#Fleet Folly

[arkadarp]

and the last artfight revenge this year is for @kazzmcsass

their battle will be legendary!

[fleet-follows]

Prequel to this post

[askpokeeosin]

Made this as a thanks to @asklostcelestia for the lovely art they made of Poke. It's of this scene from their companion blog, @fleet-follows. Also wanted to give a go of drawing it like how horses naturally fight.

Thanks again! Huge fan and loved the art you had made of Poke!

[ask-shutter-ghost]

I got another commission from @asklostcelestia​!

This was such a fun project to work on! Flat colors and references below the cut :)

Gold Lettering Creator by Flaming Text

Lightning Background Reference

Sunset Background Reference

Cloud Background Reference

[gay-little-axolotl]

*I am defining a “sondheim musical” as a musical that stephen sondheim was directly involved with and helped create (ex: sondheim did not compose the music in west side story, but he wrote lyrics for it therefore I still consider it a “sondheim musical”)

**he worked on NINETEEN musicals I couldn’t possibly fit them all in here

[meleighm]

Labor Day Book Sale!

It’s another holiday weekend! And that means I’m having a book sale! So what’s in store? All of my books at Smashwords are available from now through Monday, Sept. 2 for only $0.99 each! All the books in each series, as well as Master of the Fleet! So if you haven’t given my books a read, now is the time! Or maybe you started a series, but haven’t had the chance to finish it. Then this is the…

[kandlewick]

everyone awoke to malleus defeated. except for you meant to be read as platonic malleyuu but can be read as romantic.

Malleus could hardly breathe. every inhale felt like it was too small, like the air surrounding him was too thin. His lungs were empty, barren, and dry. And then he would exhale. a shaky breath. It rattled his bones and burned in his chest. As if nothing but flames raged in his insides. Before him laid a friend, a betrayed comrade, someone who put too much trust in the wrong people. You. You were asleep there, in a bed of thorns and roses, nestled deep and safe. Each petal cradled your cheek like a picture frame and you were a work of art. It all felt so clinical, so far away that Malleus could hardly tear his eyes away from your sleeping form. while constricted by vines to your familiar bed in ramshackle, no thorns pierced your skin. you knew no pain lying there. only dreams. It hardly felt real.

Malleus had made a mistake. He knew he had as soon as the blot began pouring from behind his tongue. but he couldn't stop it. the delirium. it poured out of him like a cracked glass of sand. In those fleeting moments, nothing had mattered more to him. The blot retched every single negative emotion out of his soul, bearing it for the world to bear witness to. And he was ashamed.

but you and the others had succeeded against him, saving all of your classmates and himself from the curse of eternal slumber. One by one, they all began awakening. Eyelids fluttering in the new morning sun. He awoke to the sound of laughter and cheers while he laid there on the broken floor, alone and empty and so so cold. Quietly, Malleus raised his head to thank? Curse? The Ramshackle prefect that laid beside him.

only, you remained there. asleep. too far gone and too far deep for anyone to reach out to. it was like your soul and body were separated, torn asunder. the only sign of life was your chest moving up and down from the breath that filled your lungs. At the moment, Malleus thought perhaps you were simply exhausted, with the heavy bags under your eyes and the pale complexion dusting your cheeks. Like the others, he thought that you only needed more rest. But days passed and there were still no signs of life behind those closed eyes. The teachers talked amongst themselves, unwilling or perhaps unable to offer any sort of explanation. There were talks about asking for assistance from other bodies but they were quick to be shot down. It seemed like nobody knew what to do with you. Or… your body. 

Nobody took it well.

Malleus in particular had ceased his studies, locking himself away in your room in Ramshackle. Ace and Deuce would appear on occasion, Grim in tow, but the three were quick to make themselves scarce once Malleus made it clear he was not leaving your bedside. He sat there for hours, uncaring of the passing of time as night became morning and dawn became dusk. What were mere days to a nigh immortal fae. If this was his curse, to watch the one human who befriended him and suffered for it waste away from his own folly, then so be it. Every morning, like clockwork, he sat there. Unflinching. Unmoving. Like a gargoyle. His eyes were empty and red, long dried from tears but he couldn’t drag himself away from you - he refused to even think of calling you a corpse. 

This day was like any other. He sat there beside you, his hands in his lap, the book he had foolishly planned to humor to read had been cast aside long forgotten, but for some reason the sight of you there pricked at his heart more than before. His voice came out quiet, weak from disuse, but he made an effort all the same. 

“My child of man.” he croaked, his tone heavy with shame and sadness, “I will not ask you for forgiveness.”

He took a shaky breath. Hesitantly, he reached out with a weak hand and clasped your own. The thorns around you pricked him and drew blood, but he paid no mind to it. He felt nothing. Numb. Malleus choked back tears as he pulled your hands close to his chest and against his still beating heart. He lowered his head in agony as he confessed like a convict at death’s door. “What I have done to you is unforgivable.”

He held you to him. Like if he held onto you tight enough, you wouldn’t fall even more to pieces. “You were my first true friend, my closest companion. The only one who treated me as if I was an equal…” He bit back a sob as he tried to cradle his face between his hands, desperate for your touch to once again warm his bones. But there was nothing. Only the cold. “And now I’ve lost you.”

“And not a day shall pass in the centuries that I am cursed to live will I ever forget your smile.” Then with an almost reverent touch, the prince brought your hand to his lips and pressed a delicate kiss to the back of your hand. His lips stayed there, the taste of salt and skin filling his tongue, but he made no effort to move while he cried.

So far gone was he that he never noticed the batting of eyelashes, the furrowed brows, or the intake of breath. So far gone that it wasn’t until he felt your hand, tiny and weak, press against his dark hair, did he lift his head.

“Good morning, Hornton.”

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Do not give them Toys

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

When the human government wished to initiate trade with the Filthrax Conglomerate the Filthrax were understandably cautious. They had always been sensitive when it came to sharing technology with other species. To that end they had an extensive amount of restrictions on what could and couldn’t be traded; excluding much of their more advanced technology from ever reaching the market.

The humans in comparison were technologically inferior to the Filthrax in nearly every aspect so they pictured the humans to heavily lobby for advanced technology to be made available. So it was with some surprise that when negotiations began the humans did not lobby for advanced technology, they instead seemed deeply invested in obtaining the Filthrax toys.

This was not something the negotiators had expected. Research into human culture had showed a deep rooted sense of aggression, towards outsiders and themselves when promoted, which made them believe that the first opening bid would be towards military grade technology.

Sensing the discord, the human diplomats explained that while they would like more advanced technology to be an option, they understood the hesitance and reluctance to trade such dangerous items. They said they would be fine earning the Filthrax’s trust over an extended period of time through trade. It seemed that several human enterprises had their eyes on Filthrax toys and they seemed like a safe enough items to begin trade. The Filthrax agreed and so trade lines were opened between the great powers.

What the aliens saw as a harmless deal was in fact the first foot in the door that could never be closed.

Several million orders for toys were placed almost overnight and the economic boon was felt overnight throughout the Filthrax Conglomerate. None of them understood the fascination humans had with their trinkets but if they were willing to pay then they would be more than happy to sell. It wasn’t until the Nexus Wars began that the Filthrax would come to understand their folly.

The “Nexus” was a series of star systems that held the majority of trade lanes between the core worlds and the far flung resource rich outer zones. Trade through these lanes was deemed to be the most stable for long distance transportation so whoever controlled these regions would make considerable wealth from their stewardship.

Current stewardship fell to the Omicron Empire who had held the systems for the last several hundred years and as such used the profits it generated to fund their empires expansion. The humans wished to control these routes to fund their own imperial ambitions but had never leveled the playing field with the Omicron military to make such a transgression possible.

Then, without warning, the human military launched a series of strikes against Omicron bases and fleets in the Nexus systems triggering the “Nexus War”. The Omicrons raised their fleets and armies and dispatched them to the systems with the full intention of repelling the humans and then carrying on their counter offensive into human space. What they met however was a suddenly technologically advanced human military spouting drastic advances in military equipment not seen.

Human soldiers now carried portable shielding units that blocked everything less than a direct hit from a hover tank, while their ships launched fusion bombs carrying a heavy enough payload to shatter Timbar class battleships in half.

With this new technology, the human military had taken control of half of the Nexus systems within five months of the wars start. Other powers dotting the stars took notice of the sudden prowess of the human military, as well as the calculations predicting that within another five months the Omicron Empire would be driven from the Nexus systems. Some cheered at seeing their old rivals in the Omicron’s brought low, others sent delegations to the human government pledging alliances and treaties, many more came to join the war effort now sensing blood amongst the stars; but to the Filthrax, they quickly came to realize the part they had played in this war.

While Filthrax toys were rather unremarkable, they were unique in the way that their power sources could last an entire lifetime. Through controlled energy distribution, the Filthrax had created a rudimentary power source that, while considered basic in their society, was light years ahead of any neighboring species.

The humans were well aware of this feature.

They knew before negotiations even began that the Filthrax would never part with their advanced weaponry or technology, but they would be willing to part with something they considered nothing more than a toy. Toys that were then torn apart to get to the power source, reverse engineered, and then used to power weapons and machines of human design.

Filthrax toys were now forming the basis for a new galactic power, and they had been fooled into giving them away for nothing more than currency.

The sudden realization sent shockwaves through the upper echelons of the Filthrax. If they admitted this they would be not only be publically humiliated on a galactic scale; but also be portrayed as cobelligerents in the war. Not only that, it would invalidate their own standing treaties with other species which specifically stated they would not trade anything that could be repurposed for war. They could see trade agreements torn asunder for a dozen species with even embargos placed upon their territories. Worse yet was if they did cease trading with the humans the human government could release the information and still black list them to the wider galaxy.

So they sat and watched the war from the sidelines, contemplating that their bobbles may have very well just doomed the universe.

[perictione00]

Daddy's best friend

Pairing: Sukuna x reader

Warnings: MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, cheating, age-gap relationship, choking, oral sex.

Synopsis: When your wedding day guest list carries an unexpected twist, will you choose loyalty or be consumed by the forbidden echoes of your past?

Jujutsu Kaisen Masterlist

You had returned to your parents' house, eagerly preparing for the grand union with your true love. Daddy, the cheerleader of your journey into wedded bliss, was beaming as he had always dreamt of watching his only daughter start a family of her own. 

You had planned a humble wedding with an intimate crowd to keep things simple and affordable. Yet family ties dictated a broader invitation, including your parents' extensive network of family and friends. Enter Ryoman Sukuna, your dad's BFF—or, as fate would have it, the charming fellow with whom you shared more than just pleasantries.

Well, in short, it could be said that you were freshly out of college, and one day you happened to bump into a single, gorgeous, hot guy with a fat cock at one of your father's gatherings. You made it obvious to him how bad you were for him. One thing led to another, and the encounter escalated into a series of rendezvouses within the familiar walls of your parents' house, basically fucking in each and every corner. Alas, morality's sudden awakening prompted a parting of ways, leaving you with a wedding day guest list that carried an unexpected twist. However, with the impending wedding day drawing near, time grew more precious, leaving no room for distractions or second-guessing, and within a blink of your eye, you were standing on the stage of a pre-marital celebration in a hall full of people.

Standing in the corner of that very hall was Sukuna, who found himself feeling strangely consumed by the flames of his own regrettable choices. In a cruel twist, he became the architect of his own folly, a spectacle he never imagined. He remembers how he left you crying in order to hide the unconventional and forbidden relationship he shared with you. It was after his conversation with your father about your future and your marriage that he realized the significance of his actions. But today, the familiar sparks of possessiveness ignited inside of him after encountering your soon-to-be husband, who seemed like a person who deserved you. How could anyone have the privilege of having you when you already belonged to him?

"Tell me, Sukuna, have you ever seen a more beautiful bride than my sweet daughter?" Your father asked passionately while introducing your fiance to his friend.

"She's the most beautiful one, indeed." Even after the passage of years, a solitary word from him still had the power to leave you feeling weak in the knees. It was undeniable—he had aged like a fine wine, retaining the timeless allure you remembered. The way he appraised you with that tempting glint in his eyes didn't escape your notice. Nor did the subtle shift in his demeanor when you introduced your fiancé. Uncertain if you were reading too much into it or if reality mirrored your imagination, the nuances didn't elude you.

Once the festivities concluded, you, along with your family and fiancé, returned home, only to discover that your father had invited Sukuna over for a drink. Attempting to dismiss it from your thoughts, you went to bed. However, as silence enveloped the house with everyone asleep, you discreetly ventured out of your bedroom, yearning for a fleeting encounter with your former lover.

You were pulled into the dimness of the guestroom as a set of hands enveloped your waist, drawing you further into the shadows. Sukuna, slightly drunk yet eternally gorgeous, wordlessly guided you. No verbal exchange occurred; instead, you both surrendered to an instinctive, passionate, and hunger-laden kiss. 

Pausing briefly to catch your breath, you both swiftly started undressing each other frantically. A deep groan escaped him as you tugged at his boxer briefs, unveiling his already eager arousal and laying bare his unmistakable intentions.

Feeling a hint of arousal yourself, you couldn't resist the urge to wrap your fingers around his erect shaft. A long, wet stripe up the underside of his cock, accompanied by the familiar taste and scent, led you to slide his length into your mouth. Sucking on the sensitive opening just the way he liked, you hollowed your cheeks, sensing Sukuna losing composure. He took control, gripping your hair tightly as pleasure clouded your senses. With a swirl of your tongue and a series of slurps on the thick veins of his cock, his loud moans spurred you to take all of him into your mouth, delving into a deepthroating rhythm. Sukuna lost it when his eyes met yours and started violently bucking his hips, choking you, and controlling you in the best possible ways, like he always used to, coming undone in the warmth of your mouth. You moaned at the taste of his cum, desperately swallowing all of it.

Sukuna had realized that, no matter what moral obligations fogged his views, he would always long for all of you. He remembered the countless times he jerked off to your old nudes, the way your thoughts would take over his mind during lonely, cold nights, and the way he could only ever want you to satisfy his wants. Regardless of how forbidden this relationship was, he would do it again. He would relish in your taste every afternoon like he used to; he would fuck you in your parents' room like he used to; hell, he would fuck you right in front of them if he has to. There's no stopping now.

Laying you down on the bed, he began to spit on your cunt, pulling out a condom from his wallet only to throw it away. He runs the tip of his cock through your folds. "I'll take you raw tonight."

"Ahh-fuck me, Kuna." You respond desperately, casing him to plunge himself into you, every inch inside of you within seconds. He stretches your cunt out and begins to thrust rapidly in and out of you, not giving you any time to adjust. His one hand goes down to abuse your clit and the other wraps around your throat, choking you, earning a moan out of you.

You pull him into a suffocating kiss, all the while your hands claw down his back. The way your cunt wrapped around him, sucking him in so tightly, and the way your hips eagerly matched his pace encouraged him to rapidly thrust in and out of you. His merciless thrusting and choking had you gasping for air, and with a few more strokes along your walls, he felt you cream around him.

Your vision blurred as you came with an animalistic moan of his name, causing him to lose every ounce of self-control and milk every string of his cum inside of you.

You lay there, catching your breath, letting the guilt of your actions to settle in, but it never does. Instead, you went for a few more rounds and a few more after that before finally parting ways.

"Sukuna, what am I gonna do?"

"Marry him, but make me the happiest man on earth."

Note: It's okay to simp for fictional older men but in the real world please take caution, they have greasy hair everywhere (just a friendly reminder).

[moineauz]

જ⁀ "you are a 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌, dearest."

That was what your husband- Neuvillette- mutters breathlessly to you in an outpour of gentle rain. That was when he ultimately grasped the wispy and fleeting sensations of what a mortal calls a 'dream', like a feather grazing the skin before vanishing with an afternoon breeze.

While Neuvillette is poised, eloquent, observant and educated- the sheer complexity of mortal life puzzles him. He has grown to subconsciously question the facts, follies and simple acts of mortals for centuries in a subtle, smouldering aspiration to better comprehend why laughter erupts from your hearty lungs during downpours. Despite, rain being considered an omen of sorrow. Or how you childishly attempt to dance with the shadows of strangers before eventually embracing his.

Oh, oh how he could not help but gingerly place his pens and papers aside when you spend hours simply perched next to him. Eyes closed and silent yet breathing deeply into your stomach and exhaling through your mouth as you unwinded like string before him. Fully aware that you need not utter another word as you unfailingly glowed before him; taking up space in his very office as you did wherever your heart and legs took you.

You'd wrap a thousand-year-old tree in your arms and mutter thanks to the Earth before playing tag with the children on the street, sharing fruit with a local vendor whilst relishing in an evening stroll with Neuvillette. Just the two of you.

It was yet another practice of yours that first bewildered, intrigued and ultimately enamoured him. In the haze of afternoon light under the subtle whiff of smooth parchment- Neuvillette could not have sought a superior way to observe the mortal who unwinded him.

That was the day he began to scan and rummage through parchment and books- scouring for at least one word to encapture a sliver of you. Like an aerologist preserving a mere fragment of bone.

( Of course, the Melusines- who adored you terribly- sought to aid Neuvillette in whatever way possible. )

That was when he came upon a word as he overheard a curt conversation whilst ambling through the streets of Fontaine.

'A dream.'

Hence, as raindrops gingerly slid down your cheeks, Neuvillette observed your soaked figure. However, despite the grey clouds hung above, your eyes- rich and deep in colour- seemed to twinkle like stars.

You pause for a tender moment, your mouth slightly agape as the mellow tunes of rain dance in your ears. Yet, words do not rise from your throat. Instead, the warmth of evening tea sessions, paper filing done together and swaying to no rhythm or sequence of moves.

"Oh Neuvillette," your voice condensing into a mere whisper as you utter his name; having nothing left to say. The muscles in your legs move absent of thought. Thus, you stand now mere inches apart from one another. Rain soaking you both. As you observe his tender face you notice a streak of rain pouring down from the corners of his eyes. Or perhaps it was salty tears?

Worry flickers in your eyes like a match being lit as more tears roll down his cheek in a manner of ethereal grace. You gingerly reach your hand toward his cheek; cupping it tenderly. Neuvillette stirs slightly.

Before you can voice your disquiet, Neuvillette sobs. His eyes glanced down shortly before meeting your fretful eyes. His eyebrows furrowed in the manner you have seen a dozen times before.

Yet, his eyes glimmer like the rays of the sun kissing a broad vibrant lake. A scintillating dazzle of unobscured light.

"Do not fret dearest. These tears are not ones of sadness..."

Neuvillette raises his gloved hand and similarly caresses your cheek; eyes pooling into your starstruck ones.

"... but of my most ardent affections to my partner- a dream I wish to live in for as long as you allow me to."

waaaa what a fic. i accidentally deleted the draft halfway though writing it but thankfully i was able to get it back. hope you all are ready for my comeback!!! ( meaning more angst lol dw there will be fluff too... or not?!?!? )

reblogs with comments are highly appreciated!! pls interact... don't be a ghost reader!

[002yb]

I was reading your jaybin time travel posts, got to thinking about how you usually write Damian as having his own feelings for jason, and now jaybin/Damian is trying to take over my brain

To love Jason is a universal constant, an anchor point. It is an unyielding truth persisting through time and circumstance. In every lifetime, for every iteration of them, Damian knows that it will always be this—them. The capacity doesn't matter, though there are times where his greed gets the best of him and he wants; when his feelings betray him and he hopes.

There is nothing dignified in his pining, but he accepts it for what it is. A star crossed love reduced to youthful folly. A fleeting infatuation that is the truest and most persisting thing Damian has ever known.

There is no one after Jason.

There is no one but Jason.

Too often his steadfast devotion is spurned. His fidelity discounted because Damian is a boy not yet a man. Too wrought with trauma to understand that the love he perceives is nothing more than 'an instinctual response to find safety when his circumstances were otherwise unstable,' 'a persisting coping mechanism because life, still, feels unsafe.'

It's nothing so complicated. Simply put: Jason is challenging. Jason is difficult. He is fight and fire, with split knuckles and blood in bared teeth. All biting wit and sharp tongue; an ornery menace. Capable, competent. More than that - Jason is kind. He is rough edges, jagged in a way that cuts, but he is sensitive and vulnerable in spite of it and the strength in his compassion is breathtaking.

A fierce protector. A gentle caretaker. A brilliant mind with a beautiful heart. With perseverance and fortitude. With tentative benevolence and foolhardy hope.

It doesn't matter that not many others understand nor care to. The mechanization of the universe is too fickle for the comprehension of fools. The universe gives him Jason because there would be nothing without him - not after Damian tears apart worlds and timelines to have him back.

Damian will always fall first; he'll always fall harder.

Unbecoming though it may be to be so hopelessly lovelorn, he pines with grace. It's an unspoken compromise that he will not have more than this. In that same vein, he will not have less. It's something that Damian makes his peace with.

Maybe that's why he feels at such a loss when, due to more Gotham tomfoolery, his Jason is spirited away and replaced by another. It happens abruptly, in a flash bang of light and smoke after Jason pushes Damian out of the way of an oncoming blow. His voice still echoes through the alleys around them, vicious to disguise his panic. And when Damian snatches his hand out to grasp at Jason, he does not find gnarled scars - only brittle bones.

It's a cruel cosmic joke, he thinks to himself. As if this small wisp of a boy who took his beloved's place could ever compare!

========

'In any capacity,' Damian told himself, led astray by romantic whimsy and youthful folly. Tender sentiments make fools of all men. Damian is no exception.

Although Damian fully believes that any version of him loves Jason, he's stubborn in thinking that his love extends specifically to his universe's Jason and no other

Because the Jason of this time and place is his; everything he needed and that helped forge him into this person he's becoming

Jason is it for him. This pint-sized punk (Jaybin)? Damian is not enthused by him if only because Jaybin took away what was Damian's.

Hence Damian's first instinct being an irrational rage and a cold fear that lances through his heart.

For as familiar as Jaybin's eyes are, it misses something that's inherently Jason for him. It's his smile, so reminiscent of what Damian remembers from the league, that leaves Damian feeling like he's on unsteady ground though. Like he can't find his footing.

Even still, Damian being ornery because this Jason is not his Jason and being determined to feel nothing for him.

Joke is on Damian though because of course Damian falls in love with this boy, too.

He's doomed to this person; there's no escape. Damian will always fall for him because Jason's kindness is such an inherent thing to his person and Damian is so damn weak to it.

Just various scenes where Jaybin endears himself to Damian and Damian going from vicious beast to sourpuss to something reluctantly enamored.

Things like Jaybin being a friend to Damian when Damian is otherwise utterly alone and isolated. Jaybin having a strength of character that isn't spooked by the dark and ugly sides of Damian that turns others off to him. Jaybin seeing beneath all that and Damian being all prickly because he doesn't like being seen through so easily. But also, feeling relieved.

More things with Damian bristling over sharing the Robin mantle. Being content for all of a short while because Bruce isn't keen on letting Jaybin out and about, but Jaybin is so clearly lost at that lost connection with Bruce that Damian caves like a fucking softy (he blames Grayson) and takes Jaybin out, himself.

And Jaybin is so thrilled that there are more Robins. Damian talking all sorts of shit about the Robin!Tim because Tim isn't around at the time to defend himself ahahaha

Oh! Damian being at that point where he likes Jaybin, but stalwartly denies it. Him complaining to Dick about how Jaybin seems drawn to him and Dick laughing because he's been there. At which point Damian sputters with jealousy/possessiveness because what. )<

But yeah, Damian looking out for his predecessor. Jaybin also looking after Damian just as much. And he's just as brutal and vicious and fierce as Jason and it's -- wow. Damian has to tug at his collar because it's hot. The weather, of course. Just the weather.

More stuff maybe with all the Robins? Where Jaybin gets into some trouble and Damian is about to well and truly lose it given the crime. Tim having to hold him back before Damian does something he can't take back. And in coming Dick who fucks shit up for Damian as his proxy.

Omg, Jaybin admitting to his crush on Dick to Damian and Damian being so flummoxed because what the hell - he's been friendzoned? For Dick?? And Jaybin being oblivious. And a little tongue-tied because like. When Dick came in to save him it was whoah. Protective violence and cruel passion. Just nonstop blathering because Dick stepped in to do what Damian couldn't (because Damian has Bruce to contend with). It should be Damian fuuuuuuuuuuuu--

Damian gets due credit though. Maybe a little hooked pinky action that gets Damian all flustered. Because it's such a soft point of contact followed up by Jaybin smiling and thanking Damian, too. For coming after him. ;U;

Other thoughts: Jaybin seemingly friendzoning Damian and Damian comparing that to how his Jason rebuffs him.

Jason being easily flustered, but with steadfast morals. It's always 'not interested,' and 'no i'm not gonna wait,' and 'you shouldn't wait either omg--'

It's a persisting argument with them. It always ends on Damian complaining about how Jason forgets himself, a point he reminds Jason of often. It gets him nagged in turn, but it's a pleasant back and forth that settles them both, Damian thinks.

Even still, Damian longs for him.

He longs for Jaybin, too.

And of course Jaybin has a crush on Damian, too. Their relationship is all innocent companionship and playful flirting and tentative affections. Just touch starved, hurt boys finding comfort in each other and feeling seen for the first time. Because they're both a little broken, a little fucked up; more dark and violent and volatile, but also sensitive and guarded and lost. But with each other it's not so scary. ;U;

Anyway, mutual feelings. But of course Damian has a compromise with the universe, so in that moment where Damian can have him, Jaybin is taken away from him. Because Damian won't be without Jason, but he can't have Jason, either.

And Damian knows this, but it fucking hurts. He bears it well, but Jason would see the devastation Damian tries to hide and ugh, Jason would be so guilty. He'd wrap himself around Damian and just. There's no point in apologizing, so he'd thank Damian instead.

For being there for him. For loving him. ;A;

Damian holding fast to this Jason so that he doesn't lose him, too.

[fleet-follows]

@vamplover1019

[asklostcelestia]

So close to the point where I start posting all the rude and creepy asks/comments I get with this image in response, I swear! Next update is almost done, it will be an animation.

[girlkisser13]

love story

"romeo, save me, they're trying to tell me how to feel" "this love is difficult, but it's real"

a/n: AHHH!! she has such a pretty smile. i put a gif of our girl smiling since you guys won’t be smiling after reading this. <33

pairings: francesca bridgerton x fem!reader

warnings/tags: angst & fear of period era homophobia.

summary: you have a question for francesca.

the grand ballroom of the bridgerton estate shimmered with candlelight and laughter. silk gowns and polished boots danced gracefully on the marble floor, while the sound of a string quartet provided a melodious backdrop. amidst the chaos, you navigated the sea of guests with a singular purpose.

you had heard the news from lady whistledown's latest missive. francesca bridgerton, your francesca, was to be wed to lord kilmartin. the announcement had come not from francesca's lips, but from the idle gossip of the ton. your heart ached with betrayal and sorrow.

at the edge of the room, you spotted her, her serene beauty glowing in the candlelight. gathering your courage, you approached, your breath catching as she neared.

"francesca," you called, your voice tinged with pain.

francesca turned, her eyes widening in surprise. "y/n, i did not expect to see you here."

your heart clenched at her casual tone. "it seems there is much you did not expect," you replied, your voice trembling. "do you truly think so little of me? do you believe that i was not worth informing?"

francesca's face softened with regret. "y/n, i—"

"not here," you interrupted, your voice trembling. you took francesca's hand and led her to a small, private drawing room adjacent to the ballroom. once the door closed behind the both of you, you turned to face francesca, your emotions raw.

"you have wounded me deeply, francesca. to hear of your marriage from a stranger's lips— did our time in bath mean so little to you?"

her eyes filled with tears. "y/n, our summer in bath was... a beautiful dream. but it was also a mistake."

your breath caught, your heart shattering at francesca's words. "a mistake? is that truly how you see it? tell me, francesca, do you love him more than you ever loved me? did i truly mean nothing to you?"

francesca looked away, her silence more painful than any confession.

you took a tentative step forward, your hand trembling as you reached out to touch francesca's cheek. "do not do this, francesca. do not consign yourself to a life devoid of true happiness. you do not love him."

francesca's eyes briefly closed at the touch, and a soft, fleeting smile graced her lips— an unguarded moment of vulnerability before she pulled away, her composure quickly restored.

"love is a luxury i cannot afford. you must leave, y/n. you must forget what happened between us," her voice tinged with a sorrow she could not completely mask. "lord kilmartin is a good match."

"but what of your heart?" you implored, stepping closer. "what of our love?"

"our love?" francesca's voice trembled as she forced herself to maintain her composure. "y/n, what we had... it was a mere summer fancy, a dalliance born out of idle hours and youthful folly. it was never meant to last."

"you cannot truly believe that." you whispered, reaching out to take francesca's hand. "i know you feel the same as i do. the love we shared was real, it was profound. i see it in your eyes, in every touch, every kiss. truly, you must feel it in your heart?"

francesca pulled her hand away, a pained expression crossing her features. "it matters not. marrying lord kilmartin is... easy. it is what is expected of me. my family's future depends upon advantageous matches."

"you deserve more than ease. you deserve happiness, true happiness." you pressed, tears brimming in your eyes. "do not do this, francesca. our life together might be difficult, but at least it would be real. do not let them tell you how to feel."

francesca turned away, her shoulders shaking with suppressed emotion. "you speak of happiness as if it were a commodity readily available. but in our world, happiness is often a rare and fleeting gift, not a promise."

your voice broke. "do you not love me, francesca? can you truly cast aside what we had as if it were nothing?"

francesca met your gaze, her eyes filled with unspoken emotion. for a moment, it seemed as though she might confess the truth, but she steadied herself, her voice turning cold. "i never loved you, y/n. it was all a foolish mistake."

your chest tightened, the harshness of francesca's words cutting deep. "if you can look me in the eye and tell me that, i will leave and never speak of it again."

francesca hesitated, her gaze wavering. she looked into your eyes, her own filled with a tumult of emotions. "it was a mistake. i feel nothing," she said, but the words rang hollow even to her own ears.

you knew the truth, but you nodded, accepting the finality of francesca's decision. "very well," you said softly. "before i go, i have something for you."

you reached into your reticule and produced a small, intricately wrapped package. "i had hoped to present this to you under more favorable circumstances."

francesca accepted the gift with trembling hands, unwrapping it to reveal a sheet of music held together with a delicate ribbon. "this… this is the first song you played for me."

you smiled sadly. "you always said it was too fast, that you disliked learning it. i rearranged it for you, to make it more to your liking."

francesca clutched the sheet of music to her chest, her tears falling freely. "y/n... i—"

you took a step back, your own tears spilling. "consider this my farewell gift. i hope it brings you some measure of happiness. i wish you and lord kilmartin a long and joyous life together, though i hope to never see nor hear from you again, for i cannot bear to watch you lie to yourself and choose duty over your own happiness."

with a final, sorrowful glance, you turned and left, your heart breaking with each step.

francesca stood motionless as you departed, the weight of her choice pressing heavily upon her. she unraveled the sheet of music you had gifted her to find a delicate locket, inside of which was a miniature painting of the two of you, your expressions filled with the love and joy you once shared.

driven by a need to connect with the past, francesca moved to the piano in the room and began to play the rearranged piece. the familiar notes filled the room, each chord evoking the memories of your summer together. francesca's fingers trembled, and she began to sob violently, the music blending with her grief.

she knew, deep within her heart, that she could never love lord kilmartin as she had loved you. the realization struck her with a heart-wrenching clarity— she had made a grievous mistake. the melody of your shared love echoed through the room, and francesca feared she had irrevocably lost the most profound love of her life.

despite the security and ease promised by her union with lord kilmartin, she knew her heart would forever remain with you, the summer in bath a haunting story of what might have been.

[ponder-the-orb]

Just as you are

Pairing: Fem Tav/Gale

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Fluff and angst

Word count: 5K

Summary:

It’s the quieter moments that are the worst. When Waterdeep itself sleeps in peaceful reverie and the pain yells for attention, he can hear the ticking of that clock. There’s such fleeting time to make something of himself again - now free of the expectation of his peers or his goddess, just himself.

He runs a hand down his face, a cold smile tugging at his lips.

It’s just another push to his own folly if saving the world from illithid invasion somehow doesn’t feel like enough anymore. ***

Even with the orb gone the pain still lingers, reminding Gale of everything he left behind before he became its exhausted caretaker.

Read on AO3 or below

Gale was never one to believe in destiny. He’d always thought that chalking love or success up to a predestined path was the jealous man’s excuse. It scrubbed away the effort he’d so carefully put into his own choices, as if even his hardest work was merely window dressing for a play long since written. There’s order to life and death. Even magic has its causes, precise manipulations of the weave needed to bring wonders anew- things his hands had been trained to do for as long he can remember.

Right now however, it all feels so irrelevant. Alone atop the sinews of the Netherbrain’s stem, he can’t fathom a word that tastes right other than destiny. 

The landscape writhes with a mess of tendons and grey matter, the air thick and cloying with each of his measured breaths. The sky aches an angry red, smoking like one he’d witnessed while crashing through the hells those weeks ago. 

He smirks. It’s funny how that handful of days feels like a lifetime and how much his plans had pivoted since then. He’s no longer waiting for some kind soul to pull him free and humour his mistakes. 

He cradles the knife pressed to his chest like an old comfort. What he’d give for another handful. Just a few more precious hours to feel parchment in his hands and grass under his boots. Perhaps just one more conversation. He isn’t sure if he can even recall the last words he spoke before heaving himself up here. He likes to think a few of his turns of phrase will linger in happier anecdotes, maybe even sung in the ballads of this journey amongst drinks and firelight.

It’s a warm thought, but one he knows not to dwell on. In a few seconds it will all be gone, he’ll be gone. His debt finally repaid.

The fire between his ribs flashes harder with each passing second like the magic itself knows the cage holding it back is ready to break. He had always wondered what it might look like when it was unleashed. He’d seen various ends in his dreams, ranging from screaming maelstroms to near silent puffs of magic swallowing everything in its wake. 

However it looks, he only hopes those he’d spirited to safety could find some comfort in it. One last gale to end it all.

The orb brightens as he quietly exhales, allowing himself one final prayer before he presses down.

“When your sky dims, I’ll be there. Waiting.”

He winces. He waits. And his hands just won’t move any further.

He looks down and his own wide eyes stare back in the reflection of the unmoving blade. He tries again but the tip stops as it touches skin. He squeezes the handle until his palms burn raw but the knife stays where it is, shaking and misty with sweat. 

A louder explosion ripples through the sky in front of him and an army of nautaloids blink in existence around the brain.

Something jagged lodges in his throat as he watches. He can’t do it. Time has run out and his body won’t let him do it. The blasts around him fade into a muffled thrum as white hot panic melts into his hands. 

It was supposed to be easy, like resetting a bone or pulling a splinter. One flash of pain and then the world will be free of both the invasion and the apocalypse still pulsing inside of him. He can see the logic and his promise, but both sit so quietly in his mind compared to another thought. The one now screaming like a hurricane between his ears.

Why do I have to die?

It’s such a petulant question. Six words against the fate of the world. But six words that are growing in strength with each passing second. Six words hammering over and over in his thoughts until he can feel his heartbeat mimicking that hard hot rhythm.

His thoughts scatter like rats from sunlight. Yes, his borrowed time should have run dry months ago but does that mean he has to be content with his fate? To let go with a smile and misguided pride?

His muscles seize and shake as he thinks. His breaths come faster, more desperate as his blurry reflection loses colour. The fear he’d kept so tightly boarded behind his resolve has no trouble working its way free now. It floods through his veins and tugs at the threads of his plan until they unspool. He almost drops the knife as his promise dissolves and he sees the void he’s already plunged one foot into.

His surroundings blur into a bruise-coloured mess.

Gale tries to swallow. This isn’t right. He’d always wanted to end it on his own terms and save the people he loves. What is he if not bound to honour that? 

His hands finally still, a realisation blooming like a chilled breath under his skin.

These aren’t his own terms. They never were. It’s a death warrant painted the colour of salvation. The easiest way for Mystra to rid herself of two problems at once and he’d been all too ready to march to the gallows.  

Fingers suddenly clamp over his with biting pressure. He tries to jerk back but they hold him firm, the touch ghostly familiar. The face of his goddess meets his as he looks up. Her eyes, once lit by the glow of the weave itself, now watch him coldly like shards of glass. 

He stops pulling, pinned under her dispassionate gaze. He searches for any hint of gratitude or grace, one suggestion that this act will actually mean something.

He twists his hand to touch hers. It’s a caress once so familiar to both of them, one final plea as he leans forward. 

“Please.”

She stays silent and pushes the knife in with one sharp thrust. 

The reaction is immediate. The flood of Netherese magic seeps out and scorches through him with blinding pressure. He staggers back as she presses the knife to the hilt, the pain finally roaring to life and eclipsing everything in a supernova of heat and magic.

~

The dream swims away all too slowly as he jolts awake. It catches around his eyes and in his throat, drawing down to a familiar throbbing ache in his chest. He throws one hand against it in a crude shield, the other blindly reaching out to grab something, anything to quell the hunger. His fingers slam into a bedside table and he hears a few things softly roll to the floor in the dark.

The dark. 

He looks at his hand. There’s no glow under his palm and his skin is clean of those swirling purple lines. He rubs his smarting fingers, trying to steady his thoughts as the remnants of that nightmare swim away.

The orb is gone. He’s safe. He’s home.

The bedroom in his tower is blue and still, near silent save for the rain washing against window panes and his own stuttered breathing. He runs his hand down his face, wiping away the sheen of sweat that’s beaded there. The pain flares as he moves, pulsing bluntly like he’s being kicked apart from the inside out. He doubles over and fists the bedsheet. It hasn’t been this bad in a while, dashing away his fragile hope that these bouts would disappear with enough time and rest. 

He waits for this wave to pass, silently grateful that at least he’s at home this time. Stumbling in the street is not a good look for any respected wizard and he’s forever grateful that Tav had quick enough reflexes to grab him before he ended up with a face full of cobblestones.

He looks over, glad that his little outburst hadn’t disturbed her. She’d rolled to the very edge of the mattress and buried herself in ninety per cent of the blanket, her face a relaxed curve. His hand hovers over her visible sliver of shoulder for a few moments but he pulls away, folding it back against his chest and slipping out of the room.

He scrubs himself with water hot enough to melt glass and lies on the washroom floor until the pain settles into a more familiar rhythm. In and out. In and out. Sometimes he pictures it as a light flashing or a warning signal, ‘catastrophe incoming.’ 

He closes his eyes, reminding himself. The wound isn’t real. Not really. He’d seen that orb crushed between divine hands as easily as an eggshell - his final time standing before his goddess. She’d called it her forgiveness for relinquishing the Crown of Karsus into her care.

Forgiveness. He scoffs towards the ceiling. The word tastes sour now. It was something so easy for her to give and yet it took every fibre of his being to earn. The years may have passed but the memories are still there- forever eating at him like the orb’s phantom hunger in his chest. How many nights had he lost to begging after she’d cast him away? Praying until his knees were raw and his throat arid - sure that if he hurt enough, pleaded enough, that if his devotion was painful enough she’d finally appear again. And yet his heavens remained silent. Only when he felt the first flicker of happiness after a year of solitude did the road to that forgiveness have a form, one not even granted to him by her own lips.

Oblivion. 

He almost hates himself for truly believing at one point that it was a fair trade.

He lies until the exhaustion feels a little less heavy in his bones before padding up to the balcony of his library. The sea beyond is wine-dark, the boats dancing in a maddening pattern in the harbour. It almost feels like an echo of the ache behind his sternum. Tara’s usual spot on the bench is vacant, but he’s not so cruel as to wake her from whichever corner she’s made her bed for these colder nights.

He rotates between several spells as he sits: fire, ice, rot, light. They all flutter between his palms with ease, the balcony a shifting glow of different colours as he repeats the pattern again and again and again. It’s a new habit. The familiar motions are a small reminder that he’s still in control, even if his body might try to tell him otherwise. 

He dismisses the embers in his hand and leans back against the cool stone wall. It doesn’t help.

Before, it had been easier. It turns out world-ending catastrophes are a fairly good distraction. He may have spent his nights sleeping on dirt and staring at the sky wondering if these were his last few hours alive, but he had a purpose -  a goal, a use. Save the world or die trying… so here he is now- the next chapter sitting squarely in front of him, wide and unwritten. It’s not as if he expected to pick up exactly where he left off before he became the orb’s exhausted warden. That time is forever lost and there’s no use trying to reach back to such heights. Ink cannot unsoak itself from parchment, rain cannot fall back uphill during the storm.

Except they could. He could make it so if he wanted. What were the laws of nature if not to be bent and remoulded under an archmage’s fingertips? 

His chest cramps again and he digs his fingers into the bench until he’s sure they’ve bruised. 

The mess of his old work still sits like a dusty museum exhibit in his study. He’d stopped trying to sort through it all a few weeks back, when the frustration started to crease deeper than the lines growing on his face. He recognises his own hand but it almost hurts to read now, like relearning another language. The words are clunky on his tongue - not quite useless but not enough anymore. If he stares too long he can feel that great chasm where his talent was once devoured even more acutely- some great maw open and waiting.

It’s the quieter moments that are the worst. When Waterdeep itself sleeps in peaceful reverie and the pain yells for attention, he can hear the ticking of that clock. There’s such fleeting time to make something of himself again - now free of the expectation of his peers or his goddess, just himself. 

He runs a hand down his face, a cold smile tugging at his lips.

It’s just another push to his own folly if saving the world from illithid invasion somehow doesn’t feel like enough anymore.

“It’s hurting again, isn’t it?”

His thoughts stop wandering as he turns towards the voice. Tav stands in the doorway, her posture drooping with sleep. She’d forgone their blanket for a smaller robe, but it’s doing little to hide the shivers wracking her body. Her eyes furrow with an old concern as they drift to his chest then back to his face. 

He swallows a pang of guilt as she shivers again. “I’m afraid so.” He lights one of the table lanterns with a snap of his fingers, casting the whole balcony a soft orange. “Did I wake you?”

“No but you should have,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms more tightly around herself. 

The shadows under her eyes are deeper than his own, a testament to her nights spent looking for an answer to this.

“I thought at least one of us deserved some unbroken rest.” He means it. Any hack with a necromancy tome can fix a body, living or dead. The brain is an entirely different matter. He’d seen other wizards claw themselves to madness trying to unwind their own minds looking for knowledge or memories hidden in those dark corners. She shouldn’t need to follow in those footsteps.

“Do you want to go back inside?” She asks, taking a step forward.

He shakes his head and brushes the spot next to him. “Come. Sit with me for a while.”

The tension bleeds from his torso as little as she curls against him, her hand resting over his chest with a familiar weight. He gently guides it over the space where it hurts the most-  half on the man, half on the mistake.

“You know what I was thinking about?” she says as she settles, her bottom lip soft against his shoulder.

“Tell me.”

“Dame Aylin snapping that wizard’s spine over her leg like a twig.”

“Lorroaken?”

She nods. “That’s the one.”

Of all the horrors they’d witnessed during their turbulent adventure, he knows that image will be permanently stained into his memory- how the violence of that wizard’s own making had come back to break him with a full, sickening crunch. 

“Any particular reason you’ve been dwelling on such violent memories this evening?” He asks, stroking a tangled piece of her hair.

Her gaze drifts to some random spot across the sea. “I was just wondering if I’m damned because I didn’t feel any shock when that happened. All I could think was how he completely deserved it. It was almost… funny in  a way.” 

When he doesn’t immediately respond she drops her face to her knees. “I know. It sounds awful. Gods, what does that even say about me?”

He puts his hand on the back of her head in a clumsy attempt to stop her own thoughts from spinning out as spectacularly as his had been.“Well if his ego was that self-inflated it was going to come crashing down around him eventually. Nothing good ever came from mortals trying to push themselves into the divine without thinking- consequences be damned. No matter how good their intentions.”

The parallel between that fool and himself isn’t subtle. She looks up as he says it, a tiny crease knit between her brows. “You know that’s not what I’m getting at.”

“I know. But I am. And if you think you’re damned then I am too. Because he did deserve it. If not by Aylin’s hand then someone’s.” Who that someone may have been for himself is something Gale had spent countless hours considering. Mostly he wondered if his own fall would have been so visceral and pathetic.

She holds his look for a long moment before resting her head back against his shoulder. “He had such a weasley face too. Almost exceedingly punchable.” 

He huffs out his first genuine laugh of the night. A small thing, but warm. “I would have to agree.”

She reaches out and laces his free hand with hers. “You made your choice, Gale. A good one.”

“With some help if I recall correctly.” He presses her palm flatter against his chest, his thumb brushing the crest of her knuckles. It’s one of a few things they’d tried over the past few weeks that seems to help, the pressure easing the worst bite of the pain. 

He twists to kiss the crown of her head, her eyelids fluttering at the soft touch.

“Do you ever regret surrendering all that power?” She asks as he pulls away.

He looks down, a little taken aback. “That’s quite the question.”

“I know,” she answers, her eyes focussed back out to the horizon. “But, do you?”

“Do you think that I do?”

“No. I mean, perhaps a little? Not that I think you’re upset about it but…” She leans away, waving her hands as if trying to pluck the right words from thin air. He sits back and waits for her to collect her thoughts, an eyebrow raised. 

“It’s not that I think you’d rather have made that choice, but it would be impossible for you not to wonder. And I really don’t think it makes you a bad person if you do.” She gulps air like a drowning woman as she finishes, avoiding his eyes. There’s a splinter of uncertainty in her voice, something taking this question beyond the hypothetical. 

He takes her hand again, making sure to softly enunciate every word of his answer. “No, I don’t regret it.”

“That’s it?” Her frown deepens when he nods. “Gale. You have never given me a one sentence answer to anything and I think this probably deserves one.” She tucks her knees under herself and turns towards him fully. “I need to know that’s not why it’s hurting.”

Ah. Now he understands. Pain born of unquelled ambition is not an unfair assumption of him, he thinks. He’d even spent a few nights considering it as well, but one reason quickly presented itself as to why it couldn’t possibly be the case. 

He tilts her chin up with his thumb. Her eyes shine in the candlelight, as deep as an ocean but there’s nothing hidden in those sweet depths. What he’d give to lose himself in that tenderness right now, a reminder that for as much as he doesn’t want her to- he’s worth being worried for.

“That is not the reason. Trust me,” he starts, gently closing his hands over her shoulders. “Yes, I have considered it a few times and that’s all too mortal of me to admit. However, not once have I thought that choosing Godly power would have brought me more than I have right now. I could talk until dawn about why surrendering the crown was the right choice, waxing poetic about the greater good and whatnot- but in the end there’s only one reason that really matters. It’s the same reason I didn’t heed Mystra’s command at Moonrise.” He leans down so each word brushes warm and sure against her skin. “It’s because you asked me to.”

Of course he wonders what would have happened had she not been there, about just how far his certainty could have taken him. When the crown sat in his hands he could feel the pull- a future draped in gold and silver as the true incarnation of the Karsite weave. He’d seen it for both of them too as gods side by side. Untouchable and beyond. 

And all she’d had to do was say please. Such a simple thing and yet it managed to dismantle all the ambition that had taken root so deep inside him. 

She keeps her head pressed to his for a long comfortable second before the hands on his chest loop around his neck to pull him closer.

“Sometimes I forget that my words mean more to you than that of a goddess,” she whispers against his temple, the taut curve of her spine relaxing under his touch.

He smiles. “I don’t have regrets. Not anymore. I fear when we met, that’s all I was- just a mess of poor choices stitched together with whatever vestiges of my magic hadn’t been eaten away. And even then you saw me as so much more. There was never going to be another choice.” 

He leans back, feeling his grin sharpen slightly as he caresses the tip of her ear. “And whether you see yourself as divine or not, you know I’m all too happy to get on my knees for you.”

He chases her answering blush with his mouth, following that pink spill to her forehead.

She playfully pushes him away as he kisses her nose, brushing a few escaped strands of hair back behind her ears. “So, what exactly is troubling you then? And don’t say nothing.” She pokes the crease between his eyebrows. “I can see it’s something other than the pain.”

He exhales and presses her hand back to his chest.

“I don’t think I know who I am anymore,” he confesses quietly.

The words hang in the air. It feels like such a trivial thing to say out loud but each word presses heavily on his tongue, sour and shameful.

She doesn’t say anything in response. The tell me is written plainly in her eyes and the hands softly brushing his skin.

“It’s strange,” he continues slowly. “After everything, I didn’t think that the bravado of Gale of Waterdeep would be something I missed, but the journey to find who I am now I’ve done away with him is proving harder than I expected.” 

He remembers when that first became his designation- when wizards from near and far knew the power of Mystra’s chosen. It came with pride and definitely a dash of arrogance but also tight boiling pressure. Year on year, he’d plan and write and cast, finding new ways to live up to that station. There’s a lightness now the expectations of those titles are gone, but maybe too much- like he could just disappear into the air.

Tav brushes her chin. “Well we can workshop some new ideas if you like. The Netherbrain Slayer. Or how about Master of the Worm.” She chuckles and spreads her fingers like she’s throwing the names into the air. “I’ve got a lot more.”

“I’m not sure I’d call those a marked improvement, love. Nor could I take all the credit for that victory.” He strokes her cheek, wincing as his chest seizes. “I know my previous title was a touch pompous but it’s who I was for some of my highest achievements… and my lowest moments I suppose. But it’s who I was when I met you. Finding something to replace that, or even having the need to replace it is a lot to think on.” He’s sure that if he has something else then perhaps he can finally wrap up that name and put it away. Something to prove that he's more than his renown, something other than Mystra’s discarded plaything.

“How about professor?” She offers.

He shrugs. The offer from Blackstaff Academy still rests atop his desk, the parchment curling further in on itself each day he ignores it. “I’m still considering it, though I’m not sure I can imagine myself a teacher.”

“You taught me.”

He smiles and tucks her closer. “That I did.”

That lesson in the weave feels like a lifetime ago. He can still see it if he closes his eyes- how for a brief few minutes, the sins of his previous desires weighed a little lighter. Having real, mortal hands so close and tentative to his own was a new kind of warmth, something bright and yellow that had only burned hotter when she’d used that magic to show him exactly what she’d wanted. That image had stayed with him for days afterwards: her hands in his hair, her body against his, kissing him gently and then with a fervour he wasn't sure he’d ever felt.

It’s the first night in a year he’d considered whether the risk of an explosion was worth following a feeling. A feeling that burrowed its way so thoroughly into his heart he can still feel it there, soft and red and eternal.

She presses her lips to his cheek. “And you really seemed to like it when I called you that last night, sir.” It’s her turn to chase the heat that blooms over his face, twisting her body over his until she’s sitting squarely in his lap.

Something stronger sets in her expression as the moment cools. She cups his face, pinning his gaze down with hers. “I need you to listen to me very carefully, Gale Dekarios,” she says. Her words are gentle but he knows a tidal wave could form behind her and he still wouldn’t be able to look away. 

“You know that I loved who you were. But that doesn’t change the fact that I also love who you are now. Neither of us are going to be the same person next week or a year from now or after whatever our next adventure may be. That’s just life. That’s mortality.” She guides his hand over her breast until he can feel her heart thrumming under his palm. “You’ll always have the whole of my heart, so it’ll be my privilege to know every version of you that comes to pass, even if you don’t know who that will be. And in the meantime- just be Gale. This Gale. Right in front of me.” She leans forward and presses her forehead to his, her fingers a warm cradle for his own. “Because he’s everything.”

She kisses him again as she finishes. It’s a gentle press, but she lightly parts her lips until he can almost feel her drawing out all the doubt in his mind and whispering it away. He winds his arms around her middle and tugs her until they’re flush together, letting himself drink in the comfort of her nearness. 

“Just Gale,” he murmurs as they pull apart with swollen lips and slightly hazy eyes. “Well if you’re already so enamoured with him, then I can certainly work with that.”

He strokes the length of her hand, turning it carefully between them like she’s holding his beating heart in her palm. He smiles again, thinking there could be no one better as its caretaker. 

It’s still a new feeling to have someone know him so intimately, body and mind. Even without the tadpole’s influence he’d shown her those deeper corners, the things he adores and the pains he wants to forget. And she didn’t wait to open for him, baring the things she so freely shows the world and those that will only ever be for him: the scent of her hair in the morning, the taste of her skin, the deep flush of her pleasure as she arches underneath him- each a gift. So he won’t stop giving in return. Giving and giving and giving as there will never be repayment enough for the way she looks at him. It’s a devotion worthy of the divine but as a man. As someone who’s more than just the sum of his talents or his mistakes. 

His gaze stops on the jagged scar by her mouth, a souvenir from the Netherbrain’s last desperate effort to stay alive.

He rubs his chest as he remembers. He didn’t have to fight it alone, even when he’d offered the orb up as the best course of action. Once he’d thought it a privilege to have someone to die for. How quickly that had changed when he was gifted something so much better. Someone to wake for, rest for, enjoy every sip of a glass of wine for. Someone to grab him by the shoulders, call him a fool and yell at him to live. 

“Perhaps one day I’ll discover what exactly I did to deserve you,” he whispers, his voice thick and raw with feeling.

She ducks down and kisses his chest, lingering against the spot where orb’s mark once rested. “You didn’t have to earn the right to love me, you know,” she murmurs, kissing there again before working her way up his neck and back to his lips.

Gale knows that he most certainly did but he’ll keep that thought to himself for now.

The ache flashes again, quieter this time. His hands dig into her waist a little harder. “Will you stay with me?” 

She shifts off of his lap and rests more comfortably against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere until you do.”

They sit until the pain finally subsides and dawn spreads like a pink veil above the sea. Once upon a time he’d thought he’d never see this view again, only to be conjured while lost in the grips of the shadow curse. 

He looks down at Tav, now fast asleep in an awkward bundle against his arm. He’d never thought he could show her either but she’d given him the strength to try and so much more. Hope. Hope enough to defy the words of his goddess and choose her, choose life, choose a happiness he hadn’t felt worthy of in a year.

He murmurs the same assent against her hair as he rouses her from her daze, ready to return them both to bed.

“You’re enough. This is enough. Always.”

***

I cannot believe this took me a month to edit. This may be the the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written.