#his faith carries him just like he carries it~

[maacbrem]

Absolutely insane about the Thelyss brothers in Vasselheim cause like

Essek the Bright Queen is RIGHT THERE SIR PLEASE - but then, so is his brother, his little brother he probably still thinks of as a child because they were allowed to be children so briefly before anamnesis failed to come and they had to make something of themselves as new souls in an ancient Den, and Verin is the youngest Taskhand of Bazzoxan and a highly accomplished Echo Knight but he’s going to war??? Against aliens and would-be god killers and Ludinus Da’leth???? And Essek is a heretic fugitive and selfish to his bones, but he loved his brother even when he didn’t think he was capable of love at all, even if he wasn’t very good at it. So he stays in Vasselheim and he makes sure that these strange, awe-inspiring legendary heroes know his brother’s face, his voice, his armour, so that maybe if he falls one of them will deign to pick him up. He thinks about his friends, far from him now (Caleb, out of his reach and likely preparing to do something reckless but too brilliant to be called foolish), and looks at his brother, who will also go, who might never come back.

And Verin??? The youngest son of his Den, the second new soul prodigy by necessity who never really understood his brother but loved him anyway, who mourned their father so hard that he tried to become him by throwing himself against the endless hordes of the Hells, who now answers the call of all the gods and Exandria itself to fight a war with impossible odds, offering himself and his soldiers as potential cannon fodder so that the legendary heroes of the age might emerge victorious? I need to know how long he’s known what Essek did (because I know that Essek confessed and part of him hoped that Verin would condemn him, his righteous, devoted brother), and I need to know if Essek faked his death or just vanished, and I need to know if Verin wept for him. Verin who loves his people and his country and his god, who believes in things like faith and loyalty because he’s never really had cause not to, who has to find a way to believe in his brother, too. He learns to recognize this Archivist disguise and a few others that Essek favours, and he stops referring to his brother by name ever just so he doesn’t forget at the wrong moment, and he carries the beat-up booklet of Ashari poetry that he first learned to read Common from that still has child-Essek’s penmanship in the margins and he thinks about how seasons change and how winter doesn’t really kill, it just rests, and the process of a butterfly’s metamorphosis isn’t really that far off from the Luxon’s decree to become your ever-bettering self.

Essek doesn’t say “come back” but he does say “fight smart” and Verin knows what he means. Verin wraps him in a spine-cracking bear hug, uncomfortable in his armour but Essek has gotten better about physical affection in the past few years and one day Verin intends to thank the Mighty Nein personally for that. Verin says “stay sharp” and then quieter he says “i’ll see you again” and Essek hears ‘in this life or the next’ and he very calmly and sanely doesn’t start screaming, but he does press a pearl to Verin’s forehead (Caleb’s variation of the somatics, a useless bit of sentimentality made powerful that Essek adores). And then they have to part ways before Verin rejoins the Kryn contingent and Essek disappears back into the crowd, two brothers finally on the same side but unable to stand together.

Anyway, I think they’re neat.

[beddybites]

I freakign.LOVE how much tengen and his wives love each other. With the whole arranged marriage it would be so easy for them just to live around each other and file their taxes together and leave it at that. But no. Tengen cares for his wives. He loves them as if he chose them himself. He protects them and tells them to put themselves first. He's completely faithful and loyal to them. They love him. They protect him and listen to him and protect themselves. And I love when they have relationships with each other too, where they don't just feel like accessories to tengen. I love fanfics where they tag the wives as bi because they love each other too!

With how they were all raised it especially would've been easy to just follow along with it. Force the girls to carry his kids and disregard them as objects. Follow tengen around, doting on him and being big tiddy house wives. But no, they broke away from all that. Tengen loves dressing and acting like a slut, but it's not because he was forced to. He just loves looking hot and being fawned over and what a coincidence! His wives think he's hot and love fawning over him!

Tengen isnt my favorite character but just love love love him as a character. I've never posted a take before and I'm sure someone's said all of this but idk it's just been brewing inside of me and since we're doing takes I just threw it in if I'm so dead wrong that it's funny you can tell me to kill myself btw

anon writing this take

no because you're so right. i love tengen's character and i wish people hyped him up more. that man loves his wives and loves his family and loves the hashira so much its insane. and i love his self confidence so much. ppl claim hes egotistical and maybe it is but you do see that side ofhim where he does have a lot of self doubt and feels he is deserving of hell and is the weakest hashira. he beats himself up constantly. but hes wonderful and i love him

[fancygremlin]

Arthur and John each have a moment in the narrative where one perform a "leap of faith" and the other saves them. Both moments are quite interesting and serve to help the characters realise thay are no longer alone and that they can truly rely on one another (full analysis here, if you're interested).

However, I think there is a third "leap of faith" that occurs way later on... however this time the focus is neither John or Arthur, instead the character being saved is Noel.

Just like Arthur and John, the detective was forced to learn to be independent and self-reliant to ensure his own survival. He was separated very abruptly, and subsequently lost his only friend before being stuck in the Dreamlands. He was completely on his own against the King in Yellow, who tortured him relentlessly and cruelly for months. Noel was then carelessly spit back out in Arkham, traumatised and alone, and had to rebuild his life back up without being able to rely on anyone else.

How could he ever hope to explain all the horrors he was subjected to when no one could ever even begin to understand half of what he had to endure?

But then, years later he meets John and Arthur, and it seems that they can and do understand him. Noel allows Arthur to share his experiences in the Dreamlands... and the detective allows himself to finally recount his story too.

Then, in Part 40, Noel infiltrated a cultist base with John and Arthur and everything goes sideways. His trust in the characters is momentarily broken when John's real identity is revealed to him. Noel is then weakened by reliving his experience in the Dreamlands and nearly loses himself as the King in Yellow once again controls his mind and nearly kills him...

Noel takes a leap:

Noel was the first character that not only knew about Arthur and John's sharing a body situation, but also the first that wholly accepted them and tried to understand them better. It's only right that both Arthur and John reached out to help him and save him when he nearly lost himself.

As a side note, I think it’s really interesting how Arthur kept calling him out using his real name (Charlie), while John tried to reach him using his chosen name (Noel) during this scene. It's such an excellent, little detail which I really enjoyed.

I like to think that the use of both names is because just as Charlie/ Noel accepted both John and Arthur both as a unit and as separate people, the two characters are doing the same by accepting and recognising both the detective’s (past and present) identities as well. They decide to accept and save any and all versions of Charlie/ Noel.

Of course this is not the only interpretation. For example, the use of one name or the other might reflect how John and Arthur are recognising core parts of themselves within Noel/ Charlie instead.

John is calling the detective by his chosen name because he is honouring Noel's choice to start anew. Noel had been hurt in every possible way and reduced to nothing after his experience in the Dreamlands. The detective found that the only way to move forwards was by leaving all the (too far) damaged parts of himself behind and try to create a new self. A clean slate and new name for a new beginning to start a better life somewhere new. He needed to leave his past behind and forget the parts of himself he didn't want anymore. That was what John did too when he dissociated from the King in Yellow and began forming his own identity.

On the other hand, Arthur is calling the detective by his real name because he is honouring the person Charlie was in the past. Charlie was the part of himself that he left behind because he deemed too damaged and too ugly to salvage. Arthur drags behind his past mistakes like deadweight, he carries all the guilt and sorrow with him wherever he goes. He wants to believe that all the hurt, all the damage and all the scars he deems as the ugliest parts of himself don't make him an utterly repulsive and unlovable monster. I think he is trying to demonstrate that Charlie is just as worthy of being saved as Noel is, weaknesses and broken parts included.

Hm, and I seem to have gone off a giant tangent here... I shall stop blabbering now before I completely lose track of what this analysis was supposed to be about.

[casteliacityramen]

Previous post (mini recap)

"Can we talk?"

"That depends if you'll yell at me and take off again."

"Depending on what you say, I just might."

[PART 1 OF 2]

"... Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know how to, without... that... happening. It was sheer coincidence that led Ingram’s descendants to keep coming here. I didn't think you'd believe me," Ray responded telepathically.

"I still don't."

"I have nothing to gain by lying to you."

She hates that part of him, how he manages to sound so disingenuous while still telling the truth. There's always something underneath the surface, but he never goes there unless she pokes and prods. She could have ended that explanation right then and there, but she continues.

"But not telling me that the Dewott that I've seen every other night was a Matsumoto this entire time? Keeping that to yourself is okay?"

One of the many problems of an infinite lifespan means that there's no longer agency to anything. There's no immediate need to address any personal matters when they theoretically have all the time left in the world.

He figured that he could have talked to her further down the line, when they both settled down and processed all of their feelings... Or so he thought. 

Touchy subject or not, it was starting to sink in that he should've talked about this sooner. Granted, he never would have guessed that the circumstances would have led them to where they were now. Neither of them imagined that today would’ve gone like this.

"Of course not...

... But can you blame me when you reacted like you did?"

"Alright, asshole, I came to apologize but if you’re going to-"

"You scared me."

"Rio, when you were released, when you found me again, you sat on that seat and you said…”

“... Nothing.”

The two of them sit still, time grinding to a halt while Ray’s eyes roamed the space underneath his hands–as if the grain in the wooden countertop was magically providing him instructions on how to organize his words.

Gods, he wished.

"You were so quiet, it was unsettling. You’ve never been one to shy away from talking about how you feel, so I know that something went terribly wrong. A Matsumoto stopping by every now and then seemed so inconsequential at the time. But… the more I thought about telling you, the more I second guessed myself.

So I left it unspoken. I had a feeling you would be angry with me and I was right... But I never thought you'd be furious.

We carried on quietly for the past six months because I wanted you to take the first step. I figured that you’d be ready whenever you felt like you it, but I should have told you about this without having to make you dredge up the past by yourself."

I'm sorry."

"This is supposed to be my apology about yelling at you, you prick." Rio telepathically mutters, not expecting this level of genuine introspection from him. "How am I supposed to follow that?"

She watches as Ray visibly laughs off the tension in his shoulders. She lets out a short huff in response, turning back to the counter.

"I thought I was fine. I thought I was better than this–above it all. We went through something like this before, back when we first started. I thought we’d shrug it off like we did last time, but then I snapped like a toothpick today."

Ray watches as her face scrunches up in a cocktail of negative emotions. She seems like she's physically struggling to get anything out, which is an effort that didn't go unnoticed by Ray.

"I think running a ramen stand as a rockruff is exactly how I am now: absolutely useless. I'm not allowed to be useful. I'm not allowed to do my job as a Shepherd.

And that's a good thing, because now I can't stop thinking about all my mistakes--all the people I failed to protect. There's no use in a guardian angel that loses faith in herself."

She turns, facing the street, thankful that it was relatively empty at this time of hour.

“So... I sat here, on this very stool, watching every day as everybody moved on with their lives without a care in the world. Ordinary people who seem to be doing fine without me.” 

Rio shakes her head at the term "ordinary people,” laughing bitterly as she turns back around.

“I know I’m being stupid. A carefree life for everyone is what we work so hard for, yet I feel so… so pissed off at them for being none-the-wiser.

Imagine that: being mad that peace is the new ‘ordinary.’ Angry that these people don't know what it's like to live with the constant threat of death, even though none of them deserve it. It makes me feel like a shitty shepherd.

I thought it'd be easier if I slept through those moments, but every other time I fall asleep, I have a nightmare. When I try to think of anything else, all I can think about is how this all started. I thought about all the things we did to get to this point. I couldn't, and still can't, stop thinking about everything I did wrong back then and now.”

Ray heaves a heavy sigh, partly because he feels relieved that she's opening up to him, but another partly because he knows exactly what she's talking about.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t need him to say anything else. She knows that he knows. She'll tell him the full extent of what she went through and what she's going through, but that's for another day. That isn't the purpose of this specific conversation, after all.

She paws the empty glass around on the table sheepishly for a long moment. Finally, she gathers herself and turns to him.

“I’m sorry I made you cry.” 

“I know.”

“Thanks for putting up with me.”

“You’ve been there for me. I wouldn't have it any other way.”

[Next]

[buddie-buddie]

The headquarters of the Buckley campaign are alive with overlapping voices, ringing phones, and the low hum of news coverage on every available screen.

It’s election night, the air thick with anticipation as staffers, volunteers, and supporters move around the space, each one carrying an energy that’s equal parts excitement and tension. Tables are crowded with stacks of voter turnout reports and precinct updates, laptops open and phones buzzing as every new projection is analyzed and discussed.

Large screens along the walls display a constant stream of election coverage, each network breaking down swing states, exit polls, and county-by-county tallies. Color-coded maps flash across the screens, updates coming in minute by minute, with each projected win or loss sending a new ripple through the room. The cheers, murmurs, and exchanged glances create a low, steady hum that’s almost like white noise, underscored by the ever-present tension of the night’s stakes.

There’s an air of barely contained excitement, a collective holding of breath as everyone waits, glued to the screens, hoping for the numbers they’ve spent months working toward.

Between Buck’s team and Eddie’s, there are well over three dozen people milling around the room, but Eddie’s attention belongs to only one of them.

Buck sits on the edge of one of the desks, his posture just a little too rigid. His shoulders are drawn up tighter than usual, muscles tense. One leg is crossed over the other, but his foot bounces in a restless rhythm, betraying the nerves Eddie’s certain he’s trying his hardest to mask. His fingers tap against his knee, an unconscious beat that grows faster each time the news anchor cuts to another update.

He’s looking calm enough if you didn’t know him well, if you weren’t paying attention to the slight furrow in his brow or the way his jaw tenses every few seconds. But Eddie does know him. He knows the way Buck’s gaze keeps flitting to the nearest TV screen and then back down, never quite settling, as if he can’t bear to watch for too long. The strain in Buck’s expression is subtle, barely there, but to Eddie, it’s as obvious as a shout.

Eddie’s gut twists, both in sympathy and in something deeper, something that makes his heart beat a little faster. He’s enamored by Buck— has been from the start, from the moment he met him. Even now, in the middle of this crowded room, with the weight of an election hanging over him, Buck is captivating in a way that’s impossible to ignore. 

And Eddie can’t look away.

Thankfully, it’s his job not to. 

But keeping an eye on the guy he’s sworn to protect is a far cry from what Eddie really wants to do, from what he longs for with every breath and every heartbeat. It takes everything in him not to move closer, not to cross the room and kneel in front of Buck, to take Buck’s hands in his. He longs to kiss the worry lines off his forehead, to run his thumb over Buck’s bottom lip, to soothe the faint indentation where his teeth have been digging into it all night. 

He feels helpless against the near-magnetic pull he feels toward Buck, how desperately he longs to reassure him, to let him know he doesn’t have to carry this alone. That Eddie has enough faith in him for the both of them. 

There isn’t a doubt in his mind that tonight belongs to Buck. Never in his life has he been more certain about a presidential candidate’s ability to win–– and it's not because he’s spent the last fourteen months sharing most of his waking hours with the guy. 

And many of his sleeping ones, too. 

No, it has nothing at all to do with that and everything to do with Buck’s vision for the future, with the conviction Eddie has seen firsthand, day in and day out. He’s watched Buck pour himself into this campaign, not out of ambition or ego, but out of a genuine, undying love for the people he wants to serve. Buck’s loyalty to this country runs as deep as anything Eddie’s ever seen, and he believes in it wholeheartedly. He believes in Buck’s relentless drive to make things better, to bring hope and unity to a country that desperately needs it. Buck has a fire, a determination, that’s as clear as the blue in his eyes, and Eddie knows that if anyone deserves to win this, it’s him.

Eddie’s confidence isn’t just personal— it’s built on everything he’s witnessed, every late-night conversation about policies and plans, every impassioned speech, every flash of determination in Buck’s eyes when he talks about what he envisions for the future of America. 

There’s no doubt in Eddie’s mind those 270 electoral votes are his. Hell, he’d bet his house and every dollar to his name that Buck takes well over 300 of them. 

But it’s clear Buck doesn’t have the same faith in himself. There’s a pang in Eddie’s chest as he watches him, seeing the unease he can’t quite mask, despite his best efforts. 

Eddie hates seeing Buck like this— tense, wound tight like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

And he is, in a way. Eddie knows it. Just as he knows how hard Buck is trying to keep it together for everyone in the room, to project that calm confidence he thinks they need from him. 

But he’s struggling, Eddie can tell. 

Maddie stands beside Buck, her hand resting on his shoulder as she gives him a reassuring squeeze. 

Words could never accurately convey just how grateful Eddie is for Maddie and all she does for Buck. Maddie is the person you want by your side–– in the good moments and the bad ones, too. And it’s not just about her work on the campaign, though she’s brilliant and absolutely incredible at what she does. It’s about her loyalty, her fierce, unwavering commitment to Buck’s happiness, his vision, his dreams. 

Eddie’s grateful to Maddie for everything. For raising him and loving him and being his cheerleader and his confidante and his champion every step of the way. And for being here, for knowing exactly what Buck needs and offering it so freely.

And yet, despite the gratitude, there’s a flash of something else— something raw and unbidden— that twists in Eddie’s chest. A flicker of jealousy, sharp and undeniable, because Maddie gets to be the one beside Buck right now. She’s the one comforting him in a way that Eddie wishes more than anything that he could. She gets to reach out, offer that reassurance, bridge the gap that Eddie has to keep firmly in place.

He watches as Maddie squeezes Buck’s shoulder, her touch gentle and familiar, her presence a steadying force. Eddie aches to be the one in her place. 

No, not in her place. He doesn’t want to replace her. Maddie is Buck’s sister, his family, his anchor through every high and low, and Eddie knows how much that matters. He knows how essential she is to Buck’s life, how her love and support grounds him in a way no one else’s could. And he’s grateful for that— grateful that Buck has Maddie beside him, someone who knows him so completely and loves him unconditionally, just as he deserves.

Eddie just wishes he could be there, too. Alongside her. To share in offering that reassurance, to stand beside Maddie as a constant in Buck’s life. He wants to be part of that inner circle, not to take Maddie’s place at the table but to pull up a chair of his own. 

But he can’t. Not here, not with so many eyes watching. So he swallows it all down, grateful and envious in equal measure.

The tension in the room rises as more people move in and out, staffers murmuring updates and running quick calculations. One of them leans in, whispering something to Buck, and he nods, forcing a faint, strained smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Eddie sees right through it.

As Buck glances across the room, his gaze lands on Eddie, and for just a brief second, their eyes meet. In that moment, Eddie catches a flicker of something vulnerable— something Buck would never let the rest of the room see. But Eddie sees it, and it’s enough to make his resolve tighten. He can’t stand the thought of Buck bearing this weight alone, can’t stand seeing that doubt flash in his eyes.

Just then, a break in the commotion creates a quiet lull. Eddie seizes it, catching Buck’s eye and nodding subtly toward the door that leads to the back hallway. Buck hesitates for a second, glancing around quickly before standing up and slipping away, Eddie following close behind.

Buck heads for an empty office at the end of the hallway, far enough from the main room and all the excitement of the night that no one will stumble upon them.

The second they’re alone, Eddie closes the door behind them, blocking out the noise and leaving them in a pocket of silence. Buck lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumping just slightly as the weight of the night catches up to him. 

Eddie doesn’t say anything at first, just watches him, taking in the vulnerability Buck allows himself only in this moment.

“You doing okay?” Eddie asks gently. His voice is low and steady, but there’s an edge of worry there that he doesn’t bother hiding.

Buck nods, but his gaze drops, betraying the truth. “Y–Yeah. I mean… it’s, uh. It’s a lot,” he admits, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. He glances up, giving Eddie a tight smile. “Trying to keep it together, you know?”

Eddie nods. “I know.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. He knows that Buck is searching for his words, trying to sift through the flood of thoughts and emotions churning inside him. 

Eddie recognizes the look in Buck’s eye— the one that says he’s struggling to make sense of it all, feeling the weight of every hope, fear, and responsibility pressing down on him. So Eddie just waits, steady and silent, giving Buck the space he needs to untangle it all.

He’ll give Buck all the time he needs. Eddie would stop the world for him if he could.

Buck’s eyes search his for a moment, as if gauging how much he can let down the guard he’s been holding up all night. “It’s just… what if it’s not enough? All this work, all these people counting on me, what if it– if I–”

Eddie’s hand finds Buck’s shoulder, a silent promise. “You’ve done everything possible, Buck. And you’ve done it better than anyone else could.” He pauses, letting the sincerity of his words settle. “This is your night. I believe in you.”

Buck’s gaze falters, his mouth pulling into a frown. “What if we lose Pennsylvania?”

Eddie cuts him off gently, shaking his head. “Your home state? No chance.”

“But–”

“But nothing,” Eddie says simply. “All the polls have you taking it by a landslide. That state has been behind you from day one. You’re not losing it.”

Buck bites his lip, and Eddie can see another worry forming in his mind before he even says it. “Yeah, but what if— what if the turnout isn’t what we expected? What if the numbers were off, or— or the projections weren’t accurate?”

Eddie raises an eyebrow, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve got every reputable source predicting a win. A runaway, in fact. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re just looking for something to worry about now.” 

“But–”

Eddie takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. His voice drops, low and steady. “You’re going to win. Trust me.”

Buck tries to respond, another worry on the tip of his tongue, but Eddie doesn’t give him the chance. Instead, he leans in, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to Buck’s forehead, right where the worry lines have creased all night. 

Buck’s breath hitches, and Eddie trails a gentle kiss to his temple, then another to his cheek, each one a wordless reassurance.

“Eddie…” Buck starts, but Eddie kisses the bridge of his nose, effectively silencing him. Buck’s shoulders relax a little more with each touch.

“Shh,” Eddie murmurs, a faint smile playing on his lips as he continues to pepper kisses across Buck’s face. ���No more worrying, alright? It’s your night, Buck. Let yourself have it.”

Buck nods, his face softening as the tension finally begins to fade. He steps closer, reaching up to rest a hand on Eddie’s cheek, his thumb brushing gently over his skin. 

“Thank you,” Buck breathes, barely audible. There’s a tenderness in his eyes, something unspoken but deep, as he leans in, his lips meeting Eddie’s in a soft, lingering kiss.

The touch is warm, familiar, and achingly gentle, carrying the weight of everything Buck hasn’t said out loud, but Eddie hears all the same. Eddie’s hand settles at Buck’s waist, pulling him just a little closer, his heartbeat steadying as he melts into the kiss. 

For a moment, everything fades away. The noise, the pressure, the stakes, all of it.

It’s just them, steady and certain. 

“Always,” Eddie murmurs, just loud enough for Buck to hear, a promise woven into the quiet moment that stretches between them.

Buck leans back, a bit of peace finally settling over him. “We should get back in there,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. Eddie can see the reluctance in his eyes, mirroring his own. 

But they’re on begged and borrowed time, and they both know it. With a slight nod, Eddie reaches for the door, his fingers lingering on the handle as he pulls it open, his gaze still on Buck.

“After you, Mr. President,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Buck gives him a look, somewhere between amusement and a hint of exasperation, his lips twitching in a barely-contained smile. He rolls his eyes, but there’s a glimmer of warmth in his expression, a quiet confidence that Eddie hasn’t seen yet tonight.

As Buck steps past him, their pinkies brush— a small, fleeting touch, but one that sends a spark through Eddie all the same. Eddie doesn’t pull his hand away, letting the touch linger as long as he dares. 

It feels like a promise, a shared acknowledgment that whatever happens tonight, whatever waits for them beyond those doors, they’re in this together. Eddie’s chest tightens with a quiet certainty, a sneaking suspicion that no matter the outcome tonight, they’ve already won something bigger.

also on ao3

[ferigrieving]

endless rebirth.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ all time ever does is pass / and all i ever do is remember.

a.n. this one goes out to all my best friend situationship survivors

⤷ masterlist ; requests open ; 3.4k

last seen online two minutes ago.

god was not a forgiving man. your grandfather often sat you down when you were little to give you advice. how to spend your money, what books you should read. the best way to cross multiply, and how to find if a watermelon is ripe. he spoke of god, how he put humans through misery so that they may turn to him in their darkest hour. but, you wondered, why would he go out of his way simply to bring suffering?

you’ve known it in every form, thoroughly, intimately, a constant companion that crept closer in the quiet hours of the night. you wore is as if it were a second skin, as natural as the ringing in your ears and the ache in your bones. but it was never the kind of suffering that led you to god. you held no reverence for heaven or forgiveness; you’d never prayed, not in any way that would make a difference. it felt pointless to call out for mercy that only ever seemed to find the pure-hearted, the faithful, the ones who deserved salvation. and if there was a god out there, watching from some celestial height, he must have looked upon you with indifference, untouched by the wreckage of a boy with everything he could want, except the one thing he’d ever asked for.

because even the blessed know loneliness; even those born with everything can feel like they have nothing at all.

you were one of them. you’d had it all—a family who could provide, a home you could call safe, a life laid out like a gilded path in front of you. even as a child, you were the one others looked at with envy, the boy whose future shone bright and certain. even if the family didnt see you as a child, and home was the creak in the night and the chair under the door. even if the life laid out for you didnt have your fingerprints on it, it was still a life, and it was still yours.

but as if that wasn’t enough, as if the gods themselves wanted to ensure your life would be untouched by misfortune, they’d placed him in your life: a boy with hair as white as the first snow, eyes a shade of blue that felt like eternity, so piercing they could reach into you and pull out every hidden truth you thought you’d buried deep.

touya todoroki had been your best friend, your everything. he was the kind of friend that came into your life like a promise, a constant that felt more real than the ground beneath your feet. you’d known him since you were small, back when the world felt endless, and the future was nothing more than an idea far out on the horizon. you’d played together in empty streets, found secret hideouts in crumbling parks, shared late-night secrets that felt too sacred to be spoken aloud. you told him things you’d never told anyone, and he listened with that quiet intensity of his, a fierce kind of loyalty that made you feel invincible. even in the silence between you, you felt understood, held in a way that words couldn’t touch.

and maybe that was your mistake—thinking that kind of bond was unbreakable, thinking he could feel the same way you did.

as you got older, your feelings shifted, grew deeper and darker, a quiet ache that settled in your bones. you couldn’t say when admiration turned to something more, when you started noticing the way his hair caught the sunlight, or the way his eyes seemed to hold a sadness he wouldn’t let anyone else see. you felt drawn to him in a way that defied reason, a kind of yearning that made you feel unworthy, a love so consuming it threatened to swallow you whole. he became the center of your world, the gravity that kept you steady, and for a while, you thought maybe that was enough. maybe you didn’t need anything else but this—just the two of you, a silent understanding, a love you could carry like a secret.

until you realized it wasn’t enough. you couldn’t settle for half-measures, for the pain of living so intimately with a person without ever telling them how you feel. you wanted to shout your love from the rooftops, to grab him and shake him and tell him everything, every little thing you knew he deserved to hear. to kiss him until he couldn't think of anything but the feeling of his lips on yours. to have the planes and dips of his skin memorized like the back of your hand. you wanted him so desperately it hurt.

and it was only when you left that you felt it, that quiet ache like an old wound torn open, raw and bleeding, a feeling that had been waiting patiently beneath the surface. distance brought clarity, peeled back the layers of friendship to reveal something darker, something heavier. you hadn’t wanted to admit it, hadn’t wanted to face the truth of it, but the miles stretched out between you like an open wound, and suddenly, you couldn’t keep it inside. you spent every night replaying his laugh, the way his eyes softened in the moments he let his guard down, the feeling of his hand gripping your shoulder like it was a promise. your first sleepover together, and how he stayed up to watch over you even in a house you both considered safe. and it struck you then, with a force that left you breathless—you loved him, in a way that made your heart feel both full and hollow, like it could shatter at any moment under the weight of it.

you couldn’t bring yourself to say it aloud. maybe you knew, somewhere deep down, that words would only turn him to stone, would only push him further away. so you confessed through the dim light of a screen, fingers trembling as you typed out the words that had been tearing at your chest: touya, i think i love you. i think i’ve always loved you, ever since third grade. im sorry for not telling me sooner. you dont have to answer. it was a hope and a surrender, a feeling you were willing to give up just for a moment of honesty, just to say the words you’d been choking on for years.

but he didn’t respond. silence—heavy, suffocating silence filled the space between you, creeping in like a fog until it was all you could feel. and then, slowly, as the days stretched on, he began to disappear. his messages grew shorter, colder, each one a reminder that you’d crossed an invisible line you could never uncross. you tried to pretend it was nothing, told yourself he just needed time, that he would come back when he was ready. but weeks turned to months, and with each passing day, the emptiness left by his absence settled deeper into your bones.

it was when you came home, after a year of thinking of his face, imagining the teary reunion that would surely happen, that you realized there was no more room in touya todoroki’s heart for you or your love. you begged, pleaded to see him. you went as far as asking his friends, his new friends that he, in the short times you two have ever spoke, would rave on and on about. they don't know who you are, but you know everything about them and then a little bit more.

longing feels like dying, you think, when the one you long for has already buried you.

before you left, you had had a going away party. a memorial for someone who was still alive. everyone and their mother came, but you had never once heard a ‘goodbye.’ it was as if it was simply just another day to everybody else, another tick on the to do list that made up their lives. you held your friends closer than anything in the world, even closer than yourself, but it seemed that you were simply an extra, unnamed background character number fourty two.

it was at your coming home party, that you realized that maybe, just maybe, no one truly ever did miss you. you had given, and given, and given, expecting nothing in return. yet, you still found yourself disappointed, a standard set by no one other than yourself.

coming home was supposed to be a celebration, or at least that’s what everyone had told you. they'd said it a thousand times over text, in passing messages with all the warmth of idle conversation: we miss you, you should come home, it won’t be the same until you’re back. their words had painted pictures in your mind, scenes where your old friends would smile when they saw you, arms open and waiting, voices ready to fill the quiet spaces with laughter and stories. so you’d returned, carrying the weight of those promises like fragile glass, hoping they’d finally feel real when you were back.

but the day of the party, the pavilion was empty, a hollow space filled only with the faint echo of all the words you’d once believed in. the decorations, scattered around like abandoned ideas, only served to highlight the absence—the banner you’d hung with such care, the chairs set out in neat rows, the quiet music playing to no one. you had spent hours upon hours making enough food for everyone, and then a little bit more, but you knew now that it would all go to waste.

you stood there, alone, in a park shelter meant to hold laughter, a celebration that would never happen. each empty table was a testament to how little you truly mattered, to how every promise had been nothing more than a passing thought, the kind of thing people say without a second of real intent.

and maybe you could have excused it, maybe you could have forgiven the empty seats, the quiet that lingered in place of familiar voices, if only he had shown up. you’d asked him, in a text you’d rewritten a dozen times, fingers hovering over each word as if they were spells that could either save or shatter you. you’d asked him to come to your birthday party, your homecoming, and for one wild, fleeting moment, you’d let yourself believe he’d say yes. because this was touya, your best friend, the one person you thought might still care, the one connection that had held you together even when he’d slipped away.

but his response had been cold, a few clipped words that cut deeper than you wanted to admit. he’d said he’d think about it, that he’d ‘try to make it if he could’, and you’d told yourself it was enough. you’d clung to the hope that he’d show up at the last minute, that you’d turn around and see him standing there, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes averted in that familiar way that always said more than his words ever did. but the hours dragged on, the shadows grew longer, and still, he didn’t come. each passing moment twisted something inside you, the raw realization settling deeper with every empty second.

you stared at your phone, watching as the screen stayed blank, no new messages, no sign that anyone had even thought to send a quick, sorry i can’t make it. you scrolled through old conversations, messages from a time when his words had been full of something you could almost call warmth, small memories that once meant everything. he wasnt even the one to send the last message. in a momentof weakness, of pure unadulterated desperation, you had fucking apologized. you had apologized to the boy who had ruined your life without even so lifting a finger. you had apologized to the boy who had thrown away a decade of friendship with no explanation. 

it was strange, really, the way people had been so quick to say they missed you, how they’d filled the distance with hollow words that felt warm at the time, only to leave you standing here, alone. and maybe you were foolish for believing them, for thinking that coming home would mean anything to anyone but you. but it was the kind of foolishness you couldn’t shake, the kind that clung to you like a second skin.

and as the night dragged on, you thought of him, of the nights you’d spent side by side as kids, when silence had been a comfortable thing, something you shared rather than endured. you thought of the promises you’d made to each other, the secrets you’d shared in whispered words and half-smiles. he was your best friend, you reminded yourself, though the words felt empty now, a title that meant nothing to the boy he’d become, to the stranger who had taken you place.

nothing feels quite so empty as the box of friendship bracelets under your bed, and the polaroids littered around your room.

you sat down in one of the empty benches, a strange kind of calm settling over you as you took in the world, as if you were watching someone else’s life unravel before your eyes. the decorations, the banner, the scattered plates and untouched cake—each one a relic of something you’d once held onto, a dream that had been stripped bare by the harsh light of reality. you realized, with a hollow sort of ache, that you were mourning something that had never been real, an idea you’d built up in your mind to fill the spaces touya had left behind.

and maybe this was the last piece, the final understanding that would set you free. you’d come home expecting something that had died long ago, hoping for a welcome that had never truly existed. you’d held onto him, onto the memory of what he’d once been to you, because it was easier than facing the truth—that he’d left you, that he’d moved on, that he no longer cared in the way you’d so desperately wanted him to.

and now, as the silence wrapped around you, you knew there was nothing left to hold onto, nothing but the empty echoes of a friendship that had long since turned to dust.

you sat there as the sun began to sink lower, casting long shadows that swallowed the room, filling it with a quiet, creeping darkness. the decorations hung limply in the dim light, colors fading into gray, and the quiet settled in heavy, pressing against you like a weight you couldn’t shake. time passed, though you couldn’t tell how much; the world outside had started to move on, but you were frozen, caught in a moment that refused to let you go. each second bled into the next, and the silence was deafening, louder than any noise you’d ever known.

then, a vibration—soft, unassuming, but it broke through the stillness like a crack in a wall you’d built too carefully. your phone screen lit up, casting a faint glow in the dim room, and you felt a pang of something close to dread as you looked down. it was a notification, one of those reminders from social media that knew nothing of timing or tact. one year ago today, it read, a cheerful, oblivious message meant to bring back memories you’d rather forget. you stared at the words, heart twisting, but your fingers moved on their own, opening the message, unlocking the flood of images you’d buried.

grief has a strange way of making you revisit the very things that caused it.

you scrolled, slowly at first, as if each image was a jagged shard of glass you were forcing yourself to touch. there he was, smiling in ways he never did anymore, a version of him you’d once thought would last forever. picture after picture of moments that had felt eternal at the time—a laugh caught mid-sentence, his eyes bright and unguarded, his arm slung casually over your shoulders like he belonged there, like he would never let go.

you’d saved them all—every photo, every fragment of time, a relic of a life you could no longer touch. they were tucked away, hidden in a separate folder on your phone, backed up to an old hard drive you kept locked in a drawer, like a secret you couldn’t let go of. you’d even printed some of them out, tucked them into an album you’d once thought you’d look back on with fondness, with the kind of nostalgia that softened the edges of the past. but now, they felt like a mockery, a taunt from a version of you who had been naive enough to believe in forever.

it’s a strange kind of grief, to mourn something that still exists, to miss a person who is still alive. 

photo after photo, and the ache in your chest grew sharper with each one. you saw yourself too, standing beside him, a younger version of you with eyes bright and full of a hope you couldn’t recognize anymore. you were looking at him in most of the photos, a soft smile playing on your lips, an expression that had meant everything, even though you hadn’t known it then. it was the look of someone who’d thought love was enough, who’d believed that the strength of feeling could somehow hold two people together, even as time and distance and life tried to tear them apart.

you swiped, faster now, letting the images blur together, a rush of memories that felt like quicksand, pulling you deeper the more you fought it. there were pictures from the park, the dimly lit streets where you’d spent endless nights talking about nothing and everything. the tree you’d both carved your initials into, as if that would somehow immortalize what you felt. you’d been so young, so certain, holding onto a faith in him that had become the foundation of your world.

but now, it felt like those memories belonged to someone else—a ghost of you who hadn’t known that love could be so easily discarded, so readily forgotten. the boy who’d taken those photos, who’d saved them with such reverence, was gone, replaced by someone who knew better, who understood that sometimes, love wasn’t enough. and the boy beside you, with white hair and that rare, brilliant smile, was gone too, replaced by someone who barely remembered the promises you’d made to each other.

you put your phone down, the screen darkening as the last image faded, leaving you alone again in the empty room, surrounded by the remnants of a life that no longer felt real. everything you’d held onto, every piece of him you’d preserved, felt hollow now, nothing more than echoes in a room that had once been filled with laughter and warmth. you could feel the weight of it all settling into your bones, the kind of ache that would stay with you long after the party was over, long after the decorations were taken down and the memories had faded.

the truth of it all was simple, brutal—no amount of memories could bring him back, no picture could capture what was already lost.

you stayed there, watching the last light of the sun disappear beyond the horizon, leaving you in the dark. you’d come home hoping to find something, some sense of closure, some sign that what you’d shared with him had meant something. but all you’d found was an empty park, a collection of memories that felt more like ashes than embers, and the hollow realization that he was never coming back, that you’d been clinging to a dream that had died long ago.

the world grew colder as night settled in, and you let yourself sink into the silence, letting go of the last remnants of hope you’d carried with you. the phone lay silent beside you, and you knew, with a certainty that felt like peace and despair all at once, that you’d never pick it up to look at those photos again.

you stood up, feeling the weight of it all settle into your bones, a heaviness that was both familiar and strangely liberating. the room was empty, yes, and so was your heart, but maybe that was what you needed—an ending, a final, brutal truth to cut through the illusions you’d been clinging to. and as you turned off the lights, as you left the room and stepped out into the cold night, you felt something inside you finally let go.

all you’d wanted, all you’d needed, was to see him one more time—to feel that connection that had once been your lifeline, to believe that maybe, somehow, he still felt the same.

but touya didnt love you. 

and, if you were honest, you werent sure if you loved yourself, either.

[swiftcast-selene]

Day 26: Faith

what you take from the earth, take care to sow again. such are the teachings of the Matron.

[justaz]

merlin (immortal) giving arthur (pendragon) the only blade that could kill him

[shadystranger]

the switch from worry for sam to appealing.. oh he knows how to fuck him up so perfectly tailored for him

[revrads]

More John and Lisa friendship dynamic doodle I did while doing one of my midterms!

Ending where they run away together :)

[hauntingblue]

chopper has become catholic

[the-casbah-way]

since the fandom has collectively decided that jamie's from motherwell i tend to just write it that way too but jamie is not a motherwell lad to me. he's definitely from one of the wee lanarkshire church towns where you have to wait around for two hours for a tiny rickety country bus driven by someone's half-senile grandfather to drive you to motherwell or glasgow to get a little peek at civilisation. i can't explain it or prove it in any way. but this is the truth. to me

[kimmkitsuragi]

i just went to the steel watch foundry to plant a bomb and i was like "ehhh i think astarion can do it stealthily, off you go boy" and i gave him the bomb and sent him alone while we're waiting by the entrance. he just had a 1v7 (?) (including 2 steel watch) combat and walked away with a grand total of 15 damage. i love this unkillable man so much

[littleoceanbabe]

ted lasso has been a fucking phenomenal show but if the writers completely fuck it up in the last episode i may have to quit cold turkey. or i will just pointedly entirely ignore the series finale and rewrite it myself.

[horsefigureoftheday]

Can you explain the "breyer horses are stylised" thing you said a while back? Not because I don't believe you but because I don't know enough about horses to see it (besides the mane and tail)

All artistic representations of a horse will be somewhat stylized. Humans can't help it, they imagine details, even when referencing photos or live animals. A swayed back gets exaggerated, sickle hocks are overlooked, the face becomes more expressive, because to a human who loves a horse, and who expresses their own emotions with their face, the horse's face just feels more expressive.

Take a look at this horse from Peter Paul Rubens' "Wolf and Fox Hunt" (1616) and how it compares to a photo of a horse

The artist was clearly familiar with horses, and most likely referenced off a live horse. And yet its face is much more expressive than a real horse's face - it's neotenous and borderline anthropomorphic, with its huge sorrowful eyes, and the short muzzle that puts the mouth in closer proximity to its eyes (making its expression more readable).

I think a lot of people see what they want to see when they look at a horse, and they reflect that in their art. Is the horse an independent agent or a tool of its rider? Is the horse an unthinking animal or a soulful creature like yourself? Does the artist admire animals, in spite of painting them in terrible war-like scenarios? Does the artist paint animals in these scenarios because he admires them? Is the horse meant to elevate the status of its rider, by being depicted as a soulful creature that nonetheless submits to its rider? (You can probably guess my own opinion from these questions)

Earlier art saw horses almost an afterthought, depicted from memory while their rider was drawn reverently. All those art pieces of emperors and kings on horseback, where the horse looks like a cartoonish oaf, use the horse as a symbol of power, with no regard for the animal itself. Even when the horse is beautifully rendered, it's nothing more than a vehicle to carry its rider. The artist has depicted the horse as expressionless, beastly, and soulless.

Even when you get into portraits of horses in the 17-/1800s, they are still stylized, though now you're just as likely to see a lithe and graceful companion, as you are a muscled working horse or a faithful old friend. Horse breeding really took off around this time, as did theories of animal minds, so adoration of horses-as-individuals became more widespread. Examples are "Lustre" (1762) by George Stubbs, "Mare and Foal in a Stable" (1854) by John Frederick Herring Senior, and "A Grey Horse in a Field" (1873) by Rosa Bonheur.

All this is to say that horses will always be stylized in art. Humans can't not twist the horse the suit their own tastes, and that's fine. I actually think it's kinda beautiful. The way horses are stylized can give you insight into the artist's opinion of horses. An artist with a neotenic, expressive stylization probably has more respect for horses-as-individuals than an artist who depicts them as inexpressive, powerful, willing beasts of burden.

Breyer horses have an airy painterly quality to them. Even the draft horses seem almost weightless. Compare Breyer's "George" with the self-released resin horse "Gustav," both sculpted by Brigitte Eberl.

George has much longer hooves and smoother curves in his legs - you could draw a near perfect curve from his hind knee to his toe -, giving him a flowing appearance with very little weight behind it. Gustav, on the other hand, has sharp edges and corners. He feels heavy. I'm a big fan of wrinkles and muscle on model horses, but the muscles on George seem like he's been through a rock tumbler. They're smooth and soft-looking, except for the extremely deep crevices between them, which are probably there to better catch paint and enhance the shading (an effect that's especially noticeable on George's thigh). Gustav, on the other hand, has very subtle muscling and virtually no wrinkles (he deserves neck wrinkles, give my boy neck wrinkles!!). He looks like a working horse with a solid layer of fat over his muscles. George's stylization is, for lack of a better word, smooth. Flawless. A bit too perfect for my liking. George is like the platonic ideal of a visually appealing draft horse. A horse like him can't exist.

I think resin horses by master craftsmen are the closest we'll get to depicting horses exactly as they are in life. The stylistic choices are extremely subtle, and seem more like a consequence of the medium than a deliberate goal on the artist's part (e.g., you can't make a realistic mane out of resin, so you have to compromise).

I love both the stylistic trappings that humans fall into when depicting horses and the endless quest for the perfect artistic representation of the horse. Both are beautiful. All horse art is beautiful.

(Obligatory disclaimer that I'm not an art historian or anthropologist, I literally studied bugs at university, so if you think I'm talking out of my ass you are MORE than welcome to add to this post!)

[fear-is-truth]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐓, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑

— charlie mayhew x nun!reader. | mdni

tags: mature content 18+・blasphemy・fem!reader・unprotected p in v・not proofread

a/n: i’m sorry

FATHER CHARLIE MAYHEW sits back in a wooden chair, dark eyes following you closely, but not with the sanctity expected from a priest. he’s holding a bible in his hand, fingers idly brushing the worn edges, but the words that come out of his mouth have strayed far from the expected teachings.

“celibacy,” he declares, “is a widely misunderstood concept. it’s not about abstaining, but about control. mastery of the flesh, not rejection of it.”

you’re sitting across from him, hands folded neatly in your lap as you tried to maintain a composed front. you don’t bother to mask the skepticism in your tone. “is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, father? that indulging a little bit isn’t breaking your vows?”

the soft mockery didn’t deter him. if anything, it fueled him. his expression does not falter; in fact, he smiles wider. “ah, but sister. did christ not spend forty days in the wilderness, surrounded by temptation, and come out stronger? his words are laced with arrogance, each one delivered as if it were irrefutable truth. the towel around his waist slips just a little, revealing more skin, but he makes no effort to adjust it. his gaze never leaves yours, and the audacity of it all strikes you.

“is it not written that to know sin, one must overcome it?

under current circumstances, charlie mayhew is a man of contradictions—utterly confident despite his obviously flawed reasoning. it’s impossible to tell if he truly believed what he was saying or if he simply liked bending the truth for his own purposes.

“so what you’re telling me,” your voice carried a soft lilt, lips curling as you meet his gaze, “is that celibacy is… negotiable now? sounds a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

slowly, you rise to your feet, deliberately turning away before bending down. the slit in your black habit parts slightly, revealing fishnet stockings, the round curve of your ass visible through the thin fabric.

“indulgence is sin when it lacks discipline,” he replies without skipping a beat, but there’s a new, raspy quality in his voice now.

“but when it’s controlled—when you allow yourself to feel something and rise above it—that’s where true strength lies. that’s power. that’s faith.” he’s idly stroking himself, slow pumps of his hand around the throbbing length. taking your own sweet time, you made a show of adjusting the strap on your high heels and allowing him to see the red lacy thong underneath as the slit falls open a bit more.

“besides,” he continues, “what’s the harm in understanding sin—up close? is it not our duty to learn the limits of our restraint, to test our strength?”

not answering, you simply sashay toward the priest, heels clicking softly against the floor, until you stop directly in front of him. his eyes follow your every movement as you free yourself of your garments, though the smirk on his lips never falters. you reach down and tilt his chin up with one finger,

“for someone who preaches so much about temptation,” you purr, “you sure don’t seem eager to resist it.”

he raises a brow, but before he can respond, you swing a leg over his lap, straddling him with deliberate slowness. your hand slides down his chest, fingertips brushing against smooth skin. his breath catches as one of your hands grazes over his toned abs, while the other squeezes his face with a teasing pressure.

“tell me, father.”

leaning in, you press your lips to his. when he doesn’t pull away, you deepen the kiss, gently pulling his lower lip between your teeth. his breath shudders as you release him, eyes scorching with lust.

“is this what you had in mind when you swore to be devout?”

a stretched groan escapes his lips when you guided the tip of his shaft between your slick folds. carefully, you sink down onto him, relishing in the tight, hot stretch—inch by glorious inch. your eyelids momentarily flutter shut as you were fully impaled on his cock, and just when you thought he’s about to kiss you again, charlie dips his head down. you gasped when you feel his tongue tracing slow circles around the areola before finally wrapping his lips around your nipple.

“ooh,” you manage to breathe out, and you immediately feel him smile against your breast. charlie starts to thrust up into you, his girth stretching you out to the extent that you can practically feel every ridge and bump of the veins that scattered along his length dragging against your walls. ripples of pleasure course through your body, the cross pendant you wore around your neck bouncing between your breasts with the motion.

the small room is soon filled with the slapping sounds of skin on skin, coupled with the wet suction of your pussy swallowing his cock, occasionally punctuated by your whimpers and his moans.

it doesn’t take long for the hot coil inside of you to snap. a powerful orgasm tears through your body, inner walls convulsing around him. within seconds, his seed is spurting into your womb, triggering aftershocks that left you trembling like a leaf in high wind.

charlie’s head falls back to rest against the wall behind him, as his cock continued to twitch deep inside you, residual spasms in sync with the weak fluttering of your pussy around him. your body is still tingling, a pleasant, dizzy warmth spreading through you.

“jesus…” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop them. he chuckles dryly, the sound rumbling through his chest as his hand lazily trails up your back.

“no, sister.” he murmurs, toying with a strand of your hair, gently tugging.

“it’s ‘father charlie’ to you.”

masterlist

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