#as long as something has him spiralling and devolving

[joejhang]

when i say i want jeremy knox to crash out i mean i want him to CRASH OUT. i want it to be debilitating. i want it to be brutal. i want him to lose it so bad people think he won't recover. i want him to lose his goddamn mind. i want everyone around him to panic and lose it too, because jeremy is always in control, always knows what he's doing, and he's finally been derailed. i want him to lose control and spiral and devolve and i want all the tentative threads holding him and his family and whatever past transgressions he has to unravel and for him to lose it so badly everyone gets worried that he won't make it out alive. i want every terrible thing in his past, big or small, to catch up with him and eat him alive. i want him to be irretrievable inconsolable unreachable i want him to be so out of it everyone is kind of like "well what the fuck do we do now" like if it's not that kind of a crash out i don't want it.

[daycourtofficial]

Azriel’s Girls

Pairing: Azriel x reader | WC: 2.6k | warnings: none

Summary: you overhear a conversation between Azriel and his brothers that has you second guessing your boyfriend’s faithfulness. What will you find when you follow him out one night?

Author’s note: two fics one day! This is crack lmao I wrote this in a blur this afternoon from a silly convo with @milswrites @prythianpages and @ninthcircleofprythian lmao

You and Feyre came into the River House giggling over the amount of paint that covered the both of you. The two of you stop laughing long enough to look at each other, before devolving into fits of giggles once more. One of the boys in the studio had insisted on today’s topic being finger painting, which led to the children essentially dipping their hands into paint before smearing it over all of your clothes.

“Are you sure you don’t want to shower here?” Her voice is soft and kind, a slight rasp to it from talking to the kids all afternoon.

“Thanks Fey, but I’d rather shower at home so I can slip into my pajamas and go to sleep.” You look away from her, as if you could see him through the walls. “Maybe I can even convince Azriel to rub my back. I shouldn't have given some piggy back rides.”

Feyre hums, a soft ‘told you so’ on her tongue, but you give her a pointed look and she keeps it to herself.

“Well, I’m going to go wash up. Good luck finding the boys.”

Her voice floats down the hallway she takes, and you start thinking about where to look - the most obvious place being Rhys’s study. Your feet pad through the halls until you start to hear three loud laughs coming from the cracked study door.

You keep moving towards the source, ready to make your presence known, when you hear Cassian say, “when will you see them again?”

Your boyfriend responds with a soft, “tonight”, eliciting raucous laughter from his brothers. You still, pressing yourself towards the wall, tilting your head in contemplation.

Azriel had told you he had plans tonight, that he was doing something important for Rhys. Had he lied to you?

Cassian’s voice cuts through your train of thoughts, “I’m sure the girls at Rosehall have been missing you.”

Rosehall?

You scrunch your eyebrows, trying to remember if you had ever heard of Rosehall. Was it somewhere in Velaris? Was it a pleasure hall? Who were these girls Cassian spoke of?

Had your sweet Azriel been sneaking around, and his brothers were aware of it? Had they been condoning it?

“I haven’t been able to see them in a while, they’ll be glad for the company.”

“I’m sure they’ll be crawling all over you, brother.”

Their laughs were knives in your heart. Did everyone know? Were you nothing more than a fool to them? Nothing more than a mere joke to these males? Your mind was racing, not paying any mind to the rest of the conversation as you ran down the hall into the kitchens, getting yourself a glass of water. You chugged it, the cool liquid giving your racing thoughts something else to focus on. Like a plan to figure out the truth.

After a few minutes of allowing yourself to seethe and panic, you retraced your steps towards Rhys’s study with your plan in tow: get to Rosehall, find out who these girls are, and yell and scream at Azriel and his brothers for playing you for a fool. As you approach, the males within were now speaking of some sporting event you were not the slightest bit interested in. Azriel’s face brightens as you knock and enter, pushing the door that was slightly ajar. You hate the way your heart picks up a bit at seeing him, at seeing how his face lights up at your presence, your cheeks heating at his attention.

He’s a lying, backstabbing, good for nothing-

“How was painting with Feyre?”

The attention from all three of them pulls you from your thought spiral and you choke on your own spit, coughing a bit. Azriel’s smile turns into a look of concern as he watches you, but Cassian chuckles. “Did you eat the paint by accident?”

Rhysand’s low tone chimes in, “I believe she’s wearing half the paint in Feyre’s studio, and I’m sure my mate’s wearing the other half.”

You chuckle, “uh yeah, Feyre was heading to shower when I left her.”

Rhys dips his head, “that's my cue to leave. BRothers, always a pleasure until better things come along. I’ll see you all later.”

Cassian laughs as Rhys disappears in front of you all, “horny bastard.”

Azriel glares at his brother, “and the pot calls the kettle black.”

Cassian scoffs, flicking his wrist in the air, “pish posh, Azriel. The past is the past.”

“Your past was last week when everytime I came back to the House of Wind for two weeks I got front row seats to your ass.”

“Well, it's our house. And I have a fantastic ass.”

Cassian flexes his thighs, as if Azriel just had to see it to mitigate his annoyance.

“I live there too.”

Cassian shrugs, as if this was a matter of opinion to just accept differences over.

Azriel looks back to you, his eyes making you feel warm, just as they always did. But the warmth was quickly devolving into a ball of anger and sadness, warming your stomach with jealousy and annoyance.

You slap a smile onto your face as you look towards Az, taking in his lazy grin as Cassian slaps him on the back. “I’m off to see Nes. You kids have fun!”

Cassian walks toward the balcony, taking to the skies. Azriel turns toward you, offering his hand so the two of you could embark as well. You accept his hand in yours, a little part of your mind telling you this is the last time you’ll do this. You laugh, pushing the thoughts to the side as you allow Azriel to pick you up, the two of you shooting up into the air.

Azriel flies you back to your apartment, his wings expertly moving over the streets of Velaris. You can’t help the smile on your face as you two fly through the air, watching the people below you until he lands right in front of your home.

You open the door for the both of you, and he follows closely behind. He chuckles at your paint covered clothes, and you fidget slightly, wanting him to make the move to leave.

The clock in your living room chimes, and his gaze moves towards it. “It’s getting late, I have to go. Will you be okay?”

You nod, your arms tightening around yourself. He takes your nervous energy as your hatred for sleeping alone, not wanting to upset you further by making you speak about it.

“How long will you be gone?”

He ponders for a moment, “I should be back tomorrow or the day after.”

He turns toward the door, but you shoot out your hand to grab his wrist. “Can I have one of your shadows? To keep me company? I like having them around.”

One shadow in particular dances at your words, coming from behind Azriel, practically spinning in the air as it immediately rushes to you.

“I hope you like that one because I don’t think it’ll let a different one stay with you.”

You giggle as it weaves through your hair, picking it up into a ponytail before dropping it.

“Perfect, so I’ll have someone to be witness to my antics.”

You giggle, but his face is solemn as he looks at you, something feeling so off about your behavior.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

His words are so soft, and every part of you wants to tell him no, I’m not okay, because you are seeing other women who will be crawling all over you once you leave from here.

Instead you nod, making up an excuse about your eyes being tired from all the painting. He kisses your forehead, his lips soft and light against your skin before pulling away and stepping out of your door before winnowing away.

You count your breath for a few beats before turning to the shadow, “do you know where Rosehall is?”

-

Of all of your terrible ideas over the years, this one was perhaps the worst. You had asked the shadow where Rosehall was, expecting it to be somewhere in Velaris, likely in the parts of the city you were less familiar with. You did not expect the black wisp to wrap around your wrist and begin tugging you away from Velaris very forcefully.

You had started getting nervous when it kept pulling you towards the outskirts, but you were in it now, and you were going to see this ridiculous scheme through to the end.

The shadow had been pulling you for hours it seemed, across landscapes, your feet killing you as you walked, and somewhere several miles away from Velaris, the shadow’s hold loosened on your wrist, opting to move up and down your arm, as if telling you this was your destination.

“Are you sure this is right?”

The shadow danced all around you as if it were confirming your statement. You looked at the gated entrance, the estate so lush and green and not at all what you had expected, it took you by surprise.

This was where he brought women? To do scandalous things and have nights full of debauchery? Was this some beautiful and well-tended pleasure hall? Before you can debate going through the gate, the shadow moves forward, unlatching it and pushing it open for you.

You sigh, thinking to yourself no going back now.

You enter through the gate, preparing yourself to hear the sounds of females giggling, perhaps even moaning, but you are completely taken aback at the chorus of meows you hear, followed by a door opening, and Azriel’s soft voice calling out, “if you’re here for my mother, she has stepped out-”

His voice stops as he takes in the sight of you, the two of you standing before each other across the lush estate. His eyes swim with confusion, and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him at such a loss for words or the situation before. He continues to look at you, before realizing he’s carrying a tray of various raw meats and fish. He takes no notice of the dozen or so cats circling him, several trying to climb up his legs toward the food he carries.

“You- what are- how did you get here?”

You lift up the shadow that was entwined with your arm before it skitters off to join the other shadows playing games with the cats who weren’t paying attention to Azriel. You try not to wear the confusion on your face, hoping desperately to have some upper hand here.

“Is this Rosehall?”

Azriel sighs, setting down the food as one of the cats lunges to bite at his arm, missing and falling back into the pool of cats at Azriel’s feet.

“Yes.”

You puff up your chest, confusion seeping through your features as you ask, “and where are the females? The girls?”

“The girls?” His voice is incredulous, and you want to roll your eyes at it.

“Yes, the girls. The ones who wish to climb all over you because you haven’t been paying them attention.”

His long legs start to make their way across the front garden, the sea of cats at his feet parting as he makes his way through them. “The girls who climb over me?”

You sigh, exasperation evident, “must you repeat my words? Yes, okay fine. I overheard Cassian speaking of your plans this evening with ‘your girls’. Now why don’t you bring them out and show me to be a fool?”

A deep, belly laugh comes from his mouth, and you are utterly offended.

“Azriel, I came here to put you through the ringer for stepping out on me, and you find it funny?”

He steps forward, trying to put his arms around you but you step away from his embrace. His laughing continues as he asks, “you walked all the way here?”

“Yes.”

You stick out your chin, determined to look strong and confident.

“You walked all the way from Velaris to here, to find out I had cats?”

“Why yes, I did walk all the way here to find out-”

Your words die on your tongue as you look around, not seeing any other females anywhere. You picked up the scent of one, but the scent smelled so much like Azriel, they had to be related in some way.

He watches your nose twitch, separating out all the smells beneath the ever present smell of cat.

“My mother lives here.”

He coughs, the joyous look from his laughter gone, his hands moving behind his back. He rocks on his feet, and you found it quite endearing.

“With my cats.”

“Your cats?”

“Yes, but they’re not really mine. They just show up.”

“Your cats show up? What does that mean?”

“It means, if I spend any time in Illyria the cats seek me out. I’ve already fixed the stray cat problem in Velaris.”

He opens his arms wide.

“They’re all here. Problem solved, I suppose.”

You blink, slightly convinced Rhys had finally broken your mind and made up the most ridiculous scenario he could imagine. You feel one of the cats rub against your legs, and you bend slightly to nuzzle its face. It was pitch black with bright green eyes. It was so little, you couldn’t help but pick it up despite its verbal protests.

“You have cats.”

“Yes, and Rhys and Cassian despise the cats. Rhys says he’s allergic, but I think he’s just too worried about his damn furniture.”

“And Cassian?”

“Cats hate Cassian.”

He says this as if it’s an uncontested fact.

“How can all cats hate one person?”

“He likes to swing them by their tails.”

You nod, “okay, maybe all cats can hate one person.”

As the two of you spoke the shadows had lifted a cat up onto Azriel’s shoulders, where it stood meowing and pawing at the black wisps. You watched in bewilderment, unsure if the shadows were playing pranks or not, when the cat slid from his shoulder into the crook of his elbow, nuzzling into the warmth there.

You cross your arms, heat blooming in your cheeks at your rash decision making. “So there aren’t beautiful females here?”

“There’s one.”

“I knew i- oh. You meant me.”

You deflate once more, letting the adrenaline seep from your body. You were exhausted, well and truly. He nodded before putting the cat down, watching it scamper off into the grass. “I shouldn’t have lied about where I was going. Several dozen cats are just… a lot to spring on someone at once.”

You look to the ground, fingers scratching the ears of the kitten you were holding, “and maybe I got a little…. carried away.”

He quirked an eyebrow, “you picked the wrong shoes to hike out here from Velaris.”

You looked down at your sneakers, chuckling, “uh yeah, I definitely need to soak my feet for a bit.”

“Do you want to come inside?” He watches you hesitantly before asking, “Or I could take you home?”

You look toward the beautiful estate before peering back down at the wiggling kitten in your arms, before deciding that you did want to see Azriel’s mother’s home and to hopefully meet her. “Are you going to tell your mother about how I got here?”

He chuckles, slow and soft, “of course I am. She’d be endlessly amused.”

“Do you have any black felt? I’d love to make this little guy some wings.”

He chuckles, rolling his eyes as he puts an arm around your shoulder, leading you inside. “While you play arts and crafts, I can formally introduce you to all of the other cats.”

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @ninthcircleofprythian

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin

Thanks for reading ❣️

[yuesya]

Zenin Naoya had always known that Shiki-sama was the rare type of sorcerer powerful enough to shape the world around her simply through her existence alone. She’d single-handedly breathed life back into the withering Zenin Clan, after all, reminding them that a sorcery clan’s roots laid in indisputable strength rather than inane ceremony.

In fact, it was commonly said that Zenin Shiki’s most notable achievement was her reform of the Zenin Clan.

Naoya had always rolled his eyes and scoffed at those words, though. Because wasn’t it obvious that Shiki-sama’s influence didn’t just stop at the walls of the clan compound?

… However, he’s also starting to realize that his clan head’s very existence underpins a lot more than he’d ever expected, even despite that understanding.

Ugh. Naoya can’t believe that a flaky guy like Gojo Satoru is actually the pillar and backbone of jujutsu society in this world. The guy is strong, yeah –Naoya would look down on him and the Gojo Clan forever if he failed to make a name for himself despite possessing both Limitless and Six Eyes– but, seriously. Gojo Satoru, despite his perpetual flippancy, cares way too much about the existing power structure and what other people think to be any good at affecting notable change and getting things done.

Shiki-sama, on the other hand, is far more decisive and efficient.

If Shiki-sama were here, then the situation would never have devolved to its current point. Where Gojo Satoru had stupidly gotten himself sealed and students were the ones thrusted onto the front lines. Sorcerers were always in short supply, yeah, but things shouldn’t be this bad! Seriously, where were all the other sorcerers? Collectively hiding under rocks across the entire country??

From what Naoya has gathered of this world so far, Gojo Satoru set himself against the higher ups without actually having offered any significant resistance the past several years. Idiot. Threats only hold power when people believe that you’re willing to go through and act on them.

So, Naoya is guessing that the lack of manpower is primarily because of two things:

One, Gojo made enemies of the higher ups without having properly divested them of their power and authority. Hence the administration immediately turning difficult as soon as Gojo had been taken out of the equation via seal.

Two, Gojo has a terrible personality and is not nearly as charismatic as Shiki-sama. Only Geto would come running at his beck and call–

Oh wait, except that’s impossible, because Geto was already dead in this world! And currently his corpse was being puppeted by an ancient sorcerer who was sowing chaos across Japan. Plus publicly unveiling sorcery to the world at large, on the international stage.

And while they were at it, Toji and Tsukumo were also both dead. Somehow, inexplicably, Toji had died years and years ago at Gojo’s hands. Tsukumo had recently been killed by the aforementioned ancient sorcerer in a fight.

Are the standards for Special Grade just different in this world, or something? Since when did Special Grades die so easily?

Naoya sighs. “It’s almost impressive how you guys got rid of all your Special Grades.”

“No one ‘got rid’ of anyone,” Kusakabe immediately denies. Which is a big fat lie if Naoya has ever heard one. He gives the other sorcerer a thoroughly unimpressed look. “… Alright, that might’ve been bad phrasing on my part, but it’s not as if anyone deliberately wanted there to be less Special Grade sorcerers.”

It all seems like a long string of bad coincidences, doesn’t it? Shiki-sama never being born, Sumire-san dying and causing Toji to spiral and die at Gojo’s hands, Geto Suguru experiencing a mental break that also led him to eventually die at Gojo’s hands…

“Whatever,” Naoya shrugs. Not his world, not his problem. He’ll do what he can to help, because he’s a sorcery and it’s his duty to do so. But his priority will still be finding a method of returning to his world, where he belongs. Speaking of which, “I need to speak with Tengen-sama. When would you be able to arrange–”

Kusakabe coughs, “Tengen-sama is dead. Tsukumo’s death enabled the ancient sorcerer to reach Tengen-sama with no further obstructions.”

… Seriously?

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

—————————————————————————

Masterlist

Chapter 7: Too Loud

—————————————————————————

A week later, the video drops.

Chris titles it with his usual flair:
“WE MADE A BINGO LIST AND IT GOT OUT OF HAND | ft. chaos, shots & George nearly drowning”

Within twenty minutes it’s trending. Comments flood in—some unhinged, some suspiciously poetic. Y/N watches from her sofa, half-buried under a blanket, nursing a coffee and trying not to spiral.

The edit is kind, actually. A little crazy, yes. Unflattering in places—also yes. But somehow, Chris has made her seem funny. Game. Brave, even, as she climbs into that godforsaken fountain. Her anxiety sits like a weight in her stomach, but the group chat is already lighting up.

CHAOS GOBLINS
Chris:
it’s out. i regret nothing.

Bach:
someone’s already made a gif of you doing tambourine karaoke with Weed Steve

ArthurTV:
Y/N’s going viral for “iconic shoe swap” energy

George:
ngl you were the MVP

Arthur Hill:
the ferret’s got its own fan account. i’m not even mad.

Y/N:
glad to know Pickle’s the breakout star here

Chris:
you’re all stars. but Pickle is in talks for a Netflix docuseries

The messages keep coming, a steady stream of dumb jokes and unhinged reactions. It makes something loosen in her chest. She’s still nervous—of course she is—but it’s easier to laugh this time.

Later that week, they all pile into Chris’s for a group filming session.

She shows up with snacks and a confused look as she’s instructed to sit beside Arthur. “Okay, which one, there’s too many Arthur’s in here.”

“That’s it,” ArthurTV groans. “I’m changing my name.”

“You could give him a nickname,” George points out.

Y/N snaps her fingers. “Got it! ATV. Like a small, chaotic vehicle.”

ATV gives her a wounded look. “Is that not just you in human form?” she smiles.

“And you,” she turns to Arthur Hill, “can be Hilly. Because otherwise my brain explodes.”

Hilly shrugs. “I’ll take it. Makes me sound like a tragic romcom side character.”

“Perfect,” she grins. “Very on brand for this group.”

Chris is already setting up the cameras. “Alright, we’re filming a Cringe Compilation Reacts, but everyone’s taking a shot every time someone says the word ‘vibe.’”

Bach eyes the bottle. “I’d like to survive the evening, thanks.”

“Too late,” ATV says, handing out shot glasses.

They film for hours. It’s easy—banter flying, laughter echoing, George nearly choking on a gummy worm mid-reaction. Hilly keeps making offhand self-deprecating jokes that leave everyone wheezing. ATV zones out at one point, staring at a coaster like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Afterwards, they crash at the boy’s flat in that post-filming slump—half of them on bean bags, half on the floor. Pizza boxes litter the coffee table. Someone’s playing music softly from a phone.

Y/N’s head rests on the back of the sofa, her cheek warm from laughing too hard.

Bach nudges her foot. “You good?” She nods. “Just… this is nice.” “Group chaos goblins. You’re one of us now.” ATV chimes in, still staring at the ceiling. “That sounds like a cult.” George, from across the room: “To be fair, you do have the stare of a man possessed.” ATV flips him off without moving.

Hilly groans, “remind me to write a ballad about this moment. It’ll be titled ‘Ode to Soggy Trainers and the Girl Who Mocked Me On Sight.’” “You mocked yourself first,” Y/N points out. “Exactly,” Hilly grins. “I’m just building the lore.”

The next few days blur in a good way.

They meet at George’s to stream a chaotic game of Gartic Phone that derails almost immediately.

They film a football challenge in the park, where ATV takes a ball to the face and Hilly somehow ends up barefoot.

Chris ropes her into a video titled “Who Knows Me Best,” which devolves into Bach and George arguing over what year Chris supposedly got his nose pierced (infected, didn’t last long).

Y/N’s camera roll is now full of blurry selfies, a questionable amount of ferret memes, and one photo of George mid-sneeze that she’s saving for blackmail.

Her anxiety hasn’t disappeared. But it’s dulled, made manageable by this messy, wonderful group of goblins who’ve somehow adopted her as one of their own.

Still, there’s a shift she can’t quite ignore.

It creeps in late at night, in the quiet moments between content and chaos—when she’s editing a stream highlight and catches herself smiling a little too long at a clip of George laughing.

Or when she’s walking home from Chris’s and replays something dumb George said—some dry one-liner, some passing look—and feels it echo sharper than it should.

Or when her phone buzzes at 1:23AM with a new message from him:


georgeclarkey:
you on?
i need someone to mock my aim in cod or i won’t improve as a person

She tells herself it’s nothing. That he’s like this with everyone.


That she’s imagining it.


That she’s just tired. Or bored. Or projecting.

But the truth is, there’s a version of her—somewhere just beneath the surface—that lights up when it’s him.

And that version is getting harder to ignore.

——-

The hate started slow. Almost imperceptible beneath the flood of chaotic memes and inside jokes after Chris’s video dropped.

At first, it was just a few offhand comments in the replies—tiny stings buried in otherwise harmless noise.

“Who invited the try-hard?”

“Another girl tagging along for clout, yawn.”

“George looked annoyed with her the whole time lol.”

She tried not to care. Really, she did. Everyone got some heat on the internet. Especially women. Especially women who dared to exist in male-dominated spaces.

But over the days that followed, the anxiety sat with her like a bruise just beneath the skin—tender, persistent, waiting for the next hit.

And tonight, it landed.

The stream had started light. George had invited her to join a game of Call of Duty, and she’d said yes instinctively.

It had felt good at first. Familiar.

But fifteen minutes in, the chat shifted.

@ogclarkeyfan:
was she even invited or did she just show up again?

@whyisthisgirlhere:
she made that video so cringe. literally ruined the fountain bit.

@fancam4rory:
can’t believe george is wasting content with her

@clarkeybabey:
she’s not even funny?? why is she always trying so hard

Each line landed harder than the last. Even as her fingers moved on autopilot, her brain fuzzed with static. Her throat tightened.

She tried to focus on the game, on George’s voice in her ears—teasing, grounded—but it didn’t cut through the rising spiral.

Then someone posted a clip.

A screen recording of her slipping in the fountain, zoomed in and slowed down, captioned: “when you force yourself into the group and still flop.”

It had over 3,000 likes already.

Y/N's stomach flipped.

“Y/N?” George’s voice cracked through the headset. “You good?”

She didn’t respond.

Her screen blurred. Her chest pulled tight, breathing shallow. Her cursor jerked as she missed a shot. Then another.

“Y/N?” George again. Softer now. Concerned.

She mumbled something, barely audible. Her mic was already muted. She didn’t remember doing that.

With shaking fingers, she ended the stream. Closed the tabs. Ripped her headset off. The silence was deafening.

She curled into the chair, fists clenched, eyes burning. It wasn’t just the trolls. It was the weight of everything. The effort of trying so hard to fit in, to keep up, to belong—to not be the weak link in a group of people who already seemed to love each other in this seamless, shorthand way.

She’d thought she was getting there.

Now it felt like maybe she was the punchline.

-

Ten minutes later, a knock on the door.

She wasn’t expecting anyone.

She moved on instinct, flinging it open—and George was there. Hoodie on, hair slightly flattened from a beanie he must’ve discarded en route, phone still clutched in one hand.

His brows pinched the second he saw her face.

“Hey,” he said. “Saw your stream cut. Tried calling. Just… came to check.”

Her eyes brimmed before she could stop them.

“I’m fine,” she lied, voice cracking on the second word.

“Sure you are,” he murmured, stepping in. “Totally fine people usually answer calls while hyperventilating.”

She let out a broken laugh and wiped her cheek with the back of her sleeve. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

She hesitated. “I just—” The words caught. “It got in my head. The trolls. The video. The comments. I know they’re just idiots but it felt—like they were all thinking what I’m scared everyone secretly thinks.”

George didn’t say anything at first.

He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.

No theatrics. No platitudes. Just warmth. Steady and grounding.

Her face pressed into his hoodie. His arms held firm, not too tight. She could smell his deodorant and the faint trace of rain on his sleeves. She didn’t realise how fast she was breathing until it started to slow.

“They’re wrong,” he said quietly. “They don’t know you.”

She didn’t answer. Just listened to his voice. The same one that had made her laugh on stream, the one that had made her feel safe that night in the pub.

“They’re loud,” he went on, “but they don’t matter. You do. You’re not just ‘someone we stream with’ or a side character. You’re one of us.”

Her chest ached, but in a different way now.

She tilted her head back slightly. “Even if I call you a hobbit again?”

George huffed a laugh, resting his chin lightly against her hair. “Especially then.”

She closed her eyes.

And maybe, just maybe, she let herself believe him.

————-

@madforgeorge

@wherethezoes-at

@sundarksposts

@clarkey4life

—————-

This was a long one!! But we’re getting somewhere 🤭

[angelharness]

revisit to an oldie! both to add the many new killers since the last iteration and expand and reassess what i had written previously, so here’s a go again at my yandere archetype list for the killers, as of june 2025. also added a danger level for funsies

no behavior here should be replicated, encouraged, or sought out - this is all just a writing exercise and fun character study

✏️ commission me, or just support me, over on ko-fi ☕ 

EVAN MACMILLAN / THE TRAPPER

Lucid, Possessive

Evan can tell there’s something harmful about his feelings, and that has to tell you something when coming from someone with no healthy relationships in their life and no sense of positive attention. He’s careful, so careful, as a result, maneuvering interactions with you like he’s handling an active, ablaze minefield. He hates the chess he’s playing, he can’t stand to have to portray himself a certain way for the sake of someone else, so he’s quick to skip the formalities and niceties of your early relationship and devolve into attempts to control you.

He’s meant to run things, meant to be the operator, meant to orchestrate, and orchestrate he does; he makes himself the only viable option for a partner, ensuring he can provide everything you need and advertises that regularly. This intensifies quickly, and he starts acting on your behalf to sever other existing ties, first acting as your mouthpiece to snuff out relations with others—typically, this is done with claims of you being disinterested, too occupied, so on. Eventually he’s very much moderating your time and purposely waning it until you’re shut off entirely from them. If he feels your interest in him is threatened enough, he’s not above drawing blood. Evan would wade through a sea of the stuff just to secure your love for him. Danger: 4/5

PHILIP OJOMO / THE WRAITH

Obsessive, Lucid

Philip does what he can to repress his feelings. He considers himself too horrible of a person to ever be able to offer you a stable relationship, so he pines from afar. It aches endlessly, but is unlikely to act on his emotions. As he’s learned many times throughout his life, there is safety and sometimes necessity in distance. He can’t hurt you, you can’t hurt him, there’s no rejection and no expectations. This is fine, this is what’s best–he can live with the horrible ache of yearning easier than he could subject you to a love so all-consuming. 

The only scenario in which he would make his feelings known is if you were the one to make the decision to close the gap, to give him that opening to relieve him of his internal torture and love you freely. But it’s no good, Philip watches himself spiral, his feelings intensifying and building and blooming—but not like they should, not in the way affection builds and strengthens like a loved garden, but like the propagation of undesired weeds, sudden and sweeping. And much like weeds, he just can't get rid of them, tearing through the soil to find their roots all while more expand around him and overrun the remaining soil. Is he bad, is he unforgivable? If someone like you, who he can only fathom as faultless and loving, can love him knowing everything he’s done, he wants to believe that he is forgivable, or even that his feelings aren’t so reprehensible. 

Danger 1/5

MAX THOMPSON JR. / THE HILLBILLY

Obsessive

Max is not stupid, he knows how to read the people around him, and he’s especially mindful of the way disdain and resentment manifest in people's eyes. He never stopped caring, he never developed a resilience to it like he maybe should have for a lifetime of mistreatment. He’s fatigued of the ritual, the hanging, writhing cows, the buzz of flies in blistering summer, the laughing–cruel and dry of sympathy, but then so genuine and warm when heard from the next room over. He needs you to prove he’s not unlovable, he doesn’t need it to be genuine so long as you can sell the act, so long as he doesn’t have to feel that despicable sting when someone looks at him with pity. Play house with him, call him by his name because he knows he has one. He loves the sound of yours, your introduction to him is seared deep into every surface in his mind, so say his.

He thinks you might be the first person to recognize his fear, his lost wandering, something no one else could seem to discern, already hateful or already afraid. Max can be good, he knows how to sit still, how to stay out of the way and out of view. He’s ranked on the lower side in danger because his desires are quite simple and even standard–somewhere safe to stay, food on the table, a lover, a name and a reputation of his own making, not of someone else’s verdict.

Danger 2.5/5

SALLY SMITHSON / THE NURSE

Delusional, Isolating

Her time working in the asylum left her washed intensely in delusion. She believes, though her method is cruel and unforgiving, her intentions are good-natured. The same will apply for any romantic feelings. She’s very much of the mind that she knows best and that it’s her duty to keep you from being led astray. 

It’s impossible to reason with her mindset, soiled with delirium, and she’ll shut down any arguments with the accusation that you’re the delusional one; she only wants to help. You’re callous, pushing her away. She’s good at orchestrating her emotions to manipulate others, a surprisingly honed skill for someone in a position expected to prescribe care in a high-intensity environment. That persona of hers is equally mastered and refined, and when displays of fanatical emotion don’t work to her advantage, Sally can switch to cold and collected on a dime. She has this nurturing voice of reason that’s sinisterly good at making you second-doubt yourself. Even with her own sharp, calculated tongue, it doesn’t mean your own doubting, resistant words don’t get to her, inching and worming about to find an opening inside. There’s guilt there, festering behind a face that’s fixed and serious. But she loves you, she trusts you, she believes in you wholly and unwaveringly, why can’t you do the same for her? You’re in good hands, after all.

DANGER: 4/5

MICHAEL MYERS / THE SHAPE

Possessive, Obsessive

Obsessive should be no surprise; whatever drives him is absolutely unearthly and to find yourself his new fixation is an especially cruel fortune. You’ve got no leverage on him, no true escape that’s not just a temporary hindrance. There’s no emotions for you to work with, no semblance of a goal, no sense of human morality–he kills as unperturbed as any apex predator does, a symptom of their nature that can’t and shouldn’t be compared to any human notions of ethics.

You can never recreate the image of a real relationship with Michael, what is between you two is unlabelable and surreal. He keeps you around, keeps you alive, but frequently seems to reconsider his decision to–you’ll never be allowed the illusion of safety. No matter how compliant you make yourself, how muted and pliable, you’re traversing a minefield quite blind. You can make all the seemingly right choices and still inflict him with some sudden, wordless rage. 

He’s hard to figure out. He keeps his intentions unknowable, preferring that power over you. Feeds from your unease, and thrives off of displays of fear. He wants a reaction, that much is obvious, and no means are excessive to get that out of you. It is unavoidable that he will eventually tire of you; when you spend so long jabbing at your food, it gets cold. When that time comes, he’ll rid of you lethally. 

Danger: 5/5

HERMAN CARTER / THE DOCTOR

Lucid, Manipulative

Well aware his feelings could quickly become dangerous, though doesn’t find himself caring an awful lot. He has way too much fun messing with you, making you doubt yourself, him, others. I can’t imagine any romantic feelings between the two of you could ever vaguely replicate a functional relationship, even if mutual–he’ll never play the role of a caring partner, he enjoys his position above you far too much. This is just another iteration of chess, only you two are the only pieces on the board, and you’re a cornered pawn and he’s the queen. You can always move one space forward, but that scarcely matters when the entire playing field is his. 

He can’t tarnish his name any further, it’s already blistered and seared with misdeed, so there’s really nothing left to bind him to a moral code (not that he has ever, at any point, had any loose semblance of one).

Danger: 5/5

ANNA / THE HUNTRESS

Possessive, Isolating

Anna seems fundamentally unable to recognize fear. It’s not like she hasn’t experienced it firsthand, so why can’t she glean it from the horrified faces of others? She hates how you hide like the rest of them. She feels so much frustration, boiling and foaming in her blood, hot with fury but confused. You’re safe within the walls of the cabin, gifted her most luxurious furs, allowed to wander the halls freely even to the areas she restricted previous captives from venturing into. She feeds you even through the winters when rations must be stretched out weeks, she lets you bathe in the water she would’ve reserved for her own drinking. She doesn’t get what you see out the window, in the desolate expanse of snow and dead undergrowth. Anna starts to wonder if you harbor some small, flickering desire for death, perhaps unconscious but unshakable, the same way beloved pets dash from their safe homes into the vastness of the outside, hostile world. At times she thinks about leaving you out in the unforgiving deluge of snow to wander barefoot through the woods that she knows well are rife with wartime activity. She wouldn’t enjoy it, no, in fact the idea makes her prickle with anxiety, but some lessons are taught by uncompromising measures. 

Once or twice, Anna drew open the cabin doors and let you look out at the grassless, miserable landscape outside. She’d wait there, staring expectantly at you, daring you to go. You never do, you know there’s no fruitful survival out there, and this is her confirmation. It’s safest here. She’ll supply for you, she’ll stroke your hair at night and weave you sad, lopsided dolls. Around your bed, a nest of blankets and tanned pelts, she lays gifts like offerings: carved animals, glittering beads, embroidered fabrics, and any bones she finds especially pretty. They collect and collect, untouched. Before long, they form walls around your little sanctuary. Perhaps your fear appears as timidness to her, or maybe she’s past the point of caring.

Danger: 4.5/5

BUBBA SAWYER / THE CANNIBAL

Dependent, Possessive

To a point, he’s delusional, but he can recognize you’re unwilling. That horrible, paralyzing fear you wear on your face is so alike the dread that kept him loyal to his family and helped him stomach the shedding of blood that is so intrinsic to their practice. With no positive relationships or notions of positive attention, the idea of a dynamic not based in fear is entirely alien to him. To him, some level of anxiety regarding the other party is normal in a majority of circumstances, so he’s not quite prepared on how to navigate the ordeal of romancing you. He comes to treat you like a frightened, injured bird, wrongly trapped indoors–he’s afraid to physically handle you in any way, and reacts to your fear with his own. His reactionary nature can be used to your benefit, though, as he’ll also reflect your calmer composure and is responsive to attempts to soothe him. 

He is one of the few killers that you have a fair amount of leverage over, which you can utilize both through negative and positive reinforcement. He’s not quite predictable, being susceptible to sharp and sudden mood swings with no obvious trigger, but once you’ve gotten more familiar with his mannerisms you can respond accordingly and deescalate most situations. With some work, I do believe you could make strides to a more balanced dynamic.

Danger: 2/5

AMANDA YOUNG / THE PIG

Lucid, Manipulative 

Fairly coherent regarding her emotions, though this regulation never translates into her actions, which are twisted by impulse and anxieties. Unintentionally incredibly manipulative, will very quickly turn to self-destructive exploits to gain your sympathy and convince you to stay. She doesn’t recognize this as deceitful, this is just behavior that has followed her through every relationship. Amanda really has no solid bonds to model this one after; even John, who she had always revered and cared for so deeply, left little of a good impression of interpersonal relations. In fact, this is where a lot of her codependency stems from, and it’s a particularly troublesome weed to extinguish entirely, always some roots remaining deeper down in the soil. Eventually, Amanda stops caring if you’re only sticking around out of a feeling of necessity. If you ever show intent to leave, though, she’d panic. She just can’t conceive a life without you now that she’s met you, and even the terror that comes with imagining a scenario like such is enough to drive her to extremes, just like much of her life has been defined by. 

She’s seen so many people go, and quite a number have been by her own hands, so she’s not ready to loosen her grip on you. Amanda doesn’t have to burn all her bridges, doesn’t have to dig a spiraling grave—she’ll have you.

Danger: 3/5

RIN YAMAOKA / THE SPIRIT

Dependent, Manipulative, Lucid

Another case of unintentional manipulation. On the verge of lucidity, but blinded by the hunger for comfort and desperate to chase the stability you offer her. If she feels you’re losing interest, may also fall back on harmful habits, though herself isn’t certain if it’s a cry for recognition or a method of escapism. She’s a mess of emotions, constantly, and keeping up with ebbing and waning of her mood is maddening—you’ll just never act how she seems to need. Horrified of losing you, and it’s very clear that’s the case, however she tries to subdue such feelings. Becomes incredibly reliant on you very quickly. Fixates on any acts of kindness–this is her attempt to pull herself free from the seas of rage she’s let herself bathe in for so long. There is no malicious intent in her actions, she’s just simply a hurricane of intense emotions and somehow you’ve found yourself in her path.

It’s important to remember that she longs most for normalcy, and even when her efforts seem misguided, and are, there’s no malice to be found in them.

Danger: 1.5/5

FRANK MORRISON / THE LEGION

Possessive, Manipulative 

Possessive through and through, and given that it’s Frank, he's manipulative too. He can play it cool for long, much longer than many may give him credit for–he’s not all hotheaded and isn’t steered solely by emotion, though it may look like this from afar. The time leading up to any romantic escalations is disarmingly normal, because yes, he does truly long for a normal relationship and for positive attention and affirmation traded freely. What keeps him from these chances at stability is that he needs control. He needs the upper hand, he needs dominance over the playing board, he always needs to be the deciding factor in any exchange. Over your relationship, you’ll find yourself more and more restricted; who you talk to, where you go. He’s intensely against you socializing outside of the Legion, who he trusts immensely and sometimes relies on to keep you in check (that is, keeping an eye on you and ensuring you are estranged to only their circle). The others have already cultured such a distrust of outsiders that all your other social outlets are quick to be snuffed out.

There’s not terribly much left for Frank–the foster care system failed him almost ritualistically, churning him through a lineup of underprepared, inexperienced households, and now he's long past the age that he’s spared any sympathy. There’s only apathy left for him, and so as long as he has the loyalty of the other Legion members, and enough of a grasp over you, he’s fine burning all other remaining bridges. He wants to destroy it all with you.

Danger: 4/5

JULIE KOSTENKO / THE LEGION

Possessive, Isolating

Can be likened to Frank, but will never entirely trust you around the rest of the Legion; she loves them so, but is dazed in her worries of losing you. Control is not just a desire but practically a need, the only thing to quiet her restlessness when away from you. 

Slowly, she inserts herself into every aspect of your life, ensuring her presence reaches all the areas of your mind and that the association is unavoidable. She wants complete monopoly over your thoughts, crowbarred into every recess. She wants her image burned into the back of your eyes, and her goal to inject herself inseparably into your life comes to be a game to her. 

Julie wants to watch you shut down. It’s bad, she knows, but that’s all she can see in herself—the good has never been recognized, so why try to backtrack now? She knows that she’s a perpetually descending spiral, and sees no point in course-correcting, so it’s you that’ll accompany her into these extreme depths.

Danger: 4/5

JOEY CADOGEN / THE LEGION

Lucid, Possessive

His descent is a gradual, aching one. He watches passively as he careens into devastating obsession, worsening but with no will to stop it. Like Julie, he adores the family he’s established in the Legion, but can’t stand the possibility of losing you to one of them. It would be more personally crushing, so he figures he’d rather be safe than sorry. He can wait like they can’t, too impatient and all gnashing teeth, caffeine and teenage anger. He can be calculated, he can sit and watch, that’s what he’s always had above the rest of them. He’s no dog, and Joey is fine with a little bit of required set-up: he’s got the same restless spirit as the entirety of the Legion, but he can bite his tongue and reject moves for instant gratuity. The prize at the end of the long haul is infinitely sweeter, and so he plays his cards carefully for the first half of your interactions, strategic in the information he reveals and what you do and don’t see of him. He’s sweet, he’s serious, and he’s forward in a way similarly-aged peers seem unable to be. That’s what makes his later 180 particularly nasty. 

Suddenly, his cruelty is profound and you now have to scavenge for sympathy where he had given it freely. He doesn’t have the same stomach for brutality that Julie and Frank seem to have, but he knows how to be ruthless in words and a disapproving sneer. Danger: 3.5/5

SUSIE LAVOIE / THE LEGION

Obsessive, Dependent

Lucid to a degree; she’s never been in a relationship herself, and the possibility of a stable one now is unfeasible in these circumstances, but she’s witnessed enough to understand there’s something profusely wrong with her feelings. Susie lived much of her life in the passenger seat of her body, however, watching herself dig herself deeper and deeper—she collects bad habits like precious stones and has never been especially helpful in getting herself out of these pathways. Even her attempts to gain a semblance of control were ultimately motivated by the desire to belong; she’s always been following behind someone else. This had been Julie for a good while, but now that that source of attention has thinned to a creeping dribble, you’re her new dealer. She can’t be passive about it anymore, she’s done that already with Julie and had her world torn apart in the process. It was a horrible slow burn watching Julie abandon her and the bond she thought was unshakeable; it felt like someone had stabbed her, wriggled the knife around inside, and then smeared the wound with a fistful of salt. She will never let that happen again.

Eventually, her mood will come to depend heavily on yours, and how you treat her. Praise and displays of affection make her day, though alternatively, something as simple as a drop in tone can ruin her entirely. She’s disastrous and constantly so, from mascara-blackened tears to grinding teeth in just a matter of hours, and this becomes a daily ritual. Day to day you feel progressively subdued and flushed of energy, siphoned out of wounds in your body that you can’t locate. Your resolve thins and thins, and yet Susie seems livelier than ever.

Danger: 3/5

ADIRIS / THE PLAGUE

Possessive, Delusional

Adiris is not delusional in the sense of wrongly believing you return her feelings, but instead, ignores the possibility entirely. She’s banished the notion from her mind, naively trusting that you love her wholly and unquestioningly. It will take time for her to view you as equal and acknowledge you have needs separate from her; she prefers the bliss of complete control over you. She finds comfort in her ignorance, and would never want to trade that for the much more bitter reality. 

She still holds on to that eroding hope that she’s helping people, that she’s helping you. Even as the blood rises further beneath her feet, stretches out to consume the horizon, the Entity whispers cruel reassurances. Salvation and cleanliness are so close now, and she wants to be the one to walk you there with her. Everything she’s doing is done out of devotion–her intentions are only pure, purged of all wicked filth that characterizes others' affection. Her strain of love is untouched and undiluted. If you can’t see that, maybe you aren’t as clean as she hoped. Danger: 4/5

DANNY JOHNSON / THE GHOST FACE 

Lucid, Possessive, Manipulative 

The basket case of the bunch, he’s a tumultuous, unpredictable concoction of all the archetypes, cycling through the symptoms like an arsenal of weapons.

He is absolutely aware of the unhealthy nature of his emotions, though thrives off the high of it. He knows already that he’s likely incapable of a healthy, longform relationship, as much as he’d pursued those in his teenage years. He’s lucid, but any guilt, if present, does little to discourage him. 

Like any addiction,as time goes on, he needs more and more to reach that pleasure again, until he’s wrung you dry, left you empty and disjointed, and no longer sees a use in you. This can span much longer than you might predict, even years. He needs his fix, needs to sate himself, but he’s good at the waiting game. There’s something just so uniquely thrilling about living a double life and then slowly letting them overlap, letting himself be careless, letting you get suspicious, until it’s undeniable that he is the same masked terror he so obsessively reports on. Views you as a beloved item, and treats you as he pleases, which is dictated by his mood (which itself fluctuates sharply). Threats are abundant but sporadic; you could be having a nice dinner and he’d flip out a knife and direct it at your neck. You’ll never even be teased with the possibility of normalcy.

Danger: 5/5 KAZAN YAMAOKA / THE ONI

It’s easy to cast him as a man who knows only violence, whose language is wrath and who’s unknowable moral code must be transcribed in blood, but there’s a human in there. He’s lived a short life as a man, and that part of him persisted even under his detested moniker as the Yamaoka Oni.

He knows he’s not a creature without fault, but this is not a symptom of some unrevealed sliver of humanity. It is his most undoing trait that he can recognize his own corruption, because that’s all he sees as left of himself. There’s no backtracking for the road he’s assumed, just the path ahead as it spirals and spirals downward. Kazan knows he will not right a long, gore-drenched lifetimes of wrongs by loving one human gently and genuinely. Him sparing you does not erase the backdrop of bodies, rows of rows of beaten, purpled bodies, that will forever silhouette his life. To him, you are equally terrible to see him for what he is and love him, and he supposes he should only love someone every bit as reprehensible as himself. It’s a fine arrangement then: you’ll love him as he is, abhorrent and damned, and he’ll love you, illogical and misguided.

Your goal should not be to pacify him; he knows that voice so well, the small, docile one, all apologetic and insincere–it grates like the squealing and hissing of grinding gears. It’s best for you to adopt a similar hard exterior to his and play the role he expects of you. 

Danger: 5/5

CALEB QUINN / THE DEATHSLINGER

Possessive, Lucid

Does not exactly view you as an object or possession as much as he views you as just his. He doesn’t have the words for it either, and it will certainly never be clarified for you.

All things considered, he’d be one of the more humane killers. He’s had a lifetime of mistreatment, and so he’s very staunchly adamant about his ideas of respect, as contradictory as it can be among the bloodshed and agony intrinsic to the mechanics of the entity's realm.

When Caleb squeezed the trigger of his Redeemer and watched the spear plunge into the chest of his former boss, he knew the course of his life was going to change–he’d been surprised in the end that he hadn’t been sentenced to death, and so everything following was relatively unplanned. That is to say, a relationship was never in the books, and so all of this is new territory. He’s learned though, had to go through the ringer and back to really get it in his skull, that everything dear must be held close. Lock and key aren’t enough, either, but he knows a watchful eye and ready trigger finger will. He does not ever want to look down the barrel at you, but his life is one that often forces him to extremes. He doesn’t have to act as your warden: assurances of your loyalty and promises of a simple, domestic life keep him sated for the time being. 

Danger: 3/5

PYRAMID HEAD / THE EXECUTIONER 

Possessive

He’s hard to pin, given how out of place he is anywhere outside of James’ psyche. In the scenario that he is a personal manifestation, designated to dispense punishment upon the behalf of internalized guilt, I imagine he’d function much like he does for James; bound to you, he follows you relentlessly, but his fixation is one that transcends his purpose as a deliverer of penance. 

It’s important to remember that he acts on no agenda–yes, this makes him hard to predict, but maybe there is some reassurance to be found in his lack of malice. How deeply can you resent the lion for eating the gazelle? Eventually you have to recognize that human concepts of morality just can’t be applied to such an animal, and Pyramid Head is the same. Unfortunately, this does mean there’s little point in trying to reason with him. There’s no rationale to concede with, he’s simply guided by a voice that calls in a tone you can’t perceive. It’s not even instinct that drives him, just a grave understanding that he is to complete his duty. With your introduction, that’s changed.

To him, you belong to him and in return, he is to protect you. This devotion he’s plunged into is the formation of a new contract, in which his existence is now yours. If he failed that task, the only reasonable response would be punishment. Similarly, if you exhibit a lack of faith, he’ll supply discipline as he sees fit. There’s no way out once you take that plunge; a beast that can’t perish and a realm that won’t let you die sets up an eternal commitment. 

Danger: 3/5

SADAKO YAMAMURA / THE ONYRO 

Obsessive, Dependent

You may be the first person to look at her without repulsion, pity, or terror—can you blame her so quickly for her fixation on the first instance of positive attention? The feeling is so alien it startles her at first, too strong and all-encompassing, it’s almost sickening. It hits her too hard and suddenly, the impact is like a rogue wave beating down on her and flushing away the sand from under her. The air around her turns septic with hatred wherever she goes, of course she gravitates towards the sweet smell of your emanating optimism. In your presence there is a peace and stillness that she knows well is scarce elsewhere, and she’s so starved for it, she wants to hold it tangibly, wants to robe herself in it. Sadako thinks she might just wither away in your absence, an active rot that grows like algae when she finds herself too far for comfort from you.

She won’t ever confess, not in any true or traditional manner, but she very much hopes and imagines you can recognize her affection. It does wade off her, like a weighty fog, but it’s a sense of love that’s deeply and clearly warped. It offers no comfort, only a chill and a thrumming in the heart.

She’s tired of rejection and averted eyes—if you can’t take her as she is, then she’s not above ridding of you entirely. 

Danger: 3/5

TARHOS KAVOCS / THE KNIGHT

Possessive 

There is so much violence and vitriol in the world, running over it freely in sheets of bitter, hateful rain. Tarhos stopped lamenting this long ago—he had to, otherwise he’d be infinitely miserable, he could mourn and gripe away each year at the cruelty his wartorn world spits out like a machine. You’re a wrench in it all; he could write you off as naive, simple, unjaded, unspoiled. He’s not quite sure why your optimism, hardy and resistant through it all, doesn’t anger him, doesn't sting his mouth with the taste of resentment. He will show you, he will take your hand and ease you into the waters that he was thrust into so young. Where he had drowned, he’ll hold you afloat.

He’s not a noble lover though, nothing of his has been won through charity or acts of grace but through dogged force. He knows nothing of romance and courting, and so he sees what you two share as another transaction of blood; he spills and spills and spills the stuff for you, and is only disgusted that you’re unable to recognize his acts of servitude. Tarhos has shown his readiness. This is his nature, this is his love–if he can care for you so as you are, with only soft edges and an aversion to the unpleasantries of the world, then you can take him as he is, encrusted in gore and a legacy of cruelty.

Danger: 4/5

ADRIANA IMAI / THE SKULL MERCHANT

Obsessive, Isolating

The world is rife with unworthy people, so Adriana has cultivated quite the sharp eye for sniffing out potential and an equally quick, unforgiving assessment on who is and is not worthwhile. Worthwhile, however, is apparently unrelated to her idea of a respectable person. She wants to draw out your ambition, to isolate and pin down the fighting spirit that burns in all people, some hotter and wilder than others.

She came from very little, but that’s so distant to her now, numbed by her monopoly, her opulence, the availability of everything she could want. There’s no one left above her to look down on her; Adriana very well could look anywhere else, every which way crowded with open doors and opportunity, but it’s fun to look down and torment the littler people. It’s your resilience that seizes her attention, that defiant, undying light of yours that she could never wring out from the typical victim. It’s another chase for her, and she plays it slow and methodical. There’s no need to rush: you’re already on the chessboard. 

Adriana is certain she could earn your adoration the traditional way–she could offer you everything, and with the current state of affairs, that’s just enough for a number of people. But the talking phase, however, has never caught her interest; it’s leagues more fun to carefully coordinate and engineer your relationship. At first, it can be passed off as a series of coincidences that all possible paths appear to lead only to her, that opportunities die around you and people who were close are now so distant. The denial can’t keep you blind from the reality for forever. 

Danger: 4/5

REDACTED / THE UNKNOWN

?

Unreadable, unnamable, unknowable, you have nothing to work with when it comes to them. You’re playing chess blindfolded, and your opponent obeys no known rules or principles. Does it care for you anywhere in its twisted, bloated heart, or is it just drawn by some indeterminate force to chase you to the ends of the earth? As long as you run, it follows endlessly. No human restraints seem to apply, no need to eat or drink, stop for rest, socialize, just a supernatural drive to haunt you. You opened the door, it’s only responding.

Suddenly, nowhere is safe, what was familiar is foreign and hostile, and you’re on the move constantly. It’s the not knowing that terrorizes you so, the fact that you must doubt the voices of friends and family, that every shadow may house it—then, the only certainty is that it’s always hounding you, and you don’t know what happens when you slip up—just by a margin—and the distance is suddenly closed. 

You only know that it wants you. Your voice, it takes, your clothes it assumes, your mannerisms and quirks projected back to you. It will be you and it will have you.

Danger: ?/5

DRACULA / THE DARK LORD

Lucid, Possessive 

Dangerously composed and lethal with his rationality, he’s also quick to anger, making him a particularly insidious weapon. However impressive it is to have acquired his affection after his swearing off of the entirety of the human race, there’s no room or reason for celebration; he knows there is little purity to his love, now, and his rage is more honed and used than any affection. 

He’s not all rage, as much as he seems to be solely operated by it. There is something softer and subdued beyond the gnashing fangs and spiteful, eternally narrowed eyes. Mostly, he’s a tired man, old and weary where his undying appearance claims otherwise. He does long for a domestic life, but it’s been swamped beneath thick, blistering apathy. He’s left to pessimism and venom and knows he’ll never regain the family unit he had before and never cherished quite enough—you’ll do fine as a pet. You’re human, anyways, innately flawed and reprehensible by your very nature; you’re no exception to the rot of human essence, and he won’t expect much of you, otherwise he’d drive himself raving and delirious when you inevitably display human imperfections. 

At least he doesn’t look at you with disdain, at least he looks at you at all, and from time to time he lets you lay your head in your lap as he drags his talons down the back of your scalp.

Danger: 5/5

PORTIA MAYE / THE HOUNDMASTER

Possessive

Forced to be self-sustaining at such a young age, she’s accustomed to her solitude, if that’s even what she’d label it. Her eyes and mind are old, she’s seen the earth in its brutal entirety. 

Initially, you enrage her, ambitionless and aimless, all soft underbelly and no weathered shell. She just doesn’t care for people with no drive, the type of people unwilling to fall down continuously to learn the way to get back up and take it head on. But Portia remembers being soft, being something young and untrained in a world that seems to be so out for blood. She raised snug from his infancy, after all, from when he was something small and afraid to a loyal beast. There is a taste for blood in all living things, she’s decided, learned or taught or innate, and she knows she can get it out of you. 

She never wanted to be a thing of hate, what she did detest most was how freely it circulated in her veins, a hot boiling venom. You are a gateway, something new and precious. When she has you, there’s no true way out. Portia spent so long getting by on scraps, less than that, on the waste and spoiled fruit of earth’s most dejected region. The moment she stepped off the island, she wanted it all, everything the world could offer, and everything she’d have to plunder from it. You just happen to be the dearest crown jewel of them all.

Danger: 3.5/5

SPRINGTRAP / THE ANIMATRONIC

Possessive, Isolating

He’s hard to read, his violence seeming erratic and spontaneous, but he has his own methodology: he’s not uncalculated, contrarily, he just knows how to hide his intentions and work off of your doubt. It’s a game to him, to seesaw between placidity and sudden frenzy, just so your defenses can never comfortably lower. He has no discernible resentment and no semblance of unquenched rage, he doesn’t even appear to take any outward joy in tormenting you, simply he acts on some unknowable agenda, like he’s abiding a predetermined, animal blueprint. He’s found a new appreciation for the pained, agonized life forced on him, a supernatural life that puppets him long after he should reasonably have perished; now, his chase after you is eternal. As long as you can keep up the pace, he can’t see himself tiring of this song and dance anytime soon.

You can ask why, why you, why this, but you never get much of a response. He offers only small, strangled wheezes and a cold stare, maybe a dry, odd laugh. His nature was predetermined when that reprehensible, abhorrent soul died in his current body to gift him life he did ever not ask for. It was decided long before him that he would be horrible, and he can’t just oppose his nature. So love him as he is, unforgivable and shameful, or turn and run and he’ll always, always give chase.

4/5

[canisbrutus]

Hey I really like your headcanons !!! What’s your view on the main three’s relationship with each other?

why thank ya, color me flattered lol. let me see.. this will be Long

Gary & Jimmy 🐍🐕

tragic doomed toxic yaoi etc etc

ultimately they're two sides of the same coin, opposite eachother in a way. both are simultaneously victims and perpetrators, though they differ in motive and response

while jimmy might be too daft to realize, gary knows this and absolutely hates it.

like a fine mix of admiration jealousy and spite

jimmy meanwhile is just fed up his bullshit

but at the same time he doesnt *hate* him.

jimmy doesnt really hate anyone tbh hes just easily pissed off

after the betrayal jimmy is annoyed at best and personally hurt at worst. but he can shrug it off with ease. he doesnt hold grudges

which is yet another thing that drives gary nuts

before the betrayal though. jimmy made gary feel Weird. jimmy's too genuine. too upfront. too honest. Too Real.

he took their friendship seriously. very very few people willingly stood beside gary, minus petey who we'll get to later

and that made him ? scared. confused even. absolutely nobody could be equal with him. even if he liked their relationship

anyway. this vvv

Petey & Gary 🐇🐍

petey primarily hung around gary because he was familiar and it was better than being alone, yes.

but also, these two go back a fair ways. like elementary.

as such, petey knows more about gary than he would like him to.

gary has been through a Lot. he's also Lost a Lot.

petey is one of the few 'things' he has left that really means anything to him.

or. he was, anyway. before the betrayal

shortly after the fight in the pit he got in an argument with gary. cut him deep where it hurts. mentioned something he maybe shouldnt have.

got beaten bloody and thrown away. and gary devolved from there.

despite this petey doesnt really hold it against him either

there's some guilt to him. perhaps a bit of self loathing.

but he couldnt approach gary on his own. his nerves were too shot.

sure gary threw his friend jimmy to russell. and sure gary's been picking on him for years at this point. but to beat the shit out of him, his best friend, after he's stayed with him for just about a decade?

he couldnt trust him again

he hardly trusted him to begin with honestly, gary had been beating him down and making sure he knew whatever prior cuts he made at him didnt hurt in the slightest before.

thankfully jimmy isnt as sensitive as he is.

~~~~~

Jimmy & Petey 🐕🐇

poor kids. two peas in a pod thrown under the bus

petey may have been apprehensive of jimmy at first, due to his general attitude and knack for mayhem.

but as time passed jimmy showed his true colors and proved to be a Good person (if prone to manipulation)

it wasnt long before petey started to trust him more than gary. and after the betrayal, jimmy was all he really had.

(admittedly he did try to join the nerds but earnest called him a faggot and said no)

petey isnt meek. he isn't soft. his venom is often dwarfed by everyone else's, but he still holds a rage. even if he keeps it inside. part of him did want to get back at gary. but another part still felt concern for his old friend spiraling like mad. even moreso considering he pushed him the way he did, with that argument mentioned.

im saying this ^ bc he felt an obligation to advise jimmy on what to do, especially regarding gary. hoping he could get him calmed tf down so they could go back to normal, as friends, again.

but they werent particularly close. kinda like business partners. jimmy blowing him off half the time didnt help matters.

but again. petey didnt have anyone else.

just a poor guy caught in the middle of their homoerotic rivalry

~~~~~

i have so many lores for these stupid cunts.

anyway reminder that my inbox is open for requests in general. woof

[hc masterpost link]

[trombonechurchill]

Tidbit Tuesday!

Chapter Two of Watching the Credits is maaaybe 50% done so to celebrate here is a very silly part of it:

Buck is not likable. He's charming, in a way, he knows ("Like a fungus. You grow on people," Hen had helpfully explained one day.), but people need time to warm up to him and then, once they inevitably got their fill, they were done with him. And Tommy was a big mega star. Tommy's cool. Tommy has a Wikipedia page! Buck doesn't think he ego could handle being friend dumped by someone on Wikipedia. He should just cut his losses and run now. "I should just cut my losses and run now," He tells Eddie. "You won't get paid if you leave before shooting's over," Eddie offers. Buck hits him again. Things quickly devolve from there and Buck's saved from having to start finding creative uses for the fruit bowl to get Eddie to let him out of a headlock by the arrival of Hen. "Please don't make me kick the two of you out of here," she says, sweeping past them with a sigh and making a beeline for the coffee machine. She's got a pile of scripts in her hand which is never a good sign. The number of script revisions Hen has to do is always commiserate with the amount of patience she has left for the rest of them. And this batch looks like a doozy. "Buck's spiraling," Eddie says, pointedly ignoring Buck as he mouths 'tattle-tale' over Hen's shoulder at him. Hen hums for a moment, settling herself in an open chair before taking a long sip of coffee. Buck eyes her precariously balanced scripts nervously but waits until Hen swallows and raises her eyebrows in permission before starting to talk. "So, what are we overthinking today, then? I told you Athena already forgave you for the microwave thing. Mostly." "She did? No, I mean it's not that. You know Tommy?" Buck says, tapping his fingertips together before finally shoving himself into the camp chair next to Hen. He's never quite fit into them right, legs too long and shoulders too wide so he feels like he's folding up to match the rest of the lawn furniture, but he needs Hen's advice on this, needs to be on the level. Eye level or something. "Tommy. Tommy Kinard our leading man, Tommy?" Hen asks dubiously. "Uh yeah. That Tommy." "I'm familiar," Hen says flatly. "Okay, good. Great, even." "Is that it? Pop quiz about our cast over now? No offense, Buck, but some of us actually have real jobs on set today." Buck doesn't know how Hen manages to say emotionally damaging things so affectionately. Eddie mimes stabbing himself with a banana just out of Hen's eyeline.

no pressure tagging @leashybebes, @thatmexisaurusrex, @livelaughlou, @frogsinflannel, @kinardbegins, @fake-mouthstatic and @laundryandtaxesworld if you have something you wanna share!

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Mrs Master Yoda”

Chapter One: Wife of the Jedi

Description: [Y/N] was never supposed to fall for anyone—especially not Yoda, the most respected Jedi Master in the galaxy. But nearly 700 years ago, a marriage of convenience between a sharp-tongued, bounty hunter and a pint-sized green Jedi spiraled into something the Jedi Order could never publicly acknowledge.

Now, she continues to come back. She’s got stolen intel, a vendetta against her long-lost “husband,” and zero patience for Jedi politics. But as whispers of her return spread through the Temple and so does one wild revelation: Yoda was married.

With the Hutts, Pykes, and Separatists all trying to claim her, [Y/N] just wants a payday, a clean break, and for yoda to either die or stop trying to get divorced. But secrets never stay buried long… especially when they involve the galaxy’s tiniest, most cryptic husband.

⸻

750 years before the Battle of Yavin

Outer Rim, Tholoth Trade Ring

You should've known the job was cursed from the start.

The pay was too good. The target was too easy. The ship you "borrowed" from a Duros spice-runner didn't even fall apart halfway there, which was a red flag in itself.

And now? Now you're pinned behind a crate of illegal droid parts in a crumbling spaceport while blaster bolts whine over your head and the entire market has devolved into chaos.

"Target's down," you mutter into your comm. "So's my patience."

"Payment?" your handler asks through static.

"Vaporized. Along with half the bounty." You glance around the smoking plaza. "Also possibly the local law enforcement."

You don't add Also, there's a Padawan trying to kill me.

Not that he's very good at it. You peek over the crate, and there he is—short, green, and grumpy. Big ears, bigger lightsaber. Still trying to figure out which end of the Force is up, but he's fast, and relentless. Like a swamp lizard on caf.

"Cease your attack!" he shouts, bounding across the wreckage of a vendor stall. "Surrender, you must!"

"Kid," you call back, ducking a deflected bolt, "your saber form's sloppy, your stance is wide, and I'm not the criminal here."

"That is...debatable," he says. He's got a ridiculous accent, even at his age. Less gravel, more attitude.

You dart into the open and take a flying leap off a broken repulsor truck, rolling into cover closer to him. He blinks, clearly not expecting you to move toward the fight.

"Should've stayed in the Temple," you grin, drawing your blaster again. "This is out of your league, Padawan."

"Trained by Master N'Kata Del Gormo I am," he snaps, lifting a hand. You're yanked backward by a sudden Force push, your back hitting a pillar with a jolt. Ow.

"Yeah?" you wheeze. "She teach you how to flirt too, or is this just natural talent?"

His ears twitch. His grip falters.

Gotcha.

You slide a stun grenade from your belt and hurl it—he reflexively deflects it with his saber, which only makes it explode in midair. The concussive wave knocks both of you flat.

When you come to, the dust's still settling and someone's dragging you up by the collar.

It's him.

You expect to be cuffed. Or knocked out. Or dead.

Instead, he says, "impressive. That was...."

You blink. "That's not exactly Jedi protocol, is it?"

He looks smug. "Perhaps."

You start laughing. Loudly. You're coughing by the end of it, shoulders shaking.

"Oh stars, you are so too young for this."

He folds his arms. "One hundred and twenty, I am. By my species' standards, an adult."

You study him. "What are you even doing here? You don't strike me as 'galactic peacekeeping' material."

He shrugs. "Assigned to outer rim patrols. Rogue Force users are active in this sector. Also...hunting a bounty hunter."

"Wow," you deadpan. "Must be a real menace."

"She was," he says. "Is. Still deciding."

The corner of your mouth twitches. "You don't even know my name."

"True. But good at making entrances, you are." He glances at the wrecked plaza. "And exits."

You're still laughing as you offer your hand. "Name's [Y/N]. Try not to chase me off a landing platform next time."

He takes it.

"Yoda."

You raise an eyebrow. "That your real name or your Jedi one?"

"Both."

"Stars, that's awful."

He grins, all teeth. "Get used to it, you will."

⸻

Three weeks later, you and Yoda are trudging through the steaming marshlands of Callovis-9, a backwater moon ruled by some paranoid minor house that still follows outdated "purity laws." You've both got mud up to your knees, bruises from a run-in with a gang of saber cultists, and zero patience left.

Unfortunately, the local law enforcer has plenty.

"You two together?" the official asks, narrow eyes flicking between you and Yoda as you stand in line at the immigration checkpoint.

You glance at Yoda, who looks about as thrilled as you feel. His robe is soaked, his lightsaber shorted out twice today, and he smells faintly of swamp.

"Travel companions," Yoda answers cautiously.

The enforcer snorts. "Not married then."

You frown. "What does that have to do with anything?"

The man taps a sign behind him. 'Due to Callovian Purity Statute 3.7, all off-world travelers of opposing sex must be bonded or otherwise chaperoned by a family elder.'

You stare at it. Then back at Yoda. Then back at the enforcer.

Yoda speaks before you can. "Exempt, we are. Jedi—"

You slap a hand over his mouth. "Actually," you say, smiling wide and false, "we are married. Just bonded last cycle. Surprise!"

The enforcer squints at you both. Yoda makes a muffled sound of protest under your palm. You nudge him hard in the ribs.

"Isn't that right, honey?"

Yoda glares up at you. "Mmghphh."

You drop your hand.

"...Yes," he says flatly. "Recently married, we are."

The enforcer looks dubious. "You got proof?"

You flash your best fake-lovey eyes. "We're here to file the bond. You know. Proper Callovian marriage rites and all."

There's a long silence.

Finally, the enforcer shrugs. "Fine. Head to the civic registry. Get your names in the system or you'll be offworlded by dawn."

⸻

Ten minutes later, you're both standing in front of an ancient, glitching console with a sleepy clerk droning, "Do you, [Y/N], take this person, Yoda, as your legal bondmate under the statutes of Callovis-9?"

You're grinning like a maniac. "Oh, absolutely."

Yoda sighs. "Suppose...yes."

The console beeps. "Bond acknowledged. Congratulations."

You snort as you pocket your new ID chip. "Wow. Married to a Jedi. Wait 'til the bounty boards hear about this."

"Ridiculous, this is," Yoda mutters, ears flat.

"You're not denying it's useful."

He glares. "Humiliating, this is."

"Oh come on, admit it. You love being my husband."

He stares up at you with all the loathing of a creature deeply regretting every life choice.

You clap him on the back. "Chin up, sweetheart. It's only until we leave the planet."

(You will not, in fact, annul the bond.)

(You will both forget about it for just long enough for it to become legally permanent.)

⸻

Outer Rim, Tatooine – Mos Espa, Sometime After Sundown

The cantina's half-full, thick with heat and the usual smell of sweat, fried meat, and old engine oil. One of the Nikto gamblers is already snoring face-down on the sabacc table. A Devaronian is playing some twangy mess on the string instrument bolted to the wall. And you?

You're halfway through your second glass of whatever that glowing stuff is, holding court with a bunch of bounty hunters, mercs, and one protocol droid who keeps hiccuping in binary.

"So then," you say, feet kicked up on the table, "we get to the border station, and the guy says I can't pass through with a male companion unless we're legally bonded."

A Weequay leans forward. "And?"

You grin. "So I look him dead in the eye and say, 'Of course we're bonded. We're married. Just filed the paperwork yesterday.'"

Guffaws all around. Even the droid lets out a tinny snort.

"Wait—married?" laughs a grizzled Trandoshan with a scar across his snout. "You married that little green brat? That Jedi whelp?"

You raise your glass like a trophy. "Sure did."

"You're lying."

"You can check the planetary marriage registry," you say smugly. "Callovis-9. Official, sealed, and witnessed by a legal clerk named Tolla who smelled like boiled fish."

A Rodian chokes on his drink. "You actually married a Jedi?"

You lean in, voice dropping just enough to make the whole table listen.

"Not just any Jedi," you smirk. "A Padawan. Fresh outta the Temple. Still thinks saber forms are a personality. Lightsaber longer than his sense of humor."

Another round of cackling.

"I'm telling you," you say, kicking your boots off the table and standing with a toast, "from now on, if any of you nerf-witted sleemos wanna mess with me? You'll have to take it up with the Jedi Council. Because I am legally bound to one of their own."

You swirl your drink dramatically. "'Til death or bureaucratic annulment do us part."

The whole cantina howls.

And honestly? You're enjoying this way too much.

⸻

Meanwhile...

Coruscant – Jedi Temple, Inner Halls

Padawan Yoda sits cross-legged in the meditation chamber, trying to reach inner stillness.

He cannot.

He can hear his Master's voice: "Center yourself, Padawan. Let go of attachment, distraction, desire..."

But all he can think about is your face.

Smirking. Mocking. Wild. Loud.

Legally his spouse.

"Force help me," he mutters under his breath.

A fellow Padawan leans over from the next cushion. "What's wrong with you?"

Yoda opens his mouth, then closes it.

'I accidentally married a bounty hunter on a backwater moon because of a customs checkpoint.'

No. He's taking that one to the grave.

He sighs. "Nothing. It is."

The other Padawan shrugs and returns to meditating.

Yoda tries to do the same.

And fails.

⸻

Next Chapter

[sergeant-angels-trashcan]

Headcanon Kate gives the 141 kisses and then immediately bites them to show affection like a cat

HOW DO YOU KNOW I'VE BEEN DEEP IN BITING 141 HEADCANONS

It's a love bite!! She just gets so excited by physical affection she has to nom a little. It's fine. Don't worry about it.

Price and Ghost DO NOT make it easy for her. Ghost, obviously, covering his face a lot, but Price has a beard! She can't nip at his cheek or chin, she just gets a mouthful of beard, that's unacceptable. Sometimes she bites his nose. He's smart, though, can tell when she's bitey, knows to pull away so she can't nab him. So she resorts to biting the back of his hand. He has to shave for some reason and after the first round of novelty wears off (babyface Price?!!?!) new novelty appears because NEW BITING SURFACE!!

Kate tried to bite Ghost's hard shell mask once and hated it. He covers up a lot so she can't ever shrug it off like "oh oops i didn't mean to" she literally has to ruck up a sleeve or tug his collar down. this gives him enough time to plan a RETALIATION BITE.

Not nippy ones like she does, either. Full on chomps. His reasoning is "if I have my teeth in you then i know you are not going off somewhere doing something STUPID" Kate is offended by the implication she does stupid things. rude. This does NOTHING btw to make anyone else on base less intimidated by Ghost. rumors circulate about how he bites hard enough to draw blood and that's with someone he kind of likes! (this did happen, thankfully it was not in public because they were both very kind of into it)

feral bastard man Soap adores the love bites. to the point where if he's feeling down, he'll ask for it because it's a nice little dopamine rush. When the ADHD starts ADHDing he will either bite or ask to be bitten. it works, so nobody questions it. Soap is actually more likely to break skin because he's got sharp chompers. Kate likes to bite the top of his ear. Will use the mohawk to drag his head down if she needs to

Gaz gets nibbles. comparatively gentle bites. the guys are talking about their various Kate Bite Bruises Etc and Gaz is like??? wtf are you on about??? Sure there's a bit of a sting sometimes but she kisses it away. Price makes a comment about maybe she bites harder to match the biting the guys do to her (he is correct for the most part). And Gaz is like. you HEATHENS. why are you BITING HER BACK?

This devolves into a very long (slightly horny) discussion of biting as affection, etc. as well as some brief spirals into "why isn't she biting me harder/softer???" (there's a slight chance that Kate comes by Price's office while this is the hot topic in the guys' group chat and Price relays the entire conversation to her, no this is NOT an invitation to bite me right now Katherine!!!! [Price is the only one who can call her Katherine and he's only done it twice])

Anyway Gaz gets Nice Bites until he has a close call, which prompts a very dramatic kiss from Kate followed by a very mean bite to his neck that bruises almost instantly. Gaz is like great! i now see i was not missing out on anything. let's go back to the nice bites please. (he will get nice bites when he stops doing stupid shit, and Gaz thinks that's a bit rich coming from the queen of stupid shit herself, which earns him another, if slightly nicer, bite)

One of them has the top of his ear nicked from an arrow. Not Ghost, his ears are covered, but at least ONE of the others. I'm pretty sure it's Soap but it could be Gaz. that doesn't have anything to do with biting but is important for us all to know.

[holly-bearie]

why did flinch choose yannick, and how did he force him to dance the black spiral? (obsessed w their dynamic and how you draw them both btw)

aAAA THANK YOU!!! T0T theyre my special boys... i love thinking about them

for flinch, it was a pretty easy decision. he had caught glimpses of yannick's pack and it became evident pretty quickly that yannick was the strongest physically/most willing to fight when it came down to it. add to that a strong physical attraction and the influence of the dark litany to "indulge your desires at any cost", and the decision was made.

getting yannick to actually dance the spiral was the easy part- luring him out and away from his pack, first, was more difficult. the spiral dancer pack left calculated marks of their presence in his territory, but only enough to imply one or two interlopers. something that yannick could have and had before handled on his own, without endangering the pack.

he wanders off the beaten path to investigate, and finds himself surrounded by five black spiral dancers, headed by flinch, and knows exactly what comes next. torture and, if he's lucky, a slow death. his pack won't think to look for him until it's too late, because they trust in his abilities Too Much, no one is coming to help.

hours of torture, several amputations and re-growths, and an ocular mutilation later, yannick is done. there isn't any way out of this situation, and he's long-since stopped looking for one. his options are to die or risk the spiral, praying that he has the mental fortitude to withstand the influence of the wyrm. he doesn't.

when he wakes from the trance, everything is different. the wyrm's knowledge shattered him. the world is dying, he's dying, his friends and everything else on the planet have to die, and flinch is the only one who's talking any kind of sense. things only devolve further from here lol

[tenderwatches]

“Salvation must grow out of understanding, total understanding can follow only from total experience, and experience must be won by the laborious discipline of shaping one’s absolute attention.” - Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy

The landscape shifts as Jayce approaches the cliffs. Shops give way to warehouses and day labourers. Attire becomes less vibrant, more practical—the gear of freight handlers and factory workers. The buildings loom tall and half-crumbled, their grey walls layered with faded flyers and graffiti in countless colours and languages. If one can look past the worn-down suffering that seeps through these deeper reaches, the beauty living within the decay becomes apparent. These aren’t places abandoned through neglect—they’re afterimages of survival, the refuges built into the bones of the city sunken into the sea by Piltover’s pursuit of progress and prosperity. Things as integral as mere function and form require clever fixes to keep them going. Its spirit reminds him of Viktor—that same innovation, fearlessness, and perseverance he’s always admired in his partner. He thinks of Zivi and her clockwork toy, of Mirabel’s kind, crinkled face. Are these the people Viktor sees when he drags himself from bed, aching and dying, trying to leave the world better for having been in it? Even with his family long gone from this place, he must know countless faces like the kind souls Jayce has met today—people who might live or suffer without a single person above caring about their existence. How does he bear it? Jayce’s heart aches; how has Viktor held this all alone for so long without caving beneath its weight? He pauses in the street, memories flooding back—the soft acceptance on Viktor’s face at the doctor’s prognosis, the gentle press of his shoulder against Jayce’s body in that Piltover greenhouse as they chased another impossible dream, this one of saving his life. Jayce yearns to show Viktor he’s not alone, but perhaps there are still spaces where Viktor can’t trust him for support, because Jayce doesn’t truly comprehend what’s at stake. For Viktor, it must be more than his own life he’s fighting to save—it’s all these lives below, his promise to give them something better, to remember them even as he moves above to breathe clean air and navigate Piltover’s glittering elite. I’ll remember them too.

Chapter 22: Salvation Must Grow

Time might be Jayce’s enemy number one.

It’s been two hours since since Viktor’s estimated return from the Undercity, and Jayce’s patience has worn thin. He slams out of Caitlyn’s study, his composed facade cracking. For Viktor, with his limited time and fragile health, the tick of the clock is a slow slide into oblivion. Tardiness is more than simply running late—it’s a very plausible sign that he’s in danger.

Caitlyn had been surprisingly cold when he begged for help to find Viktor. Through his panic, he barely registered the exhaustion in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders suggesting larger troubles than his concerns.

“I cannot, in good conscience, dedicate resources to tracking down a grown man who hasn’t even been gone a full day.”

“Cait, he constantly overestimates himself!”

“Or perhaps you underestimate him, Jayce. You can’t tell him you trust him and then panic the moment you don’t have eyes on him.”

It devolved from there. Jayce’s pleading eventually touched a raw nerve, and Cait snapped that she didn’t have time to manage his ‘penchant for overreaction’. It all spiralled into a bit of an unkind volley, which he assumes will chagrin them both in the end.

He’s considering going back to apologise after his hasty exit when a sharp whistle turns his head like a summoned dog. Vi leans against the alley wall beside the Kiramman estate, rolling an empty bottle under her boot. Despite her attempt at a casual posture, Jayce recognises another outcast from Caitlyn’s door.

She’s pulled a hood over her pink hair, but the effect does little to hide how out of place she is here. An incongruous shape hidden in the shadows of the Kiramman’s palatial family holdings. A small particle of flotsam that has found its way drifting up to Cait’s door, only to be eclipsed by it all. It must be terrible to be up here and know only one person in the world wants you here.

Like Viktor.

His partner has mentioned how he understood intrinsically that there were few people who wanted him here. Viktor was right to fear that his place was a contested thing. Vi must feel even more unmoored than him. He’s never considered Viktor and Vi to have all that much in common aside from both surfacing from the Undercity. But maybe, when you’re adrift on a sea of disdain, that commonality is a bit of a life raft.

She seems to size him up before she jerks her head to the side in a motion for him to cross the street and join her. He glances about before moving to her side, and she kicks a bottle away from them. The blue glass pings harshly off the wrought-iron fence opposite her. He wonders if it’s something she stole from Caitlyn’s parents; she has a bit of looseness to her limbs that hints she may have been indulging.

“So did the queen of the universe send you packing, too?” Vi asks without preamble. He’s in no mood to engage in verbal jabs with her, but Vi seems a little sad and, now that he’s looking closely, more than a little intoxicated.

Even with a miserable frown crinkling the skin between her eyebrows, Vi stands like she’s preparing for a fight. Usually, it communicates that she’s not someone to mess with. Today, though, her aggressive slouch in the heavy, muted light of an overcast, late-summer sun looks exactly as it is: a cornered animal coiled to strike if threatened. She’s afraid, he realises, and softens enough at the understanding that his expression must be kinder than she’s used to, if the slightly shocked lift of her brows is any indication.

“You two fought?” He’s still got his own issues to consider, but Vi, if nothing else, might actually be a help—if she’s sober enough.

“Oh, no. Fighting means I get a word in. No, she’s ordered me to stay topside and not ‘mess up’ her investigation,” Vi spits out bitterly. “She should stay out of my city and away from my sister.” Fists balled at her side, she taps them hard against the brick at her back to punctuate each inflection.

“Jinx causing trouble?” As soon as he’s asked, he realises he’s made a mistake.

Vi pushes off the wall fast, her jaw tight. “Her name is Powder,” she growls, “and I don’t fucking know! There was an explosion or something on a ship near the Sun Gates, and Cait is sure Powder was there but can’t—or won’t—tell me anything else.” Vi turns her head sharply to the side, but Jayce doesn’t miss the way her expression crumbles slightly as she does. Suddenly, he feels a kind of kinship with this ragged girl standing outside the mansion of the richest people in the city, begging them to give even a second of care for a beloved sister before she vanishes into the hungry abyss.

“Six years I spent in a fucking stone box getting beaten bloody by every arsehole enforcer that this city has.” Her face looks haunted as she says it, cracks in the pristine veil of untouchable, hardened stone. Vi, assertive and quick to anger, has always put Jayce on edge—but there truly is such a vulnerable heart in there. Jayce can see why Caitlyn had coiled around her like a snake protecting a clutch of eggs from the ripping talons of Piltover’s hawks.

People like her, like Viktor, always seem so strong. It tricks you into thinking they don’t hold onto their pain, that it moves over them like water, leaving them unscathed. But he’s beginning to glimpse it now. Life hasn’t left them untouched and unbothered; it’s simply a slow process of erosion. Their strength isn’t about the absence of fear or pain, but how they hold fast and persevere in its face.

Jayce doesn’t know what to say other than, “I came to see her about Viktor.” Any solace he can think to offer wouldn’t make much difference, never mind the fact that he hasn’t even once considered what that kind of unjust imprisonment must do to a person. All he can offer is his own honesty for hers.

“Big surprise, pretty boy. All you talk about lately is him.” His face heats at that. She’s not wrong, but he isn’t sure what else to do when the man you love is dying and you may have the only avenue that can save him. “Plus, you have that look.” She squints over at him, fluttering fingers at his face.

He bats her hand away, and she smirks, tucking it into her pockets instead. “What look?” he asks incredulously.

“I don’t know, sad? Pathetic? Like someone just punched you in the kidney every time you say his name.” She finally shrugs herself off the wall, marching over towards the iron gate to leave him with nothing but the view of her broad back.

“Why does every conversation with you involve me getting punched?”

“A girl can dream!” She shoots back, throwing him a glance over one shoulder and adding in an obnoxious wink. There is another beat of silence before she looks him over with a look of consideration. He feels a chill go up his spine; it’s an expression that says she’s planning something. “So you want to go get him? Like last time?” She moves towards him with the exaggerated swagger of drunken confidence as she postulates, her hands back in her pockets. Jayce gets the distinct feeling he’s a mark being sized up for whatever she’s considering.

“Yes,” he relents hesitantly, and she lifts an arm, practically going to her toes. She slings it around his shoulder and tugs him down to her level as if they are old drinking companions on a bender.

“Then let’s go,” she says, her face so close to his he can see the scar that cuts through her top lip and the dark ink lines of the tattoos on her face and neck. He doesn’t think Vi has ever been this close to him before without the insistent threat of casual violence towards his person. He’s a little stunned—it feels like placing your hands on a tiger.

“Cait won’t like you going down there like this,” he warns, even as he thinks of Viktor alone in the Undercity, lost to him in its depths.

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s just fine,” Vi answers with a scowl. “Maybe if she wanted me on a leash, she should’ve thrown me back in Stillwater.”

—·—

Jayce, for all that he’s spent a good portion of his life forging his own path and flouting tradition, is not inherently averse to following rules. He likes the nature of understanding things and having clear and concise instructions, particularly when first adventuring into the unknown. So when Vi gives him rules to shape their descent, he listens and does his best to follow them.

Rule one: Fix your fucking clothes. Don’t dress like a rich jackass.

Vi had insisted on him changing into something “less Piltie” as she flicked one of the Talis crests on the shoulder of his overcoat. He’d settled on dressing like he might when spending a day in the forge: a dark undershirt tucked into the waist of his breeches, a thick leather belt for good measure, weathered gaiters, and his steel-toed boots. Though he feels oddly like he’s wearing a costume, Vi seems to approve, only reaching up to muss his carefully styled hair.

Rule two: You’re going to want to cough. Don’t.

Jayce had been prepared for the air—mentally.

The poisoned air sticks in his throat like tar, and he’s instantly lightheaded. Vi half-shoves him from the bathysphere as he chokes back coughs, lungs burning with acridity. By the time he manages to acclimate, his eyes are watering, and he’s dizzy from the lack of oxygen.

“God, it’s gotten bad down here,” he hisses at Vi, who shrugs and flips her hood up.

“This is the top level; just wait until we get deeper.”

Jayce lets her take the lead, falling into step without protest. Vi is a different version of herself here in the streets of the Undercity. She’s clearly in her element; her hostile confidence looks right here. It dawns on Jayce that now he’s the one moving around a space whose social order he can’t even begin to understand. He’s deeply glad he’s got a guide in her, even if he feels foolish tucking his shoulders in tightly and quickening his pace to keep up with a girl a full head shorter than him as they head for the hexdraulic descender that will take them deeper below.

Though it’s almost a rite of passage as an academy scholar to peek into the Undercity once or twice, Jayce never partook in the revels that many of Piltover’s citizens treated as a quick thrill. He’d been far too focused on his work when that kind of thing would have appealed to him. If he was down here, he was here for supplies. Much more interesting items than could be purchased in the upper city were always to be found in the Undercity, and even more if you dared to dabble in the area that the locals called ‘the Lanes’.

His forays into the Undercity for those wares gave him an edgy sense of being more knowledgeable than others. Now, that certainty feels hollow. The familiar transformation of the promenade—from its deceptively bright heights to the wooden stalls where vendors track passing hands with beady-eyed focus—reveals how little he truly understood. Here, miners emerge from the depths like ghosts, smugglers conduct business in plain sight, and quick-fingered children zip between the throngs of people in the busy street. This is the place he associates as where the “real” Undercity begins.

Vi moves through this landscape like she’s reading a language written in brick and shadow, her vigilance betraying how the territory has shifted during her absence. Above them, the Chem-barons’ tower pierces the Gray, its glass dome a defiant reminder to Piltover that power flows in many directions. The thought of Vi navigating between these forces—fighting shimmer’s spread while knowing every corner holds a memory of home—strikes Jayce as both deeply difficult and horridly sad.

They’re almost all the way to the descender when Vi’s steps falter and slow. She’s staring down off the bridge they’re on, looking at an establishment whose yellow neon sign labels it ‘the Last Drop’ and casts sickly shadows across the street. Something flickers across her face—pain, recognition, loss—before she shakes it off with a grunt and quickens her pace.

“Vi?”

“It’s nothing.” Her sharp response dares him to press even as a glint in her eye hints at what might happen if he does. When he stays silent, she tucks her shoulders even tighter to her ears and plasters on a smirk that hardly manages a fraction of her usual confidence. “Let’s go find your man, pretty boy.”

Compared to the promenade, the Entresol hits like a physical blow. The moment they step off the second descender, Gray floods his lungs, turning them to bricks in his chest. Each breath scrapes raw against his throat, acid-sharp and chemical-thick. It is agony. His body folds in on itself as shuddering coughs drag through his chest. Vi posts up beside him, her presence a solid barrier between his vulnerability and curious onlookers.

When his lungs finally quiet into only occasional sharp spasms, the Entresol reveals itself not as the cramped darkness he expected, but as a cavernous hive thrumming with life. Music winds through streets punctuated by the percussion of rattling metal pipes. Neon lights bounce off fishbowl windows that protrude from buildings like eerie, monstrous eyes.

Far from being a dead, buried place, the city defies its inhospitable circumstances and bursts with life. He’s almost instantly transfixed by the variety of people tucked into the shadowy corners. Vi tugs his arm insistently, and he has to peel his eyes away from a group of tall, veiled figures who seem to be haggling over large, bug-like creatures rattling in their cages. As he falls into step beside her, she leans close, her voice pitched low.

“Alright, you take the nice establishments. I’ll handle my end,” she instructs, pressing a scrap of paper into his palm. Cramped writing scrawls out directions and a list of names. “Check these out. Drop my name with the shop owners. Ask if they’ve seen your half-dead scientist and meet back here in an hour. Stick to the main streets. Don’t make eye contact—and stay out of trouble.” Before he can respond to her rattled-off instructions, she’s already moving away, her footsteps echoing against the pavement as she takes off in the opposite direction.

Her abandonment shouldn’t surprise him—she had her own reasons for wanting to be down here. He’d half expected her to ferry him around looking for Jinx first, but instead, she’s done him the favour of getting him here and giving him leads. He’d like to consider himself grateful for that service, but as he glances at the paper in his hand and squints through the gloom of the Gray, his breaths still burning in his chest, he’s beginning to suspect he’s a little out of his depth.

Standing still seems more likely to catch the eye of the wrong sort of people, so even if he doesn’t know where he’s going, Jayce commits the first name and Vi’s hastily sketched directions to memory. He sets off down the path she indicated, adopting what he hopes looks like determined urgency instead of panic.

The first interaction goes about how he expects.

The large woman fixes him with narrowed eyes, a green cloud of smoke curling from her thin black cigarillo as her acid-green stiletto nails tap against the wooden counter of her shop. Each tap sends a tiny vibration through the weathered surface, marking the seconds of his scrutiny.

He isn’t exactly sure what she sells, though the tanks lining every wall suggest some manner of food establishment. Aquatic creatures, both alive and slaughtered, fill the space—the dead ones laid out in ice-packed cases that sweat in the humid air. The air here smells like a noxious mix of the chemical burn of Gray and the saline bite of briny seawater and fish.

“Vi sent y’?” She eyes him sceptically, looking him up and down; though he can’t figure out what’s got her so suspicious, he straightens his shoulders like he would when dealing with the council and meets her gaze.

“She did,” he confirms, glad that it’s at least true. “She thought you might have heard something about someone I’m looking for. An Undercity scientist—uses a crutch and has done some work in the local factories. He’d have been in the area earlier today.”

She draws the moment out with another deep pull on her cigarillo, twin streams of green smoke streaming from her nostrils like an ancient draconic beast from his childhood stories. Something about this puts him distinctly on edge, his nerves humming like electricity in his ears. Her bearing is guarded, tough in a way that he has no means to crack, not with only the rules of Piltover society at hand. What are the rules for getting information from Undercity shopkeepers? The time he’s spent in Undercity shops is limited to hurried transactions in which he forked over whatever cogs they asked for to get out of their space as quickly as possible.

Piltover, he realises, would ridicule this woman. With her faded, ill-fitting jacket and trousers under a leather work apron that smells of fish guts, she defies every standard that dictates Piltover’s respect. She’s not clean or educated, and her half-shaved head of iron grey hair and eyes rimmed in stark black kohl certainly wouldn’t deem her as beautiful by their books.

But here, in her territory, it’s him who’s the interloper. It doesn’t matter that Piltover wouldn’t respect her—Jayce has to, if he expects her to help him. Piltover’s sensibilities will only cause him to treat these people like they’re his adversaries, not potential leads in locating Viktor. With this in mind, he takes another look at this shopkeeper as she measures him with a beady, suspicious stare.

New details emerge as the judgemental eyes cultivated over a lifetime on the streets above fall away. Deep laugh lines frame her eyes, speaking of a woman whose face has been shaped by joy. She carries no traditional beauty, but there’s a handsomeness in the firmness of her shoulders and her raw strength. A woman who has carved her life from hard work—and what could demand more respect, even to his Piltover sensibilities, than that?

It’s then that he notices one of her eyes is made of lovely painted ironwork. Its artistry is arresting; such care in its making speaks of an act of love as much as craftsmanship. These are not people he’s accustomed to, but they are still just people. They have families, lives, hearts that love and care for them. At the core, there is nothing more compelling than this shared truth.

His shoulders drop, his lofty approach dissolving as he leans into raw earnestness. “Please, uh—” He digs into his mind for the woman’s name. “Mirabel, Vi said you’ve got eyes in the area. I’m not looking to cause trouble. It’s just he’s… my partner and I—” Emotion wells in him, forcing him to swallow heavily. His throat is thick with Gray, his lungs straining, head throbbing, but nothing overwhelms the visceral panic threatening to bubble over at the thought of something going terribly wrong for Viktor. “I’m… worried for him.”

He’s surprised to see a soft smile on the corner of Mirabel’s wide mouth. She breaks into a genuine grin that shows she’s got three teeth made from the same intricate metalwork as her eye. “What a sweet thing y’are. I can see why Vi wants t’ ‘elp; she’s a bleedin’ ‘eart like her father, she is. Always worried ‘bout what’s right.” Mirabel taps the ash off her cigarillo into a dented metal ashtray on the countertop before she continues. “I ‘aven’ seen any’un like that, but there’s a shop down the way.” She points across the busy central square towards a shop with bulbous green glass windows. “Nice Chirean lad an’ ‘is woman run it. They got a ‘ole mess of li’le urchins run goods for ‘em. If anyone’s eyed your man, it’s ‘em. Just tell ‘em Mirabel said to treat y’proper.”

He smiles gratefully at her kindness, and seeing his expression causes those warm, loving lines near her eyes to carve even deeper. “Thank you,” he replies in a rush, but she dismisses his thanks with a flick of her acid green nails.

“Oh, think nothin’ of it, ‘andsome. That scientist of yours is lucky ‘e’s got a good lad like y’self runnin’ after ‘im. Go on, find your man. An’ don’ be shy if you’re wantin’ to bring ‘im back some time. Could use another eye full of y’ myself.” She accompanies this with a heavy wink that draws a shocked bark of laughter from him. She’s a peculiar sort of warm soul, he realises, kind despite how hard he imagines life here must be. He gives her another quick thanks as he hurries off to the next shop. He doesn’t correct her assumptions about what he meant when he called Viktor his partner.

It’s fair enough to gather that he meant ‘partner’ romantically, and it did wonders for endearing him to her. There is also, he admits to himself as he crosses the square, a selfish little curl of possessive joy that the people might think of Viktor as his. In his frantic haze of worry, it soothes him some to have the idea of a tie that could be deeper. Even if it’s a fantasy, it eases the knot in his chest just a touch.

The shop Mirabel sends him to turns out to be a good lead. The Chirean proprietor guides him to a back room where children huddle around an old folding table, absorbed in a broken clockwork toy.

He heaves a sigh of relief when a young girl pipes up after he asks about Viktor. Her bright purple locs clink with beads that, upon closer inspection, reveal themselves to be gears and cast-off metal parts. She fixes him with a squinting expression, the ochre of her skin deepening in the room’s greenish overhead light. Though her voice is small, her tone carries the firmness of someone accustomed to standing their ground against those much larger. She gestures with a rusty screwdriver as she speaks, her other hand cradling the broken clockwork toy with unexpected gentleness. “I saw a skinny man with a crutch going down towards the cliffs. Had on a mask like a Piltie and everything.”

Jayce beams, partly at the information and partly because he’s charmed. The brightness of his smile seems to startle her, and she blinks as though he’s a raving madman. “Sounds like him—thank you, uh?” He pauses for her name, hoping he’s not done something horribly wrong.

Her eyes dart to the other children, who appear equally bewildered by his approach. “Uh… I’m Zivi…” she offers after a weighted pause.

“Thank you, Miss Zivi.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of silver gears. “Appreciate the tip.” The children stare at the coins as if they might vanish before Zivi scrambles into motion and sends the clockwork toy tumbling to her feet.

Jayce stoops to retrieve the toy, examining it with interest as she secures the money. It’s a tiny cage housing two songbirds that, when functional, he imagines must flutter and sing. The quality is cheap, certainly not something from Piltover’s fancy clockwork shops, but as he opens the back to study the mechanisms, he grins—clockwork is clockwork, above or below.

“Your gear train’s misaligned,” he tells Zivi, indicating the intricate series of interlocking cogs as he sets it down before her. She squints at his gesture and nods, already reclaiming her abandoned screwdriver.

“You’re weird,” she informs him as she dives back into the repair work. The other children study him intently, like he might start dispensing gold hexes at any moment. He grins and gives them a spirited wave as he leaves, still buoyed by his first genuine lead. Someone has seen Viktor pass.

Jayce makes for the streets after getting directions to the cliffs on his way out of the shop. Out this way, Vi’s instructions don’t include any named contacts, so he’ll need to rely on finding more friendly faces. He feels emboldened with the same heady rush he’d felt first exploring the Lanes as a young scholar. The Undercity pulses with an intoxicating energy; were it not for the swimming thickness of the air and his gnawing fear of finding Viktor collapsed in some alley, he might even enjoy the experience.

The landscape shifts as Jayce approaches the cliffs. Shops give way to warehouses and day labourers. Attire becomes less vibrant, more practical—the gear of freight handlers and factory workers. The buildings loom tall and half-crumbled, their grey walls layered with faded flyers and graffiti in countless colours and languages. If one can look past the worn-down suffering that seeps through these deeper reaches, the beauty living within the decay becomes apparent. These aren’t places abandoned through neglect—they’re afterimages of survival, the refuges built into the bones of the city sunken into the sea by Piltover’s pursuit of progress and prosperity.

Things as integral as mere function and form require clever fixes to keep them going. Its spirit reminds him of Viktor—that same innovation, fearlessness, and perseverance he’s always admired in his partner.

He thinks of Zivi and her clockwork toy, of Mirabel’s kind, crinkled face. Are these the people Viktor sees when he drags himself from bed, aching and dying, trying to leave the world better for having been in it? Even with his family long gone from this place, he must know countless faces like the kind souls Jayce has met today—people who might live or suffer without a single person above caring about their existence.

How does he bear it? Jayce’s heart aches; how has Viktor held this all alone for so long without caving beneath its weight? He pauses in the street, memories flooding back—the soft acceptance on Viktor’s face at the doctor’s prognosis, the gentle press of his shoulder against Jayce’s body in that Piltover greenhouse as they chased another impossible dream, this one of saving his life. Jayce yearns to show Viktor he’s not alone, but perhaps there are still spaces where Viktor can’t trust him for support, because Jayce doesn’t truly comprehend what’s at stake. For Viktor, it must be more than his own life he’s fighting to save—it’s all these lives below, his promise to give them something better, to remember them even as he moves above to breathe clean air and navigate Piltover’s glittering elite.

I’ll remember them too.

Jayce makes a promise to himself with no one to witness but the empty street and the smog-choked air around him. I’m going to find Viktor, make sure he’s well, bring him back home, and neither of us will forget the people down here who need our help.

He’s feeling resolute in his decision when he spots them—a group loitering on a street corner ahead. Normally, such a gathering wouldn’t catch his eye, just another transient pocket of people hanging at the edges of the humming city. But even as he’s moving, he spots a familiar blue glow tucked into one man’s palm.

He knows that gleam—has dreamed of it every night since he was young.

That is magic. More specifically, that is Hextech. The impossibility of it here in an Undercity labourer’s grasp, casual as a wrench, strikes him as absurd. For a moment, he wonders if he’s dreaming, if he’ll wake sweating from the nightmare, still waiting for Viktor’s return.

But the man unmistakably clutches a Hextech gemstone. It defies logic—he and Viktor maintain a strict inventory. No one else could possess one unless… unless Viktor had carried one down for his consult… Jayce’s mind recoils from the implications and refuses to complete the thought.

Instead, he contemplates how to confront a group of Undercity punks armed only with the knowledge they possess dangerous, precious technology. Before he can decide, however, they slip into an alleyway up the street. Jayce hesitates, his thoughts spiralling. He pictures Viktor not merely choking in an alley but worse—desperate and hurt by people like the group ahead. Vi’s serious face flashes in his mind, her final rule echoing.

Rule three: If you see something shady happening, no—you didn’t.

Jayce should follow her advice. He doesn’t even know how—or even if—what he’s seen relates to Viktor’s whereabouts. But a group with a Hextech gemstone in the area Viktor was last seen feels… ominous. With a sharp breath that does little to clear the painful burn of the Gray from his lungs, Jayce plunges ahead.

[first chapter | previous chapter | next chapter on AO3]

[smpthyfrthdvl]

Despite Juno's hesitations and un-needed remarks, he settles into the ground and slowly goes to flip the page. The paper between his fingers still holding an odd texture. One he still can't discern. Seeing that there are more pressing matters then the texture of a book, however, the man pushes on. He skims through, finding chapters from previous months, under previous names. He goes deeper, the language within the book changing. Ancient tongues cross scrawl across the pages, eventually devolving into something entirely unrecognizable to Juno's mind. Seeing as going back has little to show, he tries to go forward. He flips and flips, till he is back at the present page. As the papers settle, he is graced with an odd sight. Words bleed onto the paper, as if being written by an invisible hand. The sight doesn't captivate him for long though, the young man wishing to press further in. He grabs the page and begins to flip forward. The moment the page turns, his head is encompassed-

"AAUUUGGH"

-In white hot heat. His vision flashes with oranges, golds, whites. Colors of the sun- no, of something divine. This is not his future though, no, this has already happened. Juno is sure of it. Desperate, he latches onto the figure in his brain and focuses on making out the smaller details. It's pale skin, numerous eyes, holy glow, tall stature...

...It all starts to come together, granting Juno a memory. He stands before someone. A horned man, bloodied and broken, near an old cabin of some kind. The man gazes up at Juno with pure anguish and malice. His body shakes in pain, two bloodied stumps protruding from his back weeping onto the ground. A mix of crimson and gold stains the wrap cloaking the figure before him. His eyes are the most scarring detail though. They carry unspoken words, some final statement in a conversation Juno cannot recall. Words that chill his bones as he returns to his present.

He sits in the sudden remorse. An unexpected feeling, one that makes him want to sink further into the muck beneath him. Could he have done such a thing to someone? to such a creature? Was that why he couldn't remember anything? Were his hands drenched in the blood and trauma of another? His mind begins to spiral and dive deeper. Losing track of his own survival for a moment. It all slips away. But it's time to snap out of it.

"EVERYTHING'S GONNA BE ALRIGHT, DON'T YOU LOSE IT- REMEMBER TO TAKE--"

[sugarsnappeases]

begging you guys to join jen and i in our fantastic beasts obsession….. you’re missing out on the throuple of all time: leta lestrange + newt and theseus scamander!!!!!! imagine ur childhood friend - your best friend and maybe even only friend apart from all your creatures - goes onto GET ENGAGED to your BROTHER!!!! they obviously had an awkward threesome. like. the summer after newt&leta graduated and they’re hanging out a lot at the scamander house. toeing the line of something and one night it all just devolves and spirals a little out of control. newt then goes on his travels. bc he was always planning on leaving and they all knew he was leaving and maybe he doesn’t think they’ll miss him all that much and maybe he’s running away just a little bit and they don’t ask him to stay and he doesn’t ask them to come with him and when he comes back they’re ENGAGED!!! and leta works for the ministry bc theseus got her a job there bc theseus wants to keep all the people he loves safe and near him and he thinks the ministry can provide that and god. he keeps asking newt to join the ministry too but obviously he never would but aaaaa he just wants newt safe and near and he’s been away for so long and getting involved in such dangerous things and both theseus and leta miss him soooo much and worry for him and talk about him and they got closer after newt left, maybe trying to find him in each other a little, trying to close the gap that he left behind, and eventually that leads to there engagement. and newt keeps a picture of leta in his fucking suitcase and he loves her and he loves his brother but he loves his creatures too and leta looks at him in her family tomb and says YOU NEVER MET A MONSTER YOU COULDN’T LOVE!!!! and then she looks back at them BOTH and says I LOVE YOU and doesn’t specify which one of them she’s talking to and then she dies. for them. bc she loves them. both of them and she always has, and now leta is gone and she’s left a different gap behind bc it’s permanent and she’s not coming back and the brothers will never be able to close that gap but they try. they try and they’re brothers and they look after each other and keep each other safe and near. and theseus is the head of the british auror office and newt is a magizoologist that the ministry HATES w a passion but theseus will still come when newt calls and still follow his lead and god it all just drives me insane. how are you guys not seeing this?!?!?!

[niftukkun]

OCKISS25 DAY 1 : SURPRISE KISS [BunnyRabbit]

I don’t quite forgive him, but I do… care. Somewhat. That he stays with me until time unravels. At this point, it’s just fun to see him scramble to make me happy. / Ah, but how does one go about apologising for dying? I hope what I'm doing makes up for leaving her behind at such a critical time – she seems to be much more settled in the here and now.

Maera Blanc once hopped into a world with a city in revolution, early during her time as a worldhopper – but is it the same Maera that stands here? Is this the same Ambrosia she once worked with that fell between worlds? The details may be blurry, but they both recall the same broad strokes – a revolution, an explosion, a death at such a critical point in time, a revolutionary leader leaving everyone else scrambling to keep the revolution going. Maera… holds somewhat of a grudge. Ambrosia is quite charismatic after all, and clever enough to keep everyone charmed. Keep Maera charmed. She almost tore time apart to get him back, have him lead the revolution to victory – but time would have torn her apart in turn. In the same way one stays wary of something that almost kills them, Maera held a bit of a grudge against charismatic revolutionaries and Ambrosia specifically. Of course, that’s not even mentioning the grief that comes with losing a friend, especially when they worked fairly close together to keep the revolution running.

All of which to say, Maera was extremely blindsided when she slipped and fell between worlds only to come across the one person she anchored a fair bit of resentment and repressed grief to. Their first meeting was… not pretty. Neither were many more subsequent meetings. At some point, after they struck up a tenuous and toxic situationship, Claude had to step in and mediate between them so they could actually talk about things and stop blaming Ambrosia for dying because that’s the kind of toxic shit it slowly devolved into.

The way I write them now - long, long after their initial meeting - has them be a mixture of the kind of couple who bicker a lot but love each other anyway and guy who spoils his tsundere princess of a partner. They have to talk things out a lot, and occasionally Claude has to step in to mediate, but they’re going steady and pretty soft on each other. Maera brings chaos and unpredictability into everyone’s lives (and afterlives), but Ambrosia keeps her settled with the promise of a partner who would sacrifice everything for her even if she won’t sacrifice herself for him in turn – and Maera herself reminds Ambrosia why he became a revolutionary in the first place, why he loves the thrill of chaos and the thrill of exploring and strategizing in new situations and places. It's not perfect – they tend to heighten each other’s worst impulses and instability, and occasionally spiral into chasing the thrill of something new and interesting to the detriment of everyone including themselves – but they’re happy together and they have the others to balance them out. They know they have each other in their worst impulses and sometimes all you need is the trust that someone you love won’t ever leave even if you’re at your worst.

(their ship name of “bunnyrabbit” comes from the fact that they both have rabbit motifs – Maera has a pair of real rabbit ears and an underlying White Rabbit from Wonderland motif, while Ambrosia is heavily connected to the constellation Lepus (rabbit) and wears a mask with rabbit ears.)

[tobiasdrake]

Something i noticed recently was that Apocalymon resembles Etemon after he fused with the dark network, Etemon was also the only other enemy to directly devolve the chosen children's Digimon, with these facts in mind I propose the idea that Apocalymon is an Etemon fan.

:P

In seriousness, this is something I've been musing on. The way it was explained, Apocalymon's existence is steadily breaking down the fabric of reality. So long as they're on this side of the Wall of Fire, distortions in reality occur and the very nature of the Digital World gradually falls apart.

Apocalymon is warping reality, and all the big bad evil guys discovered those distortions in reality and drew on them for power. With no indication that they even knew Apocalymon was a thing that exists.

So the question that's been bothering me since Gennai first mentioned "distortions" way back on File Island is: What are these distortions? How is Apocalymon's reality-breaking power manifested in the Digital World, and in what way are the villains drawing on it? Like, what do the villains actually do with the distortions?

So I've been thinking about this.

Devimon: For Devimon, the thing that stands out the most is his Black Gears. The gears are physical objects that seem to channel Devimon's Death Claw attack, which bends the minds of its victims to serve him.

But they do a lot more than that. We see, both with Leomon and Devimon himself, that Black Gears can pile on each other to sizeshift a recipient into a colossal and ultra-powerful monster. This seems utterly divorced from Devimon's own power.

But they also affect the world around him. The Black Gears alter the very landscape of File Island. By filling the island with gears, Devimon is able to control the shape of the island itself. He breaks it into chunks and sends those chunks out across the ocean like invading warships.

But he isn't physically moving the landmass. He's rewriting reality. Once the Gears in a chunk are destroyed, that chunk shoots right back to Infinity Mountain and clicks back into place where it's supposed to be. Without the constant influence of a Black Gear moving it, the island reverts to its natural state, which is to be together as one large island.

This only makes sense through Apocalymon's distortion. The Black Gears make the physical nature of what File Island is malleable through the same power that is slowly breaking down the fabric of reality. It's what the Dark Masters do to create Spiral Mountain but on a smaller scale.

Etemon: Etemon's kind of an odd-man out. He isn't part of the Devimon -> Vamdemon -> Piemon evolution tree and, in fact, isn't even from the same V-Pet. But he is one of the big bad evil guys and his Dark Network certainly has some... questionable physics, let's say.

The cables of his network can move on their own and also plug directly into Digimon? That's weird. It's also powered by a writhing mass of pure darkness that is never explained and annihilates everything that touches it. Which. Sounds. Awfully familiar.

He's also, as noted, the only Digimon in the series other than Apocalymon with the power to forcibly regress Partner evolutions. He can just... nope the holy light right out of Partner Digimon through his music.

Seems like an Apocalymon Power thing to me.

Vamdemon: VenomVamdemon is the obvious one. He's kind of a Mini-Apocalymon. His existence in Odaiba was tearing down the fabric of both worlds and threatened to merge them into a single reality.

Given what a big nerd he was, if anyone consciously knew of Apocalymon's existence, it was probably this guy?

He also casts a magic spell at one point to open the gate between the two worlds. Which is. Like. Okay, man. Why is there a magic spell that can do that? Why didn't Gennai teach us the magic spell? Or cast it himself? Why did we have to futz around with the cards if there's a lifehack that will just do it for us?

Brute-forcing a door between worlds to open using magic forces never explained that no one has access to? Seems Apocalymon-ish to me.

Dark Masters: For the Dark Masters, Spiral Mountain is the obvious distortion. Once the fabric of reality got weak enough, the Dark Masters were able to give it a good tug and tear it into strips, then weave their own cloth from those strips.

I also think Piemon's vanishing cloth might utilize a reality distortion. That seems way too OP to be a natural ability of his species.

Pinocchimon's weird toys that can remote-manipulate or even teleport the Chosen Children as well as reconfiguring the shape of the forest seem distortion-ish to me too.

[thepinkpanther83]

Reunion (Pt. 5 Home Team)

Bayverse Donatello x Fem!Reader

(Cover Art by ThePinkPanther83)

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Next Chapter: Epilogue: “Where You’re Meant to Be” Previous Chapter: Chapter Four: “More Than Theory”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Five: “Home Team”

There’s a comforting hum of circuitry, steady and alive, like a familiar heartbeat echoing through the lab. You’re cross-legged on the floor with a rat’s nest of wires spread out in front of you, a tablet propped up on your knee. Donnie’s perched nearby, soldering wand in one hand, half-focused on his work... and the other half shamelessly focused on you.

“Okay, hold still,” he murmurs, leaning in to adjust a micro-clip tangled in your hair. You barely breathe.

“That wasn’t a micro-clip,” you reply, brow arched. “That was my actual hair.”

“Then maybe your hair shouldn’t be in the blast radius of my wiring harness,” he quips without missing a beat, but the way his fingers linger along your temple gives him away.

You flick a stray bolt at him. “Maybe your wiring harness should stop staring at my lips when I’m working.”

A sharp snort comes from somewhere down the hall, followed by retreating footsteps. “Nope. I’m out. Lovebirds are at it again,” Mikey calls in the distance. “Y’all make me feel single.”

You and Donnie exchange a grin.

It’s been weeks since you moved in. Since the sparring match turned full confession, since his dream board stopped being a secret and started becoming shared. Since you stopped saying goodbye after every visit. His room’s your room now. His toothbrush has a twin. The cot in the lab you used to crash on during all-nighters? Long replaced with a proper nest of pillows, blankets, and an oversized hoodie you keep stealing from him.

You tilt your tablet toward him. “Alright, genius. Theory confirmed, your neural loop stabilizer works with the modulator if we ground it here.” You tap a node on the schematic. “Should increase signal integrity by 12% minimum.”

Donnie lets out a soft hum of satisfaction, eyes scanning the diagram before turning them back to you. “You realize you just improved a design I’ve been tweaking for six months in under thirty minutes.”

“Some of us don’t need six months.”

He narrows his eyes, playfully. “Are you calling me slow?”

“I’m saying… you are a turtle.” You lean over the project between you and press a kiss to the edge of his jaw, “-I’m also calling you cute when you’re flustered.”

He’s about to respond, maybe with another snarky jab or maybe something softer, when the screens around you suddenly stutter.

Static. Flash. A rapid-fire cascade of news tickers, emergency signals, surveillance feeds.

Donnie’s whole posture changes in an instant. His fingers fly across his tablet, voice sharp now. “That’s... That’s not random. Look… subway sensors tripped, traffic grid failures. Power substations going dark.”

You’re already pulling up city schematics on your end, eyes darting across the growing cluster of alerts. “That’s a coordinated system-wide glitch. Something’s hijacking control.”

Another feed opens, grainy drone footage of what looks like a storm cloud spiraling above Midtown.

Only... it’s not a cloud.

It’s a swarm.

Donnie’s face goes pale. “Those aren’t just drones. Those are mine. Or... they were. That’s Baxter’s old template, but it’s been rewritten. They’re more advanced now. Modular, adaptive.”

You glance at him. “They’re learning.”

He nods once, jaw tight. “And fast.”

You lock eyes. All teasing gone.

“Then we hit them faster.”

The lair devolved into chaos shortly after.

Leo’s voice cuts through it like a sword, sharp and commanding. “Raph, grab the gear pods, we go topside in five. Mikey, prep the Shellraiser.”

“On it!” Mikey hollers, already skidding past in a blur, a slice of toast clenched between his teeth. “I gotta cue up my pre-battle playlist!”

You glance back toward Donnie, who hasn’t stopped typing since the alerts started. His holo-screens are flaring with layer after layer of code. His expression’s tight. Focused.

He’s tracking the swarm patterns, trying to pinpoint their origin. You step in beside him and put a hand on his carapace, not to ground him, but to anchor yourself to this moment.

“Let me see their swarm logic,” you say, low and steady. “If I can spot a core loop, maybe even a recursive flaw, we can destabilize the whole hive from the inside.”

He looks up, startled. “It’s risky. These drones are rewriting themselves in real time.”

You just nod. “Then I better work fast.”

Before Donnie can argue, another presence joins you. Quiet. Purposeful. Master Splinter.

The old rat lays a gentle hand on your shoulder, voice even but weighted with meaning. “This path is not easy, my child,” he says. “But it is yours to walk.”

You turn to him. Not hesitant. Not unsure.

“Then I’m walking it, with him.”

Splinter nods once, deep, like he’s placing something sacred in your hands. “Then go. And do not fear the shadows. You have already brought light into one heart. Bring it into many.”

Minutes later, you’re strapping into the passenger seat of the Shellraiser, Donnie beside you, his fingers brushing you every time he adjusts something on the control panel. It’s subtle. Tender. But unmistakably his way of saying stay close.

As the vehicle lurches into motion, the tunnels blur around you, echoes of old battles and lost years swallowed by the roar of engines and the thrum of war drums in your chest.

You’ve waited a long time for this.

No more sidelines.

No more goodbyes.

Just you, and your genius, the turtle you’ve always called home, racing headlong into the fire.

The skyline is pure chaos. From the rooftop perch Donnie directed you to, you’ve got the perfect vantage point of downtown’s central grid, except now it’s flickering like a dying bulb, every stoplight below glitching red-yellow-green in spasmodic cycles, horns blaring, people screaming.

“This is one of the worst hit sectors,” Donnie murmurs into your earpiece. “If you can stabilize even one relay point, we might be able to spread the correction outward, and leapfrog the signal.”

You’re already on the move. There, near the edge of the roof, a busted NYPD tech van, half-destroyed by a collapsing fire escape. But the roof rack was still intact. You dart across the gravel and asphalt, prying open the bent metal housing with a grunt.

“Found an uplink array,” you mutter, eyes scanning the charred guts of the console. “Model’s old, but the routing firmware’s still good. Just needs a power patch and a custom frequency bounce.”

Donnie’s voice crackles in your comm, fast and tight. “Are you serious right now? That’s… I was gonna say impossible, but honestly, that’s kinda hot.”

You grin, even as your fingers fly across the exposed circuitry. “Try to contain yourself, genius.”

You reach into your satchel, Donnie’s old toolkit clanging dully, and pull out a compact power cell. One you built together during one of your last long-distance collab calls. It clicks into place with a satisfying hum.

You yank the emergency panel open on the uplink, reroute the node’s logic tree, and rerun the main protocol through a makeshift bypass. The rig sparks once, angrily, but still holds.

Ping.

The light stabilizes. The grid flickers, then evens out.

Below, the traffic grid snaps back online.

“Signal buffer’s live,” you breathe. “We’ve got a stable relay in Midtown.”

Donnie’s voice returns, low, awed. “That’s my girl…”

From the alley below, Raph’s bellow echoes through your comm, “Whatever you just did, do it again! That last wave of drones just nose-dived like drunken pigeons!”

You don’t have time to celebrate.

You’re already on the move again, climbing down the fire escape, heart pounding, fingers still buzzing from the residual jolt of adrenaline and half-burnt circuits.

You’ve never felt more alive.

And this, was only the beginning.

You hit the street just as the swarm descends.

It’s like a mechanical locust plague, hundreds of black, whirring drones zipping through the air with surgical precision. Slicing power lines. Hijacking control panels. Scanning for soft targets.

Donnie’s beside you now, gauntlet lit up, tech rig across his shell humming at full charge. He’s already flinging EMP pulses into the sky, knocking drones from the air with calculated bursts. But there were too many.

And they were adapting.

“They’re rerouting,” he mutters, tone dropping into panic. “Swapping protocols mid-air… they’re rewriting themselves in real time. That’s not just rogue code anymore, it’s evolution.”

You crouch beside a shattered kiosk, wrist-deep in a stolen drone's chassis. “If I can sync into their logic core and interrupt the neural net from inside-”

Donnie’s already snapping. “No. Too risky. They’ll trace it back to you.”

“They’ll trace it back to us either way,” you snap back. “So we do what we do best.”

You meet his eyes, and that’s it, silent agreement, instant.

A USB patch cord snakes from his gauntlet to the drone body in your hands. He calibrates the shell, you flood the processor with your custom code, a logic disruptor you wrote during your last semester, but never tested in the wild.

Until now.

You both type at the same time, shoulders side by side. Code flashing.

Your voice cuts through the static, “Injecting interference. Rerouting swarm priorities. Faking a global firmware update.”

“I’m building the shield now. I’ll keep them off you while you rewrite their instructions.”

“Okay.”

Another drone dive-bombs. Donnie leaps, shell-first, intercepting it midair and smashing it against the concrete in a mess of gears and sparks. He grunts, adjusts his glasses, then glances at you like he’s watching the sun rise in the middle of a battlefield.

“Keep going,” he says softly. “You’re brilliant.”

You don’t reply.

You’re too busy rewriting Baxter’s goddamn war code.

Lines blur. Commands cascade. The drones above pause, stutter, then halt, mid-flight.

And just like that… You’ve cracked the swarm.

Donnie’s scanner pings wildly. “They’re frozen. You disrupted their hive mind. Holy hell, you… you just turned off the sky.”

You suck in a breath, sweat clinging to your brow, hair a mess, knees bruised, but your hands never shook.

This is what you were built for.

Side by side with him.

The sound of rotor-blades fizzing overhead hadn’t stopped, but something’s changed.

The drones still hang in the air, unmoving now. No zips, no buzzes. Just a mechanical standoff. They hover like vultures, waiting for instructions that aren’t coming.

You glance at Donnie. He nods, already scanning again. “They’re in failsafe. If Baxter reestablishes uplink, we’re back to square one.”

Your comm crackles. Leo’s voice, “Tunnel’s collapsing under 6th and Grand. Civvies trapped. We need a way in… fast.”

You’re already moving. “Dee, give me topography overlays of that zone.”

He syncs his gauntlet to your HUD. A 3D map blooms in your goggles, streets, sewer lines, structural weak points. The tunnel’s integrity is toast. You isolate three pressure points.

“If we reroute load-bearing through the east beam and cut a path here-” you tap the schematic, fingers dancing “-we can get them out before it drops completely.”

Leo lands beside you, panting from a rooftop sprint. His blades gleam under the flickering streetlamps. He’s already sizing up the site but keeps glancing at you and Donnie.

You don’t hesitate.

“I’ll direct evac routing,” you say, pointing to the edge of the grid. “You cut in from the west. Mikey's got the agility to reach the trapped first. Donnie and I will reinforce the beam with the portable arc-welders in the van.”

Leo studies you for a moment longer than usual.

Then replies, “Copy that.” No argument. Just trust.

You watch him go, his silhouette slicing into the smoke.

And then Donnie’s beside you again, hands on his belt, breath shallow from running. “I got the welders. You really just commanded Leo out there.”

You offer a small shrug. “Only because he let me.”

He smiles. “He trusts you.”

You nod, gripping the toolkit tighter. “You do too.”

He doesn't say it, but the way his fingers skim your cheek, confirms it.

You and Donnie end up scrambling across the rubble-strewn intersection when another wave of drones reactivates in the distance, flickering erratic red lights like angry fireflies rebooting. Somewhere ahead, a pressure valve whines to life beneath the street. You know that sound.

“Donnie,” you warn, “there’s a gas line down here, it’s ruptured.”

He nods, scanning with his gauntlet. “Confirmed. Pressure’s building. If one of those drones sparks off while hovering near that zone, we’ll have a full-blown fireball under three boroughs.”

Raph slides down the collapsed wall beside you like a freight train. “And you two geeks were gonna let me miss out on that kinda boom?”

You blink. “You brought explosives?”

He grins. “Nope. You did.”

He tosses you your own salvaged field kit, forgotten in the back of the Shellraiser. You unzip it and spot the basics, copper wire, sealant foam, a thermal detonator shell. Not enough for a full controlled blast... but maybe just enough to redirect the force.

Donnie kneels beside you, already sketching a plan in the dirt with his stylus. “If we trigger a concussive burst in this trench,” he points, “it’ll vent the pressure sideways instead of straight up. You’ll have to set it, but I’ll walk you through the detonation sequence.”

You nod, fast and focused, letting him take the lead. Raph covers the entry point with his sais, watching your backs. Drones are circling again, but not yet attacking.

“You sure this’ll work?” you ask, strapping the timer onto the coil.

Raph snorts. “If it doesn’t, you’ll be the first one I don’t pull outta the crater.”

You flash him a grin. “Gee, thanks, big guy.”

Donnie leans in, fingers brushing your arm as he calibrates the final setting. “Ready when you are.”

You take a breath. Flip the switch.

The bomb thumps once. Air sucks in, then whump, a dull, contained blast. Dust blows out the far end of the tunnel like a breath from the Earth itself.

Raph lets out a low whistle. “Huh. You really are his girl.”

Donnie glances at you. His expression is somewhere between smug and smitten.

“She’s still got her rookie badge,” he mutters. “But she’s earning her stripes.”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Keep talkin’, genius, and I’ll start charging for services rendered.”

“Services?” Mikey’s voice chimes in from the comms. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You groan. Raph laughs at your shared expenses, and Donnie turns beet-red.

You and Donnie regroup near the mouth of a storm tunnel, panting from the last blast. Raph’s trailing behind, chuckling to himself as he flicks debris off his shoulder. But Mikey’s already skidding into view like a caffeinated comet, wild-eyed, grinning, and carrying way too many wires for comfort.

“Yo!” he shouts. “Anybody call for some aural warfare?”

Donnie groans. “Mikey, what did you-”

“Boom boom beats, bro! I rigged the dub-blaster to hijack the drone’s audio sync network. If I can drop enough bass to overload their receptors…” he grins, holding up a souped-up subwoofer with blinking LEDs and suspicious scorch marks along the side, “...I make ‘em dance to death.”

You blink. “You mean… blast them into a shutdown?”

Mikey gives you a wink. “Shut down, melt down, break down… baby, I’ve seen Foot tech less temperamental than these flying junk nuggets.”

You all glance up. The last pocket of drones, a tight, weaving cloud of them, has started spiraling over the canal, searching for new signals. There’s a window. Barely.

Donnie hesitates. “You juiced the waveform?”

Mikey slaps the top of the subwoofer. “To the freakin’ moon, bro.”

Donnie sighs but steps back. “Do it.”

Mikey tosses you a pair of repurposed police-issue earplugs. “You’re gonna want these, sweetheart. And also maybe stand behind something… y’know… solid.”

You duck behind Donnie just as Mikey slams the play button.

The sound is immediate, deep, seismic, and offensive. Bass ripples through the tunnel, rattling metal, kicking up clouds of soot. Every drone in the air jerks mid-flight like it just got slapped. A second pulse hits, louder, an actual wub-wub assault, and suddenly they all start spinning in place, red lights flashing erratically.

And then, pop, crack, clank! They begin to drop.

One by one, the swarm fizzles out, crashing into rooftops, fire escapes, and alleyways like faulty fireworks on the 4th of July.

Raph watches one land at his feet, twitching. “I take it back. This is the best plan we’ve ever had.”

Mikey strikes a triumphant pose. “And that, my friends… was a Turtle Power Mix, Volume Four: Droning in the Deep.”

You and Donnie exchange a look.

“Does he… name all his playlists?”

“Worse. He burns them to CD.”

The final waves of drones sizzle out around you, the city breathing beneath your boots like it’s coming back to life, streetlights flickering, air sirens dying down, a distant cheer rising from the rooftops.

But Donnie doesn’t relax.

You notice it too, your tech still picking up low, pulsing static. Not just interference… a beacon.

“Something’s still live,” you murmur, squinting at the flickering signal. “Residual ping. Strong, and close.”

Raph’s halfway through loading another pressure bomb when Leo steps out and suddenly throws an arm out in front of him, eyes narrowed, senses tight.

Then the voice comes.

Distorted, crackling, dripping with smug superiority and faux civility.

“Well, well… Isn’t this adorable?”

You spin around.

From the smoke at the edge of the blast zone, he emerges. Baxter Stockman, in all his sleazy, suited, holograph-laced glory. The edge of his glasses catch the streetlight, his grin practically oozing through the haze like battery acid.

“I had a bet going,” he says, adjusting his cuffs. “Fifty-to-one odds the turtles would fall apart without their walking Wikipedia to hold them together.” His eyes flick to you, gleaming. “Imagine my surprise when he showed up with a girlfriend… A little love interest. How very... CW of you.”

Donnie subtly reaches out, fingers just brushing your wrist. Just to feel that you’re real.

“Baxter,” Donnie murmurs, voice low and vibrating. “You’re dumber than I gave you credit for, showing up here in person.”

“I’d say the same to you,” Baxter replies with a smile. “But then again, I did design the code your pretty little assistant used to try and outsmart me.”

You narrow your eyes. “And you still got beat by a dubstep playlist and a police scanner.”

That wipes the smile off his face.

He sneers. “Don’t flatter yourself. I wasn’t even trying. This swarm was a test run. A proof of concept. And thanks to you, I now know exactly what kind of interference to build against.”

Mikey mutters behind you, “Man, this guy monologues like he gets paid by the word…”

Baxter ignores him. His attention on you, creepy and calculated. “Donatello’s pet project. You always had potential. But you should’ve stayed in school, sweetheart. This isn’t your fight.”

You step forward, already loading your response, but Mikey beats you to it, loud enough for Baxter to hear:

“Aw you hear him, guys, let’s give the man a break. He probably practiced his speech in front of a mirror, three times, with dramatic lighting and everything!”

Leo snorts.

Baxter’s smile tightens. He adjusts his cuffs with performative calm.

“You must be the comic relief,” he says dryly.

“And you must be the mid-level boss,” Mikey shoots back, grinning.

Baxter ignores him, zeroing in on you again. “Like I was saying… You always had potential. I read your papers. But you should’ve stayed in the classroom. You’re not built for this arena.”

You open your mouth, but Donnie steps forward first, protective, but not possessive. He doesn’t block you. He joins you.

“She’s not here to impress you,” he says, voice steady and cool. “She’s here because she earned her place.”

Then he lifts his tech gauntlet slightly, just enough to signal the charge warming beneath his palm.

“And the only thing you’ve proven, Baxter, is that your code can bleed.”

Baxter scoffs. “Big words from a lab rat with a soldering addiction.”

Donnie doesn’t rise to it. He just flicks his eyes your way, and you nod.

Like a switch flipping.

Your hand flies to your belt, retrieving a compact transmitter barely bigger than a cassette tape. Donnie mirrors you, his gauntlet screen pulsing to life, pulling up a mirrored interface that syncs with your device in real-time. It’s not just something you built together.

It’s something you designed to end someone like Baxter.

You both move as one, hands flying, tapping in mirrored rhythm. Donnie inputs a resonant pulse loop, while you isolate the beacon’s feedback node. He reroutes the loop through his own neural relay tower hidden on the rooftop, and you drop the payload.

A signal spike so clean and precise it slices through Baxter’s frequency like a katana.

His smug expression falters.

“Wait… what are you doing?”

“Reverse-engineering your arrogance,” you snap, eyes locked on the screen as the signal tunnels into his codebase.

Donnie lets out a sharp, satisfied breath. “We built a failsafe two years ago, just in case your tech ever resurfaced.”

Baxter stumbles backward, watching his own holograms begin to flicker, static crawling up his sleeves.

“Congratulations, Baxter… you’ve officially coded your own downfall.”

“NO-!” Baxter lunges for his tablet, but it’s already too late. All around him, the remaining drones still limping through the air suddenly stop. Hover. Buzz with a sharp electrical ping, and then collapse like large pieces of hail on asphalt.

The feedback loop hits critical mass.

Baxter screams in frustration as his suit’s HUD glitches and dies, his comm link frying in a shower of sparks.

“Ooooh! Someone call IT… Stockman just got smoked.” Mikey cackled.

You and Donnie stand side-by-side, breathless, synced, unstoppable.

“That feedback loop,” Leo mutters, visibly impressed. “Was that…?”

“Something we cooked up together years ago,” you say, glancing at Donnie with a crooked smile. “I never stopped sending him homework.”

“And I never stopped grading it,” Donnie murmurs, warm and proud.

Baxter glares at the both of you, twitching through the wreckage of his own downfall. “You think this changes anything?”

“Yeah,” Raph grunts, stepping past you both with a growl in his voice. “It changes you from a threat… to a stain.”

Leo is already moving in beside him. Twin katanas drawn, expression steel-hard. “Let’s finish this.”

And just like that… the turtles descend.

Baxter doesn’t get another word in.

The city’s usual heartbeat had returned. You could feel it in the background hum of distant sirens winding down, in the way the blinking streetlights flickered back to life like tired eyes after a blackout. Civilians were cheering somewhere aboveground, but down here, in the echoing quiet of the lair, it was all just… relief.

The team looked like hell, singed edges, bruised limbs, Raph’s mask was torn more than usual and hanging off one side. But no one was complaining.

Leo passed you in the hallway on the way back from securing the garage doors, a towel slung around his neck and soot streaking his cheek. He paused, then laid a hand on your shoulder. His voice was low and certain, “Well done.”

It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it landed. You’d fought beside them. Saved people. Held your own. Leo wasn’t the type to say more than he meant, and he’d meant that.

Before you could even answer, Mikey came barreling out of the kitchen with a leftover burrito in one hand and what might’ve been an ice pack melting on his neck. He caught sight of you and immediately abandoned both.

“CAN WE KEEP HER?!”

He grabbed your face, hands on both cheeks like an overexcited golden retriever. “You hacked a whole drone army, you helped MacGyver a dubstep pulse cannon, and you did it all lookin’ like a total babe. I vote permanent teammate. No takebacks.”

You were laughing too hard to answer.

“Bout damn time you suited up,” Raph grumbled from the couch as he tossed you a protein bar like it was a peace offering, and maybe it was. You caught it with a grin. “Nice throw,” you teased.

“Don’t make it weird.”

Donnie stood just behind them, quiet but glowing. That wide, awestruck smile that made your heart ache just to look at. He didn’t say anything yet.

But of course, Mikey wasn’t done.

He spun on Donnie with mock accusation.

“Bro. Bro. I still remember the way she used to bat her lashes at me during movie nights. I was this close to writing her a mixtape, man.”

Donnie’s brow ridge twitched. “You were not.”

“You don’t know that.”

Raph let out a grunt of a laugh. “Y’all better not start dry-humpin’ in the lab again. That last mission was stressful enough.”

Your cheeks burned.

Donnie casually slid an arm around your waist, smirking just enough to say let them talk.

And he leaned in, low and proud, voice just for you:

“You crushed it tonight, prodigy.”

Your smile was all teeth.

“You too, genius.”

The celebration had mellowed into the low hum of contentment. Empty pizza boxes were scattered like battleground trophies, Mikey had passed out mid-sentence on the couch, and Leo was already in cooldown meditation mode. Raph had slunk off to nurse his bruises and ego in solitude.

Donnie, though, hadn’t let go of you since you sat down. His arm had stayed warm around your waist, his fingers unconsciously tracing small patterns against your hip like he was sketching something invisible only the two of you could see.

But now he was tugging you gently away from the group, toward the back corridor that led to his lab. His voice was soft when he spoke, not nervous, but something close to it. Like whatever he was about to say carried the weight of years behind it.

“I know we joked about it before,” he began, turning to face you fully under the low hallway light. His eyes searched yours, open and raw. “But I wasn’t kidding.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

He took a breath. That beautiful mind of his was calculating too many variables, but this time, he shut it all down. Focused on one.

“I want you here.”

He stepped closer. “Not just living in my room and seeing you after missions. Not just sleeping in my shirts and fixing my wiring. I want you in the lab. In the field. At my side. As a part of the team. As mine in all ways.”

You blinked at him, the honesty in his voice knocking the breath from your lungs more than any drone or sparring match ever could.

Donnie scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly shy in that adorkable way you adored. “I mean, I know you’ve kinda already been living here since like… a couple of weeks ago… but I wanted to officially say it. Like, in words. You know, just in case you were waiting for the genius to catch up.”

You didn’t give him the chance to ramble further.

You surged up on your toes, pulled him down to your level, and kissed him, deep and hungry and full of every ounce of yes you had in your body.

It shut him up properly.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, you whispered against his lips:

“Let’s do this, genius. I’m all in.”

His smile was pure sunlight in a tunnel of fluorescent buzz and tech glow.

You kissed him again.

Slower this time.

Deeper.

His hands found your waist like gravity had been waiting for an excuse. Your fingers curled into the soft edges of his neck, tugging gently, drawing him closer like you could slot yourself into every place he’d left empty while you were gone.

He kissed you like he’d waited years for it, because he had. Lips parting, breath hitching, the barest growl at the back of his throat as your tongue swept past his. His body pressed against yours with quiet restraint, but his heart… That thing was going wild in his chest.

You smiled against his mouth.

“We’re gonna be late to our own afterparty,” you murmured.

“I’ll reprogram the party,” he said, without missing a beat. “Tell Mikey it starts in fifteen.”

You laughed, forehead pressed to his. “And here I thought you weren’t the romantic type.”

“I’m not.” His voice dipped, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “I’m the desperate and entirely consumed type.”

God, he was dangerous when he said stuff like that.

But you tried your best to remain immune to danger when it wore purple and whispered in your ear like that.

Eventually, the distant sound of Leo’s voice calling out something about “last slice protocol” broke your trance.

You sighed.

“Duty calls.”

Donnie smirked, giving your hips one last squeeze before lacing his fingers with yours. “And so do I.”

You rolled your eyes. “Nerd.”

“She’s officially one of us now,” Mikey declared.

Donnie, still glued to your side, slid his arm back around your waist and pulled you into his side like you were already fused there.

“She’s not going anywhere.”

“Yeah?” Mikey grinned. “You sure about that? I told you she used to bat her lashes at me during movie nights, just sayin’.”

You snorted. “Mikey, I was blinking. That’s what people do.”

Mikey raised his slice of pizza in the air and called out, “To our official fifth turtle!”

Raph and Leo echoed the toast, even Splinter, from wherever he was lurking in his ninja-dad shadows, gave a calm, proud nod.

You leaned into Donnie, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, heart full and pulsing.

“You’re really not going anywhere this time, right?” Mikey asked, voice softer now.

Donnie kissed your temple.

You smiled, eyes shining.

“Not a chance.”

Next Chapter: Epilogue: “Where You’re Meant to Be”

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