#a proper introduction will be produced

[theudonlord]

The mask, the self, and the shadow

Their names are Anko, [unnamed], and “Darlyn” :>

The outer two come from the same place but are very opposite of each other, Anko being the more logical one and Darlyn preferring to prey through emotional methods. Both have ties to the “self” character.

[piduai]

girl this is not bad this is straight up awful. it's how i imagine watching marvel movies must feel like. dropped 👍 it was fine while it lasted but i wouldn't wish this kind of a severe downgrade of a once beloved series on anyone

[artficlly]

close quarters [one-shot]

fantasy marvel au bucky x reader when you're assigned a brooding escort for your journey north, the last thing you expect is to be sharing a cramped sleeper car with him. 

Warnings: forced proximity, one bed (kinda), panic attacks, fear of dark, class difference, kissing, generous use of the petname princess, violence, bit of blood/gore/wound descriptions, fluff, kinda sweet, protective bucky, mentions of steve, peggy, sam, dum dum dugan, fantasy elements, monsters, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.6k

A/N: hello, i don't expect this to do well, kinda lost motivation near the end as you'll probably be able to tell. I've been working on this one and off the past two weeks but i'm so over it i just need to post it and be done with it. i've been sick and busy with uni so it's kinda mid so apologies but enjoy my flu induced insanity with this one. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

Your brother’s insistence that you needed an escort was, without a doubt, the most infuriating part of your journey north. A close second—conveniently tied to your initial frustrations—was the escort himself.

Bucky Barnes wasn’t exactly what you’d expected to find waiting at the train station. You had arrived at 8 p.m. sharp, as per your brother’s meticulous instructions. Bucky had the typical rugged, unapproachable look you associated with Flamewardens. There was a certain brooding intensity about him, dashed by a stoic, almost indifferent air. He had spotted you easily, looked you up and down with the barest hint of acknowledgement, and let out a quiet grunt. 

That was the extent of your introduction. 

Yet, for all his glowering, women seemed to flitter around him. You had watched as a group of younger women, likely around your age, whispered and giggled as they cast lingering glances down the platform at your sullen escort. To his credit, he didn’t react or even lift his gaze from the train tracks ahead.

You let your own eyes waver on his profile, dark hair, strong bone structure, straight nose, and eyes like an oncoming storm. Handsome. That was undeniable. Startlingly so, if you were being honest. But you refused to let his looks—or the broad, muscled frame beneath his heavy coat—distract you. Especially not as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, unmistakable flask.

You shot him a scathing look as he tipped back the silver flask, his throat working with each swallow. Whatever was inside had to be strong. The slight wince as he lowered it from his lips gave that much away.

“Is that wise?” Your voice carried a pointed edge, skirting somewhere between disapproval and disgust.

Bucky chuckled, though the sound lacked any true amusement. His breath lingered in the evening air, curling into a thin mist before being carried away by the brisk breeze that serpentined through the exposed railway tracks. “Only way to stay warm, Miss. Only gonna get worse the further north we go.”

He tucked the flask back into his coat. The worn leather of his gloves creaked as he dragged a hand across his stubbled jaw as if brushing away the chill. You hated to admit he had a point. Spring had come late this year—if it had come at all. Even here, in the city, ice still clung stubbornly to the streets, and heavy grey clouds loomed overhead. The snow hadn't yet relented up north, where your brother was waiting.

In the safety of the larger cities, warmth was never a concern. The luxury of fire and heat was abundant. With proper protections and Firewardens employed, there was no fear of the light it produced, or more specifically, there was no fear of what the light might attract. Civilised folk no longer had to shiver in the dark. They had cast aside the weight of thick furs, the obscuring hoods, the need for constant vigilance. But where you were headed, where your brother waited keenly for your arrival, it was different. There, Ignivorae were far more frightening than the cold.

“I just hope you’re not a drunkard,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the empty tracks, the frostbitten metal beginning to hum with the distant approach of the train. You hadn’t meant for him to hear, but his trained ears caught every word.

He scoffed, the sound half jest, half feigned offence. “Why? You gonna rat me out to your brother?”

“You are under his employ,” you reminded him coolly.

Another scoff. “He wouldn’t care, Miss. Hell, if he were here, I bet he’d be doin’ the same as me.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, irritation flickering through your chest. You turned to him then, meeting his gaze directly for the first time. “You don’t know my brother well enough to make such a statement.”

Bucky inclined his head, unimpressed. “Two years is a long time, Princess. Feels even longer out North. I don’t think your brother is quite the same as when he left.”

You had little doubt he was right. Beyond the city limits, out in the rural farmlands, the world stretched isolated and desolate. This was the first time your brother had taken on such a venture alone, desperate to keep the family business alive even after the sudden loss of your parents. A part of you wondered if he had conducted the plan in a haze of grief, or if it was a means of proving himself to whatever invisible pressures he envisioned pressed upon his shoulders.

You sympathised with him, truly, even if he had abandoned you in his pursuit of imagined grandeur. A part of you had stopped expecting to see him again, had never anticipated his summons. But now, it seemed, he was finally ready to need you. Finally willing to accept your help.

The thought soured in your gut as you scowled at Bucky. 

“Don’t call me that.” You snapped, refusing to let your voice be swallowed by the growing roar of the train.

“Call you what?” 

“Princess.”

The train rushed past, a violent gust of wind pulling at your coat as the metal beast groaned to a stop, sparks flaring against the melting ice before flickering out.

Bucky exhaled, shaking his head as he adjusted the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “Where we’re goin’, you’ll prolly be the closest thing to a princess they’ve ever seen. You’re a proper-bred lady compared to the folk out there.”

“Does that distinction truly matter that much?”

You had never thought of yourself as well-bred. Privileged, maybe, but not delicate, not sheltered in the way Bucky seemed to imply. Your parents had been wealthy, yes, and you’d received an education few could afford. You had never gone hungry, never shivered through winter, never known true desperation. But your family’s fortune hadn’t come from lineage or titles. Your parents had carved it out themselves, built it from nothing with a mix of skill, relentless work, and a hell of a lot of luck.

It was a dangerous formula, one your brother was determined to replicate.

“To them, it will,” Bucky said, his tone carrying the weight of certainty. “Especially if you ain’t prepared to get your hands dirty.”

You gave a terse, humourless smile as you stepped toward the waiting train. “Well, good thing that is my brother’s job, not mine.”

Bucky huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh, watching as you handed your ticket to the conductor. Then, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he followed you aboard.

—

“This can’t be right. They’re expecting us to share a compartment—?”

By the time you reached your assigned sleeper car, the train was already rocking back into motion, the shrill whistle signalling your official departure north.

The train itself was plain but sturdy, built for endurance rather than luxury. The windows were fitted with metal shutters that could be pulled down from the inside—a feature you weren’t sure was meant for privacy or protection. You had passed through the lounge car, where Bucky had eyed the open bar with distinct interest and a dining car for breakfast, lunch and dinner service. However, your silent approval of your brother's transportation choice was promptly shattered when you caught sight of your assigned compartment. 

The compartment was tight, with only a small walkway that had another space for you to stand. If you were generous enough in your observations, you could lie to yourself and say that it allowed the room for you to walk two paces in either direction. One side held a stiff leather bench, its upholstery worn but well-maintained, bolted against dark wooden panelling. Above it, a metal luggage rack with frayed fabric straps provided limited storage. 

It was the other side that filled you with horror.

You wouldn’t have complained about the cramped space if it weren’t blatantly obvious you would have to share it with your hulking escort. Two bunks lined the opposite wall, the mattresses thin and stiff, large enough to accommodate one person each. A ladder at the end next to the window allowed easier access to the top bunk. You took one look at the lumpy pillows, dull green sheets and scratchy blanket that had been neatly folded by the feet end of the beds and turned around. You barely had time to process your own dismay before you were met with a wall of muscle as Bucky pressed in close, making way for other passengers filing through the narrow corridor. His chest was solid, his coat rough against your cheek, and you recoiled back.

Unfazed, he flicked his wrist, turning his ticket over to confirm the compartment number. “It’s what is on the tickets, Princess.”

You stepped back again, putting as much space between you as the cramped compartment would allow. “Don’t call me that, and this can’t be what my brother meant by ‘escort’—”

“His exact words,” Bucky interrupted, tucking his ticket back into his coat. “Keep my eyes on you. Keep you safe. Deliver you to Glenwyck.”

You exhaled sharply, glaring up at him. “So you’re going to watch over my every move? How am I supposed to get changed? Just rely on your gentlemanly instinct to turn a blind eye? Which might I mention, I have seen very little of—”

"There's a bathroom at the end of the train car." His tone was dry, as if he were already exhausted by this conversation. "You can use that for changin’. And whatever other business you think is necessary."

"How kind of you." You dropped your luggage onto the seat with a huff.

Bucky stepped further into the cramped compartment, either oblivious or determined to rile you up. The back of your knees pressed flush against the leather bench as he closed the distance, dipping his head so near that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost against your skin.

With effortless ease, he hoisted your luggage and swung it into the wire rack above. The movement and sway of the train forced your chests to brush. Just for a few seconds. Just enough to make you swallow hard and for a tinge of pink to dust your cheeks. But before you could shuffle away, he reached for his own bag, taking his sweet time as he secured it into place. 

You clenched your jaw, irritation bubbling hotter with every second you spent trapped between his broad chest and the wooden panelling behind you. If he noticed, he didn’t care. Or worse—he enjoyed it.

“Now, tell me, Princess. Are you going to be picky about your bunk too?” Bucky hadn’t moved, lingering far too close, his broad frame crowding the already-cramped space. He was looking down at you with a rather lazy grin on his face as if he was particularly amused with the sour expression you regarded him with. 

“No.”

“Wonderful.” He drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. You didn’t bite back, instead feeling your shoulders droop in relief as he finally backed up. With a grunt, he dropped onto the bottom bunk, stretching his legs out as if he’d already made himself at home. “I’ll take bottom, you take top.”

You stiffly nodded, trying not to linger on how ridiculous this arrangement was. Sharing a compartment was one thing, but a room barely large enough for the both of you, sleeping in bunks not even an arm’s length apart? You hesitated, debating whether to sit across from him and pretend he didn’t exist or escape to the relative privacy of your bed. 

The choice was easy.

Without another word, you clambered up the narrow ladder, the mattress shifting beneath you as you settled in. At least up here, out of his immediate line of sight, you could pretend for a moment that you weren’t stuck sharing close quarters with a complete stranger. A man, at that.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the cream-coloured curve of the train’s ceiling as the steady rumble of the tracks beneath you filled the silence.

God, you hoped your brother had put his trust in the right man.

—

"At least open the window if you’re going to smoke in here," you muttered, tugging your bootlaces tight with a firm yank. You were perched on the edge of the stiff leather seat, dressing for breakfast, while the faint hum of the train carried on beneath you.

You’d slept well—surprisingly well. The rhythmic sway of the train had lulled you into a deep, dreamless rest, a rare reprieve from the constant churn of thought that had plagued you for weeks. For those few blissful hours, you weren’t fretting over your reunion with your brother, or what exactly waited for you up north. You certainly hadn’t been thinking about your frustrating, tight-lipped escort.

Bucky was posted by the window, one shoulder propped lazily against the frame, cigarette between his fingers. He hadn’t said a word to you since the night before, and you weren’t sure if he’d slept at all. You’d awoken to find him already awake, elbows braced on his knees, methodically rolling tobacco like it was the only thing keeping his hands busy.

Beyond him, the world outside had vanished into white. Snow blanketed the earth, smoothing the rough land into a quiet, endless plain. No houses. No fences. Just the distant silhouette of mountains breaking up the pale sky.

"I can open the window if you want, Princess," he said without looking at you, voice low and gravel-edged. "But all you’ll get is a cabin full’a coal smoke."

You shot him a glare, then rolled your eyes and stood, brushing the creases from your coat with a sigh of forced patience. You’d learned, albeit reluctantly, that pushing him got you nowhere—at least, not without a headache in return.

“I’m going to breakfast,” you said crisply, sliding the compartment door open and casting one last look over your shoulder.

He pushed off the windowsill and followed without a word. Of course, he did.

For all his witty remarks and infuriatingly smug demeanour, Bucky took his job seriously. Wherever you went, he was just a step behind—silent, watchful, and always armed with that barely concealed impatience. He even waited outside the women’s lavatory, arms crossed, like a guard dog forced to sit through etiquette lessons.

You had no doubt that, given the choice, he’d rather have spent the journey holed up in the bar car or asleep in a quiet corner. But duty clearly came first.

The train was scheduled to stop in Hollowpass by evening, a final pitstop before you boarded the next line toward Norcross. From there, you had two more days of travel—by carriage, no less—until you reached Glenwyck. Your brother’s outpost.

No train lines reached that far north. Too remote, too wild. Just frostbitten roads and vast stretches of wilderness. And Bucky Barnes, your less-than-charming, maddeningly handsome escort, to lead the way.

Wonderful.

You stumbled, the floor pitching beneath your boots just as a blur of motion came barreling down the narrow walkway. A firm hand caught the back of your collar and yanked you sharply backwards into the compartment right as a trolley clattered past, steered by a flustered cleaning woman who offered a breathless apology as she vanished down the corridor.

Your back landed squarely against Bucky’s chest, the breath knocked out of you more from the closeness than the pull.  “Careful, Princess,” he murmured, voice low beside your ear before letting you go.

You gripped the doorframe to steady yourself, heart skipping for reasons you chose not to examine too closely.

“How are you gonna survive in Glenwyck,” he drawled, “if I can’t trust you not to get run over on a damn train?”

You twisted around with an irritated look, brushing your hands over your skirt to smooth it back into place. “You’re rather dramatic, you know that?”

He only shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just doing my job, Princess.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him into the corridor, leading the way.

The sleeper car stretched ahead of you, its narrow passage lined with compartments like the one you’d just vacated. The metal shutters had been slid open now it was morning, the orange glow of the sunrise casting a glow over the polished brass handles and dark wood panelling. You passed passengers still tucked into their compartments, some reading, others quietly sipping tea or peering out windows wrapped in thick scarves. You pressed on, following the distant tang of strong coffee.

When you finally reached the dining car, you were quick to find an empty table. The tables were arranged in neat rows along either side of the carriage, bolted securely to the floor with matching bench seats upholstered in deep green velvet. You slid into the booth nearest the window, the cushioning stiff beneath you. Bucky settled across from you with a grunt, his eyes swept the car.

You eyed your escort as you delicately draped one of the napkins across your lap. In the daylight, he looked younger than you had first assumed. The lines on his face seemed less carved by time and more etched by worry. His stubble had grown out further, darkening his jaw in a shadow.

“How long have you known my brother?” you asked, tone light, almost casual. However, your gaze didn’t waver from over the rim of your teacup.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, surprise flashing across his face like he hadn’t expected you to speak, let alone ask something personal. Until now, most of your time together had passed in silence. He kept to himself, either smoking, draining cup after cup of bitter black coffee, or nursing that damn flask of his. Always wound tight, like a viper coiled in wait. 

“‘round two years,” he said finally, guarded. “I was workin’ as a Firewarden in the city. Your brother came through and convinced a bunch of us to sign on with him.”

You tilted your head. “How did he manage that?”

Bucky gave a short scoff and leaned back against the booth, his arm slung along the top of the velvet seating.“Hell if I know. One week I’m lazin’ around the city guardhouse, the next I’m freezing my ass off patrollin’ the edge of some nowhere, nobody town I ain’t ever heard of. Your brother talked like the place was already rebuilt. Like it’s a done deal. Gets in your head like that.”

You smiled faintly. “He gets that from our father. He was like that too. Good at leading people. Better at convincing them they wanted to be led.”

Bucky raised a brow, studying you. “How’d your family even get into this line of work?”

You hesitated, then set your cup down and rested your hands on the table. “My father grew up in the city. But he met my mother at one of those old debutante balls—they used to invite girls from rural towns and farmsteads to give them a shot at something different. She caught his eye. When he travelled north to meet her family, to ask for her hand… he was horrified.”

“Horrified?” Bucky echoed.

You nodded. “They were barely surviving. No access to reliable fire, which meant no protection. No fuel, no heat. Elders froze to death in their sleep. Crops dead. Livestock gone. And the Ignivorae…”

You shuddered, though the memory didn’t belong to you. Your mother had repeated it countless times until it had practically become your own. “Towns would light pyres and pray their tenders could keep them burning through the night. Others would go dark completely. No light, no sound. Just hoping the Ignivorae would pass them by.”

He was quiet for a beat.

“So your father stepped in.”

You nodded again. “He saw the problem for what it was. Cities survived because they had infrastructure. They had fire. Steady, managed fire. But out in the rural zones, people were alone. Busy farming, raising children, barely getting by. Staying up all night with a torch and a pitchfork wasn’t sustainable. And most of them couldn’t afford to hire proper wardens.”

You looked down, fingers idly toying with the corner of your napkin. “So my father hired them himself and paid for the fuel to burn too. They’d build firelines on the outskirts, massive pyres like the ones in the city to burn hot and long enough to lure the Ignivorae away from homes. If the flames didn’t kill the things outright, the wardens would. ”

Bucky was quiet, eyes drifting toward the window. The snow had deepened outside, smooth hills like frozen waves rolling across the plain. The sun peeked over the horizon in slivers of pale gold and silver, bouncing off the frost-bitten world in blinding flashes. Mountains loomed ahead like jagged teeth, their peaks lost in cloud.

“With protection in place, people could sleep again. And once that foundation was stable, once the fireline was holding… then my father would start investing. Building industry. Bringing in trade, tourism, and shipping routes when the rivers allowed for it. Giving the town something to build on.”

The dining car had filled slightly while you talked. The clinking of cutlery and low murmurs of conversation filled the space. A few other passengers sat at the other tables, most dressed in heavy coats and wool scarves. One man read a newspaper folded neatly in front of him, while a young woman stirred sugar into her tea.

“Then my mother stepped in. I did too, once I was old enough,” you went on. “She’d open little schoolhouses, sometimes just in empty sheds or old barns at first. We taught the adults first. Reading, writing, and arithmetic so they could manage their own businesses when they came. And then we taught the children, so the next generation didn’t grow up at the mercy of someone else’s charity.”

Bucky turned toward you again, his expression unreadable. That same brooding stare, heavy-lidded and cryptic, like he was always walking the line between irritation and interest. 

“Didn’t peg you for the charitable type,” he said at last.

You gave him a dry look. “It’s not charity. It’s a foundation. If you want people to build something that lasts, you have to teach them how to keep it standing.”

He considered that, thumb tapping once against the edge of the table.

“And when the towns were strong enough to hire their own wardens and run their own schools?” he asked.

“We moved on,” you said simply. “All my father asked was one percent of their profits each year. Over time, it added up. He used that money to invest in the next place.”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He just leaned back, eyes still on you. The sunrise spilt gold across his features, catching on the stubble along his jaw, casting shadows beneath his tired eyes.

“Sounds borderline predatory, Princess,” he said finally.

You gave a faint smile, one without warmth. “It’s business.”

A pause settled between you, brief but heavy.

“My brother trusts you enough to send you on this escort job, and you barely know anything about him?”

“Didn’t come up much in conversation, Princess,” he said, rolling a shoulder in a slow shrug. “Too busy not getting killed. Hell, I didn’t even know he had a sister until he handed me this job.”

You frowned, studying him. “You follow someone that blindly?”

“I follow people who get things done,” he said. “And if he says protectin’ you is part of the deal, then that’s what I’m doin’.”

—

The wind cut sharp through Hollowpass Station, knifing through coats and gloves, the chill carving you down to the bone. Beneath your boots, the platform creaked, salt to banish the ice crunching underfoot. The sun was long gone, leaving the world drained of colour, lit only by moonlight and fire.

Far beyond the edge of the town, a pyre roared like a heartbeat in the dark. Massive, constant and crackling. You watched it through the flurries of snow, that distant beacon where the Firewardens stood vigil. The Ignivorae circled in lazy, sweeping arcs above the flames, dark silhouettes, long-limbed and hungry. One would dive suddenly, vanishing into the fire with a hiss and a burst of embers. The swarm would follow, mindless, forever drawn to the searing light.

Bucky stood nearby, gloved hands jammed into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched. A dusting of snow clung to his hair and the curve of his collar. He wasn’t watching the pyre, instead scanning the tracks as if willing the train into existence through sheer force of irritation.

You hesitated, teeth worrying your bottom lip, then stepped a little closer. Not enough to touch, just enough to share the heat from his body.

He didn’t move. Just gave a small, knowing smirk without looking at you. “You cold, Princess?”

You huffed lightly, eyes still on the horizon. “A little.”

“Gonna get a lot worse where we’re headed,” he said casually. 

A low whistle echoed across the pass. You turned toward the sound, the relief unspoken. You would not be the only one on the platform anxious to be on board where it was warm and sheltered. Somewhere in the dark, gears shifted, and brakes hissed, metal groaning in protest as the train began to slow its approach.

“Do they ever break through?” you asked quietly, nodding toward the fire.

Bucky’s expression turned stony again. “Sometimes.”

“And if that happens while we are out here?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Then you better hope I’m as good as I say I am.”

The train emerged from the darkness like a beast of iron, the plume of smoke engulfing the falling snow. Around you, the waiting crowd stirred, boots shifting on the frost-glazed platform, murmured conversations fading into anticipation. A conductor stepped forward, shoulders hunkered against the cold and swung down the footstools with practised rhythm. Another man unlatched the station door, shouting over the chatter of passengers as mail and luggage were wheeled out.

You felt the press of people closing in, eager to board. A woman with a bundled baby stood just behind you, and further back, a pair of merchants argued softly over seating. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t even seem to notice the gathering heat of bodies around him. He kept his eyes on the tracks, one hand resting lightly on the strap of his pack.

You leaned slightly toward him. “You travel a lot, then? You seem very at ease with all this.”

“I get around.” He drawled, gaze still on the tracks. “You always this nosy?”

You caught his eye, refusing to let it go. The cold air curled around your cheeks, but the heat building in your chest was enough to thaw any frost.

“You’re a mystery to me,” you confessed, your voice barely above the noise around you. “Maybe I find that interesting.”

He turned to look at you then—really look at you. His pupils dilated, irises flicking across your face like he was mapping something he didn’t quite expect to find. Your teeth grazed your bottom lip, but you didn’t look away.

“Yeah?” he murmured, just for you. “What exactly is it you’re hopin’ to figure out, Princess?”

“You haven’t told me anything about yourself,” you replied, letting the wind catch your words. “Other than that you used to be a Firewarden in the city and work for my brother now.”

He lifted his brows. “You never asked.”

“Well,” you said, leaning just a little closer as the platform shuddered with the weight of the train’s arrival, “I’m asking now.”

“Oh yeah?” He hummed, the shove of the crowd pulled him closer to you, his warm breath fanning across your chilled cheeks. “What do you want to know?”

You opened your mouth, but your words were lost as the train neared. The brakes shrieked against the frozen rails, a grinding howl that sent a cascade of bright sparks down the line. You flinched from the sound, blinking against the sudden burst of light.

For one breath, it was quiet as you blinked away the stars in your vision.

A scream rang out behind you. 

Then another. 

The platform erupted in chaos, boots scrambling, bags abandoned, a child crying as they were yanked backwards by the hand. Shouts rose, some in warning, others pure terror. 

The Ignivorae hit the platform with a sickening crunch, its claws punching through the wooden planks like it was paper. A monstrous silhouette of twisted anatomy, the creature loomed in the firelight, half-moth, half-man. Its gangly limbs bent at the wrong angles, ending in hooked talons slick with frost. Translucent wings stretched wide behind it, tattered and powdered, like those of a colossal night moth.

Its face—if you could call it that—was a hideous blend of bone-white mandibles and jagged teeth, stretching unnaturally wide. Two bulbous eyes blinked out of sync, scanning the crowd. 

You’d never seen an Ignivorae this close before, not mere paces away. You had seen them at a distance, grown up watching as they dived into the pyres at night. You’d heard descriptions. Your father or brother telling gruesome stories of the outskirts while your mother scolded and ushered you away—‘such stories are not appropriate for young ladies’. In all your years, you had wondered what you would do if faced with such a moment. What would you do if one broke free from the swarm, disregarded the Firewarden’s efforts, and came straight for you? Would you grab a weapon, fight, scream, run?

To your disappointment, all you found was that you froze, as if the ice from the platform had crept up your legs and locked you in place.

With one violent shudder, it threw its wings forward. A cloud of fine, shimmering dust exploded into the air, catching in the light like gold. The effect was anything but beautiful. Screams tore through the crowd as the dust landed on exposed skin, the powder causing instant stinging. Red welts rose in its wake like a poisonous plant’s touch. People scattered in a frenzy, tripping over luggage and each other to escape.

A shriek tore from its throat, shrill and distorted, like metal bending under strain.

You still stood rigid, breath caught in your throat.

Bucky shoved you back, hard enough that your shoulder slammed into a column. “Stay down!” he barked.

The Ignivorae’s milky eyes swung around and locked on Bucky.

He didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp motion, he pulled a hunting knife from inside his coat and rushed the creature. You had no idea where your escort had produced it from nor how long he had been so easily armed on this trip of yours. But rather than worry, you were rather grateful for his cunning. The Ignivorae lunged, jaws unhinging to reveal a mouth full of jagged, needle-like teeth. Bucky ducked beneath them, rolled forward, and drove the blade deep into its abdomen. Thick, black blood sprayed across the frozen platform in thick, oily ropes.

The creature shrieked and thrashed, claws tearing through the air. One struck his shoulder, ripping the fabric clean and exposing the skin beneath. Its wings flared again, dust bursting across him in a glittering veil.

Bucky hissed as the powder kissed his neck and collarbone, shoulder jerking back.

He yanked the blade free and, in one clean movement, rammed it up beneath the creature’s jaw, right into the base of its skull. The Ignivorae gave one final, horrible twitch, then collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs and curling wings.

You scrambled to your feet as Bucky staggered back, breath visible in the frigid air. The bloodied knife remained clenched in his grip. His chest heaved, and an angry rash had already bloomed across the bare skin of his throat and collarbone. 

Without a word, he shook himself off, using his gloved hands to swipe the lingering powder from his coat and pants. He moved carefully, methodically, ensuring no dust remained on the fabric before lowering the knife.

Behind him, the platform was chaos. Passengers sprinted for the station, some rolling and shrieking in pain as the dust settled, others throwing themselves aboard with panicked shouts.

Bucky’s eyes met yours. His jaw was tight, temple flecked with black blood.

“Come on,” he growled. He gave his gloves one final shake, checked the backs of his hands, and then reached for you. His fingers curled around your wrist, tugging you toward the waiting train.

You stumbled after him, breath hitching, heart racing. “Bucky, are you okay? Are you hurt?” You couldn’t stop looking at the rash blooming angry red across his throat, the skin raw where the powder had settled. “Your skin—”

“I’m fine,” he bit out, dragging you onto the train as the doors hissed open. He didn’t let go of your wrist until you were inside, pushing past confused passengers and frantic attendants. “It’s just the dust. Burns like hell.”

You followed him down the narrow corridor, voice shaking. “You shouldn’t have…God, you could’ve died—”

“I didn’t,” he said, leading you into your sleeper compartment and shutting the door behind you. The sounds of panic outside muffled instantly, replaced by the hum of the train and your uneven breath. “This is my job, Princess.”

The rash on his neck looked worse, creeping like vines toward his collarbone.

“You’re not fine,” you said, reaching for his shirt. “Let me see it—”

Bucky caught your wrist again, gentler this time. His eyes, still alert from the fight, softened just a little. “I’ll live.”

You were both breathing hard, the adrenaline still lingering in your limbs. The cabin was just like the last train, with tight quarters and iron fixtures with the same thin, cream-coloured walls and dark wood panelling. Leather seating with overhead luggage storage lined one side, while two narrow bunks lined the other, the lower mattress already creaking under Bucky as he sat down heavily, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“Let me help you.” You argued, holding his gaze with a determination that, deep down, even surprised you.

 He exhaled slowly, head tipping back against the wall. 

“Check my bag. There’s a jar.” His voice was quieter now but steady. “There's a woman in Glenwyck, a healer. She makes ‘em up for the Wardens. Helps with the rash. This ain’t the first time I’ve been covered in that dust. Won’t be the last.”

You turned to the leather satchel he’d tossed carelessly on the seat opposite. The zipper resisted at first, stiff with cold, but inside was a mess of folded shirts, a canteen, a few loose rolling papers, and the jar he’d mentioned. 

“How did the Ignivorae get past the Wardens? I thought we would’ve been safe so far away.” You muttered, mostly to yourself, as you fished the jar from his bag. 

“Sometimes they get past, probably saw the sparks from the breaks and saw an easy target.” Bucky replied through grit teeth. You tossed a look over at him, noting how sweat misted his brow, wincing in pain as the train began to rumble to life once more. You unscrewed the jar lid, and sure enough, a pungent pine scent hit your nose, sharp and earthy, undercut with something vaguely medicinal.

Outside the window, the night blurred by in streaks of white snow and distant firelight. You moved toward him carefully, the jar in one hand. 

“Collar,” you instructed, and he tugged the neck of his torn shirt loose without protest, baring the angry red rash that bloomed along his collarbone and crept up his throat.

When your fingers touched his skin, his eyes flicked up to yours.

You dipped your index finger into the salve and dragged it gently along the inflamed skin, spreading it in careful strokes, watching as it sank in with a faint sheen. The silence between you grew thicker with every slow motion. You tried not to notice how close you were now, standing between his knees, your breath shallow and uneven.

“How long does it take to kick in?” You questioned, voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers smoothed up his neck, muscle and tendons shifting under your touch. You swept a thumb across his jugular, and he swallowed hard, throat bobbing.

“The pain fades first,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse. “Rash’ll stick around for a day or two.”

You were the first to look away.

You screwed the lid back on with a quiet click and stepped toward the bag resting on the seat. The train lurched under your feet, and you reached for the bunk rail to steady yourself—only to find Bucky already there, his hands catching your waist, steadying you like it was second nature.

His bag slid off the seat behind you, spilling its contents across the cabin floor.

You hid the flush rising to your cheeks, brushing his hands away gently as you crouched to the floor. “I’ve got it.”

“Princess—” he muttered, shifting like he might kneel down too.

“Sit still,” you cut in, already scooping up his belongings. He let out a sound—half a sigh, half a grumble—but obeyed, leaning back against the wall as you stuffed shirts and supplies back into the leather pack.

It was only as you blindly grasped a stack of thick paper that you hesitated, eyes glancing up. In your hand, you held a bundle of letters wrapped in twine. At least a dozen, maybe more, none of them opened. The edges were worn, some water-stained, others wrinkled from being carried too long. A few still had wax seals, cracked from travel but untouched.

“Bucky…” you said, turning them over slowly. “What are these?”

He didn’t look at you. “Letters.”

“I can see that.” You cut back, exasperated, peeking up at him. “You haven’t opened any of them.”

“I know.” He responded, and for a moment, you thought that was all he would give you. But after what appeared to be a lengthy internal deliberation, he sighed through his nose and offered you a further explanation. “They’re from my friend. Steve.”

“And you haven’t read them?” Your thumb ran down the corner of the stack, the paper flicking against your nail. “These must go back months.”

He didn’t answer immediately, just leaned back against the wall with a straight face. He was watching you with that same vigilant calm, like he was already bracing for whatever reaction he was worried you might give.

“I can’t read,” he confessed finally.

You stilled. “You can’t… what?”

Your voice caught in surprise as you turned toward him fully. “But you’ve been reading the tickets, the signs—why would your friend keep sending letters if—?”

“I can read a bit,” he interrupted. 

“I know enough words to get by. Basics. Just not enough to keep up with letters like that.” His tone was slightly irritated as if he was unsure if your questions were mocking or genuine confusion. “The letters were for me and a friend, Sam. He could read. That’s why Steve would send ‘em.”

“Sam’s been dead about a year now, so…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on the dark panelling opposite. “I had no way to tell Steve. So I just… held onto the letters. I figured I’d read them eventually. Once I learned.”

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

Your gaze dropped to the stack again, fingers gently brushing over one of the names penned in Steve’s neat, looping script. Sam must have died working in Glenwyck. You could blame your brother for drawing him to that place, but Glenwyck was no crueller than any other firepost. The Firewardens knew the risks. It didn’t make it any less tragic.

Bucky only grunted in response. From your place on the floor, you studied him quietly. Maybe you’d misread him. Maybe he wasn’t gruff for the sake of being difficult or to scare you. Maybe there really was a weight he carried, something heavy and damaged beneath the sharp edges. Had sorrow or bitterness carved itself into him after everything he’d seen?

And against your better judgment, you offered something small. “I could read them for you. Teach you how to read. If… if that’s something you’d want?”

His brows knit together, jaw tightening as he mulled over your words. Then it set hard. “I don’t want to be another one of your charity cases, Princess—”

You cut him off. “It’s not charity, remember? It’s foundation.”

He stared down at you, lips set in a fine line as he contemplated. 

“...Okay.”

You grinned, hoisting yourself up onto the mattress beside him. He blinked at your sudden movement, instinctively leaning back as you settled next to him, letters in hand. For a moment, his guarded expression cracked, just long enough for surprise to flicker in his eyes.

Reading mystery letters for your sullen escort would be the perfect temporary distraction, and the bonus was that maybe you’d learn something new about him. Something he wouldn’t explicitly tell you himself unless sufficiently prompted. 

You held up the bundle with a teasing smile. “Maybe, if you behave, I’ll even help you write back.”

He gave you a sidelong look, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smirk. “Now you’re pushin’ it.”

You laughed, light and genuine. “Worth a shot.”

—

A few hours had passed, marked only by the clack of wheels over frozen tracks and the steady glow of the oil lamp overhead. Letters were strewn across the bunk and spilt onto the floor like fallen leaves, pages soft and yellowing, ink curling in elegant loops. To your mild disappointment, you’d discovered that the mysterious ‘Steve’ wasn’t the author of those elegant words. It was his wife, Peggy, who had penned most of the letters in his stead while he worked the pyres. You were curled into the corner of the bottom bunk, your shoulder pressed against Bucky’s as you read another aloud.

“‘—and then Steve nearly broke his own nose trying to prove to Dugan that he could knock a pinecone off the fence post from thirty paces. It was like watching two puppies try to arm wrestle. I had to bribe the store clerk with liquorice just to get him to hand over an ice pack.’” You snorted a laugh, eyes dancing as you glanced up at Bucky.

He was grinning—really grinning—for the first time all day. “Dugan always gets him so wound up. It’s a miracle the two of them haven’t killed each other yet.”

“And Peggy bribed someone with liquorice for him?”

“Of course she did. They’ve been together for years, but she still acts like the exasperated schoolteacher, and he’s the scrappy kid with skinned knees and dirt on his chin.”

You smiled softly, letting the letter drift onto the growing pile between you.

“Why didn’t Steve and Peggy go with you and Sam to Glenwyck?” you asked, hesitantly glancing over at Bucky.

He shifted slightly, gaze distant. “He considered it. The pay was better, no doubt. But they’d just got married, and they were trying for a baby… didn’t want to raise a kid in that kind of place. It’s hard enough just surviving it.”

“I get it.” You hummed, selecting the next letter on the pile. You were about halfway through now, around six months deep. “Probably why my brother didn’t want me out there with him.”

“Did he write you much?” Bucky asked. “While he was out there?”

“No.” You replied, being careful not to meet his eye as you frowned. “I didn’t expect to hear from him ever again, to be honest.”

“You thought he abandoned you?” You could feel the heat of his gaze on your cheek as you refused to meet his eye.

“Kind of… I—” You were cut off as the door slid open with a rattling clang, and a uniformed attendant stepped into the frame. He peaked around the side, down to where you and Bucky sat on the bottom bunk, knees and shoulders touching. 

“We’re entering blackout protocol,” he said briskly. “There’s been a report of a swarm of Ignivorae sighted along the pass ahead. All windows must be shut, and metal shutters secured. No lights. All lamps and candles extinguished until morning.”

You sat up straighter, a chill slicing through your earlier comfort.

“How long until we reach them?” Bucky asked, already rising to his feet.

“Twenty minutes, maybe less. Best to be ready.” The attendant gave a curt nod, then slid the door shut with a decisive snap.

Before you could fully register what was happening, Bucky moved. He crossed the compartment in two strides and dragged the heavy metal shutter down over the window with a grinding creak, locking it in place. 

You remained on the bunk, gathering the scattered letters into your lap with slow, distracted movements. Your gaze drifted toward the sealed window, then the door. Already, your imagination filled in the silence, the scrape of claws against the glass, the dry whisper of wings brushing steel.

Bucky reached for the oil lamp mounted near the door.

“Wait—” you blurted, your voice small and unsure.

He hesitated, eyes finding yours. “It’s okay.”

And then, with a twist of his hand, the flame vanished.

Darkness swept in like a wave.

The only sound left was the soft rumble of the train, the occasional jostle of the carriage, and the muffled shuffle of other passengers beyond your door. You swallowed hard, trying not to let the fear sit too heavy in your chest.

The mattress shifted. You felt Bucky’s hand brush your arm gently, guiding, not pulling. 

“You wanna head up top to sleep?” he asked quietly. “Best to get some rest before we hit Norcross. Won’t be much shuteye once we’re in the carriage.”

You didn’t move. Your knees locked, rooted in place as something old and cold took hold of your limbs. Without thinking, your fingers wrapped around his wrist, nails catching in the fabric of his sleeve.

“I don’t… I—”

Bucky stilled. “You alright, Princess?”

“You’re going to laugh at me.” The words came out in a rush, and Bucky paused. You could feel him hovering above, silence stretched between you. “I’m afraid—”

“Hell, Princess. After what you just heard, I think anyone would be—”

“No,” you cut him off. “Not of the Ignivorae.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m scared of the dark.”

A pause.

“…What?”

“See?” you muttered, already curling in on yourself. “I knew you’d laugh—”

“You hear me laughing?” Bucky said flatly. You heard the soft rustle of his collar. He was shaking his head. “I’m just tryin’ to understand. You’ve done blackouts before, haven’t you?”

“Not true blackouts,” you whispered. “I’ve always lived where there are Wardens. Never fully dark. There would always be the glow from the fires, even at night. I just got used to it, I suppose.”

“I get it. I do.” Bucky replied, though it was accompanied by a long sigh. “We can’t have any light, though, you understand?”

“I know, I just…”

“C’mere.”

You blinked as his arm eased around you, gently pulling you back. In the dark, it was a clumsy tangle of elbows and whispered apologies as he shifted onto the mattress beside you, legs stretched out. He found the wall and leaned against it, adjusting you with him until your side pressed to his, and his arm was warm and firm around your shoulders, guiding you into the curve of his chest.

You didn’t resist.

You let yourself settle there, head resting against the soft thrum of his heartbeat, the faint scent of pine and smoke on his shirt. His thumb brushed against your upper arm in slow, grounding circles.

“If there’s one thing I can promise, Princess,” Bucky murmured, voice low near your ear, “it never gets properly dark in Glenwyck. Wardens keep the pyres lit all through the night. You’ll feel right at home.”

You smiled faintly against his chest. Your eyes fluttered shut, letting yourself drift, allowing the tingling sparks in your spine and the butterflies in your stomach to drown out the shadow that had gripped you moments before.

“Thank you—” you began to whisper, but the words died on your lips as a loud bang cracked through the carriage.

It echoed like a thunderclap against hollow steel. Somewhere further down the train, a woman cried out. A muffled yelp, cut off just as quickly. You jolted upright, heart slamming into your throat.

“What was that?” you gasped, voice trembling.

Bucky’s hand found your waist again, pulling you back against him. “The start of the swarm.”

Your body stiffened. “There’s nothing we can do?”

He was quiet for a moment. When he finally answered, his voice was calm but firm. “No. Safest thing is to ride it out. We’re sealed in tight. Metals thick, train’s fast. They won’t get in.”

You tried to steady your breathing, but your head whipped toward him in the dark. Even with your faces just inches apart, you couldn’t see him—couldn’t see anything.

“Then what was that noise?”

"One of ‘em. Hit the side of the train. Likely died on impact." His voice was clear and deliberate like he was trying to anchor you with the certainty of it. As if he knew that if you could just understand, truly believe the train was too fast, too strong, too sealed for them to breach, you might be able to quiet the fear clawing its way up your chest.

But, as if summoned by his words, another bang, closer this time, rang out. Then another. A few passengers gasped. Someone down the car stifled a scream. The train rocked slightly under the force of the impacts. You clung to Bucky’s shirt now, the fabric balled in your fists.

The air felt too thin, like this train of death was suddenly headed up a steep mountain where your lungs could never truly be full.

The next strike was louder like something bigger had collided with the carriage. You flinched hard, pressing your face into Bucky’s shoulder. His arm tightened around you, his other hand bracing against the wall behind.

Then, the real storm began.

Bang—bang—bang! 

A rapid succession of impacts, like hailstones the size of skulls, hammering against the train’s body. The metal groaned, wheels screeching beneath you as the train barreled forward, but the sounds of the Ignivorae overpowered everything else. The shrieks and shouts of other passengers mixed in, panicked, pleading, praying.

Something scraped along the roof.

You let out a choked sob, the noise strangled in your throat. You buried yourself deeper into Bucky’s chest, the darkness pressing in on all sides. You couldn’t see. You couldn’t breathe. Every bang sounded like the end.

The screams got louder.

The sound grew. Deafening. Hundreds of bodies, maybe more, slamming against the train, shrieking past the windows like banshees in flight. You were shaking violently now, your hands trembling as they clutched at him. A cry tore out of you, high-pitched and helpless, and you didn’t care anymore if anyone heard.

You were sobbing into his shirt, breath hitching uncontrollably as the sounds swelled into a relentless cacophony.

And still, Bucky held you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured again and again, his voice the only thing not swallowed by the chaos. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. Just hang on. Just hold onto me.”

And in the dark, with hell crashing against the walls around you, you did.

Your chest heaved in shallow bursts. The darkness felt thicker now—suffocating, alive. Each blow from outside rattled the walls and echoed through your bones like war drums. You couldn’t hear your own thoughts. Couldn’t think at all.

Your fingers clutched blindly at Bucky’s shirt, twisting the fabric so tight your knuckles ached, but it wasn’t enough. You couldn’t feel your hands. Couldn’t feel your face. The air wouldn’t stay in your lungs, too hot, too thin, too sharp.

“Hey…hey, Princess—”

His voice sounded far away like it was coming from underwater. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your whole body had turned to ice and fire at once. You shook your head wildly, gasping now, sobs hitching through clenched teeth.

“Princess.” Bucky’s hands framed your face now, gentle but firm, thumbs brushing just below your eyes. “You’re panickin’. I need you to listen to me, alright?”

Another bang rocked the train, louder than before. You flinched violently, trying to curl in on yourself, but Bucky didn’t let you. He held you steady, close.

“Look at me.” His voice was still soft, but it cut through the noise. “I’m right here. You’re safe. Just breathe. Just breathe with me.”

You were shaking so hard now your teeth chattered. You couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t get enough air.

“In through your nose,” Bucky coached, his forehead pressing gently to yours, “out through your mouth. You don’t have to get it perfect. Just follow me.”

You tried.

Tried to match the rhythm of his voice, the slow inhale, the deliberate exhale. But your lungs wouldn’t cooperate. A strangled noise tore from your throat instead, a fresh wave of sobs threatening to overtake you.

“You’re okay,” he whispered again, voice unwavering even as the train screamed around you. “You’re right here with me. There’s nothin’ in this room ‘cept you and me. Hold onto that.”

You clung to his words, desperate.

And slowly, painfully, your breathing started to stutter into some kind of rhythm, still shaky, still uneven, but present. You could feel the heat of him against you, solid, real. His arms wrapped tighter around your back, his breath brushing your temple.

“That’s it. There you go. Just keep doing that. With me.”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Your body jolted, instinct still screaming, but Bucky was already grounding you again. His hands rubbed slow circles down your back. One of them moved to rest over your chest, right above your racing heart, like he could steady it with his palm alone.

“You’re doin’ good. I’ve got you.”

The shrieking from outside started to change. The tempo of the blows against the train shifted, less frequent, less violent, like the worst of the swarm was beginning to pass. The wails of the passengers faded, tapering off into soft whimpers and whispered prayers.

It was still dark, but the sounds were thinning.

Your breath, still ragged, wasn’t choking you anymore.

You pressed your forehead to Bucky’s collarbone and let the tears come, quieter this time, not from panic but from sheer exhaustion. He didn’t say anything, just kept holding you, hand never stopping its soothing rhythm across your back.

Eventually, the last of the banging faded into the distance, swallowed by the speed of the train. A tense silence settled over the carriage, broken only by the muted sobs of a child somewhere and the faint clatter of wheels against rail.

And in the black stillness of that bunk, pressed close to Bucky’s chest, you finally breathed in fully and let it out in a slow, trembling sigh.

He didn’t say a word.

Just held you until sleep finally took you. 

—

You stirred slowly. Your cheek still pressed to the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. His arm was heavy over your back, warm and protective, like it had stayed there all night. You breathed in, taking the scent of him.

You didn’t move. Didn’t want to. Not yet.

“Mornin’,” came his voice, rough with sleep. You felt the vibration of it beneath your ear.

You hummed back softly, not quite trusting your voice yet.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded, still tucked into his side. “Yeah… I think so.”

Your voice was quiet but true. You shifted a little, your hand brushing across his ribs, and tilted your head just enough to glance up at him.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

He gave a lazy smile, one corner of his mouth pulling up in that charming, crooked way of his.

“We’re close to Norcross now,” he said, brushing your hair back from your face. “Train’s slowin’ already. You slept right through the breakfast call.”

You blinked, surprised. “I did?”

“Like the dead.” He grinned. “Figured you needed it.”

“I must’ve…” You hesitated, glancing around the bunk before finally, reluctantly, beginning to peel yourself away from him. Your limbs were stiff with sleep and the lingering tension of last night, but the moment was already slipping from you. Duty waited beyond the window.

Still, you paused.

Hovering just above him.

He looked up at you with those steel-blue eyes, unreadable as ever, though the corners had softened.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his cheek.

“Thank you,” you said again, with a faint smile this time.

He made a pleased sound, something deep and amused in his chest, and before you could shift away completely, his hand caught your waist.

“Not done,” he muttered.

And with that, he pulled you back in. His other hand came to the side of your face, and he kissed you—properly, this time. No hesitation. Just the soft crush of his mouth against yours, the warmth of his palm, the rough edge of stubble beneath your fingertips. You melted into it, your hand curling into the fabric of his shirt as the train swayed gently beneath you.

A knock at the door startled you both, you jerked back slightly as it slid open with a clatter.

“Passengers, we’re making our final approach to Norc—”

Bucky didn’t even look.

He reached out with one hand and slammed the door shut again.

A stunned silence followed outside the compartment, but Bucky was already turning back to you, eyes glinting with mischief as you giggled in disbelief.

“Now, where were we?” he murmured, hand sliding to the small of your back as he tugged you in again.

[twisted-broth]

Emergency Rendezvous

Introduction

TW: accidental drugging, aphrodisiacs (no actual smut yet but reader is v horny)

You swat Grim's paws away from the ingredients on the table for the third time while Crewel continued explaining the science behind your assigned potion. He grumbled impatiently, resting his chin on the workbench. With the hand not prepared to Throw Down, you copied Crewel's drawing of some kind of chemical synapse with little bubbles in between labeled "endorphins".

"What makes this solution so potent is the ability of our magic ingredients to act directly on endorphin-releasing pathways in the brain, encouraging the body's natural painkiller system rather than introducing an artificial one. This greatly reduces the risk of addiction seen in non-magical analgesics. While this potion is relatively low risk, and hopefully easy enough that even you pups can't mess it up, there is a significant overlap with nearby pathways that may produce unintended effects. I trust that I've trained you properly enough to thoroughly check the labels on your ingredients and weigh them carefully."

The moment Crewel ended his lecture, Grim was grabbing at the various powders and herbs. With barely a glance given to the textbook in between you two, he started haphazardly shaking the magical- and probably expensive- elements into a weigh boat on the scale.

"Grim! What part of 'read the label' did you not understand?" You reach for the bottle, but are too slow to stop Grim from tossing the ingredient into your cauldron. You sigh wearily, resigned to leave the fate of your grade in Grim's trigger-happy paws. You manage to double check most of the ingredients before they're added to the mix, surprisingly in the correct order. After over a year spent with your troublesome pet/friend/roommate/co-student, you've learned to adopt an "it is what it is" mindset.

When the concoction is finally done, you're honestly shocked to see that your potion is the same color as everyone else's. To make it even better, nothing exploded in the process! You swirled the blue potion around in the flask, admiring the iridescent tone.

"Good dogs!" Crewel congratulated the class, almost sounding surprised that nothing had gone wrong. "Since you've all signed your waivers, and the risk associated is low, I'll allow you to test your products now or save them for later. If you experience any adverse side effects, inform me at once. Class dismissed!"

You eyed the potion on the desk in front of you, weighing the risks it posed. A tap on your shoulder stole your attention, and you swiveled around to see Ace sporting his usual self-righteous smirk. Beside him, Deuce was curiously sniffing their own creation.

"What d'ya think, prefect? Gonna give it a taste test?"

You respond with a weary laugh, finding that the shimmer of the potion was becoming less and less appealing. "I don't know... I mean I don't really have any pain right now. I guess my back is a bit sore?" You reply noncommittally.

Ace rolled his eyes with a tsk. "Aw, c'mon! Crewel never lets us try the potions we make. I, for one, have a killer headache. Cough it up Loosey Deucey!"

Ace swipes the flask from Deuce's hands, ignoring his scoff of protest. With disturbingly little hesitation, he downs the potion in seconds and licks the stray blue droplets from the corner of his mouth. The three of you watch him with mixed expressions of anxiety and curiosity, waiting for the potion to take effect. After another minute or so, Ace's eyes widened in excitement. "Hey, it's totally working! Damn that's a lot better!"

"And of course you had to go and hog it all to yourself," Deuce grumbled, resting his head on the workbench.

Grim pushed your experimental product closer to you. "Well? Go on, henchhuman! Anything the Great Grim makes will be 10x better than those two."

You raised an eyebrow, highly doubtful of Grim's claim considering his disregard for proper measurements. You open your mouth to voice your hesitation, but the excitement in his eyes gives you pause. Well, Crewel did say the potion was pretty low-risk, even if you did make it wrong. And you suppose even Grim deserves some semblance of a win on occasion. With a heavy sigh, you raise the flask to your lips and down the concoction.

You're pleasantly surprised by how good it tastes. Not that you were really paying attention to the ingredients, but you just assumed it would be terrible. Instead, the faint taste of honeysuckle and lavender dances across your tongue, gracing your throat with a warm coating on the way down. You can trace the warmth down your chest and into the stomach, where it slowly dissipates throughout the rest of your body. Despite the pleasant sensation, you say with certainty that your back ache had gone away. Rather, you were distracted from the dull pain as the same warm feeling flooded and settled in your groin.

Either from the potion or the realization of your situation, a furious blush burned your cheeks and ears. It took nearly a minute for you to regain your composure and notice the voices of your friends calling out to you in concern.

"Y/n! Are you alright?" Deuce gently placed a hand on your forearm, trying to bring you back to reality. You gasp at the touch, quickly withdrawing your arm as though you had been burned. Noticing your friends hurt expression, you cleared your throat in embarrassment.

"Sorry! Just a different sensation than I was expecting. You did great Grim! It works really well." You laugh unconvincingly, already feeling a drop of sweat budding at your temple.

Ignoring the various expressions of concern and confusion, you stand up abruptly, nearly knocking your chair over in the process. You make quick work of gathering your belongings, using all your focus to hold onto your last bit of composure.

"Sorry guys, I forgot that I uh... told Azul I would help out at the lounge! It'll be suuuuper boring though, so you guys should go on without me. I'll catch up to you later!" Without leaving room for protest, you rushed out of the lab room, hiding your beet-red face behind your free hand.

Within minutes, you were urgently knocking on Crewel's office door. The sudden noise summoned two large black noses to the narrow gap under the door where they sniffed intently at your feet. From within the office, you hear Crewel call out for you to enter. The dogs retreat from the door at the sound of their master's voice, allowing you space to slip in and close the door quickly behind you.

Although Crewel initially only glances in your direction, he does a double take at the sight of your flushed face and sweat-drenched brow. Two lanky Dalmatians regard you with mild intrigue from their large bed in the corner, where they lay daintily on top of one another. A rare look of concern crosses Crewel's features. "Prefect? Are you alright?"

You stay pressed against the door, trying to distance yourself from the tempting scent of Crewel's cologne. Your hand feebly attempts to cover your nose and mouth, and you shake your head no. "O-our potion," you stutter, "I think something went wrong".

Continuing to test your self control, Crewel stands and approaches you, assessing your vulnerable state. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead to feel for a fever. To your continued humiliation, a quiet whine escapes you at the contact. His eyes widened slightly, but he quickly dawns a mask of professionalism as he retracts his hand.

"I see. Well, as I mentioned in lecture, slight alterations in the potion's formula can trigger alternate pathways which are also mediated by endorphins. One such pathway is the arousal pathway. It would seem that significant enough errors were made that your potion activated your arousal pathway, rather than the intended pain relief pathway". He explains the error matter-of-factly, returning to his desk.

Your jaw dropped in disbelief. Arousal pathway? Doesn't the universe ever get tired of playing practical jokes on you? The persistent throbbing in your core sent the clear message that it doesn't. You groan, burying your face in your hands in an attempt to disappear from the face of the earth. "Can you undo it?"

"I'm afraid the only inhibitor of such endorphins is prolactin, the neurotransmitter released after orgasm. Unfortunately, we've yet to artificially synthesize an effective substitute. Otherwise, your body should metabolize the potion in eight hours." You were appreciative of Crewel's calm and even tone. Even if it didn't cure your current predicament, maybe you'll be able to look him in the eyes again someday.

Making the choice to not dig this hole even deeper, you gave him a grateful bow and quickly departed. Your mind was swimming as you made a beeline for Ramshackle, hoping to make it home before your knees started buckling. At last, you shut the door to your quiet dorm building. Your heart pounded in your ears, though if it was racing from the speed walking or the overwhelming arousal coursing through your blood, you weren't sure.

In any case, your options were to suffer for eight hours, or to get fucked. Well, you would be fucked either way. Your legs finally gave out by the time you had crawled to your bed and curled up on your side. The pillow trapped between your thighs did little to reduce the pressure that consumed every thought. As you stripped down to your underwear, your trembling fingers and raging heart made it very apparent that you weren't in any state to be able to take care of this yourself.

Several faces flashed through your mind, innocent encounters with your friends being quickly perverted in your brain. With less apprehension than was probably warranted, you pulled out your phone and opened your contacts. It wasn't an impressively long list, but nonetheless you quickly found the name you were looking for. The voice of reason in your head insisted that you would never live this down, but it was quickly gagged by the larger majority of your brain that was begging to be fucked.

With shaky hand, you pressed the call button.

A/n: if you missed the poll, I'm hoping to make this a series (no promises). Either way, the first victim will be Leona 😮‍💨

[thydungeongal]

Over the years I have come to appreciate D&D as the dungeon game: a game that is ultimately agnostic about trying to produce an epic narrative and just about some assholes trying to make it rich in a dungeon or dying at it. D&D 3e was my introduction to D&D and while that edition was supposed to be a return to the dungeon, the playstyle associated with modern D&D (characterized by five-room dungeons that are mostly linear gauntlets of challenges instead of little playgrounds for player expression and exploration) developed during 3e days and was the one me and my group gravitated towards.

D&D 4e is on the other hand an almost comprehensive rejection of the "D&D as a dungeon game" playstyle and specifically laser-focused on the "D&D as a game of fantasy heroics" playstyle, which is the one I in general don't really enjoy anymore. I mean that's likely to change, it's very likely I'll find a love for the playstyle again at some point.

Now, it may surprise you, that in spite of the fact that 4e basically embodies a playstyle I don't really care for, it's still my favorite WotC edition of D&D. Because both 3e and 5e kind of suck as dungeon games. 3e kind of does cook if you approach it almost like an immersive sim. But you also gotta accept that it's one of those early immersive sims where the devs were really rushed and didn't have time to do proper QA so sometimes the physics engine kind of shits itself and you can accidentally speedrun the game with glitches without even trying.

5e is kind of like D&D playing on an emulator.

[thecheshireprincess]

Starcrossed Masterlist

First Published: 6/1/2025

Last Updated: 6/18/2025

Next Update: Coming Soon

A Jujutsu Kaisen AU Multi-chapter Series

Satoru Gojo x F!Reader x Suguru Geto

Deeply rooted in history, culture, and tradition, the Three Great Jujutsu Families hold the fate of humanity in their hands, having long ago been gifted immense power with the intention of quietly preserving the balance of the world. It is essential that cursed energy-wielding sorcerers coexist and protect regular humans, both inevitably walking among cursed spirits - that is how proper order is maintained.

Over the years, even non-sorcerers had begun to recognize the authority of the major clans, thinking of the families more like royalty than silent safeguards. Led by a well-trained, highly skilled head, each family is intended to be dedicated to serving and protecting those around them. But as humans are apt to do, they allowed the prestige and wealth to inflate their egos; ultimately losing sight of their greatest purpose.

For the last century or so, the families have coexisted chaotically, to say the least. All three finding enemies instead of allies in each other; often clashing for even more power and even more recognition. The clan leaders' greatest desire being to produce the very best sorcerers, stronger than all the rest, no matter the cost. Instead of answering the call of their ancestors to work together, utilizing their gifts to protect, they got caught up in weaponizing their people against one another.

That is, until a prophecy was delivered to the elders that threatened the families to their cores - find harmony together again and return to your intended life's purpose, or risk complete destruction of the jujutsu community as a whole and leave the world in shadowy darkness and inevitable collapse.

And that's where you came into the puzzle, bright-eyed and strong - the first female heir to not only the Zenin family, but any of the three clans in history. It was a sign, the elders had decided before you were even five minutes old. It would be you that would serve as the perfect bridge, bringing the families together and fulfilling the highly feared prophecy. A twist of fate ensured that the other two clans had their heirs in place in the months leading up to when you were born; Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto. The three of you would grow up together, learn together, train together, exist together; and when the time came, you would choose one of them to marry.

It wouldn't be an easy path to walk, the weight placed on your shoulders as heir to one of the Three Great Jujutsu Families is already insurmountable, now add the pressure of having to choose a husband between your two best friends in order to save your clans from a mess that none of you made.

It is an arranged marriage situation, so most people really don't expect you to be in love with the person you ultimately choose to marry. But absolutely no one is expecting you to fall in love with both of them.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Main Story

Coming Soon!

Imagines/One-Shots/Drabbles

Introduction Blurb

Relationship Dynamics Blurb

Megumi and Reader Blurb

Imagine Teenage SatoSuguReader at the Arcade (Jealous!SuguReader)

Blurbs about Satoru and Suguru's First Dates with Reader

Suguru Always Brushes Reader's Hair

SatoSuguReader's Kids

Q&A

Is Satoru jealous of SuguReader's codependent relationship dynamic?

Are you (as an author) biased towards one of the men?

Posting my lengthy CW here, please don't start the story if anything here may make you uncomfortable! Note that some of these may be spoilers for the story, but I'd rather people know and be able to make an educated choice whether or not to read the story than get part way through the story and then see it take a turn they don't like

When will the main story be posted?/What is Reader's relationship with Toji?

This is an augmented universe in which I have adjusted the lore to serve me/created my own (sorry Kamo clan, you are no longer one of the Great Families). I cannot convey to you enough how much this might deviate from canon - please do not message me and tell me things are inaccurate or wouldn't happen, this is the point Technically arranged marriage (with wiggle room, Reader is given a choice; Gojo and Geto are at her mercy), terrible families/childhoods across the board (with the exception of Geto's mom; her love will be enough to save all three of them), polyamory, the trio will be put in a position to raise young kids when they are still kids themselves, eventual smut (all three together, and one-on-one), canon-typical violence, some angst, probably curse words because I have no chill, Reader will have to have at least one biological child with each man + one more (think one heir for each clan), so keep in mind that there will be pregnancy, talk of it, pressure from the higher ups/clans to produce children, and babies at some point. Many decisions are not their own, but are due to their duties to their clans, especially early on (think of this like political pressure in a way); there will be a lot of sad moments (think panic attacks, depression, etc.) for the trio to navigate together, both Reader and Suguru will brush with darkness but he will not defect, I promise. There will be major character deaths, but I promise not to touch SatoSuguReader, all three of them will make it to old age.

As always, I will tag content warnings for each chapter as they appear, but these are just what I can think of off the top of my head. Please remember to interact responsibly and don't read things that might make you uncomfortable!

Quick reminder that I absolutely do tag lists, you can comment on this masterlist, send me a message, or an ask if you want to be added! Please specify what you want to be tagged in; I never want to force people to be tagged in stuff they don't want to see. I have tag lists for this series, everything I post, Jujutsu Kaisen, Alice in Borderland, and character specific. Don't be afraid to get detailed - I am happy to do the work for you.

[i2rizz]

My lucky charm<3

Fandom: Blue lock! | masterlist

Characters: Shidou Ryusei x reader

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The stadium was electric, buzzing with the kind of energy that only a Blue Lock match could produce. You’d never seen Shidou Ryusei play live before, and you had to admit—it was something else. He was wild on the field, full of energy, but also incredibly precise when it mattered. The way he moved, the way he dominated—he didn’t play soccer like it was a sport; he played it like it was a performance, and the whole crowd was his audience.

You hadn’t expected to be so captivated, but when Shidou scored the winning goal in overtime—a ridiculous backflip volley—your jaw dropped. The stadium erupted in cheers, but there was one moment you couldn’t shake: when Shidou turned and looked straight at you, eyes glinting with something mischievous.

And then, like it was the most casual thing in the world, he pointed at you and shouted into the nearest camera, “That one’s for my lucky charm!”

You blinked, confused, and looked around. Did he just—?

Before you could process what had just happened, your phone buzzed with a dozen notifications. You looked down. “Shidou Ryusei dedicates win to his ‘lucky charm’” was trending. There was no mistaking it. He had pointed directly at you.

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

You were still trying to recover from the shock when your friend practically dragged you out of the stadium. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. He pointed at you! That’s insane!”

“I didn’t do anything!” you said, exasperated. “I wasn’t even looking at him!”

Your friend, however, was having the time of their life. “Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that. He totally picked you out of the crowd. What did you do to get his attention, huh?”

You didn’t have a good answer. You didn’t know what had just happened, but by the time you left the stadium, the whole world seemed to be talking about it. Your phone was blowing up with messages and notifications. Your name had been tied to Shidou Ryusei in a way you never expected.

You were just about to escape the media circus when it happened.

“Oi, lucky charm!”

The voice made you freeze. It was that unmistakable, cocky tone—loud and full of swagger. Turning around slowly, you found Shidou jogging up to you, his uniform still on, his hair damp with sweat, but his smile never faltering.

“Shidou!” you said, narrowing your eyes. “What the hell was that?”

He casually took a sip of his water bottle, all cool confidence. “What? You think I’m lying? You were watching me the whole time, right? Felt your energy, babe. It’s not every day I get a lucky charm like you.”

You stared at him, your face burning with confusion and—was that embarrassment? “I wasn’t watching you!”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your denial. “Doesn’t matter. You were there. That’s all I need.”

He gave you a teasing grin, as though this entire thing was a joke to him. “I’m not that selfish, y’know? I’ll make sure to get you something nice, too. A little something for my lucky charm. Maybe a signed jersey, huh?”

You rolled your eyes. “Are you for real?”

“Of course I am,” he said, smiling as if he were the king of the world. “Now, come on, we’ve got more to talk about. You think I’d just let this little thing slide without a proper introduction?”

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

The next few days were a blur. Shidou didn’t let up, and neither did the press. Every time you turned on the TV or checked social media, there he was—talking about his lucky charm again, always with that devil-may-care attitude of his. “That one’s for my lucky charm,” he’d say, or, “Can’t play without my lucky charm in the stands.”

Your friends were loving it. You, however, were about to lose your mind.

“I swear to god, if I see one more interview with him calling me his ‘lucky charm,’ I’m going to lose it,” you muttered one evening, pacing around your apartment. Your phone buzzed, and you groaned. Another notification from a sports blog. It was another quote from Shidou, talking about how you’d been his motivation. “What the hell, Shidou?”

You couldn’t avoid it forever. The next time you ran into him was inevitable. It was a random meeting at a café, just a normal afternoon. Or, so you thought.

You hadn’t even taken your seat when you heard his voice, unmistakably loud and cocky as ever.

“There she is!” Shidou waved over to you from a nearby table, where he was sitting with a couple of his teammates. “My lucky charm!”

You sighed, trying not to lose your cool. “Are you stalking me now?”

He grinned. “Maybe” He stood up and walked over, stopping right in front of you. His eyes were playful, almost teasing. “You didn’t think I was gonna leave you hanging, did you?”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you said, frustrated. “I’m not your ‘lucky charm.’ I’m just a random person at a game!”

Shidou leaned in, his grin widening. “Yeah, but you’re my lucky charm, whether you like it or not.” He stepped back, running a hand through his messy hair. “And I’m not about to let you forget it.”

There was something oddly sincere in his eyes, though. Something that wasn’t just for the cameras. For a brief second, it felt like the teasing, the cockiness, all of it—was just his way of breaking the ice, getting under your skin, and maybe, just maybe, getting to know you a little better.

“Look, I—”

Before you could finish your sentence, he cut you off. “Let me buy you coffee. No arguments. Consider it a thank-you for being my lucky charm.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words caught in your throat as you saw the look on his face. He wasn’t playing around anymore, not in the way he usually did. His gaze was soft, almost genuine.

You sighed. “Fine. One coffee.”

He winked. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”

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

As the days passed, you found yourself running into Shidou more often than you cared to admit. And every time, there was a strange dynamic between you. He was still as cocky as ever, but there was a layer to him that you hadn’t expected. You learned little things about him—the way he liked his coffee, his love-hate relationship with training, and how much he valued his place on the field, despite his constant teasing.

In a way, he had found his way under your skin, just as he always did with everyone around him. But what started as a joke, a flippant comment, began to feel more like something real. You weren’t just the “lucky charm” anymore.

He was starting to feel like someone who maybe, just maybe, needed you in his corner.

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

I was debating if i should write this about shidou or kaiser since kaiser kinda also matches this attitude but i decided to go w shidou:> Anyways tell me if you have a suggestion for my next post!!

[staybabblingbaby]

Project: Stack The Deck (First Meeting a1d1)

-

Concept: Reader is a long-time trainee at JYP Entertainment, on the verge of being dropped completely due to her age. In her first stroke of luck in ages, she's presented with an opportunity: JYPE is producing a brand new type of audition show - 9 lucky trainees will be 'interning' with 6 of JYPE's active groups for a year in hopes of forming the first ever mixed gender AND mixed subgender group in k-pop. The catch? The trainees are only interning with their exact opposite groups, in an effort to appease ongoing protests.

Or - Babble gives in and writes Omegaverse. But this time, there's ~lore~

-

Word Count: 2,442

Notes: I've been writing a lot of stuff I can't post for various reasons, but the Fanmeet literally left me in shambles and I can't NOT write right now. So. Have basically our only 'proper' archive fic rn. It took over my brain y'all can't blame me 4 this. Very literally please ask me abt the lore for this fic. Send me an ask, I beg. I wanna talk abt it SO bad I will write essays.

Heavily inspired by To The 9th Degree by azaluvx7 on Ao3.

-

Warnings: Mention of house fire. This gave me anxiety while I was writing it, so anxiety, maybe?

-

Masterlist | Prev Part

Being in the same room as Stray Kids gives the same surreal feeling as an oncoming storm. It reminds me of standing in a sunny spot and seeing dark clouds on the horizon, knowing that, despite the warmth I feel now, a downpour is coming. It’s oppressive, it’s heavy, it’s nature and change in motion.

Or maybe it’s their very heavy scents in the air invading my thoughts.

Being in the presence of my wildly successful seonbaes is, of course, as impressive as all that, but I can’t help but wrinkle my nose as I walk into the meeting room. The air is saturated with alpha scents, muddled and indistinct by the sheer amount of them.

There are at least twenty people in this meeting, by my guess. Stray Kids and several Division 1 staff I recognize only due to having been at the company longer than many of them. Most of my trainers and a handful of T&D staff I’m very familiar with. Some producers and choreographers I don’t recognize, but assume work with Stray Kids.

I can hazard a guess that this is the general cast that’s been involved with the planning of the show. The glaring hole where the CEO or JYP himself should be, seeing as this meeting deals with both some of their top talents and a major project, is conspicuously ignored. Maybe this show has lower projected ratings than I thought.

Sudden apprehension seizes me at the prospect. My debut depends on this show getting good ratings. My debut depends on a lot of very nebulous things right now. This is no longer a matter of simply working hard.

The weight of my new reality settles, crooked and off-putting, around my shoulders.

Director Jae-Hwa’s hand feels like a brand on my lower back as she guides me further into the room. I’m toted around, making introductions and shaking hands, greeting those I already know as warmly as I can manage.

Stray Kids are saved for last, and it takes everything in me not to throw up on their shoes. I shake each hand with reverence, making sure to bow at the waist and shake with both hands, and show as much respect as I’m capable of.

I also hold my breath in attempts not to sneeze as their collective scents invade my nose at such close proximity.

It’s easy to tell they’re all wearing scent blockers, as I imagine is a constant necessity with scents as strong as theirs, since all of the nuances I’d normally be able to pick out easily are strangely absent. Still, they’re typical over-the counter Alpha-type blockers, not made to cater to the delicate and sensitive nose of an Omega like myself.

I’m sure they only smell themselves faintly, if they’re not all completely nose-blind to each other by now, but to me it’s like sticking my face directly in a tub of perfume. The lack of nuance to the scents only makes the sensation worse. It feels like my nose-hairs are burning.

When we turn around to head to our seats, Jae-Hwa subtly hands me a tissue. I toss her a grateful smile and delicately blow into it, careful not to dislodge any actual snot or make noise. It takes a couple tries, but the itchy feeling calms.

I allow gratefulness to overtake me as I discard the tissue in the nearest trashbin. Jae-Hwa doesn’t have nearly as sensitive a nose as I do, I know. She wouldn’t be able to manage so many teenage trainees so closely otherwise. But still, she nose my nose is on the stronger side, had remembered that little factoid about me, and prepared accordingly. I owe her more every second I spend in her presence.

The meeting goes smoothly, if slowly, for the most part. Production jargon I don’t yet understand is lobbed around, plans are made, and schedules penned. I look to Jae-Hwa in absolute panic the first time I see Stray Kid’s schedule, terrified and confused by the absolutely packed blocks of colors and words.

She just pats my thigh under the table and makes a point to clarify aloud that I’m only shadowing them during group and select unit schedules, and that ‘Schedules with my trainee are marked in light blue, correct?’

It’s immensely relieving to see that less than half of the contents of that monster calendar involve me.

There are no other hiccups that I need to be at all concerned about, and it’s clear that I was mostly here for the experience and to show my face. I’m more than okay with that, at this point. Jae-Hwa wouldn’t let me miss anything truly important, anyway.

Eventually it’s just me, Jae-Hwa, Stray Kids, and one of their managers left in the room. It had felt a bit claustrophobic when the room was full of people and information being lobbed at me at lightning speeds, but now there’s no buffer between me and the weighty gazes of the group of Alphas and Betas.

One would think my issues with the overwhelming scents would have left with the majority of the people producing it, but if anything Stray Kid’s scents feel more overpowering than ever. It’s like with less people crowding, they’ve unfurled. Like large cats taking up as much space as possible.

I can’t help the mental scoff I give at the image. Alphas.

Their scents are all over each other, intertwined in the way only very close and healthy packs that participate in lots of scenting can manage. I can’t really pick them apart from each other, but the collective evokes images of nature and adventure. It makes me restless, and my chest fills with an odd sort of longing.

I feel a bit foolish at the moment, actually. It was well known that Stray Kids was a very close pack, but somehow I’d still expected to be able to pick apart their scents and hadn’t done any research about it. Like having been in the company since before their debut would help me distinguish the scents of people I’d barely interacted with.

It’s my first time meeting people so very intertwined. My own family hadn’t been big on skinship, and I hadn’t much time for friends or dating since I left them. I feel a bit wrong-footed, like I’ve lost a sense I’ve always had, to not be able to tell them apart with just my nose.

Their manager, too, is lightly dosed in their collective scent, but it’s easy to tell it’s more from exposure than active scenting. He’s an Alpha as well, I can tell, and it’s easy to catch the fresh bergamot of him, along with a hint of tea under his scent blockers.

Or maybe just hot water, but it’s hard to know for sure under the combined might of Stray Kids’ scent. It’s relieving just to be able to tell that much.

It’s all very overwhelming, daunting in it’s enormity. It’s a force I’ll have to get used to over the next year, but for now I allow myself to seek shelter behind a wall of Jae-Hwa. She allows me my comforts for now, but I know I’ll be exposed before too long.

I’d seek out her softer omegan scent, try to refresh my nose and shelter from the storm, but she’s got those nice prescription blockers. The Omega type that applies as a cream over your scent glands and is customized to neutralize pheromones and scent compounds as you produce them. All I can get from her is laundry detergent and faint, lightly sweet, omega scent.

There’s a welling of displeasure from the collective scents across the room as I disappear from sight, but their blockers hold strong against the complexities in their scents and I can’t quite tell who it’s from.

I reckon it’s quite like trying to read the expression of someone with a mask on. It’s a bit socially off-putting, and I find myself floundering.

Once again, the director saves the day.

“I had one more thing I wanted to talk about, but it’s specifically a question for you boys,” She begins kindly. Her words bring everyone to focus where we’d all been drifting in our own thoughts.

The gaze of my seniors is so much heavier when combined with their attention.

Jae-Hwa pulls me out from behind her, like the traitor she is, and presents me to the group of Alphas and Betas. I cant help but fold into myself under their focus. Only a few of them are taller than me, and even then not by much, but I still feel as if they tower over me in this moment.

“This kid’s apartment burned down recently,” She informs them bluntly, patting my shoulder as she speaks. I watch shock ripple through them, and duck into myself a bit further, “And she’s staying in a hotel at the moment.”

Before the director can continue, there’s a spike of something sharp and metallic in the air, like lightning about to strike, and my head whips up to make direct eye-contact with Lee Know. I can almost taste copper at the back of my throat and feel static on my skin from the intensity of it.

Now that it’s been violently brought to my awareness, I can smell Lee Know’s heavy forest scent as a vaguely threatening undertone to the cacophony of the pack. Like dark towering trees and storms rolling in, it’s pervasive and heavy.

I still can’t tell exactly what the emotion behind the spike was, but his blockers, weak patches already struggling for their lives, can’t hide the negativity of it. Even if my nose wasn’t as sensitive a it was, anyone could’ve sensed that much from the way his scent darkened the room.

I’m further convinced by the way one of his packmates, Han, leans into his side soothingly. I can’t tell if it’s to comfort of restrain him, so I just press my lips into a thin smile when your eyes meet and lean into Jae-Hwa.

She’s clearly a badass and so continues like nothing happened at all.

“You boys recently moved into Pack housing, yes?” Jae-Hwa asks like it’s not public knowledge. Everyone knows they moved into a place that could hold them all about as soon as the ink on their Bond registry was dry.

She doesn’t wait for either their manager nor leader to respond before she continues, “I’ve heard have at least one spare room, and since the dorms for the trainees participating in the show won’t be ready for a few weeks yet, and it makes little sense for her to move into the regular dorms and right back out again, I was wondering if you wouldn’t put her up until we can get accommodations squared away.”

I spare myself a moment to be amazed at the way she implies this is a recent thing for me, instead of a weeks-long problem, before her request registers and I snap around to stare at her with wide, shocked, eyes.

“I- Director, no, that’s not...” I tug weakly at her sleeve as if to fill in for words I’m too flabbergasted to say.

It would be one thing if she’d asked them to squeeze me into their dorm when they still had one, especially when they’d all been split up among different apartments. It was another thing entirely to brazenly request them to open their Pack home to me.

Pack housing implies that you were done expanding your pack. That outsiders were no longer welcome. That the Pack was as large as it was going to be until babies got involved, and they’d settled into a space to suit the size they were.

It was a step of permanence, and while friends could certainly be welcome like they would be in any other home, inviting a stranger into that space was just asking for instincts to go haywire. For hindbrains to perceive threats and lash out. It was a recipe for stress at best, disaster in most cases.

Especially when the stranger being invited was an Omega.

Somehow, the group doesn’t react with disgust and rage like I expect them to. At least not outwardly. Personally, I wouldn’t have been able to tolerate even Jae-Hwa, arguably the person I trust the most right now, in my hotel room, let alone a pack space.

I can’t even den down in my hotel room, but still, even the thought of inviting her in sent my hackles rising.

The group defies your expectations though, simply exchanging glances and subtle gestures. A pointed nod from Han in Lee Know’s direction seems to make a poignant enough point, and the pack turns as one to face the director once more.

Bangchan offers the both of you a magnanimous smile that charmingly crinkles the corners of his eyes. “We’ll need to talk about it amongst ourselves first,” He starts, and you’re ready to accept the rejection with relief. The hotel was stressful and expensive, but honestly just fine for now. You didn’t need to be mucking around in someone’s Pack space.

“But I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.” He finishes, and I swear shock stops my heart for a second. I look at the whole group of them incredulously, waiting for someone to speak out against their leader, because I know they’re an Alpha group but surely at least one of them would have some objection to this?

Their instincts couldn’t be that different from mine, could they?

The unnamed manager ushers the group out while I’m frozen, citing some schedule or another they’re running late for. Bangchan promises to reach out to Jae-Hwa to discuss arrangements, and then they’re gone.

You hear faint murmurs and then a rising voice as they head down the hallway.

“If— for one�� FUCKING night—!” Is all I hear before it fades out. I’d guess it was Lee Know, but admittedly I only really know his singing voice with any confidence, even after years in the same company. My heart sinks with thoughts of causing discord among such a close pack.

Jae-Hwa settles her hands firmly on my shoulders, jarring me from my stupor. Her gaze is sympathetic and knowing.

“Trust me kiddo,” She says, “They’re an Alpha-heavy pack. Very few of them even have Omegan family members. If they say it’s okay, It’ll be okay.”

I try my best to believe her as I smile and nod, but unease grips tightly at my heart as she leads me out of the room, hand on the small of my back, just as we’d entered it.

The touch still burns.

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This taglist is temporary while I ask y'all a question: Project: Stack The Deck will be a typical archive fic the way Soulmate Garden and Best Friend Protocol aren't - that means It'll be written as fancy strikes, and wildly out of order and likely in fragments. It'll probably be very rare that I have a full scene written out like this at the end of a writing session. So my question is - Do y'all want to be tagged for everything? I don't perma tag for anything but full chapter updates, which this is not, based on an old poll, but like. Do y'all want to be tagged for full scenes like this, just for first and final drafts, just for chapters and not scenes, like. How frequently do you want to be tagged and how complete would you like the chapter to be when you're tagged? If you don't know the rules for the archive, posts are Once every attempt (changes of a paragraph or more), Once every five drafts (small adjustments to wording or grammar), and Once every 1000 words added. pls lmk <3

@chancloud8 , @allenajade-ite , @thatgirlangelb

[heroesrest64]

Farming For Heroes

Find the whole project Here

Chapter 1: Introductions

After years of struggling at a dead-end job in Castle Town, you finally decide you’ve had enough and take off to the countryside. Your family used to run a pretty successful farm out in Hateno Village, and gave you the deed to the land before moving overseas. You never did anything with it, not having the heart to sell it, but not particularly wanting to run it yourself in the meantime.

Of course now you’re all for that farm life! Getting down and dirty in Mother Nature, planting seeds, watering crops. You couldn’t think of a better way to spend your time.

And then you make it to Hateno Village and find the fields that you grew up in completely covered in rocks, trees and overgrown weeds.

You think you cried a little while cutting down those first few weeds, and you definitely shed some tears when it came to chopping away at the encroaching trees. What’s worse, your childhood house was completely broken down and overrun as well, weeds sprouting out of the floorboards and the roof threatening to cave in in some places. Not the leisurely farm life you were expecting, but you couldn’t very well head back now.

It takes a full day since moving in until you feel your farm is decent enough and you finally make your way into the village proper. You wake up bright and early- the sun isn't even fully up yet, but you’re eager to start the day correctly. You till your fields for the first couple hours of the day before the sun gets too high in anticipation for what you’ll be doing today- planting your first crops.

Once the sun starts shining through the treeline surrounding your farm, you stop tilling, setting aside your hoe and retreating to your dilapidated house to clean up before entering the village proper.

It’s a lively community, even so early in the morning. There are plenty of people milling about; people toting baskets filled with fresh produce back to their houses, old ladies gathered around a well gossiping about this and that. You swear your own name slips into their conversation, but you choose to ignore it. Kids chase frogs near a shallow pond where their mothers work on laundry, and a few men seem to be gathering, talking about monster sightings on the edge of town.

You breeze past most of the denizens, knowing that you’ll have to get to know them all eventually, but wanting to focus on your task for the day before anything else. There’s only two places you think of that would carry seeds. One would be the general store. The other would be the other farm near the entrance to the village. You stop by the general store first, familiar with the route even after all of these years. You’re even more surprised when you recognize the face on the other side of the counter.

“Ivee?” You ask, walking up to the counter hesitantly. The girl perks up, eyeing you curiously for a couple seconds before recognition alights in her eyes.

“Oh my gosh! You’re really back?! I thought my mom was just spouting more nonsense, but you’re really here!” Ivee grins, rounding the counter to envelop you in a tight hug. She quickly withdraws, taking your hands in hers and smiling at you.

“Haha, yeah. It’s been, what, five years?” You ask, smiling at your childhood friend. The two of you would hang out around your parents’ farm everyday back when you were younger. Ivee looks the same as ever, hair short in a pixie cut, chocolate brown eyes glittering in the low light of the store, and a delicate if slightly mischievous smile on her face.

“Six, actually. How’d the big city treat ya?” Ivee asks, rounding the counter to stand behind the register, looking busy so her dad won’t peer in and berate her for a few moments of small talk.

“Not so well, seeing as I’m back here. I guess I just wasn’t cut out for it.” You sigh, elbows propped on the counter, and Ivee hums sympathetically.

“At least the farm’s still up for you to fall back on, although last I saw, it was a bit of a wreck…” Ivee gives you a curious look, asking without actually saying anything about what your plans from here on are.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. There’s a ton of repairs I gotta get done, but I need the rupees for that first and foremost. Speaking of, I came to see if y’all had any seeds for sale. I’ve got enough saved up for a decent first crop, at least.”

“Ooh, sorry, hun, but the other farmer already stopped by to buy out our stock. I think his name’s Time- he’s a bit newer in town. He’s nice, though. You might be able to weasel some seeds out of him.” Ivee offers, and you groan but nod in defeated understanding.

“Okay… For now, I’ll put in an order for a few other seeds, and see what I can get outta this ‘Time’ fella. It’s about time for some spring crops, so…” You trail off, listing a few different seeds for your friend to reserve for you. She takes your down payment, greedily sequestering your rupees away, then waves you off with directions to the other farm set up on the western side of the village.

True to Ivee’s directions, you make it to a farm filled with rows upon rows of freshly planted crops. There’s a pretty robust sprinkling system set up despite how new the farm allegedly is. This guy must know what he’s doing. You find yourself becoming slightly intimidated, stress lining your shoulders as you walk up to a farmhouse connected to the fields, carefully brushing yourself down before lifting a fist to knock on the door.

Knock knock knock The wood of the door makes a hollow noise that sounds a bit too loud in your own ears, and you shuffle back, waiting for some sort of response. It barely takes a minute before the door is being opened with a screech, and a blonde man with a scar over one of his eyes and strange markings on his face peeks out from the house.

“Ah, hello. You must be Time. I’m the new farmer, my family used to run that plot of land up the hill.” You point vaguely in the direction of your farm, and the man follows your motions before nodding once in acknowledgement.

“I think I heard about you. Is there something I can do for you?” Time asks, and you quickly nod, grateful that he breached the subject before you were forced to.

“Yes! Actually, I was ready to plant my first crop today, but the general store was all sold out. I was wondering if I could buy some seeds off of you in the meantime.” You bow your head, internally hoping and praying that he’ll agree, and you hear a smooth chuckle in reply to your request.

“No need to pay me. I just have a small request and you can have a tidy crop of seeds all to yourself.” Time grins, and you peek up at him, interested in the offer. Free seeds and all you have to do is a little request? Doesn’t sound too bad as long as it’s not more socializing-

“I have a delivery for the tavern. My usual delivery boy is out on a monster hunt right now, so you showed up right in the nick of time.” The blonde man gestures to a stack of crates set up in a wagon waiting at the side of his house, and you’re grateful to see you won’t need a horse to draw it.

“A monster hunt, eh? That sounds like fun.” You grin, beginning to walk off the porch towards the cart. Time follows you to the first step, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you check over the cart before taking the handle and dragging it forward a couple steps.

“If you’re curious, Warriors is always taking volunteers. Talk with him and he’ll be able to set you up to go on an excursion.” Time waves at you, and you finally begin the trek to the tavern, only to realize at the last second that you don’t know where said tavern would even be.

Luckily, someone seems to notice you struggling, hopping up to your side and loudly asking if you need any help.

“Yes, actually! I have a delivery for the tavern. Could you point me in the right direction?” You ask, turning and tilting your head down. A young boy with a head of blonde curls nods dutifully, grinning brightly up at you as he begins pulling you towards a creek that cuts through the back of the village. You know there’s a bridge in the same direction, leading towards an old and abandoned house. Maybe someone fixed it up and made it into a restaurant?

“If you’re free, you should totally stop in for a bite to eat! Wild’s one of the best cooks around. It helps that he has some of the freshest fish- caught by yours truly.” The kid sniffs, looking all too proud of himself. So he’s a fisherman. That would explain the salt and sand latched onto his hair and the cute lobster shirt he’s wearing.

“I guess I’ll have to stop for some lunch, then. As thanks for showing me around, why don’t I get you something as well?” You suggest, stepping onto the bridge leading to the tavern. The boy lights up, agreeing excitedly and racing to the other side of the bridge as you slowly follow after, careful that you don’t lose any of the boxes to the creek babbling far below you.

The inside of the tavern is just as lively as the rest of the village, even given the early hour. You spot an older couple on a date by a window seat, a couple younger men set up by the bar counter, and what looks to be the chef preparing drinks behind the counter, humming a pleasant tune under his breath as he works.

“Wild! Got a delivery for ya!” The kid at your side calls out, scurrying towards the bar and popping up right between a man wearing a smithy’s apron, his hair tied back with a headband, and another man with a pink streak in his blonde hair, whose nose scrunches up with distaste at the boys outburst.

“Another one? I thought you finished your deliveries little buddy.” Wild wonders, turning with two cups in his hands- one a fresh, steaming cup of coffee, the other being a glass of apple juice. He sets both down in front of the men your companion had wedged himself between, and they both mutter their thanks and take their drinks.

“It’s not mine. I think Time got a new delivery person.” The kid shrugs, looking over his shoulder at you. Startled at being so suddenly addressed, you stumble forward, lifting your hand to wave a greeting.

“I’m just helping him out for the day. I’m gonna be running the farm up the hill. It’s nice to meet you.” You greet the men, and Wild grins at you.

“Well, I can’t wait to see what you’ll grow! We’ll have to talk shop once your first crop comes in- I try to get locally sourced food to serve here.” Wild hums happily, and you feel a smile crawl onto your lips. He seems pretty nice. You wouldn’t mind selling to him.

“Another farmer? How many does one village need?” A new voice pipes up, scoffing in a way that you were very obviously supposed to hear. You glance towards where it came from, making eye contact with the man with a pink streak in his hair.

“C’mon, Legend. Don’t be rude.” Wild shakes his head, seeming exasperated with the man. Legend shrugs, not sorry in the least. To a certain extent, he’s not wrong. Time’s farm looks like it could feed a small army. But regardless of that, don’t you deserve the chance to prove yourself before he starts talking about how you’re unnecessary?

“It’s fine, Wild. He probably just doesn’t know how much manpower it takes to run a farm.” You make your voice as breezy as possible, showing you’re not bothered by Legend’s jab. He frowns, but doesn’t say anything else as you ask Wild if he’d like some help moving the delivery indoors.

By the time you’re done moving the crates around, Legend is gone, and you find your guide has taken his seat, along with the remnants of his apple juice.

“Mind if I sit by you guys?” You ask, gesturing to a different barstool close by. The kid nods excitedly while the smithy simply dips his head once.

“I’m sure you heard earlier, but I’m the new farmer. I hope we can get along.” You reach your hand out towards the headband wearing man, and he takes it in his own calloused grip.

“I’m Four. I work at the blacksmith. Don’t mind Legend; He can be a bit snappish at first, but he’ll warm up to you eventually.” Four waves vaguely, and you nod in understanding.

“What can I get you two? It’s on the house.” Wild suddenly speaks up, coming from the sectioned off part of his kitchen with a notebook drawn and a pencil poised to take your order.

“Oh! I can, uh, pay. You don’t have to-“ You start, lifting your hands to refute the offer, but Wild shakes his head, a pleasant smile on his face.

“You helped me out bringing those ingredients all the way down here, and I think Wind deserves a reward for helping you out as well.” It’s clear the man won’t be taking no for an answer, so you nervously mumble your order while Wind chirps out his own request. Wild jots something down in his notebook before telling you both that he’ll be back soon, heading back into his kitchen to begin cooking.

“Do you know a lot about farming?” Wind asks curiously while you wait for your food, and you hum a considering note.

“I actually grew up on the farm I’m working on now. I’ll admit I’m probably not as good a farmer as my parents were, but I think I can make do.” You smile, tapping a pattern on the counter. The three of you talk for a little while longer before Wild comes bustling back, arms laden with piping hot plates of food.

Wild turns out to be an excellent chef, hitting all of the right notes- smell, presentation and flavor melding into one of the best meals you’ve had in a while. You internally promise to come back and eat at the tavern as often as you can before excusing yourself to tell Time about the successful delivery and to return his wagon.

When you get back to Time’s farm, there’s a small crowd of people standing out front, laughing and jokingly pushing at eachother. Time spots you from his place in the crowd and gestures you over.

“Thank you for your help. Here’s your reward-“ Time pulls out a couple small bags of seeds, as well as an apricot starter that makes your eyes boggle. Tree starters aren’t cheap, and he’s just handing this one over like it’s nothing! “Now why don’t I introduce you to some of my friends?”

“S-sure! Thank you again, Time, this is really too much.” You stutter, following after the man as he steps back into the group.

“Everybody, this is the new farmer. As for you, I’d like for you to meet Warriors, his sister Linkle, Sky, and my ranch hand, Twilight.” Time nods to each new person in turn, and they all say a greeting of their own. Warriors is a pretty good looking young man who carries himself like a knight while his sister Linkle is a little more wild looking. Her personality is bubbly and she hops up to greet you with a handshake. Sky seems kind of tired, but is pleasant in his own right, ruffling his brown curls while he introduces himself. Twilight acts just how you’d expect a ranch hand to- suave and with a voice created to send shivers down people’s spines. You’re lucky you grew up on a farm or you might’ve fallen for him right there and then.

“It’s nice to meet y’all. I think I heard something about your group going out for some monster hunting,” You decide to lead the conversation, curious about what all monster hunting entails. It wasn’t something that was too prevalent in your childhood, and any monster threats in Castle Town were handled by soldiers or the royal guard if it was that serious.

“Recruiting for us again, Time?” Warriors turns sly eyes on the man, who lifts his hands innocently.

“I’m sure you young folk could use all the hands you can get.” Time snarks, grinning at the younger man. Warriors rolls his eyes, but is still smiling.

“Yes, we are part of the Monster Eradication Team. Hateno doesn’t have an official militia, but monsters are an ever-present threat, so I got permission to throw this group together and hunt monsters so the village isn’t overrun.” Warriors explains, and you nod along to his explanation. It’s a nice thought, although you wonder who he’d have to ask to get permission to start a small militia in a farming village like this.

“That’s really cool! I’ll have to see about joining some other time… For now, I think it’s about time I get back to my farm.”

“Well, it was good to meet you, farmer.” Warriors nods. The rest of the group starts waving you off, and you turn to go back home.

Of course, the world has one more interaction for you to experience before the day is done. Standing on the threshold of your homestead is a young man in a green tunic, honey blonde hair wisping in the breeze, and gorgeous green eyes practically sparkling when he turns and sees you.

“Hello! You must be the new farmer, right?” The man greets, hopping over to you in a rush. You agree, giving the man your name, which seems to make him light up a bit more.

“It’s great to meet you. I’m Hyrule, I run a clinic in the village. I was actually stopping by to give you some of these-“ Hyrule reaches into his bag, procuring a couple bags of seeds, handing them over to you with a wide grin on his face.

“They’re seeds for medicinal herbs. I have my own garden, but with monster attacks on the rise, it doesn’t hurt to have a little extra. Not to mention healing items tend to be pretty lucrative. Come talk to me whenever you feel like selling and I’ll be happy to take the finished product off your hands.”

“Oh! Thank you, Hyrule. I don’t know how to pay you back…” You rub the back of your neck, not expecting this turn in events. The new people living in Hateno all seem to be really nice, it’s a little overwhelming.

“Just stop by the clinic sometime, even if it isn’t for a checkup or to sell some of your items. I’d be glad for the company.” The man waves, taking off down the hill, leaving just as suddenly as he’d appeared. You smile, heading into your farm to start planting your new seeds, thinking about all of your new acquaintances in the meantime.

[gracemain919]

Yandere Stories

I’m a maladaptive daydreamer and I like to write so you could only imagine all the stories and concepts I got in my brain. I have mostly written about one of my stories ‘The Fungus’ because I got all the lore and almost every little detail figured out.

Yet, I decided to add another story to the mix, to broaden my horizons(also for fun), so I have here three ‘unfinshed’ concepts/stories:

Chains of the Past (Romantic)

Description: You're a being, with no name, no form, no identity, and no voice. One day you were suddenly stripped from your plane of nothingness to a body where you start to discover humanity. You don't know who you are, but the people around you seem to know or at least who your body belongs to... Yet, one moment you're in one body the next you are in another, greeted by another worrier in a time you are not familiar with. You are sure you have a purpose, but some people don't seem to want to let you figure it out... Or even fulfill it.

Three timelines, three bodies, three individuals at your side. You kept switching back and forth between the three, and you didn't know how to stop.

Themes/warnings: Slight captivity, Yandere scenarios etc. Mentions of religion, racism, and misogyny, slight mentions of conceiving. Pampering, a lot of that. It will focus around your ‘weakness’ after switching bodies and those concepts.

Summarize: There will be three different Yanderes two male, and one female, in three different time stamps of the past. The reader can differ from being female/male/trans/neutral. It doesn't affect the story much.

Everyone Needs a Mother (Platonic)

Description: About four sisters that are not fully human, they came from a woman that conceived them without the ‘corruption of a man’. The problem is they lost such a woman so they started looking for their ‘mother’ in other universes only to find you… their mother in a world they're unfamiliar with and the heavens know they won't lose you again. Even if you don't recognize your own ‘children’ yet.

Themes/warnings: Captivity, obsession, Yandere sceneries, a hatred towards males, idolization, delusional behavior, and infantilization, mythical beings, but it will also include descriptions and in-depth mentions of female anatomy, like periods and birth. I'm a woman myself so these things won't be shown in the weird fetish-type ways.

Summarize: Four female Yanderes will be shown in a modern setting, they’re unfamiliar with it. Reader can either be female/trans/neutral.

Joyful Flower (Platonic/romantic)

(P.S. This is more of a world concept. There is no specific Yandere or scenario here. Anything is up for grabs since I'm still figuring out the story part)

Description: Look at the posters, ‘Beware of the cult’ don't touch their flowers or you'll be caught. In this world spreads word of a cult in which their supposed god produces a flower. A flower that brings utterly addictive joy, no sorrows or shame can be found in their conscious, and her followers job is to merely smile and spread such a thing like wildfire throughout the land. So that pain and sadness becomes a thing of the past.

Themes/warnings: Yandere scenarios, addiction/withdrawal symptoms, very very delusional and oblivious behavior, religion, worship, substance abuse, and physical abuse. Scenarios can go from a follower falling in love with you or even the god herself, or you can be the god. There are no limits.

Summarize: There is no default or oc Yandere in this one. Can be a bunch of scenarios and lore-based headcanons and the reader doesn't have a set-in-stone storyline. It's set in the past, the reader can be female/male/trans/neutral.

(The reason I call these unfinished is that the story and characters can change in the future. I will also give a proper introduction post in the future to the stories I decide to truly write about. All stories with specific yanderes will also be shown in more depth later this is just to get a feeling of what I can write since idk right now. Warning: there are some warnings that I have not included here that these stories may present, they will be written in any of my posts in the future)

[katsdynam1ght]

the power of touya "copycat" todoroki

hello to my beloved friends, acquaintances, and enemies:

last week, after watching the pro-shot of the west end production of next to normal with my good friend caro (@peternumber4), we rewatched a certain episode of mha (s7e157, "i am here"). it was during the streaming of this episode that a thought occurred to me—one that i have not seen mention of before, although in hindsight it seems rather obvious.

i'll admit here in advance—i could be stating something that everyone else has already understood and summarily dismissed as unimportant, but in the event that no one else has connected these dots, my good friend pink (@pinkedify) has prompted me to make a post on the matter.

but enough with this introduction—let's get down to business.

i think it's clear enough that, aside from his raw talent, one of touya's best skills is his ability to mimic what he sees. we see him in an earlier episode (s7e146, "two flashfires") watching videos of endeavor in an effort to learn his moves:

which then make an appearance later (in his life) in s6e124, "dabi's dance", in which he attempts to use "flashfire fist: jetburn":

given that a large part of touya's character is his obsession with endeavor, it's no surprise that he's able to mimic his moves. (and if you ask me, mimicry is a big theme in mha as a whole—characters like izuku, toga, touya, monoma, shinsou, twice, and plenty of others play into this theme quite well.)

(it also continues to strike me in the image below that he burns off the same arm endeavor lost in an effort to mimic him. it's their right arms, which is also relevant due to endeavor's use of it to signal his victory over the high-end nomu at the end of s4. he mentions in s5e89 that all might uses his left arm, which is now all that the two of them have left... interesting. screencap below is from s7e157)

in my opinion and personal headcanons about him, touya is someone who is very good at copying. anything he sees, he can mimic—but as twice's quirk proves, a copy can never be quite as good as the original. with no formal training, everything touya is capable of is absolutely incredible, don't get me wrong—had he been given proper training and support, i am absolutely willing to bet on him against most of the adversaries in this show. i'm not at all denying the sheer raw power he has.

that said, his mimicries lack the precision and coordination possessed by someone with refined skill, someone who's been taught to hone their abilities in a practiced environment. this, just like his mimicry of endeavor, is no surprise.

so what is?

see—something else happens in season seven. in the episode "i am here", we witness something absolutely extraordinary (and viscerally devastating): touya's quirk factor is not built solely upon enji's fire, but also upon rei's ice. this is his quirk awakening—an evolution of power catalyzed by extreme conditions, just like katsuki's ability to produce explosions all over his body (as witnessed in s7e149, "light fades to rain").

touya's manifests with ice bursting from his heart, the core of his being, in the moment when he finally has his father in his hands.

"but kats," i hear you saying, "we know this already. what's your point?"

my dear, fellow fans.

in the same episode where we receive more of touya's backstory in his battle against shouto (eleven episodes previous), we also find out about shouto's special move, "phosphor", which he uses in that very fight:

"phosphor", as he describes it, is "difficult to maintain", and he "can only count on it for short periods." it is also, as he states, a manifestation of his right (ice) and left (fire) sides at the same time. both quirks "converge over [his] heart" and circulate blood through his body, balancing him out. i could go on at length about what this means for him and his quirk, of course, but that isn't the point of this post. you see—

after shouto appears to win their battle, we receive approximately two shots of this (s7e147):

and later, in episode 150:

(and one from 157—)

touya mimics phosphor.

touya todoroki, barely alive, beaten by his youngest sibling, mimics a move instantaneously that not only took shouto (who had proper training) months to master, but required the co-circulation of both fire and ice. a move that is reliable only for short periods, and yet touya manages it for the remainder of his battle, all the way up until he is finally defeated in episode 157.

this is a move that touya should not, under any circumstances, be able to replicate at all. this isn't his quirk. it's not a move he knows. he doesn't know how it functions, much less how to maintain it for such a long time, and at the point he manifests it, not even he is aware of the ice power within his quirk factor. when that ice fully appears in his fight with endeavor, his mind is so far gone that he's calling out for natsuo of all people. he shouldn't be able to do any of this.

and yet—what could possibly stop him? touya todoroki, who has lived on hatred alone for years—perhaps it's wrong of me to be so surprised.

so yes. he copied phosphor. but from the lack of discussion i've seen regarding that fact, i'm not sure anyone has fully processed what exactly that means.

he isn't just mimicking flames—he's mimicking a quirk that isn't even his.

it's a little terrifying when you sit down and think about it. jack of all trades, really.

enji todoroki, you could have had your perfect son. there's nothing that boy is incapable of. you just had to give him the chance.

you just had to look at him.

[kawareo]

Meet COSHACONS!

(from top to bottom) Brakecheck, Pullback, Hoey, Tapex, Chemspill

They're the youngest Decepticon Combiner team, created to keep others in check as their COSHA (Cybertronian Occupational Safety and Health Administration), or as they're known more commonly, the DHD (Decepticon Health Division). The acronym occasionally gets them mixed up with the DJD (Decepticon Justice Division), as they sound similar, especially when cried out in terror.

They're mostly non-combative and travel the universe to check up on Decepticon (and, after the War is over, Cybertronian in general) outposts and make sure they're up to workplace safety codes. As a team, they generally work better together than most Decepticon combiners, and are very close-knit.

Their delightful designs are done by @screamn-robo-dog

Individual introductions below the cut!

BRAKECHECK

As the team leader, Brakecheck has been forged with the Cybertronian Health and Safety Code hardwired in his processor, so he takes it seriously and very literally, which results in an aggressive autism anxiety disorder.

He's a literal hardened warrior, as his outlier ability amps his physical strength and causes his outer armor to harden, making him an almost impossible to beat opponent in a fight. Most of his fights though consist of him wrangling Motormaster when he gets out of hand, as Brakecheck is, despite his rough appearance, a person who prefers to avoid putting others in danger (whether that means killing them, or just not forcing them to wear proper helmets).

He's bonded with Tarn over their autism shared passion for properly filled out reports, and is helplessly crushing on his teammate Chemspill.

PULLBACK

The resident medic was originally brought into the team from the outside, as the forged team consisted only of three members due to at the time low resources.

After their mentor left for retirement, Brakecheck heavily relies on Pullback to guide him as the medic is much older and has more experience. He is very no nonsense, unless drinks are involved, which happens more often than he would like to admit.

He has been in a relationship with Hoey and Tapex ever since he's officially joined the team.

HOEY

Second of the original trio, Hoey (full name Backhoe) was accidentally forged without shame. He's long since changed his original color palette to something more vibrant, which suits his loud and obnoxious personality.

Hoey is an aspiring rapper who's original raps are so offensive and terrible, he is rumored to be able to restart the war if he would be allowed to perform at an Autobot base, but he still enjoys what he does and believes all that matters are the fans who actually enjoy his art (which means mostly Misfire, and for unknown reasons, Prowl).

He's been in a relationship with Tapex since they were forged, and they've added Pullback when he joined the team.

TAPEX

Youngest of the original trio, Tapex is a safety tape dispenser with terrible motion sickness, but he tries to not let that affect his work. He needs incredible large amounts of energon to function as his frame produces the tape itself.

He is a very ratty, anxious little mech, who has the misfortune of working the team's communications. He inspires to be like their leader as he has a lot of respect for him.

He's been in a relationship with Hoey since they were forged, and added Pullback when he joined the team.

CHEMSPILL

This well-rounded chemist is the newest member, replacing their old mentor after he's retired. He specializes in toxins and radioactive materials, and makes sure the team's quarters are spotless.

His calm, clean and organized personality got Brakecheck (who was at first suspicious of him due to his name) to fall stupidly in love, but he is incapable of pursuing him as the Code doesn't allow dating your subordinates. Despite that, Chemspill is returning his feelings and just waiting for the right moment.

Thanks for reading all this if you got so far! i love these fuckers dearly and cant wait to make silly comics of them!

[gentlelass]

-🤍 Marjorie Ford, the woman behind the smile 🩷-

Hey there!

YUP,

after the embarrassingly LONG time of two months and 19 days after the opening of this silly Tumblr blog and the introduction of Margo’s cute character on the Lackafandom scene, I FINALLY finished her character sheet for all of you sweet folk to witness my delusional fantasies of blood-streaked glamour and romance!

Why did this take me so much time? Simple. As usual, I can’t use Ibis Paint X, and draw digitally with my smol fingers on my equally smol and silly phone.

As such an inept as I am, the background of Marjorie’s illustration is in fact NOT product of my dubious artistic skills: I downloaded it from a free stock of ‘aesthetic garden background, wallpapers and illustration’ I found on Trailsandfreedom.com .

No, I swear I am not being paid to advertise them or anything, I merely feel the urge to leave credits with my pesky moral code nagging at my conscience.

Here is the original picture, on which I then dared to add some filters to get the dull coloring I wanted.

Also, here is the original pencil sketch of Margo’s, this time proudly produced by myself only:

She’s supposed to be sporting some fancy Victorian-gothic style dress, hat and parasol to recall of Mordecai’s own elegant fashion sense. I didn’t add any gloves because at the beginning I wanted her to, like, sting herself with the rose to draw blood and symbolise the assassination business and all that jazz.

And, nada, that’s the end of my interminable poem of thought process! I hope this gave some proper insight on Margo’s otherwise mysterious character, and it it managed to entice your curiosity about her, feel free to nag me in my asks!

-GentleLass.

[thequeenofthewinter]

The Darkest Shades of Death

A Mourn Watch as a Secret Society, morally grey Emmrich Volkarin AU

Rating: E (For eventual smut and things)

Pairing: Rook/Emmrich Volkarin

Trope: Reluctant partners to lovers

Summary: The Mourn Watch, a name whispered by many voices, yet never is it anywhere to be found save for etched initials on weathered gravestones. People go missing in the night? The Mourn Watch. A mysterious new advisor is appointed to King Markus? The Mourn Watch. Strange lights, noises, skeletal figures raised from the gravedirt in the moonlight? The Mourn Watch. When Iris' powers presented themselves to her, she knew she had to run. Where to? She had not the faintest idea. All she could do was follow the whispers in the wind.

...until one day years later when she found them. Or rather stuck her hand into the pockets of some strangely dressed gentleman leaving the alchemist on a Tuesday afternoon.

Chapter 1: Off-White (AO3)

Snippet:

“And who might you be?” A voice echoes from behind her, and Iris’ feet almost give out from under her.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Come now, don’t be shy. It’s impolite to hold a conversation with one’s back turned to their partner. Let me have a look at you.”

“A conversation?” Iris’ speaks, voice wavering slightly. “Is that why you followed me here?”

“I’d like to think most of them would start with a proper introduction.”

Sharp and articulate. She has to bite her lip to keep herself from smiling. Under other circumstances she might like this gentleman and his wit. When she turns, her eyes widen slightly with recognition. “Iris Ingellvar,” she bows slightly, “at your service.”

This is the same man she met at the alchemist, the one she had stolen the scrap of paper from about the meeting. Perhaps she saw his face for only a moment, but she would recognize it anywhere with his sharp cheekbones and startling eyes the same shade as her own, his greying hair still holding onto dark streaks, coifed and not a strand out of place.

“Emmrich Volkarin, charmed, Ms. Ingellvar.” He reaches out a hand for her to shake, but when she does not move to take it, he sighs, promptly retracting it. “I am afraid I do not recognize you as a part of our distinguished order which begs the question of what exactly were you doing at our meeting? It’s impolite to insert oneself where they do not belong.” He clasps his hands in front of him as he rocks on his heels.

“I—”

“That’s a rather disappointingly inarticulate answer, and I had thought better of someone who was smart enough to have snuck into our inner sanctum…then again, I did find you, so perhaps not.”

Iris leans back, reaching her hands into her pockets to produce his handkerchief, the initials E.V. clearly in view. “Oh, you mean the one who lifted this from your pockets? So perhaps, it is not I who is the fool then, it is?”

“Let us cut to the chase then, shall we? Especially if we have passed through the part which is all innocuous pleasantries.” His gaze trails over her as if meticulously cataloguing every inch of her to file it away for later. “What is it that you wish to gain by infiltrating our ranks?”

“I—”

“A real answer this time, Iris. I’d recommend making it a good one.” His lips lift into a smile, yet it does not reach his eyes.

[inposterumcumgaudio]

What do we know about the "Trade across the Bridge"? I first thought that this meant the riff between the Wastrels and Replies wasn't as wide as it is today. However, with the Apple Tree, I think this suggest it wasn't a willing trade.

So when the game refers to "trade across the bridge", they are talking about the Britannia Bridge that connects Wellington Wells to the mainland specifically.

Prior to the war and the subsequent introduction of Joy, Wellington Wells was getting imported goods from across this bridge. Obviously organized trade was disrupted by the German occupation. It's for this particular reason that Harry Haworth and Sally both mention in separate letters that the salvaged German pharmaceuticals they're using presently to manufacture the vanilla and chocolate flavors are a finite resource they can have no expectation to restock, which is why Strawberry needed to be invented in the first place.

In the sense of getting anything mass manufactured, Wellington Wells has long since accepted that it's on its own.

However, there was still some small-time individual trade occurring until the advent of Joy, at which point mainland traders seem to have written Wellington Wells off for lack of goods and lack of sense. The vague memory of this small scale homestead trade does perhaps account for Wellies' continued belief that goods are still coming in from the mainland. They often mention a shipment of produce they expect any day now that never comes.

This is, I think, perhaps where the confusion with the apple tree lies.

James leaves Roger a note about getting a message on the blower about a shipment of apples arriving from across the bridge. And they do technically come across a bridge, sure, but remember that James is also terminally incurious and isn't actually that interested to know where the means of his lifestyle comes from. Of course, apples come from across the bridge.

Furthermore, if Wellies think these apples - which are a rare luxury good that prominent Wellies get advance notice of since they'll sell out fast - are coming from the mainland, all the better. It not only makes things appear less dire than they are (that they still have some economy connected to the rest of the country) but Wellies are also not enticed to venture into the Garden District to get at and potentially ruin the source. Even on this presumption, the constabulary already has to post guards around the tree. It's for the best in many ways to let this misconception lie.

As to wastrels? I don't think they really consider that tree theirs anymore. It's probably been a good long while since they had any access. The Executive Committee has been keeping records of the food production - including, and honestly probably limited to, individual home gardens - and would have known this tree needed to be managed as soon as all the other trees succumbed to blight. The location of the tree also suggests it was on public land to begin with as well so it wouldn't have been too difficult to just assume control over it without a proper fight.

I do think that if you've already gone as far as to guess that Ollie was off the mark in "A Pomaceous Puzzle", then disgruntled Wastrels are the next best suspect, especially since some show up right after you've "solved" the mystery. I personally think them unlikely culprits, but it's an avenue to consider. If we're entertaining that, consider too that the Apple Tree is also the only actual presence of Bobbies in the Garden District, despite mention of their presence there otherwise. If a prospective Head Boy expects to earn his helmet without sneaking into the Village, this is where he's gonna have to get it. So it could be - again/alternatively - that the apples weren't even the point.

One last unrelated apple tree opinion for you:

Since apples are apparently luxury goods, when you find them in the world, it's a bit of environmental storytelling. Therefore, I think Captain Lawrence having some when he is also very clearly behind in his bills - makes the Threatening Note make more sense. Perhaps he was spotted buying apples when he's got debts he should be paying instead.

[am-i-interrupting]

I'm curious what Vox's first impressions were of the Alastor's daughter, like as a kid, I mean he briefly mentions it but I kinda wanna read his reaction about learning the radio host he grew up listening to has a daughter (and if he learned before the serial killer thing was announced, did imagine scenarios of meeting the radio man and his daughter like little kids do with their imagination or teens with their daydreams).

Another inquiry is what his impressions were when he read the reader's book (obviously he read it) and if he could sense there was more to it than the words written down

OATSH Master List

To answer your second question succinctly, yes. Not to the extent that he would suspect them of anything but he would have definitely picked up on some very subtle hints of defensiveness when it came to Alastor’s killings. I think he’d probably read it as them feeling like they need justification for still caring about him despite what he did but in reality, it’s less about their own justification and more so like a “he’s not a monster. He was helping people, why can you see that?” you know?

To answer your first question, thank you for giving me a reason to write this:

A Voice on the Radio | Vox x Alastor’s Child Reader

It was a surprise when the radio switched from producing the sound of blues to voices. For the past week, nothing but blues music came from the station. A very stark change from the upbeat jazz that normally played. There had also been no speaking. Not a single soul had spoken for the last nine days.

A throat cleared. “Is this on?”

“The light,” another, much younger sounding voice said.

The fifteen year old paused eating breakfast and looked at his mother who was staring at the radio with furrowed brows. Neither voice was familiar.

“Ah, yes, right,” the first voice said with a laugh. “Good morning all, we would like to apologize for the radio silence on our part this past week. Some unexpected tragedies came our way and with them uncovered some gruesome truths.

“The dearly beloved host, Alastor, has passed. He was killed by a misfire of a hunter. A truly tragic event but with it came to light the horrific acts of the late Alastor. As you likely know if you’re a long time listener, for the past decade or so, there have been many murders that have befallen this otherwise serene part of Louisiana and it’s been confirmed to be the acts of our previous show host.

“Today, I have here with me the one person who knew him better than anyone else and can hopefully shine some light upon the situation and perhaps give some peace to the families of the victims. Alastor’s daughter—“

He looked towards the radio now. His breakfast was forgotten now. His fork barely dangled in his hand.

Not only was his mother’s (and by extension his own) favorite radio show host dead but also a murderer and he had a daughter? So much information in less than three minutes. His brain was struggling to keep up.

Even his father set down his paper to listen in.

“Why don’t you say hello to the people?”

“I’m not dignifying you with a proper greeting until you dignify me with a proper introduction. You’re doing a terrible job, Gregory,” the younger voice said.

He smiled curiously at the radio.

“I— um, I’m sorry?” the man, Gregory, said. There was only silence in reply. An awkward chuckle, “Well, my apologies then. Let me introduce the daughter of our show host—“ Gregory said your name and silently he tested it on his tongue— “Do you have anything to say to the people before we begin?”

“Yes, I would like to sincerely apologize for Gregory’s lack of bravado and charisma. I did do my best to convince them that Raymond would be better but alas,” you said.

That’s when he got it. You did sound like a younger, more feminine version of your father. Down to the tilts of the accent.

There was a longer pause and then, barely picked up and barely able to decipher, “You have your father’s creepy smile.” Louder, intended to be heard, “Why don’t we get into the questions then?”

“Yes, let’s. The less time spent listening to you, the better for everyone, hm?”

“You little— So—“ the sounds of hands clapping together— “the reports I have here suggest that you knew about the murders. Was there a reason you didn’t say anything?”

“I’ve been raised by a serial killer, Gregory. Please, take a guess,” you replied.

He couldn’t help but snort as reached for his glass. His mother shot him a look. He bowed his head down as he took a sip.

“Right, well,” Gregory cleared his throat, “did you happen to know his motivations?”

“He’s a very righteous man,” you said. “You’ve seen him when people are being disrespectful. He’s not just some ravaging animal. He’s very selective.”

“Was,” Gregory corrected. “He was very selective, you mean.”

“Was,” you repeated and he could hear you seething even through the crackle of the radio.

“Oh, heavens! Get your stuff or we’re going to be late,” his mother said.

He didn’t want to go though. He wanted to stay and listen to you on the radio. He was having fun listening to your snark.

It truly surprised him, impressed him how you were able to have such moxie so soon after tragedy. He couldn’t imagine being so quick witted so quickly.

His mother called his name and he snapped back to reality. As he headed out the door, he heard you snap back at Gregory one more time, “And would you call yourself a saint? Don’t think no one’s noticed the looks you’ve shared with Ms. Brown, as a married man, no less!”

He compressed a laugh to his chest as he followed his mother.

The next day he saw a paper with a headline related to a serial killer in Louisiana. He paid for the paper and read another interview with you.

He couldn’t help but wonder what you looked like. What would such a snarky, confident girl look like? He wanted to know. He wanted to meet you. Even in tragedy, you seemed like good company to have.