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tadpolesonalgae · 5 months

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Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 15

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: I became suddenly ill about three days ago and my brain is still quite mushy so I think this has been proofread but there might be some errors here and there I’ll try to iron out once I’m better!! Sorry for any scruples and I hope you enjoy!! 🧡💛

warnings: angst, general depression, violence (self-attempted)

word count: 16,175

-Part 14- -Part 16-

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Azriel catches her eye from across the room, weary hazel locking with bright amber that swirls in the faelight of the living room.

His tension is more palpable than usual, the conversation from yesterday with the golden-eyed male only further contributing to the death knell gonging quietly at the back of his mind, creaking through his knees, echoing in each footstep—each breath he takes. Time seems to be dripping by faster, even more so than usual. In the cobwebbed chambers of his mind he’s able to recall a time where days were his chosen measurement, where a twenty-four hour period contained beginning, middle, and end. But as he’d grown older, those chunks had grown with him, his perception of time shifting the more of it he lived through. Soon enough weeks were his days, calculating how much could be done over the period, sleep a small break to be indulged in between work. Then it had shifted to months—twelve to fit everything into, nights morphing into short naps.

Now years feel like days once had, time no longer a steady drip of water from the roof of a dark cell ceiling where he’d been kept locked away from the light, but a steady trickle as it carves its way through stone.

Shadows conceal his absence from the laughter-filled room, removing himself from the uncomfortably bright corner to a place of familiarity, shifting into the darker hallways as he sighs, feet positioned instinctively equidistant, weight spread evenly, fearing one lapse in discipline might bring him back to those days where he knew nothing of fighting, nothing of how to defend himself. To those days where he had to learn relentlessly, practice until his body couldn’t move in desperate attempts to cover the ground he’d lost years to.

Mor enters into the darkness, coming from the yellow-orange light that’s spilling into the blue-purple hallway, heels effortlessly silent upon the floorboards as her nocturnal eyes seek him out. Her features are already serious, easily picking up on his mood despite his efforts to conceal it. The depths of it, at least.

“Az?” Mor asks quietly, expression curious but solemn.

“She’s gone,” he murmurs shortly. Mor’s eyes flash with alarm at the revelation, before her brows tuck together. “What do you mean she’s gone? Where?”

“I don’t know,” he admits grimly. “I paid a visit to one of her friends afternoon yesterday, but he refused to answer anything.”

“What do you mean, she’s gone, Az?” Mor hisses, disbelief sharpening her muffled tone. Azriel grinds his jaw, but relents—this is more important. “I mean, she isn’t at the House of Wind. She left a note saying she would be at Bas’, and would be back but she wasn’t. When I went to get her, she wasn’t there either,” he summarises, expression sombre.

“What else?” Mor asks sternly, the brightness about her having faded faster than a flame extinguished. Azriel licks his lips, bracing himself, before explaining: she has magic but it’s been giving her trouble, she’d wanted to try using it without anyone else knowing and he’d let her, Elain’s vision prophesying his death at her hand.

To Mor’s credit, her features don’t drain entirely of colour, and it takes her no more than a few seconds of heavy silence for her to muster up a response. “What magic?” Mor asks first, keeping her tone quiet but clipped, judgement clear enough she doesn’t need to voice it. And Azriel won’t address it, either. “Her hands could glow a little around the fingertips. We didn’t know what it did, though.”

“And the trouble?”

“It dried her skin out, among other things.” Mor’s lips part, eyes closing briefly as she sighs. “The gloves.” Azriel doesn’t need to provide confirmation for her to have connected the dots.

But then her eyes open, slowly sliding to his, an edge of viciousness underlying their amber cut, one he withstands reluctantly. Mor swallows, jaw tense, watching him. “How long have you known about this?” She asks, lethally softly. Not how long has she had magic, how long has he known. And not told them. “About a fortnight.”

Mor’s eyes gleam with hostility, and his features become stony, walls raising up as she watches him silently. Judgement falling heavy on his shoulders. “Why tell me now?” She asks shortly. She isn’t chewing him out, nor is she outwardly rancorous. Not good a good sign. “Bas won’t tell me where she is,” he replies neutrally, Mor’s eyes flaring as she puts it together. “You want me to ask him.” Azriel nods, despite her already knowing.

She glances at him reproachfully, another look he withstands passively, and then she’s turning sharply on her heel, making back toward the light, back toward the laughter. Silent as a shadow, Azriel catches her upper arm, having to exert surprising force to keep her still. “Where are you going?” He asks coldly.

“Where do you think?” She counters sharply.

“They have enough on their plates,” Azriel mutters. As if on queue, Nyx’s laugher giggles through the halls, a stark contrast to the gloom lurking just beyond the light’s end. Mor snatches her arm away. “You have enough on your plate,” she says lowly, eyes glinting as they cut through him, “we could have made room. You should have told us.” But Azriel stands his ground, not giving an inch. “It was the right call.”

“You have no idea where she is,” Mor counters. “No idea where she is, or what state she might be in. What makes you think that was the right call?”

“You’re questioning my judgement?”

“Yes, I’m fucking questioning your judgement,” she hisses back lowly.

“She told me she didn’t want any of you to know,” he counters coldly, “she’s reclusive anyway, suddenly outing her wouldn’t have done anything helpful.”

The wording seems to strike something in Mor, ire banking, eyes shuttering briefly, before she’s gritting her jaw again. “You should have told us.”

“She barely managed to tell me,” Azriel states, “Elain didn’t even know until the vision that her sister had magic.”

“You know you should have told us.”

“And betrayed her trust when she chose to tell me?” Azriel asks cooly. “You didn’t see how scared she was.”

“Maybe she wasn’t scared of us finding out but of speaking with you.”

Azriel blinks, the only sign of his falter he’ll allow, caught off guard by the accusation. She’s never shown any fear of him before… “She has no reason to be scared of me.” He says finally.

A look of frustration flits through Mor’s amber eyes. “She’s young. This is probably the first time she’s experiencing strong feelings toward someone else,” she says lowly, “surely you can remember what that’s like.” Azriel bristles at the pointed look, the insulting comparison between his past love for Mor and the affection being unwelcomely pushed his way. “She’s infatuated. It happens,” he replies tersely, not taking kindly to the manipulation. “And she went through the war too—she isn’t that unaware. You’re doing her a disservice.”

“The disservice here is you not affording her the care she needs—to the point she’s chosen to run away,” Mor practically spits.

Terse silence stretches between them, sour and resentful.

“We aren’t going to come to an agreement,” Azriel says at last, tone clipped, but both of them know it’s better to move on for now. They can fight it out later, once things are resolved and taken care of. “You speak to Bas first, then we can find out who she’s gone to. She could be anywhere in the Night Court, knowing him.”

“We tell Rhys and Feyre first,” Mor demands lowly. But Azriel shakes his head, “if you want to be the one to tell Feyre her sister is missing and we don’t know where she is, be my guest.”

Silence stretches further, growing tauter by the second, until Mor sighs sharply. “Fine,” she grits out. “Bas first.”

Azriel nods, making to turn around, heading for the door.

“But you are telling Feyre,” Mor hisses lowly. “Whether we find out or not. Tonight.”

Azriel pauses, jaw tightening. But gives a sharp nod.

————

Once again he slinks back to the male’s house, the bright sun lost to winter’s oncoming grip, dark clouds shielding the stars from view.

Despite the silence between them, he can feel Mor’s judgement pressing into him, but he has no time to argue or persuade. After the…discussion, with the male the other day, he’d needed time to plan, regroup his thoughts. Time. Seemingly so sparse, as of late. He could afford little more than twenty-four hours of inaction before a decision would have to be made—he hadn’t come this far by sitting around aimlessly when faced with a hard choice. It seemed the only reasonably way forward would be to acquiesce to the male’s demand, as much as Azriel despised so. It was the smarter option.

The other would have been to lay hands on him, and no matter how urgent the matter was, the male was still a civilian, and untrained for war, at that. Violence was entirely out of the question.

He knocks thrice on the door, sharp and punctuated hits to alert the male of company, before stepping back to allow space for Mor.

Gleaming golden eyes pierce out into the darkness, and Azriel knows he doesn’t miss the hint of smugness in their gilded depths as he marks the presence of another, as he’d requested. To verify his claim that there were indeed urgent matters afoot. Azriel refuses to show even a hint of irritation, keeping his face cold and passive—Bas won’t get the satisfaction of seeing him riled. He’d have to work much harder for that.

“You’re back late,” Bas drawls from the warm glow of his house, once again leaning cockily against the broad wooden frame, ankles crossed, one foot keeping the door held to—away from prying eyes. “And you’ve brought company,” he muses, glancing to Mor at his side. The female steps forward, the yellowy-orange light from inside making her glow as she offers a tight smile. “Bas, correct?” Golden eyes sweep over her analytically, before he nods, shifting slightly. “Mor,” he acknowledges, “she mentioned you, too.” No signs of surprise mar her open expression, kept sealed beneath that deceptive mask she can wear to charm at any time.

“That’s why we came to see you, actually,” Mor begins calmly, straightforward. “I’m of the understanding you know her whereabouts, but are unwilling to disclose them for various reasons.”

“That’s right,” he replies slowly, expression shifting to something more wary. His provocative nature shying away from perceived earnestness. “She doesn’t want any visitors.”

Mor nods her head gently, understanding shimmering faintly in amber eyes, threads of her hair catching the golden glow of inner light, glinting with the motion. “I can understand that, but this is very important,” she says sincerely, worry shining in her face Azriel know she doesn’t have to fake. Still the male remains cautious in the doorway. “Azriel wasn’t lying when he told you this conflicts with Court matters,” Mor begins slowly, and the shadowsinger tamps down on the urge to glance at her warily. Though he knows she won’t reveal anything, there’s no need to offer scraps. “I’m afraid there’s little I can honestly tell you due to their private nature, but nonetheless I would like to speak with you about her. She is a part of our family, and we are deeply concerned about her. I’m sure you can understand our worry.”

Quiet pauses long enough to take a deep breath, before resuming to its consistent noise.

Eventually, Bas nods his head, standing straighter. A grain of tension is released from his shoulders as the male opens his door, yielding to a conversation. He makes to step forward, but sharp golden eyes flick to him, piercing and accusing in their nature. “I’ll speak with Mor, and Mor alone,” he states clearly, an edge of provocation creeping back into his features, though the Shadowsinger doubts its sincerity.

But Mor nods her head, “that’s fine,” she answers, brushing past his side, pulling the cold night air with her, a whisper of icy breath grazing his side as she moves forward, leaving him out in the dark. “Don’t move from here until we’re done,” Mor instructs from over her shoulder once Bas has disappeared from the entrance hall. Azriel nods, understanding the implication.

Listen in from outside.

————

The room she follows Bas into is cozy, well-kept. Clearly lived in.

The pillows of the sofas are slightly worn, slightly faded in colour, waned down to more earthy tones that compliment the pale terracotta of the walls. Fire crackles from the hearth, dried rosemary hung from the ceiling beams, as well as other dried herbs and plants. On the wall are some paintings, mostly stills, but they’re watery around their edges, faded colour bleeding over fine, distinct ink lines.

Bas takes a seat that seems to fit him comfortably, likely one he usually chooses, while Mor opts for one nearby, a quilt thrown over its back, squares of purple, blue, turquoise, and magenta knitted together, and she can make out small patches in the yarn where its been run thin and had to be darned with slightly mismatched thread.

“So,” Bas starts, quieter than she had expected, sitting forward in her chair, attentive. “You’re worried about her. Why?” It’s hard to conceal her frown at such a strange question, but she doesn’t really try to. She doubts she’ll get anywhere through masking her reactions. “She’s part of our family,” Mor replies, “why wouldn’t we be worried about her.” Bas settles deeper into his chair, hands braced on arms, head tilted back into the pillow as he watches her intently. It’s not an expression she’s unfamiliar with, but not one she had expected to encounter here—something wary and deeply protective.

“She doesn’t speak much about any of you,” he hedges slowly, keeping his posture relaxed. “But it’s enough. You aren’t as close knitted as family.” Mor opens her mouth to speak, but he continues. “Even if you try to be,” he says, nodding, “she isn’t easy to get to.” Mor closes her mouth, lips pursing in a tight line. He sighs, shifting in his seat, pushing a thick loc of hair from his face, hooking it over a thoroughly pierced ear. “I believe that you’re concerned about her, and that you truly want to help,” he says heavily, attitude shifted from how he’d been outside, and Mor wonders what Bas might have been told about the Shadowsinger to warrant such ice.

“We do,” she urges sincerely, and Bas nods again, hearing her.

“What I…worry about,” he starts hesitantly, forming the words carefully, considering each one. “I worry you don’t understand her enough to make an informed call,” he settles on, and Mor bristles a little. How long has Bas known her for? Does he know her more than Mor does? “What leads you to that way of thinking?” She asks, keeping the stiffness from her tone.

“I know you don’t see her much,” he replies simply, and again Mor’s lips purse. “She doesn’t enjoy…full, settings. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care, though.” He sighs, eyes briefly closing, before reopening with a fresh intensity, sitting upright in his chair, forearms braced on his thighs. “Do you know how we met? Me and her?”

Mor’s brow dips, but she answers anyway, curious where he’s going with this. “Through Nesta, right?” Bas nods, something passing through his eyes at the right answer. “Right,” he confirms, “making time to visit those stuffy inns, filled with groping hands—she hates places like that.” Bas sighs again, hand rubbing one side of his face. “I don’t even know if it helped at all, but I know she felt it was all she could do. Even if it was just company, and nothing material. Even if it might not’ve had an overall impact, that was her way of trying to help.”

Mor remains quiet, not seeing what he’s trying to say.

Bas shakes his head, as if telling her to forget about it, again rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, I don’t even know if I can speak on her behalf, and I like to think we’re fairly close with one another,” he admits, sighing heavily. “I don’t want to mislead you.”

“So you’ll let me where she’s gone?” Mor asks, concern heavy in her voice, making no effort to conceal her worry. She watches as the pads of his fingers rub over his eyes wearily, as she wonders if this is straining on him more than he’s letting on. “Try to understand her, when she talks,” he requests quietly, eyes still shut, fingers rubbing faintly. “She still confuses me sometimes, and she never shows if it bothers her, but I can’t imagine someone being okay with being misunderstood.”

“Bas,” Mor urges gently, sensing he’s on the verge of telling her whereabouts. “Please tell us where she’s gone. We don’t want her to feel alone.”

Bas doesn’t look up, face still covered by his hands, but Mor can make out the tightness of his brows, torn between his decisions. So close to cracking open.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

Mor blinks, eyes locking with gold as he looks at her through his fingers, fatigue obvious beneath his gaze, the lines more pronounced as the flame casts the shadows of his digits across his features, deepening the half circles that have appeared.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Mor asks, biting down on shock, clearing it entirely from her voice. “She didn’t tell me,” he answers quietly.

Silence stretches, and even in the haze and confusion that’s been stirred up she has enough clarity to feel the piercing weight of a glare through a window, heavy and accusing. Tension crackles in her spine, flipping her golden hair over a shoulder, a subtle message to piss off to the shadows that are watching from outside.

She sighs heavily, meeting the golden eyes of the male opposite her, now sat back in his chair as he was before, but his back is slumped, as if containing all that worry had been stretching him taut. Relieved to no longer be the sole barer of her secrets. “Do you—…” Mor eases in a sharp breath, settling the worry and gradually increasing panic that’s tightening around her throat. She swallows, pulling herself together. Recomposing herself. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” She asks calmly. “Anything could help.”

But Bas shakes his head, guilt clear in his golden eyes. “She didn’t give me any hints. But she had a bag with her, so I’m guessing she had somewhere in mind and didn’t just aimlessly wander off.”

Mor nods, getting to her feet, golden eyes tracking her movements. “Thank you for telling me,” she says sincerely, before turning for the door.

“I know that leaving in the middle of the night without telling anyone where you’re going seems rash—maybe even a bit stupid,” Bas says after her, voice a little clearer to catch her attention. “But she’s smart. I’d wager it was probably something she’d had in the back of her mind for a while.”

Mor swallows thickly, the possibility not sitting well with her, but nods nonetheless.

“I’ll let you know when we find her.”

————

Azriel waits sullenly in the front garden for Mor to exit the male’s house, darkening the doorstep he’d been instructed to remain in until she was done.

He watches the door open and close, Mor stepping out into the night air, latch clicking softly as it locks behind her, and the two make their way silently at first down the garden path, back into the street before they begin communicating. “That certainly didn’t take long,” he muses lowly, glancing at her sidelong. “I take it you heard everything?” She asks quietly, tension clear in the cold bite of her usually honeyed voice. Azriel gives a brisk nod, and Mor sighs. “What now?”

“There are only so many places she could have gone to,” Azriel replies smoothly, mind already running through the possibilities. Honestly, Bas not knowing almost helps more—it has to be someone she knows. There are only two places she could have possibly run off to, though neither of them seem particularly believable. That being thought, he knows where he’ll check first.

“You have an idea?” Mor asks tightly, a bit of a bite to her question. Azriel nods grimly, “Elain mentioned a fox in her vision,” he explains, “apparently they grow close—enough to make a bargain of some sort, anyway.”

“Elain saw the bargain in her vision?” Mor questions. Azriel nods. “We don’t know if that’s symbolism or not,” she mutters, “we have no idea how accurate they are, either. Nor how soon they’ll come to pass.” Her tone softens toward the end a little, but Azriel isn’t willing to speak about that part of the prophecy yet. That he will be dying. Probably soon, going off how vivid Elain’s descriptions were—as if it were urgent. Impending.

“And you’re sure Elain doesn’t know where she’s gone?” Mor asks, keeping her gaze ahead, brows pulled together in concentration, a glint in her warrior’s eyes. “She might do,” Azriel sighs, “they are close, after all. And the fox…”

“Could be Lucien,” Mor finishes heavily. “You think she’s run to the mortal lands. Back to her home.” Azriel remains silent, keeping pace as they return silently to the River House.

Piercing amber eyes dig into the side of his skull, the intensity of her attention almost startling if he hadn’t had centuries to grow accustomed to it. He senses the question, just as she could sense he was holding something back.

Azriel doesn’t look at her as he speaks, “there’s only one other person the fox might represent.”

Even without visuals, he can hear how her pace nearly falters, then comes to a stop. He pauses with her, at last turning to face the golden haired female. Her skin is paler, even taking the silver of the moon into account. “You think she might have gone to Eris?” She asks, voice thick, but quiet. No more than a breath of wind. “I think it’s one of the two. There’s no one else it could be.”

“She’s only met him once,” Mor snaps lowly, nails digging into her palms. Azriel makes a show of shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “It’s one or the other,” he says calmly, “if she isn’t in the Mortal lands…”

Mor stares at him, amber eyes drained a little. “You really think there’s a chance he could have…taken her?” She practically spits, unable to keep the hiss out of her voice. Because when it comes to that long ago trauma, her only responses to fall back on are fear, or anger. He doubt she’ll allow the vulnerability of fear right now. Not with the tension between them. “I think it’s better to question Elain first to see if she knows anything. If she doesn’t, I’ll make my way down Prythian.”

Mor blinks, realising the situation. She had demanded Azriel be the one to tell Feyre, regardless of whether they find anything or not. But with the new possibility of her having somehow found herself in the Autumn Court…Mor’s throat rolls heavily. She can’t bring herself to go there. Even now, the thought alone…she pushes against the urge to settle her palm over her abdomen. “We question Elain first,” she manages quietly, and Azriel can see how she’s gathering herself back together.

Instinct is the closest it comes to, that feeling she’s somehow run off to the Autumn Court, like a tug toward the unfamiliar land. Surely Elain would have mentioned something to him about a plan for her sister to leave when she’d been telling him about the vision. It’s the option that makes the most sense, for her to have spoken with Elain, and used a tunnel to reach the border quickly. With all the books she’s read in the library…the kind of things they contain, he doesn’t doubt she’d be more than capable of figuring a way to sneak out of the Night Court. To sneak out of Prythian if she set her mind to it.

Mor nods, and Azriel redirects his attention to the street, continuing the pace. “Question Elain,” she murmurs, “then head to Autumn first. If she isn’t there, go to the Lower Lands. Be as quick as possible.” He nods, admittedly relieved he won’t have to yet face Rhys for the mess he’s inadvertently caused.

————

“Eris, I’m tired,” you sigh, hands aching, sitting dejectedly on a tree stump.

As much as you’d protested, he’d dragged you back out into the forest, where everything feels encased in a glass bubble. It’s hard to explain when you think about it, but it’s like being in another world, how easily the trees sweep away and redirect noise. Hairs prickle at the back of your neck as you remember the giant, boar-like creature that had rampaged upon you mere days ago. The sight and smell of steaming blood as skin slid from flesh, melted apart.

“You haven’t even done anything,” he mutters, watching. “Get back up.”

You sigh heavily, reluctantly getting to your feet, then blinking heavily, suddenly crouching down as you press your palms to your eyes, trying to steady yourself from the abrupt dizziness that had ballooned into your head. Lips part as you try to concentrate on your breathing, wishing away the sudden feeling of unevenness beneath your feet. Eventually it passes, a few extra moments spent crouched for good measure, before you slowly stand back up, hand pressing to the side of your head. Cutting whiskey and amber eyes are piercing into you from across the clearing. You scowl back.

“What was that?” He asks, disapprovingly, your scowl deepening at the tone.

“I told you: I’m tired,” you snap, but it lacks the bite you’d wished for, fatigue building into a slow but heavy pulse inside your head, just above and behind your brows. A yawn rises from your chest, and you cover your mouth as it stretches you open, eyes squeezing shut, watering a little before you slump back into your usual posture, no longer pulled taut by your muscles.

His sharp eyes narrow accusingly, and you bristle at the look, trying to summon up the energy to glare at him. “Did you eat breakfast this morning?” He asks sharply, and you grimace, knowing he won’t approve of the answer. But you really don’t have the energy to lie, either. “No, I didn’t,” you sigh, “I was feeling sick.” Something flickers behind his eyes, but it’s gone too quickly for you to even attempt to recognise. “You were probably feeling sick from hunger,” he mutters, as if it’s obvious, arms folding over his chest, leaning back against a tree. “Using magic can take up a lot of energy, even if it doesn’t feel like it. You should have—”

“I know the difference,” you hiss, lip twitching up in the beginnings of a snarl, before once again flattening out, and you sit back on the stump, uncaring if it pisses him off. You hope it does.

“Do you?” He muses, a bladed edge to his tone that has your stomach tightening, glancing at him warily from across the clearing. You tense as he pushes off from the tree, then vanishes, and you jump as he appears on your other side, peering down at you, unimpressed. “You know how to tell when your magic is draining you? Because those are some pretty big steps to have made seemingly overnight.” Your lips purse, averting your gaze, sullenly looking away. “That’s what I thought.”

“I know the difference between hungry sickness and—” you falter, but manage to finish the sentence, “…and being unwell.”

Eris pauses, and you want to meet his gaze and glare at him, but your head just feels too heavy on your shoulders, and the general fatigue hasn’t been aided by the light sheen of sweat that’s been layering your body each morning, before you’ve wobbly stumbled to the washroom, clutching your stomach. You’ve yet to actually regurgitate anything though—your one blessing. It’s like those initial months after the Cauldron all over again.

“Look at me,” he instructs, and you glare at the ground, irritation growing in your chest. It wouldn’t hurt him to be a little more gentle with his attitude. His demeanour, in general. A curse sits, unspoken, at the tip of your tongue when he grips your jaw, angling your chin upward so he can examine you. Again your lips twitch in a slight snarl, but the energy fails quickly. Amber eyes sweep over your features, and you avert your gaze when his own settle intensely on yours. He releases you after a too-long moment, allowing you your space again, and you glare at him. “What was that for?”

“You look worse than usual,” he answers flatly.

You glare at him resentfully, unable to muster up the laugh you usually would whenever he makes a comment like that. Instead you just feel irritated. His brows narrow further, “how much have you been sleeping recently?” He pushes. You shrug, briefly glancing away.

“A normal amount. I’m fine, just let me sit down, it’s not that big of an issue if I’m not standing, right?”

“Are you coming up for your cycle?”

The bones in your hands creak, groaning with strain and you hiss as pain flares weakly beneath your gloves at your fingertips. You tuck your hands under your arms, trying to soothe their sting as you glare at him. “Do not ask me that,” you snap, legs crossing on the tree stump. You half expect his lips to quirk at the easily given reaction, but his brow dips a little. “You don’t have to give me a direct answer,” he says at last, a touch gentler than before, but still stern. “Just answer if it could be related.”

You hesitate at the tone, jaw still tight with tension, but you swallow thickly. “No,” you manage quietly, “not for another few months, at least.”

“Then as much as you disagree, it would be a good idea to eat first, then see if you improve,” he replies, back to his usual drawl, laced with distaste. Enough to almost have your lips curving a little at their edges. “So we’ll be going back to have lunch right this second,” you muse, glancing up at him, “and you aren’t going to set some stupid challenge for me to fulfil beforehand. Right? Because that would be very impractical.”

His amber eyes glint with something you’ve decided is the closest he’ll get to open amusement, brow raising slightly. “Why waste a good motive?” He counters, “looks like you’re catching on.” You force a groan, if only in attempts to lighten the mood from whatever dark grave it had settled into, and you reluctantly get to your feet, taking it slow incase your head starts swimming again. “What is it this time?” Eris nods to the tree that looks to have been recently cut down, the counterpart to the trunk you’re sat upon. “I want you to try touching the bark,” he instructs, and you look at him quizzically. Seems easy enough.

You watch him questioningly as you stand and make your way over to the tree, putting your hands down.

“Done?” You say slowly, confusion blatant in the furrow of your brows as you stare at him.

Eris stares at you blankly, before raising his palm to cover the lower portion of his features, concealing his mouth. “Using your magic,” he adds disbelievingly, mouth still covered.

You blink, then flush with embarrassment, hand covering your own mouth as laughter bubbles up from your chest. “Oh,” you manage, shoulders shaking lightly, not helped by the matching amusement reflecting in his amber eyes—amusement he’s struggling to conceal. “I thought—” you break off, a smile stretching wide behind your palm, chest stuttering with mirth. “I thought you meant I just had to touch it.” He shakes his head, seemingly beyond speech. “You want to see how the bark reacts when I touch it with my magic,” you clarify, nodding your head, still trying to tamp down the laughter that’s heating your eyes faintly. He confirms with a slight nod of his head, and you take a deep breath, trying to sober up. “I see,” you nod again, at last recovered enough to lower your hands to remove your gloves, a smile still faintly curving your lips. “I’ll give it a go.”

“Why would I ask you to touch a tree?” Eris asks from somewhere at your back, tone almost settled back to his usual drawl, dripping of disapproval. “I’m tired,” you reply, not nearly as practiced as he is at keeping your tone neutral as you glance at him over your shoulder, “you should have clarified better.” Eris shakes his head, before nodding to the tree trunk.

You take in a breath, returning to look at the bark—what would happen if you touched it?

Closing your eyes briefly, you steady out your breaths, inhaling slow and deep, feeling your shoulders lose their tension before reopening your eyes. Focusing on the bark again now that you’re settled. “What should I do?” You ask, not taking your gaze from the tree or your hands.

“Try thinking about different things, exploring how they make you feel,” he replies steadily. How helpful, you think, but leave the comment unvoiced—you’re trying to concentrate. You think about how the light had appeared before, when he’d gotten you to briefly sustain it. It had hurt at first, you’d had the chance to realise, but after the initial rush of pain, the creak of bones and your groaning carpals, it had faded more into a slight tingle, like your fingers had fallen asleep, wrapped in a vague warmth.

You swallow thickly, thinking about the flat-topped ring in your pocket, the absence of weight in your ears, how they correlate. You don’t regret the decision to sell them off, to your slight surprise. More indifferent to the change, if not slightly excited at your choice. Doing something for yourself, on your own, that nobody knew about. It’s nice, having secrets.

“Now press them to the bark,” Eris instructs, and you look down in surprise to spot the faint greenish-gold glow weaving between your fingers—almost like fish slowly weaving throughout water as they struggle upstream, but less frenetic. Slowly, keeping your breathing steady, you press your palms against the bark, palms shaking slightly as the light flickers, almost flinching slightly as it hesitantly makes contact with the new surface.

You jerk away when something lances up your wrist, stinging pain spearing beneath your skin as the tang of copper bursts in the air. The magic extinguishes in an instant, snuffed out with a single recoiling thought, and your breathing loses its pattern as you glance down at your right palm. What looks like a popped blister sits on the heel of your hand, except the liquid that gleams had a red tint to it, mixed with blood. You sigh heavily, left hand holding your right wrist lightly, thumb pressing the flesh just below the blister, watching as blood rises to the surface. The skin around it is flakier than before, a little discoloured, and you spot a mole at the knuckle of your little finger, poking meekly out from the skin, as if worried over being spotted and pulled away.

Eris walks up to your side, glancing down at the bark, the absence of any sort of change. It looks exactly the same. “I guess nothing happened,” you hedge, glancing warily down at the tree, searching for some kind of change.

Eris is quiet, and you at last turn to peer up at him, wondering what he’s thinking. His silence is waring. Amber eyes latch with your own, narrowed and slightly impatient, before the emotion is swiftly wrapped away. “I had hoped to make more progress,” he muses lowly, and you regard him with caution at the hushed tone. His eyes gleam with something you can’t figure out, wariness intensifying as he pulls something from his pocket—a small silk pouch.

You tilt your head, brows furrowed, “what is that?”

His lips sharpen at the edges, and tension coils beneath your skin—that type of expression is never good. “Open it,” he instructs simply, and you cautiously take it from his fingers, eyeing him again before carefully pulling the strings open, tipping the contents out into your palm. You blink as you take in the smooth band of metal, silver and gleaming against the flaws of your skin. “A…ring?” You ask, peering up at him questioningly. He nods, and you suppress your jolt when his fingers brush over your knuckles, plucking the band up and watching you intently as he smoothly slides it down to the base of the pointer finger on your left hand.

His demeanour has noticeably shifted, and your brows narrow further, suspicion roiling in your gut.

“It’ll help with keeping your magic calmer,” he explains lowly, secretively, and you manage a nod, confusion running rampant in your blood stream. “How so?” You ask, glancing down at the band, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist to keep you from moving. “You have a habit of straining yourself to keep the full force of your power from coming out,” he answers, thumb brushing your knuckle, and this time you glare up at him. His mouth only sharpens, amber eyes glinting with something that has the hairs raising at the nape of your neck. “I’m sure you’re familiar with how the Illyrians use siphons—so their raw type of magic doesn’t destroy everything around them?” You nod, tension lessening, again glancing down to the band. “Think of it like that—now you don’t have to waste concentration on keeping it all in check.”

He releases your hand, and you pull it closer to look at the silver, angling your head a little, understanding this must have been what that exchange had been about, when he’d gone down that dim, dark alleyway into the hidden chamber. “So it’s…a magic ring?” You ask, brows scrunched together as you look up at him. He raises a brow, “how astute of you.” You glare, lips curving faintly at the familiar intonation.

You swallow, stepping back a little, nodding your head. “I guess…” you breathe deeply, “as good a time as any.” You pull the flat-topped ring from your own pocket, and extend it toward him. “I saw this the other day in the market,” you say honestly, watching as his expression shifts, brow raising as he opens his palm. “It reminded me of you a little, and I probably won’t see you over the solstice anyway, so might as well give it to you now.”

Eris takes the ring, examining it, the small carving of the fox set in sterling silver. “A rather unique gift,” he muses, making the edges of your mouth curve.

“If you hate it, you don’t have to wear it,” you say, smiling lightly, “I just wanted to get it.” Though to your surprise, he doesn’t seem to despise it, sliding it over the thumb of his right hand—it seems to actually fit.

That viper’s smile returns to his sharpened mouth, eyes glinting again. “I don’t think your family would approve of a gift like this,” he drawls, more clearly than before, causing you to cock your head in question.

Lips fashion themselves into a razor-sharp grin, the expression more vulpine than fae.

“Isn’t that right, Shadowsinger?”

————

Eris raises his gaze to the forest, how the trees had whispered to him, calling out about the figure stalking their movements. Really, the shadowsinger should know not to hunt outside his own territory. The hulking, shadowy figure steps silently out into the clearing, with a quiet that’s been well-earned by the Spymaster of the Night Court.

Powerful wings are pulled to his body in traditional Illyrian fashion, save for the darkness wreathing the gleaming talons at their peaks, cold hazel eyes clashing with Eris’ own. Marking what the Spymaster has come for. It’s proximity to the male he hates viciously, bloodily, gruesomely.

“Shouldn’t you know not to sneak around in the shadows by now?” Eris drawls, hands settling around its shoulders, feeling stone-tight tension beneath his palms. Its magic fading, unable to winnow two people away, so left trapped in the clearing as the male prowls closer.

“Eris,” the Spymaster greets coldly, darkness unspooling upon the ground he treads, coming to a stop at the edge of the clearing. Not close enough for hand-to-hand combat, but too nearby for a proper display of magic. At least he’s smart enough to recognise he’s at a disadvantage in a foreign court—uninvited, at that. “Shouldn’t you know the consequences of displacing a member of Rhys’ court?” The Spymaster questions, lethally quiet.

Tremors flutter beneath Eris’ hands, still gripping her shoulders to keep her in place, and he glances down, only to find her already watching him. If it weren’t for the tremors, she would be as still as death. Her brows lifted and slightly curved, mouth pointed down at the edges. Betrayal stark in her normally bright eyes.

“You’re clearly uninformed,” Eris muses, pulling away from her scared eyes to meet cutting hazel. “This is a perfectly amicable meeting, isn’t it, cygnet?”

The Spymaster’s canines flash at the pet-name, the blatant taunt, the insinuation he’s made that she would choose himself over the Spymaster. That well-concealed wrath suffers a blow when she raises her hands to grip his wrists, nothing demanding about the touch—it’s a weak hold. As if asking for attention.

“Amicable or not,” the Spymaster says, expression stony, “you’ll return her. Unless you want Rhys to know about this abduction?” Eris shrugs, amusement sharpening his mouth as he selects his words carefully, “I’m not her keeper. She will return when she likes.” By the looks of it, the arrow lands, pupils constricting as the Spymaster takes a menacing step closer.

————

Your ears have hollowed out, stomach swallowing your heart. A quiet kind of panic tightening through your chest, pulse spiking. Dread sluicing through the rope holding you taut.

You’re staring up at him, holding on with as much strength as you can manage as a strange emotion rushes through your blood, softening your muscles until you’re struggling to stand, pushing every pleading word you’ve ever read into your eyes, silently begging for him to do something. To keep you from facing him on your own.

You know how easy it is for him to shatter you.

Amber eyes lower to yours, walls risen against Azriel’s presence, and your fingers stutter over the cuffs of his tunic, before the last of your strength drains. They’re glinting again with that challenge, and in the very back of your mind you can understand he’s using this as just another training exercise, but it’s hard to focus on through the ringing in your ears, that strange quiet that’s so loud it drowns out every other thought, like a thousand whispers hissing instructions too swiftly, too viciously for you to make them out, coming together in a swirling spiral that’s pulling you under.

Eris’ mouth is moving, eyes peering at something behind you, but you’re fine not hearing. Would prefer to fade from the world, to slip away quietly, unnoticed and un-missed. But then amber again returns to you, and with it sound comes crashing in too. “Pack up,” Eris orders, and you blink, his hands tightening on your shoulders as he feels the slight sway of your body.

“She’ll take a while,” Eris drawls, glancing back at the Shadowsinger—your stomach lurches—who remains a heavy presence at your back. “You may be unwelcome, but let’s not waste this opportunity. Using your General’s absence as an excuse not to meet has lost its worth. You will suffice.”

————

You feel half-awake as you pack your things, watching from some far away place as you fold clothes meticulously, with much more care than you usually would, taking your time gathering the few items you brought.

Clothes, an empty blue box, the thickly bound volume. A thin wooden box about the length of your arm, a note attached atop.

Use it wisely.

You pack the box in your bag, recognising the elegant script.

————

Azriel had followed silently, concealed within Eris’s shadow as he’d strode through the stretching hallways, leading the way to his own chambers, where they will be able to speak freely and most importantly, privately. Tension had simmered beneath his war-roughened skin the entire time, disliking even having to blend his shadows with the heirling’s, but it’s an intimacy he’s forced to yield.

The room Eris takes him to is big, to say the least, and open, with a large bed against a wall, a wooden chest at its foot, his desk adjacent so natural light fills the cavernous room—one that’s above ground. It’s here he emerges from shadow, filling space just beside the large wooden chest, an unlit fire quite a way to his left. Eris takes his time walking around the desk, sitting down comfortably, having the nerve to look relaxed—prick.

“So,” Eris begins, and Azriel bites against the urge to grind his teeth at the smug tone. “She ran away from you. Took her long enough.”

“How long have you been planning this?” Azriel asks coldly, completing a triple check of the room, making sure there’s no one else around. “You act like it was my idea,” the autumn heir drawls, successfully snaring his attention, something foul rising at the back of his throat at the implication. Likely the confirmation he needs that she had indeed left of her own volition. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“You want me to believe she came all this way on a hope that you’d provide temporary asylum?” Azriel asks, rooting deeper. “She has a smart head on her shoulders,” Eris drawls, amusement glinting in sharp, amber eyes, “she knows how to bargain.”

His blood ices over, skin turning cold at the wording, demeanour plunging as his shadows deepen. “You made a bargain with her?” Azriel growls, pulse spiking. If a bargain has already been made… But Eris waves his hand, enough of a light dismissal for Azriel to figure she hasn’t mentioned Elain’s vision to him. One small ray of light amongst the storming thunder clouds she’s already brought upon herself.

“Do you find it so unbelievable that she might be capable of making arrangements on her own? Why do you assume I had any hand in it?” Eris drawls, making that glittering rage sharpen into razor-tipped icicles, poised to carve and slice. “You’re a conniving bastard,” Azriel says lowly, violence glinting in his hazel eyes, “she wouldn’t have come to you without some prompting.”

“You think I tricked her?” Eris muses, a trace of humour in his tone, Azriel’s brows narrowing with detestation. “What would I get out of that, unless she was complicit? I have no way of forcing her magic out of her, she has to want that on her own—as much as that might irritate Rhys.”

Loathing simmers in Azriel’s chest, but he remains quiet, allowing Eris to talk so he can gather as much information as he can from both sides. So he can compare her side with his later.

“I’m sure after Nesta Archeron, Rhys would be eager to find out what other weapons he might have at his disposal.”

“She isn’t a weapon,” Azriel snarls lowly, fury held back by straining iron manacles.

“But she could become one,” Eris counters, tone shifting to something more serious, and Azriel stiffens. “The timing’s a bit strange, don’t you think? Her magic only now coming through? After two years?”

“That’s not for you to speculate on.”

“Even without an alliance, it is a matter of concern,” Eris growls, brows narrowing as ire blazes in his eyes, glowing like freshly forged steel. “Why doesn’t she know anything?”

Azriel growls in warning, violence itching at his fingers, fists aching to slam down. Sparks crackle in the air, his own intentions seemingly reflected in the male before him. “You don’t have the luxury to ignore this pathway,” Eris growls lowly, “choosing to turn a blind eye would be damning.”

“She has her own problems to deal with,” Azriel snarls lowly, “you do not get to make that call.”

“I will make the call if Rhys doesn’t,” Eris snarls back, canines flashing viciously, “she could use some toughening up.”

“You don’t know enough to make an informed choice,” Azriel mutters coldly.

“Then Rhys had better hurry up. It’s not as though he’s unaccustomed to having to make decisions like this. What’s taking him so long?”

Azriel keeps still, features neutral, refusing to let even a hint of emotion appear in his blank expression.

Eris’ eyes narrow, sensing he’s being denied information. Vulpine senses picking up on a weak spot. Unnervingly keen. Then he blinks, leaning back in his chair, torso losing tension. “You haven’t told him.” Despite the utter neutrality, Azriel knows he’s figured it out. The heirling nods, a cynical curve to his sharpened mouth. “She didn’t give the impression she’d willingly display her failures to you.”

“They aren’t failures,” Azriel mutters, ice burning in his eyes as he watches Eris with a glacial look.

“No? Because the control over her magic was pretty pathetic to me,” Eris replies lowly.

Azriel snarls, low and threatening, shadows concentrating into a darkness worthy of the Night Court’s Spymaster, deep and deadly as they writhe in warning. “I didn’t realise she had you so tightly wrapped around her flaky little finger,” Eris croons, and darkness rears back, preparing to strike, when three quiet taps are landed to the door, meagre and unimposing.

————

You peek your head into his chambers, bag slung over your shoulder as you pause on the threshold.

Tension is blatant in Azriel’s shoulders, wings slightly flared, an icy emotion tucked between the stern set of his brows, shadows darker—more frenetic—than they usually are. Looking over to Eris, you can see how he’s leaned back in his chair, that taunting glint in his naturally piercing gaze, and you can guess fairly easily the conversation they were having was not a friendly one—even without the aid of body language.

Maybe they were discussing Court matters.

“I—…Should I wait out—”

“Come in,” Eris orders, cutting you off, and your brows narrow a little at the tone, before softening out again, remembering who else is present. You shut the door behind yourself, turning your back to them to make sure it clicks shut quietly, then walking further into the room, stood a little distance from Azriel, not wanting to encroach on his space while he’s surely furious with you. At the very least immensely disappointed.

“Took you long enough,” Eris drawls, bringing your attention away from Azriel to meet his cutting gaze. Well, your eyes meet his. It’s practically impossible to not focus on the male at your right. You’re not sure if you're imagining the displeasure rippling from him, but you can only hope Eris hasn’t intentionally stirred things up. You know you won’t be able to protect yourself against whatever words he has for you after your abrupt departure.

“You haven’t left any tatters behind?” Eris asks, and a slight scowl dips your brows.

“I have everything,” you reply, readjusting the strap of the bag on your shoulder.

“Excellent. Then you can leave.”

You blink at the abrupt dismissal, glancing at him warily. “Weren’t you discussing something?” You ask Eris hesitantly, cautious about prodding where you aren’t welcome. “We were,” Eris replies, a viper’s smile on his sharp lips, amber eyes cutting to the male at your right. “But it appears your Spymaster doesn’t think you’re trustworthy enough.” It’s obviously a manipulation of truth, but that doesn’t make it easy to hear, heart hollowing out, spine losing a bit of rigidity.

“And who could blame him,” Eris continues, “you haven’t exactly been particularly honest with him, have you, cygnet?”

Your lips purse, averting your eyes from both of them, peering at the floorboards to your left, shame tightening around your throat. “Seems logical enough,” you say quietly, managing to keep your voice steady. You’d rather vanish right then and there, wiped clean from memory and existence than allow a tremor into your voice.

You’ve gotten yourself into this situation. Self-pity won’t fix anything.

“Then that is that,” Eris muses, pulling you from your thoughts. Azriel shifts, not saying another word to either of you as he makes for the door, and you glance at Eris a little longer, searching for a way back. He quirks a taunting brow, resting his jaw on his right hand, the flat-topped band of sterling silver catching the light with the motion. Your thumb brushes the ring on your own finger, before you turn, making for the door where Azriel’s waiting to take you back.

Back to the Night Court.

Back to Velaris.

Back to your family.

Back to be judged.

————

It was unnerving how alone you’d felt on the way out of the palace. Even knowing he was present, slipping through shadows, you couldn’t sense a single thing, and on more than one occasion had glanced around, worriedly trying to find him—but nothing.

It wasn’t until you passed the walls, heading out into the forest again that he emerged—silent and looming—unable to hear his footsteps even when he was right beside you. Unnervingly ghost-like.

You wait for him to speak, to say whatever it is that’ll inevitably bring tears to your skin, but he’s completely silent, leading the way. Knowing you’ll follow behind. Knowing you won’t speak to him until he initiates.

You’d been brought here by winnowing, but he makes no move to wrap either of you in his shadows, and a small part of you whispers that he wouldn’t want you to contaminate them. You try to ignore that part, but even the quietest voice will be heard over silence. Instead the tales spin deeper, that he hadn’t even wanted to retrieve you, content to have you out of the way, out of the Night Court, away from his home. At least that way there’d be no chance of his prophesied death coming to pass.

He’d be safe, and you wouldn’t be bothering him.

Wouldn’t be bothering any of them.

He walks deeper into the forest, silent and steadfast, while you watch as his boots tread through the fallen leaves, not daring to look any higher in case it disgusts him further. You have no concept of how long you follow after him for—long enough your feet begin to ache lightly, but you push through it—silently waiting for the conversation to start. For the first question to be asked. For the first blow to be landed.

Azriel doesn’t stop when you try to shift your bag to the other shoulder, your right one aching, and something in your stomach drops when your pace slows but his remains constant, so you hurriedly finish the switch, and make an effort to catch up, careful not to trip. Hunger gnaws at your bones, but you keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt his pace. It’s not until your stomach audibly protests that he comes to a pause, glancing over his shoulder to you, and you swiftly duck your head, averting your eyes from his painfully familiar hazel set. Breaths deepening as you come to a stop with him.

“When did you eat last?” He asks. The first words he’s said to you.

“Yesterday,” you answer quietly, pressure tight across your chest as you try to keep your breaths quiet but even. “Do you have food on you?” He asks. You nod. You’d wrapped up a pastry from breakfast, it being the only thing you’d be able to savour. Even years later, the habit of not wasting food still remains prominent.

His boots shift, turning to face forward as he begins walking again. You follow silently, seeing no point in nodding or replying. It’s not like you’re going to do anything else. “There’s a clearing up here. You can eat there.”

Azriel pauses beside a particularly large oak tree, and you swallow, and you habitually consider where the least offensive place to sit would be. So you’re nicely out of his way. The ground is muddy, so you’re forced to follow beside his footsteps to the oak, setting as silently as you can on one large branch that’s gnarled and shoved through the earth to curl into a large seat.

Your pulse spikes, wondering if this will be where you have the one-sided discussion, perching the bag on your legs, searching through for the little pastry. It’s made harder by your bare hands, how every piece of fabric seems to bite at your skin with each brush, piercing painfully as you search, until you spot the orange scarf, pulling it out to find the pastry wrapped in a napkin.

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel like you’re wasting time.

You peer at the pastry in your hands, not particularly keen on eating it. You’re close enough to nausea as is, and don’t want to tempt fate with giving your stomach something to regurgitate. But it would be weird to put it away now, so you’ll just have to take small bites. Hope that you can stomach it. A few minutes pass, but you’ve hardly made a noticeable dent in the food, guilt weighing on your bones, pausing between each mouthful to peer around the clearing dully.

Your fingers fumble a little when Azriel moves, settling on the root beside you, your muscles stitching themselves taut, and you hastily shift yourself tighter so he has his space. Almost dropping the pastry in your stuttering movements.

He’s quiet for a bit, and you swallow thickly, attempting to focus on the food before you so as not to stare, but internally you can feel the beats passing, heart ticking tighter…tighter…

“Why did you leave?” He asks quietly.

You still, able to feel the narrow wooden box digging into your thighs. Pausing as the tension abates a little, like how you imagine it would feel to watch an arrow loose from a bow, watching it arc in the sky, then slowly plummet down, seeking out its target. The breath that would breathe out in relief once it embedded itself in flesh, those few, stretching moments at last having come to an end, and one can relax into the clarity of the pain. The certainty of the wound.

“I wanted to get out,” you mumble thickly, keeping the shake from your voice.

“So you went to him?” Azriel asks. You head lowers a little in sorrow.

Where else were you supposed to go?

“You could have asked to be taken somewhere,” he says quietly, and guilt tightens itself around your throat. Is there any way to explain to him why you’d left when you hardly understand it yourself? It had been a crescendo of nerves, of bottled up worries tightening with pressure, like air being blown into a brown paper bag until it burst. Is there any way to tell him you’d like to be able to ask things of him, but in truth you’d rather be slowly pulled apart by pressure than worry him with pointless tasks that only serve your benefit? How can you ever hope to speak with him honestly, when your very heart seems to be the thing warning you away—that same heart that wants to press into him, to beg and cry for forgiveness and reassurance.

“At least have the decency to answer,” he says quietly when you don’t respond, and you feel the small tremor that shudders up your throat, fearing the oncoming disaster. “I wanted to go on my own,” you get out, words softer than a whisper.

He’s quiet, and you wonder if that’s the end of the discussion for now.

But, “did you think at all about what the consequences would be from going to him?” He asks, gaze ahead, but attention pressing down on you. “Or did you forget you have people around you, that your actions impact.”

Your grip loosens on the pastry, choosing to wrap it back up in the napkin, fingers shaking slightly. A lump rising in your throat.

“Answer,” he murmurs, promptingly.

“I just wanted to go,” you whisper hoarsely, fingers wringing together. “I thought—… I thought it would be better if I was fur—… If I was gone.”

“Are you going to tell Mor where you went?” He questions softly. “Or did you not think about that part either?”

“I made progress,” you try, raising your gaze to his. “I can summon it, if I concentrate.”

His lips remain unmoving, but his eyes…gods, his eyes. You betrayed her, you know. All of them.

Breath catches in your throat, and you have to look away. Unable to face him. It. Any of it.

“Why is it so bad?” You ask quietly. “All I did was leave for a little under a week. I was trying to get better.”

“Stop. Lying,” he mutters lowly, blood freezing in your veins, fingers wringing together. Silence ticks by, and you wonder if he can hear the humiliatingly loud pulse of your heart, erratic and stumbling as it usually does around him. You don’t think he’s ever so obviously shown what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling.

Why is this the first way you see it?

Why is this the first time he allows it?

“Just tell me what you want,” you ask quietly, voice faltering as you stare at him helplessly. “You’re never happy with anything I do,” you manage, trembling with growing turmoil, “so please, just tell me what you want, and put me out of my misery.”

He exhales harshly, leaning back into the trunk, lips tugged down at the corners, reproach tucked between his brows, so rarely softened by charm anymore. At least not while you’re around. Almost never when you’re around.

“I don’t feel I should have to tell you how you fucked up here,” he replies lowly, and you push back on the flinch at the crude wording. “You made a bad choice.”

“Imagine how much worse the others were,” you reply lowly, a hint of resentment—not directed at him—present in your tone. He stiffens at your side, then his gaze slides slowly over to you, lethal and condemning, but it’s like you can’t look away. You physically can’t duck your head, or shy away. “You’re really joking at a time like this?”

You meet his eyes fully, presently, taking him in against the darkening sky, winter sun already on the way out for the day, the chill more than prominent, but you don’t dare reach for the scarf in your bag. “Tell me what you want,” you repeat softly, no louder than a last breath on dying lips.

“I want you to be honest,” he replies, brows narrowing, “for once, apparently.”

“About what?”

“Why you went to him.” He nearly spits, unable to entirely keep his ire at bay, something passing behind his eyes.

You’re quiet. Silent.

Then you lean back into the trunk of the tree, head tilting back into the rough bark, hands settling numbly in your lap. Shoulders slope, and you peer up into the grey sky, gloomy and heavy with unshed tears. Thick and thunderous. Fitting for the storm that’s on its way.

“Please don’t be angry,” you whisper, hardly a breath from your lips, a prayer whisked away by the static air. He’s silent, and your throat closes up. “Azriel,” your murmur, swallowing thickly. “Please.”

Moments tick by, stretching and warping as your heart thumps heavily in your chest, utterly bewitched, utterly at his mercy. It’s exhausting.

He sighs, and you try not to stiffen as he glances over to you, feeling that familiar prickle of skin as lovely hazel settles on you. A few warm rays making it through the dim clouds before being frozen off by the icy breeze. Winter’s most definitely on its way.

“I won’t be angry,” he murmurs softly. “Just…talk to me. Like you used to.”

Your arms fold over your chest, closing in on yourself, feet pressing together as you hunch over the bag in your lap, peering at the muddy ground. The smell of parchment rises from your memories, dusty and familiar, but lacking the warmth of nostalgia. Like the bitterness of a tea left to steep for too long, so it dries out your throat, eyes watering from its ticklish bite.

“I couldn’t do it on my own,” you admit quietly. Fingers brushing your knuckles. Raw and flaky.

The thoughts swirl in the back of your mind, ready to roar and rage, becoming so loud they’re deafening, suddenly cutting quiet so fast you have no desire to understand what it means when the waters draw back. What it means when the sea itself shrinks away, leaving a barren and washed-up beach.

“But, the idea of trying in front of you…any of you…and then falling flat at such a small hurdle…” You look to your left, away from him, pulling tighter into yourself. Can anything good come of this kind of honestly? With him?

“I don’t have much anymore, Azriel,” you breathe lowly, struggling silently with the humiliating vulnerability. How bare you are, just waiting for steel to pierce your skin. Like tossing yourself over a cliff and hoping the jagged rocks far below will soften your fall.

“I just wanted to keep my dignity. The scraps left of it after…what happened…”

Your toes curl in your shoes, feet crossed, feeling as though your heart is trying to cave in on itself, swallowed by a vacuum suctioning you back down with the force of a flooded spring river.

“So it was better to fail in front of Eris?”

“But I don’t owe him success,” you argue uselessly, eyes squeezing shut in attempts to keep the tears at bay as your head falls into your hands. “I don’t—…I don’t owe him anything.”

“You don’t owe us anything either,” he replies.

“I owe my entire life to you,” you nearly hiss, spine curving in as your brows cramp together, jaw wound so tight you feel like a tooth might crack beneath the intense pressure, nails pressing into the soft skin of your brow.

“Feyre was the one who saved the three of you,” he reminds quietly, slowly, but you’re shaking your head. Staring down into your lap, tension rippling so clearly from your bunched up form Azriel considers laying a hand on your trembling shoulder as if to pull you from a trance. “No. I know, but…” Your fingers press into your eyes, unable to articulate what you can feel in your stomach. “If she hadn’t gone to Night,” you breathe heavily, shakily, “if she hadn’t gone here, we’d still be back there, entirely human, and I—… I wasn’t going to last much longer there.”

Azriel pauses at your side, taking on the information silently. “You were ill?” He asks softly—he’d had no idea about that. Your shoulders shake, and he can’t tell if it’s with laughter or muffled sobs. Maybe a little of both.

“Maybe,” you whisper, “I don’t know enough about medicine to say, but I…” You shake your head again, and he’s able to sense that’s as much as he’ll get. It’s been over two years, and this is the first he’s hearing of it even in vague detail—he knows this isn’t something he can press.

“It doesn’t matter now,” you say with rueful conviction, palms pushing wetness from your cheeks, spine straightening before collapsing back against the trunk. Tired and exhausted. “We’re out. I don’t need to do anything now.”

Azriel’s brow furrows. “You’re content to stay in your room and rot away?”

You rest your head in your hands, leaning over the bag, staring down into its contents. What else is there?

“You could spend time with your family, for starters,” he replies and you aren’t sure if you imagine the note of impatience in his voice. “Your sisters worry about you a lot. It’s not good for you to be up in that room all the time.”

“Well it seems every time I come out of that room I somehow end up getting in your way.”

“Is that what this is about?” He asks abruptly, and your lips press together, lower one curving over. “I thought we sorted that out,” he says quietly, calming the sharpness of his tone, hearing it even in his own ears, glancing over your hunched figure. “We did,” you reply, muffled by your arms, voice turning watery as you ease in a short breath. “We did.”

A beat passes, then tension stutters in your chest as he gently lays his palm over your shoulder. “Please just talk to me,” he says softly, and you struggle to keep your breaths even as your lungs shudder beneath that touch. After spending so long wanting it…craving it…convinced feeling how gentle his touch could be over and against your skin would fix everything…even temporarily… You try to swallow the lump in your throat. “If not me, then Elain, or Feyre, or Nesta,” he pauses, “…Bas.”

You aren’t paying much attention, though, thankful for the way your mind melts beneath the warmth of his palm. How heat is sinking into your skin, slowly spreading through your shoulder as your muscles thaw. Pressure is lessened, and the tension that had been stitching the tendon taut loosens, allowing breath the ease in and out of your lungs with tiring relief. You could deflate with fatigue. Just turn limp and boneless, better for absorbing impact than having it crack against you.

“Just talk with us some more so this doesn’t happen again,” he urges quietly. “Come down to the river house—you know Feyre keeps your room open—or join us for dinner. At least try. If that doesn’t work, we can find something else.”

You don’t reply. Just remain tucked away from the world. Content to remain within your small shell as long as you can keep that warmth on your shoulder.

The pressure lightens, and your heart hides away as his hand slips from your shoulder, leaving your skin starkly cold with the absence of his presence.

“I’m sorry for what I…for how things transpired. Between…us,” Azriel murmurs, unsure how much to say, to not bring up past pains, especially if they aren’t as healed as you’ve led him to believe. He’s starting to become unsure what to believe about you—he hadn’t ever considered you might run from them. How bad things might have become to force you into that position. Are things that bad?

“I’m sorry, too,” you mumble, voice a little hoarse, and Azriel listens attentively. “I shouldn’t have told you how I felt, in the library. I shouldn’t have made my feelings your problem.”

“They aren’t,” he says softly, but you shake your head as if you haven’t heard him.

“I’m sorry.”

————

He tries speaking twice more on the way back, but the conversations lead nowhere, no longer flourishing as they had, once upon a time. So long in the past they feel coloured by age. Turned stiff and yellow at the edges.

He tries slowing his pace so she’ll walk at his side, but she just drops further back, silently pressing between his footsteps as she trails, head kept down to remain focused on taking one step at a time. The shadow that is cast across her face from the down-tilted angle of her head is deeper than he would have expected.

When he hears her shifting the bag across her shoulders for the third time, he quietly plies the straps from her hands, relieving her of the physical weight. She makes no obvious protest, aside from the stiffening of her body at his approach, but he can spot the relief when he takes the bag. Moving it to his own shoulder, he can make out what feels like a wooden box, the kind made to keep a weapon from being damaged. The thought gives rise to instinctive alarm.

Why might she have a weapon in her bag?

His shadows subtly shift at his back, rising secretively to examine her. Questions begin rising to his mind: unkind, unfair questions that are habitual in his line of work. He tries to shake them off, but they remain firmly rooted in his mind, burrowing deeper with each stride that has the narrow box digging into his side, as if already trying to burrow into his flesh.

How did she know Eris would take her in? How could she possibly guarantee making the trek across Prythian over night would pay off? It’s an absurd risk to take, regardless of circumstance. He can think of answers to those questions, but they don’t sit well with him. An answer to why she might be so familiar with Eris supposing they’ve spoken less than a handful of times. A certainty she must have possessed to take the risk that isn’t one she would have from that little contact. And if she’s hiding how much contact she might’ve had with him…

She was already hiding her magic from them…then there’s the prophecy too. Bas, and the illness. Why were these things she hadn’t mentioned? He can understand the recent silence, but why not before…? Regardless of immediate relevance, it shows she’s prone to secret-keeping.

Azriel eases in a steadying breath, descending into a calm, cold mental state. Sinking into indifferent objectivity.

She isn’t stupid. Far from it, having spent so much time in the library, where there’s all kinds of information just ripe for the picking. And Eris isn’t stupid, either. If he saw a weak spot, he’d go for it. And if Eris went for her, would she be able to resist something she was unable to see for what it truly was?

Azriel’s skin goes a little cold, reminded of the prophecy.

He will die, and it will be by her hand.

He supposes he can only control how much impact it will have on those around him. If Eris has managed to wrap her up in some slow-moving scheme…but that’s just speculation. Still, his instincts are telling him something is wrong with the narrow wooden box, one that must have come from Eris. A box fashioned like those to hold weapons. From Eris. To the female who will kill him.

He should ask her what it is.

Azriel would’ve shaken his head if those habits hadn’t been crushed out of him centuries ago. He can’t just ask her if she’s planning to kill him.

But it would allow a chance for her to explain what’s in the weapon case.

But it would alert her to his knowing about the blade inside her bag. She’d wanted to hide her magic from the start, and earlier she’d mentioned she’d gotten further…how much further? If it’s magic any similar to Nesta’s, it would be unwise to have a confrontation here, alone. Still within Autumn Court territory.

But it would be more dangerous to bring her back to Velaris. To bring her back into the beating heart of the Night Court where her detonation would be fatal.

Azriel blinks, and returns back into the waning light of day—it’ll soon be night.

What can he do, really? If he’s destined to die….who is he to try and get in the way of the Mother? Would he kill her to save his own life? Is that what he would do in order to live a little longer, before a new threat looms to end him? He wants to kill her no more than he desires his own death.

But if it came down to it…what would he choose?

His shadows observe her silently, as they had been throughout his internal struggle. He focuses on what he can see, discarding the lens of suspicion that’s been embedded in him as Spymaster, centuries of limited trust having an impact on his mind.

All he sees is a young woman walking through a dark forest, following him off the pathway.

Internally, he sighs—there always seems to be a constant flow of problems as of late, and peace seems to be persistently remaining just out of reach. A few more years, and then there will be peace; a few more political aggressions to navigate, and then they can rest; just one more person to heal, and then they can be happy. When will the peace truly arrive, though? Is it all wishful thinking? An imagined utopia that will make every sin he’s committed acceptable? Is it just his mind finding more excuses to justify the things he’s done in the name of protecting his family and court?

She’s just one more disturbance, keeping peace from settling.

Azriel swallows, thinking heavily. Even if she was out of the way, there would still be everything else to deal with. Will this problem be the last one, or will a new threat fall in to fill the space of the old one? Hasn’t it been long enough, by now? Hasn’t he done enough?

Shadows check on her again, her head hanging silently, those once bright eyes dull and dark as they follow numbly in his footsteps. The female with whom he’d spent so many afternoons with discussing things in the library…where is she? Is he at fault for her disappearance?

Closing his eyes briefly to relieve the ache that’s been slowly building just below his brows, he allows himself to ponder.

Is it pointless to try and salvage their relationship?

Would it be better if she did kill him?

————

The storm clouds have gathered, full and swollen with rain and thunder. No lightening though. Lightening would suggest some kind of magnificence, and there’s nothing magnificent about the cool temperature of your blood, nor the dull buzz in the back of your mind. The overwhelming grey of your surroundings as you emerge from the tunnel.

The air is drier in the Night Court, you vaguely realise. No dampness nor humidity that you’d grown subconsciously accustomed to from less than a week’s stay in Autumn. A small break of sunshine between the dismay grey you’d all grown so accustomed to for the first few months of the year, back when you were human. Weak, fallible humans, but simpler. Quiet and peaceful, even if that silence was from the constant prowl of starvation. It had been easier to bear.

You don’t wait to see if Azriel will try to speak again once he’s flown the both of you back up to the House of Wind, silently turning your back to trace the familiar halls of the House, moving without awareness, muscle memory guiding you down the corridors, past the tables littered with napkins and cutlery, past the shelves displaying pale crockery and silver chalices, past the chest with a few discarded daggers atop, arrowheads littered haphazardly across the surface as if someone had cast them down carelessly.

The room is greyer than you remember, too tidy to be a lived in space, but it has those reminders—the gifts you were given, and you absently touch your earlobe, squeezing it between your finger and thumb.

Azriel pauses at the threshold, taking the bag off his shoulder. Does he know you sold the earrings? Those pretty, pretty earrings? Probably some of the nicest things you could have believed to be your own.

They must be getting tired by now. All of them.

Blonde hair and sparkling eyes pass dully through your mind, and your heart dies a little more, understanding how you’ve ruined the small blessing. There’s no coming back from what you’ve done—not without significant work, at least, and you’re so tired. In your bones, in your eyes, in your mind. You’ve lived through a lot, but thanks to immortality, you have no choice but to live through more. A body being dragged through the mud, carried towards a grave that was never dug.

Azriel’s mouth is moving, has been moving since he removed the bag from his shoulder, but you haven’t been hearing. Mind too tired and numb to manage focus, grasping only basic colours and lines.

He’s looking at you, and you’re looking back, but not into his eyes. His words pass through your mind meaninglessly, and you wonder if you’re real. A strange pressure is wrapping its tingling fingers around your skull, squeezing like you’re wearing a hat that’s a little too tight. It will take a lot of work to fix what you’ve done. A lot of work you can’t manage. A debt that deepens faster than you can repay it. A sink draining faster than you can fill it. Blood cooling faster than you can stop it.

Maybe it would be better to let it cool, for a while.

————

Azriel doesn’t feel comfortable leaving her in the House alone, with that dull look in her eyes.

He had planned to fly back down to the River House, to let Rhys and Feyre know she was back, and she was safe, to give her some space maybe for an hour or so to let her get her bearings again. Not too long alone, though. That look hadn’t been bright. Instead he ends up slumping into one of the boney, wooden chairs in the kitchen, the House already brewing two cups of tea. He reaches out for Rhys, mentally feeling for the hidden bridge kept open. He finds it almost immediately, and an icy wind slams into him in greeting. Cold, swift, and perfectly telling to his brother’s current temperament.

You’re back.

Azriel bites back on the cringe at the ice in his High Lord’s voice—belying fury. He should have put together Rhys would be furious for Feyre, too, for stirring up this kind of stress for his mate.

She’s with me. How is Feyre?

More furious than I am, though I doubt she’ll show you.

There’s a pause, and Azriel steadies himself.

How is she?

It would be good for her to have company. Preferably in the River House, but if not, then having people up here. This time Azriel pauses, before adding, I think the ward on her room should be removed. So she’ll be able to hear that people are around, should she need them.

He’s met with silence, and Azriel wonders if Rhys is repeating the message back to Feyre, or if he’s simply that furious. A small part of him feels resentment at the constant speculation, that if the matter had been left between him and her then it wouldn’t have gotten so blown out of proportion.

We’ll be up in ten minutes, comes the clipped reply, before the mental bridge is severed. Leaving Azriel no choice but to wait in silence. It will likely be Rhys and Feyre coming up then—knowing she isn’t ready to see all of them so suddenly, though they’ve yet to learn where she’s been.

Feyre will go and speak to her sister.

And Rhys will be the one to speak to him.

What a mess.

The tea has a few minutes left of brewing, and he wonders if the House will demand he be the one to take the mug to her, or if it will be delivered on its own. He’s not sure she would appreciate being disturbed right now.

As if his thoughts summoned her however, he hears quiet footsteps out in one of the hallways, reaching his sharp ears even through the closed doors and secure walls. He listens carefully, but she seems to just be pacing around, not coming toward him, or even really going in any particular direction. They pause, the silence heavy, and Azriel pays full attention. Another minute passes, then another, and another, but he couldn’t have missed those familiar footfalls.

After a fourth minute, he hears them again, ever so slightly heavier than before, and then they cut off abruptly. Sound sliced in two as she closes the door to her room.

Azriel glances over to the brewing tea, then blinks when he realises the House has set it on the table within reach. Just one cup, made with milk and sugar—not the way he likes it.

Looking over to the countertop, his mug remains steeping, steam trailing up from the hot liquid. The House seems to be demanding he take her the tea now.

Azriel shifts in his chair. It isn’t a good idea to disturb her again. He’s trying to give her at least these few minutes to herself, before Feyre arrives with Rhys—and that’s a conversation that might very well stretch hours. There’s a lot to discuss, after all. She’ll need her energy, and he’s probably the last person she wants to—

The mug slams down on the table before him, hot liquid spilling over with the force that it was dropped onto the surface.

He stiffens, watching the mug tensely as if the House might spill it onto his lap. The liquid ripples in the mug, splashing from side to side for longer than it should, before reluctantly calming.

Blowing out a breath, Azriel wraps his hand around the mug’s handle, reluctantly standing from the kitchen table.

If the House is being so adamant about giving her the cup, then he supposes he’ll just have to follow.

He still finds it a little strange, how the House came alive after Nesta lived inside it.

————

Silence hums in your ears, so quiet.

You’ve caused them so much trouble. Irreparably ruined your ties to the people you hadn’t wanted to hinder.

Silently, quietly, you move the bag to your bed, able to even hear the stretch of fabric as you raise it from the unnaturally clean floorboards. Opening it, you begin pulling the first thing you see out—the orange scarf form Autumn that has some small crumbs tucked between its folds, smelling faintly of pastry and something damp. One piece at a time, you make the slow trek to and form the wardrobe, feet unfeeling as they tread numbly across the smooth grain of the wood, mindlessly repeating the to and fro, the mechanical movements of unaware motion, folding fabric and hiding it away.

Your fingers bump the box, surprised by the hard collision, having expected to find more fabric, but are instead confronted by the narrow, wooden box. Use it wisely, written on the note in a neat and elegant script. Raising it from the bag, you sit down, hands resting over the surface before slipping your fingers into the indentations for ease of opening, cracking it open to find what’s inside. Eyes ease across the narrow length of wood tucked inside, the softly flared end for it to whistle through the sky.

The world disappears around you as you fall into thought, suctioned inwards by a gentle riptide as you dissolve into your mind. Imagining the blank look in Mor’s eyes when she finds out what you’ve done to her, the wall that will rise up as she sections you off from her life, rightly so, brings a quiet kind of sadness into your chest. A longing that has been numbed and dulled, desaturated by hopelessness. Imagining the dinners, voices chatting merrily around you but never at you, the way she won’t look at you. They are all immortal, and their disgust will reflect their lifespan.

You’ll be stuck. Endlessly dragging you feet after them in attempts to make amends. Stumbling and fumbling carelessly trying to make reparations, but smashing more pieces in your frantic hurry to clean the mess you’ve made. Gazing up from the pit of a well as the icy water slowly drains in, the small pin-prick of daylight so far above there’s no hope even trying to scale the wall. It would be more honourable to drown.

To wipe yourself from memory.

It would be better, you understand. To snuff out your own dwindling light, than force the trouble on them of bearing your sputtering flame.

You walk out into the hallway, quietly, silently. Passing the table with napkins and cutlery set, past the shelves with crockery and cups, past the chest with dull steel and blunt arrowheads. Passing further along, until you pause before the large mirror that’s mounted on the wall. You peer dully into the reflection, deciding to look upon and assign shape to name for what’s been causing all these problems. To see what they think of when burdens are mentioned, to understand where the impatience is directed.

You peer higher, the reflection skewed as you meet your own eyes in the blade’s polished steel, held above the mirror’s frame.

Time warps, and you look through the drawers. A few daggers, some unused sketchbooks, a piece of yellow wool, a ball of string. You check the second draw. Some folded napkins, more arrowheads, a shard of porcelain, a thimble, a discarded marble. You check the third draw. Some salts, spices, dried leaves, matching Illyrian blades, pots of ink, a copper coin. You check the fourth draw. Crisp bedsheets, off-white pillowcases, a dented metal mug, a small container of some kind, one arrowhead, a crossbow.

You return to your room with the ball of string and the empty crossbow.

Swallowed in the silence of the bedroom, hidden behind the wards.

The snare is easy to set up, directions still vivid in your mind and for a few short moments, you allow yourself to settle into the certainty of following through with those instructions. Encountering a bit of trouble with how to keep the tension of the string with no earth, but your mind works quickly, weighing the string taut with the one book from your shelf, and a square box containing a mechanical universe. Making sure the string is just tight enough so the faintest touch will snap the tension loose.

You glance at the string on the floor, eyes catching on the small painting on your desk.

You slot the arrow into the crossbow with a satisfying click.

The ash stings your fingertips.

You stand with your back to the door, facing the crossbow head on. Your heart bleeds a little, tears at last dripping slowly down your cheeks, but it will be better this way. Easing in a deep breath, you relax into that feeling deep in your chest that’s telling you this is the right thing to do. It was always going to happen, there was never a path you could have taken that wouldn’t have lead you to this one way or another. It’s a feeling almost like relief: there’s finally a way out.

One perfect, swift, execution. An ash arrow to your heart, splitting the muscle and ending its relentless beat. Your breathing increases to a stuttering pulse before calming, and you swallow, glancing to the windows. You know you’ll cause a mess.

Fingers open the latch to the window, fresh air gently rolling in, and your breathing stutters again. You’ll be irrevocably gone.

Peering about the bedroom, one you hadn’t felt was truly your own, but had stayed long enough to begin putting down roots—the bookmark laying beneath the pendant on the desk beside the painting, the jigsaw still wrapped in a bow beneath the bed, the sealed nail polish and briefly used lip tint within the cupboard. Sobs shudder through your chest strangely.

A part of you doesn’t want to leave yet.

A small, human part, that still fears solitude despite your chosen loneliness.

You step toward the book, body caving in, heart collapsing in on itself, the emotive feeling similar to the convulsions you’ve experienced after vomiting. A vacuum hidden inside of your chest, finally imploding. You should end it now.

The door creaks behind you, and you flinch from terror at someone witnessing your vulnerability.

Hazel eyes meet your own, at once scanning the room out of habit, and those lovely eyes widen as you recoil on instinct, foot knocking into the book.

————

Given the pleasure of time, he had been allowed to ponder the impossible question: to choose between his death and her own, each equally impossible. How is anyone to make a choice like that?

But, caught in between precious moments, there’s no time for thought or debate. It’s easy to declare gallantry, to flippantly comfort a companion with those easy words—I’d take an arrow for you.—but it’s an entirely different matter when the arrow is whistling straight toward them.

And yet before the mug has even hit the floor, he feels the familiar, burning pain as the arrow pierces through his flesh, slicing him open as the wrongness bleeds into him, swiftly poisoning his blood, draining the inherent magic from his body.

————

You stare up into wide hazel eyes, agony etched across his delicate features, the very tip of the arrow lightly piercing your skin from where it’s shot straight through him, caught in his flesh.

He groans lowly, his weight falling more heavily on your shoulders where his hands had grabbed you to switch your positions, and you’re helpless as his knees give out from pain, dragging you down with him as he collides with the ground.

Horror pounds through your body, heart beating a thousand times a second until it’s risen into your throat, hands shaking violently as you try to hold him steady, stinging with the burning heat of blood from his side.

Mother murder you.

“Az,” you stammer hoarsely, staring at his twisted features, brow furrowed deeply, breathing ragged as it puffs against your skin. The familiar scent of blood filtrates through your system, undiluted and metallic, and he’s dying he’s dying he’s dying—

His hand weakly grasps the back of your neck, grabbing your attention as your hands fumble, trembling with uncertainty and despair, fingertips beginning to sizzle as panic floods your veins, tossed into the rapids, utterly out of control as your mind unravels, regret stabbing through your heart.

His lips are moving but your ears are ringing, itches burning at your skin, a streaking noise piercing through your head like the screaming from those bloody fields. He’s speaking and you try to read his lips, but your eyes aren’t focusing, tears blurring your vision as sobs heave in and out of your chest, burning at your throat and lungs. You had tried to stop it! You were so close to preventing it!

Your hand settles on his cheek, already feeling cool beneath your burning, burning, glowing—

Feyre and Rhys, his lips form, and you shake. Eyes scanning his features frenetically. His own flick to the door, and you understand them to be here? You stare at him helplessly, hopelessly—it won’t matter how you scream or cry for them, not even if you bled your throat raw. The ward against noise that you’d been so thankful for, that Feyre had given in attempts to help, to remedy a wrong.

Something so small, yet so immoveable. Impossible to defeat. Felled by your own, stupid need—

He’s going to die.

Neither you nor Azriel have a second to prepare as the power wells up inside of you with the force of a damn broken loose, that internal wall shattering entirely, blown to bits as you feel the staggering pressure swallow your brain, crushing in intensity at the rapid division of cells, splitting atoms colliding as the explosion blows you apart.

Brilliant green light detonates, silence settling for a second before the noise crushes back down, the room blown to pieces.

The ground shakes beneath you, floorboards cracking and splintering as a hole is torn through the side of the House, tearing through the wards as the noise thunders above the city, sweeping across Prythian with the force of the Cauldron that had torn down the Wall.

One final surge of magic before the life is taken from his body.

Pain lacerates through your figure as something fundamental cracks open inside of you, all at once draining the agony that had beens steadily building up, all of it gushing out, skin resplendent with a sickening golden-green light, radiating your flesh.

Then you collapse, falling into the pool of steadily cooling blood surrounding Azriel’s body.

The prophecy having come to fulfilment.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel angst #azriel fic #cbmthy #can’t bring myself to hate you

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scarletwinterxx · 10 months

Text

sunshine and midnight rain - mark lee scenario

hello! so i'm back and yes i'm still on my mark lee brain rot era😅 it's like whenever i see this guy i completely forget about the rest of male population haha anyways I hope you like this one🤍

if you have a request or scenario you want me to do, just send me a message I'll see what I can do😊💌

For my other works you can check them out here, and for my other story series’ you can check them out here.

and if you want, u can buy me coffee(totally optional but any donation is very much appreciated!) thank you🥺💛

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2023 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

"Why are you so mad right now?"

"Because I asked you to do one thing and you didn't" Mark says, still avoiding your gaze.

This was not how you envisioned your morning, when you woke up Mark's side of the bed was already empty. When you went to look for him he was gone, no note, no text of his possible whereabouts. And when he got back, he was clearly and very obviously mad at you.

"I got home just fine" you say with your arms out. Mark still hasn't look at you and it's bugging you. You follow him out the living room. He's going round and round, trying to tidy the place just to avoid having a conversation with you.

"Mark, can you please look at me" you tell him, this made him stop and look over at you. A clear look of disappointment on his face, "I swear I was going to call you but the girls and I were talking and drinking. It slipped my mind, I already booked a cab home when I remembered"

"You went home, way past midnight alone and drunk. Do you know dangerous that is?"

"But I got home safe"

"And what if you didn't? What if something happened? God forbid I get upset about that, I was worried I'm sorry. Is that what you want to hear?"

You say nothing for a while, thinking of something to say back. You really are at fault here, you should be the one saying sorry right now.

"I'm sorry, I should've called" you tell him, now avoiding his eyes just as you feel the tears fill yours. Mark sighs, crossing the room until he's right in front of you. He hooks his finger under your chin, making you look at him.

"I'm mad because I care. I don't trust the world when it comes to you, I just want you to be safe always. I'm not going to stop you living your best life, but I want to know you're safe" he whispers, anger already disappearing.

He wipes the few tears that escaped, cradling your face between his hands.

"Are you still mad?" you mumble, this made Mark smile and shake his head.

"We're okay. I'm sorry for raising my voice at you"

"And I'm sorry for making you worry"

He kisses your forehead before pulling you in for a hug, "I don't like arguing with you, but I'd do it in every universe as long as we make up and end up like this. I love you, always. Okay?"

You hug him tighter, answering him without saying any words.

Just like that you're okay again.

Bless this universe for giving you such an understanding, loving, mature man to love. You'd be stupid to ever let him go which is why no matter what argument, the two of you always make sure to solve it together.

Mark never lets you go to sleep upset, he'll ask you what's wrong or if he's done anything to upset you. At first it was hard for you to admit your feelings that easily, you learned that you don't like being vulnerable, you don't like sharing your true feelings. You bottle it up. But ever since you started dating Mark, all of that changed.

He's there to listen, even when words aren't being spoken. He knows when to give you space, he knows when to chase after you and hold you tight. He knows you in a way you didn't want to know yourself, you used to be scared of these feeling but not anymore.

It's obvious who's the serious one and the jokester in you and Mark's relationship. The best thing about it is the fact that your boyfriend, no matter how serious he is, will always play along.

"Mark, you busy?" you ask, walking inside the office to see him on his computer

He looks over at you with a smile, "No, what's up?"

"I was wondering..." you say while walking towards him, he waits for you to continue. You got to where he was sitting, smiling cheekily at your boyfriend

He knows you're up to something, he grabs you by the waist sitting you squarely on his lap.

"Do you know how to whistle?"

"Do I know how to whistle?" he asks back,

"Yea like you know, like this" you pout, but before you can whistle Mark closes the gap between the two of you. Kissing you gently, he grabs the back of your head to deepen the kiss. Suddenly you forgot what you were doing in the first place.

After a few minutes of exchanging kisses, you broke apart. Looking dazed and in love, "Hey! I was suppose to do that! Did you know I was going to do that?" you asked

"Maybe" he mumbles, looking at you with pure adoration

"I'll pretend I didn't know" he adds, making you roll your eyes.

"You just want to make out"

"You're not wrong there, now come here I need your kisses"

The first time it happened, Mark thought it really was just coincidence.

You just started to decorate around the house, the tree was halfway done and a few other decorations scattered here and there. He was just walking to the kitchen doorway when suddenly you stop him

"What?" your boyfriend blinks back at you confused, instead of answering him you just point up making Mark look at where you're pointing. There hanging by the doorway was a mistletoe.

"When did you put that there?" he asks with a smile, finding the tradition cute. Even cuter when you're looking at him with the biggest smile, ready to receive your kiss

"I just put it up today, now where's my kiss" you say, pursing your lips at him making Mark chuckle. He grabs you by the waist, leaning down to kiss you. It was short but sweet, enough to leave you smiling like an idiot.

A few months ago, the two of you finally decided to move in together. It's been years since you got together, and most times you spend your nights together whether his place or yours. At some point you realized that it would make more sense to just move in together, so you did.

"Love, did you do laundry last time?" you asked him, walking inside your shared bedroom to see him resting on the bed

"I did"

"Oh thanks, love the fabric softener you used. Now all my clothes smells like you" you smile at him, jumping on the bed to cuddle him. Immediately he hugs you close.

"Then will you stop stealing of my clothes now?" he asks

"Negative, I like your hoodies better"

He chuckles at your answer, "Knew it"

"What were you doing?"

"Just checking my phone, I wanted to order this pan for making omelet. Should we get one?"

You love how his sentence now say "we" or "our" instead of his and yours. Of course you still respect each other's boundaries and individuality, but on things like deciding what to paint your home or what furniture to buy or groceries to stock up on it's always the two of you.

"Should we? If we're using it then why not, I love eggs for breakfast" you tell him, looking at his phone screen to check

"I know, that's why I'm getting it. Okay, I'll order it now then" you watch him as he do so.

"This is fun" you mumble

"Hm?"

"This, buying things for our place. I like it" you smile

"Me too"

"Do you want to marry me?"

Your question took him by surprise. Not because he didn't want to marry you, it's just when he thinks of that big question he's the one doing the asking and not the other way around.

"Mark? Sorry forget I said anything" you mumble, moving to rest your head on the pillow instead

"Remember when we first started dating or way before that?" he asks you

"Huh?"

"I was shy, I wasn't as confident as the other guys. People think I'm aloof and too serious. You never thought of me that way, you entered in my life like you were meant to be there all along and maybe you are. Scratch that, I know you are. You're meant to be in my life. When I knew I was falling in love with you I didn't know how to say it without scaring you away, so I did it slowly. I did it in a way that won't overwhelm you. Because to you it doesn't have to be a loud confession or a grand gesture. i loved you they way i knew you would understand. i loved you the way i know how. i just loved you. I know you, your mind is a wonder. You doubt, you question and you worry your pretty mind to no ends. I didn’t want to disrupt that"

By now you're face to face again, he's speaking so softly like he's afraid you'll float away of he's too loud.

"You said I was your peace, and back then that was more than enough for me. By some miracle, you fell in love with me too. And now we're here. So to answer your question, yes I want to marry you. One day I want to get down on one knee and ask you that question, I'm still working on being the man worthy to ask that" he continues, and you soak each and every word he speaks like he's already saying his vows.

Because you know, you know he is a man of words. If Mark says it, then it's true. He will never say such things to deceive you.

"Do you have any more questions for me, pretty girl?" he whispers, waiting for you to speak

You shake your head, scooting until you're on his side again. Tucking yourself as close to him as you can.

He tilts your head so you're looking at him, leaning down to kiss you on your nose, your cheeks and last your lips.

"I'll love you over and over again, just like when we met"

#fic #nct #story #tag #nct dream #nct 127 #nct mark lee #nct scenario #nct oneshot #nct au #nct fluff #mark lee imagine #mark lee au #mark lee boyfriend #mark lee oneshot #mark lee fluff

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spidybaby · 1 year

Note

use this as a part 2 for golden child 🙋🏽‍♀️

Golden Child | part 2

Summary: Your brother finds out about your relationship with his best friend, while everyone learns the truth about your family.

Warnings: cursing, physical altercation.

A/N: I hope you like this. It took me more time than expected (and I'm sorry about it). I love you 🥺💛

Part one | Part Three

"Aurora." You say seating next to her. "I promise this is not what you think."

Aurora lift her hand, stopping you from talking. "We can talk at home." She turns to the other side and starts talking with Anna Lewandowska.

The second half of the game began. Both Pedro and your brother were on the pitch. You turn your face to your sister, mad expression on her face.

You sat next to Mikky. She was super nice to you from the beginning, introducing you to the wags seated next to her and making a conversation with you.

Thanks to an assist from Pablo, Pedro scores, the stadium full with barca fans erupts in happiness.

Pedro does his glasses celebration, but this time, he waited until his eyes found yours. Making it in your direction, smiling after.

Goosebumps run down your spine. He kept his promise.

~~~

"Why the glasses?" You ask, curious. You were lying down in bed with him. "Not judging, just curious."

"I do it to honor my dad." He confess. "And now it's like my signature, but it's because of him."

"That's so cute, I love how your family is so close." You kiss his cheek, he wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"If I score tomorrow, it's yours. I promise It'll be for you."

~~~

The game continues, and the team scored another two more. The vibe in the stadium is amazing. But you can't stop thinking about what your sister saw.

Once the game is over, the wags and family normally wait for the players on the vip section, but you grab Aurora and pull her to the side. "Can we go home, I want to talk."

She nods, going back to her seat, collecting her stuff. "Adiós Mikky, Adiós Anna." She waves them goodbye. "Pediré un uber. Así no esperamos a Pablo." (I'll call an Uber, so we don't have to wait for Pablo)

While the two of you waited for the Uber, the boys were in the changing room celebrating the victory.

"Visca al Barca," Xavi yells. Making the whole team sing the anthem of the club. "Venga, go to shower, get your shit together, don't forget anything, and we'll see each other in training."

After taking turns in the showers and changing back into normal clothes. Pedro and Fermin laugh at Ferran getting angry about someone wetting his shirt.

"You did amazing, man. That goal was another level." Fermin says, even tho he's new, he was very friendly and was beginning to make friends with the guys.

"Thanks to Gavi's assist."

"Yeah, he's always been so good with that." Fermin and Pablo have history. They go way back. "I saw that his family was here today."

"Yeah, I feel he's more in the game when his family is here. So cool they could come."

"Yeah, he has two very supportive sisters." Fermin says, closing his bag, ready to go. "Well, I'm leaving."

Before he steps outside, Pedro stops him. "Wait, sisters? Aurora is his only sister."

"Well, no." Fermin laughs, "Aurora and y/n are his sisters. But Pablo and Y/n don't have the best relationship. That's why it might seem like that." He shrugs. "Anyway, have a nice one, Pedri."

Pedro nodded to his goodbye. He is still processing the fact that Pablo lied to him and Frenkie about his own sister.

"Oye, platanito, let's go home." Ferran says, picking his bag from the floor.

"I can't tiburón, I have to talk with Gavi about something." He looks over at Gavi. "But I'll call you so we can connect and play."

He waited for him on the hallway, saying goodbye to the other players and team members.

"I thought you were gone by now." Pablo says, hitting him in the head. "You okay?"

"I was talking with Fermin about the goal, saying that thanks to you, I did it." He began, not sure how to approach the topic. "And then he said something about your sisters." The emphasis on the last s makes Pablo look away quickly.

"Look, it was just a bad day." Pablo tries to explain, being cut off by Pedro.

"So, just because you had a bad day, you decided to lie about your sister?" He sarcastically laughs, "why?"

"Why do you care?" The tone is matching now. "Like I said, it was a bad day." Pablo walks to the exit, the happiness from the win already gone.

"I thought friends didn't lie to each other." Pedro says, repeating something Gavi once said. He walks past him. "But I guess we're not friends then."

Pablo stops, his eyes on Pedro's back, watching how the story repeats again, feeling like that thirteen year old kid who just lost a friend thanks to his sister. He walks fast to his car, angry at the whole situation, angry at you.

But at home, the angry one was Aurora, who was scolding you about the whole bathroom situation.

"Imagine if it wasn't me. Imagine if it was Pablo, the one that walked into the bathroom." She says, stern tone. "Why on earth from all the guys out there you choose him?"

"First of all, it was a woman's bathrooms." You say, sassy tone. "Second of all, I didn't plan for it to happen. We were at a party and it just happened."

"You could have stopped it. Once is a mistake, two is a coincidence, three is more than that." She sighed, hands on her hair. "I don't want to say this, but if Pablo finds out and he yells, that would be on you."

"Oh, please." You laugh. "Like when he was mad because his team didn't win, or when he was mad because I was watching a Barbie movie and he didn't like that." You say, fingers counting. "Oh, yeah. Like when he chose to lie about only having three people when he got to the first team. Everything is always on me."

"I didn't mean that." The tone of voice was a calmed one. "But this is different from when we were kids."

"It's easy for you to say that." You get up from bed. "You're not the one he's denying." You whisper to yourself, leaving the room slamming the door.

You couldn't believe that even after everything she witnessed, she chose his side. You tried to control yourself, not wanting to leave like that.

You open the refrigerator, finding a bottle of water. You wanted to text Pedro and talk to him about the incident.

You hear Aurora calls your name, "Please don't go." She tries to get closer, but you imitate her by putting your hand in the air. "Don't go, please."

The front door slamming shut alert you, and you both walk to the living room, finding Pablo angry.

"I'm done with you." He says, getting closer. You back down a few steps, feeling scared. "I'm fucking done."

He grabs you by the wrists, making you walk, stamping you against the wall. His eyes are black from anger. Thing you never seen on him before.

"Pablo, what are you doing?" Aurora grabs him by the arm, trying to get him away from you. "Pablo, stop!"

"Let go off me, Aurora." He says, the tone is a low and scary one. "First, my friend from home and know Pedro?"

"Pablo, you're hurting me." You try to release yourself from him, thing that makes him apply more pressure. "Pablo, stop it. Please."

"I fucking hate you."

The way you feel like you're being stabbed by the weight of his words. The tears that pool into your eyes, threatening to spill.

"You don't mean that." You whisper, eyes glued to his.

He laughs, not a sarcastically one, but a sinister deep one. "Oh, I do. I hate you."

"Let me go." You feel the tears wetting your cheeks. Feeling like a part of you is bleeding. "You don't mean that." You shake your head, denying his words.

"Stop! Pablo, are you crazy?" Aurora pulled him off of you again. "Pablo, let her go." She shove him.

He let you go. Backing off, eyes never leaving yours. It's like your pain is giving him some satisfaction.

"You don't mean that."

Aurora gently grabbed your hands, checking your red wrists. You're crying at this point. Breathing uncontrollably.

"Estas loco, estas jodidamente loco." Aurora yells, turning to Pablo. "Estas llevando esto a otro nivel, Pablo. Ella es tu hermana." (You're crazy, you're fucking crazy. You're taking this to a whole new level. She's your sister)

"I was fine, but no, she has to walk again and try to be the center of attention as always." He yells back. "I was fine without you."

"I was helping you." You say, trying to gain composure. "I was taking care of you."

"Am I supposed to thank you? You always do this, joder, and now I'm losing a friend over you."

"Pedro and I didn't plan on this to happen. We were drunk. And he was the one who asked me to see each other again." You say, explaining the situation.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He's confused now. "Por la puta, te estas follando a mi amigo?" (For fuck sake, you're fucking my friend?)

"Weren't you talking about that?" Aurora asks. She's trying to put the pieces together, not finding a way to do it.

"He knows." You understood. This wasn't about you and Pedro. This was about him finding the lies your brother told him. "He knows you lie to him."

The face of your brother changed, you knew. "This is your fault."

"No, it's not. You lie to him and to Frenkie. I didn't."

"Can someone explain? I'm fucking lost here."

"Tell her." You say. Even when your voice is shaky, your tone is strong. "Tell her, Pablo." He shakes his head no, he can't admit to Aurora what he did. "If you don't tell her, I will."

"You're not saying shit. Shut up."

"Pablo told his friends." You tried to talk, interrupted by him yelling.

"Shut the fuck up."

"He told them I was his cousin." You yell too. "He told Pedro I was his cousin, he told me that."

"You're such a fucking bitch."

Aurora is speechless. She couldn't believe that her brother did that. She knew that, yes, they didn't have the best relationship. Yes, they were always fighting, but not to the point where he would lie like that.

"I'm your sister, Pablo." You walk closer to him. "I'm your family, I was here for you when you needed me the most. I took care of you. And all you can do is treat me this way?"

"To me, you're not my sister." He spatt.

You push him to the side, wanting to get out of there. You notice his car keys are on the floor at the front door. Picking them up, you run to his car, wanting to get away as quickly as possible.

You drive fast, feeling your phone vibrating in your back pocket. Not taking care of the stops or crosswalks, wanting to get home. The tears running down like crazy, air barely there.

You run a red light, making a car impact on the side of Pablo's car. Your head hit the window, making you feel dizzy, the airbag making you feel suffocated.

The urge to fall asleep is beating you by the second. You know by those medical programs you shouldn't sleep, but you can't keep your eyes open.

"I'm not sure what to do." Pedro says, dropping the fork. "I'm mad at him for lying, and at the same time, I'm mad at her."

"You said Fermin told you they don't have a good relationship. Maybe that's why it happened. And maybe she didn't want you guys to fight." Fer says. He is the only one who knows about your fling.

"Do you think I should call her?"

"Do it, at the end of the day, you already know the truth. And you like her too much, don't let her go over this, let her explain her side."

"Yeah, I'll go call her. Thanks for the food."

He steps outside to have more privacy. He tries one, two, three, or even more times, but straight to voice-mail. He leaves two messages, telling you that when you feel like talking, he is there.

"Nothing?" Fer asks. He shakes his head no. "Venga, let's go play some fifa. Maybe her phone is dead or something."

"Yeah, I need to distract myself."

"Eres un imbecil." Aurora hit Pablo in the head as hard as she can. "How dare you?" She hit him several times, in the head, in the arm, in the chest.

"Aurora, stop!" He says, grabbing her hands. "Fuck, stop!"

"You're such a fucking asshole. You hurt her." She feels like crying. "Pablo, how could you?"

She starts sobbing, feeling like some of the blame is on her. Never caring enough about their fights, always telling you he was going to change.

"Rora, stop, don't cry." When Pablo tried to hug her, she pushed him away. She didn't want him to touch her. "Rora, don't do this."

"You did this to yourself. I'm packing my stuff and leaving. You can be alone with your misery." She pushed him away from her, not forgetting to give him the last hit on the head.

Pablo walks over to the couch, sitting on it. He knows he went too far, but he was mad. He knows he has to fix things with Pedro for the team and because he's his friend.

He tries to call him, ending in voice-mail. He doesn't know what he did so wrong that all his friends always ended somehow finding their way to his sister.

To pass the time, he logs into tik tok, finding the videos entertaining. But deep down on his mind, he's asking himself if he needs to apologize.

"Pablo!" Aurora yells, seconds later she's downstairs, teary-eyed. "We have to go to the hospital, get your keys."

"What? Why? Are you okay?" He stands up quickly.

"Go get your fucking keys." She push him to the side. "I'll wait for you in your car."

The whole trip to Plato, the hospital. Aurora kept shutting down Pablo. Asking him to be quiet.

When they got to the parking of the hospital, Aurora took her seat belt off, rushing towards the inside of the building.

"Rora, wait." Pablo yells. He parked the car, hurrying to find his sister. He finds her next to another girl. She's crying on this girl shoulder. "Aurora, what's going on?"

"This is your fault, Pablo." She cries, hitting him on the chest. "This is all your fault." He wraps his arms around her, stopping her from keep hitting him.

After a good five minutes of Aurora crying onto his chest, she pushed him away. "Y/n was in a car accident. She hit her head really hard."

"Wait." He began to get angry. "Did she fucked up my car?"

Aurora looks at him, the anger reflected in her eyes. The next thing he can feel is Aurora hitting him on the face with her bag. "Rora, what the fuck?."

"Get out of here." She shouts. "Go!"

He's rubbing his cheek, feeling the pain from the hit. "You didn't have to hit me like that." He says, walking out of the building.

Pablo sighs. It's the third time he tries to get close to Pedro, but nothing works. If he gets closer, he finds a way to move. They are not ones to fight, mostly because Pedro is the calm one in the friendship.

Xavi noticed this, pulling Pedro to the side. "Look, I'm not trying to get involved, not my style and you know it. But for the love of God. Take Gavi to a room and fix whatever you have to fix."

He nodded, walking toward Gavi. "Come here." Taking him to the inside of the stadium. Not a word exchanged. They're both sitting face to face on the gym floor. "Why did you lie?" He asks.

"It's complicated. It's not something I want to elaborate on." He's being honest. He doesn't feel like telling his life story to him.

"You really thought that was a good idea? Imagine if we said something that moment when we met her."

"But you didn't, and I wasn't planning on her being there. Mom didn't let me hire someone to do the job."

"Gavi, hermano, you can't blame others for your stupidity." Pedro feels like he's talking to a wall. "Look, I get it. You guys don't have a good relationship. But she's your sister, and that was wrong. If I did that to Fernando, he would have punched me in the face."

"It's not the same. Plus, you're not one to talk to on doing wrong shit." He buffs, getting up from the floor ready to leave.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Pedro asks, imitating him on getting up.

"You're the one who's been fucking my sister this entire time." He yells.

Pedro shut his mouth, not knowing how to react. "It's not like that."

"Is not? I was injured, and you were flirting with her while "helping me." He does quote marks with his fingers.

"She's not a kid, and I'm not one either, plus you don't even have the right to recriminate me about it."

"I don't, but don't come at me acting as if you're a fucking saint." Pablo says, pointing at him.

"But I never said I was a saint. " Pedro asks, eyebrow lifted. "Listen, I'm not going to apologize for seeing her, I like her. I wasn't aware she was your sister because you lie to me about it."

"Can we move past this?" Gavi asked, exasperated. "Yeah, I'm sorry too. I really am. But please stop with this morality speech that's about to happen. You also fucked up. Let's go."

"Pablo, this isn't about me. This is about your lies."

"No, it's not. This is about to be a life lesson of why I don't have to lie or treat my sister like that." He passes his hands to his hair, trying to relieve stress. "If I wanted to hear that, I'll be on the hospital hearing Aurora telling me how is my fault she got into a car accident."

"She what?" He whispers.

He's zone out after that. That's why you weren't answering, that's why you didn't open your door when he went looking for you at midnight.

"Is she okay?" He asks, still whispering. "Please, tell me she's okay."

"Not sure." Pablo says, indifferent to the situation. "All I know is that she hit her head on the window."

"Joder, Pablo." Pedro says, impressed by the news. "Fuck, what hospital is she in?"

"I think she's still on Plató."

"How can you be so calm?" Pedro asks, confused about his demeanor. "Does Xavi know? You have to go to Plató, be with Aurora."

Pablo shrugs. He's not interested in another fight, so he keeps his opinion on the situation to himself. "I haven't talked to Xavi about it."

"Mierda, Pablo. I'm sorry about yelling at you, I didn't mean to." Pedro says. "Let's go talk to Xavi so you can go home." Pablo nodded, walking with Pedro out of the gym.

After Pedro called Xavi for a talk, he told the news. Pablo knows it's not okay to act as if he's was going to go to the hospital, but he at least can rest a little bit.

Xavi sent him home, asking him to report himself and telling him that the team was there for him.

He drove home, stressed about the whole situation. Aurora doesn't pick up his calls. She won't answer his texts, nothing.

He parked outside his house, in case Aurora needed him to pick her up. All he can think right now is a cold shower.

While he's changing, he hears the noise of the front door closing. Thinking is Aurora. He puts his shirt and goes looking for his sister.

"Rora, are you back?" He yells, walking downstairs. "Mom, dad, hi."

Belen and Pablo only stared at his son, not able to believe all the damage he's done. "We need to talk, Pablo." Belen says. "Come sit."

"The doctor says there would be no marks on your face." Aurora says, helping you with your hair.

As she says, being in the hospital is no motive for you to have bad hair. So she's brushing it and pulling it up.

"Well, that's good news." You laugh, stopping because of the pain. The doctor told you that you had a broken rib. "Okay, no laughing, that hurts."

"I'm sorry, hermanita."

"Don't." You stopped her. Knowing she's about to extra apologize again. "I told you this is on me, I was the one believing I'm part of the fast and furious cast."

"Im sorry I took his side. I'm sorry I was not aware of everything. I promise I'm not leaving your side again."

You squeeze her hand, sending her a smile. You know she's feeling extra bad. No matter how many times you reassure her, there's nothing she should feel sorry for. She apologized again.

"Are you sorry enough to help me pay for the wreck?" You say, lighting the air. "Becuase I don't think Pablo is taking care of it."

"Don't name him. He's voldemort from now on." She rolls her eyes. "But don't worry about it, his insurance is taking care, and dad says he's paying."

"I'm getting a part-time job, I can't let dad do that."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am." You say, serious. "It was my fault, as much as you say is not. Aurora, I took his car and wreck it."

She just nods, not wanting to go back and forth with the topic. "Okay."

"Do you really think he hates me?" Your mind plays the fight time after time. "I don't want him to hate me."

The way your voice cracks as you speak bout the topic is heartbreaking for your sister. She doesn't think Pablo hates you.

"He was being mean." She says, honest answer.

"And what if he does?"

"You don't need him." She says, slowly talking. "Someone who stoles your mental peace is not worth the time."

"I love him." You cry, no matter the pain the sobs are giving you. "I just want him to love me."

She hugs you, calming you down. Like always, she's the one drying your tears. The one telling you silly things to stop your cries.

"Pedro called me." She confesses after a while. "He found about the wreck, and he asked me how you were."

"He did?" You ask, smiling. "I can't text him. My phone got lost."

"He wants to visit." She confesses, finishing with your hair. "Actually, he might come at any minute now."

"Is that why you did my hair?" You ask, wanting to laugh. She only shrugs, laughing.

"Mom, I can explain."

"No, Pablo, how dare you?" Belen yells. "You're not the kid I raised. You were taught to love and protect your sisters, not hurting them."

"We thought that your problems were some dumb child phase. That you were going to grow out of it." Pablo father says. "But mijo, you cross the line. Your sister is in the hospital because of you."

"Joder." Pablo sighs. "She stole my car and wreck it. But it's my fault for yelling at her."

His mom throws a pillow at him. "Listen to me, niño. Aurora already told us everything. So don't act innocent because you're not."

"I don't know what she said, but probably she exaggerated."

"Pablo, don't try us." His father says, angry at his attitude. "We're so disappointed in you. Hijo, I taught you to love and respect women. And you left bruises on your sister. You put your hands on her. And I don't know what we did wrong."

"You didn't do anything wrong." He says, not liking his parents to feel like that because of him.

"Then what is it, Pablo?" Belen asks him. "Are we that bad as parents for you to do this? Did we lack to provide you with enough love? Did we miss something for you to treat your sister like this?" She can't stop the tears.

Pablo can't stand his mother tears, especially when it's because of him. "Mami, stop crying."

"I just can't. You don't care."

"I do, I'm sorry." He hugs her. "I'm sorry, you were the best parents in the world. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize to us, hijo." Pablo says, patting his sons back. "You have to do it to your sister."

"Please, Pablo." His mother says, breaking the hug. "Let us help you. I don't want to sweep this under the rug, not anymore." He nods, feeling like crying.

"Want to know something?" His father asks.

"What?"

"Even when Aurora told us what happened. When we saw her after she woke up, she begged us not to yell at you. Even after you hurt her, she was protecting you."

"I'm sorry." He cries, hugging his parents.

♡♡♡

🏷: @gadriezmannsgirl @percysley @jajajhaahaha @cinderellawithashoe @alwaysclassyeagle

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lynzishell · 21 days

Text

The Past 💛 Atlas

Upstairs, the club is already full and alive with music and lights and people. While the others walk out on the dance floor, making their way toward the DJ booth, I stay back, allowing myself a few minutes to acclimate. I find a spot in the back, out of the way, and watch the crowd on the dance floor as they smile and cheer and dance, some goofing off and laughing with friends, others serious and focusing only on the music as they move. It occurs to me that it’s been years since I’ve been to a club. Dawn used to drag us out all the time when we were in college together, and I got kind of burnt out on it after a while, but I’m glad I came out tonight.

I look past the dancers to the booth and recognize the DJ as our co-worker Kamryn, her signature bright pink ponytail swaying as she dances behind the decks. I had no idea she did this kind of thing, but she’s good.

It’s not long before I find myself moving my head and shoulders to the beat, the rest of my body itching to be set free and move as the bass thumps in my chest and a familiar warmth radiates through my limbs. As I expected, the tablet Lex gave us contains MDMA and something else, and whatever that something else is multiplies the sensation and I feel it hit me all at once as my entire body flushes with heat and a gentle euphoria lifts my anxiety up and away.

I look around to try to spot Ash, and as if I manifested him with my mind, I see him walk out of the crowd right toward me. His black t-shirt is soft and thin and hangs on him just right, and my mind flashes briefly to the exposed skin underneath. Catching myself, I take a breath and look up quickly to see his playful smirk. “Are you gonna come dance, or what?” He asks.

“Yeah, I was just about to.”

“Let’s go then.”

He extends his hand to me, and I take it, letting him lead me through the crowd to the middle of the dance floor where the moving lights and loud music and energy of the dancers take over. I let it envelop me and flow through me as I let go and dance and become part of it all.

[music]

I look over at Ash and am immediately mesmerized by the way he moves, weightless and fluid. I’ve seen him dance dozens of times, and he always looks good, even when we’re just fucking around in his living room trying to make each other laugh, but this is different. His footwork is quick and smooth and hypnotic, his weight shifting, pulling him side to side, crossing over and back again. It’s a style so distinctly urban that I can’t help but wonder where the fuck in Brindleton Bay he learned to dance like that. I can’t take my eyes off him.

Part of me is tempted to reach out and pull him into me, but I also don’t want to interrupt him. I watch as someone else comes up behind him and tries to dance with him, but he shrugs them off and shakes his head, clearly wanting to be left alone to do his own thing. So, I leave him be and dance beside him, keeping my hands to myself. It’s probably for the best anyway… I have an image of Lex popping up between us if we get too close, as if I’m a teenager again at a church dance being monitored to “save room for Jesus”. Little did they know what Henry and I had gotten up to earlier that day. I smile to myself at the memory. He may have broken my heart in the end, but that day… that was a good day. It feels nice to be able to enjoy a happy memory without being dragged down by all the sad ones attached to it, even if only temporarily. I silently thank Lex for whatever she gave me… and thank myself for only taking half. The night is already starting to blur around me as it is.

Soon, a song comes in that drags me gently out of my wandering thoughts and wraps around me like a warm blanket. It’s beautiful, layered and flowing like waves, the beat quick but more subtle than the others, a welcome reprieve. I look over at Asher and he smiles at me, nodding; he likes it too. Letting the beat guide me, I close my eyes and move to the music, feeling it wash over me as I lose myself again.

[1:50] The song slows and gets quiet sooner than I’d like it to, but I take advantage of getting a moment to breathe. Ash is grinning up at me, and I get the distinct feeling he’d been watching me.

“What’s that look for?” I ask.

“Having fun?” He was definitely watching me.

I laugh a little, more flattered than embarrassed, “Yeah, you?”

He shrugs casually, but, judging by the size of his pupils and the grin on his face, I’d say he’s feeling as good as I am.

“Where’s Lex?” I wonder, realizing that I haven’t seen anyone else from our group in a while.

Ash searches the crowd for a moment before pointing to the far end. I turn to see her familiar mop of ginger curls, and smile when I see her laughing and dancing with her friends.

“Enjoying her birthday, I see.”

“Yep.”

[2:20] The music dips quieter as the layers are removed bit by bit. When I turn back to Ash, my smile falters as I look him over, the image of his shirt lifting up refuses to leave my mind, and my body trembles from the effort of holding myself back from reaching out to him.

My desire (or desperation?) must show on my face because he peers at me through his long lashes, gives me a playful grin, and asks, “What?” The way he says it comes out like a dare, and I watch as his eyes dip down and then slowly follow the lines of my body back up until they meet mine again, making my heart race and turning the last ounce of my willpower to dust at my feet.

[2:40] The music is starting to rise, so I gesture for him to come closer. When he leans in, my body reacts instantly, as if each and every individual cell is reaching for him, so I take his hand and I put my mouth to his ear and say the only thing I can think of to say, “I want you to kiss me.”

Our cheeks are so close that I feel the disturbance in the air between them as he smiles. He pulls back, and holds up a finger, telling me to hold on. I watch curiously as he listens to the music, nodding his head to the beat, as if waiting for something.

[2:55] A second later, he looks back at me with an excited smile, and in one swift motion, he reaches a hand to the back of my head and pulls himself into me. The second our lips touch, I feel the energy rush through my entire body as the music drops and the crowd around us erupts in cheers and dancing.

Maybe it’s the drugs, maybe it’s the music, maybe it’s him, or maybe it’s the combination of it all, but it’s the best kiss I’ve ever had.

Prev // Next

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songsofadelaide · 5 months

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The way my SOUL craves some fluffy cute fanfics for Laios Touden x fem Reader.. 😭

He’s just So precious!!! Where’s the love for our freaky little pure-hearted man!!!

Maybe Reader worked as hunter/tracker before she joined up with the party..

Laios & Reader both trying to figure out how to “woo” each other.. Laios goes to Chillchuck for advice.. which doesn’t go well as he gets stuck in a lecture about how “Romance in the Party is a bad idea” and now the poor boi doesn’t know what he should do next.. he did have a fiancé before… but that was arranged, and then annulled when he left home… he doesn’t understand how normal relationships start in the first place..

Reader ends up going to Senshi, constantly volunteering to help with preparing the Monster meals.. her way of trying to hint to Laios that she’d make a good Wife if she learns how to cook Monsters like Senshi.. she even encourages Senshi that he should definitely make an official Monster-Cookbook! Promising she’d buy’em and be a customer for life if he made series of Cookbooks! (Smitten Girlie’s already daydreaming of the possible domestic bliss of her making Monster Meals for Laios, maybe even the two of them cooking together!)

Marcille sees all this happening.. She so Ships it!

Reader: presenting the first Monster Meal she made all by herself.. “I-I made this for You L-Laios.. W-What do you think??” 🫣

Laios: Oblivious and hungry as always.. “Oh Really? That’s Amazing…… Wow~ It’s Delicious!” 🥰

Reader: face red as the Red Dragon “You Mean it??” 🥹 Jumps forward and holds his hands close to her chest, her face inches from his making him very flustered.. “M-MARY ME!! I swear I’ll Cook Monsters for you Every day!” 😍

Chillchuck: flabbergasted!! “WHAT!?!?!? 😤 First of all you’re supposed to Court each other THEN get married!! Second Romance in a Party is ba- Mhmph!!!!

Marcille: shoving food in Chillchuck’s face so he won’t ruin the moment. “Oh HUSH!! It’s sweet and they’re perfect for each other!”

Laios: mentally (h-How did I Woo her?!? This’s amazing!!) 🤔 “YES! I’d love to Marry you, And we could Hunt Monsters together too.” 🥰

Senshi: appreciating the power a good balanced meal has in bringing people together in many ways.. “Ah, Young Love.” 😌

Pls anon these are just so cute! I myself am looking forward to reading more Laios fluff like this. 💛 He really is the most unexpected underrated underdog sweetheart of 2024. 😂💕

#love notes to mari 💌#mari answers requests 🍹#dungeon meshi #laios touden x reader

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andy-wm · 10 months

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Please love me is Jimin's line today

The hardest few seconds for me to watch, were these...

Jimin was absolutely dreading appearing on screen without his trademark beautiful hair.

We know he left it as late as he could and didn't want to show anyone.

He looked like he was barely holding it together when he called attention to his hair being shaved. He must have genuinely been scared of the reaction he would get, even from Kook.

"It looks good on you"

Jungkook, you absolute fucking LEGEND 💜

He knew exactly what to say.

When Jungkook told Jimin he looked good (even with no hair) Jimin turned his face away <those feels choking him up> and when he turned back, the almost desperate look of gratitude mixed with relief was so clear.

Please love me is Jimin's line today.

This is not about vanity, ego or pride.

It brings home how fragile his confidence is. His need for approval and the assurance of being loved is strong. It’s so heartbreaking, but we know he hasn't had an easy road.**

Thankfully he did stand a little bit taller once JK reassured him...

But it wasn't an easy moment for Jungkook either.

Whether because he had to witness Jimin's fear and could do nothing more than pet his head, or because he was facing his own misgivings (probably both) he looked equally lost in that moment.

Remember that these boys have left their home once before and journeyed to a place that was less than welcoming. They've had to face the grim, disproving faces of unkind critics and a system that didn't support or value them.

I don't doubt there were echoes of that feeling on this day, that same sense of trepidation they've known before.

We know how the military treats men like them.

And then...

we got this:

You can take the boy out of Busan but you can't take Busan out of the boy.

(People say this about my home town too...)

The shadow of fear is still there in his eyes but.... he looks like a (very hot) backstreet thug who will absolutely fuck you up no questions asked.

It does occur to me that MS might be the reason Jimin has been learning to fight.

I mean really learning to fight.

Yes he's probably doing boxing too but i suspect something more than that ... you shouldn't get torn knuckles from boxing lessons unless you aren't wrapping your hands properly, just saying.

If all else fails (words before fists, right?) I hope he can handle himself.

If he must defend himself, and someone (not him) looks like they've had a close encounter with his fists, I saw nothing.

I hope for both of them, their background will serve them well. In any case they will support one another and their love will see them through this. It's exactly why they are enlisting as companions.

🐰🐥

This is no easy journey, for these young men (all seven of them) or for their families, their friends, and their loved ones. Yes, it's reality of life for every person in Korea, but that doesn't make it easier when it's YOU or YOUR person who is going away.

I am seeing them off with an in ache in my chest - I know we all are. But I'm toasting their successful military service, and their quick return.

짠 지민아, 정국이! We love you 💜💛

See you soon, Angels.

** 'Hurry up and be me soon' ...

Some of us know how much it costs to put our authentic self out into the world. The sacrifices you have to be willing to make are huge. You're not only exposing your own vulnerabilities, but the flow on effect for your family and friends is real.

It's a long journey to self love and acceptance...

We know Jimin has been through a number of iterations of himself. He's been through the tough guy phase, the closed book, the siren, aloof and sophisticated, and the gently feminine.

The image he presents to the world is as much a construct as any person's is - and whether you're aware of this or not, all our public selves are social constructs.

"One size does not fit all" for queer people

For cis gendered heterosexual people, society has a few different ready-made constructs you can adopt, and the rest of society automatically understands the message you're sending. Most of them maintain the status quo of heterosexual cultural norms.

For anyone who DOESNT fit those norms, it's honestly never going to feel good expressing an image that isnt really you. Its like trying and make your circle self fit in a square box.

But theres nothing else that's readily available...

You really have to construct your public image from scratch.

When you aren't part of that typical demographic, figuring out how you want to be seen by the world can be an arduous and complex process.

How much do you reveal? How much do you risk?

You'll experiment with styles, behaviours, and social groups until you find a safe space you can occupy.

Jimin's safe space is with ARMY or his members, but it requires looking perfect.

Think about Jimin's hesitance to appear on camera without makeup. How carefully he chooses his clothes - whether for airport appearances, stage performance or out on the street. He usually has a team of people making sure he looks perfect. His hair is a trademark feature. It's always beautiful.

Remember that he's used to EVERYONE LOOKING AT HIM, ALL THE TIME.

Imagine how it feels to go out in public - against your will - with a shaved head.

Without hair, he would have surely felt naked. Plus, he's no longer in the safe embrace of ARMY, and his buffer of security and managers keeping him out of danger is gone.

He's immensely famous, but not universally loved (don't even go there) and bald, and small, and an IDOL, and very gay ... lets go with unlikely to be heterosexual.

No wonder he was feeling vulnerable.

Ngl, it broke my heart to see him so afraid but I'm sure he'll have a substantial group of supporters around him. I can only hope.

💜💛

#jeon jungguk #park jimin #jikook #kookmin #국민 #true love #bts enlistment #jikook enlistment

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accio-victuuri · 2 months

Text

July CPNs round-up ❤️💛💚

• xz as backing vocals for the song everything is lovely

• clowning about screen protectors

• both of their names together on hs for being posted by xinhua news agency

• same city in Beijing on 7/6 - there was some talk that xz’s flight out has been changed to the 12th, probably to spend more time with wyb who will leave on the 10th. which didn’t happen cause wyb left 7/8 but still got to to spend that time together. some were clowning about how his airport shirt had a crease on it & how that made it seem like it was folded like how xz does it so ya know, is it a sign? lol.

• 7/10 XZS paris vlog clowning: posting so close to yibo’s appearances and similar shots // the two bros focused in the video, paris olympics and torchbearer route.

• 7/12 XZS vlog - possibly texting wyb and little prince figures + snowy mountain ; jacques tati films bgm used

• 7/14 xzs vlog clues! more symbolism and that goose laugh

• walking in the streets of paris

• similarity between tao and yibo showing off a photo of their significant other

• continuing on with the off white with “painting” shirts that xz wears, which is already strike 3 && kind of proves the sdc 3 clowning. he wore this during his off work hours. ⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️

it follows the pattern 👀👀👀

• 7/15 xzs vlog clowning continues - same place different time / confirmation of the bystander lyrics connection and E142 cue

• NOT TOTALLY CPN BUT ME BEING EMOTIONAL. LOL. SEEING YIBO do that torch really in that simple outfit everyone was wearing. mostly bare faced and all eyes on him. that moment — and then you see him wearing that bome necklace makes me go somft. 🥹🥹🥹🥹 he will go to so many places and experience a lot of things but he will always have a piece of xz with him.

some are getting excited about them with silver jewelry necklace but xz’s is boucheron which he is endorsing. as much as i love jewelry cpns, i always get picky when it’s something they endorse, unless there is an additional clue. but i understand why people got 👀 when they saw that silver chain with GG. unfortunately, this is not the necklace we think it is.

another one is this “couple” / same style jacket they both wore when they went abroad. RBS already explained this and i totally agree with their stand on it. i guess what makes this cpn-y to me is the “style” it, showing how their preferences overlap in clothing. and that’s why we think they have a “shared closet”.

<< previous post

• On 7/19, the booting ceremony of XZ’s new film DeXian JinZhi, the cast was revealed and we learned that Yin Zheng is there. Yin Zheng is WYB’s very close friend, so we will definitely keep an eye out on how he will interact with XZ 😂😂😂😂 and oh, Peng Yucheng is also there! who is Bobo’s friend and someone he fake kissed HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! so many common friends!

• some minor cpns from xzs 7/20 vlog + something i forgot to add, same acne studios plain shirt. HAHAHAHAHA! twinning! 👯‍♀️

• xz vlogs appear to be countdowns 🤔🤔🤔

• BJYX related hs on them speaking goose language! HAHAHAHAHA! we shall remain relevant forever!

• what a nice magazine! our boys! side by side! and it’s like a fanfic cover for pairing wei ruolai and chunsheng!

• them posting for public welfare and in support of the olympics for CCTV ( here and here ) also with mengniu’s short film. i love seeing them supporting the same thing and hopefully they get to collab someday for a common cause 🌎 if there is any type of project they can work together, this may be it, cause fans can’t even be outwardly toxic especially if it’s a government project.

• 7/26/2024 xzs vlog candies

• 7/28 coco crush posts clowning

• 7/29 throwback video uploaded by rufeng

• 7/30 XZS vlog clowning time: dancing like wang laoshi, possible mv for bystander and wonderful world lyrics.

plus some more ⬇️⬇️⬇️

ohhhhh. a snowy mountain or is it? i mean who wouldn’t be taken by that and especially someone like xz. love how he took pictures of it and drew it too. in the post by xzs it’s in the c-position, probably cause it’s drawn by xz but also it’s photo #5/18 WYB.

p3 is also our colors! green (ish), red and yellow!

SEE YOU ALL NEXT MONTH!!!!!

<<< previous post

#yizhan #bjyx #there is no science here i’m just clowning like i always do

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dont-offend-the-bees · 2 months

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Lived My Whole Life Before the First Light

Omg here we are. At the end. I'm sad, I've been having such a blast with you guys this week! But all good things... Anyway, this is a strange one, rambling and mournful but hopefully with some sweetness. I hope it makes you feel things, I hope it gives you something, I hope we part on this final day of Painland Week as friends and confidants 💛 Huge, huge thanks to the organisers of Painland Week for putting this magical event together! Special love on this day goes out to @mellxncollie , who has been creating amazing gifs all week and has made beautiful ones for this very fic. It's been so so wonderful to collab with you and everyone should go and look at these wonderful creations at ONCE. Warnings for canonical character death (sorry, Charles) and the stuff that comes with it (i.e. refs to bullying/hatecrimes), non-graphic injury description, and just general mournful grief vibes all round. But hopeful ending bc let's face it, we all know how this played out! 7.3k, M-rated, available on Ao3. Thanks again, @painlandweek!

"Colour! What a deep and mysterious language. The language of dreams."

~ Paul Gauguin

Edwin Payne had always possessed a thirst for knowledge. As a child, he'd wished to learn just about everything there was to learn — every fact in every field. He'd been told, many times, that he could live to be a hundred years old, and still not have enough hours to do so.

Edwin had most certainly not lived to be a hundred. But he supposed that if you added his sixteen years of life to his seventy-three of death, he was getting rather close.

The dead years, however, had been far from conducive to study. Knowledge was hard to come by in Hell. Found either in burnt and bloodied books scavenged from individual damnations, or delivered in the form of cruel trials. He'd been taught a lesson or two in his time, but not on anything so polite and pedestrian as geometry. Edwin's key area of personal study in Hell had been one thing, and one thing only: how to escape from it.

It had taken seven decades, a slew of disembowelments and innumerable failed attempts, but at last he'd passed his final exam with merit. Or at least, a version of him had. But there wasn't much to be done for his original self, whose body lay mouldering on the dollhouse floor beneath a thousand savaged duplicates.

Best not to dwell on it.

He supposed he should have been upset about where the door to Hell spat him out. Not many people would be happy to return to the place where they'd met their untimely, violent demise. But to Edwin, after a small infinity in the blackest pit, stepping back into St. Hilarion's hallowed halls felt like greeting an old friend. Well, friend might be a tad generous. More of an acquaintance, or perhaps a second cousin one barely tolerated. Not a person one enjoyed spending time with, but nonetheless a familiar face.

For a day or so he'd wandered about in a bit of a daze, glancing over his shoulder for any sign he'd been followed from the depths. He'd drunk in every familiar feature, and puzzled over the unfamiliar ones. It was a small change in the grand scheme of things, but he suspected they'd replaced the drapes. They were a lighter grey now than they had been in his time. He wondered what colour they'd chosen — or for that matter, what colour they were in the first place. He'd never thought to ask.

Then on his second day of wandering, he'd stumbled across the old library. And that, for several weeks, had been that.

He'd probably had dreams about this, in his youth. Dreams of being left to his own devices, surrounded by books. All the information he could inhale, with no interruptions. Not even from the other boys. Their voices had startled him a few times, and he was always wary when a gaggle of them descended on the library. But he'd quickly realised that none of them could see him, and so long as he turned the pages quietly, he was free to continue his reading unmolested.

And he did so, continuously, for days. Not even boring old human restrictions like hunger, tiredness or eye strain could stop him now. He read everything he could get his hands on, brushed up on everything, filling in the gaps of the last decades. On the future that had been robbed from him, subsiding into history while his back was turned. He'd sat in his own shellshock when he read not only about how the so-called 'war to end all wars' had concluded, but also how little time had passed before the next one. He'd blushed and skimmed the pages pertaining to the nineteen-sixties free love movement. He'd gazed, thunderstruck, at the moon through the library window; wondering what the Earth must have looked like to the man they put up there.

All these years he'd been trapped in the gutters at the deepest depths of suffering, reaching up towards the light; all that time, humanity had been reaching, too. Up, up and up, all the way to the stars.

It became habit, after that, to gaze at the moon in between books and chapters. An opportunity to gather his thoughts on what he'd just read, to file away the facts, to jot down the most pertinent in his notebook. It was rather a meditative process.

Or at least it had been, until the night he'd seen something else beneath that moon. Something tragically earthbound amidst the gently illuminated greys of the grounds. A hunched and trembling shape against the trees, lurching by Edwin's window. A boy, on the run — his pursuers baying for blood like wolves at his heels.

They could put a man on the moon, but some things never changed.

It would be the first time Edwin had left the library since re-discovering it. Holding aloft the pilfered lantern he'd been using to read into the night, he trod carefully through the darkened corridors. The majority of staff and students were in dorms or common rooms by now, voices a soft patter, bleeding with the light under the doors. No one marked Edwin, or came to investigate the lantern floating past. Though some extinguished their own lights and hushed their voices, mistaking him for a warden. Edwin didn't wish to scare anyone, but he drew some comfort from it. He'd grown tired of being pounced upon in long, black, twisting hallways. How comforting for once to be the root of fear and not merely its captive.

Edwin had to search a little while, but he was already familiar with the best hiding places. It wasn't long before he was creeping up to the attic, minding his ghostly tread upon the stairs. He didn't wish to cause alarm, or send the boy deeper into hiding thinking his assailants had found him.

He crossed the threshold, and at once heard a shuddering intake of breath as the harsh white aura of his lantern bounced off the walls. He supposed there was no disguising the glow. He hung back a moment, conflicted. All he wanted was to offer some light and warmth, but perhaps a floating lantern would be a sight too much for the terrified boy. Well, it was too late for that, now. He stepped into the room proper, peering past the flare of his lantern to the source of the sound. A shivering bundle on the floor, tucked into a nook behind the shelves. Trying to be as small as possible and, by and large, succeeding.

Wide, hunted eyes stared into the light. A voice, low and wary, spoke.

"What do you want?"

It was then that Edwin realised the eyes weren't looking into the light. They were looking at him. He glanced behind himself, just to make sure, but he wasn't mistaken. "You can see me?"

It was also when he noticed something equally perplexing happening to the light. It had started to look... less white. No, in fact it no longer looked white at all, but it had not dimmed, and it bore no resemblance to any shade of grey Edwin had ever seen. It was... he didn't even have the language to describe it. If he had to choose a word, he could only say it looked warm. He'd never seen anything like it. Not in seventy years of Hell, nor in his life before. It simply defied description.

He tore his gaze from it. There were more pressing matters to attend to. "I... I thought this lantern might help," he said, still dumbfounded. He approached, with care — this boy was clearly a victim in this circumstance, but there was a defensive set to his jaw. A wild look in his eyes. A creature caught in a trap was as liable to bite a rescuer as an attacker. "You can simply extinguish it if those boys come up here."

The guarded expression cracked, vulnerability bleeding through. As Edwin drew closer, he noticed that the strange new quality of the light was reflected where it hit the boy. There were notes of something else beneath the pallid grey tones of his skin, something richer. Just as something beyond simple black glistened in his enormous eyes.

"You saw them?" the boy rasped.

"I did. I went to school here a long time ago." Edwin knelt before him, bringing the light closer to the lad’s face and marvelling, quietly, at the strange tones that sprang into sharp relief. Whoever this young man was, Edwin's very perception of the world appeared to be shifting in his presence. "We had bullies, too."

He looked so weak, curled up and trembling. He certainly wasn't weak, Edwin suspected that much. Peeking out from beneath the blanket were shoes and trousers of a kind he'd seen these modern boys wearing out on the sports pitch. The lad was no delicate flower, but at this moment, at the mercy of his wounds, he was helpless.

And if he could see Edwin... then his fate was already sealed.

Edwin looked at the boy levelly, at the fear in his strange eyes. He'd seen that fear upon countless faces these last seventy years, on the wretched souls crying out for respite from their torment. He'd worn a similar expression some decades ago, when a careless act of cruelty had damned him, too.

"Rest assured," he said, gently, offering the lantern. "I shan't hurt you."

He could see the moment the boy decided to believe him. His shoulders slumped, his breath escaped in a rattle of relief. He reached out from his blanket shell, and flashed a sliver of that curiously saturated skin at his shoulder. Against the stark white of the sleeveless vest he wore, the difference was now undeniable. Not grey, not white, but something altogether different. Like his eyes, like the metal at his throat and ear that glimmered in the lamplight. Tones Edwin had never seen before, couldn't even name.

It couldn't be...

"Cheers, mate," said the boy, shivering as he brought the lantern closer. "I'm freezing. Never been this cold in my life."

Swallowing, Edwin nodded. "It's the least I can do."

The boy's lips twitched in a feeble half-smile. "Yeah? You mean you can do more?"

Probably not as much as he'd like. But Edwin nodded again. "Of course."

The light shone upon the boy's face and the dark, waterlogged curls of his hair. Steeped in that impossible hue.

"Stick around a bit?" he asked, his voice very small indeed. "Bit lonely up here..."

Edwin had not come here with any plans to stick around. He'd wished to help, of course. But to say he was unaccustomed to dealing with people was a tremendous understatement. He'd planned to drop off the lantern, check the boy was alright, and slip away without a fuss.

But the boy was clearly not alright, half-alive and fading fast. And he'd seen Edwin, asked him in no uncertain terms to stay. Asked him with all the broken hope in his voice and all the impossible buried, blooming hues in his eyes. And if those colours meant what he had always been told…

Well. How could Edwin begrudge his own soulmate a last request?

"My name is Edwin," he said, as measured as he could manage. "Edwin Payne."

The boy grinned. It wobbled at the edges. "Charlie," he introduced himself. "Charles Rowland."

Edwin hummed. Charles. A pleasant name. Respectable. He thought it rather suited the young man. "A pleasure to meet you, Charles."

Charles chuckled, drawing the lantern closer to himself. "Pretty bloody brills to meet you, too, Edwin."

The colour — for it surely was a colour, Edwin knew of no other word or explanation — of the lantern seemed to pulse, then settle, stronger than before. It illuminated the feeble grin upon Charles' drawn face in hues as yet unnamed.

Edwin would have to find some names. Compare what he could see with what he'd been told, what he'd read. Identify what he could.

While he still had the chance.

"Best thing to happen to me all night," Charles mumbled. "You showing up."

Edwin wished to tell him things could only improve from here; but he knew it to be a lie.

"It is the color closest to light. In its utmost purity, it always implies the nature of brightness and has a cheerful, serene, gently stimulating character. Hence, experience teaches us that yellow makes a thoroughly warm and comforting impression."

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"Just didn't seem right. Letting that kid get beat on 'cause he's from Pakistan," said Charles.

His socks peeked out from the blanket, bright white in the lamplight. Interesting — a part of Edwin had always presumed that white would look vastly different with the rest of the spectrum unlocked. It didn't, but there was much less of it. The world was full of more off-whites in more hues than Edwin could've previously imagined. Charles' skin wasn't dissimilar. Pale-ish, but bearing pleasant warm under-and-overtones that made Edwin's look near-translucent by comparison.

"I mean, I'm half Indian," Charles continued. "Why am I so different?"

"That is a fair point," said Edwin, thoughtful, harkening back to some of the history books he'd skimmed of late. "They were the same country back when I was alive."

Fascinating how the times changed, new lines drawn in the sand. Fascinating, and frustrating. In the time Edwin had been gone wars had started and ended, entire countries had been ruptured, borders reshaped. And yet some of life's most persistent mysteries remained unanswered.

He'd not looked much into it, but it seemed little advancement had been made in understanding of the so-called 'soulmate' principle. It had been a frequent enough phenomenon to be common knowledge in Edwin's time, but no one ever had any real explanation for it. Plenty of spiritual explanations, of course. But it seemed no one could point to any tangible scientific reason why a person, upon hearing the voice of a certain other person, had the entire hidden colour spectrum revealed unto them. An entire dimension of the visible world remained inaccessible to the vast majority of the population, and still no one knew why, or even how. Clearly, there was still much research to be done on the subject.

And clearly, the notion of this mysterious person as a 'soulmate' was romantic drivel. Charles seemed a pleasant fellow, but he was a fellow. And two boys could hardly be soulmates, could they? No God-fearing Christian would embrace the concept if that were the case. So no, Charles couldn't possibly be his soulmate. Perhaps the phenomenon represented something else entirely. Like minds? Charles seemed an easy boy to get on with — and Edwin seldom got on with anybody. He even felt at ease sitting beside him on the hard attic floor, nearly touching. Perhaps Charles was simply his universe-appointed fastest friend; the one person in creation who could truly understand him.

Or maybe it was a cosmic fluke, a quirk of biology. Maybe it could have been absolutely anybody in the world.

Yes, that was probably it. Nothing deeper at play than that.

Still, it was a pity Charles would be dead before the night was out. Soulmate or not.

(Definitely not.)

"Right..." Charles mumbled. Followed by a frown. "Wait, what?"

"Hm?"

"What d'you mean 'when you were alive'?"

Edwin looked at him. Charles still seemed rather small, rather sorry. A chilly little lump, all curled in on himself, even now they were side by side and of a height with one another. He looked cold, sallow. Not even the warm hues of the light Edwin had tentatively designated yellow could hide it, cheerful though it may be.

"You ought to move around a bit," said Edwin, standing smoothly. "You must keep your circulation going."

It would do no good, of course. But who knew? Charles might be hardier than Edwin gave him credit for.

"Edwin," said Charles, all seriousness. "What d'you mean when you were alive?"

Edwin's brow twitched. He held out his hand. "Get up, and I shall tell you."

Charles took his hand — and startled. "Fuck — you're colder than me, mate!"

"And for good reason. Come, now. Two or three quick laps of the room. I'll hold the lantern."

"Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead."

~ Wilfred Owen

Edwin had heard some truly hideous sounds in his time. Crunching bones, squelching organs, agonised screams. And yet somehow, the wheeze of Charles hacking up water from pulverised lungs was among the worst to date.

"Are you alright?" Edwin asked, hands clasped upon the table — lest he risk something overfamiliar like a pat on the back.

"I'm fine," Charles deflected, voice hoarse and unconvincing. "Just answer my question.

Charles was looking worse by the minute. The warm tones of his skin that Edwin had grown so fascinated by were receding under sallow grey. A new colour was blooming, in and around his eyes; in the puffy lids underneath, in the spiderwebbing veins across the whites.

This colour was not nearly so puzzling — the veins were a dead giveaway. Edwin had read more than enough crime literature to be able to identify the colour of blood.

So, this was the famous red. A bold colour, possibly quite charming in the right context; which this most assuredly was not. Edwin was no physician, but he'd read a number of medical textbooks. Charles bore all the hallmarks of a man bedevilled with internal bleeding. It was not a matter of whether he would die, but of what would kill him first; the cold, or the injuries.

He tore his gaze away. Anger, bitter and harsh, had him by the throat, had his fists clenching together until his gloves creaked. Who were those wretched boys, to lay hands upon Charles? To break him so? This boy who, insofar as Edwin could tell, hadn't a bad bone in his body? Whatever Charles was to him, soulmate or not (definitely, definitely not), he was his. He was supposed to be his, and soon he would be dead, and Edwin understood, now. Understood how people found themselves mired in Hell's fifth circle, swamped in wrath and rage. For no reason, no reason at all, those boys had taken Charles’ life without a care. Taken his life, and the colour from Edwin's eyes, all in one fell swoop. Soon both would be gone; and if Edwin ever found the hooligans responsible they'd have a formidable haunting on their hands.

"Nineteen thirteen, to..." he counted one, two, three, slowly. Collecting himself. "Nineteen sixteen."

"Bullshit." Charles cocked his head, a small smile of disbelief upon his lips. It was a charming expression, in its impertinence. "When did you go to school here for reals?"

"Nineteen thirteen to nineteen sixteen," Edwin repeated, slower. "I am dead, Charles."

Charles laughed. Edwin raised his eyebrows — and pretended not to be fascinated by the flash of not-red in Charles' mouth, his tongue and gums. What was the word for a light red, again? He was sure he'd read it somewhere...

The laughter died, and Charles' eyes went wider still. "...Oh."

There was more of that not-red than Edwin had thought, actually. The shells of Charles' ears, where the dawning light from the window glowed through translucent skin. He'd never considered that a person's ears might appear a different colour to the rest of them. How many secret tricks of the light had he been oblivious to all these years? How many more had he yet to discover? How many would he never get the chance to see for himself?

Just how much more could possibly be stolen from him?

"I... I dunno if this is, um, bad to ask, or what, but..." Charles swallowed. "How'd you die, mate?"

His lips, too, were redder than the rest of him; although that was fading, rapidly. Cooling at the edges. Edwin suspected that wasn't supposed to be the case.

"As I said," Edwin replied, sadly. "We had bullies, too."

"Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay."

~ Robert Frost

He had Charles move around again, though it was clear it would serve no purpose. He was delaying the inevitable. Charles was all but shutting down already; the occasional boost to his circulatory system was hardly going to bring him back from Death's door.

But perhaps Charles would beat the odds. Why not? He seemed a resilient fellow. Perhaps he would, indeed, outlast the night, see another day. Perhaps help would arrive. Perhaps Edwin could give him the push he needed to survive this if he only persisted.

Besides, he couldn't let Charles seize up and expire just yet. Charles had questions and damn it all, Edwin would answer them!

"Actually, you can move around any space however you like," Edwin explained. "It is not that you cannot touch things, you just cannot feel them."

A blessing in disguise, on occasion. Though Edwin had done his utmost to fill up this nook by the window with whatever musty blankets and futons he could salvage, he doubted the floor was comfortable. He himself sat with his knees tucked up to his chest, bracing for discomfort he couldn't feel. It was far from ideal. But he supposed that a hard floor was the least of Charles' problems.

Charles was rapidly declining. That cool tinge upon his lips was growing more prominent, his coughs harsher and more visceral-sounding. But here, at least, he seemed as snug as Edwin could make him. Swaddled like a babe, tucked up against the cluttered old shelves. Perhaps this was warm enough to get him through. It certainly seemed warm, with the yellow light burning merrily on.

It glowed not only off Charles' skin and his eyes, but a myriad small reflective surfaces strewn about the forgotten nook. Edwin was particularly taken with the shimmer of it off what appeared to be a dented instrument — possibly a tuba? — near Charles' head. Metals had always looked very similar to one another, in Edwin's grayscale vision. Now he could see the metal of the horn was a somewhat deeper shade than that of, say, the earring Charles wore. Finally, he could see first-hand the differences between the precious and non-precious metals. Alas, he had few of them to choose from, and little way of knowing which was which. He supposed it safe to assume that the instrument was brass, hence its orchestral designation.

But the metal Charles was wearing was his favourite so far. It had a little of the yellow about it, but richer, more lustrous. Edwin found himself quite transfixed by the way it fluttered and flickered in the light.

He was familiar with the saying all that glitters is not gold, of course. But for want of further evidence, gold seemed as good a guess as any.

"It's stupid, but... I think I'd miss kissing," said Charles. He looked right at Edwin, earring and eyes twinkling with the motion. He did have... handsome eyes. Edwin simply must figure out what colour they were. Of a similar hue but different tone to his hair, to the old wooden shelves at his back. "Do you miss kissing?"

"Mmm-mmmm," Edwin mumbled, with a small shake of his head. "No. Not as such."

How many people had Charles kissed, he wondered? Surely not an abundance, they were of a similar age. Had he kissed someone this month, this week? Today? Before his lips grew cold and chapped, when they were... oh, what was that word for a lighter red? Pink, yes, that was it.

Then again, perhaps he went about with painted lips in every day life. He already wore some sort of cosmetic on his eyes, after all, so maybe it wasn't a stretch for a modern young man. Imagine. A boy, staining the lips of his paramours with lipstick when he kissed them...

Goodness. The world really had moved on.

Edwin cleared his throat. "No," he repeated, firmly. "No, I don't miss kissing."

He supposed it was fine that Charles liked it, though. And maybe he'd get the chance to do it again. He just had to hold on a little longer, outlive the dawn chorus, until the teachers noticed his absence and sent people searching. Then he could keep on living, and kissing and whatever else he wished to do and Edwin...

Well, Charles probably wouldn't have much use for a ghost friend. But at least Edwin could keep the colours. Just a little while longer.

Charles chuckled. It was a bit of a sadder sound than the last time Edwin heard it. "Must've had some shit kisses in your life, mate."

Edwin smiled, tightly. "Something of that ilk."

"Shame we weren't mates," said Charles. "I'd've..."

"You'd have... what?"

A smattering of colour returned to Charles' face, then. It might've been a trick of the light, but Edwin could've sworn his cheeks warmed. "I'd've... well, I'd've found you someone to snog, wouldn't I?" he laughed, drawing his blanket closer around his chin. "Got some fit mates from my old school. And the birds proper fancy the brainy lads."

Edwin frowned. "The... birds?"

"Y'know. Lasses. Girls."

"Oh." For whatever reason, Edwin felt... disappointed. And not just at the apparently abysmal state of modern slang. "Yes. Girls."

He cocked his head, watching Charles carefully. He was a very good looking boy. And he wasn't Edwin's soulmate, couldn't be, but...

Edwin cleared his throat. "Charles?"

"Yeah?"

"Do I look..." He wavered. "...Unusual, at all? To you?"

Charles blinked. "Um. Well. Outfit's a bit retro." His eyes widened slightly, a dash of mortification. "Not being rude! I like it! It's... it's cool."

Edwin rolled his eyes. "I don't mean my outfit, I mean... have you noticed anything different about this room since I walked in?" he pressed.

"Well, yeah."

Edwin inhaled. "You have?"

"Yeah."

He leaned in closer. "What have you noticed exactly?"

Charles smiled weakly. "Well. It... feels a lot less lonely. With you here. Warmer, too." He chuckled. "Daft as that sounds. With you being dead, and all."

Edwin's fingers flexed on his knees — all he could do to stop himself hugging them, wretchedly, to his heart. "Yes," he agreed, dully. "Daft, indeed..."

"Green makes me think of silence, or maybe it’s loneliness. I get the feeling of a terribly distant star."

~ Kobo Abe

Edwin had only ever known one person ‘fortunate’ enough to meet her soulmate.

Aunt Florence had always been a bit of an odd duck. Flighty and fickle, a perpetual embarrassment to her brother — Edwin's father — whose job it had been to lend financial support to her spinster lifestyle. As she alleged it, she'd found her soulmate in the late eighteen seventies. For reasons undisclosed (to Edwin, at least) they had never married. Edwin had never had the pleasure of meeting her mysterious match.

She had always seemed very fascinated with the world around her, Aunt Florence. A trait she shared with Edwin; though while his interest lay in facts, hers lay in aesthetics. He’d seen her dedicate hours to the study of a singular rose petal in her garden. Edwin was told she could do quite beautiful things with oil paints, for those with eyes to see. They were passable, too, in black and white, but lacking dimension.

Once, when Edwin was about nine or so, Aunt Florence had taken his chin between her willowy fingers.

"What lovely eyes you have, my boy," she'd said, in a smoker's croak. Uncouth for a woman to smoke, particularly one of her social standing, but she'd never much cared what others thought of her. Her tobacco-stained nail had nipped his chin as she held him close. "Your mother's eyes. Sea green... You'll find yourself someone who can appreciate them, won't you?"

Edwin, of course, had had no idea what green was, and little desire to find out. Not if finding a so-called soulmate was the prerequisite condition. He was of an age where the fixation that grown-ups seemed to have on kissing one another was both vexing and perplexing to him. A phase of his life that, to be frank, he'd never entirely left behind. He'd extricated himself from Aunt Florence's talons as politely as possible, and given her a wide berth for the rest of her visit.

The next time he'd seen her, she had taken one look at his eyes, and burst into tears.

They all ended the same way, these soulmate stories. It was a law of nature. Death was not neat, or particularly fair. No matter how blissfully happy the pair, someone always had to leave first; and when they did, the colour left with them.

Some, at least, got time to enjoy it all. Before their love — and their colour — died away. A few decades, or years. Months, even.

Some, like Edwin, got far less. Hours, if that.

And some, like Charles Rowland, got no time at all.

"They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two

Moles dead in the pebbled rut,

Shapeless as flung gloves, a few feet apart —

Blue suede a dog or fox has chewed.

One, by himself, seemed pitiable enough,

Little victim unearthed by some large creature

From his orbit under the elm root.

The second carcass makes a duel of the affair:

Blind twins bitten by bad nature."

~ Sylvia Plath

"Shut up, mate. That is brills."

Edwin was inclined to agree. Especially now he could appreciate the full effect. He'd been aware, of course, that his form seemed to partially dissolve into a mirage when he passed through solid surfaces. He'd been unaware that the mirage seemed to possess a certain hue. Not unlike the hue beginning to bleed through the filthy window.

The pre-dawn light was different to the majority of the colours Edwin had identified so far. It was colder. Greyer. Pale and stark against the opaque black silhouette of the distant treeline (interesting, how the trees still seemed black in this light. He wondered if he'd get a chance to see this green he'd heard so much about before the night was over.) If Charles' face was warmed by the yellow lamplight, it was cooled at the edges by the seeping tones through the glass.

This, like the red and the blood, came with an easy reference point. Everybody knew that the sky was supposed to be blue.

Seemed Edwin finally had a word for the sickly tint of Charles' lips.

"Why don't you fall through the floor?" Charles asked, puzzled.

"There are many, many, so-called ghost rules," said Edwin, sagely. He had, after all, spent several weeks conducting his own personal study and compiling the rules himself. "I shan't waste your time listing them."

"Well, I only asked about the floor, didn't I?" said Charles, a teasing lilt to his lip. Honestly, the cheek of the man.

"Because I choose not to fall through the floor," Edwin replied, in utterly falsified exasperation. "Happy?"

Charles had a certain way of smiling; one that spread up from his grinning mouth and into his eyes. Despite the cold, miserable state of the rest of him they fairly shone with warmth, a merry humour. A knowing gleam that said 'look at us, in on the joke'.

Edwin had never been in on the joke, before.

Charles chuckled; and Edwin did likewise, helpless to the draw of it. The magnetic sound. It had his lips lifting of their own volition — even as his heart sank further and further into the floor.

The blue devils, that's what his father had called it. On those rare occasions when he acknowledged Mother's low mood, or found Edwin weeping silently upon his bed. "You've just got the blue devils, my boy. Chin up, now, and soldier on. You've better things to do than mope."

He could feel them, now, those blue devils upon his shoulder. Cold, heavy, and the colour of Charles' bloodless lips. Weighing Edwin down like stones in his pockets. He hadn't felt hot or cold in decades, but now he felt as Charles must have done with the chill lake pressing down upon him, filling his lungs. And unlike Charles, he wasn't sure he possessed the tenacity to break the surface before the bubbles stopped.

He'd fought his way from the pits of Hell itself, and yet this climb seemed more insurmountable by far. He was no longer fighting his way from the dark to the light. There was no light above the surface of this icy water, no light at all. The light was here, the entire spectrum of it; above was only grey, grey, grey, as far as the eye could see.

"Oi," said Charles. He looked so very tired; but still inquisitive to a fault. "What other cool stuff can you do, then?"

Edwin huffed. "I can travel through mirrors, if you must know."

Charles' blue lips parted, breath escaping on a wonderstruck wheeze. "Wicked."

He ought to be more careful with his breaths. He couldn't have had all that many left to draw.

"We love the sight of the brown and ruddy earth; it is the color of life, while a snow-covered plain is the face of death."

~ John Burroughs

Charles Rowland passed away in the small hours of the morning. Edwin didn't even need to look up from the page; he just watched the pinkish tint bleed from his own ghostly fingertips, and made a deduction.

Even before his passing, Edwin hadn't looked directly at Charles in some time. He hadn't been able to bring himself to. The colour in his ailing new friend had diminished all but completely, his skin a sallow patina, his lips a cracked grey slate.

Edwin had only come to know colour on this night, and already he could feel its absence like a hole in his heart. He understood, now, why Aunt Florence had dragged herself so mournfully through her twilight years. Going through the motions of existing. Colour, for Aunt Florence, had been life; without it, there was simply no point living.

Somehow, Edwin found his voice, and he read on. Because Edwin was no Aunt Florence, arty and flighty and prone to outpourings of passion. Edwin was his father's son; he soldiered on. No matter what.

But the ache in his chest persisted, despite his best efforts to quash it. There had been so much yet to see. He'd never witnessed the colour purple — an expensive hue of which he'd heard a great many appreciative things. He'd never seen a flower, any flower, in full bloom, or watched one of those famous sunsets.

In the end, he never even got to see what his aunt meant about his eyes. But he had no reflection anymore, so. Perhaps that one was always a lost cause.

On the topic of lost causes; there was someone else in this room with him, yet. Someone who'd lost far more than a fleeting glimpse of creation in technicolour.

""— I cease to believe,"" Edwin finished reading with a soft, forced chuckle. To no response. He looked up to find Charles standing tall, gaze turned to the window. It was the first time all night he'd been without his blanket; and the first time he'd borne not the slightest shiver.

Well. At least he would never be cold again.

"Not enjoying this one?" Edwin prompted, gently. "Carrados the blind detective was just becoming quite popular in my day."

When Charles turned around, of course Edwin already knew what he would find. Knew what his own eyes would fall upon when they followed Charles’ gaze.

But knowing did not prepare him for the reality. The cold, desaturated tableau of Charles Rowland's demise, illuminated like a crime scene in the stark white light of the lantern. How a person so vital, so vibrant as Charles should be without blood and colour defied all reason. And yet there he lay; bereft of hue, and of life.

Edwin swallowed, and closed the book gently upon Max Carrados. "When you could see me, I knew it was too late."

Charles was silent. For the first time all night. Silent as the grave.

"But I simply..." Edwin hesitated. "I did not want to scare you."

In the corner of Edwin's eye, the lantern guttered and died. Good. It didn't seem right; all that light upon Charles, and not a drop of warmth in it.

"Well. Glad you didn't say anything." Charles' voice was stronger, now. How different he sounded, without the rattle of lake water in his lungs.

Charles looked at his hands. As did Edwin. How strange they appeared, in the bleak grey of Edwin's impoverished eyes. How unsettlingly close to the pallor his skin had taken on in his death throes. And yet he wasn't pallid, not in the slightest. Standing tall, unchained from his ailing flesh, he was more wholly and healthily Charles than Edwin had yet seen him.

"Doesn't feel like I imagined. Being dead," said Charles, thoughtful. "Feels okay, doesn't it?"

In truth, there was nothing remotely 'okay' about this situation. Edwin felt... robbed. He felt robbed. Because he would never know the colour of Charles' skin when it wasn't frozen grey, or beaten black and blue. He'd never see this Charles, standing tall in the dawning sunlight, the way he was designed to be seen. The way he was chosen, by God or fate or an impossible quirk of biology to be seen, by Edwin. Only by Edwin. For he was Edwin's, no more could he deny it.

And Charles would never see Edwin. Not the way Edwin saw him. Because by the time they met, it was already too late. Because in a wretched twist of fate, Charles’ soulmate — his unfortunate, unorthodox soulmate — was dead in the ground before Charles was even born.

And Edwin had thought Hell to be cruel and unusual punishment.

"I sincerely wish we could have been friends for longer," said Edwin, dropping the magazine and standing from his seat on the old trunk. "But Death will come for you, now. You should go with her when she arrives."

He turned, and began his brisk march to the door. What's done is done; and Charles was, unmistakably, done. Done in and done for, done in just about every sense.

So Charles would be off, now. He'd be off, and Edwin would just have to carry him, too. In his head, with his facts and his torments and a thousand tiny heartbreaks. What was another one, in the grand scheme of things? What else was there to do in this fugitive afterlife but keep his chin up, and soldier on?

"Well I'm not ready, am I?” Charles called out. “I don't wanna go somewhere else, yet."

Edwin faltered. Turned. Charles was watching him.

"What if I stay here for a bit with you, instead?" said Charles, preposterously.

"Then you will always be running from her," was Edwin's quick, logical response. But Charles was still watching him with those... those damnably appealing eyes, and he felt the need to defend his case. "Also, I'm not good with other people. And I only just came back to this school after escaping Hell, so. I'm out of practice, to be perfectly frank. So. When the light comes. You stay, and I go."

He smiled, tightly, and turned once more. There. He'd avoided mentioning Hell all night, but it was done, now. No boy with a lick of sense would —

"Well, I'm aces with other people."

… He simply could not be serious.

"Pretty chuffed you got out of Hell, mate," Charles continued, maddeningly blasé. "That sounds hard. Nice job."

Edwin turned on him, incredulous. "That is not how you make decisions," he snapped, taking a challenging step towards Charles. "Just based on whatever you happen to be feeling in the moment!"

"It's how I lived my life."

Charles turned his head, looked down at his own body. Edwin couldn't bring himself to do likewise.

"Doesn't seem all that different now."

Charles looked at Edwin, unflinching. And what a different creature he was, free of cold and pain. Lithe but lax, eyes slightly narrowed in almost catlike contemplation of Edwin. He stood before a hellbound soul, near naked and freshly dead, and yet the easygoing slope of his narrow shoulders bore no strain.

He shrugged, nonchalant. White light glimmered from his dangling earring. "Looks like you're stuck with me.”

For a moment it was nigh on impossible to believe he hadn't seen it, too. Hadn't seen the spectrum unfold when Edwin said his name. Because how else could someone look at anyone, let alone Edwin, with such certainty? As if he'd never been more sure of anything or anyone in his tragically short life.

Breathtaking was not a word Edwin liked to use lightly. In fact, he preferred not to use it at all. Who had ever seen something so rare, so staggeringly beautiful they'd lost their breath? It was the sort of word Aunt Florence would have used; flowery and hyperbolic.

It seemed Edwin owed her yet another apology.

Light flared in the corner. Their eyes leapt to it. It was of no colour that Edwin could see and yet he could feel it, deep in his soul, he knew its shape and colour; blue. A kinder, softer blue than that of bloodless lips and dreary skies. The wild blue yonder that he was barred from forevermore; the one that awaited Charles Rowland with open arms.

Charles looked at Edwin.

Edwin looked at Charles.

Charles smiled, soul glowing lantern-bright in those dark, confident eyes. He didn't move, not towards the light or away from it, but he held out his hand. Planted like a tree, unbending, unbowed. His roots sunk deep into the loamy earth of life; his branches beckoning Edwin into their boughs.

Oh, thought Edwin, when he understood — didn't see, simply understood — the colour that had been gazing back at him all along. That's the word I was looking for.

Thirty years passed, fading into memory, and with them faded the sting. It was hard to mourn the loss of colour when one could scarcely remember what it looked like in the first place. Those fleeting hours blended and blurred amidst the grey years, lost to time; a single hand-tinted frame in a hundred miles of monochrome celluloid.

Though he tried to remember, Edwin struggled to visualise the yellow light that had bathed their faces; the gold that glinted at the cut of Charles' jaw. Pink lips, red veins, the blue stain of death. Such things were impossible to note down in a world of black ink and white pages, and his aide-mémoires soon failed him. The colours fluttered away into the past, scattered to the winds of memory like his mother's smile, his father's voice, Aunt Florence's smoky laughter and the roses she painted on the guest room walls.

But though he could not recall the exact shade of Charles' eyes, nor compare them to any other — not even his own — Edwin knew something about them. Just as he knew Death's light shone heavenly blue. And for once in Edwin's long and tormented afterlife, he felt truly fortunate. Because he'd been allowed to experience only a fraction of what the visible spectrum had to offer; colours he could count on less than two hands.

And yet somehow, by some stroke of luck, he'd seen the best one nonetheless.

"At breakfast that morning I had been struck by the lively dissonance of its colours. But that was no longer the point. I was not looking now at an unusual flower arrangement. I was seeing what Adam had seen on the morning of his creation - the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence."

~ Aldous Huxley

Thank you for coming on this journey with me, my darlings 💛 Love to hear your thoughts! Reminder to check out Olly's amazing gifs! This one took a little while to come together, bc in my first draft Edwin's feelings/progression were a bit all over the place. But I realised that all the sections of the attic scene (not including the very first one/my inserted flashback about Aunt Florence) could track along the five stages of grief quite nicely and that gave me a good framework to loosely follow, starting in his denial of the implications and ending in devastated acceptance of what he's lost. As to why he didn't like, *tell* Charles, well, what would you do? Be honest? If you were a dead Edwardian ghost boy and you found out your actual soulmate was not only another boy, but a doomed one? One who isn't even seeing what you're seeing. Maybe he thought Charles wouldn't believe him, or would take it badly. Maybe he thought telling him would sway him unfairly into staying when Edwin believed he should go. I think he will tell him, one day. And Charles is gonna be PISSED that he kept it from him so long xD For the quotes, I tried to stick to things Edwin could possibly have read, so pre-1989 things, as I like the idea of him using literature as a framework for understanding what he's seeing. It was really interesting writing about colour from the perspective of someone with no reference for it! Some of the quotes might have ended up anachronistic by a couple of years, tbh people are *shit* at sourcing their quotes and while I could source authors easy enough it was hard sometimes to isolate what specific book/anthology the piece came from, or what year it was published. If I'd have had more time I would have done more digging! Anyway, that's about all I got right now. I dunno when I'll be back, probably (hopefully) in a few weeks with the next chapter of Lonely Bones. In the meantime please, feel free to continue chatting with me in the comments, on my tumblr, come be a pal, I've had the time of my life with y'all this week and I'm not ready to get off this train just yet! Until next time! 💛

#painlandweek #painland week #payneland #dead boy detectives #dbda #my fanfic #PHEW #WE MADE IT GUYS #i think there's some things about this one i might have tweaked/restructured given a little more time #a few things i would have gone into more as well #idk if it's a thorough an exploration of the concept as I'd planned #but all in all not half bad!#and working with olly has been an honour and a delight!!#thank you so much everyone who's been cheering me on this week 💛💛💛#and now i have time to finally go and read all the great stuff you've been writing!!!

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lazorbeanz · 5 months

Text

Late Night

Unbreakable Bond

Headcanons and indirect quotes :p #4

🔶 Tails: You ready for tomorrow’s history test?

Sonic: Yea

Tails: What ended in 1896?

Sonic: 1895

Tails: Yea you ready…

🔷 Tails: So, who did ya learn about today?

Sonic: Errr some guy called ‘Martha Luker King Jr.’

Tails: *tryna hold it together* u-uhm okay…and what did he do?

Sonic: *with all confidence* He died for our sins…

Tails: Wait no that’s- *wheeze*

🔶 Sonic singing along the Chorus of Speed Life (he doesn’t know French): 🎶“Something something speed life…SOMEBODY’S WATCHING MEEEEEE”🎶

🔷 Sonic and Tails have this challenge they do at karaoke nights where they attempt to sing a song that’s not in English, which really just ends up as a big laughing fest as they fail miserably. Sonic tries to make up for it by dancing to the music (cuz mind you, it’s catchy) but his legs turn into spaghetti from his fit, and faceplants onto the floor. Tails attempts to help him up but his knees do a funny and falls on top of him, leaving the brothers immobile and gasping for air.

🔶 Sonic: is the pink panther a lion?

Tails: say that again but slower

Sonic: I don’t get??

Tails: he’s the pink PANTHER

Sonic: okay?? But is he a lion?

Tails: 🤦..*grabs the landline phone* hello is this the brain replacement store-

🔷 The brothers have a war going on in their Snapchat stories, where they would steal awkward pics of each other…whether that’s Sonic eating a really messy chilidog or tails after an experiment gone horribly wrong, with the caption being like ‘look at this loser lol’ or something meme related…yes they turn each other into memes

🔶 Sonic would randomly decide to attach tails to a lead every now and then to see his reaction, which at first was pretty vicious, but now he’s just like “rlly bro? -_-” but either one would send Sonic in hysterics

🔷 Tails: hey Sonic, what word starts with “f” and ends with “u c k?”

Sonic: Fu- WAIT TAILS NO-

Tails: it’s firetruck! 😊 uhh sonic?

*cue sonic getting carted away in an ambulance…i think he stopped breathing*

🔶 Since Sonic doesn’t give a toss, tails would somewhat keep an eye out on his brother’s quill care (you could say Amy has talked to Tails about the matter) so after heaps of reasoning and the last resort - the cute fox eyes, Sonic reluctantly gives in to letting his younger brother brush his quills for the first time. It’d go down something like this…

Tails: one~

Sonic: ow-

Tails: two~

Sonic: OWWW…how many of these (brush strokes) do we have to do?!

Tails: like a thousand or something…thre-

Sonic: AAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEE!!!!🦅🦅🦅

ANOTHER LIFE IN THE DREAMHOUSE REFERENCE IM SORRY IM SORRY-

🔷 Tails was so sleep deprived that he almost mistook liquid petroleum for coffee one morning (somehow)

🔶 Tails loves planes…in all forms…and THAT INCLUDES the one used to be fed…

Sonic: Tails, you are 8 years old, with an IQ of about 300…and you still want me to do…this?

Tails: b-but…aeroplaneee 🥺

Happy wholesome Wednesday!

Whilst you’re here, we have an Unbreakable Bond Discord server out for all you folks who love the brothers just as much as us! 💙💛 It’s a totally chill place where we can chat, share art or fics, and most importantly, hyperfixate over that hog and fox duo we love so much! (There’s even a place for boops!)

Created by @suzienightsky ✨ If you’re keen on joining, flick her a DM and she’ll give you an invite.

Sorry for the ad lmao

#sonic the hedgehog #miles tails prower #sth #sonic #tails the fox #unbreakable bond #sonic headcanons #unbreakable bond headcanons #wstw #wsatw #wholesome sonic and tails wednesday #indirect sonic quotes #indirect unbreakable bond quotes #sonic and tails

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alwaysurvalentine · 30 days

Text

Chicago Calls

Written for Day 29 of @steddieangstyaugust - prompt: Future - wc: 1.3k - cw: nothing!

enjoy! 💛

“What do you think the future holds?”

It’s quiet at the quarry, stars glittering in the dark sky.

“Don’t you know? I’m gonna be a big rock star!” Eddie splays his hands out towards the sky with a grin. Like always, he’s got a glow about him. He can’t help but light up a room just by showing up. Steve would point this out but he’s worried Eddie would read how endeared he is to the older boy. Instead he just basks in Eddie’s light while he can.

He wasn’t sure what a friendship with Eddie would look like when the other boy woke up, but it didn’t stop him from visiting every day he could. If Eddie was still asleep or away at physical therapy, he’d keep Wayne company in Eddie’s tiny room talking about the latest game or on a few occasions wild stories from when Eddie was a little boy. From what he’s learned, Eddie’s always been full of energy; full of life. Nothing is going to hold him back from his dream.

Steve can see it clearly, Eddie on a stage playing his heart out and an adoring crowd screaming his lyrics back to him. It’s a future he wishes he could be a part of. But he’s just a friend, so he’ll have to settle for cheering Eddie on through the phone line – which he’ll do as long as the metalhead lets him.

Eddie rolls over so he’s facing Steve, brown eyes sparkling.

“What about you? What’s the future hold for Steve Harrington?” The smile on his face softens and Steve just wants to reach over and tuck that one curl behind Eddie’s ear to see it better.

“No idea. Probably just stay around town. Visit you and Robin every so often.”

Eddie’s smile fades and he turns serious, eyes searching Steve’s face instead of forming an answer.

“Cause you know, someone’s gotta keep the brats alive. Teach them how to drive. Make sure they don’t uncover some other government secrets. Make sure-”

“What do you want to do?”

“Hm?”

“Like, if you didn’t have to worry about anyone else, and you could just do whatever you wanted, what would you do?”

I’d go with you and Robin to Chicago. Steve wants to say it, but he can’t – the words feel stuck in his throat and he swallows. The crickets don’t cover the noise and he watches as Eddie’s eyes dart to his throat and back up again.

“Stevie, I know you’ve got something. Would it work better if I wasn’t looking at you? Here.” And then he closes his eyes. One corner of Eddie’s mouth is ticked up, like he’s amused but trying to stay serious instead. It’s the same look he gets on his face when the kids argue over their next move in DnD.

Steve hates that Eddie’s right and the pressure is lighter without Eddie looking at him, even if their bodies are curled in towards each other like closed parenthesis. He traces the lines of Eddie’s face before answering.

“If I didn’t have to worry about anything?” A small nod from Eddie. “I’d follow you and Robin to Chicago. Get a tiny little apartment where we’re all cramped on top of each other because it’s all we can afford but we don’t care because it’s like one long sleepover. I’d get some job in town that lets me have the weekends off so that I can come see you play in some bar that likes loud music.” Eddie huffs a laugh at this but keeps his eyes closed. “I’d play the best wingman to Robin to make sure she gets a good girl to call her own.” Steve stops here and sighs, closing his own eyes and rolling onto his back again.

“Why don’t you?” Eddie whispers the words, if they weren’t so close Steve would’ve missed it, and he can feel Eddie’s eyes on him again.

“I don’t wanna hold you or Robin back.” It’s the truth. And a truth he’s been trying to avoid all summer. He knows people become his friend because of proximity. Hawkins is a small town, and even though he and Robin are Platonic Soulmates, she still only became his friend because they worked and got tortured together. Eddie would never have given him a chance to be his friend if it hadn’t been for the Upside Down.

Now there’s two weeks before Robin and Eddie head off to Chicago and he’s tired of avoiding the thought that they’re leaving him behind. The blanket shifts slightly from under him and he opens his eyes to Eddie practically leaning over him, eyebrows furrowed.

“As if you’d ever hold us back. You’re being too hard on yourself. We’d do better if you were with us. I’d do better if you came with us.”

“Eddie-”

“No, I mean it! It’d be just like you said, a sleepover every day. And if Robin got too sick of us we could stay out late and fail at being quiet when we got back to the apartment. You’d come to all my shows and make sure my crazy fans don’t kidnap me. And Robin and I would come bother you at work whenever we could. Of course your boss would love you so they wouldn’t even care about the two of us hanging out all the time.” Eddie sounds excited at this imaginary life he’s describing and Steve cracks his eyes open. The other boy is sitting up now, legs crossed so he can wave his arms around comfortably. He’s focused on the quarry in front of them and his hair blows with the wind. Steve doesn’t know if he’s ever looked more beautiful.

“So, what do you think?” Eddie trails off, turning over his shoulder with his head tilted.

Steve sits up and scoots down the blanket a little closer to Eddie again. Another gust of wind and he’s hit with the smokiness that always follows Eddie – it’s become one of his favorite things these past few months.

“I think it sounds like a dream.”

As soon as he says the words, he wishes he could take them back. Eddie wilts like a sad flower, shoulders hunched in and smile gone. They’re both quiet for a minute, crickets singing their song while the trees dance in the wind. Eddie starts mumbling quietly, not loud enough to be heard, and that’s okay, Steve’s trying to focus on anything other than how this might be one of the last times the two of them hang out at the quarry before Eddie leaves.

When Eddie talks again, he’s loud enough for it to echo. “Come with us!” He doesn’t give Steve a chance to answer before he continues, “No, listen. We leave in two weeks, come with us. That’s plenty of time for you to tell Keith you’re quitting, pack up your stuff, and then you just drive out with us when we leave town in two weeks. It’ll be a tight squeeze like you said, but we won’t care. You and Buckley share a bed every movie night anyway. Finding a job won’t be too hard once we’re in the city, and even if it takes a little bit I know you squirreled away your government money so you’ll be fine. If you’re worried about how you’ll fit in the apartment, you’ll make sure me and Birdie stay alive. Who else is going to make sure we don’t eat take out every night? So, you’ll come with us, right?”

“Are you sure?” Steve’s been doing better with his self-worth, he really has. That doesn’t mean he’s prepared for such a display of someone wanting him around though. It fills him with warmth that makes him want to just reach out and hug Eddie close.

“Never been more sure.”

A smile stretches across his face and Steve honest to god, giggles at the idea.

“I’d love to.”

#Steve harrington #Eddie munson #pre steddie #stranger things #some angst #hopeful ending #trope Thursday #valentine writes

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band--psycho · 1 year

Text

Harvey Specter x Reader- Revelations

I just wanted to say a quick thank you for all the Harvey specter love on my tumblr, it really means a lot! 💛

Thank you to @justah0pelessr0mantic for requesting this story!

I hope you all enjoy this! 💛

(If anyone wants to be tagged in more Harvey stories let me know in the comments or fill out a tag list form which you can find on my masterlist)

“He’s late,” Y/n mumbled, not with annoyance or frustration in her voice but with an anxiety Harvey knew she was feeling; not only from her voice but by the way her legs were bouncing slightly under the table.

“Sweetheart, relax,” Harvey hummed, turning towards her, placing one of his hands on her back and the other on her thigh that was closest to him, in an attempt to stop the anxious tapping.

“He’s usually late to most things,” he joked, in another attempt to ease her anxiety, as his thumb rubbed small circles onto her back.

He knew why she was so anxious, tonight was a big night…and although he was trying his best not to let it show, he was nervous too.

“Maybe we should leave before he gets here?” Y/n suggested turning slightly so that her eyes met Harvey’s.

“We can’t, baby,” he answered softly; with a sympathetic smile.

“I know, I know,” she sighed, knowing that Harvey was right.

She knew they had to tell Mike; she wanted to, she really did.

She was just worried about his reaction; Mike had always been protective over her, ever since they were kids, Harvey knew that.

Neither of them had meant to keep their relationship a secret for this long, at first it made sense, neither of them wanted to make things difficult or complicated for Mike if their relationship didn’t work out.

There had been times before they had planned to tell Mike…but something always came up, an urgent court case or business at the firm.

Y/n was brought back to her senses when she could no longer feel Harvey’s comforting touch on her back or thigh.

“I love you,” he whispered under his breath as Y/n's eyes fixed on her brother who was walking towards their table, a confused look evident on his face.

“Y/n?” He asked, his eyebrows narrowing as he sat down opposite the two of them, “what are you doing here?”

At the moment it was as though every word Y/n had ever learned just vanished from her brain; she couldn’t think of a single thing to say to Mike.

“We…” Harvey began, taking a breath before he intertwined Y/n's fingers with his on the table, “we wanted to talk to you.”

Mike's eyes darted between Harvet and Y/n for a few seconds, before he glanced down at their hands and back up at the two of them.

“How long?” Mike asked; his tone surprisingly calmer than Y/n had expected.

“Nearly…nearly two years,” she stuttered out; bracing herself for the moment she’d feared the most.

But Mike said nothing; he just looked at the two of them and smiled, “I’m glad you finally told me.”

“You knew?” Y/n said a little louder than she’d intended to, the shock overwhelming her, however it did end up making some of the nearby diners glance in their direction for a few moments; not that she cared all that much.

“You know I’ve been able to tell when you’re lying to me since you were five,” Mike pointed out; he’d known for a while that Y/n and Harvey had been seeing each other, granted they’d hid it well, for half a year he was completely unaware they were together; he knew she was keeping something from him.

He just didn’t know what.

And then he saw them together at a coffee shop; they were just talking and laughing and it was then that something clicked.

The way they looked at each other in that coffee shop was enough for him to know that something was going on between them.

From that moment on little things that he probably never would’ve noticed became so much clearer.

He was angry for a while; not because they were together, but because they'd kept this a secret from him; but then he saw how happy his little sister was and he didn’t want to interfere with that.

“And you’re okay with it?” Y/n continued to question; the tone of her voice expressing the fear of what his answer would be.

“I would’ve said something by now if i wasn’t,” Mike answered simply; giving Y/n a reassuring smile as she let out a sigh of relief, instantly relaxing into her chair; as Mike turned his attention to Harvey.

“But if you hurt her, I will have to kill you.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Harvey agreed, another chuckle lacing his voice as he too felt a weight lifted from his shoulders.

But still one thing lingered…one thing that they hadn’t shared with Mike.

One thing that made Harveys small smile falter.

“We…have something else to tell you,” Harvey began, glancing at Y/n before looking back at Mike.

“I asked Y/n to marry me…”

Harvey was always quite spontaneous and he hadn’t planned to ask Y/n without telling Mike about their relationship first; but he just felt like the time was right and he didn’t want to waste another second without her knowing that, that’s why he asked.

The words lingered in the air for a few moments as Mike processed what he’d just heard.

“Well at least you didn’t wait a year and a half to tell me that,” he stated; his eyes going back to Y/n; “I take it you said yes?”

She hadn’t.

Not yet.

She couldn’t.

She couldn’t have said yes to Harveys proposal until Mike knew…that’s why she was so nervous about his reaction; because she wanted to marry Harvey.

“I haven’t given him an answer yet,” Y/n corrected; giving Harveys hand a small squeeze, “I wanted you to know about us before I said yes.”

“Well…I guess I should congratulate you on your engagement.”

Y/n practically jumped out of her seat to hug her brother; the excitement completely taking control of her body as a beaming smile grew on her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered in his ear as he reciprocated her hug.

“I think you should turn around,” he whispered back, his eyes looking at Harvey, who was now down on one knee, holding open a black box in his hands.

A small gasp left Y/ns lips as she saw the sight in front of her.

Harvey. On one knee. With the most gorgeous ring she’d ever seen in her life.

“Y/n Y/l/n, will you marry me?”

The word yes came out of her mouth faster than she could even process it; it was such a surreal experience.

One minute she saw Harvey down on one knee as now she was wrapped in his arms, she was so lost in his embrace that she could barely even register the applause the other diners in the restaurant were giving.

#harvey specter #harvey specter x reader #harvey specter imagines #harvey specter imaigne #harvey specter suits #suits harvey specter #suits x reader #suits imagines #suits imagine

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sunsetsandsunshine · 2 months

Note

HIIII!!! 💖💖💖 Absolutely adoring the fics you’ve been writing recently!! Since requests are open I can’t help but want a part two to the mutant mayhem fic you write with lee Leo ✨ I’d love lee Leo and ler April. Maybe they’re hanging out together and she finally gets to use the info she learned on FaceTime with him! Take all the time you need of course and hope you’re well!

~ 𝙻𝚎𝚘, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛! 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎…𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 ~

💛💙 𝙵𝚒𝚌 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢: @veryblushyswitch 💛💙

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚𝙷𝚎𝚢𝚊 𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚢 🤩🫶🏾!!! 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚎 😭💞💗💖💕! 𝙸’𝚖 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚃𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝙸’𝚖 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛!! 𝙿𝚕𝚞𝚜, 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝙼𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚘 ⭐️✨👏🏾!?! 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸’𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛!˚*• ̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊·̩̩̥͙

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: 𝙵𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜: 𝟸,𝟽𝟺𝟷

𝙻𝚎𝚎: 𝙻𝚎𝚘 🐢💙

𝙻𝚎𝚛: 𝙰𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚕 👩🏾‍🦱💛

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝙻𝚎𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙰𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙻𝚎𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗…𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚍.

(𝙰/𝙽: 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢! 𝚃*𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚔/𝙽𝚂𝙵𝚆 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚜 𝙳𝙽𝙸!!!)

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚃𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝙼𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚌! 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 -> https://www.tumblr.com/sunsetsandsunshine/751212539507097600/oh-my-gosh-prompts-i-adore-your-fics-so?source=share

T𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚐𝚜𝚜𝚜𝚜: @shut-up-jo @itzsana-kiddingmenow @saturnzskyzz

@someone1348 @savemeafruitjuice @giggly-cloud

@mistyandsnow @tmntalways @rice-cake-teen10 @titters-and-tingles

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎…𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚃𝙾𝚃𝚃𝙼𝙽𝚃 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘— 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢!!!˚*•✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

“Okay…I am so. freaking. lost.” Leo grumbled, putting his cheek on his palm as April sighed dramatically. “I’m gonna explain it to you one more time, Nardo. And if you still don’t get it so help me.” April grabbed the empty shoebox she had in front of her, putting it in between her and the other teen.

“We are doing a biome project for Bio class. And since you wanted to be special and different you decided to choose the hardest one to do: a Tundra.” April said as she raised a brow.

“Sounds like me.” The mutant in blue chuckled.

The girl with glasses shook her head fondly, “And so, we need to replicate a Tundra biome using a shoebox and just explain what we know about the biome.”

The slightly taller teen titled his head to the side, squinting his eyes at his best friend, “…That’s it?”

“What do you mean that’s it?!” The yellow cladded girl basically squawked, “Do I look like someone who know’s a lot about snow?”

The turtle giggled in amusement, crossing his arms playfully, “We live in Manhattan, Pril. We get, like, 20 to 30 inches of snow most of the time…”

“Just because we get a shit ton of snow every season does not mean I know a lot about it.”

Leonardo grinned at his friend’s funny comment, going into his backpack and pulling out a bunch of written on notecards. “Then it’s a good thing I wrote down facts about the Tundra when Mr. Fredrickson was going over the different biomes in depth in class.”

April’s eyes widened in both shock and respect, going over to look at the notecards Leo wrote on, “You actually listened when he was doing that?! I fell asleep when he got to the rainforest biome…”

“Prillie…that was literally the first one he went over…”

“My point still stands.” She shrugged, looking at the notecards in awe. “Dude…you wrote down everything. You have the definition, what animals live there, fun facts and a whole bunch of other stuff!”

“You even wrote down the different plants and regions that are inside of the biome.” She said in surprise, giving Leo back his notecards, “Oh my god I love you so fucking much. We are going to ace this project.” The human girl said as she went back to the empty shoebox.

The mutant’s eyes widened at her comment, a small blush appearing on his face as he cleared his throat to try and recollect himself, “Y-Yeah u-um I-I love you too…”

“What?” April said genuinely, not hearing what the other said.

“What?” Leo replied.

The girl raised a suspicious brow, “You mumbled something, you weirdo.”

“Me? What? N-No I was j-just…talking to myself!” Leonardo explained, his blush deepening as he fiddled with his fingers, looking absolutely anywhere but the person in front of him.

April huffed out a laugh, getting her art kit from her desk that was next to her bed, “Whatever you say, you dork.” She chuckled out, sitting on her carpet as she suddenly spray painted the inside of the cardboard box white.

The turtle mutant covered his mouth, “Don’t you think it would’ve been better if you did that…outside?”

The girl in glasses pursed her lips together, stopping and nodding slowly, “Yeah…I should’ve. My bad. But…I kinda already started.” She said as she continued to spray paint the box. Leo rolled his eyes, opening the other teen’s door as he started to spray Frebreze everywhere. “Leo…what are you doing?” April asked.

The turtle raised a brow at his friend, “What does it look like? I’m airing out the spray paint smell.”

April covered her mouth, fanning out the air with her hand as she walked to Leo, “You legit just put the Frebreze scent over the spray paint scent. Now it’s just mixed together.”

Leonardo groaned internally, nodding his head as the slightly smaller teen explained how dumb his logic was. As the mutant in blue tuned his friend out, he looked out her window to look at her balcony…but his heart dropped in shock (and a tad bit in confusion) as he saw his little brother’s just chilling on the small balcony.

“Nardo…are you okay?” The girl in glasses asked worriedly. “YEP! I-I’m fine! Perfectly perfect.” He grinned wobbily, grabbing the now fully dry white shoebox and giving it to the other, lightly pushing her out of the room, “I’ll just fan out everything here. You can go chill in your living room.”

April huffed out a small laugh, “We’re New Yorkers, Leo…we’ve smelled worse.”

“Y-Yeah, I know! Trust…I know. It’ll be quick, I promise.” He said as calmly as he could muster at the moment. The girl just fondly rolled her eyes, going over to the living room, “Don’t take too long, though! I need your help with finding a good show to watch as I finish the biome replica!” She shouted.

“I’ll be right there!” He shouted back as he turned on her ceiling fan. He basically stomped to the balcony, closing the door as he glared at his younger brothers, “What the FUCK are you guys doing here?!” Leonardo screamed.

Donnie raised a brow as he leaned on the railway, “What ever do you mean?”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT DO I MEAN?!” The leader in blue shouted, “H-How did you guys even get here in the first place?! Me and April rode her scooter to her apartment!!!”

“We’re ninjas, bro. I think you always forget that.” Mikey chuckled and only chuckled harder at the eldest’s pissed off face.

Raph went over to his immediate older brother, slinging a hand over his shoulder, “So~! How’s the date going~?”

“IT’S NOT A DATE!!!” Leo screeched before facepalming, “How long have you guys even been here, anyway?!”

“Not long.” Mikey shrugged, “It was kindaaaaa hard having to climb up the building…”

“Whatever…” The blue banded teen grumbled as he turned away, “Just go home and don’t tell Dad about any of this...”

“Why~?” Donnie asked teasingly, “I personally think Dad’ll be happy that his rizz is finally shining in you.”

“Donatello.” Leonardo glared.

“Fine! Fine! We’re going!” Donatello said as he took off the backpack he had on, taking out color-coded grappling hooks and giving them to Raph and Mikey. “Also, since April mentioned wanting to watch something with you, you guys should watch Smiling Friends. The rest of season two dropped.” The purple banded turtle explained. But before the eldest turtle could give his brother’s a piece of his mind, they were just…gone.

Talk about being ninja’s…

“Jiminy mother loving toaster strudel…” Leo grumbled to himself.

“Smiling Friends?! I didn’t know the rest of season two dropped!” April gasped as Leo walked into the living room talking about the show.

The hazel eyed mutant rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, “Uh…yeah. I just looked online for stuff to watch and, um…yeah…”

April snickered at the awkward demeanor of the other teen; not really and truly questioning it due to the fact Leo was just an awkward person 24/7. The blue banded mutant sat next to his friend, fiddling with his fingers as Smiling Friends played on the TV.

“Hey, Nardo? I wanted to say sorry about the whole spraying-spray-paint-and-literally-almost-intoxicating-you thing. I just wasn’t really thinking about it making more sense for me to spray it outside.” The girl explained solemnly.

The younger teen snorted, “Prillie…it’s fine. It’s not like you killed me or anything like that. I think you should worry about your Mom coming home to the smell and killing you, though.”

“OH SHIT!” The elder teen shouted, going to her room to spray Frebreze and spray some in the living room as well. The girl with glasses sat down before sighing, leaning back, “Oh! And btdubs, I finished the Tundra replica.” She said as she finished the last final touches on the piece before handing it to the other teen.

And to Leo’s surprise…the replica actually looked pretty good. Like…really really good. The inside of the shoebox honestly looked like a mini Tundra…and it even had little mini clay plants and animals.

“You seriously just made this?! April, I wasn’t even gone for ten minutes!” Leonardo said in awe.

“You, my dear friend, underestimate my artistic skills.” The brown eyed teen said as she continued to watch the television.

Now…Leo wasn’t known for getting into…moods often.

I mean, in all honesty he would just get tickle attacked by his brothers 24/7…so in a weird way, he kind of got used to it.

But ever since he and Raph went on that call with April a couple weeks ago…she hasn’t mentioned said call. At all.

And perhaps maybe she forgot! Maybe she forgot the legit most embarrassing moment of Leo’s life…

…so why the absolute hell did Leo want her to mention it? Or at least acknowledge it!

I mean…Raph even dropped the bomb that Leo liked it! That was a clear opportunity right there!!!

But in order for one to be actually tickled…one must ask for it first. And there was no fucking wayLeonardo was going to do that.

“You want me to tickle you, don’t you?” April said casually as she looked at the other teasingly.

The mutant’s eyes widened in shock, his face becoming a glowing hot red as he absolutely refused to make eye contact with the other teen. “A-April whahat—?”

“Dude…don’t even try to deny it. You’ve made it so painfully obvious.” She giggled softly as the other’s face burned in embarrassment.

Was he seriously that easy to read?!

“Should I take your silence as a 'yes'?” The human girl smiled as the blue banded mutant shyly nodded, still refusing to look at his best friend. “Okay, Nardo…just tell me when you want me to stop…okay?” She said carefully as she gently reached for the other’s side but stopped when the young leader held her wrists.

“W-Wahait!!! Wahait wahahait A-Ahapril wahait!!!” Leonardo panicky giggled as he blushed more (if even possible). The girl stopped, resting her hands in her lap. The slightly taller teen covered his face with his hands, giggling in anticipation before nodding slightly.

The yellow cladded teen awed at the sight, scribbling her nails against the other’s sides. The mutant pursed his lips together, kicking his legs on the ground. The girl with glasses chuckled at the action as a lightbulb went off in her head, “Wait a sec, Nardo. Do you remember the FaceTime call me, you and Raph went on?”

“N-Noho shihihit…”

“I do believe on said FaceTime call, Raph mentioned you being more ticklish to squeezes than to scribbles…is that correct?” She asked teasingly, although she knew damn well what the answer was already.

The blue banded mutant’s giggles raised an octave as he now started to squirm as his friend squeezed his sides…

…Now this could go one of two ways…

He could absolutely make a complete fool out of himself or he makes a complete fool out of himself. Either or.

“A-AHAhapril!” The turtle squeaked out.

“Yes, Leo?” The human replied casually.

“PleHA— *snort* p-pleheHEASE!!!”

“Plehease whahat~?”

“I-IHI *snort* duhunno!!” Leo squealed, now hugging his middles as he continued to laugh. The slightly smaller teen wrapped him in a hug with one arm, using her other arm to pull out her phone. She went to her camera roll and scrolled until she found a screen recording…

…A specific screen recording…

…The screen recording April screen recorded while they were on that FaceTime call.

Leo hid in his shell a bit, his laugh echoing in said shell but he did not care in the slightest at this point. The teen girl raised a brow at the action, holding the other’s hand in her’s as she used her other hand to squeeze his hip mercilessly.

Leonardo squawked in surprise as a loud (totally not expected) snort followed. He hid in his shell even deeper as he full on laughed and laughed. “Woah wohoah! Why are you hiding your face from me~?”

“I-IHI’M NAHAT!!”

“Yohou sure? 'Cuz it kinda looks like you are…”

“IHI’M *snort* NAHAT I-IHI SWAHA— *snort* SWEAR!”

The girl with glasses laughed in amusement, “Raph was right…you really are a liar, huh Gigglenardo~?”

Leo snorted loudly at the girl’s tease, his laughs becoming more louder and more frantic. And the worst part is she barely even touched the surface of his ticklishness…

The girl wrapped the taller teen into an even tighter hug, using her free hand to scribble her fingers all over his stomach. The taller teen screeched, slumping in her hold as he 'tried' to escape her tickling wrath.

April played the screen recording (on mute of course…she wasn’t that mean), wanting to test something the tallest turtle did that got a good hell of a reaction from the leader in blue. “Nardo…just a quick question…does this happen to tickle by any chance~?”

“S-STAHAHAP! DAHA— *snort *snort* DOHON’T STAHART!!”

“What’s wrong~? I’m just asking if this tickles, Gigglenardo.” She said as she gently squeezed his stomach with one hand, causing the other to squirm despreatley in the hug. “It seems like it does~! Tickle tickle~! Kitchie kitchie coo~!”

“NOHO— *snort* *snort* PLEHEASE DAHA— *snort* DOHOHON’T!!!” The brown eyed turtle screamed before April randomly stopped so the mutant was able to catch his breath for at least a little bit. “Nerdo~! Do you mind getting out of your shell for me, please~?”

Leonardo snorted loudly for probably the umpteenth time today, “NOHO— *snort* *snort* WHYHYHY?!”

“Just 'cuz~! I wanna try something.” She said as Leo poked his head out from his shell. The two made eye contact with one another— Leo glared at her while she innocently smiled back as she tickled the crook of his neck.

“PFFT— *snort* *snort* *snort* NAHAHA IHIT’S SAHA— *snort* *snort* SOHO BAHA— *snort* *snort* BAHAHAD!!!”

“Reheally?” The brown eyed teen mused, “I personally think you’re trying to say it tickles~! It tickletickletickletickles~!” She giggled as she tickled both sides of the turtle teen’s neck with one hand, leaving him in stitches. “KSSTAHA— *snort* *snort* *snort* NAHAHA *snort* *snort* *snort* *snort* *snort*!!!”

The girl in glasses slowly stopped her tickle attack, hugging him from behind as he caught his breath. “Ohon the FahaceTime call, I rehecall Rahaph saying you snort fihive tihimes if it’s a good dahay~!” She teased lightly as Leo just groaned in response.

“Whahatever…” Leonardo grumbled as the girl with glasses got up to get him a cup of water from the kitchen. She handed it to him, which he gladly accepted.

And that…wasn’t as bad nor scary as Leo initially thought it was going to be.

The hazel eyed mutant fiddled with the now empty cup, “Uhm…thahank you for the wahater…ahand..uh, y-y'know…” He trailed off, looking at the ground in embarrassment as the other smiled fondly, “It’s no problem, Leo.” She chuckled, “There’s really no need to be so embarrassed about it. I get it.”

“I-I know that but— wait. What do you mean you get—“ But the slightly taller teen was cut off by April’s doorbell going off. The two paused, not expecting any visitors besides April’s mom— who was supposed to come later and also had the key to the apartment.

So…she wouldn’t need to ring the doorbell.

The doorbell rang again as Leo got up and simply stepped forward, opening the door slowly but sighing loudly as he saw who was on the other side.

It was his brother’s. Because of course it was.

“So~! How’d the date go~?” Mikey grinned plqyfully.

“It went fine— wait what?! For the last time it— this— is NOT a date!!!” Leonardo glared.

“So in Leo language…I’m assuming that means it went well.” Donnie chuckled, “Happy for you, bro.” The purple banded turtle said almost genuinely as April walked to the open door next to Leo. “Whahat are you guys doing here? And…how did you get here?”

“Well, I got bored and hungry so I ordered pizza. We decided to come over here so you two could eat with us.” Raphael explained.

“You got said money from my savings account?” Leo deadpanned.

“I got said money from your savings account.” Raph grinned, “Now let’s go! If we hurry we could catch the person delivering the pizza!” He shouted as the four teens ran down the fire escape. April grabbed her keys before closing (and of course locking) her apartment door, soon following her mutant friends.

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚𝙵𝙸𝙽˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

(𝙿.𝚂.: 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐!!!)

#Mutant Mayhem tickle #Mutant Mayhem tickle fic #Mutant Mayhem tickle fanfiction #Lee!Leo #Ler!April #16 MORE DAYS UNTIL TOTTMNT COMES OUT 🫶🏾👏🏾✨💖‼️ (I think—)#Kinda sad all the episodes are coming all at once but whatever ig 🫥👍🏾#I HOPE EVERYONE GOT MY INSIDE OUT 2 REFRENCE #Jiminy mother loving toaster strudel 💘💕💞🩷💖#Mutant Mayhem Leo is Joy and Joy is me therefore I am the both of them #Slaying the day away 🤪#Frebreze 😌🧖🏾‍♀️💖✨🧘🏾‍♀️☺️#LA LA LA LA LA 🎶🎵#Also in my opinion the Tundra is the WORST biome to do in Bio class 😀👍🏾#I got to do Marine biomes but we had to look at other groups' presentations to take notes and GIRL #I did not understand that shit 😶#There ARE Arctic owls there so it’s not ALL bad #“We’re New Yorkers Casey” - Tmnt 2003 Donnie coUGH COUgh another refrence #Donnie and Mikey are Leo’s bodyguards dude #I love you which means your never EVER getting rid of me ☺️💕💖💞#Also Smiling Friends is peak fiction you should watch it #It’s an adult swim show tho so watch at your own risk 👏🏾😛#Leo hiding in his shell when tickled is so real bruh #Gigglenardo I think is one of the most GENIUS nicknames I’ve come up with ☝🏾🤓‼️‼️‼️#Leo is so Lee core it hurts #GRAUGHHH LER MOOD GO BRR ME AND WHO MAN 😭💕🩷💖💘💞‼️#Sfw tickle #Sfw tickle blog #Sfw tickle community #Also bruh Donnie being in the pic is pissing me OFFFFFFF

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