#and it's NOT going to be difficult. it's almost entirely in shadow. most of the forms are indicated in the line art

[apppletea]

Angel above the tree.

platonic yan!batfamily x neglect!tifa!reader

sipnosis — in the hands of the time, she finally grow up and decides for the first time, to get away from that solitary environment and become an independent spy for a secret organization, that is until the family realizes the absence of her adorable sister and daughter, you, but thats really care? Or maybe... Obssesion.

english is not my first lenguage!

The life of a kid like you was difficult, very difficult indeed. The moment you stepped foot in that mansion, your fate was decided. You would be a ghost in the shadows because your siblings were too brilliant and strong in every way, even in strength, power, and intelligence.

And so was your father, Bruce Wayne, a billionaire who had gotten involved with a simple, but charming, dancer. That was real, and because of that, you had emerged, somehow created with love and being full of it by your mother. Who worked in something that even you, being her daughter, knew nothing about, and in some of those encounters, had died unexpectedly. So you had no choice but to go with that man and live with the rest of his family, who, at first, wasn't pleasant, and you ended up on terrible terms with some of them.

But that didn't matter now, and it didn't really cross your mind that it might matter, since you had only greeted the man who was your father twice in your entire life, not to mention your sibilings, who had almost the same job as vigilants and spent their time outside the mansion. Your only company was Batman's butler and most loyal companion, Alfred. He had taken care of your room, your food, and your education, both academically.

Nothing was wrong with that new life. You could wear the most expensive clothes in the world, have the most limited toys, and go to a very privileged private school, except that you lost your mother, the most beautiful and brave woman in the world, who filled you with endless love and had taught your current morals, your values, and everything you needed to know in that world full of dangers.

Your heart felt empty, very empty and never received any affection or love from your family, but you didn't need it. [Name] could grow up with the love of her own friends and Alfred. Yes, that was better than chasing after people who weren't truly worth it.

That was your life. You grew and grew for a long time, your appearance changing. During that time, you had seen the almost unbelievable resemblance to Bruce. That was your punishment for being greedy, at least a little, but it didn't matter. And so it continued until you became the young lady you was now. [Name] was only known in privileged schools because of the tournaments she had participated in, but that was okay. She didn't need or want the recognition her father or brothers had, vigilantes and heroes being hunted by villains.

Everything remained the same until your time had come. You had to continue your mother's legacy, and what better option was there than to participate in the secret organization in which she had once been a worthy and upright leader.

The letter had arrived in your hands the day before your 16th birthday. Alfred had seen it among all the mail and bills in the mailbox.

"Huh?" You let out a long sigh, your gaze returning to the man in front of you, and you smiled slightly. "I see. Thanks, Alfred. I'll take care of finding out what it is and tell you!"

You said with a cheerful facade and headed down the mansion's hallways, carefully examining the letter and perhaps guessing who sent it.

And in the midst of your thoughts, you bumped into Tim—yes, Tim himself. He was very tired and leaving his room after days of isolating himself in his investigation. But you hadn't really made much effort to improve internal relations in the mansion, so you simply walked past him, still focused on the letter and eager to know what was inside.

Tim had noticed your presence. In fact, he expected a greeting or at least a glance from you, but it didn't come. It didn't surprise him since he had started the rumors at your old school that you were a thief and a bad friend (and consequently, you changed schools, stopped talking to him, and never looked at him again). The boy just sighed and headed to the other side, in search of food and coffee to survive in his world of technology and investigations.

You, on the other hand, locked yourself back in your room, which you treasured your entire life because it has all your history and achievements written on it, even furniture with trophies and medals, posters, portraits of your mother and your old pet. It was your cave, your home, everything you dreamed of having back in the days when you lived in an apartment far from everything and everyone with your mother.

You tried to push away all those feelings of sadness and looked at the letter again. It was time to read it, so you wasted no time and broke the pretty seal it had (perhaps you'll save it for your journal). You put the piece of paper aside to read the real thing. It was like a document, a contract for something suspicious.

"Hello, [name] Wayne Jones.

We are Fantasy, a secret organization of spies and agents, specialized in punishing all injustice in Gotham and around the world. We have learned of the passing of your mother, Avigail Jones, which we still mourn deeply. We also know that she never told you her biggest secret, which was this: Mrs. Jones was the leader of the group, a very worthy and incredible woman. Her work and achievements are still being mentioned.

Therefore, we would like to say that we want to recruit you, train you, and, if you wish, continue the legacy your mother left behind.

Surely this is a lot to process, and as such, you'll be able to think it over and analyze it all. When you're ready, you can send us a letter whenever you want. We'll be eagerly awaiting your arrival."

The letter had left you in complete shock.

"What the fuck?!" You muttered, poker-faced. You didn't know if it was a joke in bad taste from your old enemies at school or the real deal. You were at least able to confirm that it was true. They'd left a card of introduction inside the envelope, with a phone number and email address.

You still couldn't believe it. Could you really leave this place?!

It was definitely the best early birthday present ever; it had surpassed the limited-edition handbag Bruce had given you.

So, I think this fic would be a one-shot very quick and WIP.

inspo by @cosmosluckycharms @acid-ixx and @nikovraskol, their stories are incredible ....(⁠个⁠_⁠个⁠)

have a nice day!!!

[contract-crawdad]

The gang's all here!

What's the deal with these guys? What do we know about them?

Let's dig into it.

The Nightmares. The Shadows. The Darkness. They've got a lot of names, but none of em are official. Their overworld sprites are referred to as 'shadowmonsters' in the game files, but that's almost certainly not their intended name. One key detail is that Dan’s chat will identify them as ‘shades’, but that’s now what they ARE, just what type of enemy they are, like how Jennifer is listed as ‘cursed’ even though she’s clearly a human/house centipede hybrid. So the closest thing we have to go on is the fact that their battle sprites are referred to as 'danger(insert number)(large/medium/small)' in the game files... which is similarly very utilitarian, but I think it's very fitting.

Danger. The Dangers. That's what they are. That's all they can be.

It’s also a bit more distinctive of a name than ‘Shadows’ so I’m gonna stick with that. Not one single line of dialogue in the entire game acknowledges the Dangers directly. Part of the difficulty in analyzing these guys is just how little is concretely known about them, but that's not to say we don't know anything!

The most relevant piece of information to keep in mind is that they can appear all over the place, with odds influenced by your danger meter. The higher it is, the more likely you are for them to appear. This has led some to conclude that this implies Dangers are a shared hallucination by Sam and his party, but I do not believe that to be the case for reasons we will circle back to.

…And that’s it! That’s the only relevant spawning criteria! A few sources claim that nightfall or stress are relevant factors, but this doesn’t seem to be the case at all thanks to information from my sources. All that matters is the danger meter!

Dangers on the overworld (even when you can see them) are notable for their rapid flickering in and out of reality. Where they're flickering from and to is unknown, but they make a lot of eerie hissing and clicking noises while they do it. These noises are evidently Quebec curses played backwards, which is funny, but certainly does seem to imply that these things used to be human!

That said, we cannot accurately say whether or not Dangers are cursed! Don't get me wrong, they're definitely associated with the Visitor somehow! But I think it's either a Frederick situation where some as of yet unseen cursed human is creating more Dangers, or a Baby Teeth situation where a cursed human is actively spreading their affliction. Otherwise, it seems unlikely that so many humans would warp in such specific and similar ways entirely independently from one another.

Support for the theory that something is spawning the Dangers lies with Dan’s chat system: while his chat lists the small and medium Dangers as ‘shades’, the largest sizes are actually listed as ‘cursed’, possibly implying they were once humans that saw the Visitor, and are spawning the lesser Dangers! This one’s far from explicit canon, esPECIALY since Dan’s chat has a lot of labeling errors (for example, none of the botanical monsters having an enemy type listed at all despite clearly being cursed), but it’s certainly something to keep in mind.

In combat, any Danger can perform basic melee attacks, absorb stamina, and have between 0-2 skills entirely unique to them. Their basic attacks have the ‘shadow’ element. Additionally, they are resistant to crushing, slashing, piercing, bullets, and cold damage. They are weak to fire and to explosives. Compared to other enemies, they have abnormally high evasion (20% compared to the 5% pretty much everything else has). They generally give very little EXP for how difficult they can be, and have a chance to drop a 'Black Ooze' on defeat, with the largest Dangers being guaranteed to drop it.

These basic facts, while limited, actually give us a lot to work with!

Dangers are able to physically harm humans despite their strange habit of dipping in and out of existence.

Dangers all have the same resistances, implying that they are all made out of (approximately) the same stuff.

Dangers are able to inflict various statuses through a wide variety of physical and mental means.

Dangers DO HAVE unique attributes from one another beyond appearance.

Dangers leave behind a physical trace of their existence when killed.

The fact that Dangers have the same resistances and weaknesses is especially interesting because it implies that Dangers do have some kind of biology/physiology to them! This alongside the fact that their damage is considered shadow element is primarily what kills the 'they're hallucinations' theory... well, that and the black ooze.

Black ooze, oh how you vex me.

This stuff is the most solid evidence that the Dangers aren't purely psychological terrors, that they are instead very much REAL. While black ooze can be 'used' on a character, all it does is deal a massive chunk of damage, somewhere between 72% and 108% of a character’s max health. Ouch. No shopkeeper in the game will buy it, and it is left up to interpretation whether they simply do not want otherworldly filth (understandable), or if they can't even see the stuff. Which is very possible!

No character other than Sam will ever react to the presence of a Danger. For example, one can appear in Lyle's room, but it ignores him and he ignores it. There are other examples of rooms with NPCs that can have a Danger spawn near them as well, but the key is that these characters are in their homes. And where is the one place you are always safe from Dangers? That's right. Inside your home.

I propose that the primordial feeling of safety being home provides is an active shield against the Dangers. Resting at home, even, is enough to make the Dangers either unable or unwilling to attack you. But the Dangers are still there, one must assume.

Look Outside is not a game that pulls 'it was all in your head' twists. Ultimately, it's more horrifying that the Dangers are real and we just have absolutely no clue what they are. But they're all over the building, even if you can't always see them.

But they can see you.

And they just cannot wait for your fear to allow them to touch you.

------------------------------------------------------------

Thus ends the compilation of all known information! I could have mentioned the possible connection between the Dangers and the Shadow, or the idea that the Dangers could be connected to the teased 'infinite dungeon' that the creator wants to implement, but those are nothing but raw and unfiltered speculation on my part!

Did I miss anything about these goobers? Feel free to let me know!

Credit to @goawaypopup and @lily-wisp for some juicy 'under the hood' information, as well as @nastymajesty! Compilation images of all the Dangers are by me, feel free to use em.

Here's a bunch of Dangers exposed to the light as a reward for making it all the way through! Look at them. Nakey.

[cupcakeslushie]

First || Prev || …

Here’s the next part of the Kendratello AU! I knew it was going to be very dialogue heavy, so I figured writing it out would be fast, but I’m so ready to be done with it that I’ve not really beta read it. So I apologize for any errors. But enjoy!

Splinter loves his sons, but these last few days have been eating away at his already shriveled and fraying nerves. Watching his children ambling around their home, for months, each in varying states of anxiety, fear, and distress, hasn’t been easy on his old heart.

They’ve been through so much, experienced more hardships than Splinter has ever wanted for them. But the latest crucible tearing his family apart was caused, not by some ancient demon, or world-ending threat—but a fiendishly smart, young woman.

One who’d kidnapped his son and replaced him with a stranger that Splinter hardly recognized.

The bitter tale is too familiar for the old movie star to painlessly swallow. It seems fate played such cruel tricks sometimes. Always seeming to strike harsher the second go around. With outcomes even more brutal and painful. His son was stolen by a hateful, sadistic woman, and kept locked away, until she was satisfied with the new toy that emerged from the shadows.

So it stands to reason how…relieved Splinter had been that one, early morning. When his three sons had pulled Purple into his bedroom, piling into his bed, nothing but wide eyes and panicked shouting; one over the other. Looking back now, he can recognize how short-sighted his quick relief had been. But in the moment, as a father, Splinter had only seen this new, strange development as a blessing.

Donatello might have been confused, and irritated with his brother’s manhandling, but Splinter could clearly see more life in those eyes than he’d witnessed in months. Splinter had shushed the rest, and spoken to Purple directly, finally getting a better grasp on what his sons were shouting about.

Amnesia.

So, of course, relief. Because how could forgetting all those horrible, tortuous weeks in that woman’s grasp, possibly be a bad thing? By some miracle, Splinter’s boy had been returned to him. Nowhere near that frail ghost of Donatello, which Splinter would sometimes find curled up on the floor of his own lab, screaming Kendra’s name and sobbing to be returned to her care.

He had been spared all of that, like it never happened. Their family had been handed a gift, and Splinter truthfully wasn't interested in the whys of it all…

Until Michelangelo chose to contact Draxum, and words like “brain damage” and “tumor” were thrown into the mix.

An entire day of testing yielded…varying results. They were able to rule out the scariest of options. No dark shadows were seen in the X-rays of his son’s beautifully brilliant brain, and no concerning squiggles were pointed out by the Hidden City doctors who studied the fast moving waves appearing on the EEG. It was all a bunch of nonsense to Splinter, but Donatello nodded like he agreed, when he was handed the papers over to inspect himself.

Everything was normal, physically.

That left the most difficult part of the day. Getting his son to speak to a psychiatrist—seriously, and without snarking back at every possible question he would eventually be asked.

Draxum had thankfully picked a good one. Briefing her beforehand on…everything. She seemed prepared for Purple’s special brand of cynicism. The sheep yokai was apparently at the top of her field.

A tentative diagnosis of “dissociative amnesia” had been given, along with a small number of pamphlets and printouts. The doctor had informed Splinter that certain treatments might improve Donatello’s situation, but no cure had been discovered for something like this.

They would just have to take things one day at a time. And they’d been doing so well. Almost like everything was back to normal.

Splinter had become very good at ignoring that pending feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He smiled at his sons every day onward, like nothing was wrong. And all of them, in return, began falling back into a more comfortable ease around each other. The stress had just been starting to loosen in Red’s shoulders and jaw. Orange was giving real, honest smiles again. And Blue was no longer a shadow around corners, hiding from Purple like a bomb he was scared to set off.

But the other shoe that had been the root of Splinter’s dread, finally dropped, and the rug was pulled from under their feet once more, violently, with no warning.

Even after they’d managed to calm Donatello down. There was no negotiating the terms of his reality, and he was stubbornly convinced that the world around him was fabricated. Without caring about the consequences, he refused to be civil towards any of them, treating them all like jesters in a play, where no one had the script.

The family’s usual process for dealing with Purple’s anger–letting him cool off alone in his lab until he collected his thoughts–was unfeasible this time around.

Splinter didn’t think he could ever forget the image of his son, turning the knife he held in his hands inwards, and threatening to end his own life.

No; leaving him alone was not an option.

Which led back to Splinter’s previously mentioned frayed nerves.

Four days into this new, stressful change, and his genius son was still managing to find creative ways to sneak past their watchful eyes. Six attempts, in total. Each time, caught with seconds to spare, and just as traumatic for everyone involved.

Raphael and Michelangelo at the moment, were going through their home, removing every sharp implement they could find. Anything that could possibly be used to “put an end to the loop” that Donatello was convinced he was stuck in.

While the two performed their important task, Blue and Splinter had the harder of the two jobs; watching Purple.

Splinter was currently sitting comfortably in his chair, but it was far from his usual level of relaxation. Despite plenty of bean bags to occupy, the twins were locked in a shoving match. For some reason, they were fighting over the single, smallest one they must’ve owned.

“If you don’t get out of my personal space, I swear to Oppenheimer you will regret it, Leonardo!”

“And I swear to Ryan Renolds, that I’ll shred all of your softest hoodies if you kick me in the nuts one more time!”

“That Barbenheimer joke doesn’t even make sense, you idiot, that was Ryan Gosling!”

“Who mentioned Barbie? I’m talking about Deadpool and Wolverine!”

“What does that movie have to do with anything?!”

“Fuck dude, what did I just say about nut shots!”

“Then get out of my kicking radius, and your non-existent nuts will be safe!”

“BOYS!”

Both his sons quickly pause their arguing, giving their father their undivided attention.

“Leonardo, go help your brothers.” Splinter demands. “I will watch Purple. He has not had a moment of free time from any of you in days, and it is clearly wearing on all of us.” Blue gives his father one of his patented unimpressed stare downs.

“No offense, Pops, but how is you watching him, any different than me?”

“Because I will sit in my chair, and Purple will scroll on his phone, and there will be quiet.” Splinter can’t stand the bickering any longer. He knows both his sons will benefit from this time apart. It’s just convincing Blue of that.

Donatello’s gaze is boring holes into the back of Leonardo’s head while his second oldest son matches Splinter’s scrutiny. The rat can see the need for some fresh air battling against Blue’s desire to stay close. But Leonardo is his sharpest son, and even he can admit that his constant presence has become too grating for his brother.

“You need to watch him like a hawk, Dad,” Leo glares at his twin out of the corner of his gaze, “sometimes you can get a little…distracted.”

The new projector, playing Splinter’s same old programs, flashes against the curtain hung on the wall. The volume is set to low, but Blue still looks pointedly between his father and the screen. Splinter doesn’t blame him for his concern, so he tries to put all the gravity he can into his tone, enough that when he does promise to stay vigilant, it seems to convince Blue to place his trust in him.

Purple stays quiet through the exchange, only breathing a sigh of relief once his brother is long past the threshold of the den. He looks ready to lean back into his hard won pillows, but Splinter realizes that Blue had something of a point. Donatello is positioned quite far from him, and he’s suddenly nervous about catching something in time.

“Purple, how about you come sit with me.” Splinter suggests it kindly but firmly, and with a smile– so his son can’t refuse. He pats the bit of cushion next to his legs, “I will honor my promise to leave you alone, but I would be much more relaxed if you were within my reach.”

His boy merely blinks at him, blank faced, and staring at the very spot that Splinter has just created for him.

It isn’t as though his recliner is small, even if Splinter himself is. Donatello had custom made it for him, after one too many complaints about his old brown one hurting his back. It practically swallows Splinter, but remains just stiff enough to provide plenty of support for his lower back. He could even lay sideways and still have some space to stretch.

Splinter recalls very clear memories of all his sons fighting for a spot by his side when they were younger. But it has been some time since those days…perhaps Donatello thinks he’s far too old for such a thing as sitting by his aging father. Yoshi remembers himself at eighteen, and shudders. He’s forever thankful that no matter how lacking his parenting skills might have been, that his boys are kinder to him than he ever was to his Jiji.

Donatello pulls at some invisible thread of his black leggings. Since this new alteration of his memories, Purple has taken to wearing more layers. It’s nearing fall, but not nearly cold enough for the large sweatshirt, black leggings AND socks that his son is currently donning.

Splinter just barely hears Purple murmur a jumbled, “Huh?”

Splinter catches some sort of emotion actively being suppressed behind the bewildered shock at his offer, but it’s hard to tell what it is. Over the years Splinter is ashamed to say, he has grown very bad at reading his own children. Especially Purple, who, if he was being honest, has always been very hard to decipher.

Splinter starts to think the offer will be rejected, when Purple finally climbs to his feet and ambles slowly over. The unknown emotion skittering at the edge of Donatello’s expression morphs into something closer to suspicion. This one easy to identify, especially when it practically drips from his next words.

“Trying to endear yourself to me won’t sway me into falling for your tricks.”

The barb is said just as unkindly as everything else Purple has thrown at his family these last few days. Splinter lets it slide off him like water. He knows his son would (probably) never speak to him like that if he wasn’t stuck in such a painfully clear mode of survival and uncertainty.

“Yes, yes.” He says, untroubled. “Come sit and I can finally lean my chair back.”

Donatello watches him the entire time as he cautiously settles into his spot. He yelps when Splinter grabs his ankles and pulls his son’s long (thin, still much too thin) legs across his lap. For an instant, Splinter freezes, growing worried he’s overstepped. The act had been done without a thought. It’s the way Purple has always liked to sit, finding it more comfortable than any other way. Donatello preferred to keep his distance. A deviation from his siblings, for sure.

Michelangelo would press as close as possible, two sides smushed together like a hug, only without the constricting limbs (though, if Orange were ever to fall asleep in Splinter’s chair, those too would eventually find their way to catching him in their hold).

Leonardo preferred to sit on the arm of his chair, never staying still for long enough to find a comfortable position. But when he slumbered, after a long night of binge watching Novela’s with Splinter–he would curl up, head in his father’s lap, limbs held tight to his body. Like he was afraid even that was asking for too much.

Raphael, his poor, eldest son, hadn’t sat with him in so long. Splinter could still remember a little turtle tot in red, climbing up and splaying out onto his lap when he needed a good cry–or just a moment of peace from his much too loud siblings. Sadly, it wasn’t long before his Red was too big, and his father too small to provide such a refuge. The last time Raphael needed consoling; after the Krang, Splinter had been forced to climb up onto his own son’s knees in order to reach and wipe away his tears.

In the few rare instances of Purple seeking out physical touch, this was all he would allow. Legs stretched over his father’s lap, but his upper body was always off limits. Pulled just far enough away from the threat of any sort of long term contact.

Splinter used to wonder if Purple was scared to ask for anything more, like Leonardo, or if he thought depriving himself of a comforting hug would make him seem stronger, like Raphael, or even the rare times when Michelangelo wished to appear more mature and refused to be comforted. Eventually, Splinter caught on to the truth. His son was asking for comfort, in his own unique way. He was content with the minimal amount of closeness, as long as he felt like he was able to dictate the terms.

But one thing Purple would always allow his father to do, was loop his fingers around his ankles. Trusting the grip would hold his legs in place and keep him stable. He once said the pressure was small enough that it wasn’t overwhelming, but strong enough that it could ground him when everything became too much.

Even now, the act of reaching out to pull his son’s long legs up had been so instinctive. When Splinter looks over and sees the uncertainty still on Purple’s face, he knows he’s pushed too far too quickly.

It’s a risky move, but he’s already pushed, and it’s something that never fails, not once since he’s discovered it.

Purple has always been the most ticklish of all his brothers. Another thing that never really helped his sensory issues. But Splinter long ago discovered that there was a particular spot, which could always earn him a giggle and a brighter smile.

Splinter grips the meat of Donatello’s right knee and jiggles it back and forth. The silly action seems to do the trick and knocks something loose in his son’s overwrought head. His gamble pays off spectacularly, and Splinter is overjoyed to see a small smile erase most of the uncertainty clouding Donatello’s face. It isn’t a full peal of laughter, but the wariness makes way for something softer, and the huff of air from his nose is just as rewarding as a full body laugh.

His boy rests his shoulder and head onto the cushioned back of the chair and Splinter presses the button that will lift up the leg rest, and recline them both into a more restful position.

After a few moments of quiet, Donatello slowly pulls his phone from the pocket of his hoodie. Even without looking directly at him, Splinter can feel his son watching and waiting for the reprimand he thinks will come. Instead, Splinter raises the volume of his show just loud enough for him to hear, but not enough to completely shatter their peace. He wants to make Purple feel more at ease; like he’s not being constantly surveilled–not providing more overstimulation.

They sit like that for some time. Splinter rubs a thumb back and forth across the meatier part of Donatello's calves. He’s learned that repetitive touch is the best kind of grounding technique for Purple. The patterned motion always worked to calm his nerves.

Even still, after only so long Splinter catches Purple lowering his phone.

He keeps his own gaze forward, locked on his commercials. Splinter can see, without looking, that his son is studying him, trying to take apart something in his mind that he doesn’t understand. Splinter allows him all the time he needs to gather his thoughts.

Finally Purple speaks, “Dad…?” It’s so quiet, if Splinter hadn't been waiting for it, he might’ve missed it.

He pauses the repetitive kneading for just a moment, squeezing his hold, and humming in order to prompt his son to continue his thought.

“Can I tell you something?” The inquiry is whispered to him so delicately. It takes everything in him to keep his face open and soft and his movements steady. It’s clear that Donatello is trying his best to remain aloof, but his gaze is locked on his hands that are settled in his lap, the fingers of one pulling on the digits from his other.

At some point he must’ve put his phone completely away. Splinter feels the pressure of having Donatello's complete focus aimed at him.

The tugging intensifies. Splinter wonders if he should reach out, but he’s not sure how well that would be received. It doesn’t look painful just yet.

“I don't know what Kendra is accomplishing by showing me this.” Donatello growls, suddenly digging his palms into his eyes like he can still feel the weight of the screen blocking his vision. “Trying to make me happy, only to rip it all away from me? Or attempting to make me feel, even more like a useless burden than I was?”

It’s the first crack in his armor that Purple has shown in days. A clear sign that he was not as unaffected by Kendra’s lies as he’d been trying to project. Donatello sighs, but as it dies out Splinter thinks it sounds closer to a sob.

“You can’t tell the others…” Donatello looks at him with wet, desperate eyes, and it’s unclear if his son still doubts who he’s speaking to, but Splinter works to ease his fears all the same.

“I swear, whatever you tell me will remain between us, alone.”

Donatello nods faintly, eyes trailing downwards once more. Splinter may have had trouble before, but now the many emotions jumping across his son’s face—fear, shame, frustration, all are easy to catch.

With a shaking breath he whispers his secret. “I lied.” He’s crying now, real tears that he doesn’t even bother to wipe away. The pulling at his skin grows more violent, and Splinter finally interferes to carefully pry Donatello’s hands apart before damage is done. In place he cradles his son’s hands like delicate porcelain and runs a thumb over Donatello’s palm.

“I told everyone that I could tell. That I wasn’t being fooled, but that’s not exactly true. The last few loops have…it’s been getting harder, and harder to remember things— how they really happened. Too much is…plausible.”

Splinter keeps silent. This confession has clearly been weighing on Donatello. He deserves to get it all out, and hopefully feel lighter for it. Even if Purple suspects the family, something is letting Donatello open up enough for him to share his fears.

“There was one loop…Mikey broke…he broke the remote…When I said I didn’t have time to fix it. He threw the pieces at my head. He would never do that, though…right?”

“No, of course not,” Splinter answers immediately, quick to banish the doubt from his son’s mind. Donatello only blinks at him, like his thoughts are moving too slow, and cannot comprehend such a simple, stark contradiction to what he experienced.

“It felt so real…it all feels so real. But…I could feel how one of the sharp, broken corners had cut through my mask and how the wet fabric stuck to my skin with blood.”

Donatello raises a hand and touches the spot where the phantom wound must’ve sat. The pain now gone, but the memory of it haunts his eyes and rattles the tremors building in his hands.

“I thought…I thought I was handling this—maybe not well…But I’d hoped I would be strong enough to last until you all came for me…And now Raph is saying it’s already over.”

It’s a simplified form of the truth which they had tried to get Purple to believe, but even that much clearly doesn’t sit well with him. “If it is over, why does my body feel like one massive bruise? How did you all find me? How long did I last? Was I in there long enough to…?”

He’s clearly scared to ask Splinter any more questions, so he trails off, curling in on himself and pulling his hands up to his chest, pressing there, as if checking to make sure he feels something still beating.

Splinter decides he’s waited long enough and slowly pulls Donatello out of his hunched ball and guides his head to his own chest, making sure his ear is aligned against his own pulsing heartbeat.

Donatello resists slightly at first, but the moment he’s close enough to catch the sound, his breath catches and he glues himself to the spot.

“I don’t want to be there anymore,” Purple murmurs. It sounds like sleep is catching up with his son, the exhaustion pulling him down and slurring his words.

Splinter cups the back of Donatello’s head and carefully tug his fur lined blanket down from where it’s been sitting on the back of his chair. The blanket slots over the both of them and Donatello curls even closer to his father, tucking himself into his warmth.

“Go to sleep, when you wake up, you will be right here.” He’s sure to say it softly but with as much reassurance as possible, and Donatello seems too tired at this point to hold onto his doubts.

“Okay…,” Donatello mutters. Then, practically hanging on to the waking world for one final query hesitantly asks, “…Dad?…Do you love me?”

Splinter doesn’t even think. “Of course, my son.”

Donatello’s breathing finally evens out, and Splinter feels a few tears finally escape.

He’s not sure what next steps they should take, or what kind of state his son will be in when he wakes, but Splinter can only hope this is progress. He prays it won’t be undone…but regardless, Donatello is home. Any steps back or forward will be taken together, and that is the most important part.

[zorostitties]

Aurora; 7 (m)

⤕ Your existence had been an endless night, where shadows whispered long forgotten secrets. Trapped in a golden cage, your fragile mind and shattered memories were chains that kept you from dreaming of freedom. Then, he appeared with the first light of dawn, like a gentle sun warming your cold skin. In his gaze, the promise of a new beginning; in his presence, the sunrise your soul had longed for.

In which Alucard saves you from Erzsebet.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: angst, romance, slow burn, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, mental health issues, grief, physical abuse.

rating: 18+

word count: 5k

A/N: HELLO Y'ALL!!! This one is coming a little earlier than usual because I am more anxious to update than y'all are anxious to read lmao Past chapter had so many comments!!! I'm glad you guys liked it so much. It was such a fun chapter to write! Hope y'all will like this one as much! ALSO checks page HOW MANY KUDOS??? WHAT THE HELL??? 😭😭 Thank you so much!!! It truly means so much to me 😭😭 Anyway let me shut up lol enjoy!! <3

⤕  Masterlist  ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Playlist

Guilt was a feeling Alucard avoided vehemently.

After you reach a certain age, you realize that there are some feelings and situations that you should avoid for your own sanity. One of them – perhaps the most important – is to avoid thinking too much about the past. One thing is to cherish the people you’ve met and loved, to keep some moments close to your heart; another thing is refuse that they will never come back and to avoid facing the present. Alucard knew quite well that this can sink you. That’s why he was constantly busying himself – traveling the world, meeting new cultures, learning new things.

Another thing he avoided – this one took him a long time to learn, a whole lot of grief to understand – was to… get too attached. And yes, this made him lonelier than ever. Yes, this wasn’t entirely healthy. He knew about all that. But his mortal heart wasn’t strong like his immortal body, and there was a moment in his life when he decided that he couldn’t take much more pain anymore. Stepping away from the Belmonts was… difficult, but was what the needed at the moment. He needed to let his heart heal, and the only thing that heals is time. Perhaps much more time than he first assumed.

And then there was guilt. Alucard didn’t like to feel guilt because it meant that he failed. Unfortunately, he wasn’t someone that could fail. His ways of life, his fights, the things he stood for usually involved countless innocent lives, so he couldn’t give himself the luxury of failing. Alucard was methodical, precise, insistent – not to say stubborn. Because yes, he could he stubborn –; he only accepted perfection of himself. Him succeeding meant no one suffered. Therefore, no guilt.

That’s why Alucard was partially hating himself at that moment. He’d felt more guilt in the span of 48 hours than in the last few years.

He almost couldn’t look at Ruby in the eye.

Luckily, she was sitting behind him as he guided the horse on the streets of Paris, so he wouldn’t have too see her for some moments – but her arms around his waist and the warmth of her body were a reminder that she was there.

His feelings were a bit… chaotic at the moment, to be honest. On one hand, he was glad – relieved – that Ruby had healed. On the other hand, he knew that the reason why she got so hurt in the first place was because of him. He told her she wouldn’t get hurt and he weren’t there to protect her, even if she claimed to have jumped in front of a night creature to save Annette. And then there was the other part of him (the methodical, precise and stubborn part of him) hissing that he shouldn’t be wasting time going to the Louvre because there was an army of vampires coming and he had to act.

But Alucard couldn’t tell her no. Not really. Not when she looked at him with that glow in her eyes – a glow of hope he hadn’t seen in her yet. Alucard couldn’t bring himself to be so cruel. Especially not after what she’d been through mere hours ago.

He owed her that.

Ruby was becoming a bigger mystery to him in more complicated ways than he first assumed. It didn’t involve only her unknown past, but also her behavior. It was difficult for him to understand how she was acting so normal after what she had just suffered. Sure, the methodical part of him was thankful to that – he had to act fast; quite frankly, he wouldn’t have time to wait until she recovered. If her healing took longer than it did, he would have a real problem at hands, and if she was frozen in shock, it would also be a problem.

But then there was his mortal heart speaking into his mind, too. It never shut up, unfortunately.

There was something so deeply wrong with Ruby.

The more time he spent with her, the more he watched her, the more he heard her heart race and her fingers shake at the most casual situations – like walking into a crowd or mustering courage to speak –, the more he realized that Ruby didn’t have any care for herself, the angrier he got.

Alucard also avoided getting too angry. Anger was a form of attachment as well; it tied the ones he despised to him. Anger could take a person like him – eternal and powerful – down a very dangerous path. Anger led to wrath, which let to hatred.

But again�� it was getting hard for Alucard to keep his feelings in place. Not when he could still feel the now faint smell of Ruby’s blood.

In fact, he thought she was going to die.

Her blood was everything Alucard could feel the moment he stepped out of the Seine. He knew it was Ruby’s; he got quite familiar with it due to that scratch on her heel as they walked to Juste’s cottage. It was so strong that he almost could see the air turning red. It must’ve drawn the attention of every vampire in the area.

And then he rushed to the palace and saw her in that state.

She can heal, Alucard tried to convince himself, but could she, really? He’d seen her heal from cuts, not multiple fractures and mass bleeding. Those wounds meant death to any human and vampire, unless they could drink blood to strengthen their healing process.

Alucard barely knew her. He was still a tiny bit suspicious of her – of her cloudy past, at least. And yet, the thought of Ruby dying scared him.

Not many things scared him.

Death was one of those things. Not the fear of facing death himself, but having to watch someone close to him die. Alucard was far too familiar with the feeling and he never got used to it.

If Ruby had died at that moment, he’d carry that scar with him for a long time. She didn’t even had a chance to live. She didn’t even remember if she had lived before her imprisonment. If Ruby had died, it wouldn’t only be painful; it would be unfair.

So yes, he got scared. Yes, he held her close and tried to ease her pain – Hell, she looked in so much pain, even if she didn’t scream – because it was the only thing he could do. The Universe couldn’t be so cruel to that woman to just let her die like that. It… it couldn’t.

To his utter relief, Ruby healed. Her skin closed the wounds, the bleeding stopped, she finally passed out and slept for a bit.

Mixed with his relief was also confusion.

Her healing was far more powerful than Alucard first assumed. Alucard didn’t know many vampires that could heal from injuries so serious.

What was Ruby?

Why did she have this strange condition? How did she achieve it? For what end?

Alucard wanted to know. He needed to know. Erzsebet must’ve had a reason not only to keep her, but also to want to retrieve her.

The white-haired vampire instinctively held the reins a bit tighter as he remembered Drolta.

Ruby’s face of pure panic. Fuck, he couldn’t take her expression off his mind. The way Drolta was twirling that necklace around her finger. A ruby necklace. Everything made sense at that moment.

Her nonchalance after getting injured, the little care she had for herself, her fear and hesitance…

These things were growing on him in an ugly way.

A week ago, Erzsebet and Drolta were just two maniacal cult leaders that needed to be stopped. It wasn’t exactly personal. Alucard had dealt with vampires like them many times in his life.

Now, however, he not only needed to stop them – he wanted to kill them.

And this time, he would make sure that they were gone. He would personally make sure that Drolta was actually dead. He would make sure to slash her head off her neck and burn her body to ashes.

He would make sure to shatter that necklace to pieces.

Alucard couldn’t heal Ruby’s soul, but he hoped that their death, at least, would bring her some peace.

Alucard pulled the reins and made the horse gallop significantly slower until it stopped.

“What’s the problem?” Ruby asked close to his ear as she tried to peek ahead over his shoulder.

“The streets around the palace are blocked.” Alucard tightened his eyes a bit. Soldiers barricaded the entrance to the front square of the Louvre, trying to keep a crowd of curious people away. The man let a tired sigh. “Well, I guess I should’ve expected it.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “We’ll have to sneak in by foot.” Ruby nodded. She dismounted from the horse first, being shortly followed by him.

Alucard wandered his eyes around the crowd. They chatted suspiciously among themselves. “I heard an attack happened,” someone said, while another person murmured that “my cousin’s a guard, he told me it were the royalists that wanted to avenge the King,” or someone else said “This is all fake! It’s just to keep our attention here. Another faction is planning to take the country overnight as we speak!”

But then, some young voices caught his attention the most. Three boys discussed excitedly among themselves.

“He’s obviously lying,” the boy in the middle said, crossing his arms and frowning. “Don’t believe him.”

“I’m tellin’ ya!” The shortest of the three insisted, gesticulating excitedly. “I saw a dragon flyin’ inside the palace. Then, some minutes later, I saw another winged thing flying away!”

“It could’ve been a bird.”

“It wasn’t a bird! Never seen a bird so big in my life!”

“Your eyesight isn’t even that good anyway. He said he saw a crocodile in the Seine last week, remember?”

“Hey– you said you saw it, too!”

Alucard couldn’t help but feel a bit of his tension dissipate. The sight was... a bit familiar.

He made a sharp whistle, immediately calling the three boys’ attention.

“Do you lads mind watching my horse for a while?” Alucard said, still holding the reins with one hand. He shook the small coin pouch in his palm.

Their eyes immediately gleamed excitedly. They clumsily made their way to approach him, bumping into each other and grinning.

“Of course, sir!” The shortest one saluted Alucard as if he were a soldier.

The tallest one, noticing Ruby standing near, bowed awkwardly, pinching the tip of his worn out beret. “Mademoiselle,” he said in a high pitched voice. Then, his eyes rapidly traveled from her to Alucard, and he coughed. “I mean– madame.” The two other boys imitated his action like tiny echoes, all equally clumsy.

They earned an endeared smile from her. She held her skirt and bobbed a small curtsy graciously in return.

The three blushed.

Alucard inhaled a small chuckle.

“We won’t take long, so stay in the area.” The white-haired vampire said, catching the boys’ attention again. The shortest one seemed to be some sort of leader of the group, as he was the one to approach and hold the reins. Alucard swiftly placed a coin on each of their open palms. “Rest of the payment when I get back.”

“Thank you, sir!” They said in unison, eyes glued in their shiny coins.

The one that looked the oldest tightened his eyes. “Hm, may I ask, sir, what exactly is your business here? The palace is blocked, as you can see.”

Alucard tightened his eyes at him, too. “I certainly see that it’s blocked, and I certainly wouldn’t advise you boys to get any closer to it.” Then, he dropped his voice, his tone picking their attention once again. “I wonder, however, if you were to get closer to it, which street would you pick?”

They eyed each other. The tallest boy coughed again.

“Well, if I were to get closer to it, I would pick an alley behind the Perrault street… most people don’t gather around there, so…”

“...Less guards,” the oldest completed.

Alucard nodded. He placed one more coin on each of their hands. They giggled.

He pointed ahead with his head to Ruby. However, as he was turning around to leave, he stopped and looked at them.

“By the way, what you saw is correct,” Alucard said in a quiet, serious voice. They all froze. “But that wasn’t a dragon; it was a demon. The city is in danger. When we get back, you boys should get your families and hide.”

He didn’t wait to see the boys’ reaction. Ruby, however, lingered her gaze a little longer on them before following him.

A quiet sadness clouded her eyes, made her shoulders drop a bit. She interlocked her hands on her lower stomach as she walked. It seemed to be a standard quirk of hers, besides the one of gripping her skirt when she was nervous. This specific movement as she walked, however, was very… polite.

Alucard didn’t exactly like it.

Not because he didn’t appreciate good manners. Ruby was, in fact, very gracious in anything she did – from her impeccable posture at all times to the way she sat or the way she ate, the way she held cutlery, the way she never raised her voice too much, or even how she insisted in calling him sir when they first met. She had the good manners of a high society lady.

But Alucard knew that all of this was a product of what she had endured. Making herself smaller, quieter, imperceptible. Ruby didn’t do any of that to impress anyone or to fit into some sort of societal standard. She did it because she was afraid of bringing any attention upon her.

The more he observed her, the more he caught himself silently wishing Ruby would… slouch. Raise her voice, show anger or tiredness or boredom. Make it clear when she didn’t like something or voice her opinions without becoming a puddle of anxiety.

That’s one of the reasons why Alucard couldn’t bring himself to say no when she asked to go to the Louvre. Most of the time, she wasn’t brave enough to speak her mind and make requests. She felt comfortable enough at that moment to ask him. And… Alucard actually hated it, but he had also noticed that, sometimes, Ruby flinched away from him and seemed scared when he showed annoyance or moved too abruptly. Unfortunately, he still had similar physical traits of the ones who hurt her so much. The fact that she was growing comfortable around him made him feel… content.

Ruby looked down. “Poor kids. Their clothes are so worn out…”

“This is the situation for most children in this country. That is mainly why the revolution started.”

“...I guess Richter was right. How can a king have a palace this big while his people die of hunger?” She took some moments to speak again. “And if Erzsebet succeeds… she will make things worse.”

Alucard nodded. “Yes. But she won’t, because we’ll stop her.” He pointed with his finger to a nearby street. “Let’s go.”

They quickened their pace, keeping silent for most of the way. Most streets were crowded by a mass of curious people; the news traveled fast, and it seemed that everyone forgot about the execution earlier and decided to gather at this part of the city. Paris was drowned in chaos. Most soldiers were too worried trying to quiet down the population. How could they even prepare for the incoming battle?

Finally, they arrived at the alley the boy had mentioned – and the little bastard was right. It was a dirty small alley where most people avoided, only being guarded by two soldiers that weren’t paying much attention to their job.

At last, Alucard stopped walking in a spot out of their sight. The back view of the palace was just ahead. He turned around and looked down at Ruby, sending her a hesitant look.

“My apologies, but I will need to do that again.”

She widened her eyes slightly. “Oh. Okay.”

“...Do you think you can handle it this time?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll be fine.” She was clearly lying. Well, there was nothing he could do about that.

Alucard wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted her up slightly to a point her feet weren’t touching the ground anymore. He narrowed his eyes, visualizing the path he would have to make.

A familiar red glow enveloped his body–

He sprinted through the alley, passing in between both guards so fast that they didn’t even understand what was happening; to them it was just a sudden, violent gush of wind that made their hats fly away and their eyes widen in confusion.

And just like that, they were within the palace’s gardens.

Alucard put Ruby on the floor again. She was visibly dizzy, so he still held her arm for support. She blinked several times, as if trying to fade the vertigo away.

“It… wasn’t that bad this time,” she lied again. It didn’t look like she wanted to vomit this time, though. Alucard smiled slightly and let go of her arm.

“Do you remember in which room you found the artifact?” He asked quietly, worrying that anyone would hear them. He didn’t want to have to confront any human.

“The same where I was trying to hide in,” Ruby looked around the tall building. “The night creature came crashing through the window. We can use it to get in.”

Alucard nodded, trying to remember in what section of the palace that was…

Then he realized that he didn’t need to remember anything, because the scent of her blood was still very much in the air. They didn’t even have time to clean it. Alucard turned his head in the direction where the scent was stronger.

“There. Let’s go.”

They walked fast, Alucard always placing his body in front of her, walking near the wall under the windows to not get caught. They crossed paths with some guards, but luckily were not seen. He wondered why the hell did that place need to be so horizontally big.

Finally, the sight of a destroyed window appeared ahead. As the building had a double height ceiling, it’d be necessary to climb to get through the window. Alucard gesticulated for Ruby to wait. His sword unsheathed itself and floated up; through the reflection on the shiny iron, he saw that although the doors were opened, the gallery was empty.

Alucard once again wrapped his arm around her waist and floated, graciously passing through the window. As soon as their feet landed on the floor, he nodded his head softly; the double doors closed and locked.

He let go of her and she stepped aside.

The gallery was absolutely destroyed; debris and glass everywhere, broken pieces of the wooden crates, rags of once was a curtain around the floor, statues and paintings destroyed… and blood. A lot of blood.

Ruby widened her eyes at the sight of her own dried blood over the floor. It seems she hadn’t realized how much she bled. She gulped and averted her gaze somewhere else.

“It seems they didn’t start to clean things up yet,” she stated the obvious in a nervous tone.

“They’re probably measuring the damage first. It’ll take them a few days,” Alucard crossed his arms, his eyes wandering over the room. He, in fact, felt bad about all that. So many artifacts were destroyed during the fight… thousands of years of art and history went to waste. It was especially outrageous how Drolta didn’t care about the damage at the Egyptian gallery, given that she came from those same ancient times. She had no respect for her own culture anymore.

“Is it here?” he asked, paying attention to her again.

Ruby hummed quietly.

She walked towards the doors, looking for something on the floor. She tip toed around a pool of blood, trying to avoid stepping on it at all costs. Alucard followed her, albeit keeping a good distance so she could scoop the area without his interference.

Finally, she gasped and rushed to grab something at the corner of the room, near the wall. It was hidden behind a destroyed crate.

Ruby turned around, holding a golden scepter with both hands. Her eyes glowed with afraid amazement.

“This is it,” she confirmed.

They approached each other, meeting at the center of the gallery. Alucard analyzed the artifact she held. It was almost as tall as her with a symbol of the sun at its tip. Throughout the entire staff, there were tiny writings engraved. Although it was golden, it wasn’t much adorned; other than the symbol of the sun and the intricate sun rays in the form of curvy spikes, it was very plain. It appeared to be something used in religious ceremonies.

“What happened exactly when you held it for the first time?” He asked.

Ruby looked down at the scepter. “It was covered in rust. I didn’t even know what I was looking at. Then, when I held it, it got… hot. And it shone.”

“It shone?” Alucard quirked one eyebrow up.

“Yes. So bright that I had to close my eyes. And then… all the rust was gone.”

“And after that?”

Ruby pressed her lips together. “...Nothing. The night creature came in and I dropped it.”

Alucard nodded. “Do you feel anything strange right now?”

She shook her head slightly. “No.” She lifted the object closer to his eyes. “But, see? The writings? It’s that same language. Do you recognize what this is?”

Alucard narrowed his eyes. “Can I?”

Ruby handed him the scepter, which he held with both hands. It was quite heavy – actual pure gold. It was a miracle that the royal French family didn’t melt it, or whoever was in possession of the artifact it previously. He brought it close to his face, analyzing the scriptures.

The characters appeared to be organized vertically instead of horizontally, very similar to Mandarin or Japanese structures of writing. These characters, however, meant nothing to him. They weren’t rounded like Sanskrit, weren’t allusive of animals or nature like Egyptian hieroglyphs or ancient Mandarin, and they didn’t resemble the common Latin alphabet. At most, it reminded him a bit of Sumerian writing, given how simplistic the characters seemed to be – but if it really was Sumerian, Alucard would’ve known.

“You know how to read it, but don’t understand the meaning of the words?” Alucard asked without taking his eyes off the scepter.

“Yes.”

“So, each character means a sound.” Ruby nodded. Phonetic, as he suspected, since the characters repeated themselves over and over again.

“Do you have any idea of what it is?” she repeated, sounding hopeful.

Alucard pressed his lips together.

He really missed Sypha in moments like this.

She would’ve immediately known what it was – or at least, had an idea of how to start investigating the origins of this strange language. Alucard became quite good at learning new languages over the years, but not as good as her. Never.

It felt like there was an invisible cold hand pressing around his heart – like it did anytime he thought of her.

“Unfortunately no.” Alucard shook his head. Ruby’s shoulders dropped. “Let’s not be discouraged. This artifact definitely has magic in it; I can feel it.” Yes, it vibrated under his palm in a high frequency – a metaphysical frequency, like all magic things did. It didn’t reek of demonic magic or negative alchemy either. It felt quite neutral; Alucard couldn’t tell what type of magic it stored.

The white-haired vampire frowned.

“And it certainly doesn’t like me.”

Ruby tilted her head to the side, visibly confused. “What?”

There was a strange sensation in his gut. A certain aggressiveness. Alucard didn’t feel like the scepter could actually hurt him, but the bad feeling was there anyway. He handed the artifact back to Ruby; the moment it left his hands, the sensation was gone.

“Some magical items don’t accept being touched by anyone. Some can only be touched by their masters.”

“Like your sword?” She asked, eyeing the weapon that was still protectively floating near Alucard’s body.

“Precisely.” Alucard shrugged. “Or it just doesn’t like me because I am part vampire.” At her utter confusion, he decided to elaborate. “In magic terms, my existence is an aberration. A half-human, half-vampire being goes against the natural order.”

She pressed her lips and looked down. “...But it’s not your fault.”

Alucard chuckled softly. It sounded like she felt bad for him, which he found quite endearing. “The scepter doesn’t know it.”

They were interrupted when someone tried to open the doors. Both turned around immediately, Ruby visibly startled at the sudden sound.

“Who’s in there?” a male voice was heard from the other side. “Open the doors!”

“Let’s go,” Alucard hurried towards the window again. Yet, she froze in place.

“Do we take it with us?”

“Of course.”

“Isn’t it stealing?”

He couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed at her. Alucard stepped closer again. “Everything here was stolen from some other country, Ruby. They won’t miss it.”

And then, he was holding her close to his body again, floating out of the palace through the window. The sword obediently sheathed itself again. However, when he stepped foot on the grass, he didn’t let go of her.

“I’ll have to…”

“Yes. I understand,” she nodded before he could finish, tightening the scepter close to her chest.

Alucard felt a tiny bit bad for a moment before sprinting out of the palace’s gardens in a red blur. She seemed to handle the post-dizziness a bit better this time, though.

They hurried around the streets. Ruby held the artifact with nervousness.

“This thing isn’t exactly subtle,” she said between gritted teeth. Indeed. An object made of gold wasn’t something you could hold around and act nonchalant about.

“I can hide it under my cape if you want,” he offered, to which she shook her head.

“No. If it makes you feel bad, I’d rather not.” It seemed she really didn’t think before saying that, because she froze for a moment and immediately avoided his gaze.

Alucard knew that if he chuckled it’d make her feel bad, so he swallowed it.

They didn’t take long to reach their destination with their fast pace. The street appeared a bit less crowded now. And there they were – the three boys sitting on the sidewalk, the horse obediently beside them. They got up in a jump.

“Here it is, sir!” The tallest presented.

“We took care of it. See?” The oldest boasted.

“Some men even wanted to take it away, but we fought valiantly!” It was the youngest’ turn to lie with a grin.

Alucard opened a small smile and took the reins again. “You did a good job, indeed. As promised, the rest of the payment.”

Their grins got even bigger when the white-haired vampire deposited two more coins each over their open palms.

The shortest of the group then cleaned his throat and stepped further towards Ruby. He had both hands behind his back and an already apparent blush over his cheeks.

“Hm, sir! Respectfully!”

“Respectfully!” The tallest one reinforced. He fiddled with his beret nervously.

“We got madame a gift!”

“Out of respect!” The oldest one reinforced again.

The three eyed Alucard with much apparent nervousness, waiting for his… permission. Ruby looked down at the boys with quiet confusion.

Oh, this was getting funny.

Alucard shrugged and nodded. The three boys smiled again and turned to Ruby. Once again, the shortest cleaned his throat.

“Madame! We were attentively taking care of the horse when we saw something that could suit you!”

“I saw it,” the oldest one elbowed him.

“But it was my idea,” the short one hissed back before turning to her again. “Anyway, hm, here it is!”

Finally, he unveiled what he was hiding behind his back in an extravagant gesture: a lily flower.

Alucard looked behind them. On the other side of the street, under a windowsill, there was a vase full of lilies. He had to cross his arms and lower his head, trying to muffle a laugh.

“It matches your ribbon, madame,” the oldest remarked.

“I was the one to pick it. None of them could reach it but me,” the tallest said with pride.

Ruby watched the three boys with a bit of shock for some seconds.

Then, she smiled.

Not one of her small, timid smiles. For the first time, that smile reached her eyes, too. For the first time, it seemed that she wasn’t embarrassed for smiling; for the first time, her giggle wasn’t dry. Wasn’t clouded by sadness.

Alucard knew that it was the first time he was seeing the real Ruby – the person she was underneath the trauma, the fear, the anxiety; the person she didn’t even know she was yet. And at that moment, the glow of the golden scepter got pale in comparison to her.

Ruby lowered herself to get to their eye level. She took the flower and placed it inside the small pocket of her vest, right above her heart.

“What are your names?” she asked.

“Victor,” the tallest said.

“Pierre,” the oldest one.

“Oliver,” the shortest.

Ruby repeated their names, then patted their heads, rubbing their hair softly.

“This is very sweet, boys. Thank you so much. I promise I’ll take care of your gift.”

It looked like the three boys forgot how to close their mouths. They stared at her in awe, their faces completely red, their three little hearts beating at a rapid pace.

Alucard couldn’t blame them. Not when his own heart missed a beat.

Three hundred years didn’t make him much better than a little boy, after all.

“Ruby.” He called quietly. “We should go.” She nodded and straightened her posture. Alucard turned to the boys, and they all seemed utterly embarrassed when his gaze fell over them. “I wasn’t joking about what I said earlier. Tell your parents about it. After the sun goes down, do not leave your homes.”

The three tensed up at his words, but nodded accordingly. The short one – Oliver – seemed to be the smartest, too; he was the only one that paid attention to Alucard’s mouth and had a fast glimpse of his fangs, which made him get pale. Well… if that helped send the message across, he was fine with it. They finally started walking away.

Ruby waved them goodbye and they waved back, clumsily bumping into each other and elbowing one another. At last, they ran into the crowd again.

A ghost of that smile still lingered on her lips as she turned to him, touching the flower with care. Alucard mimicked her small smile.

“You just made their day.”

She looked shy again, and it made Alucard regret saying that a bit; he didn’t want her to feel embarrassed of herself, not after what he had witnessed. “No, you made their day by paying them.”

Alucard shook his head softly and closed his eyes for a moment.

“It doesn’t even compare.”

He looked down at her again.

This time, instead of the skirt, she gripped the scepter nervously.

Still, Alucard sustained her gaze for a few more seconds. He… enjoyed this. He liked how her attention was frozen on him, even for these brief moments. He liked the sensation of having the world around him blur as if he entered a parallel universe until she’d finally look away.

Alucard knew himself all too well. He didn’t bring himself the trouble of being in denial about anything. It was also one of the things he learned over the years, for the sake of his own sanity.

He understood why the entire mission was becoming personal to him very fast. He understood that, behind his growing anger towards Drolta and Erzsebet, there was something else growing, too – though he wasn’t sure if he’d act on it. No; it was way too early to assume anything. There were still many mysteries to solve, too much at stake, too much trust to be gained on both ends… and way too many traumas to get through, too.

For now, Alucard was satisfied with these small moments of sweetness.

Finally, he took the reins again, and then they were in a crowded street of a city in chaos, and not in a quiet parallel universe.

“Let’s go… madame,” he said jokingly, imitating the honorific the boys repeated over and over again. Ruby chuckled, at least.

Alucard was under the impression that, if Ruby knew what the implications of being called a madame meant, she wouldn’t be so calm about it.

He’d like to keep it as his little secret for now.

[opt1mistic]

ICE PLAY 𓍼ོ ft. itsohi sae.

cw: nsfw. like borderline smut but not really, at all actually? licking. nipple sucking. dacryphilia if you squint. wc: 1.1k.

the cold nips at your skin, running shivers over you as sae drags a melting cube of ice along your stomach. your toes curl, hands grasping at the sheets beneath you. the liquid glistens under the dim light, tracing ephemeral patterns across your skin, a fleeting, frozen touch that lingers far beyond its presence.

he does it again, dragging the ice over the same spot, over and over, until the cold becomes agonizing. your face twists, brows knitting together as you try to endure, but it’s unbearable, the sensation sinking deep into your bones, chilling you from the inside out.

sae, on the other hand, looks entirely unbothered. detached, almost, as if your trembling doesn’t phase him. as if the little whimpers you let slip each time the ice makes contact don’t burrow their way under his skin(they do). he watches the water trickle down, sliding over your stomach, pooling at the band of your panties, dampening the fabric to something nearly translucent.

his gaze flickers between your face and your body, his movements slow, deliberate. there is something in the way his fingers sway, like a silent command, something calculated in every brush of his touch.

when the ice drags up, slipping between the valley of your chest, over an already hardened nipple, your body jerks. the cold stretches far, wrapping around you, seeping into your very marrow. your hand instinctively shoots up, weak fingers encircling his wrist in an attempt to stop him, to catch your breath, to let warmth flood back into you. but your grip is pitiful—too frail, too frozen. sae barely spares it a glance, offering nothing but a quiet, firm look, and just like that, your hand drops.

he was going to be your demise.

what feels like the millionth ice cube melts away against your overheated skin, and just as you think he’s had his fill, sae reaches for another. but this time, instead of gliding it over your stomach, he presses it against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

your breath hitches.

your thighs squeeze together on instinct, seeking warmth, but the ice seeps through, bleeding into the already damp fabric of your underwear. salted tears sting at the corners of your eyes. sae doesn’t stop. one of his hands grips your thigh, prying it apart, forcing you to stay open for him. you try to press them back together, desperate for relief, but his hold is firm, leaving no room for escape.

“don’t be difficult,” his voice is calm, even, but there’s an edge to it, something dark curling beneath the surface.

you tremble as the ice trails higher, closer to where you burn the most, where the heat you so desperately crave pools. the cold is unbearable, but the ache is worse, a dull, throbbing pulse that demands to be soothed.

“sae…” your voice breaks, breathy and sweet, his name spilling from your lips in a soft, pleading whimper. it’s almost a sob, though not entirely from the cold. “no more.”

he doesn’t listen.

the ice glides over your clothed core, and a fractured moan escapes you. your fingers tighten in the sheets, knuckles white as you cling to something—anything—to ground yourself. the more he drags the ice, the more you writhe, frustration bleeding into every shift of your body. sae watches you, expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes, something that sharpens at the sight of you unraveling beneath him.

when the ice is little more than a sliver, sae leans in, his face hovering just above your belly. his lashes are thick, casting shadows against his cheeks as he tilts his head, mouth parting slightly. you know what he’s about to do. you watch him carefully, hold your breath as his tongue finally presses against your skin, licking away the remnants of cold in slow, deliberate strokes.

your breath stutters.

he’s watching you the entire time. he always does. and you know if you were to look away, he’d stop, would wait—patiently, cruelly—until your eyes were locked with his once more. there’s no winning with him.

his tongue travels higher, dragging over your chest, his lips closing around your nipple. the warmth of his mouth is a stark contrast to the ice that came before it, the heat burning through you, sending another shiver down your spine. he bites, pulls, sucks until your sensitive skin is dark with blooming color, until your body trembles beneath him. one hand remains on your hip, squeezing, grounding, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

tears threaten to spill again, the overwhelming sensations too much, not enough, all at once.

“you cry too easy.” sae murmurs, pulling away just enough to speak, his voice low, almost amused. his fingers trace over your damp skin, his touch featherlight, teasing.

and just like that, he’s reaching for another ice cube.

[aventurineswife]

The Herta's Voicelines about her S/O

Requested by: @queeremogurl

A/N: I hope you like this!!

Aventurine's ver | Ratio's ver | Sunday's ver | Luka's ver | Kaveh's ver | Shadow's (OC) ver

The Enigma of Them

Ah, them. Quite an intriguing specimen, aren't they? I never expected someone with so much... unquantifiable charm. It makes me question my own understanding of connection. But it’s precisely because of their unpredictability that I find them fascinating.

First Meeting: Unexpected Encounter

The first time I met them, I was... intrigued. They certainly didn’t seem like the type to fit neatly into my carefully constructed theories. There was something—dare I say it—entirely human about them. But I must admit, I wasn’t expecting their brilliance. It took me a moment to accept that, perhaps, I was not the only genius in the room.

First Date: Surprising Delight

Our first date, if you can even call it that, was a rather... unexpected delight. I thought it would be a mere formality—an exchange of information, a brief distraction. But they surprised me, as they always do. Their ability to blend warmth and wit with intellectual discourse? It’s an art form. I didn’t realize how pleasant that could be.

Thinking About Them: Uncontrollable Fascination

I often find myself lost in thought about them. They’re a strange paradox—a perfect blend of intellect and emotion, something I never thought I’d find so... distracting. They possess a curiosity I can’t help but admire, even if it does sometimes challenge my own. It’s almost as though they’ve made a science of capturing my attention.

Favorite Times Spent With Them: Cherished Moments

There are few moments I treasure as much as when we’re alone together, lost in a shared puzzle or debate. The way they think—so differently from anyone I’ve encountered—has a peculiar allure. But it’s not just that. It’s the way they make the ordinary feel extraordinary. I suppose, in a way, I treasure every second spent with them. Even if I never quite admit that to their face.

Plans for the Future: Endless Possibilities

Future plans? Hm. It’s difficult to say. I’m certain that they’ll accompany me in whatever mind-bending venture I embark on, though. After all, I’m certain they’ll find the same joy I do in unraveling the very fabric of existence. Whether it’s exploring the deepest corners of the cosmos or simply enjoying a quiet moment, I imagine they’ll be there... possibly making it more interesting than it has any right to be.

Unshakable Trust

I trust them more than I trust most. That in itself is a strange admission, considering my penchant for total intellectual independence. But there's something about them—a sincerity, an understanding. When they look at me, it’s not through the lens of expectation or judgment. It’s... refreshing. Almost as though they see me, not just the image I’ve constructed for the universe.

Irreplaceable

Perhaps I’ve made an error in judgment, allowing them so close. But when the brilliance of their mind and the warmth of their spirit intersect... well, I’m not inclined to let go. I’ll be watching closely—of course. But I trust them more than anyone else.

[viperify]

𝗔𝗨 | ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Moonlight Cravings.

Short summary: Vampire!Tom has known he’d make you his ever since he first met you. When his need for your blood grows unbearably strong, he knows it’s time to finally make a move.

A/N: As I plan on writing more than just one full-length fic for my Vampire AU anyway and haven’t had the time to work on it yet, I thought I’d get started with a how-vampire!Tom-would-slowly-declare-his-presence-in-your-life drabble/fic.

wordcount: 1,0k

Tom’s presence looms over your life like a shadow. He seems to be wherever you go, and though he never pays you much attention, he still is there. Either casually leaning against the wall near the class you are attending next or accompanying his friends to the Three Broomsticks when you are there as well. Which is quite ironic, considering most people know Tom doesn’t even like butterbeer.

In fact, you are not quite sure if he likes anything really. Each time you share a class, Tom is mostly quiet, except for his witty remarks whenever professors ask questions. Even outside the classroom he doesn’t talk much, mostly found in the library with his head buried in books. Well, as long as you are in the library as well, that is.

You don’t think too much of it. It’s Tom Riddle, after all—naturally one of the most handsome men you have ever laid eyes on, but oh so unreachable. You vividly remember a girl back in your third year asking him to attend the Yule Ball with her. It was a decision she made against the advice of practically everyone she asked, and it ended exactly the same way you had told her it would. Things like these never end well with him, so you don’t even attempt questioning his behaviour—instead, you think you are utterly delusional for even assuming there could be anything between the two of you.

Tom, on the other hand, is entirely consumed by you. From the moment he first caught your unmistakably sweet scent, he knew he had to have you, his mind going blank every time you simply passed him in the corridors. It’s as if there is a force pulling him towards you, one that he can’t control, one that clouds his mind and strips him of any sane thoughts he had left. Taming his needs as a vampire has never been difficult. Not until he met you, that is.

And as soon as bouquets of your favourite flowers show up in your dorm every other week, accompanied with small gifts like your pralines of choice, you can’t help but wonder whether there was a chance Tom’s strange behaviour did have something to do with this. It’s these thoughts that keep you up at night and make you zone out in class. There is not much you can do except wonder who it is that admires you, but you sure have a guess.

During yet another restless night, you decide to get up and take a walk through the castle to calm your mind. The hallways are faintly illuminated by the moon’s glow, shining brightly as it completes yet another full circle around the earth. Although your steps are as quiet as they can possibly be, you soon feel the air shift around you, as though someone is watching you. But when you turn around, no one is there.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around the castle this late at night.” A voice coming from your right remarks, and you almost drop your wand, heart hammering wildly in your chest in response to the unexpected interruption. A tall figure emerges from behind a pillar then, and it takes you less than one second to figure out who it is. You had forgotten that Tom Riddle also happened to be a prefect.

It’s too dark to make out much of his face, but there is an undeniable red glow that flickers in his otherwise dark brown eyes. Before you can even process the thought, he blinks, and it’s gone. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly as he takes in your startled expression, raising his eyebrow expectantly.

 “I suppose I- I couldn’t sleep. You must know, walking helps to clear my mind.” You manage to get out, and although it isn’t a lie, your hesitation sure made it sound like one.

Tom huffs. “A selfish action that just cost your house ten points. Now, you surely wouldn’t mind me escorting you to your respective dormitories?”

You don’t try to argue—it is still Tom Riddle you’re dealing with after all. Instead, you respond with a small nod and retrace your steps with him by your side.

“What might your mind be troubled with?” he asks then, his voice cutting through the silence of the night. The question makes you tense slightly, your fingers curling tighter around your wand. It’s the first time he actively looks for a conversation, the first time his presence feels intended and real.

You take a breath, not exactly knowing what to respond. “Your seemingly seventh sense for my whereabouts“ doesn’t seem like an appropriate answer after all.

The upcoming exam season saves you from the awkwardness. Although he doesn’t seem to fully believe you, he lets it go, not speaking another word until you disappear behind your dormitory door.

But even then, you can’t seem to sleep, the image of the red glow in his eyes lingering in your mind. You know there is something you can connect it to, and soon, a memory of a Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson in your second year resurfaces.

Full moon. Pale skin. Red eyes. They all match, and yet you find it hard to believe. Vampires have been extinct for nearly 400 years in Great Britain, there was no real reason for you to think he could be one.

Right?

[it-happened-one-fic]

Gluttony - Leona

Author Notes: It was actually really difficult to choose what I was going to post this week. But I've been a little busy lately, so I finally just chose this one rather than working on polishing some of my other fics. I wrote this one to the song "Too Sweet" by Hozier and that most certainly showed in the writing. With that said though, I'm pretty pleased with how this fic turned out. As per usual, reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender neutral reader/ fluff/ some angst with comfort/ romance implied/ some pining/ sfw

Word count: 1528

Leona opened his eyes groggily, a frown on his face, as soon as the sun shone down through the leaves of the tree that hung over him, briefly blinding him before he sat up.

A hum from his left had his ears twitching before he twisted to see you lying right by his side. A slight smile on your face as the shadows of the leaves swayed across your form, and he felt his eyebrows raise.

He wasn’t particularly surprised to see you, though he knew the same couldn’t be said for anyone who might have seen you here.

Leona was no fool. He knew that you and him were pretty much perfect opposites. That’s why everyone always looked so confused when you were walking along beside him. Chattering away with a happy expression or teasing him about something that had recently gone in a way he hadn’t planned for it to.

Leona was the hated second prince. It was his burden, and it was one he’d carried his entire life. It was nothing new.

He was bitter, unpleasant, and something that people preferred to avoid either out of fear or powerful levels of distaste.

And then there was you. Sweet and far more optimistic than he thought he could ever be. And perhaps more interestingly, you were no fool. You knew everything wasn’t flowers and dreams. How could you not when you lived in a place like Ramshackle dorm and didn’t even have a way to get home? 

You were seemingly trapped in a world that wasn’t your own, but you didn’t let that stop you. Instead, you just keep going with your head held high, a smile on your face, and a laugh on your lips as you shrugged it off. It was admirable.

But it also simply wasn’t him. And that was something he knew perfectly well.

That simple fact was also the exact reason your classmates would find it so odd to see you slumbering here by his side and not somewhere else with someone who was a better match for your sweet disposition.

Leona leaned forward, propping his head on his chin as he looked down at where you slept by his side. You’d come here to study in the botanical garden while he’d slumbered next to you. It was something you often did, though he couldn’t fathom why.

It was almost like you either wanted the company or didn’t want him to be lonely. Either of which was ridiculous, since he could think of plenty of people who’d want to be your study buddy, and he certainly didn't want company for his naps.

But then, Leona also didn’t mind your presence, though he had his own reasons for not running you off.

Leona tilted his head slightly, sighing at the sight of you, before pulling the book whose corner was jabbing into your side out of your hands and setting it off to the side where you’d quickly find it after waking up.

He idly scanned the area, half rolling his eyes as he confirmed that your feline companion was nowhere to be seen.

Grim had no doubt long since abandoned you in favor of avoiding anything even close to work.

As for you, Leona didn’t know if you were foolish or bold to have fallen asleep right next to him with no one around to protect you. But here you were curled up at his side, as if he weren’t someone who could easily harm you and were instead someone who would take care of you should you need it.

Which wasn’t something he could really deny to himself, but you didn’t need to know that.

After all, you’d seen him when he’d overblotted and you knew he wasn’t a good person. That should have been enough to send you scrambling to get away from him. But instead, here you were. 

And it was ridiculous.

It was true that it might have taken Jack a little while to realize that Leona wasn’t someone he needed to look up to, but Leona’s actions at the Spelldrive competition had cleared up Jack’s misunderstandings about him. 

Ruggie had always known what sort of person Leona was. It was one of the reasons he hung around. After all, there was safety in sticking close to people like Leona, so long as you remembered what they were truly like.

Both realized, for better or worse, that Leona was not a misunderstood individual who was secretly good. He was jaded, always beaten by others, and essentially worthless.

But then there was you, who was seemingly unbothered by any of this. 

And it wasn’t even like you didn’t believe Leona’s flaws existed; he could work with that. Instead, it was almost like you didn’t care. Like you didn’t really expect him to change outside of your occasional prodding for him to take better care of himself.

You saw his flaws—that much he knew from the times you had bickered with him over something—but you just seemed to accept them. The same way you just seemed to accept other people’s flaws as something that was just a part of them. Only ever really scolding others, or even Leona himself, when their actions either harmed themselves or others.

And that's how Leona knew you were simply too sweet for him. Too sweet for him to endure being near, but simultaneously too sweet for him to turn away.

It was just another show of how worthless he was at anything he tried to do and how little his own efforts mattered. He could try to push you away, but he couldn’t ever stop himself from clinging to you. 

As if you were one of the last sweet bits of his otherwise bitter life. A potent method of making everything else seem to fall away and be ignored so long as he just gets a fleeting taste of that kindness.

And Leona had tried to ignore you, but it was somehow impossible, even when he knew that being close to him could easily taint that sweetness of yours and turn it into a bitterness more like his.

But Leona also knew that you and him were all but opposites, and that was probably where the attraction of being near you lay.

Though that realization did nothing to lessen that attraction, no matter how frustrating it might be.

You shifted, letting out some sort of groggy sound and causing him to snort in amusement at your lethargic movements that had you shifting closer to him as if you craved his warmth. Coming closer to him instead of distancing yourself like you should.

It was ridiculous, watching you now, to think that you’d somehow bested him in the past. But you had. You’d beaten him as well as numerous others at their own game. Making them look like fools, as you seemed to change things simply by existing.

And maybe you did. After all, you weren’t of this world. And perhaps that was why it was so hard for him to detach himself from you.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you twisted to look up at the lion beastman, who didn’t even bother hiding his amusement as you blinked up at him before groggily sitting up, “What time is it?”

Leona glanced around, his ears twitching slightly as he listened to the distant sounds of students chattering as they left their club areas before he looked back your way, “Time to be getting back to the dorms. Club practice has already let out.”

You nodded, not looking terribly surprised and seemingly resigned to having lost the rest of your study period.

“Have you seen Grim?” You frowned lightly as you glanced around, and Leona snorted, leaning back and relaxing once more against the ground, lazily watching you as you collected your books.

“Nope,” At the single word you glanced over at him with raised eyebrows that almost made him want to take back all the previous thoughts he’d had about you being sweet.

But then that tiny bit of bite you had to you only ever seemed to emphasize your sweetness. It was what kept you interesting and at odds with the fools at RSA.

Because, unlike them, you managed to have a certain degree of cunning even with your sweetness. After all, he hadn’t been lying that day when he’d told Azul that you were far more dastardly than the scheming cephalo-punk was.

That was probably another reason why Leona had given up on pushing you away and had even come to expect your presence. He was a glutton for punishment, and with you being a villain that was sweet enough to even catch him unawares, you were certainly enough to keep him on his toes. 

His gaze held yours even as he felt yet another chip in the wall of his defenses fall away, despite the fact that he’d always maintained these walls around himself.

He may not want to let you in, but you really were too sweet for him, and it was reaching the point that Leona was becoming more and more willing to let himself give into his gluttony.

[homeybadger]

Shadow and Memes

Warning(s): very mild references to existentialism, brief mentions of blood/injuries, faint discussion of trauma

Note(s): Just so you guys know- my requests are open!

Pairing(s): Shadow x Reader (platonic)

Summary: After the world almost ends, you take a vacation to the woods and stumble upon an injured Shadow. Somehow, that leads to memes.

The cabin was supposed to be your escape- a quiet place to get away from the chaos of the past months. After the near-destruction of the world, you needed time to breathe, to remember what it felt like to exist without the constant shadow of disaster looming overhead.

Black pines surrounded the small, rustic cabin you’d rented for the season, isolating you from the rest of the world. The only sounds were the gentle rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird, the scent of moss and earth occasionally wafting in to join your scented candles. The cabin was stocked with books you hadn't opened yet, a stack of old DVDs, and enough groceries to last you several weeks.

At first, you thought the peace would finally help you decompress. But then, just a week into your retreat, you found him.

It happened when you were out by the edge of the property, collecting firewood. The ground was still damp from last night’s rain, and the cool morning air filled your lungs as you worked. You were about to turn back when something caught your eye- a shadow darker than the forest floor. There, slumped against a tree trunk, was a figure.

At first, you thought it might’ve been a wounded animal, but as you drew closer, the figure came into focus- a hedgehog, but not an ordinary one. His fur was sleek and jet black, streaked with vivid red.

His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, and his body was covered in dirt and dried blood. One of his arms hung limply at his side, the fur matted with crimson. His face was tense even in unconsciousness, his jaw tight as if bracing for pain.

Your first instinct was to run. After everything you’d heard about what happened in San Francisco, about the alien creatures that looked like him, you weren’t entirely sure this wasn’t some kind of elaborate trap.

But then you saw the way his hands twitched, the barely-there groan as his body shifted slightly against the tree. Whoever he was, he was hurt- and badly. Against your better judgment, you crouched down and reached for him.

“Hey,” you said softly, unsure if he could even hear you. “Are you-”

Before you could finish, his eyes snapped open. Crimson-red, glaring and sharp as a knife, locking onto you like a predator sizing up its prey.

He tried to sit up, but his body failed him, and he slumped back with a hiss of frustration.

“Stay back,” he growled, his voice low and rough.

“Okay, okay,” you said, raising your hands in surrender. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just-” You hesitated. “You’re injured. Let me help.”

“I don’t need your help,” he snapped, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his weakness.

You frowned. “Well, tough. You look like you can barely move, and I’m not just going to leave you out here to bleed out.”

His glare didn’t soften, but he didn’t argue, either. Taking his silence as reluctant permission, you carefully slipped an arm under him and helped him to his feet-or what you assumed were his feet. His entire body was tense against yours, and he flinched at every movement, his lips pulling back in a grimace.

“What’s your name?” you asked as you helped him limp toward the cabin.

He didn’t answer.

“Fine. I’ll just call you ‘Shadow,’ then,” you muttered, glancing at the distinctive streaks in his fur.

His ears twitched slightly, but he said nothing.

Shadow was… difficult, to say the least. He spent the first few days glaring at you from the couch, refusing most of your offers to help. He wouldn’t tell you what had happened to him, though the scars on his arms and the haunted look in his eyes told you enough to know it hadn’t been good.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said one night as you tried to convince him to let you change his bandages.

“No, I’m not,” you replied, your voice firm. “You’re alive, Shadow. That means you have a chance to… I don’t know, do something with that life. If I get to keep living after everything that happened, then so do you.”

He didn’t respond, but his glare softened just a fraction.

You quickly learned to navigate his boundaries. He didn’t like being touched, flinching away any time your hands got too close. Baths were out of the question; the mere suggestion of submerging him in water made him go rigid, his expression tight with barely concealed panic. He didn’t explain why, but the look in his eyes was enough to tell you it was more than just a dislike.

Shadow wasn’t much of a talker, but you filled the silence for both of you. You talked about the cabin, the forest, the stack of movies you planned to get through- whatever came to mind. He watched you warily, like he was waiting for a trap to spring, but you could see the way his ears twitched when something caught his interest.

He still refused help with his injuries, so you had to get creative. You left bandages on the coffee table, along with antiseptic and a small bowl of water. You caught him using them once, late at night when he thought you were asleep, muttering curses under his breath as he fumbled with the wrappings. You pretended not to notice the next day, but left extra supplies out anyway.

One evening, after clearing the dinner plates, you found yourself scrolling through YouTube on your laptop. Shadow sat on the couch, his arms crossed and his expression as stony as ever.

“Have you ever seen cat videos?” you asked, glancing at him.

“No.”

His tone was flat, but you could swear his ears twitched.

“Okay, you’re in for a treat.”

You clicked on a compilation of kittens doing ridiculous things- falling off furniture, chasing lasers, and leaping straight into walls. Shadow didn’t react at first, but as the video went on, you noticed the tiniest shift in his posture.

“This is stupid,” he muttered, but there was no bite in his voice.

“Stupidly adorable,” you corrected, grinning.

The next video was about parkour, showcasing humans flipping and jumping across rooftops with almost superhuman precision. Shadow watched intently, his eyes narrowing.

“They’re untrained,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Untrained? They’re flipping off buildings!”

“Sloppy landings,” he replied, pointing out a particular freeze frame. “They’re not conserving energy.”

By the time you clicked on a video about world-record chili pepper eaters, Shadow had shifted to sit a little closer, his gaze flicking between the screen and your face.

“I don’t understand modern humans,” he admitted after a while. “Your priorities are… strange.”

“You don’t need to understand us to laugh at us,” you said. “That’s half the fun.”

And for a split second, you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

Over the next few days, the two of you fell into a rhythm. Shadow was still guarded, but he began spending more time in the main room instead of retreating to the corner like a wounded animal. You started sharing more of your world with him, using movies and YouTube videos to explain things that might otherwise be overwhelming.

One night, you put on an old sci-fi movie. Shadow sat stiffly at first, his arms crossed, but as the plot unfolded, he began asking questions.

“That ship’s trajectory doesn’t make sense,” he pointed out during a chase scene.

“It’s not supposed to make sense. It’s fun,” you replied.

“Poorly designed fun,” he said, but he kept watching anyway.

By the time the credits rolled, you were bickering over which character was the smartest. Shadow defended the antihero, arguing that their cold logic was a strength, while you rooted for the idealistic protagonist.

“Idealism gets you killed,” he said bluntly.

“Sometimes it saves the world,” you shot back.

He didn’t answer, but his expression softened, and you realized he might actually be enjoying himself.

The next morning, as you prepared breakfast, you decided to rope Shadow into cooking with you. He was reluctant at first, standing stiffly by the counter with his arms crossed.

“This is pointless,” he said as you handed him a bowl of eggs to whisk.

“It’s called being productive,” you replied. “Besides, I’m not feeding you for free.”

He muttered something under his breath but took the bowl anyway. His whisking was surprisingly precise, and when you commented on it, he gave a small shrug.

“I’ve handled more complex machinery,” he said.

“Whisking eggs is complex now?”

He glared at you, but there was no heat in it. “You know what I mean.”

As the two of you worked, you found yourself relaxing in his presence. There was something oddly domestic about the sight of Shadow chopping vegetables with laser-like focus. When you burned the toast, he smirked.

“Untrained,” he said, echoing his earlier critique of the parkour video.

You tossed a dishtowel at him, laughing despite yourself.

It took time, but Shadow eventually allowed you to help with his bandages. The first time you reached for his arm, he stiffened, his crimson eyes narrowing.

“I just want to help,” you said softly, holding the fresh bandages in plain view. “You’ve been doing this alone for a while, haven’t you?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away, either. Slowly, carefully, you unwound the old wrappings, your fingers brushing against his fur. His muscles were taut, like he was bracing for something, but he stayed still.

“You’re healing,” you said, trying to fill the silence. “Not as fast as you probably could if you’d let yourself rest more, but still.”

He snorted softly, but there was no malice in it.

The day you broached the subject of a bath, you might as well have suggested dragging him back to whatever horrors he'd escaped from.

“You need one,” you insisted, gesturing toward the grime clinging to his fur. Weeks of dirt, dried blood, and debris were taking their toll. “You’ll feel better.”

Shadow’s expression darkened, his arms crossing defensively. “No.”

“It’s not like I’m asking you to take a bubble bath,” you said, trying to keep your tone light. “I just think you’d feel more comfortable after-”

“I said no!” His voice came out sharper than usual, almost a growl, and his crimson eyes flared with warning.

You raised your hands in surrender. “Okay. Not a bath, then. But at least let me clean you up. You’re tracking dirt everywhere.”

For a moment, you thought he might argue further, but instead, he exhaled slowly and gave a small, reluctant nod.

You grabbed a comb, a basin of warm water, and a washcloth, sitting on the cabin floor beside him.

He remained rigid, seated on the couch, watching your every move like you were preparing to attack.

“Relax,” you said gently, dipping the washcloth into the water. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Shadow didn’t respond, but his posture didn’t soften, either. As you reached up and began combing through his fur, he flinched at the first touch, his muscles coiling under your hands.

“Sorry,” you murmured, slowing your movements. The comb caught on a knot, and you worked it loose carefully. “Does this bother you?”

He was silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on the wall as if trying to focus on something-anything-other than your hands.

Finally, in a low voice, he muttered, “I don’t like water.”

You glanced at the basin, confused. “You mean the bath? Or…?”

“Being submerged,” he clarified, his tone clipped. “It reminds me of the testing. The tanks. The needles.”

Your hands froze mid-motion, and your heart clenched at the quiet bitterness in his voice. You didn’t press for more details, but you could picture it: confined spaces, cold metal, and water deep enough to drown in, all designed to break him down.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, resuming your work but keeping your movements slow and deliberate. “I didn’t know.”

He didn’t reply, but the stiffness in his shoulders eased ever so slightly. As you worked, you decided to fill the silence, hoping to distract him from the memories you’d unknowingly stirred.

“Did you know we have robots now that vacuum floors by themselves?” you said, trying to keep the conversation light. “They just wander around, bumping into things until the place is clean. It’s kind of ridiculous.”

Shadow glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “That sounds inefficient.”

“It is, but people love them anyway,” you said with a small laugh. “They even give them names, like ‘Roomba’ or Stabby.’”

“That’s idiotic,” he muttered, but there was a flicker of interest in his tone.

You smiled and continued combing, occasionally using the damp cloth to wipe away the grime. As you worked, you talked about other things- smartphones, online shopping, the absurdity of meme culture. You explained how humans seemed to revel in making the mundane entertaining, and to your surprise, Shadow started asking questions.

“How do these… memes work?” he asked cautiously, as though the word itself was foreign to him.

“Oh, where do I even start?” you said, grinning. “They’re kind of like inside jokes, but the whole internet is in on them. Here, I’ll show you some later.”

Shadow huffed softly, but he didn’t object.

The knots in his fur took time to untangle, and the process was slow, but you could tell he was beginning to relax. The tension in his frame lessened with every careful stroke of the comb, and by the time you were done, he almost looked comfortable.

“There,” you said, sitting back to admire your work. His fur, though still patchy in places from old scars, gleamed faintly in the soft cabin light. “Much better.”

Shadow’s gaze lowered to inspect himself. For a brief moment, he seemed almost puzzled, as though he didn’t quite recognize the reflection of his former self.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said quietly, his usual gruffness muted.

“No, but I wanted to,” you replied, setting the comb aside. “Everyone deserves to feel like themselves. Even you.”

Shadow’s crimson eyes flicked toward you, and for the first time, the weight in his gaze seemed lighter. He didn’t say thank you, but the slight dip of his head was enough to tell you he appreciated it.

As you cleaned up the supplies, Shadow remained on the couch, his expression unreadable. You weren’t sure if you’d made a dent in his walls, but for now, this was enough. It wasn’t about fixing him or changing him- it was about showing him that someone cared, even if he wasn’t ready to accept it yet.

You had spent the past hour setting up for your little stargazing picnic: a thick blanket spread out over the grassy clearing near the cabin, a thermos of hot chocolate, a small lantern, and, of course, a few snacks. You had expected Shadow to dismiss the idea as "unnecessary human indulgence," but to your surprise, he hadn’t objected when you told him to come along.

The stars were brilliant tonight, scattered across the velvet sky like shards of crystal.

You were just about to point out a particularly bright constellation when a rustling sound came from the edge of the clearing. Pausing mid-sentence, you glanced toward the noise. It was faint at first, just the soft crunch of leaves, but then you spotted movement- several small, shadowy figures creeping toward the edge of your blanket.

“Raccoons,” you muttered, watching as one bold little thief waddled closer to your snack bag.

Shadow followed your gaze, his eyes narrowing as the furry intruders approached. One raccoon reached for the bag, its tiny paws tugging at the edge of the plastic.

“Hey! Shoo!” you called, waving your hands in an attempt to scare it off. The raccoon ignored you entirely, its determination unwavering.

Shadow rose smoothly to his feet, his presence immediately commanding. “They’re scavengers,” he said, his tone flat but with a hint of amusement. “Persistent ones.”

Before you could respond, Shadow moved toward the raccoons with an ease that bordered on predatory. Despite his usually intimidating demeanor, he didn’t make any sudden movements. Instead, he crouched slightly, his crimson eyes locking onto the nearest raccoon.

“Leave,” he said simply, his voice low and firm.

The raccoon froze, its tiny paws still clutching the snack bag. Shadow took one deliberate step forward, his posture relaxed but unmistakably in control. The raccoon hesitated, then let out a chittering noise and backed away.

The others seemed to take the hint, retreating one by one into the underbrush, their rustling fading into the night. Shadow straightened, brushing his hands together as though the matter had been entirely routine.

“Well, that was effective,” you said, grinning as he returned to the blanket.

“They’re opportunistic,” Shadow replied, sitting down beside you once more. “All it takes is a stronger presence to remind them of their place.”

“Stronger presence, huh? Should I start calling you the Raccoon Whisperer?”

He shot you a sharp look, but you caught the faintest twitch of his lips before he turned his gaze back to the stars.

You leaned back, stretching out on the blanket with a contented sigh. “Thanks for saving the snacks, by the way. I guess I owe you one.”

“You owe me nothing,” he said quietly, his voice soft against the backdrop of the night.

For a moment, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the only sound the faint chirp of crickets.

A few nights later, you were sprawled on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when you noticed Shadow standing nearby. His posture was stiff, as always, but there was something different about him tonight- an awkwardness you couldn’t quite place.

“You’ve been hovering there for the past five minutes,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Something on your mind?”

Shadow hesitated, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly as though he was reconsidering whatever he’d been about to say. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“I have… prepared something,” he said, his voice unusually formal. “As an expression of-“ he paused, visibly struggling to find the words. “Gratitude. For your… companionship.”

You blinked, lowering your phone.

“Wait, did you just call me your companion? Are we about to embark on a grand quest or something?”

Shadow shot you a look, but as always his usual glare lacked an edge. Instead of responding, he reached behind himself and revealed a small piece of paper. He handed it to you with the kind of precision that suggested he’d been planning this moment for far too long. Curious, you took the paper and unfolded it.

What greeted you was not some dramatic declaration or poetic verse- no, it was a crudely drawn meme.

The image, clearly printed from a computer, featured a cartoonish drawing of Shadow’s crimson-eyed silhouette standing stiffly in the corner. Above it, in bold, all-caps font, were the words: "WHEN YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO SAY THANKS, SO YOU MAKE A MEME INSTEAD."

You stared at the paper, processing it for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Wait- did you make this?”

Shadow crossed his arms, his expression a mix of pride and irritation. “Yes. It seemed… appropriate.”

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, wiping a tear from your eye. “Shadow, this is amazing. I’m just imagining you sitting there, typing ‘how to make a meme’ into a search engine.”

“I research,” he said stiffly, looking slightly to the side. “It is not difficult to grasp the basics of modern human humor.”

You held the meme closer, letting your laughter fade into a warm smile. “Thanks, Shadow. Seriously. This is… oddly thoughtful.”

He gave a small nod, still not meeting your gaze. “You have been… tolerable company,” he muttered. “Perhaps even enjoyable. At times.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again, folding the paper carefully and tucking it into your pocket.

“For what it’s worth, you’re not so bad yourself. Maybe I’ll hang this up on the fridge.”

Shadow frowned. “The refrigerator is not an appropriate place for-”

“Too late,” you said, grinning. “I’m framing it. It’s a masterpiece.”

Shadow sighed, but as he turned away, you caught the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

[amaryllis-3]

Alpha Simon "Ghost" Riley x Alpha Reader

Word count: 1.7k

WARNINGS: NSFW near the end, 18+, MDNI, Omegaverse AU

AN: I don't know what confidence boost prompted me to publish it, but by now the damage is done. I am quite shy and self-conscious about my writing, so bear with me on this one.

There was something extremely wrong with him; Ghost was sure of it — something that went against general opinion, against the organisation of their whole society, and unfortunately also against his own nature.

Simon Riley despised Omegas.

No, that was not the right verb to use.

He was scared to death of having to deal with one of them in the future, as one would expect from an Alpha worthy of the name.

The Omegas were too... soft for the likes of him.

Generalise was wrong, he knew. In his military career, he had met many who could give the most unhinged alphas a run for their money.

One thing, however, seemed to bloody well remain constant in each of them: that something sweet and gentle that sent him into complete turmoil, and not in a good way. He felt like an elephant in a glassware shop, as if his breath alone, if not calibrated well enough, could have completely shattered them.

Simon's entire life, for as long as he could remember, had been marked by violence. A mixture of blood, pain, and gunpowder that would have horrified any other ordinary man.

Truth be told, that was fine with him. Maybe even more than just fine. It was absolutely perfect. The adrenaline pumping through his veins, his skin torn by scars, the weight of a rifle in his hand was what made him feel alive, what defined him. Ghost, agile and silent on his feet, able to hide in the shadows as if he were one of them, deadlier than an army of men.

This was him, and what Simon Riley needed was not tenderness and care. It was fight, teeth, bites, a constant challenge that no Omega could bring him; something he could only find in someone like him. Another alpha.

Admitting it to himself had been harder than he had imagined. Perhaps that was why, for a very long time, he refused to consider it.

Soap often joked good-naturedly about how he was the only one who still had not found a mate. The reason, according to the Scot, was how little effort he had put into not looking like what was essentially inseparable from him.

"Ye just need tae catch up wi' someone who can stand up tae ye, Lt," Johnny had commented in that big, positive tone of his, landing a friendly punch on his arm (which earned him a not-so-subtle look of warning). "'N' when ye dae, och how ye'll regret nae givin' it a chance sooner."

Yeah, that was not going to happen, by any means.

He had tried, albeit half-heartedly, prompted by his Captain's suggestions. He had proposed an Omega made especially for him, one that would suit his way of being. Price knew them personally and could vouch for them. They were a great soldier, with a clear head and not afraid to confront him should he be an idiot, and yet...

... it was not what he needed. It was a copy, well done, but nevertheless only a pale imitation of what it should have been.

That was probably the moment when he realised no Omega would ever be good for him. The discovery came as a bit of a shock, a whiplash on the back of his neck, though deep down he had felt it for far too long.

Omegas were not made for him, just as he was not made for them.

That being said, coming across an Alpha he was interested in had proved to be equally difficult. The military base was full of them, but none had managed to catch his attention.

It almost seemed as though no one on the bloody planet was destined for him, that Ghost was doomed to be alone for the rest of his existence. He had pretended to be comfortable with that for a while, carrying on as if nothing had happened.

Until you had barged into his life out of nowhere, turning everything upside down without even noticing.

It was not unusual for new recruits to be accepted. What definitely felt out of the ordinary, however, was to put them into a Special Ops team like his when they looked like they had barely gotten out of prep school. You were an Alpha like him; that much was certain. Your strong, citrusy scent filled the room as if you wanted to let everyone know of your presence, no matter how discreet it appeared to his eyes.

Simon had to be critical of such things. Theirs was a serious job; he could not allow a rookie to ruin everything and put his comrades-in-arms in danger.

Oh, how wrong he was. His sixth sense had never been so incorrect before.

You were lethal, a war machine made and finished, and that had attracted him more than he cared to admit.

Why, when he had chosen to put his soul at rest, did you have to show up and serve him everything he had ever wanted on a silver platter?

It was frustrating having to share common spaces with you, working closely together during missions. Although he didn't want to (lies), he was learning new parts of you that made him even further infatuated.

The situation was getting out of hand. Not only did his gaze find itself constantly following you around during the day (it was inevitable, he told himself; he had to make sure you didn't screw up everything), but to make matters worse, your stupid image had started to haunt him at night as well. Heated dreams of embraces, scratches, slaps of skin against skin that made him wake up in a pool of sweat, more aroused than ever.

It was pathetic, absolutely pathetic, that a man like him, with his past, had regressed to the status of a lovestruck schoolboy. A friendly touch was enough to send all the blood in his body straight to his cock. He had solely his mask to thank for concealing the almost shameful grimace in which his expression twisted into when that happened.

He couldn't go on like this; he was going insane.

Maybe that was why, in the middle of the night, after waking up from yet another wet dream, frustrated and needy, he had left his room to go bang on your door. The two glasses of bourbon he had drunk earlier had clouded his mind just enough to put aside his doubts and possible second thoughts. He was going to do it: put those fantasies to rest once and for all and replace them with the real thing.

It had taken you quite a bit to answer. He couldn't really blame you considering he had woken you up at two in the fucking morning. Your hair was slightly ruffled, your eyes clouded with sleep when you graced him with your presence.

God, he couldn't contain himself any longer.

Before you could ask him what the hell he wanted at that ungodly hour, one of his hands had gripped your shoulder, pushing you back into the dimly lit room, while the other had pulled up his balaclava just enough to reveal the lower half of his face. After absent-mindedly closing the door with the heel of his foot, his lips were pressed to yours, silencing any possible resistance.

Ghost knew he was being an asshole. It wasn't right to force contact on you when, until a few hours earlier, all you'd shared was polite chitchat. Yet you were a tough one, a fighter. You wouldn't have hesitated to push him away and kick him where the sun don't shine if you wanted to.

Simon almost expected it, though the sensation of a slap on the cheek and the accompanying outburst of possible insults never came. Instead, he sensed your fingers run through the light strands of his hair to press his face closer to yours, your tongue duelling with his for control.

You were returning his kiss with as much passion, if not more, than he had put into it.

It was overwhelming, making his head spin and taking the air out of his lungs at how intense it felt.

You wanted it; you really wanted it. You were not rejecting him; you were not rejecting that taboo contact, that something against nature that was the attraction between two Alphas.

Every thread of restraint that might have remained in him snapped at that realisation. His grip on you tightened, and he somehow managed to manoeuvre you underneath him, your back resting against the undone sheets of your bed. It was short-lived since you did not take long to reverse positions, grinding your lap against his whilst your teeth nibbled at the flesh of his neck.

Ghost would not have left you in charge long, but for the moment he could still enjoy the weight of your body on top of his. Your nails had dug into his skin as you sought the pleasure you craved. You were adorable in his eyes. Your pupils dilated, your skin heated, and the growl that echoed in your throat with every movement. All utterly perfect.

Oh, how pleasant was the feeling of your hole contracting around his dick, how immensely arousing was your face contorted into a grimace as you tried to take it all in one go. "Look at you, so greedy... You love it that much, don’t ya?" he grunted, amused, his chest pressing against yours as he forced your knees to rest against the sides of your face. Folding you in half.

You mumbled a "shut up" or something along those lines in return, but you were not denying his statement. He found it quite hilarious, actually, so much so that he cracked a laugh even as he was rearranging your insides.

No real words had been exchanged. They were superficial when the pent-up energy between the two of you had finally obtained an outlet. Thinking about the consequences of his actions did not seem right to Ghost, at least not at that time.

Would things get complicated once the fog of lust had cleared? Probably. Would he have regretted going on anyway? In no fuckin' way. You'd had the chance to push him away before. You hadn't, and now you had to deal with all that was him, Simon Riley.

Maybe, just maybe, there was really nothing wrong with him, just something misunderstood if you too, with those almost teary and yet fiery eyes, seemed to harbour the same feelings as him.

➮ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

[neiptune]

when you get me alone it's so simple

c/w: 1k wc, megumi is so head over heels in love with you he allows you to do his makeup for a halloween party, sappy and self indulgent and disgustingly sweet pls be nice i haven't written something in forever

“Why are you being so difficult?”

“When am I not being difficult according to you?”

The playful quip makes the cornes of your lips curl into an amused smile.

“Right. But I really think you should come”

Megumi holds your gaze with a seemingly impassive stare, lets the small interval of silence stretch for a second too long.

It’s not that he doesn’t like hanging out with his friends, he actually enjoys the idea of getting to be nothing more than a young man with an exceptionally low tolerance level for Nobara’s antics for once. However, a halloween party? Filled with obnoxious strangers who will get drunk and make a mess of Yuuji’s house? A mess that you have already promised will help to clean out?

Definitely not on his bingo card for an evening he could spend at the movies or in a quiet pub instead.

But then, there’s your strenuous perseverence. The disappointment you didn’t for a second attempt to hide still swarming in those big eyes, the pettish inflexion of your pitch when you had sputtered a what? What d’you mean you’re not coming?

And now there you are, curled up on the other end of your couch, sulkiness oozing from every glance you’ve spared him for the last half an hour.

“I want you there” you innocently cock your head and he feels something melt in his chest “it just wouldn’t be fun without you. Please come?”

Sometimes Megumi wonders if you know about the exhausting effort it takes him to whisk away thoughts a friend shouldn’t have, the way he’s almost lost his mind dwelling on the way you held on to his hand the entire way back to your apartment on the night he came to collect you from the bar, drunk and a giggling, clingy mess. He wonders if you understand just how deeply you can get under his skin and the way he hangs on to every word, every smile, each I want you there.

“Gumi?” you inch forward, brows knit and cool fingers gently grazing his arm.

Jesus, fuck.

“Fine. But I’m not staying to clean up”

You smile knowingly, a light shrug swallowing the of course you will almost spilling from your lips.

“Deal. And I get to do your makeup”

The dim light of your awfully small bathroom has gentle shadows settling into the curves of your collarbones and accentuates your jaw, the apples of your cheeks. There are only so many glances he can steal as the pitter-patter of rain on the window makes the perspective of spending the night out even less appealing.

Regardless, the warmth radiating from your skin and the smell of your perfume cloud his pathetically heightened senses, a multisensory madness that has his heart thumping painfully in his chest and the pads of his fingers tingling with need.

“Will you stop flinching?” only one of his eyes is open and you’re out of focus but that exasperated smile rings loud in his ears.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, it’s an instinctive reaction”

“I’m just using eyeshadow”

You finally allow his left eye to peel open and Megumi almost laughs at your focused stare, creases on your forehead expressing a deep dissatisfaction.

“What? Doesn’t suit me?” he quips “it’s probably because you keep smudging it—”

“I’m going for a dramatic look, you dolt!”

His eyebrows raise in mocking interest.

“Oh, apologies. What’s the issue, then? Not dramatic enough?”

“You’re being surprisingly chatty for someone who is usually very fucking quiet”

Megumi’s sarcastic comeback dies in his throat as you suddenly position yourself over him, not quite straddling his lap because you’re still standing but nevertheless exceptionally close to sitting on his thighs.  

“What are you— what is that?” his voice is thinner and he has to flex his hands to keep himself from positioning them on your hips.

Christ.

“Chill, man. It’s eyeliner. Don’t move, this is the most important part” and then you’re hovering above him once more, except this time you gently grab his chin to tilt his head upwards as you lean closer, so close he stops breathing.

You work quietly, in comfortable silence, although you’re at cotton swab number three and the result still doesn’t seem to fully satisfy you.

“You should wear makeup” it’s a comment made absentmindedly, Megumi can tell by the way you’re not even truly looking at him as you speak, way too absorbed by the task at hand “eye makeup, I mean. It looks really good on you”

“Yeah?”

There must be something in his inflection, because your hand comes to a halt for a second, then resumes its gentle work over his eyelid. All he gets is an affirmative hum.

“Someone would have to teach me how to do it”

He’s not sure where his boldness is stemming from, although he suspects the thumb gently brushing over the same spot close to the corner of his eye would make a reasonable source.

“I’m sure Nobara would be happy to” you quietly chuckle to yourself but this time it feels as if you’re avoiding his gaze on purpose and that just won’t do.

“Doesn’t your back hurt like this?”

“A little bit but I’m almost done with this eye. Are you uncomfortable? I can—” Megumi interrupts you with a gentle but firm hold of your waist, hands far bigger than yours pulling you down to sit on his lap.

You’re dumbfounded and he revels in your shocked expression, in the way you’re the one who doesn’t know how to handle something unexpected for once. In how good it feels to be in control.

“Don’t make it weird” the warning is playful but his hands are still on your waist and give it a light squeeze that has your stomach doing a weird flip.

“I— what? You don’t make it weird! Shut up, stand still” your entire face is on fire and the hoodie you’re wearing suddenly feels all too warm.

Megumi smiles innocently but complies, quiet and as immobile as a sorcerer's body can get.

You pretend not to notice the way he melts into your touch, how his body relaxes as he shuts both his eyes and finally lets you work in peace. No sarcastic remarks, no silly winces. Why does that do something to your chest?

It’s so easy, carefully lining his bottom lash line with your favorite liquid eyeliner. Without thinking, you cradle his face as you gently swipe your thumb over the freshly traced lines to smudge them just right.

But then his eyes flutter open right as you hold his face in your hands and is it your imagination or does the grip on your waist grow more solid in turn?

“Y’know” he murmurs in a way that is so unlike him, so intimate as his indigo gaze burns right into yours “actually, I wouldn’t want Nobara to be the one to do it”

[multifandomslxt]

CRE·​SCEN·​DO (TEASER)

MDNI

MINORS GO AWAY

Pairing: Pianist!Jaehyun x afab!reader

Synopsis: quiet, haunting, and dangerously talented. a man carved from silence and precision. Jeong Jaehyun, the world-renowned pianist, lived by structure. Lived by discipline.

loud in all the ways that mattered. She played like she was trying to bleed. A mess of passion, pain, and poetry. No titles. No training. Just the ache of a girl who used music to escape. To survive.

They were a slow-burning harmony of restraint and desire, grasping onto the black and white keys...trying not to unravel. Every note pulled them closer and closer until they reached their climax. The crescendo.

WARNING: Smut, angst, yearning, mentions of abuse, choking, spitting, hair pulling, he eats her out on top of the piano, crying, begging, literal definition of until the paint starts to peel off the wall. Jaehyun is unforgiving and stern, but also the softest everrrr.

The cramped practice room smelled faintly of old wood and cold metal.

The low hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on the dusty floor.

You sat at the grand piano, fingers poised but hesitant and your eyes closed as the last note rang out.

Behind you, Jaehyun’s presence was still and commanding. His eyes, dark pools of focus, never left you.

Then, his voice cut through the silence, smooth, but heavy with disappointment.

“Is that all you’ve got to give me?”

He didn’t shout. His tone was calm, but the weight behind it made the air feel thicker.

You were stifling.

“You play with no respect.” His gaze sharpened, accusing.

“You just fumble around and play what you feel is right! Music is about structure. Discipline. Intent.”

You stiffly stood up and turned slowly to face him, your eyes steady and unyielding.

“And yet... Beethoven was deaf,” you replied softly, voice steady but fierce. “He couldn’t hear a single note, but he composed music that made the world feel everything.”

“I play by feel,” you said, stepping closer, the heat of your breath almost tangible. “Because music is meant to fill the heart. To say what we find difficult to say.”

He scoffed, a short, sharp sound, but you weren’t finished.

“I feel sorry for you,” you whispered, voice low enough that only he could hear.

Your eyes held his.

“Your musicality must be like an entire sheet filled with long rests and pianissimo... so quiet, so controlled, it forgets how to breathe.”

You let your fingers hover over the keys, like a lover hesitant to touch what they crave the most.

“How can I play in a way that doesn’t speak to the audience?”

“Music is meant to be listened to. It’s meant to bring back memories, hopes, futures.”

Your voice cracked just slightly, but still, your words rang with conviction.

“We feel when the music is void. How can I give them a pianissimo when what they need is a fortissimo?”

A heavy silence fell between you.

Four beats…

One.

Two

Three.

Four.

Then, Jaehyun’s voice returned, harder now, sharp as a staccato note.

“You don’t decide what they need.” His eyes narrowed.

“Beethoven does. Chopin. Schumann.”

“You didn’t write it. Play it as written.”

He stepped forward, his posture rigid, every muscle taut.

“Your stubbornness is the reason you cannot play like you’re supposed to.”

He bit out the words, voice cracking for the first time since you’d met…barely perceptible, like a broken vibrato on a perfect note.

“All that bleeding,” he spat, voice trembling, “makes it hard to see the notes.”

His chest heaved, breaths coming fast and uneven.

“Now sit, and play it as is!”

It wasn’t a shout, but it reverberated through the room louder than any crescendo.

For a fleeting moment, like a grace note barely heard beneath the melody, his control slipped.

His eyes glistened with something you never saw before.

You knew then that Jaehyun did,  understand you.

But something had robbed him of the joy in music. Something had convinced him that only the notes mattered… not the story behind the piece, not the aching silence between the sounds, And definitely not the crescendo building quietly inside his chest, raging and impossible to control.

CRE.SCEN.DO FULL FIC

[project-changeling-zero]

thinking of Sonic and Shadow's first night together as romantic partners.

it's one of the few nights Sonic can sleep, even though he's the most nervous he's ever been in his entire life. he doesn't expect to go to sleep. the feeling hasn't hit him.

Shadow never needed to sleep, but he did enjoy it. it was a way to quiet the world around him when it was too big and too loud. almost like he was stepping into a different world for a visit.

they do small, mundane things. pressing their palms together, seeing hand sizes. talking about their day, complaining and laughing about the worst of it. cuddling, wiping away any tears. it's catharsis in a way neither had ever experienced before, and it's a little terrifying.

but they face terrifying things pretty often. nothing they couldn't handle, alone or together.

Sonic is in Shadow's arms, eyes closed and listening to his heartbeat. it's different. almost like a thrum, not quite an actual beat. like a soft, warm light slowly pulsing in darkness, however strange it sounds.

regardless... it was impossible for him to not like it.

then Shadow hears a sound he's not sure he's heard before.

gradual, quiet, breathing of one sound asleep. of Sonic sound asleep.

unable to help himself, a smile forms on his lips. though he's seen him sleep, it was always during the day, and it'd be a nap. nothing lasting, and very little that would take away the bags under his eyes. perhaps this wouldn't either, and it'd be just as difficult as it always was tomorrow, but Shadow was fine with that.

he knew what he signed up for when confessing his feelings.

[seoulmatez]

𝒸𝓇𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓈, 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝒶𝓃

boothill x f!reader. 1.5k wc. sfw. fluff. wild west au. outlaw!boothill. saloon performer!reader. first encounters ♡

a/n: self-indulgent :3 like, selfship fic disguised as an x reader fic self-indulgent :3 pls feel free to ignore lawlz

Outlaws have been a normal occurrence in town for as long as you could walk. That is to say, you aren’t entirely surprised when you find that yet another poster has been pinned up all over town, large bolded letters spelling out “WANTED” along the top pleading for the capture of another criminal—dead or alive. There’s something distinctly different about this one though, and you can tell because instead of passing the wanted poster with a brief glimpse and the mental note to steer clear of the man illustrated on it, you linger at the notice board, eyes glued to the parchment.

There’s no name printed on it and the asking price is fairly hefty—bigger than any bounty you’ve taken notice of in the past—but the one aspect of the poster that truly catches your eye is the drawing. He—or the artist’s rendition of him—is… handsome, you find yourself silently admitting. Contrasting light and dark hair is cut off by the frame—it makes you wonder how long it really is. Some of the shorter pieces hang loosely in front of his right eye, though the left is visible—enough so that you can see two moles right beneath the outer corner. A bullet stylized as jewelry dangles from his ear, metal cuffs hugging his helix.

What sticks with you the most is his sharp, crooked smile. It’s smug and should be off-putting but, for some reason unbeknownst to you, it makes your heart skip a beat.

You can’t put your finger on how long you stand staring at the poster but you don’t make a move to tear your eyes away until you hear someone calling your name from afar.

And even then, you can’t get that man’s face out of your head.

• • •

You’re getting ready in a room too small to accommodate the number of girls in it. It’s typical to fight over a mirror, to bump shoulders every now and then. Curiously, the dressing room feels oddly spacious tonight. As you paint rouge on your lips, you glance around to take a headcount—if anyone is missing, you’ll have more work on your plate this shift.

You count three including yourself sitting on the stools and the rest at the door, practically falling over each other to take a peek outside of the room. They’re whispering about something, their hushed voices only rising loud enough that you can pick out a few words. No way, my goodness, unreal. The gossip makes you frown and rise from your seat. You’re missing out on something, you know it. This isn’t you being nosey, just cautious—if something is happening, it’s best to be informed, you tell yourself as you join the ladies at the door.

“What’s going on?” You don’t bother trying to squeeze your way through—you think it might be even more difficult than trying to take a mirror for yourself.

Your voice, much louder than their faint whispers, is enough to catch their attention. You’re met with wide eyes and even wider smiles looking back at you. Nothing bad, then, not if everyone is grinning like this. You raise your eyebrows in a silent question, waiting almost impatiently for an answer. A couple of them move aside. “Take a look for yourself.”

You accept the invitation, carefully navigating the tight path made for you. Your fingers grasp the frame of the door and you slowly poke your head out, gazing in the direction the girls had been just moments ago. You scan the crowd deliberately in search of anything out of the ordinary but nothing looks unusual. You spot a few regulars as your eyes carry over every face in the place. They stop at the bar where you catch sight of the bartender. He’s pouring something for a patron, one whose head is down and whose face is shadowed by his hat.

You squint as if it’ll help you see better. It’s no use but, as if he could tell you were itching to get a look, he tips his head back, a glass halfway full of an amber-colored liquid touching his lips. You recognize that hair under the lights of the saloon—black and white, two-toned just like in the poster. You suck in a tiny gasp, one that’s inaudible given all the chatter, but you can’t seem to pull your eyes away.

He drinks his liquor leisurely, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down with each gulp. The glass is empty quickly and you’re sure you would have heard it hit the counter if it weren’t so loud. One of the man’s forearms rests beside the glass on the counter, his other hand busy wiping his mouth. His thumb swipes away the lingering moisture on his lower lip and as his finger moves, so does his head, slowly turning in your very direction.

Eyes grey like gravel lock onto yours. Your heart skips a beat, just like it had before—and, just like then, you’re frozen, unable to move. Despite having been caught staring, an inkling of happiness sprouts in your chest at the chance to see him head-on, in all his glory.  It’s all there—the two moles, the earrings, and soon enough, that sharp, crooked smile.

He winks at you and the quick movement is all the acknowledgement you need to finally draw back. You do so aggressively, like you had been holding your hand over a fire and the flame finally touched your palm. It’s almost enough for you to knock into the pile of girls you had forgotten were stationed behind you.

They look at you expectantly, not bothering to hide their giddy satisfaction at your reaction. “Cute, ain’t he?” one of them asks.

And a ton of other things—dangerous, off-limits, utterly enticing, just to name a few. You don’t say any of that, though. You just nod and hope your voice doesn’t betray you. “I suppose.”

You seldom find yourself nervous for performances but knowing he’s out in the crowd has your heart racing for the rest of the night.

Time flows strangely during your shift—feeling like it’s crawling at a snail’s pace one moment and flying as quickly as a rocket the next. You feel like you can breathe easier when you’re dismissed for the night, even more so when you leave the suffocating building and are met with a cool breeze outside.

Your relief is short-lived. A voice speaks up from beside you.

“Evenin’, little lady.” 

“Oh!” Your hands shoot up to cover your heart. You debate running—that seems like the best idea given your situation—an unknown man waiting to catch you alone. You take a step away, ready to bolt if necessary.

To your surprise, he doesn’t reach for you.

“Apologies—” he raises his hands in mock surrender, “didn’t mean to scare ya.”

Your eyes have adjusted to the darkness now and a face you weren’t expecting to see becomes visible. The town’s newest outlaw, here, speaking to you. Maybe you should have run—maybe you still should. Though, for some reason, his raised hands feel like a show of good faith. You’re sure if he had bad intentions, he wouldn’t waste time trying to make you comfortable. “Um, that’s alright.”

“It felt rude not to thank ya for the performance.” He was watching, then. You’ve made a habit of limiting eye contact with your spectators and that much held up tonight. Something was telling you that if you caught a glimpse of him looking at you again, you would end up tripping over your feet and making a fool of yourself. “Would have watched ya all night if they gave ya the stage.”

That grin is back but, now that you think about it, of the very few times you’ve seen him, he’s always wearing it. Almost like it never leaves. Despite that, being on the receiving end of it has an undeniable effect on you. Your heart won’t stop jumping for him. You can’t let him know that. “Yeah, well, everyone’s gotta have their time to shine.”

“Ain’t that a shame…” he drawls. And it sounds like he really means it. “Guess I’ll have to stay long enough to see ya up there again.”

You can’t have heard that right. No singing or dancing could be—should be—enough to make a man risk staying in a town where his wanted poster is plastered all over the place. It’s a decision that toes the line between confidence and stupidity but it flatters you all the same. Your cheeks feel like they're on fire as you hold his gaze. 

“You’d really stay for that?” you ask, but the question in your head is more like; you’d really stay for me?

He takes a step forward toward you and you're surprised that you don’t counter by taking a step back. His hand comes up to hover by your cheek, close enough that you can feel its warmth but far enough that his skin doesn’t touch yours. As quickly as it came, it’s gone. “See ya around, little lady.”

And with that, he leaves.

You lose track of how long you stand outside wondering if that was a yes.

[astra-ravana]

The Practice Of Demonolatry

Demonolatry, the communion, summoning, and worship of demons, is a complex and often misunderstood practice with roots in ancient history. While it's difficult to pinpoint the exact origin, early forms of demon work can be traced back to pre-Christian cultures, where spirits and deities were often associated with both positive and negative aspects of the natural world.

In the Abrahamic traditions, demons are typically portrayed as fallen angels or evil spirits, often associated with temptation, sin, chaos, misfortune, and death. However, in some occult and esoteric practices, demons are viewed as powerful beings who can grant knowledge, power, and protection to those who understand how to work with them. The word "demon" comes from the ancient Greek "daemon" which literally meant "divine entity" or "minor god". Many demons are, in fact, disgraced pagan gods who met with the limited understanding of early Christians. Due to events such as the crusades and prevalent witch hunts throughout history, information pertaining to demons was likely supressed or destroyed entirely.

The Renaissance period, however, saw a resurgence of interest in demonology, with figures like Johann Weyer and Reginald Scot challenging the prevailing view of demons as purely evil entities. These thinkers argued that many cases of demonic possession could be attributed to mental illness or other natural causes. In the 19th and 20th centuries, demonolatry experienced a revival within certain occult and esoteric circles. Figures like Aleister Crowley, Anton LaVey and other practitioners of Satanism and Theistic Satanism incorporated demonic entities into their rituals and beliefs. These modern forms of demonolatry often emphasize personal empowerment, self-reliance, and the exploration of darker aspects of the human psyche.

Modern demonolaters such as S. Connolly, Michael W. Ford, and Satan and Suns are now helping transition demonaltry from obscure occult practice to every day magick. It is a diverse and multifaceted system, with a wide range of beliefs and practices. There is much to be gained when interacting with these powerful, otherworldly energies. Some practitioners view demons as literal entities, while others interpret them as archetypes or psychological forces. Regardless of their specific beliefs, demonolators often share a fascination with the occult, the supernatural, and the darker side of human nature (or the shadow).

Demonolatry as a practice or magickal rite is an almost unmatched catalyst for change, transformation, growth, knowledge, magickal ability and more. A connection to the demonic divine is a portal to the universe and understanding the true nature and origins of life. Doing your research is key, but there is no better teacher in this case than experience. Its hard to understand how natural and comforting demonic connection can feel without actually feeling it first hand. Letting go of preprogrammed fears and expectations to leap bravely into the dark may not be easy and it's not for everyone, but it is one of the most freeing and enlightening experiences one can have. So... What are you afraid of?

[maplegracefour]

easier said than done [1]

Summary: you work in a bar and a man who feels like shadow surrounds him captures your attention

Warnings: you work in a bar, vomit mention, drunk people being assholes, smoking

Word Count: -1040

Author's Note: she's a slow burner but i am living for this version of schlatt hehe

”I sensed you before I saw you."

Hades to Persephone, Nikita Gill, 2019

You didn’t think you’d spend your twenties working in a bar, but school is expensive, and this job pays the bills.

Pour drinks. Fill the ice. Clean someone else’s vomit from the bathroom floor. Accept shitty tips from creepy men. Every little helps.

At least the place looks like something from an 80s movie, and that’s something you can get down with. The bright shine of neon signs illuminate the room, making it difficult to decipher what part of the floor has or hasn’t been stained from years of drink spillage and you hate to think what else. Years and years of old coasters, concert posters, knick-knacks adorn the walls.

There’s a shitty piece of graffiti sprayed along the wall behind the bar. One of your locals, an old man by the name of Bernie, has been trying to convince you it’s a real Banksy since you started. You’re not quite inclined to believe him, yet.

“Oi, you!” Your eyes snap to the lovely gentleman at the bar, waving a twenty-dollar note in your face. “Two whiskeys.”

“That’s twenty-two.” You respond, going to grab the house whiskey from the back bar.

The man’s face twists, anger laced through every inch of his features. “That’s daylight fuckin’ robbery! Twenty-two dollars!?” His wrinkles make him look like a caricature. Clearly he hasn’t had a drink in New York for a few years if he thinks that this is one of the expensive bars.

You roll your eyes. “More like nighttime robbery, it’s like eleven thirty. Do you want your drinks or not?”

The man opens his mouth to speak, let rip on how New York is a shit-hole these days. You prep yourself for a barrage of insults but another hand slaps down on the bar, pushing a matte black card across the bar. “Just add it to my tab.” The mystery man says as you turn your eyes to him instead. He’s dressed in all black, clothes all well-tailored. Dress pants, smart jacket, turtle neck. This guy had money. What on earth is a man like that doing in a place like this?

“You sure?” You ask him, a single eyebrow raised, unable to make many of his features out in the dim lighting of the bar but he simply nods.

You finish pouring the drinks and turn to your till to process the card. When you turn to face the customers again, only the smart-dressed man remains. Your eyebrows furrow in search of the one you served drinks to but he’s already lost in the sea of your many drunk patrons.

“Oh,” You murmur. “You scare him off?”

“Somethin’ like that.” The man responds. “I’ll take a whiskey. The good stuff.”

You smirk. “The good stuff, huh?”

His face doesn’t change, staring at you like you were reciting a phone book, instead of attempting playful banter. The kind that usually got you a good tip. You push down the foreboding feeling that washes over you as you reach up to the top shelf for the most expensive whiskey in the building and pour him a glass with ice. It smells good, not a whiskey drinker yourself but you know this is the good shit. Exactly what he asked for.

His face is barely highlighted in the red-tinted glow. His eyes looking almost entirely black. Probably just the lighting, sure. But there’s something about him. It’s like his presence is pulling light from the room. And yet, you couldn’t deny there is a certain attraction to it. The display of a closed book that in your mind you just need to pry open. But hey, you’re a professional. No flirting on the job.

You pass it over and he nods back at you, before taking his drink and walking away.

You spend the next hour or so trying to find the guy and catch his eye but he’s nowhere to be seen.

The music keeps booming and you keep working, your feet are burning and the lights are starting to give you a headache. You’re already dreaming of curling up in bed and sleeping until the sun rises. But alas, money doesn’t magically appear in your bank account every month, someone’s gotta make it happen. You sigh, wiping your brow after mopping up what feels like the millionth dropped beer of the night and announce to your boss you’re going for a break. Without waiting for a reply, you push open the door to the back and step into the cool late-winter air.

You pull a cigarette from your pocket and search for your light. You could have sworn you had it not even 10 minutes ago…

A scratching sound catches your attention and before you can piece it together, a small orange flame has appeared in front of you. And with it, the man from before, holding a lighter to the end of your cigarette. Where the fuck had he come from?

You accept the light, taking a drag before fully turning your attention to him. You thought you’d be able to see him better outside but the streetlight doesn’t help much to illuminate his features. “You’re not supposed to be back here, it’s staff only.” You tell him, though your voice lacks conviction.

“Don’t pretend you care.” He murmurs back at you, leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest. “Your mommy never tell you it’s unhealthy to smoke?”

“Don’t pretend you care.” You retort back at him. “How do you end up coming to a shithole like this?”

He thinks on it for a moment, the only noise being the occasional burn as you take a drag from your cigarette and the bass of the music inside. He looks you over, from the top of your head down to your shoes.

“I was asking myself the same thing.” He responds. “Let’s just say, I had a feeling I’d find something worth coming in for.”

Your eyebrows furrow again. “The fuck does that mean?” You scoff, stubbing out your cigarette on the wall and tossing it to the floor.

He shrugs, smirking. “I guess we’ll find out. See you around, toots.”

Before you have a chance to respond, he’s walking away.