls]

Goodbyes

helo ive been sitting on this noboru write for a little while

its gone thru a lot of revisions but i think im finally happy, so!!! here it is!

now read my silly self-indulgent drabble, boy

(google doc link)

—

“I loved you once, you know.”

The statement hung in the crisp air for a few moments. Noboru took his eyes off of the grave, glancing over his shoulder, as though he feared someone was listening to him speaking to a plot of disturbed ground. After he confirmed he truly was alone, he rolled his shoulders casually, and looked back at the hunk of white marble sticking out of the soil. 

“I don’t know when that changed, if it ever did. We were distant towards the end, and we disagreed on more things than we agreed on, but…”

He trailed off, words failing him. Noboru sighed and glanced over his shoulder once more, before carefully kneeling down on the damp grass with a grunt. He always felt his age most when he sat or stood. He remembers a younger Magpie telling him he made old man noises when he moved, and now he can’t help but notice every time he makes said ‘old man noises’. 

“… You’ll have to forgive me. I don’t have anything written and practiced. I didn’t want to come here with some kind of speech. I just wanted to talk, I suppose, since I refrained from saying anything during the funeral. Everyone there already wanted me dead, the last thing I wanted to do was rock the boat more.” 

The stone in the ground was silent and still, if a bit wet from the rain that had come down the previous day. Noboru nodded in the direction of the grave.

“Magpie insisted on the marble. I thought granite would be more practical, since it lasts longer, but he said you would want it to be beautiful.” 

Noboru goes quiet for a few moments, waiting. It was as if he was expecting a response, though he knew none would come. This was probably the most personal death he’s experienced. Every troll loses a friend or two when they’re young, but losing a long-term matesprit, even if an estranged one, was different. His lips press together in a thin line as he tiredly looks down at his lap.

“He asked me not to touch your hive. There isn’t much I can do if the Empire chooses to reclaim the land, but for now, it’s as it was. Though, it may be collecting some dust now. I think the only one who’s been in and out of there is Magpie. He still keeps things in that room of his, even if he doesn’t ever sleep there anymore. Apparently, he’s staying with this teal. And Lupo, of course.” 

The violet plucked a blade of grass from the ground, toying with it in his fingers idly as his eyes stayed trained downwards. 

“I’d like to say he’s happy, but frankly, I wouldn’t be able to tell. I don’t know how to talk with him. I feel as though I lost my opportunity to ever meaningfully be a part of his life. Yahiro was more of a father to him than I was. I wish I could blame you for that, like I blame you for everything else, but I can’t.”

Noboru’s chest ached and his throat felt tight, but he simply rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and straightened his back.

“… There’s too much I could say to you, Fansia... I could fill a novel with all of the things I’d like to say. But I don’t have that kind of time, and I’m sure you have some kind of afterlife to get on with. You never wanted to hear me whine about this-or-that while you were alive, gods know you give even less of a damn now. So I think now’s a good time for me to… say goodbye. Officially. To stop… dragging what happened around with me. It’s a weight I’m tired of holding.” 

He hesitated, before patting the pocket on his chest, making sure something was still in there. Noboru then retrieved a small, shiny object from the pocket, holding it out as if the marble grave could see it. 

“They buried you with yours, but I won’t let them bury me with mine, no matter how much I loved you. It’s been a few perigees already, and I need to stop carrying this piece of you around with me if I ever want to move forwards.” 

The grass near the stone was still loose enough that he could dig at it with his nails and pull back just enough to drop a gold ring into the dirt. It was a waste, but Noboru would have felt worse selling it. He pressed the grass back down over the ring. 

“… I’m not going to visit after this. You had a tight grip on my life these past thirty or so sweeps. More, if you count the time we spent when we were younger, with me trailing after you like a lost pup. I’m done centering my life around you, Fansia.” 

Noboru carefully got off of his knees, standing with some effort. He brushed the grass off of his shins and sighed. 

“Despite everything, I hope you’re happy, wherever you are. You take care.” 

And after a moment of hesitation, Noboru turned and left. 

[livsoulsecrets]

Kate&Bruce Fic - Will you be my only witness to this bird in flight?

@fandombingo Prompt from Wonderland Bingo: “White Rose”.

July Break Bingo 2024 Prompts: “You’ll get used to it” and “Hurt and grieve but don't suffer alone”.

Fandom: Batman (Comics), Batwoman (Comics)

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Content Warnings: Grief, Death

Summary: Kate is struggling to get through her mom and Beth’s funeral. Bruce tries to help.

Bruce pressed a hand against her shoulder, bending down a bit to talk to her.

“Nothing I say will make this better. So I won’t say anything. If it’s okay, I’ll just stand here with you until you’re ready to leave.”

Read on AO3.

Kate had always hated the cold.

She didn’t like how the snow would stick to her clothes when winter came around and the dampness it left behind when it melted away.

When she was little, her mom would wrap two blankets around her and hold Kate close to her chest until she stopped shaking when the cold became too much.

Kate was so cold now.

She wrapped her hands around her middle, shrinking into herself to try and retain some of her body heat.

It didn’t carry the same warmth as her mother’s embrace.

It was painful to think of her mother, who now lay on a grave in a dark Gotham cemetery, alongside Beth’s smaller pit.

Kate had asked her dad why they needed to bury her mom and Beth here.

He just told her Gotham was their home, and that was the only place they could rest.

All Kate could think since then was that she hated this city even more. Not only for being an endless source of cold and darkness, but also for keeping her mother and sister away from her forever, for she knew her father would leave Gotham behind the first chance he got.

Still, not even the cutting breeze could move her away from her post across the graves of Gabi and Beth Kane.

Her father had tried to get her to leave, but she didn’t buckle.

Finally, he had allowed her to stand there, keeping vigil over half of their family as he guarded her from afar.

Kate didn’t know how long she stayed there, willing Beth and her mom to come back to life with pleading eyes and stray tears.

The cold became bitter, and the scarce sun had already disappeared when soft footsteps sounded from behind her.

“Hi, Kate.” Bruce greeted.

She didn’t turn around to look at him, so he stepped closer, coming to stand by her side.

They hadn’t seen each other in so long. Probably since before they left the country to move to Belgium.

After her aunt Martha died, her dad retreated away from anything that reminded him of his sister, which included Bruce.

He had grown taller since she last saw him, and, with his baby fat gone, Bruce looked more like his father than ever before.

Still, when he smiled weakly at her, his eyes were kind, just like Aunt Martha’s used to be.

“I’m so sorry, Kate,” he told her, hands in the pocket of his coat.

She didn’t know how to answer. Countless people had said those words to her in the last few days.

Not even once did they make her feel better.

For some reason, the fact Bruce had just repeated them hurt even more.

They were family. Her mother always said family would be there for you when things got bad. So, shouldn’t Bruce know better? Shouldn’t he tell her something that would make all this less awful?

Kate hugged herself, shivering both at her own bitterness and the breeze. Her father wasn’t used to picking out her clothes, as her mother usually took care of that, so he had picked out a sleeveless black dress for her to wear to the funeral.

Not only a bad choice for the weather but also for Kate’s comfort. She had endured it anyway, not having the heart to bother him with something so meaningless.

She heard Bruce moving beside her and then, the weight of a coat being wrapped around her shoulders.

He had stripped off his own jacket to place it on her.

His face was carefully neutral as he fixed the coat in place. It was far too big for her, but it made her feel a lot better than the dress she was wearing. The warmth was more than welcome.

Bruce pressed a hand against her shoulder, bending down a bit to talk to her.

“Nothing I say will make this better. So I won’t say anything. If it’s okay, I’ll just stand here with you until you’re ready to leave.”

She didn’t know if those words were what she had been craving before, but they settled her all the same.

Kate leaned into Bruce’s hand, and he allowed her to bury her face into his side.

“Thank you, Bruce,” she mumbled.

“Of course,” he answered. “That’s what family is for.”

They remained there long enough for the cold to work its way through Bruce’s jacket and turn her fingers even paler and colder.

It couldn’t have been comfortable for Bruce to keep her company in such a weather wearing just a button-up, but he didn’t complain.

Eventually, she took pity on both of them and murmured, “I want to go back to my dad.”

He nodded and offered her his hand. She took it, and, together, they began the walk back to the funeral home.

“Does it ever go away?” She asked and tightened her hold on Bruce’s hand. “The pain?”

He didn’t answer right away. “I’ve never lost a sibling, Kate, so I can’t speak to that.”

Kate wanted to say Beth was more than a sibling. She was half of her—the better, kinder half she needed by her side.

Instead, she remained quiet. Bruce had said so himself—he couldn’t have understood even if she tried to explain.

“I’ve lost my parents, though, and what I can say is that you’ll get used to it. It’s not much help, I know, but you can survive this pain. You’ll learn to live with it. I promise you that.”

She stopped a few feet away from the massive doors. Kate could make out the portraits of Beth and her mom, surrounded by the most beautiful white roses, from where they stood.

She dreaded walking back inside only to be granted more condolences and pitiful looks.

Kate looked up at Bruce, who seemed to loom over her, so much bigger and older and wiser.

“I’m scared,” she confessed.

Bruce kneeled down, his eyes finally at her level.

She found no pity in them.

“I know,” he conceded, still holding her hand, “it’s okay to be scared and hurt. What you need to remember is that you still have your dad. You don’t have to suffer alone.”

Bruce looked very uncomfortable uttering those words, almost as if he wasn’t sure he believed them completely, but Kate didn’t care.

She’d take whatever comfort she could from him—from whatever was left of her family.

Kate threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, willing herself not to cry again.

He patted her back and didn’t let go until she stepped away.

She shrugged off his coat and returned it to him. “I’m ready,” she told him.

He nodded, seeming to understand what she meant beyond her curt words.

Kate was ready to face the sea of people and the grief that awaited her.

Bruce reached for the pocket of his jacket and took out a note. He placed the neatly folded paper in her hand.

“This is my number. If you ever need anything, you can call. Anytime.”

He made no mention of her dad, she couldn’t help but notice. Kate understood why. Her father would never be keen to accept help from a Wayne, even one with Kane blood.

This was Bruce’s offer to her and only her.

“Thank you, Bruce.”

“You’re welcome, Kate.”

He stood back as she walked in—straight into her father’s waiting arms.

[mctna2019]

Every time I watch that scene in mctna where Seon-ho starts sobbing in Yeon's room after seeing that embroidery Yeon couldn't finish for him, I want to cry with him.his acting in that scene is amazing but However, when I watched the scene of Han-soo's crying for his sister, I never forget his heartbreaking screams and that full of sadness and despair eyes.there was a moment when I was attracted to Do-hwan's acting again and many times after seeing that scene. hearing his screams and seeing his sadness made me cry too.he is wonderful.since this series was comedy until ep 10 and even after that, I never expected it to be so sad, yes, I have never been sadder for any series than mctna, but this scene made me sadder than entire of mctna. (Of course, if the humorous atmosphere of the series didn’t come back in ep 15, this sadness would always remain in my heart) this scene is beautifully executed. he carries his only sister's body alone to reach their burnt house.the place where the happy memories of his youth and his family are buried. he lost himself because of the sadness of losing her and suddenly he sees their house unburn like before and he runs home seeing his sister who is as happy and lively as before.after a long time of longing, he sees his family together as happy and warm as before, and just when he wants to go to them, they disappear. he cries and screams from his broken heart . then he begins to dig the wet soil alone to bury his sister.as he places his sister's lifeless body next to the grave and rests her head on his own lap, he caresses her head and taps him on the shoulder slowly like she's asleep. (this moment always breaks my heart in the worst way)when he buried her and carefully arranged all the stones around his grave and gently caressed the soil on the grave, I breathed a sigh of relief the moment he passed out by the grave.he was really lonely and just when he found the only and rest of his family member ,he lost her in the worst way without he couldn't do anything.

[virgils-screams]

Artistic Forgetfulness

Sleepxiety

So apparently when I get serotonin in me I write stuff like this, so again, enjoy some fluffy (maybe ooc) Virgil and his caring boyfriend.

_______________________________________________

"O bury me not on the lone prairie." Virgil sung below his breath, trying desperately to recreate the skeletal hand he had for reference on his laptop. "These words came low and mournfully." Virgil continued, unaware of how little he had actually taken out of his work to care for himself.

"From the pallid lips, o' a youth who lay on his dying bed at the close of day." The pencil glided across paper, lines across lines and work atop work. He had to get this art assignment done, otherwise, his professor would once again fuck him over.

It had been hours since he had moved from where he sat in his computer chair, hunched over his desk. Water forgotten beside him, and every other need of his left in the dust while he focused on his current task.

"O bury me not, his voice failed there." Everything that Virgil did that was not drawing was autopilot, he wasn't really in control of that, just what his pencil was allowing to pour onto his paper. "And we took no heed, o' his dying prayer."

Virgil carried the tune, his voice sometimes becoming inaudible, leaving him mouthing the words as he focused on making a detail, before he would clear his voice and start again slightly louder.

"In a narrow grave, just six by three., O we buried him there, on the lone prairie."

Virgil hissed as he tried to unlock his fingers, leaving his hand aching. "Dammit." Virgil grunted, finally allowing the ballad go unnoticed while he dropped his pencil.

The door flung open, causing Virgil to jump at the abrupt noise. His neck snapped towards the door, being greeted by Remy's signature sunglasses and leather jacket.

"SURPRISE, BITCH!" Remy yelled, stepping into his boyfriends room. It was only a moment or two before Remy crossed the room to see Virgil, tutting softly as he approached.

Virgil grimaced at the arrival of his boyfriend, embarrassed to be caught in this state after the last time. Remy had watched him and would make little comments everytime he would be sitting there for more than an hour without moving or making plans to care for himself. It was sweet, but Virgil doesn't think that he's worth all that trouble, especially when Remy has his own workload to complete.

"Virge, how long have you been sitting in here like this? You must be aching all over. " he sighed, crouching in front of Virgil and watching as he finally unlocked his fingers. Remy carefully took Virgils hand in his own, softly rubbing his joints.

"Uhm.. Not that long?" Virgil lied with a soft blush blooming across his face caused by Remys soft attention.

"Mm, so we started with the cowboy ballads today did we?" Remy placed light kisses along his fingers before pulling away, deciding to hold his hand instead.

"Well, uhm.." Virgil chuckled awkwardly. "Yeah?"

"That's a no then." Remy stood, lightly tugging on Virgils hand to get him up. "C'mon Addams."

Virgil sighed as he stood. Remy wasn't wrong, his back throbbed as Virgil moved around. His neck popped and thrummed along with the rest of his tired and aching body. It seems Virgil did have a problem when it came to remembering to take care of himself.

Virgil followed Remy. He was led him down the hallway to their bathroom, stalling to stop in front of it. "Alright, I'll get a snack and a cold water," he smiled and let go of Virgil. "It'll be in the living room, alright?" Remy waited for Virgil to nod before leaving Virgil alone. Humming to a familiar tune as he walked away.

Virgil stretched some more as he walked into the living room, eyes landing on Remy as he set out the snacks he promised he would, followed by water and a couple of his own energy drinks.

Remy noticed Virgil a few moments later, a smile replacing his judging frown.

"Rem, you didn't have to." Virgil murmured. He walked over and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend. Relishing in the feeling of warmth and stability. "I don't deserve you." Virgil sighed contentedly into Remys chest.

Remy could feel Virgil relax beneath him while he returned the hug. "I know, I'm amazing." He laughed, resting his head atop Virgils.

Virgil scoffed and pulled away, only to be yanked back by Remy. "Let-" Virgil grunted out playfully, trying to pry himself from his boyfriends grip. "gO- aHh-"

Remy chuckled when he abruptly let go of Virgil. Causing him to stumble backwards for a few seconds before Remy caught him again.

Virgil pouted, smacking Remy as he set down with his own soft laughter. Remy picked up a pop tart packet, tossing it to Virgil before sitting down beside him.

"We're almost out of those sundae flavored ones." Remy commented, pulling the tv remote out of thin air and picking an episode of the office to watch.

Virgil hummed as he settled in, snacking on the food and drinks, becoming less and less sore by the minute. God knows how long he had actually spent at the desk before Remy found him. Six hours? It didn't matter. He thought to himself as he sunk further into the couch, leaning on Remy who had his arm around Virgils shoulders.

"Mmphs," Virgil smiled with dope like grin. Man, it was real nice to have a boyfriend like Rem.

_______________________________________________

Hope you enjoyed 💜

Words: 900

Tag list{you can ask to be added or removed}:

@reiney-weather @helloidkwhatimdoing-0 @autumnpleaves @hedgiehoggles @emo-sunshine42 @sky-the-weirdo-ace @from-the-gall0ws @skylar-pansexualnerd19

[paganimagevault]

Arzhan 2 tomb 7th C. BCE. Tumblr only lets me upload 30 images per post, there are a few other pictures on my blog, link at bottom of this post.

"The Arzhan-2 burial of the Scythian ‘King’ and the ‘Queen’, found in 1997 and studied between 2001-2003 by Russian-German expedition is one the most extraordinary discoveries ever made by archeologists.

Now for the first time the features of the powerful couple buried in their gold-encrusted, awe-inspiring clothing can be seen in life-like sculptures thanks to work of Moscow Miklukho-Maklai Institute of Ethnology and Anthropology, and Novosibirsk Institute of Archeology and Ethnography.

Two teams of anthropologists spent months meticulously building 3d models of the skulls, using laser scanning and photogrammetry to then re-create the faces

Siberian scientists established that people buried in the Arzhan-2 mound were - regardless of their social status - from quite a homogenous group in terms of anthropology, which combined features of the Caucasian and Mongoloid races.

Of the ‘King’, Moscow anthropologists said: ‘In front of us there is a battle-hardened Scythian warrior, carrying in his appearance a unique combination of Caucasoid and Mongoloid features’.

The unknown monarch - a Siberian Tutankhamun - was entombed in this ancient necropolis with 14 horses, a defining symbol of wealth in these Scythian times; each animal was from a different herd.

Alongside him lay the woman in his life, his queen or, as is suspected, his favourite concubine, but in any event a woman held in great esteem who was ethnically distinct from this monarch's retinue also buried alongside him which included 33 others, including five children. She was in all likelihood not alone in being sacrificed to accompany him to the afterlife...

The most breathtaking aspect of this Tuvan find are the contents of the burial chamber of this royal couple - pictured here - located by archeologists some two or three metres beneath the surface.

In all, some 9,300 decorative gold pieces were found here, not including the 'uncountable golden beads'. Put in another way, there was more than 20 kilograms of gold (more than $1 million USD worth), including earrings, pendants and beads, adorning the bodies of the royal couple all made in what is known as Scythian Art style.

Ancient robbers had sought to raid vast burial mound, just as they had successfully looted the neighbouring Arzhan 1 site, which was perhaps 150 years older. It could be that specially built 'decoy' graves threw these ancient looters' off the scent.

Here in Arzhan 2, thieves had left a trail which archeologists unearthed but fortunately the raiders gave up shortly before reaching these treasures, which are made from iron, turquoise, amber and wood as well as gold.

So valuable are they that it is rumoured these wondrous objects - now held mainly in local capital Kyzyl but also in St Petersburg - cannot be exhibited abroad because of the cost of insurance.

The find has been described by Dr Mikhail Piotrovsky, director of the Hermitage Museum as 'an encyclopedia of Scythian Animal Art because you have all the animals which roamed the region, such as panther, lions, camels, deer...' It includes 'many great works of art - figures of animals, necklaces, pins with animals carved into a golden surface', he told The New York Times.

'This is the original Scythian style, from the Altai region, which eventually came to the Black Sea region and finally in contact with ancient Greece. And it resembles almost an Art Nouveau style.'

Covered with two layers of larch logs, the royal burial chamber was carefully constructed like a blockhouse and stood inside a second, outer burial chamber of the same construction.

The four walls were presumably adorned by some kind of curtain. Long wooden sticks were found along the walls, which could have been used like curtain rails. The curtains themselves, as well as any other textile remains, were not preserved. On a carefully made boarded wooden floor - likely softened by felt - were the bodies of this sovereign and his companion.

The skulls had dislocated from the bodies because they had probably been placed on a kind of pillow, now decayed. The ancient ruler was buried with a heavy necklace made of pure gold and decorated all over with the carvings of animals.

His outer clothes, probably a kind of kaftan, had been decorated with thousands of small panther figures, each 2-to-3 centimetres in length, attached in vertical rows, also forming motifs such as wings on his back.

On his boots, maybe originally of felt or leather, thousands of mini-beads - in diameter only about 1 millimetre - had been stitched; on the upper part they ended in golden turndowns. Alongside and under the skull were gold plaques with animal-shaped inlays: four winged horses and one deer originally attached to the headgear.

The total weight of his jewellery - including minute glass beads on his trousers - was 2 kilograms. The man's weaponry consisted of an iron dagger, poorly preserved, on his right hip. This was connected to the belt by a strap, and both had been decorated with numerous golden adornments.

Beside the dagger was a miniature gold cup. On the left side of the deceased was a gold quiver with fish scale decoration. The wooden arrow shafts were painted in black and red. His arrow heads were made of iron, but also showed the remains of golden encrustation. The golden adornment on the belt - used for carrying his quiver into the afterlife - was extremely rich.

Below the quiver lay the wooden bow itself, studded with pieces of golden decoration. Between the quiver and the north-eastern wall of the burial chamber were two picks, one of iron with golden encrustation. To the left of the man's head lay a bronze mirror.

A second, slightly larger bronze mirror was located to the left of the woman's head, a little bigger and with a gold handle. Below the woman's head were three gold plaques in the shape of animals - two horses and a mystical winged creature - associated with the woman's headdress.

Beside her head was a pair of gold pins, decorated with carvings in Animal Art style. The decoration of the woman's dress corresponded to the man's kaftan: thousands of golden panthers form different motifs, again, notably, wings on her back. Around her breasts, archeologists found golden earrings and many small beads of gold, amber, garnet, malachite and other precious materials.

Near her feet were thousands of mini-beads made of gold, which must have been fixed onto felt or leather boots which had been inlaid with golden ribbons and granulation.

On her right hip hung an iron knife, poorly preserved but with numerous excellent gold belt adornments. Her wrists were adorned with gold bracelets. Here, too, lay two bronze kettles, seen as exceptionally valuable for these times.

In the western corner of the burial chamber were three large amber beads, a wooden cup with a golden handle, a gold comb with wooden teeth, and a heap of various seeds. Within the heap of seeds was a gold pectoral in Animal Style decoration and a small bronze cup, still inside a small leather bag.

In other burials, which surrounded the prominent couple, bronze knives, an axe-type weapon, known as a Raven's beak, arrowheads, bronze mirrors, belts, and much jewellery - beads made of glass, stone, amber, and golden earrings - were found. So too were fragments of cloth - felt, fur, and fabric.

Here too were discovered bridle sets made of bronze, mane ornaments and tail decorations cut from gold sheet.

What can we discern of the personal stories behind these ancient royals and their entourage found in Uyuk hollow, northern Tuva, and excavated by a joint Russian-German team between 2001 and 2004?

Professor Konstantin Chugunov, highly respected senior researcher at the world famous Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg, who headed the project, said DNA analysis of the group indicated those buried here were from the Iranian ethno-linguistic group.

According to the analysis of strontium isotopes in the bones, all those buried were locals except for one person - the 'queen', and it gives reason to think about dynastic marriage,' he said.

Totally 35 people - 16 men, 13 women, five children along with bones which cannot be identified by gender, were buried here, as were 14 horses.

The 'king' was between 40 and 50 years old and analysis of his remains revealed that he died of prostate cancer. 'This is the earliest documentation of the disease,' said Michael Schultz, a paleopathologist at the University of Gottingen. It is believed that in the last years of his life, this potentate could not have walked.

His female partner, accorded pride of place alongside him, was around 30 years old. Who was she?

We don't know if the woman was a queen or a concubine,' said Professor Hermann Parzinger, president of the Prussian Cultural Heritage Foundation, and a joint leader of the excavations, 'but since their ornaments were similar, both must have had high status.'

No cause of death can be detected for her, leading to a theory that she could have been poisoned or strangled, to be buried beside her liege, and to travel with him into the next world: willingly or not, she was a human sacrifice, according to this version.

'Maybe she was poisoned,' said Chugunov, 'or maybe she chose to die to be with her husband.' We may never know how she died, by natural causes around the same time as her master or in more sinister fashion, but others in the tsar's entourage certainly had gruesome demises.

The scene archeologists uncovered here appears to match with remarkable accuracy a description by Herodotus of the macabre Scythian burial rite.

'Based on accompanying burials, we also found evidence of phenomena described by Herodotus when the living would follow the deceased,' Parzinger has explained. 'Herodotus wrote that when a military leader died, his close circle - wife (or concubine), bodyguards, advisers, servants - were killed. As they were the property of the leader, they had to follow him to the tomb. And we identified particular evidence of their murder.'

Herodotus, who lived later, from 484 BC to 425 BC, wrote: 'The body of the king is laid in the grave, stretched upon a mattress. Spears are fixed in the ground on either side of the corpse and beams stretched above it to form a roof.

'In the open space around the body of the king they bury one of his concubines, first killing her by strangling, and also his cup-bearer, his cook, his groom, his lackey, his messenger, some of his horses... and some golden cups, for they use neither silver nor brass.'

It is believed that when the king died, he was mummified and his body travelled for 40 days across all his lands. And all expressed their sorrow. Then at some sacred place a burial mound was constructed and his entire entourage were slaughtered and buried there.

Herodotus did not describe how the ruler's entourage were killed. While the queen or concubine shows no sign of a violent death - the assumption is that she was poisoned - one woman's skull in Arzhan 2 was pierced four times with a war pick.

A man's skull still retains the splinters from a wooden club used to kill him. In some cases archaeologists see evidence of blows to the head with kind of poleaxe: in other case, they suppose strangulation or poison."

-taken from SiberianTimes

[lasatfat]

2, 5, 71 for any/as many ships as you'd like c:

OC relationship asks

2 - Who fusses the most? Do their S/Os mind very much?

Alistair/Eireann/Cullen/Kali: Due to the anxiety disorder, I think Kali will fuss much more than the others. Eireann is good at healing up any bumps or scrapes, and she knows enough about herbalism to treat minor illnesses, so she’s got a pretty good handle on when she needs to fuss and when she can leave something alone. Kali really needs to be talked into accepting any care. She and Cullen are very much alike in this regard. They quite enjoy it once they are being fussed over, though. Alistair will probably play it up a little bit to get extra kisses and cuddles, haha.

Rian/Anders: Anders is definitely the fusspot. Comes with the territory of being a healer. Lucky for him, Rian is quite happy to be fussed over. The problems come when Rian tries to fuss for a change. It’s a fight to get Anders to accept any of their generosity.

Gideon/Dorian: This is an odd one? I think they’d love to fuss over each other a little bit, but are very conscious of how it could be perceived. The Magister receiving favour from the Inquisitor and all that malarkey. When in private, or out in the field with the inner circle, they do check in with each other a lot. They both enjoy a bit of pampering.

5 - What is something they enjoy doing together?

Alistair/Eireann/Cullen/Kali: Kali started a routine of bringing Cullen breakfast each morning, both to make sure he ate something and to spend some time with him each day. They invite Eireann and Alistair to join in, and it serves the same purpose for all of them. They’ll also pair off and practice sparring too, which doubles as good eye candy for whoever isn’t fighting at the time.

Rian/Anders: Rian helps Anders at the clinic whenever they can, and they gain a decent working knowledge of first aid as a result. I think enjoy might be the wrong word, but it’s something they both find rewarding. In their down time, they like to just curl up together in front of the fire.

Gideon/Dorian: Reading together is a big one. Dorian loves his books, and he has plenty of recommendations. Gideon finds it very relaxing. He’ll often just fall asleep, straight-up. Dorian makes a show of being annoyed by it, but he secretly finds it endearing. He can read on his own and let his amatus snooze.

71 - If someone were to insult their S/O, how would the other(s) handle it?

Alistair/Eireann/Cullen/Kali: Going by the scene with Goldanna in Origins, Alistair’s first instinct is to jump in and defend their honour. The more he’s with Eireann, however, the more he learns to stand back and let the insulter dig their own grave. Eireann is not quite on the same level as Vivienne or Solas in terms of eloquent take-downs but she can fuck you up. Cullen picks up on that pretty quickly as well. I think a lot of their response is just making sure everyone is alright after Eireann has torn someone a new asshole. Kali might be an anxious person, but she’s very protective as well. She was the youngest halla-keeper of Clan Lavellan, and she carries that instinct into all her relationships. She’s not very defensive of herself, however, but she has three other people to pick up the slack there.

Rian/Anders: The sad thing is, as Rian gains more power, I don’t know how much they can defend Anders in person. They’re Champion of Kirkwall, working directly for Meredith, so they have to play their cards very carefully. It’s something they regret for the rest of their life.

Gideon/Dorian: Both are good at quick put-downs. Usually, they’ll have a good laugh about it later, but on the rare occasion that something does really get to them, Gideon insists on talking it out, rather than pushing it down and burying it under drink like Dorian is prone to do.

[inkskinned]

my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of... sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

[ozarkthedog]

Stuck Between a Rock and a Hard D***

Summary: After a Welcome Home party, you get stuck in a uncompromising position and Chris can’t seem to help himself.

Pairings: Drunk!Chris Evans x Drunk!Female Reader

Warnings: SMUT. Intoxication. Swearing. Slight Degradation. Confined Spaces. Anal Play.

Word Count: 2,236

A/N: This idea popped into my head and it was so silly I just couldn’t help but write it. I tried to have his “Drunk” state come across hence all the slurring words. Hope it’s not that annoying to read! This drunk Boston boy has “mah” heart. 💙 

No Beta

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Energetic music, copious amounts of liquor and sounds of splashing from the pool filled the dusky sky as the ‘Welcome Home’ party was in full swing on this humid August night.

Chris was finally home after 3 months away and what better than to throw a little bash. Friends and family were sprawled out over the backyard of Chris’ Concord house laughing and carrying on as you sipped on your wine.

You swirled the tart liquid around your tongue and leaned against a patio chair, watching as Dodger ran around with the younger kids. Their screams of enjoyment sounded noisily as they ran from the mutt.

“Get ‘em Bubba!” You heard Chris yell from across the yard.

Beer in hand, cap on backwards and dancing like a fool. Your boy was home.

Warmth filled your belly as you watched him laugh and play a yard game with a few of his friends, all yelling with excitement when someone got the small sack in the hole.

He caught your eyes from across the lush backyard and held it with a sly stare. He licked his lips lewdly knowing what it’d do to you.

You shook your head and drank down the rest of your wine, trying not to get too worked up. There would be plenty of time for that tonight, you smirked to yourself as the pleasant haze of the liquor settled in your belly.

-

After a while, the party started to dwindle. You and Chris gave hugs and bid goodbyes as the night came to a close.

For a moment, you and Chris just stared at one another on the slate patio. A days’ worth of playful glances coming to a head.

You smoothed down your light summer dress, unsure of what to do now that you were finally alone after so much time apart.

The alcohol made his face flush a few shades lighter than the red t-shirt he wore which made him endearing even though his eyes were darkening by the minute.

The amount of lust that radiated off the two of you was hostile, but you pushed it aside as you peered over the various empty beer bottles and half eaten food platters.

“Ugh, we should clean this up.” You picked up an empty beer can before tossing it back onto the table with a laugh.

“Nah, let’s do it tomorrow.” Chris suggested, stalking over to you.

Your breathing escalated as his face held a serious expression despite the slight slurring, “I wanna fuck mah Girl right now.”

You giggled nervously at his tone. The alcohol made everything seem way too funny, but his intense stare had your core clenching.

You knew what would happen if he got his hands on you and you wanted to draw out the yearning just a little bit longer.

“Only if you can catch me!” You shout, before running away like the drunken idiot you were.

You ran up the steps of the patio as carefully as your inebriated self could and crawled through the small dog door Chris had installed for Dodger a year ago.

Halfway through, you heard Chris’s muffled, hysterical laughter through the door. You knew he was doubling over in a fit, which allowed you to more time to crawl through the narrow opening.

You were in the clear as you pushed on the balls of your toes, shimmying your lower half through when suddenly, “OOF!”

Your hips collided with the casing of the small pet door. You started laughing at what a silly idea this was until you moved to pull back and your upper body catches on the frame.

You try again but the door nudges against your armpits causing your arms to flail out in front of you on the den floor.

“Oh, fuck! Chris! I’m stuck!” You yell frantically, kicking your feet on the slate patio.

You try to push yourself through even though you knew your hips were too wide. The small plastic door thumping against your head with every jostle.

“What!?” Chris shouts, incredulously.

 “I’m stuck!” You scream into the empty room as he kneels down next to your torso less frame. 

“Are yah serious?”

“What do you think?!”

Chris busts out laughing again, falling to his hands on the patio. His abs hurt as he tries to stop laughing when you let out a number of swears.

He coughs away the laughter and lays a hand on your lower back. “Ok. Ok. Ok. Ya’ll will be fine. We’ll get yah loose.” He slurred, calming you down through the door.

His hands cover your hips and pulled only to have your armpits halt his actions. “I already tried that you, Meatball.” The buzz from the wine still flowing through your veins.

“What are we going to do?” You utter, finishing with a hiccup.

“I’ll get my tools. But first…” His deep, quiet voice alerted you.

“What is it?” You asked anxiously, thinking one of your friends was coming up the driveway. You’d be mortified if they found you like this.

But then a warm hand slid down the curve of your ass and settled on the top of your hamstring. 

“I’m gonna have some fun.” Chris declared with a playful tone.

Your eyes go wide when you feel him flip your summer dress over your hips and press his growing hard on against your ass. The dark jeans rubbed against your ass with every languid thrust.

“Chris! You can’t!” You shriek upon realizing his intentions.

“Who says? Look at mah girl on all fours, ripe fa the takin’.” His eyes are glassy and ravenous as he grinds against your heat, the thin panties doing nothing to hide your quickly growing arousal.

Your mouth goes slack and eyes flutter when you feel him straining through his jeans. Heady lust swarms your system, taking control regardless of the uncompromising position.

“Looks like someone is enjoyin’ being stuck.” He rasped, unzipping his jeans and sliding his cock head across the soaked material of your panties.

He pulls the drenched thong to the side, groaning when he sees how ready you are. “What a fuckin’ pretty pussy.” He bends down, swiping his tongue threw your folds eliciting a surprised gasp from your lips.

You slam a hand onto the floor as he prods your core with long licks and lewd slurps. “God, I missed yah taste.” He confessed and nuzzled his face back into your heat. The way his beard scratched over your thighs made your back arch, giving him better access.

Your tight opening clenched when he poked his tongue into your core, thrusting the strong muscle in and out with quick jabs before going lower.

He flicked at your clit with hard swipes causing your belly to somersault. Frantic gasps bounce off the den walls with every stroke forcing your pleasure to mount rapidly.

Just as your bliss was about to peak, Chris pulled back with a slick covered smirk. “Nawt so fast, Sweetheart.”

You whined your frustration and laid your head on the cool flooring. You wiggled your hips in the air desperate for any friction and heard him snicker before he smacked your wandering behind with a heavy thud.

“I ain’t felt this cunt in months.” He stated with a deep growl, rubbing his pulsing crown through your inner lips.

His nails scratch the swell of your naked ass, “And yah only cummin’ when my cock is buried deep inside yah.”

You bit your lip knowing what was coming. The intense energy was palpable all night and it was only a matter of time before you two met in a tangle of limbs.

Chris lines up and ever so slowly pushes into your wanton core.

Your smothering heat enveloped his cock as he split you open with a gravely groan. “Fuck.”

Your head sagged between your arms as you felt your walls stretch around his girth. It’d been too long; you’d forgotten just how big he was. A high pitched mewl slipped from your throat, nails scratching at the floor when he finally bottomed out.

The base of his cock spreading you just a bit more around him. “God, yah cunt is choking the life outta me.”

He pulls back slowly before thrusting all the way in. Your cervix swirls around his bulbous tip making him grunt and grasp your hips with a harsh grip.

The animalistic urge to claim diminished when he felt your walls squeeze around his veiny thickness. His hips bumped against your ass with every stroke lightly knocking your hips against the door. 

You mewled when he parted your cheeks, spreading your pussy even wider for him.

“So many nights I took myself in mah hand picturin’ this sweet, little pussy.” His brows pinch in pleasure hearing your muffled cries of rapture through the door.

“I couldn’t get off hard enough knowin’ I wasn’t balls deep inside yah fillin’ yah with my cum.” His admission made your belly tighten. The knot so close to snapping as his hips shoved into your soaked heat with fervor.

His secure hold on your hips slips from the sweat tainting your skin. He smooths his fallen hand over your ass, spreading it open and exposing your asshole.

Your breath catches when you feel him spit onto your exposed hole, thumbing his saliva around as it clenched under his touch. The groan he let out when he watched your tight ring spasm beneath his thumb was sinful.

You whimpered into the flooring with every thrust of his cock as he teases your puckered rim. “I could finally take this untouched hole and there wouldn’t be anythin’ yah could do to stop me.” Your pussy convulsed around his length at the ominous threat.

“Chris…” Your body arched under his assault when he circled your rim with a meticulous touch.

You lock down with a vice like grip on his length as he drives your orgasm head on. You slap at the flooring and shout out your release all over his meaty cock.

He growls in admiration, “Look at the mess yah made all over me, yah naughty girl.”

He snapped his hips hard causing you to yelp out in painful pleasure, your cervix taking the brunt of each shove. The torturous pain ebbed and flowed with the bliss he was forcing on your worn-out body. Tremors ran up your spine as he pummeled you into another orgasm so close behind the first.

“Wish I could see yah face, bet yah look so wrecked takin’ mah cock.”

He let out a surprised groan as you came around him again, mewling nonsense and shrill yelps from behind the door.

“Fuck! Cumming on mah dick outside where anyone could see.” He smacked your ass eliciting a pained gasp from your lips.

He picked up speed, thrusting into you with a punishing pace intent on driving you to another orgasm with his on the precipice.

Chris gathers some of your cum and drags it around your asshole, making it shine with slick. Your eyes rolled back when he tenderly pushed his thumb into you, feeling his cock pass by through the thin tissue with every shove.

“God, yah so pretty bent over with yah holes filled to the brim.”

He grits, feeling you clench around his girth and frantically calling out for him.

“Come on, cum on mah cock one more time. Give me that sweet cunt.” His thumb pulls on the side your hole, making you feel the stretch and forces your orgasm to explode through your core. Both your holes tighten as you cum, dragging Chris along with you.

His hips slam into yours rapidly, searing pleasure burning through his veins as he cums with a growl. His seed painting your channel, soaking you with him.

He pants heavily as he leans his head on the door, “God damn, I’ve missed this.” 

You whimper from the emptiness when he pulls from your heat.

His cum slipping from your core, staining your inner thighs making you shiver.

“What a sight.”

You hear a shutter click and realize he just snapped a photo. “Chris!”

“Hey, this doesn’t happen all the time. I want somethin’ to remember this.” He slaps your ass making you jolt.

“Believe me, I will never forget this.” You utter with an embarrassed groan and shift uncomfortably on the hard slate. “Chris can you go get your tools, my knees are starting to hurt.”

“Oh fuck. Yeah, here kneel on mah shirt. I’ll be right back.” He rips his shirt off and slides it under your knees before running off to the garage.

You sighed into the floor still dumbfounded that you even though you could fit through the tiny door. The alcohol was slowing wearing off making this predicament even worse just as Chris came back. 

“Chris, are you still really drunk? Should you be working with tools right now?” You asked, leaning your face onto your hands. You really didn’t want him hurting you or himself.

Chris sat back a moment and chewed on his lip. “Yah, know... yah might be right. I only brought a hammer and I don’t think that will work.”

“Fuck.”

“Don’t worry Sweetheart, Imma call Mom she’ll know what to do.” Chris said with a smile, taking out his cell.

You hid your face in your hands with a pitiful groan knowing his family would never let you live this down.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry XVI

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), pain/wounds, mild violence.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Barnes lashes out in his grief.

Note: So, it’s not over but most of you guessed that :)

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The sun cast a sardonic light on the cold winter morning. The first flakes of snow fell the night before but glistened as they melted away with the unexpected bloom of light on the horizon. The men began digging at dawn for the interment, a pit to be unmarked and unseen. The woman would be buried as any servant was; without any formality or fanfare.

Lord Barnes dressed in black, the sole attendee of the service. He had dragged a priest from the castle chapel to say some ordained words. The men climbed out of the six-foot hole as the cart was led over by two others, the wooden box atop it.

They lifted it, lifted her, and maneuvered it down into the grave with ropes. The holy man recited his verse but the duke did not hear them. He was only torn from his own grief as he heard footsteps on the crisp grass. He looked over as the foreign baron came to stand beside him, his dark eyes ahead of him as the men began to shovel dirt onto the wood. The sound was harsh in the early hour.

“Go,” Barnes growled, “you aren’t welcome here.”

“Well,” Zemo said, “how is that? After all Werner did for you; for her. I should like a proper farewell.”

“You didn’t know her,” Barnes hissed.

“Oh, I didn’t, but are you so sure that you knew her so well?” Zemo challenged, “you knew what you wanted from her--”

“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barnes lifted his chin and turned to face his foe, “I will not tell you to leave again.”

“I owe you no obedience, my lord,” he said flaty, “I think you’ve misunderstood that entirely. The ground we stand on is even. I am beholden to you for nothing. Given that it was my physician who saw to her comfort in her last hours, I’d say you--”

His voice was cut off by the hand at his throat. The duke throttled the Baron with his only hand and backed him away from the grave as the dirty continued to rain down. He marched him across the grass as his blue eyes burned with a selfish sort of hurt.

“I am not stupid. I know you came to rile me and you’ve done just that so go! Go before I put you down beside her,” Barnes shoved him away so that he stumbled.

Zemo stood and touched his throat as a rare glimmer of anger flashed across his features. He raised his chin and fixed the fur collar of his cloak. He nodded as he set his jaw and peered past the furious duke.

“She is free now,” Zemo said, “from you most of all.”

The baron turned away and strode from the green. The duke turned and watched the diggers as they kept at their work. A lump lodged in his throat and he lowered his head. He could not deny Zemo’s words, in fact, they sank so deep his heart ached. He knew as all did that her death was bloody on his hands.

🏰

Lord Barnes watched from the window as the line of carriages rolled through the castle gates. He was smug at the Baron’s premature departure but he didn’t truly feel any better than he had the day before. He expected the knock at the door and he was not surprised by who drew him away from the window.

The door opened before he reached it and his sister blustered into the chamber. Rebecca snarled as she came to face him, of the few who could match his own temper. Her nostrils flared and hardened her soft features as she glared at him.

“You’ve ruined it!” she spat, “you’ve ruined it all! He’s gone and it’s all your fault, you dunce!”

“I ruined it? You really think you could have trusted him? I merely saved you time and gold,” Bucky scoffed as he shrugged her off.

“You are so conceited. Don’t you realise we need this alliance? It’s much bigger than your little maid!” She barked, “oh, all this just to fu--”

“No, no! Shut up!” he spun and pointed at her face, “you don’t speak of her. Your or anyone else.”

She reeled and chortled. She rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. She licked her lips sourly and shook her head, “Better yet, I will not speak to you again. You have until the end of the day to leave the capital.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m serious,” her brows arched, “Samuel agrees with me. You will go and you will not return. Go back to your castle and be alone and bitter as you always wished.”

Barnes huffed and mirrored her own fury, “fine. I told you, I never wanted to come here.”

“So it is my fault now?” she snipped.

“No, your majesty,” he said dryly, “how could anything ever be your fault?”

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Oh, queen’s are so powerless,” he rebuffed, “how every woman in the realm must pity you.”

“You’re a bastard,” she sneered.

“We both share the same blood, the same flaws,” he slowly walked back to the window, “you will see in the end that I did you a favour. That man cannot be trusted.”

“Oh, do get over yourself, brother,” Rebecca snapped and the slam of the door marked her exit.

Lord Barnes stared down at the wintery grounds then up at the grey sky. It was due time he went home. To be alone. For good this time.

🏰

Flickers of light skimmed beneath your eyelids. Distant memories, dwindling dreams, and unheard words. 

The pain came first. The agony down your left arm and hip, the way it rippled through you like a crashing ocean against the shore. The ragged breaths grew to groans as the ground moved beneath you, rattling like your bones and your head. The noise of horses and wooden wheels in the dirt. The smell of leaves and oak. The feeling of life come back to you.

You could not move your left arm, it was bound and even if it was not, you couldn’t have lifted it. Your left leg was in similar shape and your entire body was bound in pain. The confusion laced your mind and kept you from thinking too deeply as you realised you were in a box, the darkness broken only by the thin wisps of light between the hammered boards.

“Hello?” you called, your throat dry and sore. It hurt to speak and your lungs squeezed terribly.

You bent your right arm, your shoulder straining as you did, and hit the lid. It did not budge and you hit it harder. Your uncertain strikes turned to a steady and frantic pounding as the blackness began to suffocate you. You had to get out. You would die in there. Or were you already dead. You realised what you lay in; a coffin, and your stomach dropped like a boulder.

The wheels stopped and the ground stilled. You were on a cart of some sort and footsteps tramped into the dirt and murmurs stirred outside. There was a thump on the lid and suddenly it lurched upward as it was pried off. 

Swathes of light flowed in and blinded you. You stilled and stared up as a figure stood above you and another appeared at the other side of the casket.

“Ah, finally,” the accented tone slithered, “I feared the dose was mistaken.”

You blinked until Baron Zemo came clear to you and shielded your eyes as they watered. You gasped as another shattering pain overtook you and gasped at the sheer torment. The other man, thin and tall with lines around his eyes and across his forehead peered down and reached to check the bandages around your left arm.

“She cannot sit in the carriage but we can arrange for her to recline in there, yes, my lord?” he asked as he felt your forehead, “there is no fever. She is past the worst of it.”

“We can arrange it,” Zemo nodded, “do get her a blanket. We really should have done so before we nailed the top on.”

“Yes, my lord,” the tall man hopped down from the cart and returned with a thick fur coverlet. Zemo tucked it gently around you and as he brushed your arm, you cried out.

“I… I should be dead,” you rasped, “how--”

“A trick. On the gods, on fate… on your Lord Barnes,” Zemo smirked, “oh, do not fear, he hasn’t any idea of your miraculous perseverance. Let me assure you he is most miserable to believe you dead.”

“Why?” you asked as the lid of the coffin was moved away and you heard others moving around. The stench of the horses made you shudder and brack back the scene; the clopping hooves, the roaring crowd, the pulsing of your heart, your maddened laughter.

“You know, I never desired anything more from Lord Barnes. What happened between us was an act of war. We were soldiers but he could not see it that way. I am an understanding man but I am not without reason. If he cannot be civil, why then should I?” He said smoothly, “I came to your kingdom to serve my own and I cannot do that with him snapping at my throat, so I will go home.”

“But why--”

“Patience,” he bid as he lifted a gloved hand, “I could not have factored you in if I tried. You are the most unexpected creature. What you did… well, that sent a very clear message to me, one that I heard.” He looked around and clasped his hands together as he leaned his elbows on his knees, ”I will not claim it to be entirely selfless in my deed, in fact the idea of the deceit does more for me than it could ever do for you. To think of Lord Barnes in his misery, that pompous man.”

“What--Where are we going?” you asked weakly as the wariness crept up on you once more.

“The Tower Zemo,” he said plainly, “in my homeland. You should recover there and then we will decide what to do with you.”

“What to--”

“Nothing too nefarious, I assure you. I should like to avoid the depths of Barnes…” he sniffed, “I don’t expect you to trust me, lady, you would be a fool to and you do not seem one to me. Foolishly brave and perhaps obstinate but not a fool.”

“I--how am I to thank you?” you croaked.

“Don’t do that just yet,” Zemo rose as men approached and suddenly the coffin was slid off the cart.

You were carried around the side of a carriage and set down again. The men worked carefully to remove you from inside the casket and you screamed as they did. Zemo spurred them on and apologised for your discomfort as they transferred you to the lid of the coffin placed to stretch between the seats of the carriage.

The tall man draped the fur over you again and checked your splints and the layers of bandage hidden beneath the loose wool gown. He called for some water and helped you drink. Then he was handed a chest and stirred around for a vial.

“This is Werner,” Zemo said as he sat on the empty part of the bench and the carriage door shut, “he did see that you survived and that you died in the eyes of your master.”

“Oh… thank you,” you looked to Werner as he urged you to drink from the vial.

“Just a sip, miss, for the pain,” he bid.

You did as he told you and reclined again with a grumble. He sat opposite Zemo who watched you with a cryptic expression.

“It will be a long journey,” he said, “and likely longer for you. It would be best if you kept calm and did not stress yourself. You are still… fragile.”

“I feel it,” you closed your eyes as fatigue shrouded you.

“You would,” Zemo said, “sleep is best for it, isn’t that so, Werner?”

“Sleep numbs the pain,” Werner assured, “sleep lets the body heal itself.”

“And sees the time through,” Zemo yawned, “besides, what else is there to do?”

Your breath eased along with the pain and slowly you sank back into the void. You let it embrace you as you forgot about the Baron and his odd physician, about the Duke and the life before. You welcomed sleep as you had death and yet, you were relieved to be alive.

[leviackermanscleaningbuddy]

BTS DRABBLE-OT7

It's not easy dating a member of the mafia-let alone seven of them at once. And honestly, living life constantly on edge is starting to drain you-wondering who will get hurt next, who will disappear on what mission, or god forbid won't come home at all. But, luckily, the same seven men who keep you perpetually worried, are also the same seven men who always manage to take those worries way.

Tags: BTS, Bangtan Boys, Bangtan Seonyendan, Bulletproof Boy Scouts, Beyond the Scene, BTS Drabble, Angst, Fluff, Bts imagines, Bts reactions, Bts scenarios, OT7, Poly!BTS, BTS x you, BTS x reader, Kim Seokjin, Min yoongi, Jung Hoseok, Kim Namjoon, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, Jeon jungkook, Mafia AU

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Title: Unconditionally

"You promised! You promised me you wouldn't get hurt!"

Namjoon's hands close around your upper arms, his broad chest and shoulders blocking your view of the injured man who struggles to hold himself upright between two of his brothers, his expression stern as his eyebrows draw down over dark eyes.

"(Y/N), why don't you take a walk-" He starts to say, tone low and serious, before you interrupt him with another shriek of your own.

"Take a walk? Are you serious, Namjoon?" Your words are harsh and angry as they spit past your lips, and you wrench your arms from his grasp, his fingers reluctantly peeling away from your skin as you focus back on the other men in the room with a dagger laced glare. "I can't just pretend this didn't happen! Look at Jungkook!"

You wave a fierce hand in the direction of said boy, growing paler by the moment, slouched between Yoongi and Hoseok, dark crimson dotting the edge of his rib cage through the fine, white material of his dress shirt.

You feel the anger start to fade, and the bitter feeling of tears begin to choke your throat as Jungkook manages a weak smile in your direction.

"Really, noona. I'm fine. It's just a-" He stops to take in a hissing breath, as the older men holding him up jostle him slightly while readjusting his weight. "It's just a scratch." He finishes lamely, voice nothing more than a whisper now.

Namjoon glances over his shoulder to Jungkook, and seeing the state he's in, gives a curt nod to the older men. "Get him outta here. The doctor's waiting for you."

You resist the urge to reach out and touch Jungkook gently as the men half carry, half drag his weakened body past you and out the door of the study, but only because you're worried about hurting him.

Yoongi-Jungkook's left arm slung around his shoulders-grunts with the effort of carrying the heavy boy, eyes dark, and barely gives you a nod as they pass you, while Hoseok-glancing across Jungkook's body to you-manages half of his normally bright smile, as if to reassure you, before they disappear from the room.

There is silence in the room, the only sound the departing footsteps, and then Jin, leaning against Namjoon's large, wooden desk on the other side of the room, lets out a heavy sigh and reaches up to push long fingers through tangled brown hair as he glances at the leader, still standing in front of you.

"Namjoon, I'm sorry. When we heard Jungkook was in trouble we tried to get back to his position as quickly as we could-" Jin's words drop off, and he glances at the other two men still left in the room, silently watching their leader with guarded expressions.

Namjoon takes in a sharp breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, stepping away from you to cross the room and stand behind his desk, palms planted flat on the oak in front of him, as he stares down at nothing, before he says firmly, "We'll discuss what went wrong tomorrow. For now-" He glances up, and the dark, warning hint of his eyes has you feeling like he's sucked the breath from your lungs. "Get out. I have some phone calls to make."

The remaining men all nod and bow their heads respectfully, Jin ghosting past you with a brief hand on your shoulder, before he leaves the study.

Taehyung and Jimin appear on either side of you, and though Jimin's large, dark eyes hold a hint of worry to them, he offers you the start of a soft smile, before his fingers close around your wrist and pull you toward the exit.

"Come on, baby girl. Let's leave Namjoon alone for now."

You allow him to pull you from the study and into the dim quiet of the hallway-darkened by the night outside-before you can manage to take a breath and feel like you are no longer drowning.

Well, not as much as before.

Taehyung's long arm slips around your waist, and a look of surprise flashes across his handsome features, as he pulls both you-and consequently Jimin-to a stop in the hall.

"You're trembling, sweetheart." He cocks his head, expression grave, eyes dark and unreadable. "Did seeing Jungkookie really get you that worked up?"

"Of course it did." You snap back, trying to soften your tone slightly, as you bite your lip and think over your next words carefully, Jimin's fingers still looped around your wrist, Taehyung's arm idly hanging from your waist. "You promised me that none of you would get hurt."

Jimin's eyes are soft as he pulls you to him and presses a gentle kiss against your forehead. "We tried, baby girl. We really did." You feel his gaze drift to that of Taehyung's over the top of your head, and you can feel the worry tense his body once more as he admits, "Kookie was just in the wrong place at the wrong time this go around."

The reminder of Jungkook-shirt crimson with blood, wide doe eyes narrowed with pain, lips sucked between his teeth-sends your body into another shivering fit, muscles tense and aching from the emotional trembling.

Jimin, still standing close to you, must feel the sudden violent shaking of your body where it comes into contact with your own, because his fingers tighten around your wrist and when you look up at him, his normally full lips are pressed into a thin line of worry.

Taehyung reads the two of you like an open book.

"C'mon, sweetheart." He says gently as he starts to pull you down the hallway once more. "Let's get you into bed."

******

You disappear beneath the covers, and you don't come back out.

You cannot see Jungkook-he's still with the doctor and apparently resting-and the thought of doing anything other than burrowing beneath your blankets sounds mentally and emotionally exhausting when you can think of nothing but holding back your tears while you worry for the youngest boy.

It's dark now-the deeper dark of the middle of the night-and you can tell by the soft glow outside the blankets that someone has turned on the lamps in your room.

The men have tried to leave you alone, but you know they've been flitting in and out of the room silently, checking on you periodically as they too wait and worry in silence.

"She's really upset, hyung."

Your ears perk as you hear Jimin's voice from just the other side of your cracked door, followed by a heavy sigh, and then Namjoon's deeper tone responding quietly.

"Has she eaten anything?"

You can almost imagine Jimin shaking his head. "No. She won't talk to any of us." There is a pause, and then, "What do we do?"

You pull the blanket to your chest as you wait for Namjoon's reply, and you can picture the way his brow furrows in thought when he's thinking over his words carefully. Finally he states firmly, seriously, "Get Yoongi-hyung."

There is no more conversation as the sound of footsteps fade down the hallway, and you are left alone once more, and once more, as soon as you know they no longer watch over you, your muscles-of their own accord-begin to tremble.

You reach up and swipe at your eyes with the backs of your hands as the hot tears press more insistently, breath coming in panicked, emotional gasps, filling up the cocoon you have made beneath the blankets with hot, moist air.

You feel like you're suffocating, and not because of the heavy layer of blankets over your head.

The door creaks and the pad of heavy footsteps sound, coming in a pointed direction toward the bed, and then the corner of the blanket lifts, just enough for you to get a brief glimpse of the lamplight, before the glow is swallowed up in the mass of a dark body sliding beneath the sheets beside you.

"You need to eat, you know." Yoongi mumbles gruffly as he pulls the blanket over his head, successfully trapping the two of you once more in the cave you have created.

You can barely make out the almond shape of his dark eyes and the line of the bandanna pushing back his bangs in the dim, warm atmosphere of the blanket cocoon, before he slides closer to you and pulls you against his chest, arms encircling your frame.

Instantly, the smell of his cologne in your nose makes you feel a little less crazy than you had a few moments before.

But the tears are still pooling at the corners of your eyes, and the damn trembling in your body still persists, even as you bury your face into the strong planes of Yoongi's chest.

"I can't." You whisper back, and your words choke in your throat, as if they're stuck there, held back by clogged tears. You shake your head against him. "I'm too worried."

"About Jungkook?" Yoongi asks, and when you nod, he scoffs, but in a gentle, nonjudgmental way. A way that is just purely Yoongi. "He'll be fine. He's young, unlike most of us, and his body can take a beating. This is nothing. You'll see."

His words trigger the waterfall you have been holding back and suddenly, your chest is tight, as tears cascade down your face, dampening the material of Yoongi's shirtfront.

"You promised me." You cry out, fingers twisting into his shirt, as you bite down hard on your bottom lip and taste copper, trying to quell the shaking of your body, which is now verging on violent. "You promised me that none of you would get hurt. I can't, Yoongi. I can't lose any of you." Your breath is coming in hard gasps, and you feel like you're drowning again. The thought of losing them-any of them-is like a hot knife in the middle of your chest. "I don't want to live without any of you."

Yoongi's long fingers splay out across your back, as he tucks you beneath his chin, the length of his body curled to yours, and the warmth and solidity of his muscles against your own seems to calm the trembling-if just a bit.

"Hey, baby, stop, okay?" He murmurs out, breath warm as it washes across the top of your head, lips a cool contrast as they press to the edge of your forehead. "Stop."

One of his hands comes up to the back of your head, pressing your cheek more firmly against his chest, moving evenly with his breaths, before he asks softly, "Can you hear my heartbeat?"

You force yourself to take a couple of calming breaths and listen, and the sound of his heartbeat-loud and steady and rhythmic-beneath your ear, has your own heart calming slightly as you nod against him.

Yoongi's chin rests on the top of your head, as you listen to his heart, and the shivering subsides even more, the tears drying on your cheeks. "Good. Just focus on that." His long fingers move to stroke down your back, over and over, in a comforting pattern.

Your eyes grow heavy as you realize you cannot do anything for Jungkook now. Maybe, if you sleep, they will let you see him first thing in the morning.

And so, listening to the steady pound of Yoongi's heart, you allow yourself to give into the darkness of sleep.

*******

When you wake up the next morning, Yoongi is no longer beside you, but Hoseok is sitting in the armchair beside your bed, reading something that looks eerily similar to a Jane Austen novel.

"Good morning, sunshine!" He greets when he sees you awake, setting aside his book to jump up and give you one of his radiant smiles. You note, briefly, that his hair is tousled as if he-unlike you-didn't sleep the night before.

"Hobi." You breathe out, sitting up so suddenly your head spins, the blankets still clutched to your chest. "Can I-"

"Yes. You can see Jungkookie." He grins, finishing your sentence, eyes bright, as if he knew what you'd want to ask as soon as your eyes opened. "Namjoon's with him now."

You are out of the bed before your feet can catch up with what your brain is doing, and Hoseok catches you as you almost stumble into him.

"Okay, okay. Slow down there. Jungkook isn't going anywhere." He laughs, and takes you by the arm, dragging you from the room behind him, and even though his words state patience, the way his body bounces as he walks indicates he's just as excited as you are.

The walk down the hallway and up the stairs to the back of the house-and consequently Jungkook's room-seems to take an eternity.

Hoseok opens the door after a soft knock, and you instantly feel the breath whoosh back into your lungs, a sigh of relief leaving your lips, as you see Jungkook sitting up-propped among pillows-in the middle of the large bed.

He's still pale, but he's alive.

"Dammit, Jungkook." You exclaim breathily, unable to breathe properly with the weight of relief that is now sitting heavily on your chest as you rush toward him and take his face in your hands, inspecting him sternly. "You scared the shit out of me."

"I'm fine, noona." The younger boy manages a weak chuckle, as you continue to keep his face firmly between your palms, not wiling to let go of him, the feeling of warmth, breathing flesh making up for the agonizing twenty four hours of uncertainty before.

Jungkook grimaces slightly as your fingers dig a little bit too deep into his skin. "Really." He reaches up to pry your hands from his cheeks, lacing your fingers between his own, as you finally let yourself sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. He tilts his head and his large doe eyes crinkle as he smiles at you. "I'm sorry I worried you. The hyungs said you were pretty upset."

"Upset is an understatement." You chide back, your fingers stroking across the smooth skin that covers his knuckles, as you glance over to Hoseok, who stands beside Namjoon's tall frame silhouetted by the window. You direct your gaze back to Jungkook, and your face softens slightly, as you free a hand to reach up and push long dark curls back from his forehead. "The thought of losing you-any of you-is enough to turn me into someone insane."

Jungkook leans into your touch, like a cat looking for affection, and manages another smile in your direction, though his big eyes have gone more serious and less jovial now. "I know, (Y/N). I'm really sorry."

"Jungkookie." Hoseok breaks the silent tension between the two of you with a bright smile that rivals sunshine as he plops down in the chair beside the bed and you wonder briefly, how many times the boys switched their vigil over their wounded brother last night. "What do you wanna eat? I'll have the kitchen make you anything you want. On the house." He winks at the younger man playfully.

You stand, as the two men begin discussing their breakfast orders, and wander to the large window to stand beside Namjoon, who has been silent since you entered, eyes brooding as he stares out at the length of garden and courtyards below you framed by the glass.

It is a rainy and gloomy sort of morning, the sky blocked out with plump, gray clouds, the window pane streaked and distorted with patterns of cold water, and your warm breath fogs the glass as you sigh, the outside world reflecting the somber feeling that has blanketed the house ever since last night.

Your eyes are drawn to Namjoon as he makes a subtle movement in the edge of your vision, reaching up to rub at one of his shoulders with idle, distracted fingers, as he continues to stare down at the courtyard in deep, solemn thought.

You remember that one. You remember it clearly. And even now, it sends a cold shiver down your spine to bring back the memory.

The mission that had gone wrong, the frantic, unhinged, uncharacteristic panic of the other six men as they had dragged their unconscious leader-bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound to the shoulder-into the foyer, dripping with rain and defeat.

The way Jungkook had cried as you'd held him and the other boys close as the doctor whisked away the still barely breathing Namjoon, the way the crimson streak of fresh blood had looked so stark and bright against the black and white tiles at your feet, the absolute cold feeling of terror settling into the pit of your stomach as trembling had overcome your body.

No, that time-and all the other times-would never go away. Ever. The memories were here to stay.

Without thinking, you reach out and place your hand over Namjoon's fingers where they still massage the sore tissue beneath his shirt, and he startles slightly, as if just now realizing you're standing beside him, as you jerk him abruptly from his thoughts.

He glances down at your fingers covering his own. "It still aches when it rains." He offers quietly, as if this is an explanation, and because you know him, it is.

"I know." You say simply, as you move to wrap your arms around his narrow waist and rest your chin on one of his broad, firm shoulders, following his distant gaze back out to the rain chilled landscape before you.

And you do know, because you know all of them-inside and out. Absolutely, incredibly, deeply.

And in just the same way, they all know you. Completely, essentially, openly.

And you wouldn't change it. Not any of it.

Because the same seven men who make you go feral with worry-day and night-are also the only seven men who can soothe those fears beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Wholly, unconditionally, perfectly.

[iatethepomegranate]

For now, they had this

So Shadowgast has finally made me write fanfic again. I started this a few hours after the finale, and then woke up to find Twitter confirmation for my reading of their epilogue. So here’s 2k of soft wizards confirming for each other what they already knew, in their quiet way. I’m playing with the timeline ordering of things, so my interpretation is not necessarily the Canon interpretation of how things went between them.

Demisexual Essek is addressed here, without saying it explicitly. I tried. Massive spoilers for the finale, obviously.

____

For now, they had this

As much as Caleb trusted Essek to handle himself, he had to admit he was nervous about leaving him behind in Aeor. But the longer they spent together, the greater the weight of things unsaid, and Caleb had to take care of something first.

He had to go home. Blumenthal.

So he did. Found his parents’ resting place. Buried his letters to them. Grieved.

He didn’t go back to Aeor right away, the weight of the Sending stone Essek had foisted on him heavy in his pocket. Essek didn’t need it; he could Send without expending too much of his reserves. Essek hadn’t said anything, but Caleb was keenly aware this stone was solely for his benefit.

Caleb lingered close to Blumenthal for a time, feeling the finality wash over him. He could sometimes feel the phantom weight of the letters as if they still hung from his book holster. It would take time for him to get used to not carrying them around anymore. Just like he had carried the weight of what he had done for so long. And likely always would. But he was more at peace with that now. He had a mission to prevent this from ever happening again. There were things he had done about it, and things he would continue to do for as long as he lived. Fixing his home would be a lifelong mission, but he was finally ready to handle it.

Essek left him alone for a few days, until he must have grown anxious. Well, more anxious than usual. Essek, Caleb had learned, was an anxious person.

“Caleb,” Essek’s voice appeared in Caleb’s head. Soft, but concerned. “I apologise for the intrusion. Are you all right?” The barest pause. “I am safe up here, but… I am concerned. But no rush. Please.”

“I’m all right,” Caleb replied before the spell could decay, losing the thread of the dome ritual he had begun to cast moments ago. “I will return tomorrow. Stay safe. And thank you.”

Jester would be appalled that he didn’t use all his words, but Caleb was… wrung out. Catharsis was, by its nature, exhausting. His response must have satisfied Essek, who did not Send again.

Caleb began to cast the dome once more, blending the exterior with the greens and browns of the woods, but transparent inside so he could fall asleep under the stars of his childhood one last time.

***

Caleb risked the teleport directly into Aeor the following morning, grasping the paper from the records room firmly in his hand. He mercifully landed exactly where he had intended, breathing the dusty air. His ribs expanded more freely than they had in years.

Essek floated cross-legged just above the floor in the corner, looking up from the pages of a ledger in his hands. He watched silently for a second, as he usually did while waiting for a wild magic surge in this place. When none materialised, he gave Caleb a soft smile.

“Welcome back. Come. I am sure you will find this interesting.”

Essek rarely pushed Caleb to talk when he wasn’t ready; he was grateful, especially now. They sat together on the floor for a time, smudges of salt and soot on their fingers as they dug deeper into the records of Aeor. Stacks of books, long-hidden information, and Essek’s steady, quiet company. Caleb had needed this.

It was only when Caleb threw off his coat to more comfortably crawl among the books, collecting fragments of a damaged volume that had fallen apart at the spine, that Essek said anything unrelated to the work.

“Uh, Caleb?”

“Ja?”

“Your other book…”

Caleb followed Essek’s gaze to the empty side of his holster. “Ah.” He sat back, depositing the rescued fragments on the floor in front of him. “It was… time to let go.”

Essek watched him quietly, but did not press. But, mere weeks earlier, he had listened to Caleb lay out all his plans to save his parents. He had even offered to help him. And had been visibly relieved when Caleb instead destroyed the time travel device and all the notes that could have been used to replicate it. He knew enough to understand.

So Caleb explained. The letters he had written. His plans to give them to his mother and father after he had saved them. But he had to let go.

“So, I…” Caleb had to take a moment, the tears threatening to overtake him.

Essek silently looped an arm over his shoulders and pulled him in, tucking Caleb into the hollow of his throat. Caleb breathed him in, and remained there. 

“I teleported the book into the earth between their graves,” he murmured. “It's the closest I can… it’s with them now. Best I can manage.” Talking hurt too much, so he stopped.

“Caleb,” Essek said softly. “I’m proud of you.”

Caleb let himself cry.

***

Essek was always gentle with him, but even more so in the following days. Passing of materials gave rise to held hands, lingering touches, lingering stares. Slowly, Caleb began to feel better. As much as he believed he could, at least for now. It was better than he had felt in a long time. With time, perhaps, the wounds would ache less. Never perfect, but better.

Having disturbed an absorber of an evening, the resulting scuffle left Caleb too tired to summon the tower. He instead set to conjuring the dome while Essek kept watch. They were a little far to retreat to the records room, but they had managed to barricade an entranceway with damaged furniture despite their pitiful strength. Essek, of course, had demonstrated he was more than capable of surprising everyone, including himself, in moments of great duress. Fortunately, Caleb had not gotten himself trapped under a tower this time.

So, Essek hovered close to Caleb during the ritual, keeping an eye on the door they had barricaded. He was tense, but Caleb had to get this dome up before he could address it. There was also a gash on his forearm that would need dressing… but later. Focus.

The dome popped into existence. Caleb put his spellbook away, feeling his shoulder protest. He would need Essek’s help checking the damage.

Essek ducked into the dome, sighing. “Let us not repeat the events of today.”

Caleb produced a set of clean bandages, a cloth and a waterskin. “Agreed.” He grabbed Essek’s arm and dabbed the dampened cloth against the cut. Essek hissed in pain, but didn’t flinch. He hadn’t in a while. Caleb wasn’t sure if that was a sign Essek was getting hurt far too much, or a sign of trust. Both, perhaps. Caleb bandaged the wound, and held Essek’s arm for a moment longer. He was okay. The fight had been tiring, but they had both come out of it. A cut on the arm was nothing in the scheme of things.

Essek extricated his arm from Caleb’s grip, and pushed Caleb’s coat off his shoulders. “Let me see.”

Caleb hadn’t spoken of the pain, but he also hadn’t tried to hide it. Essek carefully loosened the book holsters--a research journal, for the moment, filled the spot once occupied by the letters--and set them aside. He then ran his fingers gently across the front laces of Caleb’s shirt, until Caleb nodded his consent.

Essek gently tugged the shirt loose until he could pull one side off the sore shoulder. He frowned; Caleb couldn’t see the cause. Essek prestidigitated the washcloth clean and wet it, carefully draping it across Caleb’s shoulder. Caleb closed his eyes as the cool sensation took the edge off the pain. He heard a soft mumble, and sensed movement akin to the somatic components of a basic evocation cantrip. The cloth grew colder.

Essek placed his hand over the cloth, squeezing gently. “I think you pulled something. I will continue to ice it tonight.”

“Thank you,” Caleb whispered.

“Rest.” Lips on his forehead. “I will keep watch.”

Caleb opened his eyes. Essek was kneeling at his side, not floating. Too tired, perhaps. But his eyes were sharp, trained on the barricaded doorway.

“Essek.”

“Yes?” Eyes still focused outward.

“Relax a moment. This has been a hard day for both of us.”

Essek let out a long breath, turning his gaze towards Caleb. “I apologise. I… have a hard time seeing you hurt.”

Caleb’s keen mind kindly conjured for him all the times Essek had seen him hurt much worse than this, but he held his tongue. Frequency did not make these things easier. Least of all for Essek, who had been alive for over a century but had only been genuinely close to a small number of people. Caring was hard. Worth it, but hard.

“I know,” Caleb said. “The very nature of caring for someone… witnessing their suffering… it hurts.”

Essek frowned at the floor, but then lifted his gaze to Caleb. “I worried while you were away.”

“I know. And thank you.” Caleb pulled Essek in with his good arm, laying his head on his shoulder. He felt, not for the first time, the urge to talk about this thing between them. But, as he had felt many times before, now was not the time.

Caleb and Essek were not the kind of people to blurt out complicated feelings in a moment of distress or exhaustion. So he closed his eyes and rested against Essek instead. They were what they were to each other, and Caleb was confident this would not disappear overnight. Putting that into words could wait a little longer.

***

The next day was quiet, spent examining record books rescued from the rampage of yesterday’s absorber. Caleb and Essek needed a quieter day, and the slower pace was welcome. They rarely spoke while in the throes of research, always keenly aware of each other, passing paper and writing implements back and forth, smudging soot and salt against each other’s skin as their touches lingered.

It was everything Caleb had ever wanted.

Taking a moment to stretch his back and roll his aching shoulder, his eyes were drawn to Essek’s form in the corner. So engrossed in his reading and note-taking, he had stopped floating about an hour ago. Hunched on the hard, warped floor of this broken city, eyes intense as he scribbled feverishly. He was running low on ink again.

Caleb chuckled softly and crawled closer, gently nudging another inkwell into Essek’s reach. Essek paused in his scribbles, a small smile softening his features. He reached out, eyes retracing the notes he had just written, but instead of taking the ink, he caught Caleb’s fingers and laced them with his own.

Caleb had figured out he was in love with Essek long ago, but in this moment, those feelings swelled until he thought he would burst into tears. He squeezed Essek’s hand. Essek squeezed back.

And the words finally found their way from Caleb’s heart, and out of his mouth. “I love you.”

Essek tore his eyes from the papers, softening as he met Caleb’s gaze. “I love you, too, Caleb.”

Of course, the curse of a mind as keen as Caleb’s was the ability to have too many thoughts at once. He loved Essek. Essek loved him (Caleb had already known that, but it was beautiful to hear out loud). Caleb was human. Essek was an elf. Caleb probably had sixty years left to live, if he was lucky. Essek would likely live another six hundred or more, if he was careful. Essek was on the run from the Dynasty. Caleb had to return home, at least periodically, to root out corruption and make it the place he had once believed it to be. So many factors. So many barriers.

He wanted what time he could have with Essek, but it would be cruel to entangle him when Caleb’s lifespan was barely a speck of dust in the winds of time, when there were so many things they would have to do apart even before Caleb would succumb to his mortality. Caleb had hurt the people he loved too much already.

Essek’s free hand slid up Caleb’s neck and into his hair, cradling the base of his skull. “Your eyes are sad again, my love.”

“This will hurt you,” Caleb said, “in the end.”

“I know.” And it was Essek who pressed their foreheads together this time. “I will cherish the time we have together, and whatever comes after that. It is… rare for me to feel this way about anyone. I will not give you up so easily, even if I know it will end. I am who I am today because of you, and I will carry you with me long after you are gone.”

Caleb had tried to keep people at arm’s-length before, just as Essek had. But he felt emotions deeply, especially love, and it went against his nature to deny the love he felt. And Essek was the love of his life. It would hurt in the end, but they still had time. Decades, if they were lucky.

Essek and Caleb knew a thing or two about pulling luck in their favour.

The moment stretched beyond words. Caleb reached up to kiss Essek’s forehead. They were both reserved people, not given to grand gestures. It was not necessary. Their love bled into everything they did together, in dressing each other’s wounds, in defending each other in battle, and in their quiet moments--the shared silences, the passing of research materials, the touch of soot-stained fingers.

They were what they were to each other, in the time they had together. The joy would one day turn to sorrow, but, for now, they had this.