#adapting the idea along with others

[alien-mil]

Royal! AU based on a dream I had. I’m making Slugs still canon

Eli is a rouge runaway (AKA SURFACE) and he has been invited to join a community gathering in the castle gardens in the Kingdom of Orientem (it’s google translate for east) Eli has heard about this Kingdom since he was able to talk and so when he is casted out from his own home he sets off to the gathering.

Walking through the gardens Eli meets a Troll, they make conversation. Kord explains how he became a knight. He is know in the Kingdom to be born from the best Blacksmiths, Kord was meant to follow in the family’s footsteps but as he was in training a customer had been attacked, Kord had fought off the attacker and saved who he soon find out was the Prince. Kord wasn’t any normal Knight he was the Prince’s first hand Knight. Eli not picking up that if Kord was there so is the Prince (he is too interested in Kord’s Story) The two talk about Slugs, Eli ask questions about Kord’s home as Eli is a new comer, Kord does the same, Eli ask what’s brings Kord to the gardens and Kord is brought to a realisation he needs to change the guards. Saying he’ll see Eli later at the festival.

Eli realising the Garden is bigger than expected because he is no where near halfway, he meets a second person well Mole person but details. This Pronto was the greatest explorer and traveler there is to know. He’s been to all corners of their globe. Monologue after monologue, Eli is finding that he enjoys it for some reason. As Eli ask Pronto what brings him to the gardens Pronto explains how this is his second home, his family live in the 99 Kingdom and has no way to go back. He explains how he is meant to be inline for the next Molanoid throne but he finds no interest. Explaining once he’s done his adventures he will return to rule and hasn’t been back since. Eli finds sadness about the story but Pronto assures him everything has been taken care of which brightens the mood. With that Pronto declares he will help Eli see the most he can around the garden and enjoy it.

After making it to the halfway point with his new companion Eli admires the white cherry blossom trees. Walking around to the biggest of the trees admiring how, compared to the others, is a bright pink and then he bumps into someone. The person who was previously standing over Eli helping him up and now talking to him was Trixie. She was a local of the Kingdom, a noble but she hates the title because she has to talk to suitors at the Royal balls. Trixie was great to talk to, her and Pronto got on like firecrackers which was kind of terrifying to witness. As Eli and Pronto moved on from the trees, Trixie did too, saying she was third wheeling her friends and wanted to talk to someone not from Orientem. And so Eli talked, probably the most in his whole life with Trixie and Pronto. Pronto breaking into monologue, Trixie butting in the question if Pronto actually did those things. It was great, if only Kord joined him. Then Eli asked Trixie what she’s doing in the garden, apart from third wheeling, she replied saying she wanted to see the Cherry Blossoms again. As the event is a once every decade experience.

The two realised they were needed for total seperate meetings. Trixie said her friends are panicking about where she is, and Pronto says that an apprentice needs help with cartography, both Trixie and Pronto leave to the right of the garden seemingly a shortcut out. So Eli accepts these reasonings with nothing but gratitude and good nature and continues to wonder. The rest of the gardens trail was absolutely beautiful, all the colours seemed the best by the end of the trail and more vibrant. Eli not realising for several minutes that no one is along the trail anymore. Even before running into the others there had been plenty of people walking around. This garden is that big, but now it’s just Eli…

And a man in a white and gold robe who is standing under a purple wisteria tree. The tree is gorgeous but Eli’s attention was on the man. He was lean and seemed to have some muscle on him, not as much as Kord, his dark hair was long and flowing in the wind. His eyes where dark brown like Eli could lose himself with in the darkness within them. But his face was pearly and sharp, covered in kindness. Eli had never seen a man like him. He introduces himself as Junjie, Eli is familiar but he’s not sure where from. Junjie says he’s been looking forward to meeting Eli, asking about what he means Junjie explains that whoever comes through the garden has potential to become the prince’s suitor if he so chooses. Eli then goes on in absolute shock that he’s got no idea who he is. It’s then Junjie’s turn to continue explaining. The whole reason for the garden is to show beauty, and look for it, but not the physical beauty. Junjie explains yes Eli is attractive but he’s also kind and curious. He was able to make friends along he garden and still gave them gratitude when they left. Junjie tells how they will be able to learn each other and become friends but at the moment Eli is a suitor for Junjie if he so wishes.

Eli explains how he wants to be friends first, or at least be able to trust each other and Junjie agrees disappointed but will try since Eli is the only suitor he has liked and maybe gets to love.

[gingermintpepper]

In my Zeus bag today so I'm just gonna put it out there that exactly none of the great Ancient Greek warrior-heroes stayed loyal and faithful and completely monogamous and yet none of them have their greatness questioned nor do we question why they had the cultural prominence that they did and still do.

Jason, the brilliant leader of the Argo, got cold feet when it came to Medea - already put off by some of her magic and then exiled from his birthland because of her political ploys, he took Creusa to bed and fully intended on marrying her despite not properly dissolving things with Medea.

Theseus was a fierce warrior and an incredibly talented king but he had a horrible temper and was almost fatally weak to women. This is the man who got imprisoned in the Underworld for trying to get a friend laid, the man who started the whole Attic War because he couldn't keep his legs closed.

And we cannot at all forget Heracles for whom a not inconsiderable amount of his joy in life was loving people then losing the people around him that he loved. Wives, children, serving boys, mentors, Heracles had a list of lovers - male and female - long enough to rival some gods and even after completing his labours and coming down to the end of his life, he did not have one wife but three.

And y'know what, just because he's a cultural darling, I'll put Achilles up here too because that man was a Theseus type where he was fantastic at the thing he was born to do (that is, fight whereas Theseus' was to rule) but that was not enough to eclipse his horrid temper and his weakness to young pretty things. This is the man that killed two of Apollo's sons because they wouldn't let him hit - Tenes because he refused to let Achilles have his sister and Troilus who refused Achilles so vehemently that he ran into Apollo's temple to avoid him and still couldn't escape.

All four of these men are still celebrated as great heroes and men. All four of these men are given the dignity of nuance, of having their flaws treated as just that, flaws which enrich their character and can be used to discuss the wider cultural point of what truly makes a hero heroic. All four of these men still have their legacies respected.

Why can that same mindset not be applied to Zeus? Zeus, who was a warrior-king raised in seclusion apart from his family. Zeus who must have learned to embrace the violence of thunder for every time he cried as a babe, the Corybantes would bang their shields to hide the sound. Zeus learned to be great because being good would not see the universe's affairs in its order.

The wonderful thing about sympathy is that we never run out of it. There's no rule stopping us from being sympathetic to multiple plights at once, there's no law that necessitate things always exist on the good-evil binary. Yes, Zeus sentenced Prometheus to sufferation in Tartarus for what (to us) seems like a cruel reason. Prometheus only wanted to help humans! But when you think about Prometheus' actions from a king's perspective, the narrative is completely different: Prometheus stole divine knowledge and gifted it to humans after Zeus explicitly told him not to. And this was after Prometheus cheated all the gods out of a huge portion of wealth by having humans keep the best part of a sacrifice's meat while the gods must delight themselves with bones, fat and skin. Yes, Zeus gave Persephone away to Hades without consulting Demeter but what king consults a woman who is not his wife about the arrangement of his daughter's marriage to another king? Yes, Zeus breaks the marriage vows he set with Hera despite his love of her but what is the Master of Fate if not its staunchest slave?

The nuance is there. Even in his most bizarre actions, the nuance and logic and reason is there. The Ancient Greeks weren't a daft people, they worshipped Zeus as their primary god for a reason and they did not associate him with half the vices modern audiences take issue with. Zeus was a father, a visitor, a protector, a fair judge of character, a guide for the lost, the arbiter of revenge for those that had been wronged, a pillar of strength for those who needed it and a shield to protect those who made their home among the biting snakes. His children were reflections of him, extensions of his will who acted both as his mercy and as his retribution, his brothers and sisters deferred to him because he was wise as well as powerful. Zeus didn't become king by accident and it is a damn shame he does not get more respect.

[sleepyorchidmonster]

In light of recent developments in twst's story chapters (A.K.A. Book 7.5 WTF) I've decided to finally talk about some ideas for Book 8 that had been plaguing my mind since march😅...

The main idea is how, after Book 7, both Idia and Ortho tried to understand how the hell NRC students managed to defeat 7 OVERBLOTS with ZERO casualties (almost, but Lillia got better), and yet they still haven't managed to beat RSA.

The answer? DORMS.

You see, while NRC is know for its competitive students who can't seem to get along, let alone exist in the same room without starting a fight, there is a sense of camaraderie present in the dorms, the "I'd go to hell for you, but I wish you'd stop going there you IDIOT" type of camaraderie, that is.

I mean, the main reason the dream segment went so well was because they went by dorm order, like, can you imagine if the dream team started the Heartslabyul chapter with Riddle's dream? Aside from whatever Grim and Yuu could tell the others, they wouldn't even know Riddle basically erased his entire life...

Anyway, now that they established this point, they just have to use it for the Interschool Spelldrive team. Which leads to a team comprised of the overblotters (we're praying that their shared experience as overblot victims, dormleaders and whatever they managed to glean from Book 7 will be enough), and a NRC Tribe 2: Overblot Edition.

And that's how Book 8 would include two main plots, with the A plot following Yuu and the first years investigating the mirror, Mickey and the Overblots, and the B plot following the shenanigans of the overblotters and Grim (yes, this would be the first Book that separates Grim and Yuu, assuming Grim will overblot, we need to tackle his abandonment issues).

[sweetevoltrap]

Sylus reclaiming Little Bomb as a teasing nickname...

[frozenartscapes]

What crossover do you think would be the coolest/funniest/saddest for FE3H? ATLA? Sailor Moon? Etc.?

So... This may not be what you're thinking, but I recently had an AU idea (that I probably won't write but I just want to share). Having recently watched the Wild Robot, I had a thought:

Hegemon Edelgard as Roz

Ok, so the story would have to change a fair bit, but essentially, following the events of Azure Moon, it is revealed that Edelgard survived and escaped into the forests of Adrestia. She's not completely transformed - think her more human form in Heroes - and she has to come to terms with this. This transformation has not only altered her body, but she now has new abilities she needs to learn. On top of trying to survive in the wilderness, she also has to process the fact that everyone she knows and ever cared for is dead.

She's alone, in the wild.

Being half beast allows her to understand the other animals, however none of them are especially welcoming to her at first (and she isn't either). On top of that, she has new instincts she needs to fight and is completely lost on what her new motivation should be. (Which is a problem in itself because Edelgard's primary coping mechanism for all of the trauma she's faced in the past is to double down on a big goal - something to keep her mind occupied so she doesn't run the risk of thinking too hard about just how much her heart actually hurts. The old "if I stop and think about this for more than two seconds I'll go insane" trope.)

Then, through a series of events involving having to defend herself from an angry demonic wolf and haphazardly thrown fireballs, she hits an eagle nest. To her horror, she discovers the family has all died - except for a single egg. To stop herself from becoming completely consumed by guilt, she decides to take care of the egg. It hatches soon after, and taking care of an egg turns into taking care of the chick inside.

She meets other animals and forms bonds with them along the way. A solitary raven she saves from a trap, who decides he is in eternal debt to her. A songbird who offers the most advice in how to raise a baby bird. A stag who is always trying to challenge her at first, until he realizes she makes a better friend than competition. A wolf who teaches her how to properly hunt and fend for herself in the wild. A mouse whose kindness outweighs her terror to show comfort to Edelgard when she was obviously on the verge of a breakdown. A badger who takes it upon himself to fight off any predators who may try to harm them, no matter the size difference. A possum who, despite seeming rather lazy, offers a lot of advice about foraging techniques and building comfortable habitats.

It is revealed that the eagle would have been the runt and likely would have died had nature been allowed to take its course. There is still tension when she learns just how her family died, but she realizes that Edelgard did everything possible to make up for it.

Along the way, Edelgard becomes more and more in tune with her wild side, and starts to learn more about what the Hegemon can really do. She can give herself wings, and she and the eagle learn to fly at the same time. Her claws she once thought monstrous now protect the things she cares about. She incorporates her tail into fighting. She uses magic now - magic that is wilder than anything she learned in school and allows her to feel more in touch with the forest. It isn't long before she feels more at home in the woods than she ever did in civilization, and she is happy to let this life be her new one forever.

Until the Agarthans learn she's still alive.

Dimitri and Byleth might have killed Thales, but a new leader took his place and succeeded in evading the King's attempts to snuff them out. Once the Agarthans learned that one of their most powerful weapons was still alive, they tracked her down and captured her (not without a fight, mind you). It then falls on her animal companions to stage a rescue mission, led by the eagle Edelgard saved, who rallies not just the main animals but many of the forest inhabitants as well.

The Agarthans tried to force Edelgard to obey them, going so far as to push her transformation to what Thales had originally envisioned for the Hegemon Husk (I always thought the Hegie we get in the game was still a transition stage, and that the true form of the Hegemon Husk would be like a twisted version of the Immaculate One - or an approximation of what Sothis' dragon form would look like). The eagle finds her while the others are stalling, and thanks to the Power of Love, snaps Edelgard out of her rage state. She then turns on the Agarthans, and succeeds in wiping them out. However, as she kills the leader, he wheezes out that there will always be more, and they won't stop until they have their weapon.

The animals celebrate their victory, but Edelgard can't get the Agarthan's words out of her head. Their forest home sustained heavy damage in the attack, and a number of animals died. Even amongst her main group, the stag had suffered a close call while charging an enemy mage, the badger broke his leg, and the wolf has a permanent scar across her eye. She makes a decision, then.

King Dimitri is in his castle in Faerghus, busy trying to work out a peace deal between Fódlan and Almyra. Suddenly a guard bursts into his study, stating hurriedly that there's some strange forest witch demanding to see the king. Dimitri, exhausted by paperwork, decides to humour this and heads for the audience chamber.

That's when he comes face to face with a ghost - or maybe demon. She wears an old, torn cloak covered in moss and a dress that looks to have come from the forest floor itself. The tips of golden horns peak through the hood of her cloak. A black eagle sits on her shoulder. She offers a cordial bow, revealing hands armed with obsidian claws. "Dimitri," she says in a voice he has heard countless times in his nightmares, "It has been a long time."

"...Edelgard?" he breathes. Goddess... What has become of her?

Edelgard smiled, revealing a glimpse of her fangs. "I come to you today with a proposition," she stated, "How do you feel about finally ridding the shadows of Fódlan of the wretched snakes that dwell there?"

[rozyrne]

　✱ .　𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧　/　drabble

after the jana danced, there usually wasn't much left over.

in the stories that would get told by the elders while the spinning wheels spun, the jana danced for all kinds of reasons. celebration, tragedy, vengeance, love——it wasn't anything ritual, and wasn't any sort of big deal either. at least, not to jana who were dancing themselves.

when the jana danced, the rest of the world buckled and heaved, as the lifeblood that ran through all the ground would slosh and churn. quiet shores would turn violent, and the richest rapids would dry up. whole village wells would be caved in, buried with dirt so packed that there was no hope of rescue ; towns would be swallowed by the sea overnight ; and whole maps would have to be redrawn as floods toppled forests, carved new mountains, and buried plains under a new lakebed. as little kids, they'd giggle and clap at the stories because, obviously, all that was being done out there and felt magical. nobody thought twice about it.

naturally, when the first people of the village were blessed by the jana's protection and changed by them, they learned their dances too. rivers overflowed their banks, and streams turned to deep gorge valleys.

eventually, after the people of the village danced, there wasn't much left over either. but because they didn't have the jana's powers, honey became their water, and milk their frothing foam. it flowed freely in the streets, braiding its own creeks and tributaries in heady sweetness that drugged the senses, never running out, always overturning——with the barrels, with the troughs ; and the villagers' flowing hair tossed like the manes of wild horses, crashing wavetips onto the cliffs ; and the drums and the cackle of castanets beating their hearts into a storm. tempest, higher, higher——gold, and white, and the red, red wine.

most of the time, they'd come down off the frenzy by morning, sipping dewdrops from the first dawn off the leaves as they counted the casualties of any animal unfortunate enough to get in the way and talked about release. it was out of them for now, a surfeiting satisfied. sometimes, it builds up and up and up in the body, in the soul, and there's no other way for it to go but out. sallu, they called it, which meant ' health ' or could also be ' spirit ' or ' energy ' but which had no matching word in the language spoken outside of the village.

sallu, as in——look at him today, he's full of sallu, when someone was going crazy, weaving ten whole baskets in a day ;

sallu, as in——when someone from outside finds the village in the mountains, professing their love, and when they don't take ' no ' well because their costs are too sunk to give up, so if they can't get what they want, then they'll take and take and an indescribable feeling builds up and the people watching it happen can't be said to be their normal selves anymore ; sallu——

as in when you hear that your best friend, the one who matters more than anything, is the princess of the nation and is being called away to war, and her life, your life, here is over.

sallu.

he's tried explaining it once, maybe twice since leaving the village. but like most things about how he is and what he knows, it was met with strange looks and cold, uncomfortable silences. the nicer people just didn't say anything and put a distance between them. others felt the need to speak their minds. "that's messed up.", "i don't think i can get it."

it's what i know. it's just my culture. but there's no beauty in their understanding ; it's full of claws and sharp stones. "that's not an excuse to go out of control, and hurt other things or people."

they tell him, not out loud but in the silent way that impression works itself under the skin over time, to unlearn. but already it's something dying ; already it's something colonized by the way people believe ; and by those invisible hands, it's taken apart and buried, a bloodless violence that begins with the lack of a word for it, with not being understood when he speaks. it doesn't belong here like it does in the mountains of elusia's far, far north, where the snow and the melt smell different. sallu. a feeling that doesn't exist. a collective emotion, intensely contagious, owned by everyone and known by everyone in a society where every experience is shared.

already, he knows that he feels it less these days, like everything else about the village that's gone out of touch. is this what it means to forget who you were, bit by bit?

and if so, does that mean he's more likeable by everyone else, bit by bit?

trading one dance for something else. just like the jana did a long time ago, too, to survive——trading the self for something more human.

rosado masters dancer.

[thenervebible]

CONNIE PANZARINO at a pride march in Boston circa 1990

[ID: Connie is marching along in her sip 'n' puff (SNP) wheelchair. She is wearing a patterned poncho and sporting a green felt party crown on her head. She styles a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with her slicked back hair. She is smiling. Attached to the back of her wheelchair is a large green cardboard poster that reads "Trached Dykes Eat Pussy Without Comin' Up For Air!" followed by a pink upside-down triangle with a stick figure person in a wheelchair at the centre (a symbol for disabled women)].

the cyborg & the crip by Alison Kafer

[ID: “Trached dykes eat pussy without coming up for air.” Connie Panzarino, a longtime disability activist and out lesbian, would attach this sign to her wheelchair during Pride marches in Boston in the early 1990s. Shockingly explicit, her sign refuses to cast technology as cold, distancing, or disembodied/disembodying, presenting it instead as a source and site of embodied pleasure. “Trach” is an abbreviation of tracheotomy, a medical procedure in which a breathing tube is inserted directly into the trachea, bypassing the mouth and nose. Someone with a trach, then, can, in effect, breathe through her throat, freeing her mouth for other activities (another version of this sign is “Trached dykes french kiss without coming up for air”). From a cyborgian perspective, this sign is brilliantly provocative and productive. It draws on the pervasive idea that adaptive technologies grant superior abilities,not merely replacing a lost capacity but enhancing it, yet it does so in a highly subversive way. The message here isn’t about blending in, about passing as normal or hypernormal, but about publicly announcing the viability of a queer disabled location. It’s disnormalizing, adamantly refusing compulsory heterosexuality, compulsory able bodiedness, and homonormativity. As Corbett O’Toole argues, it challenges the perceived passivity of disabled women, presenting them as actively pleasuring their partners, thereby graphically refuting stereotypes linking physical disability with nonsexuality.]

[lay-z]

inamorata | 1

Summary: Two retired veterans decide to adopt a domestic hybrid on a whim to bring some much needed light back into their dire lives.

Pairing: hybrid!Ghoap x fem!hybrid!Reader Warnings/Info: 18+ | Hybrid AU ft. black panther!Simon, grey wolf hybrid!Johnny, and maine coon cat!Reader. Despite ears, tails/feathers, and their adapted nature/instincts and personalities, hybrids have human features. | strangers to lovers; class differences; fantasy/fictional setting racism; hurt/comfort; humour; eventual heavy smut; dom/sub elements; fluff; cussing; angst (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

Based on this idea 🖤

There is an atmosphere of departure around the common hazel just outside the fenced backyard.  

The pair of robins has found their ideal nesting spot in between the high branches of the early blossoming tree after days of scouting the pretty territory. As early as January they start to sprout, Nana had explained to you once, and it’s February now. While other trees around are still leafless and recovering from winter, the common hazel is turning colourful; working hard and earnest to change the lifeless scenery with its tiny deep green leaves and pale-yellow catkins hanging from the branches. 

And joining its effort, the common birds of the area are starting to build their nests, looking forward to spring with natural optimism; stacking sticks and stones and moss to build a home in harmonic teamwork. A home for their offspring to hatch and grow; hidden and protected from predators.  

A breeze makes the thinner branches and catkins sway while the reddish birds huddle together, seeking shelter in a notch of the trunk, puffing their plumage for warmth. Out of a hole at the base of the trunk, a hare pokes its head out, large ears perked. 

You wonder what the hare must’ve heard. You wonder if the breeze is cold, if it would nip at your exposed face and make your furry ears bristle. You wonder if the air smells fresh, perhaps flowery, though definitely exhilarating. And you wonder how the robins sound, if their lovely chirps would make your heart flutter with happiness and longing for more. 

Exhaling a soft, discouraged sigh, you continue to gaze out of the meagre overhead window, curled up on the metallic windowsill high up off the ground of your tiny enclosure; chin resting on your forearm while you clutch your long and cottony, golden tail to your chest, petting it self-soothingly while you try to get lost in your daydreams; drowning out the awful ambient noise of the hybrid shelter along with your terribly empty stomach and grief stricken heart. 

It’s gotten even more crowded after Christmas, now that given away hybrids have been returned to shelters, to the illegal breeders they were bought from, or simply dumped into the streets and on highways before they were snared and detained by the regulatory agency for homeless hybrids–the RAHH. Although the only “homeless” hybrids always only happen to be domestic. The lesser species, meant to serve and obey. 

The other female cat hybrid in this enclosure has been taken to the vet last night after her water broke, leaving you with the luxury to be alone in the tiny space, along with the puddle of amniotic fluids that no one has bothered to clean up yet, so you simply had to let it dry by itself as you lack any towels or blankets to spare for a proper cleanup, though the smell isn't half as bad as the general stench of this wretched place, and to your own horror, you’ve noticed that you’re starting to reek, too. Then again, you can only groom yourself limitedly without a clean source of water and a piece of soap.  

Then, a particularly loud wail from one of the younger dog hybrids in a kennel close by disturbs your thoughts, makes you flinch, and your fuzzy ears flatten anxiously as you peek over your shoulder just in time to watch one of the shelter workers unlock the gate to your enclosure. 

Your ears perk up again, tail twitching hopefully in your grasp as your eyes flicker to her–empty hands. No food. It’s been three days. Your stomach clenches and a wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm you at the prospect of going another day without a meal before something else catches your attention, something way more surprising–two large apex hybrids standing behind the worker, both oozing power and dominance. 

The shelter worker, a stern-looking woman with a tight bun and a clipboard, sighs impatiently as she spots you hiding higher up on the windowsill again. She's used to the skittishness and fear in the domestic hybrids under her care, but your avoidant and clever behaviour is getting on her nerves. Turning to the two apex hybrids, she gestures towards you. 

“This one seems fairly docile and well-behaved. A purebred cat hybrid, female, late 20 or early 30s, we’re not sure. She's healthy and not... uncooperative like some of the others, and it seems like she’s still a virgin.” The worker says, her voice devoid of any real concern or compassion. 

Your eyes widen slowly as the wolf hybrid enters your enclosure confidently, uncaring of the still drying puddle on the concrete floor. His bright gaze is fixated on you, neck craned to meet your fearful gaze with what you can only describe as a cheeky grin; his long grey tail swishes behind him slowly while you get lost in the cerulean colour of his eyes. Bright like the sky, promising freedom. His haircut looks funny. 

“Well, well, well... aren’t ye a bonnie wee thing,” he purrs, his Scottish brogue rumbling through his friendly words. His tail starts to wag as you shift your position, turning around fully and releasing your grasp on your tail to bend over the windowsill to get a better view. Your tail uncurls and stands up straight, its fluffy tip crooking like a question mark–showcasing your curiosity. Your nose twitches as you take a tentative sniff and catch the pleasant cologne on his tanned skin, mixed with his natural musk. 

The other apex hybrid, a massive feline missing half an ear and wearing a black surgical mask, watches the exchange with a guarded expression. His dark tawny eyes, visible above the rim of his mask, are calculating as he assesses you. He takes a step closer and enters the enclosure as well, his broad shoulders and muscular build now crowding the small space while the shelter worker steps out into the corridor. 

“She’s feckin’ gorgeous, Simon,” the wolf hybrid says in awe, his eyes crinkling with mirth as he nudges the other one with his elbow while you duck your head at the compliment, a flush rising to your cheeks. “Looks jus’ like the pic on the website.” 

Simon glances up at you appraisingly; eyes gauging your body language while you tilt your head at the way he wears his sleek black tail tucked around his waist like a belt, still wondering what kind of hybrid he is.  

“Aye, she’s... a vision, and calm, too,” Simon agrees, and his voice catches you off guard–low and gravelly, bordering on a deep, soothing purr that leaves your fur bristling pleasantly. They’re both nice to look at. Strong. He glances over his shoulder at the shelter worker, who’s tapping her foot on the ground impatiently, clutching the clipboard to her chest. “This one will do. We’ll take ‘er.”  

Your breath hitches and your heartrate increases swiftly while your doe-eyes flicker between the apex predators, not quite processing what this means, though the wolf hybrid’s tail wags as he reaches a meaty hand out to you encouragingly. “Ye think it’ll work on her, Si? It certainly doesnae with ye,” he chuckles boyishly before flashing you a charming smile. “C’mon, bon–pspspspspspsps–” 

You tut, brows furrowing at the blatant insult before you glance at the other one, Simon, who simply shakes his head slowly, muttering: “Fuckin’ hell, Johnny.” There is no doubt he’s some sort of feline.  

Meanwhile, the shelter worker nods and makes a checkmark on her clipboard. “Very well, gentlemen. I’ll have her things and the necessary paperwork ready at the front desk in a minute.” 

“You’re... serious? You–You want me?” you ask in disbelief. It cannot be that easy. It cannot be that simple. And they cannot be serious about this. Your stomach growls as you push yourself up on the windowsill, waiting for confirmation while your tail flicks nervously. 

Johnny beams and reaches into the pocket of his hoodie, retrieving a bundle of black leather along with what looks like a chocolate bar. “Ye heard what Simon said, didn’t ye? Hard ta believe those pretty ears are deaf,” he snickers, fumbling with the items before holding a collar and candy up for you to see. A friendly offering, a mouth-watering temptation. You swallow hard and move to climb down from your safe haven, drawn in by the prospect of food, of getting out of this hellhole.

Behind him, Simon clasps a hand over Johnny’s shoulder, squeezing it some and making the shorter man’s tail wag again as dark eyes look up at you expectantly. “Come on down now, sweet’eart. Let’s get you home.” 

[luna-azzurra]

Ideas to Get Rid of Writer's Block Inspo

Have a character uncover a family secret that changes everything. Write about how this revelation affects their relationships and choices.

Force two characters who dislike each other to team up for a common goal. Explore how their dynamic changes over time.

Introduce a flashback that explains a character’s motivation. This can provide depth and context to their current actions.

Reveal that a character has been on a secret mission all along. How do the others react when they find out?

Introduce a mystery illness that affects one of your main characters. Explore the emotional and physical toll it takes.

Allow a character to travel back in time to a pivotal moment in their life. Do they change anything? What are the repercussions?

Develop a story around two characters who fall in love but are from feuding families or groups. How do they navigate their relationship?

Have an unlikely character step up as the hero in a crisis. What drives them to take this role?

Create a plot around a valuable object that goes missing. Who took it, and why is it important?

Introduce a character haunted by their past mistakes. How do they seek redemption or closure?

Write a chapter from a different character’s point of view. How does this shift change the story?

Have a character from the past show up unexpectedly. What do they want, and how does their presence impact the story?

Incorporate a vivid dream or nightmare that provides insight into a character’s fears or desires.

Move the story to a completely new location. How do the characters adapt to their new environment?

[flowersforjude]

𝐓𝐨 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Azriel x Fem Archeron!Reader

����𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | In your struggle to adapt to your new existence, the Night Court's shadowsinger takes it upon himself to offer his quiet comfort.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 2,537

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Mentions of reader in the Cauldron, Anxiety, Depersonalization, Sweet Az, Fluff, Emotional hurt/comfort, Hints at reader and Az being mates. 

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | I’m only half way through the 2nd book so I apologize for any mistakes or inaccuracies. I have a pretty good idea of what happens in the rest of the series, I just haven’t read it yet. Azriel is quickly becoming a favorite, though, so I just had to write something for him. He might be a bit ooc.

masterlist | part two

It was the twilight hour at the House of Wind. The atmosphere was dense and strangling, a tension sitting in the air so turbulent one wrong breath could shatter the carefully constructed peace. Azriel and Cassian certainly had their hands full. Neither of the males able to dispel the strain. Rhysand was sequestered away you knew not where, leaving his brothers with the responsibility of navigating the fractured states of you and your sisters.

You sat near the window of your room, your hands curled tightly in your lap, trying to ignore the suffocating weight of everything you couldn’t fix. Couldn’t feel. Couldn’t understand.

Nesta’s sharp voice echoed faintly down the corridor, cutting through the heavy silence that pressed on your ears. Elain’s quiet sorrow was just as palpable, an ache that you didn’t have the strength to soothe, even if you wanted to. 

And you? You were drowning. Over and over again, feeling your humanity being ripped from you. Clawed away and shredded into the withering pain that tore across your skin. Never able to take in an easy breath because each intake of air felt like the Cauldron’s scorching water was invading your lungs. It turned to lead inside you, dragging you down down down into the blackened depths. 

You had come out transformed into someone, something, you didn’t recognize. You were fragmented, frayed, and whatever pieces were left of you no longer seemed to fit. 

The knock at your door startled you, a soft sound, almost hesitant, like whoever stood on the other side wasn’t sure they were welcome. You didn’t respond aloud—what would you say?—but something about the silence must have been answer enough because the door creaked open.

It was Azriel.

Of course, it was him. He always seemed to know when to appear, not with the smooth certainty of someone who could fix everything, but with the quiet persistence of someone who couldn’t walk away. His presence made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t understand, a weight and a warmth all at once.

He carried a tray of food, though his hands, so steady normally, looked almost awkward now. His shadows trailed at his feet, curling along the floor like restless whispers, and for a moment, you wondered if they’d been listening to you earlier. To the broken sounds you hadn’t meant for anyone to hear. Was that why he was here now?

“How are you feeling?” He asked, his voice low, rough, like the question cost him something to ask.

You blinked at him, unsure how to respond. How were you feeling? Empty? Heavy? Nothing and everything all at once? You wanted to laugh at the absurdity of such a simple question when the answer was anything but. Instead, you shrugged, the motion barely more than a flicker of movement.

Azriel shifted, the tray now resting on the table beside you. He flexed his hands at his sides as if he didn't know what to do with them now. His large wings were folded low at his back like he was attempting to make them less noticeable.

Is he doing that for me? To not…frighten me, perhaps?

He didn’t sit, didn’t move closer, but his presence filled the room, steady and quiet and infuriatingly unshakable. His gaze lingered on you for just a moment too long before he looked away, his jaw tightening.

You shifted in place on the window seat, folding your hands in your lap to keep from picking at the skin around your nails. It was a nervous habit you'd had all your human life, and it seemed to have followed you into your new fae existence. To be frank, the habit had gotten worse since your ordeal in the Cauldron. You were antsy, jumpy, and nervous all the time now. 

"I'm fine." You finally said in a small whisper. You felt the embarrassment creep in as you spoke. It was only two words, but it felt like it was more than you'd spoken at all since you were shoved into that dreadful, life-altering vessel. Your voice wasn't as strong as it used to be; you weren’t as strong as you used to be. Not even with your newfound abilities. Sure, you were more graceful than before, your now pointed ears could hear a bit better than before, and your skin seemed to shine like starlight, but you couldn't shake the feeling that you were a great deal more fragile now.

Especially when Azriel stood before you. The Illyrian male was the very definition of strength. You couldn't fathom why he was here right now, checking on you. But some deep, deep part of you, a part that felt as if it hadn't been there before the Cauldron, was practically beaming at his presence. It warmed inside you and sang into your mind, telling you to reach out for him. That even brushing briefly against his tanned skin would bring you lifetimes of comfort. It was absurd.

You really are losing your mind.

Azriel shifted, the gentle scrape of his boots against the floor pulling you from the spiraling thoughts threatening to consume you. His wings twitched, an almost imperceptible movement, but you caught it. You’d noticed that before, how you were always so aware of his every movement. You caught everything he did, each subtle sound and flicker of motion. It was overwhelming sometimes, this heightened awareness of him. Yet another thing you didn’t understand.

He cleared his throat softly, drawing your gaze back to him. “You don’t have to say you’re fine,” he murmured, his voice a blend of rough honesty and something more delicate, something that felt like understanding. “You don’t have to say anything at all.”

The warmth in your chest flared again, unbidden and unrelenting. You swallowed against it, against the strange pull that seemed to tether you to him, as if some invisible thread had bound itself around your heart and was now tugging mercilessly. It was maddening. You didn’t want to feel this way—this need, this want for something you couldn’t even name.

Azriel’s words settled in the room like a fragile thread, the kind that could snap with just the breath of the wrong response. He didn’t move, didn’t look at you fully, but you felt his focus anyway, sharp and unwavering. His presence was a steady hum in the background of your awareness, grounding and yet deeply unsettling at the same time.

“I…” you started, the sound so faint it barely carried between you. Your throat felt tight as if you were drowning all over again, your words caught somewhere between your chest and lips. You wanted to speak, to tell him something, anything, to fill the suffocating silence. But you didn’t know what to say. The pieces of yourself that once knew how to converse, how to be normal, felt like they had dissolved into the Cauldron’s depths, leaving you raw and exposed.

He didn’t push. He simply waited, patient as ever, his shadows coiling and shifting in the corners of the room like uneasy sentinels. They didn’t feel intrusive, strangely enough. If anything, they were like him—watchful, protective, and respectful of boundaries you couldn’t yet define.

Finally, you managed to meet his gaze, though it felt like an act of courage to do so. “I don’t know how to feel…or how to be anymore,” you admitted, the words tumbling out in a quiet, cracked rush. You hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t planned on baring even this sliver of yourself to him, but it was the truth. And something about him, about the calm compassion in his eyes, made it impossible not to say.

His expression didn’t change, not noticeably, but something about the set of his shoulders eased. “You’re hurting,” he said gently, as if he’d been expecting your answer all along. “And that is alright.”

The simplicity of his statement made your chest ache, an ache that felt strangely like relief. You turned your gaze back to your lap, your fingers twitching against one another as you fought the urge to fidget further. “It’s just…everything feels wrong,” you confessed. “Like I’m still in there, like I’m still falling, and I’ll never hit the ground.”

You felt him stiffen at your disparaging words. Saw his shadows twist the least bit closer to you, as if even they wanted to offer you some sort of solace. His voice came soft and steady, like the first breeze after a storm. “I’ve felt that way before,” he admitted, the vulnerability in his tone striking like a sudden chord in the quiet. “Like I’d been untethered, and there was no ground left to find.”

His raw honesty caught you off guard, forcing you to search for his gaze again. Nothing could have prepared you for the earnestness you not only saw in his eyes, but it also dripped from him like water. You couldn’t picture Azriel being anything but sure and unyielding. But in the same moment, you felt beholden to him for sharing such a piece of himself just to comfort you. 

The continuous tightness in your lungs lessened just a fraction, enough to allow you to take your first easy breath in weeks. “Does it ever go away?”

“Not entirely,” he said almost regretfully. Your heart sank a bit, but before you could fall completely into despair, he added, “But it does get easier.

Your words left you once more, your mind reeling with the idea of fighting this for the rest of your life. A life that would now be centuries long.

It was no surprise that he caught the shudder of dejection that crossed your face. His shadows curled closer to you like a soothing veil of darkness. Their movement was almost hypnotic, easing in the strange way you’d begun to associate with them. Azriel’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on you in a watchful manner. He glanced at the open cushion beside you. “May I?” he asked softly, his voice low and warm, though it carried an edge of uncertainty like he wasn’t sure if he was overstepping some invisible line. 

You didn’t even have to think about it before you were nodding. “Of course,” you murmured, trying not to sound too eager.

Azriel moved carefully, lowering himself onto the seat next to you. The space was narrow, and you became acutely aware of how close he was—his knee brushing lightly against yours, the faint scent of cedar and night air surrounding him. You tried to focus on your hands folded tightly in your lap, but the warmth radiating from him was impossible to ignore.

“It won’t always feel like this,” he said gently, his voice hushed and certain. “The weight you’re carrying—it changes. It becomes something you can hold, something you can live with. You’ll find your footing again.”

The conviction in his words floated to you like a lifeline. The way he looked at you, soothing and steadfast, made you feel like you had no choice but to believe him. You nodded more to yourself than to him. Silence settled in the room again, but with him beside you, it felt easier to endure than before. For the first time you didn’t feel the need to fill the quiet with something. It was simply enough to sit there with him and let his company anchor you. 

The wisp of something against your arm pulled your attention. The faint brush on your arm was barely noticeable at first, like the lightest touch of silk on your skin. When you glance down, one of Azriel’s shadows glides towards you, curious and tentative. It swirls near your wrist, its edges soft and flickering like the flame of a candle, before retreating as if it was testing the waters. 

You laughed slightly. “Do they always do that?” You asked softly, unable to keep the awe from your voice. The shadow seemed almost alive, sentient in a way that both mesmerized and unsettled you.

Azriel followed your gaze to the shadow, his expression lightened in a way you hadn’t expected. “Not always.” He divulged, his tone carrying something akin to fondness. “They’re curious about you.”

You tilted your head at him, your brows furrowing. “Me?”

“They’re drawn to certain people,” he explained, his voice low and even, as though sharing a closely guarded secret. “They can sense things others can’t.”

The shadow flickered closer again, this time brushing along your hand in a more eager manner. You couldn’t help but smile faintly, the sensation strangely soothing. “They’re not what I expected,” you said, your voice still so as to not scare the shadow.

Azriel tilted his head slightly, his eyes seeming to search you for something. “What did you expect?”

“I’m not sure.” You confessed, glancing at him. “Something harsher maybe.”

“They can be,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “When they need to be.”

You looked at him fully then, the true meaning behind his words sparking comprehension in your mind. There was a deeper depth to his shadows, a duality that mirrored their master. You wondered if he’d been born with them. If he had grown with them. Or if they had been birthed from pain, from the darkness he carried with him that hadn’t always been there. “They feel safe.” The words slipped out before you could think them through. 

Azriel’s eyes glimmered with something you couldn’t quite name, some sort of longing. “They’re meant to be,” he said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. You could hear the unspoken words he didn’t say, though. He was holding something back. 

The space between you seemed to get smaller and smaller, his warmth wrapping around you like a second skin. You became dangerously aware of how close you were—of the brush of his knee against yours, the way his wings shifted slightly behind him, almost grazing your shoulder. Your cheeks flushed, and you looked down, suddenly self-conscious.

Azriel took note; of course he did. His eyes lingered on you, his expression bordering on hunger. But it was gone and replaced by neutrality as soon as it came. Though, you could still feel the weight of his attention. His shadows danced along your wrist again, and you wondered if they could sense the fluttering beat of your pulse. 

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said, his voice rougher now, tinged with something that almost sounded like desperation. 

“You didn’t,” you replied quickly, your voice shaky but earnest.

The moment lingered between you, fragile yet thrumming with something so strong. The potency of it forces you to grapple with everything you felt for him. His shadows swirled around you softly, their movements calmer now, almost languid. You thought he might say something, that the weight in his expression would finally take shape in words, but he didn’t. Instead, he shifted ever so slightly, his arm brushing yours. You leaned into him and felt that warmth in your chest thrill at the closeness.

Something unknown, something that could wait to be explored, hummed between you. And you didn’t realize it right away, but the Cauldron’s waters felt farther away than they had in weeks.

Kind of playing with an idea for a part two with some moments leading up to them finding out they're mates.

[deikshen]

Shen Qingqiu may know a lot about PIDW, monsters, the plot and papapa plot devices, but, traditional ancient music? Are they seriously going to ask him to learn all those old songs in addition to trying to save his ass from a horrible death?

So, in guqin classes with his students, Shen Qingqiu decides that it is not bad to teach them adaptations of modern music. Nothing crazy. Popular stuff, something classic Queen like exaggerations. He doesn't sing in English, but the music has this magnetic thing that can make a few of his disciples hum along, and it feels like they know the lyrics. Shen Qingqiu enjoys it very much.

Luo Binghe is the only one who actually hears him sing it. With English lyrics included. Of course, Luo Binghe has no idea what it means, but that doesn't mean he can't imitate it! So he's singing softly while washing some robes, enjoying Shizun's musical gift to him, when he hears someone stumble.

That someone turns out to be Shang Qinghua, the An Ding Peak Lord, who stands up from the ground with wide eyes. Luo Binghe interrupts his song, looking at him in confusion, when Shang-shishu... run at him?!

"Bro" Shang-shishu says, in a casual and unpleasant manner, with an expression on his face that Luo Binghe had never seen before, "What the fuck. What the fuck. Queen? Somebody to love? Are you kidding me? How did you get the Protagonist!?"

... and Shang Qinghua begins to speak.

Luo Binghe is sixteen years old, and at this point in his life, he is intelligent, manipulative, and able to handle the situations around him with cunning. So, he manages to keep a conversation going with Shang Qinghua by repeating strange words that he doesn't understand the meaning of, letting the man talk and say things like, Transmigrator? System? Username? How many years has he been there? How did he get the "Scum Villain" to treat him well? Is he preparing for the "Endless Abyss"? Since apparently, that thing, System, had told him that it was an "inescapable plot"...

Luo Binghe is evasive. He says he's been there since he was a baby, which turns out to be an appropriate answer. Bit by bit, he says he doesn't have many memories, which Shang Qinghua seems to understand? He says that some memories settle when he reaches adulthood? That this happened to him. He was twenty when he was really able to manage "both lives" in one coherent thing.

Luo Binghe listens, humming in all the right places, being elusive and evasive but Shang Qinghua doesn't even seem to suspect anything. He insists that he should prepare for the Endless Abyss and promises to get him some weapons and talismans that he can hide. He tells him that he hopes "His King" won't make such a fuss without so many monsters.

Finally, the evening falls, Shang Qinghua begs him to please keep seeing each other to talk, he is tired of being alone.

Luo Binghe looks at the wet clothes. He finishes washing and leaves with many things on his mind.

Shang Qinghua recognized him as a "Transmigrator", whatever that was, from the song. The song his Shizun had taught him. He had asked him how long he had been here. At first, the question hadn't made much sense, but looking back, recalling Shizun's complete change in temperament and personality... Luo Binghe can get an idea of how long Shizun has been there.

Besides, what was all that about "Protagonist"? Luo Binghe is not an epic hero blessed by the gods, and he doesn't have the abilities to be classified as one. Or does he?

That night, he makes an impeccable dinner. He makes sure to present all of Shizun's favorite foods, favorite tea, and favorite scented candles. A treat for the senses. When he sees his Shizun start eating, he just smiles sweetly before:

"Shizun, this humble disciple has a question about the future."

"Mnh, this Master listens."

"Why must this disciple fall into the Endless Abyss as an inevitable plot? Is there no way the System will allow this disciple to stay with his Shizun, or is this an unavoidable fate because this humble one is the Protagonist?"

The chopsticks fall from Shizun's hand. The expression on his face is one of the deepest horror.

"Binghe, what...?"

And his Shizun looks in all directions. He seems to be searching for something that isn't there. The "System", perhaps? Whatever that is, Binghe has never seen or felt it. And, at that moment, his Shizun doesn't seem to see it either. Or, he sees it, but what he sees seems not to be a response of cosmic horror. What he sees makes his Shizun's countenance turn peaceful. After terror and tension, his shoulders relax.

"First, Binghe has to tell me where he got all that... information" begins his Shizun. Binghe nods quickly; he won't have any problems with exposing Shang-shishu if necessary. He has no loyalty to him, not like he does to his Shizun. "Very good. Binghe, sit next to me and pour us some more tea. This is going to be a long conversation."

And it definitely was.

[em1i2a3]

For Sure

Pairing: Dad!Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Mom!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: After giving birth you and Bob are adapting to parenthood and all the challenges that come along with it (Sequel to ‘Some Kind Of Love��)

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Mentions of Traumatic Childbirth (referenced and slightly described), Mentioning of Scars, Descriptions of Blood and Medical Jargon, Bob goes into a bit of a depressive episode, The Void and Sentry make appearances!, there are some supernatural elements tied into the super baby lol (I truly took the idea and RAN SO FAST with it, I loved the ideas I got!), THERE IS A TIME JUMP (but we explore the time that has passed!)

Author’s Note: I absolutely adored writing this, I loved exploring the dynamic of Bob/Sentry/The Void all playing a part of the kiddos life, and on top of that I truly loved writing all these scenes. It was so so fun. Dad trio for the win! Hope yall enjoy ❤️(ps…Might make this a series to be honest.)

Word Count: 6,176

The curtains had been pulled open hours ago, and the light had not stopped spilling in since.

It came through the wide-paned windows like a divine breath, covering everything in its path with slow, honey-thick warmth. The wooden floor glowed beneath it, each slant of light stretching long across the rug and up the edge of the crib, as if the sun itself had reached in to kiss the room. Particles of dust drifted lazily in the beams–soft, weightless–like the whole space was suspended in a dream it didn’t want to wake from.

The air smelled like home.

Not in any ordinary way–but in the unique, living scent that only existed here. It was the smell of sleep-warm skin and faint cotton, the sweet mineral of breastmilk and the softest hint of sunlit heat–like warm grass and wind-dried sheets. Your baby smelled like the world at its gentlest. Like summer and something ancient. Like the part of a late July afternoon that lingers against your skin even after you’ve stepped inside.

The bedroom around you was still.

A cotton blanket, rumpled and half-folded, hung over the side of the rocking chair where you’d spent more hours than you could count. One of Bob’s sweaters–thick, navy blue, and stretched slightly at the collar–was draped across the foot of the bed where he’d shrugged it off in a daze sometime around 4 a.m. The corners of the room were lit with low, syrupy gold, each object softened around the edges by the way the light bent through the window glass. There was a weightless quality to everything–like time itself had gone quiet to make space for this moment.

You were barefoot on the rug, its knit fringe brushed against the arches of your feet as you swayed gently in front of the crib. The weight of the baby in your arms was small, perfect, and curled right into your chest, right where she belonged.

Your voice was soft–barely louder than the hush of the lullaby playing from the nearby speaker–but it filled the whole room, overtaking the soothing noise.

”Can you hear Mommy’s heartbeat, my sweet girl?” You rocked slowly from one foot to the other, a rhythm that you always fell into when you held your child. Your cheek rested against the crown of her head, the fine, light brown hairs there were sun-warmed and silky from her last nap. One hand cradled the back of her tiny skull–fragile and perfect–while the other curled beneath her bottom, her legs folded frog-like against your sternum.

She stirred faintly at the sound of your voice, her little mouth twitching in her sleep as if she was about to form a word she had not yet learned. The warmth of her breath puffed softly against the hollow of your throat, and her ear was pressed over your heart, twitching slightly as your pulsed thudded beneath it.

You held her closer, breathing in the scent of her like it was something sacred, and technically it was.

She didn’t smell like lotion, or powder, or anything artificial. She smelled like the sun and heat after a long day outside. Like the wind when it rolls through tall grass and brushes the sweat at the back of your neck. She smelled like sweet milk and the warmth of something elemental, and it always made your eyes sting with tears.

Because she was real and breathing, and here.

And for a moment, you forgot anything else had ever existed.

You didn’t hear the shift of the floorboards, didn’t sense the air move. You were so completely wrapped in her that you didn’t notice the golden hum of power until it was already curling behind you–heat without fire, presence without sound.

Then came the voice, soft as breath, warm as light.

”Have I told you,” Sentry murmured behind you, so close you flinched, “That motherhood looks beautiful on you, my love?” A small smile appeared on your lips, as he stepped closer, one palm gliding beneath your arms and resting over the soft swell of your ribs, while the other wrapped gently around your middle until both arms cradled you from behind.

Your back pressed into his chest without hesitation–broad and impossibly warm, like his entire body radiated light just beneath the skin. You could feel it pulsing in slow waves, like sunlight made breath, and you leaned into it instinctively, as if the gravity of him was something you had always known how to obey. He curled around you protectively, like the moment might shatter if he touched too much too fast.

His chin lowered to the slope of your shoulder, coming to rest lightly there. The angle brought his face close to your neck–so close you could feel each word before he spoke it, the breath of him ghosting over your skin.

“Look at her…” Suntry whispered, his voice curling into the air like golden silk, “Our little Sunniva…” The name slipped from his lips with a kind of sacred weight, and your heart skipped in your chest. A perfect mix of you and Bob, with little pieces of him and the Void stitched beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. That was how he always said it. As if your daughter was the result of some ancient alchemy, the kind only gods could attempt and mortals could carry.

Sentry’s hand slid lower, slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed beneath the soft hem of your cotton shirt, pausing when they found the edge of the scar that marked your C-section–still slightly raised, still tender in places. His palm came to rest there with care, not for pain, but for awe. He wasn’t touching a wound.

He was touching an origin point.

“…And all of it came from you,” He whispered, voice rich and breathless, as though he hadn’t stopped being amazed since the moment he felt her for the first time through your skin, “You made room in your body for something celestial.” His other hand lifted then, moving slowly until it came to rest over yours–the one cradling the back of Sunniva’s head. The sheer size of it dwarfed your fingers, but the way he held you both was tender, and soft. Protective without pressure.

When he praised you, it was always hard not to smile.

Even now, even in the soft ache of exhaustion and the still-lingering uncertainty that motherhood carried in its quiet hours, he had a way of cracking your chest open and filling it with light. You felt it blooming now beneath your ribs–pride, joy, and love so immense it bordered on ache.

Your lips curved softly as Sentry’s hand remained steady over the scar that marked where she had entered the world–your world, his world, their world now, forever changed. His warmth radiated through you like the sun itself had chosen to wrap around your spine and settle in your marrow.

And it wasn’t just comfort–it was care. The way he held you. The way he spoke. As if your body were still something holy long after the miracle had already arrived.

Your head tilted just enough to glance back at him, and your smile deepened as he caught your gaze with that golden-glow look–eyes bright and endless, brimming with something far too big for this world.

“You always say that,” You whispered, breath catching as his hand gently smoothed over your side again. “That she came from me. That it was me.”

“Because it was,” Sentry breathed, his voice like honey poured over warm stone. “It was you. You were the altar. You were the divine soil. The universe did not grow her by accident—it chose you to hold all that power in your bones and bear it forward into the light.”

The words settled around you like heat, making your throat tighten. He had a way of saying things that made them feel too big to fit inside your chest.

He leaned forward, the tip of his nose brushing gently behind your ear as he spoke again–low, lyrical, with that sacred hush that made it feel like time itself leaned in to listen.

“You grew stardust in the hollow of your belly,” He murmured, “And gave her breath. Gave her name. Gave her form. You made light inside the dark and called it daughter.”

Your eyes stung.

He had always spoken like that about her. From the first time he felt her flutter beneath your skin. From the first time your womb twisted with her kicking strength, and he dropped to his knees with tears on his cheeks and hands trembling in awe.

It was how he’d won you over in the end, when the name had first been whispered into your half-dreaming mind.

You and Bob had searched for weeks.

It had become a quiet ritual near the end of your third trimester–slumped side by side on the couch with swollen ankles and stacks of baby name books, Bob cross-legged on the floor beside your knees, thumbing through dog-eared pages like he was studying for an exam. The list on the fridge kept changing–written in black marker and scribbled over until the paper had softened with wear. Every name you tried felt like trying on the wrong coat. Too small. Too grand. Too familiar. Too forgettable.

Bob would rest both hands on your belly, fingers spread wide, and whisper to her softly with his forehead pressed against your bump

“Ca-can you use some of those powers,” He’d murmur with a grin, “To tell u-us what you want to be na-named?” You’d laugh every time, even when you were too tired to keep your eyes open. And always, always, she would move. A slow roll beneath your skin, or a little press of heel or hand right into his palm. She knew his voice. She knew your laughter. She responded like she was already part of every moment.

And then, one night, she gave her answer.

You were curled against your maternity pillow, one leg flung over it, hair mussed from restless sleep. The lull of the compound had settled around you–Bob asleep beside you, the soft hum of the fan, and your body sore and humming with the weight of anticipation of the baby’s arrival. You were on the verge of sleep when Sentry said it.

”How about…Sunniva?” Your brow furrowed, dazed, and you mumbled out the name like it was part of a dream you weren’t ready to let go of.

“Sunniva…?”

The silence that followed was full of breath, like the pause between sunlight and shadow.

Then Sentry’s voice returned, slow and reverent, gilded with awe.

“It means sun gift,” He murmured, “Because that’s what she is. A divine offering. A light birthed from your bones and fed by your breath. She grew inside the heat of you–your blood, your heartbeat, your starlight–“

You blinked into the dark, the curve of your belly heavy and warm beneath your hand.

“She will walk with the warmth of you wrapped around her soul, even when you’re not near. Because you gave her the sun–not in name alone, but in origin. You let it live inside you. You carried it. Endured it. Became it.” That night, you hadn’t said anything. You couldn’t. You just let the name echo in your ribs until it settled in like truth. Like it had been waiting to be spoken all along.

And in the morning, when Bob stirred with sleep-tousled hair and kissed your cheek, you’d told him.

“Sunniva.”

He blinked slowly, then smiled, eyes soft and glassy as he pressed his lips to your belly. “S-Sunniva,” He whispered against your skin. And right beneath his mouth, she moved.

Now, in the golden hush of the morning, with Sentry wrapped around you and the weight of her pressed gently into your chest, the name turned out to be the best thing you had chosen in a while.

Sentry’s lips brushed the slope of your shoulder, his voice warm and teasing, but still somehow reverent.

“How about you give her to me for a bit, and you can catch a shower…” You smirked without turning around, cheek still nestled against the crown of Sunniva’s head.

”Are you trying to tell me that I smell?” A laugh rumbled low in his chest, the vibration curling through your spine like sunlight rippling across water.

“No,” He chuckled, voice dipped in amusement and something heavier beneath, “Not at all. But…For the past two months you’ve been giving off these very, very strong pheromones and I–well–can’t be around too long without getting a little…” He paused, the smile in his voice deepening, “…Loopy.” You let out a laugh, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you shook your head, cradling Sunniva more snugly to your chest.

”Loopy, huh?”

“It’s disorienting,” He insisted, tone mock-serious as he gently began to loosen your hold so he could take her. “It scrambles my thoughts. Makes me want to do things that are very counterproductive to…Say… Peaceful morning bonding time.” You snorted, easing Sunniva into his arms, and immediately she settled against him like she belonged there too. Like she knew. His golden glow flickered gently along his skin, dimmed and hushed, wrapping her in something unseen but undeniably protective. You crossed your arms loosely and raised an eyebrow.

“You’re already wanting another one, hmm?” You teased. “She’s two months old, Sentry. At least wait until six months to start getting baby fever again.” He hummed thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the tiny bundle now resting against his chest.

“It’s not like I’m a god or anything…” He said, all faux-innocence and that impossible shimmer beneath his words. Then, with a grin: “It’s not like we don’t want to be fruitful and multiply.”

You burst into another laugh, your head tilting back just slightly as you gave him an exasperated look.

“Way to be subtle.” You joked. He grinned wider, the light in his eyes gleaming with playful mischief.

“You can’t blame me,” He whispered, glancing down at Sunniva and then back at you “You made her. How do you expect me to not want to see what else you can do?” You could feel your cheeks heat up.

“Okay,” You started, already turning toward the ensuite, throwing a glance over your shoulder. “I’m going to go shower now. Before you actually jump my bones.” Behind you, his laugh followed you like warmth trailing behind sunlight.

“You know I’d never do that…” He called softly, then after a beat: “…Unless invited of course.” You didn’t answer. Just laughed again as you disappeared into the bathroom, already feeling the echo of him pressed behind you–and the smile still blooming on your lips.

You closed the door softly behind you, the latch clicking into place with a quiet finality that made the silence feel fuller, heavier. The bathroom light flickered on with a soft hum, spilling pale illumination across the tiled floor and catching in the faint sheen of condensation still clinging to the mirror from earlier.

You peeled off your shirt, slowly, tugging the fabric up over your head and dropping it beside the sink. Then your sweatpants, loose and worn and comfortable–those too joined the growing pile on the floor. You stepped closer to the mirror, bracing your hands on either side of the sink, and stared.

So much had changed.

Your breasts were fuller now, skin softer, a little heavier. Your hips were rounder, waist thicker. The skin along your belly was stretched in places, faint silver lines catching the light where stretch had given way to grace. But the structure of yourself…Was still there. The silhouette of the woman you’d always been lingered beneath it all–altered, yes, but not lost. Rewritten, maybe. But never erased.

And there, just below your navel, lay the scar.

Jagged. Dark. A thin ridge of memory.

The techs in the med bay had called it a clean recovery. “Healing beautifully,” they said. “No complications. No sign of tissue strain. Just keep applying the salve.” They made it sound easy. Dismissable, even. But they hadn’t seen what came before the healing.

You had.

You remembered waking up drenched in blood–how it soaked the sheets beneath you, hot and metallic and immediate. How your breath had caught in your throat before the scream could escape. You remembered your hands, slick with red as you cupped your stomach, sobbing, no, no, no over and over like the words might somehow undo what had already begun.

Bob had been the one to find you.

He carried you, sobbing and soaked, to the med bay himself–his shirt already clinging with your blood by the time he kicked the door open with a shout. His face was pale, shattered, barely holding it together. He didn’t speak much in those moments–he just kept whispering, “Please. Please. Please.”

They performed the emergency C-section in under five minutes.

You weren’t awake for it.

But Bob had been.

Later–after the transfusion, after the fever broke, after you woke up to the white ceiling of the med bay and the soft cry of your daughter from across the room–Bob had told you everything. He sat beside you, hands trembling as he held yours, voice breaking on every other word.

“She…Sh-She came out screaming,” He said, tears tracking down his face. “Not–not weak either. It w-was loud. Like she was–like she was announcing herself.”

You remembered staring at the ceiling as the tears rolled down your temples, still too dazed to speak. Bob had kept going.

“She turned a sh-shade of black. N-Not all of her. Just… f-from her belly up. It faded after a few seconds. But it was there. V-Void black.”

You closed your eyes now, remembering that part–how even the med techs couldn’t explain it. Her vitals had been normal. Her cry was strong. But the dark stain that had bloomed across her newborn skin had left the entire room in silence.

“She’s healthy,” They’d said. “We ran every test. Everything came back normal. It was likely a stress response. Possibly tied to residual gene activation.”

But you knew better.

And so did Bob.

The Void had passed into her.

Not all of it. Not its full weight. But a sliver–an echo. Something black and ancient that had whispered its way through the umbilical tether and taken root in the very heart of your daughter. The med techs didn’t know what to make of it. They didn’t understand The Void. But you did. And Bob did.

And Bob never stopped blaming himself.

Even now, two months later, you could still hear the way he’d said it:

*“I-I shouldn’t have done th-this. I shouldn’t have c-come near you when I could f-feel him moving in the b-background. I was careless. I was selfish.

You had taken his face in your hands and reminded him, over and over, that there was no one else you wanted by your side. That there was no one else who could have carried you through it. That Sunniva–all of her, even the dark parts–was still yours. Was still light. Was still love.

That first week after you were released from the med bay was the hardest–for everyone, but especially for Bob.

He tried.

God, he tried.

But the fear lived in his blood now, just beneath the surface of every breath, every twitch of movement, every sound Sunniva made in the middle of the night. He barely slept. Barely spoke. The shame had settled in his bones and dragged his shoulders lower each time he walked into the room and saw her sleeping in your arms–small, perfect, untouched by him.

And it wasn’t for lack of love.

He loved her so much it wrecked him.

But that was the problem.

Love made room for fear. And in Bob’s mind, fear always meant failure.

For the first few days, he didn’t hold her. Not once. Not even when you tried to place her gently into his arms. He’d shake his head, kiss your temple, and murmur, “I-I’m ju-just tired, Y/N.” But it wasn’t tiredness. It was terror. And that terror opened a door.

The Void slipped through.

It started in small moments–quiet flickers in the corners of the room when the lights dimmed too low or when the cries in the middle of the night lasted too long for Bob to soothe. You could feel it before you saw him–the weight in the air, like the temperature had dropped by a single degree. Like a shadow had curled into the walls.

But he never scared you.

You and The Void had formed a kind of reluctant truce over the course of your pregnancy. He would emerge when Bob fell too deep into self-doubt, when the stutter gave way to silence, and his hands couldn’t stop shaking. He would never stay long. Never push. Just… appear.

And despite everything, he had always been careful with you.

Polite, even. Wry. Curious. And surprisingly…Attentive, as much as he could be at least, so there was never fear when he was around you and Sunniva for short periods of time, and when he inevitably took over Bob for that first week.

When The Void came fully, it was seamless. A silent succession. No shudder, no burst of power. Just a stillness. Like the last light had clicked off in a hallway, and something else had stepped forward to stand in the dark. The gold of Sentry dimmed. Bob’s stutter fell away. And in its place, The Void sat cross-legged at the edge of your bed, back impossibly straight, unmoving, as if carved from shadow.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t touch the baby. But he stayed.

And that mattered more than he knew.

Everyone at the compound helped where they could. Feeding bottles. Cleaning. Rocking Sunniva through the naps she fought hardest. Yelena and Ava kept a timer running for formula prep. Walker, surprisingly gentle, would pace the kitchen floor with her bundled against his chest while muttering about covert ops being easier than colic. Even Bucky tried to lull her to sleep with a variety of Russian lullabies when your eyes were too swollen with exhaustion to keep open.

But during the night, that was when you would take over the shift, and during that The Void would be beside you.

He never slept. Never turned his back. And you never let him think you didn’t notice how often he looked at her.

You’d lie on your side with Sunniva swaddled between you, her little fists curled beneath her chin, and you’d feel his gaze brush against you like the wind behind a closed window. Glances sharp and quick, like they cost him something each time. He’d look away just as fast, shoulders stiff and unreadable. But you knew.

You always knew.

He was afraid. Not of her. Of himself.

He thought his presence might unmake what your body had spent nine months building.

You’d tried to bridge the space in small ways. Soft commentary. “She looks more like Bob when she’s fussy.” Or, “She coos when she hears music–must be from Sentry.” But it was never enough to draw him closer.

Until the final night of his residency basically. The night that brought Bob back.

Sunniva had finished crying an hour before, but the after-sobs still hiccupped in her sleep. You stroked a finger down the bridge of her nose, whispering rhythmic shh’s as her little chest rose and fell. The Void sat beside you, hands on his thighs, posture perfect in a way no humans ever was. His gaze stayed forward, unmoving.

You cleared your throat, then spoke without preamble.

“Void…Will you hold her?”

He didn’t look at you. Not at first. Just inhaled slowly through his nose, the sound faint and dry. His shadow shifted where it met the bedsheets, too quiet to be a sigh.

“It is not a good idea.”

Your brows drew together.

“Void…She’s a part of you as well.”

A pause.

“When she cries too hard, and we can’t settle her…” You said gently, “Her skin turns that deep black. Just like you. And she gets those freckles–those little white ones that you have all over your body…” He blinked slowly. Then finally, finally turned his head.

His eyes–those eerie, glowing white pupils–landed on you first. Then drifted to her.

Quickly.

Then away again.

You leaned closer. “She’s not just mine and Bob’s…She’s yours and Sentry’s too.” He was silent. A beat passed. Then another.

“…Hold her, Void. Come on. Please.”

Another beat.

Then the faintest ripple of movement. His hands lifted slowly from his thighs. A quiet shift of mass as he adjusted his seated posture. His jaw flexed in thought, even though it was all mostly lost in the dark shape of him.

“…Okay,” He murmured. Almost to himself.

Your chest softened with hope. Your frown turned into a small, genuine smile. You reached for the pale knitted blanket folded at your side and opened it with slow, careful movements.

“Alright,” You whispered. “Hold out your arms.”

He did.

Wide, cautious, rigid. But compliant.

You draped the blanket over his forearms with care, tucking it in at the crook of his elbows. His eyes narrowed, confused.

“What are you doing?”

“You run super cold,” You commented, still smiling as you adjusted the wrap. “I’m just making sure she’ll stay warm with you.”

“…I see,” He murmured, his voice a strange echo of curiosity and something that might’ve been gratitude.

Then, carefully–so carefully–you placed Sunniva into his arms.

She stirred a little. Let out a quiet sigh. One tiny hand flopped free from her wrap and landed against his chest, right over his core, where no heartbeat lived.

The Void stiffened.

Every part of him froze for a second, like he was afraid the contact might unmake her.

But then…His arms shifted. One hand curled beneath her body, while the other adjusted her head. Not gracefully, not expertly, but carefully.

He stared at her for a long moment.

“…She’s quite big,” He said finally, voice low and almost puzzled.

You smirked, that familiar expression curling onto your face like sunrise. You shifted to face him fully, hands tucked beneath your chin as you leaned in.

“I know,” You replied gently, watching as his arm curved protectively around the bundle, “I carried her.”

And that was the moment it happened.

The change wasn’t sudden–it never was with Bob. It was slow, delicate, like dawn bleeding into a sky that had forgotten it could be anything other than night.

The Void blinked.

Once.

Then again, slower.

His jaw shifted, clenched once before loosening again, and his head tipped forward just a little as he looked down at the sleeping weight against his chest. The shadows across his skin began to ripple–soft at first, like the dark was being exhaled from his pores.

“I…” His voice faltered. Not with fear, not with resistance. Just…Astonishment.

“I think you may have cracked the code,” He whispered.

You didn’t move. You barely breathed.

“I feel…” He started again, gaze flickering down to where Sunniva’s tiny fingers had curled loosely into the edge of the blanket. “I feel like…He’s coming back.”

Your heart lifted, slowly and achingly, like something weightless breaking the surface after being buried for far too long.

The black faded gradually–like ink dissolving in golden water. His shoulders softened, sloping downward instead of held in perfect stillness. His throat bobbed in a hard swallow. And beneath the slowly receding shadow…Pale skin began to show.

Bob’s skin.

Freckled and familiar.

You watched the shift, your lips parting slightly in awe, and your entire expression melted. The same way he did. There were no words for it–not really. Just a kind of knowing that passed between your bodies like a shared exhale.

He was coming back.

And not just from the shadows.

He was coming home.

Your hand reached out and gently touched his shoulder, your thumb brushing along the curve where Void’s silhouette had dissolved back into Bob’s arm. It was warm now. Real.

That night changed everything.

It was the end of one chapter and the beginning of something wholly new–not a return to normal, but a step into something deeper. More shared. More whole.

The Void didn’t vanish after that, not completely.

But he no longer had to take over.

Now, standing in the soft bathroom light, fingers tracing the faint scar across your belly, that moment felt light years away. The fear. The silence. The stillness that had once haunted every hallway of your heart. It had passed. Not erased, but lived with.

And most days, it felt like a relief.

The Void still came sometimes. Quietly. Just for a minute. He never stayed long–just long enough to check in. To see how she was doing. To see how you were doing. He would nod, speak a word or two in that soft, carved-glass tone of his, and then let Bob come forward again.

It was easy now.

It felt like…Balance.

You stepped into the shower and let the water run over your shoulders, quick and warm. You didn’t linger. Not with a baby in the next room and a partner who couldn’t stop making eyes at the smallest pair of footie pajamas like he was already dreaming of more.

When you stepped out, towel wrapped around you and hair damp against your neck, you padded barefoot back into the bedroom–and paused.

The sun had shifted since you’d gone in, casting a deeper warmth across the rug. Bob sat on the edge of the bed, one leg up, cradling Sunniva in the crook of his arm, feeding her from a bottle with practiced ease. His hair was messy, one hand supporting the bottle as he rocked her ever so slightly. Her fingers curled loosely against his wrist, content.

He looked up the moment he heard you–the soft shuffle of your bare feet on the rug pulling his gaze gently toward the ensuite door.

And there they were.

Those blue eyes. Pure, clear, unguarded.

No gold shimmer. No white pupils. No lingering trace of shadow curling at the edge of his lashes. Just Bob. Sleep-soft and a little disheveled, with a smudge of milk on his shirt and that unmistakable tenderness resting deep in the curve of his mouth.

His smile was crooked, shy, blooming in real time as he took you in.

“I-I went into the ov-overflow stash,” He said, voice warm with quiet apology, “Sh-she started to get really fussy, and I di-didn’t want the lights bursting like last time.” You smirked, pushing your damp hair off your cheeks, amusement flickering behind your eyes as you walked toward him.

“Well, that’s why it’s called a stash,” you teased, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his cheek—gentle, warm, lingering just long enough for your lips to curve against the blush that immediately bloomed beneath his skin.

His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, soaking it in.

You stepped away then, reaching for a fresh set of clothes from the dresser–a clean pair of Bob’s old basketball shorts you’d unofficially claimed and a loose, zippered maternity top that made feeding easier. As you moved, you glanced back at him, voice light but laced with meaning.

“Sentry’s already planning for another one.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, his brows lifting in startled horror before he let out a low, suffering groan.

“Ho-how about we wait till she’s six months before we st-start even thinking about th-that,” He muttered, his tone laced with exasperated affection.

You laughed–a full, bubbling laugh that warmed the whole room.

“That’s exactly what I said to him,” You replied, pulling the shirt over your head and adjusting the zipper at the chest. “We don’t even know the extent of Sunny’s powers yet. From what we’ve seen, she’s literally almost as powerful as Sentry… And she’s just two months old.”

Bob blinked down at Sunniva, who had just finished her bottle and was now sucking gently on the silicone tip in her sleep, her tiny body completely relaxed against his chest. His voice was soft as he replied.

“It’s…It’s am-amazing to witness though… I won’t li-lie to you.”

You paused, your smile tugging a little deeper.

“…I agree with you there.”

Padding quietly across the floor, you moved to stand in front of him, brushing your fingers over the fine hair on Sunniva’s head before leaning down again–this time kissing Bob on the forehead. Right between his brows. Right where the weight and worry used to live.

His eyes closed again at the contact, lashes resting on his cheeks, and you let your lips linger there for an extra second, before pulling away.

“I’m glad I’ve got the most amazing men by my side to help me handle all of it though,” You murmured. Gently, you cupped his cheek with your hand–your thumb tracing the edge of the freckles there–before leaning in and kissing him once on the left cheek, then the right. Light, warm, reverent.

Then, with a smile still tugging at your lips, you leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth. Not rushed. Not urgent. Just…Thankful. His lips parted slightly, breath catching in the way it always did when you kissed him like that—with no pretense, no warning, just a quiet overflow of everything you felt.

When you pulled back, his eyes were open again, glassy and full. A faint tremble moved across his mouth as he looked up at you, like he wasn’t sure how to hold everything inside his chest all at once.

“Y-You’re the one that I owe all of it to,” Bob whispered, voice cracking gently with the weight of it. You didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch a little between you as your hand slid to his shoulder, your thumb brushing once more along the curve of his neck.

Then, from the little bundle cradled against his chest, came the softest coo.

Your head tipped slightly, eyes narrowing playfully.

“I’ll take her back now,” You said, voice warm and teasing, “I miss the warmth–and chances are she’s going to spit up soon, and you’ve never been lucky with that…” Bob groaned immediately, dropping his head back with the most exaggerated suffering sound you’d heard from him all week.

“D-Don’t remind me,” He muttered, shifting her a little in his arms as you reached for her. “Wh-When it went all do-down my back that last time I thought I was having a b-boiling hot sh-shower.” You laughed–bright and musical, your hand covering your mouth as the sound bubbled out of you.

“Oh god, the face you made,” You giggled, carefully gathering Sunniva back into your arms, “You looked so betrayed.”

“I was…” Bob muttered darkly, but there was a grin twitching at the corners of his lips as he watched you settle your daughter against your chest again. She let out a sleepy sigh, fingers twitching against your collarbone as her little head tucked beneath your chin.

Bob looked at you both like he was trying to memorize the shape of the moment. Like if he blinked too long, he might lose it.

His voice, when it came again, was soft. Barely above a breath.

“I-I love you,” He murmured, almost like he was afraid to break the stillness. “Both of you. So much it…Hu–Hurts.” You looked down at your daughter, her tiny cheek resting against your skin, then back at the man you had built everything with. The man who had walked through shadow and shame, through gods and grief, and still come home.

“I know,” you whispered, smiling down at him. “I love you too Bob.”

And the light that filled the room–golden and thick and unrelenting–only grew warmer.

[nebytou]

*Buzzes towards you holding birds in one pair of hands and rocks in another pair*

May we have a Bauhauzzo & Huzzle Mug please? How do you think they met? ^vvv^

Sure!

I know I said I would do simple doodles, but as soon as I got your ask I couldn't get this idea out of my head and and one thing lead to the other!

About the question...

For me they seem like the kind of people that get along when they just meet for the very firts time haha!

I think they also complement the other in a similar way like Thespius and Click Clak. For what is inovation without a question? A problem? A starting point?

And what is history without significant advances? Memories of the past that help us shape our future, by always reinventing itself? Adapting? Innovating?...

(lots of ramble)

[theladysunami]

Now that I’ve read ‘The Disabled Tyrant's Beloved Pet Fish’ I’m really itching for something similar but Binggeyuan flavored, that includes Bingge’s harem!

(A more direct adaptation already exists: ‘The Proud Immortal Demon’s Pet Fish’ by BeanFiend).

I’m thinking something along the lines of Shen Yuan transmigrating into one of the forgotten wives’ pets, a cute PIDW monster cat, ferret, or fox of some sort.

His experiences in the inner court result in him unilaterally deciding to help his poor forgotten mistress (*cough*and-ultimately-Bingge*cough*) by finding her friends, resolving all the ‘stupid’ harem drama, and raising Bing-ge’s kids properly.

Of course, trying to do most things while a small fuzzy animal is quite the challenge, and cultivating a human form isn’t easy even without the fear of being discovered and executed for infiltrating the harem as a man.

Once he does figure out the transformation part (mostly), he still has problems since the System didn’t find it necessary to provide an animal knowledge of traditional characters, writing via brush and ink, properly wearing xianxia robes, or any other type of human skill.

That and transforming doesn’t come with clothes!!!

Most of the clothes Shen Yuan can ‘borrow’ belong to wives and female servants, and he’s always in such a rush to complete whatever task he’s taken upon himself —before being stopped and arrested— that he can’t just stand around experimenting with the intricacies of xianxia robes and grooming. He ends up spending most of his time in human form running around looking like a perpetually bedraggled maid or low-ranked concubine.

Bing-ge is bemused by the glimpses and brief meetings he gets with this strange ‘woman,’ and wonders if she’s a wife he’s forgotten about or a maid he should wife up at the earliest opportunity.

That’s all I have for now. The idea of Shen Yuan accidentally endearing himself to the wives and kids, and seducing Bing-ge, all while looking like a bedraggled lunatic, is just really funny to me.

Who wouldn’t love the crazy man who somehow knows the powers and weaknesses of every beast, potion, and secret artifact in existence, but not how clothes or hairstyles work?

[ellipsus-writes]

Stories of resistance; communities of power

(Read over on the blog!) The first time I met a queer character was a literal flash in the dark: stumbling onto Maurice on the IFC channel, sometime around midnight—the Merchant-Ivory adaptation of E. M. Forster's novel where the two leads actually get a happy ending.

Before that, the only queer characters I’d ever seen were Scar and Ursula, camping, preening, and scheming their way to classic villainhood—swishy, fabulous, undeniably doomed. And then I found Oscar Wilde at the library: an actual gay writer (thrilling: I bought a poster on the nascent internet of the author lounging on a settee and taped it too my bedroom door—abandon straightness, all ye who enter here). And then I learned how it ended: destroyed by the state, dragged through a prejudicial court system—the ultimate doomed narrative, for the crime of being human.

There have been big strides in the, uh… how many intervening years? (Y2K was 10 years ago, right?) We no longer have to sit quietly, waiting for a flicker of queer joy on late-night TV, clawing our way through a wasteland of tragedy to feel seen.

Now, we make our own stories.

I wrote my own stories in high school; digging through the cracks to find historic queer spaces I could enter, rediscovering buried worlds and realizing we’d always been here. (Ask me about mid-18th-century gay life in Paris, or ‘20s Berlin... or don’t.) And fanfic, which went mainstream a little later, changed everything. It’s the way so many people carve out space for themselves—claiming stories that were never meant for us and making them our own.

Of course, it’s 2025. There are tragedies happening right now. Big ones, small ones, ones so personal they’ll never make the news; losses so massive they leave entire communities grieving. They can feel insurmountable.

But we have something stronger—community.

You’re already doing the work. You’re making yourselves visible—writing without permission, without waiting for gatekeepers to tell you what’s marketable or appropriate. You write anyway. You’re valid because you write. Your stories spread across the void, forming bonds when they most want to divide us. Instead of more tragedy, you’re making whole universes gay (literally).

Telling stories—messy, joyful, painful, honest, true—will always be a defiant act. Every time you write a queer character, spin a fanfic with queer headcanons, share a few lines that spring straight from your gut, you’re pushing back. The act of creation sets off a chain reaction—visibility, empathy, and the simple, profound reminder that you’re not alone.

That’s the gift of stories: to expand someone’s world, to help them see others—and themselves—more clearly, no matter what the world tells you. The power of storytelling has always been revolutionary, and the beauty of community is that it makes us unbreakable.

Our community proves this every day. You show up for each other—offering feedback, encouragement, shouting 2AM prompts and plotbunnies into the void (and the void answers back). You share your worlds, your ideas, your selves. You make space for each other, and you make Ellipsus stronger, more resilient, and more fiercely alive.

That’s why Pride matters. And why writing matters—more than ever.

For us, this work is personal. As a queer-founded company (myself—Rex—and my partner, John—hey how are you), we built Ellipsus as a home for creators who, like us, find deep belonging in community and creative expression.

With queer voices under attack—rights stripped away, books banned, Pride erased from calendars (FCK GGL)—we don’t need to tell you we’re worried. You’re worried, too. But together, we’re determined. We’re courageous and connected.

For Pride Month, we’re excited to give back to the community that gives so much to us—and to launch a few things along the way…

A new Pride theme for Ellipsus

Because queer joy should shine in every word you write. (Yes, it’s forever—not just for June!)

And coming soon��

You’ll be able to support your favorite little writing tool in more ways… yep, we’re jumping on the merch gambit. But it’s not all about us—50% of all proceeds from our shop will go directly to LGBTQ+ organizations fighting back against censorship, discrimination, and erasure:

The Trevor Project—Supporting LGBTQ+ youth.

Trans Lifeline—Providing life-saving resources for trans people.

The ACLU—Fighting for freedom of expression, trans rights, and against book bans and censorship.

... Pride is about all of us—so we want to hear from you.

What does Pride mean to you as a writer? How does your creativity reflect your community, and your hopes for the future? How does writing get you through it, help you make connections, and bring you joy?

Share your stories in our Discord, or shout into the void of Tumblr, Bluesky (and tag us!). We’ll be sharing some of your responses throughout the month. Our aim is simple: to give you a space to write freely, protect freedom of expression, and uplift queer voices—not just for a month, but for as long as it takes.

[winters-rose-daughterofcain]

Here’s the thing with Peeta. Because he's viewed exclusively through the pov of someone in love with him and because at first glance a lot of his flaws are more palatable or easy to brush off they often are. However, low self-esteem, self-worth, and self-image dose not a perfect person make. The devaluing of your own life and impact on others is a flaw, especially when it leads to underestimating how much people need you and abandoning them even if in little ways. Projecting your own low opinion of yourself onto others actions towards you and assigning them motives that indicate an insult is understandable, especially when you’ve grown up in an environment where you were under regular verbal abuse and the intent and motive was negative and demeaning, but it’s still a flaw. Bottling up/repressing anger and withdrawing when hurt until it comes out in long stretches of cool distance and bad communication or uncharacteristic outbursts is a flaw. Going along with demeaning and inappropriate social behaviours towards the girl you love because you can understand there is a joke you’re not in on and are trying to adapt socially and blend in the midst of an unfamiliar and scary situation is shitty, insensitive teen boy behaviour. Understandable, and apologised for, but a flaw. Using an ability with words and charm to deflect moments of vulnerability isn’t exactly a flaw but it’s not open or honest.

He’s stubborn and logical and can be quit ruthless when he needs to be. He’s perfectionistic and overly self critical and doesn’t seem to like being praised even as being seen as stupid, weak, and lesser are clearly a sore spot and will assign those ideas about himself onto others even with little to no evidence that’s what their thinking. He avoids violence yet can lash out in anger when finally pushed too far. He gets frustrated and stubborn and closes himself off. He’s lonely and isolated and scared and seventeen and every flaw is so completely understandable. But ignoring them diminishes just how wonderful everything else about him is! 

How kind and generous and thoughtful and intelligent he is, how precise and purposeful he is, how respectful and patient. He is hope and gentleness and the calm of the sunset on something better, he’s artistic and creative and nurturing. It wouldn’t matter as much if it didn’t come with negative sides. His kindness wouldn’t be as impactful if he didn’t have to choose it and work for it, kindness is a skill in a lot of ways it’s something that can be practised, kindness is something you choose and he chooses it over and over and over again, he chooses it over anger. His moments of vulnerability and openness wouldn’t mean anything if he was always like that, if it wasn’t earned and if he didn’t try and avoid it. The moments he thaws and comforts wouldn’t mean as much if it was constant, if he didn’t also withdraw and shutdown, if he’s not choosing this. Choosing the right thing over and over again.

Because yeah, Peeta’s baseline philosophy and nature is kindness, but you don’t get as good at it as he is, especially not in the environment and world he was raised in, without making the choice to reach for. And stripping him of his flaws not only makes him a far less interesting and realistic character but also takes away a lot of his agency and a lot of what makes his brilliant moments so good. He’s a scared traumatised seventeen year old trying his best, trying over and over again to choose the right thing, and sometimes he doesn’t, sometimes he missteps or his plans don’t work or an insecurity manifests in a way unfair to both him and those around him. But he tries so hard to do the right thing and goddam it he deserves a few flaws.