#he will be grieving even as he meets him anew. he will never forget the wolfwood he first knew.

[orcelito]

OK I do have that idea for a trigun longfic. And it is almost exclusively trimax inspired lol

[c-is-for-circinate]

The story creates the story tells itself. That's it, that's what this is, it's the thing I always end up saying when Critical Role hits me right in the solar plexus, because stories are how we make sense of events after they've already happened. The story is not a thing in the moment it is created, it is a thing you can only know the shape of once it's over with, and then you look at it and you say, yes, of COURSE, it only ever could have been this from the first, couldn't it?

Seven miserable loners and outcasts and reckless illegitimate rebels meet in a tavern with no desire whatsoever for heroism. Their morals are quickfire and slapdash, casual and arbitrary, we'll help out these people, those people aren't our problem, we dislike those fucks over there. There is a war brewing and they want nothing to do with it. Fuck fame, fuck fortune, we'll keep to ourselves and play fast and loose with crime and take care of our own and maybe some lucky randoms we meet along the way. We'll fight and scrap and tussle amongst ourselves because none of us even entirely understand our own morals, let alone how to reconcile them with any of these other half-assed motherfuckers we apparently have to care about now.

They fuck up. One of their own dies.

They drown in rage and fury for just long enough, until they can stop gasping and growling for vengeance to take a breath. Then they run.

They run, because they do not care to stand and fight: not against evil or dragons or tyrant kings, not against their own grief. They flee the country. Nobody is chasing them, but they flee anyway, to avoid shackles, to avoid control, to avoid being set to anyone else's purpose, to avoid their own loss and their own sins. They run to the sea. (They find danger, and shackles, and control, and somebody else's purpose there again. The world is full of shackles and those who would wield them.)

They grieve. They avoid their grief. They sanctify their fallen comrade. They do not aim to be anything, this ragtag group of miserable loners and outcasts. The only thing they know themselves to be is each other's. They do not know themselves at all, but this grief, this loss--they know it, at least, know it together, an iron band binding them all heart to heart. It is the first truth they have to hold on to, the thing that lets them see each other as the only thing that matters, the only thing that's really real.

They face down a cult and win, because the other option is shackles or death. They face a demigod and flee, again, again, again. Always they flee.

They flee towards home and home is burned. They have seen loss and they have seen death and it finds them no matter how they run away, so maybe it's time to change direction. Maybe it's time to run towards. It's still running, still half-mindless directionality, it's still familiar. They are not heroes, they are not somebodies, they have never wanted to be somebody. This group has never wanted to be anybody, not as a group, not when they're whole. They're nobodies, trying to take care of themselves, take care of their own, to grow past their grief that they pretend they're gone from now, mostly, most days, when they can. (Pretend it's not the grief that made them each other's in the first place, like none of the fighting and scrapping and scrabbling along beside one another ever had in the first place.)

They bulldoze and trip and stumble and run towards instead of away, for once, just this once, the very first time they've run towards a thing since that last time, the only time, when they temporarily lost three of their own and then broke themselves trying to chase them (trying to chase vengeance). Towards is so much more dangerous than away. Run towards something hard enough, you might actually find it. You might have to become somebody when you get there, instead of just not-being somebody else.

They're somebody now. This rag-tag, broken, mismatched knot of nobodies, not even mercenaries because they're too skittish to even really look for paid work, they're somebodies now, or so Someone Important says. It fits like an ill-tailored coat that they've been forced into without ever making a choice. Without ever realizing, entirely, how much they never made a choice. The world said congrats, you're heroes now, and these killers and thieves went, well, fuck.

And then they tried to be heroes anyway. Not because it fit, not because they knew what to do, but because the mess of them, the seven of them, barely knew who they were to begin with. If the world was shouting HEROES! YOU'RE HEROES! BE HEROES! at them this very loudly--then don't they have to wear the coat that's being given to them? Don't they have to be, have to find some way to become, the heroes they've tripped and stumbled into appearing?

They don't know themselves. All they've done so far is run from themselves--from parents and children and their own crimes, from chains and challenges, limits and labels. They only barely know who they're not. They couldn't know who they are. How do they know they aren't heroes? The one thing they know, the only thing they have, the only thing they've ever run towards, is each other. The one thing they know for absolute sure and certain that defines and binds them is that steel band of grief, that first loss, the thing that broke and forged them to begin with.

So they look for answers in their grief, in what they've lost, because if it's the first true thing about them as a group, them as a whole, then it must be able to tell them who they have to be now. They sanctify their fallen, twist meaning and moral out of conversational confrontational casualness, make a mission statement out of leave every place better than you found it. They forget who he was, petty and venal and mortal and flawed. (They try to convince themselves that they don't have to be petty and venal and mortal and flawed.) They cling to what he meant.

And they fail. God, looking back on it all, with the shape of the story and the shape it's become, is it any wonder they failed? Petty and venal and moral and flawed, these rough-edged rabble-rousers, not even mercenaries because they don't even know how to take orders besides their own. Trying to be heroes. Trying to stop a war, because that's their job, right? It has to be. That's the shape of the coat they're trying to wear, that's the shape of leave every place better than you found it, that's the thing they crashed straight into while they were running, running, running the way they've always run, run, run. So they look for answers everywhere, because they have to have the answers to everything, and they scry and they spy and they play sides. They meet with queens. They turn to each other on the streets on the way out of the palace and ask in horror, "What did we just do?"

They run and they run and they trip and they fall and they unleash more evil than there was to start with. They lose one of their own, again. They sit in shattered shards, and what just happened? How could we have seen this coming? What did we just do?

They don't know themselves. They've been running from themselves, trying to run towards misty shapes they can't define in a too-big coat and too-small shoes, without any real practice in running towards to begin with. They don't know themselves, but they need to move forwards. They need to be whole again, the six, the seven (the eight, the nein). How can they do that if they don't know themselves?

And--finally, finally, they learn.

They learn. They throw a sword in a volcano and forge a sword anew. They rediscover their own mind, their own heart, covered in blood with each other's blood on their hands. They walk into their abusers' homes and then walk back out again alive and un-alone and unchained. They recover bodies. They recover families. They find themselves.

(And the selves they find are mortal and flawed, because they have always been mortal and flawed, because they are built to be mortal and flawed, because they are still the same misbegotten messes they have ever been. But they are stronger for having sought themselves out, for what they have found. They are the stronger for those threads of heroism they tried to, managed to keep.)

They stop a war, incidentally. In the end it's not even all that much due to them. They sit, nobodies on a ship in the middle of the ocean, and watch in silence. It chafes a little, not to be in the center of things, to be able to be the heroes it felt like the world told them they had to be. (It feels a little like relief.)

They find themselves. They find themselves, and they find another lost and broken man, miserable outcast loner, petty and venal and mortal and flawed. They only start to realize how they know themselves now when they see how much he doesn't.

(The peace treaty happens, happened, is/was/will be happening, because they tripped and trembled and tried their way into it, but in the end a thousand chess pieces moved to make it so, and it is signed on a boat where we do not even set foot. The culmination, the crowning glory, the true victory of that whole middle story, is a perfectly-dressed man in chains in the hold of a boat, admitting to his own sins. It is secret and it is individual, and it is the concrete proof above all proofs that our nobody unknowns are finally their own very-known selves. Because they were Essek, once--but know they know their own mirrors well enough to look at him and recognize that.)

They know so much, now, about who they are and who they are to become. They have looked at their pasts and, yes, flinched away, but they've seen, and they know, now, as much as they can handle. In the end, the one thing they don't know the true shape of, the one thing left to seek that must be sought, is of course (of course, of course) that very first thing they thought they knew to begin with. The one thing left to face is their grief. The one thing left to discover is what shaped it from the very start.

So they run, like they have always run. In amongst the snow it is the very distillation of running, towards and away, away and towards, chasing and fleeing and fleeing and chasing, are we in front or are they? It's every mistake they ever made all over again. It's every new lesson they've ever learned.

They don't ask any more, what's the right thing to do. They don't need to ask. They know, already, swift and sure and confident as they once stumbled and dodged. This is a thing that must be stopped. It is ours to stop it. Yes, it is a heavy, clumsy coat to wear, but it fits us out here in the snows where we're not trying to prove our heroism to anybody any more, for good or for evil. Yes, it weighs on our backs and tangles our legs, but it fits as well as any role we've ever tried to wear. It fits us more than it could ever fit anybody else. It's our role. It's our coat. It was forged of our choices, our pieces, our fights. It was forged of our grief.

Nobody else is here with us, to watch, to know. Just like when we were seven shiftless, aimless, worthless nobodies wandering through a circus tent on the way to nowhere (everywhere) else. There's us and the demon born from our grief, the demon who sprang up and died and is the only reason we any of us ever met. Just us, just the nine of us, three and three and three. The three who were dragged off in chains and gave us something to run towards, that very first time. The three who chased, and watched their companion fall, and faced their grief head on, and ran. And Lucien, and Caduceus, and Essek, beginning and middle and end: The man whose demise allowed us to come together, reborn from the loss that bound us. The man who found us and told us that grief is inevitable and passing, that we must continue with it, that we still had such a long way to go. The man who we found like a reflection in an aging mirror, reflecting our own progress back at us, showing us how far we've come and what we've learned how to be.

Of course it had to end this way. (There were so very many other ways it could have ended, once. Of course there were none at all.) Of course it would be nine and nine in the end. Of course it would be this final perfect marriage of heroism and anonymity, for this group that's finally figured out their selves, past and future and right-the-fuck-now, saviors and heroes and petty nobody fucks. Of course it would be this.

And of course, of course, of course it had to go like this. Of course, after everything, the first six of them would try to reverse that grief that forged and tied them. Of course they couldn't. Of course they couldn't, of course, of course--(and was it fate, that 1-in-20 chance, that 5% chance, that 1 on a die? was it fate like the dice are always fate in every game, rolling out poetry with every throw, because all the rolls that aren't quite poetic enough get forgotten?) Of course it was a 1, not some other number, not some sheepish failure of a 4. Of course the universe itself would speak to say no.

No, says the universe, that is not how this story goes--because the road is full of shattered shards, and our heroes only learned to be heroes by discovering how bloodily bad at it they were, by nearly causing the apocalypse before wrestling it back again. Of course the universe itself says that after all this time, after changing so far and discovering so much, this the inciting thing from the very beginning that bound this group in steel must not be changed. Of course, with all their pleas, the six people who knew him cannot bring him back.

Of course that's how the story would go. And of course there's Essek, the man who met this party so long after their throes of mourning that it had sunk into their bones and grown quiet before they ever knew him, who cannot accept this outcome. Of course it's Essek, who never met and has barely heard of this man, this grief--Essek who has not yet grown into the quiet acceptance of his own grief, who does not yet know his own mirror, who has only just barely begun to understand running to instead of from and still doesn't know the shape of what he might eventually choose to chase--who seethes in rage. Who cries about not fair.

Of course it's Caduceus who takes the inspiration of that anger, that grief, and changes it all. Of course it's Caduceus, who the group only even found out of their grief. (They tracked him down to beg to know if he could raise the dead in the first place. Do you remember? One, two, three, Caleb and Beau and Nott, finding him in his graveyard to beg him to help.) Of course it's Caduceus, created to serve and to heal and to make so, so very sure that everyone understood that death could be necessary and final. Of course it's Caduceus, who stood over Mollymauk's grave by the roadside and put a hand in the dirt and cast decompose, because what is dead should be allowed to stay that way until it grows into something else. Of course it is. Because Caduceus has learned his own shape by now, too--and it is still full of devotion, of dedication to the dead remaining dead, but it is steadfast and selfish sometimes too, forged in friendship, full enough of love to try, just this once.

Of course Caduceus gave the diamond but didn't try to perform the ritual, at first, at first. Of course he's spent so very long so very gently urging his friends to reconcile themselves to their loss, to letting their loved one sleep. Of course, in the end, in the very end, he weighed all his faith that once held so firm and final and without exceptions, with this grief before him, and found just this once, maybe, within it.

Of course when he tried, the man who lives to put things in the ground (to put Molly in the ground), even after the fates and the gods and the universe had spoken--when, just this once, against the will of the natural order and the universe and the power of destiny, he asked, just once, for the path of things to reverse--of course. Of course he was the voice that needed to speak for the story to listen.

Of course Molly would end the campaign. Of course this had to be the finale of it all. Of course this ritual--not this fight, not this mission, not even this apocalypse, but this ritual, this resurrection--must be the end of things. Of course it's the end of the story. You can't go any farther than this.

There can never be nine of us. It won't be ironic any more. But irony, after all, is just a way of running from sincerity, sometimes running away from sincerity so hard and fast you crash back into it from the other side. Like running from being a person, from being that person, from letting things matter, from mattering. Like running so far and fast from being found that eventually you have no choice but to find yourself. Irony's a shield against having to know the truth.

There's nine of them. It's not ironic. It's perfect, but it's not ironic. It's just the truth. They know who they are, now. Not who they were running away from being. Not who they tried to be for the sake of anyone else. Who they always are. Always were.

This story could have been a hundred thousand different things, when it started. Of course it was always fated to end with nine.

[samstree]

how about 'void' for the word prompts??

Creatures of the Night (3)

Geralt goes to the coast alone after Jaskier marries Valdo. He can't escape the past. Or rather, Jaskier can't escape him.

(endgame geraskier, background valdo/jaskier, angst, eventual infidelity, implied depression)

AO3 | Previous: [1] [2]

The coast smells of fish and seaweed.

It’s not unpleasant if one admires it from a distance, like watching a sunset from the grassy cliff or dipping toes into the water a little. The coast is mild and vast, the calmest part of the continent.

Geralt embraces the sea, letting the scent of candles and jasmine fade from his nostrils. It’s been too long, months already. Too long for him to cling to that scent and that night. He needs it gone from memory.

He fails.

The smell of fish and seaweed and blood is everywhere when Geralt emerges from the waves, a sea serpent’s head in hand and an apology by his lips. The villagers sigh in silent acceptance. They knew the fishermen were beyond saving anyway. Still, he ignores the gash on his arm and grieves with them for a moment.

He forgets, just for a moment.

Dripping a bloody trail up the shore, Geralt nods to each family member of the lost men. By the end of the line, he meets brown eyes and golden hair, a lopsided hat and a fur-lined cloak.

Valdo Marx.

Geralt drops the head, his arm tingling with blood loss.

“You are a hard man to find, White Wolf.”

The cold wind ruffles Valdo’s hair, tangling up his fashionable curls. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes that Geralt doesn’t like. Yes, bards can be just as dangerous; Geralt has learned a long time ago.

“And what brings you to me?” he asks, meeting the other’s man’s gaze.

“I believe you already know.”

Geralt nearly wavers.

“Do I?”

“You left early that night. At the handfasting.” Valdo paces around Geralt, who’s only realizing the other bard stands a tad taller than him albeit having a much slenderer build.

“It was a long party.”

“You were bored by the most important party of your best friend’s life?”

Bards. Must they speak in circles all the time?

“What are you saying, Marx?”

Valdo’s footsteps halt in place, the danger in his eyes burning anew. “I know what you said to him.”

In his long life, Geralt rarely feels shame so heavy. He breaks eye contact with the other man, fists clenching before settling by his sides. Perhaps this is where he loses Jaskier completely. Running away to the coast isn’t enough. This is where he needs to promise to never see Jaskier again and let him live a peaceful life with his husband. Geralt opens his mouth to make the promise, except—

“I know what you said to Julian on the mountain, how you broke his heart. I was the one who had to pick up the pieces.” The bard clenches his jaw, breathing deep. “The state he was in, I swore to myself that I would never live to see it happen again. Seeing him hurt once is enough, and yet…”

“What?” The implication makes Geralt’s stomach sink. “Is Jaskier alri—”

“You don’t get to ask me if he’s alright.” Valdo steps into Geralt’s space. Somehow, a troubadour almost makes a witcher cower under his fury. “You drove him away, and then you dared to come back. You behave like he’s a puppy to summon at your whim and then kick out once you tire of his bark.”

“I don’t—”

“You said something to him that night. Essi told me so, and Julian hasn’t been the same since. He deflected my questions and defended you, but one can only guess. Was wishing for destiny to take him off your hands not enough? Did you have to come all the way back to his side just to drive in the knife?”

“No, of cour—”

“Don’t play dumb with me, witcher! What did you say to him that night?”

“Nothing!” Geralt bites out the words. A lie. “I didn’t say anything.”

No wonder Jaskier wants to protect this man. Geralt can see it now, the devotion of Valdo Marx, archnemesis of Jaskier the bard for twenty years. And yet, Valdo was the one to offer him a shoulder to cry on when he was shunned by Geralt, a supposed friend for twenty years.

“Forgive me if I find it hard to believe. Historically, you shouldn’t be trusted when it comes to Julian’s heart.” Valdo’s heat is dying down into disgruntled acceptance.

“Just tell me if Jaskier is alright.”

Geralt is so close to begging.

He just might. For Jaskier. Again.

“You want to know? What, do you care?” Valdo scoffs. “No, he is not! He went down the same path soon after. If anything, it’s only worse now. Last time he cried and cursed, tried to drown himself in wine. But at least there was something. But for the past months…he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t speak. There’s nothing when I look at him. Nothing. Only a void.”

The waves rumble in the distance, lapping at the shore. The coast can’t erase the anguish poisoning Geralt’s every thought either. Not when he’s inadvertently hurt Jaskier.

His love hurt Jaskier.

“If it wasn’t you, perhaps…” Valdo says reluctantly, watching a seabird pass by. “It wasn’t easy to convince him to come, even though he always dreamed about the coast back when we were young, romanticized it in so many songs like a fool. But when I heard you were here, I had to come and find you, and leaving him alone in this state wasn’t an option.”

Geralt wants to flee like the coward he is, but the hope fluttering in his stomach is a powerful thing. “He is here?”

“He’s here. And if you indeed didn’t cause him any harm, Geralt of Rivia, I loathe admitting that you might be my last hope. The relationship between you two is something I’ve never understood, but even I can’t deny you’ve known him in a way no one else could.”

Geralt can’t believe the words he’s hearing, words he doesn’t deserve.

“You are asking me to…help?”

“To speak to him. If you still care about him in any way. “Funny I came here not sure whether to strangle you for hurting the man I love or beg you to save him.”

The bard turns to leave, his coat flapping. Geralt pauses for a moment before following.

He needs to fix it. If his confession sent Jaskier into a downward spiral, Geralt needs to fix it somehow. He can stop loving Jaskier. Yes, he can stop so Jaskier can finally be free of him. It’ll only feel like ripping his heart out of his chest. He’d stop, even if it kills him.

“It was never my intention to hurt Jaskier.”

Defending himself in front of Valdo is a moot point, and the mock from the troubadour is an answer enough.

“It’s what he believes too. The idiot is kind and terrible like this,” Valdo sends one last look at Geralt before they begin the ascend, the silent threat looming in his brown gaze. “Try anything like the mountain again, there won’t be anything left of you for the fish to eat.”

And Geralt is wise enough to believe that.

The two miles he walks behind Valdo stretches into infinity, and at the same time, nothing at all.

On top of the cliff, Jaskier’s silhouette stands straight, frozen in place like a statue, or the loneliest painting on earth. Geralt can only see his back, but he can already tell Jaskier is too thin. He doesn’t even stir when Valdo drapes the coat around his shoulders and coaxes him out of the trance.

And then, Jaskier is turning around, cheeks pale and eyes so blue.

Geralt’s world begins and ends at the same time.

~~

Thanks for the prompt my dear! <3 I wonder how many people are team Valdo... Hmm.

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod

Feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[hellotvshowtrash]

Grief (W.M)

Summary: Wanda unsuccessfully tries to move on from Vision.

Word count: 1.4K

Warnings: loss, death, depictions of Vision’s dead body (nothing we haven’t seen before) grieving, depression, guilt, Wanda blaming herself for Vision’s death. Also wandavision spoilers

A/N: hello! This is my fic for @sventeen-daybreak’s writing challenge as well as the May MCU prompt challenge! Leave a comment/reblog/like if you enjoyed!

Wanda laughs, but it doesn't sound like her. Her ears don't recognize the sound which is more like static than giggles. The man sitting across from her is unfamiliar, some brown eyed, brown haired, bland man, smiling at her like she is sunshine, but she does not want to be sunshine, not to him, at least. She doesn't even remember his name at this point.

His hand is laying on the table, expecting to meet hers halfway, and she looks at it through her periphery. Internally, she battles herself, battles the part of her that laughs at his jokes and wants to hold his hand. She lays her hand gently on top of his, layering his with hers like a blanket that hasn't been used in years. The feeling of her skin on his is alien and her subconscious yells that it's not right, none of this is right, none-

"Wanna get out of here?" The man across from her asks, his eyes gentle and kind, and she knows he means well. Her thoughts aside, this date has been going rather well and if it weren't for her, maybe they could really be something, but this man is not who she wants nor who her heart needs. This man doesn't know the intricacies of Wanda, her heart, her magic. She smiles politely and nods, letting him stand and lead her out of the crowded restaurant. The night is warm and loud, the streets of New York City buzz with chatter and the smell of exhaust.

Still hand in hand, the conversation between them doesn't cease or even pause. Wanda will give credit where credit is due, this man is easy to be with. His voice is American, no accent to be found. No prose while speaking, no poetic bliss. She finds his voice to be velvety and smooth to the ears, but sandpaper to the heart. She realizes he doesn't know where he is going as he walks with her back to her apartment, he's shy enough to not admit that he knows exactly who she is, that she can defend herself perfectly well, but he's chivalrous, he’s down to earth, he’s not blowing his shot.

She smiles as he talks about his family, his sister and her children who are his favourite little kids in the world and how being an uncle is amazing and how someday I'd really like to have a family of my own, y'know? He doesn't know it but he strikes just about every nerve possible in those few sentences and her chest tightens. Pietro, mom, dad, Vis- all in one horrible fell swoop. She takes a deep breath, her smile unbreaking. Chatter continues, mostly one-sided as Wanda pretends to listen to his voice. She isn’t focused on the words he’s saying, just the burning feel of his hand in hers and how wrong it is.

Wanda assumes he’s stalling as they get closer to her building, her dingy one-bedroom apartment is waiting for her, and she can feel the sanctuary she has found there. They approach the building, and he pauses, he’s finally stopped talking and is deliberating on what to say next. Before he had a chance to say anything, Wanda speaks up.

“I had a really nice time tonight, thank you.” She smiles again, it’s small and kind, and she’s anxious to get inside.

“I did, too. Thank you for coming,” he’s beaming now, like he can see their second and third and last date together. He steels himself and pulls her close by her hand, his other cupping her waist. She’s surprised when his lips meet hers, but she lets her eyes close and her other hand rest on his shoulder. He pulls away and smiles at her. “I hope we can do this again, soon. Goodnight, Wanda.” He gives a small wave and begins to walk in the direction he came.

Wanda releases a breath she didn’t know she had been holding, the ache in her chest lessening as she watches the man walk away. She curses herself for not remembering his name, it’s the least she could have done.

It’s a fitful night’s sleep. Not that she ever rests anymore. Her waking moments are consumed with thoughts of Vision and his dull red and grey and lifeless form. How it was her who did it - who killed him- the first time and how he had to suffer a second time. How he wasn’t coming back. Her dreams weren’t any better.

She’s back in the S.W.O.R.D headquarters, staring at Vision’s body and her words come back to her, “I can’t feel you.” Here, those words ring true over and over again echoing through her ears. It is when Vision’s mouth opens in a gasp, and she still doesn’t feel him. Instead, she feels a horrible dread because she’s had this dream, over and over again, and she knows what happens next. Vision’s body is no longer dissected and on different tables, he is put back together in a tangled jumble of wires and sparks, and he’s still dead. His eyes are still blank, he is swaying in front of her in this new black space - what happened to the surrounding lab? - His arms reach for her, and she feels her legs carry her toward him. She still feels the love for him, the pain for him, but she still does not feel him. She wraps her arms around him, around the stitches and the incorrect parts.

Something is different, in this dream. Vision looks down at her with his horrifying eyes, and he examines her, that much she can feel.

“Wanda, darling,” His voice is monotonous and fading, like his program is trying to restart. “Someone else has kissed you.” He observes.

“It was a mistake, Vis, I-,” Wanda begins to speak but Vision’s color begins to flood through him, vibrant red and silver. Her breath escapes her lungs - how could she forget how beautiful he is? He is repaired, whole, made anew and he is holding her in his strong arms, just as he used to.

His eyes are alive now, and they’re analyzing her. They bore into hers and she presses a hand against his cheek, a tear sliding down her own. “When you look into his eyes,” Vision begins to speak and Wanda’s memory of the man’s mocha eyes flash back into view, crinkling as he smiles at her from across their shared table . “Do you think of mine?” His lips graze hers gently, never actually planting. She can’t handle the idea of never kissing him again.

Wanda’s breath has left her lungs and she can’t breathe. She’s drowning, she’s sure she is.

“Vision, he is nothing to me.” She chokes and blinks, and Vision is back to his muddled red, dead eyes seeing her soul. He cocks his head and pushes her away from him, sending her stumbling backward. “Vis, please,” she cries now, a sob escaping her lips.

“This is all your fault, Wanda.” His voice is loud and electric, like he’s speaking through a megaphone at her. She crumples to her knees as he continues to stare her down, and she feels so small. She sobs and cries and can’t look at him any more, her arms wrapping around herself. She can’t make herself look up at him because she knows his eyes will break her. She can’t tell if he’s still there or now as she cries, because she still can’t feel him. Guilt and fear and panic rise up her throat like bile, tasting like blood.

She’s underneath abrasive sterile lights again as the scene changes once more, she’s back in the S.W.O.R.D lab and Vision is lying motionless on the table, pulled apart in chunks. She does not try to feel him again. She knows he will not be there. His words echo around her. “This is all your fault, Wanda.”

She wakes in a cold sweat, her tears streaming freely down her face. She is exhausted and frayed and left alone in the nearly empty apartment she has for herself. She sits up and pulls her knees to her chest, letting her cries come as they please.

She can’t feel him anymore, and it is all her fault.

—

Taglist: @elijahs-wife @dumble-daddy @alwaysfangirlingish @akshi8278 @nikmikaelsonswife @njeancastro316 @brown-eyed-babes

[joeyrumlow]

THRENODY

Summary: Your husband, the Lord of Imladris, comforts you when you lose a loved one and walks you out of the limbo you are in.

Words: 900

Lord Elrond x Reader

(Gif is not mine; and, please ignore the text)

The air was warm and sweet as the hands of Autumn had been busy in colouring the entire valley with drops of mellowed honey. You sat in your chambers lined with lilac and ivory, painted anew by the golden treacle of the setting sun. The argent cascades adorning the adjoining valley seemed to beckon you to observe the fire lighting them with hues of gold but you moved away from the casement and seated yourself before the harp, slowly removing the linen screening it. Drawing a deep breath and closing your eyes, you let the tempest raging within your mind find an expression through your fingers.

The halls of Imladris shook and heaved as the melodies strung with living agony trilled and thrilled. Unsuspecting Elves either free or engaged in their respective tasks stilled and sighed as the dirge of the dusk flitted and caught them unawares. Those admiring the pearlescent palette of the evening sky now looked at it with mournful eyes, those engaged in performing duties neglected them and stood with pensive expressions while those tending the beautiful blossoms in the garden looked at their delicate petals with glassy eyes and aching hearts.

Silver drops fell one by one

And doused the weary boughs,

They fell on her brow, one by one

And kissed her resting temple.

She will see the skies no more,

Nor her tresses feel the wind,

She lies beneath the mound of yore,

Cold and dark and dim.

Her kind eyes will never greet

The faces she loved best,

Never more will she meet

My grateful smiles among the rest.

Woe befalls my wretched soul,

Churns my heart and reels my bones,

To know you shall forever walk

The Immortal Halls away from us.

Down came the stroke that wrung and broke, down came your fingers that danced and swayed over the supple instrument. The playful waters no longer suffered their gilded smiles and the ripened verdure abandoned their jubilant joy. Sadness suddenly stood tall and mighty, gathering every listener into his aged arms. Up moved your hand on its own accord, the gusts whirling within you creating another orchestra of immense anguish, lacerating your heart with their furious strokes. But the raging orchestra came to a sudden halt and your hand stayed in the air for a firmer hand, both gentle and wise, had held yours.

Lord Elrond's concerned eyes sought yours and he grieved to see your waxen countenance, your lustreless eyes finally meeting his, devoid of all the familiar shimmer that was so dear to him.

He gently took both your hands with his left and cradled your cheek with the other. "Come come my dear Y/N," he tenderly spoke, eyes glistening with emotion. "You must learn to flow with the tides of grief my dearest. Stop struggling. You will only suffocate if you fight it. Let it carry you and only then will you breathe again." He softly ran his thumb over your cheek and smiled an encouraging and yet an incredibly sad smile.

You fixed your eyes on him as if you did not understand what he was saying. But then, your lips quivered. The embankments overflowed and grief poured forth with an unmitigated strength, destroying the stupor of many hours and the locked doors of the limbo. Lord Elrond soothed you, not with words but by his mere presence, providing the warmth and comfort much needed in silent assurances.

As the violent fit of weeping began to subside and you began to draw measured breaths, Lord Elrond softly spoke, "You don't have to bear your burdens alone dear one. You know well that I am always here for you."

You sniffed and quietly spoke for the first time in two days, "I-I cannot believe that she's gone. She was so good and so kind and so beautiful. She inspired courage and brought so much hope and I-I feel so lost without her-" You stopped for you could speak no more.

He held you in his embrace in silence, stroking your hair and lulling you with his heartbeat. At length he spoke in comforting notes, "I know death seems very cruel to us, especially because we linger forever and cannot forget those who have departed, the grief seemingly unending and raw. But Y/N, you must know that sometimes things must be so. And indeed, you know she is more happy in death, free from all the cares and sufferings she endured for so long. She can finally rest and the only thing we can do is not to make that difficult for her by desiring something that cannot pass."

You pondered at his words that became engraved in your memory and you recalled it many a times later in life but even at the moment, you knew he was right as the truth in them rang out loud and clear. Darkness had already descended and among the thinning veils of twilight, Earendil the Mariner could be discerned, burning brighter than the departing vessel of Anar and you knew that she was happy. You prayed to Eru that she would be as lively and happy as ever while she dwelt in the Halls of Mandos. You clasped your husband, letting him know how much you appreciated his presence and he kissed your brow and enfolded you more closely, finally perceiving the advent of the calm after the storm.

[arthurmorgan-s-heart]

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader: What Will Be Left Behind

Summary: Robbing the Saint Denis bank will be dangerous - why wouldn’t it be? You know that, but you can’t help being nervous. Arthur tries to help.

Warning: Smut

It’s almost midnight, and Shady Belle is quiet and still. The room you share with Arthur is dark as you push open the door leading to the balcony overlooking the back of the house, letting the moonlight stream in as you come to stand at the banister. The cool night breeze sweeps through the leaves of the trees, and you take a deep breath as you look at the darkened swamp, trying to steady your nerves.

It’s a familiar feeling, this anxiety that finds itself clawing at your heart tonight. You always felt like this, the night before a big job - where everything that could go wrong would run through your mind over and over in an endless loop, making you restless and anxious. And this would be the biggest job of all. 

The last.

Despite your nervousness, you can’t help the flutter of excitement that your heart gives at the thought that, in a matter of weeks, all of this will be behind you. You close your eyes, focusing on the thought that you’ll have a new life, free and safe, with the man you love. You smile, allowing a small part of yourself to believe that, perhaps, everything would be fine, after all.

You open your eyes when you hear the door to Arthur’s room open and close, the rhythm of familiar footsteps thudding against Shady Belle’s worn floors as someone comes to stand at the threshold of the door you’d left open.

“Hey, darlin’,” Arthur says from behind you, and you turn your head to look at him. He seems tired, but he’s smiling as he steps forward, letting his hand brush against yours as he comes to stand next to you. “Thought you’d be asleep.”

You answer with a smile of your own, though the sight of him kindling the dark fears that had haunted you for the last few days anew. God, it would be so easy for him to be killed, or hurt, or captured, or -

The feeling of Arthur draping an arm around your waist and drawing you against his side pulls you from your thoughts, and he kisses your temple, seemingly quieting the storm raging in your mind, if only for a second.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, lips lingering on your skin, and you nod, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you answer. “Nervous, is all.”

“I know,” he says. You feel him kiss the top of your head before laying his cheek against your hair. “S’gonna be okay. Ain’t the first bank we robbed.”

You chuckle quietly, feeling yourself relax slightly.

“No, it sure ain’t,” you reply, lifting your head to look at him, and he smiles reassuringly before turning to wrap both of his arms around you in a warm embrace. You hold onto him tightly, burying your face in his shoulder.

“I just - “ you start, trying you best to keep your voice steady. “I worry, Arthur. About you. About what could happen tomorrow. I don’t - I don’t know if I - “

He pulls away slightly, and you feel his fingers under your chin, raising your head and making you look up at him. You open your eyes, and he’s still smiling, his hand shifting from your chin to your cheek as he leans down to press his forehead against yours.

“I ain’t never gonna leave you,” he whispers. “Whatever happens.”

You heave a quiet sigh, shaking your head slowly as you close your eyes again.

“Sometimes, it just ain’t up to you,” you say quietly. He doesn’t answer, simply tightening his grasp on you as he takes a deep breath before exhaling slowly.

You stand like this for a while, simply holding each other, swaying slightly from side to side as you try not to think of what the next day might bring.

“You know,” Arthur starts eventually, one hand coming up to thread through the strands of your hair in a steady, soothing rhythm, “this time next year, things’re gonna be different. We gonna be far away from here. From all this. And free.”

You open your eyes, and you raise your head, meeting his gaze - his eyes are bright and filled with hope. You can’t help but smile at seeing him like this - it seems like years since you’d last seen him so optimistic about anything. You can almost forget the obstacles that await the both of you before you can ever get there.

“Together,” you add quietly, and you feel warmth spread through your chest as he leans down to press a feather-light kiss to your lips, his hands smoothing down your back to rest at your hips before he pulls away slightly, looking at you for a moment before he brings on hand back up to your face, cradling your cheek.

“Always,” he whispers before leaning in, his kiss long and deep and slow this time. You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing yourself as close to him as you possibly can, and he tightens his grip on you, kissing you again, and again, reverently, adoringly, as if he had never kissed you before. His hand shifts from your cheek to the back of your head, tangling in your hair, and you moan encouragingly as you feel him take half a step forward, pinning you between himself and the banister behind you. He kisses you ardently, greedily, with all the heat of a man who had finally found a reason to want to live, after years of searching, grieving and drifting. Your hands slip down to his chest, bunching into his shirt, all thoughts of the next day’s robbery and its dangers leaving your mind as you let yourself be consumed by him. 

“Arthur…” you whisper breathlessly in between kisses, and he pulls away just enough to meet your eyes and take in the sight of your fevered eyes and flushed skin before his mouth is on you again, kissing down the side of your neck. You can’t help a quiet moan, bringing one hand up to cradle the back of his head as you feel him press himself even closer to you, his hand leaving your hair to roam down your back to your hip, gripping tight, moving lower still, splaying low on your stomach for a moment before you feel his fingers between your legs. Even through the thick material of your trousers, his touch sends sparks skittering up from your core to your stomach, wrenching a small moan from your throat.

"Shh, darlin'," he whispers, even as he moves his fingers against you, with just enough pressure to send shivers running up your spine, laying hot kisses to the skin of your throat. You spread your legs slightly as you cling to him, silently begging for more as you grind yourself against his hand, and he huffs out a quiet chuckle, lips grazing the hollow of your throat before he comes back up to your mouth for another kiss.

"Thinkin' we should take this elsewhere," he breathes as he parts from you, his hand leaving you to rest at your hip instead, and you nod eagerly, your hands falling away from his chest as you let him guide you the few short steps you need to go back inside. The bedroom is dark, but neither of you notice, too engulfed in each other to care about anything else. He slams the door to the balcony closed before turning back to you, hands finding your hips as he kisses you again. You bring your hands to the collar of his shirt, experly working the buttons holding his shirt closed free as he pushes you further into the room. You laugh breathily at the groan that claws itself out of his throat when he feels you press your palm against his bare chest, your laughter turning into a gasp of surprise when you feel the edge of a table at the back of your thighs, your free hand grabbing at the back of his neck reflexively as you pull away slightly, just enough to shoot him a reproachful look.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he whispers with a low, quiet chuckle before leaning forward to press his lips to the side of your neck as his hands leave your hips to come find the buckle of your belt. It falls open easily under his fingers, and he makes quick work of the buttons of your trousers, groaning when he feels one of your hands brush down over his chest and his stomach, hovering at his belt for just a moment before reaching lower. He growls when he feels you press a hand against him, hips rolling into your palm greedily as he heaves a long, shuddering breath.

“Sweetheart…” he whispers hoarsely as you stroke him through the thick fabric of his trousers, bracing himself with one hand on the table behind you while the other comes to grip your hip tightly, his head falling forward as he presses his lips to the side of your neck. You turn your head to kiss his temple, allowing him a bit more pressure, earning yourself a half smothered groan against your skin that has heat running through every vein in your body, gathering at your center.

He almost whines when you remove your hand, raising his head to look at you with veiled eyes. You meet his gaze as you reach for the waist of your trousers, and you hear his breath catch in his throat when he sees you start to pull them down your legs, along with your underwear. His hands leave you to start working at his own clothes, shrugging his suspenders off his shoulder before making quick work of his belt and trousers. You kick off your boots, stepping out of your clothes, and he’s on you again in half a breath, his hands finding the bare skin of your thighs as he kisses you. Your hands reach up to grab his shoulders, and he lifts you up to sit on the edge of the table, immediately taking his place between your spread thighs as he presses himself as close to you as he possibly can. His lips are still on yours as you feel his hands smooth up your thighs, over your hips and the dip of your waist, cupping your breasts through your clothes before his fingers find the buttons of your shirt. He only has time to unbutton a few before you reach down to his trousers, pulling them down just enough to free him before you wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly. You feel his fingers falter and stop, your shirt hanging half-undone as he unwittingly thrusts into your hand, a deep growl rumbling up from deep within his chest as he closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to get lost in the slow, steady rhythm of your motion. His hands reach down, hooking beneath your thighs and pulling you closer to him as he lowers his head to kiss your throat. You steady yourself with one hand at the nape of his neck, the other still on him as you bring him against you, the feeling of you so close to him making his breath hitch in his throat.

You stroke him for a few more moments, slowly, lazily, until he shifts restlessly, gathering every shred of his remaining will to not simply move forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a pleading groan as he holds himself still as best he can. After a long while, you finally, mercifully let go of him, instead reaching for his hip to pull him closer, and he pushes himself inside you with a low, rumbling groan, echoed by a moan of your own as your hand bunches into the loose fabric of his shirt. He stays still for half a heartbeat before rolling his hips into yours, deep and slow, wrenching a breathless sigh from you, and he does it again, and again, heat gathering low in your stomach as you pull him close. He lays open-mouthed kisses to whatever skin your half-undone shirt allows him to reach as he sets a languid pace, and you close your eyes, your hand letting go of his shirt and smoothing up his back to come rest at the back of his head, your fingers tangling in his hair as you moan quietly with every thrust, feeling yourself being slowly overcome by the warm waves of pleasure that wash through you with every motion. You feel his hot breath against your skin as his lips brush back up to your mouth to kiss you, sweetly, tenderly, even as his thrusts grow harder, faster, and you part from him with a gasp as you feel the heat running through your body constrict into a tight ball in the pit of your stomach, waiting to burst. Your hand comes to cradle his cheek as you open your eyes to meet his, whispering quiet praise as you feel him near his end as well. Soon, he’s squeezing his eyes shut, leaning forward to press his forehead to yours as he grips your thighs tight enough to sting, his breath coming in gasps and moans as he sways just on the edge of his pleasure. The ball in your stomach slowly unravels into fiery tendrils that snake into every corner of your body as you reach down between the two of you, finding your core to trace tight, quick circles at your center, closing your eyes as you feel yourself start to come apart, before, finally, you're pushed over the edge, with a moan that sounds half like his name. The feeling of you tightening around him is what breaks him, and he comes with a too-loud growl, though neither of you can bring yourself to care as he pulls from you to spill himself on the inside of your thighs, murmuring half-mumbled words that you can’t quite catch.

He exhales shakily as he leans down to rest his forehead against your shoulder, still shuddering with the remnants of his pleasure, and you say nothing, simply threading your fingers through his hair gently as you try to catch your breath. A few moments pass by before he lifts his head, meeting your eyes as he slowly brings your legs back down to the table, kissing your temple before he steps away to the washbasin tucked in a corner of the room, coming back to you with a damp washcloth. His touch is gentle as he cleans the both of you, looking back up to meet your eyes when he’s done. Your hands reach for his shoulders, pulling him close to press a long, soft kiss to his lips, and he leans into you, hands finding your waist and holding tight.

“I’ll always be here,” he whispers when you finally part, moving away to meet your eyes. “I’ll always be with you. Whatever happens.”

You smile, bringing both of your hands up to cup his face, leaning forward to kiss his forehead.

“I know,” you whisper against his skin - and, somehow, really, you do.

Don’t know if anyone is even still reading these, but here, have more nasty porn.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[scnlit]

【 karl urban, cismale, 48 】this just in - august lewis ‘lou’ jones has been in wickway for fifteen years. apparently he is an owner of anglers anonymous and a civilian or so his passport says. so far it’s known that he favors the docks, and resides at west port. he is also said to be empathetic & trustworthy, but also anxious & paranoid at the end of the day, he can be described as weatherworn sails, delicately strung sea glass & never ending paranoia of being watched. 

( tw: alcoholism, emotional abuse, death )

HISTORY

It was always a wonder how August was born with an obsession of large bodies of water. He could never fully explain it, but there was something about them that always drew him in with the utmost fascination. If there any time or way for him to spend his recreational time at a pool, creek or lake - he’d be there knee deep and as happy as can be. Though it was arguably odd, his parents never saw any harm in it and was glad that their son was so fond of being active outside instead of piling on hours upon hours with inside technology.

When August’s mother and him moved out of Wickway and to California ( his father stayed behind to run the family diner ), it only furthered his passion. No one was surprised that he aspired to have a career that had to do with large bodies of water. He had always been a strong swimmer, was a part of the high school swim team, and was certified to scuba diver early on. Everyone in his hometown used to joke about how he was part fish, because of how often he would swim. So it was only fitting that he ended up setting his mind to become a deep sea diver. Soon enough, he landed himself the job of his dreams when he was 18. It was almost outrageous how fast he had accepted a high risk occupation, but nothing could stop him from moving away from home in order to achieve his dreams.

By 23 he was deeply in love and married to a woman he thought he knew to a T. They have a child shortly after, and August strove to be the best father he could be. Granted he wasn’t able to be around as often as he would’ve liked. What with the locations of the long dives. Still, he always tried his best. Even when his marriage grew more and more openly strained. 

The dangers of being a deep sea saturation diver came in several shapes and form, but none of them shook him up enough to make him quit. August was always extremely careful whenever he was on duty, but death’s hands were never far away. He witnessed his fair share of the deceased at random, but what really broke him was the life of his best friend. The two of them had been working on a repair when there was a malfunction with his friend’s respiratory device. In layman’s terms - that terrible instance resulted in his friend’s death, and August had been there to witness the entire drowning. It was an awful, tragic accident that the local news ate up and spat out to every single outlet they could get their hands on. Yet with time, the news of how his friend died fizzed out into the background noise of town life. Yet August couldn’t forget what happened no matter how much time passed.

There was hardly any support from his wife in his period of grief. She had never truly approved of his career choice, and was more than happy when he ended up doing the seemingly impossible. August chose to resign from his position without any prompting, and for the first time in his life - he was completely, and utterly, lost. The surefire ambition he had been born with fell short for years, and the loss of his friend clouded every single one of his decisions. The consumption of alcohol became a vice for him, and it nearly costed him his own life several times. It wasn’t until a hard felt intervention from his parents and son did he start to see the wrongs of his grief filled ways. Little by little, the grief became more bearable and he managed to get back onto his feet with the support of his family, friends, and therapy.

 August quit drinking as a whole when he decided to start his life anew. He finally braved the necessary steps to file for a divorce to separate himself from the toxic relationship. August was then fortunate enough to acquire a psychiatric service dog to aid him in bouts of anxiety, depression, and PTSD. The move back to Wickway had admittedly been a tough choice, but he decided to do so upon the passing of his father. Although the two of them had never been close, August still grieved the loss ( without using alcohol as a vice ). The family’s fishing pro shop was left in his name, and it was up to him to execute the business’ future. Originally he was going to sell it, but the community and staff grew on him. So the shop stayed open, and the well being of his life stabilized as he does his best to give back every day. Even if the Wickway community is plagued with trouble.

MISC. INFO

Hates being called August, and prefers to go by Lou or even Lewis.

There are several rumors about August. Literally anything small or extreme - please feel free to go wild with these assumptions. August is very well aware of what people are saying to him, but he never bothers to clarify details simply because it takes a lot of energy to do so.

He has definitely come by very suspicious things during his years in Wickway. Said things were always reported to the police, and he was probably labeled as suspect a few times. 

Diagnosed with anxiety, depression, and PTSD. Takes medication for anxiety.

Has a psychiatric service dog, Howdy, nicknamed Howes, ( belgian malinois ).

Arguably has the biggest heart for those in need, and will always do whatever he came to help out ( even if it hurts him in the process ).

Ironically enough, has thalassophobia (  fear of deep bodies of water such as the ocean or sea ), and is really sad about it.

Isn’t a regular at AA meetings, but still tries to go once every month or so.

In regards to his ex-wife - she had been constant with emotional manipulation ( especially in regards to him not acting ‘manly enough’ i.e. August is a fairly emotional person and has openly cried ). She had cheated on him a few times, and would always twist the reasoning back onto him. 

Has a fairly okayish relationship with his son. Arguably, he wasn’t around as much as he should’ve been during his son’s youth, but he has / will continue to make up for lost time. 

[dayenurose]

A little while back @deadhermiteyes posted a lovely piece of Dick/Babs fan art she drew. (View it here! It really is lovely). And she happened to mention that she’d like it if someone would write something based off of it. Which, in turn, kick-started my writing brain and I was inspired to write this piece.

A couple of quick notes… The artist captioned her picture with the line: “We used to leave the galas and come here all the time when we were kids, Dick. They’re gonna find us!” I have included it in the story (with a minor edit). All credit for that line goes to her.

Also, she mentioned wanting something angsty, so there is angst.

[Read on ao3]

Enjoy…

Moving On

The gala was in full swing. Photo ops had been snapped and sound bites gathered. The charity had been praised—a foundation supporting adult literacy programs—and the family thanked for their continuing support. Especially in these trying times.... The evening had marched on at a maddening slow pace until Dick didn’t think he could stand another moment of this farce. Then, as it had always been the case since he was a child, there was a moment when the crowd ceased to pay attention to him and he might as well have been invisible. Taking advantage of this lapse of attention, Dick slipped away from the gala and made good his escape. He had a few minutes before he would be missed.

Leaving the party behind, Dick made his way to the roof. The access door shut behind him on groaning hinges, leaving him alone in the blissful silence of the rooftop garden. Listlessly he meandered along the path which wound in and out of various garden patches, while his thoughts wandered a less steady way.  

They had convinced him to come tonight. They had told him it was time, that this was important, but the gala had been too much. Too many people with too many questions. He had to get away. Even if it was only for a moment. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply and took in the cool night air heavy with the promise of rain. This he missed.

From this perspective, high over the city, Dick felt more at home than he did when he was on the ground below, mingling with people he scarcely knew. Playing a role and moving on. He hated that phrase. That was all anyone said to him anymore.

Dick sat along the low retaining wall, confident he would not fall despite being six stories above the ground. Shrugging out of his jacket and loosening his tie, he abandoned both on the ledge beside him. They were strangling him. He could barely breathe as it was. He needed...he needed her.

It had been too long since he’d taken to the rooftops. He couldn’t, not anymore. It would be foolish, irresponsible. He wouldn’t.  

Still, Dick could taste the freedom which leaping off rooftops and gliding through the air had always granted him before. It had been too long since he felt like the “daring young man on the flying trapeze.” Oh, how she used to tease him.

Shaking his head as though it were possible to clear his brain of the unwanted thoughts. Too many memories clung to his shoulders —clipped his wings and pinioned him to the ground. The wind bit through the thin silk of his shirt and ruffled his hair. Tomorrow, he told himself, I’ll go back on the trapeze tomorrow. From there, maybe things would look brighter. It had helped in the past. He just needed this tonight.

Retrieving the device from his jacket pocket, Dick turned it over and over again in his hands. He shouldn’t be doing this. He promised....

With a click, Dick turned on the device, set it on the ledge and waited.

“Dick? Are you up here?” Babs’ voice rang through the otherwise silent night. It was too close, while at the same time being far too distant.

Hesitating for only a moment, Dick pushed himself to his feet and stood as still as stone. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be here. He needed to stop living in the past.

“Dick, where are you? This isn’t funny.” Despite the rebuke in her words, there was amusement in her voice.

He didn’t rush to her as had once been his custom. Instead he stayed his mark. If he wanted this, he needed to stay here. To endure the wait, Dick closed his eyes and breathed deeply. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t quite fill his lungs.

“There you are, Hunk Wonder,” Babs called as she rounded the corner of the path. Her movements were slow and a bit awkward. After the experimental spinal surgery started to fail, she had good days and bad ones. More often than not, she spent most of her time in her wheelchair than not. But, for this occasion, she’d felt up to walking.

“Yeah, here I am.” His voice almost sounded normal. Not that she would notice one way or the other.

Dick opened his eyes and openly stared at Babs, drinking in every detail. Her smile lit up her face and a teasing glimmer sparked in her green eyes. At the sight of her, his heart raced in his chest. His expression softened and his lips curled into a smile. This...he needed this.

Her eyes. They sparked with more excitement than they usually did when they met for these secret assignations. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Dick grinned. “I needed to get away for a moment.”

“I know. Me too. No matter how many times we do this, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to all this hobnobbing.” The breeze caught at her hair as she pulled out the pins and allowed the long locks to tumble about her shoulders. The loose braid which had formally accented the updo was quickly lost amid the red curls. She massaged her temples and exhaled a sigh of relief. “That feels better.”

He wanted to run his fingers through her hair, but held back.

Taking a step closer, she shivered and ran a hand over her bare arms. “It’s getting too cold for rooftop meetings.”

“But the view is gorgeous.” His gaze followed the deep v neckline of her dark charcoal dress.

A rosy flush coloured her pale cheeks as she followed the progression of his hungry gaze.  “Dick, not here. We used to leave the galas and come here all the time when we were kids. They’re gonna find us!”

“We have a few minutes before anyone will miss us,” he mumbled. Spinning her around so her back pressed against his front, Dick wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close, interlacing their fingers. The pose wasn’t as easy or as comfortable, as it had once been. His left arm traced down the length of hers until he captured her hand in his. He tried ignore the missing cool metal of her wedding band. Babs giggled, the joy effusing every ounce of her being.

“The gardens look lovely. You did a great job.” Though he was trying to distract her from the cold and the thoughts of discovery, Dick truly meant the compliment. Babs had helped create this little haven of green in their city. Each of the half dozen or so plots contained a different colorful and fragrant offering.

Never one to forget the hardships of the No Mans Land quarantine, Babs had insisted they include vegetables among the gardens. There were tomatoes and peppers. Heads of lettuce and kale. Zucchini vines snaked their way through the neat rows.

Not far from where he stood now, a small patch of wild flowers grew nearby, offering a colorful bounty of flowers. A trio of beehives nestled among the daisies, clovers, and a myriad of other flowers he couldn’t name. The bee were quiet in the deepening night, though in the morning the buzz of an active hive would begin anew.

Closing his eyes, he dipped his head and tried to prolong the moment. Breathing deeply, he inhaled rose and lavender. The scent he loved—the one he longed for—was missing. Long gone was the subtle, sweet scent of vanilla. Babs had once admitted she preferred a perfume with a touch of vanilla. It reminded her of the old books she loved. She’d explained the chemistry—as the paper broke down, it carried the scent of vanillin. Her passion for books was one of the many things he loved about her. He could not count the number...

“Dick,” Babs’ voice interrupted his runaway thoughts. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Mmhmm,” Dick managed to choke around the lump in his throat, no longer able to pretend everything was okay. No longer able to stick to the script. Babs continued as though he had never missed his cue. He opened his eyes to see her face, needing to see it one more time.

Who was he kidding? Once more would never be enough. Her green eyes are bright with all the potential of bright tomorrows. She flickered in his arms.

“Dick...”

The access door creaked, breaking the moment before she could share the news.

“Daddy? Are you up here?”

Dick started. The image of Babs flickered again as he stumbled back and scrambled for the projector from its place on the ledge. He flicked it off, leaving him once again alone.  

“Annie, I’m back here.” Dick dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief, though he couldn’t hide the red. He didn’t mind if his daughter saw the telltale signs of his tears. After all, It’s okay to cry, had become a near mantra around their home since Babs’ death six months ago. Over that span of time he had cried enough to fill the oceans of the world several times over.

No, he didn’t mind if she found him crying. Rather the problem was that once she located him, his time alone would be over. They would need to rejoin the gala. Once more he would be subject to the pitying glances, the uncomfortable silences, and—God forbid—the empty condolences. People were beginning to move from the ‘I understand, take all the time you need’ to the ‘Why aren’t you over this yet?’.  

Their extended family was better, but none of them knew how to help Dick and his children grieve. They couldn’t adopt the family’s usual method for dealing with loss. Cancer left no enemies to beat up. No mystery to solve, no justice to enact. Death’s revolving door stayed firmly shut this time. He was no Orpheus able to charm open the gates of Hades.

Annie found him exactly where he had stood. She clutched a book in her hands, grasping the spine until her knuckles turned white. Allowing her to bring a book was the only way he could get her to come. Behind her glasses, wide, lost eyes searched the gardens. She ran the last few feet to him and threw her arms around his waist in an embrace. With her face pressed into his shirt, it was hard to hear her amid the muffled sniffles. “I was scared when I couldn’t find you. I thought I lost you too.”

“I’m sorry sweetheart.” Dick gathered his daughter in his arms and held her to his chest. It hurt to look at her. She was so much like her mother with her bright red hair and the liberal sprinkling of freckles. Annie had his eyes—the shape and colour—but he always thought they shone with the same bright curiosity which had been Babs’. Before his legs gave way, Dick sank down to the ledge and resisted the urge to break down in sobs. He needed to be strong for her.

When Annie’s sniffling ceased, Dick relaxed his embrace. Annie slipped out of his arms. A Grayson through and through, his ten year old daughter showed no fear as she sat on the ledge beside him. Her leg bounced in an unsteady rhythm. Resting her head against his arm, they sat in silence listening for the hum of the traffic below.

“Where’s Henry?” Breaking the silence, Dick asked after her twin brother, the two were scarcely seen without the other. He slipped his jacket back on, but left off the tie.

Between all his siblings, Steph, Alfred, Bruce, and Jim—Dick and Babs had never worried about their children at events like these. With the training ingrained into each of them from their nights working together to keep Gotham safe, his family watched over his children. It was almost uncanny how the children passed from one set of watchful eyes to another without the explicit need to organize the process. But, like everything since Babs had died, that too seemed broken. She had held their little world together. When they had Oracle’s all seeing gaze watching their backs, the extended family’s self-appointed mission felt a little bit safer, a little more possible. Now, the Clocktower was empty, the Oracle was silenced.

A sob hitched in his chest. He pulled Annie close and held her tight.

Annie shrugged. “There’s too many people here, so he left with Aunt Cass. Grandpa Bruce knows...”

“You didn’t want to go with them?” He tried to keep his voice light. He didn’t care if she attended the party or not, just that she was safe.

“I wanted to find you first.” She worried her bottom lip. Silently she ticked off each member of their extended family on her fingers as she mentally recalled their locations.

Dick’s heart ached. His bold, vivacious children had turned quiet, never straying far from each other or family. Annie needed to know where everyone was at all times and Henry couldn’t stand crowds. If they hadn’t inherited Babs’ brilliance, there had been rumblings of holding them back a year in school. Dick was all they had now. He couldn’t be risking his life on a nightly basis. He couldn’t leave them orphans.

Annie picked up the projector and turned it over in her hands. “Is this Mama’s...?”

“Yes,” Dick plucked the device out of her hands. His fingers hovered over the switch. From diagnosis to her death, it had been nearly a year. It was all too short a time, but Babs had never given up hope. Even in her last pain filled days, Babs had never stopped trying to find ways to take care of them all. Trying to extend her reach beyond her passing.

In the time she had left, she and Dick had created the projector. Adapting her training room technology, they had created a way to record memories and play them back in lifelike vignettes. They had started with her memories, then his. It was all they had time for, before it was too late. He was suppose to continue adding stories—and the twins’, and her father’s, Bruce’s, his siblings’, her teams’, everyone whose lives she had touched. There had been so many. Once the collected stories were gathered and woven together, they would have a comprehensive record of Babs’ life.

“I miss Mama.” Annie ran her fingers along the spine of her book. It was the last book Babs had given their daughter. Though Annie carried it with her everywhere, she had yet to read it.

“Would you like to see what I was watching?” It was time to share this memory.

She nodded.

Dick flipped the switch. The image flickered to life (a sick feeling twisted in his stomach at that turn of phrase) and paused where he had left the scenario. This simulacrum of Dick and Babs were so young. Even his daughter noticed the difference. She ran a hand through her dad’s hair, now liberally streaked with grey. He no longer tried to hide the passage of time. Pressing the button again, the memory played from where he left off.

“Dick,” The memory-Babs repeated his name, making certain she had his attention. Their eyes locked and the love was unmistakable. Eager and hopeful. Even back then, he already knew what she was going to say. How could he not? Babs took one last deep breath, before announcing her news with a radiant smile. “I’m pregnant.”

The smile on Dick’s face was as brilliant as the sun. He swooped Babs up in his arms and spun her. When at last he set down his wife, he kept a steadying arm around her waist. Lightly pressing his free hand to her stomach, he leaned in and kissed her.

In the present, Dick allowed the image to linger for a moment before turning off the projector. Tears ran down Annie’s cheeks at the sight of her mama alive and vibrant.

“That’s the night we learned about you and your brother,” Dick murmured into his daughter’s hair, holding her close.

“I wish...I wish she could come back to us,” Annie whispered. “I miss her so much.”  

“So do I sweetheart. So do I.” Dick closed his eyes and breathed in the night. The subtle scent of vanilla was missing. Their world would never be the same. And it wasn’t meant to be. They would go on, somehow. He couldn’t see the way— yet—but he knew they would find it. Together.

[cinnbar-bun]

I’ve always wondered... what’s the destiny of any immortal, Primal-like character if they fall in love with a human? How broken would GBF’s playable Primals (Rosetta, Lucio, Sandy, any of the Archangel disciples, Noa, DAO, Azazel, etc. You can choose whoever you want) be if their s/o is the Captain, knowing that, hey, all these adventures will one day disappear. Their beloved will never smile to them again... And how would they live on (or not)? I like angst.

Okay so I did something a bit different and decided to just list out some of the characters and how they would react. 

Rosetta: She’s known loss all her life and has already understood the weight of morality on humans. While she gracefully manages her day-to-day tasks, deep inside she is rather hurt by those who she has lost. But also due to her nature, she tends to make friends easily. No two people she’s met are the exact same, and it comforts her slightly that she’ll get to experience humanity, a new facet each time. However, for the truly special person in her heart, no one could replace them. As much as these new friends may provide some joy, they could never bring the complete satisfaction she got from loving you. But she knows you wouldn’t want her to feel sad, so she continues trying to live her life to the fullest. 

Sandalphon: Truly, he’s dealt with so much, and loving you temporarily brought him comfort in a place where he thought he could not receive any light. He gets so caught up with your love that he forgets your human, and that he’s immortal. When you pass, it’s like his whole world crumbled down all over again. As Belial had said, once you die, who’s going to care for him like you did? And the answer-none. To him, you were one of kind. Much like with Lucifer, your presence haunts him in his dreams and he sometimes makes that fantasy world where you are forever young. But it isn’t you. He gets destroyed for a long time. The other primarchs try to console him, but they themselves have never really gone through something like that, so they simply can’t relate. It takes a long time for him to really be somewhat okay and cope with his loss, but he still feels that sense of loneliness that you left him with. 

Lucio: Lucio is more of a neutral party, and he knows that you will die. But for some reason, he can’t help but be drawn to you, so he takes the risk. When you die, he is calm about it, but he’s quite emotionally withdrawn. He accepts that you’re gone, but he just...wishes you were back. He prays that you’d be reborn and he’d get to see you at least one last time. None would really know he’s suffering or grieving, but internally, he is sad that you’re gone. But most of all, he wishes to thank you for giving him hope and love. He is grateful for the opportunity to have been a part of your life. 

Lucilius: This man is cold and calculated. The fact that even anyone was enough to melt that icy heart of his is a feat on its own. Because of that, he will not rest until you’re back and alive. He’s in a frenzy trying new magic and research that can revive you, and his scientific studies become more horrific. At that point, he doesn’t care how you feel unless you’re alive. Even if you become a mangled zombie and cry about how painful it was to be resurrected, he won’t care. He’ll continue trying to ‘remake’ you, and if even one flaw is off he destroys it and starts anew. Your death was one of the reasons he wished to destroy the skydom. He needs perfection, and you are the most perfect being in his eyes. 

Azazel: He’s an emotional mess. How dare you leave him! How dare you take the time to know him and love him, and then leave him so miserable and alone! He screams how he hates you as he sees your body being buried, and how you’ll face his wrath in hell. He doesn’t mean any of it. On special occasions, your birthday, and the day you died, he’s a lot more somber and quiet, almost regretful, and visits your grave. He does nothing but sit there and talk to you, as if you’d ever respond to him. “Heh, you’ll never believe it, I beat some guy up with a single kick! He went flying! Ah, I wish you could see it...do you... do you even hear me?” His asshole persona is even more apparent to make up for his betrayed emotions as he tries to navigate a life without someone caring for him like you did. 

Caro (BRING BACK MY BABY BOI!!!): He couldn’t help but call you his muse. You lit up a light in him that no one else could, and he was so amazed to have been in your presence. When you were gone, he went through a dark period where everything he did was about you. He wrote sad songs and somber ballads about how he loved you, he painted pictures of you and only you, he wrote stories of you and the chance to meet you. It was his way of coping, and it brought a lot of dark pieces to the music world because of his influence. His sad outlook made other artists feel melancholy, trying new forms of depressing and bleak environments. He regretted making others feel that way, but eventually he decided to look at things more positively. It was hard, but instead of focusing on how you were dead and never coming back, he sang about how you made him feel loved and complete. It eased the pain in his heart, but still, to this day, you are always his muse. 

[kbstories]

Hey @your-a-good-man-arthur, ask and you shall receive! This is not a full fill of your prompt, but I hope you like it anyways c:

Leave This World Alive

Tags: Charles/Arthur, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, PS I Love You AU, Hurt Almost No Comfort

Warning for major chapter 6 spoilers!

>>Read on AO3

A year later, Charles Smith wakes and wishes he hadn't.

Lying on his back, he blinks up into the darkness of his tent. It's quiet outside, only the distant crackling of fire and hushed conversations to be heard. There's bird song, too, cheerful and carefree as it announces the break of a new day.

It doesn't feel right. Then again, nothing has ever since–

Charles closes his eyes again, lids clenched shut as if he could physically will away what this means. A year. Three-hundred-sixty-five fucking days have passed and the world spins on, a world without Arthur Morgan in it.

A few tears escape, burning in the corner of his eyes and trailing down his temples. They're due to leave a permanent path in his skin anytime soon. Wouldn't that be fitting? There's nothing Charles has to remember Arthur by, except the broken edges of his heart and the new lines grief has carved into his face.

Somewhere out there, there's a grave with his name on its cross – yet Charles hasn't been back since he buried him, hands aching, full of splinters as he engraved a wish into the wood, virtually blind with loss and exhaustion. He couldn't bring himself to.

Today of all days, he doesn't – can't – run from the rush of emotion that takes ahold of him. Charles inhales and exhales, shakier every time, and misses Arthur. The unique drawl of his voice, the gentle touch of too-rough hands; the way the right kind of smile could make his eyes light up, full of fragile hope and so blue.

There's nothing in the world that could compare, and Charles tried. He did. In those first weeks, when continuing to breathe felt too painful and the void inside made everything else meaningless, he went looking, was utterly convinced that if only he searched long enough, he'd find him eventually.

Somewhere in the margins, and even if just in the corner of a dog-eared book, Arthur must've left his mark.

It was all gone, though. Charles had stopped looking, and he still remembers viscerally how it hit him then. That Arthur – this kind, kind man, too kind for the things life had in store for him – left, not in the tumultuous roar they had envisioned for themselves over a shared bottle of whiskey under the stars but beaten and broken and alone.

A candle alight inside a storm, its flame quietly flickering out before it reached the end of its wick.

“Arthur, I swear...”

Charles fights for breath as he lies there without the familiar weight of the man he loves beside him, one set of lungs where there should be two, and he doesn't know how to end that sentence.

I swear I won't forget.

I swear I will finish what you started.

But he knows, deep within, there's only one thing Arthur would've wanted.

I swear I will keep going.

It's getting harder and harder to keep his promises.

*

Charles doesn't notice the courier's presence, at first.

He's tending to Taima as he does each morning, brushing the dust off her back and checking her legs for injuries. The past year, too, has had a toll on her; mere days after– after, she had started pawing the ground and digging her nose into Charles's pockets, and Charles had been too numb to understand at first that she was begging him for Arthur's treats, the ones he used to slip her when he thought Charles wasn't paying attention.

Some days, Charles wonders if horses grieve as well, or if he's just projecting his own state of mind onto her. Maybe it doesn't really matter.

When she turns her expectant gaze on him, Charles rolls his eyes and produces a carrot out of his back pocket. He breaks it apart and gives her the bigger half, keeping the other for himself.

“Ah, there– Mr. Smith!”

Charles stop chewing as his head snaps up, the mouthful sitting awkwardly on his tongue for a moment before he swallows. Nobody calls him that here. Eyes narrowed and shoulders tense, he reaches for his knife–

“Hey, uh”, the stranger says, eyes flitting nervously from Charles's hands to his face and back again. “Easy there, mister. Charles Smith, right? Just wanna deliver this letter I got for ya, and I'll be on my way. No trouble comin' from me, I promise!”

“Who?” Charles's voice sounds raspy even to his own ears. “Who sent you?”

Clearly, it doesn't inspire much confidence because the courier scrambles for an answer, quick enough to stumble over his words.

“A– Alden, sir. From the post office in Rhodes? Told me to look up in the mountains for ya. Never been this far up North, I believe– Ain't complainin', of course, no sir!”

Alden? A vague memory stirs. One of the discouraged men that have been popping up more and more, if you knew where to look for 'em. Charles holds out a hand, meeting the other's uncomprehending stare. “The letter?”, he prompts.

“Ah! Yes, sir, uh– Here.”

It has weight to it, the letter. Charles doesn't throw more than a cursory glance at it, not with the stranger-turned-courier trying to look as well, but there's something about it that makes his heart beat faster, awakened from its year-long slumber.

Only at Charles's raised eyebrow does the courier straighten up, “Right”, he says, nodding to himself. “I'll get goin'.”

For a moment, Charles watches him leave, weaseling his way past a busy camp filled with even busier people, almost comical with how out-of-place his uniform looks here. Seems like a lifetime ago that he's dealt with any outsiders. He can't say he missed it.

Charles shakes his head and looks down at the letter in his hands – Taima's on it before he can do more than flip it, ears pointed and nose flaring as she sniffs it curiously, and, with the practiced ease of having grown up with and around animals, Charles raises it out of her reach.

“That's for me, girl. You had your treat already.”

There's much to be done still; Charles needs to check the traps, maybe bring home a doe if luck is on his side. Last time he did so, Rains Fall told him he's earned his keep with or without hunting for them, but Charles feels better knowing he can help, somehow.

Later, he decides, pocketing the letter. He'll read it later.

*

It's past midnight when Charles returns, dried blood gone tacky on his hands and his feet half-frozen in his boots. Only after he's in his tent, washed and fed and as close to the much-needed fire as he dares, does he remember the letter.

It's in the back pocket of his discarded pants, and looking a little crumpled around the edges. Charles has to tilt towards the firelight to read the single line on the front of the envelope, and he nearly drops it entirely when he does.

Charles Smith in the delicate, narrow twists and turns of a handwriting he'd recognize anywhere, even five, ten, thirty years down the line.

And there's hope, for one blinding moment as he slides his fingers into folded paper and pulls out a few pages worth, hope that somehow, in some way, Arthur did manage to return to him. That this is the sign he's been looking out for, that there is a place to go and a date to keep in mind that will make the past year undone.

That somewhere there, at the end of the line, is Arthur with his drawl and his beautiful eyes, waiting for him.

That is not how these things are meant to go, of course. There in the corner, on the very first page, is a date and a place and Charles's chest aches with the loss of it all, the numbers blurring in front of his eyes.

Beaver Hollow, just a few days before–

“Oh, Arthur”, Charles breathes, less than a whisper as he realizes that this, reading Arthur's first and final letter to him, might very well be the last thing he does. That perhaps his tattered heart struggled on beating just for him to witness this, just as he was there to witness Arthur's dead body.

And yet, the feel of the paper between his fingers is familiar, comforting, reminiscent of that journal Arthur carried everywhere and there, down one side of it, it is a little torn where it was carefully ripped out. Charles wipes a stray tear off his cheek before it can drip down and ruin any of it. Even so he finds it impossibly hard to start, to take in anything beyond the Dear Charles at the very beginning.

Arthur's words, the rarest resource Charles has.

It's inevitable, that he does – start, that is, because he must. There is no world in which Charles wouldn't listen to what Arthur has to say, no matter how frail and weak his voice got, hacked into pieces by his coughing that will haunt Charles to the end of his days, too.

Thus, he reads, Dear Charles, and rubs at his chest where his heart breaks anew.

I've started this more times than I can count and to be honest with you, I still have no idea what I'm doing.

The thing is: I don't have much time. Well, you know this, obviously you do... I'm giving this letter to Sadie first thing in the morning, and if it made it's way to you, then that means I'm dead.

I think that's part of it, you know? Of the not-knowing. Never been a man to philosophize, and I ain't about to start now, but it's been on my mind. I don't know how this whole thing will turn out. I just know you made it out safe, and so will John, Abigail and lil Jack too. Might very well be the last thing I do.

Oh, Charles. All I know is I miss you. Sounds like a silly thing to say, with you being gone only a week but well, you and I both know this is it so... Here I am, acting like a fool for you once more. And while there's many things I regret, being with you was never one of 'em.

I would do it all again, you know? If that's what it takes, I wouldn't hesitate, not even a second. Being with you made life worth living, no matter how hard it got. I guess that's the thing about love, ain't it? I always thought it ain't meant for someone like me. You proved me wrong on that, as you tend to do. Made me a freer man than I ever was.

Because I do, Charles. I love you. Said it once or twice but it ain't ever enough. You were the best damn thing that ever happened to me and letting you go was the hardest damn thing, too.

And I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I'm sorry that everything turned out this messy. I'm sorry I can't be there now, with you.

I'll spend the time that's left for me thinking about you, Charles. There ain't much else I can give you. I hope, wherever you are, that you're thinking about me too.

And yet, while my story is nearing its end, it's only a chapter in yours. You deserve the world, Charles. You do. You told me not so long ago I owe you, and I think you didn't realize how much. I ain't got what it takes to ask another favor of you but...

Keep going, please. Do it for me, Charles.

I'm running out of space and there's so much more I want to tell you. Just know that that peace we was talking about finding? I think I did. I found it in you.

I'm yours, Charles. Always, remember?

Arthur

*

The letter has its own pocket in every one of Charles's shirts. Folded into a small square, the pages are tucked into that spot over his heart, a familiar weight.

Charles knows every word by memory and yet, every time when the leaves start to fall, he sits by Taima's side and reads it, sometimes to himself, sometimes out loud. The paper is weak where it's been bent too many times, the sketches that fill the few blank spots a little smudged but it doesn't matter.

Arthur is with him, always, and that is all that counts.

>>Read on AO3

[kainfamilyfortune]

Thea - Journal Entry #2

Year 33rd, Month 8th, Day 13th - The War of Thorns

The sky cried heavily for you today, so much so that the grave diggers didn’t seem to be inclined to keep up with their work. I easily dispatched of them, handing them a few silver to go to the pub. I took off my pauldrons and leg guards, my chest piece, finally taking off my gloves and chain mail under shirt. Grabbing the shovel leaning upon a gravestone left by one of the workers, I dug six feet under. Calluses began to spur between my thumb and pointer finger on both bare hands. Beads of rain drenched my long amber hair. I paused only to gauge the depth before I called out to my squad sitting underneath a tent, giving their final blessings, to bring your body forward. Carefully we set you down into the earth. Unwrapping the animal skins around your sword and intertwined your fingers onto the handle, before silently putting my head onto your chest. I cried, enveloping my arms around your stone cold form; knowing very well that you’d never embrace me back, knowing that you would never tell me that I was being stupid for crying over a dead man, when I showed to be strong in the past when it came to death, I couldn’t help it. As we shoveled the dirt back into your grave, I imagined us on the farm.

My squad started cleaning up his grave as I adorned my armor once more when a messenger boy came flocking up the grave site, “Kain! Thea Kain!” I replied back to him, “Aye, boy, yes?” And he handed me a somewhat soggy letter with a waxy red crest of the lion. I swallowed my depression and quickly headed for shelter under the tent as the four of us huddled around. Juliet looked up to me, “Aye?” Her thick Gilnean accent protruded through. I eyed her carefully as I unfurled the letter, breaking that beautiful seal. 

Infantry Leader to the 112th - Thea Kain,

   I write to you with my deepest condolences to you and your squad today. I know that we will allow you this time for grieving, for we are grieving in this time as well for Dustin Hatfield. We must keep our goals in check though in these trying times of war and hardship. Your squad is one of the brightest stars and we cordially invite you to our next steps in turning the tides in the war effort. Details will be given at tonight’s meeting at Lion’s Rest. Be prepared to leave in the following days. 

                                                          We will Prevail, Lord Maxwell Tyrosus

I could feel my demeanor start to return on the last line. His signature sign off on every letter I have ever received from him. My face hardened as I spoke the letter aloud to gain the attention of my squad, which turned to a grim realization. War. It was upon us truly, in this moment - for some, it wouldn’t be the first time. We finished the rest of our clean up and headed to Lion’s Rest, for sun fall was nearly approaching us. I could feel the dirt still laden my skin, the pores extruding it and the rain washing it away like a baptism. I would grow stronger for this. I would become anew.

The meeting was a call to arms, farm hands traded hoes and pitchforks for swords and shields. Their newly crowned helmets and tabards didn’t quite fit right, but no one was joking around, or poking fun at the new initiates, not even the fresh troops from Duskwood, who stuck out like sore thumbs. Squads were formed, one by one, with orders being handed out like graduation diplomas, we stood in line, awaiting our call. Names were being called left and right. I tried to focus on the sound of the rain, looking up at the cool grey sky.

“112th Infantry. Kain, Thea.” My attention snapped to a General in front of me, then to each of my squad mates, “Dawson, Juliet.” Her dark hair came down to just her shoulders as she had her name called, you could still see her ears perk up, a yellow flash in her eye. She was driven instinctively, young and slim in build, but when her temper got the better of her, the beast escaped to terrorize all that stand in her wake. Friends included; but we were working on that. I patted where a few claw scars would be on my arm. Luckily the curse is only transferred by being bitten or digesting the blood of the beast. She had a sense for adventure and a love for the Alliance, so I couldn’t say no when I met her at the interment camps outside Stormwind’s walls, all the able hands and fresh perspective was I all I needed. Plus, she makes me laugh.

“Peddle, Gereon.” The oldest of our troupe, He just turned 58, the old bastard. He said he was going to retire and open up a stable and general good store in Westfall by the name of ‘Peddle’s Purveyance’ - I told him that he might not know what the word Purveyance actually means, but then he simply waves his hand and scoffs at the party; defensively telling us that ‘It’s an older meaning! You kids changing how my vocabulary is.’ And then he’d grumble about it while we were on duty for a few hours and forget. He had a tuft of brown hair, graying a bit on the sides of his wide forehead. Slight bags under his crystal blue eyes that saw through two wars already - I had to guess his motivation for still wanting to fight. He was calculated as he was still a brute in combat. I was surprised when he initially requested that I apply for infantry leader when I enlisted in the army. People told me that he just has an eye for potential, despite him being crotchety in a way, he had a purpose, and his smile the day that I was accepted for infantry leader, made me believe it.

“Townsend, Darvell.” Despite his gruff demeanor and large stance; I still see him as a huge softy. Well at least to us. Water droplets cascade off his head as he brushes the rain off then proceeds to stand at attention. His dark brown eyes pierce down to the general who barked out his name, striking some fear at least for a second. A smile can be seen just barely itching the corner of his lips. I still see the full smile, brandishing underneath, from a long lost childhood. Darvell was my first neighbor when my father and I fled to Stormwind. He was maybe a couple years younger than me, but he had no issue showing who was king of the playground when we were in our studies. He favored the sword and shield - so he was typically my sparring partner when it came to drills, I know full well he could take a hit infused with the Light and because I’m the only person that could beat him, one on one. Towering over the flock by at least a foot, anywhere he went, including now, amongst a least a thousand men and women awaiting orders in the rainy capitol.

The general focused back upon me, “Your orders Ms. Kain.” And he handed me a rolled-up piece of parchment, tied with a dark blue ribbon. His gaze quickly darted to me and then Darvell who shifted to folding his arms across his burly chest and the general moved on to the next group. I looked up to Darvell, “You know, you shouldn’t attempt to intimidate your superiors. Eventually someone ought to handle you toe to toe, that isn’t me.” I let out a chuckle, unfurling the orders, Juliet peering next to me. “Where, Where?” She asked impatiently. 

“Kul Tiras. Hmm, that’s  the isle off of Gilneas, right? I thought they didn’t want to join the war, I wonder what Anduin is planning. I’m sure we’ll figure that out, might have to do with Miss Proudmoore.” I darted the words out to the group, Juliet looked excited, per usual. Gereon took the letter from my hands and began to look further down, his eyes dashing quickly from line to line. “We leave in a week. Best get your gear sharpen’d and consolidate what’cha can.” He exclaimed. I looked down to the shield, still scratched up and bent where I had to wedge it underneath a Kal’dorei ballista for leverage back at Darkshore. I nodded to Gereon then looked to everyone, harnessing my commanding voice, “If you have anything to do, I’m giving you the next three days, starting tomorrow. That should be enough time for you to find a blacksmith to upkeep your gear and for you to pack your things, provisions, and Darvell - don’t forget undergarments this time, please? After that, it’s back to full combat training, meeting in old town at dawn. I want us in line on the first boat out of here sailing to Kul Tiras. Do I make myself clear?” I trained them well, following my question, they nodded and replied “Crystal.”

I made my way through the crowds of soldiers gathered throughout Lion’s Rest, back towards the cemetery alone. The sky was still crying for you. I know that you will fight with us in spirit when we make landfall on this foreign land, I wonder what’ll be like there. I paused in front of the fresh mound of dirt. Your headstone is simple, nothing flashy - just as you would’ve chosen; Something that came up all too often in conversation was what headstone we would pick out for one another. If we wanted to be buried or cremated. Where would you be buried or scattered. I often dodged the topic of death, only telling them that I didn’t want to be buried, that I’d prefer cremation, because realistically I did that so I couldn’t come back if we were to lose this war.

[prettywitchiusaka]

Royai Week Day 4 One-Shot: Someone To Talk To

A few days late, but I think you guy’ll like it. I’ve got one more thing for today, so look forward to that, too!

Title: Someone To Talk To

Rating: K+

Word Count: 2,918

Ship: Royai

Theme: Touch

Summary: Normally, Riza keeps her thoughts about Ishbal to herself. But on a night where she can't sleep, she ends up turning to Roy for comfort.

BANG!!!

Through the periscope on her rifle, Riza watches her target, an Ishbalan man collapse to the ground, lifeless.

Next, she reloaded the gun, turned it slightly, and waited patiently for “the enemy” to come. When a target was in her sights she would pull the trigger and, with perfect accuracy, shoot a bullet through their head and watch them fall over dead.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Every day was the same routine; get up, get dressed, have a quick breakfast. Then head into town, pick the tallest building you could find, and check to make sure it was secure before going to the top floor. Then check your gun, position it, and kill.

Kill. Eat. Kill. Sleep. Kill. Eat. Kill. Sleep.

A never-ending cycle, but one she’d grown used to. Get up, do your job, then have a break and don’t think too much about what you’re actually doing.

Every now and then, she’d see the fear in the eyes of Ishbalans trying to flee through her periscope. Any sympathy she felt for these men and women though, she tucked away behind a mask of indifference and shot them.

She was Major Riza Hawkeye; ace marksmen at the top of her class, sent here to aid the State in their annihilation of the enemy. Who cares what she thought?

Riza positioned her rifle, ready to shoot the next Ishbalan in her line of sight… And felt her amber eyes widen at the sight of an Ishbalan child.

He couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve years old, but he looked like he’d been fighting all his life. His cloths were torn, the gun he was holding in his hand had obvious scuff marks on it, possibly from a desperate struggle to acquire it. Or maybe it was worn out from years of use. She’d never know.

But the most striking thing about this boy had to be his face. His cheek bones were visible, which meant he’d probably had very little to eat or drink for days or even weeks. And there was barely any emotion in his eyes. Just fatigue, fatigue and a sliver of what looked like a desperate plea for survival.

Riza’s grip on her rifle tightened, knowing her mask was starting to slip. She had to kill this boy, it was what she was here to do.

She looked into her periscope again, and she saw not just tears forming in his eyes, but the dark bags underneath them, too.

She sighed…and loosened her grip on her gun. She could afford to break the rules just this once, she told herself. One less person to kill, one less sin to bear.

“There’s the brat!”

Riza looked into her periscope and saw a group of soldiers approaching the frightened child…and he was pointing the gun at them.

Her grip on her gun tightened once more, and her mask slipped again…but only for a moment.

She pointed her gun at the child, placed her finger on the trigger and pulled it.

BANG!!!

Riza awoke to a dark, unfamiliar ceiling. It took a moment, but when recollection came to her she breathed a sigh of relief. She was in Central on an errand with her boss, Colonel Mustang. They planned on spending the night in a hotel, but his friend Hughes had insisted they spend the night at his place.

Ishbal, the child, it was all a nightmare. She was resting comfortably in the guest room, safe and sound.

But just because Riza was in a safe place didn’t mean she felt safe.

She could still feel the butterflies in her stomach, the jumbled fog her brain was in as she stared up at the ceiling, replaying the image of the boy on loop in her head for what felt like hours.

She’d been having these memories turned nightmares for the last few weeks, now. Though why was anyone’s guess.

But whatever made these thoughts go away, she had to do it now.

In a few hours, she and Roy would be on a train back to East City. That meant another long day of office work, keeping her male colleagues in line, and protecting and/or babysitting the Colonel. If she wanted to perform even just one of those tasks successfully, she was going to need some sleep.

Riza turned on her side, closed her eyes and tried not to think of the boy and his dead eyes. Or his sickly cheeks. Or the gun in his hands. Or anything related to him, really.

This went on for what felt like hours to Riza. Occasionally, she would stop obsessing over the memories, which made her feel safe and at peace again.

It never lasted long.

The second she realized her thoughts had drifted away from her unpleasant past, something, like a thought about the boy, or the stench of Ishbalan corpses rotting in the streets, would take hold and the cycle would begin anew. The butterflies in her stomach would flutter wildly, and her mind raced with negative thoughts that constantly reminded her how awful she was.

Finally, Riza sighed.

She looked up at the clock on the night stand and noticed the time; it was two in the morning. Riza growled.

“Damnit!” she thought. Why was this so hard? It was a memory, buried and forgotten. She’d already made peace with it.

“No…that’s not it,” Riza realized. If that were true, this wouldn’t be bothering her as much as it was.

If she mentioned or even talked about these thoughts, than she’d have to admit to herself that she, like many of her colleagues, could not forget the massacre.

And she couldn’t have that.

When Riza came back from the war, she made an oath to herself; what happened in Ishbal stays in Ishbal. She’d seen the kind of psychological damage it’d done to her friends; some grieved in quiet, other became depressed and reclusive, some quit the military altogether, but not her. If she was to walk the path of a soldier, than she would make sure it was a fulfilling life.

And she’d been doing just that.

She had her hobbies, she had her dog, she had her friends. The war had been hard on her, but it had not broken her. She came out the other side a little bit wiser, a little more mature.

That’s why she never asked to be discharged.

She stayed to help guide and protect someone dear to her, true. But there was also a part of her that wanted, or rather, refused to believe she’d made the wrong decision with her life���it just felt like she’d be giving into defeat if she did.

And these constant flashbacks might just do her in if she wasn’t too careful.

Riza rubbed her eyes. She needed to relax, and at this hour the only thing that could help her do that was a good book and a comfy place to read.

She got up from the bed and walked over to the desk she’d placed her overnight suitcase on earlier in the day. She grabbed her white robe off the desk chair and wrapped it around herself. She picked up the latest paperback novel she was reading and made her way towards the living room, deciding she needed a change of scenery.

When Riza entered the room, she gasped. There was a man standing at the window, staring out at the full moon hanging in night sky.

It didn’t take long for her to figure out who this mystery man was. His black hair, his confident stance and broad shoulders, even the way he loosely held the glass tumblr in his hand while the other one lay tucked away in the pocket on his robe. Obviously it was her Colonel, Roy Mustang.

“Colonel?”

Roy turned around and gasped.

“Lieutenant!” he said. “What are you doing up?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

She watched his posture relax as a somber expression formed on his handsome face. It didn’t last long. A few seconds later, Roy shrugged his shoulders in indifference.

“Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t wanna sit around in my room, so I figured I’d stretch my legs and have a drink.”

Roy wasn’t fooling her, though.

From the corner of her eye, she could see an open bottle with at least two thirds of alcohol left in it on the coffee table. Probably that rare bottle of vintage scotch Hughes gave him earlier tonight as a late birthday present.

Riza stared sadly at the floor.

“I see…”

Once again, he’d turned to alcohol for comfort. He hadn’t said anything, but she knew. There was always a melancholy look to his eyes whenever he got like this; the fatigued weariness of a man trying desperately to drown out the voices of the innocent lives he’d taken…and failing.

But hell would have to freeze over before he ever admitted it.

It’s why she hadn’t asked him if he was okay, even though she would like an answer. Doing so would make her a hypocrite.

“What about you?”

Riza looked up…only to be greeted by the toned, muscular chest of her superior the blue bathrobe around his body could’t hide. It made her blush.

“Couldn’t sleep, either?”

Riza jerked out of her trance to meet the curious look on Roy’s face. Though, she swore she heard just a sliver of concern in his voice.

“No, it’s not that,” she answered.

Silence fell over them.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked.

Riza gasped, completely floored by his question. It wasn’t until she looked into his dark eyes and, noting the tiniest bit of concern in them, that she relaxed and gave him a smile. She could never deny him anything.

“Sure.”

Roy returned her smile with one of his own, sending her heart a flutter. It’s a pity she didn’t get to see a genuine one from him more often, she thought.

She sat on the couch and straightened herself, her Colonel following suit. He took a seat beside her and placed his glass on the coffee table.

And Riza? Well, her eyes were fixated on his chest.

She couldn’t help it, though. His perfect abs, his flawless pecks. She wanted to pounce him, trail kisses all over his bare torso and listen to him moan her name. Maybe even go home with him and make sure no one ever bothered them again-

“You can take a picture, you know? It’ll last longer.”

Hearing that, Riza snapped out of it to see the Colonel smirking at her with that impish

grin of his. Embarrassed, she tore her eyes away from him and stared at the wall in an attempt to save her dignity.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, unable to keep the redness on her cheeks from spreading across her face.

He chuckled. “Right…” Riza frowned; she should’ve known he’d see right through her, he always did. “So what’s on your mind?”

Her amber eyes turned somber as she gave herself a moment to compose an answer.

“I was dreaming about Ishbal, again.”

And just like that, she felt her Colonel’s mood change from jokey and playful, to one of melancholy introspection, as it always did whenever someone brought up Ishbal.

“I see…” He paused. “Is this the first time in awhile?”

Riza smiled half-heartedly. “Yes,” she lied.

She could feel Roy burning a hole into her head with his gaze, practically demanding she tell him the truth, but she stood her ground.

He didn’t need to know these nightmares were a reoccurring issue, not when he had more important matters to attend to. Besides, it was her job to worry about him, not the other way around.

She was his adjutant, his protector. She stayed in the military (mostly) for him, to help guide him on his path to redemption. If she broke right now, it’d be a betrayal of everything she’d worked for since Ishbal. Both for Roy, and for herself.

So she straightened herself and kept looking straight ahead. Roy could say whatever he wanted, but she would not budge.

A few minutes later he let out a sigh. Riza smiled internally. Finally, he’d given up! For once, victory was hers!

“Was it anything specific?”

Or so she thought…That question had really taken her back…

Oh well, she could give him a dignified answer. “You remember how I was a sniper during the war?”

“Yeah.”

“Well there was a time when I noticed an Ishbalan child.” She paused. “My orders were to kill anything that wasn’t “strictly military”. In other words, anyone who wasn’t Amestrian. But when I saw him…he looked so pale and gaunt…I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him…”

“So you let him go.”

“That was the plan. But then-” She balled her fists up…she wasn’t sure how to go about explaining this part. “Then I-”

“It’s okay, Lieutenant.”

When Riza turned around, she saw Roy staring at her with an intense gaze. “Just give yourself a second to calm down,” he said. Instantly, she knew what he was doing.

He was using their secret code, of sorts. A code only they knew. When one was about to loose their cool, the other would speak more calm and deliberately, in an effort to remind whoever was panicking to relax and quietly collect themselves.

Riza nodded and took a few deep breaths. A few minutes later, she was relaxed and ready to continue.

“But then there was a group of soldiers approaching, the child held up the gun in defence…it all happened so fast I-” She stopped herself, taking another deep breath. “I pointed my rifle at him and shot…He was dead by the time he hit the ground…”

Riza closed her eyes, feeling…tears falling down her cheeks? Her eyes widened.

No, no, no! This can’t be happening, she thought. She was First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye; ace sharpshooter and assistant to The Flame Alchemist. She couldn’t afford to look weak, especially not over something that happened almost a decade ago.

She dried her eyes. “I’m sorry, Sir,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m crying-”

“Riza?…” She turned to face the Colonel, and was surprised to see he was no longer hiding the worry he felt for her in his eyes. “Do you want a drink?…You look like you could use one…”

Suddenly, Riza felt herself relax.

In all this stubbornnes she kept forgetting that right now, she was Riza, and he was Roy. There was no office, to ranks, no regulations to keep them in line.

They were just two normal - well, as normal as one could ask for - people who’d been through the same ordeal, who felt comfortable letting their guard down in front of each other…and that was okay.

So she smiled, nodded and said “Thank you.”

Roy smiled. He got up and walked into the kitchen to get her a glass.

They sat there for the rest of the night, discussing their demons haunting while slowly drinking themselves silly. Finally, they fell into a deep, peaceful slumber shortly before dawn.

When Riza woke again, the vague outline of the sun slowly rising in the sky, her nose taking in the scent of…ash? And cologne?

It took a moment for recollection to come to her before she remembered falling asleep in the arms of her Colonel.

She looked up and took in his sleeping face, smiling at how calm and at peace he appeared.

There was a part of her, however small, that wanted to let him sleep a little bit longer, knowing he could use the extra shut eye. But deep down she knew that would be impossible.

It was six-thirty according to the grandfather clock in the corner; they needed to be at the train station in an hour, or else they would have to wait for another one and risk being late.

Besides, the last thing Roy needed was for Hughes to find them like this and snap a picture. Although knowing their luck, he probably already got his ‘incriminating’ evidence.

But they’ll cross that bridge when they get there, should it ever come.

“Colonel?” she said softly.

Roy opened his eyes. “Hmm…wha?…” He rubbed some sleep out of his eye, finally noticing Riza staring at him. “Oh, is it morning already?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “We should get back to our rooms and pack.”

“Right…”

She grabbed her book and slowly moved out of his embrace. He got up and collected the tumblrs and (now) empty bottle of scotch.

“How are you feeling?”

She turned to face him and smiled. “Better,” she said.

He smiled. “Good.”

Riza felt her heartbeat flutter when she saw that smile. She walks over to him, and watches the surprise on his face as she placed a hand on his chest and kissed him on the cheek.

When it was over, she smiled and said “Thank you, Roy.”

She watched as the surprise on his face faded and softened into a smile.

“No problem,” he replied. “You’ve listened to me babble on when I’m feeling down, it’s only fair.”

She smiled.

“Now, let’s go, Lieutenant,” he said, and walked towards the hall.

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, following right behind him.

The whole time, she couldn’t help but smile. It felt nice having someone to talk to about these memories, she thought.

And now next time couldn’t come soon enough.

The End

[netherwcrldkiing]

“You’re not going to die. I’ll make sure of it.” [CAUSE IM TOSSING YOU THE MEIKAI PLUM]

Attacked [sentence starters] || ( Accepting )

“A sweet sentiment, dear brother… But I’m afraid my time is running dangerously short. I would hate for you to expel too much of your energy on my behalf. In my current state, your efforts would be in vain.” 

It felt like nearly centuries spent in exile… Abject despair, crippling fear and anger ate away at him, destroying any bit of goodness the hopeful prince once had. Centuries of reflection and self-loathing wore away his hope for a future, for all he’d ever held dear had been ripped away from him long ago– Or at least he’d thought so. 

By some strange twist of fate, Yakumo was reunited with his younger brother that fled the Meikai to live in hiding in the Ningenkai. All wasn't lost. In his eyes, there was still a chance at rebuilding the home they'd lost so long ago.  

If only he hadn’t been so stubborn… Perhaps things would’ve been different.

His blurry gaze traveled up to his brother as a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Even on the brink of death, he felt a sense of peace knowing his pain would be coming to an end– He’d been granted the opportunity to see his brother again, and perhaps the opportunity to start anew. It was a shame he’d realized too late just how foolish he was. He allowed his anger and hatred to control him, and now he would pay the price.

“I… I’m sorry. Once again, I’ve failed you. You and father… Perhaps if I had taken the time to listen to you and heed your warnings, things might’ve been different... But instead I allowed my need for revenge to cloud my judgment. I was weak until the very end, and for that, perhaps I truly do deserve death. I was never fit to be a king, was I?” 

Yakumo’s eyes slipped shut, resting his head against his brother’s chest. “I’m fortunate I was granted the opportunity to see you again. I spent so long grieving over you and father, but you… You’re alive and well, and that’s what I wish for you, brother. Don’t… Don’t make the same mistake I made. Live. Be happy, but don’t ever forget… You will always be a Meikai Prince. You are strong…” 

He took a shaky breath, taking a moment to appreciate the warmth he felt envelope him. “I- I hope…” He trailed off. “I can meet… the human you cherished so much… Veit… Grandfather.” 

[404fmdminjung]

aesthetic & headcanon — loveforclosure pt 2, the songs

summary: each song doesn’t sound cohesive together, and the melodies aren’t something you’d expect to be mashed into one album. but that’s the beauty of it all. each song has a different color scheme, but together tells the story about heartbreak where all the images blend into one storyline together. loveforclosure is a book, and each song is a chapter about grieving a broken heart. warnings: none wc: 1476

last night story

this one was a partial self insert, only because i love sobangcha’s original version. but also, it does make sense

last night story is song lyrically where it talks about love in an irrational sense — childish even. the lines ‘last night, i hated you.’ it breaches a kind of childhood like jealousy, and that part comes with the irrationality of love? you fall in love, see the person you like holding hands with someone else, and suddenly it starts spilling in, the green eyed monster.

minjung loves this song too because i say so, and as a result she wanted to re-vamp it into a modern times jam. probably the most high paced song of the album but she wants it to start off with a bang

it’s a fuck it whatever type deal because she’ll allow herself to be petty about heartbreak if she can

jam jam

jam jam is more sultry? sounding, and i suppose it’s not the stage of grief, but the points that lead up to heartbreak. 

this one is more a ‘i know we’re bad for each other but fuck it, i want it anyways.’ and hence where the sultry ties come in. it’s an impending look of a bad ending, but in the moment — you don’t really think logically. instead, you want it anyways knowing it might be the one thing that turns you over to self-ruination in the end

aka you don’t want to be logical in this instance, you want to give in. play to it, and hold on for as long as you want

the visitor

coming right after jam jam, that’s where you can’t ignore logic. you have to fall into face with the consequences and aftermath of impending whatever it is that comes forth.

in her case, it’s the end of a relationship — this part would be the ‘sad’ part of grieving, and pining for someone no longer in your life. the point of the song is the questions where it goes ‘why do i still love you? why do i still sing about you?’ it’s a rhetorical question spoken because once it’s said, it’s almost cathartic to get out. 

when in reality, she knows the answer why. knows why she sings, and would be a liar to admit that this is one ending that she wouldn’t have seen coming. the moodiness of the miminalist guitar draws itself to the drags of her voice, and in reality, it’s her song of being pathetic.

troll

troll has a different approach where it takes a peek upward. it’s childlike in the whimiscal melodies, reminding you of the early carnival / carosels of fair. how it goes around and around in a circle, despite not wanting to get off knowing where you start is where you end

after the ‘breakup’ and ‘sad’ stage of a breakup, minjung falls back into it. falls back into being in love, and jumping onto the illogical train of thought of meeting him again because it’s out of her control, and she just doesn’t want it to end

it’s another sliver of pathetic nature, falling back into the same patterns because you’re just too stubborn to let go.

empty cup

empty cup highlights now her 권태기 (idk the translation for this in english), but basically where she feels like she’s on the empty ledge, hanging wanting it to end. as a result, she writes this in denial, telling a lover that she’s no longer interested. doesn’t care for another go, and just wants it to all end

‘sick and tired of your love’ and that’s when you know the wooziness of going around in circles comes to a halt because she jumps off mid-way, free-falling without a second thought. she’ll play the bad guy because to her, this a dead horse that keeps getting beated upon, and she doesn’t want anything more than to crawl back and wallow in the entire joyride of the relationship

the shower

self reflection at it’s finest. when she’s forced to look at the relationship for what is worth, and have bouts of nostalgia spill in at the seams

lots of imagery about light, airy, nature-based images because that’s how she sees the relationship. lovely, and she never expected it to end the way it did. perhaps, this would be the “numb / guilt” stage of heartbreak, where you have empty thoughts, just staring blankly to figure out, that was the one piece of your life that now you’ve closed in upon and the worst part is, you knew it would end like this

a beautiful nightmare? and nothing she can get back 

you clouds rain

this one is a depressing song for her to sing, especially because it outlines how she yearns to go back to the past — highlights instances of how, lingering outside hoping he’ll come back, etc. 

but it’s a mistake told, about how she left the relationship despite knowing her whole heart still clings onto that one person. the rain, and it drowns her in melancholy — hence, the song has a very melancholic vibe. 

it’s about pining to go back, hoping that instance in life would never end. raw and open, desperately craving what was once right in front of her

gone

gone is her anger stage, of course none of these songs are actually in the correct ‘stages of grief’ but they all are parts of it 

anyways, this one plays the simple tune on her electric guitar and holds onto a lot of anger and resentment in her voice. it’s half jealousy knowing he’s moved on, but also anger that he moved on so fast while she remained in her own house of sadness

nearly crying here when she songs, singing a song about how she’s the only one clinging on to a lost relationship being the one-sided love again, while the other person’s gone and how miserable she feels due to being hurt from the one source of that monstrous love in her life.

it’s a lot of hurt / pain in her voice, and the only song completely in english of this track listing. 

dlwlrma

now we’re at the upward turn. but a drastic one — kind of like how in the movies, you see the main character pine and cry in bed for weeks only to get up one morning and say ‘i’m done! i’m happy again!’ it’s half a lie, but she keeps to it anyways

instead, she gives herself the excuse that maybe she was born in another planet. no longer part of everyone. she’s ‘different’ and that leads her to experience things differently than he does, and tends to look at their relationship with more happier memories than the pain he caused her. thankful to love that way, knowing that in that moment they’d been mostly filled with love and her heart was close to bursting by that time.

bye bye my blue

continuing on the upward scale, this one is more woeful than the prior. aka more in tune with reality of happiness. slowly learning to be happy again

she talks about having some slight bitter resentment about how he takes things, aka a grass is better on the other side, but still jealous of how he’s able to handle things. and how she really was in love at that point despite all of it

she learns to grapple with love again, and tells herself that it was enough that she was able to hold him in such high regard — better to love than not love at all etc.

ending scene

as the title suggests, it’s an ending scene

now we’re more in the sadder part of acceptance and moving on, but this is probably where she’s the most honest? she tells herself that in any situation of a conversation with him, it’s sadder to cling on to things rather than let them go entirely

aka she learns how to “let go”

tells herself that it was enough, and that dragging it on any further would be the saddest thing to their story. 

through the night

finally, this is full-on acceptance. aka a place to move on and turn anew

it’s not a place where she will fully get over it, because i think minjung is aware she’ll never really get over it

but she really doesn’t want to resent him anymore, or hate him / neglect their memories for anything negative than what they truly were. they were pieces of her happiness she got, and hence why she keeps them so close

instead, she writes him a final note kind of like a dear john letter. highlighting the small memories of their past, and how lucky she was to meet him and how she’ll always miss him deep down because he’s going to be her love she won’t forget

[mystarsforanempire]

Once

In the rarest of cases, two such souls will revolve in orbit of one another for centuries on end, at most touching for a second or passing by each other, until finally they collide in a burst of stardust and certainty, and can never again be truly pried apart.

Loki and The Doctor meet once. After that, they meet again, and again, and again.

Ao3. 1.6k. Rated T. 

It is sometimes the case that two beings, for whatever reason, are drawn to each other despite the odds of the universe and the laws of time. Sometimes, such beings might brush past each other like ships in the night, their souls for a moment entwined and yet destined never to meet again. At other times, so star-crossed a pair will be united from birth, and will never know the sorrow and heart-ache of parting until Death comes for his toll.

In the rarest of cases, two such souls will revolve in orbit of one another for centuries on end, at most touching for a second or passing by each other, until finally they collide in a burst of stardust and certainty, and can never again be truly pried apart.

One

You see him, but it doesn’t matter.

It’s the barest glimpse on the corner of a foreign street as you wear a second skin that is not your own, and you move forwards without another thought.

Two

You shake his hand in a crowded throne room, once. His hand is warm, and dry, and you notice how well-kept his fingernails are in comparison to his tousled, bowl-cut hair.

He doesn’t seem to matter.

He doesn’t.

Three

He is an old man with glossy, silver hair, and he picks up your coin when you drop it upon the cobbled streets of blue brick. You play the young girl delighted at his charm and chivalry, and you beat at him. As your lost coin is replaced in your small, dark-skinned palm, you find yourself struck by the sadness in his eyes.

Four

The scarf is, in many ways, an obscenity.

At its numerous, ridiculous knitted panels, you smile, and when you see it has drawn through the mud on its journey through the villages, you drop to one knee and offer its owner a sweet smile as your seiðr weaves through the dyed wool, drawing the brown stains from their moorings.

Clean, you let the garment go, and you are on your way.

You forget him. He remembers you. You are both still so very young.

Five

You see him run by one day, and the fleeting thought lingers in your head – where is that man going? For what reason does he hurry so?

You never find out.

Six

You sell him an umbrella, each panel brightly coloured, complementing and clashing with his ugly, motley suit in turns. You both have the moment’s suspicion that you have met before, and yet neither of you recognizes the other. You do not, after all, know each other.

You will not for quite some time.

Seven

You steal his hat once. You are a child with raven hair and a playsuit of woven leaves, and he doesn’t mind when you hand it back – he laughs, sweetly, like a man with children of his own.

For decades after, you remember the hatted man with the fatherly smile.

Eight

You dance together, once, in an old-fashioned dance hall: you recognize his clothes from a long since-past Migardian era. Despite his blue-eyed, soft-featured beauty and his lovely hair, you offer him your hand with the assurance that you will not fall in love with him even if he holds you tightly to him in your dance together.

He laughs, pulls you flush against him, and lays his hand upon your hip.

You cannot help but wonder if he thinks you will love him, but you do not, and you forget him as easily as you forget the dress you wear that night.

He forgets you in kind.

Nine

You pass him once, when you are yet young in your Earth skin, and his glance toward you makes you panic.

“Rad jacket, man,” you say, and the American accent and apparent confidence seem to give him pause. He grins, the expression effervescently bright, and he gives you a nod of recognition before you each go on your way.

Ten

It’s a simple meeting.

For the first time, you notice him, and he notices you, and rather than parting ways, as so many times you have, you move on together. You realize what he is, and the effect of his wide-reaching legend electrifies and excites you: this is a chance you cannot allow to slip through your fingers.

He runs, and you follow him. You run, and he follows you. For once in your life, being chased does not affect in you a sensation of entrapment.

You laugh, and you draw him into a dance with you one night, and if it feels familiar, neither of you say so – you do not tell him a long, stupid scarf would suit him, or that you can imagine him with curly hair, or that you can imagine him carefully manicuring his nails.

You adore him.

You love him as you’ve loved no other in all your years – you have loved so few, even including your brother, your mother, your children, and yet you’ve never loved in the way you love him: you mirror each other at every turn, and he feels so deeply – and yet you do not find his empathy repulsive.

It is endearing, in fact, in a way that surprises you.

You forget, for a while, that Timelords do not die as men do, and that they do not live as you yourself do.

Eleven

You repulse him, and he terrifies you.

He is a storm wrapped in ribbon and soft pastry, heated and cruel in a way that even at your worst, you never were. He is a child, a callous, callous child, and the stars are his playground, and you are nought but an unfavoured toy.

He hurts you, and you let him, until you don’t.

You do not know why.

When you last see him, it is with your hand wrapped tight around his pale throat, threats and barbs upon your tongue that haven’t flourished there in so very, very long.

It hurts you to abandon him, but you will not a place a child who hates you – a child who is not even yours – above an empire.

(You see him just once more: he is broken, and he weeps. Despite yourself, you are as soft and gentle with him as it is possible for you to be.)

Twelve

When you see his face, it shocks you.

You had not expected to see him ever again, and you let out so loud a sound one might think you a babe in arms anew: you grin as you come closer, for he feels so different now, and the change is most welcome.

You offer him cocoa when he visits you at work, and he takes it, settles in an armchair you each pretend wasn’t purchased just for his benefit, and he watches you work, pretends not to be entertained by the genius you both know you possess.

You accept his apologies, his age, his tired hands and tired eyes: you entertain his faux-fierce moods, and you love him as deeply and loyally as you are capable. He accepts your chaos, and your fury, and your love.

He does not pick up your pieces when you are broken: he merely watches as you draw yourself together once more. Perhaps this shows your age. Perhaps it shows his.

You confess to him your thousand sins, and confess to him your virtues. He takes your confession with all the quiet comprehension of a priest, and with the careless affection of a distant god.

You have never known a god like him before. You have known so few beings that make you feel so insignificant and so very, very good.

It is a feeling you adore.

You are sure he will outlive you, and for this, you are grateful.

Over your millennia of study, you have learned such tricks, but there are limits to even your talents. You absorb the split of a time rift as a super nova occurs behind it, within it, for the surrounding stars, planets, galaxies, would all die under such helpless heat. You skywalk in the centre of it all, and you draw it within you: stardust runs through your veins, incandescent energy boils your blood, and worst of all is the time energy that digs its way into your skin. It is not your first selfless act, but it is, without a doubt, your last.

He holds you close, uncomprehending, angry and wide-eyed. You feel as if you are the older of the two of you once more – a balance has been restored – and you smile a warm, tired smile.

Even as that desperate, ineffable agony burns through you, exhausting every part of you, you put your fingers upon his temple, and you close your eyes.

You remember that you do not live as Timelords do, and you know that you will not die as you yourself ought.

Thirteen

When you wake, gasping and dry-mouthed on the TARDIS floor, you are full to the brim with past lives, and Loki’s form is sprawled, cold and lifeless, before you. You have never seen his eyes look so empty, or his mouth so still.

He would want you to simply cast his body to the passing stars, but he is dead, and you make the decisions now.

You bury him on a hill that overlooks a violent ocean, beneath a field of golden grain: once upon a time, Loki you ran here with your children, the very day before one of them slaughtered the other, and Odin killed the first.

As you grieve for him, for yourself, you grieve through both his eyes and your own.

Rather than parting ways, from here, you move on together.

[amberlovesanimation]

Open Me Carefully

I recently finished reading the book Open Me Carefully, which is a collection of letters, poems, and letter-poems Emily Dickinson sent to her close friend and sister-in-law, Susan Huntington Dickinson.

I decided to buy it after seeing Emily in a list of historical LGBT+ figures; although we’ll never know if their relationship was romantic or sexual in any way, it is clear from these letters that their connection was very deep on an intellectual and spiritual level.

Of course, as a bisexual female myself, I love to interpret them in a gay way, and below are some extracts that I particularly liked. (alongside my own little commentary now and then, sorry!)

(For some context, both women were born in December 1830)

“I wept a tear here, Susie - on purpose for you - because this “sweet silver moon” smiles in on me and Vinnie, and then it goes so far before it gets to you - and then you never told me if there was any moon in Baltimore - and how do I know Susie - that you see her sweet face at all? She looks like a fairy tonight, sailing around the sky in a little silver gondola with stars for gondoliers. I asked her to let me ride a little while ago - and told her I would get out when she got as far as Baltimore, but she only smiled to herself and went sailing on. I think she was quite ungenerous - but I have learned the lesson and shant ever ask her again.” - October 9, 1851

I LOVE how she describes Nyx the moon in this letter!!

“Will you let me come dear Susie - looking just as I do, my dress soiled and worn, my grand old apron, and my hair - Oh Susie, time would fail me to enumerate my appearance, yet I love you just as dearly as if I was e’er so fine, so you wont care, will you? I am so glad dear Susie - that our hearts are always clean, and always neat and lovely, so not to be ashamed. I have been hard at work this morning, and I ought to be working now - but I cannot deny myself the luxury of a minute or two with you. The dishes may wait dear Susie - and the uncleared table stand, them I have always with me, but you, I have “not always,” why Susie, Christ hath saints manie - and I have few, but thee - the angels shant have Susie - no - no no! [...] Oh my darling one, how long you wander from me, how weary I grow of waiting and looking, and calling for you; sometimes I shut my eyes, and shut my heart towards you, and try hard to forget you because you grieve me so, but you’ll never go away, Oh you never will - say, Susie, promise me again, and I will smile faintly - and take up my little cross again of sad - sad separation. How vain it seems to write, when one knows how to feel - how much more near and dear to sit beside you, talk with you, hear the tones of your voice - so hard to “deny thyself, and take up thy cross, and follow me -” give me strength, Susie, write me of hope and love, and of hearts that endured. [...] Only want to write me, only sometimes sigh that you are far from me, and that will do, Susie! Dont you think we are good and patient, to let you go so long; and dont we think you’re a darling, a real beautiful hero, to toil for people, and teach them, and leave your own dear home? [...] I must leave you now - “one little hour of Heaven,” thank who did give it me, and will he also grant me one longer and more when it shall please his love - bring Susie home, ie! Love always, and ever, and true!” - February 1852

Susan’s daughter Martha said “Her [Emily’s] devotion to those she loved was that of a knight for his lady.”

“Oh Susie, I would nestle close to your warm heart, and never hear the wind blow, or the storm beat, again. Is there any room there for me, or shall I wander away all homeless and alone? Thank you for loving me, darling, and will you “love me more if ever you come home”! it is enough, dear Susie, I know I shall be satisfied. But what can I do towards you? - dearer you cannot be, for I love you so already, that it almost breaks my heart - perhaps I can love you anew, every day of my life, every morning and evening - Oh if you will let me, how happy I shall be! [...] pretty soon I waked up saying “Precious treasure, thou art mine,” and there you were all right, my Susie, and I hardly dared to sleep lest some one steal you away. Never mind the letter, Susie; you have so much to do; just write me every weeks one line, and let it be, “Emily, I love you,” and I will be satisfied!” - February 1852

“dont you go Susie, not to their meeting, but come with me this morning to the church within our hearts, where the bells are always ringing, and the preacher whose name is Love - shall intercede there for us!” - February 1852

“And I do love to run fast - and hide away from them all; here in dear Susie’s bosom, I know is love and rest, and I never would go away, did not the big world call me, and beat me for not working. [...] When you come home, darling, I shant have your letters, shall I, but I shall have yourself, which is more - Oh more, and better, than I can even think! [...] Tis only a few days, Susie, it will soon go away, yet I say, go now, this very moment, for I need her - I must have her, Oh give her to me! [...] he [God] is very kind to let me write to you, and to give me your sweet letters, but my heart wants more.” - April 5, 1852

“I have thought of it all day, Susie, and I fear of but little else, and when I was gone to meeting it filled my mind so full, I could not find a chink to put the worthy pastor; when he said “Our Heavenly Father,” I said “Oh Darling Sue”; when he read the 100th Psalm, I kept saying your precious letter all over to myself, and Susie, when they sang - it would have made you laugh to hear one little voice, piping to the departed. I made up words and kept singing how I loved you, and you had gone, while all the rest of the choir were singing Hallelujahs. I presume nobody heard me, because I sang so small, but it was a kind of comfort to think I might put them out, singing of you. I a’nt there this afternoon, tho’, because I am here, writing a little letter to my dear Sue, and I am very happy. I think of ten weeks - Dear One, and I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still. The sun does’nt shine at all, but I can feel a sunshine stealing into my soul and making it all summer, and every thorn, a rose. And I pray that such summer’s sun shine on my Absent One, and cause her bird to sing!” - Late April 1852

I joked on twitter about the gay agenda being to sing about missing your girlfriend when everyone else in church is singing hymns. Because of course they talked face-to-face whenever they were together, a lot of the letters were sent when Susan was away, so they’re filled with Emily’s pining for and missing of her. Later in this same letter she describes how she gathered flowers and an acorn and a snail shell to give to Sue once she returned which is absolutely adorable. She continues to gift her flowers throughout her life and in her poems compares both of them to flowers.

“Our last words were of you, and as we said Dear Susie, the sunshine grew so warm, and out peeped prisoned leaves, and the Robins answered Susie, and the big hills left their work, and echoed Susie, and from the smiling fields, and from the fragrant meadows came troops of fairy Susies, and asked “Is it me”? No, Little One, “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor can the heart conceive” my Susie, whom I love.” - May 1852

I love how Extra™ Emily is with her romantic analogies in these early letters lmao

“And now how soon I shall have you, shall hold you in my arms; you will forgive the tears, Susie, they are so glad to come that it is not in my heart to reprove them and send them home. I dont know why it is - but there’s something in your name, now you are taken from me, which fills my heart so full, and my eye, too. It is not that the mention grieves me, no, Susie, but I think of each “sunnyside” where we have sat together, and lest there be no more, I guess is what makes the tears come. [...] we shall not be separated, neither death, nor the grave can part us, so that we only love!” - June 1852

“I have but one thought, Susie, this afternoon of June, and that of you, and I have one prayer, only; dear Susie, that is for you. [...] and when I look around me and find myself alone, I sigh for you again; little sigh, and vain sigh, which will not bring you home. I need you more and more, and the great world grows wider, and dear ones fewer and fewer, every day that you stay away - I miss my biggest heart; my own goes wandering round, and calls for Susie [...] Susie, forgive me Darling, for every word I say - my heart is full of you, none other than you in my thoughts, yet when I seek to say to you something not for the world, words fail me; If you were here, and Oh that you were, my Susie, we need not talk at all, our eyes would whisper for us, and your hand fast in mine, we would not ask for language - I try to bring you nearer, I chase the weeks away till they are quite departed, and fancy you have come, and I am on my way through the green lane to meet you, and my heart goes scampering so, that I have much ado to bring it back again, and learn it to be patient, till that dear Susie comes. [...] I add a kiss, shyly, lest there is somebody there!! Dont let them see, will you Susie?” - June 11, 1852

“And very, very often when I have waked from sleep, not quite waked, I have been sure I saw you, and your dark eye beamed on me with such a look of tenderness that I could only weep, and bless God for you. Susie, will you indeed come home next Saturday, and be my own again, and kiss me as you used to? [...] I hope for you so much, and feel so eager for you, feel that I cannot wait, feel that now I must have you - that the expectation once more to see your face again, makes me feel hot and feverish, and my heart beats so fast [...] Why, Susie, it seems to me as if my absent Lover was coming home so soon - and my heart must be so busy, making ready for him. While the minister this morning was giving an account of the Roman Catholic system, and announcing several facts which were usually startling, I was trying to make up my mind w’h of the two was prettiest to go and welcome you in, my fawn colored dress, or my blue dress.” - June 27, 1852

“And now, my absent One, I am hoping the days away, till I shall see you home -  am sewing as fast as I can, I am training the stems to my flowers, I am working with all my might, so as to pause and love you, as soon as you get home.” - February 24, 1853

“Why dont you write me, Darling? Did I in that quick letter say anything which grieved you, or made it hard for you to take your usual pen and trace affection for your bad, sad Emilie? Then Susie, you must forgive me before you sleep tonight, for I will not shut my eyes until you have kissed my cheek, and told me you would love me. [...] I dont know which it is - I only know that when you shall come back again, the Earth will seem more beautiful, and bigger than it does now, and the blue sky from the window will be all dotted with gold - though it may not be evening, or time for the stars to come.” - March 5, 1853

“Will you write to me - why hav’nt you before? I feel so tired looking for you, and still you do not come. And you love me, come soon - this is not forever, you know, this mortal life of our’s. [...] I’m loving you at home - I’m coming every hour to your chamber door. I’m thinking when awake, how sweet if you were with me, and to talk with you as I fall asleep, would be sweeter still.” - February 28, 1855

“Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a “Diver” - Her brow is fit for thrones But I have not a crest, Her heart is fit for home - I - a Sparrow - build there Sweet of twigs and twine My perennial nest.” - 1850s

There’s also a poem that begins “Your - Riches - taught me - poverty!” which is pretty gay too so look that up if you want (it’s too long to type on here).

“for the Woman whom I prefer, Here is Festival - When my Hands are Cut, Her fingers will be found inside - [...] Take the key to the Lily, now, and I will lock the Rose” - 1864

“You must let me go first, Sue, because I live in the Sea always and know the Road - I would have drowned twice to save you sinking, dear, If I could only have covered your Eyes so you would’nt have seen the Water” - 1860s

Then there’s a letter-poem that begins “To miss you, Sue, is power” but again it’s too long so look it up!

“I would have liked to be beautiful and tidy when you came - You will excuse me, wont you, I felt so sick. How it would please me if you would come once more, when I was palatable.” - 1870s

“Susan knows she is a Siren - and that at a word from her, Emily would forfeit Righteousness” - 1876 or later

I love how she compares Susan to a siren, whom we all know is the gayest mythological creature.

“To own a Susan of my own Is of itself a Bliss - Whatever Realm I forfeit, Lord, Continue me in this!” - late 1870s

“Sue - to be lovely as you is a touching Contest, though like the Siege of Eden, impracticable, Eden never capitulates” - 1876 or later

“Susan- I dreamed of you, last night, and send a Carnation to indorse it - Sister of Ophir - Ah Peru - Subtle the Sum That purchase you” - 1876 or later

apparently at this time Emily’s handwriting made her “Y”s look like an “S” so the “you”s in this poem look like “Sou”, or Sue :D

“That Susan lives - is a Universe which neither going nor coming could displace” - spring 1880

“It was like  a breath from Gibraltar to hear your voice again, Sue - Your impregnable syllables need no prop, to stand” - early 1880s

“With the Exception of Shakespeare, you have told me of more knowledge than any one living - To say that sincerely is strange praise” - early 1880s

Comparing her to Shakespeare!? Holy shit what a compliment !!

“Perhaps the dear, grieved Heart would open to a flower, which blesses unre- quested, and serves without a Sound.” - early October 1883

Emily sent this to Susan after her seven-year-old son had just died. I think it’s very touching how she tries to cheer her up a bit with a simple flower, as apparently Susan shut herself away for about a year after the death, so clearly words weren’t the biggest comfort to her.

“One of the sweetest Messages I ever received, was, “Mrs Dickinson sent you this Cardinal Flower, and told me to tell you she thought of you.” Except for usurping your Copyright - I should regive the Message, but each Voice is it’s own” - 1880s

“The tie between us is very fine, but a Hair never dissolves. Lovingly” - late 1885

Emily had fallen ill around this time so I think the tie being fine is because of the possibility of death, which she believed could not take away their love.