#interloper c

[maik-ol]

Trapped

Click for better quality it’s ver compressed

[etxdelete]

[local-robotgirlthing]

just finished Interloper C

holy. shit

[tennessoui]

14 for obikin pretty please?

here you go!

[from this list of prompts]

[5. 'are you jealous' - 27. 'i'm pregnant' - 32. 'i think i'm in love with you and i'm terrified' (LATEST) 44. 'if you die, i'm gonna kill you' - 41. 'you did all of this for me?' - 46. 'hey, have you seen...? oh']

14. 'hey, i'm with you, okay? always.'

The first time Anakin visits, he's so angry that he cannot speak for the first two hours. Obi-Wan sits against the wall of his cell, on the floor even though the Jedi have provided him a perfectly comfortable bed and chair. The Force collar around his neck looks wrong. His master sitting on the floor, dressed in the dull orange of a prisoner's jumpsuit looks wrong.

Anakin is so angry that he can't speak. He can only look and tremble until he is told he must leave.

Obi-Wan does not speak either. He does not even look at him.

Maybe that's what makes his anger harder to bear. Anakin knows that Obi-Wan has met with countless other Jedi. Visitors, friends, allies, people who are working with him on his defense case. He knows that the other man talks to them, has sliced into security holo footage to see it for himself, though no one will tell him what is said. Everyone always leaves looking frustrated, but at least Obi-Wan talks to them.

But not Anakin. Even though it is Anakin that Obi-Wan has hurt the most. Anakin, who deserves to know why from Obi-Wan's mouth.

After all--

"He was like a father to me," Anakin spits at him on his second visit, only a few days later. Going to see Obi-Wan in the Coruscanti prison cell where he is awaiting trial is like an itch. Scratched once, Anakin finds he cannot help himself from digging his claws in.

Obi-Wan is still against the wall. His beard has grown slightly longer. His head is tilted back against the wall, though when Anakin speaks, his eyes slide down from the ceiling to rest on him.

"I'm starting to think you say that to all the boys," his former master who is a murderer says in that lilting familiar drawl.

"You killed him."

"Yes," Obi-Wan agrees, because apparently part of his defense case is not to plead not guilty to the murder of the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. Anakin would say that may be problematic, but then--there are security holos, soundless and slightly blurred, of the event. Of Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi taking tea with Chancellor Palpatine. Talking in civil gestures for thirty minutes. Requesting, as far as anyone can tell, for the Chancellor to fetch him a pot of sugar. Lighting his saber and beheading him the moment the old man's back was turned. "Yes, I did."

"Why?" Anakin yells, voice cracking on the word. He doesn't understand. He thinks the not-knowing will drive him to madness. He thinks maybe it already has. It has been two weeks since the Chancellor's murder. Half the Senate is seeking Obi-Wan's execution.

The war, theoretically, has paused, like even the Separatists are holding their breath. Waiting. Wondering.

Obi-Wan looks at him quietly for a moment. For five. His face is stoic, resolved. Beloved, even after this.

Then--for a singular second--the mask cracks, and his master stares at him as if he needs to see him in order to survive. He looks hungry and exhausted and relieved, down to the bones.

"How have your nightmares been lately, padawan?" he asks him, and Anakin is so disgusted by the word--by the title that Obi-Wan doesn't get to say after killing the Chancellor, killing Anakin's friend--that he turns and leaves without another thought.

He is back a day later. He has never known how to keep his distance from things that can hurt him, that's what his mother always said. Too curious by half. Too sure of his own invincibility. That's what his master always said.

Anakin isn't sure of anything anymore.

"Why did you kill him?" Anakin asks. Obi-Wan's beard is longer. He is still on the floor. It rankles, the sight of him brought so low. "Did someone tell you to?"

Obi-Wan lets his head fall forward, a puppet with its strings cut. "Do you think me so biddable, Anakin?"

Anakin today. Not padawan. As if Obi-Wan has learned his lesson. As if he is as desperate for Anakin to linger in his presence as Anakin is hopelessly addicted to returning.

Padmé had tried to stop him this morning. Had tried to tell him it would do no good to see him, that the justice system would do its work, that Anakin was only hurting himself by returning over and over again. She pointed out that he had nightmares last night, for the first time since the news of the Chancellor's death reached them.

He hadn't had the heart to tell her that his nightmares were not about the Chancellor dying, but about Obi-Wan facing down an execution squad. About Anakin, standing on the deck of the Invisible Hand, Palpatine's voice in his ear, telling him to do it, do it. Cut off the traitor's head, only to look down and find that the two sabers he is holding are familiar to him, and person on his knees before him is his master.

Anakin had woken with a yell around one in the morning, sweat soaked and shaking. He hadn't been able to sleep again.

Maybe that's why he feels so alive now, slightly manic and still trembling as he paces in front of the Force barrier of Obi-Wan's cell. Did someone tell Obi-Wan to cut him down? he'd had the thought somewhere around five in the morning. Had it been someone Obi-Wan trusted? Someone he loved?

Who stood to gain from the death of the Chancellor? Who had the Chancellor ever hurt or threatened?

Anakin walks as close as he dares to get to the cell. "Master," he says, coaxes really, pushing forward until he can hear the hum of the force field.

Obi-Wan's head thumps back against the wall and he watches him from under his eyelashes.

"Master, I'm with you, alright? Hey, I'm with you, always, alright, always, so if someone told you, manipulated you, just tell me please. I'll find them. I'll get them to turn themselves in, master. Just tell me. Why did you kill him?"

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. He looks for all the world as if he is meditating, save for that collar around his neck. The prison garb. He doesn't look like a murderer, but he is. He is. He killed the Chancellor. He is going to face execution. Anakin is going to have to watch him die too and all he can think is that he knows that Obi-Wan doesn't even kriffing like sugar in his karking tea.

"Answer me!" Anakin yells, lifting his fist and forgetting himself for just long enough that he slams it against the barrier. He pulls it back with a curse as the force field short-circuits his mech arm and the prison alarm blares out a warning siren.

This time, he is led away from the cell by a Coruscanti guard. He is advised to not return for a standard week. The entire time he is exiled from the prison, the only thing he can think about is the expression on Obi-Wan's face as he watches him leave: eyes wide open and forehead wrinkled with concern, as if worried that Anakin had hurt himself.

The day after he is allowed to return, he does. He does not want to seem too eager or desperate, so he waits until it's early in the evening before pointing his speeder towards the prison unit.

"It had to have been someone you loved," Anakin announces as he stops in front of Obi-Wan's cell. He's in his bed this time, lying on his back and looking at the ceiling. He does not twitch at Anakin's voice, though Anakin can tell that he's not asleep, though his eyes are closed. He can tell just from the minute lines of tension he's holding in his shoulders, his neck.

How can Anakin know him so well and not know that he is capable of this? Of murder on this scale?

"Hm?" Obi-Wan finally says, when the silence drags on and it becomes clear that Anakin will not say more until he has engaged. Anakin watches this war play out in the subtle movements of Obi-Wan's facial muscles as well. He knows him so well. He knows him better than he knows anyone else in the galaxy.

"The person you killed him for. You had to have loved him more than anything else in the entire galaxy to kill a man the way you did. Defenseless. Over sugar. You don't--you don't even take sugar in your tea! It was a coward's way of killing--and it doesn't--you would never. Not unless it was for someone you loved."

Obi-Wan's eyes blink open, but he doesn't look away from the ceiling. He doesn't look at Anakin.

"I don't--I don't know what harm you think Sheev Palpatine could cause to anyone, but that has to be it. Nothing else makes sense. You loved someone enough to kill for them, and you killed the Chancellor."

The words come out easily. Anakin has practiced them for a week now; it is the only thing that makes sense. Nothing else makes sense. Nothing else but love could make a man like Obi-Wan do what he did. He must have loved someone a lot. He must love them more than the Republic. More than his own freedom.

The first time Anakin had told Padmé his theory, she'd looked at him for ages, until he'd grown angry and defensive. She'd touched his arm, as if that could hold back this hurricane brewing inside his chest, and said, "I don't know if you're right, Ani. I don't know if I think you're wrong either. It's just...you sound so...jealous."

At least Obi-Wan doesn't say the same thing. But what he does say may be even worse. Because he doesn't deny it. He doesn't protest. All he says is, "And who is it that you think I love more than anything else in the galaxy, padawan?"

Anakin has thought about this, too. "Bail Organa," he makes himself say, even though the name curls his lips up into a sneer. Bail Organa, the man who has been voted the interim Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. The man who has gotten everything from this assassination, while Anakin has had his everything taken away.

On his cot, Obi-Wan's eyes slide closed. His mouth quirks up. "Ah," he says, as if he has had something he has long expected to confirmed to him. He says nothing else.

It makes Anakin want to hit the barrier again. It makes him want to scream. It makes him want to be petty, hurt Obi-Wan back in the same way that Anakin feels hurt even though it doesn't make sense, none of this makes sense. But it feels as if Obi-Wan has kept half of himself secret from Anakin, a whole love, his entire capacity to love, and Anakin wants to prove that he has as well.

So he says, voice mean and sharp, "Padmé is pregnant. The med-droid says it is twins."

Everything else remains unspoken, but surely audible. That they are his. That he never stopped seeing Padmé. Perhaps even that she is his wife.

On the cot, behind the Force barrier, in his chains, Obi-Wan opens his eyes and blinks at the ceiling. His lips form a small smile, as he says, still not looking at Anakin, still not looking at Anakin, "I know, dear one. Why do you think the Chancellor had to die?"

[sourcetwo]

who woulda thought tf2 engineer could be your best buddy in escaping the source engine backrooms

[turoce]

it can't be over this fast

[toonydarling]

♥ CLICK FOR BETTER QUALITY ♥

buddy got a booboo (she broke her foot while kicking a boulder. a pink boulder. a pink boulder named pinky.)

♥ BONUS WITHOUT TEXT ♥

[berryicet]

Godd. Goddd

I love the interloper arg so damn much, it's the only arg ever to me<3 .

[oblique-lane]

Interloper C was truly something...

[pseudowandered]

interloper C was Fucking insane. i really love skyghost tho

[idkyetxoxo]

Jacaerys Velaryon - Reflections of Shame

Summary - She faces the scorn of Prince Jacaerys, who despises her for what she represents. Their bitter confrontation unravels pain, and understanding begins to form as threads of trust emerge between them. What starts with venom transforms into something far more complex.

Pairing - Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Warnings - Mild language

Word count - 2265

Masterlist for Jacaerys • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Before the war had sunk its claws into the Targaryen family, sinking its teeth like a ravenous beast, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon had never been anything but courteous—a princely figure who embodied grace and nobility. 

To imagine him now as anything less, let alone openly cruel, was once inconceivable. 

Yet here he was, transformed by conflict and burdened by suspicion and scorn, glaring down at me with eyes that held a tempest.

Of course, I was no ordinary maiden. I was a dragon seed, a name whispered with equal parts reverence and scorn. 

I had stumbled, quite literally, into destiny when I claimed the mighty Silverwing after wandering through a forgotten passageway. 

To many, I was a mystery; to others, an interloper with dragon fire in my veins. 

And to the prince, I was an affront. His disdain cloaked itself in subtle barbs and carefully metered sneers, each one laced with contempt that cut deeper than any sword.

Seated beside me was Hugh Hammer, a man whose reputation was also unknown. 

We spoke quietly of our dragons, two strangers drawn together by scales, fire, and circumstance. It was a curious sight—Hugh, a man of brute strength and feral ambition, sharing words with someone like me, a newcomer and a woman who still struggled to understand her place. 

Our dragons were as different as night and day, but in that moment, their riders shared a fragile bond of necessity.

The conversation stilled as the great doors opened, announcing the arrival of Queen Rhaenyra and her heir. 

Instinctively, I rose, fumbling only slightly as I dipped into a curtsy. 

My new gown of silken red clung to me with a weight I was not yet used to, a reminder of expectations I barely understood. 

The queen's presence commanded silence; her gaze swept the room, hard and implacable. She summoned Hugh with a gesture, and he departed with a bow, leaving me alone with the prince.

"My Prince," I greeted, my voice even as I lowered myself back onto the bench. 

Prince Jacaerys did not move, standing opposite me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. 

He observed me as if I were an unwelcome spectre—a ghost he could not banish and a burden he resented bearing.

For several agonizing moments, silence stretched between us. I forced myself to breathe, clasping my hands tightly to quell the trembling. 

"Is something the matter, my prince?" I ventured, keeping my tone light and respectful, though every muscle in my body tensed in anticipation.

His jaw clenched, and his eyes, dark and stormy, narrowed further. When he spoke, his voice was low and laced with venom. "Stop pretending."

The words struck like a whip. My breath caught, my pulse quickened, and I stared at him in stunned silence. 

This was no simple rebuke—it was an accusation, one that peeled away every fragile layer of decorum I had tried to build around myself. 

In his eyes, I was a fraud, a pretender who had dared to step into the realm of dragons. And no matter how much I tried to deny it, he would never let me forget that I was unwelcome.

The silence between us lingered, thick and suffocating, as I struggled to find my composure. 

Prince Jacaerys's eyes burned with barely restrained fury, his words heavy with disdain. 

Each passing second seemed to stretch into an eternity, and I knew whatever came next would cut me deeply, but I couldn't allow myself to falter. 

No matter how venomous his words, I had to endure them. 

A show of disrespect now could ruin me, perhaps even lead to consequences that no amount of pleading would undo.

His lips curled into a sneer. "You walk around this castle as if you belong here," he said, his tone like a blade. "Claiming a dragon does not make you one of us. You're nothing more than an intruder playing at power."

I forced myself to meet his gaze, my hands trembling only slightly as they remained clasped in my lap. 

"I have done nothing but follow the orders given to me, my prince," I said quietly. "I mean no offence."

He stepped closer, looming over me. "Is that what you tell yourself? That you belong among those of true blood? That you're entitled to walk these halls and speak with queens and princes as if you are their equal?"

His words landed like blows, each one harder than the last. I wanted to look away, to shrink from his stare, but I could not afford to show weakness. 

"I have never claimed to be your equal," I said softly. "I am here only because of the dragon I was fortunate enough to bond with."

"Fortunate?" He scoffed, the derisive laughter echoing in the chamber. "You think this is fortune? No, you're a fool. A pretender who stumbled upon power she neither understands nor deserves."

My chest tightened, and I fought to keep my voice steady. "Why must you speak so cruelly to me? I have done nothing to earn your ire."

His eyes blazed with something beyond anger—something darker, more personal. "You breathe. You exist. That alone is offence enough."

For a moment, I could only stare at him, shock stealing the air from my lungs. 

He leaned closer, his words dripping with venom. "Tell me, what were you before all this? A whore? Did you find that life beneath you too?"

The insult struck me like a slap. I felt the blood drain from my face as I struggled to comprehend the depth of his malice. 

Swallowing hard, I forced myself not to react, even as his words twisted like a knife in my heart. 

"I do not know what I have done to warrant such hatred," I whispered, my voice cracking despite my best efforts. "Why be so cruel?"

His face twisted with rage, and for a brief, terrifying moment, I thought he might strike me. "Your entire existence upsets me!" he roared, the force of his words reverberating in the room.

Silence followed his outburst, the echo of his voice fading into nothingness. 

Tears burned at the edges of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I searched his gaze, trying to understand what could make him despise me so. 

"Why?" I whispered, the question escaping me unbidden. "Is it because I am a bastard... like you?"

At that, all colour drained from his face. He went utterly still, the rage in his eyes replaced by something cold and unreadable. 

For the first time, he was silent, and the room seemed to hold its breath. I watched him, waiting for another cruel word, another strike—but none came. 

Instead, he turned away, the storm in him retreating, leaving only the aching quiet between us.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

The hours after the confrontation with Prince Jacaerys passed slowly, every moment weighed down by the memory of his scorn. 

I retreated to the solitude of my chambers, the heavy stone walls feeling more oppressive than ever. His words had echoed in my mind, each cruel syllable burrowing deep. 

Despite my best efforts, tears had fallen as I paced the room, replaying every jab, every moment of contempt in his eyes. 

I had thought myself strong enough to endure anything, but I was beginning to doubt.

Night fell, cloaking Dragonstone in shadow. The faint flicker of torchlight cast dancing shapes on the walls as I sat by the window, staring out at the distant stars. 

I did not hear the soft footsteps until it was too late. A knock at the door made me startle, and my heart leapt to my throat. 

Before I could answer, it opened, revealing the last person I wanted to see. Prince Jacaerys stepped inside, his features half-lit by the flickering light, and closed the door behind him.

Instinctively, I rose to my feet, every muscle tensed. "My prince," I managed, forcing a politeness I did not feel. "What brings you here at this hour?"

His expression was a mixture of regret and something else—something raw, unguarded. 

For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze shifting around the room before settling on me. "I owe you an apology," he said at last, his voice rough. "I was... unforgivably cruel."

I stared at him, stunned. I had imagined many responses from him, but this was not one of them. 

"You made your feelings quite clear," I replied, my words cautious, careful. "Why apologize now?"

He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his dark hair. "Because I was wrong," he said, his tone raw with emotion. "And because you deserve better than the words I flung at you."

I studied him, searching for the lie or the hidden barb, but all I saw was a man burdened by something heavy and painful. 

"Why?" I asked quietly. "Why do you hate me so?"

His jaw clenched, and he turned away, moving to the window. "It isn't you I hate," he said, his voice low. "Not truly. It's what you represent—a reminder of my own bastardy, of my mother's mistakes and the war that rages because of it." 

He paused, his shoulders tense. "When I look at you, I see every shadow I have tried to escape, every whisper of doubt that has haunted me since I was a child."

His admission left me breathless. I had expected bitterness, but not this raw vulnerability. 

"I never asked to be a reminder of your pain," I said softly. "All I wanted was to find my place here. To serve, to live."

He turned to me then, his eyes dark and unguarded. "I know." His voice was a whisper. "And I tried to make you small, to make you feel as worthless as I do when I think of what I am. It was wrong."

The weight of his confession pressed on my chest, and I took a hesitant step closer. 

"I am not here to be your enemy," I said. "I am not here to judge you for your birth, just as I hope you will not judge me for mine."

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded. "I will try," he said. "I cannot promise it will be easy. The shadows do not leave so easily."

"I understand," I said, my voice trembling slightly.

A fragile silence fell between us. I could feel the tension of unspoken words, of wounds barely healed and a thousand possibilities. 

When he moved closer, I did not step back. He reached for my hand, his touch hesitant, as if he expected me to pull away. When I didn't, he exhaled slowly. 

"You are stronger than I gave you credit for," he murmured. "And more than worthy."

There was something softer, something almost hesitant as if he was still grappling with the enormity of his own words.

"I have wronged you," he said quietly, his voice low but steady. "More deeply than I realized. And for that, I can only offer my apologies. Words alone are a poor substitute for the damage I have done."

I searched his face, trying to make sense of the change. "I... thank you, my prince. Your words mean more than you know."

A flicker of something—relief, perhaps—passed across his features, but it was fleeting. He stepped back, creating just enough distance that I felt like I could breathe again. 

"But words are not enough," he continued, a hint of determination hardening his voice. "I cannot change the past or erase what I have said, but I can try to make amends in other ways."

Confusion knit my brow. "Make amends? How?"

His lips curved, just barely, into a small, wry smile. "I would like to teach you," he said. "Myself."

"Teach me?" I echoed, unsure if I had heard him correctly. There was a tremor of disbelief in my voice. "What would you teach me?"

"Dragonriding," he said simply. "You have bonded with Silverwing, and that alone speaks of your strength and courage. But riding a dragon is more than just a bond. It is a skill, one that can mean the difference between victory and defeat in the skies. You deserve proper training."

I felt a surge of emotion—gratitude, disbelief, and even a flicker of hope—but I quickly shook my head. 

"I couldn't ask that of you. You are the heir. You have duties, responsibilities. There are far more important matters for you to attend to."

He stepped closer, the resolve in his gaze unyielding. "As heir, my duty is to protect the claim my mother fights for—and one day, my own. Ensuring that every dragon rider fighting for our cause is prepared is as important as any political duty. This war is not won by words and titles alone."

His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of urgency. He meant every word, and the weight of his conviction made it impossible to refuse. 

I met his gaze, feeling a strange and unexpected connection, an unspoken understanding that neither of us could deny. Slowly, I nodded.

"Very well," I said, my voice low but resolute. "If it is your wish, my prince."

His eyes softened, and for a moment, the prince I had once thought incapable of kindness or grace stood before me. "It is," he replied. "Tomorrow, then."

With that, he turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps quieter now, as if he carried less weight upon his shoulders. 

When he glanced back, his expression was unreadable—a mix of determination and something I dared not name. 

But I saw it: the beginnings of something fragile, a chance to build trust where only pain had stood.

I watched him leave, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of my lips.

A/n - back to college now and im hanging on by threads x

[etxdelete]

[nelle-y]

A love story told through voicelines (Alhaitham ver.) II

C/W: alhaitham x gn!reader, not that slow of a burn, characters find the other annoying, reader is a teacher at the akademiya, heavily implied past intimacy (nsfw), not proofread

Note: does this count as smut?-

Part 1

Part 3

—

(You) About Alhaitham: Heartdrops

Every time I hear his name, my heart drops.

It’s ridiculous, really. I should be over this—over him. But then he speaks, and I feel it again. That same pull, that same tension, like a string wound too tight. He steps too close, and my breath hitches before I can stop it. His touch lingers for just a second too long, and suddenly, I’m back there.

That night was supposed to mean nothing. A lapse in judgment, a mistake to forget. And yet, here we are—standing too close, pretending we don’t remember.

But I do. And so does he.

(Alhaitham) About you: Heartdrops

Emotions are irrational, transient things—disruptive, even. I’ve never had an issue keeping them at bay. But with them… it’s different.

There’s an odd satisfaction in watching them try—and fail—to conceal their reactions. The way their breath catches when I step too close, the way their gaze lingers despite their attempts to seem unaffected. It would be amusing, if it didn’t leave me with a peculiar sense of déjà vu.

After all, I remember that night just as well as they do.

(You) About Alhaitham: Contemplation

I should’ve known better than to think he’d stay gone forever. Alhaitham never does anything without reason, so why now? Why after all these years?

It’s not as if I haven’t enjoyed this—whatever this is—but I’m not naive. He’s deliberate with his words, his actions, the way he leans in just enough to make me wonder if it’s intentional. I should walk away before I get caught in whatever game he’s playing.

… And yet, every time he looks at me like that, I hesitate.

(Alhaitham) About you: Contemplation

Patterns exist in everything—human behavior is no exception. I’ve spent enough time studying them to recognize the subtleties: the way their fingers twitch when I brush too close, the way their eyes dart away a second too late. They try to act indifferent, yet their body betrays them.

So, for the sake of curiosity, I’ve decided to conduct an experiment. A hypothesis, if you will. If I push just a little further, lean just a little closer… how will they respond?

Purely for observation, of course. Nothing more.

(You) About Alhaitham: Excuses

He’s barely in his office. I was looking for him the other day, and his desk was practically dust! Honestly, it’s harder to catch him actually working than on a break.

Why was I looking for him? It’s nothing—I was just going to ask something. Let me know if you see him, okay?

(Alhaitham) About you: Excuses

So they’re looking for me? That’s unexpected. After all that talk of wanting me away from them. Though I wonder—was it truly work-related, or were they simply using that as an excuse?

Regardless, if they have something to ask, they know where to find me. And if not… well, I suppose I can make an exception and save them the trouble.

(You) Character story: An Instant

“I heard you wanted to see me,” said Alhaitham in his usual condescending tone. He rested against the doorway of your classroom, a smug grin contrasting his uninterested gaze.

“I wasn’t looking—and yet, here you are.” That may be a half-truth—you only looked in his office, and gave up right after—but he doesn’t have to know that. You just hope the traveler hasn’t tattled.

“Here I am.” he looked away, “The traveler told me you were looking, though.” Damn it. His feet took a few paces closer, now facing you as you leaned on your desk. “I find it pitiful having to tolerate your half-truths to save face.”

“You do? Stange. I thought you liked it, given how you come back to my lectures all the time, placing comeback after comeback. You do have the liberty to interlope someone else’s class, am I correct?”

“Truly.”

“So why choose my class to squander?” Your words were quick—almost interrogative—and his frigid demeanor nearly faltered at your attacks.

His silence was rare, but you caught it—the slight twitch of his brow, the way his lips parted as if considering his words more carefully than usual.

Then, he leaned in.

It was subtle at first, but suddenly, you were hyperaware of everything—the way the dim glow of the afternoon light cast shadows against his features, the way the air felt heavier between you, the way his gaze flickered to your lips for just a second too long.

It should have been nothing. A natural proximity in a confined space.

But then, images of that night drew clearly in your mind. How his lips pressed the crease of your own, every bit of skin rising from his touch. How his gaze burned something within you. How you fit so perfectly. Eyes locked with his, you let this feeling eat you alive, blurring what surrounded you and leaving the room with only you and him.

Your breath hitched.

Alhaitham’s sharp sight didn’t miss that. His smirk deepened, smug and knowing.

“Hm.” His voice was lower now, almost amused. “Interesting.”

You exhaled sharply, regaining your footing before your thoughts could spiral into something irredeemable. “Don’t act so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not.” He tilted his head, studying you like a problem he had yet to solve. “But I am curious.”

You remind yourself of who was in front of you; a man who was always two steps ahead. The man whose arrogance boiled holes into your bloodstream. The man whose said arrogance brought you life.

It was infuriating how he always managed to do this—how he could toe the line between challenge and something much more dangerous. You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of your desk for stability. “If you’re done wasting my time, Alhaitham, you can leave.”

He didn’t move at first.

Then, as if entertained by your sudden shift, he exhaled a quiet chuckle and straightened.

“As you wish.”

And just like that, the moment passed, leaving only a lingering heat in its wake.

You were, very much, in trouble.

(Alhaitham) Character story: Unraveling Consequences

For once, the quick-witted scribe was at a loss for words.

He never expected his little experiment to feel so heated.

It was supposed to be a simple test—a controlled observation of their reactions, an analysis of what lay beneath their carefully guarded exterior. And yet, when their breath hitched, when their fingers curled just slightly against the desk, when the heat of that memory flickered so obviously in their gaze—

Something in him faltered.

That was not part of the hypothesis.

Alhaitham prided himself on his ability to maintain control, to remain unaffected by the distractions of sentimentality. Emotions were, at their core, disruptions—variables that compromised efficiency and clouded rational thought. But when he leaned in and saw them break—even if just for a second—

It felt like he had reached an answer he hadn’t meant to find.

He should leave it at that. He had his results, his confirmation. He had nothing more to gain from indulging this.

And yet…

His feet hesitated at the threshold.

His mind, ever calculating, considered a new problem:

If that was their reaction to mere proximity… what would happen if he pushed just a little further?

He exhaled, shaking his head.

Hah. Now they were becoming troublesome.

And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t entirely sure if he minded.

—

Note: PLEASE GOD LEAVE REQUESTS ON HOW I COULD CONTINUE THIS

[aweeee]

Just wanted to post some of my favorite screencaps from interloper C. if you haven't already, PLEASE check out the Interloper ARG by Anomidae on youtube. i cant recommend it enough

[turoce]

the more i look into Interloper, the more i realize how much more connected Anomidae (the character and creator) is to Interloper than i thought.

Interloper C makes the connection very clear. once inside the void, we get to explore the hidden world that was hinted at Interloper 7. most of what we see are featureless maps, but Anomi seems to recognize some of them.

now, the only map he says outloud is rp_christmastown.

but that's not all.

for starters, Belleview Airport, AKA the place where the singing Angel resides? that was a location that appeared in one of Anomidae's old SFM animation, Pyrotale.

(christmastown also appears in Pyrotale!)

shortly after Anomi gets guided by the Angel, he comes across another map. while we don't get a close look at it, Anomi seems to recognize this one as well, even reacting in shock.

shoutouts to the person who recognized the map on the Knockout Forums, btw. it turns out, the mystery map matches up very closely with an OLD custom vote map for a server called Axl's TF2, called axlvote. note that you can only download this map from archives, due to Axl's server being long defunct.

...and guess what? Anomidae happens to be part of the Axl's TF2 group on Steam!

i had gripes with Anomidae making the narrator of Interloper (it can get awkward if i don't specify whether i'm talking about creator!Anomidae or c!Anomi) but i'm starting to wonder... maybe there was a purpose to that.

one last thing:

a few months before the first Interloper video, Anomidae posted a short update video, which also teased Interloper at the very end, saying it would be a spiritual successor to Sourcetales (admittedly i haven't watched it, but someone on the server summarized the premise as "all Source games are interconnected to each other, and characters can jump into other Source games.")

what is less talked about is the section beforehand; the part where Anomidae talks about the Identity and image of his own channel.

"I want my channel to represent my own identity - to feel more personal, and less like a disembodied entity, filled with Animated short films - and the occasional shitpost."

Personal, huh?

[denaliwrites]

His Love is All in Me

Aziraphale x GN!Reader x Crowley

Summary: It's not every day you compete with a demon for the affections of an angel.

Soundtrack: The Boy is Mine by Brandy & Monica

Requests: Open!

Warnings: Jealousy. Unrequited Love. Choking. Crowley is a Dick.

Upon further reflection, maybe Crowley had been right to call you an interloper. Sure, you hadn't meant to intrude on the good thing he had with his angel that fateful, rainy evening in December when you'd first wandered into Aziraphale's shop. You also hadn't meant to steal the angel's attention. Hadn't meant to keep going back day after day. Hadn't meant to get attached.

But now here you were, deeply seated not just in a plush armchair in the angel's bookshop several months later, but also in the angel's life.

Which meant, for better or for worse, you were deeply seated in Crowley's life as well.

And he hated you.

He made it impossibly clear any time the two of you were alone, and though he pumped the brakes a little when Aziraphale was around, he didn't do much to hide it then either. You tried not to let it show, both for Aziraphale's peace of mind and so that Crowley wouldn't get the satisfaction of knowing he'd upset you... but it did weigh on you.

But no matter how much weight you can hold, eventually there's a point where it's too much and some (or all) of it goes tipping over.

Aziraphale was leaving for the weekend.

He said something about having to travel to the States to get a book he'd been after for years, darling. You were on board until he put you in charge of the shop. That would be... stressful. But manageable. And then Crowley walked in, and Aziraphale lit up, and told him that he was in charge too.

The glare Crowley sent you the moment the angel turned away made you want to wither and die.

Before he left, Aziraphale handed you a tray of freshly baked treats -- ones he knew you loved, your most favorite treats that you'd probably kill for.

"To remember me by," he said before leaving.

Once alone in the shop with Crowley, you threw him a wary glance. You wanted to say something -- anything -- but nothing came to mind. Nervously, you set the tray down on the table beside your usual chair before dipping behind the counter to grab the book you'd been reading.

You heard a snap, and when you looked back over, the tray of treats was on fire.

"Crowley!" you yelped, barely managing to set the book down before frantically looking for a fire extinguisher. There wasn't one -- somewhere in the logical part of your brain, you figured it was because the angel could just miracle a fire away. But that didn't help you, a mortal, right now.

"C-Crowley," you whimpered as you finally came to a halt, simply staring at the fire in defeat.

You looked up at the sound of another snap. You could see out of your peripheral that the fire was gone, but your main focus was on Crowley's infuriatingly smug expression.

It pained you to look away, but you forcefully pulled your expression off of him to look at the tray -- the fire had burned every single treat into inedible embers.

As you looked, some sound that vaguely resembled a laugh came out of Crowley, and you whipped around to glare at him.

"What is your FUCKING problem?!" you growled, storming up to him.

He easily could've overpowered you, killed you, done literally anything, but he let you slam him up into the nearest wall, let you press your arm to his throat. Not that he needed to breathe, but it was satisfying all the same.

"Ever since that first day you have had it out for me! I've been nothing but nice, and helpful, and accommodating to your stupid mood swings! What the fuck else can you possibly want from me, you fucking asshole!?"

"I want you gone," he replied simply.

Oh. On further reflection, you should've seen that coming.

"The angel doesn't love you. He can't. You're but a fleeting little infatuation -- a pet. The moment you start withering, start showing your cursed humanity, he'll lose interest."

"Why do you even care?" you asked exasperatedly. "You've had six thousand years with him and you'll have six thousand more, infinite times over. Why do you care if he's distracted for a few years out of eternity?"

"Because he's mine!" Crowley hissed. "He's my friend. My Angel."

"This whole fucking time," you said with a sigh. "This whole time I thought you hated me for a real reason -- but you were just jealous? This whole time, you only hated me because you can't stand the idea of Aziraphale liking anyone else."

Suddenly, the tables were flipped and you were the one pressed to the wall. Unlike Crowley, though, you did need air to breathe, and his hand was nearly crushing your throat.

"C-Crowley--" you wheezed desperately, but his hold didn't let up.

"Listen to me, you insolent little speck of insignificant cosmic shit," Crowley hissed above you, "I don't care about the angel's pointless dalliances with mortals. We blink and you're dead and it's like no time has passed at all."

You were getting lightheaded, delirious.

"What I care about is you humans stupidly worming your way into his heart, only for you to inevitably die and break it."

Just as suddenly as it was there, the pressure on your windpipe was gone, and your body collapsed and instinctively dragged in desperate gasping breaths.

Crowley watched you disdainfully as you sucked in breath after breath, until eventually you evened out.

"Th..." you tried to speak, but every few breaths one still came out as a gasp.

Crowley knelt before you, looking you over. His hand neared your face and you jerked away, yet he persisted. You were surprised when the touch that landed on your chin was gentle. Limply, you let him tilt your chin up, giving him a view of your neck. A couple soft clicks of his tongue and a snap later, and your throat and lungs no longer burned.

"Wh-what did you--"

"I don't want you dead," he said with a sigh. "In fact, I'd much prefer you live a good, long life. Just... somewhere away from Aziraphale. And me."

You blinked up at him, before you let out a pained, wheezing laugh. "Y-you want me to live a 'good, long life'? You hate me!"

"You humans," he groused, looking around like some form of help might magically appear before him. "You're so -- smallminded. You don't get it."

"Get what?" you asked, voice suddenly weak. He looked genuinely worried, and that surprised you.

"You think that love and hate are mutually exclusive. Even when you love and hate something! Like -- like you. You love and hate romance novels. I've seen it! You love and hate them, and yet you cannot fathom the idea that I could love and hate humanity -- love and hate you."

"Sorry," you wheezed, "you love me?"

"Well -- hgk."

You laughed at the sound he made in the back of his throat, and yet again he surprised you. His lips actually pulled up, just a little, in response.

"Yeah, I do. In the way I love every other human," he said after a moment. "But I love you because Aziraphale does, too."

"Yet you want me gone?"

"Because I hate seeing his heart get broken."

"Some things are worth getting your heart broken for, Crowley."

His stunned blinks told you he'd never considered that.

"I know I'm not going to live forever. I know you two will outlive me by eternity. I'll spend the rest of my life with you, and for you, it'll be a second on the cosmic clock. Less, probably."

His eyes met yours, thoughtful, sad, considering.

"Don't you think it breaks my heart too, knowing I'll only get so much time with you before I'm gone? That I'll have to leave him behind, and he'll have to deal with that pain?"

"Then why stay?"

"Because I love him, and people do stupid things for love. Sometimes they do selfish things for it, too. And sometimes, the people involved are perfectly capable of making their own decisions and have considered the outcome and think that the pain they'll experience is worth it."

He looks away in shame, then.

"Aziraphale's not an idiot," you say, reaching out a hand to tilt Crowley's face towards you. "If he didn't want to feel that loss, he wouldn't keep getting attached to humans. But he sees something in us worth going through that pain for. Maybe instead of treating him like an infant who can't understand the consequences of his decisions, you should respect that -- like it or not -- he has his own reasons for doing things and he's more than capable of choosing to do them."

"I can see why he likes you, now," Crowley said softly, and you blinked. "You... hgk. He's fallen for many humans, but you may be the best of them."

Coming from him, that surprised you, but it also warmed your heart. "Oh, he does love me back?" you asked with a laugh.

"Oh, yes," Crowley sighed dramatically. "Didn't understand why before but... now I do."

"And what about us?" you asked.

The sound that came out of that demon's mouth was -- well, it was something. Something that made you cackle.

"Us?" he finally managed, baffled.

"Yeah. Like. Are we okay? Are we cool? No more hating and trying to chase me off and stuff? Can we be civil?"

"Oh," he said, but you saw the moment the realization actually sank in. "Oh! Yes, yeah, we're fine. You're... you're good."

This made you smile. Without warning, you grabbed the demon and pulled him into a hug. "Maybe we can even be friends," you said, delighting in the way his body stiffened against yours.

"Oh, no, no -- I don't -- I don't do that -- that's the angel's thing --"

Despite Crowley's best attempts at insisting that he didn't befriend Aziraphale's "pets" and that he'd much rather stay as far from you as possible, when Aziraphale returned home at the end of the weekend he found the two of you in one of the armchairs -- Crowley's favorite, in fact. You were asleep with a book hanging limply and precariously from your hand. Crowley was... well, it was hard to tell, with his glasses on, but he had his body sprawled across yours, one leg thrown over the back of the chair and one laid over your lap in what Aziraphale would dare say was a protective gesture. He smiled, miracling a blanket over the two of you before he went about settling back into his home routine.