#theme: introspection

[hp-fanfic-archive]

warmth; or the meaning thereof by Anonymous Pairing: Gen, Severitus Rating: T Word Count: 5k Podfic available here Read by: Anonymous Length: 0:33:40 “Is that your… father?” the red-headed boy asks, frowning slightly as the train pulls away from the station. Other parents are waving on the platform, bright smiles and tears on their faces; a red-headed girl with the same pointed nose as the boy in the seat across from them is chasing the train, laughing and crying all at once, until she can’t keep up anymore. In the distance, and only because he cranes to see it, Harry can just make out a still figure in black, billowing robes, his hands tucked into his pockets. “The closest thing I have to it,” Harry says, turning back to the boy. “My foster father. Severus.” “He seems…” The boy pauses, his frown deepening. “Kind of cold.” “There’s more than one way to be warm.” Harry smiles, not expecting this other boy to understand. “There’s more than one way to show care.”

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[marzipanandminutiae]

Average historian denies all gay relationships statistic false!

No-Lesbians Ruth Franklin, who lives in an archive and denies any possible sapphic interpretation of Shirley Jackson’s work 50 times a day, is an outlier adn should not be counted

[aventurineswife]

Ehh... I hope I can deliver my request clearly...

I want to request pining Moze and Jiaoqiu x oblivious, emotionless reader. So basically, the reader is Feixiao's assistant. The person who organizes her schedule, conveys information, in short, Feixiao's trusted person. But the reader is an emotionless person here, so they're oblivious about Moze and Jiaoqiu's feelings. It can be separate, though. And for the ending... dunno, I think it's better if it'll end with a bad one >:) anyway, stay healthy! >///<

Falling for the Void

Tags: Moze x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Angst, Unrequited Love, Pining (not mutual), Tragic Romance, Emotionless Reader, Introspection, Slow Burn.

Warnings: Themes of unreciprocated love and emotional detachment, Emotional distress and self-doubt, Minor mentions of battle and injuries, Implied psychological struggles (Moze and Jiaoqiu), No resolution for romantic tension.

Moze’s breath hitched as he stood in the shadows of Feixiao’s war room, hidden behind the thick pillars that lined the space. His eyes trailed after you, the silent assistant who had earned Feixiao’s unwavering trust. He had watched you move with precision, conveying orders and managing chaos with an emotionless efficiency that intrigued and unnerved him.

For someone so deeply entrenched in order and precision, Moze found himself captivated by the way you remained detached, unfazed even by the looming chaos of battle. It wasn’t love at first sight—love wasn’t something he allowed himself to feel. But over time, your presence became a fixation, a tether to something that felt painfully out of reach.

You were speaking to Feixiao now, relaying reports of abomination activity near the southern sector. Your voice was calm, steady, devoid of any emotional inflection. It wasn’t cold, but it lacked warmth—a stark contrast to Feixiao’s fiery charisma. Moze, cloaked in the shadows, gripped the hilt of his blade tightly.

How many times had he stepped into danger, knowing you would never notice? He had taken missions no one else dared to, plunging into darkness and bloodshed, hoping you might look at him the way others looked at Feixiao—with admiration, trust, or even the faintest flicker of recognition.

But you never did.

Later that evening, Moze approached you. The war room was empty now, and you were seated at the large table, organizing battle plans with your usual stoic efficiency. He hesitated at the edge of the room, his usually silent footsteps faltering.

“Assistant.” he said, his voice low, strained.

You looked up, your expression unreadable as always. “Yes, Shadow Guard?”

He clenched his fists, the scarred bandages on his wrist tightening. “Why do you follow her so closely? Feixiao, I mean.”

You tilted your head slightly, as if the question were foreign. “She saved my life. I owe her everything.”

Moze’s chest tightened. “And if someone else saved you? Would you feel the same?”

“Of course,” you replied flatly, returning to the maps. “It’s only logical.”

His heart sank. Your words were a blade, sharper than any he had wielded. He stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t feel anything, do you? For her. For anyone.”

You paused, meeting his gaze for the first time. “I don’t understand what you’re asking, Shadow Guard. Feelings are irrelevant to my duties.”

And with that, you returned to your work, leaving him standing there, his heart heavy with unspoken words. For the first time in years, Moze felt truly powerless. Shadows, he realized, could never touch the sun.

Jiaoqiu watched from the sidelines as you helped Feixiao don her armor, your movements mechanical and precise. Your face was calm, indifferent, as always. He couldn’t understand how you remained so detached, so unaffected by the chaos and bloodshed that surrounded you daily.

For the foxian healer, emotions were a double-edged sword. They drove him to heal, to save lives, but they also tore at his soul when he couldn’t save everyone. Seeing you, someone who seemed immune to such turmoil, was both fascinating and maddening.

“Assistant.” he called softly as you passed by him in the camp.

You turned, your expression blank. “Healer Jiaoqiu. Do you require assistance?”

He hesitated. What could he even say? That he stayed up at night, replaying the brief moments he spent near you? That he had concocted dozens of ways to speak to you, only to falter every time?

“I… wanted to thank you,” he said finally, forcing a smile. “For keeping Feixiao on schedule. Without you, she’d probably never rest.”

You blinked. “It’s my job.”

“Yes, but—” He stopped himself. Of course, you wouldn’t understand. For you, everything was a task, a duty to be fulfilled. “Never mind.”

He turned away, retreating to his makeshift medical tent. Inside, he leaned against the table, his hands trembling. He had saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives, but he couldn’t even make you feel. The healer who couldn’t heal his own heart.

Weeks later, Jiaoqiu found himself treating you. A minor wound, easily stitched, but he couldn’t help but linger.

“You should rest,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against your wrist as he applied the bandage.

You pulled away. “I don’t need rest. There’s work to be done.”

He sighed. “You’re not a machine.”

“No,” you said, standing. “But I was chosen because I act like one. Feixiao trusts me because I’m efficient, not because I feel.”

He stared after you as you left, his heart aching. In that moment, Jiaoqiu realized the truth: he could heal wounds, but he could never mend the hollow space where your heart should have been.

[moonsnqil]

trying to explain to my best friend that while aftg is a mafia book, the mafia isn't even the most prevalent theme and how really it's a love story at it's core but not in a fairytale way rather in the way horror movies are love stories

[artificialchaoscola]

I had a dream last night that I was Shadow the Hedgehog in the position of a lead woman in a PS1 to PS2-era horror game. I think everything about that just fits wonderfully.

[bonefall]

tall shadows line of "she was only a kittypet" kinda reminds me of the line "they were only slaves" from the prince of egypt.

What kills me about it is that like, at that point in the movie, the Pharoah Is Bad. Him saying that a billion babies where fed to crocodiles is A Bad Thing. It's the point where Moses realizes he can't be part of the royal family without being complicit.

But Tall Shadow says "calm down, Bumble was less than human anyway" and Gray Wing nods along (complete with the jiggly clicking noise that comes with shaking a can of spraypaint) and this is an example of them being reasonable. Level-headed, even, not getting swept away by the passion of the angry mob.

There are so many levels to how fucked up the Bumble Debacle is that you can't explore every floor all at once. It is an onion. It has layers.

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Metallica, 1986.

[emrys-rusts]

I think there is nothing funnier than making russian lit characters commit faggot activities, to trans beam them, and to silly post about the local france-should-have-occupied-russia twink. Dussy hates me but I say, babe, yall are not that serious

[articskele]

“...Wrong? Why would anything go wrong?”

Without further ado, a stimboard for @ask-the-biggering-onceler!

x|x|x x|x|x x|x|x

[mercilessflowchart]

Why are Marakas’ lips so hard to draw from the side???

[thewhizzyhead]

does anyone want an analysis on a light or somethin because its been on fuckin repeat since the day I first listened to warriors and now swercy is all I can think about. also I feel obligated to tell you that Julia and Jazzy call it swercy too and I'm not kidding just look at their IG comments they use the hashtag and everything

[rafent]

✦ 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐄 ✧

* grandmaster mastery drabble ( fell xenologue ch. 5 spoilers )

Nil was a caring brother. He picked up a weapon because he wanted to share in Nel's struggles, because two halves of a whole but one clinging to the other with hopes and prayers didn't make them equal. A glorified dragonstone warmer couldn't protect anyone, not himself and especially not her.

"It's fine, really. Like this even a failure like me can be useful."

Nil was a naughty brother. He admitted one thing to his big sister, but left out another. Left out several. He picked the axe because he'd hate being worse than Nel at anything. Festering in his heart was enough darkness, enough spots of black rotting canker, that he wouldn't dare invite one more to eat him up inside. Not an unheard of story, neither across history nor across fell kind; better that the younger forge his own way, step out of her shadow and into unclaimed skies of his own.

And of course, last but not least, 'Nil' was a right old strategist.

A vicious Child at the end of the day, who put one thought before every foot. Every Fell Dragon lost their twin eventually, and Nil would too if Nel ever found out. She'd rip him apart for daring to impersonate what was hers, she'd abandon the one who needed her more than she ever needed him. Every Fell Dragon lost their twin eventually, and one day Nil would too.

If that's what his dreams took.

"Remember, Nil. Swords break axes, and axes break lances."

...

Two halves of a whole, the Divine One had once stated with wonder, at times of the newcomers Nel and Nil with their immovable attachments at the hip, and at others of the partnered Emblems that called the bracelet of the Shepherd Exalt home. If they would only lay eyes upon all of them now, they'd be turning in their grave.

Break! Twin on twin, brutality forced upon brutality unwilling. The Fell Heir wielded his axe with vicious purpose against the thin haft of Represailles, and snapped it away from Nel's hands. He let her pick it up, then struck again.

Already he was a new person, or one might argue, the truest he’d always been; cruel and calculating, his four puny breezes cast off like jetsam on a ship that had no more room for them. Cruel; the pleas of the anguished sister ignored, as another Divine One looked on. Calculating; breaking Nel would break resistance, this could all stop once that fool agreed to cooperate.

Strike and strike again. With each brutalizing blow, a flash of gold and royal blue on his arm, well-suited on outside and strange on inside. It had seemed different on the Divine One—their Divine One—on whom there had always been some calming affectation of reassurance, and cleansed noble strength.

On Rafal, nothing of those qualities remained. Foregoing blue, Chrom hovered ominously behind him as a blood-red moon, to his new partner both a valuable weapon and the vignette of a memory; blue at blue's back, a sinuous pair of swords striking as one. He could have his pick of any bracelet in this fight, so why this one, why theirs, had his choice of Chrom been born of sentiment?

An unbecoming theory.

The hero from which this spirit was derived had slain a powerful Fell Dragon in his life, his Emblem incarnation had helped to slay even Father while perched on the Divine One's wrist, and Rafal too once possessed dragons to slay from sister to brother, now to sister again. It was a matter of mutual talents, a pairing predicated on the fang best suited to a maw.

...Nothing more, nothing less.

"Let me introduce you. This is Chrom. Together with Robin, they make up the Emblem of Bonds. Two halves of a whole—a bit like you and Nel, wouldn't you say?"

...

Across their centuries together as false brother and giving sister, Nel had never played with Nil roughly, never so much as hurt him, much less tried to kill him. She'd made the choice to hold him precious; the vestigial limb she were meant to cut away as all her kind did instead retained, her twin dragging uselessly behind her, though his weight bogged her down.

Kind, giving Nel was full of surprises, too.

“So. . .you finally struck at me in earnest.”

Something flitted across his face, genuine, on the end of a fierce strike that caused Chrom to gutter out like a flame and Rafal to hit the ground. The bars of the prison vanished in flickering prisms, letting out the Divine One, letting spill all tightly lidded hopes. Resistance hadn't broken, his prisoner freed, but even in the event of unexpected development, of seeming failure, he was still alive.

This too was his expectation, wasn't it?

In the end, he knew Nel wouldn’t be able to do it. If she truly aimed to kill her brother, that would be no more than closing those same fangs about herself. The heart was a tool and a burden, the owners of it promisingly soft. They worked their hands raw for higher purpose, abraded themselves on concessions for people higher than themselves, said yes where they ought say no, let live when they ought kill. For Nel it had been Nil, and for the Divine One it could still be Nel likewise.

Their footsteps departed. Rafal's eyes snapped open with a giggle, both mad and sane. No use wading in brine when there was still honey to be found. So long as he wasn't dead, there was always another plan.

Wiping clean the slate, the desert temple rumbled on its failing stilts. Collapsed to rubble in the wake of departed twins with matters left to finish.

"Zelestia. Please support these two going forward, no matter what happens.”

[kylekreepsmeout]

A Comic about my Dissatisfaction

[aventurineswife]

Could I request the Astral Express trio (you can choose Stelle or Caelus) with a reader (GN) who is also a member of the Express who is like an older sibling? Reprimanding them when they get hurt, or comforting them when they're upset?

No One is Alone

Summary: Life aboard the Astral Express isn't just about fighting enemies or exploring new worlds—it's also about looking out for each other. As the team's older sibling figure, you take it upon yourself to reprimand Dan Heng and Stelle after they return from a mission injured. Through scolding, comforting, and heartfelt conversations, you remind them that they're part of a team and don't have to face their struggles alone.

Tags: Astral Express Trio x Reader, Platonic, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Sibling Dynamics, GN!Reader, Protective!Reader, Team Bonding, Angst with a Happy Ending.

Warnings: Mentions of injuries (non-graphic), Mild guilt/self-blame themes, Emotional vulnerability and introspection.

The hum of the Astral Express filled the air, a comforting backdrop to life aboard the interstellar train. You sat in the lounge, scanning over a datapad while keeping half an ear tuned to the faint commotion from the infirmary. It was a sound you'd become all too familiar with since joining the crew.

Dan Heng and Stelle—recovering from yet another scrape they shouldn't have gotten into.

The infirmary door swished open, and March peeked out, her expression torn between amusement and sympathy. "They're ready for the scolding..." she chirped.

You sighed, setting your datapad aside. Rising to your feet, you felt the weight of your role—neither a fighter nor a strategist, but the de facto big sibling of this unconventional family.

The scene in the infirmary was almost comical. Stelle sat on one of the cots, a bandage around her upper arm, her usual unbothered expression firmly in place. Dan Heng stood nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, looking stoic despite the gash on his shoulder that hadn't been there when the mission started.

"Care to explain?" you began, arms crossed and gaze level.

"It was just a minor miscalculation." Dan Heng replied calmly.

"A 'minor miscalculation' doesn't leave you bleeding, Dan Heng," you said pointedly, turning to Stelle. "And you—didn't I tell you to call for backup if things went south?"

Stelle gave a sheepish shrug. "I thought we could handle it."

"You thought wrong." You sighed, your tone softening as you crossed the room. Grabbing a chair, you sat between them, your expression gentler now. "I know you're both incredibly capable. But even the best make mistakes. You're part of a team—you don't have to shoulder everything alone."

Dan Heng's gaze flickered to the floor, and Stelle's shoulders slumped slightly.

"You don’t need to push yourself to the point of breaking to prove anything," you added, standing to place a reassuring hand on each of their shoulders. "We're in this together. If something happened to either of you, we’d all feel it. And you’d feel the same if it were March, right?"

Both nodded, though they didn’t meet your gaze.

"Good. Now, promise me you’ll call for help next time."

"Promise." Stelle said, a small smile tugging at her lips. Dan Heng gave a slight nod, his stoic mask cracking just enough for you to catch the faintest hint of guilt.

Later, in the privacy of the archive, you found Dan Heng surrounded by stacks of books. He looked up as you entered, his expression as composed as ever.

"You didn't just come here to read, did you?" you asked, pulling up a chair.

"...No," he admitted after a moment, his voice quiet. "I thought I could avoid putting others at risk by keeping things to myself. I didn’t think about how that might affect the team."

You smiled softly, resting a hand on his. "Dan Heng, you're not a burden. You're not just running from your past anymore—you’re building a future with all of us. And we need you to trust us enough to let us help."

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. "I'll try."

Later that evening, Stelle found you in the lounge, sitting with a warm drink. She plopped down beside you, her usual confidence dimmed by something you couldn’t quite place.

"You were right," she said, uncharacteristically subdued.

"About what?" you asked, setting your drink down.

"About asking for help." She stared at the floor for a moment before meeting your eyes. "I’m used to going it alone. But... it’s different with you guys. It’s like, I know you’ve got my back, and that’s scary because now I care. You know?"

You smiled, ruffling her hair like a younger sibling. "That’s not a bad thing, Stelle. Caring means you’re not just surviving anymore—you’re living."

She leaned into your side, her head on your shoulder. "Thanks, big sibling."

"Anytime," you said, wrapping an arm around her. "Just stop scaring me with the near-death experiences, okay?"

"I’ll try." she mumbled, and for now, that was enough.

(yonagi on X)

[doom-dreaming]

Do you think she said/he heard something funny enough that got him to smile/laugh and look away for a fraction of a second. Do you think she felt enamored and secretly tried to get him to laugh again. Because in midst of chaos she's never really seen him simply laugh and rarely seen him smile.

"You always take me to such nice places," she remarks. It's half-sarcastic (the body of the Jackal they'd ambushed is floating down the creek at the bottom of the ravine) but there's an undercurrent of sincerity to it - it is a nice little place. Leaf-filtered light dapples the grass under John's boots. High overhead, the glittering curve of Delta Halo's alien landscape fades into a cloudless blue sky. Her sensors pick up birdsong; she runs a quick comparison scan through her database...no match to a familiar species. Interesting. She files the call under a new entry.

A nice place indeed.

John shoots two more Jackal snipers off their perches, sending them sprawling limp against the rocks. Shouts echo up the cliff walls from somewhere beyond the range of both sight and sensors; Unggoy cries of alarm, silenced by a swift Sangheili command.

"Seems like we've crashed our own surprise party."

John drops from the ledge and hits the ground running, clearing a gap in the rocks around the waterfall with the effortless grace of a jungle cat. Cortana swears she can feel the mist swirling past his shields. He meets the oncoming Covenant as he always does, a wall of metallic green titanium, an unstoppable force and an immovable object all, somehow, rolled into one.

The next thirty seconds are a blur of bullets, brutality, and blood. Cortana wanders. A frog, an unremarkable little brown thing only a few inches long, launches itself from the bank of the creek, kicking through the water to the safety of a submerged rock. A dragonfly as dazzlingly blue as Cortana herself alights on the flowering stalk of a reed. A lizard with a brightly-colored tail three times the length of its body skitters up a nearby tree. A shiny black beetle, unperturbed by the chaos around it, trundles under a clump of fallen leaves.

This ring is alive in a way so different from the first, with an entirely separate ecosystem— "Wait." She folds in on herself, collapsing back into the confines of the Mjolnir, pressing at the barrier separating her—just barely—from the electrical storm inside his brain on the other side.

He stops.

"...I wonder if there are fish in that creek."

A mixture of amusement and confusion splashes up against the barrier, but he humors her curiosity without a word, picking his way over the rocks, deeper into the ravine.

Sure enough, there they are. Tiny silver things wriggling at the edges of stones and within the stands of reeds, breaking the surface tension to swallow up pinprick-small insects resting on the water, leaving behind perfectly round, glistening bubbles.

She relaxes again, swelling outward, soaking in everything she can touch. The rocks here are slick with waterfall mist; moss grows in the crevices, lush tracks of green and pink. Somewhere close, another frog croaks. Insects buzz. Leaves rattle in the breeze. There's no gunfire. No alien shrieking. No radio chatter. It's serene.

"Hard to believe these were built to be weapons," she muses, focusing on a miniscule spider as it climbs across a branch over their head. His head. She had to stop doing that. "...we should keep going. Regret has to be close. Sorry about the detour."

Calmness and nonchalant acceptance greet her from John's side of the neural barrier when she tucks herself back into the nooks and crannies of his armor. Part of her—a rather loud part of her—wants to stay and analyze the intricacies of this halo's flora and fauna and how it had all developed and fit together, but...they have work to do.

She can't resist one last quip as John navigates through the winding cavern out of the ravine. "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate this date?" She's not expecting a response, but he surprises her. It's nothing more than a huff of air and a low sound in the back of his throat, but Cortana feels the chemical-electrical rush of amusement behind it and knows what it's supposed to be.

And in spite of the frogs and insects and birdsong, it's the sweetest sound she's heard since they landed.

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Metallica (1985)