#▴ — path / sage of shadows

[soukeyed]

got so caught up in the euphoria of replaying sa2 and shadow05 that for a minute i lived in a world where his current character of just being a prick for no reason didnt exist

[guideoftime]

Tick…   …Tock.

Tick…   …Tock.

    Link, give the Ocarina to me... As a Sage, I can return you to your original time with it.   I’m sorry, Sheik. 

   There was a pounding in his head that kept getting louder, like someone was rattling his brain and trying to rip it open. Wait–no wait that was real. That was a real banging sound though his brain was pounding just as hard as a fist against his front door. A breath is pulled quickly into his lungs and Sheik picks his head up from where it was buried in his tiny arms. Tiny… tiny arms, tiny hands, tiny legs, tiny–door, there were people at the door. 

   Nimbly he shoved himself down off of the couch and walked his way over toward the front door, standing on his tiptoes to turn the knob and pull it open. On the other side of the door stood a couple of Castle Soldiers, silver armor shining brightly with the reflection of the sun. He watched them closely and then the one on the left slowly knelt in front of him. He doesn’t recognize their face, but they had a rather plain one too, easily forgettable. The helmet is tugged off and held in their arms as they watch him pitifully. 

   He hates that. 

   “Little Sheikah, I’m afraid we come bearing news of your mother. There was an accident, on a mission she was running. I am terribly sorry–but your mother is gone.” 

   A steady blink, bright ruby eyes watching them, and then Sheik took a single step back and swung the door shut in their faces. It slammed closed and he reached back up, pulling the chain across it and then turning around to face the house. The empty, very large, very cold house. Another blink, another breath, he felt very–hollow? Numb? Is that the feeling he was having course through him right now? 

   Empty. That sounded more fitting. 

   Liars. 

   It’s not their fault, his mind tries to reason. They don’t know. They don’t know. And, technically, neither should he. He shouldn’t remember. His head is so loud and painful. His hands move to his head, fingers pushing through his hair and Sheik slowly sits down on the floor in front of the door, squeezing the sides of his temples as if putting pressure against his head was going to make the pain stop. 

   Golden, evil eyes. Bright red hair. Mocking laughter. The haunting, nauseating sound of the organ played repeatedly. 

   Blonde hair, bright water blue eyes, green tunic, long sword, such a bright smile and joyful laughter–Link. Link, Link, Link, Link–

   Sheik’s hand covered his mouth quickly and he shoved himself to his feet, rushing over toward the trash bin and tossing up whatever had been in his stomach. It’s mostly dry heaving, his head and body at war with itself. He dragged his hand across the back of his mouth and fell back down onto the floor of the room, his hands moving to hold his forehead. One breath in, two out. Did moving through time suck this much for the Hero? It was a terrible feeling, though he supposed Link did have the Master Sword to protect him. 

   Still. 

   “Why?” 

   Why did he remember? The Princess, the Sage of Time, had said he wouldn’t remember. The Triforce pieces would protect her and Link, the Sages destiny would protect them. Sheik was just–Sheik was Sheik. He wasn’t anything special, he just did as he was told and yanked an innocent child turned teenager around Hyrule, shoving him into danger and demanding her save them. More politely, but Sheik was no better than a Compass. Actually, considering you can keep a compass with you, maybe he was even less useful than that. 

   His gaze darts around the house and he presses his lips together. He needs to start a fire and warm the house up. One thing at a time, simple tasks until his mind settles. 

   It’ll be okay. There’s no other choice. This is their reality now. 

   His body is too small. The things he can remember doing, in being capable of, no longer work. The harp is heavy and he can never remember it being heavy. The strings are hard for his tiny hands to play and he can’t move as much as he wants to. It’s like his soul has been ripped from his body and transplanted into someone else's. He doesn’t know how to make it work properly and each attempt has him falling and getting hurt. Granny had to pick him up from the ground once when he fell and hit his head hard enough to knock himself out. She had been very displeased. 

   The Princess can’t tell him why remembers. All he does is look at him with pity and say she’s sorry. Sheik doesn’t want her to apologize, he wants her to understand. But she can’t. She has her father back, her Kingdom back, she just misses his mother and seeing him makes that feeling come back harder. She doesn’t want to see him, and he doesn’t want to deal with the looks she gives him. 

   He doesn’t know what to do with himself. The house is empty, he’s too small to do anything, the only person in Kakariko Village who remembers him is Granny and hanging out with her is just–weird. She also sends him on fetch quests and he’s avoiding Hyrule’s Forest. He’s avoiding him. Sheik–had been tempted to go look for the Hero, but he shoved that feeling away as quickly as he could. It’s not right. He had pushed enough burdens on Link, he doesn’t need to deal with Sheik’s broken mind too. 

   So he trains. He trains to try and get used to his body, to try and wrap his head around what was happening, to try and give himself something to focus on. It works, mostly. He hurts himself, he falls a lot, he overestimates himself and his body and that leads to consequences. He thought it would be like riding a bike, but it’s not. It’s like having half of yourself cut off. Nothing reacts the same as it’s supposed to. 

   Then there was the emotional aspect. 

   He never realized how uncontrolled children's emotions were, until he was trying to contain all of his own inside of himself and it just–was too much. The stress, the pain, the grief and struggling kept boiling over. It felt like the smallest things set him off. The whispers from the soldiers, the looks that they gave him, the comments from the Princess. They think he doesn’t hear them, they underestimate a Sheikahs hearing. “Orphan” was the first word thrown around that caught his attention, then “the last Sheikah” was another, the comment of “finish their line” was what really made him snap though. 

   Sheik bit that guard, and the fight that resulted from it had quickly ended with a gash across his back, from his right shoulder down to the bottom left of his hip bone. And from there, the distrust between himself and the soldiers was like a great ravine. He kept watching, waiting for the next shoe to drop, the next one to want to gut a child. Not that he–really was a child. An adult mind and memories in a tiny body. But still, they didn’t know. 

   His mind rationalizes the fights as defending himself, the Princess tells him he’s being a child. That he’s causing her more problems. That his mother would be disappointed. 

   She would be. 

   She would be. 

   But not for the reasons Princess Zelda thinks. 

   It shouldn’t be this hard to cope. To get his emotions straightened out, to make his mind stop feeling like it was struggling against itself. But he can’t, he can’t separate what he remembers from what’s in front of him and it feels like he’s suffocating under the weight of two opposing minds. Memories of things he did one day, that don’t happen now. Memories of his mom coming home and his tiny mind now not understanding she can’t. There are days he thinks he sees her at the Castle and when he blinks she’s not there. His head is playing tricks on him and it hurts. He lays awake in bed at night, thinking he can hear that man laughing at him and all Sheik wants to do is scream. 

   It shouldn’t be this hard. 

   He did it. So, why can’t Sheik? 

   The last fight with the guards draws unwanted attention, Sheik realizes this far too late. The Princess had been acting like a shield between him and her father, and when the King paid a bit too close attention, Sheik realized he was in trouble. They dragged him off to his office, shoved him inside the room and then swung the doors shut. The man sat behind a large oak desk, watching Sheik intently with those dark blue eyes. The Princess gets her eyes from her father apparently, Sheik didn’t remember that. 

   He stands from the desk and makes his way around it and Sheik tracks every careful movement with intent. It reminds him of something it shouldn’t, of that man, and Sheik has the briefest bits of fear fill his heart. In a way that nothing has since waking up in this timeline except his nightmares. He stops in front of Sheik and like with Ganondorf, he holds himself steady. “I understand you lost your mother and that is difficult, Zelda suffered much the same when her own passed. It’s never an easy thing. However, young Sheikah, you need to grow up now. You’re alone and no one is going to baby you forever. Learn to cope, not to cause problems, you do not wish for the fate that will bring you.” 

   Body of a child or not, Sheik knows a threat when he hears one. “Should I just stand there and let them say what they want? Just because of what I am?” He shouldn’t talk back, that will only get him in more trouble. 

   The King is so very neutral looking it unsettles him. “People will always say things you don’t like, part of growing up is learning to just ignore them. Your mother knew her place well enough to not fight over every single thing someone said to her. This is the fate your Tribe brought upon itself.” 

   And his mouth opened before his brain could stop it. “My Tribe did nothing wrong, the Hylians massacred my people in their sleep.” 

   There’s the sharp sound of skin hitting skin that echoes through the room and Sheik registers that before he does the fact he’s on the ground and his face is throbbing. He doesn’t move after catching himself on the floor, body frozen and tense as he waits for the next hit. It doesn’t come, instead the King moves back around the desk. “Pick yourself up and leave, remember this lesson for the next time.” 

   Lesson. 

   It shouldn’t be this hard. 

   He finally caves and goes looking for Link when he can’t sleep anymore. The Great Deku Tree was alive and thriving, the Kokiri were playing in their little homes, and the fairies that flickered around the lively forest seemed fond of him. He sneaks his way past all of them to get into the clearing where the Tree was, dropping himself down in front of it and nervously glancing around. He hadn’t actively looked for Link, but he figured it would be more polite and less–traumatizing for Link if he talked to the Great Deku Tree first. The tree for–their part doesn’t seem surprised to see him. 

   “Hmm… young Sheikah, what brings you here?” 

   Nervously he rubs his hands together and takes a step closer, his gaze running across the ground before raising to look at them. “Great Deku Tree my name is Sheik, son of Impa the Sage of Shadows. I’m searching for a Hylian who… used to live here. His name is Link.” 

   “So, you remember that which has not come to pass, do you?” As they all suspected, the Great Deku Tree remembered too. He wondered what it was about the both of them that made them an exception. He nodded his head and the Tree—sighed? Do tree’s sigh? “I’m afraid you’ve come too late. Link has left for Termina.” And there… there was the feeling of the rug being yanked out from beneath him. “He searches for something, I’m not sure what, perhaps himself. He was lost when waking up, and he hopes by traveling he’ll find who he is. If he’ll ever return, I cannot say I can only hope. Maybe he will find his answers there.”

   It shouldn’t hurt, he shouldn’t feel like he was left behind. Is this again, the irrational emotions of a child or was it Sheik himself? It’s like the slowly forming cracks in his heart had finally shattered and it’s no longer enough to just hold himself together. The feeling of suffocating had finally just consumed him and Sheik crumbled. 

   It’s just too hard. 

   He sat there for a while, just crying into his knees while the Great Deku Tree was just there. They’re a tree, they can’t do much, but the isolation of snapping in the forest where no one can see except the trees is somewhat comforting. It takes him a bit to get himself back under control but when he does the Great Deku Tree finally tries to offer some form of comfort. 

   “You will be alright.” 

   And Sheik just doesn’t believe it. “Everyone leaves eventually.”

[berryblu-arts]

"How come earth has 6 different local guardian types if other planets only have one or maybe two in extremely rare cases?"

Sage:

It's complicated-

[williefresh]

“Wherever there is light, there are always shadows.”

- Madara Uchia -

[wxnderersmoved]

tag drop

[prythianpages]

Hopelessly Devoted | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader x Azriel | You're hopelessly devoted to Azriel, suspecting he’s your true love. Meanwhile, Eris is hopelessly longing after you. aka Eris being your mate but you're too infatuated with Az to notice.

warnings: slight angst, reader being a bit delulu

*also disclaimer that I am no expert in astrology and my knowledge is usually what I gathered from friends or tiktok so if I'm wrong, please correct me but do it nicely pls bc I am sensitive lol*

a/n: I wasn't sure whether to include Az or not in the pairing but I liked the idea of leaving this fic up to your interpretation. Anyway, happy reading! <3

As you entered the Night Court’s observatory, you traced your fingers along the edge of the great celestial map laid before you. You could feel the soft hum of magic beneath your fingertips, still smell the faintest hint of sage–a remnant of your father’s last ritual here. For centuries, your father has served as the Night Court’s astrologer. He’s guided and advised High Lord Rhysand and on occasion, Keir, the steward of the Court of Nightmares.

Above you, constellations and planets danced across the domed ceiling, the stars gleaming as though they were ready to whisper secrets just for you. You took a deep breath, centering yourself, and placed a palm flat against the massive zodiac wheel etched onto the floor. It began to glow, a warm golden light tracing symbols of the zodiacs and planets.

“Stars above and stars below, reveal the path I seek to know,” you quietly murmured.

The markings on the wheel shifted in response, aligning and realigning with clicking sounds, the warm golden light following. Then, your own chart had appeared, shimmering above you. It was a translucent web of stars and planets connected by silvery lines. You’ve read your birth chart many times, become so familiar with it that you knew it by heart even.

But tonight, you needed the extra reassurance. So you looked up, watching as the planets moved slowly. Your heartbeat a little faster as you spotted Jupiter making transit through your seventh house. The promise of growth, abundance, luck and most important of all, love filled the air. 

You slipped a small vial from the hidden pocket of your cobalt blue dress. The words Love Potion No.9 gleamed on the glass, the dark red liquid swirling. It was the enchanted perfume you’d bought from a witch last week—a little love potion designed to make you irresistibly alluring to your soulmate.

You felt a bit foolish, seeking a witch for guidance on love of all matters. Witches were frowned upon in the Court of Nightmares, after all. But impatience had finally nudged you to venture beyond the court’s dark mountain and into the surrounding forests, in search of someone who could help.

“Seek the one who walks between light and shadow with a mask of cool indifference, where fire meets the edge of night. There your heart shall find its match,” she had told you as she handed you the enchanted perfume.

Her words had only confirmed what you had been suspecting for years, centuries even.

Azriel was your soulmate. 

Azriel, the very embodiment of cool indifference, wore a mask of stoicism in the Court of Nightmares, just as High Lord Rhysand did. But his hazel eyes always seemed to burn with a hidden fire. And when you were alone with him, away from the cold nobility of the Night Court, Azriel would let that mask slip, revealing a kinder side that laughed and smiled with you. He was your friend and not only did he literally walk among shadows, he wielded them. It had to be him!

And then, there was your birth chart. Your seventh house lay in Taurus—a sign ruled by Venus. With Venus positioned in your twelfth house, everything pointed to the idea that your future soulmate would bring your happiness and pleasure. And since you met Azriel all those years ago during a counseling your father led, happiness had been an emotion you'd grown more familiar with.

The stars couldn’t have given you a clearer message!

**

There was a flutter in your stomach as you approached Azriel. The two of you had been stealing glances at one another, as you usually did anytime you found yourselves in the same place. He looked as beautiful as ever. As dreamy as ever. 

Though your High Lord and High Lady had moved to the center of the ballroom for a dance, he had stayed by the dais. “Hello,” you greeted him with a small smile.

Azriel turned to you, that mask of his slipping for just a brief moment to smile back at you. He took the extra wine glass in your hold, murmuring a small thanks. He turned his head back to the dance floor, attentive to his High Lady’s whereabouts. But he shifted closer to you, the coolness of his shadows caressing your bare arm and you couldn’t help but wonder if the perfume was working.

“You look nice,” he commented.

“Thanks.” A blush rose to your cheeks. You’d taken care to match your dress to the exact shade of his siphons. And he noticed. “So do you.”

“I wear this all the time.” Azriel replied drily, referring to his usual Illyrian leathers.

“Yeah, I know.” You cursed yourself inwardly for the awkward response, then shifted closer, leaning toward him. “Do I smell to you?”

Azriel paused, his shadows brushing close, as if curious themselves. “No,” he said after a moment.

“Oh.” Disappointment seeped into your voice despite your best efforts, and his gaze shifted to you, a hint of a frown in his brows.

“Do you want to smell?”

There’s a teasing edge to his tone, a subtle quirk of his lips. You shook your head, letting out a small, nervous laugh. "No. I just wanted to know if I smelled any…different…,” and then, in a much quieter tone, you murmured, “to you.”

Azriel considered your words. He looked to you in what seemed like permission. You gave a nod of your head and he leaned in, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. “You smell the same to me.” At the breath you let out, he quickly added: “which is good by the way. You smell nice.”

“Oh, okay,” you smile, albeit a bit awkwardly, the flutter you had felt in your stomach earlier twisting into a knot. 

“Y/n, is everything alright?” Azriel asked softly.

“Yeah, I just thought—” You stopped, not sure how to explain without sounding foolish. It wasn’t like you could admit to feeling disappointed over the lack of reaction from an enchanted perfume you’d spent quite a fortune on. Especially when he was the sole purpose for it. Had the witch scammed you?

Azriel waited for you patiently, concern flashing in his eyes. Maybe the perfume hadn’t worked, but the stars and planets had never led you astray. That still had to mean something, right? 

“I’m fine.” You finally said.

“Are you sure?”

The way he was looking at you had warmth creeping up your neck and settling deeper in your cheeks. “Yeah.”

A single shadow curled around Azriel’s ear and in the blink of an eye, his head turned. Your gaze followed his, to where Rhysand and Feyre were standing. Rhysand sent him a slight nod and with a sigh, Azriel returned it.

“Sorry, I have to go.” Azriel said, quickly downing the remaining wine from his glass.

You held out your hand, offering to take it for him.

“Thank you. I’ll be back. Don’t have too much fun without me, alright?”

“I’ll try not to,” you replied.

You watched Azriel disappear into his shadows before turning away from the dais and making your way to the refreshments table. You were eager for a refill on your glass. Perhaps a little more wine would help ease the sting of disappointment. But he’d said he’d be back, hadn’t he?

As you scanned the room, you noticed your father in conversation with one of Keir’s sons and your mother eyeing potential suitors for your older brother. As an elite warrior of the Darkbringers, he had no shortage of admirers, and it was only a matter of time before your mother secured him a match—perfect or not.

You suspected you’d be next on her matchmaking list, so you busied yourself with small talk among familiar ladies. Conversations were always a mind-numbing, the ladies your age exchanging beauty tips that centered around the male’s eye or fawning over this season’s most eligible males. Which this season just so happens to be your brother. Gross. If only they knew him the way you did….

Second to him was Bret—or some equally uninspiring name. A Scorpio, of all things, which clashed miserably with your chart. Not that it mattered. You had no interest in any noble of the Court of Nightmares. Or any male here. Most, if not all, were cruel and narcissists, only viewing females as child bearers and nothing more. 

There was a reason why this court was burdened with the title “Nightmares.”  And to marry someone from here would mean never waking up from this darkness. No stars to light your night skies, only endless shadow and despair.

So, you’d taken fate into your own hands. You’d turned to your birth chart, hoping the stars would lead you somewhere beyond Hewn City, beyond this never-ending nightmare. And they had. They led you to believe it was Azriel. Azriel, who was not only honorable and single but also, technically, part of the Court of Dreams. He’d been your friend for centuries, seeing you for who you are rather than an object or prize like most males here. 

As you sneak away from the conversation, you bump into something–someone. Behind you, a deep voice huffed a low, mocking chuckle. “Easy there, librarian.” 

You could recognize that voice anywhere, could recognize the heat radiating from him. It pressed down on you, leaving you simmering with irritation.

“I’m a libra, not a librarian.” You bit out. It hasn’t even been a minute and already you were exhausted by the searing presence behind you. “And besides, to you, it’s Lady Y/N.”

When you turned, you found Eris looming over you. His amber eyes gleamed with a familiar, infuriating mischief. He gave you that signature smirk of his, the one that made his sharp features all the more arrogant. “Such a harsh tone. Hardly fitting for a Lady.”

Your gaze hardened into a glare, only to have it stray toward a movement across the ballroom.  A flicker of shadow caught your attention, and your heart gave a small, hopeful jump as your gaze softened. There he was—Azriel.

He had returned to the ballroom…but he hadn’t returned to you…

Eris raised a glass to his lips, amber eyes flicking lazily between you and Azriel. “Disappointment doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not disappointed.” You muttered hastily.

He gave a scoff, his smirk widening with dark amusement. “Please. I can practically feel it.”

“Liar,” you shot back. 

“Azriel said he’d find me again and unlike you, he’s a male of his word,” you continued, not sure why you were telling Eris this. “He’s…”

Your words trailed off as you watched Azriel, who stood next to Nesta and Elain. He laughed–actually laughed!-- at something Elain had said, shadows absent from his frame as his focus remained solely on her. You couldn’t miss the soft smile playing on his lips, nor the warmth in his gaze. Did he do that with every female he knew? You thought he reserved that just for you…

The bubble in your chest slowly deflated.

“Keep dreaming,” Eris huffed out. He seemed to take special pleasure in your reaction. It prompted your cheeks to flush but this time, with irritation.

“Oh, go away, you prick,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?" he replied, leaning closer, his sharp gaze burning into you. You missed the flash of longing in his amber eyes, too focused on Azriel. Or the way the words that had been on the tip of his tongue faltered as your scent suddenly overwhelmed him, his breath hitching slightly.

 "You smell.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mumbled absently.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, his voice gruff and pupils flaring. “You smell different tonight…good...”

You blinked, barely processing his words. Was he actually being nice to you? In all the years you’ve known him, he’s always had snark remark after snark remark for you. The way it would roll smoothly off his tongue always left you wondering if he’d rehearse them for his visits to the Court of Nightmares. 

You fidgeted, fingers grazing your wine glass as you cast a hesitant glance back at Azriel. Your chest tightened as he remained engrossed in conversation with Elain. Turn around, please. But he hadn’t even looked your way once. 

Eris stepped in front of you, drawing your attention back to him. His gaze roamed over you, your dress. He took in the shade and he knew why you had chosen it–and for whom.  "You know," he said, his gaze lingering on your face.  "Red suits you far better.”

“And there he is, you’re back…”

"I’m serious. This—" He gestured to your gown with a slight grimace, his fingers brushing the silk fabric in disappointment. "This color washes you out. Red would bring out the color of your eyes…”

Your jaw clenched but you remained silent, refusing to admit that his words stirred something within you. Eris was insufferable, arrogant, and yet you couldn't deny his eye for detail. He, after all, was always dressed impeccably in the finest Autumn attire. But you would never give him the satisfaction of admitting he might be right.

His smirk widened, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. “Do you want to know another thing?”

“No,” you said immediately.

But he leaned in anyway, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re hopelessly devoted to a male who doesn’t even look your way.”

Your mouth opened, brows furrowing in protest, but he went on. His smirk softened, fading into a half-smile. One that didn’t reach his eyes, dimming the fire that usually burned so brightly there. And then, in a much quieter, reluctant tone, he murmured, “And I am no different, it seems.”

"But…" You stammered, resisting the urge to steal another glance at Azriel. "He does look my way…sometimes.”

Eris’s smile faded, his expression tightening. A flicker of pain crossed his face. So brief, you almost thought you imagined it.  "You’re delusional.”

“And you’re insufferable.” You scoffed, heart pounding.

“Better than being a fool.” 

The mocking tone was there but the usual sharpness had been softened by a strange, subtle sadness. Was this… pity?

You swallowed, lifting your chin defiantly. “The stars wouldn’t lie to me,” you said, though the conviction in your voice wavered. “He’s the one for me.”`

You met his eyes then and Eris held your gaze. His amber eyes warm and molten, the intensity of his stare prickling at your skin. An unsettling flutter erupted in your stomach, rising to your chest. A feeling you quickly dismissed when you felt something cool brush against your arm.

“Is he bothering you, y/n?”

Eris scoffed at the sudden presence beside you. It sickened him to see that sweet, adoring look on your face, the triumphant gleam in your eyes as you looked up at Azriel. The sight made Eris grit his teeth. His instincts roared at him, the fire in his veins was scorching.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze, realizing both males were waiting for your answer. “No,” you said but the way you shifted to stand behind Azriel said otherwise.

Azriel’s gaze hardened as he looked toward Eris. “Stay away from her,” he seethed.

A low growl rumbled from Eris’s chest as he took a step forward, his amber eyes flaring with rage. Though not as tall as Azriel, he seemed to tower over him at this moment. His teeth flashed as his lips curled into a snarl. “I do not take orders from bastards like you.”

Azriel’s wings tensed, threatening to unfurl and the movement of his shadows quickened. Like a storm ready to unfold. But before it could, you placed a hand on his arm. Right over one of his glowing siphons that seemed to be growing hotter and hotter, daring to match the fire coursing through Eris’s veins.

“Az, don’t,” you told him gently, not wanting to draw any attention to the three of you. You felt his muscles ease under your touch, his shadows brushing over your hand in agreement.

Eris’s gaze dropped to your hand on Azriel’s arm, his expression darkening into something unreadable. He exhaled sharply, turning his head as though trying to shake off whatever thought had crossed his mind.

When he looked back, his features had shifted into his usual cool mask, that infuriating smirk sliding back into place. He looked right at you.

“When you wake up from this deranged dream of yours, come find me.”

You watched him, feeling a strange, unwelcome tug in your chest as he turned to leave. Perhaps, one day you’d realize that the enchanted perfume you had bought was not a scam. 

And that the male you searched through the stars and planets for was not the one standing beside you, but the one who’d just walked away.

a/n: sorry if you're not a libra, I just thought it'd be funny for Eris to purposely say reader's sign wrong as he knows astrology is a huge influence on her.

[series masterlist]

[Eris masterlist]

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits15, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith

[astra-ravana]

Working With Hekate

Goddess Of The Threshold

Other titles: Keeper of the Gates, The Triple Goddess, Bringer of Light, Night Wanderer, and many more

Colors: Black, silver, gold, red, white

Herbs: Asphodel, trillium, ebony, fly agaric, garlic, aconite, yew, datura, cypress, belladonna, saffron, foxglove, mandrake, willow, black poplar, dandelion, mugwort, henbane, mandrake, yarrow, myyrh, lavender, oak, mullien, thornapple, bittersweet, poppy, wormwood, sage, rue, fumitory, dragon's blood, rowan, black copal

Crystals: Moonstone (especially black), labradorite, mother of pearl, black tourmaline, obsidian, black/smokey quartz, lodestone, nuummite, serpentine, auralite, abalone, corundum, zicron, hematite, jet, lapis lazuli, pyrite

Element: Earth/water/darkness

Planet: The Moon, Saturn, Pluto

Zodiac: Scorpio (Aquarius)

Metal: Silver, copper, bronze

Tarot: The Moon, The High Priestess

Direction: All

Date: November 16th, the Night of Hekate

Day: Any

Animals: Goats, wolves, dogs, owls, snakes, horses, crows, bulls, sheep, skunks, lizards, dragons

Domains: Thresholds/liminal spaces/boundaries, crossroads, witchcraft and sorcery, the Moon, herbalism, the poison path, necromancy, nocturnal magick, truth, secrets, hedge-riding, shadow work and integration of shadow-self, baneful magick, protection, knot magick, foraging, divination, creatures of the night, the Underworld, the Otherworld

Offerings: Keys, hair of a black dog, any of her sacred plants, representations of any of her animals, divination tools, black mirrors, wands, athames, bolines, blades, things in sets of 3, fruit, wine, blood, rituals/magick in her honor/name, feathers, fossils, shells, bones

Symbols: Blades, fire, keys, crossroads, gateways, doors, entrances, moons, torches, wands/sceptres, whips, the number 3

[areislol]

‎‎‎ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤfox's devotion

pairings. m!kitsune x gn! reader

warnings. slight yandere tendecies, nothing too much, proof-read. set in ancient japan. kitsune wears a yishang despite it beingset in japan so don't mind that.

a/n. i love fox hybrids :') if there are any mistakes please let me know!

wordcount. 2.1k

the quiet forests of the yamashiro mountains were no place for a lone traveller, especially with the whispers of mischievous spirits haunting the winds. but you had no choice.

you were sent to retrieve herbs for your ailing grandmother, and the rarest ones only grew in the deep woods, where mortals dared not venture.

the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the dense trees as you carefully made your way along the narrow path. you’d heard the stories—how travelers would be lured off their paths by strange lights or laughing voices, never to be seen again.

kitsune were the most feared, ancient fox spirits with the power to trick even the wisest of sages.

but you didn’t believe in such tales… at least, not until you met him.

it started with laughter—soft, melodic, but undeniably playful. the moment you heard it, you stopped in your tracks, eyes darting around for the source. there was no one in sight, but you felt a presence, something watching you from the trees.

“h—hello?” you called out hesitantly, gripping your basket tighter.

more laughter, closer this time. the hairs on the back of your neck stood up, and before you could react, a figure appeared before you. he seemed to materialize from the mist itself—standing tall, his molten silver hair cascading down his back in waves that seem to shimmer under the moonlight, as if alive with an ethereal glow.

his sharp, golden eyes, reminiscent of a predator, lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. every movement he makes is smooth, graceful, and effortless, as though he’s one with the very wind itself.

he’s draped in yishang, its silken fabric flowing around him in delicate layers. the garment, though traditional, carries a mysterious air, its texture almost too smooth, too fluid, as if it was woven from the very essence of the night.

even when the air is still, his robes sway gently, giving him an otherworldly presence, like a mirage that could vanish at any moment. and when he smiled, his sharp teeth gleamed in the fading sunlight.

but the most striking feature? the nine tails that swayed lazily behind him.

a kitsune.

“you seem lost, little human,” he purred, his voice as smooth as silk. his lips curled into a sly smile. “or perhaps… you’re just looking for a bit of company?”

your heart raced as you stepped back, your mind screaming at you to run, but something about his gaze rooted you to the spot. he was beautiful—dangerously so—and the playful tilt of his head as he regarded you made you feel like prey.

“i—i’m not lost,” you stammered, trying to sound braver than you felt. “i’m just gathering herbs.”

the kitsune’s eyes gleamed with amusement, and he took a step closer, his movements graceful and almost predatory. “ah, how noble of you,” he said, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “but these woods are no place for a delicate thing like you. it’s dangerous.”

“i’ll be fine,” you insisted, though your voice wavered. you tried to sidestep him, but he blocked your path effortlessly, his tails flicking with amusement.

“i can’t let you wander around like that,” he said, his smile widening as he leaned in, his voice a low, teasing whisper. “what if something happened to you? i’d feel terribly guilty.”

you frowned, trying to put some distance between you, but his presence seemed to fill the entire space, surrounding you. his scent—like wildflowers and something musky—invaded your senses, making it hard to think clearly.

“i don’t need your help,” you said firmly, taking another step back. “i’ll manage on my own.”

the kitsune’s expression darkened for just a moment, his eyes flashing dangerously before returning to their playful glint. “oh, but i insist,” he purred, circling you slowly. “i can’t leave such a lovely human alone in these woods, after all. it wouldn’t be right.”

without warning, he vanished in a puff of mist, reappearing behind you in the blink of an eye. you gasped, spinning around to face him, but his long fingers had already wrapped around your wrist, gentle but unyielding.

“let me go,” you demanded, trying to pull free, but his grip only tightened, his golden eyes locking onto yours with a fierce intensity.

“why would i ever do that?” he murmured, his voice low and possessive. “you’ve captured my interest, human. i’ve been watching you for some time now.”

your heart pounded in your chest. “what do you mean?”

the kitsune’s lips curled into a smirk, and he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. “i’ve seen you… in the village, tending to your family, always so kind, so sweet. you didn’t know, but i’ve been waiting for you. and now that i have you…” his grip on your wrist tightened slightly, just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“i’m not letting you go.”

you swallowed hard, feeling your pulse race under his touch. “i… i’m just a healer. there’s nothing special about me.”

the kitsune chuckled softly, his tails swaying behind him like flickering flames. “oh, but you are special. you see, humans are so fragile, so fleeting… and yet, you’ve managed to catch my attention.”

his words sent a chill down your spine. "i don’t belong to you,” you said firmly, though your voice trembled slightly.

the kitsune’s eyes darkened, and for a moment, the playful mask he wore slipped, revealing something far more dangerous beneath. "right."

you tried to pull away again, but he was faster, his arms wrapping around you in an almost crushing embrace, his nine tails curling around your body like chains. his face was inches from yours, his golden eyes burning with an intensity that left you breathless.

“you’ll see,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “i can give you everything. power, immortality, anything you desire… as long as you stay by my side.”

your heart pounded in your chest, your mind racing for a way out, but the more you struggled, the tighter his grip became. he wasn’t going to let you go.

“i don’t need power or immortality,” you said through gritted teeth, refusing to let him see your fear. “i just need to get the herbs and be on my way.”

the kitsune tilted his head, his smile returning, though it was far more sinister now. “you’ll learn to love me,” he said softly, his voice filled with dark promise. “i��ll make sure of it.”

before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips sfotly brushing the edge of his lips, the heat of his body pressed against yours, and for a moment, you felt yourself slipping into the depths of his obsession.

but you weren’t ready to give in. not yet.

with all the strength you could muster, you shoved him back, breaking the kiss and stumbling away from him, your chest heaving.

"wha—what do you think you're doing!?" you exclaimed, cheeks flustered. that was your first kiss!! and he just took it so casually!!

the kitsune stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before his smile returned.

“feisty,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming with approval. “i like that.”

and with that, he vanished into the mist, his laughter echoing through the trees.

but you knew this wasn’t over.

it had been days since your encounter with the kitsune in the forest. though you managed to escape his immediate grasp, his presence lingered in every corner of your mind.

his laughter echoed in your thoughts, and you often felt his eyes watching, even when you were alone.

you tried to go about your daily life, but the eerie sensation never left you. every shadow, every rustle of leaves, felt like him—waiting, lurking, ready to reappear.

and, as you feared, he did.

you had returned to your village, thinking maybe being surrounded by people would keep him at bay. but even within the walls of your modest home, with your grandmother sleeping soundly in the next room, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched.

the silence of the night was thick and oppressive, and the flickering light of the oil lamp seemed to dance in the windless air.

suddenly, you heard it—soft footsteps outside, impossibly light yet unmistakable. you froze, your heart pounding in your chest. it was him. you knew it.

“don’t,” you whispered to yourself, but your feet moved on their own, leading you to the door.

the moment you slid it open, the cool night air hit you, and there he stood—leaning against the entrance, his golden eyes glowing under the moonlight, the tips of his tails barely visible in the shadows.

“miss me?” he purred, his voice laced with amusement, though there was a hunger in his gaze that made your skin prickle.

“i told you to leave me alone,” you said, your voice more confident than you felt. “i don’t want anything to do with you.”

his smile faltered for a split second before returning, though now it held a dangerous edge. “you keep saying that, little one, but you don’t really mean it.” he stepped closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “i can feel it. i can feel how your heart races when i’m near.”

lord, did he have to say that outloud?

his presence was overwhelming—suffocating, like he was weaving a web around you with every movement, every word.

“Iive been patient,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate tone. “but my patience is wearing thin. i’ve watched you every night, waiting… and now, i’m done waiting.”

you took a shaky step back, speaking up. “you don’t own me,” you said, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice. “i’m not yours...”

in an instant, his hand was against the wall beside your head, trapping you. his nine tails fanned out behind him, glowing faintly in the moonlight as if reacting to his emotions.

“oh, but you are,” he whispered, leaning in so close you could feel his breath against your skin. “you were mine the moment i laid eyes on you. and now, no matter what you say, i’m not letting you go.”

your heart raced, your mind spinning as his words sunk in. there was no reasoning with him, no escape from his obsession. he truly believed that you belonged to him.

turning your head away from him you shook your head, "absolutely not!! i will not be your prisoner!" you hissed, trying to ignore the flutter of fear and something far more dangerous creeping into your chest.

the kitsune chuckled softly, his fingers gently tilting your chin back toward him. “prisoner? no, no, no… i don’t want to trap you. i want to protect you. keep you safe from the world that doesn’t deserve you.”

his words, so tender yet possessive, made your stomach twist. he leaned in closer, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch deceptively gentle. “i’ll give you everything you need,” he whispered. “i’ll care for you in ways no human ever could.”

“and if I say no?” you asked, your voice barely more than a breath. you hated how weak you sounded, how difficult it was to stand your ground when he was so close, so overwhelming.

his golden eyes narrowed, his smile fading ever so softly. “you won’t say no.” his voice was soft, but the warning was clear.

before you could react, he pressed his lips to yours in a fierce, possessive kiss. his hands, now gently cupping your face, were trembling slightly—as if holding back some deeper, more dangerous impulse. his tails coiled around your body, binding you to him as if to remind you that there was no escape.

you tried to pull away, but the kiss deepened, his lips moving with an intensity that stole your breath. it wasn’t just a kiss—it was a claim, a promise, a binding of your very soul to his.

when he finally pulled back, his breath ragged, his eyes glowed with triumph. “you feel it too, don’t you?” he whispered, his lips brushing against your skin. “that pull between us. you can’t deny it forever.”

you stared up at him, your heart pounding in your chest, torn between fear, confusion, and something far more dangerous—something that threatened to draw you in.

his touch, his words, his very presence, seemed to wrap around you like a spell.

this was bad.

without another word, he stepped back, the cool air filling the space between you once more. his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he vanished into the night, his form dissolving into mist, leaving you breathless and shaken.

he would return. he always would. after all, he had already decided—you were his, he was yours, and there was no escaping a fox’s devotion.

[watermelonsloth]

Miscellaneous Naruto Headcanons

Hanabi is next in line as clan head and Hinata completely cut off her family because she decided she doesn’t want anything to do with the people who wanted nothing to do with her.

Hashirama and Tobirama actually have a really complicated relationship with a lot of mutual resentment. They love each other as family and respect each other as shinobi, but still. Hashirama holds a grudge from the river incident, resents how he was the favorite child of their father, and is frustrated by how he prioritizes utilitarianism over kindness/morality a lot of the time. Tobirama resents how he grew up in his shadow, is jealous of how easily he interacts with others and gets them on his side, and commonly thinks that he makes their lives significantly harder. Do they talk about any of this? Of course not! Hashirama is deeply ashamed of these feelings and Tobirama approaches all of his emotions with an “if I don’t look at it, it doesn’t exist” mentality.

The three shinobi vices come from the sage of six paths, but Tobirama was the one who introduced the shinobi rules.

The fear of aging is incredibly common amongst shinobi. However, it’s less about dying and more about deteriorating; like a weapon rusting or dulling in a way that’s unpreventable and irreversible. Orochimaru’s fear is pretty obvious, part of the reason Sasori both values eternity so much and turned himself into a puppet is this, and Guy goes on about YOUTH!!! all the time because he’s in denial about his own fear, especially since taijutsu specialists are on a shorter clock than most due to muscle deteriorating faster than chakra.

Deidara values ephemeralism so much because he was forced to become a suicide bomber and he used this life philosophy to find value within himself even when he could be ordered to kill himself at a moments notice.

While the three shinobi vices are only taken very seriously amongst groups like the guardian shinobi twelve, it’s still baked into a lot of shinobi life. For example, you can be discharged from anbu for things like drinking, gambling, and paying for prostitutes even if it doesn’t impact your work-life. Some people, like Tsunade and Kurenai, are very against this, arguing “if I’m allowed to kill and die on a battlefield, I should be allowed to cope with that however I want!”

Kurenai is an alcoholic btw.

Tsunade got her gambling habit from Hashirama, but her drinking came from Tobirama.

Yamato is transgender.

While there isn’t much or any stigma against queer relationships, there is a lot of pressure around people having kids. This came from the warring states era when they needed those kids to become soldiers and replace their armies (also child death was very common and having more kids rose the chances of one of them surviving to adulthood).

The first thing Hashirama did as Hokage was outlaw child hunters and give the order that any child hunters encountered on missions should be dealt with with extreme prejudice.

Kekkei genkai hunting and trafficking is disturbingly common.

Sakura, Rock Lee, and TenTen come from civilian clans and started bonding over that during their sparring matches.

Ableism is pretty common within shinobi villages and especially in the Hyuga clan, so Neji went through a period of having to unlearn a lot of his biases while working with Rock Lee.

Rock Lee is considered disabled btw.

Also ableism is one of the reasons why Nagato doesn’t show his body. Because he’s also disabled (can’t walk because of paper bombs, and has severe chronic chakra exhaustion).

The noble clans (Uchiha, Hyuga, Aburame, Akimichi) were the first/founding clans of Konoha. The Senju used to be included, but because they mixed themselves into other clans to the point of dying out, they aren’t anymore.

Despite being memorialized on the shinobi uniform, the Uzumaki clan were never an official clan of Konoha.

The sharingan and mangekyou sharingan were extremely common during the warring states era, but is exceedingly rare in peace times. So much so that Uchiha’s who got it were congratulated (by people both inside and outside the clan) without others remembering that the sharingan is rarely unlocked for a good reason, making them feel even more upset/isolated.

Although people who get married usually still have wedding rings, it is so rare for shinobi to be seen wearing them (considering their job) that they’re viewed as a sign of retirement.

Ino and Karui did not get along at first because Ino takes great pride in clan tradition and Karui thought she was behind the times. They only get along now because they’re both romantics and they respectfully avoid that topic of conversation around each other.

Shino has to be very particular about his doctors to avoid them freaking out them accidentally healing the holes in his skin closed, making long missions away from Konoha all the more complicated and dangerous.

The rookie nine (-Sasuke) all really enjoy the outdoors so they set up a whole park/garden for them to hang out at. Naruto, Sakura, and Ino plant and tend to the flowers. Hinata picks and presses flowers into journals with the date they bloomed, type, and flower meaning written. Shikamaru (and sometimes Choji) likes cloud gazing. Shino and Choji like admiring (and sometimes catching) the bugs they find; Shino appreciates how he can exposition dump about all sorts of insects and Choji will actually listen. Kiba will either run around or take a nap with Akamaru depending on the day. Sakura also sometimes brings a stack of books to read/annotate in the grass.

Ino was the peer leader of their classroom during the academy.

Because Sakura was the introverted friend adopted by the extroverted leader (Ino), when they stopped being friends, Sakura functionally lost all of her friends.

Shino was right behind Sasuke in academics all throughout the academy, resulting in them having a bit of a silent rivalry. Sasuke actually knew Kiba through this because Kiba was one of the few people who acknowledged that Shino existed.

Choji taught Ino and Shikamaru how to cook as team bonding.

Shino and Hinata are pretty close friends after bonding over having to reign in Kiba during their time on team 8.

[sunshinegirl29]

Under The Influence

Summary; Aaron is helpless under the influence of Peter Lewis.

Content Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Drugs, Violence, Death, P in V Sex, some angst & fluff if you squint.

Pairing: Hotch X Reader

A/N - Sorry for how terrible this is, especially the end! It didn't quite come out how I'd hoped. But I still wanted to post it 😅.

-

Aaron’s eye is swollen shut.  The sticky cooling blood dries on his cheek where he sits slumped against an unfamiliar couch in an unfamiliar room. He sees you there, soft and warm, and blurred at the edges. You crouch down and stroke tenderly over the swell of his arms.

“Hotch—Aaron.” You breathe his name, leaning into the crook of his neck to nuzzle at the warm skin there.

Aaron tenses at first, uncomfortable.

“What’re you doing?" he bites out and attempts to shuffle from your grip, but his arms won’t move.

Something buzzes by his right foot, illuminating a faceless figure.

“It’s okay.”  

You smell like sage mingled with something sweet, like bubble-gum.

He jumps at the delicate press of your lips against his neck, puffing frustrated breaths when you continue a path of open-mouthed kisses up and across his jaw before pulling away to smile coyly at him.

You’re beautiful. He knew that. But now, gazing at him with lust blown eyes and the hint of a blush tinging your cheeks you’re almost ethereal; like a mirage of water in a desert.

He can’t do this. No matter how many times he’d scolded himself about wanting more. You were so much younger than him. His friend. His subordinate.

“It’s okay. You can kiss me, Aaron.”

It’s as if a film falls down over him and a confusing blurred version of you; plush lips parted and panting with need.

You hold your breath in anticipation before he moves in slow motion.  Aaron’s lips are softer than you expected, his five o’clock shadow a sharp juxtaposition.  The erotic sensation beckons a moan from your mouth into his that’s warm and unbearably pliant.  

“Touch me. Please. You have my permission.” 

It’s as if a switch flips in his head.  He had to have every inch of you.

The unbearable need forces him forward, the pain in his face and head just a background buzz to the ache for you.

He bursts into life underneath you; the hand that isn’t holding himself up curls around the side of your neck, a large thumb tips your head down for a kiss that swallows you whole.  You can’t stop yourself from whining into him, obedient to his tongue that licks readily into your mouth.  The tang of iron blending with a sweetness of something unknown, it gets stronger until he breaks away, allowing you to draw in a soft gasp.   The reprieve doesn’t last.

The large hand commanding your jaw moves to join the other at your chest, and with diligent fingers, the light material is slipped from your body.   Aaron groans deeply from under you at the black lace, which follows the shirt quickly to the floor. You can’t help but lean into the heady sensation of wet warmth at your chest where he nips and licks like a man starved.

“Oh god.”  You whine at the relentless pleasure of his mouth and can’t stop yourself from grinding down into his lap. He answers your silent request for friction with a weak rut of his own.  The hardness there hits your clit over again and you’re clenching around nothing, keening into his mouth that at some stage had taken yours once more.  He brings the arm that had been wrapped around your back to tug harshly at your trousers, the material drags painfully at your thighs until they disappear discarded with the rest.

The subtle dominance of him is all consuming. He’s commanding and strong underneath you, lifting your thighs sharply up to bob gently for a few seconds. Pained groans and the jingling of metal the only sounds. 

Aaron hesitates, reaching for some coherence through the thinning haze.

“Where is she?”  he asks, confused.

A dark figure takes up his field of vision. Lazy instincts urge him to try to move, to run.  Whoever is holding him here sits, elbows on spread knees listening intently. There’s a faint hiss to his left, something frustratingly out of reach, something isn’t right.

“Whe---”  he goes to ask again, but coughs on the growing smell of sage.  It's too hard to stay focused. His head lolls down, vision doubling.

Aaron knows he has to breathe through it, to call her, call his team and escape so he breathes, full and deep for a few seconds but is quickly distracted by a cold touch to the side of his face.

You’re undeterred by the blood on your hand and bring it down in a trail of crimson that disappears between you and Aaron who stares glassily into your eyes; his honeyed irises adoring. 

“It’s just me and you, Aaron.” You purr, tilting forward to capture his parted lips. His teeth clench, nostrils flare like he’s fighting to keep composure. But you’ve seen the way he looks at you. Over coffee in the jet, across the bullpen when he thinks you don’t notice, but you do—because you’ve been looking at him too.  Pining like a needy puppy, clenching your thighs under the desk, watching him interrogate unsubs and coaching you through difficult reports.  But you never entertained that it was anything more than a crush and definitely not it being reciprocated!

But the need for him, it’s almost too much.

“Aaron, please. I need you to---"

You cry out, taken by surprise by the way he thrusts upwards; the stretch of him inside you only adds to the pleasure.  There’s no art or finesse, just animalistic clashing of skin against skin, tongues, and teeth in all consuming desire.  Strong hands ease down to settle on your lower back, rocking you faster against him, the drag of his cock inside you rips a strained moan from between your lips.

The sound has him hammering up in deliberate thrusts so strong that you flop forward, grinding flush against the damp front of his chest.  Your whines are muffled into his neck, the white-hot throb of pleasure coiling inside you renders you oblivious to his nonsensical muttering and all you can do is kiss him desperately, swallowing deep growls of Aaron’s own pleasure.

Blunt nails dig into your back, his motions beginning to falter, but you continue to writhe on top of him. The way your body binds tightly to his creates friction in all the right places.

Aaron is louder now. The animal need pulling guttural noises from his throat that spur you on. Slick gushes around him and you  whine out, his thumb rubbing desperately at the edge of your clit.

“I’m gonna cum, please.”

Your thighs shake around his, you’re so close to breaking completely but manage to release yourself from your place at his neck and take his jaw in your hand, yanking his head up with uncharacteristic force to look in your eyes.

“Aaron” He indulges the plea with a ragged thrust that pushes you over the precipice.

Your body tenses for one glorious second and a ripple runs through your body like a wave of throbbing electricity, pulsing through you and into Aaron  who bites through a moan that tips you over the edge once more. You come down together, continuing to fill the room with noise, but another jarring sound snaps from behind you;

Something snatches at your hair and you scream out loud, pain searing through your scalp as you’re launched off Aaron’s lap and onto your back.

Aaron tries desperately to lurch forward. He has to get to you, to wrap you up in his arms, keep you safe. But all he can do is scream your name, his limbs heavy once more. 

“Help me! Aaron, please!”  You beg, half scrambling toward his slumped form, but a steel toed boot crushes your ribs like twigs underfoot.  Instincts force you to curl up against the pain, crying for him to stop, but the shadowed figure just sighs, bringing himself down to stroke your hair.  He says nothing but glances toward Aaron and smiles.

The pleasure, the love you felt from being with Aaron pales in comparison to the what follows. Agony rips through your throat. You can’t breathe, blood floods your mouth and pours from your nose.

A final gunshot rings out.

“Now I know what scares you.”

You never hear him beg for you.

 On the floor, Aaron can hear his heart, louder than waves hitting the shore with such abandon, throwing itself again and again into his ribs. He tries to stand but bends like a tree in warm summer wind, brain fuzzy, and burning. The dark figure from before comes back into focus; the sharp, angular face of Peter Lewis sneers down at his undoing.

“It’s okay.”  He croons as Aaron turns away, grimacing at blunt fingernails digging spitefully into the bruises decorating his jaw. 

 “You can move now.” 

 The smell of iron and something low and musky fills his nose; sucking in a steady breath, he begins to follow Peters' instruction to the letter.  It’s on shaking knees Aaron becomes wildly aware of the dampness at his crotch, the uncomfortable disparity in temperature between material and skin.  That’s when it comes again, the flood of memory; the intoxication of you, your skin, your body, and his, coming together in unadulterated pleasure.  But with pleasure comes fear, the paralysing image of your death; the blood pouring like red rapids from your open mouth, the whites of your eyes blooming with the realization that death was imminent.  But instead of clutching your wound, even in the twisted world of his imagination, you had reached for him.  Blush tipped fingers that had clutched at his back in ecstasy desperately scrambled for him, desperate for a crumb of comfort in your final moments.  

A beam of light invades the small space, illuminating a cream carpet. There’s no blood, no you. There’s nothing but the leather boots of Peter who revels in his agony, unphased by the intrusion of light.    Something starts in Aaron, a spark of hope and an idea – years of training in the making.   It forces him to the floor, grunting against the sensation.  He has to be convincing. 

“I’m coming through the door.” Peter hisses, thin lips brushing the shell of his ear “the woman you love, I’m going to kill her.  Unless you kill me first.” 

“I need.” Aaron stammers, giving himself mere seconds to calculate his next move “I need my gun”

A single shot rings out, and time suspends.

 He’s crying when they burst through the door, each staggering to a stop in shock before bolting, tracking puddles of blood that retreat toward the back of the house.  Aaron isn’t sure they’re real, not really, not until Rossi unfreezes from his place in the archway and presses the cold back of his hand to his burning forehead. Even riddled with panic and pain, Aaron didn’t miss the eyes of his team, lingering on his desperate hands that scrambled to buckle his slacks in time. 

“We need a medic in here!” Rossi yells, it pulls Aaron up and everything comes back into sharp focus, like being pulled from deep water to cool air.

“Take it.” Aaron pants, panic itching his bones as he looks around, desperate to hear you, to know you’re alive “he made me see things..” 

“Okay, come on let’s get you up.” Rossi sighs a plea, linking an arm under his to lift his sagging body from the floor. 

He scans Aaron’s body, looking for obvious defects and signs of further injury but comes up empty and Aaron knows he wants to pry, to ask what had happened, for the painfully intimate details of his undoing.  But Rossi just pats his shoulder, the same shoulder you’d dug your nails in, and he can’t help but flinch away. 

“Where is she?” Even knowing it could reveal the truth, it didn’t matter; you weren’t here. He could hear everyone; JJ and Morgan round the corner, Spencer who lurks in the doorway, committing the scene to memory, but not you.

“Who Hotch? There’s no one else here. ” Rossi asks, flashing a concerned glance toward Spencer.

No, she’s here. She’s dead.

Aaron watches as Spencer pushes off the wall, eyes downcast and he knows then that he hadn’t been as covert as he’d thought, but then again Spencer always saw people for what they didn’t say.

Spencer gawps awkwardly around an explanation, but footsteps stampede toward the living room, panicked and stumbling.  Your heart battering every rib but ricochets as you stagger to a halt, folding at the waist in relief.  He’s alive. Bleeding and dishevelled, but alive.

“Hotch.” You gasp, a shaky hand comes up to cover your mouth when you step closer, taking in the details. His pants have been hastily pulled up. Something darkens the material at his crotch.

You turn quickly, reddening slightly.  It’s been years since you entered the BAU, but you didn’t need to be a seasoned profiler to understand the expressions of the two men in front of you. Spencer flutters off to assist JJ, who drags a handcuffed Mr. Scratch into the hallway but stops in his stride. 

“I win.” 

He looks through Spencer, his beady eyes bore holes into yours.

“I don’t think so.” You bite and take a sharp step forward, but stop at a wayward flutter of your heart. A warm hand wraps itself gently around your wrist.

“You have no idea what I did to him. I win.” Peter laughs.  Instinctually, you peer up to Aaron for any clarification, but the two men seem to freeze, suspended in time.  Scratch taps at his own head, sneering between you and Aaron, whose ox like breathing permeates the tense silence. 

You want to ponder his meaning, but the weight of Aaron’s heavy hand in yours is all consuming; his palm is warm and slightly calloused in your own, gripping it tightly as if an anchor.

“Hotch?” You breathe, turning slightly unnerved by his silence.  “let’s get you checked out..”

Aaron turns, coming to life beside you; his dark shining eyes pin you to the spot.

“Aaron?” you frown, turning to Rossi for help find him huddled together with the rest of the team in a shadowed corner of the hallway.

He blinks, as if he’s seeing you for the first time, a loaded gaze that’s out of place on his face but not unwelcomed. You pull in a shuddering breath, unable to stop your eyes from fluttering closed when he curls a piece of wayward hair back behind your ear.

“He made me see things.” Aaron groans, jaw ticking, years of friendship shows it for what it is, the voluntary holding of information.

“It’s okay.” You try your best to soothe him, to bite back your own emotions at seeing him so vulnerable.

Aaron sighs, small and resigned. 

“He made me see you.” He mutters, shaking his head at Rossi in your peripheral. 

None of the team make a move to invade your space, respecting whatever was about to unfold.  Your heart races, palms sweat slightly.

“You were dead,” 

It took a few seconds to realize what he’d said, to battle with the weight of what that meant.  You’d felt it for a while, the building tension your interactions, the way he’d reach for you when a scene got too busy or too violent.  You’d pushed it down for so long, trying to curb the craving of being close to him, the hunger for his presence, the way you gravitated towards him in every situation. It wasn’t until now, looking up at his grief ridden face that you knew it had evolved into more than  just this. 

You’d died.

Peter Lewis makes his victims see their worst nightmares, and Aaron Hotchner’s was you dead. 

"I’m right here.” You choke out from behind tears, lifting your hand to touch the side of his face.  You half expected him to flinch, but he doesn’t. He all but melts, tears falling freely.

“Tell me what happened while it’s fresh.” It’s then you realise there had been more to this than meets the eye. There’s more he’s not telling you.

“No. I can’t..” You watch him step from foot to foot, tilting his head to the sky in frustration.

You almost push but Rossi cuts in with a cough;

"Come on, Aaron, we need to get you checked out.” This isn’t a suggestion, you know Rossi and Aaron, and don’t fight it, as much as you want to.

“It’s okay. I’ll be here when you get back.” You smile, suddenly feeling awkward, now aware of the presence of your team in your periphery.  

JJ approaches first, cautious as if you might crumble under her soft touch on your arm;

“Are you okay?  What was that?” 

You don’t know.  Or do you?  The whole trajectory of your relationship had changed in a moment. How do you put that into a coherent sentence?

“It must have been Scratch. He put something in his head. I don’t know..” You trail off, going back over everything.  But Morgan cuts in, shuffling you out toward the front door.

“That man doesn’t crack a smile. It’d take more than a hallucination to do that.” 

“Maybe..” Reid starts, taking in a short gasp at the sharp change in temperature as you head toward the SUV. “Maybe we shouldn’t speculate.  It looked bad.”

You could have hugged him.  But instead smile, grateful.  

Aaron watches you go, locking eyes loaded with words unspoken.  Someone once said, is it better to speak or to die? He doesn’t know. How would he begin?

“Aaron?” Rossi’s hand begs for attention “You have to talk about it. Tonight while it’s still fresh.”

He knows Dave’s right.

“Hotch?!”

Aaron takes a deep, steadying breath.

“This is how it happened.”

[the-kitchens-on-fire]

I hope that if Robotnik comes back in the fourth or fifth movie they should utilize the Mr Tinker arc where he loses his memory and becomes a wholesome inventor

Wether Shadow saved him or the reactor explosion sent him to a different dimension or planet

Because if stone becomes the new enemy and just finds the man he loves hanging around after his sacrifice we can get one of two paths:

1. He joins Robotnik in his new life cue cute ending where they have Metal, Belle, and Sage as their kids

2. He try’s to make him remember which can be sad or Dr Starline style

Btw: the badniks recognized Robotnik immediately and just randomly swarmed him simply refusing to leave

[vllergy]

freedom of nature's gifts

h/alsin b/g3 allergy, kink tav, 2.1k for those not familiar with the fandom: enormous kinky beefcake bear-coded druid who is felled by nothing wanders off into the woods to sneeze without disturbing his companions for those familiar: pls enjoy astarion being an absolute bitch about it for .5 seconds regular goodies: allergies, vouyuerism, partner with the kink extra flavor: giant man, giant snz, formerly indomitable force meets pollen, forced politeness, h/alsin being a sap tbh THIS IS JUST FOR ME I WROTE THIS FOR ME OK SORRY YOU HAVE TO SEE IT

“And here I thought druids were supposed to appreciate all of nature’s many charms.” Astarion’s musical voice drips with amusement. Tav picks up on it outside his tent as the lithe shadow of the elf passes over the sun drenched silk of his doorway. Just behind him, Karlach’s larger figure marches diligently along the same path.

“Oh, he’s appreciating them all right,” she snorts.

Tav rubs his eyes and rolls over. It’s morning, or at least it feels like it from the ache in his spine and the slightly cool air whisking over from the lake. He picks his head up and tries to follow the thread of conversation. His companions are talking about a druid, so they must mean Halsin. Tav hasn’t seen him since the night before.

Memories come warm and sticky like honey. Halsin’s hazel eyes fond in firelight. A low chuckle. A massive hand settled onto the small of Tav’s back. His heart quickens just at the thought.

Outside, Karlach sighs with a note of sympathy. “Never heard anyone sneeze so much in my life.”

Tav’s heartbeat nearly catapults out of his chest at that. His fingers fist in his blankets before he tears them away and scrambles up. Despite wishing to burst free from the tent like a demon, he tries to make his movements as unhurried as possible. It’s with great effort that he emerges from his sleeping arrangements without appearing impatient and affects a bored glance over at the others as they settle around the warm embers from last nights campfire.

“Morning,” Tav says and makes a show of scrubbing his eyes.

“Good morning to you too, darling,” Astarion purrs, “And aren’t you looking lovely?”

“Heya, soldier. You sleep okay?” Karlach waves.

Tav nods. His patience has limits, however. “What were you guys talking about?”

Karlach gestures back over her shoulder towards the tree line, “Halsin. Surprised you didn’t hear him earlier this morning. Poor guy was sneezing his head off before he crawled off to the woods to do it in private.”

The warm flooding of pleasure in Tav’s stomach doesn’t stop his momentary concern. “Is he alright?”

Astarion’s eyes glitter with amusement, “He says it’s the flowers growing nearby setting him off.”

The vampire looks positively delighted to be delivering said information, as if he knows what it’s doing to Tav. Tav knows that’s impossible, and Astarion is clearly just tickled by the irony of it all, but it still makes his cheeks flush with unexpected warmth.

“A druid with allergies! Ha!” Astarion claps his hands once, “You can’t make this up.”

“I should go see if he needs anything,” Tav chews the inside of his lip. His body feels like it’s full of needles.

Thankfully, he has a well-known weak spot when it comes to Halsin. His abrupt need to go to check on him isn’t exactly out of the ordinary, nor is it any cause for suspicion. Astarion merely waves him off with a delicate hand and Karlach nods sagely. “Tell him he can come back any time, big guy’s too hard on himself.”

“I’d rather he stay out there,” Astarion balks, “I’d like to preserve my hearing, thank you very much.”

Tav leaves them to squabble and heads for the tree line where Karlach indicated. He knows he should probably change into something other than the clothes he slept in but he’s too warm already and the thought of delaying getting to Halsin makes her skin feel even more prickly and sharp.

—

Given how familiar he is with the volume with which Halsin can expel an irritant, Tav has some idea of what he’s getting into. Even still, the first far off sneeze he manages to catch once he’s in proximity stuns him with its power. The druid still has to be a few hundred feet off but Tav hears it clear as day. It's an unrushed, heavy thing with so much of Halsin’s voice in it, his knees go weak.

It only takes him a matter of moments to close in on his lover’s position. And when he does, the sight there unravels him completely.

Tav has never seen Halsin at the mercy of anything that wasn’t his animal form. That particular loss of control has always been wickedly erotic to him as well, just for the sheer rarity of it. It's not something Halsin enjoys succumbing to, however. The first time it happened when they made love, he’d been apologetic about it. Sheepish, even.

Halsin is a man who is undaunted by much of anything. It’s not surprising that the few things able to bring him to his knees are difficult for him to come to grips with. Tav thinks surrender must be a strange concept for a man who has burdened himself with nothing but crippling responsibility for over a millennia. When is the last time Halsin let himself truly be vulnerable to something? Does he remember how to surrender?

Tav would argue that yes, he does, because that's the only word that describes what’s happening here.

Halsin’s sitting under the cover of a tree on a large stump. He’s clearly been in the throes of this fit for some time, true to Astarion and Karlach’s report. Evidenced by the redness of his nostrils, the tears slicked down his tattooed cheek and the limp handkerchief laid open in his massive palm. The man appears breathless, panting with indulgent, open-mouthed gasps as his nostrils swell. He doesn’t even bother to open his eyes as he lets another clockwork sneeze take him.

“huh’uRRSSCHHHH’HOO!”

if he’d been using the handkerchief before, he’s abandoned it now, optioning to simply sneeze down in its general direction rather than try to contain any part of the expulsion. And Tav can see why. There’s hardly any point. Halsin's sizable chest swells with one, languid breath and whatever fire’s been stoked within his sinuses catches again and he sneezes without reprieve.

“hh’RRRAAAASSH’UUE!”

He still hasn’t opened his eyes. Tav wonders how long he’s been stuck like this, in an endless cycle of chest-clearing sneezes with barely a breath between. The idea of it being more than a few minutes is deeply intriguing to him, but also a little worrying. How much can one man possibly sneeze? He’s never seen Halsin like this. In fact, he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen the druid sneeze. Tav has, after all, been paying attention.

“hh’RrrRSSCHH! hh? Hh! Hh’hhRRUSSh'SHOO!” Halsin teeters on the edge of a third, eyebrows bunched together, an allergic tear sliding down his cheek. He hangs on the precipice for an agonizing moment before roaring with the ferocity of a bear into the final one. “Hh’hhRrAAASSCHHH’uHH!!!”

His shoulders tremble with the force and Tav’s vested interest in the display finally makes room for guilt. He steps forward, purposely landing hard enough on the foliage underfoot to snap a twig and announce his presence.

“Halsin?” He calls.

The druid tenses. He straightens up and his eyes flash over to the treeline, surprised and a little guilty. He attempts a smile as color rises to his cheeks.

“Ah, my heart! I did not hhhea—excuse mhee’hh’WHFFHSHH!” He turns away promptly and smothers the harsh sneeze into his handkerchief, cutting the volume in half.

The propriety he insists on in front of Tav makes Tav’s legs feel like jelly. Moments ago he was sneezing with reckless abandon into the open air without a care in the world, but now he insists on sparing his lover from the display for a reason Tav can't ordain. They've seen each other bloodied and spent a thousand different ways before. How is this any different? Halsin twists away from him further, his massive shoulders swelling as he ducks into the handkerchief again. “H’hWHHFFSSShH!"

“Seven Hells, Halsin,” Tav murmurs. He lays a hand on the man’s back, “Bless you.” "My thhha-"

Tampering back those massive sneezes seems to make them vindictive, and Halsin can’t even get a proper thanks out before he's flinching back into a reflexive fit of them, once more trapped in his sodden handkerchief.

“wFFHSCHH! H’tSSCHh!” Halsin lifts his head and gasps desperately. Tav feels an odd sense of relief as the druid eschews a sense decorum for a cleansing, powerful third. “hhrh’RRSHHH-SHOO!”

“My thanks,” he murmurs directly after, but tends to his nose quickly before turning back to Tav. He sniffles unproductively and Tav notices his nostrils sharpening as they flare in an effort to stave off what he’s sure is another impending sneeze.

Tav gently tucks a lock of auburn hair that’s come loose from a braid behind Halsin’s pointed ear.

“Bless you,” Tav frowns, “How long has this been going on?”

Halsin looks dangerously close to another sneeze, but blinks furiously until the need abates. His auburn lashes look darker with irritated tears. He sniffs as delicately as he can, which Tav can only assume is incredibly unsatisfying, and gives a weak smile.

“The better part of the morning, I fear.”

“You could have woken me,” Tav murmurs, stroking fingers through his long hair.

Halsin chuckles, “I thought I might have, given the racket I was m—ma—ah, oohn...onnce more, apologies—“ He turns away and clamps the handkerchief over his nose and mouth. “h’WHFFHSHH'uhh!"

His lungs fill and he dips lower towards his lap.

“hh'RrSCHH!”

“I believe that was twice,” Tav teases, despite feeling his trousers getting uncomfortably tight.

Halsin lifts his head just enough to try and find a dry edge of the handkerchief. It doesn’t happen in time. His hazel eyes go narrow, unfocused, and he sneezes across it and his knuckles.

“Huh’uSSHH’HOO!”

“Gods, Halsin.” Halsin gives an experimental sniff. When he's certain it's not going to lead to another sneeze, he sags slightly and tilts his head back. "Oak Father preserve me." Tav's delirious at this point. He crouches down to get to Halsin's eye level, his hand lingering on the druid's knee. “How long does this usually go on?” Tav asks, worries for both of them at this point.

Halsin sniffs hard and finally finds the dry edge of the handkerchief, using it rather anticlimactically to dab at his raw nostrils. He blows his nose once while shaking his head. "Truthfully, I'm not certain. It hasn't been this bad in some time." "Would changing shape help?" Halsin chuckles, "Then, I would be sneezing as a bear." "Is that more pleasant?" "Perhaps for some," Halsin's eyes shimmer with sudden mischief beyond the allergic tears. Tav blinks. He takes a moment to process, then gapes. He smacks Halsin's knee and the druid gives a chesty laugh. "You bastard, how long have you known?" Tav asks. "My heart, you are many things, but subtle is not one of them," Halsin knuckles at his reddened nose and gives a warm smile that makes Tav melt on the spot. "Look, it's not like I meant to enjoy your suffering, I--" Halsin holds up a hand, "When have I ever given you the impression that you need apologize for your desires?"

Tav blushes. Halsin continues sniffling and tugs him forward by the hip. As he stumbles closer, Tav reaches for his face. His thumb clears away the track of an allergic tear from Halsin’s scarred cheek. "I do feel bad that you're miserable.”

“If it brings you pleasure,” Halsin says, his voice low, “Then I am not miserable.”

Tav lowers himself into Halsin’s lap. The druids hands dwarf his waist as he supports him, and also prevent him from worrying at his nose as he starts to lose himself to into the persistent tickle once more. Halsin goes to raise an arm but Tav captures it, lowering it back to his hip.

Halsin, to his credit, doesn’t even stop to question it. He lets the sneeze take him over fully, though habit still makes him turn his head as it barrels through him.

“h’HHRRUSSCHHH!”

Now that he’s seated astride him, Tav can feel the way his body clenches. Halsin has to be three hundred pounds of solid muscle, and each one of them turns to steel as he surrenders himself to the sensation. His chest quivers under Tav’s eager hands as he waits torturously for a second and his other hand reaches around the small of his back, holding the smaller man in place as he--

“uh'Hhh-!...huuh...eh'HUHH’ESSH’SHOO!”

Spray dapples in the sunlight from a break in the canopy of trees above. Tav's almost unseated from the man's lap with that one but certainly has no complaints. He's beaming as Halsin sniffles blearily once more and dips close to kiss at Tav's throat. "Tell the Oak Father I said thanks," Tav murmurs in bliss. That earns him a sharp pinch from Halsin, but thankfully no fewer kisses.

[emmkayyy03]

The Paradox of Detachment: Who Is Truly Free?

A wandering monk once said, "The one who knows that his body is temporary and is unshaken by its fate is closest to liberation." But if that’s true, then who is truly detached—the fearless warrior who laughs in the face of death, the rogue who risks everything without a second thought, or the mystic who hides behind mantras and astrological charts, seeking protection from every possible misfortune?

Let’s take a moment to step into their worlds.

The Warrior’s Detachment

Steel in hand, battle-scarred, the warrior strides into the storm, knowing he may not return. Death is not an enemy but an old companion, whispering at the edges of his consciousness. Pain? Just another moment passing, no different from the wind cutting across his face.

Before him stretches a battlefield—a graveyard in the making, where the earth drinks steel and blood alike. Blades glint like fangs in the sun, and the air is thick with the scent of iron and blood. He moves forward, stepping over corpses yet to fall, striking, bleeding, killing, knowing that at any instant, fate may turn its gaze upon him.

His body is not his own; it is merely a vessel for war, a tool sharpened for a purpose greater than himself. If detachment means surrendering the fear of death, if liberation is the release from clinging to the fragile shell of flesh—then isn’t he already free? Or is his fearlessness not wisdom, but just the grim acceptance of a world where life has no promises, only endings?

The Rogue and the Drifter

Then there’s the rogue—the outlaw who lives on the edge, the gambler who places his life on the table with a smirk, the wanderer who owns nothing yet moves freely. He has no permanent home, no ties to wealth, no concern for the future. Society may call him reckless, but is he not more detached than the merchant hoarding gold in fear of loss? Or is his non-attachment just another escape, a refusal to commit to anything real?

The Prostitute’s Reality

And what of the woman in the shadows, the one who offers her body as if it were no more than a garment to be worn and discarded? She moves through the night like a whisper, a ghost in silks, untouched by the love or loathing of those who seek her. If detachment means not identifying with the flesh, then is she not closer to liberation than those who clutch desperately at their purity, fearing even the brush of desire?

Yet, is she truly free? Or do unseen chains still bind her—the weight of a world that scorns her even as it seeks her out? Does she give without attachment, or has she merely learned to silence the voice that once longed for something more? If she offers herself without shame, without illusion, without expectation, then is she not as unshackled as the wandering ascetic, the sage who renounces his body in search of truth?

Perhaps freedom is not in what one gives or withholds, but in the mind that holds nothing at all.

The Mystic Who Clings to Protection

Then there is the seeker, draped in robes, whispering spells at dawn, his voice trembling with devotion or is it fear? He bows before the heavens, tracing sacred symbols, clutching charms meant to ward off unseen misfortunes. He speaks of renunciation, of detachment, yet his nights are restless, spent calculating omens and pleading with the stars to soften their decree.

If the body is fleeting, why shield it with spells? If destiny is unchangeable, why beg the cosmos to rewrite its script? He prays for liberation, yet clings to the very world he claims to transcend. He fears hunger, disease, misfortune—things the rogue laughs at, the warrior faces, and the woman in the shadows endures without pretense.

Is he not more bound than those who walk their paths without illusion? He renounces gold but hoards protection. He rejects the world yet fears its touch. In his quest to master fate, has he not become its most devoted servant?

The Singer and Detachment

Then there is the singer, who cannot hide behind illusions, for to sing is to surrender. The unskilled hesitate, but the master bares his soul without fear, knowing music is not his to keep. Each note is given away, dissolving as soon as it is born—like breath, like life.

Yet, is he truly free, or does he cling to the need for an audience, for remembrance? If the afterlife is for the unburdened, then the singer who sings without fear, who vanishes into his song, may already be there.

So, Who Is Truly Free?

Perhaps detachment is not in rejecting the body, nor in offering it freely to fate or desire—it is in knowing, beyond all doubt, that you were never the body to begin with.

The warrior who fights without ego, embracing death as easily as breath. The rogue who moves without fear, unburdened by past or future. The woman who gives without shame, untouched by judgment, neither proud nor broken. The mystic who prays without desperation, seeking nothing, grasping at nothing. Each may have brushed against true freedom, or each may still be ensnared in unseen chains of their own making.

Liberation is not in how one treats the body, but in seeing through the illusion that it was ever you. To move through the world unshaken, untouched—not because you deny life, but because you know it was never yours to hold.

[bryan-writes]

The witch in the woods// chapter 1

Chapter 1// the routine

The mornings in your corner of the woods always started the same.

A thin mist clung to the forest floor, not heavy enough to obscure the sprawling wilds but enough to soften their edges, making everything seem a little more dreamlike. The dawn light bled through the trees in streaks of gold and lavender, kissing the dew that slicked the tall grass and wildflowers around your apothecary. The house was a weathered relic of another time, with its ivy-covered stone walls and a roof patched with mismatched shingles. It exuded a peculiar charm, a place out of sync with the world around it— belonging more to folklore than reality.

You liked it that way. The isolation wasn’t lonely; it was yours.

Inside, the apothecary brimmed with a chaos that could only be described as intentional. Shelves bowed under the weight of jars filled with dried herbs, seeds, and powders, their handwritten labels slightly smudged. Bundles of lavender and sage hung from the ceiling beams, their scents mingling with the faint sweetness of honey and the sharp tang of vinegar stewing in the back corner. A tangle of vines from a stubborn pothos plant crept down one wall, as though trying to reclaim the space for nature.

Thistle, your scrappy orange tabby, was already awake and sprawled across the counter where your mortar and pestle waited. His green eyes blinked lazily at you, his tail flicking with faint irritation when you nudged him aside to make room.

”Good morning to you, too,” you murmured, scratching behind his ears as you reached for the jar of coffee beans.

The routine was sacred, even if it sometimes meandered. You ground the beans in slow, rhythmic circles, savoring the earthy aroma as it filled the room. The sound of boiling water was comforting, a steady hum against the backdrop of birdsong outside.

But today, there was weight to the air.

It wasn’t the kind of heaviness that announced itself outright. It was subtle, threading through the familiar like a stray strand of hair in your tea. You caught it in the way the shadows seemed a little sharper, the edges of the forest darker than they should have been. It wasn’t enough to unsettle you, not yet.

You leaned against the counter with your mug, gazing out the window as you sipped. The woods stretched endlessly beyond your apothecary, their depths both inviting and unknowable. The trees were alive with movement— the flutter of birds, the swaying of branches— but there was a stillness beneath it all that you couldn’t quite place.

Thistle yawned dramatically and padded over to the windowsill, pressing his nose against the glass.

“See something?” You asked, though you didn’t expect an answer.

______

By mid-morning, the first townsfolk began to arrive. They trickled in one by one, their boots muddy from the dirt paths that led to your apothecary. You had long since stopped finding it strange how far people would come for your remedies— some from the town proper, others from the farms that bordered the forest.

An older woman came first, her hands knotted with arthritis. You mixed her a salve with mint and comfrey, chatting idly about the weather as she peered curiously at your shelves. A young man followed, bashful and stammering as he asked for a tincture to soothe his nerves before his wedding next week. You teased him gently, your laughter easing the tension in his shoulders as you handed him a small vial of chamomile and valerian.

Each interaction was its own little ritual, and you found yourself slipping into the rhythm of it easily, as if the odd weight in the air had been a fragment of your imagination.

But then there was the boy.

He couldn’t have been older than ten, with a mop of dark hair and wide, hollow eyes that darted around the room as though expecting something to leap out at him. He clutched a crumpled note in his hand, which he thrust toward you without a word.

The paper was worn, the ink smudged, but you made out the request easily enough: “For nightmares.”

You glanced back at the boy, whose small hands were trembling slightly.

“Bad dreams?” You asked gently.

He nodded but didn’t elaborate.

You turned away to gather the ingredients— mugwort, lavender, a pinch of crushed moonstone— and blended them into a small pouch. As you tied it closed, you felt the weight in the air return, heavier this time.

“Here,” you said, kneeling to his level. “Put this under your pillow. It should help.”

The boy stared at you for a moment before taking the pouch and bolting out the door. You straightened slowly, watching him disappear into the trees.

Thistle jumped down from his perch and wove between your legs, his fur bristling slightly.

“Yeah,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “I felt it, too.”

______

By the afternoon, the sun was higher, its light filtering through the trees in fragmented patterns. You took your basket and ventured into the woods, as you often did, to gather herbs and mushrooms for your apothecary. The forest was alive in ways that made your skin tingle— a rustling that didn’t quite match the breeze, a flicker of movement just beyond your peripheral vision.

You didn’t let it stop you, but the unease gnawed at the edges of your thoughts.

Deeper into the woods, you found yourself drawn to a cluster of thistle growing wild among the ferns. Its spiky blossoms were vivid purple, almost too vibrant for the muted tones of the forest around it. You crouched to harvest a few stems, wincing as the prickly leaves caught your fingers.

As you worked, you became aware of a presence.

It wasn’t loud or overt, but it was there— a subtle shift in the air, a feeling of being watched. You straightened slowly, scanning the trees around you. Nothing moved, but the weight of it pressed against your chest, making it hard to breathe.

Thistle, who had followed you out, arched his back and hissed, his orange fur standing on end.

“Okay,” you whispered, gripping your basket tightly. “Time to go.”

The walk back to the apothecary felt longer than usual, the shadows stretching impossibly long as the sun dipped lower in the sky. By the time you reached the safety of your porch, your hands were trembling again, and the ache in your chest hadn’t subsided.

You set the basket down and leaned against the doorframe, trying to shake the feeling.

Thistle brushed against your legs, his tail flicking nervously. You picked him up, burying your face in his fur for a moment.

“It’s nothing,” you told him, though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince.

______

As the day turned into evening, the apothecary grew quiet. The last of the townsfolk had come and gone, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You lit a joint and settled into the armchair by the fire, the smoke curling lazily around you as you stared into the flickering flames.

The forest outside your window loomed, its secrets pressing against the glass like a dark tide. You could feel it now, pulsing just beneath your skin— a presence that wasn’t yours but had somehow claimed a piece of you.

And though you tried to dismiss it as paranoia, a small part of you wondered if the woods had always been this alive, and you just hadn’t noticed before.

Credit to @strangergraphics for the dividers :)!

[g1rlsp1ckins]

𝓐RCANE 𝓓R ✶ 𝓘NTRODUCTION

𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖔𝖗 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖇𝖞 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖋𝖊𝖜; 𝖒𝖞𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘; 𝖘𝖊𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖙; 𝖔𝖇𝖘𝖈𝖚𝖗𝖊; 𝖊𝖘𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖈

𝓢age ᝰ.ᐟ

「 the undercity was a rough place. words couldn't describe the things that one would just happen apon while walking down the streets. sage moves like a shadow through the streets of zaun, a figure wrapped in mystery and quiet rebellion. their presence is magnetic, marked by leather jackets that whisper secrets, ripped tights adorned with stars, and boots that echo like distant thunder. music flows from their black guitar, haunting riffs that linger like smoke in the air, speaking of longing and defiance, that mirrors the daggers in her hands, bringing justice to the harsh conditions in which she finds herself. ink-stained fingers dance across the pages of a weathered journal, weaving spells and secrets, their thoughts as piercing as their gaze. a soul caught between worlds, sage stands unwavering—a guardian of the outcasts, a whisper of magic in a city of steel, and a force of quiet, unyielding power.」

「 Sage grew up in the underbelly of Zaun, a quiet yet fiercely creative soul drawn to the chaos and grit of her surroundings. She met Vi and Jinx as a child, bonding over their shared desire to rise above the harsh realities of their world. Where Vi brought strength and leadership and Jinx brought boundless energy and unpredictability, Sage was the steady presence that grounded them. Often the one to patch up scrapes or calm tempers, Sage’s keen intellect and quiet resilience made her an essential part of their makeshift family. Together, they dreamed of better days while exploring Zaun’s alleys, stealing moments of joy amidst the shadows.

When Vander’s world fell apart and Vi was taken to prison, Sage made a choice that would shape her forever—she couldn’t abandon Jinx. Sage saw the broken pieces in Jinx’s heart and knew she couldn’t let her friend fall into despair. Together, they sought refuge with Silco, a decision that weighed heavily on Sage’s conscience. Though she distrusted Silco’s ruthless ways, she stayed for Jinx, becoming both her protector and her confidante as they navigated the dangerous underworld. Sage’s quiet strength became a shield for Jinx’s fragile mind, even as she felt herself slipping deeper into Silco’s web.

Over the years, Sage adapted, hardening her edges to survive while nurturing her love for music and magic in secret—a reminder of the dreams she once shared with Vi and Jinx. She became a quiet force in Silco’s empire, feared for her sharp wit, and admired for her unwavering loyalty to Jinx. Yet, every time she strummed her guitar or scribbled in her journal, she thought of Vi, wondering if their paths would ever cross again, and if the girl she once knew would recognize the person she had become.」

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「Sage and Vi’s relationship was always a complex, unspoken thing—teetering between the fierce loyalty of friendship and the lingering possibility of something deeper. They shared a bond forged in fire, mischief, and shared dreams of escape. Vi’s strength and fiery determination drew Sage in, while Sage’s quiet resilience and sharp intellect gave Vi a sense of calm she rarely found elsewhere. They were each other’s anchor in a chaotic world, sharing stolen moments of closeness—lingering glances, touches that lasted just a little too long, and silences that spoke louder than words.

But life in Zaun left little room for love, and neither ever fully voiced what simmered between them. When Vi was taken to prison, it felt like a severing of something fragile and unspoken. Sage buried the ache of her absence and focused on protecting Jinx, though a part of her always held on to the memory of Vi and the warmth she’d brought to her life.

When Sage and Vi crossed paths again years later, the connection was still there, raw and electric. But this time, Caitlyn stood firmly by Vi’s side—a new force of light in her life. Sage couldn’t help but feel the sting of being overlooked, her place in Vi’s world reduced to a distant memory. Caitlyn’s presence brought out a softer side of Vi, the kind Sage had only caught glimpses of, and though it hurt, she knew she couldn’t compete with what they had.

So, Sage kept her distance, burying whatever might have been and channeling her emotions into her music and magic. She watched from the shadows as Vi grew closer to Caitlyn, a bittersweet pang in her chest, knowing she would always be a piece of Vi’s past—one she wasn’t sure Vi even wanted to remember.

When Caitlyn betrayed Vi, it shattered something fundamental in Vi—her trust, her hope for a bridge between the fractured pieces of her life. In the aftermath, Sage found herself drawn back into Vi’s orbit, the years and distance between them suddenly insignificant. Vi was raw, angry, and hurt, and it was Sage who stood by her side, offering a quiet solace that Caitlyn no longer could.

Their reunion wasn’t simple. Sage carried her own guilt for the years she’d spent by Jinx’s side, enabling the chaos and violence that Vi despised. But Sage understood Jinx in a way no one else could, and she understood the depth of Vi’s pain—the war between her love for her sister and her desire to stop the destruction Jinx left in her wake. Sage didn’t try to justify what had happened, nor did she offer hollow words of comfort. She simply stayed, letting Vi feel every jagged edge of her heartbreak without judgment.

As they spent more time together, old wounds began to surface alongside old feelings. The connection they’d once shared flickered back to life. But it wasn’t the same as before—Vi was more guarded now, her trust fractured not just by Caitlyn’s betrayal but by the weight of everything she’d endured. Sage, too, was different, carrying the scars of her time with Jinx and Silco. Her once quiet resilience now sharpened into something harder, more bittersweet.

Despite the weight of their shared history, they found moments of understanding and warmth in each other’s presence. Sage became the person Vi could turn to when she couldn’t carry the weight of her emotions alone, while Vi reminded Sage of the girl she used to be—the girl who believed in hope, even in the darkest corners of Zaun. But the shadow of Caitlyn’s betrayal and Jinx’s chaos loomed over them, leaving their relationship suspended in a fragile balance between healing and heartbreak. They both knew the path ahead was treacherous, but for the first time in years, they faced it together.」

「Sage and Silco’s relationship began with a simmering resentment that neither could fully hide. When Sage and Jinx sought refuge with Silco after Vi’s imprisonment, it was out of necessity, not loyalty. To Sage, Silco embodied everything she hated about Zaun’s darker side—manipulation, cruelty, and a willingness to sacrifice anything for power. She saw through his polished speeches and unyielding confidence, recognizing the cracks in the mask he wore. Silco, in turn, viewed Sage as a complication—a sharp-tongued idealist who questioned his every decision and clung too tightly to Jinx’s fragile humanity.

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Despite this, they found themselves bound by their shared care for Jinx, albeit in vastly different ways. Sage’s presence grounded Jinx in moments when her mind threatened to spiral, and Silco, though ruthless, genuinely loved the girl he had taken in. Their mutual devotion to Jinx became an uneasy truce, one forged in late-night arguments and silent nods of understanding. Silco began to recognize the strength in Sage’s quiet defiance, while Sage saw glimpses of the man beneath the ruthless exterior—a man driven by a vision for Zaun’s future, flawed and brutal as it was.

Over time, their dynamic softened. Silco found himself valuing Sage’s perspective, even if he didn’t always admit it, while Sage saw shades of vulnerability in Silco’s relationship with Jinx that she hadn’t expected. In rare, unguarded moments, they spoke not as adversaries but as two people shaped by the harshness of Zaun, both haunted by the choices they’d made. Silco respected Sage’s fierce loyalty, not just to Jinx but to her principles, and Sage, though she never forgave his methods, began to understand the weight of the burden he carried.

By the time their relationship reached its quieter, softer end, it was no longer defined by resentment but by a grudging respect and a strange, unspoken bond. Silco became someone Sage could rely on, even as she kept him at arm’s length, and Sage, in turn, became one of the few people Silco trusted to protect Jinx when he couldn’t. Though they remained fundamentally different, their shared care for Jinx and their understanding of Zaun’s unforgiving world bound them together in a way neither had anticipated, creating a fragile connection forged in fire, loss, and reluctant respect.」

made by @g1rlsp1ckins

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[lucygxybaird]

billy x reader - time traveler billy

Everything happens so quickly that you don’t have time — at first — to realize how odd the situation is. The man’s clothes make him look like a refugee from a Western, and everything about him, from the curl of his hair to the way he stands marks him out as someone…different, somehow. Not to mention, of course, that he’s standing in the middle of the street, looking about as out of place and freaked out as a squirrel dropped into the middle of the ocean. 

But even if you could put your finger on it, you don’t have the time to consider what makes him so strange. 

First, you’ll have to get him out of the path of the oncoming car. 

You have, in point of fact, never actually tackled someone before, let alone someone who seems to be quite a bit taller than you and undoubtedly heavier. But you take your best shot, leaning in and diving at his waist, hoping to make him fold like a lawn chair. Maybe it’s just the shock, or maybe you actually find the right angle — you have no idea, but it doesn’t really matter. You manage to knock the guy sideways, both of you stumbling toward the safety of the sidewalk as the car screeches past, the driver laying on his horn. 

You watch as the guy flinches at the noise, actually clapping his hands over his ears as he squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s praying with all his might that the noise will just stop. Fortunately for him, the car turns the corner up ahead, and the sound of the horn fades as it goes. You watch it go, wondering absently how long Speed Racer is going to keep honking, and then you look back at the guy whose life you’ve saved.

“Are you okay?” It’s probably a stupid question, considering what little information you already have, but you don’t know what else to say. The guy lowers his hands and squints at you, staring as if you’re the one dressed like an extra from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. “Hey — are you alright?”

He shakes his head, more like he’s trying to chase away a bothersome gnat than answering you. 

You’re starting to worry that he’s hit his head, although you can’t see a cut or a bruise on his temple. Now that you’re looking at him properly, it’s really rather difficult to keep from noticing how…well, how hot he is. It’s probably — definitely — inappropriate to even think about it, you’re well aware, considering he’s either injured, intoxicated in some way, or just going through it, but you can’t ignore the fact now that it’s quite literally staring you in the face. 

His eyes are large and blue, framed by thick, dark lashes as long as your pinky finger, set above a strong, straight nose that reminds you of a Greek statue, as perfectly sculpted as if it’s been made from marble. His lips are astonishingly full, his jawline and cheekbones each as defined as the dictionary, and you think there just might be the shadow of a dimple in his chin. And he’s tall, too, topping you by nearly a foot, his broad shoulders tapering to an angular waist. You realize, belatedly, that you’re staring, but then again, so is he.

“Are you okay?” you say again. “Is there something I can do for you? Someone I can call?”

He swallows, giving another shake of his head. “I don’t…I dunno where I am.” 

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, and his voice brings to mind sage brush and sunsets, the smoke that swirls over a campfire as it crackles with life, warm and husky, with a twang that makes you think of the bite of whiskey. 

“Okay,” you say, and without thinking about it, you take his hand. It feels natural, like trying to guide a lost child, or trying to make sure you don’t lose him in a crowd. As soon as his palm touches yours, you feel a shock race up your arm, and you have the strangest sensation of a door closing, separating one moment from the next as definitively as an axe splitting wood. 

His fingers curl around yours, his expression almost pleading. 

“Okay,” you repeat. “Okay. Just…come with me. I’ll help you.”

You can tell, if not just by the expression on his face — half-hopeful, half-bracing, as if he’s expecting a blow to fall any second — that he’s not used to asking for help, especially not from strangers. It makes your heart hurt just a little bit. You give his hand a gentle squeeze, and you’re softened — or maybe melted — by the way he smiles at you, shy but appearing more heartened than he did just a moment ago.

Then another car whizzes by, and he winces like someone has taken a shot at him. He ducks down, his eyes so wide that they look like a pair of full moons, their cornflower centers the only source of color in his face. “The hell is that?”

You stare at him. If he didn’t look so terrified, you’d think he was joking. But if he’s not joking, then he’s either on an incredible cocktail of drugs, or he’s from that weird isolated cult town in The Village. “It’s…it’s a car,” you say. 

“A car,” he repeats, as if you’ve just told him the secret to life in Mandarin. 

“Yeah,” you say. “You know…a horseless carriage.” 

For some reason, this seems to impart some understanding to him, but you can tell he’s still plenty freaked out. “Carriages don’t go that fuckin’ fast!”

You try very, very hard not to laugh, but god, it’s hard. You’re having to draw on nearly every ounce of compassion you have. It helps that, really, he’s not wrong. Not that you’ve ever ridden in a carriage, because you’re not Keira Knightley in a period film, but you don’t think they’re capable of speeds like that. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” you say, “you don’t have to worry about getting into a horseless carriage with me. I hate driving.” 

Now that it’s just the two of you standing on the sidewalk again, the road mercifully free of cars, he seems to relax a little, at least enough to consider your words. “Well,” he says. “That’s something.” 

Not entirely sure where to go, you decide the police station is as good a place as any. It might be a little Hallmark movie of the week, but maybe someone has already filed a missing persons report on him. With that thought, it occurs to you that you need some information first. 

“Do you remember your name?” you ask.

The look he gives you indicates he has never been quite so offended in his life. You can’t help but laugh this time. “Well, I don’t know!” you say. “You don’t know where you are, you’re walking around here looking like a puppy at the start of an ASPCA ad — maybe you’re suffering from some kind of amnesia.”

He doesn’t look any less nonplussed, but something about your laughter has loosened the muscles in his face. He smiles at you. You try to ignore the way your stomach flips to focus on his answer. “Billy,” he says. 

You fight the urge to repeat his name, rolling it around in your mouth like candy. “Come on,” you say, his hand still in yours. “We’re not gonna get anywhere just standing here. Do you trust me?”

He smiles again, though this time with a bit of a razor’s edge to it. “Not like I got much choice, honey,” he says, and then pauses, softens. “Yeah. You’ve been nicer to me than most people would’ve, findin’ a stranger in the middle of nowhere, actin’ like he’s been dropped on his head. I wouldn’t have blamed ya if you’d run the other direction.”

You have no idea why, but what springs from your mouth before you can help yourself is: “I couldn’t do that to you.”

He studies you for a minute. His gaze feels as physical as a caress, and just as intimate. If not more so. You both do and don’t want it to stop. 

“Come on,” you say again, at least in part to break the silence. “Follow me.”

The two of you start walking, following the weathered gray slabs of cracked, uneven concrete that your small town calls a sidewalk as it winds its way into town. 

After a few moments of quiet, he says, “You never told me your name.” 

When you introduce yourself, he smiles again. “That’s nice,” he says. “Pretty.”

Your stomach flips again, and you have to remind yourself that you don’t know anything about this guy, except — only just now — his name. The fact that he’s tall, gorgeous, and really does give off a hurt puppy sort of vibe doesn’t matter. And it definitely doesn’t matter that his smile spreads across his face like a sunrise coloring the sky with ribbons of pastels. He could be a serial killer, or if not that extreme, some kind of — 

The two of you are still, for reasons not entirely clear to you and probably not much clearer to him, holding hands, so you’re jerked out of your thoughts by the fact that he’s gone stock still. 

“You’re takin’ me to the sheriff?”

If the dread clinging to his voice like a weed choking out a weaker plant wasn’t bad enough, he’s frozen still on the sidewalk, looking at you as if you’ve…well, as if you’ve betrayed him somehow. The pit of your stomach turns to ice.

“The sheriff?” you repeat. You feel oddly, stupidly, disappointed. A guy with nothing to hide doesn’t act like this when someone brings him to the authorities. The disillusionment washing over you makes your tongue sharp. “Who the hell are you, Barney Fife?”

He frowns. “I told you my name.”

“Yeah, I — never mind.” You shake your head and let go of his hand. The bare skin of your palm feels oddly cold. “What’s the matter? I thought someone might be looking for you. Maybe someone filed a missing persons report.”

“I don’t think so, darlin’.” He glances at the police station again, his throat bobbing. A pause, and then, softly, like he’s making a confession: “Nobody left that cares about me that much. Unless they wanna cause me some hurt.”

You feel the strangest mixture of sympathetic and prickly, as if you’ve been caught doing something wrong by someone who has been directly and seriously hurt by your actions. “Well…” You clear your throat, trying to find the right words to defend yourself. “I mean, listen, what kind of hurt? Are you a criminal or something?”

One corner of his mouth tilts up in a bitter approximation of a grin. “Or somethin’, honey,” he says. “I got a reputation I never wanted and that I’m not proud of, an’ not one person reads about me in the paper or sees my name on a wanted poster—”

Wanted poster? But something about his fierce, stung expression keeps your mouth shut.

“ — ever gave a damn about the truth. About why I did all that stuff. I didn’t want to!” When his voice rises, equal parts angry and hurt, you can’t help yourself. You reach for his hand again. He takes a deep breath, his fingers grasping yours. “I didn’t want to do any of it. I just wanted…I wanted things to get better. Every time I thought they would, they just got worse.”

You know it would make sense to ask what he actually did, but somehow, you can’t bring yourself to put the words out there. He looks ashamed and angry, but defiant, too, as if daring you to do it. Or, worse, to pass judgement. But you just press your lips together. 

“I wanted to go straight,” he says. “I wanted a good job for a respectable boss, so I could keep a roof over my head and food in my belly. Damn it, I just wanted some peace—”

When his voice breaks, you feel it in your chest, as if a fissure has opened up in your collarbone. Your own eyes burn, a reaction as instantaneous and out of your control as a burning red welt raising up around a bee’s stinger. It hurts you, to see him hurt, and you can’t even begin to explain to yourself why that is. 

“Well, I…I…” You fumble your words, not even sure what you’re going to say. But you know you have to say something. “I…okay, so, we’ll…we’ll go somewhere else. We’ll figure it out.”

He looks about as shocked to hear you say that as he was by the car burning rubber on the road leading into town. “You mean it?”

You swallow down the stupid feeling that you’re going to cry, and you nod. “Yeah, come on,” you say, and you hold out your hand again. He takes it. “We’ll go back to my place.”

He offers you another crooked smile, but this one is more surprised, almost tender, like you’ve shown him something sweet and unexpected hidden in the palm of your hand. “You sure about that, sweetheart?” he says. “You don’t know me all that well. I’d understand if you didn’t want a strange man in your home.”

Forget not knowing him that well, you don’t really know him at all, but you just tell him, “I’m sure.”

Because you are. In what seems to be the theme of the day, you can’t explain why, but it just feels…safe. Despite the little Dateline-themed voice in your head telling you otherwise, you can’t ignore the certainty, heavy and inexplicable, that you’ve been here before. He’ll step into your apartment and feel at ease, because this isn’t the first time he’s been your home. It will fit like an old coat, comfortable and soft and easy. 

It’s insane, but you can’t turn your thoughts away from it. 

His fingers lace with yours, and he rubs his thumb over your knuckle. The way he’s looking at you, so intently, his gaze never wavering from yours, makes you feel as though you’re being turned inside out, exposed. The moment when he froze with fear as the two of you approached the police — sheriff — station seems distant in both time and space, like you’ve gone forward many miles and many years in time in the space of just a few minutes.

“No cars, right?” he says, his crooked smile widening. The word cars sits in his mouth like he isn’t quite used to the shape of it, but you’re so charmed by the fact that he’s trying to make a joke. That the two of you have a joke to share. 

“No cars,” you say.

You’re walking again. Now and again you pass other people, who look at Billy the way you must have looked at him when you first saw him — eyebrows furrowed, pushing down over their eyes, glance flicking over him as if a quick look will make any more sense than a lingering one. Billy doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t seem to care. He’s too busy looking around at everything else; it all seems to shock him to varying degrees, whether it’s the buildings around you, the streetlights and the power lines silhouetted against the sky, the concrete beneath your feet and the asphalt of the road running beside you. 

As another car zooms by, Billy lets go of your hand, dosey-do’s behind you, and takes your other hand. Now he’s standing between you and the road. “I don’t like those things,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “But I like you near ‘em even less.” 

Your apartment building is a brick rectangle studded with windows, a pair of double doors set in the middle at the top of a wide set of concrete steps. You lead Billy inside and he stops as you reach for the elevator button. 

“What the hell?” he says, again speaking under his breath.

You push the button, watching Billy’s face as the call button lights up. He flinches at the ding, looking around for the source of the noise; you squeeze his hand gently. You wonder again where the hell he came from, that every piece of modern technology seems to make as little sense to him as ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. “It’s okay,” you say. “Just trust me.” 

Implicit in your voice is this: I won’t let anything happen to you.

He seems to hear your silent promise, or maybe the words you actually say are enough. Billy smiles thinly and nods.

When the doors slide open, though, he balks. “Are we supposed to go in there?”

“Yes. It’ll take us up to the floor my apartment is on, without us having to go up all those stairs.”

He swallows. “Okay.”

You step into the elevator and he trails after you with the air of a child who is expecting a switching out back. When the elevator starts to rise upward, Billy stares at you incredulously. “It’s okay,” you say again. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

He has a white-knuckle grip on your hand, and he jumps a little at the ding from somewhere above your heads as the elevator comes to a stop. When the doors slide open, he relaxes a little. “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” you confirm, and you lead him down the hallway. He waits while you fish your keys out and let yourselves inside your apartment.

As soon as the door closes behind you, Billy’s shoulders soften. You watch him as he looks around, feeling oddly nervous. As if it matters whether or not he likes your place.

Your building is old — you think from the 1920s or thereabouts, if you remember what your landlord said when she showed you the place five years ago — and it shows in the way it looks. Wooden parquet floors the color of honey are softened by rugs that you found at a flea market, a brown velvet couch slouching in front of a square, red-brick fireplace, framed by a mantle scattered with knickknacks. Billy smiles as he wanders over, picking up a little statuette shaped like a cat, wearing a collar of flat chips of glass.

“Cute,” he says, offering you another smile, and you feel inordinately pleased. 

His gaze roams around the living room. To his left, a doorway hung with a beaded curtain leads into the kitchen, and in front of him, a hallway runs to the back of the apartment, with your bedroom on one side and a bathroom on the other. His gaze turns back to the mantle, lifting to the wall above it, where a flatscreen TV is fixed.

“What is that?” he says, leaning forward to inspect this dim reflection in the screen. “A mirror?”

Despite yourself, a snort works its way out of your mouth, and he shoots you a wounded look. “Sorry,” you say, putting your hand over your mouth. “Sorry. No, it’s my TV.”

You have another, smaller one in your room, but you decide one television might be enough for him to deal with right now.

“A — a T…V?” he says, repeating the two letters distinctly, as if they have nothing to do with each other. “What’s that?”

Your lips part, and you stare at him for a second. “Billy,” you say. “Where are you from?”

His brow furrows, like he doesn’t quite understand what you’re asking. “Well,” he says slowly. “Most recently I’ve been livin’ in New Mexico. Why?”

New Mexico. That really doesn’t answer your question. “Where in New Mexico?”

His puzzled frown deepens, but he doesn’t ask why you’re pressing him. Maybe he figures you deserve to know, after saving his life and bringing him back to your apartment. “Lincoln, right now,” he says.

You don’t know much about Lincoln — or New Mexico, for that matter — but you don’t think it’s some reclusive community where they wouldn’t know about elevators or cars. 

The next question you have is crazy, totally insane, really — but you think you’ve seen doctors on TV ask concussion victims the same thing. And that’s definitely all it is. Because there’s no way this could actually be the problem. 

“Billy,” you say again. “What year is it?”

Now it’s his turn to huff out a laugh through his nose. “What year is it? It’s 1881.” 

You’re so floored by this statement that you blurt out, without much — or any — tact: “No, it’s not.”

He looks like he’s on the verge of arguing with you, but maybe everything hits him all at once. The cars, the technology he doesn’t understand, the very world around him that looks so different from what he’s used to. “What…what year is it, then?”

You blink. “2024,” you say. 

This time, when he laughs, there’s no humor in it, only a sharp incredulity. “You’re crazy,” he says, but without much heat. It’s almost like a plea, as though he’s offering you the opportunity to take it back. To say something that actually makes sense, because — and you have to give it to him, he’s not wrong — this doesn’t make sense at all.

And yet, unless he’s been severely brainwashes or he’s just putting you on, it’s also the only option.

“How did I get here?” he says, and he sounds — and looks — like he might cry again. “What do I do now?”

“I don’t know,” you say. Then you reach for him, and even before your hands find his face, he’s moving closer to you. He holds onto your waist, like you’re a lifeline. “I don’t know. I don’t know how you got here, or why, but you’re not alone, okay? You have me.”

It doesn’t even register with you at first that this is an incredibly strange, if not downright dangerous, thing to say to someone you met not even two hours ago. Especially considering you’re saying it to a man who is bigger and undoubtedly stronger than you. But you don’t feel like you’re putting yourself at risk. 

Billy, though, says what you’re thinking, except he says it with a sense of wonder. It almost sounds like a prayer. “I don’t even know you,” he murmurs.

Yes, you do.

The thought seems to come from outside of you, as if someone has turned to a fresh page in your mind and written it there in their own hand. 

Billy says your name, still in that awestruck voice. It feels as though there is a web spun between you, gossamer-fine but indissoluble. The fact that he could be an honest-to-god time traveler makes more sense to you than the idea that you only met him today. 

“1881,” you repeat, and he chuckles.

“2024,” he returns. 

“How old are you?” 

“Twenty-two.”

“Oh,” you say, relieved. Although technically if he’s twenty-two and from the year 1881, that means he’s around 165 years old, but who’s counting? “Me too.”

He smiles, an uptick of the corner of his mouth that nonetheless makes your heart skip in your chest. You decide that you want his hands on you, always, his gaze on you, always, but then you remember something else you have to show him. 

“Come here,” you say, taking his hand again. You lead him down the hallway to the bathroom, the sight of which earns you another look at his stunned, disbelieving face. “Okay. This is my bathroom.” You point. “That’s a toilet.” You try to remember when toilets were invented. “It’s like…an outhouse. But inside.” 

Billy snorts. “I know what a toilet is.”

You hum. There’s that, at least. “This is definitely new,” you say, and you point to the shower. He nods. You have one of those with a glass door, which you — a little embarrassingly, now — have declared with decals of cartoon sea creatures, including a whale, a puffer fish, and a little scuba diver.  “Right. This a shower.”

You push the door open, reaching inside and turning the knob so the water comes pouring out. Billy jumps at the sudden noise and stares as steam fill the room. “It’s hot?” he says uncertainly.

“It can be,” you say. “If you twist this knob here, it can get cooler, though. But it won’t hurt you.”

“What do you do?” he says, peering at the shower. “It’s for bathin’?”

You nod. “You just…” You blush and gesture vaguely at his clothes, before gesturing equally vaguely to the floor. “And step in. There’s soap and shampoo for your hair.”

He smiles crookedly. “Are you tryin’ to tell me I don’t smell like roses, honey?”

You laugh a little. “I mean, well…”

He grins again before looking resolutely at the shower. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll try.”

You give him privacy, shutting the door behind you, though you hover nervously in the hallway in case he needs you. You’re worried about him slipping and falling, so you have to resist the temptation to press your ear against the door. Finally, you hear the water shut off — you’re proud of him for figuring out how to do that, without dousing himself in ice water or boiling himself alive — and you realize, just then, that you have to get him fresh clothes.

“Hold on!” you call through the door.

You hurry into your room and find an old college t-shirt that you “borrowed” from your dad, along with a pair of pajama bottoms that are advertised as unisex but absolutely swim on you at the cuffs, so you hope they’re long enough for him. You knock on the bathroom door, and when it opens a crack, you hold out the clothes while carefully turning your head away. “Here,” you say. “These should fit.”

“Thank you,” he says, voice muffled by the door, and then he takes the clothes and the door shuts again. 

You perch on the couch in the living room, waiting for him. The bathroom door opens fully, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam, and you smile encouragingly as you see Billy standing in the doorway. The pants do indeed fit, although the t-shirt hangs on him a little. 

“What did you think?” you ask. “Of your first shower experience?”

Billy chuckles, coming to sit next to you on the couch. You’re so aware of his proximity that it makes the air between you sing. There’s something about the sight of him, freshly showered and smiling, seemingly more relaxed now, that makes you want to lean into him. 

“It was nice,” he says. “Warm.” 

You’ve lost count of how many times today that it’s happened, but once again, he takes your hand. 

“Thank you for takin’ care of me,” he says softly. “You’re a sweet girl. I’m glad I met you.”

Coming from anyone else, being called a sweet girl would make you feel like a toy poodle. But coming from Billy, in his warm, molasses-slow drawl, it just makes you feel warm, like you’re bathing in sunshine. 

“I’m glad, too,” you murmur.

It would be crazy to kiss him right now, right? You know the answer is yes. You know that. Still, ever since the moment his voice broke outside the police station, you’ve felt…protective over him. More than that, you’ve felt connected. It’s as if seeing him break down, even if it was only for a moment, in turn broke down something between the two of you. 

You remember that sensation when you first took his hand, as if a door had slammed solidly shut between this moment and the rest of your life, and you think maybe there wasn’t so much of a barrier up in the first place.

Billy touches your cheek with the very pads of his fingertips, as if he’s afraid that you’re a bubble that will burst from rough contact. “What the hell?” he says softly, and you laugh, because you know it’s not really a question you’re supposed to answer. “We just met today?”

You nod.

“And some way or another, I’ve traveled…” A pause while he does the math. “140-odd years in the future?”

You nod again. 

“Alright, then,” he says mildly, and he kisses you.

It feels like the world turns inside out from a point centered around the two of you, spiraling and twisting outward until it forms again, entirely new, bigger and grander, humming and buzzing like a live-wire. Your hands grasping his shoulders feel like the only reason you aren’t just floating away, and the way he grips your waist makes you think he feels the same. You press closer to him, his arms encircling you as he pulls you onto his lap.

A hoarse chuckle comes from somewhere around the fireplace. “You kids usually take longer than this.”

You jump out of your skin, and before you can blink, you find yourself sprawled on the couch cushions, Billy on his feet in front of you. One hand goes to his belt only to grasp at the air. He scowls and brandishes his fists instead, and then—

“Old Moss?”

You sit up. “You know this guy?”

An old man has his elbow propped on the mantelpiece, a tattered hat perched on his head. He’s shorter than Billy, stockier, but their clothes are much the same, along with the weathered tan on their faces. The old man, though, has a beard covering the lower half of his face, spilling over his chest like dirty cotton. 

“I…” Billy shakes his head, seemingly just as flummoxed — if not more — than he was before. “I knew him when I was a kid. He helped my family cross the country.”

The old man — Old Moss — chuckles. “I’m not Old Moss, son,” he says. “I took on this form to make you more comfortable. Otherwise you would have tried to wallop me, I bet, and that wouldn’t have been good for you.”

Billy stiffens, and he puts one arm behind him, to keep you behind him on the couch. “Who the hell are you, then?”

Old Moss (you don’t know what else to call him) shrugs. “A representative of the universe,” he says, waving his hand to underscore this grand sentiment. “My speciality is helpin’ lovers find each other in every lifetime.” 

A shiver dances down your spine. “Every lifetime?” you murmur.

“Oh, sure,” Old Moss says. “You two have found each other in every life since your souls first came into being.” He smiles crookedly. “Thanks to me. You’re welcome.”

Another grin creases his face. “This time, I thought I’d try things a little bit differently,” he says, shrugging. “I’ve never pulled one soul from a different point in time before. I wasn’t sure if it would work, to be honest with you.”

He grins again. “Judgin’ by the way you were treatin’ her face like an ice cream cone, though, I’m guessing it did.”

Despite yourself, you giggle. 

Out of the corner of his mouth, slanting a glance at you, Billy murmurs, “What’s a—?”

“I’ll get you one later. You’ll like it,” you assure him, and now you do stand next to him, patting him gently on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, though, you kiss better than that.”

Old Moss chuckles. “You guys got any questions before I go?”

You think for a second. “How many lives has it been?”

“Mmm…” The old man tugs on his beard thoughtfully. “I’d say this is your…I dunno, I lost track. Somewhere around 200, I think, maybe a little north of that.”

Your hand creeps into Billy’s, and he squeezes gently.

“And we loved each other in all of them?” you say.

Old Moss’s expression is almost unbearably kind. He nods. “All of them,” he says.

Billy’s shoulder presses against yours, and you feel the contact from the top of your head to the soles of your feet. Somehow, over 200 lifetimes of loving him doesn’t seem like a surprise. 

“An’ I…I get to stay here with her?” Billy says now. “I don’t gotta go back there?”

Buried in the snowy tangles of his beard, Old Moss’s mouth twitches. You can’t tell if it’s a smile, or if he’s trying to swallow tears. “Yeah, son,” he says. “You get to stay.”

Billy’s hand tightens around yours, as if he’s worried — despite Old Moss’s confirmation — that someone is going to take him away from you. You grip his hand tighter in turn. Like you’re going to let that happen.

You look over at Billy, and he turns his head to meet your gaze. You can see every one of those lifetimes in his eyes, caught in his gaze like snowflakes on his lashes, and you hope there’s going hundreds more, going on until the world itself ends. Nothing else will be enough. 

By the time you can turn your eyes away from him, Old Moss is gone. You look over at Billy again, and he grins at you. “I guess representatives of the universe favor Irish goodbyes.”

You grin back at him, winding your arms around his neck. “It seems like I’m stuck with you now,” you say, and he chuckles. 

“Seems so.”

He leans down to kiss you. The world turns inside out and spirals again — and again — and again — and…by the time it’s settled again, and Billy breaks the kiss, you think that you’d be happy if you spent this lifetime and each one to come just doing this.

“So…” Billy smiles crookedly. “About that ice cream cone?”

You laugh. There’s a thousand things to set him up with — how the hell does somebody get a Social Security number at twenty-something years old? — but you can figure that out later.

For now — 

“Let’s take you to get one,” you say. “And I’ll introduce you to the unbeatable combination of gummy bears and ice cream.”

“What are—?”

You laugh, taking his hand and rising onto your toes to peck his cheek. “Just trust me. You’ll love it.”