#urn for peace

[biteurhip]

How do I explain I’m kind of really fixated on dog skeletons after my dog passing away without it coming off like I’m losing it

[irish-urn]

and you will find me (i will be waiting)

Summary: The seventeen lives (plus one?) of the spirits of Derek Venturi and Casey McDonald.

Or: Urn actually wrote a scene from each of the eighteen lives of these two spirits that she knows about and humbly requests these characters to let her move onto something else now.

READ HERE ON AO3

[silvermoth-reblog]

My mom found out she was Ace several months before she passed away.

I'm the only person she came out too, and she found out by talking to me about what it means for me, that I'm ace.

It had been a topic of contention between us, and when she realized she was too, she looked at me with a light I had rarely seen in her eyes. Self acceptance.

In so glad she was able to reach it before she passed. I wish I could have talked with her more as she explored what it means to be LGBT and the other elements of her identity she struggled with.

I am so proud.

My mother, in her mid-50s, just came out as aromantic. She never knew there was a word for what she felt. She asked if this means she's "part of the LGBT now", and I got to happily inform her that there are more letters now, and Aces and Aros are absolutely a part of our community.

It's so important to remember that there are people in generations before us who still don't know themselves, and self-discovery is for any age. They should know they have a community. I am so proud of new, older queers!

[whereisthedamndaddymanual]

Man, I couldn't even take my girlfriend shopping in the mall without another girlfriend wanting to join us.

[seashorepics]

Day 3: Cowes Crematorium: A Peaceful Haven for Farewell Ceremonies on the Isle of Wight

Article: Nestled on the serene Isle of Wight, Cowes Crematorium offers a tranquil setting for families and friends to bid a dignified farewell to their loved ones. Located just outside the bustling town of Cowes, the crematorium is a place where the natural beauty of the surroundings provides comfort and solace during times of grief. History and Setting Cowes Crematorium has been serving the…

[flatoatchi]

i never thought i’d come in to possession of a catalogue for urns but here we are

[punk-in-docs]

A song of rage and salty waves: part I

— Emperor Geta x reader (Salacia)

— 2.5k words

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary; You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW!! some dub con/ threat/violence/basically forced marriage/forced smut situation/Geta is such a vile human being/Macrinus is villain sorry denzel ily

You’re imprisoned in Rome.

You certainly didn’t come here of your own free will. Your father had tugged you here from Corsica. Employed clever charm with letters and schemes from his high position in the senate.

As the role of your sex; you were born to obey.

He sent you imported silken stolas the colours of cornflowers or lazurite, with gold fibulae at the shoulders. Gem inlaid jewellery, rings to decorate every finger, and earrings the sway. A golden net for your hair. Wheedled you into coming to join him. Sending servants to travel with you and take heed of your every comfort.

He made sure you dined on plump fresh fruit. Seafood of lobsters and crabs. Drank wine so rich dark it looked black.

You despise it. The stone pillars and temples. And gods of old. Eyes watch you everywhere. See you. Follow you.The governing heat and noise and sweaty heaving mass of all forms of life.

You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa.

Salacia. The ocean nymph and the being of your name. Crowned with seaweed in your hair. Sea foam dripping off your fingers. Ripped from your home, an isle by the sea, at the whim of another.

Imprisoned here in this cold marble city. A fish out of water. Gasping dry on the shore.

Pulled inland and stolen away. You can’t hear gulls or waves anymore. It sickens you. Heart pangs that throb for home.

When you arrived, pulled back your folded palla down to your shoulders. He welcomed you with open arms and fondness. Wrists linked in gold cuffs. Tugged you to his chest and embraced you warmly. Hissed in your ear - abrasive like harsh sea spray - spies are everywhere.

He needed you close by. For reasons you had yet to fathom.

You dined like spoilt deity’s. Breads and wines, fish, fruits from far regions fattened by the suns heat, and succulent meat roasted in sweet cassia spices on a spit.

He had urns of flowers - picked by the servant - placed in every room. Lilies, juniper branches still bearing dark fruit, lavender, oleanders.

Companions join him and he is boastful of you. A nubile creature offered placement at a table of old muddled men. He introduces you to trusted friends and advisors in the senate.

One man in particular takes keen interest as to your recent arrival. His name was Macrinus. Man of information and resources. Dealt in cunning and cruelty though you found him sincerely charming. Your father watched you with a desperate eye.

Macrinus bore a smile so dazzling and blinding it made you dizzy; made think of the sun god. Apollo and his light cast across golden wheat fields. Notes of fine music. He sipped his wine slow, as he learned the flavour of your name. Where you came from. Understanding the rolling sea foam in your veins.

There’s a game to be held at the coliseum. He will have your father as his guest - and you by a very pretty extension. He nods at you; his eyes glimmer like pooled liquid gold in the half lit dark. It almost makes you feel safe.

They dine and drink into the small hours. Yet you slip away.

You watched this awful city out your window that night in your silk dress the colour of night time tidal waves. The air is stale. Carrion to you. Hot. Full of dust and sweat. Here, It smells like mulberry trees and a green garden waiting for blessed rain.

You couldn’t hear the sea. Or your sisters. Your mothers humming as she wove cloth and mended clothes. And you wept.

Salt found in your tears to be your only sacred comfort of home.

~

You are soft to this hard stone city. The coliseum is magnificent. As large as it is those who hold their powerful fists over its rule. Clutched in gold. Fine for the rich. Deadly for the slaves and warriors thrown into the pit at the whim of others. Met with carnivore teeth and sand and death.

The senators, generals, and the rich merchants watch from their perch, up among the gods they serve, presiding in shade and clothed in perfumed silks and jewels. Ladies and men both.

Your hair took hours to fasten in its current coiled style. Plaited and weaved. Your dress is the colour of the softest blue shore. Your servant lavished your arms and fingers in golden finery. A serpent cuff coiled around your arm. Skin draped in lemon oil because it’s the small piece of Corsica you carry here with you. Serenity to push against this place of gore, butchery and death.

You find yourself seated here amongst giants. Macrinus is seated one side. Your father the other. He fondly lays his hand across yours in gentle touch.

His palm is damp. Gold rings wet.

His face looks haggard with age. The lines by his eyes more prominent. Rome is poisoning him. The golden apple just a fingertip shy of his reach. St Bartholomew flayed and stripped of skin piece by piece. Schemes and plots lay thick in his mind like rot. Sweat beads down across his brow and the thinning salt pepper of his hair.

He says something to Macrinus that you’re too absorbed to hear. It’s low. Dragged through a growl. He appears unmoved, with a slow flick of his eyes to you. Watching this finery and loudness devour you. Your eyes so full wide and round. Salt and innocence entwined.

You all rise when the emperors pass by, Geta and Caracalla, who stride in, garbed in gold and cloaks. Come to take their rightful place at the mouth of the box where you are seated.

They are like twin suns to the Roman people. Lion gold hair kissed by fire. They burn and twist and shine with it. Make noises like gold coins that clack when they move. Strung in riches and golden crowns of olive leaves and branches.

Together they make you think of Romulus and Remus. Raised rabid by wolves. And they certainly make an impression. You’ve heard tale of the voracious nature of the blood sport they all but live for. Faces limned in the glory of gore.

The crowd cheers for them. They nod and wave but it appears barbed. The games begin with a wave of applause and a regal hand.

Caracalla twists and casts an eye in your direction. Seeing new meat.

The way you sit sedately and can’t cast your mind into the butchery and violence happening below. The clash of steel. The hollow squelching cries that proceed death. The spill of viscera and the scatter of brain matter from split heads.

Each new gash or split in skin made them smile. The taint of blood. Metallic sour. Spilling of offal and exposed bone.

He tilts his head like a clever wolf. Eyes darken. His sneer as terrible as a skulls. He leans across and whispers something to his brother with a knock of his arm to gain attention.

Another set of wolfish eyes join the first in hooking to your skin. Silly soft girl. Made of gentle sea breezes and lapping blue waves calm and soft enough to wade in. Pearl shining in moonlight. So watery and weak. So good. Untouchable.

Geta swept his gaze on you from head to toe. Appraising you hungrily through greedy eyes. The beauty of your figure in that soft folds of that stola. The gold that crushed your neck. Broaches at your fair shoulders. Hair glistening and finely arranged.

He liked the way you winced when another sword blow came. The pull of your brows and how you had to look away. He wanted you gathered up in his lap; fingers crushing your jaw as he turned your head; force you to watch as the men cleaved at each other and drew blood. Hacked off limbs. Laugh at your revulsion.

Looking at you sat there; He has an urge to take his dagger, slit that fine silk from your shoulders and bare your real beauty. Grab it off you and snatch your dress down. Spoil himself on your curves. Grab your breasts. He’s sure you’ve tits that even a goddess would envy. He’d reel you in by grabbing your ass that definitely needs a spank and some attention.

You’re even prettier than some of the finest whores he’s had grace his bed. They never kept his interest too long. Too entwined in filth and sin like him; you look pure as a vestal virgin.

He likes that. He wants to pluck it off you and spoil it.

You don’t dare meet his eyes. Of course you don’t. He’s an emperor. He could have you executed for looking at him wrongly. Instead; you wring your hands in your lap and squirm. Close your eyes tighter with every dying wail.

He turns back to the fight. As do you. A gasp flies from your mouth when you draw your eyes to one of the measly soldiers in the arena. Your father left his seat to stand, mouth gaping.

You saw the familiar arrangement of strong limbs. Garbed in warriors clothing. The way his arms shook holding a sword. Inexperienced and struggling. The fight was not fair. The same head of hair that matched your own.

Your oldest brother.

Macrinus grinned. “He’s not my finest fighter. But I wager he’ll be good sport.” He smirks.

Your father turned, cursed the gods, and exploded with venomous rage. Flew for the man with his fists. Grabbed his clothing. You tried to restrain the storm of his temper - but then you’d got that trait from somewhere hadn’t you? - an ocean thrashing wild and free. Terrifying in its rage.

“You promised me.” Your father roared. Spittle flying.

“I never promised to protect your traitor of a son. Let us see if the gods spare him. Yes?” Macrinus commented.

You couldn’t take your eyes from the pit. Nor could your father. He clutched to you like he could barely stand. Weakened and shrinking. Hand a vice on your shoulder. It burned like the sting of sun but you couldn’t shrug him off.

Your brother was meeting with an opponent far larger than he was. A Retiarius. Helmet, trident, dagger and a net.

Of which had currently knocked your brother to the blood dusted dirt. Spearing the trident deep into his thigh. Pinning him to earth like a bug. His cry of pain ringing out. Blood sheeted down one side of his head. His scream is the most horrible thing you’d ever heard.

You can’t help it. Where you’re stood, you cry out. It pours forth from you.

The Retiarius loomed over your bother like a terrible storm cloud. Looking up at the stands for direction. The whole audience cheered and screamed for more.

Geta stood up and the crowd bayed. He sneered at the sight before him. All the power of a god; crammed into a mortal man.

He raised his arm. And hesitated for a moment. Before he smirked. And pointed his thumb right up.

Death.

Your father wailed. The huge lumbering gladiator descended onto your brother. Flinging the net off and cutting his throat in one fast slice. Blood poured and pooled around lifeless eyes. Stained the sand.

Macrinus stood to his feet and clapped along with everyone else. The emperors’ laughed like hyenas at the sight. Blood and pain only made their smiles grow.

Before you knew what was happening, the palace guards had you and your father surrounded. Hands viced around your arms. Your shoulders. Your father too.

Traitor. He decried. A traitor in the senate. The tarpeian rock.

Just like his now dead son. People’s poised against the glory of Rome. Against Caracalla and Geta. Death to all.

Macrinus spoke harshly to the guards to release you. He backhanded you across your cheek. Your eye felt like it was going to burst. Cheek flamed with fire. Lip cut and bleeding down your chin from his ring.

He then wasted little time in digging his fingers into your finely done hair. Hauled you along screaming. Tears streaming.

Your father could only watch, limbs wrenching forwards in terror to help, as Macrinus marched you across the stands to where they sat.

He threw you to the ground like a feral animal. Tumbled you onto your knees. Skimmed your hands. As you squirmed and cried at your body twisted to his cruelty.

“Your majesties. I have personally uncovered a traitor in your court. Senator Aurelius. Not only was his first born placed in rebellion against Rome. But he himself has been sowing seeds of treason in your senate. I bring you his filthy kin as recompense…” He spat at the Emperors. Releasing your mussed hair to throw you to their feet.

They examined you as one would a creature. Nothing of humanity left. Devoid of any feeling. You crawled slowly to your elbows. Tried to claw away sobs. Raising up but not daring to look at them. You weren’t worthy. You feared them.

Geta was the one who rose slowly to his feet. Coming to stand before you. “We are most grateful for your revelation, Macrinus. You will be rewarded for such loyal service.” Though he spoke to him, his eyes never left you.

You father shouted and cried pleas. They go unheard. He snaps to the guards who hold him. “Silence that treacherous snake-“ he barks. They beat him into submission.

You stay cowering on the ground. In amongst the gritty dirt, and the blood like those slaves and gladiators. That’s how they saw you. That’s how much you were worth. Held in the same regard as the dirt on their shoes.

You feel a ring clad hand tip a finger under your chin. Blood dripping down onto that digit as he made you raise your head to look at him until your neck hurt.

“What is your name, pretty little traitor-“ He sneers. Because that is all you are. They’ve tarred and feathered you with the same brush.

You give it to him through tears that run freely. You give this awful golden haired emperor with dark lecherous eyes your name.

“Salacia.” You cry. Voice watery and cloaked in heavy salty sobs. Lips parted. So soft and pliable. Lovely and ripe and waiting for him. A gift from the gods-

He tilts his head down at you. Looking like some sun gold lion. Showing his canines in a cruel white smile.

“Imprison them. Both.” He smirks.

He thinks he may have them bring him your fathers head on a platter. Strangulation seemed too soft. Too forgiving. He had to make an example of you.

He had a particular way in mind for your fate. He watched you get led away crying as he sucked your sweet blood off his thumb.

You tasted like salt and sea foam

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people—

@indouloureux @trashmouth-richie @atabigail @lunatictardis @waywardrose @ceriseheaven @hillarymurray4 @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @morganamoonstone @gvtosbith @munsonswhore @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @ddejavvu @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[egberts]

we are finally home after a busy day. if you don't know already, callie passed away this morning. she fought so hard for the last month and held on for long enough that everyone who knows her and loves her got to see her and say goodbye while she was still in good spirits. unfortunately in the days leading up to this morning she suddenly rapidly declined again and we knew it was time. i won't go into the sad details but despite her condition she continued to love and be loved. she fell asleep in my arms leading up to her final moments, and we got to give her so many hugs and kisses. it didn't take long for the medicine to take her when it was finally time, she was already so weak. her personality has always been so quirky, it was hard to see her decline but she was still so full of love to the very end.

immediately after she passed alana and i went to a boardwalk nature trail and just walked for a while before going for ice cream (the cashier was incredibly nice to us, we must have seemed in need of cheering up because this was a theme of the day)

after ice cream we came home and cleaned up callie's things. vacuumed up some of the cat hair and packed away her furniture and the things we wanted to keep, we set aside some things for her memorial space, and we took everything else to the animal shelter.

just packing up her things was already somewhat cathartic but while at the shelter we decided to visit with the kitties and this was actually a very good idea. it was so bizarrely comforting, seeing and holding the small lovable kittens and realizing in a way that one day we will be able to get a cat as loving as callie was and it will be easy to fall in love with it too.

after the animal shelter, we had to swing by our house again to get the bulk pack of wet food that was delivered, very cruel irony there. it was a $50 box so i reached out for a refund and was given one pretty much immediately and told not to return the food, which gives us a reason to go back to the shelter on monday and donate this food too. (and visit more kitties of course)

we were probably keeping ourselves busy subconsciously, but it was good for us i think, because next we went to a state park and just enjoyed some time by the ocean. we saw so many crabs and even a heron came right up to us!

and you'd think that's the end of the day's adventure but no, after that we went to get pizza for dinner (because cooking is just not an option right now iykyk) and we saw a deer!! a freaking random deer after already seeing a random heron, it was just amazing.

finally we went to target to grab some necessary groceries as some kind of weird semblance that even though callie is gone life has to go on.

i am not kidding when i say every single other human we had to interact with today was nothing but kind to us. all friendly smiles. we didn't tell any of them what happened and yet every single one of them from the ice cream shop girl to the lady at the state park and even the target self checkout person. it was genuinely a beautiful day despite everything. it almost feels like callie's loving energy was just with us throughout the day.

i'm going to miss her so much, and knowing she's gone forever is very hard but i don't think i could've asked for a better experience with it. now it's time to finish up the last bit of cleaning and take a much needed shower.

after her urn and ashes arrive i'll post one final callie update, but as of now this is it. she is gone, resting in peace on the other side of the rainbow bridge. our sweet angel baby 💗

the cutest gradient trio ever btw

[witheredgardenparty]

Twisting Twigs in Celadon

Read on AO3 (AO3 Account)

(This might look familiar. Author moved blogs.)

Zhongli x g/n Reader

Originally a request for the Holiday 2023 Tarot Request Game.

Getting caught in his orbit was like being stuck in a sort of anachronistic bubble. (or, the one where you arrange flowers.)

Warnings: yandere dynamics, soft yandere, maybe literal captive audience, paternalistic behavior, Reader is instinctively uncomfortable by the age difference, the gods are merciless in their own unique ways (talking), I read actual books to get a modest understanding on the topic but I still feel woefully unprepared for how political flowers are, extreme liberties taken by forsaking Teyvat's internal flower structures because *internal screaming*

Word Count: 1.2k

Liyue Harbor is bustling with its usual vim and vigor. The weather is peaceful and mild. You had awoken in perfect health, absolutely rested and content. The morning ritual has gone over stupendously well. On any other day, this would leave you energized and ready to tackle whatever may come.

It is a shame that no one saw fit to die and save you from obligation.

Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is unsettlingly quiet. A table has been prepared for your arrival. The surface laid littered with a modest assortment of florals and foliage. The front counter is lined with a small variety of vases. Environmental association momentarily has tricked your eyes into mistaking them for urns.

The first time you had agreed to listen to the strange man's story had been a random act of kindness. Zhongli was an eclectic presence about town. There were rumors whispered by street merchants and the Millelith alike that he must be adeptus in origin. The people think him some sort of illuminated creature carving a space for themselves among the humans. (Rumors used to wonder if he was not Rex Lapis himself, but those ended the day the Archon's corpse rained down from the sky.) 

Regardless, you had always found him a lonely sort of ghost. A being that haunts an area he is no longer able to recognize. 

This is meant abstractly, of course. Despite his eccentricities and somewhat outdated tendencies, you did not want to do him the discourtesy of treating him any less than human. Perhaps that had been naive of you.

...please read the rest on AO3. (Requires an Account)

"could you do zhongli and flower arranging please?" - Anon

The Draw:

The Caiman and Poppy (Dreams) - In Reverse

Bay (Wisdom) - In Reverse

Knight of Swords - In Reverse

[coolearistrashcollection]

Prologue: One very inconvenient time

Characters: cult leader!Geto, cursed spirit!Reader TW: isolation, small fight

Part 2 here!

--------------------------------------------------------------

“Geez, are you even listening to what I'm saying? What's up with you this morning huh?” Geto says in an irritated manner. The entire day Gojo has been distracted, wondering why there was something lingering in the air. Of course, no one else could see it, let alone sense it. His Six Eyes picked up even the smallest of details and he was sure someone had been there, and recently.

“See? You are not even registering what I'm saying when I'm telling you to listen! What's got you so distracted, huh?” He asks again, trying to get his friend's attention for the millionth time already that day. “Did you even pay attention to Yaga? He said–”

“He said we're doing it because Kyoto is too weak.” Gojo crosses his arms behind his head and smirks “Which like, duh, even Utahime isn't the same grade as us.”

“That's not even remotely close to what he said…” He sighs “I'll put up the veil, we've reached the forest.” 

The ambience turns darker the more they walk closer to the mission's location. The clouds are concentrating and darkening, the woods are more silent than usual, even the surroundings are trying to warn the approaching two. The harsh caw of a crow as a bad omen snaps the white haired male back to reality. An intimidating pagoda ahead of them presents itself as another bad omen: the wooden tower had weathered tiles and four floors. 

“So like, we just have to retrieve this… What was it again?” Gojo scratches his temple “Not that it matters, it'll be an easy mission anyways…” 

“We're meant to retrieve a burial urn, it's meant to be a cursed object, suspected grade 1.” He states “This is the shrine; it should be here.” 

A scowl appears with the location, the once pristine shrine now rotting away with the passing of time, every type of moss and sign of decay obnoxiously visible. It was unavoidable stepping on cracks, as the stone path had been broken several times from the freeze thaw.

“Focus now, we don't know what curses could have attracted that thing. Remember, dont–”

“Don't kill them, yadda yadda, you wanna eat those curses– can we start looking for that thing already? I'm bored.” Says the white-haired male as he steps into the holy place, the timber floor creaking with every step. 

Before them stand several wooden pillars with tables around the room, the decorations now either rusted or tarnished. The back wall was covered in several different statues: forgotten deities now greeting the sorcerers with an altar serving as a barrier. They formerly served a purpose: protection, sanctuary and peace to the believers. 

Inspecting the holy table more closely, the two see several objects covered in dust and grime, different plates adorned with maggots and remnants of rotten food. “Offerings, probably.” Geto says while adjusting his messy bun “Let's keep moving, it reeks in here.”

From the interior, the height of the building was even more intimidating; the inside balconies highlighting the distance between the floors. Old lanterns were now unlit, waiting for someone to give them their purpose back, allowing darkness to engulf the building. The tall pagoda had cleverly hidden stairs behind the statues, most likely to deter any visitors from going upstairs. Yet another warning completely ignored by the duo to be added to the list. 

“That is it. It's on the top floor” Gojo indicates, quickly followed by pointing at the last floor. “The trace energy matches the one here.” He yawns with boredom.

“What is it?”

“The cursed energy is being emitted from there. It's a lot more recent than the building’s, it's still similar tho.” 

The room is naked, in fact, uncorrupted. The shoji walls as white as snow, the thin paper without any defects; the tatami flooring crispy as if no one had ever stepped on it before, a sage green colour, waiting to turn a sandy yellow. It was a tiny paradise in a putrid place, a piece of heaven in hell. Both males, analysing the situation, realise that neither a person nor curse was seen within stepping foot into the surrounding woods, and this room would need constant maintenance to be in these conditions. Why is this room different? What made it so special compared to the rest? And who is this intruder, the presence Gojo has felt from the beginning? 

However, scattered pieces of white porcelain spoiled the scene, with no particle of ash spilled. Strange, as these are meant to contain ashes, otherwise they would just be expensive and morbid decorations, glorified pieces of clay.

The two look at each other in confusion. That is the cursed object. Or rather, was. They succeeded at locating the object, but returning it to their professor in that condition? That would be a tough ask. A failed mission… that's what it was. They stood dumbfounded at some pieces of pottery. It was long gone, crushed, fragmented, smashed to pieces. Someone had come in earlier and broke the urn they had to retrieve. 

“Well, that sure is one way to break that seal, it was probably older than the higher ups” Gojo looked at his companion with a goofy smile, waiting for what he had to say. “But hey, at least the curse energy matches the one I felt earlier–”

“What do we even tell Yaga!? Wait– you felt there was someone else and didn't care to tell me!?”

“Eh, no biggie. Besides…” he pauses, “It's not like that fragile tupperware was important” another pause, “OH AND– I didn't feel anyone's presence, I simply said it matched outside’s energy.”

“You seriously didn't listen to Yaga, did you? It had to be retrieved at all costs. Intact.” Geto facepalms.

“Nah I didn't, why though?”

“I don't know, he said that it was confidential. Which means we seriously fucked up.” he says with a defeated sigh at the end.

Gojo crouches to look at the cursed energy trail in more detail, the residue parting from the urn, yet none coming in. “Hey uhh.. I don't think someone broke it… No one entered the room" –he adjusts his glasses– “but one left. I think it broke from the inside. Is that even possible?”

“The seal must've expired, then.” Geto places his hand on his chin. “And whatever was inside, got out.” he thinks out loud. 

The black-haired male walks towards the balcony, observing the dense woods surrounding them. How gloomy did the forest look that day, the evergreen trees and the fog in agreement to completely obstruct the sorcerer's view on the field. If anyone had run away, they would not be easily spotted by vision alone, even locating the cursed energy residues would be a hard task.

“You said you felt the same energy outside? Let's trace back our steps, start from there again.” Geto commands.

Rolling his eyes, his friend groans “I totally jinxed it when I said this would be easy.” 

With their anger as a new source of motivation, the duo explored the woods starting from the trail leading to the shrine and followed the steps left by the mysterious being. Minutes quickly turned to hours and the two were almost done traversing the woods: they concluded they were looking out for a curse –a fully conscious one too, as it had changed its path several times to confuse anyone following– and they had reached the gorgeous city of Nara.

After lifting the veil, they walk through the picturesque city. The two sorcerers note many small curses in groups, mostly lower grades and fly heads. They go past a lake too where many deer were either peacefully drinking water or eating crackers from both locals and tourists. In the distance, they notice familiar uniforms: Kyoto students on a mission. 

“Mei-Mei! Utahime!” shouts the white haired male, and a shriek can be heard from the latter “No way! I thought you guys weren't allowed on this mission!” The Tokyo students close the distance, a deja vu. 

Utahime crosses her arms “Shut up Gojo! We just got sent to eliminate some curses that were disturbing the area… a routine call. What are you guys doing here? Tokyo is a long way from here.” She frowns, and emits a sound –close to a growl– when Gojo towers over her with a shit-eating grin.

Geto, trying to ease the tension with a soft smile, interrupts “Sorry to bother you, are you familiar with the city? We need information on the four-floored shrine.”

“Hmm? The mausoleum? I'll help, but only if you give me something in return.” flirts Mei-Mei.

“Gojo will deposit the money in your bank account, we just need to know the local folklore around it. We suspect that a curse escaped from there.”

“So that's why you're here? Well, locals say that building was cursed from the start of construction, they think the grim reaper resides there.” Her arm snakes around Geto's body, her index trailing his shoulder “If you enter, whatever spirit resides there will suffocate you.”

“Fun!” Gojo exclaims and gets his phone out. It's a tan flip phone with stickers and a star charm. Geto will never admit it, but he helped decorate the phone and even gifted Gojo some of those stickers. “I'll send a message to Yaga.”

“And don't forget the money~”

A quick message to Yaga turned into a sermon for the two students, maybe they should not have called their mentor and instead returned to Tokyo with the broken vase, because now they were tasked to follow-up. This also meant they would have to stay at the sister school in Kyoto to minimise travel, which Utahime immediately protested.

And as expected, Gojo complains about this too, but for other reasons. “I cannot believe that we now gotta find this stupid curse.” He crosses his arms and pouts. “Are we there yet?”

“It’s literally been 5 minutes since the train departed.” Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just relax for the rest of the day, then begin this Kyoto-Nara manhunt tomorrow morning.” 

Guess this will be a long ride…

[lsargeantsgirl]

Style

pairing: logan sargeant x russell!reader; george russell x sister!reader

word count: 606

summary: your annoying brother, george, lies to your mom so you sneak out to your secret boyfriend who is also george's best friend, logan.

based on 'style' by taylor swift

---

midnight

"why do you always take his side?" you yelled at your mom as she defended your brother.

"he said that you broke the urn."

"he lied. open your eyes and see that i didn't break it!"

your brother had told your mom that you had broken the urn that held the ashes of your great-great-grandma. he was the one who had broken it when his friends from school were over.

"y/n, don't you dare speak to me like that. you're grounded, give me your keys. go to your room."

you turned around a grabbed your keys and threw them at your brother.

"you happy? all you wanted was my car so you just had to get me in trouble. you should be proud of yourself," after saying that you ran up to your room.

you come and pick me up, no headlights

you pulled out your phone and texted your secret boyfriend, logan. yes, he was your brother's best friend but neither of you cared.

texts (are in bold)

you- logie, can you come pick me up?

logan- yeah, like usual?

you- yeah, txt when u get here.

texts end

you fell back onto your bed as tears started falling from your eyes. flipping, a sob racked your frame. your brother, even though he was the favorite, had always tried to take the thing that you liked or always used. once he spun up a story that you had 'hit' him and he got your sweet sixteen party cancelled. explaining that to your friends was so humiliating.

logan- i'm here

you got off your bed, silently opened your window, grabbed the rope you kept on the tree. the rope was fastened to a sturdy part of the tree. you secured your grip on the rope and stepped off the edge as you brought your feet up. the rope would swing you as a pendulum until it stopped. you dropped to the ground.

you snuck through the gate to the backyard and around the neighbors car. logan, as predicted, was parked behind your neighbor's car that was at the curb.

"hey, babe, are you okay?" logan asked once he could see the tear trails down your face.

long drive

"i'm okay, just drive please," you said as you sniffled.

he pulled out from the curb and took you to the place that brought you the most peace. it was a secluded area on the river nene. he leads you to the bench overlooking the river.

"no matter what, i love you," he whispered as he tucked you under his arm.

"i love you too logiebear,"

"now tell me what made you cry."

"you know," you started, "george being mom and dad's favorite."

"what did he do?"

"broke mom's urn that had her great grandma in it"

"wow, that fucker, and he blamed that on you?"

"yeah"

logan turned to face you. he moved you to be as close as you could to him.

"no matter what he does, what he says, i will love you for the rest of my life. i want to grow old with you, have children with you," he wiped the tears, you smiled. "i only want you in this world."

he reaches into his pocket to pull out a small box. "i know we're not ready but this is like a promise ring but a necklace."

"baby," you breathed.

"i promise to marry you one day, as long as you let me," he said as he put it around your neck.

"logan, i want to marry you too," you whispered.

"good." he says as he, gently but passionately, kisses you.

[vigilskeep]

why the kirkwall chantry is dedicated to hessarian, and why that gives us more than just a cooler name for it with a sexy accusatory nickname for anders in there somewhere: an illustrated guide!

(wait, wait, please remind me who hessarian even is, i hear you ask. hessarian was the tevinter archon who ordered andraste’s execution on the pyre. but struck with guilt at the last minute, he mercifully (i GUESS) killed andraste with a sword rather than let her suffer in the fire. he converted to andrastianism a decade later and took the rest of the imperium with him. he’s really popular in tevinter because, you know, he kind of improves their whole role in the story, and the chantry there likes to think he’s the most important disciple. you may recognise him from being one of the spirits in the urn of sacred ashes gauntlet, from the lore behind the blade of mercy gift for fenris, and the ‘blades of hessarian’ group on the storm coast in inquisition.)

okay, let’s first get the basics down: why do i think the kirkwall chantry is dedicated to hessarian? merrill, our glamorous tour guide to andrastian nonsense, is going to show us why

here’s merrill examing the architecture of the kirkwall chantry. and it’s covered in this guy!

how do we know this guy is hessarian? let’s compare it to some other, canonical andrastion depictions of the latecomer disciple. hessarian is typically depicted with some type of crown or headwear to demonstrate his status in tevinter, robes to denote him as a mage, a long beard probably also symbolic of tevinter culture at the time, and, of course, his blade of mercy. we can see all of these on the figure repeatedly shown in and outside the kirkwall chantry, as well as a certain similarity in the face to the other depictions.

here’s another variant of how the kirkwall chantry depicts the blade of mercy! these are Everywhere, including right over the doors.

and here’s more variants of the same figure inside. he’s carrying some kind of incense burner instead of a sword here, but it’s clearly the same face with the same crown and that classic hessarian beard. note his position of power flanking the enormous andraste figure.

so... why does that matter? isn’t it just a repeated asset?

no, it’s CRAZY actually. and here’s a couple reasons why!

(fascinated by genitivi’s word choice of glitzy mansions, btw.)

firstly, the kirkwall chantry’s dedication to hessarian’s figure is one of the biggest markers that it, along with the gallows and the darkspawn, is a legacy of tevinter. as i said, he’s the favourite there. kirkwall was once emerius under tevinter’s rule, and from the moment we see the weeping twins that welcome you into the city, we’re supposed to remember that the city of chains has not changed all that much. just as emerius’ prisons now incarcerate mages, its industry is now powered by refugees, and the worst parts of its lowtown hold elves probably just as they once did, its magisters’ estates continue to hold the most powerful voices in the city: in this case, that of the chantry and grand cleric elthina. the hessarian statues that demonstrate the chantry’s wealth and power are inarguably either tevinter made or at least made in their style, with such similarity to the statues of slaves that terrorise the gallows courtyard. hightown is no more free of that inheritance than the circle.

secondly, the focus on hessarian can’t be an accident in dragon age 2, a game obsessed with the mercy kill. “without an end, there can be no peace,” says flemeth. somebody has to kill wesley rather than watch him turn into a ghoul. anders has to kill karl. hawke possibly has to kill their other sibling if they catch the taint in the deep roads. varric can kill bartrand when he goes insane. killing the serial killer of elven children rather than letting his madness continue is one of the most universally approved decisions in the game. in her last words, leandra thanks you for ending the mage keeping her alive with twisted necromancy, even if, and especially because, it means the end of her suffering in death. merrill has to kill a possessed keeper marethari. many more can be killed for being “too dangerous” to live, like the blood mage idunna. orsino is slain by hawke after transforming into a monster he would never have wanted to be. there’s probably a dozen more examples i can think of. and of course, in one of the most game-defining decisions hawke has to make, there’s the option to kill anders after the destruction of the kirkwall chantry. merciful is not the word i would use for that, but it has certainly been framed that way. i suppose that’s the same as what i think of hessarian’s actions, isn’t it? (we’re focusing on the andrastian relevance here and not the godawful treatment of mentally ill people in this game, btw, although. yikes.)

“don’t compare yourself to andraste,” says sebastian to anders. he could try telling the game that. hawke gets cast into a lot of roles, but when anders believes they will kill him, he’s casting himself as the martyred andraste, dying to burn rebellion into the face of thedas, and hawke as his hessarian, quick with the merciful blade. i suppose it’s fitting that the kirkwall chantry should be consecrated in the image of its champion. and that the chantry covered in that image gets destroyed moments before hawke makes their choice, if they decide to make a different one. it’s also worth mentioning that meredith is a mimic of andraste, too, with her stolen crown, making anders and meredith obvious combatants for andraste’s legacy in the game. hawke doesn’t get much command of the narrative, but maybe they can at least dodge being anders’ hessarian, if they choose.

idk i think it’s really fucking cool and we should talk about it more, basically! there’s a lot of other angles to take. hessarian is such a fun lore figure to explore. for example, i didn’t even get into the prominence of an andrastian mage figure here, or that the blade of mercy is the symbol of the templar order and was invoked even earlier, in dao, as the “blade of mercy” by traumatised mages who desperately sought to be purified by the templars’ judgement.

also, i think ‘the chantry of hessarian’s mercy’ sounds good. maybe ‘the chantry of our lady’s spilled blood’? that could be sexy. whatever. i’m workshopping it

[five-rivers]

adequate peace

Phic phight for Lumi!

.

Human language lacked the words to adequately describe the physical appearance of the King of Ghosts.  This was sure to be a temporary deficiency.  When a human lacked the vocabulary to describe something, they either generated new words or stole them.  Still, for the moment, the deficiency persisted.  

A human attempting to describe the Ghost King might, after a struggle, settle on vast.  This, on top of being inadequate, would also be incorrect, a product of human conflating of importance and size. Serpentine might also be chosen, or mustelidine, for the King's relative length and width, although those were largely a matter of perspective.  Some humans might focus instead on individual, more easily grasped, features, such as the hair, which was the color of sunlight falling on snow after being cast through ice, or the eyes, which were the glowing green of uranium glass under blacklight.  Still others might fail to register those at all, and have difficulty perceiving the King in the proper dimensionality, resulting in things like limbs appearing to clip through wall, or even in the King being invisible, imperceptible, but doubtlessly present.  

Those with somewhat greater measure of wisdom might instead attempt to describe the King's regalia.  The cloth cut from dazzling night, clinging to every curve, flowing, diaphanous, silky, folds and layers holding secrets unknown and unknowable.  The crown, a blazing circlet, a corona of light, the sun, eclipsed.  The ring of office, adorned with the skull of a lesser, and therefore conquered, creature.  The staff, like a tower, like a needle, like the slender trunk of a sapling, not fully grown, but rich in potential.  The sword, sharp enough to cut the fabric of spacetime, light enough to hold in one hand, a perfect void, made to divide both what was and what was not.  

Or, to protect themselves and their sanity, a human may choose to focus on the King's surroundings, rather than the King's person.  The throne, which cradled the King’s body, grave, urn, and memorial, bones on an altar, a sacrifice.  The great cathedral of the King’s receiving hall, the branches of which reached up to the cosmos, the roots of which reached down to the shadows of subconscious thought.  They might look out the windows, and gaze upon the kingdom, that great kingdom of the dead, that kingdom which everyone would be a citizen of, soon or late.   

But even those were not comfortable to contemplate.  Not for long.  

It was easier by far to examine, and therefore describe, the King’s mental state.  There was nothing esoteric about it, after all.  

Mental breakdowns were perfectly within human understanding.  

Danny had been crowned only hours ago.  If he’d had a choice, he wouldn’t have been crowned at all, but as Skulker had told him years ago, the Ring of Rage and the Crown of Fire contained entities with a will of their own.  Danny had been chosen, and they weren’t going to take no for an answer.  

Thus, his current predicament.

As soon as he’d been crowned… as soon as the stupid thing had touched his head…  It was like his body evaporated off of him, and into this.  This thing he could barely understand, but could feel so, so much.  This thing that was him, undeniably and completely, and which was so alien, so divorced from what he understood to be himself, that he couldn’t even begin to think about it.  

He wasn’t bigger.  He wasn’t smaller.  When he counted his limbs, he had the right number.  When he touched his mouth, he had only one.  One mouth, one nose, two eyes, two ears.  Nothing had been removed.  Nothing had been added, except for those infernal crown jewels  That’s what he felt when he checked.  

But he could see forwards and backwards, both down and up.  His lips were closed but he was singing, speaking, babbling, screaming.  He could feel feathers as they brushed against the throne and through the walls of the keep.  Scales scraped against stone.  Stars and nebulae tangled in his horns and antlers.  

He didn’t have any of those.  His skin was intact, fleshy, and pink.  His skin was stretched to infinity, and transparent as glass, galaxies swimming beneath it.  

He couldn’t breathe.  He had to breathe.  He was breathing, but the aurora spilled past his lips with every gasp.  

In his mind’s eye floated the Earth.  A blue pearl against the black.  The Infinite Realms stood out like emeralds on a chain, each one precious.  

He curled in the great cradle of his throne, trying not to feel, trying not to think.  He was not.  He could not. 

Three years since he had really been human, and he’d never expected this.  He’d never dreamed of this.  He’d never wanted this.  

Like this, he couldn’t even pretend to be human.  

He clawed at the Ring and Crown, but even with so much power, what could he do against the very things that granted that power?  They didn’t go away, even when he reached for his living half.  They clung.  They constricted.  They were weights and chains he wanted to cast off.  

“Daniel.”

No, said Danny, although he didn’t know how.  His word echoed.  

“Daniel, you will injure yourself.”

He sobbed.  

“Please, Daniel.”  A cold hand wrapped around his wrist.  It was a hand that was three hands.  Or, rather, three versions of the same hand, layered upon itself and twisted through time.  

“I don’t want this,” said Danny.  

“I know, Daniel.”  Shifting robes tickled the edges of wings that were not there.  A tail curled at the base of the throne, and another hand laid itself against Danny’s knee.  “You are overwhelmed.”

Until Clockwork had said it, Danny hadn’t known it was true.  But there was so much here, and all of it was him.  

“You do not need to stay here,” said Clockwork, gently.  There was kindness there, and a thread of something like possession.  The words came from a well of great experience, deep and dark.  “Look up.  Anywhere you can see, you can go.  Go, and find peace from this.”

“But not forever,” said Danny.  

“Nothing is forever,” said Clockwork.  “But once you find peace from this, you may someday find peace with this.  It is a long road–” here, Clockwork placed a hand on Danny’s cheek, “--but know that time is on your side.”

Danny bit his lower lip, teeth both flat and fanged, and a motion like a nod stirred the inky fabrics of his cerements.  He looked up, and all his eyes were filled with stars. 

[weeesi]

Open - May Prompts (1)

I missed the first day and I couldn’t put this all to bed without finishing properly.

CW: Major character deaths. This is sad.

+

Rosie leaves the top of the urn open as she walks.

They’d planned this. They’d sat her down long ago and told her about the perils of their work, how everything could come crashing down at any moment. They'd told her exactly what they wanted, if the worst came to pass. She’d known what to do and how and when to do it.

The worst hadn’t come to pass for a very long time. She will always be grateful for that.

She moves quietly through the apple blossoms, the birches, the rows of blooming lime trees with their tiny white starfish. A bit of London in the Downs, they’d said, as they planted memories for the last time. 

She walks to the bottom of the garden, to the gap in the hedgerows where the view stretches on for easy, wandering miles. A favourite spot, she knew, and the one they’d requested.

Her father went first, in the end. Her dad, eight months after. She took a strange comfort in that, as difficult as it was to lose them both within a year. They were never good at being apart.

“You’re together now.”

She blinks away sudden tears as she holds the two people who loved her most in all the world. 

“Goodbye, Boppa and Sock.” 

She joins them to the earth.

+

The adventures of Boppa and Sock have come to a sad but peaceful end. The trees in their garden are from the 3rd prompt, with Sherlock pining for John as he walks through the park.

All of my May Prompts ficlets are on ao3!

Huge thanks forever to @calaisreno for the fun prompt series! Tags in replies. Thanks for reading <3

[f3mme-f4tale]

something wlw! with ellie! and valetines-esque!!

of course! my mind jumps directly to clairo :) specifically the song north (have i listened to the song twenty times today bc i have a crush? yes) & also (you) on my arm by leith ross ✧˖*°࿐

pairing: bestfriend!ellie x female reader word count: 1.3k warnings/tags: just fluff rly, mild suggestive content :3 summary: possible unrequited love (hehe), ellie is in love her with best friend, love confessions via literature, friends to lovers

Ellie was overwhelmed. She felt the emotions racing through her like a waterfall. She could practically imagine feeling her friend's warm hands on her thighs, and she was paralyzed with uncertainty. For the first time, she was unable to turn a blind eye because she was afraid of what it all meant. She was starting to have serious feelings for her friend.  It didn’t help that you would give her various homemade trinkets, such as the ceramic dish that you painted to look like her cat or knit beanies you just kept making.

So when you had handed Ellie a box wrapped in newspaper for her last birthday, dated from the day you met two years prior, that’s when Ellie knew she was a goner. As her fingers slid under the taped corner, careful not to rip the paper (to which you told her to hurry up), she felt like kissing you right then and there.

She imagined a hot summer day with you two together. Her hands wandering all over your body in an intimate moment as you both shared the summer heat together. The scent of sweat as she felt the hot touch of you. Ellie had always felt comfortable with her best friend, but now this was crossing the line. 

She wanted to take you to parties, adorned in a tight dress. She wanted to watch you curl your hair, hold your hand as you fell asleep beside each other. Ellie could picture pinching your cheeks, hearing you giggle in response. And god, did she love your laugh. Your eyebrows would furrow together, your head thrown back and hair a mess.

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, Ellie wanted to make something that showed deep appreciation and an understanding of just how much she cared for you. So when you had revealed to her two weeks ago one of your all-time favorite books – Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller – she was set.

Ellie spent the last few weeks learning how to bind a book, how to weave together an intricate cover, and how to make paper look old. She also spent days reading your favorite books, looking for the perfect moment to pull a quote from them, that she would then include in the card for the book. She spent so much time on the book that it was becoming an obsession, and she wasn't sure if she was ready to actually give it yet. 

Written on the inside cover, Ellie inscribed “In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun” in black ink, trying her best to heart the I’s like you like her to. She hopes it's not too cheesy, too overbearing. 

Ellie’s face was smashed against the unmade bedspread, her vision impaired slightly, with her hand beginning to lose feeling. The pin pricks shot up and down her arm, the nerves screaming at her to move. The bed linens, which held your scent, were causing her heart to race. You were face to face; her eyes scanning your features. A stray piece of hair fell over your nose and moved slightly with each exhale. The other girl wanted desperately to reach out and push it behind your ear, and before she could stop herself, she was doing exactly that. 

She struggled to stay centered – the real word fading away. Her eyes took in the beautiful curve of her friend's hips, the soft skin of her arms, and the way she curled her fingers against her own cheek as she sighed in her sleepy daze. The scent of coconut shampoo tickled her nose, not wanting to leave your peaceful figure. As if on cue, your eyes slowly open, a yawn capturing your mouth. You gaze at her curiously, feeling her hand on your face. You flash her a toothy grin, making Ellie blush a deep crimson.

“Hi,” you whisper, the sunlight pouring in from the window behind you. It was pushed partly open, not a single car rumbled down the street and the birds were just beginning to wake. The soft rays frame your silhouette, the dewy grass outside cold and wet to the touch.

With early spring seedlings beginning to sprout and the quietness of the wind, when everything is silent, Ellie wishes she could stay here forever. She wishes for her familiar early morning, even when the world is anything but. Everything is so different in the morning, and Ellie is determined to soak in it all.

“Hey,” she voices back, removing her hand from the warmth of your cheek. You stick your tongue lip out, the pink of your lips making Ellie’s heart swell. Neither of you meant for her to stay the night, but at some point during your heated discussion over which Beatles member was the best, Ellie had fallen asleep and you didn’t have the heart to wake her. So now here you were, squashed and tangled together on your full sized mattress, a thin blanket encapsulating both of you. 

“Got somethin’ for you,” Ellie mumbles, sitting up and stretching her arms. Your eyes selfishly stare at the patch of skin that becomes visible when her shirt rises slightly, the band of her boxers tight against her hips. You drop your gaze quickly, hiding your guilt with the safety of the blanket. 

“Els, you didn’t have to get me anything,” you reason, not wanting her to feel pressured to get you anything. After all, you were just friends. Close friends, sure, but that didn’t warrant an exchanging of gifts on romantic holidays. However, Ellie was a lovestruck lesbian and you had already made her a small present last month. 

As Ellie handed you the leatherbound object, you stared at her in confusion, forcing yourself to sit up. You were awestruck by its perfection. The stitching, the color, the engravings. Nothing about it was off-putting or made it look like it was done hastily. It was meticulously crafted.

"This is incredible!" you said excitedly, looking up at Ellie with a wide grin on your face as she looked down nervously, fingers fiddling with the strings of her sweatpants. 

Your hands graze over the cover, opening it up to a quote written unmistakably by Ellie. As the last words of the quote fill your mind, you can feel yourself getting flustered. This was the last thing you expected, this level of detail surpassing the sketch you drew of Ellie playing guitar with Joel. You jump forward, wrapping Ellie in a tight hug, catching her off guard.

You’re sitting on your knees, arms encircled around Ellie’s front, her sitting before you and faltering before returning the gesture. The blanket falls into a pool around your bodies, Ellie noticing how the shorts you’re wearing hang loose and the soft fabric of your underwear peeks out. She has to force herself to look anywhere else, because of course you’re wearing the most lacey pair she's ever seen. You’re breathlessly reciting thank you's, which come out high pitched and jumbled, causing the other girl to chuckle. 

“Your body is against my own, our breaths mixing as one. I see no end to this feeling, just the warmth of your touch,” you whisper softly, burying your head into her neck. Ellie stiffens at this, suddenly very aware of how your fingertips are on her back and having to bite down on her tongue to keep from confessing every thought she’s ever had about you. And then suddenly you’re sitting back, inches from her face, looking at her so gently that Ellie swears she might just melt then and there. 

With a hand placed gingerly on the side of Ellie’s face, you bring your lips to hers, saying everything with that simple touch. 

[thatswhywelovegermany]

October 9, 1989: The day the dictatorial GDR regime broke

Throughout the 1980s, discontent among the population of the GDR about the economical and political situation kept growing. Nonetheless, the ruling party SED (Socialist Union Party of Germany) upheld its role as the only governing part of the state, continuing the process of the "socialist revolution" in the state. People started protesting against oppression of dissidents.

The situation became explosive after the rigged local elections on May 7, 1989. People didn't have the choice between multiple options. Instead, there was only one list of the "National Front", which was automatically counted as "yes" as soon as the ballot was dropped into the urn. The only way to vote "no" was to strike all entries in the list through with a straight line. Although this was a tedious proces that could easily be traced by the Stasi officers in the polling stations, many people made use of this way of voting "no". For the first time, citizens gathered in the polling stations to observe the process of counting. Althouth this was explicitly allowed by law (§ 37 of the voting act), access was denied in almost all cases. Nonetheless, members of the church documented electoral fraud and made it public. This led to the first protests, which the Stasi and regular police forced tried to quench. Around the same time, a mass exodus through neighboring countries to West Germany started.

These protests attracted more and more people. In many cases, the demonstrations started after peace prayers in the protestant churches throughout the country. But still, the oppressive system of the state held the upper hand. On October 7, 1989, the police forces, workers' militia, and Stasi arrested thousands of protesters in Leipzig and arrested them in horse stables on the grounds of the agricultural fair.

This led pastor Christoph Wonneberger to publish a plea for non-violence, which was agreed to by some SED secretaries read out loud over the city's public announcement system (by Leipzig's Gewandhaus Orchestra's conductor Kurt Masur) and during the peace prayers. On October 9, 1989, the situation was tense as approx. 130,000 people took to the streets, marching past the Stasi central. A massive presence of state forces was also present, and people feared a "Chinese solution", referring to the violent Tiananmen Square massacre earlier that year. However, the plea for non-violence by the power of its wording kept both protesters and state forces from violent actions and the protests ended peacefully and without any arrests.

This was the first time the GDR authorities gave in to the masses of protesters. The word spread, and protests sprang up in more and more cities throughout the country, leading to state leader Erich Honecker's demise on October 18 and culminated in the fall of the Berlin Wall on November 9, 1989, which ultimately led to the German reunification.