ephemeros
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Kazuha regards him coolly, face near-inscrutable. Once upon a time, Scaramouche would be able to read it as though it were his own; now, all he can make of it is the quiet indecision before he responds. “What would we have to say to each other?”
This isn’t the friend he remembers from sun-warm strolls around the city; this one is cold around the edges, taut thread waiting to snap. Scaramouche almost doesn’t manage to stifle his flinch. There’s something here that’s threatening to boil over, spill itself, consume the violent whole of him. It’s difficult to think. He reaches, reaches, reaches—
Something. Anything. “I missed you.”
(Or: meteorites, ghost stories, and assembling the remnants of a dying dream.)
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She pulls up her stockings, red vanishing behind the white covering. Vanishing is the correct word, because as soon as it disappears from your sight, she shoots a sunny smile your way and gets up with no visible effort. “Morning! I’m going to make porridge, do you want some?”
Valentina is a stitched quilt of secrets; you’re simply fortunate enough to know more than most, and even if this whole wound situation is nothing unusual anymore, what you know is enough for you to worry. “Don’t you want to sit down?”
“Thanks for your concern.” she says, already having washed her hands and currently reaching for the lingonberries you’d harvested with the children yesterday. “Porridge?”
(Or: the local assassin keeps coming back to your home for reasons unspecified, and you might be a little in love with her.)
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,339
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Kudos:
- 19
- Hits:
- 296
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There is a seal coat in John Laurens's attic.
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Kaveh once thought that he would run out of himself. He would give and give and one day there wouldn’t be any left and then he would die. But there is no dying in e-cigarette purgatory and there is no salvation in waiting for eternity, except maybe if Kaveh waits for one more eternity there will be.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 17,125
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
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- 34
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- 85
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- 33
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- 1,255
Bookmarked by ephemeros
15 Jul 2025
Bookmarker's Notes
The Zubayr Theatre was an oasis in Sumeru City; a haven that decried tradition. Sheikh Zubayr was—
Kaveh forgot what it looked like. Some of the paintings are beautiful and some are grotesque; there’s one Kaveh recognizes as Dunyarzad’s of a body sliced in half, lost in the throes of pleasure. He can’t stand to look at it.
It’s nice, he supposes. It’s a tribute to things that Kaveh is supposed to care about but mostly it’s a monument to people he knew that are dead now and Kaveh is supposed to be dead but he isn’t dead. He sits on one of the benches while Collei meanders around and opens his text chain with Al-Haitham, which is actually only a blurred out photo on Kaveh’s end and Al-Haitham’s horrible message. He sends a photo of the gallery. Al-Haitham replies: ?
Idiot, Kaveh says. There’s an old, cracked photograph of Nilou; she must have been in her seventies. How much longer? How many eternities until he finds it?
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“You see, I’m new in town. And I heard here and there that you were the person to come to for a tour.”
From this close, Zhongli can smell the seaspray clinging to his clothes, spot the faint flush of the sun sitting high on his cheeks. It really must not have been long since he stepped off the deck of a boat: did he only arrive this morning? What is he doing in Wangsheng Funeral Parlour then, of all places?
“… A tour.”
“Of Liyue,” explains Childe, as though that had been what Zhongli was asking for clarification about. “Word on the street is that your knowledge of it is like no other. Naturally, I had to come straight to make a booking with such a renowned guide!”
Childe and Zhongli's intertwining deceptions, reimagined with some extra entanglements: confusing friendship, 'casual' sex, and, inconveniently, the foresight of love.
Bookmarked by ephemeros
19 Feb 2025
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All of these things he manages to learn of his own accord. But the more he pays attention, the more he only finds to be intrigued by; countless more elusive fragments that Childe would ask about if only he felt like he could: how did you get your Geo Vision? Why don’t I ever see you use it? What about the spears you have propped by your desk in the Parlour, do you use them? Why do they look so worn if you don’t? What are you pointing them at if you do? What do you do when people aren’t looking? You’re hiding your teeth, I bet they’re sharp. Has anyone ever seen them? Will I? I’ve had this feeling that you’re something like me. Are you? Zhongli. Are you like me?
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so i'm the dragon (big deal) by SummerFrost
Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV)
25 Apr 2020
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If Renfri were straight and also someone who believed she needed a relationship to have a meaningful existence, she'd probably marry Geralt and not totally hate her life.
Luckily she's neither of those things, so she's fucking Geralt's girlfriend instead.
Series
- Part 2 of Bartending AU
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 27,105
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Comments:
- 220
- Kudos:
- 1,981
- Bookmarks:
- 236
- Hits:
- 21,105
Bookmarked by ephemeros
16 Dec 2023
Bookmarker's Notes
"Would you call me?" Yen asks her that night, or the next morning, whatever, it doesn't matter. Her hair is sticking to her sweaty collarbones in dark wisps that look like cracks in her skin.
Renfri's halfway back into her jeans. She tugs extra hard on the zipper that always sticks and asks, "Did you lose your phone?"
"If you needed me," Yen says instead. There's a bruise on her throat; Renfri can't remember if it was there when she got here. "Are we the type of people who can call each other?"
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Summary
G.B. and Marshall Lee have a long and complicated history. It wouldn't be so complicated if they quit yelling at each other for two seconds.
(Human AU where they're both about undergrad age.)
- Words:
- 114,147
- Works:
- 16
- Bookmarks:
- 116
Bookmarked by ephemeros
12 Jun 2022
Bookmarker's Notes
G.B. has an absurd desire to lean forward and kiss Marshall Lee on the forehead, like an absolution. They’re so close together that it wouldn’t take much. But… “Are you going to leave again?” His voice comes out soft, but at least he can blame that on the proximity.
Marshall Lee’s eyes dart away for a moment, all the answer G.B. needs.
G.B. bites his lip, reopening the cut from this morning, this evening. “And it’s just going to be like that.”
Marshall Lee twists, squeezing the float. Finally his eyes come back to G.B.’s. They are still empty of lies, and that makes G.B. feel better. “I mean—” He swallows. “You keep expecting me to be better than I am. I’m not. I’m sorry.”
He means it, too.
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Scaramouche rarely responds when spoken to, and yet Tartaglia cannot help following him around the Fatui quarters. Not like a puppy or a shadow, but like snow accumulating on a ledge.
Tartaglia knows now that when one calls out into a pit, the echo isn’t an answer - in the same way reflected light isn’t the sun. Just a facsimile made only more pathetic and faulty by one’s falling for it.
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Or, two falls: that of Ajax, and that of Tartaglia.
Bookmarked by ephemeros
26 Nov 2021
Bookmarker's Notes
“My attention,” Scaramouche says, needly and arrogant. A mask. “What would you be without it?”
“Nothing.” He wipes his hands on the bed sheets and grins. “Nothing at all."
He leaves behind an abstraction of the devastated space in him. White as in void. Mess as in clean me, care for me.