winxanity-ii

[winxanity-ii]

i love reader. idc if she’s a bimbo or a crybaby or a little unhinged. good for her tbh. i love her in all shapes and forms. she is barbie. she is a doctor and a student and a barista and she can take five dicks at the same time. what a beautiful world we live in.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 14 Chapter 14 | silent strain⌟

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The days that followed were restless, though you tried to hide it beneath the mask of routine.

Each moment you could spare, your eyes trailed toward Andreia and Prince Telemachus. Whether it was during dinners where the royal families mingled or as you passed by the courtyards in your duties, you found yourself drawn to their interactions.

Andreia's demeanor toward Telemachus was as obvious as sunlight. She was coy, her voice lilting with playful notes as she leaned toward him just enough to invade his space without overstepping.

She'd twirl a strand of her auburn hair around her fingers, her head tilting at the slightest inclination of his voice, as though every word he spoke was a revelation.

Her laughter was sweet, too sweet—a bubbly, ringing sound that set your teeth on edge, especially when compared to the cold detachment she'd shown you that day in the sheepfold.

It was jarring, to see her so kind and open with him, far removed from the icy, calculating figure you had encountered. She radiated warmth, her emerald eyes sparkling with a feigned innocence that you couldn't unsee now that you knew better.

She was a different person entirely—charming, demure, and confident in a way that left little doubt of her intentions. Her fingers would linger on Telemachus' arm just a moment too long, her smile a fraction too wide.

It was as if she were weaving a net around him, one thread at a time.

Telemachus, for his part, seemed polite and cordial, though there were moments when his boyish charm peeked through.

At dinner, he'd lean in closer when she spoke, his face attentive, his easy smile encouraging her to continue.

You couldn't help but notice how his eyes occasionally flickered to her face, perhaps taking in the faint blush that colored her cheeks. But then, there were times he seemed to grow restless, a faint flicker of something unreadable in his gaze as if he were only half listening.

It stung, though you tried not to let it show, especially during those evenings when you'd catch snippets of their laughter echoing through the halls. Your hands would tighten on the linen you were folding, or your steps would quicken as you passed by the feasting hall.

Still, you reminded yourself that this was his role—a prince courting a princess, ensuring alliances. Yet, even with that reminder, Callias' words lingered in your mind, a whisper of reassurance battling against the tightening in your chest.

The days grew shorter as autumn began to edge into winter, the chill creeping into the mornings and biting at your skin despite the midday sun. The air carried a sharper edge, and the light waned faster, casting the palace in long shadows that came too early in the day.

It was on one such brisk afternoon that you found yourself leaving the seamstress' quarters, a small scroll in hand detailing the queen's updated winter measurements. The cold nipped at your cheeks, and you tugged your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you moved through the quieter corridors of the palace.

"____!" The sound of your name, called with warmth and familiarity, startled you, and your heart leapt in your chest.

You turned sharply, your fingers tightening around the scroll as your eyes landed on Telemachus. He was walking briskly toward you, his steps purposeful yet light, and you couldn't help but notice how his smile grew wider as he caught your gaze.

His eyes brightened, the fatigue that had seemed to cling to him in recent days momentarily lifting, and there was a slight spring in his step, as though seeing you had filled him with a sudden energy.

"____," he called again, his voice carrying easily over the quiet. "I was hoping to run into you."

"Telemachus," you breathed under your breath, his name slipping from your lips without thought as he approached, stopping in your tracks.

Your heart beat faster than you wanted to admit, your heart fluttering in your chest, each beat heavy and echoing in your ears. You tightened your grip on the scroll in your hands, suddenly hyperaware of how cold your fingers felt against the smooth parchment.

As he stopped before you, his smile softened, and his gaze swept over you with quiet intensity. His eyes lingered briefly, studying you as though searching for something. "How are you?" he asked, his voice low and warm, a thread of concern woven through his tone. "Are you feeling well?"

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe, caught off guard by the way he looked at you—his brows slightly furrowed, his head tilted just enough to show genuine interest.

The wind teased at the loose strands of his hair, and the soft sunlight caught in his eyes, making the warm brown hue seem almost golden.

"I-I'm fine," you managed to say, though your voice sounded too light, too forced, even to your own ears. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other before offering a small bow of respect, glancing down briefly before meeting his gaze again. "Thank you for asking, my prince."

His lips twitched, as though suppressing a deeper smile, and he gave a slight shake of his head, waving a hand dismissively at the formality. "There's no need for that," he said, his tone light.

The words seemed to relax the air between you, and his shoulders loosened as he studied you again. This time, his gaze held no urgency, only a quiet satisfaction as he took in the healthy flush of your cheeks, the steadiness of your stance. "Good." The tension around his eyes eased as his smile softened further.

"You look much better," he murmured, almost to himself, before clearing his throat. "I mean, not that you looked unwell before, but... you know." He trailed off, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

You felt a warmth rise to your own cheeks, and you nodded quickly, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. "Yes, I'm fine now. Thank you for asking, my prince."

He studied you for a moment longer, as though committing the sight of you to memory, before his expression shifted slightly. The softness in his gaze gave way to a more thoughtful look, and he hesitated before speaking again. He shifted his stance, his hands brushing lightly against his tunic as though gathering his thoughts.

"Uhh, I noticed," he began, his voice slower now, deliberate, "at the feast the other night, and... well, even before that." He paused, his brow furrowing slightly as he searched for the right words. "You haven't been playing your lyre. You usually don't go a night without it."

The words hit you like a sudden gust of wind, freezing you in place. Your breath caught sharply, and for a moment, you could only stare at him, wide-eyed. The scroll in your hands felt suddenly heavy, your fingers trembling as your grip tightened.

"I mean," he continued, seemingly unaware of your sudden tension, "you still play beautifully—every instrument you touch, really—but I couldn't help but notice. Your lyre... it always seemed to be your favorite. And now..." He trailed off, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "I just wondered if everything was alright."

You forced yourself to swallow, trying to steady the rising panic clawing at your chest as your mind scrambled for a response.

No one else had noticed—not the queen, not the other servants, not even the musicians you occasionally played with.

You had thought your quiet substitution of instruments had gone unnoticed, a small, insignificant change in the grand scheme of things.

But Telemachus had noticed.

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice, and it only made the lump in your throat grow heavier. How could you explain it? How could you tell him about Andreia, about what had happened?

Only Callias and Andreia herself knew the truth, and you had worked so hard to keep it that way.

The thought of revealing it to him—to anyone—made your stomach twist with unease.

"I..." You hesitated, your voice faltering as you tried to steady your breathing. You forced a smile, though it felt brittle, and shook your head lightly. "I've been trying something new," you blurted out, the words rushed and awkward. "Different instruments, I mean. I thought it might be... refreshing." You forced a smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

For a moment, Telemachus said nothing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. You braced yourself, the seconds stretching into what felt like an eternity. But then, to your immense relief, he nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing.

"That makes sense," he said finally, though his voice carried a note of skepticism. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before his lips quirked into a small, reassuring smile. "You've always been talented. Whatever you play, I'm sure it's worth hearing."

His words sent a strange mix of relief and guilt washing over you, the warmth of his praise clashing with the unease that still churned in your chest.

You nodded, managing a quiet, "Thank you," though the words felt hollow in your throat.

"And, ____, if there's ever anything you need... anything at all—you know you can come to me. Right?"

Your heart ached at the sincerity in his voice, and you nodded quickly, your throat tight with emotion. "Of course, my prince. Thank you."

He held your gaze for a moment longer, as if searching for something unspoken, before his smile returned, softer now. "Good," he said simply, his tone warm. "That's all I wanted to hear."

Telemachus' smile lingered, and for a brief moment, the air between you felt lighter, warmer, as though the weight of the conversation had been lifted. But deep down, you couldn't shake the sinking feeling that the truth was closer to surfacing than you were ready for.

For a moment, the two of you stood there in the quiet corridor, the world around you fading into the background.

You cleared your throat softly, the sound barely breaking the quiet between you. Telemachus' head tilted, his brow lifting slightly as his attention sharpened. For a heartbeat, you hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze, before the words tumbled out.

"Have you, um—" You faltered, your voice catching for just a moment. "Have you seen any new constellations recently? Or... perhaps something interesting in the stars lately? You know, with the season changing."

Telemachus blinked in surprise at first before his expression shifted immediately, his eyes lighting up with a boyish excitement that made your chest tighten. "Oh, yes," he said quickly, the words spilling out like he'd been waiting for an excuse to talk about it. His smile grew, softer but no less genuine, as his fingers brushed absently over the hem of his tunic.

"The skies have been stunning this autumn," he began, his tone growing warm with excitement. "Just a few nights ago, I was out watching the heavens, and I caught sight of Lyra—the Harp—hanging low near the horizon. It's faint this time of year, but clear if you know where to look." He paused, his lips curving into a thoughtful smile. "It... made me think of you."

Your breath hitched, and his cheeks flushed, the faint pink spreading across his nose as he seemed to realize what he'd said. "I—I mean," he stammered, his hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck, his eyes darting to the ground before flicking back to yours, "it's just—you play the lyre so beautifully, and, well, Lyra always reminds me of music and..." He trailed off, his voice softening, his gaze dropping for a moment as though he needed a second to steady himself.

He cleared his throat, his hands now clasping in front of him, and when he looked back up at you, there was a tenderness in his eyes that made your heart ache. "Since my father returned, he's been teaching me tricks about the stars—navigating by them, learning their patterns—things he picked up on his travels." A faint, bashful smile tugged at his lips. "He says I've got a good eye for it."

You couldn't help but smile, the image of Telemachus and Odysseus stargazing together filling your mind. "That sounds wonderful,"

Telemachus' gaze flickered away again, the faint blush deepening on his cheeks as he nodded. "It is. It's... peaceful, being out there under the open sky. Sometimes, it feels like you can hear the stories the stars are trying to tell."

He hesitated, his weight shifting slightly, his hands brushing against his sides as though searching for something to do.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, softer, almost unsure. "So, uh, tonight, Venus will be at its brightest," he said, his eyes glancing up at you briefly before darting away again. "It's—it's something to see, really. It lights up the sky like a beacon."

He cleared his throat again, his fingers now fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. "I... was thinking—" He stopped, biting his lip as his gaze darted back to you. His voice dropped to almost a whisper, and he stuttered slightly as he continued, "If—if you'd like, you could... join me? To see it, I mean. It's, uh, better with someone else. I think you'd... enjoy it."

Your heart leapt, the warmth in his voice wrapping around you like a gentle embrace. The way he looked at you—shy, hopeful, as though his entire world hinged on your answer—made it impossible to refuse.

Your lips parted, the word "I—" barely forming before a voice interrupted the moment.

"Telemachus~" the voice cooed, smooth, and saccharine, cutting through the air like a blade.

Your breath hitched, the faint warmth that had begun to bloom between you and the prince cooling instantly. Both of you turned toward the source of the interruption, and there she was—Andreia.

Her auburn hair gleamed like polished copper, catching the soft light spilling through the corridor windows, and her practiced smile curved effortlessly across her lips.

She strode toward the two of you with an ease that bordered on regal, her eyes flashing briefly over you before locking onto Telemachus.

"Here you are," she said, her tone light and lilting, as though she'd spent hours searching for him. The way her words flowed, so casual yet so perfectly placed, made your stomach churn.

Andreia's hand brushed lightly against Telemachus' arm, her touch lingering just enough to feel possessive. Her fingers rested there, delicate yet firm, like she had every right to stake her claim. "I was wondering where you'd gone," she added with a soft laugh, tilting her head ever so slightly as she looked up at him.

Telemachus stiffened at first, his shoulders squaring in surprise, the flush still on his cheeks as his gaze darted between you and Andreia. "Oh, uh... Lady Andreia," he greeted, his tone polite but lacking the warmth he'd just shown you.

His fingers flexed at his sides, betraying his awkwardness as his eyes flitted back toward you, only to snap back to Andreia under the weight of her commanding presence.

Andreia's smile widened, a flash of teeth, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Don't tell me you've forgotten about our lunch plans," she teased, her tone playful but carrying an undercurrent of reprimand. "You promised to show me the olive grove today."

The words hung in the air, heavy despite her light delivery. Your grip on the edge of your shawl tightened, your knuckles brushing against the scroll you still held.

Telemachus shifted his weight, his unease evident in the way his eyes flitted briefly to yours before snapping back to Andreia. "Right," he said slowly, his voice faltering as though caught off guard. "The olive grove."

Andreia's hand slid down from his arm but stayed close, her posture angled toward him with practiced grace. "Shall we go?" she asked, her emerald eyes locked on his face, her expression one of expectation.

Your chest tightened at the sight, and for a fleeting moment, you thought Telemachus might turn back to you. His lips parted slightly, his gaze turning to linger on you just long enough for something to flicker in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or an apology he couldn't voice.

Andreia's attention, however, was unrelenting. Her smile faltered for the briefest moment as she followed his gaze, her expression cooling when her eyes landed on you. "Oh..." she drawled, her head tilting slightly, the tone of her voice dripping with feigned surprise. "You're ____, yes?"

You straightened instinctively, willing your voice to remain steady. "Y-Yes, Lady An—"

Andreia didn't let you finish. She turned back to Telemachus, her gaze softening as though you weren't even there. "Oh," she said lightly, her voice airy, "am I interrupting something, Telemachus?" The question was directed at Telemachus, her tone sweet but pointed, her wide eyes locked on his face.

Telemachus' face remained carefully neutral, his features set in a mask of calm that he had learned to wear during courtly interactions. But beneath the surface, his mind churned.

He was acutely aware of how close Andreia stood now, the scent of her floral perfume faint but distinct in the chill air. The warmth he had felt only moments ago, while speaking with you, had all but drained away.

His eyes darted toward you again, lingering for a fraction longer than was prudent. You stood stiffly, the scroll in your hands held tightly against your chest, your gaze lowered.

There was something almost imperceptible in your posture—disappointment, perhaps? Hurt? The thought made his stomach twist, though he quickly shoved it aside.

He couldn't afford to focus on that, not now.

"No—no, you're not interrupting," he stammered, his tone caught between reassurance and discomfort. He forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, and gestured vaguely toward you. "We were just finishing up."

Andreia's smile returned, brighter than ever, the edges curling with satisfaction as though she had won a quiet battle. She stepped closer to Telemachus; her fingers grazed the edge of his tunic, an almost imperceptible gesture that felt calculated, meant to be seen but subtle enough to be dismissed as casual. "Good," she said with a soft laugh, her emerald eyes glinting as they met his. "I wouldn't want to pull you away from anything... important." Her words hung in the air, carrying a subtle challenge that wasn't lost to you.

Telemachus swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw tightening briefly as he resisted the urge to glance at you again.

He knew how this moment looked, how it felt, and it gnawed at the edges of his resolve. But he also knew his duty, the expectations that came with his station.

Andreia wasn't just a princess—she was a potential alliance, a symbol of unity between Ithaca and her own kingdom. To dismiss her or show favoritism toward someone else, no matter how innocent the context, would be unwise.

"Of course not," he replied, his tone even, though his chest felt heavy. He offered a small, polite nod, one that he hoped would convey the right amount of respect and deference. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Andreia tilted her head slightly, her smile softening as though his words had pleased her. She reached up, brushing a strand of auburn hair back from her face, the motion deliberate yet graceful. "You're always so considerate, Machus," she said, her voice light and teasing; her gaze flickered briefly to you again, as though gauging your reaction, before returning to him.

Telemachus felt his pulse quicken, his discomfort growing. He hated how easily Andreia commanded the conversation, how her presence seemed to overshadow everything else in the moment.

But he hated more that he couldn't bring himself to break away, to say what he truly wanted. His role as prince demanded restraint, diplomacy, and sacrifice.

And so, he buried the flicker of guilt that had sparked when he'd seen the look in your eyes.

You shuffled your feet, the use of the nickname "Machus" feeling like an invisible weight pressing against your chest, the easy familiarity of it jarring in its intimacy.

How comfortable she was using it—and worse, how Telemachus neither stopped her nor corrected her—made the moment heavier, more painful than you cared to admit.

You knew better than to take it personally; you knew the realities of his station and the delicate politics at play, but that knowledge didn't dull the ache.

Your throat tightened, and you softly cleared it, drawing their attention briefly. You dipped into a polite curtsy, your voice steady though quieter than usual. "If you'll excuse me, my prince, my lady," you said, keeping your gaze lowered as you took a step back. "I'll...I'll take my leave now."

Telemachus' eyes flicked toward you, his lips parting as if he might say something, but the words never came.

Andreia giggled softly, leaning closer to him as though you had already gone, her hand lightly resting on his arm. "Oh, Machus," she said, blinking up at him with a coy smile. "I almost forgot—one of Bronte's navigators mentioned that Venus will be at her brightest tonight. Isn't that perfect? We should watch it together."

Her tone was light and airy, but there was an undercurrent of possession in her words that wasn't lost on you as you turned to leave. The sound of her laughter, soft and musical, lingered behind you as you walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

You didn't glance back, though your heart clenched at the thought of what you might see if you did.

You had barely made it halfway down the corridor, your steps deliberate yet distant, when the sound of hurried footsteps behind you broke the rhythm of your retreat. Before you could react, a warm hand wrapped gently but firmly around your wrist, halting your escape.

"Wait," Telemachus' voice came, low but rushed, tinged with urgency. You turned halfway, your heart skipping at the sight of him. His face was flushed, his breath slightly uneven as though he'd chased after you without thinking.

"What are you—?" you began, but he shook his head, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he leaned in closer.

"Please," he said, his tone softer now, imploring. His gaze darted briefly over his shoulder, and you caught sight of Andreia still standing in the corridor.

She was a distance away, her posture poised, though her expression was unreadable. She waited, her presence a looming reminder that you didn't belong in the same orbit as her.

Telemachus turned back to you, his brow furrowed, his words coming in a rush as if trying to explain something too complex for the time he had. "I know how this must look—how she must seem—but you have to understand, this isn't—I-I didn't mean for you to think... I just—" He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated with himself as he glanced back toward Andreia again, and he looked back at you. "This isn't what it looks like."

Your chest tightened, and you pulled your wrist gently out of his grasp, stepping back to create some distance. "You don't have to explain anything," you said softly, your voice measured, though you felt anything but calm. "I understand."

His eyes flickered, confusion flashing across his face. "You... do?" he asked, his tone unsure, as though he didn't believe you. He stepped closer, lowering his voice as if afraid Andreia would hear. "I just mean... Andreia is a princess and she's here because... because of alliances. It's all political, so I have to entertain her. I—" He stumbled over his words, his frustration evident. "It doesn't mean anything."

The words were like a stone dropped into a still pond, rippling through your mind in ways you couldn't fully grasp. It doesn't mean anything. Then why did it feel like it meant everything?

You tilted your head, searching his face for clarity, but all you saw was a young man caught between two worlds—one of duty and one of desire. His expression softened as his eyes met yours again, his voice gentler now. "I just... I want you to understand, that this isn't real," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have to do this—for Ithaca, for my father. For everyone. But it's temporary." His explanation was clumsy, the words jumbled as though he didn't quite know how to phrase what he wanted to say.

He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. "I just... I didn't want you to think that this, that she..." He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, desperate for some sign that you believed him. "You see that... don't you?"

You wanted to, desperately. But the words felt hollow, his explanation thin. Temporary or not, Andreia was a princess, and you were... you. Someone who could be excused without a second thought, whose place in this palace was dictated by servitude, not status.

Besides, part of you couldn't ignore the lingering ache in your chest. His words didn't erase the sight of Andreia's easy closeness or the way he hadn't corrected her use of the nickname.

You forced yourself to nod, the movement stiff and mechanical. "I see," you murmured, though your heart felt like it was splintering with each syllable.

Relief washed over his features, his grip on your wrist finally loosening. "Good," he said, exhaling as though a weight had been lifted. "I just didn't want you to think—" He stopped himself, shaking his head again, a faint, almost boyish smile tugging at his lips. "I didn't want to lose your trust."

You nodded again, a small, tight smile finding its way to your lips. "Of course, my prince," you said, the formality slipping out before you could stop it. "I understand."

The formality of your words made him flinch slightly, but before he could say anything else, you curtsied quickly and turned to leave.

This time, he didn't stop you.

As you walked away, your heart felt heavier than before, each step echoing in the quiet corridor. You couldn't shake the feeling that you'd just crossed some invisible line, that something between you had shifted in a way that couldn't be undone.

Meanwhile, Telemachus remained where you'd left him, a heavy sigh escaping him, watching your retreating figure with a conflicted expression. He rubbed a hand over his face, his thoughts spinning in disarray.

He'd thought you understood—hadn't you just said so? He didn't know why the moment still felt so unfinished, why his chest felt tight with an unease he couldn't shake.

He sighed again, running a hand through his hair as he glanced back toward Andreia, who was waiting for him with a curious tilt of her head.

He straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to push it aside.

You understood, he told himself. You knew his actions were only temporary, a necessary pretense, and that was enough.

Or so he thought.

.☆.         .✩.                 .☆.

You barely made it a few steps down the corridor before the tears began to blur your vision. They welled up hot and fast, threatening to spill over no matter how tightly you bit your lip to keep the sobs at bay.

You kept your head down, focusing on the stone floor beneath your feet as you tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat refused to ease. Each step felt heavier than the last, and no matter how much you told yourself to stay calm, the pressure inside you grew with every passing second.

By the time you rounded the corner, the tears had started to fall, hot and unbidden, streaking down your cheeks. You swiped at them angrily, as though erasing them would somehow make the ache in your chest go away.

Another sob tried to claw its way out, but you bit it back harder, a metallic taste filling your mouth as you forced yourself to stay quiet.

You're so foolish, you thought bitterly, your hands tightening into fists at your sides. You don't have any claim over him. He's a prince, and you're... Your chest heaved as you drew in a shaky breath, your steps faltering as the realization settled deeper into your mind. You're a servant. You have no right to feel this way.

And yet, no matter how hard you tried to reason with yourself, you couldn't ignore the way your heart clung to the moments you shared with him—the stolen smiles, the quiet conversations, the way his eyes seemed to soften whenever they met yours.

Were they just illusions? Things you'd foolishly read too much into?

Just as you turned another corner, lost in your thoughts, you collided with something—or someone. The force knocked the breath out of you, and you stumbled back slightly, the scroll slipping from your hands as you let out a startled gasp.

"I'm sorry!" you blurted out, your voice trembling as you hastily bent to retrieve the scroll. Your fingers fumbled clumsily as you wiped at your face, trying to hide the tears that still streaked your cheeks. "I-I wasn't looking where I was going, I—"

A low, warm chuckle cut through your hurried apology, freezing you in place. The sound was rich and teasing, carrying a lilt of amusement that made your heart skip a beat.

"Why," the voice drawled, smooth and playful, "do I always seem to catch you at the worst moments?"

Your breath caught, and you slowly looked up, blinking away the last of your tears. The figure before you came into focus, and your eyes widened in recognition.

Hermes stood before you, his divine presence striking against the mundane backdrop of the palace corridor.

His tousled curls caught the dim light, the faint shimmer of his form almost too vibrant for the simple stone walls surrounding him. His scarlet cloak draped effortlessly over one shoulder, and the faint flutter of the wings on his sandals sent a soft breeze brushing against your skin.

He looked every bit the god he was, radiant and untouchable, yet somehow entirely at ease.

You stared, momentarily frozen by the contrast of his divine radiance in this otherwise quiet corner of Ithaca's halls. His head tilted slightly, a grin tugging at his lips as he observed your stunned silence.

Then, raising a hand, he lightly tapped a finger against your forehead, the motion playful yet deliberate. "Anyone home?" he asked, the amusement in his voice pulling you out of your daze.

You blinked rapidly, heat rising to your face as you realized you'd been gaping. "H-Hermes, I—I'm sorry," you stammered, taking a step back, gripping the scroll tightly against your chest. "I—I didn't expect to see you here."

"No, clearly not," he said with a grin, crossing his arms as he leaned casually against the wall. "Though I must admit, bumping into you is quickly becoming my favorite pastime."

You frowned slightly, glancing down at the floor. "Sorry," you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. "I wasn't paying attention."

Hermes tilted his head, studying you with a look that was equal parts curious and amused. "Apologies, apologies," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "You mortals are always so quick to blame yourselves. Tell me, little musician, what's got you so distracted this time? Or should I guess?"

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You weren't sure what to say—how to explain the storm of emotions swirling inside you without sounding utterly ridiculous.

A part of you wanted to open up, to let him know everything, but another part held you back, unsure of how much a god could—or would—understand.

Hermes, however, seemed content to wait, his gaze steady, his golden eyes filled with a quiet patience that felt strangely comforting. Still, you couldn't help but wonder what had brought him down to Ithaca this time, and why, of all places, he'd found you here in such a state.

"I—" you started, but the words caught in your throat. Your grip on the scroll tightened, and you swallowed hard, shaking your head. "It's nothing," you said quickly, your voice barely steady. Clearing your throat, you glanced at Hermes, forcing a small, uncertain smile. "What brings you down here? Are you here to deliver another message?" you asked, your voice wavering between curiosity and hesitation.

Hermes waved a dismissive hand, his expression light and amused. "Nah, no messages this time," he said, leaning casually against the wall. "I was bored. Thought I'd drop in on my grandson-in-law, Laertes. You know, see how the old man's doing. Deliever a message for my granddaughter Anticleia and all that."

For a moment, your mind froze, his words not fully registering. "Your... grandson?" you repeated, blinking up at him in confusion.

Hermes chuckled, bending slightly to meet your gaze, his head tilting in mock curiosity. "What's the matter? Didn't you know Odysseus is a descendant of mine?" His teasing tone and the glint in his golden eyes sent a ripple of warmth to your cheeks.

The faintest memory stirred in the back of your mind—Penelope mentioning the royal lineage, the gods woven into their family tree—but you hadn't thought much of it at the time. The knowledge had slipped away, buried beneath the weight of your daily tasks.

"I... think I heard that before," you admitted softly, your brow furrowing as you tried to recall the details. "But I guess I didn't really connect the dots."

"Figures," Hermes said with a laugh, straightening up and gesturing grandly to himself. "It's why Odysseus is so clever, you know. Gets it from me. Same with Telemachus, to some degree—though he's still figuring it out." He shot you a playful grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You're lucky, by the way. Not everyone gets such a close-up view of divine legacy in action."

Your mind finally caught up, a single word from earlier sticking out in your thoughts. "Anticleia," you murmured, hesitant yet certain. "Isn't she...?" You trailed off, unsure how to phrase it delicately.

Hermes raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your reaction. "Dead? In the Underworld?" he finished for you, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "Good ear, little musician." He tapped the side of his head playfully. "I do sometimes stop by to deliver messages for her. She's one of my favorites, you know. Sweet woman. Always appreciated my visits." A fond smile softened his face for a moment before he glanced back at you.

"Why?" he asked suddenly, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief. "Are you interested in going?"

The question caught you off guard, and your breath hitched. "G-Go to the Underworld?" you stammered, blinking at him in confusion. The idea sounded absurd—terrifying, even.

Hermes let out a hearty laugh, his voice echoing lightly through the corridor. "Not permanently, little one. I meant for a visit! Think of it as a 'bring a mortal to work' day." He winked, the boyish charm in his expression making the suggestion sound almost enticing. "I'm due to deliver a message to Anticleia from Laertes anyway. You could come along—get a glimpse of something most mortals only dream about."

You hesitated, the weight of the offer settling over you. The thought of traveling to the Underworld was daunting, to say the least, but a part of you was intrigued.

If you declined, you'd only be left alone with your swirling thoughts of Telemachus and Andreia, so perhaps this unexpected detour was just the distraction you needed.

Swallowing your nerves, you nodded slowly. "Alright," you said, your voice soft but resolute. "I'll go."

Hermes' grin widened, his excitement almost contagious. "That's the spirit! Stick with me, little musician, and you'll have quite the story to tell." He extended his hand toward you, his long fingers steady and inviting.

For a moment, you hesitated, glancing at his hand. It was unlike yours—smooth, unblemished, and seemingly untouched by the trials of the mortal world.

When your hand finally met his, you were struck by the warmth of his palm and the lightness of his touch. His fingers closed gently around yours, cradling your calloused hand with an unexpected tenderness, as though you were something fragile.

The contrast was stark, your roughened skin a reminder of the countless hours spent working and playing music, his touch soft and divine.

"There we go," Hermes said, his tone playful yet reassuring. "Don't worry, I won't let you fall." His golden eyes twinkled with mischief, but there was something else beneath them—a quiet promise of safety. Then, without warning, he pulled you closer, his warmth enveloping you as he bent his head down, his breath brushing against your ear. The soft rush of air sent a shiver cascading down your spine, your skin prickling in response.

"The shadows conceal the threshold, a gateway unseen to mortal eyes," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, carrying an intimate thrill that made your heart race. His breath was warm, each word laced with an excitement you couldn't quite place.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling ever so slightly in his grasp.

Just as you thought you might ask a question, he pulled back slightly, a playful grin spreading across his face. "You're going to love this," he said with a happy chuckle, his tone shifting to one of boyish enthusiasm.

Before you could respond, Hermes stepped backward, tugging you with him. The shadows seemed to ripple and twist as he moved, pulling you effortlessly into their depths.

And then, you were gone.

A/N: ahhh love a good miscommunication 😩 as promised heres the promised chappie ❤️ next update features more hermes, stay tuned (p.s am i forgiven??? 🥹)

Tag List: @uniquetravelerone

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 13 Chapter 13 | shattered bonds⌟

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You adjusted the light bundle of freshly laundered linens in your arms, the soft fabric pressing against your chin as you made your way through the palace corridors.

It felt good to be moving again, your steps light yet purposeful, as if shaking off the heaviness of the past few days.

The morning light spilled in from high arched windows, warming the stone floors beneath your sandals and casting gentle shadows along the walls.

You had returned to your duties just as you promised Telemachus, resuming the routines that had once brought a sense of normalcy to your days.

Queen Penelope had been pleased to see you, her smile warm yet tempered with a motherly concern. She had insisted that you take it slow, barring you from returning to her chambers so soon. "You need time to fully gain your strength back," she had said, her voice firm yet gentle.

While part of you missed the comfort of her presence, another part was grateful for the care and concern you were shown, even if you weren't truly ill. They didn't know the truth, but their kindness had eased the ache you hadn't realized had lingered in your chest.

The corridor turned sharply ahead, and as you rounded the corner, you collided with someone. Your bundle tumbled from your arms, and you staggered slightly, your hands instinctively reaching out to steady yourself.

A clatter followed as the person opposite you dropped their load—a basket of clothes spilling onto the floor.

"Oh, gods, I'm so sorry—!" you began, but the words caught in your throat as you looked up.

It was Callias. His tousled hair was damp with sweat, the dark strands clinging to his forehead, and his face looked drawn, shadows lingering under his eyes as if he hadn't slept well in days.

He was dressed in his usual servant's attire, but the fabric was creased, and there was a faint smudge of dirt on his cheek.

Despite his tired appearance, his expression shifted the moment he realized it was you. His eyes widened, and a grin broke across his face, chasing away the exhaustion in an instant.

"____!" he exclaimed, his voice tinged with a mixture of surprise and relief. The basket at his feet was forgotten as he stepped forward, engulfing you in a hug before you could react.

The breath was momentarily squeezed out of you as his arms wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close. "You're okay," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly with emotion. "I was so worried—no one told me what happened! And then I heard you were unwell, and... gods, I'm just glad you're alright."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up as you gently pushed against his chest, creating a small space between you. "Callias," you said warmly, "of course I'm fine. You didn't think I'd let a little rain do me in, did you?"

Callias pulled back slightly, a pout forming on his lips as he crossed his arms. "Don't give me that, young lady," he said, narrowing his eyes playfully. "Where have you been? And don't you dare use that dumb lie about being sick." His gaze swept over you, his brows knitting together in mock suspicion. "You don't even have a lingering sniffle or cough."

You hesitated, your gaze drifting to the side as you debated whether to tell him the truth. The weight of the last few days pressed against your chest, but something about Callias' earnest expression made you feel like you could confide in him.

Finally, you leaned in slightly, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's... something big... something epic."

His eyes lit up with intrigue, a grin spreading across his face before he stilled; the faint sound of footsteps echoed from around the bend, accompanied by hushed voices. Callias' head snapped up, and he looked around wildly, his body tensing as though expecting trouble, his expression suddenly cautious.

The footsteps grew louder, and moments later, a group of servants dressed in Bronte's colors appeared, their arms laden with folded linens and supplies. They passed by without so much as a glance in your direction, their faces a picture of indifference, but the way Callias' shoulders remained taut told a different story.

He bent down quickly, gathering the scattered clothes from his basket. As he straightened, he leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper. "Meet me later, under the cypress tree. Your spot."

Before you could respond, he added, "There's something I need to tell you too." His eyes flicked toward the corner where the other servants had disappeared, and then back to you, his gaze steady but urgent.

With that, he hoisted the basket back into his arms, giving you a small, reassuring smile before hurrying off down the hall, his footsteps fading into the distance.

You stood there for a moment, your heart beating a little faster as you replayed his words. The cypress tree. Your spot. Whatever he wanted to say felt important.

And as you bent to retrieve your own bundle of laundry, you couldn't shake the feeling that the day was far from over.

☆

☆

The air under the cypress tree was warm and dappled with late-afternoon light filtering through the branches.

Callias leaned against the tree's rough bark, his panpipes resting lightly in his lap. His fingers traced the edges of the instrument, occasionally pressing a note that lingered softly in the air.

His eyes flicked between the winding paths leading into the courtyard, searching eagerly for your figure, the minutes stretching into what felt like hours.

Every sound seemed amplified—the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of servants, the occasional chirp of a bird. Yet, all of it faded into the background as his anticipation grew.

He adjusted his position, his back straightening, and his fingers drumming against the panpipes, unable to shake the nervous energy bubbling within him.

Then a sharp, unmistakable voice shattered the delicate stillness.

"Callias."

He froze, the warmth draining from his face as his name cut through the air with a cold edge.

Slowly, he turned toward the voice, his muscles taut. Standing there, poised and commanding as ever, was Princess Andreia. Her presence dominated the space, her pale, calculating gaze sweeping over him like a hawk assessing its prey.

Callias' heart lurched as he quickly stood, the panpipes slipping from his lap and landing in the dirt with a soft thud. He bent into a low bow, his voice carefully steady. "Princess Andreia," he greeted, his words formal, though he could feel the knot tightening in his stomach.

Her lips curved into a faint, icy smile, though it held no warmth. She stepped closer, the sound of her sandals sharp against the cobblestones. "You seem preoccupied," she remarked coolly, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "Are you perhaps waiting for someone?"

Callias cleared his throat, his mind racing for a suitable answer. "No, Your Highness," he replied, his voice calm but edged with unease. "I was merely taking a short break."

Andreia's gaze sharpened, her footsteps drawing her closer. "Taking a break? How interesting." She tsked softly, shaking her head in mock disappointment. "Tell me, Callias, since when did servants under my father's rule grow so bold as to rest whenever they pleased?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand, her voice growing colder. "Do not even bother insulting my intelligence with more excuses. You've been getting beside yourself lately."

Callias felt his breath hitch as she stepped closer still, her presence oppressive. Her words lashed out like a whip. "Do you think you're above the rules? Above your duties? Back home, such insolence would have earned you a punishment severe enough to make you think twice. Have you forgotten the lessons taught to you? The lessons I taught you?" Her tone was laced with disdain, her eyes piercing as they bore into his.

The knot in Callias's stomach twisted painfully. Unbidden, phantom pains stirred in his lower back, the ghost of old scars prickling against his skin. His breaths came quicker, his mind flashing back to memories of punishments long past—the searing pain, the weight of expectations that had crushed him under their heel.

He swallowed hard, his head dipping lower, unable to meet her gaze any longer.

"N-No, Your Highness," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I haven't forgotten."

Before his words could settle, Andreia's hand snapped upward, her fingers gripping his chin with surprising strength. She tilted his face down, forcing his gaze to meet hers.

Callias' heart pounded as he fought the urge to flinch. Her touch was cold, her nails biting into his skin with enough pressure to remind him of his place.

She leaned closer, her green eyes gleaming with a frosty intensity, as if she were appraising a nuisance rather than a person. "This palace is not our home," she said, her voice as smooth and sharp as a blade. "But that doesn't mean the rules I have in place for you here are any less strict. Do you understand?"

Callias nodded as best he could under her grip, his throat dry and his voice failing him.

Andreia's eyes narrowed further, the faintest curl of a smirk tugging at her lips. "I wonder..." she mused, her voice dropping to a low, cryptic tone, "has someone been filling your head with delusions of importance? Perhaps a little musician with too much free time?"

Callias froze, his blood running cold, panic flashing through him. Every instinct screamed at him to deny her accusation, to deflect, but he knew better. Denying too forcefully would only confirm her suspicions.

Andreia studied him for a moment longer before releasing his chin with a sharp motion; the sudden absence of her touch almost jarring. She straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from her gown as though the interaction had dirtied her.

"Consider this your only warning. A servant with divided loyalties is a liability I cannot afford. Don't forget, Callias—loyalty is rewarded. Betrayal, however..." she trailed off coldly, her gaze cutting through him one last time. "Do not test me again."

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and strode away, her steps measured and unyielding.

Callias remained frozen, his body stiff and his hands trembling at his sides; his hand instinctively moved to brush down the back of his tunic, where the scars lay hidden beneath the fabric—a cruel reminder of her unspoken power over him. His fingers lingered there, the ghost of old wounds prickling against his skin.

His mind began to spiral, unbidden memories rising to the surface.

He could almost hear the sharp snap of a whip cracking through the air, followed by the searing pain that had lanced across his back. It had been something so small—he had tripped in the grand hall of Bronte while carrying a tray of goblets for one of the royal stewards. A single goblet had tipped over, its wine spilling in a dark stain across the marble floor, and Andreia had been furious.

The punishment was swift, merciless. She had ordered him to be lashed in the courtyard as a lesson to the other servants. "Clumsiness," she had said coolly, "is a sign of carelessness, and carelessness has no place in the palace of Bronte."

He had bitten down on the inside of his cheek so hard he'd drawn blood, swallowing the cries that threatened to escape with every lash. But the humiliation had stung more than the whip itself—being exposed, stripped of dignity, while the other servants watched, their eyes averted out of fear they might meet the same fate.

Ithaca had been different. Here, there were no public punishments, no cold demands to perfection. He could breathe without fearing his next mistake would cost him more than bruised pride.

The palace still had its rules and its order, but there was a warmth, a humanity, that Bronte had always lacked. Queen Penelope's quiet compassion, the way Prince Telemachus would greet the servants by name—it all made Callias feel... human, in a way he had almost forgotten he could be.

Yet Andreia's presence threatened to shatter that fragile sense of belonging. The way she wielded power, even here, felt like a shadow of Bronte encroaching on Ithaca's light.

Callias shook his head, trying to banish the memories, but they clung to him like a second skin. The ache in his back, long healed but never forgotten, was a stark reminder of what it meant to fall out of favor with someone like her.

He bent down to retrieve his panpipes, his fingers brushing over the dirt-streaked wood as he tried to steady his breathing. He cast a wary glance around the courtyard, his earlier eagerness to see you now replaced with a gnawing unease.

And then, like the sun breaking through storm clouds, your voice called out to him. "Callias?"

He froze, his heart leaping in his chest for an entirely different reason.

When he turned, his eyes landed on you, and for a moment, the tension in his body melted away. The warmth in your expression, the lightness in your step—everything about you was a balm to the icy fear Andreia had left behind.

Callias straightened, brushing off his tunic as he offered you a smile, though it wavered slightly.

The stark contrast between Andreia's coldness and your kindness hit him like a tidal wave. Where she had made him feel small and insignificant, you made him feel seen, valued.

"____, you're here," he said, his voice softening as relief flooded through him. "I was starting to think you wouldn't come."

"Of course I'm here. We agreed to meet here, or was I mistaken and imagined our entire interaction earlier?" You laughed lightly, stepping closer to him, your hands twitching as though you were about to reach out in greeting. But Callias subtly shifted back, careful to keep the space between you.

His heart raced as he did so, the fresh sting of Andreia's reminder still too vivid in his mind.

He masked his movements with a quick smile, hoping you wouldn't notice his hesitance. Your own smile remained undeterred as you tilted your head, your tone teasing. "When did you arrive? Have I kept you waiting long?"

Callias felt his chest tighten for a moment, a brief flicker of warmth battling with the icy grip of Andreia's words. Internally, he reassured himself—She doesn't know, she can't know. "Not long," he lied smoothly, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "I just got here myself."

You gave a small, contented sigh, the tension in your shoulders easing as you looked around the familiar courtyard. Without another word, you plopped down onto the grass, the softness of it cushioning you as you let out a sigh of relaxation.

The momentary calmness of your favorite spot wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, chasing away the lingering heaviness of the day.

You leaned back on your hands, tilting your face up to the sky, and after a beat, you peeked one eye open to glance up at Callias. A playful smile graced your lips. "Well? Don't just stand there like a statue. Sit," you said, patting the spot on the grass beside you.

Callias hesitated, his fingers tightening around the panpipes in his hands. He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to the spot you'd patted, then back to your expectant smile.

His fake smile began to falter but shifted into something genuine as he pushed the memories to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the way you looked at him like he was someone who mattered.

With a steadying breath, he plopped down beside you, the tension in his body easing ever so slightly in your presence.

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the cypress tree's branches swaying gently above, casting playful shadows on the grass, providing a soothing backdrop to the moment.

Callias sat close but not too close, the space between you a subtle reminder of his guarded demeanor.

You didn't notice, too focused on gathering your thoughts.

Callias' fingers still toyed with the panpipes, the faint movements a nervous habit he couldn't quite shake. He caught your glance flickering toward them, and his grip relaxed, letting them rest on his lap.

You tilted your head slightly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye, your fingers idly tracing the grass beside you.  "There's something I need to tell you," you began, your voice quiet but steady as though you were weighing your words. "I... I've been thinking about how to even start this, but I guess I should just say it."

"What is it?"

You took a deep breath, your eyes dropping to the ground as you tried to find the right place to begin. "It's about... Lady Andreia," you said, your voice soft but clear, and you didn't miss the way his posture stiffened at the mention of her name.

"You know how she... well, she doesn't exactly like servants," you started, glancing briefly at him before looking back at your hands. "I—" You paused, hesitating.

The memory of what had happened was still vivid, and you weren't sure how much to say. But Callias deserved to know—at least, part of it.

"Some time after I left you in the courtyard, I realized I left my lyre behind," you began, your voice faltering slightly, "it wasn't long until a Bronte servant approached me and told me you'd asked for me to meet you at the sheepfold to return it. So, I thought nothing of it and went to find you after I was finished with my duties."

Your voice trailed off, and for a moment, you stared at the grass beneath you as if the words you needed might be hidden there. Callias' brow furrowed, and his grip on the panpipes tightened slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

"When I arrived," you continued, your voice quieter now, "it wasn't you I found. It was Lady Andreia." The memory of her cold smile and calculating gaze resurfaced. You cleared your throat softly and pressed on. "She was sitting there, holding my lyre."

Callias' expression darkened at this, his jaw tightening. His hands balled into fists in his lap, but he said nothing, letting you continue.

"I tried to stay calm, to be respectful. I... thought maybe she'd let me take it and leave. But instead, she started mocking me—mocking the lyre." Your throat tightened, and you paused, glancing away as you struggled to find the words. "She called it ugly... worthless. And then..." Your voice faltered again, and you had to take a steadying breath before continuing.

"She broke it," you said finally, the words coming out barely above a whisper. "She... she smashed it over her knee, like it was nothing." The weight of the confession settled between you, and you could feel your chest tightening as the emotions threatened to resurface. "Afterward, she just walked away, like it didn't matter. Like it was just some... insignificant thing."

Callias cursed under his breath, his fist clenching tightly in the grass beside him. "That... that witch," he muttered, his voice low and full of frustration. "I... I should have known something was wrong. After you left, she dismissed me almost immediately, but I didn't think..." He trailed off, his gaze distant as he pieced together the events in his mind. "I didn't even know you'd left it behind. If I had knew..." He broke off again, his voice filled with self-recrimination.

"Even if you knew," you said firmly, reaching out to touch his arm, grounding him, "what could you have done? If she ordered you to hand it over, you would have had no choice. You're a servant of Bronte, Callias. You had no say in the matter." Your gaze softened as you met his eyes, forcing back the tears that threatened to fall, offering him a small, shaky smile.

Callias' jaw clenched, and he looked away, his fists still tight. "But if I—"

"No," you interrupted, your voice soft but steady. "Callias, this isn't your fault. It was her. Lady. No—" You paused, the distaste lingering before you forced her name out. "Andreia's just a bully with power. She would have found some other way to hurt me, no matter what."

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the weight of the conversation settling heavily between you.

Callias' shoulders remained tense, his gaze fixed on the ground, but slowly, his fists began to unclench. He exhaled deeply, his frustration still evident but tempered by your words.

Then, his' brow quirked up, lips twitching almost into an amused grin. He snorted lightly, the tension in his face easing ever so slightly. "Andreia, huh? No 'Lady Andreia'? Look at you, breaking the rules. Who knew you were such a rebel?"

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the small smile that broke through your earlier seriousness. "Oh, please. If calling her by her name makes me a rebel, I'll wear the title proudly."

The banter lifted some of the heaviness in the air, and for a brief moment, it felt like the two of you could breathe again.

But then, your gaze softened, your smile fading into something more contemplative. You leaned in slightly, your voice dropping to a whisper, as though sharing a secret only he could hear. "Besides... thanks to her actions, as cruel as they were, the Fates seemed to show me a little kindness in return."

Callias tilted his head, his brow furrowing in confusion at your cryptic words. "Kindness? What do you mean?" he asked, curiosity lacing his tone.

You hesitated for a moment, your eyes brightening as the memory of the divine lyre flashed in your mind. But you didn't elaborate—not yet. Instead, you swung your satchel around, careful and deliberate, as though holding something precious beyond measure.

Reaching inside, your fingers brushed against the cool, smooth surface of the lyre. You pulled it out gently, the golden frame catching the late afternoon sunlight, which shimmered across its surface in dazzling patterns.

The intricate etchings seemed alive in the light, telling stories of gods and heroes as the strings, spun from what appeared to be starlight itself, glowed faintly, resonating with an otherworldly hum.

The moment the lyre was fully exposed to the air, the faint scent of something sweet and unplaceable—a mix of wildflowers and ozone—seemed to linger between you.

Callias' mouth dropped open as he stared, his eyes widening in disbelief. "By the gods..." He leaned forward instinctively, his voice almost a whisper. "How... how did you get that?"

His hands hovered near the lyre, hesitant and almost reverent, as though touching it might prove it wasn't real. You grinned, the corners of your lips lifting as you plopped the lyre into his hands, your trust in him evident in the motion.

Callias hesitated, his hands hovering as though afraid to touch something so exquisite, but as the weight of the lyre settled into his palms, his breath caught. A faint warmth emanated from the golden frame, gentle but unmistakable, like the first rays of sunlight after a cold dawn.

"It's beautiful," he breathed, his fingers lightly brushing over the glowing strings, careful not to pluck them. As his fingers brushed against the glowing strings, and he felt an almost imperceptible vibration run through him, resonating deep in his chest.

It was as if the lyre accepted his presence, greeting him with a soft hum that lingered on the edges of his hearing, impossible to fully ignore.

Callias froze, his eyes widening further as he glanced at you. "Do you feel that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His grip on the lyre tightened slightly, his awe growing with every second.

You tilted your head, the faintest trace of a knowing smile playing on your lips. "Feel what?"

"It's... alive," he said, his voice trembling slightly, the words faltering as if he doubted his own senses. "It's like it's breathing. It's warm... and it hums, almost like it's trying to speak."

You leaned back slightly, your expression softening with amusement as a proud smile spread across your face. "I know," you said, your voice giddy, unable to hide the excitement bubbling within you.

Reaching out, your fingers brushed against the lyre, and the reaction was instantaneous—its hum deepened, a faint glow rippling along the strings as though it recognized you, leaping to life at your touch.

Callias' eyes darted from the lyre to you, his brow furrowing as a flicker of worry crossed his features. He hesitated for a moment, then blurted, "Wait—how exactly did you get this?" His voice carried a note of apprehension now, as though the awe was giving way to concern. "You didn't... you didn't make some sort of deal, did you?"

Your hand paused mid-air, the playful smile softening into something more reassuring as you met his gaze. "A deal?" you repeated, laughing lightly to dispel the tension. "No, Callias, I didn't sell my soul or anything dramatic like that. It was a gift..." Your fingers rested lightly on the lyre's golden frame, its warmth seeping into your skin like sunlight. "from Hermes."

Callias' head snapped up, his eyes darting from the lyre back to you. He let out a low whistle, his eyebrows shooting upward in surprise. "Hermes?" he repeated, almost disbelieving. "You mean...The Hermes? Messenger God?"

You nodded, your smile growing as you recalled the god's sudden and striking appearance. "In the flesh," you confirmed. "He gave it to me freely. A gift."

Callias didn't look entirely convinced, his grip on the lyre tightening slightly. "Freely," he echoed, skepticism lacing his tone. "The gods don't just give mortals things like this for no reason. There's always a cost, even if it's not one you see right away." His voice dropped lower, more cautious. "Are you sure there's nothing else to it? No strings attached—well, besides these ones?"

You let out a soft snort at his attempt at humor, shaking your head. "Hermes might be many things, but this... this felt genuine. I think he wanted me to have it—no bargains, no tricks." The faint hum of the lyre seemed to agree, the glow of its strings softening to a gentle shimmer.

Callias studied you for a moment longer, his expression caught between awe and unease. Finally, he sighed, shaking his head with a faint smile. "If you say so," he murmured, though his tone still carried a hint of uncertainty. "But I'm keeping an eye on this thing—and on you. Just in case."

You couldn;t help but smile, warmth blooming in your chest at his concern. "Thank you, Callias," you said sincerely, your voice soft. "It means a lot to know you're looking out for me—even if it's just in case I've accidentally invited divine chaos into my life."

His faint smile grew into a mischievous grin, his tone taking on a teasing edge. "Oh, please. You don't need a lyre to bring chaos into your life—you're already pretty talented at that on your own."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head at his cheeky remark. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

Callias chuckled, his grin widening. "Like a moth to a flame," he quipped, his voice light but fond. He glanced back down at the glowing lyre in his hands, the humor in his expression softening as a flicker of wonder returned. "Still," he added, his tone shifting, "I've got to hand it to you. If anyone could charm the gods themselves, it's you."

His words caught you off guard, and you felt your cheeks heat ever so slightly. You brushed the moment aside with a playful scoff. "Let's not give me too much credit. The gods probably just like a good underdog story."

Callias shook his head in disbelief, muttering under his breath. "Truly, you must have a pendulum of luck swinging wildly in your favor." His expression turned grim for a fleeting moment, as though the weight of something else tugged at his thoughts.

Clearing his throat, he gently handed the lyre back to you, his touch lingering for just a moment before he pulled his hands away. "But enough about that. I haven't even told you my news yet," he said, his tone shifting, though a shadow of his earlier unease remained in his eyes.

You nodded, carefully placing the lyre back into your satchel, its weight settling comfortably on your shoulder. "Alright," you said, curiosity piqued. "What's your news?"

Callias glanced around, his gaze sweeping the courtyard as though ensuring no one else was within earshot. Then, lowering his voice, he leaned in slightly, adopting a conspiratorial tone. "One of Andreia's personal attendants let something slip," he began, his words measured. "Apparently, she's been in talks to form political alliances between Bronte and Ithaca."

Your brows knit together in confusion. "What would she..." you started, but the sentence trailed off as your thoughts spiraled, unbidden.

Images of Andreia and Telemachus together flashed in your mind, their interactions suddenly taking on a sharper, more calculated edge.  "Oh..." you murmured, the realization settling like a stone in your chest, heavy and unwelcome.

A wave of discomfort rippled through you as your thoughts spiraled further. Their proximity during the banquet, the way Andreia's laughter lingered just a little longer when Telemachus was around—it all seemed to point to something more deliberate.

Your shoulders dropped, the weight of understanding pressing down as if the very air around you had thickened.

Though you were a servant, you weren't naive to the grand scheme of royal affairs; you understood how alliances like these were often forged.

Telemachus, as the prince, was undoubtedly a prime candidate for marriage, and while his father's disappearance had delayed such matters, it hadn't erased the possibility entirely.

You could no longer dismiss those fleeting moments as mere coincidence or your own overthinking.

The thought left you feeling unsettled, your shoulders dropping slightly as the pieces began to align. "Oh..." you repeated, softer this time, the word carrying a note of resignation.

Callias, sensing the shift in your mood, straightened, looking at you more seriously. "Listen, ____" he said, his voice gentler now, "I don't think you have anything to worry about. The prince... he wouldn't—" He hesitated, his eyes searching yours as though trying to find the right words. "He wouldn't just go along with something like that. Not unless it's what he truly wanted."

His words lingered, and for a moment, you weren't even sure why he was trying to reassure you.

And even though you tried to deny it, a small, flickering part of you wanted to believe him, to believe that Telemachus—his warm smiles, his quiet moments of kindness—couldn't be capable of viewing you as nothing more than a servant to be discarded for the sake of an alliance.

But just as quickly as the thought surfaced, you buried it, pushing it down beneath the weight of your resignation, tucked away with the rest of your uncertainties.

It was easier to accept the ignorance, to leave those possibilities unexplored.

Clearing your throat, you gave him a faint smile, choosing to redirect the conversation. "Anyway," you began, your tone lighter now, "what else have I missed these past few days?"

Callias groaned dramatically, throwing his head back with an exaggerated moan. "You mean, what didn't you miss? Everything has been so dull!" he lamented, his voice laced with mock despair. "Dinners felt so empty—even with the musicians playing, they ended much quicker than usual. Honestly, it's been like the life was sucked out of the palace."

He paused, his expression shifting to something more reflective. "And the royal family? Well, I wouldn't say I'm close to them—I mean, who is, really? But..." He trailed off, his gaze distant, as though recalling the flashes of moments he had witnessed.

"I saw Queen Penelope in the kitchens a few times," he continued, his voice softening. "She was talking with the chef, making sure your broths were just right. She even sent one back because it wasn't warm enough."

You blinked, a rush of warmth spreading through your chest at the thought of the queen's quiet attentiveness. Callias went on, his tone taking on a storytelling rhythm.

"And after you fell 'ill,' King Odysseus ordered the construction of an overhead walkway.  You know, the one that connects the palace to the sheepfold and pigeon coops, and stuff?  It's supposed to protect the servants from the storms. They say he got the idea from the Phoenicians, or maybe one of those great cities he saw on his travels."

He smiled faintly, but his expression grew somber as he continued. "And then there's Prince Telemachus..." Callias' voice dropped slightly, as if hesitant to bring up the prince. "He's been... different. Sullen, I guess, unless he's around his parents. But even then, he's quieter than usual."

Your heart clenched, and you leaned in slightly, unable to stop yourself from asking, "What do you mean?"

Callias hesitated before answering. "I've also seen him in the library, flipping through scrolls and old texts. He's been talking with the palace physicians a lot too. And Bronte's physicians—he brought them in, you know. They were discussing remedies, illnesses, treatments... trying to figure out what could help. And the prince, well, he was asking questions—lots of them." His gaze turned to you, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "About you."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you couldn't find your voice. A rush of emotions surged within you—disbelief, gratitude, and something else you couldn't quite name. You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping to the ground as you tried to process his words.

"He was... asking about me?"

Callias nodded. "Yeah. Looking for answers, I guess. He seemed... worried."

The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, you couldn't think of anything to say. The image of Telemachus—quiet and focused, sifting through scrolls and speaking with healers for your sake—made your chest tighten with an emotion you weren't ready to name.

You exhaled slowly, a shaky breath that seemed to carry away some of the tension in your shoulders. "I... I didn't know," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Callias gave you a small, reassuring smile, his earlier teasing replaced with a quiet understanding. "Well," he said gently, "now you do."

A/N: i know i know, sorry for leaving you guys like that, work is just really draining rn 😭😭 but enough about that, just wanted to apologize with these 2 new updates, yes yall heard right, 2 new chappies!!!! the next one should be up in the next 1h, hope my winxies enjoy my little sad attempts at story/plot building (i swear its a bit more difficult without an established plot/anime/moive there as reminder not to go too outlandish 😩) ❤️❤️

Tag List: @uniquetravelerone

[winxanity-ii]

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Know No Evil | Chapter 36 Chapter 36 | sinister obsession⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

You're at home, sprawled out on your bed with a book in hand, the quiet hum of your ceiling fan filling the room.

The golden glow of the afternoon sun filters through your curtains, casting warm streaks of light across the walls. It's one of those rare moments where nothing demands your attention, and you're determined to savor it.

Then your phone pings.

Once.

Twice.

You try to ignore it, letting out a small huff of irritation, but it keeps going—a relentless series of notifications that disrupt the tranquil atmosphere. The sound pulls you out of the peaceful haze you'd finally settled into.

Reluctantly, you set your book down on the nightstand and reach for your phone, the screen lighting up with a barrage of messages.

At first, you blink, trying to process the influx of texts that seem to flood your notification bar all at once.

The sender is an unknown number, and for a moment, you hesitate, wondering if it's a spam bot or one of those random promotional texts. But curiosity wins out, and you swipe to open the messages.

𝐔𝐍𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 Hi! OMG, I hope this is the right number! It's me, Hagakure Toru—uh, you know, from Class 1-A! The invisible one? LOL, not like you'd see me waving if we were talking in person! Anyway, hi!

The name gives a faint bit of recognition. You suppose you've seen Hagakure a few times in passing—well, her uniform. Her texts keep coming, each one a rapid-fire burst of energy:

𝐔𝐍𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 Mina gave me your number, btw! Hope that's okay! So like, we were all talking about the training camp coming up and how we need to stock up on stuff! Like bug spray, snacks, sunscreen—the essentials, y'know? And Mina was all like, 'We should invite Akuma-san!' And I was like, 'YES, let's do it!' because I totally want the chance to get to know you better!

At the mention of training camp, your mind flashed back to Kan's recent announcement.

🇫‌🇱‌🇦‌🇸‌🇭‌🇧‌🇦‌🇨‌🇰‌: The entire class was seated, the atmosphere tinged with excitement and nervous energy as Kan-sensei stood at the front of the classroom, his usual stern expression firmly in place as he addressed you all. Behind him, the whiteboard was covered, its purpose yet to be revealed.

"Listen up," Kan's voice was sharp, cutting through the buzz of chatter like a whip. "The results of your end-of-year exams are finalized, and I hope you all understand what's at stake moving forward."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room, lingering on a few individuals—including you. His expression softened slightly when his eyes met yours, but his tone remained firm as he continued, "Summer training camp is not just a getaway. It's an opportunity for growth, both as individuals and as a team. The training will be intense, and the expectations are higher than ever."

With a deliberate motion, Kan reached behind him and pulled down the cover from the whiteboard. The numbers and names displayed in neat rows revealed the overall averages for both written and practical exams.

A collective murmur rippled through the room as students craned their necks to get a better look.

Your name was right at the top for Class 1-B, a testament to your position as class president. The combined scores from both courses showed that Class 1-B had edged out Class 1-A by a narrow margin—a fact that wasn't lost on Monoma.

"Well, well, well," Monoma's voice dripped with mockery as he leaned back in his chair, a smug grin spreading across his face. "It seems Class 1-A isn't as invincible as they like to think. Maybe all that time basking in the limelight made them a bit complacent?"

Kan cleared his throat pointedly, drawing attention back to him. "This isn't about competition between classes, Monoma. The focus is on your growth and preparation for the challenges ahead. You'll need to rely on each other, not just your own class but your peers in 1-A as well. Keep that in mind."

His gaze swept the room again, settling briefly on Monoma, who huffed but didn't press further.

"As for the results," Kan continued, "although one group failed the practical final exam, no one failed the written portion. This means every single one of you will be attending this year's summer training camp."

There was a collective intake of breath, the room filling with a mixture of shock and relief. Kodai let out a rare exhale of surprise, her typically stoic demeanor giving way to subtle disbelief. Beside her, Kamakiri's shoulders sagged slightly as if a weight had been lifted, his hand running through his hair in a nervous tick.

"The purpose of these exams," Kan went on, his tone even and measured, "was to gauge where you all stand and identify those who need additional support. The practical was designed to put you under pressure and test your reaction to high-stakes scenarios. The written exam assessed your understanding of hero theory and application. Combined, they gave us a clear picture of your readiness."

He paused, his eyes scanning the room once more, ensuring his words sank in. "That being said, the training camp will be even tougher, especially for those who failed the practical. A separate schedule has been created with extra lessons tailored specifically for them."

Kodai sighed softly, the sound barely audible but heavy with resignation. Tsunotori, always the optimist, reached out to gently rub her friend's back in quiet encouragement.

Kan's gaze softened just slightly at the interaction before he straightened, his tone returning to its usual firm cadence. "The training camp is not a punishment—it's a chance for each of you to push past your limits and become the heroes you aspire to be. Take this opportunity seriously. It's not just about proving yourselves as individuals, but as a cohesive, supportive team. That will be critical moving forward."

The room was silent, each student processing the weight of his words. For a moment, the usual chatter and competitive energy of Class 1-B were replaced by a shared understanding of the challenges that lay ahead.

Another ping from your phone broke you from your thoughts. You glanced down and saw that Hagakure had added Ashido to the chat.

𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐎: OMG AKUMA-SAN YOU HAVE TO COME WITH US! 🛍️🎉 We're gonna have so much fun!!! Snacks. Supplies. AND friendship bonding! What more could you want? Plus, if you bring Bakugo, we can annoy him together. LOL! You're like the only person who can get him to come with us. 😂😂😂

𝐇𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐄: LOL she's right! He totally scoffed when we asked him. Said something like "Tch. Go bother someone else." But maybe you can convince him? 👀

You sighed, your thumb hovering over the keyboard before typing out a response.

𝐘𝐎𝐔: How did you even get my number?

𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐎: Uh... Duh! I've had it since the Sports Festival, remember? 😊😊

You sucked your teeth in mild annoyance, the memory resurfacing against your will.

Oh, right. Ashido had pestered you for your number back then, something about wanting to "stay connected" during the events.

The second the festival was over, you'd changed it, feeling like your number was way too known. Too many group chats, too many random texts—it was overwhelming.

How she managed to get it again, you weren't sure, but knowing her, she probably badgered Bakugo into giving it up.

You started typing out an excuse, debating on how to politely decline, when a knock at your door interrupted your train of thought.

Your mother popped her head in, her face lit with excitement. "Sweetie! Guess what? I just got off the phone with Mitsuki and she told me about you and Katsuki's upcoming trip! Isn't that exciting?" She claps her hands together, clearly thrilled. "How about we go shopping together for supplies! Wouldn't that be fun? Mommy-daughter bonding time! Oh, we can even get mochi on the way—"

You quickly cut her off, already feeling the secondhand exhaustion from imagining such an outing. "Actually, I already made plans with Bakugo and his friends," you smoothly lied, hoping to nip the idea in the bud.

Her face fell slightly, but she quickly recovered, nodding with a soft smile. "Oh, well, that's okay! I'm just glad you're getting out and spending time with friends. Just don't forget to pick up everything you'll need, alright?"

"Got it, Mother," You replied as she closed the door behind her.

You exhaled, relief washing over you before turning back to your phone. Quickly, you typed out a message.

𝐘𝐎𝐔: I'll be there in 15.

𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐎: YAYYY!!! 🎉🎉🎉

𝐇𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐄: Can't wait! We're gonna have so much fun!!

You tossed your phone onto the bed and released a long, worn-out sigh.

Looks like your peaceful afternoon has been officially hijacked.

☆

☆

The mall was bustling with life, the sound of chatter, laughter, and footsteps reverberating through the wide-open space. Bright lights reflected off polished floors, and the mingling scents of various food court vendors created an almost dizzying atmosphere.

Families with small children, teenagers in groups, and shoppers laden with bags all moved around, adding to the crowded chaos.

You trudged beside Bakugo, your hands shoved into the pockets of your oversized orange hoodie. The chill of the mall's air conditioning pricked at your skin, and you silently thanked yourself for grabbing the jacket on your way out, even if it was summer.

Tugging the hoodie down a bit more, you glanced at the bustling crowd, already feeling a bit overwhelmed by the noise and energy.

"Tch," Bakugo grumbled beside you, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. His eyes darted around, his usual scowl etched firmly into his face. "Why the hell did I let you drag me into this shit?"

You gave a small shrug, not bothering to respond. It wasn't like you had much of a choice either.

As you walked, you could hear them before you saw them—the familiar voices of Class 1-A cutting through the general noise of the mall. A high-pitched voice broke through the hum of the crowd, exclaiming, "Ooh, look at that outfit! It's so cute!" The unmistakable excitement could only belong to Ashido.

A second later, you heard another familiar voice—Midoriya's soft, slightly flustered tone as he stammered something in reply, followed by the unmistakable cadence of Iida's lecturing voice.

Turning the corner near the escalator, you finally spotted them—a lively cluster standing near the edge of the walkway. Their vibrant personalities practically radiated in the sea of shoppers.

Ashido, in her pink-and-black outfit, bounced excitedly in place, gesturing animatedly toward a store display. Next to her, Hagakure waved her gloved hands, her invisible form adding to the chaotic energy.

Midoriya stood off to the side, his bright green eyes scanning the crowd nervously, as if trying to keep track of everyone. Uraraka stood near him, her soft smile directed toward Iida, who was gesturing sharply, likely mid-discussion about something he deemed important.

Kirishima, with his trademark spiky red hair, leaned casually against the rail, grinning widely as he chatted with Tokoyami, who remained cool and composed as ever in his trench coat.

Nearby, Kaminari was animatedly pointing toward something across the walkway, his blond hair catching the light, while Jirou crossed her arms, rolling her eyes at whatever he was saying.

Yaoyorozu, ever poised, stood next to them in a crisp white outfit, speaking calmly as if trying to balance out Kaminari's antics.

You made eye contact with Midoriya from across the crowd, his bright green eyes locking onto yours. His face immediately lit up, a wide smile spreading as he pointed in your direction, drawing the attention of the rest of the group.

Though you couldn't hear their words over the hum of the mall, you saw their heads turn toward you and Bakugo, their faces lighting up in recognition and excitement.

"Great," Bakugo muttered under his breath, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He stuffed his hands further into his pockets, his shoulders tensing as he reluctantly followed you toward the group.

Ashido was the first to bound over, her enthusiasm radiating like a beacon. "Akuma-san! You made it!" she exclaimed, her voice cutting through the noise as she waved both hands above her head. "And you brought Bakugo!"

Bakugo rolled his eyes but didn't say anything, his scowl deepening as Ashido continued her bubbly chatter.

You couldn't help but smirk slightly, amused by his obvious discomfort. It was shaping up to be an interesting day, whether you liked it or not.

Ashido clung to your arm, squealing with delight. "I'm so happy you came! I knew you'd say yes eventually!"

Kirishima's voice rang out next as he turned his wide grin toward Bakugo. "Hey, Bakubro! I thought you said you weren't coming!"

Bakugo sucked his teeth, his gaze darting to the side as if avoiding the conversation entirely. "Tch. Changed my mind, that's all," he muttered, clearly not in the mood for questions.

Kaminari appeared beside Kirishima, leaning in with a mischievous grin. "Oh, I bet you changed your mind because Akuma-san agreed to come! Am I right?" He jabbed Bakugo lightly in the ribs, his laughter echoing around them.

"Oi, shut up, Dunce Face," Bakugo snapped, batting Kaminari's hand away and scowling even deeper.

"Come on, guys!" Hagakure's cheerful voice interrupted the banter. She waved her gloved hands energetically. "We don't have time to waste! Let's get shopping!"

The group then began chattering all at once, each person throwing out suggestions about where to go first. "We should start with something efficient and orderly!" Iida's commanding voice rose above the din, his arms gesturing sharply as he tried to establish control. "It's crucial that we stay on schedule!"

Jirou, standing beside him, rolled her eyes, muttering, "Yeah, because a shopping trip needs a battle plan." Her voice carried just enough sarcasm to make Kaminari snicker.

"We can go check this out!" Mineta eagerly pointed toward a nearby lingerie store, his eyes gleaming, only to be promptly ignored as Yaoyorozu interjected politely, suggesting they prioritize utility stores for camp supplies. "We should ensure everyone gets what they need first," she said, her calm tone standing in stark contrast to the surrounding chaos.

Kaminari and Tokoyami, meanwhile, were locked in their own debate about the latest gadgets on display in a tech store window. "I'm telling you," Kaminari said animatedly, "this shock-resistant phone case could save my life!" Tokoyami, unimpressed, responded, "Your phone wouldn't need saving if you weren't so reckless."

Midoriya hovered near the edge of the group, his green eyes darting between his classmates with a look of quiet concern, clearly unsure where to jump in as everyone spoke over each other. "Uh, guys...?" Despite the noise, his attempts to mediate were drowned out by the energetic clamor of voices.

You suppressed a sigh, the urge to step in and organize them growing and fading as it came. After all, these weren't your classmates—they weren't your responsibility.

Kirishima, ever the peacemaker, clapped his hands together loudly, grabbing everyone's attention. "Alright, listen up! How about we split up? Everyone can get what they need, and we'll meet back here in two hours. Sound good?"

There was a chorus of agreement, heads nodding as the plan was quickly accepted.

Ashido turned to you, her golden eyes bright with excitement. "Hey, Akuma-san, do you want to—"

Her sentence trailed off as she blinked, looking around in confusion. You were already gone.

"Huh? Where did she...?" Ashido's voice faltered as she turned to the others, her expression bewildered.

Bakugo scoffed, a sharp laugh escaping him as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "She bailed the second Shitty-Hair mentioned splitting up."

Ashido's eyes widened. "What?!"

"Idiots." Bakugo shook his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he began to stroll away. "I'm heading to check out the new training gear. Don't follow me if you know what's good for you," he called over his shoulder, his tone making it clear that he wasn't joking.

The group exchanged glances, some chuckling at Ashido's stunned expression, before slowly breaking apart to carry out their shopping mission.

☆

☆

The noise of the mall enveloped you as you wandered aimlessly, the cool blast of air conditioning a stark contrast to the summer heat outside. Tugging the oversized orange hoodie down over your hands, you let the sleeves drape loosely as you weaved through the throng of shoppers.

You had broken away from the group almost immediately. Since splitting up, the absence of Bakugo's sharp glare by your side has turned you into something of a spectacle.

A few onlookers had recognized you from the sports festival, their eyes widening with awe as they whispered excitedly to one another.

Some were discreet, sneaking glances as they passed by, but others weren't shy, outright staring or murmuring your name.

Earlier, a group of middle schoolers had even approached you; their faces lit up with a mix of nerves and excitement. "You're from UA, right? We saw you at the Sports Festival! Can we get your autograph?" they had asked, holding out pens and notebooks with trembling hands. Their wide-eyed admiration had been overwhelming, but you'd managed a polite smile, scribbling your name quickly before excusing yourself.

Now, you found yourself lingering near the entrance of a plush store, staring blankly at the display inside. Rows of colorful, soft toys lined the shelves, their vibrant hues drawing in kids and adults alike.

Your gaze settled on one in the far corner of the store, tucked away on the highest shelf.

It was a plump, bright orange plush with stubby little arms and legs, a goofy face with wide eyes, and a tongue sticking out. Its round, soft shape practically begged to be hugged.

Something about it caught your attention—it reminded you of Pochita. The thought tugged at your chest, a fleeting wave of nostalgia mingled with longing.

Your fingers twitched slightly at your sides, the urge to reach out and grab the plush tugging at you. You took a hesitant step closer, momentarily forgetting the bustling world around you, lost in the simplicity of the moment.

"Hey, it's a UA student!" a voice suddenly called out, sharp and excited.

The bubble of calm you had found popped instantly. Your eyes rolled instinctively as you turned on your heel, already preparing to walk away.

You didn't even bother to check who had shouted—you knew the tone well enough. Another "fan," no doubt.

The last thing you needed was more attention. Muttering under your breath, you shoved your hands into the pocket of your hoodie and strode away, ignoring the lingering stares that followed you.

Maybe you'd double back for the plush later—when the coast was clear.

You didn't get far before a heavy arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you into a loose but unmistakable hold. The weight was grounding yet suffocating—a cage in the form of someone else's body.

"Wow, I never thought I'd be able to meet such an icon in the flesh!"

The voice was gravelly and low, grating against your nerves; the moment the words hit your ears, the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, your muscles tensing at the sheer audacity.

You didn't need to look to know who it was.

"Man, I seriously can't believe it. Can't believe I'd see you again so soon in a place like this. It makes me feel like there's something to it..."

The hand hanging off your arm moved then, fingers trailing lazily upward until they rested at the junction of your neck and shoulder. The touch was deliberate, light but unyielding, the pinky raised ever so slightly as if mocking your ability to pull away.

"...like fate or destiny."

Your gaze flickered sideways, catching the faint glint of his silhouette in the corner of your eye. The mall crowd moved around the two of you like nothing was happening—bustling shoppers too focused on their own lives to notice the tension crackling between you and the figure.

The distant hum of voices and footsteps only heightened the dissonance of the moment.

The weight of Shigaraki's hand at the nape of your neck wasn't just invasive—it was irritating. His fingers rested there with a casual threat, like he was daring you to resist, fully expecting you to cower.

How predictable.

Your first instinct was to shrug him off, to spit something sharp and cutting, but you knew better. The man could kill with a touch, and you weren't in the mood to indulge his power play.

Instead, you let the irritation bloom, hot and immediate. Of all the places to corner you, he had to choose the mall?

The timing wasn't just inconvenient; it was an insult, a pathetic attempt to force your attention on him. Did he really think this would intimidate you? That it would elicit anything more than disdain?

The audacity was almost amusing, if not for how profoundly annoying it was.

You didn't like the way his presence felt like a heavy shadow pressing against your back, the way his voice oozed with confidence as though he'd already won.

Still, your mind raced, analyzing his movements, his tone, the subtle choices in his words. This wasn't fear—not in the way he wanted it to be. It was calculation, a cold acknowledgment that he thought himself clever for cornering you

Why now? Why me?

His fixation wasn't random. You were certain of that much.

The League didn't operate without purpose, and Shigaraki's interest in you felt deliberate, albeit clumsy.

You hated the idea that he saw you as a piece in whatever twisted game he was playing, but part of you also saw an opportunity.

If he wanted something from you, he had a weakness. And weaknesses were always exploitable.

The thought brought a faint flicker of amusement, cooling your irritation.

You'd let him think he had the upper hand, let him lean in closer, draw out his plans—and then you'd strike. You'd dismantle him the moment he left an opening.

But even as you planned, a lingering unease pressed at the edges of your thoughts. It wasn't fear—it was recognition. The way his gaze lingered on you, dissecting you piece by piece, reminded you of a predator with nothing to lose.

It wasn't just obsession—it was hunger, like he was devouring the thought of you before he'd even begun.

You inhaled deeply, forcing the unease into a box and locking it away. For now, you would endure the weight of his presence without letting it crack the mask of cold indifference you wore so well.

Let him think he's in control, you told yourself, your jaw tightening slightly. For now.

He leaned in closer, his presence pressing against you like a tangible weight. His breath ghosted along the side of your face as his nose trailed up, the motion deliberate and calculated. A wave of nausea churned in your gut as his words hit your ear, softer now but no less grating.

"Wouldn't you agree... Akuma ____?"

Annoyance flared hot and fast as you clenched your jaw, your mood souring instantly. You turned your head slightly, glaring at him from the corner of your eye. His expression was infuriating—smug, confident, and utterly unbothered by your reaction.

"What are you doing here?" you hissed, your voice low and sharp, slicing through the ambient noise of the mall like a blade.

Shigaraki's hand on your neck tightened slightly, just enough to send a shiver of discomfort down your spine. "Ah, ah, no need to be harsh," he murmured, his tone mocking with a dangerous edge. "You know��what I'm here for." He tilted his head, his pale blue hair brushing against your temple. "I don't expect you to, but don't make a scene. I'd hate to have to ash you so soon."

Your throat tightened involuntarily under the weight of his threat, but you refused to let the gesture faze you. You merely raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

His voice then dropped to a low rumble. "The moment all five of my fingers touch your neck, you'll start crumbling from the skin outward. Gone in less than a minute." His words hung in the air like a blade poised over your head, his hand suddenly relaxed, though the threat still loomed like a shadow.

With a rough tug, he guided you back toward the plushie store, his movements casual and deliberate. To anyone watching, you might have looked like a couple, arm in arm, browsing for some cutesy gift, but you knew better.

Every step felt calculated, his hand a constant weight at your nape, steering you without force but with unmistakable authority.

"This isn't a school lesson," you bit out snarkily, cutting through his monologue with a sharpness that made his eyes narrow slightly. "What, are you obsessed with me or something? This is pathetic, even for a novice villain like yourself."

Shigaraki's grip on your neck tightened briefly, and for a moment, his eyes gleamed with something darker, more dangerous. Then, he laughed—a low, throaty chuckle that sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, "Careful, Akuma. I might start thinking you enjoy this little game."

The sound of his laugh lingered as he straightened. "Novice, huh?" he said, his hand curling just slightly more firmly around the junction of your neck and shoulder, a chilling mockery of affection. "Keep talking. I enjoy hearing you speak. So cold, so chilling."

Shigaraki's chuckles then turned into a low hiss, impatience flickering through his voice. "Now, answer me," he demanded, his crimson eyes locked onto yours with an unsettling intensity.

You could feel the tension radiating off him now, the way his hand flexed against your neck like he was holding himself back. And then there it was again—that flicker of something in his expression.

It wasn't just irritation. There was something deeper, almost unhinged, behind the way he looked at you, as if the idea of you not responding was somehow personal.

The moment stretched on, your senses suddenly sharpening as unease crept into the edges of your awareness.

Your gaze flickered to the side, locking onto a woman standing idly by near the entrance of the plushie store. She was holding a child's hand, her face calm and unassuming at first glance, but then her eyes shifted toward you.

There was something off about her gaze—too sharp, too focused. A shiver crawled down your spine as her lips curved into the faintest smile, and you realized with a sick certainty that she wasn't just a random shopper.

Shigaraki noticed your wandering attention immediately. He leaned in, blocking your view with his pale, scarred face. "Don't worry about them," he murmured, his tone almost soft, though it carried a chilling undertone. "They're just here to watch. No one will interfere... unless you give me a reason to let them."

You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze back to him as a knot of irritation tightened in your chest. On the outside, you kept your expression neutral—cold, even—but inside, your thoughts were a whirlwind of calculated strategy and raw frustration.

The cool, calculated part of you weighed the risks, considered the potential to manipulate the League, to use Shigaraki's obsession as leverage. But your irritation with him burned hotter, clouding your judgment. Was it even worth the effort?

Your lips pressed into a thin line, your silence deliberate now. Shigaraki's fingers twitched against your neck, and he let out a frustrated scoff, his usual composure slipping. "I don't have time for this," he grumbled to himself. "I'm sure the original me is almost done with that brat by now."

That caught your attention.

Your brow arched instinctively, and before you could stop yourself, you parroted, "'Original me'?"

Shigaraki stiffened, and for the first time, his smirk faltered. Then it came back, wider and sharper than before, like he was amused by your curiosity. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "It's just... something I've been working on. Focus on me instead."

You narrowed your eyes at him, but he didn't elaborate. Instead, he tugged you slightly closer, his other hand grazing the glass of the display window as he pretended to point out a plushie.

"You're running out of excuses," he said softly, almost as if to himself. Then his gaze snapped back to you, and his smirk returned, sharper than ever. "But don't worry. I've got all the time in the world to see this through, ____. You'll come around... One way or another."

Just as his words hung in the air, a voice pierced through the air, loud and panicked.

"____!"

Your name echoed across the store, and your head snapped toward the sound. Shigaraki's grip loosened at the same moment, his fingers trailing off your neck like a ghost. Before you could turn fully, his breath brushed against your ear one last time, his voice dropping into a low whisper.

"I'm expecting an answer soon, Akuma. The world is changing—heroes won't be at the top forever. And when it crumbles, you'd want to be on the side that's prepared, wouldn't you?"

The weight of his presence vanished in an instant. You whirled back around, but all that remained was a smear of gray, dissolving goop where he had stood.

"____!"

Your gaze darted back to the source of the voice, and you spotted Midoriya rushing toward you, his face pale and eyes wide with fear. His breathing was ragged, his steps uneven as he pushed his way through the crowd.

He skidded to a stop in front of you, barely catching his breath as he panted out your name again, his hands gripping your shoulders like he was trying to ground himself. "____... are you okay? Did he—did anyone—" His words tumbled over each other in a rush, his green eyes darting around wildly, scanning the crowd as if expecting someone to leap out from the shadows at any moment.

You reached up and gently placed a hand on his arm, squeezing lightly to steady him. "Izuku." you said softly, forcing your voice to stay calm. "I'm fine. I'm okay. Breathe."

"But—"

"Breathe," you repeated, firmer this time. You held his gaze, grounding him with your calmness. Slowly, his breathing began to even out, though his hands still trembled slightly against you.

After a few moments, he managed to find his voice again, his words still shaky. "He... he cornered me earlier," he admitted, his eyes locking onto yours. "Shigaraki Tomura. He... he was waiting for me. He said... he said things."

Your stomach tightened with worry, especially at the thought that Shigaraki might have mentioned you. Still, you kept your expression neutral, nodding for him to continue.

"He said something about... about the League needing me," Midoriya continued, his voice barely above a whisper now. "He said I was 'important' that my 'potential' was something he couldn't ignore. He mentioned something about the 'balance of power' shifting soon, but I—I don't understand what he meant." His grip on your shoulders tightened briefly as he looked around the crowd again, his paranoia evident. "I could've sworn I saw him here just a moment ago. He... he didn't hurt you, did he? He wasn't trying to—"

You shook your head, cutting him off. "No, I'm fine," you reassured him, keeping your tone steady. "Whatever he's planning, he didn't do anything here. You're safe, Midoriya. We're safe."

His shoulders slumped slightly, the tension in his body easing just a fraction at your words. But his eyes still held that lingering fear, the uncertainty that came with facing someone as dangerous as Shigaraki.

As Midoriya continued talking, recounting every detail of his encounter—how Shigaraki had cornered him, the things he had said, the way his voice had carried that unnerving calm—you nodded along, offering quiet reassurances when needed.

But your mind was elsewhere.

Midoriya's words blurred together, fading into the background as one thought took hold in your head, repeating like a drumbeat: What are you planning, Shigaraki?

The weight of his last words clung to you, settling deep in your chest. Whatever he wanted, whatever game he was playing, it was far from over.

And for the first time, you found yourself wondering just how far he was willing to go to get what he wanted.

☆

☆

The air was tense in the faculty lounge as Aizawa leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the report Midoriya had given him earlier. His dark eyes were heavy with thought, but there was a sharpness behind them, a readiness to act.

The fluorescent lights overhead hummed quietly, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of unease swirling in his mind.

He looked up just as Kan entered the room, his heavy boots echoing softly against the polished floor. The Class 1-B teacher looked equally serious; his brows furrowed as he approached Aizawa. "I heard about the incident at the mall," Kan said, his tone low but steady. "Shigaraki's interest in the first-years is becoming a real concern."

Aizawa gave a slow nod, handing Kan the report, his gaze dropping to the floor. "It's not just interest; it's fixation," he said, his voice laced with quiet intensity. "Shigaraki isn't just targeting them randomly."

Kan's jaw tightened. "We can't let this escalate. If he's willing to corner Midoriya in broad daylight, he's not worried about being subtle anymore," he said, skimming over the report, expression growing grim. "You think he's building toward something?"

Aizawa's silence was answer enough.

The room fell quiet for a moment, the weight of the situation settling between them.

Aizawa's mind was already racing ahead, calculating the risks, the probabilities.

If Shigaraki was targeting the students now, it wouldn't stop at a single encounter. He was testing boundaries, probing for weaknesses.

"It's the timing that concerns me," Aizawa finally said, his voice breaking the stillness. "The summer camp is only weeks away. If they know about it—and there's a good chance they do—it could be an opportunity for them to strike."

"You're suggesting we change the plans?"

"I'm saying we don't have a choice," Aizawa replied firmly. "If the League is watching us—and they are—we need to stay ahead of them. That means prioritizing safety over tradition."

Kan frowned, clearly weighing the implications. "The summer camp's always been a cornerstone for training. The students—"

"—won't get to train if they're dead," Aizawa interrupted, his tone blunt but not unkind. "I'm not taking chances with their lives. Not after this."

Kan sighed, nodding reluctantly. "You're right. But we'll need to come up with a solid cover. The students can't know it's for their protection, or it'll only make them more anxious."

Aizawa nodded again, his mind already racing through contingency plans. "We'll move to a more secure location and double the surveillance. Training is important, but their safety comes first." Aizawa leaned forward on his desk, resting his elbows on the table. "We'll tell the students it's an adjustment for terrain. Something about making the training more challenging. They won't question it if we sell it right."

Kan smirked faintly. "You're surprisingly good at this whole deception thing, Eraser."

Aizawa ignored the comment; his thoughts lingering on Shigaraki's words, the ones Midoriya had relayed with a pale face and trembling hands. "You're important." The way Shigaraki had spoken, as if it were fact, sent a chill through Aizawa's spine.

He couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just about Midoriya; it was about something bigger, something the League was building toward.

"I'll handle the changes," Aizawa said, standing up from his chair. "Make sure the staff is briefed, but keep it need-to-know. The last thing we need is for this to leak beyond us."

Kan nodded, his expression serious. "I'll handle the logistics. But Aizawa..."

The underground hero paused, glancing over his shoulder.

He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Keep an eye on them. Whatever's brewing here—it's big. And Shigaraki's fixation on the students... it feels personal. Be careful."

Aizawa's gaze darkened, and he gave a curt nod. "I will."

The two teachers exchanged a final glance, a shared understanding passing between them, before Kan turned to leave. Aizawa remained at his desk, his gaze drifting towards the window, watching as the sun set below the horizon.

The weight of the situation pressed heavily on his shoulders, but his resolve was unshaken.

Aizawa's jaw tightened. Whatever Shigaraki was planning, he would make sure the villain never got it.

He didn't know how far the villina was willing to go, but Aizawa would make sure his students were ready.

He'd be damned if he let the villain get what he wanted.

Not on his watch.

A/N: ahhh, i'll be honest, i'm taking my time just cuz i dont want this to end, you guys have been the best readers ever but alas, the training arc is coming  upon us💔😩 question; if i were to continue the book, would you guys be interested to read? ngl i made this in mind of setting the ground work, etc. so that's why eveyrthing was so weird/moving slow--heck not even much yandere tendecies--, but just know, if you guys are serious about part 2, i promise everything will be full-on fanservice--on both ends 👀 (if you guys are interested, i'll be sure to explain more in next a/n)

[winxanity-ii]

so many ideas i'd love to get you guys insight on what you'd like to read next

UDATE: Looks like the Infinite Void || Male!Reader x Various!JJK won 🥰🥰

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it must be done 😩❤️❤️

screaming, crying, throwing up, as I force myself to write a story i'm very passionate about and love writing and have no obligation to write except that i want to

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⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: Fateful Tides DIVINE WHISPERS: Fateful Tides | divine whispers: fateful tides⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽

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Hermes left Ithaca with an unusual weight resting in the back of his mind, his sandals lifting him effortlessly from the palace grounds and carrying him up, up into the ether, past the clouds that shimmered with the dusk's final blush.

The night had only just begun to lull the world below, but Olympus was always alive—eternally vibrant, eternally gilded.

Hermes sighed, tugging at the edge of his red cloak, his gaze flicking toward the horizon, where the golden halls of Olympus glowed like a promise. His sandals' wings fluttered lazily as he landed without a sound on its marble steps.

It wasn't long before he found Apollo reclining as though the universe revolved solely around him.

Hermes had a knack for timing—always arriving right when it would make the most impact, and this night was no exception.

Apollo was reclining on a golden chaise, a nymph at either side feeding him grapes while a third played a soft tune on a reed pipe. His eyes were half-lidded, his dark curls glistening with a faint golden sheen, falling artfully over his forehead, and the lyre he had conjured floated above him, strings moving on their own as if he were still playing it.

The god of music looked every bit the picture of satisfaction—utterly self-assured, basking in his own splendor.

Hermes couldn't resist.

"Oh, brother dearest," Hermes called, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes as he strolled forward, his staff clinking softly against the marble. "I see you're surrounded by your usual entourage. Good to know you haven't let your ego grow too much in my absence."

Apollo's eyes snapped open, annoyance flickering across his features for just an instant before it melted into a smirk.

"Hermes," he drawled, waving off the nymphs as he sat up. "What brings you to Olympus this fine evening? Shouldn't you be off delivering things?"

Hermes let a slow grin spread across his lips, letting the silence stretch for a beat before speaking. "Oh, nothing of much consequence. Just thought you'd like to know..." He paused, watching as Apollo head lolled in bored, his eyes glinting with curiosity. "I finally delivered that little gift of yours. You know, the one for your favorite mortal."

The effect was instantaneous.

The lyre dropped, Apollo's eyes widening with excitement, and he pushed himself off the chaise, his curls bouncing slightly. The nymphs backed away as Apollo's full attention focused on Hermes, his face a mixture of delight and urgency.

"Really?" Apollo almost beamed, his eyes alight with a golden fire. "Tell me, brother, what was her reaction? Did she love it? What did she say?"

Hermes' brow arched, the corner of his mouth twitching as though amused by the sudden fervor. He shrugged nonchalantly, turning his staff between his fingers. "Oh, you know," he said, voice lazily drawling. "Mortal tears, the usual overwhelmed gratitude—I'd say you did pretty well."

Apollo's grin widened, his eyes sparkling. "Ha! Of course, I did. I chose it, didn't I?" He crossed his arms, his chest swelling with pride. "No doubt it moved her to tears. I knew it was the perfect way to lift her spirits after that vile princess shattered her precious lyre."

Hermes' smile froze, just slightly, as he tilted his head, feigning indifference. "Oh? So you knew about that?" He tried to sound casual, though there was a sharpness hidden beneath his words.

Apollo's features twisted, his expression darkening, his golden brows furrowing as a scowl marred his perfect face. "Knew about it?" he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "I saw it. I felt it. The moment that girl dared to touch what was mine—I wanted to come down there and smite her where she stood, to wipe her from existence for daring to make her cry."

He ran a hand through his golden curls, exhaling sharply. "But alas," he added with a bitter edge to his voice, "Ares has his hand over Bronte, and we've an agreement not to meddle in each other's territories unless mortally provoked."

There was a pause, a flicker of something raw in Apollo's eyes before he continued, softer now. "She doesn't deserve that pain—she's too... fragile for it." His words lingered, his voice dipped with a strange tenderness. "Do you know, Hermes, how rare it is for a mortal to move me? They sing of us, praise us, offer sacrifices at our altars, but it's hollow. Empty gestures driven by fear or tradition."

His gaze shifted, a faint, almost reverent glow lighting his features. "But ____? She feels every note, every string, as if it were a part of her soul. She gives her music freely, without pretense or expectation. It's not just beautiful—it's pure. Untainted by ambition or arrogance." He leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes blazing. "How could I not protect that? How could I not claim that for myself?"

Hermes hummed in acknowledgment, but his gaze was sharper now, watching the way Apollo's fists clenched at his sides, how his eyes gleamed not just with irritation, but with a glint of something else—something possessive. He leaned casually on his staff, the air around him relaxed, though his mind was racing.

"Yes, yes, of course. I remember the pact, yadda, yadda," Hermes said, waving a hand dismissively, as if trying to defuse Apollo's seething anger. "It's just... well, you know me. I took my sweet time getting there, and I thought perhaps..." He trailed off, his eyes narrowing in a calculating manner, seeking a hint of truth behind Apollo's bluster.

Apollo's gaze snapped back to Hermes, his expression softening once more, the rage dissipating like a storm that had never really formed. "She's fine, right? ____?" he asked, the softness almost boyish, a strange contrast to his earlier fury. "Tell me she's happy now."

Hermes blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching upward again. Interesting, he thought. He let a small chuckle escape, reaching out to pat Apollo's shoulder. "Oh, she's happy enough, dear brother. You've made quite the impression, as always."

Apollo's eyes gleamed again, his smile returning as he nodded, clearly satisfied with himself. "Of course I did. She is my favorite mortal, after all." He said it with such casual conviction, the statement almost lost in the grandeur of his words.

Apollo's gaze grew distant for a moment, as if lost in thought. "Imagine the joy she must feel now, holding such a divine creation," he murmured, his voice softening. "The strings that echo the music of the heavens, the craftsmanship beyond any mortal's imagination... Surely, she must be overwhelmed with delight." He spoke as if he could already see it all, his eyes glinting with a mix of pride and longing, like the scene played out vividly in his mind.

If only you knew, Hermes internally scoffed, his smile fixed and unreadable.

His mind flickered back to the quiet room in Ithaca, the way your fingers had clung to the old, splintered lyre as if it were more precious than ambrosia. He could still hear your voice, trembling with raw emotion, speaking of its memories and warmth.

Your mortal sentimentality baffled and intrigued him all at once—a creation so divine cast aside, eclipsed by something far humbler, yet infinitely more cherished.

With a sigh that barely reached his lips, Hermes made up his mind. He wasn't going to get anything more out of Apollo. No revelations, no genuine answers—just endless rambling about his muse, his divine creations, and, of course, himself.

So, with a lazy flick of his wrist, Hermes' feet lifted from the ground, and he pushed off, a breeze carrying him away from Apollo's favored grove.

Apollo, for his part, didn't even notice Hermes' departure, too busy preening as he spoke of his sweet mortal—a fact that caused Hermes to roll his eyes.

No sense talking to someone more interested in his own reflection, he thought as he ascended past the clouds.

But instead of returning to his duties, Hermes decided there was something else he needed to do—someone else he needed to see. He wasn't quite done with his curiosity about the mortal girl Apollo had taken such an interest in.

He hadn't missed how even the smallest mention of her seemed to light up the god's entire demeanor. And if Apollo was this obsessed, then Hermes figured there had to be something more to it.

It didn't take him long to reach Athena's chambers, her owl-faced guards recognizing him and allowing him through without question.

He pushed through the heavy wooden doors, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on the goddess herself, bent over a scroll, her attention locked onto whatever she was studying.

"Athena, my dear," Hermes called, his voice carrying across the room as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "You look as radiant as ever, deep in your thoughts, I see."

Athena turned, her silver-gray eyes narrowing slightly, though her lips quirked into something almost like a smile. "Hermes," she said, her tone tinged with the familiar mix of mild exasperation and fondness. "What brings you here? Surely you have duties to tend to—deliveries to make?"

"Oh, don't remind me," Hermes groaned dramatically, clutching a hand to his chest as though wounded. He took a few playful strides toward her, leaning casually against a nearby pillar. "But I have to say, something much more interesting has caught my attention lately. I'm here to ask about someone—A mortal, to be precise." He raised an eyebrow, waggling his brows in that unmistakable mischievous way.

Athena's brow arched, her eyes sharpening, though a flicker of curiosity flashed in her gaze.  "A mortal?" Her voice was laced with dry amusement. "And why would you be interested in a mortal, Hermes? Should I be worried?"

"Not at all, dear sister. No mischief this time..." Hermes tilted his head slightly, pausing for effect. "...well, at least nothing that involves me." He crossed his arms over his chest, fingers tapping rhythmically against his bicep, watching her closely for any sign of a reaction. "It's about our dear brother, Apollo, actually."

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes flashing with curiosity. "Apollo?"

Hermes nodded, his expression growing almost conspiratorial. "Indeed. It seems our radiant brother has been somewhat preoccupied lately—obsessed even. He finally got me to deliver one of his divine lyres down to a little mortal he's been watching." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "A mortal from Ithaca, if that rings a bell."

Athena's eyes widened slightly, and Hermes didn't miss the flicker of recognition that passed across her face. "Ithaca, you say?" she mused, her gaze drifting momentarily.

Then something clicked in her expression, and her lips parted slightly in understanding. "Ah, yes... Odysseus and Telemachus," she said, the names laced with a faint nostalgia, her tone softening almost imperceptibly. "They've spoken of a servant before—Telemachus, particularly. I do recall him mentioning someone once or twice in our past conversations... "

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "A sort of musician. I suppose that's the one Apollo's so taken with?" She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she seemed to recall something else. "I also believe I gave them an enchanted music sheet... I think. I'll have to retrieve it back at some point."

Hermes grinned, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "The very same." He made a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if trying to shoo away the absurdity of it all. "Can you imagine, our mighty Apollo, all aflutter over a mortal girl? He's been rambling on and on about her as if she's the next muse born unto the earth. Though, admittedly, he did make quite the scene when her lyre broke—if I'm not mistaken, he was moments away from descending and turning her little enemy into something very unpleasant." He glanced sideways at Athena, gauging her reaction.

Athena gave a small shake of her head, her eyes half-lidded in a mixture of amusement and something more guarded. "Apollo and his passions," she murmured. "They burn bright, but often far too hot. I suppose it's fortunate, then, that he didn't act on that impulse," She sighed, her expression growing more reflective. "Though I imagine his obsession won't fade anytime soon. Such things rarely do when it comes to Apollo."

Her gaze sharpened then, fixing on Hermes with a weight that silenced the humor in his smirk. "And you, brother? What business do you have meddling in Apollo's affairs? You aren't planning on interfering with another god's favored mortal, are you? You remember what happened last time."

Hermes lifted his hands in mock surrender, his smile widening into a playful grin. "Dear sister, you wound me! I am nothing if not a law-abiding god." He placed a hand over his chest, his face the picture of feigned innocence. "I would never think of getting involved in something as serious as that—I simply wanted to understand what has Apollo so enchanted. I mean, really, me, meddling? When have I ever been known to get myself tangled in anyone else's messes?"

Athena's gaze didn't waver, her silver-gray eyes cutting into him like a blade. She let the silence linger, her expression unreadable as if weighing every word. "You may convince yourself of your innocence, Hermes," she said finally, her voice calm but edged with steel. "But curiosity is a dangerous thing—even for a god. Apollo is not known for his restraint when it comes to those he holds dear, and you would do well to tread carefully."

"Just know, I'll be watching both of you, just as I watch over those who bear my favor." Her lips quirked into something faintly resembling a smile, though her eyes gleamed with warning. "And remember, the rules of Olympus apply to everyone... even you."

She turned back to her work, her fingers lightly brushing over the edge of her scroll. "Even the gods cannot see every thread of the Fates. So if you decide to get involved, be sure you're ready for the consequences, Hermes. Gods do not take kindly to interference, especially when their favorites are concerned."

Hermes looked at her for a moment longer, his usual grin softening into something more deliberate. "You worry too much, Athena. It's just a harmless bit of curiosity," he said lightly, though there was a glimmer in his eyes that spoke of more than mere curiosity. "Besides, trouble and I have been well-acquainted for millennia, and I've always made it through in one piece."

"Of course, you have, but the line between chaos and calamity is thinner than you think."

Hermes chuckled, pushing himself off from the pillar. "True, but thin lines make for the best balancing acts, wouldn't you say?" He turned on his heel, making his way back to the door before turning back to give an exaggerated bow. "Still, I suppose I should thank you for indulging me, dear sister." With that Hermes made his exit.

"Curiosity," Athena murmured under her breath as the trickter god lefft, her tone both knowing and resigned. "The beginning of far too many stories."

As soon as Hermes made it out of her chambers, his winged sandals lifted him off the marble floor of the temple. The wind caught under his feet, propelling him forward, out into the vast expanse of sky.

Hermes smiled to himself, his curiosity far from satisfied, but his mind already shifting gears. He had learned enough for now—at least enough to know there was something worth keeping an eye on.

The mortal from Ithaca—Apollo's favorite—you were certainly more than you seemed. And whatever Apollo had planned for you, Hermes was sure it would be entertaining enough to keep his attention—for now.

Athena's warning echoed faintly in his mind, but he shrugged it off with a smirk. He wasn't sure if it was going to lead to trouble, but then again, trouble was what made his life interesting.

With a grin and a flash of his winged sandals, Hermes took off across the sky, the shimmering landscape of Olympus disappearing beneath him as he sped away, laughter echoing in the wind. "Besides... when have I ever backed down from a little chaos?" he muttered to himself, the corners of his lips curling in anticipation.

A/N: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to 12 ┃ 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞  i didnt know where to put without making word vomit, lolol anywho hope you guys enjoyed the insights in the gods, might start doing this a bit more to fill in missing pieces/info lolol

[winxanity-ii]

can you do Hermes x user that's one of Aphrodite's followers or maybe one of circe's nymphs?

i actually have something in the works rn; if you don't mind waiting just a tad bit longer, i'd be happy make this 😩❤️❤️❤️

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your fics are so good, thank you for writing them !!!!

🥹❤️❤️ hehhe thank youuuuu.

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I'm begging you for another 'Godly Things' chapter, please.

Tumblr needs more Telemachus.

hi! sorry for the late reply, i updated ch.12 not too long ago, hope you enjoy 😩❤️

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 12 Chapter 12 | golden hope⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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The next few days trickled by like smoke, slow and lingering, with a heaviness that clung to your skin.

As promised, Eurycleia alerted Queen Penelope of your state, prompting the queen to personally encourage you to rest, to take the time you needed. And so you confined yourself to your room, grateful for the solitude.

You knew, eventually, you would have to leave this room, that you couldn't stay hidden away forever—but for now, the quiet, the separation from the palace, it all felt like a welcome escape.

You couldn't bear the thought of seeing Andreia, of being anywhere near her without feeling the raw ache threatening to break you all over again.

It had been three days since the incident, and you were still trying.

Every day, the hours blurred together in your attempts to mend the lyre, as if somehow putting its broken pieces back together might also mend the fractures within you.

The delicate wood, worn and fragile, lay spread across your bed.

You had tried to fit the jagged pieces back together, to wrap the broken arm, to glue and bind—but no matter what you did, the damage was done.

You knew, deep down, it was beyond repair, that no amount of delicate handling or tender care could truly restore it to what it once was. But that knowledge didn't stop you.

You couldn't bring yourself to stop.

Even if the strings could never make the same sound again, even if the wood splintered at the slightest pressure, you kept trying.

And just like on the very first night, you found yourself kneeling before your bed, your fingers trembling as you attempted to notch one of the strings back in place.

The lyre sat there, pitifully wrapped with coarse string to keep the fragile wood held together, its once elegant form marred by splints and knots.

You tried to align the notch, leaning closer, your brow furrowing as you concentrated, your lips slightly parted in determination. But as soon as you tried to tighten the string, it slipped, snapping back off with a harsh twang, the sharp sound slicing through the quiet of the room.

You sighed in frustration, the breath leaving your chest in a heavy rush as you slumped backward, sitting back on your haunches. You rubbed your face with both hands, the exhaustion weighing on you, making your muscles feel heavy, your fingers aching from the hours of effort.

Slowly, you let your hands fall away, your gaze drifting toward the window. The light of dusk filtered into your room, painting the walls in hues of orange and pink, a soft glow that seemed almost at odds with the frustration bubbling inside you.

Beyond the window, the sun was dipping below the horizon, just a sliver of red-orange remaining, its fading light bathing everything in a tender glow. The sky above was a canvas of deepening blue, dotted with the first twinkling stars, their light faint against the dimming sky.

It was beautiful, peaceful—everything you weren't feeling.

For a moment, you let your gaze linger, allowing the colors to wash over you, a brief distraction from the weight pressing against your chest.

The lyre lay in pieces beside you, and for the first time since you began, you let yourself admit that it might never be whole again. And yet, you couldn't quite bring yourself to give up.

Not yet.

Not when there was still the faintest chance, however impossible, that it could be mended.

There was a sudden knock at the door.

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers hovering above the broken lyre before you pushed yourself up to stand. You expected it to be a servant, delivering your broth for the night, but as you opened the door, the sight before you caught you off guard.

It wasn't a servant—it was the prince.

He stood there, holding a tray with your dinner, his body half-turned as though he'd been muttering to himself before you opened the door. You caught a faint, almost whispered, "You got this, Telemachus..." as he looked up, his eyes meeting yours. He blinked, startled, and for a moment, his expression seemed to waver, his confidence faltering.

"Uh, ____, there's something important..." he began, but his sentence trailed off as his eyes took you in, his gaze flickering over you. You could see the way his expression shifted, the warmth in his eyes giving way to concern.

He knew immediately that something was wrong.

Without thinking, he stepped forward, his foot crossing the threshold as he reached out, his hand almost instinctively moving towards you, the tray balancing effortlessly in the other. "What happened?" he asked, his voice gentle, full of worry.

Panic shot through you as your mind flashed to the lyre, still sitting in the middle of your bed, the broken pieces spread out for anyone to see.

You moved quickly, blocking the doorway, stepping forward almost too hastily—your body colliding with his, your hands pressing lightly against his chest.

Telemachus blinked, taken aback, but he stepped back with a surprising grace, his balance never wavering, the tray still held steady in his hand. He tilted his head, his brow furrowed as he searched your face, stepping closer again as if drawn by your discomfort.

The concern etched on his face deepened, his eyes narrowing as he took in your expression. "What's wrong?" he repeated, his voice softer now, giving you space as though he thought your earlier actions stemmed from discomfort or fear.

His gaze lingered on your face, his eyes searching deeply, almost pleading, as if he could draw the truth from you without words. He took another small step closer, his body leaning forward slightly, the furrow in his brow now mixed with a hint of frustration—as though he wanted to reach out, to pull the truth from you, but knew he couldn't push too hard.

His other hand lifted a fraction before falling back to his side, his fingers curling slightly, betraying his urge to comfort you, to make the situation right. You felt the intensity of his stare, the warmth of his concern reaching for you, and it made your throat tighten, a sudden swell of emotion making it hard to breathe.

You opened your mouth, wanting desperately to tell him, to let it all spill out—about Andreia, about the lyre, about the pain that had been gnawing at you for days. But the words caught in your throat, refusing to come.

"I..." You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the ground as your thoughts began to spiral.

How could you explain it all to him? How could you tell him that Andreia had taken something so precious to you and shattered it, that she had done so with a smile?

The fear gripped you—the fear of being seen as nothing more than a servant overstepping, of Andreia's word being believed over yours. The fear of the consequences, of what might happen if you dared to speak out against someone of her status.

Your place was to serve, to stay silent, to endure, but a small voice in the back of your mind whispered otherwise, urging you to reach out, to let him see your pain—but you silenced it, shoving it down, knowing it wasn't your place.

You reminded yourself of that, even as your heart ached to tell him the truth.

You bit your tongue, swallowing the words that threatened to break free, forcing a smile that felt fragile on your lips. You forced yourself to fall back to the default story that had served you well enough so far.

You took a steadying breath, meeting Telemachus' eyes with a look you hoped was convincing. "Oh, it's nothing serious, really," you said, your voice adopting a false lightness that made you cringe internally. "I was just caught in the rain a few days ago, and I've been feeling under the weather since then."

You could see his eyes searching your face, the concern not quite gone, but starting to ease. You forced yourself to continue, injecting a bit of preppy cheerfulness into your words. "But I'm starting to feel better now," you assured him, nodding slightly, "I should be back on schedule in a day or two."

Telemachus watched you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours as though he could see right through the lies. He didn't move, his gaze steady, and you wondered if he might push, if he might ask again. And if he did, you feared you would have given in.

But instead, his shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and a small smile began to tug at his lips. His eyes softened; he seemed relieved. "That's good," he murmured, his voice low, almost a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you're on the mend," he added, the corners of his mouth lifting into a lopsided smile that made your chest tighten.

He cleared his throat, glancing down at the tray before holding it out to you gently, the smile turning almost bashful. "Here, I brought you something to eat. You should have it before it gets cold, and make sure you get lots of rest, alright?"

As you reached out to take the tray, you noticed his hand twitch slightly, his fingers seeming to hesitate—as if he were about to lift his hand further, to touch yours, to give some sort of comforting gesture. But instead, he let it fall, curling his hand loosely by his side, dropping his gaze for just a moment.

You took the tray from him, the warmth of it seeping through your palms. You offered him a smile that felt more genuine this time, touched by his kindness. "Thank you, my prince."

Telemachus gave you a soft smile in return, bowing his head slightly. "Goodnight, then," he said, his voice gentle. "May Selene bless your dreams tonight and bring you rest."

Your lips quirked up, a true smile breaking through the tension that had been sitting heavy in your chest. You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, you let yourself feel the warmth of his presence. "Goodnight, my prince," you said softly, your voice almost a whisper.

Telemachus lingered for just a moment longer, his gaze holding yours before he finally turned, stepping away from the doorway. You watched as he walked down the hallway, his figure gradually retreating, his footsteps soft against the stone.

You didn't close the door until he turned the corner, disappearing from sight, and even then, you lingered there a moment longer, staring at the empty hallway, the warmth of his presence still lingering in the air around you.

Finally, you closed the door, the latch clicking softly into place.

You pressed your forehead against the door, closing your eyes as a shaky breath left your lips.

The silence of the room pressed in on you, and you found yourself replaying the scene, the worry in Telemachus' eyes, the gentle way he spoke. Your heart ached with the weight of what you hadn't said.

You clenched your fists, the tray pressing harshly into your palms, the corners digging in painfully. You wanted to tell him so badly, but fear had held you back—fear of what might happen, of how things might change if you spoke the truth.

You let out another breath, this one more frustrated, almost a growl, as you felt the conflicting emotions rise inside of you—regret and relief warring within your chest.

You knew you had done the right thing, protecting yourself, protecting the fragile peace you still had. But that small voice in the back of your mind whispered that maybe, just maybe, Telemachus would have listened, would have believed you.

And the thought of what might have happened if you had taken that chance gnawed at you, leaving you feeling hollow.

Stepping back from the door, you turned and walked over to the windowsill, setting the tray down carefully before flopping back on your bed. You curled into yourself, tucking your knees close to your chest, wrapping your arms around the broken lyre that lay beside you.

It was a sad sight, the lyre—its once smooth frame now cracked and splintered, held together only by a makeshift wrapping of string, the wood barely aligned. The glow it once had was gone, replaced by a dullness that seemed to reflect your own feelings.

You traced your fingers over the broken wood, feeling the rough edges, the fragility of it. It hurt to look at it, to see it in such a state, but you couldn't bring yourself to set it aside.

The room was quiet, the silence heavy, and your thoughts began to spiral again, your chest tightening as the emotions began to swell once more—grief, anger, helplessness.

Everything felt like too much, the weight of it all pressing down on you, suffocating.

Your breath hitched, and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to keep it together, trying to stop the tears that threatened to fall.

The air around you seemed to change suddenly, a strange current brushing against your skin. The room grew warmer, the soft glow of dusk shifting for just an instant as though something flickered across the light. It was as if an invisible presence had slipped into the room, and for a heartbeat, you felt as though someone was watching you.

A faint rustling, almost like feathers brushing against each other, seemed to echo around you. It was subtle—so faint you might have imagined it—but just as you felt yourself beginning to fall apart, a low, mischievous voice cut through the silence, startling you. "Ah, what's this? Such a sight, shedding tears over something so trivial. You mortals do get so attached, don't you?"

With a shocked gasp, your head shot up, your arm instinctively moving to cover your lyre as if to shield it from whoever had spoken.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat.

The figure hovered just a few inches off the ground, the soft flutter of winged sandals breaking the heavy silence around you. The small, delicate wings on his heels flapped lazily, keeping him effortlessly aloft. His feet were bare beneath the sandals, the golden straps glinting faintly in the fading light.

Your eyes trailed upward, taking in his flowing white chiton, which draped over his lean frame like a cascade of clouds. A golden belt cinched the garment at his waist, its polished surface gleaming with an otherworldly sheen. A deep red cloak hung off one shoulder, fluttering gently as though caught in an unseen breeze, the fabric brushing against the faint golden bracers on his forearms.

The closer you looked, the more your stomach twisted with awe and unease. This wasn't an ordinary man.

The laurel crown tucked into his curly brown hair, combined with the wings jutting from his cap, were unmistakable signs of something more. His hair was wild but alluring, framing a face too perfect to be mortal, yet too mischievous to be entirely serene.

Then, his golden eyes met yours. They gleamed with a playful intensity, sharp and knowing, like he had read every secret you'd ever had. His head tilted to the side, a grin curling at the edges of his lips—boyish, daring, and unsettling all at once. His presence felt impossible, magnetic.

You could feel the weight of his gaze even as he floated there, light as a feather but far more imposing. For a moment, you couldn't decide whether to speak, bow, or run.

The figure smirked as his feet dropped to the floor with a soft thud, the wings on his sandals fluttering briefly before coming to a stop. "What's the matter?" He chuckled, his voice dripping with amusement. "What, cat got your tongue? Or, should I say, a God?" His grin widened as if he enjoyed his own joke.

It took a moment for your brain to catch up with what he had said, the words slowly sinking in. God...

You blinked, trying to make sense of what was happening. You knew it was impossible—no one could have entered that quickly without your knowledge, and yet, here he was, appearing out of nowhere as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

God... The word echoed in your mind again, this time, your eyes widening in sudden realization.

You hastily scrambled to sit up, your heart pounding in your chest as you threw yourself into a bow, nearly fumbling over the edge of the bed. "I-I'm sorry, my lord," you stuttered, your voice barely above a whisper, every ounce of your training urging you to show respect. "I didn't realize… I was in the pres—"

The figure let out a sigh, clearly amused, as though the entire situation amused him beyond measure. "Oh, no need for all that," he said, waving his hand dismissively. He stepped closer, the hem of his cloak brushing the floor as he approached, the glint in his eyes never wavering; he paused, tilting his head as he studied you, a flicker of something softer passing through his gaze. "Besides," he added, the corners of his lips curling into that same impish grin, "I'm hardly the kind of god who demands reverence."

You swallowed, your throat dry as you tried to straighten up, your eyes flickering between his face and the ground, unsure if you were allowed to fully meet his gaze.

He sighed, rolling his eyes in exaggerated annoyance. "Really, I swear, mortals and their customs... Stand up, won't you? I'd rather not have a conversation with someone cowering."

You awkwardly rose from your curtsy, your knees wobbling struggled to regain balance. Your mind raced, desperately trying to pinpoint exactly which god stood before you. There were so many—hundreds, maybe thousands—of gods, deities, and minor spirits, each with their own temperament and quirks—some more forgiving than others.

It could literally be anyone; gods often enjoyed meddling with mortals after all, and that thought both unnerved and overwhelmed you.

For a moment, anxiety twisted in your gut as the overwhelming possibilities crowded your thoughts—a tangled mess of every tale you had ever heard, desperately trying to match the face in front of you to the legends you knew.

The god's lips twitched, as though he could see every question flashing across your mind. He raised an eyebrow and clicked his tongue in amusement. "Ah, you're wondering just who has the pleasure of gracing your humble abode, aren't you? Suppose I should get on with it, shouldn't I?" He swept his crimson cloak behind him with a dramatic flourish, giving you an exaggerated bow. His curls shifted with the motion, some falling across his forehead, glinting in the dim light.

He tilted his head up to look at you, still bent in the deep, exaggerated bow, that same grin playing at his lips. "I am The Messenger of the Gods, Guide to the Underworld, Protector of Travelers, Master of Thieves, Bearer of Tidings both good and ill and all things clever..." for a heartbeat, then straightened, flashing you a smirk that was equal parts charming and teasing, "but you can just call me Hermes."

Hermes.

Your breath caught in your chest, the gravity of his presence hitting you all at once—a jolt of realization that left you reeling.

The god who had been sung of and praised for generations; the tales, the legends—here he was, standing before you—the very god whose name you had heard whispered in the prayers of travelers and sailors.

You remembered your earliest memory of his name, going back to your very first journey to Ithaca; how the shipmen had held a ceremony on the first night of the voyage, offering gifts to both Poseidon and Hermes, praying for safe travels and swift winds.

Laughter, dancing, and prayers filled that night, with people pouring wine into the sea and chanting blessings in his honor.

And not just then—so often in your daily duties in the palace, whenever servants passed along a message, you and the others would often utter, "In Hermes' name, may my words reach their mark," a small prayer to ensure the task went well. It had become a part of your daily life—small phrases, casual praises, a habit you barely noticed.

And now, he was here.

A real god, standing in front of you.

You could feel a strange excitement bubbling inside you.

It wasn't because you favored him as a god—no, this wasn't about favoritism. It was because you were here, standing in the presence of a literal god, whose tales had been sung for eons, long before your own birth.

The awe was undeniable, and despite your best efforts, you couldn't stop yourself from dipping into another curtsy, this one deeper, your head bowing lower, intending to show him the respect his presence deserved.

But before you could fully lower yourself, you felt warmth—long, slender fingers winding gently around your shoulders, stopping you. His touch was light but firm, and you froze, your eyes slowly lifting in shock.

Hermes chuckled softly, his laughter a low, rolling sound that seemed to echo in the quiet room. "Ah, ah, ah, none of that," he said, amusement dripping from his tone. "I already told you, didn't I? No need for all the bowing and scraping."

You felt your heart flutter, a strange mixture of anxiety and something else—something lighter—as you stared up into his face.

He was inhumanly beautiful. His features seemed sculpted, like the marble statues you'd seen in temples—only warm, alive. His golden eyes seemed to glow faintly, an aura shimmering around him that made everything about him seem slightly unreal. His smile was simultaneously inviting and intimidating, an expression that held all the secrets of the world.

Your breath caught in your throat as you met his gaze—eyes that seemed to see right through you, to every secret, every fear.

There was a glimmer of kindness there, but also something sharper, a reminder that he was not mortal, not bound by the rules of your world.

His hands lingered on your shoulders for a moment longer before he let them fall, stepping back just slightly, giving you space. You could still feel the heat of his touch, your skin tingling where his fingers had rested.

Hermes tilted his head, his smirk widening, his eyes glinting with that ever-present mischief. "Better now?" he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, his playful smirk returning to his lips. "Good." He paused for a moment, his golden eyes sparkling with amusement. "Careful, mortal. If you keep this up, my ego will grow as big as Zeus' head—or worse, his appetite for flattery."

As if on cue, a faint crack of thunder rumbled in the distance, soft but unmistakable. Hermes paused mid-laugh, glancing upward with a mock-serious expression. "Oh, come on, Father, take a joke!" he called toward the sky, waving his hand dismissively before chuckling to himself. "You'd think the King of the Gods could handle a little truth." He turned back to you, his grin as sharp as ever. "Now where were we? Ah, yes—me, being as humble as ever."

With a flourish of his red cloak, Hermes swept it dramatically through the air once more. For a moment, the fabric seemed to shimmer, catching the light like a liquid spill of gold. Then, with a subtle flick of his wrist, a satchel materialized from the folds, as though it had always been there.

The bag rested against his hip, its leather smooth and supple, embossed with faint, intricate designs that seemed to shift under your gaze.

"Ah," he said with a satisfied grin, patting the satchel like an old friend. "Never underestimate the utility of a good accessory—or the style points."

He flipped open the satchel and began digging through it, his face a picture of exaggerated concentration. "Now, let's see… nope, not that… ah, definitely not this—why is this even in here?" he muttered, his voice partially muffled as he dug deeper. At one point, he managed to get an entire arm and half of his head into the satchel, his voice echoing slightly from within. "Where did I put that thing? Aha!"

He pulled himself upright, his expression triumphant as he withdrew a wrapped large parcel, tied neatly with twine. "There we go," he said, holding it up with a flourish, his grin widening.

Then, without warning, he tossed it at you. "Catch!"

You barely had time to react, your arms shooting out instinctively as the parcel hurtled toward you. Your fingers closed around the object just in time, but you fumbled with the weight, almost dropping it before managing to secure it to your chest.

The sudden shock of its heft made your knees buckle slightly, but you steadied yourself, blinking in surprise.

You looked up at Hermes, breathless, and caught the amused glint in his eyes. He gave you an encouraging nod, motioning for you to go ahead and open it.

Slowly, your hands trembling slightly, you began to peel back the parcel paper, each crinkle of the wrapping amplifying the tension in the air. The paper fell away, and your breath caught as your eyes fell upon the object it had concealed.

It was a lyre—the most beautiful lyre you had ever seen.

It was larger than your old one, imposing yet elegant, with curves that seemed almost alive. The frame gleamed with a faint shimmer, as though carved from the purest gold not found in mortal mines but forged in the heart of a dying star.

Intricate etchings danced across its surface, lines and swirls that shifted subtly as the light touched them, telling ancient, unknowable stories of gods and heroes.

The strings, impossibly fine, appeared to be spun from threads of celestial light—shimmering faintly, as if the very essence of starlight was captured and woven into music. They hummed softly, resonating with a soundless melody, as if the lyre itself were alive, waiting to be played.

The base and arms were reinforced with a dark, otherworldly material—smooth and cool to the touch, gleaming faintly with a bluish-black sheen, reminiscent of polished obsidian or perhaps something even rarer, like the bones of a fallen titan.

It felt unbreakable, eternal.

Tiny gemstones were embedded at key points, glowing faintly as though holding fragments of captured dawns and dusks. Their colors shifted subtly—sometimes sapphire, sometimes ruby, sometimes emerald—depending on the angle of your gaze.

You gasped, the weight of its craftsmanship and presence almost overwhelming. It wasn't just an instrument—it was divine. The faint shimmer surrounding it felt like the lingering breath of a god, as if this lyre was meant not for mortal hands but for the hands of the immortals themselves.

For a moment, you hesitated to even touch it, as though you might somehow sully its perfection.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze back to Hermes, bewildered and awestruck. He met your look with a raised eyebrow, then let out a short, amused snort. "Don't look at me, I'm just the messenger," he said, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. "Who... who gave this to me?"

Hermes swished his cape, making the satchel disappear once more as if it had never existed. He shrugged again, this time more lazily, as though he were brushing off an insignificant question. "Honestly, I can't remember. You know how it is—lots of deliveries, lots of gods, mortals, nymphs, and what-have-you." He paused, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "Besides, I was supposed to deliver it a few days ago, but... well, it kind of slipped my mind. You mortals aren't the only ones who get a little distracted." He winked, the playful mischief never leaving his eyes.

Your gaze dropped back down to the lyre, your fingers brushing reverently over the strings, the gentle hum vibrating through your fingertips. The gift was beyond anything you could have imagined.

A sense of awe, gratitude, and disbelief swirled within you, leaving you speechless.

And Hermes just watched, that smirk softening slightly, a hint of something almost gentle touching his expression as he studied your reaction. "Go on," he said after a beat, his voice a little quieter, the teasing edge still there but tempered. "Give it a try. After all, it's not every day a mortal receives such a divine gift. Might as well make the most of it."

You stared down at the lyre, watching it gleam in the dim light, the golden frame catching the faintest hints of the God's flickering glow. Though the lyre was undeniably beautiful, you couldn't ignore the weight that still tugged at your heart.

With a heavy sigh, you smiled faintly, shaking your head as you cradled the divine instrument close to you before taking a seat on the edge of your bed.

Your old, broken lyre beside you, its splintered wood and frayed strings looking even more pitiful next to the divine beauty you now held.

Your fingers reached out to brush the familiar broken wood; the splints and coarse strings held together like a patchwork of memories.

You sighed, saddness seeping into your voice in a way you couldn't quite mask

"Thank you," you admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper. "But... no matter how beautiful it is, I don't think it will fix the hurt from my broken lyre." Your eyes flicked towards the battered instrument beside you.

Hermes stepped closer, glancing down at the broken lyre on the bed. He reached down, his fingers brushing over one of the snapped strings before flicking it with a casual disinterest, letting it twang pathetically. He snorted, a mischievous grin crossing his lips. "This old thing? You're better off using it as kindling." His voice dropped, muttering something else in an ancient, lilting tongue—a phrase older than time itself. Though you couldn't understand the words they carried a biting tone, akin to saying, ‘may as well throw it into Tartarus for all the good it does.’

You didn't answer him right away. Instead, you set the golden lyre beside you and gently gathered the broken one into your lap, your fingers tracing over the rough patches and splintered edges.

A bittersweet smile crept over your features as you cradled it with a tenderness that felt almost out of place for such a broken object. Your eyes softened, fingertips tracing its worn frame as your thoughts began to drift.

It wasn't just an instrument to you. This lyre was your first real gift since tragedy had entwined itself with your life—something given to you not out of duty or obligation, but out of care.

The queen herself had gifted it to you, and that alone made it irreplaceable.

The memory was vivid: Penelope's gentle smile as she presented it, the warmth in her eyes, the feeling that, for once, you were seen, appreciated.

It wasn't just the lyre itself, but everything it had come to represent. It had been your solace on long, lonely nights and your anchor during uncertain times, giving you purpose when you needed it most.

It brought back memories of your youth—the music your parents had played, the songs that had filled your home, the love that had been so freely given.

You could almost hear it now, their laughter mingling with the notes of the lyre, the warmth of their presence wrapping around you like a blanket on a cold night.

The lyre had been a small piece of that past—a reminder of everything you had lost, yet also everything you had cherished. Every note felt like a thread, weaving together fragments of a time you desperately wished you could hold onto.

Your voice was soft, almost lost in the room as you spoke. "It wasn't just an instrument. It was... the first thing that was mine since I came here. The queen gave it to me, and it brought back memories I thought I'd never feel again, even if just for a moment." Your voice trembled, the emotions too thick to mask, as you continued, forgetting entirely that you had an audience.

"Memories of the warmth... omusic, of laughter, of love, of a time when things were simpler." Your hand drifted up to press lightly against your chest, where an ache had begun to form. "I know it's broken and it wasn't much, but it's still mine. And it's still beautiful... in its own way."

For a moment, there was silence. You had forgotten Hermes was there, your mind wrapped up in your memories, your fingers still tracing the lines of the broken wood.

When you finally looked up, blinking as if waking from a dream, you remembered yourself—remembered where you were, and who you were speaking to. Heat rushed to your face, embarrassment flooding you as you ducked your head, your gaze dropping to the floor.

"I-I'm… I'm sorry, my lord," you stammered, your voice barely audible. "I didn't mean to…" You trailed off, not knowing how to finish. You didn't want to see the god's face, didn't want to see whatever expression might be there—pity, amusement, or worse, indifference.

But as you looked down, Hermes' reaction had already shifted.

His golden eyes had widened slightly, a spark of something unguarded there. His teasing smirk had softened into something else entirely, and for a moment, a blush crossed his face—faint, but unmistakable.

He was in awe, perhaps, not just of the love and depth with which you spoke of the lyre, but of the way you cherished his creation, of the reverence and emotion you held for something he had dismissed so easily.

He cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence between you, and when he spoke, his voice had lost some of its earlier edge, the teasing lilt tempered by something gentler. "You mortals," he said, almost to himself, his gaze lingering on you as though seeing you in a different light. "Always so attached to things, always so full of... feeling." He looked away then, his eyes shifting to the window, as though giving you a moment to collect yourself.

You took a shaky breath, your arms tightening around the broken lyre, trying to steady your heartbeat. You could still feel the warmth of Hermes' gaze on you, even if he had looked away, and it made something inside you flutter—something you didn't quite know how to name.

"Well," Hermes said after a moment, his voice light again, though there was a softness to it now that hadn't been there before. "If anyone can find a way to make the most of a broken thing, it's you, I suppose." He looked back at you then, his golden eyes meeting yours, and there was something almost tender in his gaze. "But don't forget, ____," he added, nodding toward the divine lyre he'd brought, "sometimes the gods do know what they're doing. Give it a chance."

You nodded, your throat tight, the words caught as you looked at the two lyres—one broken, one divine.

You cleared your throat, saying you would and when you looked up, Hermes was gone.

Now left with just the silence of the room, you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps, somehow, both could have a place in your heart.

One was the echo of everything you had been through—every struggle, every cherished moment, and every painful lesson that had shaped you. It wasn't just broken; it was human, it was flawed, and it was you.

The other, with its impossible beauty and the faint glow of starlight, felt almost like a promise of something new—an invitation from the gods to step into something greater, something untarnished by human suffering. It was perfect, and perhaps that was why it felt frightening, like a reminder of everything you weren't—of what you feared you might never be.

You glanced between them, feeling the weight of both possibilities pressing down on you.

Was it possible to embrace both? To honor the past while daring to accept the unknown, even if it terrified you? Maybe, somehow, there was a way to let them coexist.

You weren't sure yet how, but for the first time since that dreadful day, you allowed yourself to believe it could be possible.

A/N: lolo i swest i didn't mean to leave you all on a cliff hanger 😬 it's nearing the end of the semester so ya girl gosta study and pass my exams; good news, i have like 1-2 more weeks left until break, bad news, once break comes imma have to start working 💀 so it's gonna be one of those, when i can if i can, typa thing. anywho enough boring shii, how did you guys like the chappie? i tried my best with descibing hermes/keepign him kinds close to the descriptors/fanarts i've been seeing of him from etm... ahaha sorry if i made him a bit too jokey lol i cant help but picture him as totally unserious after years ago coming acorss his damn origin story... bro literally took apollo to court—and won—a newborn, absolute king shii

[winxanity-ii]

FOXED IN [2/2]

ship: fem!fennec fox!reader x various!beastar warnings: non-explicit ( maybe cursing/profanity; sorry y'all I gotta loose mouth) word count: 4.4k a/n: lolol y'all tell me why it took me like 3 weeks to write just 4k words?? i swear school work got my ass writing like 150 words a day/whenever i can 😭😭 coutning down to christmas break mwah... Part 1

★·.·´🇧‌🇪‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇦‌🇷‌🇸‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

You were staring at yourself in the bottom-left corner of the mirror, crouched like you were hiding from your own reflection.

It wasn't like the rest of you had changed. Same face, same skin, same... everything.

Except for those. The ears. And the tail.

You ran your hand over your head for the fifth time in ten minutes, fingertips grazing your human ears where they'd always been, before trailing upward to the new set. Secondary ears, perched high on your head, covered in soft, velvety fur. They flicked lightly at your touch, like they were alive—like they could feel you.

And then there was the tail. You could feel its weight behind you, swishing gently across the floor like it had been there your whole life.

"Calm down, ____. Calm the fuck down," you muttered, your voice tight as your hands dropped into your lap. "You're not a freak. You're just—"

You paused, staring at your reflection. Your tail swished in your peripheral vision, as if taunting you.

"—just... anthropomorphically challenged," you finished, deadpan. "Yeah, no, that doesn't help."

You tilted your head, the new ears moving along with the motion, twitching at the sound of your voice echoing softly off the dorm room walls. Twitching. Like they had their own independent nervous system or something.

"Oh my gods, I'm like a walking FurryCon booth," you hissed under your breath. Your tail wagged again, making a soft thump against the floor. "Cut it out!" you snapped, glaring at it.

The tail stopped, curling slightly like it was offended.

For a moment, you just stared at yourself, breathing slow and deep, trying to will away the rising panic. But the longer you looked, the harder it was to ignore how... not normal this was.

You reached up again, brushing your fingers over the fur. Soft, velvety. Honestly, they felt kinda nice—like luxury pillow material—but that only made it worse.

You could feel the touch through the ears, every stroke and tug sending tingles down your spine, all the way to your toes.

It wasn't bad, exactly, but it wasn't something you were used to, either.

You squinted at your reflection. "Okay. Pros and cons. Pros and cons." You tapped a finger to your chin like you were about to make a PowerPoint presentation to yourself.

"Pro: I didn't, like, fully mutate. Still got my face. I'm still me. Kinda." You gave your reflection a once-over. "Con: I now look like I could be fan-casted into a BTS Hybird AU fic."

Another pause. Your tail thumped lightly again, this time like it was trying to soothe you. Oh, we're friends now? you thought bitterly.

You straightened up from your crouch, squaring your shoulders as you stared yourself down. "I'm still me. This is fine. You're fine, ____. Nobody even knows you're... this."

Except that was a lie, wasn't it? Blond Labrador Boy had seen you.

Your 'cousin' had definitely seen you, tackling you like a rugby player on the street and announcing your new school enrollment to the entire city.

And who knew how many other people were out there, casually walking around with ears and tails like this was a thing?

The thought sent a chill down your spine. Your tail swished again, making another faint thump.

"Oh, so now you're nervous too?" you hissed at it. The tail stopped mid-swish, freezing awkwardly in the air like a guilty child caught red-handed.

You sighed, finally breaking eye contact with your reflection and dropping into the chair beside your bed.

The ears twitched at the sound of faint chatter outside your door, catching snippets of distant conversations you wouldn't have been able to hear before.

It was a weird feeling, hearing things so clearly and intimately.

You groaned, flopping back against the chair. "Great. Super hearing. Now I'm a discount superhero too."

Your gaze flicked to the mirror again, to the reflection of your tail, curled awkwardly around your chair like it didn't know where it was supposed to go. It looked so out of place, just hanging there, like someone had pasted a sticker on a portrait.

"This is fine," you said again, more to convince yourself than anything. You leaned forward, running a hand through your hair and tugging gently at the ears again. They flattened slightly, and you sighed.

"Totally fine," you muttered. "I just need to figure out how the hell I ended up in a whole-ass Disney movie."

You dropped your hand, letting out a shaky breath. Your tail twitched again, brushing against your ankle like it was trying to reassure you. Yeah, sure. That's comforting.

"Okay, think," you said aloud. "I was at the pool. There were kids—too many kids. Somebody's wet-ass croc sent me flying. I hit the water. And now I'm..."

You trailed off, looking at yourself again. The reflection didn't offer answers, just more questions.

"Maybe I hit my head," you tried, your words shaky but gaining confidence as you spoke. "Yeah, that's it. Smacked it real good on the bottom of the pool. This is a concussion thing. Right? This is my brain making stuff up. Any second now, I'm gonna wake up in the shallow end with chlorine in my nose and my baddass nieces and nephews laughing at me."

The tail swished again. Your ears twitched, catching faint noises outside the door—muffled voices, footsteps, distant laughter.

"It's fine, ____," you told yourself, your tone sharper now. "You're gonna figure this out. One step at a time."

That's when you smelled it.

A soft, flowery scent filled your senses; it was faint at first but grew stronger, making your nose twitch involuntarily and your new ears perk up.

Before you could puzzle it out, a knock came at the door.

The voice was muffled but clear enough to make you freeze. Your ears caught the sound of footsteps shuffling just outside, even before the knock—a light, hesitant rhythm that matched the voice perfectly. You blinked, the scent hitting you again. Your tail twitched, matching the rhythm of your thudding heart.

"Uh, ____, your cousin Vox is waiting for you outside the dorms... he said something about beating the lunch rush?"

The voice was soft and kind of awkward, carrying an airy quality to it.

You stared at the door for a moment, your reflection forgotten. "Yeah," you called out, your voice a little higher than you wanted it to be. "I'm... Uh, thank you! I'll be right there."

"You're welcome," the voice replied, followed by the soft shuffle of footsteps retreating, the scent fading with them. You exhaled, realizing you'd been holding your breath.

"Right," you muttered to yourself, standing up and brushing your clothes down like that would somehow help you feel normal. "Pay attention later. Deal with this... whatever this is."

You froze mid-brush, cursing under your breath. "I should've asked how to get outside."

You glanced around your room, biting your lip as you remembered how confusing it had been just getting here. The winding halls and staircases that twisted in ways that didn't quite make sense.

You were pretty sure you'd passed the same painting of a sunflower three times before you finally found the door marked with your room number—901.

In the corner of your eye, you caught sight of your reflection again—this time, ears drooping slightly. You frowned, then made a face at yourself, sticking out your tongue. "Yeah, real helpful," you muttered, shaking your head before deciding to just thug it out and go.

You stepped out of your room, closing the door behind you and taking a deep breath. "Okay. Just... find the exit. How hard can it be?"

As you started walking, you quickly realized you were surrounded by others—just girls. Your eyes flicked around, taking in the different forms.

You remembered your 'cousin' rambling about gender-segregated dorms, so you chalked it up to being in the girls' dorm.

But as you kept walking, something else began to dawn on you. You weren't just surrounded by other girls; you were surrounded by other, like, carnivorous girls. Sharp eyes, pointed ears, and an aura that made the small hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

And they weren't your size. They were big—taller, broader, more imposing. Compared to them, you felt almost comically small; it was rare, only a few times did you spot someone smaller than you.

You glanced nervously at a nearby group chatting against the wall. One of them—a towering girl with long dark, glossy hair—laughed loudly, her sharp teeth catching the light. Another girl, smaller but just as intimidating, flicked a sleek, striped tail that looked distinctly feline.

You swallowed hard, your eyes darting around as you tried not to look too out of place as you walked past.

You barely noticed when you stepped outside, the warm sunlight hitting your face and momentarily distracting you from the strangeness of it all.

The building behind you was large and imposing, with a plaque above the entrance that read: Female Carnivore Dorm.

You blinked up at it, the words sinking in slowly.

Female. Carnivore. Dorm.

As you scanned the area, your eyes landed on a familiar figure standing a little way down the dorm steps. The boy from earlier—the small fox boy, Vox, if you remembered right. He was by himself, his ears perking up as soon as he spotted you.

He beamed, his tail wagging excitedly as he ran over to you, crashing into you with another hug. "I missed you so much, cuz! Can't believe you're really here! This year is gonna be so awesome!!"

He hooked an arm around you, tugging you along before you could even react. "Come on, let's meet up with the guys! We gotta beat the lunch rush!"

You barely managed a grunt in response, your arms pinned awkwardly to your sides. Despite his short stature, he was still taller than you, his enthusiasm making him feel even larger.

As you followed him, or more accurately, were dragged by him, you started noticing the others lounging around.

It was a mixture of herbivorous and carnivorous features. "...and there's a ton of clubs you can join!" your cousin rambled, oblivious to your growing unease. "I can help you pick one out later, but for now, let's just get to lunch before all the good stuff's gone!"

His voice grounded you, if only a little. You focused on his words, nodding absently as your eyes darted around the courtyard. Your stomach twisted uncomfortably, but you didn't have time to dwell on it.

Vox was still tugging you along like it was his life's mission to get you fed.

And his excitement was infectious, even if you were still reeling from everything. You couldn't help but think of your cousin Devon. The thought made your chest tighten, a flicker of warmth amid the chaos.

You hadn't seen Devon in ages—he'd always been the "fun cousin," the one who dragged you into trouble but somehow managed to charm everyone out of getting mad.

It was like the time Devon convinced you to climb a tree for the "best view ever," only to abandon you when the branch cracked. You'd sworn then to never trust his grin again, yet here you were, following another like it without question.

Vox seemingly had the same boundless energy, the same way of dragging you into things without a second thought. And as you trailed behind him, Vox's tail might have been wagging, but it was Devon's mischievous grin you saw every time Vox beamed at you.

Soon, he led you toward a small fountain surrounded by students.

The first to take notice of you two was the blond Labrador boy from earlier. He was standing at the center of a group of guys, and his floppy ears perked up as soon as he spotted you, his golden tail starting to wag in an eager rhythm that matched the bright grin on his face.

"Hey, you're okay!" he called out, stepping forward with an energy that was as disarming as it was sincere. His soft brown eyes met yours, and before you could even react, he reached out and gently patted your head, his hand light but reassuring. "I was worried after what happened earlier. You feeling alright?"

You blinked, struggling to find your words. "Uh, yeah. I'm fine," you mumbled, still processing the overly friendly gesture. His tail wagged faster for a second, his grin widening.

Before you could say more, your attention was pulled to someone else in the group.

A guy who immediately stole your breath. He was tall—easily the tallest person you'd seen all day—with broad shoulders and a relaxed, easy presence.

His dark brown skin contrasted sharply with his shaggy, platinum blonde locs that hung messily over his eyes, giving him an effortlessly cool vibe. His short, floppy ears rested close to his head, twitching slightly as he smiled at you beneath his thick eyebrows.

Everything about him radiated chill, from the slow sway of his tail to his unbothered posture.

He walked over with a casual stride, throwing an arm over the blond Labrador's shoulder. The height difference was almost comical—the Labrador barely reached his chest.

The taller guy chuckled, his voice deep but mellow. "Now what'd ya run off to, Jack?"

The Labrador boy—Jack—turned, laughing sheepishly before glancing back at you and Vox. The taller guy noticed you two as well, his gaze shifting. He smiled, one of his small canines poking out slightly, and leaned down at the waist to give Vox a high five.

"Wassup, Vox?"

Vox grinned, returning the high five with enthusiasm. "Nothin' much, Collot! Just showing my cuz around Cherryton."

He threw his arm around you again, pulling you in closer. Collot's eyes shifted to you, still bent at the waist, and he held his hand out for a handshake.

"Nice to meet ya. Name's Collot," he said, his voice warm.

You hesitated for a second before taking his hand. His grip was firm but not overwhelming, his palm warm against yours. "Uh, nice to meet you too. I'm ____," you replied, giving what you hoped was a confident smile.

Collot straightened up, still towering over you even from a distance. "Cool. Vox's been talking nonstop about ya since he found out you were coming," he said, his smile turning into a friendly grin.

You blinked, glancing at Vox, who just beamed up at you, oblivious to the embarrassment that was creeping up your neck. "Uh, yeah, well... it's my first day," you muttered, trying to laugh it off.

Jack gave you another reassuring smile, his tail wagging slowly behind him. "Don't worry. You'll fit right in." He gestured toward the group of guys behind him. "Come on, let's get you introduced."

Vox wasted no time, tugging you forward as Collot and Jack led the way.

Walking over to the group, a voice chimed up, drawing your attention to a smaller, wiry boy with reddish-brown hair that stuck out at wild angles. His sharp green eyes were quick, darting between you and Vox with a hint of amusement. He leaned slightly forward, his short, pointed ears twitching as if he were constantly on high alert.

"Who's the hottie?" he asked, his grin crooked, his eyes flicking toward Vox teasingly.

Vox's face scrunched in playful annoyance. "Aye, chill out, Durham! That's my cuz, alright?"

Durham snickered, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, just messing with ya."

Vox turned back to you, rolling his eyes. "That's Durham," he said, gesturing toward the coyote hybrid. Durham gave you a quick, crooked grin, his bushy tail flicking once as if punctuating his easygoing energy.

"Welcome to the chaos," Durham said with a playful lilt, his grin growing wider as he eyed Jack's wagging tail. "Speaking of chaos, you feeling okay after Jack's heroic rescue? His tail's still wagging—might take off soon."

"Hey!" Jack huffed, ears perking up indignantly. Durham's laugh only grew louder, his sharp teeth flashing.

Before you could even register Durham's teasing, another figure stepped into view. He was shorter than the others, with olive-toned skin and messy gray hair streaked with faint spots.

There was something almost wild about his energy. His round ears twitched frequently, and his curled tail swayed behind him like he was barely containing his own excitement. His sharp grin, revealing slightly larger-than-average teeth, was equal parts friendly and mischievous.

"Miguno," Vox said, introducing the spotted hyena hybrid. Miguno gave you a toothy grin, leaning casually against Collot as he waved.

"Good to see someone new around here. Don't mind the chaos—Durham's worse than me," he said, his sharp teeth flashing as his grin grew even wider. Something about his energy was electric, like he thrived on the group's chaos.

"Lies," Durham shot back, but his grin betrayed his amusement.

The rapid-fire introductions had your head spinning. Each name and face blurred together, their personalities hitting you one after another like a whirlwind you couldn't escape.

And then... you saw him.

Lanky and pale, with shaggy bluish-gray hair streaked with cream highlights, the wolf hybrid stood slightly apart from the others. His posture was hunched, his long limbs curling inward as if he were trying to take up less space.

His dark, almond-shaped eyes flickered to the group occasionally, but he mostly kept his gaze low, avoiding their chatter, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

His drooping ears twitched faintly, responding to the noise around him, and his long, scruffy tail swayed low, mirroring his awkward demeanor.

Your gaze lingered on him. Something about the way he carried himself felt off—not in a bad way, just... different.

The others were loud, energetic, owning their space. But this one? He was quiet, reserved, like he didn't want to be noticed.

Why does he seem so familiar? you thought, a strange sense of déjà vu bubbling up, but you couldn't quite put your finger on it. It was like you'd seen him before, but only in a dream—or maybe in the back of your mind, in some long-buried memory.

"Legoshi," Jack said, nudging the wolf with a friendly grin. "Say hi."

The name hit you like a freight train. Your breath caught as your mind scrambled to make sense of what you were seeing.

Legoshi.

Your heart thudded in your chest as pieces began to click together faster than you could stop them. Carnivores. Cherryton. Jack. Vox. Legoshi.

This can't be real. This can't—

The group's chatter seemed to fade as your pulse roared in your ears.

Am I in fucking Beastars?

☆

☆

Time seemed to blur after that revelation. One moment, you were standing by the fountain, and the next, you found yourself sitting at a lunch table.

The chatter of the cafeteria buzzed around you, the noise overwhelming—students chatting, utensils clinking, chairs scraping against the floor—but it all felt distant, like you were watching a scene play out from behind soundproof glass.

You stared blankly at the plate in front of you, slowly picking at your food—a sad, slightly overcooked egg that seemed to mock you in its mediocrity.

Vox and his friends filled the space around you, their energy bouncing back and forth like a rubber ball in a crowded room. You could hear Collot laughing loudly at something Miguno said, Durham snickering along, while Jack chimed in with his soft-spoken voice. But none of it really registered.

Your mind was too busy running a mile a minute, trying to process the impossibility of your situation.

I'm not a furry, you thought, stabbing a piece of egg with your fork. I mean, sure, I dabbled in a fanfic or two, but this? This is insane.

You glanced around the cafeteria, taking in the sight of students with human bodies but animal features—ears, tails, fur, scales. The way they moved, the way they interacted—it was surreal. 

The low murmur of a nearby conversation caught your ear—too clear, too distinct. A girl with glossy feline ears leaned over her tray, whispering something to her friend. Her tail swayed lazily behind her, the fur shimmering in the sunlight.

It should've been normal—or at least as normal as anything else here—but you couldn't look away.

Before you realized it, her sharp gaze flicked to you, catching your eye for half a second. Her pupils narrowed slightly, and a wave of heat surged up your neck as you quickly averted your gaze, your heart thudding in your chest.

Smooth, you thought bitterly, stabbing at the egg again. Real subtle.

The pressure of trying to seem normal began to creep up your spine, making your ears flick involuntarily. It felt like the entire cafeteria could see you, like every twitch of your tail screamed, "I don't belong here." You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to blend in.

Beastars is supposed to be set in a world of anthropomorphic animals, you mused, peeking open your eyes to watch the girl turn back to her friend, her feline features utterly unbothered. So what the hell is this?

It was absurd, like something out of a fever dream. And yet, here you were, surrounded by them.

Is this really Beastars?

Your thoughts were interrupted by a gentle nudge. You looked up to see Jack smiling at you, his tail wagging slightly.

"Hey, ____," he said, his voice friendly. "How was your old school? Was it anything like Cherryton?"

You blinked, your fork pausing mid-air. Old school?

Panic clawed at the back of your throat. How were you supposed to answer that? You didn't even know what your supposed background was supposed to be. And Vox was sitting right next to you. If you lied, he could easily call you out.

Before you could stammer out a response, Vox chimed in, saving you from your predicament.

"Oh, she was homeschooled," he said casually, taking a bite of his sandwich. "So she might not be as used to all this social stuff yet, you know?"

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, grateful for Vox's quick thinking. Thank god, you thought. This is perfect. I can roll with that.

You offered a sheepish smile, nodding along, the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. "Yeah, it's... a bit overwhelming," you admitted, your voice a bit shaky, trying to sell the homeschooled bit as much as you could.

No need to drag out fake stories about classmates, teachers, or what electives you took back in the "real" world. You could just sit back and let the homeschool excuse handle all the heavy lifting.

In your head, though, the real story was much messier. You weren't homeschooled—far from it. You knew nothing about homeschooling beyond what you read in books and saw on TV; public school had been your playground and battleground.

You'd seen it all: hallway fights over nothing, the chaos of pep rallies, and those awkward group projects where you did 90% of the work.

But here? In this place, wherever the hell this was? Yeah, let's call it a coma. The pool, the slip, the whole "falling into another world" thing? It had all the makings of a good old-fashioned knock to the head.

I'm in a hospital somewhere, you told yourself, hooked up to a machine while a nurse complains about understaffing. This? This is just the brain doing brain shit.

And hey, if this was a dream, then maybe all you had to do was play along until you woke up.

But whatever it was, you decided to roll with it. You didn't have many options.

Homeschool, huh? you thought. I've seen those documentaries—unsocialized weirdos trying to find their way in the world, eating lunch alone because they don't know what the word "lit" means. You snorted softly. I can fake that if I have to.

"Hey, ____." Jack pulled you back to the conversation once again; his golden tail was wagging hard now, almost as if it had a mind of its own.

"Huh?" you asked, blinking at him.

"I said, don't worry about not being good with talking to people. We'll help you out!" His voice was so genuinely optimistic it made your chest tighten.

You were about to reply when a snicker broke the moment.

It came from one of the boys—Durham. His shoulders were shaking as he laughed, pointing lazily in Jack's direction. "By we, he means himself," the coyote said, grinning. "You know how Jack gets. Tail's wagging harder than a windshield wiper in a thunderstorm. Bet he's already got a crush."

The group erupted into laughter, and Jack's face turned a deep shade of red.

"W-What?! No!" Jack stammered, his ears twitching erratically as his tail kept wagging despite his obvious embarrassment. "That's not�� I didn't mean it like that!"

Miguno burst into laughter, leaning forward to nudge Jack's shoulder. "Aw, c'mon Jack, don't be shy! We all saw how you were wagging your tail earlier, like a little puppy."

Vox, ever the instigator, patted Jack on the shoulder with a wide, toothy grin. "Yeah, relax, buddy. She's just my cousin. You don't have to marry her."

You nearly choked on your own breath, the absurdity of the situation hitting you like a freight train. "Wait, what?" you managed to say, but your voice was drowned out by more laughter from the group.

Jack covered his face with both hands, muttering something under his breath that you couldn't catch. His tail, however, kept wagging wildly, betraying every bit of his flustered state.

"Alright, alright, chill," you said, holding up a hand to quiet the chaos. "Let the man breathe before he combusts."

Durham and Miguno both chimed in with their own apologies, their expressions a mix of sheepishness and amusement.

"Yeah, our bad," Durham said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "We were just messing around."

Miguno nodded, his tail flicking behind him. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, really. Just having a bit of fun."

Jack peeked out from behind his hands, his cheeks still pink, but he managed a sheepish smile. "Thanks," he mumbled, avoiding your gaze.

You raised an eyebrow at him, fighting back a grin, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your own cheeks. "No worries," you said, your voice a little softer.

This whole situation was ridiculous, but at least it was entertaining.

As the laughter died down, Vox leaned toward you, his smile as mischievous as ever. "See? Told you we'd help you fit in. You're already the life of the party."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the small smile that crept onto your face.

The group continued chatting, the conversation drifting to topics like classes, clubs, and campus drama. You mostly kept to yourself, occasionally nodding along or giving short answers when prompted.

For a moment, the weirdness of everything—the ears, the tails, the everything—faded into the background.

It was surreal, like something out of a story—but it was real. As real as the egg on your plate.

And for now, you had no choice but to roll with it.

But in the back of your mind, the same thoughts kept circling.

How long am I gonna be here? And how the fuck am I going to survive it?

Whatever this was—dream, coma, or insanity—you'd have to figure it out. But for now, blending in would have to do.

One step at a time, you told yourself. Don't drown...again.

Lego

[winxanity-ii]

unfortunately, I will write this fic and I am writing this fic are two very different things

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Know No Evil | Chapter 35 Chapter 35 | solitary reckoning⌟

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❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The bus hummed steadily beneath you, carrying Class 1-B to the exam site, and the chatter of your classmates filled the air—a medley of excitement and nervous energy. Bright colors of hero costumes filled your vision—vivid reds, bold blues, shimmering greens—each one louder and more confident than the last.

You, though, stared out the window in silence, letting the blur of passing buildings melt into one another as their voices faded into a distant hum.

There was something comforting about the mundanity of it—the world rushing by in a softened palette, your reflection barely visible in the glass, a silent observer amidst the noise. The rhythmic thrum of the bus beneath you became a constant, grounding presence, almost like a heartbeat that lulled you into a place of neutrality.

The last few days had felt chaotic, a whirlwind that had barely let you breathe, and now, the gentle sway of the bus offered something rare: stillness.

After the written exam a few days ago, things had become a blur of training and exhaustion. Bakugo was relentless, begrudgingly asking you to come over and spar with him every day since.

At first, it was easy to write off his persistence as his usual determination, but a part of you wondered if it had something to do with Kaminari's boldness—his closeness to you in the infirmary, the way he had dared to touch you, oblivious to boundaries.

Maybe that had pushed Bakugo's buttons in a way that drove him to keep you near, as if proximity meant possession?

You sighed softly, letting the thought drift away as you returned to the passing view outside, the colors of the city blending together until they almost lost their meaning. The quiet hum of conversation around you was punctuated by excited bursts of laughter and the occasional clink of armor or utility belts.

Tetsutetsu was talking loudly about strategies, his hands waving animatedly while Fukidashi nodded along, equally eager. Awase and Kendo exchanged lighthearted banter, and Yui smiled faintly at something Pony said, the joy infectious despite your detachment.

Before you knew it, the bus came to a gradual stop, the doors hissing open as the driver announced your arrival.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze as everyone around you began to stand, the clamor of excitement amplifying as they filed out of the bus. You followed, moving with the group as you stepped down onto the pavement, the large arena looming before you.

The exam site was an expansive training ground—constructed to resemble a city in ruins. Crumbling buildings stretched out across the horizon, some leaning precariously, while others had entirely collapsed, their remains littering the streets.

The sun bore down on you, casting sharp shadows across the rubble, while the air was thick with the scent of concrete dust and burnt metal.

Aizawa and Kan stood at the front, ushering you all forward, their expressions a mix of indifference and mild irritation. Aizawa's hair was disheveled, as usual, and he let out a loud yawn, clearly unimpressed by having to oversee yet another round of practical exams.

Kan, on the other hand, stood tall, clipboard in hand, his stern gaze sweeping over each of you.

The group was led into a large room that held several screens mounted across the walls, each depicting different parts of the abandoned city. Some areas were still smoldering, fires licking at the remains of structures, while others had been completely demolished, leaving behind only skeletal frameworks of what once stood.

The tension was palpable, the eager excitement from earlier slowly giving way to nervous anticipation as everyone took in the scenes before them.

Aizawa grumbled something under his breath, rubbing his tired eyes before leaning back against the wall, clearly uninterested in being the one to explain. Kan stepped forward, clearing his throat, and began, "Alright, listen up. Today's exam will test your ability to adapt to unpredictable scenarios. Each of you will be paired off and assigned a section of this city to navigate and secure. There will be a faux villain—one of the faculty—and your objective is to either subdue them or escape successfully."

He paused, letting the information sink in, before releasing a long sigh, his eyes narrowing slightly, his gaze moving across the room, lingering for a moment as if gauging each of your reactions. "Since we have an odd number of students, one of you will have to face off against a teacher... alone."

For a moment, it was silent before confusion spread through the room like wildfire. Tetsutetsu's voice broke through first, loud and incredulous. "Kan-sensei, I think you're confused—there's no 'extra' student here!"

Beside him, Fukidashi signed an exaggerated "Who?!" before holding up a comic speech bubble reading "WHAT?!" in big, bold letters. The noise of confusion swelled, heads turning in all directions as murmurs filled the room.

Amidst the rising commotion, you and Kendo stayed silent, her expression thoughtful while yours remained indifferent. You kept your eyes trained forward, barely blinking as the chaos buzzed around you.

Suddenly, a monotone voice cut through the confusion. "There are twenty-one of us. That's why it's uneven."

Everyone's heads snapped towards the back almost in unison. A girl, Yanagi Reiko, stood silently, her pale skin standing out starkly beneath the dim lights; her hair—a soft, pale gray—fell just to her chin, partially obscuring the left side of her face.

Her blue eyes were half-lidded, the dark bags beneath them making her look perpetually exhausted. She stood with her hands raised loosely at her elbows, her wrists bent down, making her seem like a ghostly figure.

Her hero costume—a very pale blue kimono with a fluffy white fur collar, cinched with dark straps around her waist—added to the ethereal, eerie image. She wore knee-high dark blue boots, a black mask covering her face from the bridge of her nose down to her neck.

There was a beat of silence before Tetsutetsu exclaimed again, "Yanagi-chan, when did you get back? I thought you were still sick!"

Several other students nodded in agreement, their eyes wide with surprise. Yanagi blinked slowly, her face expressionless. "I've been back for three weeks," she replied, her voice as flat as ever.

Tetsutetsu looked genuinely baffled. "Three weeks?!" he repeated, his tone a mix of disbelief and embarrassment, scratching his head. "How did I miss that...?"

You took a step forward, your voice breaking through the continuing murmurs. "I'll do it, Kan-sensei." The words left your lips with a calmness that contrasted sharply against the confusion that had just settled. Your eyes locked on Vlad, your expression unwavering. "As the class president, it only makes sense for me to take on the solo challenge. Besides, it's time I show my classmates why I deserve this role."

Your voice didn't waver and that made several students fall quiet. Kendo's eyes widened slightly, her eyebrows drawing together in concern. "Akuma-san, are you sure? It's going to be really tough. If you need a partner, I wouldn't mind having to go again," she offered, her worry evident in her voice.

A few other students echoed her sentiment, some nodding in agreement, their eyes darting between you and Kan.

You quieted them down with a faint smile—something that could almost be mistaken for warmth but didn't quite reach your eyes. "It's alright," you assured them. "I haven't really been pulling my weight lately, with all the injuries and... incidents setting me back. This is about proving myself, not just as your president but as your equal."

Tetsutetsu's eyes shone with admiration, and he pumped a fist in the air. "That's so manly!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the room.

You fought the urge to cringe but managed to keep your expression blank, giving him a small nod instead. The room was quiet for a moment longer before Aizawa and Kan shared a look, an unspoken conversation passing between them.

Kan turned back to the group, nodding his head in acknowledgment. "Very well," he said, his voice steady. "Akuma will take on Snipe alone. This will take place at the end of the test, after the other paired evaluations, as a unique challenge to test her individual tactical abilities." He paused, glancing at you briefly before addressing the entire class. "The rest of you will proceed as initially planned. Pair up, follow the instructions given, and give it your all."

Aizawa shuffled forward, pressing a button on the console beside him, and one of the screens blinked to life, displaying the list of pairings:

_Students vs. Teachers_ 1. Yanagi Reiko & Shoda Nirengeki vs. Cementoss 2. Kaibara Sen & Komori Kinoko vs. Power Loader 3. Kendo Itsuka and Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu vs. Midnight 4. Shishida Jurota and Shiozaki Ibara vs. Ectoplasm 5. Awase Yosetsu and Tokage Setsuna vs. Principal Nezu 6. Rin Hiryu and Bondo Kojiro vs. Thirteen 7. Togaru Kamakiri and Yui Kodai vs. Snipe 8. Pony Tsunotori and Kosei Tsuburaba vs. Vlad King 9. Neito Monoma and Juzo Honenuki vs. Hound Dog 10. Manga Fukidashi and Shihai Kuroiro vs. Bambi 11. Akuma ____ vs. Snipe

Aizawa's voice cut through the quiet murmurs of recognition and chatter. "These are your assignments. You have ten minutes to prepare yourselves and warm up. Practical exams will begin shortly after. Be ready." He stepped back, his eyes half-lidded, clearly ready for this part to be over.

Your classmates began to disperse, some stretching while others discussed potential strategies in hushed tones. The room that had been filled with eager excitement earlier was now brimming with tension and determination.

As the others broke off to prepare, you allowed yourself a moment to exhale, centering yourself amidst the buzz of activity, the murmurs, and the charged atmosphere.

Your gaze flickered briefly to the screen listing your name beside Snipe's. Let's get this over with, you thought, feeling the familiar weight of determination settle in your chest.

.☆.          .✩.                   .☆.

The time passed both slowly and all at once.

You found yourself watching the screens as each pair of your classmates stepped up for their test, facing off against their assigned teacher. The images on the screens were full of clashing colors, but despite all the action, you couldn't help but zone in and out.

The noise of the battles—metal clanging, shouts of exertion, and the occasional explosion—melded together, becoming more of a distant hum.

You caught glimpses of your classmates' battles, watched as Kendo's giant fist swung against Midnight's whip, as Pony's horns went soaring through the air, as Rin and Bondo struggled to get around Thirteen's black hole quirk.

None of it really mattered, though.

Your thoughts kept wandering back to your own challenge, running over different strategies you might use against Snipe. Would it be better to end it quickly, to take him down before he could get a shot off, or to draw it out and try to learn from every movement, every reaction he had? You weren't sure, and the uncertainty nagged at you, made it hard to focus on anything else.

You were pulled from your thoughts when the door to the room swung open, and you saw Fukidashi and Shihai Kuroiro stumble in, clearly fresh from their battle with Bambi.

Kuroiro came in first, his tall frame almost filling the doorway. His fluffy white hair was ruffled, sticking up at odd angles, and there were dark smudges of dirt across his pitch-black skin. His black eyes, long and narrow, held an irritated glint, his mouth set into a thin line. His high-collared jumpsuit was battered, a tear along his side revealing a flash of his ribs, and one of the large silver wristbands was missing entirely, the remaining one scuffed and scratched.

"Man, Bambi-sensei is strong," Kuroiro muttered, rubbing at his sore arm as he moved further into the room. "Didn't expect her to be that tough."

Fukidashi followed close behind, his hero costume also showing signs of their recent battle. His blue shirt with red sleeves was stained with grime, the armor pieces around his torso scuffed and a few cracked, the ink bottle-like shapes dented. He had lost one of his gloves, and his mask—which resembled a manga page template—was half hanging off, revealing his face beneath.

Fukidashi raised his hands, signing a big, bold "KA-POW" followed by a fighting glove emoji, his own way of emphasizing just how intense the battle had been.

Kuroiro nodded, giving a wry grin. "Yeah, pretty much," he said, his tone lightening a little as he glanced at Fukidashi, sharing a tired but knowing look.

The two of them made their way over to one of the empty corners of the room, slumping down against the wall to catch their breath, their faces flushed from exertion.

The sight of them—battered but grinning, a mix of exhaustion and relief on their faces—brought a strange calm to your own swirling thoughts.

Your time was coming soon. But for now, you just watched, letting the buzz of activity around you fade in and out, the hum of your classmates preparing, the distant echoes of battles still playing out on the screens.

Soon.

"Oh no, are you guys alright?!" Komori's voice broke through the hum of the room, filled with concern as she rushed over to Kuroiro and Fukidashi. Her hero costume was vibrant, with a turtleneck dress of red and white patterns, decorated with fly agaric motifs, and a mushroom cap-shaped hat that bobbed as she moved. Her pale pink knee-high boots scuffed slightly against the floor, her wide, cat-like eyes filled with genuine worry.

Kuroiro glanced away, clearly flustered by her sudden approach, his dark eyes averting as he tried to keep his expression composed. He stammered, scratching the back of his neck, "Uh, yeah, we're fine... Bambi-sensei just... really packs a punch."

Komori leaned in, her eyes wide as she examined his tattered clothes, her long eyelashes fluttering, and gave him a reassuring smile. "Well, I'm glad you're both okay. You guys really pushed yourselves out there!"

Fukidashi nodded energetically, signing a quick "BANG" with a star emoji, his face lighting up even through the exhaustion. He still looked battered, his armor cracked, and dirt smudged across his costume, but his spirit was clearly undimmed.

"Yeah," Kuroiro mumbled, his voice softer now, almost as if he were trying not to meet Komori's gaze directly. His usual irritated expression seemed to fade just a bit, replaced by something softer, a hint of awkwardness that was easy to read in the way he rubbed his arm.

Komori straightened up, her smile only widening as she placed her hands on her hips, her mushroom shooters at her waist shifting with the motion. "Just be careful next time, okay? I don't want to see you getting hurt more than you need to."

Kuroiro gave a quick nod, his eyes flicking up to meet hers briefly before darting away again, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah... got it," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

You watched the exchange, your gaze lingering on the way Komori's bright demeanor seemed to lift Kuroiro's spirits, even just a little.

It was the kind of genuine connection you sometimes envied, the kind of warmth that felt foreign, even as you watched it unfold right in front of you.

A crackling sound then echoed through the room, and Aizawa's tired voice broke over the intercom, flat and almost bored, "Akuma, it's your turn. Head to the gate."

A ripple of energy seemed to run through the room at his words, your classmates turning their attention toward you almost as one.

"You got this, Akuma-san!" Rin's voice called out, and a few others joined in—supportive words, nods, and grins thrown your way as you pushed yourself off the wall you had been leaning against.

Kendo gave you a small, encouraging smile, her voice softer as she said, "Good luck. Show them why you're our class president."

You gave her a nod, not quite smiling, but something close enough to it, as you made your way to the door. The noise of the room seemed to follow you out, the cheers fading to a low murmur as the door closed behind you.

Your footsteps echoed against the linoleum floor as you walked, the sound bouncing off the empty hallway. You moved steadily, each step taking you closer to your destination.

The corridor twisted and turned, leading you further away from the preparation room, and the further you went, the quieter it got—until all you could hear was the sound of your own breathing and the faint hum of the school's ventilation system.

The walk was longer than you expected—five, maybe ten minutes—but eventually, you arrived outside the building, stopping at a large closed gate. It loomed before you, steel bars forming an imposing boundary between you and the arena beyond.

The sun was high above UA Academy, casting long shadows that stretched across the ground, making the gate seem even taller. With a groaning creak, the large gate slowly swung open, allowing you to step inside.

You walked further in, taking in the expanse of the training area that stretched out before you—an artificial cityscape made for one thing and one thing only: testing.

The "city" was a mix of intact structures and ruins, some buildings still standing tall while others leaned precariously, their walls cracked and sagging. Bits of concrete and metal debris were scattered across the ground, remnants of past training sessions.

Snipe was already there, waiting for you when you arrived to the center of the arena. His cowboy hat shadowed his eyes, giving him an air of casual readiness, his fingers twitching over the revolvers strapped to his belt.

He looked relaxed, but you knew better—Snipe was anything but careless, and his aim was legendary.

Aizawa's voice echoed through the arena speakers, dry and matter-of-fact, "Akuma, your task is to evade and subdue. You have thirty minutes. If you manage to capture Snipe or successfully evade him for the entire duration, you pass. Begin."

You took a deep breath, your fingers flexing at your sides; the sun was bright above, the arena wide open, offering little in the way of real cover. You could feel the weight of the task settling into your muscles, grounding you, focusing your thoughts.

The task was simple: evade and subdue.

Snipe made the first move, his aim sharp as a crack split the air, a bullet whizzing past you. You ducked behind a pile of rubble, your mind racing as you evaluated your options.

You needed to close the distance between the two of you, to find a way to get close to Snipe despite his precision.

You pressed your back against the rubble, glancing around, quickly assessing your surroundings. The cityscape offered plenty of nooks and crannies to hide in, but Snipe had the advantage in an open space like this. Your best bet would be to keep moving, use what cover you could, and close the distance—make it so he couldn't use his range to his advantage.

A plan started to form—you could manipulate small objects—rocks, pieces of concrete—much like Uraraka had done to Bakugo during the sports festival. It wouldn't hurt him, but it would serve as a distraction; keep his attention split while you worked to close the gap.

Carefully, you used your surroundings to stay out of Snipe's line of sight. Your eyes darted around, finding a path that would take you from cover to cover, all the while using your power to wrap around loose debris.

With a flick of your fingers, you sent a handful of rocks scattering in the opposite direction, drawing Snipe's attention.

He reacted just as you hoped, his head snapping toward the sound, his revolver raised, eyes sharp as he scanned for movement. You used that moment, dashing from behind your pile of rubble, darting toward the nearest building.

The city would give you more options, more places to duck into, more ways to outmaneuver him.

Your movements were fluid, your body moving instinctively. You jumped over a fallen beam, your foot landing lightly on a chunk of concrete as you pushed off again, keeping your eyes on Snipe's position.

You could hear his footsteps, hear the way he shifted, the crack of a shot that barely missed you as you twisted mid-air, your feet hitting the wall of a building, and you pushed off, changing direction.

You started off defensively, letting Snipe make his moves, using your agility to dodge, to slip through tight spaces. You could tell he was trying to limit your movement, to keep you pinned down, but you weren't going to let that happen.

Each time he thought he had you cornered, you slipped away, darting through narrow gaps or scaling up debris-strewn walls. It was almost like a game, the way you dodged and evaded, your body reacting quicker than your thoughts.

You faintly heard the crack of another shot, the bullet grazing past you, close enough to feel the air shift. You landed lightly on the balls of your feet, a smirk pulling at your lips as you glanced over your shoulder at Snipe.

He was good—better than you'd anticipated—but something about the chase made adrenaline rush through your veins.

Maybe it was time to start going on the offensive?

You let out a low scoff, an amused chuckle slipping past your lips as you muttered under your breath, "Might have a bit of fun with this after all."

☆

☆

Across Musutafu City, the atmosphere was vastly different.

The dim, deserted bar was filled with a low, grainy melody emanating from an old jukebox tucked into the corner. Cigarette smoke wafted lazily through the air, mixing with the acrid scent of stale alcohol that seemed soaked into the very wood of the bar counter.

The dim lights flickered intermittently, casting long shadows over the worn-out seats and the small, scuffed tables scattered across the room; a handful of patrons sat scattered across the bar, each lost in their own troubles, heads bowed over half-empty glasses or sunk deep into the collars of their jackets.

At one such table, a tall figure sat slouched in his chair, the flicker of a lighter providing brief flashes of light as he played with it, the metallic click echoing softly in the otherwise quiet room.

His spiky black hair fell messily over his forehead, some of it obscuring his eyes, while his face bore signs of patchwork scars, stapled together with a kind of careless precision. His expression was unreadable, the half-smile on his lips seeming neither amused nor genuinely joyful, just something that hung there as if out of habit.

Across from him, a young girl sat perched on a stool, one leg swinging back and forth restlessly. She had fair skin and inward-tilting yellow eyes that glinted with impatience. Her pale, ash-blonde hair was styled into two messy buns, numerous wild strands sticking out here and there, adding to her feline appearance. Her wide mouth, complete with pointed canines, gave her an almost vampiric edge, as though she were constantly on the verge of a mischievous grin.

She let out a drawn-out whine, her lips curving into a pout. "How much longer do we have to wait for Tomura?" Her voice carried a distinct note of boredom, the kind of whining reserved for someone tired of sitting still.

The dark-haired man paused, looking up from his lighter, his half-lidded eyes shifting towards the girl. He clicked the lighter closed with a definitive snap and put it back into his pocket. "Yeah, I think I'll have to agree with ya, lil' bit," he said, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His electric blue eyes flickered with faint amusement. "If he's not here soon, I think I might just bounce."

A sharp cackle suddenly broke the otherwise dim atmosphere, seemingly coming from out of nowhere. A young man with burnt orange hair and light lavender eyes appeared, leaning over the girl's shoulder. He grinned widely, his expression dripping with mock amusement. "Don't let Toga influence ya, Dabi," he said, voice lilting as though he was delivering a punchline. "Shigaraki-san will arrive soon enough."

He then turned his gaze down to the young girl, who was now glaring up at him with her cat-like eyes. "Relax, Toga. You'll get your blood fix soon." He snickered, giving one of her pigtails a playful tug.

Toga snapped, her eyes narrowing as she flicked out a pocketknife with a swift, practiced motion. She smiled up at him, but it was all teeth, her voice dripping with saccharine sarcasm. "How about I get it now, Cal? Wanna volunteer?"

Cal just laughed even harder, leaning back slightly and brushing off the threat like it was nothing. His laugh was throaty and unbothered, as if the danger Toga presented was simply a game to him. "Ah, come on, Toga, you know I like my blood where it is," he teased, brushing her off casually, the amusement in his eyes unbroken.

Before Toga could retort, a new voice interrupted from the bar, ricocheting between frustration and enthusiasm. "Alright, alright, calm down! No, screw that, go fuckin' wild! Pick one already!" Twice called out, his split personality's conflicting tones making everything a bit confusing, as if he couldn't decide whether to break up the tension or add gasoline to the fire.

The heavy door of the bar suddenly swung open, a warm gust of wind carrying in the scent of the humid air. Shigaraki stormed in, his red eyes narrowed and his fingers twitching. He looked disheveled, his hair tousled, and his mouth set into an irritable line.

"You're late, Tomura," Kurogiri said from behind the bar, his deep voice carrying a hint of reprimand as his ethereal form cleaned the glasses; the dark mist surrounding his collar shifted with his words, like it had a mind of its own.

"I know, Kurogiri," Shigaraki hissed, clearly annoyed at the commentary; his fingers reached up, scratching at his neck as if to quell his frustrations as he stalked toward the bar, pushing past the others without a word.

His attention was singular, fixated only on the bottle he reached for behind the counter. He poured himself a drink, the liquid splashing slightly as he did so, his irritation seemingly bubbling over.

Cal raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter as he watched Shigaraki. "What took so long, boss?"

Kurogiri responded before aforementioned male could, his eyes never leaving Shigaraki. "If I had to take a guess, it probrably had something to do with Akuma ____," he said simply, as if that alone explained everything. "Tomura has been quite... preoccupied with her lately." The name carried an odd weight, leaving the rest of the recruits staring at each other in confusion.

Toga's head snapped up immediately, her cat-like eyes widening with interest. "____?" she echoed, tilting her head to the side, her brows knitting as if trying to place a face to the name.

Dabi let out a low scoff, shaking his head. "Who the hell is that?" he muttered, his voice low, clearly uninterested in whatever—or whoever—was occupying Shigaraki's attention.

From his spot by the window, Mr. Compress finally moved, standing up and strolling toward the group, a deck of cards in his hand. He gave a dramatic flourish, fingers moving gracefully as he began shuffling the cards, letting them dance between his hands. There was a light air about him, as if he enjoyed the confusion he was about to dispel.

"You may want to familiarize yourselves with our leader's latest facination," he said with a grin hidden beneath his mask as the cards continued to flip between his fingers. His hands moved deftly, drawing the eyes of the room with a symphony of clicks and flicks as he performed an intricate trick, the cards fanning out and shuffling back together, each movement seamless.

With a final flick of his wrist, a card seemed to glow in the dim lighting—a school photo of you, Akuma ____.

Toga's eyes lit up immediately, her earlier irritation dissipating into something that could almost be described as adoration. "____!~" she practically sang in a delighted coo, shoving Cal aside as she bounced forward, snatching the card from Compress's hand. Her fingers traced the image with a kind of adoration, her gaze never leaving the photograph

"Ooh..." Toga hummed, her voice dropping low, her cheeks growing a harsh shade of pink, her expression flushed with an intensity that could only be described as infatuation. Her lips parted slightly, her eyes practically glistening as she stared down at the picture.

There was a certain glint in her gaze—a lovesick fascination that bordered on mania.

Her fingers curled around the card, holding it delicately as if it were something precious. "Ooh... she'd look so pretty covered in blood," she murmured, her voice almost dreamlike, her pupils dilated, and her cheeks darkening into a harsher blush. It gave her a permanent expression of lovesickness, as if nothing else existed but this image in her hands.

She sighed deeply, swaying on her feet, her lips pulling into a wide, almost feverish smile as her eyes remained glued to the picture. "I bet her skin would look absolutely gorgeous stained red... it'll match her hair perfectly." Her voice trailed off into a contented hum, her gaze practically sparkling as she imagined the scene.

Dabi let out a breath, shaking his head in disbelief, while Cal just watched, an amused smile tugging at his lips. Twice glanced between them, muttering something about the crazy getting crazier, while Shigaraki, now sitting behind the bar, just frowned deeper, clearly in no mood for the antics.

Shigaraki downed the shot he had poured earlier, the glass clinking loudly against the counter as he slammed it down. He shot a glare at Kurogiri, irritation etched into every line of his face. "Stay out of my business, Kurogiri," he growled, his red eyes narrowing.

Kurogiri, ever calm, gave an almost imperceptible shrug, his form shifting slightly as the mist around his collar swirled. "It's hardly my fault that your business has become everyone's concern, Tomura. You've made it quite... public, after all." His tone was even, almost patronizing, with just a hint of amusement that made Shigaraki's eye twitch.

"You think this is funny?" Shigaraki snapped, his fingers scratching at his neck, irritation quickly bubbling over into anger. He stood up, nearly knocking over the stool in his haste. "If she had actually bothered to contact me, maybe I wouldn't be dealing with this crap now!"

Kurogiri didn't move, his composed demeanor unwavering even as Shigaraki's voice rose. "Perhaps, Tomura, if you had a little more patience, you wouldn't be so... rattled." The mist shifted again, almost like it was mocking Shigaraki's agitation.

Shigaraki's lip curled into a snarl, his fingers flexing like he was itching to decay something. "Patience?! Don't lecture me about patience, Kurogiri! You have no idea what it's like—" The rest of his words devolved into incoherent ranting, his frustrations spilling out in disjointed bursts.

He ranted about you—about your lack of contact, about how infuriating it was to be left in the dark—his irritation reaching a fever pitch. His words came out sharp, laced with resentment, but there was something else underlying his tone—something raw, almost vulnerable.

Kurogiri merely listened, his expression unreadable, offering no response except a subtle raise of his misty brow, which only seemed to infuriate Shigaraki more.

Cal sauntered over to Toga, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched her hold the photo like a prized possession. With a swift, teasing movement, he snatched the picture from her grasp, holding it up above her head, just out of her reach.

"Awww, Toga, always falling in love, huh?" Cal teased, his voice dripping with mockery. Toga's face immediately darkened, her earlier lovesick blush replaced with an expression of cold fury.

"Give it back, Cal!" she shrieked, her eyes narrowing into slits, her fangs bared as she jumped up, her hands swiping at the air in an attempt to reclaim the picture. "I'll cut you, you bastard!" she threatened, her voice high-pitched and filled with rage. Her eyes flashed dangerously, the intensity of her emotion palpable as she bounced on her toes, her knife flicking out of her pocket, glinting in the dim bar light.

Cal merely laughed, his shoulders shaking as if the threat was the funniest thing he had heard all night. He leaned back, his arm extended upward, keeping the photo just out of her reach. "Easy there, little vampire," he cackled, his tone full of mocking amusement. "You really think I'm scared of you?"

Toga's eyes narrowed further, her expression growing even more dangerous, her lips curling back in a snarl. She lunged forward again, her fingers brushing the edge of the photograph before Cal jerked it out of reach once more. She let out a frustrated growl, her knife-hand twitching as she looked ready to follow through on her threat.

Cal paused, glancing down at the photograph in his hand. He stared at your face for a moment, his expression shifting, his mocking smile faltering slightly. He scoffed, finally shrugging as if dismissing the whole thing. "She's alright, I guess," he muttered, his tone indifferent, his gaze flicking back to Toga. "Not sure what all the fuss is about."

Dabi, who had been half-listening to the commotion, seemed to lose interest, his eyes flicking away as he turned back to his lighter, flicking the flame on and off absentmindedly. That was until a flash of red in the photo caught his eye—something about it seemed to trigger a memory.

"Aye!" Dabi barked suddenly, his deep voice cutting through the bickering. The sudden outburst caught everyone's attention, including Cal and Toga, who immediately stopped struggling.

Toga looked at him, her eyes still fierce, while Cal raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

Dabi pushed himself up from his seat, sauntering over with a kind of lazy confidence. He grabbed the photo from Cal, ignoring the other man's protest. He studied it for a moment, his expression still bored, but something almost nostalgic flickered in his eyes. His gaze lingered a second too long before he scoffed, tossing the photo back at Toga, who caught it with eager hands.

"I'm joining the League," Dabi said, his tone making it clear that it wasn’t a question but a decision already made. He sank back down into his seat, his attention returning to his lighter as if the entire ordeal had bored him.

Kurogiri and Shigaraki both paused their argument, their attention snapping to Dabi. Kurogiri blinked, his mist swirling slightly. "Joining, you say? But we haven't even begun negotiations."

Shigaraki's eyes narrowed, his gaze flicking between Dabi and the others, clearly suspicious. He stopped scratching for a moment, his hand hovering by his neck. Dabi shrugged, looking thoroughly disinterested. "Doesn't matter. I've made up my mind." He let the statement hang in the air, his eyes flickering back to the photograph still clutched in Toga’s hands.

There was something unsettling about the way he looked at it—something unreadable.

Shigaraki frowned, his red eyes still skeptical. But he didn't push further. Instead, he exchanged a glance with Kurogiri, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Fine," Shigaraki muttered, his fingers finally dropping away from his neck. He glanced at Toga, who was still gazing at the picture, her eyes wide and lovesick. "But don't forget, this isn't a game," he added, his voice low, a dangerous edge to it.

Dabi gave no response, merely flicking his lighter again, the small flame reflecting in his cold blue eyes. The decision had been made, and as far as he was concerned, there was nothing more to discuss.

☆

☆

Snipe crouched low behind a crumbling wall of what once might have been an office building. His breathing was controlled, ears straining to catch any sign of you—footsteps, a shift of rubble, the brush of clothing against concrete. But there was nothing. Not a single noise that would betray your location.

His revolver stayed steady, his finger hovering close to the trigger, ready to react at any moment. He narrowed his eyes, his senses on high alert.

The silence stretched on, the air heavy with tension, and just as he was about to move on, something caught his eye—a flash, barely perceptible, but enough to warrant attention.

He turned sharply, his revolver leading the movement as his gaze swept the area, ready to fire. But there was nothing—just more dilapidated buildings and debris, empty windows staring back at him like hollow eyes.

A part of him felt a prickle of unease

You were good... Really good... Too good.

He was starting to feel the pressure building; the calm, relaxed demeanor that usually accompanied him in these situations was slowly being replaced by something more unsettled, something cautious.

He knew what you were capable of—Aizawa had made sure he knew.

🇫‌🇱‌🇦‌🇸‌🇭‌🇧‌🇦‌🇨‌🇰‌:

Snipe was taking a break, just having finished up his round against Kamakiri and Kodai, who had both put up a decent fight but ultimately lost.

He leaned against a stack of crates, his revolver disassembled in front of him, a cloth in one hand as he meticulously cleaned the barrel. His hat was pushed back, the brim resting comfortably against the back of his neck. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and he took a moment to take a long gulp of water from his canteen.

The room was quiet for a while, the kind of stillness that seemed to settle in the aftermath of a hard-fought match.

Then the door creaked open, and Snipe glanced up just in time to see Aizawa shuffle into the room. His eyes were half-lidded, his expression as tired as ever, dark circles under his eyes indicating he hadn't gotten much sleep recently—not that it was any different from usual.

"Yo, Eraserhead," Snipe called out casually, tipping his hat. Aizawa gave him a small nod in acknowledgment, moving closer. "What'd you think of Kodai and Kamakiri?" Snipe continued, his voice relaxed, fingers still working on his revolver. "Think they've got some potential there."

Aizawa stopped a few feet away, folding his arms over his chest. "Kodai's got a solid understanding of tactics, but she needs to be quicker on her feet. Kamakiri relies too much on brute force." He paused, giving Snipe a sideways glance. "They need to work on balance."

Snipe nodded, seeming to consider this as he wiped down his revolver, clicking the pieces back together with practiced ease. "Yeah, guess you're right. They've got fire, though." He looked up, meeting Aizawa's gaze. "So, what's up? You look like you've got somethin' on your mind."

Aizawa's expression shifted slightly, something more serious settling into his features. He took a step closer, his gaze steady as he spoke, his voice carrying that familiar monotone, but with a hint of something else—something like concern.

"It's about Akuma," Aizawa began, his eyes narrowing a fraction. "You need to be careful out there, Snipe. Her nature is unpredictable. Don't let your guard down, not even for a second."

Snipe blinked, tilting his head slightly as he looked at the scruffy teacher. "That so?" He asked, sounding almost amused, but Aizawa didn't smile.

"She's quick to adapt," Aizawa continued, his tone unwavering. "And she won't hesitate to use unconventional means if it gives her an edge. Whatever you're expecting her to do, she's probably already thought two steps ahead of it."

Snipe leaned back, giving a small chuckle, the brim of his hat shading his eyes as he shook his head. "You're makin' her sound like a real wildcard, Aizawa." He paused, tucking his gun back into its holster, his fingers tapping against the handle. "But I get it. I'll keep my eyes open."

Aizawa didn't reply for a moment, his gaze lingering on Snipe before he finally gave a curt nod. "Just don't underestimate her. She'll find a way to surprise you."

With that, Aizawa turned, walking back toward the exit, his steps quiet against the floor.

Then, Snipe had taken those words with a grain of salt; after all, he'd faced plenty of unpredictable opponents in his career. But now, as he crouched amidst the rubble, unable to pin down your movements, he was starting to understand why Aizawa had thought to warn him.

Kid's got more up her sleeve than most realize.

He snapped out of his thoughts, a sudden sense of urgency pulling him back to the present. He glanced down at his watch—ten minutes left.

He needed to make a move, needed to figure out a way to flush you out before time ran out. He couldn't let himself get too comfortable—underestimating you could cost him the round.

And then, without warning, he felt it—sharp, sudden pressure against his back, almost like a punch. The force of the impact threw him forward, instinct taking over as he rolled, tucking his body in tightly, using the momentum to shift into a defensive stance.

He came to his feet, eyes scanning, revolvers raised. And there you were—perched high on the broken remains of a building, your figure partially obscured by the angle of the sun.

Snipe's eyes narrowed as he looked at you, taking in the thinly veiled amusement on your face, the way you were almost relaxed, like none of this was a real challenge.

He clicked his tongue, lifting his hat slightly as he called up to you. "You ready to fail, Akuma?" he taunted, trying to gauge your reaction.

Your response was immediate—sharp laughter echoing through the ruins, cutting through the tension like a knife. You leaned forward slightly, your eyes glinting with a mischievous light. "Depends," you shot back, your voice clear and confident, "will it be easy or difficult? Because so far, I've got my doubts."

A challenge, simple but effective. Snipe set his jaw, determination flaring in his chest. You wanted to make this interesting? Fine. He'd show you just how serious he could be.

Snipe immediately sprang into action, his fingers curling around the revolvers at his hips, drawing them in a smooth, practiced motion. He began firing, the sharp cracks of his shots ringing out across the abandoned cityscape. Each shot aimed with precision, calculated to drive you out into the open.

But you were fast. Too fast.

You moved like water—fluid, unpredictable, weaving between the obstacles with an almost eerie grace. Each bullet whizzed past, barely missing you as you maneuvered through the rubble.

Your unpredictability was your greatest asset; it kept Snipe guessing, unable to fully anticipate your next move. And you were exploiting that to its fullest.

Snipe could see you moving closer, the distance between you narrowing as you darted from one piece of cover to the next, each movement calculated to keep him off balance.

Then, sharp crack. A rubber bullet struck your arm, and you hissed, your eyes flashing with a mix of annoyance and something else, something like respect. Snipe fired again, but the bullet grazed the edge of a crumbling wall just as you slipped behind it, disappearing from his line of sight.

Then you were there, almost upon him, your eyes locked on his as you made your move.

You lunged forward, aiming to disarm him, and for a split second, he caught a glimpse of the intensity in your eyes—the determination that drove you.

Snipe met you head-on, shifting his stance to brace for impact, his revolvers dropping to his sides as he moved to engage in close combat. Your hands struck out, and he deflected, redirecting your energy, his movements sharp and precise. He could feel the force behind your strikes, the sheer drive behind each blow.

"You got talent, kid," Snipe grunted, his voice strained as he blocked another strike, his eyes narrowing. "But don't let it get to your head." As soon as the words left his mouth, he shifted his weight, dropping low before sweeping his leg out in a surprise move.

Your eyes widened, but it was too late. His leg connected with yours, and you lost your footing, falling backward with a harsh thud. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, the rough ground scraping against your back. But you didn't stay down for long—your body moved instinctively, scrambling back to your feet, the fire in your eyes unbroken.

A sudden shiver ran down your spine, an inexplicable feeling of unease washing over you, as if a pair of eyes were watching from somewhere far away, something beyond the training grounds. It wasn't like the pressure from Snipe's sharp gaze, but something more invasive, an intensity that left a mark even after it passed.

You frowned, trying to dispel the thought, unwilling to let any distraction cost you this victory. There was no room for hesitation now.

Snipe didn't give you time to recover. He lunged at you, aiming to finish this before you could regain the upper hand. But you were ready this time—your hand shot out, catching his wrist, and with a swift movement, you twisted, using his momentum against him.

He stumbled, and that was all the opening you needed. You moved quickly, your hands finding the cuffs at your belt, and before he could react, you had him pinned, his hands locked together in the metal restraints.

Snipe let out a grunt, his hat falling off in the struggle, and for a moment, there was silence between you—an unspoken acknowledgment of your skill.

You had done it.

You had won.

Aizawa's tired voice crackled over the intercom, echoing through the training grounds. "Akuma, return to the waiting room."

You took a deep breath, the adrenaline slowly fading, and you released your hold on Snipe, stepping back. He looked up at you, his eyes narrowing slightly before he gave a small nod. "Not bad, kid," he muttered, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

You didn't respond, simply turning on your heel and making your way back toward the large gate that led out of the training grounds. The gate creaked open as you approached, and you stepped through, the cheers and whoops of your classmates echoing in the distance as you made your way back.

The waiting room was filled with a buzz of excitement, your classmates gathered around, their faces lighting up as you entered. "Akuma-san, that was awesome!" someone called out, while others clapped and cheered, their encouragement washing over you in waves.

You offered a small, tired smile, nodding in acknowledgment as you moved through the crowd. Komori rushed up to you, her eyes wide with concern. "Oh no, are you alright? That shot looked like it hurt!"

You shrugged, the corners of your mouth quirking up slightly. "It's fine. Just a scratch." You made your way over to Recovery Girl, who was already waiting, her lips pursed in disapproval.

"You should've dodged that last one, dear," she scolded, leaning in to give you a healing smooch on the forehead. Her quirk washed over you, the warmth of it easing the ache in your arm.

You shrugged again, the fatigue settling into your bones as the adrenaline wore off. "It didn't matter in the end," you said, your tone nonchalant.

Recovery Girl huffed, shaking her head. "Kids these days, always so reckless."

You gave her a faint hum before turning back to the room, just in time to see Vlad King entering. This time, he was alone, his expression serious as he looked over the gathered students.

He waited for everyone to settle down before he moved to the front of the room, his stance broad and commanding. Once the murmur of excitement quieted, he gestured toward the large screen behind him, which flickered to life, displaying the results of the exams.

"Alright, everyone, listen up," Kan said, his voice echoing slightly in the now silent room. "Here are the results of your practical exams. I'll go through each of the pairs, and those who passed, and those who unfortunately did not." He gave a small pause, letting the weight of the moment sink in.

The screen displayed each team's names along with their respective results, and Vlad King began to list them out, giving brief commentaries for each pair. The successes and failures were outlined with a mix of praise for strengths and constructive criticism on what needed improvement.

Practical Exam - Outcomes for Class 1-B Students Who Passed: 1.Yanagi Reiko & Shoda Nirengeki vs. Cementoss: Passed due to the strong teamwork of manipulating objects and enhancing impacts. 2.Kaibara Sen & Komori Kinoko vs. Power Loader: Passed with Komori's distraction using mushrooms and Kaibara's swift strikes. 3.Kendo Itsuka & Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu vs. Midnight: Passed by Kendo dispersing Midnight's gas and Tetsutetsu acting as a defensive wall. 4.Shishida Jurota & Shiozaki Ibara vs. Ectoplasm: Passed through combining brute strength and immobilizing vines. 5.Awase Yosetsu & Tokage Setsuna vs. Principal Nezu: Passed using Tokage's scouting and Awase's trap setting to restrict Nezu's movements. 6.Rin Hiryu & Bondo Kojiro vs. Thirteen: Passed with effective defense and restricting Thirteen's abilities. 7.Pony Tsunotori & Kosei Tsuburaba vs. Vlad King: Passed with a combination of long-range attacks and defensive barriers. 8.Neito Monoma & Juzo Honenuki vs. Hound Dog: Passed using terrain manipulation and Quirk copying to counter Hound Dog. 9.Manga Fukidashi & Shihai Kuroiro vs. Bambi: Passed by creating chaos and using stealth to outmaneuver Bambi 10.Akuma ____ vs. Snipe: Passed through a combination of agile evasion, strategic positioning, and resourceful use of her Quirk to create distractions to evade and wear down Snipe

Students Who Failed: 1.Togaru Kamakiri & Yui Kodai vs. Snipe: Failed due to Snipe's sharpshooting overpowering their defenses, and their struggle to coordinate under pressure.

Kan continued, giving specific comments to the pair that had failed, ensuring they understood where they went wrong and what they could improve upon. For those who passed, the feedback was equally thorough—acknowledging their strengths but pointing out areas for growth.

Those who passed were visibly relieved, some cheering and high-fiving their partners, while those who failed tried to keep their spirits up, though disappointment was evident on their faces.

Kan made a point of encouraging them, reminding them that failure was just part of the process, a stepping stone to improvement.

Suddenly, Monoma's voice rang out, his hand shooting up. "Sensei! How many groups passed in 1-A?"

Kan paused, his gaze steady as he looked at Monoma. "Compared to Class 1-B, only one group failed here, while in Class 1-A, three groups failed their teacher versus student evaluations." There was a murmur of satisfaction from the gathered students, with Monoma shooting a smug grin towards his classmates.

Kan let the noise die down before continuing. "Congratulations to those of you who passed. You've all shown growth, but remember—these results aren't final. Your overall score will take both the written and practical exams into account." He glanced over the group, his expression softening. "Keep up the hard work, and use these experiences as motivation to keep improving."

With that, the atmosphere lightened a little, the tension that had filled the room slowly fading as the students processed the results.

You could feel the energy shift, the weight of the day finally beginning to ease, though you knew that this was just one step on a much longer journey.

And with that, the exam-stress were officially over—for now.

A/N: sorry for the lack of updates, was just plottng out the next few chapters, hehehe. also, whaddya we think of cal? he's heavily inspired by another one of my oc's (from 'godly things'), so atp i think i'm obssessed with teasing/mischevious people 💔😩

[winxanity-ii]

The way an idea just popped up in my head should be illegal...

someone take my phone away, i have exams to study for 😭😭😭

A personal Charon design has been something in the corner of my mind for a while now and well finally decided on some stuff