#I need to practice how to draw see-through surfaces too

[orengejoshi]

jelly belly

Vec and me swapped ideas... I'll put what I drew for her in a reblog under the cut. I shared my idea that I've had for a while about one of Flug's experiments failing, spilling on him and turning him into slime like G-Lo. Their art turned out AMAZING I can't even get over it-

literally fell in love with jelly Flug. so this is probably what I'll be drawing for a while.....💗💕

[evilgwrl]

Neighbour!Simon Riley x Reader

Girl Next Door (Six)

CW: You’re approached by a drunk man who grabs you, nothing violent

Previous Chapter, Next Chapter

The sky settled with a midnight blue, a murder of crows digging among the trees before burrowing away into secluded nests. It had been a multitude of days since you had seen Simon, practically barging out his front door with only a squeak of goodbye after the previous unfortunate incident.

You were constantly distracted. Your brain was plagued by the thought of him, and you felt like you were going to spiral, the whine of anxiety in your stomach doing you no favours. You pondered on the thought of knocking on his door, apologising for ignoring him, yet didn’t.

You headed to the bar instead.

The night air was balmy, the breeze kissing your skin as you walked in. The clinks of glasses and the exaggerated commotion of laughter bounced from the brick walls, faux vines hanging from the indents in an attempt to brighten the grimy room. There was a permanent stench of yeasty beer and cheap wine, couples canoodling in the corner or stumbling out of the toilets, rubbing their noses.

The lights were dim, barely able to see your own feet as you weaved through the throng, bodies pushing up against you as you searched around for your friends. You settled once you had the familiar voice of your long-term friend, Tamara. Your legs hobbled over to their table, ringlets of water staining the wood, multiple drinks already strewed out and consumed. You took in the two men you had never seen before, noting that one must be her new boyfriend she was gushing about.

“There you are!” She cooed, her arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace, the soft ringlets in her hair rubbing against the side of your face, “This is the guy I was telling you about, Max.”

Max stood tall, offering you a polite handshake as you introduced yourself before he nudged the man next to him. The man was handsome, a boyish grin on his face as he extended a hand out to you. You feel a flutter of nerves but push through, engaging in light banter as you return his grip, mumbling your name out. You began to relax under the crowded atmosphere, scoffing down a shot that Max’s friend, who you now know as Louis, had shouted.

You listened to the story of how Tamara and Max met, bustling with laughter as you were fed drinks, the camaraderie drawing you in. The ambience embraced you with a warm glow, a soft smile on your face as you chattered amongst the group, mind fuzzed over with the alcohol that slurred through your bloodstream.

“The next rounds on me, what are we after?” You blurted, standing abruptly as you toppled slightly, Louis’ arm grabbing hold of you in a tight squeeze to catch you. He was sweet, offering you polite nods all night while you spoke, eyes lingering on you a little too long, but he wasn’t what you wanted. Not right now. Not after Simon.

Tamara huffed out, “4 shots,” before she attended to her boyfriend in a drunken matter, smoothing his hair down as they giggled amongst each other.

“Do you need me to come with you?” Louis yelled over the music, his lips curled in a grin before you shook your head, promising him it would only take a minute. You stepped away, huffing out a loud breath as you regained composure, eyes fluttering under the influence as you mingled between crowds to reach the bar. You needed a moment to reprieve, slightly overwhelmed by the severity of people, the damp smell of sweat and alcohol burning through you.

The bar was cooler, the marbled surface offering you a moment of solitude as you ordered the shots, resting your head in your hands as you waited. It wasn’t hard to feel a presence beside you, the scent of hair gel and poorly sprayed cologne blinding you as you felt a hand brush against your waist.

“Hey there beautiful.”

His voice was garbled, alcohol staining his breath as he gulped down the remainder of his beer, eerie eyes watching you with a perverted intensity. His hair was slicked back, brows furrowed as he scanned your face, hazel eyes practically consumed by his pupils as you noted the white residue that stuck to his flared nostrils.

“Can I help you?” Your voice was uneasy as you stared at the bartender, tapping impatiently against the exterior.

“Just wondering what a girl like you is doing here alone.”

You cringed. “I’m not alone but thank you anyway.”

Your lips curled in a polite smile as the bartender handed you the shots, a sigh of relief leaving as you nodded goodbye to the odd man. Talons dug into the flesh of your forearm, turning you around in a huffed frenzy as his face was still.

“I wasn’t done talking to you.”

“Look, I’m here with my friends, I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not interested.”

The warmth of the bar slowly begins to suffocate you as your eyes dart around the room, anxiety penetrating through you as you desperately attempt to get Tamara’s attention. “Come on, don’t be like that,” he insists, his tone shifting from casual to demanding. You felt stuck in place, his grasp coiling around you in a bruising grip. Your tongue was wedged in your throat, eyes widening in fear as you attempted to pull away, the shots slopping around in the tall glasses, liquid rolling down the back of your hands in a sticky mess.

“Please let me go.” Your tone was mousy like it was trapped down your oesophagus, losing all confidence.

“I believe we were having a conversation.”

“I believe she said to let her go.”

Your eyes flickered to the man behind him, face clad in a worn balaclava, eyes impossibly dark as a hand clad itself on the stranger’s shoulder, knuckles an ivory white.

“Sim-“

“Listen, man, we were having a simple conversation so get your hand off my fucking shoulder before we have a problem.”

You watched as your neighbour turned him around, a knee pressed against the man’s thighs as he held him by the collar, fingerings lacing the Adam’s apple of his neck, almost tracing the arteries as the stranger stilled.

“We gonna hav’ a problem?” Simon spat, tone an icy low as the man shook his head, rustling himself out of the Lieutenant’s grip. You watched your neighbour for a moment, lips pursed before you furrowed your brows.

“What are you doing here?”

“Friends from m’ task force are in town; you know that,” he smirked, testing the waters between you as almond eyes looked you up and down. Your skin was on show, an iridescent glow settling amongst it with a shining hue, the rest of you covered in a black one-piece, an expensive-looking necklace hanging low above your cleavage.

You rolled your eyes. “Thank you for being my knight in shining armour,” you chortled, jabbing him in the ribs slightly. It was impressive how hard his chest was.

Simon was admiring you, your eyes radiating a toxic that drew him in, poison spreading through his body like wildfire, and he allowed it.

“Let me take you home.”

“But my friends-“

“Let me take you home, Y/N. Please.”

Simon felt pathetic, his tone lacing with a gentle whine as he pleaded you with his eyes, the brown softening into a deeper shade. You liked it. The ride home was peaceful, the benign muse of the radio playing as one of his hands gripped the wheel, another at the gears.

“Y’ alright? He didn’t hurt you did he?”

You let out a ‘hm’, slightly confused before the gentle throb in your arm reminded you. “I’m okay, he was just a drunk guy.”

Your head rested against the window, the zip of trees blurring into a static mess, the dim headlines occasionally piercing through closed eyelids as you huffed out a clement breath. Your cul-de-sac welcomed you with a silent wave, all the houselights a mute shade of nothing as Simon pulled into your duplex.  You giggled as you stumbled from the car, buff hands grabbing onto you as they lifted you up the stairs.

Nimble fingers fiddled with your keys, jabbing them into the door in a frustrated manner before you managed to wedge it open, a satisfied grin across your face, eyes blinded with tipsiness as you turned to your neighbour.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Do you want to sleep with me tonight?” You blurted, covering your mouth immediately as you stumbled over your following words, “I mean in my bed- not with me- because that would be weird to ask- you can say no-“

“Okay. I’ll sleep with you.”

I FUCKING HATE THIS BUT I NEEDED TO WRITE !!!!!!

[doctorho]

thinking about viktor with a chronically ill reader. you know? we see the vision, right?

it just works.

the thing with chronic pain, illnesses, disabilities, all of that - is that you can't always see them. sometimes you can, sure, you can see the mobility aids and the not-standing-up-for-too-long and the bruising from blood draws and sometimes you can see the compression garments, the pills and inhalers and the i'm fine, i just need a moment-

but most people just don't pay attention to that. or if they do, they don't put the pieces together fast enough to figure out what's really going on under the surface. viktor does, though; he's been there, and most of the time he's way beyond hiding it. or, well, he's way beyond hiding some of it.

walking with a cane was like carrying a neon sign that said yes there is something different here. yes i can't walk the way you can. no it's not going to get better. that last part wasn't directly evident just from him using a cane, sure, but with the way his cane looked, it should've been pretty clear. He had used one practically forever and it had evolved with him, he'd made it as comfortable to use as it could be, had even made it match his uniform.

so yeah. viktor knew what it was like. he'd been the disabled kid forever, even if some of the others were never going to say it out loud. that was just a thing about him, and he knew how hard it could be to navigate something like that in an academic environment. it was hard to admit you couldn't do something, that you had to sit down, that you needed a moment. that sometimes your body was just falling apart for no particular reason and it was just another tuesday.

sometimes it was easier to sit with the pain than take medication in the middle of a meeting, knowing that someone would make a bigger deal out of it than it had to be, even if it was just raising their eyebrows meaningfully. they'd think about you differently afterwards.

he could see you push through it, and he didn't blame you, really, he did that himself, too, but - he didn't want you to hurt yourself. you hadn't been in the lab as long as he had, so he could understand you being a little cautious with how you acted and what you told people, but he didn't want you to feel like you had to put on a show for him. he was, after all, walking around with the equivalent of a light-up sign of i'm disabled, too, and he liked to think of himself as someone who wouldn't come off as judgemental about stuff like that. other stuff, sure, stupid stuff, but not that.

so when he sees you dealing with the telltale signs of being in pain, he conveniently sends jayce and the others to pick up some parts that would take a while to collect and that they wouldn't actually need until the next day. but better prepared, right? what's the harm.

and then he comes to sit next to you and sighs deeply. leans back. relaxes to the best of his abilities. asks if you're alright, and sounds like he already knows the answer.

you sigh too, shift your position, and answer with it's fine. and viktor recognizes the strain in your voice, in your posture, and he knows there's a key difference between this and i'm fine, but he'll take it. it's not what he'd like, but he'll take it.

he leans over to dig around his belongings, and then offers you a bag of candied almonds.

"if you're going to take pain killers, it's better if you eat something first," he says, and you just stare at him. "i assume you haven't taken anything yet. nothing strong enough, at least," he continues, casually, and you take a deep breath and accept the almonds.

he smiles. continues like this is totally normal. "jayce made me start carrying around some food so i could do that. for myself, i mean. but it doesn't hurt to have some snacks around either way, i suppose."

he knows he's skirting around the real topic of the conversation, but he also knows that sometimes people get uncomfortable around his bluntness, and you hadn't exactly told him you were in pain, so he'd understand it if you were a little weirded out. after all, most people didn't notice this stuff. but you haven't run away from him, and you're eating, and then you're digging around your own bag to take your medication, so he'll count this as a win.

thanks, you exhale, handing back the almonds, and he takes a handful of them himself.

"i'm fine, really," you continue, not really looking at him, "it's just hard sometimes."

he nods. it was - even if he didn't know the specifics, he knew that it was true. especially since you had been hiding it from the others. and with something like that, something the others couldn't see, the invisible step to let them see it would grow bigger and bigger with time, when they expected you to be able to do everything they did without a second thought.

he also knows you didn't mean fine in the dictionary definition sense of the word, but more in the this is normal and you don't need to worry -sense. and that's fine. he was used to functioning on different parameters than most people, so this version of fine was good enough.

my body just isn't always very reliable, you explain with a sigh, and that he knows better than well.

he hmms in answer and nods. he knows.

you exhale a small laugh at that.

and he's glad you're relaxing, wants you to be as comfortable here as possible.

"these people are alright," he says casually, "as far as healthy people go."

viktor smiles a little.

another win for him.

and then he sits with you, talking and not talking and enjoying the quiet comfort if it all. and then he makes up some excuse so you don't have to keep working yet. he was well aware what it was like trying to work through the pain, waiting for the medication to kick in, and he wouldn't exactly recommend it. besides, as a rule, you were more likely to make mistakes if you were thinking through a layer of pain, and that was just plain bad planning. it made much more sense to just take a break and continue when you felt better. in fact, he was in dire need of a caramel latte and a pastry right now, do you want anything?

and after that it just... sort of falls into place. you're more relaxed around him. and the others, too, but he's the only one that really gets it. doesn’t make a whole thing out of it when you need to sit down for a moment or take a break while your pain killers kick in. he's just there.

he knows what it's like, and that feels like an invisble curtain lifted from between you and him, and it's just easy. you don't have to pretend you're doing better than you actually are and he doesn’t hide it when he's in pain, either.

most people don't see it, but there's a mutual understanding there; yeah, sometimes life sucks and sometimes you're in pain and no it's not fair that sometimes your body is falling apart and life just keeps going. you can't do all the things you want to do but you still have to show up for the other life-stuff and if you took a day off every time you felt bad you would never get anything done and it just never stops.

but sometimes there's someone who'll sit through it with you without judgement. offer a warm drink and a snack and some understanding.

[fayes-fics]

Kinktober: Frottage

Kinktober 2024 Masterpost

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU.

Summary: Sometimes, you don't have to take your clothes off to have a good time...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, fully clothed frottage, frottage against an item, frottage against another person, orgasms, cumming in clothing. Unsanctioned use of a yoga roller.

Word Count: 1.7k ('drabbles', Faye, you LIE to yourself)

Authors Note: Anon request fill that I saved for Kinktober. It's not that filthy, but it was fun to write. Thanks to Jermaine Stewart for the summary (none of you kids will get that reference, ah well). Dedicated to @chaoticcalzoneranchsports for a number of reasons. ;) Unbetaed. Enjoy! <3

It's all his fault. 

Since entering a relationship with him, you have been insatiably horny all the time. Even when he is not around, a need bubbles under the surface all the time, simmering on a low flame.

Like tonight. You try a yoga session to try and calm your mind, perhaps reset your libido. You are almost successful until your traitorous mind serves up a searing mental image of that crooked smile between your legs as he teases you mercilessly. And suddenly, your whole pelvis is thronging, a need that will only get worse unless you address it. 

So, almost defeated, you grab your foam roller and place it on the sofa, straddling it and, still fully clothed, start to rub upon it, your thoughts only of him, his handsome face, his skilful hands and tongue. The raised ridges of the roller drag just perfectly on all the right aching spots, even through your yoga pants, tilting your hips down, closing your eyes and throwing your head back.

And that is when he chooses to return home. Slipping in unheard via the front door as you practically ride the roller now. 

“Oh, I see… it’s that sort of Tuesday, is it?” 

Benedict’s rich, teasing baritone rings out across the room. 

You can hear the victorious smirk his face carries even before your eyes pop open, naturally pausing in your motions. He saunters closer, that smile you were just fantasising of here in the flesh. He’s dressed casually in grey sweatpants and a navy blue t-shirt, looking freshly showered, likely after a gym visit.

“Please don't stop on my account,” he adds playfully, raising a provocative eyebrow as he kicks off his shoes and leans against a pillar, crossing his arms and ankles casually.

“You could help,” you suggest plainly, not ashamed of your desires, starting to move again, loving the way his pupils dilate a fraction as you do.

“But I'm enjoying the view entirely too much…” he volleys back, watching you intently, the drag of your body over the roller. “Does that work? To get you off?” He clarifies when your brow knits.

“Yes, sometimes a good pelvic orgasm is just what's needed,” you respond, getting a fraction breathier with each gyration you make, loving the rapt audience he provides.

“What were you thinking about? Before I interrupted?” He inquires, his incisor hooking over his bottom lip, likely without him even realising, his eyes never leaving you, pinging between your lap and face.

“I think you know…” you exhale, rolling your hips in a circle, a mewl of enjoyment as you hit new spots of pleasure.

“Maybe…” he flirts, the quiet confidence he oozes at this moment just heightening the delicious thread of tension between you. “But tell me anyway,” he adds silkily, pushing off the pillar and drawing closer, hands flexing at his sides as if he is tamping down the urge to reach out and grab you.

“You. Your face between my legs, your tongue buried in me,” you fire back, loving how riled up he gets when you state such things plainly, his nostrils flaring slightly. 

With a quiet growl, he sinks to his knees right in front of you, and you gasp as his large hands land on your thighs, then slide heavily up to your hips, pressing down with a firm curl of his fingers into your flesh. The strength he exerts makes you squeak, the roller creaking quietly under you.

“Don't pretend you don't love it when I hold you down like this,” he challenges, his eyes flashing dangerously, knowing your mind is flooding with flashbacks of him doing just that: holding you pinned on his cock, eyes rolling, pussy fluttering from how good it is to be impaled on him. It makes you clench involuntarily, tacky dampness seeping into your underwear. He always intuits what you need before you even realise it yourself. “Keep going,” he adds, and it sounds closer to an order than a suggestion.

And so you do, riding a little harder, loving the sensation of his hands clamped onto the flare of your hips, his breath gusting warm onto your cheek as he leans in now, staring you down. 

“That’s it,” he encourages; a frisson runs down your spine at the low, smokey cadence he has slipped into. 

You swallow thickly and change motion, a back-and-forth rocking that has your knees bumping into him rhythmically.

“What about you?” you breathe, nodding to the swelling you can see now straining in the soft fabric of his sweatpants. “This could work for you too, you know…” you trail off, a sudden want to have him humping against you as he huffs excitedly right into your hair.

You peel his hands from you and flip around so your back is towards him, grabbing the sofa back, shifting yourself and the roller forward so there is room behind you. Knowing the sight of your behind in tight lycra right in front of him will be a temptation he cannot resist. Surely enough, you don't even need to guide him; those hands land on you, grasping and kneading your bum cheeks.

“Your arse is fantastic…” he growls, a wave of viscous desire at how much he wants you as his grip slides back up to your hips, forcing your pelvis down onto the roller, again just as you need.

“Show me. Come rub up on me,” you simper with a come hither look over your shoulder, placing your hands over his, lacing your fingers together.

You can’t prevent your victorious smile as the sofa dips with him climbing on behind you. The smell of his woodsy, fresh shower gel clinging to his skin as he envelopes you, his lips sliding over the shell of your ear.

“You want me to cum in my underpants like a teenage boy?” he gusts, and you nod enthusiastically, loving that idea. “Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not wearing any…” he adds in a heated whisper. It's then he grinds his pelvis into yours, the heated outline of his cock insistent through the thin layers between you.

“That's even hotter…” you confess shakily, loving the idea of his cum pooling stickily on the material of his sweatpants. 

He groans softly, his fingers flexing on you, shuffling closer so his whole clothed body is pressed into yours, so much heat and power. He slides his rigid mass into the cleft of your bottom, and you moan lightly, the motion compounding the crush of the roller into your pelvis. You curse and tip your head back onto his shoulder, wrapping a hand behind you to hook around his neck.

“Give it to me, Ben….” you goadingly murmur. 

Then it's just the most delicious sensation, his thrusts against your bottom, driving your clit to drag over the roller wedged between your legs. A closed loop of sensation you both don't want to end, his hips snapping a little more forceful with every thrust, the string of his waistband tickling the flash of exposed skin on your lower back.

“I fucking love how untamed you are,” he rumbles into your ear as you grasp onto his closed fist, your nails sinking into his knuckles.

“All your fault…” you banter, craning your neck to look back at him. “If you aren't actually fucking me, I'm thinking about your fucking me…” The heated confession tumbles from your lips as you build towards something electric.

His eyes flash in that hypnotic way, and he redoubles his efforts, caging around you, holding you down, frottaging into you in a way that jerks your whole body. The delicious outline of his cock searing against your tailbone. One of his strong hands slides up from your hip and winds under the hem of your cropped t-shirt, growling as he realises you are braless, nipples pebbling as he flicks his thumbnail against one.

He mutters words of encouragement as you start to go faster, aiding and abetting him, the pinch of his fingers around your nipple a beeline right to your core. Part of you wants him to rip off all the clothes you both wear and split you open with his cock; part of you wants just this, the heady delight of something proximate but not quite there. The beguiling fantasy of innocence where penetrative sex is taboo, both learning from each other and doing things you likely shouldn’t be.

You plead for him not to stop, hovering closer with each stroke you take together, moving in sync, little grunts from the effort, damp skin from the prolonged undulation. He clamps both of his hands back around your hips and pushes you down onto the roller hard, just what you need, your breath catching in your throat. Sensing he is as close as you, you turn your head to the side, burying your nose into his jaw and panting filthy things you want from him, knowing it will rocket him just as fast, his movements becoming erratic but vigorous.

He senses you are skating the edge and twists to bite your neck, just a light hold, but it's enough to send you flying. Wracking moans as you crest that wave, every sound dulled behind the rush of blood in your head and the tingle radiating out from your core to every cell. Your cunt fluttering around nothing, wishing it were gripping onto his cock as you feel him take two more rough thrusts, then still, his groans a staccato as he peaks too, a shudder you feel against your bum as his cock convulses inside his sweatpants.

He slumps onto your back, pressing you wholly into the sofa cushion, a weight that feels wonderful, pinning you in place as you both huff for breaths, coming back down from your highs.

“Well, that was sublime… But now I need yet another shower,” he remarks wryly, and that has you giggling under him. “Care to join me?”

There was only ever going to be one answer.

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[thefandomsfervent]

Personal Pigments Viktor x Reader (Part 1) - Cadmium Yellow Deep Hue

Heimerdinger forgets to warn the science bros that an artist is coming in to visualize them and Hextech, a collaborative program between a Piltover art school and the academy for some new hall meant to be unveiled at an upcoming progress day. Large paintings can take years to do, with Hextech’s promising growth they are to be started in a preemptive manner. Reader is from Zaun, not sure what I’m going to do with this yet. Takes place in the coming months after they first get council approval, hexgates aren't complete. Wrote an imagine (here) and now I’m needing to see it through, would y’all want more?

╔═*✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧-✦-✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧*═╗

Viktor should be focusing. He is, but not on the right thing. His hands still fiddle with cogs as he looks to you for the umpteenth time this hour. Your brows were furrowed together as you compared pastels and pencils together.  Your lips pursed to the side as if you were biting your cheek in concentration. He would have been worried about being caught starting but your focus was elsewhere.

You had papers clipped to a drawing board in front of you.  The stool you usually sat on abandoned by the small table next to you.  He watched as your hands turned colored sticks over, looking for something. He didn't know what, but he appreciated the view regardless. 

In this summer heat the lab was humid, Jayce had gone out for water and Viktor himself had forgone his vest. You were starting to sketch something in wide yellow strokes, the smooth scrape of pressed pigment to paper filling the heavy air. You hummed a sound of affirmation, as if finally approving your choice before grabbing another stick in blue. As you continued your efforts, he took in all of you. A loose button up over a tank top, well fitting trousers, simple boots. The same attire you'd worn for weeks, but today something was different. The tank-top was a lower,  looser cut. Likely chosen for the heat plaguing Piltover this summer. Your warming up sketches facing a daylit window. 

“Composition, speed, and colour work.” The words you had said months ago lingering in the back of his mind. “You can never practice too much.”

He sees you from the side, the strap had been half way off your shoulder all morning. Innocent enough. Not truly your fault in any way.  

The white over shirt unbuttoned. Also loosely caught by your elbows, draping over your work surface. Picking up colors and dust. He follows the sleeves up to your hands, to your arms. He should be working. Reading a section in another overdue library book. Not watching you. Not following the gentle way you pick up and set down your pastels, certainly not the way today’s heat has exposed your neck, your shoulders, your collarbones and how they lead to the hollow of your neck. He looks away for a moment. Steeling himself. 

Surely he is not ogling you. That would be inappropriate. Yes, it has been a long time since he has been able to indulge in thoughts of that manner. But he shouldn't start down that kind of path here.

A clattering sound pulls his gaze back to you, a soft curse leaving your lips as you have to bend down to grab a pencil that rolled off your desk. His breath catches in his throat, your tanktop drooping lower when you lean down. The swell of your breasts, the curve of your bra revealing itself in a sinful second. The moment was very quick, and to his luck you didn't notice. The lab door opens as Jayce walks in. Ice cold water in a pitcher, three glasses on a tray. 

He sets one down on your desk looking over your shoulder. "The window today?"

"Just something quick, the sun is hitting the glass just right." You punctuate your sentence with the wave of a pencil towards the shaft of light illuminating a stack of books.

"I see," he says as he walks over to one of the many messy tables near you to set down the tray. He brings another glass to viktor. If he notices the red flushing his partner's face he doesn't say.  Maybe he assumed it was this wretched heat. In a way, it was the fault of the weather. 

"Thank you," Viktor says, just before he downs the whole glass. 

He gets an acknowledging pat on his shoulder before Jayce settles in his own station.  Each of you returning to your own work. The silent hum of drawing and tinkering becomes a soothing balm on the room, and on the tension in his shoulders. He fiddles with his engraver, marking runes onto various metal bits. He wonders to himself how he even got into this position. How he finds his thoughts, and apparently his eyes, wandering to you. 

He remembers that first day, how many months has it been since you’ve come here? 

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-------------------.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ Part 2.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .---------------------

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[rabbidbunwy]

A drunk Sukuna in love with you 🫧🍸🥂🫧✧˖°

Contents: Best friend!Sukuna x Best friend!reader,mention of alchol[duh],OOC Sukuna[out of character],reader doesn't recognise Sukuna feelings and takes jokes too far,confession went wrong,angst,mention of throwing up

i'm no english native so sorry for some mistakes

please reblog 🔁 and like❤️

P.s:sorry for the changing in the aesthetic i'm trying to find the right one ;P and please don't harass me for writing a non canon Sukuna,thank you

@muzansslxt @candy69gurl @kiwicopia @satorkive @ponderingmoonlight

"You're so clingy when you're drunk" you remark, barely suppressing a smirk as you look at your best friend. He's practically plastered, his body slumped against you like a drunken pile of limbs. You can't help but wonder how he managed to get this wasted.

"You really need to learn how to handle your alcohol, King of Curses" you tease, gently poking at his cheek.

Sukuna, unsurprisingly, scowls, his features twisting into a displeased pout. He lifts his scarlet gaze to meet your amused one, his grip on your waist not budging an inch. "Tch, shut up" he grumbles, his words slurring slightly. "I can handle my alcohol just fine."

The air between you is thick with familiarity and shared history, your banter as natural as breathing. Despite his current state, you can see the hint of a smirk playing on his lips, a rare softness in his usually cold eyes.

"Oh really?" You challenge, your smirk widening into a full-blown grin. "Then why are you clinging to me like a koala right now, hm?" You gently nudge his cheek again, clearly enjoying yourself.

Sukuna lets out a low, almost petulant growl, clearly not appreciating being called out on his current needy behavior. "I'm not clinging" he denies, though his actions belie his words as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, drawing in a deep breath.

You can't help but chuckle at his denial. "Right, because burying your face into my neck and wrapping your arms around me like an octopus is totally not clinging" you tease, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "What,are you in love with your best friend or something?" you laughed. Sukuna immediately snaps his head up at your words, a mixture of surprise and irritation flashing in his scarlet eyes. "W-What!?" he splutters, clearly caught off guard. "In love with you? Don't make me laugh" he huffs, though his face is noticeably more flushed than before.

"Yeah,because if you really loved me that would be disgusting" you joked a bit bitterly giggling waving your hand.

Sukuna stiffens, his grip on your waist tightening involuntarily. Your words cut surprisingly deep, causing his face to tighten and his eyes to darken momentarily. He looks away, a flicker of… something crossing his features. Disbelief? Hurt? Anger? He couldn't put a name to it.

When he speaks, his usual tone is edged, trying to mask the emotions brewing beneath the surface. "Love you? Don't flatter yourself" he sneers. "thats what i'm saying,we will never love eachother,and i don't love your nor i will ever will" you said unconsciously has you sat on the sofa turning on the tv.

Sukuna's heart clenches painfully at your words, an unexpected ache spreading through him. Deep down, a small part of him had hoped… had thought maybe you loved him, even a bit. But no, you just confirmed that it wasn't possible.

He grits his teeth, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "Good" he grumbles, refusing to look at you. "I don't want your love… or anyone's, for that matter. It's useless."

Despite his words, you notice the slight tremor in his voice, a hint of vulnerability that he tries to hide. Sukuna may appear aloof and uncaring most of the time, but behind that rough exterior, he's more sensitive than he'd ever admit.

Leaning back against the sofa, you watch him through the corner of your eye. He's tense, his shoulders tight, and his gaze is fixed on the TV, though you're not sure if he's actually watching or just avoiding looking at you.

The silence between you feels heavy, the air thick with unspoken words. Neither of you speak, the tension palpable. Sukuna's mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and conflicting emotions, his heart warring with his pride. He wants to say so much, to confess the true depths of his feelings, but fear and denial hold him back.

He steals a glance at you from the corner of his eye, taking in your profile. You look peaceful, your attention on the TV, completely oblivious to the turmoil inside him. He grits his teeth, torn between the desire to blurt out the words on the tip of his tongue and the ingrained habit of hiding his true feelings behind a facade of indifference.

"Hey" he mutters, his voice gruff and low, almost inaudible over the sound of the TV. "I, uh… need to use the bathroom."

Sukuna stands, swaying a little, and heads towards the bathroom, leaving you alone. As soon as the door closes, he leans heavily against it, his chest heaving as he tries to regain control of his tumultuous emotions.

The silence of the bathroom is deafening. He runs the cold water, splashing some on his face, hoping it'll sober him up and calm his racing heart. But it doesn't work. The image of you, sitting on the sofa, not looking at him, is etched in his mind, fueling the storm inside him.

He grips the edge of the sink, his knuckles turning white. Why does it hurt so much? Why does it sting to hear you say you could never love him?

Sukuna clenches his teeth, anger bubbling up beneath his pain. "It's just the alcohol" he mutters to himself, trying to convince himself that his emotions are just a byproduct of the inebriation. "It's just the alcohol making me think nonsense… feel stupid things."

He looks at himself in the mirror, his reflection blurry through his intoxicated haze. He scowls, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Foolish. You're being foolishly sentimental, King of Curses" he chides himself.

But no matter how much he berates himself, no matter how much he tries to will the feelings away, the ache in his chest persists. He splashes more water on his face, the coldness doing nothing to soothe the fire inside him.

And then, the sound of a knock on the bathroom door jolts him out of his thoughts.

"Oi, are you okay in there?" Your voice filters through the door, laced with concern. Sukuna freezes, his mind racing. He can't let you see him like this—weak, vulnerable.

"I'm fine" he barks, his tone gruff and defensive. "Just… give me a minute."

There's a moment of silence on the other side of the door before you speak again. "You don't sound fine" you say, your voice softer now. "Let me in."

Sukuna's breath hitches slightly at your words. He's torn—part of him wants you to come in, to see him in his vulnerable state, to know what he's really feeling. But the other, more prideful half, wants to protect himself, to maintain his cool, indifferent facade.

"No" he says firmly, though the word lacks its usual authority. "I don't need your damn help."

"You're being stubborn" you reply, your voice filled with both annoyance and concern. "Just open the door." There's a note of finality in your tone, like you won't take no for an answer.

Sukuna glares at the door, weighing his options. Part of him admires your stubbornness, the other resents it. But he knows he can't keep you at bay forever.

With a frustrated huff, he wrenches the door open, standing there in all his disheveled, drunken glory. He's a mess, but he tries to maintain his usual intimidating glare. "Happy now?" he sneers, crossing his arms across his chest.

You step forward, your eyes roaming over him, taking in his disheveled appearance. There's a flicker of something in your expression—sympathy, maybe?—but it's gone before he can be certain.

"You look like a toddler who hasn't napped all day" you remark dryly, reaching out to gently push some of his unruly hair back into place.

Sukuna flinches at the unexpected touch, his body betraying him by responding to your gentle caress. He glares at you, trying to mask the way his heart skipped a beat. "Don't touch me" he growls, but his voice lacks its usual conviction.

You ignore his protest, continuing to fix his hair. Your fingers are gentle but firm, deftly untangling the knots and setting his locks back in order.

"You need to sober up" you tell him, your tone matter-of-fact. "Sit" you order, pointing at the edge of the bathtub.

Sukuna scowls, but he obeys, albeit reluctantly. He perches on the edge of the bathtub, his arms crossed over his chest. He tries to appear nonchalant, but the effect is somewhat ruined by his obvious lack of balance, the way he sways slightly even sitting down.

"I don't need to sober up" he mutters, more as a matter of principle than anything else.

"You can't even sit straight" you note, your tone a mix of amusement and exasperation. You grab a glass from the sink and fill it with water from the tap.

"Here" you say, holding the glass out to him. "Drink."

Sukuna takes the glass, his fingers brushing against yours briefly, sending a small shiver up his spine. He brings the glass to his lips, taking a few sips, the cool water running down his throat.

He avoids your gaze, his face still set in a scowl, but he can't deny the fact that he does feel a little calmer now.

Then you sighed walking out of the bathroom sitting on the sofa "if you need to throw up hit the toilet"

Sukuna trailed after you, his steps slightly shaky but managing to maintain his trademark swagger. "I don't need you to tell me that" he grumbles, collapsing onto the sofa beside you. He takes a cushion, placing it strategically in his lap.

"I'm not gonna throw up" he insists, though there's a hint of doubt in his voice.

You raise an eyebrow skeptically. "You sure about that?" you say, a hint of amusement in your tone. "You've never been good at holding your alcohol."

You look at him, noticing the way he clenches the cushion in his lap, the tension in his shoulders.

"really,i never saw you acting like this,it's makes you look so stupid-"You were interrupted when Sukuna suddenly threw the pillow,raging, "It's because I fucking love you! don't you understand that?!"

The pillow sails past your face, hitting the wall behind you with a soft thump. Sukuna's shouting startles you, his sudden outburst surprising.

"L-Love…me?" you stutter, unable to hide the shock in your voice. You get up, turning to face him, your mind reeling from his confession.

Sukuna stands, his face flushed, his eyes locked on yours. He looks like a man on the edge, all his usual composure gone, replaced by raw, unfiltered emotion.

"Yes, I… dammit, I love you!" he repeats, his words filled with a desperate ache. "I've loved you for ages, but I… I didn't know how to tell you, how to make you understand…" He steps forward, closing the distance between you, his hands reaching out to grip your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin.

"And tonight, hearing you say that you could never love me… it hurt. It hurt badly. I can't stand it, I can't stand the thought of you never loving me back, of losing you…" He lets out a shaky breath, his eyes pleading.

The room is filled with silence. You look at him, your heart racing, your mind swirling with a million thoughts. Sukuna, your best friend, the powerful Curse, is confessing his love to you. It's a lot to process.

You reach up a hand, gently cupping his cheek, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. He leans into your touch, a needy sound rumbling deep in his chest.

"I…I don't understand" you murmur, your thumb rubbing soothing circles into his cheek. "I thought… we were just best friends."

Sukuna huffs a bitter laugh, his eyes never leaving yours. "That's what I told myself, too" he admits. "I thought I could keep my feelings hidden, that I could just be your friend, that it would be enough… but it's not. It never was."

He steps even closer, his body now mere inches from yours. He towers over you, his presence overwhelming, but there's a vulnerability in his eyes that you've never seen before.

"You mean everything to me" he whispers, his voice hoarse. "I can't imagine my life without you in it. I don't care if I'm supposed to be a Curse, a fearsome lord… you make me feel human, something I haven't felt in centuries. I want to be with you, no matter what it takes."

Your heart pounds in your chest, your thoughts a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. On one hand, fear, uncertainty, the risk of losing the friendship you'd nurtured for so long. But on the other, there's a flutter of something… hope, happiness, love?

You look at him, taking in his confession, his raw, desperate emotions. A thousand words dance on the tip of your tongue, but what comes out is an uncharacteristic stutter. "I… I don't know what to say…"

"Say you'll give me a chance" he says, his voice low and gravelly. "Say you'll let me prove my love for you. I know I'm not perfect, far from it… but I'll try my damned hardest to make you happy if you just let me."

His grip tightens on your shoulders, his thumbs tracing aimless patterns on your skin.

You chew on your lower lip, the enormity of his words sinking in. It's a lot to take in, a lot to consider.

"And if it doesn't work?" you ask quietly, your voice wavering slightly. "If… if it doesn't work out, what then?"

Sukuna's eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of determination in their depths. "It will work" he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I won't accept any alternative. I'll make it work, even if it kills me."

He leans in closer, his face inches from yours. You can feel his warm breath on your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"Trust me" he murmurs, his voice a soft, velvety whisper. "Please, just trust me."

He cups your face in his hands, his touch surprisingly tender considering the rough, calloused nature of his palms. His thumbs gently stroke your cheeks, an almost reverent gesture.

His eyes search yours, looking for any hint of refusal, any sign that you're about to push him away. But he finds none. Instead, there's a mixture of emotions there—uncertainty, fear, and yes, there it is, a spark of hope.

Sukuna leans down, slowly, his lips hovering just above yours. "Can I… can I kiss you?" he breathes, the question carrying a world of meaning.

You hold your breath, your mind racing. His lips are so close, mere millimeters from yours. You can almost taste the whiskey on his breath.

In that moment, you make your decision. You nod once, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

The permission is all Sukuna needs. He closes the final gap between you, capturing your lips in a kiss.

His lips are surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to his usually hard, callous demeanor. The kiss is deep, hungry, a mix of desperation and yearning. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close, his body molding to yours as though you're meant to fit together like two puzzle pieces.

His hands roam over your back, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on your skin, leaving trails of fire in his wake.

The kiss is intense, consuming, and despite the alcohol clouding both of your judgments, neither of you pull away. His tongue demands entry into your mouth, which you willingly allow, the sensation sending shivers down your spine.

His hands tighten on your waist, almost possessively, as though he's afraid you might slip away if he doesn't hold on tight.

He breaks the kiss, coming up for air, his chest heaving against yours. His eyes are darkened, almost feral, as he gazes down at you.

"You taste even better than I imagined" he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. "How long have I been waiting to do that…"

[urdreamydoodles]

Wolverine x Fem!Reader

Jealousy

Logan struggles to understand the unfamiliar feelings he has toward you, a kind-hearted and beautiful mutant loved by everyone at Xavier’s School. As jealousy simmers beneath the surface, he eventually realizes that you’ve had your heart set on him all along.

Logan watches you from the corner of the room, arms crossed over his chest, trying not to scowl. You’re smiling, as always, laughing at something Gambit said, your eyes glowing with warmth. It’s a look that seems to be meant for everyone around you—but never for him.

He grunts, glancing away, trying to shake the feeling that's been gnawing at him for days. It’s ridiculous, really. Why should he care that every single guy in the mansion seems to orbit around you like you’re the sun?

You’re a teacher at Xavier’s now, like him. A mutant whose powers are as impressive as they are mysterious, though no one seems to care much about that. The way everyone talks about you, they’re more focused on how sweet you are, how you have a way of making anyone feel at ease, even in a place full of battle-hardened mutants.

And you’re... well, Logan’s never really put much stock into beauty, but there’s no denying that heads turn when you walk into a room. The sight of you, with your gentle smile and graceful movements, draws attention whether you intend it to or not. It’s irritating how many men around the mansion make fools of themselves trying to get you to notice them. Gambit, with his endless charm. Angel, always hovering around with those damn wings. Nightcrawler, with his shy smiles and sweet words.

It shouldn’t bother him. He doesn’t get jealous. He’s Logan, for crying out loud. Wolverine. He’s been through too much, seen too much, to be worried about a pretty face.

But here he is, in the back of the room, glaring at Gambit like the Cajun just insulted him. Which he hasn’t. Not yet, at least.

You say something to Gambit, and his grin grows wider. He leans in closer to you, brushing a hand against your arm like he’s always been allowed to touch you that way. Logan feels his fingers twitch, an unfamiliar anger rising in his chest.

Get a grip, Logan, he tells himself, gritting his teeth.

“Logan?” Your voice pulls him out of his thoughts, soft and warm, and suddenly you’re standing in front of him, looking up at him with those bright eyes of yours. He didn’t even notice you walking over.

He clears his throat, straightening. “What?”

You give him that smile, the one that knocks the breath out of everyone around here. “I’ve been trying to say hi all day. You’ve been avoiding me?”

Logan huffs, crossing his arms tighter over his chest. “Ain’t avoiding you. Just busy.”

“Busy glaring at Gambit?” you tease, raising an eyebrow. It’s like you can see right through him, and that makes him all the more uncomfortable.

“I wasn’t—” Logan stops himself. Damn it, you’re too good at this. “What do you want?”

You tilt your head slightly, your expression softening. “You alright, Logan? You seem... off.”

“Off?” He frowns, his brow furrowing. How are you always so perceptive? He should be better at hiding this. Hell, he’s had centuries of practice keeping people at arm’s length, but with you, it’s like you’ve been cutting through that barrier since the day you arrived.

You reach up, laying a gentle hand on his arm. Your touch is soft, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to flinch—not because he doesn’t like it, but because it sends a jolt through him. Like something raw and unexplainable stirring in his chest.

“You can talk to me, you know,” you say softly. “I’m here if you need anything.”

There’s no pity in your voice, no patronizing tone. Just genuine concern, like you actually care about how he’s doing. It confuses him. He’s used to people being wary of him, keeping their distance. But not you. Never you.

Logan shifts, feeling the weight of your hand on his arm, and glances away, unable to meet your eyes. “Ain’t nothing to talk about.”

You give him a small smile, dropping your hand, but not stepping back. “Alright. But if you change your mind, I’m around.”

You turn to walk away, back toward Gambit, who’s still waiting for you. And Logan feels something sharp twist in his gut.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches out, grabbing your wrist gently. “Wait.”

You pause, turning back to him with a curious expression. “Yeah?”

Logan hesitates, his grip loosening slightly. He’s not good at this—never has been. Words fail him more often than not, and emotions? Well, he doesn’t like dealing with those either.

But the thought of you going back to Gambit, of you laughing with him again, letting him get close to you... Logan doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

“I—” He struggles to find the right words, his jaw tightening. What the hell is wrong with him? “I don’t like... seein’ you with all those other guys.”

Your eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across your face. “What do you mean?”

Logan lets out a low growl of frustration, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t like it when they’re all over you. Gambit, Angel, all of ‘em. They act like you’re some... prize or somethin’.”

You blink, clearly not expecting that. “Logan, they’re just being friendly. We’re all close here.”

“Yeah, well, they’re too damn friendly.” The words come out harsher than he intends, and he curses under his breath. He didn’t mean to sound possessive, but that’s exactly what it sounds like. He doesn’t even know why he’s saying this. What’s it to him if you like Gambit or Angel?

But the thought of you being with someone else, of you smiling at them the way you smile at him, makes something ugly twist inside him.

You look at him for a long moment, as if trying to piece together what’s going on in his head. And then, to his surprise, you smile—really smile. Not the polite kind you give everyone else, but something softer, more real.

“Logan,” you say gently, taking a step closer. “Are you... jealous?”

He bristles immediately, his face hardening. “Jealous? Hell no. I don’t get jealous.”

“Uh-huh.” Your smile widens slightly, and for a moment, Logan swears he can see a hint of amusement in your eyes. “You sure about that?”

He grumbles something incoherent under his breath, unable to come up with a proper response. Damn it, how did you manage to get under his skin so easily?

“Logan,” you say again, softer this time. “If you want to talk, I’m here. You don’t have to keep pushing me away.”

Logan feels his heart clench, the sincerity in your voice throwing him off balance. He’s not used to this—to someone actually caring. Especially someone like you.

“I just don’t like sharin’,” he mutters finally, his voice gruff. “That’s all.”

You tilt your head, stepping even closer so that you’re standing right in front of him. “Sharing what?”

Logan swallows hard, his gaze flicking away from yours. “You.”

The word hangs in the air between you, and for a moment, Logan wonders if he’s crossed a line. If he’s said too much. But instead of pulling away, you smile, your eyes softening.

“You don’t have to share me, Logan,” you say quietly. “I’m not interested in Gambit or Angel. Or anyone else for that matter.”

His gaze snaps back to yours, surprise flickering across his face. “What?”

“I’m saying,” you continue, your voice gentle but firm, “if you want my attention, you’ve already got it. You always have.”

Logan stares at you, his mind racing to process your words. You... what? How long has he been trying to figure out what the hell he’s feeling, only to find out that you’ve felt the same way this whole time?

He lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You laugh softly, stepping even closer, until you’re almost pressed against him. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, Logan lets his guard down, just a little. He reaches out, resting a hand on your waist, and looks down at you, his voice low and rough. “You sure about this?”

You nod, your eyes meeting his with unwavering certainty. “I’m sure, Logan.”

And just like that, the tension that’s been building between you for what feels like ages finally breaks. Logan pulls you closer, his grip tightening on your waist, and for once, he lets himself be honest with what he wants.

You.

Only you.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

The Fallout | Sebastian Sallow x OC #21

this entire chapter is angst and hurt with pretty much no comfort bc sebastian sallow is an idiot.

Summary: Sebastian, wracked with guilt after betraying Evangeline’s trust, seeks her out to apologize, navigating through Ominis’s pointed rebuke and his own self-loathing. He finds Evangeline by the Black Lake, and though their conversation is raw and painful, they begin to bridge the gap between them, with Sebastian vowing to change (again).

Words: 7,782

Tags: Angst, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Unspoken Feelings, Angst AGAIN, Emotional Fallout, Happy(?) Ending, Miscommunication, Drama, Sebastian Sallow Is An Idiot, Ominis Gaunt Being VERY Done™

Read more stories about Sebastian and Evangeline

Read on AO3

The Great Hall was alive with the low hum of chatter, punctuated by bursts of laughter from distant tables. To most, it was the familiar chaos of breakfast before enjoying the weekend. To Ominis, it was a minefield.

His wand rested lightly against the table, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on its polished surface. His sharp ears picked up the undercurrent of conversation, threads of gossip weaving their way through the hall. He didn’t need sight to know who the subject was—Evangeline, whose name was on far too many tongues this week, and Sebastian, the ever-present chaos at the heart of Ominis’s life.

“…stood up for him like he’s some kind of hero,” someone hissed from the Ravenclaw table behind him, their voice dripping with scorn. “And then he’s caught snogging some fifth-year? Couldn’t even wait for her to wake up. Poor thing.”

Another voice chimed in, softer but no less cutting. “I heard she passed out by the fire and a moment later, he was off with the next Gryffindor. Honestly, it’s embarrassing.”

Ominis gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening. He carefully kept his expression neutral, though his fingers curled into a fist under the table. These weren’t just idle comments; they were knives, sharp and intentional, aimed at two of the people he cared about most.

Evangeline had always been bold, unflinching in her loyalty to those she called friends, and Ominis hadn’t been surprised when she confronted Lysander to defend Sebastian's honor—Evangeline’s fierce devotion was as much a part of her as her Quidditch skills or her sharp tongue. What had surprised him was how quickly Sebastian had thrown it all away.

Around him, the murmurs shifted, growing louder, like a fire spreading unchecked.

“Did you see how close she was sitting to him before it all went down? Makes you wonder how long he was waiting for her to pass out so he could leave,” someone at the Hufflepuff table said, their voice tinged with curiosity.

Ominis clenched his wand tighter, the cool wood grounding him as his anger simmered. He couldn’t tell what enraged him more—the audacity of the rumors or the fact that Sebastian’s actions made them so easy to believe.

"You'll break your wand if you're not careful," Imelda’s voice was surprisingly warm and low enough not to draw attention. She plopped herself down beside him with the casual confidence only she could pull off.

Ominis loosened his grip and let out a long, steadying breath. “I should hex everyone to make these rumors stop.”

Imelda snorted. “You and I both know the only thing that would stop these rumors is a new scandal. Give it a week—someone else will do something idiotic, and Sterling and Sallow will be yesterday’s gossip.”

Ominis doubted that. The combination of Evangeline’s bold declaration of loyalty in front of the whole school and Sebastian’s reckless behavior had painted an irresistible target on both their backs. The spectacle was too good, the drama too ripe, for people to let it go easily.

Imelda leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. “For what it’s worth, the rest of us are doing our best to stop the spread of this garbage. Poppy practically hexed a Hufflepuff who was being too loud about it yesterday, and Natty shut down a pack of Ravenclaws in Charms.” She shrugged. “We’ve got her back.”

It was true. Their group—Natty, Poppy, Garreth, and the others—had done their best to redirect conversations and shut down the crueler remarks when they came up. But there were limits to what even a tightly-knit group of sixth years could do. Hogwarts wasn’t exactly known for its restraint when it came to gossip.

Ominis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just—” He cut himself off, unsure how to finish the thought.

Imelda didn’t wait for him to try. “You’re worried about them,” she said simply, as if the thought wasn’t worth debating. “Look, Sterling’s tough. And Sebastian… well, he’s an idiot, but he’s not helpless.”

“An idiot is putting it lightly,” Ominis muttered. “This has hurt both of them. Evangeline’s been humiliated, and Sebastian—” He paused, shaking his head. “He knows he’s responsible, even if he hasn't admitted it.”

“It’s just…” Imelda hesitated, which caught Ominis off guard. She rarely hesitated. “I hate seeing her like this. She’s always been so… sure of herself, you know? I don’t like watching people like her get knocked down because of someone else’s stupidity.”

Imelda’s words hung in the air, heavier than Ominis expected. She rarely let her concern for others show, but when she did, it carried a weight that was impossible to ignore. He let the silence stretch between them for a moment, his mind turning over her observations.

"She’s been avoiding everyone," Ominis finally said, his voice quiet. "Burying herself in books. She’s retreating."

Imelda sighed, her usual bravado replaced by a rare softness. "And what about Sallow? Is he retreating too, or just digging himself into a deeper hole?"

Ominis let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, he’s digging, all right. Acting like none of this bothers him, flashing that irritating smirk at everyone who dares bring it up to his face. Still choosing to be seen with the same girl he snogged that night. But I know him too well to believe it. It’s a mask." His tone darkened. "The worst part is that he hasn’t even apologized to her. Not properly."

Imelda shook her head, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like bloody idiot.

"He’s lucky Sterling hasn’t hexed him," she said. "If it were me, I’d have turned him into a flobberworm by now."

Ominis couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure she's thought about it. But Evangeline isn’t like you, Imelda. She doesn’t lash out when she’s hurt—she pulls away."

"And you’re caught in the middle," Imelda observed, her tone resigned. "As always."

"As always," Ominis echoed, his voice laced with weariness.

Imelda tilted her head, studying Ominis’s face with an expression he couldn’t see but could feel. “So, what’s the plan then, Gaunt? You’ve always got one.”

Ominis frowned, his fingers still idly tapping against his wand. His plan? As if he could snap his fingers and undo the damage Sebastian had caused—not just to Evangeline’s reputation, but to the fragile balance of their trio. “I don’t know if there’s a plan for this,” he admitted. “Evangeline needs space, but if we leave her alone too long, it’ll only get worse. And Sebastian…” He trailed off, the weight of Sebastian’s stubbornness settling like a stone in his chest. “Sebastian needs a proper kick to the head.”

Imelda laughed, though it was short and dry. “If you’re volunteering, I’ll hold your wand while you do it.”

"Too bad his skull's too thick for it to work,” Ominis replied, lips twitching into a faint smirk before fading again. "He knows he’s ruined things; he just doesn’t know how to fix them.”

Imelda leaned back, crossing her arms. “So, no plan?”

“Not yet,” Ominis admitted, though his mind was turning. He wasn’t sure what the right course of action was, but he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving things as they were.

“I’ll think of something." He said at length, "Someone has to.”

“Well, good luck with that,” Imelda said, standing and grabbing her plate. “And when you do get around to kicking some sense into him, make sure Sterling’s around to watch. She deserves the entertainment.”

Ominis leaned back in his seat as Imelda departed, his mind whirring. Someone had to step in. Sebastian was clearly incapable of making the first move, and Evangeline… she was too hurt to reach out herself. And if nothing changed soon, the damage might become permanent.

He pushed his plate away, no longer hungry, and rose to his feet. Raising his wand to guide him, he made his way out of the Great Hall, the chatter behind him fading into a dull roar.

~

The library was quieter than the Great Hall, but it carried its own brand of tension. The soft rustling of pages and the occasional scrape of a chair created an uneasy symphony, one that suited Ominis’s mood. He navigated the familiar aisles, his wand guiding him toward the far corner where he hoped Evangeline would be hiding.

She’d been skipping meals and even classes all week, avoiding crowds and slinking away before anyone could corner her. Ominis had been patient, waiting for her to resurface on her own, but her absence was stretching into worry. The Evangeline he knew—bold enough to face down trolls and outfly Imelda in Quidditch—didn’t hide. It wasn’t like her to disappear—not like this.

Ominis stopped when he reached the corner table and tilted his head, listening for the familiar scratch of a quill or the rustle of parchment. Relief swept through him when he caught the faint, rhythmic sound of writing.

“Still avoiding everyone?” he asked as he approached, his tone carefully casual.

Evangeline paused mid-stroke but didn’t look up. “I’m studying,” she replied, her voice clipped. The quill resumed its steady movements, but there was tension in her tone, a defensive edge that Ominis didn’t miss.

“Studying, hiding,” he said, pulling out the chair across from her and settling into it. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”

She let out a sigh, setting her quill down and leaning back in her chair. “What do you want, Ominis?”

He rested his wand lightly on the table, folding his hands in front of him. “To make sure you’re alive. I've been worried.”

“Well, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the books stacked around her. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

“Evangeline,” he interrupted gently, his tone firm but calm. “You can’t keep doing this. Hiding won’t make the rumors go away.”

Her hazel eyes snapped up to meet his, sharp and tired. “What else am I supposed to do, Ominis? Walk into the Great Hall and pretend I don’t hear them? Pretend they’re not calling me an idiot?” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, and she looked away, her fingers curling into fists on the table.

“They’re cruel, Evangeline,” Ominis said softly. “But they don’t define you.”

“They don’t have to,” she replied bitterly. “I’ve already defined myself—for the whole school. The foolish Gryffindor who stood by her so-called friend who turned Quidditch into boxing, only to find out he doesn’t care. At all.”

“That’s not true,” Ominis said, leaning forward. “Sebastian cares. He cares so much that he’s too afraid to face you and apologize."

She let out a hollow laugh, her expression hardening. “If that’s your attempt at defending him, don’t bother. Actions speak louder than words, Ominis, and his actions have been loud and clear.”

Ominis sighed, rubbing his temple. “I’m not defending what he did. And believe me, he knows he’s made a mess of things. But he’s too much of an idiot to figure out how to fix it.”

“Then that’s his problem,” she said sharply, standing up and gathering her books. “Not mine.”

“Evangeline—”

She paused, her shoulders tense but not turning back to him. “I appreciate you checking on me, Ominis. Really, I do. But I can’t… I can’t do this right now.”

He didn’t stop her as she walked away, her footsteps quick and purposeful. Instead, he sat back in his chair, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the wood.

Ominis pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to push the building tension out of his skull. He’d thought that after last year, they could weather anything. But now he wasn’t so sure.

This wasn’t about dark magic or ancient artifacts. It wasn’t about the kind of betrayal you could blame on desperation or fear. This was about trust. And Sebastian had shattered it, not with curses or lies, but with something so mundane it almost felt worse.

Last year, Ominis found himself thinking, when Sebastian did the unthinkable, Evangeline had stood by him.

Ominis could recall the horror of that night with a clarity that made his stomach churn. The dark chamber, the oppressive weight if the the air, and the sickening, searing sounds of the Cruciatus Curse as it tore through her. She hadn’t hesitated to let Sebastian cast that unforgivable curse on her, because she’d believed in him. She’d trusted him enough to endure that kind of agony, certain that he wouldn’t lead her astray.

And later, when Sebastian’s own desperation and grief had driven him to kill Solomon in front of her, she still hadn’t left his side. She’d looked at Sebastian and seen a boy crushed under the weight of his own choices, not a monster, not a murderer. She’d forgiven him.

And now?

Now, after all of that, this—the fallout of one drunken party and Sebastian’s idiocy—felt like an impossible hurdle. And Ominis hated it. Hated the absurdity of it. Hated that something so comparatively trivial could cause this much damage between them.

But then, should he be surprised?

For the past two years, Evie had been the one who stood in Sebastian’s corner no matter what. She’d fought his battles, taken his side, even when Ominis had turned away in anger or disgust. How many more times could she be expected to put herself in the line of fire for him? How many more times could she pick up the pieces of his mess, only to have him treat her loyalty as something he was entitled to, rather than a gift?

Ominis knew Sebastian was a master at self-destruction, but this was different. This wasn’t just about Sebastian’s inability to apologize—it was about Evangeline’s breaking point. And Sebastian had betrayed her. Not in some dramatic, high-stakes moment like the ones they’d faced last year, but in a way that was somehow more personal. More intimate. He hadn’t protected her—not from the rumors, not from humiliation, and certainly not from himself.

Ominis sighed, pushing himself to his feet.

He couldn't allow this to tear their friendship apart. He couldn't let the two people he cared for most drift further away, not when he knew how much they meant to each other—even if they were too stubborn to admit it right now. Evangeline and Sebastian were tangled together in ways they probably didn’t even understand themselves, and Ominis had spent enough time caught in their orbit to know he had to intervene.

Ominis took a steadying breath, his resolve hardening. If there was one thing he was good at, it was cutting through Sebastian’s excuses. He wasn’t sure what he’d say yet, but he knew it wouldn’t be gentle. Sebastian had burned through every ounce of patience Ominis had left. If cruel honesty was what it took to finally get through to him, then so be it.

~

The Undercroft was quiet when Ominis arrived, the stone walls damp with the faint chill that always lingered in the hidden room. His footsteps echoed softly as he stepped inside, his wand guiding him toward the center where he knew Sebastian would be. Because when things got overwhelming—and they always did with Sebastian—he retreated to the Undercroft. It was his sanctuary.

But not today. Today, it would be his reckoning.

Sure enough, Sebastian was there, pacing in agitated circles. Ominis could hear the scuff of his boots against the floor, could feel the restless energy radiating off of him even without seeing it. He stopped mid-step when the wall closed behind Ominis, and for a moment, the silence stretched between them.

“You’re late,” Sebastian said eventually, his voice carrying a familiar edge of bravado. But it was thinner than usual, and Ominis could tell he was barely holding it together.

“You’ve really outdone yourself this time, haven’t you?” Ominis replied, his voice calm but laced with steel.

Sebastian sighed, running a hand through his hair. “If you’re just going to yell at me, save it. I’ve heard enough of it from Imelda, from Poppy—hell, even Garreth had a go at me.”

Ominis took a step forward, “And did any of them get through to you?”

Sebastian didn’t answer right away, his silence telling. Finally, he muttered, “I already know I messed up, Ominis.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Ominis snapped, his frustration breaking through. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Any idea how much you’ve hurt her?”

Sebastian flinched, but Ominis pressed on, his tone sharp. “Evangeline has stood by you through everything—through curses, through murder, protecting you from Azkaban. She’s defended you, fought for you when you didn’t deserve it. And now, because of one drunken night and your inability to think past your own damn nose, you’ve humiliated her in front of the entire school.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Sebastian said quietly, his voice strained.

Ominis barked out a bitter laugh. “Of course you didn’t. You never mean to. But that doesn’t change what happened. While she was passed out, Sebastian—passed out—you went and snogged some fifth-year by the fire. Do you even realize how that looks? How that makes her feel?”

“I wasn’t thinking!” Sebastian exploded, his voice rising. “I—Merlin, Ominis, I didn’t plan for any of this to happen! It just… it just did.”

Ominis took another step forward, his voice cutting like steel. “And instead of fixing it, you’ve spent the last week pretending it doesn’t bother you. Flashing that stupid grin, parading around with the same girl you snogged that night—”

“I’m not parading—”

“Don’t,” Ominis snapped, his tone icy. “Don’t even try to justify it. You’ve made a mess of things, Sebastian. A mess that Evangeline is paying for. And what have you done to fix it? Hm?”

Sebastian exhaled a shuddering breath, his pacing resuming as though the movement could somehow release the weight of Ominis’s words. The silence between them grew heavy again, stretching like a taut wire that threatened to snap.

“Why?” Ominis finally asked, his voice low but unyielding. “Why did you do it, Sebastian?”

Sebastian froze mid-step, his back to Ominis. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands as if the answer could be wrung out of his skull. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Sebastian turned sharply, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Ominis! I was drunk! She was drunk! It just—” He stopped, his fists clenching at his sides. “It just happened.”

Ominis shook his head, unimpressed. "I’ve known you long enough to know that everything you do has a reason—even if it’s a selfish one. So tell me why. Why did you do it?"

Sebastian’s jaw worked as he looked away, his gaze fixed on some point on the floor. Ominis could hear the rapid, uneven rhythm of his breathing, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in his frame.

“What were you thinking?!” Ominis pressed, his tone sharp.

Sebastian barked out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You really want to know, Ominis? Fine. I was thinking about myself,” he said, "About what I wanted, about—” He hesitated, his voice faltering. “About what I couldn’t have.”

Ominis clenched his jaw, his knuckles whitening around his wand. He knew where this was going, but hearing Sebastian lay it out piece by piece was like watching a slow-motion train wreck.

Sebastian let out a bitter sigh, slumping against one of the stone pillars. “She was… Merlin, Evie was so drunk. But she was happy to see me. She smiled at me like, like maybe she—” He stopped himself, his jaw tightening before he forced the words out. “Like maybe she might feel the same way. Like maybe we could actually have a chance.”

“But then she passed out. And I—I should have stayed with her. I know that." He laughed again , the sound hollow and self-loathing. "But all I could think about was what it felt like when she looked at me, when she leaned into me like she didn’t want to let go. And how much I wanted her. How much I couldn’t have her. Because she'll never love me back, Ominis. And I don't deserve her anyway.”

He pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead, his words tumbling out in a rush now. “And then I saw someone else, and for one stupid, selfish second, it was easier. Easier to let myself pretend my feelings for Evie didn’t matter, to forget how much I wanted someone I couldn't have and never will. So, yes. I kissed her. I didn’t think about what it looked like, or what it meant, or how much worse it would make everything. I just… did it.” His voice cracked and he turned away, his shoulders trembling with the weight of his confession.

“And now you've ruined everything,” Ominis muttered, his voice low but razor-sharp.

Sebastian flinched, his head dropping. “I know, Ominis. You don’t have to keep saying it.”

“Oh, I do,” Ominis shot back, stepping closer, his tone gaining an edge. “Because apparently, it takes the whole damn school yelling at you before anything gets through that thick skull of yours."

Sebastian turned back to him, his expression anguished. “Do you really think you need to say all this? That I don’t already hate myself?”

“Hate yourself all you like," Ominis said coldly. "But hating yourself doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t undo what you did, and it sure as hell doesn’t make up for the fact that you left her lying there while you went off to satisfy your ego.”

Sebastian swallowed hard, his head falling against the pillar again with a dull thud. “How could I leave her there, Ominis? I didn’t even think about what might happen to her. What if she’d gotten sick? What if someone else found her before Natty? What the hell is wrong with me?”

“Do you want me to list it all out for you, Sebastian?” Ominis’s voice was sharp and unrelenting, each word like a lash. “Do you want me to spell out exactly what’s wrong with you? Because I will. I’ll tell you that you’re selfish. That you’re reckless. That you’ve let your feelings for Evangeline warp you into someone so consumed by his own desires that you don't even think about the destruction your decisions leave in their wake.”

Sebastian flinched, but Ominis didn’t stop. He stepped closer, his voice deadly calm. “I’ll tell you that you’ve taken the strongest person I know—the one who never wavered, who stood by you when no one else would—and you’ve turned her into someone who hides. You’ve made her doubt herself. Doubt her worth. And why? Because of your selfishness. Because of your inability to think beyond your own wants.”

Sebastian’s shoulders sagged, his mouth opening as if to respond, but no words came. Ominis’s voice grew colder, his tone cutting like ice.

“You humiliated her, Sebastian. In ways no one else ever could. Not the Slytherins who taunt her about her heritage. Not the gossiping fools who envy her. You. Because she trusted you. She trusted you more than anyone else in this world, and you threw that trust away—for what? A fleeting, meaningless moment of distraction?”

Sebastian’s fists clenched, his knuckles white. “I didn’t—” he started, his voice hoarse.

“Didn’t what?” Ominis interrupted, stepping closer until he was looming over Sebastian, “Didn’t think? Didn’t mean it? Those excuses won’t fix what you’ve done. You can’t undo this with hollow words or promises you’ll never keep.”

Sebastian’s breath hitched, his head hanging low as Ominis continued, his tone softening slightly but still firm. “You're broken. You’ve been breaking ever since Anne left, ever since Solomon died, ever since you let yourself believe you don’t deserve better. And maybe you’re right. Maybe you don’t. You sure as hell don't deserve Evangeline. But she deserves better than the coward you’re being right now.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy with the weight of Ominis’s words. For once, Sebastian had no quick retort, no deflections or bravado to hide behind. He stood there, raw and exposed, the reality of his actions settling over him like a suffocating fog.

Ominis stepped back, his expression unreadable. “If you want to fix this, then stop wallowing and do something about it. Not for you—for her. She’s not going to wait for you forever, Sebastian."

Sebastian looked up at him then, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I don’t know how,” he whispered. “I don’t know where to start, Ominis.”

Ominis stared at Sebastian for a long moment. His sharp features softened only slightly, though the anger still simmered beneath the surface.

“You start,” Ominis said, his voice low and deliberate, “By telling her the truth. And then you listen, Sebastian. You listen to what she has to say, and you take it. Whatever she throws at you, you take it, because you deserve it.”

Sebastian flinched at the finality in Ominis’s tone, the weight of his words sinking deeper into the pit of his stomach. His eyes fell to the floor, his shoulders sagging under the crushing realization of just how badly he’d screwed up. “What if she doesn't forgive me?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“I think,” Ominis said, his voice softer now but no less firm, “that Evangeline Sterling has already given you more chances than anyone else ever would. And if you don’t stop wasting them, then yes, Sebastian. She’ll stop listening. She’ll stop caring. And she'll stop forgiving. But you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Sebastian nodded slowly, the motion heavy with resignation. “I’ll... I'll talk to her,” he said finally, his voice hollow.

Ominis didn’t respond right away. He studied Sebastian for a moment longer, as though weighing his words. Then he gave a short, curt nod. “Good. And Sebastian?”

Sebastian looked up at him, his expression hollow and weary. “Yeah?”

“If she forgives you, don’t make her regret giving you another chance.” Ominis’s voice was like iron, unyielding. “Because if you hurt her again, I won’t forgive you either.”

Sebastian’s throat tightened, the weight of Ominis’s warning settling over him like a second layer of guilt. He didn’t reply, and Ominis didn’t wait for him to. With a swish of his wand, the Undercroft’s entrance opened, and Ominis stepped through without another word, leaving Sebastian alone with his thoughts.

~

Sebastian woke to the damp chill of the Undercroft, the rough stone beneath him pressing uncomfortably into his back. His neck ached from the awkward angle at which he’d slumped against one of the pillars, and his robes were crumpled, wrinkled from what could hardly be called sleep. For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling, his mind foggy and disoriented, the weight in his chest a stubborn, familiar ache.

How had he ended up here?

It hit him all at once: Ominis. His words. The cold fury in his voice, the brutal precision of every accusation. The memory surged back like a slap, leaving no room for denial, no way to escape the truth Ominis had hammered into him.

You humiliated her, Sebastian. In ways no one else ever could. Because she trusted you.

Sebastian groaned, dragging a hand over his face. The coarse fabric of his sleeve scratched against his skin, grounding him against the dull throb of his guilt. He knew he deserved it. Deserved worse, even. But that didn’t make it any easier to breathe.

Sebastian sat up slowly, his body stiff and sluggish. The cool air of the Undercroft wrapped around him, biting through his crumpled robes, but he barely felt it. All he could feel was the memory of Evangeline’s absence—her quiet absence in the hallways, the way her laughter had disappeared from their group, leaving behind a hollow silence he couldn’t fill.

You threw that trust away.

Sebastian pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, as if he could physically push the memories back, stop them from replaying over and over. But they wouldn’t stop, because Ominis had been right. His words weren’t just true—they were inescapable.

Because she trusted you.

The thought alone was enough to drive him to his feet, his legs trembling slightly from the hours he’d spent curled on the ground. He staggered upright, leaning briefly against the pillar for support as his knees protested. His movements were stiff, his body as uncooperative, but he couldn’t stay here.

He had to find her. He had to try to fix this.

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual morning energy as Sebastian stepped inside, scanning the Gryffindor table for any sign of her. His stomach clenched when he saw that her usual spot—wedged between Natty and Cressida—was empty. His heart sank further when he caught sight of the guarded expressions on their faces as he approached.

“Where’s Evangeline?” he asked, his voice rough from sleep and the lingering tension in his chest.

Natty exchanged a glance with Cressida before answering. “We don’t know,” she said carefully.

Sebastian frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Cressida said softly, “that she hasn’t been around much. We didn't see her this morning in the common room, nor in our dorm. She’s barely there. She wakes up before us, goes to bed late, and hardly says a word.”

Her words landed like a blow to his gut. “She hasn’t said where she’s been?”

Natty shook her head, her expression turning to one of quiet reproach. “Sebastian, she’s avoiding people for a reason.”

He swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat. He wanted to press them for more, but the look in Natty’s eyes was enough to stop him. She knew what had happened—of course she did, she's the one who found Evie laying there alone—and there was no hiding from the judgment in her eyes.

“Thanks,” he muttered before turning on his heel and stalking out of the hall.

The hours that followed were a frustrating blur of dead ends as Sebastian scoured every corner of the castle he could think of.

He wandered through the library first, weaving between the shelves and peering into the tucked-away corners where she liked to study. His footsteps echoed in the quiet space, but no matter how far he searched, there was no sign of her. Madam Scribner glared at him over her spectacles when his whispered inquiries became too loud, and he left before her irritation could boil over into words.

The Quidditch pitch was his next stop, but it, too, was empty, save for a pair of second-years casually tossing a Quaffle back and forth. He lingered at the edge of the stands for a moment, staring out at the expanse of grass, before turning away with a muttered curse.

By the time night fell, his legs ached from climbing stairs and traversing hallways, but his determination remained unwavering. He retreated to the Undercroft once more, hoping that she might show up, seeking the solace the hidden room often provided. But as the minutes stretched into hours, he was met with nothing but the cold, empty silence of the space.

It was in the early hours of morning that Sebastian finally slipped through the entrance to the Slytherin common room. The dim, green-tinted room was nearly empty, save for a pair of fifth-years whispering near the hearth, but Sebastian barely spared them a glance as he made his way toward his dormitory.

He felt hollow, his chest tight with frustration and guilt. Hours of searching had turned up nothing, and the idea of going to bed without finding her filled him with a restless dread.

Pushing open the door to his dormitory, he stepped inside, his gaze immediately snapping to the companion candle on his bedside table. The soft glow of its flame greeted him, flickering steadily. His pulse quickened.

Evangeline was awake somewhere.

Sebastian stepped back into the corridor and closed the door behind him, leaning heavily against it as relief warred with frustration. She was awake. But where?

He racked his brain, thought back to every conversation, every memory they’d shared, searching for something—anything—that might give him a clue of where she might be hiding.

And then, it hit him.

The memory she’d shared with him for his birthday. It had been a beautiful day by the Black Lake in their fifth year, the two of them sitting side by side, staring out at the water as the sky reflected on its surface.

Sebastian pushed off the door, his heart pounding. Maybe she was there. It was a long shot, but it was all he had.

The castle was silent as he slipped through its shadowed corridors. Sneaking out past curfew was second nature to him by now, but tonight, his usual thrill of rebellion was absent. All he could focus on was finding her.

The cool night air hit him as he stepped onto the grounds, the vast expanse of the Black Lake stretching out before him. The moonlight danced across its surface, casting rippling reflections that seemed to shift with the breeze. The chill bit at his exposed skin, but he ignored it, his eyes scanning the shoreline.

And then he saw her.

She was perched on a low, weathered rock near the edge of the lake, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the moonlight.

For a moment, he stopped, his breath catching in his throat. The sight of her after what felt like an eternity apart stilled him, rooting him to the spot. She looked so small, so fragile, her usual fire dimmed into quiet embers.

Sebastian swallowed hard, forcing his legs to move. The crunch of his boots against the gravel shore broke the silence, and he saw her stiffen slightly at the sound. She didn’t turn to look at him, but he knew she knew he was there.

“Evie,” he said softly, his voice barely carrying over the lapping of the lake’s gentle waves.

She didn’t respond. Her gaze remained fixed on the water, her arms tightening around her knees.

Sebastian hesitated, unsure whether to move closer. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, and one wrong step would send them both tumbling into an abyss they couldn’t climb out of.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he’d been carrying.

“Why?” she asked, her tone flat and distant. The single word cut through him like a blade.

He took a step closer, the cool air biting at his skin. “Because I need to talk to you."

She let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and devoid of warmth. "What for? To give me some excuse for why you left me there? Why you chose her over me?" Her voice cracked, and she quickly turned away, her hands gripping the fabric of her cardigan - the very same one he'd picked out for her weeks ago in Hogsmeade. And now, seeing her clutch it like armor against him, the memory felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

“I—” His voice faltered. He had spent hours in his mind rehearsing what he might say if he found her, but now, faced with the raw pain in her voice and the sight of her curling further into herself, every word felt inadequate.

“You what, Sebastian?” she snapped, finally turning to look at him. Her eyes, glinting in the moonlight, weren’t filled with the fire he was used to. They were dulled, tired, and red-rimmed from tears. “You didn’t mean for it to happen? You didn’t think it would matter? You didn’t—what? Care?”

“That’s not true,” he said quickly, the desperation in his tone undeniable. “I care, Evie. I care more than I can—” He stopped, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “I just… I didn’t think. I was stupid, and I didn’t think.”

“Didn’t think.” She repeated the words slowly, bitterly, her voice dripping with disbelief. “That’s always your excuse, isn’t it?”

Sebastian flinched, the accusation hitting harder than he’d expected.

“You didn’t think about how I would feel,” she continued, her voice steady but trembling with barely restrained emotion. “You didn’t think about what it would be like for me to hear what you did—to watch you strut around the school with her on your arm and know that everyone was laughing at my expense. You didn’t think about how it would feel to trust you, to stand by you, and have you turn around and… and—”

She broke off, her voice cracking as her gaze dropped back to the water. Her arms tightened around her knees again, her fingers digging into the fabric of the cardigan.

Sebastian took another step closer, his hands clenched at his sides as though he was physically holding himself back from reaching for her. “Evangeline,” he murmured, her full name slipping out instinctively.

"Don't call me that." Her voice cracked, sharp and brittle, as if the words themselves were a shield she had hastily raised.

Sebastian froze.

She had never stopped him from calling her Evangeline—never. It wasn’t just her name; it was his, in a way... something he naturally wielded with purpose. He used it sparingly, reserved for moments that carried weight: when he wanted to tease her into a smile, make her pause and really hear him, or when he needed to say something only she could understand. It was his way of reaching past her walls, of breaking through barriers when she threw them up. Now, hearing her reject it felt like a door slamming shut, leaving him stranded on the other side.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, the words rough and uneven.

She shook her head, her gaze still fixed on the water. “Don’t say things you don’t mean,” she murmured. “You’re good at that, you know—saying what people want to hear."

Sebastian stepped closer, “I do mean it,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I’m sorry, Evang—Evie. For everything. For hurting you. For making you feel like I didn’t care. I... I don’t know how to fix it, but I want to. I need to.”

She let out a hollow laugh, her shoulders rising and falling with the motion. “Fix it? You can’t undo what you did. You can’t un-snog her. You can’t erase what everyone’s saying.”

“I know,” he said, his voice almost breaking. “I know I can’t. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to make it right."

Her head turned slightly at that, her eyes meeting his for a fleeting moment before darting away. “For me, or for you?” she asked softly. “You sure you're not just here to soothe your guilt? To make yourself feel better?”

“No!” he said urgently, stepping closer again. “This isn’t about me, Evie, it’s about you—because you’re…” His voice faltered, and he blinked hard, feeling the sting of tears building behind his eyes. “You’re everything to me, Evie. You always have been.”

Her breath hitched at his words, her posture stiffening as if she were bracing herself against them. “Stop,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Stop saying things you don’t mean.”

Sebastian’s throat tightened, and a tear slipped down his cheek, warm and bitter against his skin. He wiped it away hastily, as if embarrassed, but his hands trembled at his sides. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life,” he said, his voice raw. He took another step, closing the space between them, and knelt in front of her. His chest heaved with the effort to keep himself steady, to show her the truth in every fractured word.

Her hazel eyes lingered on the water for another beat, and then she exhaled, her shoulders sinking under the weight of everything she’d been holding back. It wasn’t a collapse, but a quiet unraveling, as though all her defenses were fraying at the edges.

The first tear slid down her cheek, and she didn’t bother to wipe it away. It was followed by another, and then another, until her breath hitched, a small, broken sound escaping her lips. She pressed her trembling hands to her face, muffling the quiet sobs that started to spill free.

“Evie…” Sebastian’s voice cracked, raw and filled with desperation. His own eyes burned, his own tears slipping free, but he reached out instinctively, his hand hovering uncertainly over her arm. “Please... don’t cry. I—Merlin, I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head without looking at him, her face buried in her hands. “You don’t get it,” she gasped through the tears, her voice raw and choked. “You don’t get how hard it is—how humiliated I’ve felt. I was always the one who stood by you, Sebastian. Always. And this... this is what I get for it.”

“You’re right,” he said hoarsely, his voice breaking again. “You’re right about all of it. I’ve been selfish, reckless... I’ve hurt you in ways I don’t know how to fix. But Evie, please believe me—I never meant to. I never wanted to hurt you.”

His hand trembled as it settled gently on her arm, the gesture tentative, pleading. When her gaze flickered down to it, Sebastian froze, his breath catching in his throat. He braced himself for her to pull away.

For a long moment, she didn’t move, her lips pressing into a thin line. But then, with a sigh so soft it was almost inaudible, she shifted, her body leaning ever so slightly toward him.

He stayed perfectly still, his breath catching as she let her head drop, her temple brushing lightly against his shoulder. He could feel her uneven breaths, the tremble in her frame as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I don’t know what to do with you, Sebastian,” she said after a long silence, her voice barely above a whisper. There was no anger in her tone now, no sharp edges. Just tired, aching honesty. “You always do this. You hurt me, and then you come back, and somehow, I always forgive you.”

He swallowed hard, guilt twisting in his chest like a knife. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he said quietly, his voice rough.

She didn’t respond right away, her silence stretching out between them. The soft lapping of the lake’s waves didn't even fill the void that had grown. And when she finally spoke again, her voice was so quiet he almost missed it.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this. I keep thinking… maybe this time will be different. Maybe you’ll change. And then... you don’t.”

Sebastian flinched, “Evie, please,” he said, his voice raw. “I’m trying. I know I’ve failed, but I am trying. I swear I am.”

She let out a quiet, hollow laugh, her breath warm against his shoulder. “I think you believe that,” she said softly. “But it doesn’t feel like it from where I’m standing. From where I’m... sitting.” Her lips quirked faintly, though there was no humor in the gesture.

Sebastian’s chest tightened further, his vision blurred by unshed tears, “I’ll do better,” he said, his voice heavy with desperation. “I swear it, Evie. I know I’ve let you down. Over and over. And I hate myself for it. I hate what I’ve done to you. What I’ve done to us.”

She leaned back to look at him and her gaze softened slightly, though the weariness didn’t leave her eyes. “I don’t want you to hate yourself, Sebastian,” she said quietly. “I just… I just want you to stop hurting me.”

Sebastian felt her words sink into him like lead weights, dragging him down with the raw, simple truth of them. Stop hurting me. It wasn’t a demand or an accusation. It wasn’t even spoken with anger. It was a plea—fragile and trembling, like she didn’t even expect it to be possible.

“I will, Evie,” he murmured, his voice raw and unsteady. “I swear it.”

Her lips twitched faintly, though the ghost of a smile never quite formed. “You say that,” she said softly, leaning back against him. “And maybe you mean it. It's just... I don’t think I can take it again if you’re wrong.”

He didn’t respond right away. He didn’t trust himself to. Instead, he let the silence settle between them again, his hand still resting lightly on her arm. He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, the quiet stretching out into a fragile bubble. But eventually, he spoke again, his voice low and steady.

“I’m not wrong this time,” he said, the words more a vow than a promise. “I can’t be. Because I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

Evangeline's breath hitched then, and for a moment, he thought she might pull away. But instead, she simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment of his words. A silent understanding.

Sebastian let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his hand hesitating before shifting to cover hers where it rested against her knee. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t grip—just let his palm rest there, warm and steady, like an unspoken promise.

“You’re still a bloody idiot,” Evie murmured after what felt like an eternity, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

Sebastian let out a faint laugh, the sound rough and cracked but real. “Yeah,” he admitted, his lips twitching into the barest of smiles. “I probably always will be.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hazel eyes searching his face. There was still hurt there, still an ache he couldn’t hope to erase in a single night. But there was something else, too—a flicker of something softer, something that gave him hope.

“Please don’t make me regret this, Sebastian,” she said quietly.

His throat tightened, and he nodded, his eyes locked on hers. “I won’t,” he promised, his voice raw but unwavering. “Not this time.”

For a moment, she held his gaze, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible sigh, she leaned back into him, letting her arms snake around his waist, pulling him closer.

The tension that had been coiled so tightly in Sebastian’s shoulders began to ease as he closed his eyes, his chin lightly brushing the top of her head. The scent of her hair enveloped him. It was a comfort he hadn’t realized he was desperate for until now.

“I mean it,” he murmured, his voice soft, “Whatever it takes, Evangeline, I’ll prove it to you. I’ll fix what I’ve broken.”

Her grip on him tightened slightly, and though she didn’t respond, he felt the subtle shift in her breathing. She was letting him in, piece by fragile piece. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it was something. A beginning.

Read more stories about Sebastian and Evangeline

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[sageofthestarz]

Some Phantom based hurt/comfort for my soul I finally finished

CW for some sorta graphic descriptions of being hunted and caught

It's cold. It's Dark. There's a horrible feeling of dread, and then it's on him. He realizes where he is. He's in the pit. He's on land he doesn't know. He knows that prickling feeling on the back of his neck. He's being watched. Judged. Hunted.

He takes off, running off as fast as his legs could take him. He doesn't know where he is, he doesn't know where he's going, he just needs to get out. Get away. Hide.

He can hear them, feral ghouls looking for a meal. Looking for a toy. Who knows. Phantoms been both, barley escaping with his life the last time, being summoned up to the surface as he was being practically ripped apart alive.

He realized in that moment that's what this is.

The moments before he was caught.

His legs feel like jelly, unable to move as he tries so hard to will them too. He's frozen, stuck in the wet sinking ground below him like hot tar ready to trap.

He sees the figures closing in on him. He thinks this is it. His lucks run out.

There's tears in his eyes. Sobs trying to tear their way through his chest.

He tries to scream. For his mates, his pack, for anyone to save him.

They promised to keep him safe.

We're they lying?

We're they just a figment of his imagination?

How did he get back to the pit?

He lets out a loud wet sob as he's grabbed by a much larger ghoul in its pure infernal form.

"Seems my dinner is served" the large ghoul all but grins

"Sent back here from the overworld so soon?" The large ghoul licks his lips. Leaning in letting a claw run over Phantoms unscarred cheek cutting into it with a practiced ease watching with lust filled eyes as the blood dripped and pooled below.

Phantom cries out, trying to clutch his cheek, only to feel the ghouls claws start to slowly rip down more of the little soft skin he has left.

He's been sent back. Back down into the pits unprepared, and this was his death.

He feels the claws scrap over his flesh, starting to tear him apart.

He feels as the warm blood slips from his flayed body, and as his eyes slip shut blinded by pain suddenly he feels pressure around his middle. An odd rumbling under his ear.

His eyes shoot open as he bolts upright smacking his head on the ceiling above him. He's on the buss. There's a very sleepy ghouls arm wrapped around him who's making a concerned noise.

"Bug..?" The voice calls, as a sleepy multi ghoul sits up, rubbing up and down the panicked ghouls back.

"Nightmare?" He asks, but doesn't get a response. A muffled sob as Phantom shoots a hand over his mouth to cover it, and then he's latching onto the larger. Clutching onto him with what would've been a bruising grip if he were any larger.

"You're okay, I got you. You're safe, Promise you're safe baby" he has him pulled tightly to his chest, holding him securely a hand going into the smallest hair.

"They- they tried to kill me.. had me flayed open.." he tries to hold back his sobs. The panic and relief overwhelming him

"I got you baby, no one's getting near you here. Not gonna let them. Look at me bug" he waits, letting him take a moment to look up at him. He brings his hands up to wipe away his tears, feeling the shaking body of the other start to settle. "You're safe. I got you. You're not going back there ever again. Not over mine, and the whole packs dead body. Okay?"

Phantom nodded, small hiccups coming from him as he started to settle laying his head in the crook of Swiss' neck with a wet sniff

"Even.. even Dews?" He asks with a small smile, drawing a chuckle from Swiss

"Yes babybat, even Dews" he says giving him a squeeze

"Will you two shut up, I'm trying to sleep" a grumbly very obviously half asleep fire ghoul half heartedly yells from the other side of the isle

Phantom gets a small smirk on his lips as he wipes the last of his tears, looking up to Swiss. Swiss only mirors the smirk before he's scooping up Phantom and tumbling out of his own bunk and I to Dews who immediately gives a startled sqawk.

That's where they stay, squishing Dew between them where he claims how much he hates this, and how if he could move his arms they'd be charred in seconds, but they both know it's a lie.

That's where they stay until they're kicked out by a very annoyed water ghoul who secretly wanted in on the cuddle pile. "Common, sound check in 15 get up, get up!" He shooed them all up much to everyone's dismay.

Phantom took a step back as he watched as Rain had to drag Dew out of the bunk. There was a lot of swearing, and grumbling, and mock fighting, but it was okay.

Because this was his pack, and ya'know. He could get used to this kind of fighting.

[blueeyedheizer]

Hii. Could you write anything lovers to enemies with cassie and reader. Tyy

this is literally just a cheating one shot lol

the bass-heavy music from the party is vibrating through your body like a relentless hammer, but all you’re focused on is finding a bathroom.

you've downed a few drinks too fast, hoping the alcohol would help you forget the god-awful couple of weeks you've had. between rue showing up at your door every single day in a barely functional state, cassie's odd behavior and the stress of exam deadlines breathing down your neck, you’re barely keeping your head above water.

when you spot the slightly ajar bathroom door, you don’t think twice. you push it open, expecting nothing but an empty room, a well needed break from all the chaos.

but instead you find this, and your blood runs cold.

cassie is bent over the sink, her tight blue dress hiked up around her waist as nate jacobs fucks into her with a roughness that makes your stomach churn. her hands are grabbing the counter to steady herself, her face flushed and sweaty. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the small bathroom, filthy and loud — the kind of scene you'd expect in a cheap porno, not from the girl you were saying “I love you” to just a few minutes ago.

they don't even notice you at first. cassie's eyes are shut, rolling back in her skull as she moans out obscenities without a care in the world, the sound of it mostly obstructed by the loud music.

it feels like hours have gone by when nate finally catches your reflection in the mirror. but instead of stopping, instead of pulling away like any normal person would — that fucker's lips curl into a twisted grin. he doesn’t slow down. his pace doesn’t even falter. if anything, he goes harder, his grip tightening on cassie’s hips, his thrusts more deliberate, drawing louder moans from her.

he's daring you to react, feeding off your shock, your anger. he’s taunting you, every thrust a slap in the face as he grins at you, knowing exactly how much this is tearing you apart.

"enjoying the show?”

cassie’s eyes instantly snap open at the sound of his voice, and you can practically see the color draining from her face. she tries to pull away, her panic visible in the way she looks at him and then at you, her eyes wide with fear and shame as she pitifully attempts to cover herself.

"nate— stop,” she whimpers, her voice trembling, her body suddenly trying to pull away from him. she reaches back, pushing weakly at his hips, but nate doesn’t stop.

he grabs her wrists, roughly yanking them behind her back as if to keep her in place, his other hand pressing firmly between her shoulder blades, forcing her down against the cold surface of the sink. cassie’s body gives in under the pressure, her face contorted in a mix of shame and pleasure, but nate just leans into her harder, his movements growing more aggressive, more brutal, as if he’s trying to prove a point, with no care for anything but the power he holds over the both of you.

your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest, but you don’t move. you can’t.

you can’t breathe. can’t think. you just stand there frozen for what feels like an eternity, until your body finally decides that you've had enough.

without a word, you spin around and slam the bathroom door shut, the sound echoing through the hallway. you can hear the faint sound of cassie's voice as she calls after you, but you don’t stop. you can’t stop. each step you take feels heavier than the last as you push your way through the crowd, your mind spinning with everything you just witnessed. the music is loud, too loud, the voices around you overwhelming, but none of it compares to the weight inside your chest.

you've been cheated on.

cassie cheated on you, and not with just anyone.

with fucking nate jacobs.

when you finally make it outside, your legs give out and you stumble to the side. you find yourself retching violently onto the pavement, your sobs mixing with the sickening sound.

-

"I ruined everything," cassie sobs. her voice shakes as she weakly pulls her dress back up to cover her chest.

nate's expression darkens, his jaw clenching as he pulls away from her. "don't act like you didn't want it," he snaps, his tone cold and accusing as he tucks himself back into his pants. "don't act like you didn't beg me to fuck you."

cassie flinches at his words. she hugs herself tightly, the fabric of her dress still caught on her skin as she tries to steady her breathing. she knows he's right, know that she was just as eager as he was, just as guilty as he is. but hearing him say it out loud, in such a harsh and unforgiving way makes her feel cheap and used.

"no, I... I didn't think she—"

"oh you didn't think, huh?" he snaps, his tone harsh. "you made your choice, so own it. stop playing the fucking victim, cassie."

the door slams shut behind him as he walks out, leaving cassie standing there frozen. she wants to run after him, after you, but all she can do is sink down slowly, her knees curling to her chest as the weight of what she just did comes crashing down on her.

[inkwingart]

Three skills you need to make beautiful art, in order of importance:

observation/perception

taste/creativity

coordination

Note that these are skills. They’re not gifts bestowed by some divine entity. And skills can be improved through practice.

Note, also, that I rank observational skills highest, even above creativity, because without strong observational skills, you won’t be able to identify your own mistakes. It’s also not intuitive to train.

Here’s a simple exercise to get you started:

Pick an aesthetically pleasing photo or artwork that doesn’t have obvious lineart. Turn up the contrast a bit if the colors are muddy. Print it out or import it to your choice of drawing software.

Put some tracing paper over it or turn down the opacity and make a new layer. Don’t use tracing paper that is *too* transparent.

Trace out the areas of light and shadow. Don’t get hung up on details, just the broad strokes. Fill in the shadows, try to stick to just 2-3 values of shadow. Try hard NOT to outline “objects” in the image. Try not to erase.

Now view your trace without the original image. Can you still recognize the original subject? Can you see where you messed up/want to make changes?

Now do it while looking *at* the image rather than tracing directly from it.

Compare your referenced drawing to the traced one.

Repeat steps 1-6 with new photos/images.

Once you feel confident, try drawing from a reference without tracing.

This exercise will help you learn how to use light and shadow to define 3D forms as 2D shapes. Questions you should ask yourself during this exercise:

Can you tell where the light is coming from?

Is it a strong or weak light source?

Is there more than one light source?

What kind of materials are you observing?

How does light interact with shiny surfaces versus matte ones? Soft versus hard? Round versus angular?

Where are the edges of light and shadow? Are they soft or hard edges? Is the transition gradual or abrupt?

How would you use these observations to depict something from your imagination?

[gilly-moon]

You're right, combing thru the angst prompts just to narrow them down is so much more difficult than it needs to be! Some of them are just too good!

But!!! I think I narrowed some down that would fit both/either blackice or Vlad and Danny, author's choice:

2., 23., 39.

~harley

This one was very fun to write ♡ enjoy!

-

39 : “He’s the only person left! He’s the only thing I’ve got, the last good thing in my life!”

The Shadows were hardly pleased with Pitch’s new friend.

A month ago, Jack Frost had managed to slip through one of the slim skylights of his underground lair. They’d scuffled briefly, until Jack hovered out of reach and explained why he had come.

His voice hadn’t wavered as he spoke, but his eyes were looking at Pitch’s hands instead of his face. There was tension wound through his small frame, a fear that his body betrayed despite the confidence of his words. It had been…almost endearing.

Pitch had accepted Jack’s offer of friendship faster than he would ever admit, much to the frustration of the darkness shrouding his lair.

Jack had departed soon after, but promised to return within the month. The fear that had been tangled around him had withered away by the time he floated off, and two weeks later he came back with a tentative smile on his lips.

It had been enough time for Pitch to convince himself that this was just temporary. Perhaps this was truly just a new tactic from the Guardians to take Pitch down once and for all. Or maybe one of them would get tired of the other eventually, or Jack would cross some line and Pitch would let the Shadows consume him slowly and painfully.

But then he was floating down into Pitch’s cavern, practically glowing in the shaft of light with his lopsided grin and frosted hair, and Pitch knew instinctively that it was already too late for him. Whatever he’d told himself about being over the idea of befriending Jack Frost had been nothing more than a pathetic lie.

He ached to draw Jack in closer to him, to entwine their lives together until they were inseparable. As often as Jack wanted to visit, Pitch was more than pleased to have him. But the closer he got to Jack, the heavier his shadow became.

Ever since accepting Jack’s friendship, there had been more dark whispers in Pitch’s ear, and an increasing weight on his shoulders where agitated Shadows draped themselves. Several tried to sink their claws into him, attempting to manipulate his actions as they pleased. It was getting more difficult to shrug them off.

The few Nightmares that remained tried to inflict themselves upon Jack against Pitch’s orders. Luckily, Jack was quite adept at ingratiating himself with the creatures. He had many fears and nightmares to feed them, and was more than willing to give them up in return for their friendship.

It was while Pitch was watching Jack lay himself out on his stomach on the back of a Nightmare, so comfortable and at ease in this dark and fearful place, that Pitch began to wonder what it would be like to follow this boy out of his cave and into the light. To see the world through his eyes.

This was the final straw for the Shadows.

.

“I am your King,” Pitch snarled. “The same as you decreed thousands of years ago. You will listen -”

‘We declared you King,’ the Shadows said, a hissing chorus of Nightmare Men and Fearlings. ‘We are your power. We decide how you rule.’

Exhaling a noise of frustration, Pitch wound his hands into fists so tight his nails cut into his palms. They’d been going back and forth on this for hours now, dark figures darting around him on every surface of the cavern. Pale eyes occasionally peeked out from the hoard, piercing into Pitch where he stood on the central walkway.

“You are nothing more than lost, scattered souls,” he retorted. “Without me, you would still be captured, rotting away in a dark cell and starving for a light to devour.”

‘Without you, we would have consumed this weak little world already. Including those noisome Guardians.’

“The Guardians and their lunar friend have defeated us twice now,” Pitch sighed, less than pleased to remember it. “Fragmenting our forces with these petty arguments only reduces our chances of succeeding next time.”

‘Next time?’ the Shadows repeated curiously, no longer flitting around quite as furiously.

“Yes. We will need to have an even larger army than before. More Nightmares. Perhaps some automatons, and armor to protect against their weapons.”

‘We need him.’

Pitch’s spine snapped straight.

“No.”

‘Yesss,’ the Shadows whispered. They slipped over the floor, winding around in a circle that trapped Pitch where he stood.

“We’ve tried that before,” he reasoned with them, still managing to keep his voice level if only barely. His fears were a tightly corked bottle, shaken and at the verge of bursting open. “He’ll side with the Guardians even more firmly this time. There’s no use.”

‘So we take him by force,’ the Shadows replied. ‘Just like we took you.’

Something white hot flared behind Pitch’s eyes. He was blinded by it, too shocked to speak. The fire coursed down through his limbs, a sensation he almost recognized. A need to defend. To protect.

“Pitch?”

He blinked. No. Not now.

‘Take him!’

“Pitch, what’s going on?”

“Get out,” Pitch shouted without looking up. That deliciously familiar cold was already permeating the air. “Now, Jack!”

The Shadows thrashed, rebelling. With a guttural cry, Pitch threw his arms out, fingers spread wide. He tugged hard against his connection to the Shadows, using it as a leash to reign them in.

“Tell me what’s happening! I can help!”

Pitch grit his teeth. He’d never resisted the Shadows like this before. Already his hold on them felt fragile, ready to slip at any moment.

‘LET US HAVE HIM!’

“NO,” Pitch bellowed. His refusal only stirred the Shadows into more of a frenzy, dark shapes leaping from the floor and walls erratically in a whirlwind around Pitch.

Still, he stood firm, yanking at the threads connecting him to any that tried to leap for Jack.

‘WHY DO YOU STOP US?!’

“Because he’s the only person left!”

Pitch was panting, vision blurry. He could see the faces of every Nightmare Man and Fearling. Corrupted souls who were once people. Mothers. Fathers. Daughters. Lost to darkness for good.

“He’s the only thing I’ve got,” Pitch gasped, “the last good thing in my life!”

The Shadows didn’t care.

“Please.” Pitch looked to Jack directly, unable to process the look of shock on his face. “Leave. This is my fight, and mine alone.”

Jack hovered slightly higher, hesitating for an agonizing moment. His expression shifted into one that Pitch knew instinctively, but couldn’t name.

“You’re not,” Jack called down. “You’re not alone.”

He flitted away and vanished through the skylight.

It dawned on Pitch then, what Jack’s expression had been. As the Shadows twisted, aiming their fury inward to him, he found the word and held it tight.

Belief.

[sirhamburrger]

chapter 3: deskmates empty [rayne ames x f!reader] || wc: 758 || prev. chapter || next chapter

“he told me to set a few reasonable goals for this semester and have a detailed report on his desk by friday,” she groans to max. “and i am not paying for express mail services.”

“looks like mr sandman's already got it out for you, huh.” max smiles sympathetically, though there's a glimmer of mirth in his eyes. it quickly turns into a full-blown smile as he waves to someone behind her.

“hey, rayne!”

she freezes as rayne brushes past her to set his stuff down at the vacant seat right by max's. intense golden eyes lock with her own.

“morning,” he says simply.

“good morning,” she mutters, watching a couple of giggling girls snap up the seats beside and in front of him. they retreat into a corner of the classroom once noticed, their laughter giving her a serious migraine.

“say, why d’you think orter mádl has such a huge stick up his ass?” max snickers, but the question is a serious one. she waits to hear rayne's response as he settles into his chair, seemingly deep in thought.

but their conversation is cut short by the loud voice of their magic history professor, and max groans upon seeing who it is. “lucci? again? how could we be so unlucky?” and they are. claude lucci is the most self-absorbed professor at easton, and chances are they won’t learn much this year.

“you're good at magic history, max. there's no need to worry.” rayne's tone is calm and sincere enough, but it does nothing to stop his friend's bemoaning.

“what if he makes me tutor wirth mádl again?”

“what if he makes you tutor wirth mádl again?” she says at the exact same time, and they share a brief glance before bursting into peals of laughter.

“students!” lucci hollers. “here's your classroom seating arrangement for this semester. find your seats and settle down.” he raps his wand on the blackboard, and lines of chalk materialise on its surface.

max makes a face of disgust. “what are we, seven years old?” but professor lucci is not one to be defied, and all the students grumble as they move to their new places. abyss razor is seated in front of her - at least it's not abel walker, she thinks - and max sits right beside him.

she squints her eyes to look again at lucci's ridiculously small handwriting on the board. her deskmate is… damn, she can't seem to read a single word on that blackboard…

an all-too-familiar figure slides into the seat beside her, his pile of books stacked up infuriatingly neatly. he bristles slightly when he sees her affronted expression. 

oh, no.

and then she hears the same stupid giggling coming from the same stupid fangirls. 

honestly? what she wouldn't give to sit by wirth mádl in the corner instead.

“if you have any violent objections, please see me after class to make alternative arrangements-” yeah, that works for her- “i hope you'll learn to be flexible and enjoy working with new people-” rayne ames is nowhere near new to her, and no, she won't enjoy this- “you'll be doing your midterm projects with your partners, so start getting to kn-”

she buries her head in her hands. okay, sure, rayne's good at history. and he may or may not have been top in history finals rankings in freshman year. and in sophomore year. but still, if lucci expects them to work together-

“quit looking like having to work with me is the worst tragedy you've ever faced.” rayne's deadpan voice cuts through the clutter in her mind, and she sits up ramrod straight. “remember that horrendously failed calculus test in freshman year?”

“shut up,” she hisses. “or do i need to need to bring up last year's fortune-telling practical? really, don't pick an elective if you're gonna suck at it. you know what? move your stuff-” she jabs at the sleeve of his robe, which lies on the table between them, almost touching her quill box. “move it. now.”

he grumbles, readjusting his belongings, only to see her drawing a line on the table with her wand. “you're vandalizing school property-” he starts to say, but it glows, revealing it’s a temporary charm.

“and you, ames, need to stay away from me. cross this line and you get explosive diarrhoea, so don’t even test me, okay?”

it's not a long-term solution to keep the peace, though, and she's all too aware of that. what to do, then?

make rayne ames concede to her bidding.

yeah, that seems achievable.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

mádl brothers shade? thrown.

it is 2a.m. at the airport, and what better thing to spend time on than a long-overdue update?

TAGLIST: @xenop0p

© sirhamburrger 2024

[scribblestatic]

More Forsaken, some kinda written, some summary-drabbled.

----

13 followers remaining.

Narinder sacrificed an older follower, not really because of her amount of devotion, but simply because she was nearing the end of her lifespan, and he needed those who could work to be in his cult. He didn't have much time for caring for elders on a good day. Maon was already a stretch.

She took her death in stride, without complaint, and Death returned to Darkwood.

Because of Leshy's mutated influence, the land was rife with chaos. The already darkened forest was even darker, almost pitch. He had to light a fire to see anything in front of himself, where even his night vision had trouble picking up the light.

Plants were growing within and on top of each other, layering like vines and intertwining like many strands in a tapestry. Nearly no sunlight could break through the canopy, yet the plants seemed to survive well enough. Though, if Narinder looked at them long enough, he could see completely different flowers blooming from the same stalk. They came in mix-matched shapes and sizes, bases thick but flowers at the head small, even delicate. Others seemed just large overall.

Though, Narinder really knew something was terribly messed up when he saw a flower swaying in the darkness. It was a large rose, perhaps a bit smaller than the size of his own head. It swayed in nonexistent wind, so he was curious as to what it was doing.

Wanting to see, Narinder brightened his fire...

The flower was not connected to a vine. Instead, it was attached to the body of a chaser worm, vines forced through its flesh and wrapping around its limbs. The rose was in the place its head should've been.

"...Vile creature."

It went down easily, utterly unfocused on his presence. A slash from his scythe was all it took, and the mutated monster fell into nothing. Narinder collected its bones and gazed suspiciously at the rose petals that continued to bloom beautifully.

He decided against collecting anything from it without knowing more.

Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, the strange flower creatures weren't the only ones in the pitch blackness of Darkwood. Also ill-adapted to how dark everything was, Narinder's fire was like a beacon toward everything else.

He had to dodge quickly to avoid the attack from a non-polluted chaser worm. The fire light flickered from how quickly it passed. Clicking his tongue, Narinder stabbed his torch into the ground and thrust himself into the darkness. He didn't have to be directly beside it to see, after all.

The light provided just enough for him to see dimly around himself once further away. He also had to rely on his whiskers and other senses, realizing that there were at least another three to four chaser worms in the area.

With some struggling, he managed to kill them all without injury, though he was panting a bit.

"I'm simply out of practice," he grumbled to himself, angry he let his skills falter. He'd grown too comfortable in the enclosed lands of his cult. While his spells and curses were still as strong as ever, physically, he needed work.

---

"Praise the Lamb, conduit to great power, promised liberator of the One that Waits below. I see they have completed their duty."

Narinder was able to identify Clauneck's store by the stars hanging in the passageway. The smooth metal surfaces reflected off the light from his fire, and upon entering the area, Clauneck had fire lit on his own. Narinder smelled the delicious remains of whatever meat he'd cooked from it.

How strange. It's been hundreds of years by this time, and yet Clauneck was still alive. How long-lived was this tarot card reader?

Although he wanted to scoff at his greeting, he allowed it to pass. Powerful as he was, he knew there were still many mysteries he had yet to uncover. His domain was Death, but even he didn't see past the shores of their lands.

"Card reader, I've seen your work. Draw a card, that I may gain power from it."

Clauneck cooed softly. "Oh, God of Death, I have always drawn your cards."

The owl spread three cards out in front of him, the remaining cards flowing out to the sides and spinning around them, both sides of the cards showing the backs.

"...However, Fate has different designs for you. To answer the call of a cry most despaired. To fix what you hath wrought. Thus, you must divine Fate's machinations on your own."

...Strange. When the Lamb came to Clauneck, he would draw a card for them. Perhaps it was different with a god so experienced.

Though, to fix what he hath wrought... Bah. Perhaps the Fates were against his siblings' extended suffering. No wonder his cult started having troubles the longer it went on, that he now had to traverse these lands himself to fix the problem.

"Then, allow me."

Narinder kneeled down in front of Clauneck and, after some consideration, drew the leftmost card.

Master of the Art. Strike hard, strike fast, strike true.

He felt ancient power flow into him, increasing his strength, and felt at least somewhat satisfied by the results. He wasn't sure he remembered every card or its effects, but it was good enough.

"I see. The One Who Weeps loves you still."

Narinder blinked, looking up.

"What?"

But Clauneck didn't elaborate, pulling the other two cards back as the deck collected together. The card in Narinder's hand dissipated, its power used. He then puts his hands back together, humming softly.

"Your cards have been drawn. The path lays ahead."

"No, I—what did you just say?"

But Clauneck merely sat in silence.

Narinder's hackles bristled...but he stood without complaint, bowed, and left.

---

Amdusias was rotting in a strangely serene fashion.

Narinder knew this follower from the time the Lamb first slayed their monstrous form, causing it to spit out its scarred but sane self. Amdusias had remained loyal to the Lamb, though they still held love for Leshy in their heart. The Lamb knew this and did not seek to change that.

When Amdusias passed from old age, the Lamb, soft as ever, mourned losing them, allowing them to pass on without resurrection.

Somehow, Narinder doubted that a follower would result from this duel. The beast in front of him seemed nearly soulless. Nearly. He could still sense something dwelling within it.

Though, unlike the beasts that the Lamb faced, Amdusias did not attack. Not initially.

They was still in their quarters, large head slightly shifting as they breathed. Several bodies and skulls appeared fused to their own head, some even impaled on their horns. However, the follower's eyes were closed, their mouth slightly open as they sighed with each breath. The skulls were intertwined with vines without thorns, and camellias bloomed from the eyes of the many faces that replaced Amdusias' pustules.

It appeared as though the creature was sleeping.

...If that was the case, that would make slaying it easier.

He raised his crown to form his scythe, then slashed.

A long scar formed across their face...but no blood or ichor came from it. Then the flesh began to knit itself back together, sewn through the vines that connected through the rest of their body. After mending their flesh, the vines melded into their skin, changing form to look exactly like it, as though Narinder hadn't cut into them at all.

All the while, Amdusias remained asleep.

"What foul spell has..."

Nothing should be able to reverse a wound seriously inflicted by death, and Narinder did not strike out without purpose. Even his siblings failed to heal their wounds despite being gods themselves.

Something was terribly wrong.

He cut into the creature, then cut again. This time, Amdusias' eyes twitched, though they remained closed. Just like before, a few moments after cutting into them, vines knit their flesh shut before a single drop of blood could leave them.

So, he cut their face three times.

After the third slice, a single trickle of ichor began to drip from their flesh.

Amdusias' eyes snapped open, but instead of being black with red crosses, they were fully red. The vines began knitting their face back together, and this time, when Narinder went to slice them again, the faces on their head open their mouths and let out reedy little cries, camellia petals falling from their eyes like tears.

Narinder abruptly had to dodge from a large vine that shot out of the ground toward him. Muzzle scrunching, he stabbed his torch into the vine-ridden wall behind him, then ran forward.

Contrary to Amdusias' living attacks, this seemingly undead version attacked differently. Quietly. They never let out a threatening war cry like they had before, instead slinking around in the darkness, leaving behind a strange hybrid of seed and egg that quickly sprouted to reveal the rose-like creatures from before. Unlike the ones he'd seen outside of this room, though, these ones were openly hostile.

They thrust themselves at him, many whips lashing out from their backs. The whips were covered with thorns that whistled as they swung quickly through the air. He couldn't stay too close to one for very long lest he get hit. The rose-worms went down with four hits instead of one, even if he sliced their necks.

Moreover, the longer he spent fighting the worms, the more time Amdusias had to restore their health.

The fight was growing incredibly complex, still having to manage his way around the darkness with only a single torch as his light source.

Narinder was, of course, not as physically fit as he'd prefer to be.

While dodging a rose-worm, one of the thornless vines from Amdusias' back smacked roughly into his side, throwing him off his feet.

At the same time, a vision.

Quick flashes of thought and memory.

Someone gathering piles of dirt, packing it together tightly against a wall to make their home.

Great and powerful insects, crazed by old energy, raining terror down upon the stranger's tiny house.

A green hand reaching up high to Leshy, who bends down to grin at them, saying something Narinder can only barely hear.

Reinforcing walls made of heavy stone with sediment alongside other followers—a duty they are now above, but still tend to nonetheless.

The figure, cloaked in darkness, as they gaze up at Leshy again, before turning toward someone else.

Toward the Lamb, younger, with shorter horns and smaller stature, similar to how they looked at first...

And then Narinder gasps as he hits the ground, rolling back onto his feet, scythe reforming in his outstretched hand.

What was that? Were they Amdusias' memories?

He didn't have time to ponder for too long. Instead, he jumped out of the way of another attack, then proceeded to try killing off one of the rose-worms.

He managed to not get hit again, slicing his way through his enemies until it was finally just him and the still quiet worm. With a growl under his breath, he waited until the large creature thrust their body toward him and parried their attack. He then brought his scythe up, blade facing down, and thrust it into the top of Amdusias' skull.

The creature's red eyes trembled, a mixture of blood and ichor spurting out of the wound. But Narinder knew better than to stop there. He kept going, his foot on Amdusias' face to keep them still, raising and slashing his scythe down over and over again until their skull split.

It was only after a final crack and the slight slide of the worm's skull that they finally let out a roar.

But underneath it, he could still hear the very sane and mournful cry of a follower's voice.

Narinder panted, then, using his foot to help, pulled his scythe from the deep wound he made in Amdusias' head. He backed away, waiting for the beast to waste away, replaced with a chest and the prizes he often saw come with it.

"...P...l...ease..."

His ears twitched, eyes squinting into a frown. Gazing at the beast, he watched as awareness came to those fully red eyes, a light that wasn't there before.

"Plea...ase...don...'t..."

Amdusias slumped their broken head against the ground, the worn moss and petals floating and disintegrating from their body.

"Please...I beg you...God of Death..."

Their body began to cave in, like a worn husk.

"Do not...leave...my Lord...to suffer..."

Their skull split further as the red began fading from their vision, turning paler. The faces attached to their own began fading into skulls.

"Let...this end...or...let him...dream... Please..."

The vines also began withering, and the section Narinder split cracked off completely, Amdusias' face falling apart.

"Please...please..."

The light and the redness finally faded off into a pitch black. Then, even that was gone as their eyes burst into camellia petals. All that remained were the bones within their body and the rotted wood of their horns. The petals circled around them in a soft bed of flowers.

Narinder waited for a bit, but realized no chest would appear. His nose scrunched, but whatever. He hadn't found a single follower during his travels this time, and he needed to return to check on things back at the cult.

He walked back to the wall where he'd thrust his torch and had a tad bit of trouble pulling it back out. But he did, and the vines that split when he'd done so earlier closed up without incident.

"This place is wrong. Very wrong," he murmured, then he turned to leave the room.

But a glimmer caught his eye.

Confused, he turned toward where he'd seen it, right around Amdusias' corpse. He moved the torch and saw the glimmer again.

Upon drawing closer, he saw two small items sitting inside the creature's bones.

One was a fragment of something larger, a light, glittering thing from which he felt immense power. But it was stable, something he couldn't make use of himself.

The other looked to be complete, but was terribly small. A tiny, teardrop-shaped thing. When he picked it up, he realized it was smooth and cool to the touch. Incredibly small, yet sturdy. A pale, milky pink color.

He knew not what either object was, but he had an idea of someone who would.

[inkformyblood]

every colour i see reminds me of you (CWFKB #8)

Fill for lipstick kiss for @codywanfirstkissbingo Canon Universe, Order 66 Didn't Happen

“So,” Quinlan slides onto the bench next to Obi-Wan, knocking his tray against Obi-Wan’s already cluttered offerings. “Your Commander is trying out a new lip colour then?”

Obi-Wan straightens, something close to fear twisting through the pit of his stomach. His spine feels drawn too tight, a puppet with ill-fitting strings as he forces himself to glance over at the other man, ensuring that his brow doesn’t rise past the notch of mild disapproval. He pokes at the porridge with his free hand, the pale lilac surface giving way before it reforms over the intrusion. “He is though I fail to see how that is any of your business.”

“Purple?”

Obi-Wan considers punching Quinlan. It would be undeniably childish of him and he could already hear the disapproving words of Master Windu echo in the back of his thoughts, some reactions never got easier to weather despite the fact that Obi-Wan hasn’t been a Knight for nearly two decades now and a Padawan for even longer. But Quinlan’s grin is just the right shade of sharp, honed and cultivated to imply the exact amount of knowing something that his target doesn’t that would make someone hesitate to punch him. Even if he more than deserves it. “Now, why should that matter?”

Quinlan leans forward, propping his chin onto Obi-Wan’s shoulder. His dreadlocks swing free, and Obi-Wan catches them, abandoning his absent-minded prodding of his food to do so. There’s a faint scent of lavender that comes with the motion, a poor attempt at hiding the tang of engine oil and industrial work. He pulls the locks away as he turns to look down at Quinlan, the pair of them now nearly nose-to-nose. 

His eyes dark and his grin only widening, drawing and redrawing the line in the sand that he is determined to toe, Quinlan asks, “So, I am right?”

Obi-Wan licks Quinlan’s nose, still childish but less overtly so. Quinlan recalls, tugging against Obi-Wan’s hold on his locks, and swipes at his shoulder with a laugh. He looks younger when he’s laughing, the harsh lines of grief and suffering the war had drawn over his countenance. Scrubbing at his face with the heel of his palm, Quinlan rocks forward, tapping his knuckles against Obi-Wan’s tray. “Don’t need you to answer, Obi. I know I’m right just by this.”

His breakfast tray. It is full but Obi-Wan is intending on carrying the rest back to his rooms, their rooms now that Cody has moved in with the war resolving in a mostly settled ceasefire. Obi-Wan’s gaze skips over the small bowl of porridge, the normal cream shade tinted lilac by the addition of some fruit, then to the plate of potato. It is a new variant from a planet that has only recently opened up the trade routes and the flesh is a dark purple. He has a salad for some variety, dark leaves and curls of a paler purple carrot scattered amongst it and— Oh. Oh .

“How long have I been doing this?”

“What?” Quinlan reaches over and selects a piece of fruit from Obi-Wan’s tray, purple like all the rest of it. “Matching your meal and nearly every other choice on that day to the colour of your Commander’s lipstick?”

“Yes. Quin. That.”

“Practically since he started wearing it.”

Obi-Wan bites back a curse and stands, drawing his tray close to his chest. He’d thought that he was being careful with his crush on the other man, keeping it close to his chest and obfuscated behind several very plausible reasons for his level of attention, of care. Had Cody noticed? Obi-Wan’s crush, as it was, is his own problem to cope with. He doesn’t want to inflict it upon Cody if it isn’t returned. “Thank you for your insights, Quin.”

Quinlan waves him away, the self-shame grin plastered over his face once more, and Obi-Wan takes his leave, his tray clasped in front of him. Cody is sprawled across the sofa as Obi-Wan enteres, much the same position he had been earlier that morning, with the addition of a holopad clutched in one hand. He pauses the video as Obi-Wan enters sitting up with a grin. “Short queue?”

“Something like that.” Obi-Wan joins him, sliding the tray onto the table. Purple food, purple lipstick carefully painted over Cody’s mouth. “Can I kiss you?”

Cody blinks, smiling gently up at him. “Thought you were never going to ask.”

He leans forward and Obi-Wan learns that his lipstick tastes as sweet as it looks. 

[madewithlove-sophie]

Beneath the Surface (Teaser ii.) | Aizawa Shota Fan Fiction

Twisted Hearts Series | Prev

Y/N stared down at her hands, feeling the vibrations of every atom around her. Her quirk was second nature, sensing the subtle shifts in the ground, the hum of energy in the air, and the faint echoes of movement nearby. But exhaustion weighed on her—she had been pushing herself for hours, the mission dragging on far longer than expected.

It was supposed to be a straightforward operation: subdue the villains, secure the area. But things had spiraled out of control, and now their team was scattered, worn thin, and Y/N could feel the weight of her limits pressing down.

"Five more closing in," she muttered, clenching her fists as she tuned into the vibrations around them. The villains were regrouping, drawing closer. Her arms ached, every movement sending sharp jolts of pain through her body, but she couldn’t stop. Not now.

Beside her, Shota Aizawa—Eraserhead—stood quietly, his eyes flickering between the alleyways ahead, his usually calm demeanor touched with weariness. His scarf was frayed, and he had a cut running down the side of his face, but his focus was unwavering.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, sensing the strain she was under.

“If it’s too much, we can push back,” he said, his voice low but steady. There was no judgment, just quiet understanding. He had seen it—how her hands had started shaking, how she’d been holding herself together for too long. "We’ll regroup."

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. Her eyes flickered toward him, her breath shaky, but she shook her head. “No. We’re close… I can keep going.”

The truth was, her body was screaming for a break. Every time she used her quirk, the pressure on her arms grew, each movement amplifying the pain. She didn’t need Aizawa’s quirk to erase her abilities; her body was starting to do that on its own.

Aizawa studied her for a moment, his tired eyes sharper than usual. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, the tension of the mission wrapping around them both. He could see through her calm facade—see the weight she carried.

"We don’t need to prove anything to anyone," Aizawa said quietly. "If you’re hurt, we pull back. That’s the priority."

Y/N clenched her jaw. His concern, though practical, struck deeper than she expected. He was offering her a way out, a reprieve, but she couldn’t afford to stop. Not now. She had been discarded once, left to fend for herself, and she wouldn’t let herself be seen as weak again—not by him, not by anyone.

“I’m fine,” she lied, forcing herself to stand straighter, the pain in her arms throbbing. “Let’s finish this.”

Aizawa didn’t press her further, but his gaze lingered, as if he could sense more than just the exhaustion. He gave a subtle nod, acknowledging her choice, though she knew he wasn’t convinced.

With a flick of his scarf, he stepped forward into the shadows, ready for whatever came next. Y/N followed closely, her hands trembling despite her best efforts to steady them. The vibrations of the approaching villains grew louder, and she braced herself, knowing that this battle wasn’t just against them—it was against her own limits.

And Aizawa, as always, would be watching, waiting to step in when things got too close to breaking.