littlewormgrant

[littlewormgrant]

Do you think they talk about Nat and Steve😭

when they serve bisexual realness

[littlewormgrant]

when the fruit is strangling

[littlewormgrant]

The vibesss. Never gonna forget how feral I went for the books and movie.

Design graphics Geya Shvecova (Balanced frequency) Archive_301222

[littlewormgrant]

My first fic writing a trans masc character and he's lovely 🥰🥰🥰 hope you enjoy!

When The Time Comes

Paul Atreides / Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen Chapter 1 - 3,270 words - Masterlist

Summary: Paul Atreides had always known politics would dictate his life, but he didn’t expect it to come with formal attire, a Harkonnen husband, and the lingering fear of being rejected not for his name, but for who he really is. Now, freshly groomed, anxiety-cloaked, and armed with a dagger or two, he’s preparing to turn an arranged marriage into a survival exercise. He wants to prove his worth as a trans heir to a noble great house and possibly avoid another interstellar war. All before dessert is served at his wedding feast.

Tags: Strangers to Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut Possibly, Political Intrigue, Trans Male Character, Mix of Media (Books & Movies), Political Marriage, Supportive Husbands, Baron is the worst TM.

Huge ty to @peageetibbs-ab & @the-eyes-special-boy for being beta readers and listening to my ramblings.

The proposal had been accepted. In just a few short days, Paul would stand before the nobility of the Great Houses, marrying into one of the most infamous bloodlines in the Imperium. It should’ve thrilled him. His duty fulfilled, alliances sealed. But instead, his heart moved like a heavy pendulum, ticking with dread. He felt like a man climbing willingly into the jaws of a beast, and he had no one to blame but himself.

He’d said yes. He’d allowed it. No coercion, no pressure. If he had said no, his father wouldn’t have insisted. Leto Atreides was many things; ruler, warrior, leader, but a bad father was not one of them. He had stood by Paul through every storm, especially the quiet, private ones. Through his transition, through the scrutiny of the court and whispers of nobles, Leto had never once faltered. My son, he’d always said, no matter the looks cast behind their backs. Paul never forgot that.

Still, he wasn’t to marry a woman. Perhaps he might’ve been, had he been born male in the way others expected. But before he even drew breath, his path had been charted. Jessica Atreides had been instructed to bear a daughter. The Bene Gesserit had orchestrated it with cold precision. The perfect genetic union to bring forth their messianic Kwisatz Haderach. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had been chosen to be the genetic match.

But Paul had made other choices. He had carved himself out from the stone walls of expectation. And now, here he stood, no longer the woman the Sisterhood had designed, but a man on the precipice of a marriage no one had foreseen.

They hadn’t expected him to rewrite the role they’d assigned. And least of all, like this.

He hadn’t left Caladan much. His life had always been a tightrope between safety and surveillance. With the Atreides name came both admiration and danger. People bowed to the banner, but many would also see it burn. Paul had learned early that honor and inheritance were not shields, only burdens made of spice and blood.

This marriage would mend old feuds or plunge them deeper into fresh war. He’d been trained since childhood to be ready for either. Politics had always been a blade to him; always cold, always poised. But this felt different. This was personal.

He would be leaving Caladan, his ocean-washed home, his place of becoming. And in return, he’d be bound to the Harkonnens, the architects of his ancestors’ deaths. At the mercy of a man he had never met. At the whim of a house that might see him as nothing but a failed cog in the Imperium’s broken machine.

What if Feyd rejected him outright? Not the alliance, not the politics, but him. What if he looked into Paul’s face and saw something wrong, something less? The fear crept cold along his spine. Paul didn't seek approval easily, Leto's had always been enough, but something about Feyd stirred the raw nerves beneath his skin. A need to be seen and not merely tolerated. A dangerous hope.

He wore trousers now, the cut sharp, masculine, tailored to his form. His lean frame bore the Atreides sigil with quiet pride. His hair was cropped close in dark, soft curls. It wasn’t an illusion of masculinity. It was his truth, worn plainly, without apology. But he knew how others could see him. Half-formed. A compromise. A deviation from design.

One morning over breakfast, his father spoke, just as Paul's fork hesitated over untouched food.

“You know why I never married?” Leto said, his voice thoughtful and distant.

Paul blinked, drawn from the spiral of thought. He shook his head.

“It was because I never found anyone who could match what your mother gave me. If you don’t want to do this, you know you always have a place right here.” He paused then, swallowing thick emotion. “You’re my son. You will always be the future of this house. I don’t necessarily agree with you going through with this marriage… but if it’s what you want, you know I’ll stand by you. No matter the ground beneath your feet. Though I’d feel better knowing you were on home soil.”

Paul couldn’t meet his eyes. A lump caught in his throat like a pebble stuck between gears. The urge to embrace his father--to let himself be small again, if only for a moment--rose and fell like a crashing wave. But instead, Paul murmured a simple, “I know.”

His chest ached with the weight of things unspoken. He hadn’t wanted a wedding. He hadn’t wanted a stranger for a spouse. This was an alliance they needed to change everything. But the constant talk, the unstoppable march toward ceremony, made resistance feel like sinking sand. This was happening. Every glance, every whispered word reminded him of it.

And somewhere in all the chaos, the truth he didn’t dare name hovered just beyond his lips: What if Feyd hates me? What if this whole thing falls apart because I wasn’t born the person they wanted me to be?

He barely remembered walking to his last training session. The stone beneath his boots felt colder than usual, and the salty wind off Caladan’s sea shoved at his collar like a restless hand trying to turn him back. The sky overhead was clear, cruelly so, as if mocking the weight that sat heavy in his chest. Each step felt detached, mechanical, his mind lagging several paces behind his body.

He was tired. Not from lack of sleep, but from the endless turning of thoughts. The ceremony. The expectations. The name Harkonnen ringing in his ears, like an alarm that refused to be silenced. He was supposed to become something like a diplomat now, a symbol of union. But all he could feel was the slow, rising pressure of panic, like a tide that never receded.

“You ready, pup?”

Gurney’s voice cut across the courtyard, gravelly and casual as always. Paul didn’t look up right away.

“I’m not really feeling it today, Gurney,” he muttered, and even to his own ears it sounded hollow.

Gurney gave no room for self-pity. A blade shrieked through the air and buried itself into the table beside him with a metallic thunk. Another whistled in its wake. Paul’s body moved before his brain did, twisting away from the path of the second, hand reaching out in reflex. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of the embedded dagger and drew it free in one fluid movement.

And just like that, the dance began.

They collided in the center of the training yard, breath short and sharp. The spar was fast, intense, every swing a conversation in its own language. Paul’s muscles burned with remembered rhythm. He ducked under a wide slash, stepped into Gurney’s space, and struck out with precision.

“I got you,” Paul panted, a flicker of satisfaction lighting his face. It was one of the few pure emotions he’d felt all week.

Gurney gave him a knowing smirk, then glanced down. “Aye, you did. But look, my Lord.” He nodded to the spot just beneath Paul’s ribs, where Gurney’s blade had slipped inside his guard. The energy shield still pulsed angry red where it had made contact. “You’d have joined me in death.”

Paul clenched his jaw and nodded, filing the lesson away alongside a hundred others. There was always more to learn. Always something he’d missed.

After the bout, Gurney grabbed his forearm and pulled him up with the strength of a man who had hauled comrades out of trenches. He gave Paul a firm pat on the back, the kind that rattled your lungs but reminded one that they were still here. They put the weapons away side by side, their movements slower now, quieter. The usual ritual, except this wasn’t usual. This was the last one.

Paul lingered at the edge of the weapons table, heart heavy in his chest. He didn’t want to leave the yard yet, didn’t want to leave him. There was something final about this moment, and his body knew it even if he hadn’t admitted it aloud. The stone beneath his boots felt like parting ground.

When he turned to say goodbye, Gurney was already watching him. His posture had shifted just enough to betray the thoughtfulness beneath the usual bluster. His hand flexed at his side, that telltale twitch that always came before he said something real.

So he wasn’t the only one feeling it.

“You got any tips for me?” Paul asked, hoping the light tone would cover the quiet desperation in the question.

Gurney’s lips curled, but not into a smile. “Keep a knife on you at all times,” he said. No hesitation. No irony.

It was his way of saying I’m worried for you without ever letting the words cross his mouth. That was the kind of man Gurney was. Gruff, scarred, incapable of softness unless it was disguised behind hard truths.

“You’ll know what to do when the time comes,” he added, quieter.

Paul wondered. Kill the Baron? Kill Feyd first? Kill myself if I have to? The thought made his stomach churn. He nodded his head slightly, brushing the shadow away.

“Thanks for the tip,” he said instead, forcing a smile, trying to break the ice that was building inside him. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Gurney raised one finger in a mock salute and then fished something from his pocket. He crossed the space between them and pressed a small device into Paul’s hand, no ceremony, no explanation, just here. Paul turned it over. A recording device.

He looked up, questions forming, but Gurney was already speaking.

“It ain’t nothin’ big or anything,” he said, voice lighter now. “Just a few songs I thought you might like. Feel like home.”

Paul swallowed hard. Gurney never spoke of the Harkonnens unless it was through clenched teeth or behind a blade. Never talked about his sister being kept there but always about her singing. His silence spoke volumes, and Paul had always read between the lines. The gift wasn’t just music. It was an offering. A piece of memory, a sliver of safety.

Gurney’s baliset had been the soundtrack of Paul’s youth. Its lilting chords had echoed through stone corridors, woven into long nights and stormy days. Hearing those songs again, in a place like Giedi Prime, might be the only thing keeping him tethered.

Paul curled his fingers around the device protectively, it was more precious than spice or prophecy. Then, impulsively, he threw himself forward and hugged Gurney with intense force.

The old soldier didn’t flinch. He didn’t tease him. He just patted Paul on the head, rough and fond, and let the silence stretch between them like a moment that would never break.

When Paul stepped away, his throat was tight and dry, but his spine felt a little straighter. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t have to.

They both knew what it meant.

Afterward, he went down and bathed back in his quarters, the water scalding enough to chase away the chill of dread. He dressed in his ceremonial suit. Familiar fabric stitched in honor, in bloodlines. The crest of Atreides rested over his heart, and for a moment, looking in the mirror, he felt… solid. Like the suit was armor. Like the name he carried might just be enough.

At the docks, he arrived long before it was necessary. The workers bustled in preparation, none of them paying him much attention, and Paul found solace in that. It made it easier to pretend he was just another traveller, and not a pawn on someone else’s board.

A weight landed on his shoulder.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me,” Duncan teased, eyes bright with mischief. “For what? Another man? You wound me, my lord.”

Paul smirked. “Maybe not if my father has anything to say about it.”

“Oh yeah? Has he told you about his plans to kidnap you yet?”

“He might have mentioned it. I’ve asked for you to come with me.”

That caught Duncan by surprise. “So the terrible duo ride again, eh? And without your old man to scold us.” He laughed loud and thumped at Paul’s shoulder again. He couldn’t help the smile that came. Real, if only fleeting.

“I really want this to go well,” Paul admitted, voice low.

“It will. You’re in safe hands with me.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I know. But those Harkonnen bastards play for keeps. Stay close, alright?”

Paul nodded. “You understand without my father, I’m in command now, don’t you?”

“Aye, my Lord. But don’t let it get to your head.”

They shared a look, a mutual grin. Silent understanding.

Later, Jessica arrived. She pulled him into an embrace without asking. He let her.

The night before, she’d visited his chambers. Her robe hung loose, and her hair was undone. Just like the old nights. Before everything changed.

They'd braided each other’s hair in the glow of a candlelight. Paul let her because he liked the feel of her hands in his hair and because it could easily be undone before he rested his head. She still let him paint her nails. And still she knew, without needing to ask, when he was afraid.

“Will you write to me? Every night?” Paul insisted.

“I’ll try.”

“And will you let me come visit?”

“Every night,” she said with a smile, though her eyes were rimmed with red.

She turned to him and reached for his hands, folding them gently in hers. Jessica could still remember when those fingers had been no bigger than a blade of grass, soft and chubby and warm from sleep. They used to wrap around just one of her own. Back then, he had clung to her like she was the only steady thing in the world. And now, here he was; a capable, sharp-eyed young man, no longer needing her the way he once had, but still her son. Always.

Her grip lingered.

“If I could stay there with you, I would,” she said, her voice quiet, as though speaking it louder might undo her restraint. “Remember your training-”

Paul cut in before she could finish. “And focus on your pitch.”

Jessica paused, then gave a small, knowing smile. “And focus on your pitch,” she repeated, nodding as the corners of her mouth tugged into something halfway between amusement and pride.

He could feel her trying not to show too much, trying not to let the ache inside her leak into the space between them. Paul didn’t need her to say it to understand the weight of her silence. The words she left unsaid were the loudest of all. He’d heard them in the early mornings, in the way she adjusted his stance during training, in the subtle press of her hand against his back when she thought no one was watching.

Their mornings had always started with discipline. She'd taught him how to sense manipulation, how to hear intention hidden in language, how to hold his body like a weapon and a shield at the same time. At first, it had been rote instruction—sharp, distant, and dutiful. She had been all Bene Gesserit then, and he had been a child straining to match a pace set by forces he barely understood.

But things had changed when his voice started to crack. When he finally told her who he was, not just who they had expected him to be. That was when the real work began.

He could still remember the quiet moment afterward. No big speech. Just the way she exhaled, wrapped him in a hug, and whispered, I’ve always known.

Since then, her guidance had softened. Less command, more conversation. Less expectation, more trust. Still difficult, still rigorous, but filled now with the kind of love that didn’t need permission to be there.

He smiled faintly, thinking about those mornings. How they would sit side by side afterward, breath steaming in the cold air, her sipping tea and him just watching her. Sometimes they talked. Other times, the silence between them was enough.

Paul knew she was proud of him. She didn’t always say it, but he could feel it in the way her hand now curled tighter around his. She was proud of the man he was becoming. But it didn’t ease the grief behind her eyes. Not really.

He glanced down at their hands, now nearly the same size. It struck him all at once how surreal it was—how his body had finally begun to feel like his own. His shoulders had broadened, his jaw had sharpened, and his voice had taken on the low, steady tone that he once only dreamed of. A few years on testosterone, and he was still learning how to move through the world in this skin, but every day he felt closer to home within himself.

Yet here he was, on the eve of a wedding to someone who didn’t know him at all. A political match born from centuries of planning, and not a moment of love. And that fear pressed into his ribs, constant and quiet.

Jessica seemed to read some of that doubt in his face. She reached up and brushed his curls off his forehead, the way she used to when he was little.

“You don’t have to go through with this, Paul,” she said softly. “I want you to know that. Not because I doubt you, but because I see you. You don’t owe them your happiness. You only owe yourself your truth.”

Paul’s throat tightened. He nodded, not trusting his voice just yet.

“I know,” he said after a moment, blinking hard. “But I think I have to try. Even if it goes wrong. Even if…” He hesitated.

Jessica's expression darkened, and for a moment, he saw the steel beneath the softness. “Then he’s a bigger fool,” she said. “And I will gladly take a knife to the first one who says otherwise.”

Paul snorted. “Very diplomatic of you.”

“I left diplomacy in my other dress,” she said, arching a brow. “Besides, I’m your mother before I’m anything else. Let them try me.”

The levity helped, even if it only lasted a breath. He let go of her hands and stepped back, taking one last full look at her. The familiar curve of her smile. The strength behind her eyes. How much she was holding back just to keep him steady. “I’ll write,” he said.

“I’ll write more,” she countered.

He gave her a crooked smile.

When he leaned in, she wrapped her arms around him, holding tight. Longer than usual. Longer than she would’ve allowed herself if others were watching. And for a few seconds, Paul just let himself be held, not as Duke’s heir or political pawn or carefully balanced legacy.

Just as her son.

Just as himself.

Paul hadn’t named the thing that scared him most. But with her, he didn’t have to. She had her ways of knowing.

Now, as the massive Guild ship began to descend through the cloud-thick sky, blotting out the sun, Paul stood between his parents, his past, and the daunting future ahead. Jessica looked like she might cry. But she didn’t. She was stronger than that.

And he… he was trying to be.

As he climbed the last few steps to the shuttle platform, wind curling around him like fingers of fate, Paul Atreides took one final look at Caladan’s gray-blue skies.

He had to wonder what the hell he was getting himself into.

If you enjoyed please consider following, liking or commenting and letting me know! ily have a good day ♥

Chapter 2 is written/finishing edits and Chapter 3 is currently a WIP.

[littlewormgrant]

Probably my favorite Steven fic written so far!

I Need A Hero (But Not That One)

Steven Grant x You / 2,456 words / Masterlist.

If you like what you see, leave a like or reblog and follow me ♥

Summary: Is from the perspective of reader running their own store in NYC, in comes this masked lunatic and some invisible threat only he can see. What else can you do besides reach for a bag of chips?

Tags: Strangers to friends, gender-neutral reader, minor mentions of violence, mostly fluff

Written for A Sip of Coffee SFW Fanzine - check it out there's so many juicy fics! Next fanzine you'll see me in is folklore and fairytales.

There I’d been, minding my own business, trying to look busy in the store during the graveyard shift. I put in my best effort not to glance at the clock—everyone knew time crawled when you paid attention to it. My patience had worn thin hours ago, and I was beyond ready to head home. For what, you might ask?

Absolutely-freaking-nothing.

It was bliss. Being home was simply the best. There, I had my cat and all my junk—knickknacks from long-forgotten trips, cluttered piles of ‘stuff’ I hadn’t quite found a place for yet. Every day, I promised myself I’d get around to organizing. Every day, I promptly ignored that promise.

One more hour. That was it. Chances were I’d survive that, probably. I might even treat myself to some takeout on the walk home. Anything to keep me going.

I gave up on half-heartedly organizing the mugs and undoing the colourful, often crude, words people arranged with the lettered ones. It was always the same—no lack of creativity when people were wasting time, and I might have even appreciated the effort if I weren’t the one constantly undoing their handiwork.

With a sigh, I slumped over the counter like some tormented soul, feeling the weight of my shift bear down on me. What felt like an hour’s worth of work had, in reality, been about ten minutes. My eyes drifted to the snack aisle, and I silently reprimanded myself for considering dipping into the stock. I was going to lose my mind if I didn’t find something to do.

That was when I saw him.

Some guy sprinted past the windows, clad in a head-to-toe white costume, his breath misting in the cold night air. He stopped just long enough to hunch over, hands on his knees, sucking in air before forcing himself back into a full-speed run. It would have been almost comical if it weren’t so utterly tragic to watch.

For a moment, I was able to return to my well-practised routine of staring at anything but the chips or the clock.

Fifty-seven minutes left. This was the worst. The store clock had to be off, though—I couldn’t remember the last time I changed its batteries. I pulled out my phone, only to groan when it smugly displayed an hour and two minutes. I shoved it back into my pocket and decided the store clock was gospel.

Then, the same white-suited guy came bursting through the store doors. He slammed against them as if trying to shake off the cold that clung to him, his breath coming in ragged, frantic gasps. His head jerked around, scanning the store, hands fumbling desperately for the door locks.

What a nutter.

"Can I help you?" I called, louder than necessary, to snap him out of whatever frenzy he was in. His glowing eyes flickered toward me before he resumed his wild flailing at the doors.

“No… wait—yeah! Actually, hang on a minute,” he panted, gesturing vaguely in my direction, either acknowledging me or silently telling me to stay put. Abandoning the locks, he grabbed the nearest shelf and dragged it against the door with a loud scrape. “You got anything heavier? Push that!” He pointed at another display shelf.

My city had faced at least three doomsdays in the past month alone. I was over it. A world filled with superheroes wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

"Can you not do that?" I asked, exasperated, stepping out from behind the counter. Not fully toward him, mind you—I wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t seem immediately dangerous, but these days, you never knew. Begrudgingly, I pushed another display toward the door, stopping at a safe distance. “You do realize I have to clean all this up when you’re done?”

“I’ll clean everything up, I promise! It’s this Jackal—he’s been a right pain in my arse! I’ve been trying to shake him for ages. Thought doubling back might throw him off, yeah?”

“Jackal? Like a dog?” I pulled a face. It sounded weird, but weird was kind of normal around here. My curiosity got the better of me. “Well, can’t you just laser it?”

“Wot? No!” he scoffed, abandoning his barricading attempts to shoot me an incredulous look. A souvenir shirt tumbled to the floor. His reaction made me think I’d insulted him, but it was hard to tell through the mask.

I elaborated, gesturing vaguely at his glowing eyes. “I mean, what’s the point of having those if you can’t laser with them? Do they help you see better or something? Also, pick that up.”

He sighed and bent to grab the fallen shirt, attempting—badly—to fold it. “I didn’t exactly get a say in all the bits, alright? Does it really make me look like a psycho Colonel Sanders?” He gestured down at himself.

It did.

I shook my head, watching as he gave up folding and just shoved the shirt back onto the disrupted shelf.

“I see just fine, thanks,” he continued. “No lasers, though. Handy in the dark when I’m too tired to switch on a lamp, but that’s about it. Still love my carrots, though.” He chuckled, but the humour barely lasted a second.

CRASH!

The masked lunatic went tumbling backward, rolling with surprising agility before catching himself. His attempts to barricade the door had ended exactly as I expected—badly.

I immediately backed up behind the counter, peering over it to assess the damage. This guy was single-handedly trashing my store. Maybe insurance would cover it if I told them a costumed weirdo was responsible.

Reaching for a bag of chips, I silently wished I had stocked popcorn instead.

Nothing. There was no one there. I turned back to the supposed hero and waved a hand at the wreckage, chips in hand.

"What the hell did you do that for?!" I demanded, punctuating my question with the pop of an opening bag. "You’re paying for everything you break, by the way." Chips included.

“That weren’t me! It’s the Jackal! Look—it’s a big ‘un!” He pointed dramatically at the entrance.

I followed his gesture. Nothing. I looked back at him with the deadpan stare of someone far too tired for this nonsense.

"You’re on something," I muttered. "Can you do this outside?"

“I swear, I’m—”

Before he could finish, something invisible sent him flying across the store. He skidded, rolled, and barely managed to catch himself before knocking over another display.

I crunched on a chip and watched the ridiculous scene unfold. It was like a nature documentary gone wrong.

“So… Jackals are invisible?” I asked, tossing another chip into my mouth. I flipped the bag around to see how many I had left. “How do you even know where it is?”

“I dunno! I don’t make the rules!” he wheezed, scrambling to his feet just as another unseen force knocked him back. Desperate, he yanked a shelf down, sending rows of neatly stacked souvenirs crashing to the floor. “I’m so sorry!”

I groaned but did nothing to stop him. What was I supposed to do? Jump in and fight an invisible dog?

I expected the shelf to hit the ground, but instead, it bounced—hard—off something unseen.

“Oh wow,” I murmured, watching the impact. “You were right. I never doubted you for a second.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I did,” I admitted. “But I believe you now. That’s got to count for something.”

While the chaos raged on, I finished off the last of my chips, shaking the bag to fish out the stubborn crumbs stuck at the bottom. Satisfied, I crumpled the empty packet into a ball and lobbed it into the trash behind the counter. Wiping my hands against my pants, I leaned forward, watching the absolute disaster unfold in front of me.

“So… uh, anything I can do?” I asked, more out of obligation than any real desire to get involved.

“Better you stay back. Or…” He ducked as something unseen swiped at his head, sending a stack of keychains flying. He twisted, barely regaining his footing, before calling over to me, “Actually, yeah—I could use a hand.”

I groaned. That was my mistake for asking. “What do you need?”

“Think you could help me get rid of this thing?”

I scoffed. “I’m not killing it!”

“I meant just help me get it out of the store!” he snapped.

I glanced at the mess—toppled shelves, shattered mugs, a floor littered with overpriced souvenirs—and, yeah, I had to agree, Caspar the unfriendly dog needed to go. But how? Inspiration struck, and I cupped my hands around my mouth.

“HEY, YOU! YOU’RE A BAD DOG!”

Glowing eyes whirled on me, appalled. “That’s not what I meant! Also, it’s not a dog it’s a Jackal and that’s not helping!”

Before I could fire back, his head jerked toward me, his whole body tensing.

“It’s coming your way. Duck!”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

I threw myself to the side just as the shelves behind me exploded into a clattering mess of broken wood and tumbling stock. Something rushed past, hot air brushing against the back of my neck, and my stomach twisted with the realization that whatever this thing was, it had been that close. I landed on my hands and knees, heart hammering.

Real heroic stuff, I know. Give me some credit—I was running on the fumes of an eleven-hour shift, and I don’t get paid enough. I had just learned invisible nightmare creatures officially ranked high on my list of ‘Things That Terrify Me.’

“It almost got me!” I shrieked. “Get it!”

“I’m trying!”

“Try harder!” I yelled, flinching as another crash erupted behind me. A low, guttural growl rumbled through the store, vibrating through my chest, and suddenly, the air shifted.

Something was right behind me.

A wave of scorching breath ghosted across my neck, and every hair on my body stood on end.

“If I die on the clock,” I gasped, flattening myself against the floor, “I’m coming back to haunt the hell out of anyone who’s ever wronged me. Starting with Colonel Sanders wrecking my store!”

“Oi! You said I didn’t look like him!” His voice came from somewhere across the room, slightly breathless but still dripping with indignation.

A deafening smash sounded above me.

I peeked up in time to see the white figure hurling my carefully arranged souvenir mugs—one by one—at empty air.

My eye twitched.

“I never said that!” I shot back, ducking as a particularly heavy ceramic one narrowly missed my head. “I don’t know what to call you! I’ll take it back if you stop trashing my place and trying to get me killed!”

Still locked in combat with the unseen enemy, he yelled, “It’s Steven! With a V!”

I stared at him. “That’s it? That’s your superhero name? With a V? Laaame.”

“Oh yeah, I got one of those too!” He dodged, then perked up as though he wasn’t actively in a life-or-death struggle. “Call me Mr. Knight!”

“I’ll stick to Steven.”

“You know wot? That’s fair.”

Another crash. Another shelf knocked over. My sanity officially hanging by a thread.

“Will you please get this thing out of here?!” I bellowed.

“It’s not gonna leave if I’m here!”

“Then YOU get out?!”

Steven hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking off toward the door. He vaulted over the mess of fallen shelves in what could have been an impressive leap—if he hadn’t caught his foot and gone crashing down in a spectacular heap.

“I’m okay!” he groaned from the floor.

“You sure?”

“Yeah! Super. Thanks.”

He scrambled back up just in time for the Jackal to slam into him. He flipped, twisted mid-air, and landed hard, limbs sprawled out in a way that made it hard to tell if he was fighting for his life or really committing to breakdancing. I don’t even know where the batons came from, but he was using them for what I assumed was to keep the dog from clamping down on his face.

This better not be how I go out.

A desperate, half-baked idea sparked in my mind. Might not have been a good idea, but, well, we were fresh out of those the moment Steven decided to use my store as his personal wrestling ring.

I scrambled toward a pile of knocked-over broken ornaments and snatched up the broom.

“Steven!” I called, gripping the broom in both hands as he flailed his way toward the door again. “Throw it at me!”

“Throw what at you?!”

“The Jackal!”

“Wot?! That’s the opposite of what I should be doing! That’s the WORST plan!”

“I know. Just do it!”

I planted the base of the broom against the bottom of the wall, bracing it, my free hand steadying a haphazardly taped-up ornament that dangled off the end. It probably was a bad plan, but at this point, I was banking on the element of surprise.

Steven, still wrestling with the invisible force, managed to find his footing, gripping something unseen with both hands. He took a deep breath and swung it around.

One…

Two…

Steven heaved, stumbling backward.

And then—impact.

The Jackal slammed against the broom, hitting it with enough force to snap the wooden handle clean in half.

I ducked back and screamed.

The thing screamed.

I was pretty sure Steven was screaming too.

The broom buckled, its remnants collapsing in a pathetic heap, and I scrambled away until my back hit the wall.

Then—silence.

The weight in the air shifted.

Steven coughed, dragging himself back to his feet, waffling on about something being “gone” or “handled” or whatever. I barely heard him.

My store was a wreck.

My gaze drifted to the clock.

Thirty-three minutes left on my shift.

I laughed, low and hysterically. Steven looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

After all was said and done, he stuck around to help me pick up the pieces—literally. Surprisingly, he even walked me home afterward, though I turned down his offer of tea in favour of picking up some takeout.

There was no way I was ending this day without one.

“You didn’t need to stick around,” I muttered as we reached my apartment door.

“I know, but it wouldn’t have felt right if I didn’t,” he admitted. “Can’t go ‘round trashing my mate’s shop and not help, can I?”

I gave him a sideways glance. “We’re mates now, are we?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t—”

“Relax,” I cut in. “I’m messing with you. We can be mates.” I pushed my door open, then turned back with a smirk. “But you’re banned from ever stepping foot in my store again.”

Steven exhaled, as if he’d been expecting that. “You know wot? That’s fair.”

I had a lot of fun writing this one. If you enjoyed too please consider following, reblogging, or commenting and letting me know! ily have a good day

[littlewormgrant]

Where the Worlds Collide

Kane x Reader / 3,290 words / Annihilation

If you like what you see, leave a like or reblog and follow me ♥

Written for A Sip of Coffee SFW Fanzine - check it out there's so many juicy fics! Next fanzine you'll see me in is folklore and fairytales.

Tags: Strangers to something more / gender-neutral reader / touches on psychological, cosmic, and body horror

The air itself shimmered like a mirage, twisting in and out of colours that shouldn’t have belonged to any known spectrum. At times, it burned a molten orange, pulsing with a heat he didn’t feel, then fractured into streaks of blue and violet, pooling like oil slicks in the hollows between trees. At the right angle, it seared a luminous red, a colour so impossibly rich it felt alive—watching. A slow, iridescent slither of light wound through the fractured canopy above, less a beam of sunlight and more a living thing threading its way between the leaves.

Kane had no way of knowing how long he’d been here. The rations suggested a few days had passed, but his body disagreed. There was no hunger, no thirst, only the mechanical memory of eating. Had he eaten? He must have. Yet when he tried to summon the taste of food, nothing came. The absence of time pressed against his skull like a persistent ache, like a memory he couldn’t quite reach.

Each time he stepped outside the tent, the world was different. The trees leaned at unfamiliar angles, their bark slick and too smooth, as though they had been molded rather than grown. The moss on the ground pulsed in patches, an almost imperceptible rhythm, like the slow rise and fall of breath. The only constant was change. That, and his morning coffee.

He sat with the tin cup cradled in his hands, listening to the songbirds mimic a new sound they had learned overnight. Sometimes, it was the usual chirps. Other times, it was warbles that carried an uncanny human lilt, as if an echo of a voice had been stretched and repurposed into their calls. Once, he had heard the scratch of a cricket’s legs—but it had come from high up in the trees, from something far too large to be a cricket. There had been whispers too, barely there, like words dissipating just before he could grasp their meaning. The forest was listening. Worse, it was remembering.

When the decision had been made to split up, it had come down to a vote. Two medics on the team—one would stay, one would go. The others had chosen the Tower, that nameless structure that had no right to exist on any map. His group had remained at base camp, performing the work that was expected of them. But Kane knew his true function. He wasn’t here to keep them together. He was here to keep them alive.

And yet, the question remained, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts like an animal worrying at bone.

What happened to the ones who came before?

Expedition Eleven. Ten had come before, and none had returned. Not a single one. Their presence still lingered—traces in the disturbed earth, in the equipment left behind, in the notes that trailed off mid-thought. But the people? Gone. Absorbed, perhaps.

He had tended to the Linguist’s wounds that morning, wrapping gauze over something that refused to heal, something that seemed to shift beneath her skin. When he had finished, he had found himself untethered. Free to roam, to wander, to slip further into the spaces between certainty and something else. The others made no effort to keep him close. He had long since lost the need to belong. There were no rules anymore, not ones that mattered.

“How long do you think the other group’s going to be gone for?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet hum of camp. He was packing the last few items into his rucksack, shoving emergency supplies into the worn fabric. Preparing, though for what, he wasn’t sure.

You barely glanced up from your microscope. “I don’t question the Psychologist’s decisions,” you said. A measured response. “Just like I’m not questioning yours.”

A strange turn of phrase. Almost an accusation.

He let out a small breath, a ghost of a laugh. “I’m going to scout the immediate area. See if there’s anything we missed. Don’t miss me too much.” The words were meant to be light, to defuse whatever unspoken weight hung between you. He had expected pushback. A reason to stay.

“I won’t,” you said instead, detached, eyes still trained on your work. “Don’t go too far.”

Then, after a pause, “You got your shooter?”

Shooter.

That wasn’t a word you had ever used before.

Kane glanced at you, but you didn’t meet his gaze. He could hear the Geologist’s accent buried in your voice, the same tone, the same inflection. The Geologist, who had asked to be left beneath the tree weeks ago. “Leave me to decompose,” they had murmured, curling into the roots, their breath already slowing, eyes glassy with something more than death.

No one had gone back to check.

“Rifle’s right here,” Kane said, his voice overly cheerful, too loud in the stagnant air. He patted the strap, making sure you heard.

Then he left. He always had to be the first to leave.

The forest swallowed him whole.

With no real direction, he wandered. The deeper he went, the more the world unravelled. He had no name for half the things growing here. Vines hung in thick, twisting curtains, flowering in unnatural patterns, their petals curling inward like clutching fingers. 

He found an old road, forgotten, reclaimed. The trees had leaned in, pressing their roots through the cracks, warping the pavement into something organic. It looked almost ceremonial, a wedding procession of ivy and creeping moss, arches forming over the path as if nature itself had arranged it for something unseen.

His wife would have known the proper names. The Latin, the origins. He had never cared for any of that. To him, they were just flowers on the same vine.

Then he heard it.

His name.

It echoed from the trees, disembodied, panic threaded through each syllable.

Your voice.

Kane’s pulse spiked as he turned, eyes scanning the undergrowth. He called back, voice tight with urgency, but the echoes folded in on themselves, dispersing into the layered hum of the forest. He moved faster, breath sharp, feet crushing the damp earth beneath him. The direction felt wrong, but he followed it anyway.

The lake appeared suddenly, framed by the remains of a boat cabin. The sight of it made his stomach twist. He knew this place. It wasn’t possible, but he knew it. A memory clawed its way to the surface—fishing trips, his father, the scent of open water. He had thought this was where his love of the lake had begun. But something in him rebelled against the thought.

Had he always loved the water?

Or had something been waiting for him in it?

The air hummed. The birds had gone silent.

He called your name again.

Nothing.

The absence unsettled him more than the voice had.

That night, he had written about it in his journal, flipping back through previous entries only to find his own handwriting slipping away from him. Sentences collapsed inward, layer upon layer, like something had rewritten them over and over again until they were unreadable.

Where lies the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead-

He knew it was wrong, but he kept going back to that cabin.

Like the Linguist, who had torn at her own skin, convinced something writhed beneath it.

Like the Geologist, who had whispered leave me to decompose and done just that.

“They’re not coming back,” Kane announced one morning.

You finally looked up. “What makes you think that?”

He gestured around them, frustrated. “Look around. It’s just you and me. We lost all the others.”

“They aren’t lost,” you murmured. Then shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Maybe we’re the ones who are.”

Kane stilled. His throat tightened.

“How? We’re at base camp,” he pressed, “they should’ve been back by now.”

“It’s been less than a day.”

The words slid through him like cold metal. “No,” he whispered. “We’ve been here for days. I shouldn’t be here. I should’ve gone with them.”

You reached for his shoulder, steadying him. “Take a deep breath. You want to go? Fine. But give me two minutes. You’re not going out there alone again. You’ve not been the same since you’ve been back.”

Kane hesitated. His hand brushed against yours as though to say thanks, but you pulled away first.

It didn’t take you much time to pack your bag. You tried to keep it light, who knows what you were walking into. Rations, emergency equipment, and a field kit to take samples while on the go.

As you walked over to where he’d waited for you, you glanced at the camp one last time. Certain you would never see it again.

The ground beneath your boots felt unstable, as though something just beneath the surface was shifting in response to your presence. Moss underneath offering a spring in each step. The forest exhaled around you, the hush between sounds stretching longer than it should. Even the insects, which had once filled every quiet space, seemed to be waiting.

Kane stood rigid, his posture coiled, his gaze locked onto the cabin as if looking at it too long might pull him inside. His breath came in uneven bursts, his fingers twitching slightly where they hovered near his rifle strap. You reached for his hand, grounding him, but he didn’t react. Or maybe he couldn’t.

“This isn’t the tower,” you murmured quietly.

No response. If he had heard you at all, he gave no indication.

Your attention shifted. The derelict boat overturned near the water, barely visible beneath its cocoon of vines, caught your eye. Its hull had been split by roots thick as a man’s arm, curling into the wood like grasping hands. But it wasn’t just overgrowth—this was something else entirely. The plants had fused, their species indistinguishable from one another, blending into an unrecognizable tangle of colour and texture. Leaves that should not have existed in the same climate pressed against each other, petals rippling in colours you had no name for. The vines pulsed faintly, as though drawing breath.

Your curiosity pulled you forward. Kane remained still, locked in his personal war with the past, leaving you to slip ahead. Your pack slid from your shoulder, landing softly on the damp earth as you crouched near the boat. The scent of wet wood and something faintly metallic filled your lungs.

Carefully, you reached into your field kit, retrieving a scalpel. The blade caught the strange ambient light filtering through the canopy, flashing red, then blue. You steadied yourself, choosing a section of vine where two distinctly different plants had merged, their cellular structure braided impossibly together. A light incision. Just enough to—

The moment the scalpel’s edge touched the vine, something shifted.

Not just the plant. The entire forest.

The background hum, the constant thrumming of unseen life, stuttered. The trees did not sway, but the light around them flickered, as if a veil had momentarily lifted and revealed something beneath. The air thickened, pressing against your skin. The ground beneath you felt—wrong. For a fleeting second, your senses betrayed you, your body insisting you were tilting sideways despite crouching perfectly still.

Then, the vine moved.

Not a natural movement, not the slow, creeping growth of a plant. It coiled toward your hand, deliberate, reactive, the wound you had made closing over itself like flesh knitting back together. A faint wet sound. Something between the slow tear of muscle and the slip of damp leaves unfurling.

A pulse of heat shot up your arm before you could recoil. The cut you had made sealed itself in an instant. The plant had accepted the wound—and returned it.

A sharp sting bloomed just below your wrist. You looked down.

A thin red line, identical to the one you had made on the vine, now marred your skin. Blood dripped down towards your hand.

“Kane—” you called for him.

Before you could finish, he was there, yanking you back, his fingers tight around your arm as he dragged you several steps away. His breathing was shallow, his pupils blown wide, darting from your face to the plant and back again.

“What the hell was that?” you stumbled.

He shook his head. “We need to go.”

You hesitated, glancing back at the sample you had failed to collect. But the plant had already begun to change again. The colours shifted subtly, and where you had touched it, the surface darkened, as if absorbing the memory of you. The moment you had shared with it.

Kane didn’t wait for you to make up your mind. His grip on your wrist tightened, his pulse thrumming against your skin, his urgency contagious.

He pulled you away from the boat. Away from the cabin.

Away from whatever had just recognized you.

You were sitting staring into the makeshift bonfire while Kane cleaned your arm and bandaged your stitched wound. He’d used some of the heated water to make you both coffee but you weren’t drinking yours. After he was done, he’d tossed the old bandages into the water and sat back down beside you on the log.

“I don’t think we’re going to find them.” You say quietly.

“What makes you say that?” Kane asked, reaching to put an arm around you.

“I dunno, a feeling.”

“Well what’s the plan now? Do we go back? Keep going forward?”

You hesitate to respond. “I want to stay here. With you.”

“You’ll be with me whichever direction we go.” He grinned.

That wasn’t what you meant and you shook your head. “I don’t want to go back. I feel like I’ve already lost you if I keep going.”

“You haven’t though. I’m right here. I didn’t marry you to give up on you.”

“What?” You say confused. You try to remember when you married him and it was there. The flowers, the perfect day. The memory was far enough away to feel like it wasn’t yours.

The fire crackled between you, casting warped shadows against the canvas of your tent. The flames flickered too quickly, too erratically, as though something unseen was breathing over them. Kane sat close, his body warm beside yours, his arm draped around you with a weight that should have been comforting. But something was wrong.

You stared down at the bandage wrapped around your arm, the clean white cloth already beginning to darken at the edges. The sting beneath it felt deeper than a simple wound, something curling under your skin, remembering the touch of the thing you had disturbed.

His voice reached you again, softer this time. “You haven’t lost me.”

But he was lying.

Or worse, he believed what he was saying.

The memory sat in your mind like a misplaced object. Your wedding. A day that should have been carved into you, vibrant, tangible. You could see the flowers—petals in soft, muted colours, a breeze stirring through them. You could hear the distant murmur of guests. Could feel the weight of the ring on your finger.

But when had it happened?

Where had it happened?

The edges of the thought were blurred, soft, like a painting left too long in the rain. The details felt secondhand, like something recited from a dream you had overheard rather than lived.

Your breath hitched as you turned to look at Kane. “Say that again.”

His brow furrowed. “You haven’t lost me.”

“No, the thing before.”

“I didn’t marry you to give up on you?”

There it was again. That certainty. Like he knew it to be true.

Like he had always known.

But the longer you stared at him, the more you questioned if you had always known him.

A sharp pressure bloomed at your temples. The fire crackled louder, though neither of you had moved.

“Where did we get married?” you asked.

Kane blinked. “What?”

“Where?” you repeated, each word weighted.

His mouth opened, but no sound came. He frowned, gaze flickering away, toward the trees, toward the nothingness that surrounded you both. You could see him grasping for it, for a detail, for a single thread to hold onto.

The wedding was real. Wasn’t it?

The firelight made his face unfamiliar for the first time. Shadows caught in the hollows of his cheeks, casting angles that hadn’t been there before. The longer you looked, the more those details refused to sit right.

“Kane,” you whispered, not sure anymore if you were calling his name or testing it.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. A short, humourless laugh left him, but it was frayed at the edges.

“I don’t—I don’t know.” His fingers flexed on his knee. “It’s like it’s right there, but—” He exhaled sharply. “Shit.”

The fire let out a loud pop, sending a spark spiralling up into the dark. Neither of you moved.

The silence stretched.

Then, finally, he met your gaze.

“Do you remember?” he asked.

The question sent something cold curling down your spine.

Because he wasn’t asking where.

He was asking if.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure of the answer. You shake your head.

The fire sputtered, low embers pulsing with uneven light, as though struggling against some unseen force pressing down on it. Somewhere in the darkness, beyond the perimeter of the fire’s glow, something moved—not a rustle, not the natural disturbance of undergrowth, but a slow, deliberate shift. The forest itself was listening.

Kane’s shoulders sagged, his fingers tracing absent patterns into the dirt beside him with his free arm. His breath came shallow, a quiet tremor beneath each exhale. “I think I know where the others have gone,” he murmured, the words barely making it past his lips. Then softer, almost reverent—“It’ll be me soon.”

A pulse of unease rippled through you, settling deep in your gut. The words weren’t spoken in fear. They weren’t a warning. They were a certainty.

“Don’t talk like that.” You reached for his arm, half-expecting the heat of his skin, the familiar solidness of him—but he flinched. Not from the touch itself, but from what it meant. 

“I’m not going to let that happen to you.” You reassert.

His head turned slightly, just enough for the firelight to catch his profile, the shifting glow casting moving shadows across his face. He looked like himself, but at the same time, he didn’t. The bones of him were the same, the slope of his jaw, the curve of his nose. But something beneath it—some small, imperceptible wrongness—made him feel like a memory poorly recalled.

He exhaled, his shoulders shaking with something between laughter and grief. “If you stay, you won’t ever be able to get back out. You’ll be stuck here with me.”

The words settled over you like a damp cloth. Heavy. Stifling.

There was no argument in his tone. Just another truth.

“And I can’t make you stay.” He finally murmured as though it pained him to say.

You swallowed, your throat dry, though you hadn’t noticed the thirst until now. Had you drunk anything today? The coffee still sat beside you, untouched, the surface unbroken. It looked wrong, as if it had been sitting there for longer than you had been at this fire.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your pants.

You should have wanted to leave. You should have recoiled at the thought of being trapped, of being swallowed by this place like all the others. But when you searched for that instinct—the one that should have screamed at you to run—you found only stillness. A quiet, creeping sense of inevitability.

Maybe this had always been where you were supposed to be.

“Maybe I don’t want to go.”

I had a lot of fun writing this one. If you enjoyed too please consider following, reblogging, or commenting and letting me know! ily have a good day

[littlewormgrant]

Everyone's work. If you've ever put your work on AO3 it's being used for AI. The recommendation is to set your fics to AO3 members only and send takedown requests. The site is down and it's been confirmed the data had been uploaded to two other places. Keep fighting for your fics, my friends ♥

AO3 has been scraped, once again.

As of the time of this post, AO3 has been scraped by yet another shady individual looking to make a quick buck off the backs of hardworking hobby writers. This Reddit post here has all the details and the most current information. In short, if your fic URL ends in a number between 1 and 63,200,000 (inclusive), AND is not archive locked, your fic has been scraped and added to this database.

I have been trying to hold off on archive locking my fics for as long as possible, and I've managed to get by unscathed up to now. Unfortunately, my luck has run out and I am archive locking all of my current and future stories. I'm sorry to my lovelies who read and comment without an account; I love you all. But I have to do what is best for me and my work. Thank you for your understanding.

[littlewormgrant]

Where's my Breakfast?

Oil on Panel 30x30 cm

Artist: Daniel Arthur

[littlewormgrant]

I love this because like 99% of this kind of paleoart is patriarchal Man the Hunter type fantasies but these guys are just like “fuck it we’re outta here”

[littlewormgrant]

Looking for a sensitivity reader for a soft fic!

I wanted to know if anyone is interested/available to help me out as a sensitivity reader?

The Dune fic I’m currently writing focuses on a marriage between Paul Atreides and Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, but the subplot of it is that Paul is a trans man. With it being my first time writing a trans character, I want to make sure I am giving him and the story the respect they deserve.

The aim of the story is to write a soft FeydPaul where Feyd defends his marriage to Paul and they overcome any obstacles that happen to come up.

I have the first chapter written up (1.4k words). I’d be more than happy to edit/read/review some of your fic in exchange if you’d like something in return for your help. Heck, I'd even write a fic for you. Anything to show my gratitude!

Thank you for reading 🥹💕

[littlewormgrant]

Ty for the tag moonie! This was so fun to do, if you're looking for me, you'll find me outside playing with the frogs 🤣

No pressure tags: @winniethewife @ominoose @my-secret-shame @cecildennis @faretheeoscar

picrew chain time!! make yourself a cheeky little icon using this picrew, reblog & tag ur pals!! to start us off: @lightyaoigami @lightyakami @deelavis @dreamfilleddonuts @catboymettaton @vorareromantic @queer-omens-in-the-archives

[littlewormgrant]

Manip I'd made for Feyd-Rautha x Harkonnen Fem!Servant fanfic: A Little Of Nothing

[littlewormgrant]

Don’t mind me, imma sneak in some fics of mine I think you might like

I need a Hero (but not that one) (steven x reader) (SFW Fanzine) is from the perspective of reader running their own store in NYC, in comes this masked lunatic and some invisible threat only he can see. What else can you do besides reach for a bag of chips?

Aftercare 🥵 (jake x fem!reader) is my most popular one here on Tumblr. It’s the aftereffects of Marc doing the deed. I love the little nicknames Jake comes up with and how sweet he is when he’s got it BAD for reader. There’s an underlying complicated relationship but a softness in it all the same.

Uncomplicated (jake x fem!reader) with his guard still up he's trying to connect with reader. Jake wants to love but hasn’t quite figured it all out just yet. Love isn’t always easy, but you make it work with the right person. Also new rule: no guns in the fish tank.

Rainy Day 🥵 (steven x fem!reader) is my most popular one on AO3. Who wouldn’t love Steven on a rainy day? Leans into femdom and Steven being a cute goober.

Happy Simple Normal Life (little steven & marc) snippets of Steven’s childhood. Marc always tried to give him the best of it. Steven gets lost in an aquarium and it’s Marc that helps him through it. Love the boys interactions in this one. Always did melt my heart seeing Marc calming Steven. This is my favorite fic of that gentle soul that's all rough around the edges.

Top Notch Banter (marc & steven) this absolute bonkers satire fic that got way more attention than I’d anticipated it getting. Plays on the cheeky nando’s shitpost with Steven driving Marc nuts--with good reason might I add! I love the concept of Steven being a personification of a British person, so a lot of his mannerisms are mimicked from media. This will always tickle me: “What are you saying?? You’re not even British? Have you picked this up off the internet?”

[littlewormgrant]

Hey! Moon Knight fans!

As of March 30th, it has officially been three years since the MCU show aired on Disney+. In the time since, the fandom has grown and shrunk and people have come and gone, but there are so many people who have stuck around or been touched by it all the same. As such, I’ve made a short form to collect just… thoughts and comments. Anonymously. About what the show meant/means to you. Have you met friends through it, discovered a new hobby, found out things about yourself, met a partner, or was it just there for you as an interest in a dark time, etc? You can say as much as you’d like to or as little.

I’ll be making a post compiling answers to this form at the end of the week, just as a retrospective type thing, so please leave something here if you have things to say, and share it with others who may have been touched by or had feelings about the show!

[littlewormgrant]

Looking forward to writing alongside some lovely folk ♥

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧!

Click here to apply as a writer and/or artist.

The Folklore and Fairytale fan zine for Oscar Isaac characters is now taking contributor applications! The forum will remain open until April 13th.

[littlewormgrant]

It's so strange seeing Khonshu being reasonable but knowing it's all a manipulation! Very well done, ty for writing this 👏

Something Stronger

Summary: After losing the scarab to Harrow after an attack, you know that you’re in it for a scolding with Khonshu.

Warnings: Gender ambiguous reader (the reader’s gender/pronouns are never mentioned or used but Khonshu does refer to them as “Starlight” which could be seen as a feminine nickname but it doesn’t have to be) Reader is Moon Knight. Reader is Marc other sibling in the canon of this blurb. References to the incident in the cave and the addition of Marc actually dying, implication of suicide and ideation in the past, Khonshu being emotionally manipulative towards the reader and crossing boundaries but then being nice to the reader (classic manipulation). Relationship can be seen as either platonic or romantic but they’re meant to be vaguely Phantom of the Opera inspired in dynamic.

Author’s Snip: I made up a whole lore for this blurb and I want to go crazy and go nuts but I must hold back or else I’ll end up making another series and this will take fucking forever.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

Word Count: 763

"Starlight," you heard him echo out.

That was his name for you.

He rarely called you by your actual name. Unless he was displeased with you and your failure with missions. It was always "Starlight" or "my knight", occasionally even "my starlight". But even then, they were mixed bags, sometimes they were for scolding or warning.

You felt like it was one of those occasions when you found that Harrow had the scarab instead of it being on you when you managed to escape his trap, and so you cringe.

"I swear, I had it..." you mutter, "I'm sorry." you sigh.

"But you don't. He has it," he says plainly, but you can feel the disappointment.

You finally turn back to look at him, hanging your head down in shame, but still looking up. "I know," you say somberly.

"But I can get it back," you say as you look up quickly. "I can find him and get it back from him and hide it," you explain as you walk towards him, trying to reason with him, or maybe with yourself.

"I was weak and I made a mistake. A big mistake. But I can fix it. I swear," you plead.

"This is a colossal mistake, my knight. I figured that you were stronger and more cunning than to make a mistake like this. Far stronger and smarter than those boys." Khonshu said.

"Please don't talk about them," you beg, but in a more defensive tone. "They have nothing to do with this. What happened that day was a horrible tragedy and what Marc did after was a result of the things that happened after. Neither of them have anything to do with this moment. And you know that, Khonshu." you say. "So don’t you dare do that now and call him weak. Please." you plead again.

You feel the tears that you didn't even feel forming in your eyes falling. You break your eyes away and bring your head down in order to wipe them away. You sense the tension of the atmosphere lift and Khonshu speaks, this time more softly.

"I did not mean to make you cry, my starlight," he states softly and he slowly reaches his hand out to wipe one of the tears off your cheek and tilts you head up more to look at him again. "But with how large of a consequence this will have now, I would rightfully have my doubts," he explains.

“I will say that you both had such great potential to me that I figured would outweigh your flaws. But I suppose some of your flaws would outweigh everything for some of you and proved too much.” Khonshu continues. “I would have preferred if Marc had been a little stronger and continued on, however. I believed that the role of being my Moon Knight would be hard on you and thought it was a shame when I was left with not choice but to choose you.” he says.

He mentions this a lot. About how Marc was originally supposed to go on and work with him rather than you, but because Marc… because something happened and Marc never got the chance and never did, he had to give the offer to you and you were given the choice.

You regret it sometimes. Especially when he makes you do things that you don’t want to do like take people out and do whatever it takes to get things “done right”. But without him you have nothing and no one. Your brothers are long gone and you’d rather die yourself than ever have to go back home. To you there is no home anymore. Just your dad trying to convince you to move on like he wasn’t also part of the problem. You also felt like in a way he’s always been there for you. At least, once he made his choice on you, he was. He was there for you after Marc died. He was always there to talk you out certain incidents of your own. He made sure you had all the power and strength you’d ever need on missions and would guide you when you were lost. He forgave you when you made mistakes and re-prove yourself to him again, like now.

"Now, enough tears. We have a long way to go if we want to get the scarab back, and you need all your strength for it." he says as he draws back.

You nod and move along.

You won’t mess up this time. You can’t mess up this time.