#alone with their grief and refusing to speak bc they no longer have the words.

[atopvisenyashill]

if i did a reread of the walking dead and wrote an essay on how aegon ii and carl are doomed to be the last man standing by their narratives, and what starts out as a sort of cool & nifty super power of always surviving turns into this horrific curse where everyone they know is dying around them & sometimes it’s their fault & sometimes it’s not but either way they can’t ever stop it until they’re sitting at the ending with nothing but their lone daughter to protect but so broken they can no longer connect to her and then their story abruptly ends-

would that be like the Most stupid, nerdy thing i have ever done in my life or

[junghelioseok]

novae.

↳ what is grief, if not love persevering?

◇ hoseok x reader   ◇ angst | fluff(?) | time traveler!au     ◇ 1.8k [1/1]

notes: a polaris drabble, so please read that beforehand. summary is from wandavision, which i haven’t seen, but that line is everything and i got inspired! also, i am so not kidding about the angst!!! be warned!!! (and i’m not saying that you should listen to blue side while reading this but i’m also not not saying that, so....... do what you want 🤷🏻‍♀️)

warnings: not super edited bc i couldn’t handle it tbh, dealing with death and loss, i’m pretty sure this is the angst you were all afraid would be in polaris so sorry but there’s some cute stuff too i swear

You said goodbye to your husband yesterday. One final goodbye as you scattered his ashes to the wind, watching as they disappeared into the flurry of dry brown leaves spiraling into the river.

There’d been a wake, of course. Last week, at a modest little place on the outskirts of the city where you and your husband had made your home. You'd watched people come and go—friends and family and those acquaintances you never really knew but who all seemed to know your husband one way or another. They flowed on through, a seemingly never ending stream of dark-clothed mourners with good intentions and well-meaning words on their lips.

Thank you for coming, became your mantra after the first dozen or so. Yes, I'm fine. Sure, you can bring a casserole by the house tomorrow.

You really ought to put the casseroles in the fridge. They sit on the kitchen counter in a colorful array of dishes, wrapped in saran wrap and flecked with condensation from being packed up when they were still warm. You can see them from your seat at the dining table, as you tear your gaze away from the window it’s tucked against and prop your chin in your open palm.

The last of your family left yesterday, boarding flights and climbing into cars to return to their own lives. Your friends and neighbors offered their final condolences, before falling back into their own habits and routines. With their departure, you’re alone for the first time in what feels like forever, doing your best to pick up the pieces of your life. And though you have no more tears left to cry, there’s a rift in your heart that refuses to mend, the jagged edges of it digging into your lungs and ribs.

The house is cold without him by your side. That's what it is, now—a house, because you can no longer bear to call it home even if it doesn’t look any different than it did two weeks ago. The things that surround you—the worn couch and the novelty mugs and the patch of imperfect paint on the living room wall—they belong to you. The memories that well up when you look at them, they belong to you.

But they belong to him, too.

Your late husband’s presence lingers in everything around you. There's the faint dip in the couch cushion from decades of use—years of Netflix binges and late night cuddles and the occasional romp when the two of you couldn’t quite make it all the way to the bedroom. There’s the goofy cartoon sun that decorates your favorite mug—the very first one he'd gifted you all those years ago when you first started dating. There’s the memory of the laughter that creased his face when he accidentally leaned against the wet paint in the living room, his white t-shirt muddied with streaks of green. You'd fixed it, of course—done your best with the leftover paint scraped out of the bottom of the can. Doesn't have to be perfect though, he'd said with paint on his cheek. I think it's nice. Gives the place a little more character, you know?

Heaving a sigh, you push back from the table and wearily rise to your feet to put the casseroles away. But your fingertips have only just brushed one of the several ceramic platters lining the counter when there’s a sudden, loud thump from the living room.

“Damn it,” a voice says, and you freeze in your tracks, your heart skipping several beats. Your hearing isn’t what it used to be, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Hoseo—” you begin, but the second syllable gets caught in your throat. Your husband walks through the doorway with a curious little smile, and your eyes well up with tears that you didn’t even know you had left.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says, coming to a stop before you and brushing a thumb across your cheek fondly. Then his expression sobers, as he takes in your misty gaze and the countless casseroles on the counter. “What’s wrong?”

This Hoseok is in his mid-forties, at most—several decades younger than you are in the present. There’s the barest glint of silver around his temples, a smattering of salt beginning to overtake the pepper of his hair, and you blink rapidly as your throat begins to well with emotion again.

“Hoseok,” you breathe. “Nothing’s wrong. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” he confirms. His palm caresses your cheek, and you lean into the touch as he pulls you close and into the warmth of his chest.

It’s been years since you last saw a Hoseok that wasn’t your own—a Hoseok that came from a time that wasn’t your present. Once the two of you moved in together in your twenties, Hoseok’s travels through time tapered off. The last time you’d seen him was about six years ago, when an eighteen year old Hoseok stumbled into the backyard while you were planting peonies and your Hoseok was at the grocery store. You’d offered him milk and cookies, and he’d been all too happy to accept. You remember that he’d been stressed about final exams, at the time.

And now, here he is again, older and wiser and thankfully not scratched up from appearing in the middle of your rose bushes. Pulling back from the embrace, you take in his face once more, your gaze roving across the wrinkles of laughter around his eyes and the familiar freckle above his lip. His hair, upon closer inspection, is damp, and gingerly, you reach up to trail your fingers through it.

“Rain?” you ask. “Or shower?”

“Shower,” Hoseok replies with a smile, intercepting your hand and pressing a warm kiss to your frail knuckles. “Seriously, I just barely managed to get dressed before I found myself here.”

A laugh bubbles up in your chest, escaping into the open air and easing the tightness in your throat. “It’s good to see you,” you murmur, smiling when he laces your fingers together and gives your hand a squeeze. “It’s so, so good to see you, Hobi.”

Hoseok chuckles and bumps his forehead gently against yours. “It’s good to see you too, babe.”

You laugh again at the term of endearment, smacking his chest weakly with your free hand. “Babe? I’m old enough to be your grandmother.”

“And yet, you’re as pretty as you’ve ever been,” he replies with a grin. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Slowly, your smile fades. You think of the casseroles, and the jar of ashes you’d scattered to the wind. You think of the little spoonful of ashes you’d saved, that now hangs heavy in a locket in the hollow of your throat. “Hobi, I—”

You trail off, and Hoseok’s expression softens. “It’s me, right? I’m… gone?”

“You—” Sniffing, you bury your face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his citrusy shampoo melding with the vaguely floral laundry detergent you both favor. Underneath it all is something that is distinctly Hoseok, something warm and comfortable and inviting, and you sniffle again when he reaches up to stroke along your back.

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispers into your hair, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “You can let it out. You’ve been so strong, but you can let it all out now. It’s okay.”

“I don’t know what to do, Hobi,” you mumble into the sky blue cotton of his t-shirt, whisper-soft. “I don’t… I don’t think I know how to live without you.”

And it’s true. You’ve known Hoseok since you were eight years old—ever since he appeared in the middle of your garage and knocked over a can full of paintbrushes. You moved in together at twenty-four, got engaged two years later, and haven’t looked back since. You’ve given decades of your life and all of your love to Hoseok, and he’s done the same. And now all that you have left of him is a locket full of his ashes and a house filled to the brim with memories both good and bad.

“Were we happy?”

You blink, twice in rapid succession, before looking up into his achingly familiar face. His eyes are soft and his smile is tender, and you blink again slowly before answering. “Of course we were.”

Hoseok’s smile widens. He touches your cheek again gently, the pad of his thumb brushing the delicate skin just beneath your right eye. “And we had decades of happiness, didn’t we?”

“A lifetime’s worth,” you agree in a whisper. “But I’m selfish, Hobi. I want more. I want you.”

“You have me,” Hoseok replies, and your eyes flutter shut when he reaches up to cup your face in his hands, his touch delicate and light as if you’re something to be treasured. “I’ve been yours since we were kids, and I’ll be yours until the universe ends and the stars die out. You couldn’t get rid of me, even if you tried.”

The sound that escapes you is part laugh, part choked sob, and when you speak again, your voice is small. “I know. You’re right, and I know that. But—” and here your throat closes up, and you have to clear it twice just to continue on. “I just miss you, Hobi. I miss you so much. Between the wake and everyone coming into town, it just feels like… it feels like I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye.”

“Say it now, then,” he says easily, and you suck in a shaky breath.

“Really?”

“Really.”

So, you do. You tell him everything you never got a chance to say—from the stupid jokes you never got to crack, to how happy you are to have met him all those decades ago. Hoseok listens to you ramble on with a tender smile and his fingers twined with yours, and when you fall silent again, he utters four simple little words that somehow still manage to make your breach catch and your heart sing.

“I love you too.”

You nod, and blink back a fresh wave of tears. “Will I see you again?”

“I don’t know,” he answers, and you know he’s telling the truth because he’s incapable of lying. “I hope so. But even if you don’t, I know you’ll be okay. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, and you’re going to be fine. I know it.”

Hoseok stiffens, then, and you know it’s time for him to go. “I love you,” you repeat, whispering the words into his chest as if you can force them past the material of his shirt and imprint them into his very skin. “Goodbye, Hobi.”

Your husband squeezes your hand, planting twin kisses onto your eyelids one onto your lips. “Goodbye, {Name}.

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone once more.

[kyber-crystal]

➳ good enough || s.r.

summary: after a long week you’re left completely exhausted. steve comforts you and helps you unwind. 

words: ~1.6k 

warnings: slight mentions of violence, angst, angst-to-fluff, a lil friends-to-lovers (i’m SORRY literally all of my oneshots are some variation of this but i just can’t resist), minor age gap? (if you call 5 years a lot). also civil war happened but they resolved it so 2017 au teeheeeeee

a/n: this sucked omg. why is my writing going downhill. also this is a red-room-turned-agent-reader who helped steve adjust when he came out of the ice bc i love cliche love backstories hehe...i tried to be very descriptive here but that failed oops. this is prolly one of my worst fics ever (it’s unedited) but my other one got deleted so i’m uploading this in its place!

Steve knew something was wrong the minute you came back from your mission. You always acted a bit off the first few days following your return, but for some reason, today seemed different. For the past week you'd been blatantly avoiding his gaze, refusing to meet his eye unless forced to. 

You don’t even return Sam and Bucky’s sarcastic one-liners - and you always make sure to send a cheesy joke right back at them. It’s not typical for you to be so quiet and reserved like this; frankly, it scared him. 

He knows that as a former Red Room assassin, you never had it easy. As the youngest of the twenty-eight dancer-disguised warriors, you were merely eight years old when you were admitted (Natasha was thirteen). At eight, there was much you didn’t know. You were naive, easily shaped to conform to the strict rules they’d set out for you. 

But despite all the hell you’d gone through in the past, you managed to find it in your heart to forgive and create a compassionate nature towards others. Especially him. He always wondered what he deserved to get someone like you-- he felt more than lucky to have you in his life.

It was 4 a.m, and his insomnia was at its worst. It had peaked ever since he’d come out of the ice - he was 27, had so much of his life before him before it was abruptly put to a stop. But then he met you, with your warm eyes and kind smile that was such a sharp contrast to the girl you used to be. 

The sound of muffled shouts coming from across the compound makes him look up - he sets down his mug of coffee and immediately heads down the hall to see what’s going on. 

Steve carefully pushed open the glass doors to the training facility, seeing you standing in front of a punching bag and attacking the hell out of it with an almost murderous look in your eyes - one he’d never seen before. The tape around your knuckles were splattered with your crimson blood. Despite the dim lighting, he could see the outlines of fresh bruises all over your arms and shoulders. The sight made bile rise up in his throat. He felt his heart break.

Every heavy blow of your fists was accompanied by a ground-shaking boom that echoed across the gym, unleashing the monster trapped inside. You pick up the pace and increase your speed, channelling all your pent-up anger and frustration and guilt into what you were doing. 

It hurts. You would give anything to get rid of the pain. It hurts like hell, but you would trade living a regret-ridden life for a guilt-free one in a heartbeat if that’s what it takes. Besides, you’ve experienced far worse before-- six-inch knife wounds, bullets to the abdomen and upper arms, broken ribs and noses. This should be a walk in the park.

The concerned super-soldier stood several feet away and observed you, silently watching you murdering the poor punching bag that’s barely withholding all the fury you’ve poured into pummeling it; it was about to burst at the seams.

“Y/N.” You didn’t hear him and kept going, so he repeated himself again. “Y/N.”

“What?” you snapped, keeping your gaze trained in front of you. “What the hell do you want?”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed? It’s late. What’s keeping you up at this hour?”

“Nothing,” you replied plainly, but he caught the brief flash of a grief-stricken look cross over your expression and your eyes glaze over, “I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

“You clearly aren’t. Y/N, talk to me. Please.”

“I told you, I’m,” you increased the force of your fists with each word you spoke, as you felt your eyes stinging, “just, fine!”

“Y/N...” he whispered, so softly, as if he was afraid he’d break you with a single sentence. 

That was the last straw. The tears spilled over. Your vision began to blur as you didn’t even bother to wipe them away. The broad-shouldered super-soldier, your fists, and the punching bag and everything insight are turned into blurry, shapeless blobs. You try blinking them away but it was no use; but you keep going. 

“Please tell me what’s going on. Tell me what’s wrong...please don’t shut me out. I only want to help.”

“Leave me alone,” you repeated with a growl, arms now aching with the pain of a thousand tiny needles. But he doesn’t, and he stays firmly rooted in his place. You hastily wiped at your nose with your hands. “For gods’ sake, Rogers, leave,” smack “me,” smack “alone.”

Your last punch was so hard the walls shook and caused Steve to take a step back in alarm. But after that, all the fight is gone from you. Your knees buckle from underneath you and your shoulders slump in defeat and you crumble to the floor. A sound so raw and hoarse escapes your lips and it sounds nothing near human. 

The metallic scent of blood mixed with your salty tears and sweat overwhelms your senses and makes your head spin. Suddenly the act of taking in a single breath seems impossible and your chest tightens, preventing you from being able to breathe properly. 

The ever-so-fragile wall that had been struggling to hold your tears at bay finally broke. 

Heaving, wrenching sobs clawed their way up your throat and tore through your already weary heart - escaping in broken, agonized cries and heart-wrenching howls that make Steve feel like his heart is deliberately shattering into a million, tiny fragments of glass. He doesn’t know what to do because for the first time in his life, the woman he’s always seen with her head held high and an unmatched confidence that could almost put the President to shame was vulnerable, letting it all out at once. 

Steve doesn’t ask any questions nor does he push to to speak up, but silently comes over to you and wraps you into a tight hug, cradling you against his chest. Your arms find their way around his torso, pressing your forehead against the soft cotton of his T-shirt as his free hand makes a gentle trek up and down your back. 

As if you were a delicate flower, he carefully brought your head closer and pressed a kiss to your temple, letting his lips linger for a second longer than normal to reassure you. To reassure you that everything would in fact, be okay. Because he was there.

“Don’t leave me...please don’t leave me,” you choked out as he tightened his hold on you. “Please don’t leave.”

“I won’t, darling, I promise,” he cooed, lips brushing against your forehead, “it’s okay. I’m here. You’re okay, we’re okay. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”

Then, the suffocating pressure is eased off your chest, little by little. You began sinking into the comfort of his warm arms and soothing words. And with his reminder that you didn’t have to go through hell and back alone, because he’d be there, you began to heal. 

...

ONE YEAR LATER

“...Joining the Avengers has been one hell of a ride. I went through hell and back, had my fair share of ups and downs and fought in countless wars. But along the way I’ve been blessed with the privilege of getting a built-in second family and making some of the best friends I’ve had in my life. I met my soulmate.” Steve gazed down at you warmly as you spoke, “I honestly had no idea things would ever work out like this but now, I can’t imagine a life without knowing who all these amazing people are.

“It’s been 15 months since the day he saved me.” Everyone immediately fell silent. "I had hit a very, very low point in my life and I was just about ready to give up. It was like I was screaming into a void and nobody was there to catch me when I fell. I felt so helpless and lost. Stuck. If Steve hadn’t come along at the time he did...I don’t know what would’ve have happened instead. So, Steve...I want to thank you...for everything. I can’t even begin to list all the things you’ve sacrificed or done for my sake and I owe you. From this point forward I promise to always stick by your side no matter how rough things get. I promise to love you at your best and your worst; whenever you need me I’ll always be here. No amount of anything I do will ever match what you’ve done, but I can promise you this: I’ll love you until the day I die, ‘til death do us part.

“’Till death do us part,” Steve repeated, smiling through the tears in his eyes. “God, I love you.”

You broke into a gorgeous grin that had him weak at the knees.  “I love you too.”

“The rings, please,” Fury nodded over in Peter’s direction, and the teenager handed them over to the two of you. “Agent Y/N Y/L/N, do you take Captain Steven Grant Rogers to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” you said softly, as you put on Steve’s ring.

He turned to the super-soldier. “And Captain Steven Grant Rogers, do you take Agent Y/N Y/L/N to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Steve took your hand in his and slid the diamond ring over your finger, “I do.”

“Very well, then,” Fury smiled widely, a rare sight. “You may now kiss your bride.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Steve rushed forward and pulled you close, dipping you down low before bringing you back up and kissing you passionately. 

His warm lips serving as a reminder of all that you still had left to live for, that you had so much of your life ahead of you. A life with him.

...

general tags(this is from my old taglist spreadsheet, including mutuals who might be interested): @rynhaswritersblock @purpleskiesstorm @pies-writes-and-more @wxstedhexrt @captainchrisstan @sandystoriess @naomiiiiiiiiiii04 @patzammit @capcapcapsicle @wheresmyjae @thinkingofbuckybarnes @carryonmywaywardbucky @musicalkeys @buckybarnesthehotshot @tombob2005 @zaddychris @optimistic-dinosaur-nacho @sylvie-writes @sis-it-dont-add-up @tonystankschild​ @sunstalgia​

steve rogers/chris evans tags: @speechlessxx @angrybirdcr @stainedsouvenir @marvelfanatic16

permanent tags<3: @poesflygirl @sandwitch-god

[alyss-spazz-penedo]

@w1lmutt So tbh I probably could’ve had this ninth part of the unedited v!Wind fic out earlier; I already had it mostly written. But on the flip side, I’m sure you’ll be happy know that the whole story's going to be a bit longer than previously expected!

I only took my eyes off them for like a DAY, where did all these new plunnies come from aiieeee 

I don’t want to promise the next part will also be out soon bc that feels too much like jinxing it, but, um. *side-eyes the pages and pages of Stuff I've already scribbled for the next few parts*

TW: The ending scene made me cackle evily when I first thought of it. That's it that's the warning

<<First Part 8 Next>>

Twilight climbs the ladder to the lookout post the newest Link first greeted the traveling heroes from. The kid’s perched there now, kicking his heels in the open air, head resting on arms folded against the railing—just like the first time they’d met.

Such a difference a single day makes.

“Food’s ready,” he announces himself, though there’s no way Phantom hadn’t heard him making his way up. The boy doesn’t respond. Twilight musters up his patience, makes an effort to keep his voice even and nonconfrontational. “Wild made enough stew for everyone. He’s a pretty darn good cook; you’re missing out.”

Phantom doesn’t move. “Don’t need it.”

Twilight frowns. He climbs all the way into the lookout and approaches the slumped form, stopping just outside of striking distance. “You haven’t had anything all day. You need to eat, kid,” he coaxes.

“Fuck off. Don’t patronize me.” There’s no bite to the words. Twilight folds his arms, trying to project sternness. Phantom lackadaisically flips him off without even looking his way.

Twilight sighs. “...Enjoying the view?” He prods instead, changing tack.

“...A little. I’m mostly listening. I’d... forgotten what it sounded like.” A stilted pause. Phantom sighs, so quiet it’s nearly lost on the breeze. “The village, I mean. While it was awake.” 

Twilight, who hadn’t meant to provoke such honesty with his offhand comment, finds himself momentarily derailed. Phantom seems to take his silence as an invitation to continue—or perhaps he’s not talking to the other man at all, anymore.

“Aryll hugged me back today,” he says, blank. “And. Everyone’s awake. I... don’t need to sweep the porches, or trim the grass, or make sure the water in the rainbarrels is still fresh. I...”

One of the seagulls hops closer. Link holds out a hand to it automatically, but it flaps away. He stares down at his empty hand for a long moment before he seems to realize there’s no bait in it.

“It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s not anything new—I should be able to do this, greet my friends and talk to my sister and help out where I’m needed. I used to. I know I used to.”

The silence stretches.

Twilight finally sighs, breaking through the tension that had settled gauzy and ill-defined over them. “I came up here for a reason. I need to talk to you.”

Phantom finally deigns to look at him, giving the other a droll look from the corner of his eye. “Of course you do. You wouldn’t be here alone otherwise; you guys have been paired off all day.”

Smartass. Twilight hisses a breath through his teeth. “Look, it’s about Time.”

Phantom tenses.

“You’ve been hurting him. You’re going to stop doing that,” he informs the kid.

Phantom’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m not going to attack you guys again. And I apologized for the-”

“I’m not,” Twilight grits out, “talking about a physical wound.”

The boy doesn’t understand. How can the boy not understand? Twilight wants to pick him up and shake him.

“As far as I can tell, your only impressions of him come from legends that reverie him, and memories that hate him. He’s not whoever it is you’ve built up in your head, Phantom. Try opening your damn eyes for a change.”

Twilight stares the younger boy down. He needs the kid to understand: he is deadly serious about this.

The little hero is wide-eyed with confusion, uncertainty grinding away his usual guard. Phantom visibly chews over his words, slow, like they might make sense the third time where they didn’t the first. Skepticism paints his face. He still doesn’t get it. 

But he nods. Agreement, however reluctant. Twilight will take it.

"Now come on," Twilight huffs. He stalks away. "Wild's made food; the least you could do is not let it go to waste."

~o0o~

Phantom picks at his dinner. Like he'd told the Hero of Twilight, he doesn't need it—hasn't bothered with food for a long time, frankly—but refusing to eat after it'd already been doled out to him would be terribly rude. He's not so far gone that he's forgotten all his manners.

He and Aryll sit back-to-back in a ring of people, surrounding the roaring beach fire one of the visitors had made to cook with. It's still odd, feeling something moving and breathing so close to him, but... it’s not so bad when no one’s trying to grab him. He’s fine as long as nothing's moving too quickly in his personal space.

Pressed against his sister now, he remembers the times he'd hug the statues or lean on them for comfort. He throws a few token comments into the soft evening conversation, just to hear those real, actual voices respond to him, and this alone is leagues better than relying on his memory and imagination to fill the silence.

Listening to Aryll’s excited chatter, to the gentle shifting of over a dozen living bodies gathered on the same beach... he realizes how much he’d missed this.

It’s not perfect. But for the first time in a very long while, Phantom finds himself held in the grip of a feeling that could almost pass for peace.

~o0o~

They send Grandma out to sea that night.

Dusk is not the appropriate time for someone to set sail on a long journey. But for her last voyage... the darkness will see her safely to her destination. That’s what the villagers say, at least.

Phantom’s lost his share of people over the years. He hates that he should be used to goodbyes—hates hates hates that this time is different.

(It’s not even that she’s family; he was old enough to remember his parents, after all. No, the difference between Grandma and everyone else he's lost is that he is so much more directly responsible for her death.

He might've loved and missed some of those others comparably, but Grandma... Grandma is one of his mistakes.)

~o0o~

Tetra finally comes to him in the morning.

She’d been avoiding him, and he’d been letting her have her space—no matter how much he ached to have her back again. She had every right to be angry at him, after all.

(He’d failed her. In every way that mattered, he’d failed her.

All that strength and he still couldn’t keep her safe; all that resolve and he still couldn’t get her back before Bellum had dug it’s claws in deeper than he could pry out of her; all that time, and still no Hyrule to show for it. He couldn’t even avenge her, in the end; the traveling heroes had robbed him of that killing blow.)

So of course she’s angry. Of course she’s disappointed in him, of course she's been avoiding him, of course of course.

There is a time and place for regrets, Phantom knows. That time is not now; that place is not here. Not when he’s shoulder-to-shoulder with Tetra—his best friend, his partner, his anchor—finally, finally awake.

And yet. And yet.

She stands next to him without a word. They watch the dawn like that—together, with neither able to bear looking at each other.

~o0o~

The sun is fully up by the time her idiot speaks.

He fingers the mark on the back of his hand in lieu of looking her in the eye. “Do you think the power of the gods could bring her back?” He asks. He doesn’t look at her as he says this, gaze fixed on the distant horizon. “Not forever. Just... just for a little longer.”

She feels cold. “I thought we’d agreed never to make a wish.”

“...Yeah.”

Tetra scowls. “How seriously are you asking? Is this the grief or the insanity talking right now?”

“I... I don’t know.” His eyes belie this—calculating, intent. He’s looking out at the ocean, but she can’t tell what it is he's actually seeing.

“I heard the story from those other heroes. How long?” She grabs him by the arm, yanks him around until he’s forced to look at her. “How long has it been?” She demands.

Link rips himself away from her touch. “I don’t know,” he lies.

She punches him on the arm for that. He winces but she can tell it’s entirely for her benefit; he’s not hurt at all. Her blows don’t reach him anymore.

She probably hasn’t reached him for a long time, now.

“Give it to me,” she demands—suddenly, inexplicably furious. He regards her warily. She barely recognizes him anymore. “This has gone on for long enough. I never should’ve let you try to carry this power alone. Give me the Triforce, Link.”

Link’s eyes narrow. For a moment, Tetra is convinced he’s going to refuse—that she’s going to have to enlist her crew and maybe those outside heroes to hold the idiot down so she can pry the corruption from his hand. 

But no. Link deflates and, for once in his life, makes things easy for her. “Okay,” he agrees, all wilted and sad and nothing like the spunky kid who once demanded a ride to the Forsaken Fortress from her on this very shore.

She lets him twine their hands together, goddess marked to goddess marked. The symbols glow together, synchronized in a way their bearers used to be, and when they open their eyes Tetra has an extra golden triangle on her hand.

The Triforce of Power is a trip. Link’s eyes are blue again, and they widen in alarm when she pins his wrist, when she seizes him by the collar and drags him around like it’s nothing. “That’s not enough,” she growls. “I said, give me the Triforce. All of it, Link.”

“Tetra- what are you-”

“Give it to me!” She shakes him a little. “Now!”

“No! Have you lost your mind-”

She backhands him. It's the easiest thing in the world.

He goes staggering, one hand flying to his cheek and the other reflexively dragging that terribly familiar sword from thin air. He freezes before he can raise it against her. "Tetra...?"

"Fine." She cracks her knuckles. "The hard way, then."

"What are you doing?"

He looks frightened. Of her. Is this what they've come to, now? Tetra could almost laugh, could almost cry. She draws her blade instead of doing either.

"Making sure something like this never happens again," she vows, eyes burning gold, and strikes without holding back.

[luthienne]

How does one let go? Of another, of one's self, of the life you thought you were living. Do you know any fitting poems or quotes describing the phenomenon of moving forward?

I’m not sure that I’ve ever let go of anything in my entire life. This Anne Carson quote always seems to sum up my thoughts in four succinct lines:

I find the phenomenon of letting go so inextricably tied with the idea of healing or recovery, perhaps because that’s what the desire to “let go” and move forward looks like for me. How do you let go of something that happened to you or within you, something that has altered your conception of the world from one day to the next, that has altered your own perception of yourself, of who you thought you were or could be, of what you thought your life would be? How to come to terms with the reality that there is no return to who you were before? 

For me it’s less a deliberate choice to brush my hands together and “let go”, but more simply putting one foot in front of the other every day until I find myself in a (perhaps even just slightly) different place than before. It’s allowing myself to grieve what I thought my life would be, and also allowing space to hold gratitude for what my life contains. It’s waiting for everything inside of me and around me to shatter, and meanwhile still moving forward. It’s allowing myself to realize that I’m still here and I’m still a whole person, even if the pieces of me have shattered and rearranged themselves into something I don’t necessarily always recognize. It’s sitting alone with myself, with the silence that sometimes makes a home of my throat, with the restlessness beneath my skin, with the fear that who I am becoming won’t be enough, and moving anyway in any direction but back. It’s sitting with grief and shame and bitterness and groundlessness, and understanding that these feelings are temporary, and not things be used to validate my fears or distortions.

I think the deliberate choice involved for me is the one to allow space for growth, to not cling so tightly to past hopes or ideas that there is no longer any room for anything else, anything new, anything different. It’s allowing myself the belief and compassionate understanding that I can be something other than I thought or hoped I would be, and it’s ok. I think sometimes we deny ourselves chances to grow or change because of the shame we feel that we have failed, and to deny ourselves those opportunities for growth would be the real shame. What others believe does not matter—that we have invested ourselves utterly in a relationship that failed is no shame on us, that we have invested ourselves utterly in a dream or a hope that just didn’t work out is no shame on us. I think the worst thing is to remain in a place that is no longer serving us for fear of appearing the failure to others. There is so much opportunity to be had in letting go of one thing, anything, to make room for something else.

I don’t know that this compilation of poetry, essays, literature, and letters will offer any insight, or comfort, or guidance. Letting go must surely be an intensely personal process, an intensely personal thing, a different kind of animal for everyone—but still there seem to be some universal experiences. So these are some of the words that came to mind for me—whether they touch on grappling with the impossibility of letting go and moving forward, the hope of it, the desire for it, the loneliness of it, or the frustration with it (bc of course it’s something that cannot be forced, only something that can be allowed):

“What could I have grown up to be? What kind of human woman, what kind of simple, happy thing? If I had never been broken on a bird’s wing. If I had never seen the world naked. I want to be myself again…I want to stop knowing everything I know.”

Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

“On the surface, I was poised, cool, indifferent. […] The discrepancy between what I would show the world and the chaos I felt grew steadily more intense.”

Louise Glück, Proofs & Theories: Essays on Poetry

“There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm, but all the rest of the time it was like living in a house that couldn’t be cured of the habit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day.” 

Katherine Mansfield, “At the Bay”

“Words can’t describe the wound. / Perhaps more importantly / words alone / can’t heal the wound.”

Emily Pettit, “Hands Like Lighters”

“But sometimes words are the only hands / we have to touch a bruised memory / or cleanse a wound that never healed / or lift a body we carried for years / at last to the pyre of shared grief.”

Fred Dings, Eulogy for a Private Man

“I sat on a gray stone bench / and placed my grief / in the mouth of language, / the only thing that would grieve with me.” 

Lisel Mueller, Alive Together: Poems

“I am not myself, and cannot ever be / again. I am my own emptiness, trying to fill my emptiness / with words.”

Robert Kroetsch, “Letters to Salonika”

“Now that I’m free to be myself, who am I? / Can’t fly, can’t run, and see how slowly I walk.”

Mary Oliver, from Blue Iris

“Can I never escape this interminable mourning for myself?”

Susan Sontag, from Reborn

“The light of the moon poured down; its beauty, / its radiance. / And I grieved and grieved. I grieved for so long.”

from Phoebus was gone, all gone, his journey over (tr. Eavan Boland)

“When will, when will, when will it be enough, / the saying and lamenting?” 

Rainer Maria Rilke, Uncollected Poems

“…she was only trying to smooth out something she had been given years ago folded up;”

Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

“It seemed increasingly impossible to remember a time when I had been fully alive, impossible to imagine a future in which I would live that way again.” 

Louise Glück, Proofs & Theories: Essays on Poetry

“Everything is so fragile. I feel so lost. I live off secret, radiating, luminous rays that would smother me if I didn’t cover them with a heavy cloak of false certainties. God help me: I have no one to guide me and it’s dark again.”

Clarice Lispector, The Stream of Life

“Make a place for yourself in the darkness and wait there. Be there.”

Denise Levertov, To Stay Alive

“Losing is also ours; and even forgetting has its shape in the permanent realm of change. Things we’ve let go of circle; and though we’re rarely at the center of these circles: they trace around us the unbroken figure.” 

Rainer Maria Rilke, “For Hans Corossa” (tr. Edward Snow)

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. / It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.”

Mary Oliver, “The Uses of Sorrow”

“Things take us hard, no question. / How do you make it, all the way from here to morning?”

Adrienne Rich, Diving into the Wreck

“Following a fearful night I do not quite / remember came a kind / of dawn, not light, / But something we could see by.”

Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Dream of Saba”

“Afterward, you go back to the old place—all that remains is char: blackness and emptiness. You think: how could I live here? But it was different then, even last summer. The earth behaved as though nothing could go wrong with it. One match was all it took. But at the right time—it had to be the right time. The field parched, dry—the deadness in place already so to speak.” 

Louise Glück, Averno

“…the longing, not for something distant or remote, but for what is lost forever, something that can never return.”

Henia Karmel, A Wall of Two

“When a thing’s gone, it’s gone. It’s over and done with. Let it go then! Ignore it, and comfort yourself, if you do want comforting, with the thought that you never do recover the same thing that you lose. It’s always a new thing. The moment it leaves you, it’s changed.”

Katherine Mansfield, “Je ne parle pas français”

“I cannot go back now. […] For me to go back is impossible, now or later.”

Marina Tsvetaeva, from a letter to Boris Pasternak

“There comes a day when the trees / refuse to let you pass / until you name them.”

Lisel Mueller, Second Language: Poems

“Anyway, it’s in grappling with things at the source that you can tell best whether a thing is worth continuing or not… In other words, everything is worth investigating, wasting time over, if it interests you. There is always a deep, unconcealed reason why it interests you.”

Henry Miller, from a letter to Anaïs Nin 

“We only live by somehow absorbing the past—changing it. I mean really examining it and dividing what is important from what is not (for there is waste) and transforming it so that it becomes a part of the life of the spirit and we are free of it. It’s no longer our personal past, it’s just in the highest possible sense, our servant. I mean that it is no longer our master.”

Katherine Mansfield, from a letter to J.M. Murry

“…only one thing is urgently needed: to attach oneself with unconditional purpose somewhere to nature, to what is strong, striving and bright, and to move forward without guile, even if ithat means in the least important, daily matters. Each time we tackle something with joy, each time we open our eyes toward a yet untouched distance we transform not only this and the next moment, but we also rearrange and gradually assimilate the past inside of us.”

Rainer Maria Rilke, from a letter to Adelheid von der Marwitz

“Keep busy with survival. Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go.”

May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

“One must let life run its course. The human being destroys so many things on his own, and it is not in his power to restore anything. Nature, by contrast, has all the power to heal as long as one does not eavesdrop or interrupt it.” 

Rainer Maria Rilke, from a letter to Anita Forrer

“Do not try to be saved, but let redemption find you, as it certainly will. Love is its own rescue; for we, at our supremest, are but its trembling emblems.”

Emily Dickinson, from a letter to T.W. Higginson

“To take things easy, not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but to give way to it—that was what was needed. It was the tension that was all wrong.”

Katherine Mansfield, “At the Bay”

“If you find yourself disappointing—drop self-expectations. What you are turning into you cannot expect to know, but you can trust it, and believe that if it is other than you planned, it will also be better than you planned—however different.”

Kahlil Gibran, from a letter to Mary Haskell

“To live in this world / you must be able / to do three things: / to love what is mortal; / to hold it / against your bones knowing / your own life depends on it; / and when the time comes to let it go, / to let it go.”

Mary Oliver, “At Blackwater Pond”

[losvcr]

do you? (reddie)

Type: One-shot

Summary: After years of not speaking after a break-up, Richie finally gets to talk to Eddie over the phone.

Pairing: Reddie

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: N/A

A/N: okay so i know i’m supposed to be writing rain and doing request and my blogrates but after hearing my favorite song by neyo called do you, i got so inspired and had to write this. i had to. i actually cried a lil writing this one. it’s probs sucks bc i didn’t edit it and wrote it in an hour but i hope you guys like it!

The gravel of the road cracked underneath Richie’s boots, his tread slow and hesitant.

Once he reached the booth, his hand reached out to touch the cold glass, staring at the phone on the inside. Did people even use these anymore?

This was a terrible idea. No, scratch that - it was the worst idea he could ever have.

It was selfish. It was disrespectful. It was low.

He just needed to hear his voice one more time.

The tall, curly headed boy finally stepped inside of the booth, not bothering to close the door behind him as he picked up the phone and deposited a coin inside.

Richie’s heart was beating so fast that he felt like it would explode out of his chest. Would he answer?

“Hello?”

The sound of Eddie Kaspbrak’s voice on the other end brought tears to Richie’s eyes. A shaky breath sounded into the receiver on his end, doing his best to hold it together. It was a voice he wanted to hear for years now, and god, did it still sound just like a song.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

“Hey Eds.. It’s me.”

Eddie froze when he heard that voice, one of his hands slapping down to rest against the counter in front of him so that he wouldn’t fall.

He almost didn’t believe this was real, just like he almost didn’t believe Richie had been trying for weeks to reach him.

“Hi...” Eddie’s greeting was flat, but that was purely because he didn’t want Richie to know that he still had an immediate effect on him.

The other line was silent for a few other beats, and Eddie’s heart started racing at the idea that it had disconnected. It frustrated him to think that he was actually upset at the prospect.

“Maybe.. maybe this wasn’t a good idea. I know you probably don’t care about anything I have to say.”

Eddie remained quiet, hanging onto the sound of Richie’s voice. He’d heard it the other night, listening to one of the five voice mails that Richie had left because Eddie refused to answer the phone.

“But you’re listening so.. thank you for that.”

It grew uncomfortably silent again, and Eddie could tell that Richie was waiting for him to say something.

“Why are you calling me, Richie?” He finally asked quietly, unable to hide the wariness in his voice. Before Richie could answer, they both flinched at the sound of a voice wafting over from Eddie’s living room.

“Eddie, who’s that?”

Eddie hesitated, unsure if he should answer that truthfully. It was as if Richie could sense the hesitation, because a second later, he was speaking up.

“Tell him.”

Another beat passed, and Eddie sighed before relenting. “It’s just Richie, Bill.” He called back.

There was some more silence, and then Richie could clearly hear Bill’s voice feet away from Eddie.

“What does he want? I thought we agreed you wouldn’t talk to him, Eddie...” Underneath the frustration, Richie felt could make out another emotion in Bill’s voice. It sounded like fear.

“It’s not what you think, Bill. I didn’t know the number, so I--”

“Tell your fiance he can relax. I’m not trying to start any trouble. I just wanted to talk.”

The line went completely silent a moment later, which startled Richie.

“Eddie? Eddie, are you there?”

He wasn’t ready to let go of his voice just yet. He just needed to hear it one more time. He had a question to ask, and didn’t think he could rest until he got his answer.

“Shit..” He cursed, resting his forehead against the payphone while doing his best not to get upset - it was more easier said than done. Just as he was getting ready to hang up, he finally heard something.

“Richie, are you still there?”

A flood of relief ran through his lanky frame, causing him to shudder slightly. “Yeah, yeah.. I’m still here.”

"So, why did you call me?” Eddie sat on the bed in his bedroom, having convinced Bill to give him a few minutes alone to completely cut Richie off. He understood why Bill thought that was the best decision. He was sure they all understood.

A soft sigh sounded from Richie’s end. “...I heard that you and Bill adopted a baby girl.” He paused, reaching up get rid of any moisture underneath his eyes; he convinced himself that it was just how windy it was that day.

Eddie closed his eyes gently, a sad smile finding his lips at Richie’s words. “Her name is Hannah.” After Bill popped the question, they decided on adoption a year later. Eddie loved their little girl with everything in him.

“That’s good... Congratulations.” Richie breathed, doing his best to sound happy. He was happy for them, but it was incredibly bittersweet. “I also heard she looks a lot like you. She must be the prettiest thing in the world.”

“Richie, please..” Eddie couldn’t help but sound like a wounded animal, his stomach having bottomed out. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry.”

Silence. It seemed to stretch on for ages before Richie was speaking up again.

“Got a few minutes? I just want to catch up.”

Eddie hesitated for the umpteenth time, before he found himself relenting again. He wouldn’t admit that he wasn’t quite ready to let go of Richie’s voice yet, either. “Yeah. A few minutes.”

---

An hour passed, and Eddie was nearly rolling with laughter, tears in his eyes.

“Stan almost killed you that day.”

Richie let out some more laughter himself, his sides aching from the amount of laughter he’d done. “When is Stan not almost killing me?”

“Good point, Richie.”

After their laughter died down, the godforsaken silence returned, bringing them back to their dreary reality.

Richie wondered if Eddie was thinking the same thing as him.

Before he could stop himself, he was vocalizing once again. “I miss you, Eds...” He whispered wistfully.

“Richie, please don’t...” Eddie begged, his own voice small with grief. As Eddie found himself sliding down to the floor, Richie was doing the same in the small phone booth miles away.

“No, let me talk, Eddie. I need to tell you something.” His throat was coated with saliva, making it heavy with sorrow as he tried to hold back his tears. “I know.. what we have is dead and gone. I know that I don’t deserve you. I’ve made you cry too many times. I fucked up too many times. I never deserved you, Eddie. I’m glad you have Bill, because he’s stable. He will never let you down when you need him.”

“I wish I could talk to you in person, but I know why that can’t be. I didn’t even mean to interrupt your life. I wasn’t going to, but I needed to you hear you one last time, Eddie.. I just.. I have one question for you. Can you answer this one question for me, Eds?”

Silent tears rolled down Eddie’s cheeks, his knees pulled up to his chest while he listened to Richie talk. He had spent years of stuffing these feelings for Richie down, but they were back tenfold. “What is it, Richie?”

Richie could no longer push back the tears, allowing them to freely drip from his eyes without trying to wipe them away. “I just wonder... do you ever think of me anymore? Do you?”

A choked sob fell past Eddie’s lips, but he tried to keep it quiet. He already knew Bill was on edge about him talking to Richie, and Bill hearing him cry would ruin everything.

“I think about you all the fucking time, Richie. Even when I don’t want to. You still have a hold over me...”

That was all Richie needed to hear. He just needed to hear that he wasn’t the only one.

“I’ll leave you alone now, Eddie. I hope you and Bill have a great life together. Thank you for this. Thank you for giving this to me.”

A frown found Eddie’s face, his heart racing at Richie’s words. “Where are you?” He demanded as he scrubbed the tears from face.

Richie hesitated, unable to help himself as he said “the phone booth on Madison”.

“I’m coming. Just... stay there, okay?”

A sad smile found his lips, and he shook his head a few times despite Eddie not being able to see as he wiped away his own tears. He couldn’t let Eddie ruin what he had with Bill for him. That was the relationship Eddie needed. “I love you so fucking much, Eddie Spaghetti. Don’t ever forget that, okay? I will always love you.”

“Richie, please. Just wait for me.” Eddie scrambled up to his feet, frantically searching for a jacket to slide on. “I love you too. Wait for me. Please. Please, Richie.”

“Goodbye, Eddie.”

---

Eddie knew Bill didn’t believe him when he told him he was running to the store, but he didn’t stop him from leaving.

It had taken him 30 minutes to drive across town to Madison road, and when he reached that phone booth, he could feel his heart collapse once he saw it was completely empty.

He might have thought the whole phone call to be a dream, if he hadn’t seen the phone dangling down from the box.

Eddie crouched down in the booth, crying softly as he held the phone to his chest. “I still love you, Richie.”

[andryuska]

“Why can’t we still be friends?” —extasiie (bc u should always have an angsty option if u want to take it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

the best drunk history episode ( selectively accepting ) // @extasiie

it’s been a month and three days since their breakup.

a month and three days of refusing countless offers of ice cream, of remembering the things he’d forgotten in his former room when he’d moved out that he can no longer go and reclaim, of swallowing the ache in his heart as though to merely ignore its presence will eventually make it disappear. it’s been a month and three days of detaching himself from reality and living entirely in academia because to think of himself is to think of anatole. and to think of anatole is to doubt every assurance and every promise that this month and three days has not been the result of a misunderstanding that can be reconciled. he seeks distance, he seeks isolation, because if he does not, then all that remains in that empty heart will be regret.

( it’s been a bad month and three days. )

avoiding anatole forever, however appealing, has never been for andrei a particularly realistic possibility ; proximity and friends in common have eliminated the opportunity to never see that face again, to never have to hear the voice to which he had once so eagerly listened, or look into eyes that knew him uncomfortably well. coincidence would cross their paths again inevitably and terribly, and andrei has laid awake in bed almost every night ( painfully alone ) dreading the moment it happens. reality has become a blur of sleeplessness and disinterest ; even the softest touch has become an assault. he cannot remember the last time he’s smiled, but thinks with bitter irony that it must have been a month and four days ago.

 andrei has always imagined that when it happened, he would be ready. he would have moved on and picked up his life ; tossed away the sharpened shards of a shattered heart, rebuilt the walls that had crashed down in that mistaken trust he’d had for his former boyfriend. he’s expected to regain that cold strength which, before anatole, had been so easy. he’s expected to no longer be weak —- to be so entirely over it that they might pass without a word or worry, and go on with their lives. he’s always imagined this with great certainty ; and as he stands in the face of this question, before the man he has hoped to forget, that his imagination has been entirely incorrect.

the sight of him —- the immediacy of the question that surely cannot be answered with ease —- sends a through andrei a jolt of such cold pain that he feels, for several seconds, as though he cannot move ( as much as he’d like to do just that ; to turn away and run and not yet face those moment while still the memory of their parting makes him feel so weak and isolated ). it does not soon pass ; his blood is ice against his will, his eyes locked forward in a wide stare, his hands curled in his pockets, making fists that stifle shaking fingertips. how is he to do this? how does he speak when he’s not yet found the words to name his own grief?

it occurs to him that he can say nothing —- that the cold is welcome. and yet despite the knot in his throat, this much is, inexplicably, not an option. that it shall, somehow, be a defeat, to not speak at all. and anatole has taken too much of his dignity already. what is he to do, then —- what is he to say, if not nothing?

why can’t they still be friends?

because you hurt me, that aching, honest part of him thinks before it might be silenced, because thinking about you still hurts me. because every second that they spend apart, every night that andrei spends in his own frigid company, is a struggle. because every time he even thinks of him, the notion that this is a mistake returns in full force. because every time that his heart aches and writhes for relief, he knows that he can never reach the only one who might have relieved it. and he knows, just as well, that to give into the impulsive and emotional urge that the mere thought of anatole brings is to give into that stupid nagging notion that their breakup had been a mistake. it is to give in and to beg forgiveness, and to ask to return to loving arms, even if they will again strangle him into ruin.

impulse begs return ; reason restrains it. and where once the former had won his last internal war, the scars left upon the battlefield remain open and festering —- and his reason knows too well that this soul cannot survive that same struggle over again. they cannot be friends. they cannot be friends, because if they are friends, andrei will not be able to stop himself —- he’ll want anatole, he’ll love anatole, even if he knows how unhealthy it has always been. and though some part of him promises to be better, it’s not entirely in his hands. the improvement of his counterpart cannot be assured ; the uncertainty in this is too great to risk.

“ anatole. ” though the intention is to sound reluctant, andrei instead is stiff and unnatural, and his arms have crossed over his chest. his index finger taps away an anxious rhythm. he has ceded the ability to be fully cold before anatole ; no matter what distance sits between their lives, he knows ( and tries to hate ) that some part of him will always feel close to him. it’s difficult to keep talking as well —- difficult to know what words he is supposed to say now that they’re not together, difficult to not revert to touch to express what his mind cannot adequately compose. what he does say isn’t enough ; but there is nothing else in him.

“ you know that we can’t —- it’s not … it can’t happen. you have to understand that. we can’t … after what happened, it won’t be —- it won’t work. i don’t —- i don’t want to talk about this, i think we shouldn’t … ”