#i could lay beside you for a thousand lifetimes. live a thousand more and still pray for sunrise.

[capfalcon]

i genuinely think dermot kennedy is tapped into something else bc what the fuck are his songs im dying

[the-kr8tor]

Severing Ties

<<< PART III

You choose to break the cycle despite your human need to live.

The berry tastes sweet, you would've thought it to be a regular fruit if not for the bitterness swimming in your tongue in a cruel aftertaste. You let it coat your mouth.

Sobbing, you gather enough strength from the growing numbness in your muscles to prop yourself up on the edge of the table. Finding more of the deadly belladonnas sitting perfectly still. You take more, and more, until there's a handful inside your mouth. Your muscles shake, eye blurry not from the tears. There's a growing fever in your bones.

You manage to sit on Hobie’s chair, lethargy in your whole body, heart beating faster and faster. Heat from the poison enhances the pain from your wounds. Sweat doesn't cling to your skin even with the searing fever.

You can't feel your tongue anymore.

There's panicked hands roaming your face, convulsions rocking your entire body. Your muscles twitch involuntarily.

“It's alright,” Hobie softly says, holding your body close to his, cradling your head on his chest.

You can't feel the grass underneath you.

You'd think you're hallucinating, but with a heavy kiss on the crown of your head you know you're not.

“Hobie” your words are a slurry inside your mouth.

“Shh” he rocks you gently, tears collect on your head like rain.

You feel the stickiness from the black blood on his side. But he doesn't seem to care with you in his arms. Hobie's been in the same situation a thousand times before but it has never felt this way, knowing this is your last goodbye.

You forget you're dying for a brief beautiful moment.

“I'm right here with you” Hobie knew that this would happen, that you'd choose to cut the ties binding you to this realm, that you'd fight fate herself. “You'll be—” he can't say the word, because he can't lie, especially to you.

“I-I wish I could tell you my name” with broken fingers, you cup his neck, just on his thumping pulse.

He's afraid.

“Don't” Hobie kisses your temple, once “don't” twice.

“After this,” you wheeze. “P-please, forget me. You have to forget me”

“I can't, if I i did I wouldn't remember who I am”

He leans away, you could only see his silhouette, it's enough to bring a smile to your lips.

“Always so stubborn”

With an exhale, you succumb to the poison.

The wheel now lay broken with Hobie gripping you tightly. Thread cut in the middle. He felt you leave.

The woods claim another life.

Would it be wrong for him to think that you should've stayed? He always thought you'd one day choose this, but does it have to be so painful for you?

Hobie was always ready for you to go but it doesn't mean it hurt him less, he knows you well enough that you'd understand and for the sake of the both of you, end the chains of burden that has connected you with him for centuries.

Gone are the days of him waiting for another you to wander back to the woods. Gone are the days of him eventually falling for you. You're gone, you left no trace of you, or your love for him except for your corpse that's barely recognizable under your injuries and an imprint of your soul forever in him.

Your paths will never cross again.

It's been days since your final death, his grief turned into fury. Anger that stays in his guts, residing there until its hunger is satiated. Compelled to hurt the being that brought you through the pain and sorrow of living a thousand lifetimes only for you to fall for him over and over again, and to die the most painful ways in the end of the cycle.

Fate is cruel, but nothing is more cruel than a lover scorned.

As Hobie lays you down on a field of flowers you've once named yourself after, he leaves one final kiss over your cold cheek. He stands up with one last look over to your corpse, feeling you stand beside him like always, but he finds an empty space.

A space where your soul should be.

The fire inside him rages, turning around to face the dilapidated arch, he hungers for revenge.

[sapphicambitions]

Oh, I could lay beside you a thousand lifetimes / Live a thousand more and still pray for sunrise - “One Life,” Dermot Kennedy

[fanfictionhab]

Dance Macabre: Chapter 2

For Chapter 1 For: ao3 link

The rays of moonlight over the crumbling ramparts of Baldur's Gate, cast long and darker-from-night shadows across this graveyard. Mist clung stubbornly to the crumbling headstones, each a silent testament to lives lived and stories forever hushed. Caelia sat hunched on a windswept hillock in the cemetery. Fatigue lines etched her face, and the scabbed wound on her chin was smoothly pulsing while she was reflecting the long, arduous night she'd endured. She went there after she had left the tavern in haste. Her steps had led to a single headstone she knew so well. This wasn't just any headstone; it held the memory of someone she'd loved deeply, a void etched into her soul. It was the final resting place of her only best friend , Elara, and with it, lay buried a lifetime of shared laughter. She stopped to gaze at the grave, it was neat and proper, however, some moss sprouted from the earth and the lilies she had left past season were still there but dried in crumbs. Its inscription was worn smooth by Caelia’s countless touches. She caressed the cold stone one more, not with mere fingertips, but with the weight of a thousand unspoken goodbyes, a thousand unfulfilled dreams. Each touch whispered a cheerful memory: she and her running through the spruce forest near their childhood town, scaring the ruminating goats of the woodsman, collecting dwarf frogs and feeding them tiny flies, swimming drunk naked under moonlight, all the silly mistakes they made while learning sword fighting together… Each touch resonated with the pain in her heart, a symphony of "what-ifs" and "what-could-have-beens" echoing in the empty spaces where their future once bloomed. Even though it's contradictory, here, beside the grave of someone she'd loved with ferocity, she found a strange solace. 

“Caelia! Stop!” Elara’s voice burst from her memories, striking a thousand needles in her heart. It was one of the last things she had said to her. 

Caelia knelt, brushing leaves and dust from Elara's headstone. Fresh lilies replaced wilted ones, their white stark against the night. Unfolding a thin cloth from her bag, she laid it beside the tombstone. 

"Cealia, fight it!" Elara screamed, her voice hoarse with desperation. "Please, it's you in there!" Caelia fought, but it was a battle against herself. The entity, coiled within her like a viper… "Caelia, please!" Elara cried, her voice choked with tears. "Fight it! It's me, Elara! Don't let it take you!"

A tidal wave of painful memories slammed into Caelia, despite her desperate attempts to hold them back.

"No!" Caelia resisted, summoning every ounce of her will to push back against the alien force surging through her body, due to the curse of the broken pact. It felt like grappling with a monstrous tide, its icy tendrils wrapping around her thoughts. She swam as much as she could, but the tide was enormous and dark. The entity, a serpent of darkness entwined within her soul, reveled in the chaos, its laughter echoing in Caelia’s mind. With a bewitched surge of demonic power, Caelia sent Elara crashing back. Elara hovered and hit the ground, that unnatural, brittle sound of the faint, eerie crunch of... bones. Caelia’s stomach lurched. Elara’s arm, twisted at an impossible angle, was held rigid by the shattered bone protruding through the torn flesh… The sight of her friend's pain, the flicker of fear in her eyes, momentarily pierced the entity's control of her. A sliver of Caelia, fragile and terrified, clawed its way to the surface of her own possessed mind.

"Elara... run," she rasped, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. Caelia’s eyes snapped open, no longer the warm brown that reflected Elara's trust, but cold, calculating orbs that glowed with an unnatural light. 

But Elara, ever loyal, wouldn't abandon her. With tears streaming down her face, “never” she said. “Its my fault, I failed both of us.” With a cry that ripped through the silence, she lunged. But her blade wasn't aimed at Caelia, no. It was a desperate, almost suicidal charge against the entity itself. The movement was reckless, fueled by grief and a love that refused to be broken. The clash was a blinding flash of light, the air crackling with raw power. Then, silence.

A sharp gasp escaped Caelia's lips as vivid recollections jolted her. Caelia laid beside the tombstone of Elara, on the thin cloth she unfolded. The lantern flickered to life, casting a warm circle. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, inhaling damp earth and blooming flowers. Tonight, she wouldn't just mourn. She would plan. For Elara, for herself, she would seek answers. Even if they lay buried deep, even if they meant confronting her own choices.

She looked at her own hands, covered with blood, holding a sword cutting through Elara’s thin body,  her teary eyes desperately begging her to stop. Caelia didn’t stop. Couldnt… Stop. The blade had entered between Elara's shoulder and neck, twisting and tearing its way through her body in a sickening arc. Jagged edges of flesh peeked from the gaping wound, and Caelia could almost hear the wet gurgle of escaped breath that must have marked Elara's last moments. The entity, now master of her vessel, smiled, a chilling mockery of Caelia's own features. "The debt is settled," its voice an evil copy of Caelia's own.

Caelia slammed shut the mental picture of Elara's lifeless eyes, the echo of the infernal command still ringing in her ears. She refused to remember how she screamed. A primal scream had ripped from Caelia's throat, raw and anguished after she snapped back at herself that night. Tears, hot and blinding, streamed down her face, tracing trails through the blood that wasn't hers. Each sob was a hammer blow to her soul, shattering the last vestiges of denial. Elara's reckless pact, foolishly sealed with an unknown infernal entity, had spiraled out of control and failed, possessing and forcing Caelia's hand. It punished not just Elara, but herself. Blinded by pride and desperation, she had become the very monster she and her sought to defeat. Now, Elara was gone, swallowed by the darkness she desperately tried to shield her from.

“it's not my fault…” “it's not my fault…”“it's not my fault…

Caelia's whispered mantra, "It's not my fault," hung heavy in the air, echoing off the damp stones of the abandoned graves. The darkness pressed in, mirroring the despair that threatened to consume her. Suddenly, a sardonic chuckle shattered the silence.

"So it was entirely your fault, isn't it darling'?"

Caelia whipped around, her dagger flashing in the moonlight that filtered through the well's opening. There he leaned against the mausoleum wall, his amusement clear even in the dim moonlight, his form barely visible in the shadows. Moonlight glinted off his golden eyes, and a mocking grin stretched across his handsome, yet unsettling, face. 

"How..." Caelia stammered, her voice hoarse with shock , fear and the shyness. "How did you find me?"

"Let's just say," he drawled, holding the bloodied cloth she had left in the tavern, "vampires have a way of finding their way to those who have a vested interest in them." His gaze slid down to her dagger, then back up, meeting her eyes with a glint of challenge. "Planning on adding another stain to your conscience?"

Caelia's grip tightened around the hilt. His casual demeanor fueled her anger. " I saved you and now you are blaming me even though you have no idea what I've been through and yet-"

"Oh, I have a few guesses," he countered, his voice dropping to a seductive purr. "Grief, guilt, a touch of self-loathing... empaty -ugh.. disgusting. a potent cocktail"

He held up a hand, stopping her before she could retort. "But before we delve into your emotional baggage, wouldn't it be polite to introduce ourselves properly? I'm sure you wouldn't want to spend this delightful evening with a nameless shadow."

Caelia glared, but a sliver of curiosity flickered within her. Her silence was the answer. 

He offered a theatrical bow, moonlight catching the glint in his eyes. "Call me... Astarion. A moniker with a touch of mystery, a hint of danger, and a dash of charm, wouldn't you agree?"

"Astarion, huh?" she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. It held a curious power, a weight of history she couldn't quite grasp. "I am Caelia." Her lips twitched, despite herself. "Clever," she conceded grudgingly. "But charm doesn't change the fact that you're still... what you are."

"And what is that?" Astarion raised an eyebrow, his smile sharpening. "A monster? A creature?” He smiled like he's making sure to show his sharp and long canines.  “Perhaps, but even monsters have their uses. Especially when it comes to navigating the shadows you seem so determined to explore."

His words hung in the air, laced with both taunt and temptation. Caelia knew she shouldn't trust him, yet a part of her, consumed by grief and desperate for answers, found herself strangely drawn to his enigmatic presence.

"What do you want, Astarion?" she finally asked, her voice low and wary.

"Answers, darling," he replied, his voice a whisper. "And perhaps, in the darkness you seek, a chance at redemption, both for you and someone you hold dear."

Caelia hesitated, her instincts screaming treachery. Yet, the gnawing need for information battled with the desire to plunge her dagger into his chest. It was a stalemate she both loathed and relished. 

"But first, how about a truce? This cemetery isn't exactly conducive to lively conversation, wouldn't you agree?" He gestured towards the town nestled beyond the iron gates, its twinkling lights promising reprieve from the oppressive silence.

[whotfcares1234]

Furtive

Her face was red, and she wiped off the perspiration from her forehead. She could feel her end was near, but still, she couldn't step out of the room. She would might as well kiss her furtive love for one last time, than die with a regret for a lifetime.

"Ella, I shall die with you. It's only worth living if you are right here, holding my hands, else, what's the point of living on if one us died? I can't Ella", Regina whispered under her breath and fell into her lover's arms. Ella kissed her forehead, and lifted her lover's face from her chest. It was a silent evening. And only a lantern lit up the secret room in the basement of Regina's husband's mansion.

"You can't leave your husband alone, Reg, he needs you."

"I need you, too. I need you, Ella. My whole life is a lie. This goddamn marriage, this mansion, the wealth, everything is for a show. If they'd ask me to write a song, it would be about you. Your kisses, sweeter than saccharine. Ella, I would die with you, Ella."

"For this moment, its only me and you. Let us leave the world aside and make love tonight, let us consume the fire that is so intensely burning my insides. Reg, I love you. And I will love you till the end of time, Reg."

The reflection of vermillion flames burning brilliantly in Regina's eyes, made my heart skip a beat. With a second, she pulled my face close to hers, and my arms clung tightly to her waist. As my our breaths resonated, so did our hearts. I bent back her head across my arms and felt her shiver, as her emerald pendant touched her neck. I kissed her neck, and she smiled. What a time! What an agony, that I would never be able to see her smile this bright again! I moved up slowly and in no time, our lips tightly pressed against each other and she pushed me to the wall, and kissed me back harder, clutching my hands tightly, like we're saying goodbye. There's no love sweeter than a woman's. She unzipped her gown and all I could see was a poetry, so ornamented with metaphors that it was even disgraceful for a simple woman like me to decipher her beauty, her elegance, her wonders. Her golden hairs intertwined with mine, and in no time, we lay beside each other, on the cold floor, holding her tightly like forever.

"I wish I could steal all these moments from history again", Regina whispered and kissed me again.

"So do I, but you must live on, Elly. I love you. I love you, forever. And if forever's not enough, I love you for a time that only you and me can count. I will love you every time, you look at the mirror, and wish it was me standing beside you. Every time, you would wear your ring, and every time, you would pluck wildflowers from the roadside, and every time you would be slicing apples for the women of the church, who'd always talk behind my back, and every other moment, every other second, I would always love you", I replied and pulled her closer.

"Do you hear it?"

"Yes, Reg."

"Elly, no. Elly, I will hide you. Elly, they will kill you, Elly, please, won't you listen to me once?"

"There's no way you can do that, Reg. It's time for me to go. You can't keep on living this lie forever."

"Elly, I will die. You are being selfish.

Why can't you just hide? Why didn't you run away? Why did you come here, Elly? We could have kept our secret love, alive".

"Reg, you are married now. We can't keep up the past. Both you and me would be cursed and killed then. Reg, I love you okay? All these years, it's only you I have loved. I was a poor girl, and I only knew love. But you, you deserve so much more. You deserve everything, and for that, I will be happier. Keep me alive in your poems, would you?'

Before, Regina could say "yes", we could hear her husband's screams. He knocked the door a thousand times, before he finally broke the door down with the help of his servants.

His face was in flames, and his eyes were fireballs. He pushed his wife, and threw her to the floor, and her head hit a large iron vessel, as he grabbed me by my hair and punched me thrice and grabbed his hockey stick and started beating me.

"You sinner, you ungrateful brat, how dare you touch my wife? This will be the end of you", he screamed. I smiled, because I knew, I deserved it. I should have stopped my desire for her, but love goes far beyond should have's and would have's. I watched my Regina lay unconscious, her head bled the the tears of an illicit love, but I smiled. I smiled because I now knew all the colors of my Sapphic love, and how love could burn houses down and how love could weave lyrics into melodies and turn ashes into flames and sparks into wildfires and conscience into guilt and everything else into a secret treasure only lovers can find happiness in.

"And you know, damn well, for you I would ruin myself, a million little times."--Illicit affairs, Taylor Swift.

[tobesolonely]

house hunting

A/n: hello!! I’ve been having a mad case of writers block, so @goldenbluesuit​‘s list of prompts was posted just in time! Thank you and i hope you all enjoy!! thank u @harryysstyless​ and @nationalharryleague​ for looking this over also :) Love u guyssss!

summary: newly engaged y/n and harry realize they have very different tastes in homes when they begin house hunting!!!

warnings: smut

word count: ~3.3k

my ko-fi! thank you :)

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

With all the joys that came with being engaged, there was a good deal of logistics that you hadn’t even thought of when you excitedly told Harry, “Duh, of course, I’ll marry you!” just four short months ago. Should you wed in the fall or wait until the spring? Outdoors or indoors? These were things that you and Harry went back and forth about most nights, cuddled in bed next to each other before drifting off to sleep.

Something you were most excited about, though, was finally owning a home with Harry. You practically lived together as it was, seeing that you were at his place most nights. Still, his home wasn’t yours—you were reminded every time you had to grab something forgotten from your apartment. Or when he was away for work and you couldn’t bear to be in his large, empty house by yourself.

So while you already knew each other’s grossest habits, (Harry loved asking you to pop his back pimples) you didn’t yet own a home together. Sadly, house hunting was turning out to be a less-than-joyous task when you and Harry were looking for completely different things.

“I jus’ think we’re cottage-style people… that’s all,'' your fiancé’s hand rests on your thigh while you wait in his car for the real estate agent to arrive. “This one’s nice, yeah, but is it who we are?”

You refrain from rolling your eyes at him. “You’re only saying that because they remind you of home.”

“So? They’re lovely,” he sounds a little defensive, but not mad. Your response  to Harry is interrupted as the real estate agent pulls into the driveway.

“Be nice,” you remind him as you open your door to let yourself out. “I understand the Craftsman isn’t your first choice, but she worked hard to find this place for us. At least go into it with an open mind.”

Your fiancé mutters something under his breath, but you know he’ll behave himself––he didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Harry’s demeanor immediately changes once the real estate agent is within earshot, turning on his signature English charm. “Thank you for meeting my fiancée and me today. We’re both very excited to check out this lovely home.”

Since you’re privy to the reality of the situation, you can tell he’s laying it on a bit thick, but your agent is loving it. “You’ll both fall in love, I know it,” she begins her ascent up the long driveway and you and Harry follow behind hand-in-hand. “Six bedrooms, eleven bathrooms, and nearly twenty thousand square feet. You can’t beat it.”

Harry seems unphased by the enormous size of the house, but your breath hitches in your throat. Did the two of you actually need this much room? The house appeared to be even bigger than the one Harry owned now––you knew you would hate staying here when he was away for work except this time, you wouldn’t have a quaint apartment and a roommate to go back to when you were feeling lonely.

“H, ‘s kinda big…” you’re trying to speak quietly enough so the real estate agent doesn’t hear you. “I don’t know if I like it.”

“What’s tha’? We haven’t even gotten inside, love,” Harry stops walking to give you his full attention. “You don’t like it?”

“Just the driveway by itself is enormous,” you feel your cheeks growing warm. “I would be too scared to stay here by myself.”

Harry hums in agreement. “Can we have just a moment, please?” He sweetly turns to face the real estate agent who insists you take your time, walking farther up the driveway to give the two of you privacy.

“We’ve not seen the inside, doll. Gotta at least do that,” Harry’s hands run along your bare arms. “‘Member what you jus’ told me? Let’s go into it with an open mind. Don’t have to place an offer on it or anything.”

“Okay…” you’re reluctant and Harry can tell, but neither one of you want to be rude to the real estate agent. “You’re right. I guess it doesn’t hurt to just check it out.”

Harry gives you a dimpled grin. “Y’never know. Might fall in love with it, puppy,” Harry leans in so close that you can feel his breath on your nose. “Besides, think of all the rooms we’d get to have a shag in if we moved in here.”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

“I hate it.”

“What’s there to hate? Look at how cozy it is.”

“Don’t like the color.”

“It’s nothing to slap a fresh coat of paint on the outside.”

You open your mouth and then close it in defeat. He wasn’t wrong. You let Harry lead you around the perimeter of the house while you wait for your real estate agent to arrive to let you in—Harry’s animatedly talking about all the renovations that can be done to upgrade the house (even stating he could do some of them himself) and deep down you know this is the house you will end up living in. 

“So sorry I’m late,” the agent’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. “There was an accident on the 405–made traffic a nightmare.” 

“No worries at all,” Harry says cheerily. “We’re just excited to get inside and take a look at this place. It’s gorgeous.” 

The lady doesn’t even try to hide her surprise. “Really? I agree that it’s a beautiful home, but I thought it would be your last choice given it’s on the smaller side.” 

“How many bedrooms?” You change the subject,  gazing at the house in front of you. You thought it was rather large, but to each their own. 

“Five bedrooms, four and a half bathrooms.”

You glance over at your fiancé, who appeared to be deep in thought—he was most likely calculating if five bedrooms would be enough to host friends and family who came to visit. 

“That’s perfect,” he says after a moment, squeezing your hand in excitement. “We’d love to get inside.” 

The real estate agent mutters a quiet, “please, follow me” to which you and Harry oblige. She leads you up a gorgeous cobblestone pathway that ends at weathered brick stairs. Harry lightly placed his hands on your waist as you ascended the three steps, knowing you tended to be on the clumsy side. 

“Porch is nice, innit?” Harry says to you, lowering his gaze so he’s looking square in your eyes. “I can see us ‘avin a cup of coffee in the mornin’ while lookin’ out at the street.”

Your husband-to-be was trying to sell you on the home more than your real estate agent was––you weren’t mad at it. You simply hum in agreement, not wanting to fully give into Harry just yet.

The real estate agent unlocks the door and ushers the both of you ahead of her, wiping her feet on the mat before entering the home. It was beautiful. The floor plan was open, the living room flowing easily into the kitchen which led into the dining room. Large windows let in plenty of natural sunlight, which you know Harry appreciated. 

You listen attentively as the real estate agent gives her typical spiel, informing you about the history of the house (and how all the wood fixtures were original). Harry is long gone, tucked away in some other part of the house, most likely examining the crown molding or something of the sort.

“...because the floor plan is so open, it’s the perfect space for entertaining.”

“So true,” you respond politely, looking around the space. “I was just thinking that. I’m sure Harry would agree... wherever he ran off to.”

“He’s a fan of this one, I take it?” She’s walking again, leading you to the back of the house.

“Oh, definitely. He’s been telling me we’re “cottage people” to warm me up to the idea of moving in here.”

“Is it working?”

You let out a quiet giggle. “Surprisingly, yes.”

“Babe, come look at this bedroom. S’gonna be ours!” Harry calls out to you from deeper in the house and you furrow your brows as you try to determine what room he ducked into.

“Where are you, love?” 

“‘M in here!”

You roll your eyes at how Harry did nothing to clarify his exact location for you, but you quickly figure it out, anyway. While the house was large, it was nowhere as big as some places you’ve already looked at which you appreciated.

Once reunited with Harry, he immediately reaches for your hand and pulls you into him. The bedroom you’re now standing in has floor-to-ceiling windows, an adjoining bathroom, and even a fireplace. It was stunning.

“This room is nice,” you say quietly, leaning into his touch. Harry nods.

“S’our room. Can’t you just picture us sleepin’ in here? Relaxin’?” He leans in close to your ear. “Fuckin’?”

A shiver immediately runs through your body at your fiancé’s vulgarity, but you try your best to play off your reaction as you turn to face the real estate agent. “Let’s see the rest of the place, yeah?”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

No one warned you about how much work went into actually closing on a home.

It was a long process. You were glad you had Harry, who had financial advisors, to help you close on the deal. You and Harry ended up going with the cottage home, of course, which ultimately was the best choice for what the two of you needed at the moment. 

Waiting to move in seemed like it took a lifetime, even though it was only a couple weeks. Your apartment was a mess of boxes and packing tape, and you were glad you had your roommate to help you gather the things you still had left there (since you had basically already moved in with Harry as it was).

When the day finally came to move all your boxes into your new home, you were more than ready to get it over with. You weren’t sure how Harry could remain in such high spirits engaging in such an arduous task (you were honestly feeling quite crabby), so you let Harry deal with the movers lest you accidentally lose your cool and snap at someone. He kept offering to help them move things, feeling guilty for just standing around while they heaved your extensive amount of belongings around, but they kept insisting they were fine. Your fiancé opted to contribute by going to the kitchen and making them lemonade and little sandwiches, instead.

“We have a lot of stuff, don’t we?” Harry glances up at you as you walk into the kitchen, a mischievous look on his face.

“What’s this we? Pretty sure they’re struggling to carry your things around, not mine,” you snake your arms around Harry’s waist. “Maybe we can have a garage sale? Get to know some neighbors too, hmm?”

“Weird to sell Gucci at a garage sale, innit?” Harry cuts a sandwich into four perfect triangles and sets them beside him on a platter he must’ve dug out of some box. You shrug.

“I’m sure you’re not the only person in this neighborhood who can afford Gucci.”

Harry hums in response, continuing to slather spread onto the sandwiches he was making. “Can you go offer these to the movers? Ask ‘em if they want lemonade or water, too.” He tilts his head toward the tray on the other side of the counter and you reach around him to grab it.

“Look at you makin’ everyone snacks and whatnot. So domestic,” you tease, grabbing Harry’s cheek and pinching firmly. “It’s getting me all hot.”

“Yeah?” He questions, going along with your playful pestering. “Y’like it?”

“Fuckin’ love it,” you coo, giving him bedroom eyes. Harry throws his head back, letting out a loud guffaw. You exit the kitchen and go from person to person, kindly offering them sandwiches which they are more than happy to accept.

The movers finish a couple of hours later, your beautiful home still just as beautiful, but now a myriad of boxes and trash bags. The two of you had absolutely no furniture yet, seeing as Harry wanted to buy everything new instead of bringing the furniture from his old home for reasons you were still unsure of.

Harry settled on making the two of you sandwiches for supper, seeing as that was the only food you had in the entire house, and neither one of you felt like running to the store to buy anything else. He pours two tall glasses of lemonade before carefully walking to where you sat cross-legged on the floor of the living room.

“Our new home...,” Harry trails off, looking around the cluttered space. “The first thing that’s ours.”

“I could cry,” you reply, voice slightly shaky. “Like, it’s just so surreal. We can really decorate however we want and celebrate holidays–”

“Gonna fight wif’ each other ‘n love on each other,” he adds. “Grow old with each other... so happy you’re all mine and ‘m all yours.”

Your heart swells at Harry’s words. He can always tell when you’re growing emotional––he knows you better than anyone else, after all––and he quickly moves closer to you, pulling you into his side. Neither one of you says anything, there’s nothing that needs to be said. You opt to bask in each other’s company and the comfortable silence that fills the dim living room. Out of the corner of your eye you notice Harry scoot the food and drinks out of the way before he pulls you fully into his lap.

“I can’t wait for all of it,” you wrap your arms around his neck, sucking lightly on the area where the skin of his jaw trails into his neck. “Can’t wait to have it all with you.”

“Know what ‘m lookin’ forward to the most?” You hum. “Lookin’ forward to the baby makin’.”

Your breath hitches in your throat at Harry’s admission. Sure, you’ve discussed children before––you were getting married! Still, he catches you off-guard.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm,” his hand slowly makes its way underneath your shirt, loving how he already had you squirming under him.

“I’ve got it,” you mumble quietly, moving away from him. You expertly unclasp your bra and fling it out of the way, letting it join the rest of the mess that litters the floor of your home.

“This is really the first place we’re gonna shag in, then?” Harry asks breathlessly, sucking roughly against your collarbone. 

You shrug your shoulders before moving to tangle your hands in Harry’s hair. “The entire house is a mess, this is as good a spot as any.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he mutters, trailing his hands down your body until he gets to your bottom. He easily shimmies your tight leggings down your legs, having done this many, many times before. “Gonna help me christen every room in this house, angel?”

“Yeah,” you’re quick to respond. You wish there was more kissing and less talking going on, but your arrogant fiancé loved two things: teasing you, and the sound of his own voice. “Can I have a kiss?”

“Where do ya want that kiss?”

“Get your mind outta the gutter,” you plead, tilting your head to the side so Harry can access your neck easier. “My lips.” 

You know what Harry’s going to say before he says it. “Which ones?”

“H, come on,” you whine, tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck. “Gimmie one.” 

Harry finally gives into your requests and presses his lips delicately against yours, humming in pleasure as he feels you sink deeper into the kiss. “I’m messin’ with ya, Y/N. I could never pass on givin’ ya a kiss.” 

“I’m glad,” you answer triumphantly, shamelessly stealing another kiss from him. 

“Gonna go all the way with me on our living room floor? Dirty girl, you are,” Harry says quietly, gently removing you from his lap. He helps you lay back on the floor, but not before bunching up your leggings for you to use as a pillow. 

“All good?” 

“Mmm,” you reach up for him, wanting to feel his lips against yours once again. He doesn’t give in so easily—not this time. Harry allows you to take his plump upper lip into your mouth before pulling away just out of your reach. You let out a pitiful whimper which causes Harry to puff out his chest, his ego getting the best of him. 

“Gonna make ya feel so good,” he says quietly, rubbing his palm against your core. Your underwear was still on and you knew he was approximately four seconds away from ripping them off.

“I know,” you answer quickly. “I know, H.”

“You sound impatient.”

“I just wanna get on with it.”

Harry sits back on his heels. “What’s tha’ rush? Jus’ us, yeah? Jus’ me?”

“I need it,” you say under your breath. You were usually quite vocal in bed with Harry, but something about the way his gaze fixed on you had butterflies fluttering all-around your stomach.

“What do you need?” Harry taps your bum while he’s saying this, signaling for you to lift yourself slightly off the ground so he can get them around your ankles. 

“I need you in me,” you whisper. You knew he knew exactly where you needed him, but you’d stroke his ego a bit if it meant he’d fuck you just how you wanted him to. “Hard. F-fast.”

“I can manage that,” he cheekily replies, giving his hard cock three tugs before pressing himself to your entrance. “Don’t want me to eat ya out or summat?”

“No,” you answer entirely too quickly. “Please just fuck me, H-”

He understands just how needy and desperate you are now and wastes no more time, swiftly entering your tight cunt like he was made just for you. Your body always molded together so perfectly––no one knew you better than he did. When you were really pressed for time, he could get you off in less than five minutes. Although his pace is relentless tonight though, there is no rush. 

You felt full in such a way that only Harry could make happen. You let out a loud moan as he moves your leg ever so slightly to angle you in such a way that he knew would hit your spongy walls deep inside of you.

“Y’like it? Like me fuckin’ into ya like this?”

“Love it,” you moan breathlessly, reaching to cradle your tits. Harry raises his eyebrows, pace faltering slightly.

“What are you bein’ so quiet for? S’no one here except us,” he reaches in between your sweaty bodies to flick your clit. “Can feel you clenchin’ ‘round me–are you gonna come, puppy? Come around my cock?”

His teasing is all it takes for you to cum around him, clenching down so tightly that it takes a surprising deal of strength for him to keep moving. Harry follows shortly behind you, letting out an animalistic groan that sounds downright filthy. In that moment, you were glad that there was no one else in the house because if there was, they definitely would’ve heard you and Harry coming down from your respective highs together. He speaks after a moment, chest still heaving.

“One room down, the rest of the house to go.”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

as always, please let me know what you thought here!

[bloodycassian]

 Cauldron Damned. 

Reader x Cassian + Feyre BFF

Prompt -  bestie bestie bestie a cassian x reader fic where reader helps feyre with the cauldron - not rhys and she ya know  like rhys did and cassian basically breaks down and it’s super angsty but rhys lives so the reader gets to aswell ig tag @ bellefleurs and @ eerievixen

Her hair was a mess and painted to her neck with sweat but you still held her. Still gave and gave, until you were out of breath. Until you could feel yourself slipping. "Keep going.... You're doing so good." You panted out, trying to put a smile in your tone. She was the Mother herself, forging that cursed Cauldron back together.  Rhys was breathing heavily behind you after being knocked out by Lucien. You had given the Autumn court son a look and he had known what you needed him to do. Rhys would be snarling mad when he woke, but you knew what you had to do. To save your home, to save the entire world. Feyre was ready to risk it all, fearless and full of hope. You had to save that hope for your Court. Better you than her, better the high lady and lord survive than just an officer. You smiled at the thought of what you'd told Cassian before this final battle. Before you knew it would turn into saving the entire world from the Cauldron's vengeance.  "You better make damn sure my memorial statue looks fantastic. No priestess, though. Make sure it makes my wings stand out." You joked on the flight to the base camp. Cassian danced around death like he was it's balancing point. Like he was in tune with each and every death or life dealt. He laughed at your abruptness on the subject.  After months of skittering around each other, of trying not to stare too long or acknowledge that pull you felt towards him... It was nice to finally be alone. To let that tension ease out with a few jokes. It was too easy to be with him, like you'd known him much longer in the year of preparation for this battle.  "And you better make sure my wings are bigger than yours on that sculpture." He banked around a large cliffside and you followed, like a magnet. Like you could read his mind, you turned when he did. He rose with you, compensating for the cool mountain wind.  You rolled your eyes dramatically, flapping a bit higher than him for emphasis as you drawled out "Poor War General, his wing size matters so much to him." He shrugged, circling lower and lower with you until you were on the ground together amid a clearing. The grass was soft, covered in early morning dew. "Some say wing size dosen't matter, you know." You said with a wink, making him double over with laughter. It made you begin laughing too when he started running out of breath.  Once you had both collected yourselves, You began building a fire together. Rather, a massive bonfire that was to act as the signal to the army for where to move. His face was grim when he threw the last of the logs together. You understood why. "The Kings army will be here before us." You said, voice low. He only nodded. You kneeled in the wet grass, one knee down the other one supporting your wrist bracer. He followed you silently.  You spoke in unison, the ancient words from all the Illyrian warriors before you: "Name me God of Death today. Let us bring that name to those who do us wrong." + Feyre muttered something you couldn't hear. The darkness crept further in on you. You could see some light between your blurred vision. You could see how her hands lit up the cracks in the ancient stonework. You could feel her practically vibrating with the strain.  Your tears dribbled on to her shoulder, knowing these would be your final moments with her. Your final moments in this world. There was no better way you'd spend it than saving her. Spending those last few minutes being able to tell her how amazing she was. You felt her smile when you leaned your head against hers. Your heart ached. You whispered what you hoped were encouraging words in her ear. A rupture of sound- a crack fully mended -and your chest filled with blooming pride at your friend.  There was something crackling, ripping. You weren't sure if it was inside you or if it was the magic Feyre was performing. There was a gasp behind you and rustling, but you dared not take your concentration away from her. Away from how she leaned back into you. Dared not speak a word to distract her other than giving her those little jabs of confidence when she started to shake.  "You got it, Feyre. You can do this." You managed, before that caving feeling in your chest seemed to give in. You were breaking, you knew that much. But she wasn't done yet. Your breath leaked out from you, like you were being squeezed.  "Make it all worth it, Feyre." You managed to whisper out before you could no longer hold yourself up anymore. You laid back, your legs wrapped around her, mirroring her own. You hooked a foot on top of hers and gave her what you could from where you crumpled.  Death was easy, slow. Like a soft lullaby taking you away. You knew what lay before your body, and only hoped you were enough to get Feyre to where she could mend the rest on her own. You gave her all of your soul, all your being. She had to make it. You let the wave of that soft lullaby take you under.  + Cassian didnt think before shoving his way through the crowd into the tent. Didnt consider what he might find there, and how his heart may be ripped from him at the sight of it. The death that crept at that tent was a feeling he wouldnt forget in a thousand lifetimes.  His best friends lying unconscious on the floor before the cauldron. He went numb, still like a cold glacier. Lucien frantically shook Rhys, attempting to wake him. Cassian's head roared and he was falling to his knees at your side. He took your head in his lap, gently. As if he could still hurt you. He didn't notice he was crying until he saw the fat teardrops on your cheek. He wiped them away, leaving dirt smeared there. Another yell of anguish, and Rhys was coming to. From the sound of the yelling or from Lucien shaking him.  Azriel entered the tent then, solemn. Then his eyes widened. Those shadows darted around the room, taking each member of the court into account. The shadowmaster rushed to Feyre, checking her pulse and sighing. He noted the way your leg tangled around hers. His heart gave a painful squeeze. He saw both his brothers in agony. And he swore on his life there would be no place for the cauldron to be found again. Cassian cradled his mate's head in his lap, rocking gently. Rhys' dark power cracked the sky outside the tent once he was conscious.  Rhys rushed to Feyre, scooping her in his arms. He brushed her hair back from her face. Azriel could practically hear the mental screaming coming from both of them. The shadowmaster laid a hand on top of yours, closing his eyes and letting his tendrils of power, of those whispering shadows reach out. They circled your head, slowly like a snake.  He felt that song then, singing back with his own. The essence of your soul, dancing around your aura.  His eyes flashed open in surprise, then a manic laugh rumbled from his chest. "Rhys-" He breathed, pulling his attention away from a waking Feyre. Cassian looked up in a flash at his brothers, watching them exchange looks.  "Bring my mate back now." Cassian growled at Rhys. The tone was utterly deadly. Promises of death from the Lord of Bloodshed if his command was not answered. Azriel's eyes darted between his brothers. As if he was expecting Cassian to attack. The high lord would have been gaping at him if he hadn't experienced the same pain of almost losing a mate. He nodded, pulling himself together long enough to enter your vacant mind. Then the cauldron was humming, as he dipped a mental hand into it as well. +  Rhys' commanding voice rang out over your land of lavender and sunshine. "She will miss you." His voice was soft, but the attention it drew was still there. The meadow you laid in was softer than any silk in Velaris. More luxurious than any chair made to accompany your wings. You sighed, taking in the sweet scent before he spoke again.  "Too much, I believe. Especially when she hears about what you did to save her." He appeared at the edge of the soft meadow, the grass around him waving like the sea. You sat up, dazzled at the sight of him here. In such a bright, lovely place. His tanned face seemed to glow with the smile he held for you. "I'm tired." You said, voice groggy. You wanted to lay back down. You closed your eyes, for just a second and when you opened again he was in front of you, crouched. He held a tattooed hand out, giving you a nod. "Just come with me and you can nap all you want." His eyes sparkled. Not with that starlit power, but with tears ready to spill over.  You took that hand and closed your eyes.  + Feyre's warm hand in yours was the first thing you felt when you woke. Rhys held her in the corner atop a pelt rug beside you. The brothers leaned against each other. Rhys played with Feyre's hair as she rested. The sight of them together, him protecting her so well made your heart sing in approval. you knew she always deserved someone as good as Rhys. The fire where the Cauldron once was made the tent cozy. There were no sounds other than the soft breathing and the occasional pop of wood on the fire.   Azriel sat at the door, sword on his lap. Ready to kill if anyone dared enter. Then, you looked to the softness that cradled you. Cassian's face was covered in dirt, blood and more. He looked exhausted. Like he had been beaten, lost and beaten again. You tried a weak smile at him.  Clean rivers ran down from his eyes, revealing the dark skin underneath. "I couldn't let you get a statue without me." He said, voice trembling. You smiled the best you could and reached a hand to stroke his cheek.  "How-" You began, but he shushed you. "Just..rest for now. We can talk in the morning." He brushed a thumb over a silent tear that trickled from your eye. You nodded, and let him pull the blanket more firmly around you. Lulling you to sleep with soft humming.

[suite43]

this was a commissioned peice of writing for @princemai . If you're interested in a commission, dm me!

Adjusting to life after the war was never going to be easy. How do you coexist with the people who've been trying to kill you for millions of years? It didn't take a nihilist to think that the peace wouldn't last.

Bumblebee counted himself pleasantly surprised that, well, something seemed to last. Peace wasn't the right word, but at least it was less "endlessely killing each other" and more "the entire universe hates us and we can't really blame them". But for the most part, these days, things were peaceful.

That didn't mean it was easy.

You wouldn't call it easy to wake up next to the closest thing you'd ever had to an arch-nemisis wrapped around you. You wouldn't quite know what to do with the fact that as much as he hates to admit it, he's afraid of the dark. And you wouldn't blame yourself for waking up sometimes afraid that you'll find a knife at your throat.

It wasn't easy. But it was peaceful, more or less. Because when Starscream kissed him in that way he did almost every morning, gentle and still half-asleep, Bumblebee could nearly forget he'd ever thought of the mech next to him as dangerous, and a part of him would wonder why it hadn't always been like this.

But then they get up, and the day would go on, and even though there's peace now, there's a lot of history, and Bumblebee can't help but feel like they're both just waiting for everything to turn sideways.

Bumblebee wants to trust Starscream. And he does, on some level at least. Immensely so. Enough to have trusted him with the fate of the universe. But every argument, every time the banter hits just a little bit too close to home, every time Starscream slips back into a crueler, more violent version of himself, Bumblebee wonders to himself if maybe this is it. After all, it wasn't really that long ago that they were shooting at each other.

Starscream has the same thoughts. Obviously, he won't admit it, but it's easy enough to see through his acts once you know him well enough - When did Bumblebee start to know him well enough? How the hell did that happen? It all feels so fast - But sometimes when there's a certain tension in his wings and his fingers curl up ever so slightly and his eyes shoot around, planning his escape, Bumblebee knows that Starscream is just as scared as he is.

It's not always like that. There are moments when they're alone where it feels like none of that matters. They sit together on their couch and they're quiet as they both do their own thing, and Bumblebee shifts to lean against Starscream's shoulder and Starscream wraps one arm around him, his hand idly tracing small circles on Bumblebee's plating, and it just feels right. Bumblebee feels more safe there than anywhere in the universe, curled into the side of one of the most dangerous people in the universe. In a moment like that, he'd tear his spark out and put it in Starscream's hands if he asked him to.

But... It wasn't that long ago that he watched people he loved die at those hands. Those same strong, clever hands that slotted perfectly into his like they were built that way, like everything in their lives had led them to this specific touch. Bumblebee wasn't a big believer in destiny but sometimes everything would line up just so, and if he'd been slightly more of a romantic he'd've called them soulmates.

It was this confusing blend of love and hate, of forgiveness and grudge and grief and adoration that didn't make sense at all and yet when Starscream knows exactly what to order him when they go out it makes perfect sense. And, somehow, it works out.

They've never really talked about... well, whatever this is. It's clearly a relationship, at this point. It's hard to argue for 'just friends' after that many rounds of... well, you know what. It's equally as hard after catching each other after god-knows-how-many nightmares, after thousands of late-late-night conversations, after the way that making each other laugh became the easiest thing in the world, after the way that they would whisper sweet complements between each other like a secret because it was far too embarrasing to say loudly.

So yeah, it was a relationship. But "open, honest communication" was not exactly in Starscream's skillset, and, well, Bee wasn't really sure he wanted to talk about it either. Putting a name on it felt. Dangerous. Like it'd ruin it. There'd be too much pressure, too much commitment, too much... truth. It felt like confessing something that he wasn't ready for.

It was one thing to sleep with Starscream. It was another to, say, kiss Starscream. It was a third thing to literally sleep with Starscream, to trust the second-least-trustworthy person on Cybertron to be with him at his most vulnerable. But to be dating Starscream? To introduce Starscream as his partner? As his conjunx? That was a world of different things that Bumblebee was absolutely not prepared to handle.

What was he supposed to say? Oh, by the way, this is my conjunx. He's killed more people than my brain can even comprehend, but he also saved the universe that one time so it's totally cool now, don't worry!

But he loved him, and that was the problem. He loved Starscream so much, and he wanted everyone in the universe to know about the funny, thoughtful, brilliant person that he loved with all his heart.

And didn't it mean something that Bumblebee had seen Starscream at his absolute worst, and still decided that loving him was worthwhile? It wasn't like Bee was just flailing at the whims of his emotions, he chose to be here. Well, not the first time, that had just kind of happened. But after that, he'd chosen to stay, because loving him seemed worth the trouble of hating him, right? And Starscream was getting better, and that was a good thing.

And who was he worried about knowing? The handful of people Bumblebee would've bothered to tell if they did get married already knew the situation, and it wasn't exactly like either of them were really public figures anymore. The government job Windblade had gotten to keep Starscream busy was mostly just paperwork, and aside from the odd job here or there Bumblebee didn't do much. He'd basically retired. So they weren't going to be the talk of the town or anything. Besides, it's kind of old news, there'd been rumors of them doing something together pretty much since the second the war ended. It wasn't true then, but by now the scandal had kinda worn off and it was more of a "yeah, no shit" kind of gossip.

Still. A decade or so of closeness didn't really feel like long enough for a lifetime commitment, especially after what, four million years of hating each other beforehand?

But... Life is shorter than you expect it to be, right? They'd both died once over the course of this whatever-it-was. And the second time, they really had thought it'd stick, and Starscream sorta-haunting him from another dimension or whatever seemed like it was a permanent commitment, and that didn't scare Bumblebee at all. It sounded nice, not having to be alone again. This was like that, except he could be alone, sometimes, because neither of them could walk through walls or locked doors anymore so all he had to do for some privacy was tell Starscream to politely fuck off for a bit, which was a plus, right? Way more pracitcal.

"Can't we talk about this in the morning?" Starscream complained, eyes half shut, snapping Bumblebee out of his train of thought.

"What?" Bumblebee asked, confused.

"I don't want you to propose while we're drunk and you're rambling, idiot," Starscream was laying in Bee's lap, nuzzling his face into Bee's stomach plating. They were holding hands. When did that happen? "We can talk about it later."

Oh, shit.

"How much of that did I say out loud?"

"I dunno, you talk a lot. You're keeping me up."

"Shit. Sorry."

"S'okay. Your voice is nice."

"Oh." It was quiet for a minute.

"It's okay if you hate me. I get it," Starscream said.

"I don't hate you," Bee responded, blinking a few times, trying to shake off the feeling of spinning. "I like it when you're here."

"But you kind of have to hate somebody a little to love them, right?" Starscream shifted, staring up at the ceiling, head still resting on Bee's stomach. "I mean, it's hard to be with someone all the time.  Especially when you're stubborn and stupid, and you do stupid obnoxious things and I hate it. But if you weren't those things I hate, you wouldn't entirely be you. And I don't just like parts of you, I like you, and I can hate things you do while still knowing that it's you, and I love who you are. Even when we piss each other off. It's still you. Right?"

"Do you think i'm stupid? I'm not stupid."

"You're missing the point."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Stop apologizing so much. I hate it when you apologize." Starscream's hand squeezed his a little tighter.

"Oh... uh. sorry."

"You make me feel... like..." Starscream just kind of trailed off.

"Yeah, I know. you too... uh. I mean. you make me. uh. you know."

"Yeah, I know."

"This is good, right?"

"Mmm, it's gonna feel shitty in the morning, but right now it's good."

"What about after tommorow?"

"I don't know. Ask me then."

"Hm."

"I don't have a plan, Bee. That's not normal for me. But I don't need you to tell me it's going to be like this forever, because it probably won't be. Things don't work out like that for us. But right now, for the first time in my entire life, I'm genuinely satisfied. Can we just enjoy that? I don't know how to be happy, Bee. I don't know how to handle it. But I'm trying to make this work. We can go back to shooting each other tommorow if that's easier for you, but right now, I'm happy."

"Yeah? Yeah. Me too. God, I'm happy," Bumblebee pulled their joined hands up, pressing a kiss to Starscream's knuckles where they intersected. "I'm happy that you're happy. I want you to be happy."

"I know," Starscream said. He muttered something else, but it was quiet and slurred and Bee couldn't quite make it out. In his head, Bee imagined it was something along the lines of I love you.

[capfalcon]

crying in the car to dermot kennedy

[cherryjuicegf]

from i love you prompts / “Even after all this time?” for yenralt <3

stay the same

thanks for the prompt love!! so um i swear i'm not doing this on purpose but guess what. it fit with a bingo prompt again :D hope you enjoy!! 💜

35. “Even after all this time?”

for @yenraltbingo prompt: date night || 1.1k, T, fluff, modern/reincarnation and part of this au

The lake is unmoving.

A mirror, cradling a hundred shimmering stars on the faintest of its ripples, and the moonlight, pouring over it like a river springing from a full moon, spreading its silver linings gently along the peeble mosaic of the shore.

A beauty, in every sense of the word, even the ones still not praised by the poets.

Geralt would be enchanted by it, he really would.

That is, if he could devoid his eyes of the image of Yennefer surfacing over the water in front of him, wet curls shining in the silver light, the moon rounding her face in a way that makes him think they're not different at all, her and the moon. The ripples waving around her look fitting, the ethereal dress of a goddess.

And yet she's here. And yet she's smiling at him.

Always there. Always her, coming out of the water, always this lake.

For every year they change, the lake remains the same. He thinks, the opposite it also true. Every year, every life, they're the same. Yet the surface mirrors their faces in a way that reveals the years, the lives, the hundreds of deaths and every desperate kiss. The wrinkles under his eyes have yet to show up. But her, oh, she's always young, always the same.

Only it seems to him that, as he gazes at her smile, that the faint laugh lines carved around her mouth and the dimples of her cheeks are now a bit deeper. If he thinks about it, she has been smiling more. Taking everything she can from each life that has given her sorrow and grief, taking the love and the smiles.

The love for once is also the same. Somehow he knows it could never be otherwise.

For him, at least.

Yennefer wrings her hair and sits beside him on the shore, his black shirt, borrowed from another lifetime, sticking on her body, drenched. Peers at him, as if watching him for the first time and thousand all the same. He doesn't turn. He doesn't need to, not yet.

She turns away then, her eyes lying restless on the water, and sighs. "It's like it hasn't been a day." He wants to ignore the sting her words nail on his heart. He can't. "Remember when we came here first. Hundreds and hundreds," she chuckles, a bittersweet thing, "and hundreds of years ago." Silence, a momentary one. Yennefer glances at him with the corner of her eye, then at the black shirt slowly drying on her. A smirk is playing on her lips. "And you're still wearing the same fucking clothes."

Geralt laughs, unable to hold back a single shake of his shoulders, and looks at her, her wide smile reflecting on his heart, blooming inside it. Like that, she looks more beautiful than ever. He wonders if that is actually possible, and tilts his head. "And yet you insist on stealing that one shirt."

A light giggle and Yennefer raises her eyebrows, her wet arm touching his cold with the night breeze. "Black isn't just your colour. And anyway..." Her voice gets lower, foreign with hesitance as she trails off. Geralt frowns. She looks at him, and before he manages to count the stars in the violet of her eyes, she turns away. Shrugs. "It's comforting. Everything changes, everything runs and we grasp on each other to follow behind. It's comforting, wearing that same shirt," she swallows, lowers her eyes, "knowing that I can at least keep something from back then. Knowing that this won't change."

"It won't." Geralt fears his voice is firmer than he intended, sharped, but the moment she turns to him with a familiar glint in her gaze, he knows it's just right, just what she needs to settle. So he shakes his head. "I still–" a deep, shaky breath, "–I love you, Yen."

Only she could manage such a thing as a bitter hope, always, and her smile now indicates just that, the disbelief of warming herself in the pleasure of being loved. How can she not believe? How can she think for even a second that his love has faded? Geralt knows the answer, he knows her, but decides to leave it aside, if it's for forever proving his love to her.

"Oh, Geralt." Yennefer tilts her head and he thinks he hears her heart picking up its pace. She huffs silently. "Even after all this time?"

Sometimes he thinks it would be easier. Maybe it would hurt less, to be able to love less, to go a whole life without it, without laying a single glance to her even if he feels her presence prickling his skin, running through his bones. Maybe he could get used to being alone like he once was.

It would hurt less. Spare him of the fear, the dreadful moment he loses her, every time, the desperate seconds after he finds her again in fear that she won't remember, that it's over, and he goes on running and running through the years searching for something he has already lost.

He stares at her, still. Slowly, as though facing the same fear, he raises his hand and cups her face, his fingers softened from the years of caressing her skin.

It would hurt less. But then, what would be the point of loving her?

A smile. "If time made any sense, we wouldn't be here right now, at this moment." Geralt watches the way her eyes suddenly resemble the surface of the lake, swallowed tears glistening like stars on their surface, and shakes his head. "I loved you then, I love you now and I will love you forever, in any life, any century, any second I spend on this world. And beyond."

Yennefer doesn't speak, not at once. She only stares at him, tears hanging on her lashes as though holding on for dear life, but it's not their time to fall, not yet. His touch is warm, so warm, and she leans into it. The familiar smirk on her lips. "I should have a talk with destiny. I died with a witcher and woke up with a damn poet."

Her voice doesn't manage to fade in the air before Geralt leans and presses their lips together. It's comforting, the kiss. Like a familiar shirt, a centuries old hug, spilling out the longing of a life and more, like the sweetness of the blood that wounds the cracks of cold, unmoving, beloved lips.

It's comforting. At least now, lost in this kiss, these tears, these hands, they can stop running, just for a night.

Just for a night, they can stay the same.

[bang-fantansies]

Yandere! God Profile - Taehyung

Human Amongst Gods [TEASER] - upcoming fic

Warnings: Suicidal! Taehyung, suicide attempt, mentions of anxiety, mentions of emotional numbness, mentions of death, mentions of afterlife, extreme isolation and loneliness, mythical creatures (imps).

I did my best to include any triggering topics mentioned in this post, but if you see any more potentially sensitive topics I may have missed, please let me know!

This does not represent Bangtan as people or a business, nor does it represent anyone/anything associated with them. This is purely fictional and was made for entertainment purposes only; not to slander anyone or any company.

Name: Kim Taehyung Occupation: God of Death

Taehyung had never had a life, so to speak.

On the contrary, he’d only ever known the fringes of it - the last whisper it would emit before being snuffed out. By him.

So was his purpose as he was hailed as the God of Death.

A title that comes with great power, Taehyung would soon discover.

But with such great power comes an even greater loneliness.

After all, most other gods from galaxies over knew of his reputation, and how to stay away from him if they wished to avoid an untimely death at the simple touch of his hands.

The same for mortals, he’d found.

Day in and day out, he’d sit at the sides of thousands of mortals, watching their soul drain from their body and take his arm as he guided them to their destination.

And every time he did so, he’d feel a sense of malice spike in the back of his mind.

He knew that mortals were released from their duty to wander the Universe a lost soul.

So why not him?

Or, at least, a companion to travel without him: to smile at him without fear in their eyes, to touch him without their body trembling.

But such a fantasy had never come to pass.

Not yet, at least.

And after being exiled from most areas of the Universe for all his life, Taehyung had accepted his fate as a dealer of death. The responsibility of cataloguing and distributing death throughout the Universe was a mighty job, after all.

So much so that he’d employed underlings - impish little beings - to bear the brunt of the work for him.

To release and record all the souls they’d freed that day.

And when all was said and done and his office imps went home for the day, he realised something.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Even his subordinates had families and homes to go to, but he had nothing.

He just existed for the convenience of the Universe - to maintain the balance that allowed it to live on.

And so here he stood - before a window of a wall overlooking an empty planet he inhabited and used for his work.

The land was filled with office buildings identical to his own, stretching as far as the eye could see; a field of concrete.

Each building housed a thousand or so imps, all working to keep up with the ever-increasing demand of death records that required filing and uploading to the System.

And Taehyung looked upon them as he would his own children.

They were the only company he had. And even then his workers had never actually seen him, for he spent his days cooped up in his office or out harvesting lives.

This was for their benefit, of course. Hellish creatures like them were not immune to Taehyung’s touch.

No-one was.

Taehyung’s reflection gazed back at him, the buildings taking a backseat as it came to focus on the stranger before him.

With so little experience and so little identity, would the Universe really collapse without his effort?

Would anything change if he were to...disappear?

Taehyung oftentimes found himself wondering such a concept in the few spare minutes the day held for him, but before a decision could come to fruition, he was called say to a far-off galaxy to harvest the lives of the ready-to-depart.

Taehyung bit his lip and glanced back into the confines of his office.

Red carpet, four walls of sheer darkness, all glass yet revealing nothing but darkness.

There were no achievements to be held on shelves or written in history books.

The only thing to be written in books about Taehyung were the deaths he’d orchestrated and recorded himself.

He literally had nothing to show for his life, despite having existed for many thousands of years.

Taehyung stuck one hand in a pocket of his suit, raising his other before the glass and making a swiping motion before it.

The glass vanished, simply fading from existence, allowing the frozen winds of Taehyung’s planet to invade the office.

Eyes half-lidded, taehyung peered over the edge.

Nothing but a straight drop for miles.

Taehyung knew what death entailed for mortals, but for gods, he had no idea.

No god had ever shown signs of having reached another place after death, which was a good incentive for other gods to avoid Taehyung.

The fear of the unknown bound them to their current existence, making them claw at any chance of survival they could reach when faced with dire circumstances.

With this in mind, Taehyung continued to lean over the ledge, gazing down into the pits of the desolate city.

The promises of the cycle of isolation his life had been urged him further.

He took a step forward, tips of his shoes peaking over the ledge.

He could feel the cold intensely, for it pierced his jacket, almost as if trying to push him back into his office.

“You had your chance. Now I get to decide who lives and who dies.”

His voice was carried by the wind, the high altitude ensuring that the message would reach no-one, to become a mere footnote in the grand scheme of things.

A final word to those that had pushed him away - forced him into his own corner and expected him to survive.

A particularly harsh blast of wind made him wobble, though he made an effort to try and keep his balance.

The numbness that came with his profession was lightly pierced by doubt, a flash of anxiety.

The most primal part of him knew this wasn’t the answer to his problems. With any luck, he’d simply become part of the darkness from which he had been plucked to begin with if he actually went through with this.

But even that had to be better than a lifetime of isolation, right?

On shaky legs, Taehyung inched over the edge, keeping his heels firmly planted in the carpet of his office.

He willed his eyes shut, the combination of the iced winds and the anticipation of falling made them flicker - fight - to stay open.

“It’s all over now,” he promised. “No need to fear.”

His own assurances eased his nerves, giving him the last push he’d need to right the wrongs his existence had brought.

The world slowed, Taehyung forcing a leg forwards to hover over the edge.

The frost nipped at his exposed skin as the leg of his trousers could do little to battle the winds.

His balance loosened, causing him to sway back and forth with the grace of an antique rocking horse.

He was so close to freedom.

He could feel himself lighten as the weight of worlds dropped from his shoulders.

But solice was not meant for him.

Not like this.

Behind him, his phone chimed.

It was not the same sound he’d hear when he was notified of another death.

No, this was the unfamiliar tinkling of a bell: a stark contrast to the melancholy hum he’d installed when he was to be called to work.

His ears pricked, so finely tuned to the sound of a knell that this fresh noise frightened him, almost tipping him over the edge.

A quiet part of him begged him to check what it was - anything to get away from the ledge.

The much larger, number half barked at him to hold his ground, stick to his guns and just get this whole ordeal over with.

He knew who to listen to - he knew when he saw the notification he’d find a reason not to carry out his plan.

And despite knowing nothing of the notification or its nature, Taehyung hesitated.

It would be a shame to die a curious man, he thought.

Besides, it was probably nothing important. Then he could spend an eternity in peace without wondering what this sound could mean.

Taehyung brought his leg back in, stumbling away from the ledge.

The prick of anxiety he’d experienced before quietened yet stayed at his side, an accomplice to his survival.

He left the window open, however.

Sighing, he shuffled over to his desk - a deep and dark mahogany - and died his phone lying dead-centre.

With Taehyung’s presence near, thy e screen aprung to action, displaying a notification.

It was a message. Sent from an unknown number.

Taehyung arched an eyebrow and brought the phone close to his face, unlocking it and opening his messages.

His contact list was barren save for this mystery caller.

Aware of this, he had adopted the presumption that it was a nuisance caller.

Though who dared to play jokes on such a deadly force as himself, Taehyung had no idea who would have the balls to even come up with such an idea.

And he checked.

He wanted to know who had jested him before his demise.

The message was blunt, void of courtesy, yet held a string of salvation for Taehyung.

There is another way.

Taehyung glanced over his shoulder and out to the sea of buildings .

Had someone seen him?

It wouldn’t be a surprise considering some of the imps were bound to still be at work, though Taehyung’s office was so far above the clouds that he’d assumed no-one would have spotted him.

I can only hope that I’m not too late.

I can help you.

Attached to the second message was a picture of a woman, a halo hanging above her head like a target.

Taehyung’s eyes widened, his breath short.

Pale fingers fumbled for his tie, pulling it loose while he observed the picture further.

He knew that halo.

He’d seen only one other like it in his many thousands of years of life, and even then it wasn’t glowing with life.

It had been while he was visiting a museum dedicated to gods past, and such a relic had appeared in a heavily-guarded display case.

Without its owner to wear it, it was neither as vibrant nor as beautiful as it lay on a satin pillow, merely resembling a circle of bone rather than an ethereal object.

But it’s brilliance enraptured him all the same.

He’d believed it a fable - a legend created to keep him tame and willing to do his job.

A legend of a soul who could withstand Taehyung’s killing touch.

And here he was, seeing it for a second time, in action.

Interested?

Taehyung found himself pausing.

This could just be a trick, he told himself.

But...what if it wasn’t fake?

He requested proof that the image was real.

The response was clear cut and blunt.

I can take you to her.

Taehyung glanced over his shoulder again, paranoia projecting shadows in the corners of his vision.

Still, nothing but the open window.

He glanced back down at his phone.

What did he have to lose?

All right.

Take me to her.

I will. The stranger typed.

But first, I need you to do something for me.

I don’t own the pictures used in the moodboard, but I edited the moodboard myself.

[willgrahymn]

Two Love

I’m not gonna lie, this is probably some of the gayest shit I’ve ever written.

Summary: In the silence of the night, it feels like there's nothing but them. Loving oneself is not an easy task, and loving another takes work. If we can't love ourselves now though, we can at least love each other. Maybe then we will realize our own worth. Virgil and Roman know this well.

Word count: 2019

Tags: romantic prinxiety, (domestic) fluff, light angst, human au, living together, non-sexual intimacy, cuddling, communication, and marriage proposal ✨

As always, I’ll reblog with a link to this on ao3 :]!

-

“I wish you knew how lovable you are,” Virgil whispered into the silence.

Roman didn’t respond, biting his lower lip and not once opening his eyes. Virgil frowned, lightly tracing the tattoos on the other man’s chest, stopping to place his palm against the beating of his heart.

The room was quiet besides the sound of the heat coming through the vents and the occasional car passing by outside. Virgil sighed, laying his head against his love. He was warm, too, and he wished he never had to get out of bed again. It wasn’t like the way he wished during a depressive episode though. This was different; it was cozier, and more like home. He closed his eyes as he felt a hand begin to play with the hair at the base of his neck, and made a mental note to trim it later.

“I love you,” he mumbled, his lips ghosting against his boyfriend’s skin. He thought watching the rise and fall of his stomach, breathing in and out, was what made him want to say it.

“I know you do,” Roman responded, and Virgil could hear the tired smile in his voice, “I love you too. You’re perfect.”

“I’m anything but.”

“Then you’re perfect for me.”

Virgil decided he was happy to settle for that.

Roman continued to play with the dark strands before kissing the long magenta bangs that normally covered his boyfriend’s eyes. And he smiled because his hair smelled like the same raspberry-scented shampoo that he washed his hair with not long ago. If there was anything Roman believed he could do well, it was making his boyfriend feel cared for. He deserved it, and the way Virgil always leaned into his touch like a cat receiving ear scratches whenever he rubbed the shampoo into his scalp was something he simply couldn’t pass up when the opportunity arose.

He was beautiful now in Roman’s arms, and he would be beautiful when he woke up in the morning with his hair messed up going every which way. He would be beautiful when black makeup stained his face in tear tracks and he asked Roman if they could go home after a failed night out. There would not be a time when he was not beautiful, because he never gave Roman a reason to see him as anything less than that. He was a work of art. Frayed at the edges, sure, but he remained invaluable nonetheless.

Blinking slowly, Roman watched as his love shifted to meet his gaze. Dark eyes shining in the moonlight that seeped in through their window blinds. They were as gorgeous as the rest of him, he thought.

“What is it, my Night Light?”

“Oh, nothing,” he smirked, “I was just admiring.”

Roman rolled his eyes, a mix of fondness and instinctual doubt settling in his gut. “You see me every day, you’ll tire of me eventually.” He tried.

“We already went through the phase of being sick of each other when we first met, you’re not getting rid of me now.” Virgil teased, and before Roman could think of something else to say to distract from his statement, he started to speak again softer this time. “I meant what I said earlier, about how you’re so much more lovable than you know. I care about you.”

Virgil took a deep breath. He didn’t consider himself good at this sort of thing, but the weight of Roman’s fingers lacing between his own and pulling him closer was reassurance enough.

“I love you, Roman, and I… I just hope that one day, you’ll fall in love with yourself in the same way I did. You deserve to feel like you’re worth it.”

Roman stared at him, his mouth barely open as he replayed the words in his head. He knew Virgil, knew that he was always more on the pessimistic side, and didn’t try to get his hopes up about things to come. Still, he hoped for him. A hand rested against his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his lips. Virgil smiled, and his heart felt full.

“Thank you,” he said. “I hope that one day you’ll wake up and face yourself in the mirror, and be able to value yourself as much as I do. It’s only fair.”

He took his partner’s hand, kissing his palm. Even in the darkness of their room, he could still see Virgil’s eyes go wide before hiding his face against his chest. It was cute, but he could tease him about that later. For now, though, he just felt lucky that he was allowed to see him like this. No walls up, and no fake dark persona to make sure others would leave him alone. He was just honest, authentic Virgil, and that was all that Roman wanted.

“I could spend a thousand lifetimes with you and it still wouldn’t be enough.” He admitted. “I would relive all the bad days where we didn’t get along, all the bad days where we doubted ourselves, as long as I knew it would bring me back here just like this with you.”

Virgil stared at him, curious and adoring. “You’re a madman.”

“Nothing compared to my brother,” Roman laughed, “but I guess you might be right. If I didn’t think straight before I certainly don’t now.”

Virgil rolled his eyes, a fond smile on his lips. He pulled himself up, face to face with the hopelessly romantic man he’d fallen in love with, dark eyes staring through thick lashes.

With some hesitance, Roman asked. “Have you ever thought about wanting to get married someday? It’s okay if not, I know right now might not be the perfect time to bring it up, but… it came to mind, I guess.”

He held his breath as Virgil considered. He didn’t want to be pushy. All he knew was that if asked, he would accept that commitment, and not dream of another. Because Virgil wasn’t like any of the partners he had known before. He was gentle and rough, sweet and sour, and Roman loved his contradictions. He loved to be loved in a way he could understand.

“Maybe not right now,” Virgil finally replied, “but I’d be happy with that. With you.”

Roman nodded, kissing him on the nose and appreciating the way Virgil’s eyes crinkled when he did.

“That’s okay,” he smiled, and it was the truth. “I just need you to know that if you’re ever ready for that, I’ll be here. I’d love to call you my husband if you’d let me. One of us can surprise the other with a proposal someday, but before that, I want us both to be ready.”

Virgil blinked, slow like a cat. Maybe these kinds of conversations were better left until morning.

“Thank you. I’d uh, I’d like that though, eventually.”

Smiling, Roman closed his eyes. He always dreamed of grand fairytale weddings and proposals, but this, this was good too. Fitting for them. It wasn’t Disney, but they made it work.

Pulling the blanket further over them, Virgil kissed his prince’s cheek only to be pulled into a proper one right after. Soft and slow, Virgil felt Roman’s lips quirk as his hand grazed the rose tattooed at his hip.

Then, he asked. “Of all the people you could choose to love, why me?”

“I think you’re the only one who really gets me,” Roman said, nuzzling into his lover’s shoulder and breathing in the faint scent of lavender. “You smell good.”

Virgil laughed silently, and Roman felt his body shake against him. He could feel that same butterfly-like sensation in his stomach from when he first started thinking of him as more than a friend.

“I think you’re the only person who can understand me though… not in an edgy teenager way, but like with my issues. People see me, but not in the way you do. You’re the one who drove halfway across town to drag my sorry ass out of bed after my ex dumped me and helped me realize it was a good thing. You helped me get out of my comfort zone and experiment with makeup too. I guess in a way, you make me better. And if you can love me with all the flaws that I have, then I can love yours too.”

“Oh,” he whispered, “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, you deserve to. You may be as dark and gloomy as a live-action Batman movie, but you still make my world a little brighter.”

“You’re a dork.”

Roman gasped, pulling back and holding his hand to his chest as if he had just touched a hot stove. “You’re so mean!”

Virgil shrugged, and Roman could practically hear the unspoken ‘it’s what I do best.’ It seemed that in all the years he had known him, he figured out how to decipher the mystery of a man hidden under all that black and purple emo attire.

It was 12:27 AM, at least that’s what the clock sitting on their bedside table told them. Virgil was used to being up late, insomnia and all, but since they started living together Roman insisted he come to bed at the same time every night. He appreciated it though. He liked getting ready for bed together and the weight of Roman falling asleep against him. He didn’t want to admit it, but it helped.

The room was nearly silent, the heat turned off long ago. The quiet sounds of rustling pillows and blankets were the only thing to be heard. Warm breaths lingered on Roman’s skin making his hair rise as soft lips met his jaw. He wondered if Virgil remembered watching him scrub violet lipstick off his face in the theater's dressing room while he giggled like a kid at a carnival. If he asked, Virgil would have told him there was a reason he preferred darker shades.

“Do you think we’ll have kids someday?”

“Don’t push it, Princey. You haven’t even decided if you want to adopt a cat or a dog yet.”

“Still! Could you imagine us as dads? We could have Disney movie nights. We already do that, I know, but we could do it with our kid. I’m perfectly fine with just being pet parents, but could you imagine?”

“I can, actually, and now I’m going to be worrying about our non-existent child and their not yet existing future until I fall asleep.”

Roman glared at him before rolling onto his side. All too familiar with the silly things he did, Virgil waited in anticipation and was pleasantly surprised when Roman finally lunged back over, attacking him with a kiss and laughing against his lips.

“You said not yet existing,” he grinned, “which implies that there will be one eventually.”

Virgil sighed, running his fingers through his partner’s hair. “You’re not getting me to agree to adopt a child in the middle of the night, Ro.”

Humming, Roman nodded an ‘okay’ and let the subject go for now. Virgil didn’t even think before he spoke again.

“I want a future with you, Roman, you know that.”

The softness in his eyes was one Virgil would do anything to protect, and he smiled as Roman snuggled into his chest. He loved him, and with the sound of his heart beating in his ears he was sure that he would do anything it took to keep him safe.

“Get some rest, Sleepy Beauty,” he whispered. “You deserve it.”

In the morning, they would both wake up with their legs intertwined, knowing that they could stay in bed all morning because neither had work that day. Roman would get up first, and Virgil would admire him as he stretched. When Virgil finally did pull himself out of bed and found his future-husband in the kitchen making french toast, he would slump against his back and leave a kiss between his shoulders.

And maybe life was never going to be easy, but that could be okay. Step by step, stroke by stroke, they’d make it through as each other’s sword and shield.

[quillquiver]

no more watchers on the wall

Musings on Cas and love. 15x18 kind of coda.  read on ao3

Love—the concept of it, the feeling—had never been a difficult thing to grasp. Castiel was, after all, willed into being by love. What was he if not an agent of such feeling? What was his grace if not the divine manifestation of it? Castiel understood that love was in listening. In following. In obeying. It was steadfast and absolute.

And so Castiel was steadfast. Castiel was absolute.

He painted stars across the black, empty skies of his Father’s Universe and imbued joy into each one; closed his eyes and smiled as he nudged Pluto into place. Castiel dipped his wings in the stardust of Saturn’s rings and left behind nebulas of startling colour. He meditated between binary stars. Overwhelmed by the hunger and emptiness of the first black hole, he opened his mouth and sang with it.

It was not a burden, to love the Universe his Father created. Castiel walked along the sulphurous, scorched shores of the primordial beach and loved the creature of flesh that hauled itself onto the coarse black sand. He leaned over the very edge of heaven and watched pterodactyls fly and felt his own wings twitch. When God sent a meteor for the dinosaurs, Castiel reassured himself that the subsequent genocide must have been borne of love, too.

Privately, he wondered at this; his insatiable curiosity to know all God’s creatures, to fly to the farthest reaches of the Universe—just to see, to know. His passion outmatched that of his siblings, and among the closest of his kin, he became known for it. Though Castiel was not a Watcher, Uriel joked that he may as well have been—but to be teased by his brother was a privilege, and Castiel loved him, too.

The Neanderthals were poets, and Castiel would spend hours reciting their words of love to himself, over and over, marveling at them. Certainly, there were other creatures who loved and loved deeply, but there was something about homo neanderthalensis—their appreciation for beauty, their seriousness in all things—that Castiel saw reflected in his own self.

But the Neanderthals died, and so Castiel turned to humanity with the rest of Heaven. Waiting. Watching. There were rumours that humanity was the Father’s chosen people, and Castiel wondered briefly, treasonously, at all the creatures who had been casualties His divine search. But Castiel was a being of duty, of purpose—and so he set himself to the task of loving them, too.

God created the Garden.

The Lightbringer became jealous and in his hatred, offered Eve a pomegranate. Her own curiosity was too large to bear. This desire—for knowledge, for knowing—Castiel understood, though he kept his thoughts to himself. And as he fought for Michael, as he remained steadfast and absolute, he wondered at the ability of love to twist into something so volatile. Twisted. Wrong. He wondered if perhaps both sides weren’t wrong, in that neither cared about the creatures on Earth and the happenings of their little lives; that two brothers were fighting there, too. That one killed the other and was doomed to a life of wandering.

War waged on. Castiel found he was good at killing, when it was in defense of people he loved. Over time, he even began to see it as a mercy; that to take a life was to save his kin from eternal damnation as well as to protect the glory of the Father’s creation. Here, death and love were intertwined. Both righteous. Both absolute. Castiel’s knowledge of all things—the defense strategies of the parasaurolophus, the hunting behaviours of the sabre-toothed tiger—propelled him through the ranks until he became Anna’s right-hand. There was no doubt that, had the war continued, he would have had been named a leader in his own right.

But the war did end, and by the time it had, Earth had flooded for forty days and forty nights.

Castiel watched, despaired, at how the world had changed while he’d been gone. At the violence. The despair. By the time Moses was desperately hidden in a basket and pushed downriver, Castiel turned away from Earth and refused to look upon it again, heartbroken; so much had changed since he’d flown carefree among newborn stars.

Castiel was one of three called upon to slay every Egyptian first born. He was told to take a vessel and protect a boy named David. He’d heard rumours of the Father’s son—born to a human woman named Mary—and grief and joy echoed across Heaven upon Christ’s death at the hands of the Romans. Castiel remained steadfast throughout—dutiful, loyal, with a love for all things humming a baseline in the depths of his heart. He was devotion incarnate; the Father’s will was good and righteous, and he wielded his first children as instruments of love and light. If he couldn’t see the plan right now, it was because he merely did not understand it. Besides, understanding was beyond his purview. Castiel’s only purpose was love of the highest order. Steadfast. Absolute.

Or so he’d thought.

The angels laid siege to Hell for forty years. It was by happenstance that Castiel was the one to find the Righteous Man; twisted and smirking in front of his rack, his soul still shone with the power of a thousand suns. Be not afraid, Castiel had said, reaching out to touch the hurting thing. Like an injured animal, Dean Winchester shied away, and Castiel felt something within himself, something long-since tightened, unravel. I mean you no harm.

And he’d laid a hand upon the soul of the Righteous Man.

They lost precious time in the single moment of that act—one that lasted a second, an hour, a lifetime. Castiel had no need for breath, and yet he felt breathless in touching this human, this person whose warmth and light, palpable from a distance, was blinding so close. God had lied. Beautiful words about angels as the bringers of love and light—all falsehoods at the feet of his one human being, this righteous man, whose love was so… so steadfast, so absolute it led him to the deepest, darkest hole in the Pit. It had been no hardship to hold Dean Winchester close and fly him out of Hell, to sing for the first time in eons, so loud and clear and joyous it was heard in the Ninth Sphere: Dean Winchester is saved.

Castiel stitched Dean’s soul back into a body of flesh and bone with all the love he possessed, himself. He’d wanted to be his equal. His kin. He’d wanted to understand how such a man came to be, living in the world as it was today. And so Castiel remade his heart and hands and wondered at how one person could possibly embody so much goodness and grace. So much beauty. For Dean Winchester was comely for a human and that was right, too; that the Righteous Man’s love shone through his skin to make him golden and great.

How laughable that even then, Castiel had known nothing.

He understands, now.

Now, Cas has known heartbreak and elation. He has known despair and joy. And he understands that all of that—the good, the bad, the ugly—all of it is love. That love is not steadfast in itself, but a riot of emotion, and it is the ability to remain steadfast in spite of that that makes it sacred and glorious. That hope and love are irrevocably entwined, and it is in this intersection that humans find true strength. True dignity. That they become something greater than themselves when they are true to themselves.

And so, in a concrete room under the ground, Cas speaks his own truth. He pulls the words from deep within his own heart and lays himself bare not because he must, but because there is strength in it. Happiness in it. Because it is a privilege and an honor and this vulnerability, too, is sacred. For the first time in all the eons of history, an angel confesses to a human man—not because he has doubts, but because he is sure. Because he is certain. Because he—a being known for its sameness—has been forever changed by one imperfect, loving human. Because Dean Winchester is love incarnate.

“Cas—”

It’s funny; for all that he has been told he is an abomination, Cas has never felt more holy.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Cas pushes Dean out of harm’s way and meets the Empty head-on. Ready. Proud.  

And his love is steadfast.

And it is absolute.

[retvenkos]

always waiting (just not in that tree) | r.a.b.

Harry Potter - Regulus Arcturus Black x Reader, angst, slight fluff requested by @captainshazamerica​

tw: death eaters, mild language, mentions of death, mentions of betrayal

word count: 2.2k

prompt: “where were you?” / “i’m doing the best i can—” / “no. you’re not hearing me. where were you?”

Summary: A lifetime ago, Regulus and (Y/n) made plans to leave their life behind, but when the time came, he never showed. Two years later, he survives the Drink of Despair and (Y/n) wonders what ever stopped him from leaving, in the first place.

The day was cold. The morning started with a chilling wind, the howling air sweeping across the world with a vengeance, crying out sorrowfully as though it knew what as to come; the sun didn’t shine until at least mid-day, and even as it fought against the thick clouds above, it’s warmth never made it to the ground below, just dissipated in the top layer of the atmosphere. (Y/n) had woken to the deafening sound of silence, and throughout the day, it hung around their shoulders like a shroud. They checked the clock at 11:15, then again at 11:30. At 12:00, they checked it every five minutes.

There was no sound but the moaning wind.

(Y/n) checked their bag, rooting through the seemingly endless bottom until they found the note and the cipher needed to read it. Regulus’ careful handwriting met them, with its sharp edges and careful curves. 

Noon, the day before it happens.

(Y/n) shoved all their belongings back into their bag, except for two - their wand and the note. They held onto the creased, stained parchment with a strength born from that insatiable fear that ate at them, gnawing at the pit of their stomach and sliding down their throat. He would be here - he had to be.

The wind stopped at around 3:18. The stillness was almost worse than the wind. (Y/n) held their watch in a knuckle-tight grip, their skin stretched over their bones in such a way it hurt; the pain of their dry, cracked skin pulling itself too tightly was almost enough to mask the pain that tore at their heart and plagued their mind. 

They had planned it meticulously. His parents were gone, the house-elves were en route to Malfoy Manor for a 3-minute window where the house was vacant and the wards were taken down. He couldn’t have missed it - they had practiced it too many times before...

Maybe he got lost in the woods. The trees grew so closely together it was easy to get turned around between one path and another. Perhaps he had come across some danger that was delaying him - a danger that made no sound.

(Y/n) looked at the clock face once more.

Night fell and there were no stars to guide the way. (Y/n) still sat in their meeting place, in the branches of the largest elm tree they could find, with knots all up the trunk, and a lonely Slytherin scarf hanging from one of the lower branches. 

It had been one of the first things they’d done when they planned their escape. Together, they had stolen as many scarves as they could, coming to the forest and tying them onto the branches of trees - ones that bore no resemblance to their meeting spot but could fool the untrained eye, perhaps make the marker meaningless to anyone else. Regulus had tied his own scarf to the final tree, his sad eyes more solemn than (Y/n) had ever seen, his countenance more sombre. 

(Y/n) could still see him, with his dark hair falling into his eyes, the wind turning his usual poised self reckless, his entire being pulling loose and falling at (Y/n)’s feet. They had put their hand on his shoulder and how they had wished it was something more.

(Y/n) wished, still.

A branch snapped in the cold night air. (Y/n) startled at the sound, and their heart leapt in their chest, only to freeze in dread. Their parents walked below with their hoods pulled up but their faces exposed. (Y/n) clutched their wand in their dominant hand, but their entire being shook with fear. If they were caught, there would be no chance of running ever again. Their left forearm itched, as though the cursed mark was already there, crawling up their skin and forever branding them the enemy.

(Y/n) had to run, damn the consequences. If they were killed in their escape, perhaps it would be a mercy.

(Y/n) looked down at Regulus' scarf, tied on the branch below. In another life, they would have risked everything to retrieve it; in another life, they would have waited, still.

But part of them knew they would always be waiting, just not in this tree.

"I love you, Regulus. Please, forgive me."

They apparated into the night.

✧ *:･ﾟ

For two years, (Y/n) lived in a haze. During the day, they were running and fighting, soldiering in a war was never easy, particularly when the foe was once a schoolmate and killers were once friends. At night, (Y/n) couldn't sleep; guilt was a fickle companion, never satisfied with the attention it received and apathetic about the destruction it wrought. There was always a part of (Y/n) that saw the Death Eater they almost were - the monster that almost was - and it made fighting harder. How could they go toe to toe with a Death Eater, when they were unable to reconcile with the knowledge that they were once fated to be the very thing they were to destroy? Sometimes, when in the thick of things, (Y/n) searched for Regulus in the crowd, although what they would do when they found him, they did not know. There was a fair chance that he wasn't even alive, the way he had disappeared, and yet (Y/n) searched, still.

At times they felt that part of them would always be searching for him, waiting for him to show up - just not in that tree.

(Y/n) made few allies during their time amongst the Order of the Phoenix, and even fewer friends.  Most of the members didn't trust them. There was a constant undercurrent of suspicion in the ranks, and while (Y/n) didn't judge their reluctancy, it made things more difficult. It also made them wonder, occasionally, what it would have been like, had Regulus joined them. He would have hated the judgment - they so easily trusted some, and others would never receive the same confidence. His brother would be loved, and he would be doubted. Sometimes, (Y/n) could conjecture what complaints he would have, and it would bring a nostalgic smile - sweet, but with a bitter end.

All they had was conjecture, anymore, and as (Y/n) walked into the Order of the Phoenix headquarters, taking a seat in the meeting area, they tried to fathom what Regulus might think if he could see them now.

People trickled into the room fairly slowly, talking in hushed whispers and throwing glances about the room as though there was some secret that only a select few knew. (Y/n) watched them through careful eyes, already in tune to the low level of tension in the room. At one point, Sirius Black threw a sideways glance at them, but instead of being filled with his usual fire, there was pity combined with something akin to respect. (Y/n) had looked away (what else were they supposed to do?) but they knew that something had happened. The question was... what?

When Albus Dumbledore walked in, his eyes scanned the room as usual, but this time they rested on (Y/n). It was in his gaze, too, then, a regretful sort of acceptance that gave way to poignancy - the kind of look one has after seeing an emotional piece of art and feeling something deep within them move to compassion. (Y/n) had only seen that look a few times before, and they had only ever given it to one - someone who still lay heavy on their heart.

"As always, there is good news and bad..."

(Y/n) studied their cuticles, listening to the conversation that surrounded them. Meetings like this were usually long, with many triumphs recognized alongside terrible evils - news of death interwoven with stories of victory. There was celebration and there was sorrow; (Y/n) learned rather quickly to keep their head down and their hopes stable. It was the only way to get by.

At some point through the meeting, James Potter snuck in, and he took a seat beside (Y/n), whispering their name. They turned to him, eyebrow furrowing. "Yes?"

"There's someone in the sick room you should see, he's just gained consciousness again and is asking for you. Dumbledore wanted us to wait but..."

And (Y/n) hated the way their hopes jumbled inside of them, as though it might be something grand. "Who?"

A name left James' lips.

(Y/n) gasped.

(Y/n) rushed to the hall without another word. Their mind was numb, trying to formulate some kind of response to what they had heard - something that could reconcile reality and dream - but there was so much conflicting evidence that it was at a standstill, shortcircuiting like static. But their heart cared not for the complication of the mind, and it ached in only one, increasingly profound way.

When they made it to the door that separated the makeshift sick room from the rest of the house, (Y/n) paused. Their mind ran through a thousand possibilities, replaying that day in their mind over and over until it brought tears to their eyes. (Y/n) screwed their eyes shut and started to pull their hand away when they heard a cough from within. Without a single thought, (Y/n) swung open the door.

And there he was.

For a moment that existed outside of reality, they just stared at each other.

There he was, with his dark hair falling into his eyes, the weight of the world having turned his usual poised self into something reckless, his entire being pulled loose and falling at (Y/n)'s feet. In his eyes was that same solemn melancholy, his countenance sombre and aged.

"Regulus..." and their whole life, they had been preparing for this moment, wishing they would be able to say more.

(Y/n) wished, still.

His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

(Y/n) didn't walk in, but clung to the doorway. "Where were you?"

And he took in a labored breath.

"I waited for you," (Y/n)'s words trembled with the beginnings of a sob, "Where were you?"

"I was doing the best that I could—"

"No, you're not hearing me." (Y/n) had thought they would savor the sound of his voice, but all it did was bring back a rush of memories they had been fighting for two years to keep down. They had been waiting - always waiting - for two, long years, and now they wanted answers. (Y/n) couldn't afford to fathom their own, anymore. "I didn't leave that tree until nightfall. I was almost caught by my parents, waiting for you to show. Where were you?"

As if he didn't already look pained enough, Regulus' eyes filled with a terrible kind of sorrow. "I was going to leave with you. I had my bag packed and I was waiting to apparate but then... then I saw Sirius. At Grimmauld Place. He must have also known that our parents were gone because he was there, nicking some family heirlooms - dark artifacts that he didn’t want them to be able to use in the future. (Y/n), I thought I had the time to confront him... I wasn't leaving you."

(Y/n) surged forward, tears spilling down their face as they hugged Regulus with all the force of those stolen, lonely years. He sobbed into their shoulder, his entire being quaking, spilling from every edge and breaking apart.

“I’ve relived my worst failures trying to fix things, (Y/n). The Drink of Despair.... it showed me you, waiting in our tree. I didn’t mean to leave you, (Y/n). You’re the last person I meant to hurt.”

 (Y/n) held him until his tears subsided, until his sobs were no longer quite so far and until his breathing calmed and their hearts beat as one. (Y/n) breathed in the feeling of him, and for once, they weren't waiting for anything. (Y/n) had been searching through every crowd and waiting for millennia, and now he was here.

It wasn't in their tree, but he had come.

Regulus eventually spoke, finally finishing his story, but never once did he let go. "We fought in the hallway, and I pulled my wand. I don't know what I was going to do, but he got to me first and knocked me out. I woke up the next morning, and it was too late."

"But you're here, now. You came."

"I wanted to come sooner," he breathed, and his words tickled (Y/n)'s neck. “I meant it when I said we’d leave together. You’re all I have left.” (Y/n) held onto the way he felt in their arms, alive and breathing. They hugged him with all the strength they had, and how they wished it was something more.

But there would be time for that. For now, they could just revel in the idea that Regulus was safe, and he made his way back to them. 

“Please don’t leave, again.”

And Regulus held (Y/n) a little tighter, as though he was afraid they would slip through his grasp. “I don’t plan to,” he whispered, his voice gruff and full of all the longing he had ever carried in his chest.

-- taglist: @musicallisto, @theletterhart, @locke-writes, @randomfandomimagine, @brokenandheadoverheels, @timeofmadness, @writerdream22, @lotsoffandomrecs, @neelia-thedaughtherof-athena, @coffee–writes, @lenalxvegood, @cooloaflandhero, @swanimagines, @noesapphic​, @amortensie // message me if you want to be added!

[fandom-space-princess]

The Game of Us

Rating: T (gen, no warnings)

Chapter 2: Gabriel

A crevice splits the earth, clean through the center of the circular clearing. Beyond the crevice a woman is seated on a low stone. Her eyes are covered by a crimson blindfold, the only color he has yet seen in this realm. It stands in sharp contrast to her bone-white skin and hair, a slash of silken blood by which to obscure her vision.

Though he makes no sound, she smiles as he approaches. “Michael.” The sound of her voice fills him with a nameless relief. He has never heard that voice, and still, he knows her like a heartbeat.

Read below the cut, or on AO3

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Upstream, the path breaks away from the river, and turns inland among low rolling foothills. Memory of a memory: for the living, these hills would have been warm and verdant, groves of olive trees. As it is, this murky reflection of life is still the closest Michael has come to the world since his descent into this desolate realm. Part of him, the part that stirs accusations like betrayal and failure in his mind like water circling a drain, yearns to lose himself in the embrace of it. To sink back beneath the surface and go no further.

He presses on.

As the path narrows and twists among the trees, air heavy with the scents of forest and the distant sea, Michael hears the low murmur of a crowd. The sounds grow more distinct as he climbs. This too is strange: human crowds have no place here, in an inhuman afterlife. When at last the tree line breaks and the path spills abruptly into a clearing, he stares uncomprehending for long moments, absorbing the sight before him.

This was a temple, once. Ages gone, this would have been a marvel of solemn grandeur. Now only ruins remain, although they are surrounded by the spectral aura of the structures they must once have been. Looked at straight on, Michael sees crumbling plinths, broken marble columns supporting the remnants of ornate entablature around a circle of grass and shattered stone. If he squints, however, the afterimages come into sharper relief. Haunted by the ghosts of architecture long fallen to ruin, this place yet remembers what it was.

It is haunted by more than that.

************************************

The rough amphitheater in which he finds himself is crowded. Shades mill nearby, shadowy and indistinct, seated or standing and whispering among themselves. Their numbers are beyond counting: thousands, perhaps? More? He takes them for human, at first, or the memory of human. But then one’s perambulations lead it toward him, and before he can think to move the shade passes straight through him. It continues on without acknowledgement, and he is overcome by a sense of deep unease.

The creature had felt... angelic. Mindless, unthinking, but unmistakable for anything but grace, rather than soul.

The focal point of the shades lies ahead, at the base of the crumbling colonnade. A crevice splits the earth, clean through the center of the circular clearing. Beyond the crevice a woman is seated on a low stone. Her eyes are covered by a crimson blindfold, the only color he has yet seen in this realm. It stands in sharp contrast to her bone-white skin and hair, a slash of silken blood by which to obscure her vision.

Though he makes no sound, she smiles as he approaches. “Michael.” The sound of her voice fills him with a nameless relief. He has never heard that voice, and still, he knows her like a heartbeat.

He steps across the crevice in one long stride. As he does, he can’t help but look down and into it: the same frigid black waters that had led him here rumble past beneath the crust of rock at its lip. Michael settles beside the stone, facing outward into the theatre, mimicking her. “Gabriel. You’re... what are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know. Taking in the scenery.”

One of the shades cuts free of the larger mass of figures. It drifts closer, apparently with purpose, and when it reaches the bare earth opposite Gabriel, it kneels. Michael regards it with wary curiosity.

“They’re here for prophecy,” Gabriel supplies, in response to his unspoken inquiry. “The humans used to come to this place to lay offerings before their fortunetellers. I visited, once or twice. Way back when.” She hums, head bowed slightly, hands folded motionless in her lap. “I liked it better then. Much more lively. This incarnation lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.”

She turns her attention to the shade before her, unseeing but knowing, somehow, that it waits there.

The shade bows low in deference. Tell me what tomorrow holds for me, it asks, voice fleeting as an autumn breeze.

“An interesting question,” she replies. Her words are warm and indulgent. “What did today hold for you? If you’re willing to tell me, I’d like to know.”

The shade appears puzzled by the request. Nevertheless, it responds. I saw a death, at the end of a silver blade. Light and pain before, only smoke and ash after. A falling, a sinking, into the darkness and the silence. And then a rising, awakening, only to see the death again. Over and over I saw the death, until I grew heavy with dread, and found myself here. It pauses its recitation, suddenly pensive. I think the death was mine.

She opens her hands before her, palms up, a sweeping gesture that invites the shade to continue. A texture along her wrist glimmers, unexpected. For the first time, Michael looks closely at Gabriel’s form. Minute scales swirl along patches of her skin. They are pearlescent and smooth, softly aglow under the ever-present half-light.

“Tell me more. What did you learn from it? How did it make you feel?”

The shade mutters on, its voice rising and falling in cadence with the rush of water at their feet. Eventually it tapers off, settling back on its heels. It seems less substantial than before, in a way Michael finds difficult to define, ethereal form wispy and unburdened. Gabriel inclines her head in acknowledgement, and the spirit fades away, melting back into the crowd.

“You aren’t a prophet, Gabriel,” Michael observes. She tilts her head toward him, grinning. In her mouth he sees the flash of fangs.

“No,” she agrees readily. “I’m not. But I am a messenger. Or I was. And this place has such interesting ways of making its points. Metaphorical, if not necessarily colorful.” She smiles again, chuckles at her own joke.

“But you offered no guidance. No message, prophetic or otherwise.”

“Oh, Mikey. Always so literal-minded. But you’re right. Being here has given me so much to think about. Maybe it’s time I stopped with the talking, and took up listening.”

She uncrosses her legs from the stone, and moves to kneel on the ground before it. Her knees push out over the cusp of the crevice. Her feet emerge from beneath the fraying edge of her skirt, clawed and scaled. Michael extends a hand tentatively. Brushes the tips of his fingers along the scales at the curve of her ankle, feeling the staticky-smooth keratinous edges. She reaches out, and takes his hand in her own. Squeezes once, then lets it fall away.

“Brother?” Michael asks, although he’s not entirely certain what it is he seeks to hear from her.

“I woke up in this form.” She shrugs. “I could change it, if I wanted, but I think it suits my current occupation. She lived here, once. A nuisance to pretty much everybody in the area, this creature was killed for the mischief and misfortunes she inflicted on the region’s inhabitants and their livestock. Her bones were laid into the foundations when it was built. Now she sleeps, and she listens.” She shivers. “That’s her judgement. That’s her penance.”

“Why is any of this here, Gabriel? Do you know? A being awoke me on the shore, told me to find you. It says it needs us—that we must move on from here. It wasn’t the Shadow. I don’t know what it was.”

She laughs aloud at that, a sound that rings out in echoes, vanishing among the shades. “You really don’t know? Bro, that’s unobservant even for you. You just have to listen harder. Knowledge is easy to come by here, if you pay attention. As for the river, this river—” She leans down to trail her fingers through the crest of a wave. Flicks the water playfully at Michael. “Old man always had a sense for theatrics. ‘Behold, for before you lies the river Styx.’ As good a way as any to make his point. River of judgement: either it makes you invulnerable, or poisons you, and the only way to find out which you get is to roll the dice.”

Michael is silent for several long seconds, something icy and desperate in his throat. Finally: “Will you go, then? Move on, to whatever awaits us next?”

Gabriel’s hands rise to the sides of her face. She draws the blindfold delicately up and off, silk trickling through her fingers like river water. She blinks back at Michael. Her pupils are slitted, snakelike.

Ignoring his question, she takes his chin in her hand. Appraises him, gently tilting his head this way and that as she studies the image he wears. “Still carrying that torch, huh? Well, I won’t deny that he was good for you. But maybe raise your gaze a little, ok?” Her thumb strokes over his cheek, once, and her lips quirk into an affectionate half-smile. Then her hand falls away, and she turns, studying the water. “You don’t have to keep defining yourself by what you were, or what you did. You can choose something else, you know?”

She inhales deeply, steadying herself. Michael can only watch as, trembling faintly, she dips her hands into the waters of the Styx. Drawing her cupped hands to her mouth, she glances back at him one final time.

“But then, what do I know? I’ve carried out enough judgement for one lifetime. See you on the other side, Mike.”

She lowers her mouth to the water, and drinks, and dissolves away into the mist.

************************************

(Chapter notes:

- The form Gabriel has taken in this chapter is the body of the Delphyne, the half-serpent maiden who is said to have inhabited the caves in the upper slopes of Mount Parnassus. Her death at the hands of Apollo is associated with the founding of Delphi, the location which serves as the primary inspiration for this scene.)

[queenaeducan]

We Tame the Sky

Pairing: f!Cadash / Josephine Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No warnings apply

In the quiet before the final approach on Haven, Thora Cadash and Josephine share a moment together in Skyhold's chapel.

Written as a fill for Spronky as a part of the @sapphic-solstice event!

Read on AO3 here.

Sitting in the quiet of Skyhold’s chapel, Thora begins to see why her ancestors favoured the stone so. Being born Casteless she had always been as likely to choose a sun-soaked field over a well-lit cave, but tonight is different. Outside, the light breaks in a sickly green over the Frostbacks, scattering across the sky like a spotlight through the pieces of a shattered mirror. Thunder rumbles without storm clouds, booming with Corypheus’ ambition. Beneath the stone chapel ceiling it's not easy to forget the chaos that threatens to tear their world asunder, but peace seems a little more feasible here. The harsh light of a Breach wrenched open is blocked out by a heavy wooden door, and she sits awash in the scent of incense, beneath the watchful eyes of the Maker’s chosen.

She kneels before Andraste, her hopes and dreams clasped between her palms as they come together in prayer. She sings a prayer for those who will ride beside her into the abyss, perhaps never to return, a prayer for those she’s leaving behind, with nothing but belief to buoy their hopes for the future.

And one for herself, should Andraste have any grace to spare.

“You have walked beside me Down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others Have forsaken me.”

The prayer for the despairing comes too easily to her, the hymn had played a companion to her countless times through the years, but never had its words rang more clearly in her heart than tonight, as she steeled herself to face Corypheus one last time. She can’t pretend she knows what was in Andraste’s heart as she stood before the gates of Minrathous with her army at her flank, but this is likely the closest she’ll ever come to knowing.

“I am not alone. Even As I stumble on the path With my eyes closed, yet I see The Light is here.”

Though the chant evokes the Maker’s light, it’s no longer His face she sees as she closes her eyes, lips pressed against her thumbs in reverent devotion. Before Him come the faces of her friends, the brilliance of Cassandra’s sword as it cleaves through their foes, the glow of Solas’ staff as he cuts through the Deep Roads’ dark, the soft gleam in Josephine’s eye as a smile spreads her lips. Heavensent or no, those were the lights that had gotten her this far.

“There you are.” The sound of Josephine’s voice startles Thora from her prayer, with thoughts of her so near at hand she’d almost thought she imagined it. She looks over in time to see her step lightly through the door, her slippers just a whisper against the floor. “I had thought to find you in the garden, but…” The distant roar of the Breach completes her thought in fewer words. She’d often take her evening prayers beneath the bows of the maple trees, preferring their sanctuary to the small chapel that harboured most of Skyhold’s believers, but she’ll find no peace under them tonight— nor any night until her job is done. Josephine’s lips turn in a smile, a practised expression Thora had seen persist in the darkest circumstances, but it strains now. “Well, what matters is I’ve found you now.”

Thora’s words stick in her throat, all she can do as she rises to her feet is stare dumbly. There always seems too much to say between herself and Josephine to know where to begin.

Thankfully, Josephine always seems to find a way. “I suppose it won’t be long now,” she says.

“It’s just a matter of time.” She wishes they could find anything other than the oncoming fight to talk about, but it may be asking too much of them both. Corypheus is difficult to ignore even at the best of times, now that the ruins of Haven tremble at their doorstep every thought is stained by his influence. “I thought I’d see if I could get a few words in before we set out.”

This time the smile that graces Josephine’s features sneaks up on her, chased by a short breath of laughter. “If it’s good fortune you’re after, I may have just the thing.” Before Thora can so much as ask, the ambassador produces a flag of cloth from the folds of her doublet, flourishing it with a street magician’s flair. “Do you recognise it? The pattern, that is.” She proffers it forward, supporting the fabric with the tips of her fingers so the image lays flat before her eyes. She doesn’t need long to know what she’s looking at (she’d spent far too many hours looking for the blasted thing to ever mistake it): a proud ship sails across an unruly sea, the bow cutting through choppy waves and rendering them calm.

“Your family crest…”

“Soon its likeness will fly above a fleet of ships that will rival the great houses of Antiva, but this one is yours.”

“Mine?”

She nods. “My favour may not have the same weight as Andraste, but if it can accompany you where I cannot, then I give it gladly. May I see your hand?”

Thora immediately extends her right arm, then draws it back just as quick. “No, wait,” she says, offering forward the other, fingers closed into a loose fist to contain the faint buzz of the Anchor. “This one could probably use it more.”

“Naturally.” She winds the handkerchief up so it resembles a bracelet, coiling the fabric up like a rope and measuring it against her slender wrist before she tries Thora’s. Curled ringlets coil around her ears as she leans over to tie it properly, and in all the chaos of Corypheus’ attack she’s still found the presence of mind to perfume herself. Thora discovers this herself as she breathes slowly, and tries to forget her daydreams. “I’m afraid I’ve little else to offer but my hopes, Corypheus has proven most resilient to my charms.” The fabric slides across the smooth finish of her gauntlets without purchase, and then again, each time reset by the patient hand of Lady Montilyet. At last it catches against the details, winding around dwarven runes that spell the Cadash house words in an alphabet that rarely saw sunlight. The sight of her words and the Montilyet crest winding together around her wrist moves something in her. It creeps up her ribs and into her throat and blossoms. Not for the first time since they’ve met, Thora finds herself grateful you can’t choke to death on love.

She ties the knot once, twice, and Thora thinks she sees some reluctance as they fall away to her sides. “May you tame the sky as we tamed the sea, Lady Cadash,” she says in a trembling voice, her words straining against her fears.

“Josephine, I—” Brown eyes rimmed with tears look up at Josephine. The sharp end to her sentence is a keen reminder that while she can’t choke to death on love, she sure can still choke. “I’m…” What she wants to say more than anything feels selfish to say, now more than ever, when her death is so near at hand. What good would it do her to die with no regrets, if it meant sentencing Josephine to a lifetime of them? She grinds her hopes beneath her heel, and tells herself that, should she live to see morning, there’ll be nothing stopping her anymore.

Even if it’s a lie, it’s a lie that can get her through this moment.

“Thank you,” she manages after a moment of tear-induced silence. “I’m... I don’t- I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” She folds her hands around Thora’s, cupping the armour-clad knuckles between tender fingers, like her glove was wrought with silk and not steel. “Just come back to us, please.”

Her heart constricts with the burden of a promise she may not keep. The sky calls her name, spelling her doom in the air with the ruins of her first failure, but Josephine’s words have worked miracles for her before. “I’ll do my best, I always— oh.” A distant horn blows, signalling her departure, and their farewell. Eyes laced with tears, she turns to the statue of Andraste as though she were a friend forgotten in the tide of the conversation. “I didn’t get to finish.”

The threads of Josephine’s smile start to unravel, grief twisting the manners from the corners of her lips. “I will finish it for you, Inquisitor,” she says in a voice laid thick with tears she wants desperately to dab from her cheeks. “Go with Andraste’s grace.” Her hands tremble as they release Thora’s, only finding stability as they lace together in prayer. As her footsteps echo with her retreat, she hears Josephine’s voice lift in song, words burdened with her weeping but warm with the Maker’s light.

“Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, And be Forgiven.”