#major content warnings

[nikolai-alexi]

TW: extensive self-harm descriptions (not the actual act, but a recollection of an incident regarding SH), descriptions of self inflicted scars (healed) of varying severity, this whole thing is really quite dark be warned, post The Prank™️, some somewhat toxic/possessive/codependent kinda vibes but it’s really just a teenager being a teenager and trying to navigate and understand falling in love without any example as to what that should be, I can’t be arsed to come up with a decent title or WC right now it’s something like 1300-1500 words

Jegulus Mini Fic #5

When Regulus and James first start dating in the early days of October, he ignores the slight tug his magic does at James’. He brushes the nagging feeling away, and doesn’t acknowledge the slight glimmer around James’ body when he catches sight of it every now and again. It must be a trick of the light or maybe Regulus is just a lovesick fool, because why in Merlin’s name would James Potter put on a glamour everyday?

But now it’s April and the air is muggy and hot, even at night. James has shrugged out of his jumper and is lounging backwards on his forearms, head tilted at the sky in an effort to catch some of the fickle breeze, eyes closed, quiet and still for the moment. His dark skin is illuminated by the moonlight and that’s what catches Regulus’ eye. There, curling around his wrist and spiralling up his arm, is the silver-blue thread of a glamour charm. He unconsciously reaches out with his own magic and gently probes the strand of magic. It’s a strong, concrete piece of charms work. Alarm bells start going off in Regulus’ mind. He pokes at it lightly with his own magic; he should be able to feel some kind of weakness in the charm, glamours are not strong, they wane and fade quickly unless they’re consistently reapplied, but even so, the charm should not be this strong.

“Leave it be, Regulus,”

The words are sharp, much sharper than James ever speaks to anyone, let alone Regulus, and he uses his full name. He tries to temper down the flare of hurt that wells in his chest and tries to focus. More alarm bells are ringing louder and louder in his head. Anxiety pools in his gut.

Regulus is hesitant to look away from that silver-blue thread and meet James’ stare but he needn’t worry. James hasn’t moved from his lounged position, but there’s an undercurrent of tension rolling through his body that wasn’t there before.

Regulus breathes out harshly, “James,” he starts. He wets his lips and tries to prepare himself, “Why are you wearing a glamour?”

“No reason you need to worry about, love,”James is rolling to his feet and leaving the Astronomy Tower before Regulus can even try to stop him. He watches him run away.

It goes on for weeks. Asking him why he has a glamour and getting either answers so full of hippogriff-shit that not even Lucius Malfoy could manage or getting James pissed off enough that he leaves the Tower all together. But tonight, there’s something different about James. He lacks his usual sparkle. Normally, he’s a vault of endless energy and chaos, but tonight he’s deathly still.

“Why are you wearing a glamour?” Regulus asks the same question he’s been asking since April and they’re nearly through May.

“I have a shit tattoo I want to hide,” James says, his voice is dull and tired, but it has a sardonic edge to it. Regulus might have laughed at the implication if it wasn’t for the anxiety coursing through him with the force of an angry encrumpet.

“Try again,” Regulus snaps, it’s the same response he’s had to this strange back and forth for the last three weeks.

“Regulus,” James’ voice is low and dark, if he didn’t look so miserable, Regulus would do sinful things to hear that low voice again, “You won’t like what you see. Just leave it. It doesn’t matter,”

Regulus moves forward so James has to look at him, “I like all parts of you,” he whispers, “Even the difficult ones,” then he corrects his statement, “Especially the difficult ones,”

“You matter to me, James Potter.” He doesn’t think he’s ever said something with that much conviction before. He knows there is very little he wouldn’t do for this man, which is something he will almost certainly panic about later. For now, he watches James’ face contort in a strange grimace and waits.

There are a variety of emotions that make themselves known across James’ face before he scrubs a hand down, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hands, and sighs heavily. He rests his forehead on the metal bannister and simply rolls his wrists outwards. Regulus makes a note to investigate his use of wandless and wordless magic later. The glamour disappears, and at first glance, Regulus doesn’t notice anything amiss. But then, he sees the careful way James angles his left forearm away from Regulus’ view and that his right arm has conveniently disappeared from view. He reaches forward slowly, giving James ample time to pull away from his touch if he wants to, and grabs his hand. His arm is rigid, stiff, and his hand trembles violently, but Regulus simply holds his hand for several minutes, he doesn’t push or pull on it, just holds his hand gently, cradles it like a precious, fragile gem. He brushes light touches across his fingers and back of his hand until some of the tension starts to slowly bleed out of him. When James starts to breathe normally again, not hyperventilating or holding his breath, Regulus steels himself and gently rolls James’ hand and wrist over. He can’t help the small gasp that escapes him at the sight in front of him.

James’ arm is littered in scars. Some of them look older, their marks almost faded completely, some are newer and bold, some are thick with raised skin surrounding them, some are thin with barely a brush of evidence left behind. He knows the other arm must be just as bad.

“James,” he breathes, his voice breaking, he wonders if the sound of his heart breaking is audible to anyone but him.

“Don’t.” James bites out. Regulus doesn’t know what exactly James is telling him not to do, but he doesn’t wait for an explanation.

He doesn’t see any fresh cuts on James arms, but he feels like he needs to ask, “Have you hurt yourself recently?” He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out quite so panicked, but it does. James looks pained when he hears it.

“No,” he says quietly, “it’s been a fair few months, I think,” Since I started coming here to the tower, goes unsaid, but Regulus thinks he hears it anyways.

“When did this start?” Regulus asks, he’s not sure he really wants to know the answer.

James looks away from him, but doesn’t pull his arm away from Regulus’ hands, and sighs again, “Second year,”

Regulus’ heart shatters at the admission, but he waits patiently for James to find his words. He can feel there’s more to this than just an answer to his question.

“I was having a panic attack, but I didn’t know what it was at the time, I couldn’t breathe and the lights felt too loud and everything was too much and then the fucking talking mirror decided to pipe up and I got so angry that I punched it. It shattered and I was bleeding all over the place and the lads panicked, came storming into the lav and Sirius rushed off to get Minnie. Remus and Pete dragged me to the hospital wing and all I could think about was how for just a minute, when the shards of glass cut into my hand, I didn’t feel numb anymore,” James looks lost in the memory, gaze far away and body tense, like he’s prepared to run at any moment.

“It started small. Only when things would get too overwhelming, it was easy to slip my penknife into my pocket and run to the lav for a few minutes. It was like a reset. The pain was grounding in a way. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was grounding. Kept me from flying out of my own skin. It gradually became a more frequent thing over the years, but easy enough to hide. Then last year, everything went to shit and I just couldn’t handle it,”

Last year was James’ sixth year, and something had happened between the infamous Marauders that left Sirius ostracised from the group for the majority of the year. The stress of his friends fighting and the anger he had at Sirius is what led to James coming up to the Astronomy Tower at all hours of the night, unable to sleep and needing to get out of his dorm where the tension was so thick and wound so tight you could probably cut it with a spoon. They’d grown close, despite Regulus’ reluctance, and had decided against all common sense and rational thought to throw caution to the wind. Nearly two terms have gone by now and Regulus can’t remember a time where he’s ever felt this happy and free. James never told Regulus what happened in his sixth year, he insisted it wasn’t his to say, but Regulus knew Sirius had to have done something monumentally stupid to get himself pushed out of the group like that. If James wasn’t talking to Sirius, something horrific must have happened. Regulus vividly remembers the toll it took on James. He looked like a zombie, barely ate, barely spoke to anyone other than Regulus, and spent so much energy in trying to keep the peace as much as he could that when he finally crashed from the exhaustion and stress, he slept for thirty-seven hours straight.

“It started spiralling. Everything was falling apart, I was sneaking away more and more and the penknife wasn’t enough anymore. I broke another mirror and snagged a shard of it before repairing it, that’s these here,” James points to a group of scars that are different from the others.

Most of his scars are in neat, careful lines, like he had measured them out deliberately, but the ones made by the mirror shard are jagged, puffy things. They were thinner in some places, thicker in others, and pink where the skin hadn’t come back together quite right. They were painful to look at.

“Then I fucked up rather monumentally,” James says quietly. He rolls his left arm over more so Regulus can see the mass of scarring and raised tissue in the crook of his elbow. It makes Regulus slightly queasy to look at, but he refuses to look away, “I wasn’t really thinking clearly, I just needed something that felt like I had any sort of control over, and Moony came back to the dorm earlier than I expected and smelt the blood through the door. I tried to heal it too fast and cover it up, but I’d lost so much blood that I fainted when I stood up and bashed my head on the basin and well. This is what’s left. I don’t know if Remus knows or if he just got me to Madame Pomfrey or what, but we’ve never spoken about it, so,” he just shrugs, not really looking at anything, just lost in his own head.

Regulus can’t help but be both grateful for and resentful of Remus Lupin in this moment, because he shudders to think about what might have happened if he hadn’t come back to the dorm when he did, but there was no way that he didn’t understand what was happening the second he walked in on the scene, so what the fuck was up with just dismissing it like nothing happened? He doesn’t understand how Lupin wouldn’t have noticed it. Surely, James can’t hold the Glamour up every second of the day? If this has been going on for five whole years, surely he must have noticed? Right? How else would he explain the scene he’d walked in on that day?

But…if he had noticed, that would mean Lupin deliberately ignored him, ignored the signs, ignored him basically begging for help. He doesn’t have a very high opinion of James’ friends, but Lupin doesn’t seem the type to do something like that, especially to his best friend. But how could anyone not notice the sun dimming? How could you not see it hide behind the clouds or disappear behind the trees? How did they not see James suffering for five years alone and in silence?

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Regulus whispers.

He knows the question is a bit hypocritical of him; he wouldn’t tell anyone about his mother shifting her more violent proclivities onto him after Sirius left until James all but dragged it out of him. He doesn’t fault James for being quiet about his struggles, but he knows his own reasons and James’ reasons for keeping quiet about things are very different. James frequently jokes about being his friends’ live-in therapist. Everyone tells, and trusts, James with their issues and their feelings. If anyone needs a shoulder to cry on, James is there. If they need advice, James is there. If they need a hug, James is there. If they need someone to punch a motherfucker into next week, James is there. But at the end of the day, who is there for James? Regulus would have thought it would be Sirius, waiting in the wings ready to put James’ pieces back together like he did for Regulus when they were young. But for five years, James has been carving up his skin like a Yuletide dinner goose and no one, not even Sirius, has been there to put his pieces back together.

There’s a long, seemingly endless silence and the tension is thick in the air, but Regulus simply waits. He won’t force an explanation out of James, he doesn’t really need him to explain if he doesn’t want to, but he wants to understand, if James will let him. He wants to be here for James, to let him have a space where he can say the words he needs to get off his chest. He wants to be the safe place where James can run to and avoid the stormy weather in his mind, instead of turning to a blade. He wants all of James. Every part of him that make him whole. He wants the darkness that comes with the bright light of the sun. He wants to see that darkness and embrace it with the same vigor he does to the light. He wants James to know that he will accept and cherish every piece and part of him that he wants to share. If he shatters, Regulus will simply gather all his pieces, open his own chest, and keep them cradled safely in his heart until they can be put back together. If James feels as though his heart cannot keep beating, Regulus will make his own beat enough for them both. If James feels like the world is caving in around him, Regulus will find a way to hold it up for him. Regulus will stop at nothing to keep James safe. He’ll obliterate the Dumbledore, the Dark Lord and every Death Eater himself if he has to. He’ll raze the Ministry to the ground if that’s what he needs to do. He’ll look Sirius in the eye and tell him he’s in love with the “brother” he replaced Regulus with if that means James will be safe and happy and loved.

He doesn’t know if this feeling is love; he’s never experienced that before, but he doesn’t shy away from the feeling that courses through his veins. If this is what love feels like, if the desire to do anything to keep that person safe, no matter the cost, is love, he thinks he understands why people lose their minds over it. All he knows is that if James is not in his life, he will simply go mad. There will be no Regulus if there is no James. James is the tether, the lighthouse, the sun, and the compass that keeps Regulus here in each moment, with his feet firmly planted on the Earth. Regulus decides he will become the pole the tether is tied to, the seaside cliff the lighthouse rests upon, the moon that pushes the sun in the right direction when it tires, and the housing the compass sits in. Wherever and whatever James is, Regulus will be there for him, supporting him and encasing him with safety and strength when he can’t find it on his own.

The silence is broken by a hoarse, broken laugh from James, a half-hearted shrug, and a wobbly, “Because no one has ever asked,”

And by the grace of Merlin, Morgana, and every last one of the thrice-be-damned Saints, Regulus will make sure James will always have someone to ask from this moment on.

He doesn’t even think about his own discomfort when he gathers James’ shaking form in his arms and pulls him tightly against his body. He just rocks back and forth, keeping James’ messy, untameable hair tucked underneath his chin, his ear pressed against his chest where James can feel his heartbeat, and whispers sweet words into the night’s air.

“I will always ask,” he says quietly, when James’ sobs have mostly subsided, “No matter what, I will always ask,”

#regulus black #james potter #marauders era #jegulus #mini fic #Jegulus ​angst #major content warnings #quote inspired mini fic

[ofmermaidstories]

You are five when your Quirk manifests for the first time, with Rinchan.

‼️📍 content warnings: implied major character death, death in general, in a myriad of ways (falling, head trauma, old age, drowning, suicide), im a little graphic for emphasis, grief and mourning. there’s also some light smut and implied underage sex.

Rinchan. Rinchan who watches you while your mother goes to work. Rinchan with her big, soft, crepe-paper arms; who holds you in them for as long as you want, singing you songs as she shells peas into a metal bowl—you clinging to her, placid as a koala, your legs dangling over her lap. Rinchan who is probably your most favourite person in the entire world—the entire world being your neighbourhood and your school and the nearby park, overgrown, and the overwhelming shopping centre a car ride away.

Rinchan. Rinchan. Rinchan who, when you are five, starts appearing before you naked and wet, her face covered in blood.

The first time it happens she’s still alive; the sizzle of her cooking coming from the kitchen just behind you as you sit on the floor with a pile of milk-chews in front of you, staring in frozen horror at this other her—shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O, everything about her soft and sagging.

You make a tiny noise—fear, caught in your throat, a baby mouse curled up—and then Rinchan, your Rinchan, Rinchan alive and warm and dry, calls out, “Are you okay, Baby?”

The Other Rinchan’s mouth stretches open further, like it recognises her—like it’s trying to say something back and you—

You wail in answer, scrabbling at Rinchan (living, alive) when she flys in, concerned, asking, “What? What? What is it? What’s wrong?” her soft crepe-paper arms around you tight as you sob into her neck.

She’s bewildered and a little frightened herself; but she hums as she rocks you, a warm hand stroking your back, soothing you both until your sobs are little more than wet snuffling, your hand curling into the fabric of her dress.

You loved her. You love her, still, after all this time. But that love doesn’t save either of you, and you are haunted by the other Rinchan for the rest of that awful summer: in the park, with your friends, Rinchan watching, mouth agape, from the bushes. Walking home, hand-in-hand with your mother, Rinchan behind you. Alone in your bedroom, at night, Rinchan standing over you as you watch the water drip down her skin. You start wetting yourself with the fear, whenever it happens—a response that quickly loses you those parkside friends and worries your mother and living Rinchan sick, the pair of them whispering about you when they think you can’t hear, their fear—your fear—condemning you to pull-ups, like a giant baby.

It doesn’t stop the end from coming.

Rin dies just before Halloween, when the shops are filled with green-faced witches and plastic skeletons that rattle and can’t frighten you, anymore. She dies alone, at night. A fall in the shower, your mother tells you in a whisper a couple of days later, red-eyed. You knew enough by then to be able to picture it: Rin, shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O—her face covered in blood.

Your mother holds your hand at her funeral, too tight, and you cling back and say nothing.

The other Rinchan never comes back. Rin never comes back—cannot come back, no matter how much you love her.

Others do, though.

It’s a parade of the dead, shuffling forward to a dirge only you can hear. You learn, over time, that it’s specific to people you either know or will come to know—people you have some kind of tie to, some bond, good or bad. When you are fifteen it’s your homeroom teacher Miss Aoki: her head and shoulder caved in, her right eye bulging out at you, unseeing. You’d been drinking a bottle of milk-tea when she arrived, the blood stark and jewel-like in the daylight. You do not touch milk-tea for ages, afterwards.

You no longer wet yourself in fear, but you cannot look your teacher in the eye for weeks—it ruins everything. You stop pausing after homeroom to talk to her, stop sharing the music that brought you together, unable to face her, unable to face the bemusement and then the tiny flashes of hurt.

You cannot warn her. What would you warn her about? The trauma to her head could’ve been a fall, or some kind of rock—an accident or murder. And even if you knew, even if you could pinpoint it, she would not believe you. You know that because you had tried, with the ghost after Rinchan—with Yochan. Yochan, a boy from your neighbourhood and once, once before your Quirk had come, a boy you had followed around like a guiding star. You and all the other kids, faithful to him above all. But when your Quirk came and you got weird, he got mean.

“You’re a stupid piss-baby!” He’d shout at you, cackling. The other kids hung back, unsure of how to treat you—and this was how you saw him, the other him, standing behind the others with a swollen, awful face, his Endeavour shirt stained with a creamsicle, his eyes disappeared under the red, weeping slits of an allergic reaction.

You tried. You tried.

“Yochan,” you’d whisper, “please—”

His face would twist in disgust though, any time you came near him. “Freak!” he’d hiss. “Piss-baby! Get lost!”

He’d run away, then, laughing to himself and telling everyone that you had threatened him (“Piss Baby wants me dead!”)—and you had shut into yourself more, haunted by the agonised version of him that only you could see, that would stand there in your bedroom and twitch, the last throes of death.

It came for him, eventually. More than half a year later, during a game of softball where he’d knocked over a wasp nest and stomped over to it, the others too scared.

(The teacher explains it in class the following week and you sit there, in your seat by the window, untouched by the light. Empty.

Miss Aoki dies during the war, caught in the shadow of a collapsing building. You go to her service without your mother to hold your hand, and pray for forgiveness.)

You can map your life by the bodies that follow you. A year after after Miss Aoki it’s Hiroe: the tiny, fierce old woman down the street who grumbles at you every morning. When her doppleganger appears across the street from the pair of you, thin and wan and gasping as the hospital gown slips off her shoulders, the living her angrily talking about her carnations, the only thing you feel is relief. She’ll be in hospital—someone will be with her. It won’t be alone in a shower, or sprawled out on her kitchen floor, blood pooling under her. It’ll be death, still, leeching the life out of a woman who pertly tells you that the colour of your coat doesn’t suit you, but it’ll better than some of the lonely things you’ve seen, you live with.

(But it’s not better at all. Hiroe’s son works too hard, his hours too long in the aftermath of the war, helping the restoration. You visit her after school, bright flowers in hand and some of the colour returns to her face as she complains that you’re already dressing her altar, but her son is never there—and she dies alone, during the night, gasping for breath.)

You’re cursed, you think; cursed to see death everywhere you go, in everyone you know. And then you meet Kouki and realise that your curse smears over your future, too.

Kouki. Kouki with his brilliant red hair, like autumn leaves in the sunlight. Kouki who laughed easily, who would evenutally come to keep his pocket full of those old-fashioned milk-chews, just for you. Kouki, who, before you meet him alive, you meet dead—floating mid-air before you during your walk home one night, his hair dancing around his face, his eyes unseeing as his mouth opens and closes, gulping for air that isn’t there.

You are seventeen by this stage. It had been a hard couple of years with Miss Aoki, with the war, with Hiroe. Kouki appears before you under a streetlamp and you drop your schoolbag, your throat siezing.

“Don’t,” you say to this corpse of a boy you haven’t met, yet. “Don’t—don’t you dare do this to me.”

He opens his mouth; a tiny silver fish darts out and you burst into tears, overwhelmed, your new ghost lingering with you as you sob on the street, alone in the night. You don’t even know him. You don’t even know him.

He transfers to your senior class at the end of the month.

By then you had gotten used to the vision of him, numbly, the drowned boy following you around like a harmless stray—keeping you company on your walks home from your part-time job. You had sat with him as he floated, you solidly on the ledge of a park, unwrapping milk-chews and staring out at the dark before you, undaunted and unafraid, the most haunted thing there as his tiny fish flittered about him, again and again, on loop.

And then he walks into class that first day, and you are—you are frozen, even as he grins at you, bright and undaunted and alive.

“Hey,” he says after class, too interested and too friendly. “You look a little frightened—you good?”

Considering you had woken up that morning to his vestige floating at the foot of your bed, you most certainly were not good. What you say instead though is a curt, “I’m fine,” which proves to be mistake.

His eyes—big and blue—brighten at the challenge, and he grins.

“Fujita Kouki,” he introduces himself. “What’s your name?”

In the daylight, the light of the living where he can soak in the sun and return it, Kouki’s—Fujita’s—eyes are warm, not the milky colour you’ve been haunted with. You should walk away, you think desperately, wavering; you should retreat immediately. But the daylight is seductive. You are seventeen and it has a been a hard year and you are tired of being afraid.

Your lips part, even as you hesitate. But when you give him your name, his smile widens, and it almost—almost—chases the ghosts away.

Kouki quickly becomes your best friend.

Best friend is not the right term; it’s not fair to him and what you know about him. It doesn’t capture the horror of seeing him walk into your classroom that first day, nor the fear that follows you when he’s late to meeting up, or stays home from school because of a cold, because he’s bored. But—

He’s easy going. Refreshing, like cold, sparkling lemonade in the hot sun. He’s friendly and quickly becomes popular with so many of the others in your class and he wants to—he wants to hang out with you, walk you home. With Kouki you’re not the Silent Weirdo that never interacts with anyone. With Kouki you laugh—all the time, like all he wants to do is make you happy. He fills his pockets with those milk-chews and walks with you in the evenings, pushing his bike alongside you, telling you about the way his little brother terrorises his parents and how his father has been wanting to go on a vacation for years, now—and you let him. You let him become apart of your life, you let him walk you home. You let him sink into everything you know, into your pores, the fabric of who you are. He’s the good morning lets gooo texts before you meet up for school. He’s the warmth against you as you sit side-by-side on your park ledge, no longer the most haunted thing in the dark but what you should have always been: just a kid, sitting with a friend. Being with Kouki is easy, too easy. You no longer see the ghost of him—suspended in midair, his silver fish. You just see him, have him—Kouki, alive, chuckling to himself as he hands you another milk-chew.

“My dad’s finally free,” he tells you one night. You’re sitting on your ledge, mouth full of the creamy chews—Kouki (living) before you, lingering close.

“Mmph?” You question, unable to quite pry your jaw open enough for real words.

Kouki laughs like you had said something funny, and despite yourself your stomach flips, pleased to hear it. He’d been subdued; unusually quiet, had been since lunch that day, when Keichan had confessed her feelings to him in front of everyone. Keichan was pretty, effervescent—she laughed like he did, easily and among others who sparkled with her attention. On paper they were a perfect match and you almost wanted it—you wanted Kouki to be happy, however it happened. For as long as he could be.

But he had said no. You, sitting on the edges of the yard and picking at the grass, had been unable to help but watch in the same horrified, fascinated fear as everyone else, all of you silent. Keichan’s pretty face—shocked. Kouki’s red hair shinning brilliantly like fire, as he shook his head.

“Sorry,” he’d said, not sounding the least bit contrite. “I just—I don’t want that.”

In the evening gloom, he nudges your knee.

“The old man’s finally got that time off he wanted,” Kouki explains. You nod, swallowing your chews and trying to ignore how he moves forward—bracketing you, where you sit. “He wants to go fishing.”

“Oh,” you say, a little uselessly. Kouki’s hands are either side of you, distracting—the space between you warm, as he dips his head in closer.

You still. He’s always crowded your space but tonight in the silver light his face—normally so open, light—is afraid.

“You never tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, low, and you shake your head, emptied of words. It wasn’t true—you told him about the books you read, the songs you heard. The way you liked cupping sunlight in your hands because it made them glow, made you feel like you had a different Quirk entirely. You had never told anyone else that.

Kouki’s eyebrows tighten; pull. Frustrated, maybe, even as his hand balls itself into your skirt.

It pulls you closer to him, just a little. Your hand comes up between you—your fingers tracing the fold of his jacket pocket.

“You smell like those milkchews,” he whispers, and your heart is in your throat even as your lips part, his parting in echo as he watches them—

—and you don’t know who pulls who in first but then you are kissing, a hand cupping your face, anchoring you to the moment, to him as your fist tightens into his jacket. You sigh into the cool of his mouth and can almost taste the way he smiles before he presses in harder, hungry.

He pulls away after a moment; only to press more kisses, soft and careful, against your mouth, your nose, your cheek, laughing when you make a tiny, annoyed noise.

“You’re dumb,” he tells you, low, pressing another kiss against your hair, and then another. “And I’m gonna take you out and watch you eat those dumb sweets and make you tell me everything you’re thinking, forever. Until you’re sick of me.”

Your heart lurches. Forever.

“I could never be sick of you,” you tell him, the ache reopening inside of you.

Kouki grins, pleased and so, so alive; his brilliance softening to a glow as he dips his face close again, tracing your nose with his.

“I mean it,” he says, quiet. Promising. “You’re gonna have to chase me off.”

You try to stay in the warmth of him, the light and life, clutching at him, letting him kiss you again, soft.

But there’s a sob in your throat. And when you open your eyes, breathing in as Kouki kisses your jaw, your neck, his spectre is there—mouth gaping open, as a tiny, silver fish darts out.

(You beg him not to go, when his father announces the boat he’s rented, for his fishing trip. The man’s never been out on one before. Kouki has never seen your desperation, your fear, not like this and he almost stays, brows furrowed—but his little brother is excited. His father too. He buys all three of them matching fishing hats.

“It’s okay,” he whispers against the back of your neck, when you’re curled up together in your tiny, childhood bed. The house is quiet; you have it to yourselves, the sunlight dappling in your room, filtered through the tree outside. “I’m a good swimmer. Don’t worry.”

He presses a kiss against your shoulder, his fingers slow, tracing figures in the wet touch of your underwear. You breathe him in and to reassure yourself he’s right, that he will be okay, that you will always have this.

He’s gone by the following week. A storm. Kouki was right—he was a good swimmer. But his little brother wasn’t, and the love that made him go in the first place was the same love that made him search for him, endlessly, after their boat was capsized.

You go to the joint service. Kouki, his father, his little brother. His mother is held together by an older woman, desolate. In a row in front Keichan cries silent tears but you—

You stand there and you stare at Kouki’s portrait, his smiling face. He will never again soak in the sunlight and reflect it He will never again wait for you, his pockets filled with your favourite sweets. He will never again kiss you, with the cool press of his lips, the taste of his laugh behind them.

Fujita Kouki is gone. He is gone, slipping away—taking the you who believed in hope and a future where you could be happy with him.)

The years slip away. One, then two, then three and then four and then five. You move to a bigger city; and then you move again. You work in offices, department stores, a warehouse once, washing carrots—anything that will pay you, pay the bills. You keep to yourself and your coworkers lose interest in trying to keep up small talk with you and you don’t form any kind of tie, good or bad, that could manifest before you, rattling in death.

Kouki would never forgive you for this bleak existence, you think, if he could see it. But wherever he is it’s not with you, not on this plane, and so you keep your head down and when one of your ghosts does come to you, you grit your teeth and ignore it.

Even in isolation, they find a way to haunt you. You start seeing the clerk from the 7/11 you stop in to and from work, his neck snapped, and you avoid the store for three weeks before telling yourself it was stupid of you, that maybe you could say something—only to find someone else there, when you walk in, the guy already replaced.

The new hire at the office you work at starts appearing before you, swinging, his throat and face mottled as hands claw at a rope that’s not there and you—you thank him when he brings you a coffee, and try to be a little kinder, try to watch as he blends in with the others, laughs among them, the crack underneath his smile not showing.

He bungles a client, six months into working there. Your boss chews him out in front of everyone, the guy taking it with a silent, shame-faced nod, and when you try to say, “You worked hard, mistakes can happen to anyone—” he only bows hurriedly, already backing away.

(he doesn’t come back, and two weeks later his desk is cleared.)

Head down, keep to yourself. Another year passes. And then another. And then your curse rears its ugly head one final, terrible time.

You are waiting for the lights to change in the middle of a busy street, on a cold, bright afternoon, when you first see him.

You’re not paying attention; staring into the crowd on the other side of the street, thinking about what you had in the fridge at home and then he’s there, in your line of sight, his face twisting in fury, in grief, as he reaches out, shouting something—

And then there’s a flash of light, blinding and sharp and he is gone, startling you even as the crosswalk starts to sing, people moving around you like water around a stone as your heart races.

No, you think weakly. No. Not again.

He doesn’t return and you stand there, in the same spot, even as the crosswalk blinks back to red.

All your life, your Quirk has worked one way: showing you the death of someone you already knew, for better or for worse. Not someone famous, not a stranger. Kouki had been an—anomaly, you thought, desperate. Some freak tie. Japan had gone through so much in those years during and after the war: reports of abnormal adolescent Quirk growth had spiked, at its worse. You had always thought that maybe yours had been apart of that, that that’s what Kouki’s ghost had been. A result of stress, or your loneliness. Something, anything. And you’d only grown more sure of it when it didn’t repeat—

Until now.

You get home that night and in a fit of anger tear through everything, up end it all. Your clothes, out from the wardrobe or the basket, strewn along the floor. Your pots, clattering thunderously throughout your kitchen. You scream, pitching book after book across the room at your couch, the covers bending, pages tearing. You wouldn’t go through it again, you wouldn’t—

You curl up against your kitchen island, sobbing. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t do this. Not again. Not ever again.

(But your heart’s already sinking. Already tender with the hurt, remembered and preemptive. His hair had been golden in the light—like winter sun.

When your hiccups calm, you look up—and he is standing over you, his face twisting again. You shut your eyes but the flash is bright, even then. Nuclear.

When you open them, he’s gone.

“Please,” you whisper to your empty apartment. “Please don’t do this to me.”

But it’s only the silence that answers you, the absence of mercy or comfort and you shudder, your tears nothing but salt in your mouth.)

Your plan, eventually, is simple: just ignore your newest ghost, when you finally meet him.

It should be easy. Even though he was a Pro-Hero he was also a famous one—and how often did you run into famous Pro-Heroes? They always had something to defend, always had someone to save. You just had to keep living your life, squarely and safe and you would be fine. You would skirt past each other and he would live or die just however a Pro Hero should.

A month passes. And then another. You begin to think maybe you’re safe; and then you’re not.

“If everyone can line up, then that’ll make everything go smoother,” your boss calls out, echoed throughout the office. Below on the street is the firetruck—overseeing the drill. You peer over the ledge of the window in worry, trying to count the firefighters out: seven that you could see. If you saw anymore than that while out on the street you were just going to close your eyes and wait it out.

Your boss calls your name—and when you glance to him, startled, he gestures with his megaphone, sheepish.

“Can you run and grab my laptop case for me?” he asks, already half out the door. “You’re closer, and I have a feeling we’ll be down there for a while.”

“Yeah,” you say, already standing. You leave your own things at your desk—as you’re meant to—and dart to his office, partitioned by glass. When you turn around, the case in hand, the office is empty—your boss’s megaphone calling out down the hall, down the stairway, leaving you alone in the wake of it.

You go to the window again, to count the firefighters. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—

You freeze. There’s an eighth figure there, standing solidly with them, talking, his arms crossed. A Pro Hero—dressed in black, with bright orange details.

Your ghost, you think in alarm.

He looks up at the window and you jerk away, startled. He shouldn’t be able to see—the glass was tinted—but his face is suspicious and you clutch your boss’s case to you tighter, heart thumping.

Don’t give him a reason to single you out, you think desperately—you hurry to join the others but they have left you on an empty floor, already making their way down the three flights quickly, leaving you and your noisy footfall as you race down the emergency stairs—only to have the door to the lobby thrown open roughly before you could even reach it.

It bangs against the wall; leaving you to stare in silence as he fills the doorway fully, glowering, stopping you in your tracks.

“The hell?” He asks you, roughly. Under his mask his eyes flicker over you, over the case in your hands, unimpressed. “Why didn’t you evacuate with the others?”

You can only shake your head, tucking your hands around the case tighter. Even having his spectre repeat and repeat in front of you—it doesn’t compare to the space and heat of him in the flesh, taking up a doorway. He’s more solid now, more real and when he shifts, just a fraction, you step back in fright.

Something his eyes—ink red under his mask—don’t miss, narrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and mercifully your voice is calm. “I had to grab something.”

“You ain’t meant to take anything,” he points out, barely civil, and you duck your head into a nod—his jaw tightening in response.

You’d rather this, you think, wincing. The brittle patience, barely hiding his rippling irritation. Anything was better than the despair that’d been playing over and over in front of you.

Pro Hero Dynamight—Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight—scowls at you, jerking behind him. “The extra with the megaphone is doin’ roll call.”

He means your boss. You look at him, curious, and his mouth tightens. It doesn’t thin the curve of his lips, though, and when you realise you’ve noticed that—

You hold your boss’s laptop closer. “Okay,” you say, meaninglessly.

Dynamight only moves out of the way when you go to squeeze past him, your jacket catching against his suit as he grunts.

“Wait,” he commands, annoyed. You stare ahead and will everything within your mind to empty as he pulls you free from the catch of one of his grenades—you mutter a thank-you and don’t look back as you hurry to the glass doors, the light, the open outside away from him and the heat of his space.

(You hide behind your coworkers as your boss commends everyone for their examplumery speed and when one of the firefighters steps forward to walk everyone through the basic dangers of an office building fire it’s Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight who stands behind him, solid and real and flinty eyed, as he stares everyone down. Someone in front of you giggles; he glares at her until she stops, bowing her head in shame and letting him look directly at—

You. Standing at the back.

His mask moves; his eyebrow raised. You lift yours in a helpless, silent, question. He frowns, like you’re speaking two different languages and morosely you think to yourself, so much for not giving him a reason to single you out.)

It’s just one off-chance meeting, you tell yourself. Just a weird little moment to establish something there, and make you feel a little guilty when you hear about his death on the news.

Only—

Only it keeps happening.

Perhaps it’s your karma, for never saying anything to the ghosts that had followed you. Or maybe it’s one last laugh from Kouki, his evil delight in teasing you manifested. Maybe it’s just plain old bad luck—but whatever it was, it meant you kept running into Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight over and over again, humiliation on repeat.

He’s—there, in his Pro-Hero gear, at the konbini you get your morning coffee, scowling as the cashier stammers through the burglary you’d only just missed. He’s—crouching amid a group of excitable kids, his grin for them sudden and sharp and bright, distracting even in the middle of a busy street. He’s—walking past you as you startle, safely tucked away into a coffee shop as he patrols past, barely sparing the café window a glance.

He is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. And in turn his ghost is too: the blinding flash in your mirror, as you try to brush your teeth, squinting. The nuclear eruption that startles you awake, in the darkness of your room. The silent twist of his face as he reaches out to you, over your counter as you eat your cereal.

It’s worse than it was with Kouki, you think bitterly. When Kouki the living appeared in your life, Kouki the ghost receded. Now you were just being haunted on both ends, both versions just as fleeting as the other.

Your only consolation is that you are, truly, a nobody to him. Just another face amid a city full of them. For all the tiny run-ins, the awful timing, you manage to wriggle away quickly, without attention—or so you’d thought.

You’re walking home under the city dusk: a universe of lights below you as you trek up the winding path that leads home. Work had been awful. You’d seen your vision of Dynamight no less than three seperate times that day, the furious twist of his face, his silent shouting—his disappearing. He was taking you with him, you thought in despair. No other ghost of yours had been so persistent. Distracted, you’d bought a supermarket bento for dinner—some nectarines, for dessert. As you walked the bag swung low and slow, too flimsy; when it splits everything in it splatters, and tumbles.

You swear, skidding as you try to chase the fruit, rolling away as they gain speed—

Stopped by a black boot, it’s orange detailing almost glowing as it scuffs along the ground, blocking them.

Everything within you settles; flattens as you straighten.

Under his mask, Dynamight arches in an eyebrow.

“You good?” He asks.

You shrug, and hold up the remnants of your plastic bag—drifting like a bride’s veil, between you.

The Pro-Hero tsks, crouching, picking up your nectarines. “Weak crap.”

In the twilight the black of his uniform makes him a dark void—until he stands again, holding out your fruit to you. You frown, and watch him mirror it, his wide mouth turning down, unhappily.

“You afraid of me, or somethin’?” He asks, rough. His face is pinched—it makes him look like a little kid, trying to tough out a pout and your stomach squeezes with the guilt. The last anyone would see of him would be a flash of light—and then Japan’s dynamite, Japan’s explosive anger, would be gone forever.

And here you were—making him feel bad in what could, quite possibly, be his last days.

“No,” you admit, opening your handbag to take back the nectarines. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He squints at you, disbelieving.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Then why do you keep runnin’ away like you’ve shit yourself?”

Oh, you think, he’s disgusting.

“I do not,” you say instead, crossly, dropping to the ground grab the remains of your bento.

Dynamight grunts in dismissal. “Yeah you do. Every time I’m walkin’ down a street, or I have to drop into some shitty little place—you’re there, turning tail. If you ain’t on laxatives and you ain’t afraid, then what is it?”

“I’m prejudiced against all Pro-Heroes,” you tell him, stoutly. “And you keep foiling my plans for world domination. Why do you notice, anyway? Why are you here?”

His boots scrape against the path, suddenly loud between you, as he moves in closer.

“‘M on patrol,” he tells you. “It’s my job on patrol to notice weirdoes—and you’ve been the weirdest.”

“Congratulations!” you tell him sourly, skittering around the solid wall of his presence to a nearby trash can. It’s already overflowing, but you squeeze your own rubbish in and turn back to the Pro, as much apart of the world around you as the dark undergrowth of the pathway, or the city lights behind him.

He’s so real, you think angrily. And in days, weeks—maybe months, if he was lucky—he’d be gone, just like that.

“Now what?” You ask him, ask yourself. “What happens now?”

Below, a train screeches past. Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight shrugs, indifferent.

“Depends,” he says. “You gonna keep being weird?”

You almost laugh. You don’t, though, holding your handbag with your nectarines closer. You are standing in the last, dark moments of a twilight world with a man who will die, God knew when—weird was probably the least you could be.

“Maybe,” you say instead. “I haven’t decided yet.”

The Pro-Hero shrugs again. “Then I do my job, and keep an eye on ya.”

He’s not looking at you when he says it, shifting awkwardly like a school boy and you—

You let your shoulders sag. You are an adult, no longer seventeen—but has been a hard life, and you are tired. Tired of being afraid. Of always being at the edges of your own life.

“Okay,” you tell him, tell yourself. Tell your ghosts, wherever they’re gathered. “I surrender.”

Dynamight snorts, kicking out a loose gravel and when he glances back to you his face has softened from its suspicion—waiting, instead.

A new pattern starts.

He walks past the coffee shop when you’re there and squints at you—acknowledgement you return with the ugliest face you can manage, the woman at the table across from you snorting into her mug.

You walk past him one weekend, surrounded by fans, and he looks up and sees you—bright eyes flickering over the fizzing orange juice in your hand, your wide sunhat, not hiding the startled surprise on your face—and grunts at the kids around him, holding up his hand as he tries to squeeze out, to you.

“Your hat makes you look like a frilly grandma,” he complains, loudly, as the fans follow him, encircling you both.

“I like your hat!” One girl says, brightly. She’s wearing a GEMG:D shirt with his scowling face under his title scrawl; you touch the brim of your hat, self-consciously.

“Thanks,” you say, self-conscious. She beams at you, even as Dynamight starts jabbing at you, trying to get you to move.

“I gotta get grandma home,” he tells everyone, as the group groans. “S’gotta have that nanna nap.”

You let him bully you. You let him pick you out, every time you cross paths. You don’t fight it—and when you start seeing him out of his Pro-Hero gear, his weaponry, your heart tightens in on itself in warning.

“You hungry?” He asks you, one evening. You’d been walking together, the pair of you having finished work at the same time; you in your neat, office wear, your leather handbag. Dynamight in sweats, a loose shirt, a dufflebag over his shoulder.

The sky above you is pink, the moon a silver crescent. A manga moon, you think to yourself; overlooking a love story.

“Yeah,” you answer him, eventually. “I’m starving.”

He nods, resolutely not looking at you—though when you glance at him his jaw tightens, head turning away.

“Denimhead introduced me to a place near here,” he says, gruffly. “They’re decent, ain’t wankers. And they’re cheap. Private.”

He should be doing this with anyone else, you thought to yourself, desperately, watching your shoes. Anyone. Someone who wouldn’t be counting down the days, the weeks, the months.

“I’d like that,” you say instead, softer. “I’d like to go.”

He doesn’t risk looking at you but his smooth face reddens, even as he passes a large hand over the back of his neck, like he could rub the colour out.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s go then.”

It’s a bistro; a tiny pocket of a place only marked by a single, hanging sign of a smiling cow, the sizzle of steak permeating the alleyway. Inside the lights are low—Dynamight stands back to let you sit at the bar first, watching hawkishly, before he follows, the bartender smiling at you both.

“They gotta menu,” he says, nodding to the mirror behind the bar, where a sparse few dishes are written. “Otherwise if ya trust me I can—I can suggest shit.”

His gaze flickers over your face as you watch him in turn. He was so—here. Alive. With every tiny movement—the draw back of his elbow, the flex of his hand—you feel it, too aware.

“I trust you,” you tell him.

He grins—sudden and pointed and startling a smile out of you too, even as you try to bite it back.

(He orders blistered tomatoes, the size of doll heads, dressed in olive oil and a sweet fig vinegar, a soft cheese that bursts over them. There’s toasted baguette—slathered with bone marrow, garlic butter. There’s steak cut like it’s been shared among cavemen, several inches thick and still on the bone, bleeding even as it sizzles. The bartender puts down a little plate of fine, perfectly ruffled pasta in front of you; dressed in pesto, charred greens, tiny flowers and you have to share it with your Pro-Hero, who’s nose wrinkles when you try to offer him a speared garnish.

He is warm and he is close and he smells like the char of a grill and soap and a sweet wood layered over warm skin and neither of you move to touch each other—

But his leg presses against yours, and stays. Your hand slips over his by accident as you move to help yourself to dessert, a soft creamy dish with fruit—and he turns his palm up, catching it. Squeezing your fingers for a brief moment before letting them go, unmooring you only to anchor you again when you walk side-by-side, back to the train station, the warmth of him reassuring, and inescapable.)

Days. Weeks. Months.

You walk together, have dinner sometimes, lunch others. He complains about the other Heroes he works with; you listen, side-eyeing him when he then mentions feeding them, making meals at the agency because everyone was useless—

He doesn’t poke at you to talk, but you start sharing anyway. The book in your handbag; the gossip the others at the office always had.

“Tell ‘em to either deal with it or shut up,” he suggests, and you laugh despite yourself.

Days. Weeks. Months.

He goes away on a mission across the country—after a villain the news was calling Hazard. He’d been responsible for the complete destruction, the levelling, of a factory, a shopping centre, slipping away before anyone could scramble through the rumble and detain him. It rains the entire time Dynamight is gone, leaving you to walk home alone, an umbrella over you, as the news loops over about flood warnings.

(When he comes back it’s an overcast day; finally dry. He’s waiting for you at your usual crossroad, now, and when you see him you smile, his eyes following the curve of it before flickering over you.

“You good?” He asks.

“Better now that you’re back,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

You were. You had stayed up every night he was gone, on your phone—watching the news, the tags, waiting for his name to appear, footage of the flash that would take him. There’d been nothing; no arrests, no collision.

But your Pro-Hero’s face softens, just slight, and you realise that he’d read something else in it when he says, low, “Yeah. I get it.”

Days, weeks, months. Your heart thumps to it, reminding you and nervously, you shift away.

“Are you hungry?” You ask, wanting to fill the space between you with anything else.

He watches you skitter away, trying to encourage him to move; his eyes ruby.

“Yeah,” he repeats and in relief you turn away, all too aware of his stare, at the back of your head.)

Days. Weeks. When you finally kiss it’s at his table, in his home; empty plates in front of you.

“I think this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” you tell him honestly, quietly, the smears of your tiramisu the only remains as you stand, to take your plate to the kitchen.

“You’re always tryna—dart away,” he says suddenly, still sitting.

You startle at the look on his face—serious, soft mouth trying not to pout.

“I just—I just want to help with the dishes,” you say, but his brow furrows, pinched, and when he stands it’s carefully, slow, the coiled draw of a bow that shivers, waiting.

“I can’t get a read on you,” he admits to the quiet, his knuckles against the table. “Can’t—guess at whatever’s goin’ on in that squirrelly head of yours.”

You swallow, and run your hand across your forearm, too aware of the soft edges of your sleeves, of your Pro-Hero following your fingers.

“There’s nothing,” you whisper, and he snorts; boyish, disbelieving. It makes him less of a threat and more of a man—real, living, breathing, with his own thoughts and his own feelings.

“Like hell there is,” he swears, stepping closer. It brings his warmth in; the smell of coffee, of his cologne, aniseed sweet. “Whatever you’ve got spinnin’ around in there keeps you worlds away from this one. And I ain’t—”

He stops himself, his mouth parted around the rest of his words as his eyes flicker over your face, your lips; the way you can’t breathe for his nearness, hesitating in the space between you.

“—I ain’t gonna let you disappear,” he finishes, low. For a moment he traces your nose with his, and when your lashes flutter he sucks his breath in, tight; his mouth on yours, warm and sudden. A press. And then another. And then another and then the kiss is deepening and you tilt your head as hands fist themselves in your hair, keeping you close even as he pulls away, tiny, to pant against your lips. “Hah—”

You kiss him back. You take him back. Your hands are tight in his shirt, too flimsy to hold him and you whine and you can feel him snarl—or smile?—against you, his teeth hard against the corner of your mouth, scraping your jaw as he nips at your neck.

The plates on the table rattle as you both slide to the floor. You gasp as his mouth meets the bare skin of your thigh, then again as his thumbs hook under your underwear, the cool of his floor a shock. He moans, muffled; free of your ass your underwear drapes, wet and warm against you and he mouths at it, a heavy kiss as you gasp again at his tongue through cotton. He kisses deeper—you gasp again, and again, until you’re panting, tiny ah, ah, ahs that have him squeezing your hip, nosing the wet slop of your underwear out of the way so that his mouth meets your skin and you both moan.

(You are unravelled, on the floor—your clothes pooling, your breasts freed, your legs splayed. His hold is firm and warm and you are heavy-eyed, even as you gasp again, under him. You want to drift away—you want to stay, hissing as his blunt nails claw along the meat of your ass.

He lifts himself to meet you for a kiss—his mouth and chin shiny, his eyes glimmering as his shoulders ripple, panther-lithe as he leans over you.

His mouth is warm. You hum into it as he curses, tasting him—coffee, sex, you—as hot hands smooth the small of your back, the slip of him inside of you so, so easy and wet.

Even in the rut, the thrust, you are safe. You arch off of the floor like you’re trying to escape it, escape into the solid wall of him, waiting with another kiss, long and hard as he thrusts in deeper, deeper still.

You curl your legs against him, your heel in his ass. He grunts, then bites at your chin and your laugh is broken off into a moan as he ruts in hard.

Days. Weeks. When you come it’s sudden, starflash hot; you gasp for a final time and your hero is there to nose against your wet skin, to kiss you, his own undoing a groan, a sigh into your mouth.

There are no ghosts, lingering afterwards. Only him, panting; only you, your legs slipping together, your lips parting. Only him, only you.

He presses a kiss against the side of your head, almost forcefully.

“Wasn’t too shit,” he says, gruff, and you laugh around your breathlessness, anchored and alive.)

Days, weeks. Days.

Your Hero asks you stay over; you do, waking up in sheets that smell like him, that smell like sex, like you. You give yourself the moments—let yourself kiss his shoulder in hello, when he’s brushing his teeth. Lean into his touch, when his hand smooths up and down your waist.

“The others wanna meet ya,” he says one night, grumpily. “Said something about a lunch—I told ‘em s’up to you.”

At the counter, you hesitate. Who knew what you’d see, around them, the country’s frontliners. And it would only make this death, the one you were waiting on, worse—

But your Hero is determinedly not looking at you, his face pink, and you realise—he wants it. He wants you to meet them. Them to meet you.

Oh, you think, stricken. This was going to hurt.

“Okay,” you say. “I’d—I’d like that. Let’s do that.”

When he grins it twists his whole face into childlike brightness. You smile back with a wobble, looking at him and only him—ignoring his ghost behind him, shouting at you before the flash.

Days. Day. It’s a bright Saturday and you were meant to be meeting his friends, at last, the city busy as you hurry to the department store. There was a store in the food hall that sold small, perfectly round cream cakes, with glossy coatings and made to look like fruit—you wanted a tray of them, to take.

The sales clerk is handing you the bag, sealed with a ribbon when the shouting starts.

“RUN!” Someone screams, a flash from the back of the store blinding you. It’s the call, the break through the spell. Everyone panics, shouting as people start to bolt for the stairs to the street outside.

You’re almost torn away from the store—the girl serving you yelping as people barrel past, the force of them moving you, too, until the girl shrieks—trapped behind the counter.

“Wait!” You say, but a man almost shoves you aside and you drop your bag, your cakes, pushing against the others that follow him until there’s a gap. The sales clark is wincing, behind her case, but there’s a ominous rattling above you and you scream, “Come on!” at her, your hand held out as everyone on the floor screams.

She sobs as someone smashes into her counter, shoved up by a crowd and you wedge yourself out of the way and scream again, “We have to go! Now!”

You’re almost blind in your panic, wheezing as your elbowed in someone else’s desperation—but then she’s scrambling with the hatch, reaching out to you too and when her hand is in yours you run, following the crowd.

You’re separated in the push—there’s more screams, as more and more flashes fill the room and someone, an older man, almost claws at your face to get in front of you.

Outside there’s a wail of sirens; someone on a megaphone, shouting for surrender.

The explosion is small. It doesn’t feel like it—everyone tumbles to the ground with the shock wave, the smoke quickly filling the space and trying to tunnel out the same way and someone grabs your elbow and tugs, begging you to move—

You follow them. Her, the girl from the cake stand, her face puffy and bruised. The pair of you crawl over people, stand, and when you break out of the glass doors and into the daylight it’s almost a relief—until you see the ring of Pro-Heroes, police officers, all tense.

Your stomach swoops. The Pros, the cops closest to you are ashen-faced—looking beyond you, to whoever is now holding you in place with a calm, heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Just put your hands up,” one of the cops calls out, over the megaphone. “And surrender. There’s no need for hostages.”

Behind you, broken glass shifts. The hand on your shoulder squeezes tighter, a warning, and you stare out at the crowd, trying to empty your mind even as the clerk, still next you, sobs.

Day. Moments.

Beyond the crowd you can hear his sharp voice, his shouting and you squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to know, not wanting to see—

But everything within you is attuned to him. The world falls away into white noise and all you can hear is your name, being screamed furiously, and you have to look.

You blink away your tears, and he’s there, two other Pros trying to hold him back as he swears, elbowing out at them; his face twisting in fury, in grief. Your eyes meet—and he surges forward again, shouting something to you as he reaches out, an officer barrelling into him as nails dig into your shoulder—

And then there is a flash of light. Blinding and sharp.

And you are gone.

#‼️📍 content warnings at the beginning of the post 📍‼️ #tw: major character death #tw: death #tw: bludgeoning #tw: wasp stings #tw: drowning #tw: suicide #tw: grief/mourning #tw: smut #bakugou x reader #prompts and drabbles and other things #merms apology tour

[throwaway-yandere]

His Adorable Pen Pal (Yandere!Thoma/Reader)

a/n: thoma is my 16th max friendship lvl character and i really like his vibes. personally, yan!thoma is hard to pull off. Thoma's such a green flag, if this was an otome isekai he'd definitely be the 2nd male lead LMAO– ((and yee, there are some very smol references from past works, they're not important theyre just iykyk moments)). this took longer cause i wrote diluc's part at the same time to try to get the story feel more connected. also, @kardi76 im so sorry please tell me you slept ;;-;; cause there is no closure (lololol).

gn!reader

a pretty reliable synopsis: thoma would do anything to meet you... (so please don't screw it up).

Cw: yandere!thoma. (Thoma is not self-aware that he's yan and thats the best part--) Implied yan!childe and diluc (soldier & king)

Parts:

Soldier, Poet (You are here), King

-------------

If you asked (Y/n) (L/n) who "Fixer" was, they would tell you that he's one of the few people who could understand them deeply.

If you asked (Y/n) (L/n) who Thoma was, well, the best response someone could get from them is "Hmm... I guess the name sounds familiar," followed by "ah, so that's who he is. Okay then."

The two of you have been penpals for almost five years, but neither of you revealed your real names. You addressed him as "Fixer" (a pen name Kamisato Ayato had relentlessly recommended), and he responded to your calls as "Levi" (short for the infamous Lunar Leviathan sea legend). This is not due to the lack of courage or trust, but because you mutually agreed that it would add more mystery and thrill to your inevitable first meeting.

But one of you lied.

Thoma knew exactly what your name was. He knew your height, eye color, family, and a number of other personal facts that a regular housekeeper would not have had the opportunity to learn so readily. Earning your private information was his quota with Lord Kamisato for helping him "burn a few stray leaves", but the given information wasn't the most important findings of their investigation, no.

It was the revelation that (Y/n) (L/n), rather, YOU were his first love.

Thoma would happily take up any attractive label that fit his romanticized viewpoint, be it infatuation or puppy love. You were the kid he frequently spent time with within the Mondstadt public library. Granted, you both often took seats two chairs apart from one another, but the sticky notes passed along the table did not make the distance feel too far. You were each other's confidants. You both didn't belong anywhere and Thoma was bound to catch a teeny weenie crush on you.

It's no secret that Thoma is a hopeless romantic. He believes in his lucky omamori and fortune slips, hence it's not a huge stretch that he believes in soulmates too. No one in the Kamisato Estate was surprised when he preached that it is fate that bonded you two together. Lord Kamisato incessantly teased him for it, but Thoma was none the wiser. He thought that Ayato's remarks about being whipped were a compliment and that only made everyone more keenly aware that he was absolutely smitten. 

Thoma was ultimately determined to reunite with you once more. The two of you lay on the same bed but with different dreams, and Thoma wished otherwise. He wanted to demonstrate to you that, if a "failure" like him could win the hearts of the Inazuman populace, then Mondstadt could also respect you and your adorable eccentricities.

But that won't be an easy feat.

The journey to Liyue was perilous, but it was nothing compared to his first trip to Inazuma. It was a bit funny how most of the ships to Liyue were suspended. Luckily, Thoma never lost hope. He and Captain Beidou came to an agreement whereby she would allow him to board the Alcor in exchange for a thorough cleanup. And hey, when it comes to housework, he's almost as passionate as Beidou's need to see the Tianquan, so it was a true non-zero-sum game.

Going from Liyue to Mondstadt was quite a chore as well. Some mora is better than no mora, and that was his way of coping after dishing out 900 mora to pay a guide and his spouse to help him out. The guide never shuts up. He kept talking about a drunkard friend from Mondstadt while his spouse graciously tried to focus on Thoma's needs. His spouse was clearly forced to marry the man under a contract. The Mondstadter prayed that your future marriage is far from theirs. Thoma's patient, but he doesn't think you can handle hearing about osmanthus wine, or in his case, housekeeping, for the rest of your married life. (The spouse can prepare some delectable seafood, though.)

Thoma considered whether his determination to meet you again was being tested by cleaning the entire ship and listening to an old couple bicker 24/7. At least he's in Mondstadt now, right?

"Excuse me, miss. Do you know where Mx. (Y/n) (L/n) is?"

Thoma was very amazed by the souvenir shop owner's ability to hear him over the talk of other tourists and the clacking of hooves that returned knights from a prolonged expedition. The town square is adorned with proud flags and colorful banners that symbolized the KoF's triumphant return, which meant the grandmaster is home as well.

Since Varka is here then that means--

"Ahh, (Y/n)?" Marjorie tapped her bottom lip. "That ungrateful kid isn't here. They didn't even bother to welcome their cousin home. They're probably sulking elsewhere."

Thoma flinched.

"Excuse me?"

"What's wrong? You do know what kind of person (Y/n) is, right?" Marjorie said nonchalantly.

"I mean, what did you expect? They're a disappointment to the Imunlaukr Clan, so it's only natural that they would shy away from celebrations like this. It's for the best, no one wants a weirdo around to spoil the festival."

His eyes darkened. Thoma's entire focus was on Marjorie now, and he didn't hear a teary-eyed person running for the stairs.

"How do you have the guts to say that about someone?"

Marjorie raised an eyebrow.

"But it's the truth–"

"Just how much do you know about (Y/n)?" Thoma gritted his teeth.

"Have you talked to them before? Have you taken them out for lunch? Do you know how they feel when people talk about them like that? Do you know how hard they worked to please everyone?"

At this point, the noise from the crowd began to simmer down as they tried to eavesdrop on this confrontation. Thoma subconsciously towered above Marjorie, and his hand slammed the door beside her.

His dull green eyes leered deep into her soul.

"N-No?"

"Then you should watch what you say, Miss."

The scent of embers wafted in the air.

Thoma didn't notice it was his own doing until Marjorie screamed. His conscience was stirred by her horrified eyes, and he quickly pushed away.

Heat radiated throughout the shop and Marjorie's arm, but fortunately, it wasn't enough to cause blisters and unbearable pain.

"O-Oh I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to come off that strong!" Thoma rambled on, fearing that he may have crossed the line. He felt multiple stares drilling the back of his head, and that solidified how wary the crowd was. "I'm just saying you should be careful what you say next time! You never know if you're hurting someone already."

Thoma's not the villain here. He's just teaching her a valuable lesson, that's all.

"R-right..." Marjorie whimpered. Her sleeves were nearly burnt to crisp and Thoma's heart dropped at the thought of additional expenses. Still, he's not above paying the price. 

"I'm r-really sorry for the damages!" He blurted out. "I'll pay you back, how much?"

-----

Some mora is better than no mora, sure, but now that latter is starting to sound more like his situation.

Thankfully Marjorie didn't ask for much. Thoma couldn't decide whether to chalk it up as good fortune or the result of being too intimidating. Either way worked out for him anyway, cause he would've tried to haggle the price down if it were too expensive.

Thankfully Marjorie didn't ask for much. Thoma couldn't decide whether to chalk it up as good fortune or the result of being too intimidating. Either way worked out for him anyway, cause he would've tried to haggle the price down if it were too expensive.

But the fact that his emotions got the best of him was alarming...

Did you mean this much to him?

... Who is he kidding? Of course, you do!

Thoma sailed through storms and walked mountains to see you again, didn't he? His protectiveness is just a form of love. Marjorie isn't ill so no harm done, but if the situation called for it he would've undoubtedly escalated it to something more. This type of determination makes him your protector from afar, doesn't it?

"Ugh..." Thoma pouted. "Don't they sell anything other than alcohol here? I can't stomach the smell..."

While looking for a non-alcoholic beverage, he caught a glimpse of a passing slender and tall figure that loomed behind him. His strides were large and the head above his shoulders was etched in a permanently stern expression. The vibrant strawberry hair that crowned his head both contrasted his dim face and signified which family he belonged to–- who he was. It's none other than Diluc Ragnvindr.

Thoma grinned. When you and Thoma had the entire library to yourselves, Diluc used to take care of you two. He had the honor of overseeing two very bashful kids who were three years younger than him. Second only to Lord Kamisato, he was one of the most passionate people Thoma had ever met.

"Hey, Diluc!"

He didn't anticipate anything will happen when he called Diluc's name. The last time they met, Diluc was the nation's rising star, while Thoma was a timid teenager. Diluc may not know him now that Thoma pulled back his golden hair and changed the tone of his voice to one that exudes social lightness.

"It's me!" He grinned and reached out his hand for a handshake. Thoma was a bit nervous. He didn't know if he should be casual with the Ragnvindr heir, but this approach is ten times better than ignoring him. Thoma is not without care for friends. Why wouldn't he greet an old buddy? Especially the kid who played devil's advocate for your shenanigans?

"Th–"

Diluc briefly exhibited signs of fear before clearing his throat.

"Thoma." Diluc bit back coldly.

Thoma hesitantly sank his hand back into his pockets. What was that look for? Did he do something wrong?-- Well, he did almost burn a store down... but it didn't feel like that was the reason behind that face he made.

"I-It's been a long time!" He beamed, joyful that one of the few people who didn't shun him in his childhood still recalled him. "I thought you wouldn't recognize me anymore!"

Diluc hummed curtly. His eyes were sharp, which only accentuated that he hates to prolong whatever conversation this was, if you could call it one.

"I wouldn't dare make the mistake of not knowing who you are."

Thoma chuckled nervously. "Right."

"Is that all?" Diluc huffed.

"Oh," Thoma scratched the back of his head. "How's Master Crepus? I'm old enough now, you think he'll allow me to drink this time?"

He teased quickly before he loses Diluc's attention. It was just a small jest that alluded to the time young Thoma sneaked in inside Dawn Winery, but the look on Diluc's face was indescribable.

One thing was for certain, he was not pleased.

"N-Nevermind, how's Kaeya–"

"Have a pleasant evening, Mister Thoma." Diluc immediately turned his back on him, and his footsteps already drowned Thoma's unpolished ramblings.

"I hope you have fun staying in Mondstadt."

Mondstadt's chatter sounded in a near-endless chorus, therefore confirming that Diluc left the conversation.

He sighed humorously loud.

"Haaaaah... this is one of the most overwhelming homecomings of all time, alright. Maybe it could even top dad's... Wherever he is."

Thoma thought it would be him who would be unrecognizable in both appearance and personality. 

But it seems Diluc changed too. And if Thoma were to be so bold, maybe he changed too much. He wondered how you felt about that–-

Thoma gasped.

Wait...

He opened numerous letters about the toxic people. You often compared a "friend" of yours and the people around "them" to a broke coin collector and a few pennies. Several anecdotes described in detail how the broke coin collector wanted to buy a fresh loaf of bread but was unable to part with their money since they believed it will one day reveal its true value.

The "Fixer" thoughtlessly retorted that "a coin's purpose by the end of the day is to be spent. What good will holding on do if you starve yourself to death? You need to tell the coin collector that their life is worth more than what they've saved."

He grimaced.

He was just trying to sound poetic. Thoma never thought that there was a possibility that one of these "coins" might be Master Diluc Ragnvindr himself.

Thoma crossed his arms and shook his head. It doesn't matter. He could be wrong. Maybe Diluc is just in a bad mood, and it's not like the 'cavalry captain' knows that he's "Fixer". It'll be ignorant to assume that a bright man like Diluc became a toxic person just because of one bad day.

Besides, some mora is better than no mora, and you still have him. And even if Diluc walked out of your life, Thoma will never let you be alone.

So don't worry, okay?

-------

Thoma didn't remember Dragonspine being this cold.

The last time he traversed the bridge towards the mountain was years ago, and he faintly remembers traveling with adventurer Cyrus to collect logs. He resisted the cold back then, but he can no longer say the same now that he's a pyro vision user. His pyro shield doesn't seem to provide any warmth in Dragonspine. Kind of backwards, isn't it? Thank goodness Good Hunter's served hot coffee. It was the only non-alcoholic drink they served this festival. His bottle preserved the comforting heat, and his hands were delighted to hold on to it. It was almost a torch for his vision to light up each time.

He also didn't bring a map. It wasn't in his budget after paying the Goth Hotel extra for his stay which was a major bummer (he doesn't recall the prices being that high before?) but it's alright. You write about the place sporadically that it almost felt like he knew the place like the back of his hand.

"H-hoo… I should've brought extra layers…" Thoma shivered. "Y-You made it sound like Dragonspine wasn't t-this cold at all… Oh, dear… I'm r-really tempted to run on the i-ice now…"

Once he pushed away from the branches of one particular tree, the bizarre trip had all been worth it.

"(Y/n)..."

He knew that who he saw had to be you.

Because you were breath-taking.

But that bliss was short-lived. Something was wrong. 

"--I'm so glad to have met you and the Fishing Association. You didn't know who my family was and treated me like a friend, not a means to an end." 

A crease formed between Thoma's eyebrows and his lips trembled. His face contorted in an ineffable string of hurt and betrayal, and his suffocating grasp on the poor tree beside him burned. 

Your shoulders were drooped and you wore a Snezhnayan scarf, but most importantly, you were confiding in this blue-eyed stranger.

You were confiding in someone else that isn't him. He's your soulmate! He should be the only one you could count on.

The thud of his boots on crusty snow stopped Thoma from threading farther. That sounded too loud. If he moved a little closer, they'd hear him. And he can't afford to look like a stalker.

Thoma gulped harshly. He should've prayed that his first meeting with you wouldn't be spoiled by some filthy man he didn't even know.

What are you doing?

That spot was supposed to be for him.

Who is that man?

When you started running and the stranger followed after, Thoma walked to your camp and picked up his unopened letter. His letter sat near your plate and other discarded items.

You didn't even read it before talking to that stranger. Did that man matter more than him?

He tucked it away and smiled sadly.

You're not ready to know his feelings just yet.

But don't worry! You and Thoma will fall in love when the time is right.

It's fate, after all! He just KNOWS it!

#yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin #yandere x reader #yandere genshin impact #tag: soldier poet king - childe thoma diluc #yandere thoma #yandere thoma x reader #thoma x reader #yandere fanfiction #yancore #yandere #yandere male #yandere childe #yandere diluc #yeah its a yandere harem lmao poor reader #my content warning went from very slight yandere thoma to eh yeah this man is def a yandere lol #how come childe feels more sane than thoma in this yandere series lmao that says a lot abt society- #based on my draft on yan!dilucs part rn its like childe is winning #that ginger has a better relationship with y/n than their childhood friends lol major F #yandere!thoma #yandere!childe #yandere!diluc #yandere imagines #ansy-writes

[crow-caller]

The Barbie Murders has taught me all I need to know to form a complete, unsettling psychological profile of John Varley

☆☆☆☆☆ (.5 Stars) I collect pulp: out of print, obscure, odd paperbacks from yesteryear with funny names and titles. The Barbie Murders delivers beautifully on both of those points, and to try and bust through some mental stress, I picked it up to read it for fun. Cleanse it from my library of unread books. I know old pulp can be tricky: there is often a level of racism and sexism present which…

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#MAJOR CONTENT WARNINGS HERE

[takearisk-ao3]

I have a hypothetical question for you, Hannah. I know you’re not going to like it and I hate to ask or even think about it but sometimes girl my mind just goes down a rabbit hole and there’s no coming back! And I apologize in advance. Say in TPFY before the Grimmauld place Harry is off on a mission, everything possible goes wrong, and he dies. How would Ginny cope with his death knowing she never got to be with him or tell him she loves him? How would she take the news of finding out what really happened in the forest from a letter Harry left for her in his will? Would she ever be able to recover from that? Or would it have been too much for her? You can’t dismiss this question missy because it’s for TPFY Ginny and you know her mind set the best! I need answers!!! 

jesus christ

i don’t even know—

ok

wait. wait!

if harry died post war but before the events of tpfy ginny finds out about the horcrux hunt from ron? maybe hermione? maybe both? good god. ron. he’d be a mess. and hermione!! harry was the only family she had left! god why

this whole thing is going off the rails.

It starts out as disbelief. Ginny spent so long refusing the prospect of reconciliation… she never acknowledged that a part of her always expected it. And now it's all wrong. It doesn't matter how emphatically she had moved on. It doesn't matter how earnestly she had insisted her indifference. They were supposed to have it out. He's supposed to be here. And he’s not. She knows this feeling. She knows what it’s like to exist in the world when he doesn’t. Except this time, he doesn't come back. It's not just that he's gone. It's that he took a part of her with him. The gaping wound in her chest feels rough, and barbed, and ugly. The pain is relentless. Days, weeks, and months pass. It festers. It turns into regret. And it lingers. Hermione talks about the five stages of grief like it’s a to-do list. Like if she follows the instructions it’ll somehow explain what she’s—what they’re all—feeling. Ron settles into something like barely functioning depression. Ginny never really moves past anger. It burns so hot, she swears her tears come out boiling. But she can't rage and shout at him, so she flings her fury at everything—at everyone—else. Sometimes she feels him, just over her shoulder. The anchor in her chest receiving a gentle tug. It hurts so much she feels like she might die because of it. So, she just yells at the empty room until it goes away. It never really goes away. Maybe he never does. Or at least, the shadow of him that lives fully formed in her mind's eye. The echo of him, the pieces that she remembers without even trying to. The way he would nervously try to pat down his hair. The way his smiles were always halfway reluctant, as if he wasn't sure he was allowed to find whatever it was funny. His sharp glances and even sharper tongue. His contempt for all things performative. His never ceasing surprise that people could care about him. Not his name, or his scar, or his destiny. But him. The color of his eyes in the afternoon sun. Eventually, she stops yelling. And she just starts talking. No one ever knows, no one ever catches her at it, no one ever walks in on her telling the empty kitchen that she'll never forgive herself for being so bloody petrified of their collapse that she couldn't even attempt to try. Her anger turns inward. She never reaches acceptance, not really, she just accepts that she'll have to live with the shame, and the grief, and the guilt, for the rest of her life. Decades and decades later, she sits in a rocking chair on a porch and talks to someone. Her nieces and nephews, and grandnieces and grandnephews, and great-grandnieces and great-grandnephews, are used to it by now. Auntie Ginny has gone a bit senile after her last birthday, but this time, on this golden May afternoon, Ginny talks... And he finally answers.

#content warnings: major character death & grief #sobbing my way through this #ITS FINE #the path from you #question mark??? #does tpfy have aus now!?!?! #god #anon #answered

[oleander-neruim]

Who doesn't love a pretty Heron all dressed in gold and pearls?

I claim no responsibility over this post

Inktober Day 12: Spicey

Bonus:

Sausage appreciates it, sure, but he Is Also gonna have a heart attack

Alt. Without the Gold:

Sketches:

#scott major #smajor1995 #mythical sausage #scosage #pirates scott #heron scott #p!scott #scurvyblr #pirates smp #suggestive #cw: partial nudity #its not a lot just being safe #mcyt #psmp #inktober #inktober day 12 #inktober day 12 spicey #inktober 2023 #that bonus picture was my “content warning” slide on insta and i figured you lot would like it haha #ollie's art #🪽

[dearqueerdeers]

Hey so uhh i posted a fic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54801628

it’s going to hurt by 100GoodStoriesForever

(1451 words), Chapters: 1/1

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Relevant Tags: POV Nile Freeman, Nile Freeman-centric, Nile Freeman Needs a Hug, Nile Freeman Whump, Blood and Injury, nile learns as a kid that pain cant be loved away, and nile in the present day is loved through it, Hurt/Comfort, but admittedly a little heavier on the hurt than on the comfort. sorry

Summary: When Nile was five, she fell off her bike. … This was decidedly more severe than falling off her bike. One minute she was sprinting away from a building they’d found out seconds too late was a decoy; the next, an ear-shattering shockwave knocked her off her feet, and she fell. She thought she heard someone call her name, then a searing pain ripped through her stomach.

#no major content warnings other than blood and injury! #the old guard #nile freeman #this is my second fic post. its basically just shortened long lists of relationships n shit always piss me off #and im trying to see which format folks prefer #my fic

[arthur-r]

lyrics: all my mistakes are a work of art / love letters aimed straight for the heart / should i let them / teach me how to fall apart / it gets better when you get on top and show me how it works / i could never be your kind of flirt / tell me that you’re falling out of love / cause i could never be your kind of drug / love me til the morning cause it hurts to be the one that’s headed for the / curb your appetite and drink your tea with herbs / helps if you just believe it does / tell me all your secrets and i’ll leave you in the morning / help me fight my demons and i’ll love you without warning / sick of sitting pretty in my pearls / thinking i could ever be your girl / do you even notice when i’m gone? / the thought of you, it keeps me up til dawn / waiting, wishing, wanting for your love / but don’t think i could ever be enough / to satisfy your raging taste for blood / but maybe that’s just the way we love / tell me all your secrets and i’ll leave you in the morning / help me fight my demons and i’ll love you without warning / i’ve been waiting so long for someone like you to come / i thought i’d found the answer to all of my lonely nights / coming down, have i reached the ground?have i reached the ground? have i reached the ground?

i’m obsessed with this song rn listening to it on repeat so just thought i’d share

#help me fight my demons and i’ll love you without warning!!!! #(unfortunately discovering a pattern in my ex’s life where he just kind of. delves for people’s traumas as a default #and he’s like a normal fucking well adjusted person with a good childhood. so it’s not like we’re even reciprocally trauma bonding it’s like #he just fucking GETS THE STORIES out of people. stupid fucking journalism major) #(disclaimer i LOVE journalism majors!!!! it’s a really admirable pursuit. it just makes me uncomfortable how he sees people as. content??) #so not ALL journalism majors. just ones who get close with you learn all your secrets and then break up with you when they’re tired of it #ANYWAY MOVING ON i’m just obsessed with this song in general. the lyrics are iconic i love the beat and it’s what i want to make music like #and it’s so beautiful and i love it so much #me. my post. mine. #music

[aspyn-posts]

it’s amazing how the tiniest thing makes me want to unalive

(i lost my crochet hook) (also i haven’t taken my meds in a few days)

#may be triggering #triggering content #trigger warning #tw #major depression #major depressive disorder #depression #depressed #sorry for being depressing #tw depressing stuff #tw depressing thoughts #depressing shit #depressing life #depressiv #kinda depressing #mdd #mdd thoughts #suicidal thoughts #tw suicidal thoughts #tw suicide #suicide #tw sui ideation #tw sui implied #tw sucidal ideation #help me #mental health #mental illness #my mental health sucks #actually mentally ill #mentally fucked

[safely-in-vhagars-belly]

Princess of dragonstone: The end.

Spoilers for the story, as well as for game of thrones

WARNINGS: MAJOR BOOK/SHOW SPOILERS ABOUT HOW AEMOND WILL MEET HIS END AND WITH WHAT! (Thats all I will say for non book readers, but it goes into detail about his demise.)

Aftermath, written from the Maester Baely’s pov.

The princess Daella did not survive her fall to see her son, likely a hallucination caused by Alys. It might have been a soft comfort that the princess was dead before she fell down, hitting her head against the stone towers. On the place where the princess' head was found, flowers sprouted and grew. They were named Strong Princesses, in her honor. They would grow until the destruction of King’s Landing, under Daenerys Targaryen.

Prince Aemond never fully recovered from his loss, and spent the remainder of his days hurting the people around him the way he was hurted. He was angry at the gods and forsake his faith, angering oldtown. Aemond terrorized the riverlands and many other places, though no matter how many men he would kill, he would only see one face before going to sleep. Daella’s hollow smile and her puffy red eyes before she threw herself down the tower.

Alys remained Aemond’s bedmate, manipulating him into doing her bidding and slowly became lady of Harrenhall. She eagerly egged Aemond on to kill his brothers, his sisters and to take the iron throne for himself. Aemond eventually died in a duel against his uncle, Daemon Targaryen. It is unclear what happened with Alys after Aemond’s death.

-Melisandre’s files on Alys, as well as the bastard born son)

It is known that only death may pay for life. The witch queen took the unborn son of the princess and performed the darkest of magic. She hoped to rule the world, but her greed became her downfall. She died, being the price she had to pay for her darkest magic.

Prince Lucerys II Targaryen (Aemond’s and Daella’s son) The child had black hair as a strong, with white stripes in its hair, befitting a Targaryen. He missed both eyes, yet two sapphires clear as ice replaced his eyes. He learned to see. He was kept in a cave, far beyond the wall. The magic of Alys was centuries old and enough to keep him alive, to control him for a while. The prince was not sane of mind. He grew as a normal child, into a man and stopped there. Men would not see him for centuries.

Until, one day, he showed himself, north of the wall. This time with an army of terrifying white walkers. By this time, Alys her magic had faded and the prince could control himself. He started marching to the wall, with his army.

He would be known as the night king.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #dark aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fanfiction #dark aemond targaryen x oc #aegon ii targaryen #dark aegon ii targaryen #Aemond targaryen #The princess of dragonstone fanfiction #WARNINGS: MAJOR BOOK/SHOW SPOILERS ABOUT HOW AEMOND WILL MEET HIS END AND WITH WHAT! (Thats all I will say for non book readers #but it goes into detail about his demise.) #dark! #head the warnings #dubcon #possible triggering content #She/her reader #AFAB Reader #DarkFantasy #Possible noncon #Possible gore #Old work

[kinokoshoujoart]

cannot believe how close the poll was…but rock was ultimately found

be free little guy… i wonder what he will use his newfound freedom for. all good behaviors i’m sure!

#seriously why did you free him #i wanted him free too but i’m amazed everyone else did too #well . by everyone i mean a very slim majority. #he is going to wreak havoc now. you’ve all been warned #it is absolutely 100% a penis event (metaphorically) but it’s also 100% not that. and he should be free to do whatever he wants #polls #rock tumbling (sos) #cora clownposting content #sillyposting #i hold the jury responsible for whatever happens :o) #(55% responsible)

[wakanda4everinthisbitch]

The fact that this is the second actor in a Marvel movie to have an abusive past is absolutely disgusting. They need to prioritize screening.

#marvel #tw #trigger warning #triggering content #tenoch huerta #jonathan majors

[thephantomtheory]

The Years I'll Live Without You

notes: blah this drabble has been sitting in the drafts forever and i don't love it, the writing is shit, but here it is anyway.

content: takes place around 7 years after the battle of heaven and earth, reader had a relationship with levi who died on a mission before he learned that the reader is pregnant with his child. reader goes on to have said child. jean harbors unrequited feelings for reader.

cw: reader experienced pregnancy and gave birth, insinuating fem-body, set in canonverse so descriptions of death, major character death, feelings and descriptions of grief, general angst

-

“Be careful,” You call down the road to your son, seven years old today. "Back before sundown!"

He turns, smiles and waves with his free hand, the other holding his younger friend Sasha’s. She looks up at him with large doe eyes and giggles.

You lean casually against the doorframe as you watch them walk down the road toward the marketplace. Your friends' voices are light and cheery as they prepare tea in the kitchen. You take a deep breath and fiddle with the ring resting on your chest.

“They really are quite a pair, eh?” Jean notes as he steps beside you, your son and his daughter now fading from view.

“Mm,” You hum with a small smile.

“He’s gotten so big.”

“Mm.”

“Pretty soon he’ll be larger than his father.”

You give a mild laugh and look at your friend, who you have been through so much with. Jean looks back at you and your eyes that hide your emotions so well. But Jean has known you too long and he has suffered with you and he has fought with you and he has loved you, and he knows your eyes and he knows when they are sad.

“He looks so much like him,” Jean says softly. And it is something Jean has never said before, nor Connie, something neither Armin nor Mikasa has ever mentioned, even though they all think it. Know it. See it. “He has your eyes, but he is… he's Levi’s son.”

You swallow. Jean tenses waiting for your response and suddenly your eyes soften.

“I know.”

“Do you regret it?” He asks; a question that has been burning in his throat for years.

“Regret what?”

“Not telling him… that you were pregnant.”

You look away and down the road, a glassiness coming over your eyes. You take a deep breath.

“No, if I had told him, he would have stayed.”

“What do you mean?”

“He could have lived if he wanted to,” You say, remembering your lover's last moments. Assessing his wounds while you swallowed tears. Catching his eyes, trying to ignore the message they sent. You laid in his arms. You put his hand in yours and placed it below your navel. You listened to his heartbeat fade.

“You know that man survived much worse. But he was tired. God, Jean he was so tired. And he deserved to rest. If I had told him that I was carrying his child, he would have stayed.”

Jean looked at you, knowing the truth of your words.

“I chose for him to die there.”

“Don’t you wonder what might have happened if he stayed?” Jean asked.

“Are you an idiot?” You slap him lightly on the shoulder, feigning annoyance. “Of course, I think about it. Every day.”

You sigh, a slight hint of sadness finally slipping into your voice,

“Maybe it would have been fine, and maybe he would have been happy. It doesn’t help to think about it.

I don’t regret the choice I made that day, Jean. Levi deserved to rest. And I know that wherever he is, he’s watching over his son. I feel it.”

Jean stared at you, who never loved him the way he wanted. And even though he had moved on and married another woman and had a beautiful daughter with her, he knew that you would forever have a hold on him. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you close. Even though he loved you in a way you could not love him back, he knew you needed him as a friend.

“He is so proud of you,” Jean whispered into your hair, and felt you shake, the beginning of tears forming in your eyes.

“I miss him so much, Jean. Some days the grief eats me up inside,” You say. “And I look at our son – he looks so much like him – and I can’t breathe.”

You gently pull away from his embrace and don’t even try to hide the tear rolling down your cheek.

“I will live most of my life without him. Looking back, those brief years I had with him felt like a lifetime, but sometimes it feels like the blink of an eye and when I think about all the years that I’ll be without him, I just…

I met him and I never thought I’d ever have to live without him – which is a naïve thought, I know – but I always thought that if he died… when he died…  I would go with him. But instead, my life went on, and I brought along another life too, and I guess... I don't know... I didn’t think the world would keep spinning without him in it.

And I think about our son, who carries his father in his blood – and, god, Jean, who looks so much like him, really – and I’m okay. I’m okay because I have to be. And I’ll continue to love him and nurture him and support him in whoever he becomes. And life will go on.

And I know more than anything, that’s all Levi would’ve wanted for us.”

©2022 thephantomtheory | do not plagiarize

#levi ackerman #captain levi #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #major character death #please read content warnings

[thegodovereverything]

TMNTober

prompt: masks

gen: rise

ao3

@tmntober-2023

cw: angst, off screen death, on screen death, major character death, way too little editing

----------------------------------------------------------

The first mask was when he was ten. Raph had already gotten his own on his tenth birthday, which all three brothers called unfair. But then Donnie and his tenth birthday approached, and Leo couldn’t stop bugging his dad about it. 

“C’ mon Dad! Raph already got his own mask, now it's my turn! For mine, can you make it blue and less bandanady? I wanna look like Lou Jitsu! And Lou Jitsu has these glasses that look a bit like upside down masks. But can it be in blue? You don’t even need to make Donnie one! Please? ”

His dad always chuckled and said, “Maybe, Blue, if you’re good.”

Leo always pouted and left for a bit, only the next day with the same requests.

Dad had worked a couple days sewing Donnie and his masks. Leo had pretended not to notice when Dad had snuck into his room and tried to sneakingly mark Donnie and Leo’s eyes on the fabric.

He had placed them in their christmas stockings and the tails poked out playfully. Leo had instantly fallen in love.

He put it on and admired himself in the mirror. They reminded him of Lou Jitsu’s glasses, a revelation that made him squeal. Dad had listened to him! He showed off his mask to his other brothers.

“Look! Dad made me a different type of mask ‘cause I’m cooler than you!”

“Did not!” Donnie protested.

“Did too!” 

______

The second mask was much later. It wasn’t blue and it wasn’t his. Raph had, without Leo’s permission, gone on a mission with Casey Sr. and Mikey to investigate reports of a nearby village that had found a cure for krangification.

Leo had looked at the live footage their communicators broadcasted in the days that followed near obsessively. 

There were times where April would come into Donnie’s lab to get his brother to bed, only to find a different brother staring intently at the monitor. She would nudge Leo gently. He’d barely glance her way. The monitor at most showed one of his brothers or Casey Sr. walking steadily through the barren wasteland that their home had become, but Leo started to believe that if he didn’t watch them then something terrible was going to happen to them. Something he can’t control. She seemed to understand that mindset, as she asked Donnie to get Leo’s monitor in his room hooked up to the footage. She was certain that once Leo was in his own bed willingly, he might actually fall asleep. 

After three days, she was proved right. Leo unwillingly slept that night. It was something he regretted for the rest of his life. Donnie had recorded the footage, which Leo watched so many times that every miniscule moment was ingrained into his mind. 

First Raph, Mikey and Casey Sr. come into the village. It was surrounded on all sides by sheer cliffs, with only one slim path for them to squeeze through. A red fog had draped over the ground, only allowing the slight outline of a village through its misty grasp. 

Raph signaled for everyone to proceed with caution, and they all stepped trepidatiously into the village. The only noise was from what looked like a community center. It was quiet, almost so quiet that Leo didn’t notice it on his first watch through. Raph told them to wait while he went to investigate.

Casey Sr. and Mikey waited impatiently for three minutes before deciding to go inside. Leo wished they didn’t. Mikey was never the same after what he saw. 

Raph was holding an unconscious person, who had krang pulsating underneath their skin. He has smiled, assuring and comforting and everything he will never be again.

The person had woken up before anyone could say a word and screeched out wordlessly. Everyone in the world knew that sound. It told them that the infected were close and would all be moving towards that screech. They were not equipped for a hoard. They all knew it. 

“Run!” His brother yelled. Mikey and Casey Sr. were wired to his orders. Like a switch for a light, they didn’t question or hesitate. They ran. Raph had yelled a battle cry, the light from his ninpo reflected in the damp fog. 

Then Raph screamed, and the camera shook as Mikey stumbled. His younger brother steadied himself and turned. Then Mikey wailed. Chains rose up and blinded the cameras, striking through the chest of the krangified person Raph had been holding. The chains rose and used the still attached person as a makeshift Kusari-fundō, plowing through the fields of krangified beings that approached. It was the first time his younger brother had summoned the chains in combat. 

Casey Sr. ran to Raphs side, yelling her war cry. His plastron was completely cracked through where his heart laid and his eyes were without life. 

She called Leo, who instantly shot awake at the sound of his ringing phone. The monitor in front of him stalled his every thought. All he could see was his brother. Dead. 

He didn’t have time to mourn right then. He made a portal and got them home, including his brother's corpse. Mikey had instantly collapsed, exhausted. Leo tucked him into his bed, then faced Raph.

He took the mask off of his brother's face and wrapped it around his sword. No matter where he went, he’ll take his brother with him. 

_____

The third mask was much too soon. Donnie had gotten obsessed with revenge, with hunting down the Krang and making them pay . When he left, it was silently. Leo only noticed he was gone by the mask draped over his keyboard, with a note for Leo to go to the ‘Leo’ file on the computer. 

Donnie popped up on the screen.

“Leo, if you're seeing this I am either dead or you noticed my absence too quickly. In order to keep your attention on this very thoughtful recording, I have attached my vitals In the upper right corner of the screen. Please focus on what I say more than my heart rate,” Leo's eyes instantly looked up at the vitals that were on the upper right. His brother’s heartbeat pumped at 160bpm. Leo tried to pull up Donnie’s coordinates.

“And don’t think about trying to get my coordinates. I have deactivated that feature of my tracker.”

Leo sat back, horrified. Just what was his twin doing? And where the heck did he go?

“Now, I’m sure you’re wondering just where I’ve gone. I can easily assure you that I have made this decision with a clear mind and pure logic. My emotions do not cloud my judgment so easily. However, emotions have nothing to do with the fact that they killed our brother and that I am making them pay .” A strangled gasp escaped Leo's throat, “Although my projected chance of dying is only at 60%, I felt it better to prepare just in case. As you carry Raph’s mask around with you always, I thought I’d also give you the comfort of mine in case of my passing.” 

Donnie’s recording continued to talk in the background. Leo brought his legs up and wrapped his arms around his knees. The world became blurry as tears budded up. He had to do something, right? 

A shaking hand brought his phone to his face. The phone rang. His brother never picked up.

The heart rate that had been going so quickly suddenly stopped. Donnie’s voicemail lines and the still talking recording overlapped each other. His hand went limp and the phone dropped to the floor.

“I have taken care to keep instructions on how to continue to run the base in the ‘Instructions’ folder. And Leo, I love you. I’ll see you soon.”

He sat there for hours. Mikey had been the one to find him, staring at the still vitals as Donnie’s recording looped. His younger brother had collapsed, sobbing into Leo’s shoulder. Leo mechanically picked up Donnie’s mask and wrapped it by Raph’s. Another brother he wasn’t with when they died. Another brother to keep by his side.

______

The fourth mask was during an argument. Leo and Mikey were camped a bit away from the rest of the rebellion. Their campfire was at a gentle flame, at odds with the intensity at which both brothers were talking.

“I refuse to be kept to the sidelines! I am a mystic warrior , Leo, and I can’t be a warrior without fighting!”

“Mikey, please, you’re too important to just go out there! I can’t let you get hurt or…” Leo trailed off, rubbing the masks wrapped around his sword subconsciously. Mikey scowled at that.

“I will not be another mask on your sword!” Mikey tore off his mask and stomped over the campfire. He hovered the mask over the flame, holding it by the short bands. It dangled tauntingly over the flames.

“Wait, Mikey, wait–”

His little brother, his only remaining brother, didn’t wait. His mask went up into flames instantly. 

Little flakes of fabric rose up with the smoke, resting on the rocky floor. It felt like a sucker punch to Leo’s gut. He watched as something that in his mind has defined his family for so long got destroyed so easily. 

“Mikey,” He said his brother’s name softly, mournfully. 

Mikey gave a quiet sob as he swept away his tears roughly.

“I’m not planning on dying anytime soon, ok? So stop being such a mother hen and let me do what needs to be done. We both know that without my mystic prowess we will fall. I’m the only mystic left, so let me do my thing.”

Leo opened his arms, a silent offer. Mikey rushed into his arms. Both of their shoulders shook from their sobs as both brothers collapsed on the other. The mask went up to flames, but Leo’s brothers were still with them. And they always will be.

#rottmnt #tmntober2023 #tmntober 2023 #words exist #bad future rottmnt #major character death #off screen death #on screen death #please tell me if this needs more content warnings

[not-poignant]

7 & 8 for the writing asks!

7. Your favourite ao3 tag.

The Explicit categorisation or the Rape/Noncon warning, which is pretty dark now that I think of it. I don't generally search Additional Tags very often, but if I do, Hurt/Comfort is at the top of the list when it's not kinks.

8. How slow is a slow burn?

It depends on the author and their style. And it depends on the characters. But I've seen stories labelled a slow burn that are like 5k words long and I have to admit, that's not a slow burn to me.

There's also different kinds of slow burn. You can have early sex but a slow burn to love. You can have early sex but a slow burn to kink. I've read a few different kinds and I tend to enjoy them all.

But I have no fixed idea of how long or slow they should be. I'm not like a slow burn puritan or anything. People can use the tag and I can decide for myself if I think it is based on like...word length and the writing style. :D

~

From this meme!

#asks and answers #memey goodness #the thing about the rape/noncon warning is that #when i'm searching for PWPs that's more likely to give me what i want #but when i'm also searching for serious long hurt/comfort fics with serious trauma recovery #that's ALSO more likely to give me what i want #so it goes to the top of the list #my constant exclusions are: 'No Warnings Apply' and 'Major Character Death' #i wish less authors used Creators Choose when they just mean rape/dubcon and are copping out with vagaries #like i get it suits some fics better than others #and ultimately it's up to them what they do #i'm just not reading their fics #because Creators Choose can hide #unexpected MCD #and if they're not saying that there's no MCD in their tags #it's not like i *know* why they're choosing not to be upfront about the content #administrator gwyn wants this in the queue

[blmpff]

POSSIBLE CW/TW FOR BED FRIEND EPISODE 6

Just some short uncomfortable situations this episode, next one isn't looking good though.

6:19-6:30 Krit touches Uea'a hand, he's startled but nothing else happens, he takes his hand back and leaves the room.

10:40-11:18 Krit looms unnecessarily close over Uea at his desk, Jade runs over to distract him.

35:30-36:45 Krit is starting to ask some personal questions, King shows up and takes over.

EP1&2 EP3 EP4 EP5 EP6 EP7 EP8 EP9

#bed friend content warning #bed friend #nothing major this episode #blmpff