#drabbles tbt

[jumpinagain-a]

“fuck.”

fuh.

“you.”

yoo.

“daddy.”

baba.

“good. now say it all together.”

fuh yoo camman.

“what? no. what’s a cam man? that’s not what you said.”

star giggles. the candy man doesn’t know his name. silly candy man. fuh yoo camman!

gin rolls his eyes. “okayyyyy, let’s try this again, huh? fuck, you, daddy.”

fuh you camman!

“no!”

big laughs! belly laughs! star throws a crayon at him. yes! fuh YOO! camman! camman! my daddy gets you candies. i know you. candy man.

“what the fuck, kid? that’s — that’s not even my name. my name is —”

gin.

“… okay, that’s creepy. how in the fuck —”

go way gin cambee man. meanie. bully man. shadows boogie man. i know you. i know you much.

baba love gin. star love gin. no fuh yoo daddy.

gin stands there, flabbergasted, staring down at the shape of the toddler. the star child is barely two, if that, babbling away. this is by far the most articulate thing they’ve ever heard come out of his mouth. “oh, you’re far more interesting than i thought.”

star giggles. gin isn’t even here. he pretends, he slideys down the slide into the stories and watches outside them. gin can’t hurt him or daddy. is why he tries star to do it. bye-bye gin!

“bye-bye? no, what? i’m not done! you go bye-bye.” stomped foot and a huff!

placid gaze, dark brown eyes meet white starshine. go way peas. or no cambee. daddy says so.

gin doesn’t care about the stupid candy. they do not like the way this toddler is staring at them, though. they growl. “fine. bad timing, sure, whatever. i’ll be back.”

nuh-uh.

“yuh-huh.”

nuh-uh.

“yuh-huh — why the fuck am i arguing with a toddler. jesus christ.”

star giggles and waves as gin pops out of view. bye-bye. more important things than gin cambee man. he’s making important drawing. tongue sticks out of mouth as he adds a streak of black to the purple sky. no scary anymore. gin wakes up one day. star knows it.

[spongedbob]

A lot of very confusing things have happened very quickly. It's all so exciting, though.

Spongebob's confused what he did to deserve a free home - That's pretty special! They gave him a ride, handed him the keys, and here he is! It's no pineapple, but it definitely seems nice.

The absence of any beloved snails, though, pulls at his yellow heartstrings. For whatever reason, he's expected to be staying here, right? There's plenty of room, he totally could've brought Gar-bear.

"I guess I'll make the most of it," Spongebob laughs as he helps himself to some cereal in a cabinet.

[feliscus]

　/ * WHERE THE HEARTH IS ,

“All you need to be deserving of the throne is conviction, and the necessary strength to act on it.” “…Protecting my family at all costs— that’s my conviction.”

　　　* ignis purgatorius chapter spoilers.

Morning dawns.

Lynette and Freminet slumber, snug on either side of him, but sleep eluded the magician like some grand magic trick, slipping from his grasp every time it seemed to be almost within reach. He’d neither twisted nor turned for fear of waking them, laid flat on his back staring up at the ceiling as the memory of red seared itself behind his eyelids.

In the end, Lyney had not slept at all, arms numb from where they’d stayed curled around his siblings throughout the night.

Gently, not wishing to rouse them, he tugs himself free, slips from beneath the covers to pad silently across hardwood floors. There are bandages set atop a drawer, some food and some salves. But it is upon the triplet bottled flames sitting there that his attention catches, gleaming their molten temptation.

Does Father know how he hums and haws over it now, fingers curling around the vial’s neck? Does she expect this flicker of doubt in her heir, this moment of hesitation, of weakness? Had this, too, been foreplanned by her?

Lyney knows he will never burn as brilliantly as Father. He is not strong enough, not smart enough to be named her heir. If he had been, Clervie would have been gone long before it ever had to come to this. If he had been, Lynette and Freminet would have never been hurt.

No illusion he conjures will ever fool her all-seeing gaze. No spell he casts over an audience will ever capture her attention. His steps do not fit into the path she wishes for him, too, to tread as she once had.

Because to be her successor, to become king… One day…

It would be so easy to let the flames swallow up his memories— and everything that made up ‘Lyney’ alongside it. Flush away the past that ever nips at his heels, the title of the Fatui, the burden of the heir and all its troubles.

But there is nowhere he and Lynette have gone that they have not gone together. He will not ask his sister to follow him to death too or ask Freminet to watch his siblings turn into a husks of themselves that cannot even recall his name. They both wish to stay, and Lyney will not cloud their judgement on the matter with his own doubts.

He pockets the vial and goes noiselessly from the room.

“Um… Lyney?”

A half-step from the door, he halts, twisting to meet Heloir’s gaze with a smile. Lips part to respond as he swallows around the lump in his throat, and only then, as it drags and burns all the way down, does he realize how dry his throat is. “Good morning, Heloir.”

“Oh.” He hears it, the realization in her voice that he is still himself, but she says nothing else, just continues to eye him warily. If she notices the rasp to his voice, there is no other response than to weigh the two potion vials in her hand, then hand him the one filled with clear liquid. A pause. “It’s water.”

Lyney exhales. “…Thank you. Did you need something?”

She shrinks, her voice alongside it. Normally so loud and proud, it’s strange to see her so small. “The bottled flames…did you need help administering them? I—I’m sure I have some medicine or potion to make it hurt less, but—”

But who’s going to watch over them if he leaves? Who will rock the younger kids to sleep or make sure Heloir doesn’t try any of her potions or teach Freminet to improve his sleight of hand? Or put on small magic shows by the hearth, with every trick practiced to perfection and even the ones less so able to call forth their smiles and laughter?

“Lyney? Should I go get something for you?”

Well…someone else will be able to do it. Father can find another heir.

But the yes sticks to the tip of his tongue as he reaches for the vial in his pocket. Because there will likely be a dozen other children like him— as smart, as ambitious, as clever— that Father can pick from, but Lyney will never find another home like this.

For a long time, the only home he had known was Lynette. But the House of the Hearth is his home now too. He doesn’t know much about how a family should really work or what a home should look like, and the thought of leading them is terrifying. Yet the thought of leaving them is infinitely more so.

If Lyney was predisposed to easy solutions, he’d have died long ago.

Anger makes you impulsive. Sorrow causes you to waver. But Lyney was forged by neither, and the flames caught in the orb of his Vision had not been born from rage. His ambition is as it has always been: he will protect his family, no matter what.

Even from Father. Even if it means death.

He clears his throat, producing the vial with a snap of his fingers. “Actually, I was hoping that you would keep this for me. After all, Father entrusted them to you for safekeeping.”

And there is the sparkle in her eyes. The smile. The vial is snatched— too eagerly, perhaps— from his hand. “Oh! Yes, sure!”

Lyney has no desire to be king. He has no ambition for strength other than for the ability it gives him to protect those dear to him. And, most times, he doesn’t know what home or family should mean.

But he never could have left. He wonders if Father had known that from the start. Wonders if this is the answer she had been looking for, if he will ever be able to tell her what family means to him.

Regardless, Lyney will know what she thinks of it soon enough.

Night falls.

As he always has, Lyney opens the door to Hotel Bouffes d’ete at the end of a long day and calls out, “I’m home!”

And the chorus of voices that calls back, “Welcome back!” is the beginning of his answer.

[whirling-fangs]

The Dog, the Cat and the Boar

As long as humankind could remember, the wild lands of Japan had always been inhabited with Yōkai. Some large, some small, some dangerous, some inoffensive. Some evil, some benevolent.

The Dog, the Cat and the Boar cared little for such labels. They could not remember how long they had known each other. Their differences only cemented their bond, one's qualities complimenting the others' flaws. They were a team.

They were a family.

The Dog, the Cat and the Boar roamed the lands together. They were all the ruler of their own domain, and they would sometimes part to attend personal matters – but at the end of each quest, they would always meet up for a celebratory banquet.

Together, they were unbeatable. There was no enemy fearsome enough, no army large enough to take them down when they combined their strength.

Their downfall could only come from inside.

The humans and the yōkai were always bound by a precarious balance, begging to be shattered. It only took one spark, one death too many, to light the fire.

The Dog believed that humans were fundamentally good, and worth protecting against those that evil had irremediably tainted. The Cat believed that humans were the root of all problems, and that a peaceful coexistence was nothing but a pipe dream.

The Boar could not pick a side. He watched helplessly as his comrades grew further and further from each other, too set in their own ideals to see what they were losing.

Decades worth of memories. Of shared meals, shared laughter, shared smiles. Three similar trinkets, carved out of their own fangs. How odd for the Cat to be the most sentimental of them all – the Dog and the Boar had laughed, as they happily donned their friend's gift.

The Boar fled the bloodshed. He refused to let his memories be tainted by what had become of his comrades. He departed to the lands he had long left behind, to the mountain that had been the command center of his turf.

He was never to part from it again.

The years passed. Leaves grew anew on the trees, only to turn yellow, orange, red, lying a thick carpet across the lower slopes. Snow covered the mountains and melted away, turning lazy brooks into mighty rivers. The Boar listened to the wind, to the distant news its howls carried all the way to his mountain.

When he learnt of his old friends' untimely demise, he was not surprised. A single tear rolled down his cheek, before he brought his axe down the large log at his feet. Timber for the winter to come.

A simple life. Away from the rest of the world, away from the wars, the famines, the plagues. The Boar stopped listening to the wind's cries.

Until the old world came crashing into his old cabin, in the shape of a disheveled woman.

She was but skin and bones. Her face deformed from being bashed in, clothes torn over her bruised body. Tears had frozen over her mangled visage, her feet and hands turned blue from hypothermia.

The Boar ought to have chased her off. Had she not felt the demonic aura that surrounded his mountain, warding off any creature that bore even the slightest hint of ill intent?

The barrier only let the animals through. Only their hearts were pure enough to cross the sheer manifestation of the Boar's will.

As the Boar opened the door, and the woman collapsed into his arms, he was struck with a realization. This one's heart was not tainted. He had never seen such a pristine soul, gleaming with such force despite the abuse she must have endured.

The swelling of her face subdued with intense care. Her traits angelic, one eye gone blind from the repeated hits. Eyes that shared the same vibrant green as the young leaves of early spring.

The Boar's favorite color.

The weeks turned into months. The months turned into years. The woman's pursuers never came looking for her. The Boar's heart opened again, day after day, letting the radiance of the woman's soul seep into his old wounds. Cure aches that had festered for decades on end.

The Boar thought he couldn't be happier.

He was soon proven wrong.

The little one had his mother's eyes, and his father's ears. Every time he laid eyes upon that small form, allowed those minuscule fingers to wrap around his thumb, the Boar could feel his heart grow another size.

What a fleeting, fragile little life that was. There was nothing he wouldn't give in order to protect it from harm.

Dark clouds gathered above the mountain. They announced a storm unlike any other, one mighty enough to rip the trees apart and turn the rivers into devastating streams. The Boar led his family away from the cabin, into the deeper, higher caves, where they would be safe from the landslides and the floods.

Lightning parted the skies. The Boar felt the barrier, or rather, what remained of it, shatter all around him. For every wound that healed inside his heart, the barrier had grown weaker.

The Spider had not missed that chance. He knew all about the Boar, about his former comrades, about the past that the Boar had for so long tried to run away from. Like an old nightmare resurfacing, fate had caught up with him.

How ironic, for the Boar to finally take a side. A spit in the face of his dead comrades, was it not?

Rage festered inside the Boar's chest. The Spider needed nothing more to seep inside his soul, and seize a heart that had lost all its defenses.

When the Boar opened his eyes again, the scent of blood mixed with petrichor assaulted his senses. A terrible chill ran across his spine, from the warmth that coated his fingers to the rain that soaked his clothes. As his eyes fell to the ground, he felt the remnants of his soul shatter to pieces.

The woman lay sprawled across the ground, her arms outstretched towards the cliff upon which they stood. There was no light surrounding her. No pure glow, not even the smallest spark.

Her soul was gone.

The Boar collapsed to his knees. He brought her body to rest on its back, hands crossed above her chest. A final kiss placed on her forehead.

Before the Boar plunged his own claws into his chest.

The Spider would return to reap the rewards of his plot. As low as the mighty Boar might have fallen, the body of a Daiyōkai was always worth devouring.

The little one was washed away by the streams, until his wails caught the attention of a sorrowful boar mother. The sow brought the child over to her burrow, and nursed him to good health.

The Hanyō never worried about the past, neither did he think about the future. He survived day after day, discovering his own strength as he fought off the many demons that crawled over the mountain, looking for a master that had long departed these lands. The Hanyō's existence in itself was nothing but a rumor for the humans to fear.

Perhaps, someday, he would depart on a quest. Perhaps he would seek more power, better status, and a way to show the world just how strong he really was.

And perhaps, someday, he would figure out the meaning behind the odd little trinket that never left his wrist.

[paramnesias]

DARK WAVES RECEDE IN COUNTERCURRENT TOWARD A MAW STARVED BY NEAR - BIBLICAL FAMINE,   SWILLING AN ANTHROPOID DREG THAT JUST CAN’T ACCEPT THE FACT THAT HE’S BEING SWALLOWED─

a torn page,    crumpled to   𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓.    𝖘𝖈𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖉 𝖔𝖚𝖙.    ﹝ 𝙆𝙀𝙀𝙋 𝙄𝙏 𝙎𝙄𝙈𝙋𝙇𝙀. ﹞    reset the ribbon,   𝖲𝖳𝖠𝖱𝖳 𝖠𝖦𝖠𝖨𝖭.    ﹝ 𝘐 𝘊𝘈𝘕 𝘚𝘌𝘛 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘚𝘛𝘈𝘎𝘌.    𝘐 𝘊𝘈𝘕 𝘔𝘈𝘒𝘌 𝘐𝘛 𝘙𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛. ﹞

THE SUNRISE CASTS UPON VACANT SHORES, LEAVING SILENCE TO SUBMERGE A CALDERA GRAVE.   THERE IS CAUSE FOR CELEBRATION.   THE SIXTY - EIGHTH ANNUAL DEERFEST,   A STAPLE OF BRIGHT FALLS’ OLD AMERICANA.   ITS FLOATS TAKE TO HARBOR STREET DESPITE TRAGEDY, HEARTENING REMEMBRANCE.   HOPE, AT FIRST LIGHT, IGNITES AT THE EDGE OF TOWN. LOCAL AND NEIGHBORING POLICE   SPIRAL SEARCH   QUADRANT OFF CAULDRON LAKE AND ITS SURROUNDING FOREST,   WHILE TOWNSFOLK HOLD VIGIL.   AMONGST THE DEAD AND THE MISSING,   ALAN WAKE—

the keys nearly 𝚓𝚊𝚖.    prose stutter - stopped like a   lump   in the throat big enough to choke.    [ 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚂𝙲𝙸𝙾𝚄𝚂 / 𝚄𝙽𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚂𝙲𝙸𝙾𝚄𝚂 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙶𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴. ]    alan’s fingers hover.    the tremor,    one he’d knock back with   𝖲𝖮𝖬𝖤𝖳𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖨𝖭 𝖠 𝖫𝖮𝖶𝖡𝖠𝖫𝖫 𝖦𝖫𝖠𝖲𝖲.    a   𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒍   caught in the high beams’ refraction off his wedding band.    deeper than marrow,    there is the   𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗣𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗢𝗠 𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗡 𝗢𝗙 𝗔 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗩𝗘𝗗 𝗔𝗩𝗨𝗟𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡.

—A LOVING HUSBAND AND A GOOD FRIEND. WAKE’S WIFE, ALICE, AND BEST FRIEND, BARRY, STAND APART THE CROWD WITH UNSPOKEN HORROR.     ᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟ    HE MAY NEVER COME HOME.

[tangledfate]

@defiedfate asked: [ hickey ] a kiss that's supposed to leave a mark on the partner's skin --alastor to lucifer

Sharp teeth sink into pale flesh, drawing blood for the demon to taste as Lucifer pants beneath him. Cheeks flushed, he clings to the other, feeling dizzy and lightheaded already–far too soon for blood loss to kick in. Was this the Radio Demon’s idea of a kiss? Truthfully, he wasn’t really surprised, but it’s getting hard to think.

Always a power struggle between them, even in this, he’s not quite sure if he should mention that drinking too much might be a bad idea. Normal angel blood was bad enough but that of a seraphim? Even a fallen one could be…

He has to stop him. Convince him to pace himself.

“Fuck– Al–” But as soon as his half-focused plea is out of his mouth, a thigh presses firmly between his legs, crucifying the words in his throat.

“Alastor.” Comes the staticky correction, low toned and threatening with a faint tune of jazz playing in the background–his own ever present serenade.

“Do get it right.” He wants to ask after the consequences but the demon returns to the thrum of his pulse and it’s all he can do to sag against his would-be partner.

Maybe it would be better to let him take too much. To let him overload his circuits and learn the hard way that as much as he abuses having the upper hand, it is because Lucifer lets him have it in the first place. 

But as tempting as that option is to his pleasure fogged brain, he’s still pushing the demon back. Hands curled into a crimson jacket over a pinstriped suit, shoving him back with intent. And when Alastor pulls back–taking the order that Lucifer can’t seem to articulate–the trickle of gold dribbling from his lips has electricity skittering down the devil’s spine.

“That’s enough, Alastor…” Words coming out between panting breaths, Ruby eyes slip closed briefly as the blonde tips his head back against the wall. Tie undone, shirt and vest pulled open, and a golden smeared bite mark left as a throbbing souvenir that he can't say he regrets.

[othunderous]

rubble shifts as thor digs and pushes his way out of its trappings.  dust and dirt cover him, clinging to his hair and cape, when he at last emerges from the destruction.  blood trails from his forehead to his cheek, the corner of his mouth to his chin, with few cuts along his arms and jaw.  they bring no pain — even if they did, his injuries aren’t a priority.  finding rey is.  it is hardly subtle, pushing great chunks of stone and feeling the shake of their weight meeting the ground, but there isn’t anyone around to hear it.  no one will be alerted to his arrival, no one will be coming to attack.  he sees neither ren nor palpatine in the open space around him.  thor can only assume his suspicions are correct; while he had been busy fighting the knights of ren, she had been busy bringing to an end this war, and the sith, once and for all.  pride would swell in his chest, a smile stretching ear to ear, if not for the lack of her presence.

“rey?”

calling out receives no response, his voice echoing in his ears.  he tries again, louder, only to be met with the same silence.  all is so quiet and still. . .  has she left?  does she follow the fleet in their victorious abandon?  it wouldn’t be an unreasonable conclusion.  she has no idea he is here, that he was coming at all.  none had answered his transmissions.  they wouldn’t think to wait.  but he must be certain before he takes his own leave.

still surveying the ruined citadel around him, thor walks, turning his back to the open space.  there are so many destroyed columns, statues.  rows upon rows of seating for spectators.  it must have held thousands.  tearing it all down must have been no small feat.  just how far did she push herself to achieve it?  she must be exhausted.  drained.  he knows her power and all she is capable of, but this— he’s never seen such a display from her.  it is only natural that he worries.  it etches onto his face, alongside confusion.  

there are no stragglers.  there are no bodies.  hardly any evidence that anyone had been here at all.

thor carries himself along, boots scuffing along cracked and dirtied ground.  a fallen column to his back obscures the stretch of empty flooring.  through a squint he eyes his surroundings.  stormbreaker swings lazily once at his side as he sighs, turns— at last spots another person.  the column ends; nothing is between him and them.  just as dirty and bloody as he is, collapsed. . .  familiar.  lovingly familiar.  painfully.  then agonizingly.

what he sees makes no sense.  despite the fact that his thoughts stall, his brain struggling to process what he sees, his heart races.  the tightness in his chest takes his breath away.  a freeze he’s never felt runs through his veins.  stormbreaker slips from his grasp and thuds loudly against the ground; he doesn’t even feel the loosening of his fingers.  though his breaths falter, their pace is quick.  time around him distorts— it feels as though he stands there for an eternity, trying to understand the sight before him.  mere seconds pass before he finds that he is moving again, pulled toward her.  though the last thing he wants is confirmation in this moment.  closing in, there is no mistaking what he knows he sees; rey, as beautiful as ever but so still, so pale— so lifeless— that it churns his stomach.

shouldn’t he be screaming?  thor remembers his mother, loki, heimdall.  all his grief and rage and agony had torn their way from his throat without him willing it to.  nothing comes out now.  only his breaths, stuttering, catching in his chest as he drops to his knees beside her.  he sees himself scooping her up into his arms.  another lurch hits the pit of his stomach; she doesn’t look at him, doesn’t react at all.  she is cold to the touch and limp.  only then does he notice how his vision blurs, how his chin and lips wobble threateningly.  there is no fighting the tears as they fall.  they only worsen as he turns her in his arms to face him, looking down at her. . .  the shaking breath that leaves him is so loud it nearly startles him.

thought returns to him beyond blind sensation, and in the next instant, his voice.  it squeezes around the knot in his throat.  “rey,” he manages— barely.  it shakes so heavily, his voice— pinches and shrinks, he hardly sounds like himself.  “rey, look at me.  you— you need to look at me.  you did it.  you won.  you’ve—“  a droplet falls to her face.  when he shifts to cradle her cheek, wiping it away, it streaks through the dirt.  still no reaction.  “at last, it’s over.  this. . .  this is our chance at peace, our chance to be happy, so you can’t—“  

the body— rey is hugged closer to him, and he feels the easily recognizable crawl in his chest.  it claws at him.  the sobs, the screams that he’d expected to pour from him moments ago begin to build.  thor holds them off as best he can. . .  but still, the cries break free.  his face crumbles beneath the weight of his grief.  why?  why is he here again?  after all he has lost she was meant to be the one thing he was allowed to keep.  he was meant to watch her grow older.  he’d envisioned it, yearned for it, allowed himself to be hopeful that he would get to watch it all unfold.  he’d seen them fighting side by side, starting a family, joining as one with the promise of forever.  all for nought.  all to end up back here.  he will always end up back here.  you are a destroyer, odinson.  all that which he touches will be ripped away from him.  how terribly unfair.  what has he done to deserve this?

has he not lost enough?

“please,” he whispers, leaning to press his lips to her temple.  idly, his fingers stroke through her hair, his opposite hand urging her closer.  each passing second is worse than the last.  to know she won’t return his embrace. . .  any physical pain, however tremendous, would be more easily endured.  he would prefer it.  “please, come back to me.  i don’t. . .  what do i do without you?  how must i— when i’ve not had the chance to make it right?  you can’t.  you can’t.  don’t do this to me.  this is not how your story was meant to end.”  he was supposed to be here to protect her, to ensure she would discover what life can be away from the fight.  he failed.  he always fails.  what kind of god is he?

“i love you,” leaves him in a cry.  “i love you so much.  i have always loved you.  i should have told you.  so many times, i should have told you.  i am so sorry— for allowing my cowardice to best me.  if you. . .  if you just come back to me, i will never make that mistake again.  i promise you.”  

of course he knows.  part of him is all too aware that his wishes won’t come true.  how could they possibly?  again and again he has had to endure this.  people don’t come back.  death is eternal— trickster magic aside, and even that must eventually end.  sitting amongst the ruin, stroking her hair and face, weeping, he knows that if he accepts this— that the love of his life, the other half of his very soul is gone— there will be nothing.  no joy, not a moment of peace from his torment, nothing to inspire him to push forward.  each day, for thousands of years to come, will be seeped in misery once again.  that is, if he can find the will to leave this damned planet, and he doesn’t think he wants to.  if rey is dead, why should he do anything but sit here, holding her, until any of the many burning & collapsing ships crush them?  through a shaking sob, ducking his head to press to her chest, he thinks he will do just that.  hold her and mourn and wait.

confessions of love and apologies for his shortcomings pass his lips again and again.  it is almost rhythmic, how he gently rocks her, whispers in her ear knowing she can’t hear him.  he doesn’t know how long he sits there, holding her, before he finally stills, before the cries stop.  when the tears stop flowing and he quiets, there is only the sound of his breathing and surrounding explosions— the falling ships outside.  each blow is muffled.  were they not, he may not have caught it. . .  a very faint, slow beat, a gentle thrum beneath the surface of her skin.  thor’s head lifts, and he stares down at her.  neither disbelief nor confusion cross his expression; he doesn’t dare to let himself hope.  probably, he is hearing what he wants to hear.  loss after loss has begun to weigh him down. . .  perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that his mind threatens to slip.

could he merely be imagining the, however slight, gradual return of color to her pallor?  could he be imagining what appears to be a slow rise and fall in her chest?  it stalls, she ceases again. . .  but after a few torturous moments of nothing, it comes again.  thor’s eyes widen, and pushing through the shock, the hand on her cheek travels down.  fear increases tenfold, but he has to know— gently, his fingers press to her throat, and his own breathing finds pause.  hope creeps up on him regardless of his attempt to keep it at bay, and for once. . .  he doesn’t regret it.  just beneath the pads of his fingers, a pulse.  weak, but there nonetheless.  

she’s not dead.  rey is not dead.  not yet.  relief doesn't wash over him.  if that is to remain true, if she is to survive, he must move.  thor has only a handful of seconds to shed his willingness to stay just where he is, to let go of his desire to succumb to his pain.  when he seems to return to himself, he glances around the citadel in a daze as if searching for an answer.  amongst the rubble and the still breaking foundation of the citadel, he sees it.  stormbreaker.  his gaze returns to her once more, and as gently as he can so as not to jostle her, thor shifts, lifting her fully into his arms and rising to his feet.

“you’re alright, i'm here, i've got you,” he says hurriedly, his voice finally even.  supporting her weight in one arm, his free hand opens, calls the axe.  in just a second he feels the swift arrival of the handle, closes his fingers around it.  he doesn’t look away from her face.  “you’re going to be alright.”  echoing through the vast emptiness is the slam of the axe in the ground; in the next second, they are engulfed in the light of the bifrost.

[excellentexecution]

School work has been so BUSY but I do plan to get to more writing here soon! Just so you know.

I am so EAGER to write and answer drafts/asks!

[dalishborne]

“  i don’t wanna get up.  ” (Doesn't have to apply to the meme <3)

Morning After Starters (Selectively Accepting!)

Revenelan chuckled softly as her fingers gently threaded through Vasco’s hair, cradling him against her chest beneath his bed sheets. His bed, always his bed; though her clan had caught wind of the burgeoning connection between her and the sea-captain, she wasn’t ready for the torrent of questions and curiosities that would follow the revelation of their bond. Revenelan and Vasco could only steal fleeting moments together, their responsibilities pulling them in opposite directions for weeks. She wished to stretch these stolen seconds, uninterrupted and devoted solely to him.

They lingered in this embrace, a tangled web of limbs, silently basking in each other’s warmth, slipping in and out of sleep to the comforting thrum of their beating hearts. Revenelan looked down with a tender gaze, her lips curling into a content smile. From her view, all she could see of Vasco was the top of his head against her, his cheek pressed to her blackened chest. The covers were snug under his strong arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close as if she might slip away at any moment. Yet, Revenelan had no intention of leaving; she wished instead to meld into his very being, to be closer to Vasco than the depths of his own soul.

But how foolish to entertain such a love, destined to end. Revenelan stilled, her face falling. That venomous voice had returned, breathing life into the murky doubts that tainted the edges of her bliss. He is of the sea, and I am of the land. When all is said and done, would it be right to anchor him from the waters he calls home? Would he even wish to remain? Revenelan knew she was bound to the life she was born into, the role she was destined for. She could never leave her clan for such selfish desires; and Vasco...

Revenelan swallowed thickly, her head tilting to observe her lover's face, grateful that he had chosen to rest his eyes, shielding him from her doubt. She studied him—the chiseled edge of his strong jaw, the soft curve of his lips adorned by the unique vallaslin of his sea-faring tribe. She traced the straight bridge of his nose to his low brow, gingerly following the blueish tattoos that adorned his face. The reality of her dark thoughts settled in, that her time with Vasco would likely, inevitably end all too soon.

She tightened her arms around Vasco, burying her nose in the crown of his dark hair, inhaling his familiar scent of sea salt and earth.

“Let’s not, then,” Revenelan murmured into his hair, planting a kiss before she continued. “Let us stay here, close our eyes, and pretend that time has stopped around us. Just a little longer.”

[ofcrossrcads]

time seemed to have done little to soothe karlach's ire at her, and her own attempts to make peace ? were better left unmentioned. little had changed aside from the backdrop of where they made camp each night. on some level she understood the resentment, of course, who wouldn't ? it didn't lessen her own annoyance, though at not having been afforded the chance to earn that ire herself.

it didn't help that she'd found herself growing rather FOND of the tiefling, despite, or perhaps even because of the creative hostility she showed. she'd made her offers, pled her case, and was soundly rebuffed each time. despite the constant, rather loud, yearning, it seemed any touch BUT hers would do.

and if that rejection had started to sting more, as of late? as her affection grew and her hopes shrank, none would be the wiser.

there was no sense in breaking herself upon an immovable object. if she was to be hated for being a devil, well, then she may as well have made use of her station.

it was in her mortal guise that she approached the tiefling, the skin she was most comfortable wearing, raising her hands, palms out in a sign that she came in peace. “ while i do look forward to hearing what you've come up with for me today -- hear me out first, please. ”

even with permission, she knew better than to belabor the point, and so, she both moved and spoke swiftly. pulling one of karlach's hands to both of hers, the devil pressed a ring to her palm. “ this isn't a bargain, a favor, or a deal of any sort. i give this to you of my own will, seeking nothing in return. ” it was best to head off as many complaints as she could before they were given voice -- once karlach cut in, she knew her chance to speak was as good as gone.

“ a show of goodwill, that's all --- the ring bears within it the fiery aura of avernus. so long as you wear it. . . ” trailing off, she reached up, touching karlach's cheek lightly, prepared to face whatever consequence may come. “ just because you don't want my touch, doesn't mean you should be forced to suffer without. ”

[intcritus]

Sunlight is a balm for hearts who've yet to settle. Elliot finds himself enraptured in the way his hand is dwarfed by Yuriy's, soft and warm. Heart skips a beat, stuttering in its race against such muted intimacy. It's new -- like a blank canvas that has yet to see a paint brush. Intimate and tender. Having someone hold his hand , thumb brushing over his knuckles makes his wings shudder, lashes flutter low as lips part for a breath.

The phoenix knows no end to desiring the tiger but moments like this cement a quiet understanding beneath the lust he feels. Because lust isn't the emotion invoked, no, this emotion is something softer, it's unnamed but it squeezes his heart and his entirety becomes focused on their joined hands, on the way Yuriy is looking at him. Gods, he was melting at that soft look. Was that really just for him? His own smile is a lesson in adoration, the curve of his lips playful.

It's no longer strange to see beyond lust because he truly adored the tiger, in his own way, yes. But in a way that most artists craved something fresh. It was new, it was sweet but most of all, it was a learning curve to someone who'd never been this inspired by tenderness.

someone to inspire love. / @nvrcmplt

[inseparableduo]

Drabble based on poll results

The two twins had been sitting side by side. Just enjoying each other's company and the small bit of nice weather. The two were under someone's orange tree.

"Hey, if I pick an orange, will you peel it for me?" Darla asked as she looked up at the oranges above them.

"But, I don't want to peel it." Andrew whined.

"Well, I don't want to peel it either!" Darla just whined back in the same tone her twin used.

"Let's just do a staring contest, then." Andrew suggested.

It was either that or rock, paper, scissors, and consider they tended to pick the same thing that would go on for too long. Not to mention, they couldn't risk arguing and drawing attention to themselves. They were currently trespassing, after all.

".... Fine." Darla said, before sighing.

The two then changed positions. Both sitting upright and moving a bit back before facing each other.

"On the count of 3!"

The two kept their eyes closed as Andrew did the countdown. As soon as he counted to three, they snapped their eyes opened. They lasted about 30 seconds before they both tried not to giggle.

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" Darla yelled as her twin just continued to giggle even more. Her anger just somehow made everything funnier to him. It hasn't been long, but already she could feel her eyes start to dry out. She then crossed her eyes, feeling like just staring at his face somehow made it harder.

"You legally have to look at me, stop it!" Andrew said, still infected with giggles. He could feel his eyes start to water, and it became too uncomfortable to keep going. Still... he really didn't want to be the one to peel an orange.

The two then started to argue you back and forth. Somehow, during all of that, Andrew blinked. There was a second of silence.

"Fuck!"

"Yes!"

[xiaolindude]

bravery & belonging / xs drabble

In which Raimundo struggles with returning to the Temple after once again trapping Wuya in the puzzle box, and Dojo is a wonderful grandpa dragon.

Raimundo had been back at the Temple for a couple of weeks, and it was… tough. He knew they didn’t trust him, even if they wanted to (in Clay and Kimiko’s cases). He knew he’d burned those bridges. Others were more open about this mistrust (Omi) and disappointment (Fung). But he deserved it. He deserved it all. He could stick it out, because he had to, because he needed to fix it. He needed to make up for everything he’d done and everything he’d almost let happen.

“I believe we ought to be taking watch. Raimundo has stolen Shen Gong Wu from us before and delivered it into evil’s waiting hands!” Omi’s voice from the kitchen. Rai froze outside the door as ice slipped into his belly. 

“Hey, now—” And that was Dojo, sounding reproachful, but he was interrupted by Fung.

“A resourceful idea, young one. But we must show trust in Raimundo. The vault password has already been changed. Perhaps he will betray us again, but if we do not let him try to make amends, he will never be able to readapt to Temple life.”

Perhaps he will betray us again. It had been said so… matter-of-factly. Like it was within the realms of possibility. As if he wouldn’t give anything to take back what he’d done. Like he hadn’t learned from his mistakes. His heart pounded; he could feel the blood in his ears. Of course he was trying to make amends! He’d been busting his ass for weeks just trying to show everyone how sorry he was, trying to fix what he’d done. 

“I still believe we should all be on our guard!” Omi insisted.

Rai swallowed hard. He wanted to be angry, but he wasn’t. How could he be? Omi was right. He left without a sound, their words crawling along his skin with every step. 

—

As dusky evening turned to inky black night, the darkness found Rai sitting in a low branch of a tree out on the Temple grounds. He stared into the shadows, unseeing, feeling too much and too little, like his bones were hollow and his mind was full. He could feel the uneven bark digging into him through his robes, pressing uncomfortable grooves into his skin. Who cared? He deserved much worse. His hands were busy, tugging at the sash from his robes, twisting it between anxious fingers, knotting and pulling and untying and repeating.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, but without the presence of mind to actually turn and look, he simply sat there, not knowing who it was and not caring. That was, until there was a voice. 

“What’s eatin’ ya, kiddo?” 

Rai didn’t even spare Dojo a glance. “Nothing,” he answered, voice dull, flat. His hands kept fidgeting. No, he didn’t expect Dojo to buy it, wasn’t even making an effort to be convincing, but he also wasn’t expecting to be pressed on the subject. 

“Ahhh, c’mon. It’s okay. Just give them some more time, they’ll come round. You just saved the world, kid, you can–” 

“Saved it from who?” The words burst from Rai unbidden. He screwed up the sash of his robes and threw it into the darkness, a wind picking up around them as he finally turned to look at Dojo. “Huh? Why’d the world need saving? It was my mess!” 

Dojo was not fazed by Raimundo’s raised voice. “And you cleaned it up. Good as new.” 

Rai laughed, but the sound was hollow and his voice cracked.

“The world that’s been here for billions of years… everything in it. Everyone. You guys, my family. I nearly destroyed it all. I messed it all up, Dojo, I messed it all up. There’s no ‘good as new’. I can’t take back what I did, they’re never gonna trust me again, and I can’t fix it!” 

He jumped down from the branch, landing lithely on the grass below and gripping at his hair, his entire body trembling. “I can’t fix it. What the hell am I supposed to do, dude?! I wanna go home! I wanna go home, but hell if I can face them after what I did! I’m not gonna tell my mãe that I nearly got her killed because my feelings were hurt. God!” His voice broke; he strode away, pushing his fists into his eyes, his jaw clenched and his shoulders tight. Dojo stared after him. 

“Not like I ever belonged here anyway,” Rai murmured, voice quieter now. He’d found out months ago. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered so much if he was better, if he could keep up with the others, if he hadn’t betrayed everyone, but, well, now it mattered more than ever. Now it tugged at every nerve in his body, demanding to be known, reminding him every second that he shouldn’t even be here in the first place. Of course he was the weak link. If destiny existed, that was his. To fall behind. 

The little dragon had been quiet a long time, but now he hopped up onto the low stone wall stretching out in front of them and squinted over at Raimundo in the darkness. “You belong here just as much as the others. You know that.” 

Rai didn’t even have it in him to laugh at that. He just looked at Dojo, shaking his head, surprised that the dragon was still bothering to lie. “You don’t believe that. You know I don’t, you and Fung know that. I never belonged here.” 

“Why not?” Dojo demanded, moving closer along the wall even as Rai began to pace agitatedly beside the tree. 

“The Wuxing Elements! I’m not an idiot, dude, I read the scrolls. All of them. Earth, water, fire, wood, metal. You know what isn’t on the list? Me. I’m not even one of them, I never was, and we all just pretended! We just… we just faked it, for months, and wondered why I can’t keep up with everyone. And hell, while I’m at it – Wuya! Why me? She got in my head, dude, do you know what that feels like?!” When Dojo didn’t answer, Rai ploughed on. “It’s fucked. It feels like I’ll never even be safe in my own stupid brain ever again. She got in my head and she saw it all, and I wish I’d never gone with her and I’m sorry about it, but why does part of me miss her?! What the hell is wrong with me, Dojo?!” 

He deflated, the fight leaving him as quickly as it’d arrived. His chest heaved. Sagging under the weight of guilt and grief, Rai leaned against the wall, head hanging, the stones cold beneath his touch. “Just forget it, alright? Go back inside, dude.” 

Dojo was silent a while longer; Rai could feel the dragon’s eyes on him, just processing everything he’d just said. 

He wasn’t sure how long they remained in silence. Didn’t matter. His hair fell into his face as his head hung, and he didn’t lift a hand to fix it, just scraping his nails against the stone instead, again and again. And then there was Dojo, crawling over the top of the wall until he reached Rai, perching himself on Rai’s wrist and glaring up at him.

“Alright, kid, you know what? That’s it. Enough. You made a mistake. A big one. Big deal, alright! Who hasn’t?! You’re a child who has saved the world a handful of times. So you nearly broke it once, so what? Doesn’t even tip the scales. Don’t interrupt an ancient dragon,” he added sharply as Rai opened his mouth to argue. 

Rai’s fists clenched, his breathing picking up, heart pounding. He couldn’t listen to this. He couldn’t listen to Dojo defending him, pretending like he had any right to be here, like he ever deserved to come back after what he’d done. He couldn’t stand it.

“You’re not a Wuxing elemental. Okay. Maybe you’ll always feel kinda out of place with the others. Maybe you would’ve felt that anyway. Can’t change it. But you are one of my kids, and I’ll be damned straight to the Yin Yang world for five thousand years if I’m gonna let you get away with talking to yourself like this.” 

Quiet settled. What was Rai supposed to say to that? He didn’t deserve Dojo’s love and support, but it still meant everything. He had no response and no will left for arguing. When Rai finally turned to look at Dojo, it was with tears brimming in his eyes.

“... I just wanna go home, Dojo.” 

He could watch the dragon’s heart break in real time, and it seemed so strange, that a creature so old could still care so deeply about him, of all things. But here was the proof right in front of him. 

Dojo sighed and climbed up Rai’s arm to wrap loosely around his neck, nuzzling against his shoulder. “Then I’ll take you home,” he said simply. Like it was nothing. Like Rai deserved a break, like he could just show his face back in Rio after everything he’d done.

It was as if the dragon could sense his thoughts, and he wrapped a little tighter around Rai as the tears finally began to slip down the young monk’s cheeks. “You really think you don’t belong here? You left us for a reason, I know why you did. But, kid, you came back for a reason. Set saving the world aside - you coming back? Owning up to what you did? That’s bravery like I haven’t seen in decades. The ghost of Dashi said well done, and he meant it. So don’t you tell me you don’t belong here.” 

Rai wiped fiercely at his tears, heart pounding as his mind filled with everything that Dojo was saying. Instead of saying anything, he lifted his arms to hug the dragon closer, pressing his face into his scales. Dojo settled in Rai’s arms, squeezing him in return, patting his shoulder.

“I’ll take you home tomorrow. Take some time off. Training will still be here in a week or two.” 

And finally, the fight in him well and truly gone, Rai just nodded. 

—

They slept outside that night.

Something about actually going back into the Temple now that he’d let all of those thoughts loose just didn’t sit right with Rai. He couldn’t face it, sleeping in his tiny little room between Kimiko and Clay as if nothing had happened. Dojo hadn’t tried to convince him. Say what you will about that dragon, but he could pick his battles. 

Instead, Dojo simply grew to his much larger size, dwarfing the stone wall beside them and curling up beside the tree with Raimundo held in the crook of his elbow. Being outside always helped Rai to clear his head - he suspected it was something to do with being bathed in his element, all this fresh air making him feel stronger. Because whatever he was, whatever he’d done, wherever he did or didn’t belong, he still had the air. He still had his powers.

It was surprisingly comfortable, curled up with an enormous dragon, and whether it was the fact that he’d offloaded so much crap or the thought of returning home tomorrow, Rai fell asleep faster than he had for weeks. He didn’t even notice Dojo staying awake to keep watch over the most wayward of all his kids. The one who needed him the most. 

[whirling-fangs]

A Solitary Spark

Police sirens blared across the peaceful mountain. Shouting policemen directed the curious passers-by away, urging them to stay clear of the catastrophy.

The mountain looked like it had been blown by a meteor. A large dent had been carved into its flank, rocks still detaching from the crater, tumbling down towards the inhabited areas.

A gas explosion? A military trial gone wrong? An old landmine? As many rumors spread across the populace, worried whispers, concerned glances exchanged in front of the line of policemen, who it turn kept trying to disperse the crowd.

"A yokai", an old lady muttered at the back. By the time all gazes turned to locate the source of her voice, she had already slipped away from view.

The military was sent towards the center of the blast. What they found there was far from their expectations.

A child, huddled into the fur of a boar's corpse. The boy and the creature were oddly untouched by the blast, though the child was in a rather disheveled and malnourished state. Blood trailed from a gash in the animal's body, staining the boy's face and bare torso.

The child had passed out, but his fists were so tightly locked around the boar's fur that the soldiers dared not to free his grip, lest they wanted to risk breaking his thin digits. Boar and child were carried down the mountain, heaved into the back of a military truck swarmed with medics.

The crowd had long dispered, but a man had remained. His large stature, worn clothes, and the rifle slung over his shoulder left little question as to what his profession might be.

A forest ranger. A trained hunter.

The man gestured to the boar's carcass. There ought to be a bullet lodged in there, that came from the same rifle he carried. When the military men doubted his claims, he urged them to check the corpse. He claimed that the boar was his kill, and therefore the carcass was his property.

Once the nurses managed to free the boar's hair from the boy's iron grip, the carcass was returned to its rightful owner. The military truck sped away from the area, the child sedated, stripped from his tattered clothes and animal skins, tubes sinking into his pale skin.

When the child was dropped off at the orphanage, he was yet to speak a word. Most wondered if he could speak at all, aside from the guttural screeches that tore from his throat as he first awoke. Screams of pain, screams of rage. Screams of terror.

An unfamiliar environment. Unfamiliar faces, hidden under masks and goggles. White walls, white sheets, uncomfortable fabric clinging to his skin. Tubes, needles, bright lights.

The child had a name. It was written on his loincloth, which was returned to him once he was returned to the world, dressed in clothes that hardly fitted his oddly muscular frame, his thin waist and slender ankles. Aside from the cloth, his only belonging was a mask made from the boar's hide, which had been returned to the facility within weeks after the incident.

Hashibira Inosuke.

The boy was given a room to himself. He proved unsociable, irascible and prone to terrible tantrums, which left the ground shaking, the windows shattering. Items sent flying across the room as his emerald eyes took a peculiar glow, the pressure increasing all around him, keeping everyone away from reach. He refused, above all else, to be touched.

The weeks stretched on. The months passed. The orphanage was regularly visited by men that could only be described as shady, urging the orphanage's staff to deny them any chance at seeing the boy, let alone adopt him. Any attempt at bringing him before a potential family's view had resulted in more tantrums.

Until the old lady showed up.

She introduced herself as a former foster parent. Her name was familiar to the staff, for she had been here before. Many a child had she raised, brought out of a miserable life, nursed to good health, and loved with all her heart.

The staff did not have to fetch Inosuke from his room. As they noticed the old lady looking into the distance, her everlasting smile addressed to the child whose face half-peeked from behind the door.

The old lady was allowed to come forward, but she did not move. She let the boy come to her instead, his emerald eyes wide as saucers, as he approached with careful steps. He was on edge, as if afraid that a predator would come out at any moment, and rip these welcoming arms away from his reach.

Inosuke crossed the rest of the distance with a leap. He clung to the lady's cardigan, and refused to let go.

Paperwork was dutifully filled. As the formalities went on, Inosuke's behavior drastically changed. He never had another tantrum. He never sent the furniture flying. The old lady would visit every day, and his face would light up with a smile so bright that it outshone the sun. His laughter, cristalline, echoed down the orphanage's dull corridors.

Inosuke kept his face pressed against the taxi's window. His eyes did not spare a glance for the building that had been his home for over a year. They were already exploring the landscape around them, the trees speeding past, the city laid out before their eyes at the bottom of the hill.

The taxi stopped at a red light, an untidy bush almost grazing the windows. At the brim of a large flower, a graceful insect spread its wings, a flutter here and there. As the sun shone cast its light on the iridescent surface, there was a sudden exclamation from the child. He excitedly grabbed the old lady's sleeve and pointed towards the insect, pure glee tugging at his youthful traits.

"Look, old lady! A butterfly!"

[paramnesias]

SUBJECTS THROUGH A LENS BIND IN COMPOSITION.   YET UNRECOGNIZED FRAGMENTS SUPERIMPOSED AS A NEW WHOLE;   PICTORIAL GENESIS FROM THE SYMBIOSIS OF ARTIST AND CAMERA.

𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁   𝚃𝚄𝙲𝙺𝚂   𝙱𝚁𝚄𝚂𝙷𝙴𝚂   𝙷𝙰𝙸𝚁   𝙾𝚄𝚃   𝙾𝙵   𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙴𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚁'𝚂   𝙵𝙰𝙲𝙴.

THE PHOTOGRAPHER FOCUSES HER   EYE   ON THE WRITER. A STRAND OF HIS HAIR OUT OF PLACE,   BRUSHING IT BACK. AND,   FOR GOOD MEASURE,   TILTING HIS CHIN INTO THE LIGHT.   AN ACCENTUATION OF SHADOWS,   BUT SHE TELLS HIM IT’S ABOUT THE BALANCE BETWEEN THE TWO.   CHIAROSCURO, THEY SAY IN UNISON.   DUALITY CAPTURED ON THIRTY - FIVE MILLIMETER.

he 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘴 against the studio lights.    their unheard buzz billows from a   𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌   in his head.    it shifts and hums like   𝐦𝐮𝐳𝐳𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞   of a tuned - out frequency.    ﹝ 𝘏𝘌𝘓𝘓, 𝘐 𝘕𝘌𝘌𝘋 𝘈𝘕 𝘈𝘚𝘗𝘐𝘙𝘐𝘕.    𝘖𝘙 𝘛𝘞𝘖.﹞    white noise,   𝖧𝖠𝖱𝖡𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖤𝖱 𝖮𝖥 𝖠 𝖲𝖨𝖦𝖭𝖠𝖫,   is blinked away   𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙧.

WAKE REFOCUSES, EYES DILATING.   A FADING, RESIDUAL GLOW HALOS HIS VISION AND PRESENTS HER IN A   FLATTERING VIGNETTE.

𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩.    innate ability written under the guise of   𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢   and masked as a tic.    𝗛𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗥𝗢𝗪,   𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗫 - 𝗧𝗢 - 𝗬.    with an echoed, incognizant 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗆𝖾,    his hand settles in his lap as he smirks,     “  you’re sure this’ll be brooding enough to boost sales?  ”

             ᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟ                 ꩜    𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚆𝙰𝙺𝙴𝙽.

[tangledfate]

💌Lucifer, Darling.

I've loved you since I first laid eyes on you, you encouraged my freedom. We tried to free the world together, and for that were punished. I never stopped loving you. Your ideas were brilliant, your mind was fascinating. I could listen to you talk for hours, and I know you supported me in what I did as I did you. I am yours forever and always.

Love always, Lilith

It’s an old letter. Written eons ago and kept in a fragile, time worn envelope in his desk. Every once in a while, he takes it out–like today–when the sinners are celebrating, and he’s left alone.

Lonely.

It doesn’t make him feel better–not really–it’s a salt and a salve to his wound. A reminder that while she wasn’t there anymore, she’d loved him once. Did she still love him? If she did, why had she left?

Holding the ancient keepsake to his chest for a moment, he sighs. Then, carefully folding it and replacing it to its sleeve, he puts it carefully back into his desk. Closing and locking the drawer.