#some of them might never see the light of day......

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-one —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.5k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!

The last bed you laid in smelled like lemon mint detergent. It was the full bed in your sister's guest room. Everything was crisp and white. They rarely had guests besides you. Some of your clothes stayed in that closet, one of your toothbrushes stayed in the connected bathroom, waiting for your visits. You'd awaken that last morning not thinking you'd never sleep in bed for another five years. You left it unmade.

This bed smells like pine and warmth.

Ghost's room is small and dimly lit. The ceiling slants so that one end is not tall enough for him to fully stand. There's a dresser and a nightstand, leaving only a sliver of floorspace.

After the metal latch on the door clicks shut, Ghost lays the blanket down and grabs a pillow for himself. That leaves the bed to you. Springs creak beneath your weight as you silently slip under a heavy, rustic quilt. The years-embedded scent of him wraps around you like a drug-induced fog. You hesitate to move, frozen as he flicks off the light. You wonder if he always locks the door or did it for you, to make you feel safer.

Only when his moving about ceases do you allow yourself to get comfortable. You cocoon your body under the quilt and turn to your side, closing your eyes.

A thought reopens them minutes later. You roll onto your back and speak into the darkness. "Have you known about this Switzerland place?"

For a moment, you think he's already asleep. Then, from below the bed by your feet, he says, "Heard of it."

"That is what you guys talked about, isn't it?" you ask absentmindedly.

"Among other things."

You sit up so you can see him, but all that you can make out is a dark shadow. "Care to share?"

"Some things are on a need-to-know basis," is all he gives.

"And I don't need to know?"

"Precisely."

It stings; you don't know why. "Some team we make, huh? Or I guess we're only a team when you need me to do something for you."

You quickly realize how petulant you must sound. The shadow sits upright. "They asked me to go with them. I said no. Too far. Too many variables that are hard to predict, and she's not ready for them. Happy?"

Happy—no, but relief replaces the slight uncertainty in your gut since your conversation with Nereida. Joining them was shut down. You wouldn't tell her, but their idea sounds asinine, whether or not that commune exists. The trip will be risky at best, fatal at worst. You're tempted to ask him how many days he thinks they'll recoup here before continuing their journey, but opt for sleep instead. He seems done with the conversation, too, lying back down. Then, you have the best sleep you've had in years in his bed.

When the sun turns pink, you awaken to a room void of Ghost. He's gone. It should be expected, but you'd thought he might wake you up to train like normal. Though, the past twenty-four hours haven't been normal. You look around, the details of his room more visible now. On the nightstand, there is a stack of books and you scan the titled spines. Mostly classics. One Hemingway. All tattered and read frequently. Beside them lays a silver chain attached to a dog tag. You gently finger the engraved metal so as not to move it out of place: Simon Riley. 

Snooping through his things is more tempting than you're willing to admit. You slip out of bed, socked feet padding over to the dresser. There are mostly papers. His map with the marked circle around what you now realize is Switzerland, a notepad with scribbled half-cursive on it, and then a faded photo beneath it. You freeze, breath hitching, as if you've done something dangerous just by stumbling upon it. Curiosity is thick in your chest, difficult to ignore. Gentle fingers reach to shift it out, revealing a picture that you know right away is of Blue and her mom. Blue is a baby. Maybe one year old. A woman with light brown hair holds her up, sitting on a bench in front of a playground. She's pretty and young. There is a sadness when you wonder if this is the only picture he has of them—before her death. Then, there is another feeling. You swallow it. 

You quickly slip the photo back just the way you found it and leave the room. The living room is quiet, people still sleeping. Price and Kyle's blankets are empty, but Kyle is the only one you spot outside. He sits on a tree stump, using a knife and some soap to shave his beard. He looks at you the moment you step outside.

"Good morning." He splashes a scoop of water on his smoothed jaw. 

You tuck your hands in your pockets. "Morning."

Without the facial hair, he looks even younger. Maybe in his early thirties. He pushes to his feet and you are reminded of his above-average height, though he is not as monstrous as Ghost. His form is lean, all muscle, with much less ink on his exposed skin. It is now you notice a scar across his jaw. Thick but faded. It trails halfway down his neck.

"Do you know where Ghost went?" you ask.

"Working on that truck of his. With Price."

A glance over your shoulder confirms it; you spot some movement behind the cabin where you know his truck sits. Guess that means no training. You nod. "So, um, you were in the military together, right?"

He takes a moment to look at you before answering. "Yeah. Same unit. Price was our captain."

"I kind of figured. He is... captain-y."

"'Captain-y.' Good way of putting it."

You're ready to turn away when he asks, "I hate to pry, but I admit I'm curious how you ended up here with him."

You force a smile. "It's not a very interesting story, sorry."

"I'm not looking for entertainment."

"What are you looking for, then?" You sound more defensive than you mean to. 

He shrugs. "Just curious, is all. You're a bit young."

"I'm not fucking him if that's what you're getting at." His brows lift to his hairline, and you're almost embarrassed for assuming that is what he was thinking, but before he can speak you add, "And you're young, too. I can handle myself just as you can."

"Of course." He shakes his head, moving his hand over his chest in earnest. "I apologize if I insinuated otherwise. Though, I am older than you."

"How old?"

"Let's see. Thirty-one last November. Or maybe it's just thirty. Hard to keep track, innit?" His smile is more genuine than yours, flashing white teeth. Then, his face turns more serious and he sighs through his nose, head tilting. "Look, I understand."

"Understand what?"

"I don't know your story, but I'm sure it is a gruesome one, and you have every right to feel uncomfortable. We'll be out of your hair soon enough. I appreciate you having us, though."

You want to tell him it's not like you have a choice; you're not the host here. But he already knows that. He's trying to be nice. "Thank you," you tell him honestly. 

Kyle bends to pick up his knife, wiping it off on his shirt. "So what did you need Ghost for?"

"Oh, nothing really."

"Care to accompany me for some breakfast, then?"

You consider saying no, but you need to hunt, anyway. Besides, you don't think he'd try anything in broad daylight. In another life, you may have looked at him with a more appreciative eye. But as you wade in silence through the woods, bow cinched to your back, you study him like an opponent. He's more agile than Ghost, likely quicker. When he crests the hill, it's hard to match his strides. 

Small conversation picks up by the pond and you find yourself easing up. You learn he's from London, too.

"What part?"

"Islington. I shared an apartment with my girlfriend. The rent was shit but it was worth it. Top floor loft with a good view and this insane Turkish bakery just below us." His tone is so casual you forget where you are for a second, until he suddenly throws his knife. It pins a squirrel to one of the trees. He bends to dislodge it and carries the dead animal, blood on his fingers. 

You keep walking. "What happened to her?"

"I had to make a choice. Go to London and find her, or go with Price and get my nephew, niece, and sister-in-law."

The understanding hits with the force of a fallen tree, and you pale. 

He notices your expression and continues. "I don't regret my decision. I've come to terms with it. There was no chance of me finding her in London, not with how quickly the infection spread there and the phone lines went out. I didn't even know where to look for her. At work? Home? Up north, things weren't as bad yet. I got in contact with my sister-in-law, Amelia, and told her to meet us at the small college up there where Nereida worked."

You recall what Nereida said, about Ari's mom and sister dying, so you don't pry about them. "What about your brother? Ari's dad?"

"He died before shit happened. He was in the military, too. Different unit. Multiple gun wounds while in Afghanistan a few years back."

"I think your story is more gruesome than mine," you admit.

His lips twitch ruefully. "Not a competition. Gruesome world, gruesome stories."

A more comfortable quiet settles. He is not so different than you, you realize. Only difference is he still has his nephew to look after.

The sun is already high, enough to make a collar of sweat appear on your shirt. There is a small dirt ridge you have to climb and the effort reminds you of the still-healing bruises on your body. A skirt of movement catches your eye and this time, you act quick. You use your bow to kill a squirrel up on a branch. It falls to the ground.

"Damn." Kyle whistles, low and long, as you wriggle the arrow free. "Hell of an aim you got."

"I'm... alright."

"No need to be modest."

You straighten and wipe your bloodied hand on your shirt. The movement lifts it, and you hear him suck in a breath behind you. A hand touches your shoulder, gentle than firm, as he spins you around. You're confused, then follow his gaze to the sliver of exposed skin on your hip. It's a gross yellow. 

"Twix." His voice lowers, and his friendly eyes are confused. 

Shit. "It's not whatever you're thinking."

"I'm thinking someone has put their hands on you." He frowns and shifts closer. "I know you have no reason to tell me things, but I can tell you I am not okay with that shit, no matter who it is."

You inwardly cringe. "Ghost is not... hitting me. Well, he is—"

"Fucking hell—"

"No, no. I asked him to." The bewildered look on his face makes you palm your forehead. "Not like that. Jesus. We train together, okay?"

"Train together," he repeats, shoulders loosening. 

"Yeah, like to help me get stronger." The embarrassment remains on your cheeks. "It's silly, really."

Kyle shakes his head and grins, clearly amused now that he knows you're not being abused against your will. "Not silly. Thought you two were into some kinky shit for a second there." He continues walking over a patch of dryer land, stepping onto a small rock and chuffing a breath under his nose. "Wouldn't have been surprised."

Your fingers absentmindedly tighten around the squirrel's limp neck. Your feet are frozen for a moment as you shake off a deep blush, then call out behind him. "Did you miss the part where I said I'm not fucking him!"

He simply laughs. 

---

The rest of the day passes in languid warmth. 

It's weird having so many people here, but you try to continue your day like usual, skinning the kill and washing your clothes. You learn more about Nereida as you eat together. You haven't had a female friend in... a long time. Save Blue. She used to be an arts professor at a private school. Sculpting, mainly. That is how she came to meet John Price, when he attended one of her galleries, buying a piece from her for far more than the listing price. He was just looking for a way to take me out to dinner. The way she speaks of him is that of a doting wife, despite everything they've been through. She tells you they were engaged before the infection. A makeshift ceremony at their old camp was the best they could do. 

"No wedding ring, but we do both have this." She pulls up her sleeve to show you a small scar carved on her shoulder—a faint letter 'J'. Price has the 'N'.

You're not sure what Ghost needed to fix on his truck that morning, or why it was important to do it with Price, but when you returned with Kyle, something felt off. Ghost's tension was palpable. He usually seems in thought, but even more-so. When Ari takes Blue for a quick ride on the horse—apparently Cherry used to be owned by his parents on their family ranch in Newcastle—he watches for only a minute before disappearing somewhere with Price. You pretend to need something from the cabin. You sneak around the back way, finding them again by his truck, muttering in low voices. Only pieces reach your ears.

"...through the rural parts. Not a straight path..."

"...could take months..."

"Got quite a bit of those."

Then, he's showing Price something under the tuck bed's tarp where you catch sight of that kayak once again. 

"Find it?"

A low voice in your ear. You startle and turn around.

"Huh?"

Kyle raises a brow. "You said you needed something."

Your hand flattens against the side of the cabin. "Right. Um, I just—"

Boots scuffle behind you. You don't need to turn to know Ghost and Price have detected your presence, making their way over. Kyle's gaze flicks to them and you feel like a child who's been caught by her parents—embarrassment laced over your irritation. You wouldn't have been eavesdropping if they weren't so secretive.

"Everything alright?" Price's timbre is calm. Your neck prickles where you feel Ghost's stare.

You find yourself nodding. "Yes. Just fine. Sorry."

It gets cooler by nightfall. Your knee bounces slightly under the table during dinner. You listen to Blue explain the rules of battleship to Ari. You don't eat much more of the meat you caught with Kyle. With a mostly empty stomach, you enter Ghost's room after everyone else has gone to bed. His broad form hovers over his dresser. For a moment, you fear he's somehow noticed that you looked at his things earlier. But then you realize his eyes are glued to the map, and he's penciling some things on the margins.

He looks up when you close the door behind you. His brows are deeply knotted. 

"Figured you would be sleeping out there for tonight."

"What?"

"Seems like you feel just fine around them now." 

He looks away from you as if you're not even there. He places the map down and opens the top drawer. Without warning, he pulls out a clean shirt and changes, revealing his bare chest. His shoulders flex as he slips it over his head by the collar. Then, he moves toward you, eyes dully expectant.

"Being asleep near them is different than hanging out during the day," you finally respond. Mouth feeling dry, you swallow. "What's going on? I can tell that you... you've been thinking about something."

"You mean you've been listening." His brow lifts. He shakes his head before you can defend yourself. "I am always thinking about something."

"Would it kill you to not be cryptic for once? I thought that we were..."

"That we were what?"

"Being honest with each other now."

A dark, slightly amused breath leaves his nose. He contemplates your words for a moment. "It is my plan to go there," he then says. "I'm not stupid. I know she needs more than what I can offer her here. It has always been my plan. Just not now."

"Because she's not ready," you breathe.

"Because she's not ready," he repeats, chin tilting. His eyes darken, veering to the left. "Price seems to disagree."

Your nails curl in your palms. "And?"

He looks back at you. "And I am thinking of your camp. What happened to you. I can't grow complacent."

The mention unsettles your stomach. Of course, he needn't elaborate, not when the memory is more fresh than you'd like. "But going to Switzerland would take days, weeks. And they have no idea what they might run into out there. It's not like we have inside info on the state of France and—and wherever the hell else we'd have to cross through to get there. They could be worse than London."

"I'm aware."

"So what, then? You're considering it now? I thought you told them no," your hushed voice edges a bit harsher, and the pulse in your neck quickens.

You hate what you think he's saying, even if you understand it. He has his daughter's future to think of. Even if he were to try finding some safe community when she's older, the opportunity of traveling with two other military-experienced men would be gone, along with whatever weapons and supplies they bring to the table.

The contemplation is vivid in his eyes as you study them. Ghost's head lowers, dipping down at the same time that he emits a harsh breath, and you realize how close the two of you have become in this quiet exchange, keeping your voices safe from any awakened ears. So close, in fact, that his exhalation hits the space between your neck and collarbones, where a small patch of skin tingles with alertness. 

His voice emerges low and thoughtful after a drawn moment. "I haven't fully decided."

You nod with deep breath to steady yourself, taking in his answer. "Will you tell me when you do?" 

"I can do that."

And that's all he offers—four words that give a minuscule amount of comfort, because now bitter uncertainty has snuck upon you once again. Your fate lays in his decision. You can't survive on your own, not even here, so if he leaves you have to go with him. The impending doom fogs your brain. You fail to notice his hand has moved, pinching the hem of your shirt between thumb and forefinger, and beginning to carefully lift it up. A breath hitches at the top of your throat and your eyes unfurl, only to find that he is pensively looking down at your exposed stomach.

"What the fuck are you—"

You're cut off when his bent knuckles gently brush over your mottled abdomen, sweeping down the sore midline, leaving you frozen. It's a thoughtful, slow touch—calloused skin against smooth softness. His thumb traces a particularly bad one by your hip, causing your muscles to flutter as a pleasant heat blossoms. For the second time today, your bruises are under scrutiny, and you curse yourself for not applying more of that paste on them.

"They're healing well," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, and lowers the shirt back down. He steps back. Eyes find yours. "Don't get too comfortable."

You blink dazedly, then stiffen. "Um, what?"

"Sleeping in my bed. My room isn't a hotel."

The change of topic gives you whiplash. "You're the one who made me sleep here," you remind him pointedly. "I'll just take the floor tonight, and you have the bed."

"You're a woman. Take it."

"As if you give a fuck about being a gentleman."

"You're right, I don't." A dismissive shoulder shrugs, then his back turns to you. He lays in the bed before you have the chance to even move, which leaves the blanket on the floor for you.

You should've just accepted the bed.

Once the room is shrouded in darkness, you bury your head in the pillow. 

"Comfortable?" he says sarcastically above you.

"Fuck off."

Then it's silent. You don't sleep nearly as well.

[alltimefail]

Why doesn't Edwin call Charles, "Charlie?"

I shared the isolated audio of Charles' death scene where his "friends" taunted him as they killed him, and in that video, they called him "Charlie." This confirmed what many people in fandom already believed: Charles, a sporty teenage boy in the 80s, would not have gone by his proper first name and likely went by a nickname/shortened version of his name instead.

Now that we know that to be true, it does beg the question: why does Edwin call him Charles? I told you all not to get me started on this in the tags, but you stinkers want me to yap, so let's get into it! 😜

This is a very uninteresting answer, but I think Edwin does not call Charles "Charlie" simply because Charles did not introduce himself as such. Had he introduced himself as Charlie, I don't think Edwin would call him anything else.

This actually brings us to the "meat" of this analysis, and the more important question we need to ask: why would Charles choose not to introduce himself as "Charlie" if that's what people seemed to call him?

I have a couple of theories:

The first one: when Charles meets Edwin he's in a fragile state. A boy he's never seen in all his time at school approaches him, seeming to come out of thin air, just to bring him a lantern without any strings attached (even though Charles cannot give him anything in return). Charles has never experienced that kind of unconditional kindness in his life, and I'm sure that alone was enough to be a bit earth-shaking, mind-scrambling, and intimidating.

But it doesn't end there! The boy who brings the lantern is also claiming to be dead. Delerium/hallucinations are a common symptom of hypothermia so Charles could have though that Edwin was not real or was maybe even some kind of angel-like figure coming to keep him company in his final moments. I mean, the boy's wearing a dated school uniform, enters in a halo glow of golden light, and can walk through walls...it's not the wildest conclusion to jump to.

I think either of thos things individually or a combination of having your guard up, being a bit frazzled from the whole "dying" thing, and believing you're in the presence of an ethereal deity (combined with the fact that you're a people pleaser at your core) is enough to feel compelled to introduce yourself not in formal manner. Not to mention if Edwin introduced himself first, hand outstretched in a formal matter and proper posh accent on full display (something I can totally see him doing), Charles might have felt a bit silly calling himself by such a casual title.

While I think all of this can be varying degrees of true, however, my biggest personal headcanon is that Charles might not have introduced himself as Charlie because who's to say he LIKED that nickname? My circumstances were similar to Charles' growing up, I also had many nicknames from friends and family that I didn't ask for but was given anyway against my will... and I always hated it. Still cringe at some of them to this day, actually! So I think it's possible that Charlie Rowland met Edwin Payne, with all his formal stature and proper professional-sounding name, and took the opportunity to choose what he'd like to go by, without the influence of family or friends. In that way, his chosen identity that would kick off the rest of his existence moving forward (unknown to him at the moment, but true from a narrative standpoint nonetheless) serves as a "Taking your power back" moment for Charles who literally just heard the name "Charlie" being hurled at him as he begged for mercy from people who were supposed to be his friends. Even if he tolerated the nickname "Charlie" before, it certainly wouldn't have fond associations following the event that ended his life (if it had any positive associations to begin with).

Again, speaking from experience, Charlie also sounds like the kind of nickname that could be sugar-sweet on some tongues, innocent even, (his mother cooing over a young Charles), but terrifying from an abusive figure... a scathing kind of mockery. I've always imagined that Charles' dad more than likely called him Charlie, for example, and not in a fond, loving way (in the same way his so-called "friends" were not doing so in a loving way).

So yeah, why would Charles WANT to go by Charlie?

Now that we've established that, we can go back to Edwin...what you came here for!

All that in mind, I still don't see Edwin as the nickname type at all. From a romance standpoint I could maybe see him using a few dated, sappy endearments, but we don't ever hear him use a casual name toward anyone. In his lifetime Charlie would have been a perfectly normal name, but the kind of "fond" nicknaming practices and casual male friendships that happened in 1989 were not common practices in 1916, the Edwardian era. Even with his infinite fondness of Charles, I could never see Edwin uttering "Charlie." It doesn't feel right.

Plus, let's be honest: Edwin says Charles' name with enough love and reverence that he doesn't need to use an endearment. His tone says it all (lol).

Beyond that though, like I said above, I can't see Edwin feeling to impulse to call him "Charlie" because that's not how Charles introduced himself. Edwin strikes me as the kind of person that would be like, "If he wanted to be called Charlie, he surely would have said as much" and left it at that. But a name like Charlie also conveys a sort of youthfulness, and while he and Charles are 16 forever, technically, they have been detached from their lives for a long time and they're MUCH older than 16 in experience and in their professional life.

The only question I was left with, and one I've seen several people ponder, is why Charles would suggest they call The Night Nurse Charlie, (like from Charlie's Angels), as it seems a bit strange if his own name is Charlie/he went by Charlie. My answer/interpretation isn't that exciting, but it's one I feel makes the most sense: I honestly think this can easily be explained away by the fact that Charles is so far removed from that identity and so dissociated from his life that he no longer associates the name "Charlie" with himself in any way. Like it literally didn't even occur to him, in that moment, that Charlie/Charles are so similar because he has built a barrier in his mind between himself and that nickname; they're two entirely different identifiers to him. Whether that be a coping mechanism, or simply just something he wasn't thinking so deeply about (it has been 30 years since anyone called him that, except for Brad and Hunter in Port Townsend), we can't say for sure. However, it's clear Charles does not want to go by Charlie, and at least now we can safely assume why.

Let me know your thoughts! Do you agree with my interpretation? Do you have your own opinion that I didn't cover? Feel free to share with me!

Keep streaming Dead Boy Detectives & screaming about it ! Hugs to each and every one of you! 💜

[sierrabravoecho]

I just finsihed None But the Lonely Heart by OccasionalAvenger after seeing your fic rec and loved it even though i dont read much jamie x brienne centric stories.

Do you have any other fic recs from asoiaf/got?

Omg yay I’m so glad you liked it!

If you enjoyed None But the Lonely Heart in terms of setting, here are a few more in-universe fics you might enjoy:

I'm dying to be born again by angel_deux

After the wars are done, Daenerys is queen of the six kingdoms. Jon and Sansa Stark rule the north. And Jaime serves as a hostage in Kings Landing to ensure his brother's good behavior. When Tyrion schemes to see Jaime married off and removed from the city, Jaime is allowed to choose his wife.

He should be happier that the woman he loves is quick to accept his proposal. Except maybe it's too quick. And she just says, "all right". And she calls it sensible.

Bound by the Things We Choose by winterkill

Jaime's pretty certain he would remember standing across from the dour, hulking Maid of Tarth and swearing to be with her until the end of his days.

Personally, I love an AU. These are the ones I always return to:

Light a fire, burn up all you know by brynnmck

When rich, arrogant Jaime Lannister swans into Brienne's dad's diner and spends the whole time making out with his rude stepsister, Brienne couldn't be more relieved that she'll probably never have to see either one of them again. The only problem is, over the next 15 years, Jaime keeps coming back.

Or: five letters that Brienne burned, and one she didn't.

Same Time, Next Year by angelowl

“I’m Jaime,” he says, his eyes gleaming with laughter.

There’s a wicked edge to his mirth that makes Brienne wonder if it’s her freakishness that’s the butt of his joke so she spins on her heel and stiffly marches away.

After that, Jaime inexplicably keeps seeking her out.

The Dark, Dread Toyshop by Miss_M

The summer she turns sixteen, Brienne suffers a grave loss. She and her siblings are forced to move in with their Uncle Tywin and his sons, who own a fabulous and eerie toyshop. Sexual awakenings occur, dark family secrets are revealed, and puppet theatre echoes real life.

Baby I Will by sdwolfpup

When a country singer with a stripper's name and a model's looks strolls into Selwyn's bar to perform one Tuesday night, bartender Brienne isn't sure what to expect. What they both end up with is so much more than they bargained for.

Brienne, Plain and Tall by greenmtwoman

Farmer with two children and substantial property in the West seeks a wife. Requirements are honesty, sobriety, a strong back and a thick skin. A practical arrangement will be made. Beauty is unnecessary and intimacy not expected. Interested parties should contact Mr. Jaime Lannister, Casterly Farm.

Did this Mr. Lannister want a wife or a hired hand? But in either case what did she have to lose?

Or if you’re in the mood for some longer-form reading, these are amazing:

The Lion, The Wench, and the Wardrobe Trailer by GilShalos1

Jaime Lannister’s entire acting career has been built on playing reckless cads and heartless villains – ever since a scandalous death on his first film, Kingslayer, was quickly hushed up at his father’s behest. Nearly fifteen years later, acclaimed director Olenna Tyrell has announced her retirement: after one last film, Oathkeeper, inspired by the mythic story of the Long Night. She wants Jaime to do what he does so well, play into his on-screen persona and off-screen reputation, and be a villain for the ages in her final film. But to make sure his infamous ways don’t interfere with production, she requires his personal assistant to keep him on the straight, narrow and sober. Brienne Tarth, in her first job on a film set, finds herself tasked with keeping the impossible Jaime Lannister under control …

Heart Full of Gasoline by sdwolfpup

Jaime Lannister is a Formula 1 driver with a sordid past, dubious future, and nothing left to lose as he hits the far edge of his career. He thinks all he wants is the world championship title he’s never quite been able to reach and to finally give up smoking. What he finds to his great surprise is what he really wants might be Brienne Tarth.

Brienne Tarth is an unknown mechanic eager to make the jump to the big time of Formula 1. When Jaime hires her as Chief Mechanic for his team of misfits, she discovers she’s ready for the work, but is she ready for Jaime?

[mxnsterbabe]

Male Gargoyle/Female Reader SFW Wordcount: 6,091 Commissions | Ko-fi | Masterlist Part 1 (here), Part 2 (coming soon!)

You're a new volunteer at the halfway house and a dear friend of Esmeralda; you expected working here to be tough, but you didn’t expect to fall in love with one of the monsters seeking shelter here.

The halfway house loomed in front of you like something out of a gothic novel, all sprawling stone and ivy creeping up the walls. The rain had turned to a light drizzle, just enough to make the night feel colder than it should.

Tugging your jacket tighter, you glanced up at the carved arches of the doorway, wondering—not for the first time—if you were out of your depth. Then the door swung open, and there she was.

“Finally!” Esmeralda’s voice carried like a warm embrace. Her smile flashed sharp and bright, and even though you knew what she was, it still startled you to see her teeth. “You’re late.”

You laughed, stepping into her embrace without hesitation. Her arms were cool against you, but that was Esmeralda—cool to the touch, always warm in her way. “Blame the weather,” you said. “The train was slow, and so am I when it comes to resisting bakery stops.”

She pulled back and gave you a knowing look. “I told you to bring something. If you didn’t, I’ll be forced to scold you.”

You reached into your bag and produced a paper-wrapped box. “Raspberry tarts,” you said smugly. “Because I know you too well.”

Esmeralda’s grin widened as she plucked the box from your hands. “You do, darling. This is why we’re friends.”

Friends was a soft word for what you were. Not many humans knew what Esmeralda was, and even fewer stuck around once they did. You’d never cared. She had saved your life once, and you owed her for that. Besides, the world was far more interesting with a vampire for a best friend.

She stepped back and gestured for you to come inside. The house was just as impressive on the inside as it was on the outside. High ceilings, dark wood, and the kind of place that felt like it should come with a ghost or two.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re here,” she said, leading you down the wide hallway. Her dark hair bounced as she walked. “The timing is perfect.”

“It always is. Sometimes, I think fate brings us together at just the right time. Every time.”

The place buzzed with quiet energy. You caught movement from the corner of your eye—something tall and shadowed slipping into another room.

Esmeralda waved a hand dismissively, either at your comment or whatever you thought you’d seen. “This time, it really is. I have some associates who could help us secure long-term funding, but they’re going to need convincing.” Her heels clicked against the floor, echoing through the hall as she stopped by an arched doorway and turned to face you. “That’s where you come in.”

“Me?” You blinked. “You want me to dazzle some vampires into handing over cash?”

“Not quite.” She smirked. “You’re a journalist. I need you to help record the residents’ stories. Show the work we do here—how important it is. You’re good at that, and the residents need to socialise with someone they don’t see day in, day out.”

You hesitated, looking around again. The house had a strange, quiet pull to it. “You think they’ll open up?”

“They will.” Her smile softened, just enough to feel genuine. “They just need a reason to.”

Esmeralda gestured for you to follow her further into the house, her heels clicking rhythmically on the wooden floor. “I think you’ll find the residents are more varied than you might expect,” she said, her voice tinged with pride. “This place doesn’t just offer shelter—it’s a second chance for some, a lifeline for others. If we’re going to convince my associates to fund us, they need to see the real impact we’ve had.”

You nodded, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “You think their stories will do the trick?”

“They will,” she replied firmly. “Though it depends on how well you can connect with them. Some are easy to talk to. Others... less so.”

Before you could ask what that meant, a blur of movement caught your eye. A small figure came rushing down the hallway towards you, barefoot and clutching something to her chest.

The girl skidded to a stop just inches from colliding with you, her mossy green hair clinging damply to her face. Wide, watery grey eyes darted between you and Esmeralda, her pale cheeks flushing an earthy pink.

“Oh! I-I’m sorry!” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. She shifted nervously from foot to foot, clutching what looked like a shiny silver trinket against her chest. “I didn’t mean to... I wasn’t looking where I...”

“It’s alright,” you said, smiling to put her at ease. You crouched slightly, meeting her eye level. “No harm done. You all right?”

The girl nodded quickly but didn’t speak again. Esmeralda placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, her tone soft. “Maisie, this is the friend I told you about. She’s here to help us tell our stories.” She turns to me. “I thought you might like to start with Maisie?”

Maisie’s mossy hair swayed as she shook her head rapidly, eyes wide with alarm. “Oh, no, no. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“Maisie’s an open book,” Esmeralda said to you, ignoring the girl’s protest. “Shy, but sweet as they come. Or,” she added with a hum, “you could start with Laurent and Olivier. They’re the oldest residents, so they have the most history to record.”

“Oldest?” you asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

Esmeralda nodded. “And the most stubborn. Olivier can chat for hours, but good luck getting Laurent to open up.”

Before you could respond, heavy footsteps thudded from the opposite direction, drawing your attention. Two towering figures appeared at the end of the hallway, their presence as imposing as it was magnetic. One was slightly darker in tone, his grey-green skin like moss-covered stone, his massive frame a wall of muscle. The other was a shade lighter, with a more angular build and sharp amber eyes.

“Maisie,” the darker one rumbled, his voice low and steady. “Give it back.”

The lighter one sighed, crossing his arms. “You know stealing isn’t a game, right?”

Maisie squeaked, thrusting the trinket forward. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it!”

Esmeralda leaned in. “Meet Olivier,” she said, nodding towards the lighter figure, “and his twin, Laurent.”

They strode closer, the hallway seeming to shrink under their sheer size. They were massive, nearly seven feet tall, with broad shoulders that seemed to stretch the very definition of imposing. Their skin, textured like weathered stone, shimmered faintly in the dim light.

Your gaze caught on Laurent first, the larger of the two. His face was broad, with a wide, squashed nose, sharp, heavy brows, and tusks that curved slightly from his lower jaw. The glow of his amber eyes cut through the shadows, steady and unreadable, but there was something about the way he carried himself—stiff, upright, every movement deliberate—that made your chest tighten.

He looked like he’d been carved from stone itself, all strength and immovable purpose, and yet the detail of him was captivating: the faint cracks across his forearms, the way his massive wings, folded tightly against his back, curved with a natural grace.

For a moment, you forgot to breathe. He was terrifying. He was magnificent.

He was staring right at you.

You forced yourself to focus on Olivier instead, who offered a crooked smile as he took the trinket from Maisie. His features were similar to Laurent’s—squashed and intimidating—but there was a softness to him, in the way his golden eyes glinted and the slight curve of his lips. “I hope we didn’t scare you too badly,” Olivier said, his tone teasing as he turned the trinket over in his claws.

You shook your head, managing a smile despite the fact that your pulse was still racing. “Not scared. Startled, maybe.”

Laurent’s low, rumbling voice cut in, deeper and rougher than Olivier’s. “You looked scared.”

The words hit like a challenge, his gaze boring into yours with a quiet intensity that made the air feel heavier. Your throat tightened as you tried to find your footing again. “First time meeting a gargoyle,” you said, keeping your tone light despite the unease creeping into your chest. “I wasn’t expecting statuesque giants in the hallway.”

Olivier’s laugh broke the tension, his grin widening. “Statuesque. We’ll take that as a compliment.”

Laurent’s expression didn’t shift, but something in the flicker of his eyes told you your attempt at humour had landed poorly. He glanced briefly at Esmeralda, then back at you. “We’re not statues, that’s a myth.”

It wasn’t quite defensive, but there was a weight to the statement, a quiet correction. Your cheeks warmed under his scrutiny, though you weren’t sure if it was embarrassment or something more disconcerting.

“Well,” Esmeralda interjected smoothly, her tone placating, “I think introductions are overdue. Laurent, Olivier, this is my friend. She’s here to help us with some important work.”

Laurent’s stare lingered for a moment longer before he turned his attention back to Maisie. “You need to stop taking our stuff.”

Maisie mumbled another apology, clutching her mossy hair nervously before darting down the hallway toward her room. Her bare feet barely made a sound as she vanished into the shadows. You watched her go, relieved that she seemed more embarrassed than upset.

Laurent and Olivier lingered for a moment longer. Olivier gave you a small, hesitant smile, the kind that seemed polite but guarded. “It was nice meeting you,” he said, his tone warm; but still laced with caution.

Laurent, on the other hand, didn’t bother with any pleasantries. His amber eyes flicked over you briefly, unreadable, before he turned and walked away. Olivier followed a moment later, the two of them moving in sync, their massive wings shifting slightly as they disappeared into the house.

You exhaled slowly, the tension in your chest easing now that they were gone.

“I’m sorry about Laurent,” Esmeralda said softly, drawing your attention back to her. Her dark eyes held a mix of amusement and sympathy. “He has... a way of putting people on edge.”

You crossed your arms, still feeling the weight of his gaze. “He’s intense - and intimidating. Is he always like that?”

Esmeralda tilted her head thoughtfully. “Most of the time, yes. Laurent is...” She paused, searching for the right words. “Complicated. Fiercely loyal, deeply protective, but also very guarded. He doesn’t trust easily, especially humans.” Her lips quirked into a small smile. “Don’t take it personally. It’s not you—it’s everyone.”

You raised an eyebrow, still curious. “Olivier? He seemed... nicer.”

“More approachable, certainly,” Esmeralda agreed. “Don’t let his smile fool you. Olivier is just as wary as his brother. The two of them are inseparable. They’ve been through too much together to let anyone else in easily.”

“Oh?”

Her tone shifted slightly, quieter, more serious. “I could tell you more, but it’s not my story to share. That’s for them to decide.” She gestured down the hallway, as if to indicate the direction the gargoyles had gone. “If you want to understand them, you’ll need to hear it from them. Separately.”

You frowned, puzzled. “Separately?”

Esmeralda nodded. “Laurent and Olivier rely on each other. That’s not a bad thing, but it’s... limiting. They rarely speak to anyone else, and I think it would do them good to branch out. Even if it’s just for this project, talking to you individually could be important for both of them.”

You hesitated, unsure if Laurent’s gruff demeanor was something you could break through. Still, there was something about him—and Olivier—that intrigued you. You wanted to understand why they were here, why they stayed when so many others seemed to move on.

Esmeralda smiled, her sharp features softening. “Take your time. They’ll open up eventually. Just be patient… and persistent.”

You nodded slowly, already thinking of how to approach them. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” she said warmly, motioning for you to follow her further down the hallway. “Now, let me show you where you’ll be staying.”

***

The room Esmeralda had set aside for you was beautiful, in a way that felt almost too much. The ceilings were impossibly high, the bed large enough to swallow you whole, its dark wooden frame heavy and ornate. A tall wardrobe sat in the corner, its doors slightly ajar, revealing neatly folded blankets that you didn’t need.

The entire space was cold; not freezing, but just enough to keep you shifting under the covers.

Then there was the snoring. It rumbled low and steady through the wall, like some great beast slumbering on the other side. You guessed it might be one of the residents—a werewolf, maybe? Whoever it was, they were sleeping far more soundly than you.

Frustrated, you kicked the blankets aside and padded over to the tall windows that opened onto the balcony. The latch creaked faintly as you slid it open, stepping out into the night. A chill breeze hit you immediately, raising goosebumps along your arms, but it was a relief after the oppressive stillness of the room.

The view was eerie. Beautiful. The sprawling grounds of the halfway house stretched out below, dark shapes of trees swaying in the faint wind. Above, the moon hung bright and full, casting everything in a silvery glow.

There, perched on the roof like a gargoyle carved into the building itself, was Laurent.

Your breath caught. He was perched on the very edge of the roofline, his wings partially unfurled, silhouetted against the moonlight. His massive frame was still, his head tilted slightly as though he were watching the horizon. He looked like part of the house, his dark skin blending into the stone.

You took a quick step back, hoping he hadn’t seen you. The last thing you wanted was to disturb him—or worse, have another uncomfortable interaction like earlier.

The faintest movement of his head confirmed he’d already noticed you. His glowing amber eyes locked onto yours, even from a distance. There was no going back now.

After a moment’s hesitation, you decided to take a leap of faith—literally. Climbing up onto the roof seemed like a terrible idea, but staying silent felt worse. You couldn’t explain it, but something about Laurent’s presence pulled at you. You grabbed the nearest part of the latticework and started to climb.

The wind picked up as you scrambled higher, the cold biting at your fingers. The angle was steeper than you’d thought, and halfway up, your foot slipped.

A startled gasp escaped you as you lost your balance. Before you could fall, a massive hand closed around your arm, pulling you up with startling strength. Laurent’s grip was solid and unyielding, his claws barely brushing your skin as he steadied you.

“Careful,” he rumbled, his voice low and rough. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

Your legs trembled as you clung to the edge of the roof, heart racing more from the near fall than anything else. “I-I wasn’t—”

“You’re scared,” he interrupted, his gaze sharp, almost accusing. “You shouldn’t have come up here if you’re afraid of me.”

“Afraid of falling,” you snapped, your voice steadier than you expected. “Not you.”

His expression flickered, surprise flashing across his heavy features before settling into something unreadable. Slowly, he pulled you fully onto the roof, setting you down with more care than you’d expected.

“Hmm,” he muttered, his deep voice more thoughtful now. “You’re braver than you look.”

You sat smiled and carefully, legs crossed, and your hands braced behind you for balance. The roof slanted enough to make your stomach churn if you looked down too long, so you fixed your gaze straight ahead instead. The cold stone beneath you seeped through your clothes, sharp and uncomfortable, but Laurent’s steady presence made the discomfort bearable.

He hadn’t moved far, crouched on the edge of the roof like he belonged there, his wings partially spread to balance himself. The moonlight outlined him in silver, catching on the rough texture of his mossy-green skin and the faint cracks that ran across his arms. His claws flexed once, idly, before going still again, his focus still somewhere in the distance.

The silence between you stretched, heavy and unfamiliar. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, watching the way his sharp, angled features caught the light. His face was undeniably strange—his nose wide and squashed, his jaw prominent and square. His glowing eyes were the most striking, unblinking as they reflected the faint light of the moon.

Odd, you thought. Odd, but not unattractive. Certainly unconventional, but there was something compelling about the strength in his features, the way his stillness made him seem carved from the roof itself.

When he finally turned his head to look at you, the weight of his gaze knocked the breath from your chest. He wasn’t just watching you—he was studying you, those amber eyes sharp and expectant.

You fumbled, sitting up straighter. “I—uh...” The words caught in your throat as his expression remained unreadable. “Esmeralda thought I should talk to you.”

His brow furrowed slightly, one of his wings shifting closer to his body. “Why?”

You rubbed at the back of your neck, feeling the cold bite of the wind there. “She’s... She’s hoping to get funding for the house. She thought that if I recorded the residents’ stories, it might help convince the people she’s reaching out to.”

For a moment, Laurent didn’t respond, his gaze sweeping back over the horizon. You wondered if he was ignoring you entirely when he finally said, “I know she’s been struggling.”

His voice was low, rough, but there was something softer beneath it. You tilted your head, surprised by his honesty. “You do?”

He nodded, still watching the trees sway in the distance. “She tries to keep it quiet, but it’s obvious if you pay attention. Fixes that don’t get finished. Rooms that stay empty longer than they used to.”

You swallowed, unsure of how to respond. He wasn’t wrong—Esmeralda’s determination to keep the house running sometimes masked just how precarious things had become.

“She thinks your story could help,” you said quietly.

Laurent’s jaw tightened at that, his claws flexing again. “I don’t tell my story.”

It wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t exactly welcoming either. You braced yourself, determined not to retreat. “Maybe this time, you should.”

“No,” Laurent said flatly, his gaze cutting back to you.

The weight of the word hung in the air, as immovable as the gargoyle himself.

You hesitated, frustration bubbling under your skin. “I’m not asking you to bare your soul or anything,” you tried, keeping your tone even, calm. “It’s just—Esmeralda really believes this could help the house. You’re the oldest resident. Your story matters.”

“I said no.” His wings flared slightly, a restless motion that seemed involuntary, and his claws scraped faintly against the stone roof.

Your irritation flared, pushing past the unease in your chest. “Why; what are you so afraid of? Esmeralda has done so much for you, she deserves—”

“Enough!”

His voice cracked like thunder, louder than anything you’d heard from him before. It rolled over you, heavy and full of raw anger. Laurent turned toward you fully now, his massive frame towering in the moonlight.

“Do you ever shut up?” he growled, his tusks catching the faint light as his upper lip curled. “Take the hint and fuck off!”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and final. For the first time since arriving at the house, you felt real fear, a cold knot tightening in your stomach. The sheer size of him, his claws flexing at his sides, the tension radiating from every inch of him—it was overwhelming.

Your heart pounded as you scrambled to your feet, stepping back toward the edge of the roof. “I’m sorry,” you stammered, barely managing to get the words out. You turned, gripping the stone ledge as you clambered awkwardly down to the balcony.

When your feet finally hit solid ground, you turned back instinctively, catching sight of him still standing on the roof. The shadows draped over him like a second skin, his wings tucked tight against his back, but he didn’t look at you. He stared straight ahead, as if you’d already disappeared.

The knot in your stomach tightened further. You wanted to call up to him, to try again, but something stopped you. Maybe it was the flicker of guilt in his eyes, the one he tried to mask with cold indifference. Or maybe it was the sharp edge of your own fear.

You turned back to the hallway, your chest still tight as you opened the door quietly. You hadn’t made it far when a vaguely familiar voice stopped you.

“Are you alright?” Olivier stood just ahead, his expression a mix of concern and something softer. He glanced toward the balcony, his wings twitching faintly. “I was looking for Laurent. Did something happen?”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “We talked. Or... tried to. He got angry. I pushed too hard, and he told me to leave.”

Olivier’s brows furrowed, and he stepped closer, his broad shoulders hunched slightly. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “My brother... he has his reasons for being the way he is. That’s not an excuse, but I hope you understand.”

You nodded, still rattled. “I didn’t mean to upset him.”

Olivier gave you a faint, apologetic smile. “He knows. He just... needs time.”

You smile awkwardly, trying to stuff down the flicker of guilt growing in your stomach. “Yeah, I know.”

***

The next few days passed in a blur of activity. You kept yourself busy, determined to avoid crossing paths with Laurent. If he didn’t want to talk, fine. There were plenty of other residents willing to share their stories, and you threw yourself into listening to them.

Maisie was the first. The young kelpie was painfully shy, her mossy hair dripping faintly as she sat across from you in the sunlit sitting room, her knees drawn to her chest. She’d come from a small loch in the Scottish Highlands, the last of her kind in that area. Her voice wavered as she explained how the world had changed too much for her kind to survive, her watery grey eyes filled with a sadness that seemed far older than her youthful appearance.

“Humans don’t leave offerings anymore,” she murmured, twisting a strand of mossy hair between her fingers. “They drain the lochs... build over everything. There’s nowhere left for us.”

Her words stayed with you long after she returned to her room.

Lucas was a different story entirely. The boisterous werewolf cornered you in the kitchen as you were grabbing a drink, pulling you into a sprawling conversation over a shared pot of coffee. He was charming and open in a way that felt effortless, leaning against the counter as he recounted his life before the halfway house.

“I used to live in the city,” he said, stirring sugar into his cup. “Worked construction, went out on weekends, the usual. Then I met someone—human, obviously—and things got... complicated.”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “Complicated how?”

Lucas’s grin faltered, his golden-brown eyes dimming slightly. “She found out. Couldn’t handle it. One night I shifted in front of her by accident, and that was that. She told people. I had to run.” He shrugged, a casual motion that didn’t quite mask the tension in his shoulders. “Esmeralda found me before things got worse.”

It struck you how casually he spoke about something that had likely upended his entire life. The ease in his tone felt practiced, a cover for something far deeper.

You wanted to press him further, to ask how he’d really felt when everything fell apart, but the slight twitch in his jaw warned you to tread lightly.

“Well,” you said instead, offering him a small smile. “It sounds like you’ve found a place here. Even if it’s... not what you planned.”

Lucas exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Yeah, it’s not bad. Esmeralda runs a tight ship, and the residents aren’t half as scary as they look.” His grin returned, broader this time. “Most of them, anyway.”

He didn’t say it outright, but you could hear the unspoken Laurent in his words. The conversation drifted to lighter topics after that, but even as Lucas returned to his usual charm, his story lingered with you.

Later that evening, as you wandered the hallways, you found yourself drawn to the little-used staircase that led to the third floor. You’d avoided it until now; Esmeralda had casually mentioned that only one resident stayed there, and even she hadn’t offered much detail.

The stairs creaked under your weight, the air growing cooler as you ascended. The third floor was darker, the faint scent of dust and something older curling in the still air. Shadows clung to the corners, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d imagined the faint movement flickering just out of sight.

Then a voice, low and whispery, broke the silence.

“You’re brave... or foolish.”

You froze, your breath catching. The shadows shifted ahead of you, curling and stretching until they coalesced into a shape—not quite solid, not quite human. A pair of faintly glowing eyes blinked into existence, and you realised you were face-to-face with something dark and shadowy.

“I heard you don’t like visitors,” you said carefully, your voice steady despite the prickling unease that crawled up your spine.

Rio’s shape rippled, his outline flickering like smoke caught in the wind. “Most of them don’t try to talk. They... avoid me.”

You took a tentative step closer, tilting your head. “Why’s that? You seem... well, intimidating, sure, but not terrible.”

A sound that might have been a chuckle escaped him, soft and dry like paper crumpling. “That’s... generous. What do you want?”

“I’m recording stories for Esmeralda,” you explained, watching the shadows shift around him. “About the residents, their lives. She said it might help the house.”

Rio was silent for a long moment, his glowing eyes narrowing slightly. “A human,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She sent a human.”

Despite the odd flicker of fear still clinging to your thoughts, you crossed your arms. “Are you going to let that stop you?”

His form seemed to grow taller, darker, before shrinking back again. “No. Ask.”

The exchange was brief, fragmented, but he answered you, his words drifting like smoke in the quiet hallway. When you eventually thanked him and left, you couldn’t shake the sense that you’d just glimpsed something rare, something no one else had seen.

Esmeralda’s delight later was almost infectious, but even as she praised you for managing to talk to Rio, your thoughts wandered. No matter how many stories you gathered, one glaring absence loomed in your mind.

Laurent still hadn’t spoken to you, and you were starting to wonder if he ever would.

***

Maisie sat cross-legged on the couch, her mossy hair draped over one shoulder as she carefully plaited it into thin, uneven braids. You were perched on the other end, notebook in hand, jotting down details of her story between her shy pauses.

“I suppose,” Maisie murmured, her voice as soft as the brush of water against stone, “I was lucky Esmeralda found me when she did. I didn’t... I didn’t know where to go.”

You glanced up, offering an encouraging smile. “You’ve been here a while now, though. Do you feel safe?”

Maisie nodded, her fingers still working through her damp hair. “Safe, aye, but it’s... different. Always worrying someone will notice something.” Her gaze dropped to her lap, her voice quieter now. “People don’t like what they don’t understand.”

Her words sat heavily between you, both of you lost in thought until the murmur of voices from the next room pulled you back.

Esmeralda’s voice, low and sharp, carried through the doorway. “You don’t think they’ve figured it out, do you?”

Maisie froze mid-braid, her watery grey eyes snapping to yours. You shook your head slightly, motioning for her to stay quiet as Lucas’s reply drifted through the air.

“It’s just talk, Esme,” Lucas said, his tone calm but edged with unease. “People in small towns gossip. It doesn’t mean they know anything.”

“What if they do?” Esmeralda shot back, her usual poise slipping. “What if someone’s realised what we are? You’ve heard the rumours as much as I have. Strange sounds. Lights at night. The halfway house full of strangers. They’re putting things together.”

Maisie’s hands trembled, her braid forgotten as she leaned closer to you, her voice a whisper. “Are they talking about us?”

You pressed a finger to your lips, trying to focus on the conversation.

“They’re always going to talk,” Lucas replied, though his voice sounded strained now, the usual easy charm missing. “It doesn’t mean we’re in danger. We’ve dealt with this kind of thing before.”

“This is different,” Esmeralda insisted. “I know when someone’s watching. I know when someone’s looking too closely.”

There was a pause, the kind that felt heavy with things unsaid. Then Lucas spoke again, softer this time. “If someone’s onto us, we’ll deal with it. We always do. You’ve been keeping this place running too long to let a few nosy villagers bring it down.”

The tension in Esmeralda’s voice didn’t ease. “I won’t let them hurt anyone. Not again.”

Your stomach tightened at her words, and you could see Maisie clutching her knees, her knuckles pale against her mossy skin. You wanted to tell her everything was fine, that it was just paranoia, but the edge in Esmeralda’s tone made it hard to believe even yourself.

Maisie’s whisper barely broke the silence. “Do you think... they’ll come here?”

You didn’t have an answer. Instead, you closed your notebook and gave her a reassuring smile you didn’t quite feel. “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” you said softly, though the uneasy knot in your chest told you you’d both heard enough to worry.

Maisie’s fingers fidgeted with her braid, unravelling it as quickly as she’d plaited it. Her watery grey eyes darted toward the doorway where Esmeralda and Lucas’s voices had been, their absence now replaced by an uncomfortable stillness.

“Maisie,” you said gently, closing your notebook and setting it aside. “We can pick this up another time, yeah?”

She blinked, her mouth forming a small o of surprise before she nodded quickly, her mossy hair swaying. “Aye, I—thank you,” she mumbled, standing so quickly that the hem of her long skirt caught on the couch. She tugged it free and all but darted out of the room, her bare feet silent against the hardwood floors.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you stood. You didn’t blame her. Whatever Esmeralda and Lucas had been talking about had set both your nerves and hers on edge. There was no use pushing her now.

Stepping into the hall, you nearly collided with someone solid—someone massive. Your heart skipped as you looked up to find both twins standing there, blocking most of the narrow hallway with their combined size.

Laurent, as always, looked like he’d been carved directly from the walls—stoic and unmoving—while Olivier’s brows rose slightly, his expression more open but just as unreadable.

“Sorry,” you said, stepping back and trying to gauge whether they’d heard the conversation too. From the way Olivier’s amber eyes flicked toward the sitting room door, it was clear they had. Neither of them said anything, and you felt the awkwardness thicken around you.

“So, uh,” you started, fumbling for something to say. “What brings you to this end of the house?”

Olivier gave a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just stretching our legs.”

Laurent, on the other hand, didn’t so much as blink. He stood there, his wings tucked close, a hulking silhouette against the dim light of the hallway.

You cleared your throat, glancing between them. “Well, nice to, um, bump into you. Again.”

Olivier’s smile widened just a fraction, but Laurent simply turned, his massive frame moving further down the hall. Olivier followed without another word.

Later, when sleep refused to come, you found yourself wandering into the kitchen. The faint hum of the refrigerator was the only sound at first, until a low, familiar voice startled you.

“You’re up late.”

Laurent was standing near the counter, his hulking frame somehow looking out of place amidst the cosy clutter of the kitchen. His wings shifted slightly as he turned, glancing at you with those glowing amber eyes.

“So are you,” you replied, leaning against the doorway.

For a moment, you thought that was the end of it. Then, awkwardly, he gestured toward the kettle. “Tea?”

The word was stilted, almost uncertain, and you blinked.

“Sure,” you said, your voice softer now.

Laurent reached for a small container, and your eyes widened as he set it on the counter. It had your name written neatly on the label.

“You knew where my tea was?”

He shrugged, the movement oddly stiff. “Esmeralda said it was yours. You leave it in the same spot.”

You stared, caught between surprise and something warmer. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

His claws brushed the edge of the container as he opened it. “I notice everything.”

You didn’t comment, instead watching as he ambled about the kitchen.

Laurent moved with a quiet efficiency that seemed incongruous with his size. The kettle hissed softly as he poured the steaming water into two mismatched mugs, his massive hands surprisingly deft as he worked. His shoulders hunched slightly to accommodate the low cabinets above him, and every shift of his wings made the kitchen feel even smaller.

You watched him from your spot near the table, caught between awkward silence and an inexplicable pull you didn’t entirely understand. He seemed too big for the space, too solid, like the room itself might give way before he did.

Yet, there was something mesmerising about the precision of his movements, the quiet strength in the way he handled something as simple as making tea.

The air between you was heavy, uncomfortable. You wanted to say something—anything—but the words refused to come. Laurent didn’t seem inclined to break the silence either, his amber eyes focused on the mugs as he let the tea steep.

Your fingers tapped absently against the edge of the table, the tension stretching taut. “I, uh... I didn’t mean to push you before.” The words slipped out before you had time to second guess them. “When I first got here. I just… I was trying to help, and I think I overstepped.”

Laurent didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached for the mugs, his claws brushing the handles as he turned to hand one to you. His eyes lingered on yours for a moment, the glow in them unreadable.

“I don’t like being pushed,” he said finally, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the small kitchen.

The sound sent a shiver down your spine, something deep and instinctive that wasn’t entirely fear. You nodded, fingers wrapping around the warm mug. “I get that. I just... wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his tusks catching the faint light as his jaw shifted. “You meant well,” he said eventually, his tone gruff but not unkind. “It’s fine.”

The tension between you didn’t entirely dissipate, but something in the air felt different. You took a deep breath, lifting the mug to your lips—

A sudden crash from somewhere in the house shattered the quiet, the sound sharp and violent enough to make you jump. The mug slipped in your hands, hot tea splashing onto your fingers and sending a spark of pain through you.

Before you’d even registered it, Laurent was already moving. His wings flared slightly, casting shadows across the walls as he straightened to his full height.

“Stay here,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

Another sound followed—a muffled shout, unfamiliar voices carrying through the hallway. Laurent’s head snapped toward the doorway, his body tensing like a spring ready to release.

“Who the hell is that?” you whispered, your heart pounding as the voices grew louder. Laurent didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped toward the door, his massive frame blocking your view as the sound of heavy footsteps echoed closer.

[sisyphus-hye]

Hyeju's Milk

A/N- Gender Neutral Hyeju Breastfeeding fic, so if you're not into that it would be good to skip this one. Plus rip LOOSSEMBLE :(

In the quiet of the early morning, Hyeju was sound asleep not having to worry about anything. The soft hum of the air conditioner was the only company she had in the apartment she shared with her group memebers. The sun peeking through her blinds. She immediately woke up in a shock, feeling something wet and strange under her shirt. Hyeju sat up and reached for the lamp near hear bed to get some more light, which revealed the unexpected: her shirt and bed were soaked with a mysterious liquid. Panic crept in as she realized it was milk, but she wasn't pregnant, nor had she ever been. She felt her breasts, they were full and firm. Her mind raced with questions she couldn't answer.

Her heart pounded as she picked up the phone to call her significant other, Y/N. Hyeju tried to keep her voice steady as she explained the situation to them, but the fear in her voice was discernible. Y/N was equally confused, if not even more than Hyeju. They told Hyeju not to worry, that he would be there soon. Hyeju couldn't sit still as she waited for Y/N, pacing the room and occasionally glancing down at her shirt. The smell of milk grew stronger, making her feel both uncomfortable and embarrassed.

When Y/N arrived, Hyeju met them at the door, visibly distressed. They took one look at her and immediately knew something was wrong. Without wasting a second, Y/N led Hyeju to the bathroom and helped her clean up, gently wiping the milk off her body with a warm, damp towel. The touch was comforting, but the reality of the situation remained overwhelming. They both sat on the edge of the tub, trying to figure out what could be happening.

"Are you sure you're not pregnant?" Y/N asked, their voice laced with concern as they sat next to her, holding her hand.

"I've had two periods since my last check-up," Hyeju replied, trying to convince herself more than anyone else. "It can't be that. Besides, wouldn't I have other symptoms?"

Y/N nodded, trying to reassure her. "Let's not jump to conclusions. We should see a doctor to make sure everything's okay."

"I called a doctor before you got here and they said… uh… that i need to express the milk manually," Hyeju said, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "They said it might relieve the pressure and it'll be better than it leaking onto my shirt all day."

Y/N nodded, trying to process the bizarre information. "Well, i can go to the store and get one of those devices that sucks out the breastmilk," they offered, hoping to ease the awkwardness.

"No that'll take to long traffic is terrible out there, I don't have that kind of time, plus i'm running out of towles" Hyeju said, glancing out the bathroom window at the bustling city outside. She thought for a couple a seconds and finally got an idea, but it was a bit embarrassing. "Do you mind helping me?" she asked with a shaky voice.

Y/N looked at her, surprised by the question but nodded reassuringly. "Of course, whatever you need I'll do my best to help."

With a deep breath, Hyeju unbuttoned her shirt, revealing her milky breasts, "Y/N you need to suck out the milk," she said, her voice shaking. Y/N's eyes widened, understanding the gravity of the situation. They had never been in a situation like this before, but the love they had for Hyeju overrode any discomfort they might have felt. They leaned in gently, placing their mouth around her nipple and began to suck. Hyeju's body tensed at first, but she soon felt the pressure in her breasts lessen. The sensation was strange for both of them, but Y/N focused on helping Hyeju through this weird ordeal.

The first spurt of milk took them both by surprise. Y/N didn't expect it to be so much, and Hyeju gasped as it left her body. They quickly found a rhythm, and Y/N swallowed the milk, doing their best to make Hyeju comfortable. Hyeju's breasts began to feel lighter, and she could feel the tension in her chest easing with every pull. Despite the strangeness of the situation, there was an undeniable intimacy in this act. The sound of Y/N sucking on Hyeju's breasts was the only noise filling the bathroom.

As the minutes ticked by, Hyeju felt a warmth spreading through her body, something she hadn't anticipated. She watched Y/N's cheeks hollow with each suck, and she couldn't help but find it oddly erotic. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation of his mouth, and she felt a flush spread across her cheeks. Her breathing grew heavier, and she let out a small moan that she hoped was inaudible.

Y/N noticed Hyeju's change in demeanor and paused for a moment, looking up at her. Hyeju's eyes remained closed, a soft smile playing on her lips. She was lost in the peculiar mix of relief and arousal that coursed through her veins. Y/N felt a jolt of desire, but quickly pushed it aside, reminding himself that this was about helping her, not satisfying their own needs. Y/N returned to their task, Y/N's mouth moving with more urgency now, their hands supporting her breasts, feeling them soften and empty as he worked.

"Y/N touch me please," Hyeju murmured, her voice thick with arousal. Her hands found their head, running her hands through Y/N'S hair. She couldn't help the way her body was responding, but she didn't want to stop them now. Y/N's eyes searched Hyeju's for consent, and finding it with Hyeju giving a slight nod, they resumed they assistance with renewed vigor. Y/N's hands snaked their way to Hyeju's panties, gently rubbing her clit through the fabric. Hyeju gasped as she felt a warmth spread from her chest to her core, her breathing quickening.

The sound of her moans grew louder as Y/N's fingers moved with more urgency. They slipped her panties aside and slid a finger inside her, feeling how wet she was. Hyeju leaned into the feeling, her hips rocking slightly against their hand. The pressure in her breasts lessened further as she grew closer to climax. The situation was surreal, but the sensations were very real.

Y/N could feel Hyeju's body tensing up, and they knew she was almost there. They increased their sucking and her moans grew louder, echoing off the tiles of the bathroom. Hyeju's grip tightened on Y/N's hair, her breath hitching as she came, the pleasure pulsing through her body like a wave. Y/N kept suckling her breast, ensuring every last drop of milk was removed. Hyeju's legs trembled as she rode out her orgasm, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Finally, the flow of milk slowed to a trickle, and Hyeju's breathing evened out. She leaned back against the wall, panting, her body feeling both drained and satisfied. "Thank you," she whispered, her eyes finally meeting Y/N's. They looked at each other for a moment, the intimacy of what they had just shared hanging heavy in the air.

[therealmylesmorales]

Hi! ive read some of ur work lara croft x reader and I love them so so much you write her so well, I was wondering if u could write one with lara and fem reader asking her to give up being an archeologist (live a more safe life with her) and settle down

thank u if u ever consider this 🩷 and ty for your previous works

Anon, I hope you know that I love you and sorry this took a while

Another pick I stole borrowed from the pookie @laracroftsfiance 🫶🏾 featuring Lara’s resting sad face

WC: 1k

Do I Look Like Him?

You hesitated by the large double oak doors. There was a hint of light you could see through the cracks so you know Lara was in there. But whether she wanted to talk to you was a different story.

Her latest research led her to South Africa; an amulet that her father had suspicions about but never had the chance to see if it was true. She was within arms reach of the jewel but multiple surprise explosions from Trinity caused it to fall into the ocean, forever lost to the sea.

But maybe it was better that way. Now, no one had to worry about it landing in the wrong hands.

Lara thought differently. She never told you what happened during this trip like she normally would. If anything, she was quiet—tense even. It worried you.

You finally tapped your knuckles on the wood before cracking it open. Lara was sitting in her chair, hunched over her desk with an old journal opened in front of her. You thought your presence in the room went unnoticed until she finally spoke to you when you walked next to her.

“Why are you still up?” She asked quietly, her full attention still not on you .

”You weren’t in bed,” you said. “I figured you would be in here especially since you should be resting.”

”I’m fine.”

”Lara, you got shot in the stomach,” you said, your tone getting sharp. “You almost died.”

She muttered out a response. “It’s not the first time I got shot, love.”

”You almost died,” you repeated. “You passed out twice as I was patching you up. Figuring out where Trinity is can wait, you need rest.”

Lara didn’t answer but seeing her jaw tightened, you could tell she was getting annoyed by the conversation. You took a second to calm yourself.

”Listen, Lara, I didn’t come here to argue with you,” you said softly. “I wanted to talk to you…about you retiring.”

”Retirement?” Lara parroted, finally giving you a look.

”Everytime you come back from wherever the hell, you seem to get closer to death,” your voice was shaky but you powered through it. “And one of these days, your luck might run out and I couldn’t live with that! A-and not to mention this obsession you have with Trinity. I get it, Lara, I really do but you’re acting like your fat—“

Lara’s sudden and sharp tone cut off your small rant, not wanting to hear those words coming from you. “Y/N! I don’t have time for this right now. I’m trying to focus but I can’t do that with you here. So…please leave.”

You both sat in tense silence. Lara never yelled, at least never at you, so safe to say this was uncharted territory. You could only stare at her back in shock, noticing that she paid more attention to the written words rather than the ones said to you.

“Fine, Lara,” you scoffed, leaving the brunette to her endeavors.

The pencil tapped against her desk, the words in front of her not being processed. “Retirement,” she repeated, the word foreign on her tongue. “I bet you never considered that.”

The picture she was talking to, one of both of her mother and father, only answered her with silence. Over her years growing up, Lara couldn’t remember most memories with her father. It was always her and her mother, and the severents of the manor. But what she did remember of her father was the arguments he had with her mother, regarding him prioritizing his over his family. Then when her mother died, he only buried himself deeper.

Maybe if he did consider retiring, things would be different for Lara. Maybe her parents would still be alive.

And instead of listening to your words, Lara seemed to be following in her father’s footsteps.

”Fuck,” Lara muttered, rubbing her hands over her face. She sat alone with her thoughts for a little longer, thinking on what to say to you.

Lara stalled for time when she cleaned up the little mess that was in her office before walking to your shared bedroom.

Lara carefully pushed the bedroom door opened, expecting to see you still awake waiting for her. Instead, your body was turned away from her, body completely covered by the heavy blankets. Lara wasn’t sure if you were awake or pretending to be asleep but she was still extra quiet when she crawled into bed next to you; she left a small amount of space between you both, not sure if you were up for cuddling.

”I’m sorry,” she whispered. Lara could hear you release a soft sigh at her apology, but you didn’t interrupted her. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

”I was only trying to help, Lara,” was all you said.

”I know. I know, and I appreciate that—you very much.” Her hand reached to caress your shoulder, urging you to turn and face her. “And…and I understand what you want. And you’re right.”

”I’m right?” Those were words you never really heard from Lara, at least seriously, so hearing this was new.

She had a hard time getting her words together. “I never…considered retiring, until you. The adventure, that’s all I’ve known. I guess you can say that I’ve grown accustomed to it, even despite my injuries. But, if it comes to you or my job, I will choose you every time.”

”Lara…”

”I will retire,” she said, placing her palm over your cheek. “And as long as you’ll have me, I’ll be with you.”

You stayed silent, searching her face for any sign of her second guessing; but all you saw was her undying love for you. Your own hand reached to cover the one that was holding your face, rubbing your thumb over Lara’s scared knuckles.

A wordless acceptance that eased most of Lara’s nerves.

”May I have a kiss?” Granted, she could get one whenever she wants but Lara didn’t know if you were too upset.

A soft smile was her answer before you softly pressed your lips against her pouted ones. And when your forehead rested against her own, Lara felt at completely ease.

[zeddylux]

Allright I have an attempt at something. Keep in mind these VERY VERY rough but I need to put my drabbles somewhere or I'm going to forget them and my phones all I've got right now 😅. I'm picturing a scene after a fight that ends in a draw. Vi is not in the best mood but she and Gert are talking outside the arena. I'll take constructive criticism but please be gentle I've never done this before 😭😭

⚠️ Warnings ⚠️ - Mentions of alchohol abuse, panic attacks, and police brutality. Enjoy!

The sounds and jeers of the arena fade into the background as they walk along the side. Vi caught a glimpse through the slats in the building of some other poor sap standing alone against a massive opponent. Some might call him a fool for standing up to someone he had no chance against. But those same people probably had no inkling of what it took to survive down here. The pits had opened up after the new checkpoints made it nearly impossible for consistent supplies to enter the lanes. Food that had already been scarce became even harder to come by. But if you knew how to fight and a Chem Barron took enough of a liking to you, you could be guaranteed a meal at least. Maybe even a room if you won enough.

Vi tried not to think about her last round of the night. It had ended in a draw and the powers that be would not be happy. If she wanted to keep her shitty room and a roof over her head she had to start winning. And fast.

Gert walked next to her, excitingly talking about a rally taking place the next day. Vi was trying really hard not to think about how pretty she looked under the glow of the moonlight. Trying not to think too much about the blue and pink eye makeup or the blue in her dreads. These days Vi tried really hard not to think about anything really.

"Come on!" Gert says, slinging her arm around Vi's shoulders, "All you do is eat, and sleep and fight! Come to the rally tommorow before your next one! It'll get you in the right headspace and you'll win for sure!"

'Bold of you assume I eat' Vi thinks detjectingly. These days a 6 pack of beer was easier to come by than anything substantial and besides. Anything to take her mind of the last 6 months. Or 7 years. Which ever.

"I already told you I don't want to go. I'm pretty sure one of my ribs is cracked. I need to get some rest before I get back into the pits."

It was a lame excuse and they both knew it. Vi had fought back to back fights with dislocated shoulders, broken wrists, and bruises up and down her entire body. She had long since learned to ignore her own pain. Real and imagined it was no longer really a factor. Vi only cared about survival anymore. She couldn't bring herself to look any further than that.

Gert opens her mouth to retort but before she can a group of enforcers rounds the corner. Both of them immediately tensed and back into the shadows of the arena hoping the ramshackle structure will hide them well enough. It's close to midnight and darkness in the lanes is no laughing matter. Once the smog settles in there's no seeing what's in front of you. Only trenchers, born here their entire lives walking the same streets every single day have a chance in hell of finding their way around once the sun goes down.

Vi puts herself fully in front of Gert as they both watch the enforcers struggle along the docks. It seems like an ordinary patrol squad clad in the black armor of house Kiramman. One of them slips and partially falls into the oily water cursing as his partners laugh quietly at him.

Vi chuckles lightly and mumbles, "Serves you right."

"Shhhhh," Gert says quietly putting her hands on Vi's shoulders, "Don't draw their attention."

The patrol squad eventually moves on to the lower parts of the city. No doubt heading for the brothels and Shimmer dens to find some easy pickings. They had a quota to meet after all.

Vi breathes a sigh of relief and gently grabs Gerts hand. They peel off the wall and step more into the light. She cups the side of Gerts face gently asking, "Ok?"

Gert nods shakily and presses her head to Vi's.

"All good."

They stay like that for a moment just taking solace in each other. Enforcers had always been a terrible presence in both of their lives but never before had they been so aggressive. Ever since Jinx's painted smoke had reminded Piltover of the threat that lurked underneath topside had seemed all the more determined to remind the Lanes who was really in charge. Random frisks and arrests had become all the more common. And there were whispers of Stillwater opening up their torture chambers for the first time. With the absence of councilor Medarda and Jayce what little conscious the council had gained recently had all but vanished. Commander Kiramman had deemed them animals in her relentles search for Jinx. Worthy of neither pity nor mercy.

"There are rumors" Gert said suddenly, anger creeping into her voice. "That Caitlyn's strike team had one of ours. Someone from Zaun leading them down here."

Vi felt a jolt of panic at the bitterness in her voice. Like icy water flowing down her back. 'there's no way for her to know' she thinks frantically, 'I had my mask on until we reached the sewers, and the grey..' Guilt begins to build in her mind, self-hatred mixing with her panic in a way that makes her long for a drink. Trying to keep her voice steady she asks instead

"Thats probably just hearsay. They were all wearing masks nobody would even know what they looked like," she says nervously trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Gert looks at her with a wry smile. "I dont think it's just people talking. They got down here way to quickly and easily for someone who didnt have help. They say the one who lead them had pink hair but nobody got a good look at her face." Venom creeps it her voice as she straightened up to look at the faraway skyscrapers. The lights of Piltover just visible in the distance through the smog, "They say that coward helped Kiramman with the ventilation system. Released this crazy smog called the Grey to poison us." Gert turns to Vi and cracks her knuckles, a cold look on her face. "If I ever get my hands on that traitor, not even her friends up top would be able to save her."

Vi feels the panic begin to build in stomach, her vision briefly blacking out as her breaths turn shakey. She frantically tries to draw in air but it's like it can't reach her lungs. It's a feeling she's become familiar with over the years but now there's no one to turn to. Caitlyn had abandoned and betrayed her. Her sister hated her and Ekko was still missing. And Gert. If she ever found out what Vi had done, who could blame her for walking away too?

Vi leaned heavily against the wall of the arena fighting to catch her breath as images began to flash through her mind. Vander, Powder, Ekko, Milo, Clagger. And Caitlyn. Gods who was left? Vi had always done whatever it took to keep the family together. Sacrificed whole parts of herself, betrayed her people and for what? To end up with no one and nothing.

Gert looks completely taken aback, rushing over to Vi and cupping her face gently.

"Vi! Vi are you ok? What happened?"

But it's too much. Too many things had crowded Vi's mind. Another girl in another life cupping her face like this, back when Vi still had hope that things could still be fixed. That they could go back to the ways things were.

"I, I have to go," Vi said straightening up and gently pushing Gert away ignoring the concern in her eyes. She has to get away before she hurts her. Like she did with Powder. Like she did with Jinx. There's no telling what might happen when she gets like this. "I'll see you at the fights tommorow."

"Vi wait," but Vi's already turned to go.

She leaps down from the ledge they were standing on to the docks below and starts running. Fleeing really, heading for the ramshackle apartments that house the fighters the Chem Barrons deem worthy enough to keep around. She thinks frantically of the brand new bottle of whiskey Loris had gotten for her. Top of the line. "Piltovers finest," she thinks bitterly. She'll have to explain tommorow but for now. She has a date with a bottle of hair dye and another bottle of whiskey. If she plays her cards right maybe she'll get some sleep tonight. And maybe she won't hear the sounds of her sisters laughter ringing in her head.

[kometqh]

𝐖𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐘𝐨𝐮

Captain Rex x f!reader

Word count: 702

Warmings: None. Just a little angst.

A/N: this was eating at my brain all day after seeing a YouTube short. Might write a tiny part 2 might not as I wait for my brain juice to allow me to continue with my other WIP’s (smoot) :) this is also very much unedited, it’s just my brain unicorn farts at 1am.

The night was overwhelmingly bleak. Clouds gathered in clumps, blocking out the millions of stars in the sky. Rex felt anxiety tugging at his heartstrings, playing them cruelly with cold, nimble fingers. He hadn’t seen her in years. He’d put on weight, developed more frown lines, more grey hairs. Gregor had always made fun of him, laughing about Rex needing to start skincare. Would she even recognise him?

A harsh, cold wind pushed past him. Icicles pricked at his skin, ushering him to turn around and never look back. He was too old for this, what if she'd moved on? Started a family?

No. She promised that she would wait.

She was a woman of her word. As loyal as his late brothers. Deep down he knew that she would wait, whether it be days or months or years.

As his shadow fell upon the front door, the clouds parted and a glint of moonlight shone on his back. Finally, some light.

Raising his fist, he hesitated. Did she still live here? What if Gregors intel was outdated?

Kriff it. He had nothing to lose.

He knocked three times, the sound hollow against the wooden door.

He waited, observing his surroundings. The roses had wilted. Her roses were never wilted. She was sharp and precise. Observant. Blood pumped faster through his veins, anxiety boiling over in the pit of his stomach.

Minutes passed and there was still no answer. A cold breeze sent goosebumps down his spine.

He knocked again, to no avail.

“What’s going on?” Rex muttered to nobody in particular, his brows furrowing. Where was she?

His legs moved before he was aware of what he was doing.

The back gate had been taken over by wild vines. The wooden gate tore through the plants, snapping and ripping them in the process. Groaning, the hinges protested against the sudden oncoming force, as though they hadn't been moved in years.

��I’ll have to fix that later.’ He thought with a small smile.

The garden looked worse than Rex could've imagined. Wild brush and prickly weeds had covered the previous vegetable garden, and more ivory vines twisted and grasped at the structure of the house.

One foot after the other, he trudged through the mess left behind by Mother Nature. When did this happen?

The moonlight had now disappeared behind yet another herd of thick, heavy clouds. Rex cursed as he struggled to see anything. It seemed that the vines and the brush were doing everything in their power to hold him back, grasping and pulling with all their might.

Questions ran rampant, clouding his mind in tandem with his feelings of fear and uncertainty.

What happened? Where was she? Why hadn’t she come to the door?

She couldn't have left. This place meant the galaxy to her.

Rex promised her that they’d grow old together, watching the sunset on the porch, or relaxing in front of the fire pit. He promised her they’d start a farm, buy their own chicken coop and build a barn for some small goats. Did she grow tired of waiting for her soldier to return?

He stumbled upon his answer shortly after.

Hidden deep within the confines of nature was his answer.

A single stone tablet.

Deep down he knew, yet he found himself unable to rip his eyesight away from the engravements on the stone.

‘A beautiful soul rests, a kind and bright life that had been taken too soon.’

His mouth was left agape as his stare bore into the stone, reading the words over and over again, his mind running with all the different possibilities and outcomes. That stone hadn’t been there when he left. That grave hadn’t been made.

And as his sight landed on the neat, faded lettering of your name, he felt his soul shatter into a thousand little pieces.

A cold breeze tugged past him, whispering unheard promises, confessings of love and sincerest apologies that would go unnoticed under the tears streaming from his eyes and the desperate sobs as he grasped at your grave.

Cold, ghostly arms embraced his warm form in the middle of the night, transparent tears mixing with his until the early hours of dawn.

[twenty-one-froggy-pilots]

Some Clancy letters:

A lifeless light surrounds us each night. Never could I imagine that something so luminous could feel so dark. It’s this glow that reminds us of the dreamless existence we’ve been sentenced to. But what I call a sentence, others accept as normalcy.

How did they so efficiently eradicate the dreams within us? When the bishops instituted Vialism as mandate, they effectively reversed the hope that many arrived with. Am I the only one who realizes that we’ve been lied to? Am I the only one not afraid of the notion that the nine have hijacked our trust, and extinguished the hope that once motivated our existence?

We used to close our eyes and picture a better life, now this city is full of dry eyes caught in a trance of obedience, devoid of any trace of an identity. The only significant light I’ve seen has been in the eyes of those smeared - such a curious sight, to see bright eyes strangled by the darkness of bishop hands. As their penance fades, so dims their memory of something more.

My hope of something more is all I have in this rigid tomb, and I will not let it die.

- Clancy

Second Clancy Letter

They are asleep. They’re so sure that they know the truth, and carry on throughout their day with the same meaningless tasks. They’ve forgotten to look up, and to look outward, to understand that this isn’t about ‘in there.'

This is about ‘out here.’

The lyrics from polarize

I wanted to be a better brother, better son Wanted to be a better adversary to the evil I have doneI have none to show to the one I love But deny, deny, denial

Help me polarize, help me polarize, help me down Those stairs is where I'll be hiding all my problems Help me polarize, help me polarize, help me out My friends and I, we've got a lot of problems Polarize is taking your disguises Separating 'em, splitting 'em up from wrong and right It's deciding where to die and deciding where to fight Deny, deny, denial

March to the sea

And as we near the end of land And our ocean graves are just beyond the sand I ask myself the question Why I fall in line Then out of the corner of my eye I see a spaceship in the sky And hear a voice inside my head

Follow me instead

Follow me instead

Follow me

Then the wages of war will start Inside my head with my counterpart And the emotionless marchers will chant the phrase "This line's the only way" And then I start down the sand My eyes are focused on the end of land But again, the voice inside my head says

Follow me instead

Follow me instead

Follow me

Follow me instead

Follow me instead

Follow me instead

Follow me instead

Follow me instead

Take me up, seal the door I don't want to march here anymore I realize that this line is dead So I'll follow you instead So then you put me back in my place So I might start another day And once again, I will be in a march to the sea

Kitchen sink

Nobody thinks what I think Nobody dreams when they blink Think things on the brink of blasphemy I'm my own shrink Think things are after me, my catastrophe At my kitchen sink You don't know what that means Because a kitchen sink to you Is not a kitchen sink to me, OK friend? Are you searching for purpose? Then write something, yeah it might be worthless Then paint something then, it might be wordless Pointless curses, nonsense verses You'll see purpose start to surface No one else is dealing with your demons Meaning maybe defeating them Could be the beginning of your meaning, friend

Heavydirtysoul

Nah, I didn't understand a thing you said If I didn't know better I'd guess you're all already dead Mindless zombies walking around with a limp and a hunch Saying stuff like, "You only live once" You've got one time to figure it out One time to twist, and one time to shout One time to think and I say we start now Sing it with me if you know what I'm talking about

The pantaloon

Now, it's your turn to be alone Find a wife and build yourself a home You have learned way too soon That your dad is now the Pantaloon

Isle of flightless birds

All we are is an isle of flightless birds We find our worth in giving birth and stuff We're lining our homes against winding roads And we think the going is tough We pick songs to sing, remind us of things that nobody cares about And honestly we're probably more suicidal than ever now

So why am I bringing these all up?

Tyler has always struggled with ‘worth’ and where people place their attention ‘why are you focused on worthless things when there’s something so much greater in front of you!! Why are you focused on how good of a family man (masculine expectations) (how to build a chair and love your wife), but it also mixes with how alone he feels (march to the sea, heavy dirty soul)

He feels lost and alone and like the burden of expectations placed on him have no meaning (as the mindless people chant the phrase this line is the only way, mindless zombies walking around with a limp and a hunch saying you only live one)

And so what does he do? He’s directly calling out this mindlessness, but he’s also offering a solution to it, STOP FOLLOWING MINDLESSLY TO WHAT OTHER PEOPLE SAY

he asks you to listen to what your soul is thinking, he asks a higher power to help him

He knows he’s not good enough by himself, he wants to be a better brother and a better son, the expectations he places on himself are too high, but he’s following the expectations of PEOPLE

Instead, where his soul finds peace is when he’s asked to step outside of societies expectations for him (Follow me instead, can you save my heavy dirty soul)

In march To The Sea the answer is to follow God (or the voice) instead of The Line (what you’ve been told)

In heavy dirty soul this is again reaching out towards God and asking him to save you

An Isle of Flightless birds concludes with the lyrics of: How frustrating, and so degrading His time, we're wasting As time will fly by and the sky will cry as light is fading And He is waiting, oh, so patiently While we repeat the same routine as we will please comfortability And please think about why you can't sleep in the evening And please don't be afraid of what your soul is really thinking Your soul knows good and evil, your soul knows both sides And it's time you pick your battle, and I promise you this is mine (I promise you, this is mine)

You know what’s right and wrong, it’s your time to listen to yourself and make the right choice

Holding onto you: I'm taking over my body, back in control, no more shotty I bet a lot of me was lost, "T"'s uncrossed and "I"'s undotted I fought it a lot and it seems a lot like flesh is all I got Not anymore, flesh out the door, swat I must've forgot, you can't trust me I'm open a moment and close when you show it Before you know it I'm lost at sea And now that I write and think about it And the story unfolds You should take my life, you should take my soul

Tyler struggled a lot with doubt and keeping his eyes on God, he wants to do good, he wants to keep himself on the right path, but he’s always struggling to do so, but all of us do, it’s hard to keep your eyes on God when sometimes we get so caught up in the flesh world, and in it, lose sight of what really matters, allowing doubt and fear to take over

But when we’re at that point, at our lowest, at our angriest and most downtrodden we aren’t abandoned, when we feel our most shameful we aren’t ignored, when we struggle with doubts we aren’t cast aside

We slink our way back thinking we will be chastised, but just like the prodigal son we are welcomed back with open arms, God doesn’t seek perfection from us, he just seeks us, it’s not about following expectations (as is pressured on us by the world) but instead in having a whole relationship with him (making life meaningful and worthwhile) and through that relationship we are made whole and perfect, Jesus changes our hearts, we can’t do it on our own

““I’m telling you these things while I’m still living with you. The Friend, the Holy Spirit whom the Father will send at my request, will make everything plain to you. He will remind you of all the things I have told you. I’m leaving you well and whole. That’s my parting gift to you. Peace. I don’t leave you the way you’re used to being left—feeling abandoned, bereft. So don’t be upset. Don’t be distraught.”

‭‭John‬ ‭14‬:‭25‬-‭27‬ ‭MSG‬‬

We tend to over complicate things in our head so much we forget the peace we’ve been granted through the holy spirt

I think a lot of us are in our Drown era a lot more than we’d like to admit

I don’t know about anyone else, but I often think I can do it all by myself and get proven wrong everytime, I’m only human, and that doesn’t get you very far most days

So. I think The Line is part of the Clancy Saga. And more specifically, it takes place right in the last part of Paladin Strait. Also for the purposes of this post, I'm throwing out all the Arcane imagery and solely focusing on Clancy. Sorry show fans.

Here's my take.

First we've got the setting. A mystical, dark place, full of stars. And everything in there seems very blurry and unfocused. Even when the camera is focused in on Tyler's face, its never clear, it seems like there's some sort of distortion or filter over it, not enough to fully point out exactly what's wrong, but enough that you can tell something's wrong.

I think it's describing Tyler's headspace. Or, more specifically, Clancy's, as he's in his own head, Nico smearing his throat. It's unfocused and dark and he's questioning everything that has lead up to this moment, struck with fear.

Next we've got the mysterious person, who's in Clancy's mind with him. Listening as Clancy speaks. And comforting him.

We don't get a clear picture of who it is. But I am convinced its the Torchbearer. Even if the silhouette isn't his. Because the lyrics are ever so clearly a cry for help. And what has Torchbearer done this entire time for Clancy? Helped him.

Then we've got this moment right here. The figure is walking away from Clancy, and I think they're almost beckoning Clancy to follow. When they go behind, Clancy's head is jerked unnaturally to the side, before it comes right back up into its normal position.

I think Clancy is fighting with himself here. He's asking for help, while also telling the person to stay away from him and his brokenness. Which would perfectly match up with these lyrics being a cry of help to the Torchbearer.

Now we have this.

Tell me it does not look exactly like seizing. I don't care if it's matching up with what is going on with the characters in Arcane, this is Tyler Joseph we are talking about here. Everything in this video was 100% intentional.

This could be representative of how Nico is in the middle of smearing Clancy. But I'm leaning towards how it could be how the Torchbearer is now saving Clancy from himself, by getting into Clancy's mind even more than just being in his headspace with him. He's got to pour his spirit into Clancy to save him. (Sound like the Holy Spirit anyone?)

The next sequence is interesting. Along with his eyes going white, his hair does as well. Which I think strengthens my theory that the Torchbearer is going inside of Clancy to help him. Then he rises up into the air, along with all the other figures of light.

I think the strongest case is that they're the Glorious Gone who the Bishops were using to fight the Banditos moments before. And who Clancy was perhaps about to join, with Nico smearing him again. This is it- it is finally over. He was going to die, or be trapped in the cycle forever. Again we've got the analogy of light, and him holding up his hand to block it from his face.

But then while all the other people are becoming more and more light and ascending, he rather returns to his normal self and comes back to the ground, and looks up. Contemplates. And then disappears.

The Torchbearer saved him from himself. And then Clancy leaves that bad mental headspace- and opens his eyes to face Nico, where the Torchbearer is ready to now physically save what he just spiritually saved.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | part twenty-one preview

The last bed you laid in smelled like lemon mint detergent. It was the full bed in your sister's guest room. Everything was crisp and white. They rarely had guests besides you. Some of your clothes stayed in that closet, one of your toothbrushes stayed in the connected bathroom, waiting for your visits. You'd awaken that last morning not thinking you'd never sleep in bed for another five years. You left it unmade.

This bed smells like pine and warmth.

Ghost's room is small and dimly lit. The ceiling slants so that one end is not tall enough for him to fully stand. There's a dresser and a nightstand, leaving only a sliver of floorspace.

After the metal latch on the door clicks shut, Ghost lays the blanket down and grabs a pillow for himself. That leaves the bed to you. Springs creak beneath your weight as you silently slip under a heavy, rustic quilt. The years-embedded scent of him wraps around you like a drug-induced fog. For some reason, you hesitate to move, lying frozen as he flicks off the light. You wonder if he always locks the door, or if he did it for you. So you feel more certain they won't try anything.

Only after you hear his shuffling around as he lays down do you allow yourself to get comfortable. You cocoon your body under the quilt and turn to your side, closing your eyes.

A thought reopens them minutes later. You roll onto your back and speak into the swollen darkness. "Have you known about this Switzerland place?"

For a moment, you think he's already asleep. Then, from below the bed by your feet, he says, "Heard of it."

"That is what you guys talked about, isn't it?" you ask absentmindedly.

"Among other things."

You sit up so you can see him, but all that you can make out is a dark shadow. "Care to share?"

"Some things are on a need-to-know basis," is all he gives.

"And I don't need to know?"

"Precisely."

It stings; you don't know why. A hand sweeps through your hair as you audibly exhale. "Some team we make, huh? Or I guess we're only a team when you need me to do something for you."

You quickly realize how petulant you must sound. A grumbled swear, then more shuffling. The shadow sits upright. "They asked me to go with them. I said no. Too far. Too many variables that are hard to predict, and she's not ready for them. Happy?"

You bite your lip. Relief sits in place of the slight uncertainty since your conversation with Nereida. Joining them was shut down. You wouldn't tell her, but it sounds asinine, whether or not that commune exists. Risky at best, fatal at worst. You're tempted to ask him how many days he thinks they'll recoup here before continuing their journey, but opt for sleep instead. He seems done with the conversation, too, lying back down. Then, you have the best sleep you've had in years in his bed.

When the sun turns pink, you awaken to a room void of Ghost. He's gone. It should be expected, but you'd thought he might wake you up to train like normal. Though, the past twenty-four hours haven't been normal. You look around, the details of his room more visible now in the morning. On the nightstand beside you, there is a stack of books and you scan the titled spines. Mostly classics. One Hemingway. All tattered and read frequently. Beside them lays a silver chain attached to a dog tag. You gently finger the engraved metal so as not to move it out of place: Simon Riley. 

Snooping through his things is more tempting than you're willing to admit. You slip out of bed, socked feet silently padding over to the dresser. There are mostly papers. His map, a notepad with scribbled half-cursive on it, and then a faded photo beneath it. You freeze, breath hitching, as if you've done something dangerous just by stumbling upon it. Curiosity is thick in your chest, difficult to ignore. Gentle fingers reach to shift it out, revealing a picture that you know right away is of Blue and her mom. Blue is a baby. Maybe one year old. A woman with light brown hair holds her up, sitting on a bench in front of a playground. She's pretty and young. There is a sadness when you wonder if this is the only picture he has of them-before her death. Then, there is another feeling. You swallow it. 

You quickly slip the photo back just the way you found it and leave the room. 

[ms-oswald]

Rules: In a new post, post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

thank you for tagging me @itbmojojoejo 💕

here we go!

Sweetest Devotion (Osferth)

Pieces of Me (or Pieces of You, or just Pieces, or something else) (Finan)

Devil in Your Eye / Wicked Game (Aemond)

Power (?) (Finan)

Sihtric x OC (bodyguard? Spy? Agent Booth?)

Finan x Freya I

Finan x Freya II

there was something else, but i forgot..... unless, i am imagining it

tagging: @persephones-journey @gemini-mama @emilyhufflepufftlk @st-eve-barnes @solinarimoon and whoever else who wants to do it!

[buwheal]

ouhhhh debating whether or not i want to show these but i cant help myself... when im bored i love love love to think up just. poses and activities. for you to interrupt him in. (bottom left excluded this is my doodle page) And i dont think ill do any of these soon anyways. besides the top right one. which you wont see. one million things for him to do..... I can do anything i want.... and i can make /him/ do anything i want.... Is the point of the askbox not just for you to hang around with him during his day? his week?? his year???

[mothgirl-number-4]

[You're leading Beau through the House. He's been… Nice. Asked the questions you knew the answers to, at least.] [He asked you where you were from.] [You told him you forgot.] [You're in the House's garden now. He's been looking at all the various flowers, plaques with descriptions grabbing at his attention like a moth to a lamp. You sit on a bench, close enough to hear him rattling off the facts he's reading from the signs.] [He says he thinks signs are really important, but he doesn't know why. You talk to him about it, and he mentions the stars before freezing mid-speech.] [He starts rambling everything he can remember about stars, and you try to make sure he doesn't push himself too much. It's not enough, as he coughs up a speck of blood, but you use some healing craft (it hurts, but you don't care) and sit there with him.] [You tell him everything you can remember that he didn't already tell you, this time actually making sure nobody gets hurt.] [He asks about one of the stars names, Regulus.] [You can't tell him much, but he decides then and there that, as a symbol of being part of Vaugardian culture, he'll Change his name to Regulus.] [He says it feels right. You reply it feels nice to say.] [It's half-true. It's easier, at least.] [You spend the rest of the time trying to come up with better nicknames than Reg, which is harder than it really seems.] [You end up calling him Sunshine. It's only slightly ironic.] [You end up agreeing it'd be for the best if you stick together for the time.] [You feel a pit in your stomach as you acquire the Memory of Sunshine. You don't tell him about it.] [He picks one of the flowers, asking of course, and you choose one as well.] [He picks a willow, you pick a zinnia.]

[This is your last day.] [You'd berate whoever forgot to remind you, but you aren't going to make another clone of your past self over something so petty.] [You can't sleep.] [You stare up at the ceiling for the sixth time this week. It's starting to feel like the clocktower. You need to get out of here.] [You get up, passing Sunshine as you sneak through the halls.] [None of the Housemaidens are awake, but it's mostly habit at this point.] [You're in the garden again.] [You walk over to a comfortable-looking patch of grass, and lie down.] [You look up at the stars, alone.] [It's familiar, but different. Different is good.] [Your Sunshine told you that the open roof design was made so that the plants could get enough sunlight to grow, but that they put a tarp over it in winter so that snow won't get all over everything.] [The perfect amount of care so that you won't wither, and that you will grow.] [What a wonderful idea.] [You turn on cue to someone who isn't there. You say all the right things without anyone to hear them.] [It's not even your script and yet you still memorized every word.] [This isn't getting you anywhere.] [You move to a stump in the center of the garden. One of the Housemaidens told you it was enhanced by craft to grow and decay at higher speed than usual, a symbol of Change.] [It's not fast enough to bother you, at least.] [There's a neighboring stump, one crafted out of stone, made to never Change. A duality in eternal life and eternal death.] [You don't know whose bright idea it was to make the stone stump, considering it seems very contrary to Change, but you can appreciate the gall.] [Regulus walks in. He says he didn't know you were here.] [He wears his only other outfit, armor of darkless with lightless stars speckling here and there.] [Sitting on the parallel stump, he gazes up at the stars. You can see tears fall from his eyes.] [He is happy, and you're unsatisfied] [You're... Unsatisfied?]

"Which one is your favorite?" <"I don't have one, yet."> "I thought you might like the one you named yourself after." <"Not everything's in a name, guiding light."> "Is that your new nickname for me? How cute." <"I thought hard about it. Something to fit your one for me. ...Do you like it?"> "...Yeah. You're good at nicknames." <They look up to the stars alongside you. They seem deep in thought.> "I thought you were asleep." <"I was, I think. I thought the same of you."> "I take pride in my acting skills." <You do often catch them wearing a smile that doesn't belong on their face.> <"You are very good. I always preferred songwriting."> "Oh?" <"The rhythm that goes with the tune, the meter and rhyme, it's just enchanted me, I feel."> <"...I don't know how long this has been the case, but I know it to be true."> <They look jealous. They clearly haven't realized it, since the false smile hasn't taken its place, yet.> <They begin to hum a tune. It sounds like a comfortable place, a time of love. It sounds like children playing and birds singing. Then, they stop.> <You, in turn, hum your own tune. A Change hymn of ticking gears and twisting architecture. Of the nature of life and how it goes around and around. Then, you can't remember any more.> <You don't know how you feel about Change, but you are ever so grateful for its followers. You cannot deny it that these Houses are marvels of craft. You smile.> "I'm heading back to bed. You?" <"Yes, I feel I should as well. May I accompany you?"> <They give a bewildered look. Maybe they don't- > "But we'd be heading the same way anyway?" <Oh.> <"There are many paths to the same destination."> <After a moment's pause, they sigh and let you come along with them.> <You dream of weeping willows that cry and a great shadow overtaking your own. You will not remember these when you wake.>

[Your time is done. You're satisfied.]

[You couldn't take your role back, but that's his fault for leaving you alone. You're satisfied.]

[You're satisfied. You fade at last.]

...

[You feel a thread pulled to its limits. A fire burning hot hot hot and something breaking, failing, rotting. You gag on nothing as starlight beams out of your eyes and mouth.]

[The string pulls, choking you as you attempt to scream, but you have no mouth. You attempt to cry, but you have no eyes.]

[The thread snaps.]

[You feel a pulling in your head.]

[And you feel your heart..

p

o

p

]

[You wake up in a room. The first thing you take in is UNIMAGINABLE PAIN. You scream and scream and scream- there are footsteps. You hear the familiar sound of healing craft as the pain subsides the slightest bit. Not enough to be anywhere near comfortable, but you aren't screaming anymore.]

[You sit up, hands grasping at what you realize far too late are bedsheets. They rip in your hands, piercing craft chugging through your fingertips like the drip drip drip of blood.]

[You're already babbling apologies when]-

"Oh thank goodness you're awake, bright stranger."

[That voice. Not from the healer you don't recognize them but you turn to the neighboring bed- you're in an infirmary? -and see another stranger.]

[You recognize that accent but you don't recognize... Him?]

"[Who-]"

[You cough on your words- Vaugardian, Loop! Try again~]

[The familiar stranger looks at you with wonder.]

"Say- say that again, will you?"

"[What, 'who?']"

"No- what was that language?"

[You don't know.]

"[I don't know. Where am I?]"

[The familiar stranger- you're just going to call him the King, it's too similar to be a coincidence. You've never been lucky enough to even consider otherwise. -looks disappointed before lighting up again. His Vaugardian is rough, but understandable.]

"Ah! You're in the Bambouche house of change! Or uhm... The one closest to Bambouche I think... I couldn't really understand them the best."

[The King looks awkward. How could this pathetic whelp end up as the intimidating monster that killed- Blinding- He's speaking]

"They call me castaway, but I prefer Beau, he and him, please. What about you?"

[Oh this is hilarious. The Change god thinks its so blinding funny doesn't it. You're laughing. You're cackling and guffawing and]-

"[Siffrin, they/them, nice to meet you!]"

"Oh, like the savior?"

[What.]

[seaofreverie]

You ever finish a drawing that you really like and then you spend the next three days randomly looking at it for minutes at a time like that could make it possible for you to absorb its alluring and magnetic essence with your eyes

[risingsunresistance]

actually i changed my mind bc the long tags made me excited, here's this. there's actually three admins here, one of them was the lightning

it is EXTREMELY rushed, it's just supposed to be a concept not the actual finished thing. also puts his scale more into perspective, i forgot to include that in the post

[cerealmonster15]

i finally made a folder of my google docs re: twst fics/plannings and looking at the names are so fun bc a lot of them i didnt use the final fic name [if it got published] so sometimes it's just a placeholder [especially if it's just notes/ideas and not a fic] and some dont have a title at all and just auto used the first few words of the doc so i have like

i think only like 5ish of these have their ao3 titles on them / on two separate occasions i named an apple juice fic prompt doc the same thing except for literally just one has an extra ! and they were like 2 months apart......... i even checked bc i thought for some reason the doc duplicated themselves but no, those are just two completely different fics, they just both happened to be Apple Juice Kiss Prompts jvdjfdsljg i didnt do that w/any of the other kiss prompt docs but. whatever i guess!!

it's a fun guessing game on looking at the titles and trying to remember which ones they are. they date back to like 2021 when i moved from word docs to google so i could more easily share them with my friend since i wasnt really publishing anything at first lol.