#nothing can change that he’s still human | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nightscythe · 9 hours ago

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I've been loving your primarch posts! In your opinion, what would make each primarch jealous, and how would they express that jealousy?

(Feel free to get as nsfw as you like.)

i was really stupid and cause i got two asks about jealousy in together, i kinda mixed them. this is pathetic, insecure jealousy. next post will be seething, lust filled nsfw jealousy. thank you btw! ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

pre-heresy // the large space men do tend to suffer from human emotions.

lion: his authority was very rarely questioned, but ironically, the first time someone has doubts over his leadership and decision-making skills, it’s in front of, and concerning, you. he’s not fazed by it at first, until he realises the intentions behind it. when he’s quiet and calm, that’s when he’s most dangerous. i’m supposed to be polite, he’d tell the man, an authority under his father’s name, as his eyes narrow, but all of that can be forgotten in a second. when you’re alone later, he doesn’t bring it up to you, but the weight is lingers in his chest. he knew what he was doing, he remarks. you can tell him it meant nothing, that it had nothing to do with you, but he knows better than that. he’d nod anyway, not wanting to drag you into anything. that’s the only reason that man is still alive.

fulgrim: always hypervigilant, it wouldn’t take long for fulgrim to realise the cuff around your arm wasn’t something he’d given to you. he’d keep quiet about it at first, brooding in a corner until he’s either figured out where to get you a better one or how to deal with his feelings. he’d find you later, wrapping his arms around you from behind, burying his face in your shoulder and peppering your skin with short kisses. i worry that someone will mean more to you than i do, he confesses, holding you just that bit tighter. i know it’s foolish, but i worry. i always worry i’m not enough. that someone will do better for you than me. when you look back at him, his eyes are wide, his lips a deeper red. i love you, maybe too much, and my love makes me feel so powerless with you. but i wouldn’t change it. i can’t help it.

perty: it wasn’t often that he’d care what other people thought, but your opinion had always mattered so much to him. a dinner, nothing special, but he’d spent most of the evening watching your eyes light up at a story someone told. it shouldn’t affect him, yet after the conversation ends, he’s silent. he doesn’t look your way, or anyway, for that matter, barely speaking any more words as he buries himself in the darkness of his own mind. later that evening, you corner him, but he tells you sternly that nothing is wrong. yet he can’t stop thinking of how you laughed and gasped in awe. eventually, in the quiet of the night, he voices his thoughts. it made me feel inadequate. you could tell him over and over that he never was, but he’d detached himself from reality already, lost in imagined inadequacies. you haven’t done anything. but the way you looked? i only want that for me. you are for me.

khan: infatuation wasn’t even close to describing his feelings for you, and the result was him learning every part of your life before him. it annoys him in some way to know that you had a life without him and makes him irrepressibly jealously to know people existed with you before him. he tries to bear with it, supports you in every way he can, but when he sees someone that he can obviously recognise as having some kind of affection for you, he can’t just ignore it. if i stay, i’ll make things hard for you, he tells you, excusing himself to leave, so uncharacteristically. i don’t want to leave you, but i need space. i may just burn everything i touch if i remain. being away from you knowing you were near to someone like that drives him even more insane though, so he returns later, hand curling around yours as he gets close, breath hot on your ear, i don’t like the thought of sharing you, even in the past. you’re mine. only mine.

leman: he’d let most things go, but if anyone dared to touch what was his, he’d never let them get away with it. even just another human, someone who shouldn’t matter to him, could have him growling if they were too close to you in his eyes. this guy had told a joke, doubling over and resting their hand on your lower arm without any intention behind it. leman had spotted it across the room, because he’s always watching you when you’re not beside him (just out of admiration, nothing weird), so within seconds, he’s at your side. must think you’re real funny, he comments, eyes burning holes into the guy, we’re not laughing, though. you apologise as the guy moves on, slightly terrified by the man now standing beside you. leman doesn’t leave your side the rest of the evening, always by your side or a step behind. if you try to walk away, he’d pull you straight back. think i have the tolerance to deal with anyone else taking your attention tonight?

dorn: he’d have wrote a book on things to know about you, if he could. so when someone across from you comments on your favourite colour, he confidently tells them what he believed to be your favourite. cue them correcting him with their belief, and you shyly telling him you liked both, but the other person was technically right. it shouldn’t make him spiral, but it does. he finds himself annoyed that someone could know you better, and if they knew you better, that must mean you love them more. he hates that thought. so he’s quiet. spares a passing thought later when the moment has passed you. you looked happy when they answered a question about you. he’s not upset, not angry, but he pain in his voice that’s hard to ignore. he sits beside you, running his fingers up the length of your arm gently. do i make you feel like that, too? he asks, never meeting your eyes. his voice drops to a whisper as his fingers reach your palm. do i make you happy?

curze: years after knowing him, he almost expects you to become immune to his behaviour. the truth is, he’s intimidating when he wants to be, and sometimes makes it hard to be around him. he didn’t mean to stumble across you in a spare room, beside a lady who carried books in her hands. you smiled so easily, laughed like it was second nature, not afraid to show your emotions without safeguard. he listens for a while, but hearing how comfortable you are sends a fit of silent rage through him. he isolates himself until you seek him out later. his throat is tight, his hands still balled into fists at his side. i’m fine, he declares. he tenses his jaw, balls his fists. i’m fine. he’s trying to convince himself. says it another few times until he final looks at you. am i enough for you? before you can answer, he scoffs. have i ever made you feel truly loved? again, you can’t answer. i’m not fine, he mutters, why do i feel like i’m always losing you?

sanguinius: you could never do anything wrong in his eyes. he knew your kindness, he knew your inner beauty as much as your outer. others, though? so many are rotting inside. he could see it. perhaps he’s harshest on the people who look at you like he does. he loves you, he knows how someone who wants you looks. he’s still got the sweetest smile on his lips as he muses beside you, they’re lucky i have to be so forgiving. when you ask him what he meant, he hums. you don’t even notice, do you? such a precious thing. unfortunately, the feeling simmers and he finds himself thinking a bit too hard about the thought of someone else wanting you. that night, he’d shield you with his wings as he laid beside you, making sure it was only the two of you. i wish i could hide you from everyone, he’d whisper to you as you slept, stroking your cheeks, what if you see me clearly one day, and decide i’m not enough for you?

ferrus: he’d admired your human nature for so long that he didn’t realise just how much he hated it. you were kind, to everyone, and he often felt others didn’t deserve it. especially others who looked at you in a more than friendly way which you always seemed so oblivious to. the feeling is mostly overlooked by veneration, but sometimes he can’t push it down far enough to be overshadowed. he won’t look at you, constantly messing with his armour and distracting himself from the reality presented in front of him. when you ask him, though, he admits everything. i didn’t like how you spoke with him, he remarks, eyes watching the person he’s referring to the in the distance, seeing you with others… i don’t know what the feeling is. he’d look to you for a moment before sighing. i didn’t like it. he’s hesitant to touch you after that, waiting for you to take the first step. i know you didn’t mean anything by it, but it… hurt.

angron: your laugh had echoed through the hall. he’d followed it, obviously, seeking out your usual comforting presence and wishing to be nearby. he stopped himself, though, when he neared the door and heard you laugh again. he watches from a distance for a moment, fingers gripping the doorframe hard enough to leave a dent. he shouldn’t hate it so much, but he thinks you’d never laugh like that with him. he brings you pain, and all you ever do is comfort him. he hates that he can’t provide the same feeling in return (even though he does – he will never accept that), but someone else can. he pushes his way into the conversation, immovable at your side. funny, huh? he asks, smiling, voice scratching the edges of the walls. should i take notes? the other person would leave, sensing his annoying too, leaving him to reach his hands around you and smile, pull you into his warmth and whisper loud enough you’re sure the other person hears. i’d kill anyone who came between us. he would, really, but maybe the wrong time to carry that energy.

rob: he doesn’t get jealous, not often. but when he’d specifically thought he had some time to spend with you and you so unkindly tell him you actually are meeting a friend, it’s like a shot straight to the chest – even though it’s technically his fault for not telling you he intended to spend that time with you – that he cleared his schedule for you. it’s fine. they’re better company. he’d look away, feigning his disinterest, but his eyes flicker back to you when you don’t answer, craving the confirmation that you still needed him around. when you laugh and promise him that when return, in less than an hour, you’ll be by his side for the rest of the day, he tries to hide the blush on his cheeks. later, he’d pull you into his lap and hold you close – genuinely wishing he never had to let go. the intended consequence of loving you is that i’m scared you’ll love someone else.

morty: other people made you happy. obviously. but he struggled to accept it. he wanted to be the reason you smiled every time, he wanted to be the reason you found life worth living – because that’s what you were to him. one afternoon, he sees the way you smile when talking to someone else, and it’s the final crack in the foundation. he doesn’t shout, not often, but his voice is raised when he confronts you about it later. how could i not feel jealous? he’d challenge, meters away from you yet his presence overwhelming. they make you happy. they do what i can’t. he stops for a moment, not to process how his words were untrue, but instead for his mind begins to fray at the seams. i wish i could make you feel that way. he looks away. he doesn’t want to yell, but it comes out like a command to one of his men. leave. go. you don’t, knowing that would never have been an option for you. when he notices, his body stiffens. please don’t ever go. please.

magnus: he doesn’t mean to intrude on your dreams, but sometimes he’s so busy thinking about you it just happens. but his whole body freezes when he sees you sat with someone who isn’t him in your dream, someone that should be him. he knows it’s your unconscious mind, you’ve dreamt about him a thousand times before, but it devastates him. he pulls you into his chest, arms tight around you as he stutters. you… are mine, aren’t you? the uncertainty runs deep through his voice. please don’t ever leave me. not for anyone else. when you start to stir in your sleep, he can’t meet your eyes, opting to rest his head against your shoulder. tell me you love me, please, he pleads, holding you closer. when you ask him what’s wrong, why he’s asking you for that, groggy and unsure from sleep, he grips your clothes and skin like its all that keeps him grounded. just…remind me, please. tell me you love me.

horus: ironically, his brothers make him the most jealous. nothing and no one else (except maybe his father, but that bridge can be crossed when he finally gets to it). even breathing the same air as you is enough to piss him off. when sanguinius had come to greet you, as any normal person would, horus notices. he shouldn’t want to deck his brother for making you smile (he just said the flowers looked nice), but he certainly takes that as his cue to approach you both. you two having a moment? he asks, jealously disguised behind humour. he looks directly to you like you’d done something wrong. i get it, he’s a pretty guy. so are you. shall i leave you to it? he grins like he’s joking, but never leaves. he locks his arm around you for the rest of the evening. when you try to ask him about it, he laughs. he’s my brother, why would i care? he conveniently avoids the question. lets the thoughts stew in his mind that maybe he wasn’t enough for you. need to prove it to you, horus mentions to you later, that he’d never be better for you than i am. he could be made warmaster in a each universe and still feel second-best to them.

lorgar: he’s a busy man. never expected you to just sit beside him in quiet obedience so he’d never be without you. of course, if you could do that… he wouldn’t say no, but he’s not unreasonable. but he can smell others on you when you return to him before he’s even finished what he’s doing, wanting to be around when he finally has time to be with you. he hates it, he hates knowing you were with others, that they had their hands on you for whatever reason. if you try to leave his side, even for a second, he pulls you straight back to him, not letting you leave. you’ve only just returned to me. let me feel the blessing of your presence for as long as i can. he’d think about it more, the not knowing aching more than anything. he trusted you, but felt he’d never give you everything you needed. do you go to other people to talk about things? he’d ask, his question not specific on purpose. why don’t you just talk to me, instead? i’m right here. he hates that he sounds desperate, like he wants to isolate you, like he’s truly possessive. i’m yours. that’s what i’m here for.

vulkan: you’d returned to him with a smile, but your wrist was bandaged. he’s worried beyond anything, but as you tell him the story of the person who stopped to help you, bandaged you up, helped you when you really needed it, his worry turns to relief, then to… envy. he was meant to be there in your time of need, and he wasn’t. he’s grateful to your good samaritan. but… he was right here. you could have gone to him. i could have helped, he voices, i would have done anything you needed me to do. you can reassure him a thousand times, but it doesn’t help how he feels at all. he feels like he’s let you down and he’s, by accident, overthinking the additional person’s role in all of this. it makes me feel like you don’t need me. he avoids your gaze as you crawl into his lap and try to remind him otherwise. he never lets you speak. let me feel like this. even if its wrong. just for a moment. he knows deep down there’s nothing to be jealous over, but it still happens.

corvus: he shouldn’t care, but he does. he holds your feelings like they’re sacred, and the thought of someone else knowing something he considers an intimate part of your relationship frustrates him to no end. and he knows you mean nothing by it when you tell the person beside you how you’d had a rough couple of weeks, its just a simple response to a kind of simple question. he doesn’t interrupt to pull you away, he just… listens. watching the space around you like it might shatter if he stopped. takes a breath that’s far too long and wonders what makes it so easy to tell them you had a rough couple of weeks. overthinking, and more overthinking, until he’s somehow come to the conclusion they must be important to you, maybe more than him. so, he walks away. you follow, you always do, and when you ask where he’s going, he doesn’t answer. when you ask if he’s okay, he pauses. you’re busy. he meets your eyes finally and realises the weight of his thoughts, and just how untrue they are. you don’t need me. he doesn’t mean it, but in that moment, no truth has ever been clearer.

alpharius: you look to him for guidance in everything, you let him shape the world around you and don’t spare a second thought to it – it’s natural, and he likes it that way. but on the occasion that you listen to someone else, even about something trivial in his eyes (you know, human feelings and emotions that he doesn’t really comprehend but wants you to trust him on anyway), he becomes aggravated. exasperated. do you think anyone could understand you as i do? he questions, standing across from, presence truly suffocating, you think anyone knows you the way i do? he laughs. too normal to be innocent. like he’s had this conversation a thousand times over in his head. like you weren’t just asking someone for advice on dealing with a sore throat or some stupid shit. every part of you belongs to me, he assures you. anyone who tries to get close to you… he doesn’t finish his thought, you’re too pure in his eyes. not until you’re asleep beside him and it’s all forgotten. anyone who gets between us… dies. simple.

i'm itching to write smut btw. like little scarabs are taking over me. until next time - have a good bank holiday weekend (if you're awarded such pleasures)

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chrissssssmut · 6 hours ago

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can I request a continuation of yujin classroom 3-B?

CLASSROOM 3-B PART 2

Ahn Yujin x Male OC

AN: Here's Part 2 of the Vampire Ahn Yujin story! Hope yall like this one as much as the first!♥️

PART 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The town forgot Y/N quickly.

At first, there was a flurry of police reports, late-night news segments, and concerned PTA meetings. The school held a memorial in his honor—framed photo on a desk, candles flickering in the gymnasium. Some students cried. Most didn’t. They were too used to it by then.

Another disappearance. Another name whispered, then erased.

But not for me.

I was Kang Doyun. And Y/N was my best friend.

He was the one who laughed at my awful jokes, stayed up late grinding ranked matches with me, and shared every stupid conspiracy theory he uncovered like it was gospel. He was also the one who called me three hours before he vanished.

“Doyun… if I disappear—no. When I disappear—it’s because of her.”

“Who? What are you talking about—”

“Ahn Yujin.”

His voice had trembled. Not with fear—but conviction.

“She’s not human.”

And then the line went dead.

I tried calling back. Dozens of times. Nothing. I messaged him all night. No response.

Two days later, his parents filed a report. His seat was empty. And just like that, Y/N became another one of those names no one dared speak too loudly.

But I wasn’t about to let that be the end of it.

So I did what he would’ve done.

I transferred.

The school hadn’t changed much.

The gates still creaked. The hallways still echoed. The walls still smelled faintly of bleach and dust, like someone always cleaning up a mess they couldn’t quite erase.

I walked into Class 3-B, bag slung over my shoulder, heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

I spotted the empty desk first.

Second row, by the window. Still untouched. Still his.

The teacher barely looked up as she introduced me.

“This is Kang Doyun. He’ll be joining us for the rest of the term. Please be kind.”

Polite clapping. A few glances. Then silence.

I took the seat behind his.

And that’s when I felt it—eyes on me.

I looked up.

There she was.

Ahn Yujin.

Beautiful. Polished. Poised. Like a perfectly carved doll with just a hint of movement.

Her gaze met mine, unblinking.

She smiled.

“Hi,” she said, voice soft and sweet. “Welcome to the class.”

I smiled back. “Thanks.”

I held her gaze a little longer than I should have, just to see what would happen.

She didn’t look away.

The first few days, I played dumb.

I took notes. Asked boring questions. Ate lunch alone on the rooftop like some anime protagonist. But underneath it all, I was watching.

Yujin was... magnetic. The way students made space for her in the halls. The way teachers praised her like she was a gift. The way she always knew the answer, but never raised her hand unless called on. Perfect attendance. Perfect scores. But no one ever saw her eat. No one ever saw her leave the building, either.

And every time I asked about Y/N, people froze.

Even the ones who used to be his friends.

It was like a spell—his name didn’t just make people uncomfortable.

It made them afraid.

And Yujin… she started getting closer.

Little things. Passing by my desk, fingers brushing my shoulder like it was an accident. Offering to help with notes I didn’t need. Complimenting my handwriting.

It was subtle. Almost sweet.

Almost.

One evening, I lingered behind after school.

Pretended I forgot a book. Waited until the halls were empty, then followed her.

She didn’t take the main gate.

She slipped through a side exit, across the track field, and into the woods behind the school.

I stayed low, boots crunching softly through fallen leaves.

She didn’t look back once.

Eventually, she stopped in front of a house.

Normal. Modest. Two stories, pale walls, and a flickering porch light.

She opened the door.

Didn’t knock.

Didn’t use a key.

Just walked in like she was the only one who mattered.

I waited ten minutes.

Then I followed.

Her house was wrong.

Not messy. Not haunted. Just... wrong.

Too clean. Too quiet. Like no one had ever lived there.

I crept through the front hallway, stepping over the shoes that weren’t hers, past a photo of a family that looked too faded to be real. I moved toward the back, toward the door that stood slightly ajar.

I pushed it open—

And my breath caught.

Lockers. Just like Y/N described. Real, metal lockers. Labeled with initials.

I saw his jacket first.

Hanging neatly on a hook, like he might return to claim it.

His name tag. His scent. His broken phone.

And something else.

A notebook.

His notebook.

I picked it up, hands trembling. Pages filled with scribbles, notes, theories. Everything he’d learned before he vanished. Diagrams. Maps. Drawings of red eyes.

My name was on the last page.

“If anyone finds this… Doyun, run. Or burn this place to the ground.”

Too late.

Behind me, the door creaked.

I turned slowly.

Yujin stood in the doorway.

Her eyes were glowing.

“Curious,” she whispered, stepping forward. “Just like him.”

My pulse spiked.

“I knew it was you,” I said, backing away. “I know what you did to him.”

“Do you?” she asked, tilting her head. “Because I don’t think you really understand what he was to me.”

Her expression darkened. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“He was special.”

“He was dead,” I growled.

She blinked. Slowly. “Not at first.”

I bolted.

Past her. Down the hall. Toward the door—

She was there.

I didn’t even see her move.

One second she was behind me, the next, in front.

“You can’t outrun me,” she said calmly. “But you can survive. If you stop digging.”

I raised the knife I’d hidden in my sleeve.

“Then kill me,” I spat. “Like you killed him.”

Something flickered in her expression.

Sadness?

No. Hunger.

“I don’t want to kill you,” she whispered. “I want you to chase me.”

And that’s how the game began.

She let me leave that night.

Let me run.

But every time I turned a corner, she was there. Smiling. Watching. Waiting.

In the shadows.

In my dreams.

In the reflection of a train window.

At first, I thought I was imagining it.

Until I found her handwriting on my desk.

“Getting warmer.”

Until I found red petals in my locker.

Until I woke up one night to find her sitting on my windowsill, legs crossed, eyes glowing softly in the dark.

She didn’t move.

Just smiled.

Then she was gone.

It’s been three weeks.

I haven’t stopped running.

I haven’t stopped planning.

She thinks I’m breaking.

She’s wrong.

Because this time, I’m not just some curious kid looking for answers.

I’m the storm she invited.

And I don’t care what she is.

Monster. Demon. Vampire.

I’m going to find her.

And I’m going to make her bleed.

Doyun called it unfinished business.

The forest was silent.

Only the wind stirred the leaves, brushing them against each other like the whispers of ghosts. The moon hovered low, pale and heavy in the sky, casting long shadows across the clearing.

Doyun crouched low behind a fallen tree, hands trembling as he tightened the final wire.

Every inch of this place had been prepared. Every snare, every line of salt, every sigil carved with obsessive precision. He’d read every book he could find, hunted through cursed forums, contacted whispering voices online that asked for payment in things he could never repay.

And all of it led to this.

“She’s not invincible,” he muttered under his breath, sweat beading on his temple. “She can bleed.”

At the center of the clearing stood an old wooden chair, its legs soaked in consecrated oil, bolted to a rusted iron plate. Chains hung loose beside it, blessed and etched with runes that bit into the metal like teeth. The ground beneath was a trap circle—a fusion of shamanic binding, Catholic warding, and arcane magic no priest would approve of.

And bait.

A worn photo of Y/N, folded and pinned to the seat.

He waited.

And waited.

The air turned cold.

Leaves rustled—but not from wind.

Then she appeared.

Effortless. Silent.

Ahn Yujin stepped out from the trees, barefoot, her school uniform perfectly neat, like she'd stepped out of class five minutes ago. Her eyes scanned the clearing, pausing when they landed on the photo.

“…Y/N,” she said softly, walking toward the chair.

Doyun didn’t breathe.

Her hand reached out—fingers brushing the picture.

That was the trigger.

The trap exploded around her.

A burst of white fire surged up the circle, and the blessed chains lashed around her limbs like snakes, pinning her to the chair. A high-pitched shriek erupted from her throat, raw and animalistic, as smoke curled off her skin where the runes burned.

Doyun rose from the shadows, stepping into the light with a knife in his hand—curved, silver, glowing faintly with holy symbols carved into its hilt.

Yujin thrashed, veins bulging, red eyes burning bright with fury and pain.

“You,” she hissed. “You planned this.”

“I told you,” Doyun said coldly, walking toward her, “I’m not like him. I came to end this.”

She bared her fangs, snarling—but she couldn’t move. The chains held. The runes flared brighter the closer he got.

Doyun raised the knife, aiming for her heart.

“Goodbye, Yujin.”

And then—

“Wait…”

Her voice cracked.

Different.

Soft.

Like a frightened girl’s.

Doyun froze.

“I didn’t want to kill him,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears. “I—I loved him. I didn’t mean to… it was a mistake. Please.”

His grip on the knife wavered.

It wasn’t the monster speaking now.

It was her.

The girl everyone thought they knew. The girl who sat in class with a gentle smile. The girl Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about.

“I don’t want to die,” she whimpered. “I’m scared…”

The blade trembled in his hand.

“What… what are you doing?” he muttered, throat tight.

“Please…” she begged, tears sliding down her cheeks, mixing with the blood from her burning skin. “Don’t hurt me…”

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

Just one second too long.

Her eyes snapped open—cold and gleaming.

And then she moved.

With a screech of metal and an unnatural jerk, she lunged forward—chains still burning her skin—but her claws reached him first.

They tore through his side, white-hot pain flooding his nerves.

“Gah—!”

Doyun stumbled back, blood gushing from the gash across his ribs. He dropped to the ground, crawling away, vision blurring. The forest spun around him as his body screamed for rest, for escape.

Behind him, Yujin dragged herself free.

The runes weakened. The chains cracked.

She was burned. Bleeding. Limbs twitching. But she didn’t stop.

She crawled after him—gritting her teeth, eyes blazing with hunger and rage.

“You… almost fooled me,” Doyun gasped, inching backward, one arm pressed to his wound.

Yujin was right behind him now. Her breath hit his skin. Her body pressed against his back, teeth grazing his neck.

“I should’ve killed you sooner,” she hissed.

And then—

He twisted.

In his shaking hand, the silver knife flared one last time, the holy blessing activated by her proximity.

He plunged it backward into her chest.

Straight through her heart.

Her scream tore through the forest like a shockwave.

Not just pain.

But betrayal.

Yujin clawed at his shoulder, fangs gnashing—but her strength was already failing. Her body convulsed, dark veins spreading from the wound. Smoke hissed from her mouth. Her eyes—those hypnotic red eyes—flickered.

“…Doyun,” she breathed, brokenly. “I… I could’ve loved you.”

“I’m not here for love,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I’m here for justice.”

She collapsed.

Her body twitched once.

Then fell still.

The light in her eyes faded.

Her skin cracked like porcelain, crumbling at the edges.

And then, Ahn Yujin was no more.

Only ashes remained—scattered by the wind.

Doyun lay there for a long time, blood pooling beneath him, stars spinning overhead.

He closed his eyes.

And for a moment, he swore he could still hear her voice in the breeze.

“You’re mine now.”

But it was only the wind.

Only the silence left behind after a monster dies.

Only the price of vengeance.

#male reader #kpop story #kpop x y/n #kpop x male reader #kpop x reader #vampire x male reader #vampire x human #vampire x reader #kpop fanfic #ahn yujin #ive yujin #ive #kpop x you #vampire story

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buckadoodledoo · 19 hours ago

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actually on the subject of bpd buck i was thinking earlier about the ways buck idealises eddie when He's Not There. and how this is only something he really does to that extent when eddie's Not There. because buck's so focused on eddie not being there that eddie becomes this sort of idol. buck creates an idealised version of him in his absence. case in point 8x11 when like, buck is just talking and talking about eddie like he’s almost saint-like. he has a SILVER STAR. he would NEVER DO ANYTHING ILLEGAL. and in part i think this idealisation comes from buck trying so hard to be okay with eddie being gone. because he KNOWS he acted irrationally about eddie leaving. he KNOWS eddie isn't abandoning him. eddie's a good guy and good father and it's not nothing. and well, buck MISSES him. and so he idealises him to combat all of his complicated feelings about eddie leaving. but CRUCIALLY he doesn't actually do this with eddie. like, all of this is still true. he still thinks eddie is the best guy ever. but he doesn't actually see him as this flawless, saint-like being. he's not afraid to tell eddie that he messed up. that he's human and makes mistakes and that it’s okay. he doesn't act like eddie can do no wrong ever TO eddie. and that's because of the nature of their relationship. he knows he can be honest with eddie and it won't change how eddie feels about him. he can tell eddie that he needs to face the consequences and that he needs to dad up without fear of argument or rejection because of the trust they have in each other, because of the trust buck has in eddie and significantly because of the trust eddie has in him. because eddie has unwaveringly put his trust in buck for seven years. has trusted buck with his heart, with his son. over ANYONE ELSE. like, generally buck is very secure in his relationship with eddie and isn't afraid to be brutally honest with him. he has instances of severe irrationality triggered by his abandonment issues (7x04 and 8x09 are big ones) but after the initial reaction he is able to recognise and acknowledge his irrational thinking. because fundamentally he knows that eddie trusts and values him more than he does anyone else. HE KNOWS THIS. he just can't always feel it because his brain is actively working against him to prove all his worst fears true (that he doesn't matter, that he’s easy to leave, that he’s replaceable etc.)

#been thinking thoughts #911 #bpd buck #911 abc

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athenaluciscaelum · 1 day ago

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Maybe a little silly ask but can you do Dante as a dad throughout various installments in the franchise?

Note: Nothing is silly here. You can ask me anything. I can gently deny that's all. But here you go. I have followed games here, the nearest manga or novels are clubbed with games.

Dante as a dad through various installment of the franchise:

Rated: General

Words: 961 words

Warning: Mention of Pregnancy

Disclaimer:

Feel free to leave comments, but remember to be nice and civil.

LETS ROCK!!!

Okay, so let me lay down few assumption I am working under. The child is product of love, it maybe an accident but it is with someone Dante cares and loves. And is willing so stick around even if it scares him. Dante will never abandon his child. He is not that person. If you think he is. Get out! We are doing that here. We are going from the youngest to the eldest. We are following chronology here:

Devil May Cry 3 Dante

I am clubbing here manga and video, so Dante is around 18-19. This means he will be having child at same time as Vergil. The only difference is that he is aware and most probably an accident, raging teenage hormones kr something. It frightened him when he got to know he is going to be a father. He feared if he will ever be a good father but he was there for his partner throughout the pregnancy. As the child came in the world, he was lot more easy going, casual and doing all sort of prank on the baby or with the baby. His fear will be lost and he will be focusing on providing for his child. Him and his partner will be lost most of the time, so confused like why baby is crying, why baby is sleeping so much, why baby is blinking, is it normal? Everything will be a rollercoaster ride. It will be a wild ride.

Devil May Cry 1 and Anime Dante

Well...Dante here is depressed, especially after the events of Mallet Island, in his mind, he killed his own brother twice. He will distant himself from the child or the partner who is pregnant out of fear of harmind either of them. He will leave most of parenting to his partner out of fear. He is dangerous and not to be trusted. He will be taking care of all financial needs, making sure they are protected with no demon around but maintaining an emotional distance from his child, not ignoring them. His mind swirling with idea that one day his child will know he killed his own brother. His child loves him equally, but will they love him the same once they know he committed a fractricide? It will be only his child insistence and eventually crying for his comfort that Dante will snap out of it to understand that he is doing more damage than good. He will be quick to hug his child tight and promise them that it is going to be okay. He will happily tell them the story of Vergil from their childhood and tuck them in bed to go to his partner and confine in them.

Devil May Cry 2 Dante

Dante is still very depressed here. Thevsame where it was left off, he is trying to smile more in front of his kid. But when on mission or alone. The mask falls off. He will kiss and hug his child tightly before going to Vie de Marli. He won't be back for long since he got stuck in hell. Every minute he will be fighting to get back to the human world. He has a duty to protect his child and partner. When he will be back, fortunately his partner took care of understanding their child well to why Daddy was away. Dante will be apologizing to both his child and partner. He will break emotionally when his child will say, "it's okay, dad, I know you are just keeping the world and us safe. You are my Hero!" This is the point where he never knew he wanted to be, but it's all he needs. He was a good father, he was doing good, despite his better judgement and fear.

Devil May Cry 4 Dante

The most fun dad, he will be cracking and preparing all the Dad jokes. He will be hands on with his kids. He will be there to change their diaper, out them to sleep. He will keep an eye on them as they are sleeping safe and sounds. He will be taking picture of every moment. He will bore Lady and Trish with cute things his child did. He will be picking out their outfits, doing their hair. He will have dedicated tine for his child alone. To train them and teach them all necessary things about who they are as they grow. He doesn't want his child to be as confused as he was. He will be over protective, not in a bad way.

He knows all lullaby, nursery rhymes and signs disney songs with his child in the car. He will certainly take them for a ride to Fortuna to meet their cousin.

Devil May Cry 5 Dante

He is very similar to DMC4 Dante, but mature. He will be no less goofy, but a lot more understanding of his partner and child needs, it is something beyond fun. It is about deeper connection and values he wants to teach his child. He wants them to know the love and acceptance, he got from Eva. He will be more forgiving to himself and it will help him be a better father. I think he will be father like Kartos is to Atreus. It is about loving and accepting your child, trusting them to become what they want to become. He will be coming in terms with the fact that they might not be like him or his partner and its okay. As long as they are safe and happy. He will be always there in shadows protecting them from afar.

He will be smoothering his child in love when they are small no doubt!

Tagged: @violet-2084-turkish-warrior

#dante devil may cry #dante sparda #devil may cry #dmc dante #dante #dante x reader #dmc fanfiction #devil may cry 3 manga #athena speaks #fantiction #dmc 5 dante #dmc 1 #dmc 2 #dmc 3 #dmc 3 dante #dmc 4 dante #dmc 4

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captain-huggy-bear · 3 hours ago

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Hi! Congratulations on 1,000 followers!

Can I request Clayton Keller and “just- please, can’t you see she’s in pain?!”

I preface this with I have never given birth, I have never been at a birth and I have never been in an American hospital. I did some light research but I am not a doctor or expert. I am a firm believer that Clayton is the sort of person who advocates for his partner so strongly. Normally soft spoken, normally calm, but will not tolerate any sort of bullshit when it comes to you, your health and your right to what happens to your body. Also Dad!Clay heals something in me. 1000 Followers Celly Currently ongoing 🥳🎉 (please read the rules) Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

You knew labour would be painful, you knew it would be a lot. You can't push an entire human out of your body without pain, you can't push something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon and expect it to be pain free or even just mildly uncomfortable. But, you never expected to be in so much pain and denied the pain relief that was so standard for labour; an epidural.

Clayton was besides himself, your grip on his hand so tight it felt like you might fracture a few bones. The worry kept mounting, as did the anger as you were denied the epidural you kept asking for, as he wiped sweat from your brow and watched you try to struggle through.

Every time you asked, you were told to wait, told that you were fine, that women did this every day without an epidural, that the gas and air should be enough. But, God, when you started crying? Started to drop that strong exterior and babble that you couldn't do this, it was too much? Clayton had reached his limit.

“Just- please, can’t you see she’s in pain?” The doctor is one of those old, fuddy duddy types. Traditional, cold, not the doctor either of you had been expecting when you'd come into the hospital after realising you were having a lot of contractions and quickly.

"Mr Keller, birth is painful. Epidurals are not necessary for a natural birth." It was dismissive, rude, and old fashioned. Clay dropped the pretence of politeness, the look sent towards the doctor enough to make him take a step back. Clay's brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed and even then he didn't let go of your hand, didn't deny you the comfort as you huffed on that useless gas and air and watched the two through eyes hazy with pain.

"I fucking know that, but you can give her an epidural, that's standard fucking practice and she's been asking for 2 hours." He doesn't care what the doctor thinks, what the nurses think...he cares about you and if he has to be a hardhead, has to be an asshole to get you the pain relief you're entitled to because some old prick thought pain was something women should have to go through? Then so be it.

"Mr Ke-"

"If you don't give my wife the epidural she's been asking for in the next 20 minutes I am going to come down on you with medical misconduct charge like a sack of fucking bricks. Need I remind you I have a lot of fucking money and my own legal team."

There's a pause, a moment of silence except for your pained noises and heavy breathing, a moment in which he stares the doctor down and the doctor stares back. But, there's a change there, a distinct 'oh fuck' moment that the doctor goes through as he remembers who is in front of him. Because Clayton might be normally soft spoken, calm, collected, but he does not fuck around about you. He does not play about you and he's reached his limit of bullshit for the day.

Clay watches as the doctor turns to one of the nurses with a sort of reluctant acceptance that tells Clay that if he hadn't pushed you'd have gotten nothing. That just pisses him off more.

"Leanne, get the epidural ready for me, please."

"Yes, doctor."

Clay watches the doctor like a hawk through the entire thing, still letting you crush his hand when you're asked to sit upright and lean forward. He doesn't let go or look away as the epidural is put into your back. The only time he does is to help you swing back around to lie down.

He brushes the hair from your face, the strands that have stuck to your skin from the sweat that has built and waits...5 minutes, 10 minutes, until it begins to work, until the relief is palpable, until his panic subsides just enough for his jaw to unclench.

"...Thank you," You say softly as you clutch at him as he leans over you and it's loaded, so loaded. You know as well as he does that without him here...if he'd been stuck on a roadie, at a game...without him you'd be in hours of pain with an unfeeling doctor.

It has Clay spending the rest of the birth hyper vigilant, hyper aware of every decision made and whether it aligns with your wishes and what you both had been told and researched over the last 9 months. There's a deep fear in him that if he doesn't the doctor might let something terrible happen to you, to the baby, that he's dealing with someone who just doesn't care...and the relief he feels when he hears that first cry? When your baby girl is placed on your chest so small except for her head which is far too big for her body (a real lollipop baby)? God, he feels like the weight of the world has fallen off of his shoulders.

That is until they go to take her away to get cleaned up and he sees your panic. You don't have to ask him to, he just knows to, as he follows the nurse and your baby girl, watches the entire time as they clean her and get her tidied and he demands to take her back to you, to hold his baby girl because he's certain there is no safer place for her than in his arms.

The relief you feel when you see him bringing her back is so strong that he hates this stupid hospital, the stupid doctor, for making you ever feel scared or doubtful. He's careful as he sits next to you on the bed, scooting so that you can lean against his shoulder as you blink down at your baby girl.

"She's perfect..." Your voice is tired as your baby girl blinks at the two of you with fresh new eyes, your eyes, but her nose? Her nose is all Clay as she scrunches it and wriggles against him, tiny fingers grappling for purchase on his chest and twisting against his chain. A gesture that reminds him of you.

"Mmm, she is, good job, mama. You did so good, baby." Clay presses a kiss to the top of your head, long, lingering, breathing you in. Relieved that you're okay, she's okay, because God, he's not entirely sure what he would do if you weren't.

And for all the stress, the anger, the fear, this was so worth it. Holding his baby girl was worth it.

#Huggy's 1000 celly #huggy bear writes #clayton keller x reader #clayton Keller/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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soulshaped · 2 days ago

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see, the life i've had

remus lupin x reader | friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, slow burn

a/n: year 2!!! lmk if you want to be added to the taglist :)

part one

wc: 3.7k

The lights in St. Mungo’s flicker ominously above two resting bodies. One, lies incredibly still, for every slight movement causes an avalanche of pain. Her head lulls to rest on her right shoulder as she drifts in and out of a restless sleep. The other, rests a gentle hand on hers, subconsciously feeling for a pulse even in his dreams. Inside him, there is the dormant wolf, who senses the rushing of blood through her veins. It smells all of the weak, unable bodies surrounding him; they are so open, so vulnerable.

It is the wolf who ultimately pulls Remus out of his slumber, desperate for his attention. The full moon draws closer and closer, gradually becoming a beacon of light against the sweltering heat of August nightfall. He almost yearns for its beauty as his eyes blink open to the bright fluorescent lights of the hospital, the same ones he’s spent all summer basked in instead.

The room is empty and eerily silent, showing no other signs of life besides his mother’s quiet, shallow breaths. His father is nowhere to be seen and Remus’ stomach twists in rage, the wild aggression of the wolf rising like bile in his throat. It’s a Saturday, he should be here. And yet his chair on the other side of the bed remains unoccupied, as always. Remus wants to be angry, he wants Lyall to enter the room with the same guilty look on his face, he wants to grab him by the shoulders and shout at him until his lungs run out of air, until his throat aches. He wants to unleash the wolf festering inside of him–pacing in the trapped corridors of his mind, scratching angrily at the walls.

Hope makes a small squeak of discomfort in her slumber, and Remus looks down to see his hand wrapped around hers in a tight hold, squeezing. He stands, pulling back and releasing her in an instant. He approaches a gloomy scene outside the only window in the room and holds his own hand warily, as if it were a loaded weapon between his fingertips.

The wolf has been getting harder to tame in the past few months. Remus initially thought it was merely a byproduct of his own shock and distress over Hope’s illness, but perhaps he was wrong. Maybe instead, it’s seizing more control of Remus as it ages alongside him–as Remus grows older and stronger, maybe the wolf does as well. Maybe one day, he will wake up to find himself wholly unrecognizable, more wolf than boy.

There’s a distinct pounding in his right temple at the mere thought of it all, and he is suddenly incredibly thankful for the silence. If this is the case, if this is the life he’s been assigned, if his father has already sensed these subtle changes in him, even before he has, then he supposes Lyall is right to pull away from Remus. He is only human.

On September 1st, Lyall sends Remus off to the Hogwarts Express with a terse nod, his eyes cast down at the linoleum hospital floors. They’re bloodshot, the wrinkled skin around them red and puffy. Remus hasn’t felt sympathy towards him in a long time, so he says nothing and turns to walk away from him. He keeps walking until he reaches King’s Cross, the hospital now miles away, where his father can no longer hurt him.

Remus subtly steps through the threshold and onto the hidden platform, for the very first time on his own. He remembers how his mother, who once stood so strong and tall, had gently grasped his trembling hand, just last year. The overwhelming loneliness strikes him in a single, swift motion as he watches the waves of parents bidding their children farewell with warm embraces, soft kisses. He frantically attempts to swallow the lump building in his dry throat, comforted only by the familiar train awaiting his arrival, by the smoke billowing out of its chimney. Then, he hears something great through all of the noise, it feels like home. He weaves through the dense crowd with his baggage in tow and tries to follow the faint sound of James’ loud whoops coming from somewhere in the distance.

“Remus! Over here!”

A glimpse of untidy black hair accompanied by a hand waving back and forth in the air. His pace quickens, his heart beating in anticipation. Contact with the boys has been sparse over the holidays, only a handful of letters from them–mainly from James–that have kept him up to date on what they’ve been up to. James spent practically the entirety of his summer preparing for the upcoming Quidditch tryouts (with Peter tagging along, as always) while Sirius was very unwillingly dragged to various, supposedly mandatory Black family events. Remus’ own letters remained concise and vague so as to avoid telling them how his days passed by holed up in a hospital, accompanying his dying mother.

“Hiya Remus!” Peter waves.

“Hi.”

James and Sirius seemed to be wrapped up in an animated conversation, the former motioning his hands in the air comically as if to mimic a broom. There’s another, smaller boy there, standing off to the side besides them, his hands shoved deep into his black trousers. He looks an awful lot like Sirius if he was permanently in a bad mood–his long black hair framed his grimacing features, his lips pulled tautly into a frown. And next to the enthusiastic pair, he seems especially out of place.

“Remus! There you are!” James exclaims, clapping him on the back.

“Took you long enough to come help me, James will not stop talking about Quidditch.”

James looks affronted. “It’s the first year we can actually make it onto the team. And I heard–”

“Remus, meet my little brother, Reggie. Say hello, Reggie.”

Sirius tugs on the boy’s elbow gently, prompting him to step closer into their circle.

“I’m not a child, my name is Regulus,” he murmurs angrily, ears flaring red.

Sirius waves him off. “He’s a bit of a grump today, aren’t you Reggie? Mum’s been nagging him all summer about how he must get into Slytherin, lest she ends up with two disappointments for a son instead of just the one.”

Regulus rips his arm out of Sirius’ hold, storming off towards the train. Sirius rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically.

“Nasty temper, that one.”

Sirius was much more anxious about the Sorting Ceremony than he let on. Remus saw it in the way his legs bounced underneath the dining table, in the way he gnawed on the pads of his fingers. When Regulus was called up to the stool, the oversized Sorting Hat fell to his small shoulders for no longer than three seconds before Slytherin was announced. Their table erupted into loud cheers, ushering Regulus into an empty seat. But for a second, Remus could’ve sworn he saw his eyes nervously dart over to where they sat, where Sirius was sporting a similar grimace to Regulus’.

“Should’ve known, Regulus would never dare disappoint Mother dearest.”

He recovered almost immediately, returning to his usual antics with James. But when they returned to their dorm, he was the first one to bed without a word.

The rest of September passed quickly. Remus fully occupied himself with his classes and coursework, hoping it would be an adequate distraction from Hope, from Lyall, from the wolf. It meant, however, that the full moon at the end of the month came just as quick. It was particularly painful. Madame Pomfrey found him in a fetal position on the dusty, wooden floorboards of the Shrieking Shack, shivering from the cold. He had been too exhausted, too close to death to even reach for the blanket resting on the bed behind him.

When he finally came to, in the hospital ward, Madame Pomfrey was applying Essence of Dittany to the cuts across his bare abdomen, etched deep into his flesh.

“Rough one, was it?”

Remus grunted in agreement, nodding slowly. His throat ached from the dryness; it could’ve been from his screaming or the wolf’s howling–he couldn’t remember. Pomfrey reached over with a glass in one hand and lifted his head with the other, tilting some water into his mouth. It was gentle, as gentle as a mother’s touch.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, darling.” She rests the glass on the bedside table gently and turns to leave.

Remus, feeling safe and warm in her kind presence, thinks this is a good time as any to confide in her.

He clears his throat. “Madame Pomfrey?”

“Yes, Remus?”

“My transformations… my condition. I feel like–well, I feel as though they’re getting worse, like, er, harder to control. Even when it’s not the full moon.”

She nods, as if knowing this was coming all along.

“You’re quite right, Remus. It’s normal for a growing boy of your age, at least from what I’ve gathered. There aren’t many books on the matter, as I’m sure you know, but from what I have read, puberty can be an especially difficult time for a werewolf.”

Remus doesn’t know what to say. Is it possible? All of his darkest thoughts, ones he’s tried so desperately to bury, the wolf getting louder and louder with each passing day–could all of it be attributed to something as normal as puberty? He doesn’t respond.

“I can only imagine what you’re feeling, Remus, since all of the other boys your age have much to deal with already. It seems as though it will improve steadily though, with age. You’ll grow out of it before you know it.”

She squeezes his hand in reassurance, but Remus does not feel any better, he feels angry. Madame Pomfrey has only reiterated what Remus has been repeating to himself on a loop, only really saying that this is the hand he has been dealt in this life, only pitying him. He doesn’t need her pity, or anyone else’s for that matter. All he needs is a chance at a different life, a normal life. A chance to live in a body that belongs solely to him.

A day later, Madame Pomfrey finally allows him to leave the ward. He returns to his dorm, walking as slow as ever on unsteady legs, staying close to the walls of the castle to avoid being knocked over by an oblivious student.

Sirius confronts him as soon as he walks through the door.

“Hey! Where have you been?”

“Remus! I got in, I’m a new chaser for Gryffindor!” James exclaims, practically jumping up and down.

“Congrats! That’s great, James,” he states, trying to rest his weight on the wall behind him, subtly.

“Thanks, I really–hey, are you alright? Where have you been?”

“I, uh–I was visiting my mom at the hospital, St. Mungo’s? She’s, um, she’s–well, ill.”

“Oh,” James' face falls in an instant, “I’m sorry, mate.”

“Sorry, Remus.” Peter murmurs.

“No, no, it’s alright. She’s been in all summer.”

“Bloody hell, Remus, you didn’t say anything…” Sirius has a pitiful gaze in his eyes.

“It’s really okay, she’s doing fine,” Remus says dismissively. “So, er–how’d tryouts go?”

“Great! I was out of my mind with nerves, like you wouldn’t even believe, but when I finally got my hands on the Quaffle…”

The conversations flow quickly after that, to Remus’ relief. He tries not to wonder what their reactions would be to finding out the real truth, how they would respond if they knew where he really goes every month, or what they really sleep next to every night.

The days of winter pass by him like a dream. It’s easy to get lost in isolation, especially on the castle grounds that seem to stretch on forever, especially when Remus has so much to hide. The Marauders continue to set up traps for unsuspecting students, planning pranks filled with as much mischief as they can manage without getting expelled. To maintain a sense of normalcy, Remus joins in with as much enthusiasm as he is capable of, which is not much. He hopes it is enough to quell any suspicions, any accusations that they might make about his withdrawn state. On the eve of his thirteenth birthday, however, the dream ends.

He’s resting against his headboard, rereading the book you’d given him last year for a third time, a painful crick developing at the nape of his neck. Just as he moves his hand to massage it, hoping to smooth away some of the pain, James, Peter, and Sirius burst through the door like fireworks.

Remus curses, looking up to see them all hunched over, hands on their knees and breathing deeply as if they’d just done laps around the castle. Sirius is gripping a piece of parchment tightly in his right hand.

“What’s happened? Did you lot get caught for the Dungbombs?”

“Remus…” James breathes out, finally looking up to meet his eyes.

Remus has never seen him look so serious before.

“What? What is it?”

“Remus, w–”

“We know, Remus.” Sirius says, sudden and loud, eyes darkened.

Remus feels like he’s been plunged into the depths of the Black Lake, the cold water rushing over him, coating every bit of his flesh. He can’t breathe, he can hardly even think.

“We know you’re a werewolf,” James says. He straightens out his back and puffs out his chest, almost in a subconscious attempt at confidence.

“Y-You… I’m a– what are– what?”

“Your disappearances, we didn’t know what to think at first and well… with your mom… we thought maybe it really was just nothing,” James starts.

“But we’d already been keeping track, see,” Sirius opens the crumpled parchment to reveal a set of dates and accompanying notes.

James continues. “We dropped it for a while, not knowing what it was, but then… then we found something in our Defense books… about werewolves.”

“It lined up, your disappearances, with every full moon. Without fail.”

Remus suddenly feels anger seize him, shaking him. He’s been observed by the people he thought were his closest friends, like an insect under a microscope. They’ve been watching him, biding their time, doing research. To do all of this, to confront him with his own lies, just so they could leave him and never speak to him again.

“So I suppose you’ve got it all figured out then, right? Tell everyone how clever you are, how dangerous I am, how they should all stay away from me?”

“Remus, we would– we would never do that!” James shouts, looking incredibly wounded.

Remus suffocates the guilt threatening to seep into his gut, burying it with more anger instead.

“Right,” he scoffs, “why else, then? For your own enjoyment?”

“Bloody hell, we wanted to help you! But all you ever do is shut us out!” Sirius snaps.

Remus doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t believe them, he refuses to.

“It’s true, Remus, we just wanted to help. You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone.” James says softly, and at this moment, Remus thinks he looks older than he is, more mature. He shrinks into himself and feels even smaller.

“You’re not… afraid? Of me?”

“Of course not, you’re our best mate. It doesn’t change that.”

“We’re the Marauders, remember?” Sirius grins and the familiarity of it soothes Remus a bit.

Peter nervously fidgets with the hem of his sleeve, his eyes still glued to the floor. Sirius nudges him roughly and he stammers,

“W-We– Y-You’re still our friend, Remus.”

“Thanks… I’m sorry for not telling you guys.”

“I-Is your mom really sick?” Peter looks up, eyes wide and rounded.

“Er– yeah. She is, but I don’t actually visit her every month… I go to the Shrieking Shack for my… transformations.”

“Are you the ghost then? The one people can hear?”

“Yeah, Peter,” Remus can’t help but smile, thinking of the wolf as a ghost haunting the Shack, “I guess I am.”

As March comes to a close, Remus feels lighter than he has in a long time. He had permitted the boys’ interrogation of the werewolf with great hesitance, not really knowing how to act around them now that they knew the depths of his secret. On one sunny day, a day that smells particularly like spring, James gives Remus a picture. It was the castle, basking in the hues of the setting sun, captured from high up, almost eye level with the very top of the Astronomy Tower. He can see the tall trees in the background, their growing leaves, moving with the breeze.

“I took it during practice today!”

Euphemia and Fleamont had gifted him a magical camera for his birthday, so James has taken to carrying it with him everywhere.

“Wow… thanks, James. Godric, it’s really amazing. ‘ve never seen anything like it.”

“Glad you like it, mate. Thought of you when I took it.” James grins, patting Remus on the back amicably as he walks to the bathroom.

Remus falls asleep quickly that night with the picture tucked safely underneath his pillow like a secret prayer. Maybe he will wake up in a better life, a life made just for him.

Remus doesn’t see you anymore. He’d been used to ignoring your smiles, your small waves as you passed him in the halls. He’d been used to focusing his eyes on anything but you in shared classes, been used to the twinge of guilt that would settle uncomfortably on his chest when he felt your stare burning holes into the side of his head. He should’ve known that you would stop trying eventually, one day. He should’ve anticipated it. But after a while, when he could no longer feel your eyes on him, when he stopped seeing you, he wasn’t used to that at all. It’s for the better, especially now that the Marauders knew about him. If he’d let you stay, let you get closer and closer, it would only be a matter of time before you found out about him too. He was naive to ever expect that he could have continued feeding lies to his closest friends. He doesn’t need you to be one of them.

And yet, now that you’re refusing to acknowledge him, he finds it safer to look in your direction once again. His eyes float towards your seat in classes, in the Great Hall, and his ears catch your loud laugh more often than not. He tries not to think about it.

In early June, he spots Lily turning the corner and waits for your inevitable appearance – the pair of you rarely went anywhere without the other. It never came, however, Lily remained alone as she approached the Marauders with vigor. Remus fights the innate urge to hide behind Sirius, Lily’s determined stare sending a shiver down his spine.

“Hiya Evans, alright?” James smirks, leaning against the cobblestone wall.

“Remus, could I speak to you for a second?” Lily asks, pointedly ignoring James’ existence.

“Er– I guess?”

Lily begins to walk away from them and Remus turns to face his three friends, all adorning equally shocked expressions. James’ eyebrows are nearly overlapping with how furrowed they are.

“I’ll, uh… meet you guys in the Great Hall in a bit.”

He has to break into a small jog, as much as he possibly can, to catch up with her. She slows down beside him, but doesn’t say anything for a while. The corridors are emptying quickly with dinner starting so soon. It’s completely silent before he knows it, only the soft sound of their soles hitting the ground.

“Listen, Remus… I like you.”

“Huh?”

Remus’ gaze turns to Lily, seeing her cheeks tinged with pink.

“I-I mean, as a person,” she blurts, “I like you as a person, a friend even.”

“Alright, me too… I guess?”

“Well, the thing is… she’s my best friend.”

“Huh?” Remus repeats, utterly confused.

Lily stops abruptly, nearly stomping her feet in frustration.

“(Y/N), she’s my best friend! So just… just stop being so daft and ignoring her, will you? It’s really rude, Remus, and I don’t want to start hating you as well.”

Remus stays silent, his brain seemingly unable to form even a single cohesive sentence.

“I thought you two were friends. It seems that she thought so as well, but what do I know?”

With that, Lily storms away, leaving Remus all alone, wrapped in the silence – though his rushing thoughts are enough to keep him company.

On the last day of exams, Remus decides to go on one more walk around the grounds, savoring the heat from the sun as much as possible. By the end of the week, he’ll be at St. Mungo’s once again.

He sees you sitting alone by the Black Lake, with a book, of course. He settles into a seat beside you, the wet grass seeping into his robes. You don’t look up from your book, refusing to acknowledge his presence. He reaches for the chocolate frog in his pocket, that he’d charmed to not melt. He’d put it there after Lily’s conversation, just in case. You’d been difficult to find alone though, perhaps a fault of his own doing. He places it just in front of you.

Remus watches your eyes flicker ever so slightly to the frog, then back down to your book. He’s not dejected though, not yet. Instead, he pulls out your copy of Rebecca, the same one he’s been rereading all year. He feels you peek at it out of the corner of your eye.

In almost a whisper, he says, “My mum… she’s ill.”

You finally look up at him, but it’s his turn to avoid your stare. He doesn’t say anything more and you turn away once more. This time, however, he hears you rustling through your bag. You pull something out, laying it down in front of him, mirroring his own actions. He recognizes it immediately.

It’s a book, wrapped in the same bow, with the same delicate trim as the year before – The Count of Monte Cristo, the book you’d been reading when he found you behind the tapestry.

“I was going to give it to you for Christmas, but…”

“I know. Sorry I’ve been a bit of a prat.”

“Yeah, you have,” you say bluntly.

But your lips, they’re pulled into a grin. Remus smiles back, even brighter.

He reads the book all the way to St. Mungo’s, comforted by your notes scribbled in the margins.

taglist: @daydreamandforget @whatdoyxumean

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin x you #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fic #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin #marauders era

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mapofsouthdakota · 8 hours ago

Text

Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb III

Synopsis: The café was supposed to be just another coffee shop. For a law student who enjoys her morning coffee and a shy newbie still learning the ropes, it should have been nothing more than part of the daily routine… But then there’s Caleb.

Details: 1500 words. Pt 3 is up at em! Non-MC!Reader as the law student. Expect flirting, hot af barista Caleb, jealousy and plenty of banter with the newbie barista. Today Caleb surprises you… kind of. And the MC, who knows where she is? Mystery, indeed… Poll below! The last one… me thinks heeeeh.

Parts: initial one shot, pt 1, newbie POV, pt 2,

Tags: @gavin3469 @unstablemiss @i-messed-up-big-time @mipov101

Your Honor, he’s smirking again | pt. 3

The law library is supposed to be sacred ground. Hushed reverence. Paper rustling. People highlighting like their lives depend on it.

But your laptop screen is currently filled with… apples.

Literally. Just—apple images. Cross-sections. Vintage posters. Pages of orchard trivia.

And your notes? They’ve completely devolved.

Exhibit A: Apple juice (Caleb’s drink of choice. Unexpected. Possibly romantic.)

Exhibit B: Apple charm on chain. Small. Worn. Too meaningful to be aesthetic.

Exhibit C: The way he said, “I just have a thing for apples.” With a grin like a sealed affidavit.

Tapping your pen against your teeth, you stare down your own handwriting. You’ve written “Who is she?” in the margin no less than six times. Circling each one harder than the last.

The charm wasn’t random. You know it. It was the kind of thing someone gives you when they mean it. And Caleb? Caleb doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to wear things without meaning.

You click open another tab. Type: “Apple symbolism in relationships.”

You’re mid-scroll on an article called ‘What Your Favorite Apple Says About Your Soulmate’ (Red Delicious apparently equals “overcommitted and delusional”—rude)

It’s the push you need. You close your laptop, shove it into your bag, and make a snap decision to change the scene.

Because obviously, the most rational way to break your obsession with Caleb… is to go sit directly in his workplace.

——————————————————————————

The café is quiet when you arrive—except for the simmer of K-pop in the background. You knew the newbie was into that kind of music (not that you’re judging, though you definitely are, just a little).

The newbie catches sight of you and gives a small, almost imperceptible nod from behind the counter—equal parts “welcome back” and “still spiraling, huh?”

You nod back: Of course you’re spiraling.

Behind the counter, the newbie shrugs—same, but in their own way. A silent acknowledgment. Two members of the same tragic club.

You pick your usual table, set down your things, and open your laptop again.

Two minutes later, you’re back on apple symbolism. Like you never left.

Your phone buzzes.

newbie: stop i can feel it from here

You glance around. One earbud in, apron on, their usual slouch behind the counter. They catch your eye for half a second, then immediately look back down like they weren’t just watching you.

You message back:

You: the charm’s an apple, right?? it has to mean something… do people wear apple charms for fun???

newbie: i dunno. i’m not the fruit feelings department.

You stare at your screen. Then back at them.

The newbie moves to wipe down a table as you approach—clearly already clean, but it gives them something to do with their hands. You try to look casual. You are not.

“Hypothetical question,” you say, voice pitched at normal human volume. “Has Caleb ever dated someone who… also had a weird fruit obsession?”

They glance at you. “Hypothetical?”

You nod. “Purely academic. Research purposes. National interest.”

Newbie gives you a look like I cannot believe I am complicit in this. Then sighs. “You mean like… an apple girl?”

You freeze. “She’s real?”

“I mean—no,” they say quickly, eyes flicking toward the espresso machine like it might save them. “I don’t think there’s a her. Or… if there is, she’s not, like, around. Never been around here, at least…”

You squint. “But?”

They shift their weight, fingers tugging at the edge of their sleeve. “It’s just… the necklace? It’s always there. Like—always.”

They glance at you, voice dropping a little. “He’ll swap out rings, change outfits, wear different earrings sometimes—but that chain? Never leaves his neck.”

Another pause. Then, softer: “It’s like it’s part of him.”

There’s a flicker of something hesitant—like regret, or just shyness. “Sorry. That’s all I’ve got. I just… notice stuff.”

You try not to let your face do anything dramatic.

“That’s fine,” you say. “It’s fine. Just… taking mental notes.”

They nod slowly. “You look like you asked for peace of mind and got a busy signal.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Hey, that’s rude. Accurate. But rude.”

Then the bell above the door rings.

And you know it’s him. The shift in atmosphere gives it away before you even turn.

Caleb walks in like he owns the lighting—hair ruffled, a worn athletic zip-up hugging his frame just right, one strap of a backpack slung over his shoulder, and a grin in place like it was designed by a committee and unanimously approved.

Your eyes flick straight to his chest. But the jacket’s zipped, collar popped just enough to block the spot where the chain usually peeks out.

You squint. Casually. Or as casually as someone hunting for emotional evidence can look.

Nothing.

Just soft cotton, a flash of silver from a ring on his hand—but no charm. No dog tag. No apple.

It feels like someone ripped a page out of your evidence binder for a class case prep.

“Golden Girl,” he calls, spotting you. “Back again. You really can’t resist a good caffeine felony.”

You open your mouth to shoot something back, but he’s already striding over, apron in one hand, and—

“Hey, actually,” he says, slowing near your table, “I need a legal opinion.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve got this customer,” he says, eyes too bright. “Keeps showing up. Possibly addicted to me. Definitely judging my apple juice innovations.”

Your stomach flips. “Sounds serious.”

“Oh, it is.” He pulls out the chair across from you and sits down like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Might have to take legal action. Or hire a very competent defense attorney.”

“You’d need one,” you say. “Because that drink was a crime.”

He leans forward just slightly, eyes glinting. “Maybe I’m hoping you’ll prosecute me.”

Your thoughts immediately call for a recess. Indefinitely.

“Are you… asking for a mock trial date?”

He shrugs. “I prefer to think of it as… study support. Mutual interest. Also, I brought cookies.”

Caleb reaches into his backpack and pulls out a small paper bag like a magician pulling a rabbit—casual, practiced, unfairly charming. “Bribery,” he says, voice low and amused. “Very illegal. But effective.”

You’re laughing before you can stop yourself. “Fine. But if I catch even one apple reference in your opening statement—”

“You’ll what?” he says, tilting his head. “Sentence me to flirtation?”

You groan. “That was terrible.”

“That was golden, Golden Girl.”

Your phone buzzes under the table.

newbie: get a room. or i’m calling HR

You glance toward the counter.

They’re watching you over the espresso machine, one eyebrow raised, tongue piercing catching the light as they chew their lip to keep from laughing.

You fire back:

You: enjoy your floor mop. i’m cross-examining the emotionally unavailable hot guy.

You look up. Caleb is watching you, still leaning forward like he’s waiting for your verdict.

Then, with one lazy motion, he unzips his jacket.

And there it is.

The chain catches the light as the fabric shifts. The dog tag resting against his chest, and just beside it, the apple charm. Small. Still there.

Definitely still there. Damn.

Your want to bite your lip.

Instead you pick up one of the cookies. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

Then narrow your eyes at him, mid-chew.

“You baked these, didn’t you?”

Caleb raises a brow, smug. “Maybe.”

You shake your head, still chewing. “Unbelievable. I can taste the real butter.”

He laughs. “That good?”

You point at the cookie like it personally betrayed you. “I hate how good this is.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, all lazy confidence, one hand propping up his jaw like this is fun for him.

You chew like it’ll help quiet the spike of jealousy and tension in your chest. You straighten yourself, back to normal.

“Well,” you say. “I suppose I could consult. For a fee.”

“Oh yeah?” His grin sharpens. “What’s your rate?”

You lift an eyebrow. “Tell me who the apple charm’s from.”

He stills—just for a beat.

Then he smiles again. Slower. Warmer. Almost… fond.

“Dangerous question,” he murmurs.

“Try me.”

He doesn’t answer. Just pulls out his own notebook—small, leather-bound, lived-in—and flips it open to a blank page.

“Fine,” he says, voice warm, a little too casual. “Let’s make this a real trial. You ask your questions. I’ll take the stand.”

It’s a joke. Maybe. But there’s something in the way he says it. In the way he doesn’t look away.

And for a second, you think—he wants to be known.

Which might be worse than anything you imagined about the apple girl.

Because now you’re not just spiraling.

You’re falling.

You open your mouth, ready to press him further—channeling your inner attorney, zeroing in on the charm. But you don’t get the chance.

There’s a sharp crash from behind the counter.

You both turn.

The newbie stands frozen mid-shift, holding half of a shattered glass in one gloved hand, the other covered in foam and regret.

Caleb’s on his feet in a heartbeat, already crossing the room. “Hey, you okay?” he says, all soft and low as he crouches down beside them.

He pats their back gently—steady, reassuring—then starts gathering the mess, hands careful around the broken pieces like he’s done this before.

“Don’t worry about it,” he murmurs. “Happens to everyone.”

You catch the newbie’s eyes over his shoulder. Wide, guilty, and very clearly saying: Sorry.

You blink once, then give a tiny, resigned nod back: It’s fine. I’m coming back.

And you both know it’s true.

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Writing this is my perfect drug. Caleb flirting + the law student snapping back = pure brain bliss. I LOVE THEM. Final poll time (24hrs only!): are we yeeting the MC out of the universe or letting her stay? The arc works either way but… I gotta say, keeping her? Chef’s kiss. Superior flavor, in my humble chaotic opinion. And Red Delicious does not mean overcommitted and delusional it’s just my sad sense of humor. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

#it’s officially easter and Aaaa cant wait to hike and write for 5 days straight #the law student is my bane i love her #caleb love and deepspace #love and deepspace #reader x caleb #non mc x caleb #you x caleb #lnds caleb #lads caleb #fanfic caleb #fanfic love and deepspace #caleb fluff #barista caleb #love and deepspace fluff

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cursed-charms · 1 day ago

Note

you should draw Tomura playing with Mon :3 <3

...i got sidetracked and drew something else. still tomura with mon though....but not playing :(

pls forgive me

"For the last time,"

[Tomura gets one last chance to meet with someone from his past as Tenko for one final talk. He chooses to talk with Mon.]

(written continuation below the cut)

"...Hey there, Mon."

[Mon pounces on him eagerly, barking with glee.]

"Woah! Buddy, wait, hold on!"

[Mon doesn't stop licking his face off and it makes him laugh from how ticklish it feels.]

"Sheesh, do you just greet everyone like this now or is this just because you still recognize me?"

[Mon barks as if to answer, but Tomura doesn't know what it means. It doesn't matter, he's the one doing all the talking soon anyway.]

"Mhm, just going to guess that means you're happy. Well, I'm happy too."

[Mon lies flat on his back to ask for belly rubs from his favorite person, and of course Tomura gives them to him. Five fingers land on Mon's body, but this time nothing happens. No crumbling, no dusting - just like the good old times.]

"I'm sorry for what happened, Mon."

[Tomura watches as Mon simply closes his eyes to enjoy the belly rubs he was given - well, that was what he expected. Dogs don't really understand what humans say, no? Not to mention how Mon has that look in his eyes, where it's clear that there's not a single thought behind them. He lets out a soft chuckle, realizing he just chose to talk to a dog who's incapable of understanding what he felt and experienced that day.]

"...I wonder what you thought about that day. Hell, do you even remember?"

[Tomura stops rubbing Mon's belly, which causes Mon to stir and prop himself up again. He looks up at Tomura with that same thoughtless gaze, seemingly content with just existing in this moment with his favorite person.]

"...Maybe you don't need to remember. What's done is done. Remembering everything wouldn't change anything. At the end, we all end up here together."

[Tomura smooths down Mon's fur and prepares to stand up. With a soft smile, he gives Mon one final pat on the head before pointing to the far end of the space.]

"Go there now, Mon. Where the light shines the brightest, you can play fetch with Hana."

[Mon might not be as bright as other dogs, but he does recognize certain words. "Fetch" was one of them - his favorite game, after all. He bites at Tomura's pants, trying to tug him into the area he pointed.]

"I'm sorry again, Mon. I can't join you - I'm being punished just like before with dad. Dad's not the one punishing me this time though, which is good."

[He crouches down to Mon's level, emphasizing his apology with more pats on the head.]

"Don't worry, okay? This time I have friends with me. I'll be fine with them, so you don't have to come with me anymore."

[He wraps his arms around Mon, hugging him tight as their time starts to run out.]

"Thank you for being there for me, Mon. I promise to play fetch with you when my punishment's up. Until then, play with Hana first, okay? And if you can, you know, speak over there...tell her I don't care about what happened - I don't blame her. You're the best boy, Mon. Now go."

[With that, he releases Mon. Mon starts walking to the light, but not without glancing back. It could be meant as a goodbye, or maybe a see-you-soon, but who knows? Tomura considers it as a promise, and he keeps that in mind even as he starts walking to the darkness, side by side with his allies.]

#mha #my hero academia #shigaraki tomura #tomura #tomura shigaraki #shigaraki #bnha #i love him #bnha fanart #mha fanart #mon-chan #silly #shigaraki angst #tomura angst

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the-garbanzo-annex-jr · 2 days ago

Text

by Jonathan S. Tobin

It was long apparent that elite universities were a lost cause for those who opposed these toxic ideas, but their post-Oct. 7 conduct removed all doubt from the question. They didn’t merely tolerate antisemitism; many of them encouraged it, tacitly or openly. At this point, it would be foolish to believe that they can or will change. As even the leaders of Columbia University, a place where the treatment of Jews after Oct. 7 was particularly egregious and the first major institution to be targeted by the Trump administration for defunding, have made clear, they have no intention of abiding by the terms offered by the government in exchange for holding off on threats of losing billions of dollars.

Still, the liberal leadership of the organized Jewish world at places like ADL and AJC, as well as thought leaders like Lipstadt and Summers, feel that siding with Trump against antisemites is a bridge too far for them.

They cite bogus concerns about free speech or due process as reasons to oppose Trump’s efforts to deport foreign students who advocate for Jewish genocide. Those assertions fall flat when you realize that the deportations are for illegal conduct, not speech. Just as important, they view the survival of these elite institutions threatened with defunding for their egregious conduct as far more important than anything else, including rolling back the tide of left-wing Jew-hatred.

Partisanship over their children’s safety

Still, they have the nerve to declare that opposition to antisemitism, even the unprecedented post-Oct. 7 left-wing variety, and the push to rid these schools of doctrines that enable it is bad for the Jews. In their view, siding with Trump, even on matters of Jewish safety, is bad because … well, the “bad orange man” is always wrong, even when, quite obviously, he’s right.

This is nothing less than an effort to convince American Jewry that their partisan liberal sensibilities always take precedence, even if it means their children’s lives have to be made miserable. They are asking Jews to side with campus antisemites and institutions that have written them off as unworthy of the protections given to any other minority community. As even many of them have conceded, it would be inconceivable for any of these schools that are threatened with being stripped of federal funds to tolerate, let alone tacitly encourage, those who advocate for violence against minorities like blacks or Hispanics. Yet Jews are supposed to tolerate this because the alternative is to approve of a president liberals feel obligated to oppose, even when he is doing something they’d approve of if it were directed toward ensuring the safety of others.

This is disgraceful in and of itself. It is also a repudiation of some basic principles implicit in the observance of Passover.

The story of a people that went from bondage and oppression to freedom is one that has inspired humanity for millennia. Like the Bible and the entire history of ancient Israel, the Exodus from Egypt has been adopted by many other peoples who quite naturally identified with the Jews because of their own suffering or because they, too, saw themselves as having a Divinely inspired mission.

But for Jews of all sorts, religious and non-religious, the Passover seder—the most commonly practiced Jewish ritual—is an annual opportunity to reconnect with their faith and their history. And it is particularly meaningful during those periods when they are under attack, as, sadly, has been a commonplace occurrence over the last two millennia.

#passover #passover lesson #haggadah #leading jewish groups #deborah lipstadt #donad trump #adl #lawrence summers #adam lehman #hillel

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wolfylady · 2 days ago

Text

Sunlight and Shadow

Summary: Soap was like the sun, and Ghost was like a shadow trailing after.

Note: This story can be read as a stand-alone and be under 10 chapters, and will be the prologue to another story.

Trigger Warning ⚠️: Self-deprecating, omegaverse (hinted at), violence

Pairing: Soap and Ghost (alphaXalpha)

Rating: Teen and Up (will be raised to Explicit/NSFW later)

Word Count: 703

Chapter 2

Enjoy!

Soap noticed the staring first.

Not the kind of obvious stares you could catch in a mirror or pin with a smirk. Ghost wasn’t careless. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t allow himself to be caught.

But Soap had a sixth sense for being watched, and Ghost? His eyes were heavy when they landed, sharp as steel, cold as judgment. Eyes like an executioner, Soap thought more than once. Unforgiving. Final.

At first, it rattled him. Then it thrilled him.

Because Ghost wasn’t just watching.

He was trying not to.

There was tension in it—tight, fraying at the edges. A restraint that felt almost physical, like Ghost was holding back from something dangerous. Something intimate in the way his head tilted slightly when Soap spoke. In the way his jaw clenched when Soap got too close to danger. In the way his voice dropped when he said, “Johnny—on me.”

Not Soap.

Not MacTavish.

Not even John.

Johnny.

That name—spoken in a voice like gravel and ash—was the only softness in Ghost’s armor. A fracture in the steel. A whisper of something human beneath all that black.

And Soap started to crave it.

He remembered the first time Ghost really touched him.

It was after a mission gone sideways outside Benghazi. Too many bodies. Too little intel. A clean exit turned messy.

Soap had taken shrapnel to the ribs. Not enough to down him, but enough to make breathing sting. He sat on the edge of a shipping crate, blood soaking through his shirt, muttering half-heartedly about needing stitches and a pint.

Ghost walked over—silent, looming.

Said nothing at first. Then reached out. One gloved hand curled under Soap’s jaw, tilting his face toward the light. “Hold still,” he said, low and firm.

It wasn’t necessary. The wound wasn’t on his face. But the touch lingered. His thumb grazed the stubble on Soap’s cheek. His fingers held, just long enough to feel him.

And Soap’s breath caught. Not because of the pain. But because of the way Ghost was looking at him.

After that… the quiet began to hum.

Soap noticed everything.

The way Ghost always stood between him and the nearest door. The way he lingered when Soap laughed. How his posture shifted when Soap laughed—shoulders easing like the sound unlocked something tight in his chest. How his eyes softened, barely perceptible, when Soap called him Simon.

He didn’t push.

Didn’t flirt.

He just… waited.

Because whatever was growing between them—whatever this magnetic pull was—it didn’t need teasing, it wasn’t a game.

It was something fragile.

It needed trust.

It needed time.

And Soap, for all his fire, had the patience to wait for a ghost.

It happened in the middle of nothing. Not a mission. Not a moment of crisis.

Just the two of them in the armory. Cleaning weapons. Sharing space. Ghost was methodical and silent—every movement precise. Soap, in contrast, was humming some half-remembered tune from Glasgow under his breath. Not loud, just something to fill the silence.

But the quiet had changed lately. It wasn’t awkward anymore. It was… familiar. Comfortable.

Ghost was watching him from across the table. Not obviously. Just… present. Studying. His eyes had a weight that Soap could always feel.

And when Soap caught the slide of his gaze and smirked— “What?” he asked, laughing under his breath.

Ghost didn’t look away.

Didn’t speak right away either.

Then, low and even: “You’ve got carbon buildup on your bolt, Johnny.”

And just like that—Soap froze.

That voice—usually sharp, clipped, professional—had turned soft. Almost… warm. And Johnny. Not as a call sign. Not as an order.

It was gentle. Like Ghost had said his name like it belonged to him. Like he liked the taste of it.

Not Soap.

Not Sergeant.

Johnny.

Soft. Quiet. Real.

Soap blinked, throat dry. “You’ve never called me that before,” he said, voice quieter than it had been a second ago.

Ghost looked down at his rifle. “Sure I have.”

“Not like that.”

Ghost’s mouth twitched under his mask. The barest ghost of a smile only made visible by the twitch of fabric.

It hit Soap like a blow to the chest. And he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

wolfYLady: Chapter 2! Let me know what you think please!

Ao3

🔙Chapter 1 •●• Chapter 3🔜

Sunlight, Moonlight, and Her Series🔜

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anzioraa0 · 7 hours ago

Text

A Harry Potter Series. A Black Severus Snape – and How Human Hypocrisy Saddens Me

I just need to say a few words about this, because some people can be especially annoying.

(I don’t speak English, so if the text sounds awkward, I apologize in advance. 🤲)

Usually, when people talk about racism in the Harry Potter universe, they say there *isn’t* any. That’s how it’s always been — as long as we’ve been in the fandom, the topic just never comes up. Not in everyday conversation, not in the books. And it’s never been a problem. No one minds a Black Harry or Hermione. That’s totally fine.

But now — *now* — when a character who’s been harassed, insulted, humiliated, and discredited throughout the *entire damn saga* for the way he looks is suddenly reimagined as Black, suddenly everyone’s like, “uhhh…” And that “uhhh” really gets to me.

So — classism? Lookism? That's all fine, right? No one cares? But *racism*? Oh no. That’s an issue! “It completely changes the dynamics of the story!”

...But why would it? If there’s no racism in the wizarding world — which, as I recall, even Rowling has said — then what changes?

Assuming nothing changes about Severus except his appearance, that means his personality, his backstory, and how others treat him would all stay the same. So what’s the problem? Why is it so hard to believe that someone who acts like a bitter, adolescent jerk might not be loved by everyone? Why shouldn’t he be disliked, regardless of his race?

Does race grant someone a pass for behaving a certain way? No. It doesn’t.

And if we all supposedly don’t care about appearances, and the issue is with “the story’s dynamics” — what exactly is supposed to change?

He’d still be unbearable. He’d still be obsessed with the same things. He’d still hate everyone, just as before.

Harry hates *him*, Severus, because he’s a kid and this adult treats him like garbage.

“But Harry blames him for everything!”

Okay — and when Severus is white, that’s just... normal? But if he’s Black, suddenly it’s problematic?

I don’t get it. Again — *if* there’s no racism in the wizarding world, like Rowling said, then the dynamics of the relationships stay exactly the same.

So what, really, is the issue?

The thing is, this kind of setup makes almost everyone uncomfortable.

As the saying goes: if you want to see the solution to a problem, look at it from a different angle. And as it turns out, it works the other way around too.

A lot of what Severus represents — his story, his personality — often gets downplayed or viewed through a biased lens, usually through Harry’s or the Marauders’ perspective. Issues like bullying, the prejudice he faced because of his interests or appearance — those things became so normalized that people stopped seeing them as real problems.

And now, suddenly, those who used to enjoy mocking him are being forcefully dunked into cold reality. They’re being asked to accept a new version of the story — one that makes them uncomfortable. Suddenly, everything that happened to Severus becomes a nightmare, an embarrassment for those who used to justify how he was treated.

What changed? Why is this behavior now considered “unacceptable”?

Oh. He’s Black now.

Not because of some big story twist. Just his appearance.

And suddenly — bam — racism, a real and very loud issue in our world, completely recolors the narrative.

Now the loudest voices — the ones who used to shout things like:

“He deserved it for calling others ‘Mudbloods’!”

“He deserved the bullying because he wanted to be a Death Eater!”

“It was mutual hatred, not bullying!”

— have all suddenly fallen silent.

And instead, we get the same whining in both the Russian and English fandoms:

“This changes the dynamics of the story! The Marauders, Harry, Ron, Dumbledore — everyone! They all suddenly look racist! Harry constantly blames him and suspects him — this is a disaster!”

Different words, same excuses.

But has anything about Severus’s actions changed?

What’s different between white Severus and Black Severus?

Nothing — except now we, the audience, more used to seeing racism in the real world, notice the injustice. It becomes clearer. Easier to see.

And sadly, only under these circumstances do some people finally start to pay attention to the issue. It’s unfortunate, but what can you do?

Even a large portion of Snape’s own fanbase dislikes this casting choice. And — oh, the irony — I sometimes hear the same nonsense from them about how it “changes the dynamics” and all that.

But in 99 out of 100 cases, it’s just sadness. Sadness that they didn’t get to see the familiar image of their favorite character.

Massive respect to those who just come out and say, “I just wanted my greasy-haired bastard back” — without piling on all the nonsense about a rewritten plot, changed relationships, racial discrimination, and so on. Because that simply doesn’t reflect reality.

One more important point…

It really doesn’t reflect reality. For the simple reason that the show hasn’t even come out yet. We don’t know the rest of the cast.

What if Harry is cast as Black? Or Lily? Or James? Lupin? Peter?

What are those people — the ones currently screaming louder than a fire alarm about “wrong casting” — going to say then?

“Oh… well in that case, sure, it’s totally fine for them to insult and humiliate Snape like before. Because, uhh… he wanted to be a Death Eater! And he was mean to kids!”

I can already picture it.

We don’t know what the casting will be like, how the story will shift, whether the project will be well-made or an absolute disaster, whether it’ll succeed or flop completely — we just don’t know. So judging it all based on one actor is simply impossible.

But, like I said — this series is being made for a new audience. And whether we like it or not, it will bring something new to the saga. Whether that’s a good thing… we’ll see.

Those who want the canon, or Alan Rickman, know exactly where to go. And I’m one of those people. I was genuinely disappointed that Snape wouldn’t look canon — because I adore the books, and after being let down by the movies, I was hoping for someone who looked and felt more like book Severus — in appearance, in character, the full picture.

But this series isn’t being made for me. It’s looking for something different, and I’ll be happy if the directors really try and end up creating something genuinely good. Even if it’s not a copy of the books — the books already exist.

Rowling, despite all my personal negative feelings toward her, is involved in the production. And while that’s not a plus for me, for those who are especially worried about “violating canon,” maybe her involvement brings some peace of mind.

Considering the state of modern cinema… well.

We’ll see how it all turns out.

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