undiscovered-horizon

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Dream a little dream of me" - 11th Doctor x Reader

[TW: major character death, grief]

SUMMARY: When you, Doctor's love long gone, show up in the Dream Lord's reality, the decision becomes a lot harder for him to make.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 4k

based on 5x7, "Amy's choice"

🫀REQUESTS ARE OPEN🫀 || Doctor Who-inspired playlist

It was only a glimpse - a piece of flowing, lilac material seen in the corner of his eye. Although it wasn’t much, hardly anything, it was enough. The Doctor’s thoughts rushed in the direction of you. Yes, he really liked how pastels looked on you. 

But it wasn’t you, obviously. It simply couldn’t have been. You didn’t buy ownership of the colour lilac, did you? It could have been anyone! Anything! A two-headed dog on a unicycle with a lilac party hat!

As much as he tried to reason himself out of this melancholy and “what ifs”, the notion lingered in the back of his head. Like an itch he couldn’t reach to scratch and so elected to ignore it. That didn’t mean the sensation suddenly disappeared.

"Right, so we had some sort of psychic episode." The Doctor seemed suspiciously calm while delivering that news as if it was hardly the first time it had happened to him.

"But how?" Amy dwelled on the subject. The experience was a little too strange and unsettling for her to simply let it go. "How can something like that happen?"

The Doctor shrugged slightly. "Well, there's a-"

Amy continued to stare at him with wide eyes but not a word left the Doctor's mouth. All colour left his face, his eyebrows became a little slanted in an expression of sadness and shock. Some melancholic cloud rendered his vision blank as though his mind had slipped into a world next door; he was remembering something he couldn’t bring himself to forget.

"Doctor?" she asked quietly but he wasn't listening to her. Not anymore.

"No," the Doctor whispered to himself. 

He began frantically looking for something. Whipping his head around, he was running from one corner of the room to the other, clearly searching or checking. The Doctor even knocked on different surfaces, restlessly listening to the echo of whatever was underneath.

“Where is this coming from?!” he shouted. “Where is it?!”

Neither Amy nor Rory had seen the time-traveller in such profound distress. They couldn’t even begin to guess what caused his sudden breakdown. Whatever it was, they silently agreed that it was not anything recent; no, this pain had been festering for decades, if not longer. Unattended, unaccepted, it had grown into something too grievous to be understood by those, who had not experienced it. Perhaps, seeing his change of demeanour, Amy and Rory didn’t want to empathize with the Doctor. What madness could such grief bring?

Both Amy and Rory watched the Doctor in confusion. As the ridiculous, frantic search kept going, the man only became more unstable. What began as denial has turned into a true frenzy; madness brought by something that kept eluding him. The Doctor was ignoring the couple’s questions and so they were planning on simply grabbing him to force the answer out of the man.

But then Rory noticed something - a detail that was as unmistakable as it was impossible.

"Can you hear it?" he asked Amy. "It's like... someone's singing."

The comment made the Doctor suddenly stop. He turned on his heel to face his companions. With pale skin and reddened eyes, he looked seriously ill. 

“So it’s not just me,” he said more to himself than anyone else. By the tone of his voice, it was hard to tell whether he considered this revelation positive or negative.

Among the whirring of engineering, a soft hum was audible. It sounded absentminded as if the enigmatic musician was preoccupied with something else and decided to sing to fill the overwhelming silence of the ship. For a moment, all three of them listened to the faint humming echoing throughout the emptiness of the TARDIS:

“Birds singing in the sycamore trees, dream a little dream of me.”

As though on command, a resounding birdsong forced them to sleep again.

The next time the three of them woke up in the TARDIS, their anxiety only multiplied. Neither of them could be sure which world belonged to fantasy and which to reality. Such lack of certainty of one's sanity, like a tree without roots, could only lead to madness and the death that always followed it.

"This could be a dream too!" Rory argued. Between the mundane and the fantasies closest to his heart, it was awfully hard to make up one’s mind. Especially if the outcome could prove unfavourable.

"But this feels real,” Amy continued. “I know I said it before but this time I mean it. Out of all the places, why would we be in Leadworth? It can’t be real.”

“Upper Leadworth,” he corrected her. As much as he tried, it was still quite obvious Amy’s question upset him. “And, well-”

“Examine everything!” The Doctor interjected the couple’s quarrel. If he was frenzied before, now he came off as paranoid. “Look for all the details that don’t ring true.”

“Like what?” Amelia asked.

The Doctor pressed his lips into a thin line. For an imperceptible second, his chin quivered.

“Like her,” he said as he pointed somewhere.

Confused, Amy and Rory followed the direction of the accusatory index finger. At its very end stood you - a stranger to them but painfully familiar to the Doctor. The lilac slip dress you were wearing seemed fitting for a vivid dream. Still leaning against the railing on the upper floor balcony, you gave the three a small wave. Out of everyone, you were the only one completely unbothered by the brain-racking scenario. Strangely enough, you must have been standing there for some time now and yet the couple noticed you only when the Doctor pointed you out - almost like it was he who was responsible for your appearance.

“What’s wrong with her?” Rory asked slowly. To him, you looked perfectly normal. Almost too normal, all things considered.

The Doctor suddenly began to tremble. He put his arm down only to nervously rub his hands together.

"She's dead," he whispered. The quietness of his voice makes the cracking and wavering almost inaudible. His eyes did not dare look towards his companions.“Has been for a while now.”

Despite answering his question, the Doctor didn’t quite satisfy Rory’s curiosity.

“Sorry, who is that?” he inquired further. “Or… was?”

“A long story,” the Doctor responded. Judging by the melancholy dripping from each of his words, he was using a diplomatic euphemism. “Ancient history actually,” he said in a forced cheerful voice as he looked at his friends. “Well, not literally ancient. Just someone from long ago. A lifetime ago, in a manner of speaking.”

Yes, he was a different man when he met you. When you died, he became someone else, too. Truthfully, he never stopped changing: as each new day separates him further from you, he continued to grow into a shell of who he once could have been. How strange this thought truly was, that he must remember you for longer than he had known you…

"Then this must be the dream,” Amy stated decisively. Whether it was the Doctor’s confession or the vision of a domestic, boring life, she seemed convinced. She couldn’t have actually chosen mundane, quiet Leadworth, could she?

But the Doctor isn’t quite as certain. In his mind, a complicated puzzle required an equally complicated solution.

"No, we're missing something,” he said. “It would be too easy."

What he really wanted to say was ‘it would be too easy for me to choose’. Never once in his life did a good thing come easy or free. Why should it now? Why should he suddenly have an opportunity to end this dull pain where his hearts used to be?

The Dream Lord’s reveal answered as many old questions as it posed new ones. Although ‘decide which one is real’ was just one objective, it was a highly complicated one. At least a thousand inquiries hid behind those five words; inquiries for which they didn’t have the time. The only thing they could be sure of is that the puzzle isn’t impossible - now, where would be fun in that? Except for that one fact, there was nothing that tethered them to their true lives.

Despite their jackets, Rory and Amy began to feel the gnawing cold. Space was cold, much colder than they could even imagine. With fear, confusion and desperation thrumming in their chests, the heatless atmosphere became something more profound. The shivering of their bodies only fed into anxiety; their mind and hearts were turning into stone.

The couple’s spat with the Doctor was cut short:

“You should get blankets,” you interjected. Strange, how the dead person’s voice is the last warm thing about the TARDIS. “It’s really cold in here.”

All things considered, you didn’t seem bothered by the drop in temperature. In fact, you appeared exactly as you did the last time they saw you. The lack of change makes Amy and Rory exchange a questioning look. Surely you must be proof that the life in Leadworth is the real one, right? 

“You’re dead, you can’t be cold,” the Doctor retorted, his voice laced with uncharacteristic indifference. For some reason, he didn’t even bother to look in your direction. A strange device of a hand-held whisk and a corkscrew was more interesting to him than his late lover.

“I didn’t say I was,” you answered. “You’re the one feeling cold, sweetheart.”

Your words made him suddenly turn around. He looked at you with squinted eyes, a symptom of suspicion. In slow steps, the Doctor made his way towards the balcony you were standing on. Should the circumstances be a little different, the scene would have befitted a romance novel - a lovesick gentleman coming to his lady’s home, too sick with longing to patiently wait for their next meeting. The events on the TARDIS, however, were more akin to a gothic horror.

The Dream Lord’s words rang in his head. ‘I’ve always been able to see through you, Doctor.’ 

Could it be? Could their captor be cruel enough to use your likeness to toy with him?

“How can you know what I’m feeling?” the Doctor probed. Unconsciously, he rubbed his hands together, giving away the bustle of his troubled mind. 

With a smile on your face, you answered him with a question: “Why do nightmares always know how to scare you?” 

“They’re not sentient, nightmares can’t exactly know anything,” he began. “When you’re dreaming, it’s basically like being in the eye of the storm but instead of the wind, it’s your own thoughts. The monsters in your nightmares scare you because they have access to everything you’re thinking about.” The Doctor fell silent for a second. Then, his shoulders slouched. A pale shadow of grief danced across his features as his eyes glazed over. “Oh,” he whispered under his breath. 

Perhaps the poets were right - the world did end with a sigh. Although, could it ever end if it never started in the first place? 

Still as chipper as ever, you clapped enthusiastically. “Very clever! Now go grab some blankets before all three of you dream of the North Pole.”

Then you giggled and it was possibly the worst thing you could have done. The Doctor’s chest momentarily tightened, his breath taken from him. Must you laugh exactly the way you did? Can’t you take pity on the man you’re haunting and not remind him of the treasures he can never possess again?

“Are you alright?” asked Amy. She knew it was a silly question considering the moment but couldn’t help herself. The Raggedy Doctor from her childhood stories looked like a shadow of a memory, a mare; he appeared closer to a husk, whose creator kept remembering they had forgotten to put inside some vital piece.

“Don’t worry about little old me,” he reassured her. The lie was in no way convincing. “Get some blankets, they should be right over there.” He pointed in the general direction of an alcove-turned-storage.

With the couple gone, the Doctor turned towards you once again. You were just standing there, hands resting against the railing. The soft adoration in your eyes tore at his hearts. He missed the way you looked at him but he knew that none of this was real. Not in the way he wanted it to be. If your appearance was Dream Lord’s doing, there would be nothing to curb the anger brewing inside the Doctor.

“Are you really here?” he asked quietly, lest Rory and Amy hear. “Or are you only a nightmare?”

Maybe calling you a ‘bad dream’ sounded awful at first but there was a lot of truth in that. He couldn’t fear losing you as it had already happened. However, it is even more terrifying to find what was once lost, while knowing it can be taken at any moment. Without miracles this time.

You leaned your body forward against the railing. “Define ‘real’ and ‘here’.”

“Are you Dream Lord’s doing?”

You cocked your head from side to side. “Yes and no.”

Multiple wrinkles creased his forehead as he furrowed his eyebrows. “It can’t be both, has to be one or the other.”

“Does it, though?” you asked. The tone of your voice made it sound like he just asked something stupid. “Did the Dream Lord create the dream of a couple settling down in an English village or did he just materialize someone’s existing dream?”

The Doctor pondered for a moment. He wanted a straightforward answer but it seemed like, even as a ghost, you knew him all too well - he always preferred to solve the puzzle on his own.

He moved his lips to ask you another question when Rory and Amy came back with blankets.

The Doctor woke up in a walk-in fridge at the butchers. The alien-pensioners kept banging on the solid, metal door. Somehow, he had to get out of there without turning into a pile of dirt. There had to a way…

He lifted his gaze and suddenly froze in place. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the temperature that rendered him immobile but something else stuck in the cold prison.

Someone else.

“Why are you here?” he asked. Seeing his dead lover drove him insane as did having to guess which world is the real one. But the late lover appearing in both realities? That could surely get him committed to some intergalactic hospital.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you answered. “A walk-in fridge is hardly a nice spot for a break.” A grimace entered your face as you looked around the room only to see various cuts of raw meat.

The Doctor quickly scrambled to his feet. Whether it was conscious or not, he fixed his hair and bowtie. Old habits die hard, as they say. Paradoxically, the strange situation emboldened him. The man crossed the room in strides. The last time he stood barely centimetres away from you was long ago. A lifetime ago, like he said earlier.

“Aside from me, Amy and Rory, you’re the only thing that appears both here and in the TARDIS,” he stated. His eyes bore into yours, continuously searching for something, a piece of information that would make this weird dream reality start making sense. “But you’re not real,” he said slightly quieter, as though more to himself than you. “So how does that work? What’s your purpose?”

The word ‘purpose’ fell from his lips like a spat of venom. He suspected that you played a sinister part in Dream Lord’s even more evil plan; like the creature in front of him could never be more than a dirty ruse.

“Remember your question about being the Dream Lord’s creation?” you asked. Although he continued staring at you, the Doctor gave you no indication of an answer. “He needs an idea, a dream, that he can base the alternate reality on. That’s what he meant when he said he can see right through you. He looked and saw me.”

Heavy banging on the door startled both of you. Even if you’re something of a fever dream, you did exactly the same gasp he’d heard you do over a thousand times. The accuracy was nothing short of maddening.

"But why are you here?” The Doctor gestured to the less-than-hospitable room you were standing in. “Why would he put you in both places? What's the trick?"

A sad, pitiful smile entered your face. Normally, he’d dismiss such a reaction from anyone. He didn’t want others’ pity. But some part of him craved it when it came from you. The grief she had shoved as deep as he possibly could suddenly came up to the surface. It begged to be seen, acknowledged; it pleaded for you to see your face in itself. It wanted you to see how much love remained that the Doctor could no longer give you.

"There's no trick,” you explained in a soft, low voice. “I was supposed to only be a distraction, an estranged lover found in some English village but you just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

"Me?” he said under his breath. The welled-up tears in his eyes threatened to spill at any moment. They slightly quivered along with the rest of his body. He looked sick. “What do you mean?"

"I'm in both realities because I’m in both hearts.” You poked his chest playfully. "I guess the Dream Lord underestimated just how much of me there is inside that pretty little head of yours. My image is seeping through.” Then, you started laughing at something. “You're dreaming a little dream of me,” you said between giggles.

Your skin felt surprisingly warm against his hand as the Doctor gently brushed your cheek. It was wrong in a sense - you had been long gone and dead people weren’t warm to the touch, they didn’t radiate life. Despite his age, experience and nature, he was only a man. A man with a broken heart at that. So there was no power in this universe or the next, that could stop him when the one he had been longing for was painfully close.

His throat tightened. “It’s my favourite dream,” he managed to croak out. The Doctor took a deep, slow breath. The loud banging grounded him slightly, reminding him of the current peril. He grabbed your shoulders in a firm yet loving hold. “But I still don’t understand how you can be here and in TARDIS,” he continued in a more-or-less normal tone. He managed to swallow his woe. For now. “One of them is real and if you are a dream brought to life, how can you exist outside of it?”

“Because I’m a memory,” you explained. It all seemed so obvious when you said it. “Rory’s dream is only a fantasy but I’m not. Dream Lord made me appear but you made me stay.” You tightly held the lapels of his jacket to accentuate your point. “I’m more vivid than a dream should be, so whatever he’s using to control you is not working properly. It can’t tell if I’m real or not.”

A vivid memory… was that really all you were? Could he be haunted not by a ghost but by the afterimage of a phantom? As rejoiced as his grieving heart was to see you, the truth about your appearance made the reunion all the more painful. In no way, shape or form were you standing there, holding onto him. He was simply imagining it. Of course you were a perfect copy of the way he remembered you, down to the moles and stray strands of hair.

Maybe one day he would realize the poeticness of the truth. At first, you were a dream brought to life to torment him. But then it was his love for you, his live memory, that made you something more - that made you almost human. And one day, perhaps the Doctor would realize that you had done the same to him, although not as literally.

"If you are Dream Lord’s creation,” he started thinking out loud, “you know what is real and what isn’t.” His warm, ever-gentle, trembling hands cupped your face once more. “Tell me, please,” he whispered. “Somewhere out there, Amy and Rory are about to die and I need to do something."

There was that look of pity again. Staring fondly at your lover, you carefully took his hands in yours and lowered them. For a moment, the time stood still. The metal banging sounded far away, nearly unreal; like a commotion heard in a dream.

"You know the answer already, dear,” you told him. The sincerity in your voice and in your eyes only worked as proof. “I told you."

He looked at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

The lullaby-like melody filled the fridge as you quietly hummed the old song. If the Doctor closed his eyes, he’d be able to see the scene like it was yesterday: you and him, a jazz club in Chicago, sometime in the 1950s. But his eyes remained open. He did not want to invite a dream of the past - not when it could be used against him.

"Stars shining bright above you," he whispered the lyrics. His voice suddenly broke and the Doctor frantically shook his head. "No, I can’t. If I get this right, you will be gone."

Was he actually considering that? Now he may earn that ‘madman’ title he had been after for so long.

Your arms wrapped around him in a tender embrace. The Doctor’s desperation and heartache seeped from his very soul as he held you tighter than he ever did. His hands clawed at the fabric of your lilac dress. It felt just as he remembered. Hot tears began rolling down your neck and shoulder. His entire body trembled as he fought for each shallow breath. The most feared man in the universe, undone by a smiling girl wearing a pastel slip dress.

"It's just a dream," you calmly reminded him. In a soothing gesture, you petted his head."It is real until the sunbeams find you and then it'll slip away like a speck of dust on a wind. You'll forget this. And when you fall asleep again, I'll be right here as if nothing had ever happened."

As much as you could, you leaned away from the Doctor. His fearful, teary eyes searched your face for any sign of trouble or a goodbye. He knew it was bound to happen but that didn’t comfort him, quite the contrary. The Time Lord was terrified of running out of time.

“You’re even more beautiful than the day I lost you,” he whispered.

Feeling your hands against his face, he allowed himself to close his eyes; to pretend for a moment. You tried to wipe away his tears but it was in vain. The longer he felt your presence, the more it broke his heart that it was just a memory. You weren’t really there, he was just an old, lovesick fool remembering what it felt like to be loved.

“But you didn’t really lose me, did you?” you asked. The question made the Doctor open his eyes. He looked at you, confused. “I’m burned into your memory. Forever laughing at your silly jokes, comforting you when you’re feeling down, giving hope when the world seems bleak. Always waiting for you to find me.”

Gently holding the sides of his head, you kissed his forehead.

"Don't go," he begged quietly but the ghost of you was already gone. He knew what he had to do. Somehow, the Doctor also had to find a way to convince Rory and Amy that the world in which they live a small-town happy life isn't real. Despite that, those two weren't the most difficult to convince: most of all, he had to convince himself to choose life over plummeting to his death by your side.

______

a/n: tbh I just went for finishing a half-done WIP to get the gears going and as it turned out I made this WIP in 2022, so a time-travel theme feels appropriate lmao. In other news, this is me trying to get back to fanfic writing. We'll see how it goes!

[undiscovered-horizon]

Just popping in to tell all the writers out there: your plot isn't cliche or predictable. You just know all the twists, turns, milestones and solutions. Of course it seems predictable to you! You know what happens next!!

Keep on keeping on. You got this. Lose the fear, gain the drive and creativity.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Welcome back!!

That is so lovely to hear but I don't think I'm back-back. This summer has been a rollercoaster for me, a lot of challenges and changes, so my writing has been put to a halt for the better chunk of these past two months. Hypothetically speaking definitely helped me get through that block, so hopefully, I can get back on track with my next novel.

Now I'm officially a published writer making money off of writing. You know, a "professional". To be honest, I feel just as barely competent as I did before. Makes me think of that one tv show episode where Jackson Wang said he's not a rapper but someone who raps. I'm not a writer but someone who writes.

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Hypothetically speaking" - Juice Ortiz x Reader

SUMMARY: It's basic etiquette to not try your luck with a friend's girl. But when that friends seems to have no respect for the girl, perhaps it's basic etiquette to give her the affection she deserves.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 3k

Truthfully, everyone knew it wasn't going to work out - everyone except for you. Whether you are too pure or delusional, the thought never even occured to you, while the other members of the motorcycle club knew the bitter end the moment they saw you. At first, none of them thought much of it. That's just how Jax Teller rolled, there is nothing new in that matter. It was the subsequent weeks that made them dread the inevitable:

Jax brought you around the clubhouse to help out with the accounting, housekeeping or party-throwing. Usually, you were holding a pan, a broom or a pen in your hand. Or certain other things whenever Jax needed tending to his more carnal desires.

Nonetheless, the other Sons have gotten to know you personally and it was that new friendship that bore dread in their chests. You seemed to have a curious talent for making people feel seen. Even the smallest of details never escaped your attention. Refilling the bar for the night, you'd always find time to ask Happy about his mother's health and how he was holding up. Chibs and Tig have come to expect you to ask them about their children. Their answers rarely changed and so did yours: 'I'm sure they're thinking about you.' The biggest surprise came from the prospects as they had grown accustomed to everyone pushing them around and yelling at them. So when you'd ask them whether they were hungry, at first they were sure it was some kind of a test or a ruse.

For Juice, those little signs of a soft heart were nails in his coffin. Whenever he was spending several hours in front of the computer, you'd appear with a drink and a small snack. On top of that, you always made it seem like these small acts of service are something obvious - it would be entirely strange to not care for others simply because you can. Usually, your presence would slow down his progress as Juice was willing to exchange his worktime for a conversation with you. As desperate as it may sound, he came to the conclusion that his job will still be there in twenty minutes but you will be gone the moment Jax enters the clubhouse and takes you away. Sometimes he wondered if he had Teller's charisma, would you give him a chance? Considering you were seeing his friend, he never planned on acting on his feelings. Even the thought made him cringe: fantasizing about fellow member's girl? That's a rather large 'no-go'.

As usual, the dread settled in the men's chests when you entered the clubhouse. Then, it grew ten sizes as they all silently realised that the inevitable was about to play out in front of their hungover eyes. You passed the threshold in a somewhat hesitant manner like you always did, unsure whether you're interrupting something or are even wanted there. Bobby, Tig and Chibs greet you but they're unable to hide a strange sadness to them. None the wiser, you chalk up their lack of humour to the aftermath of a night filled with vices.

The clubhouse is a temporary ruin. Bottles and glasses are scattered across all flat surfaces. One of the tables is slanted, missing one of its legs. A few pairs of bright-coloured underwear are lying here and there. Something tells you that yesterday you missed a truly historic night of fun.

"Is Jax around?" you ask. The men exchange a meaningful gaze but it goes unnoticed by you. "He left his shirt at mine yesterday afternoon, I was hoping to return it."

Tig's face cringes. There's a sorry look in his eyes. "Sweetheart-"

"He just left, actually," Bobby interjects. "Don't know when he'll be back."

You look between them, beginning to sense tension. "Alright," you answer, unsure what to make of the situation. "Then I'll just leave it in the dorm room."

Their silence makes you wary like there's a piece of information that you're missing while it's fairly obvious to others; something hidden in plain sight. You walk past them, when Tig's conscience puts up a fight once more. He makes a step towards you, hoping to stop the disaster about to unfold. Chibs, however, grabs his arm before the man can realise his plan.

"He's made his bed, brother," the Scotsman says in a low voice lest you hear their conversation.

"Come on, man," Trager answers with a look of disbelief on his face. "She doesn't deserve that."

"Aye, she doesn't." The man nods. His stern expression reveals that he, too, is more than unhappy with the unfolding events. "But it's already happened."

Juice is either really lucky or terribly unlucky to be walking down the corridor at the same time as you. His lips widen in a smile and he's about to call out to you, when he notices the white t-shirt in your hand. In a split second of considering his selfishness and your feelings, Juice decided to act against his own interest. He picks up his pace and manages to block the dorm room door just as you were about to put your hand on the handle.

"You really don't want to go in there. Trust me." Juice is trying his best to sound like he's joking but he's not a good liar - especially when you're the one he's attempting to deceive. True feelings are slipping through the cracks and you notice his nervousness.

"What do you mean?" you ask. The weirdness of the guys' behaviour that day is putting you on edge. What on Earth is going on? "It's not like there's a biological warfare behind that door."

Two laughing voices are audible from inside the room: one belongs to Jax, the other probably to a woman. Something stirs inside you, anxious and dreadful but you push it further down. No need to get upset before you get all the facts, right?

"See? Everything's fine," you say to Juice, although the reassurance is really for yourself.

The door swings open with a slight moan of the hinges. Then, as you take in the scene before you, it feels like time has slowed to a halt. Jax is sitting on the edge of the bed, scandily clad in the thin bedsheets. Maybe he covered himself when he heard the door open or he wasn't planning on getting up just yet. In the bathroom doorway stands Ima, dressed in a rather tacky purple lingerie - the cheap kind that desperately tries to have some semblance of luxury. Had the situation been less agitating, maybe you'd think that it's a fitting piece of garment for a woman of her sort.

It's hard to say whether it's the shock or resilience but you manage to keep yourself whole. The last thing you're going to do is cause a scene.

"Brought your shirt." You disturb the akward silence. Jax's expression is unreadable but Ima appears rather amused - there's a sly grin on her face. Her quiet snickering makes tears pool in your eyes. "Thought you might want it back."

Wanting to evacuate as fast as you can, you lay the t-shirt on the dresser by the door and turn around to leave the room. Juice hesitantly whispers your name as you brush past him but you can only muster a quiet apology.

Jax, suddenly realising the consequences of yesterday's impulsiveness, hastily puts on a pair of pants. He keeps yelling your name, begging you to stop and let him talk to you properly but you don't give in. Running out of the dorm room, he's stopped by Juice, who grabs his arm.

"I think you've done enough, man," Ortiz states in an angered tone.

For a moment, the two of them stare each other down in silence. The tension feels like a forest fire - one moment of carelessness might lead to a true disaster.

Both men are aware of the other's affections. It is only now that they admit this knowledge.

"You need to back off," Jax whispers. Juice is disillusioned that the Vice President would have no inhibitions in caving his face in.

But lovers oh-so-frequently tend to grow just a little unwise the more they love. Perhaps that has made all the difference on that dreadful morning.

"No," Juice says while shaking his head, "I think I should go after the crying girl who just saw her boyfriend naked in a bed with someone else."

"That's not your concern."

Looking over the blond's shoulder, Juice catches Ima's malicious amusement. She knew exactly what she was doing and not for a moment did she feel bad about it. When he looks at Jax again, his dark eyes carry more contempt than anger. "Apparently, she's not your concern either."

Before the young Teller can continue their argument, Ortiz is running down the hallway. Bobby, Chibs and Tig ask him something but he only gives them a disinterested 'later' and continues his search for you.

Despite the perfect view of the parking lot from the rooftop, you didn't notice Juice approaching you. Only when you heard the rattling of the ladder did a wave of shame flood your mind. You didn't want anyone seeing you like this, especially people of formidable grit. Some part of you dreaded being considered weak. If you were just a little more honest with yourself, maybe you'd realise that what you were truly afraid of, was the outside confirmation of what you'd already believed about yourself - too weak, too emotional to ever fit in this life.

The shame, however, seems to evaporate the moment you see Juice's apologetic expression. He always had a strange air about him, an aura you couldn't quite explain. Something about the man makes you think that you could tell him the most asinine or embarrassing thing and he would never think less of you.

With a hesitant, quiet 'hey', Juice sits down next to you. Despite his own desires, he leaves a gap between the two of you. His eyes keep switching between looking at his fiddling hands or the side of your face as though he's unsure what's the correct course of action.

"I'm stupid, aren't I?" you finally speak up. Turning your head to look at Juice, you notice a sudden change in his expression - for some reason, he looks like he's about to burst into tears, too. "Believing that he would settle for me?"

There's so much he wants to say. An entire monologue is prickling at his tongue. You'd be the one settling for him, not the other way around. Never. But Juice manages to keep those thoughts to himself for now as they are not what you need to hear at this moment. Maybe, just maybe, one day he'll get to show you that whoever you decide to marry, no matter how noble or rich, you will be the one settling for them.

"There's only one stupid person in this situation and it's not you," he says in a serious yet gentle tone. "Okay, maybe three stupid people."

Despite his resolve, Juice is only a man and he, too, must break at some point. His hand fearfully reaches for your cheek. When you don't pull away, he hesitantly wipes away a tear rolling down your face.

"Three?" you ask in a quiet voice.

"Jax is one, for obvious reasons." With the back of his hand, Juice wipes away the other side of your face. "Ima is two. And the third... is me."

Confused, you furrow your eyebrows. "You? You're not stupid, Juice. Why would you say that?"

"I'm the king of stupid, actually." He lets out an airy, bitter chuckle. Suddenly feeling small, he retracts his arm. "I just tried to cover for my dick friend, so the girl I'm in love with doesn't get her heart broken. Extra stupid points for running after her like a lost puppy that just wants to make her happy."

"That sounds more lovely than stupid," you manage to whisper before another wave of emotions wreaks havoc. Tears stream down your face again but this time it's not only the bad feelings - there's something nice among them, too. A sense of relief and belonging; an overwhelming realisation that you're loved as a person and not only as a woman.

He doesn't complain or lecture you. Neither does he attempt empty words of comfort and encouragement. Juice doesn't know what he should say, so he settles for silence. However, his quietness speaks volumes. With a soft expression on his face, he keeps wiping your tears away.

"What do I do now, Juice?"

"Whatever you want," he answers with a strange lightness to his voice. It appears that his response is not something carefully woven but rather a cliché.

You sniffle loudly and although there's nothing attractive about that, it's candid. In Juice's eyes, it only makes you more beautiful. "Right now, I don't know if that list is very short or ridiculously long."

A corner of his mouth rises in a nostalgic smile. He seems to be recalling a memory.

"Remember that one time when you couldn't sleep and found me working at the clubhouse?" Juice asks. You only nod, unsure why he would suddenly remind you of that. "Remember what you told me when I talked about all the things I still needed to get done?"

"It's only three things," you repeat under your breath. Truthfully, you have almost forgotten entirely about that conversation. Juice had been going on about all the complicated steps that had to be done before calling it a day but, in the end, it was only three things. Granted, three time-consuming, challenging things but only three nonetheless. You never thought your comment meant so much to him.

"Exactly," he says as though he had just given you the perfect recipe for anything and everything. "I'm suggesting, you do two things now. First of all, get over the guy that couldn't appreciate you."

"Sounds smart but I'm not sure I know how to do that," you admit with a nervous chuckle. Jax Teller has been a tornado to your soul: came suddenly, wreaked havoc and simply moved on. There is no one to clean the mess, no one to put the pieces back together except those that survived. And you're still at the stage of debating whether you have, actually, survived Jax Teller.

"I guess the first step is not going back to him."

As simple as it sounds, the solution might just be one of the hardest things you've ever done. Nothing good comes easy, as they say. If it's true, you're going to reach for something truly incredible with this resolution.

"And the second thing I should do?" you ask. Deep inside, you're paying he's about to suggest something silly or relaxing.

Suddenly, Juice turns shy. This biker guy with tattoos and a loaded gun is fiddling with his hands and stubbornly avoiding your gaze. Despite his appearance, you think he's adorable.

"Well, uh..." He clears his throat in a vain attempt to get rid of his shakey tone. "If you want, no pressure of course but if you find it in yourself, then maybe you could at least think about grabbing dinner with me?" Whatever your expression looks like, it must make him even more nervous as Juice immediately begins downplaying his question. "Like I said, no pressure. I know it's bad timing all things considered, so it's cool if you don't want to, it's okay-"

"I'd love to," you interrupt him.

For a moment, he silently stares at you like a deer caught in headlights. "Cool. That's, um... nice."

You see him ever so slightly cringe at his awkward response but you don't think him weird. No, the nervousness makes you all the more convinced you want to go out with him - the anxiety proves that he cares more than he's brave enough to admit.

"Can we add a third thing?" you ask hesitantly.

Juice smiles at you as if today is the best day of his life; the kind of smile that slowly mends broken hearts. "What's on your mind?"

"Say, just hypothetically, how annoying would it be if Ima's car had slashed tires?"

He nods slowly, a shadow of mischief dancing across his handsome features. "Really annoying."

"And if she had to pay for new ones and there'd be a bullshit charge on the receipt like premium air or something?"

The man laughs. How can a sound leave you breathless?

"She would have a really fucking shitty day," he answers.

"Just hypothetically, I'd be satisfied."

"I think I know a guy. Just hypothetically."

Silence falls between you again. It's not tense. No, it's quite the opposite - the silence of two people who can just be. Now that happiness or at least a lack of sadness has entered your face, Juice is staring at you with an expression you can't describe beyond soft. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was not looking at you but at a rare, priceless treasure he has spent his whole life searching for. But you do know better; you know that, perhaps, people can be priceless, too.

A dark thought suddenly clouds your mind: Jax used to look at you the same way. Not always, not for long but he did. And yet, as he has proven, it meant nothing for him.

You push those thoughts away with all the almost-depleted strength you have left. It's no use crying and ruminating about the past when you have your future sitting right next to you. A bright, terribly good-looking future, one might even say.

"Can you just hold me?" you ask him quietly. The heartbreak of Jax's choice and the elation of Juice's confession have left you tired and vulnerable beyond all imagination. Such opposite emotions are ripping you open in conflicting directions. It's like dying and being reborn all at the same time.

"As long as you need, baby."

Juice wastes no time happily fulfilling your request. He brings your legs over and across his own, nudging you even closer towards him. Gently, he pulls your head to rest in the crook of his neck. As strange as it may sound, the man feels like a fortress protecting you from past and future heartbreaks.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Drop the sails, the horizon shall wait

I'm writing this with a heavy heart and no conviction as to whether I should or should not be doing this but it feels like the most fair option towards everyone (even if a few weeks too late).

Hard to overlook, I'm not active on here. Haven't been for quite some time now. This might sound disingenuous considering the context but it's not that I don't want to bring you stories or flesh out your ideas about your favourite characters. I absolutely loved being part of a community. Lately, I have noticed a certain shift in my focus and drive. I no longer daydream about our beloved characters and their adventures. Instead, any creativity and free time I have, I direct towards my original writing. All of the media/sources that once gave me ideas for your beloved fanfics, now feed into the plots of my novels. There is no love lost, there is no lack of interest or passion - only a change of direction. Maybe it's the effect of getting proper help for my ADHD or perhaps it's just the consequence of getting to a ripe, old age of 22. I can't say.

Does that mean I will never write any fanfics again? No, I don't think so; I don't want that. For the time being, however, Undiscovered Horizon shall be a true library - a place where one comes to read things already written, not await works that are yet to be written. Despite this, I hope you don't look at this blog as a graveyard of all the stories I haven't written but rather an altar to the adventures we've had together.

So what will I be doing? Now that my debut novel is put on pre-sale (PL only), I'm going to focus on two other books that I think are going to be even better:

A private school in Scotland, a dead teenage girl and a supposed hidden inheritance. Was the death an accident or a macabre conspiracy? No one is truly innocent but equally, no one seems to be guilty. Most important clues are hidden in plain sight and only an 18-year-old journalist-to-be can put them together.

In the distant future, the leader of a small arms-selling gang goes on a wild chase to find out what happened to one of her soldiers. Hidden laboratories, dead policemen, betrayals and most strange of all - this whole mystery seems closely connected to the disappearance of her brother a few years earlier.

[undiscovered-horizon]

I am excited enough that I WILL use translator 😂! If it's anything like your fics in terms of quality I can't pass it up.

I applaud your persistence, Anon 🤩 I'd argue that my novels are better than my fics as they are written in my native language. I may be bilingual but creative writing and communicating are quite different categories requiring various sets of skills, vocabulary and grammar. However! Whether my books are well-written or not is hardly for me to decide. I can only hope to get even half of the positive feedback I get on Tumblr :)

[undiscovered-horizon]

You write novels?! That's amazing!! I actually can't wait to check them out!!!

I do! My very first one (a debut, if you will) is just waiting for the illustrations and typesetting, chief editor plans to publish it before the summer holidays. Up to date, it's my only finished novel as I'm not the fastest of writers 😅 And it's extremely hard for me to just start one project and finish it without getting side-tracked or burnt out. I'd love to have another project finished by the end of the year but we'll see how it goes.

Your excitement makes me so happy, love! But I must inform you that I publish in my native language which is not English.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Do you still take Morpheus requests?🥰

Hey! Yes, I'm still doing requests :) I've been absent lately as I have been working on private projects (novel #1 should be published in June, novel #2 is in the making). But I'm still here! So let me know what's going on in that head of yours 🧐

[undiscovered-horizon]

caught up with "Masters of the Air" and I am ✨yearning✨ for Kenny Lemmons

(im also this👌 close to suing for emotional damage)

[undiscovered-horizon]

Halsin would looooove Slavic languages because there are so many nature-themed terms of endearment and they aren't inherently sexual: kitten [kotku], bunny [króliczku], little mouse [myszko], little frog [żabko], little bird (rather towards children) [ptaszyno], little flower [kwiatuszku], little sun [słoneczko], little bear [misiu], little fish [rybko/rybeńko], little rose (very rarely used) [różyczko], little butterfly [motylku], little gander (old-timey) [gąsko], little ladybug (rare) [biedroneczko], little hare [zajączku], little weasel [łasiczko], little seal [foczko], little tit/titmouse [sroczko], little doe [sarenko]

EDIT: added Polish words for your convenience and curiosity! :)

[undiscovered-horizon]

A little update!

If you click the banner, you'll go to an actual playlist on Spotify, made for your convenience.

Or you can click one of the below:

[Gale]

[Astarion]

[Halsin]

Usually, I make playlists that remind me of a certain piece of media but because Baldur's Gate 3 is so diverse and full of independent stories, I settled for making small playlists for my three husbands:

[undiscovered-horizon]

Hello! I have no requests because I don't want to bother you, but let me tell you, your Mihawk work has to be the BEST I have ever read and you should be extremely proud. I absolutely adore it and I am extremely thankful to you for writing it. ❤️

Oh my, thank you so much!! Your words mean a lot to me. I'm honoured to be held in such high regard.

Thank you, anon💕💕

[undiscovered-horizon]

some days, when my mood is too good, I just think about a Raphael x Reader where Reader is the cambion's spouse and witnesses Tav and The Gang (TM) killing Raphael, unable to do anything about the situation. Bonus points if Raphael gets to say his last goodbye while in agony

Do the heroes of the Sword Coast spare the spouse? Do they offer apologies or an explanation? Or perhaps they continue their slaughter and kill the spouse too?

have a lovely Monday yall :)

[undiscovered-horizon]

I LOVE your Dream of the Endless fics!! Are you still writing for him? 🖤🖤

I can write if you can give me an idea/a prompt, love !!

[undiscovered-horizon]

because of medication shortage, today is my first day off slow-release ADHD medication and it made me realize a thing or two:

You mean to tell me I've been feeling like this my whole life and only two years ago I realized that this state is less than ideal??? I'm honor citizen of delulu island bc what is this

(thankfully I do have regular/instant-release medication, so I can effectively study for finals)

[undiscovered-horizon]

[When the curse activity rises around the country, you reluctantly return to the school to help the sorcerers. Gojo Satoru seizes the opportunity to plead the case of his lovesickness. If you came back, maybe you and him can come back together, too?]

You've often wondered how it would feel to come back. Would you be excited? Or would the weight of the memories push you to the ground? How many things would be different and how many would you recognize?

A bitter chuckle leaves your mouth. You're a grown woman and yet you're nervous like an 8-year-old with mismatched socks. The overhead sign Jujutsu Tech feels imposing as though the genius loci of the school is telling you to turn back and leave; just like it did when you were a teenager, entering an unfamiliar world of unfathomable possibilities. The girl you used to be, afraid of what the future is bound to hold, could never imagine the respect and awe with which your name is spoken now. It's almost miraculous, really.

But there are more important things at hand than melancholy.

You sigh, pushing yourself to walk forward. The rock steps feel the same under your feet as they did years ago, the wooden floorboards inside the entry room still creak in the same note. For what it's worth, nothing about Jujutsu Tech seems any different than it did then.

Nothing.

You know very well he's sitting in the corner, staring at you. It's a habit he has picked up quite a long time ago - watching, observing, studying. He used to do that only to learn a few things about you and appear as charming as he possibly could. But with time this little unnerving habit stuck around.

At first, he looks laid-back. Overconfident, as he usually is. Although you know him a little too well and so you notice the way he's crossing his arms on his chest, his shoulders tense and raised. The greatest sorcerer in the world is nervous when in the presence of his high school sweetheart.

"Long time no see, Satoru," you finally speak up.

"You're even prettier than I remember," he answers, bothering to sound casual. He almost succeeds.

"And you're exactly the same, it seems."

You stare him up and down. The blindfold in place of sunglasses and the plain, black robes make him appear more professional. Still, Satoru's untamed white hair gives him a juvenile look. Maturity is supposed to arrive with age but perhaps the age arrived alone in his case.

Gojo sits further back on the old couch. He rests his hands behind his head. A half-grin curves his lips - the very same smile that always made you equally annoyed and weak in the knees. Truly, if Satoru wasn't as charming as he is, you'd have strangled him years ago.

"Ah," he sighs. "Perfection can't be improved."

Crossing your arms on your chest, you give him a playful look. "Then how come I'm supposedly prettier?"

Suddenly, Gojo leans forward. "Good question." He rubs his chin in faux thoughtfulness. You've learned better than to trust his little theatrics, no matter how amusing they are. "I never understood how this works. Just when I thought you're equal to a goddess, you make all of them look plain."

You feel your hands shaking. If your heart doesn't slow down soon, you might have a serious problem. As warm as your face gets, you hope the blush is not visible. How embarrassing to fall again for his wax poetic right away...

Trying to hide how flustered his words have made you, you force out a chuckle. "Gojo Satoru, always the sweet-talker, eh?"

Despite your best attempt at dismissing the entire situation, the man in front of you seems to have caught on to your bashfulness. After all those years, has he been craving to see you blushing and giggling again?

"If you keep saying my name like that, I might fall in love with you," he warns you half-heartedly.

The realization hits you at one moment. Something you've been suspecting, maybe hoping for even, has been proven right between his smooth talking and shaky breaths. Now that you think about it, it's all painfully obvious: how excited he seems to see you again, the immediate rush to dish out compliments and the rather poor attempt at appearing all suave and laid-back.

"You never fell out," you declare with undeniable certainty in your voice. "Did you?"

Something about the air changes instantly. The sparks of a maybe-rekindled romance have gone out, leaving both of you cold and distant towards each other.

Those few seconds of silence feel almost like hours. The quietness is ringing in your ears, pushing at your thoughts to say something. Anything! Just stop this suffocating unease from eating you alive.

This time, it's Gojo who breaks the silence first. "I stand by what I said back then: you're the one for me. It's either you or no one."

Fortunately, unforeseen aid comes almost immediately - before the tension between the two of you could choke you, a cacophony of teen voices, seemingly engaged in a loud feud, echoes throughout the building.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Hi, I read a few of your posts and I really liked your writing. May I ask a hcs/drabble/one shot of ONE PIECE with Shanks (and Mihawk if it’s possible) who are in a relationship with a woman who have her own crew and the woman flee away in their sleep, leaving them behind, with her crew after years of relationship? A bit angsty 🙊 and they never found her again, seeing her in newspapers or rumors only.

Thank you if you made it and sorry if It doesn’t suit your blog! Have a nice day <3

At first, he though he read the title wrong. But no matter how many times his eyes glided across the black ink, the newspaper headline said the exact same thing: BLACK TOOTH GRINS: A NEW SCOURGE?

There was a picture attached underneath the title. Part of him thought that maybe the familiarity in the woman’s face was just his longing; a product of a mind too lovesick to hold on to sanity. Alas, this time, too, his senses were not deceiving him.

It is your face. You're alive and well as it seems. Looking exactly the same as the day you had left.

The heartache comes back to him tenfold. Not it has ever left but the pain and anger are now suffocating. So many months have passed when he hasn't heard from you as though you've suddenly ceased to exist. No one has heard about you, no one has seen. How can a whole person just vanish? At some point, he told himself that maybe you've met your end. It was entirely possible.

But nothing has prepared him for this. To realize that he was abandoned by the one he loved.

The anguish slowly fades into numbness like a radio falls silent after piercing ears with static. Everything stands still as he recalls the day some part of him had died:

"Greatest swordsman in the world" is a quite hefty title to carry. It is also quite a hefty title to be overshadowed by. Wherever the two of you showed up, you'd always be perceived as a decoration to Mihawk rather than his partner. Like a pearly white Maltese carried by rich ladies in their purses. Having voiced your concerns, Mihawk knew that you feel in some way inferior to him. He just never thought it was that severe.

He was woken up that night, actually. The sky was still black and starry, morning long hours away. You were getting out of bed and your stirring woke him up. But he quickly went back to sleep when you whispered that you were just going to the bathroom. By all means, it was just another night. Like countless others you've spent together. Nothing unusual.

In the morning, everything was gone. All of your belongings had disappeared as though you had never been on his ship in the first place. Like a ghost he's grown to love had simply become bored of haunting him.

Only one thing, however, suggested that you were not a figment of imagination: a laconic note that vaguely explained the situation. In a few words, you told him that you're tired of being seen as an accessory to someone, a pair of gloves that will be out of season when snow thaws. Knowing that you're more than the Maltese in a purse, you ventured into the wide world to become an infamous name of your own.

Throughout many years, every day has he thought of that night and the morning that followed. What if he hadn't fallen asleep? Was he too calloused to notice how much you've been suffering? Was there something he could have done but decided not to for some reason?

The longer he thought about it, the more he came to the same, heart-wrenching conclusion - he was just abandoned in the middle of the night. Whether it was his hurt pride or respect towards your wishes, he's never gone on an escapade to find you.

As years went by and he hadn't heard from you or about you, Mihawk simply assumed that you'd died. It seemed the most probable. Part of him wanted to take the blame: if he had noticed your pain earlier, had he taken your worries seriously, you wouldn't have left and you wouldn't have died. It was his responsibility to protect you, to ensure that his beloved is safe and sound. Alas, he had failed. Quite utterly at that.

He grew bitter and vicious. What good is his swordsmanship if it failed that one time it could have mattered? What good is he if he was too blind and oblivious to ease your burden?

But all of those painful thoughts disappeared today.

Mihawk tears the newspaper and throws it away. He's grown almost used to the weight of bereavement on his shoulders but now he's absolved of it. One shouldn't grieve someone who is still alive. But contrary to his expectations, he doesn't feel better because of that. In fact, he feels a lot worse. Even if your death had been brought by your own choices, it is not your fault. Your death, however, hasn't occurred as of yet, so the time you've spent building infamy was just time you chose to leave him broken and aching.

He mourned you! Turned his grief and misery into a fury that burned entire towns. He became a shadow of the person he used to be. And for what? To learn that he was disposable to you? That his love for you was less important than your pride and ambitions?

Now that you've made it on the front page with an equally hefty title "A New Scourge", perhaps you're a danger big enough to be hunted down by none other but one of the Warlords. Was it not what you wanted? To be truly someone among pirates?

Oh, he will find you. Even if you told him not to look for you. Mihawk will find you and make you take responsibility for the damage you've done - for the man you've irreversibly changed for the worse; the heart you've forced to turn into stone.

Is it revenge or is it justice? No matter. It is right.

If the butterfly effect is true, Shanks, or rather his tendencies, would be the said butterfly that causes a tornado down the line. He's been known as a man with no commitment and certainly not a devout monogamist. It didn't matter that for a few years he's been exactly that - happily wrapped around the finger of one woman. Most of his men "respectfully" disregarded the relationship status as something temporary.

"Shanks thinks he's in love. Like a thousand times before her."

Which was probably why you've gone years being called a variation of "Shanks's girl". Whether they meant it or not, people around you made sure that you know you're disposable. A fling.

But you never were. Gods above! You never were.

Shanks thought it was quite obvious that he didn't consider you a fling. All the jokes and jabs at his previous love life were just that - meaningless jokes among friends. Even when you explicitly told him that they start to make you uncomfortable and that you want to be taken seriously, the pirate captain never quite took you as seriously as he probably should have. "They're just joking".

The jokes stopped one day and, seemingly, so did Shanks's humour altogether. All of your belongings were gone. You were gone. Nowhere to be found, disappeared like fog on a spring morning. The only thing he had from you was a note, hastily scribbled in the corner of a map lying on his desk as though you were too rushed to take your time to write a proper letter.

He's read that note every day for years. Naively hoping that one day he'll somehow be enlightened as to where you've gone. Maybe one of the letters is strangely pointing towards an island? Or maybe the fact that you've written your message in the North-East of the map was a sign? No matter how many asinine guesses he's made, all of them were wrong. You just... disappeared.

Despite asking him not to look for you, Shanks couldn't help himself. Each village he has visited, he would ask about you. Has anyone seen you? Or heard about you? A few times he thought he had seen you in the crowd, only for the woman to turn out to be a stranger vaguely fitting your description. But this investigation, too, proved to be in vain. For better or worse, it seemed as though you had never existed in the first place.

To put things simply, Shanks had given up. If no one across the seas had seen you or heard about you, it seemed the most probable that you'd met your end. Somewhere far away, among unfamiliar waters and surrounded by strangers. Were you in pain? Were you afraid? Did you wish he could have been there? Or maybe you thought-

No. He shouldn't be thinking like that.

Shanks is locked in his cabin. If his crewmates believed he had an alcohol problem after you disappeared, their captain's state right now would be "alcohol catastrophe". He hasn't been sober since he saw the newspaper.

At first, he was excited, yes! You were alive and well! But then the realization set in: you've left in the middle of the night, asked him not to look for you and never once reached out to him. Telling him that you don't love him anymore would have hurt incomparably less.

He's sitting on the floor. His clothes reek but he doesn't care about that. A shaking hand has trouble lifting another bottle of strong alcohol. The front page of the newspaper with your face on it is lying in front of him. He's just blankly staring at it, letting tears fall down his cheeks.

Among the darkness of the room, there's just him, the bottle and the dull, unbearable ache in his chest.

Shanks wishes to find you. To ask what in the Hell you were thinking. Then ask what he can do to have you back with him. But beware, as whatever you demand he will do. Even if it costs him his other hand.

That is, if his liver won't kill him first.