#since i last wrote for them

[starry-bi-sky]

“If the going gets tough,” Danny says, voice quiet but full of confidence, “I can just spit blood on people. Like a lizard.”

It is only through rightfully earned restraint that Danny keeps his face carefully neutral as Bruce lifts his head from the table and looks at him. Bruce’s brows wrinkle faintly, the way he does when he’s contemplating something, and his mouth turns down slightly.

Danny’s restraint wavers a little, mirth starting to bud in his chest. He presses his mouth together to force it into a line. He raps his nails lightly against his cane, the vibrations send little sparks of pins-and-needles through his fingers.

“You’re not a lizard.” Bruce finally responds, voice even quieter than Danny’s and low like a bass guitar.

“No,” Danny agrees, nodding shortly even though it gives him a mild headache. Laughter makes his voice go thick and viscous, and he tries to swallow the sunshine-bright taste of it down. He’s failing at not smiling now. “But I bet I could spit blood like a lizard.”

It’d take a little effort, especially since Danny’s relatively stable right now. But he’s sure the blood blossoms have made such an endeavor much easier than if he were healthier, regardless of stability.

Before Bruce can say anything to that, Danny continues, pointing out his index fingers and tucking them into the cornea of his eyes, before shooting them out like a faucet with a quiet ‘fwoosh’. “I could do it straight outta the eyes, like that one lizard in— uhhh… California, I think.”

“Texas,” Bruce corrects, then frowns again. It makes Danny grin wider, joy sprouting through his lungs. “You can’t spit blood out of your eyes.”

“T—” The dam breaks, laughter comes up and pops in his throat. Danny tries to stifle the giggles bubbling in his collarbone long enough to wheeze out what he wants to say.

“Truh—“ nope, a few peeps of laughter squeak past him and tumble out of his mouth like helium from a balloon. Danny’s shoulders jolt, he presses a fist to his mouth. “Try—”

Bruce, the bastard, merely raises an eyebrow at him. His face carefully blank and expecting, except Danny can see that little curl at the corner of his mouth. He knows he’s trying not to smile!

Knowing that: more laughter, slightly whistle-like and wheezy from Danny’s last flare-up, slips past him. Danny’s chest burns pleasantly sore from holding his giggles to himself, and he lets some loose to free some air.

“Try me.”

[nobleriver]

DOCTOR WHO The Big Bang (5.13) // Forest of the Dead (4.09)

[calmbigdipper]

What you mean to me

[snzydarling]

Trial And Error

fandom- totk  characters- link, Purah, Sidon, Zelda  relationship- zelda/link cw- sneezing, kink content, mess notes- hi!!! I'm locked in!! So hard!!! This might be my magnum opus. I forgot to include it I think but his ears are twitching just as much as his nose in this because I think it's cute LOL hope u all enjoy it!!! the puffshroom allergy is inspired by @sf-akahana 's fic !!! its literally never left my brain

Link's never seen anything like a Puff shroom. Probably something dredged up by the upheaval, they're long and vase-shaped, and as Link quickly finds out, incredibly itchy. 

He's somewhere in central Hyrule, fighting off a minor monster camp at the request of a stable hand, when he feels something land at his feet.  His first instinct is to shield himself from some explosion, gasping, but that proves useless as he gets a lung full of something and is sent coughing, stumbling around Uselessly In the cloud of smoke. His nose is on fire, twitching desperately with need of release, but there's no time. He has to get out of there. 

Link runs until he can finally see, breath held against every spasm of his lungs. Once he's out, he can't breathe for another reason, though, nose aflame and flaring. He's sent reeling with a rapid set Off inhales, barely avoiding choking on his irritated lungs as he sneezes and sneezes. 

“ hiA’tSHh- t'CHh-  e’TCHh-ieww! hI'H-TSCHh-! hiD'TCH’yu! t’CHh- eT’tChh-t'CSHh- e'TCHhi-ieww!” he stumbles forward, still off balance, every breath of air he manages to choke is stolen from him in an instant. He needs to breathe, so he pinches his nose between the fingers of his unchanged hand and prays to Hylia for something as he takes in another whining inhale. 

“hD'NGK'T-! e’nDT- n'GKT! heiH'TSH-n’GKT! hiH-hiA'TCHh-iewh!!” he finally gets some respite, wheezing into the damp grass beneath him. But he's not done. His nose tickles with such need, and his eyes are streaming, and a mess is running down his face. Scrubbing his nose against the rough fabric of his sleeves sets off another reaction, making his Entire face itch with A desperation he's never felt before as he pitches forward. 

“ ‘iISHHihh-yU! hI’ySCHHh-e’TCHhih-yu!   hiAh’CHHTt-ieW!” Link whines, his breath coming still in pitchy gasps. His nose isn't even satisfied, still aflame, prickling deep within his swollen sinus. He's never sneezed like this before. He tries to swallow it down, tongue pressed to the top of his mouth as he stands. He doesn't dare to dust himself off. 

The trek back to Lookout Landing is slow going. Every time He can't resist the urge to scrub His nose against something, he's left pinching his flaring nostrils, trying to hold off any kind of reaction. By the time he finally drags himself to the landing, the sun has changed positions in the sky, and Purah's staring down at him with an unreadable look in her eyes. 

“Jeez, what happened to you?” She clicks her tongue, studying his itch-flushed face, and dares a poke at the skin above his sinus’. It sends every feeling he'd been trying to repress back to the forefront, and there's Nothing he can do but stumble away from Purah as he twitches and twitches from his nose to his ears as he gasps, teetering over the edge, before yet another fit tears itself out of him. 

“ y'DSCHh-! eHD’TZzHhih-iewh! hyIHT'DZzsH-yuu! hyI-” There's a hand on his shoulder supporting him, too large to be Purah's, and when he finally manages to look up, there's a soldier giving him a worried frown. He can't hear what anyone's saying, too muffled beneath his pitchy inhales as a whine escapes from his throat. Vaguely, He thinks he registers something about ‘washing off’ and ‘Hylia, bless you!’ ashes sent into more Rapid sneezes. 

He tries to gesture vaguely at himself as he catches his breath, but it's interrupted as he's thrown forward with a “hIHt'CHHhi-!” that scrapes his throat and leaves him coughing and wheezing into his elbow. The cover is pulled from him, and Purah tells him he's going to “smother himself, silly man.” And his entire system is shocked as he's suddenly doused in cold water. 

The short-circuiting is enough to let him get an actual bearing of their surroundings, and he looks up through swollen lids to see Purah worrying her bottom lip at him, the same soldier holding an empty bucket. He grins Sheepishly at Link. “Sorry, it's the only thing we could think of. You were having a pretty bad allergy attack.” Allergy?  He knew what they were, of course, but Link had never been allergic to anything. He tries to get Such across, with a shake of his head that sends water droplets flying from his hair. 

Purah sighs. “Well, obviously you do now.” She begins, poking him in the forehead and graciously avoiding his nose. “There are a lot of new things around. Do you know what it was?” So link pantomimes a mushroom and then an explosion, the crude gestures sending Purah giggling a bit into her hand. “Sounds like a puff shroom.” The soldier states, now handing him a towel, Link's not sure of the source. He doesn't ask, too exhausted and still-itchy to do much of anything besides dry himself off. 

“A puff shroom, huh?” Purah muses to herself. “Looks like you'd do well to avoid them, chosen knight.” 

 _ _ _ _ _ _ 

Resting for A moment in some unnamed forest near Hateno village, Link decides to experiment. 

He's a resourceful person, whether through training or by nature, and he's smart enough to understand the benefit of puff shrooms might have in battle. He has 3, stuffed as far back in his inventory as he can manage, and he buries his face in his hood as he takes them out. The sight of the white spores floating in the air makes his nose twitch. 

He takes out an arrow, sniffing as the itch starts to build at the tip of his nose. It's not his first time attaching something to an arrow like this, but he's not sure how much puff shroom's exposure his nose can take. He has to test it. 

So he stands, taking his bow and aliGning the arrow in its ridges, a subconscious motion. His nose is starting to tickle so much, though, and he scrubs it on his shoulder before assuming a proper stance, staring Down A tree across from the clearing he's in. 

inhale- he draws himself tightly, taking a check of every part of his body. He draws his booting tight. He tries to ignore the glittering white powder on his hands, just inches away from his nose. hold- with everything taught with anticipation, he aims. Closes one eye and aligns the bow until the tip of his arrow is staring at the center of the tree. His nose is starting to burn, urgent and needy. He tries to ignore it until his lungs start to demand more air, taking in hitchy breaths. And release- the arrow whirls by his ear, but he can't see if it met its mark because He pitches forward just a moment after. 

“y'DSCHh-! eH’TZzHhi-! hyIHT'shHi-yuu!” he manages to peel his eyes open for just a millisecond, trying to observe how well the puff shroom envelopes everything, but the sight of the spores just ignites the itch again, and suddenly he's sneezing impossibly more. 

“h'EISHHh- eTCHh'iew! hyH’tTCHHhi-!” he can feel his Nose drip onto his upper lip, he realizes mutedly, but there's nothing he can do about it yet, because everything just tickles so much that he's got no choice but to scrub at his face, failing to realize his hands are covered in the mushrooms Spores. He's hopeless to his own body as he gasps, head thrown back like a wild animal, every part of his face wet and on fire with Need.

 He's smart enough to keep his hands away froM his face now, but it leaves him sneezing down his own front, misting his clothes and the grass beneath his feet. Something finally, mercifully gives, and he can finally breathe, Chest heaving with the effort. He needs to sit down, but not before scrubbing His hands raw in a nearby Pond. 

He lays in the grass, head still spinning, watching His horse stare at him with judgmental eyes. He paws at his nose, the faint tickle still residing up in the tip of his nose, sending him into a rapid flurry of small, breathy sneezes. 

It might be for the best if he doesn't use them in battle, after all. Maybe his horse will eat mushrooms. 

_ _ _ _ _ _

It's months before the allergen presents itself again, so Link's entirely unprepared when it does. 

That's not the only reason, though. He's come to expect it in battle and at the trunks of trees, but being face-to-face with a puff shroom in the middle of Zoras's Domain is unprecedented. 

It's literally face-to-face, too, Because Sidon’s hands are eye level To link, and he's holding one of those mushrooms in his clawed Grasp As he chitters on eagerly. 

“Link!! How lovely to see you, old friend! I was just discussing with one of our dear warriors about you!! Impeccable timing, as always, friend! Rivan apprehended this from a bokoblin this morning and thought it might- oh dear, are you alright?” For all of Sidon's ability to talk anyone's ear off, his perceptiveness deserves credit, as Link wrinkles his nose and gives his head a rough shake that he hopes communicates something. 

Sidon softens anyway. “You look A bit unwell, dear friend. Have you considered getting some rest at the inn? I must say, the water beds are truly…” As he talks, he presses a cool hand into Link's shoulder. If he squints, he can see the white spores against the bright red of the king's skin. Unfortunately for him, the movement jostles the mushroom just slightly, and spores float up directly into Link's face. 

He can't help but gasp as the tickle Ignites, prompting even more concern and even more movement from Sidon, kneeling and talking incomprehensibly to link, whose sole focus is the tickle that's ignited Itself across his nostrils, leaving him in a staccato hitch as he desperately tries to pull away from Sidon's stubborn grasp. 

“hIHH! hih-hAh-” “dear me! Have I made you cry, dear friend?! Do not worry, link, I will-""hiAh’CHHTiew-! hiD'TCH’yu!!” unable to move quickly enough, he sneezes into the open air, beads of mist joining the dampness of the air. Sidon releases him suddenly, leaving him to stumble back for a moment. 

Can Zora even sneeze? The thought only grasps him for a moment as he throws his head back, the itch not muffled but somehow worsened by the release. He takes in a quick gasp, then another, and another, but nothing's enough to send him over the edge, even as the tickle burns to the tips of his nostrils, his mouth gaping wide and flashing long canines to the world.  He opens a watery eye, taking in Sidon's concerned frown for just a second before something about the light or just the sight of that hylia-forsaken mushroom finally breaks the dam. 

He gasps, taking in impossibly more air, before pitching forward entirely uncovered. “h'EISHHh- eTCHh'iew-!hI'H-” Suddenly, remembering some vague sense of decorum left over from years of knighthood, he buries himself into his elbow. “tCHh-eTChh’yu! hIH'h-  snf!” He gives another wild shake of his head, feeling something adjacent to cleared out, until He's faced with a sudden dampness on his upper lip. 

Shame overtakes his relief, and he can't help the redness on his cheeks as Sidon peers down at him with a half-curious, half-concerned look in his eyes. Link gestures to the mushroom, forgotten in his Hand amid the whole event, and hopes that's enough to connect the dots, because if Sidon doesn't know what's wrong with somebody, he'll pester until he does something he thinks will help. 

In this case, it does. Sidon breaks his stupor after just a second of staring, whirling into motion with a simultaneous wide step-back and handkerchief pressed into Link's hands, which are hovering dumbly in the air. Despite Link's clear embarrassment, or maybe as a result of it, Sidon grins down even wider than usual. 

“Goddess bless you, dear friend!! I've never seen you sneeze quite like that. I apologize for not knowing about your allergy, a true friend should know about that kind of thing!” Link waves off his apologies as he gives an embarrassingly productive blow into the gifted handkerchief. The material is fancy, soft, and tickly enough to warrant a quick “tI’shiew!” into its folds. It's such a contrast from his issue treatment of his nose, as he's so used to just scrubbing it against whatever sleeve he has on, absentmindedly. The difference from the usual rough fabric to this simple display of royalty is enough to send a pang of hurt into his heart somewhere, but he mentally shakes it off. 

Without his knowledge, Sidon has started pushing him towards the baths, babbling Something about ‘washing everything off’, disregarding the fact that he's the one that had the puff shroom, though he's not sure where it ended up now. Sidon's absent-mindedness is so familiar that it stings, a strange habit today, but Link allows himself the rare privilege in getting lost in it, Finding himself suddenly exhausted with the day's events. 

If he doesn't come back to himself until hours later, waking up in the nicest bed in the inn, he doesn't question it too much. 

_ _ _ _ _ _

Puff shrooms and really anything to do with fighting are pushed far back in Link's mind for the moment. 

It's such unknown territory that he's not sure what to do with himself. Ganon was defeated, and after long and painstaking months of rehabilitation, they've finally found some peace back in Hateno. 

It's a good thing, too. While the house itself is sturdy, over a year of disuse left every surface covered in nearly an inch of dust that took them hours to clean, and left both of them a little sneezy. But now, the house was starting to feel lived in again. 

There was the lingering scent of dinner in the air, and sunlight lit a patch of the wooden flooring up like gold. Link found himself in bed, limbs tangled up lazily with Zelda's as he stared absentmindedly, tracing the grain of the wooden floor. His face lay against her cool neck, forehead set against its crook, and he could feel one of her hands working itself through his tangles of hair, brushing out the knotted bits between her fingers. Ever since he had gotten her back, they stayed impossibly close, like 3 months of staying together like puzzle pieces could make up for almost a year of separation. 

When Zelda breaks the Warm silence, he can feel her voice vibrate against her throat. “I went to visit Sidon the other day,” she pauses, probably waiting for a response to verify that he's awake. He gives it in a soft hum. “He told me a story about a little mushroom making you sneeze.” She punctuates the sentence with little giggles, only increasing in intensity as he flushes a bit with embarrassment. 

She presses a gentle kiss to his nose, and he scrunches it in response. It conveys the annoyance because she giggles again. “No, it's cute. I didn't know you were allergic to anything. I want to see.” That makes him look up at her, wide-eyed with surprise. She smiles even wider. “For science, of course. Would you do that for me?” She asks so gently. He doesn't tell her that he'd give her the world if she asked; he doesn't even need to. 

_ _ _ _ _ _

When Zelda managed to acquire a puff shroom, it was so long after the initial conversation that Link had completely forgotten about it. 

She comes home one day from some fancy meeting link that wasn't invited To- not that he particularly wanted to go, anyways, with an extra pep in her step that leaves Him making a questioning noise when she walks in the door. 

She smirks at him. “Oh, it's nothing. Just something for later.” She winks at him, giggling, and runs upstairs to their shared Bedroom. Links will as a knight is possibly the only thing keeping his curiosity at bay, but he also knows that if he doesn't prod, she’ll usually spill eventually. 

Eventually turns out to be a couple of hours later, when they're both lounging out against a tree, full and happy from dinner. Link is half asleep when Zelda jumps out, rushes inside, and runs back out, grinning with her hands clasped behind her back. 

“I can finally fulfill our little promise.” She teases, placing her hands into her lap, palm open, revealing a small, grey mushroom. The sight of it alone makes his nose start to itch, and he scrunches up his face to quell it. That's all the time it takes for her to get even closer to him, staring at him with a silent ask. “Do you trust me?” And “with my life.” It is such a common song-and-dance for them that she doesn't even need words. 

The already-blooming itch spells certain disaster, but Link can't ever say no to Zelda, so he nods anyway. She pulls a handkerchief out of her pocket, setting it into his lap. “You'll need this, I think.” She teases with a gentle peck to his nose, already starting to twitch. 

It takes her a minute to decide how to go about this, evident by the Way she gently worries her lip. Eventually, she takes the puff shroom in both hands and holds it up to his face. She locks eyes with him, anticipation and eagerness and a little bit of something he can place in them, and bites her lip when he leans forward, sniffing in deep. 

The effects are imminent. He gasps, throwing his head back, nose on fire from tip to nostril. it prickles deep into his sinus’, so intense that he doesn't know what to do besides hitch and hitch, until he takes in a whiny breath and throws himself forward until he meets a solid weight. 

“hiAh’CHHT-! hI’TSCHhih-t’CHh-eH’TCHhh’yu-!!hIT- … hiH - hA'DTCHh! hH'kNGT'yu-! hI'H-” he realizes with desperation that he just cannot stop. Every breath he manages to suck in Is immediately pulled away from him, and they've done nothing to quell the itch. He's curled into himself, trying to hide such a shameful and weak display. But they keep coming, and he's barely able to think.

“hD'NGk't-! hIAH-” His body is short-circuited when a kiss is pressed against His lips, unbothered by the mess clinging to his cupid's bow. “Don't hold them in.” The lips mutter against him, leaving him hopeless in his body again as it finally catches up. It can't be so simple, though, never for him, and he's left gasping, staring up at the sky through allergic tears in a standstill. 

It tickles so bad ,though, and he's so desperate. A whine escapes him, high-pitched and begging for some kind of relief as everything in his nose feels like it's on fire. His mouth is gaping open in a pathetic display, chest stuttering with every needy gasp. 

Zelda. The thought comes to him like light at the end of the tunnel, and suddenly he's gasping for her, begging for help, and he can hear her Soft laugh somewhere underneath his own raspy, uneven breaths. Then there's a finger tracing the outside of his nose ever so gently, and he barely feels the touch before the tickle is ignited impossibly more, and he gasps impossibly deeper. 

“ah’EITCHh-E’SCHh’yu-!! hI'ySCHHh! hA'DTCHh-ieww!! oh-hiIDTCH-tSCHhi'ieww! hi-hiIH- 

..hiDt’tSCHh'yu!” Even his nose is getting exhausted, the fit leaving him panting and his face uncomfortably damp. He tries to scrub the remnants of the itch away, but it triggers a quick, little “hits-sSHh’iew!” That he doesn't quite cover in time, so he's forced to look at the little droplets of mist left in the air as he sniffles wetly.

“May Hylia bless you, love.” Zelda’s voice startles him- in his allergic desperation, he'd completely forgotten he was there, and the realization makes his head spin. He curls back in on himself, shame coiling up in his gut, swallowing hard. it makes A little click! Sound, muddled by the congestion in his throat. 

A pair of hands, impossibly gentle, bring his face back up to the light. Every self-deprecating Thought is brought to a screeching halt as she kisses him again, hands holding him in place as he tries to pull away. He doesn't have any good way of articulating that he's gross, so he just makes a raspy-sounding whine against her lips. She pulls away, then, giving one last peck to his bottom lip. 

She moves one hand to the handkerchief long forgotten in his lap, using the other to cup his face as she cleans him up. His nose is so sensitive that the too-gentle touch leaves his nose tickling away, and he paws at Zelda's hand as he hitches, feeling his nose twitch and twitch, but she holds firm, handkerchief pressed to his nose, and there's nothing he can do when she rubs his nose again.

“hiD'sHhu - hI'DtsHh! d'shH-yu! hiD'tShh! hiH-! hiDtT-!” They're ticklish and entirely unsatisfied, not nearly enough to quell the last bit of the itch prickling deep in his nose. He holds his breath, fighting every need to take in more pitchy gasps, waiting for something. And Zelda, tried and true, manages to understand. There's that underside of a nail again, tracing down the crooked bridge of his nose, and everything comes Alive with such intensity that he's helpless to it.

“hiD’TSCHHh'yu-! eH’TCHhh’yu! e’TCHh-ieww! oh-” He pants with relief, but Zelda removes the damp handkerchief from his nose, and he's just filled with shame. A knight should never be so weak, so disgusting, never in front of his princess. Her father would probably banish him to the depths for a display like that. 

But Zelda doesn't mind, somehow. Instead, she cups his face again, brushes the irritated tears from his cheeks, and massages the irritated skin under his eyes. “Bless you,” she mutters, so impossibly tender. “I think that did the trick.” And she smiles against his lips. 

Once the adrenaline well and truly wears off, he's exhausted. His head started to ache, and he was sure he pulled something in his back from being thrown forward so much. Zelda guides him forward, into the house and bed, setting him down with a kiss to the top of his head and a promise to return in a moment. 

Link took the time to truly blow his nose, and the satisfaction of it outweighed the embarrassment at how loud it was. Sniffling again sent a “dsch'u!” tumbling out of him, his nose is still abnormally sensitive. Within a minute his eyes are drooping close, but he's startled awake When his hands are guided to a steaming cup. 

“Warm milk,” Zelda explains, sitting down next to him with her cup. “Are you feeling better? Your eyes are all red.” There's something deeper in her tone, so he looks over at her, where she's frowning down at her untouched drink. “I'm sorry for making you sneeze so much. I didn't know you were so allergic.” He shakes his head and tilts his Head in a dog-like way that makes her giggle. “Yes, I did enjoy it.” She admitted, leaning into him. 

“I've never seen you sneeze like that before,” she continues, pressing her lips to Adam's apple. “It was so cute.” He feels her mouth curve into a smile against her throat. The feeling is ticklish, and it makes him cough. Once he surfaces from his shoulder, he takes a long drink of the milk and hums mostly to test his voice. He's surprised to find it mostly intact, if a bit congested. Link kisses her back, long and gently, on her lips. He has to pull back far too soon, though, unable to breathe through his nose enough not to suffocate. 

Another soft fit escapes him- “d'tcHh-! hi’dtshh'yu!” lazily covered by his wrist. Eyes drooping, he feels more than hears the “bless you” from Zelda from where she's nestled against his neck.

[peachy-doodles]

been thinking abt this guy 24/7 recently somebody send help . . .

have lil hc abt gales eye deteriorating thanx to the orb ala his concept rot... n so i wrote a lil fic abt it with wyll trying his hardest to be a good friend who can relate skghgksh #myfic

[synthshenanigans]

for months I've had the idea of mixing/fusing cj's albums & tracks together so im finally gonna try makin them :}

this one being Count Eleven & To Toe Dead Lines making Counting Dead Lines

the outfit is almost entirely off of my Count Eleven design! the very wip sketch of it at least

idk when ill finish that still as i did it like 6-8 months ago but at somepoint. probably .

I plan to make more but no promises at when I can actually finish any of them

[coloursflyaway]

so, i have finally written the fic from this post about edwin being given the chance to go back and change his past so he never goes to hell in the first place, and charles having to stand next to him and force himself not to beg edwin to stay.

it's 5k, i've written it basically in one go, it might be one of my favourite things i've ever written (we'll see once i have proofread it), so if anyone wants a tag for tomorrow or so when i post it, let me know

[xxlady-lunaxx]

urokodaki had managed to coax out when tanjiro’s birthday was on the second year the boy had stayed with him. of course, they were both focused on training him—it was their priority, and it would be until tanjiro was sent to final selection (…hopefully never?). but that didn’t mean urokodaki would deny him the simple pleasures a boy tanjiro’s age should’ve been enjoying. despite nezuko stuck in her slumber, urokodaki was determined to make it a nice day.

for starters, he didn’t wake tanjiro up at the crack of dawn. (even if tanjiro woke up anyway, confused when urokodaki ordered him back to sleep). then he made some food. he went down into town quickly for a few more ingredients, coming back as the sun hovered at an appropriate height to awaken tanjiro. he fed him the breakfast, preparing for lunch already (children doing a bunch of active work were always hungry.) training was slightly lighter than usual, though urokodaki couldn’t risk tanjiro going out of shape, so obviously he didn’t completely let him off. and then—lunch.

lunch was the big thing. also, there was cake. something tanjiro most definitely had not been expecting, whether or not he realized it was his birthday. he’d eaten it without complaints about urokodaki’s probably not quite perfect baking skills—in fact he’d thanked him profusely before and during and after eating the cake, blabbering about how nice of a time he’d been having at urokodaki’s and such. urokodaki had waved it off.

during the afternoon and evening, they went on a long walk down the mountain and around a few towns before turning back to the hut. mostly for training, but on the way, urokodaki ended up recounting some stories of giyuu’s time when he’d been under his care (not so subtly omitting sabito’s parts, but whatever. tanjiro didn’t need the sad stories on his birthday). when they returned, they sat by a small fire, much more quietly, with some tea urokodaki had made. for the night, at least, tanjiro wasn’t made to train. he seemed a lot more subdued then, one hand rested on the blanket over nezuko’s eternally sleeping form. then, urokodaki found time to give him a gift.

tanjiro had taken it with wide eyes, something indescribably happy making the air in the hut smell soft and warm. it wasn’t much, a small carving of urokodaki’s, from some wood out in the forest. regardless, tanjiro held it close, cupping it in his hands like it was the most precious gift he could ever receive.

urokodaki had made it the day before, when tanjiro was training. tanjiro and nezuko, not separated, rather, carved together into that one wood piece. they were holding hands, mostly because urokodaki had been unsure what to do. he hadn’t wanted nezuko to be asleep, instead as if to reassure tanjiro that they would be fine. he’d even added the bamboo muzzle, just as a promise that this was a soon thing, not a memory of the past.

tanjiro thanked him some more after that.

eventually, urokodaki made him sleep, because they would still be training the next day. but it wasn’t with the usual harshness he liked to use, rather he said it uncharacteristically softly, turning away quickly and retreating to his own room to leave tanjiro to rest. the next morning, when he came to awake the boy for training, he saw the mini nezuko and tanjiro sitting by the pillow of tanjiro’s futon. if he smiled, that was nobodies business but his own.

[elin-moon]

The Friendship of Edward VI and Barnaby Fitzpatrick

The friendship between these two young boys is quite an interesting one on the account that it can appear to be an unexpected one. Edward was the heir to the English throne, later King in his own right, while Barnaby was the eldest son of an Irish Baron, send over to England as a show of loyalty from his father. One would imagine that two boys from such differing backgrounds and sets of expectations would hardly gravitated towards each other, yet they did. One has to wonder what brought them together.

[talentforlying]

said i would post about this blog's 10yr dodgeball-of-prophecy pay-off before i delve into drafts, so here it is!

way back in january 2015, roughly a month after i first created this blog, i decided that it would be fun to rebel against canon just a tiiiny bit and give my version of john a pet: a stray orange tomcat named church. about nine months later, church had been tragically stolen by liv / @whcwashe and to compensate john for his loss, i assigned him a second pet: a stray black cat named sid. an occultist with halloween-themed cats who himself hates halloween, i thought it was hilarious.

fast-forward to last year, my folks very unexpectedly had to take in my grandma's 4 cats (for whom they did not have enough room), and it turns out that among them were an inseparable pair of siblings — one orange cat, one black cat. now 10 full years after randomly projecting my ideal aesthetic cat combination onto this lucky british sonofabitch, i have successfully metamancered half of my will into being (one cat already living with me) & will be bringing the other half home with me in a couple months!!

chedrick "cheese" churchmouse & "coco" sid loco pictured below :)

bottom row far left picture was a mistake, that is clearly william howard taft.

[surreal-duck]

tin soldier and a disastrous doll

[ragnarockz]

23. “use your words” + edging, my liege?

Hm, I shall see what I can muster...

"Use your words,"

Agnes practically barked as she took another bite at Vidal's earlobe. They were so close against one another, it felt like Agnes' heart was beating right on top of Vidal's.

Another late night at work mulling over case files and incident reports; witness testimonies and evidence. Agent Vidal and Detective Agnes were in the thick of it; everything laid out in one of the 'work' rooms. A huge table with many chairs; computers and equipment. Anything and everything one would need to get the job done.

Agnes thrusted her hips towards Vidal, hearing her skin rub against the table underneath her. A job was definitely getting done in these late night hours.

Vidal's hands traveled down Agnes' back, clawing at her. Agnes could feel the sharp nails even through her flannel, wishing they were tearing her up. Vidal was at Agnes' mercy, waiting for her to make any moves first. The table wasn't a cooperative component in this as her thighs stuck to the top; covered in sweat.

"Use your words, Vidal...or, do I have to put my fingers in your mouth to get them out?"

Agnes grumbled against the agent's neck; she had moved her face downwards and away from her ear. She bit gently onto the soft, pulsating skin; feeling it tick against her tongue as she sucked.

Vidal moaned above her as her legs wrapped tighter around Agnes' waist. She wanted to be as full as she could possibly be, wanting even more of the silicone cock inside of her. There was barely any space left as it was with Agnes being so close; keeping herself so deep. Vidal swore she was bruising inside and the somersault sensation filled her lower abdomen.

Agnes must had senses it to, the slight way Vidal's legs loosened around her. She was getting ready to let go and Agnes wasn't having any of that. Not yet, not this soon.

She led Vidal on for maybe a second longer before she raised her head and pushed her hips back in a snap decision that left Vidal achingly empty. The moan that came out of her mouth, the one that filled the room, almost made Agnes herself cum on the spot.

It was desperate. Needy. Wanting. Anguished and hopeless and beautiful. Agnes bit her lip in response to her decision, her actions. What power it was to hold that over someone; to deny something so basic.

Agnes smirked, staring Vidal in the face as if silently asking her for the third time to push those words she wanted to hear out of her mouth. But Vidal was clammed up; lips in a delicious pout that tempted Agnes to take into her own. But she didn't; standing there like she was drunk off of the denial she had just dished out. Her left hand lazily pushed its way past her own pants; taking a quick swipe up her folds. The made sure to gather what she needed before carefully pulling her hand back out.

"Open your mouth, Vidal..."

Agnes moved her hand up between them; catching the shine on her fingers. Vidal stared in silence; a hungry, wanting silence before her perfect lips parted and her mouth opened ever so slightly. Just enough for a finger or two to enter.

The second Agnes slipped her wet fingers into Vidal's waiting mouth, her hips pushed forward again and filled Vidal's pussy back up with her cock.

Teeth to bone, is what it felt like, as the sudden entering snapped a reaction in Vidal's brain to use her teeth instead of her tongue. It was Agnes' turn to moan as she pulled her fingers out; the trail of saliva falling down between them. Her fingers, wet and sticky, moved down to grab Vidal's chin.

Agnes' rutted sporadically, quickly. Trying to chase the orgasm back into Vidal quicker than the first time. She wanted her all pent up, all sprung and wound back up just so she could pull away again. It was a dizzying, high feeling. She wanted Vidal to suffer in some sort of way; some sort of alluring way Agnes couldn't put her finger on.

The detectives fingers moved from Vidal's chin and up to the base of her neck; hand snaking up to find the tortoiseshell hair pin that would unravel Vidal's hair that drove Agnes wild. She watched it tumble as she pumped forward; getting out a little tiny mewl from Vidal's mouth. She let the hair pin clatter carelessly onto the table top, a sound that made her moan and eyes slam shut.

"God...Vidal...Iwishyoucould feel me...how...I'mthrobbing...howwetIaminside..."

Words slurring as Agnes lost herself; hips rolling to a gentle rhythm. She wanted Vidal to cum now, wanted to feel the wetness between them and seep down the toy, to the base of her harness. She wanted to feel Vidal's wet cunt on her own; their desire for one another unmatched.

Agnes felt a quick, unexpected tug at her waist. She peered down and her mouth opened slightly in excitement. Vidal had reached down, her hand wrapped beautifully around Agnes' shaft. She wanted to feel it, the push and pull of Agnes as she entered inside of her. She wanted to guide Agnes; slight angles so that she hit the tip where it so desperately needed to reach. The wet silicone, the heat, the spit that had fallen there.

Vidal knew she didn't need to use her words when she could just as easily show Agnes how badly she wanted her 'pretty little cunt' fucked and filled and loved.

[what-have-i-unleashed]

you stop me at the door

belated gift for @peach-flavored-cyanide im so sorry im late but the 4k words were fighting me for my life 😭😭😭

loveverse setting, so beware of toxic relationships!! lv polymurderous save me..... save me lv polymurderous.....

H is sick.

It started small – a delayed response here, a squinted look there, a clumsy misstep in-between. At first, he insisted it was nothing to worry about, only a fever. By day three, however, the skeleton can’t even lift up his head, wrapped around in blankets as he stays immobile. Ki and Mur can only watch from the doorway, the former’s face blanking and the latter’s mouth thinning into a line.

Ia doesn’t like it when they’re fragile.

She’s next to the bed, hand hovering over H’s forehead, expression unreadable in the deceptively calm shadows spreading across the room. After an agonizingly long silence, she speaks, voice soft.

“It seems I’ll be gone for a while. There are things I need to find, medicines first and foremost.”

Mur doesn’t react, while Ki only gives a perfunctory nod.

“You two will take care of the house,” Ia continues, not looking at the duo at the door. “Clean. Cook. Keep everything in order. I expect everything to be the same once I return.” Their voice echoes, not just in the small box of a room. They lean down, wiping a handkerchief over H’s sweating forehead. “You’ll be better soon. I promise.”

And then, with a flickering of the overhead lights, Ia is gone. The silence they leave behind rings.

-----

Mur startles awake to the sound of knocking on his door.

“wakey-wakey, sunshine,” Ki calls, voice bright and sing-song, muffled through the wood. “we have chores to do today, remember?”

Mur mentally groans as he rolls on his other side, curling into himself. Blearily, he opens his eyes – the sun hasn’t even shone through the cracks of his blinds just yet. Letting out another annoyed huff as another set of knocks ring, he pulls the blanket over his head, as if it can drown out the chirps.

“come on, do you want to clean the kitchen or the bathroom? if you don’t say anything, i’ll pick one out for you.”

Mur doesn’t move or respond. Another knock comes, followed by a soft creak of the door opening. Mur can feel Ki leaning against the foot of his bed, and he resists the urge to kick at Ki as the blanket over him is tugged incessantly. He just wants to stay in bed and not think about the dreaded day ahead, which has become just another day in this house.

“don’t make me assign you chores,” Ki says, with a mock whine in his voice. “you know how i hate being the bad guy.”

Mur doesn’t give the other skeleton anything, not even a perfunctory glare. The message is loud and clear. He drags himself up, finding Ki’s empty sockets unerringly locked on him. Slowly, he starts dressing himself, trying to ignore the other person in the room. It’s not like Ki can see him, and it’s not like they haven’t been unfamiliar with each other. But still, he turns his back on Ki as he clasps his mask on the lower half of his face – he can never get used to having another person so acutely aware of his weaknesses, no matter if they see it or not.

Ki tilts his head once Mur is done, then claps his hand once. “well then, let’s start with breakfast, shall we?”

The kitchen is warm when Ki drags Mur down the stairs. Ki moves between the stove and the counter, hands tracing the edges, humming an upbeat tune under his breath. Mur follows closely behind, carefully looking at all the equipment that he hasn’t talked in a while. He isn’t usually the one doing the cooking in the house, and he isn’t sure if his skills are still passable in the kitchen. He pulls open the fridge to inspect their meager options for today, while Ki leans against a counter nearby, humming something tuneless.

“been a while since you cooked. don’t worry – i’ll be you’re your humble assistant today.”

Mur makes a scoffing sound in his throat, tossing something onto the counter. As if he would trust Ki around the kitchen. He types something on his device.

“go clean the table.”

“fine, fine.” Ki pouts, raising his hands up in a surrendering pose. “no knives needed, i know. but if you need any…” He smirks, sauntering away from the kitchen area to the dining table. Mur gives an unimpressed glare at his back, though he knows Ki wouldn’t see it.

Together, they move around the space, ready for their day ahead. Ki sets the table while Mur cracks some eggs in the pan. They don’t speak, but it doesn’t feel like silence, not with Ki humming in the background and the sizzling sounds filling the kitchen. Somehow, it doesn’t feel that much different from other days, despite the absence of two other regulars in the house.

This, too, is just routine.

-----

Laundry comes afterwards.

They haul the beddings from the washing machine to the backyard. There are blankets, sheets, pillowcases – all from H’s nausea fits the day before. It is sunny outside, but the air is still cool from the nightly spring breeze. Both skeletons wear their only fur-lined jackets as they step out. The clothesline is strung tight across the yard, shadowed by the two trees it is tied to.

Ki pulls out a bundle of blankets, unfolding them in his hands. Mur helps by shaking and puffing them out, holding one corner and clipping it to the line with practiced ease. He doesn’t hear Ki coming close to his space until he feels something tugging at his shoulder.

A thread.

It pulls taut.

He freezes, slowly turning his head around.

Ki is right behind him, one hand hovering near his shoulder. It lingers for too long. Neither of them moves. The sheets billowing lightly in the wind, brushing against Mur’s jacket as he stands there stupefied, his fingers twitching but otherwise not clawing into the fabric he’s holding.

don’t look don’t look at it there’s no tear it’s fine the jacket’s fine-

Then, Ki chuckles softly.

“you have a bug on your jacket.”

Mur doesn’t dare breath. His grip on the blankets in his arms tightens. The jacket feels lighter suddenly, but his arm feels like lead – as if it was falling apart, the tear echoing in his skull. Or is it? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know. Just the idea of it- The phantom loss- But it might be real-

stop panicking it’s fine it’s fine you’re so pathetic right now don’t cry-

Ki doesn’t say anything else. He just grabs another sheet from the basket and moves away from him.

-----

More laundry. Bathroom cleaning. Living room sweeping. By midday, most of the chores are done. The house is cleaner and quieter than before. It doesn’t make it more livable though.

Mur sets the ingredients for lunch on the counter. Dutifully, Ki washes the vegetables and plucks out the spices. His movements are slow but not clumsy. Mur takes out a chopping board and starts slicing.

The rhythm is soothing in a way. Chop, drop, stir, set the heat. Ki is next to him, his presence silent but his voice not. Every now and then, he bumps elbows with Mur as he navigates in the kitchen, just gently. They don’t talk. They don’t need to, their bodies dancing alongside each other in a familiar dance, years of familiarity having etched into both of them. Mur stands at the stove, waiting for the soup to finish as he stirs the pot. Ki hovers over his shoulders as if looking at what he’s doing. The heat from the other’s SOUL burns, but Mur is used to it – might crave it even, no matter how many times he doesn’t want to think so.

(“you’re always cold, aren’t you?”

A small huff of laugh. An ember in the dark of night. Something to hold on.)

When lunch is ready, they sit across each other. Two bowls on the table. A third one set aside, covered, steam rising faintly from under the lid. It is somewhat strange, having the dining table with only two people present. Mur can’t help stiffening his shoulders as he feels Ki patiently wait for him from across the table. With hesitant hands, he unclasps his mask, and the wave of anxiety rises up to him again. Slowly, he puts the mask down next to him with an audible thump. Ki, enigmatic bastard as ever, tilts his head, a measured smile gracing his face, before picking up his own spoon.

They eat in relative silence, which is an odd scene. Usually, Ia is the one prompting conversations during meals, what’s with them being the only times all of them have to get together in one place. It’s just small talk, discussing the weather and news and asking what they are up to lately, as if none of them were stuck living in the same house all the time. Now, the quiet atmosphere is unusual, but not wholly uncomfortable.

(He can almost prefer this to the regular scene.)

When they finish their respective portions, Ki leans back in his seat, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Mur stands up to collect the dishes, but then Ki speaks.

“no, no, i’ll handle the dishes here. you should bring the soldier his rations.”

Mur tilts his head, fully knowing that Ki cannot see him. But they’re too familiar with each other now – Ki’s smile widens as if knowing what Mur is doing, and maybe he does.

“he’d be wondering why it’s not you.” The empty-eyed skeleton gestures at the third bowl on the table. “besides, he likes your cooking better anyway.”

Mur stands there for a moment before giving a curt nod. He picks up the bowl and places it on a tray. Without a word, he walks towards the hallway, faintly hearing Ki turning the water in the sink.  He moves up the stairs, careful not the drop the tray. The walk isn’t long, but it feels like centuries as he nears his destination.

-----

H’s room is dim, curtains drawn tight to keep the light from seeping in. The air is thick with something old and heady. Mur slips in quietly, balancing the tray with both hands as he nudged the door open with his elbow. The bowl of soup steams faintly. A cup of water is placed besides it. He sets it down on the nightstand and pulls the chair close.

H stirs. His eyes open, sluggish but awake enough to track Mur’s movements.

"is it morning already?" he mutters, voice rough and dry. “what do you have for me?”

Mur doesn’t say anything. He picks up the spoon, gives it a gentle stir in the bowl, then lifts it toward H’s mouth.

After a beat, H accepts it gingerly, slurping and chewing slowly. He swallows and exhales. "who’s the chef today? this one might actually be food."

Mur snorts silently, then offers another spoonful.

They fall into an easy rhythm. Spoon, chew, swallow, breathe. H eats more than he has in days, which isn’t saying much. Mur watches him closely, looking for any sign of discomfort or weakness. The silence stretches between them.

"you’re quiet today," H says eventually. Then, after a pause, he adds, "more than usual."

Murder doesn’t respond. His thoughts are louder – more turbulent – than anything he could write down.

After a long moment, H fills the void again. “taking care of me… don’t you have better things to do?”

Mur shakes his head, his fingers lightly trembling as the storm in his mind only grows and grows.

Ia’s gone. Gone. That hasn’t happened in what feels like forever. When was the last time? Months? Years? He never leaves the house. Never leaves them alone. But now? There’s no watching shadow. No low voice echoing through the walls. No prickle of magic on the back of one’s neck.

The door’s still there. Unlocked. Unguarded.

You could leave.

The thought arrives like a tsunami. Ferocious. Unexpected.

Take them. Go.

Another spoonful, another swallow. Mur wipes the corner of H’s mouth with the edge of a napkin. He watches the sick man’s eye droop half-lidded again, exhaustion clear in his body.

Run away, little rabbit. Run.

He pictures it before he can stop himself: the three of them, living somewhere far away from all of this. A rundown house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and cicadas all night. No shadows. No watchful eyes. Just the sky and the dirt and the sound of Ki humming, bundled in layers, listening to whatever on his music player. H on the porch, grilling something delicious while fanning the smoke away from his eye. Mur sitting on the staircases, watching both of them, finally still.

It’s shameful, how often this fantasy returns.

(Even more shameful is the house on the tropical island – fragments of another broken dream, another broken promise. There is something traitorous about it, something mournful – the dream continues, pieces replaced haphazardly without much input from his own logic. The smoke, the red, the warmth – all replaced like a ship from that one tale.

Red. They’re all red, aren’t they? So easily switched in and out. Is that how interchangeable they all are? Just puzzle pieces to be forced into places. Mur feels disquieted with himself, with his thoughts, with his feelings.)

He’s never told them. He never will.

Because it’s not real. It’s not possible.

Not with Ki. Not with how deep he’s sunk into Ia’s tendrils. Mur doesn’t even know if he could trust him long enough to hold open a door without being crushed by it afterwards.

He thinks of H, of the reluctant, sporadic kindness – the acts that have to be squeezed out of him, the gestures that don’t guarantee safety exactly, only a temporary refuge from this hellhole.

He thinks of Ki, of the wide perma-smile – the one that masks everything, the one that never quite echoes in his fake cheerful voice.

The risk feels like a knife twisting under his ribs.

You cannot really trust anyone.

Mur presses a damp, cool cloth to H’s forehead. The bedbound skeleton flinches but doesn’t move away.

“you smell like soap,” H mumbles, his voice thinning. “you cleaned the house, or just paced out your nerves again?”

Mur shrugs, holding the cloth steady as he wipes down H’s scorching heat. H’s hand reaches out, shaky, fingers brushing the other’s wrist. A thank you. Or something like it. He couldn’t tell, despite how long they have been together. How strange.

Mur brushes a knuckle gently over the edge of H’s blanket, watching his chest rise and fall as the sick monster falls asleep. He looks so frail, so breakable. They all are really.

Then he slips out as quietly as he came in, the voices still murmuring behind his ribs.

-----

Dinner can’t come quickly enough.

Ki is humming again, waiting for Mur to spoon out the portions into mismatched bowls. One for him, one for Ki, and one for H. It’s just some simple porridge tonight, a warm, easy meal for H to swallow in his debilitated state. Mur feels Ki hovering near him, the body heat unmistakable in the evening chill. Ki takes a bowl from him with a grin and a casual brush of fingers against his knuckle.

“i’ll deliver it to the prince this time,” Ki says, smiling wide. “you should clean the mess.” He gestures vaguely towards the direction of the pile of dirty pans on the stove. “don’t want him to think we’re slackers.”

Mur pauses, a half-thought-out plan rapidly running through his mind.

This is the opportunity he needs.

So, he waits.

Waits until Ki’s voice echoes on his way upstairs, his soft and off-key singing filling the silence of the house. Waits until the hum of hot water and clanking dishes masks the shift of his feet on the creaking floorboards. Waits until he distinctly hears the sound of a door opening then closing, Ki’s cheery voice disappearing into the space behind it.

Then, he moves.

Quietly. Quickly. Through the spaces he’s familiar with. The cabinets in the kitchen hold some dry rations, flints, and matches. The cupboard in the living room has a first aid kit that he swipes quickly. The closet near the staircase hides away an old satchel with some gold coins and fake IDs they used to use to go to certain places. Near the hearth, under a particular loose floorboard, lie a Swiss knife and a couple of phone contacts and expired train tickets – stuff he hid months, or years, ago, when he first started thinking about maybe’s.

(Memorabilia of a lost time, a lost opportunity, a lost promise.)

His hands shake, and he’s unsure if it’s from fear or anticipation. He cannot stop now. Not when the taste of escape is so tantalizing on his bitten tongue.

-----

Midnight comes.

Mur lies in bed, eyes wide open, listening to the house breathing its quiet. Slowly, he pushes the blankets off himself and sits up. The old wooden floorboards creak, and he winces, pausing, waiting. When no sound comes, he reaches under the bed, where the packed backpack is.

His feet touch the floor soundlessly as he yanks the bag up. Quickly, he dons his jacket and slides the door open, just a tiny crack. The hallway stretches ahead of him, long and cold. There’s no light but the source of his magic eyelights.

Carefully, he creeps along the hallway – not too fast, not too slow. He doesn’t glance at Ki’s room as he passes it, though he feels the urge tug at him like gravity. Maybe Ki’s eyes are already on his back. Maybe he already knows. But no footsteps follow him, so he continues to trek.

He arrives at H’s door and pauses. Hand against the frame. Fingers hovering over the knob. Listening. Inside there’s only the unsteady rise and fall of a ragged breath.

The door opens under his hand.

He sees H stir and curl further into his bundle of blankets. He must have been sleeping, and Mur almost feels bad for waking him up. He closes the door behind him with an audible click. H’s pale face glows faint in the moonlight through the curtains. One arm is folded across his chest, and the other twitches slightly when Mur comes closer.

Mur doesn’t say anything – it’s not like he can. He crouches beside the bed. Horror looks at him blearily, and blinks. He doesn’t try to sit up. Mur holds one of his hands, absentmindedly tracing the rough fingers. The silence envelops them before H speaks up.

“what are you doing at this time?” His voice is soft, somewhat short-winded. The fever is not doing him any good. Mur has a feeling where this conversation will go, but he can’t just not try.

He points at himself. Then at the door. Then at H. A question. An invitation.

H looks at him. His expression doesn’t shift, or maybe it’s just the darkness that hides it away. “… you’re really stupid,” he says at last. “you know that right?”

Mur would chuckle at that if he could. Instead, he just stares, the bags under his eyes crinkled into an ironic smile.

H shakes his head, the movement slow and tired. “they’ll find you. you’ll never be far enough. you’ll never outrun them.”

Mur taps his fingers against H’s knuckle, once, twice, then three times. The rhythm is hypnotic, soothing to his brain. He doesn’t refute H’s statement, just hanging his head low, sensing the gaze on the back of his neck.

Then, a softer yet more crushing reply follows. “i can’t go with you.”

Mur stays kneeling by the bed. He doesn't flinch, doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. The silence is too big for the room. H’s fingers brush his shaky hand. They’re warm, clammy.

“i’m sorry,” he says, even though it doesn’t sound like an apology.

Mur squeezes his eyes shut.

And for a second, he’s there in the dream. Where there’s a little house, with chickens running around all day. Where they all share the household chores, bickering over who gets to do what. Where Mur will fall asleep in some unconventional place, lulled by the seaside winds and cicada calls.

But then he opens his eyes.

It’s still this dark room. It’s still this house – too big, too small, too quiet, too loud. Never right.

He stays stuck on the floor. If he leaves, he’ll have to abandon them. What does it say about him, someone who has never claimed to love?

(Never. Never again.

He’ll never love again.)

Shakily, he clasps H’s hand in both of his own and brings it to his forehead, like a silent apology – a wordless prayer from the before-times, a habit he cannot seem to break. H doesn’t say anything, the air of regret and reverence blanketing over them.

Eventually, Mur stands up. H watches him leave without a word.

There is nothing more to say.

-----

Mur creeps softly down the hallway, bag slung low on his shoulder. The air is cold even through his jacket. The darkness is almost reassuring, as if the house didn’t realize a piece of it is missing just yet.

He reaches for the lock.

“late walk?”

A voice echoes from the side.

Mur freezes.

Ki sits on the bench by the shoe rack, legs drawn up as he rests his cheek on his knees. He doesn’t turn towards Mur – his eyes can’t follow, but he doesn’t need to see. The eye sockets are dripping black again, staining the already cracked bones. Ki never needs eyes to know what happens, as if the house told him – as if he had become part of it. As if he could sense the air shifted the moment Mur stepped out of bed.

But Ki doesn’t move to stop him. Instead, he just hums.

“you could’ve waited until morning. little rude to sneak off without saying anything.”

There is no accusatory tone in his voice. But Mur doesn’t dare move.

Ki yawns. “i mean, i’m not judging. it’s just a bit cold, is all. not a very nice time to go on a walk.” He shrugs. “but you know what they say: fresh air is good for you.”

Mur turns slightly. Enough to half-face the other skeleton.

Ki smiles to no one. “just… if you go, remember the second fence post leans right. you’ll trip if you’re not careful.” After a beat, he continues, his smile wobbling imperceptibly at the corner. “and, remember to bring back the detergent. we’re running low by the way.”

Mur’s grip on the door handle eases. Just a little.

Ki stands up slowly, stretching his arms with a quiet groan. “mm... anyway, i’m heading to the kitchen. figured i’ll make some tea. If you want some when you get back, just say so.”

He walks past Mur, his shoulder brushing lightly against the other’s as he disappears into the kitchen.

No resistance. No force.

Just that unbearable familiarity. That ghost of warmth.

Mur doesn’t answer. He just stands there, staring at Ki’s back, the door forgotten.

One beat. Then two. Then three.

His hand lowers from the handle. He shakes off his boots and puts them back on the shoe rack.

The door stays closed behind him.

-----

Mur is already awake when the front door creaks open at the crack of dawn.

He’s sitting on the couch, his jacket in his lap. His bag is gone. So are the matches, the maps, the little notes he scrawled for himself in the dark.

“I’m home.”

Mur doesn’t look up.

Footsteps approach, then stop just behind the couch.

“I brought back what Horror needs.” The voice is warm. “He’ll be fine soon.”

Mur nods once, the motion small, almost mechanical.

Ia moves to the kitchen. Ki appears a moment later, like a dog greeting its master, soft-footed and cheery-voiced, like nothing happened. He reaches out and clasps Mur’s shoulder with a brief and familiar squeeze.

“you did good,” he murmurs, like he means it.

Mur says nothing. He just stares ahead.

There is nothing more to say.

[kirkwallguy]

i saw your reblog of that bull post and i'd like to know your other issues with his writing if you wouldn't mind elaborating 😊 i really enjoy your meta posts

hiiiii! my complaints are far pettier than the points in that post ngl, but one major issue i have with bull that i think i may have complained about before is just that his dialogue irritates me and i don't like hearing him speak

imo, what makes weekes' writing so hit or miss (aside from previously mentioned racism etc) is that they really REALLY seem to have taken to heart the advice that characters should have a distinctive way of speaking while often not really having the subtlety to pull it off. it doesn't help that dai really struggles with giving its companions time to develop so we really do have to rely on good dialogue (as opposed to like... quests or storylines) to round them out.

solas speaking in iambic is actually really fun and mostly unobtrusive, but bull and cole are just far too overdone for my personal tastes. bull's whole quippy "yeah 😉 i REALLY like hitting things" schtick gets super old after a few minutes; i know there's the argument that he's presenting himself in a certain way for the inquisition etc etc but it's grating and unfunny while feeling like you're supposed to be finding it funny. similarly, cole's fake-deep mysterious dialogue is good maybe 30% of the time and kind of painful 70% of the time because you can FEEL the writing working very very hard rather than being something that comes from cole's mouth naturally. and ofc characters with super distinctive ways of speaking aren't always bad, especially in a fantasy video game, i just think bull and cole kind of get in the way of themselves a lot of the time and just happen to do it in ways that are designed to annoy me specifically

[doriansbutt]

my boys 🥰