#and so he’s sifting through the find the broken pieces

[tombstoneswerewaiting]

⏳⌛️

[chuulyssa]

──── FINDING A SECRET OF THEIRS

pairing ⸺ gojo, geto, toji, sukuna, nanami x reader

cw ⸺ fluff

𝙂𝙊𝙅𝙊

the room is uncharacteristically quiet. after checking into the hotel you were assigned to with gojo, you’re sifting through your luggage in a corner of the room. as you get up to keep your clothes in a closet, a faint, almost imperceptible humming catches your ear. you instantly think the place is haunted, but then you turn towards gojo, who’s lounging on the couch with his blindfold pushed up, seemingly lost in thought.

he’s humming a soft, soothing tune, and you’re surprised. it sounded like a lullaby. but where would he have learned one? was it when he took in megumi? you blink. “are you... humming a lullaby?”

“hm?” he freezes mid-hum, and his lips quirk into a teasing grin as if nothing happened at all. “whoops, caught me,” he says, sitting up. “what, were you so absolutely captivated by my beautiful voice that you forgot to unpack your skincare stuff?”

“already done,” you smile and shake your head. “i’m just surprised you can sing. what are you singing though?”

for a little moment, his expression is neutral, and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. then he scratches the back of his head and looks away. “it’s nothing… just something my mom used to sing to me when i was small. i… uh… don’t remember the words.”

you tilt your head at him; he really is quite adorable. you keep your folded clothes on your bed and move to sit beside him, nudging him softly. “must’ve been nice if you still remember that. though i think you would’ve been quite a naughty child.”

he chuckles, pouting at you. “nope! wrong! i was the cutest one. too bad you missed it.”

“well, you’ll just have to show me then.”

“show what?”

“give me a baby that looks just like you.”

“you’re on.”

𝙂𝙀𝙏𝙊

the quiet of his quarters is broken by the sound of a drawer sliding open. you’ve been helping geto sort through some old belongings when you find a small, dusty old photograph tucked away. you immediately shift the socks covering it and brush some of the dust off. it was a picture of him with two young girls, both of them giggling at the camera. geto’s arms were wrapped around them, and they were feeding him what looked like a lollipop.

“sugu?” “hmm?” he hummed back, turning to you.

“look what i found!” you ask, holding the delicate paper up to him. “are these the sisters you were talking about that day?”

geto’s eyes soften the moment he sees it. he takes the photo from your hands, his thumb brushing over the girls’ faces in the picture. “yeah. mimiko and nanako. can’t believe you remembered that.”

“i’ve seen how fondly you talk about them,” you sit beside him and murmur. “and you all look so happy together.”

“we were,” he says quietly. “i’d take them out for sweets whenever i was free — before… you know…”

“before you joined jujutsu high?”

“before… yeah,” he sighs, before smiling a small smile when he looks at the picture again. “they always fought over the last piece of taiyaki.”

“and who would win?”

he chuckles softly. “i let them think they did. ate the scraps myself. but it was nothing, i liked seeing them do their little victory dance.”

there’s a faraway look in his eyes now, as if he’s thinking of something distant, trying to recall a lost memory. you hesitate a little, but eventually place a hand on his arm. “can we visit them anytime soon?”

“don’t know if i can face them after not seeing them for so long,” he glances up at you, nodding. “but i want them to meet you. they’d love you.”

𝙏𝙊𝙅𝙄

you’re rummaging through toji’s toolbox looking for spare toffees (he usually hid them there away from little megumi) when your hand pokes something hard. you wince and look into the box to check what it was. you take the object out, it’s a small, intricately carved wooden bird. your lips curve into a grin and you pick it up, running your fingers over the smooth surface.

you run to the kitchen to show him your finding.

“what’s this?” you ask, holding it up to your eye level.

toji looks over his shoulders from the dishes he was washing. “just something i made. where did you find it?”

“in the toolbox! but, you made this?” you look at him, impressed.

“i can do stuff, you know,” he says gruffly, turning back to his dishes.

“yeah but… it’s so pretty. do you have others as well?”

“yea, used to make lots of those as toys for the brat. he likes the cat.”

“there’s a CAT?”

“uh huh,” he said. “don’t go spreading this around though. got a reputation to keep.”

“if you make me stuff too, sure!”

“alright alright keep your hair on,” he smiled a little. “thanks though. would’ve forgotten about that if you didn’t come here. not many people bother to notice stuff like that you know.”

𝙎𝙐𝙆𝙐𝙉𝘼

you hear it before you see it — the quiet clink of metal and the soft scrape of stone. wandering into sukuna’s private quarters is fun until you get lost amidst all the bones and skeletons. you wonder how he keeps the room smelling great despite all the garbage he owns. turning to another door hoping to see something familiar, you stop short. there he is, something familiar.

sukuna is kneeling in front of a small bonsai tree, delicately trimming its branches with precise movements, as if he was a professional.

“what the hell?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

sukuna glances at you, clearly annoyed. “what? what does it look like?” he snaps, as if embarrassed to have been caught this way.

“you… like plants?” the idea of the king of curses fussing over a little bonsai is almost laughable.

he snorts, setting down his shears. “keeps my hands steady. and it's a better company than most, especially the mortals i’ve come to associate with as of late.”

“if by ‘mortals’ you mean me then i’ve already told you to stop calling me that.” you step closer to get a better look at the miniature tree. “it’s so pretty, i didn’t know you had a soft side.”

“don’t,” he warns. after a beat though, he adds reluctantly. “takes patience to do this, woman. it’s just to… uh… help me train in combat.”

“mhm.”

“yes.”

“suuuuuuureeee.”

“now step out of this room. you may not interrupt my alone time with nature.”

𝙉𝘼𝙉𝘼𝙈𝙄

it’s a slow day at the office, and you’re sitting in a chair in front of nanami’s desk with him opposite you, drowned in paperwork. you flip through the books on his desk when you notice one particularly well-worn copy. what could that be? you pull it out, only to realize it’s a poetry collection.

“you read poetry?” you ask as he sets his pen down to give you his complete attention

he glances at the book in your hands. “occasionally.”

you skim through the pages. there are lots and lots of lines about love and romance. you giggle a bit, feeling giddy. he blinks at you before adding, “it helps me think.”

“think about what?”

“about you.”

you smile hard. “read it to me?” you hold out the book to him, eyes shining in excitement.

he raises an eyebrow but takes the book, then recites in a low voice:

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”

you tilt your head in confusion, though your smile cannot be discreet at all. “what does it mean?”

“it talks about when you love someone completely.”

“completely?”

“precisely. quite like how i love you.”

© chuulyssa 2024 - do not copy, plagiarize or repost my works on any platforms. do not translate.

[pellucid-constellations]

To Feel At Home

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Winnowing out from Under the Mountain, you know you need to find him—it doesn't seem real, to feel so at home.

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: Angst

a/n: A little angsty piece because I can't stop writing for some reason. I hope you enjoy :)

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

On shaking legs, you pressed forward. Rhysand was still at the Moonstone Palace—still in Mor’s arms and coping with the impossible. You had made to stay, but Mor had given you a shake of her head that conveyed more than any words could have.

Mustering up the morsel of power that had returned to you after Amarantha’s death, you winnowed to Velaris. 

Not in a good spot. You hadn’t had access to your power in over five decades and much of Rhysand’s wards were still in place. Given the circumstances, getting yourself to some random alley at the edge of Velaris was a feat. 

The sun was blinding, invading your senses that had gotten so used to the darkness Under the Mountain. You brought a hand up to cover your eyes and trekked on.

No more winnowing. 

You had tried—it hadn’t worked. 

As you walked, stumbling through families taking strolls and having normal days, you searched within you for that golden thread. It had been absent for longer than it had been alive, your time as mates barely reaching a decade before your disappearance. 

You sifted through the pain and grief and loneliness, desperate for the relief you would find once you felt the weight of him. 

Nothing yet. 

He had to know things had changed Under the Mountain. Even amidst the secrecy and the hiding, you knew he would check.  His shadows would cross continents to find you. 

But—you stressed, as you made it to a main road lined with cobblestones—that could mean he went there. Azriel could be under that mountain at this very moment, searching through the fae still sorting out their lives before they went home. 

And you were here. 

You had no reason to panic. 

You were home, safe, alive; you had more reason to feel at peace than you had in the last 50 years. But if Azriel wasn’t here… 

Your breath came out in short pants as your fingers found purchase on a wall. But you kept going, kept watching your feet as they stumbled past each other, just to have the chance of seeing him. 

There were no shadows yet. 

They always found you first. 

You weren't sure how much time had passed—seconds, minutes, hours all lost their meaning under Amarantha—but the shadow of the mountain that held your home was soon cast over your body. You gasped out uneven breaths and pressed a hand to the towering figure, to the entrance that held the ten thousand steps you had every intention of climbing. 

Your body would surely fail. 

The last five decades had not been kind. 

With a determination fueled solely by desperation and hope, you began the tunneled pathway to the harrowing climb, but then you stopped at the entryway. 

A broken rendition of your name met your ears, so cracked and ruined you could have passed it off for something else. 

But you knew that voice, the way the vowels flowed and connected. 

Another broken sound permeated the air, this time from your own lips. 

You couldn’t look. You wanted to, ached to, but you couldn’t. So much anticipation led up to this moment. And you were different now, a fraction of the person you had been all those years ago. 

“Y/n, my love, look at me,” Azriel begged, the lowest you’d ever heard him speak. But you hadn’t heard him speak in so long, so perhaps you were misremembering. “Please.” 

You couldn’t. 

Moving was impossible. 

Your legs began to shake at the sound of footsteps, and then your knees gave out. 

A loud sound vibrated against the tunnel walls as your hands slapped against the floor. On the ground, steps away from the only person who could fix this, your waterline filled with tears. 

But you didn’t have time to second-guess or run or wonder if this was all too much. You were gathered into a strong pair of arms, pressed into a firm chest that smelled like home, and tears made paths down your cheeks. They flowed in damp trails in silence, Azriel holding you closer and closer until you weren’t sure space existed between you. 

His nose pressed into your hair. 

His chest rose and fell in uneven patterns. 

More silence. You felt your body begin to rock gently back and forth. 

This wasn’t real—it couldn’t be. 

You had resigned yourself to never seeing him again many years ago. Even as you ran through the streets of Velaris without your breath or your reasonable mind, you hadn’t expected to find him. This was a dream, Azriel wasn’t here, it was only a cruel play on your mind. 

Someone was trying to hurt you, and it was working. 

Maybe Amarantha had finally gotten Rhys to crack. 

Maybe this was his doing, his manipulation of your deepest hopes. 

Something was moving against your ear, soft and rushed and incoherent. A hand smoothed back your hair. You kept rocking. 

“You’re okay.” Words filtered through ringing. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’m here.” 

Over and over. On a loop. 

Something encased you. Darkness followed—you were used to darkness. 

The pattern of the words lulled your heart back to a normal rate. Tears continued to fall. Your breath was shaky. 

“I love you so much,” Azriel broke the repetition, shocking your system. “I love you. I love you—” 

A sob wracked your body, the first real sound to leave your mouth. Azriel shushed you in response, but when he buried his face in your neck you felt the wetness of his own cheeks. 

This had to be real, it had to. There was no other alternative. You wouldn't survive feeling this way just to be thrust back into that nightmare. 

It had to be real, it had to—

“It is,” Azriel choked out. He pulled back, your face in his hands, his expression conveying a picture of pain and love and disbelief. “It’s real, angel. Gods, you’re so beautiful. I never thought I’d—” Words cut off and restarted. “I tried so hard to get to you.” 

His forehead met yours. 

This was real. 

You felt the shadows wisp along your skin. 

You could never feel them in dreams. 

“I missed you,” you croaked, voice so unused to the words. “So much.” 

Azriel squeezed his eyes shut only to open them after not even a breath. Desperate not to lose sight of you. Anguished at the thought of missing the picture of you in his arms. 

“I’ve missed you more.”

[pretzel-box]

You can choose to ignore this or take as long as you want but if it's ok to get a Sebastian x sea angelreader ??

This things here if your wondering what the tendrils is on the second photo. Those are used for catching prey like kinds grabby tongues in a sense

And maybe like the reader is like the one Sebastian always gets confused by cause they seem innocent but can do a 180 and be very feisty . Also like reader appears to be a normal expendable until the transparent tail and wings in their back is seen in the water. Also again just love your stories and hope you have a lovely day :)

Words: 1,5k

Tags: Established Relationship, Sea Angel! Hybrid, mentions of tearing apart a wall dweller

“You’ve got plenty of them in your hair…” Sebastian muttered, his voice tinged with a mix of annoyance and something softer, almost fond. His claw-like hands carefully sifted through your hair, deftly picking out the strands of algae that had tangled in it during your last dive. Despite the gruffness in his tone, his touch was gentle, as though he’d done this countless times before—and indeed, he had.

It had become something of a ritual between you two. In fact, it was the very reason you had grown close to Sebastian in the first place. The first time you met, you had appeared in his shop out of nowhere, crawling through a vent with a quiet determination that startled him. He’d turned around to find you standing there, big round eyes staring up at him, your expression as flat and unreadable as your entrance had been. What threw him off even more was that you weren’t dressed like the typical Urbanshade personnel; instead, you wore a mismatched collection of second-hand clothes, each piece seeming to tell a different story. 

And then there were the algae plants—strands of green clinging stubbornly to your hair, likely from an adventurous, helmet-less swim around the facility. At the time, he had been more bemused than anything, the sight of you so unexpected that he couldn’t help but smirk. “Algae head,” he’d teased, flicking your forehead with just enough force to make you blink in surprise. The nickname had stuck, along with the habit of his good-natured ribbing.

But as time went on, the teasing gave way to something more. He began to offer his help, his initial mockery turning into a routine act of care. Perhaps it was the sight of you—this curious, determined person who seemed so out of place yet so at ease in the murky depths of the Hadal Blackside—that softened him. Or maybe it was something else, something unspoken that drew him to you. 

Now, as you curled up on his tail, you could feel the tension in his usually stoic demeanor ease, his movements slow and deliberate as he carefully untangled each piece of algae. There was something soothing in the ritual, in the way he was always so careful, so meticulous, as if this moment mattered more than he’d ever admit.

You spent a lot of time like this, together. It had become an unspoken agreement—a part of your strange, shared life in this unsettling place. The silence between you was comfortable, broken only by the soft rustle of his hands through your hair, the quiet hum of the facility around you. It was in these small moments, the ones filled with mundane tasks and quiet companionship, that you felt the depth of your connection.

“I have to get some stuff for the shop,” Sebastian finally broke the silence, his deep voice rumbling through the air. His claws, which had been gently untangling the last bits of algae from your hair, wandered down to your torso. With surprising ease, he lifted you up like a long, lazy cat, setting you back on your feet with a gentle plop that made you blink in slight irritation.

“I’m running out of good stuff to sell,” he added with a huff, his tone a mixture of practicality and mild annoyance. You knew exactly what that meant. He was planning another dive, a journey into the deeper, more dangerous parts of the facility to scavenge for anything of value. It was a necessary risk, one he took often to keep his shop stocked with the odd, eclectic items that kept the small sense of normalcy in this dark place.

Your eyes lit up with excitement at the prospect of joining him. Without a moment’s hesitation, you reached for the small, worn bag that Sebastian had given you on one of your earlier outings. It was a simple thing, but it had become something of a trusted companion, a sign that you were ready for whatever strange and unsettling adventures awaited in the depths of the facility.

“You joining? Fine.” He sighed, the sound laced with a mix of resignation and something that might have been affection. He knew there was no talking you out of it, not when your mind was set. “Stay close, Algae Head,” he added, the nickname softened by the hint of a smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

As you slung the bag over your shoulder, you could feel the familiar thrill of anticipation mixed with a twinge of nervousness. Diving with Sebastian was something new but you expected it to be full of strange sights and unexpected dangers. But there was no one else you’d rather be with, no one else who made you feel as safe in such a place. With a final nod, you followed him out of the shop, sticking close to his side as you both prepared to face whatever the dark waters had in store.

The cold embrace of the facility’s murky depths surrounded you as you and Sebastian plunged into the water, descending toward the forgotten rooms below. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional creak of metal and the muted rush of your movements. The world above felt distant, almost imaginary, as if it belonged to a different reality altogether. Here, in the dark waters of the Hadal Blackside, survival was the only thing that mattered.

Sebastian was in his element. His long, serpentine tail moved with effortless grace, propelling him forward with a fluidity that belied his size. He was a master scavenger, his sharp eyes always alert for anything of value among the debris. You followed closely, your own movements practiced, though today, Sebastian would witness something different about you.

The deeper you went, the more the water seemed to welcome you, making you feel comfortable.

Your limbs began to change, becoming more fluid, your skin taking on a faint, ethereal glow. From your back, delicate, translucent wings unfolded, their movement smooth and natural as they propelled you through the water. 

You glanced at Sebastian, blinking to check if he had noticed, your heart pounding, but he hadn’t noticed yet. He was too focused on the task at hand, his attention fixed on a half-buried crate that he was attempting to pry open.

For a few minutes, you worked in tandem, relaxing more and more in the water. The water felt more alive around you, more responsive, now that you were in your actual element. You sifted through the debris with your tendrils, gathering small but valuable items, all while trying to keep your transformation indirectly hidden from Sebastian.

But then, the peace was shattered.

A movement caught your eye—a shadow emerging from the ruins, slithering through the water with predatory intent. It was a wall dweller, a grotesque creature with elongated limbs and a twisted humanoid form. Its eyes glinted with malice as it spotted you, its maw opening to reveal rows of jagged teeth.

Time seemed to slow. The creature lunged, its powerful limbs propelling it toward you with terrifying speed. Instinct took over. Your tendrils shot out, wrapping around the wall dweller’s limbs with a force that doesn’t surprised you. The creature thrashed wildly, trying to break free, but your grip only tightened, fueled by a strength you always had possessed.

Sebastian finally looked up, his eyes widening in shock as he took in the scene before him. He froze, his expression a mix of disbelief and confusion as he watched your tendrils constrict the wall dweller, pulling it toward you with an almost effortless ease. The creature let out a guttural shriek, its struggle growing more frantic as it realized it couldn’t escape.

Without hesitation, you tore it apart.

Your tendrils ripped through its flesh, severing limbs and rending its body into pieces. The water around you darkened with blood, the wall dweller’s final, pitiful screams silenced as it was reduced to nothing more than floating, lifeless chunks. The entire encounter lasted only seconds, but to you, it felt like an eternity.

When it was over, you slowly retracted your tendrils, your body trembling as the adrenaline began to fade. The water settled back into its eerie stillness, the only evidence of the violent encounter the drifting remains of the creature you had just destroyed.

You floated in the water, your eyes meeting Sebastian’s with a mix of uncertainty and curiosity. His expression was difficult to read, a blend of shock and something else that you couldn’t quite place. The silence between you felt thick, almost tangible, as if the very air around you was charged with unspoken words.

Finally, he broke the silence with a smirk, his eyes softening just a bit. “Wow, algae head,” he teased, the nickname laced with affection. “Should have told me sooner that I’m dating a feisty little angel.”

There was a hint of pride in his voice as his hand moved up to gently pat your head, a gesture that was both comforting and approving. The touch sent a warm feeling through you, a sense of reassurance that maybe, just maybe, you had done something right.

“Good job, angel,” he said, his tone softer now, but still carrying that edge of pride. He looked at you like he was seeing you in a new light, and for the first time, you felt like you belonged—like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[shebreathedherlast]

Daughter of the Sea

Part III

Masterlist

Quest

Luke Castellan x f!reader

Summary: You wake up in the infirmary with a horrifying surprise.

Work Count: 1.6k

TW: Brief memory loss, weapons, mean Luke, broken bones

. .・゜゜・・゜゜・．. ･ﾟﾟ･｡. .・゜゜・・゜゜・．. ･ﾟﾟ･｡. .・゜゜・.

When your eyes fluttered open, you were unable to see. Everything around you seemed to be screaming. You pushed your weight onto your elbows as you desperately gaged your surroundings. With your vision blurred you sought for any semblance of familiarity.

Your head was pounding and your arm ached terribly. What in the gods happened? You sifted through your memories, raising your hand to cradle your head when the pain became nearly unbearable.

Footsteps scuffled towards you and your heart rate accelerated. “She’s awake!” A voice called.

You turned your head to the origin of the voice, but with your blurred vision, everything only fused together.

You made out a tuft of blonde curls and you instantly knew you would be safe. The figure made its way to you, placing a delicate blanket across your shoulders. They carried what you assumed was a tray of food.

They called your name and your head tilted up to meet their words. “Will?”

“gods, how are you feeling? Is there anywhere else that hurts?” He asked

You shook your head in confusion, “Will, what are you talking about?”

The Apollo kid furrowed his brows. An expression you couldn’t quite place fell over his features. “You’ve been in the infirmary for an entire night.” He told you.

“What?” You question, as you burrow your fists in the linen sheets to ground you.

“Do you not remember what happened yesterday?”

Your vision cleared as the events from yesterday seemed to piece themselves together.

A single infuriated word flitted from your lips, “Castellan” you growled.

Will gave you a quizzical look, “Oh so you do remember.”

Anger radiated off you. Yesterday Luke Castellan had practically robbed you of your much-deserved glory. He had humiliated and belittled you and in order to spare some semblance of dignity you were forced to break your arm. Yes, you remembered everything.

“Where is that thieving son of Hermes?” You demanded.

Will shook his head in disapproval. He turned back to the tray and returned with a bowl of steaming hot chicken noodle soup. “Is that what happened? Another one of your qualms with Luke? Seriously?”

You shruggled in response, too preoccupied to give Will an answer. You were busy thinking up all the ways you could make Luke suffer.

“You two really need to get over your whole sworn enemies thing and act like grown-ups. It gives me secondhand embarrassment watching you two fight like entitled toddlers.”

You gawked at him, “Will, I’m only seventeen, I’m not a grown-up.”

And at your comment, both of you laughed. Will was one of those guys that everyone was able to get along with. He had this easy going persona complimented by his humor that had him making friends wherever he went.

“You’re legitimately the biggest idiot I know.” He said.

And who were you to deny the truth?

“I wouldn’t exactly disagree,” You replied, an amused smile painted against your lips.

Will didn’t further the conversation, opting instead to spoon-feed you the warm broth. He gave you another drink of ambrosia before deeming that you would live.

“Thank you, Will…I really appreciate all you’re doing for me.”

Will waved his hand, dismissing your gratitude. “You won’t be saying that when I send you the bill.”

You chuckled shaking your head as you made your way out of the infirmary bed, dressing behind a curtain. Will was walking away and you had just finished pulling on your shorts as loud footsteps rang down the hall.

“You still there?” Will’s voice came from behind the curtain barrier. You pulled the fabric to the side as you stepped into the hall. “Uh…yeah”

He audibly sighed. “Good, because apparently, you're going on a quest in three hours.”

“WHAT?” You gasped.

Will cringed at your response, “Yeah, sorry that you had to find out this way but Clarisse got word of a quest from Ares and she chose the two best half-blood warriors to go with her. I’m sure you can guess what I mean by that.”

A million thoughts came crashing down on you. First, you were going to set out on your very first quest. Second, Clarisse saw you as a powerful ally and that could be useful in the future and third, the only other person besides you and Clarisse who would be addressed as “one of the best half-blood warriors” was none other than…Luke Castellan.

You huffed in anger, your fists balling at your sides. It was just your luck, Castellan, the one who had got you into this whole infirmary situation was going to ruin your first-ever quest.

Tyche must have really hated you.

. .・゜゜・・゜゜・．. ･ﾟﾟ･｡. .・゜゜・・゜゜・．. ･ﾟﾟ･｡. .・゜゜・.

Less than an hour and a half later you were packed and ready to go. Though you were forced to endure the torturous presence of Castellan, you were determined to not allow him to get to you. This time the stakes were too high and the mission too important.

Well, that was your resolution until you saw his face.

You practically saw red as you lunged forward ready to strangle the Hermes boy. Clarisse had to step in and physically restrain you from tearing Luke limb from limb.

“I’m gonna kill you, Castellan!” You shout, “You’re dead! Do you hear me? You're dead!”

Clarisse set you down fifteen feet from Luke (what she deemed a safe distance to talk some sense into you without you going on a blood-lust rampage for the Hermes boy).

“In the name of Olympus, what in the world is wrong with you?”

You scoffed, “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me? I think you should be asking that question to that thieving piece of-” It was at that moment that you heard Chiron clear his throat, and you shrank back, swallowing your insult.

Luke approached you with an amused grin, hands raised in the air. He was mocking you. Of course he was, you wouldn’t expect anything less from him.

“As soon as I get my hands on you, I’m gonna claw your eyes out, Castellan.” You seeth.

He tsked, tilting his head slightly, “And a good morning to you too, Chaos.”

Your jaw clenched as every fibre in your body told you to beat the boy before you into a pulp.

“Clarisse,” you whine, “please let me separate his stupid face from this hideous body.”

Clarisse shakes her head to tell you “no.”

You sigh, defeated.

Luke curls an arm around your shoulder, “Oh come on, Chaos, don’t you want another chance to win back your glory?”

You hated the boy before you. You hated him and you don’t think you’d mind it one bit if he so happened to fall off a cliff to his impending death. In fact, you think that you might even enjoy the show.

Clarisse rolled her eyes at the both of you, “Enough! You two need to stop this insufferable fighting and start focusing on the quest, because if you two don’t suck it up and start at least tolerating each other, I have absolutely no problem choosing two other skilled half-bloods to replace you.”

At this you and Luke instantly shut your mouths and glanced at each other.

Then it hit you, he wanted this as much as you did.

“Good.” Clarisse said, “Now I want both of you to hug it out and shake hands, promising that you’ll be on your best behaviour for my quest.”

You furrowed your brows, mouth agape. “Hug it out? Clarisse are you serious?”

“Absolutely.” She replied, pointedly.

Luke cocked his head, “You’ve got to be joking. It’s not like we’re five.”

The Ares kid raised her eyebrows in a taunting expression, “Are you sure about that?”

Luke rolled his eyes.

“K, let’s go now, stop tryna be the mediator Clarisse. Chaos and I are not “hugging it out” like pre-schoolers.” He spoke, a hint of annoyance coating his tone.

“Um sorry to break it to you buddy, but if you two wanna come on this quest with me then you better start doing as I say.”

Clarisse was defiantly being manipulative. She was the one who picked the two of you and now she was placing all these conditions on your shoulders.

After a minute of silence, Luke consented, rolling his eyes again. “Come here my sweet little, Chaos.” He said in an exaggerated voice like he was talking to a baby.

You glared at Clarisse, before trudging over to Luke, who wrapped his arms securely behind your neck, burying you into his chest. When you didn’t reciprocate he brought his lips to hover over your ear, “Chaos, you gotta at least pretend to like me, or else big scary Clarisse here is gonna send you back, and I know you don’t want that, do you?” His whispers sent shivers down your shoulders and eventually, (after a harsh glare from Clarisse) you conseeded and wrapped your arms around Luke’s waist.

His head practically nuzzled your hair and you could’ve sworn you heard him sigh in contentment.

To emphasize how much you two would get along Luke slowly began rocking side to side while continuing to keep his hold on you.

Clarisse smiled in approval.

You stood on your tippy toes and even then you barely reached his ear, “Luke,” you whispered.

“Yes, Chaos?” He asked gently.

“I still hate you.” And with that, you pushed him back. He stumbled a little before quickly regaining his footing.

“I wouldn’t expect any less.” He mumbled under his breath.

As you ran to catch up with Clarisse, Luke stood still, because whatever happened he knew that this quest was going to challenge him beyond belief.

----

A/n This is more of a filler chapter so hang in there for the next update <3

Tag list: @motorsp0rt @astronomical-admonition @edenssworld @sillychloe @viennasaysstuff @esposadomd @bogbutteronmycroissant @moonykai @sflame15-blog @hoesindifferentshows @gloryekaterina @dakotali @notjustsomeblonde @silkenthusiasts @kanej-and-wesper-supremacy @ren-isdone @ashisabitgay @tsukiko26 @niktwazny303 @idgxitciycouv

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 The Remarkable Machine Who Learned How to Love

♡ featuring: toji x f!reader

♡ cw/tw: none, a little angst but a whole lot of fluff! wc: 1.6k+

notes: i was thinking about this all day and decided to whip up somethin in a couple hours. hope u like :P art by manuel_juju on twitter! comments and reblogs are appreciated!

In a kill-or-be-killed world, Toji reached the top of the food chain—unfortunately, staying at the top is a thousand times harder than the climb. And when he looked down, there was no one to catch his fall.  

Before Toji met you, he was as aimless as a speck of dust, carried endlessly by an unpredictable tide of winds. He followed the cracked and crumbled path bespoken for lost souls like himself. Destined to be nothing but a vessel, a hollow man of sturdy muscle who worked himself to the bone, filthy jobs common men wouldn’t dare consider, because who was there to stop him anyway? Was there anything left for men birthed from hopeless circumstances, raised by broken homes to turn to lives of criminality? He couldn’t find an answer. He wasn’t equipped with the empathy to understand why guilt gnawed at his conscious; why whenever he ate takeout in his dimly lit apartment, it spilled out the chasm in his chest.  

It was much easier to complete the task, to trudge to a check cashing facility to retrieve money he couldn’t care less about. Perhaps he’d walk this earth alone forever, constantly watching over his back from a fear of daggers shooting from every direction, waiting to strike at his most vulnerable. It was only a matter of time.  

Or maybe he’d allow his sins to surpass him. Accept the peaceful release of death and pay the price of a vacant funeral service.  

It was all but irreparable, until he walked into his usual convenience store and encountered the new clerk at the register. It was past midnight, and Toji placed the quick meal on the counter. When his tired eyes panned up from those frozen noodles, his heart reset, a part he thought died amidst the torment. It skipped across his ribcage, stopped until a fleeting breath pulled him back to reality, to the intense fluorescent lights and your warm welcoming smile. There wasn’t a single altercation that stole the air from his lungs the way you did.  

Life hadn’t torn you apart yet.  

Your eyes didn’t break away, unexpected, as Toji was used to people hanging their heads near him. He’s aware of his threatening stare and intimidating stature; it’s what keeps him alive. And you were unbothered. You scanned his item, and flashed those pearly whites that sent a nosedive straight to his stomach, “I’m a big fan of this brand!”  

Toji remained tight lipped, unwilling to sift through difficult emotions and experience a feeling he believed himself to be undeserving of. He nodded, and somehow you continued, “Shouldn’t eat so late, though. Messes with your stomach.” A puff of wind pushed from his nose before he could stifle it. “Are you a doctor in the daytime?” You chuckled and bagged, “Sorry, slow day.”  

He arrives the same week, searching for a couple of beers to bring back to his apartment. You were in an obviously dangerous position, with one foot off the step ladder as you attempted to push a bottle of cleaner onto the highest shelf. It was a fight between gravity, and the opponent nearly won before his hand grabbed the handle. “Oh! Thank you” you smiled. It was sunnier than the last and reopened the stitches he’d been struggling to sew since that moment.  

Toji suddenly had countless excuses to go to the convenience store. Sometimes he’d enter for a snack, and you’d discuss your favorite chips, other times he pretended to need items just to hear your voice ramble about a niche topic you knew too much about. When his heart thrummed off kilter, and his mind became consumed with thoughts of the pretty night-shift cashier, a piece of him demeaned. How embarrassing it was, to be attracted to the scripted kindness of a service worker. Toji barely recognized he had favorites, let alone desires. So why did he have such an unwavering desire to see you?  

He’d snatch a pack of noodles one day, a subconscious grin at the joining of your eyes. It didn’t matter if the twinkle in your gaze wasn’t exclusive to him; for a second, it felt like someone cared, and it was fulfillment he couldn’t shake.  

You leaned over the counter on your elbows, “Did you know there’s over 35,000 ramen noodles restaurants in Japan?”  

“I didn’t, but that sounds like a lot of options.”  

“Mhm, you should try one. The real thing is way better.”  

“I’m sure. I don’t really go out to restaurants often, so…”  

“Me neither”, there’s a lengthy pause, and you finally blurted, “maybe we could go together!”  

He was stunned. Lost for words, really. It wasn’t possible, a girl as beautiful as you who wants to be seen with a stone-cold machine in public. It had to be a prank, a fabrication by fate to taunt him. You grew an anxious smile, “Hah, sorry, I overstep-“  

“I want to.” You stiffened, and he found solace in your shared nervousness. “O-oh! Great!” 

Toji’s first date with you had been a disaster, though. He’s heavy handed by design, and it’s no different in his daily life. His strength leads to instances of clumsy behavior. He expected you to be appalled, disgusted, or at least judgmental.  

You never shunned him. When he held your hand too tight, you slightly unclasped it. He wanted to retreat, to stuff them in his pockets and remain at a safe distance. But you interlocked hands and spoke soft, “It's okay, just try not to hold so tight.”  

He swung the door open for your entry and almost shattered the glass door on the opposite wall. “I appreciate your enthusiasm” you giggled.  

He was afraid to even hug you—he might underestimate his strength and crush your sternum. Toji walked you back to your place and turned to leave. “I’ll see ya around.” Despite that, you guided his calloused hands around your waist, slinked into his broad body, and embraced him.  Every aspect of you, foreign but comforting—little breaths fanning his shirt, fingers brushing along his back, sugary perfume wafting in his nose.  

It was heaven on Earth.  

Now years have gone by, and instead of bleached walls and silence greeting him as his eyes crack open in the morning, he smells the familiar scent of pancakes, pans clattering on the stove. He waltzes into the kitchen in a hazy state and admires the aching back of his very pregnant wife. You have a hand assisting your lower back and another on the wooden spatula scrambling eggs. 

Toji dropped his past for you after the engagement.  He cashed his last check and disappeared from the underground circle without a trace. He was aware if he continued the path he was heading, the result awaiting him was six feet under. The outcome was unimportant, however, you—the image of tears streaming down your face at his poor volition, your figure keeled over his gravesite under dewy grass and wailing for his return to no avail. He couldn’t stomach it. He had to protect you and commit to the next stage of his life. He’d never tell you about his previous work. It was for the best. He’d be selfish, just this once. 

One sock is different from the other, wearing loose shorts and a random shirt sitting above your massive belly. It’s his preferred version of you. Your stomach and thighs adorned in stretch marks, shaped like tiger stripes that declare your strength through each dip and curve; It's his greatest honor. You’d take on the complications, unending exhaustion, and hormone imbalances to bless him with a child. Toji hasn’t let you lift a finger since you got pregnant, opting to handle all the household tasks, borderline subservient to the mother of his child. So, his mouth twists when he sees you up so early.  

He stands behind you, hands trailing from your upper thighs to your stomach, then the small of your back. You lean into him while he massages circles and whisper a tiny “Good morning.” 

“Ya could’ve woke me up” Toji mumbles, kissing your temple. He wraps around to the underside of your belly, mindful of his muscle, and lifts it carefully. His respect for you increases tenfold with the heavy weight on his palms. You hum a pleased noise, sudden relief from your back. He carries it and smooths his thumbs over the taut skin. 

“You’re a late sleeper, and I haven’t made breakfast in a long time.” 

“Ya don’t have to do a thing, y’know.” 

“I know. But I wanna do this for you”, and he grins. It’s quiet, standing in the warmth of your bodies, sunshine glowing through the window to cast an angelic gleam on your face.  

Then he feels an imbalance of pressure along his fingers and mild wriggling within your tummy. Toji traces the movements, seeking to play a game with his unborn child. Sometimes it scares him, to bring new life into a world that almost smothered his light.  He worries that he’ll end up on the same road as him or he won’t be a good enough father. The journey of parenthood is a long, laborious one. You’re always learning, and Toji’s still processing the basics. It’s complicated, he trips and falters; yet you’re there to support him, through thick and thin, sickness and in health.  

What was he if not for you—his pillar, his source of happiness and comfort. You’d given him everything to wish for and infinite reasons to stick around. An iron criminal, bested by no mortal, chipped away by compassion and gentle hands. 

“You can let go if it’s too heavy.” 

I can stay here forever. 

[redrandomposts]

WEEPING BC I READ YOUR RESPONSE WHILE I WAS ON THE WAY HOME FROM AN ERRAND LMAO

imagine hyuna manages to catch ivan before he runs away, but she doesnt stop him bc she saw how miserable he was while he was at base and maybe he can find another human settlement where he can be happy at least ? so she provides him w a radio for emergencies and some provisions and makes him promise her that he'll at least send a message every once in a while so she'll know he's safe.

ivan was long gone when till finds hyuna standing by that one window facing the rising sun. till looks a lot more frazzled than hyuna has ever seen him, and thats saying something.

(he just remembered the end of r6 and theres two lifetimes fighting for dominance in till's mind)

till asks hyuna if she has seen ivan.

hyuna remembers the ever-present broken look on ivan's face every time he sees till and every time till pushes him away with cruel words and even crueler fists.

hyuna tells him no.

----

of course hyuna does tell the adults in charge of ivan's departure. they inform the other human settlements to look out for ivan and they move on with their lives.

while theyre saddened by ivan's departure and wish they couldve gone with the kid (he was twenty, barely an adult !), theyre at least comforted by the fact that he wasnt chaining himself down by his guilt anymore.

----

as days go by, hyuna notices the changes in mizi, sua, and till.

she never personally told them that ivan left but someone mustve told them nonetheless.

theres a new tension between the formerly-inseparable mizi and sua.

(mizi remembers the moment sua lost her life in front of her and, knowing what she knows now, wonders why sua kept her ignorant until the very last moment.

"i wanted to preserve your happiness."

"by making me lose you?"

"...")

till ... hyuna doesnt know what goes on with that kid. one moment hes watching both his friends like hes afraid theyll disappear in the blink of an eye, the next moment hes writing lyrics and music like a madman and searching for ivan like a man starved.

hyuna doesnt get it. with how much sua and till practically shoved ivan away, they shouldnt be this affected by his departure, right ?

ah, whatever. that's their problem now.

----

at first, ivan sent her check-in messages maybe once or twice a week. the most he's gone without any contact has been two weeks and that was because he had trouble finding batteries.

and then his last message came in.

the first thing she hears is static and gunshots.

finally, ivan's voice comes in. he doesn't sound so good.

"--oona, noona im sorry--"

"ivan, what-"

"--n't know how but -- found m--"

static. gunshots. a pained noise. more static.

then, silence.

hyuna needs to get a rescue team out there as soon as possible. she has his coordinates, she can-

"was that ivan ?"

fuck. how long has till been standing there ?

"hyuna... was that ivan ?"

----

anyways :> hyuna gets a rescue team for ivan and they manage to get him back to base in one piece but hes hanging on for dear life lol. imagine he got shot in the same damn places he was in the past life and bleeding out from the mouth too.

till sees and is immediately gut punched into a harrowing flashback and panic attack and hyuna wonders just how she was saddled with such troublesome juniors.

i, too, got possessed it seems LMAOOOO

— 🌦️

do u need a tissue for your tears, 🌦️?

imagine there's a spy rebel that was promised a lot from the aliens and sent ivan's signal to them, so the aliens are able to track him...

till is beside ivan's bed, sifting through hastily-drawn sketches from the middle of the night, lyrics that seem more like chicken scrath, and melodies that's played repeat in his head.

ivan looked the exact same as he had in round six. blood spilled, a slight smile when he caught sight of till—till didn't deserve it. he didn't deserve the heartfelt smile, the bleeding heart ivan gave to him, the all the ivan put to him but never got back.

he painfully remembers the night of their escape, too. ivan was stressed beyond relief, and when they made it out, he looked to the sky as if expecting something. till hadn't recognized it then, but he does now; the look in ivan's eyes resembled heartbreak, sorrow, grief, mourning.

till looks down at ivan. in the past decade since they've escaped, he's never seen him so relaxed.

[cherryblessing]

📎— if only i've said it, suguru.

The room is eerily silent, save for the soft scrape of paper against paper as you sift through the last remnants of his life. Faded ink smears the edges of the notes, the words trailing off mid-thought as if they, too, lost their will to continue.

You sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by fragments of Suguru's mind. The air feels thick with his presence, but he isn’t here—not anymore. You haven’t touched these papers in years, the weight of their meaning too much to bear back then. But now, you think, maybe you’re finally ready to face him, or at least the pieces he left behind.

"あのね、私実は気付いてるの ほら、君がいったこと"

You remember the last conversation you had with him, his voice as soft as the dying breeze. He said something that didn’t make sense at the time, something about how the world only made sense if you looked at it from a certain angle. You dismissed it as his usual philosophical musings, laughing lightly in a futile attempt to ease the tension in his shoulders.

Now, the weight of those words presses against your chest. You realize what he meant—or maybe you think you do. It’s too late to ask. It’s too late to hear his voice again.

"盲目的に盲動的に妄想的に生きて"

You think of the moments when he began slipping away, the fire in his eyes replaced by something colder, sharper. The nights when he’d stare at the sky, his silence louder than any words he could have spoken. You tried to pull him back, to keep him tethered to the person he used to be, but the distance between you only grew. He was reckless, you thought, but maybe you were the blind one—unable to see how much pain he was carrying.

"もっと、もっと、もっと もっと、ちゃんと言って"

You wanted him to speak. You begged him to tell you what was wrong, to let you shoulder some of the weight that was crushing him. But he never did. He gave you half-truths and broken smiles, as if sparing you from his reality was the kindest thing he could do. You wonder now if he thought you wouldn’t understand, or if he was afraid you’d leave too.

The anger you once felt has dulled into an ache, a question that will never have an answer. If he’d just said something, would things have been different?

"あのね、空が青いのってどうやって伝え���ばいいんだろうね？"

You tried everything to make him see it—the simplicity, the brightness, the beauty of life that still existed even as his world collapsed. You remember pointing at the sky one day, its vast blue expanse unbroken, your words catching in your throat as you searched for something—anything—to make him pause, to make him feel.

But how do you describe something so simple, so universally understood, to someone who’s already spiraling into the void? You saw it in his eyes that day—the detachment, the quiet resignation. You wanted to shake him, to shout that the sky was still blue, that there were still things worth living for, worth holding on to.

You couldn’t find the words, though, and the moment slipped away. You wonder now if it would have mattered, if he was already too far gone. But you wish you’d tried harder.

"あぁ、いつか人生最後の日、君がいないことを"

You close your eyes and imagine a world where he’s still here, where he’s standing by the window with that unreadable expression of his. You wonder if he knew how much you needed him, how much the world felt emptier without his presence. You’ll carry that emptiness with you until the end, you think.

Even now, you catch yourself glancing toward the door, half-expecting him to walk in with some offhand comment that only you would understand. But the door doesn’t open, and you are alone.

"牡丹は散っても花だ 夏が去っても追慕は切だ"

The person he was before he left still exists in your memories—the gentle smile, the quiet strength, the way he could make you feel like the most important person in the room without saying a word. That Suguru is gone, scattered like petals in the wind, but he was beautiful all the same.

Even now, with everything that happened, you can’t bring yourself to hate him. You wish you could. It would be easier to let go if you could just hate him.

"きっと、人生最後の日も愛をうたうのだろう"

If you could see him again, you’d tell him all the things you never said. You’d tell him how much he mattered to you, how much you wanted to save him, even if you didn’t know how. You’d tell him that even now, you carry him with you, in the spaces he left behind.

But you can’t say any of that to him now. So you whisper it to the empty room, hoping somehow, some way, he can hear you.

Geto Suguru is gone, and the world keeps turning. But for you, it turns just a little slower, the edges a little blurrier, the colors a little dimmer. You wonder if he ever knew how much he meant to you—if he could feel it, even when you didn’t have the words to say it.

You hope, wherever he is, that he finally understands.

the song ``言って`` belongs to yorushika.

©cherryblessing.2024

[corellianhounds]

Alternate Mand’alor the Reluctant idea: Mando doesn’t want the title, he doesn’t want the sword, both of them invite more conflict and notoriety than he’d rather deal with in a given day, and he prefers long range weapons anyway.

He can’t just get rid of it though and he knows it can’t be trusted to just anybody so he plans to give it to the one person he knows will treat it with respect, keep it safe, and won’t use it to arbitrarily lay claim to the throne themself (despite how much he thinks they’d be a better choice of ruler anyway)

He’s especially aware of how much she won’t abuse the responsibility since she was also the one who reminded him how it can only truly be transferred through ritual combat

The Armorer senses his approach. Though he’s always been quiet, the bounty hunter has a particular reverent hesitance for the forge. Nevertheless he enters and waits until she finds a stopping point in her work, setting aside her tools

“I have already told you the stipulations regarding the saber’s symbolism and transfer of power,” she says mildly, turning the forge-fire down to a low hum. “If you are here to offer it again, I must insist…”

The Armorer is brought up short by the sight behind her as she turns. Din Djarin stands with his hands outstretched, the Darksaber in… Well, multiple pieces, it appears.

She looks up to the face of his helmet, silent.

“I’ve run into some trouble, Alor,” the bounty hunter says respectfully, but she is certain she can hear his soft smile behind it. “I’m afraid the saber’s hilt has lost its integrity, and I require your assistance.”

She knows what he’s doing. Ever since he was a child, he’d never been able to deceive her (though he’s not making a particularly concerted effort to do so now). He stands there expectantly, several pieces of neatly dismantled weaponry in his hands, pieces she knows could only have been taken apart by somebody with the combined knowledge of a lifetime of weapons-work and the research skills of a devoted archivist.

“I see.” The Armorer looks back up to her disciple’s visor. “This is a beskar hilt— Tell me, Din, what level of violence could have caused such destruction?”

The Mandalorian shrugs. “I couldn’t tell you. It’s still so new to me, I just don’t know what happened. Can you fix it?”

The Armorer has to suppress her grin. Despite her belief that he’s an excellent candidate for the position of leadership Fate deemed fit to thrust him into, she also recognizes that he has other matters to attend to for the time being, and that he is making the most diplomatic evasion one could in his position. Who would protest a Mandalorian tasking his armorer with repairing his weaponry?

“I can, and I will,” she says. He can hear the admonishment in her words and tips his helm in thanks. She takes the inert pieces from his hands, spreading them out over her workbench. “It should not take long,” she warns him. “You should expect to see it again soon.”

“Of course,” he says, and he departs the forge as quietly as he came.

She’ll indulge him, for now. Even if only because she knows he will return when he’s ready, and because it’s rare for her to have to suppress her laughter.

The Armorer sifts through the pieces, assessing his deliberate sabotage. Emitter matrix, naturally. Coupler, shroud, energy cell, two pieces of the handle severed lengthwise — she will have words with him about that— a broken focusing lens (not difficult to do, it’s one of the few pieces not made of Mandalorian iron), insulator, activator���

She paused, looking over the spread again. The saber had been expertly dismantled, true, but there still seemed to be a piece… Ah.

Her short bark of laughter echoed in the cavern of the forge. The Armorer shook her head, disbelieving and genuinely surprised.

She swept the pieces together and set them aside to work on the few repairs later, making a mental note to keep the core energy chamber for the missing crystal easily accessible in anticipation of his return. 

[oneshotnewbie]

what about an Alt oneshot where the reader really struggles with Elliot leaving? Because Elliot was like a father to her so when she finds out hes gone she breaks down crying in Liv's arms. Liv has to have her in therapy because she struggles with feelings of abandonment and being unwanted like she becomes depressed?

ᕚ---ᕘ

The sound of dripping water echoed in the bathroom. Darkness surrounded you and only a single, lonely candle stood on the edge of the bathtub. Its flame flickered in the gentle breeze that rushed through the tilted window, throwing dark, scurrying shadows on the bare white tires.

You had not been this low to the ground in ages but it was only a matter of time before your family broke. Things have not been going well for weeks between Olivia and her partner, who was like a father figure to you.

Quarrels with unrequited feelings and hurtful situation mixed with the incident at the precinct, where he shot a young woman, was the last straw. Elliot was gone. Swallowed up by the earth without saying goodbye. He had simply quit his job and disappeared.

With an idefinable gaze, you looked into the puny candle flame. You drew your knees up and laid your head on them. Sitting there, your arms wrapped tightly around your body. Lonely, lost and abandoned.

Everyone who ever loved you was gone. Only your mother was still here. But she, too, had her own life. Olivia had her new team, her important job and everything started to seem worthless around you. Just a girl who was only almost grown.

You swallowed hard and put your hand on your chest. Firmly, you pressed against your chest and ran your cold fingers over your sternum. Gasping for air, your nails clawed at thin skin, feeling the pain that wrapped itself around your heart and slowly covered it with black spots.

A single tear fell onto your bare knee and slowly ran down your lower leg, disappearing into the sea of water that encased you. Slowly, you lowered yourself into the bathwater until your body and head were completely submerged in the cool wet. The world around you obliberating and dwindling in waves, you lingered further on your thoughts.

This heart. Bruised and a witness to terribly painful losses. If only you could close this heart off, protect it from further pain, then you would finally be free. You would finally be the girl without ballast, finally be able to be able to love again without fear of abandonment.

You felt awful, started hating yourself even though it was the people you should hate for giving you love and stealing it again. For all the broken pieced they left your heart in.

"Y/n!" the matching face suddenly appeared to the muffled voice entering your ears, the expression bearing a worried and anxious grimace. Olivia quickly pushed her hands through the wall of water, grabbing your shoulders before pulling you up with a mighty jerk. "What the hell are you doing?"

You gasped, took a few deep breaths, and refilled your lungs with the oxygen it needed. The darknes had seduced you and made you forget that your body was already screaming for air while you were lost in your mind. "I-I am sorry"

Feeling the cold gradually sifting through your bones, crushing you and eating you from the inside out, you were thankful that your mother immediately grabbed a towel and wrapped it around your shoulders, gently stroking your upper arms.

There was no sound. Even the drops of water that fell from your damp hair seemed afraid to move. The silence between both of you was so stifling, that Olivia held her breath for several secounds before taking a cautious step towards you, sitting on the floor next to the bathtub before leaning against the wall.

"Y/n?" she breathed, listened strenously into the darkness and looking into your pale face, whose color once had a beautiful beige hue. The sight of her daughter was far more painful than she had ever thought possible and she had to restrain herself from letting tears flow.

A thousand small but sharp needles pierced her heart. The woman knew it had something to do with Elliot´s departure, shortly after telling you that you would probably never come back, you had completely changed character and turned distant. Yes, almost depressed. "I want you to see a therapist," she whispered in a trembling voice and reached out a hand that stroked a stray strand of hair from your face.

Your eyes instantly watered as you began to sniffle. "Was I not worth anything to him? Not even a goodbye?" you whimpered softly, ignoring the sentence that just left your mothers mouth. A single tear trickled down your cheeks, mixing with the pearls of bath water that dripped down your chin in unison.

"Why did he leave us?" you sobbed and she leaned forward, dropping her head onto yours. Your voice cracked, fading until your body shook with silent tears in her embrace. "I thought we were family. H-he was like a father to me!"

Olivia´s hand found yours and intertwined with your fingers gently, as if you would break if she made a wrong move. She understood the pain you endured, knew exactly what such an exit without warning could do to a soul. Especially one as young as yours.

That Elliot chose to escape his emotional problems by disappearing was typical for him. Still, she missed her partner. The warmth that surrounded his body. The perfume that gradually faded and was forgotten. The woman missed the stubborn guy with aggression problems. The man who was a friend to her, if not a lot more.

He was the first guy to show her that there could be a relationship between friendship and family. Strong and unique like she had never felt before in her life. They had solved the most diverse and dangerous cases and defeated the worst people.

Elliot was one of the most important people her daughter´s life, along with her and Amanda but now he was gone. Now she had to sweep up the shards he had left behind and glue them together.

She was willing to stand by you and follow in his footsteps to represent both sides of being a parent. It would be difficult, especially at first, but she knew you could both do it together.

Tears rolled freely down her cheeks as she broke out of her painful thoughts while standing up and slowly pulling your petrified and blunted body out of the bathtub. While she dried you off and dressed you, gently combin your wet hair and blow-drying it, you were completely absent to reality, staring blankly at the cold tiles decorating the sink. 

Shivering and surrounded by inner coldness, you felt like freezing to death. It was too painful to fight it back. Cold was the pain you felt since he was gone, and you did not know if it would ever fade away.

[izvmimi]

cw: infidelity. angst. minors dni.

a/n: i was in a mood when i wrote this lmfaooo

There’s a lump in your throat, compounded by the feeling of your throat closing up concentrically, as everything settles in at once.

Izuku is cheating on you.

Your Izuku.

Symbol of Peace Izuku.

Izuku who has always smiled and held you and told you you were enough and more, in your highs and in your lows.

He’s cheating on you, unabashedly, and you’re in the process of forgetting how to breathe.

Your lungs ache as you sift through what else is left behind in his car. Besides panties that don’t belong to you (bolder and skimpier than anything you can imagine wearing yourself), there’s a bit of lipstick, stains that you can’t identify as your vision is blurring with tears… your mind keeps trying to recreate positions in the backseat that is too small for someone like him. Did he lay down like a filthy animal and let her ride him, smiling down at him like you’ve done so many nights before? Or did it start in the front seat, her taking the opportunity of a stopped red light to dip down low and engulf his straining cock in her mouth, only for him to pull over and pull her under him? 

How many times? How long have you been fooled? Were all those late nights really missions or trysts? Every time he went to the shower first, instead of kissing you as you pretended to be long asleep - was that really coincidence or was he so desperate to wash off the stench of another woman?

Is the owner of the barely there panties, stuffed vengefully in a baggie, the only one? Or will there be more to find, each belonging to people that are prettier, younger, more agreeable than you are?

It’s all you can think about for the rest of the day. Wrapped up in blankets that you’ve changed because you can’t stand the smell of him right now, you force yourself into a fitful sleep, the evidence laid bare for everyone to see in the living room, the door to the bedroom locked, and your heart broken.

—

You wake up to the fitful shaking of the door. Disoriented, you can hear your husband’s voice yelling, or rather his voice is raised, but barely audible over the sound of the door being shaken dramatically. You know it’s just for show - he can just as easily force it open as he can do whatever else he wants in this relationship.

“Babe? Why is this door locked? Listen, if it’s about the… thing in the living room, I-I can explain.”

You don’t say anything back, reaching for your earphones, drowning out the noise with loud orchestral music, the sound of clashing cymbals minimally distracting to your life crashing to pieces.

It takes five minutes for him to decide to force the door. 

You don’t budge, despite knowing that your bedroom door is now cleanly ripped off its hinges. Even if he’s gone mad enough to break your vows, and mad enough to break your property, he would never be so insane to hurt you physically.

You don’t hear him call your name, or rather you choose not to hear, and soon your blankets are ripped off of you as well, and this is when you sit up, now in a rage yourself.

“What the fuck do you want?!”

Izuku is red-faced and clearly upset, but even so, for a split second he pales in the face of your own fury.

“It’s not what you think-” he starts, and your blood runs hot then ice cold. You smile, wide and poisonous.

“Okay.” The smile doesn’t reach your eyes, and it unsettles him, because he knows that smile. It’s the smile you’ve given people the closest to dead you can manage; it’s the smile that means you’re past any sort of reason, and at any moment you can snap.

But you haven’t snapped now. Now you hold your arms to yourself, somewhere between cold and guarded, and watch him. Empty but smiling.

You didn’t ask him to continue, and he opens his mouth, faltering as he can’t come up with the words to explain himself. And here he notices that your eyes are puffy and red, and your face is puffy, and even your lips, and even if your smile is empty and terrifying, you look exhausted with thought.

“I don’t love her,” is the only excuse he can come up with. You already have pieced the rest, and this part is true.

“Isn’t that a relief?” your reply is honeyed. “May I return to bed?” you ask.

Izuku breathes in.

“Don’t leave me,” he says and his voice cracks.

And you laugh once, loudly, sharply, disrespectfully, before sitting back down on your bed and pulling the covers over your head.

He pleads your name again, pulling at the blankets and tossing them to the side, and he watches, as you try to pretend things are not happening, and you can make it through shutting out the outside world.

“Please talk to me.”

You snort, then sit up. There’s a long hard look you give him, where you take in his treacherous features, the false concern in his eyes, the quiver in his mouth, the freckles you’ve spent many a night kissing, shoulders that another woman has hung on, a voice that spoke lies to you, every inch of him a piece of shit.

“All I have to say to you is I hope she came.”

[i-need-entertainment]

Character: Edgar Allen Poe x female reader

Warnings: minor angst (unrequited love), ranpo being a gremlin and stealing candy

Pt.2

“No, don't eat those! They aren’t for you Ranpo!” 

Poe lunged towards the coffee table and picked the candy bowl up and out of Ranpo’s reach before setting it gently on his bookshelf. 

Ranpo huffed as he sat down on the couch, letting out a sound of dissatisfaction at having the candy bowl placed out of his reach. 

“Then who are they for then? You don’t like them.” 

Ranpo raised a brow as he watched his friend fumble around before clearing his throat, 

“W-well, you see.. they’re uhm…they’re- just don’t eat them! And please don’t try climbing up my bookshelf to get them again, the candy for you is on the other table.” 

Ranpo let out a sound of delight as he spotted the other candy bowl before grabbing it and plopping himself back down on the couch. 

Happily munching on his candy Ranpo hummed as he unwrapped another piece, “So…Y/n huh?” His emerald gaze shifted over to Poe for just a moment before he reclosed his eyes and busied his fingers with sifting through the bowl for yet another candy.

“I beg your pardon!” Poe sputtered as he tried but failed to act casually about Ranpo’s blistering accusation.  

Ranpo sighed, “Well it’s obvious you like her- why else would you keep a candy you don’t care for and not allow one of two of your only visitors to eat it? If it’s not for me and it’s clearly not for you, then it must be for Y/n!” 

Ranpo seemed pleased with himself at his friend's flustered state and broken sentences. His superior detective skills had long since allowed him to work out his friends feelings, but watching him flounder around like a fish out of water was never anything less than amusing for the detective.

“W-well yes, they are for her, but that doesn’t mean I have feelings for her!” 

Ranpo sighed as he set the bowl down on the table and crossed one leg over the other, propping his head up by his hand while his elbow sat perched on the arm rest. “You’re right, it doesn’t. The poem you wrote with her name on it though? Yeah, that kinda gave it away.”

Poe grimaced as he rushed to gather the papers he had haphazardly left on his desk into a pile before shoving them into his desk drawer. 

“Are you going to tell her?”

Leaning against his desk with a sigh he crossed his arms over his chest, eyes shifting over to his friend who was devouring the candy he had replaced for the 3rd time this week.

“...we both know telling her would be pointless, so no…I don’t plan on ever telling her.”

“And you’re okay with that? You’re fine with her going out wi-"

"Of course not Ranpo...but none of that matters now, as long as she’s happy, I’ll-”

He’ll…what?

You were the light at the end of the tunnel when revenge had consumed him. You were his tether to this world and his rock- never ceasing in your support of his writing or his dreams as a detective. Your smile had brought him inexplicable feelings of joy and completeness - two feelings he wasn’t sure he would ever feel again.

He wanted nothing more than to have you be his, his to hold and cherish and love and care for-

But none of that mattered- his feelings for you would never leave the pages upon pages he wrote them on, and he was dedicated to ensuring you never found out about them. There was no deeper purpose to the poems and letters after all, in fact they had never so much as been properly addressed to you. Simply thrown into the drawer he had started shoving them into when company came around. 

There was nothing wrong with the poems or letters- most of them were either elaborate declarations of love or well-thought out words he had only ever dreamed of having the courage to say to you. There were some compliments scribbled down on scrap pieces of paper, wishing dearly he could say them to your face but never quite finding the strength to say them out loud. More recently however he had begun writing apologies. 

Apologies for being a coward, and for being unable to tell you the deeper feelings he held for you. In fact his most recent addition had been an apology letter he had written just the day before, it had been an apology for lying to you.

“There’s still time y’know.” 

Ah, the gala the agency had been invited to. It was still a few hours away, so he’s sure Ranpo was suggesting he use this time to call you or text you and tell you of his feelings before you followed through with your plans to attend with another.

But surely Ranpo - the world’s greatest detective - had already deduced it was Poe who had encouraged you to not only go, but to accept your co-worker's gracious invitation in the first place. His smile had been tight and he’s sure he was tripping over his words when he spoke, but years of repressing his emotions and keeping to himself had taught him valuable skills in regards to hiding how he felt. And afterall, you had been smiling when you left- so you must have been looking forward to your date.

Date..

Poe sighed as he left his spot at his desk and walked over to the window, kneeling down slightly to pick up Karl who had scampered over and put him on his shoulders, suddenly grateful for his comforting presence.

“I know, but…” He paused to look out the window, watching as the nearing storm began to snuff out the blue afternoon sky and the once sunny landscape slowly became consumed by the growing shadow of the thunder clouds.

“It’s better this way..” 

‘She’s better this way’

He knew letting you go without so much as an attempt to tell you of his feelings was a mistake, a mistake Ranpo had thankfully chosen not to comment on - but as he watched the dreary weather continue to move in he couldn’t help but know in his heart that this was for the best. Someone like you didn’t deserve to be stuck with someone like him, and someone like him didn’t deserve someone like you.

“Besides, I’m sure she’ll have more fun with him than she would with me - she loves to dance,”

Poe knew he wasn’t fooling the detective but it didn’t matter, he had fooled himself and that’s all he needed to do. You would continue to see him only as a friend and occasional co-worker who let you play with his pet racoon and kept your favorite candy stocked full in his office, and he-

Well he would keep loving you and admiring you from afar, and maybe someday the pain would numb and he would grow content with watching you give the love he so longed for to someone else.

“And I heard Dazai was quite the dancer.”

The candies on his shelf and papers in his desk spoke volumes, but when it came to you it seemed Poe lacked the one thing he wished he could give you - his words.

@i-just-like-goats thanks for beta reading queen😩

[tricktack]

there's a loneliness in midwest gothic. not from the style itself, but from the assumption that everyone who lives like this must be lonely. empty.

i grew up in a one-room schoolhouse turned into a home. it was called barrens when it was built; the ground was so clay-rich even our apple trees didn't survive after a single winter. even after a hundred years, someone still tried and found the same result as those who named the land. still, day lilies sprung up by the concrete foundation of what used to be the coal storage.

my parents probably knew the name of every single family that lived on that gravel road. i probably tried to sell candles to everyone that was home. a little kid riding a bike with a catalogue crumpled between fingers and handlebars, knocking until someone would give in and answer the door. the prizes for those school fundraisers weren't even worth it, but winning them was.

i went for walks with anyone who would go with me until i was old enough to go by myself. down the road, not towards the highway but towards the creek, there was a house only a few years from falling in on itself. my older sister went with me, past the "no trespassing" sign and into a grove with dead vines, spanish moss, and pink and blue african violets that were the prettiest flowers i had ever seen. sometimes i wonder if those pictures still exist on an old phone somwhere...

there was a time before that house was torn down, the man who owned it was there. he and my dad stood around talking about whatever was new while my mom and i sifted through a falling-down shed on that property that the man just wanted to get rid of. you couldn't see the floor of that shed, it was covered in sea of glass jars, many of them broken. my mom picked through the pieces and handed me unbroken jars so i wouldn't hurt my hands. in my house now there are still old old mason jars, blue and clear, scattered about and finding different purposes. that house's foundation still sits there, but the shed is long gone. i wonder if it was his parents' land, once upon a time.

there's a cattle farm not too terribly far from where i live now that has two old houses on it. one of them is for rent, runs on filtered well water but i wouldn't drink it if you asked me. the man who owns it grew up in that house, and it really hasn't changed that much from the 70's. he offers extra crawfish sometimes. and the other cute little house house right next to the one for rent is small, so small i can't imagine what it was for. hunter lodging, maybe. but it doesn't matter much anymore, it's not in good enough shape anyway. there's a hole in the east side, the siding is peeled back, and you can hear the buzzing of a honey bee hive from far away. no one lodges there anymore, but it's still a home. there's still life. there's still life.

[the-hinky-panda]

Reparar (Los Regalos Series)

So this is technically the last part of Los Regalos but I'm not completely opposed to revisiting these two again.

Pairing: Colonel Horacio Carrillo x Fem!Reader

Rating: PG-13

Summary: You’re new to Colombia and the Search Bloc, loaned out by the Army to help sift through the wiretaps, sat phone calls, and other communications. After figuring out that it was Colonel Carrillo who was leaving little gifts, the two of you start seeing each other. But after an assassination attempt that leaves you wounded, you two decide to act like you've broken up. However, things are never as easy as they seem.

He wakes up with a splitting headache and the taste of ash in his mouth. Horacio buries his head into his pillow and prays the throbbing in his temples and the vertigo lessens enough for him to remember exactly what happened last night. Grief still presses heavily between his shoulder blades as soberness churns his stomach. How much whiskey did he go through? What happened last night exactly? 

It comes to him in flashes. He had spent time looking at the gifts and offerings that you had been sneaking into his office. He knew from the side-eyed looks between Peña, Murphy, and Trujillo, you had some help with this little covert operation. He vaguely remembers the things, but what did he do with them? A box, he put them in a box. Then what? 

Oh God. Oh God. He went to your apartment. He knocked on the door. He left the box. Oh God, no. He left the box. The horror of you finding your kind gifts dumped in front of your door is enough to rouse him out of bed. He moves too quickly and instantly regrets it as his head splits apart and his stomach roils. He has to sit there with his head between his knees until the pain decreases and his stomach settles. 

While he waits for that, more pieces of last night come to him. The knock at the door. Him not caring to even pick up his gun as he approached the front door. Opening the door and seeing your face, your red-rimmed eyes, and the sad downturn of your mouth. You brought the box back. You brought the gifts back to him. That makes his stomach flip again. 

He has to find you. You were here last night, he has a vague memory of you sleeping here. He takes in a couple deep breaths and stands up from the bed. The room spins but after a moment it slows to manageable sway. He moves from his bedroom and leans on the doorway of the small guest room down the hall. If you had slept there, he couldn’t tell. The bed is neatly made, no signs of clothes or shoes tossed over a chair or laying on the dresser. He rests his head against the doorframe and tries to remember if you were really here last night or if he’s just made that up. 

There’s a beep that comes from downstairs. Three short beeps followed by a long one. The coffee pot. Someone made coffee. You must have made coffee. He makes his way downstairs, practically leaning against the wall to help balance himself. He’s too hungover to be quiet which is good since his tongue feels like sandpaper and he’s not sure he could call your name, to warn you of his now conscious presence. 

But when he reaches the first floor of the house, he doesn’t hear you at all. He doesn’t smell your light perfume. In fact, he doesn’t sense anyone at all. The curtains are all drawn, the rooms pleasantly dark. There is still the scent of coffee hanging in the air and it doesn’t twist his stomach. He ventures into the kitchen and finds two cups sitting neatly in the sink. Did he drink so much that he forgot having coffee with you at some point this morning? Wait, is it morning? He looks up at the clock on the wall and sees it’s almost three-thirty in the afternoon. 

You’re not here. You’ve given up on him. And he can’t be angry with you about that. He was the one that kept pushing you away, returning your things in the middle of the night. He’s the one that drank himself into oblivion last night and has no memory of what he said or did. Maybe you’re off crying on Javier’s shoulder now. The single DEA agent had a thing for damsels in distress and what Horacio has put you through could certainly qualify as distress. 

He hears the front door open, the loud noise of people walking past and a car horn make him wince before the door quietly shuts and stillness returns. There’s only a handful of people with keys to his home, only a handful of people he trusts with access to his home. He hears a soft sigh being released, a delicate sniff, before a couple clacks of shoes reverberate through the darkened home. He steps back into the dining room which gives him a direct line of sight to the front door. 

He almost doesn’t recognize you. He’s never seen you in uniform before. Gone are your sneakers and jeans and linen shirts. You’re in a starched dress shirt, buttoned all the way up to your throat, a fitted olive colored jacket, and straight pencil skirt. You’re in the middle of taking off the plain black pumps so you can walk whisper-like through the house. Your hair is pulled back into a neat bun at the base of your neck while a military hat is perched on your head. 

“Horacio?” 

It takes him a couple tries before he can force sound out of his mouth. “Querida.” 

You still completely. Your hands fidget with something, gloves, as you wait for him to say something else. When he doesn’t, you reach for your shoes again. “I can leave. I’m sorry.” 

“No.” It comes out as a command, like he’s standing in front of an inept cadet. “I mean, don’t go. Please.” 

You breathe a slow sigh of relief, a shaky smile crosses your face as you go back to slipping off your shoes. “Okay. If you want to take a shower, I’ll make some more coffee.” 

He nods mutely, wondering just how awful he must look for you to suggest that to him. He’s still trying to piece together what exactly happened last night, what was said, what wasn’t said, but his head is still pounding and thoughts won’t complete themselves. You pass by him on the way to the kitchen and slip your hand into his, giving him a gentle squeeze. 

“We’ll talk when you come back downstairs.” And you smile, truly smile. After everything he has put you through, you smile at him. “It’ll be okay, Horacio.” 

The world stops spinning. The ground levels out. You tell him it’s going to be okay and he believes you. 

***

You have no idea if he’s going to be okay. You’re so used to seeing Horacio being strong, immovable, and in complete control of whatever chaotic shitstorm is currently surrounding Search Bloc. He’s been made of granite for as long as you’ve known him. But now you can see the cracks in the stone, the weak points, and it scares you. It’s a good reminder though, that he is human, he is just a man under the uniform, muscles, and temper. 

This morning has been an eye-opening experience for you. Shortly after you had gotten up and made the bed in the guest room, someone had rung the doorbell. You answered it only because you saw it was the thin, well-dressed woman you had seen at Search Bloc a couple months before. Julianna, you remembered, was her name. You opened the door to her, introduced yourself and invited her inside. Surprisingly, she accepted the invitation. Not sure what to do next, you offered to make some coffee and she accepted that invitation as well. 

The two of you had sat at the small kitchen table and she had poured out her grief at her current situation. Even though Horacio had been horribly drunk, he had managed to tell you everything Julianna was now saying. She had come over to collect Horacio so that they could break the news together to the two children. You tell her that Horacio isn’t feeling well, not exactly a lie, that is why you’ve come over to check on him. But the task that she has been handed is a heavy one so you offer to go home, shower, get into uniform, and complete the task yourself if she’s agreeable. She grabbed ahold of your hands so tightly your knuckles are still slightly sore from the desperation in her grip. 

You have no idea how people can make a living out of having to inform families that their loved one isn’t coming home anymore. Having to look into the innocent eyes of two children and tell them that their father won’t ever walk through the door again, tuck them into bed, be there for milestones, was one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do. You had kept it together during the delivering of the news, the goodbye with Julianna and the parting hug you gave her before returning to Horacio’s home. But it’s as you're emptying the coffee pot and refilling it that the tears do come. This is how Horacio finds you a few minutes later, sobbing over fresh coffee grounds in the kitchen. He takes over for you, completing the preparation and turning on the coffee pot before directing his attention to you.

“Querida.” 

The term of endearment is said with such sadness but understanding. He hesitantly slips his arms around you and you immediately mold yourself against him. You bury your face in the space where his neck meets his shoulder, you inhale the fresh scent of soap and aftershave. He smells like himself now, no longer of whiskey and despair, and you try to get even closer to him by pressing your hands into his broad shoulder blades. He feels so solid, strong and protective. 

 Julianna has lost this particular kind of comfort. You have not and you’re determined to not waste any moment that you’re given with him now. You try to stop your tears, or at least slow them down, and take in a deep breath. “I’m sor-” 

“No, mi amor,” he cuts you off. “I’m sorry.” 

Mi amor. Hearing that familiar term of endearment only creates more tears. Could this entire debacle be redeemed? You remember how it felt last night when he reached for you, pulled you close, buried his face against your stomach and told you that he loved you. You remember starting to say it back to him. You had cried yourself to sleep last night, believing that the moment of confessing your feelings has been lost. 

Maybe…maybe it hasn’t been. 

“Te amo, Horacio.” 

You feel his arms tighten around you as his lips brush against your ear. “Te amo, mi vida,  mi alma.” 

[rumbelleshowdown]

-

Author: sourcherryjam

Group: Final

Prompts: Baby milestones. Panic, expect, ambition, compact. Treasure.

-

The Treasure Hunt

Belle held the compass out in front of her, hand on her hip. The needle pointed at Mr. Gold, standing behind his desk and watching her, somehow both with bland disinterest and a little hint of panic.

“You’re not serious,” he said. 

“You can see it with your own eyes.” She pointed at the compass needle. “You’re involved.”

“I’m not participating.” 

At the town meeting that morning, the Storybrookians in attendance had all received what Belle could only describe as a message from above that they needed to find the self-destruct diamond or their town would implode. Belle hadn’t known that towns could implode, or even that there was such a thing as a self-destruct diamond, but here she was, standing in Mr. Gold’s shop with the compass that had appeared in her pocket as if by magic—magic!—because it had led her right to him.

“Why not?”

“Everyone in this town expects me to solve all their problems, dearie,” he said. He folded his hands over the glass counter, but kept his eyes on the compass. “Well, today, I’m closed for business.”

Belle snapped the compass shut. “Closed for all business?” 

It wasn’t many people who could set a verbal trap for Mr. Gold, but then Belle suspected, after months of popping by to admire a set of first edition Jane Austens and, subsequently, chat, she could only trap him because he allowed her to.

“Have you finally come to make a purchase, then?”

“No.” She leaned onto the glass, careful not to smudge it. “I was thinking a deal.”

When he grit his teeth, eyes straying toward the compass, she knew she’d won.

****

“This is hardly a victory,” Mr. Gold muttered as Belle sat on a towel in the sand, sifting through seashells. 

“It’s a baby milestone.” She discarded a small, broken one. “We solved the riddle, we should feel good.”

“It’s not solving the riddle until we have the next clue.” 

Belle hummed but otherwise ignored him. He’d been crabby at every stop they’d made, from the library to the grocery, but he’d driven them to each one without protest, limping out of the car and watching her flit from place to place, rubbing shelves and walls and furniture to see if anything caught her eye. The compass had so far led them nowhere else, just kept spinning toward Mr. Gold whenever Belle tried to use it, so she figured that clue was done.

“Move over, this is taking forever.” 

Belle hardly had time to register that Mr. Gold had spoken before he was folding himself onto the towel with her. He’d abandoned his jacket in the car long ago, but the image of him in most of a three-piece suit sitting on a towel on the beach, one Oxford-clad foot stretched out so his leg didn’t cramp, would not be leaving her soon.

“That’s the spirit!” She scooped up the pile of shells she had yet to sift through and dropped it between them.

While she picked through every shell, studied every crack, ran her finger over every crevice, Mr. Gold just stared at the pile, eyes slightly narrowed. She wished she could read his mind right then.

“There.” He flicked a few shells off and pulled out what looked to Belle to be a normal, if slightly shabby, clam shell. “That’s the one.”

She picked it up and ran her fingers along the grooves, into every crack and crevice, and then felt a slight pulse. He was right.

“How did you do that?” she asked.

“I trade in precious objects, Miss French.”

That wasn’t so much an answer as a statement of fact, but she didn’t press. Time was running out. 

Shell in hand, she took the compass out of her pocket to see if this would make a difference, but all it did was continue to point at Mr. Gold. Useless. 

“Okay.” Belle pocketed the shell. “I think we need to go to the woods next.”

She hauled herself to her feet and then offered a hand to Mr. Gold. He could have gotten himself up, she was sure, but instead, he took her hand, allowing her to help.

****

By noon, they’d collected the clam shell, a compact mirror, the leaf from a fiddlehead fern, a handful of loose tea leaves that Mr. Gold stuck in an Altoid tin, and a perfectly spherical rock that looked like someone had taken an ice cream scoop to the sidewalk.

“Does it not bother you that the supposed end of our town is being thwarted by nothing more than a glorified treasure hunt?” Mr. Gold asked as they drove back to his shop. 

It did bother her, actually. It bothered her every time they collected a new, nonsensical item, every time they saw another team out and about.

“Well, what else can we do?” Belle asked. “I’m not just going to sit back and watch my home implode.”

He glanced at her, and she thought she saw the beginning twitch of a smile. She had grown to recognize the expression in their short, almost daily at this point, chats. 

“If we are convinced that this magical divine hand of fate is, in fact, real, and if we are convinced that, if we do not solve this series of inane riddles by midnight, we’ll be destroyed, then I think we need to stop solving the little riddles and try to solve the big one.” 

“I like it.” Belle straightened up. “Ambitious.”

“I’m nothing if not ambitious,” he said. “Besides, the clock on your deal is running low.” 

Belle pursed her lips. Being ambitious herself, she’d only begged Mr. Gold for six hours of teamwork. She hadn’t expected to be creeping up on hour four feeling no closer to the end. “I only traded you for a favor sometime in the future. I’m sure we can work out an extension arrangement.”

He smirked, a much more common expression, though she’d never seen him so friendly.

“I’m sure we can.”

****

“If it’s a diamond,” Belle said, pausing between fries. “Then maybe we should check where diamonds are.”

With her time extended and Mr. Gold assured of two favors, they’d swung by Granny’s. Granny Lucas was so busy, she’d just made to-go containers of grilled cheese and fries, handing them to everyone except Mr. Gold, who she charged full price for both of them.

“I was thinking the same.” He drove with one hand, sandwich in the other.

“Mr. Gold?”

“Yes?”

“Do you really think there’s some sort of doomsday diamond in Storybrooke?”

“I never rule out anything.”

Belle watched him, slowing down her chewing to study his profile. He still wore his waistcoat  and sleeve garters, but throughout the morning, his tie had come a little loose, his hair had gotten a little windswept and salty at the beach, and now he ate a grilled cheese for what she imagined was the first time in his prim and proper life. 

In all her time in Storybrooke, she’d never imagined Mr. Gold would let his guard down enough for her to see him like this. 

She snuck the compass out of her pocket and opened it. The needle was already pointed at Mr. Gold.

****

They stood at the mine entrance, all the trinkets stuffed into Belle’s pocket. She had no idea if this was it or not, but it felt momentous, like once they stepped into the darkness, nothing would be the same.

She hoped Storybrooke would still be there.

“Is it good or bad that we’re the only ones here?” Belle asked.

“Neutral,” he said. “I’m sure Regina will think of it soon.”

Belle nodded. Whatever happened, she had done her best to be the hero that her town needed. 

“What if we’re not the only ones here?” She inched closer to him without thinking, gripping his cane arm.

He looked down at her hand with an expression she couldn’t read—or maybe she could, but she was afraid to at this moment, standing in front of their possible doom. 

“Then we’re not the only ones here.” 

She nodded. “I’ll go in first.”

“No.” He withdrew a small pistol. Had he been carrying that around all day? In his pocket? “I’ve got better aim.”

“You don’t have to do this.” She gripped his elbow. “You stay outside. I’ll go in.”

He cast her a wry look. “I’ve only broken one deal in my life, and I don’t intend to break a second.”

“I guess I’ll owe you a pretty big favor.” She attempted a smile.

“Two pretty big favors.”

That startled a laugh from her, and maybe she was crazy, but she could have sworn that a faint pink tinged Mr. Gold’s cheeks. 

“Wait.” She tugged back on his arm, though he hadn’t moved, and then pulled the compass out of her pocket. “I just want to check one more time.”

He lowered the pistol. She opened the compass. The needle pointed at Mr. Gold.

“I can’t believe that the divine hand of fate would drop a compass into my pocket from nowhere and it doesn’t even do anything.” She snapped it shut. 

“Maybe it only works once for a person,” he offered. “Here, let me try.” 

She could have let go of him, but instead, she waited for him to stick the pistol back in his pocket—his pocket—before handing it over.

When he opened the compass, she couldn’t see over the lid, but she could see his jaw clench. He looked at her, then turned his back to her, shaking the compass.

“Well?” she asked. “Is it pointing at you still?”

“No.” He didn’t move.

“What’s it pointing at?” She tugged on his sleeve and, slowly, as though it took great effort, he turned back to face her, snapping the compass shut. 

“What’s that information worth to you?”

Taken aback, she let go of his sleeve. Why was he suddenly being difficult? He’d been so accommodating all day, even tromping half-crouched through the woods until they found the exact fiddlehead they needed.

“What’s it worth to me?”

He shrugged, his bland expression back. He could have slapped her. “Either you want to know or you don’t.”

Something like fire bubbled up in her. Maybe she could open her mouth and scorch him. 

“How could you do this to me? Right now, at the end?”

He shrugged again. “We don’t know this is the end.”

“Fine, give it to me, and I’ll go in by myself. You can leave.”

She tried to snatch the compass from him, but he held it out of reach, fending her off by barely moving his cane. How was he so much more agile than her? 

“I’ll tell you what.” He held the compass above his head. Her fingertips just barely touched his wrist. “If you check it one more time where I can see, I’ll tell you what mine said.”

That knocked the wind from her sails. She dropped to her flat feet. “Fine. Hand it over.”

He did without comment or complaint, and she threw the lid open with more force than was probably warranted. The needle wavered a bit, but still pointed solidly at Mr. Gold.

“There. Are you happy now?”

But when she looked at him, his expression was unlike anything she’d ever seen. He might have been about to retch. Her anger evaporated. Mr. Gold wasn’t trying to be difficult—whatever he’d seen had scared him.

“Where did yours point?” she asked.

“A deal’s a deal, isn’t it?” His voice was softer than she’d ever heard it, tinged with something like anguish. “Have you figured out what it’s meant to point at yet?”

If a deal was a deal, why did she still not know where the needle had gone for him? 

“I don’t know,” she said. “It pointed at you and you brought me here, so maybe it’s not about the doomsday diamond at all, but the thing I needed most to get there?”

“I don’t think it’s about the diamond,” he said. “If it was, we’d have seen other people wandering around with their nose in compasses, or maybe a map.”

What was he getting at? Belle knew she was clever, but she felt daft then. “Okay, so—just something I needed most?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Mr. Gold, I’ve never raised my voice to you, but I think I might. Where did it point for you?”

His lip twitched, the familiar gesture putting her on more even footing. “It pointed at you.”

She opened her mouth to say that of course it did, if they were meant to be on this treasure hunt together, it made sense that the compass would point to one another, but then it sunk in. What if, like he said, the compass wasn’t about doomsday? What if whatever force had dropped the other clues had dropped this in her pocket as some sort consolation for the end of the world? A way to allow her to spend the whole day with Mr. Gold?

“You need me?” she asked. 

“It would appear so.”

She pursed her lips. “Mr. Gold, don’t be so stubborn.”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes as he watched the compass. “Sorry, dear. It’s in my nature.”

Well, it was in hers too. Emboldened by the fact that he hadn’t yet fled for the car, she took a step toward him, then another, then touched her lips to his. The ground shook.

He didn’t move, and she pulled back.

“What are you doing?” he asked, hoarse.

“If we’re going to die, and we both agree that we need each other, I think we should kiss at least once.”

“Do we?” he asked. “Do you? Agree?”

“I agree.” She kissed him again, and this time, he slid his free arm around her waist, and she cupped his cheek, and then the ground shook so hard they both fell over. Belle managed to grab him so that she took the brunt of the fall instead of him and his bad leg, and when the world stopped shaking, he did not look pleased.

“Belle,” he said, filling her veins with warmth. “Now you’re hurt. What have you—”

A high-pitched whine screeched from the mines, and they both hunched. Belle grabbed his tie and yanked him to her.

“What are you—”

“Kiss me again, it’s working!” 

Maybe it was presumptuous to think that pressing her lips to Mr. Gold’s had anything to do with stopping the end of the world as they knew it, but as she did it a third time, she couldn’t have cared less.

-

[birgittesilverbae]

smth smth finding a shade of paint as rare as the love of your life. toxins seeping into skin and something you can never unravel from your bones

shannon first mentions it in passing, oil paints doled out onto a palette, trying to capture the glow of the divinium blade she flips in her left hand. it's like a hole, she says, in the colour wheel. you can try your best to approximate the cyan of divinium glow with phthalo blues, can add phthalo greens, lighten with whites, but the hue is never quite as sharp, never quite as saturated as the reality.

a hole in the colour wheel visible only thanks to the hole bored between her shoulder blades.

mary watches shannon's deft hands as she scoops hillocks of paint into the centre of the pallet, smears them together with her palette knife, holds it up beside the divinium knife for mary's examination. the colours are similar, at least to mary's eyes, but she can see what shannon means. the dullness of the paint, as though the halo is moving out of proximity and the divinium going stagnant in its wake.

it's been out of production since the 90s, shannon explains, the pure manganese blue that fills that very specific niche. a perfect storm of cost and safety regulations and a supply of pigment stocks finally running dry.

shannon's never quite been able to express her wants, her desires, but it's easy to tell that this is one. that a woman who wants for so little, has vowed to want for so little, longs for this one piece of history that's out of her reach.

they're catching their breath in amsterdam, in the wake of a mission gone right, with a free night ahead of them before they drive home the next morning. they're walking along the prinsengracht, taking advantage of the opportunity to stroll hand in hand, when mary tugs shannon away from the water, towards a storefront. an art supply store, where mary leads shannon to the tubes of paint, clarifies "pb33, right?", starts to sift through the shelves.

"they're not going to have any, mary," shannon says softly, tugging at her elbow, "let's not waste our night looking."

"it's not a waste if it's for you."

they come up empty in the shop in amsterdam. so too in brussels, in riga, in every stop they make on the heels of a mission. mary, ribs aching from a blow with a rifle butt, starts with surprise and excitement in vienna, waves shannon over from where she's slouched against the counter talking to the shop owner, but it's a false alarm, a manganese blue hue rather than pure.

shannon falls, and the halo is pulled from her back, and the divinium in her chest fades, dulls with the distance until it's gone to darkness, the unlit sheen of phthalo blue fresh from the tube.

mary fights for her memory, and fights for her family, and in the aftermath of the war she finds herself still in the habit of wandering unfamiliar cities, still looking, always looking, for that missing piece. eyes roving across signs, scanning for variations on artista and pictor and kunst.

they're mid-return from a mission, passing through a village on the south coast of france, when she spots a paintbrush on a wind-worn sign, when she trips over herself asking bea to pull over. the shop is dusty, over-priced, the man behind the counter glaring back at her when she responds to his greeting in broken french. he still directs her towards the back of the store, though, and she sifts quickly through the paint tubes piled on a wobbly side table. her eyes catch on a label and her breath catches in her throat. the paper is worn and tattered, but the text is still legible. pb33, no qualifiers, no mixes.

she reads it again, through eyes filling with tears, just to be sure, catches the tang of seawater cutting through the musty air of the shop as the front door opens, closes. but she can't give it any notice, not when she's found shannon in this tube in this shop on this mission, when she's found shannon in a colour she never got to use.

her cheeks are streaked with tear tracks when she returns to the van, but nobody mentions it. ava reaches out a hand to hold hers and it's smaller than shannon's, but there's that halo bearer's warmth to the touch, and mary grips her hand with all the love she can muster to put into the gesture.