#the ghost boys are alive and happy :)

[technically-human]

St. Hilarion's ghost story

[mayomkun]

But I still think of you

[rainyramblesscramble]

day 4 of drawing one of the cod characters until I’m comfortable with trying to find my style

Hehe. Boyfriends

[ngmn2002]

about your pinned post, specifically this part: "he [tsuchigomori] can change amane's future but chooses not to". where did you get the idea that tsuchigomori can change amane's past from? unlike the clock keepers, tsuchigomori's powers don't grant him control over the past, present, or future. he is able to know everything that has happened and will happen, and is able to use that knowledge to intervene, which would change the future. but we have no reason to think he can alter the past. now that it's happened, there is nothing tsuchigomori can do to help. the only way tsuchigomori could've possibly helped was if he'd noticed that amane's future changed back when it happened, when amane was still alive, but tsuchigomori had no reason to think amane's future would change back then. so, i don't think it's fair to say that tsuchigomori is choosing not to help amane, when it's impossible for him to do anything at this point.

I was using his own words, the ones he voiced out to Nene himself.

About Amane's future:

Well, he said he pretended to care for student Amane to keep his 'human image', but we know deep down he did care. But that care was not enough for him to pay much attention to what was going with Amane, thinking it all will end well and that's it, reading his future part in his book. Seeing the moment Amane's future changed, while he didn't (maybe didn't manage to) do a thing had him regretting it, the moon rock became his yorishiro and he became No.5.

Hanako is another issue, the talk there was about alive Amane, we don't know if he might actually be able to give Hanako a future if he wanted. Maybe he can't, but if he can, then well, his care and regret together are also not enough for him to give up on himself, yet again. But I assume it's the first case. Either way, it's his right to choose, no one forces him to give up on himself for someone.

And certainly, according to his words to Nene, he might care for some people a lot, but not enough for him to give on his own existence to change their future.

A best example after alive Amane's case, is Alive! Nene's herself. He knows about her future

and "fatal/as he puts it" death,

can do a thing about it, according to his own words over his power of changing a person's future, he cares for her,

But simply, not enough for him to step into changing her future, and giving up on himself.

Unlike Amane's case, he knows death, no future, await her really soon.

Although I assume, AidaIro won't leave such power for No.5 to hold hanging in the air like that with no use. Maybe at some point, he will find it in himself to sacrifice himself to change one's future, maybe Nene's, resulting in changing many others to the better in the progress, Amane's and maybe Tsukasa's included, since they are deeply affected by Nene. He'll be saving many, with choosing the right one future to change.

This, is just a thought, it might not really happen, but I'm sharing it, for nice Tsuchigomori's sake. To be fair to him. Even when the words he voices show such uncare, we will say we see deep down into him, and find him to really care.

[luvbabydoll]

cod men with their wives on mother’s day ₊˚⊹ ᰔ (+graves)

phillip graves

you wake up to the smell of something burnt. your first thought is the boys got into the kitchen again.

you roll over, still wrapped in your lacey cotton nightgown, and find a card on the nightstand with a single daisy tucked inside. the handwriting’s messy — crayon and glitter, a backwards “M” on “mommy.” it makes your chest ache with how proud you are.

then the door creaks open, and there’s phillip.

hands full of pancakes that are half raw, syrup spillin’ down the side of the plate. the boys trail behind him, barefoot and loud, all grinnin’ with syrup on their cheeks.

“look at that,” phillip drawls, grinning like the smugest man alive. “still sleepin’, baby? it’s noon.”

he sets the plate down and leans over to kiss your forehead, then your lips, then lower — a slow line of kisses down your throat.

“got the whole damn house runnin’ around for ya. reckon that’s what happens when you give a man sons and softness and a wife who don’t raise her voice unless she’s got to.”

he cups your face with one calloused hand, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“you were made for this. don’t matter how dumb you act or how many times you forget where you left the car keys. you’re mine, and you’re a mama. that’s all you gotta be.”

you’re flushed before you even sit up, clinging to the blanket, and he just chuckles.

“eat your pancakes, sugar. and after that, i’m puttin’ another baby in you for being such a good little wife f’me.”

johnny “soap” mactavish

it’s pure chaos, like always.

johnny’s got a toddler slung over one shoulder, another one makin’ a mess on the counter, and the dog’s got the wrapping paper in its mouth.

“oi! that’s mum’s, ya wee beast!”

he snatches the slobbery card out of the dog’s mouth and plasters on a big, cheeky grin when he sees you watching from the hallway, eyes still puffy from sleep.

“well, well, well. look who finally woke up.”

he kisses you hard, grinning into it, his hands already tryin’ to slide into the pockets of your sweatpants.

“y’look like a dream, hen. all sleepy n’ soft. s’good thing you’re pretty, ‘cause yer boys definitely didn’t inherit their cookin’ skills from you.”

you huff, swat at his chest — he just laughs and hands you the mess of a card.

“happy mother’s day, birdie. thank ya for lettin’ me fill this house with gremlins. wouldn’t wanna wake up to anyone else yellin’ at me to stop feedin’ ‘em chocolate for breakfast.”

simon “ghost” riley

it’s quiet when you wake up.

simon’s already up. he always is.

but today, he didn’t leave for a mission.

today, he stayed.

you pad into the kitchen barefoot, one of his shirts hangin’ off your body, eyes barely open. and there he is. your boys in their little chairs, drinkin’ juice, while simon cuts fruit and sets the kettle on the stove.

he turns when he hears you, and his eyes soften.

not a word, not yet. just walks over and wraps an arm around you, kisses your hair, your temple.

“happy mother’s day, love.”

you whisper something back, quiet and sleepy, and he just brushes your knuckles with his lips.

“you made this house a home. all i did was put babies in you. you? you gave ‘em a reason to laugh.”

he pulls out your chair for you. lets the kids pile gifts into your lap. watches with that rare, almost-shy pride in his eyes.

“you look good, y’know,” he says, real low, when the boys are distracted.

“in this kitchen. all soft n’ warm. it suits you.”

john price

“up. c’mon, love. got somethin’ for ya.”

you blink awake to the smell of tea and toast. price is standing by the bed with a tray in his hands and that smug, crooked smile on his face. your youngest clings to his leg, holding a rose that’s half broken.

“got you brekkie. even made sure the lads didn’t set the bloody toast on fire this time.”

you sit up, cheeks warm, and he puts the tray down and cups your face in his hand.

thumb strokes over your cheek. his voice goes quiet.

“never thought i’d have this. house full of noise. woman like you in my bed. little ones screamin’ for your attention. but hell, i’d take ten more of ‘em if it meant you’d smile at me like that every mornin’.”

you lean into his chest and mumble that it’s the best day ever.

he grins against your temple.

“you deserve every minute of it, sweetheart. reckon this house’d fall to pieces without you.”

kyle “gaz” garrick

you’re still in your nightgown, sittin’ on the couch with your knees tucked under you, when kyle comes in holdin’ a tray of pastries and a bright pink mug.

“oi. there’s my girl.”

he kisses the top of your head, sets everything down, and hands you a tiny homemade card signed in three different colors of marker.

“they worked on that for hours. like proper artists. nearly glued their fingers together.”

you laugh, soft and sleepy, and he just watches you with this look — like he still can’t believe you’re real.

“you’ve got ‘em wrapped around your finger, y’know that? you’re like… the sun in this house. they all orbit you.”

he leans down, kisses you slow.

“and i’m not any better.”

he sits beside you, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you close.

“happy mother’s day, babe. you’ve given me more than i ever deserved.”

[pomefioredove]

need overblot boys with epel, and floyd with a reader that randomly lore drops as if they're an old dad like "yeah lol my old school had a shooting once....anyways *SNOREE*" and when asked they just agree and walk away and never elaborate whatsoever💀 if you feel uncomfortable feel free to delete or ignore‼️love ya pookie💥

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ a reader with a backstory

I got u 🫡🫡

summary: wacky reader lore type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, azul, floyd, jamil, vil, epel, idia, malleus additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

you find new ways to raise Riddle's blood pressure every day

little guy is worried enough as it is

you've already got your school work, taking care of Ramshackle, taking care of Grim, taking care of all the other freshmen, taking care of-

well... you get it

the last thing he needs is to hear another one of your stories

"oh, yeah, that's like the time I got stabbed"

"????? WHAT??"

what's entertaining to you and ADeuce is mortifying to Riddle

if you're not careful you'll end up sleeping on the floor in his room

where he can keep a close eye on you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you're like Leona's little court jester

and he takes you with him everywhere

it's not easy to get a genuine laugh out of him, after all

besides, what's so bad about a little dark humor? it's not like you died or anything

he knows you're a resilient little thing

and you seem to love telling him about "that time you crawled into a drainage pipe", anyway

you make him laugh; he likes you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Azul indulges you

his white noise machine stopped working last month and you make for excellent background ambience

so, he lets you talk yourself in circles about your school work, your friends, Grim, Grim again

and then you drop the most HEINOUS bombshells in the middle

"blah blah blah Grim, blah blah Crowley, blah blah, that one time I got lost in the woods for a day, blah blah-"

he loses his train of thought every time

now, Floyd is the complete opposite

he will hyperfocus on the most mundane details

and ignore the bombshells

will give you an, "oh, that's cool" to your ghost story but will find you the pair of socks you mentioned liking three months ago

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Jamil is just fascinated by you

you as a person, of course

but also the fact that you're still alive

one night, he's explaining the reason he makes all of Kalim's food and you're like

"oh, yeah, I get it. I got mold poisoning once and hallucinated for a week"

?????

then you go right back to asking him about the recipe

sitting on the counter, as happy as could be

"HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE!!!"

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Vil is used to this

he knows that look on your face

he will shush you with a finger to your lips before you even start

"don't tell me, I'm stressed enough as it is"

he's going to break out if you keep at it

he finds you quite... macabre

which is entertaining until he sees you going down a flight of stairs without holding onto the railing and remembers all those stories you'd told him

he's just... concerned for you, that's all

and he does NOT appreciate Epel for encouraging it

"tell us more about the time you fell down that hill into that pile of rocks, Prefect!"

:D

like a kid in a candy store

learning new Lore is like the highlight of his week

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

"talk about having a high luck stat..."

Idia is more entertained than anything

he thought these kinds of things only happened in anime, but...

...there you are

it sounds like you experience more in a single month than he has in his whole life

and you know what?

GOOD

you can keep your freaky real-world experiences!

he'll just live vicariously through you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

poor Malleus

he's been putting so much effort into learning and blending with human culture, and now here you are with your terrifying stories

you tell him in such earnest, too

you seem so... unbothered by it

perhaps humans are less fragile than he thought?

of course, he shouldn't have underestimated you in the first place :)!

then you come over for dinner one night

"hahah, yeah, last time I was at someone's house their grandma threw a lamp at my head and I got a concussion"

Silver and Sebek both go >_>

Lilia goes <_<

and then Malleus is there like, "ah, another fascinating tale :)"

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake Makes Horrible Life Decisions, and Gotham Suffers for It

So, picture this: you’re Damian Wayne. You’re in Gotham. You’re minding your own business, probably threatening someone, when suddenly—

Tim. Drake. Walks. Through. The. Door.

Which is crazy, because no one has seen him in almost a year. This man disappeared off the face of the earth after claiming their father was still alive (which, now they know he was right, but that doesn't mean he didn't sound insane at the time), and now, out of absolutely nowhere, he waltzes back in like nothing happened.

Which, okay, yay! They got the coordinates and were able to bring Bruce back! That's great! But instead of calling or even warning anyone that he was, in fact, still alive and making very questionable life choices, Tim just shows up at the Manor’s front door looking incredibly smug, dressed in some League-adjacent gear, and—oh yeah—carrying a mostly-conscious, Lazarus-green-glowing, very familiar-looking boy over his shoulder.

Cue everyone just staring.

And then:

"Hey guys," Tim says, completely casual. "This is Danyal. Damian’s clone. Also, my boyfriend. Try to be nice."

And that’s when Damian seriously considers violence.

Because, of course, the League of Assassins—those bastards—decided that when he was no longer fit to be the next Demon’s Head, they’d just cook up a clone. Enter Danyal, who apparently didn't last as long as they had hoped.

But the thing about throwing a perfectly good clone into the Lazarus Pit is that sometimes, instead of reviving someone the normal way, you accidentally create a half-ghost with existential issues and a penchant for property destruction.

Now, there’s a lot more to unpack here. But let’s break it down:

Tim is alive. No one even gets the chance to yell at him for ghosting (ha) them for nearly a year before—

He apparently blew up the league of assassins??? Which is the only acceptable reaction to discovering your feral ex-grandfather made a spare Damian, but still, a little warning would’ve been nice.

Tim kidnapped him. And then—because Tim is Tim—

Proceeded to date him.

Absolutely no one knows how to respond to this.

Jason is laughing his ass off. He thinks this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened. (He also immediately gives Danyal a noogie, because apparently all versions of Damian need to be bullied at least a little.)

Dick is concerned but also so relieved Tim is alive that he doesn’t know whether to hug him or strangle him.

Stephanie, Duke and Cass are just watching this play out like it's the best drama they've ever seen.

Alfred is probably the only one handling this with dignity. (Barely.)

Bruce looks at his returned son, then at the glowing clone, then back at Tim, and just sighs, because, honestly? He’s too tired for this.

Meanwhile, Damian—who has officially hit his limit and is barely recovering from his urge of violence—is just staring. Trying to process the fact that:

He has a clone.

That clone is now his older brother’s boyfriend.

Tim—who he hasn’t seen in a year—showed up out of nowhere, without warning, to drop this information on him like it’s normal.

"You kidnapped my clone." "Rescued," Tim corrects. "You kidnapped him, blew up the League, and then proceeded to date him." "What can I say? I’m efficient."

"I WAS GONE FOR A YEAR." Bruce finally explodes. "A YEAR. I COME BACK, AND NOW TIM HAS A CLONE OF DAMIAN AS HIS—HIS BOYFRIEND?!*"

"We prefer ‘genetic anomaly turned incredibly attractive disaster. Plus, a lot can happen in a year," Tim says, like that helps.

Danyal, barely recovering from the loopiness of the Lazarus Pit and sudden existential crisis, gives a lazy little wave. "Hi."

Now Gotham has two Damians (one ghostly and feral, the other just regular feral), Ra’s al Ghul has no viable heirs, and Bruce? Bruce wishes he were still dead.

Tim, meanwhile, is just happy his boyfriend’s getting some quality bonding time with his genetic source material.

The family cannot handle this.

[kukinkrim]

I would find it hilarious to see Jinu's sister but with the huntr/x girls instead. And if possible?

oh no, my sister :(

huntr/x x jinu's sister!reader (separate)

themes: fluff, crack

note: you could find the saja boys version here. kind of short, sorry!

one thing jinu isn't proud of is that he could never, ever, say no to you.

you.

his not-by-blood little sister. the tiny, trembling slip of a soul he found in the unlikeliest of places: hell.

he still remembered it clearly.

among the wailing demons in the wreckage of hell, he had seen you. a child. not a soul tainted by greed or cruelty, but just a little girl, small and far too alive, curled up somewhere in the corner. jinu thought you didn’t belong there.

he crouched in front of you and said, “hey. you wanna come with me?”

you nodded, eyes wide and tear-soaked.

he took your hand. and from that moment on, jinu swore himself to the most sacred vow he had ever made: no harm would ever come to you. not in this life, not in any other.

and from that moment on as well, no matter how impossible, unreasonable, insane, or outright cursed your requests were—he could never say no to you.

even if it was asking for him to accept the fact that you were dating a demon hunter; the very people trained since birth to end beings like him. like you.

rumi.

he should’ve known something was up the moment you brought rumi home for dinner.

jinu knew her more than the other two of her members; you could even say they were close friends at some point, considering he was the first to find out her half-blood kin. she was quiet, composed, well-mannered—exactly the type of girl jinu could tolerate. she helped with dishes, complimented his cooking, and even make small talks here and there. completely normal.

but then he stepped out of the room to take a call and returned to find the two of you in the kitchen doorway, caught in what could only be described as an accidental almost-kiss.

rumi, bless her awkward soul, immediately panicked and backed away so fast she knocked over the trash can. “S-SORRY! I wasn’t—i mean i was! i wasn’t trying to—! oh god!”

you, red-faced and calmly sipping your drink, muttered, “we were literally just leaning in to check the... soup...?"

jinu stared at her. then at you.

rumi scrambled to pick up the trash can, hands shaking. "jinuI respect you very much and would never—unless she wanted to—and even then i’d—!”

“out,” he said, pointing to the door.

“yes, i definetly should! thank you for the dinner, see you tomorrow!” she yelped, bolting, leaving you no time to utter a single word in.

"... apologize to her tomorrow, brother."

"i refuse. go brush your teeth."

mira.

mira was harder to catch. she was quiet and respectful. she was just a chill person, really. jinu never thought he'd have to worry about her stealing his sister.

everyone assumed mira was the stoic one due to her rather laidback persona. the one with her emotions locked down tighter than a sealed jam.

bur for all her cool exterior, mira was, in reality, a hopeless, grade-a, certified simp.

jinu finds that out the hard way. one night, he came home early from a fan meeting and walked into the kitchen—only to find you sitting on the counter, legs dangling, while mira stood between them, feeding you rice with chopsticks.

“you’ve got rice on your lip,” she said gently.

you giggled. “can you get it for me?”

“oh my god,” jinu whispered like he’d just witnessed a ghost. you both turned towards him, munching on the food that mira continued to feed you with despite having been caught. your legs still swung around, still happy.

mira blinked at him. “oh, jinu. want some?”

jinu stared, brows furrowing as he glanced inbetwern you and mira. “no, i do not want your... can you please get off the counter?"

you took another bite. “she made me tofu shaped like tiny bats! isn’t she cute?”

jinu was clutching the doorframe in disbelief when you made no move to listen to his words. “you are literally being courted by someone trained to kill us.”

mira offered a piece of tofu to him anyway. “leace offering?”

“get. out.”

she only shrugs, "i don't want to."

zoey.

jinu first found out about zoey on an otherwise peaceful tuesday.

he had walked into the practice room after lunch—arms full of water bottles, towel draped around his neck—and froze at the sight before him. his arms immediately dropping everything he ess carrying.

you were sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes crinkled in delight, while zoey was braiding your hair. not just braiding—no, thid girl was sitting in your lap, practically curled around you like a content cat while humming to herself.

the water bottles fell with a thump, rolling away.

you turned around brightly. “oh! brother, you’re back!”

zoey waved with both hands, completely unbothered. “hi jinu~! i like your eyeliner today! very chic!”

he stared. blinked. took a step back like she might explode.

“are you—what are you doing?” he managed.

“playing hair salon,” zoey chirped, then leaned in to whisper loudly to you, “we're planning what her hair should be when we get married!"

jinu choked on air.

you just sighed. “brother, don’t be dramatic.”

[bunny-jpeg]

you had how many kids? (141 + more)

long post - sorry!

captain john price -

the first time price sank his cock into you. it was game over. you are probably going to end up with at least six kids running around a big piece of land in the center of the british isle. equal split between three girls and three boys. the price genes must be strong because they all look like spitting images of their father.

price loves his wife though, he just thinks you're the sweetest thing since honey. after you put the kids to bed and you're in your bedroom, your darling husband can't help but hold onto you by the hips and maybe rub up against you. your softness, so motherly. it almost makes his mouth water. he tries to convince you for baby number seven but you just tell him that there's no way that's happening. but price is a cunning man and maybe a few mind blowing orgasms will change your mind.

simon 'ghost' riley -

your daughter was an accident. it was simon's last night at home before he got deployed again. and he spent that entire night sunk into your sweet cunt. you'd find out a month into his deployment that you were pregnant. worried about telling him, you kept it to yourself. you were anxious about the news throwing him off his game and him getting hurt. he needed to come home alive.

when he came home, he made sure he treated his missus right. while the pregnancy was a bit of a shock, he made sure he made up for lost time. and while that often had you on your back. it almost meant being spoiled by your husband. your daughter was close to being the biggest the hospital had delivered. you two would be content with your daughter, who took mostly after you. but within five years she would be going around proclaiming that she was going to be a big sister!

john 'soap' mactavish -

oh johnny was a smart man. he knew what he wanted and he got it with ease. he wanted to take you back home, settle you down in a night place in edinburgh. he was thinking in the stockbridge neighbourhood, where you and him could raise your kids in peace. the first time he held you in a mating press he knew that he wanted to be the father to your (many) children. he'd take care of ya, never let the mother of his children be without. he placed a sloppy kiss on your lips, a seal of his promise. you end up with two boys, only eleven months apart (the look you got from your doctor when she found out you were pregnant so soon). they were mactavish boys that was for sure. their father's dark hair and he winning smile.

johnny does want a daughter however, he imagined she'd be a spitting image of you. while he loved his boys, there was no question about that, he thought a daughter would complete your little family. curious eyes like yours, that beautiful smile. as he kissed your neck and dug his fingers into your soft hips. maybe he could convince you in a few years to try for one.

kyle 'gaz' garrick -

kyle never thought that he would've ever been a father. when he signed up for service, he didn't expect to be done with that role well beyond when it would be suitable to be a father. so your son was an accident. he could almost pinpoint the night of his conception. he was home from abroad and the two of you spent the entire night (and the following morning) becoming requited with your bodies. you giggled when he showed off his more toned muscles and his fingers got tangled in your hair. his dark eyes felt familiar, like home, under the soft light of your bedroom. The resulting time together produced his son.

you don't end up with a big family, while you two live in a decently sized home just outside the city he is content with it just being the three of you. he'd rather be the best parent to one then worse off to more. he was a good father to his son, proud of the little baby. even when he woke you both up at all hours of the night. it was life and kyle was happy. but when your son turned five, you had something to share with kyle. you were pregnant again. he had to admit, after that, the idea of having a few more kids wasn't a bad idea.

bonus! bonus! bonus!

phillip graves -

oh phillip wants a full house. he didn't buy that nice piece of land outside of houston for show. big yard, white picket fence, in a safe neighourhood (can't have you getting hurt!). he'd be living out his all american dream. so when you ended up pregnant five months after marriage with twins, he was beyond happy. he thought your pregnant body was beautiful, even well into your second trimester he was fucking that sweet cunt of yours. telling you how good of a mama you were.

phillip thought you were the best thing since sliced bread. even when the aches and pains of pregnancy come and go, he'd making sure that his wife is good. if he can't be around, he sends his shadows to make sure that you and the kiddos are alright. so expect a big, loving all american family. you'd never thought you'd be spending your twenties caring for almost five kids!

col. alejandro vargas -

alejandro wants you safe. and you being pregnant can cause some issues. it makes you a target, so you packed up your life and headed somewhere more quiet. most information about you was redacted from public and private records. he even went as far as to change your name and identification. it was for you, for him and for the daughter you eventually had. but despite that, when alejandro returned home. he was the shadow to your daughter. she knew who her daddy was. eventually when he can get out of the snare of the military, he was home. your little place in the middle of nowhere, he promised to protect you and your little bundle.

the times he visited while you were pregnant though. he loved to run his hands up and down your swollen middle. he smiled at you, almost proud of what he did to you. while you'd in the end have only your daughter, it was a complete home. and don't worry, after your daughter's birth he is more than willing to show how much he loved his sweet wife.

rodolfo "rudy" parra -

oh rudy, sweet rudy. he couldn't help himself. the first time you fucked, or rather made love, he knew he wanted to breed that pussy of yours. he was using a condom, but he could picture himself doing it bare backed. the feeling of your slippery cunt tight around him. nothing protecting you from accidents. he'd often daydream on his off time about the three kids you had. he had even picked names out for them, but he'd get your input on it as well. after all you were the beautiful woman who was carrying them. such a good wife to him.

he left the military when you got pregnant, as did you. life became less about the violent conflicts and more about raising your son. he was a quiet baby, and rudy adored him. he also adored his beautiful wife who worked so hard to give him his son. he reminded you of that often. you do end up with those three kids within a five year gap and rudy couldn't be happier.

könig-

oh, könig. he knew that you'd be carrying a big baby. like look at him, he towered over you and could easily bench you in your third trimester. so he wasn't expecting a whole army of children. one very large boy was enough for him. the 99th percentile. but he was there the entire time, he made sure that you were taken care of. he felt safe having his larger body up against yours, protecting it. he'd rub your belly with his large hand. even if you were very pregnant, you still were small compared to him.

he loves his son, obviously. the first time he held him, he almost cried. he was a father now. he had a wife and a child, a home to call his home and a place to feel safe. he was an attentive father, he was used to being up early. so you got to sleep in while he checked in on your son. he made sure to teach him german, english and a few of the other languages he had picked up. he was going to make sure his son knew all about the world. he was a proud father!

[iydiamartinx]

GOD SAVE THE PROM QUEEN II

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @omi-resources word count: 2.6k synopsis: Crowned prom queen, she waits for Jason Todd—never knowing he died that night, betrayed by the mother he hoped would love him. a/n: Still angsty but happy-ish ending!

Jason didn’t come here often.

He told himself there was no point. No use in standing over old stones and pretending it meant something. The dead didn’t care for flowers. And he was never very good at pretending.

But sometimes—on quiet, grey evenings when Gotham’s skyline blurred into a jagged scar against the clouds—he found himself here anyway. Standing still. Hands buried in his pockets. Breathing in the damp, earthy petrichor scent of graveyard.

The wind always smelled like rain here, even when the sky held back. Like the world was trying to weep for him, but couldn’t quite bring itself to shed the tears.

It was peaceful, in its own bleak way.

Silent in the way only graveyards could be.

And yet, no matter how long he stood there, staring down at polished stone and his own name carved deep into the granite, he never felt like he belonged on either side of that grave.

Jason Peter Todd.

Beloved son.

Gone too soon.

He scoffed under his breath. The sound was rough. Bitter.

Bullshit.

He was neither beloved nor gone.

What stood here now was just what was left behind of the boy he’d once been. Not alive. Not dead. Just… stuck. Practically, a ghost with blood in his veins. 

And yet, here he stood again—staring at the marble that tried to summarize a life in three hollow lines. A stone that meant to mark an end, but never came close to telling the story.

But today… today was different.

There was a bouquet already there. 

Fresh. Still wet with morning dew. Peonies, lavender, and black calla lilies—the exact mix he used to see you draw in the margins of your notebooks.

Jason’s breath caught as he knelt down beside them, knees pressing into the wet earth. He reached for the bouquet with a kind of reverence, fingers brushing over the stems before finding the folded note tucked between them.

Still miss you, you pain in the ass.

– Always, Y/N.

And just like that, the air left his lungs.

He didn’t need to see the signature. He knew that handwriting better than his own. The looping curve of your Y. The confident, slanted cross of your T. He’d watched you scrawl it on the back of his hand a hundred times during lectures—hearts when you were happy, flowers when you were feeling soft, and sarcastic jabs when he annoyed you.

You still came.

After everything.

After all this time.

After how he heard how he hurt you.

It hit him harder than the crowbar ever had.

From his place by the grave, half-hidden by shadows and trees, he saw you.

You were walking toward the exit now—coat cinched tight against the late-autumn wind, hair pulled back, shoulders squared the way they always were when you were trying not to feel too much. Your heels clicked lightly on the path, a steady rhythm against the hush of damp leaves and distant city hum.

You looked older. More refined. Sharper around the edges. Like time had carved you into something tougher.

But you were still you.

He could see it in the way you paused before leaving, glancing back at the headstone like it still had the power to hurt you. Like you hadn’t made peace with it—even after all these years.

And in that moment, something inside him began to shift.

You were no longer the girl with the silver crown and crushed corsage.

That girl had died the same night Jason Todd did.

Now you were the woman people called terrifying behind closed doors. The one whose heels echoed through Wayne Tower like a woman on a mission. Bruce Wayne’s right hand, the assistant no one dared to cross. Sharp-eyed. Ice-voiced. Efficient didn’t even begin to cover you. Ruthless might have been closer.

No one handed you crowns anymore. They handed you problems—and you solved them.

“Three board members in the conference room. Two more on video. Coffee’s on the table—black, extra shot, because I know how this morning will start.” You placed the folder in front of Bruce with a flick of your wrist, barely pausing. “Your notes are inside. Don’t ad-lib. Shaw’s already looking for excuses to delay the merger.”

Bruce gave you a long look over the top of his glasses. He didn’t say thank you. He never did. But then, he didn’t need to. You were his best weapon behind the scenes, and you both knew it. There was a reason why the employee called you the Ice Queen, and were more scared of you than they were of Bruce Wayne himself.

You left the room before the door even fully shut behind you.

Later that afternoon, you were back at your desk—one heel slipped loose beneath you, phone cradled between your shoulder and ear—you barely looked up from your screen.

“I’m not moving the board meeting again because Shaw’s having a midlife crisis,” you snapped, scrolling through the projected quarterly. “He’s had three decades to prepare for his hairline receding, and that is not a justifiable excuse to stall the merger—”

A sharp knock on your desk broke your concentration.

Your eye twitched.

You let out a long, irritated sigh. “The final answer is no. Now I need to go.”

You hung up without waiting for a response and finally turned your attention to the source of the interruption, expecting yet another intern who couldn’t read a calendar.

But it wasn’t an intern.

He leaned just slightly on the edge of your desk—not enough to be disrespectful, but enough to suggest he didn’t mind waiting. He wore a leather jacket that had clearly seen better days, paired with worn boots and dark hair tousled by wind and time. A streak of white cut through the strands near his temple—unmistakable, and in need of a trim.

He didn’t look like he belonged in Wayne Tower.

And he sure as hell didn’t look like he was here for a scheduled meeting.

Your eyes narrowed, every instinct flaring to attention. Something about him caught at the edge of your memory—frayed the edge of something you’d tucked away years ago.

He tilted his head, gaze moving over you in a slow, thoughtful sweep. Not lecherous. Not even flirtatious. Just… observant.

Still, your expression didn’t budge. You raised a brow, tone clipped and dry.

“Can I help you?”

He blinked, like shaking off a thought. “Maybe. Not sure yet.”

Your jaw tightened. Cryptic wasn’t a language you spoke anymore. Truth be told, you didn’t have the patience for much these days. Somewhere along the way, you’d adopted Jason’s no-bullshit approach to life—only without the charm and biting humor that had once softened his edges.

“Is there a reason you’re at this desk, or are you just in the mood to get escorted out?”

That almost made him smile. Almost.

“I was just looking around,” he said simply. “Place has changed a lot.”

You didn’t answer, still sizing him up.

He glanced around the room, then back to you. “Didn’t expect the assistant to be running the tower.”

You leaned back slightly in your chair, arms crossing. “You’re not the first person to make that mistake. Most of them don’t last long.”

That earned you a small nod. Respectful. Not mocking.

Then his eyes met yours again.

And this time, he looked. Not at the expensive cut of your suit, not at the stack of color-coded schedules or the headset you’d tossed onto the keyboard. And for a second, something in his expression flickered. A flash of something soft. Grieving. Nostalgic.

But it passed.

“You got a name?” you asked, tone even but no longer impersonal.

He hesitated. Just long enough to make you notice.

“Jay,” he finally said.

You nodded once, pushing down the strange knot in your chest. You tried to ignore how that reminded you of another who’s long dead. 

“Well, Jay,” you said, gesturing with your pen, “unless you’ve got a meeting or an appointment, you’re done looking around.”

“I figured.” He straightened a little, not pushing back. “Just curious. That’s all.”

He turned, stepping away with a nod.

You watched him go. And long after he was gone, that strange, electric prickle stayed curled at the base of your spine.

You didn’t know it yet.

But the boy you buried four years ago had just walked back into your life.

He left without pushing.

No clever remark. No lingering glance. Just a quiet nod and the soft, fading sound of worn boots tapping over marble tile.

But hours later—long after the last intern had clocked out, after the boardroom lights had dimmed, and the final elevator chimed shut—you were still thinking about him.

Jay.

You didn’t know what unsettled you more—his calm, unassuming presence, or the way his face lingered in your mind like a half-finished memory. Familiar, but off. Like an old photograph left too long in the sun, its edges faded, the details too blurred to fully get a good look.

You tried to forget it.

You had bigger problems to handle than cryptic strangers in weathered leather. Tower politics. Corporate vultures. Logistics. Mergers. Deadlines.

But three days later, he was there again.

In the east corridor outside Bruce’s office, half-shadowed beneath the soft white light of the hanging fixtures. Talking in low tones with Alfred—Alfred, of all people.

You’d only caught the tail end of it as you turned the corner. Alfred’s voice, warm and measured. And Jay’s… quieter than before. Almost cautious.

Your steps slowed. Not by much. Just enough to get another look at him.

Alfred glanced your way first, ever perceptive. He gave you that small, knowing nod he always did—acknowledging everything without needing to say a word.

And Jay only turned away, as if he hadn’t meant to be seen.

But before he gave you his back, your eyes met for the briefest second.

And something in his expression faltered. Hesitation. Maybe even regret.

Then he turned and slipped away.

No words exchanged. No excuses made. No cryptic remarks. But everything about this situation felt off to you, like you were missing an important detail.

You didn’t call after him.

Didn’t confront Alfred.

But the thread tugged.

Subtle. Persistent.

The kind of thread, you didn’t let go of until you unravelled it.

You didn’t mean to go looking.

You told yourself it was just cleaning. Just a lazy Sunday and a little long-overdue organization.

But your fingers hesitated when they brushed the edge of an old box at the back of your closet. One you hadn’t opened in years. Not since you moved into this apartment. Not since before you learned how to build your armor from pressed suits and five a.m. coffee.

The lid creaked.

Inside were fragments of a girl you no longer let yourself remember—

Notes passed under desks.

A half-finished journal.

A dried corsage, fragile and browned at the edges, still curled around a faded ribbon.

And tucked beneath it all… was the photo.

Worn. Creased. The corners soft with time.

Jason Todd. Sixteen. Captured in front of the Gotham Academy library, hoodie unzipped halfway, hair wild from the wind. One hand in his pocket. The other flipping off the camera with that shit-eating grin that had made you laugh even as you rolled your eyes.

Your stomach twisted.

You sat down, slowly, the box on your lap, the apartment suddenly too quiet.

Your eyes stayed on the photo. Then drifted to the memory behind it—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hand brushing yours as he walked you to class, the way he’d rest his head back and smirk when he caught you staring.

And then…

That face.

That same smirk.

The man in the lobby.

The one with the jacket.

The one who called himself Jay.

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

He was dead.

He was dead.

But your chest was tightening, your pulse loud in your ears.

Because it was.

It was him.

Older and harder but still him.

The boy they buried four years ago.

He wasn’t a memory anymore.

Jason.

Your Jason.

You didn’t knock.

You stormed into the East Wing guest suite at Wayne Manor where you figured out he was staying, bypassing Alfred and Bruce and the rest of the kids with a glare that could level buildings. No one stopped you.

Jason opened the door expecting someone else—Tim, maybe. Or Dick. One of the people he was still learning how to be around again. He hadn’t prepared for you.

You slapped him.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the hallway like a gunshot.

“You son of a bitch,” you hissed, eyes already glassed with unshed tears. “You let me think you were dead. For four goddamn years.”

Jason didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t flinch.

“I was dead.”

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare use that like an excuse when you’re clearly here.”

You shoved him hard, hands balled into fists against his chest. He didn’t move to stop you.

“I buried you,” you choked out, the words scraping past the lump in your throat. “I visited your grave. I cried over you, Jason. I—” your voice cracked, “I loved you. Do you have any idea what that did to me? What it took to keep going after that?”

His expression didn’t shift, but his voice came quieter, rawer.

“I didn’t know how to come back into your life.”

You laughed—sharp and broken. “But you came back for him, didn’t you?” you snapped. “For Bruce. For the rest of the family. You came back for all of them—just not for me.”

His eyes flinched at that.

“I watched you,” he admitted. “At the grave. The first time I saw you again, you looked… different. Stronger. Harder. Like you didn’t need me anymore.” He swallowed, gaze dropping briefly before finding yours again. “And I—I’m not the same. I’m not who I was. I’m broken, and you… you don’t need someone like me in your life.”

You shoved him again. Fiercer this time. “That’s not your call to make,” you hissed. “You think I cared? I didn’t care then, and I sure as hell don’t care now.”

“I know,” he said, softer. “You were always too good for me.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, silent and relentless. Years of grief and fury pouring out in streaks you couldn’t stop.

Jason stepped toward you, slow and careful, like a man afraid that one wrong move might send you running.

“I wanted to come back,” he whispered. “A thousand times. But I was angry. And lost. I thought I lost you the second that bomb went off. I didn’t know who I was when I woke up. I didn’t know what was left of my old life—if there was anything left to come back to.”

You shook your head, tears streaking silently down your cheeks. “You were mine. That’s who you were. Just like I was yours.”

The silence that followed stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid. Years of grief. Of longing. Of questions that never got to be asked—let alone answered.

Then—tentatively, like he wasn’t sure he still had the right—Jason reached for your hand.

You let him.

And when he pulled you into his arms, you didn’t resist.

You just sank into him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “For the crown. For the dance. For everything I never got to give you.”

“I don’t care about that stupid dance,” you whispered. “I just wanted you.”

His arms tightened around you like he was afraid you might slip away. Like he needed the contact to believe this was real.

And for the first time in four long, fractured years, you let yourself breathe.

Not like someone surviving. Not like someone holding their grief together by sheer force of will.

But like someone who had finally, finally reunited with the other half of their soul.

← Previous Chapter

Tag list: @swagangelllamawolf, @lou-diaries, @salvatt1

[zhelin-thames]

Danny’s chaos with the Lantern Corps #2

Returning to Earth

[Danny Bragging to Tucker and Sam]

Danny: So, space was awesome. I made a rage monster angry, a blue alien complimented my “hope,” and Hal got so annoyed he almost quit. Tucker: Please tell me you took pictures. Danny: [grinning] I took selfies with their glowing rocks.

[Danny and the BatFam at Wayne Manor]

Dick: You were in space? You didn’t even tell us? Danny: It was kind of last-minute. Also, they didn’t have Wi-Fi. Tim: [snarky] That must’ve been so hard for you. Danny: It was tragic, Tim. Truly.

[Justice League Check-In Call]

Wonder Woman: I trust the Lanterns taught you discipline. Danny: [shrugs] I taught them how to chill out. Close enough. The Flash: Did you prank Hal? Danny: Oh, big time. Hal Jordan: [appears in the hologram, glaring] He called my ring a mood ring. Again. Danny: [grinning] Emotional support jewelry is what I said. Get it right.

[Batman’s Concern]

Batman: Did you cause any intergalactic incidents? Danny: …Define “incident.” Batman: [stares at him in silence] Danny: Fine. No. Happy? Hal Jordan: [interrupts over comms] He almost joined the Sinestro Corps! Danny: [smirking] Almost.

[Villains’ Reactions to Danny’s Space Adventures]

Lex Luthor: [watching news footage] The ghost boy now has space alliances? Preposterous. Joker: [laughing hysterically] He’s a ghost kid and an astronaut! What a riot! Black Manta: Did he mess with the Lanterns? Danny: [phases through the wall] Yup. And I made it out alive.

[The BatFam Dealing with Danny’s New Glow-Up]

Jason: So, what’s with the green sparkles? Danny: Oh, just some Lantern energy I might’ve borrowed. Damian: Borrowed or stole? Danny: [grinning] What’s the difference?

[Danny’s Lantern-Inspired Prank on Bruce]

Danny: [floating, glowing green with a makeshift construct of the Bat-Signal] Hey, Bats, look! I’m you! Bruce: [crosses arms] That’s not even remotely accurate. Danny: [laughing] Come on, Space Dad 2.0 thought it was funny!

[Justice League Final Note]

Martian Manhunter: The ghost child is unpredictable, but his intentions are noble. Hal Jordan: His intentions are chaos. Wonder Woman: Perhaps he needs guidance. Danny: [appears in the hologram] Or maybe the Justice League needs a ghost mascot. Batman: [pinching the bridge of his nose] This was a mistake.

[clairewritesfanfics]

hey! I have a tiny request

What would you think the Invincible!Variants would react if they see an Invincible!Reader?

Like, on their universes (Y/N) would be dead but it just happens that in one of the few universe where they are alive is one where she is invincible and now she is fighting in the invincible wars with them :D

(it’s my first request so I’m kinda confused on how it works 😔)

a/n: I went for a sillier approach with this one so it’s different from my usual narrative style (and by extension, sloppier than I would’ve wanted) but it was so much fun to write. I also took a few liberties with how Reader is able to fight because I only write Y/N as an OP baddie or an Everyman. There are no in-betweens in my delusions. Basically, she uses technology to fight, but she wears the Invincible colors in honor of her dead Mark. Happy reading.

Angstrom Levy watched as the mirror images of his sworn enemy gathered together. 

“I think we have all the Mark Graysons that we need.”

“Great.” The one whose cowl lacked any lenses cupped his fist. “Time to spill some blood.”

“Not so fast.”

“What?”

One last portal shimmered to life next to Angstrom and from it stepped out someone who was most definitely not Mark Grayson.

Angstrom motioned towards you. “Invincibles, meet Invincible.”

You wore a pair of goggles over your yellow cowl and there was a utility belt around your waist. You looked more like a cosplayer than a genuine Invincible. 

You were you but you were not you. Not the one they knew and loved and lost. The person they adored would have never donned such an outfit.

You raised a weak hand in salutation. A wry smile offered. “Hi there.” 

Every single version of the man tensed with emotion, their fists clenching beside them. Some of them stared at you, frozen. Others wanted to slam the teleporting freak to the wall.

“What’s the meaning of this, Angstrom!?”

“You said you only needed Mark Graysons, so–”

“–why is my dead wife here?”

Angstrom motioned for them to cool themselves. “I needed Invincibles. This one isn’t like any of you, but she took up the mantle when he died.”

Silence fell over the room.

Then, the one with a Mohawk protested, “She doesn’t belong here. She’s still just a human, isn’t she? Wearing a colorful costume won’t change that.”

You stood motionless despite his harsh words. 

“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge if I were you,” Angstrom said. “She destroyed her Earth in the span of an afternoon.”

Their eyes flickered over to you, but again, you showed no emotion.

“She’s here as… back up, in case you all fail.”

Five Marks flew towards him but stopped when you stood between them. Even with these many Viltrumites, you stood firm. Without your goggles, they could see you clearly. Gaunt, nose a little different, cheeks more sunken than what they were used to. Tired. 

Angstrom smiled.

Even if these fools knew that the person they loved was gone, they couldn’t bring themselves to raise a hand against your ghost, so they backed off.

Head Cap

Oliver slammed himself against the man’s back, but the Invincible copycat merely rotated his shoulders. “Thanks, I think you fixed it,” he let out a sound of pleasure. “Now, let’s fix you.”

The boy raised his arms to guard.

Several pros came to intercept, hitting this Mark with everything they got.

Before Oliver could move to help them, pure white beams struck his saviors. He could see through the gaping holes in their torsos before they fell over. Only he and Invincible were left standing.

His brother’s lookalike lifted his head, grinning as he raised both his thumbs in approval. “Thanks for the assist, babe!” 

Oliver followed his gaze up. 

It was… it wasn’t his brother, but the woman hovering above them wore the trademark yellow, blue and black Mark used to wear. The same bug-eyed goggles covered your eyes. Your lips were in a straight line.

You landed between the two guys. 

“You don’t have to stay and help me kill this one, I got it all under control.”

You threw a disc at Oliver, and it formed a blue, transparent cube around him. Despite his efforts, he could not punch through the walls.

“Do you know who this child is?” 

Mark cocked his head.

“He’s your half-brother.”

“Ah.” He let out a low chuckle, his sadistic smile turned resentful. “Dad’s other project, huh?”

“Mark couldn’t do it. He hated his brother, but even for him killing an infant was uncharted territory.”

“And he asked you to do it? What an asshole.” He sounded almost protective. 

You laughed. “He didn’t ask me to do anything, I just didn’t want him to be sad anymore.”

He stared at Oliver, still hitting the cube, even ramming his shoulder at the wall.

“...How did it feel?”

“I can’t remember to be honest, all I remember is Mark thanking me.” You recalled him holding you in his arms and kissing you all night. “Nothing else matters to me but him.” 

He snuck a glimpse of you from the corner of his eye.

You returned to the air. “The kinetic field around the kid will expire in a minute. So if you're going to kill him, be prepared."

Mark watched you fly away, fists clenching beside him as he thought about the other you, the one who was so soft she couldn’t bring herself to kill the mice in the kitchen. Gentle until the day she died. 

Flaxan Mark

One good electromagnetic pulse was all you needed to disarm the GDA. Concentrated antimatter bullets would ensure that their undead army won’t be returning. 

You decapitated Donald and Cecil in one swift motion. You didn’t have any strong feelings for either of them so there was no need for a painful death.

You watched Mark sit up, rubbing his head.

“Are you all right?” You asked, walking over to him.

He met your gaze, quiet as he examined you. 

This Mark seemed more composed than the others, more mature, too.

“I watched the footage.” You gestured around you. “You must really hate this place to gut it so mercilessly.”

He looked at you and said, “They killed you.” He raised his hands, looking at something visible only to him. “While I was gone, they took you. Wanted to see if they could use our baby to make someone better, someone more loyal to the humans.”

He closed his fists. “They deserve to burn, all of them.”

You folded your hands behind your back. There was nothing you could say to that.

No Goggles

Mark laughed maniacally as he struck down monster after monster. “Come on! You can do better than that, can't you? Come on, this is amazing! Kill me!”

A finger snapped from a distance and a bright light pierced the darkness, scaring the creatures away. “Hey, come back!”

“Mark,” called out an exasperated voice.

He gasped when you walked towards him, looking disappointed. 

He flew over to wrap his arms around you. “Shit, I wanted to talk to you earlier but there was never the right time, plus we had to destroy the whole world and all that, but God, you really are a babe wherever, or maybe whenever is the correct word–”

You pinched his lips. “We should leave first. Try to talk less, okay?”

He nodded obediently and you let go.

A portal cut open the white void, revealing a blue sky.

Before you could leave, the faintest whispers called out to you, “Mo…ther…”

Mark blinked and glanced at the corners where the darkness lingered. “Am I crazy or did those things just call you mother?”

“Yes and yes.”

You grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the Shadow-Verse and onto the sky above Chicago.

“Whoa…” Mark looked down at his feet. “Am I walking on air? Not flying but walking?”

“Yeah.” You sat down and watched him do cartwheels. 

“How long can I keep doing this?”

“For as long as I let you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Reaaaally?” 

“You can run, jump and do all the cartwheels you want until you drop dead and you still won’t fall, not unless I let you, but I’m getting tempted so you better start flying now.”

He chuckled and sat next to you, pulling his knees to his chest. “You’re dead in my reality.”

“I know.”

“You killed yourself.”

“Is that so?”

“It really fucked me up, in the brain and stuff.” He made a swooshing motion, pointing at his temple.

“I can imagine.”

He fell silent and watched you watch the world get destroyed below you.

He then asked, “Why did those things call you mother?”

“Honestly, I don’t know why they would. In my world, it makes sense. I created them, then I carved out a piece of time and space where I could discard them when they proved useless to me.”

He blinked. “Wow. You created the Shadow-Verse?”

“Well, the one in my world, yes. As for the ones here?” You shrugged. “My hypothesis is that there was a window between the pocket dimensions, causing them to mix.”

“That’s so cool!”

“I know. And Angstrom thinks he’s all that.”

“Can I ask a question?”

“You’ve been asking a lot.”

“If you can do all this, why didn’t you just hop worlds? Get yourself a new Mark? I’d be happy to be kidnapped.”

You chuckled and then looked up at the sky. “Who knows.”

Omni-Mark and Shiesty

The two of them were ganging up on this timeline’s Mark Grayson when Eve pushed them away with a giant pink wall.

You grabbed her cape and then dragged her away from the three. “You’re dead weight to him. Stay here if you want to live,” you ordered.

When you turned around, a heavy shackle enveloped your arm, chaining you to herself with a thick fuchsia rope.

You sighed. “Truly an idiot in every reality.”

“I saw you–you’re with those guys. I don’t know why you saved me but I know that you’re bad news.”

You gave her a look that reminded Eve of an unforgiving winter. Her heart pounded violently as she struggled to breathe. She's faced death before, faced villains as strong as Mark himself, but nothing made her buckle the way you did at this moment.

She swallowed her fear despite her shaking hands. “Surrender now.”

“Or what?”

“Or I���ll have to take you by force.” 

“Oh?” For the first time since you’ve arrived in this damned universe, you smirked, turning your whole body to face hers directly. “You’re welcome to try.”

You tapped the pink construct, shattering it into a thousand fragments. In a split second, you were pinning her down the ground. "Is that it?"

You grabbed her chin and forced her eyes to look directly into yours. “I am unimpressed.” Your goggles shone red and Eve screamed.

She rolled around the dirt, cradling her head and gasping in pain.

“Eve!”

Your suit’s electromagnetic force field flashed blue as the Invincible of this world tried to hit you. “What did you do to her?!”

“No need to look so angry,” you said, face blank. “This is a mercy compared to what I did to the other one.” That Eve died brutally, but so quickly you didn’t even get the chance to laugh. 

You then vanished from the ground, reappearing between the two hovering Marks. “Let’s go.”

Shiesty turned to you. “Why?”

“There’s no point in fighting him now, he’s going to choose her, probably hide away for a few hours.”

“What makes you think that?”

Omni-Mark answered instead, looking straight at you, "Because we would've chosen you if we were in his place."

Aftermath

All of the Marks kept their eyes on you while they waited for Angstrom. Some of them had the decency to be subtle. Others, like the adorable little freak who got stuck in the Shadow-Verse, looked just about ready to hump you.

Bored, you turned your attention to the Mark without a mask, suit tainted with blood. “You look at me differently than the others do.”

His hands twitched but he kept them close together in front of him as he answered, “It’s just… you weren’t a woman where I come from.”

“How fascinating. Not outside the realm of probability though. If anything, me being a girl in these guys' universes is odd.”

He tilted his head. How cute.

“Contrary to popular belief, a child’s biological sex is not a 50/50 chance. It’s slightly more likely to be a boy than a girl.” You leaned towards him. “Tell me, was I any handsome?”

Taken aback, he blinked. Then he closed his eyes, smiling before he faced you again. “You’re always breathtaking.”

Your brow twitched and you looked away, crossing your arms.

The others watched, unhappy. Various emotions layered onto each other, growing heavier with the silence. 

“What’s taking him so long?” 

Tired of waiting, you folded one leg over the other. A whole tea set manifested before you, turning the tense silence into awkward awe.

Shiesty floated closer to you while you dropped a sugar cube into your teacup. “Hey, uh, I didn't get to ask earlier, but what the Hell did you do to Eve?”

The teacups dispersed, delivering themselves to the different variants. Too confused to do anything else, they accepted their shares. The little jar containing sugar cubes bounced between them, a parade of silver teaspoons right behind it. A three tier platter stayed in the middle of the circle they formed.

Shiesty took a mini quiche and gave it a taste.

The veil fluttered, revealing a slither of his jaw. 

Unconsciously, you reached over to trace the corner of his face. 

He flinched and you pulled back. “Sorry. It’s been a while since I last saw Mark this close. Anyway,” you started, gently blowing on the tea, “I took away her powers.”

“I see.” He plopped a sugar cube into his cup before he realized what you just said. “What? You can do that? All you did was flash a red light at her!”

Omni-Mark stared at his tea for a while. He then said, “You lobotomized her.”

“I did.” 

The other Marks turned to you. “What?”

Shiesty gave them a brief explanation of what happened. “You should’ve seen it, it was hella hilarious–and hot. The other guy couldn’t even land a punch.”

“Whoa, backup.” It was Mohawk this time. “Lobotomized her? As in brain surgery? In the field?”

You shrugged. “It wasn’t that complicated.” You watched a superhero do it before–granted, it was a cartoon but it gave you the idea for a powerful skill. 

You opened your palm, showing a holographic display of the human brain. “Superhumans are just mutated humans, and for someone like Eve whose mutation is psionic-based, all I needed to do was find the abnormal gyri in her brain that differentiate hers from that of ordinary people.” Several portions of the brain glowed. “My goggles can let me see through things, like human skulls, and they’re built with a precision laser perfect for neurosurgery.” 

“I don’t get it,” Omni-Mark said. “Why didn’t you just kill her?”

You traced the rim of your teacup. “Eve, like many heroes, ties her self-worth and identity to her powers. I already killed her before. I didn’t feel anything…”

You smiled at them, it was a sweet and innocent smile that took them back to nicer times. “Rather than murder, forcing her to live a life where she is no longer special feels more satisfying. For someone like her, losing her gift must feel like the sky is falling.” You do regret not being there to see her face when she realizes what happened. Will she cry? Scream some more? Fall into despair? 

You covered your curling mouth. “Ah, what a shame.”

a/n: I'm sorry, I couldn't include all the Marks, and I'm really sorry for the sloppy writing. I was going to write more scenes, specifically for Retro/Gogglesinvincible/the one who Rex killed, but I wrote this between breaks and I really wanted to post it immediately.

Dear Readers, if you have any questions or further requests, feel free to send them now because i will be closing my ask box this upcoming Sunday. MASTERLIST | request rules | ask box

Disclaimer: The images above are not mine but are screenshots from the Invincible TV series.

[mill3rd]

TWO SIDES OF THE SAME MOON

synopsis. in the solitude of an undisturbed manor, a tangled bond between a girl marked by a dark legacy and a mysterious vampire unfolds. haunted by a painful secret she barely understands, she finds herself drawn to him—an enigmatic guardian who sees what others cannot. as tension rises within her family and the night reveals hidden truths, their connection becomes a dangerous battle between desire, fear, and survival, forcing them both to face what lurks beneath the surface and decide what they’re willing to lose for each other.

tags and warnings. body horror, mythical and fantasy creatures, blood, remmicks a silly guy who dabbles in danger, remmick and his saviour complex, stereotyping amongst creatures, emotional and familial conflict, not angsty for once (lie we only do angst round here partna), kinda fluffy, remmick is really off putting, this was inspired by another post and some requests

wc. 14k

© MILL3RD 2025 — all rights reserved. mature content. please do not steal my works

remmick had passed through a tight knit community, full of wealth and harmony. he’d heard tail of a family that had been rooted here well before the 16th century. generations lived and died in the manor beyond the orchard. he had to take a look for himself, figure out what he was dealing with, maybe try and gain control and root his own found family in these very parts.

he wandered through the orchard, his footsteps soft on the grass until he came across a tree with a swing hanging low. settling onto it, he swayed gently back and forth, eyes fixed on the house beyond. even under the first quarter moon, draped in a thick fog that swallowed the light, the manor stood imposing and alive. its sturdy bricks, darkened by time, held three solid floors—and maybe a fourth, if the attic windows weren’t just for show. a greenhouse clung to one side, its lantern flickering weakly before fading as its occupant departed. the house breathed with life, full of warmth and laughter—a family woven together in quiet happiness.

remmick admired the house for a moment longer before three children burst out from the shadows, their laughter bright and wild in the cool night air. they moved with a speed that was almost too swift, their footsteps light and sure—a clear sign the family within wasn’t entirely human. before he could slip away, they spotted him, their eyes gleaming with mischief as they clumsily but determinedly surrounded him, cutting off his escape.

the three children came bounding up to remmick, their footsteps light and quick like whispers on the grass. their eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and mischief as they closed the distance, circling him with unrestrained energy.

“hey, mister,” the smallest one piped up, tilting her head with a cheeky grin, “what’s your name?”

remmick’s lips curled into a crooked smile, “they call me remmick,” he said smoothly, his voice low and teasing, “and who might you speedy three be?”

the tallest girl crossed her arms, a playful challenge glinting in her eyes, “we be the fastest runners in the orchard. bet you can’t catch us.”

he chuckled, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise, “oh? a challenge already? careful, or i might just take you up on it.”

the third child, a boy with wild curls, leaned in, sniffing subtly, “you ain’t from ‘round here, is you? you smell… funny.”

remmick winked, the corner of his mouth twitching, “funny how? like cinnamon and danger?”

“not funny haha… funny weird,” the girl replied with a coy raise of her brow.

“weird?” remmick leaned closer, his gaze sharp but amused, “i prefer intriguing but tell me—what secrets do you little orchard ghosts hide?”

the smallest child exchanged a glance with her siblings before smirking, “maybe we’ll tell you… if you’re nice.”

“now that’s tempting,” remmick murmured, voice softening, “i’m a great listener. maybe i’ll stick around and find out.”

the tallest girl’s expression hardened slightly, “just don’t try anything weird, ‘kay? our family don’t take too kindly to strangers.”

remmick’s grin deepened, eyes glinting with something unreadable, “noted. but maybe i’m exactly the kind of stranger you need.”

suddenly, the main door burst open and a taller figure rushed down the steps with urgent strides. you moved with the same quickness as the children, closing the distance in moments. three names were called—mara, sloane and orion—with urgency. your eyes scanned the trio before locking onto remmick. he could hear the steady rush of your blood, the pounding of your heart, and feel the way your muscles subtly shifted—tense but beginning to relax, ready for whatever came next.

“alright, you three,” you announced, keeping your voice light but firm, “auntie talia’s doin’ bed checks. if i get reprimanded for yous being out again, i swear i ain’t taking the fall this time.”

that did the trick. their faces dropped into guilt, and they scrambled to leave, muttering apologies under their breath. then, in a cheerful, too-casual chorus, they turned back and called out:

“bye, remmick!”

remmick felt the chill in your blood like a sudden drop in the air. his eyes studied your serious expression, the worry unmistakable. your form matched your face—arms crossed tightly over your chest, legs set shoulder-width apart. you weren’t completely defensive, but far from careless, radiating a tense calm that kept him on edge. actually, he thought it made you quite attractive. clearly, you were one with undying loyalty.

“you got business here?” you asked, voice low and steady, eyes narrowing as you sized him up. every instinct in you prickled, like a storm gathering just beyond the tree line. he shook his head slowly, offering a casual shrug that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“not at all,” he said smoothly, “just passin’ through. new to the area, saw a swing, ain’t realize it was in your front yard. my apologies, miss…?” he trailed off, waiting for your name—but the hesitation in his voice felt deliberate, like he was testing the waters, sizing you up.

you ignored the bait, cutting straight to the point, “you part of anything? any groups, clans…” your tone carried weight—a challenge wrapped in calm steel.

remmick caught it immediately. he shook his head, voice tightening with a flicker of offense, “miss.”

he took a step back, hands rising in a peaceful gesture, “hand on my heart, cross it and hope to die—i mean no physical, spiritual, or mental harm. especially the discriminatory kind. no way.”

you sized him up, eyes sharp and steady, “why’re you really here?” you asked, voice low.

remmick’s smile flickered, like a candle in the wind. fierce, beautiful, and not easily fooled. he swallowed the pull in his chest, “like i said, just passing through,” he reminded, “but i guess fate’s got a funny way of introducing itself.”

you crossed your arms, skeptical, “passing through or looking for something?”

he ilaughed softly, a hint of something darker beneath the sound, “maybe a little of both. people say this place has a history—roots that go deep. i’m curious.”

your gaze didn’t soften, “curiosity can get you hurt.”

remmick nodded slowly, the weight of his own thoughts settling. curiosity’s dangerous—especially when it’s about her, “maybe. but sometimes, the risk is worth it.”

you took a step closer, voice low and steady, “just remember, some risks don’t come with second chances.”

he met your gaze, the smile slipping into something more serious, “i’m learning.”

remmick’s gaze flickered down to the obsidian pendant resting against your chest. his breath hitched as a darker thought slipped in — the curve of your neck, the way your collarbone peeked beneath your shirt. what would it feel like to trace that line, to see if you’d shiver?

he cleared his throat, trying to steady himself, “learning’s a dangerous game too, but sometimes the stakes make it worth the trouble,” he said, voice low and a little rough, hiding the pull in his chest.

you narrowed your eyes, unamused, “i’m not in the habit of handing out chances.”

he smirked, stepping just a fraction closer, letting the tension thicken, “maybe i ain’t askin’ for chances. maybe i’m offerin’ you somethin’ else. somethin’ worth the risk.”

you were enough to give him a pulse back, the phantom feeling of it quickening raced inside him. she’s fire and ice, and god help me if i’m stupid enough to get burned.

you held your ground, eyes never leaving his, “you should go, remmick. while i’m still in a generous mood.”

he chuckled softly, the sound curling at the edges, “guess that’s my cue, then.”

he took a slow step back, hands raised in mock surrender, “you got bite… i like that.”

“don’t get used to it,” you reply coolly, but there was the faintest tug of a smirk at the corner of your mouth.

his gaze lingered for just a moment longer, like he wanted to say something else—or maybe commit your face to memory—before turning toward the orchard, the fog swallowing his figure with every step.

“see you around,” he called over his shoulder, voice low and amused.

you didn’t respond.

remmick slipped back into the orchard, weaving between the trees as the fog clung thick around him. his thoughts kept circling you—someone fierce, with a fire that didn’t back down or bend. the more he thought about it, the harder it became to focus. could he gain control over that wild spirit? maybe. or maybe he’d let you keep that edge—it only made the pull stronger, the tension more intoxicating. it was a dangerous kind of fascination, one that stirred something dark and undeniably electric inside him.

would you bare your teeth the closer he got to your core? would that fire in your chest flare into fury, daring him to come closer, to test the edges of your control—or would something in you shift? would you soften, just slightly, enough for him to find a way in, to press up against all that tension you held like armor?

he couldn’t stop thinking about it—about you. about the way your gaze didn’t flinch, the way your voice had weight and warning. it thrilled him. not in a sweet, romantic way, but in a way that lit something reckless beneath his skin. he wanted to see if that heat in you burned just as bright up close. would you stay fierce, push back, make him work for every breath between you—or would you yield, slowly, inch by guarded inch?

he didn’t want obedience. he wanted resistance, the kind that made every moment feel earned. he imagined it—your defiance, your fire, your control barely slipping. would you let him see that part of you? or would he have to tear it from your clenched hands, dig into the marrow of you just to taste the truth?

either way, he wasn’t looking for softness. not really. but the idea of watching you flicker between fight and surrender—that stayed with him, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

remmick’s thoughts drifted to the obsidian strung around your neck, the way it caught the moonlight like it was forged from the night itself. any creature worth their salt knew what that meant. grounding. restraint. a tether between the beast and the bones it lived inside.

he’d been around—across continents, through cities older than most bloodlines—and never once had he seen someone wear obsidian casually. that stone wasn’t for decoration. it was for control. survival.

you wore it like a warning, like a lock on a door too dangerous to open. and that, more than anything, intrigued him. because if you needed that kind of restraint... he couldn’t help but wonder what happened when you didn’t use it.

his boots sank softly into the orchard floor as he moved, every step muffled by moss and fallen leaves. the air was thicker tonight—heavier, laced with that same scent he couldn’t stop noticing, the one that clung to you like smoke to skin.

remmick paused at the edge of a clearing, gaze lifting to the house beyond the trees. windows glowed like distant lanterns, warm and pulsing. life radiated from inside—laughter, footsteps, the occasional bark of a dog or scrape of a chair.

but his eyes weren’t on the house. they were on the pendant in his mind, the image of it nestled against your collarbone. obsidian. it made him curious. no—hungry.

a family like yours didn’t welcome strangers easily. and yet, somehow, he’d slipped past the first gate. just barely.

he smiled to himself, slow and knowing.

“let’s see how deep the roots go,” he murmured.

then, with a hand brushed against the trunk of an old fig tree, he melted back into the orchard’s shadows. watching. waiting.

back at the house, the wind shifted.

you stood in the upstairs hallway, staring out a narrow window that overlooked the orchard. the fog hadn’t cleared. if anything, it pressed tighter against the land, swallowing the trees until they looked like silhouettes drawn in ash. something in your chest tugged—a slow, sour pull that wouldn’t ease.

your pendant was warm against your skin. not hot, but pulsing. responding.

you didn’t like that.

behind you, the floor creaked softly. it was one of your sisters, barefoot and half-asleep, rubbing her eyes. she mumbled something about needing water, but you hardly heard her. your focus stayed out there, on the dark line where the trees met the field.

he was still close. you couldn’t see him, but you felt it.

downstairs, the front door was locked, bolted in three places. but that meant very little. doors didn’t stop what came through the orchard, not for long

you turned from the window, catching your reflection in the glass—tense, tired, eyes sharper than you meant them to be. this wasn’t over. not even close.

and tomorrow night, the moon would be fuller.

remmick slipped through the orchard under the cloak of night, the fog wrapping around him like a shroud. the moon hung low, its silver light filtered through the dense mist, casting eerie shadows that danced between the gnarled branches. the house loomed ahead, silent and stoic, its dark windows like watchful eyes.

he paused near the swing, fingers brushing the worn rope. the silence pressed in on him, heavier than before. no laughter, no footsteps—just the soft rustle of leaves.

his mind churned, thoughts tangled between fascination and frustration. you with the obsidian pendant—the fierce fire behind your eyes—haunted him more than he cared to admit. you were a puzzle wrapped in danger, and every step closer only deepened his intrigue.

he wasn’t here for greetings or excuses. no, he was here to stake his claim, to test the boundaries of this quiet world. and maybe, just maybe, to see if you’d let him in.

remmick’s eyes caught a splash of color at the base of a nearby tree—speckles of water hemlocks, their petals a silky white against the dark earth. the flowers were put together and tame, standing out naturally, just like the woman who lived here. without thinking, he bent down and carefully gathered a small bouquet, fingers brushing the soft petals. a quiet gesture, but one full of meaning—bold, but simple, impossible to ignore.

remmick stepped closer to the house, the fog curling around his boots as he approached the front door. he raised his hand and knocked—firm, deliberate, no hesitation. no welcome mat lay beneath the door, a quiet sign of caution. smart, he thought, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. this wasn’t a place that invited strangers in easily. good. just the way he liked it.

remmick heard soft shuffling on the other side of the door—several voices, one mature and steady, the others light and childish. the heavy, weathered door creaked open slowly, the knock trembling with the motion. a warm glow spilled out, illuminating remmick’s face as your silhouette stepped into view. behind you, the three children from yesterday peeked around your legs, their curious eyes wide. all of you were draped in nightgowns, the softness of the fabric catching the light, a striking contrast to the tension lingering in the air.

“mister remmick!” the trio called out, their voices bright as they stepped forward eagerly. you quickly raised a hand, blocking their way, your eyes narrowing sharply at him. remmick didn’t flinch—if anything, a crooked, tender smile played across his lips, unshaken by your warning.

you glance down at the trio, your voice firm but gentle, “yous go on up to bed. i’ll be up there soon myself.” mara, sloane, and orion let out a collective sigh but begin their slow, reluctant climb upstairs. you shift, blocking the doorway with your body, leaning against the frame as your eyes lock onto remmick’s, “why’re you back? i wasn’t exactly friendly.”

remmick shrugs, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips, “i brought you flowers.”

he extends the bouquet toward you, but you instinctively recoil. his smile falters for a brief moment, “you don’t like them?” you swallow, keeping your voice steady, “funnily enough, i do—er, they are pretty… but i’m allergic.”

remmick’s smile softens, a hint of genuine regret in his voice, “would’ve picked you something else if i’d known.” you wave a dismissive hand, cool but casual, “don’t worry about it, probably wouldn’t have accepted them anyway.”

he scratches the back of his neck, his stance shifting uneasily as his eyes flicker behind him, scanning the shadows like he’s looking for something—or someone. tough crowd, he thinks quietly, the challenge only making him more intrigued.

you cross your arms, eyeing him, “what’s the point of coming back?”

remmick shrugs, voice smooth like a slow drawl, “i figured it’s polite to check in. plus, places like this... well, they tend to keep their groundin’ spirits close.”

you frown, unsure if he’s joking or not, “grounding spirits?”

he nods, almost like it’s obvious, “yeah. keeps things steady when the world gets shaky. you can feel it here—that pull, that hum beneath everythin’.”

you shift your weight, suddenly aware of how close he stands, “you know a lot about this place?”

he smiles, a little too knowing, “i pick up things. better safe than sorry.”

you huff, humourless, “ain’t nothing safe here at night, i can assure you.”

remmick smirks, eyes flickering over your pendant, “that’s a striking necklace—where’d you get it?”

you shift, wary under his gaze, “family. been with us for generations.”

he nods slowly, voice low, almost knowing, “some things are better left undisturbed, huh?”

you meet his eyes, a flicker of suspicion rising, “maybe. depends on who’s asking.”

remmick nods slowly, stepping back with a lazy sway as his gaze drifts over the manor, taking it all in, “be careful with that. they break real easy.”

you give a short nod, voice flat with boredom, “right.”

then his eyes snap back to yours, glowing faintly. a flash of gold turned red, “i’m serious.”

you catch your breath, dismissing the warning. stepping firmly inside, you cut through the air, “you need to leave. now.”

“thought we were havin’ a good one on one,” remmick says, his frown mocking, almost playful.

you shake your head, voice sharp, “i know what you are. you don’t belong here.”

remmick raises a brow and chuckles darkly, “well, guess i blew my cover—peachy keen, huh?” he runs a hand down his face, smirking, “but you ain’t exactly ordinary yourself. this beautiful family o’ yours? yous somethin’ else. more than human… or maybe less.”

"i think we’re perfectly normal," you hiss, voice urgent and clipped. your arm shoots out, finger aimed dead at his chest, "now, if you don’t turn around in the next five seconds, i’ll scream loud enough to wake the dead. my brothers’ll be out here with rifles loaded full of silver, and that’s if my daddy doesn’t get to you first."

remmick lifts his hands, instinctive, and eases back down the stone steps. your gaze pins him in place even as he retreats. he knows you mean it—every word, every edge in your voice. but beneath the threat, he hears something else. the rush of your blood, not with fear, but with thrill. it’s eager, alive, and it unsettles him more than any weapon could.

the door shuts, and the light cuts out almost immediately, leaving the manor in total darkness. remmick stares at the door for a few seconds longer before turning away and heading back down into the orchard.

you’re out later than yesterday. remmick knows because he can smell you before he sees you. you wander the evening by yourself carrying two full paper bags. it’s the time where the sunlight dims, making way for not quite the moon but the darker sky that comes before just as the clock tower strikes four and remmick is more confident going out while it’s still predominantly daytime.

you sense him before he can fall into step with you—an instinct, like the shift in air pressure before a storm. you stop short, the weight of your bags swinging slightly as you whip around to face him. your jaw is tight, nostrils flared, every inch of you drawn sharp.

“you need to leave me alone.”

the words hit with force, but remmick doesn’t flinch. he barely pauses. his gaze drops to your arms, full to the point of imbalance—paper bags creasing under your fingers, a book clutched against your hip, a jacket slipping from the crook of your elbow.

he lifts an eyebrow, then says, calm as ever, “looks like you need help.”

his tone is maddeningly casual, like this is a normal conversation, like he hasn’t followed you three blocks without invitation. his eyes linger too long—not in a way that’s leering, but in a way that suggests he still doesn’t understand he’s not supposed to look at you like that. like you’re something soft, not someone already burning.

"i’ve managed this far,” you say with a shrug, arrogance tucked into the lift of your chin. the bags shift as you adjust your grip, rustling like they’re protesting too, “i’ll be fine. it’s just the orchard.”

your voice lands cool, dismissive, but your cheek betrays you—caught gently between your teeth, tongue pressing against it in a motion too practiced to notice. a nervous habit you’ve adapted to.

remmick moves before you can stop him—smooth, unbothered, like he’s done it a hundred times in his head. his hand slips between your elbow and the worn paperback balanced against your hip, sliding it out with an easy finesse. the cover bends slightly under his fingers, but he doesn’t fumble.

before the protest even rises in your throat, his other hand catches the edge of your jacket just as it slips from your arm, pinching the collar like it’s something delicate. like it matters to him, somehow.

he holds both items up in one hand, smug like he just pulled off a magic trick.

“you’re juggling them like you’re in a one-woman circus,” he says, cocking his head, “i figured i’d step in before you started tossin’ flaming knives.”

the smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it—just the corner, just enough for him to notice. and of course he notices.

“there it is,” he grins, voice a little softer now, “knew you had a smile somewhere under all that pride.”

you look away, cheeks warming, but don’t ask for the book back.

you carry on in silence, the only sounds the crunch of gravel beneath your feet and the occasional rustle of shifting bags. the sun dips low behind the trees, casting long, reaching shadows that stretch across the path like fingers trying to catch hold of something.

you notice how remmick keeps drifting—edging toward the shadows as they lengthen, then stepping back into the light, only to veer sideways again as if testing the boundary. it’s subtle at first, like he’s just restless, but then it happens again. and again.

the way he keeps dodging the shifting light, weaving in and out like the shadows are playing tag with him, starts to amuse you. there’s something oddly graceful about it, like he can’t help but move with the world around him.

you don’t say anything—just watch from the corner of your eye as he side-steps a narrow band of light, lips pursed like he's pretending it doesn’t matter.

he catches you staring once, eyebrows lifting, but he doesn’t explain himself. just smirks and keeps walking.

night finally settles by the time you both reach the patch of water hemlocks. in the dim light, they look almost spectral—tall, pale stalks rising from the damp earth like they’ve been summoned rather than grown.

the ground has replaced them. where remmick had pulled them from the root, there's no sign of disturbance—no broken stems, no torn soil. they’ve returned, impossibly upright, as if his hands had never touched them.

the air is colder here. wetter. thick with the hum of unseen things.

you veer off instinctively, avoiding the patch the way remmick avoided the sun. not rushed, not obvious—just a quiet, deliberate drift to the side, like your body knows better than to draw a straight line through something that remembers.

he follows you, quiet and steady, until you get to the swing.

it creaks gently in the wind—an old thing, strung up between two thick trees, swaying like it remembers someone long gone. you hesitate, eyes fixed on it, before turning to him.

“this is where we part,” you acknowledge, voice even,“thank you for holding my things for me.”

remmick doesn’t hand them back. instead, he frowns like you’ve skipped a step, like the script you’re reading from isn’t the one he memorized.

“i’d feel better if i walked you to your door,” he insists. there’s a grin on his lips, but it doesn’t soften the flash in his eyes—sharp and unnatural, catching the moonlight like it’s being reflected from something deeper beneath his skin.

this is his hour. his quiet, silver-lit kingdom.

you shake your head, a firm motion, grounded and unshaken, “i’m fine.”

he sighs, not in defeat but in that low, deliberate way people do when they’re choosing patience.

“you sure your family’d be alright with you coming home alone? i imagine they’re worried—out this late ‘n all.”

you nod, slow and sardonic, “they’d be angry if i let a man walk me to my door. a white man too? gosh, they’d be devastated.”

remmick chuckles at that, the sound low and amused, “ain’t no need to bring skin into it,” he murmurs, stepping forward, “i’ll leave.”

you barely register the movement—he’s already there, draping your coat around your shoulders with a strange gentleness, fingers grazing your collarbone for the briefest moment. then, smoothly, he slides your book into the coat’s too-small pocket.

“‘s a tight squeeze,” he notes, tapping the fabric lightly, “but it works.”

you blink, thrown. something in you reacts before your thoughts can catch up, and you step back. not far, but enough. your eyes stay locked on his, even as he starts to turn, the shape of him shrinking with each step away.

then, just before the dark takes him, he pauses.

his voice carries, smooth and unsettlingly warm.

“why don’t you relax every once in a while?”

a beat.

“y’know… let loose?”

the question lingers—heavier than the coat, heavier than the night. it lands somewhere in your chest, quiet and unwelcome.

obsidian pulses against your sternum—deep and slow, like a second heartbeat pounding beneath your skin. the pressure builds until it stings, sharp enough to catch your breath, sharp enough to burn straight up into your skull.

your vision wavers, focus slips. the world around you blurs at the edges.

his question still echoes, though you know he didn’t expect an answer. it wasn’t a request—it was a warning dressed as something lighter. and it lingers, clinging to you like fog.

you don’t stay to give it weight.

you turn, quick and ungraceful, the coat tugging against your shoulders as you rush toward the distant glow of your home—toward warmth, toward safety, toward anything that isn’t him.

behind you, remmick doesn’t follow.

he stands by the swing instead, the old ropes creaking like his presence alone adds extra weight. he watches you go, his silhouette unmoving, half-shadow, half-man.

and remmick hates to see you go.

he leans against the tree, hands resting in his pockets, but there’s tension in him now—quiet, tightening. he feels it between you two: something rising, slow and certain, like a tether being pulled from both ends. it tugs at him, coils around his thoughts, curls into the corners of his mind where reason and instinct starts to loosen.

he doesn’t wonder if you feel it too.

he knows you do.

he saw it in the flicker of your eyes when his fingers brushed your skin, in the hesitation in your step, the breath you held too long. but you resist it—of course you do. he can almost hear the echoes of your childhood, the lullabies laced with warnings.

your mama, smoothing your hair back with a soft hand, whispering stories that taught you to run from anything with teeth that smiled too easily.

your daddy, watching the dark like it had a name, warning you about men who lingered too long after sunset. men who watched. men who waited.

men who weren’t quite... men.

remmick exhales, low and amused, though there’s something sharp behind it. he understands. he doesn’t fault you for it.

but god, he loves to watch you leave.

remmick blinks, disoriented, the haze of sleep clinging to him like smoke. he exhales hard, jaw tight, chest rising with the effort of a breath that won’t settle—like he's been holding it for hours. maybe longer.

sunlight streams in, golden and merciless, striking the window directly. the thick velvet curtains hold it at bay, just barely, the edges glowing with a warning heat. if even a sliver found him, it would devour him whole—set him alight from the inside out, blistering skin and boiling marrow.

he’s sweating, though his kind doesn’t run warm. his skin, usually cold to the touch, is damp, sticky, clinging to the sheets of the bed he’s claimed—borrowed, stolen, it hardly matters.

his muscles twitch under the heat, beneath the weight of something he can’t name. he pants, trying his hardest to catch a breath that isn’t there, that will never come.

fever burns where it shouldn't.

with a low growl, he drags his claws back—retracts them carefully, deliberately—then runs a hand through his tangled hair, pushing it off his forehead. the gesture is more human than he wants to admit.

but even in sleep, you haunt him. not like a ghost—no, ghosts whisper. you sear.

you blaze through his mind, bright and consuming. insatiable. you leave no part of him untouched. not even in dreams.

remmick falls back onto the bed, the mattress groaning beneath him as he stares up at the ceiling—unseeing, unraveled. the room is quiet but his mind isn’t.

the dream clings to him, vivid and too real, like the echo of heat after lightning strikes. he can still feel it: your hands at the nape of his neck, soft and deliberate, fingers curling just enough to ground him, hold him in place without force.

your thumbs ghosted over his cheekbones—light, reverent, like you were memorizing the shape of him. like you didn’t know whether to worship or destroy.

it’s the contrast that undoes him.

you, always so sharp with your words, so ready to draw a line in the sand and shove him back behind it. and yet—yet—the version of you in his dream was anything but cold.

the way you leaned in, voice low and intimate, a question wrapped in a challenge, a lure:

“how do you want me?”

those four words slither through him now, slow and burning. enticing. cruel.

because they weren't yours. not really. but he wants them to be. god, how he wants them to be.

you don’t know it, but he yearns for you in ways he doesn’t have language for. it’s not just your face he memorizes, or the way your voice drops when you’re trying not to feel something. it’s everything underneath. everything you work so hard to bury.

you think you’re a mystery, and maybe you are—but to remmick, you’re a promise. not of love, not of safety, but of truth.

he sees it in your eyes when you think no one’s looking. that flicker, that fracture.

the way your calm is a performance, a costume stitched too tight.

he wants to see you shed it.

he wants the parts of you you think would drive someone away. the parts you’ve been taught to fear in yourself.

the monster behind the manners. the howl behind the hush.

you wear your control like armor, but he doesn’t want your composure. he wants what writhes beneath it.

he wants the blood-warm rage, the hunger you won’t name.

the darkness you flinch from, even when it’s your own reflection: let him see it, tear it open, dare him to run; he won’t.

he’s not afraid of the creature you’re hiding—he’s afraid you’ll never show it to him.

later on, remmick lingers by the swing. he wouldn’t say he’s waiting for you, exactly—but he knows you plan to sneak out tonight. don’t ask how. he just knows.

the stars are bold overhead, casting a silver spotlight on your rebellion like they’re in on it too. the night feels too loud to be secret, too still to be innocent.

and then—there you are.

you slip from the side door of the conservatory, all quiet grace and calculated risk and veiled by the mist supplied by the night. you move like you’ve done this before: down the worn stone steps, past the edge of the flower beds, and into the darker stretch of the orchard behind the manor.

remmick tilts his head, eyes narrowing with interest.

you’re not dressed for mischief, not really, but there’s purpose in your stride.

he doesn’t call out. doesn’t announce himself.

instead, something in him shifts—and he follows.

the orchard is veiled in fog—soft, rolling, deliberate. it clings low to the ground, weaving between the tree trunks like it belongs there, like it has always belonged. moonlight filters through the canopy in fractured beams, catching on the mist and turning the world pale and blurred, as if he’s stepped into a dream someone else forgot to finish.

remmick moves quietly, his steps silent on the damp grass, eyes fixed on your distant figure. the fog swirls around your ankles as you walk, each motion leaving a trail in the silver haze. the trees bow slightly under the weight of dew, their silhouettes gnarled and noble in the half-light.

everything smells faintly of apples, moss, and old magic.

he breathes it in.

up above, the stars are clean and sharp, watching with impassive eyes. no clouds, no wind—just the hush of the orchard and the shape of you, drifting deeper into it like you’re following something only you can hear.

he feels it again, that pull—gentle but undeniable.

not just toward you, but toward this moment. this place. this stillness.

and though he’s meant to linger in shadows, he feels no threat here. only curiosity. only want.

he keeps his distance, for now.

watching, listening. waiting for whatever comes next.

you stop at a clearing, lowering and laying back in the grass. your curls fall unevenly in your face and flatten behind you. your eyes study the moon, its phase nearly at its fullest. your irises glint in time with the stars.

you stop in a clearing, the fog parting around you like a breath held too long. slowly, you lower yourself into the grass, careful at first, then surrendering completely as your limbs sink into the damp earth. your curls tumble across your face, stray strands catching in the corners of your mouth, while the rest fan out beneath you—dark against the silver-lit green.

above, the moon looms heavy and round, nearly full, its light cold but comforting. it casts a glow that doesn’t warm, only reveals—peeling back shadow from the edges of the trees, tracing soft white outlines on your skin. the stars are scattered behind it like shattered glass, sharp and far and endless.

you stare upward, unblinking.

the moon’s face looks worn tonight. older. like it understands.

it hangs there not as a witness, but as a companion—quiet, distant, and impossibly close. its slow cycle feels like your own lately: always almost whole, always missing something. the stars, meanwhile, blink in and out of view, like they’re trying to keep time with the ache that’s been dragging at your chest these past few weeks.

there’s a rhythm to the sky tonight, and somehow, your sadness fits into it—neatly, effortlessly. the melancholy in you doesn’t feel like a burden out here. it feels like it belongs. like the moon carries a little of it. like the stars shoulder the rest.

for once, you don’t try to push it away.

you just feel.

behind you, the grass rustles—subtle, but enough. your body reacts before your thoughts do. you sit up sharply, curls clinging to your cheek, and turn your head toward the sound.

he’s there. remmick.

your shadow—chosen or cursed, you're not sure anymore. he stands at the edge of the clearing, half cloaked in mist, half bathed in moonlight. unmoving.

his eyes lock onto yours, unwavering, unreadable. there’s no pretense in his stance, no apology in being caught. if anything, he looks like he wanted to be seen.

waited for it.

your expression falters.

you don’t speak, but your body betrays you. your pulse picks up, quick and stupid, rushing hot beneath your skin. you feel it in your throat, your fingertips, your temples.

and still, he just watches.

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t flinch. just sees you like he always does. too well, too much.

you don’t have it in you to be mean right now and remmick senses it. senses the tension in your being, the pain in your soul. he wants to save you, take away your pain. his fangs ache inside his gums, threatening to give way. but he has control. it’s almost hypocritical how he encourages you to let loose, lose control when he keeps himself so composed around you.

he keeps his distance and for some reason it hurts you more. usually, you would’ve been glad that he hadn’t forced some unexpected affection on you but tonight is different.

“you shouldn’t be out at this hour,” remmick advises, voice low, almost teasing, “you’ve got no clue what roams around here.”

you roll your eyes and turn back around, pulling your knees to your chest, “i know you roam around here. can’t seem to leave me alone.”

he shrugs, easy and unbothered, “that much is true. still doesn’t explain why you’re out here.”

you glance up at the sky, voice softer now, “i’m stargazing. i come here sometimes when there’s… nowhere else to be.”

“you wanna tell me about it?” he asks, gently.

“about what?”

“c’mon.” his tone dips lower, not quite pitying, but knowing, “you and me both know you ain’t out here just to count stars, sweetheart.”

you don’t answer right away. the silence settles between you like a blanket—heavy, but not unkind.

“my ma wasn’t happy last night,” you begin quietly, eyes still on the stars, “kept me locked in the house all day, goin’ on and on about how i came home smellin’ like rot.”

you pause, the memory sharp in your chest.

“said it was the stench of death. somethin’ sick clingin’ to me. accused me of doin’ things i’m not supposed to. said vampires don’t mix with our kind—and there’s a reason for that.”

your voice doesn’t crack, but it’s close, “like i’ve done something wrong just by bein’ near you.”

the fog curls a little tighter around your ankles. the night doesn’t feel as quiet anymore.

“i guess she was right to assume,” you mutter, voice low and bitter, “but i don’t know why she assumed.”

you glance back at remmick, your gaze sharp despite the quiet in your tone.

“i ain’t messin’ with you. in fact, i don’t even know why you keep followin’ me around.”

you look away again, jaw tightening.

“would’ve told her the same damn thing, but…”

a humorless laugh slips out.

“i think she’d tear me apart if she knew i’ve been around a vampire this long. maybe even with her bare hands.”

the silence that follows feels like it holds its breath.

remmick shifts his weight, slow and deliberate, but he doesn’t move closer. doesn’t dare break the fragile space between you.

“i follow you ‘round ‘cause you don’t run,” he explains simply, almost like it’s obvious, “you glare, you grumble, but you don’t run. not really,” his voice softens, “and maybe i like that.”

you scoff, but it’s half-hearted, “so you’re just hangin’ around ‘cause i’m not scared of you?”

he tilts his head, eyes catching the moonlight. “you should be,” he suggests, not unkindly, “but no. that ain’t it.”

you raise an eyebrow, skeptical, “then what is it?”

he considers you for a moment, the way you hug your knees and keep your mouth sharp so nothing else slips out.

“you’re a storm bottled up,” he says finally, “and i’m just… curious what you sound like when you crack open.”

you shake your head, looking away, but your voice is softer when you answer.

“you’re playin’ a dangerous game.”

“maybe,” he murmurs, “but so are you.”

your fingers curl into the damp grass as you stare ahead, unsure whether you’re more rattled by his words or the way they settle so easily in your chest—like they’ve always belonged there. like he’s always seen more than he should.

“you don’t know nothin’ about me,” you mutter, though there’s no bite to it. not anymore. it sounds like a warning, but mostly to yourself.

remmick hums low in his throat, a quiet sound that vibrates in the night air.

“maybe not everything,” he admits, “but i know enough to tell yous carryin’ more than you let on.”

you glance at him, only briefly, and the way he’s looking at you makes your throat feel tight. steady, unflinching—like he’s not afraid of the things hiding behind your silence. like he wants to find them.

“it ain’t safe,” you say quietly, “bein’ around me.”

“funny,” he says, with a crooked smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “i told you the same thing ‘bout me many times.”

that gets a flicker of a smile out of you, unwilling and soft. it fades just as quick, but it was there. remmick catches it—and says nothing.

instead, he steps closer, slow and careful, until he’s just at the edge of your space.

“you want me to go?” he asks, voice low, real.

the question hangs in the air, honest and unpressing.

you don’t answer right away. because part of you does. and part of you really, really doesn’t.

you rise suddenly, a sharpness in your movement that startles even the stillness around you. there’s purpose in your stride as you cut across the clearing, fast and tense, your eyes locked on the ground like if you look up, something might break.

“don’t come back,” you say, firm but not loud. the words fall heavy between you, “don’t look for me. i mean it.”

you don’t glance at remmick—not once. but he watches you. watches the way your jaw tightens, the way your hands ball into fists like you’re holding something in that’s on the verge of spilling.

then your pendant flares—an obsidian throb against your chest—and pain flashes across your face. you flinch, hand flying up to clutch at it, a soft hiss of breath escaping through your teeth.

remmick steps forward instinctively, concern cracking through his stillness, but you’re already backing away. already turning.

“i mean it,” you echo, voice thinner now. and then you’re gone—disappearing into the orchard, swallowed by the mist and shadow, leaving behind nothing but the scent of wildgrass and a tension that won’t let the night settle.

remmick stays rooted where you left him, jaw clenched, hands at his sides.

and for the first time in a while—he doesn’t follow.

the orchard closes around you like a secret, branches knitting tighter overhead as you push deeper into its belly. the fog thickens, wraps around your ankles, your wrists, your throat—like it wants to keep you here, like it knows something broke back there.

you don’t let yourself cry. not yet. not for him.

the pendant still burns against your chest, a steady throb that echoes the tremble in your pulse. it’s a warning, it always is. and tonight, you listened—too late, maybe, but still.

you told him to stay away, you meant it… didn’t you?

behind you, the clearing stays silent. remmick doesn’t follow. you don’t hear his footsteps, don’t feel the way the air shifts when he’s near. and somehow, that hurts worse than if he had. worse than if he’d argued.

because it means he heard you.

and worse—it means he believed you.

somewhere beyond the trees, your home glows dim through the fog, a quiet reminder of everything you're meant to be. everything you’re not allowed to want.

and still, part of you lingers in that clearing—beside him. part of you waits.

you slip through the orchard like muscle memory, like a shadow retracing its steps. the air is colder here, closer to the edge of the property. the fog grows denser, clinging to your skin like sweat, blurring the trees into vague silhouettes. your breath comes shallow, not from fear—but from restraint.

because all you want to do is turn around.

you told him not to follow. you told him to leave you be. and he did. you should be relieved. you should feel powerful. in control… but you don’t.

you feel hollow—like you left something behind in that clearing that isn’t coming back. like maybe it never truly belonged to you in the first place.

your fingers graze your pendant, now cool against your skin. the pain has passed, but it’s left a phantom ache in its wake. like it took something from you in return.

it happens all at once—quick, sharp, merciless.

your foot catches on a gnarled root and you stumble, catching yourself on the trunk of a twisted apple tree. it groans beneath your touch, heavy with fruit that no longer ripens.

that’s when it surges.

a violent, unnatural heat erupts from the obsidian, sinking straight through your skin like a blade dipped in fire. it spreads fast—an inferno trapped beneath your ribs, licking up your throat, curling around your spine.

you gasp—or try to.

but the sound snags halfway up your windpipe, like something unseen reached down and ripped your voice out before it could escape.

your mouth opens, a desperate cry locked in the cage of your lungs. it claws at your throat, dry and rasping, but nothing comes out—just a hoarse, broken rasp that dies in the fog.

your knees hit the earth with a dull thud.

your fingers claw at the pendant, trying to tear it away, to stop whatever this is—but it won’t budge. it pulses again, harder this time, and you convulse around it, shuddering as the pain tunnels through you like it’s searching for something.

you don’t understand.

you’ve worn this pendant since you were a child. it’s always been heavy, always been strange—but it’s never hurt.

now it feels alive.

angry and hungry.

your vision blurs at the edges, fog mixing with tears, and the world tilts sideways—but you don’t fall. you just kneel, trembling, silent, and swallowed by something you can’t name.

and for a flicker of a moment, you wonder if he’s still back there—if remmick is still watching, still waiting, just beyond the veil of fog.

but he’s not. you asked for this.

so you straighten, grit your teeth, and walk the rest of the way home in tied agony.

alone.

like you were taught to, like you were supposed to.

remmick lingers just beyond the edge of the orchard, where the trees begin to thin and the manor's silhouette bleeds into the mist. the light from your room glows faintly through the conservatory windows, filtered through fog and glass. soft, amber, human.

he shouldn't be here. not this close. not after what just happened.

but he can't tear himself away.

he's leaning against the gnarled trunk of a tree, arms crossed tightly over his chest, trying to anchor himself—trying to make sense of what he felt back there in the clearing where you’d left him.

it wasn't just pain, it was memory. your memory.

and something else, buried deeper. a pulse of ancient power that recoiled from him like it knew what he was. like it despised him for it.

his throat burns with a cry that would never come.

he shuts his eyes. for a moment, he can see you crumpled in the dirt, lips parted around a scream that never made it out. he could’ve helped you, but he didn’t. remmick’s stomach churns with bile as he imagines you over and over again. he regrets it none, but your pain was shared. the pain he watched you endure in an agony of solitude. but the worst part wasn't your silence—it was your eyes.

how lost they looked. how far from yourself you'd drifted.

and now you were back inside, hidden behind brick and stained glass, surrounded by people who would never understand what really lives beneath your skin. who would hate you more if they did.

remmick exhales, slow and ragged, you ain’t the only one carryin’ somethin’ monstrous.

he runs a hand through his hair, then lets it fall to his side.

you told me not to follow, he thinks, dragging his fingertips along the bark of a young apple tree. it's soft and damp beneath the pads of his fingers—vulnerable. like skin that’s never been touched before. like you, pretending you don’t want to be seen.

but after tonight?

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, like that’ll make his his pulse pound against the walls of his ribs once more. it doesn’t.

his boots crunch through the grass and fallen petals, the orchard dense and drowsy under the weight of the full moon. he walks the path like it belongs to him, like it was carved by his own hands—and in a way, it was.

how many nights has he wandered this route to the swing? nine, maybe ten nights of longing that he hasn’t experienced in so long.

how many times has he stood beneath your window, letting you reject him in silence, letting your silhouette keep him warm?

he presses his palm flat to the next tree, breathes in the cool rot of early fruit.

“you got no clue what you’re askin’ me to do. not really,” he grins at the glow emanating from your window.

leave you alone? pretend i ain’t see the way your body curved in that light, didn’t feel the heat radiating through that cracked-open window like a heartbeat?

nah, you wan’ed me to see. you left the curtain open, the lamp on. you gave me enough to starve on, and now i’m jus’ ‘posed to pretend i’m full?

remmick laughs under his breath, but it’s bitter, sharp.

you don’t get to ask for distance and drip affection in the same breath. not with him, not when he knows the way your mouth trembles when you lie.

he reaches the swing and lets it sway as he brushes past it, hand grazing the rope.

a small part of him wants to wait here again. the faithful ghost. the shadow you can always count on to never knock, never demand—just exist at the edges of your world.

but tonight? tonight the ache is louder than the patience.

and he’s done pretending crumbs are enough.

he tilts his head, eyes flicking toward the glint of your window through the trees. your silhouette moves, just for a moment. a turn of the shoulder. the stretch of your arm. just enough.

it’s always just enough.

“you told me not to follow,” he murmurs to the dark, voice low, private, like a prayer or a promise, “but sweetheart…”

his jaw tightens.

“…after tonight, i don’t think i can stay away.”

not when you keep acting like you don’t want him there, not when everything about you says otherwise. not when he’s already so far gone, he’d burn down the whole orchard just to see your face up close.

so every night for five nights, remmick stands in the treeline—still, watchful, half-swallowed by the orchard's hush. he tells himself it's patience. restraint. a courtesy. but it isn't. not really. it's calculation.

because he wants you.

not just the glimpse you allow him—your silhouette framed in golden lamplight, the flash of your thigh as you move past the curtains, the long slope of your back when you lean over something unseen. no. he wants more. all of you.

and he plans to have it.

you think you’ve shut him out. think those words—don’t come back, don’t find me—were enough to keep him at bay. and maybe they would’ve been, if you hadn’t left the curtain drawn. if you hadn’t left the light on. if your shadow hadn’t started moving slower, more deliberate, like maybe you knew exactly where he was standing in the dark.

it’s a game now.

one you’re playing too, even if you won’t admit it.

every movement you make behind that glass, he studies like scripture. he knows the way your arms cross when you’re lost in thought. the dip of your hip when you lean on one leg. the subtle shiver in your spine when you peel off a sweat-dampened blouse.

and he imagines.

god, how he imagines.

he knows you want to be good. knows you’re holding yourself back out of loyalty or fear or guilt. that your mother’s voice is louder in your head than your own. but he also knows the way your breath hitched the last time he touched your hand. the way your voice cracked when you told him to leave.

you don’t hate him, you’re terrified of what you feel for him… and that’s all the opening he needs.

he won’t storm your door. he won’t demand. remmick’s smarter than that. he knows how to wait, how to wear down your resolve with silence and presence, the promise of heat just beyond reach. every night he lets you feel him at the edge of your world—watching, wanting, waiting.

not forever.

just long enough for your walls to crack.

because eventually, you’ll open that window. maybe just to speak, maybe just to ask why he keeps coming back. but that’ll be the start. the door he needs. and once he’s in—truly in—he won’t leave with scraps.

he’ll have the real you—the one behind the curtain, the one with the sharp tongue and aching heart, the one who trembles when touched, who burns beneath the surface.

remmick doesn’t just want your body. no, he wants the monster you keep caged, the fire you deny yourself, the truth you’re afraid to say out loud…

he’s not watching to admire; he’s watching to learn, to predict the moment you’ll break.

and when you do—when your breath stutters and your hand reaches for that latch—he’ll be ready.

because he’s not here to leave empty-handed. he’s here to take what’s already his.

the morning of the sixth day comes slow, cruel.

sunlight seeps into your room through the curtains, warm and gold, but it does nothing to soothe the fire torching in your chest.

the obsidian pulses just beneath your skin—deep and anchored to your sternum like it’s burrowed there, latched on. what began as a dull, bruising throb the night before has bloomed into a full-bodied torment.

your breath hitches with every heartbeat. your hands shake uncontrollably. you lie curled in your bed, limbs twisted in the sheets, damp with sweat—drenched, really. your nightclothes cling to your body, soaked through, your skin fever-hot but your blood feels cold.

your teeth clench as another wave hits, searing down your spine and wrapping tight around your ribs. it’s like being wrung out from the inside—like something ancient is pulling, dragging, testing. your fingers dig into the mattress, fists twisted in fabric, and you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood just to stop from screaming.

but the worst part is the stillness of the house. how no one comes.

until she does.

the door creaks open, slow and deliberate, and your mother’s silhouette fills the doorway.

she doesn’t rush to you. she doesn’t speak, not at first. you gasp, chest heaving. your vision blurs.

“mama,” you whisper, voice like gravel. your throat is raw. it hurts just to speak.

she walks in like nothing’s wrong. composed, hair pinned, face unreadable as always. she stands at the foot of your bed and folds her hands.

“you crave the uncraveable,” she notes. flat. final. with defeat.

you blink through the blur, eyes wide. your lips tremble.

“make it stop,” you rasp, “please, mama, i—i can’t—”

“yes, you can.”

your mother watches you with that same stillness she always wears when things go wrong. like she's seen this before—like she's endured it.

she doesn’t flinch when you writhe beneath the sheets, doesn’t blink at the tears slipping from the corners of your eyes or the way your hands tremble like snapped branches.

her voice is calm when it finally comes.

low. clipped. deliberate.

“this pain,” she says, “it’s not punishment. it’s temptation.”

you choke on a breath, eyes wide and wet as you clutch at your ribs, as though you could claw the stone out yourself.

“you’re yearning for something,” she goes on, “something you cannot have… and the pendant knows it. it was made to protect you. from yourself but also to keep your bloodline pure. clean.”

you groan as another bolt of fire drives down your spine, curling your toes. your muscles seize.

“this is a test of will,” she tells you, voice like steel beneath velvet, “it burns because you’re still tempted. it stops when you stop wanting.”

you whimper. you want to scream, you want to tear the obsidian from your chest and throw it out into the orchard.

but more than anything—more than escape—you know who you’re thinking of and that’s the real sickness.

your mother leans forward slightly.

“you let go of what draws you in, and the stone will quiet.”

you can’t even lift your head, can barely breathe but her words stick.

they lodge themselves into your ribs, right beside the burning stone—it stops when you stop wanting.

you don’t know whether it’s anger or sadness or indifference in her voice. maybe it’s all of them. maybe it’s none.

“this is a test,” she continues, “a test of willpower. of loyalty. you endure this, and it’ll never touch you again.”

another pulse crashes through you, sharper than before. it’s like glass grinding through bone, like your own heartbeat is trying to rip you apart.

you curl inward, fetal, fists pressed to your mouth to muffle the moan that slips out—raw, guttural, ugly.

“i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” she repeats, firmer this time.

you sob into your palms, forehead pressed to the pillow. your body jolts again, like a live wire snapping inside your muscles.

she steps forward, kneels beside the bed, but she doesn’t touch you. her hands stay folded in her lap.

“breathe through it,” your mother advises, “do not fight it. and do not let it win.”

but it is winning. it’s claiming every inch of you, every cell.

and still, you clench your teeth. sweat drips down your temple. your nails cut half-moons into your palms.

because she’s still there. watching. expecting.

and if this is the fire that forges you—you’re going to survive it. or die trying.

that night, the moon hangs like an omen—round and watching, flooding the orchard with that sickly, silver glow. the conservatory is too still, your skin hot and prickling beneath your nightclothes, the air thick like something is about to snap.

you don’t plan to go anywhere. your mother’s words still echo like a curse in your chest: endure it. it’ll pass.

but it doesn’t. the ache remains. duller now, but coiled tight behind your ribs. like it’s waiting for something.

then comes the knock. sharp, deliberate, right against the conservatory door.

you freeze.

not him. not tonight.

he knocks again.

you’re storming down the stairs before you realize, hair loose, jaw clenched, barefoot against the cold marble. you fling the door open with a snarl already caught in your throat.

“what part of leave me alone didn’t you understand?”

remmick stands in the fog, arms crossed, that usual lazy look gone. there’s tension in his jaw too—something dangerous.

“you look like hell,” he notes, instead of hello.

you glare, “you don’t get to comment on that.”

“you been locked in this damn house for nearly a week. i thought—”

“you thought wrong. you always think you know what i need.”

he steps forward, “i know that thing around your neck is killing you slowly and ain’t nobody inside that house doin’ anythin’ but watchin’.”

your hand flies to the pendant like he’s physically touched it.

“you don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snap.

“i do,” he bites, his voice rising, “i can smell the pain on you. you think your mother has all the answers? she’s feeding you fear, not healing. you’re hurtin’—”

“so what?” you shout angrily, baring your teeth like a hunted beast, “that don’t mean i want you to fix it. why do you even care? why do you keep showin’ up like i asked for this?”

he goes still. then, low and sharp: “‘cause i can’t stay away.”

you flinch like he’s struck you. your chest seizes and the pendant pulses.

“i never wanted you here!” you scream, stepping out onto the stone patio, “you ruin everything. i was fine before you—”

he grabs your wrist. not hard, just enough to stop you, “don’t you walk away from me like this, screamin’ at me like i ain’t mean shit to you,” he demands, his voice rough now, “you ain’t thinking straight—”

you yank your arm back, your face flushed with fury. your mind is overflowing with the pain of your pendant and your father’s warnings and the control your mother has over you with her judgement and the feelings you don’t want to have for remmick. it makes you sick and dizzy and you almost feel like you’re playing tug of war but in this case, you are the rope.

you slip on the slick stone step and you stumble forwards.

remmick reaches for you, but you’re already going down—knee smacks the step, elbow grates the edge. your chest hits the bottom step with a jolt, and the pendant—crack.

the sound is sickening.

the obsidian splits beneath you.

you don’t even have time to react before a heat erupts from the stone like it’s been holding in the sun. your back arches upwards, a scream caught in your throat—but it doesn’t come out. nothing does. your voice is swallowed, choked, crushed by invisible hands.

remmick’s voice reaches through the haze, distant and warped, yelling your name like it’s the only thing that matters.

you don’t respond… you can’t.

the moon slips through the clouds, casting silver light across the patio. it lands on your hunched form like a spotlight, exposing every tremble, every shallow breath. remmick stands still, watching you—concern etched deep into his face. there’s fear in his eyes now, not of you, but for you. because whatever this is, it isn’t normal. it isn’t right. and it’s getting worse.

remmick hears you grunt, a guttural sound torn from deep inside—like you’re fighting to hold back vomit. your body convulses violently, heaving and gasping for air that won’t come. then, a scream rips free, a sound so raw, so pure in its torment, it pierces the night: pure excruciation.

your back arches sharply, ripping through your nightgown with a sound like tearing flesh. bones crack and snap, shifting and stretching in impossible ways—longer, thinner, grimly warped. muscles strain, stretched tight across exposed bone, sinew twisting and coiling like dark cords. tufts of coarse hair sprout wildly, but barely mask the unnatural, writhing changes beneath your skin.

remmick’s stomach churns violently, a sickness foreign and fierce overtaking him. he’s seen centuries of horror, but never this—a primal, unsettling transformation that twists his gut with nausea.

and then it’s done.

you rise—towering now, nearly two feet taller. your jaw unhinges grotesquely, stretching wide to reveal jagged rows of yellowed, broken teeth, uneven and sharp, glistening with thick, viscous drool that drips in slow, heavy globs. the sight is monstrous, raw, terrifying—and utterly alive.

and in some sick, twisted way, he believes you are more beautiful than ever—raw and untamed, stripped of every mask and pretense. here you stand, pure and primal, a creature shaped by the night itself. a powerful beast, fierce and wild, born to rule the darkness.

it’s tense as you lean down, your snarl curling into something more guttural, masking the growl clawing up your throat. drool spills freely now, thick and glistening—years of suppressing your true self have left you starved, feral, aching to give in to instinct.

remmick doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t run.

he just gazes up at you like a man witnessing a god—wide-eyed, awestruck, the stars reflected in his pupils. his lips part, a faux breath caught somewhere deep, but nothing comes out. no warmth, no fog in the air. just stillness. a reminder that he is inhuman.

now you are both raw—bare as bones, pure as sin.

your snout twitches. you inhale sharply, deeply, catching a scent far richer, far more alluring than the vampire before you. your gaze cuts toward the orchard, nostrils flaring. something delicate waits out there—something trembling, alive.

you pull back, your heavy limbs tense with anticipation.

remmick watches, dazed, as you leap forward—claws slicing into the damp grass, propelling your massive form into the dark. you vanish between the trees, the sound of your stride echoing long after the orchard swallows you whole.

and it seems the commotion has stirred the manor—its old bones creaking with sudden life. the first to burst through the doors are your aunt talia and uncle, faces drawn tight in alarm. remmick recognizes the names; you’d mentioned them once, maybe twice, in passing.

talia storms forward, eyes blazing, her nostrils flared and fists clenched at her sides like she’s ready to strike the night itself. her voice cuts through the dark, sharp and commanding—“lucius, get roxanne. now.”

lucius hesitates only for a breath before disappearing back into the house.

and then—more footsteps. faster, heavier. your mother and father rush into the scene, breathless, disheveled. your mother’s eyes go straight to the torn fabric on the patio and the broken pieces of obsidian that glint faintly in the moonlight. your father scans the orchard, hand instinctively going to the blade tucked at his hip.

remmick doesn’t move. he stays rooted in the shadows behind the wall, watching them all with a gaze like ice—unblinking, unreadable. waiting.

roxanne steps in fast, her expression unreadable but her pace all urgency. talia’s already waiting, pacing in place like a caged animal.

“that damn vampire,” talia spits the moment their eyes meet, voice low and sharp, “i knew he was trouble the second she started acting strange.”

roxanne doesn’t immediately reply—just scans the mess: the snapped twigs, the broken pendant, the churned-up ground.

“you think he did this?” she asks quietly, but there’s no softness in her tone.

talia scoffs, “please. you know what he is. even if he didn’t cause it, he’s the reason she’s rebelling.”

roxanne exhales through her nose, slow, “no. not rebelling. changing.”

talia whirls on her, “don’t get poetic with me, rox. she was fine before he came around.”

roxanne’s eyes flick to the darkened orchard. she doesn’t respond. remmick hears her coo at the younger children before telling the older children to get the others to bed.

remmick swallows hard, “fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers tugging at the roots. he doesn’t want to intervene—not yet—but the urge claws at him. it’s not about heroism or guilt. it’s control. it’s instinct. it’s her.

and whether she wants him there or not, he knows it’s better if he keeps watch. keeps close. just in case.

the town had no warning. no omen. just blood.

you moved through the fields first—silent and low. the livestock never stood a chance. sheep were torn open like paper dolls, cattle gutted clean down the middle. the ground drank it all, soaking up the red until the grass bowed under the weight of it.

your eyes glowed—something between amber and hellfire—as you prowled through smoke rising from barns now caved in.

remmick watched from the edge of the treeline, still as the trees around him, his chest rising and falling with something close to awe, close to grief.

he should’ve stopped you. gods, he should’ve.

but he couldn’t bring himself to.

not when you looked so alive.

you hunted with purpose, with rage buried so deep it poured out of you in snarls and ragged breaths. you didn’t pause. didn’t question. a horse kicked and ran; you dragged it back down. chickens fluttered, feathers floating like snow in your wake.

a man stepped outside with a lantern. your head snapped in his direction. he didn’t even scream.

remmick looked away only once—when the crunch of bone echoed too loud, too final—and by the time he looked back, you were already gone again.

just red footprints and silence.

he hears the crash before he sees it—the sickening sound of wood splintering and glass shattering. screams cut through the night air, frantic and raw, echoing from inside the house. somewhere a dog barks wildly, sharp and desperate, but then it whimpers, trailing off into silence.

then you burst through the broken doorway, wild and untamed, dripping with thick, dark blood. it clings to your skin and fur, slick and heavy, pooling at your feet with every step you take. your breath is ragged, muscles tense and ready to spring again.

remmick’s eyes narrow as he watches you, every inch of you fierce and raw under the moonlight. without a word, he whistles—a low, teasing sound that cuts through the chaos.

you turn, a flash of hunger and madness in your eyes, and with a snarl. remmick watches you for a moment, chest tightening with a strange mix of dread and exhilaration. the cold night air bites at his skin, carrying the sharp scent of crushed grass and blood that clings to you. faint sounds of splintered wood and distant, fading screams hang in the air, but all he can focus on is the wild pulse of your movements. the moonlight glints off your claws, wet and gleaming. then suddenly, you spring forward, muscles coiling and releasing with raw power, and remmick feels the thrill ripple through him as you peel after him into the orchard, the chase igniting beneath the stars.

remmick jogs slowly, purposely letting the distance between you grow. the rhythm of his footsteps shifts, becoming heavier, deliberate, almost inviting. beneath the tangled branches of an ancient oak, he stops completely, body tense but still—waiting. his chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths, masking the hunger that pulses beneath his skin. the cool night air presses against him, but his focus is fixed on the sharp snap of twigs behind him—your approach.

then, with a sudden, feral burst, you pounce, claws digging into his shoulders, teeth bared in a wild snarl. remmick catches your weight, grinning despite the sting of your claws, eyes dark with longing. he doesn’t struggle; instead, he thrusts his head forward, sinking his teeth into the tender skin of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you whimper—a sharp, startled sound that ripples through the night air. but before he can linger, you smack him away, fierce and sudden, breaking free with a flash of movement. you scramble off, claws scraping against the earth, breath ragged as you vanish into the shadows, leaving him grinning—half frustrated, half exhilarated—still craving more.

he finds you face down in the field, the first pale light of dawn just brushing the horizon. your skin is bare, smeared with blood—crimson against the pale frost that clings to the grass beneath your trembling fingers. despite everything, you look raw, untamed, and hauntingly natural, as if this wildness is your true form. slowly, you lift your head, eyes meeting remmick’s. he’s standing over you, a crooked smile playing on his lips, full of something like admiration and something darker, something that makes the air between you crackle with unspoken promises.

your eyes are heavy with exhaustion as your fingers trace the tender wound on your neck, “you bit me..” you whisper.

remmick nods, a small smirk tugging at his lips, “yeah, vampire bites act like werewolf neutralizers. funny how that works, huh? shoulda just told me from the get-go, but…” his voice trails off, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something softer beneath.

“i thought you was breathtaking tonight,” he murmurs, the words a quiet play on the night’s violence and your fragile beauty. you laugh through tears, then break, sobbing harder as the weight of the lives you took settles over you.

he lowers himself to his knees, fingers petting down your tangled hair. your face twists with anguish—he knows you feel stained, broken.

remmick moves quickly, pulling you into his lap, his voice soft and steady as he soothes you, “there’s nothin’ to be ashamed of. you’re okay.”

you shake your head fiercely, voice trembling, “i killed people, remmick. that’s not okay.”

he holds you tighter, eyes fierce but tender, “this is whatcha are. you can’t help that… and you looked so free, nothin’ holdin’ you back, the best version of yourself.”

remmick wipes your tears, “ain’t nothin’ wrong with you.”

you nod slowly, a shaky smile breaking through your tears, the rawness of the night still clinging to your skin. remmick’s hands cup your face gently, thumbs tracing the damp trails your tears have left, grounding you in the moment.

his eyes glint with something fierce yet tender, an unspoken promise of acceptance and understanding. the world outside disappears—it’s just the two of you, bound by something deeper than fear or pain.

your breath mingles, shallow and uneven, as you lean into him, the warmth of his cold body strangely comforting against the chill in your bones. for a moment, the chaos fades, replaced by the quiet, electric charge of being so close, wrapped in a silence that speaks louder than words.

his lips press against yours, but it’s not just a kiss—it’s something darker, more primal. remmick’s tongue slips inside your mouth, tasting the blood that lingers there, lapping it up like a thirst long denied. every movement feels hungry, possessive, like he’s consuming you piece by piece—not just your blood, but your very soul. you shiver beneath him, caught in the fierce intimacy of it, the way he devours you with his mouth, claiming you in a way no words ever could. it’s raw, intense, and somehow painfully tender all at once.

remmick’s hands roam from your hair down to the curve of your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no space left between you. his lips part, brushing yours with a hunger that’s been smoldering too long, and you respond with equal fire—pressing your body against his, tasting the sharp, intoxicating heat of him. every kiss is deeper, more desperate, like you’re both trying to memorize the other, to hold on through the chaos inside and out. his touch sets your skin ablaze, fingers tracing every inch, igniting a fire you didn’t know you had. breaths hitch, hearts race—though his doesn’t beat—and the world fades, leaving only the wild, aching connection binding you both.

remmick slides you gently from his lap onto the cool grass, the early morning wrapping around you both like a secret. he brushes a soft kiss to your lips—delicate, a quiet promise—before his mouth trails down your skin, each kiss deeper, more urgent. he sucks softly, reverently, as if memorizing every inch of you, worshipping your body in the tender darkness. the world falls away until there’s only the heat of him, the pulse beneath your skin, and the breathless connection binding you close.

remmick moves like a slow bloom unfurling under the dawn’s soft light, petals parting one by one with deliberate grace.

his lips trace the curve of your skin like dew settling on fragile blossoms, sending shivers like whispers through your veins. goosebumps rise like tiny buds swelling beneath his touch, a dark promise flashing like thorns beneath velvet petals.

with reverent hunger, his mouth explores you—each kiss a tender petal brushing against delicate skin, each lick a slow dance of nectar and desire.

you are the flower, opening to his devotion, each gasp a petal trembling in the morning breeze, every shiver a blossom swaying in the heat of the sun. his hands roam possessively, like vines curling and clasping, drawing you ever closer into his embrace.

beneath the stars, you are both wild garden and sacred ritual, blooming fiercely into the night, petals drenched in euphoria.

waves of pleasure unfurl inside you like a sudden burst of color, fireworks blossoming behind your eyes. your cries are the song of blooming petals tearing free from the bud, soft moans and desperate gasps unfolding like fragrant blossoms bursting open in the heat.

your hands claw the earth, roots digging deep as your body twists and curves in pure, untamed bloom. every flick of his tongue, every brush of his lips is a gentle caress of pollen on petals, igniting sparks that bloom like wildfires in your veins.

as the tension builds, the flower’s pistil pulses—stamen trembling, petals ready to burst—then, with a shudder like the first rain after a drought, you erupt into a dazzling bloom, white-hot and radiant, your cries the fragrance carried on the wind.

he holds you steady, vines wrapped possessively around the fragile bloom, as you ride the wild storm of blossoming fire—lost in the beauty of becoming, wild and free.

your breath quickens, shallow and ragged, chest rising and falling with desperate urgency. the heat pools deep between your thighs, spreading in wild, insistent waves that make your skin tingle, your senses sharpen.

your fingers clutch at his hair tighter, nails digging in, desperate to anchor yourself as the pressure builds unbearably, every nerve screaming in delicious torment.

the world fades until all you feel is the ache, the need, the rush of sensation exploding inside you—a crescendo that promises to break you open completely.

and just as you’re about to cum again, just as you tilt over the edge remmick pulls away, eyes glossed over, faded with want.

remmick lingers close, his breath warm against your skin, eyes searching yours for the faintest hesitation.

“you sure?” he murmurs, voice low and tender, almost fragile. you nod, chest rising and falling with a desperate urgency.

“yes,” you whisper, voice trembling—not with fear, but with need.

he pauses, fingertips brushing your cheek softly, savoring the moment before finally closing the distance. it’s slow, deliberate—a tender claim wrapped in raw desire.

he pauses, fingertips brushing your cheek softly, savoring the moment before finally closing the distance. it’s slow, deliberate—a tender claim wrapped in raw desire.

the world narrows until there’s only the two of you, the silent promise between gasps and trembling hands. he moves with a careful reverence, every touch gentle yet filled with an aching hunger.

his hands slide along your sides, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

your breath hitches as he lowers himself, lips tracing a path over your collarbone, down to where your skin burns beneath his touch.

“i’m here,” he whispers, voice rough and full of need, waiting for you—wanting you to feel safe, wanted, desperate like him.

when you nod again, wordless and sure, he enters you slowly, carefully, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. the world falls away with every shared breath and every pulse of closeness, the moment raw and fragile and utterly consuming.

he stays gentle but fierce, moving with a steady rhythm that speaks of both passion and reverence—of a connection neither of you can deny.

his hands cup your face firmly, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as his fingers trace the sharp line of your jaw with deliberate tenderness.

he leans in slowly, lips parting before crashing onto yours in a fierce, searing kiss that steals your breath. the heat of his mouth is intoxicating—hungry and possessive—melding with the softness of yours, a storm of fire and silk.

your bodies press tighter together, his chest warm and steady against you, every pulse and shiver sending sparks through your veins. the world shrinks until only the slick slide of his tongue, the rough scrape of his stubble, and the desperate gasps you share remain—each breath, each sigh, each whispered name weaving you deeper into a suspended moment of raw, aching desire.

he moves with deliberate patience, matching your desperation—slow, steady, each stroke tightening the coil of tension between you both until it’s raw, pulsing, unrelenting.

your hands claw at his back, nails digging deep into muscle and skin, desperate for something solid to hold onto amid the raging storm inside you. every thrust sends sparks shooting through your core, breath hitching, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest.

then, breaking through the mounting pressure, you cry out—voice trembling with a fierce mix of pleasure and anguish. hot tears spill down your cheeks, salt mingling with the sweat slicking your skin, as waves of ecstasy crash against the sharp sting of guilt: the bitter weight of betraying your family cuts through the haze, but beneath it all, the fire he’s ignited inside you burns too fierce to resist.

trembling and undone, you surrender completely—naked, vulnerable, and fiercely alive—in the fierce, consuming heat of his arms.

the storm inside you finally settles, leaving a calm so deep it feels almost unreal. your breath slows, your body still humming with warmth as the tension unwinds from every muscle.

your eyes flutter open, and for a heartbeat, you see two versions of remmick—one close, smiling gently with quiet satisfaction, and another, faint and distant, like a shadow lingering just beyond the edges of your vision. your gaze drifts away, far off into a place only you can see, and remmick catches that look—the one filled with a thousand unspoken thoughts.

your eyes flutter open, and for a heartbeat, you see two versions of remmick—one close, smiling gently with quiet satisfaction, and another, faint and distant, like a shadow lingering just beyond the edges of your vision. your gaze drifts away, far off into a place only you can see, and remmick catches that look—the one filled with a thousand unspoken thoughts.

he smiles tenderly, understanding without words, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face as if to anchor you back. in that soft, fragile moment, everything else fades—the world, the pain, the fear—and all that remains is the quiet promise held in his eyes and the gentle pulse of your shared breath.

you walk through the orchard, the dawn just peeking over the horizon, painting the sky with soft pink and gold. you’re wrapped in remmick’s too-big button-up, sleeves hanging past your hands, and he’s shirtless beside you, cool morning air kissing his skin. everything’s quiet, like the world’s holding its breath just for you two.

he breaks the hush, voice low and steady, “ain’t gonna be easy, you know that. your kin—they won’t take it gentle. they’ll make it hard as hell.”

you pull the shirt tighter, shivering but steady, “i know. but we’ll get through it. no matter what. together.”

he takes your hand in his, fingers lacing easy and sure, like home, “i know you’re tougher than anythin’ they throw at you. i ain’t givin’ you up.”

you squeeze back, heart thumping, feeling that wild hope in his touch, “then we face it all. come hell or high water.”

he kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering, “tha’s my girl,” he smiles into your hair, voice rough with something tender beneath the edge, “ain’t no storm gonna break us.”

you lean your head on his bare shoulder, breath mingling with his, the orchard waking around you—the scent of dew, the distant call of a waking bird, “we got each other,” you whisper, “and that’s all that matters.”

he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close, like he’s holding the whole world in that one embrace, “just you ‘n me, darlin’. nothin’ else matters.”

[swearimnevergivingup]

HOLD ME GENTLY WHILE I FALL - suguru x reader (nsfw)

sypnosis: you should close the door. you know you should. but it’s late at night, your bones ache, your eyes weary, and you’ve just buried another colleague last weekend. another loss. another closed casket funeral, with no body to even mourn. harder missions that take everything from you and still demand more. and through it all, the emptiness that gnaws at you seems to only grow with each passing day.  so when the ghost of the boy you loved and lost appears in front of you for the first time in years, you can’t find it in you to shut the door on him. 

content: suguru geto/reader, porn with plot, smut, explicit content, mentions of suicidal ideation, angst with happy ending, tw: themes of grief and loss, the jujutsu world is fucked up!!! and dear reader is at her breaking point (4.3k words)

a/n: okay i disappeared from this site for a long time but i came back to drop this. i'm pretty happy with how it turned out, please do let me know what you think! <3

You’re just about to turn off the kitchen light when you feel it.

A flicker of cursed energy. Unmistakable.

Your heart stalls.

You wouldn’t have believed your senses at first, but it’s a signature you know as intimately as your own. Deep and familiar, like the ache carved in your bones after he left.

Geto Suguru is at your door.

Fear seizes you before you can think of anything else. You’ve had nightmares about it before. That he’d only turn up at your door, bloody and bruised, collapsing at your feet. Afraid that the only way you’d get to see him again is when he’s nothing but a cold body.

You’re walking towards his presence before you can stop yourself, fingers already reaching for the handle. All rational thought dissolves, commandeered by a rush of pure instinct – fear, dread, worry, longing. Tangled together, and pulling you forward.

You yank open the door without thinking, wide-eyed and bracing yourself for whatever might be on the other side. There’s no plan and no restraint, consumed only by the fear that he might be dying at your doorstep.

Instantly, you scan his body for signs of injury. 

But he’s completely fine. He’s fine. 

Suguru's hair is longer now, loosely tied up in a half bun. His boyish features certainly hardened up over the years, standing a little taller than you remembered, his shoulders broader and his muscles more defined. There’s an air of something heavy about him, but it’s undeniably still him. 

Relief washes over you just as the reality of what you're doing dawns upon you. Alive and breathing, and you’ve just opened your door for the most wanted man in the Jujutsu world. 

 “Y-you aren’t supposed to be here,” you warn, though your voice trembles. Small, fragile, like it belongs to a timid little girl, brandishing a weapon she’s too afraid to use. 

“I know.” Suguru’s voice is soft as he studies you. You can’t help but feel so small under the weight of his gaze as he takes the sight of you in.

“I wanted to see you, though.”

Your throat feels tight, and your stomach churns. 

Geto Suguru is a danger to society. If seen, he is to be executed on sight.

You should fight. That’s what they would want. Or maybe you should run. At the very least, you should shut your door. But you simply stand frozen. 

The lights in the hallway flicker as he inches a step closer. 

Instantly, your cursed energy crackles and roars, like oil set aflame, betraying your emotions. Your fingers twitch. Your heart thumps wildly in your chest. You clutch the door tighter, and tighter yet, trying to steady yourself.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asks quietly.

For a moment, he almost sounds… hurt.

“I don’t know, Suguru.” Your voice is barely a whisper now. “Should I be?”

His face twists into something pained, something raw. Then he looks away, exhaling softly. 

“I would never hurt you. Surely you know that. I just want to talk.”

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

You should close the door. You know you should. But it’s late at night, your bones ache, your eyes weary, and you’ve just buried another colleague last weekend. 

Another loss. Another closed casket funeral, with no body to even mourn. Harder missions that take everything from you and still demand more. And through it all, the emptiness that gnaws at you seems to only grow with each passing day. 

So when the ghost of the boy you loved and lost appears in front of you for the first time in years, you can’t find it in you to shut the door on him. 

(— Sometimes, you desperately wanted to be 16 again, to be standing at the beginning of something blooming between the two of you. Futures unwritten, at the edge of something you would only recognise later as love.

You remember the girl you were back then, your voice quivering, thin and high, stammering a confession into the dark, wild heartbeat only stilled by the feeling of his warm lips pressing a kiss to your cheek.  

Fooling around in empty classrooms and after missions, his hand up your skirt, your fingers tangled in his hair. Practising sparring only to end up pinned under him, all rough and wild as you moaned into his mouth. The stumbling beginnings of young love neither of you knew how to name.

It was messy too, as often happens when the threads of friendship and romantic relationships intertwine. You would flirt with Satoru, teasing touches and laughing too loudly at his jokes, just to revel in the way Suguru’s jaw would tighten at the sight. He would retaliate in kind too, letting girls hang off his shoulder at school, glancing over to watch the poorly concealed jealousy on your face.

Back when grief wasn’t a familiar friend, when it didn’t linger around the hallways of the morgue with its ashy hands around your throat. You hadn’t been acquainted with loss then, when your reverse cursed technique was for healing up scraps and bruises and not broken bones and limbs barely hanging from their bodies.)

Your hands tremble when you shut the door behind you. There’s no comprehending this situation. 

For years, you had pretended he was dead. It was far simpler that way — to grieve a dead man rather than accept the reality.

It became easier after some time. You’d only seen his face, or the blurry outline of it, through grainy surveillance footage and hastily snapped shots from informants over the years. It became easier to pretend that such a man, a figure cloaked in monk robes, with hair far longer than your Suguru, was someone different. A stranger.

(—It was some time ago that you realised you had forgotten the sound of his voice. You didn’t think that much time had passed at all, but you couldn’t summon it, couldn’t recall the fondness in his voice when he said your name or the cadence of his laugh, no matter how hard you tried.

The grief hit harder than any curse. Your body wracked with sobs as you sat on the bathroom floor, clutching your chest as you mourned him all over again.)

“It’s a nice place,” Suguru comments quietly. He’s stepping further into your space, fingers trailing over the photo frames lining the wall as he looks around your small apartment. “Cosy. I like it.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say again breathily, as if repeating yourself could somehow undo your decision.

You watch as he takes a seat on your couch. You stay rooted to the door, back straight, mouth dry. Almost transfixed at the sight of him. 

Alive. 

“How have you been?” 

“I’m fine,” you reply curtly. You have your guard up. He can’t fault you for that.

“You don’t seem fine. When’s the last time you had a full night's sleep?”

You scoff lightly at that. “Do any of us sleep well anymore?” 

Suguru shifts forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. He watches you for a long, quiet moment before he speaks again. 

“I’m asking about you.”

“Suguru- I- What?” you ask in exasperation. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

There’s an unreadable expression on his face when he looks back up at you. 

When he doesn’t reply immediately, you continue. “You can’t just- just show up here- when I haven’t seen you in two years- and ask me how i’m doing like nothing happened-”

“…I saw you on that bridge last night.”

A tightness grips your chest. 

“What?” you breathe, fast and sharp. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

There’s really no point denying it, the pure shock on your face being admittance enough, but you pull away, crossing your arms in front of you defensively.

“I was out trying to absorb a curse,” he says slowly, eyeing you knowingly. “A little close to Jujutsu Tech for my liking, but eh, a special grade curse like that one was worth the risk. I thought my eyes were deceiving me at first, but your cursed energy was unmistakable.”

You swallow hard, refusing to meet his gaze. 

“You were sitting there, on the edge of that bridge. Crying and looking like you had given up on everything,” he continues, voice strained. “For one fucking moment I thought you were going to j—”

“I don’t know what you saw,” you cut him off harshly, eyes narrowed. “But it’s not what you’re thinking. If you’ve come here because of some misguided sense of obligation, or guilt, or whatever— just don’t. I don’t need it.”

“Obligation?” Suguru repeats incredulously, furrowing his eyebrows like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “You don’t know how worried I was. You really think I only came because of-” he stops himself and lets out a tight exhale. 

He says nothing, just quietly studies the look on your face. The silence stretches on, and you shift under the weight of his gaze. You wish there were somewhere to run.

“It doesn’t matter what it was. I don’t need an explanation,” he says finally. “You don’t owe me one, either.”

“Then- then what?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Suguru says softly. “That’s why I came.”

“So? he asks. Gently, patiently. “Are you?” 

You’re taken aback by his unexpected question. No one has asked you that in a long time. You don’t know what to say.

That’s one thing about Suguru you’ve always liked. A quiet observer. Eyes that always saw too much, and yet he always knew when to push back and when to stay still. Someone who never demanded anything more than what you were ready to give.

You could lie to him, then maybe he would go away, and you could pretend this was all part of a bad dream. But there’s something so disarming about the way he’s looking at you - you’ve found yourself at the receiving end of his sensitivity again, and perhaps it cracks open something raw inside of you. Some part of you that’s been dying to be honest with someone, desperate to be seen and heard.

Some part of you thinks he might be the only one who understands.

“...I don’t know.” 

Lately, you’ve started feeling like you’re the problem. Too emotional for a Jujutsu sorcerer. Too soft, unable to simply swallow down your grief, unable to detach from the misery of it all. 

You didn’t know what you were doing on that bridge last night either. You had found yourself there after a difficult mission, feeling emptier than ever before. Your legs had carried you to that spot before you were even fully aware of it. And then you were climbing the railing, staring down below at the vastness of the water, illuminated only by the moonlight. 

“I wasn’t planning to jump, alright? I’m not- I didn’t- that wasn’t it.”

He nods once, but stays silent. Listening.

“I was just tired,” you mutter defeatedly. “Tired, and looking for a way out.”

You’ve always thought it was silly to call this a job. Being a sorcerer, taking down curses, the Jujutsu world - it’s all you’ve ever known. There’s no clocking out, no weekends off. Instead, there are violent fates and grisly ends. Names too young to be carved on tombstones.

The guilt you feel is unfathomable.

The future laid out for you is inescapable.

The cursed technique you wield isn’t a gift. It’s a life sentence.

If you can’t see an out, it’s only because you’ve never known anything else.

“Sometimes… I just wish I could run away from it all,” you whisper. You taste the words on your tongue, and it feels like a sin to have spoken at all. “Turn my back on this stupid Jujutsu world.”

You let out a shaky exhale. You’ve never admitted that to anyone out loud before. You hadn’t meant for the words to spill out of your mouth, but you find yourself unable to stop yourself now.

All this time, not a word or whisper from him and yet you’d somehow found yourself thinking that maybe you finally understood what it felt like to be in his shoes. To make the choices he did. To be familiar with the darkness that festers in the pit of your stomach, an all-consuming rot. To hold the kind of grief that turns to indescribable rage when no one’s looking.

Back when Suguru defected, you yearned to make sense of why it all happened. Why things unfolded the way they did. You couldn’t fathom the choices he had made. Now, you think you face the same desperation he must have felt back then. Somewhere along the way, that longing for Suguru had grown into something that looked like understanding.

“Suguru,” your voice cracks, and your eyes burn. “It’s just- It’s just– There’s only one of me. There’s only so many of us.”

Giving up your lives for a completely fruitless sacrifice. Like trying to stop the sun from rising or the world from spinning.

There’s a brief flash of surprise across Suguru’s features. Like maybe he hadn’t expected you to say that. 

He doesn’t say anything at first. Then, he rises from his seat, crossing the distance in your tiny apartment towards where you’re standing. Gingerly, his hand comes to rest against your cheek, brushing away a stray tear you hadn’t realised had fallen. 

You lean into his touch, letting yourself indulge, if only for a moment, in the warmth of his hand that radiates on your skin. “Is that- Is that… what it felt like for you? Back then.” You say it like it’s a plea.

Tell me I'm not going crazy. 

Tell me you understand. 

“I think so, yeah.” He laughs quietly, looking away. “It felt like I was drowning. I was tired of fighting a losing battle. Of feeling like sorcerers like me and you are—”

“—Expendable,” you finish for him.

“Yeah,” he says bitterly. “And what’s the purpose in that?”

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. It's two heavy words, a placeholder for everything else you don't know how to say. You hate that he felt that way, all alone. You hate that you’ve come to empathise with the same decisions you would’ve once been horrified at.

“Don’t be. It isn’t your fault. None of it was.”

There’s hesitation before he speaks again. “I should be the one saying sorry… for everything. For leaving you like that.”

(— You think back to the last kiss you pressed to his lips before he left for that fateful mission. There were three heavy words hanging off the tip of your tongue, but you had been way too shy back then. You hadn’t wanted to be the first one who said it. Suguru was drifting away then, and you had seen it. You thought maybe that would have been enough to get him to let you in.

“Hm? Did you say something?”

“It’s nothing. Come back soon.”)

I love you.

But love wouldn’t have been enough to change anything. You know that more than ever now.

More tears reach your eyes, and you raise your hand to rub at your face, flustered. Even though you knew you would have been powerless to stop him from leaving, the guilt had still consumed you for a long time. You hadn’t realised how badly you needed to hear that.

How badly you wanted to see him again.

There’s silence for a few minutes as he soothes you, letting you wet his shirt sleeves with your tears. He only pulls you in tighter when you sniffle loudly, the overwhelming sense of helplessness biting at you. His presence is the only thing that drowns it all out. 

The truth is, you’ve never stopped craving his comfort.

You can’t help but think about all the time lost. All the time you could’ve been spending with him, instead of just missing him. 

“Thank you,” Suguru murmurs after a while. “For letting me in. I didn’t think you would have wanted to see me, but I was trying my luck”

“How could I not have wanted to see you?”

I waited for you every day. 

I searched for you in my dreams. 

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “I wouldn’t blame you either. Besides, your place wasn’t exactly easy to find.”

It’s true - in the weeks and months after Suguru’s defection, the higher-ups had been in uproar, afraid he would somehow come and convince you to join him. A special-grade and a promising first-grade sorcerer joining hands was a possibility they had to shut down at all costs. They had you moving from place to place every so often, calling it a “precautionary measure”.

“That wasn’t by choice,” you mutter. In 2 years alone, you’ve been sent to countless cities and made to move apartments 9 times. Never allowed to stay in one place for too long. Someone’s watchful eyes always on you. 

“I did try to keep my eye on you here and there, though.” He gives you a teasing grin. Trying to lighten the mood. “Saw you on your birthday last year. Pretty dress. You looked cute.”

“What?” You splutter incredulously.

He shrugs. “I just figured you’d be celebrating it at that old izakaya you like. And I was right.”

And then more quietly this time, he adds, “I just missed you. Wanted to see how you were doing. You looked happy. I was glad.”

You blink rapidly and look away, feeling your face heat up. He‘s been looking for you? 

Your last birthday was the most miserable one ever, but you don’t tell him that. You had come home and cried your eyes out on the couch, feeling like you’d never be able to get over the pain of losing him. You only liked that izakaya place because of him, anyway.

“You missed me?” you repeat, hanging onto that word.

“I miss you,” he corrects, his voice low. “Present tense.” He’s looking at you with those eyes again, scanning your face for your reaction. 

You feel your heart pounding faster than it did when you saw him at your door.

As teenagers, you were a timid thing. Too restrained, a little insecure of yourself, and always waiting for Suguru to initiate something instead. He’d steal you away to make out with you, or sneak into your dorm room at night, and you would gladly let yourself get swept up by it. But you were always waiting for him to make a move first, far too doubtful of yourself and of whatever existed between the two of you.

When Suguru left, you regretted everything. Regretted not telling him you love him, as if that would have been enough to hold him from breaking. Regretted not being more forward with your feelings, for not having the courage to try and peel back his layers. 

This time, you don’t hold back when you lean in to kiss him. 

Suguru’s eyes widen at your boldness, but his response is instantaneous, hands moving to the back of your neck as he kisses you back fervently. You’re unsteady at first, but quickly find yourself desperate as you moan into his mouth, pawing at his shirt, his arms, then his abs, as his fingers tangle in your hair. 

How is he here? You can’t believe you’re touching him. That he’s even in front of you at all. 

“You’re really here,” you whisper, leaning to rest your forehead against his. Relief washes over you as you take him in again. Relishing the feeling of his lips on yours. The warmth of his touch and the smell of his skin. “I missed you, I missed you so fucking much.”

For a moment you’re unsure if you should hold him tighter so he may never slip past your fingers again or let him ago lest he shatters like glass by the force of your touch. You know for certain that if love had been enough, he would have never left your side.

"I'm here," he murmurs, right as he brings a hand to your cheek, wiping away a stray tear that slipped out. "I'm here now."

 “I- I- I had to pretend you were dead. I couldn’t take the uncertainty. I couldn’t take not knowing who you were anymore, not knowing if you were hurt, if you were okay—” you stammer. Your words spill out in a rush, bitter tears welling up in your eyes once more.

“You know me,” he breathes, with certainty in his eyes. He kisses your forehead. “Only you know me.”

You know me. 

You know me. 

Your heart sings with the joy of being next to him again. 

Over the years, there were so many things you wanted to tell him. You wanted to complain at times, about the most mundane problems, things like my favourite onigiri was sold out at the combini today, or I didn’t get the haircut I wanted at the shop. You wanted to pout, to cry in his arms, to have him kiss your forehead after a bad day.

And then there were the bigger things, things that weighed down your chest at night — things like one of the kids I’m in charge of was sent to fight a first-grade curse all alone and nearly died. I’m empty without you. I’m so afraid I’ll never be whole ever again.

You wanted to ask him questions too, like did you sleep okay? What did you have for lunch? Absorb anything cool you could show me? You’d never been interested in competition, simply fascinated by his technique. By how his mind worked.

By him.

You’ve never stopped wanting to be his.

You stumble towards the couch together, exchange messy, desperate kisses. Suguru pulls you onto his lap so you’re straddling him, another hand settling on your waist as you grind down on him. He’s intentionally letting you set the pace, slowing down so you can take charge.

“This is- ah- all very unlike you.”

“I’ve changed,” you whisper back resolutely.

“Is that so?” he teases. “I’ll have to take my time and find out how.” 

Suguru’s hand finds its way up under your shirt, and your breath hitches when he unhooks your bra easily. It’s hard to contain your sounds as he cups your breasts, brushing his fingers over your hardened nipples. It’s been so long since you’ve been touched that you find yourself practically shaking from the stimulation, your movements stilled.

“You’re so sensitive,” he groans. “My pretty girl.”

It’s all a bit of a blur from there. The next moment, Suguru has you spread out on the couch, his hands holding your thighs apart while he dips his tongue into your dripping core. When he adds a finger in, you whine and buck your hips hard, earning a gentle nibble on your inner thigh.

“Stay still for me, baby.”

“Can’t, can’t, s’ too much—”

You’re naked except for your panties, tugged to the side as he hungirly laps at your pussy. It’s a filthy sight. The way Suguru’s lips shine with your slick in the darkened room, his pupils blown wide with pure desire. His hair slipped out of its bun some time ago, now a mess from your hands running through it. 

You pull him up to kiss him just as he sinks another finger inside you, moaning into his mouth, raw and unrestrained as he grazes your sensitive walls. 

“Want you- want you inside me, fuck. Please, please.”

“Okay, baby, okay—” you’re pulling off his shirt before he can even finish, tossing it across the room.

The light in the living room is dim, but even then it’s clear that he’s all broad shoulders and hardened muscle. He’s so different, and yet… entirely the same. Still feels like your Suguru. You were touching him earlier, but seeing him standing shirtless as he undoes his belt makes you dizzy with want.

He bends down and picks you up like it’s nothing, scooping you up in his arms and carrying you down the hallway to your bedroom.

You giggle into his neck, pretending to resist. “A big, bad man’s kidnapping me.” Your chest feels light in a way it hasn’t felt in months.

“That’s right,” Suguru laughs as he gently sets you down on the bed. “And I’ll eat you up if you don’t behave.”

The crinkling of his eyes and the genuine smile on his face are something you thought you would never see again. You hold his gaze for a moment, trying to capture it in your memory. 

“Lie back,” he murmurs. “Let me look at you.”

You flush as you lie back down on the bed, heart thudding as you slowly spread your legs. He settles between your parted thighs before lowering down to kiss you. 

It’s a mess - his fingers wet with your slick, his cock leaking precum as he taps it once, twice against your clit. It catches against your hole, making you gasp, before he eases himself in.

You both groan from the sensation. It’s so much, you feel him up to your stomach, and he’s pressing against your walls in a way that makes you breathless. 

“I- hngh- it’s a lot. I haven’t- I haven’t-”

“Doing so good.” He soothes you with another kiss. “My pretty girl.”

Your head spins as he fucks you, mewling as you throb and clench around him. He pushes your legs up to your chest, and the new angle has him pushing into your deeper than before, the dizzying feeling of intrusion in your lower belly unrelenting as his cock kisses your most sensitive spots. You can only look at him helplessly, with half-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks, as he fucks you. 

You’re like a tied knot coming undone underneath him. Waves and waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you unable to tell when one orgasm ends and another one starts. Suguru sings praises in your hair, and you grip onto him harder, wishing the moment would never end. 

He flips you over so you’re on all fours, pushing down on your back so you arch for him. You start whining again, thighs quivering from your orgasm. 

“That’s it,” he rasps. “You’re—” he grabs the meat of your ass and spreads you apart, “—so fucking hot like this.” 

You grip and pull at the sheets, practically sobbing from the overstimulation. It’s so much all at once, the heavy pressure of his cock dragging along your walls, and you’re struggling to stay in place as he ruts into you. 

You’re a shaking, mewling mess when Suguru finally finishes inside you, his warm cum filling you up and trickling down your thighs. 

He collapses down beside you with a groan. You’re barely coherent, too caught up in the residual pleasure still washing over you.

You feel his arms wrap around you, a hand moving to stroke your hair. “Pretty girl,” he murmurs. “Angel. You okay?”

You nod faintly into his chest, still catching your breath. You think about all the times spent just like this; curled up next to him in a bed too small for the both of you. Your first kiss, your first time, your first love — it's been him from the very start.

If you could have just one thing; one selfish desire - it would be to keep this moment forever.

You turn towards Suguru, and he’s already looking at you, that same gentle affection on his face. His lips part, as if to say something. 

That's when it hits you.

Sudden, sharp, and clear as day. 

The real reason, that despite the yearning in your chest, you were so afraid of seeing him again.

Terrified, not of who they say he is now, and not even of the blood on his hands.

You were terrified he would appear at your door in the dead of night, looking at you with the same quiet fondness in his eyes. Terrified that with an outstretched hand, an open invitation, he’d undo everything you’ve tried to run away from with three simple words.

“Come with me.”

Terrified because you knew you would say yes.

The world wouldn’t be any kinder, your futures not any less uncertain. 

But he’s here.

It would be enough for now.

a/n: this was a dynamic i really wanted to explore - someone who could meet suguru with a shared sense of understanding. where he won’t have to explain or justify his beliefs or traumatic experiences. thinking about the comfort they would probably find in each other... anyways please do let me know what you think! your likes, comments, and reblogs would mean so much to meeee <3

[skauni]

They Had The Wrong Traitor….

!!WARNINGS!!: Torture, Explicit Descriptions, Gained Trauma, No Happy Ending.

They didn’t know.

How were they SUPPOSED to know..?

Two months ago, Task Force 1-4-1 realized they had a traitor amongst themselves. Someone giving information about them to Shadow Company. They didn’t know who, until all signs started to point to you. Since then has been hell.

They tied you to a cold metal chair with ropes so tight they rubbed your ankles and wrists raw. You still remembered the day it started. Waking up with a splitting headache in the cold, dim lighted, concrete room. A table in front of you. On it you saw a hammer, pliers, a metal bat, sets of knives—even a damn corkscrew.

That first day was hell. You shrieked at the top of your lungs that you were innocent as your main tormentor, Ghost, broke your fingers slowly. Knuckle. By. Knuckle. When you still didn't confess he took the pliers and slowly ripped your nails from your broken and mangled fingers. Making you scream louder in agony.

The rest of the days blurred. Hardly any food or water; just barely enough to keep you alive. Every time a wound scarred they re-opened it. Soap held your jaw open today as Ghost slowly ripped out your teeth. Your voice long gone from hours of shrieking before this. No fight left in you when their radio's crackled to life. "Soap, Ghost, hall. Now." Price spoke. His voice sounded uneasy.

When they left you tilted your head forward. Letting the blood from your removed teeth drip slowly from your lips. It was painful to breathe. Bruised, cracked, and maybe even broken ribs and a broken nose they kept targeting so it never healed. A broken hand and forearm from three harsh strikes of the hammer. Several deep gashes from some of the knives Ghost used on you. A dislocated kneecap from being bashed in by the metal bat.

You couldn’t hear what they talked about out in the hall. But you knew it was something shocking based on the dead silence that came after Price’s muffled voice. In all honesty, over these two months, you started thinking it was your fault this happened to you. Thinking it was your fault you were framed; you just made yourself too easy a target to frame as the traitor.

You heard rushing feet and the sound of vomiting in the trash can down the hall. You guessed Gaz since you heard Soap ask Price something, you heard Price’s gruff grunt and Ghost’s Manchester accent as he swore under his breath. Your eyes fluttered in exhaustion but snapped open on instinct as you heard the door open again. They’d caught the real traitor, a newer recruit who had everyone wrapped around her finger.

Price had entered the room.

“I didn’t do it…” You whispered hoarsely. Your captain nodded. “I know, Y/N… I know…” he whispered softly. You flinched as he unsheathed his knife from its holster, he moved slowly as he cut your hands and legs free. He tried to pick you up but you cried out. He carefully set you back down and radioed for a few medics. They arrived a short while later as Price kept you awake to be sure you couldn’t slip away before everyone could apologize at the very least.

The medics came soon enough and moved you carefully onto a gurney so as to avoid shattering any bones further. They moved you to the med bay as fast as possible to get your wounds tended to and disinfected. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price all sat outside of the med bay as they listened to your agonized shrieks and whales of pain from the medics setting your already healing knuckles back in place.

It took a few hours after your corrective knee surgery for the boys to be allowed to finally see you. The medics said you’d be out for a few days so your body could regain a small bit of strength. None of the team wanted to leave your side. They all had set themselves up so they could sleep by the cot the medics placed you on. In and out, they would individually go on missions or go in pairs so two of them could still keep their eyes on you incase you woke up.

A few days turned into a few weeks. And you finally woke up. But not as easily as the team would have wished. A cold sweat soaking your forehead as you groaned in agony in your sleep until you woke up shrieking and tried to curl into yourself for comfort, only causing yourself more pain. The boys had to pin you down so the medic could inject the pain killer.

Through the times you were awake, you refused to let any of them remotely try to touch you. They could see it. The distance you put between yourself and them. The distrust in your eyes. The anger and hurt in your furrowed brow. You had trusted them with your life. And now you were beginning to think you should have never let your guard down. Not for one damn second. But a small part of you thought it was somehow your own fault…

Gaz spent the most time with you. No touching, just trying to get you to talk. Even if in anger. He was slowly piecing your trust in him back together bit by bit. When physical therapy came around you asked him to help you because your knee hurt too much to do it alone and the medic seemed busy with another soldier. The rest of the team saw this, beginning to hope they had a chance at forgiveness as well. They weren’t aware that you never forgave Gaz. You just trusted him enough to count him as a person you will let help you. Not a friend. And not a teammate. Not anymore.

Soap was the second to earn the right to help you, then Price not too long after that. Ghost… was a different story. All he did was glare at you, as if he still thought you were the traitor. To which you returned the hostility. He hadn’t let it show, but he was devastated. He wished he’d have never believed that false evidence. He couldn’t even look at you because all he saw was his work etched into your body. That was why he glared. It wasn’t meant for you, it was directed at his work that scarred your body.

When you could walk on your own without crutches, you went to Price in the break room where everyone was. Expression cold and dead serious as you handed him resignation papers. He froze. “You can’t… we need you on this team Y/N—“ he started but you cut him off. “Need? Or want me here because you loathe yourselves so much you need me to reassure you that you’re forgiven with my presence?” He staggered back. “I never forgave any of you.” You added.

“There isn’t a day we’ve woken up without regretting—“ he tried again. “You don’t get to play that card! Do you know how many times I woke up crying in agony from wounds that are already healed because of you four!? Oh, or how about the fact I can’t stand to be touched by ANYONE anymore!” You snapped back. “Y/N…” Price started to beg. “No. I hate you. All of you. For what you did to me. Don’t even contact me. If you have something to tell me, keep it to yourselves.”

The team was silent. You walked to your barracks and packed. Booked a flight back to your hometown. And walked out the doors of the base. Giving none of them the time of day to apologize or try to fix things between you and them. You hadn’t even told them you neglected to sleep most nights out of fear someone would come out of the shadows and beat you half to death again…

[jaxon-exe]

Happy Death Day

So I saw a fully dead au for Danny and got inspired and I’m about to make it y’all fucks problems.

If there was one thing the inter league agreed on, it was that they loved Phantom. Even though some would never admit it Batman the kid had a special place in all their hearts. He’d been there with them from the very formation of the team. The forever youngest amongst them always managed to cheer them up no matter what they were facing. That’s why when his death day rolled around again Flash had an idea. He wanted to do something special for the kid. Lord knowns he deserves it. The problem was what to do.

They had already learnt from a lengthy lecture from Constantine that u don’t gift ghost presents on their death days. It was seem as rude. So that ruled that out but it wasn’t the only option.

“Best thing you can do is pay respects at his grave.” John grumbled half awake after Barry finally managed to track the fucker down. “A big thing with ghost is being remembered and all that. So leave some flowers or some shit.”

“Sweet!! Thanks John.” And in a flash he was gone… and in another flash he was right back. “Wait do you know where his grave is?”

John looked at him flatly. “No idea.” Then slammed the door in his face.

Whelp, so much for this being easy. It didn’t matter to much however for the very next day was a league meeting. One Danny was off world for and so would miss. A meeting that was being held by the one man that knows everything! He’d surely know where Danny’s buried!

“I don’t know.”

The room went quiet as they all turned to the Bat. All in various states of shock over the fact he even knew those words.

Flash took a second to reboot his brain. “W-what do you mean you don’t know?!” Because surely not! Batman knows everything! How does he not know where the grave of one of his teammates are?

The man sighed, typing away at his computer before pulling up a file onto the larger screen for everyone to see. “Danny Fenton went missing in the 80’s at 14 years old.” A photo of the kid was enlarged. It was weird seeing him like this. With black hair and blue eyes. A healthy red flush on his face. He looked so alive. “A week later was the first sightings of Phantom. Years after, it was ruled a cold case.”

“And you just let it go?” Diana walked up beside them, glaring into the back of Batman’s head. “You knew that boy was probably kidnapped, most likely murdered and you let it go?”

“No.” As ever he didn’t seemed bothered by the accusation. “I asked Phantom. He didn’t say much but did assure me it wasn’t a murder. It was an accident and no one was at fault.” The silence that took over the room this time was different. Full of melancholy. They all knew Danny died. Dead young at that. It was another thing to hear this. One by one each of them coming to haunting realisation that if his death was never report, he most likely died alone.

“So what else have you found?” For the first time in this whole conversation, Bruce turned to glare at Clark. “Oh come on Bats. Your, you! You wouldn’t leave it at that. So what else did you find?”

For most the sigh he gave would have sounded the same as the others but to those in the room, those that knew him so long, they could hear slight embarrassment at getting called out. He turned back to the screen, pulling up a list of names and a map. “Nothing much. I’ve searched the area around Amity Park and couldn’t find anything. I have a list of family members and friends to question but.” He trailed off.

“But Batman can’t look into this.” Canary continued for him. “If you were to start poking around a 30 year old cold case people might figure the connection back to Phantom.” Batman nodded with a grunt.

Seemed they reached another dead end. Maybe he would have to think of a different way to celebrate Phantom’s death day after all.

“Well,” Flash turned his attention when Supers spoke up again. “Batman might not be able to. But Clark Kent can.” Everyone’s eyes turned to him. “I mean I am a reporter. I can say I’m doing a passion project on old cold cases or something.”

“Oh yeah!” Hope filled Barry’s smile. “I can help to!”

“But your a chemist?” Diana cut in.

“A forensic chemist! Who better to help with cold cases than a guy that works in criminology?” The others were reluctant to admit he had a point.

They all knew Bruce enough to know his next sigh as one of exhaustion. Without a word he printed the list of names and contacts for the two, knowing there was no stopping them now.

“Sweet!! Thanks bats!! Let’s go!” The page was pulled from Barry’s hands before he could make a run for it.

“Hold on.” Clark stopped him while looking over the list. “It’d probably be a good idea to give them a call first. Ask if they’re even willing to answer questions.”

He deflated. Annoyed by how much sense that make. “Alright then.” He grumbled.

It didn’t take as long as he expected to get a response. The first two were from Sam Manson and Tucker Foley, only hours after Clark sent them an email. They were Danny’s best friends and the last people to see him alive. Unfortunate, the response was ‘no’. One using a lot more colourful language than the other but a no all the same. It was a two days later they got another response. This one from Dr Jasmine Fenton, Danny’s older sister. This time it wasn’t a no.

That what lead them here. In the waiting area of Dr Feton’s office. “You think the long wait is to psych us out?” Barry asked as it approached the hour mark.

Clark didn’t look up from his magazine as he responded. “Don’t think so little of her. She’s really busy.”

“Oh no, that’s not me thinking little of her.” He picked up one of the fidget toys on the table next to him. “She’s a psychologist, a top psychologist. This is totally her trying to psych us out.”

“Mr Clark, Mr Allen.” They looked over to the door that opened to their right. A tall, red haired woman stood with half a foot in the doorway. “Sorry for the wait. Come on through.” 

The office was really not what they expected. Rather than the clean, professional look that Canary has this office had a more welcoming feeling. It’s large armchairs and sofa paired with a light green rug made it look more like a seating room if you ignore the desk in the corner. “I apologise for having this meeting at my office. It was the only time I could fit you in.” Jasmine sat on the armchair closest to her desk, inviting the others to seat where they please with a wave at the over chairs. “Now, you wanted to talk about Danny?”

“Yes,” Clark sat up. “We have been wanting to look into cold cases for a while, as a passion project. Seeing if we can find out more and maybe even get some answers. When we saw Danny’s case it seemed like a good one to start with.”

She gave a hum of acknowledgement. “And why would that be? I understand that some people have a fascination with old cases but Danny disappeared over 30 years ago. Plus there has been nothing found since then. If your goal is to solve the case then I’m sorry but I don’t really think that would be possible.” 

“Well you never know until you try.” Clark smiled back. “And we plan to publish our findings as well. So even if we don’t solve it someone, perhaps who knows more information or can find new information, can.”

His words really didn’t seem to have the effect they were hoping for. Rather than looking hopeful at the idea of finding out what happened to her brother, Dr Fenton face took on a stone cold look.

“Mr Clark.” Barry was really happy he stayed quiet in this. Even without the dead tone turned at him, he still felt weirdly intimidated. “I am here talking with you in my free time, as myself not a psychologist. So I’m gonna to drop all pretenses and be blunt.” She learnt forward on her chair. Despite the fact that she was still seated, the two heroes were suddenly reminded of the fact that Jasmine was 7’1. They also learnt that the intimidation was intentional. “Why should I tell you anything if you have not said a single honest word since you stepped through my door?”

Barry looked at Clark for answers but got non. It was quite shocking to see the seasoned journalist and part time superhero at a loss for words. In fact Barry had never seen it before at all. He turned back to Jasmine’s cold gaze as she stared them down before shaking her head. “If that’s all. Ill have to ask you to-“

“We want him to be remembered.” Clark looked over as Barry said the words before he could even think them. “You’re right. This case is cold. There’s no way we could solve it but that doesn’t mean he should be forgotten.” He took a breath as his eyes met hers. Her face was still blank but in a less cold way. More neutral than silent rage.

“Danny was a kid. A good kid. A kid that most likely died alone and scared and…” he looked down the hide the tears in his eyes. He didn’t like thinking about how Phantom died. Didn’t like to think about how the happy, brave, strong kid just died. Alone, hurt and scared. It broke his heart. “He deserves to be remembered.”

For a moment all that was heard was the ticking of the wall clock. Clark glanced between the two, Barry stilling looking down whereas Dr Fenton looked off to the side. A moment more passed before Jazz sighed in defeat. “Our parents were scientist. Though, no one took them seriously.” She leant back in her chair, pulling her glasses off to rest them on her head. “It made sense, I mean. They studied ghost. Even if their inventions were amazing, especially for the times, no one took them seriously.”

Barry looked up, giving her his full attention as she sighed again. “They thought that if they could just get proof. Physically proof that ghost were real, that they lived in the dimension right next to ours, that people would finally believe them.” She looked over to a small cabaret, tucked into the corner of the room. “So, they tried to build a machine. One that would give them proof. They built a portal to that world.”

Clark was stunned. Inter dimensional travel was something the leagues still struggled with today. If they had been successful, way back in the 80’s they really must have been ahead of the times.

“It didn’t work though, not at first.” Barry was enraptured by the tale as his mind went faster that his feet did most days. What did this have to do with Danny? Why was she telling them this? The more he thought the more he started not likely the conclusions he reached. “Then one day, about 2 weeks after the failure, Danny’s friends were over and wanted to have a look. We lived in a small town, you see. The crazy scientists were the most interesting thing that towns seen in years.” She huffed out a bitter laugh.

“Danny went with them. While our parents  were never the best at lab safety, we did still know the basics.” A cold dread washed over Barry. Images of a different lab, of different lacks safety regiments came to mind. “When they wanted to have a look in the portal, he said he wanted to check it out first. Make sure it was safe. So put on a hazmat suit and went in.”

He felt sick. He always found it kind of weird that Danny wore a strange suit. Had assumed that because ghosts can alter their appearance that Danny had simply chose to wear a suit like them. It never really fit though. The suit didn’t look like theirs. To loose fitting. Made of rubber instead of spandex or Kevlar.

“Then he tipped… and it turned on.” Clark’s breath hitched in his throat. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this. “I ran down when I heard Sam and Tuck screaming. They were hysterical. Took about an hour to calm them down enough to understand what happened.” She sniffed as tears pooled at her eyelids.

“We thought maybe he was just somewhere else. I mean it was a portal, there had to be another side. Somewhere Danny ended up. I guess we were right in a way. Just not the way we wanted.” Jazz sighed as she looked down at her lap. “We didn’t want to get in trouble, didn’t want Danny getting in trouble when he got back. So we said he just disappeared. Hoping he’d show up again and it be fine.” She voice cracking as her lip trembled. “Then Phantom showed up and I just knew. I knew that was Danny.”

She looked up at the two, a pleading look mixed with her grief. “Then mom and dad attacked him. They thought ghost were evil and I… I was scared. I didn’t know what they would do if they knew it was Danny. I didn’t know.”

Clark leant forward to place a hand on the woman’s knee. “You were a kid too. You were just doing what you thought was right.” His soft words seemed to calm her as she wiped her tears.

“I know. I know that now but sometimes.” She sighed again. “Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if they knew. If Danny could have gotten the send off he deserved.”

The three sat there for a moment. Sorting through their emotions when one thought resurfaced in Barry’s mind. “Did you ever… find his body. You said it was a portal right? Does that mean?”

Jazz shook her head. “No. Maybe if he had just walked through it or died next to it but.” She looked over to the cabinet again. “The portal opened on top of him. Through him. There was nothing left to find…”

The three sat in the silence for a moment. Barry didn’t know what to think other than just absolute heart brake. What he had learnt from John about ghost came to mind, how important graves were, how important being remembered was. All these things that Danny never got.

“Did he ever have a funeral?” The info Bat’s gave them didn’t mention one but there was still a chance. Whatever small hope Barry had was shattered as Jazz shook her head. She sighed, before standing and walking over to the cabinet.

“Mom and Dad refused to believe he was gone. They thought a ghost took him for some reason.” She scoffed. “We did the best we could for him. Sam, Tucker and I.” She opened the cabinet to show a shrine of sorts. Danny’s photo sitting next to a small vase of flowers, a toy rocket ship sitting between them. “It never felt like enough though.”

Barry walked up beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. An idea beginning to form. “Well, we can change that.”

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

It was good to be back. Don’t get him wrong, Danny loved going on space missions. I mean, it was space!! But earth would always be his home. Plus, he managed to make it just in time to. Letting out a happy chip, he flew through the walls of the watch tower into the main meeting room.

“Happy death da- where is everyone?” They should be here. For years now, ever since the league learnt of death days, they made it a priority to be at the watch tower to celebrate with him. So where was everyone?

“Just in time Danny!” Looking off to the side he saw flash. Well, Barry he guessed, as the man was out of uniform. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

“Late for what?” He asked as the speedster grabbed his hand and lead him to the Zata tubes.

“A surprise! Just for you.” Barry smiled, really hopping Danny did like this and he hadn’t made the wrong decision. A bright flash later and they were stepping out into the streets of Amity. A car waiting for them just ahead that Barry coaxed Phantom into.

Danny had no clue what was going on but just decided to enjoy the ride. Looking out the window at his haunt. The closer they got to the destination the more people he spotted. Dash and Paulina, Wes and Mikey even Mr Lancer were all there. Dressed in black and heading to the same place.

“It’s alright if you want to stay invisible for this.” Barry’s voice pulled his eyes way from the window. “Or if you want to reveal yourself, that’s fine to.” He smiled at the kid.

“I still don’t know what ‘this’ is.” He gestured as the car parked.

“You’ll see.” Was the only response he got. Deciding to be safe, he turned invisible as he followed Barry out of the car and into the graveyard. A small flicker of hope building in his chest.

It was a hope he had given up on a long time ago. When it became clear his parents would never accept the truth. He tried to push it away. Not wanting to face the hurt and disappointment again. Part of his wanted to leave, not wanting to sit through someone else getting what he never did. Just as he was thinking that however, they came up to the gathering of people and he saw it.

A closed coffin above an empty grave. Flowers adorning every part of the lid around a single photo frame. A frame with his face on it. Tears weld in his eyes as he looked at the photo, then to the people around him. There was so many of them. His old classmates, grown with some of them having their children standing beside them. His neighbours stood off to the side next to a woman he recognised as the owner of the corner shop near his school. The now retired directive he followed years ago when the man investigated his ‘disappearance’. A man, which he now recognised as one of the kids Jazz used to babysit, stood with his wife. All of them mingling amongst each other and various league members. A icy breath drew his eyes up, revealing hundreds of ghost, hidden from human eyes. Old enemies and friends alike all gathered around. Johnny and Kitty, boxy and lunch lady, even Skulker was there.

As he fought to hold back his sobs a voice cleared from beside the coffin. Looking over he saw his sister standing at the head of it in a black dress suit. Sam to her right, looking right at home in her gothic inspired funeral gown and Tucker on her left, tugging at his uncomfortable tie. A hush fell over the crowed as everyone turned to Jazz as she began to speak.

She spoke of him. Of his life. Tears weld in her eyes as a bitter sweet smile graced her face. She spoke of the boy who wished to see the stars. Of the brother she lost to soon. The one she will always hold in her heart and memories for the rest of her days.

Danny sat on the coffin, His coffin, as he listened. A wobbly smile on his lips and tears ran down his face as he listened to her. He sat and listened as Sam stepped forward and spoke as well, then as Tucker did the same. A sense of peace, one he didn’t know he was missing, came over him as he heard their goodbyes.

He looked over the crowd as the speeches came to an end. His eyes finding Bruce, tucked away in the back with sunglasses on. They must have had thermal vision as Bruce was able to meet his eyes. A small nod was given to the young man. While Bruce wouldn’t reveal someone else secret, he trusted Danny to make his own choice.

Look back at his sister and friends. He knew the choice he had to make. With barely a thought he dropped his invisibility. Hushed gasped was heard throughout the crowd as the thing they all suspected was confirmed. The ghost child that had save all of them more times than they could count was the very child all of them had knew. The boy so many of them felt they had failed was the same as the boy that had protected them for decades.

Their hero was their Danny.

Jazz smiled through her tears at her brother. Her arms lifted in a silent invitation that he quickly accepted. Flying into his sister’s arms as his core sung out in joy. A breeze chilled the air as snow began to fall.

Pulling away from his sister, he caught sight of a covered stone behind her. Seeing what had got his attention, Jazz stood to the side as Sam removed the black cloth draped over it.

It was beautiful. Black stone polished to a shine with white flecks scattered about it in a way they reflected the night sky. On the face of it, caved with the utmost care was his name, along with a simple message.

‘Gone but never forgotten.

Fly high, Danny.’