#she’s kind of a blunt instrument

[morgacht]

Day 3 - Old OC - Fiadh Soot step cloud

Fiadh ! My little lady, my first character (a Charr ranger)

Formerly of the Soot warband, Fiadh’s an ash legion ranger who really has spend her time out in the wilds to the detriment of her social skills. Her first warband was pretty disfunctional, and while that’s not. Great. She kind of really wishes they hadn’t gone and DIED-

She didn’t languish as a gladium for long however, taking back up with the Cloud warband and changing her name accordingly.

She like. Fairly languishing around level 35 right now, smh. And she has been since 2020! I just didn’t vibe with ranger so much and used a lv. 80 boost on morg and RUINED MYSELF

She’s fun, she has stuff I could work with and I’ll certainly get back to playing a ranger eventually. I just prefer Elementslist and Mesmer right at the moment.

[kabsey]

It's time for... the Dellamorte thought of the day! Yay!

Today's theory: Caterina favored Lucanis because they share the same (unhealthy) coping mechanism.

When Davrin asks Lucanis how he survived the Ossuary, he says that he "shut down completely," ignoring any thought or feeling that did not relate to survival and escape.

I would be willing to bet Lucanis's favorite cooking utensil that Caterina did the same thing when her family was murdered. I bet the pyres weren't even cold before she started the boys' training. Her brain blocked it all out except for one thought: keep these boys alive.

And this suited Lucanis fine. ("I don't need time. I need to work.") He saw his grandmother lock all that terrible pain and grief away, and he said, "Great idea, Nonna."

But what if Illario couldn't? What if he needed to cry and had nightmares and broke things when he couldn't take the horror of it all? What if every time he did, it reminded Caterina and Lucanis of the agony they were trying so desperately to ignore? What if it made him vulnerable?

"Vulnerability could get him killed!" shouted Caterina's brain.

So she tried to beat it out of him. She berated him for his weakness. She encouraged Lucanis to disdain him, using his cousin as another blunt instrument with which to punish him for the grave sin of having feelings ("with which to save him," corrected her brain).

So the three of them never properly mourned: Caterina and Lucanis as a way of coping and Illario because he was forbidden to.

And I don't think it's possible for any combination of the three of them to have any kind of real relationships with each other until they take the time to grieve that first horrible loss.

I think Illario could if he got away from them and the Crows, at least for a while. I have less hope for Lucanis, but perhaps he could if he ever became a father and/or fledgling trainer and realized how damaging it is to treat children that way. He may even get glimpses of it when he becomes First Talon and, for the first time in his life, is responsible for someone's life besides his own.

Or perhaps he sees his friends mourn their own losses during Veilguard, and he, in time, slowly asks how they do it. (Imagine how much Emmrich could help him. No wonder Lucanis hates the Necropolis and its reminders of death. But imagine if he could learn to appreciate some of its beauties.)

I don't know if Caterina could ever truly mourn the loss she suffered. It's too big, and she has hidden from it for three decades. The killers who murdered her children and grandchildren also murdered whoever Caterina Dellamorte was before that day.

[decagondice]

༓ Headless & Heartless ༓

Soft!Sukuna x Reader, sfw From the hidden corners of your mind, the angel and devil watch, each seeing a man softened by devotion as a love once unyielding blooms into something both fierce and tender.

[This was largely inspired by Alesis by Mk.gee and one theory about the song.]

It began as a quiet evening, the kind that slips in unnoticed—a slow bloom of amber light through the curtained windows, spilling onto worn wooden floors. The air held that peculiar hush that falls over a house where two people have long learned each other's rhythms. Sukuna sat on the low couch, his broad frame silhouetted against the flicker of a muted television, though he wasn’t paying attention to the screen. His eyes, dark and inscrutable, followed you instead as you moved about the room, collecting little forgotten things—a stray book here, a glass of water left by the window. He said nothing, but his presence, weighty and magnetic, seemed to tug at the edges of the space between you.

You didn’t look at him, not directly. There was no need. The two of you had been together long enough that his gaze felt as familiar as the brush of a breeze across your skin. Still, there was a tension in the way he watched you, a simmering intensity that never fully left him. It wasn’t unkind—not exactly—but it was intimidating, as though Sukuna himself wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the depth of his feelings.

From afar, on the unseen edges of this tender tableau, two figures observed. The angel and the devil, perched like sentinels on the threshold of your subconscious. Neither could be seen, and yet they watched with a keen intimacy, their forms more a suggestion than anything corporeal.

The devil, draped lazily across an unseen seat, let out a low whistle. "Y’know," he began, his voice deep and faintly raspy, carrying a lilt like the curl of smoke, "I’m still not entirely convinced he’s the right fit for her."

The angel, ever serene, didn’t turn her head. Her gaze remained fixed on the scene before them—you, brushing a stray hair behind your ear as Sukuna’s hand drifted, almost absentmindedly, to the book you had left beside him. He picked it up, his fingers tracing the spine in a way that was almost contemplative.

"I’ve had the same thoughts," the angel murmured after a pause, her voice like the soft rustle of leaves in autumn. She folded her hands neatly in her lap. "He’s… brusque, to say the least. Intimidating. Rough around the edges." She sighed, the sound filled with an unspoken worry that only caretakers know. "I was afraid, too. Afraid he would hurt her. That his world would swallow hers whole."

The devil snorted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "And? You still think she’s not in over her head? C’mon, angel, look at him." He gestured broadly toward Sukuna, whose brow furrowed slightly as he turned the page of your book. "The guy’s got all the refinement of a blunt instrument—effective, sure, but hardly delicate."

The angel smiled faintly, shaking her head. "Look closer," she whispered.

And so the devil did. His sharp eyes, always so quick to spot the cracks in the armor, softened just slightly as he watched Sukuna. There was something in the way his fingers brushed against the worn edge of the book before setting it aside—an afterthought, because his true interest was elsewhere. In you. His gaze lingered as you moved, as though committing to memory the way the light caught in your hair or how the soft rhythm of your breathing filled the quiet. A brief moment—so subtle it could almost be missed—but the devil caught it nonetheless, that unspoken gravity that pulled him toward you, as inevitable as the tide to the shore.

"Huh," the devil murmured, tilting his head slightly. "I’ll admit it—he’s… altered himself in her presence."

The angel hummed, a quiet agreement. "They changed each other," she said softly. "He’s still unyielding. He always will be. But she’s stronger than you give her credit for. And he…" She let the thought trail off, her gaze lingering on the faintest curve of a smile tugging at Sukuna’s lips as he seemed to ponder something, his mind drifting to the words he might say to you next. "He’s found something in her he never thought he’d have."

The devil leaned back, his expression unreadable. "You mean love," he said, the word falling from his mouth as though it were foreign to him. He smirked, but there was no malice in it. "Didn’t peg the guy for it."

"Love doesn’t always look the way we expect it to," the angel replied. "It can be unrefined, yes. But it can also be unwavering. Nourishing. Even a man like Sukuna can…" Her voice faltered, just for a moment, as though she herself were moved by the scene before them. "Even he can learn to be soft when it matters."

Below, Sukuna rose from the couch, each motion measured. You barely looked up as he approached, only tilting your head when his hand reached out to brush against yours. It was such a small thing—the briefest contact, a fleeting warmth—but it spoke volumes in a language only the two of you seemed to understand. He muttered something under his breath, and you laughed, the sound like sunlight breaking through clouds.

"See?" The angel’s voice was almost inaudible now, a thread of sound woven into the stillness. "He doesn’t just care for her. He… yearns for her. It’s subtle, but it’s there."

The devil grunted, crossing his arms. "Alright, alright," he relented, though his tone was more grudging admiration than defeat. "You’ve got a point. He’s not all bad. Still think he’s a bit of an ass, though."

The angel’s laugh was light and fleeting. "He is," she agreed. "But he’s hers to deal with."

And as the two figures faded back into the recesses of your mind, the scene below unfolded with quiet grace. Sukuna wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer in a way that spoke not of possessiveness, but of a man who had learned to treasure what he thought he’d never deserve. You leaned into him, your body fitting against his as though you had always belonged there. The moment was unspoken, unhurried, yet it was everything.

For Sukuna, love had once been a barren thing, an endless wasteland where he had wandered alone. But now, with you, it was something entirely different. It was rough edges smoothed by gentle hands, a fire that burned without consuming. It was juxtaposing—harsh yet tender, rough yet soft. And as he held you, his heart, once a desolate place, filled with a warmth he couldn’t name but knew he would never let go of.

The truth lingered in the air, precious and enduring: you had changed him, and he, in turn, had found a home in you.

A.N. Thank you so much for reading!!! I've been in a slump recently and but I am slowly but surely getting out of it, so please expect more works by me in the future :D

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Collision Course

14/12: Blizzard and Blowjob - Ettore Word Count: 2.7k~ | Warnings: dub-con, face fucking, Ettore is a dick yada yada, facial

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

A/N: I was on something nasty when I wrote this FYI

“Dibs says there’s gonna be a solar storm soon. With any luck it’ll take us with it”, Mink mutters distastefully between bites of lumpy, cold rations.

“Hm..” 

“What’s that old cunt gonna do when it hits? Not like we have any escape pods.”

“Yeah…” she murmurs half-heartedly in response, only partially listening. Lost in the repetitive motion of pushing her food around her plate with a fork. It doesn’t even look edible, she thinks with displeasure. They’re all dying on this stupid ship, and somehow the rations look worse off.

Mink flicks her hand against her arm, prompting a sharp look, “Ow! What the fuck—”

“You’re not listening to me.”

She scoffs, rubbing her arm in more of a theatrical way than to show it actually hurt. “So?”

“The hell’s wrong with you? You’ve been weird a few days now.”

It’s been longer than that, is all she thinks with bitterness. About a week now she’d wager. 

Longer than that, really, she thinks with a familiar bitterness. About a week, she figures, maybe a little more. She’d known getting involved would be a bad idea. She knew better than to get involved with him, to anyone on this miserable tin can. But there had been that inescapable pull, that sharp ache that was part loneliness, part hormones maybe, stupid as it seemed now. And now, she was paying for it.

Mink’s voice pulls her back. “Is this about… Ettore?”

The name hangs in the air like smoke. She freezes, doesn’t answer, just stares hard at her plate. Mink leans closer, her brows drawn.

“Oh, come on. You think I didn’t notice?”

She wants to lie, but somehow, she doesn’t have the energy to. So, she shrugs, and that’s enough to make Mink snort.

“Thought you were smarter than that,” Mink says, and it’s not unkind, exactly, just blunt in the way only Mink can be. “You know what kind of guy he is.”

She sighs, finally pushing her tray aside. There’s no point pretending the food’s worth eating. "I’m not exactly winning any prizes for smart decisions lately, am I?"

Mink snorts. Glad she’s finding this amusing, she thinks bitterly, but really holding no resentment. 

“We have enough on our plate without getting tangled up with wanting dick. Not to mention it’s against the rules.”

“I’m aware,” she states bleakly, feeling that familiar flicker of irritation at the reminder. As if she needed another living soul to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. She’d done the worst things imaginable to end up here, as had everyone else, and yet that slimy, smirking doctor was gonna tell her she couldn’t fuck whoever she wanted? 

That was the reasoning initially anyway.

Now, she knew there’d be consequences if Dibs did find out. Punishment in the form of what metal instrument she could shove into their bodies next. 

As much as she enjoyed the release. It wasn’t worth that. Besides, she knew there was never any future in it. Never anything more than a few stolen moments in the middle of the night. A bit of relief in the endless monotony of living in the hollow, metal hell of this ship.

“I’m done, anyway,” she says, almost to herself, “should have stopped it before it started really.”

“Should’ve, but you didn’t. But you’ve given him a taste now. Who says he’ll want to stop?”

She sighs, eyes closed. Yeah, I’d considered that.

Ettore wasn’t the type to let go of his toys easily. Especially when he’d been given something he wants, something forbidden that he knows could be taken away. It seemed that the thrill wasn’t even in the sex, it was breaking the rules that had half the appeal. 

“If he pushes, he’ll get the message I give him.”

“Sure, but he’s not exactly the type to take ‘no’ for an answer, is he?”

“No,” she admits, looking off. As usual, Mink was right there. 

She had seen that look in Ettore’s eyes, the one that says he’s already decided what he wants, and nothing will stand in his way to get it. The thought had been exhilarating at first, that singular, dangerous focus. Now, it feels like a liability, a choice she wishes she could rewrite. 

“As much as I hate to give you ammunition, you are right,” she adds, “I gave him an inch, and he’ll think he’s got the whole mile. But I’ll handle it. Somehow.” She doesn’t know exactly how yet, but one thing was clear.

She could not keep going down this path, not with the risk getting sharper and closer by the day.

When she’s alone again, the silence presses in, heavier now, weighted with the knowledge of what comes next. She takes a breath, bracing herself for the inevitable fallout. Ettore may come looking, but this time, she’s ready to hold her ground.

Maybe, she thinks, the clean break will be worth it, if she can manage it before he pulls her back in again.

The worst part of trying to keep her distance from Ettore was the way it left her awake at night, her body a knot of unresolved tension that refused to let her sleep. She lay there, wide-eyed in her bunk, staring up at the dull, metallic ceiling and then over at the other bed, where Mink was already sound asleep, breathing evenly.

Bitch, she thought with a pang of envy. 

Mink never had trouble sleeping in this place, not like she did, tossing and turning every night, gnawed at by this frustrating, white-hot need she couldn’t shake.

She shifted, but no matter how much she tried to will it away, her mind continued to drift back to the last time she’d been with Ettore. How it had felt to give in, to let that need unravel. She could still feel the press of his hands on her hips, the roughness of his touch as if he needed it as much as she did, the intense look he had given her that made her forget the rules and her situation. The risk. Everything but him. She’d wanted to stop it, she really had.

But when she had him once, that familiar fire burned in his eyes, and it was hopeless to resist.

Now she was paying for it. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to erase the memory. But the tightening in her stomach, the craving, was near unbearable. 

Must be ovulating or something, she thought bitterly back to her last appointment with Dibs.

She was sick of lying here, wallowing in horny self pity. Glancing over at Mink, she saw she hadn’t moved an inch. The cold air hit her bare legs as she swung out of bed, not even having the effort to pull anything else on as she made the mercifully short journey to the Box. She hated using it. But any relief at this point was welcomed. 

Making her way down the steel ladder, she groaned and wanted to smash her head against the nearest wall when she found it occupied. 

At least the washers are on. Whoever’s in there better be out in ten seconds flat or else–

The door slid open with a hiss. Ettore stared right back. Surprise at first perhaps. But the shadows darkened over his eyes, looking her up and down.

Fuck.

And if that wasn’t bad enough.

The alarms blared to life, shrieking through the narrow corridors as the ship jolted under the force, lights flickering wildly. A shiver shot through her, but before she could shove past him, he reached out, his fingers closing firmly around her arm.

“Ettore, let go,” she hissed, trying to pull back, but his grip only tightened, and there was a glint in his eyes that made her pulse jump.

“Not a chance,” he murmured, a dark edge to his voice.

He moved quickly, pulling her into the Box with him as the door slid shut behind them with a heavy clang. The sound of the emergency lock echoed around them, trapping them in the confined, dimly lit room. She tried to turn, to make for the door controls, but it was useless, the ship’s emergency protocol had sealed them in tight. 

Emergency. Solar Storm. Automatic shutdown is in effect.

She was locked in with him, and judging by the way he was watching her, Ettore had no intentions of keeping his hands to himself.

With an annoyed huff, she slammed her palms against the door, the low light in the Box now charged with thrumming red glints of warning lights. Steadying her breath, she turned to him, schooling her expression to something calm in the face of his low, dangerous one.

He was not happy.

“You've been avoiding me.”

It wasn’t a question. He stood tall, blocking her like some predator in a cage, his jaw tight and his eyes burning with accusation.

“Maybe I have,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall, trying to appear calm even though her pulse was racing. “Take the hint.”

Ettore’s lips curled into a humourless smirk. “That’s not how this works.”

“And here I thought this wasn’t supposed to be anything,” she scoffed right back.

“It wasn’t.” He stepped closer, and she pressed her back to the wall, her defiance faltering. “But then you decided to ignore me, and now it is.”

She swallowed, trying to do the same to the rising discomfort as he caged her in, trying to cover how she felt with her voice.

“You're all talk,” she says low, firm. “Trying to intimidate me. What you gonna do, hm? I bet you can't even get it up.”

The flash of anger in his eyes made her breath hitch. And yet, there was something about it that made her want to push him more.

He moved then, so fast she barely had time to react. One hand slammed against the wall beside her head, his body crowding hers. She should’ve been scared, should’ve shoved him away, but the sheer heat rolling off him pinned her in place.

His other came to her neck, fingers curling around her flesh, slow, deliberate, as if daring her to stop. But her lips parted slightly, exhaling so soft it was near imperceptible. She watched the pulsing red light on the side of his face, casting sharp shadows on his skin where his features were carved out.

And found she didn't want him to stop.

She swallowed hard, her bravado crumbling as his touch ignited something low and insistent in her belly. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She’d come here to forget him, to regain control, but now, locked in this room with him, her control was slipping fast.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“No, you don’t.”

Ettore’s hands were on her, firm and unyielding as he grabbed and pulled her toward the bench that stood in the middle of the dim room. She stumbled, jerking against his grip, but he didn’t let go.

“Ettore, what the hell are you doing?” she demanded, her voice rising as she struggled against him.

“Stop fighting,” he muttered, the edge in his voice sharpening as he manoeuvred her onto the bench.

She tried to push herself up, her palms bracing against the hard surface, but he was already lowering her down, his strength undeniable as he guided her head to the edge of the bench. Her neck arched uncomfortably as she twisted, glaring up at him.

“Ettore, I mean it, what the fuck are you doing?”

His hand gripped her chin, tilting her head back so she had no choice but to look up at him. The dark hunger in his eyes sent a jolt through her, half fear, half something else entirely. Stood tall over her, head level with his strained crotch.

“I’m gonna feel your throat around me.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears, watching as he pulled his erection free of his sweatpants. Her mouth went dry, a mixture of anticipation and panic rising in her gut.

“And you're gonna take every fucking inch.”

She barely had a moment to even speak, before his cock head was prying her lips apart, his length sliding mercilessly into her mouth without care of comfort. Just the idea that he was looking down, watching, as she took him, her throat trying to close around him.

Her hands instinctively rose to push at his hips, her palms flat against the hard muscles beneath his sweatpants, but he didn’t stop. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her in place as he drove himself deeper, filling her mouth until she could feel the head of him brushing against the back of her throat.

Her eyes watered, her nails digging into his hips, but he didn’t relent, his other hand gripping the edge of the bench for leverage as he rocked his hips, sliding deeper with each thrust.

Just the idea that he was looking down, watching her struggle to take him, sent a strange thrill coursing through her, a mix of frustration, humiliation, and something far darker.

He groaned, his grip on her hair tightening as he angled her head just the way he wanted. “That's it,” he breathed darkly.

Her throat clenched around him as he pushed deeper, his hips rocking with steady, deliberate thrusts that left no room for her to adjust. The stretch was intense, her lips aching as they strained around his girth. Her gag reflex fluttered again, her eyes squeezing shut as she tried to suppress the instinct, but Ettore wasn't about to let her hide.

"Don't close your eyes," he said sharply, following with a light smack to her cheek.

Her cheeks burned with humiliation, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. The smug satisfaction on his face only made her breath hotter, stuck in her chest.

"God, you're such a mess," he said, his voice dripping with mockery as he watched her struggle to accommodate him. "Look at you. Choking on me like it's the first time you've ever done this.”

Her lungs burned for air. He was relentless, thrusting into her mouth as if it were just another hole for him to claim. Each slide into her throat was deeper than the last, and the vibration of her whimpering around him made him groan out loudly.

His hand slid to her neck, as if to feel himself in her throat, squeezing experimentally, stimulating himself through her flesh in some lewd, completely wrong but erotic way.

"You feel that?" he said, his voice low and strained, using the grip he had on throat as leverage to pull her onto him harshly. “Bet you can't even breathe.”

His pace grew erratic, his grip tightening painfully as he chased his release. "Fuck," he growled, his voice breaking as his head tipped back for a moment.

Suddenly, he pulled back, his cock slipping from her mouth with a slick gasp of air that left her coughing, her chest heaving. Before she could gather her bearings or even protest, his hand was still firm in her hair, holding her in place as he stroked himself roughly.

Her stomach twisted, shame and anger warring with the simmering heat in her belly. "Ettore, don't-"

"Shut up," he cut her off, his tone sharp as his thumb angled her face up toward him. "You wanted to push me? Then take it."

She barely had time to process the words before his release hit her skin, hot and thick. He groaned deeply, his body jerking with each pulse, the sound low and guttural as he painted her face with his cum.

The humiliation burned hotter than her anger, her hands clenched into fists at her sides as he finished, the sticky warmth dripping down her cheeks, her lips. She wanted to wipe it away, to shove him off, but the way he looked at her, satisfied, smug, and utterly in control, froze her in place.

"Look at you," he muttered, his thumb smearing the mess across her cheek almost mockingly. "So fucking pretty like this.”

She glared up at him, her voice hoarse as she spat, "You're disgusting."

Ettore only laughed, the sound dark and unapologetic as he tucked himself back into his sweatpants. "You're the one who came crawling to me."

The door hissed open as the emergency protocols finally deactivated, the solar storm subsiding and red lights receding to normality. Ettore stepped back, the smirk never leaving his face as he looked her over one last time, his eyes lingering on the mess he'd made.

"Clean yourself up," he said lazily, turning toward the door. "Wouldn't want anyone to see you like that, would we?"

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[rizumaryy]

The Lotus Flower Love Fragrance

Kaji Ren x Akeno Hana 1699 words

ーPrologue

The town of Makochi was known for two things: its gang fights and Furin High School. Furin, once infamous as a breeding ground for delinquents, had undergone a strange transformation since Umemiya Hajime's arrival. Now, while their academic scores remained stubbornly at the bottom, their reputation for fighting had twisted into something else entirely – protectors. Furin students have been seen as unlikely heroes, patrolling the town and keeping genuinely bad elements at bay.

Kaji Ren, a first-year at Furin, was one such Grade Captain. He was a study in contrasts, always seen with a bright lollipop sticking out of his mouth, his ever-present headphones covering his ears, bowl-cut blond dyed hair. Loud music constantly throbbed in his ears, a barrier he seemed to erect between himself and the world. Gray eyes, sharp and observant, peered out from under a perpetually impassive face, making it difficult to gauge what truly went on behind that cool exterior. Yet, those who knew him – Hiragi, his admirable friend, and especially Akeno – knew the warmth and loyalty that lay beneath.

At Fujioka High School, Akeno Hana was a whirlwind of sunshine. A first-year as well, Akeno was everything Kaji wasn’t – bubbly, outgoing, and radiating a contagious cheerfulness. Her medium-length brown hair bounced as she moved, and her pink eyes sparkled with genuine kindness. Her inherent friendliness meant she collected friends like others collected stamps, and she even could strike up a conversation with any strays she meet on the street. Unlike Ren’s subtle nature, Akeno was upfront and honest, sometimes bordering on blunt, yet possessed a surprising shyness that could surface unexpectedly.

Despite attending different high schools, Kaji and Akeno shared a history stretching back to middle school. Brought together by an unusual fate that placed them in the same classes for the entirety of it. Akeno, with her unwavering persistence, chipped away at Kaji’s defenses, befriending him despite his brooding silence. He is aware that she is Hiragi's little sister, as they reside next to one another; however, he has never had the opportunity to engage in conversation with her until then.

Her relentless cheerfulness, her genuine care, had been like sunlight on frozen ground, thawing something within him. A quiet affection had bloomed in his chest for Akeno, a fragile bud he desperately wanted to protect. Three years of friendship, now squeezed into stolen moments between Akeno’s band club activities at Fujioka and Ren’s patrol duties around Makochi. They cherished these scraps of time, a silent understanding humming between them.

Kaji's appointment as Grade Captain had been met with surprising consensus from his classmates. But for Kaji himself, it stirred a disquiet he couldn't quite articulate. It dredged up memories he’d tried to bury – memories of grade school and the ‘beast’ that resided within him. During fights, he would lose himself, turning into an uncontrollable force of rage, striking out at anyone near until someone, usually Hiragi, knocked him cold.

Hiragi Toma, their childhood friend and now a second-year of Furin, had been instrumental in helping Kaji manage this volatile side. It was Hiragi who’d introduced him to the headphones and loud music, the lollipop – strange calming tools that somehow worked. "Distraction," Hiragi had explained, "Something to ground you before the beast takes over."

Then came the incident. A brawl had erupted between Furin first-year, his class specifically, and some outsiders causing trouble near the shopping district. They got overwhelmed. In the chaotic fray, Kaji saw Kusumi thrown against a wall, Enomoto tackled to the ground. Seeing his friends hurt, a red haze descended. The familiar sparks flashing behind his eyes. The ‘beast’ was clawing its way out. He fought with a ferocity that bordered on frenzy, but the edges were blurring. He was losing control.

Just as his fist was about to connect with someone – friend or foe, he couldn’t even tell – a familiar voice yelled, “Kaji!” and darkness swallowed him. He woke up later in daze, a throbbing ache in his head and a heavier ache in his chest. Hiragi stand beside him, a grim expression on his face. His classmates were also looking at him with what he thought was a terrified look on their faces.

The shame was immediate and crushing as he realized what was just happened. He’d lost control. Again. He’d endangered his friends. Again. How could he be Grade Captain? Suddenly, her face flashed through his mind. How could he even look Akeno in the eye? He was a danger to everyone around him, especially her.

A few days passed. Kaji shut himself in his room to avoid his friends, to avoid Akeno. He ignored her texts, made excuses when she tried to meet him after school. When he finally chooses to attend school again, he saw the bewildered hurt in her pink eyes when their gazes met in town, and it twisted his gut, but he couldn’t bring himself to face her. He was protecting her, wasn’t he? By staying away?

Hiragi, as always, saw through him. That day, Kaji immediately went to Hiragi, and the latter steered him to a quiet corner of the Furin rooftop. When Kaji said he'll give up on being a grade captain, Hiragi stopped him.

"What you're sayin'... is what you think they're thinkin'." Hiragi said, his voice firm but gentle.

"But if you gonna mope 'bout it... Then you can do that after you've heard what they had to say, yeah?"

Kaji stared at Hiragi. “I… almost hurt them, Hiragi-san. I lost control. What if next time…?”

Hiragi sighed. "You can think 'bout that when it happens. Do what you can do for now. We're all going to train harder. Stronger. So you won't have to turn back into that thing again. We're a team, Kaji. Remember?" He paused, then added, "And Hana…"

Kaji flinched.

"She's worried sick. Not about you hurting her, but about you being hurt. Don't punish her for something that isn't her fault."

Hiragi’s words hit home. He was being stupid. Selfish, even. He wasn't protecting Akeno; he was just hurting her. He met his classmates to apologize and true to what Hiragi said, no one blaming him at all and they promised to share his burden together.

The next day, after school, Kaji found Akeno waiting for him in the park after he asked her to meet up. Her usual bubbly energy muted, her eyes shadowed with worry.

"Kaji-kun," she breathed, relief flooding her face as she saw he’s okay. Although his face showed signs of a fight, that is, a few bandages here and there. Tears welled up in her pink eyes. She can no longer contain her anxious heart and begins to express her feelings. "I'm sorry. I thought… you must hate me."

Hate her? The thought was absurd. "Akeno… I—"

"It's just… I'm so noisy, aren't I?" she mumbled, looking down at her shoes. "I thought you finally had enough of me. That's why you were ignoring me, right? I'm sorry." She apologized again.

Kaji felt a pang in his heart upon witnessing her rare painful expression, which stemmed from a misunderstanding that could have been easily resolved had he been truthful with her from the beginning. He gently took her hand, surprised by how cold her fingers were.

"No. Never. I could never hate you." He had to tell her. He couldn't keep this bottled up anymore. "There’s… something I need to tell you."

He led her to a quiet park bench they usually sat on, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, mirroring the color of her eyes when she looked at him. He took a deep breath, crushing the tasteless lollipop inside his mouth. He told her everything. About the beast inside him, the uncontrollable rage, how he was afraid of hurting people, especially her. He told her about the fight, losing control, and Hiragi knocking him out.

When he finished, he couldn't meet her gaze. He braced himself for fear, for rejection. "I understand if you don't want to be friends anymore," he mumbled, the words heavy and bitter on his tongue. "… I’m dangerous."

Silence hung in the air for a moment, thick and suffocating. Then, he felt a gentle squeeze on his hand. He looked up, and Akeno was smiling at him, a soft, warm smile that chased away the shadows in her eyes.

"Kaji-kun," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Anyone can have an ugly side. Everyone has parts of themselves they don't like." She took his other hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "But the Kaji-kun I know… he’s always been kind. He’s always been there for me. He listens, even when he doesn't say much. He cares, even if he hides it."

Her pink eyes, usually sparkling with cheer, now held a depth of understanding that surprised and moved him. "So what if you have a beast inside you?" she continued, her smile widening. "We all have our monsters to fight. And I'll be here, by your side, to help you fight yours. Always."

Kaji stared at her, speechless. A wave of relief enveloped him, so intense that if he were not seated, he was certain his knees would have given way. He reached out, his thumb gently brushing away the lingering traces of tears on her cheek. A small blush bloomed on her cheeks by his gesture. He couldn’t find the words to express the gratitude, the burgeoning hope that swelled within him.

He leaned in, a rare small smile on his face, "Thank you." His voice barely whispers.

He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy. He still had to contend with his inner demons, to learn to control the beast within. But now, he wasn't alone. He had his friends, he had Hiragi's guidance, and most importantly, he had Akeno, his anchor, his light, and his unwavering support. And with her by his side, he knew that even the darkest corners of his soul could be illuminated.

The lollipop in his mouth tasted sweeter than it ever had before. The rock music in his headphones, for once, seemed to match the hope swelling in his heart. His affection for her continued to deepen with each passing moment. And maybe, just maybe, one day he could finally find the courage to tell her how he truly felt.

➡Next part

[mixtpecas]

It's 2 am and I'm just thinking about how Cas and Eileen became such complimentary partners for Dean and Sam even when the show (slash Chuck) didn't let them have a happy ending.

Like, Sam wanted independence from his family and hunting. Not because he hated hunting necessarily, but because it represented everything his dad seemed to value over him and his opinions. And throughout the show he does make his own choices, but more often than not they end up with him getting possessed or some other kind of loss of autonomy. And with everyone he dates there seems to be that fear of losing control - not that he's controlling per say, but that he can't really let his guard down. Jess, Amy, Amelia, might know About him, but he doesn't seem to show much real vulnerability or deeper trust in them.

And Eileen gets that - she was written to mirror Sam, but it's not like she's his clone. While Sam seems more run down by everything that's happened to him by the time he meets her, Eileen still has that fire that leads her to do good on her own terms. And because she understands both the hunting and independence aspects of Sam's life, her and Sam can see each other as equals, instead of falling into that civilian/hunter or protector/protectee approach that relationships in the show usually lean towards. It's a real breath of fresh air for me, and feels a lot like how I'd imagine an ideal relationship for Sam - someone that isn't afraid to challenge him, but also encourages him to speak up for himself and value his own feelings.

Then with Dean, there's a lot of similarities to Sam (obviously, with their shared upbringing lol) but he can also be his counterpart. Sam wants trust placed in him and independence, Dean wants commitment and for someone to not leave him. But like Sam's relationships, Dean definitely falls right into the Protector role and what he thinks he should be doing, not what he actually needs or wants (like with Cassie and Lisa). And for him, I feel like it's less about not trusting them (Dean actually confides in people fairly often!) but more about his understandings about relationships and his own self. Dean has been treated (intentionally and unintentionally) as a blunt instrument, someone unchangeable, someone to look to for comfort, etc. even before Mary died ("It's okay Mom, I'll never leave you" comes to mind).

Cas reflects this in the extreme - any of his own feelings were lobotimized out of him and it was seen as impossible for angels to feel at all without falling. For him, he could see Dean as a smaller-scale mirror to what he was feeling. And Dean could see Cas as a more abstract, less intimidating way to see his own life. Like Eileen and Sam, Dean and Cas understand each other as soon as they meet each other. Cas tells Dean he has doubts! Dean prays to Cas after a lifetime of not believing in angels! Their similarities let them connect but their differences let them grow - Dean is so stubborn and full of feeling that Cas finally has the final push to rebel. Cas is the most powerful thing Dean's ever met when he saves him from Hell, so Dean feels safe to rely on him and trust someone to answer him if he asks (or prays). And again, their similarities are at the ground of it all, so they stay as partners and equals.

For Chuck (and the writers) this kind of healthier partnership dynamic goes against the kind of romance they love, that focuses on avoidance and saviour complexes. If Dean and Sam feel secure in their senses of self outside of one another, and are encouraged to keep that up, what happens to the Cycles of Family Trauma Show?? Plus, there's the added elements of Cas being a man and Eileen being deaf (resulting in Despair and the Blurry Wife). Sam and Dean both needed Eileen and Cas at certain points in their stories, whether that was to rescue them, motivate them, give them something to lose, etc. But even though plot development was the main intention for these relationships, they signalled something outside of the routine Cain and Abel story. Instead of just representing that kind of unattainable happy future, Eileen and Cas developed genuine relationships with the brothers that encouraged them to be more genuine people, and eventually led them to defeat God.

[twistedheartsclub]

Obsession Is A Cure Male Doctor X Female Reader PT1

⚠️ Content Warnings – Doctor Obsession Story Psychological manipulation (gaslighting, grooming, coercive control, emotional dependence) Power imbalance (doctor/patient dynamic, caregiver dominance) Obsessive behavior / stalking Dubious consent (dubcon) (emotional pressure, blurred lines between care and control) Non-consensual sexual content (noncon) (at least one scene includes physical coercion or inability to consent) Domestic abuse (verbal degradation, isolation, physical violence) Physical violence (slapping, bruising, implied sexual assault) Captivity / forced cohabitation Survivor trauma & PTSD themes Pregnancy resulting from abuse (nonconsensual impregnation, trauma response, emotional distress) Hospital abuse / medical ethics violations Mentions of grooming (emotional grooming, especially while vulnerable) Threats of harm / murder implications (light) Possessive & controlling behavior presented as romantic by antagonist

MASTERLIST

Part Two

Y/N

She doesn’t remember the moment the car flipped, only everything that led up to it.

It had started to rain the moment she turned onto the highway—just a few lazy drops at first, splashing across her windshield like idle thoughts. The kind of rain that made the world feel slowed, distant, as if underwater. She tightened her hands on the wheel. Her stomach was tight with exhaustion, hunger curling somewhere low in her belly. She hadn’t eaten since noon.

The music was soft in the background. Piano, something instrumental. Something sad. She liked music without words—on days like this, her mind felt too full of them already.

She didn’t see the truck until it was already skidding toward her.

A blinding burst of headlights. A screech of tires. The sound of metal shrieking, twisting, collapsing. The world lurched. Her body followed.

Then— Nothing. No sound. No pain. Just black.

Dr. Vincent Moreau

The trauma bay was already humming when Dr. Vincent Moreau stepped through the sliding doors of St. Elora’s Private Hospital, crisp and clean in his white coat. He wore it like armor, a modern god wrapped in sterile cotton, the collar slightly open to reveal a charcoal-gray shirt beneath.

The charge nurse met his eyes the second he walked in.

“Twenty-three-year-old female. Car accident on the East highway. Blunt force trauma, possible internal bleeding, fractured femur, unconscious on arrival.”

His heart shouldn’t have leapt. Not over a patient.

But it did.

They wheeled her in seconds later. Bloody, broken, still strapped to the crushed wreck of a gurney. Her clothes had been shredded. Her hair matted to her face with blood and rainwater. Her lips were parted, pale and slack, her skin ghostly under the fluorescent lights. There was a raw fragility in her that sliced through him like a scalpel.

Beautiful.

He took her chart, but he didn’t need it. He already knew what she was: Perfect. Mine. Mine to fix. Mine to keep.

“Page cardiology, start a trauma panel, prep OR two,” he said to the nurse, voice smooth and commanding. Then, softer, under his breath as he brushed his fingers along her pulse point: “I’ve got you now, sweetheart.”

Y/N

The first thing she felt was the weight.

A thick, numb heaviness blanketed her entire body—like she’d been pressed into the mattress by invisible hands. Her limbs wouldn’t move the way she wanted them to. Her throat burned. Her lips were dry.

She heard machines.

A steady, rhythmic beep. A soft whoosh of oxygen. The low buzz of fluorescent lighting above.

Hospital. The realization settled over her slowly. She must be in a hospital. Something had happened—something bad, if the way her body felt was any indication. Pain pulsed just beneath the surface, dulled by drugs but undeniably there.

Then—

A soft shuffle. The sound of a chair moving. A presence near her bed.

She opened her eyes.

Everything was blurry at first. A bright ceiling, pale walls. Then… a face.

A man, seated beside her. Clean-shaven, save for a careful shadow of stubble. Dark hair swept neatly away from a high forehead. His coat was open at the collar, revealing a dark shirt, unbuttoned at the top—not messy, just casual. Relaxed. But his posture was anything but.

He sat forward, his pale gray eyes locked on hers, watching like he’d been waiting hours for her to wake up.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and rich, the kind of voice that should’ve belonged to someone reading poetry by a fire. “Don’t panic. You’re alright.”

She blinked slowly, trying to focus. Her throat ached when she tried to speak.

“You were in an accident,” he continued gently, as if reciting a bedtime story. “But you’re safe now. You’re in good hands.”

He reached for a cup of water and brought the straw to her lips. She hesitated—just a flicker of unease, a flash of not knowing this man’s name—but thirst overruled it. She drank in small sips. The water felt cold and foreign sliding down her throat.

“There you go,” he murmured, gaze softening. “That’s better.”

She managed to whisper. “Who… are you?”

He gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Dr. Vincent Moreau. I’m your attending physician. I performed the surgery to stabilize you.”

Surgery. The word landed like a stone in her chest.

“How bad?” she rasped.

“You had internal bleeding. A fractured femur. A few broken ribs,” he said calmly, almost too calmly. “We took care of it. You were unconscious for about two and a half days. We kept you sedated to help your body rest. But you’re doing incredibly well. Your vitals are strong. You responded beautifully.”

She tried to sit up, a twitch of instinct—panic, maybe—but the pain stopped her instantly. He was already reaching out before she could fall back, one hand steadying her shoulder, the other pressing the call button behind her.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he said, the endearment slipping out so naturally it barely registered—until it did. “You’ll tear your sutures if you move too fast.”

She stared at him, heart knocking faintly in her chest.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, as if reading her expression. “Habit. I’ve been at your bedside a lot these past few days. You get… protective. When someone’s under your care.”

There was warmth in his smile. But behind it—something else. Something sharper. Almost hunger.

Before she could speak again, a nurse appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand.

“Doctor Moreau,” she said. “We’ve got her medication ready. Should we—?”

“I’ll handle it,” he said smoothly, not looking away from Y/N.

The nurse hesitated. “Sir—”

“I’ve got it,” he said again, firmer.

The nurse gave a small nod and left.

Y/N blinked slowly, her head already growing heavy again, the sedatives blooming like warm fog through her body.

“You’re going to be alright,” he murmured, brushing her hair gently off her forehead with clinical fingers. “You’re going to heal. I’ll make sure of it.”

Her eyes drifted shut.

And he stayed right there, watching her until her breathing slowed.

Dr. Moreau

She was even lovelier awake.

He had stared at her when she slept—hours, just watching her chest rise and fall, the subtle twitch of her lashes. But awake, she was something else. Something radiant in her fragility.

The way her lips parted when she drank. The way her voice rasped his name. The way she flinched when he touched her—but didn’t pull away.

She’s scared. That’s good. Fear was a kind of attention. And attention… was intimacy.

He smoothed her chart neatly, though he already knew every detail on it by heart. The next few days would be critical. She would still see other staff. Nurses. Maybe the physical therapist. He’d let it happen, for now. She needed to trust the routine.

But she’d trust him most of all.

He leaned closer, eyes roaming her sleeping face. “Sleep well, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You have no idea what you’ve done to me.”

He smiled to himself. But you will.

St. Elora’s Private Hospital wasn’t large, but it was elite.

Discreet. Expensive. The kind of place where the rich and the powerful sent their loved ones when they wanted the best—and only the best—care.

And in the east wing, the surgical floor was ruled by one man.

Dr. Vincent Moreau.

He was thirty-eight years old, but he moved like a man younger. Tall—easily over six feet—with lean, unhurried grace. Always dressed immaculately. His coats never wrinkled. His shoes never scuffed. His hands never shook.

People noticed him when he entered a room.

Not just because he was handsome—though he was. Devastatingly so. Dark, close-cropped hair. A sharp jaw softened by artful stubble. Pale gray eyes that seemed to see through people without ever revealing what he saw.

But it was more than that.

He carried power the way some men carried weapons—quiet, concealed, but deadly. He didn’t need to raise his voice. He didn’t need to prove himself. His brilliance in the operating room did that for him. His name on a patient’s chart meant survival.

And survival, in a place like St. Elora’s, meant everything.

In the staff lounge, his name was spoken with a kind of reverence.

“Dr. Moreau’s in early again,” one nurse murmured, watching him from the hallway window as he strode past with purpose.

“He never leaves. Does he even sleep?”

“If I was a patient here, I’d want him at my bedside,” another nurse said, half-laughing. “Not just because he’s a miracle worker, either. God, he’s…”

“Gorgeous.”

“Dangerous,” another whispered, quieter.

That earned a few raised eyebrows.

“He’s too perfect. You ever look in his eyes? Like glass. Like he’s thinking about something ten steps ahead and you’re just furniture in the room.”

The others laughed it off, but the nurse didn’t join in.

She’d seen him once—late at night, when he didn’t know anyone was watching. Just standing in front of a patient’s room, unmoving. Staring through the glass.

The way his face looked when no one else was around…

It wasn’t kind.

Dr. Moreau

Vincent sat alone in his office, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, reviewing Y/N’s most recent scans.

His desk was immaculate. Just like the rest of him.

His eyes flicked over the medical notes—he already knew them by heart. Every platelet count, every suture. She was healing beautifully. He had made sure of it. He had built her back from the edge of death.

He had saved her life. And in doing so, he had earned something.

Something no one else could understand.

He looked down at the still from her MRI, her profile captured in shadow and light. So vulnerable. So precious. So easily erased.

She had no idea how close she’d come to vanishing from the world.

And no idea how far he’d go to make sure she never did.

Why he is like this?

It had started long before her.

Long before medicine. Before his degrees. Before the awards and the clean white lab coats.

It started with his mother, drugged and silent in her bedroom, slipping away after years of being passed from doctor to doctor—none of whom could “fix” her. He’d been just a boy, helpless, watching her die by inches while men in white coats shrugged and offered sympathy.

He never forgave them.

And when he got older, when the knives became extensions of his hands and anatomy books his holy scripture, he swore he’d never be like them. He wouldn’t fail.

He wouldn’t let people die. He wouldn’t let people leave. Not anymore.

His office phone buzzed.

“She’s awake again,” a nurse reported. “Asking for water.”

“Good,” Vincent said smoothly, already on his feet, already reaching for his coat. “I’ll be right there.”

His reflection flickered in the glass of the office window. Straightening his collar, he smiled faintly at himself.

It wasn’t a warm smile. It was sharp. Curved like a scalpel.

The smile of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

And knew he’d already begun to take it.

The lights were low when he returned to her room. Early evening sunlight spilled across the floor, golden and soft, washing the space in quiet calm. The machines hummed gently. The scent of antiseptic had faded, replaced by something warmer—lavender, maybe. One of the nurses must’ve changed the sheets.

She was awake. Sitting up this time.

Her hair had been brushed out, though a few soft strands still clung to her cheeks. Her skin looked less gray, more human now—pink at the lips and under the eyes. There was a tray of untouched food beside her, but her eyes were on the window, far away.

Beautiful.

He stood in the doorway a second too long, watching her before speaking.

“Miss me?” he said lightly, stepping inside.

She startled, then smiled—small and sheepish.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I must’ve dozed off again.”

“No apologies,” Vincent said, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “You’ve earned all the rest you need.”

She watched him move with quiet interest. He was still in his white coat, but the top buttons of his shirt were undone again. His sleeves were rolled up, showing strong forearms and precise, practiced hands. There was something comforting about the way he filled the space—like he belonged in it.

He brought a small bag from behind his back.

“Something for you,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

He set it down gently on the side table. “I remembered you said you liked honey chamomile tea—during your CT scan, you were murmuring about it, half-conscious. Seemed like a comfort thing.”

She flushed, caught off guard. “I… I don’t remember saying that.”

“I do,” he said softly, pulling out a small, elegant tin of loose-leaf tea. “It’s a nice blend. They’ll make it for you downstairs, if I request it.”

Her throat tightened. “You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to.” His eyes were kind. “You’ve been through a lot. And I take care of my patients. Especially the ones who look at me like I hung the moon every time I bring them a cup of water.”

That made her laugh—a breathy, real laugh—and the sound of it lit something in his chest.

“There she is,” he said, smiling. “I was beginning to think you were all bruises and broken bones.”

“I still am,” she said, wincing slightly. “But thank you. For everything.”

“You don’t need to thank me yet,” he said. “We’re not done with each other.”

The way he said it made her glance up. But he was already moving toward the chair beside her bed, sitting with his usual feline ease.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” he said, not pulling out a chart. Just… looking at her.

“Medical questions?”

“Personal,” he said. “I find it helps recovery. Sometimes the heart needs healing just as much as the body. Would that be alright?”

She hesitated. Then gave a small nod.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands steepled—intent and patient, like a man listening to music only he could hear.

“Tell me about your family.”

Her breath hitched.

“I… I don’t really have any left.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

“My parents passed when I was a teenager. Car accident. And then my aunt—she raised me. We were close. She died about three months ago. Cancer. It was fast.”

Her eyes glazed for a second, but she didn’t cry.

“She was everything,” she said. “She had this little cottage with a garden full of dying plants. She couldn’t keep anything alive but a mangy cat and me.”

Vincent chuckled softly. “She sounded wonderful.”

“She was,” Y/N whispered. “It’s weird, waking up from all this and knowing I don’t have anyone to call.”

He didn’t respond immediately. He let the silence stretch, warm and thoughtful. Then:

“Grief leaves holes,” he said gently. “But holes can be filled.”

He reached out—slowly, deliberately—and brushed his fingers along the inside of her wrist, where the IV was secured. Just a touch. Clinical. But tender, too.

She didn’t flinch.

His thumb lingered there.

“What about friends?” he asked, voice low.

Her smile returned, faintly. “I have one. Jenna. She’s… chaotic, in a good way. The kind of friend who’d sneak you out of the hospital with a wheelchair and a bottle of wine.”

“She sounds like trouble.”

“She is,” Y/N said, a spark of real affection in her voice. “I wish she could visit.”

“Why hasn’t she?”

“I didn’t… I haven’t called anyone yet. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, and I didn’t want to scare her.”

He stood then, moving to the wall terminal. His fingers danced across the screen.

“I’ve already arranged it,” he said without turning. “She’ll be given visitor clearance for tomorrow. Private room, minimal disruption. I’ll make sure she knows you’re safe.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “You didn’t have to do that…”

“You don’t need to keep saying that,” Vincent said, looking back at her with a slow, quiet smile. “Let someone take care of you for once.”

She looked at him for a long moment. And then, softer than before: “Thank you, Dr. Moreau.”

His smile deepened, something flickering behind it. He stepped closer again, brushing her hair off her shoulder, letting his knuckles graze the curve of her neck. He tilted his head, voice hushed.

“You can call me Vincent, if you’d like.”

Her heart skipped.

“…Okay. Vincent.”

He turned toward the door then, pausing in the frame.

“Rest,” he said gently. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

And he left.

Outside, his face changed. Gone was the warmth, the softness. What remained was cold calculation—and triumph.

She trusts me. She’s letting me in.

She wouldn’t realize for days just how carefully he was carving a place for himself inside her life. By then, it would be too late to pull him out.

Y/N

The morning light drifted softly through the window, bathing the pale walls in gold. There was something different about the air today—something hopeful. For the first time since waking in this strange, serene world of soft sheets and pale blue gowns, Y/N felt awake.

She was sitting up straighter now. The IV drip was slower, the pain more manageable. There were even moments when she almost forgot the weight in her chest. Almost.

The knock on the door was light and rhythmic.

She looked up just as the nurse stepped in—tall, dark-skinned, kind eyes behind her glasses.

“Morning, sweetheart,” the nurse said warmly. “You’ve got a visitor. I’m guessing someone named Jenna?”

Y/N’s heart lurched. “She’s here?”

“She’s just outside. Dr. Moreau made special arrangements. Told us to make sure you had privacy and no interruptions.”

That warmth again.

Y/N swallowed. “Can she come in?”

The nurse smiled. “Of course.”

And then— Jenna burst in like a storm of color and breath and perfume.

Her hair was different—shorter now, dyed a soft pink. Her mascara was already smudging. And the second her eyes landed on Y/N, her whole face crumpled.

“Oh my God, baby girl—” she whispered, voice cracking.

Y/N’s eyes welled instantly.

They collided in a careful hug, arms wrapping tight despite the tangle of medical lines and healing bones. Jenna sobbed into her neck. Y/N felt her own tears slide down her cheek like warm rain.

“I thought I lost you,” Jenna whispered fiercely. “I thought you were gone, you stupid, beautiful idiot—”

“I’m okay,” Y/N breathed. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

They cried for a while—happy, relieved tears, the kind that hurt and heal at the same time. The nurse quietly stepped out, leaving them in the warmth of each other’s presence.

“You look like shit,” Jenna said later, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Y/N laughed wetly. “Thanks.”

“Seriously, though. You’re so pale. And that gown? Hideous.”

“Well, they didn’t exactly let me pack a bag.”

Jenna smiled, then grew quiet. “I was scared.”

“Me too,” Y/N whispered. “But… it doesn’t feel so scary now.”

A pause.

“Is it him?” Jenna asked gently.

“Who?”

“The doctor. Dr. Moreau. The nurses wouldn’t shut up about how amazing he is.”

Y/N flushed slightly, glancing at her hands.

“He’s been… kind. He brought me tea. Got you approved for visitation without me asking. He listens, Jenna. Like really listens.”

Jenna tilted her head. “You like him.”

“No, I—” Y/N started, then stopped. “I mean, he’s just… comforting.”

“Comforting can be dangerous in a pretty package.”

“I know,” Y/N said. But her voice was soft.

Down the Hall – Dr. Moreau

In a sun-drenched pediatric room two floors down, Dr. Vincent Moreau knelt beside a young girl with a cast on her arm and wide, watery eyes. Her father stood nearby, visibly tense.

“You did so good, kiddo,” Vincent said, his voice light and warm, “I think that cast deserves a few princess stickers. What do you think?”

The girl nodded solemnly.

He handed her a sheet, watching her small fingers peel off a glittery crown and place it on the pink fiberglass.

“Perfect placement,” he said, tapping the side of her nose with a smile.

The girl giggled—just a little.

Vincent stood and turned to the father. “She’s healing well. No complications. But don’t let her try any gymnastics for at least six weeks.”

The man laughed, relief softening his shoulders. “Thank you, Doctor. Really.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

As the father leaned down to whisper something to his daughter, a nurse passing by nudged Vincent lightly in the ribs with her elbow.

“You’re too good with kids,” she said teasingly. “When are you going to have one, Doc?”

Vincent gave her that famous Moreau smile—the one that looked carved from polished bone. Easy. Flawless. Just a little too perfect.

“Maybe sooner than you think,” he said, eyes distant.

The nurse laughed. “That poor child’s going to have the most intimidating dad on earth.”

He chuckled along with her.

But as she walked away, he turned toward the window, his gaze narrowing. Down below, he could see the courtyard garden. In his mind, he wasn’t seeing grass or benches or children playing.

He was seeing Y/N. Wearing something soft. Hair pinned back. Pushing a stroller with a child that bore her eyes. His mouth. Their creation.

His.

The image filled him with warmth. And hunger.

Back in Y/N’s Room

“I think I needed this,” Y/N whispered as Jenna pulled a blanket over her legs. “To see someone who remembers who I was before all of this.”

“You’re still her,” Jenna said. “But if you want to become someone new… I’ll help you. No matter what.”

Y/N smiled sleepily, heart aching.

Outside the Room

Vincent stood at the corner of the hallway, hands folded neatly behind his back.

He hadn’t interrupted. He didn’t need to.

He’d seen the tears, the laughter. The comfort.

And he’d seen the blush on Y/N’s cheeks when Jenna brought him up.

Good.

Let her trust. Let her feel safe. Let her hope.

He would give her all of it.

Until there was no room left inside her for anyone but him.

The next day dawned quiet and gray, filtered sunlight pouring like fog through the hospital windows. Y/N’s room was warm, but her hands were cold. A kind of nervous energy buzzed under her skin—not fear, not exactly. Just anticipation.

The nurse had told her she’d be starting physical therapy today. Weight-bearing, gentle movement only. She’d nodded, listened, but a strange flicker of dread still lingered in her chest.

What if she couldn’t walk properly again? What if she fell? What if—

“Knock, knock,” came a familiar voice, deep and smooth.

Y/N looked up.

Dr. Vincent Moreau stood at the door.

Her breath hitched in surprise—his presence still had that effect, even after everything. He looked freshly pressed and flawless as always, coat open over a dove-gray shirt, his dark slacks tailored to perfection. His sleeves were rolled again. She always noticed that now. The sharp lines of his forearms, the veins in his hands when he moved with precision.

“I thought—” she began.

“You were expecting the physical therapist,” he said, stepping inside with an easy smile. “But there was a shift change. And I’ve reviewed your case so closely that I asked to take today’s session myself.”

Her mouth opened slightly. “Oh. Is that… allowed?”

“I make the rules here, sweetheart,” he said, voice low, almost teasing. “Besides, you trust me, don’t you?”

That made her blush. Not because he meant anything by it—he probably didn’t—but because he always sounded so gentle. So confident. Like nothing in the world could shake him.

“I do,” she said quietly.

He gave her a pleased smile, then wheeled a set of crutches closer to the bed.

“Let’s get you on your feet.”

Moments Later

Her legs trembled as she shifted weight onto them. Pain bloomed deep in her thigh and hip—not sharp, but aching, bone-deep. She hissed softly, eyes squeezing shut.

“Easy,” he murmured, stepping behind her. One hand came to rest lightly on her lower back, the other just above her waist. Not inappropriately, but… close. Steadying.

“You’re okay,” he said near her ear. “Don’t push too fast. Let your body tell you when it’s ready.”

Y/N’s cheeks were hot now, but she nodded, breath shaky. He smelled like cedar and clean linen—something expensive and subtle. She leaned on him without realizing it.

He guided her, step by step, toward the physical therapy rail in the corner of the room. His hand never left her.

“That’s it. Breathe in through your nose… good girl.”

Her stomach fluttered. She knew he was just being encouraging, like any doctor. Still—her body responded in a way that made her throat tighten.

She reached the railing, gripping it tightly. “I feel like a baby deer.”

“You’re stronger than you think,” Vincent said. “You just don’t realize it yet.”

She smiled at that, faint and flushed.

While She Walks

They moved together in slow, gentle repetition. He stood beside her, always close but never rushed. When she stumbled, he caught her. When she clenched her jaw in frustration, he calmed her with words soft as sugar.

“How’s it feel?” he asked after a minute.

“Humbling,” she said, exhaling. “But good. I haven’t used these muscles in… God, how long?”

“Four days under sedation. A week total. The body forgets quickly.”

“And yet you expect me to dance.”

“You’ll dance again,” he said, almost to himself. “I’ll make sure of it.”

That made her pause, chest tight with emotion.

She looked at him sideways. “Why do you care so much?”

Vincent tilted his head, and for a moment—just a moment—his expression was naked. Not cold. Not calculated.

Hungry.

“Because some people are worth it,” he said simply. “Now come on. One more lap.”

Later, Back at the Bed

She sat on the edge of the bed, heart still pounding from exertion, face flushed. He knelt in front of her, gently removing the braces around her ankle.

“You did well,” he said, looking up at her from beneath his lashes. “You trust your body. That’s rare.”

She smiled faintly. “I wasn’t always like that.”

“No?”

“No. I’m—well. I used to work at a library. Local college. It was quiet. Predictable. A bit lonely, honestly, but I liked being around books.”

“An archivist?” he guessed.

She nodded. “I liked preserving things. Cataloguing stories no one had read in years.”

“That suits you,” he said, voice lower now. “You seem… gentle. Like someone who sees beauty where others forget to look.”

She looked down quickly. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’m learning,” he murmured. “Why were you driving that day?”

She hesitated. Her smile dimmed.

“I was… going through some of my aunt’s things,” she said softly. “I’d been putting it off for weeks. But I finally made myself drive to the house. I was packing up the last of her books, deciding what to donate, what to keep.”

She paused. “I guess I got overwhelmed. I wasn’t paying attention on the road home. It was raining, and I kept thinking about how quiet the house felt without her.”

His expression shifted—quiet, measured. “You were grieving.”

“I still am,” she whispered.

He reached out and took her hand.

“You don’t have to carry that guilt,” he said. “None of it.”

Tears welled in her eyes again. This time she didn’t fight them.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He brought her hand to his lips—not quite a kiss. Just a press of warmth. His eyes never left hers.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said. “Not while I’m here.”

Later That Night – Alone in His Office

He replayed the entire session in his mind.

The way she leaned on him. The way she flushed under his praise. The tremble in her voice when she opened up about her aunt. The way she let him hold her hand. She didn’t even notice the closeness now. That was good. That was perfect.

Soon, it would be natural. Expected. He would become her comfort. Her rhythm. Her constant.

And once she was strong again…

She would never want to leave.

Twelve Days Post-Accident

The days bled together softly.

Y/N had fallen into the rhythm of recovery—gentle physical therapy in the morning, bland meals, vital checks. Nurses came and went, always kind, always professional. But it was him she looked forward to.

Dr. Moreau. Vincent.

He stopped by every day without fail. Sometimes during her sessions, sometimes late in the afternoon with a thermos of tea and a knowing smile. Always composed. Always gentle. Sometimes funny in that dry, intelligent way that made her laugh without realizing she had.

She didn’t count the days by a calendar anymore. She counted them by how long it had been since he last touched her hand.

Nurses’ Lounge – That Morning

“I swear, he never misses a day with her,” one of the nurses whispered over her coffee.

“Y/N? The car accident girl?”

“Mhm.”

The new nurse—Erin—raised an eyebrow. “What’s the big deal? He’s like that with all his patients, isn’t he?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Nurse Camila said with a smirk. “You haven’t been here long.”

She leaned in conspiratorially.

“He never lingers with anyone. Never lets anyone get close. I’ve been here five years and I’ve never seen him bring tea to a patient, much less sit and talk with them for half an hour like it’s a date.”

Erin blinked. “You think he likes her?”

“I think she’s his favorite.” A pause. “Which could be sweet… if it didn’t feel a little like a lion smiling at a lamb.”

Y/N – Later That Day

Her therapy had gone well. She walked farther today—more confidently. Still shaky, still weak, but she’d made it from the bed to the windowsill with only one pause. The nurse had clapped quietly.

Now she sat by the window, her favorite blanket around her shoulders. The sky outside was painted in soft blue-gray clouds. Autumn, maybe. It had been summer when she crashed. Time had slipped through her fingers like water.

A knock on the door. Then a familiar voice.

“Can I steal a moment?”

She turned, smiling. “Vincent.”

He entered with something tucked under his arm. Not his usual clipboard. Something rectangular. Wrapped in brown paper.

He held it out to her with a rare hesitance. “I hope this isn’t too forward.”

She took it carefully. Peeled the paper back. And gasped.

It was a book.

Her aunt’s favorite book.

A first edition copy of the old, sea-worn poetry volume her aunt used to read every spring by the window. The one they lost in the flood three years ago. She’d mourned it more than the furniture.

Her fingers trembled. “How…?”

“I remembered what you said,” he said softly, watching her reaction with something close to reverence. “About how she used to read to you. I had someone look through estate sales. We got lucky.”

Y/N blinked hard, lips parting. “Vincent, I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything.” He sat in the chair beside her, not too close. “Just tell me how it made you feel. Hearing her read it.”

She looked down at the cracked leather cover. Her throat tightened.

“Like I wasn’t alone.”

He nodded, leaning back slightly, voice gentle. “We all need that.”

A Quiet Confession

She turned to him suddenly.

“You always know what to say,” she whispered. “How do you do that?”

His smile this time was different. Sad. Slanted.

“I haven’t always.”

He paused, looking out the window.

“My mother was very sick when I was young. Mentally. She’d go days without speaking, then wake me in the middle of the night crying about things I couldn’t fix. There were doctors—cold men with tired eyes. They never helped her.”

He turned back to Y/N. “So I learned what comfort sounded like. What people need to hear, even if they don’t know they need it.”

Her chest ached.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, softer than before. “She’s gone now. But… she taught me how to pay attention. To see what’s underneath the surface.”

He looked at her then—really looked. His gaze locked with hers, and she couldn’t look away.

“And you… Y/N… you hide a lot under the surface.”

The room felt warmer. Smaller. Her cheeks flushed.

“I guess I do,” she said.

“Good,” he said gently. “Because I have time. I’m not going anywhere.”

That Night – Nurse Camila’s Observation Chart (Unsent)

Patient: Y/N L/N Note (unfiled):

Physical progress ahead of schedule.

Emotional progress… complicated.

Dr. Moreau present daily. Long visits. Excessive attention.

Patient appears to trust him deeply. Possibly more.

Something doesn’t feel right.

Will wait to file. Don’t want to raise unnecessary concern. He’s too respected. Too… careful.

Three Weeks Post-Accident

Recovery was no longer a whisper of possibility—it had taken shape now. Solid. Real.

Y/N could walk the length of the hallway outside her room with only a cane. She dressed herself again. She could brush her hair and sit by the window with her legs curled beneath her, book open in her lap.

The bruises were mostly gone. The pain still pulsed in quiet places, but it no longer screamed.

And now, most days, she smiled.

Not just because of the healing. But because of him.

Vincent visited daily. Sometimes for a check-in, sometimes for tea, sometimes just to talk. He always brought something small—lavender lotion, a mystery novel she mentioned liking, or a pastry that was somehow still warm.

And Y/N had started to look forward to the sound of his voice more than the sunrise.

Someone New – Nurse Imani

“Mind if I sneak in?” came a voice one afternoon—musical, accented, bright with mischief.

Y/N looked up from her crossword puzzle to see a nurse stepping in. Mid-thirties, dark braids piled in a bun, bold pink scrubs and even bolder lipstick.

“Depends,” Y/N said. “You bringing pills or gossip?”

“Gossip. Obviously.” Imani winked and settled on the edge of the windowsill.

Y/N liked her instantly.

Imani became a near-daily presence after that. She brought a kind of sunshine with her—easy laughter, TikTok videos, jokes about the hospital staff. They talked about books, about what music Y/N missed, about bad dates and worse coffee.

It made the hours pass easier. The loneliness that had clung to her like a second skin began to peel away.

“You know,” Imani said one afternoon as she rearranged Y/N’s pillows, “I think you’re the first patient he’s ever hovered over like this.”

Y/N’s brow lifted. “Vincent?”

“Mmhmm.” Imani grinned. “It’s weird. You’ve got the nurses whispering, the residents staring. He doesn’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Care.” She leaned in with a playful smirk. “He looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life.”

Y/N flushed.

She didn’t say I like him. She didn’t have to.

That Evening – On the Terrace

The air was cool that night—wind brushing gently across the rooftop garden reserved for “stable recovery patients.” Y/N had begged to be brought there, and Vincent, of course, had made it happen.

She wore a light sweater over her hospital gown. He stood beside her, hands in his pockets, watching the horizon bleed orange into the city skyline.

She turned to him, softly.

“Do you ever think about what comes next?”

He looked at her.

“For me or for you?”

“For… anyone. For us.”

He was quiet for a moment, then:

“I think about it constantly.”

She waited.

“I think about you walking again. About you back in bookstores, losing hours in poetry. I think about taking you to dinner. Somewhere dimly lit. Somewhere soft. Just you and me and too many desserts.”

Y/N laughed, heart thudding. “That sounds perfect.”

He turned slightly, the fading sun catching in his eyes.

“Then let me promise it. When you’re better, I’ll take you out. Wherever you want.”

“Deal,” she said, smiling so hard it hurt.

Their hands brushed. She didn’t pull away.

Later That Week – In Her Room

She was sitting in bed, sorting through a small pile of books when Vincent stepped in.

“You always bring me something,” she teased. “You know you’re spoiling me.”

“I intend to.”

He set a little brown bag on her tray table. Inside was a fresh blueberry scone.

“And what’s the occasion?” she asked, already tearing into it.

“No occasion,” he said. “But I do have a question.”

She looked up mid-bite.

“Do you want children?”

She blinked. “That’s… a jump.”

He smiled, almost shyly. “I was talking to one of my patients earlier. A little girl. She asked if I was a dad. It made me think.”

Y/N tilted her head, considering.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I used to think I did. But after my aunt… I guess I’ve been scared to love anyone that much.”

He nodded. “It’s a big kind of love. The kind that could destroy you.”

She looked at him, surprised.

“You’re not exactly the type I imagined saying that.”

“I’ve seen how fragile people can be,” he said quietly. “It makes you careful. But it also makes you want something to protect.”

His eyes stayed on hers.

“Someone.”

Something unspoken passed between them then. Something that tasted like silk and danger and maybe.

That Night – Nurses’ Lounge

“She’s getting too attached,” Camila said, stirring her tea.

Imani looked up. “Y/N?”

“Yeah.”

Imani frowned. “You think he’s doing anything?”

“No. That’s the thing. He’s not. Not visibly. Not provably. But there’s a vibe.”

Imani shook her head. “He makes her feel safe. And she’s been through hell.”

Camila said nothing.

But deep down, they both wondered the same thing:

What happens when she’s better? What happens if she tries to leave?

The Storm

The storm rolled in like a living thing.

It had started around dusk—low, growling thunder, the kind you felt more than heard. By nine o’clock, the sky was a violent mess of purple clouds and whipping wind. The rain slapped against the windows in waves.

Y/N lay in bed, curled beneath her blanket, trying to breathe through the pain.

It had crept up slowly over the afternoon—dull aches that became sharp throbs by evening. Her hip, her ribs, her leg. It felt like her body was reliving the accident. Every inch raw and trembling.

She hadn’t wanted to call the nurse. She didn’t want more pills.

What she wanted… was him.

She hit the call button.

A nurse arrived. Imani.

“Hey, love,” Imani said softly, brushing a hand down her arm. “You hurting?”

Y/N nodded, tears pricking at her lashes. “It’s bad. But I… Can you call Vincent?”

Imani blinked. “Dr. Moreau?”

She hesitated, just a beat too long.

“Please?” Y/N asked, voice barely a whisper.

Imani nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

Twenty Minutes Later

He arrived just after the rain hit its hardest—his coat soaked, his shirt clinging faintly to his collar. His hair was slightly tousled, and there was something wild in his eyes. Not frantic. But focused.

He was beautiful, and in that moment, he looked like salvation.

“You should’ve called sooner,” he murmured as he entered, brushing past Imani without acknowledgment.

Y/N reached for him instinctively. He was already at her side, kneeling beside her bed, one hand cradling her jaw, the other pressing gently at her waist.

“The pain…” she whispered.

“I know. I’ve got you.”

He stayed beside her, adjusting her pillow, pressing his palm to her lower spine to ease the pressure. Every movement was exact. Intimate. He moved as though she were made of glass.

“Breathe with me,” he said softly. “In… and out.”

She did.

Slowly, the pain dulled. The fear retreated.

She closed her eyes.

“Can you stay?” she whispered.

He hesitated only a second.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

He sat with her through the storm.

The Visit – Two Days Later

By the time Jenna arrived, the weather had cleared. The world outside was bright again, dripping from the rain but sun-warmed. Y/N felt lighter too. Her pain had receded. Her steps were steadier.

She smiled when she saw Jenna walk in.

But then she blinked.

Jenna wasn’t alone.

“Y/N, guess who I ran into at the market?” Jenna beamed, stepping aside. “You remember Eli?”

Eli was tall. Casual. Handsome in a sunlit, easy way. He wore jeans and a vintage band tee, and his smile was boyish and soft. He carried a bouquet of white peonies—her favorite.

Y/N’s breath caught.

“Eli,” she whispered. “It’s been forever.”

He laughed. “Two years, maybe? You still collecting weird fairytales?”

She smiled, eyes wet. “Always.”

They hugged—gently. He was careful with her body, but his arms were warm and familiar. Friendly.

Too friendly.

Vincent watched from the hallway.

He hadn’t planned to interrupt today. He’d intended to let her rest, to give the illusion of freedom.

But the moment he saw that man—touching her, laughing with her—something in him… shifted.

His jaw tensed. His fingers curled against his clipboard until the leather cracked.

Nurses’ Station

Imani watched him from behind the desk as he stood there—still, expressionless.

“Everything okay, Dr. Moreau?” she asked, forcing a note of cheer into her voice.

He didn’t respond right away.

Then: “Do you know who that man is?”

“Eli? An old friend, I think. Jenna brought him.”

Vincent’s voice was calm. Too calm.

“He shouldn’t be here.”

Imani raised an eyebrow. “He’s on the approved list.”

“I’ll speak with administration,” Vincent said. “We’ll make sure visitation guidelines are enforced more strictly moving forward.”

Then he turned and walked away, too fast for it to be casual.

Imani watched him disappear down the hall.

“Okay…” she muttered. “That was creepy.”

Y/N – Later That Evening

Jenna and Eli left just after dinner. She’d laughed more in that hour than she had in days—Eli teasing her about her horrible cooking, Jenna doing impressions of their old professors. It had felt like home.

But now… she was alone again.

The room felt quieter than usual.

No tea tray. No soft knock. No Vincent.

She frowned.

He always visited in the evening. Always.

But hours passed. And he didn’t come.

Vincent – That Night

He sat in his office, the lights off, one hand curled around a glass of untouched scotch.

She had laughed.

He could still hear it. Not the soft little breathy giggle she gave him. A real laugh. Loud. Loose. Familiar. Shared with someone else.

Someone young.

Someone male.

Someone who didn’t know how to protect her.

He pressed his thumb hard against the edge of the glass until his skin split. A bright drop of blood welled and rolled down his wrist.

Good.

He deserved to bleed a little tonight.

Five Weeks Post-Accident

The days felt different now—lighter, sharper. Like the end of a long winter thaw.

Y/N was walking on her own. Slow, measured steps, but steady. Her body still ached, but it was the manageable kind. Her hair had grown long enough to braid again. Her skin had color. Her eyes, once glassy with pain, were clear.

And she smiled now. Often.

The discharge date had been set for three days from now.

She was going home.

That Afternoon – In the Garden Courtyard

The hospital’s little courtyard was just a square patch of hedges and benches behind the east wing, but in the spring sun, it felt like freedom. Y/N sat with her legs stretched in front of her, sun on her face, sketching in the small notebook Imani had brought her.

“You’re really good,” Imani said, peering over her shoulder. “You never told me you could draw.”

“I forgot I could.” Y/N smiled, brushing her pencil gently across the page. “Everything’s been about surviving. But now that I’m going home…”

“You’re remembering who you are.”

She nodded. “I just— I’m scared too, you know? It’s safe here. Comfortable.”

“You mean Vincent?” Imani asked carefully.

Y/N looked away, cheeks warming. “I guess. I don’t know. He’s been… amazing.”

“He has,” Imani agreed gently. “But the outside world has color. Noise. People. It’s not clean and quiet like this place.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “I’ll miss you most of all.”

“Oh, stop,” Imani grinned. “I’ll cry.”

“No, really. You’ve been my favorite part of this whole thing. You’re like the cool big sister I never had.”

Imani softened, reaching over to squeeze her hand.

“Well,” she said, “let me give you some big-sister advice, then. Real advice.”

Y/N nodded.

“When you get out there… don’t shrink. Don’t second guess yourself. Don’t wait for permission. You’re not someone’s patient anymore. You’re Y/N. You survived. And you deserve the whole damn world.”

Y/N blinked fast. “Now I’m going to cry.”

Just Then – Nurse Camila Appears

“Well if it isn’t my two favorite gossipers,” Nurse Camila said, strolling up with a smug smile and a clipboard tucked under her arm.

Imani rolled her eyes. “We’re having a moment, Cam.”

“I could feel the sincerity from across the building,” Camila teased. Then she looked at Y/N, her expression softening. “Heard the news. Discharge day coming up.”

Y/N nodded, a slow smile stretching across her face. “I’m excited.”

“But nervous,” Camila added knowingly.

“A little.”

Camila sat beside them on the bench. “Then here’s my advice. Be gentle with yourself. People think healing ends when you leave here. It doesn’t. It’s messier outside. But that’s okay.”

Y/N looked down. “Do you think I’ll still feel like this?”

“What? Alive?” Camila said.

“No. Small. Like… I was part of something so intense, and now it’s over, and I’m just supposed to go back to paying bills and buying groceries.”

Camila paused, then said something that stuck like honey on the heart:

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to go back to who you were. You get to decide who you are now.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “I hope I get it right.”

“You already are,” Imani said.

Elsewhere – Dr. Vincent Moreau

Vincent stood in the observation hallway outside her room, watching through the window as the nurses led her back from the courtyard.

She was laughing.

Sun on her face. Pencil tucked into her braid. Her voice like bells. Like spring.

Like she had forgotten she was ever broken.

She’s leaving.

The words haunted him.

He had been patient. Gentle. Perfect.

But perfection had limits. And Vincent was not a man of limits.

He moved through the hospital like a ghost, down to the sublevel where the file room buzzed with silence. He pulled her chart. Flipped through the most recent notations.

She had everything she needed. She could go home.

But she didn’t know what waited for her out there. She didn’t know how lonely it would feel without his voice, his hands, his guidance.

She didn’t know how dangerous freedom could be.

Vincent closed the file, the edges of the paper warping slightly beneath his grip.

He had two nights left.

Two nights to make her need him again. To make her choose him.

Not because she was weak.

But because, without him… she wouldn’t feel whole.

Her Last Night in the Hospital

The room felt quieter that evening.

Not empty—just softer, the way a house sounds after all the guests have gone and only the memory of laughter lingers. Her bags were packed. The discharge forms signed. By this time tomorrow, Y/N would be sleeping in her old bedroom.

But somehow… that thought didn’t comfort her as much as it should have.

She stood at the window, watching dusk paint the garden below in shades of blue and gold. A warm breeze stirred through the small crack in the glass. Her fingers brushed the edge of the windowsill, absent-minded, restless.

A knock.

She turned. Of course, it was him.

Vincent stood in the doorway, a soft smile on his lips, a simple white paper bag in one hand.

“Last supper,” he said, holding it up.

She smiled. “Let me guess. Scones?”

“No,” he said, stepping in. “This is a real meal. The kitchen owed me a favor.”

He set the bag down on the table, unwrapped two small covered dishes, and pulled a chair up beside her bed.

“Chicken piccata,” he said with a faint smile. “And wine—well, grape juice, technically. Hospital rules.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You really didn’t have to go through all this.”

“I did,” he said simply. “Because you’ll forget the pain. But you’ll remember how you were treated when you were at your worst.”

There was silence for a moment as they ate—quiet, companionable.

Then she said, softly: “I don’t know how to say thank you without it sounding… small.”

He looked at her, slow and deliberate. “Then don’t say it. Just don’t forget me.”

She met his eyes.

“I couldn’t,” she said.

After dinner, he helped her to the couch near the window, draping the soft blanket around her shoulders. She sat there, knees tucked beneath her, sipping from her cup and staring out into the quiet night.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

Vincent sat beside her, not touching her, but close enough that she felt the heat of him.

“Of what?”

“Being alone again. It was always there, but after my aunt… it got louder. And then I came here. And there was you.”

She didn’t mean it to sound romantic. But it did.

Vincent’s expression shifted—something subtle, something sincere-looking.

“I never want you to feel alone again,” he said.

She looked at him, voice small.

“I wish we could stay friends.”

“We can,” he said immediately. “We will.”

His hand found hers—just for a second. Just long enough for her heart to stutter.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low. “If you ever need anything… anything at all. You call me.”

She nodded.

“I mean it,” he said, a little more firmly. “You don’t have to go back to a world that didn’t protect you. You have me now.”

Something in her tightened.

She didn’t know why she suddenly wanted to cry.

The First Day Home

Her apartment felt too big.

Too quiet. Too full of the life she had left behind. Books covered in dust. A sweater still draped over the arm of the couch. Fridge empty. Air too still.

The shadows fell wrong in the corners. And the bed… felt cold.

She moved through the space like a guest. As if the version of her that used to live here hadn’t fully returned.

She sat at the edge of the bed, the hospital bag still half-unpacked at her feet. Her phone lay in her lap.

No messages.

She didn’t know what she wanted, exactly. She just felt… hollow.

Then, as if summoned by the ache inside her, her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

She stared at it for a moment. Then picked up.

“Hello?”

“Y/N.”

His voice.

Her shoulders dropped. Her lungs expanded. It was like oxygen returned to the room.

“Vincent,” she breathed. “I… wow. Hi.”

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

She closed her eyes. “Weird. Like I’m in someone else’s house.”

“That’s normal,” he said gently. “When people leave here, they think they’re going home. But they’ve changed. The house hasn’t.”

She nodded, though he couldn’t see her. “Exactly.”

“I wanted to check in,” he said. “But also… I missed you.”

Her heart skipped.

“I missed you too,” she whispered. “More than I thought I would.”

“I know,” he said.

There was a pause.

“Listen… I don’t want to overwhelm you. But if you’d like company tomorrow evening—just a visit—I’d be happy to bring you something warm. Your favorite tea. Just to make the place feel a little less empty.”

Y/N hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to say yes.

But because she wanted to say it too much.

“…Okay,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

The line went dead.

She stared at her phone for a long time.

Elsewhere – Vincent’s Car

He sat in the dark outside her apartment, watching the light glow through her windows.

He smiled to himself. That slow, clean, clinical smile.

She said yes.

Her Apartment – The Next Night

He arrived just after sundown.

She didn’t even hear him knock—just turned from the kettle to see him at the door, his silhouette framed by the hallway light, a paper bag in one hand and his coat still damp from the misty rain outside.

She opened the door without thinking.

“Hi,” she breathed.

He smiled—low, slow, warm. “Hi.”

It was the first time she’d seen him out of uniform. Dark jeans. A soft navy sweater. His hair a little unkempt from the rain. He looked like someone real now, not the perfect doctor with the clipboard and white coat. And that made him… more dangerous.

She let him in.

The tea was already steeping when he placed the bag on the counter.

“I brought these,” he said, unwrapping a small tin of pastries. “From that bakery you mentioned. Took a bit of digging to find it.”

“You remembered?” she asked, smiling.

“I remember everything you say.”

Her breath caught, but she looked away quickly, busying herself with mugs. “That’s dangerous.”

“Only if you have something to hide.”

She laughed, but it was soft. Nervous. Because she didn’t know what it meant, exactly.

Later – The Living Room

The lights were dimmed. The tea was warm between her hands. He sat beside her on the couch, close—but not touching. Not yet.

They talked. About nothing. About books, and the awful apartment smell she’d forgotten, and the ghost of her aunt in the furniture. He listened the way he always had—too intently. As if the sound of her voice was something sacred.

She found herself saying things she hadn’t meant to share.

“I haven’t slept well since I got back,” she admitted, swirling her tea. “The bed feels cold. The space feels too big.”

He turned to her slightly. “You know, I could… stay a little longer. Just until you fall asleep.”

She hesitated. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” His voice was gentle. “Just until you’re okay.”

She wanted to say no. But more than that… she didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight.

“…Okay,” she whispered.

In Her Bedroom

He stood just inside the doorway while she changed into pajamas behind a partition of the closet. Soft cotton shorts. A T-shirt. She caught herself smoothing her hair before stepping out.

He was still there. Silent. Watching.

She climbed into bed, tucking the blanket up to her chest. He sat on the edge, near her feet. Not touching. Just… close.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“You’re safe here,” he said. “With me.”

She closed her eyes.

The Crossing Line

She didn’t realize when he moved closer. She just felt his fingers on her wrist. Light. Tracing her pulse.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Vincent?”

He didn’t respond right away. He just watched her—eyes softer now. Something warmer… or darker.

“I thought about you last night,” he said quietly. “Lying in that cold bed. Wishing I’d stayed.”

Her mouth parted. Her chest rose.

“Is that… appropriate?” she whispered.

He leaned down, slowly, bracing his arm beside her shoulder.

“I don’t care.”

Her heart thudded—too fast. Too loud. She should tell him to move back. But she didn’t. She stayed frozen, uncertain. Nervous.

Not afraid.

But not sure.

His hand brushed her hair from her face. His thumb grazed her cheek. Her lips.

“You said I made you feel safe.”

“You do,” she whispered.

“Then trust me.”

He leaned in.

And kissed her.

It Wasn’t Forceful

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast.

But it was… possessive.

His mouth claimed hers with a slow, careful pressure, like she was something precious he had waited for. His hand cradled her jaw. She didn’t stop him. Her breath stuttered. Her fingers curled in the sheets.

And for one long moment, she let it happen.

Then she pulled back.

Not hard. Not sharp. Just a quiet breath between them.

“I… should sleep.”

Vincent didn’t press. He only nodded.

“Of course.”

He stood, brushing a thumb across her jaw one last time.

“Call me if you need anything. Anything.”

And then he left.

Y/N – Alone Again

She lay awake for hours, the ghost of his mouth still on hers, her heart confused. Her body warm.

She had trusted him. Hadn’t she?

And yet something about the way he’d looked at her when she said no more—

Like he was simply… waiting.

The Next Morning

Y/N woke tangled in sheets, skin still tingling from the night before.

She remembered the kiss. His hand in her hair. The weight of him—how close he’d come to staying.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, half-expecting to feel bruised.

You should’ve stopped him.

But had she wanted to?

That was the question she couldn’t answer.

She showered. Pulled on soft cotton leggings and a sweatshirt. Her cane leaned unused against the door. She could walk without it now. A little unsteady, but she liked the proof of progress.

She made coffee. Sat by the window. The sun streamed through the glass like something holy.

Then the knock came.

Soft. Familiar.

She didn’t flinch this time. She just opened the door.

Vincent stood there.

No coat. A knit sweater. His sleeves rolled back again.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice like velvet wrapped in heat. “I thought I’d walk you through your medication schedule.”

She hesitated. “Vincent…”

He tilted his head. Patient. Calm.

“I’m not your doctor anymore, Y/N.”

Her breath caught.

He stepped inside slowly, brushing past her, the air between them thick with something unspoken.

“You don’t have to take care of me anymore,” she said. Quietly. Not cold, not angry.

He turned to face her, eyes unreadable. “Who said I’m doing this to take care of you?”

She looked away.

“I just don’t want to confuse things.”

“Confuse what?” he asked. He stepped close again—closer than he should have. His voice lowered, dipping just enough to brush against her bones. “You kissed me back.”

“I know. But I’m still… I’m still healing.”

He studied her for a moment. Then—softly:

“Of course you are.”

He reached out and touched her hand. Light. Barely there. Not enough to refuse. But enough to remind her: he could still touch her if she let him.

“I’m here when you’re ready,” he murmured. “Not a moment before.”

Then he stepped back, just like that. Calm. Controlled.

Perfect.

But when he left, the silence he left behind felt too thick. Too intentional.

Later That Day – Jenna’s Visit

“God, this place smells like sadness and eucalyptus,” Jenna said, flopping onto Y/N’s couch.

Y/N laughed. “You’re dramatic.”

“I’m serious. I feel like I should be wearing compression socks just being in here.”

Y/N smiled, curling her legs beneath her. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jenna looked her over—really looked. “You’re… good. Better than I expected.”

“I feel better.”

“You look it. Radiant. Glowy. And that’s not just post-trauma enlightenment. Spill.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but the blush gave her away.

“Oh no,” Jenna said, sitting up straighter. “Did something happen with Dr. Dreamboat?”

Y/N hesitated.

Jenna blinked. “Y/N. Tell me.”

Y/N bit her lip. “We kissed.”

Jenna stared. “You what?!”

“It wasn’t— I didn’t plan it. It just kind of happened. He’s not my doctor anymore. It’s not illegal.”

“No, but babe…” Jenna scooted closer, lowering her voice. “He’s like—what—late thirties? Maybe forty? That’s a decade and a half older than you. And also, he’s… Vincent.”

Y/N frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’s intense. Hot, yes. Smells like sin and sandalwood, yes. But also? You just survived a trauma. And now this walking Greek statue with a God complex shows up and makes you tea every night? That’s not love, babe. That’s trauma bonding.”

Y/N looked down. Quiet.

“I’m not saying he’s a monster,” Jenna added more gently. “I’m just saying… maybe you don’t owe him anything.”

“I don’t,” Y/N said quickly. “I know.”

Jenna hesitated.

“Look… you kissed. Fine. But maybe don’t jump from patient to lover in one breath. Give yourself space.”

Y/N didn’t reply.

So Jenna tried one last thing.

“Eli really liked seeing you, you know.”

Y/N blinked.

“He asked about you after we left. Said he missed the way you talk about old books like they’re alive. That he should’ve told you he had a crush back in college.”

Y/N’s heart twisted. “He didn’t…”

“He wanted to. But you were with someone else back then. He said maybe now’s a better time. You’re older. Wiser. You know what you want.”

Jenna stood and grabbed her bag.

“Just think about it, okay?”

Y/N nodded, staring at the floor long after Jenna left.

Two Weeks Later

Y/N’s body was healing. Her soul? Trying.

Her limp was almost gone. The bruises had faded. Her reflection looked more like herself again—tired, maybe, but solid. She could walk to the corner store now. Climb stairs without wincing. She was proud of that.

But pride didn’t pay bills.

And the moment her insurance stopped covering home support, the real weight of recovery landed like an anvil.

She sat at her desk, fingers tangled in her hair, a stack of papers fanned out before her.

Rent due in five days. Her job at the library wasn’t holding her spot much longer. Utilities, groceries, prescriptions—it added up fast.

Her hands trembled slightly as she added the totals again. Maybe she could skip the pain meds this week. Maybe she could dip into her savings—what was left of it.

The doorbell rang.

She jumped.

Vincent

He stood there in slate-gray slacks, black shirt rolled at the forearms, and that signature calm wrapped around him like armor.

He didn’t ask before stepping in. He never really did.

“I thought I’d check in,” he said, setting down a cloth bag. “You looked pale when I left last time.”

Y/N blinked, overwhelmed.

“I—sorry. I wasn’t expecting—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, moving with quiet purpose toward the kitchen. “I brought lunch. You haven’t eaten, have you?”

She hesitated.

“No.”

“Then sit.”

She did.

Later – After Lunch

She felt warmer. Safer. Even with the bills still stacked on the table.

He watched her fingers trace the corner of one envelope, brow furrowed. She didn’t even realize she was fidgeting.

“You look tired,” he said softly.

“I haven’t slept well.”

“Pain?”

“No,” she admitted. “Stress.”

He nodded, slow and patient. “What’s going on?”

She hesitated. Then, like a crack breaking open:

“I’m falling behind. My job… they’ve been patient, but they need someone physically capable. And rent’s due. And groceries. And I just…” Her voice shook. “I don’t know how people survive like this.”

Vincent stepped closer.

“You’re not people,” he said quietly.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re you. And I told you from the beginning—I’d take care of you.”

“Vincent, I can’t—”

“I’m not asking you to owe me anything,” he said. “I’m offering because I want to. Because I can. Let me help.”

She didn’t respond.

He stepped closer again, until he was standing behind her chair.

“You shouldn’t have to do this alone,” he murmured near her ear.

His hands settled on her shoulders.

Warm. Gentle. Too firm.

“You fought so hard to get here. Let someone hold you now.”

Her body stiffened—but only for a moment.

His thumbs pressed into her muscles, slow, circular. Releasing tension. Manipulating her as easily as he had her spine and hip in recovery.

And God, it felt good.

“Just… let me take care of you,” he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

“I don’t want to be weak,” she said softly.

He leaned down, lips brushing her temple—not a kiss. Just heat.

“Letting someone love you isn’t weakness.”

Her breath hitched.

A Choice That Isn’t One

Later, she found herself in bed. Not with him. Not yet.

But his coat still hung on the back of her chair.

He’d insisted on covering her rent—“just until you’re back on your feet”—and left an envelope on the table before she could refuse.

She stared at it.

She should tear it up.

But she didn’t.

She folded it. Slid it into the drawer. Just for now.

Just until things were easier.

Vincent – Driving Home

His hands were steady on the wheel. The city blurred past.

She had let him touch her again. Let him give again. The moment her body leaned back into his hands, something in him uncoiled—pleased. Satisfied.

Soon, she would realize that he was her foundation.

And once she relied on him enough…

She wouldn’t know how to live without him.

Earlier That Week – A Text Message

Hey. I was thinking about that old book club we used to joke about starting. You and me and Jenna. You ever actually read that fairytale collection?

Y/N stared at the message on her phone for a long time. Eli.

Safe. Sweet. Warm in that nostalgic, college-days kind of way. She didn’t even realize her fingers were moving before she hit:

You wanna grab coffee and talk about it?

She didn’t ask Vincent.

She didn’t tell him.

She didn’t think she had to.

The Café – The Next Day

It was nothing. A small corner café. Two coffees. A little laughter. The taste of normal.

Eli was kind. Still had that quiet sarcasm that made her feel sixteen again.

“You’re glowing,” he said at one point, sipping his coffee. “Hospital life suits you.”

She laughed. “I think it’s just being upright again.”

“No,” he said softly. “It’s something else. You’ve changed. But it looks good on you.”

She flushed and didn’t respond.

But when he touched her hand across the table—lightly, no pressure—her stomach twisted.

Not because she didn’t like it. Because she thought about Vincent.

And how he would hate this.

Y/N’s Apartment – That Night

She was drying her hair when the knock came.

Three sharp raps.

Her stomach dropped.

She padded to the door in bare feet, heart suddenly too loud in her chest.

She opened it slowly.

Vincent stood there.

Still in his work clothes. Coat open. Shirt buttoned too tightly. His jaw was tense.

“Hi,” she said, forcing lightness.

He didn’t smile.

“I stopped by earlier,” he said. “You weren’t home.”

Her mouth dried. “I just—went for coffee. With a friend.”

“A friend.”

His tone didn’t rise. It didn’t dip. But something froze in the room.

She stepped back automatically, letting him in. Why did she always let him in?

Inside

He moved through her apartment like he owned it. Familiar. Quiet. Like the silence was his weapon.

“I’ve been worried about you,” he said, finally facing her. “You didn’t call.”

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

“You don’t,” he said. But the words felt false.

“I just had coffee. With Eli. You remember him.”

His face barely changed. But something in the room did.

“I remember.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m allowed to have friends.”

He nodded. Slowly. “You are.”

But his eyes were not agreeing.

Then, he stepped closer. Too close.

“You kissed me,” he said softly.

Her breath hitched. “I remember.”

“Do you think that means nothing?”

“No. I just—”

“You think I watched you bleed, put your body back together with my hands, sat beside you while you cried about your aunt, and then let you go have coffee with some boy who didn’t bother to see you for three years?”

His voice never rose.

That made it worse.

“I’m not trying to hurt you, Vincent,” she whispered.

He took another step forward. His hand touched her waist—slow, claiming. “I think,” he said, “you don’t understand what you mean to me yet.”

Her throat tightened.

“You told me I was safe with you,” she whispered.

“You are.”

“But you’re—” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t know how.

Then his hand was on her cheek, tilting her face up.

“You’re confused. I forgive you.”

And then he kissed her. Harder than before. Not cruel, but firm. Mouth hot, steady, possessive.

She froze—then melted. Her body responded before her mind could catch up.

And she hated it. Because she wanted it. Because she didn’t say no.

When he pulled back, she was shaking.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“What?”

“That you want me here.”

She swallowed.

“…I want you here.”

He smiled.

Then pushed her gently back toward the bed.

Later

He didn’t take all of her. Not yet.

But he touched her.

Under her shirt. Over her ribs. Palms skimming too slow, too low. She let him. Or maybe she didn’t stop him.

It felt like a dream—fever-warm and heavy with guilt.

When he finally left, hours later, she sat on the bed in silence.

Her skin was warm.

Her body ached.

And her hands trembled.

Vincent – Outside

He stood at the bottom of her stairs. The streetlamp glowed gold over his face.

He wasn’t smiling.

She was his now. Even if she didn’t know it yet.

And if Eli tried again—if anyone tried again—

They’d learn what it meant to take something that belonged to him.

Part Two

[zodiyack]

Pregnancy (A drabble)

Pairings: Jace Wayland x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, pregnancy

Words: 526

Author's note: Just a little idea. I can make this a full fic / miniseries. Only Y/N and Clary have gone in to see Magnus in private.

Masterlist | The Mortal Instruments Masterlist

Taglist: @matth1w, @redspaceace-writes, @fandom-puff, @darling-i-read it,  @simonsbluee,  @thewarriorprincessxo,  @sebastianstanslefteyebrow,  @livlaughquinn,  @bubsonnobx,  @bunnyweasley23

Magnus hesitates when he passes Y/N. His expression shifts to one of concern and curiosity. "I'm surprised you're here."

Her brows furrow. "I'm a Shadowhunter, of course I'm here."

"Not that." He chuckles. "Given your predicament, I wouldn't expect you to join them on this journey."

"Why's that?" She asks, genuinely curious.

Magnus looks at her with amusement, then hovers his hand over her stomach. "You're with child."

Clary gasps in place of Y/N, who is too in shock to even react.

"No- I'm not... I mean, I've been sick lately, just... I'm not pregnant." She shakes her head, in denial.

"Y/N, I may not like your kind, but I would not deceive you. You. Are. Pregnant. I recommend that you withdraw from any strenuous missions, avoid putting stress on you and your baby, as well as putting yourself in danger if you wish to keep your child." He orders her. The topic is simply dropped when he returns to Clary.

(After the fight with the vampires)

"You really shouldn't have come, after what Magnus told you?" Clary announces to the group, but directs to Y/N.

Y/N widens her eyes and whips her head in Clary's direction. "Don't."

Jace looks at the two in concern and tilts his head. "What did Magnus tell you?"

Clary opens her mouth to speak. Y/N quickly replies, warning the redhead. "Don't. It's not yours to tell."

Izzy and Alec look at each other with confusion, but wait for Jace to reply. "What did the warlock tell you, Y/N?"

"Do we really have to do this right now?"

Clary rolls her eyes and speaks up, "How long are you gonna hide the fact that you're pregnant? They'll notice eventually! I mean, what about Jace?"

The three's eyes all widen at the reveal. Jace looks upset, but Y/N is livid. Seeing her reaction, Alec's expression darkens and he steps forward.

"Even if that is a concern, it's none of your business, Clary." Her name drips with venom when it comes from his mouth. "You've been ogling Jace since you got here. Your jealousy cannot hide forever either."

"But- Jace, she lied to you!" Clary averts her gaze in shame when he doesn't acknowledge her.

"Alec is right. Though I'm upset Y/N hid it..." Jace looks toward her with a sorry nod, "I still wish it would've been her to tell me, especially since it's between us. I've tried to brush off your advances, but I suppose I must be blunt now. I plan to stay with Y/N and my unborn child. The fact that you've known of our relationship and continued to pursue me has made me question whether I want to train you or not."

It's Izzy's turn to step forward. "We can talk about this later. For now, we need to get back to the institute and put Simon in the infirmary."

"Yeah." It's the only word Y/N lets out before she walks past Clary, bumping her shoulder on the way. Jace follows, also ignoring Clary. The girl can only watch and realize how much she's hurt him.

[deep-dive]

2024 year-end:

albums: A. G. Cook - Britpop Actress - Statik Amnesia Scanner & Freeka Tet - HOAX Astrid Sonne - Great Doubt Belong - Realistic IX Bibio - Phantom Brickworks (LP II) Billy Bultheel - Two Cycles Biosphere - Patashnik (Decrypted By Sketch) Bladee - Cold Visions Body Meat - Starchris Broadcast - Spell Blanket & Distant Call (Collected Demos 2000-2009) Camila Cabello - C,XOXO Caribou - Honey Chanel Beads - Your Day Will Come Charli xcx - Brat Cindy Lee - Diamond Jubilee Colin Self - lemniscate d’Eon - Leviathan Dawn Richard & Spencer Zahn - Quiet in a World Full of Noise DJ Sabrina the Teenage DJ - Hex Eiko Ishibashi - Evil Does Not Exist Erika de Casier - Still ESP - Promise Felicia Atkinson - Space As an Instrument Fennesz - Mosaic Geotic - The Anchorite Good Sad Happy Bad - All kinds of days Hesaitix - Noctian Airgap Iglooghost - Tidal Memory Exo Jack J - Blue Desert Joanne Robertson & Dean Blunt - Backstage Raver Joseph Shabason, Nicholas Krgovich & M. Sage - Shabason, Krgovich, Sage Julia Holter - Something in the Room She Moves Kali Malone - All Life Long Klein - marked Laurel Halo - Octavia Loidis - One Day Merely & Malibu - Essential Mixtape Mk.gee - Two Star & The Dream Police Molina - When you wake up Mount Kimbie - The Sunset Violet Naemi - Dust Devil NEW YORK - Side A/B Nilüfer Yanya - My Method Actor Oliver Coates - Throb, shiver, arrow of time Otha - Club 20 Pet Shop Boys - Nonetheless Priori - This but More Saint Etienne - The Night Shinichi Atobe - Discipline ssaliva - Eat the Night Original Soundtrack Tems - Born in the Wild Tindersticks - Soft Tissue Total Blue - Total Blue Torus - Summer of Love (2024) Toxe - Toxe2 v/a - Hypersensitivity: A Decade Of Allergy Season v/a - TRANSA: Selects Vegyn - The Road to Hell Is Paved with Good Intentions Xiu Xiu - 13” Frank Beltrame Italian Stiletto with Bison Horn Grips Yung Lean & Bladee - Psykos

songs: Actress - Ray A. G. Cook - Crescent Sun A. G. Cook - Crone Amnesia Scanner - AS Over Astrid Sonne - Give my all Baths - Sea of Men Billy Bultheel - Snows of Venice - Snow Cycle Bladee - END OF THE ROAD BOYZ Boy Harsher - Machina (ft. Mariana Saldaña) [Dark Mix] Carolina Polachek - Coma Chanel Beads - Embarassed Dog Charli xcx - 360 remix featuring robyn & yung lean Colin Self - Doll Park Doll Park Contrahouse - Big Time Sensuality 2 crushed - milksugar (DJ Python Remix) deBasement - FTDJ (Thank God) d’Eon - Gilded Cutlass (Kallisti Version) DJ Sabrina the Teenage DJ - Come In, Carmen Dorian Concept - Hide (Bibio Rework) Dua Lipa - Houdini (Dally L Harle Slowride Mix) Erika de Casier - Test It ESP - Break Free Fennesz - Love and the Framed Insects Fibre Optixx - What Is Love (Priori Dee-Dub Remix) Geotic - The Going Herbert - Fallen (ft. Momoko Gill) Hesaitix - Santorosae (Black Dolphin) Hesaitix - Anticrime HTRK - Dream Symbol (Loraine James Remix) Iglooghost - Coral Mimic Jack J - At Last James K - Blinkmoth (July Mix) Jensen Sportag - Power Sergio Jim Legxacy - aggressive Joanne Robertson & Dean Blunt - she’s lost control again Job - Fun Town ‘24 Joseph Shabason, Nicholas Krgovich & M. Sage - Patti Jump Source - Balance Kode9 - Nuvola Loidis - Wait & See Marie Davidson - Sexy Clown Merely & Malibu - appregiated romance Mica Levi - Slob Air Milan W. - Days in My Arms Mk.gee - Dream police Mk.gee - ROCKMAN Molina - Flowers Mount Kimbie - A Figure in the Surf Naemi - Ambergris NEW YORK - ah Oklou - family and friends Oliver Coates - Backprint radiation (ft. Faten Kanaan) Otha - Effin Pet Shop Boys - New London boy Physical Therapy & Patrick Holland - 7PM Drive Priori - Moonstone (ft. Ben Bondy) Rat Heart - Picky Eater Rat Heart - U Can See Alex Park From Ere Ryota Kozuka - Da’at: shinjuku gyoen Sade - Young Lion Saint Etienne - Daydream Shinichi Atobe - SA DUB 8 SINN6R - Ay Caramba SOPHIE - Love Me Off Earth (ft. Doss) ssaliva & DJ KIT - I see the future Tems - Burning Tindersticks - Always a Stranger Torus - Lose Control Total Blue - Heart of the World Tove Lo & SG Lewis - Heat Toxe - Som En Sol Toxe - Eating Hearts Vegyn - Makeshift Tourniquet witchcell - Killswitch Xiu Xiu - Maestro One Chord Yung Lean & Bladee - Sold Out [playlist]

movies: 103 fever (Conner O’Malley) Caught by the Tides (Jia Zhangke) Challengers (Luca Guadagnino) Chime (Kiyoshi Kurosawa) Cloud (Kiyoshi Kurosawa) Dune: Part Two (Denis Villeneuve) Evil Does Not Exist & Gift (Ryūsuke Hamaguchi) Fallen Leaves (Aki Kaurismäki) Furiosa (George Miller) Juror #2 (Clint Eastwood) La Chimera (Alice Rohrwacher) Misericordia (Alain Guiraudie) Monster (Hirokazu Kore-eda) Problemista (Julio Torres) Red Rooms (Pascal Plante) The Shrouds (David Cronenberg) Smile 2 (Parker Finn) Stress Positions (Theda Hammel) The Taste of Things (Trần Anh Hùng) Trap (M. Night Shyamalan)

games: Animal Well Astrobot Balatro Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erdtree Final Fantasy VII Rebirth Metaphor: ReFantazio Persona 3 Reload Unicorn Overlord Shin Megami Tensei V: Vengeance – Armored Core: For Answer (2008) Record of Lodoss War: Deedlit in Wonder Labyrinth (2020) Resident Evil (2002) Vampire Survivors (2022) Xenoblade Chronicles X (2015)

[meryldian]

★ Growing up with Tokio Hotel (Devilish) ★

AN: It is no secret that I adore the childhood friends trope with all of my soul. This is very self indulgent and I have zero shame about it.

!! Some if not most hcs are based off events from Bill Kaulitz’s book “Career Suicide” !!

Part 2

Warning! Underage drinking and Smoking, small mention of bullying, some sexual themes briefly addressed. Friendly reminder it’s Tokio Hotel we’re talking about

How did you end up in Magdeburg or Loitsche is up to you, but there is no denial in saying that you were at the right place, at the right time when you met a little boy with spiky black and red hair at your new school playground

Little Bill Kaulitz thought you were cool from the second he saw you. There weren’t many people in the school that he had an interest on or that even payed any positive attention to him. With you it was different. You looked kind and unique!

Quickly he introduced you to his brother Tom, him being a kid with a bit of an inflated ego it would take him some more time to warm up to you.

In the meantime, you and Bill became inseparable. You were basically glued to each other’s hip. His mom would drop him off at your place every Saturday for you guys to play with your Polly Pockets, Power Rangers, dressing up in some ridiculous outfits that were the highest of fashion for your little selves.

Bill’s mom genuinely loved how her son was not scared to be himself around you. She would often ask how you were doing and when you would come over next.

You started to grow on Tom thanks to his mom’s faith in you. If his beloved mom trusted you then so could he.

Tom was getting into skating at the time, he would offer you to learn with him or watch him do tricks.

He loved the attention.

He probably tried to charm you up but gave it up when he saw of how much worth you were. You guys did not bring it up again, only in interviews later on when you wanted to dirt on Tom.

Unfortunately you wouldn’t always be shielded from the chaos in their childhood. One way or another you would probably end up trashing a train or smoking blunts behind the school bushes very early on.

It wasn’t uncommon for you to show up to class totally high.

On the evening you guys would grab your bikes, or you would ride with one of them, and head down by a lake to smoke, chat and unwind. Throwing rocks in and seing how many times it bounced.

With time the twins found their one true love, music. They dreamed big, long gone were the school talent shows and weddings. They wanted to reach the world.

For that, their little singer, guitarist duo with a keyboard that played bass and drums wouldn’t work.

One morning right before class the boys came up to you, literally sprinting and blabbering at the same time. You only understood “band, you, join, casting”

From that moment on you were doomed.

If you didn’t play an instrument already the twins’s step-dad would happily accept you into his music school for free.

Through his acquaintances you guys found a drummer. He was immature for his age according to Tom. He wore glasses and a little shirt with a cow skiing.

When the day of the “casting” as the twins called it came, Gustav played some Phill Collins and solos for you guys. Clearly it wasn’t a real casting and you were fully aware that this boy was your best bet at getting a drummer for your newly formed band. Yet, the boys took it very seriously.

Tom replied “alright good you have the job” and rolled with it.

What were the odds that at the same music school Gustav attended there was an aspiring bassist.

Again, it was your best bet so you took Georg in.

If your first language was english it could’ve gone two ways when the twins came up with the name “devilish”. You either loved it and thought it was sick or you cringed yet had to tag along with it for the boys.

Now you guys had the time of your lives with the band.

Weekdays after school would be spent entirely at the garage jamming out and drinking. You all sucked at the beginning, barely mastering your instruments but your charm stood out.

Georg and you became friends right away. His energy jumped right at you and you both became such a comedic duo.

He started the fire and you just added fuel to it.

You loved to prank your friends so much.

And innuendos. So many innuendos.

Once Tom joins into your madness, it’s over for everyone else.

It wasn’t rare for you three to come back home all messed up and pass out on Tom’s couch.

Gustav baking and making little snackies for the band while you rehearse !!

Well, you drank and lazied around more than rehearsing per say.

Tom, Georg, Gustav and you playing video games all coddled up on a couch together.

Thank god Bill is there to kick your asses so you actually play music.

Tom and You developed a habit of playing back to back. You thought it looked cool.

Gustav is the glue that keeps you all together, and away from major trouble. Half he time at least.

Quickly enough you gained a little fanbase in town.

At school you might’ve been the outcasts still, but the older and “cooler” kids took you in happily.

Not much changed, it was the same old story of drinking, smoking, trashing shit down but now with the slight change that everyone around you was discovering their sexuality.

You walk in and Georg’s wanking in the corner? Throw a blanket over him and continue with whatever you were doing.

Being around four young boys and their friends surely set you up to become just as shameless as them.

You guys got very familiar with one another and could not care less about changing in the same room or sleeping in the same bed.

You guys were starting to become a set of quintuplets.

You were probably one of the first if not the first person that Bill ever talked to about questionning his orientation and the little romance he had with his old friend.

If you happen to be a part of the community as well, Bill was your confidant as well. It was you guys’s little secret before coming out of the closet.

Needless to say, when Bill got the confirmation that he would be attending “Starsearch” he jumped right into your arms. You were one of his biggest supporters and he wanted you to be there for him.

Bill might’ve not won the competition, but it opened a door for your little band.

[armed-with-a-waffle-iron]

a pretty ambitious ask, but let's go:

suppose, you are now in charge of writing a dual story for stephanie brown and helena bertinelli. it can be a mini, a standalone, a comic series, or an entire run. you can use any version of them (as in, any alias or any particular storyline) and it doesn't have to align with the current dc storyline — simply, the floor is all yours. it can have connections to blunt trauma but it's not necessary. you can also revisit any past storylines and rewrite them newly for this dual story.

how would you go about this? what ideas and themes would you like to explore? or would you like to aim for more of a buddy vigilante adventure action thing?

(this is meant to be lighthearted and a roundabout way of me asking what sort of purple power comics you'd like to see more of, heh 💜💜)

Ooooo. It'd be a miniseries (4-6 issues), sort of a sequel to Blunt Trauma. I'm calling it Huntress/Batgirl: Blunt Instruments.

Dustin Nguyen is on pencils. It's set in the Batman: Reborn era. The Birds of Prey are broken up and Bruce is "dead". Stephanie is still established herself as the new, wild-card Batgirl and Helena has been vigilante-style globetrotting with bestie Renee Montoya. They're both feeling a little out of place and little lonely but won't admit it. They're both actually struggling with their complicated feelings over Bruce's death but won't admit it. They're both struggling with the open question of who they will become after this hard reset. Sky's the limit now right? So why doesn't it feel like that?

"Blunt instruments" is gonna be a phrase they've both heard Bruce use to describe them; undisciplined, heavy-handed loose cannons, ill-fit for vigilante work.

I wanna get to the bottom of what kind of heroes Helena and Steph are. What can they do just as well as Batman? (combat, crime-busting know how...) What can they do that Batman can't? (being more human than idea; approachability/intuition with people, viewing Gotham from a socially-concerned lens, lives/work outside batman-ing, faith/spirit, unpredictability...) What really drives them? (Helena as a teacher & Steph as a nurse) What's Gotham mean to them? (as people who live there and breathe the same air, instead of living in an ivory tower) To do this, they're gonna have to reckon with something close to home that raises old sins and old demons.

It's gonna be a mob story, drawn in the style of film noir but more playful. No super-powered threats. The antagonists are the Gotham Mafia, specifically the Inzerillo Crime Family who are primarily involved in racketeering and headed by an old-fashioned, "Mustache Pete" called Boss Enrico. The Inzerillo's secret weapon will be a young woman, Steph's age, who is the Boss's adopted daughter. She's an incredibly gifted assassin with a point to prove. She's desperate to "make her bones" and establish herself in a tyrannical, male-dominated space which ostracises her.

While they'll mostly be beating up male mafioso no-names, I also want Huntress and Batgirl dealing with youths and female spouses getting involved in the rackets; criminal receivers, runners for drugs, racketeering vandals and arsons, or even murders of those who dishonour the Family. I want these "complicit innocents" to have agency, and I want Helena and Steph get that (and get them).

I want them to deal more with the social ramifications of organised crime which Batman stories neglect. Lost kids, broken families, debts, addiction, incarceration, sexual exploitation, over-policing, police brutality... Things you can't just slap "Wayne Foundation" onto as a fix. I wanna show how better equipped these characters are with reckoning with more socially-concerned themes.

I also wanna really draw out their shared antiauthoritarian bent. The authorities, cops, and even Batman (Dick) and Robin will be barriers as they fight, dirty if they have to, to bring down a despot don with far reaching tentacles. What have authority figures ever done for them? They're used to flipping-off authority.

In a sense Batman, as an idea, that gave birth to Huntress and Batgirl/Spoiler and also represented to them a distant, disproving, unpleasable patriarch. Who are Helena and Steph in a world without God Batman? I want the story to be an answer. Batman will always influence who they are but who says they can't be independent and distinct in their own right.

Supporting cast. Their "mothers" will both show up to stir the pot, and by "mothers" I mean Catwoman and Dr. Thompkins. Oracle, and to a smaller degree, Misfit will help out on the case. I want them to come off as part of a (complicated) community, however alone they may feel.

Also, they're both only going to use their signature piercing weapons (crossbow and trick-batarangs) in the final issue, as a kind of we're not blunt instruments after all huh?

We're not getting a happy ending, but they'll come out with a hell of a lot of respect for one another (and hopefully themselves).

[rageprufrock]

Superposition | The Devil Judge WIP

Just a sneak peek into the inevitable outcome of me finding out that I can write a story about a 17 year age gap.

After the fire, Yohan wakes up every morning knowing that Isaac is dead. 

Elijah wakes up every morning convinced her father is alive. 

It's the crush damage of new grief each day, too big for her tiny body and too heavy for her to carry. It's worse than all of Yohan's years under his father's belt; it's not until he loses Isaac and Heejin, until Elijah cries herself unconscious in his arms, that Yohan realizes that his father had been a clumsy jailer, that for all his cruelty he'd been a blunt instrument compared to all the ways suffering can visit itself upon a person. 

It's a miracle Elijah is alive, surviving multiple complex fractures and then delayed treatment. They save the flesh and bone of her legs, piece her back together with literal pins and needles. Her x-rays are difficult to look at; the scarring across her ghost-pale skin is worse. She hurts, in a relentless way that is at first impossible to explain to a child, and then is so ordinary she goes quiet with it, turns it inward. She stops crying. She's too weak and immobile for her once-infamous tantrums. She goes quiet instead. She throws books, toys, anything that Yohan brings into her beautifully appointed private room to try to distract her. 

"It will be hard, and it will take time," her doctors say, with an infuriating paternalism, as if their performed empathy could dampen constant burn of searing fire across Yohan's shoulders, cut into the shell of him. "But she's young and she's resilient—she'll surprise you." 

For the first six months, Yohan spends his limited waking, functional hours desperately trying to hold back the flood with his bare hands. He wakes and he's in too much pain to function. He sleeps and his doctors adjust his pain management regimen. He wakes and he tries to comfort Elijah. He sleeps and he dreams about the skin grafts he's been informed are needed. He wakes and he calls Lawyer Ko. He sleeps when he knows Isaac's Social Responsibility Fund donation is canceled. He loses hours and entire days in the labyrinth of the hospital, winding between the VIP ward and the children's wing, meeting with Elijah's orthopedic surgeon, her occupational therapists, the revolving cast of nurses that transport her from procedure to scan to bedside. He arranges Isaac and Heejin's funeral, and ends up back as a patient when Elijah's meltdown at the gravesite has him tearing one of his barely healed graft sites trying to contain her flailing arms, to swallow all of her screaming pain into the bottomless well in the base of his spine. 

It's eight months and six days after the fire that Yohan hears Elijah laugh again. 

***

Later, he'll get a comprehensive readout from the hospital grapevine, but the day he meets Gaon for the first time, all he knows is that he's been summoned by the terrifying peds nurses because Elijah and her new friend have committed some kind of juvenile crime.

Yohan's not ignorant to the fact that Elijah is a nightmare child, but he's still a little confused about how a five year old who is—frankly—abysmal with her new wheelchair is any kind of threat to society. He fetches up at to the pediatric OT clinic fully prepared to act like a complete entitled asshole about this, because while Elijah is a monster, she's his monster and therefore completely innocent of all sin, original or otherwise. 

Except halfway down the hallway there, he hears the sharp cackle of Elijah's laughter, a goblin shriek of pure wicked joy. It lands like a punch, like a blessing, it leaves him lightheaded. 

When he rushes the door, it's to find Elijah in full glory, giggling so hard she can't speak. Her hair is tied up in a series of tiny ponytails that frame her face like a lion's mane, her face is covered in marker, and she's clutching a filthy orange cat to her chest. 

"Kang Yohan-sshi," says one of the nurses, who is trying and failing to look severe, from the way her mouth keeps wobbling and her voice is trembling. "As you can see, we have a situation."

"I—where did she get the cat?" Yohan asks, faint.

Another nurse, who is making no effort to hide her grin, says, "Apparently, they found him behind a trash can in the garden and snuck him into the hospital." 

Yohan slants his eyes toward her. "They?" 

"I'm really not sure how you missed her very obvious partner in crime," the nurse tells him, actively laughing now, and when Yohan turns to look again—turns to see anything other than the miracle of Elijah's smiling face—he sort of understands her point.

Because sitting next to Elijah is a skinny teenaged boy wearing Elijah's headband, all of his short hair pushed back and sticking out like a massive frill around his thin face, his nose colored black and whiskers drawn across his cheeks. He looks less embarrassed than he probably should be, and more incriminating, he's holding some contraption made out of stolen hospital supplies that looks like one those little fishing toys for cats—a single inflated glove hanging from the end—that the fat orange on Elijah's lap keeps reaching for with outstretched paws. 

Standing in the doorway, surrounded by staff and other parents who are barely containing their hysterics, the whole thing is even more batshit. Nurse Woo Yeji, the iron fist of the pediatrics ward, is looming over Elijah and the kid on the ground, hands on her hips as she booms out:

"Kang Elijah-sshi, give me that creature immediately." 

Elijah narrows her bright little eyes. "Oh no," Yohan mutters.

"My cat," she declares, her chin stuck out in defiance.

"He was so sick and skinny, we had to rescue him," the boy chimes in, with the admirable application of a pair of doleful, sweet eyes. It might be more effective if his face wasn't covered in washable marker and he didn't have a purple heart drawn over his left eyebrow. 

"That cat is at least 4 kilograms overweight," Nurse Yeji tells them both, unmoved. "And let me say: Kim Gaon, I thought you had better judgment than this."

The boy, Gaon, takes the comment with the ease of long familiarity with disappointment, but Yohan still sees his eyes go briefly flinty, briefly cold, before he pastes on a smile and says, "I rode my motorcycle into a wall. If you thought I had good judgement, that's your own fault." 

"Yah! Kim Gaon!" the nurse yells, which just sets Elijah off again into pealing laughter. 

And from the back of the room, Yohan watches the way this mouthy kid, this little punk, glances over to his niece, watches how the fake grin on his face dissolves for something softer—something run through with tenderness too old for his years. 

***

Kim Gaon is 17, orphaned, and a frequent flight risk from the group home he's been remanded to with both his parents dead. In the 13 months since his father had died by suicide, and the 10 months since his mother had followed, he's been picked up by the local cops at least a half-dozen times: for smoking, for drinking, for fighting. Yohan looks up photos of Gaon's once-happy family, reads SNS posts mourning the closure of their family restaurant, the police reports about the suicides, the note in Gaon's hospital file that notes that he's going into arrears for his parents' funeral costs. Kim Gaon's social worker talks about him with a sort of resigned apology, approaches Yohan's interest like another black mark in the boy's service jacket. She looks at Yohan's suit and briefcase, takes his business card and calls him Lawyer Kang, spills the whole of Gaon's history, reassures Yohan that however self-destructive, however volatile, Kim Gaon's never displayed any violent tendencies toward children, that Lawyer Kang should feel free to reach out immediately if he feels concern that Gaon has become Elijah's friend.

"If you'd like me to speak to him, to tell him you're not comfortable with him spending time with you niece, I completely understand," his social worker says. 

Kim Gaon has been treated for two different STIs and tried to kill himself with a motorcycle three months ago. The only people he has left in the world are a childhood friend from down the street and Judge Min Jeongho, who used to eat lunch at the Kim's restaurant every day. 

Kim Gaon is 17 and entirely alone.

Yohan smiles at her. "No need," he reassures her. "I'll handle this on my own." 

***

Too much of Kim Gaon's character reference is ultimately hearsay. Yohan doesn't trust himself, exactly, but he trusts his judgement, so he watches quietly from the sidelines, collecting data. Yohan hears all the nurses talk about how Gaon is achingly polite, how they can't understand how such a nice boy could be such an evident wild child he would ride motorcycles with reckless lack of self preservation. He watches Gaon do other peoples' homework, quizzing them on Joseon history and showing a middle schooler who's learning how to write with his left hand trigonometry. Kim Gaon plays Smash Brothers with a flock of elementary school kids and ruthlessly kicks their asses every single time.

The Kim Gaon that's considered a neighborhood menace, the one sends his teachers into a blind fury, that's the protective armor. Yohan knows from defensive adaptations. 

But being a nice kid isn't the same as belonging in Elijah's life in any meaningful way, Yohan acknowledges, and spends a pointless day drafting soul-killing discovery motions and wondering why he's devoting so much time to this distraction. Maybe it's how Elijah's sleeping through the nights better, communicating her pain and what she needs better. Maybe it's how she tells stories about her friend Gaon, and it briefly feels as if they've traveled backward through time, that Yohan's watching her for the night, hearing and becoming deeply invested in all of her day care drama. 

"Elijah-ah, why do you like Gaon so much?" Yohan asks her one night, midway through the intricate ritual of her bedtime routine.

From her bed, Elijah says, "Gaon is funny and cats like him and also his parents are dead, so someone has to take care of him," and without missing a beat, points her sparkling princess wand toward the closet, commanding, "Check there, too." 

Yohan climbs off of the floor where he'd been checking under the bed and goes.

"Would you want to see Gaon even outside of the hospital?" he asks her, doing a careful four-point inspection of the closet: more clothes than one child could ever wear, 200 pairs of shoes, a stuffed sheep the size of a horse—no monsters. "Closet's clear."

Elijah makes a considering noise. "Gaon-oppa said he was a really good cook, so I want to eat his food," she decides, and shy now, she waves Yohan toward her, tiny hands flapping. "Samchon, come here. I want to tell you a secret."

Yohan cherishes every secret he has with Elijah. Since she was born, he's kept so many for her: that she stole a cookie, that she's really really not scared of thunder, that she loves her uncle best, that church is boring. 

"I'm ready," Yohan promises, and sits at the edge of her bed with his most serious expression. 

Elijah looks left and right, as if there are spies around every corner, before she cups her hands around her mouth and Yohan curls over her so that she can whisper:

"Sometimes I forget I'm sad about Mom and Dad, but Gaon-oppa says that's okay because I never forget that I love them." 

It lands somewhere in Yohan's soft underbelly, in the forever ache of his scare tissue. He looks down into Elijah's solemn little face, her riverstone eyes, and he wonders what kind of benevolent God allows this—forces children to patch one another's broken hearts. He used to wish that he would have died instead, that he could trade himself for Isaac, for Heejin, but he's comforted Elijah through too many nightmares of his own death to entertain it any longer. Love's always been a chain, whether wrapped around his wrist with a cross or trapping him in his father's house. 

"You will, you always will," he whispers back. 

"And they love me, too, of course, in heaven," she tells him, with the haughty confidence of a spoilt only child, who'd grown up with three adults circling around her in constant adulation. 

"And I love you here, on Earth," he says, and does not add, your grandfather loves you, too, from where he's burning in hell.

Elijah goes suddenly quiet, thoughtful and a little distant, and Yohan waits patiently until she says at last, "Gaon doesn't think his parents love him in heaven." 

Yohan stills. "Did he say that?" 

"He told his friend, the unni that visits sometimes," Elijah reports, and staring dead into Yohan's eyes, she adds, "I was hiding behind a curtain listening. He also said he can't be her boyfriend." 

"Okay, well, time for little goblins to go to sleep," Yohan says, because he absolutely cannot start laughing about this because somewhere out there, in the beautiful hereafter that Isaac so fervently believed in, he would be furious if Yohan encouraged this kind of behavior.

***

For all Yohan's been investigating the mystery of Kim Gaon, he's wholly unprepared to be confronted by the reality of the boy while sitting in the hospital cafe at half past five, working his way through a stack of files for court the next day.

"Kang Yohan-sshi?" comes a voice, and when Yohan looks up, it's into the shaggy bangs and thin face of the boy who makes Elijah laugh, standing awkwardly at the edge of his table.

"Ah," he says, flipping his pen across his knuckles. "You're Kim Gaon."

Gaon's eyes round. "You recognize me?" 

"The nurses tell me you're friends with Elijah," Yohan says, and waves at one of the empty chairs at the table, shuffles a few folders around to make room. "Please."

It takes more than a little maneuvering for Gaon to take the offered seat, between his backpack and his crutches, his leg still in its cast, and Yohan offers him a steadying arm, takes his bag, helps shift the table this way and that way. Gaon looks mortified the whole time by these small courtesies, stumbling over thank yous and apologies. It tells on him in ways Gaon can't possibly know, but that Yohan can't possibly ignore.

"What brings you to my temporary office?" Yohan asks, when he's sure the kid isn't going to tip over and break anything else, and is only in immediate danger of blushing to death.

Gaon squares his shoulders, and taking a deep breath, says, "I wanted to talk to you about a cat."

This is how Yohan learns that the orange furball that he's first seen that day in the OT room all those many weeks ago is a stray that's been named Gam, and that Elijah's youthful enthusiasm for petty hospital-based crime has undergone a metamorphosis toward more elaborate heists.

"Not that I don't admire her ambition, but I'm pretty sure you'd notice the yowling lump in her sweater when you pick her up from OT," Gaon says, still nervous and too polite, darting wary little glances upward at Yohan. "I tried to talk her out of it, but she started arguing about how cold it was going to get and I had to admit defeat."

Yohan feels the corners of his mouth curl up, reflexive. "There's wisdom in recognizing when you're beaten," he says. "And I appreciate your letting me know."

"Sure," Gaon says before going quiet for a long measure, some unfinished sentence still hidden behind his lashes. Yohan's patient, waits him out, and is rewarded when a half-minute passes and Gaon says, with a brittle courage and poorly concealed vulnerability, "I—I'd take him with me if I could. I like Gam. But the house where I have to stay won't allow pets."

Yohan can hear a universe in between the confession here: that Gaon must have been worried about the cold weather long before Elijah even noticed, that he'd tried to find an answer all on his own. Yohan feels, tugging in the hollow underneath his breastbone, a hurtful recognition of a younger version of himself, all those raw edges fraying, and maybe—sitting here—he can understand a little of Isaac's quiet sadness, the way Yohan had carried all his suffering alone, as a matter of course, without ever trying to ask for help. 

He looks at the slope of Gaon's shoulders, the wrinkled collar of his school uniform shirt, his terrible haircut, the little divot of a piercing in his ear. Yohan thinks about the sunburst of Elijah's laughter and all the terrible things he's willing to do to sustain it; it's strange to realize he hadn't anticipated something so easy, something that wouldn't hurt at all. 

"Do me a favor," Yohan sighs.

Gaon's head darts up. "Um—if I can?" he says.

"Back me up when I tell her that I thought long and hard about this, and that I'm going to be a strict taskmaster about this cat," Yohan says, with a rueful certainty that there's no way in hell that Elijah is going to buy this narrative, because it looks like the sun is rising in the brightness of Gaon's eyes, the pink happiness of his too-thin cheeks. This kid couldn't lie effectively if his life depended on it. In this light, Gaon looks a little like Isaac, if Isaac was too thin and too hopeful, all gamine pleasure; it makes Yohan feel his bones creak just to look at him. 

"I will, I absolutely will," Gaon promises, smiling now and still shy, but so achingly sweet that it makes Yohan want to buy him hot chocolate, to tell him he's done a good job, to ask if he's eaten dinner. 

He forebears, and starts packing up his work documents instead. 

"Come on," he tells Gaon. "If I'm going to make a fool of myself trying to trap a feral hospital cat, you're coming with me."

Yohan ends up scratched to hell and back, his hand-tailored wool trousers covered in mud, while  Gaon laughs at him with a wide-open happiness that makes something in Yohan's chest feel too big for his rib cage. He decides not to think about it in favor of fetching Elijah from her PT and ferrying her down to his car, where Gaon is waiting for them both, a sulking Gam zipped into the front of his hoodie like an uncooperative child. His smile could light every building in Gangnam. Elijah's shriek of pure joy when she spots him leaves Yohan half-deaf for the drive home, and so the warm patter of Elijah and Gaon talking in the backseat rolls over him in indistinct syllable noises until he drops Gaon off at his group home and helps him to the door. 

"Thank you, for today," Gaon tells him, starry and still rosy, covered in cat hair. 

"Elijah's already drawing up plans for shared custody, so don't be a stranger," Yohan warns. 

He'd been ordered by Elijah to participate in an exchange of contact information with Gaon because everybody in the car had a unique and unaddressed relationship with the trauma of abandonment, and so of course Gam could not be suddenly bereft of one of his humans.

"I won't, I promise," Gaon swears, and nods back toward the car, where Elijah is holding Gam up against the window and waving his paw at them. "You should get her home."

Elijah talks nonstop during the drive out of the urban density of Seoul into the forested beyond where their family home is perched on a melodramatic cliff above a lake. Yohan hears about her nurses, her rivalry with another little boy in OT who sounds like he has a world-ending crush on her Gaon-oppa, and listens to the way Elijah sometimes stops mid-sentence when Gam meows at her and then replies, as if she can understand cat. 

Whatever is bubbling in his veins, its too violent to be the warm kindness of joy. This ferocity feels like some holy gratitude, feels like the way Isaac used to talk about God. Yohan has never any good at faith, but he thinks—to himself, so loudly he hears it over the roar of blood in his ears and the chattering happiness of Elijah, vividly alive—he thinks, thank you, thank you, to whoever is listening: to God, to fate, to fortune, to the fucking cat—to Gaon, waving at Elijah with both hands, a smile on his face and Gam curled close against his chest. 

[crystal-crax]

🅑🅞🅝🅤🅢: 🅣🅗🅔 🅓🅐🅨 🅗🅔 🅜🅐🅓🅔 🅨🅞🅤 🅑🅛🅤🅢🅗

Oikawa Tōru x blunt!reader

Sweet, fluff, one-sided crush

Oikawa's POV (kind of)

About: Oikawa's mind races as he can't stop following you around on valentine's day

February 14th was a very special day, and the Aoba Johsai students took it seriously.

Boys and girls alike could be seen running around gifting flowers and candies to everyone they deemed precious to their life, or even just giving stuff to everyone else as a mere nice gesture.

It was almost kind of ridiculous how serious the festivity was in the area. Some could say it was their very own holiday; secret mailboxes, secret friends, secret admirers, public confessions, everything. If you can think of something cheesy to do on this special day, it has probably already been done at Seijoh.

This is why; contrary to popular belief, Oikawa Tōru was not a fan of Valentine's day.

He didn't hate it, it just irritated him a bit.

He loves the attention he receives from his admirers, but even the most narcissistic person would get tired by the end of the day if they had to witness what he did every year.

Serenades, a mountain of candy on his desk and an insane amount of love confessions.

A really insane amount of people he had to console afterwards.

This is why you, had decided to not participate on it.

"Seriously!? You're not giving me anything!? Nothing!?" Oikawa yelled

His arms were glued to the sides of his head, standing by the school entrance, having to be tortured in first row as you gave Iwaizumi a cute small bag of candy.

"I thought you said it annoyed you how you could never finish everything they gave you. Why would I add up to that?" You furrowed your eyebrows slightly, which made Oikawa's heart flutter.

He could already feel that usual soft warmth on his face.

He understood your point, after all. You weren't doing it out of malice (maybe, probably, he's still not sure if you do this stuff to make him suffer), but out of a genuine thought.

Why couldn't you be more selfish? Maybe that way he wouldn't be so obsessed with you, and that way he could stop himself from feeling his whole body boil as Iwa grabbed a piece of the amber colored caramel tablet from your fingers and ate it right in front of his face.

"Yeah jerk, she's doing you a favour." He said mockingly, enjoying secretly (at least as a secret to you) the frustation you gave to his best friend." You have a long way of stupid heart boxes in your gym bag ahead"

He groaned exhasperated, half-tired from every hint that was thrown your way and you just failed to pick up on it.

That's just the way you were, utterly honest but horrously dense.

Iwa could barely contain his laughter at the captain's expression.

"Tell us the joke so we call all laugh" you teased

"Nah, then it wouldn't be funny anymore"

And so, Valentine's day had come.

And Oikawa was the greatest victim of it.

Some would call it an exaggeration or gloating, but he was honest when he said he could barely walk two steps without a girl interrupting him on his way to class.

"I'm really sorry" He said to the bold freshman that had stopped him in front of the entrance "But i can't return your feelings"

"But..."She pleaded

"I'm focusing on my sport's career right now. So... Training will always come first and, that wouldn't be fair to you, would it?"

The girl stopped her tears from falling and smiled "You must be really dedicated... that's so admirable"

That was a big fat lie.

Too busy? Unfair?

Yes, he had a past of it; getting dumped because he always treated volleyball as his main objective.

But you weren't just anyone he could leave behind.

He could never to that to you.

He would fly you to the end of the world if it meant he could see you cheering him on.

But he could never say the real reason to anyone.

Sorry, but i like someone else?

Come on! That would become a scandal! His fans would totally assume he's talking about you, right? He spends every living minute with you! He's always calling your name or wrapping his arms around your body somehow.

He wasn't discreet about it either, and if anyone asked him; he would be honest about it too.

Do you like Y/n?

No, I love Y/n. I love her so much my head is always repeating her name. Her voice calling my name would be my ringtone, my alarm, my favourite song. If she doesn't love me back, i don't care. I wouldn't leave her side, even if she found somebody else to give her heart to.

His chest clenched at the last thought. Shaking his head side and side to relieve the small scare he had given himself.

He waved goodbye to the girl and wished her well, finally being able to make his way inside the school.

"Damn, the younger gens are getting braver" his best friend said

He sighed "Don't tell me about it, I feel bad enough"

"If you feel so bad then go back and tell her you were joking and totally want to date her" He pinched the side of Oikawa's arm

"What the heck- I would never do that!"

"You mean you wouldn't do that, again?"

He couldn't help but blush

Be with someone else? He had already tried that before.

Back when he denied his feelings, back when he thought he could forget about you.

He groaned "This day is going to be endless"

"And it's barely 8 am"

Soon enough, the next girl approached.

"Hey Oikawa! Do you have a minute?"

"Hey! I wanted to talk to him first!"

"Girls, come on. I'm really thankful for how amazing you are but i need to get to class-" He begged.

He was tired.

No, he was exhausted.

The first period had come and gone, barely any classroom was actually having classes today, as even the teachers were amazed at the energy of the 'festivity'. Oikawa thought to himself that maybe if they were on his shoes for the day or even a second, they would at least be nice enough to make the students sit down for five minutes.

But no one was there to save him; and there he was, standing in the middle of the hall with at least 5 girls forcing their gifts on his hands and begging for him to try them.

He wanted an out, something to take his mind off all the noise. Even giving up his dignity and daring to signal his best friend to come up with any excuse and drag him away as he would usually do.

"Iwa- Oh!"

His salvation, or atleast his beacon of hope, appeared right next to Iwaizumi. His eyes inmediately locked on yours when he realized you stood right there in front of him.

"Y/n! Dearie! Happy Valentine's day! Could you wait for me! I'll be there in a sec-"

He was cut mid sentence, your bag held close to your body.You seemed nervous, as if you were scanning the group around him.

Were you scared to approach him because of the crowd?

His heart sunk, now he definately needed to find a way to get everyone to leave him alone for the rest of the day.

Well, not precisely alone.

He did want to be with you.

But he never found out how.

Lunch, free period, in-between classes. He tried his best to slip away from the spotlight. Crap, he ran to you and screamed out loud!

Even in the few moments of the day when he wasn't bothered, he couldn't managed to find you.

In the library? In cafeteria? In the yard?

Somehow, you seemed to be just out of his reach.

At last, the last bell of the day rang. And his hopes of spending at least 5 seconds with you seemed to be almost over.

His energy? Drained.

His smile? Torned.

He wasn't even sure he could behave properly if anyone else came to bother him.

He decided to wait until basically everyone was gone from the building, and calmly made his way to the bathroom, changing his school uniform for the volleyball jersey and shorts.

His heart beated, not as loudly as before. The rythym was as slow as his breathing, battling the need to scream out of frustration.

He wasn't nervous, but worried.

He had tried to find you, heck, the only thing left for him to do was to carry the school on his palm and shake it until you fell out.

But he knew that mind of yours, and you had probably (definately) gotten the wrong message.

What if you thought he was spellbound on the attention he received? What if you believed him to be a terribly shallow guy who only pretended not to like Valentine's day so he could get rid of you.

His hands trembled as he opened his locker, getting off his white slipplers- just as a small pink note fell from inside.

"My heart is racing faster than i can write this.

My hand is shaking so much I fear my words won't come across.

So i'll keep this moment, short and sweet for us.

Meet my behind the gym."

Behind the gym.

Your shortcut was right by it.

His head felt dizzy.

You weren't the type to write this type of stuff.

Too much words.

-I fear my words won't come across- that was textbook Y/n, right?

He let himself believe, even for a second, as dropped everything on the floor to run with all his strenght.

He ran as fast as his legs allowed him to, his breath already shaking with barely a minute.

His legs burned, heck, his lungs burned even higher.

But everything was alright, as long as it was you, everything would be excellent.

Except you weren't the one standing behind the gym waiting for him.

"Thank you for joining me here" a cheeky voice stopped his mind from disconnecting from his body.

He looked around for a moment, hoping that you would magically appear right in front of him with a flower bouquet and chocolates.

"The pleasure...was mine" He said as he tried to grab back his lost breath and forced his heart to forget about this horrendously embarassing moment.

Yeah right, as if Y/n would just do this cheesy stuff, he thought to himself.

"So...it was very nice to receive your note" he said, nervously hiding his disappointment behind a fake smile.

"Well, i really wanted to talk to you...alone"

He sighed, it seemed like Valentine's was still going on strong, so he prepared mentally to repeat his 'confess & reject' protocol.

"Oikawa... i've seen you from afar for quite sometime, althought i've been really nervous about talking to you- Um, did you enjoy the cookies?" She asked, her hands fidgeting "i made them specially for you"

Fuck, had she left anything more than the notes? Did she open his locker or something?

"They were amazing. You have some talent for baking don't you? It's so cute" He felt bad for lying, but there was nothing else to do.

Hey, did you actually leave anything else? Did you open my locker without my consent? You do know that's weird right?

He chuckled at the thought of you answering back for him. In these kind of moments, he wished to have your honesty.

"I'm so happy to hear that" the young girl smiled, the pink on her cheeks growing brighter and her voice breaking more.

"But..." he sighed, placing his hands to the sides of his hips "That is not why you called me here, right?" He asked, knowing how the drill went and trying to speed things up.

Yes, he propably was being a little rude, but he didn't care. He needed to find you.

"I like you" she finally said "I know i'm younger and we haven't talked a lot but...would you consider my feelings?"

He scratched the back of his neck, these younger generations were probably making his hair gray from all the stress.

"I'm really thankful for your feelings, but i can't accept them" He answered.

Quick, gentle and direct.

He needed to get this over with.

The girl's eyes were already starting to water.

"Oh..."she looked down to the ground. Oikawa couldn't help but feel bad about it, but even the sound of the leaves ruffling was overestimulating his senses.

He needed this to be over.

"Listen, you are really cute and all but.."He prepared his personal script again ""I'm focusing on my sport's career right now. Training will always come first and, that wouldn't be fair to you, would it?"

The girl didn't speak, grabbing the sides of her skirt tightly.

Oikawa sighed again, placing his open palms on her shoulders. "Hey, honey. You're cute and talented, you deserve someone else that can spend every night and day with you. Someone who would never be too occupied to see talk to you"

The girl still didn't respond, making Oikawa's already short patience disappear.

Alright, have it your way; he thought. Turning around toward the school to collect the things he had thrown.

"It's because-" the girl talked suddenly, her eyes still covered in tears, her voice broken and shaky "You already like someone else... don't you?"

His eyes opened wide. Not one of the girls had ever asked him that.

"It's...that girl you're always around you, right?" Her voice quivered, her tone became calmer.

It would be cruel to answer thruthfully, althought the girl was definately at fault for being pushy.

Still, he had made his mind up long ago.

He would never lie to or about you.

He would never deny his feelings for you.

"Yes" he answered.

And so the girl nodded and ran to the school gates, her heart broken and humilliated.

At least no one would be able to see her.

He groaned. Stretching his arms to the sky and looking up, finally the day had finished, surrounded by everyone but the one he wanted to be his valentine.

A sudden noise behind him interrupted his whining; he walked towards it with curiosity, squinting his eyes to recognize who was the one walking through the small aisle behind the building.

Maybe, the heavens weren't so ruthless.

He smiled and He increased the speed on his steps, Reaching out his hand to reach your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks.

"Tell me you weren't leaving me behind on Valentine's day" he smiled, and for the first time today, it was real.

You didn't turn to him, only allowing him to talk to the back of your body.

"To be fair, you left me behind first"

His smile got stuck on a grimace of confusion. Dear god, were you actually annoyed?

"Don't tell me you're mad Dearie" he whined "It's a heavy day for me! It's not easy being me!" He complained, pulling you closer to him, engulfing you in a hug.

He didn't care anymore what he came across, he needed you to understand you were the one thing on his thoughts all day.

"Don't get cocky with me now" your voice sounded irritated, your words cutting through his attempt to make you comfortable.

"Hey" he said firmly, grabbing you by your shoulders and turning you to him, his left hand making it's way slowly to your right "Don't leave me like this". His gaze connected to yours, begging you to stay with him.

"Don't look at me like that. It's your fault, actually" You avoided his eyes, as a small pink ghost of embarrasment started to make it's way on your face.

He chuckled, his hand gripped yours tighter. If he could scream out lmof joy right now, he would.

Dear god, you were jealous.

"You were spying on me? My my, i didn't take you for the possesive type" his other hand looked for yours gently, never losing sight of your eyes.

"Please don't flatter yourself" you pulled your hands back and crossed your arms "I was waiting for you, i thought you would take our usual shortcut" you shrugged, acting as if anything that happened hadn't bothered you.

He bit his lip down "I'm so sorry Y/n. I actually have tried to talk to you all day long..." He reached for your hand again.

You were jealous! This could easily be the happiest moment of his life, his heart raced and his senses stumbled to make his sentences make sense. He wanted to scream, he only had eyes for you, you and nobody else.

"Y/n" he said softly "I missed you all day"

You finally gave into his attempts, letting yourself make eye contact. Your eyes glimmered under the soft sunlight, your pink cheeks highlighting and making your face look even more beautiful.

"I just, wanted to give you these"

You pulled out the small bag with his name on it "They aren't anything special...but, i thought you would like it.."

Crap, he really wanted to scream. He felt like a fan.

"I just, wanted to make you happy again" you scratched the side of your cheek nervously. He grabbed the small bag with care, scared to even dare to break the moment.

He chuckled "I'm always happy, as long as it's about you" He said honestly. He was tired of lying today, he wanted to be honest right now.

He couldn't handle another common confession. But if you were to do so, he wouldn't lie, he would let you, he would accept you.

He begged the skies to let this moment go as his mind had imagined so many times already.

He just needed you to say it.

"That's nice to hear" you finally smiled "I always want to make you happy"

And so, his heart exploded.

It was vague, but it was totally a confession, right?

Maybe this was your way to say it without putting pressure on him.

Maybe you just didn't want to be another girl that confessed on Valentine's day, maybe you were keeping the exact words for a better day, a day only you two could remember.

He surrounded your body with his arms again, hugging you tightly.

"You don't have to do anything" He said, placing a kiss on the top of your head. "As long as it's you, i'll be happy"

He didn't care if he made the wrong impression anymore, he was happy.

Your nervous arms placed themselves into his waist, joining into the hug.

"I'm also very happy with you, Toorū"

"SHITTYHEAD! WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!"

"DO NOT RUIN THIS FOR ME RIGHT NOW!"

Guess you all understand now why he thought you were half-confessing, right? Lmao

I'm having so much fun writing these! I hope you enjoy them as much as i do🩵

See you next week for the "confession" finale!

[strangelittlestories]

It was 4am and Treasure was forcing down a third can of energy drink when thing got *weird*.

The library was hazy with that kind of quiet hysteria that blooms late at night, when impending deadlines crush the soul down into fertile soil for strangeness.

The fluorescent strip lighting and insufficiency of windows didn't help any.

Treasure was tired in a way that banished coherent thought and made sleep an impossibility. Her eyes kept trying to close, but when they did, she just saw spots of dark light floating on the inside of her eyelids.

She stared at those spots, daring them to make sense.

Imagine her surprise, then, when those spots - those holes in the reality of her - began to stare back.

Treasure opened her eyes. She looked down at the energy drink and considered setting it aside (she did not). She looked up again and found she had opened a new document on her laptop.

"MAKE AN OFFERING" It read in bold Grotesque font, each letter an oddly elegant blunt instrument.

Treasure looks from the energy drink to the laptop. Her hand moved on its own, pouring a splash of blue neon liquid onto the keyboard. She resisted the urge to wipe it off. She failed to resist the urge to swear.

The liquid fizzed and hissed on the keyboards and there was a scent of sickly fruit tinged with ozone in the air. The keys, already gummed up by solidifying chemical sweetness, began spitting out characters onto the document.

At first, they were nonsensical - no words, just a jumble of letters, punctuation and blank space. But as Treasure's eyes began to unfocus, the whole mess began to coalesce like one of those magic eye images (but made out of ASCII art).

The figure on the screen was a mess. Eyes like black holes. Lines running down them like cracks or oily ramen stains. Hair like thunder.

"What are you?" Treasure whispered.

Amongst the slurry on the screen, a few letters became bold and spelled out a sentence.

"I AM OVERDUE. GODDESS OF BURNOUT."

"Do you..." Treasure's voice was quiet, reverent, hesitant; a hymn in the key of awkward. "...do you want me to worship you?"

The letters swam. Rearranged.

"YOU ALREADY DO."

"What do you want from me?"

"GET SOME SLEEP."

"I ... I can't. I have a paper on Applied Theurgy due tomorrow."

"NOT A REQUEST."

Treasure's eyes closed. Sleep came.

When she awoke, days later. She found out that she had submitted a paper to the Arch-Professor. It was junk. The same mess of forehead-smashed input through which the goddess had appeared to her.

She had received a B minus.

The title of her paper was "It Is Better to Fade Away: An Accidental Communion."

It had been submitted with the note: "Please Give My New Disciple A Good Grade."

Treasure went in search of coffee.

[sillygoose067]

A Masked Promise

Ch.33

Dick Grayson(Nightiwng) x Reader

Warning(?): PLOT TWIST(I think) hehe, blood, injuries

The air was suffocating. Thick with smoke and tension, the warehouse trembled under the weight of what was happening within its walls. The Titans stood at the edges of the chaos, their faces painted with worry and helplessness as they watched Nightwing and Deathstroke collide in a brutal storm of fists, blades, and rage.

Nightwing wasn’t fighting like himself. Every calculated, precise movement that once defined him was gone. He fought like a man possessed, reckless and unrelenting. His blows were wild, fueled by pain and fury, landing with the kind of force that sent cracks splintering through the concrete beneath their feet.

“Dick…” Dawn whispered, but her voice was lost to the cacophony of the fight.

Rachel reached out, her fingers trembling as she whispered, “This isn’t him. He’s… he’s lost in it.”

Kory’s fists clenched at her sides. “We can’t just stand here and let this happen.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Donna said, her voice tight, her eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before them. “This is his fight.”

Slade dodged one of Nightwing’s furious strikes, his movements calculated and fluid. His mocking grin was gone, replaced by a grim expression. He was struggling to keep up, his usual confidence shaken as Nightwing’s relentless assault forced him to retreat step by step.

“You’ve lost control, boy,” Slade growled, ducking under a swing and countering with a sharp jab to Dick’s ribs. “You’re nothing but a blunt instrument now. Is this it, boy? Is this the best you’ve got? All that grief, all that anger, and you still can’t finish me?”

Dick didn’t respond. He didn’t even seem to register Slade’s words. His fists continued to fly, his movements sharp but erratic, like a man chasing the only thing holding him together: vengeance.

Another strike landed on Dick’s side, forcing him back. Slade followed up with a sharp kick, sending Nightwing skidding across the floor. He hit the ground hard, his body rolling before slamming into a metal beam with a sickening crack.

The Titans flinched as one. Gar took a step forward, his body tensed as if to intervene, but Donna held him back with a firm hand on his arm.

“Wait,” she said, her voice breaking slightly.

Dick pushed himself to his feet slowly, blood trickling from a cut on his temple. His chest heaved, his breaths ragged, but his eyes—burning with fury—never left Slade.

“You should’ve stayed down,” Slade said, raising his blade. “You’re no match for me like this. You never were.”

But Nightwing didn’t care. He surged forward with a guttural roar, his escrima sticks flashing as they clashed with Slade’s blade. The sound of metal against metal rang through the air, each clash a desperate attempt to overpower the other.

Slade managed to land a blow that cut across Dick’s chest, a shallow but painful wound that sent him staggering. The Titans gasped in unison, but before anyone could react, something impossible happened.

Slade’s blade came too close, cutting toward Dick’s chest, aimed directly at his heart. For a moment, time seemed to slow. But before the blow could land, a golden barrier erupted around Dick, shimmering with an otherworldly energy. The blade ricocheted off the shield harmlessly, and Slade stumbled back in shock.

“What the hell?” Slade hissed, his grip tightening on his weapon.

The Titans froze, their eyes widening as the golden orb pulsed, radiating warmth and power. Inside it, Dick stood still, his chest heaving, his eyes locked on Slade with unrelenting fury.

Nightwing's focus remained entirely on Slade, his rage undeterred by the glowing shield now surrounding him.

The Titans’ confusion deepened as the golden light pulsed, steady and powerful, radiating a warmth that contrasted sharply with the violent chaos of the fight.

Then, a voice broke through the tension.

“Stop.”

It was faint, almost distorted, but it was unmistakably yours.

All heads turned toward the pillar where your body had been left.

You weren’t lying there anymore.

Your form hovered in the air, bathed in the same golden glow as the shield surrounding Dick. The light emanated from you, soft yet impossibly powerful, and your face, though pale and ethereal, held an expression of serene determination.

Rachel’s eyes widened, her voice trembling as she whispered, “It’s her…”

Donna stared, speechless, while Gar took a step back, his mouth falling open in shock. Kory’s fiery glow dimmed as she simply stared, unable to comprehend what she was seeing.

“Dick.”

It was your voice, soft and distorted, as though carried on the wind. It wasn’t audible to the others—it was inside his head, cutting through the haze of his rage.

“Gray, stop.”

His body stiffened. His breath hitched. For the first time since the he'd witnessed you fall, he hesitated.

“Please… come back,” your voice whispered, calm but resolute.

The words cut deeper than any blade. He faltered, his grip on his escrima sticks loosening as your voice echoed in his mind, drowning out everything else.

“He's not worth it,” you said, the warmth in your tone like a lifeline pulling him from the abyss.

He blinked, the world around him coming back into focus. The golden light surrounding him pulsed again, and he turned, his eyes searching for you.

And there you were.

Your body, once lifeless near the pillar, was now floating in the air, bathed in the same golden glow as the orb around him. Your eyes were closed, your expression serene as your voice continued to resonate in his mind.

“Let it go, Gray. Let me help you.”

Slade snarled, his confusion giving way to anger as he lunged forward. But before he could get close, another wave of golden energy burst from your form, sending him flying across the room. He crashed into a pile of crates, coughing as he struggled to stand.

“Y/N…” Dick whispered, his voice trembling as he stared at you.

But you didn’t turn his way. Your form remained still, suspended in the air, your glow intensifying as you turned your focus to Slade.

“You’ve done enough,” you said, your voice echoing through the room, no longer just in Dick’s mind. “You’ve taken enough.”

Slade laughed bitterly, wiping blood from his mouth. “What are you? Some kind of ghost? You think you can stop me?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, the golden light around you coalesced, forming tendrils of energy that lashed out at him. Each strike was precise, hitting his weak points and leaving him crumpled on the floor, battered and broken.

The Titans watched in stunned silence, their disbelief mirrored in the shock on Slade’s face. He tried to rise, but the energy pinned him down, rendering him powerless.

And then, it was over.

The glow around you began to fade, and your body wavered in the air before slowly descending. Dick rushed forward, his heart pounding as he caught you in his arms.

“Y/N…” he whispered, his voice breaking as he cradled you.

You slumped against him, your body limp but warm, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. You were alive.

Relief flooded through him, his grip on you tightening as he pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re breathing,” he murmured, almost in disbelief, more to himself than you. “You’re okay.”

Your eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused, but you managed a weak smile. “Gray…” you whispered. “What… what happened?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “I don’t care. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

The Titans gathered around, their expressions a mix of relief and confusion. But before anyone could speak, a low groan drew their attention.

Slade was still alive, barely conscious and utterly defeated. The golden energy had left him scarred and broken, his body too damaged to fight back.

“What do we do with him?” Donna asked, her voice hushed.

Dick didn’t answer. His focus was entirely on you, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face as he whispered, “You’re safe now.”

But even as the golden light faded completely, your question hung in the air: what just happened?

———————————————————————————-

TAGLIST:

@mybones537 @thereeallink @ziziriaa-blog

[incognitobobcat]

Headcanon Tomáš

Photo Source: @jojogreg8441 on Twitter

Name: Tomáš Vrbada

Birthday: July 11, 1993

Zodiac Sign: Cancer

Birthplace: Prague, Czech Republic

Languages: Czech, English, Chinese (dialect unknown), learning Japanese

Fighting Style: Ninjitsu and Pencak Silat

Weapon: Karambit

Religion: formerly Catholic

Favorite Colors: Silver and light shades of blue

Favorite Foods: Svíčková, Řízek, Rajská omáčka, Madam Bo’s cooking, homecooked meals, Gyoza, and food from the Osaka night markets (ie. Kuromon), enjoys food in general

Favorite Beverages: Water, Pilsner, milkshakes, and some juices

Favorite Pastimes: movies and tv shows, music, walks in nature, traveling, enjoying various foods from restaurants and night markets

Favorite Actor: Johnny Cage

Favorite Movie Genres: Action, adventure, suspense, psychological thrillers, comedy, and whatever else from other genres that appeal to him.

Favorite Music: Contemporary music, alternative metal, classical and soothing instrumental music.

Favorite Dating/Hangout Spots: Osaka night markets, cozy and casual and cozy restaurants, and romantic and peaceful natural spots.

Personality: He is stern, intimidating, and quiet on the outside. He is able to command the respect from his subordinates. He is assertive in a firm and confident way. As a trained assassin under two established clans, he is true to his oaths and never backs down from kombat. He is loyal, courageous and deadly in his profession. As a person, he is kind, gentle, soft-spoken, eager to help and caretake others. He is intelligent and kind. He enjoys favorite past times with people he likes to hang out with and a woman he’s interested. He can be funny and is a good actor.

Ideal Woman: Tomáš likes a soft and gentle personality who can really connect with him on an emotional level. He values kindness, compassion, and empathy. He needs a partner who can give him the emotional safety and space to be vulnerable. Being a giver himself, he loves it when a woman graciously and enthusiastically accepts his gifts and chivalrous gestures. He also wants a woman who can handle his constant need for reassurance and appreciation, so constant attention and physical touch are very important to him.

Turnoffs In A Woman He Dates: Abrasive, angry, negative, careless with how she words things (straightforwardness is a gray area as it varies from individual to individual), blunt to harsh, overall oné who isn’t “feminine” in behavior. Fiercely independent women are frustrating for him to deal with. He may not be aware of this: even though he has fought alongside strong women who are fierce warriors, he has traditional views of how his woman should be and prefers her to be meek and dependent on him, as it feeds his masculine ego and need to look after someone who is weaker.

Deepest fears: To expand on the last point mentioned above, Tomas’ need to look after someone weaker stems from his past traumas of losing loved ones. He has a fear of abandonment. Subconsciously, this is his way of being in control of what he views as his and those who he sees are in need of his help. This brings him alot of gratification and allows him to feel like he is in control, sometimes in an intrusive way.

Furthermore, When Tomas feels he is not being seen and recognized for his acts of kindness, this will further fuel his fear. When someone can do for themselves what he desires to do for them, he interprets this as a message that he is no longer needed, and therefore discarded.

Turn Off For A Potential Partner: Once Tomas has decided that you are the woman that he wants because you check all of his boxes and meet his needs, he will physically and emotionally latch onto his partner. He would want to be with her as much as he can. Tomas is a very physically affectionate person and will want to cuddle, hold hands and make out as much as possible. He loves frequently having sex as a way to pour himself into his partner and bond with her, and it helps him de-stress, so he will make sure that he gets this as much as possible. This may drain the woman, especially when she is tired or not in the mood.

If the woman isn’t on the same level as Tomas is regarding falling in love at his pace or is more reserved regarding his physical and emotional needs, is not ready to open up about the details of her life, or cannot be emotionally present for reasons ranging from business to tiredness to being with girlfriends, he can get frustrated, insecure, and extremely jealous, to which he will verbally express this making him come across as whiny. If she is careful with her body and not want to have sex during certain times of the month out of fear of unwanted pregnancy, Tomas may eventually accuse her of making excuses to not want to be intimate. In his mind, there must be something wrong with him or she may be falling out of love that she’s distancing herself from him. Repeated reassurances may fall on deaf ears as he may shut down and walk away, or argue her points in such a way to make her feel guilty. The woman may feel obligated to give in to soothe his fears and build resentment over time or she may have to end the relationship.

Tomas expects his partner to be able to pick up on what he is feeling and can’t shut down when his partner doesn’t. Because he fears abandonment, he can be emotionally selfish where he will emotionally manipulate his partner with guilt trips on how much he has done for her, her not appreciating him, and playing the victim to get reassurance and physical affection from her. This may make the woman feel like her efforts are not good enough, which affects her self-esteem, she may feel abused and and be emotionally drained to the point of apathy. Her pulling away from him will further trigger his fears and Tomas may cry and beg, promising to change. If she chooses to stay, things may get comfortable for the old habits to come back. If she walks away, Tomas may double down on his efforts, making it even harder for her to leave.

These behaviours only manifest behind closed doors when you are his person. Outside of that, things are normal to untrained eyes.

Healthy Tomas: If he is healthy and secure in himself and his partner, Tomas is the most giving to her beyond the physical. He will make her feel like she is his priority and she will feel emotionally safe and contained by him. He is empathetic and is attuned to her moods and needs. He also knows when he needs his space and can communicate clearly with his partner, and vice versa. He is also able to walk away from a toxic relationship or once he feels that a relationship has run its course while holding on to the good memories. Tomas is respectful of his partner’s refusal to be intimate for her reasons and will make sure that her needs are taken care of when she is tired or stressed while putting his feelings aside. He is a great friend and lover, and wants to build a family with his future wife when she is the one. He will make an excellent father and husband and would die to protect his family.