#clockwork is scheming again

[escelia]

New Sibling Just Dropped

Or Danny gets willingly isekai'd into the DCU and gets a twin out of it.

I know I disappeared from the face of the earth for a bit there, and there's stuff I should probably be updating, but I come baring different stuff this time :D

Just started this for fun, and I have at least one other chapter of it done, but idk how long this bout of inspiration will last, so I'm just rolling with it for now.

@flamingpudding look! i pulled a jason todd and rose from the grave!

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Danny was tired. The kind of tired you felt behind your eyes and in your bones, and weighed heavy with achievement. He was perched on the edge of a building in his ghost form looking over Amity Park with a soft smile as he watched Youngblood run through the park with human children, Cujo playfully on their heels. His galaxy cloak (which had been a coronation gift) billowed around his lap like a gas with stars twinkling inside. 

It had been a few years now since he took up the Crown of Fire and became High King of the Infinite Realms, and while he had accomplished many things since then, graduating from high school wasn't something on that list. It sucked that he wouldn't get to walk across the stage with Sam and Tucker, but in the face of all he'd been able to do for both Amity and the Infinite Realms, it was worth it. They coexisted now. There was still trouble every now and then, but Danny had helped the ghosts who insisted on staying in Amity Park find a place in their city where they could thrive.

Youngblood watched over the children of the city, Box Ghost started a box recycling center, Lunch Lady started a program to get food to families that couldn't afford it, and Pointdexter started reporting bullying at the school since he was already there. 

On the Realms' side, Danny shut down Walker's prison. Since it was his lair, he couldn't take it away from him completely, but it no longer housed the many ghosts the warden had considered "rule breakers." He'd given Walker a new set of rules to enforce and essentially took him under his wing as a royal soldier, kept under the close watch of Fight Knight, who'd defected from Pariah Dark so fast after his defeat that it was laughable. 

He'd done something similar with Skulker, though he was a harder case to crack. Unlike Walker, who was happy as long as he had a set of rules to enforce, Skulker wanted to keep hunting. He'd been recruited forcefully by Walker and Fright Knight after they caught him on his way to fight Danny again.

All in all, everything had begun to run smoothly now. The fatigue weighing on him reminded him that it had been hard to accomplish, and continuing to lead his double life hadn't made it any less exhausting. A cold breath rushed through his chest as he felt a familiar presence slide up next to him. 

"You didn't time out," Danny pointed out without looking to face the ghost beside him. Clockwork hummed in acknowledgment.

"Sometimes it's pleasant to watch time flow in person." It was Danny's turn to hum at him. 

"How are you feeling?" The Ancient asked thoughtfully. The younger ghost tilted his head pensively. 

"It's hard to say. I'm tired, but I'm happy. And also sad..." he paused to gather his thoughts. "I feel like I've done everything I needed to."

But not everything he wanted to do. 

"Go on," Clockwork pressed. The teenager did turn his head now to make a face at his mentor. If the guy knew how he felt and what he was going to say, why would he say it out loud? But the other just arched a brow at him and waited.

"Fine," he pouted. "I've spent so much time and energy finding places for everyone here. The GIW are gone, my parents stopped hunting ghosts, Jazz got into the psychology program at Stanford, Sam and Tucker are graduating today... I helped make that happen, I know I did! But they're moving on without me. They're growing up and I don't feel like I am."  

'I don't feel like I'm ready.'

Danny stopped to take a breath and wipe away the icy tears gathering in his eyes. He felt stupid for crying over it. He was 17 for Ancients' sake! Jazz would have told him he grew up too fast, but he still felt like a child. He had no idea what he was doing! And yet! And yet... he felt...

"But you also feel ancient, right? Like you've been around too long and seen too much?" Clockwork said as though he were reading from a script. Danny sulked. Stupid time ghost with his dumb Time Stream TV or whatever. 

"Yeah..."

"All Ancients feel that way. Though you may be feeling unbalanced in more ways than one because of how young you died and the fact you are half human."

"What do you mean?" Danny turned his whole body to face him now, tucking his knees under his chin and circling his arms around them. His cloak moved with him in inky black wisps and settled around him again like clouds of galaxies. 

Clockworks form shifted to that of a child.

"You feel young because you died young. However, it is the nature of humans to grow and change. While you may have died at 14, your childhood died before that. You yearn to grow and learn, while also being an incredibly powerful Ancient."

He supposed that made sense. He recalled all the years cleaning the lab before the portal had even been built, and the fighting and neglect (Jazz's words, not his) that spawned his disdain of Christmas even longer before. He wanted to go back to school. He wanted a reason to love Christmas. He wanted pets and family dinners that didn't come alive. He wanted to grow up properly.

"But you still want to help people," the ghost said as though Danny had been talking out loud or having his mind read. 

"I hate it when you do that," Danny complained. Clockwork just smiled smugly.

"I know." He laughed at the glare Danny threw him. 

"I have a proposition for you," the older ghost began. Danny perked up in intrigue. "I know of another earth dimension with some problems that need to be addressed. Your role as High King puts you in a position to be helpful."

"Their problem has to do with the Realms?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Ectoplasm from the Realms is pooling into what are referred to on their planet as Lazarus Pits. They are both helpful and harmful as they do not dissipate into the air so they continually collect and concentrate emotion, but they do sometimes revive the dead."

Danny grimaced in disgust at the thought of dunking a person into a stagnant pool of contaminated ectoplasm. "That sounds disgusting."

"Quite," Clockwork agreed. 

"So what's your proposition?"

"Well, if it is agreeable to you, I would like to de-age your physical form and place you with a family that's had dealings with the Pits firsthand. I've found them to be quite charming." 

"Ah, so you want me to go in undercover?" Danny couldn't help but roll his eyes a little. It wasn't a half bad idea. He could try his hand at childhood again and still get to handle his duties as King Phantom. Leading a double life again would be easy enough, it was just stepping from one role into another. 

"Not at all." Clockwork smiled knowingly. Danny was officially suspicious of his ghost guardian. "This planet has had all kinds of dealings with the occult, and even humans with superpowers isn't that unusual. While I would advise against telling anyone you are a king right away, you are in fact just that: a king. You may do what you wish." 

For an ancient and wise time ghost, Danny thought Clockwork was really shit at hiding his expressions. Though he tried to keep the grin off his face, Danny could clearly see the twitching of his lips and gleam in his eyes that promised the old man was scheming. 

But to get his childhood back. Or, at least a semblance of one... it deserved consideration. Danny looked back out at the cityscape again. Sam and Tucker... they were down there graduating from high school without him. He'd been the one to encourage them to pull away from Team Phantom activities to zero in on their studies, but he didn't regret it. Sam wanted to major in environmental science and Tucker wanted to go to MIT and he just didn't fit into those plans. After Jazz left for Stanford, his parents often forgot he was still there. He'd managed to convince them to study ghosts properly instead of hunting them, and with a little help from the "friendly ghost King Phantom" they were given a place to start. They dove into their research with the same excitement and fervor they'd had all their lives. Which of course meant he went days, sometimes weeks, without seeing them emerge from the lab. It was easy enough to slip past them to the portal while they were distracted. 

The point was that he'd started to feel his anchor to this city, to this realm, start to dissipate as the people who kept him there started to break away from him. He still loved them, wanted to protect them, but they were safe and happy now. He felt fulfilled in his task of protecting them, but there was a buzzing beneath his skin to do more. 

Danny took a deep and controlled breath. He didn't need it in his ghost form, but it felt good to feel his lungs stretch to fullness. 

"When would I start?" He asked finally. The straight face Clockwork had been trying to keep, and he really was so bad at it, finally broke into a wide grin. 

"Right now. Everything is already in place and your duties in the Realms will be taken care of in your absence." 

Danny smiled softly at his guardian. Clockwork sure had a funny way of showing it, but he cared so deeply for the boy next to him that when Danny responded with a bad pun, he couldn't even be annoyed. 

"Well, no time like the present!" He winked.

Clockwork chuckled, and with a flash of light, he sent Danny on his way. 

The more time the older ghost spent with his young ward, the more he appreciated him. The Danny he’d come to know was nothing like the Danny’s from other worlds he’d encountered while trying to prevent Dan from existing. His Danny was now truly one of a kind. None of the others, not even the ones that eventually turned into Dan, had been Ancients. There would never be another Danny like him, and every universe was adjusting to include him should he ever decide to visit them. He had a place in any world, should he choose, but Clockwork knew he was needed most in the one he’d sent him to. It would be truly entertaining to watch the young Ancient settle into his role there, and Clockwork was actually finding himself looking forward to it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was dark and quiet a long while before Danny opened his eyes. And when he did open them it got really loud and really bright really fast. It belatedly occurred to him that he should have asked like a billion more questions before agreeing to be iseaki’d into a different dimension to join a family he knew literally nothing about. 

There was shouting before someone in what looked like a ninja cult uniform shoved a knife into his hand and pushed him in the path of a person in a different uniform. The man in front of him was dressed in blue and black and wearing a mask that covered his eyes, but Danny could see the surprised shape of his mouth before it morphed into something like anger. And then he was being lunged at.

He shrieked as he dodged out of the way. Not his most graceful save, but whatever. His voice was a bit shrill and his center of gravity felt way off. He must have actually been de-aged! He wondered how old he was now. He still felt light on his feet thanks to his ghost half which felt blessedly intact. But the other guy was fast and he ducked into a roll just in time to dodge whatever weapon he was holding. This guy meant business, but he had no idea why he was trying to kill him. 

‘Great, thanks Grandfather Clock for throwing me right back into the good ol’ days,’ he thought sarcastically. Nobody had attacked him for no good reason like that since Walker and Fright caught Skulker mid hunt for the very last time. 

What he now saw was a baton swung down from overhead and Danny knew he wouldn't dodge it in time, so he caught it with the flat of the blade that had been shoved into his hands.

“Wait! Why are we fighting?” Danny yelled, panicked as the guy pushed more force into it. The man's face twisted into something like confusion for a moment and he backed off just the tiniest bit before the scuffing of shoes to his right had him looking over just in time to see another guy in a mask, this time in red, rushing at him. He threw his hands up in surrender. 

“Wait!” He shrieked before he was absolutely bodied sideways into the ground. 

Why was he doing this? He was half ghost, he could have just gone intangible and disappeared. He didn't have to be body slammed into the ground. Wasn't he a child now? Did that guy in red actually just slam a whole child into the ground? 

“Red, hold on! This one's different!” 

“What do you mean?” The guy Red asked. He was still pinning Danny to the ground.

“Yeah, what do you mean?” Danny asked breathlessly, then whimpered, “Someone please tell me what's going on!” 

The one hovering over him must have seen something on his face that convinced him to not try and kill him anymore, because he grabbed him by the collar and started dragging him along. 

“We'll take him in for questioning. Don't let Robin see him.”

“Who's Robin?!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a long, arduous, and confusing journey from wherever they were to… well, wherever they were now. They'd blindfolded him for the transport so he still had no idea what was going on. He had learned that the guy with batons was Nightwing, and Red was actually Red Robin. The one they called Robin was a feral looking thing with swords, he was very small and stabby. Then there was Batman, and he totally threw off the whole bird theme but was easily the most intimidating. And that was all he knew so far. He'd been restrained at an interrogation table. 

Danny groaned and knocked his forehead onto the table. He really, really wished he'd asked Clockwork more questions. He'd at least been able to catch a glimpse of himself in the glass behind Batman. He looked like he was eleven or twelve again, which was not as young as he'd been expecting, but much more preferable than being a literal toddler. The group of people he’d been brought in by seemed to be heroes. They were all incredibly weary of him, but hadn’t gone out of their way to harm him since his capture. Though it was hard to call it a capture when there wasn’t a chase involved. 

“How old are you?” Batman asked suddenly. His voice was low and rough and somehow Danny could tell it didn't sound like that naturally. 

“Um, maybe eleven or twelve?” Danny replied carefully, picking up his head from the table and having the decency to look a little embarrassed. 

“And what's your name?” He looked like he was expecting something.

“My name is Danny, sir.” 

“Hmm…” 

It was quiet and awkward for a long moment.

“Why are you different from the other clones?” 

“Yeeeaaah, I'm not a clone.” Danny absolutely did not jump when the brute slammed the file folder shut in front of him. 

“We'll see what your DNA results have to say about that,” he said confidently before turning to leave, his cape dramatically flaring out behind him.

Sheesh, and he thought he’d had a flair for the dramatics.

‘Okay, time for some assessment,’ Danny thought to himself as he looked around the small closed room. It was soundproofed incredibly well. While he didn’t have super crazy hearing, it was enhanced by his ghost half, and combined with his other sharp senses, it tended to help him gather more information than others could. The most he could hear outside the room was a quiet hum of activity and nothing discernible. Still, he needed to decide how much he would say to these people. How much truth did he want to weave into his tale? These people clearly already had their own assumptions about him in mind, and while there was absolutely nothing wrong with being a clone, he knew he didn’t have what it took to keep up an act like that for long, which would just end up being awkward for everyone. 

He also would not be telling them about his status as Ghost King, per Clockwork’s suggestion. His captors seemed like the uptight sort, and revealing that he was a big, scary ghost monarch didn’t seem like it’d go over well. Telling them he was a halfa would probably get them off his back over the clone thing, at least. He went over the list in his head.

He was a halfa from another dimension, so he couldn’t be a clone.

He had no plans of fighting with anyone unless absolutely necessary. 

He did not have a way back to his other dimension. 

His name was Danny, and he didn’t have a family anymore.

He did not know why he was in the middle of whatever fight he woke up in. 

No, he didn’t know those people.

Danny must’ve been lost in thought for quite a while because his thoughts were interrupted by Batman bursting back through the door. The man’s demeanor had changed completely and he whipped off his cowl to reveal disheveled dark hair, blue eyes, and an expression of absolute heartbreak that accompanied his shuddering breaths. With the mask off, he reminded Danny a lot of his father. 

Batman searched his face and, much like Red Robin had before, seemed to notice something there. 

“She did it twice,” he muttered to himself. “Two of them this whole time and she didn’t tell me about either of them,” he said through gritted teeth. His frown deepened. Danny copied his frown. 

“Hey, are you okay?”

He still had no idea what was going on.

[slimyenemy]

ok i like Kim's voice a lot and scamming people together is cute

[impyssadobsessions]

I finally finished the concept for Danny's Devil Trigger form >w< I'll show all the sketches that lead me to this. This is the front and back.

I drew some action doodles to get a better feel on the concept/design. >w< And I just love action poses. I imagine his tail works similar to Nero's devil bringer, except less smashing and more slinging enemies around. OH I didn't draw the idea I have, maybe I should. Where his tail will wrap around his arms providing him with a bigger blaster for his blasts that he shoots from his fist. Or maybe he could hold it like a gun and shoot it that way, as if its a grenade launcher XD.

Here some sketches I did before I refined the body on the lunar moth design. I tried to replicate the wings there when it wasn't working out how I wanted. My bf gave me the idea about thinking it was fun the one that flies not having wings- so then I was like yeah that would be cool.. Thus the idea to give him a tail was born. Which works great to make him look like his canon phantom form. Also was playing around with the inverted idea for a bit, but just couldn't get it to work with my skills. Reason concept art can be really helpful. Because an idea might be cool but hard to execute >w<

Last one with more Dante's colors again. lol He would have looked sick regardless. If his color scheme wasn't green, I would so do the red. >w<

Here's link to other posts for my DMC x DP ! I put a lot of thought into this au XDDD I probably should write the story Idea I have >w<

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hey can I request more from passion for fashion. Maybe with Dan and Danny meeting bane or something? And like maybe realizing that he's their uncle in this universe? Ohh or maybe they don't realize that and just think he's some guy who seems really fond of them and has decided they are his to protect, he could possibly be acting as their neighbor for the time being?

Dan wakes in the most comfortable bed he's ever slept in for the last two decades. A sluggish feeling of laziness comes with that feeling of comfort, so he nearly gives in and closes his eyes again for another nap.

But at the last second, his eyes snap open, and he wills himself to fight against the feeling. His body rebels against his command, trying to go back under, but Dan will not yield. He recognizes the feeling.

Someone is trying to force him into slumber. He may be a dead man walking, but he is no one's helpless prisoner. Reaching deep within himself, Dan grasps around the parts that make him a ghost and warps his form with the burn of his ice-fire.

A familiar sensation washes over him, an ice-fire that builds around his chest and expands down his limbs. It's slightly bothered by the bomb strapped to his core, but it's not enough to stop Dan from burning away whatever they had done to him.

Unlike the drug that the kidnappers gave him a few weeks ago, whatever is in his system isn't overly harmful. It appears that it was intended to put him to sleep so he could actually get it out of his body.

He hasn't shifted into his ghost form the entire time he has been in this universe. It wasn't for the lack of trying, but Clockwork had likely (correctly) assumed that Dan wouldn't help Batman's humanity if he refused to be in his human form, so he locked it near the bomb, and if he tugged on his ghost powers too much, it would trigger the boom.

Dan isn't sure if Danny had the same problem; he never bothered to ask and figured that if he gave a white lie about the multiple cameras everywhere, Danny would be cautious enough not to "Go Ghost" so the idiot wouldn't explode.

The last of foreign sustenance fades into nothing within himself, and the world is suddenly clear. He can concentrate on his surroundings now, frowning at what he saw.

Dan is in a large, luxurious bedroom, fit for a king, with sleek furniture and a black and red color scheme. It resembles a room a villain would use in a modern drama, which is tacky and completely lacking any personal touch.

He was lying on an Alaskan King bed with curtains hung up on the bed frame. To his right is a large screen TV, taking up nearly the entire wall, and various gaming systems are placed underneath it- he's seen some in his fashion trends research. He figured he should know what settings made his outfits pop and what sort of lighting would affect the visual appeal of the fabric. He never had the desire to even touch the gaming systems, though.

To his left is a strangely organized copy of his studio, featuring various mannequins, fabrics that most of which have cost a fortune, and a really nice-looking design table. What really caught his attention, however, was the multiple storage organizers stacked on top of each other: he could spot multiple buttons, threads, glitter, cutting devices, and who knows what else.

It was like a fabric store threw up on that side of the room.

Dan's fingers twitch with the urge to go over there and explore the studio. He dislikes the tidiness; it looks like a museum, and he struggles to work with things in order. He thrives on chaos, and someone completely disregarded that.

A direct insult to his obsession.

Scowling at the studio, now only seeing it as an insult at best, a pathetic attempt to bait him into staying in his cage at worst, Dan leaps to his feet. He feels around the walls, searching for a door. It might be out of sight, since this room had no windows or doors, but there has to be somewhere in and out here.

His fingers run across all the walls, but he does not feel any indents that show there is a doorway. Huffing Dan decided to make his own. Pressing his lips to his right knuckles in a quick kiss for good luck, Dan lets it fly as fast and hard as he can at the wall.

The moment his hand makes contact with the wall, spider-like cracks spread across the surface, followed by a loud bang. The cracks scatter across the surface before it crumbles, falling down like broken cards.

He finds himself looking into a long, dark hallway, with no visible guards. Dan is more insulted that they thought they didn't have to put him under surveillance, so assured that they would not be able to get out of the room.

He steps over the whole, shaking out his fist a little. That was steadier than he was expecting, but nothing he couldn't handle. He looks left, then right, wondering which direction to go.

If Danny were here, he likely would go towards the right, where a spark of light was visible. The brat would justify this decision with an explanation that there was likely a sign indicating the exit. They needed to escape, to regroup, gather information, and only then would they fight the people that did this to them, Danny would say.

Dan goes left.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Danny bolts upwards with a scream of frustration, leaping from his bed and pointing in the general direction his counterpart was known for working on his fashion. "Dan, I know you're doing something stupid! Cut it out!"

It takes him a moment to notice something odd. The first, Danny is cold, which hasn't really happened since coming to Gotham. Yes, it was cloudy, and it rained more, but this felt like he stepped into a freezer instead of walking around Gotham.

The second is the bright light flashing in his face. It's not like they didn't use the lights in their Gotham house, but Dan had so many fabrics flung everywhere in the house that it tended to interfere with the brightness.

And the third, he was not currently pointing dramatically down the hallway of his temporary residence, but instead, he was pointing at a large glass wall. Behind the glass was a man dressed in the weirdest outfit he's seen so far.

A mask with twin peaks at the top and a long cape covered his body like a weird pancho. The man was staring back at him- at least Danny thinks, since the mask blocks the eyes, leaving the man in a white lens stare- without a hint of emotion.

There is a long pause between them before Danny slowly lowers his arm to use it to try to cover his body as best he can. He's not sure why this guy was watching him sleep, but he doesn't think it's for a good reason.

"How are you feeling?" The man asks as Danny slowly lowers himself back onto the bed, scrambling for the blanket —the really soft, fluffy kind that he's sure causes way more warmth than any blanket should.

"What?"

"How are you feeling?" The man repeats. His voice is oddly devoid of emotion

"I'm feeling like you're about to steal my skin." He snarks, curling the blanket up to his chin.

There is a twitch at the man's mouth, as if he's fighting a smile before it smooths over. "I have no use for your skin."

"How dare you. This flawless skin pays my bills."

Another twitch, but this time he can tell that the amusement hasn't slipped away. "Are you not feeling any aches? Sorness?"

Danny narrows his eyes. "Why are you asking?"

"Do you not remember what happened?" The humor is gone now. Storwed away in some emotional vault that Danny knows Jazz would love to break into. The man moves his arm, causing his cape to open and reveal a suit that resembles a blend of spandex and armor.

It's skin-tight, showing off abs, biceps, and leg muscles that anyone back home would kill for. Danny's jaw drops slightly at the display, even if the man is too busy clicking a remote at a wall. A TV lowers itself from who knows where, showing a video of himself being rushed into the glass-wall room by the stranger and a kid in a black hood.

Danny watches himself as his form slowly deteriorates, while the two scramble to plug machines into him. It's like he's watching some of the clones Vlad made fall apart, and it's not until the kid's sword accidentally gets caught on some gas tank. The gas tank is knocked over, breaking upon hitting the ground, and it lets out a stream of white gas strong enough that it flies through the room, somehow covering Danny's half-melted body.

It's easy to tell it's Liquid nitrogen by the sudden frost and ice. There is a moment of genuine panic in the video until Danny's form snaps back into place. The video ends with a man and a child looking at each other in a daze, then rushing out to bring in more tanks like the one he had knocked over.

"Earlier today, you ran to me for help. When we got you back to my house, you collapsed, and your body started melting. We had no idea why, what was happening, or what your situation was. I brought to my cave to try and provide medical assistance- it became obvious that the only thing working was placing you in a low temperature environment." The man explained, distracting body now thankfully covered by his cape again.

It takes Danny's brain a few seconds to process what he said, but when he does, he snaps his head in all directions. They're in a cave, he notices, and he's inside a makeshift freezer with the temperature well in the negatives.

The stranger seems content with letting Danny take all of that in, as his fuzzy mind tries to gather information, when suddenly it all snaps into place.

Leaping to his feet again- and nearly slipping over the edge of it, that has him swinging his arms like a windmill- Danny points accusingly at him, "Batman! You're Batman!"

The man nods once, and Danny lets out a noise that almost sounds like a wild hog releasing a victory cry. Batman stares back impassively, but his shoulders have tensed a bit as Danny scrambles off the bed and scurries towards the glass, pressing his face against it until his nose starts to hurt, his cheeks are flat, still that does nothing to hide his smile.

"I've come to save your humanity, Batman! Have you hugged your children?!"

Batman doesn't respond for a solid minute, allowing Danny's heavy breathing to fill the silence before the man clicks his remote again. This time, the screen displays a woman who looks vaguely familiar, a celebrant of some kind?

"I looked into your mother. I believe she used you as a sacrifice in a death magic ritual-" Batman starts, but Danny steamrolls that boring tale with a stream of emotional good habit tips Jazz had once given him.

"-I know it sounds stupid, but really, if having conversations is tough, writing a letter to yourself or the other person can be a good way to explain how you feel about them."

Batman holds up a hand. " Marina meant well, but the spell she used to try to teleport you off your island. We found this in your chest."

The image changes to one of Clockwork's amulets, and the words die in Danny's mouth. He pats his chest area searching for the ticking sound or sensation he has grown accustomed to.

It's not there.

Batman took out Clockwork's bomb while his body was dissolving. That sentence doesn't even make sense!

Danny's eyes go wide. "Are you a god?"

Batman frowns. "No. I'm not sure where Marina was trying to send you, but it wasn't to me. She was aiming for a death god."

"What? Who's Marina?"

"...Your mother?"

"My mom's name is Madeline. Madline Fenton." Danny pressed himself against the glass further. "Why would you think this Mariana is my mom?"

"She was the one to use a highly illegal and dangerous death ritual. Mariana Fenton is also listed as your mother in the government records of Santa Prisca. Your father's name was also listed: it's Eduardo Dorrance, better known as Bane."

He said that last part gravely, like Danny would be shocked by the news that Bane had supposedly fathered him, but Danny can only blink slowly. "My dad's name is Jack."

Batman's face doesn't twitch anymore. Instead, he frowns. Deeply. Concern. "Was that the man who raised you and your brother?"

"Dan was raised by the screams of his enemies," Danny responds without missing a beat. "Never mind him. We need to focus on you. Have you ever been in love? Love is the strongest magic in the world, right behind the power of friendship. There is nothing more human than the power of love."

Batman opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say is cut off by a giant boom that shakes the whole cave. He spins around, three throwing knives suddenly in between his fingers, and Danny notices he stands in front of him, almost as if Batman were going to protect him.

From behind the muscular back, Lord have mercy, Danny can't see what caused the explosion, but he can definitely hear it.

"My King! I have come to rescue you!" A woman screeches in a curious accent. It reminds him of old Hollywood, the kind that was in black and white and was filmed in the 1920s. Her voice echoes through the cave, and his head comes from everywhere and nowhere.

Danny claps his hands over his ears, trying to drown her out, because she's far too long. "Who are you?!"

"It is I, Gotham!"

The word explodes into darkness as Batman flings his knives.

Danny yelps when the glass walls shatter, the cold air escaping as a being of fog rushes at him, grabbing him as solid arms would and dragging him over the ledge of a nearby railing. He falls into the cave's abyss, screaming at the top of his lungs.

[kallmemeimei]

Moments I can see happens in Deadtired’s life: Before they dated

It’s a bit more descriptive from the previous one idk why

—————

Those neon green eyes which were usually cheerful and bright, now held inexplicable darkness. Phantom’s usual easy-going character was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a man who reminded Tim of an icy jagged mountain peak, cold, sharp and unfathomable, stood in his place.

“You keep provoking me again and again… Hey, Tim, I know I’m usually too lazy to bother with things but i’m still a man.”

Perhaps because Phantom usually either had a lazy or cheerful smile on his face, which made him look easy to get along with, Tim only found out now that when Phantom puts away the smile on his face and stared at Tim expressionlessly, the hair-raising feeling that made him tense immediately prevailed.

The slightly heavier breath swept across his cheek and neck, and lowered, raspy voice was filled with intimidation. The young CEO who always had plans and schemes in his head was put in a rare position where his mind was coming in blank and stood frozen against the wall, even holding his breath unconsciously due to nervousness.

Confident azure blue eyes no longer held the daringness it had before, but was replaced by a cute and docile look, reminding others of a cute deer. Phantom seemed to be quite satisfied with the current Tim, and despite being expressionless still, Phantom returned to his previously friendly demeanour. The previously ice melted to show warmth again.

“Don’t challenge my patience with yourself again, okay?”

“……Yeah.”

Completely suppressed by the other party’s momentum, Tim subconsciously nodded, only breathing a sigh of relief once Phantom phased out of the room.

“What’s up with him?”

Tim’s back that was still pressed up against the wall, gradually slid down until he reached the carpeted floor due to his weak legs. He covered his face with his hands, but through the gaps between his fingers and his exposed ears, it’s still obvious that his face was bright red.

“He usually acts so silly and dumb... Why is he being handsome all of the sudden…”

Meanwhile, as the target of Tim’s criticisms, Danny just casually nodded and greeted the other members of the Wayne family whenever he came across them. Except for noticing the fact that Phantom’s ears were slightly green, no one would have ever thought what this ghost had done before.

Danny, who maxed out his acting talent stat for a short moment, returned to the guest room he was staying in for now and closed the door. Then he instantly squatted down and suddenly covered his face with his hands, his whole body exuding the feeling of, “it’s over, it’s over,””the bats are going to kill me,””i’m so embarrassed,””please let me permanently die now.”

“Holy shit. I actually said that??? Ancients, what gave me the guts to say that??? Fuck. Does Tim hate me now??? I think I just unconsciously used my aura as king… No, no, no, I should go find Clockwork and convince him to let me travel to the past so I can punch myself!!!”

The coward who had completely entered self-destructive mode had already started blabbing nonsensical things, but just when his shame was starting to overwhelm him, the expression of Tim, who had pinned against the wall by him before, began to unconsciously emerge from his mind.

Blue eyes, widened by shock, looked like a calm lake that suddenly had stones thrown into it under a clear sky. His slightly trembling lashes made him appear fragile, and it made Danny feel like a small, soft animal’s fur was brushing itself against his heart. His pale lips were reddened by how much he was pressing them tightly, subconsciously catching Danny’s attention.

And... remembering the heat from the feeling of his ear being gently bitten by Tim earlier, which hadn't completely dissipated yet.

—Ahhh, you can't escape, Danny.

——Just admit it, Tim.

The fingers covering their faces almost sunk into their skin, but this action didn't help reduce the blush on their faces. Although they were in two completely different places, Tim and Danny surprisingly had the same actions, both covered their reddened cheeks with their hands, squatted on the ground and tried to curl up.

——You've fallen for him! (x2)

[thunderbolt-ing]

"I Can't Do It Alone." — 2

PART ONE PART THREE PART FOUR Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Summary: Behind every flop congressman is an aide frantically keeping everything together. Or in which Bucky is scheming and dragging you along with him (for emotional support? who knows) Warnings: no warnings. just tension so thick you can drown in it. A/N: a little canon compliant if u squint, but I'll be tweaking things around to fit my silly little narrative. idk how long this'll be, i didn't plan for this to be more than two parts but it's going to have to be ;) sorry for taking so long I'm very critical of myself and i think i re-read this 30453049850 times Word count: 3123 words. consider this as me giving u a smooch for the love on the first one.

Several Months Later Capitol Hill — Washington, D.C. 

You followed closely behind Bucky, your hands clasping a thick docket, as the two of you weaved through the packed halls of the Capitol. The soft tap of your heels was muffled against the thick carpet, a stark contrast to the noise of reporters that awaited you just ahead. A swarm of reporters was already gathered and slowly closing in with their cameras raised and microphones poised like weapons ready to strike. 

As the two of you stepped further, the press surged forward. Flashes burst like strobe lights, and a barrage of voices clamored for Bucky’s attention. You glanced over at him and saw the tension crawl up Bucky’s spine. It was slow, you watched his shoulders stiffen in real time, and there was a slight falter in his step that was only noticeable to you. For all the fights and danger he’d been in, nothing seemed to knock the wind out of him like the press. His jaw tightened, and instinctively, you reached out and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. A silent reminder that you were there with him and he wasn’t alone. He didn’t look at you, but you felt the tension on his shoulders ease just slightly beneath your fingers. Then, like clockwork, you retreated to the background, letting the gladiator enter the arena. 

“Congressman Barnes! Any comments ahead of today’s hearing?” one reporter barked, microphone inches away from his face. 

Bucky blinked, clearly caught off guard. His expression flattened into something unreadable, and for a second, it looked like he was on the verge of shutting down. Still, he pushed through, and that was something you secretly admired about him. 

“Well,” he started, his voice flat, “I’m not on the impeachment committee, but the rumors of wrongdoing are very worrying.” He paused, glancing around with visible discomfort before his eyes landed on you. You gave him a small nod to continue, “They are very, very concerning and worrying,” he repeated, his words subtly spiraling. He looked at you once again, and you gave him a desperate shake of your head, signaling him to take another approach. “—and my Brooklyn constituents deserve better.” He added quickly, and you gave him a nod of approval and a small signal to wrap it up. “So,” he finished with a pained smile, “we’re going to get to the bottom of this… worrying issue.” There was a small pause as silence and a look of confusion was shared amongst the reporters. You let out a long sigh. He almost landed. Almost. You gestured for him to make an exit while the reporters were in a confused daze. He took it as a lifeline, muttering a rushed “Thank you,” before practically bolting toward you. 

“That was… painful,” you murmured once he was within earshot. You both turned toward the courtroom with him on your side. “You said ‘worrying’ three times, Barnes. That was a cry for help.” 

“I blacked out halfway through,” he muttered with a frown. “Did I really say it three times?” “Twice with confidence, once like it physically hurt.” You replied, a smirk dusting your lips as you stifled your chuckles for his sake. 

Bucky groaned, tugging at his tie uncomfortably, “Think anyone noticed?” “Only the entire national press pool.” You cast him a sidelong glance, unable to hold back a chuckle any longer. “But, we’ll work on it. If you’re going to spiral on camera, at least throw in a fake statistic. People love those.” Bucky sighed, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, “You love this, don’t you?” “Live for it.” You replied, your tone tinged with teasing and amusement. “Watching the indestructible Winter Soldier reduced to a nervous mush by a few well-dressed journalists with boom mics? Priceless.” He shot you a look, his expression equal parts amusement and mock betrayal. “I fought Nazis, you know.” “And yet CNN almost took you out back there.” You deadpanned.

Bucky let out a chuckle under his breath as he shook his head, “Why did I hire you again?” “Oh, I believe it was because I ‘speak the truth, even when it's uncomfortable, and you couldn't look away’—” You slipped into a mocking tone as you recited his note from months ago when he was trying to hire you as his aide. His eyes narrowed in warning, but you were already halfway through. “—‘I don’t believe in perfect timing, I believe in showing up’. Very poetic stuff.” 

He groaned again, this time dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, enough. How do you even remember all that?” You shrugged, trying to suppress a grin spreading across your face. “Because it was weirdly sincere and oddly flattering. You gave me flowers and wrote your little note in cursive, which made it feel like a Jane Austen confession.” “I was trying to be professional and convincing.” He replied flatly. “Yes, because giving pink tulips and pink roses to a potential legislative aide is super professional and convincing.” You replied, chuckling fully now as both of you entered the courtroom, making a beeline for the back row. “You’re ruthless.” He mumbled as he sank into his seat. “That’s why I’m your most trusted advisor and aide.” You replied, sitting beside him and immediately pulling out your notebook as the hearing began. “Remind me to fire you when this is over.” He grumbled in mock annoyance, which only fueled your teasing. “You won’t.” You grinned confidently, not sparing him another look as you focused on the panel of judges calling the hearing to order and inviting Valentina Allegra De Fontaine to introduce herself. “Yeah… I won’t.” He muttered softly under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear right before your elbow nudged his side, silently telling him to pay attention.

You were out of your element here and rightly so. Your expertise was in handling veteran soldiers, navigating policies, and managing political shit shows, not parsing the science behind super-soldier serums or deciphering government protocols for modified human beings. The panel’s technical jargon and superhero-related discussions went in one ear and out the other, but you kept your head down, diligently taking notes and marking the bits you’d ask Bucky to explain later. 

It was one of the many reasons you worked so well together. You filled in each other’s gaps like two halves of a hole. When Bucky didn’t know the first thing about policy writing or how to push a bill through committee, you were there with color-coded folders and an ultra-specific to-do list. And when you were completely lost in conversations about quantum weaponry, Wakandan tech, or interdimensional anomalies, he was there patiently walking you through with that quiet, steady voice of his. 

It was a strange, intricate, and maybe even impossible balance, but somehow, the two of you made it work. 

“So you’re saying, you think she’s… making super-soldiers? Like you?” You asked, struggling to comprehend why De Fontaine was on trial in the first place. You two were back in his D.C office now, the heavy weight of the hearing lingering in your head. You were pacing around, trying to make sense of everything you’d just sat through. 

“No, worse,” Bucky replied, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the neat slick-back he’d been sporting all day. “She and O.X.E. aren’t just making soldiers. They’re trying to create God. That’s what Project Sentry is.” “Jesus Christ,” You breathed, the weight of his words sinking in, “That’s the most morally and ethically fucked-up thing I’ve ever heard.” 

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His expression had shifted, his look distant and calculated. A look that meant his mind was already ten steps ahead, quietly forming a plan. 

“You think they’ll find something on her?” you asked, more softly now. 

Still, he remained silent, his expression unreadable. 

“Don’t get tangled up in that mess,” you warned, stopping abruptly in your tracks to face him. One brow arched sharply, nearly reaching your hairline. “You hear me, Barnes?” 

Later That Day Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History — Washington, D.C.

You were already packed and ready to head back to New York when your phone rang. 

Bucky. 

His voice was low and unusually insistent as he urged you to delay your departure. He mentioned a gala at the Smithsonian, claiming it was an important event for networking and maintaining political ties. 

You were skeptical, of course. Bucky never willingly attended high-profile social events. His usual public appearances were limited to outreach programs, press briefings (his least favorite), or the occasional town hall. He attended events with a clear purpose, not shallow ones with tuxedos and champagne flutes, so this was new. Suspiciously new. Of course, against your better judgment, you stayed. It wasn’t your money going to waste, anyway.  

The car pulled up in front of the Smithsonian, its sleek exterior catching the glittering lights from the museum’s grand facade. From inside, you glanced out at the impressive architecture and the elegantly dressed guests filtering through the entrance. The gears in your mind were already turning, trying to piece together what kind of event this truly was and why Bucky was so insistent on attending. 

Before you could reach the door handle, it opened from the outside. Bucky was already there, standing just out of view until now. He extended his hand toward you without a word, his hand steady and with the ease of a gentleman. You blinked at him and hesitated for a second before you took it. The contact was brief and barely more than a moment. His grip was warm, firm but careful, and he helped you out of the car like it was second nature to him. He stayed silent with just the quiet rustle of fabric and the faint click of your heels on the pavement filling the quiet. 

But as your hand slipped from his, you noticed something. His fingers twitched once and immediately curled into a fist at his side before he smoothed it away into nothing, like something lingered from the touch. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t even look at him, but the image of that small movement—so human and unguarded—burned itself into your mind without permission. 

You took a long inhale and adjusted your coat, willing the sudden awareness away. No matter how much you tried, it was burned into your mind. 

The dress you wore was simple, a black cocktail dress that you’d packed away without thinking paired with a simple string of pearls. It was elegant and understated though you couldn’t help but feel a little out of place from the glittering glam of the filtering guests. It wasn’t your usual style, everything else you’ve packed was all business; tailored suits and practical heels. 

You weren’t used to feeling observed, but something about Bucky’s gaze made your skin prickle. It was silent and unreadable and you were usually able to read his expressions most of the time. He didn’t say anything, didn’t smile or tease. He just looked at you like he saw something he hadn’t before. Then, he looked away, his expression shuttered like nothing had happened. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, and yet, it didn’t feel like nothing. 

You stepped into the cool, polished air of the Smithsonian. In the background was the distant hum of chatter echoing through its grand marble halls. The lighting was low and elegant, casting soft shades of gold onto tall columns and glass display cases. Just inside the entrance, an usher handed each of you a glossy program, a folded booklet that listed the evening’s speakers, special guests, and highlighted key artifacts that were carefully placed throughout the exhibit. 

You barely register Bucky’s quiet thanks to the usher before he began guiding the two of you into the crowd. He moved with quiet confidence, weaving effortlessly through the clusters of guests and servers carrying silver trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. You followed a step behind, your attention fixed more on the booklet in your hands than the people you were brushing past. 

The title page named the event as a gala commemorating first responders during the Battle of New York and the Chitauri Invasion. You flipped through it slowly, each page detailing artifacts, accounts, and archival photos, some of which you recognized from museums in New York as well as stories Bucky passed on to you from his friend Steve Rogers, the famed Captain America. 

But when you turned the last page, your footsteps faltered. There, was a name you hadn’t expected to see: 

Curated and Hosted by Valentina Allegra De Fontaine. 

Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the program. 

Without a word, you reached out and caught Bucky’s arm. He glanced back in surprise, you didn’t give him a chance to open his mouth before you tugged him off the main floor and toward a quieter corner of the museum. 

“What did I say about getting involved?” you asked, keeping your voice low but firm. There was tension behind your words, but it came more from concern rather than anger. He recognized it.

“Ah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck as he offered a disarming smile that attempted to soften the blow of being caught red-handed. “You caught on.” 

You crossed your arms, fixing him with a look that made him shift slightly under your gaze.

“Barnes—”

“Look,” he interjected, more gently this time. “I just need your help, alright?” There was something quieter in his voice now, like a silent plea. “I know Valentina’s guilty. They searched her and came up with nothing, but I’m telling you. She made everything disappear. Every trace of it.” 

You let out a long, weary breath, the kind that came from knowing better and still caring far too much. Still, you listened. You always did, no matter how insane he sounded sometimes. 

“She’s got an assistant,” He added, nodding toward the main floor. You followed his gaze to a younger woman trailing closely behind De Fontaine with an iPad clutched tightly into her hands. “She’s green. Malleable. I think can get her to see what’s really going on and maybe get her to our side.” His eyes flicked back to yours. “But I need you to talk to Congressman Gary. Get him to actually listen.” You arched a brow, arms crossed and slightly unconvinced. 

“So let me get this straight. You’re going to charm your way into the assistant’s conscience while I somehow convince Gary, who thinks he’s got it under control, to take your word seriously?” You gave a dry, skeptical smile. “Right. Perfect. Easy enough.” 

“He’ll listen,” Bucky insisted, surprisingly confident. “You’re good at the political talk thing. You’ve got a way of… cutting through the noise.” 

You rolled your eyes, but his words warmed you all the same. 

“And for the record,” he added, his tone bordering defensive, “I’m not charming the assistant. If I did, there’d be flowers and a note. You know… like I did when I…” The moment his words left his mouth, his expression faltered imperceptively as if he realized too late what he’d said. Instead of lingering, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd before you could say a single word. 

You stood frozen, heart thudding unexpectedly in your chest. Your mind immediately drifted back to months ago when he had left a bouquet outside your apartment door with a note that helped sway your decision to be his aide. You chalked it up to persuasion and pure politics. 

But now? Now you weren’t so sure. 

You shook your head, willing the heat rising in your cheeks to disappear.

It was nothing. 

Just Bucky being Bucky. 

That’s all. 

At the end of the gala, you and Bucky reconvenned in the same quiet corner you’d pulled him into at the beginning of the night. The expression you both wore said everything: uncertainty, mild frustration, and the sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, the plan hadn’t landed neatly as the both of you hoped. 

“Gary wasn’t entirely convinced,” you admitted, your voice low and contemplative. “But he let me talk for more than three minutes. That has to count for something right?” 

Bucky sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know if I got through to the girl either,” he said, shoulders slack. “She took my business card and said it looked like trash. I think she was joking.” 

That earned a soft laugh from you, the tension between you easing just enough to breathe. 

“Well,” you said with a half-smile, “we did what we could. We planted the seed. Now we just wait to see if anything grows.” 

Together, you stepped out into the cool night, walking side by side down the Smithsonian’s stone steps as a valet disappeared to fetch Bucky’s car. Despite the fading sounds of the gala slowly dying down behind you, your thoughts lingered to something he said earlier. The words had taken root in your mind, and no matter how much you tried, they wouldn’t stop echoing. 

“So about—” “I moved you to a red-eye flight,” he cut in abruptly, eyes glued to his phone as he forwarded your updated itinerary. “I hope that’s okay. I know you planned on leaving earlier.” 

You hesitated, just for a second. You thought about bringing it up again, but his interruption made the decision for you. 

“Yeah,” you replied, brushing off the feeling of something you didn’t want to name. “That’s fine. The sooner the better. We’ve got that outreach on Wednesday, and I need to finalize everything by tomorrow evening.” 

His car pulled up and without a word, he circled around to open the passenger door for you like it was by instinct. 

“Outreach on Wednesday. Got it,” he echoed, though his tone had drifted. He was half-present and already distracted. You knew his mind was still on Valentina. 

You glance over at him once you were both seated, the city lights flickering across his face as he drove through the traffic. His vibranium hand gripped the steering wheel tightly that you could hear it whirring.

“Hey,” you said gently, your voice softer than you intended. “Maybe it’s for the best that things didn’t go exactly as planned. Valentina isn’t someone you should be prying into anyway. Gary made that perfectly clear.” 

Bucky didn’t respond right away, his gaze steady on the road ahead. He looked thoughtful, but not convinced, though his grip on the steering wheel loosened.

“No more of this Mission Impossible stuff, okay?” you added, a note of hope in your tone. 

“Yeah,” he said finally, “Okay.” 

But you didn’t believe it for a second, and neither did he.

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

No one: Bucky:

brb i have to scream. taglist (pls let me know if you want to be added!): @seraphine-ann @cyberjawz @serumandsteel @hiraethmae

[heartyluv]

Note: I was completely inspired by @stargirlygirl and her werewolf!caleb story, so please go check it out! I adored it. I bounced some ideas back and forth with her, too—like she’s just amazing. This is something new, something that kinda makes me delve a little more into the writer in me, so I hope you guys like it! Enjoy!

Creds to @/strangergraphics for the dividers!

Warning: SonOfSatan!Caleb/Reader (if that offends you, just don’t read), demons are prevalent and a problem, you get attacked, killing, blood, guns, swords, knives—literally just a lot LOLLL, Caleb’s nickname for you in this series—if we continue—is Phoenix

Word Count: 3K

Summary: A night that was supposed to be normal—routine—is flipped upside down when you’re attacked by a demon.

Devilish Expectations - Part One

You look at Mr. Arthur Winfred with boredom and slight amusement as he tries to explain to you why he’s making his fifth return of the week—and it’s only Wednesday. The older man had a habit of buying items, using them for whatever he needed, and bringing them back when they’ve fulfilled their purpose.

You understood a hustle—hell, you appreciated it. It didn’t hurt a multi-billion dollar cooperation if customers did things like this every now and again. But where you worked wasn’t that.

It’s a small tool and home improvement shop owned by an older couple who actually went to high school with the bald man in front of you. They told you all about how he used to do sly things like this back then and at first, it wasn’t a big deal to them.

Until he kept doing it.

The cycle began with one item every other month that then became at least three. Once he started making it an almost weekly occurrence, they had to put a pin in it—as they were losing profit and materials.

None of the workers and cashiers are allowed to let it slide after boss man made it explicitly clear to turn him away or threaten to call him if he didn’t heed the warning. It was a funny factoid to learn that despite the borderline scamming, Arthur was scared to death of Richard Leland.

The rule was clear: He’s still allowed to shop, but he is to keep his purchases. No returns.

“Mr, Winfred, you know I can’t accept this.” You look down at the torn box that contained a clearly used power drill. The least he could do was return the item in pristine condition to give himself a little credit, but his level of not-giving-a-damn was kind of admirable.

“I don’t know why! You accepted the last few items this week!” The wrinkles in his forehead shift as he tries to make his case, seemingly having this idea that he isn’t wrong.

“I accepted one item and that was only because Mr. Leland said I could,” you quirk a brown and push the box back to him. He was costing the Leland’s money with his scheming, no matter how funny you thought it was.

“So you’re not gonna take it?”

“I won’t. But I can call Richard—”

“Nope, nope,” he waves his hand in the air, sliding the box off the counter and under his arm. “You got it. I’ll just go somewhere where customers are heard and appreciated!”

“I’ll see you next week, Mr. Winfred!” you call out as he pushes the door open, causing the bell above it to jingle.

You huff out a breath as you look at the time. 8:17 PM. You need to get home soon. Like clockwork, your phone pings with a text message from your uncle.

Uncle G: You on your way home?

You: Not yet. I clock out at 8:30 today.

Uncle G: You know the rules. In the house before 9 and lock every door and window til I get back.

You: And don’t open the door for anyone, I know.

Uncle G: Good. I’ll see you in the morning.

Uncle Gabriel is the coolest and most secretive man you know. After your mother died for reasons he refuses to share until he believes you’re ready, he took his sister’s only daughter under his wing. He’s told you the story before—how he uplifted everything to move to this small city to give you a better life away from the town that harbored too many bad memories.

He’s been successful thus far and you couldn’t be more grateful for him.

There was a time where you once tried to figure out what happened to your mother, to all the family that you didn’t have besides Uncle G, but he was very serious in his words when he told you to stick to what you’re “supposed” to.

“The time will come where you will wish you didn’t know. Enjoy the bliss of ignorance while you have it.”

He’s dramatic like that, but you’re not some rebel who needs to go against his words so blatantly that it could put you at risk. You trust your uncle and he’s never steered you wrong. If he tells you not yet, then there was reason for it—but that didn’t mean you needed to conclude your own search entirely.

He didn’t know that you would pick the lock to his office to rummage through his notes and old material that unfortunately always led to a dead end. Every journal, note, map—it surprisingly did absolutely nothing for you when you tried to utilize the contents to seek answers.

Even if you wished there was another way, you’ve decided to settle for the reality: When the time comes for you to know—whatever it is—you can only hope that the damage it may cause you isn’t irreparable.

It’s your uncle being the protective man he is that you respect his choices. He used to believe he could keep such a crucial part of himself from you. One could only go so long with having pristine blades, fully loaded guns and ammunition, and new scars that showed up on the daily before the five year old they had stumbling around wanted to know what it was all for.

Demon Hunter, he told you with the straightest face. And you believed him. You had no reason not to.

But he decided to show you how serious he was when he took little you to witness him kill a demon for the first time in a controlled environment. You never forgot the way it screeched, hissed—how it taunted and teased with mirth in its eyes. It was a small thing, but it reeked and looked like something that came straight from Hell. Uncle G cut it down with precision, but he gave you his keynotes as he moved with grace.

They’ve always been among us.

They do not have fear.

They do not have mercy.

They will kill. And they will laugh as they do it.

Of course it stuck with you. Uncle G used to call himself a naive idiot for thinking it was better to keep you in the dark than it was to prepare you. He just wanted to let you grow up normal. You respected that. But you didn’t want to be like the rest of humanity who would fall victim to the unknown.

It was unfortunate that you couldn’t shout from the rooftops that demons were real, but Uncle made sense when he said, “Human beings are not reasonable creatures. They will target the ones trying to warn them rather than the things they are being warned about. It’s not selfish to keep it a secret. It is for our protection.”

They were starting to learn their existence though, as attacks started becoming more and more frequent around the country. Of course people tried to come up with “realistic” explanations for what the creatures were. While the damage being caused and the conversations sparked worried the both of you, there was only so much you could do as an experienced hunter and one who only knew how to take down a few small ones at a time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Mr. and Mrs. Leland!” you call out shortly after 8:30 hits to the couple that are briefly organizing some things before they close up.

“Get home safe, hon!” Mrs. Leland’s pitchy voice bids you.

When you step outside, you’re greeted by the heady smell of rain and the discomfort it brings in humid temperatures. You hated summer, but you adored the rain it brought.

You look down at your phone on your way to the bus stop, concluding that seeing it being further away than you’d like, it made more sense to do the  twenty minute walk over waiting.

With your headphones popped in your ear, you make quick work to text your best friend for whenever she gets off work tonight, too.

Me: Heading home. Call me later?

You expected to have to wait at least an hour, but she texted you surprisingly fast.

Viola: You got it, babe.

Smiling to yourself, you pick a playlist to begin your short journey. You admire how the quiet city passes you by, all the cars with individuals inside living and experiencing their own lives without a thought in the world that there is in fact something bigger than them out there.

You turn down the alleyway that gets you home quicker, thankful for the warm light the store owners keep lit when the sun goes down. It’s not long until you’re walking down the sidewalk that leads to the small home that’s big enough for you and Uncle G. Nothing is out of the ordinary as you hum to yourself.

Until you get closer to see the blood on the porch and the door that’s wide open.

“What the hell…” you mumble to yourself. You quickly look around to see no neighbors disturbed or any sense of urgency. And you don’t hear anything, but you know there’s a problem. Besides the blood, Uncle G was thorough and he’s never done anything reckless like leaving your door wide fucking open.

You reach in your bag for the small pocket knife you keep with you, switching the blade to be revealed as you carefully make your way to your residence. When you’re greeted by the stench that you’ve become too familiar with, worry consumes your heart with each foot that goes up the wooden steps.

“Uncle G?” you whisper, passing the blood trail that leads into your home and onto the floors you just mopped two day ago. The reality of how things can change so fast settles disturbingly in your gut.

There’s no light on besides the dim one on the pirch behind you and it doesn’t illuminate up your path well enough the deeper you go. Finding the switch on the wall to your left, you gasp when you see the house in complete disarray. The coffee table was flipped and broken, the TV was destroyed, and the doors to all the rooms were broken off the hinges.

If you didn’t know any better, you would think this was a home invasion. Because of the smell that never fails to make you gag, you know this wasn’t a human being’s doing.

You frantically reach into your pocket to grab your phone to see if you could reach your uncle at all. As you get ready to select his contact, you hear the loudest footsteps making their way up the back steps, then ramming into the door that leads to the backyard over and over as the sheer force makes the contents around you shake.

In shock, you freeze when the weak wood is breached, a slimy gray hand with absurd fingers trying to grab at anything it can. The putrid smell grows and the reality that there is a big fucking demon right outside confirms everything you were thinking.

Your home was found and invaded.

This is what Uncle G has prepared you for. You put your knife in your pocket, run to your bedroom and grab the gun he gifted you a few years ago, making sure it’s loaded before you come back out to lay every bullet you have into this thing.

The acrid smell of gunpowder stings your nose with every pull of trigger.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you exclaim. It doesn’t even seem to be phased.

The demon laughs as if to mock you in your attempts to kill it, not disturbed at all by the hot metal that should’ve at least slowed it down. The slide of the gun locks to reveal that you’re empty after you release your last few, but you have no time to try and reload when the horrid beast pushes into the space it now makes tight, growling with teeth so sharp it makes your skin crawl.

It comes at you full speed with as much of it that its heavy weight allows, knocking down any and everything around and in its path. You dodge its gnarly grasp, running toward the kitchen to retrieve the katana like blade your Uncle hid for situations like this that had the potential to arise.

You used to think it was ridiculous to hide weapons in the house—that demons would never find where you rested your head. It’s working out for you now.

Well, you thought it would.

As you charge to get your first swing at the tall demon’s ugly face, it grins with pride when it stops your attack with its bare hand. Black blood pools down the weapon as you look up at it in shock. You‘re stunned by it’s lack of reaction to the pain, how it accepts the deep cut in its palm.

You’re not ready. Not for whatever the hell this is.

You try to make a run for it, remembering Uncle G’a words.

“There is no shame in fleeing. If it means you will live to defeat another, then flee.”

But it’s fast, grabbing you by the back of your shirt with its other bloated hand. Lifting you into the air, you screech when it slams you back down, completely knocking the wind out of you. You cough heavily, struggling to bring your breath back.

You can’t even move because of the sharp pain from being thrown into the hardwood floor without care.

“No,” you mumble when it moves closer, the mighty hand coming down to lift you up by the throat. You try to beat on its arm as your feet dangle, but you’re so weak and it’s stronger than anything you’ve ever known.

Your legs can’t reach far enough to kick and your fists are just as useless as the katana. With loud bangs, you’re hit against the wall three times.

Pain blooms all along your body.

Was this it? Dying before you even had the chance to try?

Just as you start to accept this unfortunate fate because you’re not really in the position to do anything else, a fist surrounded by a mix of blue and orange fire tears through the skin and muscle of the monster. You never thought that today would be the day you’d learn that the smell of a demon’s sizzling flesh is even worse than what it is on its own.

For the first time, it yells in pain, its grip loosing to drop you entirely.

Dry heaving on the floor, the sounds of struggle mingle and become a blur in the background.

“Master…Caleb?” the demon questions as if betrayed before roaring in determination.

Master? A person sent this?

You don’t bother watching, already hearing that whatever is happening is something you need to get away from. You need to find your Uncle now.

As they fight, the person who you assume to be Caleb is speaking, but you’re in so much pain that it’s incoherent. With all the strength you can muster, you start to drag yourself toward your phone that fell from you during the struggle.

But you freeze when the noise around you does the same.

You turn your head as best you can, seeing the demon of that magnitude slain in record time. Its blood soils and blackens your floor, inching closer to you the more it pools beneath the gross body.

The outline of the man beside the dead demon is blurry due to the throbbing in your skull. He starts to approach you and panic fuels in your already damaged body as you wonder if you would’ve rather tried to take on the creature or this Caleb with flames in his hands that seems to have delivered it to your front door in the first place.

You weren’t hallucinating, you were sure. You felt the flames near your face when he punched through it.

He had to be a demon, too. Being so unperturbed about everything as he didn’t even utter a sign of struggle. Being called its damn master. Flames.

You’ve seen demons fight each other. But why over you? Why in your house?

His presence becomes overwhelming behind you. With your arm that rests on the floor, you struggle to use your fingers to dig your knife out of your pocket. Boots thud on the hardwood floor and the smell of something sweet battles with the smell of the dead demon when he gets closer.

With the brief second that passes, you believe he’s crouched. It’s like you can feel him studying you closely. So with your last bit of fight, you thrust your knife out and into him. Weakly, you grunt as your hand drops when you push out your final shot of effort. The man doesn’t even react before he flips you on your back, forcing you look up at him.

Even past your disorientation, you can tell he’s handsome. Damn prick.

You smile to yourself to see that your blade did in fact make contact, lodged right in his shoulder. You’re proud of yourself even if it doesn’t seem to have bothered the brute.

“That’s no way to thank the man who just saved your life, now is it?” he teases, making you clench your jaw. Similar to that demon, he doesn’t bat an eye when he pulls out the blade. You want to be relieved that his blood is red rather than black, but a strong demon can deceive. You’ve heard of the shapeshifter ones. Maybe it’s making you see things.

“Can you move? Well, anymore?” he tilts his head with a smirk. “Seems like you’ve exhausted yourself in that final attempt.”

You don’t offer him any response, simply scowling at with all you can. Trying to to seem intimidating despite your state is all you’ve got going for your right now.

“You want me to leave, don’t you?” he chuckles breathlessly when you barely nod.

“It’s too bad that we need to talk. Us and your uncle. I’ll take care of you until he gets back.”

You want to fight, to stand and handle him until it kills you—demand how he knows about your uncle. But the nauseating ache in your bones won’t even let you try.

“Rest, Phoenix. I got it.”

The gentleness of his tone is the last thing you hear before your eyes involuntarily shut.

A/N: Be COMPLETELY honest with me. KEEP GOING OR NAHHH!?!? I know stories like this isn’t everyone cup of tea either, so if you don’t want to be tagged, please don’t hesitate to let me know! I completely understand.

Tags 🏷️: @innergardentoadpony @teacupwaifu @mcdepressed290 @calebapplepie @xcelfer @honeymoonfleur @obeythebutler @ajyoursgirl @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @honeycrispangels @dummiebunny @sucre-princesse @brailsthesmolgurl @klossnite @grlyeetswrld @beesin03 @dramaticalsachan @moonchildjae00 @asiatic-apple @callads7 @caien @stargirlygirl @multisstuff @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @lazygelpen @floatinginaer @meadowinthesky @floatinginaer @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @inutrasha94 @cowaungabungabby @gravity-pilot @nyanahogini @rosiesluv @goochfiddler99 @torturedbabyapple @kiyadeleine @carcelswaifu @blushofeve @whattnanii @asiaticapple @ashirelle

[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.9. - All We Ever Wanted Was Everything

viktorxfemale!reader NSFW, gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES next chapter ->

word count: 6,8K

author's note: Playlist here! @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3! This is a penultimate chapter, we are almost at the end :') Inspo behind Viktor's bedroom.

Cross-posted on AO3

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The door thunders into its frame, as your fingers remain threaded through Viktor’s, two pulses drumming inside a single clasp. For a breath the dark seems absolute, then a lone taper by the threshold sputters to life—Viktor striking the match with a trembling thumb. The light grows, stuttering, and the room yawns wide like the inside of some gentle leviathan: ribbed with beams, crowded with things that glitter, tick or sigh softly in their sleep.

Every surface hums with biography. On a low shelf: a tin toy-ship half the length of your forearm, sails stitched from medical gauze, hull scored by a child’s impatient engraving—V carved again and again until the tin buckled. Nearby, a brass orrery cranks without touch, planets spinning by invisible decree; tiny constellations blink on the spheres, then fade, as though the mechanism remembers the night sky only in fragments. An entire wall is given over to charms: fox teeth wired into crescents, sprigs of dried yarrow, a cracked church bell clapper tied with red thread, mosquitos trapped in resin, sea glass. Some talismans pulse faintly, like hearts caught in amber.

You exhale a soft wonder. “These… they’re beautiful, and a little terrifying.”

“Travel companions,” he answers, voice low. “Each tried to barter safety for me in its own language. None quite succeeded.” His thumb strokes the back of your hand, grounding himself. “I never trusted prayer, so I built my own.”

Your gaze drifts to the workbench where half-finished contraptions crowd each other for space: a pocket barometer weeping mercury tears; a wooden prosthetic leg whose hinges seem to breathe when the candle wavers; and, set apart beneath a dusty bell-jar, a miniature heliostat—sun of hammered brass, tiny clockwork planets whirring on copper arms whenever stray light touches a sliver of solar foil wired to its core. A smear of reddish oxidation rims the sun’s edges like dried blood.

“You built this?” you whisper, fingertip hovering a breath from the fragile orbit.

“Not by design,” he answers, voice low. “I think I hoped that if I could snare daylight and make it circle to my command, I might outpace what waits in the dark.” He attempts a laugh; it breaks small and boyish. “A child’s arithmetic: wires against eternity, now that I know where truth lies.”

Beyond the workbench stands the bed—blanket rumpled, pillows cratered from nights spent half-sitting, half-scheming. Above the headboard dangle paper charms inked with equations that coil into sigils mid-sentence, as though maths and prayer wrestled to a draw. Candlelight kisses the papers and numbers crawl for an instant—digits becoming ancient runes before settling again.

You step deeper, hand still clasping Viktor’s, and feel the floor pulse faintly, as if the room itself recognises new blood. “All these years,” you say, eyes everywhere at once, “you slept in a cathedral of unfinished miracles.”

He huffs, embarrassed. “Slept is generous. Mostly I drafted cures I never tested.” He gestures to the miscellany. “Toys to trick fear into thinking I was busy.”

Your hand drifts to the toy ship. “And this?”

His mouth lifts, half-smile, half-ache. “First thing I ever built that moved the way I asked it to. I thought if I could command oceans on tin, perhaps the world would grant me a harbour.”

You turn, facing him fully beneath the restless candle flame. “You’re a superstitious inventor,” you murmur. “A mad genius.” Your thumbs stroke the pulse at his wrists. “And somewhere in here—” you bend, touch your lips to the hollow of his throat, “—still the boy.”

Patchwork moonlight stripes the quilt; motes swirl through the beam as if suspended mid-prayer. You tilt your face into his palm, eyelids fluttering at the fragile steadiness of his touch. “Forgive me,” you whisper, breath stirring the fine hairs on his wrist. “For writing back so late.”

A dry laugh ghosts from him, equal parts scold and surrender. “So you did stall.”

“Foolishly.” Your fingers toy with the edge of his waistcoat, beneath them a frantic drum. “I would murder to reclaim those silent days—spend them all in your company, trade ink for heartbeat.”

The words slip a tremor through him; you feel it travel from chest to fingertips. Your name—soft, weighty—drops from his lips. A pause, then: “You pierce my soul,” he confesses, the line trembling like a violin string too finely drawn. “I am half agony, half hope.”

Silence follows, alive with everything left trapped within the prisons of mouth. Above the headboard, the paper sigils exhale; their numbers and runes subside into orderly stillness. The orrery slows, planets clicking into languid orbit. The toy ship stills its minute tides. It is as though the room itself, sensing two hearts locking into common cadence, chooses at last to rest—gears, ghosts, and guardian charms settling in one shared, dreaming rhythm.

The hush between you ripens, candleflame quivering as though it, too, anticipates touch. You meet in the half-light—mouths first, soft and searching, then hungry. His lips linger at the corner of yours, trace the sweet hollow beneath your ear; you answer by brushing fingertips along the delicate curve of his, learning the shape of intent. Every slow exhale fogs the small distance between your faces before you erase it again and again.

Buttons yield beneath your careful hands. Waistcoat first—wool sighing open—then the crisp lawn of his shirt. As you draw fabric free, the second brace emerges: polished steel and leather cinched close over his ribs, a hidden scaffold. Your breath stutters—not from pity but from fierce wonder. You lay a kiss where metal bends skin, then another, lips charting the borders where ingenuity has met endurance.

“You are the finest thing my eyes have ever been granted,” you murmur, voice trembling with resolve. “I have never desired another half so ardently.”

The words strike him like a hand to the sternum—his pupils dilate, colour sweeps high into his cheekbones. He fumbles at the buckles, breath catching on every clink, until you still his shaking fingers and guide the brace away, resting it gently on a trunk plastered with foreign stamps.

Freed, his torso is a pale map of healed incisions and determined muscle. You cannot resist: palms glide from his collarbones down the slope of solar plexus, exploring the subtle ladder of ribs, the dilemma of scar and skin. Each brush draws a low, involuntary sound from his throat; his abdomen tightens beneath your touch, as though the very act of being seen, being craved, is too intimate to bear. He sways toward you, every sinew strung between surrender and hunger, for he might melt into your hands were you to press harder—or disappear entirely if you ceased.

Then you rise on toes and cup his face, your foreheads resting together, breathing shared. The stroke of your thumbs along his jaw is soft yet unshakable—an oath sealed not in words but in quiet, relentless devotion.

Now he turns to you. His fingers—those same brilliant things that sketched sigils in candle-soot—slide beneath the edge of your bodice to find the hidden hooks. One by one they yield with crisp, metallic sighs. The tailored shell slips away, exposing the sheer chemisette that veils your stays. Next he unfastens the overskirt—tugs of precision guessed more than practices—so its heavy wool falls soundlessly to the floor, puddling over the petticoat’s starched hem.

When he moves behind you, breath ghosts over the nape of your neck. His knuckles brush the ribbons laced through your corset’s eyelets. For a heartbeat he pauses, as the memory of another night in this very house hits—your lungs tight with panic, his hands working the same knots in haste to grant relief. Then, urgency had been mercy. Now, it is worship. Fingers surer, slower, he loosens the laces, loop by loop. With each yielding pull, your torso unfurls; air rushes deeper, not from fear this time but from the gathering bloom of want.

The stays loosen; whalebone relaxes its grip. You feel your own heartbeat surge against liberated ribs. He exhales—as if the cords had cinched him as well—and presses a kiss between the knobs of your spine, right where the last ribbon slips free. Intention no longer questions itself; it has an answer and a name.

You step from the collapsed cage of skirts and petticoats, left in stockings, unlaced corset hanging open, and the thin lawn chemise that veils what lamplight longs to touch. He comes around to face you. Candleflame paints filigree across your collarbones. Passion darkens his eyes. They rise to yours—no plea this time, only the certainty of shared design. You nod, offering permission, and answer his slow-forming smile with a kiss—unhurried, claim and consent entwined like ink soaking deep into vellum.

When your fingers find his waistband, Viktor stills them, shakes his head, and falls to his knees—iron brace clicking like a muted bell. Half-prayer, half-claim, he slips both hands beneath your chemise, palms flat, drawing the linen north while his mouth charts the same ascent: knee, inner thigh, the place where pulse beats loudest. Silk garters surrender; stockings fall like shed skins.

He glances up—yearning already certain—then bows. Lips meet you, soft as first light, tongue follows, slow, tormenting. A second pass—hungrier; a third—borderline reckless. He eats at you the way a lost man studies a map: memorising every inlet, every tremor you give him as proof the world is real. Your hand knots in his hair, urging, begging.

His grip shifts to your hips, thumbs branding flesh. Low praises spill, half words, half grunts, vibrations sinking straight to bone. Nothing polite here—only black mass of the flesh, his mouth writing a name he fears to lose, sealing it in salt and heat while the room fades to oblivion.

It contracts to candleflame and the wet sound of worship. Somewhere a tiny clock surrenders, its mechanism halting mid-tick, as though even gears and springs bow to the fierce, time-stealing ritual unfolding at the centre of the chamber.

He works in widening spirals—slow drag, soft suck, sudden press—testing how breath catches, how your thighs falter. Each discovery earns a muffled hum from him, as though pleasure were a language he means to speak fluently before dawn. Your fingers tighten in his hair; he gives you more, sealing mouth and heat against you until the edges of the world smear.

He pauses only when your knees wobble. Lips slick, he lifts his gaze, voice sanded thin by exalt. “You taste like midnight absolution,” he murmurs, reverent and indecent. “Every pulse of you is cathedral music.” A kiss to your inner thigh marks the pause, then he returns—deeper, greedier—tongue flicking where you are tender, then flattening in a slow benediction that makes your throat expose, prayerless.

The room seems to tilt. Light scant; shadow rolls across his shoulders like spilled ink. You clutch them, riding the rhythm he sets—hips rolling, breath breaking, a low keen torn from somewhere uncharted. He encourages it, nails digging just enough to hold you to the altar of his mouth. Words tumble out, ragged blessings: Beautiful… fearless… mine.

Pressure winds tight—a bright flash, a brutal snap. You crest on his tongue, unburdened from shame, as he draws the world to a single, blinding point. Your throat nearly slits with a cry torn raw, flood spilling into his mouth. He drinks like a zealot, commandment fulfilled, steadying you through every quake, mouth easing only when your limbs slacken, crowned in candlelight like a blasphemous saint.

Beath short, you bend to him, palms skimming sweat and stubble, tracing the gleam down his neck, over shoulders and scars painted in pearl on his skin. Fingers lace with his; you draw him upright. He rises—solid, heavy with steel, bone and devotion—and melts into a kiss that is all wet consonants and desperate vowels, noses sliding, breath shared like contraband. Your hands map his chest, then skim his spine where pale skin still bears crimson ghosts from the brace.

You slip the last veil of linen from your hips while he unclasps the leg brace—metal sighing to the floor—then loosens his slacks, shoving them low, baring the heavy weight of him. The sight stalls your pulse.

You move to touch; he turns you instead. Pins tumble when your hair cascades by his hand. He noses the spill of it aside, inhales as though the scent might save him. Arms loop your waist, palms hot over belly, and together you step backward until the bed’s edge meets the backs of his thighs—two shadows poised at the brink of a night that no clock dares to measure.

He settles first, drawing you down onto his lap until your back melts against his chest. His knees part just enough to cradle your hips; the blunt heat of him presses against the well of your spine. He bends to the slope where neck meets shoulder—breath scalding a path—then tastes your skin, voice a low ribbon of velvet filth: “Do you feel it? All of me aches for the sanctuary of you.”

His hands roam upward, thumbs grazing the soft swell of your chest where breath lifts and falls. He squeezes—firm, coaxing—until a moan slips free. “Yes, sing for me,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “And I will sing for you. I am yours to ruin,” he adds, voice fever-rough, need gnawing, all-consuming.

“And I—yours,” you vow, solemn as any oath. One palm crawls down to wrap around him and grip, guiding him to the molten ache, hard flesh meeting soft. Your arm rests on his shoulders, anchoring, hair slipping between your fingers as they tug—a challenge as much as plea.

A groan rumbles in his chest. He cups your jaw, devours your mouth—kiss deep, untidy, all heat—then slides home with one steady, claiming thrust. Your gasp pours straight into his throat; his lashes flutter, eyes half-closing at the welcome of you. “Gods above,” he whispers, wonder threading the grit of his voice. “You fit me as though you were cut to my measure.”

Both palms bracket your hips; he guides you—forward, rise, sink—each glide buries him to the hilt. “That’s it,” he mutters, breath hot at your hairline. “Ride me, my sweet torment. Take every inch—let me vanish inside you.”

The swell of your backside moulds to his stomach as though your bodies were drafted to the same blueprint; your spine bows, head tipping to his shoulder, a living arc. He answers with deeper strokes, unrelenting, lost to the cadence you make together. “Hold me tighter,” he pleads, thumbs pressing crescents into your flesh. “Keep me here—let me remember us like this.”

Candle-flame gutters; bed-timbers keen; the room lists on each gracious rhythm of flesh upon flesh. Viktor widens his stance, drawing your knees farther apart—offering you to the hush of night as though you were both shrine and sacrifice.

He attempts to end you right there. One hand slides down the silk of your thigh to the fevered source of the pulse; the other circles your throat in a tender manacle, thumb stroking the hollow where heartbeat hammers. Inside, around, upon—he is everywhere at once, until borders blur and you are single body, single breath.

“Yes—” the word is a tremor caught behind your teeth. Heat builds, bright and ruinous.

“Speak,” he urges, voice rough and silken all the same. “Tell me how to spend this life.”

A gasp, then the plea spills, ragged yet strangely proper: “Take me in earnest, Viktor—do not be gentle.”

His answering groan is gratitude turned feral. Grip tightening at your throat, he drives upward, strokes lengthening, force blooming. Tension coils sharp; your hands fly to his knees for purchase. Words tangle, dissolve into broken endearments as pleasure crests—his name, your ache, the hiss of more.

He follows every lift of your hips, every clench, until the world contracts to white heat. Your release slams through you—back arching, cry fracturing the stillness. He rides out your shudder, hands steady, until the last quake tapers into small, liquid flutters. Breath returns in ragged sips; the room slips back into focus—lamplight trembling, wood murmuring beneath the mattress.

Against your spine Viktor quakes, chest hitching, rhythm faltering. He is perilously close—every muscle drawn taut, jaw clenched, moans pressed between gritted teeth. And you know, it’s your turn to pray.

You ease off him, mourning the sudden hollow, palms sliding down his thighs as you sink to your knees. Kiss him fervently where he is warm and rigid and slick with you, tongue coaxing his undoing. And there, you take your profane communion—where Viktor breaks, a litany of worship spilled into your mouth, against your skin, joy near-violent in its clarity, as though the night itself has bent to listen and found salvation in the sound.

Viktor’s breathing calms by slow degrees, tremor melting to after-glow. He slips a shaking hand beneath your chin, guides you from your borrowed altar, and gathers you—knees, elbows, heart—into his lap. Fingers smooth the disarray from your cheeks, reverent as any priest with chrism.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice husked but certain. “Madly, recklessly—beyond sense or season.”

You draw your brow to his, lips brushing the confession back into him. “And I adore you—utterly, ardently,” you answer, words tasting of salt, the shared proof of your bodies’ prayer.

The bed receives you both in a slow collapse: limbs braided, skin cooling where sweat had clung. He curls around you, one arm draped heavy at your waist, the other beneath your head like a promised pillow. Your leg hooks over his, capturing him close. No distance remains—only the quiet thrum of joined breath and the ebb of candlelight sliding down the wall.

Outside, wind frets the eaves; inside, two heartbeats settle into a single, drowsy cadence. Wrapped in each other’s warmth—naked, sated, fragrant with mutual sin and solace—you drift beneath the linen, letting sleep claim you the way you claimed one another: slow, complete, unwilling to surrender a single inch of closeness.

Then the dream finds its seam and slides in.

You stand now in the fern-lit cavern, water seeping from stone like slow tears. Moonlight lances through a broken roof, silvering the air. The lone white fern blooms at the centre, but its petals are bruised now—edges darkening as though dipped in tar. You sense, rather than hear, a slow tread behind you.

Turn, and the darkness gathers itself—antlers of shadow, shoulders built of night mist, eyes hollow voids, deep as kilns. The god does not roar or whisper; it simply exists, and the cave shrinks to hold that existence. Cold laps your ankles, then your knees, as if the water were rising with his breath. You cannot move.

A hand—not flesh, but the idea of one—brushes your shoulder, and the skin there burns with frost. When the thing speaks, it is everywhere at once: in your ears, under your ribs, beneath your tongue.

Onъ jestь мой.

He is mine—it ripples through bone like struck glass. Around the cavern walls, echoes repeat—mine… mine… mine—until the syllables lose shape and become nothing but low thunder.

You open your mouth—whether to argue or beg you don’t know—but your voice is mud, heavy and silent. Behind the god, the fern petals blacken fully, curling inward like fists. You reach for them and your hands pass through smoke. The god’s ember gaze holds you, an unspoken ledger tallying debts.

мой —softer now, almost consoling. As if possession were mercy.

You lurch awake, heart battering ribs, breath rasping. Moonlight threads the curtains; Viktor jolts up beside you, instantly alert, palms flattening to your cheeks.

“Dream?” he whispers.

You can only nod, tears salty at the corners of your mouth. He gathers you close, his own heartbeat a frantic mirror. For a long while neither of you speaks, afraid any word might invite the dark back in. Slumber, shallow and restless, returns until morning pries your bodies apart.

It steals in shyly at first—a rinsed-grey dawn that dribbles through the uncurtained gap and strikes the heliostat on Viktor’s workbench. At once the brass sun stirs, copper planets creaking round their tiny orbits, scattering motes of green and rose across wall and sheet. Viktor wakes beneath that wobbling prism of light, limbs leaden yet warm, the curve of your body pressed along his front.

Your brow is still drawn, even in sleep. He folds you closer—arm snug over shoulders, thigh caging yours—until breath mingles. “Speak to me,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with night.

Lids lift; worry swims there. Your fingertips ghost over the planes of his chest, mapping the faint sling-scar of his brace. “He thinks he owns you,” you say, quiet as church dust.

“Does he not?” Viktor’s question is a pulse beneath the words. You stir, pull back just enough to meet his gaze.

“No,” you insist. “You belong only to yourself.”

A grim smile cuts his mouth. “My name belongs to him. All that name touches follows: work, reputation—my very marrow.”

“You never asked for power or gold,” you argue. Flecks of shy sun dance over your shoulders, painting you holy. “Every discovery you made, you earned stitch by stitch.”

He shakes his head, dark hair shadowing cheekbones. “Without the name? No college would have opened its doors, no patron would have financed a crippled boy with a tin ship and a headful of theories.”

“You cannot be certain of that,” you press, frustration brightening your voice.

“And I would rather not find out,” he snaps, sudden and sharp, like steel catching on stone. He levers upright, reaching for the torso brace that glints mute by the bed. Leather cinches; buckles clack. Slacks and the leg brace follows, metal kissing wool with practiced mercy. He snatches his cane from where it leans against the nightstand, as though preparing for retreat.

Anger pricks your eyes. “If you perish you’ll learn nothing else. And I—”

He inhales to counter, words hitch on his tongue—then a brutal cough tears through him, pitching him forward. The cane clatters. Muscles knot under your hands as you steady him, feel heat roar through his chest. The heliostat’s light reels drunkenly round the room, planets juddering in their loops while trinkets flash russet and emerald. In that cacophony of spinning colour and ragged breath, there is silence; debate has been swallowed by the stark, wet rasp of his lungs and the thrum of a god’s claim pressing ever closer at the windowpanes.

“You are cold,” Viktor murmurs when the tremor of gooseflesh lifts along your shoulders. You’d slipped from the quilt, bare as birth, to aid him. He trails a knuckle along your collarbone—an absent sketch that sparks thought as much as heat.

“Always, without you,” you reply, tipping into his touch. Lips reach for his, but he tilts back, palm hovering before his mouth. “There is blood,” he warns—taste of iron still fresh from the coughing fit.

“Then anoint me,” you breathe, closing the distance. Fingers cradle his jaw; your mouth covers his. Iron tang blooms between tongues—sharp, vital. When you part, you whisper, “This—is life, Viktor. Not only books, not only findings.” Your hand settles over the bare plane of his chest, heartbeat hammering beneath. “Give yourself a chance. Give me a chance. I would go to my knees, beg, if that is the price.”

For a heartbeat he remains stunned, arms inert, as though the plea has cut every wire controlling him. Then a twitch—a decision—and his hands climb your thighs, sweep your waist, lock behind your back, crushing you to him. Skin to skin; the leather curve of his brace presses your breasts, cool and unyielding.

“You make me forget,” he murmurs into your hair. “Forget dark. Forget cold. You thaw the ice death sets in my marrow. But its shadow hasn’t fled.”

Your palms slide up the ridged terrain of his ribs. “I am not asking you to cast your world to ruin,” you say, steady, earnest. “Help the Černoglavs first—see how the night shifts. Then decide if the name is worth its chain.”

His breath shudders; you feel it through every inch of contact. Outside, weak sun flares on tiny planets, painting the walls in orbiting gold. Inside, he clutches you tighter—caught between dread and dawning possibility—and in the hush that follows, you feel the faintest tilt of the balance: the weight of fear easing, if only by a feather’s breadth.

“We should make haste, then,” Viktor says, voice still husky against your hair. “If we are to reach them by Forefathers’ Eve.”

You lift your head, brows rising. His mouth curves—equal parts resignation and dare. “I will try.”

Gratitude surges; you claim his lips again, quick and ardent. When breath parts you, mischief sparks. “Would you care to practise lacing up, sir?”

“I shall see what skill I can muster,” he answers, rubbing his nose along your cheek, soft as a promise.

Once made presentable, you move to the study. Algernon delivers the tray there with the wary precision of a man serving wolves. Porridge, ham, a stubborn pot of tea—set between inkpots and scattered journals. His disapproval lingers in the doorway like cold draft, but Viktor barely spares a nod before unfurling fresh parchment.

Together you draft possibilities: salt circles, candle grids, sigils of severance. Pages fill—ink splattering constellations across margins—until Viktor sits back, fingers steepled.

“They must part with every gain the bargain afforded,” he decides. “Land deeds, ledgers, jewelry, even titles carved on stone. Burn it to ash, witnessed by one who bears the name.”

“Mr. Černoglav,” you murmur, “or the boy.”

He inclines his head, begins the letter in his slanted scholar’s hand:

On the night of Forefathers’ Eve, when the veil thins and ancestry stands watch, gather all documents and tokens of your ill-won estate. Fire will speak what blood once lied. I shall attend with my associate to oversee the rite.

He passes it to you for approval; you scan the lines, then ask the question lodging beneath your ribs. “And your own unbinding, Viktor? Should that not claim the same night?”

He dips the quill, thoughtful. “The Černoglav bond endured centuries; they lack the luxury of returning to the seed of their sin. We take the night for them. As for me—” a thin, fierce smile “—I possess the craft to summon without borrowed moonlight, and I know precisely where my thread began, should I wish to proceed.”

A hush settles—ink drying, clocks ticking. “You are brilliant at this,” you say, awe loosening every syllable.

Colour floods his cheeks; his chest lifts as though the words themselves grant breath. “Then let us be worthy of the praise,” he murmurs, pressing your hand—ink-smudged fingers against ink-smudged fingers—ready to wager knowledge and name against the dark. Wax seals the envelope like a heartbeat stilled, the elegant V pressed into it.

Time slides quieter than either of you expected: rainy dawns spent shoulder to shoulder over brass gears; afternoons prowling the winter garden where Rio accompanies you on warm stone, tail twitching at ghosts; nights when clouds shear open and the two of you tilt your heads to count bruised constellations, his arm a steady bar across your back. It is the smallest taste of an ordinary future—tea spoons, half-laughed experiments, your nightgown brushing his brace—and Viktor hoards each glimpse like coin.

Those hushed hours weave themselves into a fragile tapestry: letters dispatched, ritual diagrams inked and drying, travel satchels half-packed beneath the library window. On one night, after you drift upstairs with a candle and a smile that lingers in the hallway, Viktor stays behind to double-check the materials, douse lamps, and lock the door on every stray fear he can corral. It is in that pause—plans stacked, future balanced like a blade—that Algernon’s soft step intrudes, stitching the quiet domestic grace of the past two days to the darker current that still runs beneath the floorboards.

“Need anything further, sir?” he asks, pensive, posture rigid as ever, an empty silver tray tucked beneath his armpit.

“No, thank you.” Viktor pockets the key. The butler lingers, gaze unfocused. “Speak, man—what troubles you?”

Algernon’s voice drifts, oddly hushed. “I would dislike seeing you harmed, my lord. This venture smells of peril.”

“I have lived inside peril most of my life,” Viktor answers. “This venture might be the first scent of salvation.” He steps closer, cane tip ticking on the floor. “Tell me, Algernon—would you prefer me dead?”

The question lands like broken porcelain. Algernon blanches, words tumbling. “Never, sir—never. Forgive my presumption.”

He retreats, footsteps swallowed by the corridor, leaving Viktor with the hush of wavering candlelight and the uneasy sense that even loyalty can fray. Shaking off the chill, he climbs to the bedchamber where you wait, promising himself that if the nights are numbered, he will spend every last one inside the warmth of your borrowed forever.

Morning is pale and wind-sharp when Viktor offers his hand to help you into the carriage. Kid-glove lies forgotten in his coat pocket; your bare fingers slide against his, pulse to pulse.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Are you?” A small dare. He answers with a single, steady nod.

You sit close from the first jolt of wheels, speaking only through skin. His thumb roams the back of your hand, tracing nerves like poet’s ink. Outside, the October landscape unspools—fields leeched of colour, birches rattling their bones. Breath plumes in the shared space between your mouths, warm argot against the window’s chill pane. Neither of you remarks on the way time seems to fold; it is enough to feel the fold together.

By mid-afternoon the Černoglav estate rises out of the haze: brick dark as dried blood, windows blind. Mrs. Samkova meets you at the steps, skirts snapping in the wind. Worry has thinned her mouth to a thread.

“Welcome back,” she says, voice rough but civil. “And thank you for your haste, Mr. Velesny. We shall repay the debt you are owed—”

“You will do no such thing.” Viktor bows, brushing his lips to her gloved knuckles. “If this works, you will have no coin left for recompense. Keep what remains.” His gaze flicks to her husband, grey as smoke behind her shoulder.

She ushers you inside, words tumbling faster than her feet. “That—exactly—that is what troubles me.” Crossing the threshold, she lowers her voice. “Every Černoglav is buried on these grounds. Their name is scratched into lintels, etched on hearthstones. The house itself breathes the bargain.”

Viktor’s cane taps once on the parquet, a metronome for thought. “You believe we must burn it,” he murmurs, tasting the solidity of the idea.

Silence swells; the long corridor seems to listen. Dust motes drift like hesitant snow. At last he asks, soft but iron-edged, “Have you somewhere to go?”

Mrs. Samkova’s fingers find her husband’s and clasp hard. “We do,” she says, voice quaking. She peers up at Viktor, eyes bright with both terror and relief. “If fire is the price, so be it. You … you have our permission.”

The word hangs heavy, flammable. Somewhere deep in the walls, a beam creaks—as though the old house understands the sentence just pronounced. Between your joined hands Viktor’s pulse kicks, and you feel the future tip, cinder-bright, into the waiting night.

Preparations spool through the day like black thread: wardrobes emptied, heirlooms judged. You and Viktor become archivists of loss—deciding what burns, what may yet travel. By dusk, only framed silhouettes remain, pale ancestors staring from ovals of cardboard: memory without coin.

The sparse staff depart first, bundled into the carriage with the young heir; Samkova’s husband drives them toward safer roofs. Evening settles. For the last time Viktor wheels Mr. Černoglav into the drawing-room; lamplight trembles against stripped walls. Steam curls from porcelain cups, the smell of chicory and smoke already mingling.

“This inquiry has unknotted my own curse,” Viktor confesses, hands wrapped round the cup for warmth. “It seems the same god dogs us both.”

The old man’s eyes gleam, lucid despite lungs that rasp like worn bellows. “Perhaps I am mad—letting a stranger erase what centuries built. Yet you do not walk the path of madness, Mr. Velesny, I believe.”

“Please—call me Viktor.” A wry breath. “Soon our surnames may be ash.”

The elder smiles and lifts one trembling hand. “Then we meet as Radomír and Viktor, nothing more. I doubt I’ll linger long enough to learn your next name.” A pause—soft as the click of a clock reaching the hour. “Whatever comes, call me friend. Thank you for giving my family a chance.”

“Do not thank me yet,” Viktor says, the smile brittle. “I may burn your house and leave you with nothing.”

“And still I choose faith, Viktor. At the threshold of breath, hope is lighter to carry than regret.”

Hope—a word he has seldom trusted—drops hot in Viktor’s chest. It seems as if his soul has made the decision before the mind could intrude. Just then, like a confirmation fleshed out, you appear in the doorway, lantern in hand. “Forgive the interruption. It is time.”

So, the two of you begin the unmaking. Oil sloshes across boards, trickles down balustrades, pools in the cellar like black water. Fumes sting throat and eye; every footstep echoes finality. Near the front doors you lower the empty canister, chest hitching. “Harrowing business,” you manage, fabric covering mouth.

Viktor sets his canister aside, clasps your shaking hands. “Are you frightened?”

“All of that and more, beloved,” you admit with a wry smile.

“So am I.” His grip tightens. “Bravery is fear that refuses retreat, you once told me. We refuse together.” With that, your heart settles, if only for a moment.

Outside, night yawns starless, wind raw from the east. The final trail of oil is drawn across the lawn, joining house to its edge where Radomír sits bundled in blankets beside his daughter, holding a single lantern. The air stings raw and tasting of snow. The manor crouches behind you—windows dark, rooms hollowed of voice and souls.

“It is nearly midnight,” Viktor says. “Let us finish before sainted dawn.”

Radomír strikes a match. Flame trembles, then leaps to the oil path, racing toward the door like a summoned serpent. All four step back. Heat blooms; shingles pop; glass weeps molten tears. The house becomes a torch against the void—timber bones cracking, smoke billowing up like a black crown.

Viktor lifts his cane, the silver tip glinting like a star against the roaring dark. Smoke stings his lungs, but his voice rises clear, rolling through the firelit void:

“Černobog, keeper of root and grave, we return that which was never ours.

This name, once stolen for favour, we cast to embers.

These lands, these ledgers, this pride—ash for ash.

By witness of blood and breath, we break the chain.

Leave the line of Radomír Černoglav.

Claim them no longer—claim us no more.”

The wind’s answer is immediate and savage. A gale unlatches the heavens, driving sparks into spirals that hiss and writhe like fire-serpents drinking their own tails. The inferno rears higher, and in its molten heart matter curdles into shape: a vast silhouette rack-crowned with antlers, eyes the colour of furnace iron, cloak a negative of light—pure, smokeless dark. Heat buckles the air, yet a sudden chill nests in the marrow of every witness.

From that void-throat issues a voice that is less sound than verdict:

Do you spurn my gifts, House Černoglav? Will you trade inheritance for dust?

Radomír pulls the blankets from his knees, the wool scraping bone. He stands—barely—leaning on the iron arms of the wheelchair, each breath a rattle in a cracked flute. “We do,” he declares. The syllables are thin yet unwavering. “Your bounty has been our yoke.”

The god regards him—ember gaze narrowing. A pulse rolls underfoot, as if some vast heart has thudded in the deep soil. Flames along the eaves flare sickly green, licking skyward, then gutter inward, as though the blaze itself inhales. Soot-snow begins to fall: delicate, black-feathered motes that sting where they land.

Radomír’s chest lifts once more. In that breath you see him younger—lord of a house granted by unnatural means—then older again, every theft tolling through his ribs. He looks to Viktor and manages a faint, rueful smile. “Victory, my friend,” he murmurs, so low the crackle of fire nearly swallows it. “Hold fast to yours.”

The antlered shadow steps forward—no footfall, just a folding of space—and Radomír’s words cut off like a candle pinched. A column of air implodes around him; his body arches, spine bowing as if drawn to invisible hooks. Light pours from his mouth—a pale, fluttering thread—and streaks toward the god’s outstretched hand. For one shuddering instant Radomír’s eyes blaze white; then the thread snaps into the dark palm, and the man’s frame collapses to ash-grey stillness. Blankets settle over an empty cage of bone.

A wail breaks from his daughter, raw and shattering, but the wind whips it aside. Viktor lunges as though he could catch what has already flown, and the cane lands uselessly in the dirt. The god turns its gaze on him now—on you—smoke-cloak furling like storm surf. The air tastes of pennies and grave mould; every heartbeat feels counted.

I know you. You still belong to me.

A moment frozen in resin. It laughs briefly, yet the figure’s ember eyes dim, pupil-red shrinking to pinpricks. Around its antlers the fire gutters back to natural orange, as if the claim of one life has sated it for now. It speaks once more, and the words crack the air like iron gates closing:

So be it. Nameless, you shall wander. Dust for dust.

A final gust scatters the soot-snow, and the silhouette tears apart into black petals that whirl upward and vanish among the sparks.

Silence tunnels in around you. The manor’s spine caves with a groan; beams tumble in a storm of embers. Mrs. Samkova kneels beside the wheel-chair frame, pressing hands to a chest that no longer rises. Viktor stands rigid, eyes reflecting the pyre, lips moving soundlessly—some prayer or curse you cannot tell. You touch his arm; his skin is ice beneath sweat.

Above the ruins, smoke columns twist into the night like twin adders, and the smell is of pine pitch and old blood. Whatever bargain held for centuries is broken, but the cost glows hot on the ground before you, radiating grief. Flames snap and roar on, lighting a path of cinder into the darkness where tomorrow waits, stripped and raw.

Ash drifts sideways through the first sifting of real snow, grey tangling with white until sky and ground share one colour of forgetting. The hour has slipped past midnight—Forefathers’ Eve already fled into All Saints’ morning—yet no birds announce the change, and the fire’s roar seems kneaded down to a hoarse murmur. In that hush, time stalls: three living figures shoulder-to-shoulder about a fourth that has folded inward on itself, blankets still warm, bones cooling.

Viktor’s coat flaps in the wind, stiff with soot, his cane lost in the rutted grass. He watches the house collapse in slow stages—beam after beam bowing like penitents—until each fall feels less like ruin, more like punctuation. Mrs. Samkova kneels, veil of ash weaving through her loosened hair, one hand fisted round a rosary that no longer clicks. You hover beside them both, palm pressed to Viktor’s back, feeling the staccato of his heart through brace, cotton and wool. None of you speak; even grief seems hushed, afraid of echo.

Somewhere far along the frost-black lane, the small shape of the returning carriage appears, lantern bobbing like a wayward star. Its wheels whisper over gravel, slow but inevitable, drawing the living toward whatever scant future can be salvaged from this pyre. Around you the snow thickens; flakes kiss sparks, hiss, and vanish. The night exhales, and the world, lighter by one haunted name, begins—quietly—to turn again.

[anodetoswag]

𝔐𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔦𝔯𝔰

𝑅. 𝒮𝓊𝓀𝓊𝓃𝒶

Synopsis: In some irony of nature, an immortal teaches you the ways of the living.

❀﹒Notes: Manga spoilers. Angst but y'all know I gotta be funny about it . Sukuna himself is a trigger warning. Suggestive humor.

𓍯 W.C. 2K

The list of cons about the lifestyle of shamans is never ending; ‘certain death’ being the one at the very top of the catalogue in big, bright letters. But at the fear of sounding morbidly optimistic, you think the perks balance it out. The money is good, for one. That’s what keeps most in this profession where everything is trying to kill you at every corner. And if someone asks, you’d probably state the same reason. It’s the easy thing to say, something that doesn’t require a lot of thinking.

But you like to think.

Which is another, if not the primary reason you don’t mind the frequent reminders of your mortality. There isn’t too much work and more often than not, you can do absolutely nothing but kill time.

It’s nothing sophisticated or anything of the sort. In fact, most days you think about absolute nonsense. Jump from one thought to the next or stay and mull over one for hours. In your head, you’re in control; not the higher ups, not Gojo Satoru but you.

Lately, your thoughts seem to always end up at one place. At first you found it somewhat irksome but you’re not one to fight these things too hard. Just let the stream flow in the direction it wants. That’s likely why you’d be a terrible protagonist; you’re passive and dull.

Sukuna however, is neither of those things. That’s likely why you didn’t mind being around him as much as a lot of people did. You’re not stimulating enough in the sense that he wants to toy with you. Neither is it your nature volatile enough to let him get under your skin.

That’s not to say the start of it wasn’t rocky. The first time you held him captive in his own domain, it was raining hellfire in more ways than one. In some depraved way, you’d enjoyed the show, you suppose. Given you a power trip because you were untouchable in the belly of the beast.

Only natural to taunt him. Hardly serious, in fact most of the things you poked at were rather harmless, or at least they were in the start. He was easier to bother then. Over time he must have built some sort of immunity so you had to alter the dose accordingly.

He’d snarl and bare his teeth like some rabid animal; like a dog. You wouldn’t even laugh, only smile as if his misery was mildly diverting. That was probably the worst part. Then like clockwork, Sukuna would swear vengeance upon your ancestry and describe in chilling detail what he’s do once he’s at the height of his power again. It was almost cartoonish to you; the supervillain describing his evil schemes.

At some point the narratives shifted around to accommodate you as a special mention, until eventually they began to be centred around you entirely.

He’d go on these vividly comprehensive diatribes. How he’s going to skin you alive and use it as the carpet to his bath house, all while beaming since he knew you find aggravation to be particularly compelling amongst all his reactions.

You politely asked him to stop self-projecting his fetishes. Safe to say that did the trick to have him frothing at the mouth.

Sometimes you’d leave him be to his devices. Coexist and nothing more. The first few times it was because you weren’t in the mood to talk for whatever reason. Sukuna had eyed you warily the first hour, tried to get something out of you the next few.

“Come on brat,” he pokes at you with what you assume is a fibula of whatever poor creature it might have once belonged to, now reduced to little more than home décor. “Is this a new scheme to get on my nerves?”

You’d shot him a half-hearted glare and somewhat whiny ‘go away’; one of your less creative comebacks.

“Is it your time of the month?”

“No,” you roll your eyes. “And even if it was, it’s none of your concern.”

“It is when a good drink is going to waste.” The casualness with which he said it was what put you off more than the words themselves.

“What,” you ask, somewhat wide eyed. Maybe the sleep deprivation was catching up.

“What?”

For better or worse, you were shipped off on a mission the next day so you didn’t have to unpack that with him.

Yuuji Itadori is declared dead by the time you return. Sukuna, by extension, to some degree. It’s tragic, of course but hardly anything you never witnessed. People come and go in a profession like this one.

The day Yuuji wakes up in the morgue, Sukuna throws a tantrum. Naturally, you find yourself back on babysitting duty. He doesn’t bother berating you this time around, only grumbling an ‘about damn time.’

You realize soon enough that he just wanted someone to share the results of his latest lunacy episode. He lays great emphasis on the part where he rips his shirt off, or Yuuji’s , more accurately. Gives you a real life replay even though you very much did not ask for it. Proceeds to casually breeze over the part where he rips out his heart. You find no reason to stretch out that part, specially not when you’re currently in a way, inside the boy’s subconscious.

♒︎

That’s probably when things really eased up. Felt less like you’re on the clock, expected to keep a millennia old fiend in line and more like a troublesome roommate. The kind who never does the dishes but gives the people next door a piece of his mind when they get carried away in debauched pastimes and you’re either not confrontational enough to deal with them or not in the mood.

“What do mortals do to pass time?”

You hold back a yawn; almost certain he chose to ask something right in this moment because you were just about to fall asleep peacefully. “They do each other.”

“Brazen, but what do you do to pass time?”

An owlish blink before the jab clicks. “Funny.”

♒︎

He’d taken to story telling at some point. It was a particularly uneventful week and you’d been crabby over being stuck inside in the most literal sense. Something about burning down villages and tearing jujutsu sorcerers limb to limb. You wonder to yourself at some point if publishing them would be worth it but shove the idea to the back of your head for the moment.

Sukuna’s Bizarre Adventures

It’s gratifying, you realize. Listening to him recall events. He never justified anything. Unlike most who did horrible things, Sukuna wasn’t deluded. Didn’t see himself as some divine justice. What he says, goes. An unjust however simple enough way to go about things.

Losing track of time was easy. In fact, often he’d have to shoo you away. You’d leave the domain, only to discern it’s already dark when you started early in the afternoon. Other times he’d regard you with a coy sort of look before asking when you last blinked.

He must be fucking with your head. It’s like saying you forgot to close the valves in your veins. But then you would blink, realize it’s sort of uncomfortable. You chalk it upto placebo.

In listening to Sukuna talk about himself you realized some things of your own. Primarily that you liked it. A little too much in fact because you come to become conscious of your habits over time. More specifically the one to eavesdrop. It’s at the most arbitrary places too; that group of high school kids talking about some upcoming club recruitment event. Or the elderly resident in your neighborhood on the call with his daughter, asking if she could make it home for the holidays.

It doesn’t have to be scandalous. Hell, sometimes it’s utterly mundane. But it’s really not about entertainment as much as it was about inquisitiveness. The things people do, the things they say, their regrets and their lies; the stories that never make it to paper because they’re boring yet make people what they are in present day.

But more importantly, you realized you hardly have anything of your own to say. Actually, that is somewhat of an inaccurate way to phase it. It’s more like you don’t want to, or didn’t want to.

The sorcerer life is hard not just because you can lose yourself but because you can lose the people around you. You’d taken that lesson too hard, shielded yourself too much and somewhere in the process of surviving, you’d forgotten to live.

You’d envied the intimacy your peers shared with each other. It wasn’t like you didn’t get along with them or anything but things with you were always surface level. Plans would be made but you’d back out more often than not, some excuse or the other ready. They’d sigh, tell you it’s fine, there’s always the next one. More of a formality than anything. They’d come to expect it from you.

Now well into your adulthood, the rift is too wide and you’re stuck on one side with no clue what to do about it.

The what ifs of life are what occupy your headspace. You wouldn’t say it’s lonely, per se. But it does get boring sometimes.

You’re similar in that way at least, you and Sukuna. That’s another reason why your time together doesn’t feel like as much of a chore as it is. Sukuna isn’t going to turn up his toes anytime soon. In hindsight, you jinxed that one too, huh?

♒︎

When the thoughts began, you’d felt like you’d committed a cardinal sin. Comrades fallen, humanity at stake and yet the one in your ruminations was the one who had consideration for nobody but himself.

But who prays for Satan?

It’s a derisory outlook. One that made you sure you were slipping away too. Going demented after all the recent events. It would hardly be the first case of psychosis amongst sorcerers.

The first time you pass by the shrine, you only spare it a look. The second time you slow down, the third you stop and by the fourth, you find your will having eroded enough to enter. A saunter around the courtyard confirms your only company are the rodents scurrying about and termites infesting the wood.

Strangely enough, no curses around either.

The face of the deity is almost entirely eaten away. In your mind, it looks like him. There’s incense sitting in a box somewhere to the left of the statue. You take out the lighter and put it near the end of it despite not counting on them to light up.

One does, despite all odds.

Deeming that satisfactory enough of a result, you push it into the stand and just stand there for a second. You try to recall any prayer from your childhood but your mind draws a blank in that moment. Getting performance anxiety in front of a block of wood has to take the cake as far as self esteem issues go for you.

“I was in the area,” and now you’re talking to thin air. “Just thought to drop by and say hi.”

That sounds like something you’re supposed to say to a summer situationship and not a once revered being but it’s the thought that counts.

Barely ten steps from the door, your phone vibrates with a notification. You fish it out, expecting it to be a promotional message. Instead, it’s Shoko’s name that lights up the screen.

An invitation to go drinking with Utahime and Mei Mei.

You don’t have to think a whole lot before punching in a reply and hitting send with an affirmation of your presence.

If you’re going to have to say goodbye, you better make every minute with them count.  Maybe every once in a while, one needs a millennia old demon and a war to learn the simplest lessons in life. On second thought, it might just be the promise of booze.

Divider credits to @cafekitsune. Images from Pinterest.

Characters belong to Gege Akutami.

[ginnsbaker]

Fic: Right Here, Right Now

Summary: Marrying the love of your life a second time around is definitely sweeter // An ILGOSS Oneshot.

Pairing: Wanda x Fem!Reader | Word count: 1.4k+ | Warnings: None...? does cheese count? | A/N: Did you miss me? Thank you to the anon who suggested this one-shot. This is set in the ILGOSS universe, but can be treated as an independent story about two divorced wives marrying each other again. This functions more like a drabble, think of it like a missing scene in the epilogue. Enjoy!

Masterlist

-

It's been a grueling twelve hours since you last saw Wanda, and you're practically climbing the walls. Your heart's doing this annoying jittery thing, and the more you try to calm down, the more agitated you become. This whole ‘not seeing the bride before the wedding’ tradition is driving you nuts.

Desperate, you send a text to Natasha. I need to see her, you say, barely keeping it together to type a full sentence. I can't wait till the aisle.

Your phone buzzes almost immediately with Natasha’s reply. On it!, she texts back, and you know she's cooking up some scheme. Relying on your best friend to create the perfect diversion feels like your only lifeline.

It only takes a few minutes when suddenly, an ear-splitting sound erupts from outside, jerking everyone's attention away from the primping and preening. Your eyes shoot wide—trust Natasha to choose something as dramatic as a fire or emergency hazard for a diversion. Part of you frets Wanda might be one of the first out there. Nevertheless, the plan works like a charm. Like clockwork, the room empties out, everyone drawn out by the allure of drama and a juicy story.

You’re half-curious about what kind of ruckus Natasha managed to come up with, but that thought vanishes instantly when you hear the other bedroom door open with a soft creak. A second later, a smile gradually spreads across your lips when you hear a set of footsteps, familiar to you as your own heartbeat. Rising carefully from your chair to avoid stepping on the hem of your pristine white dress, you make your way to the door as quickly as decorum allows.

As you reach the stairs, you spot your bride already making her way down. Seeing her, even with her back turned to you, takes your breath away and seals your fate of forever having your heart in Wanda’s captivity. It's hard to believe you managed to be with her the first time. Harder to think about how you almost lost her in your life for good, but here you are, feeling like the luckiest person in the world to have her back again for a second chance.

“Hey.”

Wanda turns at the sound of your voice, and her smile illuminates the space around her, outshining the sun's rays filtering through the windows. A gentle sea breeze teases her hair, softly framing her face. You stand frozen at the top of the stairs, unable to comprehend how everything you’ve both been through, led to this miraculous moment.

“Hi,” she greets in return, nodding towards the commotion outside. “Everybody rushed out. Could be an emergency.”

You shake your head and smile widely, teeth digging at your bottom lip, helpless as a blush taints both of your cheeks. Wanda looks absolutely stunning, and it's like you're suddenly back in college again, seeing her for the first time. You miss a step, almost causing you to fall flat on your face, just like you did back then.

“I…might have asked Nat’s help to get you alone,” you say with a sheepish grin. “I, uh, I wanted to do something. I-If you’re up for it.”

“Sounds serious,” Wanda teases, perching herself on the handrail. She arches an eyebrow, her eyes reflecting a desire that mirrors your own. It takes every ounce of your self-control, and then some, not to sweep Wanda into your arms and forget about the ceremony altogether. For several seconds, you're silent, prompting Wanda to reach out. Her fingers lightly brush against your arm, and that simple touch sends a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“What’s the plan?” she whispers, as if guarding a precious secret.

Without hesitation, as if the idea has been burning inside you your whole life, you blurt out, “Let’s get married.”

“You do remember we're getting married today, right?” Wanda says, barely hiding her amusement.

You nod, stepping closer to her. “Yeah, I know. But right here, right now, I want to marry you. Just us, committing to each other without anyone else around.”

Wanda's smile softens, and she steps closer. “Just us?” Her voice is soft, almost disbelieving.

You almost back out, feeling a bit silly. “Sounds a bit selfish, huh? Forget I said it—”

“No, don't,” she quickly says, grabbing your hand. “It's not selfish. It's actually really sweet, considering everything.”

You bite back the admission that this impromptu plan was born just minutes ago. Maybe the real reason couples are advised against seeing each other several hours before the ceremony is due to moments like this. Seeing Wanda in her dress, so beautiful, it's hard not to just marry her on the spot, forget the past, forget the plans. Moreso, there's something different about this second time. You're both older, wiser, each with a richer history that stretches far and beyond. It feels more layered, as if you've both fought harder for this moment than for anything else in your lives.

Taking another step down, you move closer to Wanda, holding her gaze. Your own dress trails behind you, its fabric whispering softly with each movement.

“We’re really doing this?” you ask.

“Getting a second shot at being your wife, especially after how badly I messed up… I never thought I’d get that chance again,” Wanda confesses, standing so close you can feel her breath. You tower a few inches over her, yet you feel utterly helpless under her spell.

“If it were up to me, I’d have dragged you to city hall the moment you said yes,” she adds. “But I wanted this moment to be perfect for you.”

And it is, you think to yourself. You almost take her face in your hands, but at the last minute, you decide against it, not wanting to ruin the meticulous work of those who spent hours making her look so stunning–efforts you deeply appreciate. Instead, you guide her hand to your chest, right over your heart, feeling its steady beat under her palm. A small, fragile thing, but it's filled with everything you feel for her.

“Wanda Maximoff, I take you to be my wife,” you swallow thickly, trying your best not to ruin your own make-up. “I am wholly and undeniably yours, and I promise to keep choosing you, every single day.”

You look into her eyes, and there's a whole universe in that gaze. “You're my love, my heart, my home. In this life, or the next. Today, I recommit my life to you, with all that I am and all that I have.”

For a few beats, everything goes quiet, allowing your words to truly sink in between the two of you. Then, you let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, just as Wanda tries to catch hers.

“And I promise to be true to us, to what we have now,” she replies, her slender frame trembling slightly under the weight of her emotions. You swipe away a rogue tear that slips down her cheek, then kiss her forehead tenderly. Her promise clearly reflects on her past mistakes. Though you've forgiven her countless times, you understand the importance of her saying it out loud.

Taking both of your hands, Wanda looks up at you, her eyes shimmering and full of hope. “I promise to love you, to stay faithful to you, to be yours through and through. You're my heart, my soul, my everything—and I'm going to spend every day proving that to you.”

And with that, you feel every part of you intertwining with hers. You lean in and kiss her, soft and delicate. It's as natural as it's always been with Wanda, as if your lips remember what your minds might sometimes forget.

-

Later, just outside your childhood home, surrounded by your closest friends and family, you still cry when Wanda reads you her vows. She does the same when you call her “My wife”, and then again when you address her using your last name.

The reception, following immediately after the ceremony, officially concludes with the remainder of the fireworks that Natasha had launched prematurely earlier as part of her plan to create a distraction, allowing you to sneak in and have a moment alone with Wanda. You and Wanda spend the rest of the night barely taking your eyes off each other, basking in the presence of everyone you’ve ever loved.

If life has taught you one enduring lesson, it's that the most precious things are never easily won. And you and Wanda, you've proven time and again that you're cut out for exactly that— fighting against all odds, for the love that's worth every bit of the struggle.

[heliosunny]

Bidding for trouble - 1.5

Yandere!Sugilite x Assistant!Reader

You weren’t sure what was worse: the overwhelming workload in Topaz’s department or Sugilite’s dramatic morning interruptions.

Honestly, it was a close call.

When you were first temporarily reassigned to help out Topaz’s team, you thought it wouldn’t be that bad. Sure, they were short-staffed, and sure, they had piles of work that somehow never ended, but at least you wouldn’t have to deal with Sugilite’s unpredictable schemes for a while.

Or so you thought.

Because apparently, he had other plans.

And now, every morning without fail, he showed up at Topaz’s office like a VIP customer filing a complaint.

Morning Ritual – Day One

You were barely halfway through your first cup of coffee when a familiar voice rang out across the department.

“Ah, there you are!” Sugilite said smoothly, stepping into the office like he owned the place. “I was beginning to think you’d disappeared for good.”

You sighed, setting down your paperwork. “Good morning to you too, Boss.”

Topaz looked up from her desk, visibly unimpressed. “Shouldn’t you be working?”

Sugilite smiled. “I am working. I’m here to check on my most valuable employee.”

You gave him a flat look. “It’s literally my first day here.”

“Exactly. You’ve been away too long.”

Topaz pinched the bridge of her nose. “If you’re not here to invest in something, get out.”

Sugilite ignored her entirely, turning back to you with an easy grin. “So, how’s the transfer treating you? Boring without me?”

You rolled your eyes. “Surprisingly peaceful.”

His smile dropped slightly.

“Is that so?” he mused, voice light, but there was a familiar edge to it. The kind that said I don’t like that answer.

You pretended not to notice.

Sugilite sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Well, don’t get too comfortable. You’re coming back the second this little favor is over.”

Topaz crossed her arms. “If we still need them, I might keep them a bit longer.”

You could feel Sugilite’s sharp gaze shift toward her.…Okay. Time to intervene before someone loses a contract.

You grabbed your pen, waving it slightly. “Boss, I’ll be back before you know it. You’ll survive.”

Sugilite’s eyes flickered toward you.

And then—just like that, the usual grin returned.

“Of course” he said, stepping back. “Just don’t forget where you belong.”

With that, he finally left.

Topaz let out an exasperated sigh. “That man is impossible.”

You just picked up your coffee again.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Tell me about it.”

Morning Ritual – Day Five

By now, everyone in the department knew the drill.

Every morning, like clockwork, Sugilite arrived.

Some days, he’d bring coffee. Other days, he’d make questionable investment offers just to get a reaction out of Topaz. Every day, he found some excuse to linger. And every day, you pretended not to be amused.

But you weren’t blind.

The way his gaze lingered whenever he saw you working. The way his mood soured whenever you got too comfortable here.

He didn’t like you being anywhere but his department.

And honestly?

You weren’t sure if that was endearing or concerning.

Either way, it wasn’t your problem to deal with.

Day Seven – The Last Morning Visit

By this point, Sugilite’s daily intrusions had become something of a department-wide joke.

The moment he strolled in that morning, coffee in one hand, confident smirk in place, you heard two employees in the back whispering.

“Oh, look. Here comes the morning check-in.”

“Boss withdrawal is crazy.”

“He really can’t survive without Y/n, huh?”

You pretended not to hear them.

Sugilite, on the other hand, definitely heard them.

But instead of denying it, he grinned.

“Good to see my reputation is intact” he mused, setting a coffee cup down in front of you like some kind of tribute.

You raised an eyebrow. “If this is bribery, it’s working.”

He let out a mock gasp. “You wound me. This is a generous display of my affections. A rare privilege.”

Topaz, from across the room, snorted. “What’s rare is you actually doing your job instead of harassing my department.”

Sugilite completely ignored her.

Instead, he leaned against your desk, watching you take a sip of the coffee he brought. “Good?”

You nodded. “Yeah, but I feel like I should be suspicious.”

“Why?” His smirk widened. “Do you think I poisoned it?”

“At this point?” You exhaled. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Topaz laughed.

Sugilite?

He looked far too pleased.

“That’s the spirit” he said, straightening up. “Keep that paranoia. It’ll keep you alive when you come back.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” He tilted his head innocently. “Your little vacation here is over. Topaz doesn’t need you anymore.”

You slowly turned to Topaz. “Is this true?”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Unfortunately.”

Sugilite clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Let’s go.”

Before you could even protest, he had already started herding you toward the door like a prized possession he was finally reclaiming.

“Hold on, at least let me pack up my stuff—”

“No need,” he interrupted smoothly. “Everything’s already waiting back at your desk. We’ll consider this a seamless transition.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did.” He smiled like he hadn’t just admitted to orchestrating your entire return.

Topaz shook her head. “I should’ve fought harder to keep you.”

Sugilite laughed. “Nice try, but Y/n is mine.”

The way he said it—casual, teasing, but firm enough to leave no room for argument—sent a weird little shiver down your spine.

But you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t a little flattering.

Back in Your Department – Sugilite’s Perspective

As soon as you were back at your desk, Sugilite stretched out his arms and sighed dramatically.

“Ahh. Finally. Order is restored.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re acting like I was gone for months.”

“That’s what it felt like.”

“You still saw me every morning.”

“Not the same.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned. “And you’re back where you belong. Now hurry up and finish your work before I find a new reason to cut your salary.”

You groaned.

Yep.

Everything was back to normal.

[anony-man]

Lotta characters appear this time… just tagging our Megop, though. If you need someone tagged that appears in the story, let me know!

Chubformers drabble #167!

Characters: Megatron & Optimus (G1)

Word count: 1.5k

It was happening again. Like clockwork, the so-called important meetings only two of all the bots on earth were allowed to partake in were taking place.

Autobots did not get along with Decepticons, and Decepticons did not get along with Autobots. It was the way things had always been, the way they would always be, and nothing, not even the ridiculous meetings both leaders on both sides of the war insisted on having, would ever change that. Chaos erupted the moment any two soldiers from either faction were so much as within sight of each other, and the ridiculous notion that some stupid meetings between Optimus and Megatron each week would fix things was, quite honestly, laughable at best.

Neither mech had been able to manage so much as speaking to the other for eons upon eons. What had changed? What could something like this have fixed that left the Cons’ beloved and mutinous murderer of a warlord so docile and smug all of the time? Optimus wasn’t looking any more haggard by the day, which meant something good had to have been coming out of this… but what?

The deal was simple, if not ridiculous, too. Everyone was tired of the war by then, and if they weren’t, well… tough luck, because the peace treaty had been written up and things were already shifting into place. Not a week went by without a cramped room being filled with air commanders and lieutenants grumbling to themselves and each other as they waited for their leaders to come out and discuss whatever had been discussed behind closed doors. Almost everyone was tired of the war, but not everyone was pleased with this solution—and for good reason.

No matter how many times Starscream whined in his audial-piercing tone about the tank-churning burden of standing guard while Optimus had his fun in private with their leader (and at this point, all of his words really had been made in jest—or at least exaggeration), nor the amount of begging that happened from the Prime’s own second and third in command and even bossy minibots, the deal still took place. Each week both Optimus and Megatron were to meet in private, and they were to discuss… er, whatever it is that they were to discuss. No witnesses would be in the room, but a handful of support would remain outside the door. There was no backing out, no complaining (so long as they were in earshot of their leaders, that is), and certainly no scheming.

Simply put, everyone hated it. They hated it up until a certain point, that is, and by that point, the rumor mill had already started to run… and boy, did they have some good seeds to sow from.

The waiting room was small, and the walls were thick, which meant listening on everything happening behind the closed door was out of the question—as was avoiding conversations with their soon-to-be fellow Cybertronians, same faction or no. Nothing was ever simple when both Megatron and Optimus were involved, and soon enough, things started to get interesting… and it started with longer meetings, muffled sounds, and a suspiciously happy leader for both factions involved.

By week one, shifty optics and small, discreet hmmfs were shared as the sound of clattering boxes and raised, yet happy, voices echoed through the heavy duty walls. Everyone stuck in the room was there on important business, of course, and none of the bots present would ever dare to press for questions after the important meetings were adjourned—save for Starscream, that is. However, when the shift from democracy and relevant topics to whatever the frag their leaders were fragging up in there took place, nobody could be blamed for letting their curiosity overcome them.

On one side of the room, the few Autobots gathered to lend their support stood huddled and whispering, their helms lowered and their optics wandering. On the other side, Starscream had propped himself up against an old desk and sat with his pedes kicking and his arms crossed over his chest, looking ever so displeased as he stared at the closed door.

“So,” the seeker said, his voice as grating as his tone was haughty. “Which one of you morons is finally going to dish out some answers here?”

Silence followed for several seconds as he sat and stared between the door and the Autobots, impatiently waiting for a response. It was the first time he’d managed to come without his fellow commanders tagging along, and he was going to ensure he made good use of it.

“What does it matter?” said Prowl, who was the first of his group to speak. “I won’t openly agree to whatever our leaders have in mind with this… choice, but—“

“I think they’re banging.”

Another awkward silence followed. Prowl, for his part, looked utterly appalled.

“Nah,” Jazz cut in. “It’s too quiet for that.”

Starscream made a small sound of disgust and lifted his nose in the air, then uncrossed and recrossed his arms.

“Well?” he eventually said, “what else could they possibly be doing?”

The long pauses between any chatter amongst the members of the group were growing far more common by the second. Only after the sound of another box hitting the floor was heard did Jazz speak again.

“Optimus is startin’ to look awfully… hefty, don’t you think?”

“The war is over, Jazz,” Prowl said, “and we aren’t fighting so desperately for energon any longer. I would hope he’d start to gain some more wait.”

Jazz held up his servos and shook his helm. “No, no, not like that. Like…”

“You mean he’s looking fat,” Starscream’s grating voice echoed from across the room. “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

“The old rust bucket seems a lot happier lately, too,” Hound, who had somehow managed to weasel his way into the group of recruits that were forced to come along every time a meeting happened, stood from his chair and moved to join his fellow Autobots. “I’m still a little new to the whole getting together for good thing, but…”

It was literal in the sense of two factions forming into one once again, but there was one thing on everyone’s processor that day, and it was how that extended to both Optimus and Megatron, too. It had, quite clearly, started happening in more ways than one.

“Something is going on behind that door,” Starscream said, jerking his helm in every direction of the Autobot across from him as he met their optics with his own hard gaze, “something that has nothing to do with this whole ‘peace treaty nonsense, and I intend to find out what.”

Both Optimus and Megatron had to give it to him, because… well, he was right. It was hard to prove that the increasingly tender moments the two mechs indulged in behind closed doors were actually happening when you weren’t there to see it for yourself, but signs appeared all the same. Megatron was growing softer, and so was Optimus—and in more ways than one.

The meetings still dragged on, and with it, the interest from various members of both sides of the war grew. Neither mech’s secret was hidden all that well, especially not when the curved edges of Optimus’ frame bore such brunt evidence of Megatron’s insistence on fattening him up over what they both agreed was company time. Nobody knew yet, but they were bound to know soon, especially if things kept up the way they were.

Another five minutes passed, then ten. No signs of their leaders came from behind the door, not even after the Autobots and Starscream went over all of the potentials for the new influx of long meetings and suspiciously good moods from both ends of the spectrum. There was one thing that went unnoticed, one topic that went unexplored, and like the weight hanging from Optimus’ exposed belly after Megatron had peeled off the excess plating and tossed it aside for a proper feeding, it hung right under their noses.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Prowl said, his fingers drumming atop the surface of a table. On the other side of the door, Megatron’s own fingers drummed against the taut surface of Optimus’ belly as he pushed another sweet pastry past the Prime’s lips. “But I do know one thing.”

“Yeah,” Jazz added in, “and that’s that whatever’s going on in there, it sure doesn’t got anything to do with stopping the war.”

“No,” Starscream nodded, “perhaps not… not in the traditional way, at least.”

It would be another ten long minutes before their leaders emerged, and by then, the answers seemed less clear than before. Megatron was happy, though, and so was Optimus. It was another successful meeting for them both, and slag, they could hardly wait for the next.

[anonymous-existences]

Chapter 13 : Seeking Help from Trusted Sources

[𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 14, 10:26 𝐀𝐌, 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐫, 1007 𝐌𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞]

Jason pulled up Infront of the Manor and Alfred was already Waiting, Bruce was expecting and was happy that Jason came to 'visit' despite the bad blood between them. "Jaso—" Bruce was about to say but Jason cut him off.

"Enough of the Brooding Bruce— Ancients— oh now Im starting to cuss like my boyfriend— great! Anyways. Bruce. My boyfriend and his family know you're Batman so whatever now, we need Batman's help, not broody Bruce's or Playboy airheaded Bruce's Help. We need the Vigilante." Jason states sternly visibly panicked and a total mess.

Dante steps out of the passenger seat. "They have my brother.. please... The GIW government has my Brother... Please.

Help me."

Dante says with reddish eyes and has obviously been crying out of his mind, he also looked like a mess and Alfred perked up in worry as he helped Dante Stay Standing, Bruce Merely nodded with a serious face knowing that Dante Is referring to Daniel Masters or 'Danny' that Damian was Very fond of.

Alfred allows the two in, Dante still holding back his tears from flooding out and him breaking down Infront of his boyfriends Family.

"Todd... And.. Dante." Damian refers to them as they entered the Manor. "Robi— Damian Wayne." Dante chuckles as he looked at Damian with a gentle smile, Damian Gave him the "you know...?" Look and Dante nodded with a chuckle.

Damian fixes his shirt trying to brush his Embarrasament and Shock off, "Why are they here Father?" Damian approached Bruce.

"His Little Brother Danny, our suspected Meta, has been taken by a government apparently. The ones we've been investigating. The Ghost Investigation Ward. Red Robin is still trying to bypass their firewalls but Dante claims to know how to do it in one go.

Damian nodded calmly, he still can't believe Dante knows but then again he's a meta and they don't know what power he truly holds, all they know is Danny is the only pillar of hope for their ... Species and The only personall Wall to keep his species from waging war upon earth.

[𝚆𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛, 𝙱𝚊𝚝 𝙲𝚊𝚟𝚎]

"Uhm— Hello Dante—" Nightwing Greeted the Large Man, very visibly uncomfortable because of how chilling Dante's presence is, especially because of how Nightwing got terrified of a drawing of them and his "partner in crime".

"Hello." Dante merely greeted back, Red Robin was honestly just staring mouth Agape trying to figure out if Bruce was under Mind Control or Did Bruce arrest Dante or Did Bruce do something— just something! Because WHY would their main "Meta" something suspect who killed a rogue in cold blood IN THE BATCAVE.

Red Robin stared at Bruce, judging him through stares. But Cass speaks up. "Big ..." Cass says as she stares up at Dante. "Hello..." He says much gentler and Cass lights up before Dante is very nice to her and for her his presence was warm and Comforting like a big Teddy Bear.

Tim looked at Bruce then at Dante then at Bruce again. "I'll explain later, gather up everyone first." Bruce says and informs everyone through the comms to gather up In the Batcave for an Emergency. And bring Constantine just Incase."

Jason both regrets coming back to the Manor because of Bruce's Brooding but also too desperate to not too so fuck it.

『 Vlad Masters Perspective 』

Oh for the love of everything Strawberry and Chocolates why is Clockwork in his living room? Why is he just sitting there drinking tea? He doesn't know but all he knows is that it means he's gonna be heavily involved in this "Time is my Lady(Translation = Time Is my Bitch)" Clockwork.

Vlad pinches the bridge of his nose and glared at Clockwork with an annoyed groan, "I swear, if you are to assign me with another one of your mission shenanigans and/OR one of those Schemes to "Make Daniel's Happiness For the future" and so I qoute situations I WILL walk out." Vlad states angrily and slowly fixing his hair and tie to sit across Clockwork.

"I come here to tell you, not order you.... As you know the GIW has Daniel." Clockwork starts to speak and Vlad just nods as he drank a glass of water. "Dante is already with the bats as well." Clockwork continues but Vlad coughed on his water. "The JL?? The People we hate??" Vlad clarifies and Clockwork just smiles with a small smirk..

"I need to find a wall to bang my head into. Oh so desperate of us to Seek out the Justice League of ALL superheroes to help us, sure they are powerful and all but they're still the same people who ignored Daniel's and His Friend's Calls of Help when Oh I don't know. Amity Park was sucked into the afterlife? ᴬᶠᵗᵉʳ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ˢᵗᵘᵖⁱᵈ ᴵ ᵈⁱᵈ — , BUT STILL!" Vlad continues on his rant about the Justice League being Untrustworthy and will probably not be helpful in saving Danny and Clockwork just lets him rant on and on until he's out of breathe for atleast an hour or so.

Vlad was heaving with his chest, "Wow. That was a splendid feeling, it truly helped me take a lot of my stress out. I suppose I will listen to you now then." Vlad sits back down and combs his hair back with his fingers, Clockwork squinted and chuckled amusingly.

"Well then, continuing on to what I am supposed to say... Daniel will not be adopted by you as you should know... But just like how the tide changes each passing day even the heart of his will too and it's not towards you but towards a new set of beaches that he will stick to. The waves are higher and livelier once that change is... Achieved... Hopefully you don't take too much of a grudge against me Vladimir Masters." Clockwork places his teacup down and walks? Floats? Towards Vlad and Lifts his chin up to look at the Ghostly God-Thing that is Clockwork.

Vlad is used to this treatment. Although it's odd he never really thought too much about it. "Fine fine. I won't." Vlad sighs and Clockwork taps on Vlad's nose whilst muttering "Good good..." Under his breathe before chuckling in amusement, his eyes scrunching up in a teasing way.

"I like the way you look today. It fits you Plasmius." Clockwork says amusingly in a teasing tone before walking off and phasing through the door essentially disappearing back into the infinite realms in his lair as he does so.

"Fudge Buckets..." Vlad cusses as he fans himself with his half unbuttoned shirt, his cheeks were flushed and he just breathes out in confusion as to why his core was aching for more and also purring in satisfaction.

"My Main Priority should be saving Danny for now instead of flirting with the god of Time." Vlad mutters to himself and throws his head back on the couch in surrender to his impending Headache and Exhaustion that soon overwhelms him Body.

"Darn It." He mutters one last time.

╭┈──── ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ

Mini Chapter Suggested from @naohibari :33:

Dante drags the Creep Stick on the ground making rough tink tink tink noises.

"Ah There you are Larger Phantom apprentice of Mine. For what do I owe you the pleasure for visiting your dear Master toda—" Clockwork was cut off by Dan swinging the Creepstick hard against Clockwork's Face.

"I LOVE YOU LIKE A FATHER BUT I STILL WANT REVENGE." Dante angrily stated and slowly calmed himself by fixing his shades. "That's what ya get for making Danny Suffer without telling me." Dante growled and tuned around to walk away.

"Hmm... I deserved that." Clockwork chuckled to himself slowly standing back up and rubbing his bleeding cheek and nose whilst being visibly amused at how much Dante has changed as a person.

Honestly that was so Gay of Vlad and Clockwork— HAVE FUN LOLL— this is basically filler chapters until I build up the actual chapter for the thingamajig with Danny being saved by The JL with the help of Superman or John Constantine, please do give me suggestions on how I should proceed with this. And i might delay some future chapters because of school but I'll try to update as much as I can! Thank you for reading and thank you for understanding.

[paranoid-rhythm]

「Chaldea Treasure Hunting!」 Oberon Edition (Translation)

Oberon: Time to embark on an unforgettable adventure with this fairy king Oberon!

.....................

Guda: It's a city of steam!

Oberon: Hey, you're a youngster from the 21st century, aren't you? Aren't you supposed to be used to this kind of city? Well then again, I can understand your excitement. 

Even though it's the same consumer civilization as yours, I guess you find that there is a certain allure in this scenery. It's a city that retains its medieval charm while being dominated by a primarily industrial design, I guess being able to imagine such a contradictory world is one of humanity's strengths.

Guda: You're a reliable companion!

Oberon: Well, of course! If it's a request from you, this Fairy King Oberon will fly over to you with all his might! Though well, it did take me a quite a while to change into these clothes, but I hope you forgive me for that. After all, we're going to an adventure! So I have to be stylishly dressed, right? 

Now then, according to this steam observation clock, it seems that the Holy Grail of blessings is somewhere underground. If we find it, we'll gain a lot of QP, right? Time to go all out to repay my debts!

.....................

Oberon: Honestly, stairs of all things? In a city of clockwork? Not even a single transport mechanism?! I guess we'll just have to accept this fact and take the long way down. It'd be much easier if only I could fly, but as you know, my wings are just ornamental. Maybe I should go to Da Vinci and ask her to make a mechanical glider for me. No, maybe a jet pack is saferー...

Guda: Oberon...! Wait!

Oberon: Hmm? Did you say anything? Whoa there! Sorry, sorry, I got distracted. Wait, is our faces kind of close right now? Are you okay? Pfft... Haha... Hahahahaha! Just what kind of expression are you making! Too bad it's dark in here, if I had a camera, I would've taken a snapshot of it! 

Guda: Are you telling me my face looks weird?

Oberon: Whoa, sorry about that. I don't mean anything bad by that. I'm telling the truth. It's just that, it's an expression I've never seen you make before. It’s not the nervousness in battle, it's not the fear of death, it's something child-likeー... no, it's nothing. Saying it out loud just cheapens it. 

Anyway, forget that! Right now, there's only the two of us, alone in this underground passage. It's not like there's a terrifying enemy waiting for us ahead, so let's take it easy and enjoy this uncharted journey together!

The path ahead looks like it's going to get even narrower, so hold my hand, and let's keep moving forward. It's so you won't stray far from me, come on now, give me your hand.

.....................

Oberon: Looks like we've descended quite a bit. Oh! This seems to be the lowest level. All that's left is a straight path from here. Everything’s going smoothly! Hm? 

Huh? What is it? Is it coming from behind us? 

What in the world? This is unexpected! Let's run, Master! 

Just how persistent are these guys! And to top it off, I think there's even more of them now! 

Ah, I see light shining up ahead! Let's keep going!

Huh?! There's no road?! We're gonna fall, Master! Give me your hand!

Guda: Oberon!!!

- The Master and Oberon clung to each other as they fell. -

Oberon: Is this what they call "drowning in schemes and strategies," huh? I didn’t expect the path would collapse. Oh well, I’m used to falling. It’s just that this time, I'm a bit more entangled into something.

.....................

Oberon: Oww... Ah, Master, are you okay? 

It's hard to believe there's so many flowers blooming down here, right? As long as there is life, there will always be flowers blooming somewhere. Water, sunlight, flowers, insects, and greenery, they're all part of the cycle after all.

That's right. I'm the one who left the Holy Grail there. Because I heard that you were going to go on an adventure.

It's all true that I was asked to do this. However, it wasn't as calm as I expected it to be for the Master. Things didn't go as expected, but today is a day of celebration for you, right? What's important isー

Nemo Marine: Captain! I've found Oberon! 

Nemo Marines: We've found him!

Nemo Professor: It's all a farce! Oberon-shi has been persistently rejecting all communication attempts.

Captain Nemo: We've finally connected to you. Oberon, is the Master alright? The communications suddenly cut off when you went underground though. 

Oberon: Oh my, I didn't know about that~! The Master is fine and has successfully retrieved the Holy Grail. It's no problem over here. 

Nemo Engine: Then hurry up and return already! Your scolding will come after that!

Nemo Nurse: Fufu, if you have any injuries, I'll take care of them, so please feel free to come to me.

Captain: Everyone, shut up for a moment! Oberon, Master, it's great that you two are safe. I'd like for you both to take your time and explore the city. And if possible, I'd like for the both of you to take a lot of photos of the scenery for future reference. There's a lot of vehicles in a clockwork city, right? 

Oberon: Of course! Please look forward to the souvenirs we'll get you, Captain! We have to keep Engine happy after all. 

Nemo Engine: I-it's not like I'm interested in motorcycles or anything! W-well, I'll use it as reference for the Penguin Porter's external parts...

Oberon: Okay, then let's focus on that, huh? Well then, see you later in Chaldea!

Nemo Bakery: I’ll bake a warm baguette while waiting for you, okay?

Oberon: Alright, let's go back to the surface and explore the town until the sun sets. Even though it's a town that's messy, oily, and full of shady shops, I'm sure it'll become a wonderful memory. 

After all, exploring an unknown world is an adventure in its own right.

[trappednyourheart]

Another life of a clone

(maybe not clone? Yeah reincarnation is weird and simple at the same time)

You see it was too late, Danny couldn't save his clone- a female clone of his that was like a daughter/sister/clone to him....

He did everything to let her stabilise but she needed a drop of Vlad's DNA, but it was impossible- Vlad wasn't being cooperative and was just stuck there at his room after Maddie had almost killed him again like fully dead...maybe his head got the thought that Maddie wasn't exactly worth to be fucking obsessed in the old guy's head.

“my king, we've done everything but...this time it's out of our capabilities even as such as our tradition of Health, even with Vlad's DNA she might not actually last longer- she has the soul but her body would not last long” Frostbite settled in the truth to his majesty's mind, the truth that Ellie doesn't have more time to enjoy her existence...

Her existence was bound to not last long than after all she wasn't the original.

Maybe It was the tense atmosphere of the medical room that clockwork intervened,

“But there could be a way my king...How about reincarnating the mirror-born?” Clockwork was always the scheming type and I guess he's ideas were insane and probably the best for old times sake

Yes...Ellie having a second life was much more preferable,didn't Ellie wanted to travel the world right? She was always a troublemaking one...and been the most kindest even at that shitty chaotic grin of hers.

“Clockwork your a genius” Danny grin as he look towards the capsule containing Ellie's sleeping figure, surviving off in that capsule,

Danny would ignore the remark clockwork muttered “As I should be my king😀”.

(well Dani could be Lois lane ( Superman's badass wife) Diana prince (Wonder woman like Queen) or Richard Grayson (Nightwing literal big wing)

[backonrepeat]

Gortash, who escapes the Hells after years of torture, and hires Karlach (a red tiefling) as his bodyguard because better the devil you know.

Karlach, late teens, orphaned and trying to find her place in the city, imprinting on Gortash (a thug from the Lower City, making his way up on the world) like a baby duckling, ignoring the parade of red flags.

Them working together well and getting along, despite opposite personalities and morals, because Gortash (who grew up unloved by his parents and abused by devils) enjoys being the object of Karlach's earnest, honest flattery and loyalty too much, and Karlach (poor street urchin with little to no formal education) sees Gortash scheme with politicians and criminals, design clockwork machines, and climb the social ladder with ease, and thinks the sun shines out of his ass.

If Gortash keeps the worst of his dealings hidden from Karlach, well, that's just good business sense. She's still young and green, she'll toughen up as she grows older and the reality of the world grinds her optimisim to dust. And if Karlach turns a blind eye to her boss' cruel streak, to the boxes of smuggled weapons coming in and out of the warehouses, and the dead bodies floating down the Chiontar, it's because they probably did something to deserve it, after all Gortash has been nothing but good to her.

Maybe Gortash starts to wonder if a little bit of goodwill could be leveraged to achieve more power. After all, a couple of kind words and small favours have worked wonders to ensure Karlach's loyalty. Maybe he can allow himself a kindness or two, ease the leash, raise the boot, just a smidge. Only for the harshness of reality to slap him in the face once again, the deal falls through, his enemies gain ground, he loses money and men, his plan pushed back, because he, for one instant, believed Karlach's rainbow coloured worldview.

So he tightens his grip on power even more, doubles down on his cruelty, and decides: Karlach must go. And when Zariel offers her deal, a soul for an ongoing supply of infernal steel, he sells her off without hesitation.