#i have broken my resolution and drew lips again

[cedyat]

[fallendragon]

✵ ･ ｡ ՙ @𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐈 ​ ֥   ｡ ･ ʃ  〈 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦  ⋆  〉  ͓

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || He is a beautiful piece of broken pottery, put back together by many hands; most prominent ones being Lord Raiden and Huan Hei. A critical world may judge Satoshi Hasashi’s kintsugi lines of golden joinery, while missing the beauty of how he made himself whole again. Satoshi’s nightmarish visions plaguing his nights manifest themselves as a curse of vestigial truth, revealing his own entombment within Sub-Zero’s chilling deathly menace. His mother remained brutally impaled by the unforgiving chill of eternal winter’s stillness, while his barely beating heartbeats remained a white noise murmur as his inevitable death drew near. Cold pangs embedded upon his heart and lungs, despite a fevered quandary with kicks and bursts defiantly resisted as the defiant and resilient Hasashi trait exuded upon young Satoshi’s innocent, yet resolute eyes. 

Ever since he was lost in the throes of viciousness of the world, Satoshi had never been afraid of being lost. For his subconscious was meant to wander off from time to time, for the long-instilled fear of never quite finding himself often kept him all night, even amidst his strenuous trainings to continue Hanzo Hasashi’s abruptly severed legacy. HeiHei had been a healer amidst countless destroyers around him; dealing with any and everything life had thrown the young Hasashi. He had been the warm touch that comforts, despite often reminding him of the very gelid touch that rendered him immobile, exacerbating the pain deep within him. There still may be vulnerability lingering at the tip of his lips, and within the unfathomable chestnut eyes that exude melancholia. 

Satoshi feels an unsettling bout of despair and jarringly out of sync this evening, all while the resplendent sun shines and clouds pour rain outside his window simultaneously. Perhaps that was why your father had to meet his brutal, humiliating death. A whispered voice, taunting and nearly persuasive in its timbre, sneers in his heart and soul, as forced feelings build up inside him, threatening to spill through his lips. “I am done counting exit wounds; icicle holes that still serve as reminders of the Shirai Ryu massacre and extinction, and everyone leaves eventually. It is what I learned lesson after lesson (evolve or repeat), but as you know, I still haven’t quite made my peace with anguish.” 

The thing is, after trauma, the kind where Satoshi goes through is more than  flight and fight; there is freeze, because the first would have meant suicide, and the second might very well have left copious blood and his slaughtered corpse. He subconsciously chose the third, where those moments of his life would become a stretched eternity, as sanity tucks itself deep inside of him. Words about forever and staying and keeping parts of another and remember me’s, not forgetting will never hit him the same way again; he never wants to be remembered anymore. “The world would have been better if it gave me closure, saved me years of my trials and tribulations.”  ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

Though  seemingly  UNFAZED,  those  features  delicately  desperately  attempt  to  conceal  all  the  worry  that  had  piled  up  within  his  being  for  all  the  years  he'd  had  to  stay  away  from  that  one  mortal  whose  existence  was  held  in  a  special  place  in  his  ROTTEN  HEART.  Impossible  to  point  whether  it  was  to  pass  the  vain  impression  of  SELF-RELIANCE  so  that  the  youngest  could  rely  on  as  had  been  done  long  ago,  or  simply  to  nourish  this  Dragon's  own  PRIDE  as  the  monster  that  this  hell  of  Earth  had  long  convinced  itself  to  be  for  the  sake  of  their  own  SURVIVAL  ━━━━━━━━━━━  perhaps  a  sick  combination  of  both.  Fortunately,  the  weight  of  such  a  provenance  shouldn't  need  to  fall  on  the  shoulders  of  that  young  soul  with  so  much  potential  to  become  something  GREATER,  to  reach  further  ━━━━━━━━━━━  a  brighter  place  this  creature  bound  to  DARKNESS  could  never  reach.

What  became  more  and  more  difficult  to  hide,  however,  was  the  COMPLICATED  expression  contained  in  that  gaze  with  no  reflection  now  being  forced  to  peek  at  the  other  from  a  LOWER  angle  while  still  trying  to  focus  on  the  task  at  hand,  giving  to  that  pale  face  even  more  captivating  traces,  even  if  accidentally.  Oh,  how  wickedly  CRUEL  time  could  be. . .  Slipping  through  the  fingers  burning  like  the  desert  sand,  but  with  the  swiftness  and  sharpness  of  the  coldest  winter  winds:  Running,  moving,  changing,  TAKING  AWAY. . .  How  many  more  of  springs  would  this  trickster  time  carry  away  without  him  being  able  to  enjoy  the  other's  company  now?  Thus,  every  word  uttered  seems  to  pierce  the  Black  Dragon  with  the  force  of  dozens  of  sharp  daggers,  knowing  he  that  so  MUCH  MORE  could  have  been  to  bring  some  comfort  to  the  youngest’  torments,  watching  silently  in  inaction  as  his  insides  trembled  and  turned  in  ANGER  and  SORROW.

❛❛ You  DON'T  need  to. . . ❜❜      Despite  the  undeniable  ache,  his  heart  seems  to  find  the  strength  to  squeeze  out,  between  a  brief  sigh,  a  few  words  in  the  mildest  possible  tone.      ❛❛ You  don't  have  to  keep  counting  your  wounds,  make  peace  with  the  past. . .  ANY  OF  THAT. ❜❜      Deep  obsidians  finally  rise  as  the  light  hands  seem  to  resign  for  a  moment  of  UNCOMFORTABLE  SILENCE,  this  light  pause  giving  him  some  time  to  think  about  the  words  to  be  spoken  with  a  rather  ATTENTIVE  intent.  An  audacious  impulse  propelled  a  free  hand  to  reach  for  the  other's  chin,  as  if  gently  forcing  him  to  face  him  directly.      ❛❛ Take  this  grief  and  use  it  to  FUEL  your  heart,  focus  on  what's  ahead  ━━━━━━━━━━━  bare  your  teeth  and  keep  on  FIGHTING,  no  matter  what. ❜❜      A  vehement  nod  reassures  his  words,  those  jewels  seeming  to  glister  under  the  dim  light  from  that  inconvenient  angle.  The  mere  image,  the  mere  thought  of  that  young  man  falling  victim  to  his  own  sadness  and  becoming  yet  another  EMPTY  SHELL  would  be  too  much  for  this  demon  to  bear.  Something  he  would  never  dare  to  allow  ( nor  admit  out  loud ),  even  if  it  cost  whatever  bit  of  HUMANITY  was  still  left  in  his  cursed  body.

Let  your  flame  BURN  within.

❛❛ You  have  made  THIS  FAR. . .  'Should  serve  as  enough  proof  of  your  ever  growing  STRENGTH. ❜❜      Eyes  drop  again,  perhaps  a  little  conscious  of  the  tender  FAMILIARITY  that  still  seem  to  remain  in  those  bright  mahogany  pupils  even  after  all  those  years.      ❛❛ Whether  things  change  or  not,  I  will  be  WATCHING  OVER  you. ❜❜      Interesting  choice  of  words  for  a  creature  who  knows  that  his  mere  presence  will  bring  more  inconvenience  to  the  other  than  could  possibly  be  EXPOSED.  Yet,  there  still  lingers  in  him  is  this  strange  instinct  of  PROTECTION  towards  what  was  once  a  FRAGILE  little  being  on  the  verge  of  death  in  his  arms,  now  bloomed  into  a  grown  man.

[sasorikigai]

❛❛ We  grow  STRONGER,  the  world  grows  more  DANGEROUS  ━━━━━━━━━━  Life  has  a  funny  way  of  keeping  things  BALANCED. ❜❜      Though  pointed,  his  tone  still  undeniably  carries  the  sweet  taste  of  SOLICITUDE  at  each  word  leisurely  pronounced.  Slender  fingers  mindlessly  travel  over  the  other's  neck,  with  the  sole  purpose  of  fixing  the  collar  of  his  garment,  although  those  obsidian  eyes  may  have  wasted  a  bit  of  time  examining  the  details  along  the  way.  This  Dragon  knows  that  having  his  Xiao  Shi  staying  ALIVE  and  healthy  up  to  that  point  was  a  feat  in  itself,  something  he  was  both  GRATEFUL  and  thoroughly  PROUD  of.  Yet  there  lay  in  him  this  strange  protective  instinct  that  could  be  both  a  blessing  and  a  CURSE  at  this  point.  Nothing  that  came  to  the  surface  of  those  beautiful  features,  however,  PALE  and  DELICATE  like  the  thin  frost  sheets  covering  the  forests  that  surrounded  that  place.

✵ ｡ ･ ʃ 〈 @ Satoshi 〉 ͓

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || He is a beautiful piece of broken pottery, put back together by many hands; most prominent ones being Lord Raiden and Huan Hei. A critical world may judge Satoshi Hasashi’s kintsugi lines of golden joinery, while missing the beauty of how he made himself whole again. Satoshi’s nightmarish visions plaguing his nights manifest themselves as a curse of vestigial truth, revealing his own entombment within Sub-Zero’s chilling deathly menace. His mother remained brutally impaled by the unforgiving chill of eternal winter’s stillness, while his barely beating heartbeats remained a white noise murmur as his inevitable death drew near. Cold pangs embedded upon his heart and lungs, despite a fevered quandary with kicks and bursts defiantly resisted as the defiant and resilient Hasashi trait exuded upon young Satoshi’s innocent, yet resolute eyes. 

Ever since he was lost in the throes of viciousness of the world, Satoshi had never been afraid of being lost. For his subconscious was meant to wander off from time to time, for the long-instilled fear of never quite finding himself often kept him all night, even amidst his strenuous trainings to continue Hanzo Hasashi’s abruptly severed legacy. HeiHei had been a healer amidst countless destroyers around him; dealing with any and everything life had thrown the young Hasashi. He had been the warm touch that comforts, despite often reminding him of the very gelid touch that rendered him immobile, exacerbating the pain deep within him. There still may be vulnerability lingering at the tip of his lips, and within the unfathomable chestnut eyes that exude melancholia. 

Satoshi feels an unsettling bout of despair and jarringly out of sync this evening, all while the resplendent sun shines and clouds pour rain outside his window simultaneously. Perhaps that was why your father had to meet his brutal, humiliating death. A whispered voice, taunting and nearly persuasive in its timbre, sneers in his heart and soul, as forced feelings build up inside him, threatening to spill through his lips. “I am done counting exit wounds; icicle holes that still serve as reminders of the Shirai Ryu massacre and extinction, and everyone leaves eventually. It is what I learned lesson after lesson (evolve or repeat), but as you know, I still haven’t quite made my peace with anguish.” 

The thing is, after trauma, the kind where Satoshi goes through is more than  flight and fight; there is freeze, because the first would have meant suicide, and the second might very well have left copious blood and his slaughtered corpse. He subconsciously chose the third, where those moments of his life would become a stretched eternity, as sanity tucks itself deep inside of him. Words about forever and staying and keeping parts of another and remember me’s, not forgetting will never hit him the same way again; he never wants to be remembered anymore. “The world would have been better if it gave me closure, saved me years of my trials and tribulations.”  ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[astralibrary]

meant to finish this before ep 10 came out but oh well, here it is anyway bc i worked hard on it!!

i hadn’t planned on writing a whole make-up scene tho i literally drew this entire thing just so i could make this joke at the very end:

text description below (might as well be a fanfic version):

page 1

[Reki, dressed in his green hoodie and purple baseball cap, walks downtrodden down the sidewalk, head bowed.]

Langa,offscreen: REKI! [Reki’s head jerks up, eyes wide.]

[He turns around to see Langa further down the lamplit sidewalk, running towards him with an arm outstretched to get his attention. On the ground behind him can be seen the pieces of his broken skateboard.]

[Reki’s expression is shocked, and then panicked as he spins around in an attempt to make his escape. Before he can run, though, Langa’s hand shoots out to grab his arm, stopping him in his tracks.]

Langa: Wait!

Langa: Don’t go. [Reki stays still, his face hidden in shadow cast by the brim of his cap.]

page 2

Reki: ... Don’t you have a tournament to win? Everyone will be disappointed if you don’t-

Langa: I dropped out.

Reki: ...

Reki, with a troubled, hurt expression: ...Why? Weren’t you gonna skate with Adam?

Langa: I don’t care about that anymore. Not if it’s gonna come between us. [Reki’s expression is subdued as he hears this, eyes cast downwards.]

Langa: Besides, I can’t go back now even if I wanted to.

Langa: I quit S.

[Reki’s eyes go wide.]

page 3

[He whirls around to face Langa, his expression shocked and incredulous.]

Reki: You WHAT???

Reki: But you’re so good! Everyone loves you! Why would you-

Langa: None of that matters without you.

Langa: The world of S means nothing to me if I don’t get to share it with you.

[Langa’s expression is serious. Emotion shines behind Reki’s eyes. Then he bows his head again, hiding them under his cap again.]

Reki: ... How did you...

Langa: I talked to the security guard on my way out. Asked if he’d seen you. [Underneath the hat, Reki’s eyes glisten, his eyebrows turned up in distress as Langa speaks.]

page 4

[Reki’s arms come up to cross over his chest, hands clenching anxiously at his upper arms as he turns his head down and away from Langa, frowning.]

Reki: Langa... You... You don’t have to give up on something you love... Just because I...

Langa: Reki.

[Langa removes one of his skating gloves from his left hand and slowly reaches it out towards Reki.]

Langa: It’s not about S. It was never about S.

[His fingertips gently touch the edge of the brim of Reki’s hat.]

Langa: Not beefs, or bets, or winning, or any of that.

Langa: I joined S because of you.

[His expression is concerned. Slowly, he pushes up the brim of Reki’s hat, enough to reveal his face.]

Langa: It’s always been you.

[Reki looks up at him helplessly, eyes shining with beading tears, lip trembling, cheeks reddening.]

page 5

[He breaks eye contact again, casting his gaze downward in shame.]

Reki: But I’ll never measure up to you. No matter what I do...

[His face scrunches further as the tears begin to slip down his cheeks with his next words.]

Reki: I’ll always be holding you back. I- I’m not good en-

Langa: Reki...

[Langa reaches out and brushes a tear away with the back of his index finger. Reki still won’t meet his eyes. Langa’s palm cups Reki’s cheek softly.]

Langa: You could never hold me back.

Langa: How could you, when you’re the reason I skate?

[Reki looks at Langa in surprise, not having expected to hear that. Shyly, he looks down and off to the side again.]

Reki: I- I am?

Langa: Yes. I can’t do it without you. And it took me way too long to realize that. [Langa’s expression is resolute and direct, focused completely on Reki and Reki alone.]

page 6

[His expression turns pained and regretful.]

Langa: Reki, I’m sorry for breaking our promise. Nothing is worth losing you. And I hate that I came so close.

Reki: Langa... [He looks up at Langa, conflicted.]

Langa: Reki...

[Langa takes both of Reki’s hands in his own and looks him directly in the eye. Reki’s eyes go wide.]

Langa: I won’t make the same mistake twice. So please... Will you skate with me again?

[He speaks earnestly and honestly; both of their faces heat up red.]

page 7

[Reki’s eyes shine big and bright with emotion, tears beading at the corners as his face goes from shocked to twisting with overwhelming emotion that threatens to bring him back to tears, to a watery smile of pure joy.]

[The streetlight above casts a warm, glistening glow over them as Reki leaps forward and throws his arms around Langa’s neck, his hat flying off altogether with the sudden movement. Langa raises a hand up halfway to Reki’s arm, blushing heavily. Reki’s eyes are squeezed shut as he buries his face into Langa’s shoulder. The light of the streetlamp sparkles in their hair, in the very air around them.]

page 8

Reki: I want to.

[Langa’s eyes are wide, his cheeks red as he registers what just happened, while Reki continues to cling to him tightly.]

Reki: I really, really want to.

[Langa smiles adoringly and places his arms around Reki, returning the hug.]

[He closes his eyes and pulls his arms more tightly around Reki, allowing himself to fully bask in the warmth and closeness of the hug.]

Reki: On one condition.

[Langa’s eyes open with the sudden amendment. He pulls back, hands on Reki’s shoulders, and looks at him with his head tilted in concern.]

[Reki looks down and away, eyebrows furrowed, his face reddening even further, if possible. His next words come out a little mumbly in a poor attempt to mask his embarrassment.]

Reki: Will you teach me how to do some of your cool tricks?

page 9

[Langa’s eyes widen, taken off guard, and then he smiles brightly, laughing happily.]

Langa: Of course!

[His eyes shift away suddenly, a guilty smile quirking the corner of his mouth upward.]

Langa: Although... I’d have to get my board fixed first...

[Reki’s brows furrow.]

Reki: Wh-

[He looks past Langa, spotting the two pieces of his skateboard lying broken on the ground a ways behind him.]

Reki: WHAT DID YOU DO???

[Langa sweats profusely.]

[Reki kneels, holding the pieces of the board in his hands and looking between them in affronted disbelief.

Reki: Jeez, Langa, you have to take care of your gear!

[Langa stands behind him, looking sheepish.]

Langa: sorry.

[Reki hugs the pieces of the board to his chest, wailing.]

Reki: Ugh, my beautiful baby, I’m so sorry he did this to you- I’ll have you fixed up like new in no time, don’t you worry.

[Langa rolls his eyes lightly behind him.]

page 10

[Langa’s expression takes on an anxious note, hands pulled up to his chest nervously as he looks on.]

Langa: You... You can fix it, right?

[Reki looks back at him over his shoulder, a little surprised. Then he gives a big, confident smile.]

Reki: Of course!

[Langa smiles down at him, both relieved and a little smitten. He laughs a little, eyes squeezing shut.]

Langa: Right?

[The two of them make their way down the sidewalk together- we see them from a little ways behind. Reki’s cap is back on his head, turned sideways this time. He holds the pieces of Langa’s board with his left hand; his right is clasped within Langa’s. There is a small red heart between them, above their joined hands. The lamplight falls warmly over them as they go, their playful words floating out behind them.]

Reki: Who do you think I am, anyway? You need to have more faith in me.

Langa: You’re right, I’m sorry I ever doubted you.

Reki: That’s more like it.

bonus panel 1

[An extra gag panel, drawn and colored very crudely; it’s Reki and Langa from behind again, small, mimicking the image of them walking away in the last panel of the comic, implying they’ve stopped short with a sudden realization.]

Reki: I do kinda wish we hadn’t both quit S now, though.

Langa: ...Ah.

bonus panel 2

[Final bonus panel: Miya stiffly holds out his hand, two S badges sitting in the middle of his palm. In front of him are Reki and Langa, groveling. Reki is on his knees, his eyes comically big and watery, his mouth wobbling as he half reaches for the badges, like he can’t believe this is really happening. Langa is fully prostrated on the ground, bowing down before Miya to show his eternal gratitude and respect. Miya’s head is turned away from them both with an extremely irritated expression while at the same time blushing heavily. The hand that isn’t holding out the badges is clenched into a fist at his side.]

Miya: Just hurry up and take them already, you weirdos.

Reki: Miya-samaaaaaaaaa

[white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen]

Future

A/N: Yikes. I cried several times writing this. I'm very proud of how it turned out - I think it's one of my strongest pieces on the entire blog - but be warned: bring tissues. Also, Mozzie's quote is originally from Abraham Lincoln. Requested by @ladykeqing

Summary: In the wake of Neal's death, a regret haunts you.

Word Count: 1,964

Peter sat you down and told you in his home. Well… just June’s home, now. The way Mozzie had trailed behind him, for once wordless… His face looking ashen… A part of you had known even before Peter asked you to sit down.

“He told me to say he’s sorry,” Peter said, barely more than a whisper that somehow felt deafening to your brain. “And that he loves you more than you know.”

The room was suddenly stifling. It was more than just the emotions in the air, layering over each other into a thick, caustic fog. It was the darkening of shadows that stretched in from the glass doors, and the silence of the record player that drove deep into their eardrums to muffle the little sounds of life coming from each other. The penthouse was, in an instant, so tiny and deathly empty, and you wished so dearly that you’d been at your own apartment. Staying the weekend had seemed like such a great idea before you abruptly became the only resident.

For a few seconds, you had a mind to just stay put and let the shadows come and take over. To let the agonizing ache of loss engulf your entire heart and continue expanding until it was bigger than your body and you disappeared forever. All so you wouldn’t have to keep looking at the records Neal would never again play and the table he would never again sit at. So you would never have to spend a last moment in the home of your lover before turning your back on it and, by extension, him.

Without him, there was nowhere to turn. The prospect of your remaining lifetime without your partner made your chest and throat tighten with another round of sobs. It all felt so dim. You tried to hold it back, but couldn’t last long before your hands were to your mouth and a strangled whimper was breaking from your lips.

Mozzie could have fooled you into thinking he hadn’t heard, so resolute he was in boring a hole into the rug with his stare. Peter looked towards you with deep brown eyes, solicitous and pleading at the same time. He was as stunned as you were – but where you were being crushed under the weight of isolation, at least Peter got to go home to El. You didn’t have anyone to go home to anymore. Hell, without Neal, did you even have a home at all?

You envied Mozzie. Really, you did. His Buddhist leanings might be a comfort to him, able to think of Neal’s absence as temporary, or his spirit as remaining around them in some way or form. But when you tried to imagine you could feel him still there, the encroaching shadows and silent record player and empty bed all drew together at once until you were drowning in the lack. It was as if your haywire senses were punishing you for thinking even for a moment that you could feel your loss as anything less than absolute. He was gone and the world was permanently less wonderful.

A gunshot. Neal hated guns so much. Maybe this was why.

Wait. No. Time didn’t work like that. Right? He couldn’t hate something for a reason that hadn’t happened yet.

Laughter that bordered on hysterical bubbled out of your throat as you anxiously covered your face, waiting for the mania to pass. Laughter was easier than sobs. It physically hurt less. Emotionally it was so much worse. You could feel the concerned eyes on you while you waited until your desperate giggles died, just like your partner.

“I never said,” you said, wresting the words out before cries – or worse, more laughs – forced themselves out instead. You looked down with shame and guilt. His last words to you were almost cruel. Tender in their meaning, but cruel in consequence – he would never know how deeply you cared for him. You hoped he did. Didn’t you show it all the time? But that was different from hearing the words out loud, and now not only were you going on without Neal, but you were going on carrying the burden of knowing you hadn’t been able to offer him the comfort of certainty in knowing he had been loved in life and would be grieved in death. “I never got to tell him I love him.”

The mere look that Peter gave you in response would have broken your heart if it hadn’t already been lying shattered somewhere between your stomach and the floor. It was as if he were imagining for himself not getting to tell Elizabeth how he felt, or worse, imagining how alone or afraid she might feel if she didn’t know there were somebody fighting for her and remembering her every day.

Sobs would come any moment now. Your throat was tighter than a string on a violin, and any minute you’d stop being able to breathe. In, out, you reminded yourself. Keep it together just a moment more. And then another moment after that. You couldn’t break down until you were alone. You didn’t know why you couldn’t break in front of Neal’s family, but didn’t have the energy to question it, either, not when you barely had the energy not to scream and weep into your hands.

“He knew.” Mozzie’s words were quiet but startling and said with all the confidence of Neal himself. “You didn’t have to say it.”

“But he deserved to hear.” Knowing it and hearing it were different games and Neal, for all his faults, deserved to hear it, too. “He deserved to come home. I don’t…” You lost your train of thought. Why were you talking about yourself when you weren’t the one whose brilliant life had been stolen? After a small shake of your head, you sniffed and shakily breathed out. “We had an entire future. And now there’s nothing left.”

You could see it passing in your imagination, all the little milestones that you’d come to anticipate. Content days at home, interspersed with adventures to his favorite places around the world, marked by marriage and birthdays and achievements and anniversaries. You’d never articulated them out loud, never even realized fully that you’d started to await those days, but now you saw them vanishing and you realized not only were you having to grieve for the best man you’d ever known, but you’d also have to grieve for the missed experiences and joys that he had lost, and the shared life that you had to give up on, as well.

Mozzie finally looked up to you and you noticed that his eyes were puffy and red behind his glasses. You didn’t even know someone could cry that silently. “The best thing about the future,” he quoted, slow and weighty, probably to keep his own voice level. “Is that it comes one day at a time.”

The comfort was meaningless to you. One day at a time was worthwhile when it was endless days of love and companionship. When that was gone, it was just day after day of being adrift with nothing to hold onto.

You sniffed again and replied in a surprisingly even voice, “My future is laying in the morgue.”

~Future~

Leaving Y/N was one of the hardest things Mozzie had ever done, and he had a lot of challenges and dubious decisions in his past. Leaving her to wallow and suffer rubbed him in every wrong way possible, except for the one where it meant – at least for now – that she would be safe. He didn’t think, if he stayed, that he would be able to hold back from blurting out the truth. He couldn’t even look at her for fear of spilling. Not once her tears started. He couldn’t watch his friend, and his best friend’s love at that, weep with agony she didn’t need to feel.

Neal begged to differ, though Mozzie knew that it tore his heart in two to hear her voice over the long-distance connection. When Mozzie was sure the suit was out of earshot, and that Y/N and June had both stayed inside, he lifted his phone from his pocket and breathed heavily in the cold December air that seemed to burn his lungs.

“Did you hear all that?” He asked, impressively steady and managing to get his criticism and support across with his tone simultaneously.

He took off his glasses, thankful Neal couldn’t see that he, too, needed to wipe his eyes dry. Alive was good. Alive but far away and unreachable – at least for the foreseeable future – was still painful.

“I did,” Neal confirmed, voice and heart both heavy somewhere at least a thousand miles away. “I wish…” Neal trailed off, and Mozzie wholly believed that he also needed a moment to compose himself. Why either of them bothered pretending not to cry, he didn’t understand, but they had already dedicated themselves to the farce. “She’s safer this way. If she looks for me, we’re all in danger.”

“If you let this go on, she will never forgive you.” Mozzie warned, thinking about the broken look on your face. It had been like watching a dropped plate shatter in slow motion to see the cracks begin to appear before your very spirit seemed to splinter. Then he thought about how desperately you wished Neal knew you loved him, and he thought maybe there was a chance that desperate love would override the anger. He amended, “Or, if she does, it’ll never be the same.”

“I know.” Neal agreed readily but with a quiver to his voice. “I want to come home, but not if it means visiting her grave.”

“The cautious way it is.” Mozzie put his glasses back on his face, bravely shoring up his willpower. “I can’t know where you are, and she can’t know you’re out there.”

“Keep an eye on her for me.”His voice was full of sorrow and longing.

“Of course.” Neal didn’t even need to ask. If there came a time when the Panthers were dealt with and Neal could – well, if not return home, at least be reunited with Y/N somewhere without an extradition treaty, Mozzie would be the first to set it in motion. “Be well, mon frére.”

“You, too, Moz.”

The line went dead.

~Future~

Approximately four thousand miles away, on a windy beach, Neal stood barefoot in the dark, watching the light from the moon reflect off the choppy, shallow surf. The breeze drifted through his hair and bit across his face with the sting of northern weather.

He looked down at the open phone in his hand, fighting every feeling in him to turn it back on and beg Mozzie to take the phone back up to his former penthouse. Or, worse, to turn his whole body around and get on a ferry to the mainland, and fly back to New York as fast as possible to hold you in his arms. The heartbreak in your voice had been almost too much for him to bear. It would have been, if not for his terror of being reckless and selfish and letting you pay the price.

He had known you loved him, and because he loved you so unbelievably much in return, he couldn’t go home. Not yet. He would work on it from afar, where no one knew he was breathing, much less could trace him back to his darling. One day, if he were incredibly lucky, he could come home and you would still have space for him in your heart and mind. For now, he would have to settle on replaying your words in his head.

I love you, too.

Neal hurled the phone out into the ocean.

[trenchcoatimpala]

Hey guys! It’s been a hot second since I wrote something, so I’m here with a little ficlet. I am still writing something bigger (4k words currently and still going) so that is coming. But in the meantime, enjoy this little one-shot filled with established relationship Destiel and Dean in a hospital. 

wc: 1.2k

Also on archive

Dean found himself drifting off to the sweet litany of beeping monitors. The sound was like a lullaby in his head, the slow beep beep beep beep nothing more than a whisper, telling him to sleep. It rocked him on gentle waves and coaxed him closer to unconsciousness, although, a Dean that wasn’t pumped full of pain medication would understand that the beeping had nothing to do with his drooping eyelids and everything to do with said pain medication. 

Sleep was welcome to his aching body. He knew it was bad, it had to be if he was in the hospital and not some rundown motel, but his mind was foggy enough not to worry about just how bad. 

He came and went from consciousness, only waking when a nurse came to check on him or the drugs wore off and the pain started to creep in. His head hurt like a motherfucker and there was a throbbing ache in his leg and ribs that caused his breath to stutter every time he inhaled. 

“How are we doing?” a nurse asked, she was blond, petite, and was exactly Dean’s type, but unfortunately, being bedridden and out of it meant that he couldn’t exactly turn the charm on easily. Not to mention, he was already taken, he had no reason to flirt.

“‘M’kay,” Dean slurred in response.

The nurse checked his eyes, changed his bandages, and the whole time Dean let his attention fall in and out of focus. The nurse was wearing some kind of flowery perfume that made Dean want to sneeze, but somehow he managed to keep his bodily fluids to himself. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll have you out of here in no time,” the nurse said as she gave him a pat on the cheek, checked over the monitors one more time, and then left the room. 

“Who’s worried,” Dean mumbled to her retreating back as he let himself flop back against the pillows, smiling as the morphine she’d given him reached his system. 

The next time someone came into his room, he was pleased to see that it was Sam, with Cas in tow. 

“Hey Dean,” Sam said as he sat down in the chair by his bed. 

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean replied with a smile.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam asked. 

Dean shifted his gaze to Cas and couldn’t help but let his smile grow. “Peachy.” 

“Do you remember what happened?” Cas asked as he sat down in the chair on the other side of Dean’s bed. 

“‘S a little fuzzy,” Dean admitted, still only having eyes for Cas. 

“That ghoul threw you good,” Sam said. 

“Straight through the window,” Cas chimed in. “You hit your head pretty bad on the concrete.” 

“But not before the ghoul kicked out your leg,” Sam added. 

Dean groaned. “No wonder I feel like I was just run over by a stampede.” 

“We’re working on your discharge papers,” Sam said as he clapped a hand down on Dean’s shoulder, Dean winced at the impact. “Sorry.” 

Dean waved him off with a grunt. “When do you think I’ll be out of here?” 

“They’ll probably want to keep you overnight to monitor you,” Cas replied. 

“Awesome,” Dean mumbled. 

“I’ll go see if I can negotiate a change to that plan,” Sam said as he stood up. 

Once Sam was gone, Dean grinned lazily at Cas. “Hi.” 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas replied warmly. 

Dean reached up a hand and gently ran his fingers over Cas’s face. Stubble scratched at the pads of his fingers but Dean liked the pull of it. He took in the bags under Cas’s eyes and the scab forming on his left cheek, but in searching Cas’s blue gaze he found concern there.

“You look worried.”

Cas huffed a broken laugh. “Of course I’m worried, you’re hurt.” 

“‘S nothin’, ‘ve had worse.” 

“You haven’t had a concussion to this severity before, I know that much,” Cas said as he reached out and took Dean’s hand in his own. 

Dean liked the feeling of Cas’s warm palm fitted into his, and he said as much, leaving Cas to laugh in amusement. Dean felt a dopy grin spread across his face and he let himself get lost in those blue eyes again. 

“I love you,” he blurted out, unable to stop himself. 

Cas squeezed his hand. “I love you too.” 

Dean drew his lips into a pout. “What, no kiss?” 

Cas rolled his eyes. “I’m not kissing you while you’re this drugged up.” 

Dean’s pout grew. “Why not?” 

“Because it would be inappropriate,” Cas replied. Dean crossed his arms like a petulant child, of course that proved difficult due to his broken ribs, but he tried anyway. “Don’t hurt yourself,” Cas warned. 

“It’s not like I’m not aware of my actions,” Dean argued. 

Cas sighed. “Dean, we’re in a hospital, I’d much rather kiss you once we’re back in our bed, preferably after you’ve brushed your teeth and taken a shower.”

Dean uncrossed his arms and nodded slowly. “Okay, that’s fair.” 

Cas did kiss the back of Dean’s hand to make up for it and Dean let his fingers thread with Cas’s. 

“I wish I could heal you,” Cas said softly. “I hate that I can’t.” 

Dean squeezed Cas’s hand and put on his best reassuring smile. “It’s okay. Besides, if you healed me I wouldn’t get you doting on me like this.” 

Cas frowned but there was a small twinkle in his eyes. “Still, I hate seeing you in pain.” 

“‘M not in pain.” 

“You might change that sentiment once the drugs wear off.” 

Dean didn’t have enough energy to respond so he let his eyes close and when Sam returned to the room, he found them like that, Dean dozing off and Cas sitting resolutely by his side. 

“Dean’ll be good to go in a few hours,” Sam announced as he plopped into his previously vacated chair, tearing Dean from his almost-slumber.

“Super,” Dean yawned as he cracked open an eye to look at his brother. 

Dean spent the rest of his hospital stay eating pudding and watching crap TV and when he was finally wheeled out of the building and helped into the backseat of Baby, he let out a sigh of relief. 

“I hate hospitals,” Dean grumbled as he leaned into Cas’s shoulder. 

“I know,” Cas replied as he ran a hand through Dean’s hair. 

The car ride was silent after that, and when they got back to the bunker Dean was practically carried down the stairs and into his room. Cas helped Dean clean up and then he collapsed onto their bed and Cas joined him. 

“You owe me a kiss,” Dean said as he looked over at his husband. 

Cas smiled and scooched closer to Dean, placing a hand on his cheek and drawing him in. Their lips met in a soft kiss, but Dean deepened it the first chance he got and Cas grinned into his mouth. 

When they pulled apart, Dean felt like he was floating. “That was worth the wait,” he said. 

“I’m glad,” Cas replied as their hands tangled together under the sheets. “Now try to get some rest.” 

“Okay, Mom,” Dean grumbled. 

“I certainly hope you don’t see me as an equivalent to your mother,” Cas said, slightly affronted, but teasing. 

Dean shoved gently at him, which caused his ribs to twinge painfully, but he ignored it. “No way in Hell.” 

“Good.” 

“Love you,” Dean said over a yawn as he squeezed Cas’s hand. 

“Love you, too.” 

Dean fell asleep with a smile on his face, despite the throbbing pain of his injured limbs. Cas was the only medicine he needed. 

tag list, ask to be added or removed 

@jellydeans @tearsofgrace @anotherdowneyfan1 @casgetoutofmyass0907 @angiecharmie @nines-in-the-tardis @fivefeetfangirl @medusasfavoritestatue  @casitosupremacia @lilac-void @wantstoflyafraidtofall @gayhuckleberryinatrenchcoat @thepixelagora @hermit-cas @thelahatiel  @multi-fandom-dark-lord @piebook67

[someonestolemyshoes]

Come to Me

This is my submission for @levihan-drabbles Trope Tuesday - I jumped firmly on the bandwagon and went with prompt #4: Injured/hurt Levi & caring Hange. Juuuust eeked inside the max word count, but I’ll take it! 

Warnings: This fic does contain some depictions of injury, nothing too graphic, but be aware if this is something that bothers you! 

**

“Who was it this time?”

Hange expected no answer. As such, they were unsurprised at receiving nothing but a grunt and a hiss as they pressed an alcohol-soaked swab to the apple of Levi’s cheek, where the flesh, feverishly red and swollen now, had split like a burst seam.

Only rarely did Levi disclose the particulars of his adventures, and never when prompted. Hange knew better than to press. It wasn’t their role to ask questions, but the silence quickly grew oppressive when left unattended, and Hange would much rather listen to the sound of their own voice than the stifling quiet.

“Do they at least look worse off than you do?” They asked, tilting Levi’s bruised jaw to angle him better beneath the hanging bulb. Levi gave another noncommittal grunt, this one accompanied by a shrug of his shoulder and a grimace that tugged at his bust lip. The forming scab cracked open, and a thin trail of blood dripped towards his chin.

He was quiet, tonight. Moreso than usual. It wasn't in Levi’s nature to divulge too much of anything, but he could be vocal, in his own way. Hange’s poking and prodding was most often met with a grumbled ‘mind your damn business’ or ‘keep your nose out of my shit’ and occasionally, when Hange was in a particularly obnoxious mood, ‘quit jamming your finger into my ribcage’.

There was none of that now. Levi remained perplexingly silent while Hange disinfected the open wounds on his face and knuckles, cleaning smeared blood and palpating the joints, checking the swollen flesh for signs of damage they couldn't hope to fix in their parents' tool shed.

This had been their routine for a little while, a semi-regular occurrence since the first night Hange had found him crumpled over a bench in the park, sucking wet breaths through his teeth and trying in vain to stem the blood flow from a yawning gash on his arm. He had colourfully refused Hange’s offer of calling him an ambulance, and had vehemently denied that he needed to see a doctor, but he had eventually resigned himself to at least allowing Hange to help however they could with the first aid kit in their kitchen and what little medical knowledge they had absorbed from their mothers medical journals.

He had been a relative stranger to Hange, then. They’d seen him around sometimes, in school corridors between classes, or in the lunch hall, or around the back of the science block, where Hange had caught glimpses of him sparking up or stubbing out a cigarette, but besides these sporadic sightings, Hange's knowledge of Levi came only from whispered rumours.

The rumours, more than anything, made Hange worry that this was not a solitary incident.

“Just come to me,” Hange had said, as they'd finished wrapping the bandage around his wounds. “If you need help again. I kinda like my evening walks, and I think it’d ruin my night if I found you dead next time.”

In truth, Hange hadn’t expected him to take their offer seriously at all. Shocked as they were to see him turn up bloody and bruised at their window, they had stayed true to their word. Levi had tolerated their needling questions with surprising resilience, but eventually acquiesced to give some vague answers when Hange had suggested that he might be involved in something highly illegal.

“You’re in a gang,” they’d said.

“Like hell.”

“Selling drugs?”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“I got it—human trafficking."  

“For fucks sake, four-eyes! I’m not—no, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Hange had accused him of every offense under the sun, but as it had turned out, there was nothing so terrible, nor so immoral or unlawful, about Levi’s affairs.  

“I just get in fights, sometimes. I live in a rough neighbourhood. Tensions are high, people snap easy.”

“Do you? Snap easily, I mean.” Levi had given her a noncommittal shrug.

“Depends,” he had said. “Whether something’s worth snapping over.”

Hange had never asked what held that kind of wealth, for Levi. He had a deceptively calm aura about him whenever Hange saw him in passing; a little grumpy perhaps, with his thin eyes and drawn brows and pouted lips, but he never exuded the crackling energy of a bomb ready to explode.

Now, though, he seemed stormy. There was an intermittent twitch in his jaw where the muscle bunched and flexed. Despite Hange's close proximity, sitting with their knees tucked between his splayed legs, his gaze remained resolutely fixed somewhere over their shoulder. His freshly bandaged fists rested clenched atop his thighs. There was a pallor to his skin, the sickly hue of it exacerbated by the fluorescent glow from above them; the angle of the light deepened the shadows beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. He looked, if possible, more sullen than Hange had ever seen him.

Perhaps more tenderly than intended, Hange smoothed their thumb over the last steristrip on Levi's cheek. Something in the softness of the action must have caught his attention, for he drew his gaze towards Hange's face for the first time since turning up tonight. Hange tilted their head at him.

"Are you okay?"

Levi scoffed. "Do I look okay?"

No, Hange thought. You never do. "You've looked better."

"I'm fine."

Hange fought the urge to roll their eyes.

"Like pulling teeth," they mumbled. Levi shot them a look, something petulant and withering. Hange poked their tongue out at him, and winced when he aimed a kick at their ankle.

"Stop being difficult," Levi said. Hange looked at him incredulously, chest swelling and cheeks puffing with indignation. Levi was watching them calmly now, his brow quirked, and Hange felt the futility of arguing with him before they even began. Instead, they blew out a long, calming breath, and began packing the first aid supplies back into the kit.

Silence swelled between them, broken only by the crinkle of plastic as Hange, perhaps with more force than necessary, jammed spare wipes, swabs and bandages into place.

For once, Levi broke it.

"Oi, Hange."

Hange, not looking up from repacking their first aid kit, huffed loudly, and tried their best to ignore him. In the end, though, curiosity won out. "Mm?"

"If—" Levi began, then cut himself off with a harsh huff, and ticked his tongue against his teeth. "If anyone bothers you. Come to me, okay?"

Hange looked up at him, surprised. Levi wasn't looking at them, head turned away and eyes cast down towards the floor.

They weren't friends, exactly. Outside of their strange arrangement, they never really spoke to one another. Hange had, once or twice, caught Levi watching them with a curious expression on his face, but he never spoke to them in public. Hange was mostly at ease with the whole thing. There was an itch of intrigue they longed to scratch, but Levi's responsiveness to questioning had already made itself well known. Excluding their meeting in the park, they had never shared a single word with one another beyond the confines of the tool shed. Why, then, would Levi expect Hange to approach him anywhere else?

"Why would anyone bother me?" It was an earnest question, but Levi met their questioning gaze with a scowl. He opened his mouth with the kind of frustrated ferocity that preceded an argument, then closed it again, and huffed through his nose.

"I heard some things," he said. Hange said nothing, only blinked openly at him, and Levi was pressed to fill the silence. "Someone saying shit. About you."

Hange's brows lifted towards their hairline. "Oh?"

Levi scuffed the toe of his boot over the floor, face twisted in a sneer. Hange found it difficult to tell where his disgust was aimed; at whatever conversation he had overheard, or at himself for bringing it up.

Hange shuffled forward in their chair, one of their knees bumping against the inside of Levi's thigh. His eyes flickered down to the point of contact, then up to Hange's face. Hange nudged his leg harder.

"C'mon, you can't say that and not tell me."  

When Levi showed no signs of budging, Hange sat up straighter and folded their arms over their chest. "At least tell me who."

Levi rolled his tongue between his cheeks, deliberating. His gaze flitted over Hange's face as though he was hoping he might find something reflected in it. Whether he found what he wanted Hange didn't know, but after a long moment, he slumped back in his chair and crossed his arms to match Hange, and said, with no absence of venom, "Zeke."

Ah. That at least explained some of Levi's seething. He and Zeke had a history. Hange was unclear on the details, and much of the story was based on rumours passed down in hushed whispers, morphing with each new retelling, but what was clear enough was that the two disliked one another. On Levi's part, it was all clenched fists and frosty glances, while Zeke carried himself with a mix of smug satisfaction and barely restrained resentment.

Still, Hange found it hard to believe that Zeke would have anything too terrible to say about them. Their communication had been inconsequential at best—he had an air of self importance that Hange found a little grating, and an overconfidence in his own opinions, but the handful of instances in which they'd spoken to one another hadn't been unpleasant. Hange told Levi so, and watched with interest as a hint of colour rose in his cheeks and his frown deepened.

"He's a creep," Levi said. Hange's brows arched even higher.

"What, did he threaten me?"

Levi said nothing.

"Is he gonna beat me up?" Still nothing. "Did he call me ugly? Say I smell bad?"

"You do smell bad."

"Did he perv on me?"

Levi's response was both fascinating and telling. He tensed visibly, spine snapping straight, fingers curling tight into his palms—even his thigh, still resting against Hange's knee, clenched hard. Hange's grin widened.

"Jackpot," they said. Levi curled his lip

"Well, I'm honoured by your chivalry, Levi. But you didn't have to pick a fight with him just because he thinks I'm hot. It's kinda flattering, you know?"

"He doesn't even mean it," Levi said harshly.  "He's just saying it because I—" but Levi cut himself off again, sharply, and pressed his lips into a thin line. The forming scab tugged, threatening to tear anew.

"Because you what?"

But Levi had had enough. He stood quickly, barely avoiding the low hanging bulb, his chair scraping back with a clatter. The new angle of the light cast his nose and brow into deep shadow, and illuminated his cheeks with a bright glow—despite the washed out look the light gave his skin, Hange could see twin strips of pink on either cheek.

"Thanks," he said. Hange blinked owlishly up at him, their mouth open. They wanted to press him, demand he finish saying what he'd started—and perhaps they would have, perhaps this time, curiosity would win out, and Hange would succeed in wrestling an answer from him for once, but he didn't give them the chance.

He ducked around the bulb and moved to brush past Hange's chair and out the door. Beside them, he stuttered in step and paused; Hange thought—hoped—that perhaps he might be debating telling them the full story. He opened his mouth, and closed it again, opened, and snorted quietly to himself.

Then he raised a bandaged hand, and ruffled it into the messy hair atop Hange's head.

"Thanks," he said.

And before Hange could speak, could move, could do much of anything but stare ahead in shock, Levi had gone.

**

If, come the following morning, Hange was at all surprised to see the cuts and bruises colouring Zeke's face—a rather delightful collage of red and purple, black, and blue—they hid it very well.

Levi's self-satisfied smirk was far less subtle.

[nyxicnymph]

The Curse On Hyrule

A Zelink Angst fic based off of some angsty theories for BoTW2.

Enjoy. Or not.

Link gasped for breath, bending over. Dammit, he was so close!

Stupid curses. Stupid magic. Stupid Calamity.

Link reached for the Master Sword with his right hand, before flinching and switching hands. He stared down at both his arms, the right black and blacker, with hints of green, and blue, and that stupid magenta. The left, shaking with the weight of the Master Sword, used to bearing shields or supporting longer weapons, but not wielding a weapon by itself. Link snorted at the irony.

He stood up, ignoring how more than half of his body almost wouldn't obey him. He had to get to Zelda.

Zelda, who knows everything. Zelda, who was close by. Zelda, who had fallen into that abyss at the time. Zelda, who had already been traumatized by one bearer of the cu-

Link cut that train of thought off. He raised his sword, using the shaky light to illuminate his path. He knew she was close. He could feel her. He would shout, but he couldn't.

The closer he got, the quicker he moved. He could feel the curse growing, gaining control of his right side. And moving faster, as if it could feel that the possible end to it's goal was close.

Link almost passed the opening, and had to use the Master Sword to keep himself from moving forward. He entered the cavern cautiously, scanning for traps and monsters. Surprisingly, and suspiciously, there were neither.

Link rushed to the huddled mass in the dark corner, reaching out to her, to let her know he was there, that he needed her help. Then he stopped.

The last time he touched a dark mass in a dark cavern, well. He'd ended up cursed, losing the l- Princess of Hyrule, and accidentally reshaping the entirety of the continent.

He opted for another way. He sheathed the sword, then tapped the sheathed sword against the princess.

She jumped up, battle ready, her golden locks framing her determined face, and backlit by her unlocked power glowing from her right hand. The power faded as she lowered her hand, and her face melted in relief.

"Link!" She leapt forward as if to hug him, but Link sidestepped her. When the princess turned to face him, hurt evident on her face, he lifted his right hand to eye level, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

Zelda's own eyes widen as she took in the sight. "W-what happened to you, Link? Is this my fault? Is that why you-?" She choked up.

Link hurriedly shook his head. He pulled out his sheikah slate and pulled up an image of the corpse that started it all.

Zelda's face turned from concern to horror as it sunk in, and she fell to her knees. "No," she whispered softly. "No, it can't be. It doesn't... Does it?" She buried her face in her hands. "We have to fix this. There has to be a way."

Link wanted to help her up. His heart ached to see her that way, broken, on the floor, lost. But he can't touch her. He hadn't touched anyone since the curse, not even his enemies. He sure wasn't going to touch her.

He'd hate himself.

Zelda stood up, and brushed off her pants. "We'll figure this out. Have you gone to see Impa yet?"

Link shook his head. Zelda had and always would be his first priority, and she seemed to gather that.

"Well, then let's start with that. Impa has a good head on her shoulders, she should know what to do. And if she doesn't, she might have an idea." Zelda started walking, and Link, loyal as ever, followed behind.

<Kakariko Village>

"Have you tried using your power, Princess?" Impa suggested, grabbing Zelda's attention away from whatever she'd been glaring at.

"What? My power?"

"If my theory is correct, this curse...."

Link lost track of the conversation, trying to figure out what Zelda had been glaring at so intensely a moment ago. He glanced up the staircase to see Paya disappearing.

Oh.

The knight returned to the side of the princess, but didn't meet her eyes. He didn't want his mind to go down that road, for the sake of the worst-case scenario.

"Link, are you listening?" Impa's harsh voice pulled him out of his thoughts. Link nodded, and Impa scoffed. "You and the princess are going to the field overlooking the Zora domain, and she is going to try to remove your curse. Follow her instructions." Impa turned to Zelda. "Remember. Do not touch him, unless you are absolutely sure it has been removed."

Zelda nodded resolutely. "Understood."

At the field, Zelda and Link stood facing each other, all alone in a sea of green. Even the deer were gone. Link was surprised that the field remained, instead of being hoisted into the sky like many other parts of Hyrule had been.

Zelda cleared her throat. "Link, I have to see how far the curse has progressed." Link looked at her blankly, and Zelda averted her eyes. "You need to remove your shirt."

Link nodded, and did as the princess commanded, but slowly. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this. He hadn't wanted her to see how much of him had been taken over.

He hadn't wanted her to see him turning into a monster before her eyes.

"Link, I-" she stammered as she looked at his torso, two thirds blackened, and the remaining third crossed over with angular patterns. "I don't know what to say. How did it get this bad?"

Link signed that he thought it was hastened by activity against it, but he wasn't sure.

Zelda sighed, tears evident. "I pray this works. Lanayru help us." She raised her right hand, and it glowed.

Link closed his eyes, and opened his arms, as if to embrace the power that washed over him in the next second. He felt cold, then warmth, then a feeling like his nerves were tiny lightning bolts. Then it all faded.

"No!"

Link's eyes snapped open to see Zelda kneeling on the ground, her hands covering her mouth, and tears streaming down her face. He looked down and saw his torso had been completely blackened, and the hints of green, blue, and magenta were stronger than before.

"This was supposed to work!" The princess cried. "It was supposed to cure you! To cleanse you! What good-" She choked on a sob. "What good is this power if it can't even save my l- loyal knight?!"

Link knelt beside her, trying to comfort her with his presence, since he couldn't hold her. He signed:

I'm still here, princess. We will figure this out.

Zelda cried a while more, before wiping her tears away. "Let's go to the temple at the plateau. Maybe we will get a hearing from the goddess, and she will help us."

Link nodded. This was as close to a back-up plan as they had.

<The Temple, Great Plateau>

The sun shone on the two small forms kneeling in front of the large goddess statue. The figure on the right begging frantically, her tears soaking the stone beneath, and the figure on the left, silently crying as well, but more focused on his fingers than anything else.

How long until the left hand matched the right? Link knew it wasn't that long. He could feel the curse slipping through the veins and muscles of his left bicep, curling around his elbow.

He had to get Zelda away from him before he was completely taken over.

He sat up, which drew Zelda's attention. They turned to face each other, and Zelda looked at him questioningly. Link hesitatingly lifted his hands up, and signed:

I need you to run. Away from me. I'm afraid it's too late.

His hands movements were jerky, some of them uncoordinated. He almost couldn't control his own limbs, and Zelda noticed.

"No, Link! Even if you're consumed, I won't leave you! It's my fault we were down there! And so it's my fault you were cursed!" Her tears dropped, splattering the floor between them.

Link's own tears fell as he signed, And I can't have you being hurt because of me!

"But it's my fault!"

You're the only one who can stop me, Princess! You're the next most worthy of the Master Sword! Link signed in frustration, trying to get her to see his point.

"The... The Master Sword? Why?"

Because the Master Sword will be the only thing capable of killing me.

Zelda stood up and shook her head. "No! I refuse! I- There has to be another way! I will not kill you!"

You have to. Or Hyrule is doomed.

Zelda spun away. "I refuse to listen anymore! You will be fine! You-" She cut herself off when she heard a thud.

She gasped when she saw Link on the floor. "Link!" She halted her dash forward when a dark shadow came over the temple. She looked up and saw the clouds were purple.

She made to run to Link anyway, until he stopped her with a single sign.

No.

She saw the curse creeping up his neck, and she ran up to him regardless. "I refuse to let it end like this!" She told him as she grabbed him under the arms and tried to pull him away.

Zelda, please, for my sake, run!

"No!"

Zelda, please!

"I won't leave you!" She screamed, tears and sweat mingling on her face as she pulled him out of the temple.

You must! Link signed as the curse covered his chin.

"I'm not leaving you, so stop trying to make me!"

Zelda, you have to leave!

"Why are you so insistent I leave?!" Zelda cried as his body slid from her fingertips and hit the ground once more.

With incredibly, increasingly uncooperative fingers Link signed:

Because I love you.

The eyes of the knight met the eyes of the princess, and something passed between them. Link saw the fire in her gaze and knew he had said the wrong thing, but had no idea what. Zelda found confirmation of what she had been suspecting for months.

As the curse consumed Link, and the Master Sword fell to the ground, Zelda stepped forward. She picked up the sword, and felt it hum deep in her bones. She knew what she had to do.

Or rather, what was good for all of Hyrule.

"I've sacrificed myself for Hyrule once already!" She screamed at the sky. "Why should I do it again?!"

She threw aside the sword, and grabbed Link. "If you won't stay with me, than I'm going with you! I never want to be separated from you again! I owe you my life a hundred times over! I refuse to let it end like this!"

She pressed her lips to his, and refused to separate, even as she felt the curse flowing into her own body, moving faster than it had before.

As Princess Zelda died, she prayed one last time for a hero to save Hyrule. One worthy to wield the Master Sword, and stronger than she.

And if Hyrule wasn't saved?

Well, that's what the new calamities were hoping for, after all.

And thus fell the Hope, Princess, and Kingdom of Hyrule.

[nazyalenskyism]

Shadows in My Mind

Summary: It wasn't supposed to happen like this, not yet. A/N: I really don't know how to tag this fic but it's been sitting in my drafts for a few months and I hope you like it! As always feedback appreciated, and thanks for taking the time to read! <3 The rest of the fic is under the cut!

Ao3: Shadows in My Mind

        “No,” she hissed, pressing all of her weight into her hands but the pallor of his skin kept worsening despite her efforts. “No. Hey. Stay awake!” Zoya snapped, tapping his cheek with her blood stained fingers. She fought back a wince as she left scarlet prints on his face, his unfocused eyes fluttering open at the sharp pain she’d dealt him. “I won’t let you leave me, you idiot. You’re not allowed to leave.” Zoya couldn’t even summon the horror that would usually wash over her when tears rose in her eyes. She rarely let them fall, but now, they streamed down her face as her best efforts yielded no results. She continued pushing down on the wound, feeling Nikolai’s weary gaze on her when she paused for a moment, using her Squallers’ abilities to throw her voice, calling for someone, anyone, even though she knew there would be no answer. ‘This can’t be how this ends,’  Zoya let herself despair for a moment before turning back to Nikolai,  ‘he was supposed to have more time.’ She steeled herself, ripping off a sleeve of her bloodied and torn shirt, pressing it into the wound. Her bones were tired, her powers screaming, she wanted nothing more than to curl up on the ground and close her eyes, but she couldn’t afford that-- not until she’d saved Nikolai. ‘If I save him, then everything will be fine.’ 

        “Okay,” she whispered, “okay, we can do this. I just have to reapply pressure before I get you onto your feet.” She reached out, faltering when warm fingers wrapped around her wrist. Nikolai looked up at her, pale, bloodied and beaten, but his eyes were still bright. “Nikolai you need to stand up, if you can walk, we’ll do that, or I’ll carry you.” ‘Whatever it takes,’ she thought, trying to pull herself from his grip, but he was surprisingly strong. 

        “Zoya,” he said hoarsely, “it’s no use, dear.”

        “No,” she snapped, looking at him incredulously, “you’re always the one babbling on about hope and optimism, you do not get to tell me it’s futile. Not now,” but in her heart, she realized that she was at yet another funeral, being left behind again. He was going to leave her. He had promised that he would come back. He was leaving her.

        “Nazyalensky,” Nikolai muttered, fingers brushing away the tears that had spilled from her eyes. “Don’t shed tears for me, I don’t like seeing you cry.”

        “Well I don’t like seeing you--” she broke off, she couldn’t do this. 

        “Hey,” he said softly, “I need you to go back to the others, there’s a document with the finance minister, and another with Tolya. I need you to put them into action immediately, don’t give anyone a chance to hurt our country.”

        ‘Our country’. “You’re not thinking about Ravka, not right now.” 

        “I’m running low on moments,” he replied, and to her horror his eyes were shining too. 

        “We can try,” she insisted, “we can’t be too far from the others.” 

        “No,” he said firmly, “I’m fine where I am. I need you to do something for me.” She nodded without hesitation and he continued, “let’s pretend we’re an old married couple.” 

        “What?” Zoya croaked.

        “Tell me a lie. Tell me it will be alright,” his eyes were wide, imploring.

        She pulled on her best guise, what he’d taught her, how to play the part. “Don’t be daft, of course you’ll be fine. You think that your best general would let you d--” she choked back a sob. “That she would let you die? No, you’re going to make it back to the camp, and the healers will patch you up perfectly, or else they’ll have me to deal with. You’ll ride back to a capital on your favourite horse in your best coat, the victorious king of a resilient country.”

        “Will there be a ball in my honour?” the corners of his lips pulled up, “I would’ve loved to dance with every lady in the country.”

        “Of course,” she replied, clinging on to the moment, this moment that was just them as if nothing was wrong, as if this was not their last moment like this. “They’ll write ballads in your honour, and perform hours into the night, the festivities will last for weeks, until you can’t stomach any more parties. All the ladies will be fawning over a chance to dance with their handsome king” 

        “Handsome?” he let out a laugh, wincing immediately, clutching at the wound in his side. Zoya carefully peeled his hand back, replacing it with her own over the injury. She tried not to think about how feverish his skin was under her hand, how his blood had soaked through the fabric of her balled shirt sleeve. ‘I need to remember everything about this moment.’

        “Yes. Handsome.”

        His eyes found hers, a steadfast sincerity behind them. “You’re forgetting how the king may dance with every woman in the country, but the entire evening, his eyes will only be on one.”

“You will meet a nice girl, fall hopelessly in love, have too many children to inherit your throne, and you will grow old with a family and country that love you as you deserve, ” Zoya continued, attempting to ignore his words, the look in his eyes. 

        “The woman whose name the wind whispers in his dreams.”

        She pushed on, “you will be a fantastic king, you will--”

        “And if he never summoned the courage to follow his heart, he would spend every day of the rest of his life wondering what could have been if he had been able to make a queen out of his ruthless general.” 

        “Nikolai--”

        “Zoya,” he whispered, “I fear that I don’t have much time left. Can I ask of one more favour from you?”

        “I thought kings never begged.” She bit out as Nikolai pushed aside new tears, his hand warm against her cheek.

        He gave her a sad smile, “is it truly begging when asking something of a queen? If not, then it will be our secret.” His voice was growing fainter with each word and Zoya felt her heart lurching. She was not ready. ‘Help me’ she implored to the dragon inside her, but the Saints were quiet, like they always were. No one would be coming to save her, they never did.

        She nodded resolutely, “what do you need?” 

        “Will you kiss me sweetly? In my dreams you always do, and this seems like nothing if not a dream of mine.” 

        “Nikolai you--”

        “Nazyalensky, humour me please. I know you don’t share my sentiments but--” 

        He was cut off as Zoya dipped down, pressing her lips against his fiercely with years worth of longing, hope, desperation combined with her heart’s mournful goodbye to a future they would never see. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, kissing her harder until she felt like she couldn’t breathe. 

        She pulled back slightly, her forehead resting against his. “That was sweeter than I ever dreamed,” he said quietly. 

        Zoya took his hand in hers, “don’t go.” 

        “I have to,” his voice was barely there now. She drew back, his fluttering eyelids racking another sob from her chest. “I’ll see you again one day, I hope.” He pushed open his eyes, gazing at her intently, as if struggling to commit each detail to memory, to hold onto the picture for a moment longer. “Don’t forget me.” Nikolai drew their intertwined hands towards him, pressing a brief kiss against her knuckles. 

        “I won’t.” 

        “I know,” he smiled up at her, before closing his eyes. “I’m only going to take a short nap, Zoya dear. Wake me up when our friends are here.”

        She was fully weeping now, “I will, Nikolai. I will.” 

        The world was quiet for a few moments, Nikolai’s slowing breaths the only sound. 

        Then, as quick as sleep, he was gone. 

        For a shining moment, she didn’t believe it, but it shattered all too quickly when she pressed her fingers to his neck. Nothing. He was truly gone.

        “No, no, no,” she murmured, throwing herself over his warm body, crying out as she felt the wind knock out of her chest, her lungs aching from impact. A searing bright light and stars engulfed her vision and she fell back, breathless, cold, smooth tile delivering another blow to her battered body. 

        She blinked rapidly, attempting to right herself, her surroundings only just beginning to register in her mind. She was in a secret cell hidden behind the Darkling’s, now Nikolai’s war room in the Little Palace. It was the place that they were keeping the Darkling— or at least had been— until he had escaped, wreaking havoc and delivering the fatal blow to Nikolai.

        ‘Nikolai,’ Zoya thought, scrambling to her feet despite the pain. How had she gotten here? She had been in the middle of a barren battlefield, her body thrown over her king’s lifeless one… had she been captured? Where was his body? Zoya glanced down at the broken skin on her hands that had braced her fall backwards. They were clean, no trace blood. She frowned, her shirt was whole, her kefta clasped overtop of it. Last she’d remembered, it had been torn off her back as she fought in battle. Looking up, Zoya found a chair that had toppled over laying at her feet, and a metal table before her, and behind it, was the Darkling, a predatory smile playing at his lips.

        “Did you like that little dream?” his voice was as smooth as glass, his hands bound together before him. “All those tears for your little boy king, did you cry like that for me, Zoya?”

        She said nothing, her head still fuzzy. ‘What was happening?’

        “No,” he continued, his eyes fixed on her, trying to gauge her emotions. She knew this game, he found the gaps in your armor and twisted the knife until you were writhing on the floor and he was satisfied with his work. “I don’t suppose you did, you were pretending to hate me at the time, what with the way that you turned against me,” he sneered, raising an eyebrow at her unflinching demeanor. So it had all been fake? Then why did it feel so real? She could feel Nikolai’s lifeless presence over her like an enormous weight, even now. 

        “What was that?” Zoya asked, pushing to make her tone as even as possible. Her fingers dug into her crossed arms, forcing herself to stay in place. She needed answers, she couldn’t afford to run out of the room and make sure that Nikolai was actually okay. As her head cleared, she began to remember what had happened. She’d volunteered to try to get the Darkling to talk, she hadn’t wanted anyone else to have to deal with him. It was her fault that he was back and she refused to let him hurt her friends again. Nikolai had been hesitant, and the look he’d given her at the meeting was puzzling. She had assumed it was because of the story she’d told him that night in the Fold, about what the Darkling had said to her. But now, after whatever she had just experienced, she wasn’t so sure.

        “That,” the Darkling began, pulling Zoya’s attention back to him. “That was a little glimpse into your future.”

        Zoya rolled her eyes, unable to help herself, “let me guess, that’s what’ll happen if I don’t let you go?” 

        “No,” he leaned back in his chair, “it’s inevitable now, that’s the only outcome left after what you and your prince did in the fold.”

        “King,” she replied absently. She didn’t believe him for a second, but the vision had been so real-- she could still feel Nikolai’s blood on her hands, his lips pressing against hers, his lack of a pulse under her frantic fingers. It wasn’t real, and it wasn’t her future. The Saints hadn’t been able to determine this for her and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let the man in front of her try to. 

        “So it can’t be stopped then?” 

        He looked up at her, “oh noble Zoya, so desperate to save everyone. First it was those cubs, then your aunt, Juris, and now the Lantsov pup. As much as you try, they all die in the end. The sooner you learn that, the easier it will be.”

        ‘No. No. You don’t let him play these games.’  Her inner thoughts were echoed by the dragon inside of her, and it took everything to stop herself from slamming the Darkling’s face into the table. As she took a step towards him, planning her next move with blood roaring in her ears, the door behind her flung open. 

        “Zoya, we need you.”

        She frowned, she needed answers. “ Give me a minute,” she called.

        “Now, Commander.” 

        “Ask your little king how he felt about that vision.”

        Zoya spun around on him, unable to hide her shock. “You showed it to him?

        “Why don’t you ask him what it felt like to die? He should remember that feeling, it’s going to happen again sooner than later.”

        Zoya forced her feet out the door, slamming it behind her as she followed Tolya into the viewing room, where a mirror looked out at their prisoner. 

        “What is it?”

        “What happened in there? You froze, and the next thing I knew you were crashing to the ground.”

        She waved him off impatiently, her heart still racing from the Darkling’s parting words, “where’s Nikolai?”

        “He’s with Ehri in the gardens, why?”

        “Go check,” she said, her chest tightening, “go check on them now.”

        “What’s wrong?” he asked, briefly touching her arm. His face was full of concern and Zoya couldn’t take anymore heartbreak now. She couldn’t imagine the possibility that anything might take her friends from her.

        “I’m fine,” she snapped. “Go now, and check on David and Genya and Tamar too, that’s an order.”

        He shot her another puzzled look before leaving her alone in the observation room, while the quiet slowly began to consume her. She didn’t order her friends around, not like that, but with every passing second she felt more of her control slip away. Her heart was full of pain, she couldn’t see anything but red.

        He’s fine, it’s alright. They’re all unharmed. But it wasn’t enough. She sank to the floor, knees drawn to her chest, numb as the dream repeated itself again and again in her mind. All the while her king strolled through the gardens, entertaining his future queen at his side, unaware that all she could feel was his lifeless body under her, as she watched him die over and over again.

[spinster-sisters]

Sunflower. Pt.2 LTY

Warnings: there is some mild sexy time thing but lemme tell you this relationship is toxic as fuck and get pretty heavy on the verbal fights so please don’t read if you are senstive to this kind of stuff.

THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY OLD BLOG

The minutes ticked slowly by on the clock.

You didn’t dare check the time, scared of how late it was, and how early you had to wake up in the morning. You were now in your senior year at university, and it took no genius to notice you had been somewhat distracted over the past year or so. And your grades took the fall for it, so here you were at the ungodly hours of the night, juggling fixing your grades and working at your part-time job.

And speaking of distractions, you hadn’t seen Taeyong in 5 days. He, as far as you knew, was in a similar boat, having put off school in favor of parties and drinking, he was somewhat distant to everyone that past week or so. You are fairly certain that the only people who he has even seen the past couple of days are his two best friends, Johnny and Jaehyun.

You had met them both a couple of times before, and they were very similar to Taeyong himself, though you had to admit, they were a bit nicer. But you had never gotten to close with them, certainly not close enough to ask about their friend. (Who you weren’t even dating)

As the hours went by you found your mind straying farther and farther away from the material of the book laid out in front of you, instead of to the beautiful man who had your heart. You were worried about him, you missed him. Your mind thought of the last time you had seen him. It had been at the last college football match, and since you hung around in similar circles your two groups of friends often sat near each other at these kinds of things. Not that he sat next to you, no way in hell. He kept his distance laughing and joking with his friends, barely glancing your direction. But you hardly even looked at the game, instead choosing to watch the expressions of the heavenly man only a few rows away. He had been wearing a graphic T, which had hung loosely of his lean shoulders,  and was tucked into his jeans. Your friends sitting next to you would elbow you in the ribs now and then notify you of something happening in the game, but not even the roaring crowd of thousands of happy college students could make you drag your eyes away from Taeyong as he jumped up, elated like his friends.

As the game came to a close you pleaded silently that the two groups of friends would stay together for the after-party, but your roommate (the person most aware of your infatuation) pulled you away from the festivities reminding you of the many hours of homework ahead of you that evening.

The party, you heard, was an eventful one. There were whispers through the grapevine that some disgruntled players from the opposing school found their way to the party and (though there are about 15 different versions of the story) Taeyong was the main reason 2 of them left with a black eye. You don’t know how much you believe that, Taeyong was many things but violent was not one of them, but it worried you none the less. Especially since he has been MIA since that night. I mean, what if he got hurt? What if he was in the hospital?

You pulled your mind out of the speeding train of thought. Your eyes were burning after staring at the pages of your textbook in the dim light for so long, and lateness of the hour only added to the heaviness of your lids. Not to mention the hard surface of your cheap desk and chair were a great discomfort to your aching bones after the long shift you had finished not 4 hours before. You finally gave yourself the relife of rubbing your bloodshot eyes and stretching your crackling spine. Now you looked at the clock next to you on the cheap yellow wood of your desk.

2:13 am.

As though the number themselves triggered it, you opened your mouth in a shaking yawn that moved its way through your body in waves.  The exhaustion and desire for sleep were so severe you wondered whether you would make it all the way to your bed about 4 feet away. After coming to the realization that continuing to stare blankly again at your textbook would change nothing, you moved to stand up, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back side to side feeling the pleasant cracks. But your movements twords your bed were halted by your phone notification flashing. Lifting your phone closer to your head, straining your tired eyes you read. It was a simple question from your friend about your plans the next day (something you planned on replying to tomorrow morning) but the alert sent a thought to your brain.

Maybe you should call him.

You don’t know why this came into your head, it’s not like he had the best track record for answering you, and it’s not like he is likely to respond after being away for so long. But your earlier thoughts and fears resurfaced in your head, enough so that you typed out a quick message to the man and sent it before you could think twice:

To: Taeyong

“Hey, don’t know where you’ve been but I missed you”

[2:15 am]

The train car stank slightly and rumbled severely, but the giddiness bubbling in your tummy at the thought of the day out with those closest to you had all negative thoughts pushed out of your mind. Soon the monotone robotic voice sounded over the PA informing you of your arrival. Your roommate took the both of you by the arms and safely guided the three of you off the stain and above ground. Though it was still early morning the sun shown brilliantly against the glass windows of the surrounding buildings.

Pushing the thoughts out of your brain you crawled into your bed.

———————————

The plans you and your friend had for the day was simple, heading into the city your campus was on the outskirts of. Both of you had been spending the past two weeks working your asses off so as a reward you, your best friend and your roommate were now sitting on the subway heading to the heart of the city.

Besides time and a meeting place, you and your two companions had no real plan for the day, instead, allowing the day to take you where it will. As the sun moved through the sky so did your group through the city, going from shop to shop or park to park, even possibly a wedding reception (though your roommate dragged you and your friend away before it could be considered “wedding crashing”)

As the day drew to a close, the sun finally falling behind the towers, your best friend had the sudden idea to do something daring. The day had been an all-round success and had even managed to keep Taeyong out of your mind for the past few hours which was a feat in itself, so you decided to indulge your friend and ask her what she had in mind.

You were stopped at a street corner outside a quaint looking coffee shop and the time for nightlife was just beginning. The three of you were stood in a circle and as your friend spoke she leaned in, giving her words a childish giddy tone.

“Let’s get tattoos!” she spoke in a whispered shout. You scoffed at the idea leaning back in disbelief.

“Why would I spend my hard-earned money to have someone draw on my skin?” you asked allowed, expecting to have your roommate, ever the sensible one, back you up. But after being met with silence your head whipped to her to see the pensive yet optimistic look on her face.

“Oh no, don’t tell me you’re ok with this?” You asked in disbelief, gesticulating madly in her direction. She gave you a sheepish smile and said;

“Well, it is our last year of undergrad, might as well do something to remember it” all the while speaking with a bashful smile on her face.

“What?!” you could not believe the words you were hearing. Looking back and forth between your two friends did nothing to ease the confusion on your head. But after staring at them for a minute, them looking determined, you spoke;

“I’ll come with you but don’t expect me to get anything” you spoke resolutely. At this your friend, the initiator of the idea refuted,

“No, absolutely not, we are doing this together or not at all!”  She looked defiant.

The longer you considered the darker it got and as much as you didn’t want to admit it you had been sort of detached from the people closest to you because of Taeyong and it sounded nice to be apart of the group again. You continued to mull it over for a few more moments before speaking apprehensively.

The day was now over and you were comfortably laying on your bed sprawled out over the covers like a starfish with a content smile etched onto your lips as you watched the blades of your ceiling fan revolve, listening to the gentle hum of voices from whatever your roommate was listening to in her room.

“Fine, something small”

———————

The parlor had been intimidating and severe but after walking out with a small sunflower tattoo on your right ribs (easily concealable in the future)  you felt like a new woman. The three of you pilled into the nearest public restroom to take an Instagram picture of your new “Ink” (as your friend so childishly put)

The peace was broken however when the blaring sound of your ring tone sounded through the room. Your heart jumped at the initial sound but you quickly calmed and reached out to answer it. Whatever spike your heart received at the ringtone was nothing compared to the jolt at the name flashing on your screen:

Taeyong

You stared blankly at it for a few moments before rushing to answer it, practically shooting upright on your bed while bringing your phone to your ear. The eagerness that boiled inside of you whenever you were around the beautiful man grew as you awaited the sound of his voice.

“Hello?” you said almost too quickly before the call completely connected. You half expected the kind of brooding silence he usually gave you to build anticipation when he called you for sex, but instead, he spoke almost as quickly as you did.

“Let me in” the voice was not the smooth or a rich as honey as it usually was, in fact, it was almost coarse and rough. But this fact did nothing to stop the growing need in your heart knowing he was so close.

You barely choked out a ‘sure’ before running to meet him. The fact you were barely covered in an oversized t-shirt you bought yourself and underwear and the fact that you did not tell your roommate what was happening did not cross your mind as your body acted practically of its own accord, flinging your front door open and running down the several flights of stairs to the main door. Only when you reached the main entrance did the state of your dress and the lateness of the hour occur to you. But you didn’t have time to be embarrassed with Taeyong on the other side of the door. Panting you pulled open the door.

The sight of him was as beautiful as always, to you, he carried a glow around him that made him stand out from everyone else. Your mind already fogging over from the proximity after being apart for so long. While you were starstruck at the sight of him, his eyes only narrowed as he looked you up and down once before shoving his way through the door. dazed, you allowed him to drag you wordlessly back up to your apartment by the vice grip he held on your wrist. The entire way up the stairs your eyes did not leave his back. Even in the thick hoodie he was wearing your eyes could almost see where the toned muscles of his back would be if you could see them, your mouth watered at the thought and your head swam with the desire to hold him as close to your body as possible. Taeyong gave you no such opportunity, instead of keeping himself at least 2 steps ahead of you, dragging you limply behind him.

When you finally made it back through the threshold of your apartment Taeyong kicked the door closed behind him a continued the pull you twords your room. Your roommate called out, “Y/N? What’s going on?” from her room, clearly still preoccupied with the TV show she was watching. You awoke from your daze the tinnies bit but before you could answer Taeyong spoke loudly in response:

“None of your damn business”

Pulling open the door to your room pushing you in ahead of him and slamming the door so forcefully you briefly thought it might break off the wall. Distantly, as though it was coming from underwater, you heard your roommate scoff as though unsurprised. But this was inconsequential to you right now, all your mind seemed to fully understand was Taeyong standing before you with a scowl etched on to his perfect features.

Normally Taeyong would take his time working you up to near insanity before acting but tonight he was a man on a mission, merely pushing you back onto the bed. You instinctively slid back till your back hit the wall but your eyes did not leave his. Honestly, it was rare to have his full undivided attention even when he was toying with you, but the penetrative stare made you feel as though he could see every inch of your body with x-ray vision and the sensation was intoxicating.

Taeyong wasted no time in climbing on top of you and caging your head between his arms. Your head was swimming, Taeyong, his weight pressing down on you and, his heavenly musk being the only thing any of your five senses you perceive. Your heart was racing a mile a minute and your throat constricted the closer he got. You’re sure he could feel the eagerness radiating off your body.

Taeyongs hand slid from their place on the mattress to the hem of your shirt and in one quick motion he pulled it off. An instant cold hit your now exposed chest, but after a year of encounters with Taeyong, you knew better than to cover your now hardening nipples from the cold air. But Taeyong didn’t seem to notice or care about your compliance with his tastes and rules, instead, his eyes were fixed, unmoving from the dark lines etched into your skin covered by the clear wrappings. His eyes swam with unrecognizable emotions but you, who are so attuned to him, knew after only a few seconds that he was not pleased with what he saw.

Your heart sank and dread-filled your chest, in a childish attempt to keep him from looking so disapprovingly at the mark you moved your hand to cover it. But the damage had been done.

The disapproving look did not leave his eyes as they slowly moved from the inky skin upwards to your hardening nipples. A low rumble came out of his chest as he moved you farther back onto the bed placing his body between your automatically parting legs. He moved his head closer and began leaving bites and bruises on your neck and chest.

You were in euphoria as the feeling of his wet plush lips moved up and down on your neck, leaving a cold slick trail in their wake. It did not take much for Taeyong to get you keening with desire, and though this was not his usual tactic of reducing you to putty by merely his words before even laying a finger on you, it was still working like a charm. As you looked down at your bodies pressed together and his beautiful hands sliding up and down your torso you had a feeling that he could feel the slick in your panties and the heat radiating off of them.

Eventually, Taeyong pulled back just enough to watch your expressions, one hand slowly slid from its place on your waist up your body to the roots of your hair, and the other slid lower, trailing the skin above your panties briefly before slipping into them. At first, he did nothing but stare at you. You were panting with anticipation, practically mewling at the mere thought of him. You are sure the desperation could be seen in your eyes, but you didn’t care, you wanted him to know how much he means to you especially in this way where no other man could give you the same satisfaction.

His hand was cold where it sat securely cupping your heat, your body started to buck slightly into his hand, pleading him to just do something.

“How badly do you need it?” He questioned allowed in a surprisingly amused voice. You whined out a response and bucked your hips once more into his hand.

“That’s, not an answer baby,” He remarked casually as the heat the pooled in your abdomen burned even stronger, sweat was beginning to form on your brow as your body worked itself up into a fervor. You wanted him more than anything you have ever wanted before. Your head swam with thoughts, but the only discernable thing in them was the face of the godly man before you, who glowed in the yellow lights of your bedroom.

“I need it so bad Tae” You spoke, your voice came out raspy.

“And who do you want to give it to you?”  He asked, finally moving his hand the slightest bit to slid between your folds. Your breath hitched so severely that you nearly choked. And when one long slender finger found it’s purchase providing your entrance you lost the ability to breathe at all.

It felt like you had done hard drugs with how intensely your mind spun. Every inch of your body tingled with desire for Taeyong.

“You, Taeyong, please” You pleaded so desperately, closing your eyes to shield yourself from the powerful glow that radiated off of him. But just when you thought he would grace you with the pleasure you so desperately desired, his hand pulled away and out of your panties abruptly. A pitiful whine so long and drawn out it was shameful, escaped your lips as your body attempted to curl in on itself to fill the spot where Taeyongs hand was not moments ago, but his lean body was still positioned over yours keeping you in place. The hand that had been in your hair tightened dangerously as he forced your dazed eyes to meet his clear ones.

“So just to be clear,” he spoke in his scarily dominating voice, “You need me” He spoke every word with such a definitive tone. Your eyes had gone wide in shock after the initial stupor and feeling of emptiness subsided. You pressed your back into the mattress and nodded at him, after all, it was true.

Taeyong leaned back onto his heels, still kneeling on the bed, still keeping you securely beneath him.

“When I saw it on Instagram I hoped it was a joke.” He stated plainly, crossing his arms after gesturing vaguely to the marks on your stomach. The disappointment that dripped from every word made you want to crawl deeper and deeper into the blankets. You had disappointed him, you shouldn’t have let your friends talk you into getting it.

“And to think I was going to reward you next time I saw you.”  you burned with embarrassment.

“And what exactly were you thinking” He accused, leaning back over you with a severity you had never heard in his voice. The shame was unbearable.

“Marking up your skin?” He nearly spat at you. You felt awful like you had failed him, the only person who mattered to you at all. But in his next words, his voice shifted to a sickly sweet tone.

“My baby girl doing something like this without asking me?” He asked allowed as if it was a scandalizing thing for you to do.

But his words caused something to snap in you. You were coming down from the dazed high that seemed to permeate your brain whenever Taeyong was around. You felt hurt and cut deep, and possibly for the first time, a twinge of anger rose in your chest as his accusatory glare still shown down on you.  

Your face hardened as the anger rose. Fuck this.

You forced yourself into a sitting position and pulled your discarded shirt over your head. Taeyong was thrown off balance by this and fell slightly onto the bed. His face held shock but anger was still the predominant emotion as he pushed himself off the bed to stand on the floor in front of you.

You had never acted out against him before so both of you seem equally surprised at your actions and certainly, neither of you knew what you were going to do next. Your brain was still quite a bit fuzzy but was gaining clarity quickly but the only thing you truly felt at this moment was, for the first time, you wanted Taeyong out. So that’s what you went with.

“Leave” you demanded simply, breaking eye contact with his smoldering gaze. Even as you spoke a significant portion of your hear was calling out to you to stop. To not let yourself push away the man you craved so intently. Taeyong made no move to leave only raising an eyebrow. You could tell that he was not taking you seriously, as he never has, so you repeated yourself, firmer and meeting his eyes.

“Leave”

“I’m not going to do that” he replies cooly, it was clear to him that he still held the power in this interaction and he was determined to keep it.

“Now how bout you tell me what’s bothering you so I can get back to dealing with this little act of defiance,” he remarks, causally gesturing to the patch of skin beneath your shirt. He was treating you like a child. Like a dumb little girl throwing a tantrum. You began to seeth where you sat staring up at him. He made a move to reach out to you but you shoved his hand away. Fixing your face with a determined expression.

“Taeyong, get the fuck out of my apartment,”  The mild amusement in his face disappeared. His eyes darkened dangerously, a sign you had become accustomed to. He was getting angry as well, but he still made no move to leave. The longer he stood there to more your blood boiled and the more you glared at each other the higher the tension rose.

“Watch your mouth, babe” He growled at you.

“Don’t tell me what to do Taeyong” You said raising your voice and pushing yourself off the bed to face him. You had never been anything but compliant with him, scared to lose whatever affection he had for you. Even in the moments he frustrated you or broke your heart you would still obey his every command because the idea of being without those few minutes with him was worse than enduring the hours of pain that he caused. But now as you stand here you could not stop the flow of words escaping your mouth, though deep in your heart you knew you would regret them later.

“Do not tell me what to do Taeyong. I am sick and tired of this shit! You come into my life, maybe twice a week if I’m lucky, fuck around with me and my emotions, make demands, make me act a certain way, only to leave me and disappear for days! and yet I still come running any time you call just for the chance to be in your presence. You treat me like I am a child and even when I am with you it’s like I am the 3rd thing on your priorities list!”

You took a panting breath.

“God fucking damn it Taeyong, you have stopped in the middle of fucking me just to go off to some party and you think you have the right to come in here and take ownership of my body?” You screamed out every word at him and with every word his face hardened.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think I have the right, I know I do” he growled out, “Because in case you haven’t noticed it is you that comes crawling back not me, it is you who hangs on every word I say, it is you who fell in love with me.” Spat out at you, voice dripping with malice.

“Yes I do treat you like a child because you are one, it’s like you are completely dependent on me and its pathetic! You call me and text me every fucking hour of the day like it’s my job to listen to your cries. I have better things to do than comfort you over every tinny inconvenience.” His speech was filled with more emotion than you had ever heard come out of him, and honestly, you wanted more.

“Fuck off Taeyong” You spat turning away from him and staring out your window.

“Oh, no no no, you wanted to fight, now we are going to fight!” He practically roars at your back, stepping closer to you where you stood your ground.

“You are the neediest and most obsessed person I ever meet. Remember I don’t need you, I really fucking don’t. And yet you get crazy every time I don’t talk to you for a day, what the fuck was that by the way 'Hey, don’t know where you’ve been but I missed you’ If I thought it was important that you knew where I was I would have fucking told you. I don’t fucking love you so why are you so obsessed with me”  He calls out to you. You rounded on him.

“Do not act like you didn’t want me to fall for you possessive son of a bitch! You were so scared of sharing your toys you made it a point to make me care about you so that others would stay away!”

Your voices were getting louder and louder with each passing jab.

“Yeah, I don’t like sharing! I never said I was a good guy Y/N, I don’t give a fuck about your feelings but I will be fucking damned if I let some random ass guy of the street touch you or let you put black shit in your skin! I know you better than anyone and you know what the best part is? It will fucking stay that way, cuz I know that right now you are just eating up all the attention I am giving you aren’t you, you pathetic bitch!

Just as he was about to continue the door was thrown open and your roommate stocked into the room. Her expression was hard and emotionless. She marched right up to where Taeyong stood motionless, grabbed the man by the collar and flung him twords the door. She spoke with the kind of finality that sent shivers down your spine.

"Taeyong, its time your you to leave.”

After processing her words he gave her a quick once over as if deciding if it was worth fighting. And as he turned and walked out the door you had the sinking realization had he had decided that you were not worth the trouble.

After the sound of the front door opening and closing your roommate turned to were you stood and addressed you for the first time.

“are you alright?”

It occurred to you now for the first time that you were crying. Because Taeyong was right, you did like it in those moments where it seemed for the first time that you were truly the sole object of his attention.

[brief-candle]

ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ - Sakamaki brothers

request summary: songfic of “come little children” with parental maid reader and yandere sakamakis. karlheinz is an asshole, like usual, and stuff happens.

series: diabolik lovers.

notes: yandere (meant to be platonic but idk if i succeeded), heavily implied violence.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

"Come little children,

I'll take thee away

into a land of enchantment."

There was no land of enchantment on this green Earth. Not for the Sakamaki brothers; such a thing had never existed for the entirety of their long existence. This had been a fact that they'd had to face from an early age. There was no land of enchantment that their mothers' nor father would let them escape to, and the latter would not let them do so for as long as he drew breath.

Or not, considering they were vampires and all, but you get the gist.

Even so, that didn't stop them listening to her stories that she spun, the songs that drifted from her lips like a cool breeze on a stifling summer's day. Even Kanato, who was ever so difficult to please and temperamental as a day's long, seemed to ease into a calm, placid state of being whenever she made the slightest of noises. Ayato wouldn't interrupt, Subaru wouldn't fly into a white-hot rage and Shuu would even pay attention. It was as if each word was akin to the Holy Grail, from the way that no one could pry their attention from her as she started to speak.

No matter how much they aged or how horrible they became, they would still go at her beck and call to listen to her. They would still beg for her lullabies before she left for other duties, and sometimes in between. And no matter when or where they asked, she would always comply.

It was perhaps the only time that the boys were docile.

"Come little children,

the time's come to play

here in my garden of shadows."

Even with their father, on the very rare occasions that he visited, they were hardly docile. Barely even scraping polite, with acid words and sneering faces. Apart from Reiji, ever the model son, determined to leave the others hiding in his shadow of prestige. Always polite, pristine and perfect. She marvelled at it, really, and would often remark that he was one-upping her, the actual servant. It was never his intent to one-up her, though he one-upped everyone, really, so it was hard to make an exception to her.

The boys' father did not expect to see those he brought up broken to act so cordially with another, not making a move to harm nor threaten her in the slightest. She did not look uncomfortable in the slightest, either. It was a surprise, really, considering how they acted with everyone else around them. To think that they would treat some low-ranked, rather weak demon with a higher level of respect than the literal king of demons was certainly not to be expected by any means.

Though, in a way, it was a pleasant surprise. Not that Karlheinz finds many surprises unpleasant. In fact, he can hardy tell the difference; if he finds something unpleasant than he'll either fix it or throw it away. Fortunately for her, he did not find this unpleasant.

Unfortunately, he found it intriguing.

"Follow sweet children,

I'll show thee the way

through all the pain and sorrows."

With intrigue naturally came experimentation. He had a hypothesis to test, and would observe the results accordingly. It took little planning (Karlheinz has little reason for thoroughly planning every little thing) until he put everything into action. And he did so swiftly, with little time wasted.

They hadn't noticed at first; she could guess how they'd react, and so covered up the evidence of what he'd done immediately. However he noticed just as quickly as she'd hid them, and so made it much more obvious. Evidence appeared in places she could not hide, and so had to wear them on display to those who cared for her most.

It went about as well as one could expect, really, with Subaru's temper flaring most of all. All of their tempers rose, really, though the youngest's was the most volatile and obvious through his destruction of the house. Kanato became eerily silent, perhaps more eerie than he usually was; Ayato shared many of Subaru's traits of anger, though without as much as the destructive nature; Reiji and Shuu were difficult to read, with both of them going silent and putting on a neutrally silent (though Shuu was normally of very few words) facade; Laito tried to keep up his cheery and playful act, though his voice subconsciously lost the lilt that it often had.

"Weep not, poor children,

life is this way,

murdering beauty and passion."

When they stood, obviously heading to leave the room, she stopped them at once. For once her words didn't seem to hold weight with these boys, and so she had to physically block them from doing something they may have regretted. No matter how much they asked- demanded- her to move, she did not move a muscle. She did not forget her place as a servant to their family, however she would not allow them to get themselves hurt. However she didn't phrase it that way, lest it only breed more anger and fury; as she was bound to obey their father above all, she could not allow him to be hurt. Though they certainly weren't the happiest with that, they had little choice but to listen, as it was obvious that she would not move until they had all calmed down.

If their reason had left them, then she would step back in to provide such a voice. As she often had done, when their mothers had not. She did not blame them, with what had been inflicted upon them, however she often stepped in for them when they shirked all motherly duties. And such a thing happened much more frequently than she was fond of thinking about. 

But there was no way that they could step in now to act as mothers. Unless they had a way of bringing themselves back from ancient graves. And even then, Cordelia had no chance of returning. Not in this moment.

Not that such a thing was necessarily a bad thing, really, but a little help would have been appreciated. Especially when the silence was this thick, this heavy and ominous, rolling in like fog that showed no signs of clearing up anytime soon.

That said, she managed to get them all to sit down once more, even if they were disgruntled with the mere thought of being that close with one another. It was a sad sight to see, considering how they could have easily been so close. However there was no point in dwelling on such a thing.

"Hush now, dear children,

it must be this way,

too weary of life and deceptions."

They were at breaking point to just rush out and find their father. It was visible, from their tense postures and impatient faces. They were easier to read for her than they thought they were. If it wasn't for the situation at hand, she was sure that she'd have found it rather amusing. But this was not a time for amusements, or playing games or acting like children. She knew that as well as they did.

And so, instead of trying to reason with them when she knew such a thing was futile, she began to hum instead. They would not listen to her words on the subject; they would listen to no one's words on the subject. For they were certain that they knew best. Not to mention their obvious anger, which would make them even more unreasonable than their rash behaviour already made them.

So instead, perhaps a distraction would prove more useful. It would delay the- most likely messy- resolution of this situation, and would also give them a chance to letter their anger simmer into something more manageable. Something that would let their heads clear more easily, and let them make proper judgement that isn't drove by blind rage.

"Rest now, my children,

for soon we'll away

into the calm and the quiet."

Vampires don't need sleep. This is a rather well-known fact amongst those which are aware of their existence. That isn't to say that they don't sleep, however, and the maid's lullabies often lulled them into a sleepy state. Often it was unintentional, considering they'd ask her sometimes in the middle of the night, when they are meant to be most active. This time it was not. If they fell asleep then she'd probably have a few more hours in which they could (hopefully) calm down. Or she'd have to try and hold them back to cool off again in a few hours.

She felt bad in a way, having manipulated them in a way for them to sleep. So, as she left the room, she decided to try to make it up to them later in the best way that she could.

It was a lovely sight that she had to leave behind, with the boys resting on each other as they slept. That said, it wasn't as peaceful as it looked with Ayato's snoring. Even as she shut the door and continued down the hall to do other tasks, it never relented.

Barely ten minutes later, they were all on their feet.

"Come little children,

I'll take thee away

into a land of enchantment."

There was no land of enchantment, not in this prison of ground, sea and sky. Not in this cell where they were born and raised. Not while their father continued to mess with anyone whenever he saw fit.

He'd made the mistake, really; he'd brought this whole thing upon himself. If he wanted death so badly, then they saw it fit to deliver. After all, it's what he wanted, no? Their father had seen how much they cared for and appreciated the maid, and took it upon himself to injure her on a whim. To see how they'd all react as he looked upon them like one would an insect.

No matter what they'd had to endure at his hands, they had never directly lashed out upon him before. After all, he was anything but forgiving. Breaking a vase landed you in the middle of the ocean, so the risks were definitely quite high, to say the least. But that didn't bother them. At least not in this moment of white-hot rage that disallowed them from thinking properly.

Besides, if they were to die then there wouldn't be reason to harm her anymore, would there?

It was unlikely that they'd die, considering that their purpose had not yet been fulfilled. However it brought some twisted sense of comfort to them, so that they could fight their all with no regrets.

"Come little children,

the time's come to play

here in my garden of shadows."

[mchalowitz]

the woman is the king, part two

summary: a throughline of the matriarchal scullys; be they ethereal, sharp-witted, and ill-omened.

thank you to everyone who enjoyed the first part of this story! writing again has been so great and i’m excited for everyone to read where it goes from here! 

part 1: melissa

part 2: dana

———

The exam room is harshly lit, brutally overclean. When the doctor gives the diagnosis, it knocks the breath out of her, and she has the audacity to declare her gratitude. How could she.

The fragility of her age comes to mind on the drive home; her eyes prickle watching her copy of her oncology referral slide across the dashboard.

Dana is only thirty-three. Melissa was only thirty-three. She ponders her mother, Maggie, at thirty-three. Her destiny already decided; along for the military ride. She was carrying the fifth Scully child that year. Their matrarical line is cursed by the thirty-third year.

She simmers with the news for a few days; plotting methods of delivering impending doom. Mulder, the usual harbinger of bad news, is the one she tells first, and she believes using a clinician’s touch might soothe her.

The pronoun that binds them, the “we” travels from his vocal cords to their air between them. When he pauses, she can fill in the blanks of how he wants the sentence to end. We can do something about this or we can fix this. The problem is, there isn’t anything to be done.

Inside her head is a glass and cancer is the water from a faucet turned all the way on. They are merely waiting for the overflow.

--

Tara is pregnant; she is having a boy. Her brother’s wife is thirty-three. It must be so nice, to be dubbed a Scully, and yet remain so blessed at this foredoomed age. 

An appointment to be pumped with poison and Tara’s baby shower fall in the same week. What a scheduling nightmare, she jokes, when she declines the invitation with warm regards. Bill does not laugh and he buys their mother a plane ticket. 

The total lack of skeletal structure takes her over, has her melted into the couch. Scully finds the initial nausea passes quickly this time. It is the wave of self-consciousness from Mulder bearing witness to this betrayal of her body that lingers. 

“It must be kind of exciting,” Mulder comments. She is watching him wipe down the counter and she doesn’t remember a single time she has seen him willingly clean anything. He is not half-assing any of the responsibilities bestowed upon him by the Mrs. Scully. 

“It might be more exciting if it were someone else,” Scully responds, forgoing her usual diplomatic response on the subject. 

Mulder pauses, focuses in on her eyes, and in unsaid words, he nods in agreement. He throws the wet rag into the sink with a stomach-churning squelch and falls beside her on the couch. 

“You know,” she adds, “Melissa always said she wasn’t going to have kids until she was forty.”

Melissa would goad her into increasingly ridiculous futures; nothing is more ridiculous than futures that will never exist. Neither of them could have predicted such an outcome. 

When they were young, one Scully sister was rarely found without the other. It was only the intricacies of adult life that would split them apart. Melissa yearned for adventure; to shed ideals and expectations from their youth in far off places. Their parents envisioned a certain fate for their children, and Dana followed it, until she didn’t. 

As she conjures up those conversations about where their lives would go, she realizes she cannot even remember her voice. It rolls over her like a wave, the awareness of fading memories, and it cracks her guise held barely together. 

Her glassy eyes brim and she finally crumbles, feeling wholly pathetic. She lacks her usual resiliency that he is accustomed to seeing from her as she weeps, “My sister is gone and I have cancer, Mulder.”

“I know,” he says.

“I’ll miss everything,” she whimpers. The weight of mortality hits her; the decades worth of wasted holidays and the lost memory of her nephew’s birth. Scully will never stand in resolution with her partner after their tireless work for the truth. The loss of an uncomplicated life feels enormous. 

She laments what she was never sure of even desiring; the two-story in the suburbs, the babies of her own, the one true love...

“Let’s get married.”

--

His offer hangs in the air. Scully cries a bout of nausea and bolts for the bathroom. When she emerges, Mulder is there to tuck her into bed.

The sun sets and it rises again on a new day. She comes out of the bedroom apprehensively. Finding Mulder on one knee in her hallway isn’t an idea she can rule out completely. It wouldn’t even come close to the craziest thing she has seen him do.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Mulder rubs circles into his forehead with his cell phone pressed to his ear. She gets close enough to vaguely hear the caller on the other end, listen to the outrage behind, “I couldn’t even put the kettle on without her standing right behind me. In my own home, Fox,” and making it seem as though this is the only issue in the world that matters. And Scully kind of wishes that was true.

“That’s her job, Mom,” he replies. The tone of his voice almost makes her laugh. A polite but clear get me out of here she knows well that comes out during conversations with authority figures, midwestern cops, and not unsurprisingly, mothers.  

Their eyes meet, he looks at her as though she is his unsurpassable savior. He begs off the phone, making the usual adult child promises, and sets his cell phone down on the table. 

Scully commends Mulder for trying to be more involved with his family since his mother’s stroke. But what a fate he has, caring for the medically and emotionally broken women in his life. He gives her a tight lipped smile and she asks, “Is everything alright?”  

“Jury’s still out,” he declares with a shrug. He stands and starts walking toward the kitchen. “Can I get you anything? Water, toast, a ring?” 

A certainly interesting turn of events for them, a question that could develop into an actual conversation about the night before. 

“Mulder.”

“We could get married, Scully.” 

“This is so like you, Mulder. This is your stream of consciousness decision making,” she counters. Scully flattens her hands on the table, takes a breath, and attempts to change her tone to sound a little more kind. “I know the idea that I’m dying is bleak. But there are implications to getting married. I couldn’t do that to you.” 

Scanning Mulder’s eyes, Scully can see he understands what she means by implications. “Don’t think about that,” he tells her finally, “If you really believe this is the end, what do you still want to experience?” 

Scully’s eyes flash away, toward the door. Four years ago, she stood in that spot, and assured her sister unequivocally of her absolute disinterest in dating her new partner. Even if he were just a guy. 

Selfishness has often forced a wedge between them; a precursor to many experiences they would have as partners. His brilliance and humanity drew her in then, not unlike the way it does now. When the question was posed--just any guy--their debates were thrilling, a little flirtatious even, and now they can absolutely infuriate her, but she respects his ideals, and she knows that sentiment is reciprocated. 

On occasion, Scully is even a little selfish, and allows herself to appreciate just a guy with a little flop of hair that falls onto his forehead, and with the most charming smile. 

Whether it be guilt or admiration, Mulder wants her to experience everything before it gets taken away. She can admire the altruism. 

Mulder doesn’t ask again, he only suggests. And she accepts. 

--

The commencement of their marriage is without fanfare in a government building on a Friday afternoon with grocery store flowers and a safe kiss on the cheek to clinch the deal. There are no rings but he holds her left hand as they bound down the courthouse steps. During their late lunch at a local diner, the waitress notices their attire, and offers them a free slice of pie, any flavor they want, because it is a special occasion. 

A few paces ahead of her on the way to the car, Mulder opens her door. “Your getaway car, my bride,” he teases. The smile on her lips quickly fades. His jovial face morphs to confusion. 

But it’s the drip. Blood splatters on the clean, clear plastic protecting their chocolate cream. She tries to maneuver for her purse but he quickly procures tissues from the inside pocket of his jacket. 

He squats next to the passenger side of the car and holds tissues to the nose of his bride. 

--

Something is weirdly, intangibly incorrect. 

It starts with weekend plans. Mulder is already well aware of her singular escape, her monograph for the Penology Review, with its looming deadline coming up. 

He normally makes comments about her unwavering professionalism. It is a mutual agreement to keep their marriage to themselves. The federal government has no investment in the inner workings of their lives; they are legally married and they both know that could easily mean reassignment for both of them. It doesn’t stop him from sneaking in a few witticisms for his own amusement. 

Mulder knocks. That’s weird.

The wine is truly suspicious. Except for the occasional beer, Mulder was never much for alcohol to begin with, but what is especially bizarre is the sudden lack of concern over her doctor’s recommended meal plan. He had been following it down to the last letter, and while a glass of wine is not exactly forbidden, it is not the first item on their shopping list. 

“We never really talk much, do we?” 

Admittedly, the shared looks and delicate touches of silent communication is where they excel, but the question is still somewhat puzzling. Since beginning a routine of casual marital cohabitation, she believes they talk quite a bit. The minutiae of everyday life is often a topic of conversation in ways it never has been. 

Scully still plays along by agreeing that, no, they don’t talk. She sips wine and tells him true-ish stories of Marcus, the prom date of a Scully, but not herself, and the infamous pumper truck scandal involving her brother Charlie. 

Romantic intimacy has not exactly been a component of their marriage and she has found that cancer does not make one feel like the most desirable of specimens. He has never expressed anything to make her believe he feels anything for her beyond friendship, despite the deep affection they share. 

He leans in now; his eyes closed and head cocked. Kissing him isn’t a repulsive idea, but it just seems off, because Mulder is acting so strangely out of character. 

Scully scrambles off the couch to get away from the man that is so clearly not her partner. Absolutely horrified, she stares at Mulder, and has no reservations when he steps forward to cuff the pathetic and vile man that invades her living room.  

--

Many lines have still not been crossed and she doesn’t think they ever will be. The cancer is still aggressively present with the treatments doing very little. 

Scully prepares herself for the eventuality of hospitalization, potentially for good, and it is very tempting to keep that from Mulder, to allow them to remain in their bubble, but she knows that isn’t fair.

Her car idles on the street outside Harold Spuller’s care home and three soft raps sound on her driver’s side window. She sucks in air deeply and wipes the tears from her cheeks before rolling down the window.

“I didn’t mean for things to get so heated back there.”

“Me neither,” she agrees. When her eyes flash up to his, so guilty and fond, her words fall out in a tumble, unable to prolong this evasion of the truth any longer. “I don’t know why I lied to you. I’m not fine. My treatments aren’t working and my doctors don’t think another round will change that.”

“I’m in this with you, Scully.”

“I know you are,” she affirms. She ducks her head down toward the steering wheel, like a little girl caught eating dessert before dinner. “I’m tired, Mulder.” 

“I’ll follow you.”

His headlights shine in her rearview mirror, trailing behind all the way back to where they began this night in Georgetown. Arriving in the apartment, she shuts the door behind them, and informs him, “I’m going to take a shower,” and he nods, reaching forward to squeeze her shoulder. He loosens his tie and starts meandering toward the bedroom. 

The phantom ghost of his touch remains on her shoulder and it reminds her of his romantic soul that she is only now been introduced to. Mulder is more emotionally open and affection than she is. He treats her like a wife. They are married, after all. 

Their marital bliss is of their own design; enjoyably innocent with its lack of certain intimate elements left largely undiscussed. However, there is delight to be found in mere shared company. With a no-work policy now enacted in her home, the opportunity to see funnier, more relaxed, and domestic sides of each other often makes it feel as though their marriage could be real. 

An unspoken agreement to live this arrangement without rules creates something representative of authentic matrimony. Ignoring the initial awkwardness when sharing a bed leads to the normalization of pressing into his warm side each night; falling asleep faster and deeper. Leisurely playing with his hair while reading on the couch one evening introduced a few form of relaxation they both enjoy. He even calls her “honey” occasionally, and she must admit, it makes her feel pleasantly warm to hear it. 

It wasn’t right to keep him out of the loop.

Sitting on the tile shower floor, Scully washes the last six hours from her skin. In an attempt to prove to herself, to everyone, that she can still do this, she pushes herself too far. The best decision for the case was to take down the nurse. For her fragile body, not as much.

A small box sits on top of her towel. She picks it up, weighing it gently in her palm.

Mulder already lies innocently under the covers and appears deeply enthralled in his nighttime reading. He looks very youthful and sweet in his wire-framed glasses and his large feet poking out at the end of the bed. She presents the box in question and inquires, “Mulder, what’s this?”

“Hmm?” he murmurs. He glances up briefly, taking off his glasses. “Oh. Wedding present.”

Eyebrows drawn together in confusion, she sits down on top of the comforter, and cautiously opens the box. Her eyes fall on a gorgeously dainty bracelet with a small diamond affixed to a silver chain. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Scully finally admits. Mulder smiles, wordlessly leaning forward to close the distance between them. His kiss finally comes with soft lips and firm resolve.  

--

A keen ear kept on the exchange occurring in the hallway, Scully hears the malice in “let her die with dignity,” the intense intent to guilt. Since childhood, Bill has been masterful at identifying a scapegoat. 

Appearing at her bedside, Scully takes her brother’s hand. It has been quite some time since they were together in person and she is aware she should focus on the grand gesture of his presence. But they have always sparred on injustice and she just witnessed him as the purveyor. 

“I don’t want you to talk to him like that,” she tells him. 

It takes almost nothing to generate a quarrel between the two of them. “You keep defending him, Dana, and I don’t see what there is about him to protect,” Bill argues. “You wouldn’t even be in this situation if...”

“Fox has been very helpful,” Maggie interrupts. Their mother is well versed in deescalating the disputes of Dana and Bill; the oil and water of the Scully children. “Bill, sit down and be civil.”

Where Mulder pushes, Bill pulls, and Dana is left somewhere in the middle. Something akin to a jealous feud brews between the two men in her life; each vying for the role of ultimate fixer. It is only when Mulder orchestrates the impossible that her brother cannot deny the miracle. 

Most conversations were plans for a comfortable end or perhaps a prolonged, managed experience. The concept of remission, a life without the dark cloud of cancer, was a possibility never even considered. 

The day of her discharge finally arrives after a final weeklong observation of her progress, and Mulder, as a now regular fixture of the post-critical care ward, shows up to her room early as usual. He drops a bag on her empty hospital bed. “I brought you some clothes from your apartment,” Mulder informs her. “Unfortunately I couldn’t find anything as uniquely versatile as the hospital gown.” 

“I appreciate the effort,” she smiles, ripping open the plastic bag.

Scully can feel an awkwardness emanating from him with three feet between them. She is taking stock of the items he provided when he finally speaks, “Listen, I can be out--” 

With a week to discuss the topic, neither of them were brave enough to allow it. The last thing Scully wants Mulder to believe is she married him to take advantage of a kindness he extended to her. It was done with such a different outcome in mind; a selfless act with an outcome to be bathed in heartache. 

Now, there is no plan on how to approach where things will go from here. Scully didn’t ever think she would be in a position to have to consider it. 

At the very least, they deserve time to enjoy a lack of this particular impending doom. 

“Should we get dinner tonight?”

If there is anything they deserve more of, it is time.

It is health.

It is stability.

[concussed-to-pieces]

To Tell You The Truth Part Seven

Fandom: Prospect [2018]

Pairing: Eventual Ezra/Prospector!Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: *checks watch* Well well well, look at the time! Friday already?! I hope you're all doing well, and I hope you all like this installment. Enjoy!

Tag List: @huliabitch @renegademustelid @wrestlingfae @zombiexbody @sporadic-fics @rzrcrst @lackofhonor @the-feckless-wonder @arrowswithwifi @fioccodineveautunnale @absurdthirst @cryptkeepersoul @fleetwoodmactshirt @88dragon06 @roxypeanut @walkerchick007 @peggers-n-beggers @robbinholland

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment deals briefly with perceived self-worth, and contains certain dialogue/terminology/viewpoints that may be detrimental to individuals who have suffered emotional, sexual, or physical abuse. Stay safe!]

Acquiring a first edition of anything in this day and age had never been a simple task, so it was awe-inspiring to have a book that was not only a first edition, but one that your artwork graced the pages of.

You stared at the cover for longer than you meant to, your fingers rubbing over the embossed name that sat small and unassuming beneath Ezra's lavishly showy pseudonym. With illustrations by…

You almost felt like your ordinary moniker was out of place, but after looking at it for a moment, you decided it was exactly where it belonged.

"I am about to be overcome with emotion." Ezra informed Thomas in a hushed tone. 

The publisher heaved a heavy sigh at the other man's antics before getting to his feet, his hand outstretched. A small smile played over his mouth, probably one of relief to finally be free of your companion. "You've done it. Congratulations. It debuts on the digital platforms tomorrow, and physical copies ship next week." 

Ezra shook his hand rapidly, then turned to you. "I...I am rendered speechless." He whispered.

"I don't know if anything could claim that lofty honor." You couldn't resist teasing him and he grinned broadly. 

He rested his forehead against your own momentarily, ever cautious not to crowd you. "I am truly a better man for having known you, gentle soul." He murmured fervently. He took your hands, the book clasped tightly between the two of you. "These hands that have helped me in the mornings, that have drawn the man I could have been, that have delivered me from my deadly trials...now, see the fruits of your labor."

"Pretty sure you mean your labor." You corrected him. "I had the easy job."

Ezra shook his head. "Our labor." He was looking at you so warmly, his brown eyes crinkled at the edges from how hard he was smiling-

Kevva help you, did you want to...kiss him?

You had no time to ruminate on the sudden thought. Mr. Anglio cleared his throat and the spell was broken, Ezra exclaiming in juvenile delight that this was cause for celebration.  

You nodded absently, feeling off-kilter. It was as though a switch of comprehension had been flipped in your mind. You did want to kiss him.

…

You wanted a lot of things, you were quickly realizing. 

You wanted to sketch every sleepy smile Ezra graced you with over his mug in the morning. You wanted to be the only one to make his tea just right. You wanted to sit with him for hours in the kitchen or living room, letting him bounce ideas off of you.

The two helmets perched on the mantelpiece taunted you every time you glanced at them because you wanted to be part of a pair, more than a simple partner or roommate.

And it was terrifying. 

You started searching for your own apartment even though the idea of living alone filled you with trepidation. He had said you were welcome for as long as you wanted, but now...the situation had changed. You couldn't handle living in such close proximity to him if your brain was hellbent on doing things like this. 

It wasn't fair to him for you to want something like...that. For you to want anything at all from him.

You were ashamed of the way you had to tear your eyes off of him. You felt like an intruder, a thief, a scavenging floater hoping for opportune jetsam. You hid away in your room whenever he was around, claiming that inspiration had struck and fumbling to dissuade his childlike enthusiasm when he asked to see your 'new works'. Little did he know that you erased most of what you drew.

You were infatuated with an idea, in love with the picturesque plastic pornography that your mind had conjured, you told yourself sternly. Life wasn't perfect, and no one, let alone someone who had endured as much as Ezra, would be interested in the pitiful gift of your affection. In your own eyes you were dirty, your body forever stained with the invisible mark of abusive handling.

You didn't even know if you wanted to be intimate with someone again! Worse yet, you were uncertain if you would be able to, or if Damon's treatment had so utterly broken you that you would be reduced to nothingness if you ever deigned to attempt.

You should have been happy. The book (Aurelac And I: An Audacious Tale Of Greed In The Green) was performing remarkably well. Ezra had woven a lucrative story with just enough realism, fact and fiction carefully melded into a seamless narrative that appealed to everyone from grizzled floaters to cushy Central socialites. You should have been happy. You were set financially for the rest of your life even without the book. 

You should have been happy.

Yet all it took was him giving you a tousled, sleepy smile over his morning cup of coffee or tea and discontent fairly devoured you, turning your insides to knots. Your longing was sharp to the point of agony, an ever-present ache in your chest that you weren't certain any amount of distance would quell.

But you could try. 

So you prepared to leave, wavering between resolute and terrified while you tried to articulate yourself.

You had survived the Green. You knew you would survive this. 

…

Despite his predisposition towards prattling, Ezra was remarkably perceptive. You sometimes wondered if he used his rambling nature as a screen to observe reactions, instead of to actually carry on a legitimate conversation. 

He didn't miss a trick, coming to knock on your door one afternoon as you finished packing up your meager items. Even though you had lived in this room for several stands, you had yet to clutter the space, really make it your own. Maybe you had always suspected this would be temporary, maybe...maybe you knew better than to assume you would be anywhere for an extended period of time.

Fantasizing about having a real life with Ezra...wishful thinking, indulgence of the highest caliber. You blinked back your tears, shoved the backpack off the side of the bed, and went to open your door.

"Gentle soul, I have brought you sustenance! Now please, I beg, unlatch from the fickle teat of your creative muse to indulge with me." The former prospector implored from the doorway of your room, shaking a small paper bag at you. 

The scent of the sopaipillas in the bag hit your nose and you heard your stomach roar in reply. Ezra quirked a brow as you flushed. "Well, I guess a...a snack wouldn't hurt." You mumbled.

"I have greatly missed your company these past days." Ezra admitted softly after the two of you had posted up on the couch (you clutching your small sketchbook like a shield), his words clawing at your heart. "I feared you must be growin' weary of the burden of my presence."

You nearly choked to death right there, coughing and sputtering. "What? No, of course not! If anything, I'm surprised you're not tired of me!" You replied once you managed to swallow, guiltily thinking of the small knapsack that you had thrown into the space between your bed and the wall. Your plan was to leave a little later this evening, slip out while he was occupied with Serv A/V correspondence. He dedicated a certain amount of time in the early evening to managing his business affairs, currently working to iron a few more things out with Anglio regarding proprietary Serv-reader programs that wanted to port his tale. Hopefully by the time he realized you had left, you would be checked into your temporary quarters.

Ezra opened his mouth to answer you, but a chime at the door cut him off. "Did you order somethin'?" He asked, his face lighting up when you shook your head. "Ah, it must be something of mine then! How tantalizing, I keep forgetting what I've purchased. I love the surprise every time somethin' appears on the stoop." He grinned like a child, bouncing to his feet.

Stay happy for a little while longer, you found yourself begging silently. His smiles warmed you from the inside out and you knew that you would miss them immensely.

You watched as Ezra popped the door open, the man signing for the thick envelope while the courier hovered patiently. "I don't recall…" he trailed off, hip-checking the door closed and ripping the envelope lip with a puzzled expression on his face. 

"Who's it from?" You asked, trying to sound nonchalant. That's not supposed to get here until tomorrow, you reassured yourself. This must just be a coincidence. The envelope did bear a striking resemblance to the ones from your printer, but surely--

Oh no.

You felt your breath hitch as you spotted the return address. You had specifically requested that this delivery arrive tomorrow, you had planned to leave later tonight, oh no! You lunged to snatch the envelope from his hands. "Wait, wait, don't look!" You exclaimed sharply.

Ezra flinched in surprise at your abrupt change in volume, dropping the open envelope as his startled brown eyes flew to yours. Your hard copies spilled out onto the floor, pages flying here and there.

Shit.

"Gentle soul, what is...what is all this?" Ezra asked cautiously when you crouched to start picking the sheets up. "Are you workin' on a new project?"

Your hands trembled as you collected the sheets scattered on the floor at his feet. He knelt after a moment, but you knocked his arm away when he reached for a sheet. "I'm leaving." You whispered. "I made you this to...to try to explain." 

You pressed the stack of pages, now reorganized, into his limp hands. Ezra didn't even look down, his fingers automatically gripping the paper. "What?" His voice was hoarse.

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. "I said, I'm leaving. I made you this to explain." Please don't hate me.

"Gentle soul, I...surely we can engage in some civil discourse about this? Have I done something to vex you?" 

"No, it's not you."

"You'll forgive me if I am not reassured by your statement." He muttered. "I can think of no other reason that you would attempt a covert exodus like a beleaguered Israelite. Should I investigate the kitchen for unleavened bread?"

"I...what?" You asked in confusion. "Bread?"

Ezra groaned, shaking his head. "Never mind." He then asked bluntly, "why are you leaving?" 

You tapped the sheets in his hands, smiling tremulously. "Goodbye, Ezra." With that, you got to your feet and bolted to your bedroom, your face burning with embarrassment. You hated that you anticipated an explosion even after all this time; this was Ezra, not Damon. You picked up your pack and slid on your boots, then hesitantly crept back out.

Ezra was still on the floor. He hadn't moved an inch, just staring down at the pages in his hands. You skittered past him tentatively, but he didn't so much as glance in your direction. This was what you had decided, you reminded yourself while depositing your fob to the apartment on the table next to the door. You had chosen this route. All you could do now was stick to it. The door clicked closed behind you but instead of relief, you felt gut-wrenching sorrow.

Ezra,

It's time for me to leave. I've never been good with words. They always get tangled up inside me.

You popped open the door to the complex stairs in the hallway, sniffling quietly as you began making your way down.

I wish I could tell you in a way that I knew you would understand. I wish I could articulate like you, but all I can do is draw.

You checked the time on your battered watch. You hadn't invested in a new chronometer yet, the bulky square still serving its purpose even with a cracked screen. Perhaps you were too hesitant with your good fortune, you mused, but after having spent so many years carefully scraping and budgeting for every piece of gear, there was bound to be an adjustment period.

So here it is. Ramshackle and hackneyed; everything that you hate. It's got nothing to do with you, so please don't be upset. I just know that I shouldn't stay here any longer. 

Your mind's eye ran through your sketches over and over. Weary, worn-out boots. A leaking mug, broken and poorly repaired, pieces that would never fit back together properly. Your helmet, the dome cracked, overgrown in creeping, mossy green. Alone. 

You should be able to get on with your life. You don't need me hanging around.

You rubbed your temples. It was too early for check-in, but you were certain that the hotel wouldn't mind you sitting in the lobby for a few hours. 

You reached the ground floor without incident, emerging onto the street and weaving your way through the crowded sidewalks of Puggart Bench. Maybe you would go off-planet, get away from the crush of Central's runoff. But that might mean a pod…

You could easily buy your own ship, though you would have to hire a pilot. Perhaps you could get your pilot's license? You would already need one if you wanted to have ground transport options, instead of being subjected to the mercy of the Pug's PTS. Of course. There it was, a plan. This wouldn't be so difficult. You had survived on your own for most of your life! 

You squared your shoulders, scrubbing at your face in an effort to shore yourself up. Of course you could handle this. "I can do this." You said aloud, clenching your fists determinedly. "I have four hours until check-in. Tomorrow I have my appointment slated to look at living spaces, and I'll stop by the registry to sign up for the courses. Then, I can go to the grocery depot-" You continued ticking off your objectives, searching through your pockets for your analog sketchbook so you could write everything down. Where is-?

You thought you were imagining things for a moment when you heard Ezra's voice. "The gentry will think you've gone lunar if you keep rambling to yourself, gentle soul." 

He sounded slightly out of breath. You froze when a familiar hand tapped your most recent sketchbook against your arm. You must have left it on the couch. For a split-second, you debated on trying to lose him again in the thick crowd. 

But then, "Wait, please. Just...permit me a moment of your time." He begged. You sighed and obligingly struggled along crossways to the general flow of pedestrian motion, following him to the sheltered harbor of a nearby doorway.

Ezra shoved his hands into his pockets, looking incredibly rumpled. You folded your arms over your chest, barely resisting the urge to hug yourself nervously. "Look." You said quietly. "If you saw the thing I gave you, you know why I'm doing this."

"I understand the trajectory, but I am still in the dark when it comes to the catalyst." Ezra muttered. "What brought you to such a conclusion? What scurrilous thoughts have flourished, propagated, conspired to usher you onto the path of solitude that you are so determined to float without me?"

I love you. I love you. I love you and I'm scared-

"I think I love you, okay?!" You exploded, flinging the words heedlessly as you finally dared to actually look at him. "I love you and I...Ezra, I'm-" Your lower lip began to quiver while you came to terms with what you had just done, your sentence drying up and your face flushing with shame. "I'm…"

"You're what?" He encouraged you softly, his eyes impossibly, infuriatingly kind. 

"Scared." You managed to get out, a raw hiccup catching in your chest. 

"Why?" You gestured vaguely up and down at your body, giving him a helpless little shrug. Ezra shook his head. "Attempt again. I want to hear what you have to say, but you must speak."

"I'm not...I'm...Ezra, I'm just-" Your voice dropped to a defeated whisper, tears beginning to roll down your face. "I'm broken."

"By whose definition?" He asked sharply, his visible bristling causing a spike of gratitude to nourish the flame in your stomach. "Who has planted these thoughts in your head? Because they are a bold-faced liar."

"I don't expect you to understand-"

"Oh certainly!" He interrupted you in that ferociously cheery tone, "Why would I, a simple floater that has been crushed under the monstrous heft of the Great Chain time and again, understand what it's like to feel worthless or used? Better yet, abandoned."

"It's different for me!" You cried, hating how pitiful your voice sounded. "You deserve--you deserve everything and I'm so...I'm dirty, I'm wrong and-"

"How the hell can you say things like that about yourself?" Ezra's large hands framed your face gently, his thumbs brushing away your tears. "How can you spout such untruths about the woman I love?" He murmured tenderly.

The woman I love. The woman I love. The woman I love.

You stared up at him, certain that your mouth was agape. "You speak of deserving with no regard for how little I deserve you, gentle soul. It wounds me that you think so low of yourself." Ezra breathed, his eyes flicking back and forth between your own. "All I can think about when I look at you is how much I do not deserve...any of this. The stability, the contentment. I am akin to a somnolent cat on a warm windowsill, gentle soul." His expression grew pained, clouded with thought. "My life has not been an easy one, perennially by the fault of my own hand. I did not anticipate such...fortuitously serendipitous circumstances, wherein I would be confronted with the task of engaging in mutual lodgin' strictly for the sake of enjoyment of another's company, you must understand."

"I uh." You swallowed, "I probably will once I figure out what you said, give me a minu-"

"Let me translate into the layman's vernacular then. To spare you the...intellectual toil." Ezra sucked in a ragged breath. "I would appreciate you giving me the honor of er, being able to pursue a relationship with you. I would like to kiss you. I would like to kiss...as much of you as I can. I would like to touch you, wherever and whenever you'll permit. I would like to know you...i-intimately."

His awkward little stammer at the end set you off, helpless laughter bubbling up in your chest. "Ezra-!" You sputtered, clinging to his hand.

"What?" He protested. "I am a loquacious fool, gentle soul! Simplicity undoes me, as sure as your tenderness undoes me! I am at a loss." He pressed his forehead to your own. "I beg of you, don't leave. Not yet. At least allow me to attempt to...to offer you something. Anything. Permit me to prove you wrong."

"I don't know if you can." You murmured sadly. 

"You have saved me time and again, gentle soul." Ezra reasoned. "With your permission, with your consent, I...martyr's malfeasance, let me help." His voice broke. "You nearly died, I nearly lost you in that Green Purgatory. I do not approach this task lightly, please understand. You are immensely precious to me, and I...I am afraid I am being too verbose once more."

You reached out to run your fingers through the blond patch on his temple, then checked your watch with a put-upon sigh. "Well, if we hurry home, I can cancel my reservations before they charge me." 

"Home?" He echoed hopefully, his eyes brightening as he nudged his head against your palm.

"Yeah." You nodded, allowing a little smile to curve your lips. "Home."

…

"I haven't done anything for months, so I…" you trailed off nervously, your hands clasped in your lap. "I don't know whether I even can anymore, you know?" You admitted.

Ezra nodded from his spot by the mantle, circling around behind the couch as he spoke. "I will not rush you, gentle soul. We focus solely on encouraging your relaxation." Your hands dropped to unbutton your shirt and a hand lightly tapping your wrist halted your motion. "Be still." He murmured. "You are safe here. Disrobing is not even on the itinerary for this week."

"The itiner…tell me you have a weird little chart somewhere." You snickered, faltering when his large palms pressed down on your shoulders and eased you back against the couch.  

"It is not little, I assure you." Ezra's thumbs slid over the back of your neck. "Rehabilitation is no laughing matter. I will speak throughout so you know that it is me here. If you wish to close your eyes, please do. If you wish for me to stop, simply raise your hand."

"Wh-What are you going to do?" You queried warily.

"Rub your shoulders." 

You blinked, confused but immensely relieved. You had thought… "You don't want to...y'know?"

"Gentle soul, never doubt my want." Ezra muttered darkly. "The quest for knowledge is one of eternal restraint, prudent temperance and mute burden." You hummed, not entirely sure what he meant by that. His palms were calloused and warm even through the fabric of your shirt, large fingers spread on your shoulders. Strong thumbs carefully worked into the nape of your neck, alternating in circles back and forth, back and forth. "What shall I speak of, gentle soul?"

"Hmm?" You were so focused on his hands you hadn't really heard his question. Ezra chuckled and repeated himself. "Oh! Um, I...well, whatever you can think of. I like hearing you talk. You could probably read the ingredients on a ration bar and I'd be invested."

Ezra sputtered, trying to muffle his laugh with his shoulder. "There's only so many ways I can expound upon such gripping topics as monosodium glutamate before it lapses into tedium, gentle soul." He hummed low in his throat, then opened with, "On a most divinely appointed day, when our beloved Screamer had been taken by tempestuous winds and scorching rains, I found myself as William Bligh."

"Oh, I love this one." You grinned, settling against the couch. "Favorite story, hands down."

"The increase of your inclination towards bias when I am involved is duly noted and immensely appreciated, gentle soul." You could hear his smile, picturing it in your head with ease. The way his eyes crinkled at the sides, his brows pitching slightly. "By the grace of Kevva I was tossed upon the mercies of fickle men who would not hesitate to slit my throat to save their own…"

...

The shoulder rubbing became a bi-nightly engagement. Ezra would recite a chapter from Aurelac And I, occasionally adding little bits in for flair as he went. Tonight was one such night, "She swaggered into the tent, braggadocious and bold, her hair immaculately coiffed under the dome of her helmet and it was then I knew my demise was encroach-"

"You are ridiculous, I am so far from braggadocious!" You interrupted him to protest. "And no one's hair ever looks good in those helmets. Plus, I was one hundred percent not in your book, thank Kevva."

"I confess I toyed with the idea of writing you in, but you struck me as an individual so fiercely private...I did not wish to remove you from such delectable obscurity." The man teased. "Aside from your name on the cover, naturally."

"I can't believe you wrote it so that you lost an arm-"

"How many times must I remind you that the protagonist of this tale is not myself? He is a man of unwavering moral fiber." Ezra groused. "A man of dubious, shaded past and impeccable integrity. Ambidextrous as well. Nothing like myself in the least."

You make me wish I was a reputable individual.

"Hey, Ezra." You craned your neck to look at him, his palm sliding to cup your ear automatically. "Can I do this for you instead?"

"Do what?" He asked blankly. 

"The whole relaxation thing. Like what you're doing for me, you know?" You extended your hands. "Can I do it for you tonight?"

"That's...it's not necessary, gentle soul, you don't-"

"I want to. Please?"

Ezra grimaced reluctantly, running a hand through his hair. "Well, if you are certain." You nodded enthusiastically and he sighed, slowly settling down on the couch as you climbed off of it. "I am unsure if I am quite so receptive to this particular tech-" His words hitched mid-sentence as your fingers slid up into the trimmed hair at the nape of his neck. "-nique." Ezra squeaked. "Going in for the kill so quickly, gentle soul? I at least gave you the fair play of two nights before my digits even grazed your h-air-"

You laughed quietly, fingers raking through his short hair with something very close to greed. He tilted his head to follow the motion of your pulls, humming low in his throat. You contentedly basked in the feeling of his body under your hands, even for something as mundane as rubbing his shoulders or finger-combing his hair. "Ezra, you're so tense." you murmured.

"You cannot fault me." Ezra protested. "I have a lifetime of prospectin' that these shoulders have borne the burden of without complaint. It's a miracle I can still move, the foolhardy things I've done…" He flexed his right hand idly. "A miracle, facilitated in no small part by yourself."

Like always, you found yourself flushing at his praise. You bit your lip, a little hesitant to ask the question that had been plaguing you since that particular stormy night. You had your suspicions, of course, but you really wanted to hear it from his mouth. "So I don't know if you remember this, you were kind of half-asleep when you did it. You recited a poem to me and it started out something like…'you come to me in my dreams'." 

"Ah, hmm." Ezra coughed awkwardly. "Dare I ask why you enquire?"

You drummed your fingertips on his shoulders, then slipped your hands down to cradle his throat. Your fingers laced together just over his Adam's apple, pinkies resting on his exposed collarbone. "I was just wondering, what's the full version of it?" 

You felt him swallow convulsively. "I'm afraid I have not finished that one yet." He admitted softly.

"You wrote that?" 

Ezra nodded, chuckling, "Is that so difficult to believe?"

"Well uh, no, not really. I just...I guess I never thought about you writing anything else aside from the floater's rendition of Blood And Swash." You hummed as he laughed again, then asked, "What's it about?"

"It is poetry, gentle soul. It doesn't necessarily have to be about anything." He retorted a little too quickly. 

You gasped softly. "Is it about me?" 

Ezra froze. "What? No! As if written word alone would be enough to extol your virtues!" He snapped indignantly.

"It is about me!" You crowed triumphantly, the fire in your stomach blazing bright.

"Hush yourself, you contemptuously smug thing." The brown-haired man grumbled. 

"You're writing poetry about me!"

"I can do little else!" He exclaimed in exasperation, pinning your hands in place on his chest. "You demand it. You are poetry without a page, gentle soul. I have a responsibility to mankind itself, t-to document...such beauty must be preserved, lest it fade to the marches of featureless time." Ezra proclaimed staunchly, staring straight ahead. "And truly, what a disservice that would be."

You blinked down at the top of his head, tears gathering at the edges of your lashes. At your sniffling, Ezra half-turned to look up at you.

"Gentle soul?" He asked uncertainly. You shook your head, fumbling back over the couch to essentially tuck yourself into his lap. Ezra, to his credit, adjusted remarkably well to your sudden craving for closeness. His arms wrapped around you, his chin resting on the top of your head as you hid your face in his chest. 

"I'm sorry." You apologized thickly after a while, certain that he couldn't be comfortable.

Ezra grunted, adjusting his posture beneath you into something that resembled a dignified slouch. "In my dreams you come to me, as timid and inexorable as the dawn." He muttered the words rapidly, rushing through the memorized lines. "In my sleepless hours you find me, tremulous and waning like the starlight. For I am a lost man who wanders bright and dark, all for the fleeting glimpse of youuuu-" He groaned the last word. "And there it stops. My brain, for all its magnanimous, expansive lexicon, falls utterly flat." His hands stroked over your head, fingers carding through your hair. 

"Maybe it is done?" You suggested timidly.

He scoffed. "No, I just...I have to come across the right turn of phrase. The whole thing is trite enough as it is. Hopelessly lovestruck. Never thought I would be the type. Truly, a horrendous conundrum." He lamented, his voice soft. He didn't appear overly distraught about the aforementioned horrendous conundrum.

"Is it making you feel querulous?" You jibed.

Ezra laughed ruefully, his eyes warm as he smiled. "It very well might be, gentle soul!"

"All for the fleeting glimpse of you, all for the…" You paused, your gaze falling to his lips. "A-All for the touch of your mouth on mine?" 

Ezra ran a hand through his hair, seeming a bit flustered as he tried to avoid your gaze. "We have not even-" 

"But we could." You whispered. 

"Could we?" He asked, his voice low. "Should we?" You cupped his jaw, your thumbs rubbing over the unruly stubble he permitted to grow there. "Do you wish to?" 

You nodded, smiling. "I do."

"Strictly to further research, naturally. To...facilitate my Byronic breakthrough." Ezra reasoned, his voice drawling lazily. You shook your head and his brows furrowed, drawing tight at the peak of his nose. "No?"

"Because I want to." You confessed shyly. 

Ezra cleared his throat, hoarsely rasping a single word. "Temperance."

"What?"

"Don't trouble yourself. I'm merely makin' a note of what to petition the saints for later tonight." A hand rested on the back of your neck, coaxing you in. His mouth was gentle on yours, tentative; lips moving with equal amounts of caution and curiosity. His mustache sent unfamiliar sensations racing across your skin, somehow coarse and soft all at once. You closed your eyes, whimpering quietly as you clung to his shoulders. "I must admit," he gasped into your mouth, "this is hardly conducive to my--"

"Shh," you hushed him, smiling when he chuckled. You bumped your forehead against his, nuzzling your temple over his Mallen streak. "Thank you."

"I believe that is my next line, gentle soul." He teased. "All for the touch of your mouth on mine. What a deliciously trite stanza." His brown eyes searched your own. "I am lost in impassioned rumination over it." He murmured, drawing you back for another kiss.

Part Eight

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

since you've been writing a lot of spn stuff- can i request something with hands, autumn, & raphael. if not its ok!!!

My lovely, it is more than okay, and it is my pleasure. I hope you enjoy!

Patient eyes regarded darkening skies, glancing surreptitiously for the first flickers of lightning, counting each second between one breath of thunder and the next. The heavens were dancing in the fading violets of the setting sun, twinkling with their robust bedazzlement of stars. But the creeping greys and navies drew ever nearer, an ominous formation promising devastation should its warnings not be heeded. You took another sip of your drink, eyes slipping shut against the threat drawing nearer and nearer. Goose flesh rose on your arms as the barometric pressure continued to drop, electricity a near tangibility in the air. Still, you paid no mind, rather distracted by the delightful mixture of warmed spices harmonizing on your tongue before steadily making their way to settle within the cockles of your heart. The first hissing droplets of rain against the concrete made you pause, lowering your cup. Your eyes remained shut however, keenly listening to each huff of the wind, each furious growl of thunder. There was a righteous fury to this storm, rapidly centering itself around the small pavilion in which you had claimed temporary sanctuary. A small irritation of your own began to swell, enough to remove the contentment from your lips, eyes opening to narrow slits as you beheld the chaos beyond the wooden structure. Leaves formerly splattered in scarlets and golds and blazing siennas had been cast into murky waters, all vibrancy overwhelmed by the melancholic ferocity tossing them about in a whirlwind. Soft illumination from antiquated lanterns was subdued to dimmed pallor, spectral shifts shimmering against near impenetrable shadow. Somewhere nearby, but beyond line of sight, a tree creaked as it succumbed to the wind, the echo lost to the relentless chaos of the storm. Mild irritation grew into surging irascibility, cup set onto the wooden planks of the tabletop beneath you as you stood on the bench, devoid of any of the carefree optimism that had been so abundant earlier in the evening. "You can cut the theatrics; I'm not going anywhere!" Your words could have been nothing more than a bee's wing brushing against a flower petal, the shift of a spider's leg as it perfected another layer of its web; your proclamation was near unintelligible when faced with the terrible volume from the storm. But between the small shift in the direction of the wind and the answering roar of thunder- loudest of all- your confidence grew. Resolute, you leapt from your post, striding to the edge of your shelter, a feral smile crossing your lips with bitter abandon, doing well to hide the first twists of anxiety deep within your gut. You had worked so hard to create this confrontation, and now when presented with the grim reality of your circumstances, fear was worming its way through you, whispers from Panic tracing against your neck, her loathsome ally Doubt curling her fingers against your spine. Determined, you ignored those annoying agents of Chaos, stepping forward into the deluge. The first strike of lightning hit scarcely meters away, flash temporarily blinding you, crack deafening and shaking the ground beneath you. Reflexive instinct had you stumbling away, trying to shield yourself against the effects far too late. When your vision faded from jaded blue and thistle-tinted spots, phantasmal remnants of staring down the fulmination, you were at last able to truly cast your gaze upon your companion. Seething fury pooled around her, rage reflecting in the spark of her eyes. The shadow of a dozen wings played on the ground and in the canopy above you, shifting with each twist of the wind. Revulsion marred her features, the detestation eliciting a trace of contriteness deep within your chest. “Tell me why I shouldn’t smite you here and now.” The command was issued with all the potent magnificence of any Celestial, sparking trepidation deep within your soul. She towered over you, looming magnificence and vengeance mere moments from annihilation. Familiar blue danced in her eyes, a visceral reminder of how furious she truly was. But you had picked up on the plea within her decree. Shrouded beneath epochs of steadfast detachment was someone who felt so deeply, so thoroughly, that they had concealed themselves eons ago beneath a stern exterior, beneath a visage of a calculating strategist and general. The image was so strong, so consuming, she scarcely seemed aware of it herself sometimes. It was in those more intimate moments however when you began to read her, peering into the complexities of each mask she adorned. And in this moment, it was clear to see that beneath her fury, beneath her scorn, there was a searing pain in every movement she was making; more than all else, Raphael felt you had betrayed her, and that single sting of knowledge was more than sufficient for your gesture of surrender. "I'm sorry." Your placating tone did nothing to calm her, pulchritude somehow magnified through her scathing gaze. Encouraged by her lack of reply however, you took a cautious step forward, continuing your explanation. "I knew going to him would hurt you, and I still did it. You have every right to be pissed at me." "There are no words known to man in this world or the next to express-" There was a pause, a flicker of a scowl as she turned away from you, blue fading from her eyes as she surveyed the nearby trees. "You cut me deeply." Perhaps it was some remnant of stubborn indignation, or perhaps it was the inability to keep the passing thought contained, but Amara-help-you, the bite passed through your lips before you could restrain yourself. "At least the feeling's mutual." It was barely a breath, scarcely a coherent thought. Yet still she heard it, the words rippling through her wings as if she had been physically struck by them. Affronted gaze once more pinned you in place, the hairs along your nape rising in the face of thrumming electricity. "How dare you." She may have shouted or perhaps she had whispered; the hubris coating each syllable ate away at you, gnawing you in the ceaseless reminder that you were nothing compared to her. It was a logic that for years you had abided by, treading carefully alongside the ragtag collection of Hunters and Hosts, guarding your words and thoughts from Monsters and Malevolents alike. But much like the gods and goddesses of old, you had come to discover the immortals who walked the Earth were just as flawed as Humanity; you refused to display even a fraction of your fear in the face of her fury. "How dare I?" Memories assaulted you, vivid recollections of the hours spent raiding any literature you could find, the desperate summons to lesser Celestials, to Demons, to Pagans, to Fey, those excruciating evenings spent yearning for her presence, praying and cursing and crying into the darkest hours of the night. "How dare you!" Fervent prayers had proved useless, anxieties tying into fears and a dark web of self-doubt, eating away at your spirit. Desperation had left you precariously balanced on a precipice that surely would have damned you, had not one of the Archangels- the most unexpected- come to guide you back home. She had broken the oaths she made to you, disappearing from your side with no warning, no indications that she planned on returning. Having offered her your very soul, your every heartbeat, every inch of devotion- You had expected more care than what had been provided. Her touch had been so alien, her sweetest nothings oft hovering on the cusp of disturbing. But her love had been clear, her adoration shining as she watched you create, fondness blinding whenever you were lost in debate. She gave no indication of discontent, the warmongering visage that she brazenly wore crumbling to that of the Healer- curious, warm, and so full of life and light and hope and love that you could scarcely breathe around her. You had had no doubts of her affections, but her abandonment- Moisture stung your eyes, the yearning for those halcyon days depleting whatever pride you had been trying to maintain. Ferocity in your gaze, yet once more you turned to face her. "You abandoned me, Raphael." Your words sparked no form of reaction within her, nothing beyond the roiling rage radiating within her burnished orifices. "And still, you dared t-" "I did what I had to!" You spared her no mercy, once again stepping nearer, interrupting her condemnation before it could be truly vocalized. "We- I needed you." There was a flash of realization, so brief and sudden that had you not known her so well- not known by your own heartbeat the rhythm of her Grace, not known by memory the very slope of her eyes, not known by your very spirit the sensibilities within her- you surely would have missed the remorse reflecting in her eyes. "I needed you, Ra'phael. And you weren’t there.” The storm continued to rage all around you, fierce gale tossing loose twigs and leaves and rubbish from the nearest bins into a wall of relentless fury. Another flash of lightning electrified the air, the shadow of her wings nearly intimidating with their breadth. But you were long past the point of fear, beyond coercion. The very starlight that shimmered through her veins was as intimately familiar to you as the callouses on your own hands, and despite the severity of the storm around you- Not a drop of water had reached you, and only a few stray whispers of wind teased your eyelashes. For how angry you were, a sliver of hope embedded itself into your heart, a yearning to move past your own damnable pride now that you finally had her attention again. Her next words however, a low undercurrent of tension that echoed deep in your bones, forcefully smothered the flicker before it could fully begin to burn. “You forget your place, Oracle. I am not some pet,” she spat out, hauteur coating each syllable, grinding against your resolve. Raphael’s scowl, bitter expression coated in disdain, ate at your confidence, making you feel all that more insignificant in her presence. “I am the Wind and Skies. I am Majesty and Divinity; you are nothing more than an exiguous assemblage of quintessence.” The intensity of her proclamation- searing lightning, sharp tempest- wedged itself into your chest, corporeal reaction just as palpable as it would have been had she chosen instead to drive her halberd directly into your heart. This was not the being who had whispered stories of Creation into the pale hours of the morning, not the begrudging ally you had welcomed with equal wariness, the entity who you had come to see as so much more than a Primordial Agent of God. She used to smile for you, laughed with you. Aggrieved and enduring what felt a betrayal, your arms folded together in an attempt to shield yourself from further agony. Turning away from her, you nearly missed the transition in her expression, almost missed the pain in her own eyes. It was scarcely a flicker, but it was enough to give you pause, eyes narrowing in accusatory suspicion as she once more began to speak. “I have one final question for you, Oracle.” You had barely acknowledged her approach until she was standing right in front of you, wings folding away into their own stratum, features vulnerable in a way you had never seen before. She was fully unguarded, all traces of anger fallen from her frame, the crisp autumn air teasing loose strands of her hair. But it was her eyes- Timeless, boundless, beguiling in ways you could never even hope to describe- Her eyes drew you in, weaving into your curiousity, tugging so slightly at the tiniest shred of faith you had stubbornly clung to, hope having refused to retreat entirely. “How is it that someone so infinitesimal has so thoroughly ripped my plenary existence asunder?” Many of her English expressions were significantly outdated, but it was a rarity these days for her words to leave you completely befuddled. “What?” Her lips curled, a soft, achingly familiar smile creasing her features. There was a slight trace of mirth sparkling in her eyes, as well as some other unnamed emotion you didn’t dare wish for. You couldn’t look away even if you had longed to; the simple truth was that you were still spellbound by her presence, captivated by every motion. And that soft, gentle, affectionate smile- You hung your head in shame, desperately wishing you could cling to your anger, could somehow rid yourself of this depthless yearning. Her hand rose slowly, as if she were approaching a startled animal. The movement in your peripheral had you instinctively take a step back, once more studying the Archangel, now with far more confusion. “What it means, mi praevideat, is that I forgive you, and I apologise for departing without proper explanation.” Her words had only just reached you, spoken so softly that they nearly were lost to what remained of the breeze. You stared dumbly at her, doubting your own senses. It was inconceivable; Raphael was just as proud as her siblings, in many ways even more so. For her to be expressing any form of remorse- The light from one of the lanterns reflected in her eyes, the shifting shadows tugging you away from your suspicious rumination. You allowed yourself the diversion, taking a moment to study the eyes you had drowned in countless times before. Shifting axinite and bronze, and always that faint flicker of beryl- They were a cacophony of colour, ringing with a whole symphony of emotion. Doubt clung to you, your eyes narrowed as you tried to detect any insincerity from the Archangel. But her posture was tranquil, hands extended slightly from her sides in mimicry of a gesture you yourself had made thousands of times before. She was truly offering her atonement, truly regretted ever harming you. That simple asseveration was sufficient enough to pacify what had remained of your insecurities. Raphael sensed your crumbling barricades before you yourself could even begin to acknowledge them, meeting you directly, steering you safely into the harbour of her embrace. "I'm sorry," breathed tenderly against your temple, cautious fingers tracing new paths through your hair. You sighed, trying to continue grasping the threads of your anger, the fading traces of former anguish. But the memories were hazing away, all aching and suffering retreating under the Healer's tender supervision, adrenaline ebbing away with each breath. There was a moment when the atmosphere around you shifted, the cooled night air replaced with the glowing warmth of a candlelit room, torrential downpour replaced by the gentle medley of droplets against ancient windowpanes. Sometime in the hazy, blissful moments that followed, you had found yourself lying on a bed, the familiar hints of somnolence creeping ever closer. You had never dared to hope for anything beyond a few moments, had not dared to dream of the possibility you could weather the storm together. Your fingers drifted languidly across her back, pausing over each scar, every rise and fall of bone beneath her skin. You brushed aside stray feathers as you explored, giving into the inescapable smile at being bequeathed this vulnerability. An austere prayer of gratitude slipped past your subconscious, the smallest hint of praise to the most rebellious of Angels. You had to give the Devil his due; Lucifer still knew the exact words to prompt his kin into action. "It's highly impolite-" A drowsy voice interrupted your chain of thoughts, drawing your focus back to Raphael’s visage. Satisfied she had your attention, her eye closed once more, a small hint of bemusement coating her words. "-that you're thinking of my brother right now." Guilt summoned a wince from you, one you quickly shoved aside, favoring instead to fall once more to the empty space beside her, patient eyes taking in every crease, every pore, every millimetre of perfection to your beloved's physique. Surrender was a word neither of you would ever dare speak, but as you allowed yourself to relax in Raphael's embrace, your heavy eyes drifting gently over umber wings still sparkling with residual energy, you accepted the irrefutable truth of your circumstances. You had fallen irrevocably for an Archangel. And somewhere, only just piercing the cusps of whim and fancy, as you succumbed to the steady crescendo of slumber's sirenous strains, the lingering scents of cinnamon and petrichor drizzled softly on a breeze sighing: I love you, too. 

[langdxn]

will you ever continue the Lilith Mead reader?? 👀 im in agony here~

I can’t tell you how happy it makes me seeing so many people enjoying this story already, thank you for all your love and support for our new Lilith Mead! I promise it’ll be a crazy ride 🖤

read part one here

“Miss Mead, you said?” Michael questioned, gazing down at you with a soft grin tapering his lips.

“Uhh yeah. My real mom’s name.”

Michael opened your bedroom door and ushered you through.

“Then in that case, I have something to show you.”

He strode out into the hall stood tall and confident, with you two steps behind half-cowering as you crept out. Whatever danger lay outside, whoever was emptying rounds in the hallway may have been with the man whose arm you were currently clinging onto, but that didn’t diminish the danger beyond your four walls.

“Show me?” Your brows furrowed, questioning whether your trust in this complete stranger was misplaced. “Michael, do I know you from someplace?”

Michael guided you tentatively through the halls, taking contemplative steps as if you were on a walk along the promenade, not to survey the atrocities he and his accomplice had committed.

“You do not,” he cleared his throat, turning the next corner into another crisp white corridor. “But I know someone who should.”

“What are you talking about? Is this why you didn’t kill me?”

“No. But you see,” he stood still and turned to face you, planting his red-gloved hands on your shoulders. “Things are not what they seem.”

“You need to start making sense, Mr Michael,” you snapped, shrugging off his grasp and throwing your hands in the space between you. “What do you know about me?”

Shifting uncomfortably on the spot, Michael pulled at the fingers on his gloves and yanked his hands free, fiddling his digits nervously as he summoned the strength for an explanation.

“Your mother. Your real mother. You said she went missing?”

“What the fuck do you know about my—“

“The witches...”

“What? What did the witches do?”

“I told you the witches murdered my mother figure. Ms Miriam Mead, the only woman that ever truly loved me. She took me in when my real family abandoned me.”

Disbelief sent you collapsing against the nearest door, the brilliant white wood sliding you down to the floor with your knees bunched up to your head. Tears that you didn’t even notice brimming had burst their banks and streamed hot and furious down your cheeks, barely coherent gasps of broken syllables slowly forming a sentence.

“My mom… my mom’s dead?”

“Not exactly,” Michael muttered as he dropped to his knees beside you.

“What the fuck do you mean, not exactly?! She’s either dead or she isn’t, so which one is it?!” Your face skewed into a vicious rage, countless thoughts rattling in your skull so loud you could barely hear Michael’s words.

“Cordelia destroyed her soul so I could never reach her. So she could never help me again. But I brought her back, somehow.”

“I don’t... I don’t believe you,” you sniffled softly, soaking your sleeve with tears. “How could you—“

“I need you to trust me, Lilith,” he interjected, laying a comforting hand on your arm as he settled against the wall and mirrored your position. “She’s here. She’s right out there, just down the hall.”

“No, no—“ your head shook dismissively.

“Please, just hear me out. She’s here, she’s back to life in a fashion but she’s not the same Ms Mead, she doesn’t remember you.”

“Well why? Why doesn’t she remember me?” Concern for your mother twisted into anger at the man who seemingly had all the answers. “What have you done to her?”

“Nothing,” Michael sighed, the honesty and sincerity in his voice telling you all you needed to know about his account. “I had to give her every memory from scratch. I used every memory I knew about her: her childhood, the Satanic council, the ex-husbands she poisoned,“ you both chuckled gently at the thought. “But I didn’t have any memories of you to give to her because I didn’t know about you.”

“This is... this is too much,” you despaired, rinsing your face in your hands.

“Trust me, it won’t be once you see her.”

“Can I?” You sniffed resolutely, rising to your feet. “Can I see her?”

“Of course, but you have to remember she’s not quite right yet,” Michael stood beside you, both hands resting on your arms once again. “Don’t run into her arms, don’t overwhelm her. Just give her time to learn who you are again.”

“But she’s my mom!” Another wave of hysterics took over you, leaning forward to plant your head into Michael’s chest. “She’s my mom, how can she not know me?”

“I know, I know,” Michael cooed, wrapping protective arms around you. “It’s tough, I felt the same when I first saw her.”

Swaying in Michael’s hold, you drew your lip between your teeth and resigned yourself to ripping off the Band-Aid.

“Come on,” he whispered tenderly, unfurling you from his embrace and stepping aside to usher you around the next corner. “Go meet your mom again.”

Taking a deep breath, you stepped cautiously around the brilliant white hallway and found a stout lady in the next corridor.

“H... hi?” You hesitated, frozen to the spot as you waited for her to acknowledge you.

Ms Mead cocked her head with vacant eyes wide open, registering your presence and locking her sights on you.

“I found the last one, Michael!” She bellowed, grasping her arm and twisting it until an audible click loosened her hand, revealing an automatic gun in its place.

Your pulse thundered in your ears so loud you couldn’t hear Michael lunge toward you, standing tall in front of you as a barrier between you both.

“Ms Mead, no!” He screamed, firing defensive arms in front of you before a hail of bullets pummelled into his chest. His frame stuttered helplessly, his head bobbing and his body thrumming with every bullet that penetrated it.

You grabbed hold of his dark coat as his body dropped to the floor, trying desperately to hold his weight as you tumbled to your knees and propped him up into your lap.

“Mom!” You wailed back at the woman who stood speechless in the hallway, casting an empty stare as she fixed on the carnage before her.

“Mom, what the fuck have you done?!”

[starffledust]

What Is Advice to Fallen Stars? (Sandy & Emily Jane)

[originally posted on Ao3]

Original Summary: When she turned back to him, her gaze was stern as stone. “What happened this time that hung up so much of your mind?”

Sandy glanced away with a grimace.

“It's not him, is it?” she hissed. The identity of “him” went unspoken, but visions of Nightmare Horses—their golden eyes outlined with red—sprung to mind beside the other terrors of long ago.

A small smile touched Sandy’s expression, and he shook his head with a silent laugh.

Sandy stared at the picture, frowning.

It was simple, really: a book made of Dreamsand, floating before him innocently with the Guardian’s G on its cover.

Our experiences differ, but the common ground of our pasts becomes the same story.

Well, that’s what he had meant. What he had actually “said” or what Bunny had perceived was irrelevant. He seemed to understand well enough.

Oh, and that look. Just a touch of understanding and relief, then an invisible connection between Bunny and Earth that should be reserved solely for his own planet.

But it was too late for that now, wasn't it? For both of them.

If it was not attachment for a planet that Sandy felt, then it was attachment to journeys and people. He had always been flexible, but severing him from the stars only snapped the band which held together his heart. Despite Bunnymund’s attachments, he had still retained that certain level of familiarity with the ground and relics he stored away; Sandy had naught but a large island of sand which had once made up the fastest wishing star.

Dreams whispered around him, but Sandy paid them no mind as he sat contemplating on the floor of his room, near the large window. The beach did not glow like normal, and the mermaids were silent. His only company was the floating book of Dreamsand.

“You’re not still brooding, are you?”

The book fell away, but Sandy himself didn't startle. He turned a patient eye to the intruder. In the silent communication of sand and wishes, he spoke: Reviewing is not brooding, Emily.

Mother Nature dropped down beside him, sitting cross-legged atop the cushioned sand floor. How she had snuck past the seashells without alerting him, Sandy did not know. He didn't quite need to.

“You know how talkative the fish are,” she said with a voice deep and level like the largest valleys of Earth. “If you but step awkwardly, the tree roots will know and tell me in seconds. Especially after that whole recent charade with the Nightmares.”

The local dolphins are rather nosy, he commented with a nod. Her mention of Nightmares flooded his mind, turning the thoughts of home and companionship into battlefields of Nightmare Men and hosts of Fearlings. I know nothing for roots, though. Plants are your area.

“More than that,” Mother Nature muttered bitterly, looking away. When she turned back to him, her gaze was stern as stone. “What happened this time that hung up so much of your mind?”

Sandy glanced away with a grimace.

“It's not him, is it?” she hissed. The identity of “him” went unspoken, but visions of Nightmare Horses—their golden eyes outlined with red—sprung to mind beside the other terrors of long ago.

A small smile touched Sandy’s expression, and he shook his head with a silent laugh.

Emily Jane—not Mother Nature now, for that one would never allow such a display of vulnerability—exhaled loudly. “Thank the stars for that.” Her head dipped, dark curls shadowing her face. She looked back up with curious, pursed lips. “What was it then?” Her eyes flicked up to the full moon, then back to him. “One of the other ones?”

The other ones, Sandy repeated in the most obnoxious, undulating sensation that only silence could produce.

Emily scowled, but an amused smile pulled at her face. “Shut up!” She elbowed him in the side and pulled a lock of her long hair to hide herself. “You know who I mean.”

Sandy rolled his eyes with a fond shake of his head. For a spirit so old, she still retained enough childlikeness to be unchanged. Yes, Emily, it was one.

“Oh, stop it, you ass. I know your secrets.” She nudged him again, letting the veil of her hair fall away. “ Now, who was it?”

Bunnymund.

Emily blinked. “I half expected the new one. Or the younger one.”

A question mark formed unconsciously above Sandy’s head, despite his insistence to speak with her directly. Those are both Jack, he said.

“Isn’t that Saint Nikolaas young compared to most of them?”

St. North. First name Nicholas. He raised a brow. If you rely on the Dutch name, you may as well say Santa.

“Animals don't use such complicated names, don't look at me so.” She huffed.

There was silence for a moment, only broken by the distant sound of breaking waves. Her eyes traveled slowly across the shoreline, no doubt marking its dullness and empty spaces where usually creatures of both present and past would reside.

A golden fish hopped out of the water as Sandy subconsciously mourned their absence. Then it was gone.

“So, what did he do that made you so concerned?” Emily finally asked, tilting her head toward him with pure curiosity on her face.

Sandy took a breath and looked up, where the ceiling gave way to the darkened sky, marked with clusters of stars.

Emily followed the gaze with narrowed eyes. “What?” She glanced back at him.

Do you miss them? he whispered in the sand.

Emily’s normally pale countenance darkened burgundy and pink like a frail leaf in autumn. “I—Sandy, you know I—” Her mouth sputtered in silence for a few moments.

He turned to her slowly, holding her bewildered stare. I miss them, he said, resolute. I miss the speed, the wishes, even the army. I miss the simplicity, the freedom. I miss him, I miss you. And sometimes, when I feel incredibly lost, I wish for a world of contained fear.

Emily’s eyes glistened with liquid sorrow, no doubt remembering it herself. She swallowed. “Am I lost then?” she asked quietly.

I’m here.

“But you’re just as lost as I am.”

He looked away. What could he even say to such a truth? Sometimes I think I have finally found the way, he said instead. Earlier, I told Bunnymund I did not miss the company of Star Pilots.

“And?” she prompted, sensing he was not done.

I think I lied. Sandy turned back to her, head bowed to the ground as his hands rubbed together in his lap. I told him to find familiarity in the present, despite separate journeys; but here I am, more open with you—with whom I have shared centuries—than with even a Pooka.

“You wouldn’t lie to him.”

I didn’t at the time.

“What changed?”

Sandy deliberated his response for a few moments. This was the most he had “spoken” in decades, but the pain of silence was too much to bear right now. Dreams are inconsistent things, he said slowly. They have no age and no definition. I cannot tell you what did or did not influence me. I think only the stars know.

Emily stared down at him, hurt and rage painted clearly on her windblown face. “So…” she drew the word out, making him look up. “He asked you about then?” Her words were harder than her last few attempts.

Sandy nodded.

“And you indulged it?” Her face grew darker pink, nearly red, and her back straightened where she sat.

He’s hurt.

“He should know the sensitivity of such a thing!” Her hands flew to the ground, and thorny stems sprung through the sand.

Yes, but he’s HURT. Emily, Sandy pulled at her hands, bringing them closer and clasping them between his own, malice doesn’t make questions like his. It’s only desperation.

“Desperation for what? More pain?” Her hair moved on its own accord, like it was caught in a turbulent wind; Sandy could feel the sand of his island quiver with the mighty waves below.

Neither pulled away.

Emily, Sandy said again, softer, a small ripple in the sand which sent the thorns back underneath. Emily, we're all hurt. But denying one the comfort of another heals nothing.

For a moment, he believed she would argue, her chest heaving with the stifled rage of every volcano on the planet. But Emily stayed quiet, anger slowly crumbling to resignation.

She sighed and muttered, mostly to herself, “He’s still an idiot.”

So he is.

“They’re all idiots, but that one in particular—and he’s a Pooka from the Golden Age! He should know not to bring up such things.”

I don't see why not.

Her arms circled her legs, pulling them closer to her chest. “The past is full of pain and suffering. And you have even more time to account for than me. No wonder his reminder struck you to moping!”

The phrasing made Sandy shudder, images of flaming hulls and sails tipping in his mind’s eye. Just outside the window, stray Dreamsand moved to form a cascading trail of fire, quickly dissipating with a chiding thought from Sandy. My sorrow is not his doing, he said weakly.

“Of course it is!” She grasped back at his hands. “You said yourself you were fine before he made you doubt.”

If I doubted at all, then it was my own. Sandy inhaled deeply before continuing: Surely, you can understand his position. He is a lost Pooka with no family or friends. In regards to the Golden Age, I am his closest ally. But he can’t always understand me, and my presence cannot be enough.

Emily settled at this, but the tell-tale ripple of her dress told of hidden resentment. “Why not?” she spat. “It’s not like he’s going to get anything better.”

Sandy sighed to himself and let both of their hands drop. He had expended all of his explanations already, and now even the comfort of silent words would not yield to his command.

A long second passed where no one spoke or argued, and the tension surely withered away.

“I miss it, too,” Emily broke the silence first.

Though he said nothing, Sandy nodded for her to continue.

She coughed once. “I mostly miss the excitement. Like when I’d sneak out to play with the Star Fish or when we traveled together answering wishes.” Her frown fell away, her face relaxing with temporary contentment. “I miss my mother, and I miss our victories against Pirates. I miss Typhan.” Her eyes sobered as tears broke from them. “But I can’t miss my father. Not after everything. At least that stupid Pooka has a good family to remember; I only have a half-dead shadow and a blind Constellation to whom I am a bastard Sister of the Heavens.”

Still, Sandy said nothing, but he placed a hand back on hers.

She looked down at the gesture and smiled, wetness still running from her eyes. “But,” she began, reaching down with her other hand to cover the two, “I guess I can understand why the Pooka can’t adjust.”

A question mark appeared above Sandy’s head.

“Well,” her mouth twisted into a smirk, “I have one thing he doesn’t.” She brought his hand between them, clasping them together again. “I have a Captain Sandy.”

When the words finally registered, Sandy smiled widely with a silent laugh. And I have an Emily Jane, he said.

The sentiment went unspoken, but they both thought it the same: “A friend.”