#i have been here for years and i am still wondering

[johnbrand]

Recycling

I watched as the next employee entered the chamber. He appeared a bit confused, probably having expected a conference room rather than the dark space with mirrored walls. By the look of it, he had no idea that any one of the panes were one-sided, hesitantly fidgeting with his tie as he announced his presence with a timid “Hello?”

I leaned into the microphone, “Good afternoon.” The nervous boy’s eyes dashed around the room, trying to identify the person speaking to him. His physical characteristics and mannerisms resembled a mouse, small and skittish.

“Am I supposed to be here?” he eventually replied, choosing the speaker above my viewpoint as his receptor.

“Yes, this is the meeting to discuss your annual review.” I replied. “You're in the right place, Mr. Donson. Would you like for me to refer to you by your given name?”

The boy shuffled anxiously, “Drayton is fine.”

Habitually, I continued. “I’m sure you're wondering why your annual review this year is different from those in the past. Don’t worry Drayton, you are still one of our top performers, and your review reflects your incredible performance.”

Feeling a delicate surge of confidence, Drayton let a smile sneak up onto his lips. Being clean shaven and still holding some baby fat, it frankly was quite endearing. Cute even.

“As you are already aware, our company has been having some financial issues recently. And as a high-ranking official in our accounting department, I am sure that you are more than knowledgeable on the details of this subject.”

Drayton’s youthful glee faltered for a moment.

“Unfortunately, we do not have the funds available to keep you on board and give you a raise,” I started. “The company would like to offer you a deal: in exchange for accepting a substandard review and a 19% decrease in pay, we will offer you external benefits.”

Shock emerged from Drayton’s face, “What benefits would be worth a fifth of my paycheck?”

“Unfortunately I am liable to disclose that information,” I robotically replied. “You can either accept or tender a resignation.” 

Drayton took a moment to decide, just like all the other employees typically did. But eventually, they all convinced themselves that losing employment at the company was the worse of the two options.

“I’ll accept.”

“Stand by.” I followed procedure, locking the exits and airways into the chamber. Once that was done, I began flipping the switches. Steam mechanisms, followed by audio machines, followed by visual projectors. I did not even pay attention to the squabbling accountant, panicking as his chamber was bombarded with smoke, abrasive phonics, and commands that flashed against the walls and reflected into every corner of the room. 

Thanks to the padding in my control room, I absorbed none of it. I simply ignored Drayton’s screams and opened my laptop, getting back to my own duties as the process did its work. With all the vapors, I typically could not witness any of the changes that happened anyway–which also meant I could never attest to possible allegations if our company did ever come under some sort of legal fire in the future. But sometimes I did spot little things, flashes of commands that were being ingrained into the employee. MASCULINE, TRADITIONAL, ATTENTIVE. The small letters would pulse by an instant, although they were meaningless to me within my enclosed accommodations.

Eventually, my timer went off, and I closed out of the procedure. I exited the program and flipped the switches back over, shutting off all stimulatory mechanisms. It took a moment for the smoke to clear, presenting me with a new version of the employee. More muscular, more masculine, and more virile.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Donovan?”

"It’s Donson, boss." The man stood tall, stoic. His voice now held much more depth and presence.

"It’s Donovan, Drake Donovan,” I affirmed. “That's what's in our system."

I watched the man process this, the command’s installation literally visible behind his now less-intelligent eyes. 

“I see you were able to find part of your new uniform already.” I was referring to the briefs and sweatshorts that were covering the lower half of Drake’s much larger body. The remnants of the former business casual outfit were scattered across his large feet. “The closet behind you will contain the rest of your attire. Company fitness uniforms and approved footwear that will better fit your size and new position.”

“New position?” Drake inquired, his question curious rather than interrogative.

“The company has decided to reassign you as a security liaison, seeing as that will be a better fit for your paygrade.” I typed away at my reviewal report, adding in details of Drake’s benefits package. Increase in height, dramatic increase in musculature, increase in hair, increase in virility…

To save money, the company liked to recycle its employees. We would bring in fresh graduates to run our corporate operations, and then once they hit their pay ceiling, recycled them into more manual, less intellectually-driven roles. Naturally, no one ever filed any complaints about this procedure as no one realized it existed. And even if they did, they would no longer have the brains capable to file such a complaint.

“Sounds good, boss,” Drake replied, even though I had already known what his answer was going to be. With his dominating size and brutish stature, Drake had been remodeled into the standard male form that we needed for our team. And with this mind simplified to only focusing on traditional objectives (upholding masculinity, working out, fulfilling his role), Drake was now bound to solely focus on the company’s objectives. Thanks to the recycling process, our company would keep the profits high and the employee turnover low. And now, Drake would remain entertained without the extra money by merely following orders and enjoying the simpler things in life, like flexing his muscles.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Ace Trappola: Trouble, that Trappola

Wow, different pjs??? I wonder if each student will truly have unique sleepwear or if it’ll be like “everyone in the same dorm has similar sleepwear, just recolored and with a different motif”. I’ve been laughing about how Ace is dressed and posed, it’s very… Justin Bieber-coded. His bedhead though, it reminds me of Sylvain from FE3H.

Fun fact, I have an irl friend that has the same birthday as Ace... Therefore, I am legally obligated to celebrate it with them/j This year, we're going to an Alice in Wonderland-themed afternoon tea, which I think is very appropriate for Ace! Aaaaaah, My Alice in Wonderland-loving heart can’t take it 😭

Rise and Shine!

He was having a pleasant dream.

There was a path, and the longer he walked on that path, the more the scenery morphed into nonsense.

First was a forest full of twisting turns, colorful signs that pointed this way and that. There was mewing coming from the trees overhead, but every time he looked, he’d find no one there.

Next was a field of progressively bigger and bigger plants. The flowers had faces set in them, and they taunted Ace as he passed. He had plucked the underside of a mushroom cap and chomped down on it. A mistake—Ace had an out-of-body experience, ballooning to the size of a giant and then back to his regular size.

Then he washed away in a sea of tea, spilling from a gigantic glass bottle labelled Drink Me. He swam with the sugar cubes drifting in the fragrant rapids. He caught a current of milk and rode it past trees of chocolate. A dollop of grape jam had dropped down from a branch and landed on his nose.

When Ace, at last, fished himself out of the tea, he was left sticky, skin caked in sugar. As he made to wring his clothes of Darjeeling, he spotted an iced cookie by his feet. Eat Me, it said. There was a trail of them, confections dotting the road ahead in a neat trail. He had followed it—followed until the cookies became crumbs and he was left wandering in a white void, a blank canvas.

Wandering… wandering… where?

Just as that question cropped up like an unwanted weed in an otherwise flawless lawn, a soft sound tickled his ear.

Someone was calling his name.

Who is it…?

He picked up his pace. A casual stroll to a speed walk, then a speed walk into a jog, a job into a run, then a run into a full-on sprint.

"I'm coming! I'm coming already, darn it!!" Ace shouted into the blinding white. "I'm coming, so...!!"

Wait for me. I'll meet you there.

I'll definitely, definitely...!!

His eyes snapped open.

He was lying on his back, wrapped up in his comforter and staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom. Ace blinked several times, slowly adjusting to the sunlight that was spilling in through drawn curtains. A groan escaped him--it was too early for this.

“Mmm… What time is it?” He rolled over in a groggy daze, reaching for his phone. It was still connected to a charger, but it snapped right out of its socket when Ace jolted up. "WHAT?!"

The time, it couldn't be correct. But the line of text messages in his history confirmed the building dread in his stomach.

Gm, Ace! I'll be over soon. Cya then.

I'm here!

Hey, are you up? It's 10 minutes past.

Did you stay up late talking to your bro and sleep through your alarm again?

Hellooooo?

I'm gonna leave without you if you don't come out in 5 minutes.

"Crap, I'm running late!!"

Ace leapt out of bed and flew across his room. The comics and magazines littering his mattress scattered to the floor, but he didn't stop to pick them up.

He moved like lightning, hurriedly dressing and rushing into the communal washroom. While he brushed his teeth with one hand (lest he face the wrath of his vice dorm leader), he teased out his hair with the other. After splashing his face with water (who was going to clock him, Vil?), Ace scribbled on his signature heart, grabbed his backpack, and slipped into his sneakers.

He had his technique down pat thanks to years of practice.

Ace bolted down the hall, stuffing a protein bar into his mouth as he cleared the door. The day greeted him--and so did you, glancing up from your own phone.

"There you are! You kept me waiting, wise guy," you lectured him. It wasn't anything serious--not like his dorm leader's lengthy tirades--just paling around.

"Excuse you," Ace huffed, running a hand through his hair, "I'm fashionably late. There's a difference."

You laughed. Typical of him to always have a snappy comeback prepared.

"Well, c'mon then, fashionably late loser," you urged, playfully nudging his arm, "or we'll both be tardy."

"We'll be late, but at least we'll be late together," he grumbled, nudging you back. "That's fine by me. Wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to be stuck in a room with ya for the afternoon."

"That's a weird way of describing detention with Crewel-sensei."

"What can I say? I'm a poet," he shrugged, letting his sarcasm drip like thick nectar. "Besides, I can't leave you hangin'."

"No?" Your eyebrows hitched. "Funny, cuz I clearly remember you ditching me for cleaning duty on the first day of classes. I almost thought you had left for class without me today too."

"Oi, that was then and this is now! Come on, do you really think I'd do that to you? Me? Really?"

"Absolutely," you said without missing a beat.

"Pfft. You're so wrong about that." He rolled his eyes. "If you were really that worried that I'd gone without you, you could've poked your head in to check on me."

You frowned. "That'd mean I'd have to go into your room."

"So? I've been over at your place and in your room before. What's the big deal? You'd just be returning the favor."

He leaned in, so close that your noses almost touched. Your heart stood still. The corners of Ace's mouth lifted into a smirk. It suited him well, loathe as you were to admit it.

"Or is it that you're being shy?" he asked in a singsong. "Prefect 🎵"

"I-I'm not!" you squeaked, stepping back to put distance between the two of you. "Quit assuming things, Ace! This is why you're so annoying."

"And who is it that's decided to hang out with my 'annoying' ass, huh?" he countered smoothly.

"Urgh...! Maybe I shouldn't have wasted my time waiting for you to get ready after all..." you muttered, turning away from him. "My morning would be way more peaceful without you."

"Way less interesting too," he quipped--getting in the last word.

You shook your head, but didn't bring yourself to argue. However meddlesome his tongue was, he had spoken the naked truth.

He's trouble, that Trappola.

[jolapeno]

✨ jolapeno turns three today 🥹

(or undercoverpena, mvtthewmurdvck - however you've come to know me)

no matter when i stumbled into your dash, whether through my bucky barnes stage, daredevil, the umbrella academy, daredevil again, call of duty, daredevil again again, narcos, triple frontier, the last of us, the mentalist, the mandalorian and likely back to daredevil again, thank you. not just for the laughs, or the notes; the kudos or the asks, but for being here when it's been cloudy and stormy. thank you for reading the things my brain comes up with and urging it to continue.

i started as a person who didn't know if she could tell stories and I'm now a person who loves to tell stories. even with the lows, this has still been a place I've felt super happy to be a part of, and I'm so grateful that so many of you have stuck around (or allowed me to forcibly drag you from fandom to fandom).

i wish i could go back and tell three-years-ago-jo that in two years she'll have friends she couldn't go a day without speaking to. i wish i could see the look on her face when i told her that she'll have written not one story, but countless romance stories after never thinking she'd be able to do it again. so thank you, for being here, for reading and supporting, for cheering me on and also being my friend. i love you all lots. (sorry not sorry for being a mush)

some special thank you's to just some people who inspired great things in me, who have seen my work when it hasn't been as polished as when it's posted and not judged me for my random misspellings or crazy dyslexia.

even when i didn't think i could do it, you all did. so thank you. to my friend aish, who held my hand through late night texts (which allowed me to find my tuesday sister @goodwithcheese without who i cannot humanly go a day without now). without @eupheme we'd never had had din going around the universe, without you telling me i could do it. and if not for @tonysopranosrobe we'd never had me writing outbreak joel who just can't keep his hands to himself and even more joel's since then. to the wonderful @secretelephanttattoo who inspired and cheered me on for do me yourself (it wouldn't have existed without you) i am amazed by you all the time. and to @luxurychristmaspudding for fancying the pants of frankie and blue so much we're still not sure who we're choosing, for helping me cull the ideas and holding my extra 'S' with all the love in the world. and @toomanytookas for being a sounding board when i change plot three times and not judging me.

and last but no means least, my panda, the girl i have trekked on a train for even if i hate trains, @thetriumphantpanda you don't just inspire great things in me, but make me do great things. your honesty and care with my heart and work is never taken for granted and if you're not crying as you read this, what the living fuck hahaha.

[chxrryhxrt]

Draw stars around my scars, part 2 - Remus Lupin x Female Reader

Read part 1 here!

Synopsis: Many weeks had passed since the most recent full moon, yet James and Sirius still will not let you see Remus. What could they be hiding?

Warnings: angst, fluff at the end, swearing, mentions of injuries

After you made your visit to Remus that night, things briskly returned to the way they had been: him locked away in the infirmary, still recovering, and you left to your own devices, with only homework and classes to keep you occupied.

The feelings of betrayal and confusion did not come and go with the days as you might expect – rather they flooded you, engulfing every facet of your life and though you knew it was pitiful, you could not find it within yourself to just ‘get over it’. This was the advice Sirius had insightfully bestowed upon you when he found you in the common room the morning after, clearly having heard about the altercation from Remus himself.

It was common knowledge that Sirius was not the most well-versed in emotions – you could ask anyone on campus, and they would be able to tell you that, but that was not what upset you about his ‘pep talk’.

What did it for you was that Remus had spoken to Sirius about you. You were aware it sounded silly, but who were you if not the person that Remus shared everything with? You had been there for him in fourth year when he got a low score on his potions exam, consoling him and vowing to keep it a secret between the two of you. Ever since you learnt of his lycanthropy, you had spent the days after full moons making sure that he was comfortable and safe.

In essence, you knew everything there was about Remus Lupin, and in turn, he knew everything about you. So, to find out that he had just shared your private business with Sirius, it hurt. You did not care if they were best friends: it hurt – plain and simple.

Despite all of this, you pushed through, burying it in the confines of your heart and focussing on school.

Now a week on, your feet carried you to class, sending echoes down the corridor with each strike of your shoes against the worn stone ground. Almost late, you rounded the corner to your lesson, hurried pace unfaltering – until you heard a familiar voice up ahead.

Getting closer now, he came into your view, standing outside the room with Professor McGonagall.

“I am assured you understand the work you must catch up on?” She inquired, shuffling a small stack of paperwork together, before passing them over to the boy opposite her.

“Yes, Professor,” he smiled, accepting the sheets into his hands, “I’ll try to have it all finished by the end of the week.”

“Wonderful, I do hope that you’re feeling better.” She turned on her heel, passing through into her classroom, leaving Remus alone and you standing at the other end of the corridor.

His gaze flickered over, noticing the fidgeting of your silhouette in his periphery. As his eyes met your own and his hand shakily rose to obscure his lower face, the air in your throat hitched and your brows knitted together. 


You remained like this for a short, bittersweet moment – relieved to see that he was doing okay, although confused as to why he was shielding his face, but still indescribably agonised as you recalled what had happened the last time you saw him.

Rashly deciding that you could not bear to stay put any longer, lest you say something to him, you resumed your dash down the hall and ducked past Remus, into the classroom and collapsed in your seat, books firmly thudding onto the ink-stained table.

Only seconds after your loud entrance, he slipped in too, sitting wedged between Sirius and James on the other side of the room.

As you spent the next sixty minutes jotting down notes on transfiguration, the sound of quills on parchment and Professor McGonagall’s lecture filled the class. Though you tried to concentrate, thoughts of Remus incessantly flooded the forefront of your mind.

Upset as you were, you could not help but yearn to see his face entirely again. He had become a familiar pillar in your life over the years at Hogwarts, with there almost never being a day where he was not by your side. Having not seen him properly since before the full moon was slowly killing you.

Awkwardly, your neck twisted around, cracking slightly as you leant back to peer behind the Hufflepuff seated next to you. There he was: hunched over his desk, scrawling away, ever the academic. Continuing to stare, you took in his slightly dishevelled appearance. His sleeves were pulled as far down as they could go, yet bandages still managed to peek out of the bottoms. His hair was flecked with gold, falling messily over his forehead like always, except a new pink ribbon of a scratch descended from his hairline, travelling diagonally down across his face. The wound finished just above the corner of his mouth, which twitched as he paused to think.

Placing your palms onto your table, you braced yourself to quietly turn back around. Success almost befell you, but alas, James caught sight of you at the last moment, reaching behind Remus to prod Sirius, gesturing silently towards you.

Scoffing, you snatched up your pen and prepared to carry on with your note taking.

Having gotten a good look at him, you found it easy to hazard a guess at the cause of his hostility that night in the infirmary. Never in your six years of knowing Remus Lupin did you get the impression that he was self-assured, confident, or felt anything other than insecure. So, you could safely assume that this new scar was the source of several new insecurities itself.

Either way, just because he was feeling glum did not give him an excuse to be rude to you. Not when you had blatantly expressed your unconditional love for him and worked so tirelessly to bring communication into your relationship.

You told Lily this currently, the two of you curled up on a twin pair of armchairs in the Gryffindor common room.

“I completely agree,” she sympathised, tucking her feet underneath her, “if James spoke to me like that, we would be having some serious words.”

“I’m really glad you understand,” you smiled tightly, running your fingers through your hair, “I just feel like, insanely petty? I do want to talk to Remus, but I want it to be him that initiates the conversation, not me.”

“I hate for my advice to be so useless, but I think he just needs time. He really does care for you, he’ll come around eventually.” She leant forward in her seat to place a hand on your forearm, soothing the skin there in a show of comfort.

Aware that she was right; you nodded and hummed your agreement.

“If it’s any consolation, James said that Remus has been a miserable old bag since he had that go at you,” Lily offered, retracting her arm back into her lap. You supposed it did help a little, to know that he was feeling awful too.

“Actually, that’s a relief to hear-“ you went to respond, but found yourself interrupted as James bolted into the common room, calling your name.

Unsure of what to do with yourself, you shot the girl opposite you a panicked look – debating between either running away or hiding somewhere nearby. Anyone who was anyone knew that when James Potter came knocking, it did not end well.

Too caught up in planning an escape route, you were soon hunted down by the boy, as you looked up to see a second year pointing in your direction. Scowling, you accepted your fate and sat up rigid in your chair, preparing yourself for what was to come.

He patted the younger student on the back as thanks and picked his pace back up, lightly jogging towards you both.

‘Hi Lily.” He simpered; eyes full of adoration as he glanced at her. “Sorry to interrupt you two lovely ladies, but I need you to come with me really quick.” He huffed, out of breath, as his gaze shifted over to your figure.

Although he lacked his usual mischievous smirk, you remained apprehensive to place any trust in him. Whilst he had not done anything wrong himself, he was friends with Remus, who decidedly had done something very wrong. So, you were almost obligated not to follow him, simply by proxy.

It seemed that he could tell what you were thinking, as his hands clasped together in front of him, and he began to do what could only be described as begging.

“Please,” he started, shaking his arms at you, “it’ll be like, ten minutes maximum. I just need you to come help me with some,” he looked away, “homework.”

Still unconvinced, you looked back over to Lily, who only contributed a small shrug to the conversation. You both knew James well, and you both knew he would not leave unless forced. In this moment, you realised your only real choice was to do what he asked, because Merlin knows you were not in the mood to physically remove your best friend’s boyfriend from the room.

You reluctantly peeled yourself off the armchair, trailing behind as he led the way.

 In the back of your mind, you knew that he did not need help with his homework. Even though he and Sirius spent most of their free time pranking other pupils, they rarely struggled with the workload given to them by teachers. It was a miracle really, that either of them should even be passing classes, let alone excelling in them.

As the pair of you passed through the dimly lit hallways, evening moonlight poured through the windows, offering slightly more illumination than the sconces could on their own. There was a soft pattering of people hurrying by, headed to the Great Hall for dinner.

You wove between the bustling crowd, being taken deeper into the East Wing. You neared the less frequently used classrooms and began to wonder what James truly needed from you. It clearly was not help with academics, since you could have assisted him with that back in the common room.

He came to a halt outside a room you had never noticed before, its door tucked tightly between the cobbled pillars that sat on each side. His palm reached out, face up and his fingers wiggled unbecomingly.

“Before we go inside, I need you to give me your wand,” he urged, hand writhing even more as he posed his request.

You began to pull your wand out of your pocket, but a wave of sanity washed heavily over you, clutching it firmly in your fist.

“Why do you need it?” you pried, suspicions rising rapidly.

“Doesn’t matter,” he tried, hand making a grabby gesture, “I just need it.”

“Well, that’s not a good enough reason, is it?”

“Just,“ he lunged at you, successfully swiping the wand from your grip, “give it here!”

Left bewildered and frustrated by the childish grin that adorned his face, you huffed. You did not remain like this for long however, as James grabbed your hand and pulled you into the room with him, hinges screeching as the door opened and shut behind you.

The new surroundings were underwhelming. Desks lined the sides of the room, pushed up against the walls, dust sheets draped over them. There were few windows, leaving the area significantly darker than the corridor you had just found yourself in. Apart from this, the room was virtually empty – except for Remus and Sirius, who stood front and centre, Remus with a dejected look on his face, and Sirius with an irritatingly smug one.

Obviously proud with himself, he stepped forward, standing assertively between you and Remus, clearing his throat obnoxiously.

“You’re probably wondering why I gathered you all here today,” he announced to the chamber, “and I can tell you, it’s because I am absolutely exhausted with Moons here being a pain in my arse.”

Even in the poor lighting, you saw a frown flicker across his features at that, but he did not try to protest it.

“Just ‘cause you two are having a lover’s tiff-“ he pointed accusatorily at the both of you, “-does not mean that poor old James and I need to suffer as well.”

He started to move towards the exit, pulling his wand out of his pocket.

“I’m going to lock this door, and we’re going to leave the two of you to make up,” he explained slowly, “we’ll come back in an hour – if you guys haven’t sorted it out by then, we’ll leave you here until the morning, which means no dinner for either of you.”

It was normally hilarious when he got like this, all attitude and condescension, but the idea of being locked away with Remus overshadowed the funniness of the moment, and you contemplated begging to be let out.

Your mind raced with confliction. As much as you wanted a chance to speak with Remus, you had wanted it to be of his own volition. Locking him away and forcing him to speak with you felt a little unfair. Then again, you were not the one who planned this elaborate scheme.

Neither of you had the chance to say anything, as Sirius and James swiftly left the room, the door clicking shut behind the pair of them.

Not seeing the use in delaying it any longer, you turned to face Remus properly for the first time in over a week and a half. He offered a small smile, clearly finding this just as awkward as you did.  

“Um,” he mumbled, looking away from you.

You felt daft, as if you lacked a backbone, because that was all it took for you to begin to empathise with him again. Even though the derelict class had little to no light in it, he still could not bring himself to risk showing you his new scar, worried you would hate it - hate him.

Though you loved him dearly and would not change a thing about him for the world, you only wished he could be more confident in himself. He was nothing but gorgeous and you intended on telling him that right now.

“I saw your new scar,” you jumped straight in, noticing how his body stiffened, “I think it suits you – gives you a rugged look, it’s nice, kind of handsome, too.”

Only semi convinced, he turned to meet your gaze, responding with a shy, “You think so?”

“I know so,” you beamed, overjoyed to be talking to him again.

“That’s really kind of you to say, considering I was so rude to you,” he admitted.

You chose to let him continue, anxious to see what else he had to say.

“I just- I just wasn’t ready for you to see me, especially not like that, all bandaged up and helpless,” he swallowed thickly, “but I know that doesn’t mean I can just run around being a dickhead the people I love, I’m really truly sorry.”

You stepped closer, reaching your hands out for his.

“I should’ve respected your privacy, Rem, I’m sorry too.”

His arms tugged you in closer, enveloping you in a tight embrace with his palms running lengths along your back.

"It’s okay, next time I’ll tell Sirius and James to be honest about it with you, instead of letting them make up silly excuses,” he chuckled slightly.

“Actually, that did upset me a bit.”

“What did? The excuses?”  

“No,” you paused for thought, “when you told Sirius about our little spat, I don’t know, I just felt a bit betrayed, usually I’m the one you tell everything to and I wasn’t used to Sirius knowing all this stuff about us,” you answered honestly, voice soft and gentle as not to break the tranquil moment.

“Oh, you’re so sweet, aren’t you?” he replied, no malice in his tone, just humour as his palms moved to hold your face, “you’re my number one – always have been, always will be.”

His eyes searched yours, and in that instant, you knew everything would be okay.

Tags:

@moonpascaltoo @wonderlandwalker @simp-for-fiction @allllium @too-lameforyou @kenqki @queenanababy @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @tomsspidermangf @777heavengirl @oyeahwatchme @maccapacks

Tagging some people who I think might be interested in part 2! Thank you so much for reading 🫶🫶

[nonsensology]

I hope everyone had a great summer! I myself was busy with summer reading and visiting libraries. To get back into art, I drew the boys having their own summer reading fun. I thought it would be cool to have them both reading Oz books; Lumpy is reading the original Wonderful Wizard of Oz (aimed at children), while Flippy is reading Was by Geoff Ryman, an adult re-examination of Oz (I've owned a copy I found secondhand for a couple years now and finally got around to reading it). 

I didn't love Was as much as I wanted to, but I still thought it was fascinating to read, even if it does end on a bittersweet, if not outright depressing, note. Also, I personally think Was is more engaging to read than Gregory Maguire's Wicked. That said, I am still looking forward to seeing the movie version of Wicked later this year. (I can't wait for the full version of their cover of Defying Gravity to be released.)

Also, I almost forgot that it's currently Banned Books Week (September 22-28, 2024). Here's a (not-so) fun fact, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz has been banned at various times since its publication for a variety of silly reasons, including but not limited to: being “untrue to life”, depicting women in strong leadership roles, and promoting "godless supernaturalism". Anyway, this is your friendly recommendation to read more banned books.

[onlymurdersintheafterparty]

OMITB S4:E5 "Adaptation"

We're at the halfway mark and I feel like fans with a Hercule Poirot or Sherlock Holmes type of IQ could solve the mystery by now but I am not one of those fans so I'm just here to recap and debunk or strengthen theories I already had. I say this every week but I am truly loving the pacing of this season and that they don't shy away from answering questions early on instead of trying to shoehorn everything in for the season finale. As always spoilers ahead!

Ok so now we officially have confirmation that there are two killers. After circling back to the footprint on the windowsill of the Dudenoff apartment, the tacky paper used on the photoshoot and production room set reveals that the footprint belongs to one of the Brothers sisters. We see that one twin is physically strong enough to lift a body when she lifts Oliver and moves him onto his correct mark. I don't think that necessarily means both twins are involved in the murder though. We also end the episode with that same twin being missing and hearing a gunshot implying that she has been killed. I have been waiting YEARS for a season in which the bodies start piling up and it's finally happening!

This episode was narrated by Marshall the writer and I don't know how to feel about his character. I get that he and Mabel are supposed to be similar in that they both have imposter syndrome but he in general just gives off red flags. He's inserting himself into investigating which is something killers do and him having the fake facial hair introduces the idea of the killers having disguises so clearly he was important to this episode. Not to mention he's giving stalker vibes or parasocial Arconiac vibes. I find it very interesting that Mabel and Charles did not view the video of his stand up to verify his alibi. This could very well mean that he was at the Arconia the night that Sazz was killed. He also never stepped on the tacky paper so we don't have his footprint. That's two strikes against him.

You know who else we didn't see step on the tacky paper? Glen Stubbins. Who is back by the way. I still don't care for his character but I am starting to suspect him. He's physically capable of jumping on the windowsill because he's a stunt performer and for that same reason I'm sure he's also capable of aiming and firing a gun. Also how did he know exactly where Charles lived? They only met the one time at the Stunt Man bar. And yes it's sweet that he brought bread but he could have left it downstairs with Lester. As Ben's stunt double I can't help but wonder if he was present at the Arconia the night of Sazz's murder but in disguise. There's actually a really compelling theory on the hulu subreddit that Glen is the killer if you want to check it out.

Bev actually does have an alibi for that night and seems to only be guilty of wanting her movie made. Can we rule her out just yet? Idk but we'll see. She didn't seem that confident while aiming the gun or firing it off to prove it wasn't loaded. Her revealing Sazz's voicemail and the time it was left definitely proved helpful in establishing a timeline and confirming that there are two killers. Or three if you think it's three people working together.

Howard working for the production team is only strengthening my theory that he's the Moriarty. This man is everywhere! He was working at the theater last season and immersed in the plot there and now here he is in the center of it all once again. Again I don't think he's an evil mastermind, I just think he started off envying the closeness of the trio and now he's high off the power of manipulating things behind the scenes.

Have any of you heard of the opera La Forza Del Destino? In A Series of Unfortunate Events, there is a reference and parallel to it in which a character is mortally wounded after a weapon is accidentally fired off and strikes them. What if the killer was aiming for Charles, saw Sazz dressed similar to him and was aiming to shoot, and the accomplice called to warn them that it was the wrong person but something startled the killer and they accidentally shot Sazz? Like for example they were ready to go and then someone knocked loudly or something which not only muffled the noise of the phone but startled them enough to shoot.

This season has so many parallels and coincidences that we have to assume is on purpose. We've got multiple dopplegangers and cases of mistaken identity, guns being misfired (Eva with Rudy's prop gun and Bev with Sazz's loaded gun), and even the blackout in the S4 premiere vs the fire alarm going off in the S1 premiere.

My small takeaways from the episode:

Mabel being 30 and having an identity crisis is so relatable and I hope she finds her way by the end of the series.

Lester talking about wearing a gimp mask is WILD

Charles mentioning having an account in Belize and Detective Williams pretending to unhear it is hilarious

I'm beyond tired of this Oliver and Loretta plotline and him being insecure about her new status as a celebrity. WRAP IT UP!

Fans keep bringing up the cold case and I wonder if that will become the plot point in season five

Zach Galifianakis telling Oliver about how Jonk (sp?) ran through the seven dwarfs and that they could be heard Hi-Ho'ing from the trailer took me out 🤣

Charles having a new murder board each week is my favorite thing because that's literally all of us fans each week after watching a new episode

Bev and Cinda would be besties or frenemies and I really need to see them in a scene together before the season is over

[closetcasefabray]

jesus saves (i spend)

i have been writing parts of an avatrice college au for two gd years now. the ideas & writing are scattered between here (one of the tags below should work), my whatsapp convos with @snowandwolves, on discord, my dinosaur laptop that crashes, & my email. it’s a fucking disaster but whatever so am i & not once in my life have i had my shit together so this is all unsurprising.

SO what i’m saying is, here’s the only part i have ‘formally’ written in fic form bc i posted that other ficlet. doing this made me almost throw my dino laptop & my phone out a window on several occasions—that’s why there isn’t more. but i just wanna share this.

more notes & rambles at the end.

//

You notice her because it's syllabus week of your freshman year, it's an 8 AM class, and you're fairly confident you're still drunk from the party you attended last night, but she raises her hand and correctly answers a question posed by your theology professor without hesitation. Your professor, Father Vincent, was likely hoping for a good guess at best, but there she is, exceeding expectations from the moment she speaks. You pickup on an accent, which you would find incredibly attractive if you weren't so thrown by her perfect and concise response, like a well-prepared speech is always readily accessible in the back of her mind—a girl with all the answers. A young woman, really. 

You, however, are not—you're just a girl. You're just a girl who shows up to her morning classes smelling like the bar or the house party from the night before, like the weed you started smoking almost immediately upon arriving to university during orientation week, like the cigarettes you smoke because it affords you a little more quiet outside and an excuse to borrow a lighter and talk to a cute boy or a pretty girl.

You're just a girl who technically died, existed in nothingness for a whole minute before being ripped back into a reality of blank ceilings and the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. You're just a girl strangers prayed for after they heard about the American child pulled from the wreckage. You're just a girl who didn't get any credit for teaching herself to stand again, to walk again—and if you’re being completely honest, you’re a girl who’s incredibly bitter that a god you never saw in that one minute got all the credit and none of the blame—for taking your mother from you, for taking years from you that had to be spent healing from god’s grace or lack thereof. 

You're just a girl who is tired of being told to look at her life as an expression of holiness, who thinks it is more so the consequence of indifferent stardust. But you still look for the beauty in that, in humanity and its flaws—these meaningless beings in a vast universe, creating and destroying their own little, myopic worlds on this spinning rock. Some will dream of poetry for their lovers, and some will dream of arsenals to level cities. You wonder how many lips were pressed together in a final kiss versus hands clasped together in prayer when fire fell from the sky in the name of God. You wonder what that says about faith.

You'd like to think if your mother could see you, she'd laugh at the irony because once you were baptized, she never took you to church. God finds a way, so you spent five miserable years in a Catholic orphanage before you were sent back to America. People said you were lucky to have two years in a foster family at your age, but it felt like living with strangers who were tasked with the minimum of keeping you alive. Then you were moved into a home for teen girls with a nun at the helm, and that’s where you actually felt fortunate for the first time in years. It was there that Mother Superion helped you with your studies and college applications. So here you are, tipping into a hangover in one of the oldest buildings on campus, learning theology from a priest.

But your mom would understand. (You don’t remember much of her, and you try not to think about that too deeply, or else you have to deal with the resulting ache that comes from reaching inside yourself for something that’s gone.) You have spliced together what you can recall into a short reel—you mom buckling into your car seat while humming a show tune, showing you how to fold a pizza slice and telling about a city famous for their pizza, and holding your hand in a museum in Spain, promising to take you to another big museum closer to home, the home you never saw again. So you promised yourself and the parts of her you carry that you’d make it here.

You would have had to pay almost full tuition if you wished to attend your reach, requiring immense debt, so you ended up at the school that offered you a ticket to the city and a hefty enough scholarship you could get through four years without requiring loans or a full-time job to afford it. (You first refused to use your mother’s death as a sob story in you application letter, but Mother Superion put her hand on yours and said, So rarely do these letters contain truth, but do not be afraid to tell yours. In telling your truth there is a sadness, yes—and I know you detest pity—but of all the things that have been taken from you, do not feel guilty for taking some of it back to live a better life.) You remember getting your acceptance letter, and looking up at the sky and flipping it off, praying whatever god hears you, No thanks to you!

But your bitterness temporarily takes a backseat in your mind as you look at your classmate, beautiful in the refracted light shining through the stained glass window, speaking so graciously of god you'd think Jesus were in the room, about to hand her his latest work. It's poetry, bordering on scripture in a new tongue, and you'd almost be a believer if it didn't sound as if she had repeated these words—practiced—enough times to believe them herself. You wonder what that says about her faith.

If the nuns at the orphanage had spoken the gospel as she does, maybe you'd be here for different reasons. You're fascinated.

Behold, you are beautiful…

//

i promise this fic gets lighter & has some silliness. so some notes/tangents:

this is 100% self-indulgence bc i heard ‘write what you know’ & ran with that shit. when i visited a friend at a state school in a college town i was so so confused bc it was just a diff campus culture entirely. then i was going to make this set in an ambiguous city, but i literally have saved places in google maps that would be great places to kiss someone sooooo you get NY avatrice.

likely setting this before instagram & smartphones bc i’m old/lazy & i can.

the title is from st. vincent who my friend introduced me to in college. “paris is burning” changed my brain chemistry & so i listened to her music on repeat for ages—“jesus saves, i spend” is on the same album.

father vincent will not be a bad man or evil professor. he will be as he was before adriel—a lost man who found himself through god & still a little broken but caring & devout.

also song of songs/song of solomon is like… the only part of the bible i fucked with in theology class so that’s the reference at the end. also another line used in another scene with JC, chanel, & ava written in v rough form. maybe will share that later.

this is meant to be a fic with a post-grad sequel as well. not much written of that but a lot of ideas everywhere.

once i figure out where i’m moving (hahahaha i’m so stressed), i’ll consider a ko-fi or something (i wish emails & names weren’t shown though). but mostly i will likely need a second job to save up for an actually good computer/macbook. once i have that i’ll be able to post on ao3.

anyway thanks for reading & being here :3

[winxanity-ii]

WASHED UP

ship: odysseus x fem!calypso!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 7.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~) a/n: Y'all forgive me, i have been horrible and abandoned the fandom 😔💔; i swear it wasn't on purpose, i just haven't been bit by the inspiration bug, but nevertheless, here i am getting inspired, so enjoy my twist on odysseus w/ calypso, no worries there will be a prt.2

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The sea spat him out like an unwanted secret. You watched from the cliffs as his body was tossed against the sand, limbs splayed like a broken marionette.

Thunderheads still roared in the distance, but the storm had spent its fury, leaving only the shattered remnants of his ship and the limp figure of its captain.

His first breath on your island was a gasp, harsh and desperate, followed by a violent cough that shook his entire frame. Water poured from his mouth, a relentless cascade as he heaved, clawing at the sand with shaking fingers. He turned onto his side, retching, purging the sea from his lungs.

Each convulsion seemed to rip through him, leaving him weaker, more drained, until he collapsed back onto the shore, chest heaving, eyes shut tight against the grit and salt.

Above, the clouds began to peel away, the black and bruised sky giving way to a faint glimmer of sun.

The wind, once howling, softened to a mournful sigh, as if the island itself pitied him. Waves lapped at his feet, gentle now, apologetic, as if seeking to soothe the very man they had tried to destroy.

His eyelids fluttered open, the sky above a blur of gray and gold. He groaned, the sound raw and broken, the cry of a man who had seen too much, lost too much.

He lay there, sprawled out on the sand, staring up at the heavens with eyes full of disbelief and despair. His voice, hoarse and cracking, clawed its way out of his throat.

"Why?" he croaked, the single word carried away by the wind. "Why do you forsake me?"

He tried to rise, muscles trembling as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked around, taking in the unfamiliar shore, the jagged rocks jutting out like sentinels, the dense forest looming beyond. He was alone—utterly, helplessly alone.

The Gods had abandoned him here, cast him away like a piece of flotsam.

"Have I not suffered enough!?" he shouted, the words rasping against his parched throat. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. "Is this my reward for years of service, for blood spilled and honor upheld?"

The sky remained silent, indifferent to his plea. He dropped his head back onto the sand, teeth gritted in frustration, the last remnants of strength draining out of him.

The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on him like the weight of his failures.

You could almost feel it, that heavy despair that hung around him like a shroud. A warrior undone, not by the sword or the spear, but by the endless, unrelenting cruelty of fate.

You knew that look—had seen it before, in the eyes of those who had washed up on your shores, broken and lost, only to be healed by your touch, only to be bound by your love.

But this one… He was different.

His suffering was like a beacon, bright and piercing, pulling at something deep within you, something you had buried long ago.

And so you watched, unseen and silent, as he lay on the shore, a man shattered, calling out to Gods who would not answer.

You wondered who this man was, what sins he must have committed to be cast into your lonely exile. Another soul, shattered and lost, delivered to you by the cruel whim of fate.

Was this the Gods' twisted sense of humor, to send you the broken, the despairing, and then sit back and watch as you tried, again and again, to piece them together, knowing each time that they would eventually leave, taking a piece of you with them?

It had been that way for as long as you could remember. They arrived on your shores, eyes wide with fear or despair, bodies battered by storms both within and without.

And you, like a fool, took them in, healed their wounds, offered them solace. You let them weave themselves into your heart, into your very soul, only for them to tear themselves free when the time came, leaving you bleeding and hollow.

Was he any different, this man with his piercing eyes and voice full of sorrow? Would he be the one to break you completely? You don't know. But as you turned away from the beach, you couldn't help but feel that this time, the Gods had sent you a different kind of suffering.

You moved through the familiar paths, the underbrush parting easily beneath your feet. It was an old routine, gathering the essentials—just enough to keep them alive until they could find the will to keep themselves going.

Your hands worked mechanically, filling a small basket with a jug of water, a bit of bread, some fish you'd caught that morning. It was more than they ever needed, really. Most of them wouldn't even look at food when they first arrived, the shock still too raw, too immediate.

As you made your way back, the weight of the basket a comforting presence against your hip, you tried to steel yourself for what you would find. But when you reached the beach again, your breath caught in your throat.

He was sitting up now, his back to you, shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world still pressed down on him. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, empty and unfocused, the eyes of a man who had seen too much.

What remained of his clothes clung to him, tattered and soaked through. His armor—what little was left of it—gleamed dully in the fading light. A breastplate, once magnificent, now dented and scarred, a single pauldron hanging by a thread, the gold tarnished and scratched.

The rest had been torn away by the sea, leaving him exposed, vulnerable.

He looked every inch the hero brought low, a man stripped of his glory, left with nothing but his pain and regret. His dark hair clung to his forehead, still damp with seawater, and his hands rested limply on his knees, fingers digging into the sand as if he needed to feel something solid, something real.

You stopped a few paces away, your shadow stretching out before you. He didn't notice. Didn't even flinch. You could see it then, the full extent of his despair, etched into every line of his face, every weary slump of his shoulders.

He was beautiful, in a tragic sort of way, like a statue of a fallen God.

And you knew, as you stood there watching him, that this one would not be easy to heal. This one had a wound that went far deeper than flesh and bone.

You took a step forward, and then another, until you were close enough that your presence cast a shadow over him. He blinked, as if just now realizing you were there, his head turning slowly, eyes lifting to meet yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was heavy, laden with the unspoken, the unknown.

You held out the basket, your heart pounding in your chest. "You need to eat," you said softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves.

He didn't move, just stared at you with those piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to see right through you.

And for a moment, you thought he might refuse. That he might just turn away, let himself be swallowed by the sea again, and you would be left standing there, holding out something that could never be enough.

But then, slowly, he reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he took the jug of water from your grasp.

"Thank you," he murmured, the words rough and uncertain, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time. He took a small sip, then another, his eyes never leaving yours.

You watched him, this broken man, and wondered what kind of suffering had brought him to you.

And what kind of suffering he would bring in return.

The days here had a way of slipping through your fingers, soft and warm like the sands on your island. It was easy to lose track of time, lulled by the rhythm of the waves, the steady pulse of the tides.

You had left him to his own devices, giving him the space he needed to come to terms with whatever fate had led him here. Most of them needed that—time to break down, to cry, to rage at the Gods.

But not this one.

When you returned the next day, basket in hand, you stopped short at the sight before you.

He was shirtless, skin bronzed and gleaming with sweat, muscles taut as he hammered a spike into the ground with a makeshift wooden-mallet. His remaining clothes and battered armor were piled neatly to the side, along with a few other scavenged materials.

The sound of wood striking stone echoed across the beach, a steady, determined rhythm that spoke of purpose.

There was the frame of a hovel half-built, crude but sturdy, the beginnings of a shelter taking shape where there had been only barren sand.

A small pile of freshly caught fish lay nearby, their scales glinting in the sunlight. You could still see the blood on his hands, fresh from gutting and cleaning them. He worked with an intensity that was almost mesmerizing, every movement precise, controlled.

"Wow," you murmured, stepping closer, setting the basket down at your feet. "I'm impressed."

He stilled at the sound of your voice, shoulders tensing as he glanced over his shoulder. Sweat dripped down his brow, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you, assessing.

You gestured to the hovel, the fish, the evidence of his labor. "Most who arrive here are still crying or lost, not knowing what to do with themselves. You're already building shelter."

His eyes sharpened, his expression shifting from guarded to curious, almost suspicious. He straightened, rolling his shoulders, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin as he set the mallet down. "There have been others?"

You snorted softly, crossing your arms as you looked at him. "Of course, there have been others. Did you think you were the first to be sent here?" The question was almost rhetorical, a simple truth that hung in the air between you.

He frowned, his gaze turning thoughtful, troubled. "Where is here?"

You hesitated for a moment, then took a few steps forward, your eyes flicking to the sword he had tossed carelessly to the side, half-buried in the sand. You reached down, your fingers brushing over the hilt. "This is Ogygia," you said, the name slipping easily from your lips, as familiar to you as your own. "A place of exile, for those the Gods have no more use for."

You were still tracing the hilt of his sword, fingers brushing over the worn leather grip when he spoke again, his voice tight and strained. "Is there a way off this island?"

You stilled, your gaze shifting from the sword to him, catching the desperation in his eyes through your lashes. For a moment, you considered lying, spinning some tale of escape, but you’d seen that look before, and you knew what would follow.

"You can try," you said, your voice calm, almost detached as if you'd had this conversation a thousand times before. "But once you get at least five feet from the shore, the waves will rise and destroy whatever you're floating on to pieces."

The truth of your words hung heavy in the air, a quiet certainty that left no room for hope. His face twisted, the anger and helplessness flaring in his eyes as stared at you.

You could see the way his jaw clenched, muscles ticking beneath the stubble on his cheeks, his fingers flexing and unflexing at his sides as if he wanted to hit something, anything.

He turned away, staring at the horizon as if willing it to yield some answer, some solution.

He was the very picture of a man caught in a trap he couldn't break free from.

"Excuse me," you murmured, pushing yourself up from the sand and brushing off your hands, wanting to give him space to process the reality of his situation.

"Wait!"

The word came out sharp, almost desperate, and you paused, glancing back over your shoulder. He was looking at you, really looking, his eyes piercing, searching for something—anything—that made sense of all this.

"Who are you?"

You could feel the laugh bubbling up inside you—a tired, almost bitter sound that you suppressed, forcing your expression into something calm, something almost serene.

It was always the same: this question, the disbelief, the desperate need to know why they were here, why you were here.

"Calypso," you said, the name falling from your lips like a sigh. "Daughter of Atlas and Pleione."

He blinked, the words clearly not the answer he had been expecting. He stared at you for a long moment, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces.

"Calypso," he repeated softly, your name unfamiliar on his tongue. There was a softness to it, a kind of reverence that almost made you want to laugh.

You hummed, a sound low and almost mournful. "Aye, cursed to carry the brunt of my parents' sins."

You saw the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something like pity in his eyes before he looked away, his gaze shifting to the sand at his feet as if he couldn't bear to look at you.

You wondered what it was he saw, whether he saw you as a jailer or just another prisoner in this place of exile.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough, hesitant. "My name is Eperitus," he said, the words slow, deliberate, like he was testing them out. "From a small village in Thessaly."

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly as you watched him. The name meant nothing to you, but the way he said it—the slight hesitation, the almost imperceptible shift in his posture—it was a lie, or at the very least, not the whole truth.

Still, you nodded, as if you believed him, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile. "Very well, Eperitus," you said, the name rolling off your tongue with a hint of amusement. "I suppose I will leave you to it."

His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of suspicion in his gaze, but you didn't give him time to question it. You turned, your bare feet barely making a sound on the sand as you walked away, leaving him there, alone with his thoughts.

You could feel his eyes on your back, the weight of his gaze heavy, but you didn't look back. You had seen this play out too many times before—the hope, the despair, the bargaining with fate.

Each time, it was different, and yet, always the same.

And this man, this Eperitus, whatever name he chose to call himself, was no different.

You just wondered how long it would take him to realize it.

The waterfall cascaded down from the rocks above, the sound a constant, soothing roar that drowned out everything else. The water sparkled in the late afternoon sun, clear and cool as it pooled into the pond below, a hidden sanctuary nestled within the heart of your island.

You stood in the shallow waters, the hem of your white slip floating just above your knees, the fabric clinging to your skin in places where the water lapped gently against you.

The air was sweet with the scent of jasmine and wet earth, the leaves above casting dappled shadows across the surface of the pond.

You hummed softly under your breath, an old song your mother had taught you long ago, a tune that spoke of faraway places and dreams that never seemed to come true.

The melody blended with the sounds of the waterfall, a quiet lullaby that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

It was peaceful here, a place untouched by the outside world, a place where you could almost forget who you were and why you were here. You dipped your hands into the water, scrubbing at a piece of cloth, the rhythm of the motion almost hypnotic.

Then, a sharp crack echoed through the grove, the sound of a branch snapping underfoot. Your head snapped up, your heart skipping a beat as your eyes scanned the treeline.

It took only a moment for your gaze to settle on him, partially hidden behind the bushes, his body frozen in a half-crouch, as if he had been trying to sneak away unnoticed.

"Eperitus?" you called out softly, your voice carrying easily over the sound of the water. He flinched, his eyes wide, a startled, almost guilty look on his face as he straightened up. He took a step back, his gaze darting around as if he were trying to find an escape.

For a moment, you thought he might run, but then he seemed to gather himself, his shoulders slumping slightly as he stepped forward, pushing through the bushes. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. His cheeks were flushed, whether from the heat or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.

You offered him a small, reassuring smile, setting the cloth aside as you turned to face him fully. "It's alright," you said gently, wiping your hands on the slip, the water dripping from your fingers. "I wasn't expecting company, that's all."

He nodded, his eyes flicking to the ground, then back to you, a hesitant, almost bashful look on his face. "I just... I was looking for you," he admitted, his voice barely above a murmur. "I thought I'd, well... check in."

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

It had been a few weeks since your last conversation on the beach, and in that time, you had kept your distance, letting him find his footing, so to speak. He was more self-sufficient than most who ended up here, resourceful and determined in a way that spoke of a man who had spent years fighting to survive.

You had stepped back, observing him from a distance, only intervening when necessary.

You'd seen him sitting on the shore more than once, staring out at the sea with a look in his eyes that made your chest ache. A kind of yearning, a quiet desperation that seemed to pull at something deep inside you.

Other times, you'd found him working tirelessly on his shelter, hammering away at the wooden frame with a focus that bordered on obsession.

You shrugged lightly, the gesture casual, as if it didn't matter to you either way. "You've been doing fine on your own," you said, your tone light, almost teasing. "Didn't think you needed my help."

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile passing over his face before it faded. He glanced down at his hands, rough and calloused, the fingers still smudged with dirt and sawdust. "I wasn't sure if I was... interrupting," he said awkwardly, his gaze flicking back up to meet yours.

You laughed softly, the sound echoing through the grove. "You've been here long enough to know I'm not that easy to disturb," you said, amusement coloring your words. You glanced at him, taking in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the awkwardness that seemed almost out of place on a man like him.

"Besides," you added, your voice softening slightly, "I've been keeping an eye on you. Just to make sure you didn't do anything foolish."

His eyes widened slightly, and you saw a flash of something in his gaze—surprise, maybe, or something close to it. "I've been that obvious, have I?"

You shook your head, taking a few steps closer until you were standing just at the edge of the pond, the water swirling around your waist. "You're not the first to end up here, remember?" you said quietly. "I know the signs."

He looked away, his jaw tightening as he stared at the ground, his hands curling into fists at his sides. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he seemed to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

"I'm sorry." He glanced back at you, his eyes dark with something you couldn't quite name. "I didn't mean to—"

"To what?" you interrupted gently, your gaze softening as you looked at him. "You've done nothing wrong, Eperitus."

He flinched slightly at the name, and you saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes before he quickly looked away. It was almost imperceptible, but you caught it, that brief hesitation, that moment of uncertainty.

You hummed softly, waving him off with a light smile. "No worries," you said, your voice easy and warm. You turned away, wading through the cool water to where the last cloth floated lazily on the surface.

The fabric clung to your fingers as you lifted it, squeezing out the excess water, your movements slow and deliberate. Droplets slid down your arms, glistening like tiny jewels in the fading light as you made your way back to the shore.

Setting the damp cloth gently in the woven basket with the other clean clothes, you straightened, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face. "I was meaning to tell you, there's fresh water here. You can come and bathe; clean up a bit." You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you shifted the basket to the side. "Unless you're the type of Greek who doesn't do that."

He let out a short, surprised chuckle at that, the sound rough and genuine, his shoulders relaxing just a little. But then his laughter died away, the words faltering on his lips as he looked at you.

You stepped out of the pond, the water cascading down your legs, the sunlight filtering through the leaves above, casting a soft, golden glow over your skin. Your white slip clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric almost translucent, outlining the curves of your body in a way that made his breath catch in his throat.

His eyes roamed over you, unbidden, as if drawn by some unseen force. Your smooth, sun-kissed skin glistened with droplets of water, each one catching the light, making you look like you were carved from marble, like a statue come to life.

Your hair, damp and wild, was adorned with small pieces of coral and tiny flowers—a crown of nature's bounty that seemed almost otherworldly.

By Aphrodite's grace…

The thought struck him like a blow, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from letting the words slip past his lips. He watched you, mesmerized, as you moved with an effortless grace, your bare feet barely making a sound on the moss-covered stones.

Every step, every sway of your hips, seemed to pull him in deeper, into a trance he couldn't escape.

You seemed almost unreal, as if the Gods themselves had sculpted you from the very essence of desire.

His gaze lingered on your lips, soft and full, naturally pouty in a way that made his mouth go dry. He thought to reach out and feel the warmth of your skin beneath his fingers, to trace the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck.

He swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming in his ears, his hands clenched into fists at his sides to keep from losing himself completely.

His breath hitched, his mind spiraling, teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something he shouldn't be thinking, shouldn't be feeling.

He had a wife, a son, a home waiting for him, a life he had fought tooth and nail to return to.

Penelope, with her quiet strength and unwavering loyalty, the woman he loved more than life itself.

And yet, here he was, staring at you like a starving man, drinking in every detail, every inch of your body with a hunger that burned in his veins.

It was wrong, all of it, and yet he couldn't look away, couldn't pull himself free from the spell you had woven around him.

You were beautiful, achingly so, and in that moment, he knew he was treading dangerous ground.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he truly felt afraid.

"Eperitus?"

Your voice, soft and lilting, broke through the haze in his mind, snapping him back to reality. You were looking at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, your gaze gentle, curious, your lips curved into the barest hint of a smile.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough and strangled, his eyes wide as if he'd just snatched Persephone from Hades' very arms. He took a stumbling step back, his hands raising slightly as if in surrender, his gaze darting away from you as if your very presence burned him.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice uneven, breaking on the last word. He shook his head, the movement almost frantic, as if he could shake free of whatever spell you had woven around him. "I didn't mean to—I should—I should go."

He gestured vaguely toward the forest behind him, his hands trembling ever so slightly. "Fish," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the word itself was a lifeline, something to hold onto in the chaos of his thoughts. "I need to— I'll go fish. Or forage. Or fix something. Yes, I'll— I'll go do that."

He took another step back, almost tripping over his own feet; his cheeks flushed a deep, mortified red. His eyes flicked back to you, just for a moment, and then away again before hurrying off like a man fleeing the scene of a crime, the ghost of your beauty chasing him, haunting his every step.

You watched him go, an amused smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, its light spilling across the sea in a riot of colors—gold and crimson bleeding into the darkening blue of the water, the water shimmering like liquid gold beneath the dying light.

You sat with your legs curled up beside you on the cliff's edge, the wind whispering around you, soft and cool, tugging gently at your hair as if trying to coax you closer to the edge.

This was your favorite place on the island, the place where the land met the sea, where you could sit and lose yourself in the endless expanse of water and sky. It was where you had seen him, Eperitus—his body limp and broken, washed ashore like so many others before him, another lost soul thrown at your feet by the whims of the Gods.

The ocean stretched out before you, vast and endless, its beauty a cruel mockery of the cage that held you.

For as long as you could remember, this had been your only view, the only sight that had remained unchanged through centuries of exile. The sky, the sea, the stars—eternally bound to this lonely rock, this place that was both your sanctuary and your prison.

The water was so close, just a few feet away, and yet it might as well have been a world apart. You could still feel it, the pull of the tides, the longing that thrummed in your veins, the memory of what it was to be one with the sea.

You sighed softly, your gaze following the path of the sun as it dipped lower, the sky turning from brilliant orange to deep purple.

Once, you had swum through these waters as freely as the dolphins, your body slicing through the waves like a silver blade. The ocean had been your domain, your home, every current and tide a part of you.

You were a sea nymph, a daughter of the sea, wild and unbound, but the water no longer sang to you—no longer held the promise of escape.

But that was before.

You closed your eyes, the memories crashing over you like waves, each one more painful than the last.

The Titanomachy. The great war that had torn the heavens and the earth apart, that had pitted brother against brother, father against son.

You had watched from the sidelines, powerless to intervene, to stop the destruction that had swept through your family, your kind. And when the dust had settled, when the victors had claimed their spoils and the losers had been cast down into the darkness, you had been left behind, forgotten.

Or so you had thought.

The punishment had come later, delivered with the cold, indifferent hand of justice.

You, the daughter of Atlas, the child of Pleione, had been deemed unworthy, a threat to the new order of things. And so you had been cast out, not to the depths of Tartarus, but to this island, this paradise-turned-prison, to live out your days in endless solitude.

You had not wept, not then.

You had been too proud, too defiant to show the Gods your pain. But as the years had passed, as one by one, those who washed up on your shores had come and gone, the loneliness had seeped into your bones, a slow, insidious poison that sapped your strength, your will.

You had not been broken by the war, but by the endless, unchanging years that followed. You had stopped counting the days, the years. Time had lost its meaning here, each day bleeding into the next in an endless, monotonous cycle.

You had grown numb, your heart a hollow thing, a fragile shell that you guarded fiercely, lest it shatter completely.

And yet, there were moments like this, rare and fleeting, when the ache became too much to bear, when the weight of your exile pressed down on you like a physical thing, crushing the breath from your lungs.

You missed it… the life you had once known—the feel of the water around you, the way it had held you, cradled you in its depths.

The life that you would never get back.

Your eyes stung, the salt of unshed tears burning as you blinked furiously, refusing to let them fall. What good would it do? What good had it ever done? The Gods did not care for your tears, your pain.

They had made their judgment, and you were bound to it, bound to this place, this fate.

You glanced back over your shoulder, towards the fire, towards the small, simple home you had made for yourself on this cursed rock. You had tried to build something, to find some small measure of peace, of contentment in the simple things—the warmth of the sun on your skin, the sound of the waves, the smell of the salt air.

But it was never enough. It would never be enough.

A soft, bitter laugh slipped past your lips. How foolish you had been to think you could defy them, to think that you could carve out some semblance of a life here.

A soft "hey" broke through your thoughts, the voice low and tentative. You blinked, your gaze shifting from the horizon to find him standing a few feet behind you, his posture stiff and uncertain. Eperitus looked like he was at war with himself, his eyes dark and troubled as they searched your face.

"Hey," you replied softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

You studied him for a moment, taking in the subtle changes—the way his skin looked cleaner, the faint smell of salt and fresh water clinging to him. He must have taken the time to bathe at the spring, washing away the grime of his journey.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and you raised an eyebrow, a teasing lilt in your voice. "I see you took my advice?"

He chuckled, the sound a bit awkward but genuine, as if he were unused to laughing. He took a few hesitant steps closer before lowering himself beside you, his legs dangling off the edge of the cliff.

For a moment, he said nothing, just sitting there with you, watching as the sun dipped lower, its golden light spilling across the water like liquid gold.

You followed his gaze, the sight of the setting sun a familiar comfort, yet tinged with the ever-present ache of longing. "Helios is resting now," you murmured, your eyes softening as the last sliver of the sun slipped beneath the horizon, casting the world into the gentle embrace of twilight. "Even gods need a reprieve from their duties."

His gaze remained on the horizon, the light from the fire behind you casting shadows across his face. He let out a deep, weary sigh, as if the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. He turned to you then, his eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that made your breath catch.

"Look, Calypso…" His voice was strained, rough around the edges, as if the words were being dragged out of him. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting away, unable to meet your eyes. "I haven't been truthful with you." He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, his fingers trembling slightly. "My name… it's not Eperitus. I'm not some soldier from a village in Thessaly."

He paused, drawing in a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his own lies were too much to bear. "My name is Odysseus," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking it aloud might shatter the fragile peace between you. "I'm a king—from Ithaca."

You watched him, your expression unreadable, your heart beating steadily in your chest as his words settled in the air between you.

Odysseus.

The name hung there, heavy with meaning, with the weight of the legend that preceded him. A name that had been whispered on the lips of sailors and soldiers, spoken with reverence and fear, a name that had traveled farther than the man himself.

He turned his gaze back to you, his eyes filled with something like regret, like guilt. "I gave you a false name because I… I wasn't sure if I could trust you. I didn't know if you were friend or foe, if you were another test from the gods, another trial to endure."

He swallowed again, his throat working as he struggled to find the right words, the right way to explain himself. "But your kindness… the way you've treated me, even when I didn't deserve it…" He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, pleading for understanding. "I'm sorry, Calypso. I've spent so long fighting, lying, doing whatever it took to survive, that I forgot what it meant to be honest, to trust."

You let out a sharp snort, then burst into a fit of giggles. The sound caught Odysseus off guard, his head snapping over to you, eyes wide with something like panic. He clearly expected anger or disappointment, but you waved him off, your hand covering your mouth as you struggled to stifle your laughter.

"I-I'm sorry," you managed to say between chuckles, your shoulders shaking as you tried to catch your breath. "It's just… 'Eperitus'? Really?" You let out another peal of laughter, the sound almost musical in its lightness. "I mean, really? 'Man of Strife'? I may have been stuck on this island for eons, but even that sounds fake! You're lucky I'm polite enough not to have called you out on it."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and before he could stop himself, he was laughing too, a deep, genuine sound that seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head in mock defeat. "I suppose you are the first to see through it so quickly," he admitted, his voice warm with reluctant admiration.

You hummed, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you leaned back on your palms, the firelight casting a soft glow on your face. "Those around you must not have been that bright to believe it," you teased lightly, watching as his laughter grew, the sound carrying out over the darkening sea.

Odysseus chuckled, shaking his head again. "You'd be surprised," he said, his voice warm with shared humor. "Sometimes, people believe what they want to believe. A name is just a name, after all."

You nodded, the laughter slowly fading as a comfortable silence settled between you, the sound of the waves filling the space left behind.

You glanced at him, the firelight casting his face in soft, flickering shadows, highlighting the lines etched into his features, the weariness in his eyes.

You found yourself wanting to know, to understand, what had brought him here, to your shores, so far from his home.

"How did you find yourself here, Odysseus?" you asked quietly, your voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. "A king of Ithaca, so far from home."

His smile faltered, the light in his eyes dimming as his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. He let out a long, weary sigh, his gaze dropping to his hands, his fingers tracing absent patterns in the sand.

"It's… it's a long tale," he murmured, his voice heavy with the weight of too many memories. "One filled with more suffering than I care to remember."

You shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully, your eyes fixed on his as you waited, patient, giving him the space to begin.

He drew in a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and then he spoke, his words slow, deliberate, carrying the weight of years of pain and regret. "It all began with a war," he started, his voice low, almost reverent. "Helen of Troy, they called her. The most beautiful woman in the world, stolen from her husband, Menelaus, by Paris of Troy."

You nodded, familiar with the tale. It was a story that had reached even the shores of your island, carried on the whispers of the waves.

"I was tasked to join the rescue," he continued, his gaze distant, as if he were seeing those events play out before him, the battles, the bloodshed. "I sailed with six hundred men, my loyal soldiers to reclaim her and bring her back to Menelaus. We stormed the beaches of Troy, built walls of bodies and dreams, all for the sake of one woman."

He paused, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the words. "We fought for ten years," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "Ten long years of death, of suffering, of loss…" You could see the pain, the regret, etched into every line of his face. "And when we finally breached the walls, when we finally stood victorious, I thought… I thought that would be the end of it. I thought I could go home…"

He laughed then, a bitter, hollow sound. "…but the Gods had other plans."

You watched him, your heart aching with a sympathy you couldn't quite explain, couldn't quite contain. "What happened?"

He shook his head, his gaze dropping to his hands, his fingers twisting together as if he were trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp. "We set sail for home, but the winds were against us. We were thrown off course, tossed from island to island, each one more cursed than the last." He swallowed, the sound thick and heavy in the stillness. "I made… unsavory decisions, angered those who should not be angered," he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly, the words dragged from some dark place deep within him. "I sacrificed my honor, everything, all for the sake of returning to Ithaca."

You listened in silence as he recounted his tale, the trials and tribulations that had followed—the blinding of the Cyclops, the enchantment of Circe, the deadly song of the Sirens. Each word, each memory, seemed to take a piece of him, leaving him more worn, more broken.

"I lost good men. Friends. Brothers…" he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of his grief. "I lost them all... Every single one of them…"

You were silent for a long moment, studying the way his shoulders were hunched, his hands clenched into fists on his lap, the way his eyes shone with a pain you could almost feel. He was a man broken by war, by loss, by the endless trials the gods had thrown at him.

A man who had forgotten how to be anything but what the world demanded of him.

And here he was, baring his soul to you, offering up his truth like a fragile, precious thing. You would have gave your sorrows, but from what you've known of him, it wouldn't do any good.

A sigh escaped your lips, soft and resigned, as you turned your gaze back to the sea, the waves rolling in gentle, rhythmic swells, the last of the light fading into the deep, dark blue of the coming night. "Odysseus of Ithaca," you murmured, the name tasting strange on your tongue, heavy with the weight of all that it carried. "You're not the first to wash up on my shores, lost and broken," you said quietly, your eyes fixed on the horizon, your voice carrying a sadness that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the endless, unchanging cycle of your existence. "And you won't be the last."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, the curve of your shoulders, the way the firelight played across your skin.

You could feel his gaze like a physical thing, warm and searching, and for a moment, you almost believed that he could see you, not as the myth, the story, the cursed daughter of Atlas, but as something more, something real.

But you knew better.

"You're right not to trust me, Odysseus," you continued, your voice steady, calm. "I'm bound by my curse, just as you're bound by your fate. We're both prisoners here, in our own way."

He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but you shook your head, a small, sad smile playing at the corners of your lips. "You don't owe me anything," you said softly, your eyes meeting his, holding his gaze with a quiet intensity. "But thank you, for your honesty. For your truth."

He stared at you, his eyes dark and unreadable, the silence between you heavy with the weight of all that remained unspoken. And then, slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out, his hand hovering just inches from yours, the warmth of his skin a tantalizing whisper against your own.

For a moment, you thought he might take your hand, might bridge the distance between you.

But then he hesitated, his fingers curling into a fist, and he drew back, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

You looked away, your heart aching with a familiar, bittersweet pain, your eyes drifting back to the sea, to the endless, unchanging horizon.

And so you sat there, side by side, two souls bound by the whims of the Gods, watching as the last light faded from the sky, as the stars began to bloom overhead, bright and cold and distant.

Together, yet worlds apart.

A/N: ahhh! not me falling in love with this lil one-shot. anywho, had to cut this in half cuz it was getting ridonculusly long... prt 2 shall be here soon tho, also, would you guys be cool if i added smut to it or nah? cuz i feel like the smut between these two will be so angsty cuz deep down odysseus ass still loves penelope, so calypso!reader is really just getting used, ma babieee 😭😭

[http-paprika]

There Was Something Here Once and it lingers in the air

small town au / call of duty x female reader / taglist open / wc 2030 / warnings light swearing / no use of y/n / ship not yet decided / no beta, my grammarly hates me

making a place for herself in aberdeen is not without its struggles, and not without more problems.

She tugged at her light cardigan, glancing over at the fan that sat in the corner of the diner and questioning why they even needed it with how cold it was outside. A blank document sits open on the screen of her laptop, a promise to try to write daily failing miserably as she spent her lunch break away from the small public library. The waitress walks up, refilling her cup of coffee again and glancing at the club sandwich that’d gone untouched before hurrying away to attend to the other patrons. Mostly loggers finishing a shift and grabbing a bite, all dressed in worn down workwear, a contrast to the suits and ties she used to see on her lunch breaks before. 

In the corner of the diner, the doorbell rings as a new customer walks in. She glances down at her keyboard again, willing her hands to move. Hadn’t she been dreaming, talking, and wanting to write this novel since she was a girl? How many years in the making had she been plotting it up through tedious university lectures just for the actual act to be daunting, intimidating her with the idea of failing. 

“Oh, hello again.” The steady voice of the tow truck driver lilts through her ears, she perks her head up to look at Johnny. He’s still in his blue coveralls, but there’s a new, noticeable oil stain on the front pocket. “Never seen you in here before, mind if I join ya?”

“No, yes. I’m sorry, I’m just all over the place today.” She sighs at the admittance as Johnny sits down across from her in the booth. He grins at the waitress when she brings by a menu, greeting him by name. In a small town like this, she was sure it wouldn’t be long before everyone knew her name, and she theirs. Though, names had never been a strong suite of hers. 

“Yeah? What are ya doing on there?” He asks, nodding to her laptop and her face burns in embarrassment. She did not like to talk about her writing, there was something so private about it that opening up was like if she were to be completely exposed in the diner. Mortifying. 

“Work.” 

“Work?” 

“Yeah.” She nods in seriousness, trying to convince him that’s what it is. But Johnny doesn’t look convinced, a grin on his face as he smiles. 

“That’s the same excuse I tell John when I’m sitting on my ass.” He winks at her and that burning from earlier reappears. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep asking. If it’s private, it’s private. But, I am curious, what does a librarian exactly do? It can’t all just be checking in and out books, can it?”

“Well, um,” She blinks, trying to collect herself and find the right answer for her lunch partner. “Stuff.” 

“Stuff?” 

She nods at Johnny, swallowing the realization of how pitiful she is in conversations. Always had been since she was a girl, it made her and her father alike. Much to the disappointment of her mother. 

“I’ll have to come visit soon then and see you do… stuff.” Johnny decides with a boldness in his voice. And when the waitress comes to take his order, she realizes that that’s the way Johnny is. Bold, proud, and bright like the sun. It’s a wonder he chose to stay in this town, should he have spread his wings out anywhere else, he would’ve been a star. 

“Okay.” She says, her voice sheepish and low. A glance at her watch causes panic to hitch as she realizes her lunch break is about to end and she needs to hurry back. “I’m sorry, I hate to be poor company but I have to go.” Fishing through her tote, she sets down enough money for her meal and coffee. She takes another swig of the caffeinated beverage before shoving her laptop back into the bag.

“Don’t worry about it, you do what you need to do.” He assures her with another warm smile, she nods back slowly before the panic hits again, the bell in the nearby church steeple ringing loudly to signal the changing of the hour. 

Out of the diner, across the little square that marks the downtown of Aberdeen, her loafers dig into the muddy grass. Her breath comes out into little huffs as she hurries back into the tiny public library. The door whines on its hinges from the force she applies to yanking it open. She winced in fear that it would fall right off, but it slams behind her causing her to jump out of her skin. Claire, her older coworker, sits at the circulation desk and quirks a brow up at her, the thin-rimmed glasses she always wore perched on her pointed face. There was a similarity to a crow that she couldn’t strike down, the way Claire was always watching from those beady, black eyes left her uneasy. 

“Sorry.” She mutters, bowing her head whilst walking behind the circulation desk to her tiny cubby. It wasn’t much smaller than the one she’d had before, one little plant dying in a plastic pot, the postcard Beau had sent her, and one of those cheese motivational cat posters that a coworker from her last job had given her when she left. There’d never been much to her name, she didn’t have much growing up and never felt the need to want more than she needed. So, besides the boxes of books waiting to be unpacked in her cottage, clutter wasn’t something she acquired. 

“Enjoy your lunch?” Claire asks, walking up to her desk with a box of books from a different library in the same system. It settles on her desk with a thud, and she can feel the heaviness in Claire’s gaze. Her punctuality when it came to time today was not the greatest, first with the car slowing her down and now this. 

“Yes, sorry I was running behind. Today’s just one of those days.” She sheepishly responds, hoping Claire could spare a sliver of sympathy towards her. Hasn't she ever run late before? 

“Mmm.” The elderly woman draws her mouth into a thin line, her hands resting on her bony hips. “Those are the interlibrary loans, they need to be sorted.” 

“Of course. I’ll get to those right away.” She nods, hoping the old crow would leave her alone. 

After giving her a dirty look for long enough, the door to the library opens again and Claire’s attention is quickly drawn away to greet the patron. Grumbling, she opened the box, sifting through the different books. A stack was quickly formed for one patron, and an appreciation formed for someone she didn’t even know. Whoever they were, she was certain that they were responsible for keeping the tiny library open. 

She glances up from the assortment of books, looking over at the circulation desk where Claire was helping a young mother check out various picture books. From the few days she’d worked, the conclusion had been drawn up that only the elderly or young mothers stepped foot inside the stuffy building. She’d yet to see anyone that fit the description of loggers and frowned, they were a key demographic in Aberdeen but couldn’t be bothered to read. Back in the city, she’d done so many outreach programs to try and engage with members of the community that weren’t represented in the library. Perhaps that needed to be done here. 

“Claire?” She asks gingerly, stepping up to the circulation desk once the patron has left. 

Claire glances up at her, carefully pulling off the wired glasses and cleaning them up. “Can I help you?” 

“Well, I was just curious about our patrons.” She wished Rosemary or Clint, the other two people who held positions at this branch, were there for her to speak with. But they were out doing god knows what, and the question continued to persist in her mind. A determination to fix a situation had always been one of the few things she stood out for. 

“What about our patrons?” Claire sets the glasses back on the bridge of her thin nose, evidently not interested in whatever tangent she was about to embark on. 

“Do the loggers not come in very often? I’ve only ever seen one or two.” She says, voicing her thoughts. “Should there not be something done to try and bring more of them in?” 

“That’s not for you to worry about.” The response is sharp, almost painful with how Claire says it. Like somehow she’d suggested a foolish idea, one that would’ve been better never said aloud. “That’s Clint’s job. Focus on your work.” 

Dejected, she nods and returns to her desk, trying hard not to look over at Claire again. The crow had only grown meaner with any interaction she tried to strike up. What she’d done to deserve the reaction was outside of her knowledge. After all, she was a competent enough librarian if nothing else. 

“Do you ever visit the library on your own?” She asks Johnny, sitting in the small office of the auto shop to finally speak with John about her car. A poor attempt to keep herself from worrying about the state of the vehicle, she needed a running one. 

A flush of embarrassment crosses Johnny’s face and thinking back to the conversation they’d briefly had in the diner, the answer is clear. “No, uh, not since I was younger. I’m usually not downtown, don’t even think about it and definitely don’t read as much as I should.” 

She nods, not passing judgment towards his words. It was understandable, so many people tended to neglect the library, not even considering the public service. 

“What would change that?” 

Chewing the inside of her cheek, she tilts her head to watch as he thinks. Johnny fumbles with his hands, trying to decide on an answer that isn’t seen as offensive. She’d asked the question to hundreds of different people in an attempt to connect with the community. No one ever seemed to be able to give her a satisfying answer for change. 

“Well, to put it simply, the car’s fucked.” John states, stepping into the office and running a hand over his mutton chop beard. A hard day of work is visible in his stance, he slouches against the desk as he takes the time to explain the issues the car had. In his words, he was supposed it had run as long as it had with all the underlying issues she’d failed to notice in her haste to pack up and move on. “Probably be cheaper to look at selling it for parts and buying a new, well, used one.” 

She slumps in her chair, trying hard not to bury her face in her hands. Cars were expensive, even used cars. Moving wasn’t cheap either, she’d already spent what little money her grandmother had left her to help with the house note. Where was she going to scrape together the money for any sort of running car? 

“Hey, it’ll be alright,” Johnny tries to console her, putting a hand on her back as she drops her head. “I’m sure something will come around, right John?” 

The older man doesn’t say anything, lost in thought as she mutters to herself over financial stress. Wasn’t moving to Aberdeen supposed to make her life easier? Small town living sounded so idyllic until reality sinks in, problems hit. At least in the city, she had access to buses, even if they weren’t the cleanest and meant waking up much earlier than she would’ve liked to get to work on time. Here, she was reliant on whatever goodwill the people of Aberdeen had. And she wasn’t expecting much more after the grace shown to her that morning. 

“Right, John?” Johnny asks again, looking at his boss with annoyance. 

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” John continues to run his hand over his beard, clearly absent from the conversation at hand. His behavior causes her to finally sit back up and blink, confused as to what exactly was happening. “There might be someone I know who could help your situation.”

[lilsoftext]

•~* WHISPERS IN THE DARK *~•

-chris sturniolo x female reader

-summery: late night talks

——————————————————————————

It was 2 AM, and the city outside was quiet. The apartment was dimly lit, with only the soft glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. Chris and Sof lay in bed, wide awake, even though they both had an early start the next day.

Sof was curled up against Chris’s side, her head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Chris had one arm around her, his fingers absentmindedly playing with her hair. It was one of those nights where neither of them could sleep, and neither of them minded.

“Tell me something,” Sof murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Chris shifted slightly, glancing down at her. “Like what?”

“Anything,” she said. “Something about you. Something I don’t know.”

Chris chuckled softly, his chest rumbling beneath her head. “You already know everything about me.”

Sof smiled, her fingers tracing slow circles on his chest. “I’m sure there’s something.”

He was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then he spoke, his voice soft in the stillness of the room. “Alright. When I was a kid, I used to have this crazy dream that I could fly. Not like a superhero—more like I’d just run and jump, and suddenly, I was floating. I had that dream for years. Every time I’d get upset about something, I’d close my eyes and imagine I could just take off and fly away.”

Sof lifted her head to look at him, her eyes sparkling with interest. “Really? How come you never told me that before?”

Chris shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t know. It was just one of those things I kept to myself. Guess I felt silly about it.”

Sof’s smile softened, and she reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I think it’s sweet. You still dream about flying?”

“Not anymore,” Chris said with a chuckle. “But sometimes, when I’m having a really bad day, I’ll think about it. It’s like this weird, comforting memory.”

Sof’s hand rested on his cheek, her thumb gently stroking his skin. “I like knowing that.”

Chris turned his head slightly, kissing her palm. “Your turn. Tell me something.”

Sof bit her lip, her brow furrowing as she thought. “Okay. When I was in high school, I used to sneak out at night and go up to the roof of my house. I’d just sit there, looking at the stars, trying to figure everything out.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Sneaking out? Sounds like you were a bit of a rebel.”

Sof laughed softly. “Not really. I wasn’t doing anything crazy. I just needed time to think, you know? Life felt so overwhelming back then, like everything was so much bigger than me. Being up there, alone with the stars, made it all feel... smaller. More manageable.”

Chris’s hand moved to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing across her skin. “I wish I could’ve been there with you.”

Sof leaned into his touch, her eyes soft. “I think I needed that time to myself. But I’m glad you’re here now.”

There was a comfortable silence between them for a while, the kind that only comes from two people who are completely at ease with each other. Sof settled back against Chris’s chest, feeling his heartbeat slow and steady beneath her.

“Do you ever wonder where we’ll be in five years?” Sof asked quietly, her voice thoughtful.

Chris was silent for a moment, then he smiled, his hand resting on the small of her back. “I don’t know exactly where we’ll be, but I know I’ll still be with you. That’s the only part that matters to me.”

Sof’s heart swelled at his words, and she felt a warmth spread through her chest. She tilted her head up to look at him, her eyes searching his face.

“You really think we’ll last that long?” she asked softly, her voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability.

Chris looked down at her, his expression serious. “I know we will. I’m all in, Sof. Whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere.”

Sof’s eyes filled with emotion, and she blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over. She reached up to cup his face in her hands, pulling him down for a slow, tender kiss.

When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m all in too.”

Chris smiled, his eyes soft as he looked at her. “Good.”

For a while, they lay there in the quiet, holding each other, lost in the intimacy of the moment. The world outside faded away, leaving just the two of them in their own little bubble.

Sof broke the silence after a while, her voice playful. “Okay, but seriously, where do you see us in five years?”

Chris laughed, the sound low and warm in the dark room. “Alright, alright. Let me think.” He paused for a moment, then grinned. “I see us in a house—not too big, but cozy. With a backyard and maybe a dog. We’ll have more time to ourselves, and maybe we’ll finally take that trip to Italy you’ve been talking about.”

Sof smiled, her heart fluttering at the thought. “That sounds perfect.”

“And you’ll still be sneaking up to rooftops to look at the stars,” Chris added with a wink.

Sof laughed, shaking her head. “Only if you come with me.”

Chris pulled her closer, his lips brushing against her forehead. “Always.”

They fell silent again, the weight of their words settling between them like a promise. The night stretched on, but neither of them were in a hurry to fall asleep. They were content just being there, in each other’s arms, talking about dreams and memories and the future.

As Sof drifted off, her head resting on Chris’s chest, she realized that no matter where life took them, as long as they had each other, everything would be okay.

And that was more than enough.

——————————————————————————

i hope you enjoyed it.if you have any requests, leave them down below.

lilsoftext <3

[princess-of-morkva]

to find you again

Arthur Pendragon was ten years old when his world finally began to make sense.

It was in his fifth grade, when his class went on a week long camping trip. He didn't know, at the time, what compelled him to sneak out of the tent in the wee hours of the morning, when the first rays of dawn lit up the treetops and his legs carried him towards the shore of a lake. It's surface was shimmering in morning light, and he could feel his breath halt, afraid to disturb the serenity of the sight that felt so otherworldly. It may have been some divine compulsion or simply his innate, childish desire to explore that made him go further, then, until his rubber flipflops were left on the shore and his bare feet touched the water.

There was a hand then, that rose out of the water, translucent and not entirely present, an image out of mist. There was a hand, and then another, and then the head and the body — a figure arose from the lake, smiling at the little boy that intruded her realm.

"Hello, Arthur." She spoke, and her voice didn't carry through the air like a human's would, rather, it sang with the wind, hit the ears like tiny drops meeting the water. "It's good to meet you at last."

He stared at her, for a long moment, before answering.

"How do you know me?" He frowned at her. Father told him not to talk to strangers, and this might have been a very pretty woman made out of mist, but she was still very much a stranger. Still, he didn't step out of the lake, for his curiosity was much greater than his father's teachings which felt so far away at the moment, and there was no one around to see anyway.

"The world speaks to me. I can't leave this lake, but I can see far beyond it." Her answer was not an answer at all, Arthur thought. His confusion must've been evident, because she smiled at him again, and there was a mischievous hint in the corner of her lips that made her look not so much like a spirit in a lake but a living and breathing young girl, but the next second it was gone and Arthur was left to wonder if he imagined it entirely.

"Why can't you?" He asked.

"It's were I was put to rest." She spoke the words so evenly, as all of the things she previously said, that it took Arthur a few seconds to catch the meaning of it.

"Does that mean you're dead?" He asked, hoping not to offend her with it.

"Not exactly. I'm here, aren't I?" Once again, her answer gave more questions than it answered.

"There are ghosts." He said. Arthur wasn't sure there were, actually. His father didn't believe in such things.

"I am different from ghosts."

"What are you then?"

"A guardian."

Arthur nodded, as if it made perfect sense. It didn't.

"Do you have a name?" He asked. It was only polite to ask for a person's name when first meeting them. Than again, lake-guardian-spirits could have entirely different etiquette.

"I was called Freya, once." There was a small smile, again.

Arthur nodded musingly.

"It's a pretty name."

She hummed.

"Do you often speak to people?" He never heard of such entities as her. It couldn't have been a common occurrence, surely. But wouldn't that be lonely? Having no one to talk to?

She shook her head, and there was a wistful look in her eyes.

"I haven't spoken to anybody in centuries." That couldn't have been nice, Arthur thinks. If she could speak to him, why didn't she speak to others?

"Why'd you speak to me than?" Freya didn't answer immediately, pausing the flow of their measured back-and-forth. It almost looked like she was unsure, but her features were still so calm, it was impossible to tell.

Then, she asked. "Do you have dreams, sometimes?"

It was a silly question. Everybody had dreams. Arthur understood immediately though, it wasn't the regular kind of dreams she was talking about.

Because the thing is, Arthur did have dreams. Ever since he was little. He remembers dreaming of white towers and battlements, of bright red banners and capes. Of metal clanging and laughter and a weight of a sword in his hand, on his hip. Of familiar faces he could never quite place. Of raven curls and bright blue eyes, especially often.

He never told his father about them — he'd call such things foolish. Arthur didn't think they were.

Arthur looked at Freya and nodded. There was a glim of relief in her eyes, he thought.

"Would you like to see more?" She asked, offering him her hand. Not solid in any common way of the world but in that moment, more real than any other thing around them.

Arthur didn't think twice before grasping it.

-----

please tell me if you'd like to see more of it because i love the thing in my head so far

where is merlin in it? he's gonna be there. with a twist. it's a reincarnation fic but with a twist. it's also very merthur. or as much as it can ever get with my aromantic ass.

also it's modern au but i still haven't decided on a more specific setting- should i do college au? i'd be horrible at it even though it would make sense thematically- i haven't been outside in years how does society function? how do i write it?

can you see i love freya? i love her very much

[solar-sunnyside-up]

Hey, I’m sorry to dump this on ya but your blog gives me a lotta hope and I just wondered if you had anything to say to my current ails- I am but a very anxious teen and I am so scared. I see so many people talking of how the world “Will end in 2040” or how “damn the past was so much better because it was simpler” and I am lowkey starting to believe that. I’ve got a problem with romanticizing a past I wasn’t even a part of and I really don’t want to live in some awful dystopian future and I fear I’ve missed out on so much because of when I was born :( and how come no one can afford basic shit anymore? I don’t wanna have no money at all! I really would like to be happy in the future but with all the bullshit caused by social media and the lack of money it seems bleak. I’m sorry that this is such a negative ask but I am not doing so hot and was hoping you’d have an insight ? Don’t respond if you don’t wanna

Hey ya there sprout 🌱 it can be really tough out there!

Your feelings are valid, so valid in fact that those exact feelings are why Solarpunk as it currently exists is around! We've all been there!

Between the wages of the top 10% of ppl vs everyone else being greater then during the French revolution, the average citizen globally being worse off then when the great depression was happening, climate crisis after crisis, all while consuming endless bits of info both horrifying (ex Politics) and hopeful (ex Social Media activism) it's waaaay too much for anyone to bare alone! Much less constantly! That burden shouldn't be on any of us!! But since it is, I'm here to help at least lighten the load even if temporary.

The best thing to do when we feel like this is to stop. Find 5 minutes to be still. We are fight/flight/fawn creatures and we will only loop in our solutions without actual clear choices if we don't Chill Out. We're mammals our natural state is Chilling Out and Play.

Next, think about how cool the planet is and particularly how cool humans are?

How there's finger flutes on ceilings thousands of years old, smaller then average indicating that parents held their children up to draw on the ceilings.

Think about the invention of looms and spinning fibers! What other creature could do that? Think about the kids that could build Snowmans without aching fingers because of lovingly knit mittens.

We sing like whales do, like birds do, like wolves do, and we do it to share stories and ideas over food! It is the first things babies mimic! We have songs so old we no longer know their origin just that they came from love! We even have songs to herd cattle meaning music transcends just us but bleeds into our relationships with the planet!

That we have play behavior! Just like wolves and foxes and whales and octopus it is so built into our DNA to play its generally how we learn things! This ranges from agriculture (children tossing seeds around, blowing on dandelions!) To chores (parachute games > folding laundry, playing pretend > usually chores/job based) to hunting (tag! Hide and seek!)

Think about our interconnectiveness with the planet too, how we are guided by Honey guides to find abandoned hives to share in the spoils of bread and honey. How Sweetgrass needs us to flourish, how berries and nuts need us to spread across the land, how we fix other animals broken bones and beaks and help them return home when otherwise they wouldn't ever get home.

Now that you can remember we deserve to be here, that you deserve to be here. We can look at the current situation and bare it.

And we do that by doing small things. Jam out and listen to music while picking up litter on your block, go to a library and just hang out or research something you love, make seed Bombs and toss them I to abandoned lots, make silly cartoons. Whatever it is, it will be enough.

The weight of the world isn't ment for the individual no matter how much Capitalism and Elites will try and guilt you over their failures. That weight is ment for collective groups, but your job as a Person is to be happy where you can and to be kind so others can be happy. The last thing that I always keep in my heart is a quote from my fave author Ursula Le Guin:

Hang in there, a brighter tomorrow is gunna happen. I promise 🌻

[the-afterlife-derek-lycan]

How the hell am I supposed to run my company when I am dead

[sneez]

thinking about gwynplaine having speech loss episodes and using tactile sign language to communicate with dea :-) please don't tag as body horror or anything similar [id in alt text]

[pyro-madder]

in honor of my sudden re-binging of TRC, i finally bring out an unposted quality archive from 2017

[batfamfucker]

Appreciation post for 'girly girl' characters and/or shows that celebrate traditionally feminine things that girls and women are shamed for.

Characters on this list that love makeup, fashion, hair, etc. Characters that are still written as strong, intelligent, brave, etc. That told young girls that these interests are valid, they are not lesser interests. Being feminine and liking traditionally feminine things does not make them weak.