a/n: anyone else on the criminal minds fic train?! this is an oldie but a goldie in an attempt to write emily p angst
cw: major character death, grief
summary: Y/N loved Emily. In those quiet BAU nights, in the touches that lingered too long, in the near-confession before the Doyle case. And then Emily dies.
Only… she doesn’t. And when Y/N finds out the truth months later something inside you breaks in a new way. Maybe love isn’t always enough.
Part of Mayloncholy 2025: Day Two, major character death of @may-lancholy
It’s nearly midnight in the bullpen.
Only a few desk lamps remain on, creating small islands of light in an otherwise sleeping office. The hum of electronics is the only thing that breaks the silence now, monitors left on, coffee machines cooling down, the occasional creak of old vents exhaling the last breaths of the day.
You and Emily sit across from each other, huddled over a desk strewn with case files and half-eaten takeout containers. The smell of sesame chicken lingers in the air, warm and salty. You’re both slouched in your chairs, shoes kicked off hours ago, top buttons undone, jackets draped over chairs. The tension of the week has faded into the quiet comfort of shared exhaustion.
Emily leans back, head tilted to rest against the chair, and exhales slowly through her nose. Her eyes, tired but still so sharp, find yours across the table. You catch a flicker of something behind them. A thought, a longing. Something tender.
“Sometimes I think about leaving it all behind,” she says, voice low, almost like she’s talking to herself.
It catches you off guard. Your hand stills on the rim of your coffee cup. You weren’t expecting her to say something like that, not tonight. Not to you.
You glance up. Her expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between wistful and worn-down. You feel something twist in your chest.
You try to keep your tone light, though your voice comes out softer than intended. “Would you… take anyone with you?” You nudge her foot beneath the table, a gentle tap meant to pass for teasing. A joke, maybe. You’re pretending it’s nothing. Pretending it doesn’t mean everything.
Emily doesn’t answer right away. She turns her head and looks at you fully now, really looks at you. And for the first time in a long time, neither of you are hiding behind sarcasm or shields.
There’s a pause. A long one.
Then, just barely, she smiles. It’s small, brief. But real. “Mmm, maybe,” she says.
You nod like you understand. Like you’re okay with the maybe. Like that word doesn’t make your heart ache just a little.
You don’t say anything else. Neither does she.
But the moment doesn’t dissolve. It stretches between you, silent and delicate. And maybe that’s enough. For now.
The bullpen stays quiet. Somewhere, a printer kicks on in the background, unattended. The office sleeps. You stay where you are, not ready to go home, not ready to break the spell.
Emily reaches for her coffee again, her hand brushing yours for the briefest second. She doesn’t pull away. Neither do you. Your hands remain intertwined.
You don’t say it.
But it’s there. In the space between silence and breath.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The Doyle case pulls the light out of her.
Not all at once. It’s a slow, creeping thing, like dusk swallowing up the last of the day. Emily becomes quieter. Still shows up early, still files her reports, still laughs at Morgan’s jokes but the warmth behind it all starts to flicker.
And then, one day, it’s just... gone.
She stops meeting your eyes. Starts slipping out of the bullpen without a word, phone clutched too tightly in her hand. You catch her once, standing alone in the corridor outside Hotch’s office, lips moving around a name you’re not supposed to hear. You try not to listen.
She starts keeping secrets like they’re second nature.
You try not to mind. You pretend you don’t notice. But the spaces between you stretch longer. Colder. And it scares you because she’s still here, but she feels far away. Like someone already halfway gone.
You find her one morning at the coffee machine, staring into the dark brew like it might hold an answer. The overhead lights are too bright, casting pale shadows under her eyes. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.
Her shoulders are pulled tight beneath her blazer, her mouth pressed into a line that’s one part anger, two parts grief.
You hesitate, but only for a moment.
“Talk to me,” you say, softly. Your voice barely makes a ripple in the quiet of the office. “Please.”
She doesn’t look at you. Just stiffens. Her hands tremble slightly as she reaches for a paper cup.
“You don’t want to be part of this,” she says, voice clipped but not unkind. “You shouldn’t be.” She softens.
“I already am,” you say, gently. You step closer, just enough to feel the warmth coming off her body. “You just won’t let me in.”
She finally turns to you then, eyes glassy and tired. There’s a flicker of something, guilt, maybe. Or love. Or both.
“I never wanted you to be part of this,” she says, but the words shift in her mouth even as she speaks. “It means too much to me. You mean too much to me. Just…” She falters. “Just let me handle it.”
And then she walks away.
She doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t touch your hand or offer a smile or look back.
You stand there in the break room, your coffee going cold, and something inside you tells you that’s it.
That’s the last time.
The last time you see her alive.
And you don't even know it yet.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
JJ is the one who says it.
“She’s gone.”
Just that. Nothing more. No soft preamble, no preparation. Just the words. Words that are clean, cruel and final.
You let out an involuntary scoff mixed with a laugh.
It’s a horrible sound, hollow and cracking. It punches the air out of the room. Reid flinches. Rossi shifts like he might stand.
“She said she’d come back,” you whisper, like it’s proof. Like promises matter.
Nobody speaks. Not Morgan. Not Hotch. Not even JJ, whose eyes are already glassy. Their silence is the worst part, it's confirmation wrapped in pity.
You turn away before they can watch you break.
You don’t go home that night. Or the next. For three days, no one hears from you. You don’t answer calls. You don’t respond to texts. You can’t stand the thought of hearing anyone else’s voice when the only one you want is gone.
You end up back in your apartment eventually. The lights stay off. The air is stale. Her coat is still on the back of your chair. You sit in silence, curled up on the floor like something wounded.
The voicemail button on your phone calls out in the dark. A tiny wound bleeding red.
You stare at it for a long time. It's an old one you've been meaning to listen to for almost a week now.
Eventually, you press play.
Her voice fills the room. Warm. Familiar. A little rushed, like always.
'Hey. I know you're probably not at home right now, in a meeting or somewhere running on caffeine fumes, but I just wanted to say - I'm thinking about you. I’ll be back soon. Promise.'
You can’t breathe.
It takes a full minute before you even realize you’re crying. Not the kind of tears that fall softly and silently. These are hot and sudden and angry, sliding down your cheeks as your whole chest clenches.
You replay the message.
Then again.
And again.
On the fourth time, you delete it. A single tap. Gone.
You sit in the quiet, staring at the phone. The seconds stretch like hours.
Then you restore it.
It reappears, like magic. Like resurrection. Like hope.
You want to listen again. You almost do.
Instead, you throw the phone across the room. It hits the wall and clatters to the floor, skidding under the coffee table, the screen going dark.
You curl your arms around your knees and stay there, rocking slightly. You are made of sharp edges and silence. Of everything unsaid. Of everything lost.
The apartment stays quiet.
And Emily’s voice, still waiting in your voicemail, becomes the only piece of her you haven’t destroyed or deteached yourself wholly from.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
You come back on the fourth day.
No fanfare. No welcome back. The bullpen just holds its breath.
You drop into your chair like the wind's been knocked out of you. You don’t take off your coat. Don’t turn on your monitor. You just sit there, staring at nothing, slouched. Breathing like it hurts.
Garcia appears, gentle as rain, clutching a paper cup with both hands.
“I thought maybe coffee?” she offers, voice high and soft, like she’s trying not to spook you.
You blink at her. Then say, “You think that'll fix it all?”
The tone is sharp. Too sharp. She flinches like you slapped her.
You don’t apologize.
Morgan stops by your desk later, leaning his elbows on the edge, easygoing and patient the way only he can be. “We’re here if you wanna talk.”
You don’t even look at him. “I don't.”
He leaves without another word.
You dodge JJ entirely. You can’t look at her. Not when she’s the one who told you. Not when her face is the one you saw right before the floor caved in. She’s the memory of the moment your world stopped, and you can’t stomach that.
Reid tries next.
“Hey,” he says softly, sliding into the chair beside you like he’s sitting with a scared animal. “She’d... She would want you to hold on.”
You whip around so fast your chair squeals.
“Too bad, Reid. She doesn’t get to want anything for me anymore.” Your voice cracks like dry ice. “She can’t anyway. She’s gone.”
His mouth opens, then closes again. He nods once and gets up. Doesn’t say anything else.
The next time you're with him, it's in a briefing. Whilst JJ is talking, you are zoned out, stuck inside the loop of the past few weeks. At some point, you break a pencil in your hand without noticing. The snap echoes in the quiet. Everyone's eyes flicker to you. They immediately look away, try to hide it.
You stare at the pieces in your fist.
Reid gently replaces it with a new one. Doesn’t say a word. Just sweeps the broken halves into his palm and keeps going.
You don’t thank him. You can’t. You just nod slightly to yourself.
That weekend, you go to her grave.
You wait until it’s dark, until you’re sure no one will see you fall apart. The ground is wet from earlier rain, and your knees sink into the mud without much resistance. Your hands tremble over the headstone. Cold granite. Her name carved into it like it’s always been there.
“I loved you,” you whisper. “And you died knowing it. And it’s still not fair.”
You press your palm to the stone. Your breath clouds in the air.
“I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t get to try. You didn’t let me. It's just... it's not fair.”
You bury your face in your hands and finally let the sob escape your chest, the kind that sounds like it’s tearing something out of you.
Grief isn’t poetic. It isn’t graceful.
It’s loud and ugly and aching.
And it sits with you in the dark, long after everyone else goes home.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It takes another week but eventually you bring Garcia coffee.
You don’t say anything, just set it down on her desk without a word. Her fingers curl around the cup, eyes wide as they flick up to yours.
She doesn’t ask why.
She just says, “Thanks, sugarplum,” and smiles, soft, like she knows not to push too hard.
Morgan catches your eye from across the room. You nod, barely perceptible. He nods back.
Later, you find JJ in the hallway. She startles when she sees you. Not because you’re there, but because for the first time, you don’t immediately turn away.
“I owe you an apology,” you say. Voice thin, barely more than a thread.
JJ blinks. “No, really, you don’t-”
“I do.” You swallow. “I blamed you." JJ flinches slightly but you notice it and your guilt doubles, they've all been grieving. "I... balmed you for saying it. For being the one to tell me. But it wasn’t your fault. I was angry… I still am. But not at you.”
JJ’s eyes fill with quiet tears. She nods. “I know.” There’s a pause. A silence that feels like a bridge, not a wall this time. “I miss her too,” she whispers.
“I know,” you say.
In the conference room, you sit beside Reid again.
You don’t speak for a long time. Neither does he. Eventually, you glance at him.
“I’m sorry for yelling.”
He looks surprised, but only for a second. Then he offers you the ghost of a smile. “I forgive you.”
You nod, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “She wouldn’t want me to push you all away.”
“No,” he agrees. “But she’d understand why you did.”
There’s something about that, the gentleness in his certainty, that breaks something loose inside you.
You stare down at the folder in front of you. A new case. A new name. Life doesn’t stop.
“She’s everywhere,” you murmur.
“She always was,” Reid says. “Now we just feel it more.”
You let out a shaky breath.
You’re not okay. Not even close.
But you’re trying.
And that counts for something.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Emily walks back into the BAU like a ghost that forgot it should be dead.
Gasps echo through the bullpen, disbelief turned into tears from some, into laughter from others, into arms flung around her. Hug after hug, her name whispered like a prayer. It’s joy, confusion, relief, too many emotions crashing like waves around her.
You don’t move and you're not the only one.
You stay rooted where you are, cold and still, watching from the edge like a stranger in your own life. Your pulse is pounding in your ears, loud and furious. Your throat burns. Her face looks different now. It's more tired, more alive, somehow both.
Her eyes find yours. Like they always do.
She steps toward you, hesitant.
“I wanted to tell you-” she begins.
You cut her off with venom in your voice. “No because... you let me mourn you.”
The room quiets, like the air’s been vacuumed out.
“You watched me grieve.”
Her face crumples, but you don’t stop. You can’t. “I had to,” she says, helpless, hands trembling at her sides.
JJ stepped forward, "We-" You feel like you have been suckerpunched and you shake your head, a ferocious edge in the movement.
"You let us bury her," Your voice trembles, “You chose to let me bury you,” you say, your words becoming sharp and deliberate. “You think I’m supposed to thank you for being alive?”
Silence. Even the machines seem to stop humming.
You walk out.
You don’t look back.
She’s everywhere now.
Like smoke. Like static. You breathe her in by accident. Her perfume lingering. Her jacket over a chair. Her cough echoing down the hall. A ghost re-learning her body. A ghost who refuses to stay in her grave.
It makes you feel like you're going insane, complaining about your love rising from the dead. Despite that, You avoid her like it might save you.
It doesn’t.
You change your routines. Take the stairs instead of the elevator. Get coffee earlier, stay later. Still, she lingers. A shadow in the break room. A murmur just outside your earshot. She’s alive and she’s everywhere and it’s killing you.
JJ corners you in the hallway.
“She didn’t do it to hurt you,” she says, gentle but firm. "Neither of us did."
You scoff, tired. Hollow. “She just didn’t care if it did.” You paused, "And you... I don't understand how you could look at me. How you could..." You trail off, not sure how to finish.
JJ flinches. But she doesn’t argue.
Because she knows you’re not entirely wrong.
One afternoon, you’re filling out a report when you hear it... that laugh.
That goddamn laugh.
Your fingers freeze on the keyboard. It twists through your ribs, unexpected and brutal. You hear it before you even realize it’s hers. And then, suddenly, it’s hers. Undeniably, of course it is. Bright and real and infuriating.
You glance up, barely.
She’s at her desk.
The same desk.
Her nameplate’s back. Her mug too, still chipped at the rim, the one you used to tease her about. She’s leaned back in her chair like she never left. Like she didn’t rip your world apart. Like she didn’t make you carry the weight of her ghost.
You look down.
You pretend you didn’t hear it.
Because if you let yourself feel it, you might never stop.
They try. Of course they do.
Garcia starts bringing you your favorite snacks again, setting them beside your monitor with a sticky note that just says: still here, sugarplum in looping pink ink.
You thank her. You manage a smile even. But the snack stays untouched.
Morgan pulls you into conversation during case briefings, tossing you the easy questions, and the ones you used to jump at. He gives you room to breathe, to catch your balance. But the answers don’t come as fast anymore. And when they do, they don’t sound like you.
Reid sits beside you in the lounge one morning, talking about whatever book he’s reading, slow and soft. He never asks for anything. Just keeps you company, like gravity. You let him. You even laugh when he stumbles over a particularly long sentence, and he lights up at the sound.
JJ’s the hardest.
She keeps her distance. Not out of malice but out of respect. She gives you space, but her eyes follow you across the room. You know she’s waiting for something you can’t give.
Not yet.
You don’t lash out anymore. Not like before. Which, for your team, is perhaps more unsettling than the shouting and the anger.
But there’s something in you that still won’t settle. Something that won’t let the warmth or relief in, not all the way.
It’s like you’re watching them through a window. You see their kindness, their care. You want to go to them. But the glass never opens.
The world feels quiet now. Heavy. Not empty, just muted. Like every part of you is wrapped in plastic wrap.
You’re getting better at pretending. At remembering to smile when someone speaks to you. At saying “I’m okay” without flinching. But it’s just muscle memory. Your body going through motions your heart doesn’t feel. This feels like a whole new grief. A grief of losing yourself.
One night, you find yourself in the round table room long after everyone’s gone.
The files are already put away. Lights dimmed. Just you and the shadows.
You sit in Emily’s old chair without thinking.
And you sit there for a long time.
You don’t cry. You don’t speak.
You just sit. Trying to feel something that isn’t just loss. Trying to remember what it felt like to look at her and not ache.
When you finally get up, you touch the back of the chair once before leaving the room.
You don’t look back.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It’s raining.
The kind of rain that drowns the streets, slicks the pavement with silver, and turns the whole world into a hush. Like even the sky knows to be quiet.
You open the door, and she’s standing there. She's soaked to the skin, curls plastered to her cheeks, her jacket clinging to her like a second skin. Her arms hang uselessly at her sides. There’s no umbrella. No excuse. Just her.
“Hi,” Emily says. Her voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.
You don’t say it back.
The light from the hallway spills over you both, warm against the cold drizzle. She doesn’t step inside. You don’t invite her.
“You could’ve left a message.” Your voice is flat, like someone else is speaking through you. “One word. Anything. You knew what you were to me.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes. Then, “I thought it would hurt you more if you knew. I couldn't-”
Your laugh cuts her off, but there’s nothing warm in it. “You were right. It did hurt more. Just… not the way you meant.”
Silence spreads out between you. You don’t rush to fill it.
She shifts her weight, shivers, but doesn’t ask to come in. Doesn’t beg. That’s never been her way.
“I thought I was protecting you,” Emily says softly. “I thought it would be easier if you didn’t have to choose between me and your peace.”
“You were wrong.”
She nods. Like she’s known that for a long time.
“So what now?” she asks. Her eyes are wide and raw. You’ve never seen her like this—so open, so undone. “What happens to us now?”
You don’t soften. You don’t step closer. You just look at her, every inch of you burning from the inside out.
“Now,” you say, your voice low, steady, “you live with the version of me you made."
It’s not cruel. It’s just true.
Emily’s breath stutters. Her lips press together like she’s holding something in, apology, regret, maybe even love. You can’t tell anymore.
Then, slowly, you close the door.
Quietly.
No slam. No drama. Just the soft click of something ending.
Outside, the rain keeps falling. You listen to it for a long time.
She doesn’t knock again.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It’s late.
The kind of late where the streetlights flicker like they’re tired, and the whole world feels hollowed out and humming. Cold wind cuts through the empty parking lot. Your breath fogs in the air.
She’s there, leaning against your car like she’s been waiting hours. Maybe she has. Maybe she couldn’t leave. Maybe she didn’t want to.
She's been there a lot recently. Just present, not pushing, but lingering. She's apologising with her presence. You find yourself softening, ever so slightly.
Emily doesn’t speak right away. She watches you approach like she’s not sure you’ll come all the way. Like she wouldn’t blame you if you turned around.
You stop a few feet from her. Just far enough that she can’t reach you unless you let her.
Her voice breaks the stillness. Quiet. Unsteady.
“I never stopped loving you.”
The words fall like glass. Not dramatic, not loud, just painful and honest.
You meet her eyes. Yours are tired. Bruised in the way people are when they’ve been carrying grief too long. You don’t flinch. But you don’t smile either.
You swallow. The words come slow, like they’ve been waiting in your throat for weeks.
“I had to, you get that right? You weren't there to love. I pulled myself forwards, to move on."
Emily’s shoulders fall. She closes her eyes, just for a moment, like she’s absorbing the hit. Like she already knows it’s true. The worst part is, she doesn’t argue.
“I didn’t mean to,” she says. “I thought I was keeping you safe. I always thought if I came back and you hated me, that would be easier than you getting hurt. I'd just hoped that I'd be wrong, that we could fall back to before.”
You let out a slow breath. “You don’t get to decide how I break.”
She steps forward, cautiously. There’s space between you now, but not the kind you can measure in feet. This distance is built from months of silence, from a voicemail never finished, from flowers at a grave that shouldn’t have existed.
“Can I earn it back?” she asks.
You don’t answer right away.
The wind picks up. A leaf scrapes across the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. Neither of you move.
Then, your head tilts slightly. Not a nod. Not a shake. Just enough.
“Maybe,” you say, voice low. “Maybe ask me again when it doesn’t still hurt quite so much to look at you.”
Emily nods. Like she’ll wait forever if you ask her to. Like she knows she might never get the chance again and that she still has to try.
You turn, unlocking your car. The door creaks open.
You don’t look back.
You drive away slowly, headlights cutting a path through the rain.
In your rearview mirror, she’s still standing there.
It had been a year since whumpee was rescued and despite everything, they were getting better. They were sleeping more, eating more, and lashing out less. That day they were working on preparing a surprise dinner for Caretaker, it was simple, just mac n' cheese with hot dogs, cooked on the plug in stove that Caretaker kept in their apartment after the regular stove stopped working. But it was the first thing they had cooked since whumper gotten hold of them and they couldn't help but feel a sense of pride at that.
As the water boiled Whumpee got to work cleaning setting the table, taking a bit of joy at having the cutlery at odd angles that would have launched Whumper into a rage.
A knock at the door distracted whumpee from their thoughts. It was far too early for Caretaker to come home. Had something happened? Anxiety simmered under their skin.
The knock on the door sounded again, louder this time. It was probably nothing. Maybe one of Caretaker's neighbors got a wrong delivery. Even so, Whumpee grabbed a knife from the kitchen before creeping to the door.
-
Caretaker faked being sick so they could go home early. They had to make sure Whumpee was okay. They rushed through the streets as the news report echoed through their head.
Whumper was free. They had escaped prison and Caretaker had little doubt as to where they would head first.
They took the stairs two at a time as they headed up to their apartment. Fumbling with their bag as they grabbed their keys.
Their door was open. Dread coarsed through Caretaker, their door was never open. They crept closer.
"...Whumpee?"
They pushed the door open further, the hinges creaking with the movement. They passed the closet in the hallway and moved toward the kitchen, water boiled over the plug in stove and streamed onto the floor.
"Whumpee?" They called again, franticity underlying their voice.
"..Caretaker?" It was Whumpee, they were holding a knife, blood spattered across their cheek. They were alive.
"Whumpee! Are you okay?!" Caretaker ran towards them.
"Caretaker! It's Whumper, they- Look out!" Caretaker was grabbed roughly from behind. Cold metal was pressed against their neck.
"Whumpee. Put the knife down." Whumper ordered.
Whumpee hesitated, then complied, setting the knife on the kitchen counter.
"Good. Now. You are going to come back with me. You are going to obey. And if you don't comply, Caretaker here will suffer the consequences."
No. They couldn't let that happen.
Caretaker broke Whumper's grip and leapt for the knife on the counter. They only had one chance.
Their fingers closed on the handle and they turned to face whumper who was red with rage.
The knife plunged through flesh. Again, and again, and again. Whumper's body convulsed under them as they made sure of their death.
It was only as the adrenaline waned that they heard whumpee screaming. It was only after that, they felt the blade in their own chest.
Caretaker didn't have the abilty to stand, so whumpee kneeled down to hold them close.
"You're gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay." It was more pleading than anything. Caretaker let their head fall on Whumpee's shoulder.
"You're safe now. Whumper's gone." As the last vestiges of strength dwindled from them. Caretaker held Whumpee close.
No matter what happened, Whumpee was safe now, that was all that mattered.
Warnings: Major Character Death, Major Character Injury
~
"Ethan."
Benji's voice was not much more than a mere whisper. He reached out his hand to touch Ethan's arm, but the lifeless body was too far away. Just a few inches – but still too far for him to reach it.
Benji knew it.
He knew that the man he loved was dead. He also knew that he would end up just the same.
No one would find their bruised and damaged bodies down here, crushed by the debris the terrible explosion had left behind.
If only Benji could touch him. Feel Ethan's skin touching his own. One last time.
Titan was mad. But who wouldn't be? He trusted Ganymede just to be stabbed in the back.
And so they fought. Harsh and mercilessly. Not paying a thought to how gravity was growing stronger. How two largest moons appoached one another
Up until it was too late to do anything
There's a reason why moons kill moons after all
@may-lancholy day 2: Major character death
Fandom: Solarballs
Relationship: Ganymede & Titan
Word count: 952
TW: Major character death (do I even have to say this one?), non-human gore, major injury
Titan wasn't sure how they ended up there. The entire revolution had really gotten out of hands, he should never trusted Ganymede. All his honey-sweet speeches and whispers that kept leading so far away from what Titan was meant to do.
And so now, Asteroids were shoot back and forth between them. Some crushed on the way, others thrown back with thr force of their gravitys. Ganymede didn't have enough mass over Titan for an actual advantage. And even if he did, right now the largest moon looked more like a child than threw a tantrum than anything else, barely controlling what he was doing.
And Titan himself had lost the sight of what exactly was the point of their battle. He felt anger, betrayal boiling under his surface. Erupting just like another volcano with every painful tug of his opponent's gravity. Dust fell off his surface, heavy ice breaking and melting all the way to his core.
Ganymede wasn't that much bigger for his mass to have any real advantage, just briefly stronger. And even that was drowned out by the pure force of his rage that didn't let him concentrate for a second despite how his gravity seemed to get stronger.
Titan pushed Ganymede and struggeld against his gravity, circling around the debris formed out of their merciless fight. He spitted out magma that burned his cold fingers. Throwing another asteroid into Ganymede's smeared with water face. The largest moon shoot backwards, just briefly escaping collision, but the wery edge still scratched his cheek
Some deeper part of Titan was hurt, betrayed. He did concider the lerger moon as his friend. Trusted him. And for what? To find out he was used this whole time?
Titan was mad, hurt and betrayed. He didn't think, didn't bother to acknowledge how the forceful pull he felt grew eith each passing second. He put his entire core into the fight, until everything in his vision had dissappeared, when the only thing he could focus on was the need to stop Ganymede by any means.
It took for the largest moon to whirl almost in front of him for Titan to finally pay attention to what was going on outside of his clouded atmosphere.
Ganymede cirled around him, leaning and pushing away the asteroids that were thrown. And he was close. Like really close, only appoaching with the second. And that was when Titan realized just how strong the gravity he felt was. How it pulled him closer and closer. And how he, without ever realizing did the same. Making Ganymede float into him.
Too close for it to be safe.
With every inch of his surface, Titan tried to struggle, get himself out of the grip that was so strong it seemed to crush his surface. Trying to push the large moon away and escape the applied force.
"Let go of me!" Titan voice rang agaist the asteroids, he chocked on his own atmosphere. Ganymede was too close. Too damn close.
For a second Ganymede chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "What, are you chickening ou–" Before the same realization reflected in his eyes, the fact that they weren't mean to be on such a small distance. That their gravities werent supposed to pull each other against their wills. "HOLD ON." He shouted, his breathing chicked and erratic. And for the first time, Titan saw Ganymede genuinely terrified. Not just worried or scared. No. That was pure panic when they both finally realized they took it too far. In a fit of blinding anger and hurt, forcing their feelings out without a care.
And no matter how much Titan struggled. He was already too close. Their gravities worked against them, forcing them to approach. The only thing Titan could do is watch his death inching closer when every attempt to escape turned to be futile.
The crash rang in his core. Titan's entire surface wobbled, melting into dripping water. His atmosphere fell off, moving fron him to Ganymede and escaping into the bare space.
The screams filled everything between them. Titan wasn't sure who was louder he or Ganymede. It went so deep he could go deaf. So loud that no doubt, the entire solar system heard what was going on.
"NO, STOP!"
"FUCK— FUCK IT HURTS"
Agonized tears poured from his eyes, mixing with water. Chucks of his surface flew off and the pain was burrowing deeper, forcing his entire core out, turning it into shattered pieces of rock. How long was this going on? It felt like the collision kept going on for billions of years. His vision began to blur out, burning red flashed in front of his eyes. Black spots grew bigger. If Titan wasn't in so much pain, he would've noticed how Ganymede grew limp, what left of his body not even struggling or screaming from pain. His magma clung to Titan's. Mixing into a bright cocktail of molten cores.
Titan was losing any remainings of control over his body. His limbs dangled like he was a puppet and Saturian moon couldn't find strenght to move a fingers. Screams died in his burning throat and darkness overtook his vision. Not that Titan actually could focus enough to make out what was going on. To hear terrified voices of the other moons, who finally realized what was going on.
The cracks were making Titan fall apart, shatter with a grace of a ring. Titan let his eyes closed, as the longest seconds of his existence were coming to an end along with himself.
Lumina could barely keep her eyes open. Not only was it bright, but the heat ate at her. Did they really have to trap her in her mer form? If it wasn’t for one of them coming outside to dump a bucket of lukewarm water on her every now and then, she’d have dried out hours ago. But… it had been a while since they’d done that last.
Shaking, she looked around. There was no sign of anyone else around. And she could feel her body starting to ache, the skin under her scales tightening. As if she was baking in the sun.
She had to get out of it. Somehow.
A patch of shade in the corner of the yard caught her eye. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
So she rolled over, propping herself up on her arms. Slowly, every movement scratching and scraping against her tender skin as she crawled to it, dragging her heavy tail behind her. It felt like every rock, every grain of sand on the nearly flat surface of the boiling square she was trapped in pulled at her as she made her way forward. She grit her teeth as she felt some of it wedge their way under her scales.
Right as she finally, finally, made it halfway into the blessedly cooler patch of ground, the chain on her tail went taught, digging into her fin when she tried to pull it more.
Whimpering, she looked around. The chain had reached its limit, not caught on anything. This was as far as she could manage to get away from where she was tethered to the opposite wall.
A dry sob bubbled past her lips as she buried her head in her arms.
Fish Out of Water Taglist:
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