#so it can mean ‘reflection’ or even ‘shadow’ or ‘silhouette’

[ghostedgwen]

Hiii I adore ur James fic but we need more Moony! what if reader is Remus' childhood friend and they have been attached at the hip until he met the Marauders and once they've graduated she becomes a Potioneer and basically invents the Wolfsbane Potion and when he finds out it was invented by her they meet again and she admits she invented it for him could end up vaguely platonic but you can also make it full on Remus x reader up to you!! thanks!!xx!!!!

never too late | r.lupin

note : Hello anon, thank you for this lovely request!! Been thinking about this request a lot and finally got around to writing it while I was looking after my sick wife. Yall seem to enjoy my really long fics so here's 6k words for Remus <3

warnings : childhood friends drifting apart, some angst with comfort, mentions of Remus' werewolf struggles, Remus as a cane user, very very slow burn sorry

Remus was a childhood friend you slowly drifted apart with, he had the Marauders and you had Potion books. Years later, you did the impossible of inventing Wolfsbane Potion, he thought it was the best time to reach out.

You never thought Hogwarts would feel so far away from home.

The boat rocks gently under your legs as lanterns sway above the water, casting warm reflections across the lake. Around you, the other first years whisper excitedly, pointing at the silhouette of the castle glowing in the distance. But your eyes aren’t on the castle. They’re on the boy sitting across from you - Remus Lupin, your best friend since you were barely old enough to hold a wand.

He doesn’t speak. He rarely does when he's nervous. His fingers twist the sleeves of his robes, and the shadows under his eyes are darker than usual. Most people wouldn’t notice. But you do. You've always noticed things about Remus.

You grew up together in Whispermere, a quiet magical village tucked between a haunted wood and an old apothecary. The kind of place where magic hummed through the stones and gossip moved faster than broomsticks. There were never many children, so the two of you became a pair soinseparable, like a matched set of spellbooks.

When you were eight, you figured it out. The absences, the injuries, the nights when his house went silent and the air felt heavy with something unspoken. And one day, he finally admitted it.

“I’m a monster,” he whispered, curled on the floor of your room after the worst full moon you’d ever seen him return from.

You remember the rage that sparked in you. Not at him - never at him, but rather, at the world.

“You’re not a monster,” you said, voice steady even though your hands were shaking. “You’re just Remus. That’s enough.”

He didn’t believe it, not then. Maybe he still doesn’t, but you meant it.

You always have.

Now, as the boats drift toward the stone docks and the castle towers above you like a dream, your fingers brush against his. You squeeze gently, a silent reminder: I’m still here.

Inside, the Great Hall takes your breath away with its floating candles, enchanted ceiling, golden plates that shine even without food on them yet. It’s everything you imagined and more. Everything you have read paled in comparison.

Then names are called.

One by one, first years step forward, trembling under the Sorting Hat’s scrutiny.

And then -  “_______, _____”

You turn to Remus and try to smile, but your chest feels like it’s caving in.

“Wish me luck,” you whisper.

He nods. “You don’t need it.”

You sit on the stool. The Sorting Hat drops onto your head, and immediately a voice purrs in your ear.

“Well, aren’t you an interesting one… Clever, sharp, fiercely loyal. Curious about everything. You’d do well in Hufflepuff. Maybe even Gryffindor... but no, you don’t just want to be brave. You need answers. You want to understand the why behind everything. And that, dear one, means only one thing…”

A pause. You feel the Hat probing something deeper.

“You’re thinking about someone else… the Lupin boy. Hmm. Very protective, I see.”

“He’s my best friend,” you think fiercely. “I want to stay close to him.”

The Hat chuckles, deep and amused. “A noble thought. But you’ll both need to grow. Apart, if you must. Don’t fear it. You’ll find your way.”

Then, aloud, it shouts: “RAVENCLAW!”

You slide off the stool, applause ringing in your ears. The Ravenclaw table welcomes you with warm smiles and curious glances. But your eyes scan the room, following Remus as he soon takes his turn.

The Hat takes longer this time. You bite your lip.

Then - “GRYFFINDOR!”

He looks toward you, unsure. You give him a thumbs-up and a grin that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’d promised to stick together, but Hogwarts, it seems, had its own plans.

Weeks pass. You find your place among the Ravenclaws, high in their airy tower. You answer riddles to get into your common room and lose yourself in books, ancient spells, and strange magical theories. It suits you, in its way.

But you miss him.

You make time where you can - which is between classes, after curfew, beside the Black Lake under starlight. He’s always tired after the full moon, always quiet. You notice the fresh scars even when he tries to hide them under long sleeves.

You’re always the first to notice, you doubt there’s a detail you’d miss when it came to him. 

Then he makes new friends. James Potter. Sirius Black. Peter Pettigrew. Loud boys with loud laughs and even louder personalities. They’re always getting into trouble, always pulling Remus into it. And he lets them.

You don’t blame him. Not really. But sometimes, when you see him laughing with Sirius or whispering to James during class, something tightens in your chest.

They don’t know, not like you do, and they could never.

One evening, you meet him by the lake. You sit in silence, watching the ripples in the water. The moon is almost full.

“They don’t know, do they?” you ask, finally.

He flinches. “No.”

“Do you want them to?”

“No,” he says quickly. Then softer, “I don’t want them to look at me and be afraid they’re sleeping with a monster.”

You nod, lips pressed together. “You’re not a monster, Rem, you don’t have to pretend either when you’re with me.”

He sighs, shoulders slumping. “I’m not pretending. I’m just… trying.”

“You’re still you, Remus,” you say. “And I still see you. Even when no one else does.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Then, “Sometimes I think you see too much.”

“Someone has to.”

He looks at you, really looks, and for a moment everything else fades - the Houses, the castle, the distance. He’s still the boy from Whispermere, hiding from the world in your attic, clutching your hand after the worst nights of his life.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

You smile. “Always.”

And in that moment, you know: it doesn’t matter what the Hat said, or where you sleep, or what friends you make. You’re still his anchor, and he’s still yours.

Even if the world tries to pull you apart, even if the moon rises and falls and tries to make him something else - you’ll always be there, reminding him of who he is.

Not a monster. Just Remus, and that’s more than enough.

You knew things would never be the same the moment you got sorted into different houses, but you hadn’t expected it to happen right in second year. The first-year, he was stuck to you somehow his budding friendship with his dorm mates.

Only, this year, it’s different. It happens slowly, the way most changes do. A missed lunch here, a half-written letter there. The space between you and Remus doesn’t appear all at once. It drips in like rain under a cracked window, which is quiet, subtle, and easy to ignore at first.

You tell yourself it’s normal. You’re in different houses. You have different classes, different friends. He has James, Sirius, and Peter now - boys who’ve somehow wrapped themselves around his days like ivy on stone. You’re happy he’s laughing more. You want him to have people.

Still, there are times it stings.

You see them in the courtyard, shoulders pressed together as they whisper about some prank or plan or whatever mischief they’re always knee-deep in. Remus laughs at something James says, head thrown back, the sound real and full and bright.

It should make you happy. It does, but only to some extent. You supposed it was childish, because you are a child, but sometimes, you wish he’d laugh like that with you again.

You still have your moments. After all, some things don’t change.

Full moons still come. And Remus still suffers.

He tells them he’s visiting his “sick mother” or going home for the weekends, but on weekdays he’ll just be sick and staying in the hospital wing. The Marauders, to their credit, don’t press. Not yet.

But you know the truth, you knew it was only a matter of time before they found out. Before Remus shines a light on that he so badly wishes wasn’t true.

You sneak out on those nights, Invisibility Cloak or not. Madam Pomfrey has stopped scolding you when she finds you curled in the chair beside his bed in the hospital wing. You’ve been doing this for years now, long before Hogwarts.

Sometimes you stay awake all night, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint shimmer of silver scars healing across his arms. Sometimes you just hold his hand and wait for the shaking to stop.

You bring chocolate, potions from your own stash, and books he pretends to be too tired to read but always opens the second you leave.

There is no miracle potion yet. Nothing to make it easier. But there was you, so you stay.

Because love - whatever kind of love this is - means showing up. Especially when it’s hard.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he tells you one morning, voice hoarse and broken around the edges.

You hand him a warm compress and raise an eyebrow. “You say that every time.”

“And you ignore it every time.”

“Because it’s a stupid thing to say.”

He lets out a dry laugh that turns into a cough. “I mean it. You’ve got other friends. Classes. You don’t need to spend your nights watching me bleed all over the bed.”

You sit beside him, brushing his hair back gently. “No, I don’t need to. I want to. That’s different.”

He doesn’t look at you. He’s gotten good at that lately. He used to always meet your eyes, no shame in that now that you have seen everything he had to offer. Hogwarts seemed to have changed a lot between you and him.

After a while, you ask, “Why don’t you tell them?”

He stiffens. “Tell who?”

“You know who. Potter, Black and Pettigrew. Your little chaos club.”

“They’re not - ” He stops, then sighs. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Because if they find out, they’ll look at me differently. Or worse, they’ll stop looking at me at all.”

“You don’t know that.”

He meets your eyes then. “You don’t know what it’s like. To be this. To be something people fear.”

“No,” you say gently. “But I know what it’s like to watch someone I care about tear themselves apart for being something they can’t control.”

That shuts him up. He hates how you know exactly which words to use, what to say, how to say it. He hates how he can’t resist the warmth you offer, even at the tender age of 13, Remus knew that craving you and your comfort was not good.

He couldn’t depend on you so much. You’ve been enduring full moons with him since you both were 8, it would be too unfair to demand you keep doing it forever. Hogwarts is a new era, a new start. 

You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to tell them now. But you can’t keep carrying this alone forever.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, softly: “I’m not carrying it alone.”

You smile at that. It’s the first real smile you’ve had in days, and right then and there - wall has barely built.

Still, the distance continues.

You write him notes in class and find them folded carefully in his bag later, but he rarely writes back. You sit by him at meals when you can, but more often he’s wedged between Sirius’ smirks and James’ flying stories.

He doesn’t mean to leave you behind. That’s what makes it harder.

Because he’s not cruel. Just… busy. Distracted, even. Caught in the glow of something new and good and easy, and you? You’re the constant. The one who patches him up in secret, who carries the burden he’s still too scared to share with anyone else.

You wonder sometimes what would happen if you stopped showing up, but you already know the answer. You never would, you could never do that to him.

One night, weeks after a particularly brutal full moon, you find him on the Astronomy Tower, arms crossed against the wind, eyes trained on the stars like they might have answers.

You step up beside him.

“They asked again,” he says without turning.

“About the absences?”

He nods.

“What did you say?”

“That I get migraines. Bad ones. I said I needed quiet.”

You lean against the wall beside him. “You think they bought it?”

He shrugs. “James looked like he wanted to argue. Sirius just nodded.”

“They’re not stupid, Remus. They’re going to figure it out eventually.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You glance at him. “What then?”

He doesn’t answer.

You rest your chin on your arms. “They’re your friends. They care about you. Maybe they’d surprise you.”

He gives you a look, half amused, half broken. “You always believe the best in people.”

“No,” you say. “Just in you.”

He turns away, blinking hard. He tries not to think too much about it and you try to act like it never held much weight than intended.

You know he’s scared. You also know that trust doesn’t come easy when your entire life has been a series of closed doors and hidden scars. So you keep showing up.

In the quiet moments. In the hospital wing. In the spaces between his laughter with the Marauders and the silences that follow the moon. You stay.

Because even if he doesn’t say it, even if he forgets sometimes, you know he needs you.

The Marauders became legends long before you realized you’d been left behind.

It started innocently with little tricks, charmed ink, floating teacups in the Great Hall. But by fourth year, it was chaos on demand. James and Sirius led the charge, Peter cheered from the sidelines, and Remus followed behind with that half-smile he wore when he was trying not to be complicit.

He was never the loudest. But he was always there and you had no doubt that a majority of the pranks were his ideas with that brilliant imagination of his.

And you? You were somewhere else entirely.

You’d fallen in love with Potions during your third year. You were completely taken by it, it was constant - it was measured and specific, you will only go wrong if you do it wrong, you liked the assurance in that. The discipline of it, the balance. The quiet language of simmering and stillness. The way ingredients interacted like people. Some enhanced each other. Some repelled. Some needed careful handling or they’d break.

You understood that. You didn't mind the solitude. Not at first.

You still saw him, of course. Shared looks across the Great Hall. A nod in passing between classes. He still sought you out during full moons - less often now, but enough to remind you that something tethered you together, even if the rope frayed more each year.

Then came fifth year.

It was a brutal moon. You knew it before the term started. You’d read the cycle and seen how close the eclipse would fall. Too long in wolf form. Too little recovery time.

You were already waiting when Madam Pomfrey carried him in, bleeding and half-conscious, his leg at a wrong angle and the smell of blood in his clothes. He was fevered for days. You didn’t leave.

But when he finally woke, cane leaning beside his bed and the weight of reality setting into his body like cold iron, something inside him snapped.

You remember it too clearly.

“Remus,” you said, gently wrapping the bandage around his hip. “You’re going to need to rest for a while. Let your body catch up.”

He looked away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“You don’t get to say that.”

Your hands froze. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t want your help,” he snapped, voice raw. “I don’t need you watching over me like some sad nursemaid waiting for the broken boy to fall apart. I don’t need your pity.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut bone.

You stood slowly, heart loud in your ears. “It’s not pity, Remus. It never was.”

He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t then, he was too drunk on his pain to really consider you and your words, as well as his own.

You left without another word.

He apologized two days later. He limped to where you sat in the library, cane in hand, eyes rimmed with sleepless regret.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, quietly. “I was angry, and scared. Not at you… never at you.”

You nodded, nudging the empty seat beside you, which he took.

“I know,” you said.

And you did. You forgave him. Of course you did, it was hard not to when it was Remus. But the wound between you stayed, despite you forgiving him. It might have been the first real crack in the relationship that never fully went away.

You passed each other in the corridors and shared tired smiles. Sometimes, you sat beside each other in the hospital wing in silence, both knowing you’d never quite find your way back to where you’d been.

Seventh year came faster than you expected. Your N.E.W.T.s consumed you - Potions, Transfiguration, Transfiguration. You poured yourself into your studies like they were the only things still within your control.

Remus, meanwhile, was surrounded by noise. Always someone beside him, always laughing, always planning something with parchment and ink-stained hands. He was loved, admired even. And you were happy for him.

Throughout the years he grew to be a Remus that was nowhere near the one you knew. He got tattoos, piercings too and you would even see him smoke in the Gryffindor common room parties you’d be dragged into attending.

You never really spoke there, just exchanged greetings and then off you were to mingle with your usual circle while he stuck close to his Gryffindor lot.

Outside of common room parties, you spoke now and then. Swapped books, and would even shared tea on a rainy afternoon near the end of spring term. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the attic in Whispermere. It wasn’t late-night confessions or moonlit truths. It was… polite.

But sometimes, he’d look at you like he was remembering something. Something he thought he lost, and you’d smile gently, pretending not to feel it.

Graduation came not so long after.

You stood in a sea of students in dress robes and polished shoes. The sky was too blue. Your throat too tight. All you could think was: This is the end of something we forgot to finish.

After the ceremony, he found you standing alone by the edge of the courtyard, clutching your acceptance letter from the Potions Guild. It was everything you worked so hard for, yet you didn’t feel as accomplished.

“So,” he said, softly. “St. Mungo’s or lab work?”

You looked up at him. The sun caught his hair. He still leaned on the cane sometimes, out of habit more than need now.

“Both,” you said. “They offered me a hybrid apprenticeship. Field work and brewing. It’s… everything I wanted.”

He smiled, and it was real. “You deserve that. You always did.”

“What about you?” you asked. “Still planning to be underpaid and overworked for the Ministry?”

“Sadly,” he said, smirking. “I think that’s the werewolf-friendly career track.”

You both laughed, and it almost felt normal again.

Then came the pause. The one that wrapped around everything you hadn’t said for years. Seven years ago, he was yours - in all the ways that mattered, and yet he couldn’t be farther from that now.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, voice quieter. “I never told you that enough.”

You blinked hard. “You didn’t have to. I always knew.”

Another silence. This one longer. More final. You allowed yourself to sit through it no matter how much it stings.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For pulling away. For ruining what we had.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” you whispered. “We just… grew differently. That’s not anyone’s fault.”

He nodded, eyes shining. “Still. I never forgot what you were to me.”

You stepped forward, brushing his sleeve gently. “I’ll always be here, Remus. Maybe not beside you, but… you’ll never be alone. Not really.”

He looked at you like he wanted to say a thousand things. Instead, he just said, “Thank you.”

And then he hugged you, arms around your shoulders, his chin in your hair. For a moment, you were kids again, hiding from storms, trading secrets, pretending the world couldn’t touch you.

Then you let go.

And you both walked into the rest of your lives.

Apart.

Not exactly best friends like you once were. But never strangers.

You hadn’t set out to cure werewolves. That was a lost cause.

In truth, you hadn’t even set out to be a name anyone outside a medical conference would know. All you ever wanted was to understand. To fix what broke, to ease what hurt.

Maybe it started with Remus - those early days at Hogwarts, when he’d stumble into the hospital wing torn apart by the moon. Maybe it was the way he tried to hide the pain, or the way he smiled like it cost him something. You’d sat beside his bed too many nights to count, watching him sleep with clenched fists and a furrowed brow.

You’d never forgotten the way he looked at you after his worst full moon - fifth year, cane by the bed, his voice sharp with shame.

"I don’t want your pity."

That stayed with you. Not as a wound, but a weight. A suffocating reminder.

So no, you hadn’t started out trying to change the world. You were just trying to make it a little easier for someone like him to live in it.

And somewhere along the way, you did.

St. Mungo’s had offered you an apprenticeship the summer after graduation. A split program which consisted of two days a week in the field and three in the Potions wing. You’d taken it eagerly, diving into your studies with the same quiet focus you’d had at Hogwarts.

But the moment you had freedom to choose your own research, you knew what your first project would be.

Lycanthropy.

The transformations. The injuries. The trauma.

The stigma.

There were no quick fixes, no clean solutions. The thing resisted almost everything. Existing treatments were garbage, if they were even treatments, almost none existed due to the image painted of werewolves in the wizarding society.

The werewolf's body changed, but the tragedy was in the mind. The slipping of identity. The violent erasure of the person inside.

So you studied. And you failed. And you studied more. And you kept failing.

You burned through ingredients, scorched cauldrons, collapsed more than one test dummy with unstable fumes. You didn’t care, you pushed on.

There were whispers around the lab. That you were obsessed. That you should focus on safer, more respectable branches of medicine. That lycanthropy was a curse and werewolves are scary creatures that kill without reason.

They said it wasn’t worth pursuing and their scrutiny almost drowned you.

But you remembered Remus. And that was reason enough too keep going, to keep fighting for a world that he won’t be pushing people away in fear that they’d see all the ugly and run away.

It took three years to get your first successful result.

By then you were twenty-one, exhausted, and running on tea and stubbornness. But the batch worked - just barely. It stabilized the subject’s mental state for nine full minutes during the transformation. Nine minutes of lucidity, control. Enough to test again.

You built from there.

Nine became fourteen. Fourteen became thirty. Eventually, you crossed the hour mark - and then something clicked.

It was monkshood. That had always been obvious. But it wasn’t the only key. It was how it mixed with valerian, how the infusion had to be added at exactly 74 degrees Celsius, how the brew had to be stirred counterclockwise before sunrise.

A thousand tiny details. None of them obvious. But together?

Together, they became the thing.

You cried when the final test subject looked up after the full moon and said, “I remember everything. I didn’t lose myself.”

It was a werewolf volunteer, a girl a bit older than you are named Lyka. She had short blonde hair that was curled in coils and her eyes were a piercing grey in colour, she was reserved and strong. She volunteered for the tests right away.

You think she also held out hope to see the future you had envisioned, so she endured the tests however dangerous they may be and you both pushed through and jumped over numerous hurdles.

She’s become somewhat of a friend to you all these years. You even trusted her with stories of Remus, of the boy who was behind everything you’ve been building towards.

And when the press finally got hold of the announcement, you didn’t hide. You didn’t let the hospital PR team bury your name in a headline. You stood in front of the flashbulbs and the questions and said clearly, proudly:

“My name is ______, and I created the Wolfsbane Potion.”

You didn’t stutter, nor did you blink once.

You just thought: Remus. I hope you see this.

He did.

Remus Lupin had not cried since he was seventeen.

Not when he’d graduated. Not when he’d buried his parents at the ripe age of 19. Not even when he’d broken up with someone who said she “couldn’t live with the risk.”

But he nearly cried in the Potter living room the moment he saw your face on the front page of The Daily Prophet.

It had been a peaceful morning. James and Lily’s home which happens to be Potter Manor was warm, lively with the sound of baby Harry’s hiccupy giggles and Sirius humming off-key in the kitchen. Remus had dropped by with a stack of paperwork and a worn copy of Beedle the Bard - a gift for Harry, who immediately drooled on it with affection.

They were laughing over tea when Peter stumbled in, windblown and pink-cheeked.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m late,” Peter said, shrugging off his cloak. “Weather’s foul. Couldn’t apparate in these weathers.”

He dropped a bundle of newspapers on the table, along with a bag of jam tarts. Remus reached for a tart without thinking, flipping the top newspaper toward him.

Peter, halfway through unwrapping a sweetroll, said casually, “Isn’t that your mate from school?”

Remus glanced down.

His hand stopped.

There you were - front and centre, smiling widely and proudly. Not some blurry byline photo or a profile sketch. A real picture, wand in one hand, flask of potion in the other, hair pulled back. Behind you was a cauldron bubbling away.

It was all too staged if he were being honest.

BREAKTHROUGH IN LYCANTHROPY TREATMENT: WOLFSBANE POTION CREATED BY FORMER HOGWARTS STUDENT

Remus’s heart kicked like it remembered how.

The article’s subhead read: ‘I wanted to create something that could preserve identity. Lycanthropy shouldn’t be a life sentence.’

He read your name, printed boldly beneath the headline. It was written in full. You had claimed it all.

Lily noticed first. “Remus?”

He didn’t look up.James tilted the paper so he could see. “Bloody hell. That’s _____, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Remus said. His voice was quiet.

Peter blinked. “Wait, you know her?” He barely remembers you from school.

“I grew up with her,” Remus replied. “We were friends. Best friends. For a long time.”

Sirius leaned against the table. “And now she’s apparently a genius.”

“She always was,” Remus murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips.

He stepped outside soon after, briefly, to get some fresh air.

It had been four years. Four years since Hogwarts. Four years since you’d spoken beyond the occasional stiff letter or exchanged holiday greetings. You had gone and done the impossible.

You’d given people like him hope. You’d changed lives, and you’d done it without ever asking for praise or apology or permission. You had stood there, face lit by flashbulbs, and told the world that werewolves mattered.

That he mattered.

Remus laughed softly, shaking his head. He wasn’t sure whether to feel stunned or guilty. He hadn’t written in over a year. Hadn’t asked how you were. Hadn’t known the thing you were building in the dark would end up this… bright.

And still - he felt seen.

Even from across the silence.

He reread your quote at the bottom of the page, just above your signature:

“I don’t think we should be afraid to try  . Not when people are still suffering. Not when we can do better.”

You hadn’t named him. But Remus felt your words like they were spoken straight to him. Because he knew better, he knew you were speaking right to him.

Back inside, Sirius gave him a long look. “You alright, mate?”

Remus nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

He folded the paper carefully, tucking it beneath his arm. For a long time, he’d lived with the quiet grief of being forgotten. A side effect of his condition. Of fading away into the margins of other people’s stories.

But here you were, reshaping the narrative entirely.

You hadn’t just remembered him. You had remembered all of them - the ones who lived in the shadows, who never thought they’d be more than cautionary tales or footnotes in Ministry reports.

And maybe… just maybe… you’d done it for him. He stared down at your picture again, his smile quiet and unshakable.

“Godric’s beard,” James muttered behind him, reading the headline over his shoulder. “She really made a Wolfsbane Potion.”

Sirius let out a low whistle. “That’s going to change everything.”

Remus didn’t speak, but in his chest, something shifted. A pressure he’d carried for years lightened. And somewhere deep down, he knew this wasn’t the end of the story. You were out there. Living, thriving, blazing a trail.

And for the first time in a long time, he found himself wanting to reach out, outside of obligation and nostalgia. Because something real had reignited between you.

It didn’t take long for Remus to find you.

The moment he saw your name on the front page of the Prophet, he knew it wouldn’t be enough just to read the article ten times, to keep the paper folded on his night stand like some relic. He needed to see you.

For the ache in his chest that hadn’t gone away since fifth year. The one he thought he could outgrow, bury beneath the pages of law books and Ministry memos. But there it was, alive and sharp and hopeful again.

So he asked around.

He was discreet, as always. But not shy.

You were easy to trace once he learned about your position at St. Mungo’s. The Potioneering Department kept strict visiting hours, but Remus had never been one to blindly follow signs that read Authorized Personnel Only. He lingered until your shift ended, until he saw you push through the ward doors with your satchel slung across your shoulder, hair messily pinned back, a smudge of something silvery at your temple.

It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

You stopped when you saw him.

The quiet stretched as you stared in disbelief. He took one step closer.

"Hi," he said.

Your breath hitched. "Remus."

He offered a careful smile, the kind that trembled at the edges. "I hope it’s alright. I didn’t want to owl. I thought maybe... maybe you wouldn’t answer."

You swallowed. You looked older, of course. Grown into yourself. But your eyes were still the same. He could see the traces of that little girl still as he watched your grown self scan him, he bet he must look different as well.

"I might not have," you admitted softly. "I’m glad you didn’t give me the choice."

That made him laugh. Not a loud one, but real. He looked down. "You really did it. You actually - "

"Yes."

"I don’t even know what to say."

You smiled faintly. "Then don’t. Let me."

He blinked as you stepped closer.

"I invented it for you," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "So you’d stop suffering the way you used to. That’s all it ever was. All I ever wanted."

Remus looked at you like you’d peeled the years back with a single sentence.

He didn’t hug you, despite desperately wanting to. He didn’t wanna offend you or cross boundaries.

He just said, very quietly, "Thank you."

And that was enough.

He started taking the Wolfsbane Potion a week later, full seven days leading up to the full moon.

You brewed it yourself, of course. There were still regulatory delays, red tape the Ministry insisted on. But you had your licence. You had your clearance. More importantly, you had him.

You gave it to him with a note attached: Sip slowly, or it’ll make your throat burn. Seven days, don’t miss it.

Remus made sure to drank every single day of the week leading up to the full moon. It was still painful. The bones still bent. The skin still pulled and tore and reshaped.

But he remained. He was still there.

He could remember the walls. The sounds. The feel of the floor. He didn’t thrash, didn’t bite himself raw, didn’t wake up choking on blood and dirt.

And when morning came, he cried.

You were there.

Sitting in the armchair beside the bed in his tiny flat, watching him with quiet concern and a cup of now-cold tea in your hand.

"You stayed," he rasped.

"Of course, I stayed."

He swallowed, throat dry. "You didn’t have to."

You raised an eyebrow. "Remus Lupin, I have stayed with you in worse states than this. Don’t be daft."

He huffed a weak laugh. Then he looked at you. His tired brown eyes meeting yours. You hadn’t slept. Your eyes were shadowed, your robe wrinkled. But you looked proud, and somewhat tender. And maybe a little scared.

"I always missed you," he said.

You stilled.

He continued, voice low. "Even when I didn’t say it. Even when we stopped writing. I never stopped thinking about you."

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

He sat up slowly, wincing. "I loved you, you know. Even back then."

"Remus - "

"I didn’t say anything because I was scared. Because I thought... if I ever hurt you, if I ever lost control, and it was you in the way - "

"I’ve known since we were eight."

He blinked.

You smiled sadly. "Of course I knew. I knew you loved me. I knew you were afraid. But if anyone was ever going to understand, Remus, it was always going to be me."

He looked down. His hands shook. "I just didn’t want to be the monster in your story."

You moved to sit beside him on the bed.

"You’ll never have to worry again," you whispered. "Because I found a way."

He looked at you, eyes glassy. "Thank you."

"You don’t have to thank me."

"I do. I don’t deserve it."

You snorted. "Remus Lupin, you deserve the bloody stars and the moon and the sun. But I can’t give you that. So instead... I give you the potion."

He stared at you, long and quiet. Then he reached out, cupped your face in one trembling hand, and kissed you.

It wasn’t perfect. It was cracked with tiredness and ache and too many lost years.

But it was real, so real that it undid all the distance that grew between you two all these years. You thought you had lost him 7 years ago, but he was still yours.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. "Thank you for giving me something I can never pay back."

You hummed. "Buying me a drink would do."

He laughed against your skin. "I’ll buy you all the drinks in the world."

end. masterlist

[todoriin]

adore me, hold me and explore me | moze x afab!reader

18+ NSFW, MDNI or i will delete your account, vanilla ass sex, no established relationship, obsessive themes from moze, cunnilingus, p in v, porn no plot

Being Feixiao’s closest advisor means you get to experience various interesting interactions.

Since joining her ranks, you feel as though you’ve lived through countless lifetimes, consulting and strategising with her and Jiaoqiu against formidable foes and expansive armies. You’ve seen the Merlin’s Claw swing her blade and slash countless enemies in half, learnt medicinal techniques from Jiaoqiu that may cure simple illnesses, like the common cold. 

However, the most interesting soul, without a double, is a certain Shadow Guard of the Xianzhou Yaoqing, one you have the pleasure of working with most intimately. Figuratively and… literally.

There’s a creak coming from the windows of your bedroom, the hinges wincing softly as they’re pushed open gently but too wide to be an action of the wind. At this stage, you’re no longer surprised by the stealthiness of the intruder, after all, you had purposefully left the windows open, waiting for the moment an intruder who could coat himself with invisibility would show up. 

Besides, it’s nearing dusk, he promised he’d visit then. 

“Good evening, Moze,” you greet, back turned to him as you look in the mirror, swiping balm over your lips before puckering them. 

A breath of satisfaction leaves you when he finally materialises before you, purple haze clouding out around his silhouette, revealing the usual, skin-tight attire he opts for daily. It’s a shade you’ve grown to love now, seeing it everyday (and taking it off for him a few times a week).

“You look nice,” he comments, words curt but sweet. 

You omit to tell him that you didn’t doll up because you doubt he’ll live longer with that information. “Thank you,” is all you say, smiling up at his reflection. Then, a cold hand comes up to your neck, fingers resting over your pulse as he traces your skin, eventually snaking back to fix your hair.

“The lipstick you wore today also looked nice,” he mumbles, meeting your gaze with his piercing one. 

You turn around in your vanity stool, swinging your legs over to the other side of the seat as you look up at him. His hands move up slightly to cup your jaw, indiscernible eyes gently admiring your features as you look up at him. Here, in your home, he can unwind, a skilled assassin let in to a haven too safe for him and the blood on his hands.

That’s why you’re perfect for him, because you know how to slice a man’s neck and leave him begging for more.

“Did you like it, Moze?”

He’s silent as ever, opting to just play with the strands of your hair. There are moments when Moze is silent because he does not wish to speak, but there are always thoughts circulating in that head of his, you realised that a year into the job when he started providing a sarcastic retort whenever he could. This time he’s silent because he doesn’t know how to respond, rendered speechless as you blink up at him. 

It’s an honour to render a man like him speechless, but you still want to have your fun.

“So quiet, I’ll take it as a no?” You ask, rising from your chair and walking past him. An arm snakes itself around your waist before you could get too far, tugging you right back against the chest of the Shadow Guard. “Use your words, Moze.”

“There are no words worthy enough to describe your beauty.”

Your mouth drops slightly as a sudden shyness creeps up your expression, an uncontrollable smile that you can’t hide behind your hands tugging on your lips. “Smooth talker,” you retort, pushing his chest lightly, but he hardly budges. 

You’re used to being the one to initiate all the conversations, as well as ending them.

“The day must have been treacherous. I’ll make some refreshments for you.”

Just as you turn to go downstairs, he’s once again tugging you back against him. This time, he leads you to the edge of the bed where he sits down with you standing between his legs, now a head shorter than you. Your positions have switched, now it is you running your fingers along the hood he keeps on his head, looking down into his multi-coloured eyes.

“No need for any of those,” he denies, “I am well.”

“Are you sure? No tea, snacks?”

“I have no desire for any of those, only you.”

You look away from him, bashful from his flirtatious words that he says in that serious tone of his. Seriously, how can he say that with a straight face?

“Okay, fine. You can have me,” you mutter and a phantom of a smile appears on his expression, eyes glimmering when you finally give him the indication he’s been waiting for. The thin strap of your top is being dragged down your shoulder and you shudder when he hovers a ghost of a kiss over your pulse point, getting flustered when you then feel him smile against your skin. “Please don’t tease.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” in an instant, your chest is bared to him and his hands creep up to explore the expanse of your body, touch gentle but purposeful, as if he was sculpting your curves himself, careful not to ruin you with any rogue or unwelcome grazes. “I’ll reap what’s mine.”

Then, he yanks your shorts off and cups the back of your thighs. A yelp leaves your lips when he suddenly switches you around so that you are now sat on the edge of the bed, and he, awaiting on his knees before you with hungry eyes.

There’s no time to think because all of a sudden, his mouth is on you, infiltrating your most sensitive part and the whimper that leaves you cannot be held back. You don’t know when your leg got on his shoulder, but it grants him more access as his tongue licks up a slow, torturous swipe up your entrance. 

“Moze!” You exclaim, legs twitching as if trying to kick him away, but he immediately holds you down you, an arm wrapping around your thigh to keep you there. 

You’re his target after all, he won’t stop until he’s through with you.

“Be good and take it,” he says against you, pressing a kiss to your clit before sucking and you gulp at the sensation as filthy sounds fill the atmosphere. No matter how many close nights you’ve experienced together, you’ll never get sick of him, grip inhumanely tight to keep you still as you beg for mercy, but the feeling of his mouth is too sweet to push away. The apex of his tongue circles the nub as his spare hand crawls up, collecting the slick from your entrance before two fingers intrude, breaching your walls. 

When he curls them, you know you’re done for, falling against the mattress to try and deal with the onslaught of pleasure that Moze knows how to inflict. It keeps coming in waves and waves, and neither his fingers or tongue lets up. You didn’t even realise you were crying until you felt tears drop down your face and onto the sheets. 

He’s pumping into you, briefly curling and scissoring his fingers, and his ministrations on your clit go from suckling to tracing shapes with the bud; a cruel torture that eventually results in a buildup of tension in your lower abdomen. 

You warn him about your incoming orgasm with a shrill cry of his name and a babble of words that loosely resembles a sentence, and the only thing he says in response is:

“Let go, pretty.”

So you do, mind becoming cloudy, hazed with nothing but the feeling of pleasure. Moze has now swapped his mouth and fingers, tongue lapping up everything you give him, licking you clean whilst his thumb rubs your clit in circles, trying to prod more out of you; a routine choreographed for your demise.

“Perfect,” he murmurs against your core, letting you come down from the high as he presses a few kisses up your stomach. 

His hawkish eyes watches as your expression untwists itself, no longer contorted by overwhelming pleasure. He can’t help the way his gaze then drifts to your chest, how it rises and falls hurriedly, still trying to regain your breath after he stole it. 

Your reverie is interrupted when you feel his tongue licking your entrance once again, folds pulled back by his fingers to bare more of you, and your nerves flinch at the sensation of pleasure enhanced to the maximum. “Moze! Stop!”

He obeys, pulling away immediately, serious expression unchanged save for the little glimmer of disappointment in his eyes.

“Next time,” he gruffly promises. 

Wrapping both of your thighs around his waist, you’re maneuvred further up your mattress by the assassin, completely helpless in his grip as he moves you however he wants. You would not have wanted him to stop anyways. 

Nimble hands shed his clothes and you unabashedly admire the sight between your legs, eyes so brave to wander across a scarred body that none others will get to lay their eyes upon. You trace the curve of his defined torso, how the shadows and light dance along the crevices, enhancing his already-impressive muscles. You leisurely run your gaze further down, following his abs to his cock.

Red and leaking with precum. 

It was intimidating when you first came face-to-face with it, and whilst you’re still impressed by his size, he’s taken care of you through the process every time, walking you through the pain and adaptations whilst being completely patient with you.

You want to prepare and take care of him like he had with you, so without thinking, you reach out and begin stroking him exactly how he likes it and a grunt passes by his lips, composure faltering ever so slightly.

There is no other Moze would bare himself like this to and, as a sign of his own twisted desires, he wants you to think the same of him. He wants you in ways he cannot justify, especially the part of himself that drips with violent and obsessive tendencies.

Should he get too close, he fears he will devour you when neither of you are expecting it.

Although, recently it seems that Moze allows himself to indulge in pleasures that he hadn’t permitted before, and as his hand wraps around your wrist to stop your ministrations, he can’t help but smile at the small pout that graces your lips. Rubbing his erection along your cunt, your slick coats his underside whilst his hand leisurely travels around your torso. Your supple skin hasn’t seen the severities of the battlefield, hasn’t fought and handled the brutality of men and blades like he has; the distinction between the two of you almost makes him seem like a monster.

A monster who wants to hide you from the darkness in which he lives in. 

“What are you grinning at?” You ask from under him.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, lowering his face to yours to press delicate kisses on your skin and you shift impatiently, eyelashes fluttering and hands clenching into fists. 

He notices the subtle action, takes it as sign of desperation that he wants to devour and dissolve into his veins, as if keeping a part of you with him forever. Aligning his cockhead with your entrance, your moan is unrestrained when he finally breaches your walls.

Slowly, Moze bottoms out, hands holding your hips to press you flush against him as you squirm. He doesn’t mind the way you wriggle around trying to adjust to his thickness and length, he’ll patiently hover above you, pressing soothing kisses along your face whilst staying as still as a shadow.

Even as your walls twitch and clench, he doesn’t budge, refusing to move until you are ready for him to. In a way, being connected with you like this makes him feel closer to you, and it brings a sense of peace that he cannot find elsewhere.

You are the source of it, the centrepiece of all his desires and he cannot swallow you down anymore. 

“I’m okay now,” you whimper.

He reels his hips back, almost pulling out before slamming right back into you and you cry loudly. “You sure?”

“More, Moze, please don’t be cruel to me.”

Cruel? He wouldn’t dream of it.

Setting a bearable pace, the room is filled with a cacophony of moans and continuous ‘plap, plap, plap’s of skin meeting skin. You are still the centre of his vision, eyes hardly straying away from your expression and body, keenly watching every microreaction of yours. He notices the way you shut your eyes tighter when he angles a particular way, cock breaching the most sensitive but pleasurable parts of you. 

It’s insatiable, his appetite for you. The only thing he wants to do is bring you to endless highs, over, and over, and over again.

Gradually, his pace speeds up over time, violating your insides with the neverending push-and-pull. Every time his hips snap back to meet yours, cock buried to the hilt, you feel the strands of your sanity slipping away. All you can do is babble his name and whimpers of how good he feels, hands reaching blindly for any part of him that you can hold.

He dives right into your open touch, torso leaning down to now hover directly over yours and the added heat of his body temperature makes you feel even more lucid. His shoulders are so broad, the planes of his chest defined, and stomach so toned that it drives you insane with desire; added with his precise strokes and thick cock, you don’t ever want him to leave. You don’t ever want him to stop. 

“Moze-” his lips are pressed against yours, swallowing the moan of his name and every other small noise you make as his member relentlessly spears you. 

He kisses you again and again, never straying too far, but parting often to let you catch your breath. 

“Moze, I’m-” you cry out in between kisses, “I’m gonna-!”

“Me too,” he gruffly responds, “relax for me, you’re clenching too hard.”

His words have the opposite effect because next thing you know, you’re cumming again, spasming around his cock as his strokes try to lure more out of you, draining you for all you’re worth. When you’re done, all of your nerves are fried, limbs weak and unable to hold themselves up for long without any support, but Moze hasn’t come yet, so all you can do is take his desperate and hurried strokes as he catches up to the last bit of pleasure.

Then, he comes to a halt whilst hot ropes gush into your cunt as he twitches inside you. Suddenly, his teeth latch on to the juncture of your shoulder and your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. 

You catch your breath in unison, waiting for him to finish completely before moving again, and when the final load is emptied, he’s capturing your lips in a kiss again. It’s hot, and your muscles feel like jelly, but he’s still desperate for more of you despite being as humanly close as possible. 

So, only moments after both of you have descended from the peak, he begins moving again, gently shushing any of your protests with a light kiss that breaks down your already weak defences. 

The squelches and plaps this time are obscene as he slowly eases in and out of you, grinding weakly whenever your walls twitch around him, but none of it is enough to quell his desire.

And he won’t stop until he has his fill. 

© todoriin 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site

[redvexillum]

TAGS/WARNINGS: fingerf♡cking, dom/sub undertone, no established relationship, dub-con, f!reader, shadow f♡cking, power imbalance, gagging, bondage, asphyxiation, brat!reader, ♡verstimulation, alastor being a lil shit, b♡ndage, alastor makes reader into his lil b!tch lykyk

EXTRA WARNING: This is not a drabble. It is 3.9K words long.

Leaning back in your chair, you mirrored the unsettling grin that stretched across Alastor’s face. His grin, a sharp crescent of teeth, seemed to carve deeper into his cheeks. His eyes squinted just slightly – enough to glint with a darker, more ominous edge.  

You felt a spark of excitement ignite in your chest as you watched the subtle shift in his expression. It was a game to you now, one you’d become quite fond of.  

“My, my, I do feel awful that no one listens to your broadcasts anymore, Alastor,” you purred, your voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. You stretched your arms above your head lazily, as though you had all the time in the world.  

Ever since you’d come to the hotel, Charlie’s redemption exercises had left you with more downtime than you cared for, and boredom was your worse enemy. But now, you found entertainment in a much more thrilling pursuit – pushing the buttons of the ever-grinning, one and only, Radio Demon.  

A wicked thrill slithered down your spine when you noticed the faintest twitch of his left eye. His head tilted to the side, a glimmer of amusement – and perhaps annoyance – flickering behind his red-tinted gaze. He scoffed, the sound like static breaking through a radio, and muttered something about the “younger generation not appreciating the finer aspects of real entertainment.” 

As Alastor turned his head away, a shadowy movement caught your eyes. His shadow, usually a perfect reflection of him, rippled as if caught in a breeze that wasn’t there.  

And then…it shifted.  

The once-stoic silhouette frowned, its mass shrinking, folding in on itself like a chastised child. It looked almost…sad.  

Oh? Now, this was interesting.  

You’d never teased Alastor about his powers before, but this might just be the perfect opportunity. The idea of seeing him drop that ever-present, smug grin sent a delightful jolt of pleasure through you. Leaning forward, your grin spread wider, more mischievous than before.  

“You know, Alastor, I’ve noticed something quite fascinating about you. Your powers…quite the spectacle, aren’t they? Shadow magic, if I’m not mistaken?” You tilted your head, watching him intently.  

To your amusement, Alastor perked up at your words, his chest puffing out slightly, and a proud look took over his expression. He casually inspected his nails, playing into the flattery. “Ah, yes, indeedy! My abilities are rather unique – far beyond the capabilities of any other demon’s magic, I dare say –“ 

“It’s a pretty lame power,” you interrupted, smirking as you blew a raspberry. “I mean, shadow magic? Really? I’ve seen cooler tricks at a children’s birthday party.” You glanced pointedly at his shadow, which now seemed to shrink even more, trying to hide behind Alastor’s body. “Honestly, the TV demon has way better power. You ever see the stuff he can do? Now that’s impressive.” 

Alastor froze, and in that instant, the surrounding air grew thick and heavy. The room itself seemed to fall under a strange, unnatural stillness. Before you could blink, something cold and slick snapped across your lips, silencing you of any further quips. Your eyes widened as you struggled to move, but your limbs were no longer yours to command. Invisible tendrils of force held you pinned to the chair, your body stiff and unyielding. 

Alastor’s grin widened, impossibly so, and when he finally spoke, his voice was a low, vibrating hum that echoed through your mind.  

“My dear,” he cooed, leaning in just enough for you to feel the pressure of his very presence, “there are some games you don’t want to play with me.” 

You squirmed from the invisible restraint that rendered you mute and powerless. 

“What was that, dear?” Alastor’s voice dripped with venomous amusement; his eyes gleamed with a malicious red glint. His grin, too wide, illuminated in a sickly yellow glow, casting eerie shadows across his sharp features. Slowly, methodically, he tilted his head to the side, the crack of his neck echoing through the room like the snap of a dry twig underfoot.  

Your heart leapt in your chest, but you tried to maintain your composure. Glancing down at your hand, you noticed it trembling ever so slightly, a faint dark aura curling around your fingers like mist. When you looked back up, Alastor’s eyes were already locked on you, his grin didn’t falter, but the malice radiating from him was palpable, chilling the surrounding air.

“You’ve been so incredibly chatty before, and now…you’ve grown ever so silent!” His laugh was low, a dark melody of mockery as he leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed as if savouring the moment. “I’m surprised that you chose now to listen to your better!” His voice lifted into a higher, mocking pitch, echoing through the room like a twisted lullaby.  

A grunt of frustration left your throat as you tried to move, but your body refused to respond. The invisible force binding you to the chair seemed to tighten, and then you felt it – a whisper of a touch against the curve of your neck. It was impossibly soft, like the brush of a feather, but it sent a jolt of electricity racing down your spine, igniting every nerve it grazed.  

You clenched your teeth, eyes fluttering shut, fighting the small pitiful whimper building in your throat. You would not give him the satisfaction of knowing your weakness – specifically, your erogenous zone, more like.

Tensing your muscles, your desperately tried to suppress your whimper as it clawed its way up your throat. But the second his voice crackled to life, sharp and sinister, that resolve began to crumble.  

“Interesting.” 

The single word dripped with dark amusement, and your eyes snapped open, wide with disbelief. You stared at him, searching for answers in his glowing red eyes. Alastor grinned wider, basking in the silent panic flickering across your face.  

Before you could even process a single thought, you felt it again – that feather like touch, teasing just behind your ear. The cool, silky sensation slithered down the curve of your neck, and this time, there was no holding back the involuntary shudder that coursed through you. 

Your body betrayed you completely.  

As if the invisible binding loosened just enough, your lips were freed, but not in time to stop the soft, devastating moan that slipped past them. The sound hung in the air between you like a damning confession.  

“My, look at you,” Alastor purred, his voice a deep, honeyed tenor that sent a shiver of anticipation and want down your spine and penetrated into your core. Another caress – so gentle, so deliberate – skated across your hot, flushed skin. “Had I known this was all it took to get some peace and silence from you, I would have done it much sooner.” 

His words coiled around you, thick with smug satisfaction, as his eyes drank in the sight of your face contorting, torn between restraint and giving in to the sensations he was pulling from you.  

Summoning what little strength you had left, you glared at him through your lustful haze, the words, “fuck you,” barely managing to escape your trembling lips. The weak insult only seemed to heighten his amusement. His grin stretched wider, sharp teeth catching the dim light as he leaned in closer, eyes sparkling with twisted delight.  

“You claimed my power was useless,” he murmured, his voice suddenly cold, authoritative. “So, I suppose a demonstration is in order.” 

The way he loomed over you, despite sitting across from you with his gaze unyielding made you feel like a student caught misbehaving under the stern gaze of a teacher. His impassive expression only weighed in on your feelings of helplessness.  

“I’ll pass–ahhnn!” Your feeble attempt to reject him was cut off, morphing into desperate gasps as those silky tendrils glided lower. They traced a slow, torturous path down your chest, brushing against the sensitive tips of your nipples. Your breath hitched as you squirmed in the chair, thighs trembling in a vain attempt to close your legs as you were sure the evidence of your desire was staining the inner centre of your pants. 

“Now, now,” he crooned, his words laced with an almost affectionate mockery. “We’ve only just begun!” 

Alastor’s laughter was pure and unadulterated as he declared with a flourish, “Honestly, I want you to feel comfortable around me, my dear!” His voice rang out boisterously, and with a sharp snap of his fingers, that same invisible force pried your legs apart.  

You gasped, the air escaping you in ragged pants as the sensations assaulting your body intensified. The thick, musty air seemed to cling to your overheated skin, and every nerve felt as though it was ablaze, ignited by the unseen force caressing you. Your lips trembled as you bit down hard, trying – desperately – to stifle the moans bubbling up from deep within. Yet, your traitorous body, the slick heat pooling between your thighs, betrayed you in ways you could no longer control.  

The unforgiving hardness of the chair beneath you did nothing to ease the ache throbbing at your core. It only heightened your frustration. Somehow, despite the layers of fabric still clinging to your skin, this mysterious, phantom touch seemed to bypass everything – touching you as though you were stripped bare.  

Your nipples, painfully hardened, were being rubbed and pinched in ways that had your breath catching, your chest heaving as tears of desperation pricked at the corners of your eyes. You were perilously close to begging.  

“You see, my dear,” Alastor’s voice cut through the haze, mocking and sharp, “you must not fully grasp the extent of my power if you dare compare me to that lousy ‘picture box.’” He spat the words with a venomous disdain, his eyes narrowing. “Beg for my forgiveness, and perhaps I’ll show mercy.” His voice dipped into a low, dangerous whisper, dripping with dark intent.  

Your heart pounded in your ears, but something else caught your attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw it – Alastor’s shadow, the one that had lurked behind him, was now slithering across the floor, positioning itself directly behind you. Its tendrils writhed, holding you firmly in place, while its grotesque grin loomed close, mirroring its master’s. The shadow’s presence was suffocating, overwhelming as its clawed hands slowly traced a path of pleasure down the front of your chest.  

“I…” You hesitated, trembling as those same spectral hands pinched your already sensitive nipples, somehow phasing through your clothes. Blood rushed to the tender tips, heightening your torment with drawn out pleasure. “I think – ah – it’s still pretty lame,” you challenged, arching a brow, your tongue flicking out to slowly trail along your lower lip, drawing Alastor’s attention.  

Alastor’s eyes darkened, pupils shrinking into narrow slits as he followed the motion of your tongue. His mouth twisted into a manic grin, and let out a wild, unhinged cackle. “I’ll never understand your generation’s needless stubbornness!” He declared, shaking his head in mock disbelief. 

In the blink of an eye, everything changed. The kitchen, the dim light – it all vanished. You were swallowed by darkness, an endless void that stretched in every direction. Yet, you remained seated in the same chair, surrounded by nothing. Your sight had been stolen from you, leaving you blind and disoriented.  

“Fascinating, wouldn’t you say?” Alastor’s voice rang out through the void, calm and calculated. You could feel his eyes on you, drinking in your every movement, like a predator waiting for its prey to make one wrong misstep.  

“Ah!” You yelped, body jerking as something – a sensation like fingers – began rubbing against the slick folds between your legs. Despite the barrier provided by your clothes, the touch was undeniable, intimate, and invasive. Your legs were spread wide, leaving you completely vulnerable to the unseen force now exploring the wetness pooling there. The soft, wet sound of your own arousal filled the surrounding silence, intensifying the humiliation as your body responded without hesitation. 

Quick, shallow breaths escaped your lips as you squirmed, trying to find some way to relieve the relentless teasing. Yet, all you could feel was that luxurious, maddening touch, dipping and teasing, tracing the sensitive thick folds. The darkness amplified everything – the wet sounds, the shuddering moans you couldn’t hold back, and the ache that radiated from your core.  

You whimpered softly, the desperation clear in every breath, every twitch of your body. You wanted more – needed more – your throbbing clit practically screaming for attention, while your cunt begged for release.  

But all you had was Alastor’s voice, echoing through the endless dark, and the maddening, torturous touch that refused to give you the satisfaction you so desperately craved.  

The same shadowy appendages rubbed and rubbed, smooth and relentless, dipping into you right at the entrance, gathering your slick before gliding against your inner folds again. Your thighs trembled as you were forced into a shameful display, and you couldn’t bear to think about what expression you wore for Alastor now. Your hips instinctively jerking to grind against the shadowy fingers teasing your wet folds.  

“You know what to say, dear,” Alastor’s voice slithered into your ear, a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine. In the darkness, with your body immobile, every whisper, every breath, every slick sound of Alastor’s shadow playing you amplified your vulnerable and aroused state. The contrast between the cool darkness and the peculiar warm touch of his shadow heightened your awareness, pushing you closer to the edge.  

Hot tears began to trickle down your cheeks, mixing with the heat of your embarrassment as the shadow’s caress shifted from teasingly light to an almost punishing pressure. It demanded more from your greedy, slick heat. Abandoning any pretense of pride, you let out a desperate whimper. “Please, I-I’m sorry,” you cried, your voice trembling in the oppressive silence. Only your head and neck were free from the shadow’s hold, leaving you breathless and exposed.  

“I’m sorry for saying your shadow power was lame,” you gasped, and your words were rewarded with a sudden fullness, the thick, unyielding digit pushing deep inside you, curling against your sensitive skin.  

“Oh, my, look at you,” Alastor said, his voice tinged with mockery. “Such a pretty mess you’ve made. Who would have thought this would be your undoing?” 

“Oh, God,” you moaned, your head thrown back in surrender, grateful to whatever fucking deity was listening for finally filling the emptiness that pulsed within you. “Ah, more, please, more,” you whimpered, emboldened by the darkness, free from the weight of his gaze – though you could almost feel it, a predatory presence looming over you, delighting in your plight.  

A sudden tearing sound made you gasp; your pants ripped at the seam, a cool breeze kissing your exposed skin, intensifying the slick warmth pooling between your legs.  

“Look at you, dear. You’re absolutely drenched, soaked your underwear right through! Hah!” Alastor chuckled, his voice a disembodied tease, echoing all around you. You couldn’t tell where he was anymore – behind you, beside you, or perhaps he hadn’t moved at all, still watching with that insufferably bored expression, like a spectator at a dull weather report.  

“S-sorry,” you moaned, the undeniable squelch of your arousal filling the air, shame mingling with pleasure as whatever was touching you coaxed out your need. You strained to see, but the darkness was absolute, leaving you only to imagine those shadowy appendages moving in and out of your wet, sopping cunt – a hypnotic rhythm that drove you wild.  

It felt incredible – so impossibly good – as the dexterous finger-like tendrils curled and pressed all the right spots, drawing you closer and closer to the precipice. You clenched your abdomen, desperate for release, but then the motion halted abruptly. The loss of sensation was cruel, leaving you painfully aching, yearning for that delicious stretch, for the pull and push of your inner walls.  

“Now, now, don’t be greedy,” Alastor purred, his tone dripping with mockery. “Patience is a virtue, or haven’t you learned that yet?” 

A snap echoed in the room, and your vision flooded with light. Across from you, just as you expect, sat Alastor, his ever-present grin splitting his face. Legs crossed, he watched with amusement flickering in his eyes. “Ah, sight isn’t the only thing I can take away, my dear,” he mused, voice dripping with sinister glee.  

Your mouth was stretched wide, forced open, as his shadow lingered beside you, its hand plunged into your mouth. Its slick fingers pressed down on your tongue, holding it captive. Humiliation gnawed at you as drool leaked from the corners of your lips, a slow trickle that dripped down your chin. The warm saliva cooled quickly against your skin, but the undeniable feeling of shame mingling with the hot, burning desire of pleasure consumed you.  

When your gaze flicked downward, you caught the sight of Alastor’s shadow. Its fingers danced over your swollen clit, moving in tight, calculated circles. The delicate touch was maddening as you felt it was just short of pushing you closer to the peak.  

A helpless moan slipped out, muffled by the fingers lodged in your mouth. The more Alastor’s shadow played with you, the more fluids spilled, your lips trembling as saliva and arousal dripped from your needy body.  

Unexpectedly, the shadow’s fingers plunged inside your slick heat, driving deep with unrelenting force. Your eyelids fluttered shut as another guttural moan vibrated around the intruding fingers in your mouth. Your throat strained with each breath, the effort of swallowing excess saliva adding to your torment. The lewd, wet sounds of your body being claimed filled the air – each thrust squelching with a vulgar intensity that only heightened your spiralling, intense desire.  

Alastor’s voice cut through the haze of pleasure and submission. “Beg for forgiveness, my dear,” he crooned, his tone mocking yet lilting, as though he were offering you something. “And perhaps, I may allow you to finish.” 

Your body craved release, teetering on the brink of orgasm, but the shadow's fingers stuffed in your mouth made coherent words impossible. You struggled to form even a basic plea, but all that escaped your lips were garbled moans and desperate, incoherent sounds. Your abdomen clenched, desperate – so fucking desperate – to reach your peak, but your hips remained pinned, unable to find the friction they needed.  

Your eyes darted to Alastor in panic, pleading silently. His grin split through his cheeks, as though relishing in your helplessness. “Oh dear, it seems you don’t really want it after all,” he sighed with a mock expression of disappointment, his voice laced with dark amusement.  

A fresh wave of frustration swirling with anger and desperation ripped though you as you continued to teeter at the edge, unable to tumble over. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and soon they streamed down your face, joining the cooling drool that stained your chin. You moaned incoherently around the shadow’s fingers, your voice trembling with need.  

Alastor’s eyebrows raised, his tone exaggerated with surprise. “Well, aren’t you a lucky one? It just so happens I’m in quite a generous mood!” His tone continued its uplifting beat, matching his exterior joviality.  

As if on cue, the fingers left your mouth, but before you could gather your breath, you felt a tight pressure coil around your neck. It squeezed, slow and purposeful, cutting off your airflow inch by damning inch. Panic shot through you as you gagged for air, your pulse hammering in your ears. Alastor’s shadow grinned, its face looming beside yours as it continued to relentlessly fuck you with its fingers. They moved with vicious intent, plunging deep into your walls, hitting every sensitive spot, each stroke sending your body reeling.  

Your vision began to blur, dark spots forming at the edges as your head swam with lightheadedness. The air refused to fill your lungs, the tightness around your throat unbearable, until suddenly – release. A flood of oxygen rushed in to your body at the same time the shadow’s fingers curled deliciously inside you, pressing against your g-spot with merciless precision.  

The orgasm hit you like a crashing wave. A raw scream tore from your throat, mixing with sobs as pleasure washed over you in undulating waves. Your body convulsed, trembling uncontrollably as the shadow’s fingers never relented, still thrusting, still curling, keeping you locked in the agonizing cycle of ecstasy. 

“Ahhhh…fu-ahhhh!” You sobbed, the pleasure too much, too intense. Your clit throbbed painfully, swollen and oversensitive, and the shadow’s fingers began to slap at it – hard, wet slaps that sent sharp bursts of pain rippling through the pleasure. It was endless. The overwhelming sensation of being pushed beyond your limit clouded your thoughts, a jumble of pain, of pleasure, and of torment.  

“Aren’t I generous?” Alastor asked, his voice heavy with mockery. He watched your body writhed and twitch beneath his control. “Let’s see how many times I can make you break, hm?” 

The moment Alastor uttered his final words, his shadow’s fingers drove back into you – three of them this time – curling deep inside your weeping cunt. They moved fast, a blur of relentless thrusts that tore another orgasm from your exhausted body. You gasped for breath, the feeling being stretched and filled too much, your mind going blank from the overload.  

“A-ah, to-too much,” you managed to cry out, though your body remained stiff and unmoving, helpless against the hold Alastor’s shadow had on you. Your cunt clenched tightly around the dexterous fingers, your core pulsing as the shadow showed no mercy, working your sensitive spots with precision.  

And then – hot and wet – his shadow’s tongue trailed up the back of your ear, the same spot that had started it all. It licked and sucked at your skin, the obscene sounds filling your ears, mingling with the squelching from your dripping cunt. You could feel the puddle forming beneath you, the wetness between your legs soaking the seat. Your body trembled, your mind teetering on the brink as you felt yourself nearing the edge again.  

Just as the pressure built, a sharp pinch at your raw nipple jolted you, sending you hurtling into another orgasm. This time, no sound escaped you – your scream was swallowed by the force of the release. Your body convulsed, jerking with each wave of pleasure that rolled through you, until you were nothing more than a quivering, wet, mess.  

As the shadow’s grip loosened, your body collapsed forward, slumping against the cool tiles. The cold surface was a sharp contrast to the burning heat of your overstimulated skin. Your entire body continued to tremble, twitching from the aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through you. Your tongue lolled out as it took everything you had to continue to breathe despite the shameful display of drooling like a dog by Alastor’s feet.  

“Now then,” Alastor’s voice chimed in brightly, his polished shoes the only thing in your line of sight as he stood before you. “I do hope you’ll clean up after yourself. This may be a hotel, but our complimentary brunch is self-service, after all.” He laughed, a sound filled with genuine mirth, before his body melted into the shadows.  

The ends of your lips twitched upwards, your body still shivering as you felt the cool slide of your arousal dripping out from the apex of your thighs. You could still feel the lingering touch of his shadow still imprinted on your body.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Soldat

A random drabble for @startcarvingdarling

Warnings for fear, kidnap, and spanking.

Character: Bucky Barnes, side of Peter Parker

“Peter? I’m waiting,” you say as he finally picks up. 

“Hmm? Waiting? What do you mean?” He asks as you hear something whirring in the background. 

“What? Don’t tell me you forgot.” You sneer, “you’re at the lab, aren’t you?” 

“Uh, yeah, of course. Where am I supposed to be?” He sputters. 

“Meeting me for our date!” You snip. “Ugh, I’m so embarrassed.” 

“Date? What—I didn’t-- I guess I forgot but I don’t remember--” 

“You never remember anything, do you? Not unless you’re getting some award or simping for Tony.” You huff. 

“What? I mean it. I have no recollection of this--” 

“You texted me last week. Said you want to spend some time together since you’ve been so busy and—Never mind. I’m not doing this. I’m not responsible for keeping your mind straight,” you shake your head, “bye.” 

You hang up as your eyes prick. You should have expected it. You can barely get a message back so why would he follow through on this? Besides, all he ever talks about are his gadgets. 

You drop your arm and turn to the restaurant. You look up and groan. He probably didn’t even make a reservation. You drag your feet away and head back down the street. 

The marquee lights reflect off the dark pavement and cast your shadow across the curb. As you walk, others pass by merrily in couples and groups. They’re raucous as they head out for a night of fun. For time with people who care about them. 

You turn down the next street. It’s emptier, and darker, away from the main strip. Your footsteps echo and you cross the street, undeterred as the traffic is sparse. As you get to the other side, you flinch. You turn. You thought you heard something. 

As you turn back, you jump. There was a shadow there. You spin and search the darkness. You’re imagining things. Even if that’s the case, it is New York. 

You speed ahead through the cones of light glowing from the tall street poles. You pump your arms as your breath hitches. Your heart is racing. You hear another scuff. You turn but see nothing. 

You jump as there’s a clatter down the alley and you squeak, stumbling back. You whirl around again and this time, your path is blocked. The silhouette of a man looms between the safe haven of the lights. His shoulders are broad and his feet wide. 

“Um, you—take it,” you throw your purse at him. He swipes it away. You flinch and step back. “Sir, I don’t--” 

He steps forward and your voice fizzles in the air. You know him. It’s Bucky. Yet, it doesn’t seem like him. His posture is different and he has a black mask over the lower half of his face. His eyes are almost black and he move mechanically as he comes closer. 

“Bucky? What are yo--” 

He grabs you by your throat and you cough. You latch onto his wrist as your phone bounces off the sidewalk. You whimper. The street light is swallowed up in his pupils as brings you near. He presses his nose to yours, the fabric of the mask rough. 

He tilts his head as he pulls back and launches you up. He takes a step and catches you easily over his shoulder. He veers and marches into the alleyway as you squeal. His hand cracks across your ass and your voice catches. He squeezes until your whine, digging into your flesh. 

“Wait- what--” 

He hushes you as he keeps going. You kick your legs and swipe at his back. He doesn’t stop. It’s as if he can’t hear you. As if your pleas are nothing, just like your weight on his shoulder. 

His laughter echoes against the brick walls as he carries you into the shadows. You don’t know where he’s taking you, or why, but you know you should be afraid. This isn’t Bucky, this is what he used to be. 

[writtenbyadriana]

If eyes could touch, Pt.1

Pairing: Jensen Ackles × fem!reader

Summary: You weren’t looking for anything — not really. Just a night out, a few drinks, a little freedom after too much heartbreak. But then there were his eyes. Green. Sharp. Dangerous in all the ways you weren’t ready for but suddenly couldn’t resist.

This is part 1 of a three-part story. You can find part 2 and part 3 here!

Warnings: age gap, slow burn, alcohol (moderate consumption, not intoxicated), intense flirting, intimate dancing, explicit kissing, strong language (in a light way), sexual tension, build-up smut

This fic contains the use of y/n and pet names (e.g., baby, sweetheart)

Words: 5176

Note: English isn't my first language.

This is a work of fiction. Jensen Ackles does not belong to me, nor do any of the actions or words depicted in this story reflect real events, behaviors, or beliefs. Everything is purely imagined and created for entertainment purposes only.

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I could barely believe I was actually here again. In a club. In heels. After all the drama, after the long, messy breakup with my ex — which felt more like a slow, painful tug-of-war than a clean split — tonight was the first night I felt like I could finally breathe again.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall behind the DJ booth, where the colorful lights scattered and danced, and for a second I barely recognized myself. My long brown hair fell in soft waves over my shoulders, and my outfit was the perfect mix of sexy and confident: ripped skinny jeans that hugged my legs, a tight black lace top that hinted at just enough skin, and black high heels that made me feel strong and undeniably hot.

Gold hoop earrings, a delicate bracelet, and a dainty necklace shimmered subtly under the lights. I looked like someone who wasn’t trying to forget — but to start over. And tonight, that’s exactly what I was going go do.

"y/n, you look like an absolute dream," Nick grinned, giving me an approving once-over. His eyes sparkled as he grabbed my hand and pulled me straight toward the dance floor.

I laughed, letting him lead me. The bass thrummed through my body, the lights flickered over sweaty faces and moving silhouettes, and for a moment, there was only music. Only rhythm. Only freedom. Nick was an amazing dancer — dramatic, playful, completely himself — and I felt light, alive, maybe even a little high on life.

After a few songs, we retreated to the bar, slightly breathless. My hair clung a little to the back of my neck, but I didn’t care. I felt good. No — better than good.

"Two Moscow Mules, please," Nick told the bartender, who gave us a quick nod. I leaned on the bar with one elbow, grinning at him.

"I forgot how good this feels."

"I know. You’re you again, baby." He winked. "And tonight, you’re going to turn so many heads, just wait."

I laughed, shaking my head. "I just wanna dance and drink. Men are not on the menu."

He was about to reply when his eyes suddenly shot past me, across the bar. They widened.

"Holy shit," he whispered, almost breathless.

I frowned. "What?"

He leaned in closer to my ear, his gaze still fixed straight ahead. "Don’t turn around. Not yet. But over there…fucking Jensen Ackles is at the bar. With Misha and Jared. They’re drinking. Oh my God."

Of course I turned around. Slowly, trying to look casual — but my heart was already racing.

And there he was.

He sat at the bar, one arm resting on the counter, a bottle of beer in his hand. The lighting cast soft shadows over the lines of his face — that strong jaw, that half-cocked smile, those ridiculously golden-green eyes. Misha said something that made Jensen burst out laughing, throwing his head back like the joke had hit him right in the chest.

My stomach flipped.

Nick leaned closer to my ear again. "I swear, he’s even hotter in real life. I mean...look at him. That beard. Those hands. That voice, oh my God. And he’s pure daddy energy. Has been my crush for years. Too bad he’s straight as hell."

I swallowed, then smirked.

And then — like he somehow sensed it — Jensen looked up. His eyes scanned the room, faces, lights…until they landed on me.

Our eyes met.

My stomach did a little somersault.

He looked at me — not just in passing, not some lazy glance. No. It was a look that took its time. That read something. His gaze slid from my face to my neck, paused for a heartbeat on my cleavage, then returned to lock with mine.

And then he raised an eyebrow — just a little. Barely there. But I felt it in every inch of my body.

I forced myself not to look away. I raised my glass instead, teasingly, a half-toast, half-challenge. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"y/n," Nick whispered next to me. "He just looked at you. Like — really looked."

"I know," I murmured, pulse hammering.

And suddenly I was warm again. But not from the dancing.

His gaze didn’t let me go. He was still standing by the bar, beer in hand, and yet it felt like his attention was solely focused on me. My heart pounded all the way down to my fingertips. This wasn’t just the typical "wow, he’s hot" kind of thing. It was more. Deeper. Tingling.

Nick chuckled beside me. "You’re totally short-circuiting."

I tore my eyes away from Jensen and shook my head slightly. "He’s just…"

"Total daddy energy, I know." Nick winked and sipped his drink.

I was just about to answer when I felt a shift in the air. The atmosphere changed. A shadow approached — tall, confident. I felt him before I saw him.

I turned slightly to the side.

Jensen Ackles stood right in front of me.

He was even more attractive up close. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Calm presence. He held a beer bottle loosely in his hand, and he smelled like something fresh, warm, a little woody. His gaze landed on me — focused, but not forceful.

"Hey," he said, his voice deep and unexpectedly soft. "I hope I’m not being too forward…but I had to come over and say hi."

His lips curved into a slight, crooked smile — dangerously charming.

I blinked. "Hi," I managed, silently cursing the slight catch in my voice. "No problem. Hello."

Nick stood frozen beside me, staring at Jensen like Jesus himself had just shown up. I nudged him gently.

"I'm Jensen," he said, glancing briefly at both of us before turning his attention fully back to me. "And you are?"

"y/n" I met his gaze like a silent challenge — calm on the outside, but inside I was reeling.

He nodded slightly. "y/n… pretty name."

Silence. But not the awkward kind. The kind that settles between two people who don’t need to fill it with noise. His eyes flicked briefly to my glass.

"Let me guess: Moscow Mule?" he asked.

I smiled. "Good guess."

"Classic. Refreshing. But with a kick." His voice had a playful tone – not overdone, just… warm. Easy.

Nick cleared his throat. "I… uh… I’ll get us some refills." And before I could stop him, he was gone — clearly more excited than I was.

I let out a soft laugh. "He’s…a fan."

"I can tell," Jensen said, unfazed. "So am I."

I looked at him. A little surprised. A little flattered. And very sure my heart was playing a whole new rhythm.

"I don’t usually get approached this fast," I said, half teasing, half honest.

"I don’t usually see someone who holds my attention like this," he replied, steady and calm.

He stepped just a little closer. Not enough to invade, just enough that I could feel his body heat.

His gaze lingered on my face, then drifted lower — to my collarbone, the delicate gold necklace resting there, then slowly back up to my eyes.

"You’ve got a presence that’s hard to ignore," he said quietly.

I swallowed. Not out of nervousness, but because my body was already reacting to him. There was a flutter in my stomach, a pull somewhere deeper. And still, he radiated that calm energy — like he wasn’t in a rush for anything.

He wasn’t pushy. Wasn’t sleazy. But the tension between us was real. Thick. Electric.

I leaned lightly against the bar. "So what brings Jensen Ackles to this club tonight?"

He raised a brow by the mention of his last name, and smirked. "Oh, so you know who I am?"

I returned the smile, lips tugging upward. "Of course. It would be a shame not to."

He chuckled quietly, almost like he hadn’t expected that. And there it was again — that warmth in his expression, laced with a spark of curiosity.

"A night off. Good music," he said simply. "And…maybe a connection you don’t plan for, but still want."

My breath caught for a second. It didn’t sound like a line. It sounded like truth, gently threading its way through his voice.

I glanced down, feeling his eyes still on me. When I looked back up, there was something different in his gaze — calmer, but piercing. He was present. Real.

And I knew: This wasn’t the end of the night. It was only the beginning.

I smiled nervously, unable to look away from his eyes. Those emerald depths held something magical, something that wouldn’t let go of me. "So, what do you usually do when you’re not hanging out in a club on a Saturday night?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

He grinned, letting his gaze slowly roam over me as if he wanted to take in every detail of my face. "Oh, you know...Movies, scripts, a bit of traveling at the moment. But tonight, I just wanted to switch off. And what about you, sweetheart? What brings you here?"

The "sweetheart" hit me like a little shock — unexpected, but not unwelcome. My heart skipped a beat. I swallowed hard to keep from stumbling over my words. "After my breakup, I just needed a distraction. A place where I could be myself. And someone to laugh with." I looked at him, waiting to see how he’d react.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and a mischievous smile played on his lips. "Laughter’s important. Especially when life’s just been kicking your ass." He raised his beer and toasted me. "I hope I can be your reason to laugh tonight."

I clinked my glass to his, feeling the warmth between us as if it were physical. "You’re definitely on the right track." My gaze dropped back to his eyes, now fixed on me in a way that was both demanding and tender. "You know what really fascinates me? That your eyes are already impressive on TV, but here…here they hold a whole different kind of power. They just pull me in."

Jensen laughed softly, a rough, seductive sound that sent shivers down my spine. "I could say the same back. Your eyes...or at least your look, tell stories I want to hear." His finger traced playfully over my wrist, a fleeting touch that electrified me. “Believe me, I could stand in front of you for hours.”

I met his gaze directly, feeling the air between us shift. The music in the background became the melody of our own silent dance — a game of looks, words, and desire growing louder by the second. "What do you think would happen if eyes could really touch?" I whispered, watching his smile deepen.

"Then we’d already be lost," he replied, his voice barely more than a rough promise. "But I think that’s exactly what’s going to happen tonight."

Our conversation continued like a door had been unlocked between us — easy, natural, real. The words flowed effortlessly, carried by laughter and meaningful glances that lingered just a little too long. This wasn't surface-level chatter. We talked about shows we secretly loved, the kind of music that gets you through heartbreak, the dumb things people do when they're in love. Jensen listened — really listened — with a focus that made everything else around us feel irrelevant.

And under his gaze — deep, steady, quietly intense — I felt...seen. Not just looked at. I felt like I mattered, like I wasn’t just some girl in a club. His eyes told me I was worth uncovering, layer by layer.

More than that, I felt beautiful. Confident. Like I could breathe a little deeper just because he was looking at me that way.

Nick, in the meantime, had subtly drifted away. He stood a few feet back at a high table, nursing his drink with a knowing smile — the kind only your best friend wears when he knows exactly what’s happening, and has no plans to interfere.

"You mentioned your ex earlier..." Jensen said, lifting his beer and glancing at me over the rim. "How does someone let a woman like you go?"

I laughed quietly, not with amusement, but with that sharp edge of pain still lingering. I toyed with the rim of my glass. "He cheated on me."

Jensen’s expression shifted instantly. The relaxed warmth disappeared, his jaw tightening. "Shit. Seriously?"

I nodded. "We were going to get married. Talked about kids. Picked out names, even. Then I came home early one night and found him in our bed with his coworker."

A silent "fuck" formed on his lips. He shook his head slowly. "Son of a bitch. I’ll never understand people like that. Especially when it’s someone like you he’s betraying. He must’ve been blind."

That heat inside me flared — not desire, not yet. Something warmer. Something that soothed a bruise I hadn’t realized still ached. I gave him a small, honest smile.

"What about you?" I asked softly. "You and Danneel... I thought you two were solid."

Jensen leaned back slightly against the bar, arms loose, posture casual — but there was a flicker of something bittersweet in his eyes. "We were together for a long time. Eighteen years total. Married for fifteen. But we just...grew in different directions." His voice was calm, reflective. "There was no drama. We both felt it happening. We’re still friends — mostly for the kids. They’re everything. But it was time to let go."

I nodded, casting my eyes downward briefly. "Part of me thinks that’s sad. Like, if you’ve made it that far, it should last forever." I looked up again, locking eyes with him. "But...if it hadn’t ended, you wouldn’t be sitting here. Talking to me."

His grin curled, crooked and a little dangerous, his eyes shining with a tease I felt in my chest. "And that would’ve been a damn shame."

My heart did a quiet flip.

I murmured, half to myself: "So now it’s like...starting over. From scratch."

He leaned in just slightly, the warmth in his voice grounding and direct. "You’re...how old? Thirty? Thirty-one? Baby, still so young. Trust me...if those guys out there knew what they were missing, they’d be lined up at your feet, praying for a chance."

I bit my lip, smiling at the way his words settled on me. The age difference was there — sixteen years between us — but instead of feeling strange, it felt solid. Safe. Like he’d already lived through the things I was still learning.

Then he held out his hand, slow and sure, eyes never leaving mine. "Come on. Dance with me."

I placed my hand in his, and the moment his fingers wrapped around mine, a spark shot up my arm. His touch was firm, certain — like he’d done this a thousand times before. And still, it felt like I was the only woman he wanted to do it with tonight.

He led me through the crowd, steady but unhurried, like he knew exactly where he was going. The music pulsed low and sensual through the floor, the kind of beat that made you want to move slow and close. Gold and violet lights flickered across the dancefloor, casting his face in a warm, magnetic glow.

Jensen turned toward me, letting go of my hand just long enough to slide it around my waist. His touch was light, almost cautious, as if asking. I gave him the smallest nod.

And then we were dancing.

At first, it was innocent. Casual. Our bodies moved in sync, with a thin line of space between us — like we were still pretending this was just a dance between strangers. But his eyes…God, his eyes didn’t play pretend.

They locked onto mine, then slipped to my lips, then down the curve of my neckline and back up again. Each glance landed heavier than the last, deliberate and burning.

I rested my hands lightly on his arms. His muscles flexed under the fabric of his shirt, solid and warm. He stood tall, strong — close. Too close to ignore. Not close enough to be satisfied.

"You move really well," he murmured, low enough that only I could hear him over the music.

"So do you," I teased, smiling. "Not exactly clumsy."

That wicked grin returned, lazy and confident. "Clumsy? Sweetheart, I can do a hell of a lot more than this."

His hand slid lower, resting against the small of my back. He pulled me closer — not all the way. Just enough to feel it. To let the heat of him wrap around me without fully touching. The restraint was maddening.

I caught the scent of his cologne — warm, masculine, edged in wood and smoke. It lingered in my head like a memory I didn’t have yet.

We kept moving, our bodies falling into rhythm like we’d done this before. My thigh brushed his. His hand tightened slightly. And then — finally — he pulled me all the way in. Chest to chest. No more guessing where he stood.

"You do know you're getting more dangerous with every step, right?" he whispered suddenly, his voice brushing the shell of my ear. His breath was hot against my skin.

I exhaled slowly, letting the words settle inside me like fire.

His gaze flared with something deep and dark. He leaned in, resting his forehead gently against mine. No kiss. Just contact.

Intimate. Close. But not too far. Not yet.

Our bodies moved to the rhythm of the music, pressed tightly together as if nothing and no one else existed but the two of us. My hips circled slowly, deliberately — every pulse of the beat made my ass glide directly against his manhood.

And I felt him. Hard. Full. Undeniably turned on.

A deep, guttural sound escaped him — not a word, just a rough, restrained groan that echoed straight into the pit of my stomach. My breath caught for a moment, heat shot to my face, and my heart began pounding twice as fast.

Then his hand moved upward — gliding, certain — and brushed my hair from my right shoulder over to the left. The soft strands tickled my skin as they slipped over my collarbone. I was wearing a tight black lace top with delicate straps, leaving my shoulders and neck completely bare.

His fingertips grazed my skin casually, but every motion felt electrified. I could feel how his touch sparked goosebumps like invisible fire across my entire body.

He leaned in even closer, his mouth just inches from my ear. His breath was hot, almost whispering.

"You have no idea..." he murmured, his voice low and rough, "...what you're doing to me."

Before I could answer, I felt his lips at my earlobe, right next to my golden earring. He gently caught the soft skin between his teeth, biting down — not hard, but firm. Possessive. Demanding.

A tremble ran down my spine. I inhaled sharply, eyes fluttering closed as my fingers dug into his thighs. My body tensed, and yet there was this burning softness deep inside me, aching for more.

His hand now slid from my neck over my right shoulder and down my upper arm — slow, searching. Every inch of his touch burned into my skin. Waves of goosebumps followed, like my entire body was tuning itself to him.

And then I felt him again — this time, with the tip of his nose. He traced it along the sensitive skin of my neck, ever so lightly, ever so slowly.

My breath grew shallow as his nose moved down — from the base of my jawline to the side of my neck and finally to my shoulder.

A soft kiss followed, warm and tender, placed right where my skin was most sensitive.

I visibly trembled.

His mouth didn’t pull away — instead, it moved upward, placing wet, hungry kisses along the curve of my neck. Each one felt like a promise.

I let my head sink back against his shoulder and closed my eyes.

He enveloped me completely — with his body, his breath, his presence.

I felt small in his arms, yet at the same time so secure, so wanted, so... beautiful.

And at the same time, the fire inside me flickered higher and higher.

Unstoppable. Blazing.Hot.

I couldn’t hold back anymore.

My body moved on its own, my mind already clouded by heat and desire. I pressed myself more firmly against him, my hips once again seeking that contact, that friction that had already driven me insane.

I wanted to feel more of him. All of him.

Jensen’s reaction was immediate. His grip on my waist tightened, his fingers dug deep into the fabric of my jeans like he wanted to hold me there, pin me to that exact spot.

Then he leaned in, his breath hot against my ear, his voice hoarse, threatening, raw with restrained desire: "If you don’t stop now, baby… I’m going to completely lose control."

A shiver shot through my body. My heart pounded wildly against my ribs, my throat went dry. And even before I could think about it, my lips answered — without hesitation, without regret, without doubt: "I want you."

Silence.

His grip froze. One deep breath from him that felt like it pressed through my entire spine. Then — a growl. Deep. Dark. Right at my ear, vibrating against my skin. "Say that again."

There was nothing playful left in his voice. It was a demand. A command. A final thread his control was hanging by.

I turned in his arms — slowly, trembling with tension — my eyes searching his.

My pulse roared in my ears, my hands found his T-shirt, clawed into it, pulled him down to me, closer, so close our noses almost touched. I looked straight into his eyes. And whispered:"I. Want. You."

Something inside him shifted. A fire flared in his eyes — wild and dangerous. His gaze burned into me, made me tremble, made my knees weak. He let his eyes wander across my face — slowly, as if in slow motion — from my eyes, over my nose, my cheeks, down to my lips.

He paused there. I held my breath. Then he kissed me. And everything exploded.

His lips crashed onto mine — hot, demanding, hungry. No careful probing, no hesitation — it was a kiss like a firestorm. I opened myself to him instantly, let my hands slide into his neck, pulled him even closer, as if that were still possible.

Our mouths melted into one, our bodies burned.

I felt the full press of his body against mine, how his tongue demanded entry, how his fingers once again dug into my hips.

I was lost. And I wanted to be.

Jensen’s arms pulled me even closer to him, as if we weren’t already pressed against each other. As if there was still a single millimeter of space between our bodies that he needed to erase.

His hands moved up and down my back — slowly, deliberately, warmly — and under the thin fabric of my lace top, I felt every movement, every line he traced.

I drew in a sharp breath as his fingers ran along my spine, from the upper back all the way down to the small of it. He took his time, as if he wanted to memorize the entire shape of my back.

Then his hands paused at my hips — for just a moment — before confidently gliding lower.

His large, warm palms landed on my ass. And I gasped softly against his lips.

Without hesitation, he pulled me even tighter against him, so I could feel his hard arousal pressed into me. A deep, suppressed moan vibrated in his chest as he grabbed my ass, squeezing me firmly, pulling me into him — possessively, demanding, full of hunger.

A jolt of electricity shot through my whole body. My thoughts spun like a storm. I couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t control anything — except what I felt. And that was more than I’d ever thought possible.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulled him down to me even more, as if that were even possible, and our lips met again — hotter, more desperate, more reckless.

The kiss was wild, wet, demanding. Our tongues met in a dance that matched the intensity of our bodies.

Then — suddenly — he broke away from me, breathing heavily. His eyes searched my face, his chest rising and falling quickly. I could almost see reason knocking at the edge of his mind again.

His voice was deep and rough when he said softly: "Fuck… we’re standing in the middle of the dance floor."

I bit my lip, my heart pounding in my chest.

The music around us felt like a distant haze — everything except us had faded into the background.

But he was right — we were in the middle of the club, surrounded by people, and we could barely keep our hands off each other.

He leaned his forehead against mine, his voice hot, barely a whisper: "Should we… go to your place?"

One moment. One breath. One look into his eyes. I nodded. "Yes. Please."

As soon as the last word had slipped from my lips, Jensen reacted — immediately, without a moment of hesitation.

His fingers closed around mine — firm, warm, purposeful — and he pulled me through the crowd, which still danced wildly to the music, as if nothing outside this moment mattered.

I felt his body heat spreading across my skin, even through the swarm of people, light, and noise. His hand held mine like it already belonged to him. It wasn’t a timid lead — it was a clear pull. He knew exactly what he wanted. And I was more than willing to follow.

The scent of his cologne surrounding me completely. His thumb circling into my palm like a silent promise of everything still to come.

At the edge of the dance floor, he glanced toward the bar. And I saw it too.

Misha and Jared stood there, a little off to the side, half in shadow. Jensen gave them just a quick nod — a short, wordless signal. As we passed, I caught Misha’s gaze. He grinned broadly, raised his brows, and subtly gave Jensen a thumbs-up. Jared shook his head slightly, but he was grinning too — just like friends do when they know something is starting that could change everything.

We were only a few steps from the exit, my heart racing, the cool night air already brushing against me through the open doors...when suddenly it hit me like a jolt through my body.

"Shit! Nick!"

I came to an abrupt halt. Jensen noticed it immediately, turned to face me, confusion in his eyes. His brows furrowed slightly, his hand still tightly holding mine.

"What’s wrong?" he asked, his voice rough from whispering and kissing.

"I forgot Nick. My best friend. He has my bag. I can’t just…" I shook my head, completely thrown off. Guilt mixed with my desire, briefly making it waver. "I need to let him know. Wait here for me, please."

Jensen looked at me for a moment. Then his expression softened. Understanding flickered in his eyes, but something else too: the hunger was still there, only barely tamed.

"Be quick, baby," he murmured. And before I could respond, he leaned in and kissed me.

Gentle. Slow. As if he wanted to taste me one more time. His lips moved against mine — tender and yet so demanding that my knees nearly buckled.

I felt his hand on my back, drawing me closer, my lips trembling slightly beneath his. I couldn’t help it — I kissed him back, forgot everything for a second, forgot where I was, who I was, that Nick even existed.

Just Jensen. Just his lips. Just this feeling of completely losing myself.

He was the one who finally pulled away. His forehead stayed resting against mine. I inhaled deeply, forced myself to open my eyes.

"I’ll be right back," I whispered. I forced myself to take a step back, to pull away from him. Barely managing it.

Then I turned and disappeared back into the pulsing darkness of the club —leaving my heart with him, right there, where he was waiting.

To be continued...

[bananasplit133]

Between Shadows and Light (Part 2)

Alternate Invincible | Mark Grayson/reader

(Part 1) - (Part 3)

Summary: In this chapter, the protagonist deepens their friendship with Mark, known as Invincible. As they share conversations in the café, Mark reveals his loneliness and the thrill he finds in instilling fear. The protagonist supports him, encouraging Mark to see himself as more than just a figure of fear. The chapter ends with a growing connection between them, allowing their friendship to develop at a slow pace amidst the chaos of their world.

Words: 1,866

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The next few days at the café unfolded in a comfortable routine, but thoughts of Mark lingered in your mind like the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Each time the bell above the door jingled, a flicker of anticipation ignited within you, yet you maintained a steady patience, understanding that genuine friendships take time to build—even with someone as complex and sinister as him.

As you wiped down the counter one evening, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with vibrant shades of orange and pink. You were lost in thought, recalling your conversations with Mark, when the bell jingled. Looking up, a small smile formed on your lips as he stepped inside, wearing a casual black hoodie that made him appear more approachable. The familiar silhouette brought a sense of warmth to the otherwise cool evening, even as a hint of danger clung to his presence.

“Hey,” you greeted, your voice steady, betraying none of the excitement that bubbled beneath the surface.

“Evening,” he replied, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he glanced around the café. “Mind if I grab a seat?”

“Not at all. Your usual?”

He nodded, and you poured him a cup of black coffee, observing him as he settled into the corner booth. There was a relaxed air about him today, but the faint shadows under his eyes hinted at the burdens he carried—not just as a person but as a figure of fear in this chaotic world. You found yourself curious about what thoughts might be swirling in that mind of his.

As you joined him at the table, you set the coffee down in front of him and took a seat across. “So, what’s on your mind today?” you asked, genuinely interested in his thoughts.

Mark took a sip of his coffee, contemplating your question. “I’ve been thinking about our last conversation. You have a way of making me reconsider my outlook on things.”

You shrugged, pleased to hear he was reflecting on your words. “Sometimes it helps to talk things through. Life can be overwhelming, and everyone needs a sounding board now and then.”

“True,” he replied, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. “I’ve realized I haven’t had many conversations like this in a while. Most people avoid me or just want something from me.”

“That’s unfortunate,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “But I’m glad you’re here now. You deserve to have people in your life who want to know you, not just Invincible.”

His gaze met yours, and for a moment, the tension in the air shifted to something lighter. “It’s nice to hear that. I guess I’m just used to being seen as this larger-than-life figure. It’s refreshing to talk to someone who sees beyond that.”

“That’s how I feel,” you said, smiling softly. “I’m just here to serve coffee and make sure people enjoy their time. If that means chatting with Invincible, then so be it.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “I’ll take it as a compliment. It’s not often I get to just… be me.”

As the two of you chatted, the conversation flowed easily. You found yourselves discussing everything from the state of the world to your favorite childhood memories. Each word exchanged drew you closer, building a foundation of friendship that felt genuine and steady, even with the shadow of his sinister nature looming over your interactions.

“Do you ever miss it?” Mark asked, his voice low, a hint of nostalgia in his tone. “The way things used to be before everything changed?”

You paused, considering his question. “Sometimes. I miss the way the café used to buzz with life, the laughter and chatter. But I also believe that we can find ways to create new memories. It’s just going to take time.”

“Time,” he echoed, leaning back in his seat. “That’s something I’m not particularly good at.”

“You’re not alone in that,” you replied. “We all struggle with patience, especially when we want things to change quickly. But friendships take time to build, just like anything else worth having.”

Mark looked at you, a mix of appreciation and curiosity in his gaze. “You really think we can get back to something resembling normal?”

“I have to believe that,” you said firmly. “If we don’t hold onto hope, then what’s left? We have to create our own sense of normalcy, even if it’s just in our small corner of the world.”

He nodded slowly, a thoughtful look on his face. “I think I’m starting to understand that. Maybe there’s more to this than I initially thought.”

Just then, the bell above the door jingled, and a few more customers entered, breaking the intimate moment. You stood, glancing around to ensure everyone was settled before returning your focus to Mark.

As the café buzzed with life, you felt a sense of contentment wash over you. Your conversations with Mark had become a highlight of your shifts, and while you were aware of the darker undertones of his persona, you were in no rush to push it further. You valued the growing friendship, the gradual unfolding of trust, and the shared laughter that brightened even the darkest days.

Over the next few weeks, Mark continued to visit the café regularly. Each time he entered, you felt a familiar flutter of anticipation, but you kept your demeanor calm and collected. You shared stories, jokes, and insights, allowing the bond between you to deepen without rushing into anything more. Each interaction felt like a carefully woven thread, adding strength to the tapestry of your friendship.

Mark opened up about his life, the pressures he faced as Invincible, and the loneliness that often accompanied his power. You listened intently, offering a safe space for him to express himself while being mindful of the darkness that lurked within him. He spoke about how people cowered before him, how the fear he instilled kept them in line. There was a twisted satisfaction in his words that sent a chill down your spine, but you remained steadfast, determined to understand the man behind the mask.

One evening, as the sun set and the café emptied, Mark lingered at the counter, his expression contemplative. “You know, I never thought I’d find a place like this—where I could just relax and be myself.”

You smiled softly, wiping down the counter. “I’m glad you feel that way. It’s nice to have you here, Mark. It feels like I’m getting to know the real you.”

He chuckled, a hint of warmth in his voice. “The real me is a work in progress. But you’re making it easier to embrace that.”

“Good,” you replied, meeting his gaze with sincerity. “We all have our layers, and it’s okay to take your time revealing them. I’m just happy to be part of the journey.”

As the evening wore on, you found yourselves lost in conversation, the connection between you growing stronger. Each shared moment felt like a step toward something more profound, yet you were content to savor the friendship that was blossoming between you.

“Have you ever thought about what you want to do once things settle down?” you asked, curiosity piquing as you leaned forward. “What are your dreams beyond being Invincible?”

Mark paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “Honestly? I haven’t had time to think about it. Everything is so chaotic right now. But I do enjoy the power I hold over people. It’s fascinating to see how fear can control them.”

“Is that what you want?” you asked, your curiosity growing. “To control people through fear?”

He hesitated, the tension in his shoulders evident. “It’s part of my nature. I thrive on it. It’s amusing to watch them cower, to know I can bend their will.”

You nodded, understanding the darkness in his words. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t find a balance. You have the ability to use your power in different ways, even if it’s not what you typically do.”

Mark regarded you quietly, the intensity of his gaze making you feel seen in a way that was both exhilarating and daunting. “You really believe that?”

“I do,” you replied, your voice firm. “But it has to start with you wanting to be that person. You can’t let the darkness define you.”

He nodded slowly, processing your words. “You’re really good at this, you know. Most people would just give up on someone like me.”

“Maybe they don’t see the potential,” you said, shrugging lightly. “I see you as someone who has the chance to grow and change, even if it means grappling with the darkness within.”

Mark’s expression shifted slightly, revealing a glimmer of something deeper. “You have a way of making me feel… hopeful. It’s strange.”

“Hope is a good thing, even when it’s hard to hold onto,” you replied softly. “And you don’t have to navigate this alone. I’m here, and I’m happy to be part of your journey.”

He smiled, the warmth in his eyes bringing a flutter to your chest. “Thank you for that. It’s not often I find someone who genuinely cares.”

The atmosphere between you felt charged, and you sensed the bond between you deepening. Yet, you were both content to remain in this phase of friendship, allowing it to flourish at its own pace.

Eventually, the café began to empty, the last customers drifting out into the night. You glanced at the clock, realizing your shift was coming to an end. Reluctantly, you prepared to close up, the thought of leaving Mark behind filling you with an unexpected sense of longing.

“Hey,” you said, turning to him as you wiped down the counter one last time. “I should get going, but I really enjoyed tonight.”

“Same here,” Mark replied, a genuine smile lighting up his features. “I’ll be back soon. You can count on that.”

With a final wave, you stepped outside, the cool night air enveloping you. You couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something meaningful—a slow burn of friendship, unfolding in the shadows of a world transformed by fear.

As the weeks turned into months, the café became a sanctuary for both of you. With each visit, Mark shared more of himself, his walls slowly crumbling under the weight of your patience and understanding. You learned about his struggles, the expectations placed on him, and the moments of loneliness that accompanied his power. You also witnessed the enjoyment he derived from the fear he instilled in others, a part of him that you couldn't ignore.

Mark became a constant presence in your life, and your friendship blossomed like the flowers in spring. You found comfort in his company, and with every laugh shared and every story told, the bond between you grew stronger.

And while the thought of a deeper connection occasionally crossed your mind, you both seemed content to explore the friendship that was blossoming between you. There was something beautiful about the way you interacted, each moment laced with the potential for something more, but never rushing into it.

For now, you were friends navigating the complexities of a chaotic world together, and that was enough.

[suzukiblu]

Danny/Duke(DeadLights or GhostLights), "I'll be waiting... time after time."

Duke found something weird on patrol today. He’s day shift, obviously, but near the end of his shift . . . 

Well, something weird happened. 

Or he saw something weird, more like. 

He saw something weird that’d already happened, maybe. Or . . . was happening? Was about to happen? 

It was hard to tell, for some reason. Like the time didn’t . . . flow quite right. Like the light was reflecting wrong.

So now he’s crouched in the back of the darkest alley he could feel in reasonable range, and he’s holding a tiny, tiny wisp of a thing, a faint little gossamer-fragile globe. It’s . . . light, he thinks. It looks like light. Behaves like it, a little. 

But it behaves like light that he’s using his powers on, not light that just exists. 

So that’s . . . new, yeah. 

Huh. 

Duke doesn’t know why, but he’s worried about the little light. Like it’s about to go out, and like it’d be bad if it went out. 

He wonders . . .

He wraps the darkness around himself better, and thinks of it like a cradle, for some reason. Some reason he can’t quite pin down for himself. The little light flickers, thready and inconstant. It makes him think of a heartbeat, even in the silence, and he wraps more darkness around himself. 

Wraps more darkness around . . . them, some part of him thinks. 

Yeah. “Them”. 

Huh. 

Gotham is never silent unless things are going very wrong, of course. And this is a light, not a heartbeat. Not a . . . 

No. It’s not a heartbeat. 

It’s a heart. 

Duke puts the gentlest spark of illumination on the very tip of his finger and very, very lightly touches the heart’s gossamer-lit surface. It sparks. 

It gleams. 

He sees something like veins on its surface and electric illumination inside it, and something alive all the way through it. Or . . . close to alive. Almost the same as alive.

Well. Maybe not alive, but . . . close enough to count, he thinks. 

Yeah. Definitely close enough to count. 

“It’s okay. I got you,” Duke says, and he doesn’t mean to say it that way, really, but it comes out like he’s talking to a lost little kid. He’s used to that, given the job, but he’s not sure why he’s doing it now. 

But also it’s just–what he’s doing. He doesn’t know why, but it’s what he’s doing. 

Is this . . . this is a person, isn’t it. But is this a person and also a kid? 

He doesn’t know how he knows that, but–it is, isn’t it. This is a kid. A kid who’s gossamer-frail and weak and flickering. 

Okay, well . . . he has to do something about that, then. 

He doesn’t know what exactly he does need to do. It’s . . . there’s something that he needs to do, he knows. Something that he can do. 

He wraps more darkness around them both, twisting the shadows up around them. He makes something like a nest, or maybe an actual cradle after all, and he lets it all interweave into something safe and strong and secure. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he knows he has to do something, and the best he’s got is trying to follow his instincts. Listen to what the light is . . . not saying, exactly, but wants. 

It wants safe. It wants strong. It wants secure. It wants–

“Hey,” a voice says, and Duke looks up and sees a floating silhouette that burns like starlight outside his cradle of shadows, a spiked crown illuminating the air above its head and a burning ring engulfing its right hand. It looks like it’s about to burst into a supernova; like it could destroy worlds. 

It’s a really cute guy about his age with electric green eyes and milk-white hair in a black hazmat suit. 

. . . okay, sure. This might as well happen, Duke thinks. 

“You two need some help down there?” the guy asks, and the little gossamer light glows. 

. . . well, all things considered, Duke’s done crazier things than ask a really cute supernova for childcare tips.

[artist-issues]

Is Thunderbolts anything like the caliber of movies Marvel Phase 1 or even Phase 2 was coming out with? No

Like Yelena should not end her monologue to a hostage by explaining to that hostage that she needs his face to get through the scanner. Out loud. That feels like something pure-exposition, for the audience’s benefit. What Phase One Marvel would’ve probably done with that was cut to a close-up of Yelena’s face, it looks like she’s looking down, confessing something, and then it switches to a full-body shot and the person she’s talking to is the hostage, but she’s actively talking to him while she’s jamming his face into the scanner, and it’s not working, so she ends their little “conversation” and drops him on the floor. Marvel Phase One would’ve just shown us her quirky little casual-espionage expertise, dropped us into the scene and trusted us to figure it out, instead of having her say it out loud.

But! Here are some Good things I noticed.

Every part of the adventure that the Thunderbolts* are going on has something to do with the idea of “We’ll Fall into the Void Without Sticking Together.” Like when they’re Kuzcoing it up the elevator shaft, and have to rely on one another, and if they don’t they fall into a literal void (they can’t see the bottom.) Or when Yelena’s whole plan is to use light followed by teamwork to blind their attackers.

When they’re walking up that shaft, they’re focusing on The Bad. They identify with their sob stories. “Kidnapped child assassin. I win.” Like Alexi says later, when they look at themselves they see only the Bad.

Alexi’s all about his own glory, until Bucky says “this isn’t right” while Bob is pummeling the Void. Then Alexi literally works together with Yelena to lift the rubble and get her free, to have the Big Hero Moment, leaving himself trapped. He lets her do the cool backflips and rush to save the day, which means he both a) is giving her the spotlight and b) really does believe in her to fix it. Like he always said he did.

This one’s obvious but Yelena’s silhouette being framed by the only light in Bob’s Shame Attic while she holds his hand and sits with him, and everything else in the shot is in shadow.

Bucky being the one to describe to the Thunderbolts* how running doesn’t work, the things you’ve done always catch up to you.

In the Shame Shadow Network Yelena can only see Bob through each room’s mirrors or reflective surfaces, just like how thematically you can only reach someone lost in dark thoughts by proving to them that you know what they’re going through—relating to them. Reflections, mirror images, get it?

Another obvious one but the idea that Yelena only sees the bad which leads to the dark void inside of her—and Void, the supervillain’s, powers being a physical manifestation of that—he reduces people to the shadow they cast, when the whole idea is that that’s not the true them, it’s just their shadow. (That’s not a worldview that lines up with reality, I’m just saying the movie was thematically consistent.)

Bucky being the only one to laugh at Valentina’s villain monologue in the group-reaction shot, probably because Sebastian Stan knows that Bucky is thinking of Steve Rogers predicting this exact use of “superheroes” by a corrupt government power.

Bob being Alone consistently = Bad. First time I noticed it was when they put him in the back of the truck and she says “you going to be okay back here?” And he says “yeah,” but no. Because then he gets cagey and runs out and tries to save the day on his own and gets riddled with bullets. Alone Bob always = Bad Stuff.

The whole larger setup of the movie being that the world, all the innocent people, culture at large, is missing the Avengers. Thinking that there’s nobody coming to save the day. “We’re on Our Own.” And then on a smaller character-level that’s Bob’s problem, that’s Yelena’s problem, that’s Void’s mantra: “you’re alone.” So the movie set us up to remember how much we miss the Avengers so that it could fill the gap. And it fills it with characters like Alexi who are so happy to try and fill the gap, the audience can’t help but be happy for him even though we know they can’t be our Avengers.

All that was well-done. Not Avengers-caliber or even Guardians-caliber or geez, barely Agents-of-Shield-caliber well-done. But still, well done enough to have heart and be enjoyable

[tadc-harlequin-au]

Hi! Please excuse any misspellings, english is not my frist language...

Firstly I just wanted to tell you that I love your AU! Your Harlequin au was what intorduced me to lovely TADC au Tumblr community and I absolutley love it! I haven't seen alternate universes as creative as these since the Sansverse era!

Secondly, I hace a question about the Patriarch: He seems to have a very good idea of who Caine is, wouldn't he be this world's equivalent to Able? I ask because althugh his design is WAY different from most fan Able depictions, he still has that "The Puppetmaster's brother" vibe that all Ables tend to have, a peace of Caine's past that he can never get rid of!

If he is not Able then I am curious of who he is, if he is then the lore just got spicier and if you don't want to spoil anything I'll understand.

But honestly: Keep it up! Your au has filled 70% of all my daydreams, the only thing I have been able to think about for a while has only been game mechanics, combat and chase sequences!

Damn y'all are fucking sleuths istg

Though I am very proud of that because that means my design philosophy worked somehow, and for that, I'll throw you guys a bone. And also because I can't keep it a secret any longer I've been holding it in since the very beginning of this au

YES.

The Patriarch of Puppets is none other than Abel, Caine's biological brother.

When I was first designing him, I wanted every aspect of Abel's design to scream "opposite of Caine", and to hold some form of symbolism. From his megaphone head, down to the color palettes, there is meaning. Don't get me wrong, Mushy's Able is a very memorable and awesome design and I could've incorporated him the same way I did Souls-like, but I wanted something deeper for Harlequin.

While Caine is adorned in golds and maroons to symbolize his warmer nature, Abel has teals and silver, a very cold and intimidating stature. Their outfits and the colors are an opposition towards each other yet reflect one another somehow, the way Abel dresses tightly and formal when Caine is loose and open, his intense red pupil conveys his hostility, whilst Caine's eyes are softer blues and greens.

His king-size height dwarfing Caine tells just how much the Puppetmaster felt living on his shadow, HELL, someone noticed the weird "A" on the sides of his head and I had to shrug it off because I didn't want to reveal it as early as that time.

Even the megaphone head design holds SO MUCH UNTOLD STORY BETWEEN THE BROTHERS THAT I WILL CHOOSE TO KEEP A SECRET FOR NOW. I've put SO MUCH THOUGHT behind his design.

*sigh*... Which is also why I very much dislike the "siren head" jokes, because it's the one thing I didn't really foresaw when I was developing his design until I finished, and someone pointed out it might cause jokes like that to prop up. Something I thought I wouldn't mind initially, until everyone made the same joke over and over again and I just audibly groan irl.

But you know. internet's gonna internet, they see one thing that resembles a popular media, it's an immediate connection. I didn't even give a shit enough about Siren head to know how the design actually looked like, just a silhouette of the guy.

Therefore, I would really appreciate it if saying this out loud would help lessen the jokes, but ik not everyone is going to see this post so.

I do still wanna thank you for your kind words, because these kinds of asks are the fuel to my fire of inspiration and motivation for this AU, and I wish that I can keep this fire going till the very end of this AU's story :')

[mimicha-arts]

I have not written fandom theories for a long time, but LInkClick fuels my interest and search for meaning too much. Recently, I reviewed all the available series, and came across details that I had not connected before. For the most part, this post is speculations about Cheng Xiaoshi, as well as ... timeline.

Spoilers! Please be careful.

Considering so many details about Cheng Xiaoshi, it seems that there has always been something strange about his "symbolism". In fact, I'm really into the theory that the moment in episode 1 of season 2 (when Lu Guang gets stabbed) is the vision & flashback of the past about Cheng Xiaoshi's death. In fact, it amazes and delights me how many details in OverThink support these thoughts. At least because once a frame flashes, which somewhat resembles a scene from Lu Guang's flashbacks.

But there is more. We have 3 main points: clock, сlockwork and camera. 1. Clock - possible time of death Very specific time appear several times. The clock hands look very strange, still not 6, so probably the time is 5:20 (thus, given the symbolism of 520, I have even more questions). They show the same time in any frame.

But the most interesting thing is that at the very end, when we see Cheng Xiaoshi (with the design from the first season), for a few seconds, in addition to the patterns of gears, a very faded inverted dial of this clock appears on him, where inverted 4 is the most visible part. No need to say that 4 is a symbol of death.

This can only be seen in 1s1s ED. Because, in fact, there are 2 versions of the ED, and it's different (without these details) for the remaining 10 episodes.

Even the very first intro with characters contains very similar clock placed in the background of Cheng Xiaoshi. So, at this point, I'm guessing that this strange 5:20 was the key node and the death of Cheng Xiaoshi.

2. Clockwork - сhanging a key event Gears are shown both literally and in pattern. For a long time, I thought that Lu Guang's shadow was just a shadow, or an indistinct noise, but if you look closely, it becomes obvious that Lu Guang is covering a pattern of gears - probably as a sign of changes with clock mechanism and time. Details such as water drops and film strips are also interesting, as both OP (Dive Back in Time and Vortex) connect these elements to Cheng Xiaoshi.

One of the moments shows how the silhouette of hands (overlapping the trees, which may coincide with the background of the forest in the vision in s2s1) touches the inverted clock, after which the second hand of the clock begins to move back.

And the most beautiful thing .. The fact that the hands belong to Lu Guang, as well as the context of this action, confirms that the animation literally coincides with the scene from the end of 4th (and the beginning of 5th) episodes, when Lu Guang explains to Cheng Xiaoshi how key events (nodes) and changes in the past work. But inverted. What a coincidence, right?

Honestly, I think that all these details can further support the theories about Lu Guang, which already have enough speculation. Given all the hints, it is possible that due to Cheng Xiaoshi's death, he changed something in time, thus erasing the "future in that present" and created a new present as an alternate reality. Just a thought.

3. Camera - another timeline Let's go back to the very end again. Here Cheng Xiaoshi is holding a camera in his hands.

Remember this diamond-shaped mark. This camera is very specific, as it has appeared several times, but not in the main series (yet). There is an easter egg in the mini-series, Lu Guang has a rather similar model, only with a round (clock-like) mark.

It's importance becomes even more obvious, especially now that we have a poster for the second season.

So. What's wrong with this camera? Because there are actually two of them. The one on the table has a rounded clock mark. But the camera in reflection is the one that Cheng Xiaoshi holds in the ED, with a diamond mark.

For me... Seems like it is probably one of the main connecting elements or "anchor" between the timelines / alternate realities, at least conveys this idea. All this makes me feel excited and inspired, how it was possible to place all this so neatly. And which of these can really confirm conjectures and theories … Thanks to the scriptwriters and animators, it's nice to be a part of this game.

Or maybe I'm just overthinking… Anyway, thanks for reading to the end. Perhaps someone has their own thoughts, feel free to discuss ~

[misskitxx]

It happened in the morning.

Or—maybe not morning, exactly. The light was dim and blue through the curtains, but that meant nothing in winter. Jayce had been sitting by the bed for hours, blinking slow and out of sync, one hand cupped around Viktor’s wrist like it could will the pulse to keep going. He wasn’t sure when he’d last moved. The lamp was still on. There was a half-drunk cup of tea cooling on the windowsill, forgotten.

Viktor had drifted off the evening before. Not dramatically. Not in pain. Just—exhausted. He’d said he was tired. Jayce helped him shift against the pillows, tucked the blankets up around his shoulders, kissed his hair. Viktor had made a soft sound—something between a sigh and a hum. Then he shut his eyes.

Jayce had assumed he was sleeping.

He kept assuming for a long time.

Every time Viktor’s chest rose, Jayce marked it. When it fell, he counted to three, four, five, waited for the next breath. It came. Slower than before. Then again. And again. Until he wasn’t sure if he was tracking the rhythm or imagining it.

Eventually, Jayce must’ve dozed off. Just for a moment. A blink. His head tilted forward, his back stiff in the chair.

When he opened his eyes again, Viktor’s chest wasn’t moving.

The stillness wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t horrifying. There was no gasp, no rattle. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t settle onto a room, but into it.

Jayce waited a moment.

Then another.

“…Vik?” His voice cracked.

He touched his arm. Cold, but not quite gone.

He waited again.

He smoothed back Viktor’s hair, voice smaller this time. “You fell asleep on me again.”

Still nothing.

Still—

Nothing.

Jayce didn’t cry. Not right away. He sat for a long time, just looking. Trying to convince himself he’d see another breath. That Viktor was still there, just hidden. Just resting.

He didn’t shake him. Didn’t scream. Instead he curled forward, slowly, one arm braced against the mattress, and laid his head on Viktor’s chest like they used to, as if they were both just waking up to another morning. The kind with tea. With rain. With notes scrawled on napkins and hands held over breakfast.

There were things you were supposed to do, they said.

Old things. Folklore things. Wives' tales spoken in the brittle tones of women who’d seen too many winters. Close the curtains before dusk. Cover the mirrors. Turn the clocks. Salt the threshold. Open the window at the moment of death so the soul can leave cleanly, gently. Otherwise—

Well.

Jayce didn’t do any of it.

Now, weeks later, Viktor is in the ground.

The burial was small. A grave dug late. Jayce said a few things under his breath. Didn’t remember what. He can’t remember much from that day at all, only the shape of the sky, the scent of turned earth, and the overwhelming feeling that he’d, somehow, made a mistake.

The house is too quiet, now. But not empty.

There’s the sound of the floorboards settling—but only in places Viktor used to walk.

The faint creak of his favorite chair shifting when Jayce is in the kitchen.

A cup moved. A lamp turned on. A drawer left open to a page of calculations he swears he never touched.

Jayce still brushes his teeth in the morning. It feels like a small act of rebellion. Against what, he isn’t sure. Decay, maybe. The fact of days passing. The unbearable normalcy of it all.

The light in the bathroom is harsh. Not like the bedroom lamp. Stark, surgical. It casts shadows under his eyes that make him look older, hollower, like someone who’s halfway through forgetting what it means to be touched.

He doesn't look in the mirror if he can help it. Not directly. His reflection is fine. Unremarkable. Still alive. That’s not the problem.

It’s the feeling he sometimes gets when he does look. Like something else might be there, just a fraction too slow to vanish. A flicker in the background. A second silhouette.

This morning he keeps his head down.

Toothbrush. Water. Toothpaste. The sting of mint. He leans into it. Lets the foam rise. Lets his hand fall into the old rhythm. Left to right. Up, then down. Rinse. Repeat. Spit. Everything in order.

And then—

A hand on the back of his neck.

Not a full grasp. Just the ghost of one. Fingertips. Light. Delicate. Familiar. The way Viktor used to touch him when passing by—affectionate, wordless, grounding.

Only now—

It’s cold.

Not biting. Not freezing. Just wrong . Not the temperature of a living hand.

Jayce goes still.

His mouth is full of mint and salt and he can feel his pulse high in his throat.

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t breathe .

The touch lingers.

Soft. Reverent. Terribly real.

And then—gone.

He swallows hard. Reaches out blindly. Shuts off the faucet.

He doesn’t look in the mirror.

He tells himself it’s memory. Muscle echo. A phantom touch born of habit. But as he dries his hands, he realizes his skin is cold where the fingers touched.

Still cold.

And his neck is damp. Like something exhaled there.

[wntrmelts]

Why I view/write Kaeya as living an inherently feminine experience

(reposting this essay from twitter)

This entire post will be a long string of observations and headcanons surrounding why I believe Kaeya’s story is an inherently feminine experience. It includes canon interactions but also explanations as to why I write him in a certain way in my works. Also, I would like to establish that with ‘feminine’ I am not explicitly talking about gender expression, but more so the societal expectations and gender roles that have been put on women. By this definition, a feminine experience is not exclusive to women only.

Starting in his childhood, Kaeya is described as being gentle and polite by Adelinde (1) whilst Diluc was described as more rambunctious. As they grew up, Kaeya, being the more reserved one, seemed to always stay in Diluc’s shadow (2).

The question is whether this was by choice or something that was imposed upon him. In a way, I think it’s both. To survive, he made sure not to cause trouble or speak out of turn, listening to and pleasing the authoritative figures in his life instead.

After Diluc was out of the picture and out of the KoF, Kaeya was given a completely different role. He was expected to lead now, his previous persona would not suffice in an environment like this. He had to be respected, and in order to gain the respect of his new subordinates, he had to change. He became louder and more visible, he had to learn how to stand his ground. This isn’t only reflected in his personality, but also his appearance. A big silhouette that exudes status with the gold accents and fur coat; it demands attention and communicates confidence to outsiders.

Kaeya as we know him has a very big personality. It’s hard to definitively say whether he enjoys the attention he gets from outsiders. Where does the act stop and his true self begin?

In his hangout, we can see him scurrying away with the traveler once he starts getting approached and praised for his on-stage performance in Port Ormos (3).

From the way he treats the interactions, it seems that he can humor these interactions when needed, but does not particularly enjoy them. There seems to be a dichotomy between the way he presents himself and how wishes other people to perceive him, and his true desires. I don’t think this means that he completely dislikes the way he presents himself. After having played this part for so long, it would make sense that at least part of it melds into his true self, but it does imply that his change post-fight isn’t 100% a case of ‘flourishing into his true self’ as his Vision story might suggest.

On that note, the attention Kaeya seems to get from bystanders seems to be something he does not seem /entirely/ comfortable with. Besides the fan interactions in Port Ormos, Kaeya also mentions in his hangout that he got approached by a group of mercenaries to dance (4).

The subtext suggests they were flirting with him, and whilst it is possible Kaeya genuinely did not realize this, I don’t believe someone like him would be oblivious to the implications of the interaction. He doesn’t name for what it was, plays it off lightly, and moves on. 

(To be fair, you can also take him at his word for this interaction. It really depends on how much you want to believe him. But also, my mans is not smiling in these?? At all??)

Now this goes into headcanon territory but I believe Kaeya is very aware of how people look at him. He’s been described to be eye-catching in his character story 5 (5), good-looking by multiple NPCs, even the traveler calls him handsome (6).

Point is: Kaeya looks good! He knows it, but as we’ve established before, he does not always like it. Despite his own discomfort, he still believes he can use this to his advantage. Because as we know, for him, the ends justify the means (7).

Perhaps he plays up his charm a little because he knows what it will get him, or because people will underestimate his true nature if he keeps it up. 

So for my personal interpretation: he’s ‘flirty’, not because he likes it, but because it helps him get things done. The reactions he gets out of it may or may not disgust him a little, but his sense of self-worth is not enough to stop him from using these tactics to get ahead.

Lastly, I would like to discuss how Kaeya, despite everything that has happened to him, does not outwardly express any of his anger frequently. At least, not in an obvious sense. To keep up appearances and to maintain his image, he never bursts out in anger, shouts, or yells. He is always hyperaware of how other people view him, and being angry is simply not appropriate. He remains composed in the presence of others even if he might want to shout or be angry. 

In short, the performative aspects of Kaeya’s character reflect a very specific part of the female experience to me. Always keeping in check with what other people’s expectations are, not wanting to take up too much space when he was younger but having to learn how to take up more space to gain other people’s respect when he got older, dealing with unwanted attention but not voicing complaints and dismissing them to not make a big deal out of it; these are all parts of it. 

All of this is super self-indulgent so don’t take it too seriously~ Just wanted to justify why I think he gets to sit with the girls :D

References (yes, I'm extra):

Kaeya Hangout: Taste of Home https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Taste_of_Home 

Kaeya’s Vision Story https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Kaeya/Lore 

Kaeya Hangout: All the World’s a Stage https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/All_the_World%27s_a_Stage#Must_It_Be_So? 

Kaeya Hangout: Poems Dedicated to the Wind https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Poems_Dedicated_to_the_Wind 

Kaeya Character Story 5 https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Kaeya/Lore 

Archon Quest: Prologue: When the Wind Dies Down https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/When_the_Wind_Dies_Down 

Kaeya Character Story 2 https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Kaeya/Lore 

[salvatorres]

MORE THAN A HOUSE ON FIRE

Words: 2164 Themes: delirium, losing control, angst, aggression, tension, hurting a friend (un)intentionally, implied sexual theme TW/CW: Theme of assault, violent stream of thoughts, violence, non-consensual touch Character/s: Henry Winter, Bunny Corcoran Setting: An inn in Cape Cod Contains Homeric references (the italic verses) excerpt but can be standalone a/n: taking requests, shoot me an ask

It was the fourth night, and Bunny had gotten caught up in a noisy game that was taking place in the game room around the old billiard table. And Henry, who had slowly been unraveling the entire time, felt suffocated in that room, saw that the poolside was vacant, and wasted no time in walking out through the glass doors of their suite. This would be his first time on the other side of that door. He sat at the edge of one of the lawn chairs, leaned forward over his knees and staring at the rippled duplication of himself. The only clear feature in the murky reflection was that of his ember-burning cigarette end. He was thinking. He did a lot of thinking, no matter how hard he tried not to (ironic for someone who thought himself so disciplined). 

Vincit qui se vincit. He had managed to forge himself a body akin to the men of honor, and he had trained himself to cut through the most difficult of texts with their prolixities and hidden meanings, but he could not, to this day, put a stop in his pace; a stop to himself. Like a weapon that knew only its purpose, he could be turned and pointed this way or that, but he could not be stopped. Or, perhaps, an analogy of a hurtling train that had no brakes fit him better…..

He had finished his cigarette and was still staring at the reflection. It was strange to think that the image in itself was not something that could be looked through. It was only a mirage. A mere shadow and the shadows that it cast. And the eye could not see the world without that shadow…. Pointless pondering. Henry sighed and threw away the stub before standing up and walking back towards his suite. Perhaps he had been too abrupt and remarkably inaudible in his entrance, because as the glass door slid aside with a loud rattling sound, something in the darkness of the suite jumped. Henry was startled at first, mistaking the man-shaped silhouette for an intruder. But then the poolside lights illuminated the figure and Henry’s eyes adjusted– it was only Bunny. Only Bunny, standing by the sofa with Henry’s wallet clutched between his pilfering hands.

They both froze in an awkward tableau. Henry, out of sheer second-hand embarrassment, was prepared to look the other way. If only he could decide how to do it in a way that wouldn’t worsen the mortification. But it appeared, in a moment, that he was alone in this magnanimous shame, because Bunny’s surprised features soon schooled themselves into a cold sort of nonchalance, and he looked at Henry like he was an insect. And then, he pocketed the entire wallet and walked out. The door closed itself behind Bunny, muting the sound of his receding footsteps. That… was… that. Henry just stood there for a bit, staring at the door, before he was jerked to attention and moved to throw himself down onto the bed. He sat there now, looking quite ridiculous, hands dangling between his legs. It was almost surrealistic, in a way. As though he was watching scenes unfolding on a reel, like the movies. He wondered what Bunny was about to do, how much he would spend, if Henry even had a right to stop him. 

He spent the night lying sleepless on the sofa, which had become his unspoken designated place, trying to avoid thinking too deeply in one direction. But it was an exercise doomed to go wrong, an exercise of the will against the forces of his own mind. He was failing every time, because he was unable to stop his mind from racing in circles. And the more he thought, the more that dread and sense of finality morphed into something vicious; hateful. So he had made a stupid decision, did he really deserve all this disrespect? Especially when he was trying to apologize , to make things right? Bunny was cruel. He seemed to enjoy this. Didn’t he? Wasn’t he mocking him by disregarding his existence, by robbing him with a sense of entitlement, by confining him to this wretched couch when he was the one paying for the whole suite!? The moment he thought this, the pain in his lower back pronounced itself loudly, as if in loud, aching agreement, and this only made his blood boil further. He shot up in the darkness and stared at the bed, where Bunny had sank into when he’d returned a mere hour or so before.

Bunny laid there, his back facing Henry. The bastard probably didn’t even hear the sound of Henry shifting on the couch. How oblivious could he be, knowing full well the pain he was causing? But then again, that was Bunny. Unaware, or maybe aware, and simply not caring. He was either a fool, or a monster. Or both. Henry got up and walked up to the bed. The curtains were drawn, obscuring everything with a thick veil of darkness. But he could clearly see the skin of a shoulder peeking from under the covers, and the faint rise and fall movement. He was lying on his stomach, like a sprawled out star-fish, face smashed into the pillow. A thought flashed in Henry’s mind like lightning, of holding a pillow down and SMOTHERINGHIMLIKEHEDESERVED. Horrified by himself, he snuffed the thought quickly.  A faint rustling was heard as he slowly sat on the edge of the bed, still looking at the curve of Bunny’s neck. Did Bunny hear that? Did Bunny know that he was sitting here now, just hovering over his back, having just fantasized…. It wasn’t that he wanted to hurt him– no, of course not. Henry thought nobly, in case Bunny could hear him echoing inside his own head. I wouldn’t hurt you, Bun, even though I really want to. Even though you deserve it. Henry exhaled quietly, then, slowly, he lifted his hand and hovered it over Bunny’s back. The pale fingers extended themselves, and he was about to touch…..

  “ I love being touched….I need to be touched. A lot. I’m… very… tactile, you know? I need a lot of touch. Can’t stand otherwise. ”

What an odd thing to say, Henry had thought then, and he thought this again every time he remembered the drunken confession that had come earnestly from Bunny’s slurring tongue, after their red-cheeked giggles and nonsense arguments had fallen away to give room to their vulnerabilities. Henry had been slightly less drunk than Bunny, which he thanked Dionysus for since he couldn’t stand the idea of blurting something similar out aloud to anybody, even if Bunny wouldn’t have remembered anything. What an odd thing to say for a prude like you, Bun . Henry pressed his lips to Bunny’s neck. Warm . Bunny didn’t stir at that moment, which made Henry bolder.

His mouth lingered on Bunny’s skin for a little while, he began to kiss Bunny’s neck more insistently. His hand ran down Bunny’s spine, slipping under the covers, to the small of his back. Bunny was still breathing slow and regular, but that was all the response he got.  Henry inhaled deeply, and his hand crept even further under. It slipped over the waistband of Bunny’s trousers, fingers pressing into the warm skin beneath. Suddenly, Bunny took a shuddering, deep breath, and then he shifted under the covers. Encouraged, Henry pressed his nose into Bunny’s loose curls and inhaled the scent of hotel shampoo, pressing against Bunny and feeling the flutter that could have been a shiver. He felt a dangerous sense of power return to him, like he was reclaiming something Bunny had withheld from him, setting the balance straight. Beneath him, Bunny groaned in what seemed like the frustration that came with the disturbance of deep sleep.Henry didn’t stop. There was a strange sort of madness in his mind, a feeling that he needed to see this through. His hand pressed harder, his mouth moved lower. Bunny was still half-asleep, mumbling indistinctly as Henry slid his fingers under the elastic of his boxers.

The gods have made you mad….

  “Stop”, Bunny said suddenly, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Stop it, dammit.” He was shifting, twisting himself around, and Henry could see his face now, half-squashed against the pillow, eyes shut. At that moment, Henry felt a sense of triumph at least. The tables were flipped, now it was his turn to withhold and dismiss. He leaned over Bunny and bit his neck (madness, madness).  The sheer animalism of that bite (Henry didn’t seem to realize he was mauling Bunny), made Bunny wake up with a start.

  “Ow!” 

“…..[the gods have put] lunacy into the clearest head….”

He was blinking rapidly, trying to process what was happening as he was lying there, and suddenly he seemed to process that there was now someone on top of him, someone biting his neck, groping him in the most sensitive of places. His eyes widened comically and he tried to turn around to get a look at the face above him, which was made hard by the awkward position.

  “Henry?” he said incredulously, turning his head. “Wha– hey, get off!”   “Oh, so you do remember my name, then?” Henry snarled, not sounding like himself. Something in the back of his mind urged him to stop– no, he had decided not to hurt Bunny. But he was no good with promises, was he? He clamped the free hand over Bunny’s mouth to muzzle the noise, and then he climbed him, and then he pressed down so as to crush him, to feel him, to make him feel. Bunny’s reaction was that of panic, his hands shot up to grab at Henry’s shoulder and he bucked to try and throw him off– but Henry was stronger. He just leaned in to press harder in response, pressing him into the mattress. The panic got more pronounced when Bunny realized that he was helpless. His eyes widened even more, he was making sounds against Henry’s palm, but they were muffled, unintelligible.

“You wretch, handsome deceiver, you seducer! Would that you had never been born or at least had perished unmarried!”

Henry didn’t realize, in his hysteria, that he’d been mouthing the verses out loud, snarling the words against Bunny’s skin between each clamp of his teeth. He kept the hand tightly slapped to Bunny’s mouth, and…. He would hate to imagine what he might have done in that moment had he not felt the wetness against his palm. It sobered him, that strange, warm sensation, enough to pause and realize that Bunny’s violent jerks under him were not attempts to throw him off, but a consequence of his cries. Henry froze, and he looked down at Bunny– properly looked– and sure enough, Bunny’s eyes were shut tight and the tears were flowing freely and his body was heaving under the weight of his muffled sobs. 

He blinked as the mania subsided and reality settled in. Slowly, as though he was a puppet regaining control over its body, he shifted back– enough to remove the hand from Bunny’s mouth, but not entirely off of him. He found himself unable to move the weight of his torso, which was as solid as lead in the wake of the madness that had almost taken. He watched, in dazed shock and horror, at the bloodied marks at Bunny’s neck. His whole being felt hollowed out. The anger, the hatred, the jealousy, every rotten feeling that had twisted his chest was completely gone, and all he felt now was the weight of guilt that pressed down on his shoulders, his head, his chest– everywhere, everywhere. Bunny had become unnaturally still, his face turned away from Henry’s gaze, and now that his sobs had stopped all that was left was the sounds of harsh, uneven breathing. Oh, anything but this, Bun. Anything but this . Henry tried to speak but his voice failed him– it seemed all parts of him were warring, betraying each other and most of all, betraying him. Anything but this . Henry had expected– perhaps even hoped for– Bunny’s reaction to be loud and aggressive and hostile, because then they could at least talk to one another and air out the tension. But this… Not only was it a million times worse than anything that had happened so far, but it was also entirely unpredictable and uncharacteristic of Bunny. 

Henry slid off him. Like a drunk, he stumbled off the bed, grabbed his cigarettes and made for the door, slamming his shoulder into a corner of the wall that jutted outwards on his way out. He rushed through, almost running away from something– what exactly, he didn’t know. Not knowing where he was going or what he was doing, he went out to the street, mumbling nonsense to himself, realizing too late that the cigarette between his lips was not alight and that he’d forgotten his lighter back in the suite.

[ancient-and-gauntly]

Corridor Waltz

Sebastian x F! Reader Warnings: Just some post argument fluff and light discussion, nothing big, female reader clear Summary: After Sebastian is too stubborn to ask you to the Yule Ball and finds out who you went with instead and argue, the two of you find yourselves at a crossroad in the corridors.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset.” You break the silence,smoothing out the skirt of your dress carefully. “You just didn’t ask me, and I didn’t want to go alone so-”

“So you ask Leander-Fucking-Prewitt? The top idiot himself?” Sebastian repeats himself harshly. “I wanted to ask you but with everything going on I-I forgot and,” He trails off, sighing in defeat. “I'm sorry, Y/N. Its all my fault. Yet another big thing ruined by my stupid pride. Sebastian paced anxiously in the dimly lit corridor of Hogwarts, the shadows flickering as the torches cast dancing silhouettes on the cold stone walls. The air was thick with tension, as your argument slowly dissipates and begins to make room for regrets

You stood a few feet away, back turned to him and posture tense. The echoes of your heated words still reverberated in the quiet corridor. He had been too proud to ask you to the Yule Ball, convinced that you would reject him, and you had been equally stubborn in not extending an invitation yourself. The weight of unspoken feelings hung heavily in the air, a palpable force that pushed you two apart even as your hearts pulled you together.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, Sebastian took a deep breath and approached you slowly. He reached out, his fingers gently grazing your arm. You tensed slightly at his touch, but he persisted, turning you to face him. Your eyes were stormy, a mixture of hurt and confusion. Sebastian couldn't stand to see you like this.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice breaking the silence. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things. I just... I didn't know how to ask you."

Your eyes searched his, looking for sincerity. Slowly, you nodded, acknowledging the apology. “I forgive you, Seb.” You respond, wiping another small tear from your cheek. “But we can’t keep doing this to each other. We-we have to finally draw that line in the sand as to what this- what we are.”

Sebastian took a step closer, cupping you face in his hands. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. There, in the flickering light of the torches, he saw vulnerability in your eyes, a reflection of his own thoughts and feelings swirling in them. Leaning in he pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to your lips. It was a gentle touch, a silent plea for understanding. The tension gives way to a bittersweet mixture of longing and forgiveness.

Sebastian pulled away, his eyes locked with yours. "Can I have this next dance right here?" he asked, his voice low and earnest. “Well, what I am assuming is another dance.” He adds, half chuckling.”’S’hard to tell, with the way this orchestra plays.”

You looked at him in shock and confusion. “Right here? In the corridor?”

“Of course.” he replied softly, tucking a strand of hand behind your ear. He sighs as you slowly return his smile and nods. Sebastian took your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring. With his other hand on your waist, he guided you into a simple dance. “Wait I-” you attempt to not trip. “I’m not a very good dancer.” You try to explain shyly, but he just chuckles.

“Then here,”Sebastian smiled and gently pulled you feet to stand on top of his.”Now you don’t have to worry about it, and I don’t have to bend so far down to do this.” He pecks your lips softly once again

The two of you swayed together in the corridor, the torchlight casting a warm glow on your faces. Sebastian held you close, foreheads pressed together. The world outside the corridor ceased to exist, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, caught in the quiet magic of the dance.

“Sebastian,” You whisper, breaking the uncertain silence. “Why did you wait so long to ask?” 

"I didn't want to ruin our friendship," Sebastian admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I was scared, Y/N. Scared that if I asked you to the ball or to even hogsmeade for a drink alone, it would change everything."

“But not asking me changed everything too," You replied, your voice a mixture of sadness and understanding. "We've been avoiding this for too long, Seb."

He nodded, his grip on your waist tightening softly. "I know. I just... I didn't want to risk losing you."

You sighed, resting your head against his shoulder. "You won't lose me, Sebastian. After everything we have been through, you think asking me to a dance would ruin it? I care about you too much for that."

Sebastian smiled, relief washing over him. "I care about you too, Y/N. More than I've been willing to admit."

As the two of you continued to dance, the tension between you slowly dissipated. Your hand found its way to Sebastian's shoulder, and you continued to softly sway together. "So, what happens next?" you finally asked, your voice a gentle curiosity.

Sebastian's eyes sparkled with mischief as he looked down at you. "Well," he began, his tone teasing, "first, we'll pack our bags, run away together, and have grand adventures across the world. Then, we'll get married in a magical ceremony under the stars, surrounded by unicorns and enchanted flowers."

You rolled your eyes playfully, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Oh, really? Unicorns and enchanted flowers?"

Sebastian chuckled, pulling you even closer. "Absolutely. And we'll spend our days exploring hidden corners of the world, having thrilling escapades, and, of course, dancing in torchlit corridors."

“Oh really?,” You couldn't help but laugh at the whimsical picture he painted. "You have quite the imagination, Sebastian Sallow."

He grinned, his eyes filled with warmth. "Well, I figure if we're going to dream, we might as well dream big. But if that's too much, I guess we can start with the basics, like you being my girlfriend."

You smiled."Now that sounds more realistic."

"For now... Future Mrs. Sebastian Sallow." He teases, pecking your lips once more.

“What have I allowed to happen?” You giggle, pressing your forehead to his once again.

He laughed, the sound echoing in the corridor and causing your heart to skip a beat. "Just planting the seed for the future, darling. You know, for when you can't resist my charm any longer."

You shook your head, a playful glint in her eyes. "We'll see about that, Mr. Sallow."

“I can’t wait.”

[juststoriesintheend]

II. The Lesson

Pairing: Master Sol x gn!Reader

Chapter Content: some light Jedi philosophy, lightsaber sparring, mutual pining, first kiss

Word Count: 2.7k

《 [series masterlist] 》 《 I 》

In an attempt to remain as cool, calm, and casual as possible, you’ve left your cloak in your room. You’d only have to take it off in the training room anyway, so you’re saving yourself the extra time and effort. Not that you’re overthinking things. At all. You’ve only re-layered your tunics and tabard half a dozen times, adjusted your belt twice that, and very nearly stepped out with only one boot. Whatever spell you had been under in Sol’s presence yesterday has completely worn off.

You arrive an hour earlier than you normally do, which is about fifteen minutes before Sol comes in with Jecki. If you remember right, Sol is done teaching the younglings by now and is off doing whatever it is he does in his spare hour between duties. While you’re a little deflated not seeing him right away, it’s for the best because his absence allows you focus and control. You can concentrate better on the saber, on your hands, on the slicing of air and the humming of the Force without him distracting you.

After some quick stretches, you unclip your saber and ignite it. The floor and nearby pillars reflect the light back to you, as well as a distorted image of your silhouette. A lifetime’s worth of muscle memory kicks in and your body is alive, thrumming with energy as your wrist twists, then your elbow, then your torso tilts and the saber swings in front, in back, in front again. Your wrist flicks and the saber swirls above your head, down behind your back, and finishes with a flourish at your side.

It feels like coming home.

Switching the saber from one hand to the other, you warm up your other side, copying your previous moments as precisely as possible even though it’s definitely your weaker side. This is the freedom you’ve been missing. You’ve been so fixated on Sol that it’s kept you away from the calm that saber work has always brought you – the repetition of the familiar, the Force as it flows through you, the shadows and highlights cast upon the walls as your saber arcs. Nothing could ever compare to this.

The saber flies into the air after you toss it. This is one of the fancier tricks you’ve seen some of the younger Knights and Padawans practicing, and you can already tell you won’t be able to catch this one properly, not without hurting yourself, so you jump back and flick the blade off with the Force. You fully expect it to clatter on the stone floor, and you’re hoping the fall doesn’t damage the casing or the kyber, but instead it… hovers.

It takes a millisecond to search the room for the source, and another to turn your head. Sol stands near the doorway with his arm outstretched, both eyes open and his face lightly furrowed in concentration. His attention flickers to you before refocusing on your saber, and it unexpectedly flies across the room into his open palm in the second it takes for you to catch your breath.

There’s something remarkably intimate about him holding this piece of you, something so vital to your being as a Jedi that you feel empty without it at your side. Still, if there were anyone you trusted to hold your saber, your very life, in their hands, you think it would be Sol. It just so happens that you also like to watch him hold it, whatever that means to the secret, affectionate creature that lives inside you.

“I’ve never seen you try that before,” he finally says. He starts for the center of the room, his gaze still focused on your saber as he rubs his thumb over the hilt.

You’re strangely breathless and you can’t understand why. “I was feeling adventurous. Saw some of the Padawans trying it the other day and, very foolishly, thought I should try it too.”

The corner of Sol’s mouth dimples into a crooked smile.

Wait, did he just say he’d never seen you try that before? He’s aware of the type of saber work you usually do? Heat blazes across your face at the realization, but Sol is too occupied to take notice, thank the Force. He continues to turn your saber over in his hand, though you’re not sure why. It isn’t so remarkably different from any other saber.

“Why did you think you would disappoint me?”

Your saber is returned, and you clip it back to your belt just to have something to do. “Well, I’m not a Master, for one thing. If I’m going to be sparring with you, I’d like to at least look like I know what I’m doing.”

“It certainly appeared that you did.”

You duck your head the moment he makes eye contact with you. Now that he’s finally here, your confidence wavers, and you know that your concentration will do the same the moment he begins to fight.

“What is it that makes you so unsure of yourself?” he asks with all the gentleness of a man who senses discouragement and knows it like the back of his own hand. “You are an accomplished dueler.”

If only he knew the magnitude of his question, he might choose to ask you something else. Huffing a breath out the side of your mouth, you start with a lazy, “Well, I–”

The air around you seems to vibrate, then electrify as Sol summons his own weapon into his hand and ignites it. He bears down upon you, and you know deep in your heart that he would never hurt you, but this knowledge does not override instinct. Your saber is in your hand without conscious thought, brandished and burning as his blade lands near the hilt. The junction where they touch burns white-hot, so starkly bright that it hurts to even look.

What are you doing? you mean to ask, but the words never come. You’re too enraptured by the flame of blue-white light reflected in his pupils to speak. How long have you spent watching him from afar, marveling at his skill, and now you find yourself on the receiving end of it? It feels unreal. It feels jagged and raw in the same way a cold wind off the sea does, exhilarating in some forbidden sense.

He retreats and you stumble back a step as your lightsaber comes to hang by your leg, still ignited but out of the way. It’s not proper form, but you’re too dazed to care. Sol spots this and advances again, giving you only the slightest margin for error as your blade comes screaming back into position to block him once, twice, three times before he backs up again.

“You react with instinct.” He begins to circle you with his blade extended toward your face. “Good.”

You feel a flash of irritation in your chest at this. While you’re certain (at least, you hope) he means well, this feels more like a Master testing his Padawan than a fellow Jedi electing to spar with you. You are not Sol’s Padawan and you’ve already fought to make your mark as a Knight, you don’t like feeling like a child again and certainly not at his hands. That’s not the kind of feeling you want from him.

“I don’t need a lesson,” you say as politely as you can, which isn’t very much at all currently.

Sol’s head tilts slightly in the way it always does when he’s considering something. “Then why am I here?”

Electric blue flashes across your vision as he slashes his way forward and you parry away. He’s not even giving you time to answer, let alone think, and you know it’s on purpose. Your Master’s used this trick on you several times, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.

“Why am I here?” he repeats. He doesn’t even react when your blade swings past his shoulder and misses. “Why did you accept my offer?”

You swing again, agitated, and miss a second time, only to be pushed aside by an invisible hand so strong that it nearly knocks your breath from you.

“Because!”

Now that there’s some distance between you, you have a moment to think, to assess yourself, the questions he’s asking, and the answers you want to give. Sol, however, chooses not to give you that time. His arm extends, fingers splayed and palm open as that same invisible hand grasps you by the tabard and pulls. His wrist twists and you come flying into his hand like your saber had mere minutes ago. Instinct and fear kicks in again, and you find yourself forced to choose between freedom with no saber and close quarters defense in the amount of time it takes to decide to breathe.

Your saber drops to the floor, the blade disappearing into itself as you summon the Force to instead push yourself away from Sol and out of his grasp. The resulting blow is strong enough to knock you both off your feet, though you have just enough forewarning to brace yourself for impact. Cold, hard stone meets shins and knees, but you’re already up and recovering your saber. Sol isn’t far behind, but he’s clearly startled. Startled enough to have dropped his saber.

You are no Jar’Kai prodigy, and indeed, it’s been years since you’ve attempted to dual wield with any amount of seriousness, but you try now. It makes sense. It feels right. Sol’s saber is heavy in your hand, heavier and wider than yours, but it doesn’t fight you when you brandish it. His kyber sings a peculiar harmony with your own, as if they were exchanging greetings, embracing each other through the Force. It tickles in the back of your brain like a shot of spotchka.

Sol’s hand meets your wrist when you bring his blade down. The leather glove creaks under the weight of your blow, but his arm remains firm. Your other arm remains frozen mid-air as it quivers with the effort of resisting his Force. He’s got you pinned and while he can’t release you without putting himself back in danger, you can no longer land a blow on him without losing any ground. It’s a stalemate in its truest form.

You’re closer to him now than you ever have been before. His breath fans out across your face as it comes and goes in quick exhalations, and you find yourself wondering if you should’ve brushed your teeth again after lunch. If you’d known he’d be so close to you now, you would have.

“Why?” he grits through his bared teeth. “Why did you accept my offer?”

Something hotter than ice burns from your shoulder down to your wrist with the effort of fighting him. “Because I can’t focus,” you gasp. You won’t be able to hold on much longer. “Keep. Making mistakes.”

He presses his advantage until your arm shudders with enough strength to completely collapse. The saber is snagged from your hand as it drops and quickly redirected to spark somewhere near the column of your neck. There’s no real threat behind it. Sol is moments away from winning this round and your body is already tired.

“Let your instinct guide you,” he instructs, and though it burns to admit it, you know he’s right. “Don’t think. Feel.”

But that’s exactly what you don’t want to do, what you can’t do. Because to feel would mean to let the sin of your affection for him seep deeper and deeper into your bones until you can no longer draw it out like poison from a wound. To feel would be the most beautiful agony imaginable. To feel would be to dream of possibilities that can never be. You would rather not feel it at all, than to feel it and lose it in the end.

You shake your head. “I can’t.”

Sol frowns. He looks so beautiful bathed in the light of his kyber. “What are you afraid of?”

The blue saber deactivates, then your own, and the training room returns to normal, but your wrist remains trapped in the palm of Sol’s glove. He’s close enough now that the voluminous lower half of his robes fall around your knees, brushing your ankles as he adjusts his stance and leans further into you. Is this not everything you ever wanted?

“Tell me.”

And it’s the gentleness of this prompt that finally cleaves through your heart. You are, quite honestly, tired. Your heart and mind are exhausted from the burden of your guilt, from the knowledge that you are already so attached to a man you hardly know. You want to fight his inquisition, but more than that, you want to give in if only to find relief from the torment of not knowing.

With closed eyes and a trembling voice, you finally relinquish your secret. “Rejection. Abandonment.” Half-concocted visions of a future without the Jedi, without the Order or your Master or the life you’ve worked so hard to build, materialize behind your lids. All this because you tend to fall in love a little too fast? How is that fair? “Myself. I’m afraid of myself and what I could do to destroy my own life.”

Something knocks at the door to your mind. It is a familiar sensation, like the sound of boots on stone or a guiding command given between the sparking of saber blades, it burns golden-brown like the sun and the tunic on his chest, and it smells like incense from a far away planet, the incense you sometimes smell on his cloak when he passes you by. You let him in.

You think, at first, that sharing your mind with someone is a bit like a kiss. A gentle nudging of one mind against the other until both become one, pressing thoughts and feelings and vague ideas together like a mouth or tongue might go against your own. You think that it feels like the kind of intimacy you’ve always yearned for but feared you would never know. Then you realize that Sol is actually kissing you.

Shock ripples through you fast and hard enough to make your stomach simultaneously drop to the floor and catch in your throat. You can’t breathe, you can’t move, there’s only Sol and his lips and the blazing freedom of peace cutting through the noise that usually clouds your thoughts.

He withdraws far too soon, and it leaves your mouth tingling and bruised. Your eyes flutter open and are unsurprisingly met with the umber-blackened hue of his pupils. So close. So real. His chest heaves with the effort of… what, exactly? Does he suffer from the same strange side effect as you, the unimaginable urge to kiss him again and delve even deeper? Is he fighting to restrain himself as much as you are?

“I feel it, too,” he whispers, and his eyes drop to your tongue as it darts across the seam of your mouth.

“What?” You don’t even dare to dream, but what if…?

Sol swallows heavily. “The pull. You feel it like I do?”

The hand not grasping his lightsaber drops lazily against his sternum as you both shuffle awkwardly into more normal, non-battle stances. “I do,” you reply. “I have. For a long time.”

There is a soft rustling of fabric and breath as Sol takes a moment to clip your saber back to your belt – the feel of his fingers, even through his gloves, lingering on your belt will stick with you forever – and to gently pry his from your hand. Then he reaches for your shoulder and lays his hand there, his thumb rubbing a semi-circle into your collarbone.

“Is this what you were afraid of? That I would not return your feelings?”

The ease with which he sees through your carefully constructed walls before completely blowing them to pieces is startling. Not even your Master is quite this forward with you. It’s different, to be sure, yet oddly refreshing.

“Among other things,” is your bashful response, half murmured to the space above his shoulder.

“We must have the courage to say what we want, even if we are afraid.” His hand resettles upon your cheek and your breath rushes out of you in an instant. All you can think is Sol Sol Sol Sol Sol, the only prayer you’ll ever need. “Are you afraid now?”

“No.”

“Then… I would like to kiss you again.”

When he smiles, you feel it curling up around your heart, a string that ties you to him, first knotted when he summoned your saber into his hand and now finished with a kiss.

taglist: @wolffegirlsunite

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Drugged Hero Whumpee used as Party Favor at Villain's Party part 8

Warnings: living weapon whumpee, drugged sedation, torture, blood, restraints, muzzle, forced betrayal, friend pitted against friend

Ava bared her teeth up at Shadow in a feral grin, twisting her wrist around in her grip so that her open palm was facing Shadow's head -- and Shadow remembered her superpower a millisecond too late.

"Wait--" Shadow's whole head exploded with excruciating pain, her vision flashing white, and she was distantly aware of screaming -- was it coming from her? She couldn't tell.

She must have been knocked out for a few solid seconds, but when she came back to herself, her ears were ringing loudly... she was laying on the floor face-up, but she didn't know how she got there. Chest heaving, she blinked rapidly, darkness faded in the corners of her sight. Her whole body was limp aside from the rapid rise and fall of her chest with every shallow breath.

Voices. Someone was talking. But it all sounded like she was miles underwater, the words warped and too muffled to be coherent. A loud kind of silence filled her head, a buzzing static like thick fog wrapping her mind.

Thoughts were murky and dark as they drifted in her conscience, and she was only vaguely aware of her wrists being grabbed and cuffed together, her ankles following. But she was too dazed, too stunned to keep fighting. Everything hurt... why did it hurt so much...?

"You could have.... do that... asset..."

Shadow could already feel her healing powers working to restore her hearing, until she could faintly make out a few words here and there.

"I knew what I was... don't worry... be fine..."

"Nnnhhhh..." Shadow moaned weakly, eyes rolling in her skull as she tried to focus them on the blurry shape hovering over her.

"See? She's fine." Ava's face formed through the haze, grinning down at her. "Probably ruptured the eardrums, but with her unique gift, the damage won't last long."

Right. Shadow remembered now. Ava's powers were controlling soundwaves, harnessing blasts of sound powerful enough to kill at close range. It's why her Hero name had been 'Soundwave', a direct reflection of her power. Shadow was lucky she had healing powers, or else she'd be dead. She could definitely feel blood running from both ears, snaking down the sides of her head to the floor.

"Shadow? Are you with us?" Archenemy's voice.

Shadow tried to speak, but her voice slurred, and all she could manage was an agonized groan. The tang of blood coated her tongue, as coppery and wrong as everything else.

She heard Archenemy scoff. "This one's quite the enigma -- I mean, how can someone be so unkillable?! I look forward to finding out."

Another shadow crouched over her, Archenemy's face coming into focus. "...For that stunt you pulled, the muzzle is going back on along with the bit. Until we reach my lab."

Even through the fuzz, Shadow could register the threat, and she immediately clenched her jaw shut defiantly, using what little strength she had left. Her head was still throbbing and ringing, making her dizzy.

Archenemy heaved an irritated sigh, turning to his asset. "Ava?" His silhouette stood up, and Ava leaned over Shadow's prone form, right before Shadow felt a bruising grip on her jaw.

"Open." A command. One Shadow pointedly chose to ignore. Ava's grip tightened, and then suddenly Shadow couldn't breath anymore. She could feel her nose being pinched shut.

"You have to breathe eventually," Ava growled. "You can make it easier or harder for yourself."

Shadow squirmed weakly, knowing she couldn't escape. Her lungs burned with the need for oxygen. But still, she waited until she was on the brink of passing out before she had to open her mouth to gasp for air.

And as soon as she did, something sharp and metal was crammed in, pressing down on her tongue and the corners of her mouth, a second before the leather of the muzzle touched her face and was strapped tight around her head, keeping the metal bit in place.

"Mfff..." A keening whine escaped her throat as Ava started dragging her out the door after Archenemy instead of carrying her like before. It made everything hurt so much worse.

Shadow's vision was still splotchy and dark, but she could see several henchmen stare at her in confusion and surprise as she was dragged away. No doubt she was a pathetic sight, covered in blood like this. Though it wasn't the first time... and certainly wouldn't be the last.

Her sight and hearing had almost fully cleared up by the time she found herself being heaved up and strapped down to a medical table. Fear crept up the back of her throat like bile, and she fought to tamp down the rising panic as she was immobilized, leather straps pulled tight around her wrists and ankles after they were uncuffed.

Then the muzzle was pulled off, the metal bit following it, coated in foamy blood and saliva.

Shadow tugged at the bindings tethering her down, testing her range of movement. It was far more restricted than she'd expected. Archenemy had been thorough in tying her down.

"You won't be able to get out," Archenemy said flatly, mildly amused at most by her efforts. "You should save your strength."

"Curse you," Shadow spat viciously.

Archenemy cracked a genuine smile at that, running the back of a hand down her bloody jawline, making her shudder with disgust. "I always did admire the fire of your spirit," he chuckled coldly. "It's going to be glorious watching your flame sputter and die like Ava's. I think you'll present an even greater challenge to break than she was... and I like challenges."

Shadow's narrowed eyes tracked his every movement as he put on some surgical gloves, before snapping his fingers impatiently in the air. Ava appeared next to him, bringing a rolling tray of medical instruments to the side of the table.

"Thank you. Stand by," Archenemy said, and Ava took a step back, standing at attention awaiting any further instruction.

Shadow eyed the tray, her stomach churning with dread and fear. Fear wasn't new to her, she'd been afraid on occasion in the past... but not like this. Here, she couldn't fight. Couldn't struggle. Couldn't escape. Her enemy held her life in his hands, and that was the most terrifying thought of all.

She watched as Archenemy picked up a needle and blood draw bag. "W-What's that for?" Shadow hissed, but it came out shaky, despite how she tried to act composed.

Archenemy raised an eyebrow at her. "When you were being used as Villain's party favor... do you remember what I asked you? What information I requested, in return for my assistance getting you out of Villain's mansion?" Shadow hated where this conversation was going.

"I asked you the one thing you've never disclosed to me before... where your power comes from. The ability to regenerate quickly from injury... It's not like other heros' powers. It's... different, somehow. More unique." Archenemy leaned over her, his head blotting out the bright medical light above Shadow.

"I asked about it, and you said that it's in your blood. It's a part of who you are. It can't be dampened like normal hero powers. It's in your literal DNA." Shadow winced as the needle slid into the vein in her wrist, the blood easily flowing out and into the collection bag.

"...I suspect it is a mutation of sorts," Archenemy continued, "that accelerates the natural healing process tenfold. It's not that you can't be hurt, just that you get over it faster than the rest of us." The bag filled, and he carefully removed the needle. The small pinprick was tiny enough it healed over almost instantly.

Archenemy held the bag of blood up to the light to look at it, smiling excitedly. "This is exactly the secret I needed from you. I can experiment with this blood, possibly develop a serum..."

"To what? Become immortal?" Shadow snorted sarcastically.

Archenemy's dark, greedy eyes flicked to meet hers. "No... to become unkillable."

Shadow burst out laughing before she could stop herself, and Archenemy's face scrunched up in confusion, puzzled.

"I'm not unkillable," Shadow said dryly once the laughing fit settled down. "It's just... harder to kill me."

Archenemy's expression turned thoughtful. "Hmm. I'll be sure to test that theory, at a later time."

Shadow's face instantly fell at the implication of those words. Did that mean he planned to torture her? See how much pain and physical trauma she could withstand? Test the limits of her powers? She wasn't sure how much she could truly handle... she'd always been careful not to let herself get too close to death during a fight. She always knew when it was time to retreat and heal. But Archenemy wouldn't give her that luxury... would he really kill her just to sate his curiosity?

Shadow shivered involuntarily as she watched Archenemy set the blood bag on the medical tray... before picking up a scalpel.

"What are you doing?" Shadow snapped. Fear leaked into her voice.

"Planting a tracker. Can't have my prized possession running off before my experiments are finished." Archenemy smiled wolfishly, a hunter with the trophy of a lifetime as he brought the blade to her arm. "Don't worry, it'll only hurt for a few minutes. And with your gift, you'll get over it... eventually."

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Masterlist

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