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satori-runa · 22 days ago

Text

—The star of the night

Summary: In the middle of chaos, Reca chooses you, his assistant, to replace the actual actress.

Words: 2k

Tags: Fluff, slight comedy, mr reca being mr reca

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

In your lifetime, you'd never been anywhere more glamorous than Reca's movie set. It was a polished spectacle of wealth, fame, and sheer creative ambition concentrated in a single place.

The set was pristine. Everything from the polished equipment to the crew buzzing around the latest cutting-edge technology spoke of high-budget prowess. Reca had wrangled only the crème de la crème of actors, and the script itself was a masterpiece, lauded by critics before a single frame had even been shot. Naturally, it was no surprise when the man beside you, the very architect of this grandiose vision, let out an audible groan, throwing his head into his hands. He pulled them down his face in a gesture so theatrical it almost belonged on the screen itself.

"No, no, no." He groaned, his voice laced with overdramatic despair. “Not like this. This is supposed to be art. Art!” He gestured wildly at the set. “Any three-year-old could create such a display with macaroni!"

While you found yourself captivated by the scene's intricate design—each prop in perfect position, the textures, the layout of furniture—all meticulously assembled to support the vision of an unfolding narrative, Reca saw only flaws. In his eyes, it was a desecration of the perfection he had so painstakingly envisioned.

To him, everything was wrong. The lighting was lifeless, casting shadows that fell harshly across the actors’ faces, robbing them of the soft glamour he’d imagined. The music? A hollow echo that failed to evoke a single stirring of emotion, as far from evocative as a flat note played on a broken piano. And the actress—the poor, unknowing actress who, in any other setting, would be lauded for her skill—was, to Reca, nothing short of an abomination in this moment. His eyes were fixed on her, his lips pressed into a thin line as he shook his head.

“Does she even know her lines?” He muttered, mostly to himself, though you heard every word. “It’s as if she’s performing in a high school play, not…not this.” He ran his hands through his hair, pacing back and forth, his presence a cyclone of perfectionism.

For the past hour, Reca had been tearing every detail apart. The set he'd once raved about was now an "ill-matched mess." The weeks you'd spent booking this elusive location, the endless calls, the backup locations you’d scouted, and the rejections you’d faced until this one finally came through. The casting? The exhausting process of reviewing tapes, organizing callbacks, going through Reca's list of notes and opinions on each actress, often just to have him change his mind the next day. And that demo track? You’d pulled every string, barely scraping by deadlines, just to make sure everything was in perfect order for him.

And here you were, watching it all unravel with each of Reca’s sighs and exasperated mutterings. As he kept pacing, criticizing the lighting again and muttering that the entire production was in danger of "crumbling into mediocrity," you couldn’t help but let out a silent prayer. An aeon, a muse, a miracle—someone save me, you thought, raising your hands briefly to the heavens in a quiet display of surrender.

Because if Reca’s mood didn’t lighten, there was absolutely no way this movie was getting made today.

Just as you were silently pleading for an escape from this nightmare, Reca’s pacing came to an abrupt halt. His head snapped in your direction, and his gaze narrowed, a glint of sudden inspiration lighting up his face. You felt a jolt of dread. That look—oh, you knew it too well. It was the same look he had whenever he came up with one of his “brilliant” ideas, which, more often than not, meant you were in for another impossible task.

“You.” He said, pointing at you with a fervor that made you take a step back. “You’ll be perfect.”

You blinked, uncertain if he was joking. “Me?”

“Yes! You!” He clapped his hands together, excitement bubbling up in his eyes. “Don’t you see? You have everything this role needs. Raw energy, authenticity—a complete lack of…training! It’s fresh. It’s real!”

“Reca, I don’t think—”

“Nonsense!” He cut you off, waving your protests away. “You’re exactly what this film is missing! All this time, I was looking in the wrong places. These actresses…they’re too polished. Too practiced. They lack that something—that spark of untamed potential that you have.” He smiled, a bit maniacally, but you could tell he was deadly serious.

“But I’m just your assistant.” You stammered, feeling your face flush. “I don’t know the first thing about acting. I’d probably ruin the entire film!”

“No way.” He insisted, eyes blazing with enthusiasm as if he’d already envisioned you on the big screen. “Think about it! You’ve been here for the whole process, you know every detail. You’ve seen every scene in my head just as I see it. Who else could be better prepared?”

You opened your mouth to protest again, there was no one that had the same vision as him, but he was already motioning to the costume designer, barking orders to prepare an outfit for you. Any hint of hesitation had disappeared from his face. In his mind, you were already cast and rehearsed, the missing piece that would bring his vision to life.

The next thing you knew, you were being ushered into the dressing room, handed a costume, and given a rapid rundown of your character’s motivations—directly from Reca himself, who seemed thrilled beyond measure. Somewhere between his impassioned monologues and the mounting nervousness that took over you, you found yourself on the set, standing beneath the very lights he’d spent hours cursing.

And as the camera rolled, with Reca’s wide-eyed gaze fixed intently on you, you couldn’t shake the surreal feeling. You’d gone from assistant to lead actress in a single, unpredictable twist, and despite your inexperience, you found yourself saying the lines and stepping into the role…all under the watchful, eager eyes of a director who now thought you were the perfect star.

The set had quieted down, and the crew took a break, leaving only a few people around. Reca, still lingering near you after that intense practice, watched the others drift away before turning back to you with a small, thoughtful smile.

“Let’s run through it one more time, mon cherie.” He said, his voice softer now. “Off camera. Just us.” There was a vulnerability in his tone you hadn’t heard before—a subtle, unspoken invitation.

You nodded, though your heart was pounding again. With the equipment and the audience gone, the space between you felt strangely intimate, as if stepping outside the boundary of the roles you were supposed to be playing.

He took a steadying breath and stood before you, his gaze searching yours. “Close your eyes.” He said, his hand brushing yours. “Forget the lines, the lights. Just…feel it.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words sink in. You could feel the warmth of his presence, so close now that every brush of his hand seemed to linger, every movement deliberate. He guided you gently, his fingertips tracing the edges of your hand until your fingers were laced together, his touch grounding, even protective.

“Imagine��” he whispered, his voice soft and full of emotion, “Imagine there’s no one here but us. No cameras. No crew.”

You opened your eyes, and he was watching you, his gaze vulnerable and sincere in a way you hadn’t seen before. His expression held an emotion that was entirely unscripted—almost a question lingering in his eyes, as if he was daring you to step closer.

His hand moved to your face, fingertips lightly tracing your cheek. The way he looked at you was overwhelming, like he was seeing parts of you no one had ever seen before. It felt like he was letting you in, past the director, past the confident professional, to something real and deeply hidden.

“Just us.” He murmured, almost to himself, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone. His eyes softened, and he leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. For a second, it felt like he might kiss you—not as part of a scene, not as an actor in a role, but as himself.

You swallowed, your own emotions swelling, breaking past the practiced distance of assistant and director. The way he looked at you, the way his touch lingered just a moment too long, felt impossibly real. It wasn’t just acting. Not anymore.

And in that shared silence, the line between character and reality blurred completely, leaving you wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was something there that neither of you had dared to speak aloud.

Your breath caught as Reca leaned in closer, his hand cradling your face with an intensity that made the world around you disappear. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there for a heartbeat that stretched on, filled with a tension so thick it felt like the air had turned electric. His thumb brushed gently across your cheek, and you felt your heart pounding, anticipation building with each passing second.

You closed your eyes, half-expecting, half-hoping for the kiss that seemed to hover right on the edge of happening. The moment felt impossibly fragile, a secret shared only between the two of you. And just as you felt him draw in that final breath…

He pulled back, a sudden spark lighting up his eyes, and he spun around, letting out a shout that shattered the delicate silence. “Yes! That’s it! THAT expression—exactly what we need!”

You blinked, still reeling, as he practically leapt away from you, his energy blazing. “Everyone!” He called out, his voice filled with exhilaration. “Get ready to film! Now, now, now! We have to capture this—she’s got the emotion perfect, it’s exactly what I’ve been looking for!”

The crew scrambled into action, quickly setting up cameras and adjusting lights as you stood there, frozen and feeling a little…lost. You watched him pace excitedly, giving orders and pointing out positions, his focus now on preparing the scene. Meanwhile, you felt your cheeks flush with the sudden realization that the almost-kiss hadn’t been what you thought at all.

You felt the warmth creeping up your cheeks, your heart still racing from the almost-kiss that had left you somewhere between flustered and bewildered. As the crew finished setting up, you broke into a grin, chuckling softly at the absurdity of it all. Reca had played you perfectly, swept you into the scene so thoroughly that, for a moment, you’d forgotten where the acting stopped and the real feelings began. You couldn’t help but shake your head, laughing at yourself.

Reca, seeing your smile, grinned back, clearly thrilled that he’d managed to get such an authentic reaction. “That’s the spirit!” he cheered, clapping his hands together in delight. “I knew you had it in you!”

“You know, Reca.” You said, trying to keep the teasing note in your voice light as you crossed your arms, “you played me well. Got me all caught up in the moment. Almost too well, actually.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Only did what any good director would do.” He replied, a playful edge in his tone.

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a spark of confidence as you leaned in just a little. “Well, maybe we should rehearse some more roles in private sometime.” You suggested, your smile turning slightly coy. “You know…just to pick up where you left me hanging.”

For the briefest second, he looked taken aback, his eyes widening as if surprised by your boldness. But then, that familiar grin returned, his gaze lingering on you with a newfound intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Perhaps we will.” he said, his voice a touch lower, his gaze still locked on you. “Only if you think you can handle a bit more of my…methods.”

Your smile deepened, and you felt a thrill run through you. Maybe, just maybe, the line between acting and reality was thinner than you’d thought. And if Reca wanted to blur it a little more…well, you couldn’t say you’d mind.

#⊹₊⟡⋆satori.speaks #⊹₊⟡⋆writings #mr reca x reader #mr reca #honkai star rail #honkai mr reca #hsr mr reca #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #mr reca fluff

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plutoswritingplanet · 8 months ago

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It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha x Female!Reader) pt.4 (final)

a/n: we did it Joe! this chapter officially marks the first ever series i've completed lmao. thank you for all the support on this fic, every like, every comment, every out-of-pocket anon ask.

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (like...fr this time), Blood and Violence, Manipulation.

Summary: After the wedding, Husband and Wife work out the intricate web of their relationship.

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3

Gurney looks at you as if you're already dead.

You hide from his gaze, ducking behind pillars, whenever you can hear his footsteps. It's truly depressing, the way your mentor shakes his head, as if, instead of looking at you, he's looking at a coffin. You suppose he might be right, he's the one with the most experience in the Harkonnen area. He's fought them, dined with them, seen their customs through and through. And now, his dutiful little student is about to be thrown into the very same world, he has relayed to you as a nightmarish fairytale. Still, a little misplaced optimism wouldn't kill him. Or just, a sliver of hope, an inclination that you might survive this.

The day of your wedding rolls upon you like an oceanic storm, all chaos and rumbling.

Here you sit, your bones locked with nerves, as the servants pack away your things. A futile thing, you muse to yourself. It's highly doubtful the Harkonnens will let you keep any personal items back from Caladan. They'll mold you into their image, until all your hair naturally falls out. The thought would make you laugh, but here's a servant, placing your jewelry into a case, which lands in a bag, which will be transported to the Harkonnen ship by the end of the day.

Your room, the place you've spent all your life in, slowly becomes more and more barren.

The closet stands empty, so do the drawers. All your trinkets are swiftly transported away until you're left alone in your wedding dress, the only familiar thing between the hollow ribs of your life's sanctuary. Wishing you could fold the entirety of the castle, with the stables, and the horses, and the cliffs, and throw it into the final suitcase, so you can open it up in times of turmoil, and breathe in the familiar scents. You need to leave, right now. Sitting like this, wrenches a dangerous numbness out of your chest. And you can't be allowed to dissapear into yourself. You're an Atreides, you shall wear your pain with dignity, as per your Mother's wishes.

Your wedding dress swishes around you, as you stand up from your bed. It's much more classy, and less of a chiffon catastrophe, than your engagement dress, a welcome change. The veil is embroidered with light crystals and metal plating. It falls heavily over your face, and jingles when you move. By all intents and purposes, it is a dream dress. A dress you'd like to wear for a wedding of your own, a wedding with some dashing gentleman. A gentleman, which in your most private of dreams, has the face of Duncan Idaho, with silver rings braided into his hair.

Instead, you're left with this monster, so alien and cold. A beast at the center of the maze.

The bull looks at you from the wall. Its horns, smeared with your Grandfather's blood, curl grotesquely into the ceiling. The head is mounted above the doors to the library, a grim reminder of his spectacular death. As a child, you'd spend hours, standing right here, at the entrance, staring at the animal's head. You've always wondered, whether it were the lights playing tricks on your mind, or you saw a shadow of pride in the bull's eyes.

Did it know who was its victim? The leader of one of the most important Houses in all known universe laid dead at its feet. Did it know what sort of spectacle it produced? What destruction of hubris? You suppose it couldn't, it was an animal, after all. A headless creature, hung on a wall. Still, you stare at it, just like you used to, trying to decipher your own fate from its cold, dead eyes.

After all, there will be a spectacle, a life-long fight stands ahead of you. Giedi Prime shall be your arena, dead and cold, covered in black. And every single Harkonnen will be your bull, their mere presence a deathly danger to your being. It took one bull to end your Grandfather, you dread to think how many it'll take to end you. There will be blood, you're sure of it. And if things were allowed to go your way, it would flow in rivers upon rivers, through the industrial halls of Giedi Prime. You'd have the entire planet drowned in their blood. Your cursed betrothed, the Baron, the fucking Emperor if you had to.

The bull laughs at your quiet hate, beady eyes bearing down upon you in an imaginary display of indifference. You huff, cheeks reddened, insides twisted and burning.

That's how your Father finds you. Enchanted by a once living instrument of death.

He hasn't spoken to you, since your betrothed has arrived, not really. Not like you used to talk. A way to shield himself, you supposed, from the Emperor's order, which will soon enough take his only Daughter away from him. This was your superpower. You could fish out signs of love in every action.

- Your Mother hates that thing - he comments, as he stands next to you, eyes looking up at the bull.

- I don't blame her, the sight is quite disturbing. - you reply evenly.

You've missed him, more than you can possibly explain with words. But teary displays of affections were below you, especially since you're trying to distance yourself, rise above your body, float right out of your head. Perhaps it'll hurt less that way. Duke Leto Atreides turns to you, and for the first time in a month, you recognize your Father behind this statue of authority. He looks troubled, for lack of a better word. There's much more gray on his brow and the lines of his face are darker, harsher.

- I came to give you something - he announces, producing a small object out of the pocket of his trousers.

It's harder than you thought, tearing your gaze away from the bull, but you manage, your eyes landing on a figurine in your Father's hands. Your heart stops, as you recognize the blackened stone, polished to perfection. On a flat disc stands a figure of a Matador, proud and posed. Next to him, a bull, ready to strike. It's cold to the touch, when you take it from your Father, ridges of the small sculpture digging into your palm.

Jumping in front of danger, for better or worse. Your head starts to hurt.

- Father - the sound of your shaking voice carries through the corridor - How will I ever survive this?

By the way Duke Leto Atreides sucks in a sharp breath, you can deduce the answer. And what a sad answer it is.

Your Father steps closer, gathering your trembling hands in his, the warmth of his embrace engulfing you like the first sun rays of spring. He squeezes your fingers, tightening your own hold on the small figurine, and his eyes are so incredibly sad, you're convinced they could make any heart in the universe weep.

- With courage - he says - and grandiose.

Like a true Matador would.

***

Your bull stands completely still.

His pale skin creates a beautiful contrast against the ever present darkness of the Harkonnen ship. It's so much different from your native fleet, all sleek and black, and efficient. Terrifying, but at the same time, strangely beautiful.

The both of you watch, as the hatch is being pulled up, slowly but surely obscuring all sight of your home planet. Of your family, standing by the docking station like a funeral parade. It's only when you can no longer see them, your life sealed with a click of finality, does your betrothed, now husband, move.

His hand grasps your upper shoulder, and you jump at the sudden contact. Your confused gaze is completely ignored, as the man drags you through the ship, taking large, hasty steps.

Hairless faces swish past you, all so similar to each other, you're worried you'll never figure out who is who. The corridors of the ship wind and turn like a merciless labyrinth, a realization daunting on you, that you will never be able to find your way in this place.

Suddenly, you're faced with a black door, which opens as soon as your husband walks up to it. His grip tightens and he basically throws you forward, watching you stumble through the entrance on weak legs.

It takes you a second to gather yourself, as you instinctually settle into a defensive stance. The room you're in looks quite different from the rest of the ship. It's much more luxurious, one would risk saying cozy. With a gigantic, round bed filled with pillows, a dark desk, and a deliciously comfortable looking armchair. It all dims in your eyes, however, as you look up at your newlywed.

He stands right at the entrance, blocking the only means of escape with his tall frame.

Both of you are still in your wedding clothes. Your dress hugs your body in a way that is anything but comforting. His outfit is as black and sharp, as all his attire. It exposes his lean physique, clings to his warrior's physique. Terrifying, your brain summarizes, muscles freezing suddenly. Feyd Rautha looks at you with emotions you can't decipher in the low light of his room. Your room. Your marital abode.

You can't breathe, lungs tighten painfull with the sheer thickness of the air between the two of you. Still, there's a certain power, residing in your bones, an inclination of a fight you're ready to put up, should he try anything. And by the way his brow bone settles over his darkened eyes, your husband seems to understand. What a terrifying thought. The sheer idea of finding a common ground with this awful man makes your guts turn.

He doesn't even flinch, when the doors behind him slide open. You however, nearly jump out of your skin at the sound, cutting through the deafening silence of the bedroom. With furrowed brow you watch, as three Harkonnen women spill into the room. All of them completely hairless, lips pulled back in feral snarls, as they regard you with an emotion you can only interpret as contempt. Their bodies, clad in typical, Harkonnen garments, flow and slither, when they gather behind your husband, like three hungry lionesses, their black eyes flickering to him, to you.

- Get her ready - Fey Rautha throws a command over his shoulder, eyes glued to you still, and his gaze drags itself across your body like tar.

This is the first time you've heard him speak since the wedding, and involuntarily, you cringe at the gravely sound. While he stayed silent, it was easy to forget who you're dealing with. But as soon as sound leaves his mouth, you're cruelly reminded of the roughness, and the strangeness of your life's partner.

The three women stir behind him, hands sliding up his body in a gesture, that is almost too close to reverence. He does look like a young god, like some ethereal being, but you're too distressed to dwell on that thought. Instead, your arms encircle your body, a shiver of terror and strangely, disgust flowing over you, at the mere idea of these women touching you. Then, one of those three strange creatures moves forward. She has a stripe of black running down her bottom lip, and her face twists into a cruel smile.

She says something in a language you don't recognize. Probably a native Harkonnen. A rough bark, her disgusted expression translating the meaning better, than any dictionary would.

Still, you have no time to process the foreign insult, because as soon as words leave her mouth, your husband turns. His white hand grabs the woman's hairless head, as one would pick an apple from an orchard, and then, you see a flicker of true terror flash through the woman's face. In a smooth, deadly gesture, Feyd Rautha smashes her face against the wall, the resounding sound of her skull fracturing against the concrete is like the cracking of a whip in your ears.

That's all it takes, one move, and she falls into a lifeless heap, sliding down the wall.

A sigh escapes your lips, as your eyes stay glued to her body. You can't see her face.

Your husband barks something towards the remaining two women, and they scurry towards you, heads hung low, bodies curled onto themselves. You don't know, whether he looks at you, acknowledges you in any way, shape or form. The doors close behind him, as he leaves you in the hands of his... Whatever these women are to him.

They begin to strip you where you stand. Their hands peel off your wedding dress from your trembling body, and every move feels like tearing skin from muscle. You can't protest, can't do anything really. Dark, thick blood pools around the third woman's head, dripping between the tilled floor, slowly making it's way closer to your feet.

When they pull you towards the bed, you say nothing. Let them massage your body with some ointment, which smells of heavy chemicals and scratches your throat.

Their hands are unexpectedly delicate. You suppose they're too scared to take revenge on you, or perhaps, they just don't care. Doesn't really matter, because you do. You really care, despite yourself. Heart squeezes in your chest impossibly tight, when they help you up from the bed, and once again you're confronted with the white corpse in the corner of the room.

The dress they pull over your body hardly qualifies as a garment in your eyes. It's made of delicate, sheer material, which barely covers anything, looking more like a courtain thrown over a window.

Is this how he wants you, you wonder. Terrified, bare, always on the verge of something, be it tears or anger.

One of the women steps in front of you, takes your hands in hers and rubs something into your cold bones. You try to catch her eye, try to decipher how to categorize them, as humans or as creatures, but she swiftly ducks under your inquisitive gaze. That is, until your eyes flicker towards the corpse once again.

Her hand shoots up towards your chin, dragging you back to meet her onyx eyes. You can see the reflection of your own confused face in the void.

- You- she rasps, her voice a grating symphony of gurgles and growls that stumble over the common language - Soft.

Whether it's a warning, or a threat, you can't fully decide, but it doesn't matter. Those two words tell you more about your future life, than any book, any archived account. This is what the Harkonnens are made of. Sensless violence, outbursts of anger, dark blood. You swallow thickly, and nod, your expression hardening in the woman's eyes. She looks as if there's something else she'd want to say, but her head ducks at record speed, when the sound of the doors opening cuts through the air once more.

For a longer moment you're completely devoid of words.

Here stands you husband, some sort of fruit in his right hand, two daggers hanging from the belt on his trousers. His chest, white and (unfortunately) toned beyond belief stares back at you. His unoccupied hand makes a wide gesture, and the remaining two women scurry off towards their third, dead companion. With quick hands, they grab the body and drag it out of the room, letting the door slide closed behind them. Immediately, you miss their presence, unnerving as they are.

Once again, you're left alone with the na-Baron.

His eyes float freely all over your figure, taking it in with an impassive stare. It's deeply unnerving, the way you're presented to him, the way he organized all of this, tailored it to his liking. You can't help it, the way your body begins to warm before him, skin becoming prickly to the touch, much too sensitive for the strange imitation of fabric covering it. Still, your mind stays sharp, and instinct kicks in, as you take a cautious step back, angling your bady away from him.

- So, what now? - you ask, voice rough, eyes following his every move.

And move he does, slowly advancing towards you. His feet, which you now discover, are bare, drag behind him. Grace and danger mix well within his movements, as he circles you, still without a word. You throat runs dry, when he bites the fruit in his hand, dark juice spilling all over his lips, drops rolling down his hands, his forearms. Your stomach churns.

- Now - again you're reminded of the gravely tones his voice can carry - We consumate our marriage, wife.

Somehow, your marital status sounds like a mockery spilling from his lips, and he laughs at the way your face scrunches.

- I don't want you to touch me - a lie, your entire body burns for any semblence of friction, but you're determined to keep some dignity.

To that, he nods his head in silent agreement, a gesture, which actually manages to surprise you. The fruit is thrown forgotten onto the floor. It rolls under the bed, and you fight the urge to reprimend your husband. Instead, you bite your lip.

- I thought you would say that - he murmurs, coming closer, his breath fanning over your exposed shoulder.

The hair at the back of your neck stands straight, and you crane your head to the side, so you can look him in the face. So he can see the disaproving expression, perhaps he'd feel a fraction of the hate boiling in your gaze. Then, you can feel something, cold and sharp, drag itself from the dip in your spine, all the way up to your shoulder blades. A gasp escapes you, and your entire body shivers violently.

- That's why I brought these. - Feyd Rautha whispers into your ear, and you can't help but sway lightly in your place, as if his words have the power to physically move you.

Then, your hand closes around a metal object, and you look down to be met with a beautifully crafted dagger. The blade is silver, shiny, and unbelievably sharp. It fits into your grasp as if it was made specially for you, and the possibility almost makes you smile. Then, confusion creases your brow, and your husband flashes you a deadly, black smile, as he steps back a couple of steps.

He's holding a blade as well, jet black and strangely matte, a perfect antitype of yours. There's a sort of lazy excitement about him, hidden in every movement. It reminds you of the way he'd behave in the arena, while making a spectacle of death for you and your family.

- I though this would work on you - he muses, twirling the blade in his hand, and your muscles seize with realization. - And it definitely works on me.

The idea is preposterous, utterly scandalous. Using a fight as some perverse attempt at foreplay, your brain swimms with conflicting emotions.

- You're being ridiculous - you attempt to diffuse the situation, but your husband doesn't budge, rolling his shoulders.

- Come on, wife - he snarls, with a sharp smirk - Don't you want to hurt me?

Something boils inside of you at his words. Some ancient, terrifying anger that you supposed, has always been there with you. From the moment you stepped onto the red carpet, leading you towards your undoing at the altar. Red, like the spilled blood still staining the floor of this bedroom. The rage, which you swallowed down, when you recited the vows, when you let him unveil your face, kiss you in front of the entire Atreides court. Now, it seeped through every pore in your skin, covering you in a tar like courtain.

You hate your husband. You hate Feyd Rautha, the na-Baron of House Harkonnen.

Hate him for being your husband, for agreeing to this cruel match. For taking you away from your family, from your wise Father, and your strict Mother, and your sweet Brother. For ripping you away from love, which didn't even have time to properly bloom. Duncan's face dances in front of you like a taunting vision from an angry god, and your fingers tighten around the dagger.

Feyd Rautha is right. You want to hurt him. You wanted to, before you even met him.

- There you are - his lips pull back into a cruel, blackened smile of self-satisfaction - I was worried they took away all your venom, Viper.

You'll show him fucking venom, you think, feet sliding on the floor, twisting your body into a dancing position. Two sets of shields click into life, and suddenly you begin to understand.

This is your arena. This is your bull.

This will be your battlefield for the rest of your life, for as long as you're able to withstand it. With courage and grandiose, your Father's voice haunts you, but soon after another echo rises in your mind. Your Mother, your teacher, her whisper slithers from your memory, a passing comment right before you're shipped off to Giedi Prime, when she squeezed your hand so tight, you were worried tendons under your skin would snap.

Excitement and arousal flow freely from your husband's expression, as he watches yours harden. Something inexplicable settles over your features, a promise. You'll give him a fight of a lifetime, and he'll love it, every single time. It should unnerve you, the way his body lowers itself, like a panther ready to strike. It would've unnerved you some time ago.

Now, however, it shows you a clear path to survival. This is how you take control.

Cold blood splatters from under your feet, as you jump towards him, a series of measured blows following closely behind. He blocks them, lets some be pushed back by the shield. Then, he's on you, brutal and unhibited slashes fly around your body, and you meet all of them with a blocking blade. You're pushed back, towards the wall, where remains of the previous killing still stain the concrete. Blood seeps into the thin fabric on your body, and you shiver in disgust, as it sticks to you.

Your husband doesn't notice, his blade leaves a rather deep mark in the wall, as you duck under his arm, and avoid a nasty punch to the gut.

Plap, plap, plap, your feet carry you through the room, as you try to gain some leverage. The mattress on the bed is surprisingly soft, when you climb on top of it, gaining the advantage of a higher position. An advantage, which is quickly torn out of your hands, as your husband grabs onto your ankle, tugging at it with such force, you tumble down in an instant.

Panic rises in your gut, as the world sins around you, and without really thinking, you let your mind flow into autopilot.

- Let me go! - the Voice tears out of your throat like a landslide, and Feyd Rautha throws himself off of you, his body colliding with the nearby desk.

Books and papers crash to the floor with the force of his figure. Your head swimms, but you will it away, too focused on survival to care for your well-being. Both of you are panting, trying to recover from this sudden use of ancient magics.

- I should rip that treacherous tongue right out of your skull - the threat would carry more strength, if your husband's expression wasn't absolutely dripping with unabashed lust.

Never in your life has someone looked at you this way, and the shock of emotions is enough to pull you right to your feet. Your blade reflects the dim lights of the room, as you raise it high, body taunt and ready.

- You'll never get that close.

A challenge, which doesn't even have enough time to properly resound in the thick air of the room, before Feyd Rautha pushes himself off the desk. Things clatter to the ground from the force of his movements, and you barely have time to react, when his blade sinks into your shield. Your body flies backwards, falling in heap with his at the foot of your marital bed. The edge digs into your back, your left hand pressed tightly into the mattress.

He's hovering over you, panting like a wild animal, face illuminated red from below, where, just short of his juggular, your blade licks a stripe across his alabaster skin. His right hand is wedged between your bodies, dagger nicking you under your ribs. And you stay in this position, like a marble statue, your eyes melting into his, frozen in time.

- You fought well, Atreides - his voice rumbles deep within his chest, and you can't help, but snarl at his words. - We would've taken each other to an early grave.

Something dangerously close to fondness floods his features at the idea, and your fingers start to unravel, letting go of the dagger one by one. He doesn't have a chance to react, when your blade clatters to the floor, and your hand, now free, grabs the back of his head, pulling him down.

Your kiss opens the gates of hell, and soon, his own dagger is thrown across the room. You can't see, refuse to see, as your eyelids flutter closed. His lips are slightly chapped, but not any less delicious. Left hand thrashes in his hold, until he lets it go. Then, they both find purchase against his sharp cheekbones, and you hold him so tight, you might break his face with your ministrations.

- I knew it would work - he pants against your lips, you can hear the smile in every syllable.

- Shut the fuck up - you snarl, fingers digging deeper into his skin.

He groans into the kiss, immediately forcing his tongue into your mouth, as his hands work hard to manouver your legs open enough, for him to slot in between. Then, his touch is everywhere. On your legs, he drags the sheer fabric up and down your thighs, as he carresses your skin, blunt nails digging into the flesh of your hips. They venture upwards, to grab at your breasts, they fight their way into your hair, where he pulls and scrapes.

It doesn't matter, you think, when you hear the fabric tear, and the carefully chosen attire falls from your body. Nothing matters.

You're boneless and defenseless against this one insidious emotion, which carries your every move, which compells you to arch your back, to reveal your running pulse under his searching lips. Feyd Rautha bites down on your skin, right where your neck meets your shoulder, and you respond in kind, head descending upon his porcelain skin. He shudders under your teeth and tongue, his entire body tensing.

This is how you take control, and you've never felt so greedy.

His trousers aren't even fully off of his legs, when he enters you, clumsily and with urgency, bare feet sliding on the floor. Surprisingly inexperienced, he chases your core with his entire body, as if the heat of your insides in a completely foreign sensation.Your moan tears at the column of your throat, where his lips leave a trail of purple marks. The covers remains undisturbed, as your husband ruts into you, pressing your back harder against the edge of the bed. It's uncomfortable, it's hurtful, but somehow, it feels perfect for the two of you. Fucking like wild animals, not even able to make it onto the bed.

- I hate you - you repeat, like a mantra, broken voice cascading with every thrust. - I hate you, I ha-

Your head rolls backwards, when a particularly hard thrust nearly breaks you, but your husband is here to help, his hand grabbing the the roots of your hair, bringing your head down, so you can watch as he performs a magic trick of repeatedly disapearing into your body.

You're not sure who's blood his hand slips on, but suddenly, you're fully on the floor, your body crushed by his. Nothing stops his wild movements, not the sloppiness of it all, not the hard wails he tears from your body. If anything, the more strain his body is under, the more ferocious he's being. Your hand shoots up, all five fingers digging into his throat, and you're rewarded with an angelic moan, which almost brings you to your finish line. Almost.

His head leans down into the crook of your neck, where he whispers something in Harkonnen, a gurgle of rough sounds, interrupted by sinful moans. He sounds so beautiful, so conflicted, for a second you consider being gentle with him. Alas, you hate him still.

Another realization dawns upon you, as your feet kick with force into your husbands backside, to force him deeper, to keep him inside. This is still a fight. You're still on the battlefield, still waving a red flag in front of a raging bull. So, with courage and grandiose, your muscles tense, and you roll your husband over.

The change in position makes both of you gasp in unison, as you sink down onto him. For a second, everything stops. His lips are red and swollen, sweat and blood mix on his skin, flow down in pinkish stripes. And he watches you, as one would a holy painting of a foreign god. With reverence and utter lack of understanding. You're fully aware the look is mirrored on your face.

Slowly at first, your hips begin to rock, up and down, in a steady rhythm, that forces a shuddering breath to leave Feyd Rautha's lips. You bend down, to catch it, and because of your greed, you catch his bottom lip as well. The bite you give him is anything but romantic, and his hips jump from the floor, hitting a spot within you, you didn't know existed. He swallows your moan along with his own blood, and his fingertips map the curve of your spine, as you straighten upon him.

Fingernails latch themselves into the skin of his chest, as you speed up, chasing your own release and no one else's. Moans spill from your lips, the concept of shame abandoning your mind completely. Then, compelled by something dark and twisted you drag claw marks down his torso.

His body shudders, and his hips lift off the ground, fucking into you with reckless abandon. The hold he has on the flesh of your hips is bruising, to say the least, but you did enough damage to call it even. Enough, to make your body tremble and tense up, as climax creeps up on you steadily.

Like a shark sniffing for blood, he senses the change in your being, and as you tumble over the edge, a silent scream tearing at your throat, he suddenly rises into a seating position. His arms encircle you fully, pressing your sweaty bodies impossibly close, as he too finds his own end.

It takes him second, to tumble over, filling you to the brim with ink. His head buries itself into your shoulder, inhaling your scent through deep gasps, each eliciting a broken growl from his chest.

Your bones are gone completely, body relaxing and falling breathless into your husband's arms. After a while of sitting in complete stillness, he moves first. Strong hands lift you up, off of him, and you whine at the emptiness.

Then, as a last hurrah, he throws you onto the bed, where your recovering body sinks into the soft mattress. It's heavenly, the way you seem to float in nothingness, head swimming from exertion. For a moment you don't even register him climbing into the bed with you, drunk on the fading tension seeping from your every pore.

The lights are almost completely out, yet his skin shines against the black comforter. You wish to see if he's flushed, like he was at the engagement party. Leaning on one arm, his fingers trail around the small wound under your ribs. Dried blood flakes off of your skin, and you shudder again.

- I - you start, voice completely broken - I've never known hate, until I met you.

You're not sure why you've said it. Perhaps, in this moment of serenity, truth seems to float to the surface much more easily. Or perhaps you're possessed, or worse, gone completely insane. Eother way, your eyebrows furrow, and Feyd Rautha leans down to kiss your forehead, gently.

- If this is how your hate looks like - he whispers into your hairline, teeth scraping lightly against it - I dread to imagine your love.

You'll never find out, you think, but for some reason can't fully vocalize it.

He says something else, after a while, but your mind is becoming as heavy as your body, and as the day descends upon you in a heap of exhaustion, you fall asleep.

And while your story has nothing but suffering in the future, while there's death and mourning, and years of violence written in the stars for you. Right now, on the Harkonnen ship sailing through space to Giedi Prime, you sleep in the arms of your husband. Whether this strange symbiotic relationship will last, no one can tell, but there is hope, and what else could you possibly need?

#my writing #dune part 2 #dune x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #dune smut #what a journey my gosh #thank you once again for following the story love y'all

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aureatchi · 11 months ago

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⛇₊˚ .࿐₊˚✧ BUBBLES IN MY CHAMPAGNE, LET IT BE SOME JAZZ PLAYIN’ . . .OSAMU DAZAI

⟢ SYNOPSIS. the port-mafia was infamous for throwing glamorous holiday parties every year. not only were you attending this time, but you were also finally going to be introduced as the port-mafia boss’ pretty girlfriend! or…that was the plan.

of course, things never go according to plan.

a/n. merry christmas !! adding onto the xmas dazai fics jdjsjwn <3 this one’s vv chaotic.

info. fem!reader. pm boss!dazai. pm exec!reader. fluff, angst, pinch of sugg. there’s DRAMA. mentions of drinking. lil jealousy. dazai is a 💩. the pm is filthy rich lmao. pazenia is a made up country. wc. 3.4k

“Oh my.”

“How do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful.”

The brunette chuckled as he waltzed towards you. You saw him appear behind you through the sizeable full-body mirror, wrapping his arms around your waist as you finished applying your lipstick.

“It looks even better on you.” Dazai’s fingers wandered playfully, tracing the curves the red dress he gifted you hugged so well. The tailoring was so impressive—the dress could fit noone else but you. And indeed, it was made exclusively for you, for the largest and most luxe corporate event of the year.

It was the Port Mafia Christmas party. Everyone was required to attend, and plus-ones were allowed too, stirring even more chaos into the affair. You were a Port Mafia executive—of course you were going, but the night was going to be unique for another reason.

Tonight, the Port Mafia boss would confirm all the rumors…all the gossip circulating the past few months. He was finally making your relationship with him official in front of everyone.

As if everyone still doesn’t know.

Yet you were nervous. Keeping things an enigma actually worked in your favor—besides suspicious stares with muffled voices and jealous women, you didn’t have to worry about much. Dazai would take care of any problem. After all, you trusted him completely.

But now, everyone would know. You and Dazai had gone through all the downsides—you could become a potential target for any enemies, your name would rise even higher on the wanted list, and you could be stalked by frustrated, jealous men…honestly, you two were almost too hot for your own wellbeing.

Just almost, because “I’ll take care of it all. I’ll make sure nothing ever hurts you, darling.”

He whispered those words into your ear, sensing your anxiousness as you continued to look at your reflections.

“Please don’t worry.”

He did not speak in his usual teasing, playfully amorous voice. The brunette’s face matched the seriousness of the topic you had both gone over multiple times, making sure that the other wanted to still go through with it. You both didn’t want to force the decision of your relationship upon the other—though it was Dazai who had suggested the idea, the choice rested entirely on you. He ensured you knew you could change your mind anytime you wanted.

And Dazai wished you could see that he truly, would go to the ends of universes to make sure you were safe.

You gave him a reassuring smile. “I won’t,” you replied. “I’m only worried about you. I need to be by your side at all times to fight any bad guys that come for you.”

And girls. If you were being honest, you always felt a bit sick thinking about other women wanting him. Maybe this is why your nerves hadn’t backed you out yet…you wanted everyone to know their leader was indeed taken.

Dazai laughed more heartily than he intended to at the comment. He, the now Port Mafia superior commander, known even before as the Demon Prodigy, was being talked to in concern that he needed a sidekick to help him.

Though, he was also the same man whose mind was full of fervor for one girl. You giggled, seeing the apparent blush on Dazai’s face when you fixed his black tie. He was matching with you, of course—his red attire was the ruby scarf.

“Perfect,” you mused when you were done. “Wow, you’re handsome.“

“And you’re ethereal,” Dazai responded, putting on your coat. “Ready to go shock everyone?”

“As if half of the mafia doesn’t already suspect anything between us, Osamu,” you smiled.

“Hmm…you’re right.

“Of course they’d think I’d sought after the prettiest woman in the world.” A coy grin snuck back onto his lips.

…

It was evident your lover had good taste, not only in outfits. He chose to rent out one of the big hotels as the venue for the party—very fitting for the filthy-rich organization.

The first thing you noticed when you stepped out of the limo was the massive Christmas tree in the center of the hall.

“Woah.” There were at least fifty gifts under it already.

You noticed Dazai’s brows suddenly furrow as he, too, inspected the presents.

“Osamu?”

“Bella, remind me who this person is again.”

He picked up a present, showing you a familiar name.

“Oh!” He was the assistant under your wing. You two had worked together for years—you had built up a lot of trust and a friendship to have him in charge of some of your responsibilities.

“I see. Don’t mind that; I forget some of my men sometimes.”

You nodded, though you felt a bit unsure about his response. Regardless, you cast the thought aside.

What you didn’t notice was the way Dazai showed you the package. The present was from your assistant, but the name it was for was entirely covered by the brunette’s hand.

“Well, are you ready to go in?” Dazai asked, holding out a hand towards you.

“Yeah, I’m-”

“Dazai!”

It was Kouyou, another executive. She saw you and greeted you, too.

“My, you’re looking lovely today,” she chirped. “So you and the boss are dating.”

You smiled. “Yes.”

“Well, better tell everyone soon,” she told the both of you. “Dazai, a daughter of a very infamous organization in Europe, is at this party as a plus-one. She wants to discuss a business proposal…‘as soon as possible,’ she said. It’s confidential, too; she only wants you. Do you have a few moments to spare?”

Dazai immediately turned toward you, to which you nodded at him. “It seems important, especially if she’s from Europe.”

“You’re sure?” Dazai asked. You were supposed to walk into the dining hall together to introduce yourselves as the power couple of the evening. “What about…”

“Yeah, the mafia is the priority. I’ll find you soon.” You were an executive, after all. The mafia existed to protect Yokohama City, so work should be an urgency.

“Alright,” he replied. He took another look at you—a singular, amber eye softened once he met your gaze. The other was hidden behind bandages, and so were the emotions of his heart. You couldn’t tell what he was feeling at the moment.

“Let’s go, big sis.” He turned towards Kouyou, who led him out of the room.

Now alone, not counting the guards, you glanced at the presents again, picking up the one Dazai had previously questioned you about.

Oh! Your assistant gave you a present. You found it sweet; your assistant hadn’t gifted you anything until this year. Now Dazai’s reaction made sense—perhaps he had thought you had a secret admirer or something. You giggled at his assumed jealousy.

…

You walked inside the dining hall by yourself, a large crowd already entertaining themselves inside. Everyone who saw you stopped to greet you—their executive, and you wished them a merry Christmas back with a friendly smile.

��Huh? So she’s not dating him?”

You turned your head the slightest, pretending to grab a drink while you instead eavesdropped on two employees you hardly knew. Thank goodness they weren’t the ones going out on missions to spy—they were terrible at not being obvious.

“I’m not sure. But that underground aristocrat from Europe that everyone knows has a crush on the boss showed up to meet him. That huge Christmas tree by the staircases is actually a gift from her.”

“Really?! So…maybe she was the boss’ plus-one? Now that’s wild. Everyone really had me believing he was seeing the executive.”

“Yo!” Your attention was suddenly pulled from their conversation.

“You good? You’re overflowing your cup.” You had poured too much drink, so liquid was running all over the floor.

“Shoot, I think she heard us!” you faintly heard behind you as the employees moved away.

“Oh, yeah. I’m so sorry,” you responded to your assistant who had found you. He handed you a few napkins to clean your hands and dropped a few more to mop the floor with his shoe.

“You didn’t need to help, and thank you,” you said as you cleaned up, too, feeling bad.

“All good! Merry Christmas, by the way. How’s your evening going so far?”

“Good, thank you,” you responded, half-truthful. You needed to find somewhere to process what you had just heard. Even if they were only rumors…they bothered you.

“I saw you got me a gift in the lobby,” you added, recalling earlier. “I was surprised! You haven’t done that before, so I found it so sweet.”

“Oh yeah!” he replied, and you didn’t miss the pink that tinted his cheeks. “Who knows…I may have had a change of heart this year.”

You chuckled innocently. “Well, whatever the reason, thank you! I’m excited to see what you got.”

“Of course. I do hope you like it! Also, your dress. It looks good on you.” His voice sped up at his last comment.

“Oh, uh, thanks-”

That was really awkward. You gave him mercy, though…you hadn’t even told him you were in a relationship. So, you tried to say to him that it was your boyfriend, Dazai, who had the dress made for you, but you were cut off.

Dazai had finally entered the room, but he was accompanied by that noblewoman everyone was speaking about.

Wow, she was gorgeous. Her hair was in a perfect blowout, and she wore an emerald green dress that fit her like a glove.

And with each step Dazai and this new woman took into the hall to be regarded by everyone, your heart sank a bit more into your stomach.

What??

“You don’t look so well. Are you okay?” Your assistant paid no mind to the mafia boss’ new commotion. He was wholly concerned for you.

“Yeah. This drink tastes weird, but I can’t put my finger on what.” Yet, you took another sip. What was going on? You had never doubted Dazai’s love or loyalty toward you. Had you been so blind by your own to miss this?

Dazai didn’t even bother trying to search for you. And the way the lady’s arm touchingly clung around his infuriated you.

“He was seeing some foreign princess all along?”

“The boss always has to cause a scene with something new.”

“They’re kind of hot together, though.”

Now you really wanted to puke. You stared until the noblewoman’s eyes finally caught yours and dwelt on your figure briefly before turning toward Dazai and asking him something.

Dazai’s lips read, “Okay!” before a guard approached you.

“The boss is summoning all the executives to him,” he whispered in your ear, and you nodded, strolling over to him.

Fuck. You wanted to cry. Your heart was beating out of your chest.

You felt a bit better when the other executives—Kouyou and Chuuya showed up before you.

“Miss, these are the Port Mafia’s three executives.” He introduced you individually, not meeting your eye when he went to you.

You wanted to leave. There was no point in being here anymore. What you thought would be a cheery Christmas Eve turned out to be the worst night ever. It couldn’t have gotten any worse…

“And this is the Lady of Pazenia,” Dazai said, introducing the woman. “Our most important foreign guest tonight.”

“So, uh? I’m kinda confused,” Chuuya commented. “Mackerel boss, ya dating her or something?” He glanced at Dazai, the girl on him, and then you.

She responded for him. “We’re getting acquainted tonight, that’s all,” she replied smugly. Dazai chuckled. “Yes…we’ve communicated online a few times, but this is the first time we’re meeting face to face.”

What the fuck.

“Oh, uh, okay.” For once, Chuuya didn’t pester, didn’t tease anymore. Because he was just as startled as you. He, too, suspected that you were dating the boss.

“I’m sorry, will you please excuse me? It was nice meeting you, m’lady; I hope you enjoy your Christmas with the boss.” You didn’t even wait for a reply. You stormed off in the direction of your assistant. You were going to ask him to drive you home, and then you’d pack your things and then stay at a friend’s house for a few days to figure out what to do next.

Everything was crashing down like an avalanche.

But before you could get to him, the bastard’s subordinate stopped you.

“Akutagawa? Hi, Merry Christmas. Sorry, I’m in a rush-”

“Merry Christmas, miss,” he responded, moving in front of you again when you tried to shift over. “Aren’t you going to rescue the boss? Has your emotion clouded your rationality so much you can’t see things clearly anymore?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

You turned back towards the scene, and yeah—what you saw was your final straw. Akutagawa misjudged. Not even a glimmer of hope remained in you.

Somehow, they had ended up at the corner of the room. And lo and behold, Dazai and the Lady of Pazenia had ended up under the mistletoe, and many of the upper ranks surrounded them. There was even a Paparazzi.

You tried to push past Akutagawa, but he stopped you.

“Watch.”

Why? Did Dazai place him there to make sure you suffered through it all? This was so cruel. Tears welled up in your eyes as the room went quiet to watch.

“Oh! Silly me…how did I manage to get here?”

“I’m not sure…” the woman replied flirtatiously. “But you can’t break a tradition, boss of the Port Mafia.”

“I guess I can’t,” Dazai replied, leaning in. “But, can we make a deal, Miss?

“You can kiss me, but tell me where the real Lady of Pazenia is. The exact coordinates where you’re keeping her hostage. If there’s anyone kept in place to secure or torture her.”

And the crowd suddenly gasped. She did, too, and a hand flew to her mouth.

“Shit!”

About ten guards ran towards her, restraining her before she could do anything. Dazai calmly backed away, continuing to explain.

“The business proposal was crafty and would’ve led to our doom quite quickly. You’re trying to overthrow your own government. So, you devised a cover-up to get the mafia to help you, with a deal to help us on our end, but just like your original goal, you want our city’s government to fall into anarchy, too.

“An underground noblewoman. You are exactly that—quite literally.” Dazai sighed. “No, I’m not in a relationship with her, I…”

Dazai finally met your eye, and his heart immediately sunk seeing you cry.

“Oh my gosh,” he whispered, and he ran towards you, tightly embracing you.

You wanted to punch him, throw him away—something, but you were surrounded by half the corporate. There was already enough scandal tonight, you didn’t need to add any more.

“Hah, it’s okay,” you responded audibly, hastily wiping tears. “You’re a great actor, Osamu, really got me believing you were cheating on me for a second.” Words spurred out of your mouth—you hoped you wouldn’t regret it later.

Dazai’s grip on you tightened to silently show you gratitude before he turned to your audience. “Now that the problem is out of the way—Merry Christmas to you all.” A waiter handed him a glass of champagne, who had also gone around with multiple others to hand out drinks to everyone.

“And a special Merry Christmas to my girlfriend, right here.” He gave you a kind smile, and you tried your best to reciprocate your own. There were “awe”’s and “that’s so cute”’s about.

Dazai held his glass up towards everyone else’s before toasting with yours.

…

You stayed away from Dazai for the next hour. He respected your space for that long—in the meantime, you acted fine. You conversed with others, you laughed. Your assistant apologized for his comment on you earlier—“I was completely oblivious to you and the boss! I’m so sorry; I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.” You laughed it off, telling him it was okay.

“Hey, bella.”

Dazai had finally found you alone. You looked at him, facing the inevitable.

“I’m getting tired. Wanna sneak away with me?”

You hesitated. “Where would we go?”

“The drinks suck here, besides that champagne. I know Chuuya was definitely not in charge of this part.”

You had to agree with that one. You couldn’t even finish the glass you overfilled earlier.

…

Bar Lupin was surprisingly empty that night. The bar was Dazai’s safe place, his getaway. You were constantly reminded of his genuine, complete trust in you whenever he took you here.

“I’m sorry,” Dazai apologized as you waited for your drinks. “What I did was brutal.”

“It really fucking hurt,” you said, finally able to release your true feelings now that nobody else was around.

“I had to keep up the act to expose her. Her vulnerability was that…she had a crush on me? So, the most rapid way to gain her trust was to make her believe she had a chance. She didn’t know I was seeing someone.”

“You take acting too seriously. You’re the Port Mafia boss, not some goddamn movie actor. You couldn’t even…make eye contact with me? Give me a reassuring look or something?”

“You’re right. That’s no excuse.” He took a breath. He had actually messed something up. He could predict and do everything else flawlessly until it came to the people he loved.

He always screwed it up.

“I set aside our relationship for a mission. I’m really sorry, love. And I understand if it takes awhile for you to think through it all. The only thing I ask is for forgiveness.”

“I dunno…it kind of seems like you enjoyed it…”

That was a lie. You were just saying things out of spite now. You had rethought the previous events after recalling what Akutagawa had harshly told you without context—rescue the boss? Yeah, Dazai clearly didn’t enjoy it. He never touched the woman back in any way, and his word choice was very cautious. Except one line.

“Us communicating online? Yeah, I knew she’d just go along with it. I had to say that so Chuuya would stop pushing and blow my cover. Besides, you literally have my email login, darling. You see everything.”

“I really hate you sometimes, Osamu, you know?” you muttered as the bartender finally handed you two your drinks. You took a thirsty sip out of yours. You couldn’t even stay mad anymore.

“Is that your way of saying you forgive me?�� he chuckled, knowing the mood was lightening.

“No. You’re just too…attractive. Like, why are you so hot? All the girls want you…I was actually quite relieved when you asked me if we should make things official so everyone could finally know that we belong to each other…”

Hah, if only you knew.

“You don’t assume I think the same? You almost pissed me off by hanging around your little assistant, too, belladonna. He clearly fancies you.”

You gulped, remembering his earlier compliment. “Don’t do anything to him—he didn’t know. He does now.”

“He better,” he simply replied. “And everyone else. There’s no excuse now—you’re the Port Mafia boss’ girlfriend.”

You felt like there were butterflies in your stomach. The protectiveness was attractive. You pulled on Dazai’s tie, reeling the rest of him towards you.

“And you’re my boyfriend,” you smiled.

To everyone else, Dazai was known as evil, suicidal, murderer, demon, saint. But to you, he was simply Osamu. Your boyfriend. And perhaps that’s what he loved most of all. Across universes, you would not fail him—not even Odasaku succeeded so highly.

“Are you going to kiss me, bella?” Dazai asked, the signature smile back on his face.

“No,” you teased, pushing him back. “I’m still mad at you. Nothing went according to plan.”

“Nothing did,” the brunette replied. “But isn’t that what’s so exciting about life? Life is unexpected, yet some good things can come out of it, such as…”

He revealed a piece of mistletoe in his hand, holding it above you two.

“Even if you’re mad, you can’t break a tradition,” Dazai spoke, swinging the plant back and forth.

You sighed before you both leaned in to kiss each other. Dazai pulled you onto his lap, and you kissed him even more feverishly. Your hands ran through his hair until the bandage around his head finally came undone, unveiling the rest of his pretty face.

You focused on his dilated, honey-colored eyes. Finally, they revealed what he was feeling. Comfort in having you in his arms again. In your warmth.

Everything felt too intense after that. He had started making out with you again, his hands were wandering you curiously, the dim lighting, the jazz instrumental, how tipsy you felt from the drinks…

“Let’s just go home.”

…

You were swaddled in Dazai’s arms under the bed's covers at home. So sleepy. Dazai promised that the next day would treat the both of you better—a peaceful Christmas gift.

“Let’s stop doing such large parties,” you said, looking up at the ceiling. “It just calls for trouble, to be honest.”

“Yeah…we’ll have a small houseparty next time. Everyone else can do what they want.”

You were gently kissed on the forehead before the brunette softly whispered to you. “Merry Christmas, belladonna. I love you.”

“I love you too, Osamu.”

dazai told me he’d kiss u if u rb this. rbs are cherished; they are ur christmas gift to me! <3

tags: @kissesmellow21 @osaemu @ruanais + @lovedazai @chuuyrr @anqelically (i think u guys would like this <3)

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yuriisclumsy · 2 months ago

Note

Greetings. I'm happy to see Cale x reader's request.. 💯

Can I request Cale x reader.. Where the reader is kidnapped, so Cale and the others try to help search her but Alberu, the reader's best friend already knows.. He be like : Yup, they didn't kidnap her but she kidnapped them.. Fluff and chaos .🤣🤣🤣

Thanks for reading.🫂🫂❤️❤️❤️

The Kidnapped Wife

[Authors Note]: Look! I updated again! Not my main muse, but I finally got a good idea for this one. Hope you all like this one! This request in back from June. PS. As you can see I don't have my iconic title. that's because of the limit in characters you can have per post. I hate it :D.

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 1084

»»►Getting kidnapped is something that would definitely happen to us, because, you know…we’re the wife of the most powerful man in existence.

»»►How did we get kidnapped? Oh, I don’t know…maybe it was because of the temptation of FOOD?

»»►Seriously, out of all the things they could have bribed you with, it had to be food? So uncouth.

…

“What do you mean [Name]’s been kidnapped?”

That was the first question Cale asked when he was informed his wife had been kidnapped.

Yes, you read correctly. You have been kidnapped.

And no, you did not take a nap. You’re no kid. I mean that bad people abducted you to an unknown place, far away from any village–hell, far away from any living soul.

“I received a letter from the letter’s boy under your name, Master Cale. When I grabbed it, I smelled the faint traces of poison coming from within it,” Ron explained.

There’s poison in this…?! Cale yelled in his mind, and let go of the paper instantly.

The butler smiled sinisterly, amused at Cale's actions of dropping the letter at the mention of poison. “So, to secure your wellbeing, I decided to open it and see if it was life threatening. But you needn’t worry, Master Cale. The letter only had a small amount of poison in it. It would only take effect if you were to hold it for a longer period of time.”

Bullsh-t. You knew it had poison, and didn’t bother warning me about it, you creepy old man.

“Right… Well, thank you for taking my health and well-being into consideration, Ron.”

“You are very welcomed, young master.” Bastard.

Cale turned his body to look outside the window. “Anything else regarding her?”

“Unfortunately, these foxes were more cunning than this old fool could have anticipated. They left no trace of their presence behind for us to possibly find.”

“...” Cale looked out where the children were playing, unaware of their ‘mother’s’ disappearance. “Call for Rosalyn and Raon. We need their magic for this, also…” he looked back at Ron, “get the crystal.” Ron’s smile widened. “We’re calling the imperial family. This could very well be an attack on the kingdom.”

…

Grunts and pants are the only sounds heard in a room turned upside-down from battling.

“You B-tch!” a man yelled.

“You’re calling me unpleasant?” The man went flying to the wall behind him at full speed. “Me?”

“Ah!” Another goon charged at you from the opposite side. You blocked it by grabbing his hand, going underneath, you punched him in the stomach. “Agh..!”

“Screaming your attack is very ineffective. Weren't you lot professionals?” You saw a small glimpse of the shining of a gun's metal. With quick reflexes, you throw one of the limited pieces of furniture from the palace you had been held hostage and threw it at him, rendering him immobile. “Cute try, but not good enough.”

You stood in the middle of the room full of bodies of men laying there in the ground either whining or crying out of pain. All this would have been avoided if they just decided to negotiate with you.

“Poor souls…”

…

“HAHAHAHAHA!” static cackling came from a ball on a table. It belongs to none other than the crown prince.

Cale looked at the prince like he had lost his mind. “...Why are you laughing?” Alberu looked up and stared at him through the crystal ball. Cale did not like that.

“Isn't it obvious?” He smirked, “clearly I think all of this is hilarious.”

Well no sh-t. Cale’s expression began to sour.

“Now, now, master Cale. Don’t look so distraught, [Name] is completely fine. In fact, I think she’s doing better than even I could have imagined,” he picture you beating the crap out of the kidnappers, much to his pleasure.

“Is that so…” Cale wanted to punch Alberu in the face. He just wanted to wipe that smirk off his mouth, even if it is a crime to do so.

“Master Cale, if you would allow me?” Ron approached his master from the other side of the table.

“What is it, Ron?” Cale was as irked as he could be.

“I agree with the crowned prince,” Cale looked betrayed at Ron’s agreement on the situation. “Master Cale, [Name] is a talented individual. Surely, you should put some trust in her abilities.

“I’m also in support of this, [Name]’s prowess is no joke. She’ll make it home safe on her own,” Rosalyn commented.

“What the humans are saying is true,” Raon landed on Cale’s lap. “You can trust the Great Raon Miru’s judgment!”

“...” Cale closed his eyes. With all of this faith in you, he can’t ignore it.

“Fine.” He glared at Alberu. “But if she isn’t here by sunset, I'm sending Choi Han and Raon to get her.”

“That’s fine by me!”

With that, the call ended, and Alberu couldn’t stop from giggling at Cale’s worriedness for you.

“Ah… [Name], you’ve gotten yourself a worrywart as a husband.”

…

The sun had gone down a while ago, the birds went to rest, and the children had all gone to sleep on your shared bed. Yet, there was still no sign of you anywhere in sight.

Cale paced back and forth in the balcony, he did not enjoy worrying about someone's safety, much less yours.

“Master Cale.”

“Huh? Oh...Choi Han. Has there been any news?” He looked down and shook his head slowly. “I see… It’s getting late, you should head to sleep.”

“But, master Cale, who will–”

“I will.”

“...” Choi Han wanted to protest, yet he remained silent. He knew better than to argue with a stubborn man. “Yes, sir…” He left Cale with himself.

Hearing a click from the door, Cale let out a frustrated sigh and scratched his head, annoyed at the situation at hand.

“...Where are you [Name]?” he whispered.

“I was gone for a day, and you missed me that much?”

“!” Cale twisted his body and faced the person that had spoken to him.

And it was none other than his lovely wife.

“Hi, Bo,” You smiled sweetly. “How are you?”

Cale sighted for what seemed like the 100th time this day. Only this time, it was out of relief. “I’m fine…” he said with a small smile.

“I’m glad…” You leaned and gave him a kiss on the check.

“Only there..?”

“Well, yes. I’m extremely hungry right now, and I want to eat,” with perfect timing, your stomach growled loudly.

“...” Cale’s eyebrow twitched at your response. He motioned his hand to look like a knife, and karate-chopped you in the head.

“OW–”

“I’ll go get Beacrox to prepare something for you. Wait here,” opening the door, he pointed at you. “And don’t. Move.” You giggled.

“Eye, eye, captain.”

With an approving nod he left in search of your meal.

𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚜: @lureslutes, @cruzerforce4256, @narcise63, @potterhead-whovian-117, @margieee194, @zenix108, @vimenorie, @lunavixia, @potterhead-whovian-117, @alithurism, @matchalyne, @minteaspoon, @dontknowhowtousethis, @valacz29, @rainalovesouya, @vimenorie, @lunavixia, @lablog5, @htshbtcp, @purposefulwhale, @leylnnn, @ixchelhernandez4, @minteaspoon, @mx-unreality, @ntcc2605, @lapislasulat, @lunavixia, @thxmiss, @sumariii, @pspsps28, @holy-bells, @bloomingblueorchid. Re-blog or Comment if you want to get added into the Tag section for Lout of Count's Family updates. Back to Lout Of Count's Family Master-List

Master-List

#cale henituse x reader #cale henituse #raon miru #beacrox molan #choi han #ron mulan #tcf rosalyn #trash of the count's family x reader #trash of the count's family #lout of the count’s family #lout of the count's family x reader #reader input #x reader #manhwa x reader #totcf #manhwa #manhwa fanfic #reader insert

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chillinglyadventurous · 1 month ago

Text

Pissed Off

Thank you for the request, anon! As someone who is also pissed off today, I hope this calms us both. However, I took a bit of a twist.

Tags: fighting, toxic relationships

Fiddleford had caught you off guard as you sat in the kitchen with a book in your hand. You had heard the screaming, the yelling, but your friend’s chest heaved now. His gaze was unfocused and bewildered. “That machine ain’t safe and yer fiancé’s tinkerin’ with it like it’s a toy. It’s gonna end the world!”

“Fidds,” you stared, “what happened? Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer you, running from your home as if he had just escaped certain death. You knew Fiddleford was right. He’d been warning Ford for months, trying to get you on bis side, but Stanford had insisted and brushed the two of you off with that genius air of his. He had said over and over again that he was in control. His muse was an expert.

You couldn’t keep quiet anymore. Enough was enough. Whatever happened scared Fiddleford so badly he wouldn’t even explain, storming out, so you stormed down the stairs, ripping into Ford’s lab with a wild look in your eyes. Your glare fixed itself onto the giant, triangle portal which dominated the room, making you feel small. Fiddleford’s warning echoed in your mind and fueled your exhaustion with this, with being second place to everything in his life.

What pissed you off the most that Ford didn’t even look up at you. His attention was fully focused on the loose sheets of calculation in front of him. “Stanford Filbrick Pines, are you out of your mind?”

It was like he didn’t even hear you. Your fists clenched, knuckles white as the anger filling you boiled over. In one swift motion, you grabbed the stack of notes off the table in front of him and threw them into the air. Pages flew everywhere, floating down in a fluttering mess. You met his glare with your own. Your eyes were full of rage.

It was as if his whole body shaked is disbelief. You caught him off guard, lost in his wondering of where his muse had disappeared off too. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“This isn’t worth it, Stanford! None of this is worth it!” You shredded the papers that landed at your feet, ripping them apart mercilessly. You watched the pieces fall to the ground. You didn’t care how many hours he had put into it. You didn’t care how meticulous he was. Fuck this.

You kicked over a chair, not knowing what had so quickly come over you. It didn’t matter. You needed to get a message through his thick skull. The chair crashed against the wall and the wood splintered. The sound boomed through the room. You didn’t care. You couldn’t care. All you could see was that portal and the man you loved throwing his goddamn life away for the sake of some mystery, some fucking puzzle.

You hurled one of his many gadgets across the room. The sound of glass shattering startled you, but you didn’t stop. You truly didn’t know if you were capable of stopping. Not yet anyways. So, you threw another, watching it smash against one of his many workbenches. The wires and circuits scattered across the floor like every single one of his broken promises.

“Stop! [Y/N], please, stop!”

Ford’s voice cut through the chaos and you turned to him, eyes blazing. “You promised me!” You screamed, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction, “You said this wouldn’t consume you! You said this was safe! Did you see Fiddleford’s face? What did you do to him?!” A hateful laugh escaped you. You gestured wildly around you, “Is this worth it? All of this? Is it worth losing your best friend? Is it worth losing me?”

Ford stood frozen in front of you, your words cutting deep. You lunged at him, you fists pounding against his chest in a plea for him to stop this, whatever it was. You weren;t sure, but it could kill him. It could take him away from you. You didn’t want to lose him.The heel of both of your fists met his chest again and he grabbed you.

He needed to stop you and you fought him the entire way, even as he pinned your back to the far wall. Tears streamed down your cheeks then and you tried to fight him off, but he was too strong. “I didn’t realize-”

“You never realize!” You screamed into his face. You struggled against him, never stopping until his body was pressed flush to yours, hands pinned between you. “You are always so wrapped up in your work that you forget about everything else. About us! Do you even care anymore?!”

He did his best to hush you. A hand cradled your head and hid your face in his neck. You shook your head, tears burning in your eyes, but the anger was fading now, replaced by exhaustion. “I don’t want to lose you, Ford. I can’t stand by and watch you throw your life away for this obsession.”

He held you as you screamed, tears rolling down your cheeks. Your hands covered your face as he tried to kiss away what you were feeling. He didn’t speak, just trying to calm you. You knew it, you knew, this wouldn’t stop. You were going to lose him to this portal, to his muse, whatever, whoever, it was. Ford wasn’t yours, not anymore. Instead, you let him hold you, savoring what was left. You knew, deep down, he wouldn’t be yours for much longer.

#gravity falls #gravity falls x reader #stanford pines #ford pines #ford pines x reader #stanford pines x reader #chillinglyadventurousfics

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papaya-twinks · 6 months ago

Note

read requests are open and DIVED in them lmaoaoa.

anyway can I request a lando x reader where reader is a famous twitch streamer (preferably italian) and she keeps saying she hates Lando Norris but literally follows him on every social, has plenty of McLaren’s legos etc…

Her fans mocked her when she received a sweater from Quadrant and wore it offen (and things like that)

(Btw Lando secretly watches her)

Warnings: Fake hate

Pairing: Lando Norris x streamer!fem!reader

Summary: I made this kinda smau but also fic and also text lmao

Face Claim: Tyla (my wife 🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞)

“Chat this is flabbergasting,” you rolled your eyes, reading the messages as they poured in. Almost all of them mentioned Lando. You’d interacted a few times on social media and knew him as Lily’s boyfriend’s teammate in F1. And as soon as you met the cocky shit, you weren’t his biggest fan. “I’m trying to put my architect face on, and we have y’all yapping about that dude,” you giggled, pulling the box out of the bigger one.

“Sweet,” you tapped the box, showing the screen. It was a mini Lego McLaren that you’d been sent by one of your fans. There was a little message tagged on the bottom, cute. “Right, guys,” you tried to hide your smile, “I don’t want a Lego set that says ‘Lando wants you so bad’!” you throw your head back, laughing. “There’s another parcel in the box,” you read off the screen, tapping your chin. “So there is,” you shrugged, pulling a black hoodie out of it. “What? Max,” you groaned, seeing the handwritten note by one of your friends on it. Wow, a quadrant hoodie.

y/n-updates

caption: y/n was seen wearing the quadrant hoodie she was gifted by Max Fewtrell in 5 different streams

user1: omg she’s so prettyyyy

user2: ngl her and Lando always mention each other (even if they say they hate each other) on stream

-> user3: they’d be so cute lmao

user4: SHIPPPPPPP

martingarrix: hm 🤔

-> user5: WHAT DO U KNOW MARTIN

-> martingarrix: hm 🙂‍↕️

-> user6: MARTINNNN

-> martingarrix: hm 😘

The rumours never seemed to cease. Not that you necessarily wanted them to. You DID like Lando. And Lando liked you. You were both aware of that, which was probably why you were dating. And endlessly teasing your fans by suggesting something then downright proving it wrong was hilarious.

The fans hated it. They didn’t know you were dating though. So what better way then to go on stream with the entirety of quadrant and spill a few beans. “Well, well,” Max said, pausing the game, “we have ourselves a very special guest,” all the rest of the gamers online started whispering. “Please welcome….Y/N!” everyone of the streamers had a reaction. Except Lando, he just giggled. “Hey love,” he muttered, resuming his own game, “nice collection,” he gestured vaguely at the Lego cars behind you.

“Notice none of them are yours,” you mused, making him scoff. “Alright, babe,” he shrugged, “tell yourself that,”. You shrugged. “Oh shit, got to go, guys,” you faked, an amused smirk on your face at the comments freaking over Lando calling you ‘baby’ and ‘babe’. “Shame, love,” Lando muttered, still flicking along his keyboard. Oh, how you loved chaos.

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris x you #lando x reader #lando norris smut #f1

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ckret2 · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 29 of human Bill Cipher will find a way out of being the Pines' prisoner or so help him, featuring:

Summerween!!!!

and also:

Henchmaniacs.

Kryptos doesn't actually talk like that, it's just how he's currently feeling.

####

January 1, 1982

"You're late," Bill said, a bit reproachfully.

Ford gave him a surprised look. "Did we have an appointment?" He didn't remember one. He was pretty sure he'd remember an appointment with his muse, even if he'd made it in a dream.

"Pfff, appointments are for people without an eternity of time! No, I'm just used to you dreaming by midnight. It's weird for you to stay up past two when you aren't working on a project."

"I suppose it is." Ford was flattered Bill was paying close enough attention to notice his sleep habits. "I thought I'd stay up late to bring in the new year."

"The what?"

"The... new year?" What wasn't registering. How do you explain New Year's to an alien/angelic messenger? "It's when—"

"Oh, oh right." Bill waved off the rest of Ford's explanation. Several calendars and clocks spiraled in the air like a Ferris wheel in front of Bill, "Between trying to figure out whether you meant it was 0 Pop or Tishrei 1, I completely forgot about Chaos 1. You guys have too many calendars!"

And he'd skipped over January entirely. Wryly, Ford said, "The next time somebody asks for my input, I'll let them know you want us to use a few less."

Bill laughed. "Smart aleck." The calendars and clocks vanished. "And all you did to celebrate was stay up a little later than usual? No parties? Okay, I know you don't know anyone throwing a party—but you didn't even celebrate at a bar?" Bill ruffled his hair. "All work and no play makes Ford a dull boy!"

Ford endured the ruffling. He wasn't quite sure whether Bill was scolding him for staying up celebrating, or for not celebrating enough. "I... suppose I could celebrate in here?"

"What do you want, a fireworks show?" In the distance in Ford's mindscape, a single large firework exploded. It shifted colors, purple to yellow to green to red, before fading. "I don't think so! If you wanted fireworks, you should've gone to the show on the lake. I've got some prophecies to pass on, and I'd rather get to them this REM cycle."

By "prophecies" he probably meant a random assortment of warnings about Ford's upcoming week, which historically had varied in severity from "don't visit the lake Tuesday evening or you'll get caught in a snowstorm and die of hypothermia" to "you'd better get groceries in the morning before they sell out of your toothpaste brand." And Ford was always grateful for such messages—but now he wished he could see what sort of fantastical color-changing dream fireworks show his muse could put on. "I take it it's not a new year on your calendar."

"I don't keep track of that stuff. When you're as ancient as me, celebrating the new year is like celebrating a new hour."

Bill had so easily brushed off the implicit invitation to discuss "his" calendar. Ford wasn't surprised. Over the years of sporadic meetings with his muse, Ford had noted that Bill never shared information about where he'd come from or how he filled his time when he wasn't bestowing his wisdom—as if Bill was a thing that simply is, a muse that offered inspiration because it was made to inspire, with no history or identity outside of its role in service to humanity. He always dodged the questions gracefully.

But he never seemed bothered that Ford had asked. In fact, as long as Ford didn't pry into Bill's history and kept his inquiries comfortably shallow, Bill always seemed happy to receive personal questions. Ford had found that even when Bill talked like he was in a hurry, it was very easy to get him off track (and consequently extend his visit to two or three more dreams) by asking him about himself.

Ford wondered why that was. Was it a part of his duty—was he compelled to answer his chosen students' questions, to enlighten them on the mysteries of the universe, to help tug back the curtain of reality to reveal wonders unknown—wonders that included Bill himself? Or perhaps Bill was used to students seeing him as a source of knowledge without seeing him. Perhaps he was grateful that somebody was interested in him enough to ask.

Whatever the case—Bill clearly liked being asked about himself, and Ford liked getting his muse to stick around a little longer than planned. So rather than letting Bill get on to the prophecies he'd promised, Ford asked, "Do you ever... participate in any human holidays? After all, you've offered so much to humanity. I'm sure any of your prior protégés would have been honored to invite you as a guest to our celebrations. I would be honored." And Ford wouldn't mind having friendly company on the holidays that he'd gotten in the habit of ignoring until they shrank to nothing but a square on a calendar.

"Ha, I know you would! But no, not really," Bill said. "Don't get me wrong, it's not that I look down on your cute little local festivals. They just don't have any relevance to me! A celebration of a bountiful harvest, a prayer to get through the winter, the veneration of a local long-dead celebrity... I come from a timeless realm of divinity, sublimity, color and light! Most of your planet's holidays are about issues that don't matter to me."

"Ah. I see," Ford said. "Are there any human holidays you care about?"

Bill mulled over the question. "Maybe one or two."

####

June 22, 2013

Bill thundered down the stairs, charged into the kitchen, and announced to the Pines, "If I don't get to wear a Summerween costume I will literally die."

Without looking up from the morning paper, Ford said, "Then die."

####

It took ten minutes for Bill to bargain Ford up from "death" to permission to wear a costume—provided that it was free; that Bill agree to stay inside for the holiday without complaint (WITHOUT COMPLAINT) no matter what fun activities he heard happening outside; that Ford didn't have to do anything to help Bill obtain said costume; and that Bill take a dang shower.

Bill groaned. "Another shower already?"

"You wouldn't need so many if you didn't insist on running around in an acrylic sweater and polyester leggings in summer."

Bill knew that. That was one of the reasons he did it. It was useful for the humans to think the showers were their idea.

Bill agreed to all terms, and even volunteered to get the dang shower over with now so they could both get on with the rest of their days.

He'd never admit it, but Bill had been wanting a shower. Not for the hygiene, but for the privacy. This was the first time he'd had a door between himself and the Pines since he'd broken the shack's unicorn hair barrier.

Time to call in reinforcements.

Bill covered the mirrors, turned on the shower, undressed, stuck his head under the shower stream so that if anyone barged in on him he could use his wet hair as proof he'd been showering, and squinted through the wooden door to confirm there weren't any humans lurking nearby. Coast was clear—but wow, it hurt to bend his eye that way. He rubbed at it irritably as he set up his ring of candles again, and wasn't surprised when his fingertips came away bloody. He thought it hurt more than it had last time. He wondered how many more times he could glance into higher dimensions before this body's eyeballs gave out on him. Hopefully he wouldn't need them that long.

He drew Kryptos on the floor, lit the candles, and started muttering the chant to summon him. "Rhombus sapphirinus. Fraternitas, caritas..."

The steamy air went chill, the water pattering in the tub grew muffled, the whole world slowed and paused. For weeks, Bill's every attempt to break into the mindscape had been a futile strain; but now, instead, the mindscape surged up and swallowed him into its gray twilight, like evening embracing the land on the heels of sunlight's departure. Bill knew he wasn't awake anymore. It was working.

A force outside of Bill borrowed his throat to speak the last of the ritual—it worked!—and before his eyes, a diamond window opened into the Nightmare Realm.

####

Standing at the edge of one of the Quadrangle of Qonfusion's many perpendicular floors, arms crossed, scowling deeply, Pyronica glared at a neon-acidic cotton candy nebula light years away. "Guys," she said, "it's doing the thing again."

8 Ball, Keyhole, and Zanthar glanced away from their video game toward the nebula. Amorphous Shape peeled a few squares off a column to peer at it with Hectorgon.

"Look at this." Pyronica clapped her hands.

In the nebula, crackles of lightning-like bolts of light millions of miles long shot through the starry clouds. A noise like thunder boomed from it, rattling the Quadrangle. An ugly statue fell off a column-shaped pedestal and landed on a wall.

She clapped twice more—each time, eliciting more lightning—then gestured emphatically at the nebula. "How am I doing that!"

"Can't be you controlling it," Amorphous Shape said. "That nebula's over a dozen light years away. That light had to have happened years ago, we're just seeing it now."

Already turned back to his video game and determinedly trying to murder Keyhole, 8 Ball said, "Maybe the nebula's controlling you."

Pryonica said flatly, "You think a bunch of stars is making me clap."

"Eh. Like astrology or something."

Hectorgon said, "Could be a time loop thing."

"Could be," Amorphous Shape said thoughtfully.

Pyronica threw up her hands, which made the distant nebula's colors shift slightly. "If it's not weird butterfly effects or faster-than-light light, it's time loops. I hate this place. All it'd take is a hard sneeze to knock the whole dimension down."

She'd been saying things to such effect for the past few months. Consequently, nobody really paid much attention to the latest round of griping about the Nightmare Realm's poor maintenance, until she said, "I'm bailing on the Quadrangle. Soon as I can find a decent rock in some other dimension. Who else is coming?"

8 Ball glanced down at Pyronica from the floor with their gaming setup. "Hold on, are you serious?" He quickly had to look away as Zanthar took advantage of the distraction to attack.

"Yeah, I'm serious. I don't wanna break up the gang, but I'm sick of this dump."

Huddled on a nearby wall like an unemployed gargoyle, Paci-Fire said solemnly, "I will stay, Mother. The Quadrangle of Qonfusion is the only home I have ever known."

"Probably one of my worst life decisions," Pyronica muttered. "The Quadrangle isn't our home, it was Bill's. We're just... just..."

Ducking in from between two columns that seemed to lead to a purple-shadowed nighttime meadow, Teeth said, "Eternal couch-surfers."

"Ha! Yeah, that. Hey, where you been the past week?"

"Took a wrong turn to the bathroom. I ended up in that pocket dimension Bill grounded the electrical wiring into."

"Again?"

"I never know how many times to cross that one infinitely looping hallway!"

Pyronica gestured at Teeth. "See, this place is a complete mess. We'd be better off moving to any other dimension. And you'd like living in a real dimension if you gave it a shot, Paci!"

"No." Paci-Fire crossed his arms. "I do not want to."

"At least think about it. Wouldn't you like to live somewhere that has moons? Instead of going on a road trip to another dimension every time you want to drive a civilization to extinction?"

Keyhole muttered, "I hate those stupid road trips. They're always a zillion light years long and we never do anything fun."

"Hey!" Pyronica pointed at Keyhole. "Watch it! My kid's a lunarcide prodigy, he gets to go on as many moon-destroying trips as he wants!"

Keyhole cringed. "Right, right, sorry." 8 Ball muttered something disparaging about Keyhole's intellect, right before blowing him up for the second time.

Paci-Fire asked, "And say we were to move to a dimension with more moons. What would we do when the authorities follow us home after another successful slaughter?" A side-effect of growing up in the Henchmaniacs was that Paci-Fire regarded The Authorities as a nebulous bogeyman that was personally out to get him and all his family and friends. "Are we to lock the door and cower from them like—like cowards? Or constantly flee from one dimension to the next? No, Mother. I do not wish to live like a pariah in the dark corners of—" his lower mouth sneered around his pacifier, "civilized dimensions. There is nowhere safer for us than the Nightmare Realm."

"Sweetie, you don't have to be afraid of the authorities in other dimensions—"

"Mother! I know no fear." Paci-Fire's eyes flared a bright, dangerous red.

Pyronica playfully tugged one of his horn. "We can find a dimension as primitive as 46'\ without any interstellar cops. Like—which dimension were you from, Teeth, it doesn't even have any organized space authorities, does it?"

"Oh, yeah, pretty much every world in my galaxy was still ground bound when Bill recruited me." Teeth stepped on a column, slid off, and shuffled around it, trying to remember which side doubled as a walkway to the kitchen. "I don't really mind staying here, though. I mean yeah, we don't have a roof, or consistent walls, and the wiring's a mess. But the rent's really reasonable for a place this size in this part of the Nightmare Realm."

Hectorgon processed that. "Hold on." He lay on a wall and slid up it until he was mouth level with Teeth. "You've been paying rent?"

Teeth paused mid-column. "Wh—yeah? What's that supposed to mean?"

Pyronica bit her lip to keep from laughing, elbowed Paci-Fire, and hissed, "I thought Bill was joking about charging Teeth rent!"

Paci-Fire murmured, "Bill Cipher was always a most droll prankster."

"Who are you paying it to?" Hectorgon asked.

"I mean—I was paying it to Bill. But I dunno who took that over, so I guess, kinda... no one?"

With a mildly offended tone, Hectorgon lied, "You were supposed to give it to me now."

"Oh." Teeth shifted awkwardly. "Uh... sorry, Hect, no one told me. I don't think I've got enough on hand to cover all the..."

"It's fine, everything's been topsy-turvy since... the last few months. Just give me what you have and pay back the rest as soon as you can, okay?"

"Sure, sure, no problem. Thanks, man."

Pyronica bit her lip to keep from laughing. "All right, so Teeth is stupid enough to stay here."

"Hey!"

"But I don't see why the rest of us should be." She looked up at the trio playing games below her, then tried to remember which stupid paradox staircase led to that level. She hesitantly headed up one that looked promising. "Moving out would be worth it just to be somewhere with consistent physics!"

"I am contented with the inconsistent physics," Paci-Fire said.

"It took you fifty years longer than most kids to learn how to walk," Pyronica said. "I know you're my little genius! It's this dimension that's holding you down!"

"Boo," Paci-Fire said sulkily.

"Paci, you don't even like the Quadrangle. Nobody does."

Amorphous Shape let out a chorus of sharp gasps. They slid around a corner and reappeared sliding from the underside of the staircase to the top, laying zigzag atop the steps to glare at Pyronica. "Excuse us."

"I'll step on you, Morph," Pyronica threatened. Amorphous Shape grudgingly slid over for her to pass. "Fine, Bill's stupid 2D groupies like the Quadrangle. But the rest of us don't."

"What's wrong with it?" Morph demanded.

"What's—?!" Pyronica gestured upward at the floor below them. "You don't see the problem with this?!"

"It's supposed to be like that. It's a shortcut."

"It's a—!" Pyronica covered her face and suppressed a scream. "It's giving me vertigo!"

"It doesn't give us vertigo," Morph said defensively. They partially peeled off the steps to look at Hectorgon. "Does it give you vertigo?"

"No, I'm fine."

"What about you, Kryptos?"

There was no answer.

"Krypt?" Morph reluctantly peeled off the stairs entirely and hovered in the air to try to get a better view.

"He probably got sucked into The Void," Keyhole muttered, "it was vibrating this morning."

8 Ball sighed. "Why do we even have that Void?"

"Man, I dunno."

Pyronica ascended to the bottom of the stairs, sat on the arm of the gamers' couch, and said, "The point is—none of us need this place. I got by fine before joining Bill, most of you guys did too, and we can get by just fine now without squatting in his weird architecture project."

She leaned behind Keyhole and 8 Ball to poke Zanthar's arm. "Big Z, you still have worshippers in your home dimension, right? Aren't you still getting offerings?"

Zanthar shrugged noncommittally.

"They've still got legends of you, you can whip them back into shape in no time. Keyhole, you've got family—"

Without looking away from the screen, where he was losing hideously, Keyhole muttered, "I'm not moving back in with my mom."

"I'm not talking about your mom, stupid, what about your sisters?"

Keyhole winced, though it was hard to tell whether it was from Pyronica's question or from getting killed for the third and final time. "I don't know... Bill and I were talking about them once, and I realized they're as bad as Mom was. Bill said probably the only reason they didn't treat me as bad is because they never got the opportunity—"

"Who cares what Bill said," Pyronica snapped. "Bill's dead! We don't have to listen to him anymore!"

"Hear hear," 8 Ball muttered; but he couldn't throw in anything else, lest Zanthar blow him up and win the match.

Pyronica said, "Face it: the only reason the rest of us didn't leave the Nightmare Realm millennia ago is because Bill couldn't leave."

Morph drifted through the kitchen—reaching around Teeth to grab a drink out of the fridge as they passed—and unfolded questioningly around a corner. "There you are."

Kryptos was in the rec room, lounging on Bill's stupid tacky optical illusion throne with the fabric of reality upholstery, staring out a window (or skylight, depending on your point of perspective). He grunted at Morph.

Morph said, "Bill's gonna be furious you're using his throne."

"Whatever. Z's already spilled time punch on the armrest." Kryptos pointed at the patch of reality on the armrest that was out of chronological synch with the rest of the throne.

"He's not gonna be furious," Pyronica said, shouting through the doorway that inexplicably connected to the rec room. "He's not gonna be anything because he's dead. He died. D-E-A-D."

"He's not." And suddenly Morph were in Pyronica's face, all of their polygons and lines and piercing slitted eyes circling her head like angry moons. Keyhole leaned toward 8 Ball to see the screen around them, and 8 Ball elbowed him back over. Morph said, "He can't be. If Bill was dead, the Nightmare Realm would be falling apart even faster—"

"So let's bail while we can—"

"—but it's not," they said. "If anything, its degradation is slowing down. That would be impossible if he were dead, he's instrumental to holding the Nightmare Realm together—"

"Unless he lied about that, and he was actually making everything worse," Pyronica said.

"Bill's not a liar! We have the data to prove it, we've been measuring the degradation for billennia—"

"I'm sick of your stupid measurements! It was your 'measurements' that said 46'\ was perfect to take over! Was that stupid barrier part of your measurements?!"

"That barrier was extremely localized, there's no way we could have detected—"

"The portal was right in the middle of it! How did you idiots miss it?!"

8 Ball groaned as Zanthar whittled away the last of his HP. Zanthar let out a gentle hum like the sound of an apocalyptic vacuum cleaner as the game declared him the winner.

8 Ball tossed his controller at the TV. The TV squealed in fear. "If Bill is alive, that's just another reason to get out of the Nightmare Realm! Leave before he gets back! He can play king in this dump by himself."

Paci-Fire said, "Surely, you do not mean that. Were Bill still around..."

"No! No, I do mean it! The only reason we've stayed so long is because everyone's too starstruck or too scared to ditch him! Not anymore! If his flat-brained cultists wanna wait for him, fine! But why do we all gotta stay?"

"Hey!" Hectorgon rushed in from the kitchen to snarl at 8 Ball. "Who're you calling flat, cue tip—?"

Kryptos tuned out the argument downstairs/next door as 8 Ball and Hectorgon started brawling. Who were they kidding? Nobody was leaving. Maybe 8 Ball, he'd tried to split four or five times before crawling back, but Kryptos didn't care about him anyway. Bill had always been right about him: he was too selfish to care about the rest of the gang but too stupid to make it on his own. They'd taken in losers like that before and it had never been a big loss when they left. But no one else would leave. Where would they go?

Where could they go?

Kryptos didn't care about the outerplanar Henchmaniacs' reasons for joining Bill; but the shapes were here because Bill had promised to make them a new home. He was the only one in all of reality who could do it. Kryptos was as desperate to hear from Bill as Morph and Hect were. They'd held fast to Bill's promise for a trillion years—so how could they let go of whatever thin thread of that hope remained? Who would they be if they lost it?

But in his heart, Kryptos didn't really believe Bill was out there. He'd been gone too long. And Kryptos couldn't imagine anything less catastrophic than Bill's destruction could have reversed Weirdmageddon.

Yet he was still here, and still waiting, because he didn't know what else to do. He'd stay in the Quadrangle until the whole realm finally fell apart, just in case Bill casually floated back in one day. He'd do anything they could think of to find him and bring him back.

And then Kryptos got a call from Earth.

He sighed heavily.

Calls from Earth weren't unusual. Perks of having helped found the Fishmasons: Kryptos was occasionally summoned by the Fishermen high-ranked enough to be told their organization really did know an interdimensional alien who was their de facto secret leader and presided over their most important rituals. Assuming "de facto secret leader" meant "living equivalent of a beloved sports team mascot," and "presided over" meant "got free invitations to," and "most important rituals" meant "most fun parties." But the humans liked to pretend that their little group was a lot more important and cloak-and-dagger than the social club it really was; and all the wink-wink-nudge-nudge pretending-Kryptos-was-in-charge, while silly, was also kind of flattering. You didn't get many chances to be the star of the show when you lived around a supernova like Bill.

So, Kryptos got calls from Earth from time to time—at least a handful a year—typically from a middle-aged man in a business suit trying to pretend he wasn't giddy about being the guy who'd gotten permission to pull out the candles and contact The Alien.

Kryptos was not in the mood to talk to humans. Humans were why they were in this mess. Humanity could go jump in a lake.

But it wasn't every human's fault that a handful had somehow taken out Bill. And maybe they were calling for a party. Maybe it would cheer him up.

So he sighed again, half heartedly shouted, "Guys—guys, shut up a second, I'm getting a call," and opened up a window to Earth.

His vision was filled with a brown-skinned golden-haired haunted-eyed human who, at the sight of Kryptos, gave him a relieved, face-splitting smile. "H—"

Kryptos hung up.

To reiterate: he took calls from middle-aged men in business suits. That was a naked woman crouched on the floor like an animal.

"Who was it?" Hectorgon asked.

"No one. Some woo-woo witchy type who probably dug up a leaked Fishmason ritual online."

Hectorgon laughed. "I bet it thought it could ask a 'demon' for lottery numbers."

"Sorry, sister, but that's Bill's schtick," Kryptos said. "My number is unlisted for a reason."

Kryptos wondered about Bill's human pals. Well—"pals" was a bit of a stretch—devotees and students. How often did he get calls? And now they couldn't reach him.

Stinks for them. Must be awful, reaching out to someone in another dimension for help and getting nothing back.

####

An ethereal, sourceless voice whispered in Bill's ear, "The all-knowing dream demon you're trying to reach is currently unavailable for visions and prophecies. If this is an emergency, wake up and call your nearest Masonic lodge. Otherwise, please leave your prayers or petitions after the beep." Beep.

Bill stared, jaw dropped, at the empty patch of air where Kryptos had been projecting just a moment ago. After several seconds of mute outrage, Bill said, "Kr... Kryptos. You... I swear, if you don't get back here this SECOND—"

The sheer force of his anger woke him up. His eyes fluttered open to the world of color and humidity and pattering water. He grabbed every towel he could reach, wadded them up, and screamed into them. "KRYPTOS YOU SON OF A— I KNOW YOU NEVER CHECK YOUR VOICEMAIL! AND WERE YOU ON MY THRONE, WERE YOU SITTING ON MY SPECIAL THRONE—!"

He shrieked until his lungs were empty.

####

At sixty minutes exactly, Ford knocked and opened the bathroom door. Bill stood scowling behind it.

Dryly, Ford asked, "Have a pleasant shower?"

Wet hair hanging in tangles, face flushed red, eyes even redder, Bill snapped, "Yeah. Refreshing."

####

"Mabel?"

Mabel glanced down from the stepladder at Bill, then pointedly looked away and continued taping Summerween decorations to the hallway wallpaper. "What."

"Mabel," Bill tried again, a touch more pleading. "O great Shooting Star. My hero. My one and only friend in this hostile universe. Last person who hasn't utterly forsaken me." He leaned on the wall, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead. "The sole illumination in the dark night of my accursed postmortem existence—"

Mabel grudgingly looked at Bill again. "What do you want?"

"Listen: I know I upset you at the mall, and I still need to make it up to you—I do, I do, I just haven't had a chance yet—and you're still a little mad at me, okay—buuut... can you help me make a costume." He pressed his hands together. "Please. I'll owe you one. I'll be in your debt. Just let me dress up for Summerween."

Mabel frowned at him. She frowned a little more. She said, frowning, "You're so lucky I love costumes."

####

(Next week: Summerween part 2!! Thanks for reading, if you enjoyed I'd love to hear from y'all what you think! I've been waiting to get to the Henchmaniacs for a long time. Mainly in the hopes y'all will yell at me for putting Bill through heck again.)

#human bill cipher #bill cipher #kryptos #henchmaniacs #gravity falls #gravity falls fanart #gravity falls fic #my writing #my art #fanart #bill goldilocks cipher

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jjkamochoso · 15 days ago

Note

Im have too many gojo thoughts in my head, so I'll just send them! (^_^ take all the time you need to replied/write im very patient!)

Ok ok soo dad!gojo is in my head 24/7 so maybe the reader and gojo take little gojo to the Aquarium!! Gojo with a min him is so cute to me 😭😭

Ahhh omg this SO cute!!!! Dad!Gojo would definitely be fun... we get a few glimpses here and there with him and Megumi so let's throw a mini Satoru in the mix and see what kind of chaos/cuteness occurs at the aquarium🤭 Thanks so much for this amazing request and for your patience, I appreciate it!!🫶❤️ sorry I was gone for so long but I hope you love this!!

Go(jo)ing to the Aquarium

Fluff

Dad!Gojo x gn!reader

Warnings: none

*Just fyi I'm using y/c/n to signify your child's name!

"Dad! Dad, hurry up! I wanna see the fish!"

You snickered at your impatient child, taking hold of her hand. "Calm down, y/c/n, Dad's going as fast as he can." You turned to Gojo, who was busy pulling out his wallet to pay for admission. "You heard the girl. Hurry up. The water will be evaporated from the tanks by the time you're done here."

Gojo pouted as he handed over his credit card to the employee. "No fair, you always take her side."

You smirked. "She's cuter."

Gojo turned to your daughter. "Your other parent is a meanie. I wouldn't listen to them all day if I were you."

"Satoru!" you exclaimed, lightly swatting at his arm. "Don't encourage her. She already takes after you enough."

"Fish! Fish! Fish!" your daughter chanted as Gojo held onto the admission tickets, walking further into the building.

"Fish! Fish! Fish!" he joined in, causing you to send an apologetic look to the employees and other visitors for the two children you were in charge of.

"Where to first?" you asked your family, and they quieted down as they thought long and hard.

"Turtles!" y/c/n said after a minute of silence.

"Turtle exhibit it is then. Do you have the map?" you asked Satoru.

"Pssh, who needs a map? I see it all, remember?" he said, pointing at his blue sunglasses playfully.

"We're at an aquarium, Satoru, not in a domain. A map will do just fine."

"Have it your way," he replied, putting his hands up in surrender. He then squatted down to talk to y/c/n. "While they read the map, wanna look at the starfish over there?"

Y/c/n nodded enthusiastically and your husband and daughter ran off together. You couldn't help the smile that overtook your face as you observed them from afar. Sure, Satoru was a total goof-off, but you had to admit, he was a pretty cool dad. He was always fun and rarely strict, but he knew when to be serious, which made his childlike demeanor much more bearable. Although you joked around about it a lot, you were truly happy that your daughter was becoming more and more like him every day.

"Alright you two, I found the turtles. Shall we head that way?"

Your daughter nodded and Satoru took her hand, letting you take the lead. When you got to the turtle exhibit, you let y/c/n explore a bit on her own, as long as she stayed in sight and out of trouble.

"She's really something else, isn't she?" you mused, slightly leaning against Satoru.

"She's hilarious and headstrong. Takes after another amazing person I know."

"You're so humble, Gojo."

"I wasn't done," he said, nudging you softly. "Y/c/n is also extremely smart, passionate, and strong."

"Those still sound like traits of yours."

Satoru looked at you, his pink lips forming into a gentle smile. "Mm, I was thinking that sounded like another amazing person I know. Somebody by the name of y/n. Sound familiar?"

"Doesn't ring a bell." You pretended to think hard. "But they do sound pretty cool."

"They're the best person I know," he declared certainly. You swore you could've kissed him right there in the middle of the crowd, but you held back, instead opting to grab his hand and kiss the back of it.

"Let's go. I think y/c/n wants us to see something."

Your daughter was frantically waving you over.

"We're coming honey," you called out. "What would you like to show us?"

"Look! There's three turtles swimming together. They're a family, just like us."

"Yeah, they are, aren't they?" said Gojo, wrapping one arm around y/c/n and the other around you. You all stood quietly for a few brief moments, watching the turtles, until y/c/n broke the silence.

"I wanna see jellyfish!" she declared.

"Me too!" said Satoru. "But I wanna touch some manta rays first!"

"Jellyfish!" demanded y/c/n.

"Manta rays!" Satoru asserted indignantly.

"Don't worry kids, we have plenty of time to do both," you replied with a teasing smile. As your two favorite people ran off ahead of you once more, your heart swelled with love.

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x y/n #satoru x reader #satoru x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader fluff #dad!gojo #dad!gojo x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x gender neutral reader #jjk x gn!reader

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ms0milk · 2 months ago

Text

𝟏𝟖 | 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"He glows like fairylight at every place sweat pools. You don’t realize he’s carrying you, running, sprinting, because you don’t realize how much blood you’ve lost– how many pieces of you Takoba took on your warpath."

cw reader does her job detrimentally well, mortal wounds and soulmates cradled in pools of their own blood. ambush from an undead mage and the carnage that follows. descriptions of violent burns, be warned. rage, revenge, sparks unleashed in anguish, the muddy little girl who loses spars in the bailey and un unshakable harrowing greed. a second ghost crashes the massacre, halo of the moon 6.6k

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The second your blood waters the dancefloor, baubled lords and ladies stumble backwards and through a crowd half–too drunk to realize something has gone wrong and half-too whelmed by music still howling. The ball devolves at impossible speed.

Bakugou pulls you onto your side and underneath of him faster than you’re able to slip down the spear towards the bite it carved from the floor. It’s nearly the length of your arm, it’s meant to fell boars, it’s meant to be hilt deep in a monster at the bottom of the sea and you are meant to be dancing, pretty and red in his arms. His hand jerks behind you to burn the blade from its shaft without taking his eyes off the rhythm your shocked lashes flutter. With a single singed fistfull of spark, the wood splinters, it panics, it clatters to the ground.

“Eyes,” he is still, not calm, beside you in a white suit that laps your blood hungrily up its hems. His fingers grope at every warm and suddenly limp part of you, trembling through the pleats of your red dress to pull your hips nearer, to cup your cheeks again– your jaw, to press hard at the flow of blood from the faucet your own blade made from your ribs and cry wordlessly when your firelight eyes contort first then dim with the pain. Bakugou shields your body with his on the bloody dancefloor, “Y/n!”

“Get clear,” you murmur into his palm as your head drops to the marble.

Shrieks and glass shatter the air when the first blue candles melt in clumps from a chandelier. Bows die on their fiddles. The ballroom might be a graveyard already for all your prince knows– for the terror that sounds off in every direction– but his captain’s blood feeds the prowling dragons of his jacket and you are the only person here who cannot die.

When Uraraka throws her princess over her shoulder the masses succumb to chaos. “Cover the throne!” Aizawa cries, Queen Rei! Majesty! Open the doors! Raise the alarm! Soldiers struggle through the sudden current of fleeing guests to reach their royals at the back of the room. Glass shatters, pearls burst from snapped jewelry when hundreds of people threaten violent stampede and you are right to hate crowds. Shuzenji.

“Y/n!” Kirishima cries. Shuzenji, the doctor. Bakugou’s gaze flies up towards the panic, he prays through the chaos with eyes the color of treason. He keeps you near with useless hands the color of heartbreak. “Attacker on the catwalks!” The champion shields both of you with the width of his shoulder but Bakugou isn’t paying enough attention– he isn’t– Kirishima’s saying something and your eyes have closed.

“What happened?!”

“Y/n!”

How did you know?

Agony from every direction. A burnt cackle floats above the clamor like foam. There is a ghost at the party. He walks unwaveringly forward through servants that startle and shove past each other and he tilts his head to muse over panicked ants in their pretty glass box. The ghost shakes out his throwing arm with a smile. Every now and then he makes a candle drink its wick whole and catch blue on curtains or a fleeing gown and that makes him smile too.

“Katsuki!” Mina screams over you but her prince is frozen between kneel and rise, staring, begging through the seagreen throngs. He needs the doctor. He knows he knows he knows he knows. You lost consciousness too quickly. You whisper to thunderstorms. You prefer rye. You– you’re– he– Bakugou’s breath doesn’t come. If you are moved wrong once from the floor you will die. The ghost is bored.

There is a shriek worse than the others when a woman and her teal silk slip go up in flame from heel to crown. Not far ahead of her, two men choke as blue fire blankets melt their tongues to their throats.

Any order the guards had maintained falls away under threat of cremation. The delicately dressed masses panic to every corner of the room and even more begin throwing their bodies at the unmanned elven doors. Enji should be executed if he is not killed tonight, for keeping his family so prisoner in a palace where doors open only inward.

None of you should have come to this place, he shouldn’t have allowed it. A blue comet arcs overhead and Mina throws her friends under a wave of her hand and the shield of her magic, “We have to move!”

Bakugou’s breath doesn’t come til it does, because as his champion makes to lift both him and his red captain off of the ground, the Todoroki Champions come harsh into focus. They defy the crowd, Shinsou soaring, Deku crackling black, Uraraka– she carves escape from the wall of people climbing over each other at a crack in the doors, with her princess over her shoulder and the doctor small under her arm. Breath becomes thunder.

You are scooped tight into his arms before he can explain to Kirishima, in tears, or Mina or Sero armed above them, as their prince cradles his wounded captain like porcelain and bursts from the ground.

“Kat– wait!”

The old doctor winces as she is spirited through fleeing coats and gowns and armor, through the smoke, and startles at every immolating shriek in every scalded throat. How many has he killed? The fire smells familiar before it smells like flesh. The yolk of Fuyumi’s heart breaks on Uraraka’s shoulder.

It is the death of a prince sixteen years ago, it is Rei’s final smile, it’s Aldera’s first trip to the sea, it’s a curtain of white hot stars that shine brighter the closer they burst in their warpath. When Bakugou lands he takes Uraraka with him, hard against the pearlescent wall.

She drops her princess before she is crushed by impact or runners, and growls, but the body in Bakugou’s arms keeps her from striking. “Get her out!” He roars, again pressing the weak bundle of you into her chest at the edge of a cannibalistic crowd. A bloody spear juts from your bodice like a lighthouse. Your fingers still twitch in pain but your face has gone slack and your wild braids fall without purpose over your prince’s sleeves. A child shrieks. A woman throws her daughter above the chaos and through the pathetic opening in ballroom doors and goes all up blue, arms still outstretched, behind her.

The champion isn’t given a choice. Fuyumi’s trembles as she wretches Uraraka’s arms around you, “We will!” princess promises prince. Shuzenji is steadied on Fuyumi’s back and Bakugou has never seen the old woman shake; she cannot look at blue fire. He keeps the women and you now with them, tight against the wall inside his chest and not one of you questions why you haven’t gone up in flames, only when.

He cups Uraraka’s face in a blood-soaked hand but speaks to the doctor, “Keep her alive.” And rips his cape from his shoulders with the other, “No one’ll hurt you. Won’t get close.”

His hands are the last thing to leave you. The fireproof cape is fastened over Uraraka’s shoulders with Fuyumi holding tight close behind and your blood ensures victory because his hands are warm with it. Strings of flowers pop as they succumb to fire, violins wheeze in the heat. He has to fight. When Bakugou dares one more glance you are the ache of the last dragon in his friend’s arms. His fingers linger on your stomach, the lift and fall there where fire is meant to be and he is ten again, on the battlements, watching you lose spar after spar in the muddy bailey below.

The Alderan prince is airborne faster than any mage might follow and he fires five missiles at the catwalks through a clenched fist. At the height of his arc he twists to face the stubborn doors in collision. Kirishima and Kaminari are busy below him collecting wounded Takobans to pile behind Mina’s growing greengrey shield. Sero and Shinsou cut through the air, flying like acrobats on ribbons between the chandeliers towards the mass of armored guards at the back of the room. Aizawa backs the queen against her throne and beside him, the king stares without moving. Not one lick of fire slips from him.

Bakugou hits the doors and the shrieking masses at exactly the same moment, foam and teeth to pull him under. They will kill themselves to escape, they will kill each other. Silver nails dig into whatever flesh is nearest for purchase over thighs and shoulders. The bodies never stop. Bones break unmistakably, wigs and shoes succumb to flame almost at random, the laughter– Bakugou fires every pearl of sweat on his knuckles down into the marble he is pressed against and the new destruction creates enough space underneath to breathe. One wrong move, you’ll hemorrhage, you’ll burn, worse, you will crawl out of paradise to get up and fight for him if he doesn’t get you out now.

Deku fails at every turn to keep the Todoroki prince behind him against the great window of starlight. The champions are smart to keep their royals far apart, the prince thinks as he digs his fingers into the only marble seam in all of Takoba. Magic the color of greed, pink, white, orange, and gold, detonate the lower hinge of the ballroom door.

The crack of escape becomes a maw as the door, fifty feet, buckles over itself and slips to the side supported only by its highest mechanics. “Go!” He cries under the crowd, he pulls lords to their feet, his jacket is ripped from his frame, he lifts the wounded through to safety, he tackles diplomats before they are hit by blue comets and he remembers to breathe when Uraraka erupts through the thinning throng in her armor, barely grazing the floor as she soars from the ballroom and into the chill of the entrance hall outside. Fuyumi grips her cape and the doctor with it and all four of you are launched by magic into the night.

You are safe in her arms. You are ten years old in the bailey on a rainy day and you are the only one of Jeanist’s recruits soaked in mud. You are gone. Bakugou is a boy watching you always.

The ghost pouts over the guardrail before he drops from it. He is lean like his mother. His white hair tickles the collar of a blue suit as fire bursts forth under his feet to slow his descent. “Begging your pardon, Majesty.”

Everyone but the king, comes to terms with horror. Enji freezes where he stands with arms outstretched in commanding order among his men, and flame dies from him on the stairs of the throne. His wife is quick to her feet, silent. Natsuo does not move. Confused Alderans are the only actors in the room for just a moment.

“Attack!” Aizawa barks. The second the master’s eyes fall on the mage, his fire dies beneath him and gravity snaps that lithe beautiful body to the ground. Bakugou erupts alongside scattered soldiers. He catapults from the elven doors on magic every violent calculation of fireworks. He is the one who shot you. He is the one who dragged you to the sea. The blue mage is dressed for a ball and catches himself easily in a landing against the filthy ballroom floor. He is the douse of your bonfire heart and your prince will have his head.

“You don’t listen,” the mage drawls. His suit jacket is the blue color of dusk, so dark it would be black if he weren’t framed by the night sky in the window behind him. He raises a lazy arm towards the guards mobilizing from the throne ranks like it might be the easiest thing in the world to order their surrender. Who wouldn’t submit to such delicate blue eyes?

A flame rears from his open palm. The mass of it could rival any dragon and the heat kills sixteen soldiers so quickly they cannot make a sound. When the light dies, armor hisses in puddles and bone. “I have a question,” he clears his throat. There’s no time for Bakugou to pivot in the new chaos. The prince releases pressure from his fists to slow ascent and clips warped weapons from how close he hugs the floor.

When eyes fly to master Aizawa he is suddenly wrestled between his queen and his own soldier who means to kill her, no longer watching the mage. The Takoban soldier drives a blade through his master’s arm and only falls when he is slit by Aizawa’s knife. The damage is done. Forces rush to pull the traitor off the platform of the throne, but they are grappled in turn by the surprise of more traitors in their own silver uniforms. Soldiers who eat and sleep and live and love together, begin to kill each other and Aizawa is as far from focused.

Why!? Bakugou seethes as his feet hit the wall in front of him. You would know, you would see it. He retches his head against gravity and stars shoot from his fingers towards the back of the flame mage, but their hidden attack– the chain of explosions they’ll make upon contact– let loose before even getting close.

“You’re just flammable, princeling,” he coos in his dark suit. A blue flower stands sadly in his lapel, “I am ignition.” Again the bombs detonate five meters too far to do damage in the waves of heat that reach from him in every direction.

Some sort of peace is found in the ambush. The guests have either fled from or hidden in the reaches of the ballroom. No attacks touch the undead mage and to his horror, Bakugou realizes that every other mage in the room is struggling against a new civilian enemy.

Cowering dancers pull weapons from their blue silks and strike at the soldiers attempting to help them. Kaminari hardly pushes Mina down fast enough to avoid the mace of a lady who was dancing only minutes ago. Shinsou is trapped at the base of the throne between treasonous soldiers, corpses, and suddenly armed diplomats and Master Aizawa can’t be seen– he’s been struck– the king does nothing, Bakugou doesn’t understand but you would.

You fire weapons into crowds. You remove unpleasant guests from his mother’s council. There’s no room for shame when you have never been wrong. You creep into the battlements at home to watch the stars and not once in twenty years has there been an intruder at the castle. Bakugou did not die the first night in Takoba because you, soggy with river water, trembling with cold, kept him behind your back– pinned him tight to the ground– when the fires started. He didn’t die in the gardens because you would pluck him from hell if he tried. Not even his own champion moves so quickly.

On the debris scattered floor, Bakugou considers strength. How much of his invincibility is not his at all? And how much of his complete and total inability to think now is yours too?

“Your sweaty guest could tell you all about this one,” the ghost tuts. The elegance of his stride almost distracts from the scars that rot and steam under his cuffs. He rummages in his sleeve, the silver buttons glow with heat, and twirls a vial between long fingers. “Call it derealization. How does it feel now, Master? How did it feel Alderan? To have your magic sucked and twirled down a drain out of your reach with just the nick of an arrow? The twist of a little knife dipped in an even littler bottle?” He pivots when a fallen beam catches blue in proximity to his stride and leans closer towards the throne in the clearing he has made around himself. “How does it feel to learn? The easiest part of this whole night was paying Takobans to kill you.”

Whatever solutions Bakugou had come up with for the confusion of this hellnight, evaporate. “Eijirou!” He shouts. His champion flies unheard over marble towards the ghost and all his blind spots, skin splintered like armor, when his prince’s voice cracks over the din of combat, “the girls!”

His attack might have hit. Kirishima, out of all of them, can withstand the most heat and he hates to reveal his friend’s position, but something so much worse is surely happening. Uraraka, surrounded and suddenly swarmed by assassins disguised as diplomats fleeing fire. You, cold in her arms and patrolling guards not quick enough through the maze to help her. The fact– the horror of a thought that scant castletown staff might have already fallen to the mage’s infiltrators.

Kirishima abandons his path towards the mage and dives under the incoming strike of a turncoat soldier. Newly armed with a broadsword, he careens through the crack in the great ballroom doors and into the dark of the castle, understanding his prince all too clearly.

“Do you want to know why?” Ash drips cruelly from the stitching along the ghost’s jaw, “Why the king returned home– who sent for him? Aren’t you curious?” There is something so smothering in his whine, like sadness will suffocate every person here before smoke. “Doesn’t anyone want to know why I need Alderans? Or do you already know? Clever boys. You already know what will happen when the prince that you promised the world you put down, claws his way back from hell to kill the heir of the Aldera. Of course you do,” he sucks his teeth, Natsuo goes white beside his mother who hasn’t made a sound. The queen keeps her son behind her even as her soldiers struggle to keep traitorous daggers at bay in a sea of noisy silver.

The ghost raises his hands again, right towards your calculating prince and left towards the royals on their frozen thrones. King Enji stares, unblinking. Rei’s hands fly from her sides and trace frost through the air.

“A beautiful, unwinnable war.”

“Touya!”

“Mama.”

Two Todorokis regain themselves. As flames scream out from the mage’s fingertips, Rei’s incalculable wall of ice splits the room in two. It cracks marble, shatters chandeliers, it butts the ceiling and grips through the stone so hard that dust plumes from the weakened foundations. At the same time, the youngest Todoroki, and his champion, burst into the open air, rocketed forward by his own frozen and rising pillars. Bakugouwinces as he ricochets through Takoba’s new obstacle course. His skin chaps from violent heat and shocking cold.

Shoto makes an egg of his undead brother, cased all in ice as he flies past. Deku isn’t more than two seconds behind him and in a flash of black light, the casing shatters like the person inside couldn’t possibly remain in anything but pieces. Unsatisfied, two familiar ribbons jolt over Bakugou’s shoulders. The three of them shoot higher together into the night, between and against the pillars of ice and the playground they made of the party. Sero is faster. He smirks, bloody, in the clearing Mina made for the injured. His magic reaches through obstacles, over his prince and whips like bandages around the ghost’s broken prison.

“Heel, Blasty!” Kaminari grunts because every fighter in the room realized at once that the mage’s fire would always be stronger than his brother’s cold. The cracked pieces of ice become water in an instant and when Kaminari lets his magic loose up Sero’s ribbons, that same water boils. Cracks of lightning blind the dim room lit only by moonlight and sad stray blue candles.

Bakugou’s magic punches him to the ceiling. His burnt white vest and a tattered shirt glow, the sweat down his neck, at his jaw, down his sides, sting and pop and crackle. Starfall, yeah?

Before the scent of burnt flesh can drift out to sea, the prince bears his weight and magic down on the place the mage should be in smoking tatters. If this ghost is the reason you stare down dark corridors, Bakugou is the reason you never rest. Mage or prince, he won’t forgive either. He lands in a dehisce of pink and golden sparks, “Fucking die!”

“In due time.”

When the prince detonates, the mage holds him close. As Bakugou hangs he thinks of Aldera.

There are too many days without sun in the summer, and too many without thunderstorms in winter. Your prince loves spring best, wet and warm. Which is your favorite? He cooks like staff in the kitchens when the chefs away to have their babies; there is always a baby being born in Aldera. It balances out all the idiots that get killed in the forest. Did Jeanist send you on patrols too? To keep clueless hunters away from the unicorn nests? Does Eijirou know? Does Kaminari gossip with you in the potions pantry? Does Sero joke with his captain like he does with his prince? Who do you tell about your life? Mina? The queen?

Bakugou has never been able to escape from love. At every turn, he is held hostage by it. It is his friends yapping about their days, their fears, their anger, it is worry and exhaustion and forgiveness. You are the only one of which he couldn’t draw a perfect map.

Your prince detonated five meters too far to do any damage because the mage is ignition. The mage holds him up by the jaw, dazed over the lip of the platform of ice. “Now you finally know,” his long fingers trace the air around the prince’s chest where flammable sweat bursts without permission from proximity to blue heat. He jerks and grunts in the mage’s grip, “how that destructive magic of yours feels. They called me destructive too, s’ why my father tried to have me killed.”

Bakugou’s fist bursts from his side in his concussed haze but the mage, the ghost, the undead prince, heats the fingers holding his face up to scalding and on instinct he clutches at his captor’s wrist instead.

“And so I perfected destruction. I am sorry that you have to die– and that your little red thing got in the way the first time.” He grins as Bakugou thrashes against the ice, half blinded by his own unwilling sparks and half deaf from the wringing of his misfire. “My friends and I make such an unfathomable fortune from this little elixir. Enough to raise an army for hire, enough to bring down every magic-blind kingdom– maybe derealization will hit Aldera after you die. Maybe it’ll be dripped into the queen’s favorite ales as she wages war for her dead son. Wouldn’t it be beautiful? Watching the continent that relies so much on its odd affinities be forced to take up clubs and spears like animals? A world without magic.”

The mage pats his unmarred breast pocket where the vial lies. In flashes Bakugou is flush to your body on horseback. The poison beats through his heart in place of blood, just enough to steal his sparks and not enough to kill him. He is weak but safe in sunsoaked blankets beside you. You don’t need magic.

“You’ll take me there princeling. Your head will start the war that kills Takoba.”

“You’re so fucking chatty.”

As long as you’re alive, the world doesn’t need magic. You’ll show them. You’ll teach them. Bakugou’s frame begins to tremble with sparks as the last white skin under the mage’s grip burns to the muscle. He has a lesson to teach first, his very last one.

“Katsuki!” There is a guest at the cursed party. When Aizawa soars into the mage’s range behind flying blades he snatches the back of the prince’s collar, dipping, ducking, half-conscious, and clear off the edge of the platform. The fall of the guest’s blood is the only sound she makes.

The sudden plummet shocks Bakugou’s consciousness into some semblance of function, the Takoban master’s arms around him, and together they crash into the bodies piled below to break their fall. A sea of battered soldiers, Deku, Shinsou and all his armor– collectively wheeze under the weight of impact.

There’s nowhere to hide in Takoba. The ghost smokes from every rotten seam high above the crowd and flames lap his lips in frustrated exhales. His nightblue suit cannot withstand him. There’s nowhere to hide, not one crack for the bugs, not for maids, not for mages and Bakugou’s eyes go wide when the ghost begins to breathe fire.

Queen Rei is not fast enough, her son is not fast enough, their ice doesn’t fly– his Alderans– Mina is battered among wounded civilians and traitors alike, her magic withers. Sero and Kaminari, the last soldiers, Natsuo, his father, weeping lords and ladies– the night sky shines back in Bakugou’s eyes.

The image is framed by it, stars, always. A blue mage unleashes hellfire from his jaw to start a war. The body of Aldera’s Captain, blades and arms drawn close to her face, launches off the catwalks like she might have learned to fly, like she might be a dragon.

Your silk dress is torn at your knees, the bodice ripped to tatters, and your prince’s cape is woven in strips around your chest and the wound there. Your body arcs with the promise of a deadly impact. You hang in the stars the moment that time freezes for him, like a painting his mother would wear. The hunter is caked in her own blood. You are beautiful above him, eyes the color of arson. You are greed like he’s never seen. You are ten years old in the bailey on a rainy day and you are finally victorious with a guttural cry and a squire pinned in mud beneath your staff.

“I can’t take more than you have Y/n. This could kill you.”

The cape does its best to bandage the leaking wound under your shoulder. Your halberd and its marksman missed your heart, missed both lungs, and still punched you through the collarbone, blade doused with poison.

“How badly do you want to live?” The doctor had asked, fingers trembling. One hand clutched the spear your body pushed out with two rounds of recovery magic.

War hummed outside the closet Ochako used to hide you. How did you ever have the energy to dance peruro? “Will is dwindling,” you’d groaned back. You reached for the princess who nodded in her silly beautiful ballgown and took up your hand with her mother’s ferocity. The three of you held your breath in the dark. The sky would learn to kneel.

Your first dagger bends inside the mage’s back as it hits bone and the second is swung and retched like sunrise, through his throat. It would have killed him too, had the heat off his skin not melted the metal to its hilt in your fist.

The ghost makes a point to grasp you tight when he reaches over his shoulders and snatches up silk. He doesn’t forget to warm his hands up to branding. “Monkey–” he gasps at the exact same moment as the great ballroom window shatters behind you both into thousands of violent shards. You snatch something before you go, tucked away inside your bandages. Red feathers punch through the immediate chill of midnight sea air and you are yoked into much more temperate arms.

Captain Hawks beams above you, “You called?” His lips form the words you can’t hear over his speed and you are all too quickly tossed, wound yowling, out of his grip and over a bridge made of ice. The hands that catch you this time reek of caramel.

“You rotten,” he gasps, face full of you, “horrible asshole.” Bakugou glides, over ice and under fire that has lost its mark in the new chaos. Pieces of window sink into jackets and coats and flesh. Salt suddenly plagues the fresh air, chill from the goddess. He holds you as tightly as life will let him.

Clingy, you swell. Landing is the worst part as always. Your prince hits the far edge of the throne area on sparking boots and swerves circles on their heels until the momentum dies enough to let him straighten. Blood trickles from one ear and the skin at the underside of his jaw is burnt and bubbled in the shape of four long fingers and a thumb. The hands under your thighs won’t release you. Not without a promise. “Get out,” he breathes, “disengaged, run.”

“You’re welcome.” He shakes his head and you with him, smiling, “Don’t go where I can’t see you, Highness.”

Rei catches the threat before you do and her ice pierces the back of a man in blue satin racing closer with a longsword in hand. It is a horrible thing to jump from your prince’s arms. Shuzenji was right, your heart might not make it. Your prince crowds you away from screams of fire and the threat of veiled assassins, but he is bleeding all over his fine clothes. His chest threatens to burst from its vest and send its sun-shaped buttons out like birdseed. It’s impossible to focus over the whip of wind in the now-open ballroom above the sea. You’ve lost too much blood.

“Old man!” Captain Hawks screams over every hellish iteration of flame mage’s attacks. His blue fire, horrifyingly, is searching just for you. Red wings swoop, the captain is a swallow hunting for a perch, “Wake up! Your Majesty!”

The king’s men have done well to protect him. They have swarmed his giant useless body to keep attackers away, they have fallen at his feet in droves and piles while he stares through blue fire. Shuzenji was much the same, frozen at just the sight.

“King Enji!”

“Please!”

The blue mage’s voice creaks like a campfire. His body is losing the fight with his magic and you have never seen something so horrifying. Obviously the nightblue suit is magic, but his flesh blacks like meat in patches the longer his fire rages from mouth, hand, and chest, “Well?” Orange light crackles just slightly at the sound almost a voice, “Father?”

The awful syllables are punctuated with flame. The last chandelier shatters, the queen and her son choke on the heat thrown towards them before they can react. Traitors are caught in the cross as the mage makes to kill his family. His horrible family. His horrible father suddenly offers red fire up just as high as his wife’s melting wall. The king’s face is still hollow but light licks his edges and the mage is thrilled for long enough to forget about you.

Defense is bleak. Kaminari can only electrocute so many turncoats before the puddle of champagne he’s using as conductor dries up. Mina is barely conscious; she’s been hit by something, and Sero makes as many trips as possible with a bruised Shoto to evacuate unconscious guests before he comes back for his friend. There’s no way to tell how many traitors were among the ranks of the castle tonight. It’s impossible to count how many remain, hiding under the guise of injury, and how many have snuck deeper into the castle to wreak the mage’s havoc. Bodies litter the floor.

“Eijirou?” Your prince whispers as he both keep you tight behind him and traces the path of the king’s errant flames. Enji’s fire arcs like the crash of waves into a melting, smiling mage alone above the dancefloor.

“With Uraraka and the princess.”

Aizawa never got back up. Deku carries him out the crack in the doors alongside his prince and the last of their refugees. Instead, Shinsou is the general leading Takobans through their ranks to retrieve their royals. Not a single reinforcement has come from the depths of the castle besides a bleeding foreign captain.

Bakugou nods and instead of threading a path of escape through your fingers, you watch him. You reach for him.

Hawks abuses blindspots like a demon and primary feathers become blood red swords faster than opponents can counter. He’s not fireproof though, and the mage must know because the winged captain hasn’t been able to land once since arriving. Blue and red flames wash overhead, spurred by the air off the sea through the broken window and mers if it’s not colder than death when you’re not dodging meteors.

“Highness.” Your hands catch the swell of his temples when he turns to face you. He is even more the Sun soaked all in blood and his brows are desperate with thought. “No one’s coming.”

You think he tries to reach for you, "And we're going home." You think he really does mean it.

You nod in the shadow of debris he’s tried to hide you in before you move away, before you smile, before you command the sky, "Yessir."

Sharp under his right arm, you drop, pinch the wrist of the silent assassin behind him and drive forward until her elbow breaks. The next seaglass woman doesn’t stand a chance. She throws a punch towards your bandaged shoulder and with all the momentum her body contains, you wrench your palm under her chin and over her head. She’s gasping on her back just in time to avoid the canonfire your prince releases to cut down the men with their weapons raised to you. He’s hiding injuries. You shouldn’t be faster on the draw in this state.

“Cover Shinsou’s retreat!” The sun will obey you. You call back as his face falls. Does he know? How hard it is to leave him here– do you hide your heart properly? Did you do a good job?

It is exciting to be alive again. Traitor-soldiers fall to your simple defenses. The joint lock of a wrist or shoulder and a brief stint with the air over your back is enough to keep men down. Training you mastered at ten will bend a kingdom to your will. If the flame mage needs Alderans for war, he will fight for you, you will do, and the others will have time to escape. Your prince is calling your name. Explosions shower the path you’re carving through the ballroom with golden sparks. It was a decent party. Peruro– Bakugou, your prince is a wonderful dancer.

“Captain!” Your Alderans hold shock like water out of a sieve. The three of them stare after you, Mina slumped with an arm over Sero’s shoulder, Kaminari with his arms raised in attack ahead of them. It feels so good. The mage’s soldiers attack anything that moves, you’ve always hated it here, and it feels good too, to strike them. You don’t need a weapon, you couldn’t properly hold on in this state. The last pieces of your halberd smolder between corpses. The air is a tangle of limbs in your wake. You are Aldera’s Red Captain, back from the dead. Attackers in blue silk fall under your dancing shoes.

King Enji finally takes an offensive step and claps his hands to bring two crashing plumes of fire together on either side of the mage as he dances down the last of Rei’s ice. The force of the impact is purple and white out the window over the sea. The castle must be breathing fire, must look like a dragon from the town below, like Alderans were invited to the party.

You relieve a man of his shortsword and only regret for a moment, turning tight and running him through with it. The meat of your shoulder weeps with exertion.

Shinsou will force the queen and her family through the crack in the ballroom door, he has her under a shield now, racing. Your friends will follow, Hawks– he– the captain hits the ground like a horrible beat of thunder in your path, his wings singed in both red and blue. You jerk your head back to the war of flames overhead.

The blue mage takes advantage of the shadow of the catwalks in moonlight and his father fires indiscriminately upwards. Ceiling crumbles. The overwhelming scent of the ocean pulls in howls and gusts of wind through the shattered holes in the room. If you were stronger you would tackle the ghost back off the cliff into the sea.

“Y/n!”

“Fall back! The king– he’ll–!”

No one else can tell just how badly the ghost is melting. When you struck him, nothing burnt. You could cling tight just like the night in the gardens. The heat only came to his skin when he needed it to– to burn your prince, to catch your knife. It cannot exist all at once, he is not the surface of the sun, he is in pain. He begs and bargains for his magic. He is a monster but he is much more easily killed than you. The only horror here is in how badly Takoba hates its king and how easy it was to ensure no one came to help him.

“Touya!” You scream over the boom of crown molding cracking the floor to pieces nearby. You heard it from the queen, “Prince Touya!” Tight in your fingers and high overhead, you hold the vial you plucked from his breast pocket.

Suddenly his father is much less interesting. Blue fire and a midnight suit dive for you but you have studied dragons. You lurch behind the closest mountain of debris because marble does not conduct heat well; it hardly even wilts as blue bears down on it from every sweltering direction. You crouch through hell, through the screams of your name, through the mage’s last breath and dive out of cover the second his magic pauses for air. The king is quick to charge across the floor now that his son has landed and the stolen vial is tucked back tight between your bandages.

Pearl hot flames lick your silk hem and you hardly leap to the platform of the throne fast enough to avoid either fate, red or blue, mage or king. The dance peruro is destructive. You twist out of the path of a thrown dagger and roll when the floor gives out beneath your shoes. Fire only dreams of touching you. You are soaked in the warm puddles that remain of Rei’s wall, and up again. Run, to every corner of the room, make the mage look for you, and let the blind king kill everyone in your way.

The last Todoroki clears the crack in the elven doors under Shinsou’s orders. It was a beautiful, horseshit party.

Stars every color of the rainbow pour like tears through the fire of the night as a soldier takes you off your feet. They are wild, face burnt from ear to nose, and their blade would have driven through your throat hard enough to shatter if Bakugou hadn’t hurtled them out the window and into the sea. He glows like fairylight at every place sweat pools. You don’t realize he’s carrying you, running, sprinting, because you don’t realize how much blood you’ve lost– how many pieces of you Takoba took on your warpath.

Whose turn is it to apologize?

There is cheering, someone calling you think. When flames lick the prince’s heels he covers your head with a magic-calloused hand. You’re bleeding onto his pretty clothes and Shuzenji was right.

The prince vaults over a falling chandelier with magic on the balls of his feet. He’s faster than before, he’s not growling or screaming, but he’s still alive under the hand you press to his chest. You knew he’d follow you. You think you’re at least owed one or two chances to play general because in just a few more jerking strides your prince, and you against him, break clear through the elven door as if from guns. The last two Alderans almost free.

You aren’t awake to note the path refugees take through the castle. Not awake to share Shinsou’s anxiety around every corner or to count the bodies in the halls. Bakugou carries you deeper into the bowels of Takoba among his fleeing friends. He keeps you safe in strong arms and you no longer plan on dying.

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tagged angels ! @ltadoriyuujl / @cherripunch26 / @chandiewashere / @sakurarr1122 / @ihavefixations-and-onehiccup / @juni-does-art / @romiinlove / @todorokiskitten / @zukowantshishonourback / @phoenix-draws77 / @starryparkrr / @misscaller06 / @420mitskilover / @kalulakunundrum / @the-omnipotent-phlowr / @butterscotch-ripple-icecream / @cutiepatoodie / @catsoupki / @acid-rain27 / @sky-angel101 / @flyhighinthesky

#bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #a hymn to black water #this one was a suicide mission if there are grammar mistakes no there arent #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au #fantasy bakugou x reader #fantasy bakugo x reader #fantasy mha x reader #fantasy bnha x reader #bnha fic #mha fic

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tashiberrie · 6 months ago

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✮ HEARTWORM ✮ tashi duncan x fem!reader

⋆💌⋆ TAGS - written with fem reader in mind, toxic relationship, reader is a lit student, angst, stanford era, no mention of tashi’s injury

wc- 763

masterlist

You two had met during a tennis tournament in 2004. After a long and intense match between the two of you, Tashi Duncan had come out on top.

You were drawn to each other instantly, like two moths to a flame, each recognising the shadows in the other's eyes.

From the start, your relationship was a tempest. You were addicted to the intensity of your connection, the way you could read each other's minds with a glance, and the way your souls seemed to intertwine in a dance of passion and pain. Your love was all-consuming, burning brightly but always on the verge of destruction.

Tashi was volatile, her moods swinging wildly from euphoric highs to devastating lows. She played furiously, the swings of her racket reflecting the chaos within her. You found inspiration in her unpredictability, your writing becoming darker, more profound, as you delved into the depths of your tumultuous love.

But your passion often turned into rage. Fights erupted over trivial matters, your words cutting deep, leaving scars that never fully healed.

You would argue until dawn, your voices echoing through the dorm room, throwing accusations and regrets like daggers. But in the quiet moments after the storm, you would cling to each other desperately, unable to let go despite the pain. You were addicted to the drama, the heartbreak, and the brief moments of bliss that followed your reconciliations.

You tried to leave once, packing your bags and walking out the door, determined to escape the cycle of hurt. But you couldn't stay away. You found yourself drawn back to Tashi, unable to resist the magnetic pull of your love. She was your muse, your torment, your everything. And so, you returned, your heart heavy with the knowledge that your love was both your salvation and your destruction.

Tashi, too, tried to move on. She sought solace in her tennis, pouring her pain onto the court, hoping to exorcise the demons that haunted her. But every swing of her racket reminded her of you, of the way you looked at her as if she were the only person in the world. She was lost without you, adrift in a sea of loneliness and longing. And so, she called you, her voice trembling with desperation, begging you to come back.

You reunions were always bittersweet, filled with tears and whispered apologies. You would cling to each other, promising to change, to be better, but the cycle would inevitably repeat. Your love was a battlefield, each skirmish leaving you more battered and bruised, but neither of you could surrender. You were trapped in a toxic dance, unable to break free yet unable to truly be together.

As the years passed, the toll of your relationship began to show. Your once bright eyes grew dull with fatigue, and Tashi's vibrant spirit became shadowed with sorrow. You were like two stars on a collision course, destined to burn out in a blaze of tragic beauty. But even as you destroyed each other, you couldn't imagine life apart. Your love was a prison, but it was also the only thing that made you feel alive.

One night, Tashi and you found yourselves back at the tennis court where your had first met. The atmosphere was hauntingly familiar, the rackets’ mournful wail echoing the ache in your hearts. You played in silence, your souls intertwined, lost in your own thoughts.

Tashi broke the silence, her voice barely a whisper. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we had never met?"

You looked at her, your eyes filled with a mixture of love and pain. "Every day," you admitted. "But then I remember that even if it's killing me, I can't imagine my life without you."

Tears welled in Tashi's eyes, and she squeezed the handle of her racket tighter. "I don't know how to let you go," she confessed, her voice breaking.

You walked over to her and pulled her into your arms, holding her as if you could keep the world at bay. "Maybe we don't have to," you murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Maybe this is just who we are."

As you held each other, rain started to fall, a fitting soundtrack to your story. You were two souls entwined in a love that was as beautiful as it was destructive, unable to break free yet unable to truly be whole together. And so, you remained, locked in a tragic embrace, bound by a love that would forever be your greatest joy and your deepest sorrow.

#challengers #tashi duncan x reader #challengers x reader #tashi duncan #art donaldson #patrick zweig #challengers fic #challengers x fem!reader #it’s 3am #i don’t know if this makes sense

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arcadia-of-pluto · 3 months ago

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Twist of Fate; Chapter Fifteen

Pairings; LADS OT4 x reader

Word count; 2.6k

Themes; isekai, eventual smut

Rating; 18+ for swearing and mature content

Notes; Last chapter for the weekend (I say weekend but it's only friday–) I'm really thinking about posting chapter sixteen, but I think I need to put more distance between my chapters I'm posting and what I'm currently working on, since twenty is real close to sixteen. I'll probably be working on chapter twenty this weekend and if I get to twenty-one, I might post sixteen! 🩷

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Masterlist

Melodious music serenades the luxurious banquet hall that’s illuminated by dreamy lighting.

Sylus calmly guides you across the dance floor, swaying to the song’s slow rhythm. He blocks the prying shadows around you both and when you look up, all you see is his face, which is quite infuriating because it’s a good face. It’s distracting.

“Y/n, you need to be smarter if you want to retaliate against me,” Sylus says with a small sigh. “Sorry, I’m not really used to these kinds of social gatherings,” You glance away from him with a small, sheepish smile and clumsily lift your heel off of his foot.

“Did you actually get information on the aether core?”

“You can choose not to believe me,” Sylus muses as you continue your dance. Catching a glimpse of a flashing red dot in the shadows, you use your hand that’s on his shoulder to push him in the opposite direction.

“But they wouldn’t leak such important information. Unless..” You trail off, trying to get him to talk about what you heard over the earpiece earlier, “It’s a trap.” “Exactly.” A smile tugs at the corner of Sylus’ lips, almost as if he’s proud of you for coming to that realization.

You look back up at him, a little concerned. “You’re not going to throw yourself into their trap, are you?” The man shakes his head before speaking with a smile, “Be content with your role. Don’t scare away the fish that already bit the hook.”

You sigh, chewing on your bottom lip for a moment, “There’s…eight evol bombs, fifteen high-frequency guns…They really want you dead. Sylus, you made a lot of enemies.” “This isn’t the first time it’s happened,” He replies nonchalantly as the music reaches a crescendo. The notes from the orchestra are layers on top of one another, like surging tidal waves.

The lights dim to the passionate beats and shadows surround you both on all sides.

“You have something up your sleeve, right? Even if you have a death wish, I don’t intend to die here with you,” You harshly whisper, feeling a panic build up in your chest.

“Don’t worry, you won’t die that easily.” Is all he says. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Boom

A deafening explosion drowns out the music and ensuing screams. The beautiful hall is instantly reduced to rubble.

Amidst the surging chaos, Sylus tightens his grip on your hand and while your heartbeat thunders in your ears, you can barely make out a scoff coming from him. To your surprise, you see him nonchalantly crush something before throwing it into the debris.

“You…had the detonator this whole time?” You ask, ears slightly ringing from the explosion as you look up at him. He laughs, a smile on his lips, “The vermin were taking their sweet time. I was getting impatient.”

“The metaflux is quickly increasing and there’s more than one wanderer…be careful.” You look around at the rubble, hand subconsciously squeezing his tighter. Your free hand quickly pulls your gun from your thigh holster to fire several shots at the wanderer that was about to attack Sylus.

“Well, that was close..” You let out a sigh of relief. “How long do you think you’ll last with an outdated weapon like that?” He asks, jerking his chin in the direction of your pistols. “Hey..” You pout, holding your gun close to your chest.

They were like your babies. You couldn’t just get rid of them.

Sylus tosses over another gun and you fumble with it in your full hands. “Don’t waste your efforts.” he says, not elaborating on what he means. You shake your head with a small sigh, re-holstering your other guns to hold the new ones. They were definitely lighter than your old ones and seemed to be better made.

“Did Sherman make you do this? Where’s the aether core? Hey, answer me!” After you had handled the last wanderer, you found a henchman cowering in the corner. You press the muzzle of your gun against the back of his head as you spit-fired questions at him.

“You haven’t won yet! We still have a backup plan…! That thing is terrifying. When it shows up, not even Sylus– agh!” Black-red mist throws the man into a broken stone pillar. With a scream, he falls to the ground like a puppet whose strings were just cut. You jerk your head toward Sylus with a glare. “Violence should be used strategically,” He says with a shrug, calmly wiping the blood off of his face as the mist disappears from his hands.

“I would’ve believed you if your hands were clean,” You grumble with a small sigh, annoyed that you have to fight in heels– which is insane by the way. You’ve almost fallen over so many times.

Despite the venue being cleared, strong energy fluctuations manifest above you both and shake the ground you stand on. “What’s making that noise? Are there still some left?” You rub the back of your neck, before remembering that the henchman was talking about something being their backup plan.

“Let’s go.” Sylus turns to walk away and you throw your hands up in annoyance, “Where are we going?” The older man grabs your wrist and swiftly starts walking. “To the place that has what you want,” He says, his fingers deftly wrapped around your wrist.

The almost transparent elevator quickly ascends and the colourful night-time scenery is obscured by the clouds. The elevator doors creak open on the roof and your eyes widen as you notice the huge wormhole in the sky.

A sense of panic and foreboding claws at your chest from the image of something huge and alien-looking in the sky.

“What is this place..?” You manage to say as you both step out from the elevator and onto the dilapidated roof. Countless pieces of metal are strewn across the spacious rooftop. The area around you was shrouded in mist and in the haze, barely visible, are abandoned collection vessels, transporters, and other devices.

Broken steel bars poke out from the overgrown weeds. Rusty frames are propped up, outlining a bygone era. “It looks like a laboratory for experiments or something..” You murmur, hands gripping your guns tighter.

“It was one many years ago. But they abandoned it a while back,” Sylus finally answers, turning to look at you with his thumbs in his pockets. “They?” You parrot, head cocking to the side. Stepping over broken fragments and glass shards, Sylus’ tone remains aloof, “EVER.”

You pause at that bit of information. The EVER Cooperation? They were the leading force of intelligence in Linkon. Doing all kinds of research and good. Why were they ever in the N109 Zone?

As the most prestigious international business group, it basically supports the whole of Linkon City. So…how could they be involved with the N109 Zone?

“...I heard that before the Chronorift Catastrophe, the N109 Zone was the most prosperous tech hub so I guess it makes sense that EVER used it as a research base.” You say as you nod your head, managing to make sense of it before Sylus tears that thought down, “You really are a naive Linkon citizen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You raise a brow. Hell, you weren’t even a real Linkon citizen to begin with. You weren’t even from here. You were just going off what you knew from the game itself!

Sylus gives you a look, crossing his arms over his chest, “Many locations were affected by that catastrophe, yet only the N109 Zone turned into a wasteland. Why do you think that is?”

Ohh…You recall some unverified theories, but your mind is a mess right now. You can’t think of anything useful to this situation.

“We’re here.” Sylus stops walking and you almost run into his firm back.

Slow vibrations resembling heartbeats pulsate through the sky and you look up to see the Deepspace Tunnel– at least that’s what you assume it is. You’ve never seen one since being in the game, after all, but it must be that, since you had no other explanation. It was eerily beautiful.

Dense clouds and vortexes churn amidst the darkness and occasionally, a stream of light flashes across the night sky like heat lightning. The silent tunnel is like a telescope peeking into the universe.

“The Deepspace Tunnel…This is the first time I’ve been so close to it,” You murmur, taking a deep breath as tiny beams of light enter your line of sight. You can’t help, but take a step closer– before you notice a stone fixture. “It’s a Flux Nexus. I saw one in the no-hunt zone!” You exclaim, remembering what it looked like from that one mission with Xavier, before you entered the game.

“Then you should know what it contains. These fluctuations aren’t produced by normal protocores,” Sylus says from next to you and you nod your head.

The aether core.

Sylus stands next to you, looking at you with his eyes that have unfathomable depths. “Think about it first. Once you take it out, there’s no going back.” You take a deep breath. You’re already here, why would you give up now?

Gritting your teeth, you put your hand on the Flux Nexus’s intricate patterns. The power of resonance instantly flows through your body and dazzling light seeps out from your palm. A shiny, floating gem appears from the slab. “The aether core..” You reach out to touch it and as soon as your fingers brush against it, the ground starts to shake violently.

A storm appears.

Violent fluctuations lash out from the Deepspace Tunnel’s entrance. A huge shadow emerges from the vortex. It’s getting closer and closer. Its wings blot out all light in the sky.

“Is this…the backup plan they were talking about?!” You quickly turn toward Sylus, worriedly, and he chuckles, “We finally get something presentable.” A huge protofield unfolds before you and then, the ferocious wanderer charges toward you both at breakneck speed.

It’s a large blue-black bird, an Arbiterwings. It might be a bit difficult to take on without resonating with Sylus, so you’d have to try. Its feathers were made of crystalized metaflux, so it seems like that would be the way to take it down, destroy the feathers and the bird will fall.

A blinding light comes from your palm as you press it against Sylus’ shoulder, concentrating on resonating with him as the bird flew about in the dark red protofield. Finally– You break apart from Sylus and hold your guns up. “Ready?” You ask and without waiting for his response, you begin shooting at the bird.

The first didn’t take too long, maybe four or five minutes at most but, once it was over, you quickly turn to look at Sylus excitedly before you realize you’re not on the roof...

What...

The scenery before you is blurry, but you can make out that it’s a war ravaged, desolate planet.

“Where…am I?” You mumble to yourself as you look around.

All you can see is darkness. The sky is dark with smoke pluming from the burning planet, cracks in the ground reveal bright reddish orange magma.

Your heartbeat stutters in your chest as your gaze slowly moves down to your trembling, bloody hands.

“There’s…so much..blood.” Why were your hands so bloody? What was going on?

“You must press on.” Sylus? You quickly look around, tears pricking your eyes in your terror, desperate to see a familiar face in this hellscape.

But you can barely make out the figure in front of you. His blurry figure seemed to have corroded crystals growing on his shoulders, neck, and lower half. You could see his bare chest with dark blue and purple veins clearly visible. “That’s..” You murmur, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

Was he turning into a wanderer like those people from before?

You felt his thin, spindly hand squeeze yours around the hilt of the sword that was plunged into his chest.

“Because…if you don’t..There’s no going back.”

His voice was coming from this thing?

Your hands shake as you realize you stabbed Sylus and you have no idea why. Seriously— What's going on?

“Sylus–” An inferno blazes before your eyes, your vision blurring and amidst the blood and fire, the Deepspace Tunnel appears. It shakes violently. “Y/n, you must press on.” You flinch as a red electrical current strikes before your eyes and once your vision clears, you notice Sylus is holding his hand out toward you.

“The life you owe me– now is not the time to repay it.” He says and as you look at the hand reaching out toward you.

You see Sylus’s cold face..there was a hint of worry beneath his usual gaze. But there also seems to be a shadow above him. You can’t help but reach out as well.

Unprecedented power swells between your intertwined fingers and, instantly, you feel a tremor from deep within your heart. Something flows through your veins. The wanderer’s dissipating particles fall like a misty rain, yet a brighter light pierces through the haze.

You lift your free hand up to shield your eyes from the light, your eyes squinting as you tried to make out where the light was coming from. The aether core emits countless rays of golden light that seeps into your chest. The warm, familiar power continues to surge.

You’re not sure how much time has passed when the fluctuations around your body slowly start to subside. The movements within your body cease. It’s as if an ocean’s roaring waves have silently calmed down, turning into ripples on a lake’s surface.

A tiny golden stone hovers in the sky above your head and you reach out for it, holding it between your thumb and index finger.

“So this is the aether core…” It shines for a moment before a crack appears on it. You quickly turn toward Sylus in shock, noticing he’s looking up at the sky. “...Sylus?” You question and he closes his eyes before saying, “Its power belongs to you now. Naturally, the vessel will break as a result.”

“To...me?” You raise a brow as the white haired man looks at you. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” He asks, looking away from you. He turns his back to you to walk away with you being dragged behind him.

“Hey! Where are you taking me?” You say, exasperated. Your feet hurt from wearing your heels all day and fighting in them. “Wait– This is...?” He stops walking as you stare down at your hands with wide eyes. He wasn’t even grabbing your wrist.

He lifts your hands with a small sigh, an invisible force binding them together. He shakes his arm back and forth, your hand being forced to move with him. “Let go already!” You groan, glaring at your arms as you notice they weren’t even that close together. They were a few inches apart, so why were they stuck together?

Then, a deep orange light swirls between your hands. The light circles around both your wrists with a string connecting the circle together like handcuffs. “What…is this thing?” You question, tugging at your hand before looking up at Sylus, who sighs.

He doesn’t respond and the powerful tremor that shook the Deepspace Tunnel ignites a chain reaction within the N109 Zone.

Those shadows, who believed they controlled Onychinus, are eliminated from fate’s tapestry. Unable to see the undercurrents beneath the water’s surface, you can only smell the scent of smoke becoming more poignant as it’s carried by the wind.

Structures crumble and collapse, and Mephisto’s wings pierce through the boundless darkness. He’s accompanied by the distant tolling of a bell.

It’s almost like an announcement, as if the world is saying…The true leader of Onychinus has returned.

Taglist; @orphicmeliora , @yoongi-tunes, @mitzkooni, @hiqhkey, @tanspostsblog

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