#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.”

find the full podfic library here

[aventurineswife]

Aventurine, Sunday and Ratio w/ a Memokeeper...? 👀

“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us”

Tags: Ratio x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Character Study, Existential Themes, Introspection, Emotional Growth, Intellectual Tension, Mysticism, Loss, Haunted Past, Unresolved Regret, Journey of Self-Discovery, Temporal Manipulation

Warnings: Existential Crisis, Trauma, Philosophical Discomfort, Emotional Weight Vulnerability in Characters, Mature Themes (regret, guilt, and self-worth).

Ratio, with his signature plaster sculpture concealing his face and his wavy hair cascading just past his shoulders, was a figure both revered and feared within the Intelligentsia Guild. His sharp eyes, the color of fading twilight with a ring of yellow at their core, saw everything and everyone, evaluating, analyzing, dissecting.

It was here that you, a Memokeeper from the Garden of Recollection, first encountered him.

You had come to this world, as you did with every other, to preserve memories, to seek out moments that spoke of the lives lived, the forgotten faces, and the stars that fell into oblivion. In the endless cycle of existence, you had learned that the only thing that truly mattered was memory. To think, to feel, to exist—those were not just ephemeral things, but imprints on the fabric of reality itself.

But when you met Ratio, it was as if all the weight of time had been condensed into a single moment. He, too, had an unyielding belief in the importance of knowledge, in the idea that ideas, too, were immortal. He understood the power of remembrance, but to him, it was intellect, not memory, that was the truest form of immortality. A fascinating paradox.

"You're a Memokeeper, aren't you?" His voice was smooth, like velvet over steel, his eyes locking onto yours, seeing straight through to your very essence.

You nodded, concealing your true form beneath your disguise, as was customary for those like you. In this world, you were just another scholar, another wanderer with a collection of knowledge to trade. But unlike the others, your knowledge wasn’t of facts or figures. It was of memories, of moments suspended in time, of people long gone and forgotten.

"You believe that memory is everything, don’t you?" Ratio's gaze never wavered, as if he was testing you. "You think that by preserving memory, you preserve the soul of a person. But memories are subjective, fleeting. They are not absolute. Ideas, facts, theories—these are what endure. These are what define existence."

His words were confident, dismissive even. But you knew there was more behind them, a deeper yearning to understand what lay beyond the limits of mortal comprehension. You could see it in the way his hands gestured as he spoke, the sharpness of his thoughts revealing a man who, despite all his brilliance, was searching for something more.

"You misunderstand," you said, your voice calm but full of a quiet intensity. "Memories are the only things that cannot be erased, not by time, not by entropy. They are the proof of existence. Without them, what are we but ghosts, vanishing without a trace?"

Ratio's eyes glinted with something unreadable—was it interest? Curiosity? You couldn’t tell, but it was enough to pique his attention. "And how do you preserve them? What makes your memories so… important?"

You smiled faintly, an ethereal expression. "I don’t just remember, Dr. Ratio. I preserve. Through the Garden of Recollection, I collect and store memories, not just from the world I come from, but from all worlds. I can live through them, feel what they felt, see what they saw. I can carry the memories of thousands, and in doing so, they live on."

For a moment, there was silence. Ratio’s gaze remained fixed on you, his expression unreadable. "And what of your own memories?" he asked, his voice softer now, though still brimming with intensity. "Do you ever remember yourself? Or are you too lost in the memories of others to even recall your own?"

It was a question that struck deeper than you had anticipated. You, who had shed your mortal form long ago to live as a memetic entity, could not remember the life you once lived. The body you had was but a vessel, an illusion of the past. Yet you held the memories of countless lives, each one a thread in the grand tapestry of existence.

"I remember," you said quietly, your voice distant, as if recalling a long-forgotten dream. "But only fragments. I carry the memories of all those I've encountered, of all the lives I've touched. And in that, I live."

Ratio stared at you, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a momentary crack in his armor. "Fascinating," he murmured, as if the concept of your existence challenged everything he had ever known. "You are a paradox, then. A being of memory, yet unable to fully grasp your own existence. How… tragic."

You tilted your head slightly. "Perhaps. But in some ways, it’s beautiful. Every life I encounter becomes a part of me, and in that, I become part of them. A perpetual exchange, a never-ending cycle of remembrance."

Ratio’s lips quirked upward slightly, a rare and almost imperceptible smile. "Perhaps," he echoed, his voice tinged with something akin to admiration. "You might be right, after all. Memory is the only true form of immortality. But don’t forget, my Memokeeper, that intellect and knowledge are what shape the universe. Without them, memory would be meaningless."

You met his gaze, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. "And without memory, even the greatest intellects would fade into obscurity, leaving nothing behind."

For a moment, you both stood there, two beings of immense knowledge and power, staring at one another in the midst of a universe that seemed both infinite and fleeting. In that fleeting moment, there was no need for words. You understood each other, in a way that few could.

As you turned to leave, your final words lingered in the air, like a soft melody, echoing across time itself.

"Remember me, Dr. Ratio. After all, that is the only way I can truly exist."

He watched you disappear into the endless flow of time, his mind racing with questions, with curiosity. The Memokeeper had left an impression, a memory etched into his mind. And though Ratio would continue his work, seeking to change the world through intellect and knowledge, something had shifted within him.

Perhaps, in the end, the preservation of memory and the pursuit of knowledge were not so different after all.

The Astral Express hummed with the faint rhythm of its journey through the stars, its steady pulse a stark contrast to the turbulent thoughts that swirled within Sunday’s mind. He stood by the window, watching the unending expanse of the cosmos pass by, his eyes reflecting distant stars. His thoughts were as fractured as ever—an unyielding dissonance between his ideals and the weight of his past. Yet, there was something different now, something new stirring in him, as if the winds of change were gently sweeping through his world.

You, the Memokeeper, stood just a few steps away from him, an enigmatic presence, yet somehow, your existence felt more real than anything else. Your presence was like an anchor in a sea of uncertainty, a testament to a truth he had not yet fully grasped.

To think is to exist.

He had never truly questioned his existence in this way before. For all his lofty ideals about dreams, suffering, and the balance between them, there was something about you—your quiet, eternal purpose—that made him reconsider his place in the universe.

You had explained, on occasion, the nature of your kind. A Memokeeper’s task was to collect memories, to preserve them as proof of existence in a world where everything, even stars, would eventually fade. Unlike most, who viewed reality and imagination as distinct, Memokeepers saw them as one. It was a perspective that intrigued Sunday deeply, yet he struggled to fully comprehend it. Perhaps because, in the end, he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

"How do you hold on to something so... fleeting?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a weight that betrayed the many layers of his thoughts.

You turned toward him, your expression serene, but there was a flicker of something deeper in your eyes, an understanding of the burden he carried. "We don't hold on to it. We let it flow through us, and in doing so, we become it."

Sunday looked at you, his gaze lingering on the delicate curve of your cheek, the ethereal quality of your being, and how it seemed as though you were made of light itself. "Do you ever feel... trapped by your memories?" His voice faltered at the question, as though he were reaching for something he couldn’t quite touch.

For a moment, there was silence, save for the distant hum of the train and the occasional flicker of stars outside. You took a step closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the air as you spoke, your voice gentle and calm.

"Trapped?" you mused. "No. We are the keepers, not the prisoners. Memories are not chains. They are bridges."

His brow furrowed slightly. "But what if the memories are of things you can never change? Things that haunt you?" His words were quieter now, as if he were speaking more to himself than to you. The weight of his past—of the choices he had made, of the lives he had shaped, for better or worse—pressed down on him once more.

You studied him with a knowing gaze, as though seeing through the veil of his facade. "Hauntings are but echoes of what was, Sunday. The question is not whether the memories are painful, but whether we let them define us." You paused, letting your words settle. "What you choose to do with them—that is what matters."

Sunday’s eyes flickered as if a distant thought had just emerged, one that had been buried beneath layers of rationality and philosophy. He had spent so long trying to change the world, trying to create a place free of suffering, that he had neglected the simplest truth: he could not change the past. He could only move forward.

"But how?" he asked, his voice filled with quiet desperation. "How can I move forward, when the past keeps whispering in my ears?"

You smiled softly, a knowing, almost maternal expression on your face. "You are already moving forward, Sunday. Your journey on the Astral Express is proof of that. The question is not if you will move forward, but how you will choose to remember."

There it was again: remember. It was a word he had often associated with pain, with the weight of regret and guilt, but somehow, in your presence, it felt lighter. It felt like a possibility, a way to reclaim something precious without being bound to it.

For the first time in a long while, Sunday allowed himself to truly look at you. Not just as a fellow traveler aboard the Express, but as someone who embodied a truth he had yet to accept.

"I... I think I understand," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Memories are not the end of us. They can be... a part of something greater."

You nodded, your eyes fluttering slightly as you gazed at him with an expression of quiet encouragement. "Exactly. And sometimes, the greatest gift you can give to the past is to let it go, while still carrying it with you."

Sunday fell silent, his mind now processing your words, considering their implications. Perhaps this was the true path to redemption—not the erasure of pain, but the acceptance of it, and the ability to carry it without letting it define him.

As the train continued its journey through the stars, Sunday found himself standing a little taller. He wasn’t sure where this journey would take him, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he might finally be on the right path.

In the labyrinthine corridors of the IPC, where deals and schemes wove through the very fabric of power, Aventurine stood as an enigma, a master of manipulation with a heart haunted by the ghosts of his past. His smile, enigmatic and ever-present, was a mask that concealed the fractured man beneath. The ‘Aventurine of Stratagems,’ a name he wore with pride, was a title earned through unrelenting gambles and sacrifices, yet it was the one thing that kept him from truly losing himself.

But on this particular day, something—or rather, someone—was pulling at the threads of his carefully constructed world. Someone who didn’t need to gamble to see through the veil.

You. The Memokeeper.

A fleeting figure, a whisper of another existence, you moved through worlds unrestrained by physical boundaries. Memokeepers were creatures of memories—preservers of the immortal, the eternal. You had no flesh, no true form. Only the shifting remnants of memories you carried with you, the fragments of countless lives you had touched and stolen.

When Aventurine first encountered you, he had been intrigued. Memokeepers were not common, and your mysterious nature had piqued his interest. But it was your ability to navigate through time and space, your unflinching grasp of memory as a permanent artifact, that truly captivated him.

"You never forget, do you?" Aventurine's voice was smooth, laced with his signature mix of challenge and curiosity as you stood across from him in a darkened room, a flicker of memory flashing in your eyes.

You tilted your head slightly, a soft, almost imperceptible smile gracing your lips. "For a moment, I thought you would say 'never forgive.'" You said it with an air of knowing, your voice gentle yet profound. "But no... you are too familiar with your own regrets to seek forgiveness."

Aventurine’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. The hint of vulnerability did not go unnoticed. The last surviving member of a lost clan, haunted by survivor's guilt—those wounds ran deep. His facade was usually flawless, but before you, it felt fragile, a thin layer barely holding back a flood of emotions he hadn’t let surface in years.

"You speak as though you understand me," he remarked, his voice regaining its usual confidence. "But I’ve played this game for too long to be an open book."

"Yet, here you are," you countered, stepping closer, the air thick with the power of your words. "A man who wagers lives as easily as others breathe. Do you think I can't see the stakes you're playing for? The past you can never escape?"

There was a moment of silence, one where Aventurine’s usual bravado seemed to crack slightly, revealing the ever-present tension in his posture, the subtle guarding of his left hand behind his back. He wasn't ready to expose his fragility, not yet.

"You play with the illusion of luck," you continued, your voice almost hypnotic. "But I know what you really seek. You gamble because you fear being forgotten, because you fear that if you stop playing, your existence will cease to matter."

Aventurine’s eyes narrowed, gleaming with a mixture of challenge and intrigue. He tilted his head slightly, as if contemplating your words, but his tone remained steady. "And what of you, Memokeeper? Are you truly immortal, or just a collector of lies?"

You didn’t flinch. "Memory is the only true immortality. Everything fades—worlds, stars, even gods. But memories... memories last longer than anything else. They are what make us real. What make us matter."

He chuckled softly, his lips curling into that all-too-familiar grin. "I suppose you would say that. After all, you're in the business of making things last forever."

Aventurine’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than he intended, and for a brief instant, he wondered what it would be like to have his memory preserved—not his reputation or his empire, but his very essence. Would someone like you, a Memokeeper, truly see him for who he was beneath the layers of strategy and artifice?

"I’ve seen countless memories," you said, your voice soft but heavy with meaning. "But there's something about you... You're not a mere gambler, not just someone who risks it all. There's something darker in you, a longing for connection, yet a fear of it."

He looked at you with raised eyebrows, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "You really think you can see all that from just a glance?"

"You show more than you think," you said, your gaze steady, your words unshaken. "And it's those little things—the way you hide your left hand, the pauses in your speech, the smile that never reaches your eyes—that tell me you are more than the games you play."

The silence stretched, an unspoken challenge between you. He couldn’t deny it. He had always thought of himself as untouchable, an orchestrator of every move. But you? You had no need for power or control. You simply existed, transcendent and free.

And yet, despite all that, Aventurine felt something strange stirring within him—a desire to be remembered, not just for his gambles, but for the man he truly was.

"Perhaps you're right," he finally said, his voice quieter, more contemplative. "Perhaps there is more to me than even I realize."

You smiled, a soft, knowing expression, and for the first time, Aventurine’s smile seemed a little less rehearsed, a little more genuine. The idea of someone, a Memokeeper no less, understanding the depths of his soul was an uncomfortable yet fascinating thought.

"I don’t need to gamble to know your worth, Aventurine," you said, your eyes twinkling with an almost imperceptible warmth. "But perhaps, just once, you might stop playing and let someone else remember you. For who you really are."

For the first time in a long while, Aventurine didn’t immediately respond with a quip or a strategy. He simply watched you, his mind turning, calculating the possibilities. What would it mean to be remembered? To be seen beyond the mask of the gambler, the strategist, the survivor?

In that moment, Aventurine felt the first stirrings of a gamble he had never before considered: the gamble of letting someone in.

Oh damn, this was long af... 🫣😨

Also I couldn't come up with a better title so yeah...🧍‍♀️

[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

[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.”

[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)

[kylekreepsmeout]

A Comic about my Dissatisfaction

[theirwolfbicanthrope]

rating: Explicit relationship: Hell Priest/Riley McKendry chapter trigger warnings: A LOT please read the tags but primary - Dubcon, blood, gore, partial skinning, bad BDSM etiquette, partial dissection, grief, addiction issues summary:

"I hate you," Riley says in a voice that is nothing but tears. Her eyes are closed because she knows, deep down, that she's talking to herself as much or more than the Priest. "Hate can be such an effective tool. But - it is not one I wish to use against you. If it is punishment you seek, we can oblige. We can twist and torment your body until all your sins have been bled out. Even you understand - salvation is a bloodbath. We could give you that." Absolution.

[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.