#cw: grief

[cracklewink]

organized by lady rainicorn

[stephreynaart]

Sad!Ford sketch

[amaryllidae]

her fiercest warrior

[icaruspendragon]

Progress was a Latin word before it became a miracle.

Its creation owed to the combination of pro and gradi, meaning “in front, forward” and “to walk,” respectively.

That’s what progress is, isn’t it?

To walk forward.

To walk forward. Even though you’re terrified that you’re accidentally leaving something behind.

To walk forward. Even though it’s dark and you can’t see that fabled light everyone promises you’re walking towards.

Forward. Even though you don’t recognize your surroundings and feel lost and so very alone.

Even though you’ve been walking all your life and don’t think you can’t take another step.

Forward.

Forever forward.

Even when your footsteps are leadladen and so heavy onward happens in increments so infuriatingly tiny you are unable to notice the dogged-drag of the dirt shifting under your soles.

When you don’t think you deserve to take another step.

I’m coming to realize that regardless if I’m actively trying or not, I’m moving forward. We all are. That’s just what life does. It moves forward.

It progresses. A feat miraculous and terrifying.

Moving forward even though you don’t think you want to. Because you’re not ready to move on from the comfort that darkness offers. Because you don’t think you’ve earned the momentum promised by the light. Because the first hint of the light’s warmth feels like a betrayal to darkness. Because the darkness took the place of the love-stained-light that was there first. Because it feels like I should mourn the loss of light forever.

Because walking forward means progress and progress means getting better and getting better means the darkness is fading and if the darkness is fading, that means I’m no longer mourning the light. And no longer mourning the light feels like I’m leaving him behind. And if I’m leaving him behind, does that mean I miss him less? A horrific miracle: to leave love behind.

And yet, the wonders never cease!

Walking forward and leaving not my love nor his behind.

I carry them both with me.

In me,

A love taken gently and tucked in my chest for safekeeping.

So that he may be made a part of me,

An internal light to guide as I stumble forward.

As I crawl my way through the dirt of the grave and out of the darkness.

And when my coffin-bloody fingers finally break through the surface,

When my ground-chilled body finally feels the warmth of the sun again,

When my two-in-one heart starts beating again,

Like a patchwork Lazarus,

We will both rise.

Though the body that once housed his heart no longer progresses,

With each step I take,

His love walks forward

To be known by everyone I meet.

And ain’t that the biggest fucking miracle you’ve ever seen?

[jenowithjaem]

word count: 1103 | warnings: centered around reader being upset because of their father, reader cries, allusions to alcohol/alcoholism, mentions of grief and the death of an unnamed family member (reader’s brother), hurt/comfort, non-sexual nudity (they take a bath), trauma dumping except it’s me who’s trauma dumping lol *reader wears makeup but no pronouns or gender indicators are used; Seungcheol calls reader baby a lot

Seungcheol knew that something was wrong as soon as he stepped over the threshold of your shared apartment’s front door. It was unusually quiet- normally bustling with music or noise from the kitchen. Not even the TV in the living room was on.

Once his shoes are off, he navigates his way through the dark apartment, heading straight for the bedroom. He finds you tucked under a pile of blankets, initially thinking that you're asleep.

But when he hears your quiet sniffles, he immediately drops his coat from his arms, the leather falling to the floor carelessly.

“Baby.” You hear your boyfriend's voice call out softly, yet filled with concern. Then the blankets are being pulled off of you and your body is exposed to the cool chill of your bedroom. The bed dips under Seungchoel’s weight, and his hands are rubbing your back gently. “Baby, what's wrong?”

You stay quiet. Seungcheol knows it'll take a few minutes for you to calm down enough to speak- as you don’t usually speak when you're crying- so he patiently waits until you're ready, continuing to rub comforting circles on your back.

A few minutes pass and you finally lift your head from the heap of pillows. Your makeup is smudged and it stains one of the pillows.

Seungcheol carefully reaches out to wipe the crusty mascara from under your eyes. He pulls you into his chest and you have to keep yourself from crying again. You take a few deep breaths and then you pull away, finally deciding to speak.

“I was supposed to see my parents today, but it fell through.” Was all you had said.

“Did something happen? Are your parents okay?” Seungcheol asks, a frown on his face.

“They're okay.” You assure him.

He nods, confused. “Okay... So what happened, then?”

“Well-” you kind of hesitate. It's not that you don't trust Seungcheol, and it's not that you're not comfortable telling him. It's just that- you know that speaking it out loud makes it that much more real. You let out a breath and hand your head. “Dad’s been drinking again,” you say sadly.

“Ah,” he says, immediately understanding why you're as upset as you are.

“I was really looking forward to seeing them today. And I know that I can drive over there myself, but when mom told me that-” You stop to take a breath. “That dad said he's not driving anywhere because he'd been drinking, it completely ruined my mood. Hearing that made me not even want to see them anymore today.” Seungcheol takes your hand in his, softly running his thumb over your knuckles.

“I feel bad because I hung up on mom. And I know it's not her fault, but it was either hang up and just text her or cry while on the phone. And you know I don't fancy crying in front of people, so I hung up and texted her that we could just wait until tomorrow. I don't have the heart to tell her that I didn't want to be around him if he'd been drinking.” You blink away the tears that threaten to spill, using your free hand to wipe your eyes. This just smears your makeup even more.

“I hate to be like that because I know he's only like that because of ..what happened, but sometimes I feel like he forgets that he's not the only one who lost someone that day.” Someone being your older brother who passed away when you were a teenager. It's something that you've come to terms with over the last few years, and although it'll never be something you get over, it’s something that’s slowly become easier to live with as time passes.

And you know that everyone grieves differently- you know, because you’ve seen it differently in your father and your mother and your other brother- but it's just like you said; it's almost like he forgets that he's not the only one who lost someone that day.

You sniffle before speaking again. “I feel like- like I'm just being sensitive and-” but Seungcheol cuts you off.

“Your feelings matter. And if you feel like you can't, or that you don't want to be around your father when he's like that, then that's completely valid. Don't discredit yourself for having boundaries. Whether it's your parents or not.'' His voice is stern, and you know he's right. You also know that it's pointless to try and argue back. So you don't. You just nod your head and thank him.

“You're welcome, baby. Now let's get your face cleaned of all that makeup. Do you want to take a bath?”

You nod your head and Seungcheol pulls you up from the bed and towards the bathroom.

He helps you clean the ruined makeup from your face, gently wiping it away with a cloth and micellar water. Then he lets you wash your face while he runs the water, making sure it's just the way you like it. He lets the tub fill while he goes back to the bed to collect the linen to be washed, grabbing two towels on his way back in. You're stripped out of your clothes and in the water by then, and Seungcheol soon joins you. He sits behind you, with your back pressed against his broad chest.

The two of you stay silent for the most part, occasionally speaking here or there. But after a while, you break the silence with a quiet call of his name. Your hands are swishing around the water in front of you and you sound timid, almost nervous. He answers with a hum, and you crane your neck around to look at him, only to find him looking at you lovingly.

“Thank you. For always being there for me, and for never making me feel like I'm being overly dramatic or sensitive.”

Seungcheol kisses your temple.

“You don't have to thank me, baby. But I do think you should try and talk to your parents tomorrow and tell them how you feel. It's Saturday so I'll be off- I can go with you if you need some mutual support.”

“I really appreciate the offer, but I think this is something I need to do by myself.”

Seungcheol understands that this is something personal and doesn't necessarily concern him, so he just nods and lets you know that he’ll be there if you change your mind.

“I’ll sleep on it.” You tell him with a small smile.

And you've never been so thankful to have such a strong yet gentle support system like him.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

Thank you for reading! I’m sorry that this one was so much darker than the other two blurbs I’ve put out. Let me know if I’ve made any mistakes or left out any warnings!

Please remember that it’s okay to reach out for help if you’re struggling with any kind of addiction. And remember that you’re not alone <3

[laelior]

The Weight of the World

To: Master Operations Chief (ret.) Margaret Shepard

This letter is to inform you that your granddaughter, Lieutenant Commander Bethany Shepard, was presumed killed in action following the destruction of the SSV Normandy by unknown enemy forces on December 5, 2183. 

Lieutenant Commander Shepard’s service with the Alliance was an example to us all and her heroic actions in service both to Earth and the Citadel Council will never be forgotten. 

At this time, we are unable to publicly announce details related to the destruction of the SSV Normandy. At such a time when we are able, rest assured that the Alliance will lay Lieutenant Commander Shepard to rest with full military honors.

Please accept my sincerest condolences for your loss.

Adm. Steven HackettAlliance 5th Fleet Command

Anderson sat in the back of his skycar, numbly rehearsing the words of the letter in his hands over the neatly-folded Alliance flag and Alliance-stamped urn in his lap. God, for such a small jar it must have weighed a ton. Nevermind that it was empty.

His eyes continually wandered to the shallow, formulaic words on the flimsy paper in his hands, hoping that somehow they’d magically rearrange themselves into something less weighty than the gravitational pull of a whole damn planet before the skycar touched down.

Hackett had already sent nineteen letters just like the one in his hands to nineteen different addresses. Letters addressed to Preslies, Dravens, Tanakas and so forth. Letters only confirming what the rumor mill had already been circulating for months. Letters delivered by NCOs and junior officers with black bands around their arms as a thin show of solidarity for their losses. It had been tempting to pass this particular letter off to someone else, too, but some things just had to be done.

“We’re almost there, sir,” the driver said.

The skycar gently touched down on the street next to a neat little house with an immaculately maintained garden. Even in the dead of winter the hedges were neatly trimmed and the flower beds were freshly mulched.

The driver went out to ring the doorbell while Anderson slowly gathered himself for the news he had to deliver.

The woman who came out to the front porch to greet him after a moment was smaller than he expected. He’d never met her before, but Peggy Shepard was a legend in her own right. One of the founding mothers of the Alliance non-commissioned officer’s corp and one of the best damn sniper instructors the service ever had. Hell, her 500-meter longshot record had stood for nearly forty years and had only been broken a few years ago by Lieutenant Coats.

And she didn’t need a letter to tell her why he was here. That was obvious from the hard, steely look in her eyes that flicked to his uniform, the flag tucked under one arm, and the black band around the other. Her eyes lingered on the captain’s stars on his lapel and her hand twitched at her side, fighting the reflexive urge to salute. Old habits died hard, and habits drilled in by a lifetime of military discipline were harder to kill than most. When she looked him right in the eye, though, Anderson had to fight the urge to flinch.

Throughout his military career, Anderson had faced more threats than he cared to count, from the petty political rivalries that riddled the service right up to Saren himself. And just then he would have rather faced down Sovereign itself if it meant getting away from the look in her eyes.

She was no stranger to this ritual. A casual glimpse at the Shepard family tree told him how many of its branches had been pruned like this. But that never meant it was easy to be the bearer of this particular news.

“Ma’am,” he intoned formally. Formalities were good. They were safe. He held up the folded flag and offered it to her with both hands. But before he could so much as open his mouth to say the words that were the next part of the ritual, she held up a hand and drew in a shaky breath.

“It’s true, isn’t it? What they’ve been saying?” She asked quietly. No need to ask what they were saying.

Anderson could only nod stiffly. “I’m afraid so, ma’am.”

She quietly accepted the flag, taking the weight from him and hugging it closely to her chest. 

“The Alliance offers its sincerest condolences for your loss,” he intoned, getting back to the words of the ritual. “If there’s anything we can do for you….” He trailed off. There was nothing the Alliance could do for her that would remotely make up for the magnitude of her loss, and there was no point pretending otherwise. 

She nodded in acknowledgement of the harsh, unspoken truth that passed between them.

“I need to make arrangements,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, before turning back into her house and letting the door slam shut behind her. The large wooden door closed with a resounding thud that made him flinch with its finality. He set the urn and the letter down on the porch table next to the door and went back to the car, his duty thus discharged.

If it was a tragedy for a parent to bury their child, then it was an utter goddamn travesty for a grandparent to lower their grandchild’s casket into the ground.

The driver cleared his throat, cutting across the uncomfortable silence that filled the car. “Where to next, sir?”

“Norfolk,” he said, picking the closest Alliance base he could think of off-hand. The car began its ascent, leaving the view of the Shepard household behind.  “Drop me off at the officer’s club, and tell them to have a glass of Ardbeg 16 ready, no ice.”

Something to wash away the ashy taste of having been the one to send Peggy Shepard’s granddaughter to her empty grave.

[whyeverr]

just a lil update to say I’m continuing my semi-hiatus, and not just because we’re still buried under 3 ft of snow (we are) …

I had to say goodbye to my senior cat last week and I’ve been a fuuuuuucking trainwreck 🥲

obviously with her advanced age I knew it was a long time coming but that hasn’t made it any less painful. and as much as the sims is a comfort to me, it’s something I haven’t had the creative energy to really throw myself into just yet.

I’m still around, and I’ll be back to posting my bacc in time. just not rushing back in to anything.

please do yourself a favor and squeeze your pets with alllllll the love they can handle. we never know how long we get, but however long it’s never enough. 💗

[boundinparchment]

“If There Is a Substitute For Love, It Is Memory…”

“…To memorize, then, is to restore intimacy." In which Il Dottore mourns. Inspired by a quote by poet Joseph Brodsky.

Reader is gender-neutral, referenced as being deceased. Contains grief, mourning, and the topic of death in general. Might eventually write a companion for this one. Also on AO3 here.

He considered preserving you, once upon a time.  Cryogenics were simple, although that wasn’t to say that a Segment with your consciousness was not an option.

But it was one you vehemently turned down every time he suggested it.  Your body, full of carbon and water and prone to breaking, was continuing to fail you anyway.  Why did you want to persist as flesh when he could remove the common factor of your suffering?

Why did you want to be a slave to fate?

Why did you want to leave him?

Didn’t you love him?

Of course you did, you said.  And that your time was limited made the moments together all the more precious .

For if there was no limit on time, what would be special?  What would be sacred?

He looked upon corpses thousands of times in his extended lifespan but seeing you still and stiff atop the built pyre broke something deep inside of him.  You only ever exuded life.  Bright, cheerful.  If he was a slow-burning star, churning on regardless of devastation, then you were brilliant like a diamond in the sun, your clarity only visible to those who dared to cast you into perfect circumstances.

To continue looking would ruin what he still held in the recesses of his mind but he could not ignore these final moments.

A book clutched to your chest, your fingers still stained with ink.  Every time you touched him, he thought of how your profession lived in your skin, in your veins, as if you lived and breathed the ink you committed to paper.  

Dottore touched the leather cover of the book, tracing the letters he helped you etch.

You read this one aloud to him.  A field of Zaytun Peaches and a friendly bee accompanied the two of you.  A confession wrapped in an allegory of words that were as carefully placed as an artist’s brushstrokes or a mechanic’s blueprint lines.

He had another copy, of course.  Not that he needed it.  He could recite that poem backwards and in at least four languages.

Gloved hands fixed that stupid strand of hair that never cooperated.  It was as stubborn as you.

Preserving your form would be a disservice in every way; it took every ounce of self-control to not listen to his Segments and his own burning pain.  In your place at his side was an echo of a shadow and whatever he saved would be the worst imitation of your likeness.

Funny, that you could do that: curb his curiosity that way.  A perfect opportunity to attempt to raise the dead and seek a solution and yet he did not want it.

Dottore stroked your cheek and pressed his lips to your cold forehead.  He flicked his fingers as he stepped back, sparks catching and finding sustenance on the dry kindling.  

He stayed until the moon’s glow revealed nothing but ash, your presence all but erased from the world.  Your words, your smile, your laugh remained etched in his heart: that he had you at all, for however short a time, gave him all he never needed.

[thisaccountisagainstmywill]

In the Garden of Grief

My first published fanfiction. Finished just in time for everyone to be super upset about Gort changes. Huge thank you to @dandelion-bride for beta reading for me. Shout out to @the-grand-gemini and my own winter-swollen fingers for helping me think too much about Chronic Pain Gortash. Pairing: Implied Dark Urge/Enver Gortash Rating: T Summary: Set soon after the Dark Urge goes missing. Gortash waits for a meeting with the House of Grief and cannot help but reminisce. Warnings: Angst, Descriptions of Chronic Pain and Injuries, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Grief, Depression Word Count: 2,962

Below the cut or on AO3

Counselor Enver Gortash pulled his simple cloak tighter and carefully turned his face from the checkpoint guards as he entered the Lower City’s streets. He was dressed down without his trappings of office, and bare of all but a few baubles of his faith and personal necessities, leaving himself almost unrecognizable.

For the first time in years, he was alone outside of his office and estate. No peasant crowd gathered to hear him speak, not one guard or attendant at his heel. He felt vulnerable without them, but no one could know what their lord was about to do.

He had not slept in a tenday. Food would not sit right, so he resigned himself to black coffee and smoking tobacco just to remain upright. The ever-present bags beneath his eyes had sunk even deeper and darker, leaving his face gaunt and looking bruised. The purpling served only to emphasize the spiderwebs of broken capillaries that reddened his eyes. Black stubble across his cheeks had gone untended and now sprouted in unruly growths that framed cracking lips.

Enver felt a shell of himself, and his Dark Lord was beginning to notice. During the too-long blinks that served as whispers of sleep, his Lord would sow his mind with doubt. To rule over Banites was to rule over constantly circling sharks. A faltering ruler was doomed to be torn apart, as he had torn apart so many before him. He could not go on as he did - he had reached the breaking point. Something needed to change. He would purge himself of this weakness before it could be preyed on by his lessers.

The streets of Baldur’s Gate were dimming as the sun sank lower over the Gray Harbor. He had planned this excursion for when the City would be empty enough for him to pass unrecognized, but not enough to raise suspicion. Children rushed through the streets to answer calls to dinner. Fisherfolk and other tradesmen slowly ambled their way home. Shopkeeps closed up street stalls, and newspaper hawkers rushed their unsold supplies back to the Mouth.

No one paid him any mind. He was no lord today, just another weary man.

As he made his way over cobblestoned streets, he favored his good leg the best he could, but recent rains made the ground damp and his gait slow and awkward in turn. More than once his boots skidded too wet across uneven stones. A bad ankle made it hard to brace against looming falls, and he had to pause and will himself steady anytime the threat arose. So he resigned himself to trudge onward, tentatively shifting his weight from side to side as his body allowed. His Master’s blessing kept him from aging as Chosen, but on these days when Bane’s favor waned and the Black Hand’s grip loosened, the reminders of mortality reared their spiteful heads.

Enver paused a moment, the effort made just to walk corroding his resolve. With his back pressed against the wall of a house, he rubbed the swollen joints of his fingers. He left most of his rings at home, the Netherstone stowed carefully in a pocket close to his skin. Exposed to the world now, his fingers swelled red, ugly, and noticeably crooked. He hated the sight of them. Too many injuries and too many years past now, he could not remember exactly what caused each of them. A fracture left untreated. Too many sloppy resettings. A mishap while tinkering. Maybe he had hit an underling too hard. Perhaps they swelled simply as a warning of another storm on the horizon. It didn’t matter. He was all aches these days. The worst of them penetrated through his flesh, past his bones, and into the core of the man beneath. He exhaled a slow, steadying breath and scanned the emptying street.

He had plotted his route meticulously before he deigned to take this trip. Save for the rare crossroads, he would only pass residential buildings. By design, this would keep his business secret. In his hard-won experience, Baldurians did not care what their neighbor did, as long as it did not inconvenience them or feed the gossip mills. If he did not give them a reason to care about him, they wouldn't.

Across from his brief shelter stood a bulletin board decorated with local announcements and requests long left unanswered. Amongst them, he was greeted by the shining smile of the man he had been a month ago. The image of that man mocked him with its vibrancy. He could not now bear to look at himself, be it in a mirror or these false fragments he had too diligently plastered across the city. The consequences of his successes and plots weighed heavy on him. With a silent snarl, Gortash pushed his pains and self-pity down, swiftly paced across the street to the board, and tore the poster down. His body groaned at the effort, but he drowned its protests out in rage. Piece by piece he ripped through the printed façade of his own wretched face and let the remnants fall away limply into the mud. A hero's smile and shining halo faded as the dampness claimed the shreds.

That man who was in those posters did not know hurt as he did, not the gaping wound of loss, not hungering maw of words unspoken and deeds left undone. That man did not know what was to come and, oh, how he envied him now.

There has been no body. No evidence. No closure. Just another seated where his companion should have been. That was all the evidence Enver needed. He was not fool enough to hope.

He ground the last bits of paper into the mud with his dressed-down boots. Filth splattered over the freshly waxed leather. His face twisted down into a sneer at them. Perhaps he would make that his parents' problem before the end of the evening.

With a sharp flex of his fingers, he cracked his knuckles and returned to his path. His momentary show of weakness had only impressed on him the importance of completing his mission tonight.

Enver passed an iron fence and crossed a low bridge, arriving finally at the House of Grief. He had never been here himself - it was a refuge for men weaker than him. The House’s reputation and skills had reached him through idle chatter at a meeting of counselors, and with no current confidants to discuss such sensitive matters with, he determined then and there to make an appointment.

He paused before the stoop to the main entrance of the House. Hesitation was not like him, but the rashness that brought him here wasn't either. Doubt crept like a cold hand up the back of his neck, raising his nape hairs and setting his empty stomach in knots.

A Griefguard paused their patrol across the House’s gardens to address him somberly, “I am afraid we are closing for the evening.”

Gortash looked up from his brief contemplation. “I sent a letter ahead with a generous donation. An exception will be made,” his reply terse.

“Ah.” A dull sense of recognition sparked across the Griefguard's face. “Very well. The previous client’s appointment is running long. Please take a seat in the garden, and we will inform you when the Inquirer is available again.”

Their flat and practiced tones only served to infuriate him. He did not require the coddling of their typical clientele, only their services rendered on schedule as promised.

Still, he complied and took a seat at the small table in the far garden. At this spot, he was comfortably away from the bumbling patrons who hadn't enough mind to survive the delving of the so-called Inquirers and return home after their appointments. The garden was as peaceful as the Lower City could get. A waterway that framed the garden on two sides, and the lush shading trees and trellis of vines, made the spot seem like an oasis in the urban sprawl. Fine smooth brick buildings and the dividing wall of the Upper City left the garden fairly private and gently separated from the noise and stench of the Foundry and Fishmarkets only a stone's throw away.

Enver did not like being here.

Inaction did not suit him. He sat stiffly, his torso held upright and off the back of the chair. Beneath the table, the foot of his good leg tremored and tapped impatiently against the slate walkway. His right hand, the worse of the two, was stashed away from the growing evening cold beneath layers of woolen cloak. Bulging knuckles clenched together to find some semblance of relief. The other hand flipped idly at the book left on the marble-topped table, an enticingly named tome with contents that served only to disappoint: some sloppily printed and useless dribble about self-improvement. Yet the points within on obedience may’ve held some merit. The place seemed perfectly constructed to lull visitors into false security and reliance.

He scanned the garden, his raptorial mind desperate for something to focus on. Windows from the House itself stared down into the garden. Inside, silhouettes of figures moved lazily about, but he could not make out exact shapes. A deep, loathing frown etched its way onto his face as he thought bitterly on being made to wait. His time was precious and precarious – the city, Faerun, and Toril itself relied on his time being well spent. Now it was being wasted in this damnable garden with its artfully overgrown yard.

He bristled at the sight of the flowers: poppies for remembrance, valerian flowers for a sedative, bixa as a cure-all and aphrodisiac– information he had learned unwittingly while babbled at in his youth by Lady Jannath – or perhaps it was Lady Hullhollyn, he would check his notes later.

With dimming eyes he squinted at the rooftops of the buildings that framed this place. It was paranoia that drove him to search the rooflines, yet he could not help but think of the man who was his cause of being here today.

On idle evenings the two would sit on a balcony outside of his office or at his estate. Enver would give the man a theoretical starting point somewhere in the city or outside of it. The Bhaalist would point to rooftops and with his fingers trace an imagined path across them. All the while Enver would listen, a drink in his hand, while the other man articulated aloud the exact route he would take to arrive where they stood and kill them both without ever being seen.

When he felt roguish, Enver would attempt to break the other man’s plan by throwing complications into the scenario: the structure of that house is failing, the roof can’t support him; the lady of that house suspects her lord of adultery and has been watching all night; that house had a warding alarm; that house has a pigeon problem and has spiked the roof. Then he would watch in awe and delight as his Assassin’s mind would spin its gears and adapt to his challenge.

In the morning, Enver would update his security or mandate proposals to handle the prior night’s winning scenario. The next time they played, he would increase the difficulty for his companion just to make it to him on the balcony: traps placed at blind corners, light-sleeping visitors, a change in patrols, and even once an ill-fated endeavor with guard dogs.

Each time, the man would surprise him by finding an unexpected route around the new obstacles: static sent in questing tendrils over stone walls, a paranoia-induced argument started between two guards as a distraction, a seamless joining of the patrol, or the dogs rallied and set loose on the rest of the house. When he arrived finally at his goal, Enver himself, his eyes would be ablaze with delight.

It was a game for them and though neither ever mustered the will to say it: they relished the precious moments it let them linger together.

Never again.

Hurt welled behind Enver’s eyes and threatened to spill down his face. He frowned ugly and deep. The lines of a life not lived well, but lived thoroughly, cut his features into a grim mask. It was bad enough he was at this House of Grief, he would not let this weakness show more than necessary.

The secrets that threatened to be revealed here if he was not careful would leave him vulnerable and a dead man, but he would be dead anyway if his feeble affliction was not cured soon. He did not like this plan – but he did not have to like a plan born of desperation. It was necessary.

In their Absolute Plot, he had prepared for every inevitability but one: the death of his god-born associate. A being sculpted from such power did not die easily, and at the time it seemed impossible.

Maybe when the pain passed he would let himself see the potential and ambition in Orin. For now, the thought was vomitous. She was a feral dog that had eaten its better and nothing more.

Lesser beings had done more calamitous deeds. That fact he was certain of. Yet, try as he might, he could not think of what could be worse. This calamity affected him. His world was cracking at the seams and threatened to fall apart entirely.

As he remained in this garden, the gusto and determination that drove him here faded. In their absence, he yearned for the presence of another. For the confidence and safety he brought. For the wild but ever-present warmth of their love.

He pondered that word, love. He had cast it at debutantes and dilettantes alike who demanded to hear it in the throes of his performative passions. But here it threatened to mean something more than those placating lies. It made the saliva on his tongue curdle at the taste of it now. It was true that he had loved the man as simpletons would understand it, but there was a depth of meaning there that could not be contained within that simple word.

What is it to love more than ‘love’ could contain? Adoration captured his affection, but it could not grasp a sliver of their grotesque intimacies. Exaltation captured his devotion, but it felt too sterile for a bond made hands deep in sinews and viscera.

No, it was not enough. It would never be enough. They were two beings on the cusp of ascension and they loved like gods: well beyond the paltry lexicon of any mortals. They were first at the altars of each other—two gods-to-be in tandem veneration—equal parts in a singular whole.

His left hand slid idly to the trinket remnants of their promise, kept safe with him on his belt even dressed down as he was. The open maw for him, at once Infernal and Banite, and the spiraling wyrm for the man he lost. The symbols united, just as they were by an unbreakable bond. By the time they had sworn their oaths to each other, it had been only a formality, the symbols themselves were mere tokens of affection.

These solid, simple reminders were one of the few things he had left as worldly evidence of the man. When he realized the loss of his companion, he had swept through his saved papers like a machine. Without the man there he was vulnerable. Each letter that could not be twisted to mean Orin was physical proof of his weakness. Systematically he burned the evidence of the man who was. Anything that would not grace his memoirs was turned to ash and left to the wind. He regretted it now, in the depth of his sentimentality. The only other remnants of his Bhaalspawn were their plan and his grief.

That grief was the last and lingering gift from the one man he could not help but love. The last wound that dug as deep as his Assassin’s blades ever did in life. Each ragged breath dragged against the hollow in him, sending reverberations from his core skinward where they threatened to shake the tears loose from his eyes.

They would not take his grief from him. This pain was his.

Enver wrapped a covetous hand around the unified tokens at his belt, his sudden rage driving him as he squeezed until the pointed metal cut into the meat of his palm and sent a crimson trickle through clenched fingers. The sharp pain made him feel alive again. It broke through the dull and longing ache and fueled him enough to stand.

On forcefully steady legs, he determined then and there that he would dig his fingers into the wound in his heart, bore it deeper, and make it scar. A hole in him, borne of them both. He would fill that aching hole with malice and let it fester. He would not let their machinations become what could have been, they would still be. If his love could not live, he would spew the combined remnants of them both across the world and have the weak and unworthy suffer for it.

Where tears had once threatened to pool in his eyes, they now burned with fury. A smile stretched across his worn face, all teeth and no eyes. He recalled an idle fancy of his belated beloved, jovial musings shared in the dead of night, at the time when great and terrible feats are birthed to those who dare listen to wicked whispers. His love and their plans would live on through his deeds.

The first of his love letters to a dead man would be written tonight, painted across the Outer City in bits of refugee.

[gemini-forest]

CW: infant death, miscarriage

We know Jayden had a miscarriage and didn't handle it well. But how did Leo handle it?

CW: Grief

Yeah he really didn't handle it well either. He was morning for a while in private. He didn't want Jayden or really anyone to see him cry.

But he cried for a good long while.

[sirianasims]

We had dinner at the food stall behind the gallery, talking about everything and nothing. Paul asked about my costumes and I showed him some of my cosplays and even a few original designs on my phone. He could name every single character I’d done, and I was quite thrilled to discover that he was just as much of a geek as I was. I don’t know why I had expected otherwise, considering the kind of roles he played.

He told me he’d loved comics and superheroes since he was a child, so when the casting call for a live-action Llama Man series went out he had jumped at the chance even though he knew the risk.

And he’d been right. By the time the series ended, he was too established as Llama Man and casting directors were passing him over for more serious roles.

He didn’t seem to mind that much though. He said that being a lead actor was hard work and he much preferred smaller roles where he could have some more creative input. These days, he mostly worked on Llama Man: The Animated Series and a few other voice acting gigs.

After the gallery closed, we found ourselves on a bench outside. The night was warm. I didn’t feel like going back to my apartment yet, and Paul didn’t seem to be in any hurry either.

“Finally, the director told me that if I didn’t get it together, he was going to replace me with an actual llama next season. So, obviously I had to bring a llama for the launch party. He did not appreciate the gesture. Turns out very few llamas are house-trained.”

Our laughter echoed slightly in the empty plaza.

“You know, you remind me a little of my grandfather.”

“Ouch. You wound me. I’m not even forty, you know.”

“No, I mean, he was an actor as well. Conrad Richards. He loved pranks like that too.”

“Conrad Richards was your grandfather?”

“Well, he married my grandmother, but he was always grandpa Conrad to me.”

“That’s amazing. I was a big fan of his, actually. I liked how he always seemed to have fun with it, not like those actors who take themselves too seriously.”

“Yeah, he never took anything seriously. In every memory I have of him, he’s laughing.” My voice wavered slightly. “Sorry, I still miss him a lot.”

“Understandable.”

Paul took my hand.

“I wish I could tell you that it gets easier, but the truth is, it doesn’t. You just get better at carrying the pain.”

He looked away, seemingly lost in thought.

“When my father died, my mother told me that grief is just love that no longer has a home. It has nowhere to go. So, what you need to do is give it a new home. Surround yourself with friends and family. Love the ones you have left even harder. It doesn’t make the grief go away, but they will help you carry it.”

He cleared his throat and gave my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. I immediately missed the warmth.

“Thank you, Paul. I mean it.”

“You’re welcome. Julia.”

We sat in silence for a moment. Then, he looked at his watch and smiled at me, back to his cheerful self.

“Sadly, as much as I’d love to, we can’t sit here and chat all night. I have to catch a flight back to the Valley in the morning. So unless you feel like walking me to my hotel to make sure I don’t get lost, we should probably part ways.”

“Sure. Where’s your hotel, then?”

He hesitated, his eyes searching my face.

“ZenView Heights. But -“

I leapt to my feet. “It’s this way.”

Paul grabbed my wrist and looked at me with a serious expression.

“Julia, it was a joke. And that’s way too far to walk. Are you really sure about coming back to my hotel?”

I tried to listen for that little voice in my head, the one that was supposed to warn me when I was about to do something stupid, but there was only silence. 

And Paul.

I nodded, slightly surprised at myself. Paul sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing any more,” he muttered as we walked to the street to find a taxi.

beginning / previous / next

[nancygillianmvp]

fic pride friday

Rules: Post your favorite line or passage from as many of your published works as you’d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too.

thank you for the tag @lemonlyman-dotcom i'm using this to try and be kinder to myself in how i think about my own writing

strays (5 + 1 of TK attempting to bring home a 'pet' from a call, Nancy POV)

“Carlos has been talking about maybe getting a cat…” TK muses. Here we go again , Nancy thinks.  There’s no mistaking the look on her partner’s face; she’s seen it more times than she can count—he wants to take this wild animal home. She knows his heart is in the right place, but the sooner Carlos relents and lets him get a cat—or a fish, or a hamster even, any kind of pet—the better as far as she’s concerned because talking him out of bringing home new ‘pets’ every week gets exhausting. “Dude, stop, don’t even say it.”  “You can’t possibly know what I was going to say.” “I know you, TK. You were going to suggest that murder mittens over there might be a good cat for you and Carlos to adopt, but the answer is no.” “Murder mittens? Look at him, Nancy—he’s just a little baby.” TK says, gazing longingly across the room at the tiger cub. “TK, I can’t believe we even need to have this conversation. You can’t raise a tiger in a downtown apartment. Tigers aren’t pets, or did you forget why we ended up here in the first place?" “Oh, but look at him. He’s only a baby. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” “This week, he’s a baby, sure. But do you know what babies do, TK? They grow up, and then you will be the one calling 911 because your 200-pound murder kitty went for the jugular, and when that happens, I’m not coming to save your ass, dude.”

nothing a kiss better can't fix (soft tarlos)

“Seriously, it’s nothing, TK,” Carlos says as he leans against the back of the 126 ambulance with his worried fiancé methodically checking him over.  “It’s not nothing, Carlos. You’re bleeding .” TK tells him, trying to gently guide him towards the stretcher. “Now, will you please sit down and let me treat you?” “I’m okay, TK. Breathe,” Carlos says, taking his fiancé’s hand. “This is nothing a kiss better can’t fix.”  “Is a kiss better for a certain flu-riddled fiancé of yours, perhaps exactly how you ended up in this situation, dude?” Nancy asks with a raised eyebrow and a laugh. “First of all, I’m not ‘flu riddled’,” TK tells her, putting dramatic air quotes around his words. “And second, how do you know about that?”  “When are you going to just admit I know everything,” Nancy tells him with a grin before adding. “Also, you’re both, like, hella predictable.”

sugar, butter, flour (5 + 1 TK and Gwyn baking)

His father and Carlos have always assured him that Jonah will know her through him, but as they stand in the kitchen, he wonders how he can ever live up to the task. TK is uncomfortably aware of the ache of grief in his chest alongside a sharp streak of guilt. Guilt that he got 28 years of her love but spent so many of them pushing it away, too deep in the spiral of addiction to accept it. Those were years Jonah will never get, and TK wasted them.

and again (nancymarjan)

And then before she can dwell on it any further, the countdown hits midnight, the fireworks start in the distance, and Marjan kisses her. It’s like nothing she’s ever felt before, and while Nancy has never been a believer in destiny or soulmates, right now, at this moment, it’s undeniable that Marjan is her soulmate. 

when everythings made to be broken (introspective carlos/a 4x01 coda)

He takes a deep breath and silently tells himself, “You can do this,” and suddenly, he’s nineteen again and doing whatever he can to be a good son and live up to expectations. He’s standing at the altar trying to convince himself he can do this, that somehow he’ll be able to love her like he’s supposed to—like God wants him to—because his parents need him to, his family needs him to. He’s silently praying that, in time, he’ll be able to love like she deserves. She’s his best friend, and he can learn to love her like this, surely—he owes her that. But it doesn’t work out—despite his best efforts, he can’t love her the way she deserves, so he moves out, and she starts dating again, and he’s ready to drown in his shame. And then she disappears, and as the months drag on without a single credible lead, he goes through all the stages. 

no pressure tagging

@fallout-mars @paperstorm @literateowl

@reyesstrand @welcometololaland

[jammyness]

November, 2020. Thinking about this one lately.

[fluentmoviequoter]

A Place to Grieve

Pairing: Aragorn x fem!reader (Aragorn and Strider are used interchangeably)

Summary: After losing a loved one, Strider offers you a place to grieve. 1.5k+ words

Warnings: loss of unspecified loved one, angst, fluff, Sindarin, canon divergent, spoilers for The Fellowship of the Ring

A/N: I’ve never written for Strider before but I really want a hug from him, so this is completely self-indulgent. Honestly, this weekend has been pretty rough and I was really unmotivated to write until I started this. I hope it’s okay and if you have any feedback please leave a comment or drop it in my inbox!🤍

Photo from Pinterest

“… is gone.”

Aragorn only hears the end of Gandalf’s news, but his sad smile and comforting hand on your shoulder are more than enough to show it is bad news. You shake your head in a small motion, blinking quickly before whispering something and stepping back.

This is no time to mourn. No place to grieve.

Turning away from Gandalf, you lock eyes with Strider. Nodding, you silently tell him you are fine. However, Strider is a good friend and a better ranger. Lying to him is not only impossible, it is unwise.

Gandalf leads you and the hobbits at the front of the company, sending concerned looks your way whenever you near him. Frodo and Sam distract you with stories of The Shire, and though you try to let your mind drift, you can only think of the gnawing sense of loss rooting itself deep in your chest. Learning of your loss, it feels as though you have lost a piece of yourself, a portion of your soul ripped away with hidden mourning.

Behind you, Strider ignores Legolas as he watches you. Your distant expression and sorrow-filled gaze worry him.

“An inn!” Sam exclaims. “We wish to stop for the night, do we not?”

Gandalf sighs, smiling as he gestures toward the city. Sam, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin waste no time as they race toward the first sign of civilisation in countless miles. Legolas taps your shoulder kindly as he steps around you. After he falls into step with Gandalf, you take a shaky breath and close your eyes tightly, burying your rising emotions. Strider’s hand meets your arm, gently tugging you toward him. You look toward him but not at him, concerned you may fall apart if he asks what plagues your mind. Shaking your head, you pull away from him and follow Gandalf.

“Mell nîn,” Strider mutters under his breath. “Your heart calls out yet your mind silences it.”

Knowing that he is not always a good communicator, yet unwilling to risk losing your camaraderie and closeness, Strider often talks to you when you do not hear. Tonight, sensing the sadness deep in your being, he craves your words more than ever.

✨🗡️✨🗡️✨

Your breaths grow shallow and your eyes glassy before you stand, jostling your chair as you rush out of the dark pub. Strider follows you immediately, ignoring Gandalf’s soft laugh and guarantee that Strider can handle it. Gandalf knows that the hobbits and Legolas have grown attached to you; he has as well, but he is also the only one to notice your unique relationship with the ranger and rightful king of Gondor.

Strider says your name as he moves before you, raising a hand to stop you. You obey, halting as you wipe your freshly fallen tears off your cheeks.

Wishing to speak, comfort you, and welcome your words, Strider attempts to talk but falls speechless at the brokenness hiding behind your eyes, being slowly revealed as your tears continue.

“Excuse me,” you whisper, continuing around Strider.

He repeats your name, stopping you again. “I am sorry.”

“Why do you apologise?”

“Whatever news you have received ails you.”

Tightening your jaw, you move away from Strider again. Talking about it makes it real, solidifies it within your mind and heart and makes it impossible to hold yourself together.

“Please do not make me use force to comfort you, meleth nîn,” Strider pleads.

“You have no rule here, my king. There is nothing you can do to make me answer your questions,” you point out angrily.

“Then do as you are, take your anger out upon me, but do not run from me in your flee from feeling,” Strider answers, a mix of care and exasperation in his words.

The tears increase in both number as intensity as you lower your head. Releasing the first sob, you reach out for Strider, surprised when he pulls you into his embrace. His cloak grows damp under your cheek, his hand cradling your head to his chest.

“There is no shame in responding in this way, in being who you are,” Strider comforts quietly.

You don’t notice Strider move, but when you raise your head again, you find you are tucked between buildings. The dark corner provides the privacy you need to be honest with Strider.

Repeating Gandalf’s news, you tell Strider that someone you love is gone. His slow exhale accompanying his kind arms circling you makes you feel safe enough to accept it.

“I am sorry, mell nîn. Your loss will be felt through the miles and the centuries, I am sure.”

“This is no time to grieve,” you tell him. Hearing your thoughts aloud makes them seem inappropriate; as if someone so special is unworthy of your tears.

“I know what you mean,” Strider says, interrupting your thoughts. “This is a trying time and the company has a long journey ahead of us, but there is no good place, no good time to grieve.”

“Right here is acceptable,” you whisper, looking up at Strider.

His gaze drops, his arms still holding you against his chest. Though his words are few, they are never without meaning. The sudden silence during such a moment alerts you to your mistake.

“My apologies, my king,” you mutter, attempting to pull back.

“Then here you will grieve, will mourn, whenever you need,” Strider insists, refusing to let you retreat into yourself once more.

“But, my king-“

“I am no king,” Strider begins.

“Not yet,” you interject.

He smiles down at you, and the world seems to brighten. “But what kind of king would I be to deny a lady a shoulder on which to cry? To rest as she travels, as she experiences gains and losses with no other consistent place to rest?”

“You have responsibilities, as do I. And neither provide time for sadness. The grief will come later.”

“Your grief is not to be set aside. You are not a burden to our company, if that is your concern. Feeling nothing is not an option, meleth nîn.”

You nod, leaning closer to Strider.

“Thank you.”

“Mell,” Strider repeats quietly.

✨🗡️✨🗡️✨

It hits when it is darkest, a deep ache with no evident relief. Moving through the darkness, you approach Strider’s side, his watchful eyes gazing into the night.

“Strider?” you ask quietly.

He wordlessly opens his arms toward you, allowing you to rest against his shoulder as his cloak closes around you.

“Does it stop hurting?”

“Slowly. Soon the memories will be a welcomed kindness. A reminder of good times rather than an amplifier of the bad," he replies.

Nodding, Strider’s comfort, warmth, and kindness lull you to sleep. You wake tucked against his side and well-rested.

✨🗡️✨🗡️✨

After a week of sleeping at Strider’s side, you are not as sad as often as before. The emptiness has made way for early acceptance, though some moments still seem hopeless and void of all happiness. Your life will never be the same following the loss of another’s life, but you must continue living rather than stall in the moments of memories.

“Why are you so kind to me?” you ask Strider as he leads you to his guarding position.

“You are good. Everyone good deserves kindness,” Strider replies simply.

“The way in which you treat me differs from your actions toward Gandalf and the hobbits.”

“They do not hold a piece of nin hûr.”

Strider’s eyes are on you in the dim forest light.

“Why do you do that; speak in Sindarin, when you know I do not understand?”

Strider’s hands rise to pull you close, his fingers ghosting over your jaw.

“Because words are not easy for me. You mean more to me than words can express,” Strider admits quietly, his voice soft against the rustling leaves.

“Your hûr?”

“My heart.”

“Mell nín?”

“You.”

“So you have said,” you reply with a kind laugh. “But what am I to you?”

“My dear,” Strider says, dipping his head to kiss your forehead. “My beloved, my sweet.”

Smiling up at Strider, you repeat, “You hold my entire hûr, my king.”

“Ara.” At your confused hum, Strider smiles and translates, “King.”

“Aragorn,” you say, pulling yourself closer to him.

“Rían nîn,” he replies. “My queen.”

“Me?” Strider nods, pressing his head against your neck as your arms loop over his shoulders. “That is why you are so kind to me.”

“I have wished to love you since you joined the company. Since you joined my side.”

“What should I call you?”

“Call me whatever you wish, as long as I am yours.”

Moving your head to Strider’s shoulder, you return home.

“Thank you for allowing me to grieve. For welcoming me, my brokenness.”

“You are not broken,” Strider insists, standing as he cups your cheeks in his strong hands. “Your dark nights, your grief and mourning, do not define you. Your love, kindness, and joy with your friends do.”

“My heart, my love, my joy are yours.”

Strider falls silent again, pulling you against him as his lips meet yours in the dark forest. Though you miss those you have lost, Strider holds you close and leads you through the dark and the light of mourning.

[whyeverr]

Everyone else seems to be having a cathartic experience, Cherry included.

"Hey. I... I'm sorry. I didn't realize... I just—"

...

"...I'm sorry."

[regscupid]

9/21 prompt: miracle - past MCD, reanimation (875 words) - @jegulus-microfic

It stormed the night James lost Regulus, and it storms the night he gets him back.

The rain comes down in heavy sheets, slamming against the windows in a torrential downpour. There would be leaks in the ceiling, but James will deal with that in the morning. He’ll spend his night under his duvet, doing whatever he can to block out the booms of thunder and flashes of that night.

Flooding streets. The screeching of tires. A phone ringing.

He almost doesn’t hear the knocking. When it breaks through to him, he doesn’t hesitate to slip out of his bed and make his way to his front door. Sometimes Sirius shows up during nights like this, the one other person who understands. The one other person who is haunted by the rain and the ghosts that linger in it.

There’s another knock when he reaches the door. He allows himself one moment, just one, to brace himself for the crashing sound of the rain against concrete that would overwhelm him as soon as he turned the handle. There was something else as well, a trickle of dread spreading through his veins telling him to turn back around, don’t open the door. But he could never leave Sirius out there, not when nights like this hurt him just as they do James.

For the first time in nearly a year, the sounds of that night wash away into a dull hum when the eyes that meet his aren’t those of his best friend. Though they did come from the same place.

Grey eyes blink at him and James thinks maybe his grief is taunting him, making him hallucinate because simply losing the love of his life wasn’t enough. But he looks so, so real.

“James?” He sounds real too, soft and sweet in the way he reserved for only James. James shakes his head and rubs his eyes, his breathing growing slightly erratic. “Baby? What’s wrong?”

“No.” James presses his palms into his eyes hard as he backs up, keeps backing up until his back hits the wall on the other side of the room.

“James,” Cold, wet hands catch up with him and gently circle his wrists. The press of his fingers into his skin so tangible James all but whimpers.

“You’re dead. You’re dead, what—what the fuck is this?” James whispers.

“Dead? Baby, I’m right here.” He lifts James’ right hand to his neck, holding his fingers to his pulse. Then he lifts James’ other hand to his heart. They beat in unison, a steady thump thump thump, a direct contrast to the rapidness of James’ own. “See?”

James slowly opens his eyes again, and Regulus’ face is inches from his own. He’s paler than James remembers, and a little grey around the edges, but just as beautiful.

“Reg…” he whispers. Regulus breaks into a smile and it's just as James sees in his dreams, though it’s a bit off— like a puzzle piece that just almost fits. “How are you… love, you’ve been dead for a year.”

Regulus frowns and pushes the hair on James’ forehead back soothingly.

“What are you talking about? I was here yesterday.”

James gapes at him.

“No. No, I haven’t seen you since last February. When- when I—” When I identified your body. His voice cracks and stops abruptly. He can't help it as he reaches to hold Regulus’ face; still not entirely convinced this is real.

Regulus’ frown deepens, but he tilts his head further into James’ hand.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Regulus’ gaze goes distant for just a moment before his undivided attention is back on James, piercing through him like a blade, “I don’t know what’s going on, I-I’m having a hard time remembering, but I’m tired and hungry. And I’m soaking wet. I’m going to take a shower.”

He runs his hand through James’ hair one final time before he’s up and out of the room. James wants to stop him, to do more to understand, but he watches unmoving as Regulus makes his way up the stairs. He doesn’t move until he hears the water running in his bathroom, then forces himself to walk into the kitchen on shaky legs. He goes through the motions of making tea. Two mugs, one with cream and sugar for himself, and one without for Regulus.

Somewhere between the whistling of the kettle and the shower shutting off, a switch flips in James’ mind. He doesn’t care if he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t care if he spent the last year as a whisper of his former self, resigned to never seeing the one person he’d ever really want to see ever again. Because he’s here. Smiling. Using up James’ hot water. Alive.

It’s a miracle, what else could it be? Regulus was back, how could he ever allow himself to question it? Something, somewhere brought Regulus back to him. James would be damned if he let anything take him away again.

So, he doesn’t question it. When Regulus comes back into the kitchen and eats two-thirds of the refrigerator’s contents, or when James runs his fingers over waxy ice-cold skin, or when Regulus mixes sugar into his tea– James doesn’t question it.

It’s a miracle, afterall.