throwing 26 at you like a very normal person not expecting anyone specifically at all. don't worry about it. (for the intimacy ask game!!)
- @fourteenthz
[26.] lifting them onto the countertop while making out.
chargestep (nb step + ric) post-hb
~700 words | suggestive
Pollux should’ve said no. Said he had places to be, things to do—all little excuses Ortega would understand were lies and maybe he would get out with only a little bit of begging him to stay the night. Only a few too many stares from eyes too brown for their own good. Crooked disarming grins from a face he’s still struggling to piece together with the beard. Idiot.
It prickles, his chin and upper lip rubbed raw but it’s easy to forgive him (this time) and turn his head, inviting the kiss in deeper. Following what feels right—pushing aside the undercurrent of never knowing what it should feel like. Lightheaded and nearly dizzy, lungs fit to burst; a soft noise escapes his throat and oh fuck he can’t do that again. Neck craning, hands sweating—useless as they clench in and out of fists, too afraid to touch. No, it would feel too much to touch. Taking it too far.
Always easier to let others touch first.
Counter cold against the sweat of his hands, pulling him back from colder and harder thoughts; the discomfort of stone a welcome pinch of reality. Kitchen. Ortega.
Comfortable. Trust.
He pulls away. Mouth not tasting like his own, lick the spit from the corner of his lip—eyes lazily opening to stare up. He can’t go far, Ortega’s hand knotted in the curls at the back of his neck. (A ringlet spun around his pinky, pulled taut and released). Aware as his chest heaves—painfully aware of Ortega pressing against him, solid and looming. Heavy lidded, eyes searching—left right left right down to shiny lips and hot exhales.
“Sure you don’t want to stay any longer?” A grin with a dangerous edge.
“I can’t.”
So very difficult to answer, schooling back desire; regain his sense of decency lost at the downright shameful noises he made when Ortega’s tongue slipped between his lips. Hands in his hair.
“Even if I….” Forgetting how easily and quickly Ortega moves, grabbing Pollux’s waist—ignoring his quick gasp and swear—to place him on the counter. “There. Now you have the height advantage.”
“For once, asshole…”
A playful kiss to his jawline and Pollux mumbles another swear tinged with too much affection.
“Mhm?” A kiss to Pollux’s scratchy chin, to adam’s apple, to just beneath his earlobe to cheek and corner of the mouth. Trying to catch his lips once more, but Ortega skirts by to place one final kiss to his nose. A grin half hidden by that stupid mustache and oh how it’s so dangerous. Too dangerous too feel this warmed over, easy and pliable. Too easy to recall how this isn’t the first time he’s sat on this counter, legs almost wrapped around Ortega’s waist. Knees against his ribs.
t was an accident—too caught up in the moment, too much caution thrown to the wind and a hand slipping between his thighs and the sudden gasp catching them both off guard—
He must be making some face about it as Ortega’s brow raises. Realization hitting as a warm bright laugh escapes his mouth.
“You still remember that?”
“Shut it or I’ll make you shut it.”
“It is funny in hindsight, Lux.”
“It was mortifying, you idiot!” He almost grabs the front of his shirt, settling on playing with the open buttons beside his collarbone. “You made smug little stupid faces at me for a week…”
“Worth it just to see how red you would get.”
“Ass. You deserved the punch I gave you.”
Ortega just hums, cutting him off with a smooth sound kiss. Easily made deeper once more, anger ebbing away and Pollux sighs out of his nose. Smooths his hands away from picking the threads out of the buttons, finding a comfortable place under shirt—against his spine. Tracing one of the metal ports with his nail.
Easy to squabble about the past—easier than the regrets. Easier than feeling how he so hesitantly avoids the scar beneath his ear—still red and too smooth to the touch. A memory to gnarled, too raw right now. Later maybe and maybe if he says it enough, it'll stay far away; just long enough to do what he needs to do.
A gasp of breath before lips meet again, aching and searching. Leaving it all behind. Just this, right here.
i’m making a timeline for the dt17 au i’ve had brewing in my head for like maybe 2 weeks now and i just think this is funny (the reason why it’s only these two years is that i’ve decided scrooge was a US citizen by the time we joined the war🤷🏻
(with donald being a kid in the 90s + the plans i have for him once i get to that part of the timeline him being a ww2 navy vet like he is in other duckverse comics / media doesnt fit so ive decided scrooge fought in ww1,, keeping the one of them is vet lore there, plus it would give SHUSH a reason to hire him outside of his already established reputation for adventure)
I was reading over the first couple of pages and this one stood out to me. I think it represents Dante and Isaac’s relationship the best out of everything I’ve written. Note: Dante lives with chronic leg pain, which is established before this passage.
In the morning, the pain was worse than I’d ever known. When I rolled out of bed and tried to stand, I staggered. The floor was a bed of nails under my bare feet. My legs buckled under me; Isaac jolted upright when I fell to my hands and knees. I squeezed my watering eyes shut, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. Everything hurt—hips, knees, ankles, feet. It hurt like I’d been thrown against the rocks by a storm.
“Dante? Oh god—are you okay?”
“Fine,” I ground out. I drew in a ragged breath, staring at the tangled black bangs hanging in my eyes. After a few heartbeats I clambered to my feet and braced myself against the wall, clenching my jaw against the pain clawing its way up my legs. Isaac scrambled out of bed. He looped his arm under my shoulders and I leaned against him. His skin under his t-shirt was warm against mine.
“You should call in sick today,” he said, watching me with brow creased in concern.
“No, I’m okay.” I slipped out of his hold and pushed off the wall, ignoring a dizzying rush of pain, then headed for the doorway. “I’ll be good once I’ve had coffee or something.”
“Dante, please!” He trailed me as I made my dogged way to the kitchen, every step a new agony. “You haven’t taken a day off since you started! Come on, don’t be so stubborn.”
“I can do this.”
“You’re gonna kill yourself, that’s what you’re gonna do.” He stepped in front of me. “Your skin is cold as ice, and you can barely walk. Go back to bed. I’ll tell Liz you’re not feeling good.”
The pain in my legs had triggered a pounding migraine behind my eyes. “Alright. Fine.”
I allowed Isaac to herd me back into the bedroom, and sat down on the edge of the bed with my head resting on my knees while he rummaged for some painkillers in the bathroom cabinet. This, I knew all too well, was the kind of pain that could not be cured by any medicine. But it made Isaac feel like he was helping me, so I didn’t object.
“Now you stay in that damn bed, and don’t even think about getting up,” he told me, when he was ready for work.
I nodded, in too much pain to bother trying to argue.
“Shit.” His hand flew to his hip pocket. “Shit, where’d I leave my phone?”
“I could call you,” I suggested, as he started rummaging through his clothes from the day before, lying discarded like flotsam in a heap on the floor beside the bed. I reached for my phone, which had been charging on the nightstand. The bright white light of the screen stabbed into my eyes when I unlocked it, and I squinted as I pressed the call button on Isaac’s contact profile.
Is this the real life, or is this just fantasy?….came drifting, muffled, from the bottom of the bed.
“You didn’t,” I said, as he fished his phone out from among the tangle of blankets. “You did not set my ringtone in your phone to that song.”
He flashed me a grin. I let out a choked sound that was halfway between a groan and a laugh. “You asshole.”
He stooped over the bed, brushing my curly bangs off my forehead, and kissed me on the cheek. “Love you too.”
.[51.] "come here" said softly — not urgently. just wanting them close again.
[51.] "come here" said softly — not urgently. just wanting them close again.
chargestep (nb step + ric) | post-HB
~900 words | suggestive + cw allusions to past SA
“Fuck…” Pollux swears, voice turning into a sharp keening sound. Not his hand pressing against his lower stomach and his leg jerks, thighs trembling, toes curling. Back arching, head pressing into the mess of sheets. Hands caught, unsure whether to push Ortega back down between his thighs or leave him be.
Three times? Maybe? It all starts to fold together, one heaving breath to the next, desperation drowning out sensible thought. A roller coaster without a seat belt, and Ortega is the one with the on and off switch. Asshole.
The pressure eases and he swallows down cold air, groaning at the wet kiss pressed to his hip bone. Another against the inside of his knee, fingers lazily tracing circles across the back of his thigh, gooseflesh prickling. Scar to tattoo to bare skin—mole to mole, thumb brushing dozens of freckles. A bruise kissed into his skin. Nothing more follows, save for Ortega’s own hot unsteady breaths against his skin. Can’t look at him now—not when they’re both like this. Needy. He almost laughs at the heady desire of it all.
Another kiss, a soft word mumbled that he misses with the blood still rushing in his ears.
The bed shifts, leg settled back into the sheets and Ortega moves away. Hands drifting away, breath going with it.
Never a rhyme to it, the cold panic that sharply seizes his brain. Bile thick from his stomach, immediate on the back of his tongue. Words spill out before he has the air for them:
“Don’t.” Stomach knotting, eeked out from a tight throat. “Stop, please. D-Don’t….”
Fuck. Fuck!!
Voice breaking and he shakes from his lungs down to his toes. Closes his mouth tight. Slam his hand in the proverbial doorway; breaking his fingers, but it still all oozes from the cracks. Shame crawling up his spine, desperate to be felt. Digging its nasty fingers as it cries at him.
Screaming behind his ribs and with it comes the guilt. Rot his gut, twisted in his intestines—curdled and aching in his molars. His tongue is heavy. Sweaty and hot, hair stuck to skin. Skin stuck to skin, under his chest, under his arms—between his thighs. Sticky.
Shameful.
“Pollux?”
Too aware of himself. Too aware that others are aware. Eyes seeing too much, never doing anything. Anger like a riot that makes his gums hurt.
It’s disgusting. Shameful.
He wants to vomit.
The bed is still and Pollux hates this: the falling apart. Worse still in front of Ortega. He’s stock still as Pollux all but ruins himself in the bed once again. Too many little deaths between the sheets. It’s pathetic how this still rules his brain, keeps its gnarled nails dug in, fingers jammed down his throat. Nose bleeding down to his lips.
“Hey, I’m here. Pollux, I’m here.”
He mouths the word ‘don’t’ to make it taste real, that he is here; he’s here.
Pushing past the heavy weight to sit up, his body protesting—screeching—it’s not safe. It’s not safe, it’s not safe it’s not safe it’s not safe. Pull apart the want to death curl, righting himself; ignore the self soothing—wanting to cradle his chin against his chest, dig nail lines into his skin and try to forget. Shut the door to memories better left dead.
“I got you. I’ve got you.”
Trembling, daring himself to touch and his hand brushes against Ortega’s bare chest. Curly hair beneath his fingers, the edge of the fine golden necklace he wears (knot his fingers in the chain, until they turn white, purple black). It stays tuck to skin with sweat. Finding his heartbeat there, breath hitching, but he steadies.
Static.
Licking a battery. Cheek pressed against a television screen. Rub his face against it until the static shock snap crackle pop. That dirty hide out on the border, resting against Ortega’s stomach. Unable to sleep. The soft hum of the generator an anchor as the floor tried to eat him alive.
It sticks to his brain, cotton balls in his ears and he needs it. Sharp. Bright. Blinding. Blast away the worst of what wriggles in his mind—maggots in his grave dirt. He always liked the way the electricity felt coursing along his nerves.
His cheeks are wet, lips trembling but pulling back to bare teeth instead of sobbing. Breath hissed out of his teeth. Ortega’s hand is pressing his hand against his chest, thumb caressing his knuckles. Peak to valley peak to valley. Cold metal of his ports.
Inert. Safe.
The tension bleeds like a stuck pig, squealing with its last breath and his chest gives in, ribs collapsing. Shoulders dropping. A shuddered cry dies in Pollux’s throat, flopping like a dead fish in the held air between them. A sniffle as it goes belly up, eyes glazed over.
“Lux..?” Ortega whispers.
“Come here…please.”
Pollux’s own voice, so distant in his ears; finally, painfully looking up—eyes rolling like stones in his thick skull and Ortega finds his eyes first. Horribly soft—gut wrenchingly so. Hands finding his face, cradling his cheeks just so. Real and warm, too big for his face. Too small for all Pollux asks. A kiss pressed to his forehead, eyelids—his cheekbones and bridge of the nose.
Apologies neither of them can bear to say or to hear.
Pulling him back down to the bed, Ortega wraps him up tightly. Knobby elbows and crooked knees, Pollux curls in close, burying his face next to Ortega’s neck. He can have this: a little death. He shivers, Ortega’s hand rubbing his back, whispering sweet nothings if only so his voice isn’t lost to Pollux.
ffxiv | 1.7k words | shb msq spoilers (up to lvl 75)
“I knew…”
They speak softly into the oppressive air between them. The sharp humming of the light drenched sky above them looms like a heavy weight across their shoulders—eager to crush them beneath its weight.
“I knew what was happening—after Il Mheg, I could feel it. The Light and its blighted touch not fading, but seeping into my body.” They look at Y’shtola, watching her lips purse and her brow scrunch together.
“And you still feel it…?” She asks slowly.
They nod, gaze drifting down to their hands.
“In my fingertips—I feel them stiffen when I pause for too long, and a tingle when I move them once more. A weight in my gut, and an itch at the back of my throat. Behind my eyes.”
She sighs, yet it does little to ease the worry that holds her shoulders closed and lips pulled to a thin line. Her hands folded neatly in her lap, clenching together.
“Forgive me for not having spoken sooner.” She admits with a heavy exhale, her shoulders dropping.
“Nay, I should have spoken my mind soon after arriving Slitherbough. Mistaken as you were to my nature upon us reuniting, I would not so easily cast aside that which you beheld.” They pause, a bitter smile rising to their lips. “A brilliant soul, I have been called before— nomenclature befitting Hydaelyn’s Chosen. And yet it is not Her light which eats away at me now.”
They stare down at their hands, feeling the tingle across their flesh—like needles in their bones, and blades wedged into their tendons. Heavier than they remember--stretching back to their shoulders, at the base of their neck. Their sword feels clumsy in their numb hands, their steps unbalanced by clumsy legs.
They asked Tesleen about the transformations when Alisaie had stepped away. What happens before the transformation full takes hold--the changes during that long, agonizing march towards death; they bade her not to spare them the worst of it, that they would know all of the inevitable that awaits the infected.
They recall the way Halric’s hair felt—straw between their fingers. Fragile like wheat breaking away from the shaft. How his skin was smooth as plaster--marble, even. It was sand they brushed from his cheeks, but they wondered if one day they might brush white dust from his cheeks like chalk and press it betwixt their fingers.
Press like how they press their index finger to their thumb, trying to feel the metal and leather of the gauntlets pressing into their skin. A hint, even as their knuckles strain.
Y’sthola’s heavy gaze settles on them and they know well the face she’s making. They will tell her that they are fine with a smile that tugs the corners of their lips unwillingly, and hopefully she will allow them this lie for just a little while. A way to keep the fear at bay—to keep their feet moving forward. Idle bodies do little work, and there is much work to be done. Only work they can do--even as their stomach writhes and squirms. Tesleen's descriptions of the fate that awaits them ever present; her death and the cocoon that cradled her fleshed turned to liquid light and reborn stuck behind their eyelids; embedded in their ears.
Y'shtola merely sighs, leaning her head against their shoulder as she takes one of their hands in hers. Knits their fingers together and rests their clasped hands in her lap, her opposing hand resting atop. Tracing little circles across gloves with her thumb, the chipped nail catching against a frayed thread, but they don’t complain.
They sit in the relative silence, watching the members of the Night’s Blessed attend their chores in quiet ease. Water to the crops, the stalks of wild corn and gourds stretching towards the sky. Barely there conversations from nearby as a pair of older women sit with well worn hand looms, easily passing thread from one side to the other. The brush of a broom across the stoop and the pause as the young woman easily scoops up a young toddler from crossing the threshold, a bright smile on her face and he quietly babbles. One of the few children born here since her arrival, Y'shtola had told them.
Above the sounds of the light, birds still chitter and called out; insects hum in the brush, shuffling through the leaves. Small white butterflies flutter by, almost indistinguishable from the speckles of light lazily floating through the air that is almost cold.
“Tell me truthfully, Eyrie.” Y’shtola breaks the quiet, eyes keen on watching her people. “Do you trust Urianger? How he needed more surety of the light's effects upon you?”
“….Tell me your thoughts.” They reply after a long pause, brow furrowing.
She sighs, short and clipped.
“I trust him…” She admits, “And yet in this matter I do so hesitantly; tis difficult when the man is so convinced of his need for secrecy. He would wait to know for certain if the corruption is not merely dissipating from you when you speak to the contrary, and as I can plainly see.”
“Carefully has he always laid his plans—I do not blame him for wanting surety with his own eyes er he thinks of a course to act upon. Even at the cost of precious time.” They answer her before continuing to speak. “Ever has he kept his cards close to his chest, so prepared to give all for our chosen cause. By his betrayal in the Source did salvation come to the First—that this world might yet be saved.”
Eyrie pauses, looking out across Slitherbough.
“I do not doubt that our friend is not thinking of all that is at stake. But, nevertheless that plan costed Minfilia her life." She reminds them. "Even if she was already lost to us, and such was her own wish."
They look down, shifting to hold her hand--lacing their fingers together. “Aye, I have not forgotten.”
“If there is some secret he is keeping, I pray it does not come at a price we can ill afford.” She looks to them, a hint of softness behind her eyes. “Most especially when it concerns you, my dear friend.”
Eyrie can’t help but smile at her despite the weight in their gut and the ache behind their eyes as she moves to stand, letting go of their hand to brush the ruffles of her skirt back into place.
They too carefully stand, letting their greatsword rest a moment longer. “Wait, Y’shtola--before you sweep yourself into some all consuming task."
She gives them a look and they sigh softly and smile gently.
"Give me your hands.”
They hold out their empty palms and she eyes them, looking at them with careful curiosity, before heeding their request. She turns back to them, clasping her hands in theirs. She stares up at them, keen as always to unfold their thoughts just from their eyes. Always has she been so keen to look, and they have not been beyond her scope of careful examination. They try their hardest not to look away.
Her hands are warm as they run their thumb across her knuckles. The callouses are heavy along her thumb and fingers, not far from her hands back in the Source—worn and painted from her insatiable desire for knowledge. Ever hungry for tome after tome, mural after mural to pick apart the deepest secrets of the world. They had no fears when they did not find her in the Crystarium--they would be remiss to think her feet would stay in one place. Ever would their steps find their way back to her. Their most dearest friend.
“Eyrie…?” She prompts gently, squeezing their hands.
“Shtola,” they reply softly, letting out the breath they had been holding.
“A steadfast friend you have always been to me. Always have you been honest, and carried your best intentions for me close to your heart. Ever have I placed my trust in your knowledge, your level headedness, and your heart—that most of all. You know me far too well.” They say quietly, running a thumb across the back of her hand again.
“Do not think unkindly of me for asking, as I ask out of trust. But should the worst come to pass--”
“Eyrie.” She cuts them off, their name firm in her tone and her gaze heavy. Hands clenching tight around theirs. “I know what you ask, and what you ask is difficult of me--beyond words.”
“But not impossible.”
“'Tis not that simple. Even if you ask, to forsake you, much less by my own hand--”
“I do not wish to suffer.” They cut her off. “For my own selfish sake. I do not wish to harm those whom I care for. Those whom I love. Please..."
She looks away and they watch her still, her hands still clasped in theirs as she closes her eyes. More words sit unspoken behind their teeth--held on the tip of their tongue. There is no one else whom they would trust to see this until the end--to see them to the end, should the worst come to pass. Ever the pragmatist, ever since they sat together overlooking the bustle of Limsa and she spoke of the deeper issues haunting the beast tribes of La Noscea. She would not be blind, not to the sins of man, nor of the Ascians who so carefully exploited man's weakness.
She would understand, even if it costed of her her heart, and her treasured friend--she would have to to understand.
Her eyes open and she looks up at them--resignation and a burden behind her eyes. One they so carefully placed in her hands and wrapped her fingers around to keep close to her heart.
"If...the worst should come to pass, I will do as you ask, Eyrie." She admits softly. "But I shall endeavor beyond all hope to not see that come to pass. You have my word."
"Thank you..." They reply just as quietly, letting go of her hands and they cup her face just barely, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. They feel her hands rest on their waist before she gives up--wrapping her arms around them. They wrap their arms around her shoulders in turn, holding her close. Resting their cheek in her hair, she squeezes them tightly.
"You will not be giving up." She tells them fiercely, and they can't help but scoff.
"Perish the mere thought of such a thing. Who would I be to give up?"
"A poor friend is what." She bites back and they laugh, letting her go as she steps away, steeling herself once more. "Now there's business that needs doing."
@isayashai tagged me! ty isa! <3 im gonna tag: @starrypawz, @pinayelf, @lvllns, @brightaxe, @curiousstrawberry, @lavellane and genuinely whomever else pls go for it (and tag me i want to seeeeee)
im doing da:tv writing, but redacting stuff for spoilers:
she dragged the mirror from the infirmary to her room down the one sleepless night a few days after [redacted]. Part of rearranging the room once more. Curtains to block the light from the sea life, the couch turned around--better to keep an eye on the door. Blankets and pillows pilled up on the floor beside it. A dressing screen that had finally found a home near the wardrobe where she had originally placed it.
She tried not to think too hard about the ravens that screamed and beat their wings bloody circling the inside of their gilded cages in the rafters of the de riva estate. the splotches left on the carpets by flight feathers torn from their sheathes.
The wardrobe in her room is big enough to fit several small children inside of it. her own hot breath--covering her ears with her hands to not hear. dragged out kicking and screeching, scratching biting--don't listen, don't listen, don't listen, don't listen--
She stares too long at the dark depths of it sometimes, trying very hard not to think about her hot tears and wobbling lips. She blinks, the lamp light dimming. She turns the wick and it flares to life once more. Soft green light against warm orange and she stares hard at the face in mirror.
💘 fake relationship / mutual pining / dared to kiss for eyrie/zenos, i am begging...
ty azia <3 i went off the deep end in their weird mutual pining situation
💘 fake relationship / mutual pining / dared to kiss [1k words]
'Tis a bitterly cold morning in Ishgard.
The wind blows down from the peaks of Abalathia's Spine to cover the city in a fresh layer of powdery snow; the rolling thick grey clouds above promising more to come. The air stings the tips of Eyrie’s ears as they step off the stoop of the House Fortemps estate and they almost wish they could go back inside.
Lord Edmont would gladly entertain them the rest of the day if they so desired; hours of conversations over a dozen pots of tea and a constant warm hearth. Continue the conversation into dinner and sweet wine while he showed them the beginnings of his memoir. A suggestion that instead of heading back to the inn for the night that they could stay in one of the guest rooms.
Eyrie knows Edmont wants only the best for them—an open hearth and home for their aching feet and weary heart.
Another day, perhaps. A promise made in clasped hands and soft smiles that they would visit in the next few months.
But a long road awaits them with chocobos to rent to cross the wastes to Western Coerthas and beyond still to the Hinterlands and Idyllshire. Long stretches of travel made necessary by their companion.
Sighing, they squint against the familiar pain in the back of their eyes. Readjusting their glasses, they turn to look for a familiar shape. Further down the road--past the lines of houses to the edge of the Pillars they spy him.
Fresh snow crunches beneath their heavy boots as they take the steps in sets of two, moving past the lamp post to the raised dais that overlooks the Foundation.
Against the grey clouds and spires of Ishgard cutting through the ever present fog below, Zenos stands an impressive figure. Ever filling the space around him—ever drawing eyes to look. And yet no one stares. No one dares to approach. Alone, the trails of his coat flutter in the breeze and stray hairs dance along—hand resting lazily on the hilt of the sword at his side.
They step up onto the dais, folding their arms across their chest.
“Are you finished?” Zenos speaks, looking down at them as they approach.
They give a slow nod, pausing to peer down upon the city. Far below, the faint glow of the aetheryte is outlined the mist beside the pin pricks of lamps lit to combat the fog. It sticks in the crevices of the city like the cold and wet ice of snowfall after snowfall. The people are like shadows from this dizzying height as they shuffle about their day; not a wit given to those staring down at them from above. Just like the thick flakes of snow that will merely turn to slush beneath worn leather boots.
It would be trite to say the view did not hold too many memories for them—of the long conversations with Haurchefant shared over bottles of wine with the sunset to keep them company. The bone deep loneliness of sunrises spent without him--a gnawing hole in their ribcage. An empty bottle.
“Kisne…?”
They look up when he says their name so quietly, brow furrowed. He stares down at them, lashes long enough they wonder how frost doesn’t cling to them. Concern written in how close he stands to them— in the line of his lips thick with words unspoken. There's the urge to press a hand to his stomach to push him away. To keep their space, but Eyrie's hand curls to a loose fist instead.
They look away, shoving their hands into their armpits. Their voice is heavy--tongue like lead.
"'Tis nothing, Galvus. I know this view well is all that troubles me. It looks to the south--Central Coerthas stretches past the Gates of Judgement to the mountains on the horizon." They pause, a sigh escaping their lips and they squint. "I know naught when I will get the chance to see it again."
They promised Edmont a visit, and yet the months feel longer with each passing year. Time stretching out--aching and thin as it wears itself into their bones.
"Your eyes trouble you." He says to break the silence only the snow can bring.
A smile comes unbidden to their lips and they look up at him again.
"Aye, that too. Can you find my blindfold in my pack? I thought glasses would suffice for the day."
Without a word, Zenos searches their bag, finding one of the many with ease. They reach out to take the blindfold from him, but he pushes their hand aside without a word. Their sound of protest ignored and any further qualms silenced.
Zeno's hand are far gentler then he has any right to be out in public as he takes their glasses. Folds them with care even as he leans down to affix their blindfold; fingertips brushing against cold flushed cheeks as he ties the back together. Tenderly he pulls out hairs stuck beneath like he's done it a dozen times before.
And yet he's only watched before. Allowed them the privacy of this small ritual and dared not offer his help. He stares not at their eyes as his hands linger on their cheeks far longer than they should; the warmth of his palms seeping into their cheeks as he smooths a wrinkle on the edge of the fabric.
Not unlike their own hands this morning--fixing his eye patch. Brushing his own hand aside to do it themselves. Whispering that they wanted to do it as they both sat half dressed from the night before as the grey morning light washed the inn room in its fog like haze. Letting their touch linger along with their eyes--staring far too long to be considered polite. Far too soft for the people that they are and the ways they share a bed.
Far too much for how he held their hand and pressed a kiss into their palm.
Opening their mouth to speak, but Zenos pulls away before the words even come to their lips. Their breath escapes in a rush of foggy air instead, feeling him tuck their glasses. The cold stealing what warmth he left behind from their skin.
"Are you ready?" He asks.
"Yes." They nod mostly to themselves, the moment fading to the dull cold. "The road awaits."
#8 for the sleeby prompts but maybe just work/books instead of homework 👀
ty azia and @roguelioness for this prompt ;--; it kinda uhh.....hurts lmao
prompt: 8. “Put the homework away and go to bed. You look exhausted.”
word count: 1.3k
when does this take place? dw about it, it's fine <3 (to say otherwise is spoilers)
--
Candles flicker on the table, wax dripping past the holders—the flames large and flickering, sending soot trailing up to the ceiling. The wicks long past due for a trim. A task ordinarily handled on set schedules, but forgotten for more pressing endeavors. Scholars books borrowed from the Noumenon remain stacked upon chairs and the table along with half a dozen tea cups, little rings of sugar and milk left in the bottom from days long past. Broken quills and empty ink bottles neatly set aside next to crumpled and smoothed out pieces of paper, notes scribbled and ink accidentally smeared in the rush.
The window left cracked open, letting in the cool night air; the trees outside rustle in the breeze, the only sound now--the orchestration left unwound--paper tapes left to fold up upon themselves.
A fresh bottle of ink uncorks and the smell draws Eyrie’s eyes open. They breathe deep, staring half lidded at the ceiling above painted with warm shadows. They turn their head, silk cool to the touch against the side of their head still warm with scabs and bruises, still kept wrapped in bandages.
G’raha works at the table, his quill nib scratching across paper. Leg bouncing beneath the table as his tail flicks and twitches in thought. Removing a few books from a pile and Eyrie catches most of his face. Backlit by candles, there’s already pain building behind their eyes from the light but they don’t want to look away.
G’raha readjusts his legs, still engrossed in work—blissfully aware of their waking. Good.
His brow scrunches and eyes narrow, mouthing unspoken thoughts as he fusses with his quill; twisting it betwixt fingers before pausing to look close at it. Must be broken again and he sets it aside, sorting once more through the mess in front of him for another. He carefully handles each of the books—perhaps from one too many scolding about how to properly hold a books—in contrast to the ink blotches and stains across his hands. Does he know about the ink across the side of his left hand as he licks his thumb to turn a page? The edge of his sleep shirt sleeve stained from dragging it across notes?
They doubt he knows, too preoccupied by pressing issues. They’ve only been awake for a few minutes, but nausea already tinges their stomach in a familiar aether sick way. Hands trembling, not yet feverish but it will hit soon.
“You promised me you would be coming to bed before long…”
G’raha’s tail twitches and ears shoot up in surprise, a faint curse spilling from his lips. Righting the bottle of ink neatly tipped over in setting his book aside, he turns to look at them. They fight a teasing smile, committed to having a decent pout aimed at him.
“My apologies...” His ears droop, fingers anxiously tapping against the table. “I had intended to look only a little bit longer before retiring. I’m sorry for waking you—“ He looks up at them again.
“Ah, Eyrie, your blindfold…” He shifts his leg out from under him to stand. They shake their head to stop him, a smile turning their lips.
“Hush, it’s alright. I just woke up and don’t need it. Besides—I wished to look at you without it on.”
They catch the flush as he dips his head and quietly laughs; affectionate heat blooms in their chest. A naught uncommon feeling when it comes to catching G’raha off guard with their blatant expressions of their affections. Stuck in bed and they’ve become a slave to sentiment.
“Again my apologies for waking you; how have you slept? Do you require anything?”
“You are better for it—waking me.” They ignore his baited question, looking down at the sheets. Tucked in once again. “Who else would tell you to come to bed yet again?”
“Yes, well,” he looks away, back to the books scattered about—laid atop each other. “While the business of your condition remains a mystery, tis best we keep exploring our options. Especially if aetherspurn is our best guess, then—I was only going to be a little bit longer--“
Eyrie’s brow furrows.
“G’raha…”
A quiet slip of his name from their lips and they watch him deflate. It’s all he can do to help, they know this; ever the mind set to wander and think—the brain of a scholar beset with a problem he hasn’t puzzled out; hasn’t *yet* puzzled out. Eyrie’s seen the motions enough times, the loop G’raha chases in his mind. Wondering if there is any hope—chastising his own negativity and redoubling his efforts. There is a solution buried deep down somewhere. Nothing is impossible--the exploits of the scions damning proof of such--but research texts, old tomes and hand written journal accounts are finite. Even in the largest library in the known world there is only so much knowledge.
Aetherspurn has no known cure—only palliative care until the affliction runs its course.
Eyrie sighs, looking down at their hand and they pat the sheets to try and beckon him.
“Options best explored in the light of the day. It will avail you naught to keep this up until dawn. You will scarcely remember any tome you devour now, and be back at square one yet again come morning.”
Moments like these, they regret inspiring further and further heights of tenacity. They would be scolded for voicing such thoughts; already they hear Alisaie telling them what for—that they give so much, it’s only natural they be given so much in return. They’re the eye of the storm now, watching the rest all rush past; they only wish they didn’t feel as if they were falling behind somehow. Trapped in a bed, waiting for bad news or even worse news.
The lingering shadow at the edge of their thoughts of scions being the ones to deliver such news--the time their dearest friend has left is limited. They’ve dreamed of that moment before—it never sits well, even imagined.
G’raha sighs, picking the stained shirt sleeve and they know he knows. The long nights are proof enough.
“Ask me once more?”
G’raha speaks softly, looking up at Eyrie. They smile through the sting in their lip and the pull of the bandages across their jaw.
“Please,” they whisper, “Come to bed, Raha. You look exhausted.”
Looking longer still at them in bed; lines in his face, an expression they’re not sure if he knows he’s making. One they aren’t used to seeing on his face--one not seen since a night many long years ago. A far different place than here.
Memorizing their face in the orange candle glow; perhaps it makes them look better—a better memory to hold onto. One of the few. Before they can speak his name again, he gets up. Gently extinguishes the candles until there’s only the soft blue moonlight through the window; a full moon with naught but a cloud in the sky.
“The candles need changed tomorrow…” They mumble. In this light it’s almost too much to speak louder.
The sheets move and bed dips, Eyrie watching G’raha sit beside them. How he reaches out--touches the side of their face; tender, like a whisper to match their voice.
“I’ll change the candles tomorrow.” He murmurs absentmindedly, the light catching on red irises. Pupils darting in the dark. “Gods, how they bandage your head each day is beyond me in terms of comfort.”
“Tis quite a dashing with the blindfold, or I’m so told by the nurses. I believe tis to soothe my wounded ego.” They roll their eyes, reaching up to brush their hand over G’raha’s. Guide his hand to their lips in a soft kiss—lips barely puckered. A sigh of breath across skin so warm.
G’raha’s laugh hiccups in his chest, brushing his thumb near the corner of their lips. “I was not aware you had an ego to bruise.”
He shifts carefully, always mindful of where it hurts for them; eyrie pulls him in nonetheless, guiding him close; tucking their chin against the top of G’raha’s head, brushing their fingers through his hair to rest at the back of his head.
“I do not...”
“How unheroic of you.”
Eyrie grins, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“Tis disastrous, I know. Better to sleep than think about heroics, I say.” They close their eyes, sinking back into the pillow once more. G’raha shifts and they open their eyes, surprised by the intensity of his look.
“Eyrie, I--”
“I know...” They whisper, brushing their hand back along to cradle his cheek. “I know. I’ve always known.”
“Now sleep...I will be here in the morning, as I have every morning since.”
A sigh and G’raha settles back in, resting his hand on their chest. Fresh scars under the loose fabric, but still they breathe; rattling breaths as they breathe from their stomach, but breathing nonetheless. Heartbeat beneath it all, still going. Still alive.
