#prompts -> for all muses

[camplease]

harrow grew in her emotional awareness of other people as people at an incredible rate during the events of gideon the ninth, a rate that honestly stretches the bounds of plausibility. and i think a lot of it, maybe even most of it, was specifically a reaction to an awareness of gideon, specifically, in genuine mortal danger that harrow had never previously considered

even before harrow was able to accept that she feels any affection for gideon, her covetousness of gideon's presence is evident. but, on drearburh, even though there might’ve conceivably been natural disasters outside of harrow's control that could’ve changed this, i think gideon’s survival of the child massacre made gideon seem like an almost supernaturally ever-present fixture of harrow’s universe. no matter how much gideon bled and broke in those 17 years, i don’t think harrow had truly considered the reality of gideon’s mortality before

when harrow thought of losing gideon, she thought of gideon escaping. prior to canaan house, though death involving those close to her was already something harrow knew intimately well, each example is inextricably connected to its specific context. with "the body," the cause of death didn't pose any immediate, direct threat to harrow or those she cared about. as horrific all of drearburh’s children’s deaths were, as heavily as they weighed on harrow, this was a part of her history rather than an imminent threat. and, as much grief and sorrow that the personal responsibility harrow felt for her parents’ suicides colored her existence, as much as she even once blamed gideon, ultimately, harrow's parents killed themselves. these were all so different by their very nature from the deaths at canaan house and the possibilities they illuminated. something or someone was maliciously seeking out those among her in the present. gideon's very existence could no longer be taken for granted, never mind simply losing possession of her

i believe that both accepting her own care for gideon and accepting the risk of losing gideon beyond losing control over her is what led harrow to assess the inherent harm and dehumanization of their power imbalance and to begin to understand the flaws in her worldview overall, the flaws in the system that granted her and others in power the power to abuse it at will and use those under them as tools

but the reason why i say this was a lot of/most of and not all of the reason for harrow's growth is because i think she always had some latent capacity for it that she'd just previously suppressed. and i don't think this is unique to harrow. i think the worst people within any system wear away at their humanity, and, thus, their ability to perceive the humanity of others and act accordingly, a bit at a time. but this process isn't irreversible. harrow's relation to gideon was just the catalyst for that reversal in her

i can’t say exactly who harrow would’ve become without gideon at canaan house with her for the lyctoral trials, but she would’ve certainly been very different from the person she is now

decided to make my own post because i was thinking about this poll way too much and it led me to a big enough tangent that it's its own creature at this point, though i also wanna credit that initial spark

[sonnenreich]

⠀      ⠀            ⠀    ❝ 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖚𝖓 𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖊𝖘 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖆𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖗 

⠀      ⠀⠀      ⠀    ⠀      ⠀    ⠀⠀      ⠀         𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖐𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖘. 

independent  and  original  british  witch  following  the  name  of  𝐙𝐄𝐄𝐕  𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄  𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐄,  ready  to  fulfill  your  darkest  wishes  or  just  serve  you  the  best  tea  blend  you  ever  tasted  ⸻  based  on  neo-pagan  beliefs  and  modern  witchcraft  aesthetic,  selective  and  mutuals  only,  activity  varies,  21+  p&mdni  (  conjured  by  cherry,  she / her  ☼ )

[10thmusemoon]

Title for the ask game!

"Good Graces"

lmao prim why does this feel like I'm seeing beyonce at the grocery store??? i love your fics!

okay hm content warning for angst, major character death, bad end

Shenbros that grow up alongside YQY and that somehow makes everything worse.

YQY still makes the unforgivable mistake of saving Shi Wu, Shen Jiu still steps in, but now he has Shen Yuan attached to him too. The two get taken into the Qiu household, QJL still develops an obsession with torturing Shen Jiu but now uses Shen Yuan as collateral.. If he doesn't behave, if he isn't perfect, well then, QJL will just see how his little brother does instead. Throughout this all, the two grow even closer, SJ doesn't let the resentment fester because SY is the only thing he still has, the only thing that keeps his sane. SY bandages his wounds in the night, holds him close, brings him into QHT's circle of safety with clever words whenever possible. He is the only good thing in the world now that Qi-ge is gone. They just need to wait for him to come back, and things will be fine.

And surprisingly, he does! This universe smiles down on SJ for once and shows him mercy. YQY looks like a prince standing behind his shizun, regal in his fine robes, and handsome in the way that well fed nobles can be. SJ tries to focus on the negotiations, but his eyes keep drawing back him yqy's face, awe and hunger at war. It's because of this that he misses the way SY goes stiff, head swiveling between the cultivators in silently growing horror.

The negotiations are easier than SJ ever thought they would be, his and SY's lives are traded from one hand to another like any dirty coin. The only difference being now they are indentured servants, their contracts having an actual time limit, the conditions of which only require them to be CQMS disciples until YQY becomes the new peak lord.

Which is...fine. More than fine, even! SJ is convinced that if he really wanted to, he could convince YQY to runaway with them afterwards. When he tells this to SY he's shocked by his insistent refusal.

"No, we have to stay at CQMS. No matter what."

Whatever.

For 15 solid years, SJ's life is good. He stakes his claim on YQY as soon as he realizes there are people interested in him, shamelessly making himself at home by his side. SJ excels at QJP, determined to be the one YQY can rely on. If SY insists on staying at CQMS, then SY will just have to make it theirs.

(years down the line is experiences gleeful joy at seeing people's face twist when it's revealed he's yqy's spouse.)

SY in all of this, is living in crisis mode! His brother is the scum villain and is going to get qi-ge killed! Why the FUCK did Airplane never mention any of this!!??? No matter how badly he wants to fuck off to the beast peak, he doesn't! He stays firmly on QJP, taking on all the duties that deal with the new disciples to keep them as far as fuck as he can from Shen Jiu's clutches!! When YQY and SJ finally ascend as peak lords, naturally he continues handling any responsibilities of SJ's that deal with one-on-one contact with kids. And honestly? That's the ideal! SY's cultivation has never been as strong as SJ's, he's not the one meant to be the protagonists' narrative foil after all! He can coast by on teaching the fundamentals!

In SJ's eyes, SY continues to be his filial younger brother, taking on the burden of the tasks SJ hates. He spoils him, when possible, in the way only SY and YQY ever seem to understand. They are the only two good things that have been and always will be his. He doesn't need anyone else.

And then NYY arrives, and no one is more surprised than he is that he looks forward to teaching her the guqin, delights in how quickly she picks up the erhu. He doesn't understand why SY looms nervously whenever she's near, is irritated when he starts to suspect why. It's their first huge blow up.

And then the boy arrives.

He can't explain why this particular disciple is so repulsive. Why the dirt seems to stick to him, no matter how clean he is. Filthy fingerprints on grasping hands. Wretched thing has a certain look in his eye, a hunger SJ knows will be ruinous, insatiable. Just the way he trails after SY is enough to make him spit! And SY has always been a soft-hearted idiot, falling for the urchin's sob story! Just as obsessed! If they don't nip it in the bud now, they'll be rumors about them. The kind of things that pull righteous cultivators down from the heavens!

YQY listens to all of this indulgently, combing oil through SJ's hair and kissing his temple. As always, no matter how hard SJ tries to hold on, yqy always manages to pull him from his mood.

"What's wrong with having a favorite?" "It's not the same and you know it!" "He's just a child, if you let Liu-shidi back on QJP, it won't even be an issue."

Lots of grumbling about toads wanting swan's flesh. They both know the root of the issue is just that SJ can't let anything that's his slip out of his grasps. His love is all consuming, kept close to his chest in the fear that it will be stolen away.

LQG is not allowed on QJP, instead, SJ starts to teach more. Tries to test LBH relentlessly, waiting for him to fail so he can prove a point. This makes things worse between the brothers, more and more arguments come up until they resort to childhood tactics of wrestling across the floor of the Bamboo house and ripping out hair. SY breaks a hair pin he knows YQY gave him, SJ tears one of SY's manuscripts on abyssal fauna in half. The fallout is ugly enough that Binghe and NYY run all the way to QDP, breaking past the sect leader's chief of staff about the impending death of YQY's husband and/or brother in law.

Kneeling in front of an amused yqy, bruised and with bald spots, both brothers Shen explain their case, each threatening YQY not to show favoritism to the other. The proposed solution is to have LBH spend some time on Qiong Ding Peak, at least until he's qualified to go on night hunts on his own. SJ is fully convinced he's won, is ready to smugly denounce any comments about Qi-ge's blatant favoritism.

Neither expect SY's eyes go wide, for him to lean forward until he's crawling to yqy's side in excitement. Luo Binghe's praises fall from his mouth like honey. SY's running to his room for a brush and paper, outlining lesson plans and tasks LBH can take on to learn about all the good CQMS does for the realm. To SJ's revulsion, SY badgers YQY until he promises to include one on one lessons. QDP already has a head disciple, there's no harm in it, right?

In Shen Yuan's eyes, a light from the heaven's has shined down on him. Invisible to all, the system flashes an exclamation point above yqy's head, offering an alternative option to saving the sect.

[MISSION OBJECTIVE: SHIBOS GOOD GRACES]

[DO YOU WISH TO ACCEPT? Y/N ?]

It's perfect! No matter how much SQQ hates LBH, the combined forces of SY and YQY will stand united against him! The sect will be saved and SY will never see his white lotus darken! Maybe, and he's nearly salivating at this point, LBH might even consider staying at the sect and becoming the next QJP lord! It will take, of course, years to soften up SJ to that point. But really, when has he ever said no to SY when it truly mattered? He just needs to suck up and live in Shen Jiu's pocket for a little, it's fine! This will be easier than the time he accidentaly came back with several short haired monsters after a mission with LQG and needed a place to keep them! And now they farm them for brushes!

SY sleeps soundly for the first night in years, comforted in the knowledge that LBH's work ethic and stubborn tendencies will surely endear himself to YQY eventually. And then, one day, he knows with certainty, that if he's not there to protect LBH, YQY surely will.

The Immortal Alliance Conference is as disastrous as it was always going to be. There is a countdown floating ahead of Shen Yuan that only he can see. Sweat is pouring down his face as he fights his way after demons he once dreamed about. SY lost track of his brother ages ago, the two separating to different crisis points to save as many disciples as possible. At the three minute mark, bright blue laughing kaomoji offer their congratulations, informing him that the inmun requirements for SHIBOS GOOD GRACES have been met.

SY nearly collapses with relief, his steps slowing down a fraction, just enough to catch his breath. Fuck teaching the fundamentals to scholars nerds did not help him retain cardio! The times is in it's final seconds when he makes it into a clearing, eyes blinking rapidly in disbelief when he passes Xiu Ya embedded into the forehead of a Black Moon Rhinoceros Python's skull. Then, just further ahead, Shen Yuan's heart falls nearly out of his chest.

There are tears streaming down Luo Binghe's face as he tips backward off the cliff. The huadian beneath his messy hair shines a bright red, the soft glow reflecting off Yue Qingyuan's black pauldron. The sect leader, his da-ge, is slumped against Luo Binghe, arms in a tight embrace, an unfamiliar sword piercing him in the back as the two tumble towards an abyssal rift.

The wail of a dying beast pierces through SY's stupor, SJ stands with a blackened hand outstretched, only steps away from following the only man he's ever loved. Shen Yuan moves faster than he ever has before, half blinded by notifications he's never seen before. Something about heartbreak points, swords, and narrative foils. He doesn't care! He doesn't care! SJ is writhing in his hold screaming like a madman, over his shoulder Luo Binghe is getting smaller and smaller, Yue Qingyuan's robes fluttering around them like broken wings. Screams echo through the clearing long after the rifts have closed.

"I'M SORRY I'M SO--"

"QI-GE YOU BASTARD! YOU PROMISED YOU WOULDN'T LEAV-"

-

Five years later, Luo Binghe returns to Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, notably missing the great Xin Mo sword. The protagonist kowtows in the bamboo house, forehead touching the floor and arms extended out to present a mahogany box of bones and a long sword with a plain scabbard before an alter. Shen Yuan kneels next to him, chest shaking with labored breaths, he follows suit with is forehead pressed to the floor. From his peripheral, he can see the way Binghe's shoulders have started to shake, a puddle of tears collecting just beneath his face. A tally of points starts to flash above the boy, Shen Yuan closes his eyes, another useless apology passes through his mind.

"Gege was right, Qi-ge came home."

[altarfates]

i'm working on my carrd rn but i'm going to revamp pretty much all of my bonds if any of my mutuals want to keep the bonds we have currently please let me know so i can do that ! this is also open to newer mutuals who want to be added if we're writing smth with a ship doesn't have to be romantic.

[aparticularbandit]

Okay but:

1) How did Billy know where Agatha was? Did he know she was under a spell before finding her in Westview, or did he figure that out once he was there? (Agnes's screen time is straightforward by her perception but not necessarily analogous to what happens to everyone else outside of her perception.)

2) Were there really three years between WandaVision and DSMOM? The official timeline sets it in 2024 (after WandaVision in 2023 - it also sets it before Hawkeye, which I disagree with, but not the point), which means no. But Agatha All Along takes place in 2026. Why did it take an extra two years for Rio to show up to free Agatha - as part of her job (her words in episode one, and I don't think her lines are jaded by Agnes's perception - I think Rio's words cut through that - even if Agnes wouldn't have understood them the way Agatha would)?

3) Agnes's worldview switched from nosy neighbor in a sitcom to detective in a crime show so suddenly, and the show implies this happened as a result of Wanda's death - since she's investigating that crime - but why did it take two additional years for that to happen? Why didn't it happen immediately when Wanda died? (Deadpool and Wolverine is theorized to take place in that universe's 2023, so they could have set Agatha All Along earlier; Agatha All Along kept getting pushed back - did Jac always intend for it to be three years, regardless of when the show aired?)

Which really leads to:

4) What is the significance of three years? Why is all of this happening now and not immediately after Wanda's supposed death? Rio says Wanda is gone, so Agatha should be able to claw herself free - why did it take two years after Wanda's supposed death for Rio to show up if Wanda really died in DSMOM? (Rio says she's gone; she doesn't say she's dead.)

[a-cloud-for-dreams]

"Come outside, we won't jump you"

[mappingthesky]

planymphia wives honeymoon cutesy fluffy and overwhelmingly emotional drabble pleaseee

take my hand (take my whole life, too)

or: it’s their first week of being married - jane can’t stop referring to nymphia as ‘my wife’, nymphia can’t stop crying, and no one has ever been more in love in all of time.

Jane wakes up when Nymphia rolls over and flings a heavy arm across her torso in sleep.

Jane’s eyes flutter. Sunlight threatens to spill in from the other side of the heavy hotel room curtains all too soon. She’s only half conscious, and her eyes are still a little blurry with last night’s wine, and she’s content to drift back off to sleep, lulled by the gentle brush of Nymphia’s fingertips down her sternum, but then-

A little gasp, a sharp intake of breath. “Oh my god.”

“Mmwhat?” Nymphia mumbles, her eyes still closed as Jane grabs for her hand. Again, when her wrist is nearly pulled from the rest of her arm. “What?”

“Nymphia,” Jane whispers, but it’s thin, because she’s smiling. Nymphia can barely make it out through the dim light of the room and the sleep that clouds her vision, but she knows it just the same. She would recognize that smile by the sound of Jane’s words spoken through it, by the feeling of her soft gaze upon her. She would know it anywhere - even in the dark.

“We got married.”

Nymphia’s eyes blink open and look over at Jane. She’s on her back, holding Nymphia’s hand up to the light. She turns it over carefully, fingertips against her open palm, thumb tracing over the silver band on Nymphia’s ring finger. A diamond glitters in the dark.

“I know,” Nymphia grumbles, still half-asleep, still unwilling to be awoken for anything at all. “Spent eight months planning it, ’member?”

It was longer than that. It was the culmination of years of dreaming and months of planning, of Nymphia ironing out every last detail, Jane somehow even more stressed than she was, because she’d wanted it all to be perfect. For her.

(“You have a say, too,” Nymphia had reminded her on more than one occasion. “This day is about the both of us.”

“I know, baby,” Jane said, that spot between her brows that creases when she thinks too hard momentarily relaxing as she kisses Nymphia’s cheek. “But it’s really about you. Everything is about you.”)

Jane pulls Nymphia’s hand closer, studies it for a long while. Nymphia’s eyes are just closing again when Jane presses a kiss to her ring finger, then to her palm, more kisses up the inside of her wrist, the length of her arm, up her shoulder. Nymphia whines.

It comes back to her slowly as Jane coaxes her from her sleep, the only one she’d ever allow. Their night. It was everything they ever could have asked for, more than that. Their friends lining the aisle, swearing that they knew this day would come, arguing over who had really called it first. Jane, who had sworn she wouldn’t cry, who had warned Nymphia not to be worried if she didn’t, dissolving into tears the moment Nymphia emerged in all white. Nymphia, unsurprisingly to everyone, openly sobbing for half of the night, dabbing a tissue underneath her damp eyes at the dinner table. They’d had two glasses of champagne each, and nothing else.  They’d promised, because they wanted to remember this: the toasts, the dancing, each other, every moment.

Nymphia is beaming by the time Jane kisses her shoulder blade, eliciting a hum.

“Was it everything you wanted?” Jane murmurs, brushing a dark strand of hair back to kiss Nymphia’s ear.

A smile splits through Nymphia’s sleep, eyes still closed as she nuzzles deeper into the pillow, deeper into Jane. “It was perfect.”

Jane kisses Nymphia’s cheek. “What was your favorite part?”

“Mmm,” Nymphia hums, because how could she ever pick just one shining moment to stand out among the rest? How could she even begin to split the single most incandescent day of her life into segments? 

“The part where we went home,” Nymphia says, and Jane is pulling her closer. “The part where we went to bed and you let me sleep in.”

“Can’t let you sleep in,” Jane says, chin coming to rest on the crown of Nymphia’s head where it comes to press against her chest. “Too in love with you.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, basking in the warmth of last night as it rolls over to this morning.

“Wanna know my favorite part?” Jane asks, and Nymphia can feel the soft reverberation of her voice through her skin. “The part where we wake up and I get to say that you’re my wife.”

Nymphia can’t help but laugh at the sentiment. “This part?” she says, finally tilting her head up to look at Jane. She’s never gotten used to this - Jane looking at her every day like she’s still shiny and new. She doesn’t think she ever will. 

“Yeah. This part,” Jane beams, one hand coming to cradle Nymphia’s cheek as she smiles. “You’re my wife.”

“This part’s pretty good,” Nymphia stares into Jane, belly burning with butterflies, a love bigger and brighter than she ever thought was possible. “Say it again.”

Jane grins and brings her lips to Nymphia’s, kisses her with a lifetime of devotion. She pulls away, and there’s forever in her eyes. 

“You’re my wife,” Jane smiles. “And I’m yours.”

-

Jane doesn’t travel well.

She puts her packing off until the last possible minute and grumbles all the way to the airport. Nymphia can’t be upset though, because Jane ‘my wife’s’ Nymphia at every possible opportunity - she does it to the disgruntled employee who checks their bags, and the TSA agent who checks their passports, and the barista who makes their coffees while they’re killing time at their terminal. Nymphia rolls her eyes every time, but she’s smiling too, and can’t stop examining the sparkle on her left hand ring finger. 

Jane goes so anxious on the plane that Nymphia has to hold her hand through the takeoff. She doesn’t let go until thirty minutes into the flight, when Jane is finally distracted enough to drop her shoulders and stop thinking about the miniscule possibility that they go plummeting to the ground.

Eventually, they settle in. It’s a long flight, nearly twenty hours, and they shelled out on first class for the occasion. Nymphia’s got the window seat (partly because Jane knows she likes to look out the window, and partly because she can’t stomach seeing the ocean several thousand feet beneath them), and Jane wastes no time getting comfortable. 

(“It’s for my wife,” Jane tells the stewardess when she requests an extra blanket. “She runs cold.” 

Nymphia stares up from her book just long enough to swat Jane’s arm, muttering “that’s not even true.”

“I know,” Jane shrugs. “Just wanted to see what playing the wife card could get me.”

“Careful,” Nymphia warns. “You’re gonna wear it out.”

“What, calling you my wife?” Jane grins. “Baby, that’s never gonna get old.”)

They’re curled up together, alternating between books and movies and laughing at odd little happenings around them. Jane scoffs at shitty jokes on the screen, and Nymphia leans over to read her passages from her book, and Jane hums like she’s listening, but really she’s just admiring Nymphia in her comfy clothes, dark hair pulled back, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. She likes her the best like this.

At the end of her movie, Jane glances over at Nymphia. “Are you excited?”

She thinks she knows what the answer will be, but she’s asking anyway, because she wants it to be perfect - their honeymoon, their first trip together as a married couple, their first foray into the rest of their lives together. They’d debated on a destination for weeks on end. They’d considered a roadtrip across America (too pedestrian - they’ll save that one for another summer), or a week in Vegas where they’d get married again in some cheap chapel (too cliche - they’ll save it for their vow renewals). They’d debated on whether or not to book a room in the most luxurious resort they could find in Thailand, but had settled on a cozy beachside bungalow instead. Jane thought Nymphia would like that the best, knew she would too, because she’d be happy if Nymphia was.

It’s funny how someone can change you so completely and entirely, how they can bring out the best part of you that was waiting to be discovered. Before Nymphia, Jane had always put herself first, even at the expense of others. She was content like that, and then she met Nymphia, and the center of her universe shifted outside of herself. For the first time it wasn’t a chore to care for someone else, and Jane was better because of it. 

“For the honeymoon?” Nymphia asks, folding her book in her lap. She looks down at Jane all nestled in her blankets, hoodie pulled over her blonde hair, and can’t help but smile. 

Nymphia had always been a hopeless romantic, all too eager to hand her heart over to the wrong person. She was a tender thing then, bruising easily in careless hands, burning through her own wells of hope faster than she could replenish them, and after the almost-great-loves of her young adulthood, she felt like she’d been cored. Having her heart handed back to her so unrequitedly time after time, she’d thought she’d been selfish to want a love as big as her own, to expect anyone to be able to return what she gave to them. She’d stopped dreaming of it altogether, and then she’d met Jane. Jane, who reveres her like the Earth reveres the Sun, who worships the ground that she walks on, who straightened out every desire Nymphia had crumpled up inside of herself and gave her more than she could ever dare ask for. 

Now, Nymphia knows she can be selfish. She looks over at Jane and thinks that she wants this for all time - all of Jane, all to herself. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m so excited.” Nymphia reaches over to take Jane’s hand. “Jus’ wanna spend time with you.”

“Good,” Jane smiles, “me too.” She tilts her head up, puckers her lips in a silent request for a kiss, and Nymphia obliges.

-

The plane starts its descent several long hours after they’ve woken up, and Nymphia is grabbing Jane’s hand before she even has to ask, because she knows she hates this part the most. Jane sucks air through her teeth as the last bit of turbulence rocks the plane, and Nymphia rubs her thumb in soothing circles over the back of her hand. As soon as they hit the tarmac, Jane snaps back into place, blocking the whole aisle just to get Nymphia’s carry-on out of the overhead compartment.

“Sorry,” Jane says over her shoulder to a disgruntled passenger. “My wife. She’s pregnant.”

“Jane,” Nymphia hisses through her teeth. “You of all people should know I’m not pregnant.”

“Not yet,” Jane kisses her shoulder before they maneuver down the aisle. “But when I’m through with you…”

Nymphia scoffs, smiling into the air, because she knows it’s impossible, but if anyone’s love could defy the laws of science, it would be theirs.

-

Despite their sleep on the plane, Jane and Nymphia are so impossibly jetlagged, and the car ride to the bungalow is a delirious haze. Determined to push through the rest of the day, they tumble out of their room and onto the tree-lined streets, perusing the local offerings and getting dinner while they speak to each other in exhausted, two-word sentences that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. It’s all they need.

And then they’re out under the sky, wandering in this beautiful place with blue-green water that laps in whispering waves over the sandy beach, and Nymphia has never looked so beautiful to Jane as she does under the moonlight. 

She’s running up the beach, shrieking as the water splashes at her feet, or when Jane chases her up the shore and catches her, spinning her around and pressing crazed kisses against her hairline. Nymphia is laughing, and then her cheeks are wet with tears, and Jane is wiping underneath her eyes.

“Hey,” Jane says, pushing Nymphia’s hair behind her ears, a careful concern crossing her face. “Why tears?”

“I’m just so happy,” Nymphia blubbers, smiling through the silver-wet stars in her eyes, because it’s all been such a beautiful blur, and it hasn’t hit her until right now that this is the rest of her life. “I can’t believe we get to do this forever.”

“God, you’re unbelievable, you know that?” Jane smiles. “Here I was thinking you stepped on a sea urchin. Or you got stung by a jellyfish. And I’d have to pee on your leg or something. Wouldn’t that be a great start to our honeymoon?”

“Shut up,” Nymphia sobs. “You’re ruining the moment!”

“M’sorry, my love,” Jane coos, wiping another tear from Nymphia’s face. “You’re the most sentimental girl alive, you know I can’t keep up with that.”

Nymphia just laughs, because yes, she’s endlessly sentimental, but, secretly, so is Jane. She still remembers the first time she’d opened a card from Jane and was met with pages filled almost entirely with ink, letters squished together to make room for as many as possible, words winding around whatever tacky quote was stamped in the middle. Jane had a way with words, despite whatever she’d tell you otherwise, and never ceased to amaze Nymphia with the sincerity she seemed to save just for her. 

(It crosses Nymphia’s mind then what her favorite part of the wedding really was - when Jane had recited her vows from memory in front of all their family and friends, had taken those impossibly beautiful things that were usually relinquished to their most intimate moments and had loved Nymphia enough to profess it in front of everyone. Not that they didn’t know already. You can’t hide a love as enormous as this one.)

“You keep up just fine,” Nymphia says softly, resting her cheek against Jane’s hand. She swears Jane’s eyes go misty just before she kisses her right there on the sand, beneath the stars, beneath the universe that brought them together.

-

Nymphia smiles when Jane crawls into bed. She’s in a gray crewneck that’s cut across her shoulders, and she’s propped up against fluffy pillows, and Jane is pushing the book out of her hands.

“Dinner was perfect,” Jane kisses her cheek before slipping into bed beside Nymphia. “But is it bad that I just wanted to get back to the room?”

“It’s terrible,” Nymphia turns over, slotting her back against Jane’s chest. “Is this the part where we get old and boring?”

“Yes,” Jane envelops Nymphia in her hold, fits against her in the way they’re going to for the rest of their lives, slides a hand down the length of her torso and up the inside of her thigh. 

“Not even gonna call you a whore or anything,” Jane kisses her ear. One hand cups Nymphia’s breast, the other dips between her legs. “Just gonna fuck you good and tell you how much I love you.”

“So boring,” Nymphia sighs, already melting away.

“So boring.”

(It’s not boring at all.)

-

Now that it’s hit Nymphia, she can’t stop crying every time the sheer enormity of it washes over her.

She’s always been emotional, but sometimes there’s a delay. Her life moves so fast, always swept up in the current of whatever dream she’s chasing, and sometimes it isn’t until she has a second to slow down that she realizes just how special every fleeting moment has been.

It’s been a whole week of being married, of wandering through villages and long hikes up mountain sides and afternoons spent sunning on the shore, of dawns and dinners and keeping a distance from the rest of the world as they know it. Now, Nymphia is sitting in a hammock at the edge of the beach, and she’s looking out over the water, and she’s basking in the overwhelming perfection of this moment. It’s something out of a dream, the sort of thing she’d long thought would be impossible for her to experience, and she can’t help but want to slow it all down, to draw out every precious moment long enough to memorize them, to make them last forever.

She’s sniffling just a bit when Jane finally finds her. She slides into place beside her, knees tucked into her chest, and stares quietly at the last of the sun as it sets over the ocean.

“Beautiful,” Jane murmurs, and it’s about the sunset, but it’s about Nymphia too. She presses a soft kiss to Nymphia’s shoulder.

“I don’t want it to end,” Nymphia sighs, unwilling to look away from the heaven that’s in front of her. They still have another day of this, one more perfect day at the edge of reality, and then they’ll be packing their things, leaving the quiet paradise of their bungalow and flying home. Back to work, back to their crazy, stupid friends, back to the never-ending rush and whirr of the city.

It’s not just that Nymphia doesn’t want the honeymoon to end. She doesn’t want this to end: her and Jane, so head-spinningly in love that nothing else matters, so finely attuned to one another, so freshly devoted to making it last. Nymphia wants so desperately to do it right, for their love to outlive that of either of their parents, for them to see all of their promises through for years to come. The possibility that they can’t pull it off is mind-numbingly terrifying, but the possibility that they can…

It’s an impossible promise to make to one another, and yet they’ve already done it. 

Nymphia sighs, mind swirling, and Jane somehow knows exactly what she means when she says, “what do we do now?”

Jane goes quiet for a moment, staring out over everything she’s ever wanted, and does her best to be brave for Nymphia.

“We sit out here until we’re too tired to keep our eyes open, and then I’ll take you to bed,” Jane says softly. “And then we have one more beautiful day, okay?”

“Okay,” Nymphia says, chewing on her cheek, still unable to look away from the landscape should it all disappear on her. “And then what?”

“And then we go home,” Jane looks over at Nymphia. “We go back to our house. And I’ll take you to work every morning, and then I’ll come home and be pissed about something, probably, and you’ll roll your eyes and tell me to shut up and I will, because I love you and, y’know, I generally think you’re right about everything. And we’ll have our stupid friends over and show them a billion pictures from our trip and kick them out so we can watch Project Runway and fuck. How does that sound?”

Nymphia giggles, and when she finally tears her gaze away from the beach, she realizes there’s another heaven right beside her, one that she gets to take home. And home, their home, the one with the fat cat and the mismatched furniture and their pictures all over the wall, that's another heaven too. Suddenly, the trip being over doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. Nymphia is almost looking forward to it.

“Are you scared?” Jane ventures softly, searching Nymphia’s face carefully. “It’s okay if you are.”

“Only a little,” Nymphia mumbles, voice wavering, eyes watering. 

“I’m a little scared too. We’ll take it one day at a time, okay?” Jane continues, looking a little smaller all of a sudden, pushing through every worry that threatens to override her strong front. “I know we’ll have bad days too, Nymph. I know I’m gonna fuck up and not listen enough and piss you off sometimes, but I love you to fucking pieces. I’m gonna give you the best I’ve got, I promise you.”

Nymphia takes Jane’s hand, and there are silent tears streaming down her face, because it’s only been a week and she already loves Jane more than she did on the day that she married her. It’s enough love to override everything that threatens to pierce through their perfect bubble, enough to fuel the years to come, enough to roll over into the next life and the one after that.

“And if you get sick of me,” Jane teases, squeezing Nymphia’s hand. “Y’know. Just say the word.”

“Shut up. I’ll never get sick of you,” Nymphia cries, throwing her arms around Jane’s shoulders. Jane laughs into her neck, pulls her closer into a bone-crushing embrace. This is the best part - Nymphia married her best friend. It’s enough just to hold her, just to be beside her. All those other parts, the sex and the sweet nothings and the swearing each other to forever, they’re just the luxuries of being in love with her. 

“You promise?” Jane says into Nymphia’s hair. She knows what the answer will be. She just wants to hear it anyway.

“I promise,” Nymphia whispers. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Jane says. “With all my heart.”

(They go home two mornings later, back to the city and their couch and their cat, and they aren’t scared anymore, because the warm glow of one another lasts much longer than fleeting sunsets over foreign shores. They wake up together, kiss goodbye on the way to work, hang their wedding photos on the wall and muse over the best day of their lives for years to come. They have lots of good days, and a few bad ones, too. They fight, and then they talk, and they never go to bed angry, just put each other back together in the way that only they can. And then they wake up and love each other more in spite of it.

The honeymoon was great, but here’s the best part: they make it last.)

[hayanwulf]

Ironstrange but make it from the movie 'Splash' (With Stephen as Tom Hank's character Allen Bauer and Tony as Madison?)

I am in love with my mermaid boy now.

Stephen stepped out to the deck of the yacht, closing his eyes and inhaling the fresh, crisp air of the sea.

Exhaling the breath, he stepped closer to the ledge, resting his hands over the metallic railing that looked out at an endless expanse of water under a night sky adorned with a thousand stars that glimmered like jewels, the soothing acoustic of waves crashing over each other and against their yacht being the only audible sound.

It was a breath of fresh air — literally — compared to the bustling, crowded city of New York, where you’d spot a twinkling star or two only on the luckiest of nights, where the air always smelled stale and noise followed you wherever you went.

Stephen didn’t really do ‘vacations’, never had time for such indulgences, what with giving utmost priority to his career as a doctor. But Donna had wanted this, had wanted to escape their busy life at the city without being reminded of any of the ache and associations to their past. And so Stephen had rented this yacht and hired a crew for a week, just for the two of them.

As he closed his eyes and relaxed against the railing, feeling the cool air melt away all the tension from his shoulders, he thought that maybe it wasn’t too bad to take a vacation every once in a while.

There was a barely audible, yet distinct sound of a splash in the water, prompting Stephen to open his eyes and look down at the source.

He frowned when his eyes caught.. something shiny right below the surface of the dark water for a second, but it immediately disappeared into the depths, the darkness of night only hindering his sight further.

Stephen scanned his eyes over the waters, wondering if he could manage to spot whatever it was again. He knew that this place was a hotspot for dolphins, but dolphins never traveled alone, so it couldn’t be that. Unless it was a lonely dolphin, which might indicate that it was hurt or lost.

And then he spotted it again — further towards the back of the yacht, the very end of a fin flicked through the water, flirting with the surface but not quite revealing itself.

A shiny, golden fin.

He was sure that it was golden. It had to be.

But it didn’t make sense. No fishes or mammals of that size were supposed to have such a golden, shiny fin. At least as far as Stephen knew, and he knew a lot.

What he’d just seen.. it was unnatural.

Wanting to catch another glimpse of the thing, Stephen walked down the deck towards the back of the yacht, eyes vigilantly scanning through the waters, wanting to see that creature, wanting to know what it was.

It was hard. Mostly all he could see was the darkness of water, the crests of waves reflecting back the light sources from their yacht. He strained his eyes, trying to peer inside the water.

And — there it was, the shadow of a large creature under the water, just barely visible with the water already being so dark. It lingered there, never peeking even an inch out of the surface, and Stephen found himself drawn to it, wishing that it surfaced, wanting to see more, and his steps continued along the railing by themself, then down the stairs of the stern, moving right along the unprotected edge of the swimming platform as he chased after the thing, never lifting his eyes from it. And then—

When he finally realized how far he had walked off, one of his feet was no longer on the yacht’s platform.

He yelped in surprise as he tried to bring his footing back to the platform, overbalanced, and fell sideways into water. 

An ice-cold spasm of pain shot up his side which had hit the water, the teeth-clattering cold sensation immediately spreading to his entire body as he got surrounded by water. Only practice prevented him from trying to breathe and hence accidentally filling up his lungs with water. You need to get out, a small rational part of his mind managed to command him while the rest of him still struggled to overcome the shock of being suddenly drenched in cold water at night.

But.. where is surface?

His heart fell to his stomach, suddenly feeling like all of his remaining oxygen had been sucked out as he frantically looked around and realized, all he saw was darkness.

No, don’t panic. This was fine, he would reorient his sense of gravity in just a second and then he’d find his way back up.

Except, the water moved in uncoordinated waves, crashing into him, pushing and pulling him in all directions.

He couldn’t tell which way was up.

Panic surged through him as he tried to determine which way he was supposed to go, feeling his heart quicken with each moment that he stayed under the surface, hyper aware of how it drained his oxygen just that much faster.

He couldn’t. He needed to breathe. Reflex forced his lungs to suck in a breath, coughing when all that entered his mouth was water.

No. No!

Basic survival instincts kicked in, causing him to flail his limbs as he tried to reach the surface, still having no idea which was the right way.

He needed to get out. He needed to get back to Donna. He couldn’t die, not here, not like this.

He needed to.. get out..

As he fought the pull of unconsciousness, the last thing he saw was the shadow of a vaguely human body, and a beautiful, long tail that shone red and gold.

When Stephen came to, the first thing he registered was an unfamiliar voice talking away in the background.

“..m sure he’ll be fine, I mean he’s breathing alright.”

Stephen blearily blinked his eyes open, realizing his back was lying on a bed of wet sand. He turned to his side and immediately coughed, throwing up some sea water.

“Yeah. Oh look, now he’s awake too.”

Stephen heaved a couple of breaths as his mind came back online. A shiver came over his entire body. It was very cold, and he was very wet. He frowned, recalling that he’d slipped off the yacht in the dumbest way possible.

‘World-renowned neurosurgeon slipped off his vacation yacht and drowned.’

Yeah, that would’ve been the most embarrassing way to die.

He craned his neck, looking up at the source of the voice to see who was his savior—

And immediately choked at the sight of a buck naked man, sitting there on the sand completely unabashed, Stephen’s phone at his ear as he talked to someone.

The man only raised an eyebrow at Stephen. “You good there?”

Stephen quickly looked away, eyes instead looking to the sea. “Y-yes, I’m fine.”

“Stephen?” The voice on the phone spoke, loud enough for Stephen to hear and perk up at the voice of his sister.

“Donna—” he sat up, turning towards the man again, before remembering, ah. He looked away again, feeling his face heat up despite the rush of cold air against his damp skin making him shiver.

His unnamed savior, thankfully, passed him the phone, which he took without turning back to the man.

“What the fuck, Stephen! Just what in the world were you doing!?”

Stephen winced. “I.. slipped.” The excuse sounded incredibly lame in his tongue.

But between that and saying I was so distracted by some imaginary sea creature that I didn’t see where I was walking, that was probably the less humiliating thing to say.

“You.. slipped.”

“Yes..”

There was silence and then a tired, exasperated sigh. “Christ, Stephen, I was terrified when we couldn’t find you in the water.”

Stephen felt a pang in his heart, imagining what she must have felt thinking that she was about to lose her last remaining family. “I’m sorry. I’m fine, sis.”

“You better stay that way. And don’t you dare move your ass from that island, we’re on our way.”

Stephen blinked, realizing for the first time that he was in some island. He twisted his neck to look around — carefully avoiding looking at the unnamed man who was still sitting near him wearing nothing, for some reason — and found that the island was small, perfect for private resorts and the like, but it was entirely abandoned with nothing but greenery visible in the tiny expanse.

“I’ll wait,” Stephen told her, turning his gaze back to the ocean in front of him.

They ended the call.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, stranger,” his unnamed savior spoke, and from the shuffling sound of skin and sand, Stephen could tell without looking that he had stood up.

He sighed. “Could you put on some clothes?”

The sound of sand shifting under feet echoed, and oh god no.

The mystery man came to deliberately stand in Stephen’s field of view, and Stephen closed his eyes with a stifled sigh. “What, you embarrassed of my naturism, Doc? I thought you guys saw naked humans all the time in your hospitals.”

Stephen looked away, opening his eyes to look out at the other dark horizon. There was no point arguing with a naked man, even less so when the said naked man had saved his life. Somehow.

“Do I at least get a name?” He instead asked the man.

He could practically hear the other man smirking. “Sure.. if you can work up the courage to look me in the eyes for longer than a second.”

Stephen suppressed a growl. It was just a bait, he shouldn’t fall for it.

“Fine then. Thank you, unnamed person who likes to walk naked in beaches, for saving my life.”

The man laughed then, a delighted, amused sound. Somehow, it sounded like a melody to Stephen’s ears, his voice simply so rich and lively, like it was made to spread joy. “You couldn’t have sounded more unthankful, dragging the words out of your throat like that, Doc.”

Too focused on the mystery man’s voice, Stephen didn’t realize when a decent-sized wave crashed into the beach, sweeping over half his body in the process. He grunted at the sensation of more water washing over his already hypothermic body.

“Ah, shit,” the man murmured, prompting Stephen to look his way and—

Stephen’s breath hitched, his heart coming to a halt for a second at the sight in front of him.

The man was down on the sand now; where his legs had been, now there existed a long, slick tail, gold scaled gleaming beautifully under the moonlight, interspersed with patterns of red and fins of indescribable elegance.

Stephen could only watch slack-jawed as the tail moved, its motion as smooth and natural as any other sea creature with fins.

For the first time, Stephen looked straight at the man’s — the creature’s — eyes, and found then to be a beautiful, warm brown, with such a depth that Stephen thought that he could be lost in them.

He was a creature of ethereal, otherworldly beauty.

“You..” Stephen whispered, finding his voice once again. “I saw you, at the deck.”

His eyes grew guarded at that, the warmth of the browns suddenly vanishing. He turned away from Stephen, towards the ocean, and flicked his tail, sending himself towards the retreating waves.

“No.. wait!” Stephen called out, but he gave no indication of hearing Stephen’s call.

Within a second, the brilliant shine of the gold scales disappeared into the depths of the water.

Stephen stood on the beach all alone, wide eyes fixated on the spot where he had seen the last shine of a golden fin.

[tenebriism]

// Whew, okay.

I finally forced myself to clean out my drafts as well as my inbox. Honestly, if the thread was years old OR wasn't really going anywhere anymore, I likely removed it (but we can certainly start something new!)

Here is my updated Thread Tracker: Click here! There is a second page, by the way! Over to the right, it's organized by my partners' URLS. If you don't see a thread of ours on there, I may have dropped it, lost it, or missed it, so please just let me know. Otherwise, that's what I'm working with for now. <3

[mercysought]

❝ there's one thing i know in my bones. there is no force in this world that can control you. ❞ - dealer’s choice

arcane season 2 // @hoboblaidd // accepting

There is much that we have forgotten. I have come to accept that, one way or another, we - the dalish - are not the last of the elvhenan. How could we ever be if such a place (A place for Our People) was broken so long ago? I think a lot about something I was told, upon first discovering that some of the People still walked and protected those same spaces that we had tried so hard to recover.

They never sought us out, they knew were lived in forests and in Clans and yet simply watched on, thinking of us like Shadows wearing vallas'lin. Shattered pieces of a past that had once been their present.

Despite the oath at the Dales, the reality is that whatever empire the elvhen once had - it is not something we can recover; nor should we. I have had enough time to think about it and, truthfully, while I believe the vallas'lin no longer carry the meaning of old, if I were to be asked once more, I wouldn't be able to carry it, to keep it. Not after learning what I have. It is an uphill battle that every dalish person will have to reckon with: to preserve the past and poison the future, to remember what has happened with nuance of knowing how fickle memory can be.

Or perhaps, to allow ourselves the nuance and the grace that comes from change. In the end, however, it should still be each of that Dalish person's choice: To keep it with its changed, new meaning, with a shameful past but a brighter life. Or to leave it behind and allow memory to destroy it too.

The Vallas'lin were markings with which the Evanuris branded their slaves, both high and low. But they are no longer. The Evanuris are dead and we are not.

   "You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you." She had said, almost in disbelief when he had spoken almost as if he had seriously been considering leaving. This new title, Inquisitor, still felt like a fresh wound against her. Raw and impossibly larger than any life that Asharen had ever known. Solas was the only person that had seemingly cared whether she lived or died regardless of the anchor in her hand. However, this much she knew, understood: Cassandra, Leliana and Cullen, they listened to her. She wasn't sure how far she could push it. But three humans, non mages, listened.    "How would you stop them?" she hears him ask and his eyes are on her. Her brows arch as if she doesn't understand the question. And perhaps she doesn't. How did you defend the younger ones of the clan when you knew templars were marching in the surrounding clan areas? He was bare faced, but so were many in Antiva City, many that had come to her defense too.    "However I had to."

The First Inquisitor of the Chantry's Inquisition was a dalish elf - a mage - who worked alongside humans in Orlais. He died holding another world shattering threat, hoping that would keep the dales safe. It didn't.

It should not surprise me how frequently history repeats itself and yet we stand at the closing of another cycle: I too am dalish, a mage and Inquisitor during the fight against Corypheus. It does not escape my thoughts that this too is likely to be my fate. Even as I write these in the hopes of clearing my mind, I know that one way or another they will likely find themselves in hands that are not mine.

While I know that is outside of my control, my wishes, I instead find myself hoping that while it will be the interest of my title (and, hopefully, name) which will draw eyes to the writing, that it will be its contents and the History within that will keep it being repeated and passed on.

Those who hold the records of History, true or not, are the same that will control the new path the Dalish will take moving forward. The Oath of the Dales has promised that we shall never submit again. We are more than our aravels, our halla, our arlathven. We are more than our oath. We are more than our loss, our grief.

Do not forget the lessons of old, but do not allow them to destroy the joys of the present.

[storytimewithtibby]

warnings: fluffy, vaguely stalkerish word count: 875 work - one shot prompts from @creativepromptfills - golden hour (x) and @scealaiscoite - tangerine squares (x) may lists

     A breeze passed along your jaw, almost too hot to be comfortable, your gaze shifting to the clock. Finally. It had been a long day of phantom touches, one sided conversations, and a piercing ache that settled under your ribs with every hushed noise you could almost believe was a whisper. Shadows shifted, thickened, but other things gleamed brightly, the rays of sunlight broad and warm as they fought against the dark. 

     And felt the ache slowly dissipate as a weight rested on your throat, a slender finger hooking your jaw to turn your face. Soft golden glow caressed high cheekbone, exposed the dove soft curve of lips that pressing against your cheek. Your arms that had been loosely wrapped around your middle shifted, the feel of feathers ticklish against your skin as they pressed against you to pull you closer to the body finally firm behind you. 

     Fingertip brushing your lower lip, you breathed out a greeting, the heat settling into your bones making it hard to think. Their other hand sought yours to tangle their fingers with yours as they nuzzled against your hair. The whispers sounded like beloved, and grace, and you smiled hearing them inhale deeply as they murmured praises into your ear. 

     You’d told them it wasn’t necessary, that you would be just as happy if they told you what they’d seen doing whatever it was they did. The praise so heavy handed that had it been another fellow human being it would have been irritating, suspicious even. But it felt like light painted across your skin, seeping in like a balm to ease the ache of how exhausting every day was. 

     Except for those moments when you started the day, earlier than you had any reason to be awake, because it was the only time they could pull together a human form. Photographers called it the golden hour, chased it with a fervor that startled you as you had been looking for any information you could find in regards to angel manifestation. 

     That had been a long, exhausting crawl through fanatics and religious dogma. You could have asked, and who knows they might have answered. But they hadn’t answered any of your other questions, so the chances had been slim to none. They hadn’t even given you the decency of giving them a name to call you, their finger feeling like a brand as they gripped your chin to give your head a playful shake. 

“Sorry.’ 

     But they didn’t want an apology, they just wanted your attention, kissing the corner of your mouth. A silent plea for you to shift your focus to them instead of whatever it was you were thinking. Which, was kind of suspicious, could angels read your mind if it wasn’t a prayer? Not all of those were said out loud, and still got answered. Testing it, with the most basic thing you could manage to think of, you waited patiently. 

     The response was almost immediate, first one set of wings and then the second loosened to allow you to turn. Sun warmed plum was what it felt like, but the taste held a sweet bite. You’d spent a month raiding your local market trying to find something that compared to the taste. It had been ridiculously disappointing that you’d found the texture but not the taste when you’d heathenly plucked the plum from the bowl on the counter. 

     But it hadn’t been until you’d been making a fruit bowl, licking juice from your thumb, that you’d finally figured it out. Tangerine, sweet, bright, danced on the tongue and brought a smile to your lips. Fingertips lightly catching their jaw, a low hum vibrated through you as the wings tightened again trapping you there. Fair, you didn’t have an hour, the time a misnomer as they purred praise against your lips. 

“I love your song.’ 

     And sometimes the praise didn’t make sense, feeling fingers trail along your cheek. And again, and again, a soft sigh before the kiss deepened hands lowering to wrap their arms around you and squeeze. They were so pleased with the gasp it startled out of you, lightly prodding your lower lip. As their tongue traced the line of it, your jaw dropped and they spilled into your mouth like morning light. Soft, insistent, warming you from your core outwards as their fingers trickled up and down your lower spine. 

    You’d tried asking what that meant, and they’d told you the divinity that spilled from your skin had edges that vibrated at the slightest touch. They’d sounded in awe of that fact, with no little hint of jealousy that always reminded you that sometimes angels fell. They fell because they’d done something really bad. 

     But the way they held you as if breaking you would destroy a part of them. The fact that every single morning they sought you out when time didn’t mean the same thing to them. Or the fact that throughout the day there were moments you could almost just see them out of the corner of your eye. There was a lot to process, but getting hurt was low on the list. Even though a small part of you kept trying to find a reason to worry.

[apheliia]

i should do flufftober or something!

[zincbot]

🎵 + Navoc! I know exactly what I’m doing!

Jukebox Writing Game

The Mother We Share - CHVRCHES

In the dying light, I'm the only one here

And I will cover you until you go

---

Arji doesn't look very much like you. He's a willow where you're live oak. He's bright where you are weathered. He is movement where you are still. Often, he smiles.

He holds you to the polite ideal. Calls you "Mister" and "Sir". You won't ever be rid of the part of your chest that wonders what his family was like. The echo of tired reminders, repeated at too many ears.

There is a crutch within the kid, holding back a tide of disappointment. Other people must be trying to do the right thing, because otherwise, there is a place for blame to live. If there is room for wrong within the accidental, then what if he belongs to that red-handed place.

You had been bright-eyed, once. It was pressed from you, held and blistered. Arji must be close to that age now, if not past it. You see the tide of the world over him and want to pull him to you, let it rain on your broad back.

One night, you wander, missing something old, and you see him in the living room. Candlelight, burning low. His eyes are open and distant, and he startles when you shift your foot. The candle leaps, a frantic flame.

Your mother passed on her lightning to you. You choke on ozone, feel it burn down sinus pathways, arc between nerve endings. You look at Arji and see the well within him, smoldering coals. His kind of magic isn't anything you've ever had. But you know what burning is like.

He's curled small, tail tucked tight around his legs. Half-movement, uncertainty. He makes one syllable that doesn't quite reach you.

"Is this what kids do instead of sleeping these days?" You ask, low, scratching your back with blunted claws.

"I- I don't know. I guess I could ask?" He is too genuine for this late at night, attention turned to your question as if it were the most important thing in the world. Maybe he would like it to be.

"Ah, don't worry about it." You cross the room in slow plodding steps and settle into the armchair.

Eyes closed, you hear him move. The uncertain creaking of the couch. When you open them, he has a blanket pulled up to his chin and is watching you with wide eyes. "Are you awake?" His voice is half-muffled.

"Kid, I'm looking right at you." Your back is still settling, an old house.

You can almost feel a breeze as he blinks at you. "Do you know any songs?" He asks. The note in his voice is strange, almost wistful.

You can't carry a tune to save your life. But you remember some. Songs for late nights, for campfires and for travel. Songs that used to lift over you and through you, your eyes shut tight, the warmth of your family around you.

Awkwardly, you cough. "Take over for me if you know this one." And you push your throat, slowly, carefully, into a hum. Gravel and smoke, your voice is worn, the words half-remembered. You close your eyes and imagine firelight.

Eventually, your rumbling fades away, sleep tugging at your mind an entropic gravity, and you crack an eyelid open. Nose tucked under the blanket, Arji breathes even and slow, his face gentle with slack.

When you dream, you dream of safety. In this moment, you and Arji share one thing.

[byanyan]

checking in............. i miss y'all 🥺

[voidrifter]

OBSCURE SORROWS: @ichordreamed asked:

✦ ochisia: the fear that the role you once occupied in someone’s life could be refilled without a second thought.

"Your family, teachers, friends… how many have been dragged into this never-ending nightmare because of you?"

At the hands of God, Kiana shrinks. Marionette strings pull taut on her every limb, dig needle-thin lines of crimson around her wrists, her ankles, her throat. The Theater of Domination is all around them, and this is their stage.

She's had this conversation a thousand times, a back and forth with the ever hungering Void. She is anger, all-consuming and cruel, left a lifetime to fester. She stands before Kiana now, a mirror's image just cracked enough to distort into something else. So like her, practically unrecognizable.

The Herrscher of the Void snaps her fingers and their stage is a memory. Over and over, one after another.

It is a world drowned in white, a home. It has been so long since Kiana has seen home, since she has seen her father. From where she kneels-- charred ground and rubble beneath her scraped palms, flakes of snow falling between her fingers to reclaim all that has been destroyed-- she can see his back.

She can see where blood has begun to pool beneath him, where the sleeve of his coat is ripped and fraying and soaked in crimson. He's covered in soot, she thinks she might remember him crying.

She can see, over his shoulder, the empty eyes of a girl who does not understand what she has just done.

"You were the reason why it all happened. Aren’t you ashamed?"

The girl is not crying, she is not shaking. She is staring at the sun, wondering how it can still shine through the ash. How it can still be warm when everything she knows is suddenly so, unbearably cold. She is wondering why this had to happen, why it had to be her. 

She is wondering if he regrets it, if he regrets her.

Because if it had been Kiana, not K-423, none of this would have ever happened. Siegfried Kaslana might have lived a life with a daughter he did not have to fear or hide. He might have kept his arm, might have never had to leave her. If she had never existed, never needed to be saved, maybe he would be happy.

Maybe it would have been easier for him to be happy.

"Dad… you’re hurt… you’re hurt!"

She has remembered how to tremble, the girl. She is too young to have to wonder if she had been worth the sacrifice it took to nurture her, the body count that has come as a cost for her freedom. 

"You’re a harbinger of tragedies, and what went down on this snowfield is solid proof."

Behind the girl and her father, across what remains of Home, the Void hovers. She smiles, cold and cruel, a dozen subspace lances her halo. Kiana does not tremble like the girl between them, does not hear how she cries. 

Kiana staggers to her feet despite the protest of a thousand strings, despite the ache she has carried in her chest for so long that it has become a part of her.

"…In his eyes, I was always his daughter."

[ahogedetective]

Hello helloooo!!! I am a semi-selective and selective rp blog for Shuichi Saihara from Danganronpa v3, written by Kay!

☆ Crossover/Multiship/OC/Duplicate Friendly!

☆ Written by Kay! (27, female, she/her!)

☆Other blogs: My talentswap Ultimate!Chef Kaede blog: !

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