#i might have more buried deep somewhere but i could not remember for the life of me

[wishchip106]

i open nearly all my posts with “hmmm” or “thinking”

BECAUSE I AM QUITE LITERALLY PUTTING EVERYTHING I THINK ABOUT ON HERE (specifically cherik)

turns out everyone on here is a mind reader and they’re just reading my mind 😱

although i don’t entirely care, i don’t have much to hide its just the fact this is the internet so no insanely personal details here

[athenaluthor]

Golden Boy

pairing: Bob Reynolds/Sentry x fem!reader.

summary: Riding your Golden Boy. Somewhere along the lines, Sentry takes over and has his way with his girl.

warnings: smut, smut and more smut. bob being a soft boy, sentry being self indulgent and taking you within an inch of your life because you asked for it. (i fear i was the one being self indulgent bcs idk sentry is so hot but so is void. but bob has my heart. let me know what yall think. hope yall enjoy this <33)

word count- 2.2k

masterlist

He wants to live inside you forever. Imprint himself on your very soul and on every fiber of your being. You feel good, you feel so incredibly and unbelievably right.

“Oh God, Bob.You’re so big..” you moan as you sink down on his cock. The dangerously adorable man underneath you has the thickest cock you’ve ever had. The stretch overwhelms you and you bury your face in his neck, arms around him, trying to go as deep as possible. Bob hands grip your hips tightly, stopping you from sinking down on his cock too quickly. Mentally, you curse yourself for taking so long to try this position with your golden boy.

Bob feels dizzy too, his head spinning as he watches you. He craves touch, he craves your touch. His entire life, nobody had ever touched him like you, so lovingly and gently, tracing his skin like you were memorising and worshiping him. Instead, he spent a good portion of his years filling this empty space with drugs, getting high out of his mind and doing awful things he wouldn’t even want to tell you.

Leaning up against the headboard, Bob watches you with lustful eyes, his plump lips part as he pants breathlessly. At this very moment, Bob felt like his heart might explode, death would be welcomed since he had truly lived a life worth living, an angel in his arms, wrapped around his cock. Sex before you was meaningless, he had been far too high to care about anything that was happening anyways.

“G-go slow. Don’t have to get it all in.” He whimpers out between moans, groaning at how wet you are, dripping down the length of the cock.

“I-I want to, baby.” you reply shakily before pushing yourself down fully onto his cock. The stretch makes your eyes water, but he feels so good— you could cum right then and there.

Bob’s hands lift from your hips, moving to clutch your head and pull you away from his neck. “G-god, baby. Y-you didn’t– you didn’t have to.” He stutters out, his forehead flush against yours.

You want to ride him, bounce on his cock until you can't remember your own name. Rolling your hips and clenching down on his cock, your legs tremble at how good it feels. Bob, bless his heart, lets out a choked moan.

“B-Baby, baby. You can’t– you can’t do that. I’ll cum too–oh god, too soon!” He moans.

It takes all your might to begin riding your golden boy. Hands on his shoulders you start lifting your hips, then sliding back down in his cock, over and over again. Your pace is slow yet hard and deep. You want to go faster but the blood in your veins feels so hot, you think you’ll explode if you’re not careful.

His head is thrown back, eyes shut, lips parted and face flushed as you ride him. His hands return back to your hips, clutching you like a lifeline. The Golden Boy under you, is unequivocally and irrevocably yours, and fuck— he looks gorgeous under you.

Letting go of his shoulders, you reach to clutch his face. “Bob? Baby, look at me, please.” you whine, wanting those pretty eyes on you.

He blearily opens his eyes, his pupils blown and he looks utterly debased and lustful. His unnecessarily superhuman senses flare, overwhelmed by everything around him. He can feel every touch on his skin, the soft fingertips on his cheeks trying to reel him in, and the drag of your walls around his cock each time you move up and down.

Bob never wants this to end. He wants to be inside you like this forever. His cock pumping deep inside the love of his life.

The sound of your heart pounding in your chest echoes in his ears as he zeros in on you, the way your blood rushes so loudly through your veins.

The pleasure is too much, it throws you off-kilter. Head spinning, your hands drop down to his stomach to steady yourself.Thoughtlessly, his hands move to cup your breasts when yours let go of his face, entranced by each movement they make when you bounce on his cock. The pads of his thumbs toying with your hardened nipples.

His touch spurs you on, the way his eyes lustfully looks at you has you choking on your own saliva. Invigorated by this, you speed up, bouncing on his cock harder and faster. Bob can only take what you give him, mouth parted, moaning and grunting, here and there. You know you shouldn’t overdo it, but God— his cock stretches you out so good and so deep, you know you’ll feel it tomorrow. You want him to wreck you, rearrange you and ruin you for anyone else.

The coil within you winds up, getting tighter and tighter with each bounce of your body. Body tense and hot, you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, higher and higher. Head light and blood rushing, you’re losing yourself to this pleasure, your legs and thighs begin to cramp but you force yourself to keep going.It's like your mind isn’t yours. You don’t want to stop, you can’t stop.

Bob knows you far too well. He can tell when you’re teetering to the edge of going too damn far. The way your eyes glass over, the way your moans spill out like you're about to cry, and the way you shake. His hands clutch your waist, his grip firm but careful, trying to bring you back to him. “S-Slow down, baby. You’re— fuck! You’re t-trembling.” He says shakily trying not to succumb to how good you feel on his cock.

He says your name so softly, so reverently, trying to rouse you back to him. His arms wrap around you, under your arms, pulling you flush to him. Bob’s hand finds purchase on the back of your head, as it falls into the crook of his neck.

Gibberish falls out of your mouth. Something along the lines of “I want to cum, Robert. Let me make you cum too, please.” if Bob’s superhearing is to be trusted.

“I-I know, baby.” he soothes you. “L-let me do this for you, baby. Don’t— you don’t have to p-push yourself f–for me.” he reasons with you, knowing you wouldn’t stop until both of you had been thoroughly spent.

Too far gone to think straight, you wrap your arms around his neck, letting him take over. Holding your hips tightly, Bob’s hips begin to thrust up into you, his pace is steady but deep.

The way you melt into him makes his heart pound out of his chest, how you trust him to take over, when even he didn’t trust himself. The way your soft moans spill out of your lips could make him cum inside your silky walls right now.

You want him to go faster, harder, make you cum so hard, you see stars. Desire has you so deep within its clutches, you can’t escape. So you beg. “Bob, please. Fuck me harder, please.”

“Shh, I– I don’t want to lose control, baby.” he whines back.

“I don’t care, Bob. Please, just fuck me hard.” You beg him, voice needy.

“I need you to fuck me. Just fuck me hard, Robert.” The words leave your mouth desperately without much thought.

Something shifts in the air and you feel it immediately. The sudden influx of unexplainable energy, it feels sharp and strong. Steady and firm, unlike Bob’s hesitance.

Beneath you, Bob shifts, hands gripping your hips even tighter. Then, he plants his feet down onto the bed, angling himself before thrusting back into you, hard. This new angle hits that spot inside you, the one that makes you scream and see stars

The force of his thrusts has you losing your breath, your arms tighten around his neck as you hold on for dear life. Ecstasy flows through your veins, as he begins to fuck you within an inch of your life while your moans spill wantonly from your lips.

This, you think, is new. Bob has never done this. He doesn’t usually fall into your begging, opting to hold back and not let himself lose. Alarm bells ring in your head, but somewhere between his grunts and the way his cock pounds into you, you forget it.

He’s so deep inside you, pounding your pussy like his life depended on it. The pleasure builds within you, the pressure between your legs borders between too much and just enough.

You don’t have a clue how long he has you like this but the coil finally snaps. Intense pleasure washes through you, sending your body into a state of ecstasy,and leaving you moaning and trembling. Your juices leak down Bob’s cock, coating both your thighs. He doesn’t slow down.

His thrusts don't falter. Bob’s pace is unyielding, grunting as your walls clamp down on him. Utterly spent, your body is limp and pliant atop his as you try to get your bearings, letting him have his way with you.

Before you know it, Bob flips the both of you.

The sudden movement shocks you. Suddenly, you are underneath him. Peering up at your Golden Boy, his eyes are shut and his curls fall haphazardly across his forehead, sticking to the sweaty skin.

Without much thought, your hand reaches up to brush away his curls. You think to ask why he stopped when he hasn’t cum yet.

Then, it clicks. The moment your fingers touch his skin, his eyes open. Otherworldly glow shines from his eyes.

Oh. This isn’t your Bob.

“Sentry?” You breathlessly ask.

The being above you doesn’t reply. Instead, he looks at you with the ferocity of a starved man. Fear rushes through you yet your excitement outweighs it. His cock is still buried inside your sensitive pussy, you don’t know whether to be afraid of him or do you want him to fuck you into the mattress.

Sentry speaks to you, “It’s unfair that he gets to keep you all by himself.”

Now, Sentry takes the reins. He pins you down onto the bed before thrusting into you. His presence is overwhelming, like he invades every inch of your senses.

Your previous climax had already made you sensitive. The sheer force of his unforgiving thrusts sends your body into overdrive. Overstimulation has you arching your back and curling your toes into the mattress.

In your fucked out state, you can’t even comprehend the words that spill out your mouth.

Sentry thinks you look so damn pretty like this. A lover fit for a god like him, moaning and writhing under him as he pounds into you. Only he should see you in this state.

He increases his pace, pounding into you harder. After all, you had asked him to fuck you hard. He can feel your thighs tremble and he can hear how hard your heart is beating.

The blood in your veins rush rapidly through your body as you fall deeper into your sex-induced high. Sentry too gets high on you. His focuses his efforts on bringing to the edge again, too feel you clamp down his cock and wantonly moan for him. Only him.

He knows he’s close to the edge when his balls tighten and the pressure low in his belly becomes too much. You feel yourself losing control, his cock is so big and he’s going too hard and too fast. When you tense and your body arches without your control, he knows your cumming again.

Only this time, he comes too.

He ruts into you wildly, grunting loudly while letting pleasure take over as he spills himself into you. He holds you close, letting your pinned arms go.

Somewhere in your haze, trembles and aftershocks you manage to wrap your arms around him as he spills himself inside you. It’s so much, even in your state, you know it’s too much.

The sheer volume of his thick cum feels so good inside you.

When he comes to, he can tell you’re still dazed. Your body is soft and pliant under him, while your eyes are glassy. His touch on your cheek grounds you a little. It’s like you see that it's him.

“Baby?” You call out breathlessly to him.

“Hmm?” He replies back but he thinks you don’t even notice.

You wince when he slides out of you. Thick fluids both his and yours leak out of you. He holds back the urge to push it back in. He knows that tomorrow that you’ll be sore but he hopes you don’t regret asking him to fuck you hard.

He lays beside you, pulling your weak body into his and letting your head rest on his chest. Sentry feels your body tremble under his touch, the aftershock of your orgasms.

He softly strokes up and down your arm, you are safe and sound here with him. He is the Sentry after all. A God in his own right.

When your breathing slows, he knows you’ll fall asleep soon. Your body is practically melting on him.

Right as sleep pulls you into its grasp, a soft sentence slips past your lips. Barely coherent and understandable but he doesn’t have superhearing for nothing. “Love you, my Golden Boy.”

Your Golden Boy. He likes the sound of that.

As Sentry closes his eyes, he hopes you wouldn’t mind him taking over your Bob next time. After all, it is unfair for Bob to have you all to himself.

Sentry lets sleep take him too, knowing that Bob will wake in the morning with only memories of this.

Sentry- 1, Bob- 0.

Yeah, he thinks. He’s a God, so why not keep a fucking tally.

[heartz-for-de]

Married life with Bakugo? Like coming home from a bad day of heroing to his super amazing wife and stuffs!!

Husband! Katsuki x reader headcanons!

RANDOM HEADCANONS

warnings: MDNI! A FEW SPICY HEAD CANONS!!

—he cried when you walked down the isle, one of the very few times he’s cried in his life.

— he can’t stand not knowing where you are so you get like five “wya” texts every day. He just doesn’t like the idea of you being somewhere and getting hurt and him not knowing how to reach you.

—slaps your ass every time he walks by you, no matter what.

— If you’re also a pro hero? Oh he’s so damn proud to call you his wife—but that doesn’t mean he still doesn’t worry. He knows you can hold your own, but he’s still deep down a little worried even if he won’t admit it.

—as it’s known he loves cooking, in fact he finds it therapeutic. But considering his job, he doesn’t always have the energy to cook every night, so coming home to a nice warm meal? Oh he might just eat you instead.

—definitely gotten bigger with age. Wider and taller, the ultimate dilf. This def feeds into a size kink.

— protective by his nature, but not controlling. He doesn’t care what you wear, but god forbid some asshole hit in you when you’re out. Highschool was a diff story tho, def matured a bit.

— cusses like a sailorrr. Could be the most mundane sentence ever and he just pulls “dick eater” out of his ass and sometimes it genuinely makes you laugh.

— is hard of hearing because of his quirk, so he tends to speak super loudly at times, and makes you repeat yourself 8000 times a day.

—lots of public events, so expect to match at every single one. He’s very big on subtly letting people know who you belong too. (Not that they don’t know, you quite literally have his last name)

—hickeys. Hickeys. Hickeys. Ever since high school, they’ve been a staple. Literally any time of the day, any where. His lips are on you like a fucking leech.

— his mother adores you, and finds it so funny to embarrass him in front of you, even after all the years you two have been together.

“Remember when I caught you two making out? Katsuki didn’t talk to me for a week—“

“WILL YOU SHUT UP?!” Lots and lots of bickering between the two always, but you learn to love it.

—hands are on you constantly, but not in a “couple waiting in line at an amusement park” way. More like a territorial way.

—speaking of hickeys and hand placement. He’s super territorial. Like if you go out? Oops some of his cologne got on your shirt, sorry.

—eye contact is huge for him, in more ways than one. You’re upset? Okay look him in the eyes and tell him what’s wrong. Yall are fucking? Oh you better hold eye contact or he’s just gonna stop everything he’s doing like the petty bitch he is.

— loves cuddling, but has terribly night mares. He’s offered sleeping in different beds, but you’d said you’d rather die before you did that.

—can’t stand when you talk bad about yourself, like will physically smoosh his hand over your mouth to get you to shut up.

— Loves giving and receiving head. Don’t get him wrong, eating you out is one of his favorite pastimes. Sometimes when he comes home from work all he wants is to bury his head in your thighs. It’s just something about seeing you on your knees all pretty and obedient for him that really gets him going.

—such a tease. He loves degrading you, but throws in some praise too. Just such a talker, loves flapping his gums all the time.

-a grunter, occasionally a raspy moan. Does not yell, or moan loudly. He finds it embarrassing. One time he whimpered and he made you promise to never bring it up.

[shaiyasstuff]

choose me | xavier

synopsis : It doesn’t matter who loved him first. It doesn’t matter who loves him now. The truth is, none of you ever really had him—not fully. Not honestly. content : adultery, affairs, don’t read if you are sensitive now playing : Meet Me in Amsterdam - RINI

“It’s me. I’ll be at your place in ten.”

The line cuts before you can say a word.

Before you can stop him.

Before you can stop yourself.

You lower the phone slowly, as if delaying the inevitable might change the ending.

But it never does.

It’s always him.

It’s always been him.

Xavier.

You press the device to your chest, as though it can quiet the war inside you, but your heart is already spiraling—spinning in soft blue hues and pale gold strands that feel like sin.

You clutch the hem of your shirt, fists trembling.

“This can’t keep going,” you whisper.

And yet you know it will.

Because you’ve never been strong enough to let him go.

You’re the secret tucked into the folds of his life, the name he doesn’t say when he comes home, the body he returns to in the hours that don’t belong to anyone else.

You’re not his.

You never have been.

Not really.

He belongs to someone else.

Xavier’s marriage is a ring you never dared to touch, a name you can’t bring yourself to ask about.

You pretend it doesn’t exist when his fingers trace your spine, when he presses soft kisses into your shoulder, when he breathes your name like it’s a promise.

But it isn’t. It never has been.

You tell yourself you didn’t choose this. That you were dragged into the wreckage of his affection like a moth to flame.

But the truth is—your heart has always knelt for him.

Even when it shouldn’t have.

You still remember the way he looked that night—the first night. Blue eyes dimmed with regret, lips parting like he wanted to apologize for something he hadn’t even done yet.

And maybe that should’ve been your warning.

Maybe you should’ve run.

But you stayed. You always stay.

Even when it breaks you.

Even when you are nothing more than the pause between his vows.

Even when he’s still hers.

Because somewhere in the quiet, when his head rests against your chest and he whispers half-truths into the dark—you believe he’s yours.

Just for a moment.

And that’s enough to ruin you all over again.

—•

You stand with the door open.

And there he is—Xavier, leaning against the frame like the weight of the world has begun to settle into his bones.

His shoulders are slouched, not from defeat, but from exhaustion. Still, he holds himself with that quiet, princely grace he’s never quite managed to shake. Not even now. Not even here.

Your heart stutters.

A silent betrayal.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely more than a breath.

You step aside without a word, letting him in. The door clicks shut behind you, and your hand lingers on the lock longer than it should.

Fingertips pressed against cool metal, head bowed. Like maybe if you stay like that long enough, this won’t be real.

But it is.

It always is.

You feel the weight of his eyes before you hear his steps. The way his gaze crawls up your spine, deliberate and lingering, like it’s memorizing the shape of your silence.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

And still, he comes closer—carefully, almost reverently. As if this isn’t something that should ache.

As if this isn’t betrayal, and you aren’t already hollowing yourself out to make room for a man who was never yours to begin with.

Then his arms slip around your waist.

You flinch, just barely.

But he pulls you in anyway, like muscle memory, like this has always been his place to return to. His chin dips into the crook of your neck, nose buried in your hair as he exhales, deep and shaky.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

The words are a wound.

You close your eyes. You force your body to soften, to let him hold you—like the curve of your spine hasn’t bent too many times under the weight of this secret.

And he holds you, gently, desperately, as if that could fix it.

As if his arms could stitch together the parts of you that cracked the moment you said yes to being the other woman.

You smile. Or something like it.

A quiet, fractured thing.

Because what else can you do?

Let him pretend. Let yourself pretend.

Just for tonight. Just this once.

As if dignity weren’t already dust at your feet.

He begins to trail kisses along your neck—soft, familiar, undoing you with every press of his lips. Your breath hitches, sharp and involuntary.

You reach for his arm, fingers wrapping around it—not to pull him closer, but to pull away.

“I can’t,” you whisper, voice barely holding together.

He stills.

His arms fall to his sides, hesitant, lingering in the space between wanting and retreating. His eyes find yours, and they’re softer than they have any right to be. “Okay,” he says. But even as the word leaves his mouth, he takes a step forward.

You step back. A reflex.

Desperation tightens in your chest—not for him, but for yourself. For the last fragment of dignity you’ve been guarding like glass in your palms.

It’s slipping. You can feel it.

He moves again.

“Just tell me,” he murmurs, another step.

Your back hits the door.

You press your palm out, a weak barrier between you and him. “Xavier—” your voice cracks.

And he’s there. Inches away.

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

But the air shifts. Thickens. His hand reaches up, gently curling around your outstretched one as if to steady it. As if to steady you.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes.

The words unravel in the space between you. A challenge. A plea.

And you want to. God, you want to. You want to tell him to walk away, to go home to the life he built with someone else.

To leave you with at least this much—your silence, your pride, the echo of your better judgment.

But then he looks at you like that.

With that slow, honeyed gaze. With that voice like velvet slipping through your ribs.

And suddenly you’re back there—years ago, heart in hand, loving a man who only saw you when it was convenient. Who only reached for you in shadows.

You don’t tell him to stop.

You never do.

Because part of you still believes that if you let him close enough, maybe this time, he’ll stay.

And when he closes the distance between your lips, the world stills.

You forget how to breathe.

Forget how to think.

So you don’t.

You simply let it happen.

You let him in—again—despite the way your heart claws against your ribs in protest. Despite the ache that never really leaves, only hides beneath moments like this.

His hands find you slowly, reverently. They trace the curve of your waist, glide across the flat of your stomach, brush along your arms—memorizing what he already knows by heart.

And your body, traitorous as ever, moves with him.

Your arms lift, winding around his neck like they always do, like they were made for this fall. And fall you do—headfirst into the familiar ruin of him.

Into love.

Into want.

Into the kind of lust that tastes like guilt but feels like home.

You surrender, again and again, to the abyss that is him.

You lay your head against his chest, the rise and fall of his breath steady beneath your cheek—soothing, dangerous. Your own breathing has only just begun to slow, though your body still trembles faintly from the things he did to you.

Things you can’t say aloud. Things that live only in the quiet hum between stolen moments and regret.

You listen to the rhythm of his heart.

Steady. Unbothered.

Like this was nothing. Like this was everything.

His fingers draw soft, idle circles against your bare skin—slow, hypnotic. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t bring peace. Just more weight.

You don’t look at him.

You can’t.

Not even when he pulls you closer like it means something. Not even when he whispers against your temple,

“So beautiful…”

like he’s speaking a truth, not just rewriting the lie of this affair.

You keep your eyes fixed on the hollow of his collarbone, lips parted in silence.

Because if you look at him now, you might never be able to look away.

But Xavier—always gentle, always cruel in the softest of ways—lifts his hand to your cheek. His palm warm. Reverent. Mocking.

He tilts your face toward his, coaxing your gaze to meet his own. And there it is—that soft smile. The one that disarms you.

The one that pretends this isn’t a slow undoing. As if he isn’t unraveling your dignity thread by thread and calling it love.

As if your self-respect isn’t already splintered across the floor beneath your feet.

As if your mind isn’t screaming kick him out,

while your traitorous heart clings to the fantasy of a man who was never yours to keep.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

And for a moment, you nearly laugh.

Because how do you say everything?

Everything is wrong.

Everything is cruel.

Every kiss he leaves on your skin is a betrayal you’ve learned to crave. Every tender whisper another nail in the coffin you keep burying your better judgment in.

Every night he stays, every breath he takes beside you—it’s all a sin.

An unforgivable, deliberate sin.

But you don’t tell him that.

You smile instead. A hollow thing. A mask you’ve worn too many times.

“Nothing,” you whisper.

Because your heart—faithless and pathetic—wants him to stay.

Wants him, still.

Always.

“I’ll be back soon.”

It sounds like a promise, but you know better than to hold it in your hands. It isn’t a vow—it’s a transaction. A whispered lie dressed in affection.

An illegal exchange between a man who belongs to someone else, and a woman too foolish—too willing—to say no.

You nod anyway. “Okay.”

He smiles. Of course he does.

His fingers thread through your hair, slow and familiar, before trailing down to brush your cheek. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead—gentle, almost reverent. As if that small tenderness can sanctify all the ways he’s ruined you.

And just like that, he’s gone.

He disappears into the dim hallway of your apartment complex, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of his touch and the echo of words that never meant anything.

And you?

You stay.

Still.

Barefoot on cold tile, your body marked by his presence, your pride scattered at your feet.

You watch as he fades into the night, back into the life he never intended to leave. Back into the arms of the woman who gets to love him in daylight. In truth. In full.

While you remain here—unseen, unheard.

Helpless and sinful.

A secret dressed in silence.

You pull the covers to your chest, curling onto your side as if the blankets could shield you from the truth of it all.

Your eyes sting, wet with unshed tears, and your shoulders feel heavy—worn down by the shame and guilt you carry like a suitcase you never set down.

“I need to stop this.”

The words leave your mouth like a prayer. A plea. A lie.

Because who are you kidding?

You won’t.

You can’t.

And worse than that—you don’t even want to.

—•

“The total will be $48.53,” the cashier says brightly, her voice cutting through your haze.

You nod, wordless, handing over a crumpled fifty. The change is pressed into your palm, forgotten almost instantly as you clutch your bag of groceries and offer a polite smile.

You turn toward the exit, steps light, mind elsewhere—somewhere quieter.

But then you stop.

Dead still.

Just beyond the sliding doors—her.

His wife.

The woman he comes home to. The one with his last name, his mornings, his full, unhidden love.

And she’s looking straight at you.

Not past you.

Not through you.

At you.

Your breath catches.

Your pulse roars in your ears, and suddenly the bag in your hands feels too heavy. Like shame has weight. Like guilt has shape.

And for a moment, the world holds its breath with you.

The soft clinking of cutlery and quiet chatter fills the restaurant around you, but it all feels distant—muted, like sound underwater.

Your hands tremble as they wrap around the porcelain cup, drawing what little warmth you can from the tea. You don’t lift it to your lips. You just hold it, as if the motion alone can steady you.

Across from you, she sits. Composed. Calm. A cup of coffee cradled in her hands like it’s second nature.

Neither of you has spoken since sitting down.

The crepe she ordered rests untouched beside her, the whipped cream beginning to melt, pooling slowly at the edges like time running out.

It’s all unraveling—quietly, politely, painfully.

“I’ve known since that night,” she says softly, almost like an afterthought.

She takes a sip of her coffee, and you’re struck—not by the words, but by the calm in her voice. The unbearable stillness. As if she’s practiced this moment a hundred times in the mirror before finally stepping into it.

But you see it.

God, you see it.

The faint redness at the corners of her eyes, the way her lashes look damp. The exhaustion in her spine, just barely noticeable in the way her shoulders droop. And that smile—still there, still perfect—only now it feels like glass. Thin. Breakable. Screaming.

She’s holding herself together so quietly, so painfully.

You bow your head, eyes fixed on the untouched tea in your hands. Shame spreads like a bruise across your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

And it’s not enough.

It never will be.

“Don’t be,” she says gently, picking up her fork. “You and I both know it wouldn’t fix anything.”

You nod—small, ashamed. The gesture feels like penance. Like a child caught doing something they can’t undo, sitting in silence while the consequences settle around them.

She takes a bite, chews slowly, then glances up at you.

“How long?”

The question hangs there, deceptively simple. But something in her tone, in her eyes, tells you she isn’t asking about the affair.

She’s asking about you.

About the feeling. The why beneath the what.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You hesitate, the truth caught like a splinter in your throat. You don’t deserve her grace. You don’t deserve her voice still soft.

But still, you answer.

Quietly.

“Since college.”

And the shame deepens—because even now, after everything, she’s still asking about your heart.

She doesn’t respond right away.

Just lowers her eyes to her plate, the fork paused between her fingers as if the admission settled somewhere deeper than she expected. Or maybe, she always knew.

You wonder if she’s tracing back the years in her head.

Wondering when he started looking at you the way he used to look at her.

If he ever stopped.

The silence stretches between you, thin and fragile. You grip your cup a little tighter, not because the tea has gone cold—but because you have.

She finally exhales, a sound so soft you almost miss it.

“I thought so,” she murmurs. Not bitter. Not angry. Just tired.

You want her to scream.

To curse you.

To ask why.

But instead, she lifts her gaze, and there’s only sorrow there. Not for herself. Not for him.

For you.

“You loved him first,” she says. Not a question. A realization.

Your throat tightens.

It doesn’t matter who loved him first. It doesn’t matter who loves him now. The truth is, none of you ever really had him—not fully. Not honestly.

“I shouldn’t have,” you manage, voice cracking under the weight of guilt. “But I did.”

And she smiles.

Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just sadly. Like someone who’s been living inside a heartbreak long before you ever stepped into it.

“I think,” she says slowly, “that’s the most honest thing either of us has said all day.”

She sets her fork down, untouched food pushed aside, and looks at you one last time.

“I don’t hate you,” she whispers, and somehow, that’s the cruelest mercy of all.

Because you do.

You hate yourself enough for the both of you.

She lets out a soft chuckle—gentle, unexpected. “Thank you. For being honest.”

And somehow, that hurts more than anything she could’ve screamed.

Your head dips lower, eyes fixed on the table as the guilt claws its way up your throat, thick and burning. It sits there—unspoken, unbearable—just like everything else you never had the courage to say.

Just then, the door swings open—and there he is.

Xavier.

He stands at the entrance of the café like he hadn’t just been the center of a quiet war. As if he hadn’t been split between two women sitting at the same table, breathing the same grief.

His eyes move to you first—always to you first—and then to her.

And the shift is immediate.

The air thickens. The stillness sharpens. Your breath catches somewhere between shame and something dangerously close to longing.

She doesn’t flinch.

She turns her head slowly, meets his gaze with a calm you know she’s had to fight for.

Xavier hesitates. Just for a second.

And in that second, you see it—the flicker of guilt, the fear, the weight of everything unspoken.

Then it’s gone.

He walks over like nothing’s wrong, like he wasn’t the reason everything is.

And you?

You sit there, tea cold, spine stiff, throat lined with remorse.

Because this is the moment you realize—love doesn’t always look like choosing.

Sometimes, it looks like walking in too late.

She clears her throat—light, deliberate. A warning bell in the stillness.

Xavier has just settled into the seat beside her.

Of course, beside her.

Where he belonged.

“I’m not leaving my husband,” she says, voice calm, but resolute—like she’s drawn a line in the sand and dares him to cross it.

Xavier’s head snaps up to her, eyes wide, stunned into silence.

And you… you look at him too.

Even now. Even here, tangled in the wreckage of what should never have been, you search his face like it holds an answer. Like it might offer you something more than borrowed nights and regretful touches.

Maybe, just once—you want him to look at you and choose.

Not in secret.

Not in silence.

But truly.

And still, he says nothing.

You nod—once, faintly.

There’s no fight left in you now. Only resignation, curled deep in your chest like smoke after a fire.

Your chair scrapes softly against the tiled floor as you rise to your feet. The sound feels too loud in the silence the three of you share. You smooth down the front of your clothes, more out of habit than necessity, then lift your gaze—not to him, but to her.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, and this time, your voice doesn’t tremble.

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t nod. She just watches you—like she understands that this, finally, is the goodbye you both needed.

You don’t look at Xavier.

You can’t.

Because if you do, you’re afraid your resolve will break.

Afraid that some desperate, buried part of you will still beg.

So you keep your eyes on the door.

And when you walk away, you do it with your head high and heart in pieces—leaving behind the man who never chose, and will never choose you.

—•

“Y/N, these just came in for you.”

You glance up from your desk, the numbers on your screen blurring as a bouquet is set gently in front of you—roses, soft and bright.

Your fingers hover before you take them, delicate in your hands like something from another lifetime. A small note peeks from between the stems.

I hope to see you smile more, it reads, scrawled in messy, hopeful handwriting.

You already know who sent them.

Your eyes lift across the room to where he sits—Rafayel. The handsome new hire with warm eyes and a smile too easy for a world like this.

He offers a small wave, a tentative grin.

But your heart doesn’t move.

It doesn’t stir.

It’s silent.

You rise slowly, holding the bouquet like it’s made of glass and ghosts. And then, without a word, you cross the room and place it carefully on his desk.

“Thanks,” you say, softly. “But I’m okay.”

You don’t meet his eyes. You don’t owe him that.

You pick up your files, your steps quiet as you make your way toward the conference room. Back to routine. Back to numb.

Because you’ve loved too deeply once.

And it left you hollow.

You’re done chasing after the shape of something that never stays.

You’re done with love.

Or rather, the twisted parody you convinced yourself it was.

masterlist

[yoomiwrites]

Missing Ghost²

Summary: After losing her memory in a storm, a young Marine remembers only the name “Mihawk” and sets out to find him, convinced he holds the key to her past. As she sharpens her skills and follows his trail across countless ports, Mihawk is always just out of reach. Finally, she arrives at a port where his ship waits, knowing her answers are close.

Note: Since a lot of you enjoyed the first part —or rather the Trailer???— of Missing Ghost, I'll give you the second, which explains a little more. However, this story here won't get a fixed update scedule. But I promise, whenever we hit the 30 reactions, the new chapter will follow soon. Anyways, we got some skips here and there in this chapter, which might confuse you (sorry for that) but the next ones have a smooth flow. Gotta explain her side as well before we jump into our dramatic slow-burn.

The scent of saltwater clung to the breeze as I awoke, the distant murmur of waves steady and comforting, yet unfamiliar. It felt as though I’d drifted through a dream, a long, unbroken night I couldn’t remember. The first thing I saw was the kind face of an old woman bending over me, her hand resting on my shoulder as she whispered to someone nearby, "Thank heavens, she's alive."

For a year, the faces of this little coastal town became my whole world. These people—strangers at first, though I’d come to see them as family—had found me washed up on their shore after a heavy storm. They cared for me, helped me heal. They told me I had come in on a rough tide, barely breathing. My past was blank, a black slate, as empty as the horizon.

Yet there was a restlessness within me, a flicker of something left undone. I would catch myself watching the ocean, feeling a pull toward its vastness, like an anchor somewhere deep within me, half-forgotten and buried in the depths.

I tried to ignore it, forcing myself into a routine, helping with the nets, mending sails, doing small, clumsy chores around town. The villagers laughed at my mishaps, good-natured and warm, and I laughed along with them, though a part of me always wondered why everything felt so… wrong, somehow. Like wearing clothes that didn’t fit.

And then, one evening, as I watched the sun dip below the horizon, something strange came over me—a memory, slipping into focus for just a heartbeat. It was of a man, standing tall, his eyes as sharp as a hawk’s gaze, cutting through everything they touched. His form was shrouded in darkness, yet I could sense the weight of his stare, the cool indifference he wore like a cloak.

Dracule Mihawk.

The name surged through me, as if pulled from the depths of the sea itself. It tasted familiar, filled with fear and awe, with a reverence that felt misplaced, yet urgent. His voice echoed in the back of my mind, words as cold and biting as steel: “You’re supposed to be watching me, not getting yourself killed.”

And then, like a fragile thread slipping through my fingers, the memory faded, leaving only the faintest trace, like footprints in the sand washed away by the tide.

Days passed, and I could think of little else. The name haunted me, a specter hovering at the edge of my consciousness, tugging at some long-buried duty. I tried to bury it, to shake off the strange yearning, yet each time, it returned stronger, more insistent.

Then, one night, as a storm rolled in, I felt a reckless determination rise within me. I had to know who I was—had to know why the name of a Warlord carried such weight within me, why it felt like my life had revolved around that solitary, distant figure.

As the storm thundered above, I knew what I had to do.

I packed what little I owned, slipping away before dawn. I didn’t know where I was going or if I’d even find what I sought, but I knew I couldn’t stay here, not anymore. I had to find Mihawk, to remember why he haunted my dreams. And maybe, just maybe, I’d find myself in the process.

In my heart, I could still hear the echoes of my own laugh, wild and breathless, lingering in the back of my mind like a fragment of the past I couldn’t quite grasp.

The small boat cut through the waves, though each crest grew higher and stronger, rocking the vessel with an intensity I hadn’t anticipated. For a while, I managed well enough, adjusting as the water slapped against the sides, my hands tight on the oars. I’d learned to fish out here, enough to know how to read the currents, to feel when the sea was ready to turn against you. But now, as I looked out at the dark, churning horizon, I felt a prickle of doubt.

My mind kept drifting back to him—this elusive figure who seemed to haunt my memory and my purpose. I couldn’t shake the feeling that finding him would somehow explain everything, that he held the key to the pieces I couldn’t remember. Mihawk. The name itself felt heavy, burdened with something I couldn’t name. And each time I tried to recall him, his face slipped away, features blurring into the shadows, like he was some phantom my mind had conjured.

But even though his image stayed frustratingly vague, the feeling was as sharp as ever. I knew it was real. And I knew I had to find him.

The waves rose higher, and I braced myself, leaning into each swell with a determination that was half instinct, half desperation. The salt stung my skin, the chill of the ocean seeping into my bones, but I pressed on. It had been around a year since I’d woken on that lonely shore with no memory, no past, nothing but the kindness of strangers who didn’t ask questions. And yet, beneath the surface, this pull toward something—someone—was always there, like a silent tide that had finally dragged me out to sea.

I tried to picture him again, forcing myself to concentrate. A flash of his eyes—piercing, unyielding—came to mind, and I felt my heartbeat quicken. I could almost hear his voice, cold and amused, saying once more: “You’re supposed to be watching me, not getting yourself killed.” There was no warmth in those words, yet something in them rang familiar, almost comforting, like I’d heard them countless times before.

A hard wave broke against the boat, yanking me from the memory. I gasped, feeling the boat tip precariously before I steadied it. Every time I focused on Mihawk, on those fractured glimpses of the past, the sea seemed to rise in response, as if testing my resolve. I wondered if he was as dangerous as the ocean itself, as indifferent to life and death, sweeping in and out of people’s lives without a trace. And yet, if he truly was that figure, why did I feel this pull to find him, this sense of trust mingled with wariness? It made no sense, but here I was, risking everything on a memory as thin as smoke.

Ahead, I could see the faint outline of an island, its shape barely visible against the steel-gray sky. Relief mixed with fear as I realized I was getting closer to my goal. If I could reach a port, I could ask around, maybe find someone who knew his name, or knew where he could be found. Mihawk was a Warlord; surely, someone, somewhere, would know something about him. At least that was what the kind people of my island had told me.

But as I rowed, a single question lingered, haunting me as much as his name did: If I found him, would he remember me?

I couldn’t shake the image of those intense, unreadable eyes watching me, studying me like I was some strange creature that had somehow stumbled into his world. And though the image was as unclear as the horizon in a storm, I felt a flash of defiance, of determination. If he didn’t remember me, I would make him. He was the only link to who I had been, to everything I had lost. And if I had to face the storm to get there, then so be it.

Another wave crashed against the boat, nearly knocking me back. My hands ached, but I held on, fighting the urge to look back at the safety of the shoreline far behind me. I kept my eyes forward, fixed on the island.

The dock was bustling as I arrived, my clothes soaked with sea spray, exhaustion settling into my bones. But my heart was pounding as I scanned the horizon, hoping, daring to believe that maybe, just maybe, this time he would actually be here.

I had been on his trail for what felt like forever. Each time I thought I’d caught up to him—whispers in taverns, rumors in passing, a hushed mention of “Hawk Eyes Mihawk”—I’d find nothing more than empty docks or vague traces of his presence. It was as though he was always one step ahead, a shadow slipping through my grasp. I grew used to the strange, half-maddening cycle of arriving somewhere, just a few hours too late. There’d be an empty mug in an inn, a murmur of a cloaked figure sighted in a nearby town. But never him.

At first, it had been simple enough to pick up his trail. I found myself listening intently to sailors’ tales and buying drinks for anyone with even the slightest hint of information. But as months turned into years, I learned quickly that mere words weren’t enough. I couldn’t rely on others. So, I fought. I survived, tracking down pirates and mercenaries who owed their lives to Mihawk—or feared him enough to give me scraps of knowledge, little more than breadcrumbs. With every fight, every encounter, I grew stronger, a clumsy, scattered style slowly becoming something sharper, something that could almost be called technique.

I could almost feel Mihawk’s ghostly disapproval as I fumbled my way through fights in the beginning, wielding a blade with a mixture of grit and inexperience. He was an image, a goal I couldn’t quite touch, and as time passed, I wondered if he’d simply vanish again like the dream I couldn’t remember. But something in me wouldn’t let go. He was out there. And the small memories I had of him felt realer, more vivid, as if he were watching, aware that I was on his trail, though always staying just out of reach.

Sometimes I wondered if he was avoiding me, if he had no intention of ever meeting me again. Perhaps, to him, I was nothing more than a ghost, something easily ignored and forgotten. The thought gnawed at me, but I kept going, surviving each storm and each struggle, clinging to the hope that I would find him, that I would finally learn who I was and why he haunted my memories.

And now, as I stood at the edge of this crowded port, I felt a surge of hope—and fear. His ship was docked here, the enormous black vessel unmistakable, casting a shadow over the water. People whispered in awe and fear, as if his mere presence filled the air with a kind of sharp, electric tension. There was no mistaking it; he had to be here.

I took a shaky breath, trying to ignore the thrill of adrenaline mixed with exhaustion. After all these months, all these years of following nothing but a rumor, I was finally close. Somewhere in this town, he was here. I could almost hear his voice again, cold and distant, watching me with that sharp, unreadable gaze, reminding me of how far I still had to go.

This time, I wouldn’t let him slip away.

[animehideout]

LOVE IS THE MOST TWISTED CURSE OF THEM ALL

PART 11

Check out part 12 here

Gojo Satoru X Fem! Reader

warnings ⚠️: not proofread / abuse / SA just something vague not detailed.

a/n : I truly apologize for this late update, I was really unmotivated to rewrite it and I was struggling to find inspiration again, I'm sorry if this part didn't live up to your expectations but I read hope you like it though, I tried to make it longer but I ran out of ideas 🥹.

Music Suggestion 🎧

Satoru stood tall, alone in the balcony, his gaze fixated on the sky, lost in the depth if his own thoughts. The weight of regret hung heavy upon his shoulders, a burden he could no longer bear.

His mind played your last fight that night on loop, making him hate himself even more. He remembered his harsh words, actions and disrespect towards you. Forcefully shutting his eyes to make those images and voices that's been haunting him go away.

Unwelcomed thoughts yet impossible to ignore. Blaming himself over and over again for what happened to you, torturing himself to madness.

"It's my fucking fault" he muttered,

In all that darkness, the image of your face in his mind was the only source of light. The delicate curve of your smile whenever you were around your students etched in his memory. He remembered the way you slept, features softened by the gentle embrace of your slumber, your passion for teaching and your daily excitement to show your students a new weapon and new technique.

You were a vision of peace amidst the chaos he was living. He realized then how life became emptier after your disappearance, the void your absence had left in every bit of his life. He realized how much he fell for you, he realized that hatred was deeply buried by the birth of his love for you.

With a heavy heart, he bowed his head, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. For three days, his eyes wide open, unable to sleep without you under the same roof as him, cuddling a piece of your clothing every single night to take into your scent, to pretend that you were there, next to him.

Clutching his fists, his knuckles turned white , whispering a plea for forgiveness, a forgiveness he might never receive.

"I'm sorry Y/n.."

. ..

"Satoru?"

"Y-yaga sensei?" said Gojo wiping his tears away,

"Can I join you?"

"Y-yeah sure"

"What's on your mind? Still blaming yourself?"

"Do I have anything else to do except blaming myself?"

"I'm sorry for your loss Satoru" said Principal Yaga apologetically,

"I didn't lose her, she's still out there, somewhere! I know it, I'm sure of it, I can feel it"

"Pain is eating you up Satoru, you know you should let go already–"

"Let go? Easier said than done. How can all of you let go so fast as if she never existed?" he said in annoyance

"The higher ups orders, to not distract the sorcerers' focus from their daily tasks"

"Bullshit, –"

"Satoru I understand your pain"

"No you don't, none of you does! I did this to her, I built the wall between both of us brick by brick till it collapsed on both of us, she got abducted by Toji and here I am suffering everyday.. I just wish I can turn back time and undo the damage I had done"

"Is this because of regret or something else?" asked Principal Yaga

Gojo looked down, not sure of what to say, mastering the courage he finally spoke,

"I– I love her, sensei! I love Y/n so much, I just hope it's not too late to realize this because I really want to fix everything–"

Yaga sensei looked at Gojo with a reassuring yet sad smile, deep down, everyone accepted that you died except Gojo., and he didn't want him to hang on fake hope.

"Satoru–"

"I know what you're about to say, but I won't let go, I won't give up even if the higher ups chain me down.... I thought she was a curse when we got married but I think I am her curse, I was her curse while she was my blessing–"

"I hope you're right Satoru, I hope she's still out there as you said, I hope you get a second chance to be a real family"

...

*In Mei Mei's room*

"Look at this" said Maki her eyebrows frowning in confusion,

"Who's that in the picture?" asked Nobara as confused as Maki,

Both of them examined the photograph, their eyes flickered between the picture and each other in silence. In the picture a woman smiled serenely as she cradled a baby in her embrace.

Maki shrugged equally perplexed,

"I have no idea, do you think it's a family member?"

Their senses were on high alert as they scanned every corner of her room for any sign of wrongdoing, something out of the ordinary. They found that picture tucked under her bed after they flipped the mattress while searching for anything suspicious.

"And this stack of money? Didn't know she's got all of this cash here" added Nobara.

"And this box as well"

Intrigued, they opened it. As they lifted the lid of the box, a firegun revealed itself, its metallic surface gleaming ominously in the dim light.

"A g-gun?" started Nobara as she looked at Maki in shock, "what would she use it for?"

"Definitely not hers, why would a sorcerer with a jujutsu technique depend on a gun" she pointed out.

"Good point, so if its not hers then to whom does it belong to?" asked Nobara

"There's only one way to figure it out, but now let's take the gun, the damn photograph and get out of here" said Maki as she put he mattress in its place again.

.....

"GOJO-SENSEI" called Nobara out as she caught a glimpse of Gojo in the balcony "Sensei you need to see this"

"Hm? Nobara? Maki?"

"Gojo" said Maki as she saw Gojo with principal Yaga in the balcony "We found something–"

but before she could finish her sentence,

"Any news?" interrupted Mei Mei as she stepped in the balcony out of nowhere..

Maki and Nobara exchanged quick nervous glances, their eyes darting between each other as they attempt to maintain composure. Hiding what they took from her room behind their backs. Their expressions strain with the effort to appear nonchalant, but a subtle tension lingers in the air. Lips pressed into strained smiles,

"Nah nothing new" said Maki while Nobara nodded in agreement.

"Hm you sure about that? I thought I heard you said you found something, is it about Y/n? " asked Mei raising her eyebrows,

"What if we did? Is it really your concern?" exclaimed Maki offensively, only to get elbowed softly by Nobara,

"We found nothing important Mei Mei sensei, of course if we did we'd tell you" exclaimed Nobara, chuckling awkwardly.

"Oh alright then girls," she said luckily not giving too much important to the girls, then paused and drifted her gaze towards Gojo, "how are you holding up Gojo? I hope you're in the process of moving on" she added

Gojo's eyes burned holes in her soul, but he tried to remain calm,

"I'm fine"

"That's what all of us would like to hear, glad you let go" she said and then excused herself to go to her room,

Then moment she left, Maki ran towards Gojo and Yaga, showing them what they found,

"We found these–"

"WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GET THESE FROM?" snapped Gojo unexpectedly, his eyes widened as he snatched the gun and photograph form Maki's hands,

"Damn Satoru what's got into you, relax!" exclaimed Yaga-sensei,

"W-we.." stuttered Nobara

"How did you get these? they were well hidden"

"Well hidden under Mei Mei's bed?" asked Maki in confusion

"What? what did you just say?" said Gojo and Yaga in union

"We found these under Mei Mei's bed, the gun hidden in a box , tucked beside that photograph and a pile of cash, do you possibly know to whom it belongs?"

"These belong to Toji Zenin" said Satoru

Maki and Nobara froze in place, trying to process what Gojo just said,

"T-toji?" they said in disbelief,

"This gun was used by Toji to murder Riko Amanai, and these in the picture are Megumi and his mother–" explained Yaga sensei

"It can only be one thing" expressed Gojo through gritted teeth, "She must be behind it" he added and started walking away, thinking about confronting her,

"GOJO STOP!" yelled Yaga sensei, holding Gojo in place, "What's happened to your common sense? vanished?"

"We can't assume anything now sensei!" said Nobara

"So all of this isn't enough to assume that she's got some dirty work with Toji Zenin going on behind our backs?" said Gojo aggressively

"Okay you're right, it is suspicious but we need a plan! a proper plan, do you think she'll admit it if you confront her? she'll find a lie and you'll never find the truth, not out of her! We need to know more about her first" explained Maki

"Know what?" asked Gojo impatiently

"I mean, Toji has nothing right? not even a house, do you think if he'd take Y/n to a hotel room after abducting her? Mei Mei must have provided a place for him" she added

"So if we can't ask her, how would we know?" asked Nobara,

"We ask her best friend" Suggest Maki shrugging,

....

"Is it ringing?" asked Yaga sensei,

"Yeah shh it is" said Gojo waiting for her to pick up the phone, "–Oh hello" he said through the phone

"Gojo? Hi what's up calling me late at night, is everything okay?"

"Utahime, yeah everything is fine, we just need you here, if it's possible can you make here in one hour at least?"

"Well I can, but is it an emergency?"

"Um it's– it's about Mei Mei, we're preparing a party for her and we need your help"

"A party? It's not even her birthday yet–"

"It's for her service, it's a habit here in Jujutsu High to hold a party for a teacher to honor them, and this time it's Mei Mei, she did a lot for us and for the school, besides it's the higher ups orders so..."

"Oh the higher ups? sure then I'll be there in an hour"

"Don't tell Mei Mei that you're coming though, it must remain a surprise, now we don't wanna spoil it"

"So should be meet outside the school?"

"Sure yeah, you can come to my house?!"

"Oh alright then, I'll be there"

With that they hung up the phone,

"She'll be here in one hour, I hope we can get her to talk"

"I hope she's not part of Mei Mei's plan though" Said Nobara.

"Don't you think we must tell the others? Maybe we need some backup?" suggested Maki

"Yeah, but some of them need to stay here to keep an eye on Mei Mei" said principal Yaga

"Alright, I'll go and tell them then,"

*Time skip, at Gojo's house*

They sat there, Gojo, Nanami, Maki and Megumi waiting for Utahime's arrival.

"You've got a nice and big house" pointed Maki

"Yeah but never a happy house" mumbled Gojo to himself,

"Do you think she'll tell us more about her?" asked Megumi and suddenly the bell rang,

"I guess we'll find out now!" said Nanami,

...

"So Utahime, I hope you corporate!" started Gojo not wasting any precious second,

"Corporate? you make it sound like if we're discussing business, and not preparing for a surprise party! it's a p-party right?"

she chuckled nervously,

"Not really! you need to tell us more about Mei Mei, some information that we don't know about"

"wait? what?" she asked nervously

"Is she meeting someone? did she tell you about something?"

"Gojo wait! why are you asking about this? I mean she lives there in the school dorms as well, so I guess you know more than I do"

"I don't think so, she's you're best friend she must have told you something about her plan?" said Maki

"Plan? what plan?"

"Ah come on Utahime dont play dumb"

"No for real! what plan, I thought you had a plan with her , Gojo to push Y/n away!"

"What? NO. I'm talking about her dirty plan with Toji"

"Toji? wait what's going on?" she said truly confused

"STOP LYING AND ANSWER THE DAMN QUESTION, IF YOU'RE PART OF HER DIRTY GAME I'LL END BOTH OF YOU" exclaimed Gojo angrily, making Utahime step back, growing more and more impatient.

"Hey hey Gojo calm down, what's wrong with you? I understand you're frustrated but that's not the right way to find answers!" said Maki and the others nodded in agreement,

"Megumi please take him to the balcony while me and Maki handle this, he needs to calm down" suggest Nanami,

Megumi did as he said and took Gojo to get some fresh night air,

"Geez, you really developed anger issues, you were more laid back even in risky situations Gojo" started Megumi

"Not anymore, people change and I've changed"

"Y/n sensei is dear to all of us, so I am eager too to know where she is, and I truly understand how you feel"

"No Gumi, you don't, you don't understand because I'm not just sad, I'm feeling extremely guilty, because it's my damn fault"

"I'm feeling guilty too" said Megumi lowering his head,

"Hm? what for ? you're pretty close to Y/n and you're good friends not only a student and his teacher–"

"It's my father, he's the one who abducted her and only God knows what he's doing to her, I don't wanna even think about it. Is there any greater shame than this?" he said his voice cracking,

"Hey Megumi! look at me, your father's actions has nothing to do with you, he's the one who abducted her not you! you've always been nice and kind to Y/n. Sometimes family does things that we are ashamed of and completely in opposition of it but it doesn't mean we're like them just because we're related by blood, you are what you're truly in here" he said and pointed at Megumi's heart "And I know well what's in there Megumi! I raised you and I've seen you grow up to be a loyal, strong and kind hearted man! you're the complete opposite of your father so don't ever compare yourself to him again" said Gojo with a smile,

"If it's his fault, then why are you blaming yourself Gojo?"

"Because I'm the reason she left that night! I've said too many hurtful words, no one can handle to hear, no one deserves to hear but I was too agitated, too overwhelmed by my mixed feelings, trying to push her away from me over and over again–"

"Why? why'd you push her away from you? couldn't you have tried at least? maybe after what you've been through you were destined to finally find happiness with her! "

"My heart was a messy place to make it a comfortable place for her!"

"Was? so what changed now?"

"I want to try to make it comfortable for both of us, I want t-t to– nevermind! I have to find her, I have to make it up for her"

"I understand and we will find her, Y/n is strong I'm sure she's safe wherever she is" reassured Megumi, trying to lift Gojo's spirit again,

....

"So Utahime, we really need you to corporate so you better put that bestie thing with Mei Mei aside cuz this is a life or death matter!" begun Maki,

"D-death?"

"Toji escaped and we think that Mei Mei had a hand in this" added Nanami

"No way! Why would Mei Mei do that? I mean you know what Toji had done to the Jujutsu world!"

"We know, but we know that when people are full of hate are full of unexpected things!"

"Nanami what's wrong? what happened?"

"It's Y/n! Toji abducted her, and we found Toji's gun under Mei Mei's bed, even though it was well hidden.. do you still think she's got nothing to do with that?"

Her eyes wide open in shock and disbelief, her mouth hanging open, sad expressions drawn on her face,

"W-what? I didn't know I swear to God! I've – I've never thought it will go that way, I've never thought she could fall this far" she expressed her feelings, her heart crushing, she's never expected her long time best friend would do or be part of such thing, to betray the Jujutsu community.

"That's why we need your help! You know how important Y/n is to our world! we can't lose her" said Nanami "So please if you know anything, any place she owns, any small details tell us, we really need to know"

With a deep breath, she started thinking, trying to remember if Mei Mei told her anything,

"I remember she bought a house! but that was weeks ago!!"

"A house?"

"Yeah, she said she might settle in Tokyo if things went well between her and Gojo–"

"She's truly delusion" interrupted Maki rolling her eyes,

"Where is this house?" asked Nanami

"I'll take you there" said Utahime determined to help.

Despite being best friends with Mei Mei, her morals were more important! she's too loyal to the Jujutsu World and committed to the greater good, she knows about the prophecy and she can't afford to witness another loss on the Jujutsu community part.

"I'll go and tell Gojo and Megumi then– maybe Y/n is there"

.......

[ Kill her, and I'll bring your cash tomorrow when I see her lifeless body ]

Read Toji through the message that he received,

"See! I'm ordered to kill you now! How much trouble did you cause her for her to free me from the prison just to torture you and kill you" he said with a smirk

"F-fuck you and fuck her" you said through gritted teeth as you were thrown on the floor, your body hurting from the chains that were tied around your wrists and feet.

your lips and nose bleeding after hours of tortures,

"And you still got that attitude, after being beaten up? If I were you I wouldn't act so brave.."

"You'll never be me Toji! we're both considered inferior in the Jujutsu world but I learned how to be the real me and not what others want me to be, I didn't let others to order me around and kill people–"

"Are you trying to save yourself? and convince me to not kill you"

"no, I know I can't be saved, not just now but for a long time ago, but you know the funny thing is that we actually have something else in common beside being monkeys" you joked offensively trying to get on his nerves, you're going to die anyway so why'd you not offend him, you were tired if being stepped on so why not talk back.

"what?" he said in anticipation as he kneeled down,

"Both our families are disappointed in us, I disappointed my parents and you disappointed your son, Megumi, nice kid he's nothing like you–"

"M-megumi?"

And you struck a sensitive nerve in him,

You started laughing when you saw his face dropped and his expressions changed, your stomach hurts whenever you laughed he probably had broken some of yours ribs.

The you paused,

"Do it Toji. Do what you were assigned for, no one will come to my rescue anyway, do it, kill me" you said in a serious tone,

"Change in plan, let me have my fun with you before I take the light out of your eyes"

"You still have time for fun? the dawn will break soon–"

"Oh I know princess, don't you worry about it, I know I can't delay the sunlight but I know how to make the night even more darker... and you were right, Megumi's probably disappointed in me but lemme tell you something–" he paused and leaned forward, his face a few inches away from yours "That's who I truly am, a beast that preys on the weak, and you are weak Y/n no matter how hard you try to come off as strong"

he said and he reached to take off your shirt,

Your heart beats quickened, you thought he'd torture you in another way, and not attempt to do something filthy to you,

"No -no! I'd rather die" you said trying your best to break free from his grasp, but his huge body got you pinned down,

"What? you're not a fan of big guys? or your pathetic ass is loyal to a husband who's never paid attention to your existence?" he said looking you deep in the eyes, his huge hands circling around your neck, posing pressure on it,

You couldn't deny the pain and disappointment you felt. You really hoped Gojo would appear and save you, you wished he cared for you. You couldn't deny that you wanted Gojo; your husband to be your first time and not with someone who would brutally kill you after taking what he wants.

You'd die even before he kills you.

"no don't " you whispered, loosing your voice as his grip around your neck tightened, making it hard to breathe.

....

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HER"

All what you can feel is the weight of Toji's body being removed from on top of you.

Toji's body forcefully thrown on the ground, your blurry eyes trying to focus on the figure standing right in front of you, slowly approaching you,

"Damn baby what did he do to you?" he said softly, softly brushing his finger over your bleeding lip.

"S-satoru, y-you came!" you whispered, your vision darkening and ears ringing,

"Of course I'm here with you, Y/n! Y/N !!!!!no no Y/N WAKE UP" he yelled as he held you in his arms.

....

Your eyes slowly fluttered opened, your surroundings sharpening into details again, gulping with difficulty.

A serum attached to your vein,

"Sensei" said Yuji "Guys she's awake"

With that all of them circled around the bed you were laying on, their eyes look directly at you, greeting you with sincere smiles.

"How are you feeling?" asked Megumi.

You tried to leave the bed but they forced you to lay back. You looked around scanning the place, you were in the hospital, Shoko must have treated your wounds, everyone was there except your husband, Satoru.

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[aylacavebear]

2/1 With A Twist Pt. 2

It was bad enough being on the run—worse when you didn’t even know what you were running from. Shadows moved wrong around you. Eyes lingered too long. You’d always been different, but never understood how or why. The only thing that made sense was the way your blood could help people. Heal them. Quietly slipping into hospitals, leaving behind recovering patients and no trace of yourself—that had become routine. You didn’t know it was also how they were finding you. And now, your life was about to change in ways you couldn’t begin to understand

Pairing: Eventually Dean x You/Reader

Word Count: 5624

Warning: Show level violence, Season 2 episode 1 rewrite, Past trauma, Soulmates, Mention of Angels, Bastet, Chuck, John being John, Angst, Tension, Mentions of Demons, Mentions of Death.

A/N: I honestly don't know if this will be more than three parts. No matter how much I try to "wrap it up," it just keeps flowing out of me. I also am not sure exactly where this one is headed.

----------------------------------------- The silence didn’t return, not like before. That had been divine—a pause carved by cosmic breath. This one was mortal. Awkward. Shaken. Heavy.

Like the air had forgotten how to move.

You stood in the center of it, heart still racing from something older than fear. Your eyes were fixed on the spot Bastet had disappeared from, the scent of her still clinging to your skin like incense and wildfire. You knew her name. You had a word now—Touched—but it meant nothing.

Not yet. Someone named Bobby Singer had a book, she’d said.

And somehow… everything.

Sam was the first to move, only it wasn’t much—just a subtle shift, like he’d been pulled too deep into his own mind to remember his limbs. His brows furrowed, not in confusion, but calculation. Book memory. Indexing. Hunting for a term—Touched—like it was a half-remembered passage buried in Bobby’s library. His flicked from you to the wall and back again, brain clearly flipping through every tome be’d ever skimmed.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. That mind of his was already two miles down the rabbit hole, and there was no pulling him out until he surfaced with answers.

John, on the other hand, didn’t hide the way his jaw locked.

He paced a step away, fists clenched at his sides like they might keep the fury in. Gods. Not demons. Not monsters. Gods. He’d known something was off—had felt it ever since the yellow-eyed demon possessed him—but this? Divine-level interference? That was territory he had never wanted to chart. And then there was Chuck’s voice in his head again, sharp as shrapnel:

You’re supposed to be dead.

The words looped like a bad echo. His death. A demon deal with the same thing that had killed his wife—nearly killed Dean. And now he was standing here because you had stepped into their path.

John turned toward you, eyes like thunderclouds trying to hold back the storm. He didn’t speak—couldn’t, maybe—but his thoughts were louder than hell.

Dean didn’t move from the hospital bed. He was still staring at you, jaw slack, a thousand things unraveling behind his eyes. He wasn’t thinking about Chuck. Not really. Not even Bastet, though her voice lingered somewhere in the back of his mind.

“Souls are drawn to each other.”

Dean had always trusted instinct. His gut had gotten him out of more near-death scrapes than weapons ever had. And his gut was screaming now, not in warning, but recognition.

He didn’t know what you were. Didn’t know why you made the air feel clearer or the world a little less heavy when you looked at him. But this—this pull—had been there from the moment he’d seen you when he was a ghost and you were giving him your blood.

And now, all he could do was try to figure out if it was something he’d earned… or something fated.

You didn’t dare speak.

You didn’t have the words. You were still trying to process the ones that had been thrown at you like knives. Glitch. Ripple. Erase.

Touched.

It hadn’t sounded like a curse. Not when Bastet had said it. But it hadn’t sounded like a gift, either.

You had power. Enough that Chuck—God, capital G—wanted you gone. Enough that a goddess had come to your defense like you were something sacred.

And yet, you didn’t feel sacred.

You felt like a girl in a storm you hadn’t summoned.

A whisper of something Bastet had said echoed in the dark corners of your mind.

“You do not touch Touched. Especially not mine.”

Hers. You were her Touched. But… what the hell did that even mean?

You couldn’t stop the way your eyes dropped to your hands, as if they’d be different now. Glowing. Marked. Branded by divinity. But they were still yours—still trembling.

“I—I need air,” you managed, barely above a whisper.

No one stopped you.

Sam was still in his books—even if they were only in his head.

John was still trying not to explode.

Dean… his gaze followed you all the way to the door, unreadable. Not stopping you, but not letting you go, either. His hand flexed at his side like he wanted to reach out.

He didn’t.

But he would. When they were out of here and at Bobby’s, when they could figure this whole mess out. He’d reach for you—and if you shrank away, he’d let you. Even if he didn’t want to.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until the hospital hallway hit you—cool, sterile, normal. You leaned back against the wall and closed your eyes.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the silence shattered.

“Dean, get dressed.” John’s voice cracked like a whip—sharp, barking, leaving no room for question. He didn’t wait to see if Dean moved, already turning on Sam. “Watch her.” Sam blinked, still a half-second behind reality. “She’s not a suspect, Dad—” “She’s not normal,” John snapped, voice low and loaded. “And she sure as hell isn’t safe.” Sam’s jaw tensed. “You heard Bastet—” “I don’t give a damn what that thing said. You follow orders.” Dean was already swinging his legs over the side of the hospital bed, moving like the pain had become background noise. Like the decision had already been made the moment she walked out the door. He grabbed the clothes left folded in the chair—his jeans, his flannel, the worn leather jacket—and moved without hesitation.

They were going to Bobby’s. All of them. He didn’t even need to ask.

You stayed just outside the room, back still pressed to the cool tile wall, trying to breathe through the thousand thoughts crackling like glass inside your head. Around you, the staff moved like two divine beings hadn’t just appeared and dropped the biggest bombshell of your life.

When the door opened, you didn’t flinch, but your eyes met Sam’s—and his were kind. Not like John’s, which were all suspicion and steel. Sam looked at you like he knew something he couldn’t quite name.

John stalked past you like a storm in motion. “We’re going to Singer’s. You can ride with Sam.” He’d seen the way Dean looked at you. He’d do what he could to keep the two of you apart.

That stopped you cold.

“Wait—Singer?” you asked, turning to face him. “As in Bobby Singer.” John shot you a sharp look, but it was Dean who answered as he stepped into the hallway. “Yeah. Come on.” There was an almost soft smile when he looked down at you—and you had to fight that pull to get closer to him, wondering if he felt it too.

He looked different upright—less broken, more grounded. But still quiet. Still looking at you like he didn’t know whether to run to you or from you.

“Move. Now,” John barked again, not in the mood for hesitation, especially not from you. His mind was in overdrive, ten moves ahead of this moment, eight different plans already pieced together.

“She’s not a soldier, Dad,” Sam pushed back, voice firm. Because you weren’t. You hadn’t been raised with a man who was relentless about following orders without question, requiring unwavering loyalty measured by silent obedience.

John’s voice crackled out again, this time sharp with warning. “Sam.”

You had only been watching the tension thicken, finally lifting your hands slightly like you were trying to hold it at bay. “I’ll go.”

Three heads turned toward you at once.

“I just…” you glanced toward the end of the hall. “My stuff’s at the motel. My car’s in the parking lot here. I need to grab it.”

John clenched his jaw. “Sam, she’s your responsibility. Try to do something right for once—make sure she doesn’t run.”

Dean wanted to protest. Wanted to say he should be the one watching. Talking to you.

You tried not to feel it. Tried not to want it.

Whatever this thing was—the pull, the warmth that bloomed in your chest when his gaze lingered—you couldn’t touch it. Not yet.

First, you had to figure out what Touched meant. Who you were now. Why gods were showing up in hospital rooms like they were playing chess—and you were a key piece.

And if Bastet said Bobby Singer had answers… then that’s where you’d go. Even if it meant putting your trust in the Winchesters. Even if it meant being around John—a man who looked like he’d rather kill you than try to understand you.

“Now!” John snapped.

The ride to the motel was quiet.

Dean led, the Impala’s taillights steady in the night. Your car followed close behind, Sam in the passenger seat, arms folded, eyes on you more than the road. John’s truck brought up the rear, shadowing the both of you like a silent threat.

You could feel it—the pressure. The weight of being flanked, surrounded, managed. Sam didn’t say much, but his presence didn’t feel like surveillance. It felt like quiet curiosity. Like he was watching you, not because he didn’t trust you… but because he was trying to figure you out.

The motel came into view, that familiar flickering neon humming in the back of your skull. You pulled in, gravel crunching under the tires, and parked in front of your room. Dean and John stayed in their vehicles, engines idling.

Sam followed you inside, knowing his father was watching.

It wasn’t much. A duffel bag in the corner. A few toiletries on the counter. The bed still unmade from the night before. You moved quickly, packing in silence, but you could feel his eyes on you the whole time—curious, quiet, cautious.

“You okay?” he finally asked, voice low.

You paused, zipped the bag closed. “No. But I will be.” You always were, one way or another. 

He nodded once, but didn’t press.

Back in the car, the silence stretched like the road ahead. The caravan moved again—Dean at point, your car behind him, John’s headlights steady in your rearview mirror.

A few minutes in, John pulled out his phone. One-handed, he dialed a number he hadn’t used in years.

It rang twice.

“Yeah?” came the gruff answer on the other end.

“It’s John,” he said. “We’re coming in.” There was a pause. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you again.” “I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important,” John bit out. “I need you to find a book. Old. Something about Touched.” He wasn’t willing to elaborate much over the phone. He never did.

A beat. “Touched?” Bobby’s tone sharpened. It was a term he hadn’t heard in years—and never in the States. They stuck to their own territories, depending on the deity involved.

“Yeah. I’ll explain when we get there,” John said, voice taut. “Just find the book.” He hung up before Bobby could ask more.

The sun was just beginning to crest over the treeline as the caravan pulled into Singer Salvage. Gold light broke through the haze, catching on the rows of rusting cars and the dust kicked up by the tires. Dew clung to the grass, glinting like glass under the early morning sun.

Dean parked first, gravel crunching under the Impala’s weight. The engine cut off with a familiar purr. You rolled in behind him, your car settling into park as John’s truck pulled up last, rumbling for a moment before shutting down. The sudden silence after hours of driving was disorienting.

No one moved right away. The drive hadn’t been exhausting—not in a physical way—but it had carved its way under the skin. The quiet buzz of adrenaline was still there, thick in your chest, humming with the echo of Bastet’s words and Chuck’s threats.

“Bobby’s a good guy,” Sam said beside you, his voice low. “Looks like he wants to chew gravel for breakfast, but deep down… he’s solid. He’ll help.” You nodded, but your hands stayed in your lap. You didn’t reach for your bag. Not yet. John was the first one out, his door opening and closing with a hard, deliberate sound. He moved around the front of your car, eyes on you—more soldier than father in that moment. Watching. Waiting.

Dean lingered in his seat, fingers resting lightly on the steering wheel, gaze in the rearview mirror. He should’ve been out by now, already tossing some half-assed comment Bobby’s way. But instead, he sat there, thinking—about how to peel a moment away from all this, from them, so he could get you alone. Talk to you. Ask the things he couldn’t say in front of his father. Things he hadn’t stopped thinking about the entire drive.

Then he stepped out and joined his father, just as you and Sam climbed out of your car.

Bobby was already standing on the porch, cup of coffee in hand, flannel sleeves pushed to his elbows. He’d clearly been up for hours—or hadn’t slept at all. The book John had asked for was already in the house, tucked safely away until he knew why they were here. He hadn’t touched it since digging it out. 

His eyes swept over the four of you—measured, sharp, calculating. His gaze paused on you longer than the others. He wasn’t the type to jump to conclusions, but his mind moved fast. A woman in tow. John’s call asking specifically for a book about Touched. That wasn’t a coincidence. 

“This is my home,” Bobby said, voice gravel-thick, loud enough for all of you to hear. “You don’t bring trouble here unless you’re ready to face it. And you sure as hell don’t bring it in without respecting the rules.” His eyes locked on John. Their last interaction hadn’t gone well. “That means you, too. If you can’t remember how to be a guest, you can turn right back around and keep drivin’.” John’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. Last time he was here, Bobby had threatened to shoot him with how he was treating his boys—and the way he was handling the yellow-eyed demon.

“And if you think I won’t shoot you just because we’ve known each other too damn long,” Bobby addded, voice low, “I suggest you test me.”

Dean exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. Sam shifted uncomfortably. John stayed still, saying nothing. 

You? You weren’t sure what to make of this Bobby character.

Bobby sipped his coffee.

“Well?” he said finally, eyes still hard on John. “We gonna stand out here all day or someone gonna tell me what the hell this is about?”

Silence stretched long and taut between the five of you.

You glanced sideways at the Winchesters—John’s jaw was still locked tight, his silence more statement than pause. Sam looked like he wanted to speak, but couldn’t find the starting line. His eyes flicked to Bobby, then to you, searching for a foothold. Dean opened his mouth, exhaled, then raised a finger—like he had something. Almost had it. But it slipped away. His brow furrowed as he tried again to collect his words.

None of them spoke.

Your eyes drifted to Bobby. He was still watching you—not like John had, with suspicion and tight-lipped restraint, but with a wary kind of curiosity. Measuring. Waiting. His grip on the coffee mug hadn’t changed, but you could tell—he was ready to put it down the second this started to smell like trouble.

You took a breath and stepped forward—

John’s hand landed on your shoulder. Firm. Heavy.

You froze, spine stiffening under the weight of it. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t have to. His meaning was clear. He didn’t trust you.

Bobby’s brow twitched, just slightly—like he’d caught the movement, logged it, but wasn’t ready to call it out. He didn’t speak. Just waited.

Frustration burned low in your chest. You wanted to shrug John off, wanted to tell him you didn’t care if he trusted you or not. But you remembered Bastet’s voice, calm and steady in your memory: He’ll come around. In time.

You took a steadying breath, standing just a little taller. “Bastet said you had a book about Touched,” you said, voice even but not soft. “She said I was hers.” The porch creaked as Bobby shifted his weight. The quiet stretched again—not from hesitation this time, but reevaluation.

His eyes narrowed, not in judgment, but in thought. “Well,” he said finally, the pieces clicking together quickly. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

Bobby stepped aside, giving you and the boys a clear path through the door. You caught the subtle nod he gave—not exactly warm, but not unwelcoming either.

Sam went in first, followed by you, forcing John to drop his hand from your shoulder. Then Dean, his hand lightly brushing the small of your back as if to reassure or ground you. You stepped over the threshold, eyes scanning the place instinctively—books stacked high, the air thick with knowledge and history.

John moved to follow—

Bobby’s arm shot out, not rough, but firm. Stopped him cold.

John straightened, brow creasing, but Bobby didn’t flinch.

“My house,” Bobby said, his voice low and even. “My rules. She’s my guest now.” John’s jaw ticked. Bobby didn’t back down. Didn’t need to. He’d read the signs. Read the book. Hell, he’d seen what her kind could do—with his own eyes, on foreign soil.

“She’s a mons—” John muttered, but Bobby cut him off.

“She’s my guest,” Bobby said again—sharper this time—before dropping his arm and turning away, leaving John to choke on pride and stubbornness.

The screen door creaked shut behind Bobby as he stepped inside, the weight of the previous exchange already starting to ease from his shoulders. He scrubbed a hand over his beard, then motioned toward the kitchen.

“Coffee’s on. Help yourselves.” You hovered in the center of the living room, eyes wide as you slowly turned in place. Books lined every wall, stacked on tables, shoved into shelves that bowed slightly from their weight. Old lore, new theories, forgotten histories—each spine a story, each volume humming with knowledge.

Dean stood a few feet away, hands on his hips, but his eyes were still locked on you. That phrase—souls were drawn to each other—echoed in his chest. A pull. A connection. Like gravity, subtle but unrelenting. He didn’t understand it, but he felt it. Felt you.

Sam had already migrated to one of the shelves, fingers trailing across titles, as his brain spun through old texts and archived memories. “I’ve heard the term before,” he murmured to himself. “Touched… Touched…” Bobby didn’t have the heart to tell him that the book wasn’t with the others. That he’d tucked it away in his desk until he knew more—until he knew your story.

John finally stepped inside, jaw clenched, carrying his stubbornness with him like a shield. He gave the room a quick scan before leaning against the far wall, arms half-crossed thanks to the cast on his right arm. Playing nice—for now. He wanted answers. Nothing else mattered.

Dean blinked, tore his eyes from you long enough to glance at the kitchen, then back. “Uh,” he said, suddenly unsure of his own footing. “I thought you might…” He turned, grabbed a mug from the counter, poured a cup, then hesitated as steam curled up from the surface. His charm, usually effortless, faltered.

“I got you some,” he said finally, stepping toward you. “The drive was, uh… long. Coffee?”

You looked at him, and something in your gaze cracked right through his usual defenses. The mask slipped. He stood there, awkward, holding out the cup like it was some kind of peace offering.

Your lips curved, soft, and unsure. “Thank you,” you said, fingers brushing his as you took the mug. His skin felt warm. Too warm.

Dean cleared his throat and took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck.

John saw it. Watched it unfold with a tight-lipped glare. But he stayed silent, jaw grinding like a storm behind his eyes.

You sipped the coffee, heart beating a little faster. The light brush against his fingers had stirred something buried deep, drawn it just below the surface of your skin. Something humming. Waiting. You didn’t know what any of this meant—not yet.  But you felt it too. That quiet tug in your bones. That strange certainty that something about Dean Winchester had always been waiting for you.

Still, you had questions. Needed answers. And right now, those mattered more than whatever heat had just flickered between you.

With a steadying breath, you sat on the couch, choosing the end closest to Bobby’s desk, the mug still cradled in your hands. 

“It might help if I start from the beginning,” you said, eyes fixed on the steam curling upward.

No one spoke, but their eyes were on you. You felt it. Even Sam had stopped scanning the shelves. 

You weren’t sure where the beginning truly was, so you started with what you remembered—how, at five, sounds came sharper to you, smell things that your parents couldn’t. Then came puberty, when you discovered—by accident—you had retractable claws. That had been as startling as the time you fell from a tree at fourteen and watched a fresh scrape seal itself shut before your eyes. That was also the first time you felt it—the pull. It tugged at you, behind your ribs, but from nothing tangible. You never knew what it was, just that it guided you to places.

You told them how it had led you to a dog, hit by a car and left for dead two blocks away. You had run there without thinking, driven by instinct. You’d used your claws to slice open your palm, smeared your blood into the dog's wounds, and it had healed right before your eyes.

Two years after that, your world shattered.

You’d come home the morning after spending the night at a friend's house, and the stench of sulfur saturated every room. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end. You never understood why, but that feeling had always meant danger. Instincts you still didn’t understand. You told them about finding your parents' bodies in their room, shredded, blood everywhere. And then how you’d run afterward.

The coffee stayed warm in your hands as you spoke, no matter how much time had passed, and you only paused occasionally to sip it. Something else you hadn’t been able to explain or understand. So, you kept going while they just listened, rooted in place.

You talked about years on the run; How that prickling sensation along the back of your neck became your warning bell, your compass. The one time you had ignored it, something found you. Something with black eyes and powers you had only thought were just stories. How it had held you against the wall without touching you, mumbling about your blood, and then—

You’d blacked out. When you came to, the thing in human form with black eyes was unconscious, so you ran again.

You told them about the people you helped at hospitals, the crash sites, the quiet corners where death waited too soon. Always hiding what you did. Making sure no one saw how you used your blood. How that tugging inside your chest always led you to the dying. People who weren’t supposed to die yet. They were supposed to have more time. You were there to give them time. That was your job, you had guessed—since you had no idea what you really were at the time.

Finally, you recounted what had happened with Dean, the hospital, and how Chuck—God—had shown up, and the things he said. And then Bastet and how she had protected you, called you one of her Touched, and that someone named Bobby Singer had a book with answers. “And, that’s why I went with the three of them,” you finished, finally looking up at Bobby. “I needed to come to you, because you had the answers Bastet wasn’t allowed to give me.”

Bobby didn’t say a word. He simply reached for the drawer in his desk, pulling it open with a soft creak that somehow sounded louder in the quiet that followed your story. His fingers found the worn cover of the old tomb instantly. He’d gotten the explanation he’d asked for—so now he handed over the book.

“As promised.” Your eyes widened as you carefully took it from him—the book Bastet said had the answers you sought. There was no title on the cover or spine. From the outside, it looked plain. Unremarkable. Not like it was the most important thing in the world to you.

You opened to the first page as silence pressed in. But none of them had left. No one had pushed back against Bobby’s word. That mattered.

The table of contents was strange. Deities. Pantheons. Names you recognized and some you didn’t. You scanned until you found the Egyptian section, then Bastet’s name, flipping to that portion of the book.

Bobby’s eyes didn’t leave you, though his mind was running. The smell of sulfur. Blood healing. The pull. The kind of instinct you couldn’t teach. Demons. The things chasing you weren’t just any creatures—he knew that now. They were hell-bent on something powerful. He’d read that book, knew what all Touched shared, no matter what deity their powers came from. And then there was the fact that God himself had wanted to erase you.

That part Bobby couldn’t shake.

“John,” he said, voice low, too casual for the weight behind it, “what were you contemplating in the hospital?”

John’s jaw flexed, not wanting to answer that one, a flicker of suspicion narrowing his eyes. “Doesn’t matter.” “Yeah, it does,” Bobby said, tone sharpening like a whetstone to steel. “Answer the damn question.”

John shifted where he leaned against the wall, eyes finally dragging off of you to meet Bobby’s. “A deal. For Dean’s life.” Bobby sat back slowly, connecting dots that hadn’t even been on the paper. Chuck had said John was supposed to die. That meant Dean would’ve lived, no matter what. Your instincts had drawn you to Dean—but it was John who hadn’t been meant to survive.

“From what I’ve gathered, Dean was going to live either way. It was you she saved.” Bobby stated, matter-of-factly. 

Sam had dropped back into a chair, elbows on his knees, eyes still on you. He wasn’t just thinking about what you’d said. He was seeing the echo of it—of Mary. Of a life ripped apart by something dark and unforgiving. He’d been six months old when he lost her, and if it weren’t for pictures, he wouldn’t even know what she looked like.

Dean hadn’t said anything either. He was still just standing in the middle of the living room, arms crossed tight over his chest like he was holding something in. His jaw clenched as you mentioned your parents—shredded, the way you said it. That hit something deep. It wasn’t just about loss. It was about violence. Cruelty. The way evil didn’t just kill, it ripped things away.

He’d seen that before. Too many times.

He was remembering watching you when he was nothing more than a ghost. The way you had filled the syringe with your blood and put it in his IV. The look in your eyes when they fell on him, like he was more than just a body in a bed. He had so many questions, none of which he wanted to ask in front of his father, not with how he was glaring at you. Bastet’s word kept repeating in his mind—souls being drawn to each other. He didn’t know what it meant, not really.

But he felt it.

John was watching you now with narrowed eyes, but not because he didn’t believe you. It was because he did. And that meant something bigger was in play. He hated that feeling—being something’s pawn. Not having a clue how to proceed or how to find the answers to questions that he shouldn’t be having. If what you were saying was true, you were powerful, and untrained, and hunted by things that even hunters had a hard time dealing with.

And you were tied to all of them.

He didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust you.

But he couldn’t ignore the fact that it had been you who had healed Dean, inadvertently saving his own life from damnation in hell. Because he would have made that deal for Dean’s life, without hesitation. You hadn’t healed him—his arm still broken, still in the cast, sling pulling at his shoulder—but you’d prevented something worse. He hadn’t been on death's door. He had been preparing for his soul to get dragged into hell.

Bobby studied you for a long moment, then looked to John again, voice like sandpaper. “You can stop maddogging her. She saved more than your life, John. And she’s my guest.” John’s lip curled, not in anger, but in tension—like he was bracing for a fight. “That doesn’t mean I trust her.” “No,” Bobby said, “but maybe you should start trusting that she’s a part of this now. And I got a feelin’ we haven’t even scratched the surface yet.” Dean was still staring at you. Sam too. But neither of them looked afraid.

You, meanwhile, kept reading. Quiet. Steady. Like the book held the last missing piece of something ancient. Like the words on the page had been waiting for you.

The book’s spine creaked faintly as you eased it open farther on the section with Bastet’s name as the chapter title. Her entry wasn’t long, but it was dense—layered with annotations, symbols, and margins marked by a careful hand. The script was old. Reverent. You could almost feel it humming beneath your fingertips.

“Known widely as the Egyptian goddess of cats, Bastet’s dominion extends far beyond her feline associations. She is protector of the home, guardian of women and children, goddess of fertility, motherhood, and divine vengeance. Those marked by her—known as the Touched—are born rarely, always in bloodlines prepared to carry her legacy, or a soul from a prior time, already prepared for the burden…”

Your heart beat a little faster.

“While modern records favor symbolic connections, physical manifestations were once common. Enhanced senses, instinctual behaviors, agility, silent movement. In rare cases, physical traits also emerged—ears, fangs, tails—though such features diminished as the bloodline refined.”

You exhaled slowly, pulse ticking in your throat. It wasn’t just coincidence. The way you had always moved quietly. The way your eyes adjusted in the dark. The low rumble in your chest when startled. The purring when you were alone—when you needed comfort, or when you felt safe. It all had a name. An origin. Bobby’s chair creaked as he shifted his weight. He was still watching you, arms crossed now, jaw working like he was biting back a truth. He wasn’t surprised. Not at all.

Your fingers paused on a phrase near the bottom of the page.

“Touched serve as a divine extension of their goddess’s vow to protect what is sacred. Family. Connection. Love. Every instance of their intervention aligns with this calling, often unknowingly. It is not merely the time they give, but the blossom of hope—even if it is not to the goddess herself.”

Your throat closed. Images flashed behind your eyes—faces of the people you’d helped. The woman in Lost Creek, Colorado, who’d been hiking near Black Ridge and nearly died. You’d overheard her husband ask about a baby, not even realizing she’d been pregnant until after you’d healed her. The man in Hibbing, Minnesota, whom you overheard pleading with police to find his husband, who had gone missing that morning. You’d found him that night, barely getting him and yourself away from some very crazy people. The couple had just adopted an eight-year-old little girl who had been in the system since she was two.

You’d thought you were just helping people.

But you were answering prayers for time.

Bobby’s expression hadn’t changed, but his eyes had softened. Like he saw the weight of realization settling in your chest. Like he saw all the pieces fall into place before you even spoke.

You turned the page, and there at the bottom were two notations—both underlined in red.

“See pg. 172 - Healing Blood See pg. 243 - Grace”

You skipped the first one. You knew what your blood could do, but made a note to return to it later. Your fingers found the next tab, flipping quickly to page 243. The title hit like a bell.

“Touched Grace: Divine Access Through Soulmate Bond.”

Your eyes drank in the words as you swallowed hard.

“All Touched are born with grace—not unlike Angels. Dormant, sacred, untouched by corruption. But this grace cannot be wielded until awakened. The bond with their soulmate is the key—not merely finding them, but being accepted by them. True acceptance initiates the awakening. Only then may the Touched access their full divine potential.”

Your hands went still. The words blurred for a moment before refocusing. You could feel the others watching—Dean silent, Sam leaning forward slightly, tension stretched taut in the quiet.

But Bobby? Bobby wasn’t just watching.

He was waiting.

Not for you to speak. But for you to look.

His eyes tracked your twitch like a man confirming dots he’d already connected. He just needed to see your reaction.

You blinked once. Twice. The book sat heavy in your lap as the line replayed in your head.

“The bond with their soulmate is the key—not merely finding them, but being accepted by them.”

Your gaze lifted.

Bobby saw the flicker first.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even full. But it was enough.

Dean’s eyes locked with yours the second they lifted from the page. 

And for you, the world stopped.

----------------------------------------- Part 3 Series Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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[freedomfireflies]

Destiny

Summary: You’ll lose Harry on August 17th, 2029.

They’ll say it was a freak accident. That nobody could have seen it coming. Nobody could have stopped it.

But you can.

And you will.

Word Count: 1.6k

“I’m not sure. I swear, it was right here on the dresser.”

“I’ll have Anthony check again. We might be able to find a copy somewhere in the office. Or maybe we can find the file through email.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Let me know. I was really looking forward to it.”

“Will do. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

Harry nods to his manager, who disappears down the corridor of the arena, before he leans against the wall and hangs his head.

Your heart hammers inside your chest as that familiar ringing returns to your ears. 

There he is.

He’s so close. So fucking close, you can almost smell his vanilla cologne. Can almost feel his soft curls run through your fingers or feel his lips on your neck.

Hear his voice in your ear.

Your body aches to be near him. Every muscle, every nerve-ending, every joint vibrates with the need to be close. To walk over to him, throw your arms around his neck, and bury your face in his chest.

To hold onto him one last time.

But you can’t. You made a deal.

You do this…and you move on.

Harry sighs to himself and looks back up at the ceiling, hands digging into his pockets.

You know what this means. He’s stressed. Aggravated over something he can’t control, and annoyed with himself for being unable to fix it.

In the future, when he'll get frustrated, you’ll press a kiss to his palm, whisper three, “I love you’s,” and count with him to ten.

He’ll remember to breathe, to relax, and to handle the problem one step at a time.

You wish you could do that now.

But this Harry doesn’t know you. He hasn’t met you yet.

He doesn’t love you yet.

And he never will.

You take a deep breath and glance down at the envelope in your pocket that you’d snuck from his dressing room. The same envelope Jeff is currently on a mission to find.

But he won’t find it. There’s no other copy in existence and there won’t be again.

You promised.

If he never goes on that trip to Italy, then he never meets Alexander. And if he never meets Alexander, then he never agrees to the tour around Europe. And if he never agrees to the tour around Europe, then he’ll never be in that car on August 17th at 5:03 P.M. 

He’ll never be flipped over seven times before the vehicle crashes into the wall.

He’ll never attempt to crawl to you and drag you to safety.

He’ll never realize he’s bleeding out faster than either of you can stop it, and he’ll never collapse onto the streets of Barcelona.

You’ll never lose him.

You made a deal that day. Some deity in the universe found you begging anyone that would listen to give you one more chance.

And they decided to give it to you.

They’d let you come back and keep him from finding that envelope. The very envelope that would set everything in motion.

They’d allow you to stop him.

They’d allow you to save his life.

Even if it means he'll never meet you.

Because you and he will bump into each other at a cafe in Paris on March 5th, 2025. He’ll already be waiting there to conduct a meeting with Alexander. The same meeting where they’ll choose the dates for the tour. 

The day they’ll choose to send him to Barcelona.

He’ll notice your dress first and he’ll stop you to tell you that it’s his favorite color. And you’ll blush wildly once you realize who he is and thank him profusely for taking the time to speak with you.

He’ll offer to buy you a croissant and you’ll laugh at his attempt at a French accent. Then you’ll part ways for about half an hour as he and Alexander talk while you return to your chai in the corner of the restaurant.

But he’ll stop by your small table before he leaves. He’ll tell you his name and ask for yours.

You’ll give it to him.

And from that moment on, neither of your lives will ever be the same.

You’d thought long and hard about the decision before agreeing to this second chance. Wondering if there was any other way you could warn him and keep him out of that car without having to lose him completely.

Destiny said no.

As long as your soul is intertwined with his, he will always meet the same fate. 

The only way to save him…is to let him go.

You hear Harry curse to himself as he runs a hand through his hair, tugging on it until he winces. 

The last fragile shard of your heart shatters when you see him drop into a crouch, head cradled in his palms.

“The fuck is wrong with me?” you hear him mumble, the hauntingly familiar question echoing between the empty arena walls until it finds you.

He’s asked himself that at least a hundred times throughout your relationship.

Your answer is always the same:

“Nothing,” you’ll whisper before taking him into your arms. “Nothing, H. You’re perfectly imperfect and I love you.”

He’ll melt in your embrace before allowing himself to sink into your body. “I love you.”

You’d give anything to offer him that comfort now.

Not that he’d know what to do with it.

Suddenly, his head lifts, eyes drifting around the white corridors in thought before they find you.

Your breath catches as you scramble to hide around the corner, pulse racing as you hear him stand, his shoes squeaking along the linoleum floors.

“Hello?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, back pressing into the wall. “Sorry,” you call, silently commanding him not to come over. “Just…looking for the bathroom. My bad.”

But you hear him approach. Hear his feet lead him to you in a way that almost feels…destined.

You’re frozen to your spot, acutely aware of the way you should be heading for the exit. You did what you came to do. He’s safe…and you need him to stay that way.

But you couldn’t resist one final look. One final glimpse of the man that had asked you to marry him only moments before getting into that damned car.

His head peeks out from behind the wall to look for you, brows raising when he sees the way you’re cowering away from him. 

“Are you all right?” he asks, and his voice holds the same compassion he’s demonstrated with you a hundred times before. Despite the fact that he doesn’t know you now…he still cares.

One of the many reasons you fell in love with him. His kindness for everybody.

“Yes, sorry,” you repeat, eyes falling to his shoes. You can’t look at him. “I just…couldn’t find the bathroom.”

“I get it.” He laughs. And the sound makes your stomach rip down the middle. “S’place is huge. You wanna go down this hallway, make a right, follow that hallway…and then it should be on your left.”

You nod without lifting your head. “Thanks. Sorry again for bothering you.”

“No, don’t be,” he insists. “I was just…taking a minute.”

“Yeah,” you reply, and your voice is small. Weighed down by the burden of your grief. “Sometimes we need a minute. Or two.”

“Or twenty,” he adds, chuckling again. “I swear, sometimes I think I have a handle on this shit, and sometimes…it feels like it's completely out of my hands. Like somebody else is pulling the strings and I’m just…along for the ride.”

Your throat constricts as the imminent tears rush to your eyes. “Yeah.”

He pauses and you can feel his eyes on the top of your head. He’s studying you. Your body language, your demeanor, your voice. Looking for something. Looking for what’s wrong.

He did this all the time when you were first dating.

Eventually, he learned to read you like a book.

“Seriously, are you all right?” he asks again, softer this time. Hoping to coax a real answer out of you.

No. No, you’re not all right. How are you supposed to tell him goodbye? How are you supposed to look at the man that asked you to marry him and see that he has no idea who you are?

And that he never will?

How are you supposed to walk through those double doors when you know that the moment you do…you’ll forget. You’ll forget him, you’ll forget your relationship, and you’ll forget the fact that you lost him.

And maybe that’s okay because at least then, you’ll forget that you watched him die. Forget that you watched the life leave his eyes as his hand went limp in yours.

He’d made you promise you’d be okay.

And it was the last thing he ever did.

You don’t know if he’d approve of this. You don’t think he would.

But you’d rather have his life than his love.

You take a deep breath and force your shoulders back. “Yes, sorry. Just taking a minute myself.”

He hums. “Yeah. I get that. Life is…hard.”

“Very,” you whisper before you trail your eyes to his.

He smiles.

And it almost guts you.

“Try…counting to ten,” you say as you take a step back, putting a lifetime of distance between you. “Whenever I’m upset, I just take a deep breath, hold it, and count to ten. And when I’m done…everything doesn’t feel so…loud.”

He seems intrigued by this premise, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smirk as he nods once. “Yeah. I’ll try that.”

You nod yourself and turn on your heel. You don’t want to leave him but you can’t stay.

Destiny is calling you back.

You make it about three steps before a hand snatches onto your wrist and spins you around.

You know this touch. Know what it means, and you can’t force yourself to see him as he steps closer.

“Wait,” he murmurs, and there’s an urgency woven between each syllable that springs the tears to your waterline.

You go still.

"I know you..." he whispers, eyes trailing over the side of your face, "...don't I?"

Even now, the echo of his love calls out for you.

You swallow every truth you wish you could tell him, and slip yourself from his touch for the last time.

“You used to.”

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter

[ratatouillewastakendammit]

A Humans Touch

“What the hell, Bill?” you groaned, eyes narrowing as you watched the creature in question fly down in front of your face. 

Indifference seeped from his tone as he shrugged. “Oops. Musta bumped into ‘em what they were muddling around.”

Scowling, you turned around and immediately began to panic once more as you took note of the smartphone in Jax’s hand. “He’s not gonna hurt you!

They paused, thumb poised above what you fretfully guessed to be the ‘begin call’ button to something like animal services or the police. “He?”

“Yeah. Just try to take a deep breath. I one-hundred percent understand how you’re feeling right now.” The thought of how accurate that statement was would’ve made you grin if you weren’t seriously panicking. If you remembered correctly, you might have actually been in the exact same position at this point. “But it’s all gonna be okay. I promise. Just hear me out, alright?”

Reluctance was simmering over their still fearful features, but Jax slowly lowered the phone regardless and awaited your explanation.

And so you told them everything.

At this point, they had gotten up, collecting themselves enough to draw closer and examine Bill. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just… I just figured you might react badly.”

I just don’t trust you enough to keep a secret

Not one like this

I don’t think anyone could

“Well, at first, yeah,” they returned in admittance. “I thought I was high.” You chuckled. “Yeah, I get that.”

“But he’s amazing! Do you understand how incredible this is?” Hesitance now washed away by the flood of discovery, they reached out a finger, hoping to possibly skim over Bill’s exterior, but receiving a quick slap in return.

“Hands off, strawberry top.”

The harsh response and surprising moniker had them raising an eye in your direction.

“He doesn’t care to use people’s real names. Probably your hair,” you answered, gesturing toward the scarlet tinted roots mixing into the bleached curls.

The reason potentially being because he didn’t believe humans worthy of the proper identification was something that you left out. 

For now.

However, the stark, inconsiderate callousness of Bill’s personality might not have mattered at all. Jax was now looking at their hand in wonder, almost like that had been kissed by an angel rather than being struck by a demon. A fatal determination had begun to darken their eyes, only fragmented by the everpresent glow of amazement reflecting off dilated pupils.

“You’ve got to let me join.”

Confusion had you blinking stupidly back at them. “Join? Join what?”

“Well, you’ve been studying him, right?”

“A bit, I suppose,” you replied with a weak shrug.

“So, let me join in.” They shot up, the insistence of their plea carrying over from their tone to their assured expression to the hands that were now gripping your shoulders just a bit too tightly. “I swear on my life I won’t tell anyone. And think of all the scientific revolutions we could make! All the people we could help!”

Swallowing, you looked toward Bill, noticing the complete lack of concern overtaking his form as he began to attempt balancing a ballpoint pen on the edge of his finger. Regardless, you were positive he was paying attention to your conversation.

“Okay.”

⭒⋆△⋆⭒

“That was not okay!” 

You slammed your door shut, flinching slightly as the sound clamored across your dorm room. Hastily unzipping your bag, you grabbed a notebook and began to organize your course calendars for the upcoming semesters. Busywork was an easy outlet whenever you were feeling stressed.

Work was something you knew.

Something you could control. “Oh my, is somebody jealous?”

Ink began to bleed into your paper as you scoffed with incredulousness, a black hole starting to suck your rushed lettering into its ebony stomach. It threatened to seep through the parchment, infectious tar staining the aged wood underneath. “Obviously not!”

But somewhere deep, concealed in the depths of your consciousness and buried amongst all the other thoughts you would refuse to acknowledge, he was right.

The notion that this otherworldly being had chosen to follow you home, chosen to stay despite having literal worlds to explore, had brought an undeniable emotion of pride along with it. It was that feeling of being just the slightest bit special that you had raced after for most of your adult life, grasp inching closer with every A or personal achievement, just to slip through the skin of your fingers every time you took a moment to visualize just how unremarkable your life had really been.

Most children want to make a difference, to leave a more significant mark on this Earth than some governmental documents and a gravestone. Naturally, as time goes on, that hopeful gleam is dulled by the expectations. Bills and debt and lack of time slowly corrode at those aspirations, chipping away until the idea of even a stable life began unachievable.

You always found it funny how the journey of a ‘normal’ life was seen as unimportant by many, despite the fact that so many fail to achieve even that. 

With him, it was easy to feel a little bit less trapped within the confines of society's standards; it was easy to feel special.

Still, that wasn’t exactly it either, was it? 

Over the time you had spent together, you had found yourself, albeit a tad unwillingly, slowly considering Bill a friend. Of course, he was rude and more than a touch inconsiderate at times, but your humor was sufficiently dark to handle his own callous remarks. You enjoyed his company enough to ignore the giant warning flags flitting in front of you, their own clothed edges stitched and signed with his own threats.

So, yes. 

Maybe you were a bit jealous.

But there was absolutely no chance of him ever getting the benefit of knowing it. 

“Aww, don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re still my favorite pet.”

Setting the pen down this time, you hesitated and turned to face him with a raised eyebrow. “Pet?”

At this point, he seemed to have silently shifted back into his mortal form, tall stature looming over your seated position. He slipped a hand under your chin, gently lifting it up so your eyes could meet his. “Of course! I always enjoy having a human plaything in my back pocket.”

You frowned, jerking your face away from his touch. A quiet warmth started to heat your cheeks at the unprecedented newness of the contact. He was a touchy guy, sure, but that had felt grossly intimate in a way that had you shivering. “I’m not a dog, Bill.”

“Eh, all you Earth creatures are the same one way or the other.” He waved you off with a smirk. “And regardless, you didn’t seem too bothered. Didn’t even think to ask me before agreeing to work with someone else.”

A small pang of guilt thumped in your chest as you paused. “Okay, well, I’m sorry about that.”

On some front, he was exactly right. He hadn’t seemed precisely concerned about your answer to Jax. Though, when would he ever be? Still, you could have easily pulled him aside and asked, ignoring the formidable call to immediately please those around you for just a few damn minutes.

“You’re forgiven.” “You’re ridiculous,” you sighed.

“But you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried. I’m far too interesting.”

A small grin bled through your attempts to remain indignant. “And so modest.”

It was always so much harder to stay irritated when it was panic, the usual poltergeist, instead of actual vexation possessing you. Anger seemed to be ever elusive for you, quickly replaced by self blame or sadness that made it irritatingly difficult to hold your ground within an argument. 

But wasn’t it just so much nicer to apologize for your own wrongdoings and move on, rather than stew in rage regarding another’s?

Unhealthy, maybe, but still nicer.

That route would have boiled you alive one way or another, simmering wrath radiating from someone you cared about easily melting your defenses until there was no stubbornness left, only the pathetic plea for forgiveness.

Because that’s what you really felt, wasn’t it?

Stubbornness. 

You couldn’t be angry towards those you were silently grateful for even offering you a spot in their life at all. 

So it was an unfortunate truth that you were unable to stay mad for long, regardless of how much this slight issue had you crumbling in a panicked frenzy.

Besides, it’s not like this would affect you too much, right?

⭒⋆△⋆⭒

Wrong. 

If you weren't currently being deprived of your rarely precious chances of sleeping past noon, it definitely might have been comical to see how differently you and Jax took to work. 

It's not that you were lazy, per se. 

It just happened that your type of studying employed a less direct approach. 

All doctors studied their patients, whether it be something like pediatrics or brain surgery. They would research, taking in all past issues and ailments ranging from mental to physical to ancestral. Then, some might even experiment.

That may be a crude word for it, sure, but no one really knows for sure how a person will react with treatments or medications. Bodily functions might be thrown into disarray as medical practitioners tried to play God, maneuvering through hormone levels with pill bottles and gloved fingers.

If everything went well, they would continue to analyze, yearly checkups and chaotically signed prescription slips ensuring an improvement. 

For those who could afford it, at least. 

So, yes, you were fairly certain that all doctors, and most other professionals in the scientific field, studied those around them.

However, it was massively easier to get someone to open up when you approached their issues as a friend as opposed to an examiner, a helpful factoid that you had learned fairly early on in your journey of psychological education.

Your comrade, on the other hand, definitely had a different strategy. 

It had begun three days ago with a text asking to meet around nine in the morning, a time no self-respecting college student would ever adhere to during break. Still, you had set a few alarms and braved the campus grounds to meet with your new study partner.

Jax had become a complete force of nature, a hurricane of inquiries and school supplies.

Unlike your own, their questions hid behind no friendliness. They barreled through any social expectations that were usually of a scientific survey, the blatant directness

And it was actually their blunt inquisitiveness that had you realizing just how little you knew about Bill.

Do you know how old he is?

Old.

Where is he from?

A different universe.

Any blood relations?

None that he cares to talk about.

Apparently, the candid interviews were a sorry opponent to Bill’s diverting answers and you could almost feel the silent annoyance overtaking your friend. At this point, they had been asking you things instead, hopeful, but ultimately mistaken, that you had any more information on him to reveal. 

None that they would appreciate to know anyway. 

It wasn’t surprising that a cryptozoologist wouldn’t have any interest in the psychological activities of one of their specimens, especially seeing as most of those critters lacked any sort of transcribable mental processes at all.

While it did make you feel a bit useless, you understood their frustration. 

Bill was a treasure trove of scientific revolution, but you both seemed to have lost the key. It must have been irritatingly tempting for Jax to just grab a sledge hammer and smash that chest open, hoping that they might avoid a rough case of tetanus from the splintered wood.

 So you had tried your best to keep your mouth shut when they began to delve further, ignoring your own personal desire to pair analysis with a side of empathetic patience.

Besides, Bill had always been horrendously stubborn and haughty, so you had no doubts that if he didn’t appreciate any of the investigation tactics, he would promptly call for a stop.

And that he did.

You had to bite back a graceless mix between a laugh and a groan of disbelief when Jax asked for a blood sample. Their needle-holding hand had received another quick slap before Bill flew off, shooting a middle finger as he took a seat on your left shoulder. 

“Is he always that touchy?” Your lab partner asked, noticing as their specimen leaned back carelessly above your collarbone.

“Only on his own terms.” By now, you had gotten used to the constant handsyness, even if you weren’t close to being allowed to initiate the same amount of contact in return.

“Why is he even staying with you anyway?”

The question had you stiffen slightly in hurt as you tried to remain vigilant of their usual bluntness. “I’m honestly not even sure. He tried to make a deal for my body  in return or power, riches, knowledge, etc, Supernatural style, but I said no-”

“You said no?”

“Yeah…” You swallowed, taking note of their addled expression. “Just doesn’t seem worth it.”

With a short hum, they went back to writing, scrawling itch of an old, drying pen against parchment meeting with the clock on the back wall to battle the quiet.

Tick tick tick

The sound echoed over the silence, consistent tap slowly drawing you into a hypnotic lull. It slowly began to fizzle away into that lethargic sludge that was your current state of mind, molding to match your heartbeat until the room slowly started to fade away as well. 

“Sleepy?”

You flinched, blinking back the fogginess clouding your vision to see a knowing smile. “Oh, yeah, sorry.” Clumsily laughing the drowsiness off, you looked to your upper left, catching the clock that had you near snoozing in your line of sight. “It’s already six. Are you getting hungry at all?”

Jax followed your gaze and sighed, almost as if the insatiable human demand for sustenance was merely a time wasting roadblock to their “Damn, you’re right. Want me to go and grab something?”

“I got it. Besides, I’ve got a coupon for the Indian place down the road that expires in a few days. You guys just hang out here.” You waved them off politely, glancing down at the small pyramid now seated in your lap.

Halfway expecting an objection, you had been suspiciously surprised to receive a lazed ‘whatever’ in return to your proclamation of leaving. 

For such a supposedly blasé creature, Bill was quite clingy.

To you, at least.

Much to Jax’s annoyance, he seemed to answer your questions a hideously obviously lot more than he would their own. 

Even worse was when you had to slip away to get a sip of water or grab a snack from the nearby vending machine.  He refused to stay in the classroom, instead opting to follow you out into the hallway. 

It was a personality trait that had you extremely enticed to start making teasing comments for each instance, but equally reluctant to drive that behavior away.

Which is why the distrustful ease of his response had you slightly weary, but it definitely wasn’t enough to keep either of you from a proper meal. “Okay. I’ll be back in half an hour. Just be careful, I guess.”

Unease gnawed at your stomach as you left the building, gray walls of concrete meeting a seemingly ever equally lifeless sky. The lacking sun had the wind nipping at your skin and your leisurely walk turned into a slow jog in hopes of getting inside once more.

It just now occurred to you how Bill hadn’t yet decided to morph into his human form in front of Jax, something that you made a mental note to disclose later for research purposes. 

Of course, it did make a bit of sense. 

You had been interested in all the ways that made him human. 

Jax was interested in everything that made him not. 

Bill was a performer, that was something you had noticed very early on. 

All these thoughts paddled through your mind as you walked across town, buzzing ideas just enough to distract you from the chilliness until you reached the desired eatery.

Herbs and spices greeted your nose as you walked in, cold air battling the warmth from inside and quickly meeting a cozy defeat. The sound of sizzling meat enfolded your frigid ears, crisp vibration promising a savory feast.  

Darkness embraced the room, scattered lamps providing enough light to contribute to the homey atmosphere. 

Reflecting the grin, you began the order, receiving a steaming bag of containerized goodness fifteen minutes later.

Heat radiated from the package and you set off towards campus once again, cradling in close to your midsection as you allowed the warmth to soak into you.

It was a wasteland now, but it wouldn’t be like that for long. The next semester would begin in a little under two weeks, summoning all the chaos and frenzy of syllabus day. Students would be rushing all over, excited chatter masking the assurance hidden nerves that came with each new class. 

Last year, you were exactly the same. Funnily enough, it was practically impossible to worry about something like grades right now.

The world you lived in made it easy to be anxious, whether it be about something like school or finances or relationships. You, unfortunately, found it even more effortless to find miniscule factors to uneasy about. Of course, the abundance of experience, along with years in therapy, meant that you were able to ignore the baseless apprehensions quite well. 

Which is why it was extremely annoying that you were unable to expunge the dark mass of worry bubbling in your gut. The heavy feeling contrasted with the flitful lightness sitting in your chest, almost as if you could float away at any moment. It seemed to reflect the idea of control drifting too, fizzling away in the atmosphere. As always, you went over everything in your life that could possibly be going wrong, along with the worst possible consequences. It was a tiny exercise that helped you get your bearings and re-evaluate the potential harmfulness of your current situation. However, you were unable to come up with anything of note.

So why am I so scared?

Nearly going two steps at a time, you made your way up the stairs, letting out a sigh of relief as you opened the door. Jax was hunched over their desk with their face buried in a pile of notes, almost exactly the way you had left them.

“Sorry that took so long. They didn’t have any more of the curry you wanted, so they had to make a new batch. But now you get to have it fresh off the stove!” You set the bag down, glancing around for your triangularly shaped friend. “Where’s Bill?”

Silence.

“Jax?” 

“Hey, doc.”

The response had you looking around for Bill, that grating, male voice seemingly hidden behind your lab partner.

“You alright?” Leaning to the side, you searched for any evidence of an interdimensional creature being concealed among Jax’s mountain of papers. But it was nothing, just an exhausted grad student exploited by their own need for knowledge.

Overworked, but normal.

And then they turned.

 Revealing two giant, yellow eyes. 

[teenjulsiieee]

Theo fell in love when he realized he’d do anything for Liam, and Liam fell in love when he saw that Theo had given him more than anyone ever had

I am not dying for you

I am not dying for you

I am not dying for you

but…

if the house was to be engulfed in flames around us, I would risk everything to save you

if you would call out my name, I could be lost in the depths of an unknown darkness yet I would find my way to you

if you were wounded, I would kiss every scar as it formed, cherishing even the pain that marked you

if the world would need me at the same time you ask me to hug you for a little longer. I would let the world wait

if we were in the middle of a war, it is your picture that I would be carrying in my pocket

if I were to wear a crown, you’d represent the one jewel which makes it be the king’s most precious treasure

if my heart were to be torn from my chest, it’s last beat would belong to you alone

if someone would ask me, ‘what is your final wish before death takes you?’ My answer would be ‘to see him one last time’

if I won’t use my last words to confess everything I feel for you, my life would have been in vane

if you ask me what it was like when I accepted I fell in love with you. I would tell you that you are the person I never met, but I have always missed

if they would come to me, question, why for a brief second, the nightmares stopped? I would not hesitate to tell them it was because of your breath lingering upon my neck

if I believed myself to be a strong person, you turned me into the weakest man to walk the earth when you laughed next to me for the first time

if I ever believed myself to be incapable of loving, I would only need to remember how I risked my life to ensure your smile still blinds the sun every day

if I would lose all my memories, I know I wouldn’t be sad. It would just be another chance for me to fall in love with you once more, for that the only times I was truly happy was when you were next to me

if I were to create a list, with the names of those for whom I would risk my life for. you would then watch me write your name and only yours

if you had never seen the good hidden deep within me, it might have never risen to the surface

if you wouldn’t have stolen my heart already, I would have given it to you willingly

I am not dying for you either

I am not dying for you either

I am not dying for you either

but…

you were the only one to ever truly accept me for who I am

you made me feel normal, normal, instead of the monster I was always told I am ever since I was a little child

you were there when I lost control, and never left my side ever since. took my pain without touching my wounds. the wounds buried inside me, but you could see that couldn’t you? even if the hurt was hidden

you put up a fight, not to annoy me, because you knew I needed to let it all out. And none of them would understand the anger I conceal, but my smile wasn’t enough to fool you

you stayed with me, when nobody else did. took care of each forming scar in particular. you never had to. you didn’t have to. you did it

you changed. not for me, not for them to accept you, not for anyone else. what is important is that you changed, and I saw it

you wrapped your hand around my heart, took it, I tried to get it back, however I started laughing when I realised your grip is a trap from which this time I can not escape

you became the silence that lingers after my storm has left nothing but ruins

you were the reason I smiled that day, I saw your eyes somewhere in the distance, and I knew you heard my heart skip a beat

you felt safe, ironic, since I never felt safe around anyone. I was always terrified of bursting, exploding, hurting. Yet you never once made me feel ashamed of the flaws that define me

you had me call out your name when I was in danger, without even knowing that I did it. not because I wanted to, but because I knew you’d be there for me

you became the album photo I never had, a treasure lost, a treasure I have looked for my entire life

you turned out to be my shoulder. you know, the shoulder people use in their sappy quotes when they say ‘you have my shoulder to cry on’

you pretended to hate me, hate everyone, but the hurt in your eyes could not deceive me. others? yes? but not me, I’ll always yell first, but I’ll always wipe your tears after

you stole my heart, and I let you

TeenJulise on Ao3💙💚💙💚💙💚

[archiiel]

I was wondering can I hear your thoughts on this what if scenario?

I read this Nalu fic and Lucy even mentored she has no right to be angry at natsu for leaving he lost his father and she might have lost Aquarius but she's still out there somewhere .

Now I'm wondering what if after Lucy broke Aquarius key, Aquarius did get reborn along side her key .

The Aquarius that Lucy knew is gone, the Aquarius Scorpio was dating is gone. Now what remains is a different Aquarius maybe it's a child Aquarius ( shout out to her child design) or a completely different Aquarius who still has the mermaid tail and the water magic. But hair color different (example green) and maybe her personality is low-key similar (loud and sassy ) or completely different (quite and wise)

Just think of the angst potential.

Your not my Aquarius but your wearing her face 👀

🌺anon

that’s so interesting!! i was out of fandom for a long time and so now reading all the theories and what ifs are so refreshing!! i definitely love this particular one 😭 please do remember that i have very little memory of some particular aspects and deep lore so be free to correct me if im wrong with any info!!

as far as i remember she is still alive but lets dive into this what if scenario hehe

just my own take, but the more powerful the spirit, the closer the reborn person to themselves in their previous life. so, Aquarius, as powerful as she was, i think she could reincarnate into her mini self just as Zeref and Mavis!

once again, shout out to her child design, she would rock her sass with pride and nonchalance, and yet- i think she would definitely feel something in her heart, while looking at Scorpio as she reappears in the spirit world, and i imagine it would be a very big and powerful event, maybe even rambling into the earth land in any form? maybe other Celestials would perform some kind of ritual magic to fill her with needed knowledge or maybe she’s born either it? once again im so sorry if there is info about this, im just bubbling on my own

her key would be likely lost somewhere, buried under the ocean even, i can’t really think 😵‍💫 but i believe, the moment Aquarius is reborn, Lucy would feel it as well as the need to find her, like it was with Natsu and Igneel kind of thing

and surely, angst would be there, since no matter what happens, her and Scorpio wouldn’t be happy as a couple, not when she lost her memory and now learned how to be a zodiac. maybe she’ll grow and become good friends with him, maybe even get a crush, but from his side he couldn’t relive the relationship once again.

and as badly as she wouldn’t want or understand it, she would be so gravitated towards the earth, it would it her from inside out. of course she wouldn’t know why, but we all know, it will continue until Lucy will be able to find the new key and meet her grumpy auntie 🤭

and i’ll think about maybe doing her design as a reborn zodiac in the future!! thank you once again for the ask 💗🙏

[shadowqueenjude]

So how does the Lady of Autumn wind up with Beron? Well, I wrote something: read here or on Ao3:

Seraphina Danaan was as proud as she was cunning. With her fiery orange curls and big brown eyes, hers was a face that could bring High Lords to their knees. She had no intention of getting married any time soon, however. The way Seraphina saw it, she was immortal. What was the need to rush into marriage when her mate could be somewhere nearby? Besides, she enjoyed the freedom of not being in a relationship; her parents had never been able to control her, but somebody else might actually try to suffocate her, and that was a huge no in her book.

Seraphina suddenly remembered she had something important today, and she pulled up her skirts and began sprinting back home. Oh man, her parents were going to be so mad at her.

Her family estate came into her vision, and Seraphina heaved a sigh of relief. Almost there! One last push, and Seraphina slipped in through the side door, hoping no one saw her.

“SERAPHINA ANNABELLE DANAAN!!!” her mother shrieked, storming into the room. Oh boy. Seraphina braced herself for her mother’s lecture. “Look at you! Mud on your boots, food stains on your dress, hair all over the place! You reek of sweat! Have you been hanging out with those dirty poor folk again?”

Seraphina rolled her eyes. “Just because they weren’t born rolling in wealth doesn’t make them dirty, Mother. And they’ve been suffering all the more because of the war. So of course I go to help them, since no one else cares to do so. I’ve told you this about a thousand times!”

“Sure, help them, whatever. But what is the need to hand them your inheritance! That money was for our daughter, not some filthy pigs!” her mother exclaimed.

“It’s my money, so I choose what to do with it! And I choose to help others who need it more than myself,” Seraphina snapped. She pulled off her shoes, moving towards the stairs.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” her mother demanded. Seraphina scrunched her nose in disgust briefly before turning around to answer her. “To take a shower, Mother.”

“Good. We’ll talk later.” Her words almost made Seraphina turn around and walk back outside just to contradict her, but then she decided it wasn’t worth it and continued to walk heavily up the stairs.

Her little sisters, Odette and Clementine, crept out from their hiding spots when Seraphina reached the top of the stairs. It was rare to see such a small age gap between sisters in the land of the Fae, but considering her parents had had difficulty conceiving for many years before finally managing her, Seraphina supposed they got a little excited. As it was, her sisters were twins only 3 years younger than her, though they looked nothing alike. Odette was tall and slender, with golden hair straight as a rod, while Clementine had inherited the indigenous looks of their grandfather: short and curvy, with wavy black hair, deep-set green eyes, and incandescent pink wings. Unfortunately, their parents were often criticizing Clementine’s appearance: their grandmother falling in love with a lesser faerie was an “embarrassing secret” that they wished to bury, and having a daughter that looked like them exposed said “secret” to the world to see.

“Did you go there?” Odette whispered. She meant the villages; they still seemed like a whole other court to the girls, who were often kept inside due to their older sister’s unmarried status. An archaic rule that this family still followed for some reason. The girls yearned to see the outside world but hardly saw anything past the charming life their family insisted on.

“Of course. Oh Odi, Clemmie, when you both turn 18…you will love it out there. The villages are so beautiful with such a rich culture. Their dances are so beautiful and complex, their music haunting, and their food addicting. They’re truly a community; they help each other out, they trade crops with one another, and on Calanmai, they walk on hot coals to prove their mettle.”

Her sisters oohed and aahed at her descriptions of the art there, and Clementine enquired, “Do they like you there?”

Seraphina smiled. “They love me there. I’ve helped out their community so much that they’ve woven me clothes and given me food in gratitude.”

“Do they have wings like me?” Clementine asked. Seraphina nodded. “Some of them do. Now I need to go shower, but I’ll answer all of your questions later.”

Seraphina sighed after she looked in the mirror after the shower. Her curls were always a mess after she washed them, and taking care of them was a pain. She grabbed the Dawn Court Curls potion made by healers and began painstakingly applying it to her hair. It worked so much better than the other nonsense she had tried over the years, since her parents were no help. When she was young, her mother would brush and brush and brush her hair until it puffed up like a balloon from all the frizz. So, Seraphina had figured it out herself.

When she was done, she called the hairdresser and the maid, and they began dressing her and styling her hair. When they were done, her hair was styled up in an elegant bun with choice curls falling into her face. Her dress was a blush pink off-the-shoulder silk gown embroidered with little orange flames all the way down. There was a thin gold belt around the waist, and it came with matching gloves studded with pearls. Seraphina preferred a darker shade of pink, or perhaps a purple, but she couldn’t deny that the dress was beautiful. It matched her blush-pink cheeks and her cherry red lips. But she had no idea why she was all dressed up, and it was never a good thing when her parents hid such a thing from her.

When she walked down the stairs, her sisters in orange and yellow dresses, they looked like a sunset. Her parents beamed upon seeing her.

“Oh Sera, you look so beautiful!” her mother exclaimed. Her father nodded beside her. “You’re all grown up, child,” he said, his voice more emotional than Sera had ever heard it. Now she was terrified. What in the world was going on?

She had a bad feeling that she knew where this was going.

“No,” she said. She glared at her family. “I will not-“

“We couldn’t turn him down, pumpkin,” her father pleaded. “He is the only person more powerful than us.”

Seraphina’s heart dropped to her chest. She had thought that no one could ever force her to marry because of her status as a high noble. The Danaan family was filled with power from many courts and once ruled over Montesere before they were driven out by riots. Though they lost their crown, their influence remained, spreading over the lands they settled in. No one demanded a Danaan in marriage, because everyone knew that if it weren’t a Vanserra on the throne, it would be a Danaan.

Except Beron Vanserra, apparently. He did not give a shit.

Seraphina had turned down marriage proposals without even meeting said person before, but she would be a fool to do the same to a High Lord, particularly one who had risen to power in such brutal fashion. She would hear him out, at the very least.

So, that’s how Seraphina found herself in a carriage, headed towards the Forest House. She stared out the window blankly. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to get married. She wasn’t ready to meet the High Lord. Her parents had met with him, and she had seen him before, but they’d kept the girls far away from him, perhaps for this exact reason. She pressed her lips together.

An outright rejection would be unwise, but perhaps Seraphina could make herself look undesirable to a High Lord. Perhaps she should play a silly, giggly girl. That one never failed to fool the males. No one wanted a vapid lady ruling by their side, right? Beron had clearly chosen their family because he believed he could gain power and influence from it. So take the benefit away, and he would reject her himself.

Best to start upon reaching the palace. A soldier offered his hand to help her descend from the carriage, and Seraphina giggled. “Oh, they didn’t tell me the males at the palace were handsome,” she loudly whispered to Odette, who giggled too. Looking uncomfortable, the soldier withdrew his hand, and Seraphina descended on her own before going on a mad dash towards the castle. “Where is my looooord???” she called out as the guards chased her. Oh, this was so much fun.

“My lady, wait!” one cried, but Seraphina kept running, her smile becoming real as she rejoiced in causing mischief. The guards at the entrance reached for her, but she was much too fast, barging into the building. She spun around in delight as she watched the high ceiling and the painted beauty of it. Then she went back to running. “Oh, how I would love to live here!” she yelled for the soldiers’ benefit.

Even she was surprised at how easily she was evading the soldiers, despite her dress. Though perhaps it had to do with the fact that they did not wish to scare off the future bride of their High Lord. The thought made her run faster still, her bun falling apart as she bumped into a large figure.

When she looked up, her smile nearly faded then and there, but she remembered to keep up the façade. “Oh, you’re so handsome too! It must be something in the water!” she declared. 

It was Beron, she knew. Seraphina was by no means short, but she found herself looking up at Beron. His dark brown fur coat draped over his blood red garments delicately threaded in gold. His dark brown hair was gelled to one side, and his beard and mustache were neatly trimmed. It was rare to see one of the High Fae who actually had facial hair; it somehow made him look even more dangerous.

“Lady Danaan,” he said, his voice as cold as she had imagined it in her dreams. It was so hard to keep up her nonchalance being so close to him. She could feel the power radiating from him, the raw fire that stirred inside. She took a step back, praying her pounding heart didn’t betray her fear. “You’ve given my guards quite a fright.”

Seraphina chortled. “They are quite slow, my Lord. I should like to race them properly in pants, next time. See how much faster I really am.”

Beron smiled slightly, but it did nothing to soften his face. “I am Beron Vanserra. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Shall we?”

Seraphina twirled her hair as she sat legs propped up on the couch, laughing to herself. Beron watched her, expressionless. Seraphina waited for the disgust and the rejection.

“Quick question,” Seraphina said. “How much money do I get to spend if I marry you?”

“More than enough to satisfy your needs,” Beron replied. Seraphina stood up and began jumping on the bed.

“Very firm cushions. I should like this sofa in my room,” Seraphina observed. She flipped off the back of the couch, causing her skirt to drop, exposing her legs high in the air. Then she sashayed back over to Beron. “So, when’s the wedding?” she asked. Beron stared at her; was it her imagination, or did he look slightly amused?

“That is to be determined at a later time. Now, why don’t you drop the act and be serious with me?”

“What act?” Seraphina asked, twirling around like the dancers in the villages, bending her head back and sticking one leg up.

“Your materialistic act. I know you are incredibly intelligent and well-liked, Miss Danaan. This game you’re playing doesn’t fool me.”

Seraphina acted offended, gasping and putting a hand to my chest. “Are you calling me materialistic?”

“Enough of this,” Beron said calmly. He got up and slowly approached her until he was looking down at her. He raised his hand and brought it towards her, as though to slap her face.

Instinctively, Seraphina caught his wrist, her fingers digging into the small bones there, letting her fire seep into her hand. Fire wielders had a high amount of resistance to heat, but when directly injected to your skin as such, that resistance decreased significantly. Beron winced slightly before smiling. “There she is,” he purred.

Seraphina realized her gig was up, and glared up at him, mouth pressed in a thin line and teeth clenched. “Fucking asshole,” she snarled. “You would hit a woman?”

“I knew you would block it,” he replied. “I wasn’t really going to hit you.”

Seraphina threw his hand away from her and stormed towards the door. “Hybern could walk to this door right now and say I could end the war by marrying you, and so Mother help me, I’d let Prythian crumble before you get your filthy hands on me, tyrant,” she snapped.

To her utter amazement, Beron wasn’t remotely offended. He kept that small, slightly amused smile on his face. As though she wasn’t even a threat. “There’s that spirit I’ve heard so much about,” he murmured. “A lady so strong with the fire could never be so vapid and weak.”

Sera knew her eyes were glowing when she answered again. “You are nothing but a monster, ruining the lives of people less fortunate than you, and for what? You want for nothing. You could give away a portion of your wealth and it wouldn’t affect you in any way. Yet you won’t. Because you are a selfish, greedy asshole. And I have made it my life’s work to undermine people like you.”

“You can certainly try, love,” Beron whispered as Seraphina slammed the door behind her.

“That fucking bastard!” Seraphina shrieked when she was in the comfort of her own home. She threw her corset at the wall. “Smug smarmy little git who thinks he’s the Mother’s gift to Prythian!” She pulled out the pins in her hair, letting her curls tumble down her back. “Unbelievable.”

“I can’t believe you rejected him so rudely!” her mother exclaimed. “He will kill us all!”

“I would rather die than marry him, Mama!” she cried. “You can flee back to Montesere if you so desire!”

When her mother realized how adamant she was, she just sighed, pinched her nose, and said quietly, “If you are so set against him, so shall it be. Just…be careful sweetheart. I would rather you not die.”

Somehow, Seraphina got the feeling that Beron Vanserra had no intention of killing her despite her outright rejection.

The Autumn Equinox was approaching, and so was the biggest ball of the year. Seraphina had been to far too many of these to count, but never had she gone after refusing an offer of marriage from its host, the High Lord. But Seraphina was not one to back down or hide, least of all from that slimy worm.

Her dress was a deep blue lehenga she had bought in the Dawn Court. Seraphina would love to live there one day- there or the Day Court, the place where her dangling gold earrings had come from. While she adored her people, she felt restricted by the societal norms here- women were offered so little in terms of roles to play, and despite her many attempts to reform, she had been vastly unsuccessful, unlike her campaigns in the villages. Autumn would only be free if Beron were to die, and the only ways to make that happen were to stage a rebellion or go to war from another court. While she would certainly support a rebellion as a cause, there had already been several failed coups, including one heavily backed by her own parents- not out of any philanthropic ideation, unfortunately, but because they wished to take the crown for themselves. From another court, Seraphina could help lead the Autumn faeries to freedom with the backing of a bona fide army. Plus, there was the rich culture she adored in the Solar Courts- with the exception of Night. The other three, however- Dawn, Day, and Dusk- fascinated her. She had been to all the seasonal courts, but the Seasonal and Solar courts have long been at odds with each other, dating back to the Prythian War, which occurred 200 years before Seraphina was born. It followed the departure of Theia, the first and last High Queen of Prythian. The power vacuum left nobles squabbling amongst each other until they formed two factions: the seasonals and the solars. The end result of the war was the formation of the 8 courts. Although the two sides were supposedly amicable, there was still much resentment harbored between each half of the country.

Her sisters wore gowns of emerald and amethyst, looking stunning as Seraphina linked arms with each of them and headed to their carriage. “Now girls, I want you to enjoy yourselves,” she said. Odi and Clemmie vibrated with excitement as they always did. Seraphina couldn’t muster up the same enthusiasm. She grew weary of balls- each one more similar than the last, old rich faeries flaunting their wealth and prestige with one another. However, Seraphina was a social being- she just preferred more casual meet-ups.

As soon as Seraphina found her friend Freya in the crowd, she embraced her. Freya Truth-Teller wore a delightful black gown with swirls of lavender and turquoise- a classic Dusk Court creation. Freya was High Lady of the area- her family came from a line of the ancient Fae who cannot lie, the only known remaining such faeries to this day. Dusk was also unique for its matrilineal inheritance- it had a long, prolific line of female leaders as opposed to men like the other seven courts. It was only natural that such a lady would befriend a lady like Seraphina.

“Sera, you are always a breath of fresh air at these tedious events,” Freya said warmly. Seraphina grinned. “As are you, my friend.”

“Tell me, dear, is it true that you turned down your High Lord in marriage?” Seraphina snorted delicately, nodding. Freya’s eyes widened and she clasped her shoulder in awe. “My goodness, lady. I wasn’t familiar with your game.”

Seraphina turned her neck, glaring at Beron conversing in the middle of the hall. “He’s vile,” Seraphina hissed. “The greatest argument for why the current leadership system should be destroyed.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s ridiculous! You know as well as I how dreadful my brother was, yet the High Fae were so desperate for a man to take charge that he nearly did!” Nearly being the key word there. Seraphina didn’t talk about it because it made her sick, but Freya had gutted her brother and left his remains on the steps beneath the throne while she was crowned. While the male had been a jerk, it still made Seraphina ill that Freya could do such a thing to her own brother. Still, Freya was her closest friend and considering how the rest of the High Fae were, Freya was downright decent. She had only killed her brother after he'd tried to take her crown. Most others didn’t need a reason to kill their own siblings.

The crowd abruptly began to whisper. Seraphina’s ears picked up some of the conversation.

“Who is he?”

“He is rather dashing”

“Dressed like a harlot-“

“Oh, how I would like to-“Seraphina wished she could unhear the rest of that sentence.

Her and Freya turned around, trying to see what the commotion was all about. The crowd parted around a large man walking by. When at last he became visible, Seraphina caught her breath.

Normally, Seraphina wasn’t drawn to mere looks; in the land of the Fae, nearly everyone was good-looking in their own way. That simply did not impress her. But this man wasn’t just good-looking; he had this aura, this charisma and confidence in himself that made him look all the better. He wasn’t dressed very grandly; just a billowy white shirt tucked into tight black pants and boots. The v neck of his shirt was very deep, exposing his chest, where three gold necklaces sat. His hair was braided back in a neat ponytail, and his eyes… A stunning amber. From his glowing dark skin and his jewelry, Seraphina drew the conclusion that this man came from the Day Court. It was surprising that she had never seen him before considering how many of these things she had come to.

Only after she had drawn these conclusions did she realize that the mysterious man was walking right towards her. Freya squeezed her hand excitedly as the Day Court lord approached her and bowed.

“Lady Seraphina Danaan,” he said. Seraphina never understood what people meant by “bedroom voice” until now, but this male, whoever he was, definitely had it. Deep and raspy, with a little accent and a half smile on his face. She didn’t know it yet, but she was already doomed. “May I have this dance?”

Too surprised by his sudden approach to do anything else, Seraphina offered a gloved hand. He took it in his own bare one, and she noticed how broad his hands were, and the veins that showed. He guided her onto the dance floor, and they began to sway in tune with the music.

“I have never seen you before,” Seraphina said. The man smiled. “That is by design. I don’t usually go to these things.”

“What changed your mind?”

His smile grew. “You.”

Seraphina raised a brow, silently asking for clarification. “I wanted to meet the woman bold enough to turn down a High Lord.”

Seraphina sighed, letting the male twirl her around. “Does all of Prythian know?” she exclaimed, frustration seeping into her voice. The man shrugged apologetically. “Perhaps. It is the kind of move that garners a reputation whether you like it or not, and no matter how private a setting, the gossip spreads like wildfire.”

Seraphina shook her head. “I did not mean to gain such a reputation. I only meant to stand my ground and maintain my morals.”

“And I greatly admire you for it.” The mysterious dipped her, and Seraphina lifted her leg. “You still haven’t told me your name,” she reminded him.

His grin was downright roguish. “Helion. Pleasure to meet you, Lady Danaan.”

Helion, Helion… where had she heard that before? Day Court…then it hit her. The resemblance was clear. “Hyperion’s son,” she murmured. Hyperion was the High Lord of the Day Court. She had often seen him around here, but not his son. She wasn’t quite certain he was real until now.

“That’s right.”

“How does a High Lord’s son get off on escaping these things?”

Helion grinned. “Daddy dearest is not too keen on parenting; he lets me do what I want.”

Seraphina scowled. “That’s irresponsible! You will become ruler once he fades into the Motherland.”

Helion shuddered. “God, I hope not.” When Seraphina continued to stare him down, he put his hands up in surrender. “I do go to some of these; just not Autumn-hosted events.” Helion leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper, “Mainly because I can’t stand that smarmy little git Beron.”

“That makes two of us,” Seraphina said. He chuckled.

The song ended. Seraphina curtseyed and lifted her skirts to leave. “Wait.” Seraphina turned around, feeling herself drowning in Helion’s amber eyes. “I hope to get to know you better, my lady.”

Seraphina smiled. “Perhaps if you impress me when we meet again.”

[dry-yellow-marker]

every day i loose my mind a little bit more thinking about rengoku kyojuro so here's an analysis of "where is your rider" by the oh hellos and how i relate it to his character

these lyrics could refer to rengoku upholding his father's legacy and the times where people mistake him for his father. there are two big instances of this that i know of: the elderly woman in mugen train and the former lower rank two demon from rengoku's spinoff chapter*.

in the genius annotation of this song, the line "but i know that wicked shape to your smile" is a reference to the previous song in the album, "pale white horse", and the crooked smile of death. this line could also relate to rengoku realizing that he is unlikely to survive the battle with akaza-- as a demon slayer and a hashira, he is very familiar with death and might know when it is coming. if you REALLY wanted to get into specifics, you could also argue that the line above it, "see, your face wasn't quite as i remember" could refer to the sickness and death of his mother-- with that context, this would mean that rengoku saw death up close in the form of watching his mother pass and now recognizes that it is coming for him.

*i haven't been able to get my hands on this myself so this info comes from the kny wiki

rengoku's self-sacrificial and selfless nature!! this is so him!! "so bury me as it pleases you lover / at sea, or deep within the catacomb" could be the uncertainty of a demon slayer's life and the constant threat of death that they face. rengoku worked tirelessly as a slayer and was well aware that he was likely going to die on the job, likely somewhere out of his control and far away from his home.

"but these bones never rested while living" is literally every hashira idk what to tell you just trust me this is the most rengoku lyric to ever lyric

if you wanted, you could also see the last line as akaza calling for rengoku to become a demon and not squander his potential; instead of "languishing in repose" (becoming weaker with time) he should preserve his strength. it could also be akaza asking rengoku directly, "how can you stand becoming weaker with age/time when you have so much strength?"

the first line is again a reference to "pale white horse", which establishes "the cavalry" as death. if we continue with our previous metaphor for death being akaza, this section of the song can be focused on akaza and rengoku's battle and their warring philosophies.

i like to wrap the first and second lines ("he has thrown down the cavalry as gravel sinks / and as the stone founders underneath the sundered sea of red and reed") into general "ooo big fight", but i'd be really interested to see if anyone had anything to add to these lyrics!!

finally, "the shadow of hades is fading / for he has cast down leviathan, the tyrant, and the horse and rider". the song originally contains this segment to emphasize jesus christ's defeat of death through his resurrection with the "horse and rider" referring to death again. however, for rengoku (who did NOT beat death smh) i think that this instead refers to his life & purpose fighting demons. "the shadow of hades is fading" is about his FEAR of death fading because he knows that saving the lives of the people around him is more important.

"For he has cast down Leviathan, the tyrant, and the horse and rider" could be some of his past achievements as a demon slayer if you stretch it a bit! this section of the song is the hardest for me to explain, so i apologize if it's a little iffy compared to the rest

"he will hold with all of his might the armies of night" is his battle with akaza (akaza, as an upper moon, being the "armies of night"). following that, "still as boulders laid to the side 'til we pass by" could be his motivation to defeat akaza-- protecting the train passengers and tanjiro, zenitsu, & inosuke.

an alternative perspective (because i have a lot of those apparently) is that the "armies of night" are demons as a whole and this refers to his career as a demon slayer overall. he neutralizes demons, rendering them "still as boulders" so that others can go about their lives without fear (pass by).

finally, i see this chunk as relating to rengoku's legacy and his impact on the main cast (mainly tanjiro).

"he has hoisted out of the mire every child" is him saving not only saving the passengers of the mugen train but also guiding and mentoring tanjiro, inosuke, and zenitsu throughout the mugen train arc. ("every child" being the main trio-- not as much nezuko unfortunately but i still love her).

"so lift your voice with timbrel and lyre" represents tanjiro's growth as a person and as a demon slayer following rengoku's mentorship and death. he promises to honor rengoku's sacrifice and legacy by "lifting his voice" to become a better and more dedicated protector.

"we will abide, we will abide, we will abide" is tanjiro specifically promising to carry rengoku's final words with him, literally abiding by his final words: set your heart ablaze.

in conclusion,

[dr-futbol-blog]

Hot Zone, Pt. 4

McKay's final thoughts are about Atlantis and keeping the people there safe. He's desperate to share with them everything that might help them.

McKay: I've got some theories on looping the power on the Gate to charge a dummy ZPM. It probably won't work, but you should have someone look at it 'cause it might lead somewhere else. Zelenka: We'll look at it together. McKay: Look, you seriously have to stop interrupting my last thoughts! I mean, this is important stuff you need to hear. Now -- if you're here for more than a year, I've left some notes on how to roll blackouts to effectively maintain your power requirements.

It is in their final moments that people reveal their true character. Many aspects of McKay's personality are defense mechanisms but when the chips are coming down, we get to see his heart of hearts. We get to see how much he cares both for and about Atlantis and its people.

But, of course he doesn't die.

The Ancient gene protected him from the virus as it had either not been designed to target the Ancients, or had been designed specifically not to target them. His ATA gene is artificial and weaker than the real thing but it's still the thing that saved him (and let us remember again that he volunteered for the gene therapy because he wanted to be more like Sheppard).

This ties in with the city possibly allowing Sheppard to break quarantine because of his Ancient gene and not the hazmat suit, as theorized by Grodin. This pathogen was not a danger to the Ancients, and it was never a danger to Sheppard, albeit they had no possible way of knowing that.

McKay seems real relieved and happy not to have died. While he says that he doesn't care how he survived, he does actually start working on figuring it out right away. He started by worrying about members of his science team, and his own impending death had but distracted him from this. With that out of the way, he's able to dedicate his entire brain capacity on finding a solution and fixing the problem. And he arrives at it in very short order: it's a nanovirus. We later learn that it is a mechanical virus created by the replicators to eradicate the wraith food supply by killing humans and the fact that it was in the Ancient viral lab and that the city shut itself down to quarantine the humans therein while knowing that it wasn't dangerous to the native citizens just goes to show that they were trying to protect the humans of the galaxy.

Sheppard and Teyla are still making their way in the hallways that show no indication of even trying to stop them from advancing (and as an aside, we never see Teyla try to move through the city on her own here). Teyla and Weir decide that the best thing they can be doing is to go to the Mess Hall to do some crown control. Sheppard goes along with this but once they actually are in the Mess Hall, that's not what he's doing, at all. Where Teyla is trying to calm the people down, tell them it's going to be okay, Sheppard is by the dead body of Dr. Peterson. He killed this man who was not just a civilian but really an innocent one at that. He's lost in his own thoughts with nary a concern for the infected people around them.

If in the previous episode, having to watch Brendan take his own life right before his eyes had profoundly affected Rodney and his belief that he is unlovable, the same seems to happen here with Sheppard. Not only did he fail to keep this man safe, he had to take his life with his own hands. Oh, he manages to bury the feeling of guilt by the end of the episode like he always does, but it very much reinforces his belief that loving him would be a potentially deadly mistake.

It is when Sheppard is knee-deep in these thoughts that we get the first interaction between Sheppard and McKay in this episode. McKay contacts him via the intercom:

McKay: Major Sheppard, this is McKay. Sheppard: What is it? McKay: I could use your help at my lab.

Short. Professional. But notice how Sheppard picks it up as though they're just continuing an on-going conversation. Like he doesn't have to acknowledge that it is Rodney but just naturally jumps back into a conversation that had never ended but was merely on pause.

Here, McKay doesn't tell him what to do but indicates that he needs his help. This is in contrast to earlier, when Weir had relayed McKay's need to get something done to Sheppard and the result of executing what he had treated as a command was there, right in front of him. Sheppard looks lost for a moment, like he doesn't know what to do or is unsure whether he should do what was implied. As a soldier, it's much easier for him to execute commands (>'I need you to go to my lab') than to have to discern for himself how necessary a request is. Obviously, he wants to do what Rodney tells him to do. But his track record for making judgement calls was not stellar just then, as evidenced by the deceased scientist before him. He looks to Teyla for confirmation, as she seems to have a pretty good grasp of right and wrong.

Teyla gives him the go-ahead but he still pauses for a moment to get another look at Dr. Peterson's dead body. This dead scientist symbolizes both of their need to make things right. Again, though they come from different places, they have arrived at the same place emotionally.

I find the next bit interesting.

The people gathered at the Ancient viral lab are discussing what to do with Weir on the intercom. They have the following exchange:

Weir: So we give everyone the gene therapy. McKay: No -- it's not gonna do it. Zelenka: I've already been given the gene weeks ago -- it didn't take. McKay: I know. I'm already on it. --- Ford: There's gotta be another way! McKay: I have already told you -- I am working on it.

McKay tells them that he is already working on it. He is working on it as they speak. Only, we cut to Sheppard in his lab. McKay is working on it but Sheppard is the one executing his plan. They are literally working as one here. Sheppard is an extension of McKay. He's working as McKay's hands. McKay's mind is directing Sheppard's body.

He has such faith in John Sheppard that he, without giving it any conscious thought, confidently tells them that he is working on it. It is being worked on right now. By him. Whose only direction for Sheppard was "I could use you in my lab." He doesn't need to assume that Sheppard is getting there or will do what he needs to get done, he just knows it. We have not seen them physically at the same space at all during this episode, and yet here they are, one mind and one body.

Continued in Pt. 5

[official-avenger-mess]

🔮Storytime: My First Night at the Avengers Tower🔮

🔥💧🌱🌬️🔥💧🌱🌬️🔥💧🌱🌬️🔥💧🌱🌬️🔥💧

(kinda crying while remembering this).

So after surviving the most overwhelming, overstimulating day of my life (meeting literal gods and superheroes and falling instantly in love with a Russian assassin),

it was time to figure out where I was supposed to sleep.

Spoiler:

I had no idea.

I was ready to crash literally anywhere.

Floor? Cool.

Broom closet? Sounds cozy.

Hallway corner? Absolutely yes.

But of course, Wanda wasn’t going to let that happen.

(Bless her. Queen. Best sister ever. 10/10)

She had already somehow, in the middle of all the chaos, prepared a room for me.

I didn’t even know how.

I didn’t see her leave.

I didn’t see her plan anything.

It was like magic — which, coming from Wanda, it probably was.

When she found me just awkwardly hovering in the hallway like a lost feral cat, she smiled and said:

“Come on, Morgana. You have a room now.”

I followed her — still clutching my disaster bag — down one of the endless polished hallways until we stopped in front of a door.

Wanda looked at me so sweetly and asked:

“How would you like your forever room to be?”

And me?

I said nothing.

Literally froze.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even think fast enough to form words.

(Because deep down… I had never even let myself dream about a “forever room.”)

That was for people with futures. People with homes.

Not someone like me.

But Wanda —

of course she read right through me.

Through the silence.

Through the panic.

Through the little broken wish buried deep inside my heart.

She smiled softly…

and then just opened the door.

And there it was:

My room.

Already perfect.

Already mine.

It was cozy and warm and filled with strange little magical touches:

• Dreamcatchers and crystals hanging near the windows

• Big, oversized bookshelves just waiting to be filled

• Fuzzy blankets in deep, dark colors like forest green, deep blue, black

• Dim golden lights scattered around like little stars

• A bed big enough for me and any future cats that might wander in

• A tiny altar space for my spells and crystals

• A window that opened wide enough for me to stare at the city skyline for hours

It was huge.

It was fancy.

It was perfect.

It was home.

The kind of room I would’ve built for myself if I ever thought I deserved one.

I didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

I just looked at Wanda, who smiled like she already knew, and I whispered:

“Thank you.”

She squeezed my shoulder gently and said:

“You’re not alone anymore, Morgana.”

And then she left, quietly, letting me have the moment to myself.

⸻

That night…

I sat cross-legged on the bed, still wearing my ripped jeans and oversized sweater, just looking around at the room like it might disappear if I blinked too hard.

I set my bag down — the only thing I owned in the world — next to the bed.

I touched the pillows.

The blankets.

The shelves.

I opened the window and listened to the sounds of the city —

sirens, laughter, life.

I was terrified.

Absolutely terrified.

Because for the first time in my life,

I had a real place to belong.

A real shot at something.

At family.

At love.

At a future.

And it scared me more than any monster ever had.

And that’s when it happened.

Tears.

Actual, real tears.

Silent at first.

Just a few slipping down my cheeks.

I hadn’t cried in years.

Not when I lost everything.

Not when I lived alone, starving, freezing, forgotten.

But here, in a room someone made for me,

with a family I didn’t know I could have,

I finally broke.

And maybe, just maybe…

That was the first step to building the kind of life I never dared to dream of before.

The tears didn’t stop for a long time.

I just sat there, in the middle of that ridiculously soft bed, letting them fall in complete silence.

No sobbing.

No noise.

Just tears, and breathing, and the occasional sniffle like a sad little fox.

And somewhere between the panic, the gratitude, and the exhaustion…

I made promises to myself.

No one heard them.

Not even Wanda, who could probably have read them straight from my heart if she wanted to.

They were just mine.

Silent. Raw. Real.

In the dark, staring out at the endless city lights,

I made myself these quiet, secret vows:

• “I’ll protect them.”

No matter what it costs me.

Even if I have to burn the whole world down.

• “I’ll prove I’m worth this.”

Worth the bed.

Worth the room.

Worth the love.

• “I won’t run away.”

Even if I get scared.

Even if I feel like I don’t belong.

I’ll stay.

• “I’ll learn how to be part of something bigger than just survival.”

I’ll learn how to be more than a wild thing hiding in the woods.

• “I’ll make sure no one ever regrets choosing me.”

Especially Wanda.

Especially her.

And the last one…

The one I barely dared to even think:

• “Maybe… I’ll let myself be loved.”

Not because I deserve it.

Not because I’m perfect.

But because, maybe, just maybe,

even the most broken things can find a place to heal.

⸻

That was my first night at Avengers Tower. (hardest night of my life ngl).

A witch with nothing but a bag of rocks and a soul stitched together with stubbornness…

Finally, finally,

letting herself hope for something more.

🔥💧🌱🌬️🔥💧🌱🌬️🔥💧🌱🌬️🔥💧🌱🌬️🔥💧

[schrodingerseurydice]

A cloaked figure stands before Penelope, chest heaving, Odysseus' strung bow in their hands. An arrow sits buried deep in the wood of the tree Penelope leans on, centimetres from her face. Twelve perfect axes stand between them, smoke whistling through the tiny holes that normally suspend them upon a wall, a reminder of the arrow that just slithered its way through.

Penelope catches her breath, biting back hope and fear all mingled into one. It cannot be... the only person who could do such a thing is the person she wants to see most in the world, but he's been gone so long. And if it's not him, but a different man… after years of fighting, her time might be up, all hope of being with Odysseus again lost to a life tied to some new brute.

The figure catches their breath and rises in defiance. A voice calls out steadily “I have completed your challenge.” The voice is different than she remembers, higher, but with the same intelligent and defiant air. It's been so long, perhaps his voice has changed. Or perhaps she doesn't remember as well as she believed she did. The thought makes her heart ache.

The figure turns to the crowd around them, spectators and suitors looking on in disbelief. “It is over. This woman will belong to none of you. Return home and leave us be.”

Some people listen, and back away awkwardly, defeated and deflated. Most just stay put, rooted in the shock of many years gone to waste.

The figure shakes their hooded head and steps strides toward Penelope, grabbing her by the wrist on their way to the palace. Penelope starts putting up a fight but stops and a whispered and pleading “Please. I will explain everything soon. Just come and let us talk.”

Penelope yanks her wrist away but walks with the possible stranger.

“Reveal yourself to me.”

Please be him.

“I will the second we are behind untrustworthy eyes.”

Your hand did not feel quite like his. Rough and calloused, yes, but smaller than she remembered.

Please be remembering wrong.

Please be him.

“Your eyes, hidden behind shadow, are untrustworthy to me.”

“The shadows will be gone shortly, I assure you. Please. Guide us to a place where we can be alone.”

Odysseus may have reasons to keep his presence secret. But if it's not him…

“I have no desire to be alone with a stranger. Even if you are to be my husband.”

Was that a… snort?

“Somewhere with people you trust, then.”

Penelope is surprised by the sudden accommodation. And the unexplained laughter. She steels herself, and guides them to the kitchen, filled to the brim with knives and servants who know how to use them.

“Here is private enough. Show yourself to me.”

The figure looks around at the servants, who are peering skeptically and alert, but not nosily.

“You trust them?”

“More than I trust you.”

The figure nods, takes a steadying breath, and pulls back the hood to reveal…

“A woman?”

Penelope takes a step back.

Standing before her is a woman, fierce of face but with a softness to her, with billowing curls of fire framing her face. She looks uncertain but determined.

Penelope sags at the confirmation that this is not Odysseus, but the disappointment is diluted by the confusion of the situation before her. None of her suitors have been women. A woman has no claim to the throne through marriage. And nobody on Ithaca has that vibrant copper hair.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Penelope asks, now baffled as much as she is defiant.

“I heard about your challenge from across the sea and felt a kinship. I know what it's like to have your future fought for by men like hungry dogs hunting for a kill. Nobody should be subjected to such a fate. My name is Merida, and I am here to help you set yourself free.”