#An Elegy on the Death of A Child

[manwalksintobar]

Portrait of My Father and His Grandson // Richard Jones

Because I love my father, I can see him turning away from the river and the divers and the policemen and the red lights; I can see him walking back to the house, follow him down the long hallway to the child's room; I can see him bending over the empty bed and lifting the heavy white spread and carrying it back to the river's edge to wrap around his grandson. But even though I love them both, I cannot see why this should happen, or tell you what the boy saw under the water, or how my father felt standing by the river when the divers came up, or where he found the strength to survive that night, hugging the wet body, wrapping it up against the cold, carrying it though the darkness, home.

[loudlylovingreview]

Margo Berdeshevsky: God Bless the Child That's Got His Own

My friends are losing mothers and fathers My world is losing air Today my father died, he says to me My friend who climbs from the sea I say that every day, he says — Today my father died, But he keeps living and hanging And I am remembering all the things I never wanted to hold He says — you will let go he will let go the branch when he is Ready I nod, yes, he says, climbing the hill from the…

[batgovernor]

Sonnet: J.D. Smith, 'Elegy'

We weren’t allowed the time to contemplate What talents he in time might come to show, What fame or wealth he might accumulate, What love and other passions he might know. We had, instead, the chance to see him crawl And graduate to solid food, to take Some wobbling steps that ended in a fall, To hand an uncle’s dog a piece of cake. To say more is to claim a flare’s bright arc Could have reached…

[brother-emperors]

DO NOT BE AFRAID

this is combining Ovid's Heroides and the Excidium Troie because I can't stop thinking of Hermes telling him not to be afraid. what the fuck!! Ares is wearing the crown that Paris gave him.

I have. thoughts. about Paris. he's almost got this Troilos parallel in my mind, that the event that defines him in detail exists in a lost narrative that we don't have (the Cypria), but everyone else knew. the event that defines Troilos is his death (murdered, butchered by Achilles, the violence of which haunts everything after. Achilles, child killer, you can't escape that!), and the event that defines Paris is the Judgement. what's a lost text but a kind of grave!!

idk I don't think that Paris before the Judgement would recognize himself after bc when you become god touched, it rearranges your guts. you become transformed in the worst way possible! how could you recognize yourself! but I also think that all the Parises after the Judgement would recognize each other because that event is so locked into the trauma of war and the scar it leaves on the land, it's like a scar on the narrative too. it exists like this forever, over and over again, so you exist like that forever too. Troy collects grief and despairs.

Troy as trauma: Reflections on intergenerational transmission and the locus of trauma, Andromache Karanika

and Paris is like. a miserable little god/corpse-puppet or something, like a match for the gods to throw onto gasoline.

The Excidium Troie + Ovid's Heroides:

Excidium Troie, trans. Muhammad Syarif Fadhlurrahman

Ovid, Heroides 16 (trans. Harold Isbell)

a collection of things regarding Paris that made me go 😬 but under a cut bc this is getting. very long.

The Divine Twins in Early Greek Poetry, Corolla Torontonensis

Iliad 24 and the Judgement of Paris, C.J. Mackie

Elegy and Epic and the Recognition of Paris: Ovid "Heroides" 16, Elizabeth Forbis Mazurek

Ennian Influence in "Heroides" 16 and 17, Howard Jacobson

Paris/Alexandros in the "Iliad", I. J. F. de Jong

[the-raven-lady]

(Not) The Savior You Long For [Part 1]

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Night Lord (OC: Elias Rushorik) x serf!Reader [fem]

Song Inspiration: Fear Inoculum - TOOL [YouTube] [Spotify] “Enumerate all that I'm to do / Calculating steps away from you / My own mitosis / Growing through delusion from mania / Exhale, expel / Recast my tale / Weave my allegorical elegy.”

Warnings: Violence, explicit and detailed blood and gore, disgusting and disturbing imagery, terror and dread, fear of death, all of the warnings you should expect hearing the words ‘Night Lord’ bestie this is the “I love murder” legion.

Word Count: 2.8k

Author’s Note: The long awaited Night Lord claiming + womb tattoo series. This part is primarily exposition and setting the scene. Also new dividers? Raven Lady's getting fancy.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual

@lemon-russ @moodymisty @dedios-of-the-word @pickpocketing-your-gender

The slosh of brown water on the floor splashes away from your washcloth, and you overextend your shoulder trying to catch it before it runs too far. Hissing at the sudden spasm, you sit back on your heels, rolling it out to soothe the ache. You’ve been on your hands and knees for what feels like far too long now, and your joints are starting to protest. It seems the other serf helping you isn’t faring much better. A glance in her direction reveals her sitting like a child, knees bent and feet flat on the floor, using the full weight of her body to scrub between the seams of the floor panels. You shake your head and return to pushing around the rusty water, struggling to remove the grime from the floor. 

The act was pointless. Everyone knew that it wouldn’t be another week before the armory would be so rancid with dried bodily fluids that a cleanup crew would have to scrub it down again, but you knew better than to make a comment on it.

The racket of raucous laughter nearby shoots ice through your veins. You and the other serf instinctually freeze at the sound, and it doesn’t even cross your mind to check on her before abandoning your post, scrambling off of the wet floor in a flash to hide behind a large crate. The cold metal at your back would shield you from view, you know, but the hammering in your chest and shuddering of your breath would be beacons for a bored astartes. Silently, you will yourself to calm down at any cost, holding your breath for so long your lungs begin to burn from the effort.

Their heavy footfalls eventually fade into the distance, off to another area of the ship. Still, you remain in place for another few minutes until you’re as certain as you’ll ever be that they’re gone. You dare not risk yourself getting caught by a group of Night Lords, if experience has taught you anything.

You’ve become jaded to the rags of tanned hide displayed proudly on their armor and the grotesque corpse art that lines the walls of Nightfall. The smell doesn’t even get to you anymore, having been surrounded by abundant death and decay for so long. Everything reeks of it. Even if you did take the time to think on the dreadful feelings that stir when you see them, your body wouldn’t be able to afford losing any more meals with how sparingly you’ve been fed.

What has never left you are the screams. The gush of blood pouring from a weeping laceration. The crack of breaking bones. Desperate cries from the poor targets of the Night Lord’s insatiable appetite for ‘entertainment’, sobs and begs for their lives— No, no, no, please! I’ll do anything, please, just let me go–!— eventually turning into pleas to be put out of their misery, shown mercy, as their captors only laugh and croon. No mercy flowed through them; they were never quick with their kills. It was all a sadistic game to feed off of the tears and terror for as long as they could. The Night Lords wouldn’t stop their fun until their playthings had been bled dry– literally or figuratively.

You peek out from around the crate, surveying the dim armory. Empty. 

The serf you had been working with was missing as well, likely sequestered off somewhere for safety. The utter silence of the room causes your gut to tremble with anxiety. It was a dangerous game to be alone: lone serfs were prime prey, and you by no means wanted to make yourself an easy target. 

With no small amount of horror, you realize it’s outside of your power to do anything about it. Your lungs deflate, and you give yourself a false reassurance before returning to your station on the floor, taking up the soiled wash rag and wringing it out into the water bucket. Pieces of slimy rehydrated skin pass over your fingers. You return to your efforts with the intent to finish as quickly as possible. The desire to flee to your cot is all-encompassing, driving you to redouble your efforts and get the job done just passably enough that you won’t be killed for it. 

A thought stops you, though. Where had your companion gone? It’s not that you particularly cared for her safety (you didn’t know her and caring is a luxury you could not afford), but to be gone without a trace was peculiar. You don’t remember hearing her footsteps, but you had also been preoccupied with yourself at the time.

You look around the empty room for anything out of place. Nothing appears to have moved since you last checked. Her brush and bucket are still on the floor, right where she had left them. You had seen her put them down there, right?

…Hadn’t you?

You dismiss the thought. She was probably still hiding somewhere, and for that, you couldn’t fault her. There was no loyalty amongst serfs of the Eighth, just an understanding that it was safer together than apart. Wanting to determine how much longer you would be here, you observe the areas the other serf had already worked.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The surfaces of the floors, storage units, and walls were visibly much cleaner than the rest, but she had done a horrible job wiping things down as she went. The steady dripping of a poorly dried surface unpleasantly fills your ears, slowly becoming the only thing you can focus on. You frown. It was amazing how you could begin to miss the ever-present dull thrum of the ship’s electrical systems when it was covered by something even slightly more annoying. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

You shake your head and get back to working around the floor grate at the center of the room. Its placement makes it convenient to push the disgusting wash water into. As expected, the seams around the drain are compacted with hair and dried flesh, and you have to soak the mass to begin to scrape it free. The spongy texture is a nightmare to work with, but it wouldn’t be such a chore if you had some help.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Annoyed, you decide you’ve had enough of it. Water sloshes in the bucket when you wrench your washcloth to go wipe down whatever it is she had left unfinished, rising up to your feet. With some luck, you’d figure out where she had run off to. It wouldn’t come as a surprise if she had abandoned you altogether, leaving you to finish the task and fend for yourself.

A cursory glance over the bench, lockers, and racks reveals nothing out of the ordinary. They were passably clean and– perplexingly– completely dry. You ran a hand along them to be certain and, surely enough, it came away much the same. Odd. You were certain that you would find something. Continuing your search leaves more questions than answers.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Checking around a wall of storage cabinets, you carefully inspect each of the gaps for signs of water or some other liquid that could be leaking. You find nothing. 

At the end of the lockers, a shadow dances in the dim candlelight. Fear grips you for just a moment as you focus in on it, but it is much too small to be an astartes. At the realization, the chill in your blood is replaced with a simmer of frustration, and you stomp down the hall towards the figure.

Your eyes lock with the other serf’s. “Are you just hiding to–?”

You stop. It appears she had been too preoccupied with hanging from a bracket on the wall to come to your aid. The side of her neck is torn open with loose strips of muscle and connective tissue fanning over her shoulder. A glistening metal finial of Nostraman design pokes ornately through her spine and sternum, partially coagulated blood pooling at the tip.

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip.

“About time,” a voice spits.

You’re suddenly dragged by the back of your robes, hoisted up into the air by an unseen force. The scream that leaves you tears at your vocal cords, but it’s choked off by the fabric of your neckline biting into your throat. Thrashing your head from side to side, you catch sight of a colorless face cackling, bloodied lips curled into a grin. You desperately kick your legs in an attempt to free yourself.

“Feisty little pet, aren’t we?” he asks. The Night Lord turns you around easily as you struggle, splitting red as he talks. “Good. Your friend was far more boring.”

You rake at the fabric around your neck, trying to alleviate the pressure preventing oxygen from getting to your head. The action only makes him laugh harder. “Oh, how precious. Poor little serf can’t breathe?” He tilts his head as he taunts you, and a cruel glint crosses his eye.

“How about I help with that?”

A half turn and your back slams against the wall, knocking the wind out of your lungs. Your gasp of pain ignites a malicious glee within your captor, a row of bloodied yellow teeth peeking from behind his lips. At least like this, pinned to the wall, you have the ability to catch your breath, ragged and shallow. Each rough huff eases the ache in your diaphragm.

A hand roughly snaps your head forward, forcing you to focus on the face at your front. He suffocates you with his presence, leaning in far too close. “You know,” he starts, “I had been just about ready to walk in there and drag you out myself.” Despite the melodic quality of his voice, you only feel discomfort at the astartes’s words as he uningenuously laments. “I could only stare at my masterpiece for so long.” 

Briefly, your eyes linger on the silhouetted corpse of the other chapter serf. You hadn’t even heard her scream. Hadn’t heard the attack. Hadn’t heard the bones crack when she was unceremoniously mounted on the wall. You had managed to miss every detail.

…Or your captor had been skilled enough to mask them. You shiver.

He follows your gaze, scoffing when it lands on the body. “Your buddy is as pretty as she is stupid, trying to run all the way back to the hole you serfs call home.” The image of the other serf running down the hallway and getting caught as you did passes through your mind, and you grimace at the thought of whatever game she may have suffered through to end up where she is. The sing-song cadence of his voice draws your attention back to the Night Lord in front of you, “You humans fall so easily to your emotions. Not the brightest of you lot I’ve had, but certainly the best bait.”

Bait. The word is sour in the air.  

“So unwilling to have fun–” 

She had just been bait. 

“–but you’re eager to play, aren’t you?”

You were the game.

Your blood runs cold, eyes widening as you process everything you had missed or ignored up until now. Black blurs the edges of your vision. “Oh, don’t be like that,” the Night Lord shakes his head, but you know better than to believe it. This is exactly what he wanted. “We can be great friends—” 

Self-preservation takes a hold of you. Your adrenalized brain screams to overcome, persist. In an act of desperation, your hands shoot out before you, and you manage to jab your fingers into his dark eyes and claw. The astartes snarls, ducking away and dragging you with him off of the wall as he stumbles back. With a shake of his head, he regains his senses. He growls.

“You stupid bitch!”

The Night Lord tosses you like a ragdoll, uncaring of how your head impacts the nearby bench before hitting the floor. The world spins around you. “I’ll gut you like a pig for that, you impudent rat!” he roars, ceramite boots stomping closer. His eyes are wild, red around his enlarged pupils from where you’ve managed to burst blood vessels. Uncoordinated, you scramble backwards on the floor, staring up at the approaching astartes in terror. 

This is it. This is where you die: surrounded by filth, hyperventilating on the floor as a pissed off Night Lord tortures you within an inch of your life until you perish from the stress. All for one measly act of courage. Your back hits a wall as he rounds the bench, and you find yourself unable to watch any longer as fate unfolds before you. You curl up in a ball, turning away and protecting your head with your arms, then wait for the inevitable killing strike.

And wait.

…And wait.

But the blow never comes– no white-hot stab of pain, no sting of a kick to the ribs, no blunt ache of broken bones– just a sickeningly sodden crunch of flesh and bone. A wet spray paints your back. Your tattered robes easily soak up the warm liquid, causing you to flinch from the sudden moisture. Even through the rush of confusion and fear, it doesn’t take you long to realize what it is. The scent is unmistakable.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you struggle to catch up with your surroundings. By all means, you should be dead: the newest addition to a Night Lord’s skin cloak, or at the very least in excruciating pain. But you aren’t. 

Tentatively, trembling, you withdraw your head from the cage of your arms, turning just enough to peer behind you. You gasp at the grisly sight. 

Crimson rivulets of blood drip down over massive navy blue gauntlets. A single enucleated eye dangles from the gore between its digits. The terminator, more mountain than man, holds the unmoving body of your persecutor up by what remains of his cranium and neck. It is little more than ribbons of meat now.

Bile rises in your throat. You struggle to force it back down. 

Bolted armor caked in blood– both dried and fresh, sunken deep into the recesses of the ceramite plating– gives off an aura of wrought iron and decay. The metallic tang permeates the air around him, hanging heavy in the poorly ventilated armory. His scarred skin looks sickly pale. Greasy. Dehydrated. Aside from deep black eyes that watch you as a predator observes prey, the most prominent feature on his face is a wicked scar: a tear in his upper lip that exposes maxilla and sharp teeth alike. The shock of black hair on his head still has the impression of his helmet on it.

Without so much as a sound, he had come up from behind and grabbed the smaller Night Lord by the face, yanking them back into the crux of his chestplate and pauldron with enough force to shatter the hardened skull of an astartes. 

The massive marine throws the limp corpse of his former brother aside. The impact of metal on metal causes your ears to ring as a thousand pounds of lifeless ceramite strikes the wall, immediately followed by a disgusting wet slop of pulverized brain matter spilling onto the floor. If you had been on the Nightfall for any less time, you would have screamed. The shock almost prevents you from registering that you’re being spoken to.

“Get up.”

The terminator’s voice is that of rolling thunder and coarse gravel, resonating deep within your chest and leaving your heart fluttering with trepidation. His words had been spoken no louder than conversational, and yet they had you shooting up to your feet as if they had been shouted. Your wobbly legs nearly give out beneath you from how quickly you rise from the floor, croaking a shaky, “Yes, my lord.”

He removes his helmet from where it is magnetized to his belt with a click, placing it down on the bench you had been cowering behind. The tusks on it are as long as your forearm and nearly as thick. A faint decal of a skull is painted around the red lenses, chipped and fading but almost cartoonishly cute in contrast to the rags of flesh and weathered bones decorating the rest of his armor. 

The new Night Lord doesn’t seem to find it nearly as amusing as you do. He pushes the helmet in your direction, and you clamber to catch it before it hits the ground, not wanting to incur his wrath by dropping it so soon after he had just saved your life. The metal is heavy in your arms, tusks dangerously close to puncturing your throat.

“Clean it,” he barks. 

You grab your wash rag from the floor and shake it out. You do not have to be told twice.

[Part 2]

[chernabogs]

Elegy

Inc: Malleus x Reader, Lilia, 1 kobold who deserves a raise Warnings: Little bit of angst/crisis, little bit of fear of death, and anxiety WC: 4.3k.... lmao Summary: Sprites are unpaid therapists, guardians are good at catsitting, and a prince has his third life crisis in 1 year. PART 1 | PART 2

The final part of the series!

He did not anticipate ending up in the mausoleum again, and yet it’s as though something had a lure on him from within, which dragged his unwilling body along until the scent of dirt and death took away all his other senses. The crown prince did not shuffle, but he did drag his feet a little as he disturbs the earth, and his gaze moves across the room. The air is stagnant and makes him feel like a burden for stirring it so. 

The last time he came here was when he was a child. He had plenty of opportunity to come back since then, but every time he would look at the dark entrance into this abode, he would feel a terrible sense of fear which would send him scurrying back to his grandmother with his tail between his legs. The fear has since diminished now that he has endured the events at NRC. Although a sense of unease still stirs in his heart, he forces it down as he sits on a stone bench fixated in the middle of the room and looks to the tombs.

His mother and father look back, expressionless and dead-eyed. 

“... hello.” His voice breaks from lack of use as he speaks to the ghosts that linger. He has said scarce few words since his return to Briar Valley for the summer, instead letting his retainers, and servants, and senate do all the talking for him. He clears away the dryness before continuing. “I figured it would be best to quickly visit and check on you. I see the groundskeepers have done well at clearing away the weeds.”

The stone statues offer no response to his comment as he takes in their features. He has inherited much of his mother, and extraordinarily little of his father. He does have Levan’s ears, and his lips, but Meleanor’s eyes and aquiline nose trump these features and demand observers’ attention. His fingers reach up to touch his face as he looks at hers, mapping their features together as he once did when he was younger. 

Then with a sigh, he drops his hands back to his lap and clasps them tightly together. He has come for reasons other then a familial obligation to check on his parents' tombs. His father had been a Duke, only a rank below his mother’s status, and so he isn’t too sure if his plight is even something he can rationalize to them.

Not that they can hear, anyway. His mother is nothing but dust and his father isn’t even in the bloody tomb. 

“I am having,” he begins slowly, before gesturing outwards. “A crisis.”

Well put. He is certain the mice and kobolds listening to him are nodding in their sympathies right now. 

“I am feeling a lot of things that I am not fully understanding, and I would quite rather brick myself up here then talk about them with anyone.” He already had Lilia giving him looks the entire boat ride back to the Valley. That had been two days of seasickness (which he still can’t rationalize how he has) and unbridled guilt eating away in his mind. “But you cannot comment, so I reasoned yours would be the best ears for listening to this.” 

He hears a chattering from somewhere in the back corner and pauses long enough to frown in the noise's direction. Kobolds, indeed. He would need to pass word to the groundskeepers about that. After the noises cease, he turns back to the tombs.

“There is a human who I seem to have developed quite an attachment to.” 

His mother would have cut him off right about here. From what he’s gathered, she was not the biggest fan of humans. His father on the other hand would have shushed her and bade him continue. Malleus finds himself creating very inspiring visuals in his mind of the entire interaction. 

“At the same time, I find myself seemingly paralyzed—”

“Silly rats, make silly hats!” A sharp, rasping voice causes Malleus’ jaw to snap shut and an unamused look to cross his face. The kobolds, again. He looks over his shoulder to see one of the small, gaudy creatures shambling along after a rat, which is scurrying as fast as possible to its nest. The kobold gnashes its sharp teeth while chanting, “Run, rat, run!” 

Malleus exhales through his nose before turning away for a second time now. “As I was saying, seemingly paralyzed at the prospect of doing anything regarding these feelings. I have lied to them numerous times now to remove myself from situations, and a few times I have acted beneath myself in their presence, and yet they have stubbornly remained by my side. They are sympathetic, and they seem to understand, but they are—”

“Rat! Rat!” The kobold’s shrill voice causes Malleus to grit his teeth again before twisting around on the bench. 

“Oh, for gods sake, I am trying to peacefully have a crisis here!” He finally hisses at the creature, which freezes in its place and looks at him with beady eyes. The rat takes this moment to skitter into a hole in one of the tombs. Only when its tail vanishes does the kobold look at where it last was with a forlorn expression. 

“Rat…” It rasps out. Then it looks back to Malleus. “Starving.”

“Aren’t we all?” Malleus grumbles before turning to the tombs again. He barely gets a word in before the kobold has skittered to his side and onto the bench. He can feel the muscle in his jaw twitch as he looks down at the creature. 

“Young master, hm?” It croaks as it begins tugging on his sleeve, likely trying to see if he has anything to offer. Malleus waves a hand and a plate of meat appears, delighting the creature as it begins to eat. 

“Anyway, I am at a loss.” Is what he concludes with as he looks at his parents once more. “My fear holds my tongue and I sense the opportunity of something slipping further away from me. Perhaps I should have remained sequestered in these halls if only to prevent such a cacophony of emotions from erupting in me.” 

“Fear inhibits us.” The kobold rasps as it pauses between bites. It licks its lips with its blackened tongue and looks up to the prince. Kobolds are cunning creatures, even if they may not present themselves as such all the time. This one assists in cleaning the tombs—for a fee. “What does young master fear?” 

“Death.” Malleus replies dryly, entertaining the kobold for now. He’s already treating his dead parents as his therapists—why not add another thing to the mix?

“Inevitable.” The kobold chokes on a piece of meat before correcting itself and continuing to gorge. It pauses between bites to keep speaking, however. “Why fear what is unavoidable? Silly. As silly as my silly rat. Best to live. Best to welcome him into the home when he comes knocking. Bam! Bam!”

The kobold lets out a shrill cackle, which causes Malleus to shake his head.

“I don’t think you understand the delicacy of my situation. Death will not come into my home before it does the home of my present disruptor.” He scoffs. “I already am surrounded by enough silent tombs. I have little interest in adding another.”

“Young master doesn’t know Death’s schedule. Death could be in his home tomorrow. Death could be in his home right now.” The kobold cackles again as it licks the remaining blood from the plate. “Silly to let Death cage you before he is required to.” 

Malleus falls quiet as he watches the kobold. It speaks so plainly to him, pointing out the holes in his mind’s argument. He knows he’s orchestrating this to keep himself safe from the pain of loss, but it feels as though he’s only hurting himself more by withholding from his wants. 

The minds battle with the heart—a war as old as time. 

“Is young master not hungry?” The kobold asks as its black eyes meet with his. It licks away blood from its fingers. “Does young master not wish to indulge? We fae are creatures of indulgences. Silly, to deny nature. Perhaps young master is my silly rat instead.”

It gives a wide, sharp grin, which Malleus returns with a sneer before waving a hand and vanishing the creature to another part of the tomb. The plate clatters onto the bench next to him, and the scent of copper lingers. 

The kobold had a point, and the more he thinks about it, the more the point makes sense. Death could be in his home tomorrow. Death could be in his home right now. Malleus didn’t know when he would go, nor when the Prefect would go. He couldn’t control that—but what he could control is what he could do right now. His fingers tap a pattern on his thigh as he looks at his parents. 

They married during a war. They had him during a war. They lived every day knowing the same thing he does—that Death could be in their home within a few minutes. And yet, they embraced life anyway. They loved, and were loved, and left a legacy behind. 

Hells. 

Hells. 

Lilia was wrong when he said Malleus wasn’t ill—what he should have said was; “Malleus, I fear you may have a case of idiotitis.”

His parents, still together despite one having gone well before the other. You, still by his side despite all that he’s done. 

Malleus swears under his breath before pushing himself to his feet again. He brushes a few stray vines away from the hands of his mother and father, which are carved to be holding each other before moving towards the tomb's exit. He has a letter to write, a mistake to rectify, and an order for a large quantity of meat to be sent to this tomb.

_____________________________________________________

There is nothing as banal and painful as waiting for a reply. Malleus wonders if he should have telephone lines installed all throughout the Valley, if only to save him the agony of waiting for your arrival. His hands are pressed against the glass of the window he leans on for the third time today as his eyes burn holes into the gates down below. He could have sent you a text by now, asking if you’re on your way yet.

Goddamn phone lines.

“I should get the royal painter.” A sly, teasing voice snaps him out of his focus as he looks over his shoulder. Lilia hovers close by—close enough that Malleus wonders how long he’s been here—with a coy glint in his gaze. “This is quite the artistic scene.”

“I am in misery.” Malleus declares as he presses his forehead to the glass. The hard thunk of his scales connecting with it makes Lilia wince briefly.

“And you’re bound to get a migraine if you do that again. Be patient, Malleus. Prefect did say they would be here today.” Lilia pauses. “With Grim in tow.”

Malleus scowls briefly as he turns his head to look to his guardian again. “You are on Grim duty. Go take him to the ponds for an hour or so.”

“Sacrificing those poor fish to that bottomless pit of a stomach...” Lilia sighs and shakes his head in false despondence. “A noble death they shall have.”

Malleus refuses to deign him with a response as he looks back to the gates. A few of the royal guards are pacing their routes, and in the courtyard below he can see the servants rushing through last minute preparations. His declaration that a ‘friend’ was arriving (because he can’t give away his motives too easily) had sent the entire palace into a frenzy. Malleus had never invited someone over, save for Silver, Sebek, and Lilia.

“You won’t be able to see the carriage until it arrives. The bend on the mountain pass certainly makes sure of that.” Lilia drifts over again and frowns out at the scene beyond. “I do think we should set up a mirror in Black Scale. If you intend to invite more people over, then we can’t keep shuttling everyone through The Leaky Pint. The poor bartender will be overwhelmed.”

The Leaky Pint, the only tavern in the town that surrounds Black Scale, serves as both a community hub and a makeshift transport stop. It’s the only building with a magic mirror since the security risks of placing one in the palace were far too great. Lilia’s point of overwhelming the poor bartender had some merit; if Malleus did intend to start inviting more people—or at the very least, one person many times—it would be good to think of alternative routes.

He doesn’t get an opportunity to consider any solutions, however, as the sight of a carriage rounding that very pass captures his attention. He straightens up suddenly—

—and then feels an undeniable sense of anxiety. It plunges to his core, rooting him on the spot and causing a cold sweat to touch his neck. He stares at the carriage as it draws closer, closer, closer. Suddenly he wishes to make some vague excuse again to lock himself in his chambers and only interact with you when surrounded by scores of other people. Not alone. Not like he intended.

“Malleus.” Lilia waves a hand in front of his face. His gaze follows it slowly straight back to Lilia’s scarlet eyes, which watch him with that familiar seriousness eons of experience can bring. When they meet gazes, Lilia’s expression softens to a small yet warm smile as that hand then ruffles Malleus’ hair.

“All will be well,” he hums, and the way that he says almost makes Malleus believe him.

_____________________________________________________

Malleus doesn’t actually get to see you until the evening, which may have been a good thing considering how long it took him to ease his nerves. This is yet another new feeling that you inspire in him—anxiety. He’s anxious if he looks good enough, anxious about how he is to approach this, anxious about what your response will be.

He spent a good portion of time preening in front of his mirror before leaving his chambers, and he isn’t afraid to admit it.

Yet when he finds you, it’s as though all of this build-up of fear and what if’s are wiped from his mind. You’ve been directed to the greenhouse which contains his portion of the rose garden. Years of plantings are blossoming in the warm summer night, filling it with a sweet scent that can lull one into a blissful peace. You’re sitting on a bench, one arm slung over the back and your head looking up at the sky. The glass is clear enough to see the numerous stars that spill across Briar Valley.

That’s one good thing about the lack of modern amenities within his homeland—the light of the celestial is not hidden by the light of man.

You seem lost in your own world, and for a moment he worries it might be intrusive of him to approach, until you finally notice his idling and a warm smile break across your face.

Gods. When the bards learn how your mere look can make the scion of the fae fold, they’ll have material for centuries.

“Well look who finally decided to say hello.” Your tone is teasing as he exhales and approaches, sitting down on the spot next to you—albeit a bit more gracefully. He can feel the heat of your arm near his back. “Lilia dragged Grim off to go fishing or something. Personally, I think nine at night is a weird time for that, but he was very insistent that the best time to catch the largest fish was right now.”

“Was he?” Malleus hums, utilizing this as a means to ease into the conversation he wants to have. “I would trust Lilia’s judgment on the matter. He has been in Briar Valley long enough to know the most ideal times for any activities.”

“I think Grim was just keen on getting more food. He wolfed down his dinner, and then my dinner, and then the dinner of a few others.” You grimace at the memory. “Reckon I might need to write a few apologies before we leave.”

“I’m sure all will be forgiven.” He’ll make sure all will be forgiven. Respectfully.

The two of you lapse into a moment of silence before you begin launching into how your trip to Briar Valley was, unprompted but certainly appreciated. Malleus listens intently as you regale him of your pilgrimage to the Mirror Chamber at Crowley’s behest (and not because Malleus sent a secondary letter expressing the urgency of your arrival—which meant no two day boat ride). You then detail the arrival to The Leaky Pint, the way you almost missed your carriage because the bartender roped you into helping him, and the several stops you made along the way to take photos—at the carriage drivers’ misery.

As you speak, Malleus finds himself relaxing to the sound of your voice. The way it changes with each emotion you put into your story, as well as the inflections and the quirks it carries. He doesn’t even realize he’s smiling or that you’ve moved closer together until your tale ends with your breathless laughter over Grims behavior during your welcome feast.

“—truly he’ll get us arrested one day. I’d rather it be here, though. At least I know you’d bail me out.” You send him a smirk. “Although I also feel like you’d make me wait a while. Just to keep me on edge.”

“You think me so cruel?” Malleus chuckles softly as he watches you. “I would have you out in a heartbeat, were you to be kept in my cells.”

“How valiant. Be sure to be riding a white horse when you come sweeping to my rescue then, yes?” You laugh and lean back against the bench. Your arm is still draped around the back, still resting against him. Your warmth has crept through his body a bit too efficiently. He feels a burning in his cheeks as he turns his head away.

Another pause of silence falls then, broken by the sound of a distant fountain and an owl calling a mournful song from beyond. He hears you clear your throat as you shift and withdraw your arm.

The absence of your warmth is profound.

“I, um.” You seem to be turning many thoughts over in your mind as he looks at you, waiting for you to continue. “I know this happened a while back now, and maybe bringing this up isn’t the best idea, but the night that you and I were on Main Street together—”

Main Street. You were sitting together quite like you are now, facing each other. His mind had been in turmoil, and your gaze had been on his lips, and it had been too much—at that moment.

“I wanted to ap—”

He cuts you off mid-way through with a swiftly raised hand. The sound of your words catching in your throat and your eyebrow raising dubiously would normally fill him with amusement, but not tonight.

“There are a few things I need to say beforehand.”

Malleus once said to himself that loving you was for someone much bolder than he, but that had been a lifetime ago now. That had been when he was a recently broken boy lying on a hospital bed, trying to come back to himself after one of the most traumatic moments of his long life. That had been before his parent’s tomb, before the kobold, before he realized that to get what he wants he needs to be that bold.

He can be bold. He can be brave. He can say this.

“I was not ill that night, nor are you at fault for that. I was... I am afraid.” He confesses. Your mouth closes and now you wait for him to continue, which he soon does. “You are... gods. You do something to me. You inspire many feelings in me, and it is so overwhelming that my mind cannot wrap around them all.”

Oh, now he feels himself beginning to ramble a bit. This is very uncharacteristic of him. He faults you for this, again.

“I am afraid because I have never wanted something before. Then there you were sitting beside me when I was in that infirmary after everything that happened, and you were just talking about Grim and your day like you did just now, and I,”

He stops again. This is harder than he imagined it to be. He’s usually quite eloquent, and yet right now the words to describe what he wants to say seem to be running paces ahead of him. He shakes his head and looks out to the roses. For a moment, nothing happens, until he feels your warm hand on his arm again and it somehow spurs him to continue.

“You are... a disruptor. I had my entire life planned out before me since birth, and then you came crashing in like a comet, usurping all of that in one fell swoop—and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed your presence by my side during those evening walks, I enjoyed seeing you in Diasomnia, I enjoyed every moment you gave me. Yet that enjoyment was tainted by the fear that those moments would not last forever. You will likely die far before I do, and this thought just sits in my mind whenever we’re together. That this won’t be forever—this won’t last—and it scares me. It scares me.”

Malleus hears his voice break and for a moment he’s startled. His mind wars with his heart again—get control of yourself!—but a stinging in the back of his throat takes him off-guard and his hand flies up to cover his mouth as though in shame.

If it wasn’t intercepted by yours, that is.

“What are you afraid of?” You ask, your voice serious as he finally looks your way. You’re watching him with such focus and such warmth in your eyes that he wants to shrink back, return to his chambers, pretend this never occurred. He doesn’t. Instead, he speaks.

“... you.”

Not death. It had never been death to begin with. What he was afraid of was how much you had come to mean to him, because this was never supposed to happen. You were never supposed to come into his life. You were never supposed to impact him so much, make him want so much.

“Malleus.” Your voice is calm as you hold both of his wrists in your hands. “What do you want right now? What do you need me to do?”

You know he’s shaken which is why you’re letting him control the situation. Your kindness should be sickening, but instead it’s pulling him closer towards you, and in his fit of delirium he speaks.

“Let me know you. Make me remember every damn moment so when the inevitable does come, when Death enters our home, I have something to hold onto.” He rasps. There’s a flicker of fire in your eyes but he hardly lets it ignite before he’s surging forward and finishing what you started on Main Street.

Kissing, to his surprise, is not as the books write it to be. His lips collide with your own and your teeth hit as he kisses you hard, like a starved man before a meal. His eyes shut tight and he holds his breath until he feels you respond as your hand releases his wrist to rest on the back of his head instead. His body relaxes against your touch as you both move to find a proper rhythm.

No, kissing is not as the books write it to be, but this isn’t a terrible thing.

When you finally separate from him, he’s all but ready to move in again, only to have you move so that your lips are against the shell of his ear instead. He can’t help but shiver at the sensation as you speak. “Malleus, breathe for a second.”

Funny words coming from someone who sounds so breathless, but he obliges, resting his face against your shoulder as he does so.

“Listen carefully.” You begin as your fingers slowly thread through his hair. “I will not be going anywhere for a long time. Yes, I will not live as long as you, but I will live as long as I can for you. You wish to remember every moment, so I’ll give you enough memories that you’ll have a new one for each day you remain beyond me.”

Malleus takes in your words slowly. They sink into his mind and his body, and he can feel himself relaxing into your touch. A new memory for each day he outlives you. He can capture those memories, store them in a glass ball so that he may watch them whenever he pleases. You will never truly be gone if you can both make it work.

Semantics dictate that this will be a hard relationship anyway. He is a prince—and heir to a noble bloodline—and you are... well. You. But you are also you, and someone that he’ll go to hell and high water for. Come what may—he will end things with you by his side.

He says your name against your shoulder. Each syllable rolls off his tongue and fills the air like a melody as he withdraws just enough to see your face. You seem surprised—he has never really said your name before—as your hand comes up to wipe his cheek.

Look at him, breaking like a blubbering mess before you over a few reassurances and touches.

He says your name again, if only to see the warmth in your eyes before he moves in to test his theories about kissing once more.

Love is for the lonely.

Love is for fools.

Loving you is precisely how it’s meant to be.

[cosmerelists]

Do the Cosmere Secret Projects Follow the Rules of the Cosmere?

[Big spoilers for Sanderson Secret Projects #1, #3, and #4!]

A while ago, I wrote a list proposing some Rules of the Cosmere--aka, trends or themes that tended to crop up in most Cosmere works. Now that I've read all of the Secret Projects, though, I had to wonder: do they also follow the definitely ironclad rules that I once proposed? Let's consider!

1. Don’t feed the children

Summary of Rule: If you try to feed a hungry child in a Cosmere book, something terrible will happen.

Off to a bad start! I don't think this rule came up at all. I don't recall any children being fed, really.

2. Once Marriage is On The Table, Breakups Don’t Really Happen

Summary of Rule: Once characters get to the point of marriage, be they engaged or in an arranged marriage or just solidly A Thing, it is rare for them to break up.

Yes, the secret projects did adhere to this rule, I think! The best example is from Tress--I remember how SHOCKED I was when word came that the Duke's son really had gotten married. I was like, "How is that possible? Sanderson would NEVER allow a couple like Tress and Charlie to be broken up by Charlie marrying someone else!" And then, of course, it wasn't Charlie at all. Charlie stayed single...until he could get back together with Tress. In Yumi and the Nightmare Painter, the romance was pretty much between Yumi and Painter--not even death could prevent that. Sigzil sadly did not have a lot of time for romance in The Sunlit Man, so the rule didn't really come into play there.

3. Your enemy will save you...if the sexual tension is high enough

Summary of Rule: An enemy with enough sexual tension will often sacrifice themself to save the other person.

Honestly, I don't think we really had this in any of the Cosmere Secret projects? The only fierce enemies I can think of would be Tress & Crow or Sigzil & the Ember King...but there wasn't any sacrifice-to-save-the-other going on there.

4. Your fave is (accidentally) queer

Summary of Rule: Sanderson loves to write characters who are deeply deeply queer without seeming to realize it.

Oh yes--this rule is eternal, and the Secret Projects did not disappoint. There's Yumi herself, Miss "Oh-my-god-I-just-saw-a-goddess," our (second?) favorite bisexual queen (does Sanderson know he made a lady bi again?). And then in the Sunlit Man, there's an exchange that I'm not sure is actually an accidental queering since it seemed so blatant, when Rebeke was asked if she was now "The Sunlit Woman" and replied "No, the Sunlit One." Is there a way to read that other than as nobinary/genderqueer?

5. Don’t trust the underling priest!

Summary of Rule: If betrayal is happening, it's probably the fault of the nearest underling priest.

Honestly, I think the only "priests" we had were in Yumi, and if anything, this was a deconstruction. The "head priestess" would be Liyun, I think, and she was horrible and abusive. The "underlings," Chaeyung and Hwanji were actually far more supportive and actually told Yumi some about what was really going on. So I guess in these books you should trust the underling priest(esses).

6. (per @twitcherpated) If there are same gender siblings, there will be a romantic triangle involving them.

Summary of Role: If there are two brothers and two sisters, they will inevitably be romantically linked to the same person.

I agree with this rule addition proposed by twitcherpated, which does crop up over and over again in the Cosmere. But in the Secret Projects, I think the only same-gender siblings we had were Rebeke and Elegy, and I don't think it works with them. Like, I suppose you could imagine a love triangle with Sigzil...but I don't really buy it. Rebeke was interested in Sigzil, but he didn't reciprocate, and Elegy was too busy loving the thrill of murder to have a romantic interest in Sigzil herself. I guess they both did want Sigzil to themselves, in a way. So maybe it does kinda work?

7. Hoid is there

Summary of Rule: Hoid likes to show up wherever plot is happening

Yes! The Secret Projects 100% adhere to this rule. Hoid is the narrator in Tress and Yumi, and he shows up briefly in The Sunlit Man. Hoid will not be stopped.

[stuckinapril]

Do you have any poetry recommendations? The poem poll made me realize that I like. ONLY know Iraqi poets. Like the only non-Iraqi poet I can name off the top of my head is Robert Frost

i'm literally hooked on poetry. even on days where i can't sit down to read a book, i try to consume at least one poem a day bc it keeps me sane. it actually does. i recommend signing up to one poem a day newsletters--those have been a game changer for me. as for recommendations, my favorite poems change every week, but current faves (whose authors i regularly go back to/are a good starting point) would be:

elegy for my sadness - chen chen (Who invented the word / “ennui”? A sad Frenchman? / A centipede? They should’ve never / been born. They should’ve seen me / in Paris, a sad teenage / exchange student. I was so sad / & so teenaged, one day my host sister / gripped my hand hard & even harder / said, SOIS HEUREUX. / BE HAPPY. & miraculously, / I wasn’t sad anymore. / All I felt was the desire to slap my host sister. / See, I was angry in Paris, which is clearly / not allowed. One can be sad in Paris (I was) / & one can be in love in Paris (I was not), / but angry? Angry in Paris?")

a pity, we were such a good invention - yehuda amichal ( "A pity / We were such a good / And loving invention / An aeroplane made from a man and wife / Wings and everything / We hovered a little above the earth")

like a small cafe, that's love - mahmoud darwish ("I say to myself at last / Perhaps she who I was waiting for / was waiting for me, or was waiting for some other man / or was waiting for us, and did not find him/me.")

bible study - tony hoagland ("Who knows, this might be the last good night of summer / My broken nose is forming an idea of what’s for supper / Hard to believe that death is just around the corner / What kind of idiot would think he even had a destiny?")

mother and child - louise gluck ("Why do I suffer? Why am I ignorant? / Cells in a great darkness. Some machine made us; / it is your turn to address it, to go back asking / what am I for? What am I for?")

america, america - saadi youssef ("We are not hostages, America, / and your soldiers are not God's soldiers... / We are the poor ones, ours is the earth of the drowned gods, / the gods of bulls, / the gods of fires, / the gods of sorrows that intertwine clay and blood in a song... / We are the poor, ours is the god of the poor, / who emerges out of farmers' ribs, / hungry / and bright, / and raises heads up high...")

the duino elegies (seventh elegy respectively) - rainer maria rilke ("Not only the devotion of these unfolded forces, / not only the paths, not only the evening fields, / not only, after a late storm, the breathing freshness, / not only approaching sleep and a premonition, evenings... / also the nights! Also the high summer nights / also the stars, the stars of this Earth! / O to be dead at last and know them eternally, / all the stars: for how, how, how to forget them!")

the endlessness - ada limon ("How was i supposed to feel then? About moving in the world? How could I touch anything or anyone without the weight of all of time shifting through us?")

psalm - adonis ("Open my memory and study my face beneath its words, learn my alphabet. When you see foam weaving my flesh and stone flowing in my blood, you will see me. I am closed like a tree trunk, present and ungraspable like air. Thus I cannot surrender to you.")

the war works hard - dunya mikhail ("The war continues working, / day and night. / It inspires tyrants / to deliver long speeches / awards medals to generals / and themes to poets / it contributes/ to the industry / of artificial limbs / provides food for flies / adds pages to the history books / achieves equality / between killer and killed / teaches lovers to write letters / accustoms young women to waiting / fills the newspapers / with articles and pictures / builds new houses / for the orphans / invigorates the coffin makers / gives grave diggers / a pat on the back / and paints a smile on the leader's face.")

[lskisms]

YOU, AT LEAST, WERE BUILT TO GO, J. MILLER

. . . which is why you are able to be loved

synopsis — joel is getting older, he is getting frail, and you, still in your youth, have to come to terms with it. you just have to do so much sooner than you thought when he’s hurt during your attempt to escape the university of eastern colorado.

genres &&. warnings — angst, hurt/comfort, (post) apocalypse &&. canon compliant, spoilers for ep. 6 “kin” and ep. 7 “left behind,” contemplation of death, canon-typical violence (wound, gore, blood, wound care), age-gap (reader is in their mid-late 20s).

word count — 3.2k

note from r — title comes from the poem “elegy for my innocence” by steven dunn. i suppose i need to introduce myself a little: i’m rhi, i’m 22, and i’m in my second to last semester of college where i’m majoring in english. obvi, a big fan of the last of us, but also resident evil (which is what i’ve based my account aesthetic on, courtesy of my beloved leon s. kennedy). my ask box is open for people who want to send in asks and things. i’m really looking forward to writing for my fellow joel miller lovers.

if your parents were still alive, if they were around to see the life you’ve carved for yourself over the last few months, you’re certain your dad would want to smack the shit out of you and your mother would disown you from the family faster than you could blink.

you can hear the chastising now: a man old enough to be your father? are you joking? what the fuck is wrong with you? this is not what we meant when we told you we wanted you to start a family. 

and you can’t fault them really. you are almost twenty years his senior, having been just a young child when the cordyceps outbreak decimated the world. if the world had stayed normal, if none of this had ever happened, you’d probably have a dead end corporate job that has you wanting to drop off the face of the earth at the end of every grueling day, married and going home to a man complacent and yielding in every aspect, never too sure of himself to assert any kind of dominance, stuck in his own dead end job that keeps you comfortable just enough.

but the world isn’t normal and it hasn’t been since 2003. and there’s nothing you can do about it. you feel like a child again, wholly the depiction of the angsty teen in dramas and romcoms, as you tell the ghosts of your parents that the heart wants what it wants and i can’t help that i fell in love with a man going starlight gray at his temples. it is wholly melodramatic, something that you would have seen in any number of teen dramas written by out-of-touch, old white men.

joel miller came into your life like a lone crimson leaf during the fall, sometime during your first few months at the boston quarantine zone. it wasn’t like he’d meant to because everything that man did and does is deliberate; he’d simply waltzed across your line of vision as you’d walked back to your apartment after a long day of doing menial chores, the new world equivalent of that mental-health-issue inducing corporate job that the older people of the zone talked about.

you’d heard of him, of course: joel miller, flown in from somewhere down south, a menace to anyone who crossed his path prior to his arrival in boston, a brother somewhere out in the midwest who had taken off and joined the fireflies. he was decidedly unapproachable, gruff and mean and stubborn. most people were more scared of him than they were of fedra for the simple fact that he was more deadly with his two bare hands than any fedra idiot (sorry, “soldier”) with a gun.

he wasn’t a person who you intended to mess around with, no matter how handsome you’d thought he was when you saw him that first time. but then you’d started hanging around with tess, one of very few people who had any kind of stable-enough connection with him and that had led to you meeting and hanging around with him too. tess invited you to go on runs with them, sneaking out of the zone at night to stretch your legs and look for supplies that fedra definitely had and refused to give up. she’d preached your capabilities to joel and, stubborn as he was, he’d allowed you to keep coming with them after the first time because you proved to be spry enough for things that he and tess had grown a little too old for: you were useful to him and that filled you with a kind of thrilling gratification.

by the time marlene had tasked your little trio with getting ellie out of the city, you were a year deep into your entanglement with joel where you did all the recreational talking and he was the one who made the deals with the fireflies, the fedra goons he had in his pocket, the people who had things to trade. it was a balance that worked well for you: joel was well-versed in persuasion when he wanted to be and you were seemingly the only person who could draw out the rare ghost of a smile or a laugh from him.

it was supposed to be a quick job, one that joel had insisted you sit out but you’d refused. just a quick round trip tpe thing, that’s what you’d said to him. we’ll be out and back before anybody even realizes we’re gone. 

that had gone belly-up, of course, because anything that involved the fireflies had at least a 99% chance of not turning out the way anyone planned. and when you’d left the museum, you were down a friend and up a whole ton of miles. joel had tried to convince you again to leave, but once more you’d refused. tess died for us, joel. i’m in this until the end because i’m making sure her sacrifice wasn’t for nothing.

and he’d let you stay. even months after that discussion, you think that he must feel at least a tiny bit grateful that you’d argued with him over it, that you’d fought to tag along. you’re an extra set of eyes, of hands, someone capable of taking over when he needs a break, which is hardly ever because he’s still as ornery as always, but knowing that there’s someone there who can must be nice enough.

and you’re glad he’d given in for once in his life because he’s dying beneath your hands and you’re not sure what to do. he’s going sallow and gray on the concrete floor of this ransacked house, breathing raspy and eyes slipping between you and some far-off point above him. joel is dying and for the first time ever since entering his life, you’re useless.

“joel, stay awake, please,” you beg, clutching at his hand as you kneel beside him. “ellie, you have to stop the bleeding.”

“i’m trying,” the young girl snaps. when she looks up, all you see is a girl who is reliving a loss, a deer caught in headlights, frenzied and terrified. her hands press the cloth harder over joel’s stomach in an attempt to staunch the blood flow and the man groans.

“leave,” he mumbles and your head snaps to look at him. he cannot possibly be saying this right now, not after everything you’ve been through. “leave. head north, go back to jackson. find tommy.”

“like hell we will,” you reply, trying to channel as much of his stubbornness as you can. you’d rather give up and drop dead right now than leave him to die alone in some fucking house in colorado. “we’re gonna fix this, joel. we’re not leaving, i’m not leaving.”

he’s slipping again, eyes glazing over. you can tell he wants to fight with you, but he’s losing the energy for it. for any of it. ellie stills and then tosses his jacket over him in a bid to keep him warm. she fixes you with a look, his look that says stay with him, so you nod solemnly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. you hear her footsteps on the stairs and only when the door shuts behind her do you finally let yourself break, weeping openly over joel’s chest, rising and falling so, so shallowly.

falling in love with this man has been something beautiful, some kind of phoenix rising from the ashes of a long-dead world. over the last few months, you have come to learn the feel of his knuckles brushing against yours, the warmth of his chest against your back when you share a sleeping bag, the sound of his soft breaths as you’ve trekked through miles upon miles of woods and abandoned highways. you have come to appreciate those things, facets of him that only you are privy to, the only person to know the weight of his arm over your waist and feel of his breath against your shoulder.

but in doing so, in reveling in the knowledge that you are the sole person to experience these hidden away pieces of joel miller, you’ve forgotten just how much older he is than you are. that misty gray at his temples and in his beard have been so permanent, you’ve started to believe that he’s always looked like this, that it’s not a marker of his age. you’ve forgotten that he is older and growing frailer by the day, conveniently forgotten how his heart stutters and how his knees act up after hours and miles of walking.

you had always known, of course, that joel would eventually leave you, but not this soon. and not like this.

maybe it’s your fault for putting him on a pedestal: the great, unstoppable joel miller. in your mind, he’s untouchable, some formidable opponent who people fear because he’s strong and knows his way around a fight. it shouldn’t be a chunk of a broken baseball bat that ends his life because it’s not fair, none of this is fair. you’ve been a fool for thinking that the three of you, your unlikely little family, would make it out of this unscathed, for believing that you could live a life like bill and frank’s after this all was over: fulfilling, safe, and the closest resemblance of before.

“god,” you whimper out, still brushing your fingers through his salt and pepper hair. “how could you even consider telling us to leave you here, joel?”

he gazes up at you, blinks slowly, the smallest signs of life that tell you he’s listening and wanting to fight you back about it.

“y’can’t leave me alone here, old man.” a short, wet laugh. “we’ve got so much left to do. i can’t get ellie back to jackson without you. i can’t do anything without you.”

he shakes his head in response and narrows those dark eyes of his just a bit. you read it for what it is: don’t you start talkin’ about yourself like that. he’s always been hard on you for not believing in yourself and your abilities, and it makes you laugh again.

“i mean really, joel. first man i’ve ever loved and you’re telling me to leave you here to die alone in fucking colorado.” you shake your head, looking away to try to blink back tears. “i can’t- i can’t just go. i need you alive.”

you can’t even stop yourself from babbling through the tears, brushing his hair back and wiping away his own tears. even though you should be desensitized to death and loss, you’ve always been particularly sensitive. but you’re young and this is your first love, your only shot at it, and he’s bleeding out on a cold floor because you were too focused on everything else that you hadn’t been able to stop him from getting hurt.

“ain’t your fault,” joel rasps out, eyes shining in the dull winter light. you realize you voiced that, a placing of responsibility that you’d meant for yourself and yourself only. “don’t do that.”

you stare at him and you know what’s going through that head of his. all kinds of thoughts that he wants to voice out loud: it’s not your fault and you were doing the best you could in the situation and this was going to happen sooner or later. damn pessimistic realist, always focusing on the worst possible outcomes than entertaining any kind of optimism.

and in a twisted turn of events, you start to think of your parents, long gone and relegated solely to memory, buried somewhere between atlanta and boston: an optimistic dad and an overwhelmingly realistic mother, so far on opposite ends of a spectrum that they complemented each other perfectly. your dad, ever the poet, had stolen poetry collections from every bookstore he’d came across during your treks from settlement to settlement. his favorite poem, by far, was about the death of a person’s innocence, something always meant to die eventually, perpetually blushing and always coming back a little less pristine each time.

you remember it now as you’re holding joel’s hand with your own, pressing his knuckles against the soft plush of your cheek. you, at least, were built to go, you hear your father’s voice say in your head, which is why you are able to be loved. you haven’t thought about this poem in years, not since you lost him to a runner somewhere in south carolina, but it feels sickening that you’re recalling it now as you’re watching your first and only love die under your hands.

and yet, somehow, it feels comforting, the idea that to be human is to know that one day, a loved one will die, but to know that is to cherish them better, to love them harder. you’re not at all okay with joel dying because you’ve had so little time to love him, but it helps you to cherish those few late nights more, to revel in the memory of his warmth enveloping you on particularly cold nights.

you can let me go. joel’s dark eyes are going glossy again and you smile knowingly at him, still crying. he’s not dead yet and there’s a possibility that he’ll make it out of this alive, the outcome that you’re praying to every god that has ever existed for. you can let me go; it won’t be easy, but you can do it.

ellie’s feet as loud on the old wood stairs as she comes barreling through the door and down the stairwell. she looks rabid as she all but throws herself onto the floor beside joel, ripping the tan coat back and pulling the soaked cloth away. joel’s wound is still gushing blood, a sure sign that he’s well on his way to death, but when ellie makes eye contact with you, you know for sure she’s found something to help. she holds up a needle and spool of thread; she must have torn the entire house apart looking for her hail mary and she found it, she fucking found it. she stares at you, eyes wide and face red, breathing hard, waiting for your go ahead.

when you finally nod at her, fresh tears in your eyes, you look down at joel. his fingers curl around your palm tighter and he’s staring back, his eyes wide. you laugh tearfully, totally and entirely stunned that ellie had actually found a way to help.

“you’re gonna be okay,” you weep, pressing his hand to your forehead, letting your tears drip into your lap. “you’re gonna be okay, joel. just hang on.”

the next few minutes crawl by cruelly, joel surely leaving bruises on your hand from gripping yours too hard, too tight, but you can’t even care because when his hand finally goes slack, ellie is done. her handiwork isn’t so bad and the bleeding has stopped for the most part. when you sigh, it feels like the weight of the world leaves your shoulders, a degree of relief you’ve never felt in your life.

joel, stubborn as always, is fighting unconsciousness as you turn to look back at him and you know it’s because he knows he’s not entirely out of the woods yet. there’s still bleeding to stop, a potential infection to fight, medicine you need to find to keep him safe and healthy, but this has to be good enough for now. it has to be because he’s joel miller and he’s mucked it through gunshot wounds and temporary deafness and all kinds of other shit the world has thrown at him. 

ellie, clearly emotionally gone, stands, her dark eyes empty and her face void of everything save for exhaustion. without even looking at you, she turns towards the stairs and says to nobody, “going for a walk. i need a break.”

her footsteps echo in the stairwell and then creak overhead before she disappears out the front door, leaving you in an empty house with joel and the horse in the garage. you look back to joel, still holding his hand. his face, always so devoid of anything minus annoyance and anger, looks so relieved right now and it makes you want to cry again, but you’re shit out of saline. you lay his hand down beside him before you tuck his winter coat back over him, up to the chin.

there’s not much that you can say, no thoughts come to mind. nothing more than i love you, but you want to save those for when he’s safely out of the thick of this. as true as they are, it’s not the right time, but you’re sure he knows. he must when he scoots his hand out from under the coat and nudges it against your thigh, some gesture that you can’t decode, but that you understand as i’m still here, like he’s able to read your mind. you smile at him softly.

i’ll tell him when this is all over, you reason with yourself as you move to lay beside him, exhaustion finally overtaking you. wherever we end up after ellie is safe with the fireflies, i’ll tell him and he’ll say it back and we’ll be okay.

he can’t turn onto his side, but he turns his head to face you, looking every bit the age of fifty. his eyes are tired and the crinkles of his skin run deep, his cheeks and chin dusted gray. this close, you can see every pock mark, the dip of skin at his temple from some long-forgotten cut, the deep scar that mars the space between his eyebrows. his defenses are down and he looks his age, for the first time in a long time because it’s so easy to forget how old he is when he’s doing the things he does to protect you and ellie.

you scoot in as far as you’ll allow yourself, knees knocking against his legs and your head pillowed on the arm underneath you. you raise a hand and rest it on his cheek, a touch he immediately leans into, like your palm was made to caress his skin. as far as you care, it was. he tilts his head towards you and you find yourself doing the same, foreheads touching. this is one of the small gestures joel allows you on most days, but right now, it feels more monumental than that. like always, it’s a moment shared singularly between the two of you, but it carries so much more weight because he gazes at you with so much more softness and love than he’s ever let himself show before and it reminds you that underneath all that rough exterior, he is a man capable of gentle touches and adoration, no matter how many times the world and himself have tried to beat it out of him.

as his breathing slows, but deepens (a sure sign that ellie has mended the problem for now), you move your arm to rest on his torso, hand pressed into the sturdy spot just above his heart. the beat is steady, solid, a reminder that he’s okay. he was built to go, but now more than ever, you feel he was also built to be yours, to be loved by you. and you’ll make sure he makes it through this, no matter the cost.

(c) lskisms, 2023. do not repost, translate, or otherwise plagiarize my work. the only official versions of my work are available on tumblr and ao3 under the name lskisms.

[manwalksintobar]

Hunger // Susan Musgrave

When I go to the river with my trouble, and sit under the big trees, I see my girl again.

Her dress is the colour of soft butter. Her hunger tastes of whiskey and rain.

Behind us is darkness, and darkness lies ahead. The worst kind of pain is to miss someone you’ve never known, and worse, never will. The emptiest days are loveliest; only people with desires can be fooled, and I have none.

[blood-orange-juice]

I was scrolling through your posts and. Would you like to elaborate on the 'Childe's path is finality' because I am going crazy with the implication of it GDXHNDHCKDLD

(necroreply)

I don't think any Genshin phenomena fully map on Honkai paths! So there's no real connection

but there's some cross-pollination of themes, since they reuse assets and perhaps some writers work on both teams. for example, I wonder if Cryo might end up similar to HSR Remembrance

so the only thing I'm going with is that Childe's story and the things he says remind me of Destruction, Nihility and Remembrance at the same time and the same goes for what Elegy says (the main character can even ask whether she follows those paths, although I think there's also an Elation reference)

also... The Aeon of Finality moves backwards in time and is related to prophecies. Childe has some hints at time/fate distortion, for example, his TCG ability card says "a reckless but precise blow" and I'm going insane over it. maybe it's just a description of mastery but also maybe the blow is precise because it's predetermined to land in a certain way no matter how exactly he performs it (maybe that's his art). also his insistence on having a final battle with us and the prophecy in Foul Legacy archive page. he knows something about how this world ends.

also the token we get after defeating the whale says something about the world dying and being reborn and the importance of memories for it (so do Remembrance followers and Elegy). also it's an apocalyptic whale in general.

(these could all be explained by something else, they are all weak arguments)

also, idk... what would force a gentle and poetic boy to turn into something that we see now. maybe it was only his ego and the desire for greatness and nothing more and he has never really been gentle. maybe he got influenced by the whale against his will. maybe he saw something apocalyptic and wants to stop it. who knows.

and the dubstep-ish sound effects in the current Apocalyptic Shadow sound a bit familiar. as a cherry on top.

there's also something about memories about life-and-death battles being important in the description

it's all not very serious and I don't think we should make assumptions about Genshin plot based on that. but if I wrote a Childe expy he would be a Finality follower.

[emyn-arnens]

End of Year Fic Recs

Tagged by @grey-gazania @thescrapwitch @dreamingthroughthenoise—thank you!

Recommend up to 5 series or multi-chapter fics from 2023 that everyone should read (multi-year WIPs count, if the last update was in 2023).

Recommend up to 5 single chapter fics/one-shots (long or short) from 2023 that everyone should read.

Recommend up to 5 fics NOT from 2023 that everyone should read (oldies but goodies).

Recommend up to 5 of your own fics (completed or WIP) from 2023 that everyone should read.

Oneshots

I'm cheating and doing 10 oneshots because I haven't had the spoons for reading longfics the past couple years. Hoping to change that this next year!

The Aching by @searchingforserendipity25 (G, Maedhros & Celegorm & Curufin, <1k). Maedhros in the aftermath of Finrod's death. Seren wrote this for me, and I have so much love for this exploration of Maedhros' grief over his cousin's death.

A Missive in all Goodwill by @actual-bill-potts (G, Finrod, Galadriel, and Thingol, 3.3k). Finrod tries to forestall the growing tensions in Doriath and Nargothrond. It's devastating. I love it.

Bitter Was Their Parting by @dreamingthroughthenoise (G, Arwen & Elrond, 2.2k). Arwen and Elrond bid each other farewell for the last time. Alantie wrote this for me earlier this year, and I'm still not over it.

Elegies Unwritten by nonisland (T, Éowyn & Merry, <1k). Éowyn and Merry on the road to Pelennor Fields. Éowyn and Merry's relationship is one of my favorite LOTR friendships, and this fic depicts it so well.

For One Year, One Day, of the Flame by @cuarthol (T, Aegnor/Andreth, 1.8k). A beautiful fix-it fic for these two, featuring an older Andreth and an Aegnor who is every bit in love with her as he was when she was young.

Things Yet to Be by @polutrope (G, Finrod & Turgon, 1.4k). Polutrope wrote this for me as a gift, and I love this glimpse of how Finrod wrestled with his foresight even as a child. It's also a very sweet look at Finrod and Turgon's relationship as children.

Threads by @slightnettles (G, Finduilas & Orodreth's wife & Edhellos, 1k). A wonderful depiction of Finduilas' foresight and her relationship with her mother and Edhellos.

Too Burdened to Fly by @hobbitwrangler (G, Finduilas of Dol Amroth, 3k). A beautiful exploration of Finduilas' thoughts in her final moments. It wrecked me in the best way.

What Lies Beyond the End by @melestasflight (G, Maglor, <1k). A beautiful depiction of Maglor casting away his Silmaril and choosing to live, with absolutely stunning imagery.

your veins are empty of dust by @echo-bleu (G, Nerdanel, Anairë, Eärwen, Finrod, and Maglor, 1.7k). An absolutely devastating exploration of Nerdanel's grief as she receives news of her husband's and sons' deaths, as well as those of Anairë's and Eärwen's children.

Oldies

Across the Gulf by Antiheld (T, Aegnor/Andreth, 3.1k). Andreth visits Aegnor one last time. One of my favorite fics ever; I've probably contributed to half of its hits.

A Few Good Years to Spend by @verecunda (G, Aegnor/Andreth, 4.8k). A beautifully written Aegnor/Andreth fix-it fic with the happy ending they deserve. I love it to pieces.

The Courtship of Lady Éowyn by @starry-mantle (T, Éowyn/Faramir, Merry, and all the rest of the hobbits, 7k). If you've followed me for any length of time, you've probably seen me rec this fic again and again, and it's because I can't get enough of it. Perfect characterizations all around.

Nine Fingers by Prackspoor (G, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin, 6.3k). Wonderfully chilling fic featuring Frodo and his friends on their return to the Shire and a mysterious stranger they encounter upon the outskirts of the Barrow-downs. It has some of the best slow-build horror I've ever read in a fic.

The Swallow by rhymer23 (G, Merry & Pippin & Éomer, 4.3k). Very touching and moving depiction of Merry and Pippin's final journey to Rohan to visit Éomer on his deathbed. A delicate, deft portrayal of aging and mortality.

Mine

As the Hare Flees Before the Wolf (T, Celegorm & Eöl, 1.8k). Curufin is not the only son of Fëanor Eöl meets upon the plains of Himlad.

in the hills of dorthonion (G, Aegnor/Andreth, 4.1k). The first meeting of Aegnor and Andreth and the beginning of their relationship.

Over Seas of Starlight (G, Frodo & Gandalf, 3.7k). On the journey West, Frodo discovers Gandalf's true nature and learns of the country that will soon be his home.

West, West Away (G, Sam & Thranduil, 3.6k). Sam meets an unlikely kindred spirit on the journey West.

when the cold wind rolls in from the north (G, Andreth, 1k). As the Bragollach rages, Andreth waits.

I'm late to this and can't remember who's already done this, so I tag everyone who's been tagged here and hasn't done this yet.

[zahri-melitor]

New 52 Bat Comics: What to read

Claiming everything in this 5 year period is irredeemable is a long ask, and there’s both some stories in here that are important in terms of ‘where things happen’ and others that are just genuinely entertaining reads. I enjoyed myself on multiple occasions as I worked through this period, and I'd like to put a spotlight on those occasions.

Here’s my suggestions of what to pick up if you are interested:-

Batwoman, particularly J.H. Williams III’s run (#1-24). If you have any interest in Kate Kane at all, this picks up immediately following Rucka’s Elegy storyline in ‘Tec, and only has the smallest levels of retcons built in to update from pre-Flashpoint (Cameron Chase gets a character reset, the DEO is slightly different, there’s a chunk of alluded to backstory with Renee Montoya that’s been shaken up by Montoya losing a lot of her history). Marc Andreyko’s run should have been better than it was – he handles the editorially-mandated Kate and Maggie breakup in a way that’s very familiar if you’ve read Andreyko’s Manhunter, but never manages to achieve a particularly interesting plot. I would however suggest reading the Batwoman Annual written by Andreyko, even if you stop at Andreyko, as it ties off the Williams III story.

Gotham By Midnight: Gotham police’s secret magic division, where Jim Corrigan, as the Spectre, is dealing with supernatural threats. Exactly the sort of minor series that gives more depth to Gotham as a city.

Detective Comics #30-44: Francis Manapul and Brian Buccellato’s run on ‘Tec and the guest story from Ben Percy (Terminal 1&2) is probably my favourite mainline Batman storytelling of all of n52. It’s very police force based, rather like Rucka and Brubaker’s runs in the early 2000s. It’s focused on Harvey Bullock, but in a compelling way. They handle the concept of Batman, both from Bruce and from an outsider’s perspective, in a way that reminds me of some of the best Batman storytelling. The first two arcs are better than the third, for the unavoidable reason that Jim Gordon’s Batman in the third arc. Ben Percy’s Terminal 1&2 is a genuinely compelling airport disease outbreak story, and unlike a bunch of these types, holds up to read post-2020.

Arkham Manor: Despite what the title might make you believe, this is a delightfully fun story. Come for ‘what happened when Arkham Asylum fell into a hole in the ground’, stay for possibly my favourite Victor Fries characterisation ever. Next time anyone tells you Bruce Wayne doesn’t care about the rehabilitation of criminals, remember he gave up his HOUSE so they had somewhere safe to stay and he convinced the cops and psychiatrists to let Victor Fries live in an igloo on the Manor lawn basically for enrichment purposes.

Gotham Academy: look, if you want a lighthearted school story about teens that dips into some of the weirder mythology of Gotham without getting too bogged down in it? This is a fun read. There is definitely bonus when you know various other Gotham properties well, but at heart it’s just a magical/meta-filled school.

We Are Robin: I really like this as a story fleshing out Gotham and what Robin as a concept means to the children and teens of Gotham. Duke’s great and this solidifies a lot of the characterisation Snyder gave him and really grounds him with a backstory, but Riko Sheridan is also sparkling off the page with potential.

Batman & Robin, #1-23. Frequently frustrating, this is probably the best balance of writing of Damian in n52 and of Bruce’s feelings towards Damian. The 5 issues immediately after Requiem really set out for me the difference in discussion of death of a child between 1989 and ALPOD and 2013 and Damian’s death. I also think this contains the best writing of Damian actually struggling with his legacy as a ROBIN and with his feelings as the youngest child of the family.

Robin: Son of Batman: this in contrast is more of a look at Damian’s backstory PRIOR to his first appearance in Gotham and dealing with his feelings and penitence for his actions with the League of Assassins. It’s good if you want a whole-hearted attempt at balancing the inherent contradictions between “Damian’s existence and childhood is a betrayal by Talia that is hard to forgive” and “Talia as a complex character who loves her son”.

[lostacelonnie]

how would honkai 3rd play out if otto was wearing cursed long shoes that gave him an ungodly urge to kick people on the ass and he had to fill a one kick per arc quota and he couldnt take the shoes off because he was cursed into liking them

FIRST OF ALL this is literally my favorite ask i've ever gotten so thank you. second of all i hope you dont mind how chaotic this is but i literally wrote everything down exactly as it came to mind, didnt proofread before posting, and also i barely remember half the older arcs. third of all this is a long post so readmore blast 💥

where dreams began + the end of destiny: im sorry but i genuinely dont know what he was even doing during this time. im just gonna say if any anti entropy personel was caught by schicksal they were just unfortunate enough to be the victim.

under the falling sky: you know that scene where he fucking shoots hua. when shes Not Quite Dead Yet he kicks her to add insult to injury

from the deep ocean: once again, i have zero recollection of what he was doing. does he even appear on screen? oh wait yeah in that one bubble universe where he has an orphanage or whatever. good lord i have no idea who that guy would kick. weren't theresa and children the only people there? oh i dont remember this part of the story At All. wait wasnt there a scene where joachim got mad at him or sth? for killing his father? well there you have it. out of character for that particular otto but it's time for a child to get punted

a shooting star streaking across the night: clueless. any suggestions welcome. perhaps void archives gets it, as it is the only one consistently around otto

elegy to yesterday: during world serpent's attack on the divine key testing site, otto Sees His Chance and disguises himself to infiltrate the battlefield for the sole purpose of kicking someone. all the valkyries present know its him bc of the ridiculous shoes but frankly they dont care bc hes a good distraction

here lies bellflower: yet another arc i dont remember. just like, In General. other than the parts bianka was in [yes i am a parody of myself] and the general gist of what happened. so idk </3

taixuan dream: he kicks senti in self defense. moments before being strangled

remaining flames: not really in this one is he. WAIT ACTUALLY NO wasnt his consciousness attached to some random HoD puppet to get the core???? then i guess he just kicked another one and nobody cared bc HoD puppets are just Like That

thus spoke apocalypse: as recompensation for all the confusion earlier, he gets to kick a lot in this one. first of all the false god otto boss fight is different, adding an attack. The Kick. second of all, while fighting in the space near the imaginary tree, he can finally kick as many of them as he can

following his death, afterlife-otto has to defend himself from the angry mob of all the people that died because of him Somehow. and so he gets to kick people until someone inevitably steals the shoes from him in order to reverse the roles. this goes on for eternity. The End

[dairy-farmer]

hi! do you have more fic recs? (batcest)

I joined these two similar asks for 1 reply hope you don't mind!

and yes! i have a few more recs !!

BruTim

Breathe Me-resurrectedhippo- omega tim hits his first heat when bruce, who promised to help him through it, is recovering from banes attack that broke his back

A Lead- jayzelnut- Bruce realizes Tim has been taken out clubbing for his 21st Birthday and refuses to admit to himself or anyone that he's jealous

the dirt and the dust-future86- years ago bruce fathered a child and he knew he wasn't in a place to care for them so he kept quiet and never sought to learn more. years later something about tim is so familiar but he can't tell what.

rich raw carrion- future86- tim has never had "the talk" and decides to go to bruce for help

Doesn't Let Go- Jane St Clair (3jane)- in the immediate aftermath of his father's death, tim needs comfort and bruce perhaps does something ill advised

Meaningful Little Kisses- Avanalae- bruce kissing tim and getting caught by different family members

By Your Side-Val_Creative- bruce stumbles into his room and finds someone with short hair in his bed and legocially makes the leap that its selina. it is not.

Peekaboo-berryblack- little timmy is a naughty omega and sometimes his daddy bruce has to punish him

DickTim

enclose (me)-astrodeities- dick is de-aged to 16 and gets a crush on 17 year old tim + it has a sequeal!!

Midnight Elegy-vellaphoria- i LOVE grief fucking so much, after bruce's funeral dick and tim comfort each other in more ways than one

Turn the Wheel-Captin_Ursula- a/b/o fic where gotham has fallen into an eternal winter and the only way to end it is for an alpha and omega to have sex on the marriage bed

The Fearson Drakes-meyari- role reversal where tim was born into a family of circus performers and dick was the rich kid

Revelations in the Past-bewaretheboojum- tim uses time travel to lend a helping hand to dick and tim during no man's land

DamiTim

Puppy Rut-IWannaBeYahtzee- tim is in heat and triggers a puppy rut in damian

Take Care-GrowlGrowl- damian and tim are married and tim is helping take care of their dying father. damian cannot accept that bruce is dying and puts a strain on their marriage.

Your Debt To Me-redbirb- alvin draper gets his debt cleared by lil matches

The Wolves Between the Walls- WeirdAlterEgo- tim gets stuck in a wall

Involuntary Ties-TimmyJaybird- damian spends the night at tim's place, they hook up

i've waited for you to choose me-blueberry_muffin- pwp kitchen sex damtim

JayTim

Freezing-blitzturtles- Tim doesn't respond to a check in by comms and Jason finds him passed out from ketoacidosis

Die a Hero, Become the villain-arabmorgan- Jason is forced to either SA tim or allow a group of people to do it- he chooses the former

The Red Hoodie-WeirdAlterEgo- tim desperatly tries to fuck dick during a dry spell and decide to use a red hoodie he found lying around

Time Bomb Town- Moxibustion(RyuuzaKochou)- tim's last straw hits him and he leaves, determined to make his own way until he gets hired as a janitor at a hospital and ends up discovering the presumed dead body of bruce's son in a coma at that same hospital

wrong place, wrong time-catlads_and_batboys- a two face goons stumbles across the sight of jaytim

Please Fuck-Rawrbin- cheetah jason and tim need to mate with the help if their emotional support dogs dick and damian

MultiTim

jaytim+dicktim+dickjaytim

Should've turned around (glad I didn't)-MySecretStories-multiple times that dick came across jason and tim fucking and stopped to watch

dicktim+jaytim+damitim

Desperate Measures-WeirdAlterEgo- tim uses magic sex toys to be able to fuck his brothers

[dabi-drift]

This is based off Made in Abyss, because I was sad and it needs more recognition.

Geten/Iceman with a Narehate S/O {Made in Abyss AU}:

❆ In a rewritten reality, you could've been together - in a safe place, with your hearts and destinies aligned.

❆ But humans can't survive in the Abyss. It isn't compatible with their frail bodies, and before long, his will wither and embed itself in this foreign soil. He'll succumb. He'll die.

❆ You can't save him.

❆ He's human, and you're sub-human, a child of the Abyss - the thief that can rob him of what makes him human.

❆ He's borrowing time, doing something that costs so much, just to be with you. For one more second, one more minute - for as long as can be spared. And for as long as he can, he'll hold off death. He'll fight it if he has to.

❆ His conviction and the strength of his love make him think that he can best death. But death will always collect its due. Down in the Abyss, death is your shadow. It will take you when the time is right.

❆ How could you fall for someone in such close communion with death? Maybe if you were still human…would it be okay if you were still human? Would your love be forgiven? Would you spend your last moments together, rotting…but happy?

❆ It was never worth fighting for. You knew that. The more you hope, the more it hurts. You knew that.

❆ So why did you fight? Why did you hope? His feelings alone should've satisfied you. Knowing should've been enough. When did you become so greedy?

❆ He came here to die. You can't change his fate. You know that. But Geten…he's the one who owns your heart. Without him, you're empty, alone.

❆ Will you forget him? In the commission of love, how long can memories last?

❆ Can you die with him? Are you allowed to? The will of the Abyss keeps you alive, but…he reminds you what it feels like to love, to be loved.

❆ How could you let that slip away?

❆ But if you die with him, who will preserve his memory, his legacy?

❆ It kills you that you have a choice.

❆ But then…you wouldn't have to bury him. You wouldn't have to carry around the sorrow and the guilt. You could be together in death, and give ear to the same elegy.

❆ You could die for love.