#and his fate as one something that brings him endless grief

[genericwizard]

Every day I read posts that make me go. Oh I see my perception of Venti is extremely different than whats popular huh

[serpentandlily]

Hello! I hope you are doing well ^^ I love (times infinity!) your writing and if you are accepting reqs, I have an idea for a short oneshot and I would like to share it with you and hopefully to bring the story alive! It's Rhys x Reader where reader is Rhys's mate and reader has a lot of duties needed to handle, especially being the mate of the High Lord. One day reader feels all type of exhaustion; mentally, physically, emotionally, psychologically, sleepness nights. Reader shut down the mate bond so that Rhys wouldn't feel anything and know about reader's emotions and wouldn't add more worry to Rhys. Reader always held their head high, smile on their face, and a strong persona as not to worry anyone. One day reader got too overwhelmed and decided to get a fresh air but as reader went out something happened (idk how to put it 😅 I'll leave this part to your creativity) and somehow during the process of everything of that something was happening Rhys found out about what their mate was truly feeling. Major major major angst, if you would like. Thank you so much in advance! 🫶

Ahhh tysm !! You’re my first request and I love your idea !! I hope I did it justice <3

Falling Apart for You - Rhysand x Reader

Summary: You’ve been a pillar of support for your mate and High Lord for as long as you can remember but when you receive some bad news, you can’t stop yourself from finally falling apart.

Warnings: angst, mention of loss, grief

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Everybody had a role in this group for their High Lord. Mor was his cousin, the one he could tease but always rely on, Cassian and Azriel were his brothers, the two people he could let off steam with in a way only Illyrians could–through fists and bruises, Amren, his trusted advisor and endless supply of knowledge, and then there was you…his High Lady and his rock. The one person in his life who he knew could handle everything he threw at you and more. His rock that kept him sane, supported him without crumbling, and held him up when he couldn’t do it himself.

And you loved being that person for him. He was your mate, your husband, your High Lord. You were honored to devote your life to the male you loved more than anything. The mating bond between you and Rhys had snapped right after he had just lost his mother and sister and had become High Lord of the Night Court. Suddenly, your life had gone from being a simple girl helping your parents with their farm in the countryside to a High Lady having to learn the ins and outs of running a court while also supporting your mate who was still suffering from the loss of his family.

You had done it all with a smile on your face. Because it did truly bring you happiness, Rhys brought you happiness. You loved him like the sun loved the moon, always one step behind him, ready to catch him if he ever fell. And you knew he loved you too. He practically worshiped the ground you walked on, spoiled you with a life filled with love and riches. And you were so grateful for everything he had done for you—and for your family. He had dug you all out of the trenches of poverty, given you a voice and power in a court who had previously never cared for its poor and unfortunate.

You never crumbled under the weight of the responsibilities of being a High Lord’s mate because you knew what it was like to constantly feel like you carried the world on your shoulders. Living in poverty meant always being strong because one mistake, one simple misfortune, could leave you without a home, without food, without anything left to your name.

So being the strong one, keeping your head up with a smile on your face despite the stress of everything, that had always been who you were. And that's exactly who you were for your mate.

So when Rhys went to that fateful meeting with Hybern’s General and disappeared for forty-nine years, you continued to be that person despite your whole world crumbling under your feet. You kept a brave face for your people, kept Velaris up and running without its High Lord, protected your court as best you could without your mate by your side.

You had begged and begged Rhys not to go to that meeting. Had begged him to let you go with him when he decided against your pleas to go anyways. And all it took was one night, one evil female, to completely ruin everything for you. Rhys had blocked off his end of the mating bond, something that was nearly as worse as death to you. But every once in a while, when things had gotten especially hard under the mountain for him, his control would slip and you would be hit with a wave of his emotions.

Disgust, pain, torture, agony, longing, guilt, grief, self-hatred, despair.

All the while, you had to keep a brave face not just for your people but for the Inner Circle. You never let them know the things you felt from Rhys through the mating bond. Didn’t want to add that burden to their shoulders. And despite how much they helped you in those forty-nine years, nothing they did would ever be able to take away the pure agony of knowing your mate was being abused and degraded and not being able to do a single thing about it.

You hated that part of you resented Rhys for that. For going to that stupid meeting despite you. For forcing you to run a court alone for forty-nine years. For locking you in Velaris with no contact from the outside world—no contact with your parents who lived on the outskirts of Illyria’s mountains. You were so angry with him at times.

But then he returned a broken male. Pale, thin and in pieces. So how could you ever let him know your true feelings? How could you ever even complain about how hard things had been for you here? He had gone through hell and back for you, for his family, for his court. So you sucked up all your feelings, bottled them away, and moved on. Went back to being his rock. Nursed him back to health. Shouldered every burden for him until he was well enough to resume his role.

And then the war came and everything got worse. Suddenly your work doubled and everything else had to be put on the backburner. You hadn’t even had the chance to visit your own family in the year after the barrier between Velaris and the rest of the world had finally come down. You focused all your attention and time on Rhys and your court. Just make it through the war, you would tell yourself. Just make it another day. When peace was reached, you’d finally be able to see your family—to hug your mother and father after fifty years.

It was finally all over and you were sucked up in the aftermath of rebuilding. With the newfound peace though, that hold you had over your emotions had begun to disintegrate. Without having to spend all your time focused on survival, the feelings you had buried deep inside of you had risen once again.

You were so tired. So unbelievably tired and overwhelmed. You could hardly sleep without being plagued with nightmares, rarely had an appetite. Mentally and physically, you could feel your body shutting down. It was hard to get out of bed most days, not that you would ever let Rhys know. He still had his own burdens and trauma to work through. The last thing you wanted was to add to his stress. So you kept your side of the mating bond well guarded, making sure he never even got so much of an inkling to what you were truly feeling.

You held a steaming mug of coffee in your hand as you slipped into Rhys’s office. A smile bloomed on your face at the sight of your mate at his desk, hunched over a bunch of reports and correspondence from other courts. All things you had already sorted through and weeded out the most important for him to look over. His beautiful face didn’t even lift at the sound of you walking in.

You set his mug down on his desk and moved over to his side to look over his shoulder at the paperwork. He grunted his thanks. You wrapped your arms around his neck from behind, pressing a small kiss to his throat.

“How’s it coming, my love?”

“Keir is still a pain in my ass. The Illyrians are still revolting against the idea of letting their females train,” Rhys grumbled. “It's taking longer to rebuild the areas in Velaris that got destroyed during the attack than we thought. And fucking Beron still isn’t responding to anyone’s letters about scheduling another High Lords’ meeting to discuss a new peace treaty.”

All things you already knew of course. What he didn’t know was the hundreds of other issues you had separated from the more important ones that you had dealt with this morning. Your hand hurt from all the letters you had written on his behalf. Your mind was numb after reading depressing letters from widows looking for aid because their husbands had died in the war.

You needed a break. He needed a break. You could feel yourself crumbling.

“How about you take a break for now,” you suggested. “And walk with me through the gardens before your meeting with Amren?”

Rhys let out a displeased noise and shook your arms off his shoulders. Hurt flashed through you at his dismissal but you tried not to let it get to you.

“Can’t you see I’m busy,” Rhys growled. “I don’t have time for a break.”

He was stressed, you knew that. But his words still cut through you like a sharpened blade. You were busy too. You had been for a long time. If you could see he needed a break, why couldn’t he see how much you needed one too?

“Of course,” you replied, keeping your pain and frustration out of your voice. “I just thought…Nevermind.”

You quickly scurried out of his office before he could see how hurt you were, not wanting to stress him out even further. You knew you shouldn’t take it to heart. You knew he’d likely apologize later. But it didn’t change the fact that it hurt. It hurt more than anything that he couldn’t see just how much you needed him right now. You hadn’t asked anything of him since he had returned from under the mountain, had never complained, never faltered in your support.

For once you wished it could be you leaning against someone else. You wished you had someone to hold you up right now. To be strong for you. But as usual, you were alone. So, so alone. Maybe it was your fault for not telling him but why should you have to? You had never had to ask someone if they needed you. Merely saw that they were struggling and went out of your way to help them without question. So why couldn’t your own mate do that for you?

You let out a long sigh and decided to take that walk in the gardens, even if you would do so alone. Maybe some fresh air would help.

The sound of birds and leaves rustling in the wind served as your company as you walked along the cobblestone path in the gardens. The scent of the spring-blooming flowers whirled around in the air. You should be enjoying it all but you couldn’t. Not when so much was on your mind.

Before you could take another step, a letter appeared right in front of you. It drifted to the ground and landed right at your feet. You picked it up, instantly recognizing the penmanship. Your name was written on the front of the envelope in your father’s handwriting. You frowned. You had forgotten about your family for the time being, lost in your work for the court. Forgot you hadn’t even seen them in fifty years.

You tore the letter open and read through the contents. Read it a second time. And then a third. No. No no no no. You squeezed your eyes shut and then read it again, hoping the words on the parchment would change. No. This couldn’t be right. This couldn’t be real. No.

You couldn’t breath, couldn’t see, couldn’t think.

You didn’t even realize you had fallen onto your knees. It felt like the entire world was collapsing on you. Every little thing you had been holding up suddenly too heavy. You wanted to scream and scream and scream. Wanted to vomit. Wanted to burn this whole city to the ground. The hold you had on yourself was ripped apart. Your entire being felt like it was ripped apart along it.

This was it. This would be the final thing that snapped you in half. Years and years of being strong, of keeping this court together in Rhys’s absence, of fighting through a war. Doing all of it with your head held high, with a smile on your face as you held your mate night after night. Let him fall apart in your arms and put him back together. You had survived through all of that but now this?

Had all of that been worth this? You had neglected your own life, your own family. Guilt crashed into you. Guilt, anger, agony. You had sacrificed so much to be a strong pillar in other peoples life and this is how the universe repaid you. You read the letter once more, the parchment crumbing as your grip tightened.

To my dearest daughter,

I have written to you twice a week for the past fifty years to no reply. I am beginning to worry my letters are not finding you. But I hope and pray this one does. Your mother has succumbed to her illness, angel. I wish I could’ve told you in person. I wish you could’ve been here for her last moments. I am putting off her funeral for as long as I can in hopes that you are able to come home and help me put her to rest, angel. I know how busy you are and how much you do for our court, so I hope you do not feel guilty for not being here. Your mother was so, so very proud of you, angel. She loved you so much and she wouldn’t want you to feel that guilt.

I hope this letter finds you. I will send a messenger as well but I fear they might not make it to you in time. Please come as soon as you can.

With all my love,

Your Father

You could feel your magic swirling inside of you like a beast begging to be let out of its cage. You knew you’d take the whole damn city out with you if you released it here. So with half a mind, you winnowed away to the one place you knew would be safe.

You had no idea that your control over the mating bond had slipped in your grief. Had no idea you had just flooded your mate with years and years worth of pain. Had no idea that he collapsed over his desk, overwhelmed at the emotions bombarding him. He was shocked, stunned at the emotions that were coming through to him. His mate was suffering, deteriorating, and he had been so blind to it all. His hands clenched into fists and he rose from his desk. He needed to find you, now.

Your magic spiraled out of you like a monsoon. The earth surrounding you was scorched black, the trees all broken and bent out of place. You had released wave after wave of magic until you were burnt out completely. And now you lie in the wake of your destruction, crying and crying. Hugging yourself on the floor. Your mother was dead. DEAD. And your father had been trying to reach you for fifty years to tell you she was ill.

But Rhys had closed off Velaris when Amarantha had come. Had made every fae not in the city forget of its existence. And so his letters had never reached you. Not until this one that came now that the barriers were gone. Now that the whole of Prythian knew about the city. But it was too late. You would never get the chance to see her, to hug her, again. She was gone.

A wave of darkness took over the field and your mate appeared from it, his face cold and stony, as if he were expecting to come face to face with danger. You watched as his violet eyes took in the sight before him. Of the valley you had destroyed. And of you.

His face fell and he rushed towards you but you scurried away on your backside. You didn’t want to see him right now. Didn’t want him near you. He was partly at fault for all of this. He was the reason your father’s letters had never made it to you.

“Y/n…” he whispered your name, his voice filled with despair. “What’s going on? What happened? Are you okay?”

A sob broke free from your lips and his face crumbled further. He knelt down on the floor in front of you, reaching a hand out towards you but you turned your head away from it. “Please, darling. Please tell me what happened. What’s wrong?”

“W-what’s wrong?” you choked out. “Now you want to know what’s wrong?”

“What do you mean, darling?” he questioned. “Of course I do. You know I do.”

“Seriously, Rhys?! Ever since you came back to us, you’ve barely even looked at me! You hardly ever ask how I’m doing. Hardly ever make time for me, your mate! So why would I ever think that you cared now?!”

“I’ve been busy, darling, you know that,” he said, softly. “But I’m—”

You cut him off, crawling towards him and shoving a finger to his chest. “And you don’t think I have?! You think I haven't been busy too?! I have put everything I have into keeping this court together! I have spent hours and hours doing work so you could focus on the important things! I spent the past fifty years holding Velaris together while you were gone! I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a break, or even a day to myself! And you don’t even seem to recognize how much I do for you, how much I have done since you’ve been gone!”

“Darling, I had no idea—”

“Of course you didn’t! You never ask me how I’ve been. You never asked me how things were here when you were gone. Did you know when you were under the mountain, you’d sometimes send your feelings to me? Do you have any idea how hard it was to know you were suffering and not be able to do a single thing to help you? I begged you not to go to that party! Begged you! And then instead of letting us try to help you, you locked us all up with no way to get out!”

“I only had seconds to make a decision,” Rhys stressed. “Seconds. I’m sorry, darling, but I did what I had to in order to keep you safe, to keep Velaris safe. I don’t regret it.”

“I know, Rhys. I know how much you suffered for us. But what if I had done that to you? What if I had made that decision and forced you to spend fifty years stuck in Velaris while I was being tortured every single night?”

“I…I don’t know what I would’ve done, darling. I probably would’ve torn the whole world apart to get to you.”

“I considered it. I really did. But I knew you’d made that sacrifice for a reason. So I put on a brave face and I kept Velaris running the entire time you were gone. Kept our family from falling apart. And then you came back to us and I was so relieved, Rhys. But you were different. You had gone through hell. And then the war happened. Once it was over I thought maybe now we’d get to take a break, to just spend time with each other, to finally heal. But you just keep throwing yourself into work and I have to just smile through it all because I’m your High Lady and that's what's expected of me.”

Rhys seemed at a loss for words, taken aback. For some reason, that only made you angrier. You ripped at your stupid gown, at the jeweled necklace around your throat that cost more than your parent’s farm, and tossed it to the ground.

“I never asked for this! I never asked to be a High Lady! To have to run a court! I was just a farm girl, Rhys. And then you came along and suddenly I had to be this perfect, educated, well-mannered Lady. Do you realize how much effort that took? Do you realize how out of place I feel most of the time?”

“Darling, I’ve never expected you to be anything other than yourself,” Rhys said gently. “I love who you are. I fell in love with you when you were just that pretty little farm girl and I have loved you ever since.”

“Maybe you don’t expect me to be anyone else,” you cried. “But our people, our court—everyone wants something from me now! They expect me to be like you, expect me to know the answers to all their problems! And I’m supposed to do it all with a smile on my face, with grace and appreciation! And I’m just so tired, Rhys. So, so tired.”

“I had no idea you felt this way, darling.” Rhys reached for you again but you backed away from his touch once more. He frowned, devastated. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me you needed a break?”

“How could I?” you cried out. “After everything you went through, how could I be the one to demand a break?! I sucked it up, for you, for our court. And Gods, I can’t do it anymore, Rhys. I can’t. I’ve fucked up and now I can’t even say goodbye to her!”

Rhys’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Darling, what are you talking about? You haven’t fucked up anything. It’s me who has let you down. What do you mean you can’t say goodbye to her? Say goodbye to who?”

You ripped your father’s letter out of your pocket and thrust it against his chest. He took it out of your hand gently as you fell apart all over again. You sobbed as he read it, his eyes widening as he looked up at you. “Oh darling…oh, my love, I am so, so sorry.”

He grabbed you and pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you. You didn’t have the energy to fight him off—too lost in your grief. “You closed us off from the rest of the world. You made my father forget about Velaris. I never got any of his letters, Rhys! And now it's too late! She’s gone and it's too late.”

You choked on your own sobs and he tightened his arms around you, stroking your hair as he held you close. “I’m so sorry, darling. I am so, so sorry. I never meant for this. I didn’t even think…I’m so sorry.”

More sobs ripped from your throat and Rhys rocked you as you cried and cried and cried. It hurt so much. All of it. It was just too much. And even now you felt guilty. Guilty that you had dragged him out here, had unloaded on him.

“Don’t do that, darling,” he whispered against your hair. “Don’t feel guilty. Let me help you for once. I know how much you’ve done for my court, for me. I’ve been shit at showing you lately, but I love you so, so much, darling. And I appreciate every single thing you do for me, for our family, for our people. I’m so sorry that I haven’t been showing you just how much I appreciate you. I love you more than the stars themselves. I do not know where I’d be right now without you and I am just so sorry.”

You couldn’t reply. Couldn’t do anything but cry as you thought of your mother and father suffering all those years without you. You had been taking care of everyone else, everyone except your own family. And now it was too late.

Rhys held you close as you cried. Stroking your hair, pressing kisses to the top of your head, whispering how much he loved you, how sorry he was. And for once, you let yourself falter. Let yourself be held and coddled by your mate, the one person who loved you the most. You both had suffered so much, for far too long.

After some time had gone by, he pulled you back to look at you. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “Let me take care of you, darling. Let me take you to your father. I will put together a proper send off for your mother, okay? I will get everything settled while you spend some time with him. And then after you put her to rest, we can go to the cabin and spend the rest of the week there. Just us. I won’t let anyone bother us. Okay? Will you let me do that for you?”

You sniffled, staring up into Rhys’s eyes. He stared down at you with love and admiration. Stared at you like you were the answer to all his questions. The most precious thing to him in the world. And you could feel him through your mating bond, sending reassurance and comfort to you. The floodgates completely open.

His touch was so loving, his gaze telling you everything you needed to know. So, you nodded. And then melted back into his arms and finally let him be the rock you crashed against.

[sorceresssundries]

The Death of Thom Rainier

Pairing: Blackwall/Lavellan (My quizzy, Sparrow)

Warnings: ANGST, talks of death, grief, heartbreak.

Word Count: 4670 words

Summary: The honour and integrity of the Inquisition is at risk of being brought down by the decision surrounding the fate of the Inquisitor's lover. Action must be taken, and quickly, to save the group from talk of corruption.

It was late, and the moonlight dappled through the crumbling cracks and forgotten fissures of Skyhold, spilling pale silver across the war table. Shadows danced over the once-pristine map, now scarred with countless daggers marking places where they had struck — and where they had yet to reach. The Inquisition had grown into a force of reckoning, but with that power came bonds of responsibility, heavier than crowns and chains. They had to be more than a scattered band of idealists. They had to be an order, a symbol, both a hammer of justice and a shield for the helpless. Their future was as fragile and perilous as a frost-kissed web clinging to the rafters above.

Three figures met in secret, while the rest of the fortress slept.

“The Inquisitor has ordered his release from Val Royeaux,” Cullen’s voice cut through the room. His hands gripped the pommel of his sword, his eyes unflinching, burning with the loyalty that had driven him through so many battles. “He is to be brought here for judgement.”

Leliana’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight, the flicker casting her in shifting shadow. “A reasonable request,” she replied, her voice soft but edged. “Blackwall is a part of her Inquisition. Should she not be the one to pass judgement on him?”

Josephine, seated at the far end of the table, sighed, her hand rising to rub at her temple. The stress etched itself deep into the lines around her eyes, tired from the endless machinations and political games. “Blackwall was a part of the Inquisition, yes,” she said, her voice quieter than the others, yet no less burdened. “But this isn’t about Blackwall. This is about Thom Rainier, and Orlais wants his head. They won’t settle for anything less.”

“His crimes are…” Cullen began, his brow furrowed as if the mere memory of Rainier’s past offences disgusted him. “Unforgivable. I’m inclined to agree with the Orlesians on this.”

The commander was all duty now, his judgement unyielding. His years as a Templar had hardened him to betrayal, especially from someone so close to the Inquisitor.

Josephine straightened, the flicker of the fire catching the lines of tension on her face. “You know as well as I do that this isn’t just about Rainier’s past. His relationship with the Inquisitor was no secret, even at the Winter Palace. Our Orlesian allies watched them, talked about them. Whispers travelled faster than arrows. What will it look like if she brings him back here? If she protects him?”

“It will look,” Cullen said, voice dark and firm, “like corruption. As if we value personal attachments over justice. An institution capable of one corruption is capable of many. It could undo everything we’ve built.”

“And if we let him die in Val Royeaux, she will never forgive us,” Leliana interjected quietly, her gaze flickering with a rare moment of sympathy. “We will lose her trust.”

A heavy silence fell over the room, a storm waiting to break. There was truth in every word, and each of them felt the rolling thunder of the dilemma closing in.

“She will not forget the betrayal. Not from us.” Josephine’s voice trembled ever so slightly as she spoke, as though already anticipating the bitterness that would follow.

Leliana’s gaze sharpened then, a glint of something colder and more dangerous flashing in her eyes. “There is a path forward.” Her voice, once as soft as a lullaby, now carried the quiet menace of a hunter who had found her prey.

The spymaster stepped closer to the table, her fingers brushing lightly over the map, resting just above Val Royeaux. “We could arrange for his release — quietly. He would never make it here. A fatal accident on the road. An Orlesian ambush. It would solve the issue without leaving our hands stained. He dies, Orlais is happy, and the Inquisitor’s hands remain clean.”

Cullen stiffened. “You’re suggesting we…?”

“Kill him?” Leliana’s lips curled, just slightly. “I am suggesting we control the narrative. We let slip our route back here. We spare her the guilt, and we show Orlais that the Inquisition stands by its principles. We did as she asked us, Rainier is killed in an unpredicted attack, and the Inquisitor is spared the burden of deciding his fate.”

The room was cloaked in silence once more, heavy with the choice before them, a choice that would either save the Inquisition — or damn it.

Josephine’s fingers tightened around her quill, her gaze falling to the map. “If we choose this path,” she whispered, “We save our Inquisition. But we might lose her.”

 ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ♜  ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Sparrow sat on the throne she never wanted, in a fortress that still felt too vast, too cold, too foreign to ever be hers. The high-backed seat loomed around her, it's cold stone carved for someone much larger, much grander. Her small, elven feet dangled just shy of the floor, and the throne's broad arms were too wide for her to rest against. She felt weightless, suspended in the centre of it, untethered.

She straightened her spine, drawing on the memory of her mother’s lessons, as if the  invisible cord pulling her back might make her taller, more imposing. Make yourself tall, Ma’da’ean, her mother used to say. And everything else will shrink.

But the world refused to shrink. The great hall remained cavernous, the whispers of the court still echoed off the walls like a rising storm, and the knot of dread within her only grew tighter.

Give her demons. Give her tyrants. Give her politics she knew nothing of and Gods she did not worship. She would take them all. 

This, she could not do.

The dread had sunk deep, threading through her chest, winding around her heart. The thought of seeing him again, of locking eyes with the man whose name she did not even know, made her stomach twist. 

She closed her eyes, just for a moment, clinging to the silence inside her mind. Please, she thought, though she had no idea who she was pleading to. She wasn’t one for prayer, nor for gods. But now, she found herself grasping for anything to shield her from the moment that was about to come.

Please, don’t make me do this.

But whoever might have been listening did not answer. A cold silence fell over the great hall as the heavy doors groaned open. The sound echoed, announcing the arrival of the man she could not face.

She couldn't look at him. Her entire body rebelled at the thought of raising her gaze, of seeing him as he was now—a stranger wearing a name she didn’t recognise. Her heart still clung to the memory of the man he had been only days ago. His eyes had been soft, honest. His words had promised her safety, his touch had offered comfort. Nothing matters but us, he had whispered. He had kissed her as if she were something precious, first with gentleness, then with a passion that had made her believe him.

Now, all of that felt like a cruel trick, a trap she had willingly fallen into.

Her eyes burned, but she would not let the tears fall. She couldn’t drag her gaze from the floor. She needed to breathe, to gather the last shreds of her strength before she dared look at him again.

The man I knew doesn’t exist, she reminded herself. He never did.

It was anger that lifted her eyes, as the heavy sound of boots came to a halt in front of her - She could not let herself be Sparrow, or Blackwall’s lover. She was the Inquisitor. The mark in her palm itched as she raised her gaze to finally meet the man standing before her. 

Cullen? And an Orlesian man in intricate armour and a matching brass mask. 

Her breath caught in relief, or was it just surprise? She felt too nauseous to be sure of her own feelings. She was calm until she noticed the blood. It was splattered across Cullen’s armour, streaked across his breastplate, flecked through his golden hair. There was a jagged cut to his high cheekbone, the skin raw, smeared with red. The sight of it sent her heart into a tailspin, her anger replaced by a cold, creeping fear.

Sparrow stood, unthinkingly. There was a river of murmurs, words tangling like hissing cicadas in the hot, oppressive air of a summer storm. Every gaze in the hall fixed on her, on them, but she could hardly hear them over the rushing in her own ears.

"What's happened?" she demanded, her voice hoarse as it cracked through the crowd, pulling the room’s attention fully toward them. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, though she willed herself to stay composed.

Cullen glanced briefly at the court before locking eyes with her again. “We were intercepted.”

Sparrow’s stomach dropped. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest as she searched his face for answers. “Where is Blackwall?” Her voice was barely above a whisper now, but the name hit the air like a blow.

Cullen swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as though the words themselves were difficult to push out. “Thom Rainier is dead.”

The world tilted beneath her. The buzzing of the court, the murmured voices and watchful eyes, all faded into a distant hum. For a moment, Sparrow couldn't feel the stone beneath her feet, couldn’t even feel herself breathing.

The man beside Cullen was speaking - something about being an envoy, about it all happening so fast. She didn’t care. His words slipped past her, meaningless, drowned by the sound of her pulse roaring in her ears.

He can’t be dead.

Her chest tightened. She couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, the air too thin. Her fingers flexed at her sides, desperate to hold onto something, anything that wasn’t slipping away.

He can’t be dead.

She could still hear his low, rough laugh in her head, the way it rumbled through his chest when he let his guard down. She could still feel the calloused swirls of his fingertips against her skin.

She hadn’t even bathed properly since they’d been together. His scent still clung to her, faint but lingering—leather, sweat, and the earth. She closed her eyes as if she could summon him back with the memory of it, as if he could step out from some hidden corner and make this a cruel misunderstanding.

Her eyes flickered to the windows, to the light of an indifferent sun spilling through the stained glass. The world outside was bright, alive. Vibrant patterns of colour danced across the stone floor, reflections from the sunlight mingling with the songs of winter birds that chirped in pairs just beyond the glass. It was all so alive, so full of life and warmth.

How could he not be?

Sparrow blinked, struggling to focus, to anchor herself to the present. Her voice—when it finally came—was like shards of glass, shattered and too small to hold onto.

“He can’t be…” she breathed, her words trembling on the edge of disbelief. “There has been a mistake.”

The Orlesian stepped forward, his presence all formality and cold distance. “My lady,” he began, “we were ambushed on the road by bandits. They spread pitch across the stones, threw oil, and fired arrows lit with flame. The carriage he was locked in was alight within seconds. The guards tried—”

“That is enough.” Cullen’s voice cut through, sharp and final. His tone left no room for further details, no space for the grisly reality the man was about to spill. He stood tense, his eyes not meeting Sparrow’s. His harshness wasn’t just for the noble, it was for her—an attempt to shield her from the images that would follow if she heard any more.

But it was too late.

The words “the carriage he was locked in” echoed in her mind, painting a picture of the fire, of Blackwall—Thom—trapped and helpless, dying in agony. She could almost see the smoke rising, the flames licking at his skin, hear the crackle of burning wood and the screams no one would ever admit to. The images flooded her without mercy, despite Cullen’s effort to stop them.

Her legs wavered, and she reached out, her hand barely catching the edge of the throne for balance. The air was too thick now, the voices in the hall too loud, too suffocating. The world, once bright and filled with the laughter of birds, was silent and cold. 

She fell apart. All pretence of dignity slipped from her white-knuckled fists like sand. The invisible crown of the Inquisitor tumbled from her head, her practised posture buckled. She collapsed to the cold stone floor, not a leader, not a herald, but a woman with a heart shattered beyond repair.

“Get them out!” Her voice cracked as she cried out, barely able to force the words through the choking sobs that rose from her chest. “All of them. Now.”

Cullen’s stiff nod was the only reply she received. His voice cut through the hall, issuing orders with the force of a commander who would not be questioned. The nobles, the advisors, the residents - every prying eye - scattered as if swept away by the storm of her devastation. 

She was an exposed nerve, raw and bleeding, her tears an unending stream. Her cries, desperate and guttural, filled the empty hall, echoing louder with each person who left.

She didn’t know how long she knelt there, her face buried in her arms, shaking uncontrollably. Time had lost all meaning. But then, without warning, a large, gentle hand unfurled her. It was Iron Bull - his presence massive and unyielding, but his touch impossibly gentle. She tried to fight, her body kicking and flailing as his arms lifted her from the floor, but it was futile. His strength was too steady, too absolute.

He carried her effortlessly up the winding stairs to her chamber, holding her as though she weighed nothing. His voice rumbled low, soothing but blunt. “Keep hitting, boss. It’ll help.”

So she did. She hit at his broad chest, her fists weak and trembling, but she struck anyway, again and again. She imagined it was Blackwall she was striking, the man who had torn her heart apart.

If he had been honest, if he had told her everything from the start, if he had trusted her the way she trusted him, he wouldn’t have died like this—engulfed in flames, alone, on his way to be judged by her.

Each hit carried the sting of her anger. Selfish fool. Treacherous. Manipulative. She pounded against Bull’s chest, though her strength was rapidly waning, her fury dissolving into fresh waves of grief. She hated Blackwall for the lies, for the betrayal, for leaving her with nothing but the memory of his touch. 

She hated that she was stripped of the chance to be angry with him, to tell him of her humiliation. She wanted him to know how he had hurt her. That she had fallen in love with him because he was steadfast and kind. How humiliated she was that she had called out the name of another man while they made love. 

But if she were honest, deep down, beneath all the fury and anguish, what she truly wanted was for him to fight for her. She wanted him to beg for her forgiveness, to tell her the truth in its entirety, to explain why he had kept so much from her. She wanted to be angry with him, to rage and cry and then, eventually, not be angry anymore. She wanted to forgive him, even if that made her weak.

Now that chance was gone and it felt as though she would be angry forever—trapped in this endless cycle of fury that had no outlet. The sharp, jagged words she wanted to hurl at him would never be spoken, would never cut him the way they cut her. Instead, they dug into her own skin, slicing deeper with nowhere to go, and she would bleed and bleed and bleed for the rest of her days.

And still, Bull carried her - bearing the weight of her anguish. He made no attempt to stop her, to console her. 

He just let her break, knowing it was the only thing left she could do.

She couldn't pinpoint the moment she slipped into sleep - whether it was exhaustion or the way Bull had laid her down so gently on the bed. Her eyes fluttered shut, and the weight of sleep pulled her under, heavy and irresistible.

In her dreams, everything felt warped, as if reality itself was bending around her grief. She wandered through the halls of Skyhold, her footsteps echoing unnaturally. The walls stretched impossibly high, and the colours of the tapestries bled into one another, too bright, too vivid. The faces of the people she passed blurred into nothingness, their voices a distant murmur of sound that she couldn’t quite make out.

Blackwall was laughing at her, that laugh she loved so much - the one that reminded her of the bending of the forest trees in Summer and the crackle of a fireplace in winter - sharpened itself against the stone walls of Skyhold and ricocheted around her. 

Shadows from barely-lit candles began to stretch and twist, forming grotesque shapes that danced in the periphery of her vision. She turned, only to find the spectres of dead men swinging at the hangman’s noose, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void. The empty, hollow sound of coins jangling mingled with the cloying, hot smell of spilled blood. 

“My lady” His voice spat at her, deep and gruff, “My love”

She wanted it to end. Please... make it stop. No more. Her nails bit into the flesh of her palm, the sharp pain dragging her back to consciousness. She woke, sweat-slicked and trembling, tears streaming down her face.

She wasn’t alone.

A man stood on her balcony, leaning against the window frame, barely a silhouette in the dim light. When he noticed her stirring, he straightened sharply, stepping into a sliver of moonlight.

It was him.

Or rather, a ghostly, altered version of him. His hair, once long, was now cropped close, his face clean-shaven. The familiar features she had known were marred by dark bruising around one eye, his skin paler than she remembered. But it was still him.

It had to be another nightmare. Another cruel trick of the Fade. If she couldn't have him—if Blackwall had truly been taken from her—then all she wanted was peace. Blessed, quiet peace. She dug her nails into her palms, harder, until the skin broke and blood welled in her hands. She gasped at the sharp pain. Still, she did not wake.

“My lady,” he spoke softly, his gaze lingering on her bleeding hands as he took a step toward her.

“Don’t,” she spat, wiping her tear-streaked cheeks with the back of her hand, the metallic scent of blood sharp in her nose. This place was more lucid than her other nightmares, more grounded in reality, but that only made the apparition in front of her more dangerous. He was too much like the man she had loved, too much like the man she’d lost.

“Sparrow,” he whispered, his voice filled with the old affection that once soothed her but now felt like a dagger twisted in her heart.

“Stop!” She inhaled sharply, her body trembling with the weight of her grief. “Leave. Now.”

This was no different from the other demons that had preyed on her in the Fade. Desire, most likely. Tempting her with the one thing she longed for most, only to use her weakness against her. They always found her here, in these fragile moments, vulnerable and desperate. She wouldn't fall for it. 

“Don’t you dare use his voice,” she hissed, her hands curling into fists at her sides, the fresh pain from her palms sizzling. “You think I’m that easy to break?”

The man flinched, brow furrowing in the way she had seen a hundred times before, a familiar wrinkle in his forehead that made her heart ache. The memory of it tore at her insides, a splinter burrowing deeper into a heart already shattered beyond repair. Could there really be any more room to break? She thought she'd felt every kind of pain there was.

“It’s me, my lady,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

“Please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “No more.”

Her body betrayed her then, a heaving, hollow retch overtaking her as she leaned over the edge of her bed. Nothing came up. She hadn’t eaten in days. The only thing left in her stomach was grief, and it was impossible to expel. But the tears—they still flowed, unrelenting. She thought they would run dry by now, but if her tears were a measure of her love for Blackwall, then she supposed they would never stop.

He moved toward her in an instant and knelt beside her, his fingers brushing her back in the same gentle circles that had once been a balm for her. The same touch that had comforted her when she was Sparrow and he was Blackwall.

She let herself believe the lie. She leaned into the sensation of his touch, as if it would be the last time she could ever feel him again. His hands were warm, real, and they smelled of the same worn leather and pine as he always had.

“I’m here” he murmured, his breath ghosting over her ear. “I promise you.”

She whimpered, torn between wanting to shove him away and pulling him closer. If this was the demon’s game, so be it. She would risk everything for just one more moment with him. One more breath, one more touch. Let the Fade take her.

“There was a plan,” he continued, his voice laced with weariness. “To get me out of Orlais, just as you instructed. The Inquisition made a deal with the Val Royeaux nobles—those who had every right to want me dead. They agreed to formally release me to the Inquisition, on the understanding that Cullen ‘let slip’ the route we would take back to Skyhold, the number of soldiers escorting me, everything. An envoy was sent alongside him to ensure the plan proceeded smoothly, that I would not make it back here alive.”

Her breath caught, her eyes wide as she struggled to comprehend his words.

“But there was a second part,” he continued, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Another prisoner, sentenced to die, took my place. Dressed in my clothes, a sack over his head. They promised him they would provide his family a bag of gold if he stayed silent and died in my name. They gave him poison—quick, painless. He was dead before the ambush started.” His voice was bitter, angry. “I was taken away in secret, through passageways I'm sure no-one knows exists. With Leliana. Blackwall is dead. Thom Rainier is dead. I’m all that’s left.”

She ripped herself from his touch, rising to her feet as fury welled up in her chest. “More lies!” she shouted, her voice hoarse. “Why didn’t they tell me? Why did they let me believe—do they even understand how much—”

“They needed you to believe it,” he said quietly, his head still bowed. “They needed the Orlesians to believe it. To see the noble, bloodsoaked commander, the shaken envoy…” he finally looked to her “And the broken-hearted Inquisitor”

“Well, they got what they wanted,” she snarled, pressing her hand to her chest as if to hold herself together.

“I would never have agreed to it,” he whispered, “I was ready to die. I deserved to die.”

He began to move away from her, retreating toward the door. 

“There’s to be a private hearing tomorrow,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll still get to decide my fate.”

She stared at him, disbelief turning her blood cold.

“I’ll accept whatever you decide,” he said, his eyes burning for her. “I’ve been given more than I deserve. More than I could ever hope for. To have known you, to have been loved by you... that was more than I could ever have dreamed of, as Rainier or as Blackwall.”

Her certainty that she was talking with a demon wavered, and her heart fluttered. She had to know, she had to be sure. 

“Tell me something,” she said, her voice quiet but steady.

“Anything,” he replied, without hesitation. His voice was resolute, as if whatever she asked, he was ready to face it. For her, he would.

Her gaze sharpened, seeking the truth she needed to hear. “When we were in the Fade... when we fought our nightmares—what did you see there?”

It was a question that had haunted her, one that she had never dared to ask until now. He had never spoken of it. She didn’t know his answer, and neither would a demon. 

Blackwall tensed, his face tightening with a pain he had long buried. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something too heavy to carry alone. Finally, he bowed his head, the unspoken torment that had lived inside him spilling out, his voice raw with sorrow.

“You fought against spiders,” he began, his words slow and deliberate, as if reliving the nightmare again. “Sera fought against nothing. And I...” His voice faltered, and she could see the anguish etching itself into his features. “I kept seeing them.” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to shield himself from the images that had never truly left him. His hands clenched at his sides, but he did not stop.

“The Callier children. And the men, my men, who died for their murder,” he continued, his voice lower now, filled with the heaviness he had never allowed her to see until this moment. “Again and again, they came at me. And again and again, I cut them down.”

His words hung in the air like a bitter curse. He drew a ragged breath, his hands trembling, as if the ghosts still clung to him.

“That nightmare turned me into what I feared most,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “It almost broke me.”

Her heart ached as she finally saw him - not a trick, not a demon - but the man she loved. The man who had lived with the weight of his sins, trying, despite everything, to atone. A man who, no matter how fiercely he loved her, still believed he was unworthy of any in return.

It shattered her.

The flood of emotion broke through her control, and before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around him, sobs tearing from her throat as she buried her face against his chest. Her body trembled as grief, relief, and the overwhelming need to hold him crashed over her all at once.

He caught her, pulling her close, his arms wrapping around her as if he, too, was holding on for dear life. His hands shook as they gripped her, and she could feel the tremor in his chest as his breath hitched. Yet, still, he held her. Just as he always had. As if, in this one moment, all the guilt, all the nightmares, could fall away in the circle of her arms.

It was really him.

She stroked his cheek, her thumb brushing over the faint stubble growing back. Anger would come. Admonition, too. But what she felt now, swelling in her chest, was more important. Forgiveness. It was the first thread she would pull from the tangle of pain between them, the one that would begin to untie the knots. 

The weight of the past was still there, but now it felt lighter, shared between them. They had both suffered, both lost something, but here, in this moment, they found something else: a chance to rebuild. A chance to begin again.

And for that, for him, she was willing to fight.

[bradshawsbaby]

Letters to My Love // Part X

Rosie the Riveter

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Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader

Summary: When you signed up to volunteer with the USO, you never anticipated that you would meet a man like Ensign Robert Floyd. Fate brings you together one balmy spring evening in Charleston—the night before Bob is set to ship off across the Atlantic. Pen and paper become your only means of sharing your heart with the naval aviator who’s captivated it, igniting a correspondence that spans the distance between you. Can love blossom even as war rages and thousands of miles keep you apart?

Word Count: 2.9k

Author’s Note: I'm so sorry for how long it's taken me to update this story! One of my goals for 2024 is to get this series completed. Although it's taken me so long to update, Bobby and Peach are never far from my mind and are always in my heart. I hope you enjoy this latest installment of their story!

Set the Mood: If you’re looking for some 1940s vibes, check out the playlist I made to pair with the story.

The title of this chapter is obviously a tribute to the iconic figure of Rosie the Riveter. But it was also inspired by the song of the same name by The Four Vagabonds, which you can listen to here!

Dedication: As always, this story is dedicated to my dear friend, Clara (@luminousnotmatter). She was the first person to listen to all my endless ramblings about this universe, and she has never stopped supporting me or believing that I can get it finished. Thank you, Clara!

Warnings: Alternating POV, references to casualties of war and grief, slight angst, lots and lots of fluff.

July 8, 1943

My Dearest Peach,

I want to start by saying that I’m terribly sorry it’s taken me so long to respond to your last letter. I think I’ve worn down the paper to nearly nothing with how many times I’ve read it, but it’s been hard to get a free moment to sit and write you the response you deserve. Things are really heating up over here, and we have to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat down to start a new letter, only for us to be called up just as I set my pen to the paper.

To set your mind at ease, I want you to know that I’m alright. I’m not sure how much information they’re sharing with you all back home, but I know one of the fellas got a letter from his wife recently and she told him that three different families on their street got notified that their boys had been killed in action in just one week. It made her real scared that she was going to be the next one getting a knock on the door. I won’t lie to you, Peach, because I don’t think that’s fair—we’re losing a lot of men over here. It’s scary to think that any day now, it could be me they’re sending a flag home for.

I hate to start this letter off so morbidly, but there’s been something weighing on my mind lately, especially since my buddy got that letter from his wife. If anything happens to me over here, you won’t know. They’ll tell my family, sure, but not you. And I can’t stand the thought of you waiting for another letter that isn’t going to come. So I’ve spoken to Paul, Tommy Boy, and Benny about it. If anything happens to me over here, Peach, they’re going to write to you and let you know. It gives me some comfort to think that their words will be a little softer and kinder than the formality of Uncle Sam.

I hope this doesn’t make you sad, Peach, although I admit it makes me a bit sad to write. The truth is, I’m quite alright right now, like I said, and I don’t plan on letting anything happen to me over here. We have to take that drive to Folly Beach and get ice cream on the pier, after all. I tell you, that thought alone is enough to get me through even the hardest days over here.

Alright, enough of all this. Time to get back to your lovely letter. They’re calling us for dinner right now, but as soon as I’m finished, I’m coming right back to continue this letter. Nothing’s going to stop me from getting it to you.

I’m back, Peach. All the fellas were teasing me in the galley because of how quickly I scarfed down my dinner, but I didn’t care because I knew I was getting back to you and your sweet words, and that means a whole lot more than the crummy food they’re serving over here. Boy, I tell you, I sure do miss home-cooked meals. They even had—I’m not lying, I promise—they even had peach cobbler for dessert tonight. It made me think of you, but I’m sure it’s nowhere near as good as the cobbler your family makes, so I didn’t even bother giving it a taste.

Now I do have to say that you’re right, of course. I hate hearing you call yourself shy and mousey. If that’s the way you feel when I call myself boring, then I certainly promise I won’t ever do it again. It’s a deal—neither of us will talk about ourselves like that anymore.

Nothing you say could ever sound silly to me, Peach. Even though we only got to spend a few hours in each other’s company, your letters have made me feel like we’ve known each other for years and years. I’m honored that I’ve been able to make you feel seen. I do see you, Peach. You’re the most beautiful, interesting, intelligent girl I’ve ever known, and I hope you can see that in yourself. For what it’s worth, you’ve helped me to come out of my shell, too. Paul was just saying the other day that I look like a new man—that I’m standing taller and seem more confident than he’s ever seen in all the years he’s known me. I had just finished reading one of your letters when he said that. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. You’re turning me into a new man, Peach, and I like it. I like it a lot.

I’m glad that you passed along my well wishes to Emily. Even though part of me still thinks her fiancé is a dunce, I do wish them all the best. Has she heard from Eddie? I don’t know where he’s stationed, but if you’d like to find out and send the information to me, I can try to keep an ear out. How has the wedding planning been going? I’m still confident you’re going to make the prettiest bridesmaid.

I did pass along your invitation in my last letter home to my family, and my mother said she would certainly inquire after the Sheridan residence should she ever happen to find herself in Charleston. I think she’s happy that you and I are still writing to each other. She’s even happier about the thought of swapping recipes with you. Watch out—if the two of you ever do meet, I think she’ll hold you hostage in the kitchen all day.

Now I am very proud to hear about all the fine work you and Dottie have been doing with your Victory Garden. I’m sure there must have been a lot of progress since you last wrote to me! I eagerly await news about the beans, carrots, cucumbers, and tomatoes. I’m sure you’ve been able to make lots of hearty soups and healthy salads. My mouth is watering at the notion. Like I said, the food in the galley has been pretty crummy lately.

I’m sorry to hear there’s been some trouble back home. I’m sure it can’t be easy for anyone, with all the rationing and the fear and the worry. I promise that we’re doing our best over here to bring this war to an end quickly so that life can return to normal for all of you over there. For us, too. We really can’t wait to be home again.

Peach, I want you to know that it is our duty, our honor, and, quite frankly, our privilege to be fighting for you over here. I know the other fellas would agree with me saying so. So I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything at home to “earn” us fighting for you. That said, I think it’s incredible that you want to contribute to the war effort in that way. I’m sure you haven’t been waiting for my response or my approval—which you shouldn’t, by the way—but I give a wholehearted yes to you applying for that position at the air station. We just recently saw Mr. Norman Rockwell’s illustration of Rosie the Riveter on the cover of the Post, and I have to say that I think you’d wear those coveralls a hundred times better.

I’m so proud of you, Peach. I want you to know that.

Speaking of the war effort, we have a couple big campaigns coming up very soon. I can’t say much more than that, but your well wishes and prayers for success would be very much appreciated. I’m always thankful for them.

Until next time, Peach! I’m already counting down the days until your next letter arrives.

Most Truly Yours,

Bobby

P.S. I almost forgot! I told Paul how much you loved the fact that he sends drawings home to Clara and Paul, Jr.—by the way, that reminds me, how is little Frankie doing?—and he was more than happy to create a few illustrations for you. He did a couple portraits—one of me and one of you, based off your beautiful photograph. He said to apologize that he’s too much of an amateur to capture all of your beauty. He did say that he thought he did a fine enough job capturing my likeness—I’m telling you, Peach, I think my friends officially like you better than they like me. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

July 31, 1943

My Dearest Bobby,

Please don’t ever feel like you need to apologize for how long it takes you to write back to me. I can only imagine how difficult it is to find the time to write with everything that must be happening over there, and yet you always find the time to pen the most thoughtful and wonderful letters. I cherish each and every one of them, and I promise that I’m more than content to read your old letters as I await the new ones.

I’m so sorry to hear about how many of our boys we’re losing. Just last week, our neighbors, the Pattersons—you remember I mentioned Mrs. Patterson had helped me and Dottie with our Victory Garden?—received news that their son, Clarence was killed in action in France. It was devastating. Dottie and I had just been coming home from the grocery store when we saw the officer standing on their front steps with a telegram in hand. We knew what that meant. Mrs. Patterson has been inconsolable since. Mr. Patterson is equally devastated, but I think he’s trying to be strong for her. Dottie and I have been taking turns cooking meals for them and spending some time over at their house. We just want them to know that they’re not alone.

I admit, Bobby, that every time I hear news of someone else being lost in this war, I immediately think of you. It feels selfish, but I’m always so relieved when the news is about someone else and not you. I don’t know how I would bear it. I pray every day that I never have to receive that letter from Paul or Tommy Boy or Benny, but I am touched that you’ve thought about how I could be notified. Oh, Bobby, I hope more than anything that your parents never have to experience what the Pattersons are going through.

But you’re right—you’re going to come home safely. We have too many plans for you to do otherwise!

I’m sorry to hear that the food aboard your carrier has been so crummy lately. I wish that I could whip up a home-cooked feast and send it in the mail with my letters. Every time I sit down to dinner now, I think of all of you, and I count my blessings. Things aren’t perfect on the homefront, but I know that we certainly have no room to complain with all you boys are going through. I promise to have a peach cobbler waiting for you when you come home—and a pumpkin pie, for good measure.

If I’m turning you into a new man, Bobby, then you simply must know that you’re turning me into a new woman as well. I hardly remember the girl that I was before I met you. Can you believe that it’s been over a year now since our paths first crossed? I feel like my life is totally different now. The way that I see myself, the way I interact with others, the way that I’m not so terrified to step out of my comfort zone anymore—so much of that is thanks to you, Bobby. I’m still me, of course. But I feel like I’m a stronger, braver version of myself now. I like it, too.

It’s so kind of you to offer to keep an ear out for Eddie’s infantry! Emily received a letter from him around the same time that I received my letter from you, and he seems to be doing well, same as you, thank goodness. Eddie is part of the 1st Infantry Division. Emily said that last she knew, he was stationed somewhere near the Rhineland. The wedding planning has been going very well. Pretty much everything is set now—all we need is the groom. Emily can’t wait for Eddie to come home for good. Once he does, they’ll be able to officially set the date. Us bridesmaids are going to be wearing lilac-colored dresses. Dottie says she already knows how she’s going to style my hair. I hope that you’re home, too, when the wedding finally happens. Emily said that I could invite you to be my date. Only if you’d like that, of course.

I would be very happy to be kept hostage in the kitchen with your mother! I’m sure there’s so much I could learn from her, and it sounds like a splendid way to spend the day. I look forward to meeting her one of these days!

Oh, the Victory Garden, Bobby! You wouldn’t believe how it’s grown! Trust me, no one is more shocked than me and Dottie. Well, maybe Paddy. He knows firsthand what brown thumbs my sister and I normally have. At first, we weren’t so sure what was going to happen—the cucumbers seemed a bit small and some of the tomatoes didn’t really take. But by the end of June, everything was thriving! It’s been such a joy to watch, and I have to admit, both Dottie and I are feeling extremely accomplished. Frankie loves to spend time in the garden with us, although he spends a bit more time digging in the dirt than helping us pick vegetables, I’m afraid. Now that we’re in the middle of summer, we’re experimenting with zucchini and eggplant. We might also try radishes and turnips. We’re turning into quite the farmers! If your mother has any recipes to share, we’d be more than grateful and happy to try them out!

Now I admit that I’ve saved the most exciting news for last. At the beginning of June, I decided to go for it and I applied for the position at the air station in Goose Creek, the one Paddy told me about. I’m sure being his sister-in-law gave me a bit of an advantage, but it only took a couple days for me to hear back from them. I got the job! I’ve officially been working on the assembly line since the middle of June. It’s hard work, and I’ve never been so tired in all my life, but I have to say that I’m really proud of the work we’re doing. It’s funny that you mention Rosie the Riveter—my job these past few weeks has actually been to fasten pieces of the planes we’re assembling with rivets! So I guess you could call me Peach the Riveter. Doesn’t have quite the same ring though, does it?

I know that the chances are small that anything I’m helping to build is going to reach you specifically, Bobby, but I can’t help but smile every time we finish a new part, or get a new plane put together. I imagine you and Paul, or Tommy Boy or Benny hopping inside and it brings me more pleasure and pride than I could possibly explain. I feel like I’m doing something important, something meaningful and special. If spending hours riveting until my fingers turn numb brings you home even a day faster, then it will all have been worth it. And it gives me a real sense of purpose, driving to work each day with Paddy. I feel proud of myself.

I’ve made some new friends at work, too! Florence and Virginia—we call them Florie and Ginny—are the loveliest, kindest girls. They had already been working on the assembly line for a few months before I got the job, so they’ve been showing me the ropes and teaching me everything they know. They’ve made me feel so welcome, so a part of things. I have to admit that I was terrified my first week or so, terrified that I was going to mess something up or make a fool of myself. But I’ve settled in quite well, thankfully.

It means a lot to me to know that I have your support, Bobby. Truly, it does. Thinking of you and all that you’re doing to protect us is what really motivated me to take this job, so thank you.

Of course I’m sending all my best wishes for the campaigns you have coming up! Wherever you are right now, I pray that you’re safe and that your missions are successful.

You’re so brave, Bobby. Have I told you that lately? Even if I have, you deserve to hear it again. I’m so, so proud of you. You’re my hero.

I hope this letter gets to you soon. I wish it could grow wings and fly to you. I know time is going to pass so slowly until I’m holding a new letter from you in my hands. But until then, Bobby, I’m thinking of you and holding you in my heart.

Most Truly and Affectionately Yours,

Peach

P.S. Paul is quite the artist!!! I now have his portraits hanging right beside the photographs you sent me. Please tell him how talented I think he is, and how much I love the drawings he made for me! I was especially touched by the little note he wrote me on the back of your portrait. I hope he’s doing well. Send my best to him and Tommy Boy and Benny!

TAGLIST: @teacupsandtopgun @saturnsbabe69 @gigisimsonmars @marchingicenotes7 @high-speed-r @cadencebeat2662 @up-thereinthesky @lostinthefandoms11 @strangerparks @sweetwhispersofchaos @callsign-magnolia @the-wayward-daughter @becks-things @jostyriggslover96 @solo-pitstop-vibes @wretchedmo @muddwheelz123 @ryebecca @lewmagoo @withahappyrefrain @rhettabbotts

[peakyltd]

Shadows

John Shelby x female reader

A/N: It's been a loooong long while but I'm back and actually wrote a little something, inspired by the gif below. I hope you guys like it!

Warnings: Angst, grief

Word count: 1242

The sun softly crept trough the window, projecting the shadows of the textured curtains of Johns’s old Watery Lane bedroom on both his and (Y/N)'s faces as they peeked trough the side of them. The streets were eerily quiet and the tension of the ongoing vendetta was palpable.

"How long have you been in here?" John asked while he kept his eyes on the street. "Since last night, orders of your brother." (Y/N) answered. "I'm not allowed to leave under any circumstances. Probably until they say it's safe." She sighed as her eyes fell on John's relaxed frame. His trousers were smoothly ironed, a white undershirt covered his upper body and his hair was neatly combed, a sight that she hadn't seen in a while. "I wonder if it ever will be." She added softly.

"You know he wouldn't do this for fun, love." John replied as he moved his eyes from the streets to meet hers. "Probably for the better, eh?" She shrugged at his question that somehow sounded more like a statement. "I'm not too sure about that."

They held each others gaze for a while until she looked down at the floor, resting her body against the wall. He had noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the stress laced into the beautiful features of her face and the sparkle that was still missing from her eyes. He stepped closer, reaching for her hand and pulling her into his chest, safely wrapping his arms around her back. “I got you, you know that.” He mumbled against her hair before he pressed a kiss to the side of her head. He felt her arms find their way around his waist while she let her head rest against his chest, a soft sigh escaping from her lips.

“I missed you so much.” She whispered, her hands resting on his back. He kept quiet for a moment, feeling a pang of sadness in his chest from her words. "I missed you too." He replied, the tip of his fingers running up and down her back. "I'm tired, John." She confessed quietly. “I know, darlin’ but you’ll get trough this. I know you will.” He tried to encourage her, trying to stay positive in a situation that seemed endless.

“Can you please tell me about your day?” She quietly asked, longing for something quite normal in their turbulent lives. “Well…” He started. “I went home because I hoped I’d find you there but I didn’t. Then went to visit Polly to ask her but she seemed too busy. After that I came here.” He chuckled, the sound vibrating trough his chest, making her feel at ease.

“I haven’t been home in a while.” She disclosed, her hands grabbing onto his shirt. “Couldn’t settle anymore.” She felt his fingers gently run trough her hair while he pressed another kiss on her head. “I’m so sorry.” A wave of guilt washed over him.

“No, please, you shouldn’t be sorry.” She assured him as she closed her eyes for a moment. He held her close while his eyes wandered around the room. Memories of the past years slowly entering his mind one by one. “Do you remember the time we were caught stealing from the bakery a few streets away?” He asked, trying to lighten up her mood. She lifted her head to look at him, a small smile visible on her lips. “Excuse me? We? It was you who did it and I got caught while I was innocent.” She chuckled softly, getting a grin back from John in response. “It was even worse when my parents found out.”

He chuckled. “Hadn’t seen you in weeks after that.” He remarked, a smirk on his face. “I just accepted my fate and didn’t want to snitch on you.” She smiled at him. “Ah see, that’s when I knew you were the one. The most loyal woman I've ever known.” He winked at her before pressing a soft kiss against her lips. She gently cupped his face in her hands as her eyes scanned his face.

A few minutes in silence went by until she spoke up. “Do you think this will end well?” She asked, bringing up the vendetta again. “Of course it will.” He spoke up, not too sure if it would but not wanting to fuel her worries more. “We will win.”

His words caused a cold shiver to run down her spine, she held his gaze before slowly shaking her head. “We’ve already lost.” Her voice was quiet, almost too scared to speak the words out loud. Her hands dropped down to hold onto his waist. John took a deep breath while he put a strand of hair behind her ear. “You did not. You have to keep going.” His soft blue eyes tried to assure her.

“It wasn’t supposed to end like this. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair, John. It could be anyone but they took you… like it was nothing.” She looked away, feeling the tears burning in her eyes but trying to blink them away. John grabbed both of her hands when he spoke up. “Look at me.” She bit her lip, trying to avoid his stare. "(Y/N)... look at me."

She looked up at him, her teary eyes reflected the sadness that had took over her body. "Listen love, people like us don’t get to decide when we’re done.” John confided calmly, knowing his fate was laid in somebody else's hands the very moment he decided to follow his brothers' footsteps.

“People like you? You're a good man John, you deserved better. You never belonged in this life.” Her voice trembled as she put her hand on his chest. “Your heart was way too good for that.” His eyes were locked on hers, not knowing what to say. "We were supposed to be happy. Together." She added as she felt a tear run down her cheek. She remembered how he bravely protected her when they attacked him, at their own home. Brave, fearless and strong, putting up a tough fight but it wasn't enough.

She remembered how she saw him fall, hit by bullet after bullet. She remembered the agonizing screams that left her mouth and the light that left his blue eyes. She did what she could but there was nothing that could've saved him.

“You have to remember that I’m always with you, even when you don’t see me.” He interrupted her thoughts while he gently cupped her cheek, slowly stroking her skin with his thumb. She sighed, the familiar touch giving her the feeling of security she so desperately needed. “Promise me that you keep going, yeah? Do the things you always wanted to do.” He gave her a smile. “It makes no sense doing them without you.” She quietly spoke.

“You’re not doing them without me.”

She wrapped her arms around him again, hiding her face in his chest as she took a deep breath. The feeling of his strong arms around her made her forget about the harsh reality for a moment. “I have to go.” He whispered. “Will I see you soon?” She wondered, slightly hopeful. He was quiet for a moment, a bit unsure of what to say. “You will.”

She slowly let go of him, taking in the sight of him again. “Wait for, me, will you?” A small smile appeared on his face. “I will, love. I promise.”

Tagging some people who might like it, obviously no pressure to read it if it's not your cup of tea! @brummiereader @call-sign-shark @peakyswritings @zablife @emotionalcadaver @runnning-outof-time @raincoffeeandfandoms

[bestworstcase]

Any thoughts on "The Sky is Falling"? I happened to be listening to it the other day and went "wow, this seems like something BestWorstCase would have Thoughts about", but searching your blog didn't turn anything up on it. If Tumblr search has failed me (probably not for the last time), I'd be interested to see what you've written before; otherwise, I'd be interested to hear now :)

ough i do have thoughts. many thoughts. idk if i’ve ever posted them, partly because i argue with myself a lot about whether it’s a hound song or an ozma song brfghks. much as i’d like it to be the hound for rotating him reasons, though, i do think ozma is a stronger textual reading.

unhinged about songs hours ->

the motif of the sky falling obviously calls to mind the chicken little folktale, of which there are numerous variations but in all of them the kerfuffle over the sky falling is hysterical: the danger is not real. in some versions of the tale, a sly fox incites the panic on purpose at the beginning and then eats the frightened birds who turn to him for help at the end.

the song’s narrative placement also connects it to atlas, and thence to atlas telamon, the titan who holds up the sky on his shoulders. (not the world—that’s a common misconception; classical images of atlas shouldering a globe depict the celestial sphere. it’s the sky.)

so we have on one hand the apocalyptic motif of the sky falling, and on the other the very real danger to atlas, conflated together: if atlas falls, so too must the sky… except that ‘the sky is falling’ is idiomatically an irrational fear. atlas may fall—that danger is real—but the world will not end if it does. the song’s central motif implies paranoid hysteria.

there is also the latin maxim fiat justitia ruat caelum, let justice be done though the skies fall. i go back and forth on whether i think the writers specifically have that in mind, in relation to this motif, but: “it’s important not to lose sight of what drives us—love, justice, reverence” and “in pursuit of a new world, no cost is too great.” fiat justitia, ruat caelum. that’s the salem perspective.

and i bring that up because of sacrifice:

Born an angel, heaven-sent Falls from grace are never elegant Stars will drop out of the sky, The moon will sadly watch the roses die In vain, Lost, no gain But you’re not taking me.

and

Show them gods and deities, Blind and keep the people on their knees. Pierce the sky, escape your fate, The more you try, the more you’ll just breed hate And lies. Truth will rise, Revealed by mirrored eyes.

with its similarly apocalyptic imagery (‘stars will drop out of the sky’/‘pierce the sky, escape your fate’) in relation to ozma and his task, and salem positioning herself in opposition (‘but you're not taking me’/‘truth will rise’)—fiat justitia, ruat caelum.

hence, ozma song.

‘the sky is falling’ is directly a dark mirror to ‘touch the sky’ but it’s also—i think more interestingly—a sardonic reflection on ‘until the end’ if one reads both songs as articulations of ozma’s perspective.

emotionally, ‘until the end’ leaves off here:

Love brings us dreams, But grief makes the heart burst at the seams. As light fills my eyes, I’ll picture me beside her, And pray that I’ll inspire, I promise I’ll be here until… …our story has been told. Til our bodies break down every door. Til we find what we’ve been looking for.

it’s a dream—a fantasy—ozma finding hope in this imagined scenario where he can be with salem again. i’ll picture me beside her.

and then she, uh. captures him:

Here comes another nightmare, Another fever dream. The horror just won’t stop, An endless scream, But this is not subconscious; We’re not imagining. We’re wide awake, This is reality.

lol.

‘until the end’ is very lovelorn and idealistic, and also fundamentally passive: though “desperate to make amends,” the promise ozma makes is to… wait. to do nothing. to hope for salem to make the first move.

and well. she does. this is what ‘the sky is falling’ is about, the collision of ozma’s romantic fantasies with the harsh reality of the situation.

Our world’s Lost without a soul. We’re losing all control, Not getting closer. Every day is just another dose of torture. Now we pay the cost. The race is lost, This nightmare’s Our real life.

points.

OSCAR: It should not be this hard getting people to just cooperate. OZ: And yet, it’s something I’m becoming increasingly concerned about.

this is what oz is worrying about all morning while the hound stalks oscar across mantle, how difficult it is to get anyone to “just cooperate.” because—contrary to the popular fanon—he is in fact still committed to his task and he does still, on some level, believe that remnant is damned and its people are missing something fundamental; his secrecy and manipulation, his guiding interest in silver-eyes and maidens and elevated ‘guardians’ and ‘symbols of hope,’ his all speak to his lack of true faith in humanity. and that traces back to what the god of light told him.

(since people love to cite ozpin’s commentary on ‘the story of the seasons’ as “evidence” that he’s abandoned his task by misinterpreting “I fear that if unrestricted magic use were possible, the results would be chaotic and catastrophic” to mean that ozpin thinks people are better off without magic rather than ozpin justifying his efforts to control the maidens; here’s part of his commentary on ‘the two brothers.’

Whether or not you believe in the Brothers, or in this story in particular, the underlying message still holds value: We are burdened with responsibility for our world, and we share a common destiny. Like the twin gods, we are intricately connected with one another, and if we can learn to work and live together, we can create things greater than the sum of their parts. Remnant survived the Great War, but while the four kingdoms now cooperate and coexist, our bond seems tenuous. We have a fragile peace, and in some ways, we are more divided than ever. Even if the gods aren’t real, even if they don’t return to judge us for our deeds, we should act each day as though they are arriving tomorrow. In the end, we will be the arbiters of our fates. We will either create a beautiful, peaceful world and live in harmony together or destroy ourselves and our planet, and the gods will judge what we have chosen.

in which he not only states his belief in his mandate and the inevitability of divine judgment outright, in plain terms, but also repeats the same fear he confided in salem thousands of years ago, that despite finding happiness or achieving peace, he worries that people are “more divided than ever.”)

thus: “our world’s/lost without a soul/we’re losing all control/not getting closer.” oz has become “increasingly concerned” about how hard it is to “get people to just cooperate.” and so “every day is just another dose of torture,” because, well…

To live free or die, it’s all the same. The enemy was right, there’s no reclaiming. In waves of shame, We’re desperate to make amends

…he knows salem is right. his task is impossible; things can never go back to the way they were. the old world, the world of the brothers, is gone and trying to reclaim it will achieve nothing but destroying remnant.

and yet he cannot bring himself to believe it, because to him this would amount to condemning the world, to admitting that remnant is broken and irredeemable and must be destroyed because it cannot be saved. to him, salem’s rejection of the mandate is horrifying—tantamount to a a declaration that nothing in the world is worth trying to save.

in her mind, rejecting the mandate is an act of defiance: remnant does not need to be saved because there is nothing wrong with it, and where he sees damnation, salem finds freedom. and that’s what ripped them apart.

‘sacrifice’ makes this point also:

Did the things you thought you should, All the things they said were good. All your faith in ancient ways Leaves you trapped inside a maze. […] Even with the lives you stole, Still no closer to your… goal.

that ozma’s faith in the god of light imprisons him in a futile, impossible quest because he can’t escape his belief that the world is broken, that salem’s freedom is really damnation. he achieves so much—he united the four human kingdoms after the great war and ushered in an era of unprecedented worldwide peace—and still, in ozpin’s own words, he sees only that people are “more divided than ever.”

the chorus of ‘the sky is falling’:

Better cover up your eyes, my friend, The sky is falling, Can’t outrun the ruin of our lives. Be prepared, we’re near the end, The final days are calling. Hold on now, The sky is falling down.

similarly echoes the motif of blindness that appears in ‘sacrifice’ (“close your eyes now, time for dreams/death is never what it seems” and “show them gods and deities/blind and keep the people on their knees”) and, more obliquely, in ‘until the end’ (“love brings us dreams/but grief makes the heart burst at the seams/as light fills my eyes/i’ll picture me beside her” -> the light is death, the light is love, love brings us dreams and death is never what it seems).

the first two lines of the chorus are also a direct inversion of ‘trust love’: “better cover up your eyes, my friend/the sky is falling” vs “trust love/and open up your eyes.” which is salient because ‘trust love’ is chiefly about ozlem; it’s in conversation with ‘sacrifice’ and ‘until the end’ and on top of the central motif of love restoring sight there is also, “if you could only open up a door/spread your wings and fly away from here/write yourself into a fairytale/all your problems would just disappear.” the you is ozma.

and that makes ‘trust love’ + ‘until the end’ + ‘the sky is falling’ really um, pointed foreshadowing:

All you have to be Is here in reality Leave your fantasy You’ll find the key  To victory I know the dark’s returning And the fires of hate are burning But the lies can’t hide what’s true When love’s alive

in one sense ‘until the end’ is the fantasy and reality ensues in ‘the sky is falling’, but in another—deeper, more important—‘until the end’ is also the truth which ozma keeps hidden from himself, and ‘the sky is falling’ is the act of self-deception; better cover up your eyes, my friend, the sky is falling.

so all of this—all of it—this is the false narrative oz has constructed about himself and salem, his blindness:

A curse that’s Never-ending This path with No escape No sudden death We’re trapped In slow decay These words are Not symbolic The torment’s All too real Eternal enemy Our fate is sealed We slide Further down the hole The damage takes its toll Helpless and broken Failed to stem the Tide of pain The floodgates open Now it’s one more sin As evil wins And misery steals Our lives

notice too how this section of the song reflects darkly on the hope and longing expressed in ‘until the end.’

ozma let himself imagine a reprieve (“time falls away/but pain always finds a way to stay/the tears that you’ve shed/will find a tree to water/but only when you’re stronger”), which he now scathingly reminds himself is impossible: his curse is never-ending, there is no escape even in death, he’s trapped in slow decay, his fate as her eternal enemy is sealed.

he admitted to himself that he wished to make amends and for just a moment he let himself believe that he could (“and stare with pride into the face of fear/in our finest hour, i’ll be standing here/and should we fall to darkness/this power i will harness/i promise i’ll be here until the end”), and now he mocks himself for it: he has done nothing but decay, corrupted more and more with every lifetime as he becomes unrecognizable to himself; the damage takes its toll. helpless. broken. he can’t make the pain stop, he can’t fix anything, he can’t save either of them.

oz found enough courage and hope to crawl back out of his darkness and try, once more, to do the right thing—to make amends—and what happened when he tried? “i’m not upset that you left. i’m upset you came back.”

that conversation, oz trying to apologize and being told that he’d done wrong again, made a mistake again, happened at most an hour or two before the hound caught them. one more sin as evil wins, cue the chorus.

and then the song turns inside out. (pour one out for the terrible rap 😔)

Lost all my hopes And dreams Watch my life flash By in scenes And it seems there’s No soul on the  Video screen But I’m green tryin’ To figure out what All of it means Staring at the casket Hoping to move past it Knowing things will Never be the same And that’s it Cold soaked as I stand in the rain Feeling nothing but pain Until I see you again

clears throat. not a metaphor. this is about the lost fable—ozma very literally watched his life flash by in scenes, narrated by jinn in ozpin’s own words, and then he retreated into isolation to think about it. not to brood or sulk but to reflect; he comes back with a very clear idea of what he did wrong and how he wants to change because he used that time to, well, try to figure out what all of it meant, knowing things will never be the same.

and that’s it?

this part of the song is an emotional echo of the regret and longing expressed in ‘until the end’; “love brings us dreams/but grief makes the heart burst at the seams/as light fills my eyes/i’ll picture me beside her/and pray that i’ll inspire” -> “cold soaked as/i stand in the rain/feeling nothing but pain/until i see you again” it’s the same idea.

that salem is his hope, his comfort. deep down in his heart of hearts ozma… wants to see her again. ‘until the end’ hints that it isn’t a coincidence that oz makes his hopeful return in the same hour that salem reaches atlas. here, too, “nothing but pain/until i see you again.” a flicker of hope. because the hound is taking them to her.

and then:

Feel the waves crash Loud and hard Oh God Lost control I think I’m gonna lose it All my sanity’s slipping away Oh Lord Press record I’d die without the music Each breath is closer To my death Except that which is, This life There’s none left Let my demons live on Through my legacy Study my pedigree I need therapy

he catches himself feeling that small glimmer of hope and freaks out. lost control, sanity’s slipping away. every breath is bringing him closer to death, oscar will die, his demons will live on in his next host, he needs therapy. why did he even think that?

where you seek comfort, you will only find pain. his heart knows that isn’t true, but ozma is still fighting tooth and nail to force himself to believe it; cue the chorus. better cover up your eyes, my friend, the sky is falling.

[shadowqueenjude]

The moment I fell for Jacks

Evangeline tried to hit Chaos, but she couldn’t muster the strength to move her hands. She couldn’t even open her eyes. Her body was heavy, and her head was light. All she could feel were Chaos’s teeth, cutting deeper to take even more—

“Castor, no!” Jacks shouted.

The vampire was wrenched away.

Evangeline started to fall, and then Jacks was there. Her eyes were too heavy to open—but she could feel him. He held her with the type of intensity that only happens when a person wants something that isn’t quite theirs.

But she was. She just needed to tell him she loved him.

“Evangeline—” His voice was hoarse. “Come back to me.…”

I’m not dead,she tried to say. But there was something wrong with her throat. And it seemed Jacks couldn’t hear her thoughts.

He silently held her tighter and pressed his forehead to hers. She wasn’t sure if he was crying or if she was, but there was wet on her cheeks. It felt a lot like tears. And then she felt …

Nothing.

A tormented scream pierced the night like a blade. The sky bled, and darkness fell instead of stars, erasing lights across the Magnificent North.

The story curse that touched most Northern tales and ballads watched. This tragedy would certainly be a tale one day—and, from the look of it, was already cursed.

The girl was dead. If her lifeless body had not confirmed it, then it would have been made clear by the horrible scream of the Fate who held her in his arms. The story curse was familiar with pain, but this was agony, the sort of raw grief that was only seen once in a century. The Fate was every tear that anyone had ever shed for lost love. He was pain given form.

“I’m so sorry, Jacks. I—” The vampire looked down at the girl he’d just killed; he scrubbed a hand over his jaw, and then he fled.

The Fate didn’t move. He didn’t let the girl go. He looked as if he never would. He continued holding her as if he could return her to life with the force of his will. His eyes were wet with blood. Red tears fell down his cheeks and onto hers. But the girl didn’t stir.

The other sleeping immortals were starting to wake, but the girl remained unmoving. Dead. And yet the Fate continued to hold her.

“Bring her back,” he said softly.

“I am sorry,” said the queen who’d just awoken. She was a petite thing. She’d tried to pull her son away from the girl, to stop his unnatural feeding, but her hands were not strong enough. The queen could not fight immortals physically, but she had an iron will forged of mettle and mistakes. “You know I cannot do that.”

The Fate finally looked up. “Bring her back,” he repeated. For he also possessed an indomitable will. “I know you can do it.”

The queen shook her head remorsefully. “My heart breaks for you—for this. But I will not do this. After bringing back Castor and seeing what he became, I vowed to never use that sort of magic again.”

“Evangeline would be different.” The Fate glowered at the queen.

“No,” she repeated. “You wouldn’t be saving this girl, you would be damning her. Just as we did to Castor. She wouldn’t want that life.”

“I don’t care what she wants!” roared the Fate. “I don’t want her dead. She saved you, you need to save her.”

The queen took a shaky breath.

If the story curse could have breathed, it would have held its breath. It hoped the queen would say yes. Yes to bringing her back, to turning her into another terrible immortal. Despite what this Fate believed, the girl would be horrible—the ones with endless life always were, eventually.

“I am saving her,” the queen said quietly. “It is kinder to let her die a human than to sacrifice her soul for immortality.”

At the word sacrifice, something sparked in the Fate’s cold eyes. He held the girl tighter, carrying her in his bloodstained arms as he stood and started down the ancient hall.

“What are you doing?” A crack of alarm showed in the queen’s implacable face.

“I’m going to fix this.” He continued marching forward, holding the girl close as he carried her back through the arch.

The angels who’d been guarding it now wept. They cried tears of stone as the Fate set the girl at their feet and began wrenching stone after stone from the arch.

“Jacks of the Hollow,” warned the queen. “Those arch stones can only be used one time to go back. They were not created for infinite trips to the past.”

“I know,” Jacks growled. “I’m going to go back and stop your son from killing her.”

The queen’s face fell. For a moment, she looked as old as the years she’d spent lying in a suspended state. “That is not a small mistake to fix. If you do this, Time will take something equally valuable from you.”

The Fate gave the queen a look more vicious than any curse. “There is nothing of equal value to me.”

[mmriesoftvat]

FATE HAS A funny way of making his life miserable. all of his life, he'd been dealt one bad hand after another, somehow always making all the wrong twists and turns that led to this moment. he'd tried so hard to fight his own emotions, his own demons. it didn't matter how long he'd tried to work for buer, he ALWAYS found himself coming back here. still wishing he could start completely over somehow.

all of sumeru hates him. he'd grown used to being hated and loathed, being once a harbinger that threw out abuse like it was rubbish. he'd belittled, mocked and discarded anyone who had failed him in the most asinine ways. it doesn't feel good to have that same mistreatment thrown back in his face by the average person. if not for buer and the traveler, kaminari is certain he'd have tried this a long time ago.

but even their concern is never enough. he had tried, he had tried so hard to build himself back up. he'd earned himself a name and a vision, and even SOCIALIZED briefly. but nothing ever felt like enough, nothing would ever work in his favor again.

which is why he finds himself standing before irminsul, really taking in the glory of this cursed tree. it's overwhelmingly large and bright; kaminari had never appreciated it before. it can do the impossible, and it can bend the will of people around it. it can also hold people prisoner.

but can it actually grant him his wish of freedom? not freedom to leave...but the freedom to start completely over from scratch. if kaminari could go back, he'd make better choices. he could even possibly save niwa.

the name hurts. kaminari doesn't think about him much anymore, because remembering brings about an ache that will never heal. true, his vision allowed SOME of that pain to lessen, but generally, he cannot manage his grief. niwa had died due to a series of mistakes, and if kaminari could do it all over again, he would.

entranced, he's stepping forward and reaching out for irminsul without thinking. there's one single wish on his mind: to start over anew in a world where people don't know him.

irminsul seems to respond. the light envelops his being, pulling him into some abyssal space that feels like shrinking and expanding simultaneously. though, there is no pain from it. it's enough that kami feels confined and unable to move, but he can still see. sort of. the area surrounding irminsul is dimming and fading from view, leaving him in total and complete darkness.

he isn't sure if he slept or not. he isn't sure how much time had passed. but his next sense of awareness is falling to the ground soundlessly. part of him still doesn't want to move, wishing to go back to that endless stretch of nothing -- it had been peaceful there. but the brightness of irminsul is back, causing him to squint.

it's not just vision that's returning, but sound. because kaminari can now hear voices coming from the other side of the tree. they sound far too familiar for his comfort, and it's only when he hears the sound of his own voice that kaminari realizes that something is wrong.

fate has a funny way of playing tricks on people. it can give someone exactly what they want, and never leave them needing anything else. it can also cruelly take and take and take from others until they're at their lowest point with no hope of climbing. fate can also change the entire scope of reality to fit its own whims.

as kaminari circles the tree to see what is going on, he learns that he's a victim of the third option. fate is definitely toying with him, and not in a very amusing way.

is this what you wanted, one who is formerly scaramouche? you wished to enter a world where you were never known.

he stares into the eyes of his mirror image, and kaminari realizes that this is going to be a very long day.

[pagingdoctorbedlam]

14, 20, 26 for your ship of choice! ❤️

Let's goooooo, Czerny/Ebenholz time! (Oh boy these answers got long.)

14. "How do their personalities compliment each other? How do they clash?" Both of them are passionate and empathetic souls who care so damn deeply about everything, even if they seem taciturn at first glance. This is both a blessing and a curse for them! Because when these two are in alignment, they are absolutely unstoppable, amplifying each other's strengths while compsensating for each other's weaknesses. But when they disagree on something, it's all fire and fury, and heaven help anyone who tries to get between them before they've cooled back down.

20. "Choose one song that perfectly describes their relationship." This may sound odd, but hear me out: Sleeve by Erin Coburn, which I associated with them the moment I heard it. It's a song about having a closed-off heart that gave up on love, to finally becoming so passionately in love that they want their love to be paraded everywhere. Which already fits how I hc their relationship as they fall for each other, but the line that really gets me? "You make me want to throw away my storyline and make a new one with you." Because that's exactly what happened! Multiple times! Czerny's music helped inspire Ebenholz to play. Meeting in person for the first time led to that fateful concert that changed their lives and ultimately got them both out of their respective cages. And that point in Ebenholz's operator where he plays cello for the people of Vysenheim where even Czerny cannot, I'd argue that affects their trajectory too and brings them more in-line with each other. (This is also a theme that keeps coming up in my Czernholz fics, where their relationship gives both of them the strength to turn against the tracks their lives were on and forge a new one together.)

26. "What are their vices?" Ebenholz's is Sloth, which manifests alternatively as apathy and despair. Ebenholz has no time for things he deems boring, be it repetitive work or endless drills over seemingly simple things, so he'll often try to weasel out of such tasks. And when stress mounts, there are times when he crumbles in despair without a support network; sometimes holding onto hope is so damn hard. Czerny's vice is Stubbornness, an inversion of the typical virtue of Fortitude. Czerny has a hard time letting go of anything; his grief, his anger, his opinions of others, the projects he's currently working on. Change is a difficult thing for Czerny even when he wants it, because he feels lost without what he finds familiar, even when he knows it's hurting him in the end. (Ever notice that in the Afterglow Music room furniture, some of the pieces are his own furniture he couldn't part with, including a table with a vase of artificial flowers that'll never wilt? Or the note about the pair of jackets that Ebenholz cleans every day, but he can't keep the white one pure white? yeah.)

Thanks for sending me these questions! Full list here for more OTP asks!

[selfless1978]

Vicky stared into the depths of her mug. The tea had long since cooled in it's half drank state. But she didn't notice. Her reflection had her full attention.

She looked terrible. Bags under her eyes that were red from crying. Her complexion pale, once well kept hair unbrushed and unwashed. Once bright, full of mischief brown eyes were now dull.

She didn't care.

Her heart was too broken to care. After everything else that has happened in her life, fate dealt her the cruelest blow yet. Her mother was gone. The hole left behind was enormous, and she wished she could just fall into it. To just disappear. She wanted it to swallow her pain and silence it.

The mug was pushed away and she dropped her head into her arms, and cried.

I want to be the face you see when you close your eyes I want to be the touch you need every single night I want to be your fantasy, And be your reality, And everything between

An effort was made to clean herself up. To look like she had her shit together. Even if she didn't. Vicky couldn't hide away. Not today. Arrangements had to be made.

She looked at her reflection in her mirror. It was still very obvious that something was wrong, but at least she didn't look like a walking corpse. A zombie made from grief, pain. At least she wasn't crying, for now.

After a long sigh, she left her apartment. The path she took ran along side another. A path that led to warmth, laughter, friendship. But had denied her something deeper. She hadn't gone there in a long while, and she wondered if they, if he, missed her.

If he did, it was nothing like she missed him. She wrapped her arms tight around herself and passed the turn that brought her to the well used manhole cover. She couldn't bring herself to go that way, no matter how much she wanted to do so.

No matter how much she desperately wanted to feel his arms around her, to hope that this time he would take back those words. Where he told her how he felt about her. Friends. Nothing more. But, she needed more. Her life felt so empty and alone.

I want you to need me, Like the air you breathe I want you to feel me, In everything I want you to see me, In your every dream The way that I taste you, feel you, breathe you, need you I want you to need me (need me) Like I need you

Vicky was crying again when she stepped out of the funeral home. It seemed like she couldn't stop. Nothing before felt anything like this pain. One of the solid foundation blocks in her life was gone. Now that her foundation was so unstable, she herself could barely keep her entire mental state from disintegrating.

She didn't want to go home. Home seemed so cold, empty. A place where she would once more fall into endless despair. Instead, her feet slowly took her towards Central Park. To the gentle peace of a quiet corner. To feel something. Even if it was only just the warmth of the sun on her skin.

It wasn't the warmth she wanted. Or needed.

I want to be the eyes that look deep into your soul, I want to be the world to you I just want it all, I want to be your deepest kiss The answer to your every wish, And all you ever need

The bench under her was firm, supportive. But did nothing to soothe her torn soul. Her eyes were once more dull, unseeing as she watched the ducks swim in the pond. Her mind on someone else.

On him.

Vicky was pulling every memory she had of him to the forefront. To fight the never-ending ache that reached deep into her heart. At first it seemed to work, an occasional smile touched her face. But, all too soon, real life came crashing down around her once more. The sun was setting, and it was cold, and she was alone.

Fighting back tears, she stood up and began walking out of the park.

I want you to need me, Like the air you breathe I want you to feel me, In everything I want you to see me, In your every dream The way that I taste you, feel you, breathe you, need you I want you to need me (need me)

The view was stunning. It always was from this high up. The way the lights shined over the now dark city never failed to take her breath away.

They weren't as bright as she remembered them tonight. Some of their luster had gone. Her eyes scanned over the rooftops as she sat on the edge of the parapet, dangerously close to falling. She wasn't scared. She was numb to everything.

A small surge of hope surged through her as her eyes kept wandering. Vicky knew who she was looking for without even having to ponder over it. Was he out tonight? Was he patrolling? Was he laughing, or chiding his brothers for some form of mischief? Was he saving a life? Was he being someone's hero? He'd probably fuss at her if he saw her sitting out here like this, so close to the edge. At least, he would if he was here.

He wasn't.

God, why couldn't he be hers? Why?

'Cause I need you more than you could know And I need you to never, never let me go And I need to be deep inside your heart I just want to be everywhere you are

She looked hard at that same manhole cover. It was late now. Well past midnight. They might still be out, or already back and settling down for the night. He could already be asleep. She shouldn't go. It would be rude to stop by this late. Especially after not having stopped by for so long.

Did he even still see her as a close friend? She knew why she stayed away, but would he know? Or understand? Would she be welcome? No, she shouldn't go. She should just go back home.

Back home to isolation and grief fueled misery.

The sound of the manhole cover was loud in the otherwise quiet night.

I want to be the face you see when you close your eyes (baby) I want to be the touch you need every single night I want to be your fantasy And be your reality, And everything between

She had to force her feet to move. So scared that she would be rejected. Shunned. But the comfort of his presence was needed more than her irrational fears could hold her back. Her soft footsteps moved in the dark tunnels

I want you to need me Like the air you breathe

The closer she got, the more she fought for control. Her chest tightened and her lip began to quiver.

I want you to feel me In everything

By the time she rounded that last turn to the lair, she had to hold herself up on the wall with one hand for support. The closer she got the harder her feelings boiled to the surface.

I want you to see me In your every dream

'Cause baby, I taste you, feel you, breathe you, need you

They…hadn't changed the code for the security system…. That was a good thing…. Right? She silently slipped inside.

I want you to need me Like the air you breathe

They were home. She could hear Raph snoring, and hear the faint sounds of Donnie working in his lab.

I want you to feel me In your everything

The relief of that broke any restraint she had left on her emotions. As much as she wanted to see all of the brothers again, there was one who unknowingly called out to her the most.

I want you to see me In your every dream

Her faltering steps finally stopped outside his door.

'Cause baby, I taste you, feel you, breathe you, need you

She was crying openly now. Tears flowing down her cheeks in small streams.

I want you to need me (need me)

She knocked.

Like I need you (need me) Like I need you (need me) Like I need you…..

"Leo? It's me. Can….Can I come in? Please?"

@fearlessheartofasamurai

[buck-hesher]

Once upon a time, in a land where the skies were perpetually grey, there lived a wanderer named Aidan. Aidan had roamed the earth for as long as he could remember, his heart restless and his soul seeking a place to belong. His travels led him through forests of whispering trees, across deserts of silent sands, and over mountains that kissed the heavens. Yet, no matter where he went, he always felt an aching void in his heart.

One day, Aidan arrived at a mysterious kingdom shrouded in mist and melancholy. The people spoke of a legend, of a princess known as the Blue Lady, who lived in a secluded castle at the edge of the realm. She was said to be the saddest soul in existence, her sorrow so profound that it colored the very air around her.

Intrigued and drawn by an inexplicable pull, Aidan set out to find this enigmatic princess. After days of wandering through the mist, he finally stood before the gates of the castle. As he stepped inside, he was enveloped by a profound sadness that seemed to seep into his bones.

In the heart of the castle, he found her—the Blue Lady. She sat by a window, her gaze lost in the endless grey horizon. Her beauty was otherworldly, her eyes a deep ocean of sorrow that reflected the pain of countless lifetimes. Aidan felt his heart break at the sight of her, yet he was captivated.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice a haunting melody.

“I am Aidan, a wanderer. I’ve come seeking something I can’t name, and I’ve found you,” he replied softly.

The Blue Lady looked at him with a sadness that seemed to pierce through his soul. “No one can ease my sorrow, wanderer. My heart is a well of endless grief.”

Aidan spent his days in the castle, trying to bring a flicker of joy to the Blue Lady’s life. He told her tales of his adventures, played her songs on his lute, and brought her flowers from the gardens. Yet, no matter what he did, her sadness remained.

One evening, as the sun set in hues of grey and blue, Aidan took the Blue Lady’s hand. “Why are you so sad?” he asked, his voice breaking with his own sorrow.

She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “Long ago, I loved a prince who was taken from me by a cruel twist of fate. Since then, I’ve been cursed to live in this castle, my heart forever bound in sorrow.”

Aidan’s heart ached for her. He wanted to take away her pain, to fill her life with the love and happiness she had lost. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

The Blue Lady’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Aidan, I love you too. But my curse cannot be broken. Our love can never truly be.”

Despite her words, they spent their nights together, sharing their hearts and souls. Aidan’s love for the Blue Lady grew with each passing day, but so did his despair. He could not bear to see her suffer, yet he could not leave her.

One morning, Aidan awoke to find the Blue Lady gone. Desperate, he searched the castle until he found her standing at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the grey sea.

“Aidan,” she said softly, “I can’t bear to see you suffer because of me. You must go, continue your journey, and find happiness. You cannot save me.”

Tears streaming down his face, Aidan begged her to come with him. But the Blue Lady shook her head. “This is my fate, Aidan. I am the Blue Lady, and my sorrow is eternal. But you—you can find joy and love again. Please, for me, live your life.”

With a heavy heart, Aidan kissed her one last time. “I will always love you,” he whispered.

He left the castle, his heart shattered. As he wandered the earth once more, he carried the memory of the Blue Lady with him, her sorrow a constant companion. Though he tried to find happiness, a part of him remained forever lost in that misty kingdom, with the saddest princess he had ever known.

Years passed, and Aidan grew old. On his final journey, he returned to the kingdom, now even more shrouded in mist and silence. He made his way back to the castle, but it was empty, a shell of its former self. He stood at the cliff’s edge, where he had last seen the Blue Lady, and let the memories wash over him.

As the sun set for the last time in his life, Aidan closed his eyes and whispered her name. He felt a gentle touch, and for a moment, he believed she was there with him. With a bittersweet smile, he took his final breath, his soul finally finding peace as it joined hers in the eternal mist.

And so, the wanderer and the Blue Lady were united once more, their love transcending the bounds of sorrow and time, forever entwined in the grey, melancholic embrace of the misty kingdom.

[jophiares]

actually i would argue that lelouch was written not groundbreakingly but still well and in line with his character progression.

lelouch had died. he was trapped in the world of c for a year, a fate he barely managed to escape. during that year, he watches the new world, the harvests watered by his blood. this world is not for him--he does not belong there. he did once, but not anymore. nothing can nor will change that.

in that isolation, lelouch matured. time waits for no one. he lets suzaku scream, sob, and shine his life long grief onto him; every punch a broken promise. he comes back and he orders to kill, but he also orders for the help of strangers until the end of an operation. he knows what it is like to be trapped, mindless. he asks cornelia for help. he pleads. when his plans fall apart, so does he--he has matured but he is still oh so young. but c.c. grounds him, a gun to his head bringing an eventual smile to his face. leave it to such unorthodox ways of getting someone to pull themselves together to get the job done. he wouldnt have it any other way.

then the battle is over, and his objective has been met. there are many reasons to stay, but more importantly he cannot stay. this world is no longer for him. he cannot go back to who he was, for the person he was was buried after being assassinated by his one and only friend. lelouch vi britannia died for this to happen. he could not, would not, be brought back.

and so he leaves towards the new life before him. he had always looked to the future. im sure nunnally and suzaku knew he wouldn't stay too, even though they wished he would--don't go where i can't follow. but the line has been drawn in the sand, between pierced spine and rib.

realistically the progression makes sense, but it just really fucking sucks. i think lelouch wanted to stay. but hes learned that he doesnt belong here now, this being highlighted by the water tower scene (suzaku does not belong in the world either, but he still fulfills his role). its not about what he wants. he cannot be so selfish to throw away the peace his death had brought the future that no longer includes him. he must watch from beyond the horizon.

this is a more fitting punishment to lelouch than death. while i hate that he just essentially fucks off with c.c. and suzaku has to continue being zero, there is something cruel in forcing someone who would always look out to tomorrow to spend their eternity in today. everyone he knows will live lives without him and die. he will not be able to reach them, his body cursed with immortality. endless time is just accumulated experience; i would argue that there will be a moment where it will cease to be life, just as it was for c.c.

he resurrects, but by the end of it, he's just out of reach. his life continues on the other side of the window. orpheus does not glance back.

you know now that i think about it

lelouch was written terribly in resurrection. but you know who wasnt? suzaku

you start of with him being zero which. unsurprising. he gets captured, tortured, revealing nothing and realistically probably feeling like he deserves it in some way

but things get interesting when he sees lelouch again

half out of his mind, he doesnt think lelouch is real. it feels like hes seen apartitions of him before. and when he does touch lelouch, he doesnt react with immediate anger but instead wonder. maybe a stab of betrayal that is common with lelouch. but hes different from what suzaku remembers. detatched. lelouch gives suzaku "permission" and the floodgates burst. he beats the shit out of lelouch despite being in terrible shape (which lelouch more than deserved) with a breaking voice and heart, finally airing out some of the grievances hes held for who knows how long. he passes out shortly after, going limp after the heat of his emotions die out

after that hes on autopilot. the word soldier is etched into his veins. he goes into battle and then comes out of it. same old same old. it feels recycled, until lelouch pleads with cornelia for her help. suzaku witnesses this, witnesses that lelouch is in fact, different than he remembers. but maybe it isnt a bad thing after all. maybe things could be different. (despite everything, i think suzaku always held on to his more "naive" beliefs. such is the fate of foils)

then theres that lovely balcony scene, star crossed lovers under an open sky. lelouch has never been much an idealist though so hes quick to tell suzaku he is impermanent which serves as a damper to whatever suzaku wanted to say. but they witness ohgi and villettas wedding together, an easy parallel to their own relationship, and suzaku tells lelouch that hes glad hes alive. he missed him. the world is lonely without him. lelouch is quick to deflect but suzaku wouldnt have it any other way. hes always been the more honest of the two.

war never changes and suzaku falls perfectly into place under lelouchs command. theyre always strongest together. but as soon as it starts, its over and the crackling of a selfish word fades behind suzakus eyes when the world stills once more.

shooting stars cover the sky but suzaku knows better than to make a wish. he sees lelouch with nunnally, hears how she asks him to stay--the same words that he probably swallowed before--and he smiles. like empress, like knight. all of his charges have rubbed off on him.

but lelouch doesnt stay. while it isnt the first time he chooses himself over nunnally, it stings nonetheless. but suzaku has learned nothing if not to bury his feelings deep inside them like a pressurized time capsule. living in a shadow, and behind his other half's mask, makes it all the easier.

[sequinsmile-x]

Tomorrow

They could have had forever and it still wouldn’t have been enough. 

The final story in the Whatever Tomorrow Brings universe.

-x-

I've felt oddly emotional about this all day, all week really. Whatever Tomorrow Brings was the first story of mine that really started to pick up readers, and whilst I will miss this universe - it feels like the right time to say goodbye. I'll still be here, writing about our favourite idiots in love, just not this version of them.

I want to say thank you to all of you! To anyone who reblogged, liked or left kudos on any part of this universe. Thank you to the silent readers, those who come back time and time again. Thank you for loving my original characters so much - Theo, and especially Amelia, became so much more because of how all of you reacted to them.

This version of them, and their family, will always be important to me, and knowing they meant something to you too means more than I can ever say.

So this is it, the end of WTB. I hope you think I've done their story justice, and that when you revisit them in the future you still enjoy their highs and lows with them.

I love you all!

Please let me know what you think <3

-x-

Words: 7.7k

Warnings: Major character death, grief, illness

Read over on A03, or below the cut.

June 2037

They hadn’t had enough time.

It’s all she can think as she stands in the home office they once shared, her eyes fixed on Aaron’s desk. 

Vascular Dementia. Two words that permeated everything in their lives for almost three years, a diagnosis that rocked their whole family, and shook them to the very core. 

Emily noticed it first. How her husband seemed to suddenly be more forgetful, easily confused in a way he never had been before. When she looks back on it she realises it had been slowly getting worse for a while, signs she had missed before it became obvious. Memories of what it was like when her mother was sick haunting her. At first, they’d assumed it was the same thing, a cruel twist of fate that took her mother and her husband from her with the same disease. She could still feel the pit in her stomach, heavy and dense, when she remembered the diagnosis, the cause the doctors assumed laid behind it. 

It was George Foyet’s last laugh. His actions still impacting their family decades after he had briefly taken Aaron from them, only to permanently do it now. The injuries he had sustained had slowly put stress on his heart throughout the years, leading to this. 

Aaron had been the one who had to calm her down once they got home from that appointment, initially letting her rant and rave, cursing a man long since dead, until she started to cry. Then he’d hugged her, held her in the embrace that had been her solace for most of her life and comforted her, like he wasn’t the one who hadn’t just been told he was dying. 

“Mom?”

She turns from where she is standing, her chest tight as she turns to face her children, all three of them just inside the door, pulled shut behind them to give them some privacy. It’s why she’d sought solace here, to begin with, strangers in their home setting it up for the wake. It was setting her on edge, her nerves already raw. 

Jack is standing with his hands in his pockets, his lips set in a firm line, a clear attempt to hold his emotions back. It makes him look so much like Aaron that her eyes sting, the seemingly endless tears making their presence known. The sight of him in a black suit sending her right back to the last time he’d buried a parent. He’d been so young then, the life he had known dead and gone with his mother. 

Theo and Amelia are bunched together, the latter with her arms wrapped tightly around her brother’s bicep, holding him close, her head against his shoulder, tears on her face that she doesn’t even try to hide. 

“The cars are here.” Theo says, his voice shaking slightly, attempting to smile at her, “we’re ready to go when you are.” 

Emily nods and throws one look back towards Aaron’s desk, left exactly as it had been when he’d last used it, and she blows out a breath as she turns to her children. 

“Let’s go, best get today over with.” She says as she steps towards them. 

Amelia breaks free from her brothers and closes the gap between her and Emily, hugging her mother as she did when she was a little girl. Seeking her comfort like she was a child, not the grown woman she now was. Emily holds her just as tightly, rubbing her hand up and down her daughter's back as she cries.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she says, encouraging Amelia to walk with her, her arm around her waist, “you know how your dad felt about tardiness.” 

They all chuckle, humourless and sad but it’s something. She guides her daughter towards the front of the house, her sons walking just behind them, and she is grateful Aaron gave her them. The family they worked so hard for. 

They could have had forever and it still wouldn’t have been enough. 

__

April 2035

“You want to do what?” She asks, venom in her voice as she stares at him, her mouth hanging open from where she sits next to him on their couch. He looks so calm it makes her even more irritated, like he hadn’t just dropped life changing news on her. He doesn’t bite, doesn’t react. He’d always been frustratingly patient with her. 

“I want to sign a DNR.” He repeats, placing his hand on her knee and squeezing the joint, his fingers attempting to press comfort into her. “I think it’s the right thing to do.” 

“The right thing to…” she blows out a breath incredulously, and she shakes her head, “how is signing something that means the doctors just let you die the right thing to do?” 

All she can think about is what they were told 6 months ago, his increased risk of heart attacks and stroke. How to look for the signs. She’d barely let him leave her sight, worried she’d come home to find him laying on the ground. Images of what had been key themes in her nightmares over the years, flashes of a blood stain on a floor in their old house, becoming a very real possibility. 

“Em,-”

“No,” she says, cutting him off. She stands up, his hand slipping from her knee, and she starts to pace the floor. 

He stands too, still calm, and It infuriates her. Makes grief settle in her lungs as she becomes hyper-aware that she could lose him at any moment. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, his hands on her shoulders as he stops her, making her look at him, “it’s only going to get worse, the doctor said we should think about it.” He wipes a tear away from her cheek that she doesn’t even realise has fallen. “I need you on board with this.”

She’s heard what he hasn’t said. He legally can’t make this decision for himself anymore. She was his medical proxy, and power of attorney had been handed over after his diagnosis. He’d already got worse, she knew that. Confused and frustrated more than he wasn’t, and she hated that they were using some of his increasingly infrequent lucid days to talk about this. 

“Aaron,” she breathes out, “how am I supposed to sign something that says I don’t want them to resuscitate you if something happens?” She doesn’t try and cover her upset, her tears freely falling, there had never been any point in doing so around him anyway. “How are you so ok with this?” 

He pulls her into a hug, his hand in her hair, holding her almost impossibly close.

“I have no other choice.”

She isn’t sure how long they stand there before she swallows thickly, the words bitter in her mouth.

“Ok, I understand.” She says, and he kisses the top of her head, and squeezes her tightly. “I’m going to miss you when you…so you’d better live for as long as possible,” she’s still crying, her words losing the humorous edge she was going for, she pulls back to look at him and sees tears in his eyes too, “Ok?”

He nods. “Ok,” he leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead, “I’ll miss you too.” 

The next day he asks her where Haley is, and she has to excuse herself for a moment to pull herself together.

___

September 2008

Emily groans as she wakes up, unaware that she had fallen asleep in the first place. The first thing she is aware of, apart from the fact she’s on the couch, is the ever present nausea that rolled through her entire body. 

She places her hand over her stomach, pressing into the still flat surface. She’d only been released from the hospital the day before, and Aaron and the boys were taking the doctor’s instructions to make sure she rested very seriously. She smiles as she realises someone, Aaron, had laid a blanket over her. She looks down and sees Archie cuddled up in her arms, and it makes her eyes water, forever at the mercy of her hormones, at the thought of Theo placing the orange cat there with her before Aaron ushered him out of the room. 

She sits up slowly, blowing out a breath as she does, a pointless attempt to settle her stomach. She gives herself a moment before she stands, ensuring she has Archie with her, before she makes her way upstairs. 

It was late enough to know everyone else would be up there, and Aaron would have inevitably come to wake her up, to encourage her into their bed, once the boys were asleep. She sneaks into Theo’s room on the way past, smiling as she places Archie in bed with him, kissing her son’s forehead before she slips back out. 

She’s about to check on Jack when she hears him and Aaron in her bedroom, their hushed conversation travelling out through the gap in the door. Her curiosity spurs her on as much as her exhaustion does, and she steps into the room, spotting them in the ensuite. 

“What are you two up to?” She asks, her smile widening as they both turn to look at her, shaving foam on both of their faces, clean skin showing through the patches they had already dragged the razor across. 

“Dad’s teaching me how to shave,” Jack says, a shy smile on his face. 

Emily exchanges a look with her husband and is proud of herself for not smiling. Jack, in no way, had enough facial hair to justify shaving, just the first hint of it on his upper lip, the odd hair on his chin. 

“Well, have fun,” she says, “I’m going to get into bed.” 

“Do you need anything sweetheart?” Aaron asks, already setting the razor in his hand down, ready to do whatever she requested. 

“I’m ok,” she replies before looking back at Jack, “see you in the morning, honey.” 

“Night, Emily.” 

She climbs into bed, pulling the covers tightly around her as she tries to curl into a ball, another attempt to settle the constant twisting in her stomach. She dozes, the quiet sound of Jack and Aaron talking in the bathroom turning into white noise, and she’s unsure how much time has passed when she feels Aaron climb into bed with her, gentle as he pulls her back into him, his palm covering her belly.

“Are you ok?” He asks, kissing the back of her head, his thumb stroking at her belly button. 

“I feel like shit,” she replies honestly, a slight whine to her voice, “but no more than usual.” 

“I can go get one of your pills if you want,” he says, already pulling away, but she stops him, her hand over his on her stomach.

“No, I don’t need it,” she says, turning her head enough just to look at him, her lips pressing into his, “this helps.” 

He looks at her as if he doesn’t believe her, but settles back down behind her anyway, his body moulding into hers, the space they had made for each other years ago. 

“That was sweet,” she says, linking their fingers together on her abdomen, “Jack asking you to teach him how to shave.”

Aaron hums. “He was so shy about it,” he says, smiling into the back of her head, “Did I ever tell you that I taught Sean?” 

She squeezes his hand a little tighter, any mention of his little brother always prone to make him sad, their relationship so fractured she wondered if it would ever be fixed.

“No, you didn’t,” she says, raising their hands to kiss his knuckles, “although, it makes sense, your dad wasn’t around.” She turns, the movement making her stomach roll, so she can face him properly, her forehead against his. “You’re a fantastic father, you know that?”

He smiles at the praise, his dimples on display. “And you’re an excellent mother.” 

She chokes out a laugh, although it sounds close to a sob, her hormones driving her crazy.

“Our kids are so lucky to have us,” she quips, her hand running through his hair. 

“They are,” he replies, pressing his lips to hers, “but you can be the one to have the sex talk with them.” 

She laughs, properly this time, and she nods at him. “Fine, but you have to teach them how to drive.” 

___

June 2037

She’s sitting on the couch, the tv on a mindless channel, when the front door opens, the sound of the key in the lock seemingly echoing throughout the house. 

It’s muscle memory, a pavlovian response to years, decades, of Aaron walking in, his familiar footsteps against the hardwood floor, that has her momentarily forgetting. 

“Mom, it’s just me,” Jack calls through the house, and she berates herself for the stab of disappointment she feels. 

It wasn’t Aaron, it never could be again. 

“I’m in the living room.” She calls back, hopeful that she had kept her voice even. 

She knew her children well enough to know they’d discussed keeping an eye on her. It would have been Amelia’s idea initially, she knew that. Her daughter was still staying with her, sleeping in her childhood bedroom as if she didn’t have an apartment just 30 minutes away with her partner. She wasn’t here right now, and Emily knew it wasn’t coincidence that Jack was here when the house was otherwise empty.

“Is Mills still staying here?” Jack asks as he walks into the room, making a show of looking around for signs of his sister as he sits next to Emily, joining her on the couch.

“Yeah,” Emily replies, smiling, “She went home to get some fresh clothes, make sure Jamie has watered the plants correctly.”

Jack raises his eyebrow, “There’s a wrong way to do that?” 

Emily laughs, the sound foreign to her ears, “Apparently.” 

They fall back into the silence that had fallen over the house in recent weeks, laying over them like a thick blanket. Cloying and suffocating. 

“How are you doing, Mom?” Jack asks, his voice soft, kind. A mixture of the three people who had raised him. 

“I’m ok,” she replies automatically, a tight smile on her face.

Jack sighs. “Mom, you don’t have to do that. Not with me.” 

She frowns, her eyebrows creasing together. “Do what?” 

“Pretend everything is ok,” he says, “We’ve never lied to each other.” 

Suddenly it’s like she’s watching his life play out in front of her. Like he’s every version of himself that she has known all at once. The terrified kid on the brink of losing his mother, the angry teenager once again torn away from the life he knew. The grown man, the father, she had sitting in front of her. 

The years had gone by so quickly. 

“No,” she replies, “We haven’t.” She looks down at her lap and plays with her wedding rings. She has Aaron’s on a chain around her neck now, sitting close to her heart. “I’m just…really fucking angry,” she says, looking back up at her eldest, her eyes welling up as she admits it out loud for the first time, “so angry that he’s gone.”

“I am too,” Jack admits, shaking his head. “It seems so unfair.”

“I hate him for leaving me behind,” she says, her voice shaking, “and I hate that I hate him. Because I’ve loved him for most of my life.” 

Jack hugs her then, closes the small gap between them and puts his arms around her. She returns it gratefully, feeling a sense of relief for getting just a small part of what she was feeling off of her chest. 

“He asked me to look after you, you know,” Jack says as he pulls back, a sad smile on his face. Emily tilts her head at him slightly, her eyebrows creased. 

“He did? When?”

Jack chuckles dryly. “The last time I went to see him and he was lucid,” he shakes his head at the memory, “Sara stepped out with the kids, they were restless, and he said I needed to look after you. That you’d be so busy looking after everyone else you’d forget to do it yourself.” 

She huffs out a laugh and wipes a tear from her cheek. It felt absurd. That he’d been dying, waiting for the end, and he’d been worried about her. 

“That ridiculous man.” She says, another laugh choking on a sob, the sound dying in her throat. “Fuck, I miss him so much already.” 

Jack nods his head. “Me too.”

___

November 2013

Emily smiles as she hears her husband's footsteps heading towards the kitchen, home late from meetings that she knew he’d rather have skipped. She looks to Amelia, the little girl happily sitting on her mother’s hip, and smiles, bouncing her slightly as Aaron comes into view.

“Look, sweet girl, Daddy’s home!” 

“Daddy!” Amelia squeals, her hands already reaching out for him. He walks over and takes the little girl into his arms, kissing his wife quickly as he does so. 

“Hi sweetheart,” he says, kissing Emily again.

“Hi,” she smiles at him, “how was work?”

“Long,” he replies, adjusting Amelia so she was comfortable in his embrace, her tiny hands playing with his tie, “I’ve got to tell you something, and you’ve got to promise to stay calm.”

She freezes, her eyes fixed on him as her throat feels tight. “What?”

“I got called by Theo’s school earlier.” 

She frowns, confusion spreading through her veins. She’d seen Aaron since school would have ended, Theo was up in his room reading, acting like it was a normal day. 

“What? Why? What’s wrong?” She asks, her words tripping over each other, fierce protectiveness and worry that only their children could bring out in her rising fast.

“They have some concerns because he hasn’t been eating lunch, and today they saw him giving his lunch money to another kid.” 

She leans against the kitchen counter. “Is this kid bullying him?” 

Pre-emptive anger fills her lungs, ready to go shout at whatever child was involved, and she glares at Aaron when he has the audacity to smile at her for a second, her reaction clearly predictable to him.

“They asked him that and he refused to tell them, they asked if we would speak to him.” 

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s been making such good progress, Aaron, I don’t want him to go through this again-”

“Baby,” he says, placing a hand on her waist, “let’s not jump to conclusions, we’ll talk to him after dinner, ok?” 

She nods in response, fighting against every instinct to run up the stairs and ask her son what was going on. 

During dinner, Aaron has to place a hand on her leg, squeezing the muscle tightly as she watches Theo eat. She notices the speed at which he does so, and she chastises herself for not noticing it before. 

Once Amelia is in bed, they call him into the living room, a nervous look on his face as he settles on the couch opposite his parents. 

“Am I in trouble?” He asks, concern painting his features. 

“No, sweetie you’re not in trouble,” Emily says, smiling at him in a way she hoped was reassuring, “we just need to talk to you.” 

“School called me today,” Aaron adds, and Theo’s eyes widen, his nose scrunching up slightly, “they told me what happened with your lunch money.”

“It’s fine,” he says, slightly defensively, “I told them it’s fine.” 

“Theo, we’re just worried that’s all, you should have told us if someone is making you give them your lunch money,” Emily replies, her hands in her lap as she plays with her rings. 

“He’s not making me,” Theo says, sighing after he does, clearly not intending to reveal what he had. 

“Ok,” Aaron says, exchanging a quick look with his wife, “what’s going on then?” 

Theo stares at them for a second, before looking at the floor. “His name is Adam, his mom can’t afford to give him money for lunch, and she works nights so can’t make it for him,” he shrugs, still avoiding eye contact, “so I give him mine every other day.” He flicks his eyes back up to them, before looking back down, “I tried to give it to him every day but he wouldn’t take it.” 

It shocks them into silence for a moment, and Emily looks at her husband before she stands, walking over to her son and crouching in front of him, ignoring the protest in her knees as she does so. She hooks a finger under Theo’s chin and makes him look at her. 

“Theo, that’s incredibly sweet,” she says, making sure her voice doesn’t portray the emotion she’s feeling, “and I’m very proud of you for being so kind, but you have to tell us, or a teacher, if you find something like that out. It’s not up to you to fix that.” 

He looks past her to Aaron, and without turning around she knows her husband has nodded in agreement with what she has said, before Theo looks back at her. 

“Ok.” Theo agrees, nodding. “Can I go play my game now?” 

Emily huffs out a laugh. “Of course.”

Theo stands up and hugs her, running over to do the same with Aaron, before he’s out of the room. Emily stands up straight, groaning as her knees ache. Aaron is next to her before she stands completely, his arms wrapping around her from behind.

“How the hell did we make the world's sweetest kid?” She asks, leaning into her husband as he kisses her temple. She turns in his arms and bands her arms around his back, mentally planning the call she’d make to the school in the morning. 

“I have no idea,” Aaron says against her skin, “we’re sending him to school with double the lunch money tomorrow, right?” 

“Damn straight we are.” 

___

June 2037

Theo calls her before he comes to the house, as conscientious as he had ever been. She hugs him tightly the second he walks in the door, the first joy she had felt in weeks thrumming through her veins.

“Congratulations, honey. I’m so happy for you.” She says as she pulls back, smiling at her son, hers only widening as he smiles back.

“Thanks, Mom. We’re so relieved it’s finally happened.” 

She looks past him onto the porch and sees he’s alone, frowning when she looks back at him. 

“Where are they then?” She asks, raising her eyebrow at him, “I want to hug my son-in-law and my granddaughter.” 

Theo, and his husband Sam, had been fostering a little girl called Florence for years, since she was only a few months old. They’d found out that morning that they were finally getting an adoption hearing, that their daughter would finally be fully and legally theirs. 

“Flo insisted on going to the park,” Theo says as he rolls his eyes at the little girl's behaviour, “I dropped them off on the way here.” 

Emily hums in her throat as she walks towards the kitchen, Theo following suit, “Tell her Nanna remembers everything, and I’ll keep this in mind next time she tries to scam cookies out of me.” 

“You’re a soft touch and you know it,” he says, taking the coffee pot from her hands and proceeding to make it for her, “you’d give any of the kids whatever they asked for.” 

She can’t argue with that, it was something Aaron had said multiple times since Jack’s first child had been born. However protective of their children she had been, it was increased tenfold for their grandchildren. She’s suddenly reminded of something, and she smiles at her son.

“Oh, I was in the attic going through some of your dad’s things, and I found something for you.”

She’s already walking towards the dining room where she’d been keeping some things, the self-imposed job keeping her busy, when she hears Theo call after her.

“Mom,” he sighs, “what have I told you about going up there, we’ll do it for you.”

Emily rolls her eyes at his over-protectiveness, making sure she’s back in the room so he can see, 

“Honey, it’s fine,” she says, her hands behind her back, the item she wanted to give him hidden from view, “you ready?” 

“Ready.” He says, smiling indulgently at her. She raises an eyebrow and he sighs at her, closing his eyes and putting his hands out. 

Emily carefully places the worn stuffed animal in his hands, the orange fur faded through years of love, and age. She knows Theo knows what it is immediately, his smile widening as his eyes open, settling on his oldest friend. He chuckles and holds the toy a little tighter.

“Hi Archie,” he says, shaking his head, “it’s been a while.” 

“He was up there in a box of your old things,” Emily explains, “I thought you could give him to Flo.”

“Thanks, Mom, I love that idea.” He says, briefly looking up at her before he looks back down at the orange cat, “Do you remember when Dad and Jack drove to get him after we left him behind in that god awful apartment?” 

“Yeah,” she replies, the memory of it seizing up her chest, “I do.”

Theo looks up at her, his dark eyes shining. “I wish he was here, that I could tell him about the adoption too.” 

“Oh, honey,” she says, closing the gap between them and putting her hand on his arm, “He loved her so much, she was part of this family the second you brought her here for the first time,” she smiles sadly at him, her throat tight, “another Hotchner girl who had him wrapped around her finger.” 

Theo laughs through his tears and nods, “You’re right.” He clears his throat and tries to smile at her, “Will you come to the hearing? We’d love to have you there.” 

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” 

___

February 2025

Emily can’t help but wince as she hears the brakes on the car squeal as it pulls into the driveway. 

It was Amelia’s 16th birthday and, as promised, Aaron was taking her on her first driving lesson. He’d taught both of the boys. There had been a few tense moments that had led to crossed words, but overall it had gone smoothly, both Theo and Jack passing the first time. 

She knew that Aaron was worried about teaching Amelia. Their youngest was the one who pushed back the most, the one who attempted to break boundaries. 

Amelia and Aaron had always been close, the blip in their relationship when she didn’t recognise him after they had gone into hiding mostly a distant memory. Things were changing now she was a teenager, the usual distance put between child and parent that always hurt, but she knew this was different for Aaron. It reminded him too much of when their daughter, only a baby at the time, shied away from him and acted as if he was a stranger.

Emily schools her features as the door opens, Amelia bursting in, excitement flowing off of her.

“That was so cool,” she exclaims, slumping down onto the couch next to her mother, “I love driving.” 

Emily laughs at her daughter’s enthusiasm, “You had fun then?”

“Oh, so much fun!” She replies, “I’m going to go FaceTime my friends, what time is dinner?” She asks, already standing up, her phone in her hand.

“We’re meeting your brothers at 7 pm, so we’ll leave here at 6.30.” Emily answers.

“Oh, maybe I could drive to the restaurant?” 

Emily finally looks at her husband and has to stop herself from laughing at the way his eyes widen.

“I think we’ll let your dad drive, honey.”

Amelia is already mostly out of the room, agreeing with just a noise as she disappears. It’s only when her bedroom door upstairs closes that Aaron slips onto the couch next to Emily, his head leaning back. 

“That bad, huh?” She asks, no longer hiding her amusement. 

“You have no idea.” He says, turning his head to look at her. “She knows no fear, and that, apparently, extends to the rules of the road.” 

Emily does laugh at that and she shifts towards him, pressing her lips to his cheek. 

“Poor, baby.” 

He puts his arm around her, pulling her into his side, and she goes willingly, snuggling up into him. 

“I love her so much, sweetheart. I’d go to the end of the earth for her, but I don’t know if I can teach her how to drive.” 

Emily places her hand on his leg and runs her thumb back and forth over the material of his pants. 

“She can’t be that bad.” 

“She asked what the indicator is, 5 minutes before the end of the lesson. We’d been using it for almost an hour.” 

Emily hides her smile in his neck. “We all start somewhere love.” She shifts to kiss his cheek. “Are you sure this isn’t all mostly because your little girl is growing up?” 

He pokes her in her side, tickling at her ribs. “No profiling.” He sighs, turning his head to kiss her temple. “Are you sure you can’t teach her?” 

She pulls away from him, her eyebrow raised. “Oh no,” she says, smiling at him, “we agreed a long time ago, I do the sex talk, and you teach them how to drive.” 

He groans and closes his eyes, his head leaning back against the couch again. 

“Your dad warned me about this years ago,” he says, almost as if he isn’t aware he’s talking, “he told me you were a nightmare to teach.”

“He said what?” 

___

June 2037

Emily closes the door behind her as she gets home from a coffee date with JJ and Penelope. They’d forced her to go, an attempt to get her out of the house that she was strangely grateful for. The last time she’d seen them had been at Aaron’s funeral, and she hadn’t been able to bring herself to speak to them beyond the usual pleasantries, all of her focus on her children and holding herself together. 

“Mom, good timing,” Amelia says, appearing into view, “I was just thinking about dinner.” 

She can’t help but smile as she looks at her daughter. It was strange to think Amelia was now older than she had been when she’d met Aaron, then when she’d married him. She didn’t know how it had happened, how the once little girl was now this woman standing in front of her. Her dark hair piled on top of her head, the nose ring she’d had put in as a teenager, the one Aaron hated at the time, still going strong. 

“Hi sweetheart,” Emily replies, placing her purse down, “how was work?”

“It was good, I met Jamie for lunch.” 

Emily smiles at that, at the flash of something she doesn’t miss across Amelia’s face. She’d been staying here since Aaron was admitted to hospital during the couple of weeks before he died. At first, it was under the pretence that their house was closer to the hospital than her apartment. Then it was so she could help Emily with the funeral. Since then they hadn’t spoken about it. Amelia still here, sleeping in her childhood room, and only popping home to grab some things and briefly see Jamie.

“You don’t have to stay here you know,” Emily says softly, “I’ll be ok.” 

Amelia freezes on the spot, and frowns, an expression that was just so Aaron it makes Emily smile. “Mom,-”

“I appreciate it, Mills,” she says, closing the gap between them so she can reach out and hold her daughter’s hand, squeezing it tightly, “I appreciate it so much, but you can’t just put your life on hold for me.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” She says defensively, her eyebrows creasing even deeper.

“Jamie must miss you,” Emily offers up, smiling tightly, “I remember how quiet it seemed around here when you first moved out.” 

Amelia sighs and squeezes her mother’s hand. “I just don’t want you to be by yourself.” 

Emily smiles at Amelia before hugging her, blowing out a breath as she feels how tightly she holds her back, her fists grabbing at the back of her shirt like she hadn’t in years. 

Amelia had always been the loudest of their children. The most outspoken, the one filled with comebacks and sass, witty in a way Aaron had always claimed aged him. It made it easy to forget that she was also the most emotional of the three of them. Always so in tune with the emotions of those around her that she almost felt what others were feeling. 

“That’s very sweet of you, love,” Emily says, pulling back from Amelia and smiling at her, “but I’ll be ok.” 

Amelia uncurls one of her hands from behind Emily and wipes tears from her cheeks. 

“I remember when I was younger I’d always be so jealous that you all remembered what happened with Foyet and I didn’t.” She admits, her lower lip trembling, “ Like I’d missed out on something huge that bonded you all together. But…I never knew what it was like to live without Dad. And now I do and I hate it.” 

It tips Emily over the edge, her own grief hitting her again at full force at the sight of her daughter falling apart. She hugs her again as tightly as she can, trying to provide the comfort she doesn’t feel herself. She doesn’t know how long they stand there, locked in a tight embrace in the hallway of what used to be a busy home, but they take the time they need. 

“How about,” Emily says, pulling back enough to look at Amelia, gently wiping tears from her face like she hadn’t done since she was little, “we go get enough tacos to last a week, come back here and eat all of them, and fall asleep in front of a movie we’ve seen a thousand times,” she smiles, and Amelia does too, both of them ignoring the shake to them, “and then you can go home tomorrow.” 

Amelia laughs and nods, “That sounds perfect.” Before Emily can pull away, and head towards the door, Amelia hugs her again. “I love you, Mom.” 

“I love you too.”

___

January 1999

They’d talked about it. It was something they’d discussed on and off for years. Vague conversations about kids that started as thinly veiled comments in their early days, to more serious discussions as their relationship progressed. 

They both wanted children, she knew that. Sometimes she’d catch Aaron staring at her as she took her birth control in the morning, something she had consistently taken since she was 15. Despite that, she was still nervous as she waited for him to get home, her old habit of picking at her thumbnails coming back, her leg bouncing up and down. 

She was due a birth control review, the reminder from Joanne’s office on their kitchen counter, and to her, it seemed like the right time, the moment to take the step they had been skirting around for a little while now. She wanted to have a baby with him, to build their family. To be a mother. 

“Are you ok, love?”

She jumps and looks up to find him looking at her, his eyebrow creased in concern. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you were home.” 

“Clearly,” he quips, sitting next to her on the couch. He kisses her, his palm on her cheek. “What’s wrong?”

She forces a smile at him. “What makes you think something is wrong?” 

He tucks some of her hair behind her ear. “Well, you didn’t hear the door open,” he starts, before his hand seeks hers out, bringing it into her eye line, “you’ve torn your cuticles to shreds,” he puts his arm around her and she settles, “and, I’m your husband, I like to think I know you.” 

She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Stupid profiling.” Her eyes meet his and he’s looking at her expectantly. She blows out a steady breath. “My birth control review is coming up,” she says, flashing him an unsteady smile, “I got the reminder today. I was thinking…I might not go.” 

She watches as he processes what she has said, realisation hitting him within seconds, his expression barely changing, only noticeable to her.

“Oh.”

“I could,” she says quickly, “get another year's worth, but I just thought-”

“Don’t go.” He says, smiling at her, cutting her off before she could spiral any further. She feels warmth spread throughout her chest, happiness threatening to overwhelm her, her smile wide enough to split her face in two.

“Really?” She asks, her voice quiet, afraid if she was too loud she would break this moment between them.

“Really,” he replies, kissing her fiercely, “let’s try for a baby.” 

She smiles against his lips, kissing him again, shifting so she was sitting on his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. 

“I love you so much,” she says in between kisses, never fully pulling away from him. 

“I love you too,” he replies, pulling her impossibly closer, his hands sneaking under her shirt. 

“Aaron,” she exclaims, laughing as he lifts the material, her shirt coming over her head, “what are you doing?” 

“Making a baby with my wife,” he says as if it was obvious, and she shakes her head at him, undoing his shirt despite her laughter. 

“I took the pill this morning, honey,” she replies, groaning slightly as he pulls her further into his lap, “it’s going to take a little time-”

He cuts her off with his lips on hers, his fingers trailing the lining of her bra, he stamps another kiss to her lips before pulling away. 

“I know,” he says, kissing her again, “but we can have fun practising.” 

She smiles at him, her cheeks aching with it. 

“I can’t argue with that.” 

___

May 2037

He’s sleeping by the time the doctors let her into his room. They’d stabilised him as much as they could without breaking the DNR signed years ago. Sits next to him, her hand over his, and she blows out a breath and tries to calm herself. 

“I was by myself when Mom died.” Emily says to the quietness of the room, the silence threatening to crush her. She threads her fingers through his and pushes hair off of his sleeping face. “You were on your way. I was by myself but I didn’t feel alone. I haven’t felt alone in so long. You’ve always been there,” she wipes a thumb under her eye, the tear she wiped away immediately replaced, “or the kids have. But I feel it now. I feel so alone and you’re still here.” 

“Em?”

She looks at him and sees he’s awake, groggy but awake, and she smiles at him.

“Hi honey, how are you feeling?” 

“Terrible,” he admits, his voice weak, “what happened?” 

“A stroke,” she says, unlinking her hand from his to move some of his hair from his forehead, “A small one, according to the doctor, like that makes it better.” 

He smiles at her, a glint in his eyes that lets her know he’s in there, that she’s talking to her Aaron. A rarity these days, a precious jewel in amongst all of the confusion and fear there usually was. 

“How much did you yell?” He asks, raising his eyebrow.

“Enough.” She replies, smiling at him before they lapse into silence again. 

“This next bit is going to be hard.” He says, linking their fingers together. It was something they had done hundreds, thousands, of times throughout their time together. Something automatic. Something she had often done without thinking. A passing show of affection, a quick way to say ‘I love you’ without words. They’d stopped needing to say it so long ago.

She closes her eyes and tries to memorise it. The feel of his wedding band against her skin. The warmth of his hands. The roughness of the callouses he still had on his thumb, even all these years after he retired, as it rubbed back and forth over her wrist. She tries to remember it all, to make sure it’s seared into her memory. 

She’d forgotten how it felt to hold his hand once before. It wasn’t something she wanted to lose again, not when she was already losing him.

“I know.” She replies, sniffing as she tries to hold back emotion, shaking her head slightly as if she could get rid of it. As if it was rain on a jacket, easily wiped away. “I love you. So much. Mother always said that I love you too much.” She tries to smile but fails, her chin wobbling with the force of her sadness. “This is the first time I think she may have been right.” 

“No, sweetheart. It’s never too much.” He squeezes her hand. “It’s never been too much. I love you, and I don’t regret a single second of all of it.” 

She tries to laugh but it comes out as a sob, her spare hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Not even the part where a serial killer forced me and the kids into hiding?”

“Not a second of it.” He repeats, and he smiles at her like he hasn’t in weeks. She sees their life together in it. Everything they’ve survived. All the love they shared. The arguments and the inevitable apologies that followed. The comfort and the tears, the way they had got each other through. Impossibly more in love each day than the last. 

She was going to miss it, miss him. 

“Me neither.” She says, smiling at him despite her tears. “I’d do it all again.” 

They talk until he falls asleep, and she allows herself to act as if this was normal for them. That this wasn’t one good day in amongst so many bad ones. 

She tells herself it isn’t the last good day, that they have more time, until it becomes clear that it was.

___

They are alone when it happens. Just the two of them as his ragged breathing comes to a slow stop, her hand tight around his. She feels selfish for how grateful she is that it happened that way, that she’d been afforded their final moments together. 

A lifetime of love, and happiness. Bitter arguments and tears. Joy and grief and each other. All coming to a quiet end. 

She wouldn’t change a second of it. The pain she feels as her children arrive, the brave face she slides on so easily, was the price she paid for getting to love him for so long. 

___

January 1993 

He was late. 

It was his first day at his new job and everything that could have gone wrong that morning had done so. It felt like everything had been against him since Haley left, like the universe had decided it just wasn’t enough for him to be left by his fiancee just before their wedding. 

Aaron turns down yet another hallway that seems to lead to nowhere and he sighs, wondering vaguely to himself how the hell he was supposed to provide security for the people who lived here if he couldn’t even find his new boss's office. 

“Are you lost?” A voice says from behind him. He turns around and that's when he sees her, looking at him with her eyebrows raised. She was beautiful, almost ethereal, her dark eyes full of mischief. “Do you need help?” 

“I…I need to find Ambassador Prentiss’ office.” He says, cursing himself slightly at the stutter at the start of his sentence. She smiles a little wider, and he wonders if she has this effect on everyone she meets. 

“Oh, that’s easy,” she says, walking over and standing next to him, “I tend to just follow the air of judgement and patronisation on the air,” she winks at him, “it smells oddly like Chanel Number 5.” He opens his mouth, unsure what to say and she laughs at him. “It’s down the corridor and to the left, I’ll walk you there.” 

“Thank you.” He says, unable to stop himself from smiling at her as they walk together. “How long have you worked here?”

He knows it's a stupid question based on her appearance alone, that anyone wearing sweatpants and a tank top likely wasn’t on the clock, but small talk had never been his thing. He’d always left that part up to Haley. 

She laughs at him. “Oh I don’t work here,” she smiles. “I’m Emily, I’m sure you’ll learn all about me soon enough.” They come to a stop outside of an office door and she gestures to it. “Here we are.”

He smiles gratefully at her. “Thank you, Emily.” 

“No problem…” She drifts off, looking at him expectantly. 

“Agent Hotchner.” He offers, a tight smile on his face, the title still strange to him. 

Emily smirks at him. “Your mother called you agent?” She asks, her eyes sparkling and it makes him laugh, something about her leaving him unsettled but wanting more. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Aaron. My name is Aaron.”

“Well, Agent Aaron Hotchner, it’s nice to meet you,” Emily replies, her smile widening. “And if you need anyone to show you around here let me know.” 

She goes to walk off, to return to whatever she had been doing when she had taken pity on him in the hallway, and something in him screams at him to stop her. Inexplicably wanting more time in her presence, to get to know more about her.

“Emily,” he says after her, waiting for her to turn back around, her eyes meeting his again, “I’d like that.” 

“Ok then, see you tomorrow Agent Hotchner.” She smiles at him, bright and beautiful and he can’t help but wonder if everything was about to change for the better. 

“Yeah,” he replies, returning her smile, “see you tomorrow.” 

___

“If tomorrow starts without me, don't think we're far apart, for every time you think of me, please know I'm in your heart.” - David Romano 

-x-

Tag list:

@ssa-sparks, @lukeclvez, @lyds102, @glockleveledatyourcrotch, @hotchnissenthusiast, @danadeservesadrink, @ssamorganhotchner, @emilyprentissisgod, @notagentprentiss, @freesiasandfics, @emilyshotchniss, @thecharmingart, @paulitalblond, @hancydrewfan, @camille093, @whitecrossgirl, @moonlight-2-6, @rawr-jess, @florenceremingtonthethird, @jareauswife, @ms-black-a, @sneetchestoo, @aubreyprc, @zipzapboingg, @psychopath-at-heart, @criminalmindsgonewrong, @fionaloover, @kinqslcys, @prentissinred, @ccmattis22

Join my tag list here!

[aemiron-main]

also btw...... when i say mike would be an elf in lotr... i dont mean the calm and graceful and silent third age elves we see in the LOTR movies.... no, he’s a silmarillion elf.

he’s not one of those calm, chill elves staring at leaves and singing hymns. he’s a feanorian frothing at the mouth and hastily making poorly thought-out oaths and jumping into situations. he’s flipping off the valar and walking backwards into hell. he’s having his s2 ‘yelling and punching hopper’ scene except it’s him yelling and punching melkor. he’s in his ‘get thee gone from my gate, thou jail-crow of Mandos’ era. i need u guys to know this. he is not one of the calm chill elves with patience and wisdom, he’s fingolfin strategizing for battle, he’s maedhros lamenting about his doom and then doing a backflip into the core of the earth. he’s pursuing the people he cares about to the end of the earth to save them even if it brings him face-to-face to hell incarnate!! even if it destroys him!! he’s the feeling of promising everything you are and will ever be to somebody and giving so much of yourself that you are doomed to your own destruction and your only hope of salvation is those who love you enough to carry your burdens no matter the fact that they are infinite and eternal. he is the feeling of wretched self-loathing and lack of purpose that festers into a growing anger at the world but more than that, into an anger at yourself that you take out on the world. he is the feeling of struggling not only against a fate that feels inevitable but against a fate that feels inevitable at his own hand!! he is the feeling of getting wrapped up in your own web of lies in your misguided attempt to save yourself!! he is the feeling of when family goes from comforting to suffocating!!! when the expectations of your family drive you to your doom!!! he is the feeling of escaping eternal forces against all odds only to be threatened by your own hand!!! when I say Mike would be an elf THIS is what I am talking about!!! I can see him being a human too with the indomitable passion and love of life and the tragedy of mortality but there’s also just something soooo Mike about being an immortal race who dies young at their own hand because of the circumstances of the world around them!! like the thing with humans is the feeling of being short-lived by nature, not by choice, the feeling of an inescapable end but when it comes to the elves it’s about the feeling of being short-lived by choice the feeling of escaping horrible atrocities and creatures and being immune to the passage of time only to find yourself standing on a cliff above the sea or above a hole burrowed into the core of the earth, ready to throw yourself into it so that the burdens you carry are not passed to anyone else!!! so that you can try and save them from your fate!!! Mike, like elves, embodies the feeling of watching those around you that you love die and suffer, especially mortals, as you watch and absorb all of it and try to save them but you know that in the end even if you save them from war and from beasts and from vengeful gods, you cannot save them from their ultimate fate and so you watch them pass and you wait for your grief to fester into something that bursts out of you eventually despite your attempts to wrangle it!!!

THIS is what I mean when I say that Mike would be an elf!!! it’s about digging past the stereotypes of the calm graceful, emotionless elves and instead staring at the feelings of repression and guilt and saviour complex and rage and passion and the endless pursuit of purpose that comes with the silmarillion elves!! the burden of it all!!! the complex familial dynamics of it all!!!! the following people that you love into hell and mutilating them in your attempts to save them from that hell of it all!!! and you do save them!! but you feel like it’s your fault that they needed to be saved in the first place so you still don’t FEEL like you saved them!!! the accidentally hurting people because it feels like you’re doomed by your nature to hurt people of it all!!! the feeling like a curse of it all!!! the LOVE of it all!!! the love that spurs your grief!! that spurs your self-sacrifice!!! the love that spurs all of it!! the love that sealed your fate!!! THAT IS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT!!

[blzzrdstryr]

Generous offering

Yandere!Zhongli x gn!Fatui Harbinger!reader

Wordcount:1843

CW:Yandere themes

There are several simple things one should know before dealing with the archons - be respectful and polite, speak only when you’re allowed to and most importantly - never forget that archons aren’t humans.

The first two rules are instinctive - it’s natural for humans to simper and bow before the forces far greater than them, while the latter is not; on the contrary it’s counterintuitive and unexpected. People tend to project, tend to humanize - they see kindness when there’s none and make a huge mistake of assuming that archons see things the way they see it.

Tsaritsa, for example, lacks humanity, despite holding the title of Goddess of Love. The love that she holds for you is different from love mothers and fathers give to their children, or love that young sweethearts share at night, it’s cold and impersonal and undeniably cruel.

Tsaritsa says that she loves all of you and she loves Snezhnaya, yet she lashes out a harsh and gruelling punishments at every perceived failure and rules her land with an iron fist, one would think that the cryo archon is a liar and a hypocrite, who uses pretty, flowery words to hide the atrocities she commits, but this perspective is flawed. Tsaritsa loves all of you and she loves Snezhnaya, she’s just not human enough to properly express this.

That’s why it’s a bit jarring to see the ancient lord of these lands in his mortal form - he lacks the same otherworldly terror and grandiose that every of Tsaritsa’s move and word carry, yet he also possesses the air of wisdom and elegance so refined that rare person can reach it. It’s easy to assume that he’s human.

Rex Lapis, or “Zhongli” as he calls himself now invites you to the Liuli pavillion the second day after your arrival, for tea and local cuisine as he says, and who are you to decline a God?

Liuli staff hurries and dashes around, preparing their best room for you - Fatui are known for their seemingly endless finances, no wonder they’re in haste. “Please make yourself comfortable, dear guests”, the waiter curtsies and leads you to the dining room, which happens to be richly furnished and decorated with high-quality darkwood furniture and the hand painted wall panels further accentuating the luxury of the restaurant.

One of these panels illustrate different scenes from the Liyuen mythos - a battle of mighty and wise adepti against the horde of demons, Rex Lapis aiding his people in building the Harbour and the most spectacular one - a majestic dark brown dragon with golden fur and feathers descending to the devoted worshippers, who in turn present him with their offerings and gratitude.

He orders tea and meals for both of you, as you start to converse about the plan that he is determined to bring into life - the so-called test of Liyue, and the guarantee of you obtaining his gnosis.

“And what about your colleague?”, he sips a bit of his tea, intense amber eyes piercing right through you. He looks both human and non-human in this moment, both undeniably mortal softness and frailty seen in his figure and the barely concealed divinity, the sense of awe slowly seeping into air mixing in one person.

“And what about him? Tsaritsa and you have negotiated everything beforehand, I will make sure that he plays his part properly”, he hums at your answer, lowering his gaze deep in thought. You start on your own tea.

Ah, Childe, if only he knew why exactly he’s here - a distraction and a scapegoat. You even feel bad for him - it’s truly unfair to be lied to by your own Goddess. However, it’s also not a big surprise - Childe is the loudest out of all Harbingers in all senses. Infamous for his skills and battle obsession, his name is enough to have people both shivering in fear and cursing him.

“What do you think of your archon? Was serving her of any use to you?”Rex Lapis unexpectedly asks.

You lean back in your seat, thinking what to say.

“Tsaritsa is a gentle soul, she declared war only to protect us, her subjects and I am ready to aid her in whatever undertaking she starts”.

“Will you continue to serve Tsaritsa, if her action might put you in danger, make you suffer and bring unnecessary grief?”, he leans closer to you, his human features distorting enough to reveal the ancient dragon sleeping inside. His eyes shine a cold golden glow and accurate fingernails morph into sharp, dark claws.

“Yes”, you breathe out, mesmerized and terrified by the sudden change: “Her love knows no bounds, yet she always puts the needs of the nation before anyone else. If my suffering can help Snezhnaya, then I will accept it with open arms”, he moves back at your answer, all draconic traces gone in an instance, upper corner of his lips subtly rising - whatever you said must’ve pleased him immensely.

The conversation flows back into the territory of plans to be realized, yet the cold sensation of dread still clings to you, your gut feeling yelling at you to get up and run. You remain seated to the end of your meeting, politely conversing with the God that terrifies you.

***

Days slowly grow into weeks and Childe acts just as you have expected - the Eleventh Harbinger might be smart, yet even he wouldn’t be able to see what two of you are scheming. Still, you request Ekaterine, a spy you planted in Northland bank, to keep you updated on the Tartaglia’s actions - extra caution never hurts.

You continue to meet up with geo archon, as you two discuss your next actions. Tartaglia has started cooperating with that blonde foreigner Signora has warned you about, and while this union doesn’t pose any threat to your plans, it’s always good to have a plan B, just in case something happens.

Sometimes your conversation develops into a more unexpected direction, as you find the archaic lord more chatty and tending to ramble, than any of Liyuen historians would dare to picture him as. One on such occasion he talks with you about dragons - benevolent deities who protect and bless their people in an exchange of generous offerings.

His eyes devour you, as he retells you ancient folktales and you suppress your discomfort, preferring to attribute his honestly unnerving behaviour down to his lack of humanity - he was never human in the first place.

That’s why you also prohibit yourself from viewing him as anything but God - Rex Lapis in his “Zhongli” persona is genuinely attractive, he’s well-mannered and obviously handsome and far more knowledgeable than any mortal should be. If you didn’t know of his true nature you would have fallen for him by now - it’s hard not to.

Life, how strange that wouldn’t sound, goes as usual - you get Ekaterine’s report on what Childe’s up to and if it’s something unexpected you book a Liuli pavilion room and send an invitation to the funeral parlour consultant. You only need to wait until Childe gets desperate enough and decides to use the sigils of permission to unleash the well-awaited chaos.

This routine however is soon broken by the appearance of familiar ashy-white hair in the distance. She doesn’t wear her signature mask or dress, nor are there agents at both of her sides, yet you can still clearly recognize her. Signora leaves the Wangsheng building in haste, cape with the hood concealing most of her face and figure, except the long locks of hair, peeking from inside.

What is she doing here?

You thought that Tsaritsa sent two of her servants - Tartaglia and you, him to “test” Liyue, you to oversee the former’s actions and obtain gnosis, there’s no need to send her too.

Your mind races, as you search for a logical explanation of Signora’s presence as your memory supplies the piece of first conversation you had with “Zhongli” - could it be that Tsaritsa also sent you to play a role you have no idea of?

Cryo archon is a goddess of love and her love is cruel and unforgiving, she has sacrificed countless chess pieces before, so it wouldn’t be surprising if she did that again - you are nothing but a pawn after all, one of the tools she uses to exact her will and force her vision, all of the Harbingers are.

You want to believe that you can accept and resign to whatever hardship and fate your Goddess might subject you to. You can’t.

***

Adepti and Qixing converse at the pier of the seaport, as you hurry to the Northland Bank, a slight smile playing on your lips - Childe has finally done it - he summoned an ancient god to lure out Rex Lapis, ultimately proving that Liyue can stand without him.

There are sounds of heated argument heard when you open the building’s door and then you see it - Signora and Tartaglia exchanging barely concealed insults and “Zhongli” standing nearby.

“[Harbinger]? What are you doing here?”, the ginger shifts his gaze onto you, a rare emotion of hurt and disbelief flickering in his dead fish eyes. “Of course, Tsaritsa sent you too”, he smiles, angry and disappointed. “Seems that whole world wants to make a bad guy out of me”, he stomps out of the room, leaving you with Signora and “Zhongli”

“[Harbinger]”

“Signora'', you acknowledge each other, after she trails exiting Childe with her eyes.

“I am here to take the gnosis of Rex Lapis”, she says and you nod, accepting that your Goddess lied to you too: “Tsaritsa also asked me to give you this letter”, she extends her arm, a thick envelope with the familiar seal catching your attention.

With the trembling hands you snatch it out of her hold and almost rip the envelope - for what reason did Tsaritsa send you here?

She writes that you need to stay in Liyue for an undetermined period of time to upkeep “the agreement” made between her and Rex Lapis. You read her message silently, yet when your eyes trace over these words, the sensation of “ “Zhongli’s” eyes on you becomes ten times sharper and stifling. You don’t know what to do.

The other Harbinger leaves too, taking the gnosis with her, as “Zhongli” takes a couple of steps to you, touching your shoulder in a somewhat reassuring gesture. “[First]”, he starts, tone sympathetic and soothing. You don’t fall for it.

“You had your hand in it, didn't you?”, you hiss and accuse, throwing an angry glance at him, momentarily forgetting about the first two rules of dealing with archons.

He smiles, revealing two sharp fangs, his surprisingly scaly hands snaking around yours. “Yes”, Rex Lapis admits, and looks nothing like gentle and knowledgeable “Zhongli”. How could you forget? Archons aren’t humans, humanity is just a fancy dress they don to toy with mortals. He is the dragon, not the benevolent deity that is painted on the wall panels of Liuli pavillion, but a greedy and ancient creature, hungry for gifts and gratitude.

You are his generous offering.

[amor-immortalem]

An Alternate Path

Genre: Angst

A/N: Originally this was supposed to be a two-part mini fic but people asked about a part three. I wasn’t sure where else to exactly go from there since the end of the second part felt so final for me. But then, inspired by a comment on the 2nd part, I began to think about how it would have gone if Arella hadn’t been revived with Mammon’s blood. Think of this as the bad end to the AU. This is the final part.

obviously spoilers for the lesson 16 incident and for lesson 50 (i think… correct me if Im wrong)

Replaced part 1

The Good/True End

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He sits in his room starting at the dried blood on his hands, heart aching from the loss of his mate. It had only been mere hours since Barbatos had taken her body to prepare for funeral rites but to the Avatar of Greed, it had felt like centuries. Why? He’s asked himself this question over and over. Why didn’t you check on her sooner? Why didn’t you call or text? Why didn’t you notice? Why didn’t you feel something was wrong through your pact?

As much as he wants to, Mammon has no more tears left to cry. His human is gone, never to return and it was the fault of him and his brother. He should have been there sooner. Should have reminded her how much he cared. Should have done a lot of things. He had every opportunity to, but he squandered all of it.

He rakes his hands through his hair as they whys replay in his head. The demon doesn’t have an answer for them- none that would satisfy them, at least. He lets out a yell as grief turns to rage and nothing of value is spared from his violence. Items and trinkets knock from their shelves, furniture overturned, by time the second-born was done, his room looked like a war zone.

It’s only then that Mammon collapses to his knees and lets out a broken wail as he can hear the restless cawing of his crows outside.

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Levi is alone in his room, having shut himself away hours ago. Laying in his bathtub bed, the Avatar of Envy loses himself to his thoughts and the view of the water above him. He can’t help but think about what would have happened if he had put his foot down when Asmo approached him to recruit him in helping his little matchmaking plan for Melissa and Satan.

And then his thoughts focus in on the other human. If she had never come, if they had never welcomed her into their lives through the exchange programme... Arella would still be alive. She’d still be sitting here, playing video games and helping him decide which anime he should choose to watch when there was a conflict of time slots. They’d still be talking about their Husbandos and Waifus just as they always had. But she’s not here. She never will be anymore. All because he didn’t have the spine to act like the older brother and tell Asmo no. Because he allowed his younger brother to monopolize his time.

His best friend is gone and he was part of the problem that led up to that. Levi has never felt so much self-hatred before and, just like with Lilith, he doesn’t know how to come to terms with the loss of another person so dear to him. For now, he’ll just lay here and waste away like the filthy, yucky otaku he is, wishing there was a way he could go back and undo it all or hoping that this was all just some horrible nightmare that his brain has conjured up.

“She’ll be back in the morning... right? She’s just sleeping over at the castle, right?!”

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Beel just eats. He eats and eats and eats to make the pain go away but just like his endless hunger, the pain never stops. He feels so empty inside that the only other option is to gorge himself until he physically can’t hold it anymore and vomits before he goes back for more until the cycle repeats and he runs out of food. The loss of their favorite human is killing him now- the grief of it squeezing his heart like an anaconda.

If he would have just gone to invite her to that new café she had wanted to visit with him only an hour sooner, this could have been stopped. But he didn’t. He didn’t and that’s what cuts deepest. He should have noticed when she stopped coming to dinner, or skipping breakfast, or not joining the student council for lunch day after day. He should have realized something was wrong then. But he chose to ignore it, thinking it was just one of those ‘moods’ Arella had told him about human women experiencing at certain times of the month. He thought he was helping by giving her space these last few weeks but Beel knows now that he was dead wrong.

Who would be his food buddy now? Who would let him drag them all over town in order to try out restaurant after restaurant, café and café? Sure, he had Belphie to take with him but his younger twin never really showed the same excitement when it came to trying out all the different food and drink options on the menu. The demon doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tear drops hit his hands. She only needed one of them to take a moment to see her and none of them could be bothered do just that.

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Belphegor only wants to sleep. He wants to sleep and never wake up again. In his dreams is where Arella is, happy, smiling, laughing. That laugh will haunt his waking moments forever as he realizes that for the second time, the Avatar of Sloth has caused her death. Belphie was only one of two brothers who rejected Asmo when they asked him to help with that damn plan of his. It had been too long since he and Arella had napped together after school or plotted something with Satan as part of the Anti-Lucifer league. How he missed those days.

He can feel the tears pool in his eyes as he curls up into a ball on the bed in the attic. He wonders if he had just stayed up here forever instead of trying to trick Arella into setting him free, would this hole in his chest disappear? As he buries his face into the body pillow Arella had gifted him for his birthday this year, he cries himself to sleep- indulges himself in all the good memories they had made together after she had forgiven him for everything he had done to her.

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Asmodeus is lost. They stare and stare at their skincare products trying to will themself to start their nightly skincare routine. How could they have been so foolish? The passage of time is so different to humans than it is to demons. They had only meant to take a month to match Satan and Melissa up so how had it turned to eleven already?! The Avatar of Lust wants to scream. Both at themself and no one at all. Hot tears still sting their eyes as they shapeshift. They change and they change and they change forms- any number of features forming and then shifting away as they try to find a look that they won’t recognize themself in but it doesn’t work. Asmo’s not able to look themself in the mirror for the rest of the night as they just crash down on their bed. They want to mark up their beautiful body into some hideous to match the feelings crushing their heart. Asmo wants to do something- anything- to themself to experience even a fraction of the pain Arella must have felt but all the demon feels now is just hollowness.

Their phone is vibrating on the bed next to them- a call from Solomon. No doubt he could feel Asmo’s distress through the pact they share but the Avatar of Lust is too tired from hours of ugly crying and most certainly not in the mood to speak to anyone- pact master or otherwise. The phone goes unanswered.

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Satan has his head buried in the books. He’s been at this for hours- there must be a way to bring her back to them! Melissa is with him, bringing whatever books he asks for in his search as she too is eager to bring the lost human back to this plane of existence. There was so much they wanted to do with her. From watching cheesy mystery dramas together to forming a small book club consisting of just the three of them, none of that would come to pass now.

As book after book turns up dead ends, the demon just buries his head in his hands. It feels pointless now. Who was he to play God with life and death? The thought of never seeing his friend alive once more is enough to break the Avatar of Wrath as his shoulders shake with violent sobs. He wants to go on a rampage- destroy the whole city but what would that fix? It certainly wouldn’t bring her back.

As the demon continues to cry, Melissa only wraps her arms around him and he returns the gesture. She runs her fingers through his blonde hair in an effort to calm him and it seems to work, if only for a little while. She pulls a chair up to sit next to him as she holds his hand in hers.

“Tell me about your favorite memories with her,” They girl begins, “We can’t undo what was done, but we can keep her memory alive by sharing the good times.”

And so, they talk late into the night, Satan smiling at all the memories of Arella that he holds close to his heart.

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“Hi this is Arella! I’m sorry I can’t get to the phone right now but leave a message after the beep.... Beeeeeeeeeep”

The sound of his brother’s laughter followed by Mammon calling Arella a dork in the background can be heard at the end of the greeting on her D.D.D.’s voicemail. The Avatar of Pride can only smile with tear-stained cheeks. He was beyond intoxicated, having just finished his fourth bottle of demonus for the night. He can feel the anguish his brothers have been going through all night and it only makes his sorrow deeper.

When Arella first arrived, all Lucifer cared about was keeping her alive long enough to make it through the year. She was unimportant to him outside of the viability of the exchange programme. Back then, he would have laughed at himself for the state he was in currently. She was just a human. Why did it matter if she lived or died if it didn’t affect the exchange programme?

But she wasn’t just a human. She was their human. She was special to him. And now she was gone. There was no second chance. There would be no merging of timelines to keep her alive. Fate was cruel, but sometimes Diavolo could be crueler.

Lucifer knew his longtime friend had a reason for this. He was teaching the brothers a lesson with her death. As much as it hurt now to lose another part of this family, things would get easier as the years went on regardless of how horribly they all would miss her. This was a lesson he and his brothers would not soon forget.

Cracking open his fifth bottle of demonus, the first-born scrolls through devilgram, saving pictures on her profile to be used in the memorial service. One of Arella with each of his brothers and himself and multiple pictures she’d taken with all eight of them from their adventures throughout the years that they’d all been together.

He lets his mind wander back over the last eleven months. All the red flags he had missed with his rose-colored glasses. They all made sense to him now. All the time she spent isolating herself from them, skipping meals, leaving either incredibly early for school or incredibly late for school. She was trying to get them to notice her over Melissa. He regrets their last interaction from a few months back. The way there had clearly been something wrong, yet he chose to lecture her about attending RAD on time as to not disgrace Diavolo. How he wishes he could take it back.

As the only brother save for Belphegor not conscripted to help Asmo in his ridiculous plan, Lucifer should have been the first to reach out to her. He may have been buried under paperwork, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t just sit and talk while he worked. He regrets not calling or checking up on her.

A video plays on her devilgram. It was from one of the nights they had spent up in the human world last summer.

“Awww, come one, Lucifer. It won’t be that bad. We’ll have those flowers from the fairy rings and make it back in one piece. I promise to keep Mammon under control so we won’t cause any trouble.”

The Avatar of Pride clicks out of the app as he feels more tears gather in his eyes. He can’t do this right now. Not tonight.

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Her service was beautiful- Or at least that’s what Lucifer tells Mammon as he and the rest of their brothers return home. Mammon wanted to go, he really did, but with it only being a few days removed from her death, the second-born couldn’t bring himself to go. It wasn’t because he didn’t love her or didn’t want to celebrate his mate’s life but it was still far too painful for him.

Part of him was still in denial over it too. Somehow, he’d managed to convince himself that she wasn’t gone. She was just stuck up in the human world and had forgotten her D.D.D here so he couldn’t call her. The logical side of him knew it wasn’t the case and every time he was reminded of it, it threw the Avatar of Greed into a deeper pit of despair. He’d spent some nights since she’d passed alone, crying himself to sleep begging for his human to come back to him others he would just lie awake, tracing over where her mark from their pact had been etched into his chest, set right over his heart.

Suddenly years have gone by now. His brothers have made peace with her passing but Mammon cannot. Visiting her grave never helps to ease the pain either, but still he goes. If Arella’s spirit still lingers, no doubt she would be upset if he didn’t go. It would only serve to prove her dying thoughts true when they couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“Hey, Treasure... Miss me?” There’s no one here but Mammon and a tombstone. “I miss you... everyday... So much changes every year... Both Asmo, Levi, ‘n Satan got kids now... little girls for them and Levi has a boy...” He pauses to take a shuddering breath as the cold wind blows. “Can ya believe it? The first kids born ta this family and their both girls and then we got a boy... sweet little things too- alla ‘em.  I wish ya coulda been there ta meet them... Actually, looking at my brothers with their kids, it makes me wonder what ours woulda been like, ya know? And I wish none of this woulda happened... you deserved so much better than me ‘n I knew that. We all knew that. But ya chose me anyway and look where it got ya... Six feet under... If I could go back and do it all over again I would. I woulda told ya what was goin’ on. I woulda spent more time with ya. I woulda... woulda proposed... made sure you knew how much I loved ya everyday... I know ya probably can’t hear me, but I’m so sorry... for everything! I love you so much that I can’t move on and I won’t. If I die single then that’s fine by me.”

As he cries, thinking he’s alone, Arella watches from her seat on her tombstone. None of the brothers knew it but she’d been watching all this time. It wasn’t until she passed that she realized how deep their feelings ran and part of her wishes she would have waited just a bit longer before leaving for the human world that night.

She tries her best to let them know she’s there- that she loves them and is watching over them with Lilith, but she’s not strong enough to do more than move small objects around. She hopes that they’d notice but they never do.

As she hops off of her tombstone, Arella crouches down next to her mate. The best she can do for him is conjure a warm breeze as her spirit leans over to press a kiss that he’ll never feel to his cheek. Upon the breeze, he can hear a soft whisper of a reply.

“I love you too.”

And it's that reply that reassures him she’s there and she always will be. He hopes maybe in another life they’ll meet again and get to have the happy ending they never got to have in this one.

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