#Sleep Cycle Optimization

[mehmetyildizmelbourne-blog]

SCN, Circadian Rhythm, & Key Biochemicals for Sleep Regulation 

The body’s internal clock related to light & hormones/neurotransmitters for restful sleep I have deep empathy and compassion for those who experience sleep disturbances, as I, too, have faced the consequences. Sleep deprivation has negatively affected my health, wellness, and overall life satisfaction. Sleep is a fundamental need for all living beings. For years, I struggled with sleep…

[watermelinoe]

why does every medical practitioner think they know more than you

[anothermonikan]

never try to achieve The Nomad in Rain World, most stressful time of my fucking life (I did it tho :DD)

[sleeprecoverytech]

Optimizing Sleep with Cutting-Edge Sleep Cycle Synchronization Devices

Quality sleep is essential for overall health and well-being. The advancement of technology has led to the development of innovative sleep cycle synchronization devices that can significantly improve your sleep quality and optimize your restorative sleep cycles. Understanding the Importance of Sleep Sleep plays a crucial role in various bodily functions, including memory consolidation, hormone…

[blusmarty]

How to Hack Your Sleep Cycle for Better Productivity

https://books2read.com/u/3Jk9KA

[melercies]

One Bed Trope [Sentinels]

Pairing(s): Two Time, Shedletsky, Chance & Guest 1337

Author's Note: This was particularly inspired by the Tumblr user: cannibal-alien. Please let me know if I mischaracterize anyone. All likes, reposts, and comments are appreciated. :]

For some unknown reason, after a brutal round, you find yourself standing in front of your cabin. Gone and demolished for what reason? You don’t know, and frankly, I don’t either, but here we are! Thanks a lot, Spectre. All that was left was the pathetic remains of the foundation, some twisted wood still crackling with dying embers. Just great. You’re utterly exhausted, drained physically and mentally, as you wonder where you’re going to sleep. Out in the cold? Absolutely not, especially not with the repetitive cycle of hell that you have to go through daily. At least at the end of the day, you need to find yourself in comfort. So, with really no other option, you turn and walk yourself over to a fellow neighbor’s cabin. Sure, it was embarrassing, but it’s better than sleeping outside in the cold. 

You couldn’t care less as to who you were knocking, feeling too tired to even think properly. You just needed a place that isn’t destroyed to get some sleep, especially for tomorrow. It takes a moment or two until the door opens, revealing the individual.

Two Time:

The door creaks open slowly, revealing Two Time standing in half-shadow. A dim lantern flickers behind them, casting warped silhouettes across the cabin walls. Their eyes—unreadable, distant—rest on you for a long, heavy pause.

“...You,” they say, voice low and void of emotion. Their gaze flicks toward the smoldering ruin behind you. “I saw smoke. The Spawn warned of fire. It seems they were right again.”

You don’t have the energy to respond. You just blink slowly, face covered in fatigue. For a moment, Two Time doesn’t move—then they step aside wordlessly, allowing you in with a flick of their wrist.

Inside, the room is surprisingly clean, sparse, and symmetrical. Ritualistic symbols etched faintly into the walls and floorboards, most of them likely carved by hand. There’s one bed pushed to the corner, draped in worn blankets that look hand-woven. Nothing else in the room even resembles comfort.

You stare at the bed.

Two Time does too.

They speak softly, almost like prayer: “Two souls. One chamber. May neither wake alone.”

You raise an eyebrow. “There’s only one bed.”

“I know,” they say plainly, as if the arrangement was divine fate.

You expect them to sleep on the floor or make some kind of cultist arrangement on the rug, but instead…”You will take the left side. That is the passive quadrant. I will not cross it. The Spawn does not permit desecration of the boundary.”

Silence.

Until you climb into the bed, not caring anymore, and just wanting to sleep. They follow along and slip under the covers without hesitation and face away from you, posture rigid.

It’s been silent for a long time. Well, this is awkward.

And still, despite everything—the rigid body beside you, the cursed symbols, the heaviness of something long dead—you sleep easier than you expected. Almost protected.

Almost.

Shedletsky:

You knock with the last of your strength.

The door doesn’t so much open as it flies ajar with a creak and a gust of stale air. Shedletsky stands in the doorway, shirt wrinkled, hair unkempt as always. His eyes narrowed immediately.

“You smell like charcoal.”

You’re too tired to care at this point, blinking through the smoke and exhaustion. Shedletsky leans in the doorway, you’re unable to tell if he’s annoyed or impressed.

“Spectre torched your place, huh?”

You nod slowly. That’s all you’ve got in you.

He sighs like a man who’s seen too many disasters and steps aside. “Come on in. Just don’t ruin the rug— it's older than Builderman’s sense of optimism.” 

You step in and the heat hits you like a wall— the cabin’s warm, cluttered in the organized chaos kind of way. Tools. Paper stacks. Some swords. Weird half-assembled contraptions. Bloxy colas. Oh, and of course, a bucket of fried chicken. Classic Shedletsky.

And one bed.

A very small, and you guessed it, a very obvious one-person bed.

You glance at it. So does he.

There’s a pause.

“…Alright, I’ll bite — rock-paper-scissors for who gets it?” he asks with a grin.

You raise a brow. “Dead serious?”

“No, I’m never serious,” he says. “But you look like you’ll collapse over mid-round tomorrow if you sleep outside, so let’s figure something out.”

You groan inwardly, but follow anyway. At this point, dignity means less than not freezing to death. 

He shrugs. “Not my fault that the Spectre decided to cosplay as an arsonist. Spectre’s got beef.” Before he adds in reassurance, “Don’t worry. I won’t make it weird.”

You raise a brow. “You’re literally the reason weird exists.”

He laughs at that—genuine, warm. “Flattering. But seriously. You’re half-dead on your feet. You take the bed. I’ll crash in the corner or something. I’ve slept in worse places. Like under the old spawn tower. During a sword tournament. While it was raining.” 

But you stop him. “Just share. I’m not going to play hero over sleeping arrangements.”

Shedletsky pauses, blinks once, and then smirks. “Alright. But I’m warning you—if I roll over and accidentally kick you in my sleep, that’s on you.”

You climb in first. The bed is warm, the blankets are… surprisingly soft.. You feel the mattress dip as he joins, staying well on his side.

Silence settles. And then, as if he just can’t help himself:

“…You know, you’re lucky it was me. If you’d knocked on Dusekkar’s door, he’d have made you answer a riddle before even letting you breathe.”

You almost laugh.

Almost.

He doesn’t say anything else that night. Just hums something softly—some half-remembered melody from a forgotten Roblox game—as he falls asleep beside you.

For once, the cabin feels safe. No snark, no fire, no killers. Just two survivors resting before another round of hell.

And somehow, with him nearby, it doesn’t feel so bad.

“Sleep tight.”

Despite yourself, you do. Though you’re awoken at 3 a.m. by the sound of Shedletsky mumbling about “sword hitboxes” and his snores.

Chance: 

The knock you give this time is softer. You’re too tired to knock hard, and honestly? You’re half-hoping no one answers.

But the door swings open anyways, almost like it was waiting for you.

Chance stands in the doorway, framed dramatically by the flickering firelight inside. His light grey skin contrasts sharply against the dark of the night, and his back fedora casts a shadow over his headphones and tinted shades. Despite the chaos you’ve all endured, he’s still in his full suit and tie with a couple of wrinkles here and there. There’s curiosity in his eyes as he stares at your form.

“Well, well, well. What brings you here?”

You stare blankly, barely holding yourself upright. “Spectre burned my cabin.”

Chance squints before stepping aside dramatically, gesturing like a showman. “Come in, weary traveler. Lady Luck owes you that much.” 

You’re too tired to comment on how theatrical he is being. The inside of his cabin is…not that surprising. There’s dice, playing chips and cards scattered across a desk nearby while a small collection of fedora hats are sitting neatly nearby. There’s even a dartboard on the wall.

But you’re too tired to care.

Then your gaze lands on the bed.

One. Singular. Bed.

Of course.

Chance stares at the bed as well. “Oh noooo, one bed? What a gamble. Hope I don’t roll snake eyes in my sleep.”

“Chance.” You speak, “Don’t make this weird.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “No weirdness here. I’ll flip a coin to see who gets what side or maybe who sleeps on the floo—”

“Not in the mood for jokes, Chance.”

“Okay, okay. No jokes. We’re just playing the hand we’re dealt.”

He pulls out a golden coin, and flicks it into the air with a flair. It spins slowly before he catches it and slaps it to his wrist.

“Heads: you get the left side. Tails: I do.” He peeks. “Heads. Your lucky night.”

You’re about to protest when he kicks off his boots, loosens his tie, and flops dramatically to the right side of the bed, already muttering about the odds of this happening.

You collapse onto the other side, face-first, barely resisting the urge to scream into the pillow.

After a few minutes of silence, Chance pipes up from beside you, “Wouldn’t it be wild if we woke up and the bed wasn’t real?”

You groan. “Chance, please shut up.”

He chuckles and rolls onto his side. “Fair enough.”

You found yourself falling asleep, listening to the rhythmic flick of his coin flipping through his fingers. Somehow, that helps.

It feels like perhaps, luck is on your side tonight.

Guest 1337:

You barely register your footsteps as you stagger toward the cabin. The smoldering debris of your former shelter still lingers in the air behind you, thick with smoke and the sharp sting of ash. The Spectre had done it—again. No real motive. Just destruction. Typical.

Your fist, heavy with exhaustion, knocks once against the door of the nearest survivor’s cabin. You’re half-aware of who it might be. Too tired to care.

The door opens swiftly.

Guest 1337 stands there, blue hair tousled slightly by the wind, his camouflage uniform creased from activity, not rest. His tan army vest bears scrapes from past rounds, a few dried streaks of grime across the fabric. His eyes—normally sharp with determination—narrow slightly in concern.

He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need to.

He looks over your shoulder at the orange glow on the horizon—your ruined cabin still crackling—and then back to you.

“Inside. Now.”

His tone is firm, military, but not cold.

You enter, the cabin interior dim and sharply organized. A folded blanket on a wooden trunk. His gloves were taken off and placed onto a nearby table. The atmosphere of his cabin doesn’t feel like a home, yet somehow, in this moment, it feels safer than anything else.

You glance at the bed near the wall. Neat, but one bed.

Guest 1337 notices your hesitation immediately.

“I’ll take the floor.”

You frown. “Not a chance. You’ve had my back in every round since week three. I’m not making you sleep on solid ground.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze fixed and unyielding. “I’ve slept worse.”

Of course he has.

You pause. So does he.

Then, with the exhausted sigh of two people too stubborn to argue further, you nod once.

“…Fine. We share. I don’t snore. Much.”

Guest 1337 doesn’t smile—he rarely does—but the corners of his tired eyes crease ever so slightly as he steps back and motions you toward the bed.

You lie down on the narrow bed, scooting over to give him space. He sits first, removing his army vest and setting it silently beside the bed. You notice the way he moves—efficient, practiced, no wasted motion.

When he finally settles beside you, back half-raised against the wall, legs stretched out beside yours, there’s a stillness to him. He’s listening. Always.

After a while, your voice cuts through the quiet, barely a whisper.

“You ever get used to it?”

“The chaos?” he asks. “No. You just get better at standing in front of it.”

You let your head fall back into the makeshift pillow. The warmth of the bed—though thin—counters the cold outside. The war still rages out there, rounds still await tomorrow, but tonight?

Tonight, you’ll sleep beside the one person who’s never let a survivor fall behind.

And in this hellscape of broken cabins and endless threats, that’s enough.

[heartsiebyul]

Twisted Wonderland characters when their lover refuses to let them get up for school, clinging to them during a lazy morning in bed.

(Featuring: Cater, Ruggie, Jamil, Azul, Rook, Epel, Lilia, and Ortho)

Cater Diamond

“Aww~ (m/n), you’re too cute in the morning.”

He’s got one leg out of bed and his phone in hand—was about to snap a mirror selfie for Magicam until you latched onto him like a sleepy koala.

“Stay please” you grumble into his chest.

Cater giggles and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You tryna make me late so we can be hot messes together?”

He ends up tossing his phone to the side and wraps both arms around you. “Fine, fine! A few more minutes~ but if I get bedhead, it’s on you, kay?”

(You both end up rushing to class, him brushing your hair with his fingers.)

Ruggie Bucchi

“Ugh, not this again…”

You’re wrapped around him like a burrito and groaning, “Five more minutes…”

Ruggie wants to get up and get his day started, but the way you nuzzle your face into his chest? Yeah. He’s not made of stone.

“Fine, fine,” he huffs. “But if we’re late, you’re carrying my chores for the day.”

Of course, he ends up dozing off beside you instead, fingers tracing gentle patterns on your back.

(You both show up to class super late.)

Jamil Viper

“(m/n), I need to get up.”

“Nooo. You're too warm. I’ll cry if you move.”

He sighs, but you can feel him melting a little at your dramatic whining.

“This is emotional blackmail,” he mutters, even as his arms pull you closer.

The rare peace in your touch makes it hard to move anyway.

He gets up after a long pause, combing his fingers through your hair and kissing your forehead before whispering, “I’ll make it quick. Stay cozy, alright?”

Azul Ashengrotto

“Darling, I really must—”

“You’re not allowed,” you murmur, locking your legs around his.

He stutters, eyes wide and pink-faced. “W-We’ll be late!”

You simply tighten your hold and kiss his jaw. Azul goes quiet, sighs shakily, and gives in.

“Very well. Just this once…” he says, kissing your forehead and burying his face in your neck.

When he shows up late, he's fully composed, but there are pillow creases on his cheek and a content smile on his face.

Rook Hunt

“Ah, mon amour, you are radiant even in slumber!”

You groan and cling harder. “Nooo, sleep.”

He laughs gently and brushes his fingers through your hair. “Then let me be your willing prisoner this morning.”

He hums softly while you doze against his chest, whispering how beautiful the sunrise is on your skin.

He arrives at class smiling like he just came from a romantic date despite being late.

Epel Felmier

“(m-m/n)! Let go!”

You yank him back down and murmur against his shoulder, “Please… just a little longer.”

His ears flush red almost instantly. “Agh—y-you’re so clingy in the morning, it’s not fair!”

He squirms a little, trying to resist, but your warmth wins. With a soft, defeated sigh, he nestles closer and wraps an arm around you.

“Just five minutes. That’s it,” he grumbles.

(You both oversleep. Badly. Vil is furious.)

Lilia Vanrouge

“Oh~? My darling doesn’t want me to leave~?”

You groan, arms tightening around his waist as you bury your face into his chest. “You’re warm. Stay please.”

He chuckles, the sound soft and low in the quiet morning light. “You sure know how to charm an old man.”

Instead of pulling away, he melts into your embrace, shifting to get more comfortable. His fingers trace lazy circles against your cheek as he begins to hum a gentle, nostalgic lullaby. His voice is soft, tender, full of quiet affection.

You sigh contentedly, nuzzling closer as your breathing syncs with his.

(You both miss the first two periods entirely. Not that either of you cares.)

Ortho Shroud (Platonic)

“Good morning, (m/n)! You’ve exceeded your optimal rest cycle by 17 minutes and 42 seconds!”

You groan dramatically, flopping your arm over his metal frame. “Ortho… five more minutes. I’m tired.”

He pauses, fans whirring. “That is outside your usual behavior pattern. Are you feeling unwell?"

“No. Just lazy. Stay here with me?”

There’s a long pause. Then he floats closer and gently tucks your blanket around you. “...Understood. I will stay and monitor you for symptoms!”

He floats beside you quietly, projecting soothing music until you start snoring again.

Later, Ortho politely explains to the teacher that he stayed behind to protect a friend’s emotional wellbeing. He gets excused. You don’t. But it was worth it.

And that’s the end! I hope you all enjoyed this headcanon. Honestly, I had so much fun writing it! If you have any requests, feel free to let me know! <3

[zazaiafe2]

The most complete shifting protocol you'll ever try (or THE shifting method?)

It’s been a while since I’ve been working on this protocol. I’ve done my best to optimize every step to help as many people as possible based on the survey i shared, the problem y'all gave me and my knowledge. I won’t claim it’s foolproof, but I truly believe it can make a big difference for a lot of you. If you decide to try it, there’s a survey at the end of the blog so you can share your experience and help refine it even more. Let’s go shift!

1) During the day / during the week

Feel free to read your script, listen to a sound that reminds you of your DR, affirm, or meditate, depending on what suits you best.

This helps prime your subconscious and creates familiarity with your DR across days, without pressure.

Adapt it to your style: for some people, music works; for others, reading or daydreaming is enough, you really don't need to do too much.

Tip: consistency is more important than perfection. Do whatever will please and help you.

For example, you can create mood boards or playlists, this is an example, you can do whatever you want.

2) Just before sleep

Do a short meditation of at least 5 minutes. It can be guided or silent, but its goal is to calm your mind and detach from your current day.

This helps move from beta waves to alpha or theta, creating an optimal bridge for shifting.

Tip: even 5 minutes can deeply shift your state if you do it with true presence.If you really like meditation you can even do more.

A short 10 minute meditation like this can really help.

3) Setting your intention

As you get ready to sleep, remind yourself:

->“Tonight, I shift. I am safe. I am ready to transform.”

Or any affirmations adapted to you and pace.

Place this intention in your mind without obsessing, just like setting a GPS route.

Tip: repeat it once or twice if you wish, but then let it go with confidence.

4)WBTB (Wake Back To Bed)

Plan to wake up in the night after a sleep cycle (e.g. 4–6 hours depending on your sleep rhythm).

No random phone use, and absolutely no social media unless it’s only to launch your theta/alpha sound and remove the alarm .

⚠️Blue light filter ON if you check anything.

Move minimally (water, bathroom, a short stretch) and keep the lights dim.

Stay awake at least 3 min, maximum 50 min, then go back to bed.

The phone can interfere with entering theta/alpha waves. I really recommend putting on the blue light filter about 1 hour before going to sleep.

5) During WBTB

While you’re awake, you can:

-get up and drink some water

-reread your script

-daydream about your DR

-do a tiny relaxation

Avoid overstimulating yourself.

Tip: this phase is for priming, not restarting the whole shift preparation from scratch.

6) Breathing techniques

When returning to bed, start with:

box breathing (inhale 4s, hold 4s, exhale 4s, hold 4s)

Coherence breathing (5s in, 5s out, smooth rhythm)

Or 4-7-8 breathing (4s in, hold 7s,exhale 8s)

->Just choose what suit you the best.

Let these rhythms calm your system and focus your mind away from your physical body.

->breathing = grounding + focus.

Explanations of the three types of breathing .

7) Brainwaves support

Play theta or alpha binaural beats, or isochronic tones, if you like them.

No need to overthink the “perfect” track. Choose something relaxing, consistent, with no big volume spikes.

-> your own sense of calm is more important than the frequency’s perfection.

You can play this kind of waves.

8) Physical position

Choose a position where you won’t fall asleep too easily (like semi-sitting, or slightly propped up on pillows).

Keep your body still as much as you can, to favor the floaty feeling.

If you notice the urge to self-check, gently redirect to observing your inner calm and the quiet confidence that you will shift.

->trust the process instead of micromanaging it.

You are powerful and capable of shifting into your DR.

9) Mental focus

Try to distract your mind lightly:

-simple counting

-easy imagery (like clouds or stars or an object of your DR)

-recalling parts of your DR script

-small mantra

-feel the emotions you have in your DR

The goal is to stay in a passive but present state ,not to force your thoughts.

If you sense a “floaty” or dreamlike moment, flow with it.

10) Letting go

Once you’ve affirmed or visualized, release.

Trust your DR will come to you naturally, without forcing or chasing.

Picture it like opening a door and calmly waiting for it to cross the threshold.

Softness + confidence are more powerful than pushing, try to be calm.

Many people feel closest to shifting with a calm focus.

11) Handling intrusive thoughts

If intrusive or negative thoughts pop up, see them as passing clouds.

Don’t try to fight or suppress them, it only gives them power.

Instead, note: “OK, this thought is here, but it does not define me, it's not me”

Your focus is the sail, your thoughts are just the wind. You can still steer.

You can imagine that they are like clouds passing across the sky.

12) Ego detachment

At the key moment, remind yourself:

“I am more than this current identity. It is safe for me to let go of this identity and experience a new one”

Disidentify from your “CR ego” so your awareness can move more freely.(I invite you to see my blog on this subject)

This step is subtle but extremely powerful to release subconscious anchors.

Think of yourself as a free observer of realities, and embodie this soft feeling of safety.

13) Micro awakenings

If you don’t shift straight away, set the intention to notice micro-awakenings in the night.

Example: “If I wake up slightly, I will stay still and try again.”

These micro-awakenings are amazing opportunities to relaunch a shift attempt, especially in a hypnagogic state.

-> note your emotions and mental state after each try to adjust next time.

14) Lucid dreams as a gateway

Sometimes, these techniques will instead trigger a lucid dream even if you never done one before .

If that happens, you can:

-shift directly from the lucid dream

-or explore the lucid dream calmly and try shifting next time

->treat lucid dreams as allies, not as failures.

15) Tracking and reflecting

Whether you succeed or not, write down your:

-dreams(this technique can also greatly improve dream recall)

-emotions

-thoughts before sleep

This builds self-awareness and helps you adjust future attempts.

-> even small details (mood, environment, worries) can give clues about your subconscious state.

16) Holotropic breathwork (optional)

Once a week, you may practice holotropic breathwork to:

-release deeper emotional blocks

-loosen subconscious tension

-encourage identity detachment

This is not mandatory, but can help if you feel stuck.

This video can be useful for practice if you want to be accompanied while doing the breathwork.

Reminder: avoid if you have heart or trauma sensitivities without professional advice, and go see my blog on this subject I explain absolutely everything about this breathing.

17) Trust over repetition

Remember: more attempts ≠ more success.

Quality of intention + quality of your state > number of tries.

Stay gentle, stay steady. One peaceful attempt is worth more than 50 frantic ones.

no timeline, no rush.

We see that the number of shift attempts doesn't mean anything about whether we'll succeed or not. This is based on my survey of people who have never shifted.

18) Final choices, 4 scenarios

From the point after wbtb, there are 4 possibilities:

1️⃣ You shift → congratulations, welcome to your DR!

2️⃣ You can’t shift → place the intention for your next micro-awakening, note down insights, try again calmly.

3️⃣ You fall asleep and wake up in the morning → note dreams, thoughts, feelings for next time.

4️⃣ You enter a lucid dream → explore it or use it to shift on the spot.

Conclusion:

Shifting is not a race. It is an art of alignment, trust, and gentle identity release. This protocol gives you structure and freedom, combining proven techniques with space for personal adjustment.

You deserve to shift with peace, not with violence toward yourself.

-> Consistency + presence + compassion = the best conditions for success.

The link of the survey :

[seat-safety-switch]

"Aren't you worried about your brand?" asks Josh, the prototypical hominid who was formed in a vat this very morning. Even though scientists have conclusively proven they don't have souls, it is still not okay to commit violence upon their unpersons.

Back on my first cycle, society actually used real humans as internet marketing experts. It was cruel, for sure, but we had no other options. Initial experiments in training dogs to do it had raised the ire of every animal-rights group from here to Baltimore (inclusive,) but you can always find someone desperate enough to work a dirty, demeaning job. A job like search-engine optimization.

"Can you hop on a call to discuss your content strategy?" begs Josh, possibly out of fear. Judging from the look of his skin, he is probably at most six hours old, and nobody has told him what is going on. Sure, maybe he heard from a couple of the older clones in the back of the U-Haul® on their way to my neighbourhood. Just rumour and innuendo, like a schoolyard gossip mill. If I agreed, he wouldn't know how to hop on a call, or even what one was.

Believe me, I've tried talking to them before. Although annoying, I genuinely am confident that the protos are a lifeform that deserves respect. Same reason I try to help earthworms back onto the lawn after a rainstorm. All life is valuable, and unlike previous generations, none of these synthetic non-people asked to go into such a horrific industry.

Josh can tell that he is losing me. He has never experienced failure before, not since he came out of the basic education creche in the factory. He begins to weep, which is honestly pretty brave of him because I hadn't thought they worked out the bugs with that whole system yet. I am nothing if not sympathetic, so I offer him a way out.

"Do you want to go to the junkyard with me? You can hold the flashlight," I ask. He responds with a tearful look of pure glee. It's always easy getting these suckers to do what you want. Tonight, I'll let Josh sleep in the backyard, but not out in the open. Don't want the neighbours thinking that I'm starting up some kind of e-commerce scam.

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Dandelions

Sequel to Part 4: Red to Entice You

Here we go.

All fluff, a bit of sadness over an inability to conceive. Mated Eris and Reader. Angst. Happiness. Release. Life.

Word Count: 3,478

Summary: After years of wishing on dandelions and stars, it may all be time to come true.

A few days slipped by, then a week, and soon two weeks had passed. Yet, none of the familiar symptoms of your cycle appeared—not the sharp, shooting pain that usually radiated down your back, nor the pounding migraines that typically left you curled up in bed, alternating between the comforting warmth of heat packs and the numbing relief of ice packs. Your body was unusually quiet, a serene silence that both intrigued and unnerved you. You dared not let your hopes soar too high. But how could you resist the rising tide of optimism? Every sign seemed to align perfectly, pointing towards the realization of everything you had longed for with eager anticipation.

Your mate, who was also bracing for the onslaught of sharp remarks and noticeable shift in your demeanor that marked your annual cycle, seemed to be walking on eggshells. He gave you a much wider berth and ensured you lived in a comfortable bubble. He was more than willing to offer you his helping of desserts and while you commandeered all the blankets, cocooning yourself on one side of the bed, he didn’t utter a single complaint. Over the years spent with each other, he had learned the delicate art of patience, understanding that before your cycle, it was wise to extend a little more grace, for both your sake and his own. Yet, when the cycle didn’t arrive, a subtle, shared optimism began to bloom. Without speaking it aloud, each morning as you awoke to find nothing had changed, your eyes would meet with a mild twinkle.

Although you hadn’t thought it possible, Eris’s attentiveness intensified. Each waking moment he could spare was spent by your side, his hands seeking yours. His fingers would interlock, tenderly tracing gentle circles over the soft skin, as if memorizing the texture. He began retiring to bed earlier with you. One hand would rest lightly on your stomach, while the other wove through your hair, lulling you to sleep. His connection to you seemed to deepen with each passing day. His kisses stretched on, their sweetness lingering long after his lips had left yours. His embraces were warmer, enveloping you in a cocoon of affection and warmth that felt like home.

It wasn’t until you reached the third week of nothing happening that you finally decided it was time to see a healer. Whether it was what you hoped for or not, your cycle being this late was definitely unusual. You chose not to tell Eris, though you weren’t quite sure why. Throughout this long and difficult process, you regularly attended appointments with healers, and initially, he had accompanied you to get the same information. But as two years passed, you assured him that anything you learned, he would also know. He had initially protested, arguing he didn’t want you to go through this alone, but with some gentle reassurance, he eventually accepted it. However, this time, you hadn’t even mentioned to him that you had made an appointment in the first place.

Maybe it was a protective instinct that made you hesitant to tell him. If he knew you were going to the healer and was aware that your cycle was irregular, he might get his hopes up, only for you to crush them again. You thought that you could deliver the news more gently, if it turned out to be what neither of you wanted. And perhaps, a bit selfishly, you wanted the time to grieve alone if necessary.

As you sat in the healer’s chamber, your hand resting on your lower abdomen, it seemed you had already accepted the likelihood that you weren’t pregnant. Surely, you would have known if you were. You would have felt some unmistakable sign, some clear symptom that announced to both you and the world that you had succeeded. But there was nothing—other than the absence of your cycle.

The heavy wooden door groaned on its hinges as it slowly swung open, revealing the familiar and comforting face of Iren. She had been your steadfast companion, steadfast beacon and primary healer since the inception of this journey. She had been your guide, offering counsel on strategies to increase your chances, meticulously mapping your fertility cycle, and providing a careful mixture of herbal tonics and carefully administered injections to boost your hormones. In moments of despair, when you felt utterly broken, tormented by the weight of it all, and completely drained, she had also been your solace, holding you close as you were consumed in sobs.

Her silver hair cascaded gently around her face, framing it like a soft halo, while her rose-tinted lips curved into a gentle, reassuring smile. She remained silent as she extended a hand towards you. Her hand, wrinkled with time, was warm and inviting as you stood and took it.

She guided you back into her chambers as you settled back on the examination table, legs swinging slightly over the edge. Iren pulled her stool closer to you. “How’s it going?” she asked warmly.

You sighed, offering a small smile as you shrugged. “Well, I think—I hope.”

Iren seemed to be examining your face, not immediately jumping to the next question. “And how are you feeling?”

“Fine,” you replied, a hint of hesitation in your voice. “Same as always, I guess.”

“I wasn’t just talking about your physical health,” Iren replied, her hand resting gently on your knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

You swallowed hard, emotions bubbling up as they always did when you were with her. Being alone with Iren always changed something inside you, dissolving your defenses and making it hard to keep anything hidden. But her presence, something innately about her, made you feel safe enough to let go. “I’m tired,” you admitted, nodding slightly as though trying to convince yourself.

“Tired how?” she asked.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you nervously picked at a hangnail on your thumb. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just feeling a little tired of it all.”

“What is ‘it’?” the healer gently inquired.

Your kept your eyes intently focused on your fingers, watching as the small piece of skin peeled away, leaving behind nothing but a sharp, stinging sensation. “Feeling like I’m failing,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper as you paused to gather your scattered thoughts. “Or like I’m letting everyone down.”

Iren leaned back slightly, her posture relaxed yet attentive. When you dared to glance up at her, you were met with the same reassuring smile, soft and gentle, her eyes blinking slowly. “I know,” she replied, her voice no louder than your own. “This is an immense amount of pressure. It’s a daunting task for couples who aren’t rulers of an entire court, and even more so for you and your mate. I’m honestly impressed that you’ve managed to continue wanting to try for as long as you have.”

You furrowed your brow, a crease forming between your eyes. “Well, what else is there to do?” You shrugged, feeling the weight of the inevitability. “It’s not like I can just decide not to.”

Iren cocked her head slightly in argument. “That’s true. But let me clarify—I’m surprised that you are still concentrating on this as much as you are.”

A light snort escaped you, a sound half amusement, half exasperation, as you ran your hands through your hair, feeling the strands slip between your fingers. “It’s sort of the only purpose I have for this court.”

“Nonsense,” Iren replied firmly. “Your role is far larger than your ability to produce offspring. You’re not a cow.”

Your brow arched skeptically, a silent challenge in your eyes. In essence you felt not much more than livestock, bred to perpetuate what had always been. “Iren, with all due respect, you and I both know the consequences of failure,” you said, a note of bitterness edging your voice.

“And who decides when you have failed?” Iren challenged.

You met her gaze, searching for an answer. Iren held your stare, unwavering, as if willing you to find the words.

Finally, she broke the silence, her voice gentle yet firm. “Because as far as I know, and I have overseen the birth of many babes, the only one who decides on failure is the being capable of carrying the babe themselves. There is no failure. There is only time.” She leaned closer, her hand finding it’s place on your knee again. “There’s nothing wrong with you, my dear. It just takes time.”

A lump formed in your throat, your eyes brimming with tears that shimmered as they edged over. “Then why can’t I just do this?” you choked out.

Iren’s lips pressed into a thin line as she offered another smile. “You can do this.”

“I’m starting to believe that I can’t,” you retorted, your voice breaking as the tears streamed down your cheeks. “I’ve done everything, tried everything. I mean, for gods’ sake, I’ve even been drinking that disgusting fertility tea you’ve given me for months and nothing.” You shook your head, frustration mingling with despair, as you wiped the tears away with your sleeve. “It’s just impossible.”

“I know,” Iren noted. “I know how desperately you want this, and I know that you would go to great lengths to achieve it. But there’s nothing any of us can do but wait.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” you replied. “I’m so angry, all the time. I’m exhausted, all the time. Every day, I wake up and the first thing that floods my mind is this. When I go to sleep, my last thought is this. Even in my dreams, it’s only this.”

“It’s consuming you,” Iren reflected softly.

You shook your head, the urge to respond caught in your throat like a stubborn limp, rendering your silent.

Iren watched patiently, her eyes searching your face for a sign of steadiness, but when your shoulders sagged and your face crumpled into your hands, she spoke again. “I have found that when someone desires something so intensely, the universe takes perverse pleasure in withholding it. And then they finally give up, or let go, that’s when it happens naturally.”

You remained cocooned in the sanctuary of your hands. “How can I just give it up?” you murmured, your voice muffled and strained.

“I’m not saying you should,” Iren offered, “But I’m advising you that pouring all your energy into it might actually be making it more challenging.”

She paused, her eyes fixed on you, waiting for a reply that still didn’t come. With a sigh, she leaned back, her hand slipping away from your knee, leaving a lingering warmth behind. “So why did you come today?” she asked softly. “Did you just need someone to give you some support, or is there something specific troubling you?”

It was as if you had forgotten the very reason for your visit, in fact, it felt like she had already delivered more disappointing news. You glanced up at her, swallowing hard, your hand brushing away the tears that matted your hair to your face. “I haven’t gotten my cycle yet,” you admitted.

Iren’s brow arched delicately in response. “Oh?” she murmured, a note of curiosity.

You shook your head, a shover running through you as you sniffled. “I’m two weeks late.”

In her eyes, you detected a flicker of excitement, a spark of hope she struggled to keep restrained. Wonderful, you thought bitterly—just someone else to disappoint.

“Best to check you over then,” she suggested, rising from her stool.

You shuffled back onto the familiar examination table, fingers deftly working down the front set of corset strings. Cool air rushed over your skin as the corset loosened, its sides falling open with a soft rustle. You eased the upper part of your gown down, revealing your bare torso to the room’s chill. Iren stepped forward, a reassuring smile playing on her lips. Her hands hovered above your abdomen, fingers trembling slightly. You had wondered whether it was part of her technique or a sign of her advancing age. Despite your musings, you closed your eyes, inhaling deeply, allowing your head to sink into the pillow below.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly, minutes blending into seconds or vice versa; you couldn’t quite tell. The warmth of her hands met your stomach, a gentle yet firm pressure sinking into the soft flesh. You winced slightly as her fingers pinched and probed with practiced precision. She murmured softly, a sound barely audible, and you opened your eyes to see Iren’s face, brows knitted together in intense concentration. Her lips moved subtly, as if she were speaking to herself, yet no words escaped. Finally, she opened her eyes, revealing nothing in her expression.

“Sit up for me,” she instructed with a slight motion, and you complied. Her hands shifted, one settling firmly on your lower back, the other pressing deliberately into your abdomen. Silence enveloped the room once more as she continued her examination.

The urge to question her, to demand why she was taking so long, bubbled up inside you. Your heart, stupidly, fluttered in excitement, yet the worry etched into her face sent your stomach plummeting to your feet. Iren pressed and prodded with care, then moved around to face you directly.

“I need to examine your breasts as well,” she stated, and you nodded in agreement. Her hands moved over your skin, methodical and thorough, before returning to your abdomen, once again feeling the area as if to confirm your suspicions.

When she finally opened her eyes, they were lined with tears.

Immediately, yours widened in concern. “What is it?” you demanded, voice breaking. “What’s wrong?”

Iren broke into a radiant smile, and then a light, joyous chuckle escaped her lips. “Congratulations are in order, my lady.”

You froze, your face stuck in shock and disbelief. You were certain you hadn’t heard her correctly; there must have been some mistake. “What?”

Iren laughed again as she wiped away her own tears. “Ugh,” she mused, her voice filled with fondness. “I always cry at this part.”

You still sat there, exposed from neck to hips as you pulled your gown back up. “Iren, what? What are you talking about?”

“You’re pregnant,” she finally announced, the words tumbling out with such overwhelming joy that it seemed almost palpable.

“Wha—” you stammered, unable to find the joy that resonated within her. “You—you’re serious?”

Iren threw her head back and laughed as it rang out with sincerity. “It would be cruel of me to joke about this. I’m certain of it.”

You swallowed hard, your gaze shooting immediately down to your abdomen, searching desperately for some tiny sign, but there was nothing visible.

“You’re sure?” you asked, your eyes widening as your heart finally seemed to release its grip.

“I’m positive,” the healer replied, enveloping your hands in hers. “A steady, healthy heartbeat.”

You let out a shaky sigh, and then your smile spread slowly across your face, tears returning to your eyes as you alternated your gaze between your womb and Iren. “I’m pregnant,” you finally whispered, the realization blossoming in your.

“You’re pregnant,” Iren echoed in gentle affirmation.

Initially, Iren had graciously offered to accompany you in breaking the news to your mate. You had a sneaking suspicion that her offer stemmed from a desire to witness the look of utter disbelief that would surely spread across his face. However, you assured her this was a moment you wanted to handle on your own. Perhaps over a candlelit dinner, or some grand unforgettable gesture.

Yet, as you exited her chambers, the bubbling excitement within you propelled your steps beyond the manor’s grand halls and into the serenity of the gardens outside. There, amidst the blooms and hedges, Eris was engaged in attending to a group of nobles. They were seated around the garden tables, engrossed in deep conversation,

You sent a slight tug down the bond that immediately captured Eris’s attention. His head snapped around towards you, his typically stoic expression melting into a broad smile before shifting to one of mild concern.

You returned his gaze with a tight smile, struggling to contain the bubbling urge to leap with joy.

Eris turned back to the cluster of nobles, murmuring a polite excuse as he rose from the wrought iron table. With purposeful strides, he crossed the courtyard to reach you. His brow furrowed with concern, as he asked in a hushed yet urgent tone, “Are you alright? What’s happened?”

You shook your head, your voice a tangle of apologies. “No, no—I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have interrupted you,” you replied, your words tumbling out.

Eris studied you intently, his eyes sweeping over you as though searching for injury or taking stock. “My love, your heart is racing. What’s happened?”

You swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks, silently cursing your body for betraying you again. “Do you have a minute?” you asked, your gaze flickering over Eris’s shoulder to where the nobles reclined in their silks, some casting curious glances your way.

Eris’s expression softened. “For you? An hour,” he replied.

You smiled warmly and gently grasped his hand, guiding him away.

Together, you passed through the edge of the gardens, where tall imposing hedges loomed like guardians, until you found yourselves standing in the expansive meadow just beyond the estate’s grounds. Eris walked beside you quietly even while concern radiated from him, giving you space to mull over the myriad of ways to tell him.

Turning back to him, you nervously bit your lower lip, the anticipation building like a storm inside you. The fluttering butterflies in your stomach threatening to take flight with your words.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice careful and gentle.

You glanced around, your gaze settling on the ground where a lone dandelion stood, its puffed, white seeds waiting on the wind.

Gathering your skirts, you leaned down and plucked it from the earth, returning to Eris with determination. “Make a wish,” you instructed.

Eris’s brows knitted in confusion. “Wha—”

You interrupted him before he could finish. “Just do it,” you encouraged, “close your eyes and make a wish.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed his features, but then he closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, sending the delicate white seedling spiraling into the breeze. As he reopened his eyes, the same concern lingered in his gaze.

“What did you wish for?” you asked.

“My love, what is this about?” He replied, ignoring your question.

You shook your head with a light-hearted laugh, bending down to pick another dandelion and held it back up between you. “What do you think I would wish for?”

He cocked a brow, initial concern fading as he took in your expression. A smirk danced across his lips, and he crossed his arms with an air of playful arrogance. “Well, you already have me,” he replied, teasing.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “Come on, be serious,” you insisted, though the entire presentation was anything but.

Eris paused, licking his lips as hesitation flickered across his features. “You would wish for a child,” he said, his voice softer.

Your heart skipped a beat, nearly giving away the secret. Yet you managed to hold it back, a tender smile gracing your face. “You’re right,” you nodded. Gently, you handed the dandelion to Eris, who began to twirl it within his fingers, his gaze never leaving yours.

“But I don’t have to wish for that anymore,” you added, your voice lilting.

Eris froze, the dandelion halting. His eyes widened in a mix of surprise and shock. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice filled with hopeful urgency.

Your smile broadened, a light, joyous laugh bubbling from your lips as you placed your hands tenderly on your abdomen. “Iren just confirmed it,” you beamed.

Eris’s mouth fell open in astonishment, his eyes darting to your stomach. Before you could register his reaction, he swept you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. A laugh, the purest and happiest you had ever heard, erupted from him. One arm supported your lower back while the other pressed your face against his shoulder, laughter vibrating through his chest an into yours. He showered your temples with kisses, over and over as he let out sobs of happiness.

Finally, he settled you onto your feet, hands bracing your face as he gazed down at you, his eyes glassy with tears, thumbs tracing down your cheeks. “I love you, so, so much.” He whispered. Before you could reply, he bent down and kissed you, deeply, passionately, and with such adoration it almost had you swooning. He held you in that kiss, one hand coming down to your stomach where his thumb mirrored the reassuring strokes to your cheek. Life, future, happiness.

****Peep me kicking my feet****

[averagetransfempuppyposter]

Shots ring out, rattling the massive frame and the small, fragile pilot within. QUERY: Input from Handler? The positive feedback continues as another frame falls out of the sky before her as she dodges out of the way, a masterfully executed maneuver. QUERY: Handler? Input? >_Good dog. Almost done, darling. CONCLUDE: Come back to Handler? She wants nothing more than to please Handler, to make Handler happy and proud of her. Her real body may be weak but within the steel of the frame she is strong. Strong enough to make Handler proud. Strong enough to keep Handler safe. To keep everyone safe. She knew that Handler had a name, one beyond the title, but she couldn't remember it. She didn't need to remember, right? Just needed to please, to help, to keep Handler safe. >_Not just yet. 2 more, can you do that for me? CONFIRMATION: Yes Handler. Engaging. A final series of shots rings out, distorted in the abnormal atmosphere of the now-inhospitable planet, glassed towards the start of the war. One enemy frame's boosters are blown out, and it careens sideways in a spiral, colliding with the other frame. The tangled mass of steel limbs and weaponry fall through the clouds on a direct collision course with the dead ground below. QUERY: Come back to Handler? >_Yes darling, come on back. Wonderful job. --------------- The cockpit of the frame hissed open, the light of the hangar bleeding through into the darkened interior. The woman within curls up slightly, flinching away from the light. A crew of mechanics scurry away as her Handler approaches, climbing up to the cockpit and cooing encouragement and affection in the pilot's ear. >_Wonderful job, dear. Such a good hound. A hand brushes over her hair, gently working out the various neural plugs and cables from the back of her head and neck while her mind drifts away into the words of Handler. Her ears merely registered the words, translating them into plain text for the pilot to easily comprehend. >_Such a good job today, so many wonderful little tricks. Such a good girl. The pilot's body had been modified countless times over the past several hundred cycles, removing anything unneeded and adding dozens of small optimizations to interface with her frame. >_Just breathe, dear. I've got you. Her ears were modified, only registering sounds to translate into plain text to prevent the potential deafness resulting from dogfights. >_You're all done for today. You're okay, my darling pilot. Her spinal column and brain riddled with implants to let her plug directly into the mass of steel, her true body. >_Such a good dog. Her vocal cords... those never worked. Not really. To solve that, any intention to speak was translated into plain text as well, a readout sent directly to Handler. QUERY: Did... good? Handler scoops her up into a gentle embrace, carefully lifting her from the cockpit. Handler would keep her safe, let her rest... >_Very good, darling. So, very good. Her head rested on Handler's shoulder with one hand in her hair, the other on her back, gently lifting and carrying the pilot through the halls from the hangar to Handler's bunk. QUERY: Rest with Handler? >_Of course, sweet thing. Such a good girl. You've done so, so well today. Handler lays the pilot down on a large mass of pillows and blankets at the foot of the bed, where she sleeps. Her bed. Last time she slept in Handler's bed, she'd fallen out and gotten hurt, and Handler couldn't have that happening again. The pilot couldn't bear to sleep in the bunks with the other pilots, couldn't bear being so far away from the comfort and warmth and love of Handler. She knew that even if she startled awake, haunted by nightmares, Handler would be there to calm her down, keep her safe, kiss her and hold her gently... STATEMENT: I love Handler. QUERY: Handler loves me? From the bed above her, Handler spoke. >_More than anything, angel. More than anything.

[beckyninja]

Dread

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemOC (Formerly FemReader)

Warnings: stalking, abduction

Description: Someone is watching Sera from the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

I hope you guys like some old-fashioned horror movie shenanigans. Remember to check out the previous chapters of this series on my Masterlist.

(And feel free to ask if you'd like to be added to/removed from the Taglist.)

The lumens flickered in time with your heartbeat. Your breath came in quick pants as you made your way down the deserted corridor. 

Where is everyone?

It was still the middle of the day cycle. You should be in the midst of a crowd. Cleaning crews pushing brooms. Techpriests on their way to perform interminable Rites of Repair. Fellow medicae running errands for the Lord Apothecaries. 

But the corridor stretched ahead of you, empty and silent. Except for….

Footsteps.

Ceramite boots on metal flooring, the sound as familiar to you as the patter of your own sandals. You whipped around, searching for the source of the heavy thuds.   

“Lord Chairon? Lord Gadriel?”

The corridor behind you remained empty and dim, your protectors nowhere to be seen. A sudden chill sent shivers across your skin.

Perhaps….

You whispered the name in desperate hope. “Demetrian?”

“No.”

Iron-hard fingers dug into your hair, wrenching your head back until you stared into the fiery lenses of a skull helm.

You screamed.

***

“Sera! Wake up!”

Your eyes snapped open. Vesta leaned over your cot, hands shaking your shoulders. Her freckles stood out even more vividly than usual against her white face. You clutched at her sleeping robe.

“Don’t let him take me! Don’t-”

Thin arms wrapped around you. “Shhhh, Sera. You’re all right.”

Slowly, your surroundings came into focus. A room, far smaller than the quarters you shared with Titus. A converted storage alcove, really, just off the main Apothecarion. You remembered Vesta telling you Lord Callistus had requisitioned it especially for her. 

Your cot butted right up against your friend’s, halving the already minimal floor space. Vesta could kneel on her mattress and still lean over yours.

“Sera? Please say something.”

You gasped for breath. “I… I’m fine, Vesta.”

Your friend narrowed her eyes. “Liar.”

“Vesta-”

“You’ve been having these nightmares for weeks, Sera! Are you finally going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

You bit your lip.

Maybe I should tell her. I can trust her.

An image of bloodred lenses in a skull helmet flooded your mind. You shivered.

Tell her what, fool? That the Honored Lord Chaplain of the Ultramarines 2nd Company haunts both your waking and sleeping hours? 

You shook your head. “It’s just… just stress, Ves. I worry for Dem- for Lord Titus.”

Demetrian.

Your heart ached and you clutched at the necklace you never removed.

Where are you? Are you safe? Please come home. I need you!

You sniffled like a child.

Vesta didn’t look convinced, but her eyes softened. “Oh, Sera.”

Her arms tightened around your torso, pulling you into an embrace. “He’ll be back. He won the Laurels, for the Emperor’s sake! What could defeat such a warrior?”

You drew comfort from your best friend’s undimmed optimism. You needed it. With each passing week, your own seemed to fade a little more. You missed your lover’s touch, his strength, the safety you felt in his arms. Nothing could harm you with him near.

Please, Emperor, please! Protect him!

You buried your face in Vesta’s shoulder.

And protect me.

***

“Are you still asleep, girl?”

Lord Callistus’s growl snapped you out of your haze. Looking down, you realized you’d mislabeled an entire row of medicines. Your face burned.

“I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t bark at her, Uncle!” Vesta placed her hands on her slim hips and glared up at the towering Astartes.

You tensed, expecting reprisals. But none came. Instead, the Apothecary’s granite face seemed to soften.

“I am no Space Wolf, child. I do not bark.”

“You could’ve fooled me!” Vesta’s eyes glinted with mischief. “You growl like an old canine.”

“Impertinent creature.” He huffed. “Why do I tolerate you?”

“Because you like me.” 

Another huff. “See this fixed before I regret taking on a personal serf to perform a medica’s tasks.” Turning away, he stomped off, muttering under his breath.

“I do not bark.”

Vesta sighed and came to stand beside you. “Are you all right?”

You dodged the question. “Three weeks, and I still can barely believe what he lets you get away with, Ves.”

She grinned. “He practically raised me, remember? And, as I said, he likes me. Even if it doesn’t seem like it sometimes. Besides,” she began replacing labels, “I only speak like that when no other Astartes are present.”

You could understand that. Again, thoughts of Demetrian pushed into your mind. It was getting harder and harder to push them out again.

A yawn all but cracked your jaw.

“You could ask him for something to help you sleep, you know.”

“Oh no.” You helped Vesta correct your mistakes. “He may like you, but I think I’m a different matter entirely.”

She handed you another vial. “Don’t say that! You’ve been doing a wonderful job here. And you’d know it if he didn’t like you, trust me.”

You arched an eyebrow.

She smiled. “The last medica who truly angered him spent three days and nights scrubbing the Apothecarion with a brush the size of my thumb before being reassigned to Sanitation.”

“Throne! Vesta, if that is supposed to make me feel better-”

“He’d been hoarding pain suppressants and making Guardsmen trade… favors for them.”

“Oh.” You remembered the bloodied, desperate Cadians you’d treated during the Battle of Demerium. “Bastard.”

“Mmmhmm.” Your friend returned her attention to the vials. “I’ve only seen Uncle lose his temper like that once before, when this one Ultramarine Scout shook me after I dared suggest he- but that’s another story.”

You smiled. “You’re very fortunate, Ves.”

“We both are.” Vesta set down the final vial and stretched. “There, all fixed. And just in time for the mid-cycle meal.”

You froze.

A meal. In the Refectory. Five decks away, down the corridors. The long, dim corridors full of shadowed alcoves, sharp corners, flickering lumens, and half-dead candles. The echoes of booted feet-

“Sera?”

You shook yourself. “I… I’m not very hungry, Ves.”

“How can you not be hungry?! You barely touched your ration bar this morning!” She placed the back of her hand against your forehead. “You don’t feel feverish. And I know it’s not that time of the month yet. Sera, please, tell me what’s-”

The Apothecarion door slid open, and a booming voice filled the chamber.

“Excuse me, ladies.” Brother Chairon’s smiling visage drained the tension from your body. “Would you care to join me for a meal?”

***

Chairon listened to the medica chatter on and on, glad Gadriel had decided to forego food in favor of another round in the sparring cages. The Sergeant had made no secret of his distaste for the bubbly female. 

“The Lieutenant may have asked us to watch over his personal serf, but that does not mean I must play nursemaid to every gibbering annoyance she associates with!”

“Careful, brother.” Chairon had chuckled. “Rumor holds that Apothecary Callistus guards that one with all the ferocity of a mother ursus.”

“The Emperor only knows why.”

He, for one, did not mind the chatter. It was… pleasant to be treated with informality. Refreshing.

Especially from such a pretty little thing.

The Ultramarine blinked at the intrusive thought.  

“Sera,” the medica turned to her companion, “would you please eat? You’re going to need your strength if Lord Callistus assigns another round of supply categorization.”

Chairon turned his attention back to his charge, chastising himself for becoming distracted. Did she look thinner than she had a week ago? The skin under her eyes a few shades darker? 

He frowned. Once, she had stood out amongst the other serfs. A picture of health unusual aboard the battle barge. 

“Are you ill?”

“No, my lord.”

“I have given you leave to call me by name, little one.”

Did her smile seem forced? 

Chairon cursed his uncertainty. He prided himself on recognizing baseline emotions better than some of his more detached brethren.

“I promise I am fine, Brother Chairon.”

The medica, Vesta, glanced his way. He read concern in her eyes as well.

Sera seemed to observe the shared glance. “Is there any news of Lord Titus?”

Ah, an explanation.

He gave her a pitying look. “You ask me or Gadriel the same question each time we meet, little one. I swore I would inform you as soon as I heard anything.”

She looked away, picking at the food on her plate. “Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. The Lieutenant is blessed to have such a loyal attendant.” Another frown. “Though I confess I am still uncertain why you were not permitted to accompany him.”

She tensed, but said nothing. He studied her, a memory striking him. Just after the Lieutenant’s departure. Finding his serf cornered against a railing by none other than….

“Little one, when the Chaplain spoke to you-”

She stood. “Maybe I am feeling a bit unwell. With your permission, my lord, I think I’ll return to the Apothecarion.”

He stood as well. “I will accompany you.”

“Please, my lord!” She looked almost panicked. “I know my Lord Titus requested you watch over me in his absence, but I cannot bear the thought of being a burden. I can make my own way.”

With a hurried bow, she all but fled the Refectory.

Chairon remained standing, torn as to whether or not to follow. Vesta moved next to him.

“Please don’t be angry with Sera, Brother Chairon. She hasn’t been sleeping well.”

His eyes remained fixed on the door she’d run through. “Oh?”

“More often than not now, I awaken to her screaming. And just last night she grasped me with fingers like ice and said-” She hesitated.

He looked down at her. “What did she say, Medica?”

Vesta bit her lip. “She said, ‘Don’t let him take me.’”

***

You didn’t know how long you’d been running before you realized none of the corridors looked familiar. 

I must have made a wrong turn at the….

You couldn’t remember.

“Warp damn it!”

Pressing yourself into a shrine alcove, you covered your face with your hands. Your eyes burned. Your heart threatened to beat its way out of your chest. Tears wet your fingers before you even realized you’d started crying.

I am so tired. So tired.

Perhaps that was the problem. Insomnia could cause hallucinations, you knew. It was a common enough complaint amongst serfs who’d worked days without rest. 

Yes, that’s it.

Your anxiety about Demetrian robbed you of sleep, and therefore of rationality. There were no eyes in the dark. No skulls watching from empty doorways. No following footsteps-

Thud.

Your heart stopped.

Looking up, you realized you stood alone in the corridor. The lumens flickered. The empty passage seemed to stretch on and on in either direction.

“Emperor….” You whimpered, torn between the urge to flee and the urge to hide.

No. No no no! It’s not real. It’s not-

Thud.

At one end of the corridor, the lumens crackled and went out entirely. You tried to tear your eyes away from the patch of darkness, but couldn’t. Something stood there. A darker silhouette in the shadows.

You couldn’t breathe.

The red lenses appeared first. Then the skull helmet. The figure you’d seen out of the corner of your eye for weeks now. Watching. Always watching.

You’d tried to ignore him, following Titus’s command to stay away. But the sick dread of being stalked day after day wore upon your nerves until you felt on the verge of madness. He invaded your dreams. Stole your appetite.

You clutched at the golden laurel leaf around your neck. 

“Please….”

He stepped toward you.

You ran.

You ran as you hadn’t run since the day you fled your village, as a prey animal runs. Corridors and doorways flew past. Sobs wracked your straining lungs. 

And still the footsteps followed. Closer. Closer!

Tears blinded you. You stretched your arms out, praying for something, anything-

Armored hands caught your shoulders.

“No!”

“Calm yourself, woman!”

You knew that voice. Through blurred eyes, you looked up into Sergeant Gadriel’s perpetually annoyed expression.

His scowl deepened as he stared down at you. “What in the Emperor’s name are you doing here?”

Where am I? How far did I run? Where is-?

With a choked cry, you twisted in the Sergeant’s grasp, staring over your shoulder to see-

No one.

“Woman?” The Sergeant’s voice sounded more confused than angry. “What is-”

“Don’t let him take me! Don’t… don’t let him….”

Your world spun and went black.

***

Voices filtered slowly through to your semi-conscious mind.

“... sure she has not told you anything, Vesta?”

“No, Unc- Lord Callistus.”

“Is the Lieutenant’s serf a madwoman, Brother Apothecary?”

“I will not believe it, Gadriel. The little one is terrified of something, or someone. Which means we are failing in our promise.”

“We have done our duty, Chairon! It is not our fault if she is mentally deficient in some-”

“Shut up, both of you!”

Footsteps. An armored hand against your shoulder.

“It is all right now, girl.” Lord Callistus’s voice sounded more gentle than you’d ever heard it. “Come back. You are safe.”

Your eyes flickered open. You lay on a bed in the Apothecary. You tried to rise, only for a fierce pain in your head to drive you back down.

The Apothecary tsked. “Remain still. You struck your head when you fell.”

Glancing around the room, you saw Chairon glare at Gadriel, who looked affronted. 

“I did not expect her to collapse in front of me!”

“Are your reflexes so poor that you could not-”

“I told you both to be silent!” The Apothecary glared at the younger Astartes. “Vesta, fetch me a mild sedative.”

Your friend complied, but not before shooting you a worried glance.

You tried to speak, to reassure her, but found you could not summon the energy.

How did I get here? Did I have another nightmare?

All your memories seemed so unreal.

The Apothecary looked you over. “Vitals are stable, though your heart rate is elevated beyond what is normal for a baseline.” He humphed. “And you have lost a concerning amount of weight since your reassignment here.”

“Are you overworking her, Apothecary?” Chairon frowned.

Callistus turned toward him, expression stormy. “Do I look like a Black Templar, boy? It is not, nor will it ever be, my custom to abuse my medicae. Such practices are a waste of resources, as are those who employ them.”

Gadriel spoke again. “So, my question stands. Is she unbalanced in some way?”

A long silence.

I am not mad. I’m not! Am I?

Tears threatened again. 

“She is a relatively new serf, yes? Such reactions are not unheard of for those not born and bred to this life. And personal serfs are a different breed. Her separation from her Lord only added to her turmoil.” Callistus glanced at you and must have seen the fear in your expression. “But, this one has proved herself strong before now, and I believe it will pass in time.”

You met the Apothecary’s eyes. 

Thank you.

A corner of his mouth tipped upward. The closest thing you’d ever seen to a smile from the grim veteran. 

Vesta returned with a syringe. Callistus nodded to her.

“Inject the sedative. What she needs most is rest.” A snort. “After the last campaign, most of the serfs on this vessel need rest. I am surprised we have not seen more breakdowns.”

His words comforted you.

Rest, yes. I just need to rest.

Vesta pressed the needle into a vein on your arm with practiced skill. “It’ll be alright, Sera. Sleep now.”

As your eyes closed, you heard Gadriel’s voice once more. “She… acted as though someone pursued her. And, now that I think of it, for a moment I swore I saw the Ch-” His voice stopped.

“What, brother?” Chairon asked.

“No. It is irrational.”

Wait… who… who did you… wait….

But you could not fight the sedative.

***

You awoke in the middle of the night cycle, curled on your side, heartbeat pounding in your ears. All was dark. 

That’s not right. The candles. Who snuffed the candles?

Thud.

You whimpered. 

No. I’m supposed to be safe here.

Another footstep. Behind you. Closer.

This is another nightmare.

Closer.

Wake up. Wake up!

Breathing. Not your own.

“Lord Apothecary?” You forced the words through a bone-dry throat.

No reply. You wanted to roll over, to see. But terror froze you in place.

“Vesta?”

The breathing came from directly above you, now. You squeezed your eyes shut, your hand automatically seeking the laurel leaf around your neck. 

“Demetrian… help me-”

A gauntlet slammed down over your lower face, fingers biting into your flesh. You tasted blood. You tried to shriek, to struggle. But your assailant’s weight held you immobile. 

A deep, dark chuckle.

“Finally.”

The Chaplain carried you into the darkness.

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@bispecsual @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus @lemon-russ

@justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen

@passionofthesith @noncon-photobomb @sinistermojo @b-rabbitboss @vyzz-undercover

@missmannequin @rivalriotrenegade @iloveoutlinesiswear @jaghatai-khock @hatsubara-8chan

@justanothermemestrider @meervalv0 @grimdark-raccoon @garlickedbreads @riokunova

@ailujsenutna @emiemiemiii @astrohymn @synfiction @soul-of-leya

@n0cturn4 @mgrm99 @seirensou @zamzmak @elita1

@ilovewolvezz @primordialsneeze @summersong2262 @nereidof40k @ahrianee

@sunsetlobster @nekotaetae @toto-the-cactus @thevoidscreams

[mintmatcha]

cw: a weird vent piece lol, suicide mention, no quirks au, mentally ill reader

You always fuck with your shirt on. You'd wear more, if you could, but you haven't figured out how to do it with your pants on yet.

You pull the sheets over your sweat chilled legs and hope he didn't notice the spots you missed shaving. If he did, Natsuo doesn't seem to mind. His arm is tucked under your head, muscle fibers occasionally twitching underneath you and turning the soft mass dense.

Sometimes, Natsuo keeps his shirt on too. Neither of you have ever asked the other about it; there's a mutual understanding when a hand is stopped.

"Do you work tonight?" he asks.

You shake your head as his body relaxes deeper into the mattress.

"I'm gonna do laundry if you want to throw your stuff in," he mumbles, "I'll get you junk to sleep in."

The medical textbooks he was studying are still on the floor, flipped to random pages of different cycles and tissues, abandoned in exchange for you. If Natsuo fails his midterms, it'll be your fault. If he passes, he'll be leaving the city next semester for his hospital rotations.

Part of you wants him to fail. It's that dirty, evil part that no one else seems to have, the part you try to starve, but it keeps growing anyway. It nips at you whenever the room gets too quiet.

It's teeth are extra sharp today.

"You're so sweet." You speak into his skin, "I don't know how you're still single."

A sharp inhale is sucked through his teeth, cutting through his smile. Natsuo takes in all of your features and you know he's wondering why you're saying these things-- why you're purposefully bringing this up.

"Well, sweetie-" His tone is light, like he's avoiding stepping on glass, stepping on glass. With every word, he walks his fingers on your arm, spanning from elbow to shoulder, "I'm only single because you keep turning me down."

The overhead fan whizzes. The part you try to starve sinks its teeth into your chest.

"Natsuo, we've talked about this," you say, "I don't date."

You sit up and swing a leg over him, straddling his hips. A trail of white hair runs down his stomach and down under the sheets, disappearing where the two of you meet. He holds you by the hem of your tee, just tight enough to hold you in place.

"Would it be so bad?" he whispers.

"Here's what would happen, alright?" You brush your fingers through his sweat touched hair and it bounces right back into place the second you pull away. It makes you giggle a bit and he mirrors you, an unsure, foolish optimism in his eyes, "Let's just say I met this wonderful, beautiful boy and tricked-"

"Tricked?" he scoffs.

"Tricked him into loving me." You want to kiss him, but it feels cruel for both of you. Instead, you just cup his jaw in your hands and cradle him, letting the weight of him slump into your palms, "He'd treat me right and bring me home to meet his parents, 'cause he was raised right and, even though he's really smart, he'd think he's in love."

Fingers squeeze at your hips.

"But the second I left, his parents would tell him that he deserves someone prettier and smarter and, and, and better," you say, "And they'd be right."

“My mom’s nice," He drops your pretense with a whisper, ruining your not so careful charade. “She wouldn’t say that.”

He doesn’t mention his dad. There’s a silent sentence there. One that says, “But he might.” It’s hard to keep your brain from sticking to that point, from sticking your thumb into this metaphorical soft spot.

“I mean, she wouldn’t say it out loud, but she’d think it," you say, “She’d sit there and think ‘that girl's not good enough for my son' and she'd be right."

He scoff he lets out is uneasy, almost a songed laugh, more pained than annoyed. "My mom is nice."

This conversation is hurting him, but you can't stop yourself.

"And they'd tell you to break up with me, but you wouldn't listen to them, 'cause you're head strong like that. You'd probably date me in spite of them for while," you ramble, "But then you'd go away and you'd meet some pretty, normal girl and you'd realize they were right. They were always right. I was right."

The overhead fan whizzes.

"So, it's better if I just don't date at all,"

Natsuo's grip dissolves and you think you see it then - the moment whatever is between you dies. A hollowness passes over his features, empty eyes and sucked cheeks, as he ducks his head down to rest his face against your chest. Chin against the soft of your tits, he seems farther away than ever.

You could gloat. You could cry. You're a self-fulfilling prophecy once again.

Natsuo sighs and his words slip so easily from him that you almost don't process what he's saying. "You're so sad. I wish you'd get help."

That catches you off guard. The control over this conversation is ripped away, your curtain drops, and you suddenly feel very, horribly seen.

"What?" You try to laugh it off, leaning back to escape the way he watches you.

"Sometimes I wake up and you're not here," he says, "And I worry that's the last time I'll ever see you."

You understand the implication.

"I'm not gonna kill myself." It might be the truth, you think.

"Yeah," His arms wrap around your waist again, snaking the air from your lungs, "Touya promised me that too."

Touya is only ever mentioned over too many beers and tears you're not allowed to remember the next morning. He was only 16, only a couple years older than Natsuo, but the ghosts still linger to this day, always tucked into the back of the room, stalking, haunting.

Natsuo comes from money and fame. His apartment is paid for by his father. He's never had to work to afford food. At first, you resented him for that; you wanted that ease and safety his family afforded him.

But everything comes at a cost. Every unhappy family is unhappy in there own ways.

"I'm sorry that you keep loving things that break." That is the truth. You're just the end of a line of his mistakes, starting all the way at mom and dad and trailing through every girlfriend ever since.

"I do love you. And it's not despite the fact you're 'broken'," Natsuo takes your hand with a resounding firmness. It reminds you of that thing they say about golden retrievers; the smart ones can hold an egg in their jaws without shattering the shell. Natsuo holds you like he understands you in some deep, intrinsic way, "Or because of it or whatever."

He doesn't look away, those bright, wide eyes bluer than ever.

"I just like all your little pieces." He kisses your knuckles one by one, trailing from thumb to pinkie to thumb again.

The room is silent. The bad part of you is no longer begging to eat. Maybe it's full for now, but you know it's just out of focus, stalking in the dark, biding its time.

"You should study." You slip from him and reclaim your own space in the bed. After a long, simple pause, Natsuo gets up himself, collecting his boxers from the floor.

"Yeah," he says, "You're right."

The hurt you've caused is no longer comfortable to live in. Your mouth is dry, thirsty for a change you're not sure how to make. Recovery feels like a big leap-- loving and being loved feels every farther away.

All you can do is shuffle your feet against the sheets and take the tiniest step towards normalcy.

"Do you want to get brunch tomorrow before your classes?" you offer your olive branch, your silent promise, "I'll pay."

He weighs this, measuring it for sincerity, then smiles just wide enough your get a glimpse of teeth.

"Let me get you something to sleep in."

For now, it's enough.

[idrawfunkythings]

DCAtober24 Day 8: Trouble

Words: 1,300+ Summary: Sun doesn't appreciate his rules being broken, and takes you for a ride (it's a lot goofier than it sounds)

Your job was becoming monotonous. Wake up, come to the daycare, help Sun wrangle all the kids, flirt in a way you hoped was a joke, bully Moon, go home to sleep and then repeat it all the next day. It wasn’t that you didn’t like your job - hell no, this place was the best thing to ever happen to you. But the constant cycle of the same stuff was starting to get to you.

Sun had noticed. You weren’t really trying to hide it, which was obvious when after Sun excitedly told you about the fact he’d be reusing the schedule from last week to help ease a few new kiddos in, you’d groaned and face planted the desk.

“Don’t give me that,” Sun tuts. “It’ll be fun!”

“Can we pleeeeeeeeese switch things up,” you moan, cheek mashed against the smooth tabletop. “I’m begging you. I’m getting sooooooooo bored.”

Sun spins his faceplate to the side. “You’d better not be calling me boring!”

“Ughhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“Maybe the reason you’re bored is because-” Sun hums and crouches down next to you, to whisper in your ear. “You haven’t been sleeping properly.”

“Hi, Moon,” you grumble. “Go away.”

“Your attention slipping can be a sign of bad sleep patterns!” Sun recites, jumping back up and listing sleep related facts off of his fingers. “To have an optimal experience during the day, you should do your best to get to bed on time the night before.”

“Maybe I would get to sleep better if someone didn’t steal my keys,” you said pointedly. Sun shrugs.

“Maybe you should keep them hidden better.”

“I shouldn’t have to worry about my coworkers stealing my keys!”

“And I shouldn’t have to worry about you wanting to ruin my perfectly scheduled days because you’re bored,” Sun smiles. He places his hands over your own, holding them when you try and grab them back out of spite.

“Your days should be more interesting then.” It’s a kiddy insult, and he knows that, but his eyes glint with interest all the same.

“Well, friend, it almost sounds like you’re being mean to me,” Sun laughs, placing a hand over his mouth to fake-gasp. “And being mean is very much against the rules of the daycare.”

“Screw your rules.” You start to gather your stuff, checking your Fazwatch. You’d stayed back late enough that you’d missed the peak hour traffic, and getting home would be a piece of cake. You nod to Sun and stuff everything in your bag, getting out from your spot behind the security desk. “I’ll see you tomorrow buddy.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Your path is suddenly blocked by a very large, very yellow obstruction. You squint up at Sun in annoyance.

“Dude, come on.”

“You broke a daycare rule.” Sun does his usual habit of bending down and waggling a finger in your face. “Rulebreakers must be punished.”

“Can this rulebreaker be punished tomorrow, when I’ve gotten home and had a nice, warm shower?”

“Nope!”

“How am I meant to get a good sleep if you’re harassing me?” you try, attempting to sidestep Sun without him noticing. It fails, of course.

“You won’t get one anyway!” Sun days brightly, and you grit your teeth because obviously he’s right.

You cross your arms, extremely unimpressed. “Sun-”

You’re abruptly cut off when you’re lifted into the air, madly scrabbling for something to hold on to. This was one of Sun’s favourite things to do - to lift you up and then spin you around before letting you back onto solid ground, greatly disorienting you in the process.

However this time, there’s no spin, and he doesn’t put you back down.

You yelp as you realise you are suddenly nowhere near close to the soft playmats of the daycare. Instead, you’re suspended in the air, swaying back and forth with nothing but that stupid wire that Moon absolutely adored to keep you aloft.

The one that Moon adored, and the one that Sun was notoriously horrible at successfully using. Okay, great.

“Sun!” you shout, berating yourself for clutching onto him pathetically despite your anger. You tuck your head into his ruffles, just below his faceplate. “Put me back down!”

It wasn’t that you were scared of heights, per se - Moon had taken you on many a nighttime joyride. It was just that, like any sane person would be, you absolutely 100% did not want to be placing your faith in the hands of an animatronic that once managed to faceplant into the ball pit because he forgot how to work the wire.

“What’s the matter, Sunshine?” Sun laughs, although he quiets when the movement makes you cling to his neck. “I thought you liked flying.”

“Yeah, when it’s my choice,” you hiss, deliberately refusing to look at the wire and remind yourself how thin it really was. “And it never is, because neither of you understand how to ask someone before doing something!”

“Neither do you,” Sun hums, coiling his arms around your body as a reassurance that he won’t drop you. “You certainly don’t ask before you say mean things!”

“That’s because you deserve them,” you counter, crossing your arms, and then being instantly reminded why that was a bad idea when you shift in Sun’s grip.

“No one deserves mean things!” Sun admonishes, and you swear that you can see Moon rolling his eyes.

Once you’re completely sure that Sun is holding you as tight as possible, you cast a glance down to the daycare. The two of you are floating above the play structures, a few feet below the beams across the roof. The bright plastic star lights on the wall are shining brightly, illuminating the space.

When Moon takes you for a flight, it’s usually not in the daycare, and also so chaotic that you never have a chance to see what the plex looks like from so high up. But if you forgot about the fact that you yourself weren’t actually secured to the roof, it almost felt kind of peaceful, being above the ground. You understood why Moon loved it so much.

“Remind me why we’re up here,” you say after a beat.

“You broke the rules. You’re in trouble.”

“I am not a child, Sun.” He hums humourously. “I’m ignoring that. Put me down.”

“Time out.”

“Sun.”

“Rulebreaker.”

“Sun.”

He doesn’t say anything. After a while you look up at him. His permanent grin is looking suspiciously sheepish.

“Sun?”

“So. Uh.” His rays pulse once, twice, and his fans pick up the pace. “Slight issue.”

“Sun, please don’t tell me you don’t know how to get down.”

“Okay. I won’t, then.”

You hang in the air.

“Okay I have to. I can’t get down.”

Of course he couldn’t. You grip the sides of his face in annoyance. “Sun! I don’t want to be stuck here until the lights go out! What if you drop me?”

Sun scoffs. “I would never drop you.”

“Ten minutes ago, you probably would never have held me prisoner up here.”

“Very incorrect. I definitely would have.”

“Funny.”

Sun’s eye flickers red for a second, and he sighs, drooping. “Um. Moon says he can get us down.”

“Thank god for that.” You gesture to the wire. “Tell him to hurry up.”

“But he won’t.”

Count on Moon to be the most annoying, self centered, sadistic robot in the plex. You grit your teeth. “Why not.”

“He says you need to obey the rules.”

You shout protests, coming up with every name under the sun (ha) for the jester, earning you disapproving noises. You poke Sun’s eyes, untie his bells and threaten to spit in his joints, but Moon is a stubborn son of a bitch, and he refuses to come out.

After your energy is spent from harassing Sun, you sag into his arms. The lights wouldn’t be off until 8:00.

It was gonna be a long twenty minutes.

[acourtofmishapandmistakes]

Shadowsongs

Summary: After Rhys and Feyre decide to take a trip away to the Summer Court for the night to escape the thralls of their newborn, Azriel is left caring for Nyx and finds that his greatest battle might just be getting him to sleep. I also recently rewatched the Labyrinth and forgot how much that movie slapped so the song from that is included.

As the Velaris tower clock chimed midnight, the sitting room of the River House was enveloped in the soft, ambient glow of faelight. Azriel sunk deeper into the plush, green, velvet couch, his expansive wings draped elegantly over the back of the chair, eyes heavy with exhaustion. His hand rhythmically patted the back of the squirming bundle nestled snugly against his chest. The babe, Nyx, resisted sleep with the tenacity of an Illyrian warrior, his tiny fists punching the air as if to protest the very concept of bedtime. 

The room was a playful mess, strewn with toys - dolls lay abandoned, blankets were tossed aside, and bottles had rolled under chairs. Azriel had assured Feyre and Rhys he could manage babysitting for a day and night. They desperately needed a break after months of non-stop parenting in tandem with running the Night Court, and a trip to the breezy shores of the Summer Court was the only thing keeping Feyre from collapsing into tears. Feyre had sobbed when they left, overwhelming Azriel with reminders of Nyx’s schedule and a litany of do’s and don'ts, which Azriel already knew inside and out. Her maternal instincts flared to the point where Rhys had to gentle pull her away, reassuring her that Nyx would be fine for one night, and, if anything, they should be more concerned about Azriel surviving Nyx than Nyx surviving Azriel. 

Typically, everyone shared babysitting duties throughout the week day, but with Nesta and Cassian off in the Autumn Court, Elain incapacitated by her first fae cycle, and Amren claiming she would rather cut out her own tongue than be left alone with a babe, the responsibility had fallen to Azriel. Leaving Nyx overnight for the first time might have been a tad ambitious. 

“Come on, Nyx,” he coaxed with a whisper of amusement. “You’ve got to give in at some point.” Azriel briefly considered that perhaps this was how the victims of his torture efforts may have felt when they had been kept awake for hours on end. Perhaps he should start having them babysit a fussy Illeryian babe instead of cutting off fingers. He chuckled to himself before pushing the thought away.

Yet, Nyx remained defiant, his violet eyes locked on the ceiling, deep in thought, as if unraveling the secrets of the cosmos rather than giving in to slumber. Azriel exhaled deeply, his fingers threading through his tousled black hair. After learning about Feyre’s pregnancy he had stealthily devoured every parenting book Feyre had purchased, to the perfect formula-to-water ratio, optimal bath temperatures, and baby sensory activities, he had learned it all. When Feyre faced challenges with breastfeeding, Azriel had accidentally revealed his clandestine studies by suggesting a particular latching technique. Cassian had teased him relentlessly since. Despite employing every baby battle strategy known to him, Nyx was relentless.

With a resigned sigh, Azriel sank even further into the plush cushions, resigning himself to a long night. As he watched Nyx’s tiny chest rise and fall with each breath, he couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer stubbornness of the new babe. Azriel couldn’t tell if that was more from Feyre or Rhys, and then decided that that trait most likely came from his Auntie Nesta, whom Nyx had wrapped around his tiny, chubby fingers.

In the dimly lit room, Azriel’s gaze followed his shadows as they danced across the ceiling, capturing Nyx’s rapt attention. With a grin, he watched them twirl and twirl – they were always more playful when Nyx was around. His shadows seemed as curious about Nyx as he was about them. During gatherings at the River House, it wasn’t uncommon for the shadows to envelop Nyx, tickling him and teasing him, eliciting peals of laughter from the delighted babe as he reached out to catch them. 

Elain had said before that the shadows and Nyx reminded her when she and her sisters were young, a black barn cat would seek her out to frolic among the late summer heat. Azriel wondered what Nyx made of these ethereal companions, if they were like an animal to him, or another playmate. He also pondered whether the shadows would maintain their fascination with him as he grew older. Azriel, himself, hadn’t spent much time around children this young, and his shadows seemed to be so gentle with the babe, as though they somehow could sense his innocence and hoped he would keep it forever.

As Azriel and Nyx both kept their gaze to the ceiling, the shadows began to craft intricate shapes and forms, transforming into a mesmerizing puppet show. Nyx’s restless squirming subsided as the shadows danced across the walls, casting enchanting silhouettes that swirled and twirled in their silent ballet creating a tableau of delight.

On the ceiling, an array of animals appeared in what resembled a grand ballroom scene. Pegasus, birds, and sheep mingled before parting to reveal a single swan, its wings unfurling with ethereal grace. The swan bowed elegantly before twirling loftily above its admiring audience. Then, emerging from the gathered shadows, a sly fox approached, gracefully taking the swan’s wings in its paws and spinning it in a delicate dance. Although the room was silent, one could easily imagine the soft strains of music. Nyx reached up excitedly, prompting Azriel to adjust his hold, lifting him slightly higher for a better view.

As the dance continued above, some shadows descended the walls and playfully twirled around Nyx, their cool touch eliciting giggles from the dark-haired babe.

The shadows conjured forth visions of Nyxs’ family, distant echoes of life beyond the cozy sitting room. 

In one corner of the room, the shadows morphed into delicate snowflakes cascading down the wall. Above the floorboard, three figures raced across the scene – two winged Illyrians and one without wings. The winged males playfully lobbed snowballs at their wingless companion, who shielded his head with his hands. Suddenly, a log sprung from the ground, causing the wingless man to trip and tumble face-first into a pile of snow below. The two other males doubled over with laughter, one even dropping to his knees as the snow continued to fall. Nyx’s eyes widened with wonder, his tiny fingers reaching out to grasp the fleeting shapes. The snowball fight between his father and brothers drew excited coos and giggles from him, his laughed echoing around the room.

In the other corner, the shadows drifted into a scene of a woman standing at an easel, the woman's stomach swollen with child. The shadow woman stood before an easel, her brush moving across the canvas, she ran her hand over her stomach, glancing down towards it when a man walked in behind her, twirling her around into an embrace. The man leaned over, placing a tender kiss on the woman's stomach. Nyx babbled joyfully, his tiny feet kicking Azriel’s chest with delight, which while uncomfortable brought a smile to his face.

Across the ceiling, the shadows painted a scene of a great battle, a field of war and chaos as two winged males fight back to back against a vast army, shooting arrows and swinging swords. 

While the shadows swirled the tapestry of memories, Azriel looked only at Nyx, who giggled and babbled in delight at the unfolding scenes. With each passing moment, it became increasingly apparent to Azriel that while the shadows were doing their best to soothe Nyx to sleep, they had only awakened him more. It became glaringly obvious that bedtime stories wouldn’t work. 

Nyx’s giggles and coos echoed through the River House. With a sigh, Azriel gestured for the shadows to cease their dance, and the room was once again plunged into a soft, dim glow. 

“Alright, Nyx,” Azriel murmured, his voice gentle but tinged with exhaustion. “Let’s try something else.”

He drew Nyx back into his arms, cradling him close against his chest. Rising from the enveloping comfort of the couch, Azriel’s footsteps were muted against the plush rug of the sitting room as he began to meander through the house. Moonlight streamed through the towering windows, casting the ornate corridors in a serene silvery light, illuminating the walls adorned with Feyre’s vibrant paintings. 

Feyre and Rhys had both endured their share of sleepless nights, pacing the same halls with Nyx in their arms. Rhys had noted that being the babe of the Night Court it seemed all Nyx wanted to do was explore the world when the sun had set and all had gone quiet. Perhaps Nyx was more bat than babe.

Undeterred, Azriel pressed on, his footsteps echoing through the halls as he swayed in arms in a steady rhythm. But Nyx remained stubbornly awake, his eyes darting from window to window cooing loudly. As he reached the grand staircase that spiraled upwards, a faint cry echoed through the silence. Nyx stirred in his arms, his tiny fists clutching at his shirt as he let out a wail. 

Azriel attempted to shush the fussy baby who now was wailing louder for what seemed no apparent reason. Perhaps Nyx was finally fighting exhaustion as well. With a sigh, Azriel retraced his steps, as he stepped into Nyx’s nursery. 

Feyre had taken months to finally get the nursery the way she envisioned it. She had wanted Nyx’s room to encompass the entirety of Prythian as they were unsure what powers Nyx might hold. 

Each wall of the room was a canvas of vibrant colors and intricate designs including the bay window that Feyre had insisted be where Nyxs’ bassinet be. 

Painting the Spring Court wall had been a battle unto itself with Rhys and Cassian joking constantly that the wall should be burning to the ground, or that she should paint Tamlin being pursued by a dragon. Feyre had just shot them an obscene gesture and instead painted spring blossoms of pastel pinks and greens. Delicate flowers bloomed amidst emerald meadows, their petals unfurling in the warmth of the sun. Amongst the meadow was a warm pool with a waterfall cascading down a mountainside. 

Opposite, the wall of Summer blazed with the fiery hues of the sun, a tapestry of gold and crimson beamed down onto the deep blue sea, where Tarquin’s white castle glistened atop the white sandstone mountain. 

Next to it, the wall of Autumn was a symphony of earthy greens, oranges, reds, and browns. The Autumn Court forest held deep shadows which made the wheat fields protruding from them seem like shining gold. Lucien had helped Feyre paint this wall, and his awkward-looking, disproportionate deer and fawns clearly showed that. 

Beside the Autumn wall, the Winter Court lay shrouded in a blanket of icy blues and silvery whites. Snowflakes danced amidst frost kissed pines, their branches bending beneath the weight of the winter embrace. Bears and arctic foxes scampered on the piles of snow, wearing the traditional colors. Elain had insisted on giving the little foxes scarves. Azriel had reminded her they were made for that sort of weather but Elain had only glanced at him sadly before saying “But what if they get cold” before she painted tiny mittens on the bears. 

On the half of the ceiling closest to the door, Feyre had painted the Dawn and Day courts. Sunlight streamed through branches of ancient oaks as it rose from the corner of the room, and hills of rolling green with children from each court playing amongst them filled out the space. 

Over Nyxs’ crib, Feyre had painted a deep blue color of the sky with a sparkle of stars strewn across it. Rhys had enchanted the space just below the ceiling to be constantly in motion with sparkling star dust which moved in and out of constellations, with the occasional shooting star flying high above. 

As Nyx continued his tirade of shrill cries, Azriel rocked him around the room, shushing him as much as he could. As he continued to sway gently with Nyx in his arms, the baby began to quiet, his tiny body nestled into Azriels chest as his breaths steadied. With a tender smile, he began to sing, his voice a gentle melody through the darkness, like a whispered prayer. 

“I saw my baby, crying hard as babe could cry,” he sang, “What could I do?” 

With each note, Nyx grew more and more relaxed, his eyelids fluttering closed from the gentle cadence and rocking. 

“My baby’s love had gone and left my baby blue” he sang, his voice soft and tender, “Nobody knew.” 

Azriel watched Nyx’s tiny fingers curl against his chest, his breathing slow and steady and sleep drifted closer. 

“What kind of magic spell to use, slime and snails, puppy dog tails, thunder or lightning,” Azriel continued to sing as he wandered carefully over to the crib. 

“Dance magic, dance magic dance, dance magic dance,” He lowered Nyx into the soft blue oasis. “Jump magic, jump, jump magic, put that baby’s spell on me, kiss my baby, make her free,” Azriel placed his palm onto Nyx’s chest and continued to rub back and forth soothingly. 

“I saw my baby,” He continued, softer, more of a whisper, “Trying hard as babe could try, what could I do?” Azriel dropped to his knees, his fingers tracing the lines of the baby's face as he rested his arm on the side of the bassinet and laid his head atop it. “My baby’s fun had gone, and left my baby blue, nobody knew.” Nyx’s soft pink lips fell open slightly as his eyes finally closed and his head fell to the side. Azriel smiled and found his eyes drifting shut as well. 

Feyre found them the next morning that way. Nyx sprawled on his back, his tiny fingers wrapped around Azriels, and Azriel, a piled heap on the floor, his wings splayed on the floor behind him with his head still resting against the crib. 

Rhys walked up behind her as Feyre motioned him silently. “I guess he does sleep,” she whispered.

“Who?” Rhys chuckled, “Az or Nyx?”

Feyre turned her head to look at Rhys, “Both I guess.” 

Rhys asked Feyre if she planned to go in and wake either of them up but Feyre only shook her head, “I think they both could use a little more time.” 

With that, Feyre shut the door quietly, leaving the warrior and the babe to sleep a little longer.

[mysticmilktea]

Just dumping some character HCs for the world I’m building in my expo 33 fic~

Verso: Hopeless romantic who wears his heart on his sleeve but never thinks he deserves love because of the baggage that would come with someone truly falling for him. His family is too intense, too messy, but he WANTS it. He wants a life of his own, unshackled from cycles of grief. A life of mortality because there is beauty to the finite, to dedicating limited time to those that matter. A bit of a social butterfly on the surface level but only a select few of his friends actually know the real him because facades of jokes and happiness are so much easier. Is a bit of an animal whisperer, not just his own dog but wild animals too. Plagued by nightmares and a fear of the dark as a child that he never truly grew out of though he does his best not to show it. Is a horrible cook. Very impulsive, disorganized, and passionate. His love for the arts is a huge outlet for his emotions but also a crutch that he uses in place of talking through emotions face-to-face. Collector of trinkets. Dyes his hair not because he’s concerned about the appearance of it white but rather so he can try to bridge the disconnect between the memories he has of the “real” Verso’s life and his own. The implanted memories of life beyond the canvas, the life that wasn’t his but he is expected to be a continuation of. Part of him hates that world’s Verso for the burden of it all, but the other part understands because he’s living in a world shaped by ghosts and he haunts these halls too.

Gustave: Book-smart genius who is extremely organized at work but messy at home because he doesn’t have time to lean or clean. Dedicated to those he loves through work but has trouble expressing that love through anything but work which can cause misunderstandings. School-boy level romance skills, historically fucks up romances proactively because it will all end eventually so why not now? It’s more efficient this way after all. Is an amazing cook but often eats alone. Very meticulous health regimen. Loves his sister but feels like her job is a bit of a farce, keeping morale up for a city of dying generations when they should be focusing all efforts on changing the future, not being complacent. Is a good advice giver and a bad advice follower. Is great with children because their needs are simple and there is nothing but truth and earnestness to them, no hidden social complexities.

Lune: 100 mph energy for work 0 mph energy for social engagements. Spotless home. Sees love as a bit of a science, molecular attraction, physical need….until she met Sciel. Has many of the same wardrobe pieces in different colors out of optimization of fit and ease of decision. Her passion for music is not something she prioritizes but she goes to sleep thinking about it every night. Not just the songs she knows but the songs she wants to write, the chords and notes that remind her of friends, melodies that match the personalities around her. If science is the language through which the world speaks its secrets then music is the language through which the soul speaks its truth.

Maelle: Child prodigy at fencing, aces almost everything she touches. Doesn’t have a social filter so often makes awkward jokes that may hurt someone’s feelings. Is truly a social butterfly and secretly likes the attention. Aromantic but loves helping set people up. Great at reading people, horrible at handling her own emotions. Loves to read. Low key thinks Sophie could do better than Gustave because he never really got his act together, though she does understand where he’s coming from just not the pain he put Sophie through. Thinks ghosts are real but still gives Verso shit for being afraid of the dark.