#'His back is hunched as it usually is; as if there is an invisible force weighing him down.'

[ahqkas]

♯ BAD MOON RISING ; mattheo riddle

❛ don't go around tonight

well it's bound to take your life

there's a bad moon on the rise ❜

PAIRING! death eater!mattheo riddle x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! feelings of affection were just a weakness so he needed to get rid of the source

WARNINGS AND TAGS! lot of angst + a tiny bit of fluff, cruel mattheo (he’s been forced into it), kissing

WORD COUNT! 2.2k

NOTES! my complex boy

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

DAYS BEFORE THAT FATEFUL CONFRONTATION, THE CHANGE IN MATTHEO'S BEHAVIOR HAD BEEN GRADUAL BUT UNMISTAKABLE. It began subtly, with him slowly withdrawing from your usual interactions. During dinner, where you once shared whispered conversations and stolen glances, his eyes now avoided yours entirely, his gaze fixed resolutely on his plate or somewhere in the distance, empty of their usual glint of light. The words that once flowed so effortlessly between you had dried up, replaced by a heavy, uncomfortable silence. His hand no longer found its home on your thigh, rather keeping to himself as he picked at his nails.

During your study sessions, which had been a blend of focused work and playful banter, Mattheo became silent, his attention firmly on his books and notes, leaving you feeling like a ghost in his presence. You noticed the way he would position himself slightly further away, creating an invisible barrier that only added to your growing sense of unease. His laughter, once a source of warmth and home, was now absent, replaced by a cold, detached demeanor.

You tried to reach out to him, to understand what was happening, but each attempt was met with curt responses or outright avoidance. The physical closeness you once shared — the brief touches, the comforting hugs, the gentle kisses — all seemed to vanish, leaving an aching void in their wake. Mattheo's once reassuring presence became a source of confusion and hurt, and you found yourself grappling with a growing sense of isolation and fear.

The nights were the hardest. You would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, your mind racing with questions and doubts. You replayed your last conversations, searching for any sign of what had gone wrong, but found none. The memory of his warm embrace and soft words haunted you in a way that it hurt every day to even look at him. Each day, the gap between the two of you seemed to widen, and the weight of unspoken words and unresolved tension grew heavier on your heart.

The library was a space full of quiet whispers and rustling pages, where students lost themselves in their studies. You and Mattheo had claimed a secluded corner as your own, a small table tucked between towering shelves of literature. It had become your usual spot, a place where you could be together hidden from all the curious gazes.

You were hunched over your textbooks, diligently taking notes, but you couldn't help the frequent glances you stole at your boyfriend. He sat across from you, his brows furrowed in concentration, but there was a tension in his posture that you couldn't ignore. The quill he held between his fingers moved absently over the parchment, but his eyes were distant, lost in thoughts that seemed far away from your current surroundings.

"Mattheo," you called his name softly, trying to draw his attention. When he didn't respond, you reached out and gently touched the back of his hand. "Is everything okay?"

His head snapped up, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something in those brown irises — pain, confusion, fear? — before it was replaced by a hard, cold look. "I'm fine," he said curtly, pulling his hand away from yours as if your touch burned him.

You frowned, your concern growing. "You don't seem fine. You've been distracted all week. What's going on?"

The Slytherin boy slammed his quill down, the sound echoing harshly in the quiet of the library. "I said I'm fine, [Name]. Just drop it."

Your heart skipped a beat at the harshness of his tone. He's never acted with you in this way. "Mattheo, please," you pleaded, and the tone of your voice trembled slightly. "I'm just worried about you. You can talk to me."

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, drawing the curious eyes of nearby students. "I don't need to talk about anything," he snapped. "Especially not with you."

The words hit you like a physical blow, and you recoiled, clear hurt flashing across your face. "Why are you being like this?"

His eyes were cold, devoid of the warmth you had always found there. "Maybe I just don't want to be around you anymore," he said, his voice cutting through you like a knife. "Ever think of that?"

The library seemed to close in around you, the weight of his words suffocating. You struggled to breathe, your vision blurring with tears you refused to let fall. "If that's how you feel," you mumbled, voice breaking, "then maybe you should just go."

For a moment, his expression softened, a glimmer of regret flickering in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the same cold expression. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you sitting alone at your usual table, the weight of your shattered relationship pressing down on your chest heavily.

The corridors of Hogwarts were dimly lit, casting long shadows over the stone walls as you made your way through them with determined strides. You had tried to give Mattheo space, tried to believe that he just needed time to sort out whatever was troubling him. But the distance he had put between the two of you, the coldness in his eyes — it all felt wrong, like a mask hiding something far more sinister. You couldn't let it go. You had to know the truth.

You found him in an abandoned classroom, the one you used to sneak into for stolen moments of privacy when everything felt like it was too much to handle. The room was filled with the faint scent of old parchment and dust, the opposite to the warmth and life it once held. Mattheo was standing by the window, staring out at the darkening sky, his silhouette outlined by the fading light.

"Mattheo," you called out to him, voice echoing slightly in the empty space. He turned, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of the sweet boy you loved in his eyes. But then his expression hardened, and he set his jaw defiantly. The image was gone.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice cold and detached.

Yet you stepped closer, refusing to be intimidated by his words and behavior. "I need to know what's going on. Why are you pushing me away? Why are you lying to me?"

"I'm not lying," he said sharply. "I've told you already. I don't love you, [Name]. This —" he gestured between the two of you "— was just a distraction."

Shaking your head, you felt tears welling up in your eyes for the second time this day. "No. I don't believe you. I can see it in your eyes, Mattheo. I know you. You're hiding something."

"You don't know anything," he spat. "You think you do, but you don't. I never loved you. I used you to distract myself, to feel something other than this emptiness inside."

You recoiled as if he had struck you, the words slicing through your heart like millions of daggers. But you weren't ready to give up. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't care. Tell me you never loved me and I'll walk away."

For a moment, he faltered. His eyes softened, the mask slipping to reveal the distress underneath. He glanced away from you, the complete opposite of what you wanted him to do, unable to meet the irises he so fell in love with.

"I don't care about you, princess. I never did."

You stared at him, your heart breaking all over again. You wanted to scream, to cry, to shake him until he admitted the truth. But you knew it wouldn't matter. Whatever he was hiding, he was determined to keep it from you.

"Fine," you said after a while, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and sorrow. "If that's what you want, then I'll go. But know this, Mattheo Riddle: whatever you're hiding, whatever you're afraid of, it's going to come out eventually. And when it does, I hope you realize what you've lost."

You turned on your heels and walked away, the silence of the abandoned classroom pressing down on you like a heavy weight. Stepping into the corridor, you let the tears fall, each one a testament to the love for him you couldn't lost and the boy who had pushed you away.

Inside the classroom, Mattheo watched you go, his heart aching with the weight of his lies. He leaned against the window, closing his eyes as he fought back his own tears. He knew he had to keep up with the act, to keep you safe from the darkness that was coming. But the pain of pushing you away was almost too much to bear. All he could do was pick up the pieces of his own broken heart and try to make sense of the chaos he had left behind.

A few days later, chaos erupted within the stone walls of Hogwarts. The once peaceful corridors were filled with yells and screams as Death Eaters stormed the castle with sadistic laughter of their own. The sight of the Dark Mark glowing ominously in the sky cast an eerie green hue through the windows. Your heart raced as you sprinted through the halls, desperately seeking safety.

Students and professors alike were caught in the pandemonium, their faces masks of fear and confusion. Spells ricocheted off the stone walls, leaving scorch marks and rubble in their wake. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning wood and the metallic tang of magic gone awry.

As you rounded a corner, you skidded to a halt, your breath hitching in your throat. Ahead of you, a group of masked Death Eaters loomed menacingly, their wands raised and ready to strike. Panic surged through your system, but you forced yourself to think clearly. You had to find a way out, a safe place to hide until the madness subsided.

Ducking into a side passage, you pressed yourself against the cold stone wall, your mind racing. You could hear the distant sounds of battle — the clash of spells, the cries of pain and fear. The Dark Mark's glow seemed to pulse in time with your heartbeat.

Just as you began to move, a strong grip clamped around your wrist, pulling you back into the shadows of the passage. Your heart leapt into your throat, a scream forming on your lips, but it was cut short as you recognized the hand that held you. Mattheo's dark eyes met yours, filled with an urgency you had never seen before.

"Mattheo?" you whispered, confusion and hope mingling in your voice.

"Not now," he muttered, his grip never faltering as he tugged you along. The two of you darted through the twisting corridors, the noise of the ongoing battle echoing behind you. His pace was relentless, and you struggled to keep up, your mind racing with questions.

You rounded another corner, then another, moving further and further away from the chaos. Finally, he pushed open the door to an empty classroom and pulled you inside. He slammed the door shut and cast several protective spells on it, the tip of his wand glowing brightly in the dim room as you watched with confusion on your face.

Only then did he release your wrist, but the intensity in his eyes remained. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice hoarse with emotion.

You nodded, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. "What are you doing, Mattheo? Why are you helping me?"

He looked away and you could see the muscles in his jaw tightening. "I had to make sure you were safe."

"But you lied to me," you said, voice trembling. "You said you didn't love me, that I was just a distraction."

He flinched at your words, unable to meet your gaze as his fingers found yours. "I had to. If they knew how much you meant to me, they would have used you against me. Against us." He leaned closer to you, his eyes closing briefly before opening again to meet with yours, a frown pulling at his face. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I thought pushing you away would keep you safe."

Your heart twisted with a mixture of pain and understanding as you looked into Mattheo's tormented eyes. You could feel the weight of his guilt, the burden of the lies he had carried for your sake. Without a word, you closed the distance between the two of you, your lips meeting his in a desperate, fervent kiss.

The embrace was fueled by raw emotion, a collision of love and anguish that threatened to consume you both. Mattheo's arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you close as if trying to protect you from the storm raging outside and you clung to him, your fingers tangling in his hair as you poured all of your longing and forgiveness into the kiss.

For a fleeting moment, the chaos around you faded into nothing. There was only the two of you, lost in the moment. But as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the room, reality came crashing back with brutal force.

Reluctantly, you broke apart, your breaths mingling in the air as you stared at each other, hearts pounding in sync. There were no words to express the depth of your emotions, no promises that could erase the scars of the past. But in that moment, as you stood on the steps of uncertainty, you knew one thing for certain: you would face whatever came next together, not caring about anything other than the boy in your arms.

[mlmxreader]

Insecurity | Billy Butcher x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ probably a lil ooc, but i was wondering where reader is insecure about their body and Billy makes them feel better and hes like idk rly soft? it doesnt have to be smut, but idm if it is, thats up to u.

if you dont want to write this then maybe number 9. "Getting into a fight because someone insulted them"

6. "I got you, you're okay"

1. "The first time you said you loved me - that was my best day" - @loganbcrnes ❞

: ̗̀➛ Billy immediately picks up on it when you're not feeling your best, and in his own way, he tries to make you feel better.

trigger warnings: ̗̀➛ swearing (obvioisly), use of the word "fag" as a slang term, mentions of smoking, sex references, insecurity

↳ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Billy eyed you carefully from his place at the desk, hunched over slightly as he kept his dark brown eyes on you; hardly able to ignore the way you tried to make yourself blend into your surroundings, and how you always quickly looked away when you caught your reflection on your phone screen. He wasn't an idiot.

He knew what was going on, just as he knew why you had been distant from him lately, too. Usually, you would sit next to him with your feet on his thighs, relaxed and taking up as much space as possible. Not today.

No. Instead, you were trying to make yourself invisible, and he knew what was going on; but Billy was far from the most courteous of men, and when everyone else left the two of you behind, he cleared his throat, and dared to smile a little.

"Oi!" He practically shouted. "C'mere."

"Billy, don't," you sighed, shaking your head.

Billy clenched his jaw a little bit. "C'mere, please. I got a bone t'pick with you."

You rolled your eyes, all but marching over to him; your hands stuffed into the pockets of your oversized hoodie. Gaze on the ground. "What?"

"Y'know," he hummed, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the desk. "The day I saw you, that were the day I fuckin' well realised the moon ain't the most breathtakin' thing."

"Seriously?" You deadpanned.

"Yeah, seriously," he nodded. "Every fuckin' day I look at you, I don't fuckin' get it. How a cunt like me managed to pull someone as fit as you... bloody well beyond me."

You were about to move away, brush him off and ignore his words completely, when he gently coaxed you to stand between his legs; forcing you to maintain eye contact with him.

"Billy-"

"Shut up and listen, alright?" He huffed. "You can fuckin' sit in your corner fuckin' mopin' about like some crybaby cunt all you like - I don't give a toss. But if you asked me? I'd say you was fuckin' peng. And I'd mean it. I fuckin' well would."

"It's not my looks..." you muttered. "I really... Billy, I don't wanna talk about it, alright? There's people with nicer, better bodies than me and-"

"Yeah, but that's your body, innit?" Billy shrugged, almost grinning. "And 'cause it's your body, I happ'n to think it's better than any other cunt's body."

You scoffed at him, shaking your head. "You're only saying that-"

"'Cause what?" He quirked a brow. "There ain't no one here but you an' me, so it ain't like I'm tryin' to fuckin' play with you. It's just us, and I'm sat here, tellin' you: I like your body."

"Billy-"

He tapped your thigh gently. "I like how these rest on me lap when you sit next to me on the sofa."

You rolled your eyes.

He gently tapped your stomach. "I like how soft this is, and how I gets to put me hand on it when we sleep."

You glared at him.

Softly, he tapped your chest. "I like how this presses up against me back in the mornin' when you sneak out for your mornin' fag an' come back."

"How'd you-"

He gently traced his fingers from your shoulders to your elbows. "I like how these feel around me when we're snuggled up watchin' shit horror films."

He grabbed your wrists, grinning. "And most of all, I fuckin' love how these feel wrapped around-"

"You're disgusting!" You laughed, snatching your hands back and fondly shaking your head. "Vile!"

"There's that award winnin' smile," he grinned, letting you go. "Y'know, you don't need the fuckin' perfect body. The one you got is the one that's alright."

"Thanks..." you mumbled, daring to gently pat his cheek. "I know you're trying..."

"I got you," Billy said, as softly as he could allow himself to. "I got you, you're okay. I ain't goin' nowhere yet... unless you and M.M's gonna watch that shit again, that fuckin', what is it? Downton? You watch that and I'm buggerin' off down pub."

You nodded, taking in a deep breath as you smiled. "You are the loveliest bastard I've never met, you know that, don't you?"

He shrugged, sitting back down and putting his feet on the desk again; his hands folded in his lap as he grinned at you. "Yeah, but you fuckin' love me."

"Unfortunately," you hummed, sitting on his desk with your arms folded. "Y'know... some days... just some, I think about what my best day was, and I know."

"Hmm?"

"The first time you said you loved me - that was my best day," you said quietly, picking at the loose skin at the side of your thumb nail.

Billy took a moment, observing you carefully. "Pretty sure that was my best fuckin' day, in all. Can't lie... but, say - why don't me an' you grab a quick Chinese? The others ain't gonna be back for yonks, so we can sit down, have a nice Chinese, and watch that fuckin' Take Me Out bollocks you like, eh?"

You grinned as you nodded, clearing your throat. "That's the best idea you've had in a while, y'know... d'you reckon we could order in?"

"Don't see why not," Billy admitted. "Ain't like Homelander's gonna disguise himself as a lowly fuckin' delivery bloke now, issit?"

"True," you agreed with a slow nod.

"G'on," he told you quietly, gesturing with a quick nod. "Go grab the leaflet, we'll see what's good - and it's whatever you want in all. Starters, puddin', whole lot - anythin' you want, order it."

"Alright, Sir," you teased. "No need to bark orders at me."

"Can do a lot more than that," Billy smiled, raising his brows. "All you gotta do is fuckin' ask."

You hopped off of his desk, feeling your stomach rumble loudly. "I might take you up on that later, but... Bill?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks," you told him quietly. "I, erm... I needed all that, and I appreciate it."

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

thank you so much for reading, but if I may have your attention for a brief moment: Fadi needs help to evacuate himself & his family from Gaza as urgently as possible. if you DO have the means to, then please, consider even giving just £1, it would make all the difference to a family in dire circumstances.

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Full hcs for the m6 with an MC that has chronic pain (I looked through the masterlists and didn't find anything, but it's totally possible that I missed something O///O)

The Arcana HCs: MC with chronic pain

Julian

He devotes his full care and attention to every person in need of a doctor he meets and you are about to get 200% of that

Will do a full examination as soon as you're able to talk to him about it. Give him your medical history, past diagnoses, personal opinions, potential causes, and any other detail you have

Listens to every word, writing them all down so intensely that his handwriting is even less legible than usual

In the moment, there's not much he can do beyond suggesting a few alternate ways of handling it and covering you with kisses and careful, all-encompassing sympathetic hugs

In the long run, chronic pain starts to rival (if not surpass) hematology as his field of study and expertise. Pain management does get easier over time as he learns and applies more

It has also changed how he speaks about pain

The earliest example of which was when he told you that he was "intimately acquainted" with it and you misinterpreted that as him saying that he suffers from it too - you still tease him for that

Your biggest medical advocate & never loses sympathy for you

Asra

They didn't really know how much you suffered from it until your first weeks back, and then they watched as you had to relearn how to live with it. To call it nightmarish would be an understatement

So, so, so many pain easing spells and potions. His collection was already impressive for Nadia's migraines but now it's tripled

Curious to the point of almost seeming insensitive about the sensations you experience. They did, with your permission, try linking to you enough to take them on once

He didn't like it. He can handle physical discomfort well enough but he hates it with a passion and this was a horrible realization

Thoughtful and protective of your right to comfort and access to accommodation, to the point that you sometimes have to remind them that you really can handle it

Asks you every morning and through the day how your pain levels are and will adjust accordingly. Bad pain day? Leave the shop to him, here are some meds, he'll bring you breakfast in a bit

Has been known to use pain transfer spells on rude customers during your flareups - it's two birds with one stone!

Nadia

Had a hunch that it was something you experienced from the moment she met you, if only because she was dealing with constant migraines at the time and recognized the pain

Does her best to hide it from you because she doesn't want to make your pain about herself, but gets frustrated beyond measure about it. She's a fixer, and this is something she can't just fix

She does everything she can for you, of course - opening the Palace doors to anyone with knowledge on the subject, stocking up and giving you access to all of her pain management methods

But it still gnaws at her when she knows you're having a bad pain day and the most she can do is encourage you to rest and have your meals sent to you and try to get extra time to spend with you

Even more proud of you than you can tell (which is very proud). Living in pain the way you do is no easy thing and that pain being largely "invisible" only adds to what you must be going through

Very respectful of your needs. It doesn't matter if she doesn't understand why you need something right away, if you need it, you need it

Muriel

It's not something he'll confess to until you're close enough and he's comfortable admitting it, but he has his own chronic pain from his Coliseum injuries. It's not constant, but it flares up regularly

A poorly healed fracture in his wrist. Some mangled nerve endings from blunt force trauma to his ribs. A wrenched knee that never fully healed and keeps coming back like a sprain

There's another layer to the days he spends hiding in bed, lifting nothing heavier than his tiny carving tools

He never really got much medical attention when the injuries were fresh and he certainly hasn't gotten any for the pain since, but he'll share all the knowledge on natural medicine he has

And nobody knows how physical pain can get into your head like he does. He doesn't always know what to say, but he is dedicated to listening when you're struggling and helping where he can

A little slower at accepting support for his own pain (it's months, if not years, before he's comfortable with being seen for it by a doctor) but he's with you every step of the way. You're not alone

Portia

Portia is excruciatingly empathetic to you and this is not something easy for her to understand or relate to

Pain? Physical pain?? Which you can't control, or point to an obvious/visible/curable source for??? How do you not act like you're in constant pain? How have you not found a cure?

(To say that she cringes when she remembers peppering you with these questions is an understatement. What matters is that she learned and she never doubted you for a second)

She still has difficulty fully comprehending what you're going through, but once she's dragged you to her brother and gotten some action items to follow up with, supporting you gets easier

Checks in with you several times a day on schedule and keeps a list of useful questions to ask so she can understand your pain levels

Always has at least two pain meds on hand in case of a spike or flare up and will scour the markets for any ingredients that she hears will help with pain/nerve damage/inflammation

Will bring Pepi to loaf and purr on you for hours when you need to stay in bed for the day and leaves treats on the bedside table

Lucio

He relates to this more than he wants to, but his own experience is so all over the place he doesn't know how to talk about it

Sure, he had chronic pain when he was a count, it's hard to have an emergency amputation done by an inexperienced student and then a decently weighty metal prosthetic for 20 years without it

But back then he had plenty of doctors and the kinds of resources to make managing it almost easy, not to mention the parties and pleasures he indulged in constantly to distract from it

And then for three years he felt nothing - nothing at all

At this point, he'd choose the pain over the ghost form any day, but that doesn't make it easy. Hearing you talk about your pain openly helps him realize it's possible to live with, even though it's difficult

So that's what he does. He'll live with his pain, and you'll live with your pain, and you'll both wake up to it with each other for company. He can do this

He'll still go as far as threatening any medical experts he finds with their demise if they refuse to see either of you and you're not there to stop him, though

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Treat You 1

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, violence, mentions of abuse, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (Tall!reader)

Note: Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You stumble out into the hallway, nearly colliding with the dingy and peeling paint on the wall. The door slams with the force of your frantic exit, nails bending painfully as you let go of the brass knob. Your heart pulses in your ears as another crash bangs from inside the apartment and your father's tirade blazes on.

You untangle your bag, the only thing you could snatch as you stepped halfway into your shoes. The doorknob twists again and you quickly flee down the hall, your father yanking at the door as it jams. You quickly veer down the staircase and only stop at the top of the next flight to pull your shoes on all the way.

You catch your breath at the front door, aware of how Mrs. Davis’ door snaps shut when you pass. You continue outside without a destination in mind. You could hide out at the library again, no one notices you there. It is a bit far to walk.

You sling the crochet bag over your head so it hangs against your hip. You reach inside and find your change purse. You don't have much after the electric bill. Two bucks, it's three to get the bus.

You huff and tuck your hand back in your bag. Your feet carry you as you wind down the street. The apathetic rush of traffic makes you feel invisible. You don't mind that, it's more dangerous to be seen.

There's nothing remarkable about you. You're taller than most girls but that's more worthy of ridicule than admiration. You wear second-hand clothing, some of it your dad's handmedowns, and hunch until your spine hurts. An elephant trying to play fawn.

You chew your lip and stop by the vintage shop. Not the Goodwill but the expensive place with the designer houndstooth and Louis Vuitton logos. In another world…

Across the street, a night club stands desolate and eerie in the daylight. A few times you passed during opening and it was rowdy and flashing. Just on your way to the bus station to spend a couple hours on a bench.

On the next street, a cafe. The place that closed then opened only weeks later. New ownership but everything else the same. The prices aren't as steep as the Starbucks kiosk near the station.

You ponder it, stopping outside as you see a woman behind the counter. You're a bit relieved it's not the usual barista. That guy with reddish hair and warm brown eyes. He likes to talk, too bad you don't.

You enter and approach the till. The woman greets you brightly, her eyes look tired, and she points out to the specials. Nope, you can only afford a tea.

You pay for the green tea and way for her to pour the hot water. As you tap your fingers on the counter, another figure appears from behind the espresso machine. It's that guy. Dang.

“Hey, done break, your turn,” he chirps, quieting as he sees you standing there. He smiles, “oh, hi, you been helped?”

You nod and look down. The woman places the cup of steaming water in front of you. You thank her and take it, turning to claim the seat in the corner.

You sit and settle in with your bag in your lap. You don't have much to do so you stare out the window. Pedestrians pass by, with purpose, some even happily.

The cafe is quiet. There's a couple nesr the opposite wall, on a date, maybe. The ambiance holds even as people come in, ordering and leaving with their drinks.

You blow on your tea and sip. You tug the string of the bag and dip it up and down. Your dad will tire himself out soon. Maybe two hours. You can't make one tea last that long.

You put your arm on the table and curl your shoulders. You trace a finger on the tabletop. You usually keep a book in your bag but you took it out to read last night.

You frown. It shouldn't be like this but that's just how it is. You don't have much of a choice. Your dad is your family, your only family, all you have.

You wiggle your nose and swallow back your self-pity. No use crying. Especially here.

“Hi,” the voice frightens you as the barista approaches with a cinnamon bun on a plate, “uh, I'm Peter, remember? Saw you last week?”

You blink. You press your palms to the cup and feel the heat threaten to blister. He's short, his shoulders broad, and his posture straight.

“Er, you want a cinnamon bun?”

“I… no, I don't have the money,” you rasp and sip your tea.

“On the house,” he insists, “really, there was a mix up this morning and we made a batch too many.”

“That's nice but… no thank you.”

You know what it is to accept favours. They always come back to debts. You lower your head again.

“You don't like sweets? We have quiche–”

You shake your head. He hovers, waiting. You turn to watch out the window again. You wince as the plate clinks onto the table. He leaves the bun there and goes back behind the counter. You ignore it.

Maybe you won't come here anymore.

[moonselune]

Modern fantasy au my beloved. Sometimes it's just what you need to calm down. Especially thinking of school golden boy Wyll crushing on quiet, loner nerd Tav. People find her intimidating, she's rather tall and large after all. But Wyll is HOPELESSLY in love with her, pratically swooning whenever he smells her. Maybe he's admiring her in class during a project, and his friends (let's say Karlach and Astarion) are teasing him.

Honestly I love this so much, I can so imagine Wyll just being like that wholesome popular guy that everyone loves and he does charity work at the weekend, makes everyone swoon

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll x Reader (High School AU) | Crushing

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The classroom buzzed with the usual hum of chatter, the clatter of pencils, and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. It was a group project day, the sort of thing that most students either loved or hated—depending on who they ended up working with. Wyll sat at his desk, surrounded by his usual friends and now project-mates, Karlach and Astarion, as they sorted through their materials.

He should’ve been paying attention, he really should have. But his eyes kept drifting, drawn to the far side of the room where you sat.

You, the tall, intimidating figure who towered above most of the class, with your quiet and stoic demeanor. Some found you scary, others distant, but Wyll? Wyll found you captivating.

There you were, head bent over your notebook, jotting down something in neat, precise handwriting. The light from the window hit your face just right, making your features stand out even more—sharp, strong, beautiful. Wyll’s eyes lingered on you, drinking in the sight of the way you absentmindedly pushed a lock of hair behind your ear or tapped your pen against your lips in thought. His heart practically skipped a beat when he caught the faint scent of your perfume from across the room, a soft, floral fragrance that made his pulse quicken every time.

Hopelessly, utterly, head-over-heels in love. That was Wyll.

He sighed dreamily, leaning back in his chair, eyes glued to you like a moth to a flame. His friends had long since picked up on his obvious infatuation, and today was no different.

“Look at him,” Astarion smirked from his seat beside Wyll, leaning back with an air of casual amusement. He elbowed Karlach, who was busy doodling in the margins of her notes, her massive frame hunched over the desk. “He’s gone again.”

Karlach glanced up, following Astarion’s gaze until her eyes landed on you sitting quietly at your table. A grin spread across her face, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Oh no,” she said in mock seriousness, “looks like Wyll’s love-struck again.”

Wyll’s ears turned a shade of pink, and he quickly tried to sit up straighter, clearing his throat. “I’m not—It’s not like that. I’m just… uh, observing.”

“Observing?” Astarion repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” He leaned in, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’ve been staring at her for a solid five minutes, Wyll. Practically drooling.”

“I am not drooling,” Wyll shot back, but his protest was weak at best. His gaze wandered again, back to you, as if pulled by an invisible force.

Karlach snorted, shaking her head. “Admit it, Wyll. You’ve got it bad. And honestly, I don’t blame you.” She gave you an appraising glance, clearly impressed.

“She’s…” Wyll began, struggling to find the right words. “She’s just… amazing.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “You’ve mentioned.”

Wyll sighed again, softer this time, as if the mere thought of you was enough to make his heart flutter. “She’s so smart, and… have you ever noticed how calm she is? Nothing ever seems to rattle her.”

Karlach chuckled, her voice teasing but kind. “Except maybe you, huh?”

Wyll flushed deeper, his usual golden-boy composure slipping. He ran a hand over his face, trying to will himself to stop being so obvious. But it was impossible. Every time you were near, he couldn’t help but feel like a lovesick fool.

You were strong, tall, and seemed untouchable to everyone else, but to Wyll, you were everything he admired. The way you carried yourself with quiet confidence, how you never seemed to care what anyone thought—it made him want to get closer, to know you in a way no one else did.

It didn’t help that most people found you intimidating, largely because of your height and your quiet demeanor. You weren’t the type to blend in, and it had earned you more than a few wary glances from your peers.

But Wyll didn’t see the cold exterior everyone else did. He saw past it—the way you focused on your work, the tiny smiles you gave when you thought no one was looking, the gentle care you put into everything you did.

“And that perfume,” Wyll added, almost to himself. “She always smells so—”

“Oh for gods’ sake,” Astarion interrupted, feigning a gagging motion. “Please spare us the details.”

Karlach burst out laughing, but even she couldn’t hide the fond smile on her face. “Wyll, just go talk to her already. It’s painful watching you pine like this.”

“I can’t just… go over there,” Wyll mumbled, glancing at you again, his heart doing a little flip when your hand brushed against your notebook, pushing some of the hair away from your face.

“And why not?” Astarion leaned forward, giving Wyll a pointed look. “You’re the school’s golden boy, aren’t you? Everyone loves you, and swoons over you, and you were practically mobbed by half the school when homecoming dates were announced. I'm sure she’ll be no different.”

Wyll frowned, glancing at you from across the room again. You weren’t like everyone else. He knew that much. You were quiet, reserved, and had an air of mystery about you. Approaching you wasn’t like approaching someone at a pep rally or a school event. You were… well, you.

“What if she’s not interested?” Wyll asked, his voice dropping a little. “I mean, she’s probably used to people like me being…”

“Annoying?” Astarion supplied helpfully.

“Intimidated,” Wyll corrected. “She’s so strong, and… I don’t want her to think I’m just another guy who doesn’t see past that.”

Karlach tilted her head, giving Wyll a considering look. “Honestly, Wyll? I think you’re overthinking it. Just be yourself.”

“Exactly,” Astarion chimed in, his smirk widening. “Go on, be the charming hero you always are. Maybe offer to help her with something. You know, swoop in and save the day.”

Wyll bit his lip, his heart thudding in his chest as he looked at you again. You were scribbling something in your notebook, completely absorbed in whatever you were working on, unaware of the chaos you were causing in his head.

Maybe they were right. Maybe he just needed to take a chance. But for now, all he could do was watch you from a distance, his heart full and hopelessly caught in the gravitational pull that was you.

And when you finally looked up, locking eyes with him for the briefest moment, Wyll swore his heart nearly exploded in his chest.

Gods, he thought, I’m in so much trouble.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Awww little Wyll with his heart all a flutter bless. Hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[five-rivers]

Dream Lantern Chapter 1

For Ectoberhaunt 2023 Day 5: Hunt.

The person who entered the small examination room wasn’t a doctor.  They weren’t even human.  

Danny, who had been hunched in the less-than-comfortable chair in the corner, waiting for the doctor to get to him, sprang to his feet.  “You!” he hissed, green sparking from his fists and his rings snapping into place and sweeping outward to transform him.  “You did this!”

At first glance, the person in front of Danny looked human, but that was only at first glance.  The ridges of their eyes curved smoothly, owl-like, into the bridge of their nose.  Their hair, too black, formed a widow’s peak so sharp Danny wasn’t sure it couldn’t draw blood.  They wore a black suit that was about ten times too formal and old-fashioned to even exist in Amity Park.  

But all of that could be brushed aside.  Sometimes people just looked or dressed strangely.  The real indicator was the eyes, which were red from lid to lid and faintly luminous.

“Yes,” said Nocturne, gloved hand touching their face as if to make sure it was still in place.  “Did you think someone else could have?”

“Put them back!” demanded Danny.  “Or I’ll–”

“Or you’ll do nothing,” said Nocturne.  “They are hostages, boy.  I’m sure you realize this already, or you would have attacked.” 

Danny bristled.  “What do you want?”

“Your help.”  They laughed, showing off teeth that were both too white and too sharp.  “You like that, don’t you?”

Danny scowled.  He couldn’t deny the way his core had twitched at the word ‘help,’ but even full ghosts weren’t mindless slaves that could be programmed and activated by their Obsessions’ triggers.  Besides, he had better people to help.  

Like Tucker and Sam.  Jazz.  His parents.  

They were elsewhere in the hospital, in comas so deep Danny couldn’t touch their minds at all.  The doctors had kept Danny here, just in case he was about to slip into a coma, too, but knowing that it was Nocturne, rather than just suspecting it…

He wanted to fight.  He wanted to force Nocturne to let them go, to wake them up.  

But… hostages.  

“With what?”

“With retrieving something,” said Nocturne.  

“And if I help, you'll bring them out of their comas?”

Nocturne lazily raised a hand.  “I swear it.”

“Fine.  What is it and where is it?”  If it was something dangerous, he could always sabotage it.  He had experience with that kind of thing.

“Oh, you mistake me, child.  I will retrieve it myself.  I only need you to accompany me to do so.  A being of your… nature is required.”

“What, a half ghost?”

“A creature neither alive nor dead,” said Nocturne.  “I think you fit that requirement quite nicely.”

The way Nocturne leered at him made Danny’s skin crawl.  He forced the ectoplasm swirling around his hands to recede and landed.

“Fine,” he snapped, again.  

Nocturne reached out towards his face and Danny swatted their hand away.

“I’ll go there awake, thanks.”

“Very well,” said Nocturne, still smiling.  They turned and opened the door.  It no longer led back into the hospital.  Nocturne’s form liquified, and they oozed through the door, gaining volume as they did so until they were in their massive usual form.  The one that could hold and crush Danny in the palm of a hand.  

Danny swallowed.  He hadn’t realized Nocturne could make portals like that.  He followed, and the portal shut behind him.  

Nocturne’s smile grew smugger.  They turned and made a sweeping gesture.  “Behold,” they said, “the Plain of Dreams.”

There… wasn’t much to look at.  There was a big island there, sure.  One large enough that the other side vanished into the horizon.  But the surface of the island was flat and gray, devoid of any point of interest except for size.  

“You live here?” asked Danny.  

“Once,” said Nocturne, almost wistful.  “But there is no time for reminiscing.  You have a role to play here.”

“Which is?”

“That of a lantern.”  Nocturne reached into the invisible folds of their robes and pulled out a glittering, golden, jewel-studded cage, one shaped like a lantern and floored with rich, plush bedding.  They pinched the door open and held it up in front of Danny.  

“No,” said Danny.  “I’m not getting in there.  If you need my glow or whatever for your thing, well, guess what?  I glow just as well out here.”

“It’s not quite that simple,” said Nocturne, circling him.  Danny turned, trying to keep eyes on Nocturne’s face and hands.  “You must be neither alive nor dead, awake nor asleep, willing nor unwilling.  Caged, but uncaptured.  Hungry, but full.  Complaisant, but steadfast.”

Danny’s skin prickled again.  He did not like this, and the fairy-tale-like phrasing was not helping his nerves.  “I don’t know that I’d call myself complacent.”

Nocturne chuckled.  “Different word, little ghost.  Or… I can seek out more friends of yours.  The girl in red, perhaps?”  They switched directions so fast Danny couldn’t keep track of them.  Their next words were whispered into Danny’s hair.  “She still dreams of you, you know.”

Danny flinched away, glaring, but he couldn’t hold Nocturne’s gaze for long.  He frowned at the cage instead.  He did not like it.  At all.  

“I get to leave at the end?” he asked, knowing full well he couldn’t hold Nocturne to that in any meaningful way.  Even Nocturne’s word that he’d let his family and friends go didn’t mean much.  

But what else could he do?  He’d already tried to wake them up himself, and he didn’t know what else Nocturne could do to them when they were in that state.

“Yes, yes, and I’ll wake your family.  We have already discussed this.  You are wasting time.”

“We hadn’t discussed this, actually,” said Danny.  “We’ve barely ‘discussed’ anything.”

“I can send them deeper,” said Nocturne, voice low and dangerous.  “Do you want that, child?  Perhaps their doctors will notice when they stop breathing on their own.  Perhaps not.”

Danny, core making an awful whining sound, raised his hands in surrender and flew into the cage.  Nocturne, moving swiftly, closed it behind him.  

The exhaustion he’d been holding back all day (or was it all week?  All month?  All year?  Since he died the first time?) poured over him.  Against his will, he sank slowly to the blankets and pillows at the bottom of the cage, clouds of golden dust rising around him as his weight settled.  His eyelids fluttered, and his vision became blurred, uncertain.  

Nocturne threaded their long, pointed fingers through the bars of the cage and pressed one against Danny’s chest, over his core.  Inky, starry blackness flowed from Nocturne’s finger and into Danny.  He could feel it being pressed into his core, and his core drank it in, growing colder.  His aura flared out involuntarily, to a brightness that was almost painful.  He groaned and tried to turn his head against one of the pillows.  

“That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” asked Nocturne in a falsely sweet voice.  It echoed weirdly, the words warping around their edges, morphing into other voices, other conversations.  “A simple waking dream.  Look.”

With some effort, Danny raised his head as Nocturne thrust the lantern-cage forward.  For a moment, bright colors streaked dizzyingly across his vision, like fireworks and flowers, but then–

What lay before him was not the gray and featureless plain he had seen only moments before.  Instead, ringed by the golden haze of dreams was a vibrant forest, decked with vivid colors and bright flowers, brighter and more numerous than they ever would be in reality.  Or maybe jungle was a better word.  In the distance, majestic mountains rose from the middle of the jungle, tinted blue and purple, glittering cities of gold and crystal built on their slopes.  A flight of butterflies bigger than birds exploded from the near edge, and swooped around Nocturne and Danny in a rainbow whirlwind.  Some of them had wingspans longer than his arm.

“What,” Danny might have said, aware that his words were slurred into unintelligibility, if they were spoken at all, “is that?”

“The Dream Wilds,” said Nocturne.  

They reached into the cage again, adjusting Danny’s position so that he was halfway between sitting and lounging, hemmed in and supported by blankets.  They might as well have been chains, and even as that picture developed in his mind’s eye, it developed in reality as well.  Blanket twisted around his limbs and grew darker, the fabric taking on a metallic sheen.  Pillows grew heavier… but also softer, pulling him yet deeper into the half-dreaming state Nocturne had forced on him.  

He was, really, horribly comfy.  

If it wasn’t for his hazmat suit and its boots, Danny could almost be convinced he was bundled up in his own bed.  Then, he blinked, long, slow, and sleepy, and he wasn’t wearing his hazmat suit anymore.  Instead, he was wearing a set of pajamas that, if he’d seen them in the real world, would have sent him into paroxysms of envy.  They were a set, a button-down shirt and a pair of pants, the type of pajamas he liked the most.  They also were sewn with tiny star-shaped sequins in the pattern of real constellations.  

Danny knew they weren’t real.  Unfair.  

Nocturne chuckled and tugged on Danny’s newly-bare toes.  

“Don’t,” mumbled Danny, sleepily, not coordinated enough to twitch away.  “Let’s get this over with already.”

“Yes,” said Nocturne, gliding forward.  “Let’s.”

.

The Plain of Dreams was only the greatest of the many places in the Ghost Zone where the ethereal and otherwise elusive energies of dream gathered.  It had been tamed, once, and inhabited, brought to the kind of civilization only known in the dreams of visionaries.  Crystal cities of philosophy.  Hidden villages in perfect harmony with nature.  Utopias of justice, science, and art.  

But those realms were long gone.  When the rulers of the Dream Kingdoms saw the approach of Pariah Dark's armies, they ordered the caged dreamers on whose dreams the foundations of the cities were built woken and released, and their cities faded back into the wilds, and the wilds themselves faded and sunk into slumber until only fragments and memories remained.  

There were ways to navigate them, if one had the right tools.  Ways to access the Dream Wilds where they slumbered, still beautiful, rich, and powerful.  Even with those tools, however, the Dream Wilds were still immeasurably dangerous.  

Even in the Ghost Zone, there were few places where one could be destroyed by their own passing fancy.  

It had taken years upon years for Nocturne to find the lantern-cage, a relic from one of the Dream Kingdoms, traded to a traveler and sold on as a curiosity not long before Pariah took the throne.  Cages not unlike this, but far grander, had held the forever-sleeping dream-architects who had made up the foundations of the great Dream Kingdoms.  The only other Nocturne had ever heard of beyond the borders of the Dreamlands had been from their own collection, melted down to be reforged as part of the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep.  

The success of that plan had made the sacrifice worth it, but Nocturne still resented it, and the lost opportunities it represented.  

All too often, Nocturne found themself dreaming of what would have been, if they had still had their own lantern-cage.  If they had been able to travel back, to reach the Dream Kingdoms before they fell to ruin entirely, to enter the great halls with a dreamer, and once again let dreams be true.  

But even dreams must bow to time.  

The cage was not all Nocturne needed, nor the only preparation they had to make.  Among other things, the cage was useless without the proper dreamer.  

The Dream Kingdoms had, for the most part, used volunteers.  Specially selected, educated, and prepared, quite literally pampered beyond the dreams of sloth, the dream-architects of old had been remarkable.  But even they were unlikely to have had the qualities Nocturne sought.  

And seek they did, searching high and low, throughout both the Infinite Realms and the human world.  But no matter what dreamer they brought to the Plain of Dreams, no matter how long Nocturne wandered, their lantern did not light the way.  

They had thought it must be a matter of power, and set to collecting dream energy from wherever they could, even going to the human world to gather it from living sleepers.  That particular endeavor did not go well, and they returned to the Realms with less than what they’d started with.  

But then they found that old record, and its list of odd requirements.  Neither alive nor dead, awake nor asleep, willing nor unwilling.  Caged, but uncaptured, hungry, but full, complaisant, but steadfast.  A liminal dreamer was required, and not just any liminal.  

There were only two liminals that Nocturne knew of.  He could, with some effort force either of them to fulfill most of the other conditions.  Waking dreams were well within his capabilities, the right pressure on an Obsession would have any ghost, full or otherwise, walking into a cage.  Hungry but full was trickier, but the lantern-cages were designed to help regulate what their inmates absorbed, among other things that allowed their function of bringing dreams into reality.  A glut of dream energy and a dearth of more traditional forms of sustenance would do nicely for Nocturne’s plans, and if the requirement was more metaphorical, they could adapt.  

The difficulty lay in 'complaisant but steadfast.'

The elder half ghost was widely regarded as a coward, having fled from too many fights he himself had started.  Even if he wasn't, Nocturne had tasted his dreams.  Vlad Masters relished every bit of power he could hold over others, and resented any he could not subjugate or suborn.  

The younger… Any being that could escape a dream crafted by Nocturne had to be described as both willful and strong-willed.  Yet, while the child had dreamed of being recognized and praised for the service he provided, in the waking world he provided those services unasked and unrewarded.  

It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do.  Nocturne wasn't about to make more of the creatures.  

From there, their preparations were relatively simple.  Phantom was young and brash, not stupid.  He may have managed to defeat Nocturne once, but the circumstances had been vastly different.  Then, Nocturne had been gathering dream energy and assessing the potential of dreamers.  They had been spread thin, distracted.  

trapping a whole city in slumber.  

Which led to the present moment.  

As during their first encounter, the boy was far more susceptible to dream sand than even ordinary humans.  Nocturne could not recall at the moment whether or not Plasmius had fallen asleep as quickly, or if the weakness was unique to Phantom, but that hardly mattered.  What mattered was that he was working.

Where Phantom's aura fell, the Dream Wilds and all their flora and fauna became real, material, some might even say alive.  The radius of the effect was miniscule.  Nocturne could easily see beyond it, past the golden air and verdant leaves, to where the Plain of Dream was as drab and flat as ever. Phantom was not one of the great dreamers of old.  Nor, Nocturne could already tell, would the masterworks once crafted by those dreamers be making an appearance.  Phantom's conception of the Dream Wilds was too simple, too imperfect to support such complexities.

Butterflies.  Really.  

Even some of Nocturne's earlier dreamers had done better, reached further.  

And yet… the texture, the depth of color, the quality of light… Yes, with Phantom as their lantern, he would reach the ruins at the heart of the Dream Wilds, and finally claim what they had sought for so long.

Lantern in hand, they glided forward, beneath the boughs of the great trees.  

.

Danny had expected it to be dark under the trees.  It had looked dark.  Instead, every leaf, every branch, every flower, every crawling, flying, or running thing, every wisp of colored mist was illuminated by Danny’s own aura, which showed no sign of dimming.  The shadowless quality of the surroundings added to their dreaminess, another layer of unreality on top of the haze, blur, and dazzle.  

Danny slowly turned his head back towards the way they’d come from.  The way he thought they’d come from.  Already, the open Ghost Zone sky was entirely hidden from view.  They could have been walking for hours, not… not…

How long had they been walking?  Had it been hours?  He couldn’t tell.  

Danny really didn’t like this.  But he couldn’t really do anything about it.  He was in a cage, and Nocturne still had his family hostage.  Plus, moving and thinking felt like swimming through honey.  Soft, cozy, comfy honey that made him sleepy.  The way the cage swung helped with that, a gentle, lulling, rocking motion that had him drifting, distracted.  

He blinked hard, rousing back to the half-asleep state Nocturne had put him in.  Being caged was one thing.  Being totally unaware of his surroundings while caged by an enemy was something else.  

“Where are we going?” he asked.  

Nocturne said nothing.  

“Where are we going?” he repeated, adding volume in the hope that it would let his words carry more clearly.  

Nocturne looked down at him contemplatively, clearly weighing options.  Then they smiled, sly, smug, and indulgent.  “We hunt the Beast of Dreams.  A chimera with many forms and faces, it guards the way to our destination.  Three times we must face them, and three times we must gain their tokens, else even your light will not shine on our path.”

“What if we, um.”  Danny licked his lips, trying to recover the thread of his question.  His tongue felt heavy in his mouth.  “What if we can’t find them?”

Nocturne tsked at him.  “What a terrible attitude to have,” they scolded.  “It’s almost as if you don’t care about your family at all.  After all, if you are useless, so are they.”  

They stopped their glide and reached through the bars of the cage, touching Danny’s shoulder where it joined to his neck.  Normally, with his hazmat suit, it wouldn’t even be exposed, but now Danny shivered as Nocturne pushed more energy into him.  He whimpered as his aura burned ever brighter in response.  His core hummed, high and strained, but his heart beat steadily, and his breathing stayed deep and slow.

“Guide me, little lantern, little light,” whispered Nocturne.  “I seek the Beast in the guise of Falsehood, where it lairs at the Gates of Horn and Ivory.  Show me the way.”

Danny had no idea how Nocturne thought he could navigate when he had never been here before and could barely see past his own aura.  No direction seemed better or more notable than any other direction.  

Finally, his eyes landed on a group of trees practically exploding with white and purple flowers.  He twitched his fingers in their general direction.  

Nocturne withdrew their hand and started moving in that direction at once.  Danny let out a sigh as his core gradually returned to a more relaxed state.  

They were looking for 'The Beast of Dreams in the guise of Falsehood.'  What did that even mean?  What did that look like?  Some kind of animal?  Like a fox?  A snake?

"The being we go to meet is the very essence of the deception of dreams.  It is that which makes you forget that you are dreaming, that which make you think the dead are living, and the living, dead, that which calls you late to events long past, that which casts you in a thousand roles whose lines you have never learned.  It is illusion and confabulation, a fabulist beyond all others.  He speaks truth only in service to greater lies."

Danny… understood some of those words.  Maybe if was more awake, he'd know more of them.  

“Even so, within the bounds of this, our trial, he will be forced to some measure of truth.  He must set a true price for his token, when asked three times, and when that price is paid, he must hand it over.  But even such a small honesty is one it despises, and it will seek to mislead us.”

“Mhm,” said Danny.  Beast guy would lie, and lie a lot.  Not much different than dealing with Nocturne themself.  Must be a dream thing.  

His eyes drifted to the trees and flowers outside the cage.  Periodically, glossy leaves reflected his aura back at him, making him blink and wince.  The trees here were really big, most of them towering even over Nocturne.  Which made sense, if Nocturne was from here, and they had those huge butterflies to contend with.  They’d fit their scale.  It still felt weird to Danny, and didn’t help with his deepening sense of unreality.

He blinked again, and his blink must have been longer than he'd thought, because when he opened his eyes, they were no longer walking, but standing under a massive apple tree.  Its branches spread wide and hung heavy with brilliantly red fruit.  No other trees grew under its shadow.  

To either side of the trunk, set into the hedge-like mass of greenery beyond the reach of the single great apple tree, were two tall gates made of pale materials.  Flowering vines grew around them, holding them shut as effectively as any chain. 

Speaking of chains… he shifted uneasily, and listened to the soft clanking of the blankets around him.  Yeah.  They were still messed up by… whatever was going on.  It wasn’t as if Nocturne had actually explained anything, and–

Something in the tree moved.  Danny startled as he realized that something was an immense snake.  Patterned in poisonous green and red, it blended in almost-perfectly with the surrounding leaves and apples.  

Normally, he wouldn’t blink twice at a giant ghost snake.  He’d fought more than his fair share of them.  Cobras, boas, vipers, rattlesnakes, you name it.  But this ghost radiated power far beyond that of a normal animal ghost, and he felt himself shrinking down among the pillows and blankets in an attempt to hide.  

He knew it wouldn’t work.  He was glowing too brightly.  

“Nocturne,” said the snake without moving his mouth.  His was deep and smooth, and reminded Danny of Vlad and, oddly, Clockwork.  “What an unexpected pleasure!”  It extended its head down, beyond the lower branches of the tree, as if in greeting.  “I see you have a new lantern with which to light your way.  I wish you good fortune on your journey, and hope you gain everything you seek.”

Danny winced at the use of the word ‘wish,’ but Desiree didn’t immediately jump out of the bushes, so he forced himself to refocus on the conversation in front of him.  

“Falsehood,” said Nocturne, “I come for your token.  What price have you set for it?”

“Is that any way to greet a friend?  It has been so long since your last visit, and you have not even thought to introduce your new friend.”  The snake lowered itself partially to the ground, the end of his tail still hidden in the trees, and began to circle Danny and Nocturne.  “He looks delectable.  I would love to just gobble him up.  That’s a joke, dear.”  It twisted to look more fully at Nocturne.  “I would never dispute your ownership of anything, after all.  Much less the light you steer by.”

“Enough,” said Nocturne.  “What price have you set for your token, that I might move forward?”

The snake shook his head.  "Moving forward, my dear?  Is that what you call this?  I must congratulate you indeed.  And in such a timely manner, too, for just the other night, another lantern-bearer came by, and took for herself the last of my to–"

"What must we pay to receive your token?"

"You won’t let me have even the smallest morsel of fun," complained the snake. "Your mother taught you no manners.  But very well.”  It turned away from both of them, somehow conveying the sentiment of sulking despite its body being a tube.  “In exchange for my token, I require either a thing that is both true and false at once, one lie that will become true, or one truth that will become a lie.”

"Any one?" asked Nocturne suspiciously. 

"The merchant cares not if you pay in gold or silver, only that he is paid."

"I want an answer, not a riddle."

"That is my sister's domain, not mine."

“Oh my gosh,” said Danny.  “Just do it.  If he doesn’t give you anything, then you know he lied.”

“Stupid child.  What do you think he means by ‘will become?’  So long as even a fraction of this place is held in reality, he has the power to make it so, and his games are far worse than those of the jinn you play with.”

“I know the rules as well as you, if not better,” protested the snake.  “I would not break them.”

“You would if you could.”

“I will not break them, then.  It is the same.  If you do not, perhaps I will assume you did come just to visit.  There are so many things you have missed when you were away, dearest.  It breaks my heart.”

“I doubt that.  This place is an abandoned ruin, the merest shadow of what it was.”

“And many places are, since the reign of the Pariah,” said the snake, mildly.  “Yet, even so, you have come here, dreamer in hand.  Do you imagine that everything is where you left it, even as you say that this place has fallen?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.”

Nocturne shook their head.  “I will not listen to your lies.  You won’t trick me.  Not again.”  They hung Danny’s cage on one of the lower branches and started to pace, hands behind their back.  

The snake sighed, and, to Danny’s alarm, wound around the branch he was suspended from to peer into the cage.  His eyes weren’t like a normal snake’s.  Instead of pupils, they had several spirals in varying shades of red, green, and black, and rotated slowly, hypnotically.  Danny found himself unable to look away, his awareness of Nocturne and, indeed, the rest of the snake fading.  

Until, that is, the snake spoke again.  

“It is just as possible for a lie to be told for a greater truth, as it is for a truth to be told for a lie.  I do not care for you, but my games, as you call them, are for the greater good of all.”

Danny blinked his eyes, which had begun to water, hard.  Crap, that was scary.  Not quite to the level of Freakshow’s staff, but scary.  The only thing that kept him from trying to find a way out right now was that even if he escaped, his family couldn’t.  He needed to stay here, stay strong, for them.  He’d already tried everything he could do on his own.  

“You will accept a statement that is both true and not in exchange for your token?”

“Yes.  Or one truth that will become false, or one falsehood that will become true.  I’m not terribly picky.”

“And you only want to hear this thing, not wipe it from my mind?”

“I don’t even have the power to do that.”

“I know for a fact you do.  You only want to hear this statement, and you will accept that as payment?”

“Oh, are you asking me three times?  It is almost as if you don’t trust me.  That’s hurtful, after our long acquaintance.”

“Will you, or will you not, accept a statement both true and false as payment?”

“I will, I will!”  The snake sniffed loudly, a sound Danny didn’t even think snakes could make…  Then again, this snake was talking, a ghost, and maybe also a dream (Danny was unclear on that point), so, really, they were already far beyond that point.  “I know you don’t consider me worthy of respect, but shouldn’t you at least respect the rites and rules?  It will go much more smoothly.  Quickly, too, if that’s something you’re after.”

Nocturne smothered a growl.  They raised a knuckle to their lips, the starry blackness of the digit standing out starkly against their mask-like face.  “Then my payment is this: the path I seek is the one that leads to the Crown and Cup of Dreams.”

The snake laughed, an odd, barking noise.  “And you say I never taught you anything.”

Nocturne opened their mouth as if to argue, expression pinched and sour, but then closed it, thoughtfully.  “You are trying to distract me.  I have given you payment.  I expect your token in return.”

The snake sighed long and heavy.  It wound its way onto a nearby branch and pointed its nose at one of the apples.  “Any of these apples may serve as my token.”

Nocturne quickly picked the apple the snake had indicated.  Then, they flew to where Danny’s cage still hung.

In Nocturne’s hand, the apple was large.  Big enough that it wouldn’t look strange if they tried to take a bite out of it.  Big enough that if it was hollowed out, Danny could fit in it comfortably.  But that wasn’t what Nocturne did.  Instead, they brought the apple to the bars of the cage, and as it passed through them, it shrunk down until it could fit easily in Danny’s hands.  

The perspective made Danny’s head swim.  It didn’t work.  But it did, and it was, and Nocturne was pressing the apple against his lips.  

“Eat,” they said.  Despite their earlier anger, that smug, teasing smile was once again bending the corners of their lips upward.  “The purpose of these tokens is to ensure the lantern can light the way.”

Danny leaned away from the apple, squinting at it.  "No," he said.  

It wasn't as if Danny's parents had ever sent him to Sunday School (the Holy Spirit was bad enough.  The Holy Ghost?  You got the picture), but Sam had always been delighted to share the darker stories, and Tucker’s parents went to church on Sunday mornings, whether Danny was staying over or not.  Plus, he did try to pay attention to literary symbolism in English, even if Mr. Lancer didn't think so.  

A snake offering apples?  Bad news. 

Maybe if Nocturne was the one being told to eat it, or if Danny's friends and family weren't on the line, he wouldn't have said anything, because screw Nocturne.  But they weren't and they were.  

"This isn't your token.  You're lying."a

The snake chuckled.  "Clever child."

Nocturne snarled and darted forward, clawed hand closing around the serpent's neck.  The edges of their form were flared out, like feathers or fur.  The apple fell down and vanished among the pillows and blankets.  

"I have paid your price.  I fulfill every requirement to walk this path, and you have no right to keep it from me!"

The serpent evaporated and reformed deep among the branches of the apple tree.  “You call me a liar, when you tell such untruths yourself!  Every right is mine, and mine alone!  Nor was I paid.”

“I gave you my statement, both true and untrue.  You will not cheat me.  Not now.”

“Did you?” asked the snake, clearly delighted by this turn of events.  

“How dare you speak of rules and respect, when you desecrate this ancient rite?  How dare you stand in my way, when I–”

“Indeed!  Who else should stand in your way?  My sisters and brothers?  All those with a greater claim to this path?”

As it turned out, despite everything, Danny had been paying attention to the whole conversation, even if he hadn’t followed all of it.  Nocturne had been sure the snake couldn’t lie if he was asked the same thing three times… so maybe he didn’t.  

“If the token is for me,” he said, slowly, “is Nocturne the one who has to pay the price, or is it me?  When you said ‘you’ earlier, you were talking to me, weren’t you?  I’m the one who needs to say one of those three things?”

The snake approached again, and Danny hastily averted his eyes.  "I like this one, Nocturne.  He reminds me of you, when you were younger, and better behaved."  He paused, significantly.  "And smarter.  Yes, little light, you are the one who must answer me, if you desire my token.  Of course if you do not…"  

Danny understood what the snake was implying, but he did, in fact, need that token.  

He really hated hostage situations.

But if what Nocturne had implied about the snake’s powers was true, maybe he could use this.  After all, nothing said the lie had to be his.

"Nocturne said they'd bring my family and friends out of their comas if I help them.  Can I give you that as the lie?"

The snake started laughing.  Danny, meanwhile, felt like his brain had been peeled out of his body and he was floating over his skin.  The persistent misty softness had converged on him, and now he was floating.  

"I had doubted before, but now I understand how it is that you were the one to defeat Pariah Dark.  Nocturne, dear, he has to be able to take the token.  I doubt keeping him like that will prevent him from vexing you, anyway."

“I can make him take it.”

“As you would.  Now–”

“You have not been this cooperative before.”

“Perhaps I simply want you gone.  You are, as I have mentioned, incredibly rude.  And ugly.  And I find what you are doing to be repugnant, as you yourself would, had you given it thought beyond your base desires.  Not that you listen to me–”

“You’re going to try to pass off something random as your token again, aren’t you?  And then you’ll claim it is because you didn’t give it to him, you cheat.”

“Me?  A cheat?  Never.  Or only at card games.  It is very difficult to play a hand when you don’t have any.”

“You aren’t even a snake.  You only look that way because of how he’s dreaming you.  But what I don’t understand is why you seem to want him awake.  You’re never this transparent.”

“Are you sure I want him awake?  Perhaps that is only what I want you to think.  Ah, and now you’re tying yourself in circles.  A shame.  Once you were good at this.  Or at least passable.  And you wonder why you couldn’t even hold the dreams of a single human city, much less the power that passes through here.”

“I am the Master of Dreams, and–”

“Only because there was no one else qualified.”

There was a long silence, and Danny felt himself drifting back to the surface of awareness.  That had been… strange.  

“Give him,” said Nocturne, their voice gravely with suppressed rage, “your token.”

Danny noticed with some alarm that the snake was wound around the cage.  When did it get so close?  Why did it get so close?  His scales flashed at him.  

“Take two,” said the snake.  

“What?”

“Take two of my scales.  Together, they make my token.”

“And… am I supposed to eat them or something?”  That… was that the right thing to ask?  Everything was still a bit floaty.  “Don’t laugh,” he said, crossly as the snake started to snicker.  It did that a lot.  “I’m serious.  You wanted me to eat the other thing.  The, um, the apple.  Are you going to make me eat these, too?”

“Take them and find out.”

Danny glanced back at Nocturne, but they didn’t make any objection this time.  Carefully and slowly, he crawled over the blankets to the bars of the cage.  Because of the way the bottom of the cage was curved and how the pillows and blankets were ever so slightly higher near the outside edge, he had to hold onto one of the bars to stay in place.  

“Any two?” he asked.

“No, the two you get by adding one and one.”

Danny glared at the snake for a moment, but quickly returned to looking at the scales.  Each one was only a little smaller across than his palm.  They glittered, and Danny blinked sleepy tears out of his eyes.  He adjusted his grip on the bars and resisted the temptation to lie down.  

He really didn't want to do this.  

"It won't hurt you?" he asked. That wasn't his main concern, but… in the moment, it was a concern.

"No more than pulling free a hair."

Depending on the hair, that could hurt quite a bit.  He reached out and grabbed a scale at random.  It slid free with surprising ease.

Most of it was green, but the edge of it was vivid red, as if it had been rolled in blood.  He tucked it quickly into the pocket at his breast, and reached for the next scale.  This one was green all over, a smooth gradient from one side to the other.  

He let go of the bar and slid back into the cozy nest in the center of the cage as if guided by an outside force.  Even without Nocturne’s intervention, the blankets and pillows tucked themselves in around him.  If anything, he felt even more secure than before, only head and hands free.  

But he was sitting there, holding the scales, one in each hand.  

In dreams, occasionally a dreamer is seized by knowledge or need apropos of nothing.  They know that this is their grandmother's house, even though it's obviously the grocery store.  They know they must hold the cards with only their left hand, or otherwise they'll lose, never mind what game they're playing.  Sometimes, too, the dreamer simply acts.  The impetus for their actions obscure, not originating from their own thoughts.  Jumping from cars, yelling, fighting, eating, smoking, cheating on tests, being unable to stop.  

Danny, not thinking about anything in particular, raised the scales to his eyes.  They sunk into his skin without a trace.  

At first, he rubbed his skin and eyes furiously, hoping to find a way to peel them off, but then… 

He saw.  

He could see.  

Before, it had been difficult to keep his eyes open, impossible to see past his own aura, but now everything looked so clear, from the leaves, to the apples, to the grass, to the gates and the ruins beyond them.  

"You see, now," said the snake, kindly.  "The purpose of my token is to shield your eyes, so you can see.  And, I suppose, better guide the one that carries you.  Before, you burned too brightly for your own good, but now…"  

Danny nodded as the snake spoke.  Vaguely, he felt as if he shouldn't agree with him, but what he was saying made sense.  He did see better.  He saw more.  

Most things were still misty, out of the corners of his eyes, but directly in front of them, they were clear and crisp.  Sharp.  Well defined.  

He could even see the path on the forest floor, where it ran underneath them and to one of the pale gates - which didn't look nearly as overgrown as he had originally thought.  

(There was something very wrong with that thought, with all these thoughts.  But this thought, in turn, slipped away and disappeared.)

“Which way, child?” asked Nocturne.  “We have wasted enough time here.”

Danny’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth, so he pointed instead.  It was strange that Nocturne could not see the path.  Nocturne walked that way, lantern in hand.  And when had he picked the cage back up?  Danny was missing something.

“Nocturne,” called the snake.  “I meant what I said.”

“About what?”

“All of it.  Give my sister-self my regards.”

[feefeewrites]

Veiled in Shadows

Severus Snape x reader

Title: Veiled in shadows

Severus Snape x reader

Summary: After Dumbledore's death at his hand, Severus finds comfort in the reader and makes a heartbreaking decision.

---

A creaking door interupted the heavy silence upon Spinner's End, revealing Severus' hunched frame. His face, usually impassive, was deeply etched with weariness and the burden of his betrayal.

You sat by the fireplace, some mending lying forgotten in your lap as you looked up at him. The flickering flames cast eerie shadows across his face, accentuating the lines of exhaustion surrounding his features.

"Severus..." you whispered, rising from your seat and crossing the room to embrace him, feeling the tension in his body as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

He clung to you like a drowning man, his fingers trembling against your back. "I couldn't..." he began, his voice waivering, "I had to do it."

You held him tighter. "It's not your fault," you softly tried to assure him, brushing a hand gently through the dark locks of his hair. "You did what you had to do." The two of you remained it each other's arm for a long time.

But as the night wore on and the hours slipped away, a shadow fell over his gaze. You sensed a shift in his demeanor, felt a determination that worried you.

And then, when you least expected it, his hand reached out, fingers caressing your temple with a whispered incantation. Your mind swam as a fog descended, clouding your thoughts and memories. Panic surged within you, a primal instinct screaming for you to fight against the encroaching darkness.

"Severus?" you cried out, your voice laced with fear as you struggled against the invisible force that threatened to consume your mind.

Your memories slipped away like smoke, fading into nothingness with each passing moment. Faces blurred, and voices became distant echoes.

Desperation clawed at your heart as you reached out for Severus, grasping desperately at the threads of your rapidly fading reality. "Please," you begged, tears streaming down your face, "don't leave-"

It was no use. He was already slipping away, his form growing fainter with each heartbeat. And then, with a final whispered apology, he vanished into the shadows, leaving you alone in a world that suddenly felt cold and empty.

In the aftermath, all that remained was a hollow ache, a gaping void where memories once thrived. And though you couldn't remember his face or the sound of his voice, you could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers against your skin, a bittersweet reminder of a love that had been lost.

[bloglophop]

“Sense”

Mila and Law’s first meeting at Punk Hazard.

Song for vibes: Madeline and Theo by Lena Raine (this is…what Law and Mila meeting sounds like as a sound. Hope that makes sense. )

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Law was going crazy.

He had to be, and it made sense, given the harshness of the pure, frigid, soundless landscape he currently resided in.

It would probably make anyone go nuts if they stayed there long enough, and one look at Caesar clown was enough to affirm those suspicions tenfold.

As long as he stayed on mission it didn’t matter, but Law was definitely losing his mind a little to the cabin fever.

Either that, or every other day around the exact same time, some invisible force was moving his stuff.

Law’s desk was full of books and loose pieces of paper, stained with coffee mug rings and inky fingerprints from working too hard and too late into the night. It was his desk, he was allowed to keep it as messy or as tidy as he god damn pleased, and it was with a great amount of incredulity and indignance that over the last few months, every other day at around 6pm, he would return to his desk and find his papers scattered with complete abandon all over the room.

Beyond irritated with this frequent disturbance, Law had made the mistake of going to Caesar and asking if he knew anything about it.

“Someone’s been meddling with your office? Why, Law, I haven’t a clue!”

The horned man whirled around in the air, a big grin plastered across his ashy face- a grin that told Law Caesar knew exactly what was going on. Not at all in the mood to entertain Caesar’s foolish practices, Law simply made a gruff noise of confirmation and started to walk away.

”I hope that the trouble is quick to resolve itself, Law!” Caesar cooed to the back of Law’s head as the doctor continued to leave, his frown growing deeper.

“I do hope it’s not too unhareable- I mean, unbearable!” The clown cracked out into his signature ghostly cackle, and it was all Law could do to keep walking and not trample extremely hard on Caesar’s boxed up heart when he got back to his quarters that night.

Every other day.

6pm.

Mess.

The security cameras in the hallway outside of Law’s office revealed little except the yells of frustration he would emit after getting his concentration broken for the umpteenth time.

The final straw was when it happened right in his face as he was just sitting there, trying to work.

Law had been putting off taking a break for a little longer than he usually did, holding his head in one hand, hunched over as he wrote furiously with a pen in the other.

Without a single warning, every paper and lightweight object not secured or tied to a notebook went whirling up, thrown violently and with forceful abandon across the room. Law let out a gruff cry of frustration, swatting papers away from his face, standing up from his desk so quickly he made the chair fall over with a loud clang.

“Damn it!” Law seethed, his golden eyes wide as he looked around, scuffing his hand roughly through his choppy black hair.

”Sorry!”

Law went rigid, more frozen than the bleary white landscape outside.

Sorry? Had he just heard someone say sorry?

He strode from his desk to the open door, almost hurting his neck as he whipped his head around, scanning the hallway for whoever might have just spoken.

No one was there, and though it left Law with a clenched jaw and hot irritation bubbling away in his chest, this offensive intrusion was actually a blessing in disguise. The encounter had provided him with both the pain and the balm he needed to relieve it.

Because hallucinations didn’t apologise for causing a mess.

And if it wasn’t a hallucination, it was susceptible to his Room.

Law had a whole free day to plan, and then, the day after that, he waited.

The lights were off in his office, the door was open as usual, and Trafalgar Law was at his wits ends. In one hand he gripped a rolled up newspaper, watching the digital clock in the corner of the room as it provided a small glow of yellow light, ticking away at a countdown to 6pm.

3…2…1…

”Room!”

Law dashed out into the hallway, filling the entire space with an opaque blue as his devil fruit activated, searching for- whatever he was searching for within the space, and Law found it.

Moving fast- impossibly fast, he detected a presence in his Room coming from the far end of the hallway, about to pass his office. Law almost cracked a grin. This was too easy.

”Shambles!”

Flicking his wrist and fingers turning upwards, the newspaper disappeared from Law’s hand, and he instead found himself with a fistful of furs, the paper dropping harmlessly to the floor.

The same could not be said, however, about Law.

The thing he was gripping by the scruff of the neck- a person- was moving so fast that the force of being snatched up by Law dragged them both to the ground: Law unwilling to let go, the stranger unable to slow down.

Law grit his teeth as he stumbled to the cold metal floor, suppressing a hiss of pain in favour of being the first to recover. Not having his sword on him meant he had to get his hands dirty, but by this point, that was fine.

Law was pissed enough to no longer care.

Grabbing them with both hands now, two iron grips marked with death digging into plush fur, Law shoved them to the ground and scrabbled to get his knee on their chest so he could pin them down with his whole weight.

“Who are you?” Law demanded as he grappled with the squirming thing beneath him, undeterred by the clumsily kicking feet and scratchy nails.

“Stop that.” He snapped, increasing the pressure on their chest. “Why are you messing with my office?”

“I’m sorry, sorry, please!”

Law was a little surprised at the voice- lilting despite being strained with fear, with something of a sibilant ‘S’. Not quite the voice of the infuriating chaos maker he’d been expecting to apprehend. Law’s grip relaxed a fraction, just enough for the stranger to shrug their shoulders up and use them to awkwardly push their hood back off of their face, arms trapped at their sides by Law’s body.

Law found himself looking at a girl.

This, in itself, was no matter. Unlike that idiotic cook from the Strawhats, Law had no issue whatsoever fighting people of any gender, so it wasn’t that detail that gave him pause.

It was her eyes.

Amber and as wide as dinner plates. Her eyes were pleading, unblinking, set strangely and uncannily against her sweet and unassuming face.

“Who are you?” Law repeated again, maintaining his hostility as his perceptive gaze took in every detail- something he was sure that she was doing to him, too.

“I’m Mila” Mila’s lips were drawn up a little, contorted with worry. “I’m a courier! Between Caesar Clown, and- and Joker!”

Law sat up a little, exhaling sharply through his nose. So this was who Caesar had been alluding to previously.

“You’re Trafalgar Law,” Mila continued. “I know you, a captain, a warlord, you-“

“Yeah,” Law cut off her nervous blabbering with a sharp look. “Don’t need you to tell me who I am.”

Mila stared up at Law, cringing as another attempt to wriggle out from underneath him earned her more pressure against her chest.

”Mila. Cottontail.” Law muttered.

It had finally clicked. The last time Law had heard about Cottontail Mila, she was an extremely low level player in the pirate world from some backwater town in the North Blue. To see her here now, working under such high rollers was quite a surprise.

”You’re that messenger girl.” Law asserted, raising an eyebrow at her.

”Yes!” Mila squeaked, ducking her chin up and down in a nod. “I’m so sorry if I scared you!”

Law was taken aback somewhat, both by the apology and the notion that she could possibly scare him.

Mila was dressed for the harsh weather conditions, a soft and furry brown coat with a plush ruff around the neck and a hood to keep out the cold. The coat came down to her knees, where it looked like she had just layered leg warmer after leg warmer on top of the other to protect her lower half, topped off with a matching pair of fuzzy boots that she had been uselessly trying to kick Law with.

The coat had random bits of ribbon and bows pinned to it, like she’d tripped and fallen into a sewing basket.

Something about her hopeful, wind-chilled face made Law relent somewhat.

”You come by here every other day. Why.” Law demanded, folding his arms across his chest. He had no intention of letting her up just yet and, honestly, her coat was actually pretty comfortable to sit on.

Realising she was stuck, Mila let her head flop back against the floor, letting out a small ‘ow!’ As she accidentally banged her head, making Law fight the urge to smirk.

“I just deliver things between Caesar and Joker.” Mila answered, fighting the urge to try and free one of her hands so she could rub her head. “Parcels usually, sometimes just letters.” She mumbled.

Law clicked his tongue, nodding just a little. It made sense- Doflamingo would want to see samples and reports straight from the lab.

”Alright.” He conceded, easing up the pressure on her.

The second Mila had an inch, she took a mile, worming her way out from underneath him with a hurried;

”Wellthanksitwassonicemeetingyou, buh bye- eek!”

The last portion of her babbled sentence was punctuated by a yelp as Law had her by the wrist, pulling her back down to the ground to be level with him again, kneeling in front of each other.

“Hold it, Cottontail.” Law huffed, his patience wearing wafer thin. “You didn’t answer me. You make a damn mess of my office every single time you visit. Why!?”

Mila twitched, nibbling fretfully at her lip.

“I- oh, I thought I might be doing that, only, if you leave the door open when I’m coming past…” Mila offered Law a strained, toothy smile. “I’m so fast it’s been sending all your papers flying, hasn’t it?” She shrugged her shoulders up bashfully to her ears, continuing to smile at Law in the hopes it would melt his icy glare.

It was her sheer speed doing that? Law raised an eyebrow.

“So it’s my fault for leaving the door open?” He pressed.

Law had endured enough nights of tidying up scattered lab reports to warrant making the messenger squirm a little, and squirm she did.

”Oh no, no, not at all!” Mila’s smile dropped. “I just- I get so focused on getting my job done on time-“

“That you cause problems when I try to do mine?” Law cocked his head to one side, his lips twitching into a small smile as he watched Mila get more and more embarrassed.

“No, no!” Mila raised her free hand up to her mouth, biting down hard on the crook of her thumb in an attempt to displace her anxiety. Seeing this, Law released his grip on Mila’s wrist. His curiosity had been satisfied- he was a pirate, but he wasn’t about to be a monster to some overworked and weary looking girl.

“Stop that.” He sounded a little harsher than he meant to, but Mila stopped, looking guiltily up at Law.

“Walk next time. It’s bad manners to run around indoors like that.” Law let out a sigh, glancing off to the side. “Though I’m not surprised no one enforces manners around the Donquixote family.”

Mila blinked at him a few times, then let out an odd little laugh.

”I’m not part of the family.” She stared at him. Law’s golden gaze snapped back to her.

“I’m an independent party.” Mila explained. “I’m not…I’ll work for anyone. Here,” She suddenly pulled the sleeve of her coat down, showing her arm to Law. It was covered with watches, all of them engraved with the name of a different location, each showing a different time. “These are where all my major clients are located, see?” She pointed.

Law’s eyes widened a fraction.

”Some of these are Marine bases.” He stated blankly.

”Mhm.” Mila pulled her sleeve back down, scrabbling to sit up a little, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“…Why would any pirate hire you, knowing you work for Marines?” Law asked, incredulous.

“M-A-D.” Mila answered, simply and cheerfully.

“M-A-D?” Law frowned.

“Mutually assured destruction.” Mila nodded. “Pirates trust me with their very important information. But, if I do a bad job for the pirates, most of them know they could probably just…make me disappear after torturing some useful Marine information out of me.”

Law was a little taken aback at the eerily casual way Mila discussed the idea of her being tortured.

”Why aren’t you more concerned about that happening?” Law’s expression betrayed no emotion other than slightly shocked curiosity.

Mila locked eyes with him, suddenly fixing Law with a very wide eyed and serious look, already getting to her feet to be on her way as she spoke.

”Because I never do a bad job for anyone.”

[vvaspoppie]

Otto Octavius: Instinctive

→ Summary: After an incident, Otto finds out that Y/N is a mutant. → Author’s Note: Idk what this is probably the result of my Doc Ock obsession and watching some of the X-Men + Wolverine movies. Not evil Otto for this one. Pretend Norman allows them lunch breaks. →⚠ Warnings ⚠: Insecurities(?) → Fandom: Spectacular Spider-Man → Genre: Oneshot → Word Count: 1.2k → Pronouns: They/Them

You had no idea what Otto would think if he found out. You had been working at OsCorp for a good few years and in that time you’d come to consider him a friend. He seemed nice, but then again most people did when they didn’t know you were a mutant. It’s why you choose to keep it completely under wraps. The only people that knew were in your family. 

You worked in the genetics department. It seemed cliché, the person with a genetic mutation studying genetics, but that’s just how life works sometimes. You don’t remember how you met, and you didn’t really need to. You both took lunch at the same time and had been doing so since your first month at the company. 

It was lunch right then, not that you would have known that. You were too engrossed to notice the passage of time or your colleagues leaving the room or even Otto hesitantly approaching your hunched-over form. He softly called out to you but to your unprepared mind, it registered as a threat. On instinct, you disappeared. At least that’s what it must have looked like to Otto. You looked down at your arms and saw nothing. You saw the shock spread across his face as you silently stared. He turned around the room in search of you, mouth slightly agape. It was a better reaction than your last boyfriend. 

You’d turned semi-invisible in your sleep (meaning only your clothes were visible) and when he saw you he thought there was a ghost in your apartment. (Which was somehow more acceptable to him than the real reason). 

He softly whispered your name, which was when you reappeared. He jumped back in shock. “H-how did you do that?” He kept his voice low, likely not wanting to attract any attention from the people walking the halls outside.

Oh God, it was happening. You couldn’t tell if the look on his face was the ‘what-the-hell-did-you-do’ kind of shock or the ‘what-the-hell-are-you’ kind of shock. It was usually the second kind, but you didn’t believe Otto was like that. Didn’t want to believe he was like that.

Your heart was beating a mile a minute and your ears were burning hot as coal. This was it. You took in a deep breath and decided it would be quicker and easier to rip the bandaid off immediately. “I’m a mutant.” Then there was silence. His face reminded you of someone who had just figured out a complicated math equation, just more excited. 

It seemed as if the words went directly from brain to mouth. “Do you know how it works?” The realisation seemed to hit him quickly as he fumbled a bit with his next words. “Of course you know how they work,” he mumbled it like an apology, “D-do you know how it works on a cellular level, I mean.” With each passing word his voice became softer. You simply stared at him. You knew he was a scientist but his attitude still surprised you. Not afraid of the unfamiliar and instead interested - captivated by it - even. “No,” that was the word that opened the floodgates, “but I am doing independent study using my own blood. Oh, I also did my thesis on the genetic differences in human and mutant DNA.”

A small smile made its way onto his face. The air of the room was far less tense than a few moments before. “I suppose that’s why you never mentioned your thesis before.” Your face fell somewhat. “I can talk about it more if you want, just - don’t tell anyone else. Please.” It bruised your ego a bit to be pleading with someone like you're a school child asking someone not to tell anyone about your crush, but what else could you do. 

“Yes, of course,” he cleared his throat, though it sounded more than a little forced, “should we get to lunch now?”

You whipped your head in the direction of the clock on the wall. Your lunch break started a whole five minutes ago.

“Sure, sure. My bad.”

↔

At most lunches, you were both too drained to speak about much, preferring to enjoy each other's company in silence. Otto was more talkative than before for obvious reasons.

“You could commit crimes very easily with your abilities,” he spoke softly.

“I suppose so,” you didn’t quite enjoy what he was implying, but you didn’t want to assume deeper meaning where there might not have been.

“Have you?” Once again, brain directly to mouth. “Thought of it I mean- I know you’d never do something like that.”

“A few times,” it was tempting, even the best people’s minds would wander if they had your abilities, “I never acted on it. I doubt OsCorp would hire someone with a criminal record.” Nark sons of-

“Of course they wouldn’t, it would be horrible for publicity.” He cleared his throat and gulped down his water.

“Sure.” The conversation ended there and left a one-sided awkward air between the two of you. You wondered if it was a felony or a misdemeanour that caused the sudden uptick in his nerves. 

↔

It was the end of the workday and the lunchtime incident was almost completely absent from your mind. You packed your lab equipment away and wiped down almost every surface that you could. You weren’t sure if Otto was still in the building, but knowing him you ventured to guess he was. When you reached his lab, you could clearly hear what sounded almost like an argument. Almost because it was just someone else berating him. You knocked on the door and called out his name. The room went quiet and not a minute later Mr Osborn stormed out of the room. He shot you an irritated glance, but said nothing.

You hesitantly poked your head into the doorway. The lab was clean and Otto looked to be unharmed. (physically at least)

“Are you in trouble?” You asked, stepping into the room.

“No, no trouble. Mr Osborn is just … like that.” He was trying to keep the mask up, but it was plainly obvious that he was upset. Maybe now wasn’t the best moment to ask, but then again- “Do you want to go get dinner with me? I could pay if you want.”

“Yes.” His answer was quick, but his backtracking was just as fast. “I-I would love to…” He trailed off.

“But?”

“But I have more work still to do.” He sounded as disappointed as you felt.

“I thought they weren’t allowing overtime for this month?” HR did a crappy job of explaining why, but you got the basic idea down.

You could practically hear the way his heartbeat spiked by the look on his face. “It’s a special occasion.” You decided it was best not to question the way higher-ups thought.

“Do you know when you’ll be free?” This conversation was a verbal trainwreck.

“I believe I’ll be available next Thursday.” He had that awkward smile on his face again, it looked almost like the one he had when a hypothesis was proven wrong.

“That works.” The little confidence you had when you first walked into the room was nowhere to be found at this point in the conversation. He extended his hand, and you shook it. “It’s a date.”

He had to have been the most awkward yet cute person you’d ever known. And you had a date with him next Thursday.

Tagging: @sargensliza

[takingchences]

𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐩𝐭. 𝟔

A descendant of a legendary quirk longs to separate herself from her family name, but first she'll have to confront villains, ghosts from the past, and her growing attraction for Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight.

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x OP!fem!oc

Warnings: mature language

If you wish to join the taglist let me know! Thank you for reading and an early Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!

series masterlist + my masterlist

After the reporters were escorted off campus, the rest of the day went smoothly. Bakugou was back to his usual boisterous self, which Sana was actually happy about (not that she'd ever admit it).

Momo offered to treat the girls at a nearby cafe, but Sana declined. The girl felt exhausted after such an exciting day and longed for her bed. There was a part of her that dreaded going home though. Thanks to Bakugou, she'd managed to evade the press and their questions, but she was afraid that somehow her father had found out anyway and was waiting for her.

So Sana walked as slowly as possible, dragging out the twenty minute walk back to her house to about thirty-five minutes. She'd barely touched the knob before the door swung open. Carefully, she poked her head inside. The entryway was empty, and no footsteps could be heard approaching. The solar powered girl wiped away an invisible drop of sweat. Thank God he's not-

"Why are you just standing there?"

Sana shrieked, jumping back in fright.

Umi stood hidden behind the door, a duster in hand. Her other hand was still on the doorknob. The young girl doubled over, clutching her chest in fear that the vital organ might break free from her chest. Dammit. She'd actually felt the years being taken off her lifespan.

"I saw you walking up through the window," the housekeeper put a fist on her hip. Her head was tilted to the left, taking in the hunched figure before her. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," the solar girl sighed, pulling herself up to face the older woman. "Is he-"

"Gone. He's been in and out of meetings all afternoon." Sana breathed a sigh of relief. For now, she was safe. She noticed how Umi's eyes glanced behind her towards the street before returning to her.

"What is it?" Sana followed her gaze, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"I just thought Shoto would be with you."

Hearing his name didn't help calm her heart. For months she'd made excuses as to why Shoto hadn't been around. She'd claimed that he was taking up more training for the entrance exam (which was probably true), or that he'd finally taken the time to visit Rei in the hospital. Anything she could think of to explain his absence, but honestly? She had no idea what her best friend had been up to all these months. She wasn't even sure what she'd done in the first place to deserve his silent treatment.

"We've both been pretty busy lately," Sana forced her lips to lift upwards. She'd perfected her fake smile over the years for all of the cameras and public appearances, but Umi knew her almost too well. She was scared that if she looked closer, she would see the overwhelming sadness Sana felt in her heart reflected in her eyes.

The housekeeper didn't look entirely convinced, but she didn't press the subject, either.

Admitting out loud that they'd had a falling out made it real. And Sana wasn't ready to face that reality yet, so she happily fed into the fantasy.

¸☾⋆*･ﾟ¸☾⋆*･ﾟ¸☾⋆*

The next morning was uneventful. No sign of flashing cameras or pesky reporters camped outside the gates. No more stampedes in the hallway. The most excitement 1-A faced was Midnight surprising them with a pop quiz.

Lunch was peaceful. Sana sat at her usual table with Mina and the boys. She spotted Shinso lounging at the same table as yesterday and waved. His hooded eyes widened a fraction before hesitantly returning the gesture.

"Oh?" Mina leaned in close, her lips curled deviously. "And just who were you waving to?"

"A friend."

Mina gasped dramatically. "Do I know this friend?" Her bright eyes narrowed in suspicion. She leaned in close, though the volume of her voice didn't change. If she was trying to be sneaky about it, she was failing miserably. The whole table's attention was now focused on the them. "More importantly, is this mystery friend a guy?" Sana opened her mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Mina clasping her hands together in prayer. "And if he is, PLEASE tell me he's hot!" The solar girl laughed, shaking her head. She wasn't blind. Shinso was very handsome, but there was a specific type that she was attracted to.

Normal guys just didn't cut it. She had her first love to thank for that.

"Am I not allowed to have hot guy friends?" Sana gestured across the table to two very smug-looking guys, one flushed redhead, and a snarling gremlin. She waved her hand dismissively towards the ash blonde. "And whatever you call that."

Kaminari and Sero erupted into cackles.

"THE HELL-" Kirishima grabbed his shoulders and pushed Bakugou back down in his seat. Sana sent him a wink, which earned her a demonic growl.

"Not ones that I don't know about!" Mina protested.

Sana took a long sip of her orange juice. She remembered Mina fangirling over Shoto on their first day. If she ever found out that they were childhood friends... well, she could only imagine the pinkette's reaction, but she had a feeling it would involve a lot of squealing and a few not-so-playful punches in the arm.

She could only smile and shrug.

¸☾⋆*･ﾟ¸☾⋆*･ﾟ¸☾⋆*

After lunch, Mr. Aizawa stood at the front of the class wearing his hero suit, his hair still messy from the catnap he'd most likely taken during the break. "Today's training will be a little different. You'll have three instructors; me, All Might, and another faculty member will be keeping tabs on you." All around the room students gasped.

"Sir!" Iida held his hand up, like he was waiting to be called on. "What kind of training is this?"

"Rescue." His response caused the excitement level to rise even more. "You'll be dealing with natural disasters, shipwrecks, stuff like that."

A rescue mission? Sana leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. There were all types of heroes out there. There were those that specialized in battle, while others were better suited for search and rescues. It all comes down to how you can help the most in a crisis. If a villain appears in a public space, putting civilians lives at risk, where are you going to be most useful; in the evacuation or the takedown?

This training exercise Aizawa set up for them will test them in a way they couldn't prepare for. Fighting is easy, but protecting someone? Making split second decisions in a life-or-death situation that could cost not only your life, but countless others? How do you prepare for that?

Aizawa told the class to pipe down before continuing. "What you wear in this exercise is up to you. I know you're excited about costumes, but keep in mind that you haven't gotten used to them yet, and they might limit your abilities." The special compartments holding their suits slid out of the wall. "This special training is at an off‐campus facility, so we'll be taking a bus to get there. That's all. Start getting ready."

They all quickly changed into their costumes before congregating outside the school gate. Everyone was in full costume except for Midoriya. Bakugou had done a real number on his adorable green suit during their last heroics class, so the boy was forced to walk around in his gym uniform until the repairs were finished.

They reluctantly lined up outside the bus per the new Class President's instructions. Sana felt a cruel twinge of satisfaction as she boarded the bus and noticed the open layout. Nice try, Iida. She nabbed a spot in the middle next to Kirishima, who was practically vibrating in his seat. Everyone was feeling the excitement. The amount of energy pouring off of them was almost tangible.

"If we're pointing out the obvious, then there's something I wanna say..." Tsuyu caught their attention. She turned to the resident broccoli boy. "About you, actually."

The greenette blushed. "About me? What is it, Asui?"

"I told you to call me 'Tsu.'" The frog-like girl reminded him, flustering the poor thing even more.

"Oh, y-yeah. Right."

The green-haired girl help her finger to her lip in contemplation. "That power of yours. Isn't it a lot like All Might's?" The sound that came out of Midoriya's mouth nearly made Sana snort unattractively. The boy was a red, sweaty mess.

Yeah, I guess... if you ignore the fact that his limbs turn to spaghetti every time he uses it.

Kirishima also pointed out the big difference between their quirks before sighing. "Still, I bet it's cool to have a simple augmenting‐type of Quirk. You can do lots of flashy stuff with it." He held out an arm, activating his quirk. "My hardening's super strong and can destroy bad guys in a fight, but it doesn't look all that impressive."

Sana nudged his knee with her's. "Aren't you being a little hard on yourself?"

"Oh, no way," Midoriya shook his head in denial. "I think it's really awesome looking," he insisted. "You're definitely pro material with a Quirk like that." Thank you, Midoriya, for being so kind. Sana shot him a grateful smile.

"You really think so?" The redhead brightened, but he still looked a little down. "Seems like it'd be easier to be a popular hero if I had something flashier."

"My navel laser's got the perfect combination of panache and strength." Aoyama proudly pointed out, but Mina was quick to pop his bubble.

"But it's way lame if it gives you a stomachache, sweetie." The French boy deflated at that.

"Well, if any of our classmates have pro Quirks," Kirishima steered the conversation back on track."It's gotta be Todoroki, Sakano, and Bakugou."

Sana was genuinely surprised to hear her name mentioned. Not that she didn't believe in herself and her abilities, but to have someone else acknowledge her strength was so rewarding. She'd been compared to Shoto her entire life, but this time was different. Finally, someone was seeing her as an individual, as someone capable of standing on their own, and not in someone else's shadow. Shoto and Bakugou had two of the strongest quirks she'd ever seen, and here was someone who viewed her on the same level as them. It just solidified her belief that she was meant to be here.

"Sure," Tsuyu admitted. "But Bakugou's always angry, so he'll never be that popular."

"What did you say? I'll kick your ass!" Bakugou jumped up from his seat, gripping the handrail tightly as if imagining their necks in its place.

Tsu didn't bat an eye. "See?"

She'd tried to hold it in, but she couldn't keep it in any longer. Sana clutched her sides, snickering uncontrollably. Kaminari joined in the teasing next, casually leaning back in the seat across from her and Kiri. "Y'know, we basically just met you. So it's kinda telling that we all know your personality is flaming crap mixed with garbage." The amusement in his eyes was unmistakable.

"You're gonna regret the day you applied to this school, loser!" Bakugou was perched on the rail now, ready to launch himself at the electric blonde.

Midoriya watched the one-sided argument unfold with a look like he was going to pass out or be carsick, neither of which Sana hoped to witness. They broke off into smaller conversations amongst themselves for the remainder of the short drive.

"We're here." Aizawa announced, standing at the front of the bus. "Stop messing around."

"Yes, sir."

The class stepped off the bus, only to be welcomed by a familiar face... well, mask. "Hello, everyone," The Pro Hero Thirteen greeted them with a wave. "I've been waiting for you! I can't wait to show you what's inside!" The young heroes followed their instructors into the building. From the outside, it didn't look like much. But inside...

"Holy crap!" Kirishima exclaimed.

The interior of the building was huge. A grand staircase led down to the main floor, where areas were sectioned off into mini environments. "A shipwreck, a landslide, a fire, a windstorm, etc..." U.A really went Plus Ultra with their budget, huh? "I created this training facility to prepare you to deal with different types of disasters. I call it the Unforeseen Simulation Joint, but you can call it USJ!"

Aizawa and Thirteen whispered to each other, the rescue hero holding up three fingers. Their homeroom teacher looked annoyed as he turned back to them. Thirteen, on the other hand, was as cheerful as ever.

"Excellent! Before we begin, let me just say one thing. Well, maybe two things... possibly three, four, or five."

The list keeps growing! 1-A sweatdropped.

"Listen carefully. I'm sure you're aware that I have a powerful Quirk called Black Hole. I can use it to suck up anything and turn it into dust, but my Quirk could also very easily be used to kill."

Shocked gasps filled the silence.

"Some of you also have powers that can be dangerous. In our superhuman society, all Quirks are certified and stringently regulated, so we often overlook how unsafe they can actually be. Please don't forget that if you lose focus or make the wrong move, your powers can be deadly. Even if you're trying to do something virtuous like rescue someone."

With great power comes great responsibility. Isn't that what the first heroes used to say?

"Thanks to Aizawa's fitness tests, you have a solid idea of your Quirk's potential. And because of All Might's combat training, you likely experienced how dangerous your powers can be when used against other people. Carry those lessons over to this class. Today, you're going to learn how to use your Quirks to save people's lives. You won't be using your powers to attack enemies or each other, only to help. After all, that's what being a hero is all about. Ensuring the safety of others. That's all I have to say. Thank you so much for listening."

The class clapped and cheered, amazed by the Pro's speech. Mr. Aizawa, of course, already looked like he wanted to go home.

"Right. Now that that's over..." All at once, the group moved their attention to the plaza, where the fountain was acting strange. Suddenly, a dark, misty cloud appeared, a pale hand emerging from the darkness. Mr. Aizawa stepped forward, instantly on alert.

"Stay together and don't move!" Thirteen warned.

The class watched in confusion and awe as their homeroom teacher took a defensive stance, his capture weapon floating around him. His stance was defensive, but strong, as more people stepped through the purple mist.

"Thirteen," Aizawa commanded over his shoulder, his focus locked onto the growing amount of strangers downstairs. "Protect the students!"

Out of the mist appeared a hulking shape. Purple-black skin was stretched tight across bulging muscles. The being's eyes were wide and empty, it's brain exposed. It's beak opened in a reverberating roar. What the hell is that thing? Sana's hands clenched at her side, a slight tremble in her fingers. It obviously wasn't human... not anymore, at least. The students looked to their teachers for guidance on what to do, their voices strained.

"Wait, has the training started already?" Ochaco's voice was apprehensive.

"I thought we were rescuing people?" Kirishima asked.

Sana wasn't so sure herself what was going on, but her gut told her it wasn't anything good. It was clear that as unconventional as his teaching style is, Aizawa wasn't behind this. He looked too tense, too taken aback by their arrival. In that moment, he wasn't 1-A's Aizawa, but the Pro Hero Eraserhead.

So if it's not part of the training, then what-

Midoriya went to move closer, but was instantly scolded. "Stay back!" The raven-haired man threw his arm out. "This is real. Those are villains." Sana inhaled sharply, her gaze jumping between her classmates, her teachers, and the villains below.

It seems we're the ones in need of rescuing.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Tempest

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

Amidst the deepest shadows, the truth finally comes to light.

Notes:

This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace. As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series. Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with respect to magic, medical details and the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

In the grand hall of the Tsar’s palace, the air was thick with the low murmur of political discourse, a world of power plays and strategic alliances. The major decisions had already been finalized earlier in the day, yet the droning speeches and the smug expressions of the attendees persisted. Lavish words of self-congratulation filled the air as various political figures lauded their own cleverness in brokering agreements that were, in General Kirigan’s eyes, merely fragile compromises. The Tsar, seated at the head of the gathering, basked in the empty praises directed his way, too drunk on both wine and the illusion of power to notice the undercurrent of conflict still lingering in the room.

Kirigan sat with him at the high table, a calm shadow amid the chattering diplomats. His patience was by now worn thin; he had been forced to endure this event for hours, because his presence was expected—required even. His status as leader of the Second Army left him little choice. Each person at the high table was accompanied by a group of trusted aides, who observed the negotiations. Among them were Ivan, Fedyor, and Alina, Kirigan's closest confidants. Alina was present not by her own choice, but because the Tsar insisted on showcasing her—an unwelcome display that she detested as much as Kirigan did. Though she sat toward the back of the room, the prying eyes of curious nobles weighed heavily on her, their relentless scrutiny reminding her that she was little more than a spectacle to them. Alina fiddled with the edge of her Kefta, her eyes often drawn to the General. His face was calm, composed as ever, but there was something restless in his posture. Not tension exactly, but a kind of simmering frustration. She was learning to read him, to sense the undercurrents beneath the mask he wore so effortlessly. Since she had met him, there was a connection between them—an invisible thread that hummed every time they were near each other, as if something pulled them together beyond understanding. Ivan and Fedyor, ever vigilant, flanked her, their expressions guarded. They kept their eyes on the whole room. As Heartrenders, they were trained to detect the slightest change in a human’s pulse, the barest flicker of any abnormality. But tonight, all seemed calm. Routine. The idle conversation around them continued unabated—frivolous chatter and boasts from the nobles, who had no idea of the sacrifices made by the people who defended their world. Alina had been to a few of these events now, and each one left her more exhausted than the last. But Kirigan—he always managed to endure, to carry the weight of these obligations without a crack in his façade. At least, he usually did.

Then it happened.

A messenger, a young man in plain soldier’s garb, wove through the throng of guests toward Kirigan. The two Heartrenders noticed immediately that something was amiss. He was hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller, to avoid drawing too much attention. Reaching the high table, he leaned down to whisper something into Kirigan’s ear, his words inaudible to the rest of the room. But whatever he said, it made Kirigan freeze.

Alina felt it immediately—a sharp shift in his energy, like the snap of a rope pulled too tight. Ivan went rigid in his seat, his eyes narrowing. Fedyor turned pale. The two shared a look; they could feel the storm that had just erupted inside Kirigan. Alina didn't need their Grisha abilities to know something was terribly wrong. She sensed it deep in her chest—a pulse of dread, sharp and suffocating. The messenger stepped back and slipped away into the crowd. Alina's breath quickened, her fingers trembling slightly. Something horrific had happened. Across the room, Kirigan remained perfectly still, his face a mask of indifference once more, but the air around him crackled with barely contained energy, a tempest of grief and fury roiling just beneath the surface.

Ivan was already on his feet, moving swiftly toward the messenger. Fedyor was right behind him, his hands clenched into fists, knuckles white. Alina followed, her legs feeling heavy as she pushed through the sea of oblivious diplomats, all still caught up in their political debates and negotiations. The contrast between the horror unfolding in their small circle and the self-serving manipulation around them was almost sickening. Ivan intercepted the young soldier before he could disappear entirely, grabbing him by the arm, his tone low and dangerous. “What happened?”

The ashen-faced man swallowed hard, clearly struggling to keep his composure as he spoke. “There was… an attack. A massacre. One of our battalions at the front was unexpectedly ambushed and completely wiped out. Over a hundred Grisha are dead.”

It was like the floor had been ripped out from under them. Ivan’s face twisted with fury, barely held in check. His grip on the messenger’s arm tightened, but he released it just as quickly, stepping back as if physically restraining himself. Fedyor stood rooted to the spot, his usually cheerful demeanor shattered. Alina thought she might collapse. She felt the world tilt as her vision blurred with tears. Blinking furiously, she tried to keep herself together, but the weight of the loss crushed down on them all, the enormity of it sinking in. Without a word, Ivan stormed out of the room to take care of everything, assuming Kirigan's responsibilities in organizing the response to the massacre. Alina felt the tears slipping down her face, unstoppable despite her desperate efforts to keep herself composed. Fedyor noticed immediately and, without a word, guided her swiftly toward the exit. They slipped out into the hallway, unnoticed by the oblivious crowd inside.

In the privacy of the corridor, Fedyor kept a steady arm around her, whispering soft reassurances while his power worked to steady her racing heart. Slowly, Alina’s sobs quieted, her breathing evening out as she regained control. After a few minutes, she nodded, signalling that she was ready.

They re-entered the room, Alina’s face flushed. She was grateful she’d had Fedyor’s support and the brief moment outside to compose herself.

Kirigan on the other hand… Kirigan had to sit there, pretending none of this was happening. Alina’s eyes found him again at the high table, surrounded by oblivious diplomats. His expression was stone, giving nothing away. But she could feel the storm inside him, like a distant thunder rumbling just beneath the surface. How was he keeping it together? How was he not tearing this place apart with the sheer force of his grief and anger? The minutes stretched on, agonizingly slow. There was nothing they could do, no way to pull Kirigan from the grip of this suffocating, twisted formality. After what felt like an hour, Ivan returned, his face grim. Without a word, he resumed his place beside Alina and Fedyor. The heavy silence enveloped them once more as they continued their vigil. They stayed close to each other, hovering on the edges of the room, their eyes never leaving Kirigan. The tension was unbearable, the air thick with unspoken horror and helplessness.

Finally, long past the point of endurance, the indulgent event began to wind down. Kirigan rose from his seat with a curt nod to the Tsar, who waved him away with a dismissive hand, clearly more focused on his next drink than on the general’s departure.

The moment Kirigan made his way toward the exit, Ivan and Fedyor moved to meet him. Ivan began to speak as soon as he was near enough. “General, search parties and healers are…” But Kirigan raised a hand, cutting him off sharply. "Take Alina back to the Little Palace," he ordered with a low growl of exhaustion, before walking past them without another word. Not even a glance. They stood there, frozen, watching him go. Kirigan had never acted like this before; it was unsettling, out of character. Something dark, dangerous had lingered in his eyes, and there had been something terrifying in his silence, in the way he had simply… left.

Alina’s stomach churned; that behaviour was so far from him, it frightened her. Fedyor seemed to feel the same. He hesitated, glancing between them. “What just happened?”

“It’s been a long night,” Ivan rubbed his face. “It’s not surprising he’s on edge.” But he sounded strained, his tone lacked its usual certainty. Alina shook her head, unable to mask her unease. “There's more to it.”

There was a long pause. The three of them stood in silence, the weight of what they had just heard—and what they had seen—pressing down on them like a vice. Ivan and Fedyor exchanged a look, a wordless conversation passing between them.

“We follow,” Fedyor decided firmly. “We don’t let him face this alone.” Then, without another word, they stepped out into the darkness after him.

--

The night air was sharp and cold as Ivan, Fedyor, and Alina trailed behind Kirigan’s retreating form. The grand halls of the Tsar’s palace gave way to the quiet, empty paths that led toward the training grounds. They exchanged puzzled glances, surprised that Kirigan wasn’t heading toward the Little Palace. Instead, he moved in the opposite direction. Their worry deepened, a disturbing sense of dread settling in their bones. None of them spoke. They had all felt it—something far darker than grief lingered in the air, an oppressive force, thick and suffocating. Kirigan’s silence after delivering his orders had been absolute, and the command to return to the Little Palace with Alina unmistakable. Yet none of them had obeyed. Ignoring his orders felt wrong, but the thought of leaving him alone felt even worse.

Alina's anxiety mounted as they approached the old training grounds, a sprawling space that was eerily empty at this time of night. Only the bright glow of the moonlight and the twinkle of distant stars illuminated the clearing. The world felt vast, yet closed in around them, as though even the shadows held their breath in anticipation. Alina felt the tension building with every step, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead.

They spotted him from a distance first— Kirigan had stopped in the centre of the field, and for a moment, all was still. His back was to them, his posture rigid. But even from this distance, Alina could feel the energy radiating from him, a dark, roiling storm barely contained. She exchanged a nervous glance with Ivan and Fedyor. They all felt it—an ominous surge in the air, a premonition of what was to come.

And then it began.

Without warning, Kirigan’s arms rose, and the shadows followed. Not the gentle tendrils they had seen so often before, nor the sharp, calculated weapons that he wielded with such precision in battle. This was something else—something unleashed.

The darkness erupted from him in a violent, terrifying wave, swallowing the field whole. The very air seemed to crackle with power, an intense, choking energy that made Alina’s breath catch and the hair on her arms stand on end. The shadows twisted and writhed like living things, vast and monstrous, lashing out with a force that sent the ground trembling beneath their feet.

Fedyor gasped beside her, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the sheer magnitude of it. Ivan’s face was set in a rigid mask of shock, his body unnaturally still, but his eyes—his eyes were wide, filled with something close to anguish. “Saints…” he whispered, barely audible over the storm of shadows swirling before them.

Alina’s throat tightened. She had seen Kirigan wield his shadows before, had watched him manipulate them with a skill and grace that seemed effortless. But this—this was different. This wasn’t control. This were rage and despair. Pure, unfiltered, and devastating.

The shadows twisted and struck out with terrifying precision, crashing against invisible enemies in the darkness, tearing through the night with a violence that was almost too much to witness. Every strike was a release of something pent up, something buried so deep inside him that it had festered, waiting for a moment like this to explode.

The air itself seemed to vibrate with the intensity of his power, the shadows lashing out with relentless fury. Each strike felt personal, as if every shadow was born from years of pain, of loss, of carrying the weight of an army, of a people, on his shoulders. It was a war against the night itself.

The relentless assault stretched on, minute after agonizing minute. It was shocking to witness just how much Kirigan was pushing himself. But finally, gradually, he started to falter. Kirigan's movements were becoming unsteady, the precise command he always wielded slipping. His once fluid gestures turned rigid, jerky. Alina could see the strain in his face as he carried on nevertheless, shadows still swirling around him but losing their viciousness, their form.

And then, in one brutal moment, his knees buckled.

He collapsed, his hands coming up to cover his face, hiding the exhaustion, the sheer brokenness that had finally overtaken him. The shadows dissolved into nothing, retreating into the ground as if they had never existed.

Alina’s breath caught, her mind spinning with worry. She had watched him fight—fierce, unstoppable, commanding. He had always seemed so far above it all, so in control. But now, the facade had crumbled, his emotional walls shattered by despair. Tears slipped down her cheeks silently as she looked at him, broken and beaten. Without thinking, without hesitation, she ran to him.

He had told them all to leave. He had pushed them away, demanded to be alone, but she couldn't. Not now.

She dropped to her knees before him, unsure whether to touch him. Kirigan could barely lift his head when she reached him. His body was rigid, as if every muscle was locked in place, trying desperately to hold on to some semblance of control. His dark eyes were half-lidded, glassy with exhaustion, unable to focus. Alina placed a shaky hand on his shoulder, offering him her warmth, her presence. "I'm here," she whispered, her words thick with emotion. Kirigan didn’t respond. His breaths were coming faster now, as if he couldn’t get enough air, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. His whole body trembled, as though something deep inside him had shattered, and now the pieces were cutting into him, tearing him apart.

When she wrapped her arms around him, offering silent comfort, he didn’t resist. For once, he didn’t push her away, didn’t stand tall behind his mask of power. Instead, he leaned into her, all the pride and distance falling away.  He weakly returned her embrace, his arms barely able to hold her.

And then, without warning, his entire body went slack.

Alina let out a shocked gasp as his limp form collapsed into her arms. His head lolled against her shoulder, his face pale and drenched in sweat. “No,” she whispered, panic surging in her chest. “No, General!” She struggled to hold his dead weight, her arms tightening around him instinctively. He was so heavy, so still. Too still.

Ivan and Fedyor were at her side in an instant. “Let me take him,” Fedyor begged softly, his strong arms replacing hers as he gently lifted the unconscious man from her grasp. “Ivan, help him,” he implored, his words breaking as he carefully placed Kirigan on the ground. Kirigan seemed to be barely breathing, his body slack and unresponsive, his head sinking to the side.

“How is he?” Alina’s question was nearly inaudible, thick with worry. “Ivan…” Ivan was already at work. “I’m on it,” he bit through gritted teeth, his hand hovering over Kirigan’s chest, his power reaching out instinctively. His focus was razor-sharp, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of fear as he felt Kirigan’s pulse. The wild, erratic rhythm thudded against his senses. “He’s pushed himself too far,” Ivan muttered, as his power worked to slow the frantic heartbeat. “This was… reckless.” He didn’t voice it, but the fear that Kirigan might have gone too far, that he might have irreparably drained himself, was palpable.

Alina knelt beside them, paralyzed, her breath hitching with every small twitch of Kirigan’s body. She had always thought him unshakable, capable of withstanding anything. But now, seeing him like this—unconscious, pale as death—she realized just how wrong she had been. This wasn’t the collapse of a man who had overexerted himself in battle. No. This was the result of something far deeper, far darker. The weight of his decisions, the lives lost because of them, the endless burden of command—all of it had been pressing down on him probably for years, maybe decades, and now… it had finally broken through.

They had thought him imperturbable, emotionally distant, sometimes even cold. Yet here he was, a living testament to how much he suffered—how deeply he felt everything. He had borne it all in solitude, silently, without ever letting them see. Every death. Every battle. Every loss.

Fedyor wiped at his eyes, his breath unsteady. “I never realized…” He didn’t finish the sentence, and he didn’t need to.

Ivan’s lips were pressed into a tight line. He, too, had believed Kirigan’s strength came from his ability to detach, to remain untouched by the chaos around him. But now, as he looked down at the man he followed so loyally, he saw the truth—he wasn’t unfeeling. He was the opposite. And that was perhaps the most painful revelation of all.

Finally, fortunately, the General's pulse stabilized. Ivan's tension eased slightly, his hands retreating from Kirigan’s chest. Alina watched with bated breath as the Heartrender leaned in, gently shaking Kirigan’s shoulder. “Come on, General. Open your eyes,” he urged softly. “You need to wake up.”

But there was no immediate response. Fedyor glanced nervously between his unconscious leader and Ivan. “We should get a healer,” he suggested uncertainly. “This… this might be too much.”

“Not yet.” Ivan tried again, shaking Kirigan a little more firmly, but there was still no reaction. Yet, just as he was about to agree with Fedyor, a slight movement stopped him. A faint twitch in Kirigan’s hand, a shallow groan, and then, slowly, his eyes fluttered open, just barely. Alina exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, relief washing over her. But the weight of what they’d just witnessed—the realization that Kirigan carried so much pain—hung in the air, heavy and unspoken between them.

--

Ivan spoke gently but firmly, “Do you think you can stand?” Kirigan, barely conscious, gave the faintest of nods. With Ivan and Fedyor supporting him, they slowly lifted his trembling form to its feet. His legs threatened to give out beneath him, but with his arms draped around their shoulders, they managed to walk him back towards the Little Palace.

Each step seemed to take an eternity. Kirigan's body sagged heavily against them, his head hanging low, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. By the time they reached his chambers, he was on the verge of collapse. The moment they set him on the edge of his bed, his body gave out, and he sank into the mattress, unconscious before his head hit the pillow.

Working silently, the three of them moved around him with care. Ivan and Fedyor carefully peeled off his boots. His Kefta came next, followed by his sweat-soaked tunic, leaving him bare-chested and vulnerable in a way they had never seen him before. Beneath the layers, his body was shockingly pale, his skin drawn tightly over sharp bones.

Alina’s hands shook as she dipped a cloth into a basin of warm water, before gently wiping the cold sweat from his brow, his temples. She ran the fabric down his chest, along the pale lines of his ribs, her fingers barely brushing against him, as though any stronger touch might break him. When she finished, Ivan and Fedyor helped her pull the blanket over his limp body, tucking it around him securely.

As the night dragged on, each of them kept vigil by his side. Alina lay down beside him, tenderly drawing his head to rest against her shoulder. She had no idea if this comforted him, but he seemed to rest easier there, his breathing less labored, though the occasional twitch of his muscles told her his dreams were far from peaceful.

Across from her, Ivan sat stiffly in a chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes never left Kirigan. Every now and then, his head would dip, exhaustion pulling him towards sleep, but every time he would jerk himself awake, refusing to leave his post. Fedyor was on the floor, slumped against the side of the bed, head tipped back onto the mattress, lost in the haze of half-sleep.

The hours dragged on until the first light of dawn began to creep through the windows. It was then, in the quiet before the world woke, that Kirigan came to. Alina's heart skipped a beat as he stirred in her arms, his body shifting slightly as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. His breathing hitched, and with a low, strained sound, he pushed himself onto his elbows, his movements slow and deliberate as if every muscle ached from the toll of the night before.

His face was pale, his eyes dark, hollow, and distant. It was as if he hadn’t yet returned to the world, as though part of him was still trapped in the nightmare from which he’d awoken.

Alina sat up beside him, her hand hovering near his, unsure whether to reach for him or not. But before she could decide, Kirigan righted himself up and attempted to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, clearly intent on standing.

Ivan shot up from his chair and was instantly at his side. “General, you need to rest,” he urged, pressing him back down against the pillows.

Kirigan resisted weakly, “I can’t. I have to—there’s work to do.” His voice was fragile, hoarse, but still threaded with that unyielding determination that was so typical his.

Ivan’s temper flared. “You can’t be serious!” He was incredulous. “Not after what you put yourself through last night! You... you can’t possibly think you’re going to just... work?!” Kirigan’s tired gaze finally met Ivan’s. “I always do.” The room froze. Ivan’s hand, still on Kirigan’s shoulder, slackened, as if the weight of those words had stolen all his strength. He stared at the General, his mind struggling to process the reality behind the statement. Fedyor’s breath hitched audibly, his wide-eyed stare fixed on Kirigan as if seeing him for the first time. Alina could only watch, her lips parted in shock.

How often...? The unspoken question hung heavy in the air. How often had he broken down like this, alone, only to rise again and carry on the next day as if nothing had happened? How many times had Kirigan hidden behind his unyielding facade? How many nights had he suffered in silence, and no one had ever known? Ivan and Fedyor, who had followed him for years, suddenly saw not a commander, but a man who, at this moment, could barely hold himself upright, yet still would simply stand up and carry on.

The stillness was suffocating.

Kirigan tried to stand once more, his resolve as strong as ever despite the obvious frailty of his body. But again, before he could even plant his feet on the ground, Ivan stopped him. “No,” his voice was thick, almost breaking as he tightened his grip on Kirigan’s shoulder. “Not this time.”

Kirigan blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in Ivan’s gaze. He looked from him to Fedyor, who had moved to stand next to his husband, and then to Alina, her eyes shining with unshed tears. The resolve on their faces was unmistakable.

"Please," Fedyor whispered, stepping closer. “You need to rest. Just... at least a few hours. We’ll take care of everything.” Alina shifted, bending forward slightly to place her hand on his shoulder. "You don’t have to do this alone," she insisted softly but firmly. For the first time, the iron wall around Kirigan began to crack. Their unwavering support was too much for his battered resilience, threatening to break through the defences that had kept him going for so long. He had always borne this burden alone. But now, surrounded by these three who had managed to get closer to him than anyone had in years, he realized—perhaps for the first time—that he didn’t have to. The battle in his mind waged for another moment, but it was one he could no longer win. He was beyond words, beyond any kind of protest. He simply… let go. His shoulders sagged, the tension leaving his body. He began to sway, his strength utterly spent. Ivan and Fedyor held him, ensuring he wouldn’t collapse backward, knowing that such an abrupt movement might cause him pain. They gently guided him back down, laying him against the pillows. Alina tucked the blanket around him, her fingers brushing against his still too cold skin.

Kirigan’s eyes had already fluttered shut. He was powerless against the relentless fatigue, barely registering the way Alina’s arms wrapped around him again, his head finding its place against her shoulder once more.

And then, within moments, he was asleep. Deeply. Untroubled.

Alina’s fingers threaded through his hair; her other arm wrapped securely around his shoulders as she held him close. Her tears, though quiet, fell freely now. They were for him; for the realization of how much he hurt, how close he had come to breaking—and how none of them had seen it until now. As the first rays of morning light filtered through the windows, the three of them settled into their quiet vigil once more. Ivan sat beside the bed again, his face pale but resolute, eyes burning with fierce determination. Fedyor leaned against the wall now, his gaze fixed on Kirigan’s exhausted face, his heart heavy with both sorrow and a steely resolve. They couldn’t take back the years he had endured alone. They couldn’t erase the nights he had spent on the edge of despair. But never again would they let him bear that weight in silence. Never let him stand on the precipice of ruin without someone there to pull him back. They couldn’t change the past, but they could make sure this never happened again. And so they remained by his side, watching over the man who had given so much while asking for nothing in return.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Guiding Hand 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect, depression, inference of self harm, violence, abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online academics are affected by your personal struggles but your professor won’t let you give up so easy.

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: I'm a sleepy baby.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Another unit done. You’re not certain how you’ve kept it up but you’re just waiting for your motivation to fizzle out. Each activity, each page, you teeter on the edge of oblivion. Workbook Five is almost complete and Six will be the final for the course. There’s a shell of disbelief around you. You really did it. 

Well, not quite yet. 

You sit back and stretch your neck and shoulders. Your teachers always told you to stop hunching but your shoulders always curled forward and your neck sunk anyway. Not out of defiance, just to make yourself small, maybe even, invisible. 

You stand, fingers cold and slightly numb. It’s a rainy day and the cold seeps in as your mother keeps the radiator off. You tuck your hands into your hoodie sleeve and find your slippers, a faded old pair that used to be somewhat fluffy. 

It’s quiet. You haven’t heard your mother at all. It’s not too unusual. After a binge, sometimes she just sleeps all day and night. You don’t like it, you don’t like that it’s normal, but it’s just how she is. How it is and always will be. 

Well, you’re trying to change yourself. You can’t change her or this place. 

You open the door slowly and peek out. A habit. You emerge quietly and rub your nose with your cuff, sniffing behind your sleeve as you shuffle into the kitchen. You do your best not to make too much noise as you fill the kettle. You have a few more bags of green tea, the you’re all out. You need to go back to the grocery store but the food credits won’t come until next week. 

You turn the dial on the stove and lean against the front as the kettle sits on the back burner. You close your eyes, groggy and slightly dizzy. You’ve been staring at numbers for so long, you don’t even know what time it is. Morning at night, you can’t tell by a glance through the gray window. 

You yawn again. Maybe chamomile might be a better choice. You lift your head and lean back on your heels as you mull the decision. The floor creaks with your weight as you shift indecisively. You’re not even sure you have any left.  

As you back up, you collide with something, someone, else. You grunt as suddenly there’s a clamp around your neck and you’re shoved forward against the stove. You brace the edge, careful not to touch the top as the heat from the burner radiates across the metal. 

Lee’s chuckle brushes over your hair, “there you are, girl. You been hiding.” 

“Eek, no--” you squirm and writhe. 

He’s too strong. He pushes harder and you’re forced to bend, precariously hovering over the stove, the kettle not far from your cheek. You squeak as your slippers scuff on the floor between his feet. 

“Please--” 

“You should be begging,” he snarls, “little girl like you, messing where she shouldn’t be.” 

“I’m sorry,” you squeal, “you were hurting her--” 

“Ain’t none of your business, is it?” He jolts you and you nearly hit your head off the back of the stove. He grabs your wrist with his other hand as he pinches your neck tighter. “Your mama likes it rough, don’t ya know? Walls ain’t that thick.” 

You whine and struggle to resist him as he brings your hand up, angling it towards the kettle as you hear that water starting to hum. You can feel the heat roiling from it. You push back against him, pressing your hand to the back of the stove to get better leverage. 

“Want me to hurt you? Is that it? Tired of just listening,” he snorts, your hand shaking close to the kettle as you babble, “suppose like this, won’t be too bad.” 

He wiggles his pelvis against you and you hiccup in fear. You twitch and he shoves your hand against the kettle. You cry out as it scalds your skin, steam hissing through the spout and towards your face. Your eyes well and you gnash your teeth. 

“Pl-please,” you plead and he lets go of your arm, framing your hip instead.

He pulls you back against him, “Mmm,” he shakes his hips again, “think I could. You ain’t bad from behind.” 

Horror erupts up your throat as you scramble desperately, trapped by his weight. You grab onto the handle of the kettle, even as your burnt flesh screams, and you hurl yourself back. He staggers as you swing the heavy vessel in his direction but it only splashes on your slippers as he dodges away from you. A flare of anger lights up his blue eyes. 

“Ha,” he sneers at you, “you’re funny, girl. Got a whole lotta fight for nothing. Far as I can tell, ain’t no other man around to want you. Not even your daddy.” 

You lower the kettle, breathless and terrified. The sting of his word wounds more than the blistering flesh on your fingers. You shake your head. 

“Leave me alone,” you croak. 

“Hmph,” he curls his lips, “just you wait,” he eyes you up and down. 

You stand, paralysed by the stove. He stomps away and you watch him go, not daring to move. When you hear your mother’s door slam, you shakily set the kettle on the countertop. You turn your hand over an examine your palm, the sight of it adding to the agony. 

You don’t know how you can write now. 

📓

You tap the mousepad twice to get it to react. Your poorly wrapped hand makes everything double the task. You huff as you switch hands, awkwardly navigating to the email icon. You expand the window and find a new email. Professor Smith. 

‘Thank you for your last submission. I have reviewed your work and would like to provide feedback via Zoom if possible. Please provide times which work for you. 

Looking forward to speaking again. 

Take care, 

Raymond’ 

As usual. He is very direct. You can almost appreciate that about him and yet it does not rein in your paranoia. Feedback via Zoom? Why? Can’t he just write it down? Did you do something wrong?  

Ugh. You slump and stare at the keyboard. It can’t be avoided. You haven’t even started Six because of your hand. Maybe a review would be helpful. Besides, it would be a waste to give up now. It wasn’t so bad before, was it?  

You hit reply and key in your response slowly with one hand. 

‘Hello Professor, 

I can do anytime tomorrow.  

Thank you.’ 

It isn’t the most academic or professional response. You don’t know what else to say. You have no schedule to adhere too, you can only hope your mom isn’t making a racket. 

You send and close up the laptop. You have to rewrap your hand. It’s really hurting but you’ve been rationing the Polysporin. You just want it to heal quick so you can finish your work. 

📓

Professor Smith confirms for nine in the morning. You make sure you’re awake but your head is pulsing. Your sleep schedule is all off. You opt for a plain long-sleeved tee over the hoodie, trying to appear as presentable as you can. Nothing you own can compare to his tidy attire; you recall his sweater and stiff collar. Often, you find yourself wilting over how he must think of you. Just like everyone else does, you suppose. 

You get set up. Your room isn’t too bad. You’ve been trying to keep up on it. Your laundry is in a basket although the bookshelf is getting a bit cluttered again. Oh well, he won’t be able to see much around you. 

You open the laptop. Ten minutes to go. You can hardly sit still. Your anxiety peaks as you hear your mom’s voice from down the hall. It’s early for you, but even earlier for her. 

There’s a knock at the door, “honey, do we got any coffee left?” 

“Mom,” you get up and go to the door, cracking it open, “I left enough for a pot in the tin. I’m still waiting on the credits.” 

“Oh,” she smiles through the narrow space, “Lee musta used them the last of it.” She smiles. She’s drunk. She hasn’t just woken up, she’s been awake all night. She turns and waddles away unsteadily, “baby, we got no coffee.” 

You sigh and shut the door. You go back to the computer. Please don’t make a ruckus. You don’t need another scene. 

You click the meeting link and fidget. You’re not ready. Are you ever? Life is just doing things you’re unprepared for. 

You wince as Professor Smith appears on the screen. He greets you by name and you return a ‘hello, professor’. 

“Good morning?” He asks brightly. 

You shrug, “yeah, I guess...” you look one way then the other, uncertain, “how are you, professor?” 

“Great, thanks for asking,” he reaches for a tall mug and takes a sip before exhaling, “so, I suppose you would just like to get this over with.” 

“Um, no, er, I...” 

“Not saying anything about you,” he assures as he leans forward, crossing his arms over the desk. His eyes scan through his lens and you realise he must be reading something on the screen, “you’ve done wonderful work. I especially wanted to high light a few things.” 

“Oh, uh, yeah, I probably made some mistakes,” you clumsily click around as his image remains in the corner of the screen. You hiss as your fingers throb and open the workbook. 

“On the contrary, it’s perfect. In fact, you’ve managed to bring my own error to light. I was certain at first it wasn’t me but I went in a redid the work for Problem Eight. Clever.” 

You sit back and nod, surprised.

There’s a thump and your mom’s voice, met by Lee’s rumbling timbre. Muffled enough that their words can be deciphered but you worry it is still heard through the microphone. You clear your throat and move closer, sitting up as you bring your injured hand to rub your neck. 

“A lot going on?” Smith wonders. 

“No, sir, sorry, I wasn’t expecting it,” you shrug and scratch your cheek, the gauze rough and loose. 

“Oh my, what’s happened there? Are you alright?” 

You pause and jerk as another bang sounds and your mother’s cackle erupts, stopping sharply 

“Yes, sir,” you quickly hide your hand, “I had an accident. Um, I was going to ask... it’s taking me a while to type...” 

“By all means, we may discuss accommodations,” he assures, “I am, as ever, patient. Most importantly, you must take care of yourself.” 

“Sir,” you nod and your door rattles in the frame. “Um...” you glance over your shoulder. Why now? 

“Are you certain this isn’t a bad time?” 

“I’m sorry,” you face the laptop, “I didn’t think--” 

“Hey, you lazy bitch!” A hard rap shakes the door behind you, “get out here.” 

You go wide-eyed and stare at the screen. No. Please. Not again. 

Professor Smith’s brow ripples and his jaw squares, “it seems you’ve got some chaos over there.” 

“It’s just... I... one sec,” you bring the call full screen and search for the controls and hit mute. You stand up and go to the door, trying to block it out with your body. You open it as Lee smirks back at you, “we’re all outta coffee. Why don’t you go and get us some?” 

He holds up a ten dollar bill and flicks it against your nose, “y’ain’t got nothing else to do.” 

“I’m busy,” you say, “can it wait a few minutes?” 

“Busy?” He snips, “with what? You can watch your damn TV when you get back.” 

“Sorry, but I can’t--” 

“Lee, she’ll go in a bit,” your mother preens from down the hall. 

“I got a damn headache, she can drag her ass out right now,” he barks back at her, “it’s my money, ain’t it?” 

“Please, I’m... just after.” 

“Why? Whatcha hiding?” 

“Nothing, it’s school--” 

He shoves the door and you stumble back, hitting the bookshelf with your shoulder. He bulls past you and looks around, his eyes narrowing on your laptop. You turn to see the professor watching intently from his side of the call and you scurry to catch up with Lee and stop him. He elbows you away, tossing you against your bedframe. You hit it and crash to the floor. 

“I see, you entertainin’,” he scoffs and hits the keys several times. 

“Who are you, sir?” Smith asks, his tone cool but dangerous. 

You hear the little blip that signals the mute is off, “should ask ya the same. Whatcha doin’ talkin’ to young girls, eh?” 

“Is she your daughter?” Smith challenges and gets a chortle in return. 

“Nah, just a whore like her mother, ain’t she? You’d know better than me.” 

You get to your knees and grab at his hand, “please, he’s my professor.” 

“Don’t lie to me. Irene,” he spins as he hollers for your mother, “come see what your daughter’s doin’." He pauses to grit over his shoulder, "If ya gonna be whorin’ on the internet, you should at least try to get some money outta it.” 

“Huh, Lee, leave her alone,” your mom appears in the doorway and you crawl past Lee, keeping low as you reach up to keyboard and feel around. 

Professor Smith says your name but you hold the power button until the laptop fan slows and quiets. You sit back on your heels and look over as Lee peers around your room. Your mom sways in the doorway. 

“Who was that?” She asks. 

“I told him, it’s my professor--” 

“You ain’t smart enough for all that book stuff,” Lee growls, “go on and keep lyin’.” 

“Why do you care?” You sniff. 

“Honey, don’t be rude.” 

“Mom,” you whine, “he shouldn’t be in here.” 

“Lee, baby, I’ll go get the coffee,” she redirects. You hang your head. 

“I want her to go,” he turns and throws the ten at you, “the way she leach of ya, it’s the least she can do.” 

You wince, “it’s okay, mom, I can go.” You grab the desk and stand, swiping up the bill. You need to get out of this apartment. Staying will only make him angrier. Staying will only make she shame worse. 

[coffeeangelinabox]

Swearing, capture, suggestions of torture, uncomfortable intimacy from the Whumper

"Shut up, you son of a bitch," Whumpee growls. His voice more gravelled than usual with pain and injury.

Whumper doesn't bother to repress the smirk and she takes a step closer. The umbrella is sheltering Whumpee as well now, and she watches his head bow lower. Whumper would bet any sum of money that some of the water dripping from the downturned face would be salty.

For a defiant hero, Whumpee does plenty of crying. Particularly when he thinks no one can see.

Whumpee presses a hand tighter against his ribs and chokes on a whimper.

Whumper crouches on her haunches, putting them at eye level. Like this, balanced on the toes of her high stilleto shoes, she's leaning over him like a predator. If he looked up, he'd get an eyeful, breasts pushing against her too tight t-shirt. But he doesn't, exhaustion keeping his head down, even as she reaches out to scratch gently behind his left ear. "Sweetheart," she says gently, and relishes the way Whumpee both snarls at and leans into the term of endearment and her gentle hand in his hair, "that's sounds like it hurts, let me help."

The choked whimper becomes a full out moan that ends in a gasping sob as Whumpee tries - and fails - to scoot backwards and away. He's forced to let go of the wound to stop himself from falling in an undignified heap in a puddle, streaked with a rainbow of oil. Whumper gets a quick flash of his brilliant green eyes: sparkling with tears of rage and pain and helplessness.

"Just-" Whumpee somehow manages to gasp out, "Just fuck off. Go find a sewer to crawl back into." He sounds very nearly normal, but he hasn't tried to get off his knees, hand clenched tightly against his side and other supporting him where he hunches. That more than any declaration of agony tells Whumper that he's done, that this chase is finished.

At least for now.

In light of that, the sass, more habit than true defiance, is almost entertaining, but Whumper cannot allow such disrespect. Whumpee's escape attempt was bad enough, even if it had been doomed to failure from the start.

"You want to be left alone?" she asks, putting a dangerous edge in her voice.

She watches Whumpee hear it, know that it means something; watches him set his jaw and refuse to back down, apologise, nuzzle into Whumper and plead to be taken home. Not that it would help, he's still got to be punished, but it might abate some of her wrath.

"Finally, she gets it," his sarcastic crow ends in a hacking cough and Whumper makes a moue of distaste as Whumpee spits a glob of blood to the slick asphalt. "Yeah. Leave me alone, bitch."

"And go find someone else to torment?"

A brief flicker of panic and then a shadow his usual irritating smirk. "Why even bother? Take a night off. Have a pizza. Do your nails."

Whumper debates sinking those nails into the wound at his side until he screams and chokes and fucking grovels for mercy, but in the end she doesn't. Instead, she stands and Whumpee, despite himself, flinches down lower, away from the tormenter looming over him. She nearly smiles at that, at such instinctive terror, when she knows for certain he doesn't mind too much kneeling before a dominant woman - or two. Then he promptly ruins it by trying to hide what he's done with gritted teeth and a steely glare.

"Fine. Stay here," she bites out.

And with a wave of her hand, invisible forces pin Whumpee in place, knees grinding into gravel, head lowered so icy rain water can get frigid fingers beneath his collar and along his spine. It won't be long before his leather jacket becomes a punishment of its own, heavy and cold, leeching any warmth from him.

Hair slicked with water like this, he looks vulnerable - not his usual gap-model version of dishevellment. She waits a moment. He has to know that this will be unpleasant, unendurable, and that it simply isn't worth it.

"I'm not the Wicked Witch of the West," he sneers, gaze forced to remain on the hand he's supporting himself with, the other still clamped around the damage to his side. She hopes it really hurts. "I'm not going to melt in the rain."

Whumper hums consideringly. "No. But give it time. The cold will get to you. The hunger. I wonder how thirsty you'll be before you decide that puddle looks tempting? It won't matter. You can't move enough to lap it up. And that's not to mention all those things that go bump in the night. There could be anything behind you."

A full body shiver wracks Whumpee and he tries to pass it off as mere cold. "Sure, yeah. Like I'm supposed to believe you'd let anything else touch your favourite chew toy." He sounds bitter, knowing that he's lost. Now it's just a case of weighing how much he needs to take to assuage his pride and still leave him enough strength for resistance.

Better nip that in the bud. He has no choice in this. His chance to make amends and try and mitigate her rage is gone.

Whumper turns, and Whumpee hisses as an increased patter of rain drops over his head and shoulders as the umbrella is pulled away. "I won't let anything kill you," she calls back over her shoulder, footsteps splashing, heels clicking against the road with a muffled, watery clink. She isn't bothering to pick her way through the puddles. Why bother? She has a roaring fire at home. "But you're not my favourite any more."

That wins her a real struggle for the first time since this began, but it's weak, pitiful. Injury and cold and too many weeks on a starvation diet leaving her precious Whumpee unable to muster the strength he'd once had. "What- What do you mean?"

His rasp is intensified as much by a suddenly dry throat as held back screams.

Good.

"Aww, don't be jealous, sweetheart, but I've brought the new baby home."

We all love a character on his knees. I'd like to raise this to...

A character on his knees in the pouring rain!

Water drips down his face, mingling with some of the blood, tickling against wounds, little drops magnifying the bruises. Soaked knees resting painfully in a puddle of water against the concrete. His hair sticks to his forehead. A single drop of water drips down from the tip of his nose.

He looks down, in defeat, maybe in defiance. Perhaps he's exhausted, still panting hard from the fight that brought him to this position, wincing as every breath jostles fresh wounds or bruised ribs.

Splashing footsteps draw closer and suddenly the rain stops.

Whumper, holding an umbrella, is looking down on him.

"Well, isn't that a sad sight."

[winxanity-ii]

YEAH, LEAVE IT IN THE PAST. | PRT.3

ship: jjk men: satoru & suguru x fem!miko!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 4.6k a/n: Ahhh I was stuck on how to end it lol, but fr the way i was writing this would have been broken up to five parts 😮‍💨😮‍💨...go to 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡, 𝐍𝐨. ʲʲᵏ if you want to understand this; also Y/n's (your) power/ability descriptions will be at the very bottom.

★·.·´🇯‌🇺‌🇯‌🇺‌🇹‌🇸‌🇺‌ 🇰‌🇦‌🇮‌🇸‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

In this dreamlike tableau, you float on the edges of reality and watch the scene unfold. Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara cluster around Satoru like planets gravitating towards a sun, their expressions fraught with concern and palpable anxiety.

Yuji's eyes are narrowed, his normally carefree demeanor clouded by a sense of urgency. His hands are clenched into fists, an outward sign of his inner turmoil. It's like he's physically restraining himself from springing into action, from going to look for you himself.

Megumi stands there, his stoic facade more brittle than usual. "Where is she?" The question slices through the tension. Each word is a meticulously carved blade, sharpened by his deep-seated concern for you. The way his eyes flicker to Satoru suggests he's mentally preparing for the worst.

Nobara's arms are crossed, her posture defensive. But the tilt of her chin, the pursing of her lips, reveal that her bravado is more fragile than she lets on. She's biting the inside of her cheek to keep her emotions at bay.

Satoru senses the mood, of course. Always keenly aware of the emotional currents in the room, he meets each of their eyes before answering. "She's fine, just taking a little me-time to learn more about her lineage." He flashes his trademark grin, wide and disarming. In that moment, his smile is like a magic trick, a piece of deception designed to draw attention away from something more complicated.

His voice is a masterful performance, light and relaxed, as if he's commenting on the weather. The words are calculated, designed to deflect their fears and redirect their thoughts.

For anyone else, the lie might be too transparent, the shift in tone too sudden. But this is Satoru. His every syllable drips with an assurance that invites belief, that almost forces you to think, 'Well, if he says it's okay, then it must be.'

Your friends appear mollified, their tense shoulders dropping ever so slightly, their clenched fists uncurling. They give each other subtle nods, silently agreeing to let go of their worry, for now. And as they disperse, the weight of their collective anxiety disperses with them.

Satoru's smile, still etched on his face as he watches Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara walk away, fades as though it was never there. The light in his eyes dims, replaced by a hollow darkness that's chilling to behold. His entire body tenses, his shoulders hunching slightly as if burdened by an invisible weight.

It's a startling transformation, like watching the sun eclipsed by a sudden storm cloud.

His hands, so often animated or held in a relaxed state, clench. The carefree air around him dissipates, consumed by a darker energy that unsettles you. It's like peeling back a curtain and finding not the expected stage, but an abyss.

His voice, when he finally speaks, is barely a whisper, yet it fills the emptiness around him as he mutters darkly to himself.

The words are a low, indistinct rumble, but your 'ears'—or whatever serves as ears in this dream state—pick up just enough to send shivers down your 'spine.'

"...Need her back..."

The words hang in the air, charged with an intensity that feels like a pressure change before a thunderstorm.

You take a step closer, compelled by a mixture of concern and something darker, something more primal. You call out softly, almost timidly, "Gojo Sensei..." though you know he can't hear you. The word is a mere breath, a whisper against the gravity of his revelation.

As if sensing something—or maybe it's just the erratic whims of this dream—Gojo suddenly looks up. For a split second, his eyes meet yours. And though you're sure he can't actually see you, the contact sends a jolt through you.

Then, in an explosion of cursed energy, he's gone. He's vanished into thin air, leaving behind a void that feels cold and impossibly lonely.

Your "dream" starts to fade, the edges blurring as if smeared by an unseen hand, and then you're tumbling, falling back into a deeper slumber or maybe into waking life—you can't tell.

Your eyes flutter open, and for a second, you're disoriented. The last thing you remember is getting in the van, and then...nothing.

Your eyes adjust, finding Satoru seated next to you, engrossed in his phone. He looks up and grins, his face radiating warmth, completely unlike the shadowy figure from your dream.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," he greets you, and you can't help but feel a wave of relief wash over you. You're back. But back where? And from what?

"Morning? How long was I out?" you ask, rubbing your eyes, your voice tinged with confusion.

The dream, so vivid moments ago, is now nothing but wisps of memory, but the emotion it evoked in you lingers. It's unsettling, and you push it aside for now, turning your attention back to Gojo and the comforting normality he represents.

Satoru chuckles, setting his phone aside. "You've been out for three days straight. Guess you were more tired than you thought, huh?"

"Three days?!" You almost choke on your disbelief. "What have you guys been doing all this time without me?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Saving the world, fighting curses, eating ramen," he jokes, but then turns serious for a moment. "Actually, we've been laying low, giving everyone a chance to recharge. We're about to board a jet back to Tokyo Jujutsu Academy."

Your mind races, trying to absorb this new reality. Three days lost to sleep, but what about that dream? Your eyes wander to the window. Instead of an airplane wing, you're greeted by an ocean view framed by the window of a small hotel room. The sunlight reflects off the water, casting dancing lights across the walls. It's beautiful and so at odds with the emotional weight of your recent dreamscape.

"Everything okay?" Satoru's voice snaps you back to the present. "You seem a bit...lost."

"No, I'm fine," you lie, forcing a smile. "Just processing the whole sleeping-for-three-days thing. It's a lot."

Satoru eyes you for a moment longer, as if trying to decipher the thoughts behind your words. Then he shrugs, the inscrutable look replaced once again by his usual cheerful demeanor. "Well, as soon as you're ready, we can head out. The others are probably worried about their star teammate."

His comment brings a small smile to your lips. The tension in your shoulders loosens a little. "Alright, let me get my bearings and we can go."

As you start to get up, your eyes catch Satoru's one more time. It's just a glance, but it's enough. Enough to remind you that there are layers beneath layers, truths hidden behind smiles, and dreams that leave scars on waking life.

It's unsettling, but also...intriguing. As you prepare to leave the room, you can't help but wonder what secrets lie ahead. And as for Satoru, what depths are hidden behind those eyes, behind that mask? You can't shake the feeling that you're on the edge of something transformative, something that could change you—and him—forever.

And that thought, that wonder, is enough to awaken a new energy in you, pushing the fatigue and eerie dreams to the background. You're not just going back to Tokyo, you're stepping into a future filled with complexities, challenges, and possibly, revelations.

"Ready to go?" Satoru asks, standing up, his height towering over you.

"Ready as I'll ever be," you reply, your voice steady, but tinged with an excitement you didn't feel before.

Satoru grins, sensing the shift in your mood. "Alright then, let's head back and give everyone a show. They've missed their star, after all."

You chuckle, and for a moment, the world feels simpler, lighter. But as you follow Satoru out of the room, you can't help but feel that you're stepping into a narrative far more complicated than any you've known before.

And you know what? You're here for it. Because what's life without a little bit of mystery, a little bit of danger, and the tantalizing allure of the unknown?

You trail behind Satoru and the rest of your group as you all step onto the familiar grounds of Tokyo Jujutsu High. The feeling of safety washes over you as you sense the barrier's energy surround the area. Satoru deactivates his Limitless technique, and you can feel the air around him relax.

"Mission complete," Satoru announces, and you watch as he finally drops his guard. His shoulders slump just a fraction, a rare sight.

Just then, your eyes catch something strange, something nearly invisible. It’s a faint, distorted ripple in the air—almost like a mirage but in a color spectrum you've never seen before. Confusion dances through your mind, What the hell is that? An illusion? Or... something else?

Before you realize it, your instincts override any caution or logic, pulling your body into action before your mind can catch up.

Launching yourself forward, you intersect the path of the incoming blade. A searing pain shoots up your shoulder as steel slices through flesh and muscle. You want to scream, but the pain chokes you, swallowing your voice whole.

You stumble back, gripping your bleeding shoulder tightly. As your knees buckle under your weight, you're a swirling vortex of emotions—relief, vulnerability, fear, and more dread for what's to come.

Your eyes meet Satoru's, and it's like an electric charge. For a fleeting moment, his typically unreadable face morphs through a range of emotions: shock, realization, concern, and finally, a brief but agonizing flash of gratitude. It's a whirlwind, gone if you'd blinked.

Then the atmosphere thickens, becoming almost unbearable as Satoru's eyes crystallize into something ferocious. His cursed energy erupts, filling the air like a volatile storm ready to break free.

"Zen'in Toji," Satoru hisses, spitting the name out as if it's venom.

Toji pauses, looking almost amused. "Ha, I go by Fushiguro now," he dryly retorts, his words cutting through the tension like a knife.

Your voice almost breaks as you try to intervene, "Satoru, don't—" But the air is thick with energy and emotion, your plea lost in the chaos.

Satoru is already a blur, charging toward the man who was responsible for your injury, his cursed energy swirling around him like a cyclone.

As the two energies clash in an explosion of power, you're on the ground, struggling to rise, your fingers slick with your own blood. The pain in your shoulder screams at you, a constant, harrowing reminder of what just transpired.

When Satoru said the name, "Zen'in Toji," it was like a bolt of lightning slicing through your haze of pain and confusion. Zen'in? That surname reverberates through your mind like an echo in an empty hall. You've heard stories about the Zen'in clan from Megumi—powerful, traditional, and complicated—but never in your wildest dreams did you think you'd be caught in a battle involving one. And now, that man claims the name Fushiguro. The same as Megumi.

Your eyes widen as you watch the two men fighting. It's more than just their brutal exchange of blows; it's the little things. The way Toji holds himself, the calculating glint in his eyes, that specific stance as he gets ready to strike. All of it screams familiarity, like deja vu hitting you in waves. You've seen this in Megumi—during training, in the heat of real battle.

Could Toji be...?

Your ponderings are abruptly cut short. Toji delivers a vicious blow, and for the first time, you see Satoru stumble back. Blood sprays from his mouth as he falls to the ground, his body landing a few feet from where you're struggling to rise.

Time freezes.

Gojo Satoru, the invincible sorcerer, lies there teetering on the edge of defeat, and your heart plunges into your stomach. In that agonizing second, you've never felt more helpless.

Toji's eyes latch onto you, and you can almost feel them piercing through you. As you attempt to back away, your breath quickens, and your body tenses.

"L-Leave her alone," Satoru's voice breaks through, raspy and filled with a toxic mix of agony and stern warning; his cursed energy is like a flickering candle in the wind, about to be snuffed out.

Toji chuckles darkly, the sound enough to send a shiver down your spine. He moves toward you, effortlessly crossing the distance. Your heart pounds like a drum in your chest as you try to back away, but it's useless.

With a swift and deliberate kick, he flips you onto your back and presses his boot into your shoulder wound. Your breath hitches in pain, tears forming at the edges of your eyes. But you refuse to grant him the satisfaction; you hold his gaze, defiant.

"You're a fascinating one," he starts, his voice dripping with intrigue and arrogance. "I usually blend into the background, invisible to all you sorcerers with your fancy cursed energy. Yet you—how'd you manage to spot me?"

Before you can even think of a lie, or perhaps a truth, he lifts his boot off your shoulder. He crouches down, getting so close that your noses almost touch. He grabs a handful of your knotless braids and forces your head upward. The shock of this cruel, intimate action leaves you at a loss for words.

"Your eyes are quite expressive, you know? They're screaming even if your mouth isn’t," he observes, almost thoughtfully. "Remember this interaction, because the next time we meet, your eyes will be screaming for a different reason."

His voice drops to a low whisper, his words heavy with implication. "I'll be hoping to get a mission with your name on it. The chase is always more thrilling when the prey has a bit of fight."

He suddenly releases your braids, letting your head fall back onto the hard ground. "See you around. I have other bounties to claim."

He rises, turning his back to you, and walks away. He moves in the direction where Suguru and Riko had vanished, leaving behind a battlefield of wounded pride, shattered alliances, and questions that ache more than any physical injury could.

You grit your teeth and push through the pain, every movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your injured shoulder. But Satoru's there on the ground, far too still, and you can't—won't—leave him like that.

With effort, you crawl over to him, your eyes catching his which are barely open, a flicker of light in a rapidly darkening world.

Your hands tremble as you place them above his devastating wound. You focus, willing your energy to merge with his.

"Elemental Mastery: Soul Link"

The moment you do, it feels like throwing a paper airplane into a hurricane. His cursed energy is overwhelming, rebellious, chaotic—it fights you, pushing back with a might that leaves you breathless.

Satoru groans, his face twisted in a grimace of pain and struggle. You feel it then, like you've been hit by a bolt of lightning, a jolt that screams through your body, making you taste copper and see stars.

You're teetering on the edge of consciousness, the weight of his injuries threatening to crush you. But you hold on. You have to.

And then, something miraculous happens. In that place where your energies are clashing, something gives way. There's a momentary pause, a stillness, as if the universe itself is taking a breath.

You feel Satoru's energy shift, morph, change. It's as if a lock has found its key, a harmony achieved through cacophony.

Satoru initiates a reverse cursed technique, his energy suddenly flowing in a healing pattern you've never seen before. You feel the wound under your palms start to close, the damaged flesh knitting itself back together.

It's astonishing, a testimony to his unimaginable power and skill. But this time, it's different—there's an awareness, a control that you've never sensed from him before.

As the last of the wound closes, Satoru's eyes open fully. The atmosphere is electrifying, full of possibilities yet to be explored. "Y/N…" he utters softly, the sound of your name leaving his lips filling the air with an undeniable intimacy.

In his eyes, you see a multitude of emotions you can't quite name—an inexpressible blend of relief, respect, and something else. Something deeper, more vulnerable. It's as if he's opened a window to his soul, inviting you to peer inside, if only for a fleeting moment. And you realize, looking into those eyes, that he's not just the all-powerful, untouchable sorcerer you thought he was.

He's human, just like you, shaped and reshaped by the trials of life.

You remove your hands, both of you breathing hard, exhausted but alive. The air is thick with a new understanding, an unspoken bond. You saved each other, in more ways than one, and whatever comes next... well, you'll face it together.

Your heart beats out of your chest as you feel Riko's energy, a mere flicker now, growing fainter and fainter in the distance. The urgency weighs heavy on your wounded body as you and Satoru rush toward the fading life force.

Your feet barely touch the ground as you and Satoru dash through the labyrinthine ruins, following the distressingly faint blip of Riko's energy. Your breaths come fast and shallow, a mix of adrenaline and the weight of your own injuries making each inhalation feel like a small victory. Your heart feels like it's going to burst out of your chest, not just from the run but from the dread of what you're going to find when you get there.

Finally, you round the corner, and the sight that greets you hits like a sledgehammer to the gut. Toji stands there, his blade glistening darkly with fresh blood. Suguru is on the ground, moaning in pain. Riko lies unmoving a few feet away, a pool of red blossoming around her.

Time seems to slow for a second as Satoru locks eyes with Toji. "Long time no see," Satoru murmurs, but the words are a frostbite of a threat more than a greeting.

You've never heard that tone from him; it's not just cold—it's glacial. In that moment, you sense an ominous air thickening between the two men, like the atmosphere before a storm breaks.

Just as Toji lunges forward, blade slicing through the air with lethal intent, Satoru's hand lifts in an arcane gesture that sends a chill down your spine. His eyes, usually so playful, now seethe with a deadly focus. "Hollow Technique: Purple," Satoru intones.

The words seem to vibrate, echoing with an otherworldly power that makes your skin prickle, as if you're suddenly standing too close to a live wire.

A terrifying, formless energy bursts forth from Satoru's outstretched palm, materializing into a swirling vortex of dark, malevolent force. It's as if he's torn a hole in the very fabric of reality, and for a surreal, gut-wrenching moment, you feel as though you're staring into the abyss itself.

The energy lashes out, snapping through the air with the precision of a guillotine. Toji doesn't even have a chance to react. The force shears through him, severing his arm and carving away a chunk of his torso as if it were sculpting clay. The air is thick with the stench of charred flesh and ozone, and a mist of blood hangs eerily, suspended in time.

Toji staggers back, his face a twisted tapestry of emotions—surprise, agony, and a glimmer of what could almost be construed as respect. His eyes meet Satoru's one final time, locking onto them as if trying to convey something that words could never capture before ever so slightly, shifting to meet yours.

There's no vulnerability there, no sweeping emotion or unspoken bond—just the hard, glinting edge of a man who's never bothered with such things. Then, clutching the cauterized stump where his arm used to be, Toji drops to his knees with a thud that feels louder than any explosion.

"Megumi...will be sold...to the Zen'in Family," he rasps, his voice tinged with a guttural rawness, as if every word is a struggle against the life that's rapidly fleeing his body. His eyes, still locked onto yours, are ablaze with a savage sort of clarity. It's as if he wants you to remember this, to carry the weight of his final declaration like a curse—or perhaps a warning.

His lips curl into a grotesque, almost triumphant grin; it's the smile of a man who's just lit the fuse to a powder keg of consequences he won't have to face. And then his eyes glaze over, his body going limp as he collapses forward, life extinguished but his message chillingly clear.

The words hang in the air, reverberating with an insidious implication that lodges itself into your mind. Megumi, your friend, caught in a web of familial machinations that are as cruel as they are incomprehensible. Your heart pounds painfully against your ribcage, but there's no time to process it all—too many questions, too many emotions, and far too little time.

Your attention snaps back to Riko, the loveable and ever-hopeful girl who wanted nothing more than to live freely. You race over to her lifeless form, sinking to your knees. Your hands tremble as you take hers. She's already gone, her eyes vacant and staring at nothing. You feel a lump rising in your throat, but you swallow it down, shoving your grief into a dark corner of your soul. Now's not the time.

Suguru's pain-filled moans pull you back to reality. You glance over at Satoru, who's gently lifting Riko's body into his arms. The look on his face is inscrutable, but the air around him is charged with an indescribable force—like he's holding back a cataclysm.

You crawl over to Suguru, your own injuries screaming in protest. Your hands glow with the incipient light of a healing spell, your focus razor-sharp. You've got work to do, lives to save, even as you push your own body and spirit to their limits.

Suguru's hand envelops yours, his grip surprisingly strong despite his weakened state. His eyes meet yours, filled with a gratitude that words could never fully express. "Thank you, Y/N" he murmurs, his voice tinged with exhaustion but resonant with sincerity.

As you nod, a swirl of emotions threatening to overwhelm you, Satoru starts moving. He cradles Riko's lifeless form in his arms with a grace that seems almost out of place given the carnage around you.

Each step he takes feels deliberate, as if he's measuring the weight of the life that's been lost.

You can't read the expression on his face, but his entire aura is a complex tapestry of emotions, restrained yet simmering.

Your gaze follows him as he walks past a group of followers—devotees to some perverted cause. They're still clapping, caught in some demented ecstasy over the dark ritual they'd been performing around Riko's body. The callousness of it sends a surge of rage through you, hot and blinding, but Satoru's voice breaks through it.

"Do we finish them off?" He poses the question to Suguru, his tone neutral but carrying an undercurrent that suggests he's more than capable of doing just that—and perhaps even willing.

Suguru's eyes follow the scene, his expression hardening for a moment before he shakes his head. "It's pointless," he says, his voice tinged with a weariness that feels heavier than any physical wound. "A sorcerer must have a reason to take a life."

The finality in his words hangs in the air, resonating with an unspoken understanding that spreads among the three of you. Lives have been lost, and others saved; you've all danced on the razor's edge between life and death tonight.

And as you each take a moment to absorb the gravity of Suguru's statement, the followers' clapping begins to fade away, swallowed by the shadows that have seen too much.

As you stand there, your heart still pounding from the adrenaline, your eyes catch a glint of something half-buried in the dirt near where Riko had fallen. Thinking it may have been a piece of her fallen jewelry, you pick it up.

It's an odd piece, laced with both cursed energy and something... older, almost nostalgic. Suguru, watching you, raises an eyebrow but doesn't question it. Satoru, cradling Riko, pauses and turns his head slightly, as if he senses the shift in the air.

Before you can fully grasp what's happening, the pendant pulses in your hand—a heartbeat, almost—then emits a bright, engulfing light. Time seems to warp around you, the air thickening like molasses.

Satoru's eyes widen in alarm, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. "Y/N—"

Suguru reaches out, his fingers barely grazing the air where you used to be. His face, usually so composed, is etched with a kind of horror and desperation you've never seen.

Your surroundings whip past you in a disorienting blur of colors and shapes, and a nauseating feeling of vertigo takes hold. For a moment, you're nowhere and everywhere, lost in a void.

The last thing you remember is the devastation written across Satoru and Suguru's faces—like you'd violently ripped pages out of a story that was still being written.

And then, with a jarring lurch, you're back. You stumble, almost falling to your knees, but strong arms catch you just in time.

"You're back," Satoru's voice sounds almost shaky, his relief palpable. He pulls you closer, examining you as if to confirm you're real. "You scared the hell out of me. What happened?"

You open your mouth to answer, but your vision blurs, the room spinning around you. That disorientating trip through time and space is catching up with you, and you can feel your consciousness slipping away.

"...S-Satoru—" Your voice trails off as you pass out, but you're vaguely aware of Satoru lifting you up, holding you securely in his arms.

For just a moment before you black out completely, you think about how both timelines—this one and the one you left—share a moment of intense emotional turbulence.

In one, you left two sorcerers grappling with an inexplicable loss; in this one, you've returned to a reality where people were on the verge of grappling with your inexplicable disappearance.

And then everything fades to black.

A/N: ahhh this feels so rushed but i didnt want to bombard you guys with a bunch of stuff lolol; also did yall catch y/n calling gojo by the first name 👀 jajajaj

🇾‌/🇳‌'🇸‌ 🇵‌🇴‌🇼‌🇪‌🇷‌🇸‌/🇦‌🇧‌🇮‌🇱‌🇮‌🇹‌🇮‌🇪‌🇸‌ 🇦‌🇳‌🇩‌ 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌🇮‌🇷‌ 🇩‌🇷‌🇦‌🇼‌🇧‌🇦‌🇨‌🇰‌🇸‌:

"Elemental Mastery: Soul Link"**

Healing through this method temporarily soul-binds her to the individual, which might transfer some of their fatigue or pain to her... Drawbacks: Given that she can heal others too, she forms a temporarily soul-bond, making it a double-edged sword because she might absorb some of their pain or fatigue, making the act of healing more complex...

[the-howling-storm]

OC-Tober - Day 1: Technique

Read on Ko-fi

OG prompt by slavontherocks on Twitter

A sudden leap backwards, followed by several more to gain necessary distance. His feet landing, dragging his position to a fast halt. Quick math and measurements played out in his head as the air filled with a relative silence. The space between the two was now optimal. All that stood before him...

"There... the perfect runway," grinned Randy. Crouching down, he hunched on all four of his limbs. Back straightened, and shoulders leveled just under his ears. Arms symmetrically propped on the ground by the tip of his fingers. One leg fully extended behind him, while the other bent inward at an angle for smooth transitioning. A runner's stance.

As the tension fills the air... metallic thudding breaks the silence. A rhythmic tap from his far foot, drumming against the floor beneath him. Hypnotic as it is foreboding. A preluding beat, looping over and over, as it awaits the next act.

Even as a child, Randall Jazz knew he had a temper.

A ferocious, bull-like rage that he took difficulty in culling from his nature. Even in his calmest moments, it would take from as his usual stubborn demeanor. Paired with such honed power, such fueled anger could only result in reckless abandonment and destruction. In a way, he could see why many would see him as a demon.

Yet such a weakness, can always be strength. A trump card came to mind. One he'd always dared not to use out of lack of practicality. Both to surroundings, and himself. Yet, a rare opportunity presents itself. Fueled by pride, for victory and his own humanity. Every inch of this body was a trained weapon. Bone, muscle, tissue and blood. A single burst is all he needs. 100% of what he could offer, for just a split second. Right here and now, to prove in this moment...

He can surpass any limit.

"You can hear it... right?" Randy speaks out from his inner thoughts. "Can't you sense that surge? It grows like a raging storm. A force of nature, swelling up in your soul from within. The taste in the air, the adrenaline in your veins, the excitement in your heart... All headed towards a one way course down the road ahead. One shot. One chance. Reach out. Cross the finish line. And break all contradictions that hold you back. That..."

The drumming comes to a quiet stop. For there was no longer a man to carry the rhythm. As the final note struck ears, he vanished forward. As if the laws of sound struggled to register his take off. Lagging behind, as the forceful winds jet outward behind an invisible mad dash.

As eyes and reaction finally correct themselves... the gap has closed. The speed demon returns to vision, staying straight course. Dodging at this stage is impossible. The only option is to block. A head-on collision.

But only an immovable object... can match an irresistible force.

"...is Climax-!!!"

A thunderous tear of pressure. A second wind, that not only dared to threaten the break the barrier of sound... but succeeded. A point blank sonic boom.

It was only a graze. A last minute correction of his sprint to avoid a clean hit. Out of safety to his own life? Or perhaps out of mercy. It mattered not. Deafening force shattering every window in radius of the spreading and dome. The street pavement ripping itself free piece by piece into rubble. What remained intact of the target, sent flying above and shredded by the sudden, sharp air. Randy himself, futilely attempting all attempts at impromptu brakeage against his own momentum, only to thrash and tumble along the coming road.

A high risk, yet high reward last resort. For its name signaled the end.

Climax Act Cadenza: Big Blast Sonic.

[percontaion-points]

Firstlife chapter 5

Today’s review might be difficult for some; reader discretion is advised

Click to see the rest of the snark & image descriptions

Chapter 5

“You’ve been living on shower water.” Bow still sounds shocked. 

“So have you.” If Vans shuts off our pipes—and I have a sinking feeling that will be his next move—we’ll be reduced to drinking from the toilet. 

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but if you don’t have access to shower water, you also don’t have toilet water, either. 

Over the intercom, the usual voice announces, “Tenley Lockwood. Your parents are waiting for you in Dr. Vans’s office.”

Literally nothing of value could possibly be gained from people who would throw their daughter away like she’s trash. 

I know that Ten’s going to go, simply so that we can establish that the parents are also villains in this. 

But JFC girl. Don’t go!

My dad has visited once every other month. When I asked him about my mom, he said, “We’re currently separated, living apart. She’s decided seclusion is better than family.”

Probably him convincing her that their daughter should be in prison for her refusal to obey was the straw that broke her back. 

I can’t help but note that the mom had been raised Troika, but signed Myriad to be with Ten’s father. Clearly good decisions and a strong foundation to ANY relationship. /sarcasm

My surroundings change in an instant, as if I’ve stepped through an invisible portal into a fairy tale. From cold and impersonal to warm and inviting. The walls are vibrant baby blue rather than medicine-cabinet gray. Six portraits hang throughout, three on each side of me. Each bears a different-colored rose, meant to add a touch of beauty to a bona fide hellhole. A large wrought-iron candelabra is twisted into the shape of a dragon.

[...]

An arched ceiling with a crystal teardrop chandelier dangles above a desk the same size as the conference table. The walls are made of light stone and dark wood, the two framing multiple bookshelves and a marble fireplace with legs carved to resemble lions. Lions with golden collars clamped around their necks, their heads bowed. 

Gossip claims there’s a door to the outside world hidden somewhere in this room. 

They’ve clearly made an effort to make sure that visitors never actually see how bad the prison actually is. Of course there’s a door from the outside. 

“Refuse,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken, “and I’ll be forced to punish Killian for sneaking food to your cell.” 

That’s his own fault. 

Am I to assume that you’re done trying to hook us up?

I flash back to the night I heard my parents arguing about my grandparents—my mom’s parents. The Troikan loyalists. 

“They just want to spend time with their granddaughter,” my mom said.

 “We can’t risk it,” my dad replied. “They’ll fill Ten’s head with nonsense, the way they once filled yours.”

 “They won’t. They only want to make memories with her.” 

“Don’t be naive, Grace. Everyone has an agenda.” 

How the hell is literally a single person’s life somehow improved by supernatural interference? Everybody is so busy being paranoid that the other side is out to get them that they can’t even enjoy a single thing. 

“If they’re so wonderful, why did you reject everything they taught you?”

 “To be with you,” she’d whispered.

Again, this is clearly a relationship built on a strong foundation, and 100% not the impulsive act of teenage lust. 

I’m not even sure that the father even ever loved the mother. 

“If you were to sign with Troika,” Vans says, “you would be on the opposite side of the war. One day, you might even be tasked with killing your parents.”

Sign me up for Troika, bitch. These people don’t give a shit about me. 

My dad closes his eyes, his shoulders hunching in. A position of defeat. He’s known among his peers for his indomitable strength and unwillingness to back down. “I only want the best for you. Why can’t you see that?”

I’m sorry, but literally nobody with any ounce of empathy looks at a literal CHILD being waterboarded and thinks “Ah yes. It’s what’s best for her. Clearly her parents have good heads on their shoulders!”

The doctor dons an impassive mask. “I’ve asked repeatedly to take my efforts to the next level. You refused.”

 What? My dad actually prevented certain tortures?

I literally don’t even know where you even go from waterboarding, caning, and starvation. 

“Stop the unnecessary chitchat and get this party started.”

Chapter 5 summary: Ten’s “punishment” for her continued refusal to sign with Myriad is that not only is she being starved, but also Bow. Sloan comes and gives her a granola bar through the door, but says that it’s from Killian. Bow refuses her half, so Ten shoves it down her throat as quickly as possible. 

Then they tell Ten that her parents are there to see her. When she goes, she’s surprised to see her mom, who hasn’t visited her once. Only her father comes, and once told her that he and her mother were separated. Her mom is crying, and Ten thinks that it’s good that she’s finally seeing the consequences of sending her daughter to this hell. Ten also thinks about the time she overheard her parents arguing about Ten spending time with her Troikan grandparents. Which as I said, it really only highlights how fucked up that her parents’ relationship is, but also society in general.

When Ten refuses to sign with Myriad, Dr. Vans looks to daddy dearest and he’s like “This wouldn’t happen if you didn’t keep stopping me from doing other methods of torture.” The entire time, Ten keeps hearing the actual voice of Bow in her head, encouraging her to verbalise her contract with Troika, simply so that she can get out of being literally tortured (again). But Ten is adamant that pain is only temporary, and it’s nothing to the thousand or so years she could end up spending in the afterlife should she actually choose.