#look at this poor creature good grief

[maririna]

✧˚ · .Cat Got Your Tongue?

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ Dr. Ratio x Reader

> In which you bring home a stray.

Word Count: 1.7k

Mari's Note: So I had this dream with him and a cat and I felt compelled to write something with it lol. Surprisingly, it came out sorta cute than I thought <3

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

"No. Absolutely not, I would not agree to such a proposal."

"Aww, why not?" You raise its paw waving it as if saying hello towards a certain grumpy lover while you support the feline with your free hand, keeping it close to your chest. "I think it'll be beneficial to keep it."

Minutes prior to your arrival, you had overheard high pitched whines directing from a secluded alleyway that was surrounded by stagnant puddles as a result of the dreary rain that just occurred.

Discovering the source, you were met with a surprising sight of a cat in a box, finding solace in the warmth of a battered newspaper, eyes wide and seemingly clueless from the situation it was in. You ofcourse had fallen in love and before you came to your senses, you were already in front of the door with said cat. 

It's rather unusual for you to make a grandiose request to Veritas, being satisfied with what you have and had been given, you are never used to asking for anything more. Perhaps it was intuition that struck you and you decided to stick with it.

"What a preposterous idea. I do not need some creature's mouth to feed." Veritas sighs, his hand rubbing his forehead. "Such a despicable thing would have the potential to create chaos and disruption to my work and research."

You raise your eyebrows, "Oh? Who said you'll take care of it? I'll fully take responsibility."

"Please?" You press, "The poor thing must have been starving and besides, we need a friend at home." 

"Good grief, have you even acknowledged the fact that the Felis catus species possess only an average IQ of 2?" He sighs as you shoot him a pleading gaze, the cat mewling in your arms, unaware of the doctor's insult.

With a hard look, he huffs and finally gives in. 

"Fine, only if you were to provide adequate training, necessities, complete supervision and most significantly, establish proper behavior, I may allow your preposition. However!" he halts. "If it interferes with my research and our house conditions, it's out."

You cheer, scurrying your feet to give a peck on his cheek, following with a stretch of your arms for the cat to do the same except it was met with a palm of his hand. "Oh no, no. Not the animal." 

You wont lie, having a new family to the household made things livelier, especially on the days where Veritas had been absent due to the Intelligentsia Guild. The cat had quite a calming effect, you were able to indulge into your work and daily schedule without the rush of anxiety on those same days. With dedicating your free time towards bonding and training the cat, you had also set aside its own space in your humble abode far Veritas's work desk and absolutely further from the intricate stone carvings in the shape of your lover. 

You also discovered that your new companion is a lovely and polite tom cat.

Veritas so far (and so good) did not seem to mind, letting the animal even roam around the living room frequently since it was a portion of the home that contained none of his papers and nor does he seem to mind the soft meows requesting for attention or inquiries of the food bowl being filled.

You are currently settled down on your couch with your darling joined with you. His eyes concentrate at a book on hand, the gentle sound of pages being flipped by the featherlight touches of his fingers fills the room alongside the occasional soft purrs of your feline friend who is nestled comfortably onto your lap. Its rhythmic breathing soothes you as you hum in content, nothing but peace and tranquility envelopes the space.

You were interrupted from your thoughts with the sound of Veritas’s book slam shut.

“Have you gotten accustomed to the new addition to our household? I am not one who engages nor enjoys the affection and sentimentality derived from owning a domesticated animal, however in your case, you seem to say otherwise.”

“Does it seem obvious?” 

You focus on feeling the softness of the cat’s fur as you carefully thread it with your fingers. His ears twitch from your intrusion, eyes shot open like he was not asleep just a second ago, he lets out a yawn, flexing his back into a wide stretch with a flick of a tail. He jumps from your lap to the couch, kneading it. You grin, muttering a totally unapologetic ‘sorry’.

The cat strolls over, a faint purr rumbling from his chest as he begins nuzzling against Veritas's thigh who visibly flinches. You notice his hand almost ready to raise, only to have it actually end up meeting upon the animal’s head which meows in delight, pressing his muzzle to the palm of your significant other’s hand, rubbing against it.

You see him cringe and tense up but you still credit his effort and beam at the sight. To see him be physically affectionate with the animal was unexpected, deep down you assumed he might have disliked the cat. Maybe he is still foreign with the change. 

“I guess so, the cat has been very therapeutic to me if I'm being honest,” you add.

He scoffs, "Although that is something I can never relate to," you don't see it, but his eyes soften a bit. 

A hand rests on top of your hair, "If it refines your cognitive performance and brain activity then I would have no objections and no reason not to accept the animal."

Veritas removes his hand and you almost miss the warmth. "Regardless, if he does not come aligned with my terms and conditions–"

"I know I know, geez. The cat has been nothing but a sweetheart." You cut him off and pout, "Isn't that right...?”

You pause.

“Uhm…”

Your partner raises a brow, "...are you implying you had never designated a name for him until now?"

You sweat, "...I haven't"

"Ridiculous."

"Well, it's hard to think of one!" you retort.

"Nonsense. You had already established a bond with him, although I would not necessarily care but I assumed it would have been natural to issue him a name.”

“You think of one then!” you puff your cheeks.

Veritas places his hand under his chin, absorbed in thought. Wait, Is he actually considering it?

“I would rather not. I am in no way having the slightest care over it as I deem it not crucial.”

You stick a tongue out to him, so much for having the tiniest belief from your heart in him. You can't help but deflate, feeling dejected that he doesn't fully welcome the cat as you expected.

For the next few days, you have been brainstorming, stubbornly attempting to choose a name, basking in countless research and books.

"Hmm, I don't like any of these." You groan in exasperation, rummaging through the pages of a book for a potential fit of a name, only to prove you no luck. Cursing under your breath, your face falls flat on the surface of a page.

A name is crucial for a pet, one to call out to, to get attached to, and to bond with, he deserves to have one like every other being. You have asked Veritas for any suggestions or if he can at least help but your actions bear no results.

With heavy defeat, you are forced to drag yourself towards the shelves for the cat's lunch. Geez you can't keep calling him just ‘cat’ forever, can you?

You spot the animal mewling over from the corner of your eye, trying to catch your attention to fulfill his hunger but notice something out of the ordinary.

Huh?

You see that he is wearing...a collar?

He tilts his head curiously, looking at you with doe eyes, meowing once more. You don't recall ever giving him one, only toys and cardboard boxes he seemed to like to conceal himself in all the time.

As you take a closer look, you discover something even more odd. A silver metal hanging around the edges of the leather–a name tag.

Your fingers glaze over the tag, feeling the sturdiness of the material, seeing a word engraved on it.

'Archimedes'.

You couldn't contain the smile that goes up to your face, your heart starts to race with happiness and relief. Only one person would come up with a certain name like this.

It seemed perfect for you, to think that he chose this name seems undoubtedly much like him. 

"Just so you are aware, I had scientifically engineered the collar to be a precise fit for him, including the exact millimeters alongside taking consideration of the feline's anatomy and measurements." 

Following the sound of a voice, you see the man himself, holding a piece of graph paper of what you assume is a detailed illustration of his creation as he carries himself with elegance and confidence.

"I created it to be comfortable, durable, and lightweight. In addition to that, I installed features that can accurately measure his vitals, from heartbeat to temperature with a built-in system that will notify us if there exists any malfunctions to his vitals."

As much as you are filled with joy and gratitude you couldn’t help but feel the need to go for the tease. 

"Oh? I thought you didn't want to keep him? Hm?" your tone is mischievous but playful.

You feign being in deep thought, resting a thumb underneath your chin. "Why is there a collar in him which by the way was specifically made for him by you and named him yourself if you wanted to get rid of him oh so badly?" 

"Research indicates having a feline cultivates a productive space for effective studying. I am simply experimenting with Archimedes. It would be favorable in my end to conduct my hypothesis if there is a word for him to respond to." He crosses his arms, his eyes suddenly interested in one of his many statues from the corner of the room.

"Right. Whatever floats your boat.” 

“That is known as buoyancy.”

...this man.

You lightly flick his forehead, trying to stop him from speaking any further as to save yourself from being trapped into another one of his hours-long lectures. 

“You are a dummy, y’know?” Before he could reply, you wrap your arms around him, his body relaxes, a silent invite for you to continue, feeling the tenderness and warmth of his skin. You brushed off strands of purple locks from his face, giving him a loving kiss. 

“Thank you, Veritas."

His eyes refuse to meet yours as he is rendered speechless.

"...Idiot"

"...But honestly, Veritas, you should have just opted for a normal collar."

[heartfullofleeches]

In wolf's clothing

Yan Hybrids (Rabbit, NB. Mouse, Fem. Swan, Male) + Gender Neutral Sheep (?) Hybrid Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: Mentions of Murder

-

Four animals are brought into questioning following the gruesome murder and dismemberment of their neighbor- A rabbit, a mouse, a swan - and a sheep. A sin of this caliber has not been committed since the founding decades of their shared home. The culprit responsible for the heinous act is to be brought to justice through execution by hanging in front of the town as a cautionary example to any who desire the same level of senseless bloodshed. 

Shall we begin?- 

The rabbit was an upstanding figure in the community. An outsider who quickly made a place for themselves amongst their peers, garnering love and tolerance by means of pleasant conversation and baked treats. Once the rabbit was present, sadness and grief were a thing of the past for most to whom they were acquainted. Honest and true, the rabbit has never told a lie nor done anything to jeopardize their new cozy life. 

“It's such a shame what happened to Mr. Possum.” Said the rabbit. “We had plans for brunch on the day he vanished. I even whipped up a batch of the scones he loved so much.” 

“Did you kill Mr. Possum?” 

The rabbit doesn't bat an eye as they reply. “No, I did not.”

“Where were you the morning he disappeared?”

“I was making tarts for another one of our friends. I think you may know. Sheep may not be the most talkative, but they enjoy my baking as much as any other. Where is Sheep? Are they alright? All this fuss surely must be getting to them by now…I hope they enjoyed the tarts….” 

The rabbit is released from custody. 

The mouse was a timid creature. On the rare occasion she wasn't holed up in the confines of her burrow, a common place to find the mouse was wandering along the borders of town where roads ended and the treelining began. Day in and day out, the little mouse would scrounge for fallen branches. The mouse found purpose for herself weaving baskets and other trinkets for herself and the neighbors who treated her in kind. 

“Oh…This won't take long, will it? I'd rather not be out past nightfall…” 

*Did you kill Mr. Possum?” 

Pain grips the tiny mouse’s voice as she squeaks. “I could never hurt a fly! Mr. Possum was such a gentle soul too… If not a tad misguided…”

“Where were you the morning he disappeared?”

The mouse dries her tears as swiftly as they fall. “Taking a nap after being up all evening making a necklace for… Oh, stars- Sheep, they're here aren't they? Could you let them know I'll be waiting for them outside? My poor, sweet Sheep…”

The mouse is released from custody. 

The swan was nothing if not a beautiful face. Tending to the upkeep of his image, the swan had no care for the outside world nor the people who dwelled within it. A shut in, abiding his precious time in the sanctity of his study. A man of few words; letters were the only feasible way of communicating with the bird, less the matter was of utmost importance and worthy of his time. 

“This is pointless.”

“Did you kill Mr. Possum?”

The swan scoffs - pinching the wall of his cheek with his teeth to avoid expression. “What good would killing that old bastard do me? Now look what you've done? If I develop wrinkles from frowning there will be hell to pay, Mayor.”

“Where were you the morning he disappeared?”

The swan brushes dirt off his fine coat. “In my study as always. That morning I was preoccupied writing notes in one of my books I intended to let that sheep borrow for a time….They are in this building, are they not? I'm sure they've asked for me by now.”

The swan is released from custody.

The sheep is a shadow upon the community. Lurking just out of sight, the sheep did everything in their power to remain unseen amongst their fellow townspeople. Their aloof nature when approach proved their odd behavior was not out of malice, but few still had their suspensions. The sheep was a sweet and gentle soul nonetheless. If only they took more care of their fur…

“Do I really have to be here? I didn't know him very well to begin with.”

“Yes… I'm afraid. Did you kill Mr. Possum?”

The sheep licks at the corner of their mouth, tongue collecting every crumb of pastry glued to their fur. How they wished they could have had just one more bite before coming. They blink, beady eyes glossing over with tears. 

“Did you…kill Mr. Possum?”

The sheep fiddles with the string of their new necklace tucked beneath their shirt as the mayor presses further- fighting every urge to gnaw at the bones dangling over their chest. “I… I didn't.”

“Where were you the morning he disappeared?”

The sheep recalls a distant memory- Lines written in a book they'd read not long ago. “I…was at home. I'm sure Rabbit, Mouse, and Swan can vouch for me….”

A hand squeezes the sheep’s shoulder. The mayor, a noble and charitable elk, nods in understanding at the smaller animal. He eyes the rings of red lacing their neck as they nervously pick at the skin. 

“Understood. Make sure you stick to this story if anyone else questions you. Hurry on home, young one, and be quick.”

The elk leans in closer- Whispering, though the walls of his office are as thick as the saliva the sheep swallows as he utters those dreaded words. 

 “It's about time for you to trim your claws again.”

The sheep is free from custody. 

Scurrying on home with their tail still tucked between their legs, the sheep finds three familiar faces waiting for them there.

“Sheep!” Warmth bathes the terrified animal as they're swept into the caring arms of their long-eared companion. The rabbit dabs their wet cheeks with their apron. “Are you alright, hunny-bunny? Tell us everything that happened.”

Through teary eyes, the sheep details every portion of their integration. “I think the mayor knows I didn't do it…. I hope the same goes for you guys…” 

A collective wave of relief falls over the group.

“That's good news.” Mouse adds. “If anyone is incapable of hurting someone it's Sheep… Poor Mr. Possum….I feel terrible for what happened to him.”

Swan rolls his eyes. “I’d say his demise is poetic justice for accusing Sheep of being a… well you know what.”

Rabbit shoves Sheep's head into their chest. “We all agreed not to talk about that anymore! Especially if Sheep is present! We've all had a long day… Why don't we head inside and relax after all that kerfuffle with a nice, rejuvenating cup of tea? Sheep, could you be a dear and grab that kettle I bought for you?” 

“O..oh… Um…Alright.”

The sheep squeezes past Swan and Mouse as they step inside their home. The remainder of the group wait for the telltale sound of them scrounging around in their room for the present before any of them speaks. 

Rabbit sighs. “Okay. I know they're horrible with keeping track of everything we give them so we have a few minutes to chat about this. Mouse, did you return the ax?”

Mouse points in the general direction of another house off somewhere in the distance. “I put it back in Squrriel’s shed where I found it last night.”

“Swan, did you check every one of those cameras you have to see if anyone saw us?”

Swan rolls his eyes. “Like anything that interesting happens in this town after nightfall. We're in the clear. We’d best head instead to help them. Plus, I need to get my time with them since you'll already taken front and center with everything else.” 

The death of Mr. Possum was later ruled as a robbery gone wrong committed by traveling crooks. It took many moons, but eventually peace fell upon the cozy little town and its tight knit community once more. Sheep, unable to sleep after the tragedy, sought refuge in the homes of those there for them in their time of need. 

Their doors were always open for their kind, gentle sheep. 

[bellrose]

A Kindness

Summary: Your brother has been lost to the flames at Rook’s Rest and the anxious whispers of the Court do not give any consolation. However, the words of a knight in green do. How you wish you could give him a kindness in return.

Gwayne Hightower x female reader

Warnings: Angst. Loss of a family member. Descriptions of injuries by dragon fire

Word count: 2.615

The host had returned to Kings Landing with a fanfare akin to a funeral march. 

The flies buzzing like bees amongst the rotten flesh of Meleys a song for the dead. Vhagar had been there on the battlefield, the King himself fallen from the sky, and the hope you held close to your heart and in prayer had been a child’s dream.

Your brother isn’t among the men climbing stiffly from their horses. Nor the men carrying the banners with their ragged edges, specks of rusty brown marring the King’s crest. He won’t drink with his fellow brothers in arms, revelling together in their victory until the cups double in their quantity. He will never smile again. A crooked smile, for he had lost a tooth during a tourney right before attaining knighthood.

No, he will never return.

You’d known when Father received the raven and his hands shook to hold the message. The sight of Meleys’ severed head being paraded through the streets a finality. It is an omen, the folks whispered to themselves. For who dares to slay such a formidable creature? Your brother laid rotting like the mighty beast and the hapless mass of fallen soldiers. Overlooked by Sisters guiding them through their final hour, if they were lucky that is. 

The dead don’t speak. They wait to be reunited with their families. Or to be lost in a field. 

Nameless. Forgotten.

Turned black like coal at the bottom of the hearth they’d whisper. Faces molten into an eternal scream they'd hush behind fans flapping away the noon sun. I heard they fed the remains of those poor boys to one of those beasts, for the sheep had fled. How awful!

There are others who share your grief, who barely leave the Sept or gorge themselves on any rumour that might bring reprieve. The Ladies of the Court give you their pity, their condolences, though it is half-hearted and they refuse to look upon you truly. You do not blame them. 

Rumours cannot explain the seven hells that had opened up on those grounds, and with the King’s condition a barely kept secret, they grow less sensical by the day.

Father would know, for he wakes up with a tome in his hand and an age old tale on his tongue. Surely he must know the truth? You wish he would speak to you, but he has thrown himself into his duties and refuses to receive you in his small chambers. 

Ladies smile demurely and sip politely on sweet reds. They don’t scream. There are no more tears to cry. You’ve exhausted your grief to the point your eyes feel dry and brittle. Like parchment, and you wonder how long it will take until you, too, shall crumble underneath the dragon’s might.

“Lady Waye says the Queen has shadows underneath her eyes as deep as the night,” Edeva murmurs to your right, low enough that only your ears catch it. “That her whispering has returned tenfold.”

“I think her Queen’s Ladies in waiting should put their grave concerns into action instead of turning to gossiping,” you bite, a bit louder than intended, only it gets lost in the clamour of tinkling glasses and a bard playing the lute. 

Edeva has been your companion, a good friend to turn to in the halls of the Keep, and you feel ashamed for pushing her aside. She tries to distract you by pointing out the dish full of lush summer fruits being set upon the table by a servant. However, the sight of their ripe, glossy skins makes you nauseous.    

Without announcing your leave, you slide past the gowns and grapes further into the Keep. You have no destination in mind, other than it has to be anywhere but here. 

The stairs blur beneath your heavy skirt. Every breath locked high in your throat. You turn a corner, another, the colourful tapestries twirling in your periphery. The stories they tell a mockery. A servant leaps out of your way. Another step of stairs, and then - the sound you keep hidden escapes into a shocked huff when you collide against something solid.

A hand grabs your wrist to steady you, warm through the dark brocade.

It does not take long to recognize who stands before you. The tower spewing flames engraved on the leather doublet telling enough. His ruddy hair brings forth the invitation to a dance, that same hand guiding you over gleaming stone to the cacophony of a summer ball away in the past. Father telling another tale of a tourney. That dreadful day when the Stranger took Queen Aemma and her newborn son, when Prince Daemon drove him to the ground on his black steed.

You will never claim to know him well. Only a flash of red and green through the years when your paths crossed before taking residence in the Red Keep. Like so many faces he is out of your reach, a familiarity, but not an acquaintance.

Ser Gwayne Hightower's face does not bear any scars of Daemon’s lance. These are the nicks and scratches of a different battle.

He had been there. He had stood on the field where your brother met his grisly demise.

“Apologies Ser,” you whisper, voice cracking around the syllables. You retract your hand and slowly bow your head and knees in curtsy.

“The apologies are all mine, my Lady. The halls of the Keep are mighty. I fear my feet get lost in their splendour,” he says, the hint of a smile on his face a tad tight-lipped.

The steps of the seat of the Hightowers can be more daunting, and the structure itself grander than the Red Keep could ever be. You feel there is more to the white lie, a contempt.

There is a horror hidden in the ashes stubbornly clinging to the grooves and fibres of his clothing. His face has been scrubbed clean on the road, but the dirt of travel still sticks in his hairline, a little smudge behind his ear. You imagine you can smell it, even if leather and the natural musk of men try to hide it so. The stench of dragon fire; of burnt flesh and desperation, of loss - and if you cannot smell it you can see it in his eyes.

Gwayne does not possess the doe brown of the Dowager Queen. His eyes shine brighter. Like the precious gems Lady Nelda likes to wear around her neck whenever the occasion arises. On another day they would have been inquisitive. A bit haughty. Now they are exhausted. Duller. Something unsettling swirling in those depths. You are hit with a different kind of familiarity, one of understanding.

“My Lady,” he bows.

The moment is gone. Gwayne averts his gaze to a point further down the hallway and you wish he would look upon you again.

The knight in green has taken but a few steps before you find your voice.

“My brother... Ser, I-”

He halts. The expression on his face is a mystery, though his shoulders stiffen.

“Was he in the company at Rook’s Rest?" he asks lowly.

Your nails bite in the palm of your hands. “Yes. He was.”

Gwayne turns back around. A scrutiny in those dimmed gems when they rove from your balled fists to your face, and you cannot start to guess what he finds there. The despair bottling inside overflows into a torrent.

“The men- They say dragon fire melts the flesh like wax. Turns the bones to dust, to scatter in the storm. That there is nothing left of their prey but soil to grow our gardens.” Something changes in his stance, the dullness receding and it encourages you even more. “Is that what is left of my brother? Dust? We cannot bury what is lost on the wind.”

“I do not know, my Lady.” Gwayne takes another step forward. “I do not know of the fate of your brother. I wish I could give you that amenity, to ease your mind.”

“Does it ease your mind, Ser?” you ask, aware how your tone is rising in pitch. Shrill. “To have witnessed the dragons dance and live to tell the tale?”

And how dare you pose such a question? When it is loud and clear he has witnessed the unspeakable that the fiery beasts left in their wake? But he is here, standing, breathing, and he sees.

“I wish it were that easy,” he answers, wavering before he rightens his shoulders, clenching his jaw. “We need to be brave, my Lady. Be brave for your brother. Be brave and find it on your own, as I cannot give you the solace you seek.”

“It is not solace that I seek. I-”

He cuts you off. “You want answers. You want an elaborate summation of his gruesome faith, is that it?”

Gwayne takes another step forward, closer now, and you have to lift up your chin to follow. At first you believe it is rage that meets you, anger at your accusation. It is helplessness instead.

“Many good men died at the foredoor of Rook’s Rest. The dragons tear off each other’s limbs in the clouds, trampling them all underneath their feet and breath. What folly…”

He drifts off, his attention now on one of the many tapestries adorning the walls. A wry chuckle bursts from his lips. “It seems the many days on the road have disrupted my manners.”

“I fear there is no propriety in grief Ser,” you confess quietly.

Gwayne tilts his head sideways, considering your words, before he smiles once more. A real one this time, still edged in a shared sorrow, but it’s warmer.

“I guess not.”

“I do not know what I seek.”

“Then stop seeking.” His eyes find yours again, and his next words are spoken earnestly, kindly. “Do not tarnish what is the memory of your sibling, my Lady. He would have wished to be remembered whole, for then he cannot be lost to the winds.”

Gwayne grabs your right hand, unfolding the balled fist. His thumb stroking over the indents your nails left behind and turning the palm downward. His lips are warm when they touch your skin, lingering for a moment too long.

“A good day, my Lady.”

“Good day, Ser.”

You watch him go. Steady steps carrying him down the hallway. His words mulling over in your mind and for the first time in the past moon, ever since your brother left the Keep, you feel a peace.

The stone steps underneath the soles of your shoes are still a bit damp, the ground forth uneven where hoofs have trampled and disturbed the earth.

There’s a flurry of activity in the yard. Green with golden dragons on shields and banners, knights gleaming like silver coins rolling on a hardwood table. For a fleeting moment, you expect to see another face, one with a crooked smile who belongs only in your dreams now. 

And then you see him.

Dressed in his armour bounding towards his horse, as if he cannot wait long enough to leave. As if Kings Landing is worse than what awaits outside its seven gates. Perhaps it was, or he would rather not delay the inevitable. And what is that? A quick death? No.

Ser Gwayne offered you a kindness with his understanding, and you wish to understand him in return. To offer something steady in a world that is tilting on its axis the longer the war continues.

Deep in the pocket between the fabrics of your skirt, your hand grasps the hidden piece of cloth. The stitches tickle your skin. It steadies you, dousing the nervous thoughts that have been following you all morning. 

It’s not a handkerchief. Not in the traditional sense. You found it among the garments in the chest of your quarters. Dark green, almost blue, and the moment you touched it, an idea would not leave you alone.

The needle still feels clumsy at times between your finger tips, as you were never the patient pupil your mother had wished you to be and rather spent your time learning the harp, but the flowers they bore are delicate. Pretty. Refined. White petals with a core of deep orange; the colour of the sun peeking over the horizon. Your Septa would have been proud. Though, she would admonish the purpose behind it.

A kindness. Be brave.

It is that sentiment that moves you forward, past the guards standing sentry near the stairs and interweaving through the crowd filling the yard. His destrier, standing out with its magnificent armour, shining on the morrow, is in the hands of a squire. Gwayne does not see you coming, too busy speaking to the boy. Voice short and clipped.

“Ser Gwayne?”

The squire bows and runs off. Gwayne watches him go for a quick second before his gaze lands on your form. There’s surprise in the way his brows raise, the corner of his mouth turning up just so.

“My Lady,” he says, loosely gripping the reins of his horse. The destrier noses the pauldron at his shoulder. “How may I help you?”

Promise me to return all these men to their families, to come back, but that would be too much to ask and too forward, as if bestowing him with your needlework isn’t daunting enough.

“I sincerely regret not thanking you properly for what you said to me that day,” you state politely.

His head tilts down in understanding. The sun catches the red in his hair like honey. “Your regrets are misplaced. You do not need to thank me.”

“You misunderstand me Ser, I do.” Bolder now, you fish out the embroidered cloth from the hidden place of your dress. “You will be in my prayers, but please take this as a token of good fortune.”

He accepts the cloth mutely, brows rising further and gloved fingers studying the wreath of flowers you stitched along the edges. For a moment you fear the gift is too unbefitting after all, that the warmth that you had felt besides the kiss upon your hand a figment of your imagination. That he will reject it. 

He’s quick to crush those doubts, but not quick enough to halt the blush of regret that is slowly blooming on your nape. 

“I will cherish this gesture my Lady,” he says, eyes glittering. “But do not trouble yourself with concerns on my behalf, there are much more important matters to ponder.”

“This I cannot promise you Ser,” you answer honestly. “I’ll be awaiting your return.”

“That sight alone might make me forget the pungency these streets carry,” Gwayne parries, a hint of smugness that is purely in jest, and studies the cloth again. “White Lelas... They grow near Goldengrove, do they not?”

“Yes. My late mother used to put them in my crib when I was a mere babe, as my father tells me.” You think of the washed white stone of your grandfathers’ Keep and tall grasses holding a vast array of flowers. Too many to count. “I barely remember what they smell like, but I always thought they were quite charming.”

“Quite indeed,” Gwayne hums, though he is not looking at the cloth anymore. He turns towards his horse, looping it around a buckle on the saddle in a strong knot. The fabric will sway against his leg with every step the steed took. It will be with him when he confronts the enemies of the Crown.

A memory, a constant. 

“I hope the day will be upon us soon my Lady,” he says and the kiss on the back of your hand is a farewell.

For now.

Did I purposefully mirror the phrasing of “turned to dust” from Cole's we're-all-going-to die-anyway spiel for possible parallels and continuation purposes? Why, yes. Maybe. It was never my intention to write this anyway but the brainrot is real. Damn you, Freddie!

Thank you for reading

[freuleinanna]

I'm still confused about Verna.. I thought she was a demon?? Because why would Death be going around making a bunch of deals with people? After Verna told Pym she decided to go "topside" I thought she was some kind of crossroads demon since it implies she came from below (hell)

Oh! I feel you, and I struggled with that a lot too. She does seem a lot like a demon. I'm not saying I'm 100% correct in my thinking either, but here's why I personally think she's Death. Kind of a long post, sorry. I hope I make myself clear, but feel free to follow up!

So, Verna. An anagram for Raven, that much is established. Ravens are wonderful - symmetrical even - creatures. Bringers of death in a wide understanding. Bringers of good luck in many cultures. The duality is amazing. To me, that also leans majorly into the theme of death being a concept of duality: an enemy for some, a friend for others. Each greets her differently. I'm not talking about the characters here, but people in general.

There's a proverb I came across a while ago that reads 'Death is a great leveller'. Meaning, everyone's equal before her. You have no leverage or buffer against death, and it doesn't matter if you're poor or blindly, feverishly, grotesquely rich (like our folks here). Everyone pays the last bill. For everyone, there's a day of reckoning. It's a major theme with the show, at least. Verna also says 'Buy now, pay the bill later' - although it can still read very demonic, I agree.

She's obviously ancient, and I was leaning toward the demon theory based on all of her talking. Yet - she also keeps ranting about Egypt and pyramids and Cleopatras and such. What's the one thing with Egyptians everyone knows of? They honored death. Death may have been a bigger part of their lives than life itself. The Usher Twins' obssession with all things Egyptian, antiquities, jewelry, swords and such, plays a nice parallel here too, because they're just collectors. They have no grain of honor for the real thing, for what these things are tied to. Kind of a nice thought, I guess.

Anyway, back to Verna. She says on multiple occasions how intrigued she is with us, 'adorable little things'. She saw the pyramids, the expeditions, and she wanted to see what else we do, she wanted to see what Roderick and Madeline will do (in her own words). It's all an experiment to her. She makes an offer just to see what we, people, do.

Here's where my beef with a demon theory comes in. No demonic creature I could think of, be it an actual demon, a trickster, or something else, is that sincerely intrigued. Something something death loving life something something.

Demons, in my understanding, are most interested in winning the deal. They come up with incredible challenges, they enjoy torture, emotional or physical, they never let anyone win. Verna has never once expressed this. Quite the opposite. She gives everyone a chance to step back. Even when the ink has dried and everything's decided, each Usher sibling is conditioned to make a choice: push forward, or step back. Neither of them steps back. Neither of them takes a long hard look at themselves (except Tamerlane, both literally haha and figuratively, as she's the only one to have realized how lost she was in her way - just at the end, when it didn't really matter anymore, but still). Verna is kind to those she takes (sincere pet names, regrets of having to do it this way, making sure they know it's not personal, etc). She grieves with them, just before. Grieving - 'The Raven' being about an expression of grief and trauma - ravens as synonyms for death... you get the gist. Oh! Except Freddie - cause Freddie struck a cord. Infuriated her. So he doesn't get an expressed choice. And he would've blown it like coke anyway, so meh.

And then Arthur Pym. Oh, Arthur Pym. I honestly couldn't imagine a demon kneeling and thanking someone who's refused them.

About Arthur Pym, by the way. It's the one story I hadn't reread, and I should have, it turns out! haha Anyway, a few notes about his travels:

In the story, Arthur Pym is expressedly afraid of white color (North Pole, yada yada, white being the absense of colors/life, and the absense of life is death).

Verna enumerates the moments she witnessed of his travels. Someone getting left in Sahara. Someone getting shot in the Arctic. Something bad that was done to an Inuit woman. Why would she follow Arthur so closely? She didn't know him, he wasn't her favorite. I think it's because she came to collect those deaths. If she is death, she would've been exactly there, where people died. She would have also seen Arthur not partaking.

Aaaaaaaand it makes her 'You saw me' line sound better, because he had sure seen death along his travels.

I think the part about a place of out-of-time, out-of-space creatures and hollow Earth was a bit unnecessary, BUT I can try and tie it in this way:

It showed us how Arthur might have coped with what he saw, and he 'saw a lot', even in his 70s it's difficult for him to recall, and it made him think of humanity as a virus, literally;

He might have thought up that ethereal realm simply because he was in an expedition? Exhaustive conditions for both body and spirit? Traumatic experiences? If he saw Death, he might have cloaked it in his mind to cope with it, thus came his stories;

Verna going 'topside' may just mean that she had to go take a look herself, actually be willingly present for the events - to see the brave little humans conquer the earth. 'Topside', as in, 'visible, present, participating'. If Death exists, I doubt it bothers with our boring human realm but lives downunder, among all threads that weave the world.

So that's that on Arthur Pym.

A few other references my mind is too exhausted to tie in nicely:

Death takes Lenore. THE Lenore from 'The Raven' (mostly) and 'Lenore' (secondary). That happened. Also, death talking to a child of life? Regretting having to take her? Not very demonic of dear ol' Verna, in my opinion.

Her mourning veil, her last toasts to the Ushers at the cemetery? Demons don't tend to grieve their players. Demons don't respect and love them enough, and 'what is grief, if not love persevering'?

Death is the last threshold. Before death, we look upon our legacy (major theme with the show), we remember our losses and loves (Annabel Lee!!!!! love the poem, brilliantly done), we get heavy with regrets. We face death as an enemy & fight, like Madeline did. As a friend, like Arthur did. We confess, like Roderick did. All that is too significant to me overall.

And the last thing. It's Edgar Allan Poe. The whole Death tribute is a giant, incredible, thought-through-to-the-bits hommage to his literature where Death, figuratively and literally, takes the throne.

I hope I managed to express myself alright there. Thanks if you read it through, and as I said before, feel free to follow up or elaborate on some ideas. There are oceans to discuss. <3

[a-living-canvas]

Comfortable Grief

"C'mere."

Whumpee crawled slowly to Whumper, kneeling on their feet before resting their chin on Whumper's lap. Whumper gently carding their fingers through Whumpee's hair. It was so soft, making Whumper felt a deep urge to grab it and yank it hard until Whumpee let out a scream. But, they were patient. Patient enough that Whumpee started purring under their touch.

"So adorable…" Whumper muttered.

Whumper moved their hand behind Whumpee's ear while the other on Whumpee's chin. They started scratched and rubbed those two spots together swiftly until Whumpee squirmed like a dog.

Whumper giggled, "Who's the good pet? Who's my favourite plaything, hm?"

Whumpee shivered at the sensation. "M-me…Master…"

Whumpee leaned closer to Whumper's touch, craving for any kind of comfort they could earn at the moment. But suddenly, Whumper stopped pampering them. Whumpee watched how Whumper took a newspaper that was placed on the table beside them before they started reading the material, ignoring Whumpee all of a sudden.

"M-master…?"

Silence.

Whumpee tried again, "Master—"

"Shut up, pet." 

Whumper said harshly. They began to feel annoyed by Whumpee clinging on to them like a leech. Whumpee looked down at the floor beneath them, still kneeling on Whumper's feet. Whumper sighed,

"Why are you still here? Can't you see I'm not in the mood to talk with you? Go do something useful for once."

Whumpee stayed silent. The command was too vague. What exactly should they do? What if Whumper got more annoyed and mad at them for doing things wrong? Whumpee felt conflicted, long enough to make Whumper shifted their attention back to the poor creature beneath them.

"Are you deaf? Get yourself out of here. What, are you that helpless that you can't do anything without being instructed to?"

Whumpee's lips quivered, their eyes started watering. That only made Whumper lose their patience even more. They leaned forward and grabbed Whumpee's face, squeezing their cheeks tightly. "Answer me, pet!"

Tears streamed down Whumpee's face. "I'm sorry…! I'm sorry, Master…I'm sorry…"

Whumper's eyes softened at the sight of Whumpee's trembling and terrified form in front of them. They wiped Whumpee's tears with their thumbs before kissing Whumpee's forehead lovingly. Whumper flashed them a warm smile as they patted the little one's head.

"There…there…"

Whumpee seemed to finally calm down a little from their breakdown. But before they could thank Whumper for the kind gesture, Whumper stood from their chair and walked past Whumpee while saying,

"No food for you tonight and I would double your punishment for being a crying mess in front of me. You think I'm your babysitter or something?"

The door slammed shut as Whumper left Whumpee alone in the living room. Whumpee swallowed hard before they started crying again, still on the same spot as they thought about the inevitable future that was waiting to unfold.

[samstree]

In New Light

post-canon obikin, 4k words, rated G. AO3 link here

The cat stares at Obi-Wan, blinking slowly with curious eyes.

“Well. Hello, there.”

Obi-Wan greets the creature at his door, staring back. The cat has sleek, black fur all over, except for the white streak on the side of his face. He is much smaller than a Loth-cat, with much shorter fur too. Possibly a less common sub-species of the tooka. He has blue eyes instead of yellow like most black cats, and oh—he’s missing a front leg.

A pang of sympathy swells in Obi-Wan chest. The poor thing. Where has he come from? Who is his owner? Did he wander all the way from the lower levels of Coruscant and into the Temple? Did he get injured because he’s a stray?

The cat sits on his tail, looking straight up as Obi-Wan crouches down before him.

“Hello, dear,” he greets the small creature again, this time in a much gentler tone. “Now, how have you wandered to my door?”

The cat meows, tilting his head, studying Obi-Wan for a moment before jumping right into his lap, making him let out a surprised sound. The missing leg does not hinder the little creature’s mobility, and he seems to have comfortably curled up against Obi-Wan’s stomach.

“Alright,” Obi-Wan says. When the cat meows in return, he answers, “I know, dear. I know.”

-

The cat follows him for the entire day.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here at the creche? The younglings will love you. I’m sure they already do.”

The small, dark creature hisses as a Togruta child attempts to pet him on the head, the rejection clear as day.

“Hmm.”

Obi-Wan cannot help but remember an equally grumpy padawan in the same situation. Anakin was fifteen when he was put on creche duty for the first time, and the boy all but jumped when the small children tried to hug him. The storm cloud remained on his face for a week despite the shower of affection from the younglings.

A smile comes to Obi-Wan’s face at the memory of Anakin’s teenage years, before it falls flat at the corners of his mouth.

There is no use thinking about it now.

Anakin already left.

He could never stay, not after what was revealed at the end of the war—Palpatine fooled everyone, and especially Anakin. The hurt ran too deep and too intertwined with the Order. It was a good thing that Anakin chose to resign after the Sith was destroyed, finding his independence, figuring out who he is outside of being a Jedi. He needed the distance, and it’s good he never looked back.

It’s a good thing, Obi-Wan tells himself again.

The cat has jumped to the top of Obi-Wan’s shoulder with a displeased sound, right before burrowing into his neck and rubbing his face against Obi-Wan’s skin. The motion makes it look like the small creature is trying to soothe him, which is ridiculous. It’s not like Obi-Wan is sad.

“Come on,” he says, petting the cat on the head and getting another quiet meow in answer. “You are not staying, are you? Well, then. Let’s get going.”

-

He dreams of Anakin that night. Again.

“Oh, dear heart. I’m so sorry,” Obi-Wan apologizes to the image of Anakin conjured up by his mind. “It must be from those thoughts of you during the day.”

Dream-Anakin sits cross-legged on what used to be his favorite futon, a bright, ethereal aura shimmering around him. That’s how Obi-Wan knows he’s dreaming.

It’s how he always knows.

The Anakin in his dreams always looks the same. With tousled hair and youthful features, a slight tightness around his eyes, worn down by war and grief. He also wears the same clothes every time, the dark Jedi robes that has become his staple, but singed at the hem from battle. He didn’t stay long enough at the Temple to change out of them after defeating the Sith.

It’s what Anakin looked like when they said goodbye for the last time. At the hangar bay, Obi-Wan watched this version of Anakin close the door of his shuttle.

He stayed there for hours afterwards.

“Why are you apologizing?” Anakin frowns.

Strange. Obi-Wan has never seen him frown in a dream.

Anakin has also never looked different. He seems…older, the lines of his face sharpened with maturity, those familiar curls cut short and parted to the other way. He is still the same man, but it’s almost like the years they spent apart are showing on his face.

Oh, how these dreams torment him.

“For this dream, of course,” Obi-Wan explains patiently, despite the well of sadness overflowing in his heart. He’ll always have patience for his former padawan, even when it’s only a figment of his imagination. “It’s a clear sign of attachment. Attachment I should have acknowledged and let go when you left.”

“When I left, of course,” Anakin murmurs, looking away. “A perfect Jedi like you must have gotten over it immediately. What was I thinking?”

Anakin’s voice trails into a quiet tremble, a crestfallen look written all over his face. It suddenly makes Obi-Wan unsure of himself—he never wants to make Anakin sad.

“No, Anakin… I—” Obi-Wan starts, “I merely meant that—I should have let go. It was… it would have been the right thing to do.”

“Was it really?”

Tears trail down Anakin’s cheek, glistening in the bright light of the dream.

When Obi-Wan wakes up to the shimmering morning light, he wipes away the wetness on his face. There is no peace to be found in the Force, so Obi-Wan gets up and pads towards the living room.

The cat is sound asleep, curled into a perfect ball on Anakin’s futon.

-

“Do you have an owner?”

Obi-Wan is mostly thinking out loud as the cat licks at the blue milk, pouring another serving into the plate when a whine prompts him.

“Possibly, but there is no collar.” He touches his beard, humming absently. “I still don’t understand how you got here. There’s a long way from the lower levels to my quarters.”

The cat stretches contently when he’s done eating, soon beginning to find anything and everything in Obi-Wan’s room to be the most interesting thing.

“Hey, not those drawers. That’s where Anakin kept his tools.”

He really should have cleared those out, but alas. A ball of electrical cords has become the cat’s new favorite toy.

“No, not the spanner—that’s too heavy for you! Stars, don’t leave a mess everywhere!”

Heedless of Obi-Wan’s warnings, the creature has spilled out all of Anakin’s old things across the floor and is having the time of his life. Obi-Wan can only sigh while cleaning after him. It is only when the cat starts to push his tea collection off the kitchen counter when he has to intervene.

“No, not those! Leave an old man with his favorite tea, will you?” From the scowl on the cat’s face, the little guy doesn’t seem to care. “You’re as frustrating as a certain padawan of mine, my new friend.”

With that, the cat stops in his tracks, jumps off the kitchen counter nimbly, and looks up at Obi-Wan with those big, rounded eyes.

“Perhaps I should name you Padawan, with the way you are behaving,” Obi-Wan huffs, but there is no real anger in his voice.

In truth, he doesn’t mind the little mess. His quarters have been immaculately clean for years, but it never looks right. The disarray somehow fills a part inside his chest that he didn’t know was missing.

“You think I’m jesting, but I assure you I am not,” Obi-Wan continues sternly, holding himself like the Jedi master he is. “It’s not like that role will be filled any time soon. You will do just fine.”

He doesn’t want to think about the perpetual void left in his life. Obi-Wan will never have another padawan again, not after the way he failed Anakin. He has made his peace with it.

He really has. He just needs to breathe through the ache that creeps into every fiber of his being on every lonely night.

A sad meow, as if in sympathy. Obi-Wan bends down to pick up the cat and sits himself on the floor by the window, letting the sunbeam warm the both of them.

“No, I won’t call you Padawan, then. I don’t think…” he swallows, smiling tightly at the creature as he gets comfortable. “I don’t think I can bear it.”

Those big blue feline eyes are so round, the irises are nearly disappearing. Somehow, the unusual blue eyes of the cat bring him a sense of unnamed reassurance. He would have found it disturbing, if they were yellow.

“Well then, I guess I’ll be the one to take care of you. Not as a master, but a friend. It’s a dangerous world out there if you’re alone. There is no one protecting you.” Obi-Wan strokes the sleek, black fur as the cat falls asleep in his lap. The creature doesn’t shy away when he touches the stump where the front leg should be. “Is that how you got hurt? Because you were out there by yourself?”

All the answer he gets is a gentle rub against his stomach.

“I wish I was there with you,” he murmurs to himself, the numb emptiness in his chest tinging with regret. “I wish I could have protected you.”

Obi-Wan falls asleep with the cat curled against his chest, the purring guiding him into a peaceful dream land.

-

Dream-Anakin sits by the window with the sunlight on his back, his expression inexplicably sad.

“Why won’t you take another padawan, master?”

They are so close together, the sun lining the tips of Anakin’s lashes gold. Obi-Wan could easily reach out and touch him. So he does.

It’s a dream, after all. There is no point in shaming himself for wanting.

The short curls feel good between Obi-Wan’s fingers, but he’s still getting used to the new look. He is spotting all the minute differences about this version of Anakin—the mature steadfastness, the lightness in his eyes, the stubble grown under his chin.

“I’m still not sure about the hair,” Obi-Wan tries to change the subject. If it’s his dream, he gets to be cheeky, he reckons. “Will you consider showing up in the long hair next time? Just for your old master’s sake.”

“Obi-Wan.”

A sigh, and Obi-Wan tries to retract his hand, but Anakin catches him gently. The warmth of his flesh hand is as real as the Force humming in the air.

“Why would they trust me with another small child?” Obi-Wan finally says. “I wouldn’t trust myself.”

The offence on Anakin’s face is palpable. “You are the best master out there. Anyone would be lucky to have you!”

Obi-Wan laughs self-deprecatingly. “I’m sure you’d disagree.”

“Well, I’m right here, and I say you’re perfect!”

It’s ironic that the Anakin from his subconscious would defend him so, when the real Anakin knows more than anyone of Obi-Wan’s failure.

“I lost you, Anakin,” he simply says.

It ends the argument. Anakin closes his mouth, the sadness returning to his blue eyes.

-

It isn’t too bad, having a feline friend in Obi-Wan’s life.

His quarters seem less empty with a cat in it, along with everything he has added to make his new friend comfortable. The toys are now laid out, along with a new shelf for climbing. The cat bed is placed by the window, but rarely used when the little guy prefers to sleep on either Anakin’s old futon or by the foot of Obi-Wan’s bed. His habit of making a mess quieted down after a period of adjustment, and now Obi-Wan has learned to leave his expensive teas in the cupboard.

The cat loves the house plants, though. Obi-Wan is not sure if he’s imagining it, but his plants have never looked better, growing lusher and greener by the day. He has never been the best at taking care of them. It was Anakin who had a stronger connection to the Living Force.

When the ferns start to droop, the dark fluffy creature would fall asleep under their shade. When he wakes up, the leaves seem to gain new life again.

Obi-Wan also talks to the cat more and more these days.

The dreams persist. Every time he closes his eyes, there is Anakin. Sitting in their living room, or cooking in the kitchen, sometimes even curled up against Obi-Wan’s side in his bed.

Those dreams are the hardest. Obi-Wan’s mind is cruel to let him look at Anakin so closely, only to wake up alone in the quiet dark. The only consolation is the gentle, inquisitive meows of his cat friend.

He lets the furry thing bury his face against his neck to soothe the heartbreak. The pain lets up enough at some point, and he can breathe again. And then, Obi-Wan begins to talk.

He misses Anakin so much that the ache fills all the space inside his chest. If he doesn’t tell someone about it, he fears he will burst from it, and a cat is a good enough listener.

He lets his tongue run freely, trusting his memories to lead them from one story to another, jumping between the years they shared together. The pain and regret have been laying on his heart so heavily that Obi-Wan has nearly forgotten the joy that came with Anakin’s name.

His laughter, his passion, his unrelenting curiosity.

Anakin was his sun, but now, he has no one to share that warmth but a small cat.

“Did you know he cried when I took him to see rain for the first time?” Obi-Wan chuckles at the memory. “He was trying to catch all the raindrops, and when he couldn’t, he started to panic about wasting the water. Poor boy… I should have thought of that and not chosen the rainforest for our first mission.”

Obi-Wan lets out all the love he has kept inside. With only a small creature knowing his worst secret, he has never loved Anakin more freely.

“Do you think he could be in trouble? Knowing Anakin, he must have gotten himself into some sort of conundrum. More than once over the years, I assume. I worry for him too much, I know,” he whispers, letting the cat perch around his shoulders. “He’s too headstrong, too stubborn, much to his own detriment. He always tries to protect everyone, and never learned that he needed protecting too. I… I would have, had he let me.”

He drifts off again, worrying, wondering.

The dream is so warm that Obi-Wan never wishes to leave. He curls around the weight of Anakin’s body, wraps an arm around his waist to pull him even closer.

It feels good to steal these moments, basking in Anakin’s presence, just so he can keep on going in the land of the walking.

“What if I really am in trouble?” Anakin asks with mirth in his eyes. “It’s a big galaxy. I could run into someone dangerous. Say… a witch! Like in those fairytales on the holonet. She cursed me to be trapped in the body of a small animal, and the only way to lift the curse—”

He stops himself, the implication hanging in the air.

Obi-Wan finishes the thought for him, knowing this ridiculous boy and his romantic tendencies.

“True love, is it? The only way to lift the curse,” Obi-Wan says, rubbing their noses together. “I’ll find you, save you from the curse, and we’ll get to live happily ever after.”

Anakin blushes, his lashes cast down. “Yes, just like that. It’s really simple, master.”

Hope shines in Anakin’s eyes, bright and sweet, but Obi-Wan’s heart sinks.

“If only it was, dear heart.”

-

“Can you believe them? Denied!”

Obi-Wan huffs, chest rising and falling from anger. He lets the datapad fall to the sofa. On the screen is his application to take leave from the Temple, big red letters showing Application Denied at the top.

“I’m not even asking for long. It’ll take two—alright, maybe three—months at most! I’m a war general, for Force’s sake. I infiltrated the separatist headquarters! How long is it going to take me to find one person? Just one!”

Artoo’s light flickers, letting out a quiet beep in answer. He doesn’t dare move his dome due to the dark, fluffy creature perched on top of him, tail tucked away cozily. Both droid and cat blink at Obi-Wan as his rant comes to a stop.

It’s almost disturbing how well they are getting along. Obi-Wan has not seen Artoo take a liking to someone, or something, this quickly since Anakin left.

“I just want to see him.” Obi-Wan’s shoulders slump, all the fight leaving his body with resignation. "They are right about me—it’s... it's a sign of attachment. I just…”

A lump forms in his throat, and Obi-Wan turns his head away. It would be embarrassing to cry in front of a droid and a cat, but it’s hard to care when the loneliness overwhelms him like a tide.

Obi-Wan may have been slowly drowning all this time. He’s only realizing now.

-

That night, Obi-Wan silently opens his blanket in silent invitation. Soon enough, a dark lump of fluff enters his bed.

It’s unbefitting of a Jedi of his age and experience to need the comfort of a creature as small and fragile, but when the warmth of the cat curls around his chest, Obi-Wan finds it a little easier to breathe.

When fitful sleep claims him, his fingers are still buried in soft fur, his nose pressed against a fluffy head. His breath hitches from time to time, but a gentle, careful nudge always soothes him.

Dream-Anakin appears from under Obi-Wan’s covers, those dark curls sticking out everywhere as if someone has been ruffling his hair.

“Oh, master… Hey, come here. What’s wrong?”

Anakin’s voice is full of concern. His flesh hand reaches out to cup Obi-Wan’s chin, a thumb running small circles as if he has been preparing to comfort Obi-Wan, and now he finally has the chance.

Wouldn’t that be a nice reality? Anakin being there, always, ready to defend Obi-Wan from the sadness within him.

“They won’t let me come to you,” is Obi-Wan’s answer.

“Oh?”

Their bodies tangle up under the bedcover, fitting into each other like puzzle pieces. The warmth of Anakin gives Obi-Wan strength, so he lets out all the frustration.

“I thought I could see you, just this once. Just to make sure you’re alright. And I know, Anakin, when you left, you wanted nothing to do with the Order. With…” He lets the ache linger, lets Anakin see his hurt. “You wanted nothing to do with me.”

“Not you. Never you.”

A protest, so quiet it’s almost not there.

“Still, I was being selfish,” Obi-Wan continues. “I should not try to bother you again. Not after everything that happened. You must loathe to see an old man from your past, reminding you of all that hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Anakin insists, desperate. He pulls their bodies impossibly close, rubbing his forehead against Obi-Wan’s temple. “You were the kindest thing in my life. I just couldn’t see it until I left, and I—I never thought you’d still want to find me again, not after all this time.”

“How could I not? The thought of you being out there by yourself—” Obi-Wan’s voice shakes. “I thought I could bear it, Anakin, give it to the Force. I’m failing even that.”

It’s more than Obi-Wan has ever been willing to admit even to himself, alone in the quiet dark. Grief and foolishness have made him brave.

Anakin observes him with meaning in his eyes, remaining silent for a moment longer as if gathering courage himself. When he speaks next, his words are steady and patient.

“If you could see me now—the real me, right here with you, would you want to?”

Something about Anakin is different, beyond the shorter hair and the lines of his face. The warmth around him intensifies, the bright aura hums with anticipation. There is hope, so much hope rising from the ashes of the lost years between them, and Obi-Wan will not fail that again.

“I do. I want more than anything to be with you again, you must know,” he answers honestly.

“And why is that?”

“Because… I…”

“Say it, Obi-Wan. I just need you to say it.” A smile curls at Anakin’s lips. “I just need you.”

Oh, and how can Obi-Wan ever refuse that? He wasn’t there when Anakin needed him most, and it was already the biggest mistake of his life, but now…

Anakin is asking him of something again, and it’s something so simple. Only Obi-Wan himself, laying his heart bare.

He gives away his heart. Easily.

“It’s because I love you,” Obi-Wan says, plain and true. “I love you, Anakin.”

Light and warmth fills the dream, but nothing is brighter than the smile on Anakin’s face, his happiness almost from a fairytale.

-

Obi-Wan nearly chokes on a mess of curls when consciousness returns to him.

Long limbs tangle around him, weighing heavily in the small bed. Naked skin presses against his torse, the warmth bursting like a sun. The morning light slips through the curtains, casting layers of silver in the room.

The body around him stirs, taking in a long breath. The dark curls lift up, and then, blue eyes are meeting Obi-Wan’s gaze, blinking slowly.

Obi-Wan went to bed with a small cat curled against his chest, but wakes up with a full-sized, naked Anakin right between his arms.

“Oh,” he says dumbly. “Was that you this whole time?”

He hardly cares about the answer when Anakin stares at him for a beat, and then bursts out laughing. It’s so beautiful that the experience of hearing it for the first time in years nearly steals all the breath out of Obi-Wan’s lungs.

“Anakin.”

With a flip of his body, Anakin has straddled across Obi-Wan’s hips, pinning him down. He managed that too easily—how has he gotten so much stronger? What happened to Anakin when Obi-Wan is not there?

When Obi-Wan looks up, he’s now seeing Anakin in a new light. He looks the same as in those dreams, the hair still tragically short, but dream could never compare to the sight before Obi-Wan’s eyes. The years have only made Anakin more beautiful, adding sharp angles to his jaw, elegant lines at the corners of his eyes.

Obi-Wan reaches out to touch, and lets out a breath of relief when skin connects with skin.

This is real. Anakin has come back to him.

“Did you mean it?”

Anakin can barely hide the smile with Obi-Wan cradling his cheek, tracing the lines of his chin. He turns to rub against Obi-Wan’s palm, tickling his skin. It seems something remains the same, even when he’s no longer trapped in a cat’s body.

“Between us, you are the believer of fairytales,” Obi-Wan answers, patiently. “The curse wouldn’t have broken otherwise. But you know I did, Anakin. How could I not? Though I have a question for you too.”

There will be no more lost years, Obi-Wan vows to himself. He’d fight another war before he lets himself lose Anakin again. They have all the time ahead to grow closer again, to share stories. To heal.

“I love you too,” Anakin answers cheekily, “if that’s your question. Of course I do, and it didn’t take being cursed into a blasted cat for me to realize.”

The insolence on Anakin’s face looks exactly the same as old memories, with a pout on his lips and defiance in his eyes. Obi-Wan can’t help his own laughter.

His fingers tug at the short curls at Anakin’s nape, schooling his expression back to something resembling displeasure.

“I meant to ask if you will grow the hair out again, dear heart.”

And from the looks of it, his request will be fulfilled easily enough. They have all the time in the world, after all, in their own happily ever after.

[fleursbending]

𝐈'𝐦 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐆𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. | Jake Sully

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : as your dad navigates his grief, you're there to remind him just of one thing. that you won't be leaving him as well.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : dad!jake sully x neteyams twin sister!reader

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : the very highly anticipated sully!daughter fic is finally here to cure all your daddy issues. it is imperative you read pt 1 because none of this is going to make any sense! hope u have some tissues cause this is a tough one! i also suggest you listen to this on repeat while reading, it just encapsulates perfectly the aura surrounding this story.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : atwow spoilers, talks of death and grief, sm hurt/comfort, dialogue-heavy, missing neteyam hours, dad!jake is in deep pain.

𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲 : skimwing - pandoran creature inhabiting the tropical oceans, ‘ite - daughter, sempul - father, ngaytxoa - sorry, my apologies (acknowledgment of guilt and regret), olo'eyktan - clan leader, sa'nok - mother, mawey - calm, 'eveng - child, yawntutsyìp - darling / little loved one, tsmukan - brother, rey’eng - the balance of life.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 3.2k words (are we surprised) ?!

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 : @pandorainmymind @eywas-heir @spicycloudsalad @missdreamofendless @prty-poisxn @scarlettwitch-4 @23victoria @avidreader3107 @purplehyacinthss @itssiaaax @neteyamoa @tsireyasgf @nijirozzz @useryourbut @yua-himari @sweetheartlizzie07 @grierpilots @reneehillary69 @fruitsalad1 @forasgaard @iwaslikeblah @dumb-fawkin-bitch @theicemav @narutoboi

𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐘 this past few weeks. It greeted you in disguise, leaching at every hope that remained after your brother had taken his last breath. Slowly, but surely - its efforts won in the end. 

After the battle had come to a finish, time stilled once you returned back to the rock. And it escaped you entirely when you returned Neteyam back to Eywa. 

To Y/n, it did not matter that the Metkayina had accepted her family as one of the people. Is this what it had to take? Her brother being ruthlessly killed by the sky demons to really prove their worth? If anything, it made her feel deeply ashamed - scorned.

Everything around Awa'atlu was a reminder of where he coexisted amongst you. The laughter you shared, the games you'd play with Tuk. The teasing and riding your Ilu's together. It played like an old record, jammed in the forefront of your mind. 

That was why you couldn't fall back asleep, tonight the onslaught of harsh memories had demanded your attention. Taunting you, egging you on - what you have lost. What won't remain. 

A frustrated huff fell from you in the silent darkness of your mauri. In the midst of your cuddle pile that your family rested in nightly, there was a gaping space left untouched. The one right beside you. 

It was where he would reside once turning in for the night. These sleeping arrangements were still something you struggled to grow accustomed to. Even if fatigued gnawed at your eyelids, your heart refused to let you rest.

 A faint yet distinct figure pushes themselves up from the pile then, Y/n squints her eyes as they start to make their way out of the mauri. They widen in recognition, it was her father. Where was he heading out to this late into the eclipse? 

Ever so slightly she wriggles and attempts to maneuver out of Lo'ak's hold, the poor boy hadn't been able to disconnect from your side since the unfortunate day. Y/n knows he felt immense guilt for his actions that weren't even his fault. 

But that was something else to worry about for another day.

As you mimic your dad's movements from moments ago, your head turns to look back at your family. Okay, good. None of them had awoken from their deep slumbers.

Whisking around, Y/n peeps out of their mauri. Heart thudding, but oh - there he is. 

Jake had seated himself at a spot on top of the boat that had been gifted to your family after your father had been able to successfully ride a Skimwing. The same spot Kiri sat when she and their father shared a conversation, you had only witnessed the end of it. Unfortunately, you and Neteyam had to cut it short after dragging Ao'nung to them and demanding the idiotic boy, confess to his dumb shenanigans. 

That was the day when you thought you were going to lose Lo'ak. 

It's crazy how little you knew of back then.

Her heart felt so brittle, knowing it was also the spot that had become her and Neteyam's. After seeing it being used that day, it was where you two would go to have quiet intimate conversations. From your worries as the elder kids, or to any fun things that have occurred that day. The both of you had claimed it, but now it had been abandoned. 

Y/n hadn't stepped foot close to its vicinity ever since….everything.

Taking a deep sigh to calm herself, she tiptoed over to Jake.

Nevertheless, Jake alert as ever immediately whipped around. Eyes holding something akin to being on the defense.

Raising your hands up in alarm, you whisper to him, "Dad, hey! It's just me, it's just me."

His mouth gapes as he slumped back down. His shoulders promptly drained away the sudden tension that had built up from the shock. 

"Ah, 'ite. Sorry, you scared me. He spoke, but his voice sounded worlds away. 

You peer down at him, he wasn't usually one to be scared. 

"It is okay, sempul. I should have announced my presence. I'm the one who should be sorry."

He rasped out, "Stop apologising, you do not need to apologise!"

Her ears flatten then, folding themselves back. Y/n's tail lowly swishes in anxiousness at his rash tone. 

"Sempul-" You said in a small panicky voice.

He hushed you, making you sit down by him. Jake brought you into his arms, holding onto you as tight as he could without harming you. 

"I'm so sorry, sweet girl. I shouldn't have yelled at you." He continued to express his regrets quietly as he rocked you in his arms, chin pressed to the top of your head.

The luminescent ocean ceased its aggravated waves then as if to give you a tender moment of peace. 

Jake chokes on his next words, and it makes you straighten up in an instant. There's a resounding affliction that lingers in the words that flow out of him like he'd been slammed back to earth. 

"Losing a twin is far worse in comparison to losing your legs."

The cries saddle him then, and it pierces through your core. He's trembling a worrisome amount, cowering away from your imploring gaze. 

You've never heard your father cry before. Not like this.

"Ngaytxoa, sempul." 

It was something you'd only say in dire moments to drive the point home whenever you screwed up really badly. An admission of guilt, something that holds more weight than the sorry's you've been speaking back and forth to each other since the beginning of this encounter.

Jake knew this, far too well actually. It made him tense up.

You know the tales, the struggles he had to overcome when he was disabled. How much he loathed himself and the life earth had carved out and boxed him in. His brother's death was his calling to try to do something greater with his life. 

Then he became a dream walker, a body that gave him far more solitude than he ever imagined. Jake never wanted to return to his human form due to how in tune he felt with his na'vi body.

The sentence he had just uttered made you frankly realise how burdening his grief must be for him.

His firstborn son, his hopes and dreams. His entire life. Neteyam was his boy. Jake's mighty fisherman, Jake's mighty warrior, Jake's solitude.

 It all came at you in full force then. 

The devastated man before you didn't even care about how worthless all the training for Neteyam becoming the future Olo'ekytan came to be. He came to terms with that once he made the tough decision for his family to leave everything they have ever known. 

It paled in comparison to the remorse he felt for what he could have experienced with his son instead. That was something that bothered Jake to the bone. The fact that he would never be able to make up for the lost time with Neteyam. 

He'd never be able to share a new moment with him again. 

The duration of his fatherhood began with Neteyam, and a part of it sunk alongside his child when the sea anemone passed him on to the great mother.

Now you were all that remained of him, and Jake had never felt such immeasurable unsettled shame. His one duty as a father is to protect his children. To guide you through life, to aid you in whatever way was possible for him. Even with the tiny wiggle room you'd given him to do so, he tried his best. 

For the first time with you though - his best was not enough. 

Jake failed your family, and in doing so, he failed you. 

His firstborn daughter, his pride and joy. His softness. You were his unbreaking glue, the one who kept him together. He couldn't utilise that this time, Jake did not deserve that. 

Although he was a fool to think so cruelly because you were just like him. 

He too was what remained of a bond so unwavering and mighty. A remnant of what could have been, what has been lost - and what is forced to stay.

While you never witnessed firsthand him experiencing that, he relived it through you and Neteyam. He admired you two graciously, seeing you both flourish amongst one another. How an attachment so noticeable and persistent, only grew in tandem over the years.

Wherever Neteyam and Y/n would be, they swiftly knew they were in the same proximity to each other. Y/n never had to look, she just knew it was him. Jake knows this because he nurtured you, taught you the ways of the people like Neytiri had done for him all those years ago. 

Two peas in a pod, an impenetrable force. Each other's shadow, each other's light. 

You both would always weave each other out of the darkness that bloomed in your minds every now and then. Conveying the importance of what life has to offer. 

Forced to mature at a quicker pace than most kids your age, because the world you lived in demands it. Forced to learn the ways of war when your tiny hands could barely even wrap around a trigger of a gun. 

He wasn't easy on you two.

Now more than ever, he wished he had been.

"Oh, dad." You mumbled, tears beginning to well up in your own eyes as you tug him back into another embrace. 

There in his baby daughter's arms, he finally lets it all out. Somber wails ebb into your shoulder as you squeeze him, giving Jake some much-needed security. There, he allows himself to wallow in his grief, letting it finally catch up on him.

At the end of the day, he was a father who had lost one of his greatest accomplishments.

And you were his kid who lost two pillars in her life. Your home, and your twin. It was haunting you every waking moment, the thoughts of what you should be experiencing. What he should be doing. 

It felt like the world was ridding Jake of all he has to live for, a repetition so caving and tumultuous. 

"Now your kid has to really follow in your footsteps," is the dread that drills in his mind. 

You didn't deserve this, once again he felt and harbored the most guilt. It was like he was watching Home Tree fall right before his eyes all over again. 

It was all his fault, and without exception - always will be.

As if Y/n read his mind, and picked apart all that he currently is. The inner turmoils he had been forced to with had come to an all-time peak.

She soothed, "It's not your fault."

He sighs in return, "Y/n."

You shake your head, that same determination from when you were both trapped in the sinking ship flickering in your eyes. 

"It is not your fault." You annunciate each word, each syllable.

You survey him, letting out a low scoff at his avoidant eyes. 

"We cannot do this to ourselves. It cannot be mine, Lo'ak's, or your burden to keep. If we head in that direction, we'll meet that demon ship on the ocean floor." 

Some of those words sink in with her as well, she knows she can't keep living like this.

Y/n realises that her words aren't resonating with Jake. The man before her was a shell of her father that could usually endure anything that came his way.

Jake was distraught, frantic for answers - why him? Why his family? Why Neteyam?

You survey your surroundings then, trying to see if you can knock him out of the reverie that has taken him by storm. You didn't want to be too abrupt with it, not wanting another abrasive reaction like before to happen.

All you see is the cerulean water.

Y/n lets her hands glide along the tide, cupping some in her hands only to then let it sprinkle over Jake.

He blinks at the sudden cold raining over him. 

"Sorry, 'ite-"

"I think we should forbid that word from being mentioned for the rest of tonight." 

Jake lets out a huff through his nose in response.

"Ma sempul, please. Look at me. You haven't properly done so since that night." You plead to him.

He gulps, gripping at the boat beneath him and letting his knuckles turn a stark white.

"I can't." He cries out, eyes squeezing shut in remorse and chagrin. 

"Yes, you can. Come on, dad." 

Shaky hands grab at his face, almost slipping at the sheer amount of tears that cascade like a ruthless never-ending waterfall. 

His heavy eyes try to stay level with your arms that have reached out for his face. 

Before finally, he looks at you.

A soundless sob rakes through him then, and in return, you shed a few of your own. 

"I miss him, I miss him so much. I can't sleep, I can barely stomach anything. I can't properly take care of your mother, our family-"

His words stumble out of him at a rapid pace, but you do your best to soothe him as he tries to catch his breath through some sniffles.

"-I can't be a good father while navigating this grief." 

Finally, he properly exhales. Releasing himself from the internal battles that had kept him restless all this time.

You pat his cheek in reassurance and fondness, "That's where you're wrong. You're being a good father right now."

He inhaled shakily, the waterworks returning to him at your genuine ways of trying to give him comfort. Jake is terrified though, he'd never been this vulnerable with you.

Maybe when you were a lot younger, yes

But life swept you both up, too invested in your own responsibilities. Back then there was time for your father-daughter extravaganzas. A time when he'd be able to take you out in broad daylight and let you go flying with him on his Ikran. Before the sky people returned,  before Jake had to reassemble his war party and train them heavily again. 

A time when being Olo'eyktan wasn't as demanding as it came to be. 

Jake's hands grab onto yours, inevitable shame still coursing through him. 

He should be the one comforting you, not the other way around.

But grief demands to be felt. It's not something you can outrun, it'll overtake you eventually. 

You try to dispel some of his fears. 

"It's okay right now to feel all these things, sempul. But we can't let it overrule us, we can't let it win." 

Subconsciously, he squeezes your hand that still lingered on the apple of his cheek. There was an unsettling glimmer that still lay behind his eyes. Y/n knew then, there was a root he had yet to relinquish. There was still something brewing in his head that had been the biggest reason that he'd been kept awake these past few nights.

Y/n tilts her head, wordlessly questioning him. Beckoning Jake to reveal the mangled web that connected everything together. 

His hands tremor once more, lips wobbling as he struggles to maintain his already fractured composure. The sight leaves a heavy weight on your heart, desperately wanting to know already so you could try to ease the pain. 

After a moment's reflection, he speaks, "Every time I look at you, I'm so scared it's going to be the last time, 'ite."

Neteyam sighs from above you both then. Eywa looks at him, daring him to voice out his thoughts.

"They are so determined and hard-headed, great mother. You know, the people always said to us that I was more like sa'nok. But she was always a carbon copy of our sempul. Ugh, I miss them." 

She hums in acknowledgment, the great mother already knowing this. 

They both return to peer down at the two figures below them.

"I just can't. I won't lose you too." He reiterates then, mind clouded at the thought of losing you the same way you all lost Neteyam. 

The sky people would cease to exist if they dares to do such an act.

"Sempul, mawey. I am not going anywhere. I am staying right here. I will always be here. He will always be here, I'm sure he is now." 

Neteyam chuckles at that, how ironic.

 He points to you excitedly, "see great mother, it's like this twin telepathy thing." 

Y/n rests the palm of her hand against Jake's chest, where her dad's heart stills. 

"I do not know what it feels like, to be a parent. But I know what it does feel like, to be your daughter. It is the greatest gift Eywa could ever give me, dad. I won't ever take that for granted, not anymore. You won't lose me, especially not like that." Your words hinted at a darker ending, one you dearly hoped you wouldn't be meeting anytime soon. 

You'd do anything in your power to keep that promise to your father, it's the least you can do after all the trauma he has had to clamber through. 

"Ma ‘eveng." 

Y/n gives him a wistful smile, and he returns it with the most genuine grin you've seen ever since the passing. 

It gave you a semblance of relief. Now having a true grasp of your father's mind as of late, Y/n couldn't help but feel repentant. It'll be alright though, time doesn't have to be kind to you. As long as you are with one another, you'll continue to help him in any way possible to fight his grief. 

"Thank you, yawntutsyìp." Jake beams, and you know you don't have to say anything in return for him to see the gratitude you hold towards him.

You stand then, tugging at his hand for him to come with you.

"Come on old pal, let's get some much-needed sleep."

He scoffed, fingers darting to your sides and pinching them - "I'm not that old!"

Y/n giggles, leaning into him and hugging Jake's waist. He guides you back into the dark of your mauri.

Seeing your family all resting harmoniously gave you a newfound sense of hope. It'll take time to heal and grow from this, sure. But you're the Sully's.

You've made it through the utmost of hell, surely you can make your way back down.

Even if your inner demons continued to nag at your mind, - you stood by your stance then.

Y/n would do it all over again if it meant she could return back to her family at night. If at the end of the day - she can meet them, feel their presence with her. That was enough.

It gave her the greatest consolation that she still felt him then, her tsmukan. Her rey'eng.

Her reason to make it through another day. 

Y/n's protector who will always and forever be mighty, Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan. 

He held his hand to his heart then. Neteyam would forever be indebted to Eywa, the boy appreciative that indeed - he could feel you too.

𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 ━━━ 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑

⤷ feedback and reblogs are always much appreciated ! feel free to ask through my inbox if you would like to join my taglist. ♡

[spurbleu]

ohhhh i get it. frankenstien ghoap x scientist reader. the body horror. monster fucking. anyway.

lighthouse town. small minded folk with no where to put their spite. it shores on a grey bank, carving the cliff that shadows the swells. storm rolls in from the east, fat quills of pigeon grey rising from behind the sea.

you avoid looking out window- childish belief that as long as you don’t see it, it’s not there. candle in place of the nightlight you’d lost to nostalgia.

no one visits- generational stagnancy, bred mediocrity. no one and nothing is a stranger.

however.

there is a trail, hastily made to avoid the haunts. leads grief to a large patch of land, moldy greystone looming over six feet, haphazard and unmarked. said to be a gravesite for the unrest- the soldiers that fought for this poor, sullen land.

how disappointed they would be, if they saw it now.

you’d put a hard wall over the woods. swearing to your anxious mother, kneading the dough a little rougher when you picked wildflowers by the treeline, that you would never walk down that trail. that you’d bury them in the cemetery like a good daughter.

you kept one of the promises.

you broke the other three months ago, lantern keeping the soil warm as you fed the woods you plea. let me not die a failure. let me accomplish a life that is larger than my own.

silent. enough to make the swallow of your bread, your mothers last batch, heavy in your throat. weight in your belly. shrivels and molds.

just like the poor bastards you lugged in yarn bags back to your cabin.

and finally, sitting on your iron cot, two pairs of eyes, milked over and sodden, skin grafted and patchwork limbs. unfortunate looking creatures.

your wish, granted. albeit, less alive than you had hoped.

or, so you thought, until one of them fucking speaks.

“think ay got onea yer arms, LT.”

[daryltwdixon]

The Ruins of Us: Chapter 2

Chapter 2 of the Working Title fanfic

relationships: daryl x reader, Shane x reader

notes: when do I have to come up with a title???? You arrive at camp, Daryl is back to the mask he puts on in front of others: snarky, no bullshit Dixon. And then you find out Merle is missing.

x flashback x 

You grip the wheel of your mom’s beat-up sedan, speeding down the narrow highway toward the station. Frustration simmers under the surface, and you slam your palm against the wheel. What the hell did Daryl get himself into this time?

The car screeches to a stop in front of the station. You jump out, rushing toward the door. A glance at your reflection in the glass makes you cringe—loose off-the-shoulder shirt, worn denim shorts, and boots that pinch your feet. Hardly the look of someone ready to handle business. But when the call came in, you didn’t have time to care about appearances. All you could think about was getting here fast. 

Inside, the woman at the desk barely looks up as you sign in. The waiting area feels suffocating. You tap your foot incessantly, gnawing at your nails as you replay the phone call in your mind. Daryl had only mumbled something about being an idiot and needing a ride, followed by a string of curses before the officer hung up on him. Must be the same old Daryl stuff—stealing beer, getting caught with something he shouldn’t have.

Before long, a man strides through the door, hands on his hips. He’s tall and built, with dark hair that looks maddeningly touchable. His five o’clock shadow gives him a rugged, effortless charm. For a moment, you’re too busy staring to remember why you’re here. He calls your last name, snapping you out of it. Standing quickly, you feel his eyes rake over you, and you curse yourself again for not changing clothes.

"Your boyfriend's in some serious trouble today," he says, his deep brown eyes locking on yours.

"Not my boyfriend," you mumble, stuffing your hands into your back pockets and looking away.

"Good news for me then," he says with a cocky smile, holding out his hand. You hesitate, but take it. His grip is warm, strong, and it sends a tingle up your spine.

“Shane,” he says. “Let me go grab Dixon for you.” He gives you one more lingering look before disappearing through the door.

・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・❥・・❥・・❥・

x flash forward x 

Emerging from the bushes, your breath catches at the sight before you: a group of people, all armed, standing around Daryl with their rifles pointed at him. Your eyes drop to the decapitated biter lying next to the deer the two of you had been tracking. The poor thing’s throat is torn out—fresh kill. Too late again.

“Son’m bitch” Daryl exclaimed, “Tha’s my deer!” swinging his arms up in frustration.

He kicks at the dead biter in frustration, ranting about the disease-ridden creature that ruined his catch. You hang back, watching. This was Daryl’s group, after all, and you weren’t eager to draw attention as a newcomer.

“All gnawed on by this filthy,” he kicks again, “disease-bearing,” another kick, “motherless,” kick, “poxy bastard!”

The members of the group start giving him grief about his words and he snips back at them with quick retorts. You know this Daryl. This is the Daryl the world sees, the one he hides behind. He’s pointing around the deer, wondering if they can eat around the bite, looking hopefully at the others.

A gravelly voice interrupts. “Would not risk that.”

You step forward, finally making your presence known. Daryl goes rigid, his posture stiffening as he notices you emerging from the woods. All eyes turn to you, but one pair in particular is glued to you—Shane.

The sight of him knocks the wind out of you. His dark eyes widen in disbelief, his gun slipping from his hands and falling to the ground. He stares, mouth agape, before breaking into a grin you haven’t seen in what feels like forever.

Shane strides toward you, his hands outstretched as if to make sure you’re real. His fingers cup your face, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest as his warm gaze searches yours, silently asking a thousand questions.

Without a word, he pulls you into a tight embrace, his cheek resting against the top of your head as he sways you gently in his arms. "Hey, baby," he whispers.

You wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his chest, breathing him in.

It’s been so long.

After some pleasantries and telling the story from the woods, you follow behind Shane into the camp.

You’re walking up the hill toward the RVs and tents when you hear Daryl shouting for his brother. You scan the area, looking for Merle, but he’s nowhere in sight. Shane stalks ahead, and another man in a white tee approaches as well. You recognize him from patrols back before the world went to hell, but his name escapes you.

“Daryl, just slow down a minute. I need to talk to you,” Shane says carefully.

“'Bout what?” Daryl snaps, turning back to Shane and you.

“...About Merle.” Shane hesitates, stepping in front of Daryl. “There was a… uh, a problem in Atlanta.”

Your breath catches. Shit, something must’ve happened. You’re just about to wonder if—

“He dead?” Daryl interrupts your thought, his voice clipped but cautious, bracing for the worst.

“We’re not sure,” Shane replies.

“Well, he either is or he ain’t!” Daryl growls, baring his teeth as he starts circling Shane like a caged animal.

Thats when the man in the crisp white tee shirt approaches closer and explains the situation. Merle (not surprisingly) acted a fool and got dealt the consequences and is now handcuffed to a roof. You could almost laugh, it sounds so much like him– but Daryl looks pissed.

After a tense moment, glaring at the man, Daryl lunges. His crossbow clatters to the ground as he charges, but Shane is quicker, throwing Daryl into a headlock.

There’s muttering about filing complaints, something about chokeholds being illegal, and you push forward before things get worse.

“Baby, out of the way, Rick’s a cop like me,” Shane orders. Ah, Rick. Right, that's his name.

You put your hand up at him, and kneel down in front of Daryl.

“Daryl,” you say calmly, trying to meet his eyes. He’s glaring at the ground, refusing to look at you.

“Daryl,” you repeat, this time with more grit. Finally, he looks up, Shane’s grip loosening as Daryl’s breathing steadies.

“You know Merle,” you begin, your tone firm but soothing. “He’s always been a troublemaker. Let’s hear what happened before we lose our heads. Once we’ve got a plan, I’ll help you go get him.”

“Like hell you—” Shane starts, but Rick cuts him off. “What I did wasn’t on a whim,” Rick says, stepping into Daryl’s space. You back off, moving toward the group of women standing nearby, leaving the men to finish their argument. As the conversation between Daryl, Shane, and Rick continues, you stand by the RV. The woman with dark hair and bangs is clearly pissed. She turns away, stomping off into the van, leaving you with the others.

“Let her be,” the girl blonde girl on your left says. She looks about your age, maybe a year younger, “she’s pissed that her husband wants to risk his life on Merle fucking Dixon,”

“I know Merle,” you say sharply. The women turn to look at you. “He’s like family to me too, so keep your opinions to yourselves.” With that, you stalk back over to Daryl as he makes his way to the haphazardly made fire pit. 

He’s pacing, muttering under his breath while the others argue about Rick’s plan to go after Merle and get the bag of guns.

“This is bullshit,” Daryl grumbles. You nod, resting your hands on your hips.

“I’m coming with you,” you say firmly.

“Nah, you stay,” Daryl shoots back, shaking his head. “Shane’s right.”

You glare at him, crossing your arms.

He sighs, finally meeting your eyes. “Fine… I don’t want ya outta my sight again, anyway.”

Chapter 3 is here!

[awkward-tension-art]

Darkness on Umbara Chp.3 (Rex x Reader)

Chapter 2. Chapter 4.

Marching on

cw: Rex x Reader, Reader is a medic, incorrect military procedure, graphic descriptions of injuries, blood, swearing, death and battle, Spoilers for the Umbara Arc, Pong Krell is an asshole, reader insert, Reader gets yelled at, reader is gender neutral, no use of (Y/N), if i miss a tag LMK

Minors DNI, even if theres no smut

“Quicken that pace battalion, this isn't some training course on Kamino!” 

If you had to hear one more fucking command from Krell, you may just inject him with all the painkillers in your pack.

It’s been almost 4 hours of his self-importance. You were patient, but by all the gods in existence you weren’t sure how much more you could take.

Fives scoffed next to you, “The uh…new General has a way with words.” His tone was directed at Rex, who had wanted you at the front of the march with him. 

His reasoning for such a formation? ‘Keep an eye on the supplies’. In reality? ‘to protect you.’

The clone captain looked to the ARC trooper, “He's just trying to keep us on schedule.”

“By raising everyone’s ire?” You leaned forward slightly to look over at your lover. You didn’t mean to give him any grief, but it was a good question. Just what was Krell hoping to achieve by annoying everyone?

“Either way he's in charge, and we got a job to do.” Rex responded taking your question in stride, “Treat him with respect and we'll all get along fine.”

You sighed, “As long as that respect is mutual.”

“You know we don’t always get that luxury.” The captain looked at you. You could practically feel his disapproving gaze through his visor.

You backed down, not wanting to stress him out any more than he already was, “I know…I know…just…” With another sigh, you gave him a soft smile, “Just want to keep you and everyone else safe.”

“Especially me?” Fives chimed in, a smirk clear in his voice. 

You snorted, “Yes Fives, especially you.”

Rex let out a soft laugh, “That’s enough chatter. We need to focus.” 

“Speaking of.” The ARC trooper nudged the captain and pointed upward, “Do you see that?”

In the distance, two glowing…beasts were flying directly towards your battalion. They had impressive speed as they descended quickly. Their bodies were triangular, with bioluminescent under bellies and spiked tails.

“Yea, ready your weapons!” Rex commanded, pulling his pistols. The other troopers followed his lead. The barrage of blaster fire began as soon as one of them swooped, yanking an ARF trooper, Jock, from his AT-RT. It turned sharply and let go, slamming the clone downward into the ground.

You heard the crack through the blasters.

The second dove and grabbed a trooper behind you. He cried out in pain and fear as it flew upward again, taking him from the ground. The shots continued and you got up from the speeder to tend to the down ARF trooper. 

You didn’t make it far, as the first glowing beast made a second swoop aiming for you. Jesse, to his credit, did a wonderful job of protecting you by tackling you to the ground for the second time in a rotation, “Oh no you don’t!” He growled, aiming his gun upward and firing. 

The bioluminescent creature dodged every shot and made another turn, lifting upward to make another pass. 

“Thanks, second time you saved me.” You nodded to him, getting up and rushing to Jock. His leg was broken, fibula stabbing through broken plastoid. Immediately you administered painkillers. This poor man was probably in agony.

Krell had quickly disposed of the second. The Jedi had leapt upward and ripped the beast's claws open, dropping the other trooper. His size and weight worked to the advantage as the animal couldn’t lift. 

The two of them hit the ground where the besalisk stabbed both his lightsabers through its torso. It died with a high pitched screech before Krell sliced the last one as it tried to swoop, bringing it down as well. 

Rex and Fives kept their guns pointed at the beast, but the new General shouted, “anyone else want to stop and play with the animals!?” He punctuated his point by driving his foot down on the creature's body. It jerked before going still, “Didn’t think so. Now keep moving!”

You huffed, turning back to the soldier, “I got you.” Your voice was kind and soft, “I’m not going anywhere, OK?”

He nodded, gloved hands trembling and gripping his thigh. Even with the painkillers, you knew he must’ve been feeling like absolute hell. 

“Jesse,” You looked up at the senior trooper, “Can you get the speeder please?” The soldier needed surgery, but you couldn’t do it here. Not in the open. 

He saluted and quickly stepped away. 

“How bad?” Kix asked, pulling off his pack and kneeling next to you. He remained calm, despite the earlier excitement, “Damn, Jock. Don’t worry. We got you.”

“We are moving!” Krell shouted somewhere behind you. 

“Give us a few minutes!” you snapped, not looking up as you worked. “Help me stabilize the leg, I can't fix it here.”

“We have bacta and medication to deal with any infections later.” the medic beside you nodded, “Get a splint in place.”

“North, take his AT-RT,” You heard Fives’ command the ARF trooper you treated earlier. As soon as the ARC troopers words were spoken, North had gotten up from the stretcher as Jesse approached with the speeder. While you would have preferred him to rest, that currently wasn’t an option. Thankfully, he was at least conscious enough to operate a vehicle. 

Plus, leaving behind a perfectly functional and even devastating weapon in the hands of the enemy was a very bad idea.

Jock was trembling. Pain and shock from staring at his broken leg most likely. Even hardened soldiers would panic at the sight of one of their bones stabbing outside of their body, “Hey Jock, don’t worry. We got you, ok?” You shifted slightly, lowering your face so he’d pay attention to you and not his wound.

“Troopers!” 

“Can you not fucking see-!” a heavy hand yanked you back and to your feet. You stumbled, but kept upright. 

Krell was glaring at you, a fire of wrath in his eyes,“I told you, we. are. Moving! Do not ignore a direct order!” 

Now it was your turn to be enraged, “Respectfully, General, my priority is to the wellbeing of this army. It is my duty as a field doctor to help them when they’re injured. Surely as a jedi you understand the importance of duty.” You kept your eyes on him, refusing to look away. 

Arguing with your General normally wasn’t an option. However, in your training it was emphasized that your rank as a medic held special privileges, such as ignoring orders that may inhibit you from caring for the wounded.

But something told you that the Jedi in front of you didn’t really care.

You didn’t see how Hardcase held Rexs’ arm, doing his best to keep the captain from making a grave mistake. He was normally able to think clearly and not let his emotions dictate his decisions. Unless it came to you. The one he loved so dearly.

The new General huffed and straightened his back, “You have 60 seconds to get him stabilized and loaded on to the stretcher,” He clasped his arms behind him again and began to walk to the front, he turned his head back at you, “Next time, I will not stand for such insubordination, because it is my duty to lead these troops so the Republic can take the capital of this planet.” 

You swallowed and saluted, turning back to Jock. With the help of Kix and Jesse, the injured trooper was situated on the stretcher. You gave him another dose of painkillers and let him drift off to sleep. 

“You can tell the General we had 20 seconds to spare.” You grumbled to Fives, getting back on your speeder. Within minutes a formation was established again. Your pace was with the men, staying behind Rex, Fives and Krell. 

“Are you ok?” Kix asked as he walked next to you. 

“Yes.” You rubbed your face in your hand, ignoring the small sting of the blaster burn to your cheek. You still hadn’t dealt with it yet. 

Your medic friend patted your back in sympathy. He shared your frustrations. 

Anakin would never have pulled you away from tending to the injured. He would have knelt down and helped you, or had his lightsabers ready to protect you. His padawan would have done the same, perhaps even go after whoever injured the trooper to begin with. 

But Anakin wasn’t here. Neither was Ahsoka. Instead, you were stuck with Pong fucking Krell. 

About an hour later Rex had slowed his pace to walk next to you, “Mesh’la.” He spoke softly, making sure no one else could hear, “You haven’t dealt with the cut on your cheek.” 

Oh. Right, you keep forgetting about it. 

“It’s alright.” You gave him a small smile, “the men are going to need all the bacta they can get. A tiny scratch like this doesn’t matter.” 

He remained silent for a moment before shaking his head, “Please be careful, the men need you.” His words hid the true meaning, from everyone except you. 

I need you. 

“I am, Captain.” You answered, “You just promise me you’ll stay alive to lead us.” 

Please don’t become one of the injured I have to treat. 

“I promise.” His hand twitched. He wanted so badly to cup your injured cheek and kiss it better. But not right now. Not around others. Not in such a hostile place.

“Captain Rex.” Your voice became quieter, “Ner kar’ta.” 

“Ner narser.” He whispered back before straightening up. Your lover became the captain again, needing to focus on the mission at hand. Still, to hide your relationship, he spoke slightly louder, letting others hear, “you can’t disobey orders again, understood?” 

You nodded, “yes, Captain. It won’t happen again,” Subtly, you gave him a smile. 

He returned to his position closer to Krell after that. However, occasionally he’d cast a quick glance back at you. 

After about an hour, you heard some whispered chatter behind you. Looking back, you noticed a trooper, Oz, leaning against Tup and limping. You gave him a look of confusion and slowed the speeder to get next to them.

“It's nothing to worry about, Doc.” Oz informed you, “Just…probably twisted my ankle when that beast dropped me.” It was a clear lie. From your perspective it looked more like something had fractured in his knee.

Your gaze drifted to Jock, soundly knocked out on the stretcher. Why are so many soldiers getting leg injuries? 

“Regardless, we can’t know the true extent unless I get a proper look.” your gaze drifted to Krell. The bastard would flip out if he knew you stopped again. Still, Oz needed to get off that leg, “Take the speeder.”

“Doc?”

“You’ve used one right? It's easy.” You slipped off of the vehicle and pushed it along before Oz or anyone could argue, “Take it, at least to rest the ankle.” 

He paused but Tup pulled him slightly, “Come on, doctor's orders.” 

Without much more fuss, the injured trooper did as you directed. He sat down and let out a small sigh of relief, “Thank you.” clearly he hid his pain behind soldier bravado.

You nodded, deciding to walk next to Tup for now. Your eyes went to North, making sure he seemed alert and aware. For now, the ARF trooper was recovering from his wounds well, getting some weight off your shoulders. Still, everyone needed a breather. It's been about five hours since they started marching and while clones had stellar endurance, they would need a break at some point.

You kept your eyes ahead, focusing on the backs of those in front of you. It was a few hours later when your thoughts were interrupted.

“Are you ok, Doc?” Tup asked you quietly. 

You couldn’t hide the irritation in your voice, “You are the second person to ask me that within the last few hours. Do I not look ok?” He seemed startled at your response and you honestly felt bad. Poor Tup was barely a shiny, so you sighed and nodded, “Just thinking, Tup. I'm alright.” 

Before he could respond, Hardcase draped his arm over your shoulder, “Hey Doc, I got a cut on my lip. Can you kiss it to make it better?”

You snorted, repressing your laugh. Sometimes the soldiers would flirt and joke, all in good fun. Hardcase was especially friendly, knowing went to chime in to lift the mood. Honestly, you appreciated it. 

Tup looked downright offended on your behalf, “Hardcase!” 

Jesse looked back from his position. Even under the helmet you knew he was looking confused. 

“Whatever happens next, I am not a part of it.” you responded with a shrug, looking ahead. 

“See? The doc doesn’t care, ease up.” Now the hyperactive trooper moved on to leaning against Tup. the two bickered quietly as you continued to walk. However, over time their voices died down.

It was around the 12th hour when you realized the silence was from exhaustion. Everyone, including you, was barely hanging on by a thread. The clone endurance you praised earlier had finally hit its limit.

“Kix,” You stepped up next to him, “Tell Captain Rex that we need a break.” your voice was a hushed whisper. You feared if Krell heard you make the request, he’d push the men even harder out of spite. 

The medic agreed with you and sped up his pace to speak to Rex. You, however, fell back next to the medical speeder and checked on the injured. Oz had been doing a good job at controlling the thing, though you could tell his leg was still bothering him. Jock was still out cold, you and Kix periodically checked to make sure he didn’t wake up in agony. North remained coherent and aware as well, he piloted the AT-RT as if he had never been injured, indicating the bacta you’d given him was working well. 

Your observations came to a halt as Krell’s voice pierced the air, “CT-7567 are you reading me?”

“Excuse me, sir?” Your secret lover sounded as confused as everyone was feeling. 

The jedi continued, “I ask you a question, CT-7567 do you understand the need to adhere to my strategy?” Blessedly, he stopped to continue to yell at Rex. Despite how you felt at your lover being targeted so viciously, at least the men had something of a breather. And Rex was a man, he could take an angry General. 

The clone captain shook his head, trying to reason, “Sir, the terrain is extremely hostile, despite the difficulty of the conditions the battalion is making good time. These men just need a little break.” It was a desperate attempt to get some kind of humanity out of the besalisk. 

The General practically snarled and continued his verbal assault, “Captain, do I need to remind you of this battalion’s strategic mission in conquering this planet?” He motioned over all the soldiers behind him, “Look back, see those platoons? Their mission is to take this city and take it swiftly, time and rest are luxuries the Republic cannot afford!” Krell didn’t give up just yet, leaning forward an inch away from the captain's face, “The other battalions are counting on our support, if we fail everyone fails. Do you understand this? Does everyone understand this?!” His yelling was now directed at everyone around him. His critical gaze roamed over the battalion practically challenging anyone to speak up.

When there was only silence, he scoffed and turned, continuing his steps, “Now move on!”

Rex’s shoulders slumped slightly, but quickly, he returned to his stiff and professional posture. With a glance back and a nod, the 501st began to march again.

You shared a look with Hardcase and continued. It was going to be another long few hours of exhausted silence before you stopped again.

[kolawy]

Artificer. poor ol struggling creature.

lots of info under cut as always!

After losing her pups, the artificer feels.. empty. She can't find any purpose in her life, she tries inflicting violence onto others, to somehow drown the grief, but all that leads to is more sorrow and guilt. But even after all these things she went through, she still has a tiny spark of hope that things might just get better, that she may eventually find some purpose.. and so, she begins to endlessly wander the silent constructs littered across the land. Looking for something, or perhaps someone that can reignite her love for the world.

now for some traits:

design:

personality:

•her blood contains a chemical that, when in contact with air, violently explodes

•this mutation was really painful at first and left her with many scars and burns, but her body eventually adapted to it, even growing holes and tubes to allow dispensing this substance in a safer manner, this allows her to do a controlled explosion jump like in the game.

•her saliva also has strange properties, it solidifies when it has been out of her body for long enough, and becomes somewhat silky.. This silk is very explosive, and strong impact causes it to crackle and explode

•since she is a nomad her bag is a bit larger and more "kitted out" than other scugs, she has a blowtorch device strapped under it to assemble weapons easily, and a lil holder for flares or explosives

also pronouns are she/her, although i don't think she really cares.

•she is always tired and is easily irritated by little things

•she's very loving and caring, but it's hard for her to let these feelings out

•she's touch starved and needs comfort but she won't admit it

•protective

•she tends to be really violent for no good reason, blowing things up makes her feel better for a bit

•she has no idea how to properly communicate with other scugs, as she has been isolated for so so long

[lovelykhaleesiii]

The Wolf & the Stray Girl. Chapter #1 The Grieving.

PAIRING: Werewolf!Aegon ii Targaryen x fem!Reader [Little Red Riding Hood AU]

WORDS: 1942.

SUMMARY: Nestled in the outskirts of a desolate village, it was known that the woods were a dark, fearsome place not to be ventured. Yet something enchanting lived amongst its shadows, you were certain. And some may call it your bold willingness or others, your naive curiosity, would ultimately uncover the truth.

WARNINGS: mentions of stalker tendencies, mentions of murder/intrusion.

A/N - apologies for the long wait, I took some time away from writing. I sometimes feel my place in this fandom is non-existent. I realise now, that it does not matter. I came here to write for characters I love... that is what I intend to do. thank you for your patience, to those that continue to support me x

The long, treacherous road that laid ahead of you, the further you would venture into the dark, enchanted woods was not one to be taken lightly. Although, far from harm's way so long as you remained stagnant in your pathway: not befallen to whatever temptations lurked in the shadows beyond the winding, cobblestoned thoroughfare. Your final destination was intended to be a quick visit to your beloved grandmother, with the hopeful, pleasant exchange of goods. Her cinnamon cookies were divine, especially when and almost always freshly baked.

Despite having travelled this familiar road many times before, both with the thorough guidance of your father and your now presumed late elder sister, it never ceased to feel eerie. A nauseating sensation in the deepest pit of your stomach would always churn and writhe with suspicions that curious, watchful eyes lingered over your every move, your every trail. A terrible suspicion that some of these eyes intended to harm you.

The harrowing, cold tone of your father’s stern words had been etched into your malleable mind, like a carving in stone.

“Stay on that path, girl… Or we have lost you already.”

Your father had grown much old and weary of late, since your elder sister had been declared missing. He scouted relentlessly day and night himself, into the woods. Only to return empty handed, with proof of his exhausting endeavours saturated across his seldom face. His eyes once so lively that gleamed bright with joy: a man that could once smile with his eyes, now only distraught with the strained look of grief and despair.

It took you countless attempts to persuade him otherwise, to allow you to venture the journey yourself, until he finally agreed, although with great reluctance. He knew you were much more diligent and obedient than your elder, always adhering to orders without the temptation to cross a boundary. Your father trusted you, however he did not trust whatever creatures laid abed in the lush dark green canopy of the woods.

“Stay on the path, Y/N, my dearest… Or else I cannot bear to live a life where I lose you too.”

The luminescent indigo pigment of the petals had immediately caught your attention. Your active eyes would wander with marvel, fleeting from the defined path that laid ahead, to beyond the stretch of woods.

"Ocean tears" You breathlessly whisper, your eyelids widening with intrigue as you lust over the rare sight. Ocean Tears were a sacred commodity to come by so naturally: used for medicinal and curative remedies, your mind immediately soared to the sickly, malnourished state of your father. The toll of his insomnia, poor appetite and overall dejected state had been taxing to his health, since the disappearance of your sister. He was not the once formidable, strong man he had once been in the previous years...

The treasure itself was only a few short paces off the pathway itself. Your mind began to scatter, trying to outweigh the risks against the pros. Despite wearingly trying to convince yourself to stay on path, desperate to strain every brain fibre to obligate your body to adhere to your father's wishes, you unconsciously felt your body pacing forward, reaching the very edge of the elevated path. Your eyes darted from each side of the vast forest vicinity: delicately scanning every inch, crevice and shadow of the engulfing green and wooden shrubbery [with the Ocean Tears being the only source of colour in the portrait].

"Forgive me, Father," You utter beneath your breath, before taking a careful leap forwards. Now both feet firmly planted on the soft, soiled grown, the earth beneath felt somewhat alleviating. Having spent a few solid hours, with nothing but the rigid, uneven rocky stones beneath your feet, walking uphill and down, this mundane sensation was a relief like no other.

Only a few seconds had need passing, as you slowly began to regain your instinctual senses, realising the daunting extremity of your decision. Without wanting to spare precious seconds more, you hastily pace forward towards the vibrant flower, basking in the alluring scent, as you push aside the straightened flaps of your crimson red hooded cape. Delicately you begin to pluck at the petals, one fallen strand landing into the base of your woven, wooden basket.

Disciplined in your actions, your once whole and lively senses had once again melt away, unaware of a figure creeping up from the shadows.

"It seems someone has lost their way from the path..."

The unthreatening tone was low and husky, and yet its sudden volume shattering the vast, swallowing silence was frightful: dire enough to freeze your entire being in time.

Your fearful eyes met the immediate, still gaze of the strange man: a handsome, ethereal looking one, nonetheless. With moonlight tinged hair, short, silver strands almost blinding in the radiating beams of sunlight, his unfaltering lilac orbs were encapsulating. Conflicted to stare, yet unable to maintain constant contact. Although there was some distance between you both, you could tell he was a few, solid inches taller than yourself, his physicality sturdy, and robust appearing. There was no doubt, if he caught you in his midst, it would be meaningless to fight agains him. He practically oozed might. Although his facial features softened, almost angelic like, the healed yet evident scars slashed across his pale skin, made him look rugged: proof that he was no stranger to brute savagery.

He took a cautious, slow step forward, almost hesitant to, yet determined. In rhythm, you took a step back instinctually, causing him to take no further step closer.

"I wish not to harm you, I only wish to speak to you."

Although the nerves rattled you, his tempting words had somewhat puzzled you.

Who was this stranger? Had he been watching you from afar this entire time? Why the desire to speak?

"And why would I do that? Do you think of me as some naive prey? You are nothing but a stranger to me, what makes you think I will take your word?"

His endearing glare remained fixated on you this entirety, although you struggled to reciprocate, its enticing nature was captivating. His stout chest heaving generously, before exhaling a defeated sigh.

"You have no reason to trust me, Y/N... Although I have been watching you from the distance, since the moment you departed. I know where you sleep, I know where you seek solace... If you think you can wave me off, just know, I will be lingering. Your scent-"

Once more, he takes a solid pace forward, although this time with a dark, menacing tinge in his eyes, as he looms his head down to your eye level. Another pace further, as you try to maintain the distance between, taking a step back, as you firmly grip your basket's carved handle.

"W-What are you? W-Who are you?" You shamelessly stutter, your skin growing cold, sensing a drop in temperature in your body.

"I could smell you from miles away: that intoxicating scent. First hit me, when you first ventured these woods, that year ago. No matter how hard I tried, and I had tried to fight against it, yet I could not bear to ignore it any longer. From the countless sleepless nights, and long days, I had no choice... And seeing you now... You did not disappoint."

"G-Get away from me!" You recklessly shout: your yells could either result in aid working in your favour or against, drawing more unwarranted attention from dark figures. Your head paced backwards and forwards, from where the man stood ahead of you, inching in closer and closer, as you desperately tried to move yourself back to the footpath.

"I am no ordinary man, Y/N. I am Aegon. And you... You have no ordinary fate."

"Do not speak of my name again, fiend! Leave me alone!"

As you hastily turned your back, taking a risky lunge forward, planting your unsteady foot on top the solid ground of the pathway. You had only turned momentarily, and yet as you resumed your stance once more, you were faced with only the empty, glooming green of the forest, and its chilling silence. A few solid minutes had passed, your attention spanning across the shrubbery, inspecting every inch, for an ounce of proof that this Aegon, remained close by.

Although your body felt rigid and tense, sensing the hot blood coursing through your vessels. Your dense breathing felt heavy and restricting across your chest, as you tried to regain control.

Without a second to spare, you resumed your stroll, although with greater speed. Your mind fled to the echoing, harrowing voice of your father's words, and the guilt began to stir. You rebelled against his advice and the repercussions were close to fatal.

As your mind pondered over Aegon's words, your body carrying itself with each heavy step: your only intent was to make it in one piece...

The sight was unlike anything you had ever seen... The dark, dried traces of blood smeared across the walls and homily furniture, the broken pieces of wood and stained glass scattered messily across the floor, each careful step, an audible crunch beneath your weight. All details pointed to an intrusion, you had conceded. Your broken voice hopelessly calling out for your grandmother, as you slowly paced across the hallway, eyes peering across the vicinity for a remote sign of her. And yet, only silence had responded.

The hot tears swelling in your eyes had blurred your vision, as you took in each inch and crevice of the household. The day had been a harrowing one indeed, and to be met with this tragic fate, did no justice to ease your mind. As you crept towards the end of the hall, the familiar door to your grandmother's cosy chamber slightly remained unlock, only the disappearing sunlight lurking through. As you steadily pushed over the door, creaking in its hinges as though the house had not been vacant and unkept for years, you were met with a horrifying sight indeed. A pungent, horrid smell wafted through your nostrils, as you captured a glimpse of her unmoving, blood curdling body across the flood board. Suddenly, your vision had darkened into an abyss, the sight disappeared.

"Y/N-" The call of your name was unforeseen, yet its voice sounded eerily familiar. The hand that was stationed over covering your eyes, was sudden yet brought some relief, sparing you the gruesome sight. Your hand clutched at your heart, above your tender breast, as you felt your body being handled, gently guided to turn towards the direction of the voice.

"A-Aegon-" Eyes widening in disbelief as the hand released its clutch over your eyesight: you felt numb towards his presence as the over-looming sense of grief drowned you, otherwise. Your father had suffered enough anguish thus far, you could not bear to bring him the burden of more sorrowful news.

What has become of your family's fate? Had some curse plagued your family? Had some ill-minded person wished nothing more than to bestow such affliction unto you all?

"Y/N, dearest- You need to come with me, right now-"

With no caution to his actions, his warm hands, its raw texture rough felt against your soft palms, as he held your cold peripherals tightly. Reassurance oozed from him, as his large hand further reached over, tenderly brushing aside a fallen, misplaced strand of hair from your face, before his thumb caressed the fallen tear away.

You knew better than to show an ounce of trust towards Aegon, and yet, you felt somewhat protected in his presence.

"Y/N, please-"

taglist [for this series] - @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @heavenly1927 @snowprincesa1 @trifoliumviridi @fulltacoparadise @qyburnsghost

general taglist - @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @aegonslawyer

Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit @bucknastysbabe @jawline-of-steel

credit for divider - @/firefly-graphics

[cantpickonefandoms]

Sooo guess what came in the mail for me!!

It’s really good and I wanna ramble about some of my favourite things in the comic so THIS IS YOUR SPOILER WARNING!!

OK SO:

-First, this is probably my favourite of all the TDP comics that have been put out, TTM was chock full of Rayllum and I loved every second of it, and I loved learning about Rayla, and Claudia and Soren’s pasts in their respective comics, but I have been dying to learn more about Callum and Ez’s past for a long time, and this comic delivered plenty of what I was hoping for, I think the only thing I’m kind of disappointed about was we didn’t learn much about Sarai or about Callum’s bio dad, but that’s alright, that’s more of a gripe of mine than anything.

-The story starts off with Callum and Ezran coming back from the incident with the waterfall and the raccoons that Callum mentions during 1x09, nice continuity nod!

-There’s a part where Ezran is struggling to explain to Harrow how he can talk to animals and Harrow just gently tells Ez to slow down to let the words come to him, Harrow is such a good dad!

-Callum makes this face when the boys discover a library:

I love that nerd so much! (All I could hear when I read this line was “I’d like to spend my vacation at the LIBRARY!”)

-There’s a handful of moments where Callum quotes Sarai, little tidbits of advice she gave to him.

-There’s a great moment where Ezran goes around talking to several kids and offers them comfort and sends them to the town hall for safety and Callum is completely blown away and tells Ez that he was amazing and he sounded just like Harrow in that moment.

-There’s another great moment where Ezran wants to go check on the kids in the town hall while Callum reads about the dream warden and of course Callum doesn’t want Ez to go alone and we get some genuine vulnerability from Callum when he admits that he promised to keep Ezran safe for Harrow and that he thinks if he succeeds then Harrow will be proud of him, and that he feels like he keeps failing at keeping that promise, poor guy doesn’t realize that Harrow already is proud of him!

-Easily the best moment is when Ezran talks the dream warden down, the the story of the dream explains that the creature had a young elf friend, but eventually he lost his friend started giving people nightmares as a result, now during most of the comic there’s a lot of times where Callum is irritable towards Ezran, he scoffs at a lot of Ez’s suggestions, he mocks Ezran’s ‘weird animal thing’, and there’s a part where he’s trying convince Harrow to let him come with them to the east side of the village, and is annoyed when Harrow permits him to come on the condition that he keeps an eye on Ezran, and when Ez talks to the dream warden he says that creature reminds him of his brother, that Callum makes him laugh and draws imaginary animals for him, but around the same time every year, around the time when Sarai passed, Callum becomes angry, but that Ezran still loves Callum and refuses to give up on Callum, I love this message so much, also Ezran is truly wise beyond his years, he’s like somewhere between four and six in this story and he shows this level understanding and patience towards Callum dealing with grief and missing Sarai, that’s incredible!

-Later Callum tells Ez that he has a gift for talking and that Sarai would be proud of him, and Ez tells Callum that she would be proud of him too, I love these boys so much!!

-JERK FACE DANCE ORIGIN REVEAL HELL YEAH!

I loved the comic so much, I loved looking into Callum and Ez’s past, I loved the angst, I loved the message, I loved all of Ez’s animal sidekicks, I had such a good time reading it! This is just making me more hyped for season 7! Idk if they’re gonna put out another comic, but if this the last TDP comic then I’d say they ended on a high note.

[starlitiris]

“Lilacs” ~ Painter x Reader (Part 1)

Part 2

warnings: angst, character death, mildly descriptive graphic imagery, grief, panic attacks(?)

beginning notes: thank you to cavern-creature for giving me the idea to write this! i’m not too happy with the pacing, but oh well. more notes will be at the end of the story.

word count: ~2.1k

~ 🪻 ~

It’s a beautiful spring day. The sun is high and shining bright, nary a cloud in the sky. The weather was perfect! Or so Painter had been told. He couldn’t feel the temperature himself, of course. He couldn’t feel the soft, gentle breeze brushing over his monitor, either. Or smell the floral aroma coming from the field of flowers him and his friends were in. A beautiful shade of purple surrounded the three on each side. Painter, his creator, and you.

He watched you run out into the field, his creator electing to stay behind so he could set Painter up on the crate they always bring. You came to halt, turning to face the wind, and held out your arms to feel it. The breeze, the sun, the flowers grazing your calves. It was bliss.

You looked amazing. The sunlight shone on your face, highlighting all of your beautiful features. Your clothes, moving with every gust of wind that rushed by, framed you perfectly. Your smile was as bright as always. You looked perfect. You are perfect. Painter was sure of that.

“Hey, stand still!” The AI called out to you. “I wanna capture you just like that!”

You giggled. “Just like this? Are you sure?”

“Exactly like that,” he reinforced, the sweetest smile painted on his screen.

“Okay, but try not to take too long! My arms are gonna start hurting if I have to stand here for hours.”

“I won’t take THAT long! Just hold still, I’ll paint you first,” Painter responded, wiping his page clean to start sketching you.

“He has been getting faster at this lately,” his creator adds, resting his elbow atop the computer.

“Yeah, yeah,” you roll your eyes, even though you’re still smiling. “Let’s just hope he’s fast enough,” you tease.

“Hey, you can’t rush perfection!” He tells you.

You laugh. Banter with Painter is always light and fun. You’re impressed that he already has a really good outline of you done. You’ve seen him paint a hundred times over at this point, but watching his process never ceases to amaze you. It’s kind of mesmerizing. You love it.

You love him. And he loves you all the same.

One of the cameras Painter is connected to picks up on motion somewhere in the blacksite, pulling him out of his daydream. He groans and sets his unfinished drawing of you aside as a draft. Back to work.

Urbanshade just sent down a few more teams of expendables, it would seem. What a drag. At least Painter could try to have some fun while he stalls them.

He doesn’t bother with actually watching them – it serves him no real purpose to do so. He just goes off of motion sensors and does what he can do in any given room the suckers wander into. Luring Z-96 around with the PA system, activating turrets, pissing off Eyefestation when it’s near enough. Fun stuff.

He giggles to himself knowing one of the active teams was just fooled by a false door.

“Moronsss,” he says to nobody.

Things continue this way for a while, like they always do. As the night progresses, all the EXR-P teams are gradually killed off. All but one, that is. That’s all thanks to him, as well as the many other dangers this place has to offer. The motion sensors indicate that the remaining team is down to two expendables. They won’t last long. Painter is certain.

Only one expendable enters the next room.

See? He knew it.

And, would you look at that. This room has turrets in it! Might as well put this poor sap out of their misery. He activates the weapons.

It’s one of the long rooms that has a large window peering out into the ocean, equipt with three turrets to cover nearly every inch of the area. Well, they used to cover every inch. But that was before panicked Urbanshade employees set up tables and lockers for protection. Now they could only scan most of the room. Oh well. The tables and lockers didn’t save those workers, and it certainly won’t save this prisoner.

He takes note that the expendable made it to a safe spot in the center of the room. Barely, though. A laser on one of the turrets grazed their ankle before they made it to safety. The weapon was alerted for a brief moment, then went back to rotating around the room when the person was out of sight.

“Ugghhh,” Painter dramatically groaned in his cage. How annoying. At least this idiot still has the other half of the room to get through.

The expendable warily leaves the comfort of their safe spot to move forward. They only make it a quarter of the way to where they’re aiming to go, though, before being harshly informed by a loud beeping that they didn’t time this correctly. They take a few bullets to their right arm and leg while hurrying back to where they had just been hiding.

“Ngh, dammit! F-Fuck, fuck, fuck…” they curse.

Huh. That voice sounds… kind of familiar to Painter. Weird.

He decides not to waste much time on that thought. There’s no way he could possibly know this person, and he needs to focus.

He has a job to do.

Kill the expendables. Stall for time.

He waits while the bleeding criminal braces themself to make another run for it. They certainly don’t seem to be in a rush.

“Cooome ooon, stop wasting time! You’re just gonna die anyway!” Painter complains, once again to nobody but himself. He hasn’t been talking to these losers as much as he normally would today. He didn’t even feel like taunting them. He was in a sour mood. They interrupted his daydream.

“God, how am I going to do this…?” He hears the person ask themself.

They sound familiar. So familiar. It’s bothering him now. He can’t hear them all that well because of the audio quality and their quiet volume, but there’s something about that voice…

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Get rid of them.

The expendable is on their feet again. They steady themself against the locker they’ve been tucked behind, and take a deep, shaky breath.

They hold.

They wait.

And they run as fast as their aching, wounded body will let them.

They shout when a bullet pierces their shoulder, and drop dead in front of the unopened door as they’re shot down.

And that’s the last of the EXR-P teams until Urbanshade sends more down in a pathetic attempt to retrieve their precious crystal.

Suckers.

Finding himself with nothing to do again, Painter tries to go back to his daydreaming. That wonderfully beautiful face, amongst that beautiful purple field, underneath the beautiful beating sun. But he finds himself distracted by that voice again. He tries to brush it off and forget about it, but it’s bothering him. Like an itch that won’t go away. Now that he thinks about it, it sort of sounded like…

No. That’s impossible. You were on the surface somewhere, safe and sound. Blissfully unaware of the horrors taking place at the bottom of the ocean. Unaware of the horrible things Painter is doing for the sake of freedom.

You are safe.

Hell, you might even be in that field at this very moment. It may be cold out this time of year, but you three used to agree that it was gorgeous there year-round. That’s why you all would visit it all the time.

That’s probably where you are. Yeah. In the field. Waiting for purple to blanket the ground once again.

… But even knowing that, he can’t shake the anxiety building within him. Just the thought of you ending up here somehow, let alone being killed- by him.

But it’s not you. He knows that. And just to prove to himself that it isn’t you, he’ll go look at the corpse through a camera near the door so he can see that it’s clearly… not…

…

He has to stare for a while to fully grasp what he’s seeing. He shows up on the sign next to the door.

That wonderfully beautiful face.

You’re paler than he remembers. Likely due to the fact that all of the blood that should be swimming through your veins is now a massive puddle on the floor. Your eyes, once bright and warm, now look dull and lifeless. Your face holds no emotion. Blood has seeped out of your nose and the corner of your mouth, contributing to the pool of crimson surrounding you.

You’re surrounded in red.

You should be surrounded in purple, but all he sees is red.

“... No…”

Painter doesn’t want to believe what he’s seeing is real.

“No… no no no.”

All of his anxiety is replaced with panic.

“Y/N! Y/N, wake up!”

He can’t accept that you’re dead. He won’t.

“Y/N, please! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to! Please!”

He can’t lose you too.

“Please!!”

His voice cracks as if he’s crying.

And he is.

That’s not something he wanted to know he could do.

He starts to desperately alert to Sebastian that something is wrong. Painter can’t do anything for you himself, but his friend can. He can help. He can fix you.

Painter keeps begging for you to wake up, telling you help is on the way. Minutes feel like hours while he waits for Sebastian to arrive at the scene.

When he does arrive, he bursts through the only door in the room not marked by the navi-path.

“What, what?! I’m here, what happened?!” The man shouts, looking around to try to see what the fuss was about.

“Sebastian! Help them, please! You have to help them!” Painter pleads.

“Help who??” Sebastian asked before noticing your corpse on the floor in front of his friend. “Uh…”

“Hurry!! What are you waiting for?!”

Sebastian slithers over to you, a look of uncertainty plastered on his face. He barely recognizes you as one of the expendables that was in his shop not that long ago.

“Uh… Paint? I don’t really know what you want me to do here,” he admits.

“Help them! You have medkits, don’t you?! Use them! Use anything!! Just save them, please!!” Painter cries.

“Why, though? It’s just an expendable, you’ve done this plenty of times-”

“They’re not just an expendable, they’re my friend! I knew them before I was brought here- just, please!! We don’t have time for this!!” He shouts, frustrated that Sebastian isn’t doing anything to help yet.

“You… knew them?” Sebastian asks, now with a look of concern.

“Yes, why aren’t you doing anything?!”

“... Paint…”

“Do something!!”

“Paint.”

“They’re dying!! I can’t-”

“Painter.”

“I can’t lose them, too! I can’t! I can’t- I can’t be the reason- please!”

Sebastian frowns. It hurts seeing his friend in such a state.

“Why are you looking at me like that?! Please…!”

“Painter.”

“Stop saying my name! Why- why aren’t you doing anything?!” Painter sobs.

“They’re gone. There’s nothing we can do for them.”

“No- you’re not even trying! How do you know that if you haven’t even tried?!”

“Look at them, Paint. They’ve lost way too much blood to be saved.”

“That’s not true!! It’s not true! It’s not…” he trails off.

Sebastian remains silent. He patiently waits for his friend to process that you won’t be waking up.

It takes him a while, but eventually Painter is able to speak up again.

“Oh god…” his voice shakes. “Oh god… I killed them.”

Sebastian sighs.

“I killed them. Sebastian, I killed them. I killed my best friend. Oh, god.”

Sebastian carefully makes his way around your body to gently pat Painter’s screen while he continues to weep. He repeats over and over to himself that he killed the first person he ever loved, as if saying it enough times would somehow make it hurt less.

He did this to you.

He couldn’t bear it.

Painter was an inconsolable mess. But even still, Sebastian would stay with him for as long as he needed. He doesn’t mind putting off whatever he was doing before this to be there for his only friend.

Expendable or not, he sincerely wishes he could bring you back for Painter.

He doesn’t believe he and his AI companion can afford to lose anymore than what they have.

Reality was cruel. It proved itself to be, every goddamn day.

What Painter wouldn’t give to see you in that field again. The sunlight shining on your face, highlighting all of your beautiful features. Your clothes, moving with every gust of wind that rushed by, framing you perfectly. Your smile, as bright as always.

Surrounded in purple.

Lilacs were always your favorite.

~ 🪻 ~

ending notes: according to multiple sources, lilacs often symbolize joy, youth, the impermanence of youth, and first love. though, one source also says that lilacs can symbolize old love, stating that victorian widows would often wear them as a sign of remembrance.

Since this didn’t follow the suggested prompt exactly, I’ll likely write a less-sad part 2 for this. Let me know if you would like to see it! (It’s actually out rn if you wanna go read it, it’s linked at the top of the post! <3)

Thank you for reading.

[actually-a-girls-name]

Family

my second ficlet for @calaisreno may prompts!! a nice Christmas at Baker Street, Ms. Hudson POV, hope you enjoy!

also on ao3 if you want to drop a comment there :)

2,005 words - Prompt: Family (no shit Sherlock)

The living room was scintillating from every corner, ornamented with stuffed reindeers and Santa Claus figurines, and a magnificent tree was taking up quite a lot of space next to the chimney. It was their second Christmas since John had moved back to Baker Street with Rosie. The doctor was the one who insisted they would decorate particularly heavily. “For Rosie” he said, but Ms. Hudson saw he was enjoying it as much as the little girl. Sherlock had seen it too of course, so he didn’t argue. He was even the one who put the colorful fairy lights up, the ones they had back from their first Christmas together. She had caught John looking over fondly at his partner as he was trying to detangle the wires. Ms. Hudson remembered thinking they had probably shopped for those lights back then, since it was not in the flat furniture. She was sure they were an item now, even though they were yet to say anything about it. But the landlady was more than a landlady and she did know them good after all.

The guests arrived for 6 o’clock and the room was filled of chatter and laughter. It was the usual crowd: Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade and even Mycroft was there! He had been bullied by John and Sherlock for over a month before giving in. Threats involving Rosie were made. In the end, it wasn’t really a surprise for Ms. Hudson that he caved in. Even if it wasn’t for the soft heart she knew he had under all these layers of expensive clothing and frigidity, the couple were legitimately scary. They were already before everything happened, but now that they weren’t wasting so much energy coming at each other, their connection was a dangerous weapon. Upon consideration, she was glad to have them on her side and feared the inevitable day they would join forces to mess with her.

The champagne was still flowing but the appetizers brought by Molly were long gone now. Rosie was channeling all the attention on her, dancing in the middle of the room in a cute sparkly purple dress. It was way past her bedtime but to everyone’s enjoyment the demon was still full of energy.

What a light this sweet little girl brought to their lives, Ms. Hudson thought. Oh, it had been hard on her: the death of her mother and her father doing the best he could that wasn’t quite enough. To his defense, the poor man had his fair share of grief to deal with. Still, it didn’t help that he had deprived his daughter of another pair of loving arms in the storm of it all. Ms. Hudson knew how John regretted his reaction toward Sherlock, so she kept those reflections to herself. During these times, there have been days of complete silence, which was about the scariest thing a young child could do. But then Rosie started crying again, and not only crying – thank God – but also babbling and squealing and laughing. She had a village of adoring people raising her now, and Ms. Hudson could only think of the joy she felt from being a part of it.

Martha never had any children of her own, too busy enjoying the high (and steam!) of her marriage at first, and then too busy trying to figure out a way out of the spiral down. She would probably never have wanted any with him anyway. He wasn’t the kind of man you could see being tender with children. She herself was not even sure she would be. She had always been pretty indifferent to these little screaming individuals. She found babies cute and wasn’t completely immune to their smiles (who was?) but she also didn’t find herself caring too much. She always felt clumsy on their company and could never figure out how to act around children. With Rosie she had learned. She loved the creature with all her heart, that helped.

They were tackling the cake by now, Rosie finally napping on the sofa after spending the entire diner running around and eating out of everyone’s plate. Ms. Hudson settled on observing Sherlock for a while. He had been incredibly appropriate and seemed at-ease all evening, even as the tiredness were visibly settling in. Maybe John’s hand occasionally brushing his thighs or settling behind the back of his chair had helped. Maybe the wine too: they were all such lightweight, she could probably outdrink them all. Not something to be particularly proud of, she thought then. “Must be the few glasses of whiskeys at the bridges sessions, nothing wrong with that.” Still, Sherlock had come a long way from the mess of a person he was when they first met. She drifted back to her memories as she watched with tenderness the man the self-labelled sociopath had become.

Martha was from a big family, the last one of six siblings. All her brothers and sisters had or were moving out when she was still little; she didn’t have time to form a strong connection with any of them. Her parents were nice but tired to their bones, she remembered the silence being an eminent part of her childhood. Friends she had a ton, but the one who mattered the most left early at her wedding. Everything changed after that, and moving to Florida cut the last remaining strings.

She was 34 when she settled in London, and she had felt lonely ever since. Martha Louise Hudson was a social one, but acquaintances stayed just that: acquaintances. It was at that time she really wished to have a family. There were a few men, but none of them felt right. Few men ever do when you’re an independent woman able to recognize her own value. And by God she was. Still, she longed for a meaningful connection. She did have a sister and a niece she visited sometimes, but the distance wasn’t making it easy. As she grew older and it was becoming increasingly sure she wasn’t going to have a child of her own, she always found herself wondering what a mother she would have been.

She immediately felt a weird pull when she met Sherlock, passed out in the street two blocks away from her flat: she felt a need to protect the boy, almost viscerally. So she took him home to fed him tea and biscuits. The discussion they had was one of the strangest she ever had at the time (strangest things had happened to her since then). As it turned out, he was the one who could protect her: her bastard of a husband had figured a way out of jail and was threatening to come get her. Sherlock promised he was not going to let it happen, and he didn’t. She became attached to this smart and arrogant junkie, who was just as lonely as she was, if not more.

She visited him in a rehab center a couple of times, that’s how she met Mycroft. She remembered quite clearly the way his glances were sending chills to her spine. Sherlock visited her a few times too, after he got out. Sometimes he only dropped off a stolen item from a crime scene he thought she might like, sometimes he would stay for tea and biscuits. He usually liked to narrate his cases to her: Ms. Hudson was a very good listener. She shouted, gasped, and laughed right on cue. Other times, less frequently, he was letting her talk about the neighborhood gossips and the new members of her bridge club. When her tenants moved out, she naturally offered the space to him and he accepted without hesitation. God knows where he had been living before! He would always refuse to talk about it.

It was well into the night and Greg and Molly had just left but the walls of 221B Baker Street seemed to be retaining their laughter. It was just the two of them now with Rosie asleep in John’s chair. “Well, the four of us really” she thought. They were seated in the living room, letting the weariness of the evening washing through them.

Ms. Hudson could not have guessed this was going to be what her Christmas would look like when she greeted John Watson on the entrance of her house, a bit more than 5 years ago. Maybe she had hoped for it a tiny bit. She thought John and Sherlock were perfect for each other since the first glance she casted at the doctor. Gosh, it has been a long time coming! And nothing was perfect, nothing ever is, but this was the closest they might ever get to a perfect night. Martha sighted.

She avoided thinking about the years when Sherlock was dead, and she knew John was doing the same. They had a silent agreement not to talk about it either. But it didn’t mean she had forgotten. On the contrary, she remembered very distinctly the silence that had fallen on Baker Street like a curse. She used to put the TV at full volume all day long, without getting herself to actually watch it. Ms. Hudson hushed those memories away, frowning. John was singing a soft lullaby to Rosie who had just woken up crying.

The first Christmas after John had moved back in with his daughter, they had spent the day in cardboard boxes. John and Sherlock had gone out on a Christmas dinner at Molly’s while she had stayed minding for little Rosie. Sherlock had been home early and visibly upset. He didn’t answer when she asked him what was wrong. That night John came back late and drunk, and she had trouble falling back asleep after that. They still had a lot to sort out at that time. But wasn’t it what it’s all about? Ups and downs. She realized now: that was the proper of families. And she had never been so glad to have found one.

“What are you smiling for, Ms. H?” Sherlock asked, scanning her face.

“Nothing my boys, just happy to have you here.”

“Where else would we ever want to be?” John answered, grinning.

[kyeskorner]

hmmmmmmmm

callie or acht or shiver x !human reader hcs?

i've been writing some stuff in that vein myself because i have a complete weak spot for crushing existentialism and worldly grief vs. indomitable MWAH and the idea of living on and i wonder how others see the vision....

like, everything i love could burn in holy fire tomorrow and i would still get up if any damn talking sea creature said i had to keep balling

oh anonymous... why ask for one character when you can GET ALL THREE!!! I have never done a human reader before in the splatoon universe but IMA GIVE IT A SHOT!!!!

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CALLIE, SHIVER, AND ACHT X HUMAN!READER

(sorry no gif for now!)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

CALLIE

(oh hey there's the gif!)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Okay these are all basically gonna start the same

Oh and also they speak English too.

I feel like she would stumble upon some cryopods and you are stored in them

She would be like "Oooh what's this button do?"

She clicks it, and out falls you!!!

It takes you a bit to come to...

"H-huh...? Who are you...?"

"OMG!! A new friend!!! Hi, I'm Callie! And you are??"

"W-wait... what's going on...? What year is it?"

"Oh! It's, uh... 14024, why?"

"WHAT?!"

She is confused why you're so distraught.

"O-oh god... what about my family...? My friends? What's... are they-"

"Heyyyy, let's not think about that right now! Here, come with me!"

She is very good at distracting you from the Thoughts of Despair™.

She gets you home and welcomes you with open arms. Literally.... she gave you a hug if you accepted it

Immediately gets you a drink and something to eat. Being frozen for 12000 years must have you famished!

"If you need anything, I'll be in the other room!"

You adjust to your new life, and soon you guys get together!!! Yay!!!

One thing she absolutely loves to do btw

She loves to ruffle your hair

She never was able to do anything like that

"Haha! Your hair is all messy now! But you look really cute too :3"

This girl singlehandedly got you adjusted to the new world

And she even delayed inevitable feelings of demise???

She slays honestly

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SHIVER

(shiver is gonna use she/they!)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"..."

"..."

"FRYE, BIG MAN, I THINK I FOUND OURSELVES TREASURE"

Wow, waking up and already being called treasure? Impressive

You place your hands on your head.

"This is all a dream, right??? Like- hah- I'm gonna wake up any moment now."

"This is a dream... for us! Come on guys, help them up!"

Shiver brought you home. They sat you down and clap their hands together.

"Tell me your story. I can tell you aren't an Inkling or Octoling- or anything I've seen before."

You tell her your story, and how you ended up in the cryopod. You let out a laugh... but she can tell it's not cause it's funny.

"...My, you poor thing. I can't even imagine what it's like to go through that."

"...They're all gone. I'm... never gonna see them again..."

Shiver reaches her hand forward and stops.

"Sorry. Is it... alright if I put my hand on your shoulder?"

"...Go ahead..."

They do that.

"Hey, look at me."

You look at her red eyes...

"We're gonna get through this. Me, Frye, and Big Man will help you. After all, that's what Deep Cut does. Help those in need."

"...T-thank you... I-I-"

You burst out into a sob. You pull Shiver into a hug, sobbing into them.

"A-ah! There- there... it's... we'll get through this!"

They are terrible at comfort.

Once again, you adjust to your new life.

Shiver laughed a bit at seeing your reaction to Master Mega.

If they see you getting nervous or near another crisis, they will hold your hand and squeeze it.

It always gets you out of that funk.

Sure, your first meeting was awkward, but you're so thankful to have her in your life.

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ACHT

(why is this gif so slow) (also acht will use they/them!!! im still deciding on my headcanon for them but for now, they and thems willdo)

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They... actually emphasize with you!

They know what it's like to spend a time locked away from society.

After all, they had no mind of their own for awhile...

Acht shares about their time in the Metro, and you share about your time before being frozen.

"Do you think there's any remnants of your time?"

"I doubt it... I think you'd really like the music from my time."

"Hah, I'd bet so."

Acht would definitely ask to sample your human voice. It's unlike anything they've ever heard before.

That's how you two spend most of your time, honestly.

Listening to music... it reminds you of the old times.

They notice you tearing up one time.

"You okay?"

"This just... reminds me of the old times... before everything."

"We can stop if you want-"

"N-no! It's fine... really... just. Feeling nostalgic is all!"

You let out an awkward chuckle. Acht pauses the music.

"Take a breather. Let's go get you some water."

They help you up, and bring you to get some water.

You drink it, and they look at you.

"Better?"

"A-a little..."

They smirk a tiny bit, before opening up their arms.

You stare at them, confused.

"Well... I just thought... hugs would help. It's something I learned up here-"

You quickly hug them back. They wrap their arms around you.

"Heh. You needed this."

"I really did... thank you..."

You feel safe in Acht's arms.

Maybe this new world... isn't so bad after all.

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TADAHHHH!!! I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE THIS, SORRY IF IT'S KINDA DOO DOO THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING SOMETHING LIKE THIS!!! BUT RAGHHHH THE INDOMITABLE HUMAN SPIRIT AND THEIR SQUID/OCTO PARTNER PREVAILS!!!!!! THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING :3c