#she has been through so much hell and for what | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bettys-redwinesupernova · 2 days ago

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FAVOURITE CRIME

rafe cameron x fem!routledge!reader

(reader has NO specific appearance and can be john b’s adopted sister, nothing is specified !!)

SUMMARY: trapped in a deadly chase through the desert, y/n kills to save rafe—forcing them to confront love, heartbreak, and the ghosts of their past.

based on this ask !! i hope this is what you asked for anon, and i hope you enjoy it :) i kinda’ made it very angsty and emotional because that’s always been my strong suit when writing <3

(check out my other rafe cameron & drew starkey works here !!)

WARNINGS: murder (reader stabs a mercenary), detailed descriptions of blood, death, guns, mild dissociation/panic attack, cursing, angst (LOTS) w/ a soft ending, season 4 finale spoilers (but a slight twist from the actual plot of the episode), exes to lovers, mentions of peterkin’s murder, slight suicidal ideation from rafe (?). (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 2.2k

THIRD PERSON +

The desert wind howled, whipping up sand in violent gusts as the group pressed forward. The air was thick with tension, the weight of the past few days—weeks, even—settling on their shoulders like an unbearable burden. The heat was suffocating, the air dry enough to sting their throats with every breath.

Y/N’s pulse hammered in her ears, her feet stumbling over uneven terrain as she clutched the scarf tighter to her face. Every muscle in her body ached, exhaustion clawing at her limbs, but there was no time to stop. Not with the Corsairs chasing them. Not with the Blue Crown so close.

She stole a glance over her shoulder. John B was leading the way, his jaw clenched with determination. Sarah was beside him, gripping a makeshift weapon she’d picked up along the way. JJ, Kie, Pope and Cleo were just behind, moving as fast as they could despite the relentless sandstorm threatening to swallow them whole.

And then there was Rafe.

Even in the chaos, she couldn’t stop her eyes from finding him. His buzzed head was covered with sweat and dust, his face smeared with dirt and blood, but his expression was the same as always—intense, unreadable. They had spent the last year avoiding each other, exchanging nothing but bitter glares and harsh words when absolutely necessary. The memories of their past still clung to her, threatening to pull her under if she let them.

They had loved each other once. Maybe, deep down, they still did. But too much had happened. Too many betrayals, too many scars.

And now, none of it mattered. They had bigger problems.

A sudden, sharp noise split through the wind—a gunshot.

“Shit,” JJ swore, ducking instinctively as the bullet kicked up sand nearby.

“They’re gaining on us!” Kie shouted over the storm.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. They couldn’t outrun them forever. The Corsairs had numbers on their side, and they were relentless.

“We need to move faster!” John B barked, urging them on.

But before they could take another step, Rafe suddenly stopped, turning to face the chaos behind them.

“What the hell are you doing?” Y/N demanded, her voice raw from the sand and exhaustion.

“I’ll buy you time,” Rafe said, already moving toward the oncoming threat.

Her stomach dropped. “No. No, Rafe, we all have to get out of here—”

“You need to go,” he cut her off, his voice firm. “I’ll catch up.”

She hated him. She hated how easily he could make these decisions, how recklessly he threw himself into danger. She hated how, despite everything, her heart still clenched at the thought of something happening to him.

“Rafe—”

“Go, Y/N!”

The look in his eyes was final.

Her heart pounded as she watched him disappear into the storm, his silhouette fading into the swirling sand. The others hesitated only a second longer before John B grabbed her arm.

“Come on!”

Her feet moved on instinct, forcing herself to turn away, to follow the others. But her mind was screaming at her, every part of her telling her to stop.

She was furious at him. She was furious at herself.

But she couldn’t leave him.

Not like this.

Y/N broke away from the group before she could second-guess it, ignoring her brothers shouts as she turned back.

The wind howled around her, sand biting at her skin as she stumbled forward. She could barely see more than a few feet ahead, but she pushed on, heart hammering against her ribs.

Then she saw him.

Rafe was fighting one of the Corsairs, his movements fast but desperate. The mercenary was bigger, stronger, and he was winning.

Y/N watched in horror as the man tackled Rafe to the ground, pinning him down. Rafe struggled, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he fought to break free, but the Corsair had him. The knife in the man’s hand glinted in the dim, dusty light, aimed straight for Rafe’s throat.

And before she even realised what she was doing, she moved.

Time slowed as she grabbed the discarded weapon from the sand—her fingers curling around the cold steel. She had never done this before. Never even considered it. But Rafe’s choked gasp, the raw panic in his eyes, made her body act before her mind could stop her.

She lunged.

The blade sank in.

The mercenary stiffened, his grip on Rafe loosening as a strangled gargle escaped his lips, followed by the maroon liquid. Y/N barely registered the warm, sticky blood that coated her hands, her breath catching in her throat.

The man collapsed.

For a moment, all she could do was stare.

Her hands were shaking, her pulse roaring in her ears. The reality of what she had done hit her like a tidal wave.

She had killed him.

She had never—

A broken gasp tore from her lips.

“Y/N—”

She barely heard Rafe’s voice over the storm.

Her chest heaved, her vision swimming. The blood. The weight of the knife still in her grip.

What had she done?

A rough hand grabbed her wrist, jolting her back to reality. She blinked, eyes snapping to Rafe. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something she couldn’t decipher.

“We have to go,” he said, his voice quieter than before.

Her breath was still ragged, her body locked in place.

“Y/N.”

She looked at him. Really looked at him. And for the first time in a long time, all the anger, all the bitterness between them faded into something else. Something raw. Something terrifying.

He was still alive because of her.

She had done this for him.

She swallowed hard, nodding as she forced herself to move.

They ran.

The desert stretched out before them, the storm still raging, but it didn’t matter. They had to keep going.

The others were waiting. The crown was waiting.

—

The cold was a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat they had just endured. It was almost as if the universe had decided that after the chaos of the storm, they were all entitled to some semblance of relief. But for Y/N, the coolness that surrounded her now did nothing to ease the fire that raged inside her chest. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion; it was the emotional weight of what she had done. What she had to have done.

The group had found shelter in an old, abandoned structure, a weathered building that seemed as though it had been untouched for decades. The walls were cracked, and the remnants of long-forgotten furniture lay in disarray, but it was a temporary haven. There were no Corsairs chasing them, no more sandstorms to blind them. For the first time in what felt like forever, they could breathe, even if it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on Y/N’s lungs.

The howling sandstorm raged outside, but at least in here, they were safe—physically, at least.

Mentally? Emotionally? She was anything but.

The others were scattered around the shelter, catching their breath, murmuring in hushed voices. She vaguely registered JJ cursing under his breath as he checked his wounds, Sarah whispering something to John B, Kie pacing near the entrance. But none of it fully reached her. The weight of what had just happened was pressing down on her, suffocating her.

She could still feel the knife in her hands. Could still see the moment the blade had sunk into the mercenaries neck, the way the man had stiffened, the way his eyes had gone vacant.

Her stomach twisted violently.

She wasn’t a killer.

But she had killed.

For him.

A few feet away, Rafe sat against the opposite wall, arms braced on his knees, his face turned away. He hadn’t said anything since they had run. Since she had saved him.

She should have been relieved that he was still breathing. That the mercenary hadn’t been the one to walk away. But all she felt was hollow.

Her hands trembled as she looked down at them, still stained with dried blood. Her breath hitched, her throat tightening. She needed to get it off. She needed it gone.

Before she could move, though, Rafe’s voice cut through the heavy silence between them.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

It was quiet. Barely more than a whisper. But it sent a jolt through her, snapping her head up.

Her eyes met his.

He was looking at her now, his blue eyes dark with something unreadable. He looked… haunted.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she breathed.

Rafe exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dust-covered hair. “I told you to go, Y/N.”

“And what? Just leave you there to die?” she snapped.

“You shouldn’t have had to—”

“I had to.”

Her voice cracked, the weight of it all suddenly crushing down on her.

“You think I wanted to do that?” Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving. “You think I wanted—wanted to—”

She couldn’t say it.

She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

Rafe’s jaw clenched, his fingers digging into his knees. “You’re not like me, Y/N. You don’t—you don’t do shit like this.”

“Yeah?” She let out a hollow laugh, her eyes burning. “Well, I did.”

His gaze darkened.

“You made me like this,” she whispered.

Rafe flinched.

“You made me like this,” she repeated, stronger this time. “Because of you, I did something I can’t take back. Something I—” She sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers curling into fists. “You ruined me, Rafe.”

His face twisted, something breaking in his expression.

“You think I wanted this?” he shot back, his voice suddenly raw. “You think I wanted you to—”

“Then why do you always do this?” she cut him off. “Why do you throw yourself into danger like you don’t give a damn? Like your life doesn’t matter?”

Rafe’s lips parted, but nothing came out.

“Do you even care if you die?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t seem like it!”

Rafe stood suddenly, crossing the space between them in two long strides.

“Of course I fucking care!” he yelled, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

“Then act like it!”

Their faces were inches apart now, both of them breathing heavily. The tension was thick, suffocating.

“You don’t get to be mad at me for saving your life,” she hissed, her hands shaking at her sides. “You don’t get to make me feel bad for it.”

Rafe let out a bitter laugh, running his hands over his face. “Jesus Christ, Y/N, you don’t get it, do you?”

“Then make me get it, Rafe!” she shouted. “Because I swear to God, I—”

“Because I can’t fucking lose you!”

Silence crashed over them like a tidal wave.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Rafe stared at her, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wide and desperate. “I can’t—I can’t do this if something happens to you. If you—if you die because of me—” His voice cracked, and he shook his head, his expression crumbling. “I can’t, Y/N.”

Her heart clenched painfully.

“You were never supposed to be a part of this,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I never wanted you mixed up in my shit, never wanted you to—” He exhaled shakily, his hands clenching at his sides. “And then I lost you, and I thought—”

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat tight.

“You didn’t lose me,” she murmured.

His eyes snapped to hers.

“You left me,” she whispered. “You did that to yourself.”

Rafe’s face twisted in pain.

“I should hate you,” she said, her voice trembling. “I want to hate you. After everything you did to my family, after everything you put me through—”

A single tear slipped down her cheek.

“But I don’t.”

She let out a shaky breath.

“I still love you, Rafe.”

It felt like the world stopped.

Rafe inhaled sharply, his entire body going rigid.

“I hate that I do,” she admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I hate that no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I tell myself I should let you go—I can’t.”

A broken sound escaped Rafe’s lips.

His hand lifted—hesitant at first—but then he cupped her face, his thumb brushing over the tear-streaked skin.

“Y/N/N,” he breathed, his voice wrecked.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was desperate.

It was everything they had been holding back for months, for over a year.

Y/N gasped against his lips, her fingers tangling in his shirt as she clung to him, as if she could drown in him and never come up for air. Rafe’s hands were everywhere—on her waist, in her hair, gripping her like he was terrified she might disappear.

Like he needed her just as much as she needed him.

The kiss was messy, frantic, a collision of emotions too overwhelming to put into words. It tasted like salt, like blood, like heartbreak.

Like love.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling in the heavy silence.

Rafe swallowed hard, his fingers still gripping her tightly. “I never stopped,” he admitted. “Not for a second.”

Her heart shattered.

There was so much between them. Too much.

But right now, none of it mattered.

Right now, all she could feel was him.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was such a sweet one to write :’) i’m a SUCKER for exes to lovers so if anybody has any drew or rafe requests with that trope then pls drop them !!

i really hope it’s what you asked for anon <3

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glamourscat · 23 hours ago

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FLOWERS? ISAGI YOICHI X READER

the bastard münchen vs pxg match HAS FINALLY ENDED. A lil (late Valentine’s) childhood bestie! x Isagi fic because I love him so much

Pathetic.

That’s how Isagi felt; truly and utterly pathetically in love.

It was foolish of him, really, falling for his childhood best friend. The one person who knew him better than anyone else, the one constant in his life. And yet, he had fallen anyway.

He had known you since before you could even string proper sentences together, back when the biggest problem in your tiny world was who got to play with the fluffy teddy bear. He had been there for every phase of your life, just as you had been for his.

The bad haircuts, the breakouts, the braces. The cringe stylistic choices that made you both groan whenever old pictures resurfaced. The triumphs and failures, the reckless dreams and harsh realities. Every best and worst moment you had been by each other’s side.

And because of that, maybe he should have realized sooner.

Your parents, his parents, had always teased. “You two will end up together eventually.” A statement so casual, so inevitable in their wise eyes. Maybe that was why he held back for so long. Maybe it was out of sheer defiance, or maybe it was the terrifying truth that you already saw him. Every flaw, every insecurity, every crack in his carefully built walls.

And yet, you still chose to stay.

To love someone who truly sees you, all of you, and still stays by your side? That scared the shit out of him.

But Blue Lock is over now. He felt like he had aged thirty years in that soccer prison, but it had been worth it. Because now, he was here. Walking freely through the streets with the weight of his dream in his hands. He was part of Japan’s World Cup team.

And you, his best friend, his everything, would be by his side, not just as his anchor but also as the team’s manager.

Isagi exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the selection of flowers before him.

He had faced some of the greatest strikers in the world. Outwitted geniuses on the field. Fought, struggled, won.

And yet, confessing to you on Valentine’s Day? Felt like the biggest challenge he had to yet face.

“Roses are too much, right?” he mumbled under his breath, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he stared at the bouquets like they were an opposing team’s defensive lineup. Puzzle pieces hardly connecting in his brain. “I mean… yeah, they literally scream romance, but isn’t that kind of obvious? Too predictable? Shit.”

The old lady behind the counter glanced at him, unimpressed. She had seen countless lovesick fools in this exact position before, hell, today alone and Isagi fell right into that category.

Tulips? Too plain. Sunflowers? You might think he was calling you bright and cheerful, which—yeah, fair, but what if you took it as a joke? Lilies? What do lilies even mean?!

“You need help?” the florist finally asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” he admitted immediately. “I mean—yes? No. I’m just trying to figure out what flowers match a card that I, uh, may or may not have rewritten six times… as a valentines gift. Which turned out fine! I think. Maybe. Hopefully.”

The florist hummed, giving him a long, knowing look before glancing at the selection in front of her. “Alright, what kind of message are we going for here? Romantic? Sweet? ‘I’ve been in love with you since childhood and only just realized it because I’m a dumbass’?”

Isagi choked. “Why would you say it like that?!”

She gave him the flattest stare of his life. “Because that’s exactly what’s happening.”

He groaned, running a hand down his face. “Okay, yeah, fair point.”

The florist smirked before plucking a bouquet from the display. “Here. Go with these. A mix of daisies, lavender and forget-me-nots. It says you care, but you’re not coming on too strong. Subtle romance, but meaningful. Perfect for an idiot in denial.”

He took the bouquet, staring at it like it held the secrets of the universe. “Huh. Yeah. This… this actually works. How did you—”

“Experience, kid. Now go before you start overthinking again.”

Isagi nodded, clutching the flowers like they were the winning ball in a match. Alright. Flowers? Check. Card? Done—well, kind of. Cake? As good as it was gonna get.

Now, he just had to actually go back home and give them to you.

…Oh, shit.

This was really happening.

This might actually kill him.

He is pretty sure his heart is beating faster than the last goal he scored while playing for bastard münchen. He feels like throwing up. Was this normal? Probably not. But despite everything he wants you to know. He needs you to know that at the end of the day, pathetic or not, Isagi Yoichi is in love with you. And it was damn time he did something about it.

But for his luck, as he walked out of the flower shop, he almost crashed into someone.

“I am so—“ before he could even get the words out his soul almost came out of his body.

YOU. Out of everyone, you. In front of him. With a bouquet of flowers too. Wait, FLOWERS? Who— you…. Did— who gave you those?

“Yoichi” you say, words coming out slightly higher pitched than intended, trying to act normal, but you’re pretty sure the panicked expression you were trying to fight off with a smile came off more as you were constipated, more than anything else.

“Y/n” he says, seemingly unaware of your mental state, thankfully? Or maybe you should be worried that he was so oblivious to it.

“ Are you g—“

“Who— gave you those?” He said so quickly, not even allowing you to finish your sentence.

Your eyes fall to the flowers in your arms, if your cheeks weren’t red before, you’re pretty sure they are now.

“Who gave you those?” you say, nodding to the flowers he had in his arms. Trying to change the subject.

“I asked first.”

“I asked second”

A moment of silence before you two burst out laughing from the strange moment.

“Alright— alright. On the count of three? Together?” You says amused

One. Two. Three.

“I got them from you” you two say in unison.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

That’s what his brain was screaming. He probably looked like an absolute moron, standing there with a confused expression and jaw open as he looked at you. Huh? Him? YOU GOT FLOWERS FOR HIM— AKCKEPWLCNGIVVIFNRNWPW.

“You— eh?”

That was it. That was all his brain could come up with. World-class striker, future ace of Japan, but the second you said you got flowers for him? Immediate system failure.

You smiled, shy but warm, the edges of your expression softening in that way that was playful yet so beautiful. It made his heart feel like it was about to spontaneously combust. “Yeah, you—is that so weird?”

Yes. No. Maybe. His brain was still rebooting.

“You—you got me flowers?” he repeated, as if the words might make more sense if he said them out loud.

“I mean, yeah,” you said, shifting your weight from foot to foot. The bouquet in your arms crinkled as you fidgeted with the wrapping. “It’s Valentine’s Day, isn’t it? I figured i had to be clear because you’re so dense sometimes.”

“I’m not dense!” he argued immediately.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Okay, fine. Maybe a little dense,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out the rest of the world. “But—wait, why did you…?”

The words hung heavy in the air. Why did you get me flowers?

You took a shaky breath. “Because I like you, idiot.”

“I—wait—what?” He blinked, gripping his bouquet tighter like it might hold him upright. “Like… like-like?”

“Damn… and you say you aren’t dense” a small snort left your lips. “Yes, like-like!” you huffed, but your voice trembled a little. “I’ve… kinda liked you for a while. And I figured—if I didn’t say anything today, I’d probably chicken out forever and cry myself to sleep for the next month. Maybe two.”

“You like me,” he repeated dumbly, trying to wrap his head around it.

You tilted your head, exasperated. “Yoichi, please tell me those flowers are for me or am I about to die of embarrassment right now?”

“What? NO—I mean, yes! Yes, I like you too!” The words practically exploded out of him, way louder than he meant to. “I’ve liked you since—God, I don’t even know when. Probably since that stupid teddy bear fight when we were kids.. And—” Lord, he is rambling now. “And I have made you a card. A beautiful one, I think you will like it. And a cake. Though I burnt it the first time. Maybe the second time too. But, fuck yes, I like you too”

For a second, neither of you said anything. You just stood there, two idiots clutching flowers, blushing like middle schoolers with their first crushes.

Finally, you exhaled, shaking your head as you tried not to laugh. “Wow. We’re really bad at this.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. “But, like… at least we’re bad at it together?”

You rolled your eyes, but the teasing smile tugging at your lips was impossible to hide. “Together, huh?”

“I mean… if you want that. If you want me.” He said, trying not to look more giddy than he already is.

“I wouldn’t be standing here holding flowers and trying to not burst into flames after a confession that I definitely did not rehearse in my head twenty times for you if I didn’t, genius.”

In a rush of courage, Isagi moved closer and wrapped his arms around you, bouquets squished in between your guys’ chests. You smelled like warmth and home.

“Can I—uh,” he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, “can I kiss you?”

“Yoichi, if you don’t kiss me after all that, I’ll start overthinking and we know—.”

He doesn’t need anything else. His smile shushed you, as his lips finally met yours in a kiss that was a bit messy, yet soft and sweet. You tasted like that tea you like so much. A mix of honey, flowers and sugar that makes him greedy for more. Despite being in the middle of the sidewalk and in retrospect, he will for sure be embarrassed about the pda later.

But that’s a problem for later. Because the realisation that fuck yes, he is finally kissing you, settles in. And for the first time that day, but perhaps in his entire life, his brain went completely and blissfully quiet.

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sukeruton-san · 21 hours ago

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A Coffee Heart pt 3

First Previous Next

" Drake, why are you looking at a civilian's family history "

"The adults are Midwestern villains their secret hero son may be my long lost twin and they also have a daughter but she's mostly fine by herself. We might need to overthrow an entire government branch though"

"Excuse, me"

" You're excused"

After chatting with Danny for a while and getting more information without it sounding like an interrogation also making sure he'll be fine for couple of hours I went digging for the rest of the day.

And oh boy you won't believe what I found.

The Fenton's are fucking wild, after breaking through several firewalls just for the town and then even more for their security I found out 'the haunting world' really means haunted like ghost haunted. These people are the definition of mad scientists proudly stating that they built a portal to another dimension in their basement, and judging by the floor plan right below where Danny sleeps, said portal was letting dangerous ghosts out onto the city, but not all of the ghost are like that though.

The 'echoscientist' are heavily biased when it comes to ghost stating that they are 'nonsenseient' and 'don't feel pain' that they need to be a 'contained' 'experimented on' or even 'eradicated'' which is bullshit and horrifying. It's pretty obvious that there are several neutral and even some good ghosts appearing, most noteworthy being Phantom the hero of Amity Park (I know that majority is painting him as a villain but that is so far from the truth! there is an hour long video of him playing with children at the park helping everyone with daily tasks and more) also it seems pretty clear to me that Lazarus water and ectoplasm are similar in compounds which is frankly something I rather not think about right now.

The Fenton's cause so much property damage it's not even funny. they seem to not care for human lives and their excuse for doing so being 'dangerous ghost in the area' when it's clear that Phantom has it handled they don't even shoot at the attacking ghost they shoot at him which is so wrong on so many levels. the anti-ghost inventions they make seemed to even cause several attacks as well. Phantom already has enough on that his plate with the ghost attacks being 24/7.( Poor guy looks exhausted and burnt out) He doesn't need to have to hide/escape/be afraid from the people he's trying to protect. Hell even the red huntress(another vigilante) makes allies with him then shoots him in the back when the danger is over.

Looking closer at Phantom he has fluffy, soft, and thick white hair that seems to move like it's underwater; piercing, glowing, Lazarus green eyes; body type like Danny's but you can see more of the muscle and shape with his clothing being more skin tight, speaking of clothing he looks like he's wearing a hazmat suit with a symbol(a stylized D with a P in its negative space) postered on it and a utility belt. both the symbol and utility belt were added on later to the original suit which seems to resemble the ones the Fenton adults wear constantly

Actually Phantom looks a lot like Danny in general. . .

And Phantom has been called 'halfa' by some of his rouges. . .

No. . .

OH NO

Phantom and Danny looks so similar because they are the same person!?! after looking at Danny's school absences, tardys, and straight up running out of the class with the ghost attacks they line up

Danny seamlessly shows up with injuries that phanton has gained from Ghost attacks (but they're also injuries that seems to come from something else). Danny is apparently known to run from ghost attacks and as soon as that happens Phantom comes around the corner. Phantom uses Fenton tech that has been modified from the original, which probably he did, another similarity to add between us. . .

Wait I can add being a vigilante/hero as a similarity between us as well!

SHIT! Phantom is a ghost, dead, not living, did my twin brother die at some point!?! Cuz he sure as hell wasn't born like that!?! It must have been the day the portal was open. from what I was able to gather he was the only one home that day and the portal spontaneously worked after failing at first. And about a week later the first official ghost attack happened.

Also what is all this shit about the Anti-Echo Acts and the GIW!?!?! A whole government branch dedicated to the horrendous sayings of the Fenton adults!?!?! It looks like a lot of the Ghost attacks are dying down because it's became too dangerous for them to be out there.

We probably wouldn't have even noticed about all bullshittery with the government and this town in pacifically if if it wasn't for danny coming here.

. . . . .

Danny is here.

He is Phantom.

He said he was forced to be here.

He was forced into leaving his town.

The town that is attacking him at every corner.

With a support system that seems to be nonexistent.

And from looking at the old videos/photos he was learning everything from scratch.

With barely any appreciation for the things he does.

With the government trying to dissect him ( the fuck)

So logically after taking down the government and shutting down the portal if possible ( don't know if Danny needs it or if they environment has changed too much) Amity Park wouldn't need a hero if there's nothing to do there.

plus with their treatment of obvious heroes they could deal with their shit themselves, how does he deal with that I don't know.

They wouldn't mind if Phantom stays in Gotham would they? Probably not.

Oh well

He should probably start that welfare check now he'll do a more thorough investigation with the government later, twin brother priority right now.

" Drake, where are you going? You can't just say all of that and leave! Drake!!"

Yup welfare check

(think I'm getting better at writing shit!)

#danny phantom #danny fenton #dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc #A Coffee Heart

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youngsadlesbian · 2 days ago

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hey! i saw you were taking requests so:

a fic where popular!wanda and popular!reader have always been rivals. they love eachother as much as they hate eachother because they were childhood bestfriends, not until wanda left without a word, leaving reader alone.

i think it would be great if they have a scene wherein they get stuck in a bathroom after a couple of friends locked them in there, and they start talking about what actually happened.

ANDDDDD wanda getting pissed at reader's boyfriend, even if she has one as well.

i hope you consider this, thank you!!

BETWEEN LOVE AND WAR

pairing: wanda maximoff x reader

summary: rivals since wanda left without explanation, you love each other as much as you hate each other. when you're locked in together, buried feelings resurface. between stolen kisses, jealousy, and secrets, you must decide—keep fighting or finally surrender to love.

a/n: thanks for the request hope u like it <3

word count: 2k

warnings: angst if you blink, enemies to lovers but mostly fuff.

Highschool hallways were your battlefield.

From the moment Wanda Maximoff waltzed back into your life years after disappearing without a trace, she had been nothing but a thorn in your side. The childhood best friend you had once adored had morphed into your greatest rival, someone who matched you in everything—popularity, grades, social influence.

If you threw a party, Wanda threw a bigger one. If you aced a test, Wanda’s score was somehow a fraction higher. It wasn’t just a competition anymore—it was war.

And she played dirty.

“Nice speech, printsessa,” Wanda cooed as she brushed past you after the morning assembly, the smug smirk on her lips igniting a fire in your chest. “Almost convincing. Too bad I wasn’t impressed.”

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to take a steady breath. “That’s funny, Maximoff. Because last time I checked, you were watching my every move like your life depended on it.”

Her green eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was something else lurking beneath the surface—something almost… regretful? You ignored the nagging thought.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she purred, stepping closer until you could smell her familiar vanilla perfume. “If I wanted to watch something entertaining, I’d look anywhere but at you.”

A slow smirk curved your lips. “Then why are you still here?”

For a split second, Wanda faltered. But before you could dwell on it, she rolled her eyes and spun on her heel, walking away as if she hadn’t just invaded your space like she owned it.

That was how it always went between you two—like a storm brewing just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment to explode.

But nothing could have prepared you for what happened next.

It was supposed to be a harmless prank.

The idea was simple—your so-called friends thought it would be hilarious to lock you and Wanda in the girls’ bathroom until you either killed each other or worked things out.

“You guys need to fix your tension!” one of them had laughed before slamming the door shut behind you. The sound of the lock clicking into place sent a wave of dread through your stomach.

You whirled around, heart pounding. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Wanda groaned, banging a fist against the door. “Let us out, idiots!”

No response.

You let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing your temples. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

Wanda turned to glare at you, arms crossed. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” You scoffed, incredulous. “How the hell is this my fault?”

“You have terrible taste in friends.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, and you would know all about loyalty, right?”

The second the words left your mouth, the air between you shifted. Wanda tensed, her expression hardening as if you had physically slapped her.

And maybe, in a way, you had.

A thick silence stretched between you.

Then, Wanda exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. “I had my reasons,” she muttered.

Your heart clenched. “For leaving?”

She didn’t look at you. “Yeah.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to stay composed. “You never even said goodbye, Wanda.”

The raw emotion in your voice made her flinch.

You hated the way your chest ached. Hated the way her absence had wrecked you when you were younger.

Wanda finally met your gaze, and for the first time in years, her walls cracked. “I was scared,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “My father got into trouble. My family had to leave town overnight. I didn’t have a choice.”

Your breath hitched. “You did have a choice. You could have told me. I would’ve understood.”

“I didn’t want you to understand,” she snapped, frustration laced in her voice. “I wanted to protect you. I thought leaving without a word would make it easier for you to forget me.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Well, congratulations, Wanda. It didn’t work.”

The weight of the past hung heavy between you.

Then, in the quiet, Wanda’s voice softened. “I missed you.”

Your heart clenched at the admission.

But before you could respond, a loud click echoed through the air, and the door swung open.

Your friends had let you out. But neither of you moved.

Because everything between you had just changed.

\*/

You knew something was wrong the moment you spotted Wanda at the party later that night.

She was standing across the room, her gaze locked onto you like a predator watching its prey. And she was pissed.

At first, you thought it was just the unresolved tension from earlier.

But then you followed her line of sight—straight to your boyfriend, who had an arm draped around your waist.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Wanda’s lips, but there was no humor in it. “Didn’t know you had such low standards, printsessa.”

Your jaw clenched. “Excuse me?”

Wanda stepped closer, her presence overwhelming as she tilted her head, eyes dark with something dangerous. “Your boyfriend. He’s a walking red flag, sweetheart. You can do better.”

You glared at her. “Oh, so now you care about my love life?”

Her expression darkened. “I’ve always cared.”

The words made your breath hitch, but you refused to show weakness. “Funny. You didn’t seem to care when you disappeared.”

Something flickered in Wanda’s gaze, but before she could respond, a familiar voice interrupted.

“Wanda.”

You turned just in time to see her boyfriend—a tall, broad-shouldered guy who looked like he had just stepped out of a magazine—wrap an arm around her waist.

Wanda’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t move away.

Your stomach twisted, but you refused to acknowledge the feeling.

So instead, you smiled, voice dripping with false sweetness. “Well, isn’t this adorable? You’re acting jealous while you have a whole-ass boyfriend.”

Wanda’s grip on her drink tightened. “It’s not the same.”

You scoffed. “Oh, so you can date whoever you want, but I can’t?”

Her eyes burned into yours. “I don’t want you with him.”

Your heart stuttered, but you masked it with a smirk. “And why the hell not?”

Wanda took a step closer, voice low. “Because he’s not me.”

For a moment, the world stopped.

Then, before you could process what was happening, Wanda grabbed your wrist and pulled you away from the crowd, away from her boyfriend, away from everything.

Because this war between you and her?

It had never been about hate.

Wanda’s grip on your wrist was firm but not painful as she dragged you out of the party and into the cool night air. The music from inside was still pounding, but it felt like a distant echo compared to the erratic beating of your own heart.

“What the hell was that?” you snapped, wrenching your arm free the moment you reached the empty backyard.

Wanda didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she ran a frustrated hand through her dark hair, her green eyes flashing with something wild, something desperate.

“You know what that was,” she finally said, voice tight.

You let out a humorless laugh. “No, I really don’t. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re just pissed I’m not still waiting around for you like some lovesick idiot.”

Her jaw clenched. “That’s not fair.”

You scoffed. “Oh, now you care about what’s fair?”

Wanda took a step closer, invading your space. “I never stopped caring.”

Your breath hitched. The heat of her presence, the intensity in her gaze—it was suffocating in the best and worst ways.

“Then why did you leave?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, raw and aching. “Why did you let me believe you just didn’t give a damn about me anymore?”

Wanda exhaled sharply, looking away for a moment. “I told you—I thought it would be easier that way.”

“For who?” Your voice cracked, betraying you. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t easier for me.”

Silence.

Then, so softly you almost didn’t hear it—

“I couldn’t bear to say goodbye to you.”

The confession landed like a punch to the gut.

For so long, you had convinced yourself that Wanda had abandoned you without a second thought. That she had simply moved on. But the way she was looking at you now—like you were the only thing in the world that had ever mattered—made that lie crumble to dust.

She took another step closer. You didn’t move away.

“I missed you,” Wanda murmured.

Your chest tightened. “Then why did it take you so long to tell me that?”

Her eyes flickered to your lips for just a second. “Because I was scared.”

Your pulse roared in your ears.

“And what about now?” you whispered.

Wanda reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingertips lingering against your skin.

“I’m still scared,” she admitted, voice barely above a breath.

But she didn’t pull away.

And neither did you.

You weren’t sure who moved first.

One second, you were standing there, staring at Wanda like she was the answer to a question you didn’t even know you had been asking. The next, her lips were crashing against yours in a kiss that tasted like frustration, longing, and years of unresolved emotions.

It was messy, desperate—more of a battle than a kiss.

Your hands fisted in the fabric of her jacket, pulling her impossibly closer. Wanda’s fingers gripped your waist like she was afraid you’d disappear if she let go.

The intensity made your knees weak, made your mind spin.

But just as quickly as it started, reality slammed into you like a freight train.

You pushed her away, panting. “Wanda, I—”

Her expression was unreadable, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Don’t tell me you didn’t feel that,” she said, almost pleading.

You swallowed hard. “I have a boyfriend.”

Wanda flinched at the reminder. “You don’t love him.”

Your silence was all the confirmation she needed.

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Of course. Of course you don’t.”

You ran a shaky hand through your hair, your mind a whirlwind of emotions. “And what about your boyfriend, huh? What does this mean for him?”

Something dark flashed across Wanda’s face. “He was never you.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The weight of her words settled between you, heavy and undeniable.

For so long, you had been fighting—against each other, against your feelings, against the past. But maybe… maybe you had been fighting for the wrong reasons.

Maybe you weren’t rivals. Maybe you were just two people too afraid to admit that you had never really stopped loving each other.

And maybe… it was time to stop fighting at all.

\*/

You ended things with your boyfriend the next day.

It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t pretty. But it was necessary. Because Wanda had been right—your heart had never truly belonged to anyone else.

And as for Wanda…

Well, she wasn’t far behind.

She showed up at your locker that afternoon, her usual smirk replaced with something softer, something real.

“So…” she started, leaning against the lockers, “you free later?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why? Planning on dragging me into another emotionally charged confrontation?”

Wanda grinned. “Tempting. But I was thinking something more along the lines of an actual date.”

Your heart did a stupid little flip.

You pretended to think about it. “Hmm. That depends. Are you finally ready to admit that you like me?”

Wanda rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the blush creeping up her neck.

“Shut up,” she muttered before grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Maybe, after all this time, it finally was.

#wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #elizabeth olsen x you #elizabeth olsen x reader #wanda maximoff #elizabeth olsen #mcu #marvel

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undreaming-fanfiction · 2 days ago

Text

Just My Type

This one is for @henderdads with her prompt - accidental first kiss. Happy Valentine's Day, Cass! I hope this will bring you some joy!

Steve Harrington wasn't known for sharing his problems with others. He was the one who resolved all your issues, not brought more to the already very overcrowded table. The kids needed some stability, and as much as he loved Nancy, Robin, and Eddie, they weren't exactly fit for that role. The girls would soon leave Hawkins for college (Steve was so proud his heart could burst), and Eddie had his hands full with the whole finishing high school thing while still recovering from being nearly eaten by demobats.

No, Steve had this handled. He was the least fun of the four, but reliable. As far as the kids knew, the only issue Steve had was his inconsistent and ever dramatic love life, nothing else.

When Steve's eyesight started getting worse, likely from all those concussions, he handled it on his own. No need to worry anyone. A secret pair of glasses for home, prescription sunglasses for driving (and yeah, he looked cool in them, despite the kids' grumbling), and that was it. They didn't need to know. Everything was working out just fine. He was great at faking things.

At least until that fateful day. But we’ll get there. First, something about Steve’s love life.

See, Steve was dating around. He had been feeling anxious, unfulfilled, and the more he thought about it, the reason wasn’t Nancy for once. Even stranger, he knew he was over her, but the feeling of needing something and not being able to get it wouldn’t leave. So he got out there, used his charm, and prayed he’d finally find the one.

So far, it wasn’t working out. Most of the girls he went out with were lovely, kind, and gorgeous, but there was always something missing that made him break things off before anyone could get hurt. He had a type - curly or wavy dark hair and even darker eyes, but hey. It wasn’t his fault that Nancy had been the closest to an ideal relationship he’d ever had! That had to be the reason, he thought. Maybe his concussed brain decided that curly hair meant a good girlfriend.

“It’s not like I can help it,” he lamented, pretending not to see Eddie’s amused smirk. They had become good friends after their Upside Down near death experience, and as Dustin never failed to mention with a truckload of disgust, they were now practically inseparable. “Who doesn’t like curly hair? They’re making it this whole thing. I’m over Nancy.”

Eddie snorted and tossed his chemistry textbook somewhere towards the pile of stuff that might have included his desk. “Uh-huh. Sure thing. So this new one-”

“Jenny.”

Eddie snapped his fingers. “Yes. This Jenny. It’s just a coincidence that she’s a dead ringer for Wheeler.” He nudged Steve’s side with his bare foot. “Come on, Harrington. Be honest with your only adult friend.”

Steve kicked him in retaliation. “Wow, rude. I’ll let you know, I have Robin!”

“Buckley is so much more than a mere human, Steven. She doesn’t count, she surpasses our species. Whereas I,” he announced to the broken ceiling fan, “am very human, non-judgmental, and I have seen you go through half a dozen ladies of the same type since the spring break. So?”

Laughing, Steve kicked him again. “So nothing. She doesn’t look like Nancy. Hell, she looks more like you - her hair is darker, more wavy, and she has those really pretty dark eyes. And she’s tall. Are you saying you’re my type too?”

Eddie rolled over and batted his eyelashes. “I don’t know, Steve, am I?”

Steve hit him with a pillow in the face. If he hadn’t been so busy laughing, he might have just noticed the tinge of longing in Eddie’s voice.

To recap: the two things that led to the most important day of Steve’s life were a) his tendency to date a certain visual type of girl; b) his unwillingness to admit to anyone that he needed glasses.

Here’s what happened.

Steve, being both a good friend and a good boyfriend, took Jenny to see Eddie perform with the Corroded Coffin. Was metal his favorite music genre? Not really, but he wanted to support Eddie, and Jenny didn’t seem to mind, she even agreed to wear a Corroded Coffin t-shirt from Steve’s wardrobe.

Steve found himself enjoying the concert way more than he’d expected. The alcohol helped, sure, but it was so heartwarming to see Eddie in his element, scarred, but still the same. Steve had even learned to recognize the lyrics within all the noise, and even if he wasn’t ready to discuss that with Eddie yet, Steve considered them surprisingly deep. He really hoped Eddie would make it big, he was a wonderful guy, and life owed him big time.

After the concert, Jenny excused herself to the bathroom, and Steve went to grab some beers. His head was pleasantly buzzing, and even though his eyesight was more blurry than usual, he found his way through the crowd with ease.

He put down both beers and wrapped his arm around Jenny’s waist. He’d lost track of time at the bar, she must have come back in the meantime. And so, as they tended to do, he touched her cheek and turned her face into a quick kiss.

Steve noticed several things at once.

First, stunned gasps from the Corroded Coffin members, along with Robin’s snickering.

Second, Jenny’s cheek felt different. Almost stubbly?

Third, it was the best damn kiss he’d ever had.

And fourth, before the kiss could end, he felt something wet - the beer he’d just brought - hit his head and back, along with an angry shriek.

What happened next was a blur, and not just because he had trouble seeing it. He was vaguely aware of a second Jenny hitting him with her purse and storming off, Robin trying to control her laughter, and the person next to him, also drenched in beer? That was Eddie.

“Eddie, I’m so sorry!” Steve instinctively grabbed napkins and started drying off the beer in Eddie’s hair, on his jacket. “I...OK, not the best time to tell you, but I’ve noticed I can’t see shit, and normally I wear glasses, but I couldn’t take them with me because I look like a baby accountant or something, and I didn’t want you guys to worry. And uh, you probably know, but your hair looks kinda like Jenny’s, and I’m really sorry I did that without asking.”

Eddie was motionless, letting Steve fret over him. He was just staring into the distance, cogs turning in his brain.

Robin, bless her heart, re-directed the Corroded Coffin guys to grab a mop and a dry t-shirt from Eddie’s van for both Steve and Eddie. After that, she started ushering the unlucky pair towards men’s bathrooms, to “wash off that smell before it’s too late.” She snapped her fingers in front of Eddie’s eyes, getting him to move.

As she shoved both of them towards the sink, she grabbed Steve’s hand and pulled him close. “Since you are freshly broken up, I would strongly suggest you think hard and fast about why you made that mistake, Steve. I can’t spell it out for you, even if it would be easier for everyone involved.”

Steve took a deep breath. “Yeah, uh...I think I might know.”

“Might?”

“I definitely know.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m so dumb. That...even if I didn’t mean to, it wasn’t fair to Jenny. Or the ones before.”

Robin smiled at him and, not unkindly, patted his shoulder. “They’ll get over it. In the meantime, your man looks like he’s about to faint. Don’t mess this up, OK? I couldn’t stand to see you brooding again and going through another set of Eddie substitutes.”

After she closed the door behind Steve, she grabbed the mop and started cleaning the mess. She could say it would cost Steve a lifetime of driving her around, but she knew he’d do that anyway.

In the bathroom, Eddie was slowly finding his words. “You...you kissed me.”

Steve took a step towards Eddie, trying not to spook him. “Yeah. I know it sounds like bullshit,” he said, pushing down the bitter memories of that word, “but I really mistook you for Jenny. I can’t see much, especially when it’s dark. I’m really sorry, Eddie.”

He couldn’t see Eddie’s face, but his voice didn’t sound fine. The music from the club drowned out most of the quieter sounds, but Steve could swear he heard a sniffle. “Of course,” whispered Eddie and he seemed so sad. Steve wanted to punch his own face. “Of course it was a mistake.”

Eddie straightened his back and wiped at his eyes before turning towards Steve. “Don’t worry, Steve. It happens. I mean, you should feel more sorry for yourself, you’re single again, and if Jenny or anyone from the club talks, they’ll think you’re a-”

“I don’t care.”

With a bitter chuckle, Eddie shook his head. “You don’t get it, Steve. You have a reputation to protect. Our lovely and pious citizens of Hawkins expect something like that from me, they know I’m...wrong. But you? You’re the golden boy. Steve, you should think about what this will do to you.” He wasn’t looking at Steve, his eyes were glued to the floor. Steve didn’t need a hint to know why Eddie was blinking so rapidly, why he sounded so strained.

He reached out and grasped Eddie’s hands. “Eddie. I really don’t care. I won’t feel sorry for what someone might think. The only reason I’m sorry is that I kissed you without you agreeing to it, in front of people, because...” He took a deep breath and squeezed Eddie’s hands. “...because I wanted our first kiss to be something special. Not a case of a mistaken identity caused by my shitty eyesight. And I wish I could have done it differently, that we wouldn’t be in this dirty bathroom, and sticky and disgusting from that beer. But even if I’m sorry for not asking you, I’m also glad. Because it made me realize something really important.”

Eddie was staring at him with wide eyes, still wet with tears, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. A hint of hope. “And what is that?” he asked.

Steve moved several wet strands of Eddie’s hair from his face. He looked just a little bit like a wet rat, but to Steve, he was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. And he couldn’t wait to bury his hands in Eddie’s hair properly, when it was freshly washed. Maybe smelling of Steve’s shampoo. That was a thought.

He stroked Eddie’s cheek and for the first time in so long, he felt puzzle pieces falling in place. This was right.

“I realized that I didn’t answer you when you asked me,” he smiled and pulled Eddie closer. “You, Eddie Munson, are exactly my type.”

#steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie #steddie fanfiction #valentine's day exchange

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masorciereviolette · 1 day ago

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The Weight Of Grief

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader // Agatha x Reader x Rio

Warnings: Slight Angst / Violence

Summary:

Centuries ago, Agatha Harkness was condemned by her own coven for entangling herself with the dark arts, yet when they tried to execute her she turned their magic against them, draining them of their power and leaving nothing but hollowed husks & ashes in her wake. In the aftermath of Salem, she found solace in an unlikely love, forging an unbreakable bond with the Reader and later with the cosmic enigma herself, Rio Vidal. Their passion burned bright, but fate is rarely kind to those who defy its balance.

When Nicholas Scratch was born, he was not just your son but a child of magic, a gift from Rio—one that came at an unforeseen cost. Fearful of the price that would one day be demanded, Agatha ran taking Nicholas with her in a desperate attempt to keep him safe. But no amount of magic, no amount of hiding could change what had already been decided.

Years later, Agatha stands on your doorstep, stripped of her power and seeking aid. But the wounds of betrayal are not so easily mended and the weight of grief is not so easily forgotten. How dare she return now, after all this time—after leaving you to grieve alone. Love, loss, and the cruel hands of fate weave their story together once more, But some wounds do not heal without a price.

A/N: I’ve been toying around with my story trying to perfect it but I honestly think that the writing anxiety may never leave so I’m gonna post and hope for the best lmaoo. I have the summary here & as much as the first I’ll say 900-1000 words, just to get a feel for the vibe im reaching for. I’m currently trying to wrap up the story, It’s sitting at like 5000 words right now and I have a more to cover so I may just post it in parts if anyone ends up interested 🤷🏾‍♀️

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

Prologue:

The past has a cruel way of refusing to stay buried.

You never thought you’d see her again. Not after everything. Not after the night she disappeared, your son clutched tightly in her arms, leaving nothing behind but the ghosts of what could have been

Yet here she stands.

Agatha Harkness.

Her name alone is enough to stir something violent in you. Fury, sorrow, longing—they tangle together in your chest, an unbearable weight pressing against your ribs. You grip the doorframe, knuckles white, grounding yourself against the storm raging inside.

She looks different. The Agatha you remember carried herself with unshakable confidence, a woman of wit and wickedness, always two steps ahead of everyone else. But now… now she stands before you stripped bare, her once-powerful presence reduced to something raw and vulnerable. The sharp lines of her face are worn with exhaustion, her usually effortless smirk absent. And her eyes—those piercing, cunning eyes—are filled with something you never thought you’d see from her.

Desperation.

“Hello, darling.” Her voice is rough, as if the words scrape against her throat. A feeble attempt at familiarity, but the term of endearment is a knife twisting in your gut. Your body moves before your mind catches up. The slap echoes in the still night air, your palm stinging from the force of it. Agatha barely flinches. If anything, she looks as though she expected it.

“How dare you,” you breathe, your voice shaking. Not with fear, but with rage. With grief. “How dare you show your face here.”

Agatha exhales slowly, a ghost of a smile on her lips—humorless, self-deprecating. “I suppose I deserve that.”

You scoff, stepping back, gripping the door as if it’s the only thing keeping you from crumbling. “You deserve a hell of a lot worse.”

A gust of wind rustles through the trees, and for a moment, silence stretches between you. Heavy. Suffocating. Agatha glances past you, as if trying to peer inside, but you move to block her view.

“There’s nothing for you here,” you say coldly.

She hesitates, her throat bobbing as she swallows whatever words she wants to say. “I wouldn’t have come if I had any other choice.” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course. Agatha Harkness, only ever looking out for herself.”

Her jaw tightens, and for the first time since she arrived, something sharp flickers in her gaze. “That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” The words taste bitter on your tongue. “You ran, Agatha. You didn’t even give me a chance to—” Your voice catches, a lump forming in your throat. You force yourself to swallow it down. “You left me.” Agatha flinches. It’s small, barely perceptible, but you see it.

“I thought I was protecting him,” she says quietly. “I thought—” She exhales sharply, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I thought if I could just keep him away, keep him safe, maybe…”

“Maybe you could cheat fate?” you finish for her, the words laced with venom.

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. You both know the truth.

Your fingers dig into the doorframe, your breath unsteady. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to feel this—this unbearable ache in your chest, this longing for something that can never be undone.

Agatha steps forward, cautiously, as if afraid you’ll lash out again. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “But I need your help.”

You let out a slow, measured breath, staring at the woman who once held your heart in her hands—who crushed it just as easily. “Give me one good reason-” you say, voice hollow “-why I shouldn’t slam this door in your face.”

Agatha meets your gaze, and for the first time since she arrived, her walls crumble completely. “Because I have nothing left.”

Damn her—damn her for making you care, even after everything.

—————————————————

Please like & reblog if you enjoyed I’ll post it all if people find themselves interested just lmk, I will also take any notes on how to improve!!! 💛💛💛

#agatha harkness #agatha harkness x reader #agatha all along #agatha x reader #agathario x reader #rio vidal #rio vidal x reader #agatha x rio #agathario

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celeste-clearwater-06 · 3 days ago

Text

The Kitchen Window (pt. 4)

Bayverse! Raphael x Fem! Reader

desc- (everything finally clicks into place when you're invited over to Vern's place. some new friends mean new experiences)

warnings - swearing

word count - 4.7k (I told y'allll)

READ PREVIOUS PARTS HERE - one - two - three

You’ve been brooding the past couple of days. Life has been sucker punching you in the gut, one insane, unthinkable blow at a time.

Work hours are getting ridiculously longer, April O’Neil hasn’t texted you back since the night you spilled all of your secrets. And you haven’t seen or heard Raphael around. Not that important, but it still contributes to the pile of miserable shit you’re handling. Thankfully, Vannie seems to be filling that lonely space in your flat. She’s a sweet relief to see at the end of each night when you get back from work, purring and content. You hadn’t realized how nice it was to come home to someone that’s so pleased to see you. She’s helping you cope, even if just a little. A cat tree now sits in the far corner of your living room so she’s not climbing all over the counters and scratching at your sofa. Though simple, it adds a new, homey addition to the space.

This night off is uneventful. Vannie sits in your lap, fast sleep, while you mindlessly scroll on your phone and sip on a glass of fruit juice that’s been sitting in your fridge for just a little too long. Hometown highschool friends with their engagement rings and college graduation posts. Not something that you particularly yearned for, but it still hurt a little. It was probably time to pick up a damn hobby. Vern texts you. What a surprise.

[Hey kiddo]

He hasn’t called you that in a long time. It makes your throat tighten up.

[what up big man]

It takes him a second to type out another text.

[I know we haven’t seen each other much. Figured you might wanna come see my apartment? it’s nice]

An invite to your older brother’s fancy new place is the last thing you’d expected in the form of a late night message.

[tonight?]

[tommorow]

[hell yeah]

Finally, a small start to getting better. Vannie stretches in your lap and you stroke her fur.

The subway ride uptown is weird. You forget that there’s literal trains running underground, after walking to and from work for so long. It would be more exciting, if not for being sandwiched between two total strangers and the silence of people kind of just looking around. The screech of wheels on the tracks breaks it every once in a while. You’re also not a fan of the shoving and pushing of total strangers through the way-too-small sliding doors when you reach your destination, almost tripping at least twice. Rude.

At the very least, Vern’s apartment complex was just two blocks away from the subway exit. You knew the upper parts of the city were nicer, but it doesn’t really hit until you’re walking on the wide sidewalks and passing restaurants and window shops that put your cafe to shame. Even the early afternoon atmosphere just seems less heavy. There’s more light. You catch just a few more passing smiles than you usually would, up the steps into the main building, where you have to press a button and announce you’re a visitor to your older brother.

The elevator takes you to the 11th floor of the nicest complex you’ve ever been in (not that you’d been in many anyhow).

The whole way here, you've been excited to see Vern, practically bouncing with every step all the way up to his door. But now your fist freezes right above the place where you’re about to knock. Something was so off about this. You rap your knuckles on the wood anyway.

Someone opens the door, after a few shuffling footsteps, and it’s not Vern. Your heart drops.

“April?” A voice crack slips its way through your dry throat.

Oh my god. She’s told him everything.

She told your older brother all of your insane ramblings, and now she’s greeting you with a friendly smile like it’s nothing. So this is what the invitation was all about. The both of them were probably waiting inside with a psychologist or a one way ticket to a padded room. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights.

“Oh hey!” April is warm with her greeting, but it does nothing to shake the spirit of your utter confusion. To add to it all, Vern’s head peeks over hers with a weak wave of his hand and a sheepish expression.

“Hey kiddo.”

You squint suspiciously, eyes darting between them. The reporter still holds that confident, close-mouthed smile, while your older brother is struggling to keep it together.

“I didn’t know you were gonna be here!” it’s more of a question than a statement, “Are we having a little get together or something?”

Vern tries to speak, but April cuts him off.

“Yeah we figured it’d be good to talk here!”

You can’t protest when she grabs your arm and all but drags you through the doorway and slams it shut, leaving you in the entryway of a lavish, modern, way-too-white apartment. It’s hard to process anything going on. The scenery, Vern’s guilt ridden eyes and the millions of thoughts firing in your brain are all increasingly overwhelming. You're starting to get a headache.

“L-Look, April, about the other night-“

“You don’t have to explain anything.” She pulls you again, this time in the middle of taking your shoes off and past the coat rack. You catch your brother's eye and he looks nearly as lost as you feel. April continues.

“It’s about time we talked about this anyway.”

That makes you nervous. You’re being led into a nice kitchen, Vern at your heels and watching helplessly.

“We don‘t have to!” You exclaim and yank your wrist from her determined hold, “I was just-just tired! I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep, I know I sounded like a total maniac-“

She is completely uninterested in hearing your case, instead rolling her eyes and taking hold of your arm once again.

“We can just forget this whole thing! The loneliness has been getting to me, it’s really…not…”

When you step past the wall of the kitchen you trail off, dumbfounded to silence. All and any rational thought has fled.

Raphael, your savior, the giant fucking turtle, is standing, cross-armed, and a little nervous looking, next to three others that look eerily similar in their stature and green scales, though they all wear vastly different expressions that give away their thoughts. They’re all decked in various scraps of gear and oversized clothing, and like the one in red, have different colored bandanas over their eyes.

You look and feel like a total moron. Just standing there, mouth agape, only wearing one shoe and eyes flicking between the quartet of reptiles and your brother, who’s pinching his temple between two fingers in distress. The shortest of the four offers an over exaggerated smile and wave, before being kicked in the back of the leg, by another in a blue mask. He looks immensely annoyed. You have no idea what to say and when you open your mouth to speak, a flustered gasp squeezes its way from the back of your throat.

“I told you guys this was a shit idea,” Vern says. The tallest turtle shifts his weight from one large foot to another. It’s so quiet, so awkward, and yet you’re so discombobulated, your head starts to spin and you lean against the wall for support. You knew there was more than one night assailant. But four? And all nearly the same size and appearance? This was beyond absurd.

“Okay,” your voice is quiet, but it immediately captures the attention of everyone that’s standing in the room, “Can someone, genuinely, please tell me what the fuck is happening right now.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you right away.” April speaks up from behind you. You turn to see her apologetic eyes. Your silence prompts her to continue an explanation.

“These are my friends.” She sounds like trying to tame some wild animal, and her arm sweeps out to gesture towards the four, “I just wanted to see, you know… if it was really just ‘some guy’ that stopped whoever was grabbing you.”

Guess she was right. You rotate once again at Vern who is trying to avoid eye contact.

“You knew?!”

Everyone jumps at the sudden escalation in your shocked question.

“I didn’t know how to tell you!”

You scoff.

“What, am I supposed to just tell you I’m acquainted with four, crime fighting, ninja turtles?! I’d sound batshit crazy!”

It was only fair that he thought that way. Suddenly, your distant, uninvolved brother was in your exact shoes, and your shoulders slump downwards in exasperation.

“So would I, Vern! I knew- I knew-, I wasn’t insane, but this whole situation has been eating at me for fucking weeks!”

If not for the absolute shock running through you, you would have laughed at the way April and the vigilantes just stand there and watch your argument like it’s reality TV, turning their heads each time one of you speaks up.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? You should be glad we're telling you now!”

You throw your hands in the air and roll your eyes, once again rendered speechless.

A different voice pulls you from the confrontation. It’s the one in blue, now standing a little nearer to you. He’s massive, just like the others, even more now up close. You’re still not used to them talking in perfect, clear English. Or, really, at all.

“Sorry we had to meet this way.” His voice is deep, mature, and assertive. Surely the head honcho of the group. He’s smiling like it’s a peace offering, lopsided and gentle.

“I-I don’t-“ You search for the right response, but he does the talking for you and offers a calloused, three fingered hand.

“Leonardo.”

A long pause. Then an overtaxed sigh. You accept his introduction and awkwardly take it. You’re literally shaking a talking turtle's hand.

“I guess you already know my name.”

“We sure do, angel!” Leonardo is being shoved suddenly, quickly replaced with the energetic, shortest of the party. His bandanna is orange, and he’s puffing out his chest with confidence that out’s Vern’s ego to sorry shame. It immediately puts a curious smile on your face.

“I’m Michealangelo, but all the ladies call me Mikey.”

He grabs your hand delicately and places a cool kiss to the back of it while he bows toward the floor. You can’t do anything but awkwardly chuckle and watch as the others groan and cover their faces in embarrassment. This guy was pretty funny.

“Save some for the rest of us, Mike.”

You look to the tallest, who’s pushing the thick-lensed, tortoise print glasses up his nose. He opts to wave his hand from where he’s standing, seeming to sense the already overwhelming lack of personal space you have.

“Donatello.” It’s the voice you overheard on the radio last week, that accidentally gave away Raphael’s name.

Oh. OH. It finally clicks in your brain. Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello. Raphael.

“Renaissance artists, huh?”

April meets your face with a kind of look that reads, ‘now you get it’.

“Oh yeah, baby,” Mikey kisses his flexed bicep, “Works of art.”

You laugh.

“I named my cat after Van Gogh.”

Raphael, still standing back from the group, lifts his head and meets your eyes at the mention of her. He looks away again, but a little smirk breaks as he rolls a toothpick off his tongue and in between his teeth.

The sort of shared interest seems to break a little bit of the tension, and the other three smile.

”Damn, Raph,” Mikey grins over at the ray of sunshine, “Not even gonna come say hi to your girlfriend?”

Your face flushes lightly. It’s clearly just a little jab to get under his skin, but you’re caught slightly off guard. Thankfully nobody seems to notice.

The smile’s gone, replaced with a huff of his nostril and a flick to Mikey’s head when Raphael walks over to finally introduce himself.

“Hey.”

You realize, this is the first time you’re standing in front of him without a window in the way. He’s still impossibly large. But you’re just so close. It feels almost foreign, witnessing the broad shoulders and tough plastron that pairs with those intense, forest colored eyes.

“Nice to meet you. Again.” Is all you can say, through a warm smile.

He snuffs, a sort of amused laugh, that makes you smile widely.

“Yeah. Sorry this got turned into such a big ordeal.”

“I don’t mind. I’m glad I got to put a name to the face.”

You two kind of just stare at each other in silence. Mikey doesn’t let it draw on for long.

“You need to let me see this cat!”

“Oh, of course!” You don’t realize how warm your face is until you’re grabbing your phone from your pocket.

April and Vern are standing near each other again, now a little more relaxed seeing you warm up and pull up a photo of Vannie from your camera roll while the four look over your shoulder. Mikey coos at a video of her playing with the strings of your hoodie.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

So maybe it wasn’t ideal, the execution of their plan. Maybe you felt a little betrayed by your brother and his friend.

But.

You’ve made four new friends. And, as odd as they come (and intimidating as they look), they seem to like the way you welcome into your life.

The weeks flying by after you meet the four brothers have gone so much better than before. You’re getting sleep, still working your job up at the cafe, you’ve got Vannie. And that late-night sound of the manhole sliding against asphalt in the back alleyway begins once again. Now when you awake early in the morning to its noise, you just smile and snuggle further into your covers, with the reassurance that there are no scary monsters or felons that stalk in the night. Just four city-protecting vigilantes doing what they do best.

On the weekends, you stay up late to their frequent visits to your kitchen window. They usually swing by for a quick chat or check in on you. Most of the time it’s Mikey or Raphael. Or both. Sometimes the younger will tag along just to pay Vannie a visit while you and Raphael make playful small talk. Donnie will come through your area every once in a while, and though he doesn’t talk as much as his other brothers, it’s a refreshment to just listen to him talk about the state of the city and whatever new nerdy experiment he’s got going on. Leo rarely visits, unless you happen to catch them all leaving the sewer exit and he sticks around to hear you tell a crazy story about a rude customer or stupid order you’ve had to deal with during the week.

It’s so refreshing to have friends to talk to, even if it’s not every day.

Along with these pop ins, Raph’s been leaving things in your window on some of the nights you’re sleeping or coming home extra late from long shifts. Sometimes it’s a cool rock he found (who knows where), other times, an old abandoned action figure, or more recycled toys for Vannie. Your collection had accumulated on the dresser in your bedroom. It’s sweet.

Sometimes, you return the favor and leave him a cold drink you made at work by the open window before you flop into bed, exhausted. Summer’s rolling around the corner and even the nights get hot, especially considering moving around the city with all of his (badass) parkour. On occasion, you’ll make some for his siblings too, but the weird looks from your coworkers, leaving the shift with a cup holder full of unpaid drinks, limits this to every once in a while.

You don’t know it, but Raph feels so spoiled by your gifts to him.

Life is going so great, and you can feel the stone wall of his gruff exterior start to break when he chuckles at one of your jokes. Your heart warms when you think about him at work. As much as you enjoy seeing all of the brothers, it’s the red-banded one you’re drawn closest to. He makes you feel kind of giddy. It’s hard to put a label on it, but you’d love to call him your best friend, if not, one of your only.

It’s sticky and humid outside, on a late Saturday night in June. You’ve been watching a movie in your bedroom, with Vannie nestled beside you, sleeping, a bowl of microwave popcorn in your lap. The tv’s loud enough to almost drown out a little noise that comes from the kitchen. You barely hear it, but it catches your attention and you quickly snatch the remote to pause the movie.

Tap, tap, tap.

You smile. The shifting of the bed wakes up your cat, and she watches as you throw off the duvet and walk from the bedroom into the hall, bowl of popcorn in hand. When you pass the hall door, Raphael is grinning at you through the window and you fast-walk over to unlock the latch and slide it open. Humid air immediately flows in with his smug smile. Now you remember why the window was closed.

“Hey stranger.”

He snorts, and leans to rest his forearms on the sill.

“Whaddup, short stack?”

You shrug, and then offer out the bowl for him to take from. Raph grabs a handful and stuffs it in his mouth.

“What brings you to this part of town at…” you look at the stove clock, “3 in the morning.”

Raph talks while he’s chewing. A usually crude performance that you find kind of endearing.

“Slow night,” He swallows, and there’s a crumb on the corner of his lip, “Not a lot goin on for us out here.”

You nod, trying not to laugh at the leftovers that he clearly doesn’t notice. He quirks a brow.

“What?”

You reach out to try and swipe at it with your thumb but Raph flinches backwards.

“Come here!” Your laugh is soft, “You got something.”

He brings his face a little close and you wipe it away. It’s the first time you’ve touched his face, you realize. It’s cool, but there’s softer skin on his snout compared to the rest of his leathery scales. You try not to linger on it too much. He sees it on your thumb and playfully rolls his eyes. You can’t tell for sure, but there seems to be a little warmth creeping on his face. There’s tension.

“Yeah, I was savin’ that for later.”

Raph swats your hand away and you laugh.

“That hungry, huh?”

He nods.

“Actually yeah. We got leftover pizza at the lair, but I’m not supposed to be goin back for a while.”

“Want me to make you something real quick?”

He seems a little surprised at your offer (not like he’s gonna turn it down). You hear his stomach grumble.

“Can’t say no to that. How long you think it’ll take ya?”

“Probably a little bit. Do you wanna come inside?”

The invitation leaves your lips before you can think. None of the brothers had actually come inside your apartment before. It takes everything in you not to cringe and brace for the impact of his rejection while Raph looks at you with a perplexed glint in his eyes.

“Sure,” his answer sounds nonchalant, but his grin tells you a whole different story, “Dunno how you expect me to squeeze through this teeny little window though.”

You ponder for a second.

“You think you can sneak up to my front door?”

Raph shrugs.

“I can try. If I die, tell everyone it was your fault.”

You laugh.

“‘Vigilante turtle is found dead trying to get some of the worlds best chicken and rice.’ I can read the headlines now.”

He just shakes his head with a smirk, and then jumps off the fire escape.

“See you in a few.”

You shut the window, and in 45 seconds, there’s a knock at the door, and you rush over to open it and quickly let him in. Raph has to duck just a little to avoid hitting his head on the doorframe.

“Welcome to my crib.” It’s cringe, the way you lightly punch his shoulder.

“God, you sound like Mikey.”

“That was the goal.”

The turtle rolls his eyes, and then looks around the living room with a little smile.

“Gotta get you some decorations in here.”

You sigh.

“I know. I’m not here all the time. Plus I think Vannie would just knock shit over.”

Meow

“Speaking of.”

She’s already making her way over to him from your room, and rubs herself against his muscular calf.

“Hey kitty.”

Raph bends to give her head a little scritch, not following you over to the kitchenette where you’re pulling thawed chicken from the refrigerator.

“I think she missed you.”

He doesn’t respond, just looks up at your turned body, as you fill a small pot with water from the kitchen tap.

“You said chicken and rice, huh?”

You nod, looking back at him. He’s walking over to you, sandaled feet scuffing on the carpet.

“Small-apartment-owner staple. Plus it’s easy.”

He’s standing behind you now, arms crossed, and curiously watching as you turn on two of the stove burners.

“Probably not for me. I burn just about everythin I touch.”

You think quietly to yourself, the irony of such a hothead setting a bowl of cereal up in flames.

“This is super simple. I’ll teach you if you want.”

“Oh so you’re a barista and a culinary teacher

“This is one of the only things I can cook. You wanna cut up some of that for me?”

Raph sees you gesture to the unopened package of chicken, while you’re pouring a cup of white rice into the pot of slowly boiling water. Cutting, he could do.

The two of you work silently in the small space, ducking over and under each other to grab utensils and spices. You instruct him here and there, but still leave room for the comfortable quiet that’s settled in the air.

After about 15 minutes, you pour a bowl for each of you (his is filled just a little bit more than yours) and invite him to sit on the couch to eat together. The first bite he takes has his eyes rolling in the back of his head with a guttural groan. You flush from behind your fork.

“Good?”

“Fuckin good.”

Your giddy smile says it all. It’s flattering the way he eats without saying a word. You’re so at ease, sitting criss-cross on the couch next to this beast of a guy, both enjoying the comforts of a meal your mom had taught you how to make long before you had left for New-York. This felt so domestic. When he's done, Raph wipes his mouth and sets the bowl down on your coffee table, fork clattering against the ceramic, and leans back on the couch with a stretch. You’re only halfway through your dinner.

“That’s some Gordon Ramsey shit.”

You scoff.

“Hardly. But thank you.”

“Nah, thank you. I’m gettin tired of all that takeout Mike brings home.”

His eyes are closed, hands resting on his plastron, and feet kicked up onto the coffee table. Beautiful, you think, and you’re surprising yourself again with the thought. You take advantage of his relaxed eyes, eyes trailing up the long, muscular extent of his body. A weird, warm sensation trills its way up your body, when his broad chest moves with a heavy breath, stopping it’s way at your lungs to give them gentle squeeze. It slows your chewing. When Raph’s eyes open, you quickly focus your attention back down to the food that you’ve suddenly become full from. He says something that you have to ask him to repeat.

“Show me around?”

“O-oh. Yeah sure.” You stand fast, and clumsy, bowl taking its place next to his. You awkwardly adjust your shirt and wait for him to stand from the couch. He follows you down the short hallway.

“Here’s the bathroom,” you point to your right, and wait for him to kind of peek his head around for a moment, “And here’s my room.”

The movie on the tv is still paused, but it lights the room with a warm glow, along with the dim led lights strung up in the corners of the small space. A simple twin-sized bed in the middle, in between a matching bedside table and dresser. Raph steps into the room past you. It looks so cramped with his massive body in here. You can’t stop his eye catching the little collection of trinkets, lined up in a neat row, on top of the black dresser. His grin is small.

“Was wonderin if you kept all this shit,” He chuckles, picking up one of the little superhero action figures and admiring it. His whole hand engulfs the toy, which is covered in scuffs and scratch marks from years of play.

“Can’t see a reason why I wouldn’t.”

Raphael’s response is a relaxed smile when he looks over his shoulder at you. Your heart skips. He turns again and gently sets the figure in its place.

“This your family?”

He’s referring to the framed picture of you, Vern and your parents behind the line of his little gifts.

“Yeah. My mom and her husband.”

Raph lifts it and you walk over to look at it with him. It’s from a few years prior.

“Not your dad?”

You shake you head.

“Vern’s dad. But we’re close.”

The four of you are in mid laugh, in the selfie that you take with an outstretched arm. You remember taking it on a vacation in the mountains.

“Vern’s always got that stupid look on his face.”

You snicker, shaking your head.

“Yeah. Idiot.”

Once again, Raph places it in its exact spot. It makes your knees shake a little when he’s looking down at you, just centimeters away from your body. To ignore and prevent anymore weird and confusing tension to build, you flop backwards on your bed with a sigh.

“Whatcha bitchin about now?”

You smile up at the ceiling.

“Just don’t wanna go back to work.”

He sits on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah. Sounds boring.”

You nod, even though he’s not looking at you. You can feel the warmth of his leg bouncing next to yours.

“Whatcha thinking about, Red?”

“Nothin’ important.”

You tilt your head down just a little to see his massive shell facing you. He’s hunched over. You kick him lightly, and he knocks your leg away gently.

“Come onnn, talk to meeee.”

You go to kick him again, but Raph grabs your leg and tickles the back of it. You squeal.

“STOP,” the fight is useless, kicking and scrambling to get away, with an ornery grin on his face, “I’m gonna piss myself!”

With that he backs off, and you’re heaving through laughter.

“Mean.”

“Annoying.”

His smile is wiped away with another thought crossing.

“What time is it?” You both glance at the digital clock on the bedside table behind you.

“Shit. Almost five.”

“Yeah. I better get goin. Gettin’ late- or, I guess early.”

You follow him up to the front door, walking past Vannie who’s playing with that first cat toy he left on your window.

Raph reaches for the door handle, but stops.

“Thanks for lettin me in. And for the food.”

You smile softly.

“Anytime, Raph.”

You didn’t mean to stop so close to him, but here you are, smile slowly fading while you look up at his face. His eyes have got you in a strong hold, and he mirrors your expression, unintentionally. His nostrils flare with a breath outwards.

You want to kiss him, all of a sudden.

Kiss Raphael right on the mouth and not have a care about it.

But you don’t. He grins.

“Stay safe.”

“You too.”

The click of the closing door is your cue to slap your hands over your face in exasperation.

He’s left you with dirty dishes, an empty space, and flustered, red cheeks. You smile behind your hands hearing the scrape of Raphael heading back down into the sewers

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

YEAHHH, MY BABES EATIN GOOD TONIGHTTTT. THANK Y'ALL FOR READING AND DON'T FORGET TO REBLOG!!!

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#xreader #bayverse raphael x reader #tmnt x reader #tmnt bayverse x reader #tmnt 2016 #tmnt 2014 #tmnt raphael #tmnt bayverse #raphael x reader #bayverse raph x reader #bayverse raphael #part 4 #the kitchen window

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v6quewrlds · 3 days ago

Note

dr reader idk gives very much pilates girl vibes when she has time.

has she ever taken joe w her (say yes) what was his reaction before and after the class

she’s very pilates, green smoothie, matcha not coffee core lol

maybe she usually goes to weekend classes with her friend. but one day her friend can’t make it so she asks joe to come with her instead. he’s definitely curious, wondering why she loves these classes so much. so he goes, not thinking much of it, dressed in an outfit she picked out for him because she “doesn’t trust his intuition” or whatever.

the warm up is easy enough. the machines are kind of scary looking but he makes sense of it.

30 minutes later, he honestly believes he’s been transported to hell. he’s sweaty and uncomfortable, his face is red, and his hair keeps getting in his eyes. and it makes him question his athleticism a little bit seeing women much more petite than him crushing these workouts near effortlessly. dr!reader is also very distracting in her cute pilates set, her matching headband, and that look of focus on her face.

a smoothie stop is at the top of his demands when they finish up. the tingly, warm feeling he gets in his tummy when she praises him for getting through the class also makes up for the torture.

#joe x doctor!reader

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saintslewis · 3 days ago

Text

𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | lh44

— one shot.

pairing: lewis hamilton x black fem!oc; nadia hamilton

summary: a very very special day for the hamiltons in tuscany.

warnings: cussing, a bit of social media

saint’s team radio 💌: happy valentine’s day my angels! wanted to give a little something (very small btw) and what better day than the day of love. hope you guys enjoy! ❤️

pls like, comment and reblog!

tags down below!

fc: @/unclewaffles_ on ig!

TUSCANY, ITALY

august ‘24

“I like this. I like that I’ll get used to this life for a while, you know? It’s definitely a breath of fresh air from gloomy weather in Silverstone, no offence.” Nadia spoke, watching the sun slowly rise above the hills of Tuscany, the smell of fresh flowers wafting through the air of the master bedroom of their airbnb.

The mood in the house has been very good since they landed, the celebrations still lingering from lewis’ last win in Spa two weeks ago. It had just been the two of them before he takes a trip with his crew and Nadia having work commitments before ultimately joining them in Mozambique.

She lifted her head from his bare chest, looking into the man’s eyes, lightly swollen after waking up 20 minutes before. All he could do was hum in response, bringing his hand to rub her arm as she cuddled into him further under the sheets. “You’re right, wouldn’t mind moving here but it’d be quite the trip to Maranello.” He grumbled, lifting his upper body to lean against the headboard.

Glancing at the small clock on his bedside table, Lewis calmed himself down, knowing he’d spend the entire day just being close to his wife.

The pints of ice cream they held were nearly frozen in their hands but the two enjoyed it nonetheless. Sitting outside on the patio overlooking the massive pool that showcased the afternoon sun, Nadia took in the feeling of a vacation, finally after a long season of constant work.

“I never knew what to expect from this place,” Nadia started. “I always thought it was filled with young people and clubs and everything but it’s so…peaceful here. I feel like a puppy in a sunflower field.” She spoke, digging into her caramel flavoured ice cream.

Lewis snorted at her last sentence. “A puppy? Your descriptions are always so…interesting to listen to.” He teased, brushing his foot by her leg.

“Don’t laugh. I feel like a golden retriever just running through the hills having the time of my life.” I smile, ducking her head in laughter and slight shyness at her words.

Lewis felt the butterflies in his stomach flutter around as he watched her giggle to herself at her jokes as time passed by. He was eternally grateful that he convinced her to go into the town center for some ice cream, giving enough time for the people he hired to set up and leave in just the nick of time.

“Baby…baby!” Lewis snapped out of it once he heard the snap of Nadia’s fingers. “Thought I lost you there. I’m just gonna go change my shoes, okay? Don’t know what the hell I was thinkin’ breaking in new shoes.” She sighed, already taking them off and standing up from her seat.

Lewis nodded, swiftly moving the pint of ice cream to his lap to hide the bouncing of his leg. “That’s fine, Nads. You’ll catch me in the sun room, yeah?” He looked up at her, his nerves moving at a speedy rate.

“Sun room? It’s basically the patio with glass.” Nadia chuckled, holding her shoes in one hand and her phone in the other.

“Yeah, but the views are better.” Lewis shrugged, trying his best to stay normal.

Her eyebrows furrowed then relaxed. “Alright, gramps. Whatever you say. Hey, can we roll some in there?” Her voice going soft at her last sentence, not wanting anyone to hear even if the nearest neighbours were far down the road.

Lewis shook his head in amusement. He rather enjoyed seeing Nadia high and flimsy, much more animated than she actually is. “Sure, we can smoke. Just one though, Nads.” He said, seeing her smile widen.

Squealing, she leaned down to give him a kiss on the cheek and forehead. “Thank youuuu. I’ll be right back!” And with that, she hopped into the house and up the grand stairs.

Leaving Lewis to hype himself up and feel his pocket one last time before standing up and heading to the sun room, decorated in the most perfect flowers and sparkles just for the love of his life.

Nadia’s sandals snapped against the tiles as she headed to her next destination, her phone and small tin of joints in her hand as she hummed to herself. Getting closer and closer, she could smell her favourite incense scent of strawberry vanilla but thought that she was probably homesick.

The thing that did scare her a bit was that she began hearing the exact song that she was just humming - freudian by daniel caesar.

With her hands suddenly clammy, she reached for the door handle, opening it to what she thought was a dream.

There Lewis was, standing at the end of the white Persian rug with huge bouquets of lilies and white roses surrounding him. A small table of her favourite pastries on a tower with a few drinks on there with a few little trinkets. Just above him were strings of polaroid and printed pictures of the two of them, their favourite photos.

It was as if she was at the altar and the love of her life was at the end waiting for her.

Nadia first instinct? She screamed before covering her mouth.

“Lewis! Lewis! Lewiiiiiis!” She exclaimed, dragging out his name as she stepped into the sun room. “Lewis, what the fuck! How the hell did you do this, oh my god!” She squeezed her eyes shut before opening them again.

And just like that, the water works began.

Her legs gave up on her as she was now kneeling on the rug, covering her face as tears rose in her eyes. “I didn’t even dress all nice.” She sniffled, wiping her bare face. “Lewis, what the fuck?!” She sobbed while laughing simultaneously.

As she dropped to the ground, he immediately joined her, holding her as she cried tears of joy. “Baby, can I make my speech now before I forget it?” He chuckled, moving his thumbs to wipe her tears.

“No! I’m not ready!” She giggled to herself, quickly pulling herself together and standing up, leaving Lewis to kneel on one knee. “Okay okay, now I am.” She smiled at him, wiping the mini tears.

“Alright,” Lewis took a deep breath in. “Nadia Thandeka Hamilton. You are the air to my lungs, the sun beams that shine through the clouds when it’s raining and you are the flower that first blooms in spring.” He began, his tears pricking his eyes.

“Holy shit, this is…” He chuckled. “You and I are married legally however I hadn’t thought of the fact that I was ever going to fall in love with you the way I did in such a short period. You accepted my life, my family and friends like your own and you changed your life around for me. I’m eternally grateful for you and eternally thankful for our parents pairing us together.”

Nadia giggled, caressing his cheek as she waited for him to finish. “I am in love with you and I always will be in this life and the next. You already held my last name but now you hold my heart and soul with it too.” Lewis smiled softly up at her.

He reached into his pocket to take out a blue velvet box, opening to show the most beautiful diamond ring Nadia had ever seen in her life. “And with that I ask….Nadia, will you marry me?….Again?” Lewis held the box up to her and he just felt her hug in a millisecond.

Nadia tightly hugged him, breathing in the scent she found home in. “A million time yes. Always.” She whispered, pulling back to look him in the eye.

The two crashed their lips together, delving into each other’s mouths with a sensual touch to him, pouring their love into the kiss. After a moment of passion, he pulled back to reach for the precious ring.

“It’s perfect…” She muttered, watching it glitter in the sunset of the Tuscan countryside. “Thank you….” Nadia sniffled, the ring fitting snug around her finger.

“And…and I have another surprise. So, I know how important your culture is to you and how much you value it. I’m more than okay with having a traditional Zulu wedding and a white wedding.” He revealed, watching her eyes widen.

Nadia’s jaw dropped. “You….Oh my god. But how? Where? My family home is not in the best…..” She trailed off, watching his smile grow bigger.

“I may have sorta kinda built you a house. Back home. In South Africa.”

And just like that, it was lights out as she fainted in excitement.

nadiahamilton

liked by victoriamonet, roscoelovescoco and 1,577,378 others

nadiahamilton he loves meeee (ladadadadada or wtv jill scott said)

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saint’s notes!: Hope you guys enjoyed! 🥹

taglist: (if it doesn’t show, tumblr can’t find you!) @motheroffae @perfecttrashface @myescapefromthislife @slytherinjimin3nthusiast @jamie2305 @cocobutterqwueen @like-fire-love-blog @sugardontbesweet @simpfortoomanymen @mauvecherie-writes @queenshikongo3 @eugene-emt-roe @deepgothfiremuffin @18754389 @cherry2stems @anubisnoir @littlelizzies-world @httpsserene @apenasumlug4r @eddiesbitch83 @arshiyuh @alika-4466 @peyiswriting @sunfairyy @vsfavs @louvrepool @mistruscity @tian-monique @hopefulromantic1 @exotic-iris13 @yeea-nah @nichmeddar @gg-trini @lifeless-firefly @vellicora @takeoffz-tookoff9876 @serpenttines-library @emjayewrites @lewisroscoelove @purplelewlew @xoscar03 @kidsol-ar @nothaqks @tremendousstarlighttragedy @ggaslyp1 @henneseyhoe @saturnville

#☆ ‧₊˚ saint’s media pen #saint writes #saintslewis #lewis hamilton x oc #lewis hamilton imagines #lewis hamilton fanfics #lewdia #lewis hamilton x black!oc #lewis hamilton x black reader #f1 x oc #f1 x black!oc #f1 x black!reader #Spotify

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into-fiction · 23 hours ago

Text

some author thoughts on time travel fic:

so i posted chapter 9 of 'after all this time' today and also finally remembered to add the anxiety tag to the list of tags.

i think its really interesting writing this glinda as an extension of the glinda i wrote in 'you used to tell me i was brave' bc in 'brave' i really got to explore her anxiety in full. despite being from elphie's pov, that was a glinda who was young, who didn't know why she was the way she was, who would fall apart at the slightest thing going wrong. it was very easy for elphie to pick up on her incidents.

the glinda in 'after all this time' is totally different. she's older, wiser, and she's been through hell and back (literally). her years apart from elphie have shaped her and have taught her how to control herself and her emotions better. she's just as anxious as younger glinda, but she hides it much better and has learned how to squash it down, how to smile over it, how to keep moving when her brain is either racing ahead or practically shutting down.

the fun part is that while these are details that are really hard for elphie to see, it's a lot easier for readers to see, esp if they've read 'brave'. the readers have significantly more knowledge of what glindas been through and what might be driving her actions compared to elphie which is a VERY fun dynamic to play around with.

i already had a deep fondness for studying glinda through elphie's eyes, but i think time travel fic might be my new favorite version of it. i can't wait till we get deeper into the story and things pick up the pace and the girls get even closer!

#wicked #gelphie #time travel fic #thoughts

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livwritesstuff · 2 days ago

Text

happy valentine's day pallies <3 threw this the office-inspired drabble together for funsies over the last few days and thought today was a good a day as any to finally post

“What the hell is wrong with Dustin?” Eddie asked as he walked through the open door to Robin and Nancy’s apartment, “I passed him in the hall and he’s ranting and raving like a goddamn lunatic. Barely even acknowledged me.”

“You got lucky,” Steve shook his head as the rest of the Party, scattered around the living room, gave a similarly over it-kind of response, “Also – hey. Missed you.”

Eddie dropped down onto the couch next to Steve and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Ugh,” Robin groaned from the other end of the couch, “Either get a room or be gross later.”

“Missed you more, my love,” Eddie said loudly and pointedly as he settled in, and Steve ignored the way Robin rolled her eyes as Eddie draped an arm over his shoulders, “So…Dustin? What’s his deal?”

“He thinks he’s never gonna find love,” Lucas said from his spot on the rug, mouth full of half-crunched chips.

“Because he hasn’t dated anyone since Suzie,” Will clarified.

Steve watched Eddie’s eyebrows furrow.

“Uh, okay, didn’t they split, like, a month ago?”

“Yep,” Mike nodded.

“And didn’t Dustin just say last week that he’s happily married to his studies?”

“Dude,” Mike replied, “If you hadn’t been thirty minutes late, you would have seen us ask him these exact same questions.”

“Alright, gimme a fuckin’ break, man,” Eddie protested as Robin stuck a foot out and clipped the side of Mike’s head, “Not all of us are in college, asshole, living our most carefree lives. Some of us have jobs we're societally obligated to hold onto, Michael.”

“Anyway,” Steve cut in before Mike and Eddie’s bickering could derail the discussion too badly, “Dustin is apparently so desperate for love or whatever now that he’s trying to crowdsource a relationship.”

“And we’ve all been drafted,” Max said drily, “He wants us to set him up with someone at least once a month.”

“Each,” El added from beside Max in the armchair they're squashed in together.

“Each,” Max repeated with a nod.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie blinked, “He needs to chill out.”

Eddie got a chorus of agreements in response, plus another snarky comment from Mike about how he could have told Dustin this himself if he hadn’t been late to their weekly movie night hangout, and then from there, the conversation spun into the Party’s usual overlapping pre-movie (waiting for the pizza to be delivered) chatter.

Eddie turned his attention to Steve.

“So who’s the lucky girl you’re siccing our deranged little buddy on?” he asked, voice just loud enough for Steve to hear over the surrounding conversations.

“I dunno,” Steve shrugged, catching Eddie's hand in his and starting to fiddle with the chunky ring on his pointer finger, “I don’t think anyone here is gonna put up with his shit, but…yeah, I dunno, I feel bad. I might try setting him up with Lauren – y’know, Andie’s friend she has over all the time?”

Andie is Steve’s roommate, who took Robin’s spot on the lease after Robin, the woman she is, U-Hauled with Nancy at a spectacular rate (barely a month into her and Steve’s lease). Steve couldn’t exactly blame her – Nancy’s brownstone is leagues (and leagues and leagues and leagues) nicer than the shitty walk-up he and Robin had barely been able to afford at the time. Plus, Robin was all kinds of apologetic about it – paid her half of the rent and everything until she found a suitable subletter.

Enter Andie, a women’s and gender studies major who Robin had met at their school’s SGA during her first semester of undergrad and who leans pretty much as far to the right on the good ol' Kinsey Scale as someone could. Both Steve and Andie had been a little on the fence at first, but as far as living with a half-stranger goes, he can admit that it actually went okay.

Case in point, he and Andie are both a good few years out of college now and neither of them have made any move to, y'know...move.

“Lauren?” Eddie repeated, “You mean, Andie’s straight friend? The one Andie is very actively and overtly trying to woo?”

“It’s not gonna work,” Steve insisted (because this has been a topic of conversation between the two of them for a while), “If she’s straight, she’s straight.”

“Well, yeah,” Eddie acknowledged, “But it’s not her I'd be worried about, Stevie.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“C’mon, Steve – it’s basically a lose-lose for you. If Dustin goes on a date with Andie’s straight friend that she is, once again, very overtly and obviously into, whether or not it goes well – whether or not it even happens, Steve – Andie’s gonna find out that you were the one behind it, and you’re living with her.”

“So?”

“Dude, you’re gonna get booted outta your place.”

“No way,” Steve scoffed at him.

“I’m telling you – hell hath no fury like a lesbian scorned. Have you seen Nancy at the bar when someone is trying to hit on Robin? The big guy in the clouds was cutting from the same cloth when he created these ladies.”

Steve rolled his eyes at his boyfriend's brand of ex-Catholic poetic.

“Well…whatever. It’s just an apartment. If Andie really has an issue…I dunno, I’ll just move.”

Eddie grinned at him.

“Oh really?” he says, “And who do you think’s gonna be taking you in? You’re a crazy neat-freak, you think it’s totally appropriate to watch sports during breakfast – I mean, seriously, I get wanting to watch Sunday Night Football or whatever, but listening to recaps before I've had a cup of coffee is borderline criminal – and you've got basically a thousand houseplants.”

“Yeah,” Steve gave a feigned nod of understanding, “Maybe I’ll just move in with my boyfriend – he could use some order in his life.”

“Okay,” Eddie said, straightening a little in his seat, “I’m in if you are, Stevie-boy.”

Steve felt his face fall just a little. He tried to laugh it off, but even he could hear how awkward it sounded, and he glanced around to make sure the rest of the Party was otherwise occupied.

“I mean...," he said slowly, keeping his eyes on their hands so he didn't have to look at Eddie and his ever-expressive face, "I’m not gonna move in with someone unless we’re getting married.”

He really won’t either.

He’d done that before with his first serious boyfriend a few years ago – it was kind of a U-Haul situation in its own right, and it’s how Steve’s apartment became Andie’s apartment that Steve pretty please asked to move back into four months later when everything went to shit with the boyfriend.

(Their landlord had raised an eyebrow at them when they asked to put Steve back on the lease he’d only just left, but he didn’t ask any questions.

“He probably thinks we’re, like, a total dysfunctional couple or something,” Andie had pointed out.

“If only he knew,” Steve shook his head, “He’s leasing to a pair of idiot queers who can’t get their love lives together.”)

So, yeah, the U-Hauling thing may work for lesbians (or, two very specific lesbians whose couch he's sitting on, at the very least), but it’s not for Steve.

He’s a little too intense for it, contradictory as it sounds. He’s been burned in the past by the notion that someone could be willing to take a step as big as moving in with someone, and yet still see their relationship as “unserious” enough to balk at other big things (things like meeting each other’s friends and family, and what to do if Steve had another seizure). He’s not interested in being burned again, thanks.

Not that he actually thinks Eddie would do anything like that – the opposite actually. Steve knows he won’t.

For as long as he and Eddie were friends, Steve had known it in a kind of way he didn't even think about, and he's known it in another way, in a way he couldn't not think about, ever since he eavesdropped on a conversation between Robin and Eddie.

“Steve’s boyfriend is a fucking asshole and I hate him,” Robin had said, because this was back when Steve was dating (and living with) his ex, who did turn out to be a colossal fucking asshole, but this was the first time Steve had heard that particular opinion voiced by one of his friends.

“Shit, okay," Eddie had replied, "Do I need to go kick someone’s ass?”

Robin had paused for a split second before saying, “No. You’d just finally decide to confess your love for him and make everything even messier than it already is.”

They'd both been quiet for another few moments, and then Eddie let out a frustrated sigh.

"Fuck, man, that blows." Another pause. "I just – I don't understand how anybody could get to have Steve like that and not worship every breath he takes. I'm telling you – if it were me, you'd be able to break me down into fuckin' molecules and still be able to find him there. He's the sun in the fuckin' sky, dude. How are people not getting this?"

Steve hadn't been able take any more than that, not without feeling like something within him would split in two, so he had gone back to getting snacks in the kitchen like Eddie and Robin had thought he was doing, and then he'd spent the rest of the night feeling a little nauseous in a way he couldn't explain.

To this day, Steve is pretty sure that neither Robin nor Eddie know that he'd overheard their conversation, but it's what led to him breaking up with his boyfriend nonetheless.

Nothing had happened between Steve and Eddie at first. Eddie had actually been in his own relationship at the time, despite his and Robin' conversation, though they inexplicably split only a month after Steve’s break-up (Eddie never gave the Party a reason why).

Not too long after that though, Eddie had shown up on Steve’s doorstep (in a goddamn rainstorm, no less, the theatrical bastard) to profess his undying love, and by then Steve had spent enough time reflecting on the last several years of his friendship with Eddie and had firmly landed on the conclusion that he was in love with him too.

And so here they are now.

Steve spared a quick glance at Eddie to see that he was wearing a cute, kind of confused look.

“Wait – Steve, have I not proposed to you yet?”

And Eddie's truly dumbfounded tone, Eddie's way of bringing Steve's attention back up to his face so Steve could see the cheeky grin he's still wearing, had relief flooding through Steve's veins and washing away any doubt or insecurity or fear because, as Steve might have let himself forget, this is Eddie.

“I don’t think so…” Steve replied, then he flipped their clasped hands over to show his unmistakably ringless ring finger, “Nope.”

“Huh. Well…look out, Stevie, ‘cuz that’s coming.”

“Oh really?” Steve asked, and now he’s got a big smile growing on his face too, and he ignored the way his heart was thrumming over what Eddie had just divulged to him, how matter-of-fact, how certain he'd sounded when he said it.

“Uh-huh,” Eddie nodded, and Steve is so in love with him it nearly hurts.

“You mean, like, right now?” Steve continued, still feigning confusion, still keeping up the bit like they weren't having a huge, important, real conversation right now, because they hadn’t been together that long, all things considered, and yet Steve wasn’t surprised to hear any of this because he felt it too.

Eddie rolled his eyes, “Not right now. Have a little faith, darling. Now would be pathetically unromantic.”

“Hmm,” Steve hummed his agreement, though a small part of him could acknowledge that now – happy and surrounded by all their friends – wouldn’t be the worst way to get engaged, but Eddie hadn't lost any of his flair for dramatics over the years, so he's not exactly surprised to hear that Eddie is picturing something more.

“I got it all planned out, don’t you worry," Eddie told him, looking all kinds of proud, “And it’s gonna knock your socks off, Steve Harrington.”

"Alright," Steve said as Eddie leaned away, leaned back into conversation with their friends, a tight squeeze to Steve's hand his only acknowledgement of the sheer magnitude of the conversation they'd just had, "I've been warned."

#andie does not kick steve out #and eddie proceeds to fake-propose to steve at every opportunity for a full year #i realize that this unfortunately makes dustin the *michael scott* of the situation #apologies to dustin #it had to be done #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson

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queerfanfiction · 3 days ago

Note

Request: ghost!Larissa appears to reader as a disembodied head in a crystal ball and gives them comfort?

Ghosting

Prompt is shown above. :) Thank you for being so very patient, @chromium-siren!

word count: 9.6k includes: angst, fluff; cw for death, emotional abuse, and ghosts

AO3 link

Reader POV

The weight of Nevermore’s legacy has pressed heavily on your shoulders from the moment you had accepted the role of principal. Its gothic spires and shadowy halls seem alive with the whispers of generations of outcasts who had walked those corridors before. You sought the position not out of ambition but necessity—to be close to your ailing mother, to spend what little time remains with her. What you hadn’t expected was to find a crystal ball tucked away in the floorboards of the principal’s office…

“Bathe the crystal sphere in sunlight or moonlight.” Hm, but wh- oh. Crystals feed on light, okay. Can do. You read the instructions from the large and dusty textbook that you had found stuck underneath another book in the Nightshades library. It looked like it hadn’t been opened in decades.

You peered out the window of your office, unable to see anything but darkness. Instead, you checked your phone only to find out there was a new moon that night. Just my luck, you thought to yourself. This would have to wait. You knew your current fixation on the crystal ball was excessive. Hells, you didn’t even know much divination magic; it had never been your forté in school. Something had to go your way, though. The past two weeks had been rough, and that was putting it lightly.

It was the end of your first week at Nevermore as the new principal. The students and faculty had been guarded and resistant to your efforts for camaraderie, and you couldn’t say you blamed them. Your stomach had plummeted when you first walked by the handmade memorial for their newly deceased former principal. Larissa, you had mouthed without making any sound. Her name had tasted unfamiliar yet weighty on your lips. You remembered passing her propped-up, framed photo in the hall outside what had once been her office—how her eyes had haunted you, how they had pierced through the glass with a look that had seemed both watchful and expectant. You had felt an inexplicable, magnetic pull toward her picture, as though a thread of fate had tethered you to her the moment you had stepped into her metaphorical shoes.

When you had arrived, the principal’s office had been untouched. Larissa Weems’ belongings had still been scattered throughout the office and living quarters, their placement a silent testament to her presence. Even the air had been filled with her lingering essence—opulent tuberose and jasmine, a scent so vivid it had almost made you falter. You hadn’t been able to decide if it was a comfort or a burden, the way the room had seemed to belong more to her memory than to you. Stepping into her role had felt less like an achievement and more like an act of trespass. Had she felt this way when she had first taken the position, or had her confidence always been unshakable, as it had seemed in every account you read of her? The weight of her legacy pressed heavily on you, and the room had borne it silently, waiting to see what you did next.

Feeling like a strange intruder, you had tiptoed around the rooms during the first day, nervous to upset the preserved and well-loved space. When you had finally tired of living out of your suitcase, you had perused the inherited items curiously. That had been when you had discovered the crystal ball, hidden beneath a wood plank in the floor to the right of the giant Medusa fireplace mantle. Once your hands had touched the heavy, cool quartz, a feeling of comfort had overwhelmed you. Your shoulders had relaxed, and you had felt as if you had slipped underwater. Everything had slowed and gone fuzzy; the hair on your arms had raised, sending echoes of energy along them. With your interest piqued, you had decided to display the crystal ball on a shelf in your office, not wanting to hide it away again.

Somehow, you’ve ended up here, sitting cross-legged on the floor of your office amidst an array of occult and divination books. The faint scent of dust mingles with the aroma of lukewarm IPA—the spoils of your most recent confiscation from a pair of unruly student werewolves. The surreal combination of academic pursuits and personal grief has felt as disjointed as your new reality, but you clung to it, if only to fill the void. You reached for your phone lying on your desk, checking it for any messages from your mother’s hospice nurse or from Alison. Alison—ugh.

You grimaced as you felt pain move through your chest. Heartbreak seems too cliché to deal with at this moment. You thought these kinds of things really only happened in fiction—to Callie and Arizona on Grey’s Anatomy. Ironically, you even remembered watching their breakup over moving to Africa with Alison. At the time, it had seemed too abstract and unbelievable that two people who loved each other couldn’t work it out. How naïve, you considered with a frown. You tried not to think about how Alison hadn’t wanted to stay with you, support you, or comfort you as you take care of your ailing mother.

It has been hard relocating to Vermont. Yes, you were thankful to have an amazing job in such a picturesque area, but it was still hard to get used to. It was hard sleeping alone again. It was hard changing your entire wardrobe due to a different geographic climate. It was hard not having friends to spend time with or a support system to lean on. It was hard transitioning to a smaller town. It was hard seeing someone you care for so deeply—your kind mother—become a shell of herself.

Unwilling to spiral into too much of a pity party, you decided to set up the mysterious crystal ball on the private balcony outside to let it absorb some light. I’ll check on you tomorrow night, you cooed, blowing the inanimate object a kiss. You then shook your head slightly, baffled at your silly behavior. Wow, and this is why I don’t drink beer… you lamented.

Exhausted from the day, you came back the following evening to find no changes in the crystal ball. You heaved a heavy sigh, not really sure what you expected. Carefully, you brought it in and set it back on display in your office. You plopped down on the leather chair by the fireplace with a soft creak, taking a moment to rub at your temples. Your eyes started to sting, indicating the welling up of tears; wetness threatened to spill onto your cheeks. You bite your lip in an effort to halt getting more emotional. Don’t break down, you pleaded with yourself earnestly. It had been a particularly difficult night at your mother’s house; seeing the reality of her health decline made you feel fragile and vulnerable.

The fire crackled in the hearth, and its warm glow danced across the crystal ball that was now perched on your desk instead of the bookshelf. Despite the object’s stillness, you felt as though it was watching you—or perhaps waiting. You shook the thought away, chalking it up to your weariness. You leaned back in the chair and closed your eyes, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the armrest. The soft leather felt comforting under your fingertips, but it hadn’t stopped the ache in your chest.

After those last few weeks, the ache in your chest feels like a companion now—a heavy, unwelcome shadow refusing to leave. Shifting uncomfortably, you pulled at the throw blanket draped over the chair and tucked it around yourself, seeking warmth. The silence of the room pressed down on you. It was a strange thing, the quietness of Nevermore after dark. It wasn’t peaceful so much as it was heavy, filled with the whispers of secrets too old and too dangerous to be forgotten.

You glanced at the crystal ball again, your eyes catching a faint shimmer within its depths. Probably just the reflection of the fire, you told yourself, though the thought did little to ease the odd flutter in your stomach. You tried to take a few deep breaths, but your gaze compulsorily wandered back to your desk.

The crystal ball seemed to gleam brighter then, its surface catching and refracting the light in a way that felt almost alive. A faint, pulsating glow began to emanate from within, soft and rhythmic, like a tiny heartbeat. You squinted to look closer, your breath hitching as the glow intensified, each pulse drawing you further into its strange, mesmerizing allure. You blinked, leaning forward, almost toppling from the chair. This time, you knew the shimmer wasn’t from the fire. You froze, and the hairs on your arms stood on end.

No, it must be a trick of the light, you considered. But the logical part of your brain faltered when the glow sharpened, coalescing into a distinct shape. A face. Pale, elegant, with high cheekbones and red lips pressed into a concerned expression. The eyes, illuminated by the glow, were an arresting blue that you now knew all too well—eyes framed in the tribute photo outside your office. That photo, capturing a poised yet enigmatic Larissa Weems, had always felt like it was watching you. Now, the familiar gaze sent a shiver down your spine, as if the picture itself was coming to life.

Larissa.

Larissa POV

The crystal ball was both a prison and a perch, a paradox that Larissa Weems was still coming to terms with. The inside was surprisingly spacious. Not physically, of course, but in that odd, liminal way one might feel in a dream—weightless yet aware, detached yet painfully tethered. Suspended within its shimmering, otherworldly sphere, she felt every movement of the world around her as faint ripples, like distant echoes of a tide. Larissa had spent an indeterminate amount of time there, waiting to reunite with the world beyond the glass and dark floorboards.

This failsafe is proving to be troublesome, indeed, Larissa thought one day. As if on cue, weight above her seemed to shift as Larissa heard wood creak loudly and scuffle against itself.

Finally! the silver-blonde-haired woman exclaimed to herself. Finally, she was being unearthed from beneath the floorboards. The discovery was almost anticlimactic—a dusty sphere wrapped in an old cloth, its surface dull until warm fingers brushed against it. Larissa felt a jolt then, a spark of recognition and connection. Hope. The warm, agile fingers continued to uncover the crystal ball.

“Oh, at last! Wonderfu—” Larissa paused abruptly, changing her tone from relief and excitement to one of confusion and impatience. She didn’t recognize the woman in front of her. She had been waiting for Wednesday, Enid, Bianca—anyone to decipher the clues showing that Larissa had found a way to temporarily cheat death. “And just who are you?”

Larissa’s question wasn’t met with a response. Rude. Her savior-turned-intruder ignored her. “Excuse me,” the former principal shouted. “Put me down at once!”

However, no matter how much Larissa willed herself to be seen or heard, the strange woman holding her remained blissfully unaware of Larissa’s presence. Instead, the woman tilted her head, examining the crystal globe, but her gaze seemed to pass through Larissa like sunlight through mist.

Over the next few days, Larissa grappled with a mixture of determination and desperation. She tried everything she could think of—whispering, shouting, even attempting to roll the glass ball off the desk in a moment of frantic frustration. Nothing had worked. Her voice was absorbed into the void, leaving her with a deep, aching loneliness she hadn't felt in years. The isolation gnawed at her, a relentless reminder of her severance from the world she had once commanded. Each futile attempt to physically interact with those outside the sphere—resulting in only faint, unnoticed vibrations—tightened the knot of frustration and yearning in her chest. She longed for the tactile sensations of life: the crisp rustle of papers, the smooth glide of a pen, the comforting weight of her tailored blazers. Gods forbid, even Enid’s excited muttering or Wednesday’s deadpan quips. Instead, she floated in silence, a spectator in a world that was moving on without her. She supposed it was poetic justice to be a phantom steward of the very institution she had once ruled with iron grace.

Still, she refused to give in to despair. If there was one thing Larissa Weems excelled at, it was adapting to the impossible.

—

Larissa saw the room, the polished wood of the desk, and the clean but casual order in which the new principal kept her belongings. She saw the woman, pacing with a furrowed brow, her lips moving as she muttered something about an upcoming staff meeting.

In her silent observation, Larissa has come to admire the other woman’s resolve. Taking over as principal of Nevermore Academy was no small feat, particularly in the wake of Larissa’s own tenure. The school has its quirks, its mysteries, its dangers. Yet, this woman seemed to navigate it all with an earnest determination that Larissa found both endearing and exasperating.

“No, no, no,” the woman had muttered once, crossing out a line in her notebook with sharp, deliberate strokes. “That’ll never work. Maybe if I rearrange the seating assignments…” She had flipped back several pages, her pen darting over the paper in quick, decisive motions.

Larissa had tilted her head, amused. “Darling, it’s a staff meeting, not a battlefield,” she had murmured, though she had known the words would not reach the other woman’s ears.

Still, her inability to directly communicate didn’t stop Larissa from meddling. It became a bittersweet outlet for her pent-up emotions. At times, her subtle interference felt like a lifeline, a way to reaffirm her presence in the world she could no longer touch. Other times, it seemed like an exercise in frustration, a poignant reminder of her limitations. Regardless, it gave Larissa a flicker of purpose, and for now, that was enough to keep her going. Her influence was subtle—books falling open to the correct pages, the faintest brush of wind guiding the other woman’s hand away from disastrous decisions. When the new principal stayed late answering emails, Larissa would nudge the clock forward to remind her to go to bed. When she hesitated to discipline unruly students, Larissa would whisper encouragement, even if the words dissipated like vapor.

Once, before becoming fond of the woman, when Larissa had found the new principal poring over the schedule for the upcoming Poe Cup, she hadn’t been able to stand it. “Not that team first, you fool,” Larissa had groaned, watching as the woman placed the Fangs in the first heat. “The Sirens will tear them apart. Have you no sense of strategy?” She had passed her ethereal hand over her face, only to remember—again—that her fingers weren’t solid enough to touch anything.

The air had gone chilly, and the younger woman sitting only feet from Larissa had suddenly frowned, looking up from her work. “Is someone there?” she had uttered, scanning the room. Larissa had frozen and felt oddly sheepish, not daring to breathe—not that she had needed to anymore. When the woman had risen from her seat to close the balcony doors, Larissa had focused all of her energy into pushing forward the Black Cats token instead of the Fangs. When sitting back down to work at the desk again, the woman’s eyebrows had knitted together in confusion. Thankfully, it had only taken a moment for her to place the Black Cats in the first heat instead. During another time, Larissa had even managed to make the crystal ball glow faintly, a soft white radiance that had been dismissed as a reflection coming in from the windows.

These small victories kept Larissa going, even as the days stretched into weeks. She watched as the younger woman slowly made the role of principal her own, balancing the expectations of the staff, the students, and the peculiarities of Nevermore itself. Larissa was particularly proud of the moment the new principal reorganized the curriculum for the history of the supernatural world. She had unknowingly scrapped the rote memorization that Larissa had always despised in favor of practical, interactive learning. “Well done,” Larissa had vocalized, feeling a swell of pride.

There were moments of vulnerability, too. Late at night, when the office was quiet and the weight of the day pressed heavily on the new principal’s shoulders, Larissa felt an almost unbearable urge to reach out to her. To offer comfort, guidance, reassurance… to tell her that she was not alone.

Larissa started to verbalize all her thoughts, taking comfort in knowing others would not hear her. She reflected on her past relationships and leadership, grappling with the contradictions between her rigorous expectations and the rare, fleeting connections she managed to forge. The memories surfaced unbidden—moments of camaraderie tarnished by misunderstandings, and alliances fractured under the weight of her perfectionism. Yet, in this peculiar companionship with the oblivious principal, she found herself revisiting those failures with a bittersweet clarity. Could this enforced proximity be a second chance, not just to guide but to grow? She never thought she could get along with someone long-term, especially living together. If this could even be considered living together, she pondered.

Past attempts at close companionship had always ended in disappointment, usually due to her own exacting standards. Larissa had always preferred the solitude of her own company to the vulnerability that came with sharing her life. And yet, now, as she observed the younger principal with increasing fondness, she wondered if she had been too quick to dismiss the possibility of connection. There was something different here—an inexplicable pull that made her almost relish the forced proximity, even if it was one-sided. Yes, Larissa liked her space, often putting up a wall with others. However, she found herself waiting for the new principal to return from meetings, wishing she could usher her through tough decisions and emotional turmoil.

Larissa’s favorite days were when the other woman placed her crystal ball on the office desk. This gives me time to read important administrative missives, Larissa tried to convince herself. While that may be true, she also found herself closely watching the other woman process information. Larissa began to memorize her facial expressions, like how she pressed her lips together in a line when she was concentrating. Or how her right eyebrow rose when she was suspicious of whether or not she was getting the entire truth from a student.

“You’re doing better than you think,” Larissa had said softly one evening, as the other woman had sat with her head in her hands, the faint glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. “You’re stronger than you realize.”

The words had dissolved into the ether, unheard and unacknowledged. Larissa had spoken them anyway. She had to believe that somehow, in some small way, they make a difference.

And so she waited, tethered to the crystal ball, watching and hoping. One day, Larissa told herself. One day, the woman in front of her would see her. One day, they would speak. Until then, Larissa would be the silent sentinel, the unseen guardian of Nevermore Academy and its newest principal.

Mostly Reader POV

Before you could examine the slight glow from within the crystal ball, the soft chime of your cellphone broke the stillness of the late evening. You cleared your throat briefly and answered, “Hello?” The word hung heavily in the air.

The pause on the other end was just long enough to spark unease in your chest. Then a gentle, wavering voice came through—a familiar voice. It was your mother’s hospice nurse, letting you know that your mother passed away peacefully after you left that evening.

The world tilted. A numbness settled over you, followed by a wave of disbelief so strong it threatened to swallow you whole. You barely manage to whisper, “I appreciate you letting me know” and “Thank you for your dedication to her comfort at the end of her life” before you end the call with trembling hands. Your phone slipped slightly within your grasp as the weight of the news sank in.

You fell to your knees where you were in front of the fireplace, and your breath caught. Tears spilled from your tired eyes before you even realized they were falling. Mom, you repeat over and over in your head. You remember her smile, warm and reassuring, as she had taught you how to braid your hair for the first time. Heard her voice, steady and patient, explaining how to face fear without flinching. You remembered the way her eyes had lit up when she had seen you in your cap and gown, pride radiating from her like sunlight. Each memory sharpened the ache in your chest, but you clung to them desperately, unwilling to let her go completely. The sharp-witted woman who taught you resilience was now silenced forever. The dark mahogany walls of the office seemed to close in. Grief poured out in quiet sobs as you rose and then slumped into the leather chair, your face buried in your hands. You didn’t even notice the faint glimmer in the corner of your vision—an almost imperceptible flicker of light from the crystal ball on the desk behind you.

“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry,” a voice called, soft and uncertain, carrying an ethereal echo as if it had been traveling across time and space. The words seemed to float in the air, wrapping around you like a fragile whisper, tinged with a strange warmth that sent flutters through your body.

You froze, your head snapping up. The voice wasn’t your mother’s, but it didn’t feel entirely unfamiliar either. Your eyes darted around the room before landing on the ornate crystal sphere. The smooth surface shimmered, a faint image forming within. A face. Her face.

“Larissa?” you whispered, your voice trembling. Inside the crystal ball, Larissa’s expression was one of concern, with an intensity that made your heart pound. The usually composed demeanor you often saw her depicted in was softened by something you couldn’t quite place.

You stood slowly, disbelief warring with the raw ache in your chest. “This can’t be real. I must be losing my mind.”

“It’s real,” Larissa replied gently. “I wish it weren’t under these circumstances, but it seems your pain has... unlocked something. You were unable to hear me before tonight.” She spoke her initial words of apology not expecting any sort of reaction or response from the other woman. She just couldn’t stand to watch you hunched over in despair. You were not able to hear her over the last few weeks, so she didn’t consider that this time would be any different.

You pressed your fingers to your temples, trying to steady yourself. The surrealism of the moment clashed with the grief still roaring through your veins. “I couldn’t hear y—… You’ve been here this whole time? You—” Your voice faltered, cracking under the weight of disbelief. Your stomach twisted as everything you thought you knew was flipped on its head.

A flood of questions battled for dominance in your mind—Why hadn’t I sensed her before? How much has she seen? What does this connection mean? But the words refused to form, tangling in your throat as a mixture of awe and fear gripped you. Finally, a hoarse whisper escaped: “How… How are you here? You’re—” You stopped short, unwilling to say the word aloud.

“Dead?” Larissa offered, her tone calm and almost matter-of-fact. However, her voice was edged with a faint hesitation, as though acknowledging the weight of the word might shatter the delicate connection forming between you. “Yes. Quite inconvenient, I must admit. But one learns to adapt.” You felt a flicker of unease at her candor but also an odd comfort in her willingness to confront the truth with you.

After a few moments of raw, pregnant silence, Larissa admitted, “I’ve seen you pacing this office, running this school, handling it all with grace—even when you were clearly breaking inside. I wanted to speak to you so badly, but I couldn’t. Not until now.”

The weight of the past weeks—learning the academy, grieving in silence for your mother’s impending death—weighed on you further, and you involuntarily let out a bitter laugh. “And now you can talk to me, just when I have nothing left to give.”

Larissa’s tone grew insistent, more reassuring. “You have so much left. More than you know. I may be trapped in this... cursed glass prison, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help. You’re not alone.”

You stared at the crystal ball, your heart a storm of emotions. Tears began to fall again. Despite the surreal nature of the moment, a sense of unexpected comfort washed over you. It was as if Larissa’s presence, even confined to the crystal, pierced through the isolating fog of your intense grief. Her calm reassurance felt like a lifeline, grounding you when everything else seemed to be spiraling out of control. You sank into your desk chair and let yourself feel it all—grief, disbelief, and that odd, unexpected reassurance in Larissa’s presence. For the first time since stepping into the role of principal, since moving to Vermont, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, your voice breaking again. “I—I don’t know how to do this without her.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Larissa commented softly, her pale blue eyes holding a spark of warmth. “And I’ll be here to help you every step of the way.”

You nodded slowly, your fingers brushing the smooth surface of the crystal ball. The connection between you two felt fragile but real, like a thread binding you to something steady in a world suddenly adrift. The sensation was both comforting and strange, a bittersweet tether in an unmoored reality.

As the sun settled below the horizon, the two women sat together—one confined to a sphere of glass, the other drowning in grief—and for the first time, they began to truly see each other. You found yourself marveling at the unexpected solace Larissa offered, even in her spectral form. Perhaps this connection, however strange, was what you needed to navigate both the weight of your losses and the responsibilities ahead. A flicker of hope ignited within you, fragile yet persistent, as you resolved to face tomorrow with Larissa’s steady voice as your guide.

—

Days passed in a blur of meetings, morose reflecting, and an eagerness to learn more about Larissa. Though she remained confined within the crystal ball, Larissa’s voice became a constant in your life, offering advice, sharp wit, and occasional pep talks. You found yourself relying on her in ways you never expected. And when the question finally formed on your lips, it felt like a whisper of hope. “Is there a way to... free you? To get you out of the crystal?”

Larissa’s image flickered slightly, her gaze thoughtful. “Perhaps. Magic has its intricacies, but there are always loopholes. I learned of the possibility only briefly before my death. I suspect any true release will require both research and courage—two things you have in abundance.”

Her words sent a subtle thrill through you, a renewed sense of purpose. Late nights that once felt endless and hollow now found you reading over ancient divination texts and arcane tomes, searching for clues. Larissa watched, her ethereal presence a steadying force, offering insights from her time as an educator and leader. Together, you composed fragments of spells, legends, and theories, each discovery bringing you closer to an answer.

But life didn’t pause for mysteries or magic. The academy demanded your attention, and you refused to leave Larissa behind. The crystal ball found a new home in your bag, nestled among your notebooks and pens. You carried her with you almost everywhere—staff meetings, Jericho town halls, disciplinary hearings, even casual strolls through the campus gardens. It felt strangely soothing to have her voice at your side, her sharp observations cutting through the noise of administrative chaos and duties. Though, you often wondered if Larissa could even be stopped from giving her opinion—not that others could hear her.

“You can’t let the vampires out after curfew,” Larissa had tutted one evening, her elegant features shimmering faintly in the glass sphere. “They’ll claim it’s moonlight yoga, but trust me, it’s never just yoga.”

“Really, darling,” she had quipped a different afternoon as you had sat in a budget meeting, the crystal ball resting discreetly on the table beside your laptop. “Doesn’t he realize the importance of investing in the arts? Short-sighted, if you ask me.”

You had stifled a laugh, earning a curious glance from the finance director. “I’ll bring it up,” you had whispered under your breath, your hand brushing the sphere in silent acknowledgment.

Larissa’s presence transformed even the mundane into something meaningful, something you looked forward to. Her advice was invaluable, her perspective a steadying force as you navigated the complexities of Nevermore. And though the weight of grief lingered, the ache felt lighter with her by your side. You found yourself growing around your grief—finding moments of curiosity, camaraderie, and pure laughter with Larissa.

One evening, as you sat in your office with the crystal ball glowing softly on your desk, Larissa’s voice broke the silence. “You know, I never expected to become someone’s... travel companion. But I must admit, it’s been rather enlightening.”

You smiled, the warmth of her words seeping into your chest. “You know you’re more than that, Larissa. I’m not keeping you around for your advice, though it has aided me tremendously. You’ve become... indispensable.”

Her image in the crystal ball seemed to soften, a flicker of emotion crossing her features. “As have you. Now, let’s figure out how to solve this little predicament of mine, shall we?”

The determination and fondness in her voice mirrored your own. Together, you resolved to uncover the secret to her freedom, the bond between you growing stronger with each passing day.

—

The buzzing of your phone jolted you awake later that week. It wasn't the first time that night. The screen lit up again, the harsh glow cutting through the dim warmth of your bedroom. Alison. Her name flashed incessantly, each call and text a relentless assault on the fragile calm you managed to cobble together. Hells, she even emailed your Nevermore work email trying to get ahold of you. Of course, she’d try to get in touch now, after Mom… You didn’t want to finish the thought.

Her messages blurred together in your mind—half-apologies, fragments of accusations, and nostalgic jabs meant to, no doubt, undermine the distance you put between you two. “I just don’t understand why you won’t talk to me.” “I still love you.” “You don’t even care anymore, do you?” The collection of words seeped under your skin, reigniting old wounds you thought had at least scabbed over.

You hurled your phone onto the mattress, its glow fading against the rumpled sheets as you collapsed onto the bed. The walls seemed to close in around you, the muffled sound of students outside offering no comfort. Curling in on yourself, you clutched at the hem of your sweater, the fabric collapsing under your slightly trembling fingers. Your chest heaved, feeling renewed grief, exhaustion, and the sting of Alison’s unrelenting words—until it felt like the air itself was too thick to breathe.

The crystal ball rested on the pillow next to you, movement from within catching your eye. Larissa’s image appeared within the glass, her expression soft yet pensive. “Darling,” she said, her voice low and deliberate, “you’re carrying far too much alone. I’m here for you. Though, I wish I could do more to comfort you.”

You sniffed, swiping irritably at your tears that kept falling. “What else am I supposed to do? I can’t just stop. I can’t—I—” The words choked in your throat as another sob threatened to escape.

Larissa watched you quietly, her ethereal form radiating calm even as you felt like you were experiencing the aftershocks following a disaster. “Come here,” she purred gently. Without thinking, you clutched the crystal ball and pulled it closer, cradling it like a lifeline. The smooth surface felt cool against your hands, settling you and letting you feel in your body.

“You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed,” Larissa stated, her voice a soothing balm against the chaos in your head. “You’re not a machine, and no one expects you to be.”

“I’m just so… tired,” you admitted, the words tumbling out unprompted. “Of all of it. The expectations, the grief, the constant demands. And Alison—she won’t leave me alone.”

Larissa’s image sharpened, her blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Alison has no right to your peace, especially now. You don’t owe her anything.” Her tone was firm, a protective edge creeping into her voice.

You closed your eyes, letting her words wash over you for a few moments. “I know. She says she still loves me, but it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like… control. I mean, who calls someone they love selfish for moving to be closer to a sick family member?”

Larissa hummed thoughtfully, her gaze one of concern and care. “Real love doesn’t bind you or weigh you down. It lifts you, supports you—even when you feel you’ve reached your limit.” Her voice momentarily wavered, a glimmer of vulnerability crossing her features. “And you, my dear, deserve nothing less.”

The words seep into the cracks of your heart, filling spaces you didn’t realize were close to empty. Tears flowed freely from you now, unrestrained and cleansing. You pressed the crystal ball to your chest, as if hoping to absorb Larissa’s warmth through the glass.

“I wish you were here,” you disclosed, your voice barely audible. “Really here.”

Larissa’s smile was faint but achingly tender. “I’m here in every way that matters. And I’m not going anywhere.”

That night you allowed yourself to simply exist—no demands, no expectations, just the quiet relief of Larissa’s presence. As your breathing slowed and the restriction in your chest eased, you found yourself clutching the crystal ball a little tighter, Larissa’s soft glow illuminating the shadows of the room.

—

Over the next few days, you read up on crystals and their ability to hold spirits. In one text you had found in the restricted section of Nevermore’s library, you learned that crystal balls were used for scrying since ancient times. The theory was that crystals had a consciousness, and it was this energy that people connected with when they used them. Apparently, the energy could be used for spirit communication, seeing images from elsewhere, and even healing. Crystal balls were both transmitters and receivers of energy and could store information or be programmed for certain specific purposes.

Hm, does this mean a person could temporarily be stored in one? You pondered to yourself.

Later that night, the buzzing of your phone dragged you from a restless sleep again. Alison. The harsh light of her name on the screen cut through the dim warmth of your bedroom.

With a groan, you reached for the phone and silenced it, sitting it back on the bedside table. You rolled over, trying to ignore the churning in your gut—an uneasy mix of frustration, guilt, and anger. Beside you, the faint shimmer of Larissa’s presence filled the room. Though she didn’t need to sleep, she often offered to keep you company as you drifted off in the quiet hours of the night.

“She’s persistent,” Larissa uttered softly, her tone carefully neutral.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “She always was. Alison doesn’t like loose ends, and apparently, I’m one of them.”

Larissa’s expression shifted subtly, the faintest crease forming between her brows. “Do you want to talk to her?”

“No,” you maintained firmly. “Whatever she wants, it’s not about me. It’s about her. She’s… she’s looking for closure or maybe control. Either way, I’m not giving it to her.”

Larissa nodded, though the tension in her features remained. She did not press the issue, but the unease lingered between you, a silent weight neither of you could entirely shake. However, that tension came to a head the following day.

You were in the middle of a staff meeting when the door to the conference room swung open with a sharp bang. Alison stood in the doorway, her sleek, city-chic outfit and polished demeanor a jarring contrast to the gothic gloom of Nevermore. Her eyes found yours instantly, blazing with determination and expectation.

“We need to talk,” she insisted, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the meeting like a blade.

The room fell silent, every pair of eyes darting between you and the unexpected intruder. Larissa, who had been observing the meeting from her usual spot by your bag, somehow straightened. Her translucent form seemed to tighten with tension, her gaze fixed on Alison with an intensity that made your stomach twist.

You stood slowly, your chair scraping against the floor. “Alison, this is neither the time nor the place.”

“It’s never the time with you,” she shot back, stepping further into the room. “Your mother is gone. There’s nothing keeping you here anymore.”

Larissa’s sharp intake of breath was almost imperceptible, but you felt it like a ripple in the air. Her ghostly form intensified, as if she wanted to step between you and Alison but couldn’t cross the barrier of her incorporeal existence.

“Alison,” you warned, your voice low and firm, “this is inappropriate. We can talk later, outside of—”

“No,” Alison interrupted, her voice rising. “You don’t get to brush me off anymore. I’ve been patient. I’ve waited. But this…” Her gaze swept the room, taking in the outcast faculty, the gothic decor, the very essence of Nevermore. “This isn’t you. It’s a phase, a distraction. You belong with me in the life we built together.”

Larissa’s image turned sharp, her usually composed demeanor cracking ever so slightly. She didn’t speak, but the intensity of her gaze conveyed everything. You felt her worry, her jealousy, and beneath it all, her fear. Fear that Alison would be right, that she might succeed in pulling you away.

But Alison was wrong. She has to be.

You squared your shoulders and pulled Alison out of the room. You met her gaze with unwavering resolve. “No,” you announced, your voice steady. “This is my life. I built it after you abandoned me. And I’m not leaving it.”

—

The days after the encounter stretched out like a taut string, each one vibrating with tension and uncertainty, like the lingering hum of a plucked chord. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken words and the faint scent of lavender from the flowers Alison left behind afterward.

The following evening, Alison’s shadow fell over your doorstep. You didn’t answer the knock. From behind the curtains, you watched her stand there, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her hands clutching another bouquet of flowers.

The evening light filtered through her hair, casting an almost halo-like glow that made you want to laugh bitterly. After a few minutes, she left, the flowers placed carefully on your front mat. You didn’t pick them up. When Larissa asked about it later, her voice calm but probing, you shrugged. “I’m not ready.”

Larissa didn’t press further, but her gaze lingered on you, a mixture of concern and quiet encouragement. The flowers stayed on the doormat until morning, their colors dulling from the night’s chill. By then, the sight of them felt too overwhelming, and you tossed them into the trash without another glance.

The next morning, Alison’s texts grew more insistent. “Can we talk?” “I’m sorry.” “Please.” You read them but didn’t respond, the words blurring together as guilt and anger wrestled within you. You began avoiding your phone entirely, turning it face-down on the counter and letting its notifications pile up unchecked. Larissa’s voice hummed softly from the crystal ball as you paced in your office. “You don’t have to face her yet,” she cooed. “Or ever. It’s your choice, darling.” Her words were reassuring, but they also felt like a challenge—one that urged you to confront the raw wound Alison’s persistence kept reopening.

By the third day, Alison’s persistence began to wear at you. Each knock, each message, chipped away at the fragile wall you built to protect yourself. Guilt and frustration churned within you, an exhausting cycle that left you pacing your living quarters, unable to focus on anything for more than a few minutes. The pressure of Alison’s determination felt constant, as if she had found a way to exist in the very air around you. She visited again in the early evening, knocking lightly at first, then louder. This time, she did not leave flowers. Instead, her voice drifted through the door, muffled but earnest. “I’m not giving up on us,” she informed the unanswered door. You sat on the floor, your back pressed against the door, listening but saying nothing. You couldn’t decide if her earnestness was true. Her words hung in the silence, and they seemed to echo in your mind long after her footsteps retreated. When Alison had finally left, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the pressure in your chest easing only slightly.

Larissa’s presence was a balm in the quiet that followed. She didn’t speak this time, simply watching you from the crystal ball, her expression unreadable but steady. You met her gaze and felt a wave of strength return. It didn’t last long, though. Messages and memories crept back into your thoughts the moment the room fell silent again. You wondered if it was possible to truly move forward when the past insisted on clawing its way back.

The fourth day dawned with a kind of weary inevitability. Alison’s texts came again, but this time, they were less frantic, more measured. “I’m not giving up… I just hope you’ll hear me out when you’re ready.” The change in tone unsettled you more than her earlier desperation. That evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, Alison showed up once more. Her knock was sharp, more demanding than before. This time, you opened the door, just a crack, enough to see her face. Her pleading exterior from the earlier days seemed to have worn away, revealing a bubbling frustration that she struggled to contain. She fidgeted as she talked, her voice louder than before, her gestures sharper.

“I’m not here to beg,” she expressed firmly. “But I need you to know I’m not the same person who walked away. Let me explain.”

You glanced back at the crystal ball, where Larissa’s image materialized. Her brow arched slightly, her silence urging you to trust yourself. With a deep breath, you opened the door wider. Alison stepped inside, her movements careful.

She set a small, weathered box on your desk. The box, adorned with faint scratches and a delicate floral engraving, seemed as if it held not just objects but fragments of something far more fragile—hope, regret, and longing all pressed into its corners. Inside, you found a collection of mementos—a pressed flower from a long-forgotten date, a concert ticket stub, a handwritten note you had once slipped into her bag. “I’ve kept these,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “They’re pieces of us. Of what I threw away when I let my fear take over.”

You were silent, processing her words and their intentions. “Alison,” you began, but she cut you off gently.

“I know I hurt you,” she admitted, her expression showing a battle between frustration and hurt. “And I’m not asking for forgiveness, not yet. I just want you to know that I’ve been working to be better. To be someone who deserves you.”

Larissa’s voice rang through the tense atmosphere, her tone measured as she asked you, “And what of the burden she placed on you? The hurt she left behind?”

Alison was not able to hear her, but the question lingered in the air, a reminder of the pain you carried. You met Alison’s gaze, searching for sincerity, for proof that her words weren’t just a temporary salve.

“I appreciate what you’re saying,” you said finally, your voice steady but guarded. “But this isn’t something that can be fixed with apologies or memories. It would take time. And I don’t know if I have that time to give.”

Alison’s shoulders slumped momentarily before a renewed irritability dominated her movements. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, and her breath became sharp and uneven. “That’s bullshit,” Alison blurted, her voice clipped and tense.

You glanced briefly at Larissa, the shimmering presence within the crystal ball radiating an unspoken concern. Confusion crossed Alison’s face as she followed your gaze, her expression morphing from irritation to something more unsettled. “What are you staring at?” she snapped, eyes darting to the crystal ball with a mix of disdain and confusion.

You stiffened at her tone, your fingers gripping the edge of your office chair. “It’s none of your business, Alison,” you responded evenly, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed your unease.

Alison let out a short, bitter laugh. “Not my business? I’m here trying to fix this,” she gestured between the two of you, her movements growing more erratic. Her frustration was palpable as she continued, a storm of emotions building in the small room. “And you’re just zoning out, staring at a damn crystal ball?”

“It’s not a competition,” you replied defensively. Your gaze shifted involuntarily back to where Larissa’s calm, watchful presence resided. Alison caught the movement and followed your eyes, her frustration igniting into raw anger.

“Look at me,” she demanded, stepping toward the desk. “Look at me!” she huffed again when you didn’t respond immediately or the way she wanted. Without warning, Alison reached out and grabbed the crystal ball, lifting it with force. She brought it to her face, as though to inspect the source of your distraction. Her grip was tight, her knuckles white against the smooth glass.

“Alison, stop!” you said sharply, rising from your seat. Panic coiled in your chest as you took a hurried step forward, reaching out toward the sphere. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

She hesitated, her anger flickering with momentary uncertainty, but the tension in her grip didn’t ease. “What I’m doing?” she echoed menacingly. “I’m trying to get through to you, but all you care about is this… this orb!” Her voice cracked, and for a fleeting second, vulnerability seeped through her fury.

“It’s not just an orb,” you pleaded, your voice softer now but no less urgent. “Just put it down.”

Alison’s eyes darkened, her head shaking in disbelief as she considered your words. “Fine.” Her voice dripped with venom. Just then, with deliberate carelessness, Alison loosened her grip and let the crystal ball slip from her fingers.

Time slowed. You lunged forward, heart hammering in your chest, but it was too late. The sphere tumbled through the air, distorting the dim light of your office in fractured and distorted reflections. And then—

A dull, heavy thud as it struck the wooden floor, rolling a few inches before settling. The sound wasn’t sharp or catastrophic, but as you stepped closer, a dreadful chill crawled up your spine. A thin, jagged crack marred the smooth surface, a single imperfection that felt far worse than if it shattered completely.

You sank to your knees, hands trembling as you reached for it, cradling the cool sphere with cautious reverence. Larissa’s presence within seemed unclear, her expression unreadable. The air around you thickened, weighted with something unseen yet deeply felt. Your breath came in shallow bursts, shock gripping you in place.

Alison scoffed, crossing her arms. “Oh, come on, it didn’t even break.”

Your head snapped up, and for the first time since she walked back into your life, true anger burned behind your eyes. “You don’t get it,” you let out, your voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried, sharp and unrelenting. “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

Alison shifted on her feet, her bravado faltering. “I was trying to get you to listen to me,” she insisted, but her voice lacked its previous certainty.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your palm against the damaged crystal as if you could will it whole again. “I was listening,” you voiced simply. Your gaze was piercing, and your eyes flashed a warning to Alison. “But you didn’t like what you heard.”

Before she could attempt to twist the situation further, you rose to your feet, carefully placing the crystal ball back onto its secured stand. Turning to Alison, you straightened your posture. “You need to leave Nevermore’s grounds at once. If necessary, I will have security escort you. And Alison—I don’t think you want to be dragged out by a golem.”

Alison’s eyes widened, startled by your decisiveness. She was not used to this version of you, the one who held firm instead of bending. “Why are you making this such a big deal?”

“Because I’m done,” you said with finality. “I don’t know what I ever saw in you, but I’m grateful I can see clearly now. Goodbye, Alison.” Your footsteps were firm, resolute, as you strode to your desk and pressed the button to summon security. You didn’t watch her leave. You didn’t need to.

Once Alison left, hopefully forever, you turned back to Larissa’s damaged vessel, heart pounding with unspoken dread. What does this mean?

“Larissa, how do you feel? Are you well?” your voice was tender yet tinged with panic.

For a moment, there was silence, and then Larissa’s voice rang out, exasperated yet reassuring. “I could use some red wine right about now,” she murmured. “I’m a little shaken up, but yes, darling. I’m okay.”

Relief flooded through you, but as your fingers traced the crack in the crystal, one thought lingered—what would happen if the fracture grew?

—

The day of the ritual dawned bright and cold, the winter sun glinting off the frosted panes of Nevermore’s windows. You barely slept the night before, poring over the ancient tome you unearthed from the academy’s restricted section. You found an obscure incantation tucked within a dusty tome in the library. The spell was a delicate one—more art than science—and it demanded precision. One misplaced word or faltering syllable, and you might doom Larissa to an eternity in the glass. You knew it was risky, but you needed an answer, something tangible to address Larissa’s crystal ball predicament. You decided you wouldn’t go another day with her sphere cracked, threatening the connection and manifestation holding Larissa to the glass orb.

“Are you certain about this?” Larissa’s voice remained calm, though her expression betrayed a flicker of unease. She sat—or rather hovered—within the crystal sphere, her hands folded in her unseen lap as though she were merely preparing for another faculty meeting.

Your heart clenched at the sight. You reached out, your fingers brushing the cool surface of the sphere. “I’m sure, Larissa,” you said softly. “I’m not letting you stay trapped in there any longer. Especially after Alison almost broke your crystal ball.”

Larissa’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Very well. Just promise me you won’t do anything foolish.”

“Too late for that,” you muttered, earning a soft chuckle from Larissa.

The ritual was set to take place in the privacy of the principal’s office, with wards cast to keep any curious students or staff from interrupting. You meticulously arranged the necessary components: a ring of salt around the sphere, candles placed at cardinal points, and a single drop of your own blood—a symbol of the bond you formed with Larissa over the months.

As the spell began, the room seemed to hold its breath. Your voice was steady, each word of the incantation resonating with an ancient power that thrummed through the air. The candles flickered wildly, their flames leaping about as if caught in a storm. The crystal sphere began to glow, a brilliant light emanating from within, illuminating Larissa’s serene yet expectant face. As you chanted the words, magic crackled in the air, filling the room with an almost unbearable brightness.

And then, the shattering. It wasn’t the loud, explosive sound you anticipated. Instead, it was a soft, almost melodic breaking, like the chime of distant bells. The light intensified, forcing you to shield your eyes, and when it finally dimmed, you blinked rapidly to clear your vision.

Larissa Weems stood before you. The crystal sphere laid shattered on the floor, and standing in its place was Larissa. Her full height—stately, commanding—took up the room in a way you didn’t expect.

She was breathtaking. Her silvery-blonde hair caught the candlelight, and her storm-blue eyes met yours with a mixture of wonder and gratitude. She was tall—so much taller than you imagined—and every inch of her radiated the elegance and authority you came to associate with her voice. Her long, statuesque frame was clad in a white suit that hugged her in all the right places, her presence almost magnetic. Your gaze lingered, your breath hitching as Larissa’s lips parted, a small smile curling at the edges.

“Oh,” you said faintly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Larissa’s lips curved into a warm smile. “Oh?” she echoed, arching a graceful brow while brushing glass dust from her pristine white suit.

“You’re… you’re really tall,” you blurted, the words tumbling out before you could stop yourself. You had so many thoughts, and yet, that was the one that escaped.

Larissa laughed, a rich, melodic sound that had filled the room. “And you’re as charming in person as you were through glass.” She took a step forward, and your breath caught in your throat. “Thank you,” Larissa breathed softly, her voice carrying a depth of emotion that made your chest tighten. “For everything.” Her hand reached out, her fingers brushing your cheek with a featherlight touch that threatened to have goosebumps rise over your skin.

You could only nod, your throat too tight to form words. Larissa’s elegance, height, beauty… all of it left you breathless. The warmth of Larissa’s hand lingered, and the faint scent of jasmine and tuberose filled the air once again.

—

Life with Larissa no longer confined to a crystal ball was… an adjustment. For months, you were accustomed to her presence as a voice from your desk or a comforting shimmer of light on an eye-level shelf. Now, she was here—fully, gloriously here—and the height difference was only the first of many things you needed to get used to.

It started with small things—like Larissa reaching up to hand you a book you needed, only for you to realize you couldn’t quite meet her gaze without tilting your head back. This was a fact that Larissa seemed to find endlessly amusing, her eyes always sparkling endearingly. There was the way Larissa filled a room, her presence as impressive in the flesh as it was in the sphere. Or when Larissa leaned over you while you worked, her shadow cast across the desk like a protective canopy.

There were other moments, too—moments that made you realize just how much your dynamic has shifted. Larissa’s proximity was intoxicating, her scent enveloping you and making it hard to focus. All you wanted was to be near her now that you two could finally touch. There was an electricity between you two that neither of you were able to ignore, a magnetic pull that made every brush of fingers or shared glance feel charged.

And then there were the kisses. Oh Gods, the kisses. The first time you gathered the courage to kiss her one evening—emboldened by the soft glow of candlelight—you forgot just how tall Larissa was. You leaned up onto your tiptoes, wobbling slightly as Larissa caught you by the waist and cupped your cheek to steady you, her smile indulgent.

“You’re adorable,” Larissa insisted, tilting her head down to meet you halfway.

“You’re... tall,” you replied mousily and breathless once again.

“You’re just noticing?” Larissa teased. Her lips were soft as silk, and the kiss was slow and lingered. It left you wanting more. So much more. Larissa’s hands slid to your hips, her grip firm but tender, and you found yourself melting into her, your hands fisting in the fabric of her suit to keep steady.

“This would be easier if you were a little shorter,” you remarked against her lips, earning another laugh from Larissa. Mmm, I could get used to this.

“Or if you were a little taller,” she countered, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Larissa’s fingers trailed lightly along your jaw and then neck, her touch sending delicious shivers down your spine.

Over time, you found your own ways to adapt. You learned to stand a little straighter, to reach a little higher, and to embrace the moments when Larissa effortlessly scooped you into her arms with surprising strength. Larissa, for her part, seemed to delight in your determination, often teasing you with a raised brow or a playful smirk.

Beneath the teasing was a deep and abiding affection, a bond forged over months of shared secrets and quiet nights spent working together. Larissa’s freedom from the crystal ball may bring challenges, but it has already brought substantial joy—the kind of joy that made your heart swell every time Larissa’s laughter echoed through the halls of Nevermore.

And if you needed to stretch onto your tiptoes for the occasional kiss? Well, you decided, it’s a small price to pay for the privilege of standing beside Larissa Weems.

#request #requests #ghosting #cw mention of death #cw mentions of emotional abuse #cw ghosts #I don't think there is anything else to tag for content warnings?#fanfiction #fanfic #larissa x reader #larissa weems x reader #larissa weems #principal larissa weems #crystal ball

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nanamineedstherapy · 1 day ago

Text

Seven Minutes in Heaven (Chapter Two)

F!Reader x Gojo Satoru

Previous Chapter 1 (Tumblr/Ao3)

Summary: It was supposed to be a normal frat party. Just a stupid game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. Just him, king of never taking anything seriously, getting shoved into a closet for a dumb dare. And yet. Now, he can’t sleep. Can’t think. Can’t stop thinking about you. And one by one, his friends are starting to realize—Whatever happened in that closet? It never really ended.

Outside in the garden, Toji mocked. "Man got a straight-up haunted hard-on."

"Wait, wait, wait," Sukuna wheezed. "Tell me why bro just made out with a ghost so hard he got a fucking boner."

"Can we not call it that?" Satoru groaned.

"That’s exactly what it was," Hiromi confirmed, shaking his head. "You got seduced by a fucking spirit."

Shiu, lying on the grass scrolling through his phone, barely looked up as he added, "Even in the afterlife, women aren’t safe from your dick preceding your reputation."

"I'm gonna kill myself," Satoru muttered, running a hand down his face.

"Ghost girl might be into that," Choso said thoughtfully, sipping a beer.

"Yo, shut the fuck up," Satoru snapped.

"You were rock hard for a literal corpse." Shoko was almost rolling in the grass, clutching her bottle.

"FOR THE LAST TIME, I DIDN’T KNOW SHE WAS A GHOST!"

"And yet," Suguru drawled, gesturing vaguely at the still-very-visible problem in his jeans.

Satoru made a strangled noise, willing his soul to leave his body.

“If I see your haunted dick in my nightmares, I’m suing." Yuki yelled.

"I have hater friends. At least she thought I was beautiful." Satoru smirked.

A collective groan echoed through the garden.

Kento dragged a hand down his face. "I hate him. I hate him."

"Fucker just got ghosted in every sense of the word, and he still has the audacity to make it about his looks." Kashimo jeered, leaning on Haibara, who was barely holding himself up.

"Kill yourself," Sukuna muttered.

"Honestly, yeah," Hiromi agreed.

Satoru just grinned. "Jealous much?"

Suguru physically sighed. "Let's go, you delusional horny disaster."

---

Satoru couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Not the way your lips had felt against his, or how you made him laugh, or how you got flustered easily but still kissed him first like a paradox he couldn’t solve—though that haunted him, too.

No, it was the way you had looked at him.

Like you had been starving.

So, Satoru did what any rational person would do.

He spent an unhealthy amount of time at the library.

Gojo Satoru. At the library. Voluntarily. His friends thought he was having a crisis.

At first, there was nothing.

No students matching your description in the recent records.

No tragic accidents or ghost stories written in the university archives.

It was like you had never existed.

But then—

One night, while flipping through the school’s oldest records, something caught his eye.

An envelope stuffed with papers.

He pulled out a diary first.

Diary of Miss L/N

(Archivist - Leather-bound, gold-embossed. Found in the ruins of the university, its final pages splattered with what appears to be dried tears. Handwritten, ink fading in places. Some pages torn. Final entries nearly illegible—written in a shaking hand, desperate and uneven.)

January 3, 1914

There is a new litter of kittens in the old courtyard! I counted five, all squirming and mewling, their mother, a thin little thing who watches me with wary eyes. I left some bread soaked in milk, though I do not think she trusts me yet. Perhaps if I sit quietly tomorrow, she will let me closer.

(If I were a cat, would I be loved more easily?)

The groundskeeper scolded me, said I am too soft-hearted, that I let animals take advantage of me. As if a kitten could be cunning! I told him there is no harm in kindness. He only shook his head.

Satoru sat back, staring at the first entry, his thumb tracing your handwriting. He didn’t know much about you—hell, he didn’t even know you were alive a hundred years ago—but he could picture you, kneeling in the courtyard with kittens, trying to be kind. He imagined the faintest smile tugging at your lips when you saw them squirming in the dirt. The idea of you feeding a stray mother cat made his chest tighten in an odd, unfamiliar way. He ran his fingers along the edge of the paper, almost as if trying to feel your presence through it.

That groundskeeper? He was an idiot. He didn't get it. Satoru couldn't help but feel a spark of frustration. You didn’t need anyone’s permission to be kind. He almost laughed at the idea that someone might scold you for being soft-hearted. If anything, he wished he could go back and tell you not to worry about those around you. He would’ve probably looked at you the same way—the way he did when you kissed him, not knowing why or how, but unable to stop himself from caring just a little too much for someone so—soft.

January 10, 1914

I do not think they like me.

Not in the way they like each other.

They are polite, of course. They smile. They call me ‘Miss L/N’ with syrupy sweetness, but their eyes flicker. I see the way their lips press together when I speak. The way their laughter dies when I enter a room.

But it is alright. Not everyone has to like me.

I just wish they did not hate me, either.

Satoru skimmed the next entry, his eyes narrowing. You were already noticing the tension in the air, weren’t you? The polite smiles, the murmurs. The fake sweetness they showed you—he could practically hear the insincerity in their voices. He frowned, shaking his head. You didn’t deserve that. Nobody should ever make someone feel like they didn’t belong.

For some reason, even though you were long gone, he found himself angry on your behalf. He didn’t understand why they treated you that way. You were probably just too good for them, weren’t you? Too pure, too gentle. He shook the thought off, the sharpness of the moment still biting at him. It made him wonder if maybe he would’ve been one of the few who would’ve actually liked you.

January 25, 1913

Viscount Salvatore looked at me today. He did not merely glance—he looked. I was in the library, carrying too many books, and he leaned back in his chair, all effortless indifference, and drawled, "Planning to read all of those, Miss L/N? Or are you building a fort?"

(He thinks I am ridiculous.)

(He noticed me.)

I almost dropped Wuthering Heights on my foot.

A frown burrowed on Satoru’s face when he read about Viscount Salvatore. You noticed him. He noticed you.

He flipped your yearbook with his other hand to find any Salvtores; there had been two in your class who’d gone to become Army officials in the first World War and then died there. Your description fit the blue-eyed one with a cocky smirk. Like Satoru? Did you have a type?

He felt a slight sting in his chest at the thought of this Viscount—some guy who probably had no idea what to do with someone like you. Still, he couldn’t suppress the bitter taste in his mouth. Jealousy? Was that what this was?

A sigh slipped from his lips. It was stupid—he was more than a hundred years too late. He didn’t even know if you’d ever seen him the way he now imagined you looking at the Viscount. The thought of another guy noticing you—really noticing you—made him want to jump from a boat. But instead, he read on.

February 2, 1914

It was a joke. Just a prank.

"She'll cry and beg to be let out," one of them whispered, giggling behind her lace glove. "Let's see if Miss Perfect is still so polite in the dark."

The door slammed. The lock clicked.

The dark swallowed me whole.

I did not beg.

I bit my tongue until I tasted iron and waited. And when they let me out—smirking, triumphant—I smoothed my skirts, fixed my hair, and walked past them as if I had not spent the last hour choking on the thick, dusty air.

They did not like that.

"A little too perfect, isn’t she?"

(They will do it again.)

Satoru’s eyebrows furrowed as his gaze lingered on the next entry. You were trapped. Locked in a closet by the very people you probably thought were your friends. It was sickening. He almost couldn't finish reading—his stomach lurched with disgust. The way you didn't beg... it said so much about you. You must’ve been used to pain by then, used to being pushed aside and ignored. But still—you walked out of there like nothing had happened, like you didn’t carry the weight of what they had just done to you.

Satoru shook his head, muttering to himself, “Cowards. All of them.” He clenched the paper tighter in his hand. He hated the idea of you facing that kind of cruelty alone, without anyone there to stop it. He could feel it—your loneliness, your frustration, your unwillingness to break. And somehow, it only made him want to be there for you more. He'd never admit it, but there was a strange urge within him to make it right—even if it was a century too late.

February 10, 1914

Today, I found a sparrow with a broken wing. I named him Edgar (after Poe, of course).

I should have left him alone. Mother says I should not dirty my hands with such things. But he was shivering—how could I leave him?

Viscount Salvatore saw me, kneeling in the grass, my gloves stained with dirt. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Then, just as he passed, he murmured, "Don’t name it. You’ll only make it harder."

He has such an awful way of speaking. Always so practical. So cold.

(He was right. Edgar did not make it through the night.)

Satoru didn’t expect to feel as deeply affected by this entry. You found a broken bird and tried to help it. Just like the kittens. Just like everything else. He read about the sparrow, Edgar, and that bitter, practical remark from Viscount Salvatore.

He rolled his eyes. That guy was cold, wasn’t he? It was almost like he couldn't even understand that you just wanted to do something kind. His jaw clenched slightly at the thought of this Viscount, cold and indifferent. Did he not understand the pain of losing something you tried so desperately to save?

“You deserved better than that.” Satoru muttered quietly to himself. He could barely comprehend it, but it stung to think of you, caring for something so fragile, and yet not having anyone there to help you when you needed it most. He could almost hear the sadness in your voice, like you were speaking not just about the bird, but about yourself.

February 13, 1914

Razor blades in my book bag today.

I did not see them in time.

A sharp sting—red seeping into my gloves, blooming against the pale silk like a dying rose.

A girl gasped.

One of them. The one who used to call me her friend.

She reached for me, hesitated. Opened her mouth—closed it.

Did nothing.

(They are all cowards.)

I smiled at her anyway.

(It is getting harder to smile.)

The entry made Satoru stop in his tracks. Razor blades? What the hell...? He had to reread the paragraph twice, the sharpness of the words sinking into him with every line. It was hard to stomach—knowing that someone, one of the people who had once called you their friend, did this to you. Left you bleeding and didn’t even care.

He felt a fire burning in his chest now, a rage that was foreign to him. A strange protectiveness, something darker, almost suffocating. He didn't know how you had kept going through all this. And yet, you had. You smiled through it all, even when everything in the world was trying to break you.

Satoru stood up suddenly, pacing around the room. He was aware of how ridiculous this was—he didn’t even know you. But damn it, you deserved someone who would’ve fought for you. Someone who would’ve taken those blades from your hands and never let you feel alone.

February 14, 1914

Viscount Salvatore pulled out a chair for me today.

The smallest thing. A flick of his wrist. A glance in my direction. A murmured, "Miss L/N."

But I have not been spoken to kindly in so long.

For a moment, my eyes burned. My throat ached.

But I said nothing. I only sat.

And when I looked up—just for a second—he was already watching me.

(What a strange, strange man.)

Satoru’s fingers lightly brushed over the paper. He didn’t know what it was, but something about that entry—Viscount Salvatore pulling out a chair for you—made him pause. He didn't react outwardly, keeping his face carefully blank, but internally? There was a slight stir of discomfort. It was such a small, insignificant thing, yet it meant so much to you. A simple gesture, something that should’ve been normal.

He imagined the quiet moment, your surprise. The thought that such a little thing could make you feel seen, even for a second, gnawed at him. A frustrated sigh left his lips. Why did it have to be like that? If he were there—if only he were there, he would’ve shown you kindness, not just with gestures, but with actions. But that was a thought he quickly pushed aside, frustrated by how much time had slipped through his fingers. He kept reading, though.

February 20, 1914

I have decided. I loathe Viscount Salvatore.

He is insufferable. He speaks in riddles and always looks as if he is laughing at me. I do not know why I bother thinking of him.

(He held the door open for me today. Said nothing. Just waited.)

(I hate him.)

A faint chuckle escaped his lips as he read the next entry. You’d decided to loathe Viscount Salvatore now. "Insufferable," you called him. Satoru almost wanted to agree, though he couldn't completely share your sentiment. He had a feeling there was more to him—more that was left unsaid. Still, it was a funny thought. Viscount Salvatore being that frustrating, mysterious figure. Satoru was intrigued by how you wrote about him with such sharpness, but the words seemed like a cover for something deeper. He wasn’t sure what, but the tension between you two was palpable.

“Is it really that bad?” he muttered, flipping the page, knowing he wasn’t going to get an answer. He felt a flicker of something, but the rest of the entry, especially with the way he “held the door open,” left him feeling... unsure. He wasn't exactly proud of it, but maybe there was some part of him that didn't want you to find comfort in anyone else.

March 2, 1914

I found a dead rat in my desk.

Its body bloated, eyes staring.

Its tiny mouth open, frozen in a silent scream.

There was a note pinned to its belly. Still feeling generous?

I swallowed back the nausea and took it outside myself.

(It is getting harder to breathe here.)

Satoru’s expression hardened as he read about the dead rat in your desk. He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to focus. The cruel games they played—it disgusted him. He could almost feel the sickening weight of it, as if it were happening right there, in front of him. Who does that? He set the paper down and ran his hand through his hair, trying to keep his composure, though his jaw was tight.

You didn’t even flinch. You simply took it outside. There was an odd kind of resolve in the way you wrote that. No begging. No breaking down. Just... handling it yourself. It made him uneasy—how much you had to endure, and how little anyone had cared. He couldn’t imagine what you went through, not yet, but the pieces were starting to come together. The cruelty. The silence. The isolation.

June 20, 1914

I am tired.

No, not tired. Weary.

I wake up with my body braced, waiting for something—waiting for the next whisper, the next cruel trick, the next unseen hand that will shove me down the stairs when no one is looking.

I have not eaten all day.

(They will not break me.)

The word “weary” hit Satoru like a punch to the gut. He could picture you, slumped in exhaustion, never having the chance to recover. He could almost hear the quiet panic that sat beneath those words. The next cruel trick, the next shove—it was too much. His hand tightened around the paper as he read on.

He didn’t need to know everything to understand that what you were going through wasn’t just physical. It was something deeper. Something that made your bones ache and your heart heavy. And yet, here you were, still breathing, still defiant. He let out a breath, annoyed at the powerlessness he felt just from reading your words.

July 24, 1914

I am going to the party.

They said they want to start over. That it was all just foolish jealousy. That they want to be friends.

I should not believe them.

I know I should not believe them.

But I am so, so tired of being alone.

Just for one night, I want to pretend I belong.

Satoru frowned, eyes narrowing. The truth was already in your words before you even said it. He felt an odd mix of sympathy and frustration as you told yourself you were going to the party—hoping, wishing to belong, even for just one night. He had to read that part again, swallowing a lump in his throat.

He flipped the page; the diary ended. Satoru immediately scrambled to pull out another stack of papers from the binder.

Final Entries – Found Scribbled in the Dark on Stationary available inside the closet

(Archivist - Stray pages, ink smudged. Words scratched over and rewritten as if she could not make her fingers hold steady.)

July 25, 1914

They lied.

Of course they lied.

The music was loud. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and laughter. For the first time in years, I thought—maybe.

Then hands.

Grabbing. Dragging.

"Let’s see how perfect you are now."

They locked me inside.

A closet. Small. Cramped.

The door will not open.

It has been hours.

(Or has it? I can’t tell.)

No one is coming.

The change in tone was abrupt, and Satoru’s pulse quickened as he read about the party. He could feel the shift, the claustrophobia, the betrayal seeping through the paper. The scribbled words—he could almost hear you gasping for air, trapped in that small closet.

“They lied.” That one line stung. It was so raw. He couldn’t make sense of it. He couldn’t make it right. But he had to know—he had to understand why you were forgotten. He had to keep reading, even if it made his heart feel like it was crumbling under the weight.

???, 1914

How many hours has it been?

They will come back.

They must come back.

Please, please, please—

My throat aches.

I screamed until my throat bled.

No one heard.

No one wants to hear.

(They have forgotten me.)

Satoru’s hands clenched around the papers. They had broken you in ways that even time couldn’t erase. And he could do nothing. He gritted his teeth, struggling to stay composed, but it was impossible to ignore the ache that had settled in his chest. You’d screamed until your throat bled, and they had... forgotten you.

Satoru sat with his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled against his lips as he read the next entries. He was quiet now, the usual restless energy in his body drained away, leaving only a tense stillness. The words on the page felt heavier with each line.

???, 1914

I am thirsty.

I am so thirsty.

If I press my ear against the door, I can hear the music.

(Another party?)

They are still dancing.

They are still laughing.

They are still living.

And I am here.

Satoru’s throat felt tight. He swallowed against it, as if somehow that would make up for the dryness that must have burned through yours. He could picture it too clearly—the way your lips must have cracked, your voice reduced to a rasp.

And yet, they were still dancing.

Satoru exhaled sharply. You were still there, forgotten, while life carried on just outside the door. The thought made him nauseous.

His fingers flexed against the paper. If I had been there... But he hadn’t been. No one had. That was the entire tragedy of it.

???, 1914

It is quiet.

No music. No voices.

Something has happened.

Why won’t anyone come?

Satoru’s breath slowed. You didn’t know. You had no idea that while you were trapped in that suffocating darkness, the world outside had shifted.

They left.

No one had opened the door. No one had checked. It wasn’t even malice at this point—it was worse. It was indifference.

His jaw clenched. You weren’t even aware that the world had moved on without you. You were just waiting. Waiting for a help that would never come.

July 28, 1914

Sirens.

War.

The halls are empty.

They have all gone home.

No one remembers I am here.

No one remembers at all.

Sirens. The first world war. The absence. His hand trembled. The emptiness of the halls. You had been forgotten amidst the chaos, the madness of the world falling apart. He hated the feeling of it. The helplessness. The way everything—everything—slipped away, leaving only that quiet, sickening silence. He muttered a curse under his breath, feeling a heavy weight in his stomach.

You had been alone. And it wasn’t just the physical isolation. It was the fact that no one even cared enough to remember you.

???, 1914

(Archivist - The ink is uneven, pressed too hard into the paper—her hand must have been shaking.)

I dreamed of Viscount Salvatore.

He pulled out a chair for me again.

Only this time, when I sat, he turned to me and said, "I see you."

I woke up crying.

(He will not remember me either.)

Viscount Salvatore was back in your dreams. And now, Satoru was reading about how you woke up crying. He shook his head slowly, his eyes closing briefly. Even in your lonely moments, he was there, haunting you—both a comfort and a torment. He could almost see it in his mind, the way Viscount Salvatore's distant gaze would have held some measure of regret, maybe even longing. But none of that would ever matter now.

“Damn it,” Satoru cursed under his breath. He didn't even know what he was mad at—himself, the Viscount, or fate. The whole damn situation. You didn’t deserve any of it.

???, 1914

There is no light.

I am afraid to sleep. Afraid I will wake up and it will still be dark. Afraid I won’t wake up at all.

I think I can hear something scratching. Or maybe it is just my own heartbeat.

Satoru shut his eyes for a brief second. That sentence—it was worse than the others. It wasn't just physical anymore. It wasn’t just being locked inside. It was the fear creeping in.

Afraid to sleep. Afraid to wake up and still be in the dark. Afraid to never wake up at all.

He felt sick. You weren’t even sure if you existed anymore. If you were real.

He let his head drop forward slightly, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. It was just a diary. Just words. So why did it feel like they were clawing at something inside of him?

???, 1914

I had a Mother?

Satoru’s eyes flicked back to the page, scanning the sentence again.

His stomach twisted.

You were unraveling.

That was what this was. Not just hunger. Not just thirst. Your mind was fraying at the edges, breaking apart piece by piece.

He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, a strange, suffocating weight settling in his chest. You had been alone for so long that even memories were slipping away.

You were forgetting yourself.

???, 1914

I dreamed of the kittens.

They were hungry. So was I.

I woke up biting my sleeve.

Satoru closed his eyes again. That dream—it wasn’t just a memory. It was your body crying out, pulling at whatever fragments of warmth it could find.

And when you woke up, you were biting your sleeve.

His lips pressed into a tight line. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to picture you curled up in the dark, trying to trick yourself into feeling full.

He ran a hand through his hair, swallowing hard.

???, 1914

I have started whispering my own name.

I am afraid I will forget it.

Satoru blinked. The words blurred for a second before coming back into focus.

You were losing yourself. The last thing you had—the only thing left. Your own name. And even that was slipping.

His grip on the paper was too tight now. He forced himself to relax his fingers before he crumpled it.

You had been so, so alone.

???, 1914

I do not want to die like this.

I do not want to die in the dark.

Satoru’s shoulders tensed, but he forced himself to read it again.

You knew. By then, you knew.

It was no longer just fear. It was a final, quiet understanding.

Satoru’s hand came up, fingers pressing lightly against his temple. He had read countless things in his life—reports, records, confessions. But this?

This was someone—you—begging the universe for something it had already denied you.

???, 1914

Did he ever think of me?

Did Viscount Salvatore ever notice that I was gone?

(I am so, so cold.)

???, 1914

I can hear it raining.

There is no hunger anymore.

No thirst.

Just cold.

So, so cold.

???, ????

(Archivist - Final entry. Ink smeared, nearly unreadable.)

If someone finds this—Please—Please remember me.

Satoru didn’t move.

He stared at the words, his vision blurring for a moment before sharpening again.

His throat felt tight.

His grip on the page softened, and he slowly, carefully, set it down.

Satoru wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with this—this aching, gnawing thing in his chest. He didn’t have the words for it. But as he reached for the next stack of papers.

Newspaper Articles

(Archivist - Yellowed clippings, brittle at the edges. No one speaks of her anymore.)

DAUGHTER OF L/N FAMILY MISSING – UNIVERSITY REFUSES COMMENT (July 27, 1914)

Miss L/N, the only daughter of the esteemed L/N family, has been reported missing for over a week. The university has declined to comment, insisting that Miss L/N likely departed of her own volition.

Her parents, Mr. and Mrs. L/N, have offered a sizable reward for any information regarding her whereabouts.

SEARCH FOR MISSING HEIRESS ENDS IN TRAGEDY – PARENTS DECLARED DEAD (December 3, 1916)

After two years of relentless searching, Mr. and Mrs. L/N have perished under tragic circumstances. Their estate, heavily in debt from the investigation, is to be auctioned off.

Miss L/N’s disappearance remains unsolved.

RENOVATIONS UNCOVER HIDDEN CLOSET – HUMAN REMAINS FOUND (March 5, 1957)

Construction teams working on university renovations discovered a sealed-off closet in the west wing. Inside, they found skeletal remains, still clad in a deteriorated silk gown. A diary was found nearby, though much of its ink had faded with time. Officials report that the identity of the remains is unknown, as no records exist of any missing student matching the description.

No further investigation is planned.

THE DAILY GAZETTE

Est. 1896

Thursday, March 7, 1957

PRICE: 10 CENTS

MYSTERY OF THE FORGOTTEN GIRL: REMAINS DISCOVERED IN UNIVERSITY WALLS

Renovation Workers Uncover Skeleton, Raising Chilling Questions About the Past

By George L. Whitmore

SHIZUKA CITY—A routine renovation at one of the country’s most prestigious universities took a macabre turn last week when construction workers stumbled upon a hidden closet sealed within the walls of the East Wing. Inside, they found the skeletal remains of a young woman, her body curled as if she had simply lain down and never risen again. The discovery has sent shockwaves through the academic community, raising unsettling questions about how she came to be there—and why no one ever looked for her.

The identity of the deceased remains unknown. No records exist of a missing student from the time period estimated by forensic specialists—likely the early 20th century. But one thing is certain: she was left there. Forgotten.

A Name Erased

The East Wing, once a grand structure funded by old money and aristocratic influence, had been largely abandoned for decades before renovations began last fall. The university, now bearing the Gojo family name, was once under the patronage of another dynasty—one that, curiously, has all but vanished from historical record.

Researchers digging into archived documents found faint traces of a once-powerful benefactor: the L/N family. According to a 1907 university registry, the L/Ns were among the wealthiest patrons of the institution. From Arms dealings, their contributions were responsible for much of its early expansion. And yet, no descendants remain. No estate. No legacy.

A mere decade after their peak, the family seems to have disappeared altogether. Their name erased. Their wealth scattered.

And now, this girl—the girl in the closet.

A Harmless Prank Gone Horribly Wrong?

The discovery has sparked whispered theories among university staff and alumni. Some recall long-forgotten stories, rumors passed down like ghost stories in dormitory halls. Stories of a girl. Beautiful. Intelligent. Kind. Too kind.

“She was perfect, too perfect,” said one retired professor, who wished to remain anonymous. “People resented her for it. The way the faculty admired her. The way she carried herself. There were whispers, of course—ugly, jealous things. But back then, the school was different. There were rules about what could and could not be spoken aloud.”

While no official reports exist of bullying, former students who attended in the early 1900s recall the cruel pranks that were common among the elite circles of the time. Stolen books. Torn dresses. Whispered mockeries disguised as etiquette lessons.

Then there was the incident at a party—a party that took place just before the world changed forever.

“She went missing that night,” said another source, a woman in her seventies who had attended the university in the years following the First World War. “There were rumors, of course. But no one ever spoke of it directly. And then the war came, and everything was forgotten. Just like that.”

What started as a childish prank—locking a girl in a storage closet—became something else entirely when the world was plunged into chaos. Sirens screamed. Students fled. The university shut its doors. And no one, not a single soul, remembered to let her out.

A Legacy Stolen by Time

The timing is chilling. The L/N family vanished not long after. Their once-glorious estate burned to the ground under mysterious circumstances. With their wealth depleted in a desperate search for their missing daughter, they faded into obscurity, lost to history. Meanwhile, the university found a new patron—one with deeper pockets, stronger influence. The Gojo family.

“Nothing stays empty for long,” remarked historian Dr. Henry Carrington. “Power abhors a vacuum. One name disappears; another takes its place. That’s how history works. The question is whether it was simply fate... or something more deliberate.”

What Comes Next?

For now, the remains of the forgotten girl lie in the care of forensic specialists, who will attempt to identify her and, perhaps, grant her the dignity she was denied in life. The university has yet to release an official statement, though sources indicate there are plans to memorialize the discovery.

Still, the air remains heavy with unspoken truths. A legacy buried beneath floorboards. A name erased. A girl left to die in the dark, her existence fading from memory even as the institution she was meant to inherit flourished without her.

And now, decades later, she has returned. Not as a scholar. Not as an heir.

But as a skeleton in the walls of a university that no longer remembers her name.

Satoru understood what had happened.

---

1914

The first time they locked you inside, it was supposed to be a joke. A harmless prank.

“You’ll cry and beg to be let out,” one of them whispered, a cruel giggle curling around her words as she hid her smirk behind a lace-gloved hand. “Let’s see if Miss Perfect is still so polite in the dark.”

You cried.

But you didn’t beg.

Not that night.

Not yet.

It didn’t surprise you. You’d always known people resented you. You were the only child of the L/N family—their legacy was carved in the very stone of the university. Wealth, power, influence, all wrapped in a name that commanded respect. Your family had funded these halls, shaped them. Built them.

And you were meant to carry that weight forward, to live up to expectations that came with being the heir of such a name. You studied hard, spoke softly, helped others without a second thought. You tried to meet the world with grace.

But you had made one mistake.

You were kind. Too kind.

You didn’t wear your last name like armor. You didn’t command respect with a gaze sharp enough to cut or a voice cold enough to freeze. You didn’t move like royalty among commoners. You spoke gently, smiled too much, helped without expecting anything in return.

And that, apparently, was enough to make them hate you.

They called you perfect. A fraud wrapped in silk and sweetness. A girl born to wealth, yet untouched by cruelty. It made them sick to their stomachs. They told themselves your kindness was a mask. That you were pretending. That behind your soft smile, you looked down on them.

The whispers slithered through the hallways, filled every corner of every dormitory, echoed between the benches in lecture halls. “She must think she’s better than us.” The rumors crept, fed by jealousy and disdain, each one sinking deeper, until they made it their mission to tear you down.

It started small. Stolen assignments. Ink spilled all over your uniform. Books knocked from your arms as you passed, their laughter trailing behind you like a shadow.

But then the pranks grew worse. Razor blades slipped into the lining of your bag, waiting to slice your fingers. Your tea, laced with ink, stained your lips and tongue black for hours. Dead rats left in your desk drawers, bloated and stinking, their decaying bodies a cruel reminder of their hatred.

You had friends—or you thought you did. But when you looked to them, their smiles faltered. They said nothing. Did nothing. They looked away.

So, you endured it all alone.

Then came the night of the party.

You hadn’t wanted to go. But one of the girls, the one you still foolishly believed to be a friend, begged you. She said everyone wanted to start over, that they regretted their childish jealousy and were ready to put it behind them.

You wanted to believe it. You wanted so badly to believe that people could change, that cruelty wasn’t the default. You wanted to believe that if you just endured long enough, they would see you for who you really were.

So, you went.

The music was loud, thick with the beat of drums and the pulse of electric guitars. The air was heavy with smoke, alcohol, and the scent of youth gone wild. Laughter rang out, spinning around you as people twirled under lantern light. For the first time in years, you thought maybe—just maybe—you weren’t so alone after all.

But then, hands grabbed you.

They pulled you, dragged you away from the laughter, from the light, down the dim hallway that felt colder with every step. You struggled, but there were too many of them. Nails dug into your skin, and their breath reeked of whiskey and sweat.

They laughed. “Let’s see how perfect you are now.”

The closet was small. Cramped. A tiny, forgotten storage room in the corner of the building, filled with old books and dusty supplies. They shoved you inside.

You stumbled, tripping over the rough wooden floor, your hands scraping against the splintered walls. The door slammed behind you, the sound of the lock clicking echoing in your chest. You barely had time to press yourself against the door before it shut you in complete darkness.

“Let’s see how sweet you are after this,” they jeered, and then they were gone.

At first, you thought it was a joke. Any second now, they would open the door, laughing, saying it was just a prank. The music outside was still loud. The sounds of celebration filled your ears, muffling your screams and your frantic banging against the door.

They would let you out.

Of course, they would.

Wouldn’t they?

You banged harder. Screamed louder.

But no one came.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. Two.

Your fists were raw, your throat burned from the screams, but still, nothing.

At some point, you must have fallen asleep. When you woke up, your mouth was dry, your body stiff and cold. You were still in your party dress, but your shoes were gone. You had lost them somewhere, in the chaos of being dragged.

You banged again. Screamed louder.

Nothing.

More hours passed. Maybe a day. You tried to count the time, but it blurred. The darkness stole all sense of it.

Then, one night—though you couldn’t tell if it was day or night anymore—something changed.

The university went silent.

The once-bustling halls were empty. The voices, the laughter, the music—gone.

In the distance, you heard sirens. A sound that felt like the last thread of the world unraveling.

The world was at war.

Overnight, everything collapsed. Students fled. Professors disappeared. The university shut down.

And no one, not a single soul, remembered that you were still locked in that closet.

The hunger was unbearable at first. You pressed your hands against your stomach as it twisted in agony, but after a while, even hunger faded into the background. The thirst, however, never left. Your lips cracked, your throat burned, your vision swam.

But you were too weak to scream now.

At some point, you stopped feeling anything at all.

No one remembered the girl in the closet.

Days passed. Maybe weeks. Maybe months.

But in the end, it didn’t matter.

There was only silence.

When they finally reopened that part of the university—years, maybe decades later, during renovations—the workers found a hidden closet behind the walls. They found a skeleton, still curled on the floor, clutching the remains of a tattered dress.

No one knew who you were. Your records were gone.

The L/N family was erased from history.

Your parents had searched for you. Desperately. They spent every penny, called in every favor, tore the world apart looking for their only child.

But war doesn’t care for grieving parents.

They died before they could uncover the truth. Your home burned. And with them, the name that had once shaped this university disappeared from the records.

The buildings once funded by your family were renamed. The university you were supposed to inherit now bore another family’s name.

The Gojo family.

And you?

You had simply ceased to exist.

---

Present Day

Satoru stared at the newspaper article in his hands, the words blurring as his chest tightened. It felt like someone had reached into him, squeezing the air from his lungs until he couldn’t breathe. His vision wavered, the paper in his hands turning into nothing more than a smear of ink and empty noise.

He had spent the entire night digging. Searching. Prying through the layers of forgotten history no one had cared to remember. And now—

Now, he wished he hadn’t.

His chest ached. His stomach churned with the weight of it. He hadn’t expected to find this. He hadn’t expected to feel the crushing blow of reality, the terrible, suffocating guilt that twisted through him like a knife.

You had smiled at him.

how your fingers had trembled in his hands, how your wide, nervous eyes had held so much uncertainty, yet a quiet hope. And when you kissed him, your lips soft and warm against his, it had been the kind of kiss that felt like it was long overdue—like you’d been waiting a lifetime for someone to touch you.

And now he knew why.

You had been waiting for a hundred years.

A hundred years of silence. A hundred years of darkness. A hundred years of loneliness so deep it suffocated you, a cruel weight on your chest that no one had ever bothered to lift.

He thought about the closet. The cramped, suffocating space. The darkness. The silence that stretched on for years, unbroken. The pain of realizing no one was coming, no one cared.

The students who had shoved you inside. The laughter as they walked away, their voices fading into the distance while you were left to rot alone in a forgotten corner of the university. The friends who had seen it happen and did nothing. The ones who had turned their backs when you needed them most.

Satoru’s chest tightened further, a sharp pain stabbing through him. His teeth ground together, his jaw clenched so tight it felt like it might crack. His hands shook, trembled violently, as if they could somehow undo what had been done, erase the horror of it all.

He wanted to break something. Throw something. Tear through this cursed world and go back, back to that night, back to when he could’ve stopped it. To rip open that damn door and pull you into his arms, to tell you that you were never alone. That he would have fought for you. That someone—anyone—should have fought for you.

But it was too late.

One hundred years too late.

He sucked in a shaky breath, but it didn’t help. His lungs felt tight, and his throat closed up, like something was blocking the air. His hands shook as he traced the edges of the photograph in front of him. A group of students stood there, stiff and formal, their faces solemn in that black-and-white world of the early 1900s. They were so... distant. Detached. Like they were living in a world completely untouched by joy, by life.

And then there was you.

At the edge of the group, standing out like a ghost, yet so very present. Your soft features. Your gentle eyes. Your delicate, hopeful expression that somehow still managed to look so... lonely.

Beneath the photo, in delicate cursive handwriting, the caption read: "Class of 1914. Including Miss Y/N, the only child of the L/N family—our university’s first founding patrons."

Satoru’s breath caught in his throat.

Your name should have been everywhere. It should have been on every plaque, in every building, carved into the very bones of this place. Your family had built this school, laid its foundations with their blood and wealth. You had been the heir, the future.

And yet—

No one remembered your name.

Satoru’s pulse pounded in his ears, a frantic rhythm that seemed to echo in his chest. His fingers curled into the paper, the fragile edges crinkling beneath his grip. His heart hammered in his chest as he clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to scream.

This school, his school, had been built on the L/N family name. Your family’s legacy was supposed to be immortal, etched into the very structure of the place. And yet, all he saw now were the names of the Gojo family—his family—everywhere. The library. The dormitories. The lecture halls.

Your family had been erased.

A sickening wave of anger washed over him. He wanted to scream, to tear the world apart. He wanted to shove the truth in their faces, shove it into the faces of everyone who’d forgotten you. Everyone who had abandoned you. But more than anything—he wanted to go back.

He wanted to go back to that night.

He wanted to break down that fucking door, drag you into the light, and tell you, "You weren’t alone. You’ll never be alone again."

But he couldn’t.

It was too late.

One hundred years too late.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of your face lingered. You, the girl who had been forgotten. The girl whose name had been erased from history. The girl who had waited for someone to remember, to fight for her. The girl who had suffered alone.

No one remembered you now.

But Satoru did.

A/N: Did you get who Viscount Salvatore was?

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