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(Some) Sakuverse Characters as Songs

These thoughts have been fermenting in my mind for a while. Originally I wanted to turn this into something similar to my Sakuverse Characters as Paintings-Post, but I lacked both the time and motivation. So have this drastically watered down version of my original idea instead.

Isaac Rhoades -- Heavy In Your Arms, Florence + The Machine

I think Isaac would view his love as a heavy love ("My love has concrete feet / My love's an iron ball"). He views himself that way, considering the emotional baggage he brings into the relationship. Also, musically these somber but strangely soft tones together with the vulnerability of the lyrics create an ensemble that reminds me of Isaac's character.

Alex -- Gold, Sir Sly

Perhaps my characterisation of Alex is a bit off here, given the way his series ended. However, his ambition is an integral part of his character in my eyes. His self-worth is tied to his accomplishments, which is why I settled on this angsty-melancholic song. "Pocket full of gold and I hope you find / I hope you find your dream / And darling, never settle, settle, settle / Chasing down the devil, devil / Chasing down the gods and I hope you find / I hope you find your dream // I got a million ways of losing / But nothing in my life worth proving / Chasing, all my time is wasted" is fitting for his character in this regard, comprising how his ambition both destroys him and is simultaneously what gives him, in his own eyes, meaning while also leaving him unfulfilled.

Zaros Atha'lin -- Bridges, ALIKA

I think this works on two levels. First of all Zaros' political ideas quite literally being a policy of bridges, to bring Serulla together and reduce the cliff between the nobles and the people. "Now I see myself / Building up a world of bridges" feels like his whole policy.

Second, I think the longing in this song, together with both the vulnerability it expresses both in the lyrics ("Realized that all the lies I've told myself have died / Bring me to the place / Where I belong / Filled with all the memories and dreams I have ignored // I remember all the things that I went through / All the lies and blurry lines and city lights I knew / Now I'm strong enough to see what lays inside / And I can feel it all") and in the instrumental, as well as the overall power it gains especially around the 2:41-mark reflect both his ambition and the conflicting emotions he has in regards to the Earis.

Dontis -- Man a Express, Mellow Mood

I just think he would like Reggae. This song I believe is about living life to the fullest and to embrace all the experiences it brings. It feels like a message that aligns with Dontis' personality and his views in general. "And yuh laugh and yuh cry and yuh smile ever more" especially is a line that reflects this, considering that Dontis has suffered greatly in his past but remains kind and positive throughout his long life.

Asirel Cain -- The Mephistopheles of Los Angeles, Marilyn Manson

Thought of this as a sort of title-track to my Asirel novella.

This is largely based on the ominous and empowering vibe of the song. But I also think that the motif of Mephistopheles is fitting for Asirel. "Lazarus has got no dirt on me / And I'll rise every danger // I was fated, faithful, fatal" I think characterises Asirel's tremendous power and the person it has inadvertently turned him into.

Alternatively Blood Sport by Sleep Token is also very Asirel-coded to me.

Elias -- Are You Ready?, Maneskin

This is very based on the vibes of this song. The deep notes during the first chorus ("Ride a benzo, get your bands up" 0:41-048) sound dangerous while the high notes during the second chorus (1:34-1:53) have something wistful about them. The combination suits both Elias role as Warden's son and heir-apparent for the Wraiths as well as his more vulnerable side, his trauma and the fact that this was a life that was thrust upon him and which at least part of him fundamentally resents.

Rowan -- Je Veux, ZAZ

The lighthearted, feel-good vibe of this song similarly states to live life according to ones wishes and not mind the opinions and expectations of others expressed in the lyrics. "Je veux d'l'amour, d'la joie, de la bonne humeur / C'n'est pas votre argent qui f'ra mon bonheur" feels like something that suits Rowan both in the way he views life and how he wants to live it.

Cevyk -- Call Me, Blondie

[insert joke about summoning a demon here]

I think this song has something unhinged about it, and that makes me think of Cevyk. "Call me my love / Call me, call me any, anytime" feels like something he'd say to Iqsus just to mess with them.

Niall -- What Difference Does It Make?, The Smiths

The whole song sounds melancholic to me, plagued by some distant ache that still hurts even though it has scarred over. "So what difference does it make? / It makes none" is the resignation that can be found in Niall at the beginning of his series. "But I'm still fond of you" is the paradox he finds himself in regarding SB and their relationship, both as being someone who hurt him in the past as well as the object of his affections in the present.

Xanthus Claiborne -- Prelude, Op. 28: No. 4 in E Minor, Frédéric Chopin

Xanthus, out of all the characters, is the only one I think suits a classical piece. He has an emotional complexity to him that I feel is best expressed without words. I think the mixture of quiet sadness, longing, despair and resignation this piece goes through as it progresses tells the story of Xanthus life fittingly.

Thanks for reading! Let me know your thoughts on this.

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If you do not mind me asking, why is it that you have stopped taking requests permanently? And, does this imply you will never write for the Sakuverse Fandom again?

That is very much it. I’ve simply lost interest in the Sakuverse, the characters no longer entice me as they once did. With Saku shelving most of his established cast and sort of beginning a new chapter on his channel (that’s the way I view it at least) I feel like now is the appropriate time for me to retire. As I said, the stories don’t interest me anymore and the asmr-y storytelling as a whole genre has lost its appeal to me.

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Please can you write an Andrew fic where he comforts darling about an exam they got an A on instead of an A* or something of that sort (yes this did happen to me and I’m upset, I also miss Andrew 😔😔)

Yes understandable and I can relate, I hope you feel better soon.

Unfortunately my request are very much sealed shut forever. I have a handful of fic requests that I have had shelved for too long and feel too guilty not to write so I’m simply going through them currently before I, too, retire back into the void.

If anyone would like to write this I’d be delighted. Apologies again that I can’t be of service.

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Imagine Pet's reaction if Asirel were to return to his habit of calling on escorts. I don't think they'd like that very much.

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self-indulgent but isaac and pickle have an argument and because pickle has a strong fear of getting yelled at, they start crying in the middle of it

It Doesn't Matter

Isaac Rhoades x Reader

Warnings: dissociation/panic attack

“That’s a dead end. We shouldn’t follow up on it.”

You frowned, glancing down at the papers in your hand again. It certainly wasn't. The case had become tangled quickly, leaving a garbled mess behind that you could only work through with difficulty. 

The stack of paper on your desk had steadily grown over the last two weeks — ever since the gentleman with the dead brother and missing wife had walked in, requesting your services — and the stress of making no headway and spinning in circles had begun creeping up on both you and Isaac. The air had been laden with tension for a while now, and it seemed his simple dismissal was suddenly the spark that brought the walls around you down.

“And how would you know that?” you snapped, slamming the papers on your desk. You turned to glare at him, annoyance getting the better of you. “This could very well be something. The brother-in-law never liked him, so what if—?”

“It’s a waste of time,” he said briskly, not looking up from where he was scribbling furiously on one of the pages. “Listen to me for once. You don’t have the experience I have, so just do as I say and we’ll wrap this up quicker.”

You gaped at him for a moment. Finally, he raised his head to look at you, surprised by the sudden silence.��

“What?” Isaac asked, his eyebrows furrowing at your stunned expression. 

It felt like a storm cloud rolled over you. Your gaze darkened, your anger spiked and for a moment the thought that this truly wasn’t such a big deal, that he did have more experience than you and his many years of working in this field had to amount in his rarely deceiving instincts all vanished at the height of your frustration. 

“You’re not always right, you know!” you said, “just because you’ve been doing this longer than I have doesn’t mean that you know everything.”

“Pickle!” he yelled, slamming his hand on the desk as he rose to his feet. “Stop being difficult!”

His voice cut through the air sharply, and although his voice did not echo, you felt it ring in your ears long after the silence had swallowed the room once more. There was a rising tide somewhere inside you, making your ears ring with his enraged scream. Isaac still stood behind his desk, but you could not make out more than his silhouette. The office was blurry, and it took you a moment to realize that it was not reality slowly melting away, but your own eyes that had filled with tears.

Distantly, you thought you heard something that vaguely resembled your name. It was hard to make out, and you felt strangely detached from yourself, your body. It all felt distant, like you were suspended in midair or submerged in the weightlessness of water. 

The chair under you did not feel like more than a distant echo. Something so far away could not hold you up. No, you were about to fall. You were going to fall any moment now, and once you did, there was nothing that could break it anymore. You would fall forever, for eternity in this strange space of weightless infinity.

Your hands moved sluggishly, fingers curling around the first thing they grasped, but it was surprisingly pliable. Not your desk, not the armrest. It moved, guiding your arms to some other place, taking your body with it until you were leaning sideways, resting against something. Your grip tightened, fingers grasping what you slowly realized to be fabric. 

You felt something against the top of your head, a brief pressure. You tried to focus on it, tried to grasp at the feeling of the things around you, and the longer you did, the more you started to actually feel them. They got closer, no longer distant. 

There was a gentle but tight pressure around you. Arms, you realized, holding you tightly. You were leaning against something warm, solid, and as you pressed your cheek against it more — to make sure it would not give, would not disappear once you pressed against it — you could make out a faint beating. It was a little too fast to be soothing. 

“Hey,” a voice said, your brain putting the pieces together in a sudden flash of enlightenment. Isaac. Yes, you were in Isaac’s arms. “Are you with me again? It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

You hummed, too exhausted for words. You still felt a little shaky, a little too fragile to escape Isaac’s grounding embrace, but thankfully he did not seem to be pulling away. 

“I’m sorry I yelled,” he said quietly, placing another kiss on the top of your head, pulling you a little closer. “You’re safe with me. We’ll talk about this tomorrow, yeah? The rest of today is about you— about us.” 

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Hi Vic! Can please we get a fic of Isaac comforting pickle after they got too overstimulated and used the safe word? Like a soft comforting fic?

Everyone misses Isaac so much, it's been 8 MONTHS!!!!

Too Much

Isaac Rhoades x Reader

Warnings: heavily implied sexual content

“Red! Red!” you cried, gripping the sheets so tightly a distant part of your mind worried they would tear. 

Isaac stilled immediately, raising his head from between your shaking thighs to search your gaze. His grip softened, his thumbs soothingly caressing your skin. “Are you alright?” he asked, shifting to kneel beside you. He reached out a hand to brush your tears away, the other gently cupping your cheek as he looked at you. “Too much?”

You nodded weakly, still trying to catch your breath. Your body was still twitching, faintly shaking from being worked so thoroughly by Isaac. “‘M fine,” you gasped, wishing to reassure him. His forehead was creased, eyebrows drawn together in concern as he looked at you, no doubt wondering if he had overdone it. That would be a conversation for later. “Was— was good, ‘saac. Just can’t— can’t take any more.”

“Of course,” he said, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “It’s alright. I’ll run a bath. What do you need?”

“Please,” you sighed, trying to relax. A bath sounded nice, and it would certainly help the strain on your muscles. You closed your eyes, the fog in your mind gradually lifting as you took stock of your body. You were exhausted, the pull of sleep all but impossible to resist. The bed dipped.

“Can you walk?” Isaac asked, his hands already resting on your upper arm. “I’ve got you, I’ll help you. Can you sit up?” 

You groaned, weighing your exhaustion against the prospect of a warm bath. Isaac did not give you much of a choice however, already helping you sit up and making your head spin. You gripped his arm to steady yourself, groaning again. “Slow down,” you said, “I’m a bit— a bit dizzy.”

“Sorry,” he apologized, keeping an arm around you as you felt him shifting around. Tentatively you opened your eyes, pleased to find the world no longer tilting. “Here,” he said, raising a glass to your lips. “Juice, my heart. It’ll make you feel better, trust me.” 

You sipped it slowly, humming in gratitude as Isaac set the glass back on the bedside table. 

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” you said, rising unsteadily to your feet. The warmth of the water really was a balm for your aching body as you sank into the tub. With Isaac behind you, and his arms securely wrapped around you while his hands carefully worked to clean you, massaging soaps into your skin, the temptation to fall asleep was too great to resist.

It was short lived, however. Soft lips pressed against the side of your head, the arms around you tightened, squeezing you gently. “Love, the water is getting cold,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to your temple. 

Begrudgingly, you sat up, allowing Isaac to slip out of the water. He wrapped himself in a towel, retrieving a second one before holding out his hands to help you up. As soon as you were dry — only your hair still a little damp — you collapsed back into bed, waving away Isaac’s offer for food to instead pat the mattress beside you and curling into his side as soon as he laid down. 

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around you again, holding you tight. “I’m sorry if I was too rough, or too eager,” he said, brushing your hair back and looking down at your tired expression. 

This was not the right time to talk, he could tell. But he needed to get the words out, they were weighing his heart with guilt — misplaced, the logical part of his brain supplied. That’s why you had a safeword, that’s why it was there, but still, he felt uneasy about the fact that you actually had to use it. 

You did not quite catch his words, eyelids drooping as you cuddled. “You’re good,” you mumbled, catching only the ‘sorry’ he had said, missing the implications, the guilt, the deeper meaning behind his words that you would have to unpack and talk about properly come tomorrow. For now, however, you simply basked in the aftercare he gave you, clinging to him in the way you both needed and muttering a soft ‘I love you’ into the silence to put his mind at ease.

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Can I get another Isis X reader. I need her….

Missing Sources

Isis x Reader

“This is wrong, you know.”

You looked up from the book you had been engrossed in for the better part of the day to glance curiously at Isis. She was sitting in the red velvet armchair opposite you, holding a cup of tea — part of a vintage set, complete with the saucer — in her hand, her pinky elegantly positioned.

“What is, darling?” you asked in confusion, marking the page and setting aside the book. You rubbed your eyes gently, soothing the slight ache from a day of reading. Isis did not mind, preoccupied with her own reading — something about a bond, but it was vampire business and you did not want to pry too much — so you had spent the day in amenable silence only occasionally interrupted by the soft rustling of paper. 

“The ‘brief history’ you are reading,” she said, her voice carrying a melancholy note. “The sources for the time are very limited, and you can only base so much on papyri found in Alexandria. It was far from my favorite city during that time.”

You pursed your lips, glancing at the thick monograph beside you. “I think it’s rather well researched,” you said, “given the limited sources available. The author paints a very concise picture, it’s clear she knows what she’s talking about.” 

“Yes. Sadly the fraction of the reality that has remained, and which she is forced to reassemble, creates a picture far removed from the truth. It’s quite tragic,” she took a sip of her tea, humming as the sweet taste of the added honey hit her tongue. She smirked, “I thought about becoming a historian, simply to pass the time and clear up some misconceptions, but I quickly realized that I could never be. I cannot prove my knowledge.”

You hummed, sinking against the cushions of the sofa. Absentmindedly, you thumbed through the pages of the book. The question struck you suddenly if it was worth reading at all. It was not true, after all. But you had no way of knowing what was and what wasn’t. You could ask Isis, of course, but listening to her explain the south-eastern provinces of the Roman Empire would certainly lead to a whole other picture than the one your esteemed historian painted on the pages of the book she had dedicated years of her life to. Was the past worth studying at all, if everything that remained of it was a mere shard of a shattered mirror — and the reassembled pieces hardly resembled the original? 

You sighed, putting the book aside. Enough of this for today, this reflection was making you melancholy. 

“Have you tried historical fiction?” you asked, leaning forward to snatch a chocolate cookie from the plate on the coffee table between you. Isaac had returned with a box filled with them, something about a thank-you gift from her latest star-crossed lovers. “You could write without the need of proof. It’s fiction, after all, and not a scientific article. Or” — you made an aborted gesture towards your monograph.

Isis hummed. “I have. Some have even turned into classics.” She laughed at your genuine surprise. “I’ve had many pen names, dear. But tell me, are you upset that the past is unknowable? I know my accounts only offer one perspective, but you’ll find me to be a very special source with excellent memory.”

“Is this your way of urging me to ask you questions about your past?” you tease. “Because I’m interested in you beyond the insight you may or may not give in to the questions scholars have been debating for decades.”

“Well,” she said, setting down her tea, “maybe I just want your undivided attention.” 

You clicked your tongue. “As if you don’t have that already.”

“You’ve been rather busy with your book today, dear.” 

“Jealous?” you asked, meaning to be teasing. As you leaned forward to grab another cookie, Isis’ hand shot out, fingers gently taking hold of your chin.

“What if I am?” she asked, a tinge of something darker colouring her voice. Possessiveness. “After all, I was left gazing at your lovely figure for a good half an hour after finishing my own reading with little more than passing acknowledgements from your side. And I have been” — she leaned closer, inhaling your scent for a moment before licking her lips — “rather starved for a kiss.”

Your pulse quickened at her words, eyes trained on hers. “Well, we can’t have that,” you said, voice thick. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you going hungry for me, dearest.”

Isis did not lunge forward, she was too elegant for that. Her movements were precise, quick, her lips on yours before you could fully react, her fingers tangling in your hair before you could fully wrap your arms around her. And if you heard the coffee table scrape against the hardwood floor — the tee thankfully not spilling onto the rich, purple tablecloth — it could not be because Isis was desperate to kiss you, feel you, taste you. No, it must have been your frail equilibrium.

“Are you satiated?” you murmured breathlessly as she broke the kiss, shooting a displeased look at the coffee table. 

“You’re overdoing it,” she said, licking her lips. She frowned, picking up one of the chocolate cookies. “I must say, these taste rather good,” she said before taking a bite. Then she smirked. “Or maybe that was just you.”

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Smile For The Camera

Dontis x Reader

You are having a bad day and seek out Dontis for comfort.

You felt wretched. The day had dragged on forever and the people you had encountered were all less than friendly. Today simply felt like one of those days where the universe seemed to have aligned itself to make everything go wrong, pushing you to the very edge of your endurance. 

From the snappy cashier — underpaid and stressed themselves, no doubt — to the elderly man on the sidewalk who had rudely told you to ‘get out of his way’ and your normally friendly neighbour all but ignoring you as you bid her good morning, slamming the front door behind her with more force than necessary. It was all you could do not to cry as you found yourself waiting impatiently for Dontis to open the door. He was taking unusually long and the thought dawned on you that perhaps he was not home at all. 

It had been an impulse decision, a detour from your way back to the store because his house was close by and he never failed to cheer you up. And you were in desperate need of some cheer now, a distraction, some comfort — anything but this rising tide of stress, sadness, and the feeling of inadequacy that had been steadily rising within you for a while now and was slowly tainting your thoughts. 

You knocked again, louder this time. Curse this mansion for not having a doorbell. Dontis had a rather extravagant taste, the golden knocker in shape of an open-mouthed lion was all but proof of that. You hoped he was not sleeping. You hoped he was not with someone, or otherwise preoccupied. You hoped he was home at all, but that possibility seemed less likely with every passing moment the mansion remained eerily quiet. 

Sighing, defeated, you turned, raising your head to look at the sky and blink away the tears that stubbornly came to your eyes, despite your best efforts. It was not that bad, right? 

The day could have gone worse. You were overreacting. It was just a dozen little things that had piled up into this monstrosity slowly draining away your joy, but it was fine. It would be. Maybe you just needed to sleep and let this day pass away. Tomorrow would be better. Probably. Most likely. 

The sky was bathed in gold, and you were sure you would have seen some smidges of red and orange as well, if not for your tears blending the colours together. You wiped your eyes furiously. What were you even crying about? You were just frustrated, that was all. Why had you allowed yourself to come bother Dontis in the first place? Nothing was wrong you just needed— you needed— 

“What a pleasant surprise!” came a gentle voice from somewhere behind you. 

Decidedly, you did not look at him, trying to dry your tears discreetly. What a mess, crying on his doorstep because what, people were rude today? 

“I’m sorry. If you knocked I didn’t hear you, dear hunter. Perhaps I should have left a note. I spent the day in the garden, my rose bushes needed trimming,” he said with a chuckle, pausing at your lack of response. “Is everything alright?”

You cleared your throat, hoping that your eyes were not as red as you thought they were. “Fine,” you lied. “I was just— just in the area, you know. Thought I’d come and say hi.” Tentatively, you turned around to glance at him, meeting his eyes briefly, before looking away again. 

Dontis was quiet for a moment. “I don’t mean to pry,” he said slowly, stepping closer until he was right beside you, trying to catch your gaze. You turned away, keeping your eyes on the sunset. To your horror, you felt tears gathering again. “But you don’t seem fine. What happened?”

You shook your head, heaving a deep sigh. “Nothing,” you croaked. You felt something tug on your arm, glancing down to see Dontis gently taking the grocery bag you held in a vice grip. 

“Why don’t we go inside? Stay for dinner, hm, and you can tell me all about this ‘nothing,’” he said, placing a hand on your arm to guide you towards the door. 

“It really is nothing,” you said, giving up the pretense and wiping your eyes with your sleeves. “Today was just difficult for no reason, well, sort of for different reasons but they’re all so inconsequential and— I don’t even know why this is affecting me at all. It shouldn’t matter but— but—” — you choked up again — “it all just piles up, you know.”

Dontis hummed, setting your grocery bag on the counter before turning back towards you. In an instant, you felt his arms wrap around you tightly, his scent washing over you like a tide of warmth and comfort. You could not fight the sob bubbling up inside you, leaning further into the embrace and clinging to him as you buried your face against his shoulder. 

“It’s alright,” he soothed, moving his hand to thread his fingers through your hair. “And it’s alright to cry too. I know things can be tough sometimes. You don’t need an excuse to cry or feel sad or frustrated. I’ve got you. I’m always here if you need me, my dear.”

You nodded weakly against his shoulder, taking a shuddering breath. Dontis was making you feel marginally better. Sometimes a hug could make all the difference. 

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There was this idea I had about an Isaac Novella, and considering I am never going to write it, I thought I would share the very basic outline and half-baked thoughts I had for it:

For some reason I wanted to call it A Separate Peace

It would start with Isaac and Pickle -- post-canon -- taking on a case about two bothers who were looking for their parents. They had been separated from their parents since early childhood, and now that they were influential men or whatnot they had the means and connections to investigate what had happened back then.

I had some sort of conflict in mind for Isaac and Pickle. I wanted their relationship to be strained, them growing further apart during their research until Pickle would leave (for a while) and continue following up on one of their leads on their own while Isaac stayed in his mansion and spiralled into overwork and his unhealthy coping mechanisms.

Asirel would keep close watch on the case for his own reasons. The parents of the two brothers would turn out to be scientists who ran experiments on mythics, being the ones who had developed the serum that could knock out pet. Some rivalling organisation (the Trimedian perhaps) had found out about this and wanted their research for themselves, forcing them into hiding and leaving them to abandon their children for their own protection.

Asirel would constantly sabotage the investigation, trying to keep Isaac and Pickle away from finding the parents by giving them other cases, giving them false leads and so on. Eventually they would figure out that the parents were scientists, experimenting on mythics etc. and one of the leads would guide them out of the country, but before they could leave Asirel would call Isaac and straight out tell him to drop the case, that it was out of his range, that he was touching some top-secret thing that was above his pay grade.

It would end with Isaac and Pickle actually listening to Asirel, fabricating some story and fitting evidence to deceive the brothers and keep the secrets they had uncovered, like Asirel told them to.

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Anpther ask, depressed love and xanthud takes care of them and like reasures them and just fluff but like angst too

When The Summer Dies

Xanthus Claiborne x Reader

Warnings: depression

There was something about life that felt so utterly pointless in the harsh afternoon sun. There was no reason for this feeling, logically you knew this. It could be worse. It could be unbearable, and yet it wasn’t. It was just hollow.

What was the point of it in the end? Why bother at all? You were tired, weary. Nothing brought as much joy as it should. The things you liked to do were not enough to excite you anymore, nothing felt quite right, nothing was worth the effort. So in the end, what did you do but watch the clock tick away on the wall, tick-tack until the day was over and the next began, in an unending string of squished-together experiences, feelings, memories, thoughts? All for what? 

And it was not even particularly pleasant to live anymore. Not that your life was bad per se. It just did not feel all that fulfilling anymore. You had nothing to look forward to anymore so really, quite reasonably — or so you thought — the natural question arose as to why you bothered at all. 

Certainly, there was nothing wrong with seeing life as a gift, but it did not feel like that. If anything, it felt like a chore slowly draining you until only a thick fog of gray remained in your chest. You were not even particularly sad — why would you be? It was all just empty, somehow. 

The sun shining brightly in the clear blue sky did not suit the cloud hanging over you at all. Or perhaps it did. There was no storm raging inside of you, no well of despair, no devouring, and all-consuming sadness. All was still, lifeless. And if the sun was supposed to be warm, well, you did not feel it to be. It was harsh. The sun rays were empty, the approaching summer all but tangible in the air around you as the flowers slowly came to life again, spring uncurling from the deep slumbers the winter had put it in. 

And yet, and yet. By some unwritten rule it was forbidden to feel dead in the spring, it was unheard of to feel despair in the summer. No, those dark feelings were reserved for the cold, chilly days of winter, for the rainy melancholy of autumn nights, when the darkness could hide the tears that would be plainly visible in the harsh sunlight. 

Well, you did not get the memo. 

And as Xanthus appeared before you with a bouquet of tulips and a gentle smile you could hardly muster a smile of thanks. No, there was nothing inside you, not even a spark of happiness or gratitude or love at the sight of your lover, taking time out of his day to make you a gift.

“How sweet,” you said, taking the flowers from him. Your voice sounded flat to your own ears. “Are they in season already, my, how time flies.” It was a surface-level observation, something to fill the silence where in another time, livelier, some months ago, you would have chuckled, sprung up from your seat on the windowsill to engulf him in a hug and pepper his face with kisses. 

Xanthus felt your absence of emotion keenly. Your apathy.

The bond felt different nowadays. Sometimes he thought it was gone. Your presence in his heart was muted. He knew it was there, he felt something, but it was not quite the same as it had once been. When there had been a sharp spike of excitement that left him grinning, or the faint licks of frustration that made his jaw clench instinctively — emotions that were not his own, but that affected him nonetheless, that made him feel whole in a way he had not thought possible — there was simply nothing now. 

“My love,” he began slowly, observing as you placed the tulips in a vase, arranging them so they rested prettily against the rim of the vase. You hummed, not turning around as you continued your task, indicating that you were listening. He opened his mouth, but words fled his mind. What could he even say? How could he address this— this?

You rummaged through a cupboard, retrieving a coin of copper to drop it into the water of the flowers. For a moment longer you stared at the flowers. They were pretty, in your favorite colour even. Xanthus must have picked them because of that. Because they reminded him of you. 

It should have been a heartwarming thought, a proof, however simple, of his love for you. And yet, and yet. Why did you feel nothing?

“What do you think about some cake?” you asked, turning to look at him. With effort, you managed to give him a small half-smile. “Vanilla, maybe. With strawberries?” His favorite. It was all you could do to show him that you appreciated the gesture. Because you did! You did! But you just didn’t feel it. “Though I think we’re out of flour. I’ll pick some up later today.”

“My love,” he tried again, frowning at his own lack of eloquence. 

Xanthus stepped closer to you, his hands brushing over your arms before taking your hands, and squeezing them tightly. He looked at you intently, searching your gaze for something. For what, you did not know, but you were certain he would not find it.

“I— I’m not sure how to—”

“Listen,” you cut him off, rubbing small circles on the back of his hands with your thumbs. His distress, his helplessness was evident, his eyes all but begging you for something unknown in desperation. “I know I’ve been— I’ve been distant lately. It’s not you, I promise. It’s just—” You hesitated, not sure how you could explain what was going on inside you. Or lack thereof. “It’s not you. It’s nothing you did. This is all just me being— being depressed. It looks different on everyone, and this is my, uh, my special flavour of it, let’s call it that.”

Xanthus did not laugh. You supposed your attempt to lighten the mood was not very funny.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, looking at you with such sadness in his eyes that had you struggling to hold eye contact. 

“I’m afraid not,” you said slowly, giving his hands a comforting squeeze. “At least nothing with, like, an immediate effect. There’s nothing you can do to fix me—”

He frowned, letting go of your hands to wrap his arms around you instead, pulling you into his chest. “There is nothing to fix,” he said with conviction. “You’re not broken. You’re sick, and you will get better with time. There’s nothing wrong with you, my love. And this is not your fault, and don’t even think that I could love you any less because of this. We’ll get through this together, yes? And you’ll be alright again, you’ll be happy again. I love you.”

You squeezed him back tighter as you heard him choke up, his voice thick with emotions. It broke on the last syllables. I love you. You wished you could say it back. You wished there was something in your chest that would make the reassurance feel less like a lie, a deception on your lips. 

“You don’t need to say it back,” he said, taking a shuddering breath and wiping his eyes. “I understand. It’s alright. My love is enough for the both of us right now.”

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ah yes, getting to work on the requests of lest year in *checks calendar* March. Sorry!

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Third Time's The Charm

↳ At Vic’s funeral, Asirel reunites with an old “friend.” ↳ 1k words

It had been a closed casket, with little use to Asirel. He had seen the photos: a body in tatters, blackened first by blood, then from infection by wounds left untreated. An eye was missing. So was the hair. Only the shape of a nose, and the left half of the lips, made the body identifiable to him immediately. A countenance he knew far too well. 

Asirel knew that body wasn’t beneath the lid. The real one was cremated. He was the one that scattered the ashes. Still, he felt it, as if it clawed at the wood; begging for release – taunting him, as its owner so often had. Asirel, he could hear those lips croon. I didn’t take you for a mourner.

He wasn’t. Death’s miasma, for the first time since Fresno, clouded his mind.

Asirel took a watch from his pocket. It had been a gift from Vic, and something he couldn’t stomach feel weighing on his wrist anymore. The large hand clicked just past ten. 

He slipped it away and sat back down in the front row of chairs, closest to the coffin. Only the buzz of a distant city filled the air. He rested his head in his hands, fingers threading through his hair that seemed to bleed gray from the roots. Everyone else was gone.

Or, so he thought. 

The smell of smoke was so faint he thought he was imagining it. He often did; whenever he thought back to Fresno, at least. Tara’s habits had frustrated him, but the ash was nostalgic. It reminded him of simpler times, of casinos and Quetza. Of the seven of diamonds she slipped him at his own father’s funeral, not too dissimilar to Vic’s.

Have a nice day, she had said.

Boots smushed the wet grass underfoot as the smoker approached. He dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out with his heel. “Room for one more,” the man asked as he sat beside him. Asirel said nothing. Through his fingers he spotted the stub in the grass. 

A minute passed, the two beside each other. Asirel composed himself, sitting at attention with a stern expression which his red-lined eyes betrayed. It wasn’t until his gaze left the cigarette and faced forward – towards the coffin – that the other opened his mouth. 

“It’s been a while, Asirel.”

“Likewise, James.”

The Wraith’s second-hand hadn’t changed a bit in the last decade. His face remained inscrutable, watching the coffin as Asirel did. Lines framed his mouth and brow, and his hand flexed against his knee. A pearlescent scar shone across his knuckles. He adjusted himself, throwing one leg over the other. 

“Shit,” he muttered, “who’d think he’d be gone before us?”

Asirel huffed. “No one.” 

James offered a box of Marlboros, and Asirel took one. It had been Vic’s preferred brand. He did himself the favor of lighting it. 

“How’ve you been?” 

Asirel took a drag. “Better. Though I am a bit offended. Where is Warden? Was it the decor?” Vic would’ve laughed. 

All James gave him was a huff. “Still not keen on you.”

“Oh, you flatter me.” 

Him, James, and Warden. An odd group to be left with, for sure – left in the wake of spectres who loomed larger than them, whether she a colleague or sister or wife. It was easy, for Asirel, to forget the impact of the Rhoades’ deaths. They were collateral. It was Isaac that pulled his heartstrings. But their deaths were written all over James’ face, parallel lines to Tara’s. 

As if he could read his mind, James opened his mouth. “I saw you speaking to Isaac,” he said. “How is he?” A beat. “He’s doing well.” 

He visibly relaxed. “Good. Good. Is it true he has a partner now?” 

Asirel stiffened, unsure of how to speak of him around James. 

“Please, Asirel.” He didn’t expect the pleading in his voice. “I was his godfather.”

Any other time he would’ve relished in this, but Vic’s gore appeared in his mind. He could find no pleasure in tormenting the man he cared so much about, not right now. Not when so many other ghosts surrounded him. Surrounded them.

“He does,” Asirel admitted. “I don’t know much. He keeps those spheres separate. But he has company now.”

James smiled. 

And they went on. Asirel shared stories of Isaac, of Vic and Isaac – how the older man would return to him with a glimmer in his eye and, in spite of Asirel’s urgency for information, go on and on about how well Isaac was doing. The day Vic discovered the mysterious lover? He barely made it to the car before calling him, shouting into the receiver. 

James spoke of earlier moments. Of memories that Isaac was too young at the time to remember. Dinners, botanical gardens, an amusement park, once. Conversation of Isaac shifted to Sawyer and Sahoko. Vic remained the thoroughfare for every story, the shadow on the wall of their lives. James kept turning to face the coffin, as if still speaking to Vic, including him in the joke. They were acting as if he was still with them. It was easier to talk as if he was.

When Asirel laughed, he felt his heart weighing heavy in his chest. 

Eventually, the sun fell, casting the scene in a shifting golden hue. Asirel called his driver and began to walk James back to where he parked his motorcycle. For all their talk of Isaac, they hadn’t forgotten the other young boy, but Asirel hadn’t wanted to interrupt with work. Tara loved leaving him with unfinished business. The bitch. He smiled at the thought.

Asirel stopped walking, and James glanced at him as he pulled out his key. 

“Do me a favor.” From a hidden pocket, Asirel pulled a playing card out of his suit jacket. He turned and folded it into the other’s hand. 

James looked down. A seven of diamonds. He raised an eyebrow. 

“A gift I never got to repay her,” he explained, making dead-on eye contact with the Wraith. “Give it to Elias.” 

A moment passed as James scrutinized it, trying to decode whatever message it carried. Finally: “why?” 

Asirel flicked his long-burned cigarette away, ignoring the question. “Tell him I say ‘have a nice day.’” 

This was the Whatever Yama Says Goes epilogue. I'm sorry for never delivering: it was my fault for dragging it out for so long, but my exhaustion from working on the project (in tandem with my waning interest in the Sakuverse as whole) made it miserable to write.

Still, I posted this because I wanted to share even a fraction of that work with you all. If y'all want, I'll post an explanation of my theories and head canons that were to be in the fic. For example, the two most relevant to this chapter was Tara being a part of the Collective and the Mao-based ritual to initiate members into the organization.

(Mao is a card game where the only way to learn how to play is by playing. The only rule you're allowed to tell others is that you can't explain the rules. Thus, I won't elaborate on the references, except that Asirel telling James to give Elias the card and to tell him "have a nice day" was Asirel's way of giving Tara's seat in the Collective to Elias.)

There’s also the strong possibility this will be my last fic. I won’t say for sure, but it’s like… 99% chance. 99.9%, even. I loved this fandom, but unfortunately, it’s simply not for me anymore <3

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Kayson running into Xanthus. I’d like to believe Xanny would take the opportunity to toy with him and make Kayson absolutely terrified.

Thinking about different Sakuverse combos

Niall freaking out over meeting Dontis because he looks just like the muse for some of his favorite sculptures and paintings.

Andrew and Elias bonding over the stars and sharing their differing knowledge on them because what’s Messier 45 to Elias are the Pleiades to Andrew.

Isaac and Luca having to be in the same room, like, at all.

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love starts growing excessively clingy and dependent on xanthus, following him everywhere he goes and not wanting to ever leave his side (╥﹏╥)

My sincerest apologies a) for the long wait and b) because this is not exactly what you wanted ((co)dependent relationships are tricky to write, I find) and c) because it is embarrassingly short for my standards.

Glue

Xanthus Claiborne x Reader

“Where are you going?” you asked, raising your gaze from the excellent food Dontis had prepared to look at Xanthus. He had not joined you at the table, instead continuing to sit on the couch with a book propped open in his lap before he stood, reaching for his coat. 

“Out,” he said, giving you a soft smile. There was no malice in his voice, nor annoyance. It was a joke-answer, deliberately short for comedic effect. But instead of the fond eye roll he expected from you, your face simply fell. He felt the dread creeping through the bond before he could put a name to it. 

“Don’t go,” you answered, catching yourself off guard by exactly how completely you meant it. 

You could not bear the thought of being alone, not with the threat still over all of your heads. Not with the Trimedian still out there, planning, plotting. The thought of Xanthus leaving filled you with such exhausting terror that you were not sure what you would do if he disappeared behind the door. 

That was a bit much to confess, however. 

You cleared your throat, shifting around the pasta. “I’ll miss you if you're not with me,” you tried to joke, averting your gaze. 

Xanthus frowned. It did not take the bond for him to notice something was amiss. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he tried, walking over to the table to place his hands on your shoulders, resting his head on top of yours. “Don’t worry, I’ll be quick.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“I’d rather have it done. I won’t take long, I promise.”

“Can I come with you?”

He hesitated. “But you’re eating lunch, Love. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you reassured him, half-heartedly taking another bite. “Nothing, I just— I don’t want you to leave.” You felt him humm against you, his fingers tracing slow circles on your shoulders. It was comforting, feeling him so close to you, knowing you were safe with him. 

Xanthus seemed to catch on, feeling you gradually relax. He shifted to stand beside you so he could look at you properly. “Should I wait until Dontis comes back from his date?” he asked, not without a slight mock in his tone at Dontis’ infatuation with a certain Hunter. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable if you’d rather not stay here alone.”

You considered his offer for a moment. It was not the company you wanted, but him. Still, you supposed, if there was anyone you would feel at ease with now besides Xanthus, it would be Dontis. 

“If I can’t accompany you, then yes,” you answered, watching as Xanthus draped his coat over the back of the chair opposite yours. “That would be nice.”

“Very well then,” he said, walking over to the coffee table briefly to retrieve his book. He sat down in front of you, continuing to read where he left off. His hand reached across the table, taking yours to intertwine your fingers. “I’m not leaving, you know,” he muttered. “I don’t think my heart could take it.”

“Because you love me?”

Xanthus raised his head, looking at you for a long moment. Then he tilted his head, his brow slightly furrowed. ‘Do you even need to ask?’ he seemed to say. ‘Have I not made it clear already how much all of me belongs to you? Have I not shown you, again and again in what high esteem I hold you, how important you are to me, how much I rely on you? Have I not conveyed sufficiently how happy you make me, how my heart flutters when I catch your gaze, how you make me melt? Have you not felt it, how thoroughly I love you?’

“Yes,” he replied. 

That had to suffice. 

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Elias x traitor barista??🤧

I've Got Your Coffin

Elias x traitor!Reader

It had not been easy, but entirely worth it. The way Elias smiled at you from across the table was sickeningly sweet, swirling the spoon in his double caramel macchiato with a drizzle of cinnamon and chocolate chips on top — you were a barista for a good reason — and looking at you with the eyes of a fool utterly smitten. 

You smiled back, matching his energy. A part of you enjoyed this. You were sure it would have been impossible to last this long if you had found him repulsive, but Elias was, by the standard of the business you were both in, a pretty nice guy. 

He had talked to you about his interests at length, breaking down the complexity of astronomy enough in an effort to make you actually follow along, instead of speaking simply with the intention to impress (or put down). He made sure you were comfortable. He made sure you were taken care of, stood up to his father for you. He bared his heart — part of it, anyway, that one night under the stars. 

 You almost felt bad. But that was the reality of life, that was the reality of business. The Wraiths had caused trouble for long enough, and it was time to put them down. Despite the appearance to the contrary, you were not in love. And even if you were, it would change nothing about the objective you pursued: gather intel, find out who killed your old boss, and, if at all possible, dismantle the Wraiths from the inside. 

It was going well so far. 

“You’re unusually reflective today,” Elias observed, taking a sip of his beverage and humming in contentment. “You have to teach me, because this is amazing, honestly.”

“Sure, if you teach me how to work that telescope. I can never get it to focus on anything and end up staring into the void instead of, like, a star or something.”

“Can you at least find the moon?” he asked, raising an eyebrow teasingly. 

“Depends on the phase it’s in, Elias. Sometimes it doesn’t want to be found, and I respect that,” you quipped back, chuckling as Elias laughed in earnest. “At least my eyes can find the birds in the trees, or do I have to remind you of the raven that was ‘definitely a twig.’”

His phone lit up. A message from Warden. 

“That was one time!” he exclaimed in mock offense, checking the message absentmindedly. “Besides, when we get out of this—” His voice got quieter as he read, fading into silence. His expression fell minimally, a frozen smile still on his face that now looked out of place.

“Interesting news?” you asked lightly, sipping on your own drink. 

Elias did not reply for a long moment. Then, he opened his mouth. His gaze fell away from the screen, settling on you instead. He made as if to speak, closing his mouth instead. Speechless. 

“That bad, eh?” you teased, tilting your head. “Did somebody steal the moon?”

“Something like that,” he said flatly. You frowned. He seemed to think for a moment before unlocking his phone again, sliding it towards you. “Care to elaborate?” 

The screen showed a picture from years ago, five perhaps, maybe seven. Your younger face was turned slightly towards the camera, a glare in your eyes as you gazed at whoever had taken the picture from behind the wheel. The number plate was plainly visible, unmistakably known to anyone who knew anything of how Stockton worked, as belonging to the Vex. 

“You don’t like my choice of car?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. Bad news, bad news. Ignorance it was. “I know you prefer the motorcycle, but I think cars are—”

Elias slammed his hands on the table, springing to his feet with enough force to make the chair tip over. “You know exactly what I mean!” he screamed. 

To your credit, you did not flinch. The outburst was to be anticipated, and even if you managed to twist this in a way to make you look innocent, you knew Elias would be weary at least and James would be currently loading his gun at worse. No, this was done. The information you had gathered and the instability you caused — especially now, Warden would not trust his son’s judgment anytime soon — was sufficient.

“Why are you driving that car?” he continued, eyes blazing with an anger you had not seen on him before. “Are you— have you been a spy all along? Have I—”

No, it was time for a tactical retreat. How best to go about it? The door was locked and sealed, it would take you at least fifteen seconds to type in the code — provided it still worked and Warden had not changed it to keep you locked inside. Probably not, perhaps he feared for his son’s safety. You could be up to anything, as far as he knew. 

Revenge? A killer? An assassin, sent to kill the heir-apparent to his late wife’s empire? You doubted he’d take the risk of depriving Elias of an escapade, should he need it. The code was the same, you were sure of it. The question remained how to distract Elias for long enough to punch it in and disappear from view. 

“Have you what, Elias?” you challenged. “Have you saved the life of the enemy? What if I have a past, that part of my life is behind me now.” Lies, of course. Fifteen seconds, then another five until the door unlocks properly. How to keep him occupied? You glanced around for inspiration, your gaze flickering over the tidy kitchen counter, the basket of fruit between you and Elias, and the curtains to the bullet-proof window to your right. 

Ah. 

You leaned back in your chair, a long-suffering sigh on your lips. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

“Spare me the bullshit!”

You glared at him, a real spark of rage suddenly igniting within you. “Oh so I get to listen to your tragic villain-origin story, but when it’s my turn you’re suddenly too good for it or what? Please,” you huffed, reaching into your pocket to retrieve the packet of cigarettes you had stolen from Elias, “I’m sorry for what happened to your mother, but you don’t have a monopoly on grief, and just how you’re part of the Wraiths — thinking that you’re the ‘good guys’ or whatever — other people have convictions in other things.”

You lit the cigarette, taking a long drag. There was dust on the windowsill. The curtains were bone-dry. They would catch, they had to catch. 

“You fooled me,” he said bitterly. “I don’t care about why, it doesn't change this. James was right, Dad was right. I should never have— I shouldn’t have helped you, kept you.”

Despite the circumstances, you could not suppress a chuckle. “Hey, if it makes you feel better,” you said, tilting your head to the side to give him a smile, “you were not the first to fall for a pair of pretty eyes.” You took another drag, flicking the cigarette towards the thin, dry curtains.

You did not wait to see if they caught fire. As soon as you let go of the cigarette, you darted for the door. Elias cursed behind you, but you paid him no mind. There was the faint smell of smoke — and a distant thought that the smell of something burning and being trapped in the confines of a house was not so far off from the thick smoke of rubble falling down around a little boy who remained unharmed while his mother was crushed — but you were focused on the numbers in front of you. 

2 - 1 - 9 - 7 - 0 - 2 - 4, the light flashed green. Unlocking in progress. 

There were five seconds to bridge, and you turned around to see Elias, now without his jacket, bracing himself against the wall next to the scorched curtains. The fire was extinguished, and his jacket seemed to have suffered minimal damage from what you could tell, glancing at it crumpled on the floor. Elias, however, was breathing heavily. He made no move to stop you, barely seemed to register you at all as he stood with his hands against the wall, head slightly bowed. 

The door unlocked. You had one hand on the handle already, ready to push, dart, and be out of there. 

“Wait,” Elias choked. He sounded breathless, wrecked. “Help me out, I can’t— can’t breathe in— in here.” His head remained bowed, eyes tightly shut. He reached out out a shaking hand towards you. “Please, please. I can’t—”

What to do? It could be a trap. You had no time to lose, and if Elias got his hands on you, you were not sure if you could shake him off again. Then again, you had seen him have a panic attack before, and this very much looked like one, triggered, no doubt, by the flames and the smoke. It had not been the most considerate idea for an escape, you had to admit — especially because you had come to know Elias — but lack of a better option had forced your hand.

And now? Did you risk being caught — and killed — to help him, or would you leave him to fend for himself?

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no, wait. Wait!” Elias cried, gulping down too-quick breaths. “Don’t— don’t leave me alone like— like this. I— I—”

“The door’s open. Warden’s on his way, I’m sure. You’ll be alright,” you told him, looking at him for the last time. His eyes had shot open at your apology, panicked and unfocused and heartbreakingly glassy. He was shaking violently now, his hand still outstretched as if he held some futile hope that you would change your mind, that someone would be there to guide him out towards the open air and clear sky. “I am sorry.”

And you meant it. But regret would pass, and death was final. You slipped out, making sure to take the roads that would leave you undetected on your way back to Stockton, back home. The Vex would be waiting for your intel, you knew. The Wraiths would be out for your head in personal vengeance from now on. 

You were sorry for how things turned out with Elias, but thus was business. It was simply collateral damage that you had betrayed him in more ways than one. 

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Black Death

James x Reader

Tara's death takes its tool on James.

“How come every time I see you, you’re hunched over this desk like it’s your last tether to sanity?” 

James looked up with a glare, dark circles under his eyes betraying just how tired he was. He looked fried, positively wretched. Strands of his black hair were astray as if he had run his hand through the locks repeatedly. His tie was partly undone — you wondered why he bothered to put it on in the morning in the first place — and his dress shirt crumpled in a way that made you wonder if he had left the desk at all to sleep. 

He looked like he was desperately hanging on to his last thread, seeing it slipping through his fingers with every passing moment until it would snap. And he would not recover. Perhaps, you mused, he truly did cling to the work for his sanity. 

Losing a sibling was not easy, you guessed, especially one as close to him as Tara had been. Her death was tragic, of course. It had shaken the Wraiths to their very foundations and it had been exhausting for you in turn to ensure Warden’s rocky transition as its new leader went as smoothly as the circumstances would permit. 

But this had been over half a year ago. Of course, there was no schedule for grief, and James had been unable to mourn his sister properly in the immediate aftermath of her death — too busy holding Warden and Elias together by sheer strength of will — but as the world kept turning and the Wraiths slowly seemed to adapt to their new dynamic, as Warden got more comfortable in his new role and Elias, while forever scarred, began sleeping through the nights again, James did not seem to get better, but worse. 

“How about you get back to work instead of making snide comments?” he replied drily, his voice cracking from disuse. (When did he last have a drink of water?) He cleared his throat, wrinkling his nose in contempt as he looked at you, staring at him. “What?” he hissed.

Concern and pity waged a war inside of you, but you chose to settle on gentle teasing instead. It was safer. Your relationship with James was not exactly cozy, and moving in established parameters felt easier than showing him outright exactly how worried you were for him. This had gone on for long enough. He was pushing himself to the brink, and while, perhaps, a man’s grief was none of your business, it would not do (so you told yourself) to have your hard work for the Wraiths deterred because James drowned in his own sorrows as collateral to the tragedy that had occupied you for months. 

“While I know our job is not really a nine to five,” you said, gathering a pile of askew papers that sat unorganized on the desk and arranging them in a neat stack, “I would nonetheless think that two AM is a little excessive, even for us.”

His face fell. “It’s not—” he began, averting his gaze to squint at his watch. Why he did not simply check the timestamp on the glaring monitor of his computer, you did not know. Exhaustion muddied perception, you supposed.

It was uncomfortably quiet for a moment. Then, “What are you still doing here at this hour? Go home.”

You raised an eyebrow, biting your tongue to keep from having the word filing past your lips: hypocrite. 

James must have caught onto your train of thought, or perhaps he saw it on your face. “Don’t,” he muttered softly, and you would have missed it, had it not been for the absolute dead quiet surrounding you. 

It was as if the angel of death itself had swept across the land, leaving only a hollow husk of what had once been the epicenter of life. The silence was stifling, chilling in a way only absolute abandonment could. It felt as if time had frozen over, halting in its relentless steps onwards because it, too, had realized that there was nothing to be won in ceaselessly going on. After all, what was life without reflection, if not a string of continuous moments in single file? 

And what was the present, if not borrowed time after the unthinkable? 

Something in the stillness shattered the pretense. Perhaps it was his soft voice, barely more than a whisper in a tone so devastatingly sad that it made you freeze; perhaps it was your own restless exhaustion that came to a head in the early hours of the morning. 

“Come on,” you said, carefully prying the pen from James’ fingers. “It’s late, I’ll drop you off.”

You expected resistance, of course you did. But what you got instead was such a world-weary, defeated sigh that your gaze snapped to him immediately, watching him rub his temples slowly before nodding once. 

“I can drive myself,” he said, determined. James placed his hands on the edge of the desk, pushing himself out of his chair. You had half a second to be concerned about the groan of pain slipping past his lips before he swayed where he stood. 

“What—?” you asked in alarm, gripping his biceps to steady him. You could feel him shaking faintly under your touch and wrapped an arm around his waist just to be sure he would not fold. 

“‘M fine,” he muttered, keeping his head averted. His eyes were closed, you noticed, and his brow pinched in a frown. “Can— can handle myself,” he added, seemingly as an afterthought. 

“Of course you can,” you said, not unkindly. You emitted the comment that his handling of himself certainly consisted of working himself to an early grave. The shadow of death practically clung to his desk already. “Is this exhaustion or something more? James?” He seemed entirely concentrated on not tripping as you steered him away from his desk, along the polished marble of the corridors, and towards your car. 

“Fine,” he repeated, only to hiss in pain as the automatic lights sprang to life, dousing the foyer in harsh, artificial light. 

“Migraine?”

James merely groaned, sinking into the cushions of your passenger seat with the heel of his hand pressed against his right eye, breathing shallowly. “Fine,” he muttered again. You tried to shut the door as quietly as possible. It still made him flinch. 

At least the drive to his apartment would take only a few minutes. It was not that you had visited him multiple times, but that it had become nearly a sort of ritual to take the work home on one or two days of the month — either yours or his place — and go over the details of whatever mess you were currently stuck in over dinner. That had been before Tara’s death, of course. Whatever tentative friendship you had developed with James had turned frigid again in his grief, degraded again to an acquaintance. 

It did not feel like that, however, as you supported his shaking frame up the stairs toward his apartment, as you pressed a glass of cold water and a pill for the pain into his hands. It felt infinitely more familiar as you undid his tie properly, easing him into bed; as you placed his phone on the nightstand next to him, already on your contact information in case he should need anything. It did feel like something resembling friendship as his hand blindly reached for your wrist, giving it a squeeze as he muttered a tired ‘thank you’ into the stillness of the night. 

[literary-motif]

hiiii sorry I hope this is not too much of a bother and that you’re doing okay hopefully! I was just really curious if you may please write about Isaac and Pickle playing twister together out of boredom on a rainy day? (Pickle probably had to beg him to play) Just them being all silly and lovey dovey like they are, please and thank you it’s just a thought I had! ⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝

Fun fact: Twister was invented in 1966.

I tried. It’s possibly less lovey-dovey than you wanted (and I apologize profusely for staining the fluff with specks of angst). The story just — ha — twisted away from the course I set it on. 

Twist My Heart

Isaac Rhoades x Reader

You sat curled on the couch with Isaac’s favorite dark blue blanket draped over your shoulders. It was not particularly cold, but you liked feeling cozy. The fireplace was lit, and the atmosphere of warmth caused by the occasional cracking of the wood contrasted greatly with the howling wind outside, rattling the leaves of the trees nearby and making a phantom chill creep up your spine at the sound. 

There was something special about storms in the evening. They made the inside of the house feel all the more cozy. It would only be a matter of time before the sound of rain would join the orchestra of sounds around you — and, frankly, you looked forward to cuddling up with Isaac and relaxing by the roaring fireplace. 

That had been the plan, and you got as far as allowing your eyes to slip shut, the light conversation with the love of your life naturally drifting off before Isaac uttered the fateful words, replying to the fond memory you had spoken of before: “What’s twister?”

Your eyes shot open, and you raised your head from where it had rested comfortably on his shoulder to look at him in shock. “You’re joking,” you said incredulously. 

He chuckled at your expression, moving his hand to brush some wayward strands of hair out of your face. “I assure you, I’m not,” he said, smiling fondly. “What is it? What do you twist? Is it a card game?”

“Isaac!” you exclaimed in disbelief. “You can’t tell me you don’t know what twister is. Come on now.” 

He hummed, giving you a gentle half-smile. “I’m,” he hesitated, “nearly serious. I think I’ve heard of it or seen it in a commercial years ago, but I’ve never played it. It is the game with the different colors you need to touch without falling over, yes?”

You sat up fully, staring at him for a moment before slipping out from under the blanket — immediately missing the comforting warmth it brought — and slipped out of the room. Isaac gave a surprised noise as he saw you leave, no doubt furrowing his eyebrows in confusion and mild suspicion. 

For being a PI, he was surprisingly unaware of all the items stored in his house. Granted, the mansion was large, with enough secret corners and shut drawers that had not been opened in years, and you would not have known either if you had not stumbled across the box that had seemingly never been opened, that Isaac had a game of Twister in the far left corner of the closet in the hallway. It had been neatly tucked away, sitting untouched since whoever had placed it there — his mother maybe, you guessed, feeling a pang of sadness at the thought that she had bought a game for her son and never gotten the chance to play it with him. 

(It was not his mother who had bought the game, but his grandfather. Mr. Rhoades had stumbled across it in one of his cases (it had been the inspiration for a cat-and-mouse chase he had been subjected to, as one of his acquaintances had pointed out. He had looked at them in mild confusion before they explained the gist of it and he had exclaimed, rather unprofessionally, “Ah, yes. I still knew it as Pretzel!”). He had wanted to play it with Isaac, but then his knee had acted up again and he had discarded the idea, leaving the box out of sight.)

Until now. Until you had rediscovered it, and with the forgotten game some secret part of what could have been Isaac’s childhood, in a different life. 

You returned to the living room, presenting the box to Isaac, who still sat comfortably laid back on the couch, as if it were some grand prize. “We can’t have that,” you said. “You’re going to play Twister with me right now.”

Isaac chuckled, a little deterred. “Where did you get that?” His confusion was overshadowed by something else, something soft in his voice. “Did you get this? Was this your plan all along?”

“I—” Oh what to say. “I found it in a closet, actually. Is that alright?”

It was alright, because Isaac slowly rose from the couch and kissed you so fiercely that for a moment he stole your breath, leaving you dizzy from the intensity of the adoration he poured into the act. “Thank you,” he murmured, gently prying the box from your hands and opening it with something akin to reverence.

The moment faded, replaced with a stark competitiveness as you tried reaching your right hand over Isaac’s broad chest to get to blue. He was not making it easy. 

“You do realize that if you don’t arch your back a little, I’ll fall on you and then you’ll fall. And since technically you’re the one on the floor first, that means I’ll win,” you said, twisting your head unnaturally to give him a warning look.

“That’s sabotage, Pickle,” he replied without missing a beat. The warm glow of the fireplace was reflected in his pitch-black hair, strands falling into his face that he could not brush back by vice of his position. “Didn’t think you’d be a cheater, but that’s the only way you can win against me it seems.”

“Bet?”

“You’re on.”

Suffice it to say, Isaac won. But only because you were distracted by the sparkle in his eyes and the gentle upturn of his lips, and shooting you a disarming smile so charming that it made you lose your balance was technically cheating.