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shehungers · 1 day ago

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OF FLESH SIN

vampire priest x reader | 2.6k | 18+

a ghastly sight! one of the monastery's beloved priests has been found brutally murdered and disfigured in his chambers. father shaw, a newer addition to the monastery, claims to have answers to sate your reaching curiosity—but he wishes for you to come to his chambers at night.

story warnings; dark content, time period inaccuracies, graphic + gruesome details, vampires are predators, power imbalance, kinda obsessive behavior, prose + detail heavy, mention of animal death, hypnotism (kinda), very yandere behavior, roughly proofread.

reposted from my old blog: theoxenfree.

please consider leaving feedback + reblogging!

Father Marius died in quite some awful way last night, as reported to you by the nuns hanging fresh washed garments on the clothesline in the waning, purpling daylight.

“A look of horror! Utter terror! So frightened that his jaw had become dislocated in forever a scream,” shivered one young nun, Lucy; recently a convert from the slums. “I, well, I didn't see it myself. Neither did the rest of us, actually. They say it was that new Father Shaw who found him at dawn.”

You had been raking gravel out of the yard, tiny stones kicked off of the path into the kempt lawn by prancing horses and wagon wheels, when Lucy and the other nun, Esme, had caught your attention with their hard, dense gossip. They regarded your approach with less caution than they would have had with their other sisters, as gossip was deemed inappropriate, a violation, a flickering serpent’s tongue carrying covert temptations leading to luscious sins and debauchery.

They saw you—poor, morose, the groundskeeper's only child and reminder of loveless trysts—and thought nothing of snaking you into their prattle. You were not the sort to divulge anyone's secrets without gain, without reward, and you knew that the nuns kept nothing to their names once they took their vows and donned their habits.

“Father Shaw,” you continued the discussion with some intrigue, mostly from the fact that he was very new, very young, and modestly handsome, “why was he awake so early? Why was he in Father Marius’ chambers? Curious to me.”

Neither of them gave much caution to your questions, shrugging as if to dismiss your ambivalence and accusatory tone. You were bold in the way that the faithless and lost always tended to be: asking senseless things, always concerned with the wrongdoings of others, always suspicious, always inquiring—forever inquiring.

“Oh, my, you're so defensive,” Esme fanned a yellow bedspread out with an oncoming breeze, catching the wind beneath the fabric so it billowed and rippled midair. “If that’s how you're going to be, then: why does your father stumble around the yard at night with a lantern, swinging around a pistol like a madman? Won't he hurt someone?”

Because he's a godless, superstitious drunk. Perhaps, even, a bit disturbed in his mind, but you couldn't bear to think that way, that he might be the type to need his head locked in a metal cage, gagged, arms bound, and padlocked in some damp, distant corner of an asylum.

“He's a good man,” you relented, taking your hands from the top of the smoothed out, worn handle of the rake and resumed your task. The gravel made an awful, grinding sound as the teeth of the rake collected pieces of stone and led it back to the rest. “He's served this monastery well. I don't mean offense about Father Shaw, I'm simply curious about what transpired is all.”

“No offense taken,” came a voice from behind, startling both the twittering nuns and yourself at the same time. They saw it to be Father Shaw standing there, hands cuffed behind his back with a particularly demure disposition, hiked their skirts and whisked themselves away back inside. “Ah, am I really such a frightful figure? I couldn't really find an opening during your conversation to invite myself in. I apologize.”

You were of a similar fretful nature, quickening your clawing and the reach of the rake. “Nay, Father. I think it's simply because you're a strange man to them still. A handsome face, a warm voice, mysterious; give them time, they'll come around.”

“Have you?” Father Shaw asked, taking measured strides in a half-circle around to your front. He concentrated on where the teeth of your instrument struck next, tips temporarily wedged into the soft dirt before being ripped up with chunks of earth and gray gravel. “It wouldn't do for me if you… were still ill at ease with me as well. I consider you my one, true friend in this place.”

Your father held a certain destestation towards Father Shaw that you'd never witnessed before, saying nothing else than that something was terribly wrong with him and not to place yourself in a position to be alone with him. This you attributed to his unsoundness, but it was always the sudden flicker a sharp breath against candlelight—a jarring shift in his demeanor when he spoke about the Father, neurotic and prone to throwing things about the cottage interior, that caused you to pay some mind to what he told you.

“And, you're a great friend of mine as well,” you hoped you sounded coherent and paced your words evenly enough. “I'm sorry if you thought I was accusing you of something, sir. I really meant nothing to it.”

Father Shaw’s lips sprawled tight and pale into a fond smile, never showing his teeth, though the imprint of them seemed massive and the skin of his lips startlingly thin across them. “I know. You have nothing to fear. My feelings were not affected. If you'd like, come to my chambers later, we may pray together first, and I'll tell you everything you wish to know about what I saw to sate your curiosity.”

“That seems improper, sir.” You said.

“How so?”

“Inviting someone to your chambers at night seems an unbecoming venture for a pious man of status, such as yourself,” you continued, now standing upright beside your rake, “if any of the sisters were to witness it, worse another priest, aren't you afraid you'd be horribly chastised? Even worse, excommunicated altogether?”

Although Father Shaw’s dark eyes reflected no light, holding such demanding depth to them that it was hard to keep your bearings whenever you realized you'd been staring, his entire face was alight in amusement.

“Wherever did you learn to speak like that?” he asked candidly, still glowing despite his pallor. “Forgive me when I say, but your father is not an educated man. I mean no offense, please don't look at me in such a way. You are so well spoken, I only wish to know more about you.”

“I've lived here my entire life,” you told him. “The nuns taught me how to read.”

He looked impressed. “You can read?”

“I can!” From a near distance, you could make out your father’s haddard form, bent sideways on a walking cane and limping towards the pair of you. You looked up at the priest’s smooth face. “It'd be best for you to leave before my father can speak to you. He isn't the kindest soul after a long day.

Father Shaw didn't react with any semblance of worry, but agreed that there were other things needing to be done and began away. Just as he passed you on his way towards the monastery, he let his hand rest atop of your shoulder and leaned you towards him to whisper in your ear: “come to me tonight. I'll be waiting for you.”

There was something so luxurious and cooling about his voice; fine silks sitting in the shade during autumn gliding across your bare skin, wrapping your neck, your chest, your nether parts. His voice was a fine, chilly mist after the first rains in spring which felt refreshing and new after a glacial winter, yet still had capacity to soak you to the bone. It was a nighttime breeze caressing your cheek, sweeping through the hairs of your scalp, making your skin burst all over with bumps.

“I don't like the way he looks at you,” said your father with a mouthful of porridge you'd seasoned with herbs of the season. It was wonderfully fragrant and warm during nights that were still a bit too uncomfortable to sip anything cold. “He looks at you like you're a slab of meat! Some prize after a hunt. I don't like him, love. Not one bit. You'd do well to stay to mind yourself and do your chores and nothing else, y’hear?”

After dinner, you cleaned up, swept the floors with hard bristles, and snuffed all the lights except for the fireplace where your father sat in his old chair, fiddling with his favorite pistol.

“It's time for bed, old man.” You watched him fit a couple of small bullets into the loading chamber. They glinted against the orange flames. “Goodness. What have you gotten this time? Something new?"

“Aye!” he grinned, nearly toothless and in a sickly sort of way. “Went to market the other day while the nuns bullied you and picked out some fine bullets from the silversmith,” he cracked the two halves of the pistol shut. “Better to be prepared.”

You waited until sometime later once he was finally asleep, possibly after midnight, before leaving the humble cottage sitting on the fringes of the massive monastery yard and rushing across the grounds to get inside.

Once, they'd kept a guard dog on the property, one of those meaner breeds that were used for gambling, but the poor thing wound up shot dead in the middle of the night by a traveling friar who'd come to seek refuge at the monastery. The sisters, and yourself, were horribly distraught by the entire ordeal and all vetoed the consideration of bringing another dog here.

Since then, it was no task for you (or anyone else) to get inside the building and shuffle along the shadows through the corridors. At night, the place stirred with patient insects, feral rodents large and small in the pantry, and hungry owls tamely whining from the rafters when something startled them away from their hunt of vermin.

Your feet were a light sound on the masonry below, padded by thin leather soles which alerted you to your enthusiasm as the thwap thwap thwap became louder, aggressive as you closed in on a wall and turned down another hallway for a sturdy wood door at the end of it.

As your knuckles rapped, hoping the sound wouldn't disturb the animals’ nighttime caroling, a swift darkness moved across the floor from behind the door, briefly blocking out the soft light seeping out from underneath.

The next moment, you were being pulled inside and sat at a small table tucked to the side of Father Shaw’s rather generous room. It was a simple space, sparsely furnished for the barest of comforts—only for what was needed to live—but what had been made for him was of exquisite craftsmanship, some made of teakwood, which Shaw assured you was remarkably durable and highly resistant to rotting.

“It's wonderful for boats,” he said, pouring a light amber colored brew from a metal kettle he'd heated a short while ago. “It’s good for all elements, really. Exceptional longevity. I've heard it has become a popular option in the city for burying the deceased.”

“Will Father Marius be buried in a teakwood coffin, then?” you asked, sipping politely from the cup even though you had no appetite for it. You already felt ill at ease enough having disobeyed your father by sneaking into a priest's personal chambers at night. The things the sisters would say about you—

“He will be entombed underneath the monastery with the rest who have served here and passed. I believe that is all stone down there, my dear.” Father Shaw smiled tepidly, kettle aside, no tea of his own. “But, I know that your curiosity led you here to me with questions, yes? About the state I found Father Marius in, yes?”

You tried to disguise your intrigue by drinking more of the tea, of whatever it was he had given you, and listened to the sounds of your fingertips sticking to the porcelain from sweat and steam.

“If you wouldn't mind sharing…”

“I wouldn't!” he leaned on his arms on the table, closer towards you as though with a secret. “As I've said, you are truly the only soul here who I can confide in. You are not a sheep. And you do not fear sin as the rest do. So, you can ask me anything and I'll tell you everything.”

“Tell me about Father Marius, then.”

Father Shaw reached across the table for one of your hands; his far larger, fingers much longer and colder than your own and held it as he recounted the event.

“Dreadful sight, it was. It was, oh, perhaps sometime after three o'clock when I heard a massive racket. A struggle. When I knocked, all of the noise subsided at once and there was complete stillness. Silence, my dear, silence so deep, dark, and damning that I knew something awful had happened

“I didn't knock again, I was too afraid to! But, Father Marius was getting on in age, so I couldn't just stand by, either. I kicked the door in—just once was all it took—and I rushed inside to see the room was a complete mess. A fight had clearly taken place, and the walls—oh, the walls—”

His remorse was carefully placed, stiff, and uncertain and he couldn't be seen in the vastness of his black gaze. You were moved by the vulnerability he was trying to show you, going as far to abandon your drink to place your warm hand on top of his.

“The walls, my dear, were a mess of blood. Something vicious and awful had happened in that room. But, then, I found Father Marius lying there on the ground next to a broken window. I think he'd tried to throw himself through it. His face was shredded to pieces, his eyes gouged. When I got closer, I noticed that his tongue had been severed from his head!”

You were holding Father Shaw’s hands in a bloodless grip, face ashen, teeth chattering behind your lips. “What on earth! That is not only horror, but cruelty!”

“Oh, my love, it gets worse!” Father Shaw held you mesmerized in his gaze, the conviction and anguish with which he told his story. “Closer still, Father Marius’ face was locked in one of pure terror, I've—I’ve never seen a human react in quite a way such as that before, to fear. The man unhinged his own jaw in a hideous scream, and it seemed to me he was skeletal. By that, it's like he was, well, quite dry.

“So, I crouched down so much lower and inspected him all over. Do you want to know what I found?”

“Yes.” You spoke breathlessly.

Father Shaw had moved out of his seat and was on one knee in front of you, both of his frigid hands on your face to smooth across your cheeks, pushing away pieces of hair obscuring some part of you he'd wanted to see.

“My love, I saw marks in his neck. Two, beautifully, wonderfully symmetrical marks that were far too clean to be of any animal that we know of. The bite was clean, it was patient and cunning. And the fangs that had sunk into his tender flesh had drained him of blood, of the very essence that kept his heart beating until the very last.”

“Sir—” your stomach plummeted, falling forever, when he smiled, teeth longer than any humans should be shown through to you. He wouldn't let you go when you went to move out of his hands, away from him. “Father Shaw, please—”

“I wish you could have seen it, my love. It was a breathtaking sight and I long for someone else to admire the beauty of my work alongside me.”

It was unthinkable that a vampire could walk on these holy grounds and in the bright of day, yet Father Shaw had for countless days. Evil held you sweetly by the cheek and in your hair, kissed you with a corpse’s cold lips, and laved the skin of your skin with a long, serpentine tongue.

“O’, my merciful lord…”

Father Shaw bent your head back with a fistful of hair and spoke from your throat:

“There is no God, only me. Come into the endless night with me, my love.”

a/n; I'm aware this is historically inaccurate as nuns and the priest wouldn't have intermingled like this in a monastery. it's really not that big of a deal lmao.

so, two of the characters from this: father marius and father shaw, actually have been adapted as important side-characters in my upcoming possessed!scholar husband x reader story, which is based in a fictional victorian era.

they're essentially the same characters, just tweaked to fit the narrative of that story!

#yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #vampire x reader #vampire x you #vampire x human #vampire x y/n #monster x reader #monster x human #monster fucker #monster romance #monster story #monster x you #original writing #writing #x reader #reader insert

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winxanity-ii · 2 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 25 Chapter 25 | love's labyrinth⌟

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At the royal table, Telemachus sat stiffly between his mother and Andreia, the rich tapestry of the feast unfolding around him. His plate was mostly untouched, save for a few bites he'd forced himself to take to avoid suspicion.

The air was thick with the mingling scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and honeyed fruits, but none of it managed to stir his appetite.

To his left, Andreia was in the midst of an animated conversation, her voice melodic but sharp enough to cut through the hum of the gathering. Her hands moved gracefully as she spoke, her words punctuated with occasional laughs that were as polished as the silverware on the table.

To anyone observing, she might have seemed the picture of charm and grace—a perfect guest, a potential match for Ithaca's prince.

But Telemachus wasn't paying attention to her.

His eyes drifted past the shimmering goblets, past the dazzling decorations that adorned the courtyard, and locked onto the one figure he couldn't seem to tear himself away from.

You.

You were on the dance floor, your laughter ringing out like a bell amidst the music, your blue dress twirling as you moved effortlessly with the rhythm of the song. A group of dancers surrounded you, including Kieran and Callias, their faces flushed with excitement and joy.

But for Telemachus, it was as if the entire scene blurred into the background, leaving only you in sharp focus.

Your smile—so bright, so genuine—was a stark contrast to the carefully crafted expressions of the nobles and guests seated around him. There was no artifice in the way your eyes lit up, no calculated charm in the way you threw your head back in laughter when Kieran spun you around too fast and nearly stumbled.

It was real. You were real.

Andreia's voice broke into his reverie, her words cutting through like an unwelcome breeze. "Prince Telemachus," she said smoothly, leaning slightly toward him. Her tone was light, but the undercurrent of expectation was unmistakable. "What do you think of the decorations? The blending of Ithaca's colors with Bronte's—it's quite striking, isn't it?"

Telemachus blinked, forcing his gaze back to her. He nodded absently, the words barely registering. "Yes, quite," he murmured, his tone devoid of the enthusiasm she likely hoped for.

Andreia tilted her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she studied him. "You seem distracted," she observed, a hint of something sharper creeping into her voice. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine," he replied quickly, his lips pressing into a thin line. He picked up his goblet and took a long sip of wine, hoping it might help to mask his obvious disinterest in her conversation. It didn't.

"Really? Because you've barely said a word all evening," she pressed, her tone now laced with what might have been genuine curiosity—or something closer to annoyance.

Before he could respond, another burst of laughter erupted from the dance floor. His head turned instinctively, his eyes finding you again. This time, you were dancing with Callias, the two of you caught in a lively spin that left your faces flushed and grinning.

Telemachus' chest tightened at the sight.

Andreia followed his gaze, her sharp eyes narrowing as she tracked where his attention had strayed. She didn't say anything immediately, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth spoke volumes.

"Ah," she said after a moment, her voice quieter but no less cutting. "I see."

Telemachus stiffened, his grip tightening on the stem of his goblet. He turned back to her, his expression carefully neutral. "See what?"

Andreia's smile didn't reach her eyes as she gestured subtly toward the dance floor. "She's... captivating, isn't she? The way the crowd seems to revolve around her, the way she lights up the space. It's no wonder she's garnered so much attention lately."

Her words were smooth, almost complimentary, but Telemachus could hear the undercurrent of envy, the subtle jab beneath the surface. He didn't rise to the bait, instead setting his goblet down with deliberate care.

"She deserves it," he said simply, his voice steady but firm. "Everything tonight—she's earned it."

Andreia's smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second, before she composed herself. "Of course," she said, her tone light once more. "How generous of you to think so."

Telemachus didn't respond; his gaze had already drifted back to the dance floor, where you were still caught in the glow of laughter and joy, oblivious to his turmoil. After a beat, he sighed quietly, dropping his gaze to his goblet before muttering, "Excuse me, I think I need some air." Without waiting for a response, he stood, smoothing his tunic before slipping away from the royal table.

Andreia's sharp eyes followed him, her lips pressing into a thin line as he exited the grand hall. But Telemachus didn't look back. He felt suffocated in a way that no amount of festivity could ease. He passed through the heavy double doors; the distant sounds of music and laughter muffled as he entered the quieter corridors of the palace.

As he walked, the tension in his shoulders eased slightly, though the unease in his chest remained. He wasn't sure why, but something had shifted recently. A distance between you and him that he couldn't quite name but felt acutely all the same. It had started subtly—small things he might not have noticed if he weren't so attuned to you.

At first, it had been minor—a missed smile, a hurried excuse to leave when he approached. He had brushed it off as coincidence, thinking perhaps you were simply preoccupied. But as the day went on, it became harder to ignore.

Every time he sought you out, hoping for a moment to talk, to share in the quiet understanding that had always been there, you seemed to slip away. And each time it happened, it left him with a gnawing sense of unease.

He recalled one time in particular. It was hours before the feast started when he spotted you in the palace halls, chatting with one of the older maids. He had started toward you, eager to steal a moment before the day's activity pulled you both in different directions. But as soon as you noticed him, your expression had shifted—eyes widening, lips parting as if in surprise. And then, just as quickly, you had turned away, muttering something to the maid before disappearing into the palace.

It wasn't like you. The easy camaraderie you had always shared now felt fractured; the invisible thread that connected you stretched thin. He had replayed those moments in his mind, searching for answers.

Had he done something to upset you? Said something thoughtless without realizing it? The question gnawed at him, carving a hollow space in his chest.

Stopping in one of the quieter hallways, he leaned against the cool stone wall, running a hand through his hair. The muted hum of the feast echoed faintly in the distance, but he barely registered it. His thoughts were consumed by you—by the way your laughter on the dance floor had felt like sunlight breaking through clouds, yet he couldn't ignore the way you'd avoided him all day.

Telemachus sighed, his hand falling to his side as he stared at the flickering torchlight illuminating the corridor. He couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed, that there was a wall between you now where there had once been none. And he hated it.

Pushing off the wall, he started walking again, his steps slower, more deliberate. He wasn't sure if he was ready to face the feast again, to return to Andreia's sharp eyes and honeyed words.

But more than that, he wasn't sure how to face you—not when the memory of your bright smile felt so far removed from the quiet distance you now held him at.

As Telemachus stood in the empty corridor, staring blankly at the flickering torchlight, a voice cut through the silence like the sharp edge of a blade, dripping with sarcasm.

"Wow, you sure know how to turn moping into an art form, don't you?"

Telemachus jerked, his head snapping up to locate the source of the voice. His eyes darted around the hallway until they landed on... a boy? A boy who wasn't just standing there but floating a few feet off the ground, one leg crossed over the other as though lounging midair. The boy's golden curls glinted faintly in the dim light, his cherubic face twisted into a grin that was anything but innocent.

"What the—?" Telemachus stammered, stepping back instinctively, his heart racing. "Who are you, and how did you get in here?"

The boy ignored the question entirely, instead tilting his head as he surveyed Telemachus. "You're just as serious as they said. Honestly, I thought royals were supposed to be fun. 'Ya know, with all the having power over other people and stuff."

Telemachus blinked, bewildered. "What are you talking about? And what do you mean 'they said'? Who—"

"Oh, this is going to take forever," the boy groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes. He stretched his arms over his head lazily, the motion causing his toga to slip slightly off one shoulder. Then he pointed a tiny finger toward the small wings fluttering behind him. "Take a guess, genius."

Telemachus squinted, his mind racing as he pieced together the image before him: the golden curls, the wings, the glowing quiver of arrows slung across the boy's back. Slowly, realization dawned, and he felt his jaw tighten.

"Eros," he muttered, the name tasting strange on his tongue.

The boy gave a mock bow, his grin widening. "Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner! Took you long enough." He floated down a bit, resting his chin in his hands as he leaned toward Telemachus, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "I've been watching you, you know. You're almost as dramatic as one of my love-struck mortals."

Telemachus bristled, his confusion giving way to irritation. "Watching me? Why? And don't compare me to—"

"Because it's entertaining," Eros interrupted, cutting him off with a wave of his small hand. "Do you know how dull some of you mortals can be? You, at least, have some flavor. All this pining, all this angst—it's like watching a tragedy unfold in slow motion."

"I'm not pining," Telemachus snapped, his cheeks flushing slightly despite himself. "And I don't have time for games, so if you have some divine purpose, get to it."

Eros laughed, the sound light and mocking. "Oh, you are fun. So defensive! You're practically screaming, 'Yes, I'm in love, and I have no idea what to do about it! Help me!'"

Telemachus stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he glared at the boy. "I didn't ask for your opinion, nor help."

"Too bad," Eros shot back, spinning lazily in the air. "Because I have a lot of them. And here's one for free: you're making this much harder than it needs to be. You're thinking so much, it's a wonder you haven't combusted yet."

Telemachus clenched his fists, his patience thinning like a taut thread ready to snap. "What do you want?" he demanded, his voice low and firm.

Eros gasped dramatically, placing a small hand over his chest like he'd just been struck by a mortal blow. "So cold, Your Highness!" he whined, floating closer, his tiny wings flitting behind him. "Here I am, offering my invaluable presence, and you act like I'm some common thief in your hallways."

Telemachus raised a brow, unimpressed. "If you're not here to meddle, then why are you here?"

Eros' pout disappeared, replaced by a sly grin. "Business," he declared, straightening up midair and crossing his arms. His golden curls seemed to glow faintly in the torchlight, making him look every bit the picture of an angelic child—if not for the mischief glittering in his eyes. "And that business, dear prince, is you."

Telemachus frowned, stepping back slightly. "Me? Why?"

Eros flipped upside down, lounging as though gravity was an afterthought. "Because watching you wrestle with your own emotions is like watching a bird try to fly while tied to a stone. Entertaining? Sure. But it's getting repetitive." He righted himself, landing on the ground with exaggerated grace. "I'm here to give you a chance—a very generous one, if I do say so myself."

Telemachus narrowed his eyes. "What kind of chance?"

Eros smirked, stepping closer until he stood just in front of the prince. Despite his small frame, his presence felt far larger. "A chance to sort out your girl troubles, of course." He tilted his head, his curls bouncing. "Which you may or may not have." His smirk widened. "Though, let's be honest, you totally have them."

Telemachus' jaw tightened, the subtle heat in his cheeks betraying him despite his efforts to stay composed. "I don't need your help," he said firmly, though his voice lacked conviction.

"Oh, don't be so serious!" Eros exclaimed, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "You mortals always think you can do everything the hard way. Newsflash, princeling: that's why you're all so miserable."

Telemachus hesitated, his internal conflict playing out in the tension of his posture. He wanted to say yes, to grab hold of whatever help this meddling god could provide. The thought of winning your heart, of seeing your bright smile aimed only at him again, was almost enough to sway him.

But something held him back—his own sense of integrity.

"It's... not right," he said finally, his voice quieter now. "If... If I'm going to win her heart, I want to do it the right way. Honestly. Without... tricks."

Eros groaned, dragging a hand down his face as if Telemachus' answer had physically pained him. "You are boring," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Fine, Mr. Morals. I'll give you points for effort, but do you really think she's going to notice you if you keep skulking around like this? You need help, whether you admit it or not."

Telemachus straightened, his expression hardening. "I don't need your arrows or your schemes, Eros. If she's going to choose me, I want it to be because she truly wants to—not because you nudged her emotions in my favor."

Eros studied him for a moment, his mischievous smirk fading into something almost thoughtful. "You're serious about this, huh?" he said, more to himself than to Telemachus. Then, just as quickly, the smirk was back. "Alright, fine. If you're so determined to stick to the 'noble' path, I'll give you an alternative."

Telemachus raised a brow. "What kind of alternative?"

Eros grinned, the light in his eyes gleaming brighter than before. "What if I made Princess Andreia fall for you instead?" he offered, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather.

The reaction was immediate. Telemachus recoiled slightly, his brows furrowing in disbelief. "Andreia?" he repeated, his voice sharper than intended. "No."

Eros blinked, clearly surprised by the speed of the response. "No?" he echoed, tilting his head.

Telemachus straightened, his expression resolute. "Even if ____ might not want me, I wouldn't be able to give mt heart away. She's the only one that can claim it."

Eros stared at him for a long moment, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. Then, to Telemachus's surprise, the boy's lips curled into a small, genuine smile—one that lacked the usual mischief. "Well," he said, his voice softer, "at least you're not lying to yourself."

The sincerity of the moment lingered, rare and oddly grounding, but it didn't last long. As though realizing he'd allowed himself to be too earnest, Eros tilted his head sharply, his cherubic curls bouncing. His eyes darted upward, narrowing in focus, as if he were listening to something distant and unseen.

His nose wrinkled, and his expression twisted into one of utter disgust. "Ugh, gross!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms out dramatically. He gagged for emphasis, the sound sharp and exaggerated. "You're thinking about her again, aren't you?"

Telemachus blinked, startled. "What?" he asked, his tone defensive but wary, confused by the boy's unpredicatble emotions.

Eros spun in the air, covering his face with one hand like a dramatic actor in the middle of a tragedy. "It's so sweet it's nauseating," he groaned, peeking through his fingers with a squint. "How do you mortals even handle emotions like this? If it were me, I'd shoot an arrow at myself just to get rid of it."

The prince frowned, his arms crossing as he stared at the floating boy. "You're overreacting."

Eros dropped his hands, raising his brows as if Telemachus had just uttered the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. "Overreacting?" He leaned closer, his face uncomfortably close to Telemachus'. "Listen, princeling, I know love better than anyone. It's practically my whole thing, and I can tell you right now—you're drowning in it. Hopelessly."

Telemachus opened his mouth to respond, but Eros cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "But you know what?" The boy leaned back mid-air, resting his hands behind his head as he floated in a lazy circle. "If you're too noble to make a choice, then I guess I'll have to make it for you."

"What?" Telemachus straightened, his voice suddenly taut with alarm. "What do you mean, make it for me?"

Eros' grin turned sharp, a flash of teeth that seemed far too knowing for his youthful face. "Oh, don't worry about it," he said, his tone far too casual to be comforting. "Let's just say I'll give fate a little nudge. Call it an experiment." He shrugged, spinning lazily in the air. "You'll thank me later. Or not. Either way, it'll be fun."

"Eros," Telemachus warned, his fists clenching at his sides. "Don't—"

"Bye, princeling!" Eros interrupted, his voice sing-song and infuriatingly carefree. He lifted a hand in a cheeky wave, his wings fluttering. "Try not to mess things up too badly, alright?"

Before Telemachus could demand answers or stop him, Eros disappeared in a burst of golden light, the faint sound of laughter lingering in his wake. The hallway fell silent, the encounter settling heavily over the prince.

Telemachus stood there, his heart racing with a mixture of frustration and unease. Whatever Eros had planned, he knew it couldn't mean anything good—or simple. And as much as he hated to admit it, the boy's parting words gnawed at him.

Hopelessly in love.

He shook his head, his jaw tightening as he turned to leave the corridor and return to the feast. Whatever game Eros was playing, Telemachus was determined to face it head-on. If this was a test of his resolve, he would prove that his feelings for you didn't need divine interference to be true.

As he approached the entrance to the ballroom, the muffled sounds of music and laughter grew louder, the atmosphere vibrant with celebration. Stepping inside, the warmth of the grand hall washed over him, along with the mingled scents of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and spiced wine. His gaze instinctively swept across the room, taking in the swirling colors of Ithacan and Brontean finery blending together, the flickering glow of candlelight reflecting off golden goblets and polished silver.

And then, his eyes found you.

You were standing near the refreshment table, laughing at something Callias had said. He was beside you, animated and theatrical as always, gesturing wildly with a cup in hand while Asta, Lysandra, and Kieran chuckled at his antics. The glow of the lanterns above caught on the fabric of your dress, making the rich blue shimmer with every movement, and when you smiled, it was as if the entire room softened around you.

Telemachus froze mid-step.

He had intended to return to his seat at the royal table, to settle back into the rhythm of polite conversation and carefully chosen words. He could already hear Andreia's voice in his mind, ready to fill the space beside him with idle chatter. But just as he turned away from the sight of you, something caught his attention—a flicker of movement, just over your shoulder.

Floating behind you, as if he hadn't a care in the world, was Eros.

The young deity had a glowing pink bottle in one hand, its glass catching the light in a way that made it seem almost alive. Telemachus' breath hitched as he watched Eros tilt the bottle, pouring its contents into the cup you held. The liquid shimmered unnaturally as it swirled in your goblet, like stardust dissolving into wine.

And yet, not a single person around you seemed to notice—not Callias, not Asta, Lysandra, not even the servants bustling nearby. It was as if Telemachus was the only one who could see the god's mischief unfolding before his very eyes.

Eros' grin stretched wider as he caught sight of Telemachus, his golden curls bouncing as he gave the prince a playful, fluttering wave. Then, with an exaggerated wink, he disappeared, vanishing into thin air as though he had never been there at all.

Panic gripped Telemachus like a vice. His eyes darted back to you, and his stomach dropped as he saw you lift the cup toward your lips. There was no time to think, no moment to hesitate. Before he even realized what he was doing, he was moving—his body acting on pure instinct. He crossed the room in a blur, weaving between dancers and revelers with a speed he didn't know he possessed.

"Wait!" he blurted, his voice sharper than he intended as he reached your side.

You froze mid-motion, startled by the sudden interruption. Your eyes widened as you turned to face him, the cup still in your hand. "Prince Telemachus?" you asked, confused. "What are you—?"

Before you could finish, he took the cup from your hand in one swift motion, the liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Without a word of explanation, he brought the goblet to his lips and downed its contents in a single, desperate gulp.

The sweet, otherworldly taste of the drink hit his tongue like a burst of sunlight, warm and intoxicating, but he forced himself to swallow it all, not letting a single drop go to waste. When the goblet was empty, he lowered it, breathing heavily as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The table had fallen silent. You, Callias, and the others stared at him, utterly bewildered.

"Uh... are you alright, Your Highness?" Callias asked after a beat, his tone hovering between concern and amusement. "Because, damn, you looked thirsty."

Telemachus barely registered the comment, his gaze fixed on you as he tried to steady his breathing. His heart was racing, a mix of adrenaline and whatever magic had been in that drink coursing through his veins. He opened his mouth to speak, to explain, but no words came.

His mind scrambled for something—anything—that would make his actions seem less strange. Then, with a nervous laugh that sounded far too forced, he blurted out, "Oh, I thought you got it for me! Haha—my mistake!"

Your brow furrowed, the confusion on your face deepening as you tilted your head. "You thought... I got it for you?" you echoed, clearly not convinced. The disbelief in your tone only made his awkwardness grow.

"Y-Yeah!" Telemachus stammered, his hand already shooting out to grab a random passerby's cup off a nearby tray. The bewildered servant barely had time to react as Telemachus thrust the drink toward you with a sheepish smile. "Here you go! A replacement. Enjoy."

You blinked, staring down at the cup he handed you, your lips parting to respond. Before you could say anything, he hastily added, "Well, gotta go! Busy night, lots to do. You know how it is!" He waved awkwardly, already stepping back.

Just as he turned to make his escape, a chill swept over him, sharp and sudden, making his skin prickle. Before he could process the sensation, an overwhelming wave of discomfort crashed over his body. His muscles cramped painfully, his head spun, and a heavy dizziness pressed down on him like an invisible weight. He stumbled slightly, gripping the edge of a nearby table to steady himself.

"Prince Telemachus?" your voice was concerned now, but he didn't dare look back, not wanting to worry you—or worse, have you see the panic flickering in his eyes.

"I-I'm fine," he managed to mutter, his voice strained as he straightened with effort. "I just... I need to step out for some air."

Without waiting for a response, he made a beeline for the nearest exit, his steps uneven but quick. The moment he was out of the hall, away from the warm glow of the festivities, a snickering sound made his stomach sink.

Eros was floating in front of him again, lazily spinning one of his golden arrows in his hand. The little god's grin was wide and unapologetically smug, his golden curls bouncing as he tilted his head. "Wow," Eros said, drawing the word out with exaggerated amusement. "You really went for it, huh?"

Telemachus groaned, clutching his stomach as another wave of nausea rolled through him. "What... did you do?" he ground out, glaring at the god through the haze of his discomfort.

Eros burst into laughter, clutching his sides as he doubled over mid-air. "It wasn't supposed to go like this! You weren't supposed to drink the whole thing, you idiot!" He wiped a nonexistent tear from his eye, his laughter subsiding into mischievous chuckles. "It was meant to be sipped, not chugged like it's some mortal drinking contest."

Telemachus leaned heavily against the wall, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to stay upright. "Why would you even try to give it to her?" he demanded, his voice low but filled with anger.

Eros shrugged, completely unbothered. "Relax, lover boy. I wasn't going to make her drink it willingly. I had a whole plan!" He gestured dramatically with his free hand. "I was going to let her take a sip or two, then have someone bump into her to make her drop it, and let the magic work naturally. Subtle. Elegant."

Telemachus stared at him, incredulous. "Subtle? You call that subtle?"

Eros smirked, leaning closer, his golden eyes twinkling with mischief. "You're one to talk, Mr. 'I'll just drink this entire cursed concoction to save her.' You didn't even hesitate." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Actually, I'm kind of impressed. Stupid, but impressive."

Telemachus felt his anger rise, but before he could retort, another cramp twisted through his body, stealing his breath. He hunched over slightly, cursing under his breath as Eros floated closer, examining him with mock sympathy.

"Well," Eros said cheerfully, "on the bright side, at least you didn't ruin my fun entirely. Now we get to see what happens when someone takes a full dose of divine love magic. Should be entertaining!" He clapped his hands together, his cherubic face lighting up with glee.

Telemachus groaned again, sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the cool stone floor. "Get rid of it," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Undo whatever it is you did."

Eros snorted, crossing his arms. "Oh, no, no, no. Where's the fun in that? Besides," he added with a wicked grin, "it's not like you're dying. Just... experiencing the full force of what it means to have your heart wide open."

Telemachus glared up at him, his patience worn paper-thin. "I don't need magic to feel what I already feel," he snapped. "I already love her—without your interference."

Eros tilted his head, his grin softening slightly into something more thoughtful. For a moment, the boy looked older, wiser, his golden eyes gleaming with something far beyond mischief. "I know," he said simply. "That's what makes this so fun to watch."

With that, Eros gave him a little salute, his wings fluttering as he began to fade. "Good luck, Prince Charming," he called over his shoulder. "Try not to embarrass yourself too much when the magic kicks in."

And then, he was gone, leaving Telemachus alone in the dim corridor, his body aching and his mind reeling. His breathing was shallow, and every step he took felt unsteady, the tension in his chest coiling tighter with each beat of his heart. He muttered a string of curses under his breath, his frustration mounting.

"By the gods..." he hissed, running a hand through his hair as the dull ache in his stomach made him lean briefly against the wall. His fingers curled against the stone for balance, trying to gather himself. He'd just been humiliated by a pre-teen god with wings, his mind toyed with, and now his body felt like it was betraying him too.

"Stupid little brat," he grumbled, his voice low and bitter. "Should've been clearer it was meant for one sip—"

"Telemachus?"

The sound of your voice cut through the fog in his mind like a beacon. He froze mid-step, his spine stiffening as he glanced over his shoulder. There you were, your dress catching the light of the torches lining the corridor. Your expression was a mixture of concern and curiosity, and your voice softened as you asked, "Are you alright? You left so suddenly."

His stomach turned—not from the remnants of whatever Eros' potion had done but from the fact that you had followed him. Your kindness, your worry for him, felt like both a balm and a sharp blade. He quickly wiped a hand across his face as if to compose himself, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Ah, yes," he said, his voice pitched higher than usual. He winced at how unconvincing he sounded. "I just... needed some air. Too much dancing, I think. You know how it gets."

You frowned, taking a step closer, your presence both soothing and nerve-wracking at the same time. "You look pale," you said, your gaze scanning his face. "Are you sure you're okay? You were fine just a moment ago."

The genuine worry in your tone made his chest tighten again, a lump forming in his throat as he tried to think of something, anything, to put you at ease. "It's nothing serious," he tried again, though the weakness in his voice betrayed him. "Probably just... drank too much too quickly. I'll be fine in a moment."

Your frown deepened as you came to stand just a few paces from him, close enough that he could catch the faintest trace of your perfume—a warm, familiar scent that only made his heart ache more. "If it's something you ate, I can fetch some water?" you offered, your tone soft but insistent.

The thought of you fretting over him made his stomach flip in ways that had nothing to do with the lingering effects of Eros' meddling. He shook his head quickly, forcing a weak laugh. "No need," he said, straightening up and attempting to look more composed than he felt. "Really, it's not worth worrying over. Just my... overeager drinking habits causing alarm."

Your brow remained furrowed, and Telemachus could see the gears turning in your head, debating whether or not to accept his excuse. For a moment, he thought you might insist on staying, on pressing the issue further, and a strange part of him both hoped you would and feared it.

But then you sighed, your shoulders relaxing slightly. "If you're sure," you said softly, though the concern in your eyes lingered.

"I'm sure," he replied quickly, too quickly. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to relax. "Thank you, though. For checking on me."

You hesitated for a moment and Telemachus thought he might drown under the weight of your gaze. Then, with a small nod, you stepped back, your expression softening into something gentler. "Alright," you said, your voice quieter now. "But... if you're not feeling better soon, promise me you'll tell someone? Or at least sit down for a bit?"

The sincerity in your words made his resolve falter, and for a split second, he considered telling you everything—about Eros, the drink, the way you made his heart race every time you looked at him.

But he couldn't.

Not here, not now. Not when he couldn't be sure if it was his heart or divine meddling that had led him here in the first place.

"I promise," he said instead, the words feeling both true and hollow at the same time.

You smiled then, small but warm, and Telemachus felt his breath catch. It was the kind of smile that made him believe, just for a moment, that things could be simple. That he could win your heart without gods and potions and convoluted schemes.

"I'll see you back inside," you said, stepping back toward the ballroom.

Telemachus opened his mouth to respond, but the moment he shifted his weight, his legs buckled slightly, sending him stumbling forward.

Your gasp cut through the corridor, sharp and worried, as you rushed to his side. Without hesitation, you slid your arm around his waist, your other hand bracing against his chest to steady him.

"Telemachus! I knew you were lying," you said, your voice laced with a mixture of exasperation and concern. "You're not fine. Look at you—you're barely standing."

"I'm... fine," he insisted weakly, though the slur in his words and the cold sweat breaking out on his forehead betrayed him. He tried to straighten up, but you tightened your grip, determined to keep him upright.

"Stop it," you snapped, your worry bubbling into frustration. "You're not fine, and you're not fooling me. You're going to your room. Now."

He blinked at you, stunned by your no-nonsense tone. "But it's your celebration," he mumbled. "You should be out there enjoying it, not—"

"You're more important," you cut him off firmly, your gaze softening but remaining resolute. "I don't care if the whole feast is for me. If you collapse in the middle of the hall, it won't mean anything."

His throat tightened at your words, a strange warmth blooming in his chest despite the haze of dizziness clouding his thoughts. He wanted to argue, to insist that he didn't want to pull you away from your own night, but he lacked the strength to fight both you and his body's rebellion.

Wordlessly, he allowed you to guide him, his arm draped over your shoulders as you both staggered through the palace corridors. The weight of him leaning against you was heavier than you'd expected, but you pressed on, ignoring the strain. Every step felt deliberate, your shared focus narrowing to the simple goal of getting him to his chambers.

"You should've said something sooner," you muttered under your breath as you adjusted your grip on him. "Why do you always have to be so stubborn?"

Telemachus managed a faint chuckle, though it came out strained. "I could say the same about you."

You shot him a glare, but the corners of your lips twitched despite yourself. "This isn't the time for jokes, Telemachus."

"I'm serious," he murmured, his voice softer now. His gaze flicked toward you, lingering on the determined set of your expression. "You're stronger than you realize."

The unexpected sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and for a moment, you faltered. But his weight shifted against you, snapping you back to the present. You didn't reply, focusing instead on navigating the last stretch to his room.

When you finally reached his door, you nudged it open with your foot and guided him inside. The room was dimly lit, the moonlight filtering through the curtains casting pale streaks across the floor. You helped him to the edge of the bed, where he sank down heavily, his head falling into his hands.

"I'll get some water," you said, already moving toward the pitcher on the nearby table.

"____, you don't have to—"

"Quiet," you interrupted, your tone leaving no room for argument. "Just sit there and breathe."

He obeyed, watching as you poured water into a cup with quick, efficient movements. When you turned back to him, your face was pinched with concern, but there was also a steadiness to your actions that made him feel strangely at ease.

You pressed the cup into his hands, your fingers brushing his briefly. "Drink," you instructed, sitting down beside him to ensure he did as you said.

As he sipped, his eyes flicked toward you, taking in the faint sheen of sweat on your brow and the way your breathing still hadn't fully evened out from the effort of helping him. "You shouldn't have to take care of me," he said quietly, his guilt surfacing despite his exhaustion.

"You'd do the same for me," you replied without hesitation, your tone firm. "So stop trying to act like this is some great inconvenience. I care about you, Telemachus. I'm not going to leave you like this."

Her words settled over him like a warm blanket, quieting the storm of thoughts swirling in his head. For a moment, he allowed himself to lean into the comfort of your presence, his usual defenses slipping away.

"You're impossible," he murmured, though there was no bite to his words.

"And you're ridiculous," you shot back, your lips quirking into a small, relieved smile. "Now lie back. You need to rest."

Telemachus complied, easing himself back against the pillows. His body felt marginally lighter now that he wasn't upright, and he let out a small breath of relief as the tension began to unwind from his frame.

For a brief moment, his eyes fluttered closed, the ache in his muscles giving way to an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. He could hear the rustle of your movements nearby, your presence grounding him in a way he couldn't explain.

"Is there anything else you need?" you asked, your voice softer now, the worry still lacing every word despite the slight smile you wore. Your hands fiddled absentmindedly with the edge of his blanket, betraying the nerves you tried to keep at bay.

"No, I don't—" Telemachus started, but his words faltered. His gaze flicked to you, his expression shifting as a strange warmth began to creep through him. It wasn't the usual comfort he felt in your presence, but something heavier, more insistent. The lingering chill that had plagued him since leaving the hall seemed to melt away, replaced by a slow-burning heat that spread through his chest and limbs.

He shifted uneasily, his jaw tightening as he tried to focus on anything but the way his skin seemed to hum with an unnatural warmth. It wasn't painful, but it was undeniably foreign—like an ember catching fire inside him.

You noticed Telemachus go utterly still, his usually sharp eyes now hazy and unfocused. "Telemachus?" you asked, taking a step closer, concern evident in your voice.

Your brow furrowed as you took in the sight before you. His face, pale just moments ago, had turned a deep red, the flush creeping down his neck. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, and his gaze seemed to waver as though he couldn't quite focus.

"Telemachus?" you called again, this time more urgently. He didn't respond at first, his head tilting slightly toward you in a sluggish motion. Your heart stuttered as you reached out, instinctively pressing the back of your hand to his forehead.

"You're burning up," you said, your voice rising in alarm. "Are you alright?"

He blinked slowly, his lips parting as if to answer, but his words were faint and unconvincing. "I... I'm fine," he managed, though his voice was hoarse and weak.

Your frown deepened as you noticed the subtle way his head leaned into your touch, as though seeking the coolness of your hand. It was such an uncharacteristic gesture for him—usually composed and self-assured—that it only heightened your worry. He wasn't being honest, and you knew it.

"Telemachus," you said firmly, your tone soft but filled with frustration. "You're not fine." You moved your hand away, only for him to instinctively shift toward you again, as if unwilling to lose the brief comfort your touch provided. "You were pale a minute ago, and now you're—" You stopped yourself, biting your lip as the sight of him, flushed and clearly unwell, sent a pang of fear through your chest.

Your mind raced with possibilities, each one more concerning than the last. Was this the lingering effect of whatever had happened at the feast? Had he caught some kind of illness? Or... was this something else entirely?

Your fingers twitched at your side as a thought crossed your mind. Maybe... maybe I could use my healing abilities. But doubt quickly followed. You hadn't yet tested the extent of your powers—what if you made things worse? What if this wasn't something you could heal at all?

Still, the sight of him—his usually vibrant energy dulled, his body visibly struggling against whatever was afflicting him—made you hesitate. You swallowed hard, feeling a wave of guilt for even entertaining the thought of not trying.

Telemachus let out a deep sigh, his eyes half-lidded as they stared up at you with an almost lazy haze clouding his gaze. "I'm... fine," he murmured again, his voice softer this time, as though the effort of speaking itself was too much. The words barely left his lips before his eyes rolled back, and his entire body went slack against the pillows.

"Telemachus!" you yelped, panic rushing through your veins like lightning. You lunged forward, your hands grasping his shoulders, shaking him lightly as if that alone could bring him back. "Telemachus, wake up! Please!"

Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat thunderous as you hovered over him, frantically trying to piece together what to do. A whirlwind of thoughts tumbled through your mind—should you call for help? Was there even time? Could you use your gift, untrained as you were, without risking something going terribly wrong?

"Come on, don't do this," you whispered under your breath, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and desperation. The sight of his still form, his chest barely rising with each shallow breath, was enough to make your throat tighten.

With trembling hands, you moved to touch his face. The warmth of his skin startled you—it wasn't the typical feverish heat; it was something deeper, almost like a flame radiating from within.

The moment your fingers brushed against his cheek, his eyes snapped open, and he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath as though waking from a long, suffocating dream.

Your relief was instantaneous but short-lived. "Telemachus!" you started to ask, your voice thick with worry, "What happened? Are you—"

Before you could finish your question, you found yourself abruptly yanked forward. The world tilted, and with a startled gasp, you realized you were no longer standing at the edge of his bed but sprawled across it, pinned beneath him.

"What—Telemachus!" you sputtered, trying to piece together what had just occurred, your hands instinctively pushing against his chest. The words died in your throat when your gaze locked onto his.

His face was mere inches from yours, and the sight made your breath catch. His skin was flushed, a deep crimson spreading from his cheeks down his neck, while his lips parted slightly as though he were trying to catch his breath. But it was his eyes that froze you—their usual warm brown was now darkened, lidded with an intensity that sent an unfamiliar shiver down your spine.

"____," he murmured, his voice low and uneven. It wasn't the soft, composed tone you were used to. This was deeper, rougher, and it sent your pulse racing in ways you didn't fully understand.

"T-Telemachus," you stammered, your hands still pressed against him, though your strength felt like it had evaporated. "What... what are you doing? You're—" Your voice faltered as his gaze flicked down, lingering on your face in a way that made your cheeks burn.

He didn't answer right away, his breath brushing against your skin as he leaned in slightly, his weight keeping you firmly in place as he kneeled. The heat radiating from him was overwhelming, and for a brief, dizzying moment, the air between you felt charged, crackling with something unspoken.

You gently pushed against his chest. "I-I think you should move, Telemachus." Your words were shaky, your mind scrambling for some semblance of composure as the intensity of the moment engulfed you.

But before you could say more, one of Telemachus' hands darted out, capturing both of yours and pressing them firmly against his chest. The erratic thrum of his heartbeat reverberated beneath your palms, fast and unsteady, matching the breathless tension filling the room.

"Do you feel it?" he murmured, his voice low and almost pleading, tinged with an unfamiliar vulnerability. His eyes bore into yours, half-lidded and heavy with emotion. "It's because of you—only you."

Your breath caught at the raw honesty in his voice. The world seemed to shrink around you, leaving only Telemachus, his warmth, and the rapid pulse beneath your fingertips; you were powerless to look away.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he continued, his voice thick with emotion. His other hand rose, calloused fingers brushing softly against your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw with an almost reverent touch. "The way you laugh, the way you always know what to say—even when I don't deserve it."

You stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless, as he went on, his words spilling out in a hurried, unguarded torrent. "I notice everything about you—the way your hair catches the light, the way you hum when you're focused." His thumb grazed your cheekbone, and you felt your heart stutter in response to the sheer tenderness in the gesture.

"I love how kind you are," he said, his tone softening, almost as though he was speaking to himself. "How you always put others first. Even when you're hurting, you smile, and it's... it's unbearable sometimes because I just want to take all of it away."

Your lips parted, but no sound came. Every word he spoke tugged at something deep within you, leaving you utterly defenseless against the raw sincerity in his gaze.

"I don't care if it's selfish," he admitted, his voice trembling. "But right now, I can't think about anything else but you—what it would feel like to have you look at me the way I look at you."

You felt your pulse quicken, your chest tightening as his words settled into the spaces you didn't realize had been left empty. He was so close, his warmth enveloping you completely, his every word seeping into your skin.

"Please," he whispered, his forehead dipping to rest lightly against yours. "Tell me you feel it too."

Your hands trembled against his chest, the erratic beat of his heart matching your own. The weight of his confession, the intensity of his gaze, and the tenderness in his touch—it was too much and yet not enough all at once.

The room seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you in this moment of fragile honesty, teetering on the edge of something you weren't sure you were ready for.

Your eyes widened, your thoughts screeching to a halt. Was this a dream? Some vivid, otherworldly trick? Your heart was thundering in your chest, so loud and furious it nearly drowned out the reality unfolding in front of you.

You tried to steady yourself, but it was impossible. The prince—Telemachus—was so close, his presence overwhelming in ways you hadn't prepared for.

The intensity of his words, his gaze, his touch—it was too much. Your mind couldn't keep up. Every nerve in your body was on high alert, each beat of your heart a frantic drum. Overwhelmed and desperate to regain control, you forced your eyes shut, breaking the spell of his gaze.

"Telemachus," you whispered, your voice trembling. "You're not in your right mind. Whatever's happening to you—this isn't—"

Before you could finish, the heat of his breath ghosted against your ear, each word spilling from his lips like honey laced with sin, cutting you off. "Do you know how often I've wondered?" His tone was low, dropping to a husky murmur. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear—not quite a kiss, but enough to leave your skin tingling, alight with awareness. "How it would feel to taste you?"

Your eyes shot open in shock, your breath catching painfully in your throat. His face was so close now, impossibly close.

His voice softened into something darker, more primal, as his hand on your wrist tightened slightly, anchoring you in place. "Just a kiss, ____. One kiss—and yet, it's all I've wanted for so long." His flushed cheeks, the lidded haze in his eyes, the faint sheen of sweat on his temple—it was all too much. His lips hovered just a breath away, teasingly close to your own, his presence engulfing you entirely.

You tried to speak, to stammer out some response, but your voice refused to cooperate. "Tele—" you managed to get out, his name barely escaping your lips as your thoughts spiraled into chaos.

And then, just as abruptly as the tension had built, it shattered.

Telemachus' eyes rolled back into his head, his body going slack as he collapsed against you. A panicked gasp escaped your throat, your hands instinctively flying to steady him. His weight pressed heavily against you, the heat radiating from his feverish skin still tangible, still searing.

"Telemachus?!" you called out, frantic now, your voice rising in alarm. You shifted under him, desperately trying to support his unconscious form without losing your balance. "Hey, wake up!" Your heart clenched painfully as his head lolled against your shoulder, his breathing shallow but steady.

Panic and confusion swirled within you like a storm. What just happened? What was happening to him? Your thoughts raced, torn between the lingering heat of the moment and the urgent need to figure out how to help him.

With a deep breath, you steadied yourself, focusing on the immediate task. You couldn't let your emotions—or the overwhelming memory of his words and touch—distract you now.

Telemachus needed you, and that was all that mattered.

A/N: my boi down bad fr, had to show y'all how bad he's been feening for mc, lolz (see y'all in a week~ or sooner who knows)

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bodhrancomedy · 17 hours ago

Text

Lake Investigation - Bodhrán M.

The sunlight glittered on the surface of the lake like a million beady eyes.

Edda sat in the prow of the little boat, her gnarled fingers gripping the long spear with a tightness completely at odds with the perpetually mellowed expression etched into her round face. She’d worn a similar countenance for the past fifty years of her life and a suspiciously calm lake with an only-week-old disappearance rate in the double digits wasn’t nearly enough to shift it now.

The boat rocked gently as someone shifted their weight for the third time in as many minutes. Edda looked over her shoulder in vain hopes of seeing either Artos or Moore engaged some useful preparation, and instead saw their compulsory Druid witness, Orlando Grey, leaning his entire torso over the depths which had so recently claimed multiple previous expeditions of his own cohorts.

“Unless you are currently being possessed,” Edda said between gritted teeth, “could you possibly get back inside the boat?”

Orlando disregarded her, leaning further, his brown curls falling over his face.

“Moore –“

“He’s doing what he was asked to do,” Moore said, somewhat defensively. Her bony hands never stopped moving as she wove the last of the enchanted thread into the net, needle between her lips. But her gaze flickered between her task and Orlando with less subtlety than she obviously thought.

“He’s endangering himself. And ignoring me. Druid!”

Moore put the net down. “He’s not ignoring you, he can’t hear you. It’s easier for him to… cast his awareness out if he’s blocking four senses instead of five. Besides, water would drown the hearing aids.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Edda saw Artos hunch further towards the stern and carefully busy himself with whatever spellbook he’d dragged aboard.

Coward.

“He is making what I was asked to do by his superior more difficult.”

“He can handle himself –“

Slowly, Edda swiveled herself around on the bench so she could make direct eye-contact with her erstwhile apprentice.

Moore, eight years a journeywoman, glared back at her.

“Let me rephrase that –“ Edda said, “ – tell your boy toy to stop leaning so far over the side of the boat or I will smack him all the way back to the shore where he belongs.”

The moment held, punctuated only by the gentle slap of water against the hull.

Moore opened her mouth to argue but closed it again with a tense snap. Instead, she leant over and gently tapped Orlando on the waist and signed something incomprehensible.

“That better be an accurate translation,” Edda muttered as she settled back to her vigil. She sighed heavily to herself.

Edda never liked assignments which involved outsiders, no matter how competent they were touted to be. She didn’t like having to leave members of her crew behind either: despite Venn’s very sensible assertion that his inability to swim would be dead weight (incidentally, what he was likely to become) in investigating a previously safe and sacred lake. She also understood why it’d been insisted that they have a druid with them – after all, it seemed an animal of some kind was responsible and being able to sense or communicate with it was an undeniable advantage.

It'd have been no problem if Jorah was here with them, she could read his mind without even trying and he hers, but the Druidic Circle had been understandably reluctant to let one of their Elders swan off into such obvious peril.

But three boats of four druids had already been sent and three boats with no druids had already returned, so Edda was getting suspicious inklings that they were playing into the hands – or paws or fins – of whatever had taken up residence.

Perhaps it was just a case of opportunity – druids were mainly the sole occupants of the place.

Or maybe it just preferred the taste of slightly odd, socially isolated individuals who would probably wither into dry husks if you offered them a tunic of any hue brighter than a hunk of moss at the bottom of a well.

It wasn’t even like they weren’t allowed to wear bright colours, Edda thought despairingly, but all the youngsters were depressingly set on it. It made them feel more official, Jorah had said.

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More?

#writing #writeblr #funny #fantasy #edda

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videokilled · 2 days ago

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Vox kept his grip on Alastor’s bicep as he turned to watch the snake move away quickly then relaxed it entirely when it didn’t turn back around.

Alastor would likely know it was a variation of cottonmouth.

Vox didn’t know anything of any sort.

He looked up and around as if someone in the sky were going to drop them down on him. Then fixed a sleeve that had worked its way up his arm with all the humidity and waving of his arms; and looked back to his companion when he spoke.

“I can… handle.. some stupid animals. He’s lucky I didn’t.. stomp on his goofy f’k’n head...” The tv said, distracted, his voice getting pulled by his New York accent when he mumbled. The attention downward, pulled from fixing his sleeve when Alastor slid his hand into his own. Holding it as if he were expecting it Vox to yank his hand away.

Vox didn’t need a babysitter. He wasn’t scared of a silly swamp— but with the demeanor the other had the last twelve hours even the tv wasn’t dense enough to misjudge the hand hold as patronizing. Alastor wanted support.

Especially if it wasn’t far now.

It dawned on Vox that he didn’t acquire a gun while they were in town. He hadn’t gotten to it. If there was something inside this house- like a squatter. They wouldn’t have much to defend themselves. Sometimes he had the thought that there was less homelessness in hell than topside. Made one question.

Not him- he didn’t care that much- but someone.

Half a mile might not have been far for Alastor, but for Vox it was quite the trek. By the time they had gotten there he was sweaty and gripping Alastor’s hand for balance as he moved along the wet ground. The ‘lake puddles’ were more frequent now. And the ground around them seemed increasingly deceptive. He had almost lost a shoe to some mud.

He hated nature. He wasn’t a nature guy.

When they finally paused, Vox looked up from staring at the ground. His eyes fixing on the weird little water eaten shack. The thing barely had a roof left on it.

“That??” He blurted. He didn’t have the patience to stand here in the mud and ask Alastor how he felt about that. He was a demon not a saint.

Vox used his handhold to urge the other closer.

“Come on.” He meant it like a command but it came out as more of a ‘follow me’ sentiment. As gentle as Vox got. Then started closer.

Even as Alastor got out of the car and Vox slowly followed, he was uncharacteristically quiet. His mouth held open slightly as he looked around like he had never seen a tree in his life. He locked the car.. and the beep the car made seemed to ricochet off the fog that hung over the ground and above the spotty dark colored puddles that seemed big enough to be lakes. Somehow despite their size, they still seemed to resemble puddles more to him.

It felt like Alastor’s pocket dimension, in his room. The man really did love this environment. He must.

Vox knew that the conditions of this must not be alarming to his companion, but by the time he found undeniably safe and dry and firm footing to move around the car- the other was walking along unbothered.

He moved after him, quickly discovering that even though some places looked unstable, the shadows weren’t always shadows. Sometimes it was just.. dried mud and perfectly solid. The tv hurried to catch up with the other before he got too far.

There was more fog in the space in the hotel- but he imagined there needed to be to keep up the illusion of space. Unless it truly was.. that huge. Maybe someone could get lost in there.

And then Alastor was leaving the semblance of their meager pathway entirely.

“..fuckme..” Vox breathed quietly as he resigned to follow Alastor. Despite his guide going at a leisurely pace (to him) and throwing glances back to check on him, it felt like they were going entirely faster than he would be able to go.

At once point he stepped on something that he would have sworn was a stick in his haste, but it moved beneath him and slithered away like a dart.

Vox caught his gasp in his throat and hurried to move his foot again, afraid to get bit. And hurried right into Alastor’s back. He grunted softly and grabbed at the others arm to keep his balance.

#radioiaci #[ crimson nights like these 🎙️𝄡 ]

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luv444saturn · 1 day ago

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𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 pt.3

(Continuation, here is the link to the masterlist for other chapters!!)

TW - Blood, intense fear, minor mentions of paranoia, very brief mention of a gun.

Authors Note - I know these are insanely short and I apologize, I will definitely make future chapters longer. Tysm for the interaction on these <3

You knew that it was survival of the fittest. From middle school biology class, speaking from an evolutionary perspective to your time in law enforcement and eventually governmental unitary work. Adaptation was key. If you didn't adapt—to unsubs or even fellow agents—you'd fall behind and be left as nothing more than scraps. You'd lose yourself in this job, past the point of return.

Spencer knew it was survival of the fittest just as well. He had to, right? Being thrust into high school and college at early ages, even if it wasn't academically challenging, was socially and mentally damaging. He learned to fend for himself, to be substantial on his own so he wouldn't drown in a sea of his own paranoia and fear. But there was only so much he could defend himself from, and even less he could defend others from.

Survival of the fittest didn't apply in this situation.

Survival of the fittest shouldn't apply to man. You shouldn't be surviving, you should be living. But man is the only animal that kills, just to kill.

By the time you came to, recovering from a gun being slammed into your head to knock you out, the only thing you could think about was the pounding in your head. The ringing in your years that was going to drive you to the brink of insanity. You could taste copper. Blood. You could feel it crusted in your hair, hardened on your skin and you prayed that the dampness of your tears would alleviate that weight. That uncomfortable sensation that you couldn't get rid of.

Your eyes adjusted to the dark, but that did no good if your vision was still blurry. You blinked away that static in your eyes, as if trying to change the channel on the television. But it wasn't that easy.

Spencer seemed like he was miles away, but he was only a few feet. Curled up into himself, unconsciously trying to disappear. Not that you knew that. No. You didn't see that blank stare of his trained on the floor. The tremble in his body that he had grown so accustomed to that he stopped trying to fight it. He was terrified. Completely and wholly terrified.

You unsteadily rose to your feet, stumbling to where the agent lay. You felt pathetic, you couldn't walk long enough to get over to him, you ended up crawling on the dingy floor the last few paces, one of your hands gently placing itself on his back, gripping with whatever strength you had at his shirt. “Reid,” you choked out, throat dry and pained.

Spencer, rarely, if ever, was relieved when he saw your presence. To be fair, you felt the same about him. Neither one of you could honestly recall a time that you were glad to see the other. A rivalry that was so deeply embedded into your relationship it was often mistaken by others—and even yourselves, on occasion—as a sour hatred, one that nobody could identify the beginning of, nor the end if ever there is one.

But now, none of that applied.

He turned, pushing himself to sit up in front of you. “Oh god, are you okay?” His voice was wavering, you could barely see the way his eyes flickered around in the dark. They didn't scan the surroundings. They scanned your face, trying to decipher wounds and expressions and anything that might answer his own question. “How long have you been awake?” You asked absentmindedly, ignoring his concern.

His concern, you figured, was temporary. This pity would all be forgotten if and when you both get out of here. You would never speak of how desperate you were for his companionship in that moment, just to keep you grounded and chase away the fear that you were alone. And he would never speak of how badly he hated the sight of you mortified and panic-stricken, how it gnawed at him that there was nothing he could do to coax your worries.

“I don’t know.” Was all he replied with, it was all he could reply with.

A light flickered above you, producing an awful buzzing sound. The bulbs efforts seemed to double, as if it picked up on your desperation, your fear. It came to life, casting a yellowish tint to the room around you, gilding the peeling wallpaper with a haunting complexion. The room felt more suffocating than it had when it was engulfed in darkness, damp and dingy. It was barren, old pipes lay scattered on the floor, nails and glass littered the expanse of it. It felt like something out of a ‘Saw’ movie.

Dread settled deep in the pit of your stomach, nestling between your organs until it flowed through you as freely as blood.

#criminal minds #spencer reid x you #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

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ellie-s-list · 2 days ago

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Forget Me Not

Spencer Reid x GN!Reader

Ah... I have not written anything on this blog for two years. It's weird that the last thing I posted was an Ellie Williams one shot since I started with Anime and MHA. However, I don't think the writing was actually bad.

And now I'm back with a Spencer Reid one-shot.

Authors Note: HIGHLY self-indulgent. I do not care. I'm writing what I want to read and maybe, just maybe, using these characters to try to heal inner trauma. If you say or have any criticisms I'm open but do not attack the obvious signs of mental health issues in this one shot. It's me. It's a self-insert. I'M NOT SORRY. But I am, please like it, and I hope that if anyone feels the same way I do that you one day find peace.

WARNINGS: Anxiety, rumination, mentions of self-deprecating thoughts, past trauma, and over all the reader has poor view of self and a poor outlook on life. Mentions parts of Avoidant Personality Disorder, shows that within the text.

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Powder blue in color, star in shape, and yellow centered. These flowers are known as Forget Me Nots, known for the meaning of true love and respect, representing a promise of remembrance from the giver. It’s not like you don’t think you would ever get flowers in such a way, but you also know that a random person, or anyone, most likely wouldn’t gift you these flowers.

What about you doesn’t attract people? People who want to be with you, who can accept the way you act, react, what you like to do in your free time. It’s not easy to be open-minded in a close-minded world. Everyone tells other how to think, how to react, or they try to tell them how to react.

Love sucks, unconditional love is worse. And reading the poem If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda is like a knife to the gut, and with each line read, another twist is added to the blade.

I want you to know one thing.

You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log everything carries me to you as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me

Those lines sound like a Hozier song. One of longing, crawling back to a person that you know you love, hoping to be loved back. It reminded you of customers that are regulars at your bookstore. A small little thing in the corner of Quantico Virginia, filled top to bottom with books, plants by the big windows, and homey, used furniture.

It was Tuesday, and as usual, a slow day. Tuesdays were slow for a multitude of reasons, mostly because there’s less travel in town, around town, and the fact that school is out for the winter season. College students returned home, giving you time to restock on textbooks or notebooks, journals, and planners that usually sell out when a new semester rolled around.

But another thing always happened on Tuesdays. At least, most of the time.

You were on your phone, staring at the lines of the poem once again when the bell on the door rings. Glancing at the clock on your phone, you huff and look up from the table where the register was, having leant on it to read from your phone. Every Tuesday, usually, at five in the evening, an hour before close, Dr. Spencer Reid would visit your store.

Thanks to him, your stock of books in other languages got bigger. Mostly by request, since you knew how to order directly from the source and the fact that it was a homey space. You even got a coffee pot for you small store just for him.

“Dr. Reid,” You smiled at him as he walked up to the register.

“Hello, I’m sorry I’m here when you’re about to close,” He presses his lips together, adjusting his messenger bag. He got a haircut, you note, realizing that his length in hair changed to a shorter, more boyish look.

“As always, I have an hour left,” You reply. Spencer shrugs, tapping the table with his index fingers.

“Well… would it be too late to ask you if you’d like some coffee?” He asked, voice soft as he stared down at the table.

“I can brew you a pot—”

“No, I mean, after you close. We can go somewhere,” He replies quickly, cutting you off.

Silence enveloped the small shop as you looked at him, then back down at the dark screen of your phone, where Pablo Neruda’s poem resided.

Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little

If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you

If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land

A few months pass after the coffee date. It was nice, knowing that Spencer actually liked you for you. Nothing seemed to phase him. Not your lifestyle, not the melancholic thoughts you got, not the way you obsess over your favorite forms of media. Nothing scared him away from you.

Spencer liked everything about you.

Or so he says.

You can’t help staring down at your phone, sitting alone on the couch in his apartment. He had only left you for a moment as you look at the same poem that you had the day he asked you out for the first time. What if he got bored of you? Forgot about you? Yeah, sure, he has an eidetic memory, but it’s easy to forget for a while.

He may not forget the way you looked when you laughed, your smile, the glint in your eyes when you got excited, but he could stop caring about those things. That’s what scared you the most. Knowing that you were easily forgettable. Hell, you were forgotten your whole childhood, it’s not like Spencer couldn’t jump on the same train your family did.

It would be easy for him. To forget you. What about you was memorable? Your true worth was only connected to the way people used you.

But Spencer states that he doesn’t want to use you, a small voice in the back of your head shot back, pushing through the anxious thoughts and the onset rumination that was starting to build. He had figured you out easily, a perk of like a profiler you guess. But it made being with him annoying to you. You liked privacy, but he liked knowing how to make you comfortable.

Was it always so hard to like someone? To fear that they will hurt you one day. Knowing that they will, that one day they will fit the pattern of everyone who’s hurt you before.

The door to the bathroom opened and you turned your head, clicking off your phone screen and pasting a fake smile on your face. Spencer was wiping his hands on a towel, raising his eyebrows at you. However, before you could get one word out, he was walking over to the couch, a knowing look on his face.

“I’m not going to hurt you like the others did,” Spencer said almost immediately.

Liar, you thought.

“I know,” You say instead and he frowned, knowing that you were lying, but not pushing you.

You knew you would have to leave him first, before he would ever have that chance to hurt you. But it hurt already, knowing that you would have to hurt him. So, you endure the anxiety of knowing those patterns, just to try to sit with him and enjoy what little time you allowed yourself to have.

But if each day each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine.

Three more months later and you sat in his bathroom, the door locked, your arms shaking as you leaned over the sink, trying to quell the rising panic in your chest. But you couldn’t. He was sitting in his bedroom, after having told you he loved you for the first time.

You couldn’t say it back. You tried. But all you could do was open your mouth and close it, fear flashing over your face. And before you knew it, you had stood up and left him sitting there, watching you as you ran into his bathroom, shut the door, and locked it.

It hurt, knowing that you loved him back and yet you couldn’t say it back. It was wrong with you. Something that hurt, hurt more than the constriction of anxiety around your heart, gripping it with such force that it hurt to breathe. The pain in your chest, in your gut, the twist of each anxious thought, of each piece of truth that you weaved for yourself, and the knowledge that you needed to leave.

Hot tears fell from your eyes, large drops finally streaming down your cheeks.

And a knock on the door. You flinched at the tentative sound, the perpetrator obviously nervous.

“Hey,” Spencer’s voice called out softly. “I-I know this is hard for you, you don’t have to say it back. I just wanted to tell you.” He was begging. Not truly begging with words, but with his tone for you to understand him.

How could you tell him that it was the fact that you loved him back that was causing this? You didn’t know how, but you knew that by the blurring of your vision that you were crying even harder. Barely any noise but choked gasps left you, your body trying to get air into your lungs as you held your breath from the fear of everything crashing down.

“Can you open the door?” Spencer’s voice was quiet, meek. He was begging his time.

Slowly, with all your strength, you turned the short distance and shakily unlocked it. That was all you could do before you sat on the floor and backed up until your lower back hit the bathtub. Your knees hit your chest, and you hugged them tightly, pressing your forehead into your knees.

The door slowly opened but didn’t shut. He was giving you a way out if you needed it. It was obvious. Soft footsteps inched towards you and stopped just in front of your shaking body.

“You don’t have to say it back,” He whispered.

It took a while for you to be able to regulate your breathing and emotions. Slowly, you managed to uncoil your body just enough to peek up at him. Spencer was crouched in front of you, his eyes facing down, hands clasped in front of his own knees.

“I—” You hiccupped, flinching as he looked up at you. You forced yourself to keep talking, “I love you.” You finally whispered, his eyes widening before he schooled his expression.

“I know that already, that’s why you didn’t have to say it back,” He leaned forward, gently rubbing the knuckles on one of the hands gripping your knees. “I’m not going to abandon you or hurt you that way you had been hurt in the past. You’re…” He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he licked his lips, glancing down and then back up at you with glistening eyes. “You won’t believe me, but I don’t care how many times I will have to say it to get past your traumatic past, to get past the words of those who hurt you in the past.” He squeezed the hand he managed to pry from your knees. “I love you, and I’m not just going to leave.”

Was it the wind that blew through the trees or the singing of birds that caught your eye? Or was it the first time that you had a partner on Valentine’s Day that kept your thought’s light, now able to appreciate the little things this life had to offer you.

Maybe, it was Spencer. Spencer and the bouquet of flowers he held out to you, on the other side of the register in your empty bookstore.

It wasn’t a Tuesday.

But that didn’t matter.

Forget Me Nots adorned your living room that night in a pale yellow vase.

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Word Count: 1,991

Posted one: 1/25/2025

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVING MY CONTENT POSTED BY OTHERS UNLESS SHARED ON TUMBLR THROUGH REPOSTING MY ORIGINAL WORK. DO NOT USE MY WORK FOR AI TRAINING.

References:

Neruda, P. (n.d.). If You Forget Me. allpoetry.com. https://allpoetry.com/if-you-forget-me

#Spencer Reid #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #x reader #gn reader #enby reader #nonbinary reader #no gender named #Spencer x reader #Criminal Minds x reader #fluff #Spotify #SoundCloud

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izayoichan · 10 months ago

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They stood together watching as River used his magic to do the final painting touches, and everyone else was busy fixing the last few things in the stables, and innside. Liam nodded at his mom, as the two of them were about to get Silver and Shade from the shelter stables and ride them over.

Silver was Liam’s first horse, and now familiar, Shade was the first horse they wanted to take to the cafe, as they didn’t seem to have a good time at the shelter with all the other animals. It was after all Liam’s idea that some horses could stay here, and perhaps find a home that way, while dogs and cats would come for a daytime visit and then go back to the shelter after. Liam: Lets go get them? Lucas: Yeah.. Liam? Liam: Yeah? Lucas: I’m really proud of you. River: As am I, just come home and say hi on occasion. Liam: Of course I will, I mean I will be there every day to take some pets to the cafe.

River chuckled and ruffled his son's hair before watching the two walk to the shelter to get the two first residents. Silver and Liam had been close since they got Silver into the shelter, so for him to keep him had just become a thing.

Shade was a new arrival, and River hoped that this more calm spot would do the horse well. He had noticed that both Liam and Lucas had a natural way with horses, something he wondered if was a sundragon thing.

Beginning - Previous - Next

#the ward legacy #tumblrstories #writblr #simblr #simblrstories #co created with mahvaladara #storytelling #stories #River Ward #Lucas Ward #Liam Ward #Hopefully Shade will like the cafe better #with less animals around him all the time #Silver is of course Liam's horse #as he is calm #he is a good companion to have for Shade

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waywardsalt · 7 months ago

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with my phantom hourglass replay, there are two things i noticed;

a possible theme you could glean from the game is action vs inaction, and i think it's especially prevalent before you even leave mercay the first time, with oshus frequently urging link to not go after the ghost ship, then to just wait until the broken bridge is fixed, and seems reluctant at every turn while link and ciela are more than eager to go and do something about this problem, and the people of mercay in general talking about things and their problems but never seeming to act on their fears or desires, as well as the mention that due to the ghost ship, very very few people are still sailing around, while linebeck is one of the only people we see in the game actively going after the ghost ship and still sailing around. i might make a longer post just talking more about the action vs inaction in phantom hourglass but i just noticed it a bit and thought it was a bit of an interesting sort of theme you could find in the game.

linebeck moves so fucking much. i think he moves more than any npc in the rest of the game. not just in his intro cutscene where he is very animated, just in how much he moves when just standing in his little idle post, it's damn near distracting when the camera is focused on him, he moves a lot. i don't think i've really acknowledged how much he moves, and it really gives the impression that he's antsy or eager to get going, both of which fit him pretty well with how he acts.

#phantom hourglass #linebeck #loz #legend of zelda #salty talks #imo the action vs inaction thing feels esp interesting to me when looking at oshus specifically. he and his world are in grave danger #and he knows it and he actively does nothing and even seems reluctant to let ciela and link go ahead and do something.#of course he comes around on it but it's very interesting. has he given up at that point? thats what it suggests to me #that hes like. joined the people of mercay in just lying down and waiting for other people to fix their problems or just. not do anything #otherwise on mercay you have that old guy in the bar who spends the whole game not leaving bc he doesnt want to face his wife #and she never goes to the bar to actually look for him and just talks about it if anything #the guy with the blue tunic talks a lot about linebeck and his ship and almost gives the impression that he really wants to talk to him #but yknow. doesnt. theres the women that tells you about docks being shut down and how linebeck is the only person who's showed up #the woman you see at the broken bridge who's just like oh well! time to wait til someone fixes it.#even the guy fixing the bridge iirc is like well fuck i gotta do it or else oshus is going to bitch at me abt it #everyone seems reluctant to act which makes for an interesting way in how our main crew stands out #it is less so oh theyve been chosen specifically for this its moreso they're the ones who are fucking doing something about this #for their own various reasons some of which are more selfish but theyre still doing something #will likely have more stuff to say when im done but ofc we have other characters in the game who have to do with this #anyways. linebeck is so animated all of the fucking time it's great i dont think theres any other character that moves as much as him #when he's just standing around to talking to link it's great. he's so ready to get going.#it works with him being an anxious mess and also with like. oh he's probably understimulated. you know he's got a nasty case of wanderlust #i can put it with the idea that he's understimulated and afraid to stim in public so he's just constantly moving #he probably drums his fingers on tables bounces his leg when sitting paces around switches the way he sits or lays down often #tbh this kinda fits in with him being one of the main characters who takes action moreso than a lot of other characters #his arc culminates in him taking action he's going after the ghost ship he's moving around the world the only issue is that one of the #actions he takes is running away from his problems literally n metaphorically (tho idk if facing the jolene problem is a good idea for him)

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californiaquail · 4 days ago

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well boss said reese has no indication of any uti or crystals only a tiny amount of red blood cells which can be caused by the manual expression. coworker insisted there was no point in taking rads to see if he's blocked from the string so going to try some laxaire and hope 😬🤞🏻also then my boss gave me a ride to the bus stop so i didn't have to carry the huge crate which was uncharacteristically nice of him 🤨

#already plotting in my head how trying to get him into emergency surgery on the weekend would go and its not great #on account of the fact that i simply do not have enough thousands of dollars for the er proper. or a way to get there but i could probably #figure that one out but not so much the money #he had a god awful time he had to see a d*g and that was horrible he hissed at it (chihuahua less than 1/3 his size)#he was SO scared i feel horrible and i almost cried a lot of times just from looking at him 😭#anyway i'm glad we did a ua though that does help some of my anxiety but now the problem is the string #it probably had a big knot in it so i'm not totally convinced it would even be able to exit the stomach but if it did thats terrifying #i don't think it was super long just the big knot #coworker also insisted strings cant cause blockages only intussuseptions which does not sound right to me particularly if it was a bulky #but not long string such as this one. but what do i m #*know #i'm still really stressed and we have to move tomorrow ugh #i forgot to grab the laxaire at the clinic so i'm going to have to go out and get some but i have to go drop off a goodwill bag anyway #ugh also while my coworker was trying to get pee from him she said “if you bite me i'll smack you in the face i dont care if your moms here”#and i didnt say anything but if she had done that i think i would have lost my mind. what the fuck is wrong with you #she is like that with all of the animals and it drives me insane or like she'll brag about how her rottweiler lifted his lip at her so she #beat him and stepped on his head (???) like some would accurately identify this as animal abuse and yet youre a vet tech???#like these animals are all having a horrible day why the fuck don't you have two seconds of patience instead of immediately going to #“oh you threatened to bite me let me force you into tonic immobility”. again what the fuck is wrong with you #same woman who justified hitting kids in the face btw. of course #my boss is actually much nicer to them for the most part than she is he's just a total douche to people (me) its weird #like i just think you should not have made your lifes work being a vet tech if you think its cool and fine to smack dogs and cats around for #not immediately doing what you want or for expressing discomfort or fear #and they are almost all fear reactive i think there have been maybe two cats that i would describe as aggressive and not just fear reactive #and i'm probably wrong honestly! theres always a reason #anyway. please everyone pray or vibe or whatever that my cat doesnt get his guts tied in knots because i dont have $10000 and his insurance #doesn't kick in for two weeks i think (i got it last night in a panic having intended to do it months ago but thought he had to have a vet #relationship in order to get it)#i'm still really scared lol. god bless #me

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5-pp-man · 2 years ago

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No. You guys don't get it. Yosukan is about them wanting to earn each other's respect, its about overcoming internalised homophobia together, it's about having each other's back and helping each other out and

#persona 4 #yosuke hanamura #kanji tatsumi #yosukan #people have this. incredibly warped idea of their dynamic and i mostly blame golden playing up yosuke's... less fortunate traits for that #oh and the anime too #but even in golden's events its clear that these two are always helping each other out. even if yosuke comes off as a c-nt sometimes #but thats mostly due to him being scared of what others might think of him.#so he gives these comically disgusted reactions to distance himself from any sort of suspicions. which kind of works the other way around #and makes him stand out more #kanji is also quick to anger whenever yosuke makes any sort of s-xuality mention #so because of those reactions from kanji ppl assume that yosuke mustve had malicious intent. when most of the time he rlly didnt?#hes just being a... questionable wingman. mostly. not all the time though.#btw i can back all of this up. ill pull out all the receipts if i have to.#its just me vs this years long fandom consensus but ill die trying #even among ppl who do like yk.... most also follow this fandom idea that these two dont like each other. when that isnt true at all #tedpost #tedtalks #gifs

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egosdelirium · 15 hours ago

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So yeah I wrote it

"Oh, it's alright. It's alright, Harry, please–please don't cry anymore—"

Sirius can barely hear his own voice over the pained wails of the boy in his arms. Harry's little face is currently burrowed in the crook of his neck, small hands balled up into fists around the fabric of Sirius' printed Queen t-shirt. He'd bought it at the Game Tour of 1980 and had gifted an identical one to Marlene for her birthday last year. She died in it.

A sudden coughing fit makes Harry shake violently; his breathing hiccups and stutters but the crying doesn't stop, not even for a second, which only serves to make the coughing worse.

"Harry! Harry, it's okay!" Sirius tries to put the boy down, tries to lower his own tone into something a little less panicked - a little less on the verge of hysteria - but he manages neither.

Harry refuses to let go of him: the moment he feels that Sirius might be trying to place him on the sofa or the colorful playmat on the ground, he starts struggling and writhing like a wild animal. He clings onto Sirius' neck and shoulders even tighter, grabbing onto cotton and skin alike with unbelievable strength for a one year old, and buries his face even deeper against Sirius' collarbone.

It hurts. Sirius forgot to trim Harry's nails - again - and he can feel his little fingers leaving red imprints all over his back in his desperate attempts to cling on. In all of this, Harry is still coughing, and Sirius has the brief yet horrifying thought that he's going to choke right there in his arms, on tears and snot and Sirius' own skin.

"I'm only going to put you down for a moment, Prongslet. I just need to let you breathe. I just need to check on you, okay?"

Sirius finds out soon enough that trying to reason with a crying baby is about as impossible as doing so with a transformed werewolf. Harry thrashes and screams even louder when Sirius attempts to put him down once more and only stops when Sirius eventually gives up.

The cough subsides on its own, thankfully, but the crying doesn't.

Sirius distractedly pats Harry's back and bounces around a little, like Harry usually likes him to, but it's pretty much useless. The sobs persist, and so do the screams. A quick glance at the clock confirms that it's four in the morning and that Sirius has been awake for twenty-seven consecutive hours.

Remus is not going to be coming back for another week; he's gone to Wales to attend his mother's funeral and decide what to make of his newly inherited cottage in the countryside.

And anyway, Remus is... a difficult topic, to say the least. Still not quite able to balance the betrayal / murder of their best friends with the full moons that try to kill him monthly and the fact that everyone he has ever loved thought him the spy. Pretty heavy stuff.

Sirius didn't have any time to even think of sorting through all that (minus the full moons) because he had Harry to take care of. Turns out dedicating all his hours to his godson makes for a pretty good distraction on most days. But not this past week, no. This week, something seems to have snapped inside of little Harry James Potter, something so dark and painful that has been keeping him up in crying fits during the nights and in irritable moods during the days.

Sirius has tried everything: toys, music, soothing spells, massages, cuddles, all of Harry's favourite foods, stories, and even muggle television, but it has all been in vain.

Harry just can't seem to fall asleep. He can't get settled. He can't find peace - and he is sure as hell not letting Sirius find any either.

"Please, please stop crying. Stop, stop, you've got to–" Sirius forces his eyes shut when he feels the increasingly rising panic get the best of him. He is shaking, from head to toe, much like Harry is, and exhaustion is threatening to make his knees buckle and give out under him.

He takes a shuddering breath, then another. Harry is still crying. Harry is still screaming, right next to his ear. The noise penetrates his eardrums and echoes around his brain, jumping from wall to wall inside his head.

Sirius is going to throw up.

"You've–you've got to stop. Please!" Sirius tries to bounce Harry on his shoulder a bit more vigorously. His joints ache; he's been trying to rock a baby to sleep for the past...what, six hours?

Remus is not coming back for a whole other week, at the very least. Sirius is all alone in the house.

Worst of all, Harry is all alone with Sirius.

He shouldn't, he should be with his mother and fathe— No! No Sirius can't go there or he'll crumble.

He's been keeping it together for weeks, an entire month, so he can't give up now. If he goes there, he won't return. If he crumbles now, Harry will have no one else in the entire world.

Remus is not coming back.

Neither is Jam—

Sirius gasps. His knees finally give out like they've threatened to, and he collapses on the floor, with Harry still securely wrapped within the safety of his arms.

Harry doesn't seem to appreciate their new position, though, and his screams only get more high-pitched. His voice is hoarse, and the more he yells, the more his throat will hurt later on.

"Stop! Just stop! please," Sirius begs. "You've got to stop, I-I-I can't, I can't think!"

Sirius lays his head against the wall he conveniently finds behind him with a dull thud, a little more aggressively than he probably should've. If he gives himself a concussion who will look after Harry?

Remus is not coming back for a week, still.

Sirius' t-shirt is soaked. Tears and snot. Marlene's was soaked in dark red blood, so really, some people have it way worse than others.

Harry cries, he cries and cries and cries, and Sirius starts feeling delirious. Twenty-seven hours. Harry napped during the afternoon but Sirius was too worried about him to do the same, and that had been a stupid fucking choice. Maybe, had he taken that stupid nap, he wouldn't be losing his mind now.

Harry coughs again, and Sirius starts trembling all over again. Full body shivers.

He lifts Harry from underneath his armpits and places him on his lap, lifting his traitorous knees to act as a sort of backrest. Harry doesn't like this, either; he crashes against Sirius' chest full force and sobs right on Freddy Mercury's smiling face.

"Please, don't cry." Sirius begs, again. The world around him is starting to blur and his chest feels heavy. Is it Harry? Or is something inside him finally collapsing on itself?

"You should go to sleep, hmm, it's really late. Really, really fucking late."

Harry grabs onto Sirius' face, pulling at the skin of his cheeks and cries, cries, cries.

Sirius is losing it. Sirius loses it.

"Stop crying! I'm begging you, I'm begging you!" He rises his voice and hates himself for it, but he can't even hear it over Harry's incessant fucking sobs. "Just stop, stop! Stop! Stop, JAMES STOP!"

Sirius doubles over and gasps like he's been hit with a stunner. Why did he—why? His thoughts are muddled; Harry's green eyes stare back at him, little face contorted in pain and anguish.

James does not have green eyes. James' eyes are brown. Actually, James' eyes are nothing because James is dead.

Harry is here, and James is not because James is dead and Sirius is alone.

Something shakes Sirius' chest, shoulders, and ribcage. Harry still has his chubby hands on his cheeks, but they feel wet now.

Sirius realises that he's crying only when he hears himself echoe Harry's sobs. It hurts. His eyes sting and his lungs burn. He wants James, he needs James, and Harry wants and needs both him and Lily.

Neither of them can have that, and Sirius finally understands why Harry can't seem to stop despairing. How scary it must be, in the eyes of a little baby. Sirius is terrified and he hasn't been a baby in a long time.

He takes Harry very gently in the crook of his elbows and cradles him to the rhythm of their heaving chests. Sirius places his own forehead to Harry's, lets his tears fall freely just to mix with the boy's and tumble down their cheeks onto the Queen t-shirt.

Onto Freddie Mercury's smiling face.

Thinking so many thoughts about little baby Harry crying and screaming every night because he misses his parents horribly and Sirius, who's so tired he's almost delirious from lack of sleep and all he wants is to make him stop but has no idea how. And it goes on and on for hours with Harry yelling at the top of his lungs, and Sirius aches

But also Harry's sobbing tantrums kinda validate Sirius' own grief so sometimes he gives up on trying to soothe him, he just holds this desperate one year old really tight to his chest and lets Harry cry out to Lily and James for both of them

#sirius and harry #harry and the dogfather #sirius black #harry potter #sirius raising harry #marauders #wolfstar #prongsfoot #platonic or not you do you #lily evans #jily

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bluejaybytes · 11 months ago

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@snowshinobi Hiiiii :3 I'm responding to your tags on a new post and not the original since the original was already somewhat lengthy, and I plan on being LONG and RAMBLY, but I have sooo many thoughts on what you said and I'm going to say them. Also my browser crashed TWICE (TWO TIMES. 2) when trying to write this post so I'm really fighting for my life out here to get my silly little OC posts done. Also it's under the cut because it's looooong as hell LMAO

Firstly, you're so nice to me forever <3 Secondly, I think you've basically hit the nail on the head. The majority of the issues Maggie has coming back from death and her 9 years gone are really tied almost exclusively to her close family, because she... never really had anyone else. While in-universe it's only 9 years, realistically the jump in technology and culture is around ~20-30 years (Maggie died in the 90s/early 2000s essentially, and wakes up in a just barely futuristic city), but... the most jarring thing to her in terms of what she missed out on is just. Flipphones are no longer popular. Other than her family, she's only close with one other person... who just so happens to be a ghost, and therefore both 1. Wouldn't change much over the timespan due to how long she's been a ghost and 2. Unlike her family, was aware that something happened, since she could see the ghost-of-a-ghost Maggie left behind (The ghosts name is Opal, she positions herself as a sort of "guardian angel" figure, though she's not actually, and serves as just another parental figure for Maggie while also getting after the ghosts that constantly harass her to pass on messages to the living). Maggie has no real relationships outside of her family, and while her relationships with her family are massively impacted by her unknowing death, other than that... the timeskip itself doesn't weigh on her because she had no one regardless. Her struggle to adjust to everything thats happened would've happened regardless of the timeskip for her, because she was such an isolated shut-in that it's the same whether it happened the next day, or nearly a full decade later

So another very interesting thing is that you've actually completely seen where I was going with everything, in spite of everything I said being very surface level and not actually delving into the plot at all. I completely skimmed over Jenna (She's very important to the plot, but she's by in large a regular person as opposed to Maggie's... everything), but for some additional context, Jenna has a horrendously shitty homelife, so her moving in with Maggie is both a gradual process (It goes from spending time there, to spending nights, to eventually just never going back home and moving in fully), and also serves as an escape for her. Part of that is also, so vitally, the food aspect. For some additional additional context, souls essentially serve as a persons lifeforce, practically every bodily function is improved by a soul that's stronger, though the "strength" of a soul is essentially entirely random, and not dependent on the individuals actions of any kind. Maggie had a generally weird soul before (Seeing ghosts inherently means she has to have something going on with her soul), but when she wakes up after her death, her soul is now even weirder, and part of that is that it essentially lets her get away with bad habits she absolutely should be seeing more consequences for. She barely eats, and when she does, it's basically exclusively crackers and whatever other safe foods she has around the house, because actually making food is a level of care and effort she just... doesn't give to herself in the slightest. Part of Jenna staying with her is that Jenna, without really discussing it, entirely takes up the mantle of caretaker of the apartment, with the biggest task being food prep, Jenna sees Maggie's unwillingness to take care of herself and silently steps up and starts making her actual meals so she's eating properly.

The problem is is that this also kinda... just straight up sucks? Jenna doesn't think much of it, it's something that needed to be done so she's doing it, she wants Maggie to be well fed even if she won't do it herself, and she's already been responsible for making all of her own meals for years prior anyways, so it's just another thing she does. Except that's shitty! Maggie's seen firsthand how terrible her homelife is, and it really weighs on her how even in her escape from that, Jenna's still being put in a position where she feels like she must care for her or else she just won't eat properly. So food is such a massively important thing to both of them, it's this symbol of love for both of them, it's love on the part of Jenna, for stepping in and taking care of Maggie when she can't do it herself, and it's love on the part of Maggie, for realizing how her own bad habits impact the people she cares about and wanting to lift that weight by taking care of herself better. It's also very vital for Maggie because she just... doesn't... have hobbies. Learning how to cook becomes really her only hobby and she puts all of her love and care into it, because for the first time in a long while she's actually passionate about something! ...Unfortunately she also is very very bad at it. She's inventing new dishes like "Burnt Salad" and "Please Help I Fucked Up Kraft Mac N Cheese" and still having to have Jenna come in and help her. But it's the thought that counts, and it'll only be a matter of time before she can make something vaguely edible.

And finally, the stuff about names! I didn't post it here, but while idly talking about her in a Discord server I'm in, I definitely think that had I made Maggie like even a few months later than I would've done she would've been nonbinary. As it stands right now though, I'm saying she's probably some form of genderweird but too busy trying not to die to think about it <3 Growing up knowing that ghosts are real and routinely being shut down by authority figures in her life about it has made her very aware of how bullshit a lot of things are and how the people who claim to be knowledgeable tend to not know what they're talking about (Beyond just the "people don't think ghosts are real", she's also got ghosts willing to tell her when people are lying because they've got nothing better to do than just gossip) , so if she spent even just a moment thinking about gender as a social construct she'd instantly recognize that and probably take up some form of genderweird label, but as it stands she's just too stressed with Being The Protagonist to think about that

Now, the thing with Margaret. I'm not even going to lie to you, I think you made a better connection to how a name connects with community in terms of the narrative themes than I did. The thing with Margaret denying the name "Maggie" existed for two reasons, the in-universe explanation is that, with the little scrap of soul Margaret has leftover from Maggie, it's essentially working overtime just to keep her vitals working, it can't dedicate time and energy to making her an individual with preferences and a personality, so part of that is that she doesn't respond to "Maggie" because ultimately, that is not her name. Her name is Margaret and she's not going to respond to "Maggie" because "Maggie" isn't her name. Of course, out of universe the reasoning is that I wanted an easy way to distinguish between Maggie as she is the protagonist, and the version of her that lived in the years she was gone, so different names makes the most sense.

I think your connection to how name relates to community genuinely works on a level I hadn't fully pieced together myself yet and I really love that because I think that absolutely works with everything. One of the main conflicts of the plot is how Maggie is entirely disconnected from her family thanks to the years she was gone, with Margaret having no priorities beyond "survive", she basically never spoke with her parents or brother for years. While her family tried to reach out to her repeatedly (Especially given that, while they're unaware the truth of what happened the night Maggie was murdered, they do know something happened, and they believe that whatever it was severely traumatized her, and that's where the sudden and drastic shift in personality came from), there's a point where they just... gave up. She wasn't trying to talk with them or contact them in the slightest, so around a year or two after Margaret moved out, her parents gave up on her. Her brother would still be there a bit, but he also didn't really... try... anymore.

When Maggie wakes up, she tries to call her parents... and they don't pick up. They'd grown resentful over the years, and now that Maggie wants to talk to them, they don't forgive her for the years of not speaking to them, and aren't interested in whatever she has to say after nearly a decade of trying to reconnect with her and being met with nothing. It's her insistence that she wants to be called Maggie that actually gets her brother to realize she's telling the truth and that something happened. She shows up at his door, already something that Margaret wouldn't have done, and that combined with her being visibly upset when he calls her Margaret and tells him that's not her and that she's Maggie, it signals to him that whatever's going on is real (...though he would've figured this out eventually, given that she also literally 17 again and not in her mid-20s, and has a giant glowing stab wound in her chest). I think it works absolutely perfectly as being a symbol of community, her disconnect from her community is what led to her being called Margaret, and her desperation to be returned to that community is when she's Maggie again. So uh. Congrats on getting the themes of my OCs better than I did <3

And uhhhh closing thoughts! I honestly did still skim over the majority of the plot (Literally never even mentioned Eli or what's going on with her stab wound </3), but I think you reeeeally hit the nail on the head with everything I'm kinda getting at with these OCs, which is... frankly wild given how little main plot I actually got at. Basically everything I mentioned in my original post was the setup, not the main plot. But waaaaugh thank you for being so niceys to me and also giving me another excuse to ramble endlessly <3

#my OCs #uhhh MAGGIE FUN FACTS:#Animals can tell when a soul is weird so she has a colony of stray cats that hang around her apartment door #she doesnt even LIKE animals that much (She barely takes care of HERSELF shes not taking care of any animals.)#but they all like her weirdass soul and keep hanging around because of it #When the plot ends she gives one of the stray cats to her parents as a 'sorry i died' gift #The cats name is Marge- named by Jenna and also specifically its 'Marge' said in a Simpsons impression. any Simpson #It's Jennas FAVORITE cat out of the strays bc she says she looks like Maggie. also Marge is a male cat #Neither Jenna nor Maggie know how to tell the difference between a male and female cat reliably so they assume Marge is female- hes not #Also Eli's the closest to the 'main antagonist' the story gets. hes an old coworker of Margarets and basically her only friend #and Maggie's too scared with her whole 'is actively dying' thing and doesnt know how to tell him 'hey im not your friend- she died'#ELI thinks that Margaret is essentially have some sort of extreme mental breakdown and is trying to get her help bc he cares about her-#-unaware that Maggie is essentially a different person and doesnt know him #anyways uhhhh Maggie attempts to beat him to death with her laptop once. sorry Eli. luckily shes 17 and scrawny as fuck-#-so he's able to throw her off of him but its still. BAD #Maggie's got INSANE insomnia for a large variety of reasons- and falls asleep on the floor one night while on her laptop #Eli- having gotten off work late and going to check on Margaret- who hasnt shown up to work in weeks and isnt answering her phone #-spots Maggie passed out on the floor and assumes shes having some sort of medical emergency #Margaret had left her spare keys at work which he'd grabbed- so he lets himself in to get her to a hospital #Only for Maggie to wake up. With a strange man in her apartment in the middle of the night. Wuh Oh !#THIS time however- when she's home alone (shes not alone Jenna's asleep in the other room) and she spots a stranger in her house-#-she ends up with a fight reaction and NOT freeze <3 #also her full name is Margaret Elisabeth Newell and her brothers name is Hawke #one of the very few times i will give my OC a full name- and entirely bc my friend suggested her last name LMAO #also she believes in bigfoot. GHOSTS are real and theyre WAY less believable than 'big ape' so she fully believes it #Opal keeps trying to tell her no that ones ACTUALLY not real and shes like uh huh. sure. ill believe it when i see it

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