#this is definitely just about a writing prompt

[mrpenguinpants]

Hello, ladies with gentle hands. Here is my weekly ramble, read by only three people (love you all). Normally, I scream in the tags, but this one’s going to be long, and I don’t think Tumblr will let me tag everything. This beast *slaps fic like a car salesman* can fit so much spaghetti in it.

First, I want to thank everyone for their kind comments. I don’t usually focus on how “well” a fic performs, especially with commissions (since, you know, it’s the commissioner’s opinion that matters most—they paid for it), but I’m genuinely surprised anyone reads my research notes.

While I can’t go super in-depth about this fic (since it’s based on my commissioner’s AU and ideas), I did want to share a bit about the writing process, some small details, and a lot of cut content.

Thank you again for commissioning me!

Phainon

Original Reader vs Final Reader

The first major difference from the original draft was the reader’s occupation. In the final version, reader is a struggling movie director—cynical and flippant after a string of flops. But originally, I had written the reader as a pessimistic, low-key suicidal mafia/crime figure. I thought the idea of someone who’s ready to die (and kind of wants to) would be an interesting contrast to Phainon’s inherent savior complex, both in terms of in-game lore and for the guardian angel prompt. Real “I love them, but I really wish they would stop going to Hell” energy.

That’s why the fic starts with the reader getting mugged (you can definitely still see fragments of the original concept everywhere). I ended up tweaking it to fit a movie setting, but the bones of that first version are still there.

The two major reasons for the switch were:

It was getting heavy. Since this was a commission, I didn’t want to push the tone too far into dark territory, especially because the original version was depressive/suicidal. I full-on made reader an alcoholic. I even typed out specific alcohol brands and types before I had to stop and seriously ask myself if this is the direction we’re going.

Phainon’s part was written second. I wrote Anaxa’s section first, and I liked the structure of using quotes as separators between scenes. That format didn’t work easily in a mafia-reader storyline, and I just thought the script/play format looked cool. That’s it. Aesthetic reasons. No regrets.

Blade

This entire paragraph:

“You’d burned through three rookies this month alone. One choked on his own ambition, pushing too hard to prove he belonged. Another took a contract that nearly tore your lungs out—an amateur mistake you barely survived. The last one vanished without a trace—along with your favorite coat, a souvenir from better days.”

was originally written for the mafia version of the reader, with only a few word changes to fit the actor/director setting. That last line, in particular, was meant to be completely different and tie into Blade’s brief appearance.

In the original draft, Phainon was supposed to sub in as the reader’s replacement bodyguard. But who was the previous bodyguard? Blade.

The original line was:

“The last one had gotten himself shot in the head by a magenta-haired woman—and both he and his body were gone.”

Unfortunately, once I changed the setting, Blade no longer made sense in the story. I couldn't picture him fitting in, even as a silent, brooding typecast in a film context. So he got cut from the final version.

Rip, Blade. You were cool for those 1.5 paragraphs.

Ending

The last thing that got cut—honestly, the whole reason for switching the setting—was the original ending. I don’t mind darker themes, and while reader is meant to be a blank canvas, I tend to shove them into specific roles or attitudes depending on the story. That said, I don’t think attempted suicide or alcoholism would’ve flown in the final version. I still really like the original idea, but I’m not mad about how the fic turned out either.

Since Blade was going to appear, the ending scene with Gallagher wasn’t even going to exist. Instead, it would’ve ended with the reader drinking alone, lamenting their current situation. They’d begun to suspect Phainon wasn’t just some good samaritan—because the way he kept saving them shouldn’t have been possible unless he had prior knowledge or could literally see into the future.

“It didn’t take long for the doubt to fester. Maybe it was the way Phainon always knew where you’d be, even when you changed locations last minute. Or how some of your enemies were dying without you lifting a finger. You weren’t stupid. You knew how these things worked. No one works for free—not without a catch. And if Phainon wasn’t getting paid, maybe he wasn’t working for you at all.”

Phainon materializes out of nowhere on the other side of the room to gently scold them, because hey, maybe not the best place to be when you're hammered. Reader is about to confront Phainon on his strange behaviour before deciding that: You know what? I honestly don't care. Drink till the last drop, salute to the moon, and throws themselves off the balcony. Of course, Phainon saves them. He's holding reader up by the collar of their shirt, making it clear that he's something super natural because it would be physically impossible to reach reader from his place across the room

I was debating whether to allude to reader knowing the whole time that Phainon was their guardian angel, and purposefully putting themselves in danger just to test that, but it never got that far.

Phainon's Character

I think if the recent story quests hadn’t come out, this version of Phainon would’ve been way goofier. The guy is going to have the most valid crashout, and he’s suffering™.

This version of Phainon assumes that what happened on Amphoreus was real, but he got the bad ending. Fast forward to the modern day: while he doesn’t clearly remember the people involved, he absolutely remembers the feeling of it. That sense of loss lingers. So he’s a lot more somber here than how I originally would’ve written him. Also, given the difference between a daemon and a guardian angel, it makes sense that he’s more distant. Daemons aren’t meant to physically interact with humans—they're supposed to be more of an internal voice or conscience. So I feel like it's justified, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

I remember seeing this meme:

Phainon is stamped with this.

Mydei

Not a lot changed

Honestly, I thought Mydei would be my least favourite, but maybe it's the military aesthetic, but I got super into it. Most of the higher word count came from him.

When I say my Google searches were wild for this, I’m not lying. I was looking up everything from weapons jamming to court martials—basically anything I could dig up, because y’all on Tumblr are crazy and someone out there will fact-check me if they feel like it. I’m sure not all of it is accurate, but hey, it is what it is.

Out of all three parts, Mydei’s followed the original outline the most. I actually ended up writing Mydei’s part last, and I’ll be honest: I straight-up didn’t know what to do with him. There aren’t a lot of easy directions to go with when you’re dealing with an “undying demigod,” and I didn’t want to do another mafia concept since that was already part of the original Phainon draft. So military AU it is! It felt like the easiest parallel to draw based on his in-game role. (Also, I don’t think a librarian AU gives a lot of chances for the reader to stumble upon his secret—unless it’s the most shady library of all time.)

Also, full disclosure: I’ve been getting a ton of military/COD videos recommended to me lately, and they were surprisingly helpful.

CPT. Jing Yuan & LT. Reader

The biggest difference between the original draft and the final version came down to these two major points. For those who know Call of Duty, I had the biggest Price and Ghost dynamic locked in my brain, and I was absolutely going to write that for this fic—Jing Yuan as Price, reader as Ghost.

For those who don’t know: essentially, Jing Yuan was originally supposed to replace Mydei’s role, and the reader would have taken Mydei’s original place. So reader would have been Mydei’s superior, and Jing Yuan would be the reader’s superior. Make sense? I hope so.

Why the change? Honestly, it just took too long to set up. There was so much groundwork needed to get to the point I wanted that it started to drag. It also didn’t feel like the right role for Mydei either. So I ended up flipping their positions—Mydei became the one in power, and reader the subordinate—and everything fell into place a lot more naturally.

Google Search's Actually Work

I just wanted to point this out as a moment of “wow, I really don’t know anything about the military.” Originally, in the first meeting between Mydei and reader, I wrote that the reader misfired and nearly got someone killed. Super dramatic. Super tense. But then I did a little Googling and realized—yeah, no. Realistically, if you nearly kill someone due to a misfire, you're not getting a redemption arc. You're getting discharged. Probably court-martialed. So I scrapped that and replaced it with the weapon jam scenario instead, which is slightly more believable and still lets Mydei do the whole “heroic save” thing.

Reader

Reader was originally going to be written as way more of a Mydei fangirl/fanboy. Like, full-on boycrush Monday, amirite? While the final draft still has some of that energy, it was going to be way heavier on the idea that the whole reason reader worked so hard and advanced in the military was just to get noticed by Mydei and hopefully join his task force. But let’s be honest—that’s kind of shallow (and a little silly), especially for something as serious as the military. So I ended up switching it to something a bit more grounded: reader’s just grateful to be alive. (Which, yes, probably means they should’ve been sent to a psych eval immediately after—but let’s just ignore that for the sake of narrative momentum.)

KIA NPC's

CASUALTIES: KIA (8), SURVIVORS (2) HEPHAESTION [REDACTED], PERDIKKAS [ REDACTED], LEONNIUS [REDACTED], PTOLEMY [REDACTED], PEUCESTA [REDACTED], LEONIDAS [REDACTED], CLITUN [REDACTED], HYLES [REDACTED]

In the military report at the very beginning, I included a list of NPC names marked as KIA during the mission where reader sees Mydei’s dead body come back to life. Originally, those names were supposed to be the Chrysos heirs—Anaxa, Tribbie, Castorice, etc.—but I decided it would be a bit kinder to use different names instead. For those who didn’t catch it in the research notes, the names I used were actually taken from past/dead NPCs from Kremnos, specifically ones who were warriors.

Anaxa

Concept

This concept. This concept right here. Cosmic horror parasite Anaxa? Chef’s fucking kiss. Beautiful. I sat down and hammered out Anaxa’s part so fast. Excellent ideas, commissioner—100/10. I love writing those eerie “something is definitely wrong, but reader is in a state where that’s okay” mindsets (see: any of my Dottore fics as examples).

For Phainon and Mydei’s parts, I tried to do some research into their general AUs—movie director and military, respectively—just to get a better understanding of what I was working with and how things should be structured. But for Anaxa? I didn’t look up a single thing. No H.P. Lovecraft, nothing. The only research I did was for symbolism. That’s why in my notes, Anaxa has way more symbolic objects than the others. So I’m really glad people found Anaxa’s part eerie, because sometimes my intent gets a little lost in translation.

Aglaea

The entire section with Anaxa and reader in the car was originally supposed to be between Anaxa and Aglaea instead. In the first draft, I planned to include a paragraph about Anaxa becoming distant from reader and spending more time with Aglaea. It’s not clear to reader why this is happening—any time it’s brought up, Anaxa just brushes it off.

“Anaxa has been speaking with Aglaea a lot lately. You’d think with all the twisting hallways and endless rooms of Paperfold University, it’d be hard to run into the same person twice. And yet, everywhere you turn, you see green against gold. It’s… strange. You know Anaxa and Aglaea have a complicated relationship—they don’t even like each other. At least, you thought they didn’t. Aglaea had attended Anaxa’s funeral. She held your hand in comfort while you quietly fell apart inside. She’s always been seen as someone of good character. But still… no one remembers that funeral. A dark fester begins to grow in your chest.”

I ended up cutting this part because it felt a little too petty—kind of stupid, honestly. I thought that this would be a bigger push as to why reader is fine with Anaxa's cosmic horror inside because they don't want to lose him in any way, death or another person. But Anaxa is reader's husband, not a friend or old crush. The focus should be that the love of your life has died, then came back to life, and if seeing them back in the dirt is better than having them alive, even as an impostor.

Anaxa's Role

Speaking of Anaxa’s relationship with reader, he was actually supposed to be a childhood friend/crush lol. That’s where the Aglaea section originally came from. It was only while writing reader’s flashbacks across the ages and ending that I decided to switch it:

"You were twelve when you watched from the back of the classroom..... At sixteen, you found yourself scribbling his name..."

(By the way, those are all from Anaxa’s actual character stories—I just modernized the setting for the AU. Example: Dromas → Lizards.)

There are a few slight changes in the story after I made the switch. The basic outline stays the same, but the emotional tone shifts. The biggest change is what the "entity" says at the end:

“So you’re the reason he clings to this meat. How unexpected.”

In the final version, I hope this reads as: Anaxa is still partially lucid because he cares about his spouse. So while the entity is busy liquefying everyone else’s brain matter (rip to the students), he holds it back from harming reader. He’s still in there. This version of Anaxa is basically a cosmic horror timeshare—Anaxa's soul is still present, just sharing a host with a cosmic horror entity.

However, in the original version, the entity would have only said this line:

“This body remembers your voice. It twitches when you laugh. It cried when you touched it.”

That would have meant Anaxa’s soul is completely gone. There’s no one left inside—just the entity wearing his skin. But the body still remembers you. The ghost of muscle memory. That’s why “it cried when you touched it.”

I liked both directions a lot, but I think it's metal as fuck that Anaxa literally crawled out of death, choked out a cosmic parasite from the inside, and is holding on just to reunite with his spouse. Because “’til death do us part” is for quitters. Once again—it’s for the aesthetic.

Delays

Fun fact to my commissioner if you're reading this. My draft for Anaxa got deleted by tumblr's broken automatic save system. That's why I asked for an extra day;;

Golden Apple [ Commissioned ]

Word Count: 13.1k

— Phainon, Mydei + Anaxa

Request: [ A Modern AU with each character as a mythological figure/being. Phainon as a guardian angel, Mydei as an undying demigod, and Anaxa as a cosmic horror parasite. ]

Note: Liberties were taken with each character's cultural/mythological backgrounds. More information at the end.

[Masterlist]

Back at it again for another season, baby! Thank you so much for commissioning me, and I hope you like it!

Phainon

Daemon (Daimon / Δαίμων) — A spirit or semi-divine guide, neither good nor evil, acting as a quiet protector or inner voice. Unseen but ever-present, it might steer fate, whisper advice, or guide you toward your destiny.

ACT I, SCENE I

FADE IN:

EXT. DINGY ALLEY BEHIND A RESTAURANT - NIGHT

A flickering neon butterfly sign buzzes overhead, sputtering in embarrassed shades of pink and red. Its failing light spills across a grease-stained back door—the kind that hasn’t closed properly in years. Rain slicks the pavement, pooling into oil-slick puddles that shimmer with distorted reflections. The air reeks of old gasoline, wet cardboard, and something burnt-out and electrical. Trash bags slump against the faded red brick walls, both deflated and bloated. You wonder if there are any dead bodies inside, just waiting to be discovered, then ignored.

And there’s the knife at your throat.

Not an assassin. Not a business deal gone wrong. Not even the aftermath of someone’s drunken spiral. Just a man—desperate, hollow-eyed, with hands that won’t stop shaking. A ratty ski mask clings to his head, threadbare and sagging, worn past the point of dignity. His jacket is soaked and sour with mildew. Cracked fingers clutch a rusty blade too tight, one wrong breath away from splitting your skin. He reeks of cheap liquor, bile, and something sweet that’s been dead too long.

“Money,” he hisses, voice brittle and raw, “Now.”

It's all so...

disgustingly boring.

What happened to the gunmetal briefcases and monogrammed bullets? To assassins who glided over wet pavement without a sound, slipping through shadow and silence with practiced ease? What happened to the paper-screen duels, where silhouettes clashed in ghostly choreography—every movement a whisper before the final blow landed in a burst of stylized violence? Even the black-and-white mafia films had flair: steel-toed boots, pinstripe suits, cigar smoke curling around sneers and snub-nosed pistols. They kicked down doors with bravado, spilled in with bad accents and worse metaphors, and died in poetic slow motion—white rose pinned to their chest, black blood on their cuffs.

But this?

No drama. No build-up. No artistry. Just another man at the end of his rope, waving a blade in the dark, praying fear would do what fate never could. The whole scene screamed low effort—like a student film with no budget, no vision. Pig slop. Bloated. Overdone. You’d seen better tension in a toothpaste commercial. It felt like every review you’d ever gotten: flat direction, overwrought, emotionally shallow. You could practically hear a snide critic’s voice echoing in your skull as your eyes rolled so hard they nearly got stuck.

“Wow. Really phoning it in tonight, huh?” you mutter, voice dry as sandpaper, “Seriously? You think I’m worth mugging? I don’t even have a coat.”

You slump against the rain-slick brick, the mortar biting through your thin button-up. Cold seeps straight into your spine as the knife presses harder—not deep enough to break skin, just enough to remind you this scene isn’t over yet. The mugger’s hands tremble like a marionette with its strings half-cut.

You sigh—long, theatrical, like a curtain call no one asked for.

“Come on. Where’s the emotion? The stakes? You’re desperate—show me that. Cry a little. Maybe scream. I’m all for authenticity, but you’ve got to rehearse your lines before curtain. This kind of improv?” You wag a finger, “It throws everyone off. Wrecks continuity. Makes for very angry sponsors.”

One hand lifts in mock surrender, the other gesturing vaguely, “Honestly, if I were running this scene, I’d cut you entirely. Maybe replace you with a mute clown. At least that’d be memorable.”

“I said money!” His voice cracks—thin, frayed, angry.

“Alright, alright—no need to get moody,” you say, lifting your hands like you’re trying to soothe a diva mid-tantrum, “I’ve got some cash. Right side, pants pocket. Not a lot, but hey—supporting roles don’t pay like they used to.”

The mugger steps in, close enough for you to smell the sour rot of his breath. The blade catches a flicker of neon as he moves. One hand drops from your collar, trembling fingers inching toward your pocket, greedy for the crumpled bills stuffed inside.

Then— A stutter. A splat.

He drops like dead weight.

You blink. You really hope he's not dead. Police on your set doesn't make for great paparazzi.

“Let’s not ruin a perfectly mediocre Tuesday night, yeah?”

The voice cuts clean through the alley’s tension. Behind the crumpled body, a man stands framed in the dim glow of the restaurant’s now-open back door. It swings lazily shut behind him, sighing on its hinges. A sliver of warm kitchen light spills into the dark, casting him in sharp streaks—city haze curling at his shoulders like smoke, neon lights stuttering across the shock of white hair. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He wears a chef’s coat, still dusted with flour. Oil stains splatter faded patterns across the front, abstract and familiar—like he’s been through worse than grease fires. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Forearms lean, marked by old burns and kitchen scars that tell their own stories.

But it’s his eyes that freeze the moment: too calm. A bit cheeky actually.

And then—he smiles.

“You alright?” he asked, voice warm and casual, as if this were all terribly normal.

You exhaled—finally. “No. Worse.”

His grin widened—easy, lopsided, a bit cute, “Oh?”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing, amusement curling at the edge of your exhaustion. Slowly, deliberately, you raised your hands, fingers forming two sharp “L”s in front of your face like a makeshift director’s frame. He blinked, puzzled, but didn’t move. Just stood there in his flour-dusted chef coat, letting you silently finish your odd little ritual. In the cooler light, his messy white hair almost shimmers, catching the moonlight like a soft halo. Those cyan eyes—no colored contacts could ever match their intensity—hold you with a magnetic calm. His features are sculpted—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, the clean lines of someone carved rather than born—but softened around the edges by something subtler. A kind of gentleness. There's an almost feminine grace to him, and androgyny like that is rare in this line of work.

Not bad. Not bad at all. He's got leading man energy. Stupid nickname pending already.

“Alright, you’re hired,” you say, lowering your hands with a satisfied smile, even snapping your fingers together. You reach into your pocket and fish out a slightly crumpled business card, the edges softened from wear. Holding it out with a slow, deliberate gesture, you meet his eyes, “Come to this location at 7:00 tomorrow morning. Do not be late.”

The man takes the card between his fingers, pale light glinting off its glossy finish. He doesn’t even glance at it but nods once in acknowledgment. You catch the faintest flicker of curiosity—or maybe confusion—crossing his features. Fair enough. The last few minutes have been strange. Without another word, you pivot on your heel and vanish into the wet night. The neon sign above buzzes faintly, casting an uneven glow over the slick pavement. Rain continues to fall in a soft drizzle, its quiet patter blending with the distant hum of the city.

Phainon stands for a moment, eyes lingering on your retreating form. Then, he tucks the card into the pocket of his chef’s coat and slips back through the swinging kitchen door. Inside, the kitchen bursts with life—the clatter of pots and pans mingling with the hiss of steam and the sharp calls of the night crew. The air hangs heavy with the scent of garlic, hot oil, and sweat. Phainon weaves through the cramped space with practiced ease, sidestepping a precarious stack of dirty plates and a boiling pot. He spots Mydei leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, furiously wiping down the stainless steel surface.

“Mydei!” Phainon calls out over the clatter, bursting through the swinging kitchen doors with the kind of urgency usually reserved for grease fires or health inspectors. His voice cracks slightly—a blend of panic and poorly hidden excitement, “I need to use my vacation days… like, right now!”

Mydei looks up from wiping the prep counter, rag frozen mid-swipe. He blinks slowly, a slight twitch in his eye, “…What? Why all of a sudden?”

Phainon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his shoes squeaking faintly on the slick tile. His hands hover in the air, fingers twitching as if trying to physically pluck an explanation out of thin air, “I got hired for a new job!”

There’s a beat of silence before Mydei sets the rag down with exaggerated care, eyes narrowing, “A new—what the fuck are you talking about, Phainon? What job?”

“Uh… I don’t know yet?” Phainon says, scratching the back of his neck, white hair mussing even more. His cheeks flush pink under the harsh fluorescent lights as he avoids Mydei’s gaze. Mydei stares at him. Then, with the dead-eyed precision of someone who’s endured Phainon’s nonsense one too many times, he balls up the rag and chucks it at his face. It hits with a wet smack.

Phainon takes it in stride, sighing dramatically as the rag slides off his cheek and flops onto the floor. That one actually kind of hurt.

FADE OUT:

ACT I, SCENE I

CUT

---

ACT II, SCENE VII

FADE IN:

INT. OFFICE - MORNING

“Phainon,” he says, “Chef, part-time dishwasher. Full-time… problem-solver.”

You didn’t like working with new talent. They were either too chatty, jabbering when silence was gold, or too violent, quick to throw fists instead of listening. Too flashy, desperate to be seen and heard, or too late, showing up after the damage was already done. You’d burned through three rookies this month alone. One choked on his own ambition, pushing too hard to prove he belonged. Another took a contract that nearly tore your lungs out—an amateur mistake you barely survived. The last one vanished without a trace—along with your favorite coat, a souvenir from better days. But every now and then, you find a diamond in the rough. A raw edge of talent, hidden beneath the grime and mistakes, waiting for someone to buff, cut, and polish it until it catches the light just right. It’s a gamble, sure, but when it pays off? The spotlight shines brighter than any artificial light, and it’s worth every scar.

This one was different. For starters, you were pretty sure his name was fake—because seriously, what kind of name is Phainon? Even a pen name wouldn’t be so pretentious as to literally mean “bright” or “shining.” It sounded less like a real name and more something a self-important poet might invent during a late-night epiphany.

And the second part… well.

He was perfect. “Phainon” had no visible character flaws, on or off the set. On set, he delivered his lines flawlessly, every word crisp and natural, as if he were born to deliver. The perfect actor, as if the Grandfather of Cinema himself had accidentally dropped the wrong copy of the script straight from the heavens and placed Phainon in your lap. You’d heard of extreme method actors, but you weren’t sure you’d ever seen anyone quite his caliber. Phainon carried that same cheery, placid smile everywhere—never cracking, never faltering. It was almost eerie, as though he was permanently stuck in character, perhaps a little too comfortable living in that perfection.

It began with a crew light—an aging floodlight mounted too high, groaning under its own weight—teetering dangerously during the shoot. You caught the shift from the corner of your eye, but just a fraction too late. The metal rig wobbled precariously on its worn stand, bolts frayed and rusted from years of use. Its spotlight began a slow, deadly tilt. One more second and it would’ve come crashing down onto you. Maybe on someone else’s head too. Definitely on your budget.

Then: Action.

A flicker of white darted past the edge of the frame. A hood caught in the breeze, revealing a sun tattoo peeking just above the hem—faint, golden, a quiet hum of warmth on an otherwise cold, gray day. The hand that reached up moved with unhurried calm, catching the heavy light with ease and steadying it as if soothing a spooked animal. No grunt, no stumble—just a solid arm. You didn’t even get the chance to ask if he was okay before Phainon turned his head slightly, voice low and soft enough for only you to hear.

“Don’t flinch. You’ll ruin the shot, Director.”

There was a smile in his voice—faint, teasing, but never mocking. A soft flutter of wind caught at his coat as quiet footsteps faded away, carrying him back to his mark as if nothing had happened. You stood frozen for a moment, your throat tightening somewhere between a thank-you and a curse. Then your brain snapped back into motion.

“Places!” you bark, louder than necessary. “Everyone, back to one. Reset the track. Lights, tighten your rigging!”

The crew scrambles, rushing to their positions. The light is back where it belongs. The shot is saved. But your heart keeps hammering, a cold knot tightening in your chest. And Phainon? He never looks your way again.

It happened again on the third day of shooting, past golden hour and well into the frayed edge of everyone’s nerves. The air on set hung heavy with heat and halogen, buzzing lights above throwing sharp-edged shadows. A missed prop cue. A wardrobe malfunction. Too many takes are bleeding into each other. Tension layered thick as smoke.

Then the sponsor snapped.

“You want to run this circus? Then maybe act like it!” he barked, his voice cracking across the soundstage. You stood rigid in front of the monitor, clutching the camera like it might anchor you. Your teeth dug into the inside of your cheek. Around you, the crew shifted—some pretending not to notice, others casting you wary or sympathetic glances. No one said a word.

Your knuckles were bone-white.

Then—quietly, steadily—someone stepped up behind you. Not intruding. Just… present.

“Don't be so wired,” said a low voice near your ear. Smooth. Steady. Certain.

Phainon.

You felt him before you saw him—the calm weight of his hand closing gently over yours, adjusting your grip on the camera. His fingers were cool, the pads calloused but exact, like a pianist’s—or someone used to handling delicate machinery. Probably a knife. You keep forgetting he used to be a chef. The tension in your shoulders began to unspool, though you didn’t loosen your hold just yet.

“They can yell all they want,” he said, his eyes on the chaos unfolding ahead like it was nothing more than set dressing, “But you’re the one holding the lens.”

You blinked.

The words landed somewhere beneath your ribs, quiet but steady—reminding you what mattered. What was still yours to hold.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Are you saying I should throw it at them?” you muttered, eyes forward.

A pause. Then the faint tug of a smirk at his lips.

“Respectfully,” he said, releasing your hand with the same lightness he’d arrived with, “I don’t think you’ve got the arm strength for that.”

A breath caught in your throat—then slipped out as a crooked laugh. Small, but real.

Your shoulders eased. You raised the camera again, adjusted the lens with new focus, and called out to the crew, “Reset. We’re going again.”

No one argued.

And when you looked back, Phainon was already across the set—sleeves rolled, calmly discussing lighting with a grip. Just another cog in the machine. Seamless. Unbothered. But you knew. He’d been there—in a moment no one else had dared to step into. Quietly, without fanfare, he’d drawn a line around you. Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just enough. Just present.

Another time, it was water.

The shoot had dragged into its twelfth hour. Your eyes were dry from staring at monitors too long, your neck stiff, brain fogged over. You hadn’t moved from your chair in what felt like days. Around you, the set buzzed with quiet urgency—stagehands murmuring, the distant clatter of equipment, the steady hum of overhead lights. You didn’t notice the footsteps approaching. You barely noticed anything anymore. Then, as quietly as a breath, a bottle of water landed beside your elbow. Cool against the warm metal of the table. Condensation slid down its side, catching the light. The cap was already cracked open, like someone knew you wouldn’t have the energy.

“You forgot to hydrate again, Director,” Phainon said—his voice barely rising above the ambient buzz. Not a scold. Not exactly concern. Just… not letting it slide. He didn’t wait for thanks, didn’t even look at you. Just placed the bottle there like it belonged, lingering a moment longer before turning away.

You blinked down at it, then up at him—already halfway across the set, his white sleeves a blur in the chaos.

“Thanks… Phainon,” you called after him, his name slipping out like an afterthought, a little awkward on your tongue. He didn’t stop walking, but the corner of his mouth tilted upward. And you swore, even without turning back, he looked pleased all the same.

And in the quiet, long after the shouting had died down, the lights had dimmed, and most of the crew had gone home, you sat alone, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the monitor. The same take played for the fifth time. Then the sixth. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for anymore. Every shot blurred into the next. Maybe it had never been good. Perhaps none of it was working. Your hands hovered near the controls but didn’t move. Self-doubt crept in like mold—slow, patient, and relentless. Then, a soft shuffle of footsteps—quiet, not meant to be noticed. But you noticed anyway. Phainon paused behind you. No grand entrance, no forced comfort—just the faint rustle of fabric as he leaned in slightly, arms crossed.

“It’s starting to feel real, Director.”

His voice was gentle, barely more than a breath against your shoulder. It cut through the fog in your mind sharper than any shout ever could. Never intrusive. Never loud. But always there—flipping the switch, setting the shot, grounding the chaos—until, without meaning to, you realized: your story was unfolding.

“Don’t look away now.”

It didn’t happen all at once. It never does. First, it was the way the sunrise hit the coffee steam just right during a late rewrite session. Then, how an offhand line an actor improvised during rehearsal rang louder than anything you wrote. A casting mishap landed you a last-minute extra whose face—wrinkled, worn, honest—became the heart of the scene. The rain started the second the camera rolled, unplanned but perfect. The crescent moon in the sky reflected in the growing puddles. A location scout tripped into a forgotten alley that looked exactly like the one from your dreams. A song on the radio—static-filled, half-familiar—stitched your ending together like thread through old film. And somehow, by the time the final cut played in front of a blinking crowd, you realized you’d made something. Something real. Not just a movie. A moment. Yours.

Your short film, after more than a decade of nothing, was an instant success.

ACT III, SCENE X

FADE IN:

EXT. OAK FAMILY BUILDING BALCONY - NIGHT

“Isn’t this a non-smoking area?” Phainon asked, his tone light as he watched the rumpled man in a too-tight dress shirt, a wine-red tie slung loosely over one shoulder, spark his lighter and take a long drag from a cigarette. A puff of smoke curled slowly into the air as the man—Gallagher, if Phainon remembered correctly—threw him a sideways glance.

“You gonna tattle on me, boy?” The man’s voice was raspy, but not as deep as Phainon had expected. He chuckled, shaking his head.

With Gallagher positioned right out in the open—perfectly visible from both the celebration hall and the balcony—Phainon figured the old man’s employer, the grey-haired patriarch of the Oak family, had a clear view of him lighting up. Maybe that was the point. Maybe Gallagher wanted to get caught. The man took another drag, the cigarette burning low. Smoke curled around his fingers, lazily drifting upward like something alive and indifferent. His gaze flicked to Phainon again—sharper this time—not just annoyed or amused, but knowing.

“You’re a long way from your post, halo-boy,” Gallagher mutters, exhaling a slow stream of smoke through his nose, “Daemons don’t usually hover around like lost puppies. Unless you’re planning to break the rules.”

Phainon doesn’t answer at first. His hands slip into his coat pockets—those subtle pockets the waitstaff never quite notice. His stance is too casual for someone standing so openly exposed. But his eyes-those unnervingly still cyan eyes—remain fixed on the city beyond the balcony, as if he’s watching the future unfold frame by frame.

“I didn’t break any rules,” Phainon says softly, voice steady as ever, hands folded neatly behind his back, “Not yet.”

The smoke curling from Gallagher’s cigarette wavers. He lets out a low, wet chuckle—gravel and tar caught in his throat.

“Yet,” he repeats, amused. His sharp teeth flash beneath the city’s sodium haze, “So it’s true. You’re attached to them. The ‘Director.’”

He drags the title through the ash with mock reverence, “What’s the game here? Some divine redemption arc? Guilt? Or just bored of the clouds and decided to babysit a trainwreck?”

Phainon doesn’t flinch but he exhales slowly through his nose, thoughtful. The damp night wind tousles loose strands of his white hair. There’s a flicker in his eyes—not irritation, not offense—but something older. Resigned. He hums softly, tilting his head as if Gallagher’s question were nothing more than a passing breeze instead of a loaded jab. His gaze drifts past the demon, toward the ballroom doors, where your silhouette slips out of sight, shoulders heavy but still moving forward.

“Is it so wrong...” Phainon says at last, voice dipped in something quiet and certain, “to have a little hope?”

For a beat, Gallagher goes still, the ember of his cigarette burning just a little too bright in the dark. He snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils, “Doesn’t sound like a good ending.”

The wind tugs faintly at their coats. The city hums below the balcony—distant honks, the low thrum of a passing tram, neon reflected in puddles like half-forgotten memories. Phainon doesn’t answer at first, only glancing over with that strange, unreadable stillness about him. A ghost of a smile, barely there, plays on his lips. Not joy. Not mockery. Something in between.

“It never is,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, as if the truth might shatter if spoken too loud.

Gallagher’s jaw works. His fingers twitch, the cigarette burning dangerously close to the filter. He doesn’t look at Phainon—just stares out into the night, as if searching for answers buried in the rain-slick skyline. The weight of those words settles between them, heavier than the smog hanging in the air. A silence that doesn’t beg to be filled, only witnessed. Gallagher flicks the cigarette over the railing. Sparks trail behind like dying fireflies.

“Hope your miracle’s worth it,” he says, quieter now. Not a sneer. Almost… reverent.

Phainon doesn’t respond.

His eyes are already elsewhere, drawn past the smoke, the streetlamps, and the flickering signs, back to the celebration hall doors. The faintest hint of movement. A silhouette. You. His charge. His burden. His reason.

And he watches, as if you’re the only real thing in this world of false lights.

Mydei

Warning: It's quite brief, but just in case: Guns, death, fighting, mission gone wrong, PTSD, panic attacks, and blood.

Apotheosis ( ἀποθέωσις ) — The process by which a mortal is elevated to divine status, becoming a god or a divine being. This transformation often occurs after death or as a reward for extraordinary deeds, heroism, or favor from the gods.

/////CONFIDENTIAL MILITARY REPORT

REPORT #: 0319-AMPH/CK DATE: 08 APR 2X25 TIME: 15:01 LOCATION: Outpost 7, Sector 9A, Hospital Room 201 REPORTING OFFICER: CPL. [REDACTED], CALLSIGN: TRIGGER ASSOCIATED PERSONNEL: LT. MYDEIMOS, CALLSIGN: LIONHEART STATUS: SURVIVAL / EXTRACTION COMPLETE CASUALTIES: KIA (8), SURVIVORS (2)

HEPHAESTION [REDACTED], PERDIKKAS [ REDACTED], LEONNIUS [REDACTED], PTOLEMY [REDACTED], PEUCESTA [REDACTED], LEONIDAS [REDACTED], CLITUN [REDACTED], HYLES [REDACTED]

DETAILS TO FOLLOW IN EXTENDED REPORT/////

The sterile white walls closed in around you—a cold, suffocating cage. Your ribs throbbed painfully with every shallow breath, each inhale sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. A persistent beep echoed steadily from the heart monitor—an unrelenting reminder that you were alive, but barely. You sure didn’t feel like it. Your fingers twitched restlessly beneath the thin hospital blanket, the fabric rough against your skin. Your mind churned with memories you dared not speak aloud.

The door opened abruptly with a sharp knock. For a moment, you were terrified it was Jing Yuan—but a stranger stepped inside, eyes sharp and unwavering. His uniform was crisp, his presence commanding, as if the weight of the entire military bore down on his broad shoulders. A few other men flanked him quietly, their hands folded behind their backs.

“What happened out there?” he demanded, his voice cold and unyielding. You’d never seen this man before, but just from his tone alone, you knew he held a higher rank—probably a corporal. Your throat tightened painfully. The truth felt like a heavy stone lodged in your chest: Mydei falling, the battlefield descending into chaos, and something impossible stirring beneath it all. Swallowing past the lump, you forced your voice into a steady calm. You were secretly relieved it wasn’t Jing Yuan—he would have known you were lying just from your breathing.

“It was bad. Worse than anything I’ve been through. We were pinned down, outnumbered,” You paused, biting back the urge to spill everything, licking your dry lips, “But Myd- Lieutenant Mydeimos- he… he took care of it. Made sure I got out… He saved my life, sir.”

The corporal’s eyes narrowed, sharp and piercing, as if trying to slice through the walls you’d built, “Your mission was intel-gathering on the Titans. Our transcriptions show there was a deliberate shutdown of your recording equipment for 33 minutes and 46 seconds, right when the fire team went dark. Care to explain that?”

You clenched your jaw, mind racing as you scrambled for the right answer—the truth carefully hidden beneath layers of omission.

“No excuse, sir. We’d been compromised, and in my panic, my hand caught the wire…” You trailed off, unsure what more to say. Lowering your head, you let the silence fill the room. The corporal’s gaze lingered, suspicion flickering beneath his disciplined exterior. Yet he said nothing further. The faint scribble of his pen on paper marked every word you’d spoken. Finally, he let out a long sigh.

“We’ll verify your story. Any inconsistencies won’t be tolerated. Rest easy.”.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you swallowed by silence. You let out a shaky breath, the weight of your secret crushing your chest like a vice.

No one could know what you’d truly witnessed.

You closed your eyes and saw it again — the battlefield torn apart, the eerie stillness that had swallowed Mydei’s form, the unnatural twitch that defied every law you’d ever known.

Your fingers curled tightly, knuckles white against the sheet.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The silence of the hospital room pulsed like a second heartbeat. You blinked slowly, still seeing the afterimages — his silhouette against firelight, still standing after everything.

He should’ve stayed dead.

///// 03 JUNE 2X21 /////

You’d only been in the military for three months. Fresh out of basic training. Your boots still looked too clean. Your shoulders ached under the weight of gear that didn’t quite feel like yours yet. Your weapon was standard issue, gripped tightly in nervous hands, and your stomach knotted with the thrill of deployment and the terror of screwing up. You were running drills in a scorched training field, smoke and noise everywhere. A hail of bullets cracked through the air, and your fingers moved on instinct — pull, reset, pull—

Click.

A high, empty click.

No bang. Dead air. Just silence.

Then— Metal screamed. Something jammed. Heat surged. Your hand jolted back—

Too late.

The gun backfired. A strong hand on the back of your collar, before you felt weightless. Another hand, ripping the gun from yours.

A sudden boom. A fire of bullets rained down on the sand all at once.

Someone’s shouting. Someone thinks you fired intentionally. You didn’t. But in the silence that follows, no one cares what you meant to do. You hit the dirt with a solid, ungraceful thud—ears full of static, smoke curling off your gloves. The scent of gun oil and burnt polymer flooded your nose.

Your weapon skittered across the ground, like it wanted to run away from you.

Then: boots. Heavy. Sure. Grounded like bedrock. A shadow loomed over you—massive, broad-shouldered—his voice cutting through the ringing in your ears like gravel under steel.

“You alive, rookie?”

You blinked through smoke and pain, heart hammering against your ribs. You looked up—and that was the first time you saw Mydei. Everything about him seemed larger than life. Broad chestplate scratched from years of fieldwork. His face is somehow still youthful yet serious, and his pupils almost look like cats. You scrambled to sit up, humiliated, your fingers shaking as you reached for your weapon.

“I—my gun—I'm sorry—sir—” you choked out. He crouched beside you, fingers already moving with expert precision. In less than a second, he popped the jammed receiver and tilted it toward you.

“Double-feed. Barrel overpressured. Could’ve taken your head clean off,” he said evenly.

You couldn’t breathe. You almost died. His voice was calm, almost bored, but the words dropped like lead in your stomach. You glanced down at your rifle—the twisted mess of jammed brass, the blackened edge of the barrel still warm from near-disaster. You hadn’t even realized your hands were still clenched until they started to shake.

You swallowed hard. Ah, crap. This was it. You were done.

They’d kick you for this. Discharged. Maybe even court-martialed. That kind of mistake—you’d be lucky if they didn’t strip your rank before lunch. Your throat burned. You thought about your father’s voice when you told him you’d enlisted. You thought about all the instructors who said you’d never hack it. You thought about how your superior was staring down at you like he was already writing the report in his head.

But he didn’t move to confiscate your weapon. Didn’t call for an officer. Instead—

“But that’s not your fault,” he continued, “Factory flaw. The 8T series has a bad batch.”

You blinked. “…Sir?”

“I’ve seen two of these explode this month,” he said, standing. His armor creaked as he straightened—a towering presence, expression unreadable under the shadow of his helmet, “Not a rookie error. Just a damn bad roll of the dice.”

He held out his hand. Gloved. Firm. Steady. Not a hint of judgment in it.

“Well, Cadet Trigger,” he added with a faint smirk, “you’ve got a guardian angel somewhere. Or maybe just dumb luck.”

“…Trigger?”You stared up at him, still frozen on the floor. Your ears were still ringing from the close call. Sweat clung to your back, but the tension began to loosen—just a little—as your fingers curled around his and he pulled you to your feet.

He gave you a once-over. Not suspicious. Not cold. Just… amused.

“Guns don’t just go off like that,” he said, walking past, “Unless the trigger’s cursed.”

A pause. A glance over his shoulder, “Or the trigger’s you.”

The other cadets were still staring. Some muttering. Some snickering. But he walked away without another word, and suddenly, you didn’t care about your brush with death.

That nickname stuck.

And so did he.

---

Two days later, you were still tasting gunpowder. Your arm was in a sling, fingers scratched and stiff. The medics had said you were lucky—nothing broken, no burns deep enough to scar. “Close call,” they said, like it wasn’t already replaying in your skull on a loop. But your rifle was toast, and so was your confidence. Jeez, you wanted to put your head in your hands and scream like a little girl. Luckily, they let you sit out the next field rotation, but you weren’t allowed to sit still. You cleaned. You logged ammo. You memorized spec manuals until the text started swimming. Anything to stop thinking about the moment that weapon nearly took your life.

That, and the man who’d stopped the storm like it was nothing.

Mydei.

You hadn’t seen him since. Just the image in your head—boots in the dirt, that low voice like gravel and thunder. You thought maybe you'd hallucinated it. Maybe your brain had dreamed up a perfect soldier to soften the fact that you'd almost eaten your own gun. But, because the Aeons were cruel, suddenly it was as if that was all you could hear.

“Hey, Trig.”

The voice came from two bunks over—casual, half-muttered around a protein bar and a yawn. It was that lean guy with the buzzcut, Marcus or Malin or something? Maybe Marcus was correct—always half out of uniform, always in everyone else’s business. You looked up from your cot, still rubbing the dull ringing out of your ears. Your hands itched—ghost memory of the rifle’s weight, the near-silent click before chaos. Your pack sat half-unzipped at your feet. The gun was long gone to diagnostics, but your heart hadn’t stopped racing since they pried it from your hands.

Marcus tilted his head, that loose, crooked grin plastered on his face.

“That was some shit, huh?” he said, nodding toward you like you’d just won a bar figh, “They’re saying the Lionheart pulled your ass out?”

You hesitated.

The cot creaked beneath you as you sat up straighter, biting back the lump of uncertainty in your throat. The name—Mydei—still echoed in your head. You could see him, glove extended, voice calm, while you drowned in embarrassment and adrenaline.

“…I guess,” you said finally.

Marcus let out a low whistle and slapped his thigh.

“You don’t even know, man,” He leaned in, like he was telling you a secret not meant for green ears, “That guy—he’s like a fucking cryptid. You’ve heard the stories, right?”

You blinked.

You hadn’t. Not really.

You’d heard instructors mention him with that weird mix of respect and wariness. Some called him a relic. Others said he’d been transferred so many times that no one knew where he’d actually started. You remembered someone once joking that Mydei didn’t even have a last name—just the call sign and a body count. You thought it was just mess hall gossip.

Now he had a face. A voice. A hand that had pulled you off the floor.

Another voice chimed in—older, gruffer, “Heard Lionheart once got shot in the neck and still held his breath long enough to drag a pilot out of a downed jet.”

“B.S.,” someone muttered. “I heard he went MIA for five days and showed up with five enemy tags and no backup.”

“Five? I heard it was eight.”

“You’re all wrong,” said the lean guy again, eyes gleaming. “He’s not even supposed to be alive. They say he died once. Heart stopped—flatlined in the middle of a rescue op. The whole unit saw it. Then—bam. Woke up. Stood up. Finished the mission like nothing happened.”

You stayed silent.

That last story always stuck to your ribs.

Dead. Then not. Woke up.

You shook it off.

What mattered was the memory: his hand pulling you up. His voice not blaming you. The fact that he noticed the malfunction before anyone else did—and comforted you when he had no reason to.

Whatever else he was—ghost, monster, soldier—He was kind.

“You alive, rookie?”

Yeah. You were. Because of him.

///// 17 MAY 2X23 /////

Your transfer papers came through. You stared at the orders like they might vanish if you blinked too fast.

“Effective immediately, reassigned to Special Task Unit 0-9. Handler: Mydeimos "Lionheart".”

The room spun for a second. Or maybe that was just the five hours of sleep you hadn’t gotten. Special Task Unit 0-9 was a name whispered between barracks with reverence and disbelief. The kind of team they pulled together for missions that never made it to public reports. You weren’t even sure it existed until now. Your palms went slick as you tucked the papers under your arm and headed toward Deployment Hangar C—the one with reinforced walls, heavier security, and the unmarked transport ships that came and went without manifest.

You didn’t feel ready. But you weren’t about to turn it down.

The elevator groaned as it descended into the lower decks. Your reflection in the chrome panel was pale, jaw tight. You adjusted your uniform for the third time before the doors hissed open. The task force’s prep bay was silent. No shouting. No clatter. No wasted movement. Just a group of soldiers in matte black gear, moving like a well-oiled machine. And at the center—

There he was.

Mydei.

He hadn’t changed. Broad shoulders framed by heavier-grade armor. Helmet clipped to his side. Same calm presence—like standing near a thunderstorm that hadn’t decided whether to break yet. He looked over when you stepped in, and your chest locked up. Was he going to remember you? That moment when you were just another green recruit with a broken rifle?

He stared for a moment. Then gave a nod—a small, sharp one.

“Trigger.”

That single word landed like a stamp on your bones.

You straightened. “Sir.”

He handed you a tablet, “Loadout briefing’s inside. Mission clock starts at 0700. Get acquainted with the others.”

And just like that, you were in. No ceremony. No welcome speech. Just his quiet voice, the smell of oil and metal, and the heat of pressure beneath your skin. But even that was more than enough. You followed the others through orientation drills. They were tighter than any squad you’d worked with. Efficient. Sharp. Not a lot of talking. Not a lot of room for mistakes. But nobody doubted Mydei’s commands when they came. Nobody hesitated. And slowly, you found your rhythm.

The first op went smooth. The second, less so—a recovery run that turned into an ambush. You got clipped. Not bad, but enough to knock you off your feet. Mydei was the one who dragged you to cover, kept pressure on the wound while giving orders to the others.

“You alright, Trigger?” he asked, voice low but steady. You nodded, even though your ribs screamed.

“Good,” he said. “Next time, don’t let ’em flank you. You’re sharper than that.”

He didn’t say it with anger. Just certainty. Like he knew you could do better. Like he expected you to. And maybe for the first time, you believed it too.

///// 23 JULY 2X23 /////

That night, you caught him in the makeshift kitchen at the back of the mobile command unit. He was baking. Baking. A giant, undying soldier with hands like thunder—gently stirring batter in a cracked metal bowl. The whole room smelled like cinnamon and almonds.

You blinked, “...Sir?”

“You like cookies?” he asked. He didn't even look up.

“Uh. Yes? I mean—yes, sir.”

He tossed you one without looking. Perfect arc, landed in your palm like he’d done it a thousand times.

“I always bake after missions,” he said. “Keeps the team human.”

Not sure what else to do than stare like a creep, you bit into it and nearly melted on the spot. It was warm. Sweet. A little chewy around the edges. Comforting in a way that hit harder than it should have. You could see why the team loved him. He didn’t keep the people he trusted at arm’s length. Not like some legends did.

There was that time he asked how your side was healing after that shrapnel hit. Offered you water after long marches. Taught you how to disassemble your rifle faster when no one else was watching. Always subtle. Always patient. He showed you how to tell weather shifts by the weight of the clouds. Let you taste his drink choices, pomegranate juice with a splash of milk, because Mydei loved the colour pink. Once, you helped him prep a care package for an orphanage his squad had supported during deployment cycles—baked goods, canned supplies, a letter written in his clean, precise hand.

“You always send them stuff?” you asked, folding socks for the bundle.

“Every quarter,” he said. “And every time I survive something I shouldn’t.”

“Why them?”

Mydei paused.

“Because they’re small. And soft. And the world forgets soft things exist unless someone reminds it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So, you just nodded and helped pack.

You started watching him more closely.

How his movements were deliberate—always precise, as if every motion had been calculated a thousand times before. How he always stood with his back to the wall, eyes scanning, never fully relaxed, as though the world outside his reach might turn on him at any second. How his jaw tightened when loud noises—especially the sound of distant gunfire or the crack of a falling object—cut through the air. It was a small thing, a barely perceptible flinch, but you caught it every time. He cleaned his gear longer than anyone else, sometimes hours after the others had turned in for the night. The clink of metal tools against steel echoed in the quiet. His hands moved methodically over the rifle, adjusting, re-checking, always making sure it was pristine, even if there was no immediate need. You wondered if he did it to fill the silence—or if, somehow, the repetitive action grounded him, kept him anchored. Sometimes, when he thought no one was watching, you caught him staring out into the distance, eyes far away, lost in some thought or memory you couldn’t reach. The edges of his expression softened, and for a second, he didn’t look like the myth they spoke of. He looked human. Broken. You weren’t sure when it became a habit—this need to understand him. The way you found yourself tracking his movements in the corner of your eye, trying to piece together the cracks in his armor, wondering what made him tick. Maybe it was the quiet, patient way he led—always watching, always observing, as if waiting for you to figure it out for yourself. But it was more than that. It was a quiet curiosity, a pull in your chest that you couldn’t ignore.

But it did. And it stuck.

///// 25 MARCH 2X25 /////

It was supposed to be clean.

Extraction. Quick in-and-out. A scattered outpost hidden in a valley of fog and wire, half-swallowed by terrain and time. Intel said there were no active combatants—just recovery, debrief, then wheels up.

They were wrong.

Your boots sank into the mud just as the first scream ripped through the comms.

Then, the line went dead.

“Guards up. Full spread,” Mydei ordered, voice sharp as always, already moving with purpose, “Trig, with me.”

The outpost was gutted, a carcass left to rot under the weight of time. No roof. No walls. Just broken floors sagging under forgotten weight, rusted tech littered in disarray, wires hanging from the rafters like old veins. Vines curled around shattered terminals, their damp leaves clinging to the remnants of a world long abandoned. In the periphery of your vision, something wet dragged across the floor—slow, deliberate, leaving streaks of dark against the gray concrete. The air was thick, heavy with mildew and rot. The hum of static from broken electronics buzzed faintly in the background, the only sound cutting through the oppressive silence—until the second scream cut through the comms, slicing through the air like a knife. Shadows pooled in the corners, lingering, moving in ways that didn’t make sense. There was no sun here, only the sickly glow from the dying lights above.

It didn’t feel like a mission. It felt like a trap.

One second, the squad moved forward in tight formation, boots silent on the cracked floor. Eyes darted, weapons held at the ready, and every footfall was calculated, precise. The next—an explosion erupted from beneath the ground with a violent, earth-shattering force. The world detonated around you. The floor buckled, throwing you off balance. The air was filled with dust and fire. You fired. So did everyone else. Rounds tore through flesh, the staccato rhythm of gunfire mingling with screams. Bodies fell, some in slow motion, some collapsing all at once. Panic began to creep in from the edges of your vision, as if the world was pulling away, stretching out of focus. But through the chaos, Mydei was at the front, as always—unshakable, unyielding. Weapon roaring, hands steady, posture wide and rooted, as if the storm of fire and death couldn’t touch him. You stayed behind him, as you always did—silent, watching, waiting for the next order.

Then it happened. A single bullet pierced the air, followed by another six, each one cracking the stillness with brutal precision.

“Mydei—!” you shouted, panic rising in your throat as you tore through the chaos, your boots pounding against the blood-soaked floor. You shoved bodies aside, desperate to reach him, to see him move, to know he was still—

—he stopped moving. Not like a man ducking for cover. Not even like a soldier bracing for the next round. He went still. Too still. A sickening silence fell over the battlefield, sharp enough to cut through the ringing in your ears. Your breath caught, lungs frozen with disbelief. Something thudded deep in your chest. It wasn’t the pounding of your heart—it was something worse. Something cracking. Something breaking.

“TRIGGER—GET BACK—” someone shouted over the comms, the panic in their voice barely breaking through the fog of your own fear. But you didn’t hear them. You screamed his name again, the sound tearing at your throat, but it didn’t matter.

Mydei didn’t move.

And then—

He did.

Mydei stood.

But it wasn’t like before.

It was as if his body had forgotten how to move with purpose, how to follow the instincts that had always been so sure. His legs locked, muscles stiff, dragging him upright with a slow, unnatural jerk. The space between his movements seemed to stretch, as if time was slipping through the cracks of his body, leaving behind a brittle shell. Blood soaked his side, dark and pulsing through the torn armor, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even touch the wound.

His eyes—

They didn’t blink.

The way he stared—hollow, unseeing—made your stomach twist. Something was gone, something you couldn’t put your finger on. He was there, but he wasn’t. A presence that should’ve been solid, comforting, was now a gaping absence, standing in front of you like a phantom. You could barely breathe. The air was thick, heavy, pressing against your chest as if the very atmosphere around you had solidified. Mydei’s gaze shifted toward you, slow and deliberate. For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

His eyes met yours.

Just for a second, but it felt like an eternity. There was nothing in them. No spark. No recognition. Just an endless, blank void that swallowed every shred of comfort you’d ever found in those eyes. Mydei had always been a rock—steadfast, unwavering, a man you could trust without question. But now? The eyes staring back at you weren’t the same. They were distant, vacant. A shiver crept down your spine as the seconds stretched out between you. You felt it in the pit of your stomach—a weight, heavy and cold, pressing against your ribs, making it harder to breathe. His movements were too mechanical, too deliberate, his features frozen in a way that made your skin crawl.

And then, as though he was snapping back into place, he spoke. The words were cold, flat, devoid of the usual authority you’d come to rely on. They hung in the air, hollow and strange, as if they’d been ripped from his mouth rather than formed with intent.

“Leave. Now.”

The command was clear. It should have been enough. You should have been fine. But the voice—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t carry that familiar weight, that subtle but undeniable presence that had always kept you steady in the most chaotic of moments. This was something else. Something distant. Mechanical. You nodded, the motion automatic, a reflex born of years of training. And you moved. You obeyed. Of course you did.

---

There was no squad to regroup with. It felt more like a funeral procession than a recovery mission. You limped your way through the remnants of the outpost, the echoes of gunfire still faintly lingering in the back of your mind. Every step was a reminder of the brutality of what had just happened, but somehow, nothing felt real. The stench of smoke and blood hung thick in the air, but there was an odd emptiness, too, as if the space itself had been hollowed out.

Radioing for evac, you could hear the static crackle, the distant hum of machinery trying to piece together the reality of what was unfolding. Silence slowly closed around the outpost again—an unnatural stillness that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Every corner seemed to hide something else. You couldn't shake the feeling that the land itself was holding its breath, waiting for something else to happen.

You reached the evac ship. They pulled you aboard, your body barely holding together, every muscle screaming as they wrapped your arm and pushed adrenaline through your veins. The world became a blur of flashing lights and the steady pulse of heartbeats, both yours and theirs, too loud in the confined space. The scent of antiseptic cut through the stale air, sharp and foreign. And when they asked you what happened, all the words in your throat turned to stone. Your mind scrambled, trying to make sense of what had just occurred, but the truth—the truth—was too twisted to spit out. How could you explain it? How could you tell them that Mydei had been broken and whole, shattered and moving, all at once?

So you lied.

///// 10 APR 2X25 /////

“You’re saying the enemy forces ambushed your unit mid-recon?" Jing Yuan's voice was cool, methodical, and for the first time, his face was serious, sharpened, and guarded, "And you're saying only you and Lieutenant Mydei made it out?"

You gave a single, sharp nod. It wasn’t a full motion; more like a reflex. A response you’d practiced—taught yourself—to give when it was time to speak. The edge of your jaw ached as you clamped your mouth tight, resisting the urge to chew the words over. You didn’t let yourself breathe too deeply, didn't let your chest rise too much.

“Yes, sir," you said, the words leaving your throat faster than you could stop them. "He didn’t go down.” The lie felt heavier than it should, but you kept going. “Mydei pushed through. Got me out. That’s why I’m sitting here.”

The room felt smaller now, the air thicker. You couldn’t see the sterile walls, the machines blinking faintly, or the dim blue glow of the overhead light without feeling a sense of suffocation. The medical bay’s antiseptic smell of bleach and plastic seemed to crowd in around you, pressing on your temples, suffocating your thoughts. You tried to focus on the General's face, but all you saw were those memories—the twisted image of Mydei standing, bleeding, unblinking—and the words caught in your throat, threatening to spill out, to unravel everything.

Jing Yuan’s gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened. The way his eyes lingered on you made your skin crawl, though you kept your posture straight. The silence stretched for a few seconds too long, but he didn’t break eye contact. Instead, he scribbled something down on his clipboard, the sharp sound of the pen against the paper like a gunshot in the stillness. The small movement seemed to draw his focus back to you, the weight of his stare pressing down harder than before.

“You’re certain?” His voice was just as calm, though now you could hear the subtle edge of doubt seeping through. He wasn’t asking because he thought you were lying. He was asking because he needed you to say it again. To make sure you were as certain as you claimed.

The temperature in the room seemed to dip lower. Your throat tightened, the heat of your earlier lie still clinging to your words. You swallowed, a dry, painful motion, "Yes, sir. I’m certain."

But the words felt hollow.

Jing Yuan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. The dull hum of the lights, the beeping of machines, the faint shuffling of the medics behind you—it all seemed to fade into the background, as if this moment, this question, was the only thing left in the universe. He watched you too long after that. Pen tapping against the corner of the datasheet like he wanted the sound to dig into your skull.

"Are you sure there's something you don't want to tell me?" Jing Yuan’s voice cuts through the silence once more. He’s set his pen down, fingers now laced together in a slow, deliberate motion. His chin rests on top of his hands, and his eyes—sharp, analytical—never leave you. It's not just a question anymore. It's a statement, a challenge, an unspoken demand for truth.

In that moment, you feel it.

Something clicks into place inside you. Not loud. Not dramatic. But there, all the same. A shift. A decision. Solid. Unyielding. You swallow against the knot in your throat, the taste of steel creeping up again. Your pulse quickens, but you hold firm, your gaze steady despite the chaos still swirling in your chest.

You’re not going to tell him. Not about what happened, not about the things you’ve seen, not about Mydei—about what he had been, what he still was, even if no one else could understand it. You can’t. You won't. Because whatever Mydei was now… whatever the truth really was, in that moment, when the blood was thick in the air and the odds seemed impossible, he’d still looked at you the same. Like a man who trusted you.

Still pulled you to your feet. Still saved your life.

If command ever found out — if they started probing, picking apart every detail, treating Mydei like some kind of asset to be dissected and analyzed — you didn’t know what would happen. And honestly, you didn’t want to know. The thought of them poking and prodding at something that, in your mind, still felt like your responsibility.

“…He saved me,” you said, the words slipping out with a finality you hadn't expected, "That’s all that matters."

Jing Yuan didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He studied your face, and his eyes narrowed just enough to make you feel like he was weighing the truth in you — maybe seeing something you weren’t saying, some subtle shift behind your words. He didn’t press, though. Not this time. He didn’t call your bluff, even though the tension between you seemed to thicken. Maybe it was the paperwork he was avoiding, or maybe there was something else in the way he was reading you.

Maybe — deep down — he already knew what you were protecting.

The click of his pen as it snapped shut felt like a verdict, sealing this moment, the weight of unspoken words between you both.

“Dismissed.”

Anaxa

Alogon (ἄλογον / A-logos) — A concept meaning “without reason” or “irrational.”.

[ "The performance of life, too, must eventually reach the curtain call." ]

“The students this year are all cotton-brained and leaking spinal fluid from their ears.”

“Good morning to you too, Doctor.”

Veritas—better known as Dr. Ratio—barely glances up at your snarky quip, probably because he gets more than enough sass from a certain blond-haired man who lives to test his patience. He pulls the staff chair across from you and takes a seat, already holding a stack of papers dripping with red ink.

Ouch. Those poor students. It must be their first class—there’s a whole checklist of requirements just to qualify for Ratio’s lectures, and even then, half of them probably walked in thinking they were smarter than they are. You recognize the pattern: wide eyes, overconfidence, and the slow withering of hope by the second week.

“It’s the first week. I think it’s fair to give everyone at least one morning of rest before they hit the ground running,” you hum, poking at your lunch. The colder mornings have been killing your appetite lately—everything tastes like cardboard and regret—but with Veritas parked across from you, you doubt you’ll get the chance to sneak off to the coffee machine without earning one of his patented glances. Not all of us are built like a brick house, Doctor. Seriously, what does he even need all those muscles for? Shoving copy machines? Launching chalk at students like bullets?

“If you’re that lax with students on the first day, they’ll take it as the standard and stay complacent forever,” Veritas says, crossing his arms in that dramatic, exasperated way of his. You can practically hear the quotation marks around the philosophical nonsense he just dropped. Then he levels you with a stare, “Do you even have your syllabus completed?”

Ah—caught. Better to look the other way; it makes that infamous glare feel a little less like walking barefoot over spikes and thorns.

“You always did leave things for the last minute.”

Veritas’s gaze shifts past your shoulder just as the sharp, deliberate click of heeled boots echoes across the staff room floor.

“Anaxagoras,” Veritas greets, tone flat but unmistakably acknowledging.

“Veritas,” Anaxa replies just as evenly, as if they’re exchanging chess moves instead of pleasantries.

The staff room hums with quiet tension, the only sound the faint, rhythmic scratching of Veritas’s pen carving through a stack of papers. His eyes flick up, catching you in a glance before passing over, “Still treating clocks like polite suggestions instead of hard rules.”

Anaxa responded with a casual shrug, slow and unconcerned, as if the concept of time were an amusing joke meant for someone else. A faint flicker of amusement played at the corner of his eyes when they met Veritas’s—a subtle challenge cloaked in indifference, “Didn’t realize I was missed.”

“You weren’t. But your absence was certainly quieter,” Veritas didn’t look away this time. He flipped a page with a crisp snap that punctuated the silence, the red ink staining the margins like fresh wounds—harsh and unforgiving. You couldn’t help but think the only reason these two tolerated each other was because Veritas was one of the few who actually used his full name.

"Alright, ladies, you're both beautiful. How about we settle down now?" you laugh easily, getting matching frowns from the two men.

It’s a nice morning, and the first day of classes unfolds in its usual slow, methodical rhythm. The staff room isn’t crowded—no one scrambling over the microwave, no complaints about the eternally broken coffee machine that’s been out of order as long as you’ve worked at Paperfold University. The hum of distant footsteps and low murmurs barely fill the space. Nearby, your closest work colleague and Anaxa exchange words under the thinnest, debatably professional pretenses—half casual banter, half veiled challenge. Their voices are low, as if the room itself is holding its breath.

Yes, everything feels normal. As it should. Right down to the man you mourned all summer, sitting across from you like he never left—like the months since his death never happened, and nothing has changed.

[ I gained inspiration from death, and should repay as such. ]

Grief is sticky, like humidity.

You stand at the podium, gripping your notecards upside down, your fingers trembling just slightly. You’re wearing black this morning. Sunlight filters through the stained-glass windows, splashing shards of color across the room—but stabbing your eyes with its brightness. Everything feels soft and warm. Outside, summer rages on—the kind of summer Anaxa hated: sweltering, sticky, and alive with the relentless chorus of cars honking, buzzing in the heat.

“Anaxagoras was my best friend,” you begin, your voice barely more than a whisper.

That part is true. You were four when you picked up a smooth stone and threw it at the bully who called a boy a “nerd” for asking why lizards couldn’t fly. The question had seemed strange then, but you didn’t care—because even at that age, you knew some things deserved defending.

You were twelve when you watched from the back of the classroom as that same boy got kicked out for questioning a classmate’s religious beliefs. You’d snickered with the others, trying to be liked and avoid being ostracized, hiding the sting in your chest behind a half-smile.

At sixteen, you found yourself scribbling his name in the margins of your notebooks—small marks of presence, of connection, when words felt too fragile.

At twenty-one, it hit you with the sharp clarity of a late winter morning: the shape of your misery perfectly mirrored the shape of your love, and if he ever left, both would hollow out the same space inside you.

You are thirty-one now.

Anaxa lies in a coffin.

Around him, asphodels and myrtles are arranged with quiet care. The white flowers lend an impossible purity to the man who was anything but pure.

The single red pomegranate flower clutched in his hands only makes the stillness feel lonelier.

You don’t remember the rest of the speech. The words blur and fade into a dull hum beneath polite clapping. Aglaea squeezes your hand gently in the aisle—steady, grounding. The coffin lowers slowly, like a magic trick in reverse: now you see him, now you don’t. Faces around you crumble into tears, but you sit still, the weight of everyone else’s grief pressing down. Not that you don’t feel it—you do. You just don’t cry. Not yet. Instead, your fingers crush the cold metal of the ring he slipped onto your finger—the only thing keeping you afloat. Because if you let go, you know the scream trapped inside you would tear everything apart.

You don’t cry until three days later.

You’re curled up on the cold bathroom floor, wrapped in Anaxa’s ridiculous lizard onesie—the one he never wanted to admit he liked the most. His room has become a museum of ghosts—not the kind that haunt, but the kind that linger in memories. Chipped coffee mugs left half-full. An unfinished book on Yaldabaoth, the bookmark still folded into its pages. A burnt-out candle, faintly scented with juniper and smoke. The old flip phone, blinking with an unread message from you, frozen in time, waiting for a reply that will never come.

And then he’s standing there in your hallway. Paler than you remember—almost translucent—his skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Skinnier, as if life itself has been siphoned from him. One eye hidden behind a patch, the other sharp and watchful. Still taller than you, looming despite his fragility. And that smile—wide, too wide; full of teeth. But it’s not the smile you once knew. It doesn’t reach his one remaining eye, which flickers with something unreadable.

You don’t scream. You don’t even flinch. Your breath catches, and your eyes blink slowly, disbelieving.

“Anaxagoras?”

“In the flesh,” he says, his voice low but familiar, almost teasing. He steps forward with unsettling calm.

You want to shout at him: You’re dead. I watched them lower your body into the dirt. I still have that gaudy black-and-white capelet that I hated so much. I wear it when I’m alone, like a fragile shield—like some broken, abandoned thing.

Instead, you say:

[ I am incredibly happy now. ]

Veritas was right. The students this year are performing far below average. You’re not sure how half of them even managed to submit their applications, let alone meet the qualifications. During one lecture, you thought you overheard a girl whispering to her seatmate, nervously asking for advice on how to take proper notes, as if that were some foreign concept. It’s reached the point where you find yourself bending the usual boundaries between professor and student, nudging and prodding more than you probably should, because you’re genuinely worried some of them might just roll over and pass out under the pressure. Your lectures and labs are mostly in the mornings, and while at least one student usually answers back to your cheerful “Good morning!”, the majority shuffle in like half-brained zombies. Their glazed eyes stare blankly ahead, as if their spines were leaking fluid that numbs their senses, and they meander toward the nearest seat with all the energy of a fading candle. You suppress a sigh. This won’t fly—there’s a teacher conference next week, and you’re already drafting your points in your head.

“You think loudly.”

You blink, shaken out of your spiral, and glance to the side. There’s Anaxa—your dead husband, a truth you have to repeat to yourself over and over—sitting there, relaxed and almost casual, behind the wheel as snowflakes drift lazily past the window. In the overexposed gray light filtering through the windshield, his skin looks even paler and malnourished: the kind of white you see before blindness, the light inside a star just before it collapses.

“Just thinking about what Veritas said is all…” Your voice trails off as your thoughts drift away again. Your mind screams at you to be afraid. To recoil. To run. Because what you’re seeing defies everything you know about life and death. A corpse—your husband’s corpse—is supposed to lie six feet underground, wrapped in linen and wood, cold and silent. But here he is instead, breathing, blinking, alive, driving you both home through the thickening snow.

“Veritas always has a way of making things sound more incontestable than they are,” Anaxa’s eyes flicker toward you from the driver’s seat, calm and unreadable behind his half-lidded gaze. You grip the edge of the seat, willing yourself to stay grounded. You are not hallucinating. You are not dreaming. You are not losing your mind. You believe in the science of dreams, in the logic of REM sleep cycles—but this feels like neither.

You glance at him, the weight of your thoughts pressing down, “It’s not incontestable. You’ve seen the students... everyone acts like they’re on autopilot. I’m concerned.”

He smirks—a slow, almost lazy curve of his lips that doesn’t quite reach his one good eye, “Life’s exhausting, isn’t it? Especially when people keep insisting on making it harder.”

You remember the nightmare you never wanted to relive: the shrill ring of your phone during lecture, the way your heart dropped as you answered, the trembling voice on the other end delivering the worst news—the news that your husband was dying.

“That sounds like something you’d say just to avoid talking about what really matters,” you almost laugh, though it comes out as a breathy exhale.

You left the classroom without a word, your students’ confused whispers fading behind you as you raced through rain-slicked roads. You reached the hospital, breathless and trembling, only to be told the truth you could barely face—he didn’t make it. You remember standing there, frozen, clutching the ring—the only piece of him left in your grasp. And now, as your eyes meet his in the car, a strange mix of fear, disbelief, and something darker curls in your chest. He’s here. Alive.

Anaxa shrugs, his eyes briefly glinting with amusement, “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because I’ve learned that sometimes, talking about it doesn’t make it better. Just louder.”

The car hums along, tires crunching softly over the snow.

[ Do not fear blasphemy— ]

Winter has made the house feel colder than it should, even with the heater murmuring steadily in the corner. The radio plays a song about “Penrose”—something you’ve never heard before. You shift in your chair, the wooden legs creaking against the floorboards. Your hands are stiff from clutching the fork and knife too tightly, and your plate glares back with its bland stir-fry of wilting vegetables and reheated rice. Thrown together from whatever you could salvage from the fridge, it tastes like nothing. A purely functional meal.

Across the table, Anaxa sits in silence. He eats slowly, chewing each bite with mechanical precision. The overhead light is harsh—it spills over him, casting every sharp angle into stark relief. Hollow cheeks. Gaunt skin. The eyepatch still wound tightly around his head—the same fraying strip of white cloth he’s worn since he came back. It might have once been clean, but it isn’t anymore. You’ve offered him fresh fabric, but he always declines. His ribs show even through the oversized sweater—something you used to wear. His collarbones jut out like they’ve been carved from stone. Yet he chews, swallows, and raises the fork again. A small mercy, you think. He’s eating. He didn’t use to. You try not to stare, but it’s hard not to. Not because of how strange he looks now, but because some part of you is still waiting—waiting for him to twitch wrong. To move in a way no living man should. You hear your own breath more than his. You’ve been counting the seconds between each of his, unsure if that’s even necessary anymore.

He hasn’t said a word all evening.

Neither have you.

Not really.

You want to ask him a hundred questions, but your throat feels dry, words lodged somewhere between hope and fear. Instead, you settle for watching him—the slow rise and fall of his chest, the shallow rhythm of his breath. The way his one visible eye blinks spreads tears across the eyeball, cleaning and moisturizing the surface. They aren’t dead or glazed over. In fact, they almost look brighter than before the accident.

He turns his head up slightly, just enough to meet your eyes from beneath the faint shadows cast by the kitchen light. His movements are slow—deliberate—as if lifting his gaze costs more than it used to.

“You’ve been watching me.”

The words come out flat. Not accusing. Not defensive. A simple truth laid bare—like a bone left out in the snow. You nod once. There’s no point pretending otherwise. No use untangling the silence with lies. His stare doesn’t break. It feels heavy, not with anger, but with knowledge—like he already knows what you’ve seen and is only asking to hear you admit it.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” you say, voice even but low, “I’m scared. But not of you.”

He shifts; the creak of his chair sounds almost too loud. The overhead bulb flickers once, faint and insect-like. A flicker of something—something almost like a smile touches his lips.

“Funny,” he says softly, “I never thought I’d be the one to terrify you.”

You swallow hard; your mouth suddenly goes dry. The heater in the corner hums uselessly. The warmth it gives off doesn’t reach you—not here, not now. The room feels small, suffocating almost, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. You shift in your seat, fingertips twitching against your knees, unsure whether to fold inward or reach across the table. You want to touch him—anchor yourself to what’s left of him. But something stops you: an invisible barrier you can’t quite name. His eye remains fixed on you, unblinking.

“Why won’t you take it off?” you finally ask, your voice barely more than a whisper, “The patch.”

His eyes flicker away, dark lashes brushing his cheek, “Some things are better left hidden.”

“But it’s been days,” you press.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, the thin fabric slipping slightly to reveal the gaunt outline of his collarbone beneath the threadbare shirt. The sight makes your chest tighten—in that awful, breathless way you still haven’t learned to control.

“One step at a time,” he says at last.

The clock ticks loudly in the silence, each second stretched thin, taut as wire and just as ready to snap. You glance at the eyepatch, at the knot securing it in place, and your breath catches. You know the truth is waiting beneath it—silent, patient, watching—until the moment you’re brave enough, or desperate enough, to look.

[ It is already a sin to transcend the gods, so what if you become a god!" ]

You never meant to open Pandora’s box.

Okay—maybe you did. A little.

But it was coming from a place of concern. People are supposed to take care of their eye sockets, especially when one of them is hidden beneath that ratty white eyepatch. He never takes it off. Not when he showers. Not when he sleeps. Not even when the faintest flicker of movement catches your eye—something writhing, alive, beneath the fragile fabric like a restless parasite. You tried to convince yourself it was your imagination, a trick of shadows and exhaustion. But the truth gnaws at you like a bone you can’t stop gnawing. You remember the first time you noticed it: a barely perceptible twitch beneath the fabric, a faint pulse that didn’t match any normal heartbeat. It made your skin crawl. You wanted to ask. You wanted to pry and demand answers. But Anaxa’s eyes—well, the one you could see—always held that same apathetic calm, as if whatever was happening underneath didn’t bother him one bit.

You told yourself: If it’s infected, he could die. Again. You told yourself: It’s not Anaxa. Not really. Not entirely.

But also: What if it is? You'll be alone again.

It’s 2:59 a.m. The air conditioner hums softly, its steady drone blending with the distant wind sweeping the remaining dead leaves, like a restless insect trapped in the night. He’s stretched out on the bed, limbs loose and limp like a scarecrow abandoned in a forgotten field. The thin sheet draped over him barely reaches his chest; now he’s wrapped in twice as many layers, the winter wonderland outside reflecting through the window. His breathing is shallow, too even, too controlled—a carefully rehearsed performance. You move cautiously, the worn socks you borrowed muffling your steps on the creaky floorboards. Your heart pounds violently against your ribs, threatening to break free and leave you behind.

You kneel beside the futon, every muscle tense, every breath caught.

Your hand hovers, hesitant, trembling slightly as it reaches out.

The eyepatch—frayed and stained from too many nights—clings to his face, held by a crude knot tied at the back of his head. You tug gently, careful not to wake him, just enough to loosen the fabric, just enough to lift the edge.

Just enough to see—

“That’s not polite.”

You freeze.

The voice is low, dry—smooth like cracked leather. Not angry. Not startled. Just… amused. You glance up, meeting his one exposed eye, which glints faintly in the dark, alive with that same crooked humor you thought you’d lost forever

"To know it is to cease to know. To see it is to never see again in straight lines."

Your breath catches, the air growing inexplicably colder as shadows stretch and twist, reaching toward you with silent hunger. You remain frozen, unable to tear your gaze away, even as the patch slips from your fingers, compelled by some unseen force—beckoning you to witness what lies beneath.

And then you see it.

Not an eye.

An abyss yawns open where one should be.

A hollow carved impossibly deep, devoid of blood or bone. Pure emptiness—an endless void swallowed in darkness darker than night itself—a cavernous gulf where life should have been. That void shifts, inhales, and exhales with a slow, unnatural rhythm, as if breathing with a life all its own. Within the darkness, something coils and writhes, its shape fluid and ominous, like smoke caught in a slow storm.

Then, without warning, it turns its gaze toward you. The abyss looks back—its presence a heavy weight pressing deep into your bones, a silent promise of secrets too vast to comprehend. A color out of space.

“So you’re the reason he clings to this meat. How unexpected.”

The voice is curious. Not cruel. Not kind. You want to say something—anything. But all you can do is stare into the depths where his eye should be and feel it stare back. Your hands tremble, but you haven’t screamed yet. You’re not running either.

“This body remembers your voice. It twitches when you laugh. It cried when you touched it.”

And then, Anaxa blinks. The patch is back in place. You don’t remember putting it there.

He exhales—slowly, tired.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t look,” he says. The real him, or something close enough.

You swallow hard.

Because despite this impostor pretending to be your Anaxa, you feel… relieved. You don’t have to stay stuck in the grieving widow phase for the rest of your life. You don’t have to endure the pitiful stares from everyone except Veritas. Most importantly, you don’t have to imagine what your life would be like without Anaxa—because he’s here, in some form. Even if he’s lost the muscles in his arms, even if you can practically see his ribs beneath the heavy layers of clothing, his face sunken and hollow.

“You should clean that,” you whisper.

“It’s not infected,” he says.

“It could be.”

He laughs—quiet, rough. Close enough.

“And you’re not afraid?”

You study him—the hollow cheeks sunken deeper than you remember, skin so white it makes you think of hospital tiles and the static noise between radio stations. His thin frame barely fills out the threadbare clothes. He looks like a ghost tethered to this world—someone who died but didn’t quite come back right.

Still, your voice is steady when you say, “No. You came back. That’s enough.”

The room holds its breath. Silence stretches, heavy and suffocating—like the space between heartbeats. Then, slowly, almost painfully, he turns to face you. His eyes—one real, one an empty void—search yours, as if trying to remember how to exist in this fragile body again.

“You’re either very brave,” the thing inside him murmurs, voice low and rough, “or very foolish.”

The clock’s hands don’t move, but the ticking continues—as if counting something else entirely. Your hand moves on its own, reaching out to his. The coldness of his skin prickles against your palm, a reminder of everything lost and everything still somehow here. It’s cold. But it squeezes back.

[ — One of the echoes in Anaxa's memories after the Grove had fallen, which vanished because nobody discovered it. ]

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*slaps this fic* And that's a wrap! Thank you once again for commissioning me and for being so patient. I hope you all enjoyed this. I don't want to clog this already long fic up too much, so below I've only written research/references in order of appearance. If you're interested in the writing/thought process, I'll be reblogging this with further notes.

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Golden Apple

It is most famously associated with the Apple of Discord, which represents:

Conflict born from vanity or favoritism (since it was labeled "To the fairest")

The catalyst for larger consequences (such as the Trojan War)

Temptation and choice (as seen in Paris having to decide which goddess deserved the apple)

Phainon

Daimon

In ancient Greece, it was believed that each person had a personal daimon, assigned at birth or death, which influenced their fate and guided them during crucial moments. The daimon didn’t dictate actions, but acted as a subtle force, especially in times of crisis or important decisions.

Socrates famously spoke of his daimonion, a divine voice that warned him against certain actions but never told him what to do. As he put it in Plato’s Apology: “The sign is a voice which comes to me and always forbids me to do something which I am going to do, but never commands me to do anything.”

In Plato's Republic and Timaeus, daimones are described as mediators of fate, guiding souls in their choices and destinies, ensuring a cosmic balance without direct interference in individual decisions.

Voicelines

While not directly stated in the fic, these are the voice lines that stuck when writing this particular Phainon:

"Accepting others' wishes and turning them into his own wishes — not all heroes are such blank canvases as him, and that is why the world places such great hopes on him." - Aglaea

"Lord Phainon is kind and friendly to all his companions, but there's always a sliver of pain in his smile... He must have lost something very dear to him." - Hyacine

"Snowy... It always feels like he's carrying too much. Not just his own wishes but also the hatred and expectations of others... Though we all have our own missions, I still get worried... Bearing everything alone is not a good habit." - Tribbie

Symbolism in Numbers (Act + Scene Numbers)

1 (Monad) - Unity, origin, the divine, the source of all things.

2 (Dyad) - Duality, division, balance of opposites (light/dark, male/female, good/evil).

7 (Heptad) - Mystery, initiation, spiritual perfection.

3 (Triad) - Harmony, balance, completeness.

10 (Decad) - Totality, divine perfection, return to unity (1+0=1).

Butterfly (The neon sign in the beginning)

The butterfly was often used as a symbol for the soul or daemon, especially in art. Psyche, the Greek word for "soul," is sometimes personified with butterfly wings.

Masks

A symbol of duality or hidden truths. Daemons could "wear" personas or guide others through identity.

Phainon's Greek Name

Phaenon (Phaínōn / Φαίνων) derives from the Ancient Greek verb φαίνω phaínō, meaning "to shine." The form φαίνων phaínōn is its present participle, meaning "the one who shines."

Crescent Moon (Stroke of luck during filming)

In various cultures, the moon is linked with divine protection, especially maternal or lunar goddesses like Artemis.

"Is it so wrong...to have a little hope?" (Phainon's reasoning to Gallagher)

[ "That person alone will witness the miracle" doesn't sound like a good ending, does it? Why did everyone choose to become demigods even after knowing the price? ]

-(excerpt from Phainon's text messages to the Trailblazer)

Mydei

Apotheosis

While the Olympian gods are immortal by nature, apotheosis suggests a pathway to immortality for mortals. Some famous Greek examples are Heracles and Psyche.

My knowledge of the military is incredibly low, so if there are any inconsistencies, please ignore them. I'm trying my best. I did try to get some of my facts straight, but I used U.S military as a guideline since that's the one I'm most familiar with. My Google searches were wild on this one, baby.

Military Report (I put a lot of effort into it, you people need to know this)

Report # - 0319 (Mydei's release banner date) Amphoreous / Castrum Kremnos (CK) Date - Mydei's banner end date Time - Version 3.1 (Mydei's banner release version) Associated Personnel: Lionheart (Taken from his banner's event name "Fiery Lionheart") Casualties KIA: Taken from the past NPCs from Kremnos (specifically the ones that were warriors)

Trig/Trigger (Reader's Call Sign)

A call sign is a unique identifier, often a nickname, used to identify a unit or individual during radio communications. Personal Callsigns are generally given by members in your unit when you do something that makes you stand out, be it good or bad.

I'm not gonna lie. I needed to have some term to use to refer to reader, and my friend is in love with Trigger from Hoyo's other game, ZZZ. This one's for you (I hope you never find my tumblr)

Time Line

U.S. Task Forces / Special Ops (e.g., Delta Force, SEALs, JSOC Task Forces)

Minimum Time in Service: 2–4 years, usually, depending on MOS (military occupational specialty).

Total Time: 4–7 years on average, but again, fast-tracking is possible for exceptional performance, critical skillsets (e.g., languages, cyber, demolitions), or under urgent need.

Recording Equipment (Corporal asking why there was a shutdown)

Special Operations typically don't use body cams since their missions are highly classified. But they might use recording equipment if it's for training, target observation, or accountability-driven operations (e.g., raids with media or political oversight).

In most modern military systems, cutting off or tampering with communication or recording equipment can often be detected, logged, or at the very least suspected, depending on the gear and the system it's connected to.

"Green"

In the military, when someone is described as "green," it means they are new, inexperienced, or untested — often fresh out of training and just starting in the field. Usually considered "green" for 6 months to a year, or until they've had real combat exposure.

Anaxa

Alogon

Anaxa's prompt wasn’t directly inspired by Greek culture or mythology. The basic premise was to portray him as a cosmic horror parasite, and the closest parallel I found was the concept of the “Alogon.” (So no, unfortunately, there aren't any eldritch H.P. Lovecraft entities in Greek. Honestly, I think I went more domestic horror.)

In Orphic mythology, the term alogon [ τὸ ἄλογον (a-logos) ] —meaning “irrational” or “without reason”—is not a distinct deity or mythological entity, but a philosophical concept representing the chaotic, unformed state of existence prior to creation. It serves as a symbolic contrast to Phanes (also known as Protogonos), the primordial being who emerged from the cosmic egg at the dawn of time. Phanes introduced light, reason, and structure into the universe, transforming the alogon into an ordered cosmos.

Quotes

The first quote line is from Anaxa's lightcone, "Life Should Be Cast to Flames." The rest is what was written in Anaxa's character story, part IV.

Asphodels, myrtles, and pomegranate flowers (The flowers in Anaxa's coffin)

Aspodels: Considered the "death flower" by the Greeks, believed to be the flower of the afterlife

Myrtle: This plant was a symbol of eternity and was often used in funerary arrangements.

Pomegranate Flower: Tied deeply to Persephone, who ate pomegranate seeds in the underworld and is forced to return each year, creating the seasons.

The passing of seasons (Persephone)

Persephone, daughter of Demeter (goddess of the harvest), was abducted by Hades and taken to the Underworld. Grieving, Demeter caused the Earth to wither, bringing on winter. When Persephone was allowed to return, life bloomed again—spring and summer. But because she ate pomegranate seeds in the Underworld, she had to return each year, leading to autumn and winter.

Yaldabaoth (The half-finished book Anaxa left behind)

Also known as Ialdabaoth or Jaldabaoth, Yaldabaoth is a central figure in Gnostic theology, depicted as a false creator who traps souls within the material world.

Juniper (The candle scent Anaxa left behind)

A genus of coniferous trees and shrubs, most notably known for its berries used in gin. Used in purification and protective rituals, especially in ancient Greek and Roman practices.

Penrose (The name of the song on the radio station)

The name "Penrose" is from the Penrose Triangle and Stairs. Two famous impossible objects.

Pandora's Box

A myth from Greek mythology where Pandora, the first woman, was given a sealed jar (later called a box) and told not to open it. Curiosity got the better of her, and when she opened it, all the evils of the world escaped—leaving only Hope inside. It explains the origin of suffering in the world.

2:59 am (The time reader goes to remove Anaxa's eyepatch)

Hecate’s hour is traditionally considered to be between midnight and 3 a.m., often called the witching hour or the hour of the night witch. This time is associated with magic, spirits, and the supernatural—when Hecate, the Greek goddess of magic, crossroads, and the underworld, is believed to be most powerful and present. In folklore and later occult traditions, this period is thought to be when the veil between worlds is thinnest, making it a prime time for rituals, visions, and encounters with otherworldly forces.

"A colour out of space." (The void in Anaxa's eye)

A reference to Lovecraft's "The Colour Out of Space" for my literature fans.

Fun Fact: That line about a girl asking how to take proper notes is real. I was the seatmate.

[prettydaisygirl]

Can I ask for another one?

🌼 with James and soulmate au with

“no, don’t stop. i like the sound of your voice.”

Maybe reader is rambling about something and she catches herself and stops mid sentence. James looks up from whatever he is doing and asks what is wrong. She admits that she knows most people hate how much she talks. James being the most wholesome boyfriend/soulmate reassures her that he loves hearing her voice.

If you absolutely hate this, just ignore it.

But thank you so much

omg okay this one is so cute i am obsessed with it. I hope this is what you're looking for! I too talk a lot and I know people probably think I'm annoying, so this really hit home for me. Love you, thanks for requesting babes <333

🌼 daisy (innocence, loyalty, pure love): pick a character and an AU from the lists above & a prompt from this list and I will write a <500 word drabble

daisy's 500 follower celebration bouquet

James Potter, soulmate, and "No, don't stop. I like the sound of your voice."

cw: fem!reader, reader thinks she talks too much and is annoying, soulmates can feel each other's feelings just slightly dulled

°˖✧✿✧˖°

It happens in the middle of your story. An eerie, icky feeling that starts in your stomach and slowly spreads.

You know you’re being ridiculous, your brain is making things up that aren’t true. The evidence for this includes the way James’ hands slide up and down your sides, the dopey smile on his lips, and the soft look in his eyes that makes your stomach feel like complete mush. 

And just like that, everything changes. Your voice trails off mid-detail, insecurity and embarrassment creeping into your bloodstream like vines. Your body curls in on itself just a bit, despite your spot perched on your boyfriend’s lap.

James feels it as soon as it happens, one of his hands reaching for your soul mark. His eyes darken, his smile falters, and he presses his fingers into that spot on your wrist, right where his name is. His other hand wraps around your back, joints tense. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” You’re quick to deny his concerns despite the fact that James can literally feel that you’re lying. 

“No, not nothing. You were talking, you stopped, and now you’re… upset?” James can’t quite identify the emotion that’s coursing through his veins, mimicking yours. He sits up a bit, jostling you in his lap. The bed beneath him creaks a bit as he does.  “You never stop talking. What’s wrong?”

His words, despite the fact that he doesn’t mean them as any kind of insult, are the wrong thing to say. ‘You never stop talking.’ How many times have you heard that in your life?

Your heart clenches, and your face drops. He copies you, feeling every shift in you even when you wish he couldn’t. You move to climb off of his lap and his hands are there, gripping you tighter, his face morphing to match yours as he realizes he must’ve made a mistake. “Hey, hey. What’s going on, angel?”

Your eyes burn and you hate it. James’ hands slide up your back, big and calloused against your soft skin. “I just… I know I’m a lot. I’m sorry that I’m annoying and I talk too much.”

James’ brows furrow, his lips part, and for a moment, there’s just silence. “Angel, I don’t think you talk too much. Have you ever felt like I feel like you talk too much?”

You squirm a bit, biting your lip as you avoid his gaze. “No, but I do. I know I do. Sometimes I annoy myself and I just need to stop.”

“No, don’t stop.” James shakes his head quickly, chocolate brown curls fluttering against his forehead with each movement. “I like the sound of your voice. You could speak every day for the rest of our lives and never stop, and I would still love listening to your voice.”

Something warm settles in your gut, warring with the shame and embarrassment. It must be his, just slightly softer than your own, but definitely there. You lean forward to hug him, unsure of what else to say. He follows your lead, wrapping you up tightly in his arms, and finally you speak quietly again. “You mean it?” There’s only a hint of insecurity in your tone.

“I mean it. I love your voice. Never stop talking.” He leans forward to kiss you, a gentle brushing of the lips. “Okay?”

“Okay.” You say, and you know he means it, because you can feel it.

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[sexypeople-contests-2025]

Wenclair prompt idea:

Okay so in svtfoe they sing a song to introduce new princesses to the kingdom and this is kinda based on Star’s song.

Okay so I’m imagining that the Addams family is doing something like a family event where they all write a song about a member of their family without them knowing and Pugsley gets Wednesday. (We’ll just pretend that she’s focused enough on hers to not immediately know he got her) and since in season two Pugsley and Eugene are roommates they decided to write the song together.

Eugene picks a music genre that reminds him of Wednesday, something like Goth or Metal that definitely isn’t her style but probably reminds a lot of people of Wednesday even though she would probably have some choice words about it, and Pugsley uses the first part to appeal to the rest of the Addams family with its lyrics, and then comes the part that they wrote together

The boys have been putting up with Wednesday’s pining for months now and they decided to do something about it and because of this they end up with a verse basically pointing out to everyone that Wednesday is in love with Enid, que the Wednesday version of the song so something like

Who is the maiden with rainbow attire

The Queen of our Addams’ deepest desires

They’ve tried not to show it

I think you all know it

But just to be certain I’ll say it again

Wednesday Addams is in love with her best friend

And her name is Enid Sinclair

And bless his heart Eugene survives the aftermath because Wednesday respects his moxie, Pugsley survives too to his surprise, not without a few rounds of the electric chair though.

But luckily for the boys Wednesday is a bit distracted after Enid (Who was there by the boy’s invitation since they needed to make sure she heard the song) asked Wednesday if they were telling the truth, and they’re now dating.

Although whether Enid would be a distraction or help Wednesday get back at Pugsley for airing their personal information to the family is up to interpretation :)

Below is the song that inspired this, I’m just imagining a more dark/macabre version of it

[jesuistrestriste]

your android art makes me think of the spielberg movie ai artificial intelligence (idk if you've watched it i recommend tho) where jude law plays i think a version of an android gigolo, i think that's what they call it? basically a robot prostitute...see where i'm going with that? the concept of prostitute android art....let that sink in 🚰🚪

i haven’t seen that film, but it sounds right up my alley and im very interested in how spielberg portrayed androids. hm. i will need to check this out soon, thank you for the rec..

also im opening the door and letting that sink in as we speak.

going off of something i mentioned in another ask: android!art exists in a universe similar to the one depicted in the video game detroit: become human, and in that game androids are used to fill a variety of different job positions—home aides, detectives, housekeepers, sex workers, etc. there’s even a club dedicated to commodifying an androids ability to engage in sexual acts (the eden club), aka it’s a club that allows individuals to rent a particular sex android for an allotted amount of time within the establishment. they go into a private room and do whatever they do.

could i see android!art being created specifically to be a sex-focused model? yes.

in the large fic ive been working on forever and have yet to post, i made him a household model designed to assist with cleaning, conversing, caretaking, and the like. it just fit him so well in my mind, esp because ive always been a big advocate for house husband!art (“cooking and cleaning” fic, you will always rest loyally in my heart). however, with how beautifully and tenderly his design team crafted him, i could see him being pushed out as a model for the sex clubs instead.

he’s got toned muscles that can be used to assist him in picking up and pinning down patrons, a pair of soft lips and a willing tongue that can work expertly into all of the little grooves of one’s body, and big blue eyes that are able to convey nothing stronger than they convey adoration and arousal. i think if he was a sex model, he would obviously be programmed as a switch—rough and mean when someone wants it, soft and pleading when they command it. his noises would also vary based on the person’s preference; whimpers, whines, moans, groans, growls, yelps. think he’d also be programmed to orgasm very hard every time he’s physically or verbally prompted to, w/ an adjustable refractory period. want to make him come in five minutes and be ready for more in two? sure thing! he can do it all:)

definitely going to write a nsfw blurb about this soon.

[yallthemwitches]

I initially started to write a prompt that I found in my inbox about Lily explaining to James how much she likes him---but then I began writing and this came out instead. Enjoy some blissfully, definitely dating jily.

you can read it also on my AO3!

“Lily?”

“Hm?”

“You know you are my best friend, right?”

Lily pulls her head up from the mattress, jaw still mid-chew on a watermelon bertie bott. 

“No, I’m not—Sirius is. Then Remus. Then Peter.”

James frowns. “Didn’t realize you followed a strict hierarchy of friendship.”

Lily laughs, raking her hand back into the candy box. She pulls a bright pink bean and pops it into her mouth. 

“That’s not what I’m saying—those idiots are your best friends. I’m your girlfriend.”

It hits him square in the chest. He sputters, shooting up out of his lounging position on the bed, effectively tossing off Lily’s feet that had casually draped themselves over his stomach. 

“Wait—what are you saying?” He squeaks, heart hammering loud enough to shake the entire tower. Lily continues chewing her candy, the definition of nonplussed. 

“Well—” she starts, holding up her hand to tick off the list on her fingers, “We snog, we shag, we spend most of our time together, I’ve been using one of your jerseys as a sleep shirt for ages now…I think it’s safe to call it Potter.”

James stares at her, mouth ajar. 

“But we haven’t even been on a date, yet…”

“Sure, we have!” Lily chirps, giving his side a little tickle with her toes. “We went down to Hogsmeade just the two of us last weekend, remember?”

“Yeah–to buy some quills,” James stammers, defiant. 

“And to snog in the back alley behind Zonkos,” Lily says with a smirk, “Can’t forget that—I can’t. The mark you left on my neck is still—”

“Ugh, stop,” James says, collapsing back on the bed. He takes off his glasses to give his eyes a proper scrub. 

“But that’s not—if I had known—I would have…”

Lily sits herself up just enough to curl herself into his side. Her hands instinctively find the buttons on his shirt and her fingers play with them softly, her head resting just over his pounding heart. 

“Do you… not want me to be your girlfriend?” She asks. Her fingers stall, then start to retreat, but he catches them and presses them hard against his chest. 

“Evans—” James breathes, “Don’t even joke about that. Of course I do. I’d die just to have you—”

“Please don’t,” Lily giggles, cutting him off. “We’ll never get this elusive proper date you seem to care so much about if you kick it.”

He rolls his eyes, cheeks starting to burn. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Lily who pulls herself up enough to kiss his mouth. 

“You know, for a bloke who spends most of his time being an idiot, you think too much.”

She kisses him again, her mouth falling back down onto his with parting lips. A leg passes over him to bracket his body under hers and she hovers herself over him, fingers trickling their way under his shirt. 

“Here—let your girlfriend help you with that.”

[ladycapon]

I wanted to join in with the Hansry Week thing but I've had something of a shitty week so I haven't really been able to focus much on writing. But I did finish one prompt and I'd like to post it here.

I haven't posted any of my writing online for a very long time, and definitly not on tumblr, so this feels like a first for me.

I don't know if I'll ever finish any of the other prompts, but here is my little piece of writing for Hansry.

Day 4 - Heat

Henry’s hands were gentle, his fingers almost tender, while he inspected the edges of the wound by softly pressing his fingertips against the swollen red skin. Even through the small stabs of pain the probing evoked, Hans’ heart leaped at the touch.

He must have made a sound because Henry looked up. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘Not much, just sore mostly.’

They were surrounded by laughter, stories, and the smells of bodies, booze and puke; in three words: smelly boisterous celebration. But somehow, on a bench in their little corner beside the hearth, it almost felt like they were in a little private nook of their own. One that could easily be breached from the outside, yes, but for now felt like a little moment of privacy as Henry looked at the arrow wound in his shoulder.

He mixed some herbs in hot water and used a clean cloth he dabbed into the mixture to carefully clean the wound out. Katherine had already done something similar a few hours earlier but he wasn’t going to tell Henry that. He wondered if Henry could hear how his heart sped up each time he touched him.

More than a month had passed since they’d spend that wonderfully desperate hour together in the night, and he’d thought about it as often as he’d thought about food in those days. Over the course of the following month he had slowly come to the realization that Henry had become as important to him as food itself in some ways. Possible to live without for a while but not forever, and definitely necessary for a life with some semblance of happiness in it. Even slow starvation became acceptable with Henry by his side, and missing Henry was like an echo of that hollow hunger that followed him around everywhere.

And now Henry was back but only one kind of hunger had been sated this night.

When Henry pulled out fresh bandages and started wrapping them around him, his arms going around his back to wind them around his shoulder and chest, they came close enough to embrace and Hans’ hands itched to pull him closer. But he didn’t, because of course he couldn’t.

But as Henry pulled back to lay the last knot, a growing warmth lingered between them, like banked coals, and it took only one glance from Henry, their eyes locking for an lingering moment before quickly looking away, for those coals to flare back to life.

Henry’s hands lingered a little longer than necessary on his shoulders and chest while pulling the bandages neatly in place, as if he too wanted the nearness to last as long as possible without seeming improper. But finally no more could be done and Henry pulled away.

‘Done.’ He said.

‘Thank you. It feels…better.’ He tried to put as much of his feelings into the word as he could, willing Henry to understand.

He did of course. A quick touch, his hand on top of his, just like he had a month ago in the fire-lit darkness of his bedroom, lingering just a little too long to be considered friendly.

His answer was soft but the look in his eyes revealed a banked fire of their own, waiting to be stoked to life.

‘You’re very welcome.’

[elacular-kink]

June Hicth 2025: Hiccoming out

So I did cheat a bit, since as soon as I voted in the poll, I had an idea for one of the prompts, this one specifically. But I only started writing it today when I knew that was the prompt. Anyway, the hiccups are honestly pretty minimal and only come in at the end, so not my best as far as a hicfic goes, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Have a little queer love story.

TW: Dysphoria

Kinks: Hiccups

Davey had gained weight.

That was one of the first things he'd told me would happen when he went on testosterone. That he would gain weight. It was something he'd worried about at the time, but as he stood shirtless in front of me now, he seemed completely unashamed of the soft, squishy belly he'd developed, which was dusted lightly with body hair. Body hair was another thing he'd told me about. I'd joked that he never shaved anyway, so it wouldn't really change much, but he'd grown more than I expected.

He'd gotten past the acne stage, much to his relief, and though his facial hair wasn't growing in particularly thick, it had gotten to the point where it was visible, though it did absolutely nothing to hide his big smile. His hairline had started receding a bit, and when I stood behind him, I could see the bald spot he was developing, which I reminded him to put sunscreen on, much to his chagrin.

He'd also developed muscle in the time since he started T. Muscle that was much more noticeable than I realized it would be underneath the still-freshish scars of his top surgery, but were also very visible when he playfully flexed his biceps. He was joking, but they...

Yeah. His arms really did look a lot stronger.

"So, what do you think? Sexy as fuck?" Davey asked, his voice still crackling a bit. He laughed as he said it, but looked ridiculously happy as he stared at his shirtless, beshortsed self in the mirror, pansexual and transgender flag handkerchiefs tied around his neck.

"You know it, dude." I smiled and slapped him on the back (while I still could. His pale ass was going to get sunburnt no matter what I did for him).

Davey laughed more. It was funny. His voice training had even changed his laugh, but it still sounded like him. And his big eyes sparkled as he looked at the mirror again.

They were the only thing about him that hadn't changed. But they were also the thing that had changed the most. I never saw them shine like that back when we were together.

...I'd seen them shine a little, though. And I always loved those moments.

"Hey, Mick," Davey looked back at me and I abruptly came out of my stupor. His huge smile made my heart skip a beat in a way I'd been trying to ignore for a long time now. "You gonna wear that cute 'Straight, no h8' crop top you bring out every year?"

"Ahhh..." I'd worn that the first time I went to pride with him back when we were both in high school, and somehow, despite how goofy it felt, he'd talked me into wearing it again every single time. But...no. "No, not this time."

"Aw come on, Micky, why? You think that just 'cause you're in your mid 20s now you've stopped having great abs? Please tell me marvel movies aren't making you want to dehydrate yourself again."

"No, no way, nothing like that!" The idea of looking all overmuscled like that honestly made me feel gross. "It's, uh...it's more like..." a part of me had been winding up to this all year, but a part of me was absolutely shocked that I was doing it today and wanted me to shut up, but...

But the way he turned and looked at me, I...

"It's more like it doesn't fit anymore?" I saw the way he squinted and slapped my forehead. Of course he'd take that too literally. "Me! It doesn't fit me anymore, Davey! It...it doesn't fit me." The way he tilted his head hadn't changed, and I half laughed before taking a deep breath. "Because I'm not. Straight. I'm not."

Davey's eyes widened and he focused even more completely on me. "You're not?"

"No. I-I like girls! I definitely like girls!"

Davey nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You definitely like girls. So if you like girls, but you're not straight, does that mean that you..."

"I-it means that..." I stuttered and closed my eyes, wondering how exactly the fuck this was so terrifying. "It means I'm bisexual!"

"...oh." I opened my eyes and saw Davey staring at me, face...blank? Like all the emotion had been surprised off of him. "I, uh, legit didn't see that coming. So you, uh...you like—"

"I like men!" God, I yelled it way too loud. Being around Davey had never stopped making me feel vulnerable and nervous and act like a loser. Maybe just because I was almost never performing around him anymore. "I like men and women. But not, like, equally? I like women more than men, so, like, pansexual's not quite right—a-and I could totally date nonbinary people too, so the men and women thing—i-it's not just like—"

"Hey, hey, take a breath, Mickey." Davey pantomimed taking a deep breath in and a deep breath out, and I followed along with him. "You're good." He smiled up at me and patted my arm, and his touch made my heart race like we were back in high school again. "You don't have to explain it all to me right away. You don't even have to understand it all right away. It's okay."

"Right. It...it's okay." Even though it had initially made my pulse spike, his continued touch calmed it down again as he rubbed up and down my arm. "It's okay. It's okay."

"Okay." Davey nodded and smiled at me. "I'm proud of you." That sent my pulse right back up again. He patted my arm twice, then turned around and started rooting through his drawers. "I think I still have a few shirts of yours from way back in the day, and maybe you could use some of mine as a crop top if you still wanna do that. Oh, not wearing it doesn't mean you have to be out right away, that's totally up to you."

As he kept talking, I felt myself frowning more and more, and eventually I cut him off. "Don't you want to know?" He turned from his clothes and looked at me. "Don't you...don't you want to know how I learned it? How I learned that I was into men?"

"Uh..." he looked away for a moment before meeting my eyes again and shrugging. "K-pop?"

I couldn't help but snort out a laugh, and his smile let me know he'd done it on purpose. God dammit. "No, Dave. If it were K-pop, I would have figured it out in, like, middle school or something." He laughed too, and I loved the way he grinned. I cut him off before he could start making fun of my taste in music again, though. "But no. I, um..." this was sort of the hard part, and I had to seriously steel myself for it. I clenched my fingers around one arm, my nails almost starting to dig into me before Davey grabbed my hand and pulled it away. "Ah! Um, thanks. Yeah. But, um..." I swallowed. "No. I figured out that I like men because...b-because I still like you. And I never stopped liking you. Not even for a second."

"Oh shit." He said it softly, and I immediately started explaining that I knew this didn't mean we were dating again and that it was alright if he didn't want to, but before I could get very far, he patted my hand and shook his head. "No, no, it's not that. It's just..." he laughed softly. "Didn't you say that you hated, like...guy smell? And flat chests? And beards and mustaches and dicks?"

"Yeah, I did." Thinking back to that conversation hurt so much. It was bittersweet, but the sweet was almost impossible to taste most days. "And I wasn't lying. And I was worried that me still wanting you meant that I saw you as a girl, even when all those things started happening, like, you started binding and using a packer and going on T. But I still liked you and wanted you even with all those things on you. They didn't seem gross. They just seemed...right. And when I looked at other guys, I realized it seemed right on them too. I just never noticed before, I guess. That, uh...that probably sounds weird, right?"

"No, I get it." Davey reached out and took my hands, rubbing the backs of them with his thumbs. "I totally get it. I know exactly what you mean." Given that he'd known he was pansexual since high school, I sort of doubted that, but he sounded too earnest for me to say that out loud. After a moment, he laughed. "Didn't expect it, though. So, you, uh..." he smiled, and even though I could see his nerves in it, it was still the sort of smile he'd never wear back when he was dating me. "You still like me?"

The vulnerability in his voice made my heart flutter. "I still love you, Davey. I never..." I bit my lip, feeling my face go red. "I never stopped."

He laughed and smiled. His real smile. The one I thought I'd never get to see at the same time as him looking at me like this. "I never stopped loving you either, honey." My face burned. I'd always loved when he called me pet names like that. "And I never thought that this could happen again. So would you..." His hand was on my cheek, and I hated my facial hair for being between my skin and his. "Would you like to..."

Nobody finished that sentence. Nobody had to. I kissed him, and he kissed me, and I did everything in my power to avoid bursting into tears. It would be so fucking embarrassing if we finally started kissing again and the first thing I did was—

"I love you," hearing him say that made me tremble, smiling against his lips as he whispered into mine. "I'll always love you. Dating or not. No matter what. And you can tell me anything. You could come out as anything to me and I'd still love you."

I knew that. But for some reason, it was still the thing that broke me. I started sobbing, hearing him mumble another exclamation before he guided me down to the nearest chair. I covered my face, trying to get my breathing back in order. "I'm sorry, I'm sorr-*heep!* NNh!"

Fuck, I hated this. It was bad enough that I was crying, but crying almost always gave me the stupid hiccups, and I couldn't stop myself from doing either. Now they would take forever to go away. "H-hey, hey, it's okay, sweetie, it's okay." Hearing him call me that swirled immense joy into the mix of all my emotions, though I wasn't sure what the stutter I heard in his voice was about. It didn't seem to matter when he started rubbing my back, though, pulling me into a sideways hug and holding my head to his soft, flat chest. I could hear his heart beating. It was going so fast, but it still made me just melt into him. "It's okay to cry."

I was trying to internalize that, I really was, but it wasn't so easy. And the extra embarrassment didn't help. "It's n-not o–*khey* to get th–*hup* the hiccups fro–*uck* from it."

"Okay, that...that's stupid." I couldn't help but laugh when he said that, and a louder *HEEK* shook me against him. I felt his chest move as he chuckled and rubbed my far shoulder. "I'm serious, babe, that's stupid." I groaned and turned to bury my face in his chest. It wasn't the same as back when he had breasts, but I was surprised that I still liked it just as much. "It's not okay to...to h-hiccup? Like, where the fuck did that even come from?"

It was weird how he sort of tripped over the word, but it was probably just a voice crack. "I don–*hnk* don't know." I sighed. On the plus side, him making me laugh had helped put a stop to my tears. The fact that they were happy tears didn't mean I had any idea how to handle them. "It's em–*MMK* embarrass–*ingk* though."

He hummed and I felt it vibrate through his chest. I also felt and heard his heartbeat pick up a bit of speed. "W-well," okay, that stutter was unusual. I looked up and saw that his face was red, though he was still smiling. "You, uh...you wanna hear me say something? Uh, come out and tell you about a thing I like that you won't expect at all?"

I sniffed and pulled away from him, starting to wipe my eyes and nose on my arm before he gave me a fist full of tissues. "Sure? *HNK-llk!*–mmf!"

That hiccup made me rub my chest, but I was looking right at Davey, and I saw his face get redder as he rocked nervously on the balls of his feet. "So, uh, I know that we didn't end up having sex while we were still dating for...a lot of reasons. Nerves, dysphoria, blah blah blah." Honestly, I still wasn't sure about having sex with anyone. I'd tried it, and I'd mostly just felt like a gross gorilla. But if I was going to have it with someone, I'd probably want it to be Davey. "But, uh, another reason is because I knew I'd be a real motherfucker for you to get off. Part of that was 'cause I hadn't figured out, uh, how to do it yet. But another part was that there's a thing I like. A thing that turns me on most. More than anything. And it's, uh...hiccups."

I stared at him. There was nothing about his nervously-smiling face or his rapidly bouncing heel that looked like he was kidding. I hiccuped loudly, and his face got redder. "Oh. *HUP* That..." Actually, now that I thought about it, that explained quite a few things that had happened between the two of us. Especially when one or both of us was drunk. "Yeah, I di–*HILP* didn't expect that." I shook my head, but then got up and rubbed his shoulder. "But i–*HIP* it's not a bad surpr---prise I do–*HNK* don't think?" He sighed and rested a hand on mine before leaning his head against my arm. "You like wh–*IUK* when I get th–*HEEP* the hiccups?" It felt surreal to say, though the flush of his face half answered the question already.

"I mean, yeah," he laughed a bit nervously. "I like it when anybody gets them, but..." he blushed more. "But especially you. Yours are just so cute and girly."

I "*HEEK!*" hiccuped loudly and buried my face in my hands. "Don't j–*EULK* just say th–*HILK* things like *HIP* that!"

Even though my cheeks were burning, for some reason I couldn't stop smiling.

"Alright, alright," Davey's laughs died down. "Now come on, I want to get down to the parade!"

"Now? *HNK!*" I turned to him. "B-but I still have the–*HEEK-ULK!* a-aaahhh..."  I hid my face again.

"So?" Davey pulled one of my arms and smiled at me. "Don't worry, babe. I'll survive your nuclear hotness. And I'll do all the talking. But I wanna be there for when we get started!"

Without saying anything more, he grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the apartment with him. I ended up having the hiccups most of the day, being incredibly embarrassed and nervous and not being able to put on the performance I usually did. But Davey was by my side the whole time, both smiling adoringly at me, and chatting confidently with anyone who spoke to him.

I remembered back when we were in high school and he would cling to my arm, hiding behind me and his ill-kept long hair and hardly saying a word. But here, with our roles reversed, he had never looked or acted more like himself, and I...

I'd never felt more like myself either. Even with the hiccups.

[aetherflowers]

Thursday Bangers 6/5

Rules for your Copy and Paste: Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).

Thank you to @woundedsoul12 for hosting these!

Baby I'm so into you Darling, if you only knew All the things that flow through my mind - Fantasy Mariah Carey

A day late, ugh. Slightly NSFW? Nothing explicit just some implied sex.

Word count: 650-ish

Balcony doors thrown open, a cool breeze eased through the Inquisitor’s bedroom. With Corypheus gone, work had slowed marginally and her nights were filled less and less with reports and more with leisure. She had a backlog of reading from the last year that she had been working through, and it was well-known among her inner circle that she would retreat to her room after dinner to spend a few precious hours to herself. When Varric had pressed a loosely-bound book into her hands on her way through the main hall, she hadn’t asked questions, just accepted it and kept going. As she waited for the one person allowed to interrupt her nights, she had reclined on the couch and opened the book, curiosity getting the better of her.

‘Appreciated the notes. Let me know what you think,’ Varric had written inside the cover. 

That had given away exactly what it was and she had almost chuckled in response. As soon as Cassandra had gushed about the novel to her, she had read it and recognized where the inspiration must have come. As a result, they had spent many evenings discussing his romance serial and the stern-and-broody Templar that featured within, perhaps with one too many glasses of wine and something stronger, and she’d passed the notes along to Varric. Somehow she had become the person he gave subsequent copies to edit ever since.  

By the time Cullen had arrived, she was halfway through the saucy issue. Summer had given way to fall, but it wasn’t yet cold enough for a fire to grace the hearth. It was warm enough that Cullen’s fur-collared coat had been draped over the railing of the stairs behind the couch where they sat, yet somehow Eve’s toes were ice–so cold that he had startled when she stuffed them beneath his thigh to warm them. In response she had batted her lashes at him innocently, and he’d shaken his head with a smile tugging at his lips before his attention fell back to a report from Griffon Wing Keep.

Every so often she would glance up from the novel spread across her lap to study his profile, and each time her smile became a little more mischievous. At first he was content to watch from the corner of his eye. Then his curiosity grew and he met her gaze, and she fought a giggle - he could count on one hand the number of times she had giggled around him - and lifted her knees to shield him from view.

“Do I even want to know?” He ventured at last, arm draped along the back of the couch so he could angle his body toward her.

“Absolutely not,” she answered, her voice light with amusement. “Unless you want to be scandalized.”

The gleam in her eye and the flush on her cheeks made it almost tempting.

“Varric’s gotten better at his romances,” she continued, flipping a page. “He must have taken my notes to heart; he’s gotten your character down really well.”

“You didn’t…” Again she glanced at him, and his face must have given away how mortified he was because she broke into laughter after. 

“I might have,” she said, in a teasing tone that meant she definitely had.

“Eve,” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his brow.

“If he’s going to write you, he might as well do it right.” She withdrew her feet from under his leg and her toes crept up his thigh. “Don’t worry, I have plenty of strapping young Templar fantasies I’m keeping just for you.”

He flushed from head to toe. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Luckily for you.” 

From the gleam in her eye to the grin on her lips, they both knew he didn’t have an argument for that. The report he had been reading was forgotten on the side table and the novel toppled to the ground soon after. Some nights she didn’t get much reading done.

[youngroyals-events]

Young Royals Remix Exchange - FAQ

There's just under two weeks to go to sign up for the first Young Royals Remix Exchange! All the details are here (please spread the word!) Have you decided yet which of your own fanworks you'll choose?

We've had a few questions about the event so thought we'd take the chance to clear up some things.

I'm not a writer, is this event for me?

Absolutely, this event is for everyone! Including fic writers obviously, but we really want podficcers, artists, editors, gif makers, and all other creatives to get involved too. You could make a fanmix or video edit inspired by someone's fic. Someone else might write a story inspired by your fanart or gifset. Or of course you can also remix in the same medium - you could reimagine someone's fanart in your own style, or write a sequel or prequel or alternative take on a fic.

This event isn't for me because no one will want to choose my work to remix.

Absolutely not the case! Some of the mods have run similar events in other fandoms and we promise everyone always finds a match one way or another. (We have contingency plans if there's really a difficulty but it's unlikely.) And the more people who sign up, the higher the chance of everyone finding something that really inspires them in the list!

Is there any point in signing up if I'm not interested in Wilmon?

Obviously any YR fandom event will skew towards Wilmon, and of course we encourage all Wilmon shippers to take part. But the fandom is also broader than that, and we know from existing sign ups and those who've said they intend to sign up that there should definitely be some options for participants interested in other characters than Wilmon. And the more people who sign up, the more options there will be!

I can't sign up because I'm new/unknown/not active in this fandom/not good enough.

We understand the fear! But this kind of exchange is a great way to get involved, especially if you're new to a fandom or coming back after an absence - you're making a gift for someone, not competing with anyone. You only need to have posted one complete work to sign up, and the minimum requirements are very doable (check the event post for details). Remember you can choose which prompts you want to remix (on a first come first served basis) so you can try and avoid anything too intimidating if you want - but most people are friendly and will be super excited to receive a work from someone new to them!

What if I only want certain kinds of gifts/remixes of my works?

Remember you can specify your preferences in the form about anything you don't want to receive, be it format, rating, or specific characters/themes you'd rather not see. And you can encourage your friends with similar tastes to sign up too!

If you ultimately decide you'd rather not offer your own works for remix, you can still take part by choosing something from the list to create something extra for, with no minimum requirements.

If there's anything else you want to ask us about, please feel free to drop us an ask or a comment.

[biavolo]

(LATE) DIADOP WEEK DAY 4 - FATE

The topic of fate, for the Diavolo system, is a very juicy one to cover. On the immediate end of the spectrum, I think about the fate Diavolo and Doppio have been cast to, but I wanted to do something nicer for the day, and something that better played on the shipping aspect of the week. Diavolo is famously obsessed with fate, and this led me to think of other things, in particular,  the relationship he would have had with divination. I am a sucker for the concept of foretelling the future and I figure that, although Epitaph offered immediate readings of the future, someone as paranoid as Diavolo would go to great lengths to try and get a handle on more indepth messages too. So, I went for one of the most common methods of divination, one he would have definitely come across and considered - tarot. 

I’ve seen a few tarot cards tackle JoJo characters, and while they’re all unique and interesting in their own right, I did not want to go through the ‘Devil’ card route. While Diavolo would probably be very happy to be seen as one, I felt this card would not fit the prompt as it did not cover Doppio, and I also felt like it was slightly overdone, in a way of which I’m sure other people could interpret it differently and make good art for it, but I personally did not feel like that challenge was mine. I wanted to pick a major arcana that was instantly obvious in meaning to me, but that also had imagery that fit the two characters. I wanted something that could be taken one way at face value, and another each time looking upon it. 

The Lovers card can have several meanings, and the inspiration behind this interpretation is based in the Rider-Waite tarot deck. Often contradictory. The name suggests lovers, so it should merely be about love and romantic connection, right? 

This member of the major arcana can talk of decisions, and in the case of Diavolo and Doppio, it is whether to be truly free of the past or not. While Diavolo stands in front of a burning church, believing his past to be wiped away, he still lingers on the prospect of the past. He believes himself to be free, but despite this finds himself looking over his shoulder. On the other hand, Doppio stands in front of a cherry tree, symbolising the start of spring, the season of renewal and new lives. Instead of attempting to joust with the past, Diavolo has given him the luxury of living in the present and looking to the future.  

This card can also talk of connection, and in this image what speaks to connect the two together is the presence of King Crimson above them, in my writings acting as a gatekeeper to the system. He replaces Raphael, and holds the delicate balance of the system in place, fostering lines of communication and healing. He is the unseen and omnipotent force in their world. 

It can also be read much more literally, reflecting their love for each other, whether you see it as platonic or otherwise.. It talks of partnership, and I don’t think there is a closer duo in all of JoJo - at least, none others share the task of maintaining one body. When I first selected this card for them, I wasn’t sure if it would fit the deal - indeed, it seemed to take the name at a rather literal value, just like I’ve seen interpretations of Diavolo as the Devil card. However, to me, the more I look into it the more sense it makes. There is no closer bond in my eyes, as a system, than that of a system. One person working as multiple, multiple people working as one. This is not to romanticise DID, but as someone diagnosed with it, it does bring me comfort to make a more ‘positive’ portrayal of them. 

[readenheim]

This but I also know the dark version of it. Like A starting to feel it fade and accepting that maybe they can be okay even if it's not meant to be .. and then B loving them so much all of a sudden..so so so so much..maybe too much .And A starts feeling guilty for not being at the same level of love anymore because.. isn't this what they wanted ? And now that they do and B is still such a wonderful person why isn't it just perfect? shouldn't they be swimming in happiness? Are they too greedy ? is that why they're not satisfied? and they can't just let B know because they're just so wonderful .. if they were to feel hurt because of them it would only prove how much of an awful person they are.And B sometimes notices B is not as happy as they thought they'd be . So B starts doubting themselves. And A knows it and knows it's their fault..

And so A fell first , and B fell harder but neither can admit the fall hurt.

!!!!!!!

[livinghalfway]

Importance

We do a lot of Danny leaving the league and being adopted by the Fentons but let’s switch that around.

Talia is on a mission investigating the Fenton scientists, and their research on ectoplasm—which sounds suspiciously similar to the Lazarus pits—when she comes across their young son Daniel Fenton.

Before Talia had even entered the house she watched as the scientists ran out the front door yelling something about having to go and capture a ghost. She also knows that their young daughter is currently spending the night with an aunt, and upon seeing the Fentons drive away, the door left unlocked, Talia notes, assumes that the son is with the aunt as well.

Quickly and efficiently she copies any important documents that look useful, and just as Talia is about to leave a sharp cry rings throughout the house. In a moment of weakness she turns around and goes further into the home to find the source of the crying. That is when she finds baby Daniel Fenton (like 6 months old) who had been left all alone in his nursery.

Thinking of her own son, Damian (who's around 3), she reaches out and gently begins to rock him in her arms. When given this mission Ra's had given her the order to take anything of importance she finds and this, Talia decides, is something of importance as she looks down at the boy now calm and sleeping; a tiny hand gripping onto her shirt.

Once arriving back at Nanda Parbat the first thing she does is present her father with the information she gathered, and her new son. Within the next few hours the second grandson to the Demon’s head is announced, Danyal al Ghul.

Damian absolutely adores Danyal, and takes his new role as a big brother very seriously.

Things from here continue relatively as normal with Damian (8) and Danyal (5) arriving at the manor. Danyal may not be his by blood, but Bruce welcomes the boy nonetheless. He would have done so even without Damian’s threats of violence.

A few more years pass and Damian (14) is going steady with his role as Robin, and Danyal (12) trains with his siblings but has not been allowed out yet on patrol. After a fight with Bruce and Damian about this fact, Danyal decides he’s going to look into his biological family.

Dead end after dead end Danyal eventually contacts Talia and asks her where he came from. It takes a bit of but Talia does tell him how she found him ‘abandoned’ in the home of a couple she was looking into. Their names and the sister who wasn’t there that night.

With this new information Danyal leaves a note for his family to find as he makes his way to Illonis as quickly as he can knowing that Damian, at the very least, will be right on his heels when he discovers his disappearance.

When he arrives at the Fenton house it’s quiet. He knows that his sister, Jazz, will be arriving home from school any minute now. Against his better judgement Danyal decides to enter and take a look around. This leads him to the basement standing in front of a giant machine.

The papers on the desk tell him that his bio parents are trying to build some kind of portal with their most recent attempt ending in failure.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Danyal investigates the portal. While taking a step inside the lab door slams open causing him to trip; his hand landing on a button. Bruce, Damian, and Jazz now watch on as Danyal dies right in front of them. He comes back, different now.

A few months later Bruce Wayne announces the arrival of his newest adoptive daughter, and a new vigilante known as Potoo (look it up lol, they have a nickname called “ghost birds”) is seen running around with Batman and Robin.

[obsessedwithstarwars]

Bruce: How was your class trip Damian?

Damian: It was quiet and productive Father.

Bruce: I’m glad to hear it. What was your favorite part?

Damian: I learned how to escape an Iron Maiden.

Bruce: …

Damian: …

Bruce: Explain please.

Damian: A boy Drake’s age taught me how to escape an Iron Maiden.

Bruce: How did he have that knowledge?

Damian: He claims his family has a dungeon full of medieval torture devices. I believe he may require further investigation.

[shywhumpauthor]

A Whumper with fire powers branding their Whumpee not just with their name or initials, but their handprints.

Two palms scarred against either side of Whumpee’s neck, fingers wrapping around their throat in a collar that can never be removed. Hands on their sides, just below their broken ribs, a touch that will never relent. Fingers wrapped around their wrists in shackles that won’t be unlocked. A handprint against their face, cupping their cheek that had already suffered so many punches. The small of their back. A single hand just between their shoulder blades. Dragging down their thighs.

Just. Branded handprints.

[jesuistrestriste]

i absolutely adore your pastor’s son art but..hear me out…pastors son patrick 😈 but unlike art he is lowkey sacrilegious and not as hard to drag into sin like art

-🍰

♱ pastor’s son!patrick zweig x reader

cw (18+) : switch!patrick, switch!reader, mild corruption kink, mutual masturbation, giving each other a hand, general filth and dirty talk

patrick’s a good boy.

a true believer; he’s someone who idolizes his father, the only pastor in his small town, and does everything he can to remain physically and emotionally devout. doing bible studies alone in his bedroom, attending every service that’s held, upholding the religious teachings that have been woven into his very soul from a young age.

but.. that’s not to say that temptation is easy for him to push down and pray away.

temptation is more like a toxic friend that mumbles dirty little nothings into his ear when all he wants to do is avoid the draw of engaging in sin. it thumbs the waistband of his underwear when it’s late at night and he can’t stop thinking about the curves of people’s bodies. it licks warmly at his lower stomach when he catches you sparing him a glance on your way out the tall church doors. and god, your lips.. oh, your lips..

temptation is more like a sick, twisted, toothy monster that clings to his back and digs its claws into his flesh. bleeds him out from the puncture wounds, letting the filth leave his body and become realized. it’s impossible to ignore. it gets him into trouble.

you’re mostly to blame though. this time, at least.

you had chatted him up after a particularly stirring sermon, when everyone had already left, and then relished in the flush of his cheeks that had been so deep in color it almost hid his freckles completely. you’d touched his arm and smiled all sweet, your poison seeping into his frame from your fingertips. he tried to resist, he really did.

if temptation was a monster trying to fuse to his spine, it was certainly your henchman.

now you’re sitting beside him in an empty pew in the empty building. heads turned toward one another as shared, heavy, stuttered breathing echoes out into the spacious church. despite it being a peaceful place, it’s beginning to smell of nothing but sticky immorality. it’s easy to pick up on the scent of sweat from warm bodies and faint musk from the fluids involuntarily spilling forth.

his hand is shoved down into his unzipped jeans and past the elastic of his boxers, pumping himself shakily as he watches you play with yourself at the same time. your fingers rub quickly at the sensitive spot that makes you feel hot all over. patrick spares half a glance to your hand’s movements as you shift it underneath the shielding fabric, and lets out a soft, strangled sort of sound at the sight.

“does that feel good?” he breathes out, his voice breaking around a moan as he accidentally thumbs his tip. it’s already covered in his fluids. slimy and lewd.

you nod quickly, your brow pinched up and your legs trembling.

“y-yeah, feels really nice,” you murmur, “how does your cock feel?”

immediately, his legs kick out in front of him and he sinks a little in his seat—his stomach flipping pleasantly at the sound of that vile word slipping from your mouth. cock. he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard to stop himself from saying something stupid like “please, say that again”.

this is the first time he’s ever seen someone else touching their body this way, let alone with him. this is all so new and thrilling and terrifying, but he can’t help but enjoy it—it’s ironically the closest he’s felt to salvation in a very long time. his hips feel floaty, his head is spinning, and his toes are curling in his shoes. he doesn’t quite remember how he let you talk him into this.

“.. aah, oh— it’s so good..” he shakes.

you swallow thickly and arch your pelvis into your circling fingers. you hump your touch, trying to get more friction. thrumming bursts of heat begin to burst in your lower stomach like fireworks..

patrick suddenly keens and cries out, pulling his wet palm from his bottoms in half of a second, like he just burned himself on a scorching stovetop. he pants raggedly and then looks to you with lidded, watercolor eyes. loose brown curls hang in front of his forehead as he parts his lips.

“i almost—..” he can’t finish the sentence, reaching his digits up to tug at his damp collar. it’s like god is actively punishing him by cooking him alive. he’s never felt quite so overheated. and he does feel guilty, more than he’s willing to admit to himself, but you’re all he can see right now. there’s no way he’s going to give this up. not a chance in hell.

he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he’s doing it. his clean hand reaching for your occupied wrist, guiding you out of your underwear and then down into his own. he gives you a pleading look, a desperate one, and then his jaw slacks when he feels you instantly wrap your touch around his throbbing length. how is it that you know exactly what to do? have you done this before? with who?

he tries not to get jealous. he’s in absolutely no position to feel that way.

all thoughts melt away anyways when you begin to stroke him. up, down, up, down, up, down; the squelching of your tightening hold on him only further igniting his forbidden arousal. it’s hypnotic, and holy fuck, it’s so much better than doing it himself.

everything feels so sensitive.

“please, just touch me,” he shudders out, looking deep into your eyes as he instinctively reaches out to find your body. his fingers inch down past the waistband of your panties to brush over the swollen bud hidden beneath. just the feeling of your soft, squishy flesh sends him careening towards the edge. he’s losing it quickly. almost embarrassingly so.

your knee knocks into his as you whine, spreading your legs farther apart to give him more access. your own release only a handful of agonizing moments away.

you’re both filling the place with sounds filthy enough to shatter the stained glass. the fragments that would come down in the wreckage to slice at your bodies would be less painful than this act of teetering on the precipice of something so primal and grotesque.

he swipes his fingers awkwardly from side to side over your parts as he fumbles with the angle of his touch and his lack of experience. but despite all of that, it feels incredible. your legs clamp around him and your back arches up from the wooden pew. your fist glides over his frenulum as you jolt.

he leans in closer, almost close enough to kiss you, and chokes on a whimper.

“im think i’m about to— im ’bout to—..!”

his voice shakes the earth.

the waves of overwhelming sensation in your body start to flare; your muscles pulling taut as patrick’s do the same.

“i think im really gonna come.. i-is it okay if i come—?” he whispers, whiny and urgent.

like a plea. a prayer.

“yeah, yeah, yeah.. me too..” it tumbles from your chest and stills the air around you.

everything stops for just a moment.

him gasping and squeezing his eyes shut. you gripping the edge of the wood below you with your free hand, nearly squealing as his thumb flicks messily over your bead of nerves. he jerks forward in his seat before seizing up at the sound of your strained little noise—toppling over the edge with a jarring finality that seals him in his shame and blinding pleasure. he all but wails.

wet warmth meets your skin and you touch him through the waves of orgasm that have him promising to repent. your own climax rips moans from your throat and forces you to gush into your clothing. patrick doesn’t even know what to think, not that he can, brain much too melted to salvage any coherency. the sound of bells and doves and the choir fills his head. ringing out deafeningly, like a sick joke. he can’t seem to come down from the high.

he trembles as he pushes down softly on your slick bud, then collapses afterwards into a heap of jelly-like limbs. you follow not a second later. you're both a mess of slick parts and damp faces.

he wipes at his upper lip and then his cheek.

“oh my-..” he trails off, knowing he probably shouldn’t finish the sentiment. he’s already on bad terms. no need to make it worse for him later in the confessional. he sighs, still feeling your hand resting around his softening dick. he tries not to think about the fact that he covered your fingers in his depravity, but the thought comes and goes without his permission anyway. his flesh twitches. he stifles a groan.

“yeah.. woah..” you smirk lazily,

he gets the urge to drop to his knees and pull you down with him. to press his lips to yours before bowing his head and asking for forgiveness. that would probably be the proper thing to do. the better thing. his dad always says that the harder something is to do, the more likely that it’s the right thing to do. he doesn’t know if that’s true, but.. holding himself back from kissing you while also grappling with the remorse has him struggling to maintain composure.

patrick vows right then to never repeat this sort of thing in the future, to refuse the clutches of temptation whenever it pricks his skin again, but the vow begins to crack the moment he feels your index finger lazily rub at the vein bulging from his shaft. he inhales sharply through gritted teeth at the sensitivity, and then turns his head to look to your expression. eyes glazing over with reigniting desire.

he can deny it no longer. oh, you are temptation in human form, flesh and bone.

you’re inescapable.

[hitlikehammers]

Early November, 1984 and all Eddie wanted was to light up behind the Byers' place in peace🚬

he went all that way and all he got for it was a maybe-dead💀-but-definitely-unconscious-king👑-slash-maybe-babysitter(?), plus some shithead children directing his van🚐 to those fucking abandoned labs that may as well be lit up in neon lights screaming 🚨THIS IS A FUCKING TRAP🚨

Eddie shouldn’t be here. Like, not in a it’s forbidden kinda way, but more in a, there’s no real reason for him to fucking be here.

Save for the obvious.

It’s just…after the whole dead-not-dead thing with the youngest kiddo, the property around the Byers house has kinda turned into no-man’s-land; easy place to get high when Eddie wants a change of scenery, basically, with no one trying to break his nose, or call the pigs.

Or snatch his supply.

But when he hears that fuckface Hargrove call out, the tone on him—and Eddie’s real sensitive to tones, he can guess between the lines for everything he can’t read—he perks up; listens in. Stays put out of sight.

(And no, he does not cream his pants when Harrington calls back, Jesus; taunts like the cocky prick that he is—

And no it is not a close thing or…whatever.)

Point being: he hears more than sees what happens. Up to and including a gaggle of literal fucking children dragging Harrington toward wha Eddie thinks is Hargrove’s eyesore of a car, one of the sheepies crossing around like they’re planning on driving it, and Eddie’s not one for the rule of law or anything—definitely not if it’s Hargrove’s property that’s on the line—and fuck yes Eddie’s driven without a license, and far below the age to get one, but, but—

He’s tripping over himself to turn the keys in his own ignition and swinging the van around quick enough to kick up dirt before he leans over and throws open the passenger door.

“Hey,” he hisses, low but not quiet, he needs them to hear but he doesn’t know if Hargrove’s gonna storm out any second, it’s a delicate balance; “hey, get in,” and he’s crawling over the seat to open the back, too, to push things to the side to mostly leave it flat, tossing blankets to the middle with no care for their cleanliness because there’s no time for that shit, there’s no time and then he’s grabbing the hinges of the doors and flinging his whole top half around to eye this hoard of strange ankle-biters and what’s revealed quickly to be their still-weirdly-attractive-when-beat-to-shit charge in Steve Motherfucking Harrington, trying to project some degree of meaningful trustworthiness, because he is trustworthy, here and now, but they’re kinda in the fucking clock of crazy-eyes-Mc-West-Coast stumbling out of the house, so Eddie’s kinda gotta urge these rugrats with real feeling, waving his hands to the point where his fucking wrists hurt:

“Get in.”

And of course these little urchins still and just, raise a fucking eyebrow at him. Like they’re not working on an inexact sort of fucking timeline—

“Who the fuck are you?”

Yeesh. He wasn’t off when he said they were ankle biters; the little lambies have teeth.

“I just wanna help,” Eddie tries to say it with as much of the genuine concern that he really and truly feels, and not get weighed down with the probably-suspicious-off-the-bat vibe of pulling up in a random van just to start the exchange out with waving some strange kids into the back of it.

Jesus, that sounds terrible, wow, okay.

He gets it.

“No,” oddly, not the ringleader girl who eyed him first but it’s the curly headed boy now who stands up, squares his shoulders, and stares Eddie down with an only-slightly-less-menacing glare. “No, you’re not gonna hurt Steve.”

“I don’t want to hurt him, I swear,” Eddie’s honestly surprised by how unmuddled his tone bleeds put as desperate, versus irritated by this motley crew of munchkins trying to fight him when he is risking his own neck to help them.

And…King Steve, but then: can he be that motionless, hanging awkward from the noodles limbs of a handful of preteens (at most)?

“I just want to get you out of here, somewhere safe,” Eddie bites his lip, wonders where the fuck he intends to go and realizes he was probably just going to drive toward his home and hope for the best; “Er, somewhere safer than here,” and they don’t fucking budge, little assholes, and Harrington doesn’t fucking twitch, and just, just…

Ugh.

“Come on,” he urges them again, just shy of begging; lets how fucking nervous he’s getting seep clear into his tone a little, but he honestly doesn’t think he’d have convinced them to move if not for the crashing of something in the house behind them, and—well.

Nothing like impending doom to speed shit along.

“I wanted to drive,” the redhead’s muttering with a scowl as they heft the body they’re barely keeping off the ground and awkwardly feed Harrington head-first up to Eddie where where he’s crawled properly into the back of the van to help, and Eddie thinks these little fuckers just might be more wild and feral and insane even than he originally would have guessed for how they make to scramble behind their Steve; only just manages to steady and lower the royal body as careful as he can before the hoard clamors in and denies Eddie so much as a moment to press his finger under Steve Harrington’s flop of bloody hair and touch below his jawline where those stupidly infuriating moles of his speckle his skin, marks that Eddie’s hasn’t ever really paid attention to ever, nope, Eddie only needs now to assess whether he’s just accepted a dead fucking body into his van but: no.

Maybe a little sluggish, but pulse’s strong. Which: Eddie doesn’t care about past the legality of it all. Beyond getting saddled with a murder charge or some other bullshit.

No other reason. Of course. Yeah.

The only thing that floors him more than the Hardy Boys-plus-Girl on steroids tearing onto the cushions around where their unconscious charge is laid out, as Eddie shifts into gear and makes to get the fuck out of dodge, like, yesterday, is the even-louder voice in his head that asks probably the most pressing question:

The fuck did the King do, and how, and why, to make these children this loyal?

What follows all that is quite arguably—actually more than that; definitely a strong contender for—the most surprising thing that’s ever happened to Eddie. That could maybe ever possibly happen to Eddie, in any circumstance for any reason within any universal construct or reality. And he’d been really marinating in his Munson Doctrine this year, too, having been forced to reevaluate some shit after the letter arrived to hammer the most disappointing nail in the coffin of Eddie’s first senior year, but then…fuck everything, then there were the stupid little sheepies and their stupid gorgeous goddamn babysitter—which still, still: what the fuck was that, who the fuck even was Steve Harrington?—and Eddie’d barely even put the ink down to dry before all of them banded secretly together and shredded that motherfucking document before it could even properly take root in Eddie’s brain.

All while something else entirely started to take root in his chest, in his hea—

Well. Something. Something that wasn’t even remotely recognizable inside his most recent—and most polished to date, if he does say so himself—draft of the Doctrine like, at all.

Which is the point.

Because Harrington was indeed alive, and did indeed wake up, and clocked Eddie quicker than expected, even by name—Munson? What the fuck?and hell if that hadn’t fluttered between Eddie’s ribs an indefensible amount that no one would ever know about ever, thank you very much, but still: Jesus H. Christ—

But all his own humiliating discombobulation at the not-even-hands-just-voice-and-presence-of-the-golden-boy aside: it’s a damn good fucking thing Harrington wakes up, and is definitely not dead, because Eddie knows where the King lives, and he knows he’s not driving in that direction but had instead been foolish enough to give these shitweasel munchkins the benefit of the doubt here, like that there maybe was a safe house or some shit, fucking sue him, he was a little prepccupied, yeah—by the threat of a chase with that Hargrove fucker and then by the absolutely spectacle of Harrington screeching at the wayward waifs like a harried mother at the stovetop, because fuck, but Eddie nearly crashes them into three ditches and at least five trees for for trying to watch and he can’t even pretend otherwise—but the end result is definitely not a fucking safe house, and these little asshats have directed him in the wholeass wrong direction, if the undeniable fact of the old abandoned labs at the edge of town looming big through his windshield, looking at least slightly less abandoned (as if that’s not goddamn terrifying in and of itself), what the fuck has he literally driven into, is he an accomplice, and to what, and just, just Jesus—

“Hey.”

Eddie is honestly wholly jolted out of his spiral for a lot of reasons, here. The low tenor exhale of a sound in a voice too kind and open and invested, to much like music given what it does to Eddie, what music means to Eddie and what this voice shouldn’t fucking mean too straight out the goddamn gate. The proximity of a body close enough to feel the warmth of each breath. The indefensible feeling of it being nearly erotic out of nowhere and with no justification at all—just the reality of Eddie’s world right now, to feel the barest brush of the side of a body alongside his, leaning forward where he’s still in the driver’s seat. All of that would tip his world at the very least into a different sort of spiral pattern, breathless in a completely other way.

But.

What knocks Eddie hardest and most effectively in one go is the hand on his shoulder, braced to comfort and steady, and the realization in the flesh of how fucking big it is, how the span of that palm, those fingers, because Eddie knew those hands looked big, not that he’d studied them with any real…attention or anything but feeling them was something entirely other, and the touch, the touch is…is—

“Hey,” and Harrington’s breath is close enough then to tickle Eddie’s hair, goddamn: “breathe.”

And where Eddie hadn’t been wholly aware that he wasn’t, y’know, doing the breathing thing so well, either for the absolute insanity of the evening or the ominous spread, all proper D&D-style foreshadowing of nope don’t go there not now not ever waiting where these menaces had directed him to drive; but whatever the reason, where Eddie now takes a gulp of air in now that fucking burns, there’s Harrington, leaning over a little more, a second hand on Eddie chest to steady him as he falls all while he’s fucking squeezing Eddie’s shoulder, only a second before he’s getting ready to jump out of the van like he wasn’t just beaten unconscious like, five fucking minutes ago.

What the actual flying fuck.

If Eddie weren’t a goddamn idiot, he’d put the van in reserve before anyone could get out the back, fuck the way they’ll be thrown against the sides, at least they won’t be walking—willingly—into whatever the fuck’s waiting, all angry red and kinda…pulsating in the distance in a way that may or may not be a trick of his own paranoid mind, and then spewing little glowing motes into the air like lightning bugs.

Which could be charming, if it weren’t way fucking past the season for that shit.

And in fairness, the whole experience of Steve Harrington touching him and leaning close and breathing near him and telling him to breathe? That shit does carry him through—mostly—the hours that will follow, cliche and genuinely fucking embarrassing as it is, as it will be, to acknowledge at all.

But in the now—

“Thanks, man.”

And…oh, well, fuck.

As in point number one: that hand—bothhands—really are distracting as all hell but then also, simultaneously, very much point number two:

What the actual fuck.

“What?”

Apparently sending Eddie-usually-eloquent-enough-to-spin-some-pretty-bullshit-on-demand-Munson reeling outta nowhere is this fucker’s MO. Probably for the best that Eddie’s been writing him off as a pretty airhead for years now—if for nothing more than his own sanity.

Or else, like…relatively speaking.

“You got us here,” Harrington gestures out the window and…yeah.

“Here?”

That’s the relative part. And the insane part to be thanked for. Because where they’ve ended up is definitely the DoE labs that were supposed to have shut down or whatever, after people disappeared and came back and disappeared again and also didn’t and were never gone and fake bodies and whatever.

No one thanks anyone for bringing them to a place like this.

“And it’s more than I could have asked someone to do,” Harrington’s going on like it’s a casual thing, a favor like walking his goddamn dog and not more like what’s actually staring them down inside the fencing, namely the building that doesn’t look as abandoned as advertised by half, and definitely doesn’t at all look like the only thing it’s missing is a big neon sign blinking TRAP! FREE TRAP! IN THE MARKET FOR A QUICK PAINFUL DEMISE AT THE HANDS OF THE WORLD’S SHITTIEST TAINT FACTORY EAST OF ARMPIT-IAPOLIS? STEP RIGHT UP! ALSO REMINDER: CLEARLY A TRAP!

“Harrington,” Eddie doesn’t love the way his voice trips over a bonafide gulp. “Steve.”

He also doesn’t love how much feeling sneaks into that part because one, where the fuck’d that even come from and two, he…

Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever said this guy’s first name out loud. As in…ever.

He doesn’t love how nice it feels, how scary but bubbly-warm it tingles at the base of his throat and the pit of his stomach.

So there’s all of that.

Still set inescapably under the threat of the non-existent-but-no-less-real-neon-sign-of-death and…stuff.

“We know what we’re doing,” Steve’s pats Eddie’s shoulder again, moves the hand from his chest like he’s pulling away, like he’s leaving to go toward the trap and Eddie whips his head around just in time to catch Steve shrug sheepishly and add:

“Like, mostly.”

It is not at all lost on Eddie, how Steve doesn’t even try to sidestep that he’s walking into the gaping maw of probably death, here.

That might be the most terrifying part of this yet.

“I could,” Eddie’s voice is a crackle, so he tries clearing his throat, licking his lips; “I could at least try to help.”

That comes out a little stronger, but not steadier, and he doesn’t really think he’s making his point very well at all.

But then there’s Steve, and his hand back full on Eddie’s shoulder, saying:

“You could,” like he believes that; “and we’d be grateful,” added in like he means that too.

And most unbelievable of all of it, what he tacks on last with a squeeze of his hand and a lower pitch for no reason Eddie can figure save to catch inside the clench of his pulse so it takes to jittering like fucking mad as the King himself exhales:

“I’d be grateful.”

And what the fuck does that mean, said with eyes so bright when the night’s so dark?

And what the fuck does it mean when Eddie’s heartbeat starts jittering, a butterfly between cupped hands, until:

“I need you to be safe though,” and the words have physical form, brush Eddie’s frizzled curls straight behind his ear like…tenderness, delicate.

What. The. Fuck.

Eddie blames the way his heart goes form butterfly to battering ram, ready to crack through his ribs for no reason save a feeling he can’t justify, but’s too real to pretend away as less when he half-fucking-moans:

“What about you?”

Because Steve’s shepherding the kiddos. He’s keeping Eddie on the sidelines, safe. He’s charging into battle with a handkerchief and a bat and a goddamn pair of rubber gloves found from somewhere, sticking out his back pocket like he’s flagging in day-glo, holy hell—

But who takes care of Steve?

“I’ll see you at school,” Steve winks, leans this time to bump one shoulder straight to Eddie’s and then he’s jumping out the back of the van, and he’s moving too fast and—

“Harrington,” Eddie calls, suddenly forgetting he’d ever been trying to keep quiet, to avoid attention of whatever they’re going out to face, Hargrove or harbingers of worker fates, or both at once; “fuck, fuck,” he hissed as he trips over shit that got shifted back in his way as he stumbles to the doors and yells:

“Steve!”

And it’s like maybe saying his name does something to Steve himself, too, because he pauses, and even for the distance, the little curve of his lips isn’t a smirk, it’s a smile.

It’s fucking beautiful.

And then he’s saluting cockily before he turns on his heel with just one last parting shot;

“See you on the other side, Munson.”

And the tunnels beyond only let him watch so long, see so far. The weird shit in the air, and the bandanas he can see a scuffle over, to make sure they’re tied over noses and mouths, lit by weird pulsing colors, obscene squelching noises he can hear the echoes of even this far back and just, just…

Typical eldritch fuckery from a monster manual.

That doesn’t belong in real life.

It’s a fucking trap, Admiral. Good fucking god.

And Jesus H. Christ, but Eddie hadn’t even had the chance to light up tonight as he’d planned, as he’d explicitly driven out to do.

For fuck’s sake.

>>>part two 💚

For @miraculousmultifan, who requested Post-S2; 'Now, I’m not going to deny that I was aware of your beauty. But the point is, this has nothing to do with your beauty. As I got to know you, I began to realise that beauty was the least of your qualities. I became fascinated by your goodness. I was drawn in by it' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST—very late, obviously, and MID-S2, rather than post but it ENDS UP being post-S2, promise 🖤

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