#the angst potential is Overflowing

[bluejayybird]

SPOILER FOR THE BOOK OF BILL

Okay, so I'm not avidly into gravity falls, but like.

Seeing that Dipper and Mabel only survived the one time, I'm just thinking...

All of the other circumstances, them dying one way or another... Lee, Ford and the others potentially surviving as well, but...

Having to break the news that the youngest twins are gone, one or both... Or if they'd all just been wiped out one day, whether it was during an oddball adventure, or if Bill won during any of their encounters/weirdmageddon...

The guilt, if one of the twins was still left... Thinking they could've done more, that it could've been prevented... The way that guilt would ultimately lead to the other's demise....

Everyone else in shambles, wondering how they could've done more...

Just thinkin--

[darklight-owl]

Writing the first fanfiction I've written in like 6 years. Plvspw what have you done to me.

[actually-safer-to-kiss]

The Drafts

Summary: Spencer confronts Reader about a breakup text he found in her Notes app

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Angst, Comfort?

Content warnings: Manipulation, lying, yelling, anger, ambiguous ending

Word count: 1.5k

You check yourself out in the bathroom mirror. It’s date night, and it’s been long overdue since Spencer’s been called away to four states in the past two weeks. Despite the stress that already comes with that (and the current state of your relationship), the dress he got you makes up for it, and helps you think about how lucky you are in more ways than one. It fits you just right without trapping you in the fabric. Even the fluorescent lights in his bathroom can’t make you look bad. “Spencer!” You call out, zhuzhing your hair again before leaving. No response, but you flick the switch off before saying, “I’m ready whenever you are!”

Still nothing. Not surprising. It’s rare when Spencer isn’t lost in his own mind. You’ve learned not to ask every time this happens because it often leads to theoretical explanations that go over your head within seconds. On rare occasions, he’s discovered a plot hole in one of the older Dr. Who episodes (which also go over your head).

This is a different time though. Because when you turn the corner to the bedroom, Spencer isn't hunched over his desk or scribbling incoherence on his whiteboard (yes, he has a whiteboard in his bedroom and has refused to move it for reasons unexplained). Instead, he’s pacing the small area between the wall and the foot of his bed. He’s hunched over the phone. Your phone.

You try to bite back the instant frustration as his bare feet smack the floor. “Spencer,” you monitor your tone. “Are you ready?”

“You’re breaking up with me?” That is all he asks when he finally stops to look up at you. He’s not exactly emotional, but he’s definitely holding back.

Red hotly spreads across your cheeks. “What?”

He points and his eyebrows rise like he’s found evidence at a crime scene. “Flushed face.”

“Spencer, we’ve talked about —”

“Likely a sign of embarrassment from being exposed.” He turns the phone screen to face you; paragraphs of text and broken sentences from previous editing attempts. Arguably, not your finest work.

Your mouth is agape, and it is hard to fight the instinct to close it upon suspicion of further guilt. You bet he’ll assume surprise. “I thought we talked about you not looking through my phone.”

“Because you didn’t want me to see this?” He gestures back at it as if it’s not obvious. Sadness is already breaking some barriers, starting with his voice, but he’s trying to maintain a smug demeanor. Even in potential agony, Spencer can still get a high from being right.

You grunted. It was involuntary but honest. It came out of your throat like steam, as the anger in your core is already overflowing into the rest of your body. It bursts again when you snatch the phone out of his hands. He doesn’t flinch, damn him. You scroll up and down on the app incoherently, reminding yourself of the words he’s read and memorized. You think of how they’ll haunt you, how he’ll haunt you with them. “I can’t believe you went through my phone again.”

“I can’t believe you’re not even trying to fix this," he says. “I-I understand that things aren’t the most ideal right now, but we could’ve made time to talk about it.”

“What? Like not going through my phone? Look at how that worked out.”

“I know you’ve been acting differently. No kisses goodbye every day, spacing out at dinners with my coworkers, and a slew of other things.”

“Oh, are they written down on yours? I'd love to read them.”

Spencer shakes his head, letting his eidetic memory speak for itself there. “I’m a profiler, Y/N. And I can’t deny facts.”

The grunt before was delicate compared to the noise you make now. What the noise was is unknown, but terrifying. It wipes Spencer's smirk clean off. “Yes! You’re a profiler! I’m reminded of that every single goddamn day because every move I make near you is analyzed under a microscope!” You resist throwing your phone on the bed; partly out of fear of where it will bounce to, and partly Spencer snatching it up again. Instead, you tap the screen, exiting the Notes app and navigating to your texts. You press the latest contact, Garcia. Then you stay there, knowing Spencer will see the screen brightness show slightly on your face. “You didn’t read my texts, did you?”

Spencer doesn’t say anything. Your eyes dart towards him, and you can tell he wonders what cruel piece of evidence he missed.

“Yeah. Cause if you did, you would’ve known I was writing a breakup text for someone else. But you didn’t. So once again, you’ve snooped and gone out of your way to hurt your own feelings for no reason.”

The look on Spencer’s face. No matter how angry you get, how wrong he is, the sullen puppy dog look this man can pull off with his eyes alone is a weapon. It always makes him look pitiful.

And it makes lying to him even more painful.

“Spencer.” You say with a sigh.

“Who’s it for?”

You throw your head back. “Why is that your business?”

Spencer’s interrogation tactics often get in the way of the fact that he’s not facing a criminal, but his girlfriend. His girlfriend whose privacy he violated with no warrant presented to you. But when Spencer is on a case, he fails to differentiate between the two. You’ve practically heard him making mental notes when your behavior is even slightly off. Even when they have nothing to do with him. But he’s always quick to assume they are as he’s either leaving for work or being called away before discussions can occur. Spencer is a profiler, yes, but all profilers can let their emotions get the better of them.

You show Spencer your wrists. Gold bracelets clang together instead of silver cuffs. “What’s the goal here, Dr. Reid?”

He paces the floor again, briefly, before settling on the bed corner. He’s still looking at the floor, thinking, but you can tell his thought process has slowed down thanks to your (alleged) evidence. "Something must be wrong." He whispers. It’s pathetic. “You used to tell me everything.”

“And you used to not look through my things.” You’d hate to admit that you’re shaking too, but not from sadness. You stay standing, and put your phone on the dresser next to you. Face down. You cross your arms. “Things can change. Actions have consequences.”

He exhales briefly through his nose. He looks up, his eyes already shifting to a pinkish hue. “So it’s your turn to lecture me because —”

“Because my boyfriend is profiling off the clock again? Yes. Because he’s interrogating me and questioning my intentions when he’s supposed to be getting ready for date night? A date night he insisted upon because he’s been working overtime and profiling on a jet for the entire month? Yes.”

The anger. The intensity of it all pierced your blood long before. It coiled around your vocal cords while making your point. You had plenty more to say. A slideshow would’ve been worthy of listing Spencer’s actions over the last three months alone. Except the strain is hard, and clearing your throat doesn’t help. So you stand there, looking down at the miserable man you loved once. You pretend the silence is intentional, you let it speak for itself. 

And by some miracle (or perhaps the predicted luck of your dress), it worked. After wiping the budding tears from his eyes, Spencer studies you from curled hair to strappy heels. You know a stray movement will ignite a thousand rebuttals. You preferred dinner, so you maintain your statue-like stillness by raising only your eyebrows.

Spencer swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I should’ve…” He nods while clamping his lips closed. “Yeah, I should have talked to you first. I’m so sorry.”

You exhale. It could be the relief of moving again. Or the fact that you can’t help but comfort the sad man who is still technically your boyfriend. You take his hand and pull him off the bed and allow him to rest his head on your shoulder while holding your waist. His palms are flat on your back as his chest heaves and caves. Your arms are around his neck, and you comfort him with soft hushes. Meanwhile, adrenaline depletion is already beckoning your eyes to close. But you stare at the wall.

You’re so tired. You’ve been tired. Decaying is perhaps the best word for all of this. Nevertheless, you hold Spencer tightly to let him know you’re there. It's all the strength you have. The strength to end things though is of a different caliber than you thought you could fathom. You can collect enough to rip off the world's most difficult bandaid, eventually. But Spencer Reid with a theoretical broken heart is already painful enough to witness. He needs you right now. And right now, you'll be there for him.

Thank you to @imagining-in-the-margins and her discord for helping me with fleshing out this story 🩵

[jungwoos-luvr]

Choi Seungcheol

svt masterlist | masterlist

key: ✰ = smut ✿ = fluff ❥ = angst ◘ = smau

bold = personal fav

series

push it down (sooner or later it all comes out) ✰ ❥ | finished by @/dontflailmenow

game day ✿ ◘ | finished by @/escapewriter (this was the first svt smau ive ever read and i was not disappointed game day was a cultural reset)

manspread, mansplain, manipulate ✰ | finished by @/bluejeanstrash (OMG THIS WAS SO GOOD AFTER I READ IT I THOUGHT AB IT ALL WEEK its like all filth but ykw thats okay with me 😚)

ch-ch-cherry bomb ✰ | finished by @/meltwonu (scroll down for it) (also idk if it was bc it was like 2am when reading this but it was so good it gave a headache and i couldnt sleep idk some rush came over me)

terrifyingly innocent ✿ ❥ ◘ | finished by @/twogyuu

the way back ✿ ❥ ◘ | finished by @/suhnshinehaos

i like you ✿ ❥ ◘ | finished by @/taeyegu

first to fall ✿ ◘ | finished by @/thepixelelf

the secrets of us ◘ | finished by @/jeonjaemark

the kids are going to be alright ◘ | finished by @/wondernus

tales from the pack: stubborn ✰ ✿ | finished by @/gamerwoo

moonlust series: chains ✿ ❥ | finished by @/sunlightwoo

the recordings of you ✿ ❥ ◘ | ongoing by @/juhaknyeonies

yours, but not yours ✰ | ongoing by @/gyukult

oneshots

gryffindor captain ✿ ❥ | wc: 17.1k by @/http-mianhae (i actually love seungcheol so much hes so sweet and screw those girls in that fic!! i was skeptical at first reading it cuz hp au but this is so good)

banana pancakes ✰ ✿ | wc: 12k by @/yoongiseesawmp3 (this is so cute i love this writer mwah mwah ur work is perfection🫶🫶)

in another life ✰ ✿ ❥ | wc: 9.3k by @/httpshannie (i cried at 2am reading this WHY DID HE DO THATAKSJSJEB i cried sent several texts to my friends ab it also i love this writer)

crossing boundaries ✰ ✿ | wc: 8.6k by @/wonusite

potential parent test ✿ | part 1 | part 2 | by @/soundofseventeen

the cake in the back ✰ | wc: 3.8k by @/toruro

suffocating. ✿ ❥ | wc: 3.3k by @/cheolbooluvr (i cried this was so sweet omg sjsjejwhahe i love communication ☹️)

the great war ✰ ✿ | wc: 41k by @/amourcheol

ice cold, cabin fever (ft mingyu) ✰ | part 1 | part 2 | wc: 25.9k by @/smileysuh

get you ✰ ✿ | part 1 | part 2 | wc: 8.9k, 12.2k by @/yoongiseesawmp3

sapiosexual ✰ | wc: 18.6k by @/smileysuh

cupid ✰ | wc: 9.3k by @/yoongiseesawmp3

control ✰ | wc: 8k by @/leejihoonownsmyheart

bite that lip ✰ ✿ | wc: 6.3k by @/beahae

couch comfort ✿ | wc: 6.3k by @/cheolism

in the eye of the beholder ✰ | wc: 6.2k by @/cheolism

down bad (so so bad) ✰ ✿ | wc: 5.7k by @/lovelyhan

lunch visit ✰ | wc: 5.3k by @/mimikookie

cherrycheolie ✰ | wc: 5.2k by @/smileysuh

blood moon ✰ | wc: 5k by @/smileysuh

just friends ✰ | wc: 5k by @/lvscoups

his hoodie ✰ | wc: 4.8k by @/drunk-on-dk

virtue of humility ✿ | wc: 4.8k by @/hannie-dul-set

hits different ❥ | wc: 4.7k by @/gleamingyu

angel (or devil) ✰ | wc: 4.2k by @/amourcheol

contusion confusion ✰ | wc: 4k by @/seungkwansphd

kick in the right direction ✿ | part 1 | part 2 | wc: 3.7k by @/httphannie

reliable ✰ | wc: 3.6k by @/ncteez

exam szn ✰ | wc: 3.3k by @/azamf

remind me ✿ | wc: 2.7k by @/milfgyuu

lusty gallant ✰ | wc: 2.6k by @/onlyseokmins

wedding night ✰ ✿ | wc: 2.3k by @/onlyhuis

big cock: for dummies ✰ | wc: 2.3k by @/ncteez

teach me ✰ | wc: 2.2k by @/raibebe

overflowed ✰ | wc: 2.2k by @/duhnova

keep it quiet ✰ | wc: 2.1k by @/jaemified

brighter days ahead ✿ | wc: 1.7k by @/renaiswriting

frozen cold proposal ✿ | wc: 1.5k by @/cheolism

when he finds out your sick through the internet ✿ | wc: 1.5k by @/wonwoonlight

drabbles

take care ✰ | wc: 0.6k by @/toruro

04:15 AM ✿ | wc: 0.3k by @/fairyhaos

when you miss seungcheol but you’re going on a trip to jeju without him ✿ | by @/wonwoonlight

baby making ✰ | by @/sluttywoozi

you’ve always had cold hands ✿ | by @/savventeen

birthday sex ✰ | by @/idyllic-ghost

pregnancy cravings ✿ | by @/yikesmary

“sorry” ❥ | by @/som1ig

note: i havent fully read all the smaus so idk how angsty or fluffy they are

note: i think u can tell how much i love him here

[conanssummerchild]

some of the most common prickcest fics i feel like are precanon fics of like young rick from when he was still with diane (theres a lot of young ricks, what are we calling him? wife guy?) and he's cheating on her with prime before he even offers him a portal gun, and i believe ive also seen a few people analysing this scenario, like what if rick actually did know prime before that meeting we see in the show, so i want to add to that by saying that what if that actually happened and yknow how rick reveals to beth in bethic twinstinct that he's also been with other versions of himself, what if beth and space beth reminded him of him and prime and how he was cheating on diane and then he lost her forever at the hands of the man he was having an affair with (at his own hands) :3 and also lost his beth

which is why rick said "remember, its not just your ice cream you're forgetting, it's your family's" or smth. because he forgot his familys ice cream too much, and then he lost them (not that im saying he thinks space beth would do that but also, we dont know.)

space beth and prime are shown as kind of the edgier versions of beth and rick, prime and space beth even have similar sci-fi-ish outfits maroon-ish undershirt, diagonal hanging belt thing, streak in hair, dark leggings/trousers with some kind of leg cuff or something?

ok yeah, thats it really, im only saying this bcs i feel like it could have great angst potential for like rick remembering how he did the same and it went so much worse. maybe even showing another step that pushed him back into his rick prime relapse

(the first being of course solaricks, where he revisits his original dimension, stuck in the day he lost diane and beth, and then comes close to getting prime in that base thing place, then in bethic twinstinct he maybe sees everything i've just said in this post and he feels it pushing him deeper into going back to it, all the bad memories of when he and prime did the same as beth², wanting to avenge diane yk, that stuff, and then in analyse piss we already knew he sympathised with pissmaster because he related to him, he saw himself in him and stuff, well what if that also pushed him into isolation, bcs the worse he felt the more he was willing to destroy himself again, and then ofc in a rick in king morturs mort, when he thinks morty doesnt care abt him its like the final drop that overflows the cup (is that an expression in english? who cares, you get what i mean) like what if its a gradual build up)

anyway this post is getting away from me, but yeah um idk, rick has a lot of trauma is the point. he blames himself for dianes death we already know that but what if in part its bcs he was screwing prime. make that old man suffer :3

[curiositydooropened]

Ranged • 01: Firetower

You and Steve have been sent on a missing person's case, a park ranger in the Cascades went missing from his post after reporting a large area of downed trees. Could be something up your alley.

Pairing: special agent!Steve Harrington x special agent!Reader

Wordcount: 5742

Warnings: very slowburn, this fic is episodic, coworkers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, canon-typical gore, weapons, fighting, murder, viruses, decay, monsters *This chapter contains mentions of animal harm, blood, vomit/nausea, potential character death, and whump/bad injuries - also hey, I'm not a doctor and this fic is free, so my inaccuracies might bug you. xo

This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!

Navigation • Fic Masterlist

---

Moodboard • 00: Prologue • 02: Home [Coming Soon]

Fire Lookout Tower 647 - Cascades

Fog blanketed the forest floor and just beyond, it coated the tops of trees, covering pine needles in vast, rolling smoke. Everything lacked saturation up here, everything but verdant moss and fern and branch, a sea of grey and green, damp and deep. The sunlight filtered in way far off, to the West, but everything out of its reach had begun to groan under the steady pelt of plummeting rain.

Rain pittered and pat against the tin roof and into the quickly filling bucket in the corner. Its splash zone had been haphazardly mopped with a shaggy old towel. 

You watched the landscape shift beyond the clouds, wrapped in wool socks and a flannel blanket while your partner took his turn retrieving fire wood from its drying spot beneath the tower.

His presence was announced by the groaning of stairs and the creaking of a rusted spring on the door. 

Steve had only smiled a handful of times since you met him, a painful stretch of soft features, the wrinkle never leaving his brow. To be fair, your job rarely warranted more than a polite grimace to townsfolk whose crops you’d left ablaze, whose family members you’d left on a slab.

Today was no different.

“This place is a shit hole,” he grumbled, rolling cut wood from his arms onto the ground in front of the stove. 

You hummed, knowing better than to argue something so trivial before he had his dinner.

He hunched to stoke the fire, now mere ashes and embers that glowed red in the little iron stove. He was soaked to the bone, dark hair clinging to his forehead and around his ears. He’d have to cut it again before your next return to Base. 

His hands were bright red, nipped cold and hard-worked, and you rolled your eyes at the pair of gloves he’d left on the rickety card table near the door. 

“Fucking rain,” he muttered, shoving kindling in hopes for it to catch.

With a sigh, you pushed yourself upright and reached for your own rain slicker on its hook. A puddle had formed and seeped through the floorboards, creating a patch of darkened wood that ringed with all puddles that had come before. “I’m going to get water to boil.” 

“Be careful.” 

The spring creaked. Rain gushed from dips in the roof and splashed loudly against rocks on the hillside. 

You glanced back at Steve. He was hunched in front of a started fire, worry etched between his brows. 

He shrugged. “I slipped at the bottom of the stairs.” He gestured to the mud that streaked his left pant-leg. “Be careful.”

You nodded and stepped out into the deluge.

The window coverings provided a good roof for the porch, save a few leaks here and there, and you clung to the side of the building as your guard rail to round it. You’d put empty buckets on the south end. All five of them had all overflowed. 

You picked the lightest one. You’d managed to haul it back across slippery planks, dozens of feet in the air, to the door before your right foot slipped out from under you. With a yelp, and the sting of bitter cold against your ass cheeks, you fell. The building teetered under your shifted weight, and you clung to the railing with pinched breath.

The spring creaked. Steve stood at the door with lumbered shoulders and that same frown, looking down a freckled nose at you. He picked up the bucket with one hand and held his other for you to take. “I said, ‘be careful’.” 

While the water boiled and Steve grumbled about canned meatballs, you stripped out of wet jeans and remained in damp Long Johns, removing your socks and hat and gloves to hang near the fire. 

The sun had already dipped far to the west, catching on split clouds in purples and oranges before it was swallowed up again by the grey. 

“You get the radio working?” Steve sighed, adverse to the quiet. 

You shook your head and stirred tomato paste around in the pot. After many meals with Steve, you were sure he grew up in the kind of household that only ate their meals on trays in front of the television. He could never really sit and appreciate the stillness. “Go ahead and tinker with it. Is there a game tonight?” 

“There was,” he deployed a long antenna and fidgeted with a few dials. Static buzzed from the plastic between his hands. “Might be too late. What time zone are we in?” 

“Pacific,” you explained. “Two hours behind.” 

You felt lighter after food. Warmth settled over your chest and shoulders, and you huddled further into your blanket. 

Steve’s hair dried a little, and you managed to coax him into taking one of your spare hats. The stitches stretched over the circumference. With a sigh, you slowly ripped out the project you’d been knitting and cast more stitches onto your needle. 

The radio hadn’t worked, too far out of reach to hear the score, and it had been discarded. Instead, Steve hummed, and the fire crackled, and your needles clacked against one another. The rain had died down, too.

“Think we’ll find him?” He asked, picking at the frayed stitching on the baseball he’d been tossing around.

Your target was the missing tower keeper, a man named Les Joplin who hadn’t reported in a few days after he’d gone in search of what he had described to dispatch as a rotten cropping of trees in the east acreage. 

You glanced back up at Steve, never knowing if he wanted you to answer honestly or not. Your fingers kept pace. Knit, purl, knit, purl. “Hope so.”

“My grandmother used to knit.” He nodded to the project slowly making way in your hands. 

You hummed. You’d heard this story before. A few months back, you began to notice a pattern to the information Steve had given you about his former life, only snapshots, hand-picked. You wondered if he had been trained this way, or if he still didn’t trust you.

The repeated stories didn’t stop you from prying for more.

“What’d you call you grandmother?” You asked.

“What do you mean?” He frowned back at you.

“You know, ‘grandma’, ‘granny’, ‘nana’?”

He snorted, rolled his eyes, tossed the ball a few times. “Grandmother.” 

You cocked a brow. “Grandmother? What, like the Queen?” 

There it was, the softest uptick of the corner of his lips, a flash of amusement in his eyes as he rolled them. “Exactly like the Queen. I was lucky if I got to address her as anything other than ‘ma’am’.” 

Another peak behind the curtain. You snickered and pressed on. “Mom or Dad’s mom?” 

“Uh…” He frowned again, mulling something over. “Mom’s. My dad’s parents were old as shit, died before I was born.” Another insight. 

“How’d they meet, your parents?” 

“Huh?” He blinked back at you, brow in a proper frown now. “I don’t know.” 

You’d lost him. You’d pressed too hard. With a sigh, you turned back to your knitting. Knit, purl. Knit, purl. 

He shook his head, and his sleeping bag shuffled as he stood and stretched. He set the baseball back on the little table, and it rolled until it met the pot of leftover spaghetti sauce. “Listen, I’m gonna take a leak, and we should probably think about getting some sleep. Early morning tomorrow.” 

You nodded, tucked your knitting back into your bag. “I’ll wash the dishes.” 

“Thank you.” He said, and he exited the little hut. The stairs creaked his whole way down. 

“Robin? No. No, Robin, no.” 

You awoke to Steve’s muffled cries. His sleeping bag shifted around a twitching body.

This wasn’t the first nightmare, and you knew it wouldn’t be the last. You didn’t know who Robin was, and the fear in his voice dimmed your hope that she’d lived.

You swallowed to clear the sleep from your vocal cords before speaking his name into the darkness. It took several tries, a full shout, to snap him out of whatever version of Hell his subconscious had pulled him in, and when he did rouse, it was with force.

He shot from his pillow, gripping the hilt of a knife stashed under it, and glanced around the room. “What is it? What’s wrong?” 

You sighed, tucked your face into your pillow, and murmured. “I’m cold.” 

“What?” He peered at you. 

It wasn’t a lie. The fire had gone out, and your toes had numbed slightly, and you’d argued with him when he agreed to the floor, so you were sure he was cold too. Maybe that had caused the nightmare. “I’m cold. Will you just get over here, please?”

You heard his groan, and a shuffle of sleeping bag as he pulled himself upright. His back and shoulders were silhouetted, broad and hunched. He wound his sleeping bag up between his fists, joints cracking as he made his way over to your cot. 

“Is there room?”

You shifted impossibly closer to the wall and hugged your sleeping bag to you to expose just how much room was left on the little cot. Not much, if you were being honest, but you were cold, and you had hoped your presence beside him might calm the terrors that plagued him.

He spread his blanket out beside you before asking if you needed a sip of water. 

You shook your head, but watched as he ambled across the room to the rickety card table for a swig from the canteen. 

The rain had stopped, but fog blanketed the windows on all sides. The sloshing of the water in his bottle sent a shiver through you.

“Alright, I’m coming,” he grumbled, and returned to slide himself into bed beside you. 

His arm came up first, once he’d settled, and you stiffened under his hold.

“What’re you doing?” You rubbed at tired eyes, trying to catch any glimpse of the curve of his nose.

“Warming you up, don’t make it weird.” He looped you in, scooping your sleeping bag up between the two of you. His other arm reached around your middle and pulled you close.

You weren’t surprised at his strength. He’d offered you a helping hand with more than one injury in the field. You’d seen him pull women and children from burning buildings. That one time he hauled a sheepdog from the river, both man and beast soaking wet and panting, dog tossed around his broad shoulders. 

“Better?” His gruff voice fanned your forehead, deliciously warm. 

You hummed, reaching aching cold hands out to warm against his chest. 

He hissed under your touch and wrapped your fingers up in his own. “Didn’t I tell you to sleep next to the fire?” He scolded.

“No,” you hummed, letting your eyes grow heavy again. “You told me to take the cot.”��

He grumbled something incoherent and adjusted on the tiny pad beside you. You knew he’d complain about a crick in his neck in the morning. 

“Night, Steve,” you mumbled. 

His nose tipped itself against your temple, and he sighed. “Get some sleep.” 

He slept after that. 

—

The rain made rivulets of mud and Earth. Where trails once climbed the mountainside, rocks and boulders now fell, surging into teeming river beds. 

Your boots squelched beneath you, each step a slip away from disaster. 

Steve stood a few yards ahead, more surefooted. He whipped at overgrowth with the business end of a machete. “Joplin!” He cried out, startling a few birds from their perches.

You glanced around, hand around the gun strapped to your thigh, just in case. If Joplin was eaten by a bear out here, or worse, you had to have confidence in protecting yourselves. “Les!”

Steve called your name. He stood with his machete extended, scrubbing at his tired eyes with the palm of his other hand. 

Just beyond him, the forest had been blighted. Root to crown, these massive conifers were decimated. A widow maker forest, limbs fell at odd angles, having melted from the trunk. Green grass and fern and vine turned to black ash. 

You cursed under your breath and took careful steps to meet your partner to ensure the ground didn’t swallow you whole. When you reached him, the rancid stench stung in your nostrils, watered your eyes. “Well, guess he wasn’t kidding.” 

You glanced back up to the fire tower, now a mere speck on the horizon. 

Steve’s jaw clenched. He nodded. “I’m gonna look for holes. Call it in, will you?” 

With a sigh, you stripped the heavy pack from your back. Your shoulders ached in relief. “Be careful.” You warned, and watched as he took off at a slower pace into the patch of rot. 

You kept an eye on him as you dialed, service spotty, but you were quickly patched through to dispatch. “Yeah, hi.” You offered up your badge number, called in reinforcements for a controlled burn. 

“How big is the affected area?” The woman on the other lined cracked her gum between her molars. 

You glanced around at the rot. This was small, relatively fresh. A chill rolled down your spine. You looked from Steve to the blanket of mist rolling downhill from the clouds. “About ten acres.”

“Alright, hon, we’ll get someone out there in the next day or so. Are you in need of emergency evac?” 

“No, we’re good to hang out until the crew gets here. Thank you.” She hung up first, and you pushed the antenna back into the device. Before you could shove it back into your bag, however, you heard a cry, a moan, really, in the distance, carried on the wind, prickling the hairs at the base of your neck.

“Steve?” You called out, standing up straight to survey the area. 

You heard it again, to your left.

You swung around. Steve was gone. You were alone.

You took off on a run to where you’d last seen him, careful not to trip over any loose roots, trying not to bump any more precariously hung branches from their roosts hundreds of feet in the air. You called for your partner, still clutching the piece at your side in one hand, the satellite phone in the other. 

The noise was louder now, a grunt and a groan, two noises, two distinct voices. 

You stopped, surveyed your surroundings, posted up on the good side of a half-rotted stump. 

“Can you walk?” Steve’s voice hissed from nearby. 

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest. You swung around, gun out, pointed toward the sound. 

“I broke it,” another voice, unfamiliar, croaked. They were beneath you. 

Rounding the stump, you found a hollowed out bit of ground wherein your partner was hacking away at the vines curled around the leg of an emaciated older man. This man was coated in mud and slime, curled hair sticking to his head. You sighed in relief and holstered your weapon. 

“Les Joplin?” You asked, taking a few steps to the edge of the hole. 

Both men jumped. Steve frowned back up at you before hacking away at another root. 

Les gulped, nodded. Shit, you’d left your pack at the edge of the rot. 

“Think you can limp it back to more solid ground? I’m going to call for an airlift.” You uncurled your knuckles from around the phone to dispatch the antenna and dial the number again. 

Les winced, teeth grit, sweat streaking the mud on his forehead.

You pulled your partner’s gaze. His jaw ticked. He pushed hair from his eyes with the back of his hand. He nodded, threw the man’s arm over broad shoulders. “Alright, count of three?” 

—

The rain came back as the air lift set down. Propellers pummeled large drops at you, sideways rain that stuck your clothes to your skin and cut off your breath.

You squeezed Les’s wrist as they strapped him to the gurney. His teeth chattered, face gray beneath a shiny mylar blanket. The ventilator obscured everything but his eyes, tired, frantic. 

Steve spoke to the team. He was shouting, but you couldn’t hear his voice over the wind and the slap of rain. 

Your hair stuck to the corners of your mouth.

Steve backed up to your front, shielding you behind his slim frame. He lifted a hand to wave as the helicopter ascended, clouds bending and melting beneath it. 

When it was a high enough altitude, Steve linked a large hand around your wrist and tugged you upwards, through wind-whipped grass and mud, toward the lonesome fire tower. 

The stairs were just as slick as the grass, and Steve kept a firm grip at your waist. To hold you upright or himself, you weren’t sure, but you felt anchored nonetheless.

When you finally summited, the world around you coated in a thick, grey cloud, you began to strip the soaked clothes from your body. Steve began to lodge firewood from the corner of the room into the little stove. 

“We have to go back out there,” he grunted, lighting a match to kindling before tossing it in. 

You groaned, unsticking your long-sleeve shirt from your back to wheel it over your head. “After lunch.” You pled.

You tried to stand your ground and not cower as Steve’s gaze swept your frame. He licked at pink lips, hair stuck to his face, his own clothes three shades darker than they were when you’d left the tower that morning. 

“After lunch.” He conceded, unbuttoning his shirt. You watched his back muscles shift beneath the outline of a white tank top, the moles placed hither and thither. 

You slipped a dry t-shirt over your head and began boiling water in a pot.

Steve’s knees were pulled to his chest, toes wiggling in dry socks. 

You finished first, famished from your earlier excursion, and continued your knitting. The rhythmic clack of needles a metronome to the rain against the tin roof and pouring from spouts, the crackle of the fire, the steady in-take-out-take of your breath. 

Steve eyed you warily, cheeks puffed around a meatball. He chewed, swallowed, and gestured with a fork toward the project in your lap. “What’re you making?” 

“A hat,” you pinched your smile.

He reached between you to wrap thick fingers around the ball of yarn like a baseball. He pressed the fiber for a moment before nodding, licking something from between his molars. “I really like that color.” 

You agreed. The burgundy would bring out the warmth of his eyes, the flush of his cheeks when he bickered with you.

“It felt good right? Helping Joplin.” 

His words startled you, stitch slipping off the needle before you could catch it. 

You blinked back at him, watched the worry etched between his brows, wondered what he could possibly be thinking, and you forced a bright smile. “Yeah, Steve, it felt great. That’s what this is all about, right? Saving people.” 

He nodded, shrugged, tongued at his molars. 

You can’t save everyone.

You picked your stitch back up and carried on. A few phrases turned in your mind, questions you’d posed to yourself before you dared ask him. ‘Doesn’t every save feel good?’ ‘Do you think Les’s leg’ll be okay?’ ‘Who couldn’t you save?’

You glanced to the spot on the floor where he had been tossing and turning the night before. ‘Who’s Robin?’ You couldn’t. You knew he’d throw himself into one of those broody nightmares, and you had a job to do. 

“So,” you bundled your knitting and stuffed it back into the bag you brought it in, “what’re we thinking? Demodog? Demogorgon? Grizzly?”

“Yeah, you wish it’s a Grizzly.” Steve snorted, making to wash the dishes. 

You did wish it was a Grizzly. At least you could shoot a Grizzly, watch it fall with a groan and lie peaceful against hard ground. Demodogs meant tunnel dwellers, a pack. Demogorgon meant portals. 

“Hey, before we head out there, can I ask you something?” He stood with his hands full of items to be washed, hair finally drying into wisps of curls near his ears. 

“Shoot,” you pulled yourself to a stand, rolled your stiff shoulders, got a little closer to the stove to warm your hands.

“Do I talk in my sleep?” 

You had half a second to make your decision, and “No” came out faster than that. You weren’t sure why you lied, maybe it was the same reason you hadn’t asked him about the name he’d been crying out for. You had a job to do, and you couldn’t afford a sulking partner ten steps ahead. 

His scowl proved he was weighing you up, trying to call your bluff. Apparently he convinced, he shrugged, and said, “Oh, well, you do.” Then he opened the creaky door and let himself outside to do the washing up.

—

The rain continued as you hunted. You slipped twice, twisting an ankle on a bunch of rocks hidden behind tall grass, but you’d had worse, so you persisted until the internal ache wore off and the external ache from the cold had you gritting your teeth. 

“I fucking hate this place.” Steve dropped another meatball into the grass beside you. “It reminds me of that…” He glanced around, in the air, searching for phantom airborne monsters.

You hadn’t gone into the other dimension, not for long enough to really get a feel for it, not like Steve. You knew it was cold and damp and miserable though, and these mountains were starting to feel just as desolate, just as grey. 

You came to the rot again, stench heavier under the blanket of ozone. 

Steve pressed his lips into a whistle, low and slow, coaxing whatever may be lurking. 

Your finger found the trigger at your hip. Bullets didn’t kill an inter dimensional creature, but it’d sure as Hell slow it down.  

Without a response to his call, you carried on, following him and his endless trail of meatballs past the stump in which you’d found Les Joplin. Steve poked his head inside, but vines had already begun to seam it up, devouring the flesh of the tree that rot there. 

“Do you remember what direction he said he saw it?” You asked, back to Steve as you surveyed the area. It could be anywhere, whatever it is. It was probably watching you now, smelling you, sensing you. 

“Let’s head East,” Steve signaled.

You doubled back and headed toward a particularly treacherous outcropping along the hillside. Boulders carved rivulets in the landscape, water gushing over rock and stone in glorious splendor.

Your big toes were beginning to ache from the cold, and the sound of rain and wind and now waterfalls was hurting your ears. With a huff, you seated yourself on a soaked rock and pulled your pack from your back to salvage a chocolate bar. 

“What’re you doing?” Steve snapped. He’d already trudged a good distance from you, and must have stopped when he didn’t hear the patter of your feet behind him. 

“Maybe it was a deer,” you offered, ripping back the mylar packaging and indulging in one semi-sweet bite. It didn’t melt instantly, your teeth and jaw too cold to warm it.

“It wasn’t a deer.” That permanent crease in Steve’s forehead stuck out under a curl of wet hair. 

“Come have a bite.” Your teeth chattered, hand extended. The chocolate was instantly pelted with rain.

Steve sighed and took a step toward you, and then promptly disappeared.

—

The cavern was deep, about ten feet high and thirty feet wide, a whole expanse of the forest that had just sunk in on itself. It looked like the vines hadn’t quite worked their way here, but the blight and the rain had washed away bits of the mountainside. The outcropping fell into the land and Steve had fallen into the rocks.

“Don’t come any closer!” He shouted, teeth grit in pain. He adjusted his leg, and you saw the blood spill from his knee cap to discolor his pant legs. 

“I’m going to radio for help. How bad is it? Do you need to tourniquet it?”

“No , it’s just a scrape.” He lied through his teeth. “I can’t see how far this goes, so go slow, and be careful.” 

With a nod, you made for your pack, muttering under your breath about your bossy partner, always getting himself into trouble. Then the breath was swept out of you as you free-fell into the cavern, too. 

Your ankles rolled, the one from earlier crying out from added injury, and you jaw slammed closed on a portion of your tongue when you hit the cavern floor. It was softer than you expected, wet mud and dirt breaking most of your fall. 

Your name echoed with the pounding of your heart as you regulated and pull yourself to a stand, brushing mud from your hands to your thighs. Water rushed into the cavern from above. Not enough to cause concern, but you stared up at the hole in the sky with a grimace. 

Steve called your name again, and you turned to face him. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, eyes wide with worry. 

You shrugged, nodded. “My ankle hurts.” 

“Is it broken?” 

You assessed the injury, tried to roll it back into place. A sharp, shooting pain spilled up your spinal column. You nodded. “Probably.” 

“I told you to be careful.” Steve scoffed from his lean against the far wall. He’d made no effort to rescue you.

“Is your leg broken?” You mapped your way to him, a slow and steady course through rocky terrain. Each step limped, you gripped the roots tied into the walls beside you. 

“No,” Steve shook his head. “Just a bad cut.” His large hand shook, pressed to a gash that was dying the rainwater red. 

“Well,” you sighed, “if the meatballs weren’t good enough…”

“Shut up,” he shifted in place, hand outstretched to help you over the last huge boulder. “Careful, sharp bit there.” He nodded to a likely culprit, a jagged bit of rock that stuck up at an odd angle. An odd substance pooled near the bottom, and you tried not to wretch when you realized it was likely the fat from Steve’s thigh. 

“We need to get you off your feet.” You instructed, carrying his weight to help him find a good bit of stone that was flat enough, but not too slippery for him to rest. It proved to be quite the undertaking. 

“It stopped raining,” he mused when he’d settled, the two of you wedged into a pit of mud that looked out of the gaping mouth onto grey skies. 

He was right. You hadn’t noticed it beneath the swell of water surging downhill, and the patter that continued on the other edge of the cave, but the rain had stopped, or at least slowed.

“Did you play baseball in high school?” You asked, picking through the rubble for a hefty enough sized rock. 

“Why?” Steve asked, perturbed by your questioning, but you noticed, for once, he didn’t have the energy to argue. 

You could imagine him playing baseball, chewing sunflower seeds in the dug out, hiking around the bases in those tight little white pants. You smiled and tossed him the rock. 

He caught it one-handed, clearly annoyed you’d thrown it in the first place. 

You pointed to the spot you fell. “Throw it really hard. My pack’s up there. Might knock it into the hole.” 

“Your pack-!?” Steve closed his eyes, took a few calming breaths. Then he shot you a look before hocking the rock as far as he could throw. It was very impressive. 

You both waited with bated breath, but the impact created no further damaged, and you slumped into one another, asses wet and legs throbbing. “I have my flare,” you explained, patting the inside pocket of your jacket. You always kept one, and a lighter, filled, just in case.

Steve sighed. “Me too.” He was just loopy enough to flash you a tired smile. 

“Alright, big boy,” you shook at his bicep to keep him alert and shrugged out of your jacket to remove your sweater. The air was warmer down her, and damp. Your breath fogged. “You’re going to have to stay awake until morning. So it’s time to tell me a story.”

Steve winced with each adjustment as you wrapped your sweater around his leg to aid with pressure. His hands still trembled, flesh of his palms bloodied, and you elevated his leg a little higher, pushing him into the mud at his back. 

“What kind of story?” He asked, teeth chattering. 

You hunched beside him and took both of his bloody hands into your own. The whole place smelled of Earth and iron. “Tell me about Indiana.”

He groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Come on. What position were you on the baseball team?” 

He grit his teeth and shook his head. “I didn’t play baseball. Track and field.”

You smiled and unzipped his coat to let yourself in, arms wrapped around his trembling frame. You pressed your face to his throat, nestled under the crook of his jaw where stubble had begun to poke and scratch. “Alright, tell me about that then. Did your high school sweetheart cheer you on from the stands? Steve, Steve, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, no one can!” You actually managed to rah a chuckle out of him.

He winced again, his chin bouncing into your head. “She wasn’t a cheerleader. She was on the school paper.” 

You changed your tone, put on a Trans-Atlantic accent. “Aaaaand they’re off. Steve Harrington takes the lead. Have you ever seen anything quicker on its feet? A horse, maybe.”

He snorted, swung his arm around you. “Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?”

“You have,” you nodded. “A number of times. Kind of rude, actually. I’m always saving your ass.” 

He chuckled and mumbled an apology into your hair. 

“What else can you tell me about Indiana?” Your own exhaustion had begun to creep around the corners of your mind, hearing the dull thud of Steve’s heartbeat match the ache in your ankle and shin and thigh. 

When he didn’t respond, you prodded at his chest. “Steve.”

He shushed you, gripping your arm a little tighter. 

You were suddenly very alert. You could hear birdsong just over the ripple and rush of water over the rocks. You heard it too, the distinct clicking growl of a flower-faced beast. 

“Can you move?” Steve muttered into your hair, barely a whisper.

You nodded, swallowed, reached for the flare at your side.

“My knife,” he said. “Can you see it?” He nodded to where you’d found him.

You shifted in his arms, hoping the beast couldn’t hear the grunt he emitted between clenched molars. There, where rubble met a river of mud, you saw the glint of his knife. 

With a deep breath and a strain of every muscle in your body, you hoisted yourself onto your good leg and began your precarious hobble to your weapon. The rocks twisted under your feet, and the pain churned your stomach. 

“Easy,” Steve guided, his breath shallow. “You’ve got this.” 

You managed to dip yourself low enough, balanced on one leg, to wrap your fingers around the hilt and lift it from the rubble. You caught yourself on the wall and released a breath you’d been holding. 

The knife was a bit muddy, but mostly fine. It glinted in the diminishing sunlight, flashing the walls a pale pink red before your heard the call again. A rattled click preceded the visage that peered over the cavern mouth. 

The dog’s face opened, all teeth and fleshy flower petals, and before Steve had a chance to instruct you, the thing was on you, and you were elbow-deep in Demodog. It’s teeth scraped and tore at the nylon of your parka and one final dying breath rattled from its small frame before it squelched off of your blade and to the ground.

“It’s not alone.” Steve warned from his spot on the floor.

You nodded, grit your teeth, and readied your stance for another. 

—

Three demodogs died at your hands and burned. The acrid sting of burning flesh kept you awake, your body rejoicing at the warmth.

You managed to keep Steve awake, although his skin had paled and his eyelids drooped. 

The smoke alerted the helicopter before your flare did. 

Oxygen mask over your face, you linked your fingertips into Steve’s and offered him a smile. He was already asleep by the time you rose, higher and higher above cloud coverage and rain. You slipped up and away from the fire tower. Up and away from verdant hills and from rot and decay. 

Steve’s grasp was loose in your hand, and you wondered what he dreamt about now. You hoped it was peaceful. 

You finished his hat beside his hospital bed while you watched the latest game. Someone ran a home run. Steve cheered. You looped the last few stitches together and weaved in your ends. 

“This is for you,” you tossed it onto his lap. The burgundy was stark against white sheets. 

Steve frowned back at you, fingers toying with the fabric. “For me?” 

You nodded. “You needed a wool hat. Just put it on and be grateful.” 

He did as instructed, smile refusing to play on handsome features. He cocked an eyebrow to get your input. It was exactly as you’d hoped, a sweet contrast that a brought out the honeyed brown of his eyes, the flush of his cheeks. 

You bit back a smile, rolled your eyes. “Maybe you’re right. Your ego doesn’t need this boost. Give it back.” 

He smiled at that, a ruefully shy thing that had your heart pitter-pattering like rain on a tin roof. “No. It’s mine.” 

“Steve,” you let your question linger on your tongue for a moment, wondering if you ought to ask it, if you ought to push. 

He hummed, attention drawn back to the television. 

You swallowed, let the question die. Maybe another day, you’d find out who Robin was, what happened to them. 

“Yeah?” He glanced back at you, brown eyes wide with concern. 

You smiled. “What did I say in my sleep?” 

Once again, the corners of pink lips turned up, and he shook his head. “I’ll never tell.” 

---

Moodboard • 00: Prologue • 02: Home [Coming Soon]

[shalfea]

Heinrix received an inquisitorial rosette after Farriya killed Calcazar, but she couldn’t let the man return to his duty unmarried :D

Knight was a wedding gift from Jae, and Farriya insisted that Heinrix take the gyrinx—her husband’s loneliness worried her far more than her own.

My head is overflowing with ideas for this ending... God-Emperor preserve me. The power couple of the Koronus Expanse (and so much potential for angst)

[yourlocalgrass]

I’m bored and thought of another scenario to put in tension and angst for obey me characters to go through. I like this one by the way.

_______________________________

Sorcerers’ society find out the causes of earthquakes happening faster than usual was MC due to their magic potential (MC being the cause of all the natural ‘phenomenon’ in S2) and now want to investigate MC and call them in.

Drama has already started baby.

Solomon who’s against this but goes with MC to make sure they’re ok because it’s not a good idea to ignore a seemingly threat invitation I mean.

It’s explained the Ring of light was used to console MC’s magic and everything is fine now but they’re doubting it and want to investigate the Ring of light for themselves, if it’s actually successfuly tamed their magic or just a temporary device to tone it down- simply meaning if MC’s overflow of magic would still be leaking and not fully restrained.

[Also add overprotective Solomon drama who’s against this because that’s hot and more dramatic]

It’s found out the ring of light isn’t powerful enough to completely prevent MC’s magic from overflowing and now…

The sorcerers’ society have deemed MC a threat. A large threat to the human world.

Who would be better off dead. No. SHOULD be dead.

_______________________________

「If only the story actually did have good drama like this~

Anyways I’m just describing the scenario since I can’t write at all lol if I had enough confidence I probs would haha」

[vivalabunbun]

Simple Wishes

Summary: He never understood humans, and by extension, he never understood you. Perhaps if he had only placed more effort into studying you as he did with the search for greater knowledge, tragedy could have been avoided. But would you still allow him to hold your hand?

Word Count: 3k 

Tags: alhaitham x gn reader, deshret x gn reader, jinni!reader, past lifes, reincarnation au, angst, character death, modern au, some spoliers of genshin lore 3.2 onwards, sfw, tragedy, fluff, daughter nahida

Authors Note: This is based on the theory that alhaitham is in some way connected to king deshret, either as a reincarnation or a descendant. The reader is a jinni that understands and feels human emotions, a mirror for gods to reflect upon and cultivate more wisdom from a human prospective. Enjoy!

Upon a golden throne, imposing and all-knowing sat King Deshret. King of warriors, horticulturists, and sages. The proud and all-mighty king of the red sands. On his left, stood a Jinni, quiet and patiently waiting upon the great king and its mistress, the goddess of flowers to return from her visit to a grand friend.

The Jinn followed their mother goddess everywhere, in a trance of maddening loyalty and love. Yet here you were, far from the side of your goddess, but loyally attending to the curiosity of the great king. 

Followers of the Scarlet King might be appalled by the notion that their great king, the embodiment of wisdom, would hold questions he needed another’s answers to. However, these followers never considered the simple truth. 

King Deshret did not understand humans. After all, how can gods and humans truly understand each other on the same level when biologically the two were on two completely different plains? 

“My dear friend, how can we have dominion over creatures whom we cannot understand? Do you find that wise?” 

He remembers those words the goddess of flowers had raised him upon a peaceful afternoon. Deshret knew she was right, humans were weak compared to gods, but because they were weak they became complex. It was that unknown difference between god and humans that bred the potential for disharmony.

He supposed that was the reason your creation caused quite the commotion among the three friends and Jinn.

For upon your birth from the nilotpala lotuses at the feet of your mistress, you wept. Your fresh eyes overflowing with tears from the moment they opened, stunning the Jinn and the goddess of flowers. You, who was born with the body of an adult, wept like a human newborn who cried from the violent impact of emotions that welcomed them into the world.

Upon this revelation, your mistress knelt down to cup your face in her hands, eyes wide with astonishment and jaw slacked. 

“You… you can feel human emotions…” Her warm fingers brushed the tears off your soft cheeks. 

From that moment onwards you served a crucial role to the three lords of the alliance kingdoms, you were their mirror to the human heart. When the gods found themselves stumped upon a human concept, you were there to explain. Hate, love, grief, you told them everything the human heart held, reflecting your felt wisdom upon them.

However, of the three gods, it was King Deshret who had the least understanding of the human heart. Perhaps that was why the goddess of flowers had stationed you to the left of the king. To answer his inquiries about those weak complex creatures. 

Gazing upon the hologram manifested in front of him, Deshret watched the day-to-day bustle of the humans in his kingdom. While the king did not understand humans, he understood that they were his responsibility to look after, protect, and care for.

He watched as a laborer, skin tanned from moving heavy bricks in the unforgiving sun, rushed towards the figure of a woman with calloused hands, from weaving cloth all day, which held a basket of fruits and bread. The exhaustion disappeared from the man’s face as he greeted the woman, her face turning tender in return as she gestured to the basket.

A smile broke through the hardened face of the large man upon seeing the basket, he reached for her hand and she intertwined his fingers with hers as they walked together as one.

A crease appeared between the brows of the king, as he gestured with a flick of his wrist for you to approach closer. 

“Tell me Jinni, what troubles are plaguing my kingdom so much that a man is moved to joy over the simple sight of bread and fruit? Have the harvest this year been lacking? Have there been less gold for the common people?” He inquired. 

You turned your eyes away from the hologram and towards your lord. 

“No, they were simply happy to see each other, my lord.” 

The lazy glance Deshret cast your way told you that he still did not understand, so you continued.

“The man was overjoyed to see that the woman he loves had remembered which fruits and breads he favored, and she was happy that she made him happy.”

“That was all? That simple?” His teal eyes questioning. 

“Yes, it is the small actions that mean the most.” You offered him a reassuring smile. 

Your answer only sought to confuse him further, this was why Deshret believed he could never understand humans. How could mere mortals experience more joy from being gifted a piece of bread, than he had from having miles of silk, baskets of gold, and fertile lands placed at the feet of his grand throne? 

As the king walked along the paved paths in his palace gardens, four guards by his side in each cardinal direction, and you behind and to the left of him. His grand strides brought about an air of power and confidence as the linen flowed about his figure.

The marching of the guards and their golden armor contrasted by the jingle of bells that hung from your ankles filled the void of silence. Then along the path almost hidden by the tall flowers, sat a young boy, who had not reached the age to develop words, babbling to himself as he waved a stick in his chubby hands. Suddenly the child halted all movement, seemingly staring at nothing in particular, it was as if he had turned to stone.

Deshret paused his movement, and in sync the king’s entourage halted in their positions. He wanted to see just what would happen next with this child. It was faint at first, a shaky breath then a low whimpered followed until at last the child opened his mouth and let out a great wail. The child’s plump cheeks were wet as they began to get flushed with a hue of red, the cries his small body released straining against his lungs.

A leaf that had detached from a branch had yet to hit the ground when the figure of a place servant dashed from behind a corner. The servant dove to her knees as she brought the child into her arms, cooing and bouncing him against her chest, paying no heed to the dirt staining her white linen dress. The child had dropped his stick as he grasped tiny handfuls of his mother's dress, muffling his cries as he pressed his face into her. The servant continued to bounce him as his breathing grew calmer, it was then that the servant noticed the presence of the great king.

In a panic the servant raised to her feet, the child still tightly clutched in her arms, as she bowed deeply begging the king to forgive her for her insolence. 

“Shall I throw her into the dungeons for trespassing in the private gardens?” A guard asked. 

“There is no need,” Deshret waved her away. 

Thanking the king profusely for his mercy, the servant rushed to get out of his sight, cradling her child protectively. With a flick of his wrist, he called you to his side once more. 

“Why did the child wail so sadly?” His eyes still lingering at the corner the servant disappeared behind. 

“His small body was overwhelmed by emotions, my lord.”

“Have I frightened the child?”

“Not at all,” you shook your head. “He cried because he was overwhelmed by loneliness and the feeling of the unknown. The child cannot form words yet, thus he cannot match words to his emotions. So he cried for his mother, for he knows she will soothe the prickling feeling of frustration.” 

Deshret paused as he thought for a moment. The guards standing still at their positions around their king. 

“Was that how you felt back then?” He was referring to the moment you took your first breath. 

“Yes, my lord.” Your eyes twinkled with a smile, joy felt from your lord’s surmise. 

Dawning a cloak that hid his grand stature and identity, King Deshret strolled among the streets of his kingdom. Every once in a while he believed that it was crucial for a ruler to walk in the footsteps of his people, to examine the condition of his kingdom from beyond his golden throne. He had even requested that you remove the bells from your ankles to not draw attention as you trailed behind him.

He walked through the crowded marketplace of hollering merchants and haggling customers trying to get the best prices, you making care to not stray too far from his left. As the edge of the market came the concentration of the crowd diminished, and he felt a bit more relaxed.

He gazed curiously back into the denser crowd, observing the ever-changing expressions on the people’s faces. Suddenly, a large figure pushed the sea of people, hollering like an animal in pain. 

“Help! A doctor! Someone get me a doctor! My daughter! Please! My daughter!” 

In the scarred arms of the warrior lay the limp body of a young girl, not a day past the age of seven. As the crowd cleared out of his way, one hundred pairs of eyes focused their attention on the shouting warrior. His scarred face looked through the crowd for someone to save his child, being met with one hundred pitiful looks. 

“Anyone? Please! Call a doctor! Please save my daughter!” 

A thin man raised his hand as he maneuvered his body through the gaps in the crowd, stopping in front of the towering man. The thin man reached his hand towards the neck of the limp girl, eyes meeting the father’s as if asking for silent permission. The scarred man gave a quick nod, eyes filled with desperate hope. The doctor held two thin fingers against the cold neck of the girl, searching diligently for a pulse, for a singular proof of life. Instead, he was met with stiff, cold flesh. Removing his hand, he pressed his lips into a thin line before looking back at the scarred man’s face. 

“I am sorry, your daughter is already started her journey into Duat (the realm of the dead).”

“No… no, no, no, no, please! Please tell me it’s not too late! She can be saved no?” The desperate father harshly clasped a hand on the doctor’s shoulder, shaking the thin man. 

The doctor could only silently shake his head. The man’s eyes wide with despair then narrowed with rage, then as his facial expression relaxed a hollow void began to fill his eyes. Sinking to the sandy path arms clutching around the husk that once was a bundle of joy, the warrior who had faced countless battles, as shown by the marks all along his body, wept pitifully. Around him slowly, the crowd began to move once again, tearing their eyes away from the scene as if to give the father a semblance of privacy.

King Deshret flicked his wrist, calling you to his side. He felt no movement, confused he turned towards you, only to see your sobbing eyes still pinned on the scene in front of you. A pained expression tugged down at the corners of your lips that usually held a small smile. 

“Why do you weep, Jinni?”

“I weep for the father whose daughter, death had snatched too soon from his arms.” Your voice low like a hush. 

“Why do you weep for him?”

“Because he is in pain, a child torn away from their parent opens a wound in the heart.”

“The man is a strong warrior, he can sire another child. There is no need to weep for a child that could not survive.” 

“My lord, a child can never be replaced, she will never go back to her father’s arms. A broken pot can be remade, moldy bread can be thrown out, but a dead flower can never bloom again.” Your eyes never left the figure of the mourning father, tears continuing to darken the stones on the path. 

Deshret opened his mouth ready to inquire more but then shut it just as quickly. He sensed that inquiring more would only cause the tears to flow heavier. 

He never understood humans, and by extension, he never understood you. 

Perhaps if he had only placed more effort into studying you as he did with the search for greater knowledge, tragedy could have been avoided. 

“My lord, I beg of you to stop. This path you walk will only bring about more pain. My mistress, the goddess of flowers, has left this world. To ignore the truth while in search of knowledge forbidden will cause ruin.” You gripped onto the linen that pooled at his feet as you pleaded on your knees with the mourning king. 

“... Leave this palace, foolish Jinni.” Those were the last words he ever spoke to you. 

Yes, that was the word, foolish. That word does not describe you, no, it described him. A foolish king that did not understand his own heart. Foolish king that gambled everything and lost. His kingdom and riches shallowed by the raging sand storms, his people poisoned with madness (forbidden knowledge) by his own hands, and the once proud and all-mighty king no longer even had a physical body.

It was quiet in the temple where King Deshret hovered, he already knew what must be done to save his people, to save his people from himself as the forbidden knowledge pulsed like poison through his conscious. 

“We meet once more, my lord.” You stepped in front of him. 

He thought he would never see you again after he casted you out of the palace, your appearance stayed faithfully to how he remembered. But you were a bit more haggard, hands more collapsed, skin duller. You must have been exhausting your powers to try to mitigate the madness that plagued the humans you loved so much. Despite the fact you barely had the power to maintain your physical form, your eyes still twinkled as you called out to him. 

“I shall aid you, my lord. I will be the vessel for your sacrifice.” 

 This means you were prepared to die alongside him, he knew it, and you knew it too. Mutually understanding that a great sacrifice was required for a chance of survival for the people of the red sand. Outstretching your hands to the star-like manifestation of Deshret, you signaled that you were ready. He slowly descended into your cupped palms, as a pure light began to engulf the room and your figures.

He no longer had arms to hold you, even though he deeply wished to. As he felt his essence and yours slowly began to break apart into dust like sand, a fleeting thought passed through his mind, brought up by a scene he had witnessed many years ago with you. 

In a different time, 

a different place,

 a different world…

Could he hold your hand while you walk together as one?

... 

“....er”

“.....tham?”

“Alhaitham!” 

His teal eyes snapped open, meeting yours as you stood in the doorway of his home office. Concern was written clearly on your expression, he must have dozed off while he was translating the text that was half finished on his desk. 

“What’s wrong dear?” You moved closer, pressing your palm against his forehead feeling for signs of a fever. 

Nahida was held snuggly in your other arm as her green eyes observed her father’s face, aranara doll dangling loosely in her grip. 

“Is papa sick?” Nahida questioned, beginning to stir in your arms. 

Words just would not form from his throat as he continued to stare into your eyes, his usually stoic face was replaced with a dumbstruck expression. Which only concerned you further, he observed as your brow began to furrow more, palms shifting trying to get a better gauge of his temperature. 

“Haitham, are you unwell? If so you should rest, me and Nahida can do the grocery shopping by ourselves.”

No, he did not want you to leave his side, at that moment he never again want to be apart from you. He gently grasped your wrist in his large hand, removing it from his forehead as he stood up. 

“There is no need for such concern, I was just distracted, beloved.” He took Nahida from your arm and into his, shifting her into a secure hold. 

“Papa is healthy, now let us get the groceries before the market closes.” 

He heard you sigh, muttering something about how you worried that your husband was over-working himself. A silly concern, as if there was one thing he treasured close to the level of you and his daughter, it would be a healthy work-life balance. 

During the whole trip to the grocery store, Alhaitham was still a bit lost in thought. Movements a bit more relaxed and absent-minded than usual, Nahida still being carried in his arm as you pushed the cart. He found his eyes trailing towards the shiny wedding ring on your finger, with an emerald gem that matched the one present on his finger as well.

You had stopped in front of the display of fruits, concentrating on which fruit was the ripest and how to get the most value out of your money. Alhaitham found his hand itching to reach for yours, he did not try to suppress that desire. Allowing his hand to intertwine his long fingers with yours, wedding rings clinking together.

A look of surprise appeared on your face as you turned toward your ashen-haired lover. He was never really one for public displays of affection, so he could not fault you for your confusion, but he felt a smile tug at his lips as you accepted his actions with no further questioning. Returning your attention back to the piles of fruit waiting for your judgment.

Alhaitham felt at peace standing hand in hand with you under the fluorescent lights, as the sounds of other shoppers blended with the soft pop music from the store speakers.

A simple wish had been fulfilled. 

“Oh! This orange looks quite nice doesn’t it?”

“It is starting to mold on the underside.”

“Eh?-” 

fin~

DON’T PLAGIARIZE, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORKS ON DIFFERENT PLATFORMS.

[joelswritingmistress]

Last Halloween: Chapter 3

Summary: After a tragedy involving Joel happened on Halloween one year prior, the town now shuns him while ignoring the details of the now closed case. You are seemingly the only one to offer empathy to a man the town is making out to be a monster.

Warning: Angst, mild language

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

"He's coming?" Your friend Jessie asked, practically letting her jaw drop to the floor as she adjusted her cowboy hat in the mirror.

"Shh." You put a finger to your lips and pulled on a pair of black spandex for your cat costume. "I don't want to tell Winnie or Chris." You knew they would give you a hard time, but Jessie was a little more open minded.

"Okay, okay." She pretended to zip her lip. "I won't say anything."

"Thank you." You tossed on a black shirt with lacy sleeves before grabbing the cat mask. After Jessie checked herself out once more in the bathroom mirror, you reached for your keys. "Let's boogie," you whispered.

The ride over was focused on Joel talk, and you didn't particularly mind. You were kind of itching to talk about him.

"Are you into him?" Jessie asked.

You weren't a good liar so you were honest, despite the potential backlash. After that motorcycle ride it was like a switch had been flipped inside of you.

"Yeah. I mean, I think so."

"Wow." She giggled, "It's so.. random. Not judging. I just.. wow. Why?"

"Why?" You shrugged as you drove. "He gave me a ride on his motorcycle earlier and-"

"Wait, what?" She grabbed your forearm without even realizing it.

You laughed. "We rode around town and then he drove me back to pick up my car at the junkyard. That's why I was so late getting home."

"How old is he?"

"I'm not sure."

"He's a least ten years older than us. Probably more."

You shrugged again. "I'm just feeling things out. I really just want him to have a friend." You turned to look at Jessie for a quick second. "Ya know?"

"Oh, I know." She chuckled. "A friend with benefits."

You laughed and swatted at her. "Cut it out."

"Just let me know what color bridesmaid dress I should wear."

You rolled your eyes with a grin and the two of you had another laugh.

The sign for the tavern came into view by the road side and you pulled into the parking lot, allowing your car to merge in with all the others. You both reached for your purses in the back seat and then headed toward the door that led inside.

On your walk up you heard someone call out your name and turned to see the man in the plastic scarecrow mask. Joel. Seeing him there alleviated any anxiety that lingered on the chance of him not showing up. He *had* showed up, and you knew how big of a step that was for him.

"Hey!" You greeted him with a hug and he partially lifted the mask as your roommate began to introduce herself. A moment later, the three of you were walking inside, welcomed by the beat of the old time seasonal song, Midnight Monsters Hop.

"I'm gunna go get a drink," Chrissy shouted, using her thumb to motion toward the bar that was overflowing with ghouls, ghosts and everything in between.

"Okay." You gave a thumbs up and looked to Joel. "Want a drink?"

He nodded, "Yeah, sure."

You reached back behind you for his hand and felt that similar electricity from before when he took it.

Up at the bar you flagged down the bartender.

"I'll do a vodka soda and.."

"A Bud Lite," Joel added, reaching into his wallet. Like his habit at the coffee shop, he paid with cash despite your attempts to try to pay for the round.

You looked at one another and without saying a word, you tapped your glasses together and then took a sip from your drinks. Joel hesitantly lifted his mask partway. You felt so bad for his inability to be free.

When another old Halloween song came on by The Dead Kennedys, you pulled Joel with you into a crowd of people who had begun to dance along to the rock music.

The beat was fast and upbeat. Without thinking you shoved Joel playfully with a grin with one hand to his chest and then closed the gap again and began to dance right next to him.

A moment later he was following your lead. He was having fun. You were having fun. The dim lighting in the bar was intersected by strobes of oranges, greens and purples, highlighting your every move.

When Joel really began to relax you could see it in his body language. He was dancing around, grabbing your hand to twirl you and being less cautious about lifting his mask to take a sip from his beer.

The rock music never seemed to let up. You needed a break from dancing as sweat began to make your face glisten. You eyed an old photobooth in the back corner of the bar and reached for Joel's free hand again, towing him with you.

When you pushed your way through a pale, white curtain you pulled him down into a seated position beside you and inserted a five dollar bill into the money slot beneath the camera screen.

With the first 3-2-1 countdown on the screen, you both kept your masks on and you stuck out your tongue. For the second photo, Joel lifted his mask so it sat on the top of his head and he managed a half smile. For picture number three, Jessie came out of nowhere, leaping into the booth for a photobomb and then exiting just as quickly.

You were laughing. Joel was laughing. You were both genuinely enjoying the night. Seconds later, the pictures developed and you took a copy while handing one over to Joel.

He kept his mask up as you pulled him back out into the bar where you resumed dancing. The energy was fiery. You loved every minute of it. More so, you loved seeing Joel at ease and having fun. Prior to recently you had never even seen him smile.

That night, in the freaky, flashing strobe lights, things felt perfect - as perfect as they had felt on the back of Joel's bike a few hours earlier. You knew this was manifesting into one of those nights - the type of night you looked back on that was on the border of magical, at least the type of magical that existed in real life.

It was everything. The music, the lighting, the look on Joel's face as his eyes found yours and never left. You were two giddy children that night and it felt so damn good. Never in a million years did you think you'd be able to get him out of his shell.

A break in the song left the two of you breathing heavy with smiles.

"Want another drink?" He shouted.

"Sure." You smiled, and a ringing stuck in your ears with the brief absence of loud music. The next song quickly picked up and Joel smiled, squeezed your hand and then made his way through the crowd.

"Another round, please," you heard him order.

Your eyes were on him as he stood there by the bar. You still smiled. He was contagious; perhaps the definition of a diamond in the rough. Joel Miller was.. dreamy.

"Hey killer." A voice interrupted your temporary euphoria. It wasn't directed at you. It was directed at Joel. Your daydream was suddenly interrupted when you saw a man approach him as he waited for your drinks. "You're in here dancing and having a good time. Where's Johnny? Hmm?" The guy shoved him now and you ran to Joel's defense.

"Enough!" The bartender scolded but the guy went on.

"You kill a local legend and you think you can just move on?" The guy shouted.

"Stop!" You intervened, standing with Joel as others began to turn in your direction.

"Oh, you even got a girl, that's great," mocked the stranger. "You know what Johnny's girl does on and off every week? She cries. Because you killed him!"

Joel tossed a twenty on the bar, left the drinks and stormed out of the establishment. You chased after him, bursting outside and shouted his name when a car whizzed by and almost hit him on the Main Street road.

"Joel!" You shouted and hurried the rest of the way to him. "Joel, stop!"

"I can't do this!" He shouted, "You just don't get it!"

"I know." You shook your head. "Joel, I'm sorry."

"I'm not your little fucking project," Joel went on.

"I know that, Joel." You shook your head, feeling the first sting of tears in your eyes. "I just.. I like you. I was having fun with you."

"I don't belong here. Not in this town. Not anymore! Nothing is going to change that."

"It's not fair," you went on, "I know-"

"You don't know anything!" He waved his hands wildly to the sides. "You don't know how I feel every single day."

"I know I don't," you agreed, "But I want to be here for you. I want to help you. Be your friend."

"What and relive this shit show of a night almost daily with me?" He made a face and shook his head.

"This night hasn't been a shit show," you argued. "Up until two seconds ago this was one of the enjoyable nights I can remember. It started back at the junk yard and on the bike-"

"Well, I'm glad I could give you a thrill ride," Joel said in a snarky fashion that cut you a little deep.

"Joel.." you shook your head. "I enjoy your company." You extended both of your arms in his direction with your palms up.

He looked at them but distanced himself further back a few steps. "Just.. go back to your normal life and stay away from me."

He scoffed turned away from you, storming off into the darkness as you still held your arms out in front of you. Despite having just formally met him, a single tear left each of your eyes.

"Joel!" You called. "Joel, please.."

He didn't turn back around. It broke off a piece of your heart when he disappeared around the corner of the building without so much as looking back.

CLICK HERE FOR CHAPTER 4

@untamedheart81 @amy172

[goodfish-bowl]

Ghost in a Bottle

Danny Phantom x Voltron: Legendary Defender

Masterpost

DP Crossover Angst Week Day 4 - Trapped in a Thermos for Days or Months.

Summary: Pidge had gotten the thermos as part of a deal, along with the coveted gaming system and Kaltenecker. Of all things to be inside a 300-year-old Earth novelty item, Pidge had not been expecting a person. Danny just wants to find Jazz.

Notes: I've never written anything for Voltron before, and it's been a hot minute since I watched that show. This takes place circa Season 4, ep 4.

Word Count: 3,676

AO3 Link

Pidge had honestly forgotten she even had that thermos until it sent her flying across the room. The metal thermos was sent flying in the opposite direction as Pidge collided with a readily prepared pile of clothes. She groaned from having the wind knocked out of her before glaring at the container. She had picked it up from that one Earth-themed shop in the space mall since the keeper had thrown it in as part of a deal for the gaming counsel, along with Kaltenecker. It had gotten lost in the mess of her room until it apparently desired vengeance for being forgotten on the floor in the form of a tripping hazard. 

It was an odd, collectible-looking thing, made to look “futuristic” if Pidge had to guess, at least for three centuries ago. All shiny metal with the most saturated green she had ever had the displeasure of witnessing. It had a small button and meter on the side, which glowed a faint green, which was why Pidge had assumed it was collectible. 

“For tossing me to the floor, I’m going to fill you with the most bland, warm Altean food goo there is,” Pidge threatened the thermos. 

Well, before filling it with food goo, Pidge realized she should probably wash it… thoroughly disinfect and sanitize it first. Who knows where the thing had been, especially to make it this far out into space. 

Pidge crept out of her room and made her way to the kitchens. It wasn’t that late, probably the equivalent to 11 pm Earth time, but Pidge was still surprised to find Hunk in the kitchen, cleaning up from whatever he had been trying to make. Trying, being the key word, since there was a pile of burned goop being scraped into a container to be disposed of. 

“Hey, Hunk, what were these supposed to be?” Pidge asked.

Hunk jumped, before spotting Pidge in the kitchen. “Oh, it’s just you, Pidge. I was trying to make a curry, but, well…”

Pidge nodded in understanding. 

“Well, what are you doing? It’s a bit late for a snack, even for you,” Hunk pointed out. 

Pidge held up the thermos. “Gotta wash this.”

“Huh,” Hunk said, looking at the thermos. “Okay.”

Pidge went over to the Altean equivalent of a sink and unscrewed the cap. The hiss of pressure release was expected, but the amount of gas that started pouring out, less so. Pidge only held the thermos for a moment longer before dropping it into the sink and backing away. She ducked behind the island table in the middle of the room, dragging Hunk behind the table with her. 

Gas, thick and opaque, kept pouring out from the thermos, first pooling in the sink, then overflowing from the sink to the ground, forming a cloud at the base of the cabinets. Pidge and Hunk watched it continue to flow onto the floor, forming a cloud just big enough that Pidge could probably lay in it and be completely covered. 

“Pidge, is it just me or is it taking the form of a person?” Hunk pointed out. 

Pidge checked, and sure enough, the fog was beginning to compress, all on its own, into a vaguely humanoid form. She cursed under her breath. Of all the weird things to get her hands on, this one had something inside.  

“Hunk, sound the alarm,” Pidge said, refusing to take her eyes off their potential intruder. 

Hunk pressed the alarm button, and the silent alarms went off, flashing the lights, and notifying anyone else on board of the location and potential danger. 

The smoke condensed even further under the careful watch of both Pidge and Hunk from behind the counter, and slowly began gaining color while the smoke itself became thin and dissipated. A black suit, with long silver-white gloves, and tall boots. The being’s hair was white, while a tan-green color filled out the location of their face. Details became more apparent just as the other Paladins and Coran managed to make it to the room. On the floor, seemed to be a young male teen, likely just a few inches taller than Pidge herself, with bright white hair and pointed ears. 

“What’s going on? Are you both okay?” Shiro demanded as he rounded the corner. 

“We’re fine,” Hunk confirmed. “But… uh. I think we have an intruder.” 

Shiro rounded the corner, prepared for a fight, only to pause. 

“Okay, where did this guy even come from?” Lance asked, round the corner just behind Shiro. 

“He was in the thermos, that’s in the sink,” Pidge announced. 

Lance glanced at the thermos in the sink, pointing at it. 

“He was in that?”

Both Pidge and Hunk nodded. 

Lance frowned, going to nudge the boy with his foot. His foot passed through the boy, dissipating the smoke before quickly reforming. Lance yelped, jumping back. 

Allura rounded the corner herself and considered the unconscious teen, Coran behind her. 

“Do you know what he could be? I don’t think we’ve encountered smoke people before,” Hunk asked. 

“You said he came out from that vessel, correct?” Coran asked. 

“Yeah, I just thought it was some old novelty Earth thing. I wasn’t expecting there to be someone inside,” Pidge explained. 

Coran hummed, carefully picking up the thermos and examining it, while Allura looked at the boy more closely. 

“Careful, Allura. He’s an unknown,” Shiro warned. 

“A very unconscious, made of smoke, unknown,” Lance helpfully added. 

“I’ve…” Allura trailed off. “I’ve never encountered a people like this before. But whatever he is, he is overflowing with energy in a way… we’ve rarely encountered.”

“I’ve also never seen technology like this either,” Coran added. “Where did you say you found this, Pidge?” 

“From the Earth shop in the Space Mall,” Pidge repeated. “I don’t think we had technology like that on Earth 300 years ago either. It aesthetically matches the time period, so it could’ve been in the shop by mistake.”

“We’ll have to check. It’s an interesting piece, I would like to study it if that’s alright with you.”

Pidge shrugged. “I don’t care. I was just gonna fill it with food goo. New tech is always cool to fidget with, so let me know when you decide to take it apart. But, right now, I’m more interested in what we’re going to do with him?”

“We should move him into a sleep tank. I’d at least like to speak with him and learn more about his people,” Allura stated. 

Shiro frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? What if he’s hostile?” 

“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had a hostile person on the ship.”

“Not that I’m against moving him to the sleep tanks,” Hunk spoke up. “But how are we supposed to do that? He’s made of smoke.”

“Not anymore,” Lance announced, crouched at the feet of the unconscious unknown. “He finally solidified about a minute ago.” Lance poked the boy’s boot to prove it.  

Shiro sighed. “Let's get him to the sleep tanks. Who knows how long he was locked in that soup thermos.”

Danny woke up slowly, all sensation out of reach. But he could tell he was submerged and suspended in something. The only thing he could feel was the gas mask over his face, forcing air into his lungs. Had Jazz managed to get him to the Far Frozen? Danny’s eyes refused to open, he couldn’t so much as twitch a finger, feeling heavy and foreign in his own skin. He doubted he would even be able to breathe if not for the mask. Danny was in the Far Frozen, he would be fine. And if he was here, so was Jazz. She was safe amongst the yetis. Jazz was safe. 

Danny slipped back asleep.

Danny woke up again, this time more quickly. He twitched his fingers, and slowly, opened his eyes. There was a hydraulic hiss, and the fluid Danny had been suspended in drained away, slowly allowing him to stand on his own. He couldn’t, and ended up heavily leaning against the side of the tube. It took longer than Danny would like for his vision to clear up. 

Danny was not in the Far Frozen, that was for sure. And worse, he was completely alone, with no idea of where he was and how he had gotten here. He seemed to be in a large room, containing a few other containment things. His clothes, at least, had not been changed from his threadbare shirt and tattered jeans. No shoes though. He physically seemed to be fine, just a little weak and tired, but he couldn’t tell where he was, and there was no one there to ask. 

Slowly, Danny put more weight on his legs, and the containment tube he was in opened, allowing him to step out. From here, he could spot a hallway leading further into wherever he was. He could also spot the heavy cables and pipes connected to each of the containment tubes, but his looked to be the only one in recent use. 

Slowly but surely, Danny made his way out of the room with the tubes and made it down the hallway. It was very futuristic in his opinion. There was a humming in the air, not quite electricity, but it didn’t remind him of the Ghost Zone either. He wasn’t in his ghost form right now either, so definitely not in the Ghost Zone. But that energy was there, humming in the walls like in his parents’ lab. Danny wondered if Jazz had actually managed to take him to another world or something, rather than stay in the Ghost Zone. It was kind of making him hungry. Danny wondered if he could find the kitchens. 

Danny heard heavy boots against the metallic ground before he saw someone. They were moving fast, and their rapid and loud approach was the only thing that kept Danny from being practically tackled to the ground in surprise. 

It was a tall man with black hair with a mess of white in the front, dressed in some kind of black and white armor. He immediately stood on guard and Danny raised his arms in surrender. He didn’t want to fight. He doubted he could even run as he was right now. 

“Uhh, hi. I’m lost.”

The man looked startled and confused for a moment before shifting to exasperation. “Did you just come from the sleep tanks?”

Sleep tanks… oh. “Yeah, I did.”

The man crossed his arms. “We have some questions we’d like to ask you.”

Danny frowned. “Okay… can I get something to eat, at least? It feels like it’s been years since I’ve had a snack.”

“We can provide something,” the man confirmed, “But for now, follow me.”

The man started walking away, and Danny struggled to keep up, which eventually got noticed. He slowed his pace to match a bit more closely with Danny’s while also talking into a mic on his armor. Danny listened, only able to make out half the conversation. His head still felt like it was full of whatever he’d been floating in. 

“Yes, I’ve found him… There's been some... unexpected developments. I’ve sent an image through the comm. Also, he wants snacks… no I don’t know what he likes, Hunk…”

“I like chips,” Danny helpfully interjected. 

The man frowned at him before returning to his comm unit. “He likes chips… sure Hunk, go nuts… No, it would be better to ask those questions once I’ve brought him to the main room… I’m not asking him that.”

Something was bothering Danny. It felt like he was on his way to an interrogation. No, he was definitely on his way to an interrogation. But there shouldn’t be a need for that. If he was here, Jazz should also be here. They should already know who he is, and any other questions that Jazz could answer. But they didn’t know. It left a sour feeling in him and a twist in his gut. 

“Hey,” Danny called out, gaining the man’s attention. “Where is Jazz?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

The feeling got worse. Maybe it was just a big place? With how far they had walked, there had to be a decently large group of people running it. Which reminded Danny that he still didn’t know where he was. 

“Hey-” Danny started again but cut himself off by the man raising a hand. 

“I’m sure you’re confused about everything, but we have plenty of questions ourselves. We can do our best to answer once we get to the bridge. Please hold onto them until then.”

Danny felt like he had just been scolded, and gave a silent nod. 

They were going to the bridge. That was a part of a ship. Were they on some sort of massive ship of some kind, like a naval base or something? Danny didn’t like the thought of being in government custody, even if these people had far too much color in their uniforms (which Danny was assuming the armor was) to be with the GIW. Besides, why would the GIW be at sea? Last he checked they didn’t hunt sea monsters, just ghosts. Something still didn’t feel right. 

Then they entered the bridge, and Danny swore his heart, brain, and core short-circuited at once. There, just outside the window-

“We’re in space!” Danny exclaimed, gaining the attention of everyone else in the room. 

Danny bolted to the window, instantly glued to it, eyes darting as he tried to spot familiar constellations. There was a conversation going on behind him, but Danny couldn’t care for it at the moment as elation filled him. They were in space! He was on a spaceship! This elation was dampened slightly by the fact that Danny couldn’t even recognize a singular constellation. 

“Where even are we…?” Danny trailed off, talking more to himself than asking questions aloud. 

“I believe we are currently just outside the Malark galaxy, passing by the Shuldek system,” a voice answered. 

Danny’s head snapped over, to see a ginger man with a large mustache and pointed ears, along with small blue markings just under his eyes. Danny didn’t understand what, or where, exactly that meant, but it awed him anyway. But just past the ginger man, the entire group of people was staring at him with a mix of expressions. There were only six of them, counting the ginger man, but no Jazz still. 

“While I’m sure you have plenty of questions for us, we would like to ask you a few first, if that’s alright?” The woman with white hair, pointed ears, and similar markings under her eyes asked. 

Danny blinked, still not too sure what was going on. “Uh, sure I guess.”

“Wonderful! First, are you aware of who we are?” She asked. 

Danny shook his head. “Nope, not a clue.”

“Then I suppose introductions are in order. I am princess Allura of Altea, the Blue Paladin of Voltron. Here with me are the other paladins of Voltron, Shiro, Lance, Pidge, and Hunk. And Coran here is the Captain of our ship, the Castle of Lions.” It was a very… professional introduction. Danny wondered how often she had to recite it. 

Danny glanced over the other ‘paladins’ the princess had named. Only Shiro was in armor, while the others wore something that resembled the more casual clothes Danny was used to. They also seemed to be human. 

Danny cleared his throat, realizing they were waiting for a response. “Oh, um. I’m Danny Fenton.”

There was a small reaction to his name, but not any recognition. That was… really problematic. Princess Allura went to ask another question but Danny spoke first, interrupting her. 

“I… I know you wanted me to wait a bit before asking my questions, but I would really like to know where Jazz is?”

They just looked confused, so Danny continued, trying to push back the small bubble of panic that had been slowly building since he had woken up. 

“Jazz, ya know? About yay tall, bright ginger hair, always wears a headband, talks like she can figure out every thought in your head. She’s my sister, she should’ve been with me.”

 Still no recognition on any of their faces. 

“I’m sorry, but we didn’t discover you with anyone. Pidge discovered your… thermos at a store and purchased it, releasing you upon opening it,” Allura explained. 

Pidge helpfully held up a beat-up-looking Fenton Thermos that Danny could’ve recognized anywhere. 

“You gave us quite the scare and we’re glad you’re alright. I’m sure we can try to find your sister as soon as we can,” Allura assured him. 

Danny felt like he was going to fall over. Had they been separated? Yeah… he could just find Jazz. Or she would find him. She might’ve lost the thermos or something and was probably going nuts looking for him. These people sounded important. If he was seen with them, or they made some sort of announcement, Jazz was sure to know exactly where he was at. He was fine, and Danny was sure Jazz was too. On another note, they had been the ones to open the thermos, and he had most likely not popped out in ghost form. His secret was blown before he even got their names. 

Danny deflated, taking a wobbly step forward. “Okay… can I sit down for a bit? I… I can answer your questions.”

Danny carefully walked over to a section of the bridge with a few more seats and practically collapsed into one. There was a plate of something that resembled homemade potato chips but slightly purple. He wasn’t really hungry anymore, now much more worried about Jazz than he had been minutes ago. 

“Okay… what do you want to know?” Danny opened the room. 

“First off,” Shiro began, “Are the terms ‘Voltron’, Altea, and the Galra all completely foreign to you?”

“Yeah. Sounds important, but I’ve got no idea what you're talking about,” Danny confirmed. 

“What are you and where are you from?” Shiro asked next. 

“I’m… half human. I’m from Amity Park, Illinois, Earth.”

“Do you know what your other half is? Your appearance changed quite dramatically from your initial appearance. And from what we’ve seen, humans are not particularly capable of shifting to a gaseous state,” Princess Allura asked. 

Danny didn’t exactly know how to answer that question, so he lied. “No, I don’t. It’s just how I am.”

“Do you know how your thermos got all the way into Galra-controlled territory?”

“No. That might be a question for the person you bought it… me from.”

“Oh! I got one!” Lance announced, “Danny, do you know what year it is?”

“Lance, of all things to ask, there are more interesting things you could’ve asked. Just because he looks out of-” The one known as Hunk began scolding Lance before Danny answered, interrupting yet again. 

“Last I checked, it was 2006.”

That shut everyone up fast. Wow. Danny had already assumed he was in another world, and he was very much in space, but he had no idea how far along this world was chronologically, not that it really mattered to him. 

“ 310 years? ” Pidge sputtered, seemingly in more shock than the others. “You were in that thermos for 310 years?!”

Danny shrugged. “Maybe.” 

He really didn’t want to have to explain alternate realities and time travel to a group of space strangers. Danny being a bit temporarily displaced did seem to strike a chord with both Allura and Coran somehow. Now that he considered it, they weren’t humans were they? Wow! Danny was used to nonhumans in the zone, but it was completely different when they were alive! Danny wanted to ask them all about their home planet, and also the ship. He also really wanted to know about the ship. He also really wanted a nap.  

“You don’t seem particularly… troubled by your situation,” Allura pointed out. 

“I mean, what can I do about it? And until I find Jazz, I’m not going anywhere,” Danny said. “Am I allowed to stay here?”

“Of course! In fact, I’m sure you have many questions about our times. Coran here is very knowledgeable about everything concerning our ship and space. Please feel free to ask him any questions you might have,” Princess Allura stated. 

Allura sent a look at the other paladins that Danny chose to ignore, instead setting his sights on Coran who looked somewhere between acting like he’d been left to the wolves and preening at the acknowledgment of his knowledge. 

“Of course! I shall answer any and all questions you have. It was my grandfather who built the Castle of Lions and-”

Danny listened intently about everything from the construction and operation of the ship to the neighboring star systems, absolutely transfixed. He would find Jazz soon, but until then, he was going to learn everything he could about space from Coran. 

The paladins were huddled together, varying expressions on their faces.

“Wow, all the way from 2006. That’s before the third world war, isn’t it? Can’t imagine what it was like back then. And Illinois, of all places,” Lance hummed. 

“I’m more interested in finding out how he got all the way out here, locked in a thermos of all things. The timeline lines up, but the thermos and Danny himself are the big questions,” Pidge said. 

“Yeah, that’s a long time to be locked in a thermos. I wonder if it was cramped or anything. I mean, he was smoke in there, so maybe not, but,” Hunk swallowed thickly. “Danny seems… really intent on finding his sister,” Hunk stated. 

“That’s a potential issue… Pidge, did you check in with that Earth store yet about the thermos,” Shiro asked. 

Pidge averted her eyes. “I… I did. The owner said it’s been a part of their collection for as long as he can remember, which would be well over a century. Wherever his sister is… I honestly doubt we’ll find her.”

[currentfications]

Reason | Part 1

Pairing: Bada Lee x Reader, Felix x Reader?

Warning: Swearing, angst, bi-struggles?¿ (definitely mentions of homophobia and internalised homophobia, I am going through some ~family issues~ at the moment and have decided to take it out on y/n, apologies in advance >_<), mention of alcohol, smoking, and unhealthy coping mechanisms

AN: This whole series is brought to you by that one post and this one song, fused together with some feverish deliriums. I sincerely apologise for the darker tone this series might have compared to my usual stuff, thank you for still reading it~

Previous | Next

“But why?” Y/n’s eyes welled with tears as she fought to keep them in, swallowing a hard lump in her throat as she feel herself getting sicker in the stomach.

Bada sighed despairingly, knowing that there’s no good answer to the dejected girl in front of her. “You know why,” the taller girl unintelligible, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n squinted her eyes shut, wiping away the tears that slid down her face - as if her closing her eyes will make this all go away, as if she can pretend this all never happened. But it’s happening, and the only thing left she can do is to pick up what’s left of her dignity and walk out those doors. She composed herself to the best she could. Mildly trembling but managing to keep her breathing somewhat steady, she looked up at the woman she adore with her whole heart with a forced smile. “I love you Bada, I always will,” y/n took a deep breath before planting a soft kiss on the taller girl’s cheeks. “I hope he will to.”

Bada watched as y/n left her apartment, unable to stop her from leaving behind, taking a half-hearted step towards the shutting door. The image of the girl’s watering eyes and quivering lips burned into her mind as the dancer landed her fist on the wall. “Fuck!” Bada screamed into the empty room, her voice cracking from the pent up, now overflowing, frustration.

If she hadn’t cared that much about her career, her image - or heck, what others are going to say about their relationship, would this have ended differently? The usually cool and unbothered choreographer is now in shambles on her living room floor, wishing she had the courage to be the girlfriend y/n deserves - or at the very least, not have the audacity to do the one thing that shattered y/n’s heart into a million pieces.

Y/n finally let her waterworks run free once she is shrouded by the darkness, hiding from the potential cameras around the corners. Finding a secluded corner, she broke down into tears, curling into a fetal position. It was hours before she ran out of tears, staring into the empty streets. She’s been heartbroken before, but this betrayal have left her feeling more hollow than ever. In a state of delirium, possibly from dehydration, y/n pulled out her phone and hovered above a contact.

Rationally, she knows she shouldn’t be calling him. She knows better than that, than this. It’s revenge than she wanted, and he’ll be collateral damage. But the rage boiling inside of her is almost blinding, jealousy overwhelming. A moment of insanity won over her usual levelheadedness and she dialled the number.

The boys have just gotten back to their shared dorm when Felix’s phone buzzed. Crossing his finger in hopes that the call is not from their manager, the brunette tentatively flipped the phone screen over. Albeit a little confused by y/n’s call this late into the night, he signed a breath of relief knowing he’s not getting into trouble with their stern manager again.

“Hello?”

Felix’s deep voice through the phone almost snapped y/n back into reality, almost. She know she should hang up, but she wanted her to feel the same pain. Taking a shaky breath and shutting her eyes, knowing she will regret this, “hey Felix.”

She can almost hear the first of many nails in the coffin as she uttered the two words, sealing what’s left of her heart. It’s unrequited love, she reminded herself, it’s inconsiderable love. She bit down on her lips, hard enough to taste blood, and continued the eulogy of her grievance. “How’d you feel about being a rebound for 72 hours?”

The boy band member’s brows knitted together with concern as he heard those words, delivered with bitterness he never thought he’d be at the receiving end of. Y/n has always been the most prudent friend he’s ever had, and even though she’s been known to be capable of making some ruthless decisions, this is very much so out of character for y/n.

“Bro, are you okay?” Felix excused himself from the group, closing the door behind him for some much needed privacy.

Y/n chuckled humourlessly, her dry lips cracking as she sneered at how pathetic she sounded. “Splendid. Hence why I’m calling for a rebound in the middle of the night.”

Recognising y/n’s signature coping mechanism (dripping sarcasm), the brunette rubbed his temple and checked in on the obviously-not-okay y/n. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Are you high?”

“I wish.”

“Are you and Bada-”

“Not her. Not now.”

Felix’s eyes widen as he muttered an apology, realising the situation. There have been rumours floating around that y/n and Bada is an item; although never confirmed, he’d always took y/n’s silence over the past year as some form of confirmation. After all, she has never allowed baseless rumours to circulate - not even back in high school (someone spread a rumour about her being a ‘fake dyke to get attention’, in retaliation y/n finger-banged both the boy’s sisters during recess).

“Is that a no?” Y/n asked dryly, breaking the silence. She would’ve felt absolutely mortified by the awkward silence if she wasn’t so numb.

“W-wait are you sure?” Felix panicked, remembering the question on hand.

Y/n sighed for about the hundredth times tonight, “can you hand the phone to Chan?”

Felix tutted at the phone, “absolutely not.” It’s not like he’s not into her, in fact, he’s always fancied y/n since they shared a table during that one class. If not because of the fact that y/n has never even taken romantic interest in men, he would’ve asked her out during formal (y/n went with the reverend’s daughter that year, to Felix’s disappointment). “Happy to comply. In fact I’ll even throw in another 72 hours, no extra charge.”

“Thanks,” y/n muttered, grateful that at least one thing is going right for her tonight - only to immediately feel a wave of guilt and shame washing over her as she apprehended her actions. Her self reflection was cut short by some drivers racing down the quiet street, roaring as they past through.

“Dude are you still outside,” Felix glanced down at his watch, eyes widening, “at 3 in the morning?”

Has it been six hours since the fallout? Y/n has lost track. She can still hear Bada’s words echoing in the wind. ‘You know why’, she said - three simple words that cut deeper than it should have. She denounced y/n to the world, not because of anything she’s done, but simply because of the bigotry the general public has. She pushed away y/n time and time again, not because she didn’t loved her, but because she couldn’t face the repercussions of loving a woman. A grocery list of whys summarised into three little words.

For years, y/n have understood and gave her the privacy she needed to deal with all that; but when Bada pulled him to her lips in front of all their friends and family, officially announcing their relationship - y/n couldn’t understand why. Why Howl, and not her.

[mcverse]

ꨄ︎ Paring: Rotxo x Adopted! Sully! GN Reader

ꨄ︎ Requested: Yes/No

ꨄ︎ Type: One Shot

ꨄ︎ Word count: 4.8K

ꨄ︎ Warnings: angst, fluff, unrequited love, requited love, mention of you. Not really mentions of reader being female so I changed it to gn. Safe for 17+ to read. Not proof read, possible spelling mistakes.

please keep in mind that all characters in my stories are always 18+

How can one miss someone who was never theirs to begin with?

Perhaps you played yourself, allowing a delusional desire to take root, hoping against all odds that he could be yours. Lost in a dense fog of denial, you knew deep down that this kind of love was never meant for you—that it wasn't directed your way.

Ever since you and your adoptive family arrived in Awa'atlu for uturu, you have all been in the spotlight, but some receive more attention than others. Sadly, the attention you crave the most is effortlessly bestowed upon your sister. His oceanic eyes gaze at her with the intensity you wish he would reserve for you, overflowing with adoration and admiration. It feels almost criminal to witness someone being worshipped so deeply, while she remains completely oblivious to his love.

How can you ever find the words to tell him that every night, as you lay beneath the sky's embrace, peering through the cracks in the mauri, your thoughts are consumed by him? With each star you count, you offer silent prayers, hoping that a shooting star from the tales of old tawtute will streak across the heavens, allowing you to make a wish, fully aware that it will revolve around him.

He was the sun that illuminated your days when they felt impossibly dim just by a smile sent your way, and you were the moon, forever drawn to his orbit, seeking a place in his world. The farther he seemed, the closer you yearned to be, until the yearning became insatiable. You craved his warmth, his light, wanting nothing more than to bask in his radiance. Your existence revolved around him, and with every passing day, the desire to bridge the gap grew stronger. Closer and closer you wanted to get, until the closeness became enough, until only your love for him was enough.

You're unsure how you came to love him so deeply, and it pains you to part ways even briefly. Eywa herself knows the internal struggle you endure when you watch him fade into the distance, vanishing without another word, with your concealed emotions left unspoken.

He was kind, supportive, and courageous—a formidable warrior among the people, a remarkable friend within your youthful circle, and a well-suited potential partner. You wish you could rid yourself of your feelings for him, much like the way he yearns for your sister, but his qualities are impossible to overlook.

Your heart tightens each time you witness him trailing behind her, wearing the most beautiful and genuine smile, calling out her name in gleeful laughter, "Kiri! Where are you headed?" as he dutifully follows her, unaware of the effect it has on you. He would likely follow her to the ends of the earth, and you’ll understand because you’ll do the same.

You often found yourself lost in a tumultuous sea of thoughts, seeking solace by the ocean's edge, far removed from prying eyes. The weight of your emotions became overwhelming, making it agonizingly difficult to confide in someone, fearing their judgment and the damning label of selfishness.

Yet, can it truly be branded as selfish when it's painfully evident that Rotxo yearns to court her, while she remains oblivious or so it seems? What if she truly knows and deliberately keeps him dangling on a string?

Great Mother, your love for your sister burns with an intensity that knows no bounds, but does she truly grasp the power she holds—the power to choose between two hearts held tenderly within her hands? The weight of that choice is immense, leaving you in a state of anguished uncertainty and bittersweet longing.

Then, whether through a twist of destiny or the compassion of Eywa, Rotxo mustered the courage one day to reveal his feelings to Kiri. To your surprise, she was completely unaware of his intentions, blissfully ignorant of his affection towards her. It seemed her attention was focused on another, a fellow female Na'vi within the village. How Rotxo missed that detail remained a mystery, but he wasn't the only one caught off guard. The news reached your ears when Kiri returned home, her expression filled with solemnity.

At first, you struggle to contain your bubbling excitement. It felt like Rotxo was finally free, and a glimmer of hope sparked within you. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something between you two. However, as Kiri proceeded to explain his reaction, a wave of guilt crashed over you. You realized that you had unwittingly taken his pain and transformed it into your own joy, and the weight of that realization bore down heavily upon your conscience.

That night, sleep escapes you, and you found yourself restlessly shifting in bed, tormented by thoughts of Rotxo. His once charming smile was replaced with a frown in your mind's eye. It unsettled you to the core, knowing that he was burdened with sorrow while you held onto a glimmer of hope.

Reality struck hard—you understood deep down that there was no possibility for you and him. He had just experienced rejection, and pursuing another romantic endeavor would be the least of his concerns. The gravity of this truth kept you awake, lost in contemplation throughout the night. Eventually, you abandon the pursuit of sleep and ventured to the shoreline, where you wandered along the edge of the ocean, sinking your feet into the soft sand as you sought solace in the rhythm of the waves.

Eventually you reach your usual spot, a quiet place for reflection, you freeze in your tracks. Your expectation of finding it deserted is shattered by the sound of gentle sniffles. Someone else seeks refuge there, their emotions overwhelming them too. A bittersweet warmth fills your heart, realizing that this place offers comfort and solace to others who grapple with their own feelings. Though your initial instinct is to respect their privacy and leave, your intention wavers when you hear his voice—his familiar voice that stops you in your tracks.

His voice trembles with vulnerability, as he opens up about his pain and heartache. The rawness in his words sends a surge of emotions coursing through you. You stand there, hidden from view, listening intently as he pours out his feelings. Every word he utters resonates with your own hidden desires, with the longing you've kept locked away.

An uneasy feeling begins to wash over you, as if you are trespassing on his intimate moment. You recognize that these words were never meant for your ears, that he did not willingly choose to confide in you. Caught in this dilemma, you find yourself torn between respecting his boundaries and offering a comforting presence. Yet, you cannot bear to leave him in such a vulnerable state. So, with cautious steps, you retreat to the entrance and clear your throat, hoping to make your presence known.

His glossy eyes shift in your direction, and the sight tugs at your heartstrings. It stirs within you an overwhelming urge to rush to his side, to wrap him in a warm embrace and assure him that everything will be alright. But you hold yourself back, restraining the impulse. Instead, you offer him a gentle smile, your voice soft and tentative as you speak up, "I'm sorry... I don't mean to intrude, but... are you okay, Rotxo?"

His gaze lingers on you, caught off guard by your sudden presence. He takes a moment to collect himself, his voice trembling as he responds, "Not really." He lowers his gaze to the ground, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

Frowning, you move closer, squatting down beside him on the ground. From this vantage point, you peer at him under your lowered lashes, your heart betraying you by racing at the proximity. You curse the timing of these feelings, fully aware that now is not the moment to indulge in personal desires. Your sole focus remains on providing comfort and support.

"Why are you crying?" you ask, although the reason is painfully obvious. You choose not to spell it out, allowing him the space to share what he wishes.

He presses his lips together, taking a slow, steadying breath before he responds, his voice barely above a whisper, his voice barely above a whisper, his body slumped with sadness.

"Kiri didn't tell you?" he murmurs, his words heavy with a mixture of pain and confusion.

Naturally, she did. She was your sister, bonded by a deep connection whether by blood or not. It was evident that the weight of her own struggles had become too much to bear alone, leading her to confide in you, and for that, you were grateful. But now is not the time to reveal that knowledge.

“No,” you furrow your brows, gulping as you consider you answer, “She didn’t. Should she have?”

Your question hangs in the air, masking the truth that you hold. You tread carefully, protecting your sister's trust while trying to offer him the support he seeks. You wait, holding your breath, aware that his answer will shape the course of this vulnerable moment between the two of you.

Finally, he breaks the stillness, his words faltering as he reveals, "I... I like Kiri..." His eyes shift away, avoiding direct contact.

You offer a subtle nod, acknowledging his admission. "I know," you respond softly, holding more understanding than he realizes.

His ears flick up before lying flat against his head, sinking his face into his hands as he groans in exasperation, "So it was obvious to everyone except her?" His eyes welling up with tears once more.

Your willpower to respect his boundaries crumbles in an instant, overridden by your overwhelming urge to provide comfort. Acting on instinct, you step into his personal space and wrap your arms around him, seeking to offer solace and support. You understand that apologies can come later; right now, all that matters is being there for him, as he has been for others in their moments of sadness.

He tenses at the unexpected contact, momentarily pausing in his sniffling. But then he returns the embrace, holding onto you tightly and burying his head in your shoulder. The wetness of his tears dampens your skin, a physical manifestation of the depth of his need for comfort, perhaps more than he even realizes.

"I'm sorry she didn't see you the way you saw her..." you murmur softly, your hand rubbing his back in a soothing motion, akin to a mother comforting her child. It feels fitting, given the sense of family that he most-likely come to associate with you.

"I feel so stupid," he whines, his eyes tightly shut as he shuffles closer, seeking more solace in your warmth. It's as if he has been deprived of it for so long, though you know that cannot be true. His parents were present. His self-blame stems solely from the rejection he has faced. "I... I should have noticed the signs... I should have."

Shaking your head softly, you offer reassurance, "She didn't give any signs. You weren't the only one who didn't know,” you pause to ponder you next words, it’ll be a risky statement given the circumstances but maybe you were selfish if you did, “Maybe if you did, you could have found someone who’d reciprocates your feelings.”

"Nobody would want me after this. It's humiliating," he practically whispers so low you’ll miss it if he wasn’t this close to you. His sniffling has long subsided as he rests his head on your shoulder. His arms loosen their grip, hanging loosely around you, "I wouldn't want me."

Your heart aches at the sight of his self-deprecating words, the pain and insecurity etched on his face. Without a second thought, you gently push him back, your hands resting on his chest, a small act of resistance against his negative thoughts. His swollen, confused eyes meet yours as you lean closer.

Placing a hand on his thigh for comfort, you let your voice carry the weight of your words, "Never say that about yourself," you say firmly, your frown reflecting your deep concern, "Rotxo, you are so much more than this moment of rejection. You deserve love just like anyone else. Don't let this define your worth."

Your fingertips caress his cheeks, radiating warmth and tenderness as they glide along his skin. A softness lingers in your touch, an unspoken reassurance that you offer with every stroke. Despite the tremor that quivers through your own hands, a testament to the emotions swirling within you, you remain steadfast in your mission to uplift his spirits and kindle a flicker of hope within his wounded heart.

Truly, it was right there before him, concealed in plain sight, much like it was with Kiri. You can't help but marvel at the irony of it all, how easily the heart can be blind to what lies just beyond its reach. Yet, a tender fondness washes over you, an understanding of his innocence and his unwitting ignorance of the precious connection that beckoned him.

Perhaps, you think, it's for the best that he remained oblivious for now, as the pain is still fresh and tender.

"Do you really think so?" he asks, his eyes filled with wonder and a glimmer of hope, desperately seeking validation in your response. As you nod and offer a soft smile, his face lights up with a genuine smile, the first of the day. Excitedly, he pulls you into a heartfelt hug, his pure nature shining through. This man is truly a gem.

You find yourself grappling with a myriad of emotions as you reflect on the situation. It perplexes you why he seemed oblivious to the impact he had on your heart. Taking a deep breath to steady your racing thoughts, you decide it's time to bring this poignant exchange to a close.

Clearing your throat, you slowly rise from your seated position, your gaze momentarily avoiding his captivating eyes that shimmer in the gentle moonlight. The silence between you stretches, filled with unspoken words and lingering emotions.

"I think it's best if we both make our way back," you say, your voice carrying a tinge of melancholy and unrequited longing.

He reciprocates with a gentle smile, its genuineness captivating you, even in the midst of this tender farewell. A subtle nod of understanding passes between you, both acknowledging the intricate complexities of the moment.

His voice resonates with heartfelt gratitude, softly punctuating the stillness that envelops you both, "Thank you."

With those words lingering in the air like a whispered promise, you reluctantly part ways, each step carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. The night embraces you, wrapping you in its embrace as you find comfort in the knowledge that you were there for one another, if only for a fleeting moment.

Little did you know, it was far from being the last encounter.

The following morning arrives, and you attempt to steal a few extra moments of slumber, seeking refuge from the complexities of the previous night. However, your peaceful interlude is shattered by the persistent calls of your mother, who reminds you of the responsibilities and obligations that come with being a member of the Metkayina. The demands of productivity override any personal desires, and you resign yourself to the tasks that lie ahead.

You decide to embark on a fishing expedition, a familiar ritual that brings level headedness and nourishment. Equipped with your trusty net, you make your way to one of the favored fishing spots, immersing yourself in the tranquil waters. The cool embrace of the water fails to deter you as you wade deeper, determined to fulfill your task and provide a bountiful catch for your family.

After a while of not catching anything in your chosen fishing spot, you decide to relocate. Fortunately, the change of location proves fruitful, and you're grateful for the decision as you witness a group of male Na'vi engaging in animated conversation, their attention fixated on Rotxo and his fishing prowess.

A sense of amusement washes over you as you realize his popularity. Who would have thought?

Without a second thought, you find yourself wading through the water towards him, unintentionally interrupting the tranquility he sought. "Looks like you've got some admirers," you playfully tease, you playfully tease, coming to a halt a few feet away. He turns to you, confusion evident in his eyes.

"What do you mean, (Name)?" he asks, genuinely puzzled. But his confusion quickly fades as you gesture towards the group of Na'vi, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. He takes a step back, shrugging his shoulders, a slight frown forming on his face. "They've been there all morning. Just gossiping, I suppose."

A surge of annoyance wells up within you, no longer able to tolerate his self-doubt. "Enough of that," you assert, your voice carrying a deep resonance. "Anyone would be lucky to have you... including myself." The words slip out in a mumble, almost lost amidst the sounds of nature. Whether he catches your confession or not, he remains silent, stealing a quick glance in your direction before returning his focus to the task at hand.

A comfortable silence envelops you both, accompanied by the gentle lapping of waves and the occasional splash. Surprisingly, the absence of words doesn't create any awkwardness. It's a stark contrast to the usual giddy and somewhat nauseating feeling you experience in his presence. Perhaps the brief but meaningful connection you shared the previous night has brought a newfound ease and comfort when it comes to being around him.

You feel a gentle yet firm grip on your forearm, halting your motion of throwing the net once again. Turning your gaze to the source, you find Rotxo standing beside you, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he observes your fishing technique. His eyes sparkle with amusement as he takes hold of your hands, his touch sending a tingle of warmth through your skin.

Curiosity dances in his eyes as he asks, "Who taught you how to fish?"

You can't help but feel a touch of self-consciousness, looking down for a moment before meeting his gaze. "I actually taught myself," you admit, your voice carrying a hint of bashfulness.

A knowing smile graces his face as he replies, "That explains your stance. You won't catch many fish like that." He moves closer to you, his body language open and inviting. His question hangs in the air, and you find yourself captivated by his presence, eagerly granting him permission to guide you.

"I don't mind," you respond, your voice filled with anticipation and curiosity. With your consent, he takes the lead, positioning your hands and adjusting your body to align with his preferred fishing method. Every touch, every gentle adjustment, sends a jolt of electricity through your being.

"I must say, I've caught plenty of fish on my own," you playfully interject as he pulls away, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

He nods, his gaze transitioning from your hands to your eyes, a silent understanding passing between you. "I have no doubt about that. But the way you were doing it would have taken much longer," he remarks, a hint of admiration evident in his voice.

With his guidance, you make several more attempts, each time incorporating the adjustments he has shown you. It's a delicate dance of coordination, a symphony of movement and shared intention. You feel a sense of connection and trust building with each throw, as if you are moving in perfect harmony with each other and the rhythm of the water.

Time seems to melt away as you continue fishing together. Conversations flow effortlessly, laughter echoes through the air, and a sense of peace envelops you both. The symphony of nature's sounds—the gentle lapping of water against your legs, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the occasional splash of a fish—accentuates the tranquility of the moment.

A bittersweet ache tugs at your heart. You wish you that this would be the last time similar actions would be like this, that it’ll be easier to let go than to hold on to a love that can never be fully realized. It's a torment, a constant battle between the longing in your heart and the rationality in your mind. Each passing day spent in his company, teaching and bonding, feels both like a gift and a cruel twist of fate.

You had made peace with your feelings long ago, even before he confessed his love for Kiri. You had resigned yourself to the fact that friendship was the only path you could walk together, no matter how much it pained you. It was a choice to preserve what you had, to savor the moments of joy and connection, even if it meant treading a delicate tightrope of unspoken desires.

"You're spacing out again," Rotxo's voice breaks the spell of your thoughts. You find yourselves back at the familiar spot, the place where platonic confessions were made, now a couple of months later. Time has slipped away swiftly in the company of the one you love.

You let out a soft hum, meeting his gaze with contemplation and unknown affection. "I've been doing a lot of thinking," you confess, your voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

Curiosity flickers in Rotxo's eyes as he tilts his head, genuinely interested in the thoughts that have consumed you for so long. He has always respected your privacy, refraining from prying into your inner world. Yet, an undeniable concern gnaws at him, a desire to understand and offer support. You both have become pillars for each other, leaning on each other in times of need.

"Is it something troubling?" he asks, his gaze unwavering as he waits for your response.

“I think that depends on how someone sees it…” you trail off, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. The conversation takes an unexpected turn, and a wave of apprehension washes over you, making you hesitate to continue. You can't quite put your finger on it, but something feels different about this discussion, and it makes you reluctant to delve deeper.

"Will you tell me?" he whispers softly, his voice filled with concern and a touch of vulnerability. The genuine care in his eyes urges you to open up, but you find yourself momentarily speechless, unsure of how to express the conflicted emotions swirling within you. You don't want to burden him or risk jeopardizing the friendship you hold dear.

For a moment, silence hangs in the air, and he senses your hesitation. Worried that he may be crossing a line, he considers dropping the subject altogether. But just as he's about to let it go, your voice finally breaks through.

"I don't think I can continue to be your friend... I feel guilty," you confess, the words escaping your lips, filled with sadness and regret.

He shifts in his seated position, giving you his undivided attention with a serious expression. What could you possible feel guilty about? You haven’t done anything to him, he was pretty sure of that. If anything, you have been becon since his rejection, guilt was the last thing he expects you to feel. Unless it’s something he doesn’t know about.

"Guilt?" he repeats, his voice gentle yet tinged with confusion. "What is it that makes you feel this way?"

A heavy sigh escapes your lips as you try to find the right words. "It's these... feelings I have," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Feelings for who?” he wasn’t aware you had sometime you liked. And knowing that made him uncomfortable in his chest. It was a familiar feeling—like his heart has dropped to his stomach. A gasp leave Shia lips as you continue, his heart beat picking up.

“For you,” you express, looking eyes with him, “I’ve always liked you and I was content watching from afar. Then we started getting closer and my feelings gotten stronger. It’s became harder for me to ignore it. I can't help but feel guilty for having these emotions while knowing they may complicate our friendship.”

A faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he reaches out, his hand gently holding yours, a comforting gesture that you hadn't even noticed was trembling, “I think—no, I feel the same way,” he reveals.

Your eyes widen, your face flushing with warmth as you process his words, "You what?"

"I like you too," he confesses, his voice growing a little louder, “It took a while for me to realize it but when I did, I was scared that—uh, that another situation like before would happen again.” he moves to interlock your hands, lower his head bashfully as you’ve done in numerous situations.

You stare at him, your mouth hanging open in astonishment. "Do you really?"

His eyes meet yours, filled with warmth and fondness reflected in their depths. "I first noticed it when we were going to gather some fruit," he begins, his voice laced with a sense of nostalgia, "My stomach felt funny, and I couldn't help but feel excited when I saw your own excitement.”

He scoots closer to you, his shoulder gently brushing against yours, sending a delightful shiver down your spine. Your heart skips a beat, captivated by his closeness and his words.

"The first time my heart raced, I was scared and confused," he continues, his voice soft and filled with vulnerability, "You weren't even around, but it was as if you were right there in my thoughts. It took me a while to understand what those feelings meant, but now I do. I like you, more than ever. "

His eyes never leave yours as he speaks, and you can see the depth of his sincerity. It's a moment of shared revelation and vulnerability, a connection that goes beyond words.

A smile spreads across your face, mirroring the joy that fills your heart. "Me too," you whisper, your voice filled with an undeniable certainty. The weight of unspoken feelings finally lifted, replaced by the exhilarating realization that your feelings are reciprocated.

"I thought I misheard you when you said you'd be lucky to be with me," he chuckles, leaning his forehead against yours. "Little did I know, it would actually be the other way around."

You close your eyes, giggling softly at his words, flattered by his belief in your worth. "I see you," you whisper, too shy to meet his gaze. It feels surreal to hear him express his feelings so openly.

He gently releases your hand, his finger lightly tapping your cheek to get your attention. "Look at me," he insists, his voice filled with tenderness. "Tell me when you look at me."

With a bit of reluctance, you open your eyes, feeling a flutter in your stomach as your gazes meet. The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver of excitement down your spine, and in that moment, you realize that this is not a dream—it's your reality. Before you can utter a word, Rotxo beats you to it, leaving you breathless.

"I see you, (Name)," he says, his words overflowing with sweetness and sincerity. It shocked you that it was directed at you. Nearly felt like a dream if he didn’t plant a wet kiss on your nose, forcing you to wrap your head around that this was real, that he was there with you—not with Kiri or any o the other Na’vi woman.

Just you.

"Would this make it awkward, liking you after..." he starts to ask, his voice trailing off, unable to find the right words without it sounding off.

You shake your head, dispelling his concerns with a reassuring smile. "She'll understand," you assure him, confident in your response.

Because even though Kiri may have been oblivious to Rotxo's feelings, she had an inkling of your affection for him. That fateful night of raw emotions and a little too much alcohol had led to a heartfelt confession, revealing the depths of your feelings for Rotxo. In that moment, Kiri had grasp the truth, and though unspoken, an understanding had silently formed between you.

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[roguelov]

Crimson Stained Petals (Ch. 2)

Summary: Set in the 1880s, rumors and mysteries swirled around a quaint town, mostly about a lord tucked far into the woods. Arriving in town, you could not deny your curiosities, but you were not here to stay. Or so you thought. Low on funds, and a job for a live-in servant advertised in the paper, you now found yourself in the home of Lord Morpheus - the source of all rumors. Passions and tensions will grow. Questions will be answered, but may come at a hefty price. And a promise may be broken. But, is Lord Morpheus, and those few residents, truly as scary as they seem?

Words Count: ~3.4k

Reader: Neutral (unspecified now, however fem leaning)

Warnings: Minor angst (hints of Morpheus’s past), mutual pinning, some fluff, hints of bloodlust

Chapter 1, Chapter 3

After a week of working in the manor, you quickly found routine in your new life. It was far easier than anticipated, although somewhat tiring at points. And despite exploring the manor, you still tended to become lost or forgetful where certain rooms were. It was massive to say the least, but you adored the architecture, the different colors and styles of each room, and the obvious love - even if slightly dusty due to negligence - poured into it. Two rooms in particular captured your interest and attention: the upstairs library, and the sunroom.

The sunroom was magical. The glass - a soft sea green - dome roof sparkled in any and all lighting. On sunny days, it was as if the heavens rained down on this secret cove. Plants of all colors and variety outlined the room from vibrant dark green ferns - nearly an envious green - to signature staple of the manor’s passionate red roses as well as strong and proud sunflowers, delicate lilacs, and the intricate petals of the blushing pink carnations. Fern leaves as large as dinner plates bent towards the doorways like curtains. You could not help but imagine you were an explorer traversing the jungle as you entered.

In the center, a couch, two chairs, and a table were set out. However, there was a very obvious empty space for furniture to be pushed aside. The true beauty of the room was it could double as a ballroom if needed. You could see where a musician could sit, you could imagine a dozen people dancing in unison, you could feel the air crackle with potential energy. When you walked the pristine tile floor sang with every step of your shoe, heels clacked and echoed like a chorus; imagining a group of people in here, and oh how the room would harmonize.

The library, on the other hand, was quaint and far less grandiose compared to the sunroom. Yet, it held its own type of magic, one of comfort and warmth. It was draped in rich dark browns, glowing oranges of the sun and lanterns, and overall warm tones. The walls had built-in shelves and overflowed with books. A single thin window with a nook to sit and read by sunlight was nestled between two shelves. Two long wooden tables with chairs were placed in the room, almost more of studying than reading comfortably.

The air in the library was calmer, and gentle like an escape, or a brief pause on life. If you strolled over to the collection of books, most were published from Morpheus’s company ‘The Dreamer’s Palace’. Which wasn’t too surprising, but the library held many other books from the popular to the unknown. Every genre filled the shelves: drama, contemporary, romance, horror, fantasy, mystery, nonfiction, mythology, and poetry. You had worlds at your fingertips and each of them called to you.

When you had time, you would eventually borrow a book, with Morpheus’s permission of course. Maybe you could take the book and lounge in the sunroom, now that sounded like a lovely idea.

However, you supposed there was another place besides the sunroom and library to entertain you and your thoughts. You desperately wished to explore the ground, especially the maze. The rose maze enthralled you. The hedges must be ten feet tall, barring all from sneaking a single glance in. The full, perfect lush red roses filled the hedges and dazzled in the sunlight while somehow seemingly glowed in the moonlight. With the moon above, they tempted you like some Greek tragedy. The maze was your labyrinth. Maybe a monster lurked among the roses, maybe you would become lost and lose your sense of self, or maybe it was simply just a maze.

One day.

One day, you would run freely through the hedges and happily lose yourself amongst them.

Late in the morning, Morpheus had requested some tea. If it wasn’t in the morning after what you expected a long night, then he requested afternoon tea for one last boost to finish the day. Light seemed to always shine under the crack of his door. His footsteps creaked along the home constantly even as you laid still in bed.

Maneuvering up the stairs, you carefully balanced a kettle and a tea cup with a saucer. Stepping onto the second floor, you immediately veered left. Morpheus’s study was the first door. You knocked, announcing yourself. His reply was muffled, but allowed you in.

Opening the door, Morpheus was hunched over his desk. Stacks of paper covered his desk, with his pen scratching away editing and making revision notes on a new manuscript. A dying fire crackled as embers burned a reddish orange hue casting the room in a radiating warmth. The curtains were opened showing off the dreary morning. Rain tapped against the window, adding to the ambiance.

You beelined for Morpheus. You efficiently, as possible, set up his tea in the small corner space free of papers. Morpheus - who had been watching not just since you walked in, but since you first arrived - wondered about something that had been bothering him for a few days. The scratching of his pen seized, and he glanced out of the corner of his eye. “May I ask you a question?”

You paused as you set up his tea. It was one of the few other times he addressed you, besides your first interaction and occasionally calling for tea. Shaking yourself out of your stupor, you poured his tea. “Of course, sir.”

He laid down his pen, and turned his head to address you. His eyes - an enchanting pale blue in such dim lighting - locked with yours. “You are not afraid of me.”

You stepped back from him, having finished your assigned task. The kettle left besides his cup if he wished to have more later. You folded your hands in front of you with the empty tray in your hands. His sentence tossed over and over in your head. You frowned slightly in thought, “That is not a question.”

The corner of his lips twitched upward. “You are correct, apologies. I suppose I was more inquiring about your opinion.”

“On what?”

“Myself, and said rumors that circulate the manor.”

You didn’t need time to think. Most people warned you of this place whether directly or indirectly. “The townspeople have their beliefs and I have mine.”

“So you have no care for the matter?”

“I can form my own opinions.” You cocked your head quizzically, “I’m sorry, but did Lucienne not inform you of my answer? She asked a similar question during the interview.”

“She did, but I wish to hear it from you especially given you have been staying with us for more than over a week now.” He twisted his body in his chair, facing you directly. He gave you his full undivided attention. “So what are your opinions? What do you think of the rumors?”

You paused, considering his question. “Do you want my honest opinion, sir?”

You had your opinions. Ones that had been slowly formulating since your arrival, ones that may be an unpleasant truth to hear.

“I do.” He saw the hesitation written plainly on your face. “You can be blunt.”

You nodded, and sighed releasing any tension. “If you wish -“ you cleared your throat - “the way I see it you revel in said rumors. You can easily dispel them by ingraining yourself more into society, but you don’t. You do the donations, you have the well liked bookshop, but you do not show your face. Either you isolate yourself to protect yourself, or because you believe you deserve it - deserve the isolation.”

Morpheus hummed, utterly fascinated by your answer. “Truly? And what do you think? Why would I sever my connection to society?”

Your eyes dragged up and down over his body - you were dissecting him. Morpheus noted how a change came over you. You were not a servant, head bowed, but an equal with a sharp eye. You were clever, far more clever than you let on. A mask had momentarily slipped. “Because you deserve it or so you believe.”

He nodded. You may have indulged a mere facet of his curiosity, but somehow stirred more within this one conversation. He turned back to his work, “Thank you for indulging me.”

“Is there anything else you need, sir?” You smiled, and your tone suggested a hint of teasing, “Any other of my opinions you wish to know?”

His smile was hidden from you. “No, thank you.”

“Of course.” You bowed and swiftly left.

“And do not feel frightened to share your honesty.” He spoke the next sentence softly, whispering, “I enjoy it.”

You paused at the door. A faint flutter hummed in your chest. “If you wish, sir.”

I do, he thought.

You turned your head, glancing back once more. He had returned to his work. Your mind thought back on the conversation, on Morpheus’s self imposed isolation. You opened your mouth, only to quickly close it and simply left. As the door softly clicked shut, Morpheus put his head into his hands.

A mortal.

A foolish mortal who had unknowingly walked into the lion’s den. His thirst rose when you walked by, and the smell of you now imbued his home. Before he remembered a time when his thirst could be quelled for months at a time, unbothered or unaffected by hunger. But now as you freely roamed his halls, he could barely go a few days without feeling its intense and paralyzing effects. The taste of human blood has not touched his lips in nearly a century.

Idiot, he thought. Why did I allow this?

“I believe it would do you some good sir,” Lucienne pressed. She had approached her lord, proposing to introduce a servant, more so a cleaning servant, into the manor. Or more accurately cornered him in his study.

Morpheus huffed under his breath. “Lucienne, I respect you and your opinions, however, this is ridiculous and out of the question.”

“Lord Morpheus, you need to try more or dare we have another fiasco such as the last manor.”

Ah, yes, how could he forget.

He had gotten complacent in his solitude. He kept to himself, and worked on new stories that continued to be sent in from all over. He only cared about his work, and nothing else.

No. That was incorrect.

No, he was purposely drowning himself in it; all to forget the painful heartache. No, he had not gotten complacent in solitude, he had gotten complacent in his endless grief. Let the people gossip, he bitterly thought. Let them believe in the monster. He did not care for his world were these dingy walls with the ghost roaming amongst them.

But, a strange man who lived on the outskirts of town stirred vile imaginations. After a decade and possibly longer of living - in what Morpheus ignorantly believed to be peace - the townspeople charged one night forcing everyone to flee.

He had to rebuild.

He had to remake himself in this new town. He had hoped his donations would soothe the townspeople, but mortals were weary of newcomers and indulged in their superstitions far too often.

Even if their intuitions were right most of the time.

A tap on the window broke Morpheus out of his thoughts, his memories. Through the haze of the night, a small black mass was perched on the window sill. Morpheus wordlessly strolled over and opened the window. A bird, a raven specifically, swooped in and landed on the desk.

“And what do I owe the pleasure, Matthew?” Morpheus asked, facing the raven.

The raven shuffled, his talons clacked against the wood. “Sorry to interrupt, boss, but Merv is asking for something for the pain again. He says his supply is almost out.”

Morpheus’s features softened, a miniscule change. “Okay, tell Merv I will send for more immediately.”

Matthew nodded, but he did not move.

“Is there something else you need?” Morpheus asked, raising his eyebrow.

Matthew sighed, sinking a bit. “I may or may not have been listening to yours and Lucienne’s conversation.”

Morpheus’s lips thinned, not angered Matthew was listening - it was nothing new - but because he knew Matthew would side with Lucienne. “And what do you think of the matter then?”

“Well,” he drawled out, “I have been visiting the town a bit, and some of the people have begun to talk and they’re not too … happy.”

Morpheus barely contained his eye roll. “I have done all I can to appease them, if they want to make speculations then let them. I don’t harm them in any capacity.”

It was true. His diet these days consisted solely of animals.

“Maybe an appearance at the bookshop then,” Lucienne suggested. “But, I still urge you to hire someone. If others see someone unharmed in your care then it would lessen the problem.”

“I will not bring a stranger into my home just so mortals can stop gossiping.”

“If not for you then for us, for the manor. We already had to run once.”

Morpheus frowned.

Lucienne cautiously stepped forward. “You opened your door to me - for Mervyn, and Matthew - you brought in a stranger once before.”

“That was different. This will be a mortal, Lucienne.”

“And do you not trust yourself, or do you not want a repeat?”

Morpheus’s shoulders tensed. An intense, chilling, glare settled into his eyes. His eyes glowed ominously like a feral animal. “Lucienne, I will ask you once to not bring that up again.”

Lucienne stepped back, but did not look away. She held her ground in a way. “Apologies, sir, but I do not want to find a new place so soon.”

Matthew chirped up, disliking the heavy tension in the room. He flapped his wings to turn all the attention onto him. “And it would be nice for you, boss. The manor has been gathering dust, so it would be good for all of us, right?”

Morpheus closed his eyes then exhaled slowly. Opening his eyes, they had returned to a normal shade. “Fine.”

“What?” Matthew muttered, stunned.

“Bring someone in, do what you must.” He turned his back. “If we can survive another decade here peacefully then do so. I don’t want to start again so quickly.”

“Of course, sir, thank you.” Lucienne bowed her head and left as Matthew swooped after her.

Look at all the good it has done, Morpheus thought.

Morpheus was confined to these walls with you lurking around. You were haunting him, and you reminded him of -

He shook away those memories. He had a new ghost in his home and he had to deal with this unfortunate reality. This wasn’t about him, this was about Lucienne, Matthew, and Mervyn. They were lucky last time to escape before the home burned, but luck always ran out. If people discovered the truth, if they came in the night unheard, he couldn’t forgive himself for anything that would happen to his friends - his family.

This was his family unlike the one born from blood.

Meanwhile as you strolled away from Morpheus’s study, your thoughts were tangled together. He was odd. Polite, yes. But, odd. He created a wedge between him and most; a wedge you clearly saw. In the short time you were living here, it was becoming obvious who Lord Morpheus was: a tortured soul. But, why? What drove him to this state? If you were to continue to live here, you would find out.

Curiosity was powerful, and you had your reasonings to do so.

Taking the tray to the kitchen, you once again passed by another oddity in the manor: the plain wooden door under the stairs. Earlier in your adventures of the manor, you tried to open it to no avail.

“I wouldn’t keep trying if I were you.” You whirled around - panicked you had been caught - and thankfully only saw Lucienne. She smiled, a joking smile, at your reaction. Her eyes darted to the lock door. “It leads to the basement where the plumbing goes.”

You frowned, disappointed.

“Sorry, I know it’s not as wondrous as you might think.” She strolled forwards, eyes kept on the door. “But I assure you, it’s not pleasant down there. It’s damp and dark with old pipes.”

Her eyes flickered over, locking with yours. She peered over her glasses to ensure she looked at you directly. ‘Don’t’ was all her eyes said.

“I suppose the wonders of plumping is something I’m not too keen about,” you chuckled lightly.

Her smile softened, and laughed along with you. “No, I don’t think most are. Now, if you excuse me, I was going to get a drink.”

She skirted by you towards the kitchen. Once, she was down the hall and out of sight, your eyes swiveled back to the door. Only one thought ran through your mind: she’s lying. You pressed your hand to the door. In your chest, deep within your bones, something hummed on the other side.

Stepping back, you searched and no one was around. If not today, but one day you will see what was behind that door. A voice told you to be cautious in your curiosity, but to also not let it die out. Trust your gut. And your gut needed the door to be opened to reveal all its secrets.

You paused, running your hand over the grain of the wood. The hum still called out. Similar to how you swore to uncover the secrets of a Morpheus, this door fell under it as well. This manor reeked of secrets and lies. It did not frightened you, not in the least. It compelled you. And the rumors only spurred your thirst for knowledge.

But, today was not the day. All of this required a touch of patience.

A skill you honed over the years.

Brushing past, you made your way into the kitchen dropping off the tray. Glancing out the window, the late rainy morning reminded you of all the hours you still had left in the day. You sighed.

Now, what should I do?

The rest of the day you decided to busy yourself with cleaning the kitchen. Most of the appliances were new, and strangely did not seem to be used as frequently since some dust had collected on them, much like the rest of the manor. You scrubbed the cabinets and the floor, cleaned dishes and silverware, and threw away any rotted food - which was surpassingly little. The kitchen nearly sparkled by the end of your work, and luckily the day had passed between all of it.

You retired for the night and drew a well deserved and needed bath. You soaked for almost an hour, letting your skin prune and your thoughts wander: thoughts of the manor, thoughts of Lucienne, thoughts of the mysterious gardener, thoughts of Morpheus, and thoughts of your past and life now.

You sighed, sinking into the water until it barely touched your nose.

Here was a new start with new promises while the past still loomed heavily over your shoulders. No, you truly couldn’t start anew until the past was settled. You knew this, and you were constantly reminded of it.

With the water now cold, you decided to get out. You dried off and pulled on your night clothes. Shuffling out of the bathroom, you passed the writing desk.

You paused.

Changing direction from your cozy bed, you veered to the desk. You needed to write a letter, one you had forgotten - and may have purposely neglected - to write. You plopped down into the creaky wooden chair and began to write a letter. Amongst your initial search of the desk, you were surprised, and thankful, to find paper and ink already inside the drawer.

You had an old promise to keep.

You pulled out a paper and addressed it to your uncle. An uncle who raised you and taught you many things. An uncle who you spoke exclusively in letters since leaving his home nearly over a decade ago. You loved him dearly, and hoped maybe one day after your journey of self discovery, and possibly after truly settling down, you would visit him again.

Under a candlelight, you wrote about the past week. You spoke of your new job, your new lord, and the others who lived here - even if you spoke only to one. You spoke how this job could be the one, the one to change your life. You told him he was still always in your thoughts, and wondered how he was doing since his new retired life per his last letter. You smiled down at the letter, and signed it. You neatly folded it, and tucked it into an envelope to send at the earliest convenience.

Maybe Lucienne could take it to the post office for you, or maybe you’ll make a visit into town.

The decision will come later, for now you need to sleep.

[suicidalhamsterhotline]

I LOVE drawing Katie. The outfit, the pigtails... Just the overall vibe. Island of the slaughter is overflowing with angst potential, and Katie is my favorite heavily traumatized character to draw and think about.

I can't get therapy, so this is the next best thing.

[thistlecatfics]

Okay, I want your opinion/meta on Sirius and Regulus' relationship. I I am so bad for them, BADD I ship them so much but it's impossible not to given the potential for angst, repressed sexual tension and shekspiarian tinged love that overflows their ship. I read your fanfic of them inspired by Taylor's song and it was very well done, I was very grateful to have found it, however I'm very interested to know your opinion given how unpopular this ship is.

Hello hello!

I started writing, and I realized I could write about these two forever whoops. This is going to a bit scattered, and hopefully I'll just keep adding to it.

Obvious content warnings for incest and underage! (though nothing is explicitly described here)

I don’t think this ship is unpopular at all! Looking at otp:true fics, the Sirius ships in order are: 1) Sirius/Remus, 2) Sirius/James, 3) Sirius/Snape, 4) Sirius/Hermione, 5) Sirius/Harry, 6) Sirius/Regulus. For Regulus it goes: 1) Regulus/James, 2) Regulus/Sirius. For an incest ship, that feels very high. 

They are so captivating! 

"I hated the lot of them: my parents with their pure-blood mania, convinced that to be a Black made you practically royal... my idiot brother, soft enough to believe them... that's him. He was younger than me, and a much better son, as I was constantly reminded."

My idiot brother, soft enough to believe them! “Soft enough!” What a way to describe your brother. Sirius can be so cruel in his words when he wants to be but calling him ‘soft’?? There’s so much tenderness there even when he’s trying to be defended about it. 

I have a number of different versions of them in my head, given that I’m not engaging in a critical reading of the text with regard to their relationship and more of the fact that I’m an incest survivor who has projected onto them as needed throughout the past twenty years. I like canon compliance and being rooted in the text, but I also recognize that most of my impressions of them are more about me and less about the text. 

I love many different versions, but I will say I cannot stand the newly popular fanon (especially in Jegulus circles) where Regulus wants to leave but nobly sacrifices himself to stay and be the heir so Sirius is able to leave the family. 

Regulus and Sirius love each other more than anything. Sirius builds into the core of his identity that he is Regulus’s protector. (When Regulus rejects that protection, he is crushed.) Regulus builds into the core of his identity that he and Sirius are one unit, a soul in two bodies. (When Sirius builds an autonomous identity outside of the family, he is crushed.) They are never quite able to forgive the other (because they are never quite able to forgive themselves for needing the other so much.) 

Here are a few contradictory thoughts and headcanons and ideas: 

Regulus is Walburga’s golden child, and it’s not uncommon for the golden child to be the one who is sexually abused while the scapegoat is physically and emotionally abused. The intimacy of sexual abuse as a marker of goodness and specialness within the abusive family system.  

Regulus is the initiator. The hypersexual kid. His mother uses him to make herself feel good, and Regulus wants to do the same for Sirius, because his mother loves him, and he loves Sirius, and that’s what you do when you love someone so much. 

And Sirius resists… just long enough that he can tell himself he resisted. 

And Sirius steals wine from the adults to share with Regulus so he has something to blame for giving into his desires again and again. 

As he gets older and spends more time with the Potters and in Gryffindor, his behavior with Regulus becomes something he associates with the awfulness of his family which he is trying desperately to reject. 

Regulus tries to initiate. Sirius is quite cruel in his rejection. 

(He returns to Regulus’s bedroom later that night, and he is cruel in how he embraces Regulus, but Regulus is thrilled to be used.) 

Sirius runs away, and Regulus can’t forgive him. Sirius has sex with random older men in Hogsmeade and keeps saying Regulus’s name. Regulus starves himself Seeker-skinny and that’s something to focus on, a disciplining of his desires. 

Then, maybe that’s it for them. Or maybe they come together in the castle by random happenstance or at a wedding of some politically neutral pureblood family, and they both carry too much hurt and a family legacy of cruelty, and they have sex to try to punish themselves and punish the other, and then that’s it for them, because Regulus dies and doesn’t tell Sirius when he defects. They each know that they love the other, but they can't believe that they themselves are loved.

Or maybe, Sirius is the initiator. He holds enough power over Regulus by age and by status of being the heir and by size that it can’t be considered anything other than abuse. Regulus can’t say no to Sirius. Sirius as bully, Sirius as predator. At Hogwarts, this behavior extends to Snape, and Regulus and Snape find each other as two boys who love/hate/desire/fear Sirius. 

Or maybe, the sexual intimacy feels like a natural evolution of their intimacy. Two very sheltered boys growing up in a scary house together which is entirely unsuitable for children. Their emotional worlds only consist of each other, and they sleep in each other’s beds, and the boundaries between one body and another feel impossibly thin. When Sirius is sorted into Gryffindor, it feels like the first tear in their interwoven body. Their sexual behavior towards each other exists as something innocent which can't survive in the real world of an impending war.

I'm feral for these two in every universe <3

My Regulus/Sirius fics: 

what if he's written "Mine" on my upper thigh only in my mind? (1k, after Sirius runs away)

Duty (2k, Regulus Black character study)

My writing on incest and being an incest survivor:

Talking about Incest in Public