#i think i wanted to connect it to the possibility of what could be the lore of fragaria memories��s world

[kissboybyler]

it gets to me so much sometimes when i think that, in whichever fandom, the GA or just most people tend to ship two characters just because they are canon. Like mike and el, for instance, they are canon, they have kissing scenes and they dance at the ball and they…hug?! But what do they even talk about? What’s the music playing in the background? What’s the context of their interactions? Why, why do they love each other? Do they make each other better, do they find missing parts of themselves in the form of another person? Are there hints and tells and color-codes that just…exist to symbolise their love?

Why do we ship these characters? What’s is it about their love that is so strong? And don’t get me wrong, i also believe -like many other bylers/ fans of the show- that mike and el grew to love each other, to appreciate and kind of need each other. But not for the right reasons.

I mean, mike needs to be needed, to be able to help or even save another person, to feel loved and wanted. But he also needs to allow himself to be who he is, outside of “forced conformity” (“that’s what’s killing the kids” after all!)

El, on the other hand, needs to find who she is, but firstly she needs to have a safe place where she is allowed to kind of just exist and then blossom into her true self. And bumping into mike, who eventually grew to appreciate and embrace her, she felt safe for the first time. And alongside her, mike felt needed, like he could protect her and be there for her and make her happy.

But now el, who has established both meaningful familial relationships and friendships, needs to find out who she is. How can we expect her to grow when she’s in a relationship with the first person she met right after she broke out of the lab (her literal prison), who can’t even talk about any other part of her that he loves other than her powers?

And i’ve read many many other people write about this, about how in s4, when mike wasn’t with el he embraced his geeky, nerdy and weird self but when he finally reunited with el, he had to hide himself from her (as did she!). He just…couldn’t be himself around her.

But like, apart from the problems in their relationship, i really just don’t understand why people ship them. It’s just…mike cant be himself around el and el doesn’t have room to find herself when she’s with mike. It literally doesn’t make any mathematical sense.

And then they say we’re delusional for thinking, for proving, that there are astronomically higher chances for these two not to be endgame, for el to be single and for mike and will to get together. Because it makes sense…right? Like, el will be able to find herself outside of a relationship, she won’t be dictated by anyone but her own self, and mike and will… do i really have to elaborate? Like, in every single aspect of stranger things, from musical titles and colour-codes, parallels and loving, longing stares, hand touches, over-protectiveness, deep and meaningful understanding to posters and freaking funko-pops, interviews and good ol’ fashioned cinematography and storytelling… it all points to them, if you connect the dots.

And how, how is it possible that so many dots have been put into such perfect places, to make such a beautifully crafted imagery, just for all of this to be a coincidence? When, when has anything ever in stranger things been coincidental? Ever?

Edit: I’d just like to denote that, when i said “(mike) can’t even talk about any other part of her that he loves other than her powers” i didn’t mean that mike loves el JUST because she has powers, fuck no, BUT when the time was right for him to note all of the other aspects of her character that make her a remarkable person (ex. her selflessness, her compassion), he decided to focus on her powers. The very thing that she herself thought dictated her.

just wanted to make that super clear.

[babybearnation]

polyam!landoscar = red string connecting you to your soulmate(s); reader can see strings, but landoscar can't—they're already dating, but as far as they're concerned they've found their soulmate and that's that (even if they both feel something missing). reader is childhood friends with sighted!alex maybe and he realises that reader is landoscar's soulmate but doesn't want to say anything so he says something for them

(aka: non-sighted established landoscar; sighted reader who's too shy/scared to tell landoscar; sighted alex who meddles (possibly background logalex but :3))

im obsessed with everyone's rsv ideas, i wont lie - also we get some new rsv lore here regarding polyamory heheh

non sighted!established!landoscar x red sighted!gn!reader (ft. red sighted!childhood bff!alex albon)

lando and oscar felt a connection the moment they met each other

they knew it'd be risky to start dating if they weren't soulmates but they went through with it anyways because the bond they felt was so strong

worked out in their favour though because, after sharing their first kiss, lando and oscar can see their strings... kind of

you see, lando and oscar unknowingly had a third soulmate - you

due to the rarity of polyamorous soulmates, it wasn't common knowledge on what would happen if not everyone involved kissed each other

lando and oscar could see their strings but they were faint, almost pink, and they couldn't touch them like red sight would allow them to

also, oscar and lando were almost positive they had two strings each but they could hardly see their strings and therefore couldn't track where the potential extra one led to

enter you

you know who their missing soulmate is

its you

the twined strings that looped around your finger always lead you to them and they tugged insistently pretty much every single race weekend

you were best friends with none other than alex albon and therefore, you had spent ages around lando whilst growing up and travelling with alex to his competitions and stuff like that

you'd known from the instant you met lando that you were his soulmate, but the extra string pointed somewhere else and it bothered you to no end

plus it nearly always tugged when you were at race tracks - less persistently than with lando's string, sure, but it still tugged

when oscar became alpine's reserve in 2022 and started attending every race track on the f1 calendar, you felt it every race weekend - you couldn't ignore it

when you realised it was oscar, you felt relieved - two drivers made things easier to manage!

but when you finally decided to do something about it, it was too late

lando and oscar were already together and they seemed perfectly content

maybe... maybe the universe was playing a cruel joke on you?

alex, however, was tired of watching lando & oscar play oblivious and was tired of dealing with a tragically depressed you

he was gonna say something

if it wasn't for his own soulmates stepping in and telling him that maybe he should speak to you first, he would've marched right on over and told lando and oscar the truth to their faces that very second

you talk to alex about it (george & logan on standby to control their boyfriend if needed) but it just leads to a big argument that has you storming off to mclaren

even though you refused to tell lando & oscar the truth, you still couldn't stay away from them and the three of you quickly became fast friends

so you rush to them for comfort without thinking about it

you end up spilling the truth to lando & oscar as you vent about how stupid alex is and its only when lando covers your mouth with his hand and whispers the words "we're soulmates?" that you realise what you've done

you go to apologise when lando leans in and kisses you

he pulls back and stares down at his hands, giggling and clapping excitedly when he notices the actually red string now

oscar bites his lip before shyly kissing you as well, gaining his own red sight

as you shyly tell oscar and lando the truth about how long you've known and how you didn't want to ruin anything with your strings, alex, george & logan watch on, all happy you three have finally sorted your shit out

© all rights to babybearnation 2025.

[nereidprinc3ss]

I didn’t mean to have so much to say about this but wow do I!!!!

Lots of people say they love domestic spencer reid but I don’t think they love domestic spencer reid like EYEEE love domestic Spencer Reid. Because I love domestic spencer reid where he’s doing nothing. Or he’s being kind of….. not an asshole but…… where it becomes clear that he’s just dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person and then I love domestic Spencer Reid where he’s dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person but he can still say I’m sorry!!! And they can hug and it’s okay because loving someone requires being close enough to sometimes hurt them!!!! And the realism of this kind of fic just fills me w so much joy like THISSSS is what I want from tumblr dot com I LOVEE the meditative fics where nothing crazy happens and the plot comes from the authors understanding of rich interpersonal relationships!!!! I love!!!!

This was also beautifully beautifully written like a breath of fresh air wow I truly am so lucky to get to read work from such talented people thank you for writing this and thank you for sharing it with us!!

So anyway here are the lines that jumped out at me. There is really no rhyme or reason, I tend to extra love lines that are a little philosophical and ponderous about human connection and boy was this full of that!! I am not a literary critic I am just a girl full of thoughts

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

I just think this is an jarringly astute and concise observation of something we as humans do all the time in relationships and again there is nothing I love more than an observation about human connection that I can point at and go MEEEE I UNDERSTAND THAT I KNOW HOW IT FEELS!!!! It’s very exciting to me!!

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

This to me was a kind of honesty most fanfic lacks and obviously most fanfic is supposed to be optimistic and perfect and reflect the readers desires back to them but quite frankly to me it hits harder when there is this subtle kind of interpersonal angst and strife that is something we can feel and recognize within ourselves it makes it easier for me to actually connect to the fic. Rather than watching it like a movie I can recognize this kind of sentiment and it’s far more immersive to me and therefore a lot more fulfilling and rewarding and interesting to read

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

YEAH MAYBE THAT IS THE POINT!!! THE POINT OF EVERYTHING!!! THE POINT OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!!! This to me is just beautiful and very succinctly summarizes something I’ve been working on and will probably continue to work on for the rest of my life and I think really the whole point of love and the lesson most people need to learn!!!! Once again I like my fluffy fanfic tempered w this kind of realism!! It adds so much texture

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

No yeah actually this IS the sexiest thing a man could possible say or do!! Like care and pay attention and be present and observant!!! I won’t even be talking about this because I love it too much to dissect it

Anyways this is maybe making me look crazy I just haven’t been engaged with fanfic very much recently and I did not go into this with the intention of having anything to say about it afterward but to my own personal deep surprise was so motivated to!! And it was so beautiful and so lovely I had to say something. Pls excuse if I’ve gone overboard!! This is just such a good example of fanfic at its absolute best to me like this is what it’s forrrr this is what I wanttttt!!!! Thank you for writing thank you for posting beautiful

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k

You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.

In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.

You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.

Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.

But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.

Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.

You go still.

A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.

He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.

And god, that does something to you.

You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.

The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.

You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.

It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.

Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.

Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.

His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.

There is morning, and then there is night.

There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.

His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.

"Spencer."

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.

"Come to bed."

He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"I can’t."

A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"

"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.

A pause.

Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.

Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.

The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.

You just want him to rest.

To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.

But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.

So instead, you say nothing.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.

Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.

Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.

Morning. Again.

Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.

Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.

His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

Morning.

Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.

Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.

You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.

The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.

You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.

He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”

You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.

“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”

You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.

The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.

Spencer is slow to let you go.

Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”

Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”

You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”

He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”

Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.

“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.

He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”

“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.

You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.

Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.

When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”

“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.

Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”

You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”

He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.

You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”

You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.

Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.

Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.

“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.

Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.

You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.

Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.

And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.

His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.

You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.

His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.

Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.

He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.

“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.

You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.

Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.

You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.

His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.

Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.

His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He answers you with a kiss.

Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.

You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.

“Again,” he whispers.

So you kiss him again. And again. And again.

Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.

His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.

“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.

You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”

And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.

And you let him.

Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.

Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.

Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.

“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.

Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”

You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.

His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.

And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”

You don’t let him finish.

You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.

When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.

Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.

And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.

You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.

Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.

"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.

"I know, I know."

It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.

Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.

He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.

It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.

It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.

When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.

As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.

Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.

Spencer bursts into laughter.

It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.

You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.

"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.

You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.

He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.

"No, I don't really like scrambled."

Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.

"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."

"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."

The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.

And then—

You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.

Your stomach grumbles again.

Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.

The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.

A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.

A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.

The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.

You knew this would happen.

It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.

You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.

You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.

Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.

You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.

You are in his arms.

He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.

“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.

Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”

You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.

“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.

“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.

It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.

“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”

You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."

“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”

Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”

Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.

You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.

Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.

One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.

You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."

It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.

You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”

He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”

You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”

Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”

Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”

“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.

He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”

Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”

Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”

You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”

“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.

Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”

You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”

“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.

Spencer just stares at you.

You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”

Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.

"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.

"I would never say that-"

"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."

"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."

"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."

He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.

After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.

“You make coming home easy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”

Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.

It’s the perfect time to strike.

You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.

Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:

"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"

Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”

Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”

You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”

He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:

"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”

He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”

Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."

You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”

“I do not—”

A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.

Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.

“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.

You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.

“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.

He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”

And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.

Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.

You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.

You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.

[forever-and-whats-left]

SELKIE CHRISTINE IS ON HER WAYYYY

The project won't be done for a LONG while so here are some possible lore ideas

(please drop your own in the comments or replies I'm basically grasping at straws)

I plan for Christine’s family to die, leaving her stranded with Erik. The cause could be poachers, sailors, dangerous weather, or wild animals—something chaotic that leaves her injured. While I know this setup might feel convenient, I’m struggling to connect it to the plot in a way that doesn’t feel even more so.

In this version, Erik isn’t at his usual age. I want to introduce him to Christine right after he leaves Persia—a point in his life I’ve always wanted to explore. He’s younger, still raw with anger, and has a less mature understanding of the world. While the Erik we know has long since abandoned that inner vitriol, this Erik still clings to it. Leaving Persia is his turning point—the moment where all his spite, fury, and desperate need to be seen as powerful are thrown back in his face. He’s at a halfway point, where his heart is still sensitive but buried beneath layers of bitterness. (it also allows for lots of travel and some tension)

Like in the original myth, Erik steals Christine’s furs, but he ultimately confesses. I think this creates a strong opportunity for drama while also allowing Erik room to grow. With Christine losing her family and Erik still searching for one, I feel like—twisted as it is—he would see their meeting as a fated coincidence, even if it also makes him feel guilty about her parent's deaths.

Oh, and amnesia. Some versions of the Selkie myth include it, it adds an excellent opportunity for both horror and mystery. Christine would sense that something is off about her but wouldn’t be able to place it. Meanwhile, Erik is burdened with the knowledge that what she’s looking for—her family—no longer exists, and he’s the one who has to tell her.

Then there’s Raoul. I’m not sure exactly what to do with him yet, but I want their meeting to be a major turning point. Maybe he recognizes her immediately. The only issue is that this means acknowledging that Raoul once saw Christine as a seal and still thought, Yeah, I’d hit that.

[frogemeat]

Back on my shit for my relativity falls AU where Stan goes missing because I can!! And no one can stop me!

So let’s actually dive into the characters a bit more this time and their reactions to Stan’s disappearance.

We’re going to start with Mabel because I feel like in any universe Mabel and Stan have a special connection, one where they just understand eachother, y’know?

In my relativity falls au, Stan is reluctant to open up at first to Mabel. Surprisingly it was Ford who warmed up to her first. Stan, at first, is very distrustful of adults and people in authority in general (when I get you Filbrick, when I get you-) so he keeps distance between himself and Mabel at first.

He’s his usual rambunctious self, loud and unapologetic about, but he doesn’t rant to her about the latest addition of his favorite comic, he doesn’t let her look at his drawings and anytime she wants to spend one on one time on him he would turn her down. Eventually he warmed up to her, which is more my actual relativity falls au then this, so I won’t go into it (unless someone wants me to 👀).

So when I say Mabel worked hard, she worked hard to get Stan’s trust. And she’s proud of that dammit!

To her Stan is such a bright star who’s often overlooked by his genius of a twin brother (something she can heavily relate too) and she wanted to nurture his creativity. And she did!

She displayed the weird Frankenstein taxidermy he made in the shack, she taught him how to knit and sew and he even started to let her watch “the duchess approves” with her!

They grew close and Mabel started to see both the twins as her sons. She had suspicions that their home life was… less than good and she was SUPER unsure about sending them home after summer ended. She didn’t think the decision would’ve been made for her.

Weirdmaggdeon was over. They won. Steve (Bill’s replacement in this AU) is gone. But they weren’t celebrating. The only thought the three Pines had was…

Where’s Stan?

They searched the woods for him long at the r the sun set. She had to drag Ford back home when he started tripping over his own feet, his exhaustion evident. Ford tried to insist he was okay, that he could keep looking, that he needed to keep looking, that Stan was out there, he needed to continue. Stan would keep looking for him if their roles were reversed.

All Mabel could do was shush him as he cried against her shoulder.

Dipper stayed behind and kept looking and both Mabel and Ford went home without their other half. Long after Ford had passed out Dipper had finally come home, empty handed. They spent the rest of the night talking about what to do. They would check town first thing in the morning, they had decided. Maybe in his daze he had wandered out of the woods and one of the townsfolk’s found him. If not, they would go to the police, see if anyone had reported a small brown haired preteen wandering around. (

They also discussed the possibility of Stan being dead, but Mabel couldn’t even stomach the thought of it. They quickly stopped when Mabel started to cry.)

She had just met the twins, only known them for three months, yet they were hers. Her boys. Her babies. Her peanut and walnut. And Stan was gone.

The boy she swore to protect, the boy who pretended he was tough when he was really the sweetest kid she ever met.

Days go by and still no Stan. Ford refuses to talk to anyone, Dipper is out of the house for most of the day searching, and Mabel is left alone, surrounded by half finished knitting projects and echoes of a boy who’s laughter warmed her heart.

She cries a lot. That’s all she does for the first few months.

One day, after Ford’s parents (not Stan and Ford’s, just Ford’s, because apparently no one remember’s her little peanut outside of Gravity Falls) drops off all his stuff for his apprenticeship with Dipper, she’s pulls herself together, makes her famous Mabelcakes, and starts to rebuild. Dipper had done amazing keeping them together, but it was time for some Mabel magic.

Three years pass and the Stan shaped hole in their family doesn’t get smaller. Ford still turns to his right whenever he gets excited, Mabel still hasn’t watched the season finale of “the duchess approves” (she couldn’t finish it without Stan, not when he was so excited to show it to her), and Dipper sometimes still goes into the woods to search.

Ford is turning 17 in a few weeks. June 15th. She’s in Greasy’s after deciding that a snack sounded good after buying birthday presidents for her walnut and instead of Susan greeting her and taking her order like she has since she started working there, she was greeted with a new face.

A familiar face.

Even older, more pimply, and with a beanie pulled down so far it almost covered his eyes, she would recognize him.

Her peanut.

[ivyues]

Chasing Yesterday | 2 | - Bang Chan

Bang Chan x lost connection trainee friend

Years after splitting paths, Bang Chan didn't expect a simple text to bring an old friend – and old feelings – back into his life.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

The days after your café reunion with Chris passed in a haze of texts and shared nostalgia. When you suggested he come over to your place one evening to catch up more, he hesitated for only a moment before agreeing.

On the night he arrived, Chris stood outside your door, his hand hovering over the buzzer. He wasn’t sure why his heart was pounding. Maybe it was the years of distance or the intimacy of stepping into your personal space. He shook his head and pressed the button.

When you opened the door, your wide smile put him at ease. “Hey! Come in.”

Chris stepped inside. While removing his shoes, he glanced around. Your home was cozy, the kind of space that reflected its owner. A stack of books rested on a coffee table, a throw blanket was draped over the couch, and a few polaroid photos adorned the walls. One, in particular, caught his eye — a candid shot of you laughing with someone. His chest tightened briefly. Did you have a boyfriend? Wait, that's possible.

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

You grabbed his hand without thinking and led him to your desk. The tiny producing setup was modest but well-loved: a small MIDI keyboard, a monitor, and a tangle of cables. “This is where I spend most of my free time,” you said with a grin. “But here—this is what I wanted to show you.”

You held up a USB stick, your eyes gleaming with mischief. “I found this while unpacking. It has some old files on it… something we worked on together back then.”

Chris’ eyes widened. “No way! I thought that got lost.”

“Apparently not,” you replied, plugging the USB into your laptop. After a moment of scrolling, you played the file. A rough, unfinished song filled the room, and Chris’ cheeks flushed. “Oh my god,” he couldn’t help but exclaim. It was clunky and amateurish, but there was something endearing about it. It reflected the rough beginnings of his own musical career, a thought that made him laugh.

“I mean, the melody… could’ve been worse,” he said with a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his neck.

You smirked. “That's what I thought! It has potential–If you ignore the rest. We could try to work with it!”

The two of you dove into the project, tweaking the melody and layering new elements. It was pure fun, the kind that came from creating with someone who shared your passion. As the track slowly evolved, so did the atmosphere between you two. Little touches – a brush of his hand against yours when reaching for the keyboard, the way his laugh made your heart skip – blurred the lines between friendship and something more.

As you scrolled through the files on the USB, another discovery made you pause. “Oh my gosh,” you said, clicking on an image file. It was an old selfie of the two of you as trainees. 

The photo showed you taking the selfie with a big grin, your cheeks pressed against Chris’, his arm slung casually around your shoulder. His smile was wide and carefree, his dimples on full display. You both looked so much younger – teenagers with softer, rounder faces, and an innocence that only came before the pressures of adulthood. 

“Oh, come on. You still have that?” Chris groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Man, that must have been like… 10 years ago?”

“Yeah, look at you! You were so cute,” you said, grinning. 

Chris’ ears turned pink as he peeked through his fingers. “Stop. "Seriously." 

Then, after a beat, he asked, “Can you send it to me?”

You laughed lightly. “Sure, if you want.”

As you moved to send him the picture, Chris’ curiosity grew. “Do you have more of those?”

You glanced at him mischievously. “Maybee,” you teased, your grin widening.

His eyes narrowed playfully. “Maybe?”

“Maybe,” you repeated, leaving him to wonder.

Chris’ gaze flickered between the photo on his phone and you. The years had changed you, but your essence – the spark that made his heart beat differently back then – was the same. He couldn’t stop himself from murmuring under his breath, “Your boyfriend is going to be one lucky guy.”

You didn’t hear him, but you caught the way his gaze softened. “What?” you asked, still smiling.

He shook his head quickly. “Nothing. Just… thinking how much has changed. And how much hasn’t.”

Chris let out a small sigh, his mind drifted back to the last time you had spoken before you disappeared from his life.

The memory hit him hard.

You had just received the news that you weren’t debuting in the upcoming group, and he – without thinking – had reacted with relief. Not because he wanted to see you fail, never that, but because it meant you weren’t leaving. He had lost so many friends to debut teams, especially that year, watching them move forward while he stayed behind. But you, especially you, would still be here. With him.

He hadn't realized how cruel that must have sounded to you at the time. How his own feelings had blinded him to the heartbreak in your eyes.

And you had been shattered. Furious. At yourself, at the system, at everything. And at him. His reaction had only deepened the wound, and before either of you knew it, the frustration had exploded into an argument, both of you screaming at each other, saying things that cut the deepest coming from someone you hold close.

After that, silence stretched for weeks. Then, one day, you were just gone. No explanation. No goodbye.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh… I wanted to say this back when we first met again at the café, but I wasn’t sure if it was the right time."

You looked up from the screen, curiosity flickering across your face. "Say what?"

Chris hesitated, then placed his phone down, facing you fully. "I wanted to apologize. For… back then. For what I said the last time we spoke." His voice was soft, regretful. "I was selfish. I wasn’t thinking about how much it hurt you. I just— I was scared of losing another friend. But that’s not an excuse."

Your expression shifted, surprise flickering across your features before you let out a small sigh. "Chris… I was seriously hurt back then. I felt like my world was falling apart, and hearing you say—it just made it worse."

"But," you continued, your voice softer, "we were kids. We didn’t know how to handle all of that pressure, all of those emotions. And I was angry at myself more than anything. I think… I just needed someone to blame."

Chris swallowed, his chest tightening. "Still. I should’ve been better."

"We both should have." You looked at him for a moment, your gaze softening. “I kind of disappeared on everyone after that, didn’t I?” You murmured, a little embarrassed.

You sighed, your voice a little thick with emotion. "And that for sure didn't make your remaining time as a trainee any easier. I didn’t hear anything from you for so long. I thought you had also given up.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “That’s why I was so happy when I heard you debuted. I thought... finally, you made it."

Chris met your gaze, his expression softening even further. “It wasn’t easy. But if past-me would have known you were still rooting for me... that means more than I can say.”

Your smile grew, a bittersweet feeling tugging at you. "Hey, I was always rooting for you. I never stopped."

You were still for a few seconds, your gaze lingering on Chris as something unspoken passed between you. Then, a slow, teasing smile spread across your lips.

His brows furrowed. “What?”

You bit your lip, clearly holding back a laugh. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in. “No, seriously. What?”

You exhaled dramatically before finally giving in. “I just… didn’t think you were the type to show off that much,” you said while vaguely gesturing towards his body, a small grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

Chris blinked. “Huh?”

“C’mon, don’t play innocent now.” You raised an eyebrow playfully.

Chris let out an embarrassed chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck – a move that only served to flex his biceps. “Yah, I’m not—” He stopped mid-sentence when he caught the way your eyes flickered to the movement, your smirk deepening.

Realizing his mistake, he quickly dropped his arm and folded them across his chest, which, unfortunately for him, only emphasized the definition of his forearms. You stifled a laugh, tilting your head. “Uh-huh. Totally not showing off.”

“I’m not!” he groaned, covering his face. “Unbelievable.”

You simply laughed, the warmth between you both growing more comfortable.

As the night and your operation on the song continued, you excused yourself to replace an empty bottle of water. Left alone, Chris’ curiosity got the better of him. Turning around in his chair, his eyes wandered again, landing on an electric guitar propped against the wall. He walked over and gently ran his fingers along the neck.

When you returned, drinks in hand, you found him staring at the guitar. “You really got one?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “You always talked about how you wanted to learn it back then.”

“Of course,” you said, setting the food down. “I still do, but…” You shrugged. “Life gets busy.”

Chris smiled softly. “You should make time for it. It’s never too late.”

Hours later, when it was finally time for Chris to leave, you walked him to the door. As you hugged goodbye, his arms lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said, his voice warm. “It was… really nice.”

“Yeah, it was,” you agreed. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Definitely,” he said, stepping back. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Chris. Get home safely.”

As the door closed behind him, you leaned against it, your heart fluttering. A smile spread across your face, unbidden and unstoppable. Somewhere out there, Chris was walking away with the same feeling, his thoughts already drifting back to you.

-----

The next day, Chris arrived at dance practice with an energy that didn’t go unnoticed by the members. Han, ever curious, sidled up to him during a break. “So,” he began, waggling his eyebrows, “how’d your reunion go?”

Chris froze mid-sip of his water, nearly choking. “What reunion?”

Han rolled his eyes. “Don’t play dumb. You mentioned catching up with an old friend. What was her name? Y/N?”

At the sound of your name, Chris’ ears turned pink. He waved a hand dismissively. “It was fine. We just talked and caught up. Nothing big.”

But Han wasn’t buying it. “Oh, come on, hyung. You can’t drop a name like that and not spill. What’s she like? What’d you talk about?”

The other members, overhearing the exchange, quickly gathered around. Felix plopped down next to Chris with a grin. “Wait, who’s Y/N? Someone you knew before Stray Kids?”

Chris sighed, realizing there was no escaping their curiosity. “She was a trainee with me back in the days. We were close, but she left before debut.”

“That’s so cool you got to reconnect,” Seungmin said, leaning against the wall. “Did you bring her here? It’d be fun to meet her.”

“No,” Chris said quickly, his tone firmer than intended. “I don’t think it’d be a good idea. I don’t want to bring up bad memories for her. The trainee days weren’t exactly easy.”

Hyunjin tilted his head. “That’s fair. But… is she pretty?”

Chris huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “What kind of question is that?”

The members exchanged amused glances. “That’s not a no,” Changbin teased.

Rolling his eyes, Chris stood and grabbed his phone, needing a way to shut them up. “I don’t have any recent pictures, okay? But… here.” He pulled up the old selfie you’d sent him the night before and showed them.

The reaction was immediate as his phone was snatched out of his hand.

“Whoa, you two look so close!” I.N exclaimed, leaning in for a better look.

“This is from back then?” Hyunjin asked, his eyes flicking between the photo and Chris. “You both look so young.”

“Look at how he’s smiling,” Felix teased. “Channie hyung, you were totally whipped back then.”

“I was not,” Chris said defensively, grabbing his phone and shoving it back into his pocket. “Can we drop this now?”

The members weren’t about to let it go that easily. 

“Hyung,” Lee Know started, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “You’re blushing so much right now. Are you sure nothing happened during your little reunion?”

Chris groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear, nothing happened. We just talked, alright? Caught up on life.”

“But you wanted something to happen, didn’t you?” Hyunjin smirked, his chin resting in his hand. “Is she single?”

“No!—What? Why would I know that.” Chris shot back, but his face betrayed him as his ears turned an even brighter shade of red. “She’s just… she’s really nice. And talented. That’s all.”

Seungmin, ever the observant one, raised an eyebrow. “If that’s true, why are you getting so defensive?”

Chris sighed, feeling cornered. “Because you guys are making a big deal out of nothing,” he muttered, glancing away. 

But just as he was about to end the conversation for good, he mumbled the same thing he thought all those years ago – under his breath, barely audible, “She’s way out of my league anyway…”

pt.3 | pt.4 | pt.5 | masterlist

[10yrratiolover]

I feel like I missed something that everyone else sees. Why do so many people seem to believe [or hope] that Dr. Ratio is from Amphoreus? Like, aside from the greco-roman inspirations I really don't see any other connection, and I just don't think it'd make sense timeline wise if you go off of his character stories. And, in the case of his character stories lying to us or being purposefully misleading [plus all the hoops to jump through to justify it], it feels like that would be extremely cumbersome and unsatisfying from a writing standpoint, so why would you even want that?

If I were to be completely crystal clear, I want Ratio content in Amphoreus (just at all, he doesn't even have to be here) it's because I just really want new actual Ratio content. We haven't seen him since Penacony, unless you count miscellaneous events, but it's almost like Hoyo only half-forgets he exists, if that makes sense.

I also just think it would be pretty interesting if he was, mostly since I'm curious as to how that would be handled in-game. I have my own theories but those are just my thoughts at the end of the day.

I couldn't speak on deeper possible connections as I haven't finished the main quest yet, but details like bathing being extremely important in Okhema culture, and that one enemy having the exact pose as one of Ratios statues, and also most enemies having his same colour pallet. These could obviously just be coincidences since they seem so miniscule, but a lot of people chose to believe they're implications or ties of sorts.

The quests he's been in have mostly been showing a response to some sort of crisis (Ifrit in the Station, Penacony albeit loosely), I personally enjoy trying to understand his motivations and why he's doing whatever he's doing. (Ex. He wasn't just lying to lie during the Station quest, he was showing people that they couldn't rely on the Geniuses during times of crisis and had to help themselves.)

Assuming that that pattern follows, I'd be interested to see what sort of issues are arising in Amphoreus as I assume we aren't done on the planet just yet, so, there's bound to be more conflict that needs settling.

[fascinationstreetmp3]

Sometimes I fear they won't do devil's minion at all. Armand won't call Daniel beloved and like the turning- the turning was said to be done in spite where in the books there was at least some love, something that made Armand say they will be in hell together after all. I feel like there is a possibility that in the show hell together means like a thorn lodged in the throat. You can't ignore it and you can't get rid of it. That will hurt a lot if they do that.

im sure dm will definitely be romantic in the show at some point, it's just a case of how they get there because things are obviously different from the books.

i myself am keeping an open mind about the whole "spite" thing tbh. that descriptor does not come from armand or daniel, it comes from louis, who was not there— and in my opinion, daniel sorta dodges addressing it any further when louis brings it up, and there could be multiple reasons for that (he doesn't want to talk about it? or maybe there's more to it he isn't letting on right now?)

just throwing things out there but if it WAS entirely spiteful, but past dm happened, it's possible they could also utilise daniel's book turning scene for the "memory wipe", framing that as armand's act of love in order to save daniel's life, which would balance things out a little more. either way i think we WILL see the turning no matter what anyone says

where they are now with each other, the writers might take inspiration from the sort of push/pull they have towards 1985 in qotd, along with the long period of separation they have after qotd and the regret armand feels for turning daniel. daniel feeling resentful towards armand (for turning him? for messing with his and louis' memories? for leaving him all alone?), but unable to stay away for long; armand believing he has made a horrible mistake and trying to stay away while also dealing with the fact that daniel destroyed armand's relationship with louis, but he and daniel are bound together now and the maker/fledgling connection sometimes seems to be a lot stronger in the show, even between "strangers" as displayed by madeleine & louis being able to "feel" one another

i think show daniel seeing armand at his lowest, knowing what he can do to people and what he has done to him, will play into the way daniel sees armand in the books: a terrible creature capable of great evil who daniel is drawn to and loves for who he is, and armand gets to be perceived outside of the roles he's always playing by someone he doesnt have to control or lie to (and cant, really). for how they get to the love part... im curious to see how it will go because there's a lot of ways it could happen. i'm just certain they will get there. they might feel stuck in "hell together" at first, but eventually hatred won't be the only thing that binds them together (if it ever was the 'only' thing between them in the first place)

maybe tangentially related but ive seen people suggest rolin jones has some sort of dislike for dm or that he just straight up doesn't care/wasn't planning on including it, and of course i have no clue what's going through his head but i have to disagree. a deeper relationship between armand and daniel has only been hinted at right now; pieces of a puzzle slowly make themselves known, and the audience has to notice them and put the puzzle together with what they've got so far. just because something's in the books doesn't mean theyll just talk about it openly, its still a show spoiler. which means outside of the show (in interviews etc) it's only going to be acknowledged as a "thing that happens in the books", yknow? just like book characters that havent appeared yet, the way theyll be portrayed in the show isnt discussed. kinda why i think they got king of spoilers eric bogosian to drop the "budding romance" line in those sdcc videos from a while back because to me... that technically is a show spoiler lmao

[ponyosfrogg]

INBETWEEN (PT 4)

Summary: Going back into the comics world knowing that they're just characters that you read hits different.

Pairing: Tim Drake x Female Wayne! reader.

Authors note: Gosh it's been such a long time. sorry abt it. 🥹💗 I hope this is worth the wait my little munchkins.

Warning: Some of the themes and contents written in this fic might be upsetting for some of the readers, read at your own risk. Some parts have strong language.

When your hand gripped your mug more, you gave a hitched breath. You had an uneasy feeling inside of you, your mind was all over the place, you've never felt more anxious before.

"You want to talk about it little bird?"

You raise your head, still in a little bit of disbelief, to look at Jason.

"Not really."

Your mind was wondering around your thoughts, you were sure this was not a dream. It wasn't hazy, in fact nothing ever felt more realistic than this moment.

Jason was on the other side of the couch, silently reading his book, you were just sitting and staring at the empty wall. after your smile he nodded understandingly and got back to his book that was occupying him for the whole morning.

It's been an hour or so since you wake up, in the fucking comic universe again apparently. You thought it was a dream and tried to pinch yourself multiple times, it did nothing but just make Damian glaring at you weirdly. Then somehow you convinced him to rain check on his plan saying some stupid shit like you weren't feeling like yourself and decided to trust something you can trust in both universes. A cup of coffee.

You looked at Jason again. His old scar on his cheek, green sweatshirt and black pants he's wearing, ruffled hair with a white streak, muscular body. He looked exactly the same on the panels but this time he was sitting right beside you, reading his book peacefully. You feel your anxiety rushing your mind and making you breathe faster. How could you possibly understand what was going around you. Everything seemed so unrealistic yet so real at the same time. They still think that you lost your memory probably but you were very aware of everything and maybe more since you grew up reading about their stories. You knew them more than themselves because you were also, once, on their mind reading their thoughts on the colorful panels.

Okay, one thing at a time. Dream or not, you need to find your way out of it or at least solve the connection between two worlds. You thought about writing everything you know on a piece of paper but what would happen if some of them accidentally find that paper, written everything in detail since they also think you lost your memory. That was very risky but again also, keeping everything in your mind was very hard too considering you had a mind of a fish literally.

Okay, what about telling them you got your memory back? Not a very clever move considering they are vigilantes who fight for the city and so called Viperia is one of them. They might take you on a fucking patrol and considering you have ZERO experience in martial arts and using a katana which is almost the same height as you, not a good option.

But how can you keep denying everything. You are in a manor full of detectives and at some point there's a high chance that one of you might figure out that you're not their actual sister but an imposter and beat you to death.

Yeah, maybe not to your death but you got the point.

And asking one of them for their help? No. That could fuck up the whole situation. They see Viperia as their sister and you being an imposter takes you back to the other option where you'd get beaten up.

It was a dead end but your mind was working as fast as it could, trying to come up with new solutions, just, none of them were useful enough. Maybe you needed some air or something.

"Jason? You wanna go for a walk?"

He put his book beside and looked at you. He had one of these glares which would make a lot of people fall in love with him as soon as they see him. The one that seemed like could read your whole soul like an open book without even flinching but also always giving the feeling of trust. It was literally impossible to achieve yet he was standing right in front of you with all of his glory. Definitely the creator of him was playing favorites and Jason was one of them.

"Yes, around the manor?"

He was still thinking that you lost your memory and didn't want to overwhelm you with all the city noise and danger. He remembered when he came back from the death coming out of his grave wasn't the hardest part, it was all the loud voices he had to deal with. Lights, muggers, rushing people and the ugly rainy weather which was the signature thread of Gotham now. But you didn't even want to go to Gotham anyway. Yes it was all fun and games to read that everything that was happening in this gloomy dark city but being in it? It wasn't so fun. What would happen if you came across some thief, or worse Joker's himself. You didn't want to walk around in Gotham as the daughter of fucking Bruce Wayne even though you trusted (?) Jason Todd.

"Sounds great. Let me grab my shoes from my room"

You got up and quickly ran towards the stairs. This manor somehow managed to smell so good. Maybe it was because of the expensive perfumes or maybe it was Alfred's amazing cooking. Yes, comics weren't giving him the appreciation he deserves, he was some sort of food god and you were sure of it.

When you entered your room, you closed the door behind you and turned around, just to find a woman in front of your wardrobe, checking the pictures you looked at last night.

"May I help you?" you spoke with uncertainty in your voice.

"You shouldn't be here."

You could only see her back since she didn't even turn to look at you. She had black wavy hair almost as long as to come around her hips and a long black coat. Who would even wear a coat in the middle of the summer. Oh, right. It was Gotham.

You didn't know why but you didn't feel any kind of fear. It almost felt like home. Was she Talia? No. She wouldn't wear something like this but again, what do you even know.

"You shouldn't be here either i guess, since you sneaked into my room." Trying to scare some kind of lunatic by being bold? That's how things go in this universe you suppose.

"I sensed some abnormalities in the Multi-verse and magic realm. It started two nights ago and i just followed them. Who knew our one and only Batman had a daughter right?"

She turned around and you saw her face.

Oh fuck,

She was fucking Zatanna.

With all of her beauty, she was standing right in front of you, her blue eyes as clear as the sky, she had this kind of face that you only saw her doing to bad guys, well read at least. Annoying and slightly scary face. And she also knew that you didn't belong here?

Well i guess so much for making a low profile.

You fear growed inside of you, you knew yelling for help wasn't an option since she could easily turn into you a rabbit or I don't know, kill you? It was mostly up to her imagination and you knew she had a big one.

"Well, personally I didn't."

You just realized she had something on her hand and after finishing her sentence she showed it to you. It was a picture, the ones that you looked through last night. In that picture you were looking at Bruce who was busy with something on his computer. He was a little further from your camera so his face was kind of blurry.

"I'll be honest with you, i don't like intruders. Especially the ones from another universe we already have enough on our plate.

Okay, for starters you never actually imagined Zatanna being so intimidating in your imagination. Because when you were reading the comic she was only mean when she needed to. You just never thought you would be one of them but for defense, who would've thought.

"So I advise you to go back to your universe trespasser because next time I'm not going to be this nice, this is a warning.

Geez, was this her 'nice' personality. She looked like she could eat you alive without even hesitating to do so. You realized you didn't even move since she started talking but you felt like you lost your voice somewhere inside of you.

"Oh, you can move now." she said smiling, with her voice you left a deep breath you didn't even know you were holding. Why were you even holding it? Oh. Oh... She already made a spell. You bend over a little bit and put your hands on your knees to cough. Your lungs were burning with the oxygen again. You missed when your problem was just deciding what to eat at dinner.

When you feel slightly better you put your hand on your heart to feel your heartbeat. It seemed normal, well as normal as it can be since you almost died. But in this universe it appears that you weren't dealing with heart issues because normally you would die because of the rhythm.

You stood straight again, confidence leaving your body completely with her stone cold gaze.

"I didn't mean to intrude," you finally manage to say, your voice still shaky from the encounter with Zatanna's magic. "I don't even know how I ended up here."

Zatanna raises an eyebrow, her gaze softening slightly. "Well, you better start explaining yourself quickly, then."

You told your story to Zatanna, recounting the unbelievable chain of events. How you woke up here, believed you had lost your memory, and then woke up in your original universe, discovered the existence of a new character in the DCU who was essentially you. Every little detail. It felt like a surreal dream, but you soon realized it wasn't. Zatanna listens intently, her expression unreadable, as she processes the information. With each word, you notice her eyes flickering with interest, as if she's piecing together some puzzle in her mind. She doesn't interrupt, instead making silent calculations as you divulge the details of your journey. You can't help but wonder what she's thinking, and whether she believes you or not because you know that if she doesn't, there's a high chance that you'll continue your life as an animal. Well at least, Damian treats his animals quite nice.

But nonetheless, you were feeling some kind of relief because as you were telling your story, you realized how much you felt like you needed to share this with someone and knowing that she's one of the few characters in this universe who might comprehend the complexities of the multiverse due to her experiences. Also Zatanna's reputation as a skilled sorceress precedes her in the comic universe, and you can't help but feel a spark of hope that she might hold the key to solve this thing.

"So you only change universes when you're asleep in one?"

"Seems like it." You could sense that she believed your story. Well, she probably feels when someone is lying to her so that shouldn't be a coincidence.

"You must have known a lot about this universe then since it was some sort of book in your hands, Am I correct?" you could sense some kind of testing in her voice. As if you shouldn't have said that. You just nod as an answer.

Zatanna fixed a stern gaze on you, her blue eyes piercing through the air. "Listen to me carefully, the future isn't set in stone, and every action has consequences. Interfering with events could lead to unforeseen outcomes, and you might end up taking someone's attention that you wouldn't want to take." Her serious voice made you even more scared than you already were. you knew you were in some kind of messed up situation but you always thought the main thing to worry about was to be able to stay in one universe, not someone tracking you like an animal to hunt you down.

"No meddling or helping, be cautious about sharing too much. Revealing future events or secrets can disrupt the delicate balance of this universe. Even if you know what is going to happen, let it be. This is not your universe to save, do not ever interfere did you hear me?"

She said the last four words were sharper than the others with a little breath between them. You nod again, and wasn't able to find the voice to talk.

"This universe might not be real for you but it is real for those who live in it, until i solve your problem and figure out why you are here, you stay low. I'll cast a spell so no one can track you down like I did. As soon as I find a solution, you are going back to your universe."

She opened her palm just to create some kind of necklace with purple stone that looked like amethyst.

"Don't take this off. Ever."

When she closed her hands again, you felt a little more weight on your neck, just to find the necklace on your neck. your fingertips touched the cold stone. you could feel the energy coming out of it.

Just as you prepared yourself to ask your question, your room's door opened like someone was trying to get in. Without any knock.

You saw Jason's worried face looking at you and suddenly you panicked that he might see Zatanna and ask some questions about it. but when you looked behind, there was no one. You touched your neck just to make sure of her existence.

Your necklace was hanging around your neck.

"Are you okay little bird? it's been some time."

He said as he closed the door after him. He was suspecting something. Your window was completely open and you were still standing right next to the door. You looked paler than you were before like you saw some sort of ghost. He was genuinely worried about you considering you were dealing with a lot of situations right now. he could understand how painful it must be for you to get through all of these things.

"Yes, I'm okay. I just thought I saw someone and got scared."

He moved closer to the window to check if someone tried to get inside. It would be the last experience of their life considering everyone in this house was well-trained vigilantes. He didn't see anything and almost convinced it was because of the losing memory thing but then he realized the necklace around your neck. It had a distinct design that Jason has never seen.

"Hey, what's that?" He pointed to the necklace, curiosity piqued.

You instinctively covered the pendant with your hand, feeling a bit protective of it. "Oh, um, it's just a necklace I found. I thought it looked nice, so I put it on."

Jason raised an eyebrow but didn't press the matter further. "Alright, as long as you're okay. You ready for that walk?"

You nodded, eager to get some fresh air and clear your head after the encounter with Zatanna. You followed Jason out of the room, trying to act as normal as possible despite the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions inside you that crashes you.

You decide to take a deep breath and leave this matter in your room, just to enjoy some good moments with one of your favorite characters of all time. Well, you really should stop referring to him as a character too though, since you were in this universe now and he was a real person. Even though it was kind of weird.

When you guys were going down the stairs Jason's phone rang. he was in front of you so when he stopped you couldn't help but bump him with a sudden reflex your hand grabbed his shoulder to stop yourself from falling.

Your movements surprised you as if you were as slow as a sloth in your universe. It was not because you were lazy no, it was because your poor heart wasn't able to deal with too much movement that's why you were never into any kinds of sports. You couldn't even catch a ball if they threw it right onto your face.

He looked at you to see if you were okay before opening his phone and started to move again.

You were eager to know who was on the other end, you couldn't help but listen in, despite knowing it was wrong. You slowed your steps, tried to breathe much more quieter, tuning in to the conversation.

The voice on the other end sounded quite soft and young, he was most likely Jason's best friend Roy. You were familiar with his character when their own separate comic journey came out some years ago. and also considering Jason only has like three friends there weren't any other options. 'The outlaws' Although you didn't enjoy how the comic was going, you kept reading for their developing friendship and of course for Kori. That woman was the embodiment of power.

"Yeah, I was planning to join you last night, but family matters came up." Your thoughts stopped wondering when you heard him talk again. You couldn't quite understand what Roy was saying because Jason was walking fast but from the talk of the Jason, you kind of assumed they were expecting him to come yesterday and probably you were to so called up family matters.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to make it tonight either. The harbor, you say?" There was a brief pause. "Alright, send me the location. I'll be there in an hour." Something about the Harbor though, made you feel uneasy. but again you couldn't overthink it when Jason hung up the phone and turned around to face you.

You tried to act like you didn't overhead the entire conversation and just stared at your feet.

"Something came up little bird I'm sorry but we have to reschedule our walk and I have to go to my friends."

"Is everything alright Jason?"

He paused again probably thinking himself if everything was alright but quickly started to smile. "Yes, don't even think about it. I just need to run some errands. I promise to make it up though, I hope it is okay for me to leave you."

A gentleman like always.

you smiled reassuringly and nod your head. "Yeah, sure. I will see you around." He hugged you before he grabbed his jacket nearby the door and rushed towards the outside.

Harbor. It seemed too familiar to not to think about it. There was a harbor in Gotham but it was probably far considering they were always going by their cars or motorcycles. At least that what was written in the comics.

You turned around too and started to climb stairs while you were thinking. It wasn't even afternoon and you already had enough encounters for the day. It was much more easier before you realized you were just travelling between worlds you thought. now you were stuck in your favorite comic series in the body of their assassin sister with the mind of your own. which was a curse in your opinion. you felt alone and you were actually all alone. 

when you reached your room you were glad there wasn't anyone lurking around the house today. Damian was out, Jason was out, Tim was probably reading or something god knows what and for Dick, you were sure he wasn't going to visit you anytime soon considering he was not in Gotham that often now so when he was here he was usually meeting with friends. at least in comics it was what he was doing. or maybe he was outside making phone calls to everyone he knows to find a solution for your so called memory loss.

Tim on the other hand had a calm morning. After Damian took you out of his room this morning, he stayed awake a little bit more to go over some of the details on his recent case since all he had to do was researching about your memory loss that night or thinking about you constantly. After he realized he wasn't productive at all he decided to sleep a little bit. Its been hours since he slept, hell, maybe days. he wasn't even counting at that point. Alfred was out, doing groceries that's why he didn't bother himself to prepare something to eat. He just got into his bed and slept.

After some time his body awake him. He wasn't used to sleeping much that's why he was always struggling with insomnia. The most he could sleep was maybe four hours in a good day but most of the time it wasn't even the case, the constant nightmares wasn't leaving him alone. He wasn't even remembering them after waking up but most of the nights when he fell asleep he was waking with a lot of sweat, out of breath, crying like a ten year old kid who's afraid of darkness. that's why he stopped patrolling for some time now. he was helping his family behind computers and he also didn't trust himself around you.

He drank a glass of water and checked the time. It was almost six, he slept for four hours which was very good. although he woke up multiple times. When he reached for his phone he saw a text from five hours ago. it was from Jason, saying that he went to the harbor for a deal and left you alone in the mansion. Tim sighed loudly, he hated when he was getting treated like a fucking babysitter over you or Damian. he quickly texted some swear words to Jason and get out of the bed.

Your rooms were close considering Dicks and Jason's rooms were on the other side of the mansion. It was only going to take like, i don't know, ten seconds to reach your room but he was already feeling too lazy to do so.

The weather was rainy, again. and it was already dark. Considering it's summer Tim just guessed that a storm was approaching.

When he was in front of your room he heard a little scream inside of the room so without knocking he barged in.

There you were, standing on Damian's bed with a katana on your hand. your hand was bleeding and your other hand was holding the katana like your life depending on it.

"What are you doing?"

He rushed towards you and grabbed the tall sword out of your hand and put it on the wall again. you gave a big sigh and you jumped out of the bed.

"I just wanted to see if they were real."

You said calmly. Tim got off the bed and turned around to face you. You were wearing black jeans with a big hoodie thats covering your face almost completly. the blood from the cut was dripping on the carpet slowly as you seemed like completely unbothered. He didn't say anything and went over the wardrobe to find a first aid kit. you fuys were getting injured more often than you would like to admit so there were first aid kits almost everywhere now.

"I guess you found out whether they were real or not princess."

He spoke teasingly while you rolled your eyes thanking every god or whatever you should be praying since you don't know who they are praying to in this world for not realizing you were lying.

You had an idea after long hours of thinking, you were going to follow Jason to be able to understand what all these Harbor things were. It was driving you crazy to not be able to remember anything because clearly it was important. That's why grabbing the katana seemed like a good idea until it wasn't.

The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the city skyline outside the window since you didn't bother yourself to open the lights. you were going to leave anyway.

He seemed like he just woke up. His hair was messy but in a pretty way, his eyes were a little puffy probably from sleeping so little and drinking all that coffee. his sweatpants were low on his waist. when he was doing stuff around the room you could see how his muscles were moving. he was the definition of handsome and charming.

Yes you loved every batfamily members, they were all good looking and such a husband material, at least you were thinking this when you were reading. sometimes when your feelings were overwhelming you, you were reading fan-fictions about them to ease your mind but it was not a lie that even though you forced yourself to read about others, it was always Tim that you found yourself reading. It was safe to say that he was your comic-crush if it was a real term. He was clever, quick, witty, charming and of course handsome. He was the nicest yet the baddiest character you've ever read. there was something about him that makes you want to jump all over him now that you realize it is Tim fucking Drake you're standing right in front of. You coughed to gather your thoughts and he came towards you with a bag in his hand.

Your heart was pounding being this close to him. You were getting angry at yourself for being this kind of a fangirl. He grabbed your hand and slowly he touched with a cotton that he put some alcohol early.

"Shit." you sweared under your breath. It was just a little cut and it wasn't even hurting that much beforehand but now it was burning like somebody put the hellfires  right on to your palm. After a little bit more alcohol he bandaged your hand.

He looked like he was doing some kind of operation. His eyebrows were frowned with concentration, you couldn't help but smile because of his nice touches.

"Enjoying yourself I assume."

He smirked while his eyes met with yours in seconds. You tried to look away but it was like the spell Zatanna cast over you this morning. you couldn't move.

Maybe the theories about him and the Viperia were true, they were secretly dating because he clearly had something for you, to be more exact Viperia.

"Don't get cocky Drake I can stare at whoever I want, wherever I want and whenever I want. It's my eyes after all."

He laughed with your answer.

"You still have your sharp tongue I presume."

His laugh sent a shiver down your spine, not from the cold but from something deeper, something dangerous. It had been so long since you'd heard that voice like this—lighthearted, teasing. For a moment, you wanted to let yourself get lost in it, but you couldn’t afford that luxury. You had bigger problems. Like what was about to happen at the harbor.

That's why you thought the sword was a good option to go with. since you were going to this mission in secret you needed a weapon just in case someone tried to attack you. Even though you had your hesitations you were sure that katana's itself is scary enough to drive people away.  but it was a horrible fail, who would've thought that thing would be heavy as hell.

"Why are you dressed like that anyway?"

He asked suspiciously while he looked at you with a great attention again. It was like he was trying to see through your lies and you were that if he stared at you more he actually might that's why you came up with a quick lie.

"Oh, I just needed some fresh air so I decided to go to the garden by myself..

He squinted his eyes like he was searching through your face. he wasn't convinced enough.

"Do you always get some fresh air while you dress like that?"

You sighed as you got annoyed.

"I didn't know Gotham had a dress code, Timbo."

You crossed your arms, rolling your eyes before brushing past him. If this conversation went on any longer, he’d put the pieces together, and you couldn't afford that. He was one of the best detectives in the world. He’d figure you out.

You were almost at the door when you felt the warmth of his breath against your neck. You froze.

"Careful, princess," he murmured, voice lower, softer—dangerous. "You almost have me believing that you got your memory back and you're hiding it from me."

Without another word, you pushed forward, quickening your pace as you  ran out of the room.

Damn it. He was too good at this. Too perceptive. Too much.

And you had to move fast before he caught up.

The wind was unforgiving, biting through your clothes as you shivered behind a stack of woods. The air was thick with salt and rusted metal. You could barely feel your fingers from the cold.

It had taken you almost an hour to find this Harbor. The walk was miserable, but you finally managed to track down the warehouse. Jason was inside, standing across from a group of masked men, Roy at his side, arms crossed. Both of them were suited up, Red Hood and Arsenal.

The wind once again blew your hoodie out of your head and you decided to give up from the secrecy. You have found the warehouse that the meeting was happening thank god. Through the broken window of this old warehouse. It seemed like it was an exchange: information for supplies. Standard business in Gotham.

But something about this moment—this exact moment—felt wrong again. Familiar, maybe even too familiar. As if you had seen it before.

Then, footsteps were heard. Soft but not quite. Like that someone wanted you to realize they were right behind you. You were fucked if this was one of the men from inside but you weren't going to give up without fighting. You turned sharply, already reaching for the knife that you put around your body—only to find Tim stepping out of the shadows, hands in his pockets, looking entirely unimpressed.

He was wearing a long black coat almost covering his entire body yet wearing nothing around his face. He was much more handsome under the moonlight and you realized how much his eyes resembled the sea.

"You really thought you could shake me that easily?"

You cursed under your breath, quickly grabbing his arm and pulling him down beside yourself to make sure nobody's seeing you.

"Are you insane? You can’t just walk up like that to me!"

"Right, because you're sneaking off in the middle of the night to spy on..."

He looked through the broken window with a deadpan look on his face.

"the red hood makes perfect sense, right?"

You were going to die that was for sure. You got caught and how could someone explain this situation.

"Why are you here?" He seemed more serious now. Your mind was racing, tracing back and forth to find a reasonable answer to explain all of these but the words weren't coming out of your mouth at all.

"I was… just curious."

Tim raised an eyebrow, didn't believe anything that was coming out of my mouth.

"Curious. About a bunch of vigilantes. During a weapons exchange. In the middle of the empty harbor. Alone."

He was scary when he was angry that's why you couldn't meet or refused to meet his gaze but his long fingers wrapped around your chin to make sure you were looking right into his eyes.

"Does this mean your memory’s back?"

That hit harder than expected. Your chest tightened and your breath hitched. There was no escape now.

"I—No. It’s not like that."

Tim leaned in slightly, voice dropping lower like almost a whisper. only inches away from your lips yet not stopping the eye-contact.

"Then what is it like? Because you're acting weird. for someone who just lost their memory you are quite active, persistent and curious. help me understand."

Before you could answer, movement inside the warehouse caught your eye. The sound of a gun being cocked. And suddenly, the scene hit you like a fast train.

The docks. The deal. The ambush. The gunfire. Blood. So much blood.

You have read about it, about this exact scene. It was when Roy Harper almost got killed and stayed in coma for months which pushed Jason over the edge of madness and made him a complete mess with a brutal side that kills everyone and everything that gets into his way.

It was one of the harshest things that you've read. It was a complete disaster.

You sucked in a sharp breath, eyes completely wide

"No. No, no, no—"

Tim frowned with worry.

"What? What is it?"

You spoke with a whisper like tone almost murmuring to yourself.

"This—this is wrong. If we don't help them it's gonna be worse than dying for Roy and Jason."

It was Tim's turn to be shocked.

"What are you talking ab—How do you even kno—You got your memory back right?"

You didn’t answer.

Because there was no time.

You pulled free, grabbing the knives strapped to your waist, and moved.

The window was big enough. You slipped through without hesitation, your body moving on autopilot. Everything was happening so fast Tim wasn't able to find an opportunity to react. There was a shooter hiding behind the barrels—you knew that. You knew because he was the one who shot Roy, the one no one saw coming.

You wouldn’t let it happen.

The knife left your hand before you could think. It struck metal, clattering against the barrel—enough to send the shooter scrambling out of his hiding place.

Chaos erupted.

Jason and Roy reacted instantly. Guns fired. Fists flew. The ambush was now an open fight, and they had a chance.

A chance they didn’t have before.

And then—arms wrapped around you.

Before you could struggle, you were yanked back through the window, landing outside the warehouse, pressed against something firm and solid.

Tim.

His scent filled your senses—coffee, rain and sandalwood, something distinctly him.

You gripped his shoulders to steady yourself, breathing hard. Adrenaline was leaving every part of your body as you tried to take deep breaths.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he hissed, his tone sharp but quiet enough to keep from drawing attention to both of you.

His gaze flickered down, and suddenly, his expression changed. His eyes widened.

Your necklace was glowing.

His grip on you is tightened you could feel his fingertips piercing through your skin even though with your clothes on.

"Why is your necklace glowing?" he demanded.

He locked eyes with you, and this time, there was something ele

Suspicion.

Fear.

His voice was barely a whisper.

"Who are you?"

[talonabraxas]

"Roar, lion of the heart, and tear me open!” — Rumi. Lion Spirit of Leo Talon Abraxas Intuitive Astrology: Leo Full Moon February 2025 The fiery, passionate, and bold energies of the Leo Full Moon will reach their peak on February 12th. As the Full Moon rests bright in the sky, we may feel a spark ignited within us; we may feel a sense of courage to take on challenges, changes, and everything in between.

The Leo Full Moon holds some erratic energy, but this is not necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps we need a shake-up. Perhaps we need to look at things from a different vantage point. As the poet Rumi once shared-  ‘Do not worry that your life is turning upside down. How do you know the side you are used to is better than the one to come?’ And that feels to be the motto of this Full Moon.

Change is in the air, and perhaps some instability too, but we are being called to step into our power, find our courage, and stand proud in what we know to be true in our hearts. We are being called to trust ourselves and to listen to our inner wisdom. The truer we are to ourselves, the easier time we will have working with this Full Moon energy.

The Leo Full Moon Brings Change and Awakening

Whenever you hear there is a volatile or unstable Full Moon, you have to expect the planet of change and awakening, Uranus, to be involved! When Uranus gets together with the Full Moon, it can bring all sorts of surprises and clashing energies, but it’s not called the planet of awakening for nothing.

Sometimes, we need these shake-ups in our lives so we can determine what is no longer working. Sometimes, we need these shake-ups so we can see what is no longer stable and relevant to our journey forward.

Uranus joining the Full Moon indicates that we may need to shake free from something in our lives. It could be some old patterns or ways of thinking, or it could be more dramatic, like a job or relationship.

Something may come to a close under this Full Moon as we recognize that it’s just not sustainable to continue on the way we have been.

Uranus shakes us to awaken us, so if you are feeling the winds of change or the ground shaking beneath you, ask yourself- How am I being called to awaken to something bigger?

Uranus wants us to think outside the box and stretch the possibilities that we have been looking at. It encourages us to think in a different way and to approach things from a new vantage point.

Stay open-minded under this Full Moon, as you never know what new inspirations and brain waves may find you.

The Leo Full Moon Illuminates Divine Messages

Mercury, the messenger of the Gods, is also active under this Full Moon, having made its conjunction with the Sun just a few days before.

Mercury and the Full Moon can reveal new truths and information to us, so it’s very likely that some important messages may come our way.

As the messenger of the Gods, Mercury asks us to stay open to the messages in both our outer world and inner world. Pay attention to synchronicities, messengers, and signs from the Universe. You never know what guidance and answers you may receive.

Following the Full Moon, you may also notice more information about a topic or situation in your life being revealed, so be patient and allow things to unfold.

Healing Under the Leo Full Moon

The February Full Moon may have us feeling a little weathered but more confident in ourselves and where we stand.

While there is some volatility, there is also the opportunity for healing too, especially when we are in connection with our hearts.

Chiron, the asteroid of the wounded healer, is also active under this Full Moon, holding the promise that whatever wounds or challenges we face will eventually lead us to a brighter place.

Chiron reminds us that our wounds and troubles don’t disqualify us from being able to find beauty, purpose, and meaning in our lives. Chiron wants us to acknowledge our wounds as a part of the fabric of our destiny, and something that can make us stronger, wiser, and more compasionate.

When we make it to the other side of this Full Moon, something would have changed and shifted in us. While there is great power in this Full Moon, we can also come back to the higher message that Leo energy serves: simplicity.

Leo energy, on its highest octave, guides us to come back to the simplest answer, the simplest approach, and to remember that we don’t have to try or force something to be. Just like the lion stands tall and proud, simply being who he is, we too can do the same.

[wisteria-lodge]

I’ve always hated how the Weasleys and Ginny just don’t exist in Potter children names, even though they are the only family that Harry has known.

Personally I think that in his 20s Harry would have to be extremely critical of Dumbledore, and would also try to distant himself and his children from all the deaths.

But yeah, I feel like Fred is a name that George could have given to Harry and Ginny, because I feel like he would have felt weird about using it himself (although Rowling’s thoughts on George are bizzare, he marries his brothers ex girlfriend which is like. No), and he and Fred adored both Harry and Ginny. But I bet Bill’s child would have been named Frederick William Weasley. I think his son is older than James Potter Jr.

So Frederick Harry Potter is - yes.

But Weasleys and Potters seem to use a lot of muggle royalty names. Weasleys are more mythological - so everything is very arthurian, and Potters are more contemporary: Harry, James, there is a Charlus in the line. Fleamont is an outlier and even then - Monty. A very posh muggle name.

Idk, why not Richard, Joanne? Why not Margaret? Vivian? Gawain? Maybe dare I say Evan!!! Because Fleamont was a surname!! Ugh I hate her naming choices so so much and by the way we know she is good at naming!! Joanne WHAT in Renesmee was that????

Right??? She is usually really good at this sort of thing. Idk maybe we're supposed to read Harry's kids names as thematic or symbolic (which also doesn't really work, but whatever.) Or she wrote the epilogue after Book 4, which is why everyone still has Book 4 levels of characterization?

In addition to yours (which I like) Harry might also want to consider:

Ariana (tbh I think Albus would be deeply uncomfortable with a child named after him, but would feel much better about a child named after his sister.)

Phoenix

Godric

Wulfric (also a stealth Dumbledore name, and 'Wolf Potter' brings in a little of that Remus + Werewolf angle)

Elaine (gets that Arthurian connection in there, and sounds enough like 'Eileen' that it can be a stealth way to honor the Prince family, if Harry wants to do that. Also she's the "Lily Maid" of Astolat.)

Guinevere (would be Gwennie or Jenny for short, and "Ginny and Jenny" is adorable)

Holly

idk Ginny names her pygmy puff Arnold. Maybe she'd like a super anglo name like Albert, Herbert, Stanley, or Barney (which are also possibly weasley-coded names, if Harry's alias is 'Cousin Barney'?)

[justabrick]

[guess who’s back, back again]

analysis of jetstream sam, maybe? i love him dearly and i like hearing people’s interpretations of his backstory!

you could write an entire novel of just yapping about him and i will gladly read all of it

Glad to have you back, back again

To be honest, I may be an outlier in the fandom due to not caring all too much for Sam, but I believe I may have a thought or two that hasn't already been discussed to death.

So, I believe Samuel is the only Desperado Armstrong actually respects and views as worthy of continuing to exist in his social Darwinist utopia. The main thing pointing to it is the fact that he isn't actually a Wind of Destruction or a Desperado employee at all. He bears the logo on his prosthetic arm, but otherwise he's unaffiliated.

In one of my long posts I've discussed how Desperado is doomed to be torn apart the moment Tecumseh goes live, it's the only possible outcome for them after an assassination attempt on the president. And the Winds, being the commanders of that PMC, would definitely get blended into fine paste as the result. But Sam?

Sam would be able to walk free, just like Armstrong. They're not connected to Desperado on paper, so they get to continue on while the Winds get thrown away like trash once they've outlived their usefulness.

Jetstream is the only one who actually fought for his own sake and faced Armstrong in battle, which is exactly the thing Senator respects.

Meanwhile I think Armstrong would fundamentally disrespect Sundowner, Monsoon and Mistral.

He's all about individualism, freedom, personal choice. And if you listen to both Monsoon and Sundowner, they're both denying personal responsibility, with the main difference being that one attributes human lack of freedom and inherent cruelty to memes and the other - to genes. "You have no choices to make, nothing to answer for..." Think of it. What would a man like Armstrong think of such a world view? And then there's Sundowner, the embodiment of pointless wars Armstrong wants to end. Everything is not as clear with Mistral, but I think her purposeless life prior to Desperado doesn't inspire much admiration in Steven either.

I have to wonder if Sam was actually kinda believing in Armstrong's ideals by the time we fought him. "Two years I've been working towards this, and on the last day Blondie has me doubting the whole thing." Obviously he's conflicted and doubting his identity, but since his on-screen behavior is out of character judging by Bladewolf's comments, it leads me to suspect that in the two years Sam spent in this whole mess he's come to delude himself into sort of believing in Armstrong's goal as a coping mechanism and Raiden bulldozing his way through World Marshal HQ despite all odds gave him a big reality check. Jack actually sticking to his ideals through everything would make Sam wonder whether he's gone insane himself, having joined the very thing he tried to destroy.

[redux-iterum]

This really is very much digging the cons of being a Kittypet in a really strong way. Sure you are safe and well fed but you are subject to the unknowable whims of humans, Rosy was separated from her litter and had her litter separated from her due to those whims and keeping Cloudpaw around was just putting him at risk.

She says she can protect him and feed him but she only wishes she could. It's her humans that would do that and there was no way she could actually know what they wanted with Cloudpaw.

The kind of life and connections she wants are only really possible within clan structure and that's quite tragic for her character, sobbing at her house as the only family she has left chooses another family over her.

And the thing is, I don't think Rosy realizes the actual danger of what protecting Cloudpaw would entail. Speaking to Lionface was scary enough - imagine facing down a dog with no training or ability to get away. If she were on her own, she'd be fucked. But I don't know if she realizes that.

There's a film protecting her from the realities of the outside world that she isn't seeing. The Clans don't exist to her. The dogs are a vague, unseen threat that she's never had to deal with. No sicknesses come her way. The worst that's happened to her is what happens to every kittypet: separation from their family. Which she got back, even for a short while, so she's luckier than most of her kind.

[bubblegumrabbitwriting]

Since Valentines 💝 is around the corner. How would the Ro's react if they found out that Mc had a date night with some person. But they knew Mc had feelings for the Ro's? Would they try sabotaging the date or something?

Thanks for the ask, Happy Valentine's. Reactions below; some of these, I guess, reveal some new info about the ROs.

Echo -

Echo sat typing away on her with more force than necessary, mind racing with ways to stop your...date. Even the thought of using that word left a bad taste in her mouth.

She knew that you both felt the same, or at least she hoped that was what she saw when you looked into her eyes. But sometimes you're too kind for your own good; surely you were cornered by that—by Miss Kim's grandkid. So Echo was just going to have to save you for once.

She just had to figure out how; maybe she could call in a bomb threat at the restaurant or use some of her connections with the health and safety to get it closed down for an impromptu check or... Was she being too clingy? After all, isn't that why they left her?

Is she just pushing herself on you like she did them, and you were going to get bored of her sooner or later and leave? Is this what this date was? No, no, she can't think like that, not again; she will get you out of this.

--------

You arrive at the restaurant, and it's closed...you feel bad for the small amount of relief that bubbles inside you. But it's not long before you're walking to another restaurant, and that's also closed, then another, and the same again, closed. Each brings you more relief.

It's almost like you have a guardian angel watching over you, and you have a funny feeling they are furiously typing away on her phone right now.

Cy -

Cy watched as you got ready for a...date. Keeping their displeasure expertly hidden, waiting for you to act on your clear attraction for them and make a move, but the time is coming near, and you haven't acted yet. Much to the dismay of Cy.

They know you know that you act damn conscious, so why weren't you acting now? Turning to Cy and telling them that you want them to be yours and you theirs. Why were you glamming yourself up, and why wasn't it for them?

Then finally you left your home for the restaurant and Cy with it, looking at them like you were waiting for them...wait, were you hoping they would act?

Shit, well, if you want them to show you how much you mean to them, they will show you.

-------

You sat, eating and barely paying attention to your date across from you as your mind raced with images of Cy. Were you being too obtuse? You known Cy for years now; how observant they are, surely they noticed what you were hoping for.

Then the waiter appeared, or Cy in a waiter's disguise? Not that it was much more than a plain white shirt and tight-fitting slacks, but you would be lying if you said that it didn't make your heart race.

Then they spilt wine on your date; for anyone that didn't know them, it looked like a mistake, but for you, it was clear that it was on purpose. Wait, are they trying to sabotage your date, and are you really just going to let them?

Maybe...yes, yes, you are.

A -

A was hanging around the warehouse, trying to tease Echo as they are want to do. But this time she wasn't reacting, moping and angrily typing away on her phone and only biting back with remarks that were too pointed for their usual back-and-forth.

They weren't offended, no, they were even more interested. What could have possibly shaken her so much? But then she said the words. You were going on a date with that bland clerk that always made eyes at you. Why? What did they have that they couldn't offer you?

You obviously liked what they have to offer; they had seen the way your eyes wandered and your cheeks redden when they whispered sweet words in your ear. Yet you were going on a date with another, really, and someone so...normal. This wouldn't do, not one bit. And A already had the perfect plan.

-------

There you were sat, across from the clerk, A watched them like a predator ready to sweep down on their prey. But that would be to easy and wouldn't open your eye's to what you were missing.

But the person across from them, openingly ogling A would. They just had to show you what you were missing, and then you would have no choice but to spend the rest of the night with A.

A laughed openly and obnoxiously, their faked giggle filling the space of the restaurant and pulling your eyes to them as they were dressed in their finest, leaning towards...someone, someone you had never seen before.

Then they turn to look directly at you, challengingly, and trying provoke you to do something about it... Were they trying to make you jealous, and is it actually working?

A had you exactly were they wanted you.

Salem -

Salem was walking back to the office, and her already bad morning had turned worse when she heard your news: you were going on a date. Not a bad thing. But the problem was it wasn't with her.

She likes to think that she is good at reading people, and you were showing all the signs of attraction. Maybe she could have been more perceptive to your feelings, but...it's hard, hard to show that sort of open weakness to a world that seems all too happy to dig its claws into it and tear it until you break down.

And now she would have to pay for shielding herself, shielding herself so much that you turned away. Like so many before, not that she could blame you. It's the normal reaction. But maybe this time it doesn't have to end in the same way; maybe she needs to take a note from all those stupid rom-coms Harper makes them watch.

She pulls out her phone and starts typing the number for the local precinct.

------

You wait outside for your...date. Maybe you're slightly regretting agreeing to it, but what were you supposed to do? The professor said it would do you good, but now you're starting to feel stupid waiting here dressed up in the dark.

Then you wait and wait and wait, and nothing. Just you and an empty street before you hear footsteps to your right that you recognise. Salem.

"Do you like standing out in the cold?" The answer was obvious, but you couldn't speak due to your own embarrassment. "There's a new diner opened up down the road; want to go?" You would like that; maybe it would even make dressing up worth it.

Salem escorts you to the dinner close to your side and pushes the thoughts of your would-be date locked in a cell far away from their mind.

Harper -

Harper was sat at work typing away, while Salem complained about you, as she has gotten so used to doing. They were listening with rapt attention, trying to glean any new detail about you from another person's view. They admittedly aren't always the best at reading people's emotions or even their own, but that's why they just have to listen to how other people view you. They just need to know one thing you like, and their plan will come to fruition: a gift and message for Valentine's. What could be more romantic?

"Apparently they are going on a date with that Kim's woman grandkid." Salem said, more annoyed than anything else. The words stopped their rhythm on the keyboard in its tracks, hands suspended midair as they started to tremble. You're going on a date...with some rando-with someone other than them. They thougth you saw them in the same light, they did you, but you weren't going on the date with them.

Were they too late again? Too scared to act, and now you were going to be swept away by someone who could offer you more than them. Who wasn't afraid to show how much you meant to them, how much they wanted to spend time with you, how you just walking into the room brightened their day? Should they call you and confess their feelings before you go on the date? But wouldn't that be unfair, to try and steal you away from another? To make you choose. And what if you didn't choose them? What would they do then?

-------

Hours later, Harper sits at home, curled in a blanket, a half-empty bucket of ice cream slowly melting as 'When Harry Met Sally' plays on their TV. Eyes red and puffy, why are they even mourning something that didn't have a chance in the first place?

Eating the box of chocolate they so painstakingly picked out for you, maybe you aren't enjoying the date. Maybe they just need to build up the courage like in the movies they have been watching all night and tell you everything, but they are frozen with fear before they fall into the gentle embrace of sleep. Dreams of you dancing in their mind as a single tear rolls down their cheek.

Man...some of these got deep. Um...Happy Valentines, everyone. 💖

[lunastryinc]

i’m struggling a lot with this group because of cliques/bubble rping and i don’t feel comfortable talking to the mods off anon because i don’t feel like i’ll be heard or taken seriously. it’s really disheartening joining and constantly being ignored no matter how many times i try to reach out to other writers. i really want to love this place and feel comfortable posting on the dash because i see its potential and the amount of admin work that gets put into it but i really wish something could be addressed about this issue going forward

Thank you for reaching out to us.

Firstly, I do want to apologize if we've ever given the impression that we don't take member issues seriously. Truly, if you think something is worth being brought up, we want to hear about it and do whatever we can to help, no matter what it is. Sometimes the mod team is busy, so we won't get back to you right away, but I promise we want to do whatever we can to make this group as comfortable and inviting as possible.

To properly address the issue, we do feel like it's imperative to reach out to us off anon. We've been posting reminders about branching out and making new connections, or even just being more mindful of interacting with the posts on dash. Personally, I know whenever I'm on one of my characters, I try to like and/or comment on all the original posts I see. However, there are almost 200 characters in the group and a little over 80 individual writers, so we can only do so much to reinforce this. The mod team tries to get online throughout the day, but there are going to be moments where none of us are online. We can't know everything that's happening in group all the time and so in these cases, we do rely on you guys coming to us so we can do what we can to make this a welcoming space.

The mod team is working on solutions to increase activity and interactions because we don't want anyone feeling left out. We are very much open to suggestions though and would love to hear any feedback from you guys- again, we want to do what we can, but we need you guys to communicate with us on how we can best help you.

If everyone could take a moment to fill out this very short and 100% anonymous questionnaire for us, that would be super helpful!

Thank you angels x

[ofspvrta]

For a moment it's Kassandra who's frozen now. Even in this low light, she could lose herself in Roxana's eyes. Thinks about all the times they snuck under the ship when the crew was away and made love while listening for anyone returning early. It's the same kind of light now, only the rushed urgency of neediness and love is replaced here with a longing to understand what is happening. From both sides.

Up until now, Kassandra had long accepted the fact that all of her lovers would be gone until she died and reached Elysium, from there she wasn't sure who would await her. She never thought this was a possibility, weren't the Isu the only ones who could reincarnate, as Sages? As far as Kassandra knew, Roxana never had Isu blood or any connection to that world outside of her.

Roxana's hand feels so warm under hers, her skin feels the same, its a touch she would never forget. How could she? It is so gentle and yet she was such an efficient killer. As those fingers curl against her skin, Kassandra's eyes fall shut for a moment, basking in the warmth of her against her skin. Kassandra's breaths are even as she embraces the moment, never wanting it to end. Not quite a kiss, but this is something more tender right now, this is trust, the foundation of it.

"You believe me, don't you?" She asks, her tone still gentle as Roxana's hand shifts, finger now tracing one of the Isu markings. They always ran a little warmer than the rest of her unusually warm body. "About two thousand four hundred years ago we met on this album. You proudly told me you were training to fight in the Battle of One Hundred Hands, just as your parents and brother had. And where they had failed and fell, you would win and bring glory and riches home." She leans her head into the touch, gold eyes never leaving Roxana's, "We trained together and you vouched for me to enter the tournament. And we flirted and fell in love that same day we met, knowing only one of us, or maybe neither of us was going to come home. But we both did, because we broke the rules, we killed the tournament leader and his guards who were all part of a cult and we spent the rest of your life chasing adventures and doing good." Her thumb gently traces along Roxana's hand, "I waited for you, waited for death to finally come so I could join you again... but now you're here... you're really here."

THERE IS NOBODY YELLING IN ROXANA'S HEAD . she's only now realizing how lonely she's been since fully throwing herself into abstergo. she still stops , sometimes , to catch a ball with the neighbor kids. STOPS AT HER FAVORITE RESTUARANTS . it's rare. she's become nothing but a work horse for abstergo. SHE HASN'T MADE REAL MEMORIES IN MONTHS . and she can be soft , she can be loving. SHE LOVED HER PARENTS .

... there's only a touch after kassandra moves her hand because she simply was not expecting the touch. AND UNLESS SHE REALLY WANTS AN ANSWER HERSELF -- like she did for what happens to the temple , she just doesn't know what to say. EVERYTHING FEELS SO OUT OF PLACE . yet like it's falling directly into place. SOME FUCKING WAY . crazy.

WHY IS THAT VOICE SO SOFT AND CARING ? she has never felt so damn comfortable with someone. and that someone had tried to kill her earlier. HER FINGERS CURL INTO KASSANDRA'S CHEEK SLIGHTLY . and then it's the way her jaw goes slack , brown eyes just staring at kassandra's features without really seeing kassandra. THIS KASSANDRA AT LEAST . it's like being transported to a different time period , kassandra's current features mold with kassandra's old features. THE OLD KASSANDRA IS SMILING , roxana's hand on her cheek. the ship around them is creaking , shouting is heard from above. NOT ANGRY OR URGENT , just a couple of crew members having fun. ROXANA'S EYEBROWS FURROW . crew members?

" i need to live in this moment right now. " and she breathes it out like there's a chance she may now believe it all. EYES FOCUS BACK ON SAID MOMENT . roxana's hand moves slightly , finding a bright line to simply touch. just one fingertip. SOMETHING ABOUT IT IS GETTING LESS CRAZY .