#they truly invented yearning

[papercastl]

do you ever just think about frank and karen in dds2, tps1&2, and now ddba, and think, damn—

[blueblossomrose]

This special post is part of the Twisted Parents Series.

Content: Post-canon, FLUFFY, TOO MUCH FLUFFY 😭 my obsession with old Disney movies screaming, fem!afab!MC, family n children, MC having a dream of getting married, reference very slightly to Cinderella (1950) obviously, diasomnia boys having their happy ending.

Note(s): I AM SO SO SO SORRY ABOUT THIS HIATUS, GUYS 😭😭😭 My mind was so busy these last few months with all my works thinking about writing that fluffy fluffy special to make up for my days of writing block after going on vacation for Carnaval 👽 I hope you guys love it as much as I... that cried writing it 💀 and I hope this excuses this long inactivity ☠️

All gifs edited by me, but divider got from here.

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Comments and reblogs are very welcome ♡

A Wish Your Heart Makes

Have faith in your dreams and someday Your rainbow will come smiling through No matter how your heart is grieving If you keep on believing The dream that you wish will come true

“Are happy endings fairy tale's thing?”

Malleus couldn’t say. Human inventions had always been a mystery to him. He always had a distant and almost skeptical view of the happy endings that human stories so extol. To him, these narratives were like the light breeze of a summer night, pleasant and fleeting, but difficult to grasp and truly understand. As a fae, his nature made him see the world from a different perspective, and the idea of an ending — whether happy or tragic — was, to him, a human thing. He found it curious how humans always yearned for a definitive outcome, as if it were a vital necessity of their ephemeral existences. They sought in stories the hope that, in the end, everything would work out.

Malleus had never given much thought to his own dreams. Not in the others sense, at least. He understood dreams as manifestations of the mind, echoes of the subconscious, scattered fragments of reality shaped by desire or fear.

To him, dreams were almost tangible, an intrinsic element of his own magic — and yet he had never stopped to consider what it was that he, Malleus Draconia, truly desired.

Not that Briar Valley didn't have its own stories... but thinking about it that way, humans are far removed from theirs.

Happy endings… the concept was foreign to him. Fairy tales were — ironically — human stories, created to comfort fragile hearts, tales where love always prevailed and heroes were rewarded for their virtue.

Dragons like him, however, were supposed to be the obstacles that prevented such happiness. Beautiful and powerful beings... but lonely.

But then, there was [Name]. The magicless human who one day appeared in his life and in a few months, made his already apparently consolidated worldview turn upside down.

It was [Name] who taught him to dream.

She spoke of dreams as something beautiful and fragile. When they were still in school, he had heard her whisper to herself, with a twinkle in her eye, about how she wanted to marry one day. Because she wanted true love.

“A dream is a wish your heart makes,” she had said once, and it's been stuck in his head ever since.

Such a simple explanation for something that took him a long time to elaborate. Maybe that was the simplicity that comes with such a short life. He admired it, even back then.

The thought did not linger, however. No, he knew. He was in love. Happy endings...

The great hall of Briar Valley Castle glowed with enchanted candlelight, reflecting off the stained glass windows that adorned the ancient stone walls. The air was filled with the soft melody of a waltz as nobles and ambassadors watched with interest as the king and queen’s eldest daughter, Princess Aurora, danced with her suitor, as her pink gown swirled gracefully.

It was a grand celebration, the 16th birthday of the half-fae princess.

The old senators of the council, those whom Malleus deeply despised, were present, but they kept to themselves. Their accessibility was limited, limited by the changes Malleus and his human had brought about over the years. There was still resistance — whom Malleus called idiots and fools when he was particularly angry — but most of the councilors and palace staff had already surrendered to the strength of [Name]’s kindness, which contrasted with her husband's sometimes skittish temperament.

Aurora, the star of the night, twirled around the ballroom, she looked a beguiling sight, wearing the pink gown she had specially ordered for the occasion — certainly influenced by a certain bat fae she referred to as 'Grandpa Lilia' — along with the jewelry she received as a gift from her great-grandmother, Maleficia.

From where they stood, Malleus and [Name] watched in silence. His green eyes shone with something between pride and nostalgia.

“She’s beautiful,” [Name] murmured, a soft smile on her lips as her eyes followed her daughter’s every graceful movement.

Malleus watched her for a moment before answering. “Yes… but I confess I didn’t expect this day to come so quickly. I still remember when she had to climb on a chair to reach my stomach.”

[Name] chuckled softly. “I guess now she might just look at you.”

Malleus let out an amused sigh, but his gaze returned to his daughter with a touch of melancholy. “Humans grow up too fast...”

Before [Name] could respond, a movement beneath one of the large buffet tables caught her attention. She frowned as she noticed two small silhouettes sneaking stealthily between the legs of the furniture.

The six-year-old twins Magnus and Kyrval were under the table, trying to steal sweets from the silver trays. Their green eyes glinted with mischief as they reached out for honey cakes and candied fruit. But before they could escape with their stolen candies, two soldiers scared the two by pulling them out from under the table.

“My lords... you can't just crawl through the royal hall like that!” one of the soldiers scolded, the respectful but firm voice.

“But we're hungry!” Magnus protested, holding a piece of cheese as if it were a precious treasure.

“And small meals taste better!” Kyrval added, blinking innocently.

“Magnus! Kyrval!” she scolded them almost immediately as Malleus held back a laugh.

“They inherited Lilia’s mischievous spirit… and a little of yours, perhaps.”

[Name] gave him an indignant look. “Mine? Malleus, I don’t remember myself going around stealing sweets at royal balls!”

He chuckled softly, leaning toward her. “No… but I do remember a certain young lady who stole my heart many years ago.”

[Name] felt her cheeks flush, but she smiled sweetly almost automatically with the phrase. “... Do you regret that, your majesty?”

Malleus didn’t answer right away. His green eyes roamed the hall — his children, his wife, the castle lit up in celebration... faes, half-faes and even some humans... not alone.

Then he looked at [Name] again, his expression softening in a way only she could see. “Never.” He gently took her hand, bringing it to his lips.

He never imagined he would have something like this.

Everything changed when the girl from another world appeared. No fear. No hesitation. No one knows why the magic mirror brought [Name] to Twisted Wonderland... but honestly? Malleus was glad it did. She was the deepest desire within his heart. His dream.

Dragons aren't usually given happy endings. Maybe, just maybe... he was an exception to the rule.

He looked at [Name], his eyes meeting hers with a soft glow. And he’s happy with it.

To dream is to wish.

Lilia had been thinking about this idea for years. In his long life of over 700 years, he had experienced many misfortunes, losses, and sorrows — wars that devastated kingdoms, bitter goodbyes, and the feeling of carrying the weight of everthing on his shoulders.

But he had also been able to find happiness.

In raising Silver, in the tenderness of caring for Malleus, in the moments of pride in watching Sebek mature, even if in fits and starts.

He had never really dreamed of anything more than that. If he were honest with himself, his wish was simple: peace. How it would come, in what form, with whom — it didn’t matter.

But, as always, life had decided for him. With his children grown up, with their own homes, paths and families, he thought it might be time to explore the world. To wander. To be in distant cities. To sleep under the stars, free from worries. But that was not what happened.

A sweet wife from a distant world without magic and lively triplets had made his life much more noisy. And he wouldn’t change a thing.

The kitchen was scented with lavender and some sweet-smelling incense he had bought on a trip they took a year ago. He remembers getting a huge scolding from [Name] for buying so many, but he light them almost every day. Lilia, wearing an apron embroidered with small berries — a gift from the girls last Father's Day —, washed the dishes while humming softly.

“Dad, come see!” Aisha’s voice cut through the air with excitement. “I’m humiliating Arista at the Kart again!”

Lilia raised his eyebrows with a smile on his lips. With a light snap of his fingers, the utensils began to wash themselves, floating gently around the sink. He took off his apron, drying his hands with a cloth and headed to the living room.

“Humiliating me?” Arista replied with a joking frown. “All I saw was you losing it and pushing all the buttons!”

It was Lilia's first time raising girls, and it was in this chaotic and adorable process that he came to an inevitable conclusion: raising children would always be a constant learning experience — regardless of your experience in the subject.

“Battle tactics, you wouldn’t understand!” Aisha declared with exaggerated confidence, lunging forward as if that would speed up her character in the game.

“I win.” Arista said in a calm and satisfied tone, leaning back on the sofa like a queen on a throne, the controller resting gently on her lap.

"Whaaat?!" Aisha screamed, jumping from where she was sitting as if she had just been stabbed. Her wide eyes stared at the screen where the dots shone mercilessly: Arista - 1st place.

Lilia, who was watching the scene from the kitchen door, laughed softly.

"Wow, Arista..." Adela said softly, briefly looking away from her book to her older sister. She wasn't the most competitive, but she was always there to support her sisters, even with her shy and quiet personality. At the moment, she was gently stroking the silky fur of one of Lilia's bats, which was sleeping curled up in her lap like a fluffy, furry ball.

Count Fabulous — as [Name] gave him when she and Lilia were still studying at NRC — was the most spoiled of Lilia’s bats. Ever since Adela was a baby, he had followed her around, perching on nearby furniture or on her head as if he were her personal protector. Now, he dozed heavily, his ears fluttering slightly, lulled by the girl’s soft voice, but with Aisha and Arista moving on the couch, he ended up waking up and squeaking when he looked at the screen.

“Even Count is surprised,” Lilia murmured humorously, watching the bat stir fluttering the fabric of Adela's dress.

Adela smiled, stroking his back with a finger. “He bet on Aisha, I think.”

“Cute little traitor.” Arista said, smiling despite the line.

With the girls still vibrating with the echoes of the game’s contention, the front door opened with a soft creak, followed by the familiar sound of [Name]’s footsteps. Lilia looked up with a soft glow in his red eyes and smiled as he saw his wife’s figure crossing the threshold of the house.

Without saying a word, [Name] walked over to the couch where the triplets were spread out and, with a theatrical movement, threw herself gently on top of them, like a human blanket. She didn't press too hard, of course — just enough to cover them with her body and elicit immediate reactions.

"Mom!!," Aisha protested between laughs, trying to free herself.

"Rescue mission! Fabulous, save us!" Arista shouted, laughing, while Count Fabulous just opened one lazy eye on Adela's lap before settling back down, oblivious to the commotion.

"Mama, you're feel cold... stay a little longer..." Adela murmured, hugging her mother's arm affectionately.

"My days off are coming..." [Name] said, her voice muffled between her daughters' hair and the pillows. "I missed my noisy gang so so so much~"

Lilia approached the couch with his hands on his hips, his eyes half-closed and a mischievous smile curving his lips. “Can I join you?” he asked with false innocence.

Before any of the four could respond, the couch rocked gently, and then, with a soft green glow, it tilted forward as if it had a life of its own, gently dumping all of the girls onto the living room’s plush carpet. A bundle of giggles, messy hair, arms and legs all jumbled together, collapsed to the floor like a pile of animated pillows.

“AH! Dad!!” Aisha and Arista shouted in unison, Aisha louder than Arista, actually.

"I was comfortable, papa!" Adela grumbled, sitting down with Count Fabulous all ruffled on her lap, flapping his wings indignantly before landing again, huffing softly.

"I can't believe it, Lilia!" [Name] said, trying to look angry, but already with a smile on her lips and her eyes shining with laughter. Lilia approached slowly, as if he were going to seal a peace agreement with a kiss, and so he did — he leaned over, laughing softly, and kissed her forehead sweetly before lying down on top of everyone like [Name] did moments ago.

"Not agaaaain!" the three shouted in unison, between laughter and attempts to escape from their father's arms.

Still stretched out on the rug, the girls pointed to the ceiling, commenting excitedly on the floating ornaments — small enchanted lights that spun gently like fireflies caught in a whirlwind. They were souvenirs left by 'big bro' — Silver — on his last visit.

To some people, the idea of a house still full of young children might seem like the complete opposite of a peaceful retirement. And by traditional standards of rest, it was.

But to Lilia it didn't matter. It never mattered. Being with his family was what he dreamed of. It was all he wish for. “In dreams you lose your headaches, whoever you wish for, you keep.”

There was his rest. Not in the empty spaces, but in the constant presence. In the sound of clumsy footsteps in the mornings, in the voices calling "Dad!" throughout the house, in the tight hugs, in the fights over the last cookie, in the notes left on the table and the stories told under blankets.

Yes, he still traveled. He had his moments of adventure, exploring new places with the girls strapped to backpacks, [Name] with the map in hand. It was in family. It was messy. It was noisy.

This was Lilia’s rest. A rest in true Lilia style: full of voices, chaotic, but overflowing with love.

Silver knew dreaming well. It was what he had done for most of his life, and it was also an instinctive part of his own magic. Dreams were a sweet treat, a place where his worries melted away and all that was left was the best, most beautiful sky and peace.

“Have faith in your dreams and someday, your rainbow will come smiling through,” When he thought of this, what came to mind was his desire to serve Malleus, to be the knight that Lilia trained him to be. At the same time, he wanted to be with his family and friends, but he didn’t expect to fall in love.

It came subtly, with dreams. He saw her. A charming girl, who in his opinion was beautiful. She was there, in his deepest dreams, and he did not understand who she was… until he saw [Name] for the first time.

He was lying on the couch, his head resting on [Name's] lap. She was gently stroking his hair, her fingers running through it like a gentle wind. With the book on one of her hands, she was quietly reading an old story, pausing only to smile at the faces Silver made when his bangs fell into his eyes because of her caresses. He had returned from work tired, not with the same chronic drowsiness of his adolescence, but with the normal tiredness of someone who dutifully fulfills his duties. As one of the most trusted knights of the king, Silver carried great responsibility on his shoulders. But at home, with them, he could truly rest. The sound of pages turning mingled with the distant ticking of the wall clock and the rustling of leaves outside.

"Daddy!" Hana yelled happily, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor as she ran across the room. Without stopping, she threw herself at Silver with an enthusiastic hug, nearly knocking him off the couch. Her blond hair flew like gold threads in the wind, and her auroral eyes sparkled with joy. Silver jumped a little on the couch, a gasp escaping him at the impact—more from surprise than pain.

[Name] let out a light laugh, covering her mouth with her free hand as her gaze danced between her husband and daughter. Silver, even exhausted, gave a gentle smile, his half-closed eyes opening a little wider to look at his beautiful — literal — princess. And she loved being called that. Every time she heard the title come out of her father's calm voice, her little face lit up.

Hana wasn’t old enough to know exactly everything about her family, so Silver tried to tell her what was appropriate for a child to know, sometimes with the help of Lilia and [Name]. He had long realized that his daughter loved the concept of princesses. But not political princesses, more 'real' ones— she liked the ones who sang with the animals of the forest, the fairy tale ones. He would never forget the almost heavenly glow in her eyes the day Malleus bowed slightly, placed his crown on Hana’s little head, and said with a faint smile: "There, now the princess has a crown." Hana was ecstatic. She spent a whole week wearing tiaras made of flowers or paper.

“Daddy, you came home early today!” she said, her adorable little voice filling Silver’s ears like sweet music, while those little arms wrapped tightly and lovingly around his neck.

"I was able to be released early by order of General Zigvolt, my princess." Silver said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

[Name] laughed again. She gently tugged at a lock of Silver’s hair. “Sebek released you? Now that’s a surprise,” she said, raising an eyebrow humorously.

Silver couldn’t help but laugh at [Name’s] words. Sebek was adamant about schedules most of the time, and that was no secret to anyone. On the one hand, it was good. He kept everything in order, like a true general. On the other hand… well.

Hana, who was squirming between her parents with the energy that children normally have, rolled over with such excitement that she almost slipped off the couch, but Silver was faster. With a fluid movement he caught her with one strong hand, wrapping it around her waist and pulling her back safely.

“Careful, princess,” Silver said, his auroral eyes resting on her with tenderness and attention.

Hana lifted her chin proudly, her little hands on her hips and a glint in her eyes. “I knew Daddy would catch me, so I’m not afraid!”

Silver smiled once more. “I will always catch you, but take care of yourself too, my flower,” he said, his voice as serene as ever.

“Okay!” Hana smiled at her father, that innocent smile that lit up the soul, before stretching backwards like a little cat in the sun. As her arms stretched lazily, her voice filled the living room, chattering about her day. Silver listened to everything with full attention, his calm eyes fixed on her, and his hands always ready in case she slipped off the couch again.

In a moment of pause, Hana began to play absentmindedly with the wedding ring on her father's finger, slowly turning it with her small, delicate fingers. Without warning, Hana simply sleep. She slid softly onto Silver’s chest, her breathing even and calm, her golden eyelashes resting on her rosy cheeks. Silver felt her soft weight and had to suppress the urge to laugh. Hana was a thousand times more energetic than he had been in his childhood, — which, honestly, wasn’t much of a feat, considering his old constant sleeping habits — but when she got tired, there was no warning. She would simply pass out, as if someone had flipped a switch in her.

Silver rested her little head on his shoulder and wrapped his arms around her, his hand resting on her back. He felt his daughter's heart beating softly, and the warmth of her pressed against his chest was all he needed to know that he was at home.

For a moment, all was silence and peace—the kind that only existed within the purest dreams. When he thought about his life now, about everything he had experienced—he never, not in a million years, expected to be graced with such happiness. His rainbow had come. And now it slept softly on his chest, in a little flowery dress, with her little hand still holding his finger.

"Daydreaming again?" [Name] whispered to him as she noticed his gaze.

"Living a dream, actually." He replied.

Dream? What he had was not a dream. It was conviction. A solid goal, an unbreakable purpose. He would become a knight worthy of serving Malleus.

Sebek trained until his bones ached, endured thunderstorms —literally— and never took his eyes off the goal. The half-human blood he carried? An obstacle to be overcome with discipline and hard work. “No matter how your heart is grieving, If you keep on believing...”

If anyone, back then, dared to insinuate that he would marry — how awful — a human, he would scream so loudly in their ear that their eardrums would beg for mercy.

But as a wise old man once said — or perhaps it was Lilia in one of his absurd proverbs: "The earth doesn't turn, it capsizes with style."

And now, here he was — Sir Sebek Zigvolt, General, loyal knight to King Malleus Draconia... beside his lovely human wife and their two radiant children.

“Ivan!” Sebek called, his voice still naturally strong, but intentionally softened— an effort he made for only one person. “Don’t pull on the reins so hard! You’ll hurt the horse!”

Ivan, atop a sturdy horse with a grayish coat and a mane that shimmered faintly, turned calmly to his father. His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I know, father. I was just testing whether he responded well to my voice,” he replied, with that subtle teasing tone that only Sebek recognized as a direct inheritance from [Name].

Nearby, sitting under the shade of a cherry tree with their daughter, [Name] held back her laughter. The pent-up sound still escaped in joyful sighs. “Where did you get that horse again?” she asked, arching an eyebrow with an amused smile.

Sebek huffs, trying to maintain his composure. "For training, of course."

"Of course it is." [Name] held back a slight loving eye roll at Sebek's words, that kind of response so typical of him.

She then watched him approach Amelie with affection visible on his naturally stern face—a softness that only emerged in front of his daughter.

As quietly as his voice would allow, he knelt down at her level and said, “Are you enjoying the stroll, my lady?”

Amelie looked at him with shining eyes. A small, bright smile spread across her face. “Yes, Daddy!” she answered happily, and raised her short arms toward him, asking to be held.

Without hesitation, Sebek picked her up with the greatest care in the world. He positioned Amelie against his chest, shielding her ears from the loud tinkling sound.

Ivan, who was watching everything from the top of the horse, arched an eyebrow as if he was about to make a sharp comment. But when he saw his sister nestled against his father's chest, her little fingers playing with the brooch on Sebek's clothes, he simply got off his horse and approached in silence.

"General Zigvolt, you are breaking the knightly protocol again," Ivan said, his tone exaggeratedly serious, but his eyes barely concealed the amusement.

Sebek gave him a half-closed look. "When you turn a father, you will understand that there is no protocol more sacred than that of protecting your children." He adjusted Amelie better in his arms. "And put on those gloves properly, Ivan. A knight must always be ready."

Ivan sighed at the drama. Then, he knelt down beside his dad, leaning down slightly until he was at his sister’s level.

“Are you having fun, Lie?” he asked softly, touching her nose with a finger.

Amelie laughed softly. “Yes! Ivan looks beautiful in his armor!” he declared, as if it were the greatest truth in the universe. Ivan blushed slightly, and [Name] could barely contain another laugh.

Sebek would be lying if he said he’d never considered having children. Perhaps, in some distant future—if he reached the pinnacle of his career as a loyal and worthy knight—he might be granted the honor of marrying a pure-blooded fae. It was the kind of future he’d always been pictured as: respectable, honorable…

But now… now, when he looked at his little Amelie against his chest, or at Ivan laughing as he receives a sweet stroke of his hair from his mother— the image seemed absurd. Almost laughable.

All his life, he had been taught, indoctrinated, encouraged — partially? Completely — by his grandfather Baul, to hate a part of himself. To deny it. To hide it. To regard his human half as inferior, weak, inconvenient. To view his own father with disdain. And for a while… he believed it. He carried that hatred like a banner.

He wasn’t crucifying his grandfather, of course not. Old Baul had fought in a cruel war, with countless losses. He was a marked veteran —scarred, traumatized, and horrified.

But the truth was this: Sebek was happy. Happy that this human girl without magic, from another world, had stepped through the magic mirror and—clumsily—interfered in his life. And stayed.

[Name] had changed him. More than anything else, anyone else. Sure, Silver, and even his insufferable classmates at Night Raven College had their part in deconstructing his prejudices. But the real turning point came with her.

He remembered well the day of his first visit to his old home. [Name] squeezed his hand. And he remembered the look in his father’s eyes. The way Mr. Zigvolt — that loving, always clumsy, always smiling dentist — looked at him with so much love… and no hurt. Even after all the years of rejection. Sebek bowed. And apologized. He saw his father’s eyes fill with tears. And yes — of course he had always been that emotional fool, and Sebek used to get irritated by it. But now, no. Now, he understood. And it didn’t bother him anymore.

In the middle of his thoughts, Sebek heard soft voices breaking through.

“Grandpa and Grandma will definitely make that recipe when we visit them next weekend. I mean, I bet great-grandpa will be there too,” said Ivan, with the confidence of someone who had already foreseen the entire menu and the habitual discussion from his grandparents' house.

“Haha, great-grandpa is so funny!” replied Amelie, swinging her legs back and forth. “He always fights with grandpa to hold us back..."

Sebek sighed with a tiny smile. The sight of Baul arguing with Mr. Zigvolt over who would pick up Amelie first was, in fact, more frequent than he cared to admit.

Sebek helped Ivan mount again, adjusting the saddle with practiced precision. When Amelie asked to climb on too, he didn't hesitate - his arms lifted her as if she were a feather, carefully placing her in front of her brother. She held the reins with wide eyes of excitement, and Ivan guided her with the same care that their father showed her. It was beautiful to see. It was in these moments that Sebek realized that he was indeed an example.

[Name] watched everything with a growing warmth in her chest. She would never have imagined — ever — that this half-impossible dream would end like this. No. It wouldn't end. It had started like this. A home. A family.

“The dream that you wish, will come true.”

And the funniest part? Sebek said,with all the letters, that he would never be like his father. But there he was, discreetly pushing a small, colorful package of magic candy into his children's hands after successfully dodging the horse.

"Don't tell your mother," he murmured, with a half-smile on his lips. [Name] watched the scene in silence, holding back her laughter. She saw Ivan and Amelie exchange knowing looks, make the silence symbol with their fingers on their lips and smile mischievously.

And that was true for Sebek, too. When he saw himself with a smile on his face — sincere, wide, light —watching his children share the candy, laughing and whispering among themselves… He realized. This was more than a dream. It was a reality.

His wish to become a knight, which had once existed only for honor, glory, and pride, had transformed. It wasn’t just for Malleus, or even for himself.

To protect his home. His wife. His children. That human part of him that he had once despised… but now, finally, he loved.

© blueblossomrose 2025, I do not allow copying/plagiarism of any of my fanfics.

[darkmatilda]

𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: truly awful day in every sense of the word — and then there’s him, spencer reid, armed with a small moral mission to make it at least a little better for you. the question is — will he succeed?

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, light cat scratch on reader's face (nothing serious) reader being mad and frustrated at the entire universe (fair enough) mention of their little argument and the overall tension, “what happened to yearning—” ITS RIGHT THERE B* + neck massage xx

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.2k

𝐚/𝐧: request

That day started with a scratch.

And quite literally.

Somehow, your beloved fluffy muffin tiny bundle firstborn princess dearest kitten daughter managed to land her paws right on your face, leaving behind a souvenir running along your cheekbone. The first pain you felt that day. The second one settled in your neck and shoulders, taking the form of sharp tension — you and your flatmate had a rule of taking turns with the big, comfy bed, which meant that every other night you had to sleep on the couch.

In the morning rush, you didn’t even have time to properly look at the scratch — you simply covered it with a layer of makeup and headed…to the subway station. The car was in the shop, and it was going to stay there for a few more days. A solidly unfortunate start to the day.

Funny how everything that happened next turned into a real rollercoaster of bad luck, with people riding it, throwing their hands up in euphoric excitement and screaming whaaat dooo youuu saaay nooow biiitch!

The barista messing up your order — and on top of that, arguing with you that you must’ve given it wrong. Rushing into work late thanks to that argument. Spilling coffee all over your favourite shirt on the way to the lab. And a whole crowd of people collectively deciding that this was the perfect moment to cut their IQ in half, execute the last of their brain cells, bombard you with a stream of pointless, redundant questions and generally piss you off.

The ones who weren’t pissing you off got caught in the crossfire too. Poor Winchester had already been trying to tiptoe around you all day — bless him for that — but even that didn’t save him from the curse of this particular day.

By the time it finally ended, you made your way back to the apartment…also by public transport. Judging by the smell, the people around you had had a rough day too. A very sweaty one. And they all apparently shared a passionate disdain for that remarkable human invention called deodorant.

But even though you had a strong urge to just storm into the apartment and throw yourself onto the bed — which, for tonight, finally belonged to you — you hesitated for a second before putting the key in the lock. You and Spencer had…argued. The thing with you two was that you could argue loudly, dramatically, and passionately — about the most ridiculous, pointless topics, like the mother of the main character in a novel you both happened to read one after the other, which, frankly, wasn’t even that rare now that you shared an apartment, space, and therefore, a bookshelf.

But then there were the more serious fights. The quiet ones. The ones that echoed between you for days, even though barely a word had been spoken.

This…was one of those.

You hoped he wasn’t inside. That he got wrapped up in some time-consuming case and wouldn’t come back until you were already asleep. Just…hopefuly not a really hard case for him.

*

Spencer, of course, couldn’t have known about the hesitation happening on the other side of the door. It just so happened that he was waiting for her arrival and had sprung to life at the sound of the key in the lock, rehearsing a general script of the conversation he wanted to have. Above all, he wanted to apologize once more for slipping up to Penelope about their shared secret. Not that it would turn back time, but he felt it was necessary. Or at least it was something he could do to slightly melt the icy wall that had formed between them. He had no other ideas.

Standing in the living room, he froze for a moment, motionless. He heard it — the sound of the door closing with force and the abrupt toss of keys onto the dresser by the door. And that was all it took for him to retreat. Those were not signals indicating any desire for interaction with the person who had recently pissed you off and toward who you still held a grudge or let alone any desire for a genuine conversation.

He spun around in circles like an ant, a bit unsure of what he should do. His flatmate almost immediately went to the bedroom that was hers that day, she didn’t even stop to greet the cat, who was currently doing yoga on the TV cabinet. And that alone was a clear sign that something was wrong. Maybe the whole day was just off.

As he pondered what to do — mainly considering abandoning his apology plans altogether or postponing them to another time — his gaze landed on Marie stretching out her front paws, and he thought about how apologies didn’t have to be a huge, loud gesture with fireworks and a big red bow, they could also unfold more gently, evolving naturally.

He started by finding the TV remote and turning on RuPaul’s Drag Race show he absolutely didn’t understand at all, but knew she liked. He was careful with the volume: not too loud so it wouldn’t seem intrusive, but loud enough for her to hear and catch her attention. Then he went to the kitchen to grab two mugs and start brewing tea. He pretended to be completely focused on the process and acted as if he hadn’t heard her leave the bedroom and appear on the opposite side of the kitchen island, gliding her hand along it as she approached.

He looked up at her only when she was standing directly across, separated by nothing but the sharp edge of the countertop, her eyebrows raised suspiciously. “Watching my show?” she asked.

Spencer shrugged, the nonchalance and innocence in the gesture perhaps a little overdone.

“I’m just making some tea,” he replied calmly, pouring boiling water into the two mugs. “Maybe Marie accidentally stepped on the remote.”

He turned to put the kettle down just as she snorted.

“Definitely,” she commented sarcastically, pausing for a moment. “I don’t recall you ever drinking my tea before.”

“Well, I figured I needed some…” he dragged out the sentence, recalling what kind of tea it was. Lavender. What does lavender do? “Calming down.” Every tea is good for calming down.

She snorted again. Spencer turned back toward her.

“You must really need it if you made two cups right away.”

He parted his lips, staring intently at the mugs as if the second one had just materialized before his eyes.

“I have no idea how that happened. But since it’s here…” he nodded suggestively toward the cup that just happened to be her favorite.

He saw in her gaze that she perfectly understood why he was doing this, but she wasn’t about to just give in and forget how things stood between them. Spencer, however, felt unusually confident in his game, sensing this would soon lead to progress between them. Like it or not, she was already part of his teasing and that always spoke well of their relationship.

But that confidence and ease suddenly left him when he dropped his shoulders in surprise, noticing something odd on her cheek, gently emerging from beneath the hair covering it. Instinctively, unable to stop himself, he reached to brush it aside and reveal the scratch.

“What happened to your cheek?” he asked.

As he could have predicted, she turned her head, dodging his fingers.

“Nothing,” she replied.

Spencer didn’t stop staring, a little too insistently, so she sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Marie scratched me when we were sleeping together. Somehow.”

Okay, he was willing to believe that version, but that didn’t mean he intended to drop the subject. Especially not after taking a closer look.

“Your nothing is all swollen,” he remarked.

Her arms crossed over her chest, shoulders rising slightly in a dismissive gesture.

“Because it was suffocating under makeup all day, which I only just took off. That’s why it’s swollen now.”

“That’s…not exactly reasonable from a medical point of view.”

“Oh, wow, what an absolute breakthrough,” she snapped at him so unexpectedly that he flinched a little. Her arms dropped to her sides in frustration, there was nothing dismissive about her posture anymore. “I know it’s swollen! And that it’s not exactly reasonable from a medical point of view,” she dropped her voice dramatically, twisting her face to mimic his expression.“But I had to deal with it somehow, because I had to leave the apartment in a rush since my car’s at the mechanic’s and it’ll be there for another week, which means I’m stuck with public transport full of people who apparently don’t believe in basic hygiene!”

Spencer didn’t interrupt that sudden crash out, letting it run its course as he listened to the string of bitter words spilling from her mouth. When she finally finished, a moment of heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the sound of the cat jumping off the cabinet somewhere in the distance.

“I think you should take a shower,” he finally stated, slowly.

Her head recoiled slightly in confusion, followed by a dismissive wave of her hand.

“And on top of that, my flatmate telling me I stink.”

He couldn’t help it — he snorted. Gently.

“What I’m saying is, it helps. Public transport is literally a germ chamber, and that awareness always makes me feel gross for a few hours after I get off. And when I feel gross, everything feels overwhelming and frustrating. So, that’s my heartfelt advice,” he declared, patting his chest chivalrously.He watched her expression carefully, noticing it wasn’t nearly as sharp as before, so he risked adding, “And when you’ve showered, come back here. I’ll take a look at that scratch on your cheek.”

He saw the subtle bite to the inside of her cheek in thought, and how her arms returned to their crossed position over her chest. He expected a slight nod, maybe an enigmatic answer along the lines of we’ll see.

Shaking her head in clear refusal, she surprised him.

“No. Don’t forget we’re still not on good terms and I haven’t forgiven you for spilling to Penelope.”

Spencer pressed his lips together. He held her gaze, unsure what to say, until he realized…she hadn’t moved. She was still standing right there, eyes fixed on him. If they were really on bad terms, for starters, they wouldn’t even be living together.

So, he decided — a little impulsively — that he’d handle this by briefly assuming the role of a dictator. He grabbed the handles of both mugs.

“You’ll come. Otherwise, your tea will go completely cold and I’ll have to pour it out.”

With those words, he sent her one last expectant look before heading to the living room, where the episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race was just wrapping up.

When she actually went to take a shower and the next episode started, Spencer didn’t bother watching. Instead, he gathered the most basic items to disinfect the wound and ease the swelling.

He also put a great deal of effort into keeping his face from betraying any trace of triumph when she returned 15 minutes later with damp hair and dressed in more comfortable clothes.

With exaggerated, fake displeasure on her face — to show just how indifferent she supposedly was to his advice — though even in the way she moved, there was a clear, undeniable hint of relaxation.

She sat down, tucking her heels onto the couch and taking a sip of the still-warm tea. Spencer allowed himself to take advantage of the moment to gently, with literally one finger, brush the damp strands of hair away from her cheek and carefully spray it with disinfectant.

She winced at him accusingly.

“In my opinion, rinsing it under the shower would’ve been enough, it’s a shallow scratch. Marie would never hurt her mom badly, not even by accident. But do what you want, doctor.”

Completely undeterred, Spencer set the spray aside to grab the cold compress meant to reduce the swelling and pressed it against her cheek for a moment — after which her hand took over on its own, holding it in place.

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he declared arrogantly, glancing meaningfully at the scratch. “Since this happened…”

She kept her eyes on the TV screen the entire time, but suddenly shot him a brief sideways glance and he could’ve sworn there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips.

“It’s all because of the bed swapping. It messes with her little head. She probably thought she was attacking you.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“And why would she want to attack me?”

An innocent shrug.

“Possibly because I whispered her a word or two.”

Spencer went quiet for a moment not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he was scanning the living room for a certain small, black creature. And when he finally made eye contact with it, he had to let out a soft pspspsss for the naive little thing to trustingly trot over to him.

The woman pretended not to watch as he picked up Marie (whose body behaved like a loose spring, stretching downward until he settled her comfortably in his arms) but she wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Her eyes were supposedly glued to the TV but if someone asked what exactly she was watching, she’d stumble over the answer.

“Well hello there,” he whispered to the cat, scratching her behind the ear. “I heard someone here wanted to attack me in my sleep. How do you explain yourself, young lady?”

He glanced at the woman out of the corner of his eye, catching her gaze just as it slipped off his face and landed on Marie. He continued, “You can’t always trust your mom, sometimes she tells pure lies—”

He got smacked over the head with the cold compress.

“Hey, don’t you dare turn my baby against me!”

Beneath all that outrage, there was a solid dose of amusement — and he fully intended to bring it out. He scooted closer to her on the couch, positioning Marie right in front of her. He cleared his throat.

“She’s a little shy to ask herself but she wants to know if you’ve forgiven her. It really was just an accident, and she regrets it. She doesn’t want it to have a bad impact on the two of you.”

He said it under the weight of her stare, fixed directly on his face. Spencer finished speaking, his lips pressing together with a certain awkwardness that was entirely his, not hers. The moment he had to spend sitting in that discomfort was probably his punishment — but the kind that felt so deserved you almost went through it willingly.

Only after a long pause did she roll her eyes, a faint smile curling at the corners of her lips.

“Tell her that yes, I forgive her,” she requested, leaning forward slightly to press a kiss to the cat’s head.

But suddenly, she caught his gaze and held it firmly.

“Almost.”

“What do you mean almost?” he asked, a little impulsively.

She took a calm sip of tea.

“Well, there’s one thing you could do to make it fully happen,” she announced mysteriously. Spencer patiently waited for her to tell him what that was. She tilted her head to the side, stretching her neck.

“My neck’s killing me from that couch. My whole shoulders are tense.”

“You want a massage, am I right?”

As much as understanding anything usually came to him — well, euphemistically speaking — slowly, he figured that one out almost immediately, which seemed to surprise even her. She gave him a skeptical look.

“You seem weirdly excited about that idea.”

“That’s because, as it happens, I’m an expert at it.”

She snorted, clearly not buying it. She was probably waiting for him to say he was joking, that he actually knew nothing about massages — but that moment never came. Because Spencer really was an expert at it.

Or well…at the very least, he was very good.

She shook her head in firm denial.

“No, you’re not,” she stated confidently.

Spencer nodded in agreement — but to himself.

“I am. When JJ was pregnant…”

“…you gave her massages?”

“Not her. Will. In the third trimester, she was a little moody and the poor guy kept ending up sleeping on the couch. So yes, as it happens, I can consider myself an expert in this field.”

She snorted with laughter at that little story and took the last sip of her tea, widening her eyes slightly, as if she couldn’t believe she was actually agreeing to this.

“Alright then. Let’s give it a try.”

“Alright then,” he echoed her a little absentmindedly, nodding to himself. But then he quickly pulled himself together and cleared his throat twice for good measure.

“Turn around.”

First, she made sure her hair wasn’t resting on her neck or back before fully complying with the instruction. Meanwhile, Spencer took a deeper breath. Okay — this was a little different from massaging a sleep-deprived Will, who would’ve probably been grateful even if Spencer had treated his neck with a jackhammer and called it the most relaxing experience of his life.

He deliberately hesitated before touching her — forcing himself not to give the impression he was bluffing his way through this.

First, only the tips of his fingers rested just below her ears, followed by his whole hands slowly gliding down. That’s how this process was supposed to start — warming up the skin.

Thankfully, he’d just finished his tea, so his body was naturally warm, especially his hands from holding the mug. That alone had to feel pleasant…but the woman gave no indication whatsoever that it actually did, which sent him spiraling into quiet self-doubt.

He gave that stage all the time it deserved, until his hands started moving along her neck and shoulders with growing confidence and ease. He gave it so much time, in fact, that it earned him a doubtful shake of her head.

“You know what, I’m not sure it’s supposed to—”

She abruptly cut off when his fingers found a spot on her neck where he could clearly feel the tension, pressing into it with practiced precision.

Her entire body shifted under the influence of the breath she drew in and then released as a quiet, involuntary moan of relief.

And although that sound was particularly encouraging when it came to continuing the massage, Spencer paused for a moment, his hands resting gently on both of her shoulders as he leaned over her shoulder to ask,

“So, how’s that forgiveness coming along now?”

She tried to turn her head to look at him, which didn’t work because of the way their bodies were positioned. But if she had managed it, he’d bet anything it would’ve been the most electrifying, impatient glare in the world.

“Keep that up, and then we’ll think about it.”

Spencer smiled—to himself, since she couldn’t see it anyway. He smiled with certainty, because if that small taste had caused such a reaction, he was curious how she’d respond to more.

[jacquitries]

The Weight of a Shadow | G.W.

George Weasley has spent his life as one half of a whole, his individuality often lost in the glow of his twin’s boundless charm. Beneath the laughter and mischief lies a quiet struggle, a longing to be seen as more than a shadow. But when you enter his world, something shifts, and for the first time, George finds himself seen, not as a twin, but as a whole. In this universe, you chose him.

Click here to read an alternate universe where you chose Fred instead of George.

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

Fred always seemed to burn just a little brighter. His laugh, bold and wildfire-strong, lingered long after the echo of their pranks had faded. Applause always found him first, the crowd magnetized by his magnetic confidence. Even in quieter moments, it was Fred they gravitated toward—his charm effortless, his presence undeniable.

George would smile through it all, as though the comparisons didn’t sting, but deep within, an ache brewed. A quiet storm he kept to himself.

Maybe it was the way Fred's grin tilted, sharper and more self-assured, or the ease with which his voice commanded attention. Perhaps it was something intangible, something George couldn’t touch even if he tried. Whatever it was, it gnawed at the edges of his heart, a silent weight he carried alone.

And then, there was you.

You arrived one sunlit afternoon, a quiet force with a magic that had nothing to do with spells or wands. Unlike so many others, you didn’t lose yourself in Fred’s blaze. You didn’t mistake George’s laughter for an echo, or his presence for half of a whole. The way your gaze lingered on him felt like sunlight on frozen ground, a warmth he hadn’t realized he’d been yearning for. You saw him. Truly saw him.

At first, George doubted it. Surely, you’d mistaken him for Fred, like so many others had. But you disproved him at every turn. You caught the subtleties. The way George’s humor leaned toward sharp wit, while Fred’s was louder and bolder. The precision in George’s hands as he worked on their inventions, where Fred’s energy was a chaotic whirlwind. You noticed the faint scar above George’s brow, a remnant of a long-ago experiment gone wrong. And when you touched it one day, your fingers brushing the mark with such tenderness that it left him breathless.

For the first time, the ache began to fade. Slowly, it dissolved into something lighter, something warmer. When you laughed at his jokes, it felt like the world cracked open to let the light in. When you spoke his name—just his name—it was a melody that played only for him. And when you reached for his hand, your fingers tangling effortlessly with his, it felt as though the universe had quietly clicked into place.

Fred noticed, of course. He always did. He had been George’s mirror for as long as they had existed, and the change in his twin was impossible to miss. George’s laughter came easier now, his smiles unguarded and brighter. And Fred saw the way you looked at George, with a kind of quiet adoration that pierced straight through his own bravado.

But Fred never spoke of it. Not when George’s smiles grew wider, not when the light in his eyes burned brighter than it had in years. For the first time, George seemed to stand taller, as if the weight of comparisons had finally lifted. And Fred, who had always been the center of attention, found that he didn’t mind stepping back.

One evening, as the sun painted the sky in fiery hues, Fred watched from the doorway as George sat beside you, your head resting gently on his shoulder. There was something in his twin’s expression. A peace Fred hadn’t seen before, as if George had finally found his place in the world.

“You make him happy,” Fred said later, when it was just the two of you in the kitchen. His voice was quieter than usual, lacking its usual bravado. “And that’s all that matters.”

You turned to him with your brow furrowed, searching his face for some trace of resentment or longing. But all you found was warmth, tinged with something unspoken.

“Fred,” you began, but he waved his hand with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It’s alright,” he said quickly. “Really. George deserves this. He deserves you.”

And he meant it. Even if there was a small, quiet part of him that ached for something he couldn’t name, Fred would never let it show. For all his charm and bravado, his heart had always been his most closely guarded secret. And in that heart, George’s happiness mattered more than anything else.Still, as he watched you and George from the shadows, a quiet thought took root in his mind — a thought he would never voice aloud. If your opinion mattered so much to George, it mattered just as much to Fred. Perhaps even more.

[2b4st4r]

The Straw Hats Gentle Heart (Request)

Straw hats x reader

Words: 19,018

Warnings: graphic violence, torture, human expermention, emotional abuse/ psychological, PTSD, implied self harm, alcohol use age, angst, heavy angst. Rushed. 

P.S, I made this a LOT angster then it needed to be. I had a rough day😭

(ALSO THIS IS A REQUEST IT JUST WOULDNT LET ME RESPOND IT!!)

¸¸♫·¯·♪¸¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

The salt spray kissed your cheeks, a familiar sting that always brought a smile to your face. Out here, on the Grand Line, every day was an adventure, every island a new mystery, and every moment shared with your crew was a treasure. You glanced over at Luffy, perched precariously on the Thousand Sunny’s mast, laughing that infectious laugh of his, the very sound that had drawn you into this whirlwind of a journey. He was a force of nature, boundless in his energy and unwavering in his dreams, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You weren't the strongest on the crew, not like Zoro with his three swords, nor could you rival Sanji’s powerful kicks or Luffy’s rubber-limbed might. Your strength lay elsewhere. It was in the quiet moments, the unspoken understandings. When the storms of the Grand Line raged, and Nami and Usopp huddled together, fear etched on their faces, you were there, a steadying hand on their shoulders, a comforting voice promising that everything would be alright. You'd seen them through enough close calls to know that beneath their bravado, they needed someone to lean on, and you were always ready to be that person.

Your heart was a wellspring of compassion, overflowing for everyone you met, whether friend or fleeting stranger. You saw the good in people, even when they struggled to see it in themselves. When Chopper was overwhelmed by fear or insecurity, a gentle smile and a handful of his favorite sugary candies were usually enough to bring back his adorable, hopeful gaze. You knew how to mend not just broken spirits, but broken things too. It was often your nimble fingers that carefully stitched up a tear in Luffy’s precious straw hat after one of his wild escapades, preserving a symbol of his unwavering dream. For Zoro, who spent countless hours honing his craft, you were the one who remembered to stock up on polishing cloths and sharpening stones, ensuring his blades were always in prime condition. And when Robin sought a quiet moment of reflection, you were the one who knew just when to offer a warm cup of tea, a silent acknowledgment of the depths of her wisdom and the weight of her past. Franky might be all super and radical, but even he appreciated when you helped organize his tools, humming along to his latest invention. And Brook, with his endless stream of jokes and musical talent, often found you a receptive audience, enjoying his performances and even swaying along to his soulful tunes.

You were the anchor in their chaotic, beautiful lives, a constant source of warmth and understanding. You were the one who held them when they cried, a silent pillar of support. You were the one who never stopped smiling, even when the odds were stacked against you, your optimism a beacon in the darkest of times. You were simply, truly, there for them, always. And as the Thousand Sunny cut through the waves, carrying you deeper into the unknown, you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

That's what they expected to come back to. What they thought they'd find after two long, agonizing years apart. When the chaos of Sabaody Archipelago tore you all asunder, they remembered leaving behind the sweet, kind, compassionate soul who would always offer a comforting smile or a gentle touch. That's what they pictured, what they yearned for. But the person who returned wasn't the same. The two years had changed you, warped you into something unrecognizable, even to yourself.

The initial moments after being ripped from your crew were a blur of terror and a crushing sense of loss. You landed on an island shrouded in perpetual twilight, a place where the air itself seemed to hum with an unsettling energy. It wasn't long before the figures emerged from the shadows – not marines, not pirates, but something far more insidious. They were scientists, their eyes gleaming with a chilling, detached curiosity.

Your compassion, your empathy, your very essence of kindness became their perverse fascination. They weren't interested in your strength, or your lack thereof, but in the depths of your emotional resilience. They sought to understand, to quantify, and ultimately, to break. The facility was a maze of cold, sterile rooms, each one designed to systematically chip away at your spirit.

They began subtly, with prolonged periods of isolation, the silence broken only by the hum of machinery and the frantic beat of your own heart. Then came the sensory deprivation, days blurring into weeks in absolute darkness, the world reduced to the terrifying echoes of your own thoughts. They deprived you of sleep, of food, of water, pushing your body and mind to the brink of collapse.

But it was the psychological torment that truly twisted the knife. They would introduce you to others, fellow captives, only to tear them away, sometimes violently, forcing you to witness their suffering without the ability to intervene. They exploited your innate desire to help, presenting you with impossible choices, situations where any action you took would result in pain for someone else. They made you question your own kindness, turning your greatest strength into your most vulnerable weakness.

Then came the physical intrusions. Not brute force, but precise, calculated violations. Needles became a constant companion, injecting you with unknown substances that induced waves of excruciating pain, followed by periods of bizarre, unsettling euphoria. You became a living canvas for their experiments, your body a testament to their chilling pursuit of knowledge. They experimented with your senses, amplifying them to unbearable degrees, then dulling them until the world became a muted, distant hum. They monitored your reactions, charting the ebb and flow of your despair, your anger, your fleeting moments of hope, all as data points in their twisted research.

You remember the cold steel of their instruments, the bright, unforgiving lights, and the distant, echoing screams that you desperately hoped weren't your own. You learned to dissociate, to retreat into the furthest corners of your mind, a desperate attempt to preserve the last vestiges of who you were. The constant pain, the emotional manipulation, the sheer dehumanization – it was a crucible that burned away the gentle, smiling person they once knew.

By the time the opportunity for escape presented itself, a chaotic byproduct of one of their more ambitious experiments, you were a ghost of your former self. The smiles were gone, replaced by a hollow ache in your chest. The compassion had been replaced by a chilling detachment, a survival mechanism born from unimaginable suffering. You had survived, yes, but at what cost? And as you made your way back to the Grand Line, back to the promise of your crew, a terrifying question lingered: could they ever truly understand what had become of you?

The waves carried you closer, each crest a reminder of the chasm that now lay between the past and the present. You were different. The warm, inviting light that once radiated from you had dimmed, replaced by a chilling stillness. Your smile, once a constant, comforting presence, was now a rare, fleeting ghost, almost an effort to produce. Your eyes, once soft and empathetic, held a guarded, distant quality, as if seeing the world through a pane of frosted glass. They rarely met anyone else's, preferring to skim over surfaces, wary of what might be reflected back.

The easy laughter that used to bubble up from within you was gone, replaced by a silence that felt heavy, almost suffocating. You were closed off, a fortress built around a wounded soul. Where you once offered comfort freely, you now flinched at the slightest touch, recoiling from even innocent gestures of affection. The very idea of someone reaching out, of offering a hug or a consoling word, now filled you with a strange mixture of longing and dread.

The thought of facing them again, the Straw Hats, the family you'd longed for, twisted in your gut. They remembered the girl who would mend Luffy's hat with a gentle hum, the one who’d fetch Zoro’s sword polish with a knowing smirk, the one who’d whisper reassurances to a terrified Nami or Usopp, the one who’d always have candy for a scared Chopper. They remembered kindness, compassion, unwavering warmth. And now, you were the very opposite.

You were cold, not in temperature, but in demeanor, a stark contrast to the comforting warmth you once exuded. Distant, not just physically, but emotionally, keeping everyone at arm's length, even those you loved most. The once-open book of your emotions was now tightly shut, its pages irrevocably stained. And beneath it all, a constant, gnawing fear—the terror that when they finally saw you, truly saw the fractured person you had become, they wouldn't accept you anymore. That the love and acceptance you craved would be replaced by confusion, disappointment, or worse, outright rejection. The two years had carved out a hollow space where your old self used to be, and you were terrified they would see nothing but the emptiness.

You remember the day you escaped with a chilling clarity that no amount of time could dull. It wasn't a heroic breakout, no grand plan executed with calculated precision. It was messy, desperate, and fueled by a raw, guttural need for freedom.

The facility had been experimenting with a highly volatile substance, trying to weaponize something that even they didn't fully understand. One day, a containment breach spiraled out of control. Alarms shrieked, lights flickered, and the screams of scientists mixed with the roars of mutated test subjects. Chaos erupted. It was a hellish symphony, but to you, it was the sound of opportunity.

You moved through the pandemonium like a wraith, your mind a blank slate except for one overwhelming directive: escape. You saw others fall, consumed by the spreading contagion or cut down by desperate guards. You didn't help, couldn't help. The compassion that once defined you was a luxury you no longer possessed. Every instinct screamed survival. You slipped through gaps in the chaos, past burning equipment and frantic figures, your body aching, your mind a maelstrom of terror and determination.

The outside air, though still heavy with the stench of smoke and fear, was a blessed relief. You ran until your lungs burned, until your legs gave out, not daring to look back. For a year, five months, and ten days, you had been their captive, their experiment. Now, you were free, but the cost of that freedom was etched into every fiber of your being. The hell hole was behind you, but its shadow stretched long and dark before you, a constant companion as you drifted closer to the familiar, yet now terrifying, embrace of your old life.

You tried. Gods, you truly did. Every waking moment was a battle, every silent night a war waged against the ghosts of the past. The physical wounds had, for the most part, healed, fading into faint scars on your skin. But the deeper wounds, the ones carved into your mind and spirit, festered.

Recovery was a word that felt alien on your tongue, a concept as distant as the carefree person you once were. You’d wake in a cold sweat, your heart hammering against your ribs, the echoes of screams—some yours, some not—ringing in your ears. The sterile scent of the facility, the metallic tang of blood, the blinding flash of lights, all would assault your senses in vivid, terrifying detail. You’d curl into yourself, clutching whatever blanket or pillow was at hand, desperate for the nightmare to release its suffocating grip. Sometimes, you’d cry, silent tears tracing paths down your temples, a stark contrast to the endless, tearless agony you'd endured in captivity. Other times, there were no tears, just a hollow ache, a profound emptiness that felt even more terrifying than the terror itself.

Daylight offered little respite. The world felt too bright, too loud, too real. You found solace in small, repetitive actions: meticulously cleaning your small living space, tracing patterns on a dusty surface, or staring blankly at the horizon, your mind a million miles away. You tried to read, but the words swam before your eyes, the narratives unable to penetrate the thick fog that clung to your thoughts. You tried to sketch, to recreate the familiar faces of your crew, but your hand trembled, and the lines refused to form into anything recognizable. Each attempt felt like a failure, a harsh reminder of how much had been stolen from you.

The kindness that once flowed so effortlessly from you was now a conscious, painful effort. When faced with even minor inconveniences or emotional displays from others, a cold numbness would creep in, a defense mechanism honed in the darkness. You wanted to care, you truly did, but the wellspring of your empathy felt dry, cracked. It was like trying to breathe without air, a constant, suffocating struggle. You practiced smiling in a small, cracked mirror, the expression feeling alien and forced on your face, a mask you hoped you could learn to wear convincingly again. Every interaction, every fleeting moment of connection, was an exhausting performance, a desperate attempt to bridge the vast, silent canyon that separated the person you were now from the person they remembered.

You trained. It wasn't a choice, not really. It was a compulsion, a primal need to reclaim some semblance of control over a life that had been so brutally taken from you. All the anger, the cold, simmering rage at what they had done, and all the gnawing fear of ever being that helpless again, found their outlet in the brutal, unrelenting rhythm of combat.

You fought the shadows that danced in your peripheral vision, the phantom hands that seemed to reach out in the dark. Every punch thrown, every kick landed, every swing of a makeshift weapon was infused with the venom of your past. You pushed your body past its limits, welcoming the ache in your muscles, the burning in your lungs. Physical exhaustion was a welcome distraction from the turmoil in your mind, a way to silence the whispers and suppress the images. You would spar with anyone willing, or even those unwilling, your movements sharp, precise, devoid of the gentle hesitation you once possessed. There was no compassion in your strikes, no concern for your opponent's well-being beyond their ability to push you further.

You weren't training to protect others; you were training to protect yourself, to build an impenetrable wall around your shattered core. Each day was a relentless pursuit of strength, a desperate scramble to ensure that no one, ever again, would be able to inflict such horrors upon you. The kind, empathetic person they remembered might have shied away from violence, but that person was a ghost. All that remained was the raw, hardened survivor, forged in the fires of suffering, now driven by a singular, fierce determination to never be a victim again.

The remaining two months of that year were a blur of relentless self-punishment, a desperate attempt to outrun the demons clinging to your every shadow. Every waking moment was dedicated to pushing your body and mind further, a crucible of pain that you welcomed, for it was the only thing that made you feel truly alive, truly in control.

But the horrors you endured, the grotesque experiments they inflicted upon you, had an unintended side effect. While they had shattered your spirit, they had inadvertently forged your body into something more. The endless injections, the forced alterations to your physiology – they had been a living hell, but in their twisted way, they made you stronger.

You discovered your healing was now unnaturally swift. A deep gash that would typically take days to close would begin knitting itself shut within hours. Bruises faded with astonishing speed, and even bone fractures, though still excruciating, seemed to mend at an accelerated rate. You could push your body harder, recover faster, and endure more punishment than any ordinary human. Your senses, once brutally assaulted, were now sharper, more acute. You could pick up on subtle shifts in the air, faint sounds that others missed, and detect minute changes in pressure or temperature. It was a constant, almost overwhelming input of information, but it gave you an undeniable edge.

And then there was the raw, untamed energy that sometimes surged through your veins, a volatile byproduct of their chemical concoctions. In moments of extreme duress or intense focus, you felt a surge of power, an almost electric current that amplified your physical capabilities, making your movements faster, your strikes heavier. It was unpredictable, dangerous even, but it was undeniable. The experiments had twisted you, yes, but they had also given you tools, dangerous gifts that you now wielded with a cold, desperate efficiency. You were no longer just a survivor; you were something else entirely, a walking testament to the fine line between destruction and perverse creation.

You were on your way back. Each ripple of the ocean, each salty gust of wind, propelled you closer to Sabaody Archipelago, a place that now existed in your mind as both a promise and a wound. You had to go back. You had made a promise to your captain, to your nakama. A promise forged in laughter and adventure, long before the world went dark. That promise was the only thing that had tethered you to sanity during the endless torment, a flickering beacon in the abyss.

And then, it was there. The massive, bubbling mangrove trees, the iconic soap bubbles floating lazily through the humid air, the familiar, chaotic cacophony of voices and footsteps. It was exactly as you remembered it, frozen in time, a cruel, unchanging monument to the day your life shattered. The very air felt thick with phantom echoes of that dreadful day.

As you stepped onto the familiar paths, a wave of nausea washed over you, not from seasickness, but from the visceral flood of memories. You saw the silhouette of the Celestial Dragon in your mind’s eye, a grotesque figure whose casual cruelty had ignited the spark of your undoing. The metallic tang of blood filled your senses, and you could almost hear the thud of Luffy’s punch, the catalyst for the chaos that ensued.

Everywhere you looked, a memory, a phantom pain, clawed at you. The busy marketplaces, once vibrant and exciting, now seemed to pulse with the ghostly figures of those who had chased you, their faces blurred by fear and desperation. The colorful shops, their wares spilling onto the streets, were silent witnesses to the desperate sprints, the frantic searches for a way out. You remembered the feeling of being hunted, the adrenaline burning in your veins as you fled, your heart pounding a frantic drum against your ribs.

You saw the scattered remnants of your crew’s fight, invisible to anyone else but agonizingly clear to you. The scorch marks on the ground where Sanji’s kicks had landed, the splintered bark of a nearby tree from Zoro’s sword. You could almost feel the phantom grip of the enemy, the chilling sensation of being overwhelmed, outnumbered, and ultimately, defeated. The vibrant bubbles that floated past seemed to mock you, iridescent reminders of innocence lost, of the joyful times before this place became the ruin of your life. Every step was a forced march through a living nightmare, each breath a struggle against the rising tide of despair. This was the place that had taken everything, and now, it demanded you confront its ghosts.

The suffocating weight of Sabaody's past pressed down on you, threatening to crush you completely. You needed to keep your mind off it. You had to. The ghosts of that day were too vivid, too real. There was only one objective now: find the Sunny, find your nakama. They were the anchor, the only hope of pulling yourself back from the abyss.

Your feet, seemingly of their own accord, carried you through the swirling crowds and bustling markets. You weren't looking for signs or directions, just a familiar beacon in the overwhelming haze of memory. And then, there it was: Shakky's Rip-off Bar. A place with decent memories, surprisingly. A place where the crew had laughed, argued, and planned. A tiny sliver of warmth in the cold landscape of your return.

You pushed through the saloon-style doors, the familiar creak echoing in the sudden silence that fell over the patrons. Every head turned. You walked in like a phantom, a dung drone drifting through the vibrant, boisterous establishment. Your gait was different, lacking the joyful bounce it once had, replaced by a weary, almost hollow shuffle. Your shoulders, once relaxed and open, were now hunched, a subtle barrier against the world. Your hands, which used to gesture animatedly, hung still at your sides, occasionally clenching into tight fists.

The whispers started almost immediately. You heard snippets: "Is that...?" and "No, it can't be..." Faces that had once greeted you with boisterous familiarity now wore expressions of confusion, then concern. You ignored them all, your gaze fixed straight ahead, navigating the tables with an unnerving detachment.

And then, your eyes met hers. Shakky, perched behind the bar, polishing a glass with a practiced ease, her usual cool composure wavering as her gaze locked onto yours. Her eyes, usually sharp and knowing, widened almost imperceptibly. The glass in her hand stilled. She saw it immediately. The shift. The profound, terrifying change.

"Y/N?" Her voice was a low, uncertain murmur, barely audible over the remaining hum of the bar. It wasn't a question of recognition, but of understanding. She didn't ask if it was you; she asked what had happened to you. She remembered your eyes, those bright, sparkling windows to a kind and compassionate soul. They had been full of an innocent joy, a boundless empathy that touched everyone you met. Now, they were... not.

Your eyes, once luminous, were dull, almost opaque. The light had gone out, replaced by a guarded emptiness that spoke volumes of unseen horrors. There was a raw, visceral understanding in Shakky's gaze, a flash of recognition of the kind of darkness that could extinguish such a vibrant spirit. She didn't see the scars on your skin, but she saw the deeper ones, etched into your very being.

You didn't answer, couldn't. A part of you wanted to, wanted to collapse into the arms of someone who might understand, someone who saw the old you and felt the weight of the new. But the words wouldn't come. Your throat felt tight, constricted by a fear that had become your constant companion. Instead, you simply nodded, a jerky, almost imperceptible movement, your gaze flickering away from hers almost immediately, unable to hold the depth of her silent question. The weight of her gaze was too heavy, too perceptive, too close to the raw truth you desperately tried to hide.

You managed that quiet, polite nod, the barest acknowledgment you could offer. Your lips remained a thin, unmoving line, a smile a foreign concept your muscles no longer remembered how to form. With a soft sigh that was barely audible over the low murmur of the bar, you slid onto a stool, the worn wood cool beneath you. Your gaze drifted to the half-empty glass Shakky had been polishing, a silent plea for a moment of quiet.

Shakky, ever perceptive, didn't push. She simply poured you a drink, a tall glass of cool water with a slice of lemon – a simple gesture, yet one that spoke volumes of her understanding. She remembered your preference, a small detail that, under different circumstances, might have brought a flicker of warmth to your chest. Now, it just felt… distant.

“So,” you managed, your voice a rasp, unused after so much time spent in silence. You cleared your throat, the sound rough and alien to your own ears. “Have… have they arrived?”

Shakky leaned forward, her elbows resting on the polished bar top, her gaze still fixed on you with that unnerving intensity. "You mean the Straw Hats?" she clarified, though it was clear she already knew. "They're not here yet, dear. Not all of them, anyway. A few have checked in, making their way back. But the reunion... that's still a little while off."

A hollow sensation bloomed in your chest. Not all of them. The image of the fractured crew, scattered across the globe, solidified into a painful reality. "Right," you mumbled, taking a slow sip of the water, the cold liquid doing little to quench the parched feeling in your soul.

Shakky’s voice dropped, becoming softer, more akin to the whispered secrets she often exchanged with Rayleigh. "You've been through a lot, Y/N. I can see it." Her eyes flickered over your face, taking in the subtle tremors in your hands, the way your shoulders remained tense even as you sat still. "The light in your eyes... it's not the same."

You flinched, not physically, but internally, a sharp, invisible recoil. Her directness was a punch to the gut, a mirror held up to the fractured reflection you desperately avoided. You didn't reply, choosing instead to stare into the depths of your water, as if the answers to your unspoken questions lay swirling in its clear surface.

A heavy silence descended between you, filled only by the distant clinking of glasses and the hushed conversations of the other patrons who, sensing the somber mood, had returned to their own business. Shakky didn’t press, didn't pry further. She understood that some wounds were too fresh, too deep, to be prodded. She simply waited, her presence a quiet anchor in the swirling chaos of your mind.

After a long moment, you looked up again, your eyes briefly meeting hers before darting away. "Do you know... where they'll meet?" you asked, the question barely a whisper. The idea of navigating this place, this ghost-filled archipelago, to find them felt overwhelming.

Shakky nodded, her expression softening infinitesimally. "When the time is right, they'll gather at the Thousand Sunny. Rayleigh’s watching over it, keeping it safe. He’ll make sure everyone knows when it's time."

The Sunny. The ship. A place that felt like home, even now. The thought brought a strange, unfamiliar flutter in your chest – not quite hope, but a faint, fragile sense of direction. It was a destination, a goal, a reason to push through the lingering shadows of Sabaody.

You took another slow sip of water, the ice now melting, diluting its coolness. "Thank you, Shakky," you said, your voice still rough, but with a hint of genuine gratitude. You weren't ready to tell her everything, maybe not even a fraction of it. But in that moment, her quiet understanding, her simple presence, was enough.

What would happen when you finally saw them? Would they recognize you? Or would they see only the changes, the hardened exterior, the missing light, and turn away?

You drained the last of the water, the ice clinking softly against the glass. It was a small, almost imperceptible sound in the quiet hum of the bar, but it marked a definitive end to your brief respite. Shakky's eyes, ever watchful, followed your movement. You pushed the empty glass forward slightly, a silent gesture of thanks, then slid off the stool. Your movements were still precise, economical, devoid of any wasted motion.

"The Thousand Sunny," you repeated, your voice a low murmur, confirming the destination. "Where exactly?"

Shakky pointed with a lazy flick of her wrist, her gaze unwavering. "Grove 42, down by the coast. It’s hard to miss. Rayleigh’s been keeping an eye on it."

You simply nodded, a tight, almost imperceptible dip of your head. There was no warmth in the gesture, no familiar smile. Just a stark acknowledgment. With that, you turned and walked towards the doors, the quiet hum of the bar returning to its usual volume as you passed.

Stepping back into the chaotic rush of Sabaody felt like diving into a cold, churning sea. The air was thick with the laughter of strangers, the shouts of vendors, the distant thrum of machinery. But to you, it was all background noise, a muffled distortion. Your focus narrowed, every sense now honed to the task at hand: finding the Sunny.

You navigated the bubbling landscape, your eyes scanning past the exotic plants and strange rides, past the throngs of tourists and pirates. Your movements were fluid, almost predatory, a stark contrast to the hesitant, lost soul who had first arrived. You moved with purpose, your training kicking in, your body remembering the efficiency of escaping pursuit. You dodged a group of boisterous pirates, slipped past a gesticulating merchant, and wove through a cluster of wide-eyed civilians without a single glance or acknowledgment. The memories of being hunted here still clawed at your mind, but now, you were the one moving with a hunter's precision, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

With each step, the scent of the sea grew stronger, the sound of lapping waves more distinct. The bubbles, once a source of wonder, now merely floated past, iridescent and meaningless. You pushed aside a low-hanging branch of a giant mangrove, and there it was.

The Thousand Sunny.

It sat majestic and proud, just as you remembered it, its lion head mast beaming defiantly into the setting sun. It was a beacon of home, a symbol of everything you had fought to reclaim. But as you stood there, gazing at its familiar form, a chilling realization washed over you. The ship was the same, but you were not. The question that had haunted you since your escape now loomed larger than ever: could this beloved symbol of your past accept the fractured person you had become?

The familiar silhouette of the Thousand Sunny grew larger with every step, its vibrant colors a stark contrast to the muted palette your world had become. Shakky wasn't lying. Standing by the gangplank, a figure leaned against the ship's railing, his broad shoulders and silver hair unmistakable even from a distance. It was Silvers Rayleigh, the Dark King, his presence a comforting anchor in this unsettling return.

You'd never been particularly close with him, not in the way you were with your crewmates. But he'd always had a kind word, a knowing smile, and a penchant for chuckling and calling you "too bright" – a descriptor that now felt like a cruel joke.

As you approached, your footsteps, light as they were, seemed to carry across the quiet evening air. Rayleigh, who’d been staring out at the ocean, shifted. His head tilted almost imperceptibly, his ears, accustomed to the subtlest of sounds, having caught your approach. Then, slowly, he turned.

His eyes, sharp and intelligent even in his advanced age, met yours. For a moment, a flicker of that familiar, warm smile touched his lips, a reflex born of old memories. But it died quickly, replaced by a slow, profound shift in his expression. The warmth drained, giving way to a deep-seated concern, a recognition that pierced through your carefully constructed defenses. His brow furrowed, and a sigh, heavy with unspoken understanding, escaped him.

"Y/N," he said, his voice a low, gravelly murmur, devoid of its usual jovial tone. It wasn't a question, but a statement laced with a gentle sorrow. He didn't ask what happened; he just saw that it had. His gaze lingered on your eyes, noting the absence of the light he’d once teased you about. He saw the subtle tension in your jaw, the way your hands remained clenched at your sides, the barely perceptible flinch in your shoulders.

You didn't respond immediately. The sight of him, a tangible link to a past that felt impossibly far away, tightened your throat. A part of you wanted to run, to hide from that perceptive gaze. But another, smaller part, yearned for the solace of his presence, for someone who remembered.

Finally, you managed to speak, your voice a brittle whisper. "Rayleigh-san." The honorific felt stiff, formal, a stark contrast to the easy camaraderie you once shared. "Is... is the ship ready?" You couldn't bring yourself to ask about the others, not yet. The mere thought sent a tremor through you.

Rayleigh pushed off the railing, his movements still graceful despite his age. He took a single, slow step towards you, but stopped short, respecting the invisible wall you’d erected around yourself. His eyes, though still concerned, held a deep, quiet understanding. "The Sunny is ready, Y/N," he confirmed, his voice gentle. "It's waited patiently for all of you." He paused, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "And we've waited for you too, Y/N."

His words, simple as they were, pierced through the icy detachment you'd cultivated. "We've waited for you too." It wasn't a question, not an accusation, but a simple statement of fact, carrying the weight of their shared anticipation. The silence stretched between you again, heavy with unspoken truths. Rayleigh didn't press, didn't ask about the missing years, or the lost brightness. He simply stood there, a quiet sentinel, offering the unwavering support of a man who had seen much and judged little. The Thousand Sunny loomed behind him, a silent promise of reunion, but also a terrifying mirror to the person you had become.

Rayleigh's gaze lingered on your face, a silent, searching expedition. His eyes, keen from decades of navigating the Grand Line's treacherous currents, meticulously roamed every inch, searching for the familiar. He looked for the shine he remembered, the effortless brightness that had once defined you. But all he found was the dark, a profound absence where light once dwelled. His eyes traced the subtle hollows beneath yours, the faint lines of perpetual tension around your mouth, and then, his gaze snagged on it – a new scar, a thin, angry line that started just beneath your left ear and sliced down your jaw, disappearing beneath the collar of your shirt. It was stark against your skin, a jagged testament to a recent, brutal past.

A slow, deliberate breath left Rayleigh. He didn't flinch, didn't recoil, but a deeper sorrow settled in his eyes. He recognized the mark of trauma, the kind that carved itself not just onto skin, but into the very soul.

"That's a new one," he observed, his voice still low, almost a murmur. He didn't ask how you got it, or who was responsible. His tone was heavy with a weary understanding, a recognition of the untold story etched onto your face. It wasn't an interrogation, but an acknowledgment of the profound change.

You stiffened, your hand instinctively rising to touch the scar, your fingers tracing its rough texture. You hadn't expected him to notice it, or at least, not to comment. It was a brand, a constant reminder of the hell you'd endured, and you usually kept it hidden. The silence stretched between you, thick with the weight of your unshared history.

You finally lowered your hand, your gaze once more fixed on the deck of the Sunny, unable to meet his knowing eyes. "It is," you conceded, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. You wouldn't elaborate, couldn't. The words for what had happened were still locked away, sealed behind layers of pain and a chilling detachment.

Rayleigh didn't press. He simply stood there, his presence a comforting, yet unsettling, anchor. He knew enough of the world's cruelties to understand that some scars ran deeper than the skin, and some stories were not for retelling, not yet. He just looked at you, the person before him, irrevocably altered, yet still standing, still breathing, still seeking her nakama. In his eyes, there was no judgment, only a profound, quiet acceptance of the transformation.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken truths. The weight of Rayleigh’s gaze, understanding but also deeply sorrowful, was almost unbearable. You needed to change the topic, to redirect the conversation away from yourself, away from the raw, exposed nerves of your past.

You cleared your throat, the sound rough and deliberate. "Who else has... arrived?" you asked, the question abrupt, almost detached. You didn't look at him as you spoke, your eyes still fixed on the gleaming deck of the Sunny, a neutral ground.

Rayleigh seemed to sense your need for a shift. His expression softened, though the concern in his eyes remained. "Well," he began, his voice taking on a slightly more reflective tone, "your first mate showed up not too long ago. He was… as stoic as ever, but I could tell the separation weighed on him."

A sharp intake of breath caught in your throat. Zoro. He was here. A jolt, half anticipation, half dread, shot through you. Zoro, who always seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, but rarely showed it. Zoro, who you had often found practicing in the dead of night, his intense focus a silent comfort.

"He's been training relentlessly, of course," Rayleigh continued, a hint of amusement in his voice, though it was quickly tempered by a more serious note. "Seems he's only gotten stronger. He didn't say much, just nodded, asked if the ship was ready, and then went off to... well, to do whatever Zoro does." He paused, his gaze subtly shifting back to you. "He's waiting too, Y/N. All of them are."

The thought of facing Zoro, of seeing his sharp, discerning eyes on your altered self, brought a cold knot to your stomach. He was observant, unflinchingly honest. If anyone would notice the depth of the change within you, it would be him. The kind, gentle girl he knew was gone. What would he see? Would he even recognize you, or would he simply see a stranger standing where a nakama once stood? The question hung in the air, heavier than any physical burden you’d ever carried.

"Anyone else arrived?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, trying to steer the conversation further away from your own shattered state.

Before Rayleigh could respond, a booming, familiar voice cut through the air, echoing across the grove. "SUPERRRR!"

From around the side of the Sunny, Franky emerged, striking a triumphant pose. His metal hands were raised, muscles flexing, and his signature star glasses glinted in the setting sun. He was admiring the ship, oblivious to your presence for a moment, gushing about his beloved creation. "The Sunny! You're as beautiful as I left you, my super masterpiece!"

Then his gaze swept over to Rayleigh, and finally, to you. His mechanical eyes widened, and a grin, broader than the Sunny's bow, stretched across his face. "AH!! There's my sunshine!" he boomed, his voice filled with genuine, unadulterated joy. He charged forward, arms outstretched, clearly intending to scoop you up in one of his signature, bone-crushing hugs.

You froze. The nickname, "sunshine," resonated with a painful irony. His joyous, unburdened recognition of the old you, the one who was "too bright," sent a wave of panic through you. This was it. The moment of truth. You braced yourself, bracing for the inevitable realization in his eyes.

He was almost upon you when you managed a small, almost imperceptible nod, your lips twitching into a fleeting, forced approximation of a smile. "Hey, Franky," you murmured, your voice thin, barely audible over his boisterous enthusiasm. It was a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of normalcy, to meet his innocent joy with something other than the emptiness gnawing at you.

Franky finally reached you, his massive hands reaching out. But just as he was about to make contact, his momentum stuttered. His grin faltered, his mechanical eyes, designed for precision, finally registering the subtle shifts in your expression, the absence of the vibrant spark he remembered. His hands, instead of embracing you, hovered awkwardly in the air.

The "super" seemed to drain from his posture. His enthusiastic "sunshine" died on his lips, replaced by a sudden, profound silence. His gaze dropped from your eyes to the new scar etching your jawline, a jagged line that spoke of unseen battles. He saw the tension in your shoulders, the way your body seemed to flinch even in stillness. The vibrant, warm light that used to radiate from you was gone, replaced by a haunting stillness, a cold distance.

"Y-Y/N?" he stammered, his voice losing its usual boisterous energy, replaced by a hesitant, almost shocked whisper. The change was so stark, so utterly different from the person he had exuberantly greeted moments before. His hands slowly, awkwardly, lowered to his sides, his initial joy replaced by a confused, then deeply concerned, frown. The super cyborg was speechless, faced with a reality far more complex than any of his wild inventions.

The air crackled with the sudden, heavy silence. Franky's usual boisterous energy had completely deflated, leaving him looking, for the first time you could remember, genuinely subdued. His wide eyes, usually brimming with life, now held a deep-seated worry as he scrutinized you.

"Y-Y/N?" he repeated, his voice a low, hesitant rumble. "What... what happened to your... your super glow?" He reached out a hand, then pulled it back, as if afraid to touch you, afraid of what he might find.

You averted your gaze, unable to meet the raw concern in his eyes. You couldn't tell him. You couldn't even begin to articulate the horrors, the dehumanization, the systematic breaking of your spirit. The words felt like ash in your mouth, and the very thought of reliving them, even in summary, brought a cold dread that numbed your tongue.

"I... it's been a long two years, Franky," you managed, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. It was a deflection, a non-answer, but it was all you could offer. You offered a slight, almost imperceptible shrug. "Things change."

Franky's brow furrowed, a vein throating in his temple. He knew you. He knew "things change" wasn't an explanation for this profound shift. He opened his mouth, then closed it, his gaze falling to the fresh scar on your jaw. He clearly wanted to ask, to push, to understand. But something in your closed-off posture, in the hard, distant set of your eyes, held him back. He saw the barrier you'd erected, a wall built of pain and fear.

Rayleigh, who had been silently observing the exchange, placed a reassuring hand on Franky's shoulder, a silent message to proceed with caution.

"Right," Franky said, his voice still subdued. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, looking around awkwardly. "Yeah, two years is a long time. Lots of things... lots of things happen, I guess." He forced a loud, unconvincing chuckle, then rubbed the back of his neck. "But, uh... you're here! That's the main thing! Everyone's gonna be so super happy to see you!" His attempt at his usual enthusiasm felt strained, hollow.

You offered another curt nod. "I'm glad to be back," you lied, or at least, stretched the truth. You were glad to be away from the hell, but "glad to be back" implied a joy you no longer possessed.

"So, uh... have you seen anyone else yet?" Franky blurted out, clearly desperate to change the subject himself. "Nami? Usopp? Chopper? Man, I bet Chopper's gonna cry his eyes out when he sees you!" His eyes flickered hopefully to you, as if the thought of Chopper's tears might elicit a more familiar reaction.

You shook your head slowly. "Just Rayleigh-san, and now you. Shakky said... they're still making their way here."

Franky let out a relieved sigh. "Well, that's good, that's good! Gives us some time to... you know. Catch up!" He clapped his hands together, forcing a renewed burst of energy. "So, Y/N, what have you been up to? Any super adventures? Did you invent any super new moves?" He clearly wanted to hear a story, any story, that would bring back a glimmer of the "sunshine" he remembered.

You paused, searching for a benign lie, something that wouldn't betray the dark reality of your past two years. "I... mostly trained," you said, opting for the truth, but stripping it of its context. "Got stronger." You offered a small, almost imperceptible flex of your arm, a testament to the brutal discipline you had subjected yourself to.

Franky's eyes lit up at the word "stronger," a common language they all shared. "Oh, super! That's what I like to hear! Gotta be ready for the New World, right?" He launched into a rapid-fire monologue about his own upgrades, his new "super-weapons," and the Sunny's reinforced plating, his voice slowly returning to its usual booming volume.

You listened, half-hearing, half-lost in the internal monologue of your own fractured mind. You nodded at appropriate intervals, offered a noncommittal "Mmm," or "Right," when prompted. You didn't contribute, didn't share. Franky was talking at you, not with you, and for now, that was a mercy. It meant you didn't have to talk about it. It meant you didn't have to expose the raw, bleeding wound that was your past. It meant, for a few precious moments, you could simply exist in the quiet space between the person you were and the stranger you had become.

Franky's booming monologue about super upgrades continued, a desperate attempt to fill the void of your silence. You were vaguely aware of Rayleigh's quiet presence beside him, a steady, knowing anchor. Then, from behind you, a new voice cut through the air, familiar and impossibly bright.

"Y/N-SWAN! My beautiful, shining Y/N-chan is finally here! Oh, my heart is ready to burst from seeing your radiant glory!"

The words, dripping with his usual lovesick adoration, hit you like a physical blow. You could almost feel the hearts in his eyes, even before you turned. A wave of nausea washed over you, a sickening blend of dread and an aching phantom limb of the affection you once felt so easily. You heard Franky, a desperate, hushed "No, no, no, stop!" mouthed frantically, but it was too late.

You slowly turned, your movements stiff, your face carefully blank.

Sanji's Shock

There he was, Sanji, frozen mid-step, his usual swirl of heart-eyes dissipating like smoke. His jaw, which had been stretched in a joyous, open-mouthed grin, slowly dropped. The cigarette dangling from his lips slipped, unnoticed, to the ground. His eyes, normally captivated by beauty, widened, then narrowed, searching.

He saw the stillness in your posture, the absence of the vibrant energy he remembered. His gaze, accustomed to finding perfection in your every feature, now fixated on the subtle hollowing beneath your eyes, the strained set of your mouth, and then, the stark, unforgiving line of the scar on your jaw. The warmth that had so readily flowed from him moments before drained away, replaced by a cold, visceral shock.

"Y/N-chan...?" he whispered, his voice stripped of all its usual playful flirtation, replaced by a raw, disbelieving ache. He didn't ask a question; it was more a plea, a desperate confirmation that the sight before him wasn't real. His hands, which had been reaching out, eager to embrace you, now hung limp at his sides, trembling slightly. The playful skip in his step was gone, replaced by a rooted stillness, as if his feet had suddenly become lead. He just stood there, staring, the golden light of the setting sun illuminating the profound pain that had just bloomed in his eyes. The "radiant glory" he had so eagerly anticipated had been replaced by a quiet, haunting sorrow.

Sanji stood there, utterly motionless, his usual boisterous charm completely evaporated. His eyes, fixed on your face, scanned every inch as if trying to reconcile the image before him with the vibrant memory he held. The initial shock slowly morphed into a profound, aching sorrow, a deep concern etched into every line of his features. The unspoken question in his gaze was a raw, palpable thing: What happened to you, Y/N-chan?

You met his gaze for a fleeting moment, then quickly averted your eyes. The concern in his usually lovesick expression was too much, too raw. You couldn't bear the pity, the silent accusation of your altered state. Your hands, which had been clenched at your sides, tightened further, your nails digging into your palms.

Franky, sensing the suffocating tension, finally broke the silence. "Sanji! Buddy! Look who's here!" he boomed, attempting to inject some of his usual enthusiasm, though his voice was still a shade too subdued. "It's Y/N! She's back! Super, right?"

Sanji didn't acknowledge Franky. His eyes remained locked on you, a silent, searching intensity in their depths. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, slowly closing the distance between you. He didn't reach out, didn't try to touch you. He simply stood there, a few feet away, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his earlier joy completely vanished.

"Y/N-chan," he whispered again, his voice cracking slightly. "You... you're different." It wasn't an accusation, but a simple, heart-wrenching observation. His gaze lingered on the scar on your jaw, then lifted to your eyes, which you still refused to meet directly. "Your... your light..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the profound absence he perceived.

You flinched internally, the pain of his words a sharp, familiar jab. You offered another small, almost imperceptible shrug, a desperate attempt to convey nonchalance, to dismiss his observations. "It's been a long two years, Sanji," you murmured, repeating the same vague deflection you'd given Franky. "Things change."

A flicker of anger, quickly masked by concern, crossed Sanji's face. He knew you better than that. He knew "things change" wasn't an answer for this. But like Franky, he saw the wall you'd erected, the fragile, almost desperate guard you held over yourself. He wanted to demand answers, to pull you into a protective embrace, to soothe the pain he saw etched onto your soul. But something in your distant posture, in the coldness of your eyes, held him back.

Rayleigh stepped forward, placing a hand on Sanji's shoulder. "She's been through a lot, Sanji," he said, his voice quiet but firm, a silent plea for patience and understanding.

Sanji tore his gaze from you, looking at Rayleigh, then back at you, a myriad of emotions warring in his eyes: shock, concern, confusion, and a deep, aching sadness. "I..." he started, then stopped, unable to form a coherent thought. He ran a hand through his blond hair, his usual suave composure completely shattered.

The silence returned, heavier this time, filled with the unspoken questions and the palpable pain of a reunion that was anything but joyful. You stood rigid, waiting, bracing yourself for whatever would come next. You were back, but the cost of that return was laid bare for them to see, and you had no idea if they would still want the fractured person you had become.

The weight of Sanji’s silenced grief and Franky’s hushed concern pressed down on you, suffocating you. You couldn’t have this conversation. Not now. Not when every word felt like tearing open a fresh wound.

You slowly turned your head, meeting Rayleigh’s steady gaze. His eyes held a quiet understanding, a silent acknowledgment of your unspoken plea. You then glanced back at Sanji, who was still rooted to the spot, his face a mask of bewildered pain, and Franky, whose usual "super" enthusiasm had completely vanished.

"I... I need to go," you stated, your voice flat, devoid of inflection. You didn’t offer an explanation, didn't apologize. There was nothing left to explain, no apologies to give for something beyond your control. "I'm going to look for the others."

Without waiting for a response, you turned your back to them. Your steps were swift, purposeful, a stark contrast to the hesitant approach you’d made just moments before. You moved past the stunned Sanji, whose arm instinctively lifted a fraction before falling back down, and the quiet Franky, who simply watched you go.

Rayleigh remained by the Sunny, his gaze following your retreating form. He didn't call out, didn't try to stop you. He understood that sometimes, the only way to heal was to keep moving, to keep searching for the familiar, even if the familiar now felt like a distant dream.

You plunged back into the bustling chaos of Sabaody, the sounds of the archipelago once again a muffled backdrop to the turmoil within. Your mind was fixed on a single objective: finding the rest of your nakama. Chopper. Nami. Usopp. Robin. Brook. They were out there somewhere, and the thought of their reactions to the new you was a terrifying, yet undeniable, pull. Each step you took was a desperate effort to outrun the memories, to outpace the pain, and to find the pieces of your old life that might, somehow, still fit.

You moved through Sabaody with a new, almost predatory efficiency. The bustling crowds, the floating bubbles, the distinct groves—they were no longer a source of wonder or even anxiety, but simply obstacles to navigate. Your senses, sharpened by the experiments, picked up on the subtle shifts in the air, the faint whispers of conversations, the rhythmic scuff of shoes on the paved paths. Your eyes darted, not lingering on any particular sight, but constantly scanning, searching.

You were looking for them.

Nami and Usopp

You found Nami and Usopp first. They were near Grove 12, a more secluded area, huddled together by a small, bubbling fountain. Nami was leaning against Usopp, her face still etched with residual fear, while Usopp, ever the exaggerator, was likely regaling her with a tale of some fabricated heroism. As you approached, their voices, normally so distinct, sounded distant, muffled.

Nami, ever alert, looked up first. Her eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, widened as they landed on you. "Y/N?!" she gasped, her voice a mix of disbelief and overwhelming relief. She pushed off Usopp, a joyous cry escaping her lips, and began to run towards you, her arms outstretched.

Usopp, seeing Nami's reaction, turned. His jaw dropped, and a surprised, delighted shout erupted from him. "Y/N! You're back! Oh, thank the gods, you're back!" He scrambled to his feet, a wide, relieved grin spreading across his face, a stark contrast to his usual anxious demeanor.

Their unburdened joy, their immediate, unquestioning acceptance, hit you with the force of a physical blow. It was the welcome you had once dreamed of, the one you had craved through endless nights of torment. But now, it felt like a spotlight on your brokenness.

Nami was almost on you, her arms ready to embrace. You braced yourself, your body tensing, an automatic response born of self-preservation. A wave of panic, cold and sudden, washed over you. You saw the genuine happiness in their faces, and it mirrored the pain in your own heart, the aching chasm between who you were and who they thought you still were.

You couldn't meet her embrace. Not yet. You couldn't shatter their hopeful reunion with the harsh reality of your changed self. As Nami reached out, you instinctively took a half-step back, your eyes darting away from her, unable to hold the pure, unadulterated relief shining in her gaze. Your lips, still unaccustomed to the effort, forced themselves into a thin, almost imperceptible smile – a ghost of the one she remembered.

"Hey, Nami. Usopp," you managed, your voice a low, rough murmur, betraying none of the turmoil within. You kept your hands clenched at your sides, unable to offer the comforting touch you once would have, unable to receive the warm embrace they so readily offered. The distance you'd cultivated for two years was suddenly a terrifying, uncrossable chasm between you and the people who loved you most.

Nami's outstretched arms faltered, then slowly fell to her sides. Usopp's wide grin tightened, his sharp eyes picking up on your subtle withdrawal, the lack of your usual eager response. The initial wave of joyous relief on their faces gave way to a slow, creeping confusion, then a familiar concern that mirrored Sanji's and Franky's.

"Y/N?" Nami whispered, her voice laced with an apprehension that hadn't been there moments before. Her gaze, usually so focused on deciphering maps and predicting weather, now tried to map the unfamiliar terrain of your face. She saw the new scar, the absence of the easy warmth in your eyes, the way your shoulders remained tense.

Usopp, ever sensitive to shifts in mood, lowered his head slightly, his smile completely gone. "Are... are you okay?" he asked, his voice softer than usual, tinged with genuine worry. He remembered the countless times you had comforted him when he was scared, your gentle hand on his back, your reassuring words. Now, it was clear that you were the one who needed comforting, yet you were the one pushing it away.

You forced yourself to hold their gaze for a moment, a silent plea for understanding without words. "I'm... fine," you managed, the lie feeling brittle on your tongue. "Just... tired." You offered another small, almost imperceptible nod, a desperate attempt to reassure them, to bridge the growing distance. But your body remained rigid, unwilling to relax, unable to accept the closeness they offered.

Nami, sensing the invisible wall you’d erected, didn't push. Her hand, which had been poised to embrace you, now simply hovered, then dropped to her side. She looked at Usopp, a silent, knowing glance passing between them. They remembered the kind, empathetic friend who would always offer comfort; this distant, guarded person was a stranger in all but appearance.

"Oh," Nami said, her voice flat, the initial joy completely extinguished. "Right. Two years, huh?" It was a statement that acknowledged the time, but also the chasm it had created.

Usopp scratched the back of his head, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Yeah, I guess... I guess a lot happens in two years." He glanced at Nami, then back at you, a silent debate playing out in his eyes. He wanted to ask, to understand, to somehow bring back the old you. But something in your unyielding posture, in the cold, distant look in your eyes, told him it wasn't the time.

The fountain bubbled softly behind them, its peaceful gurgle a stark contrast to the turbulent silence that now settled over the three of you. You stood there, caught between the warmth of their memories and the chilling reality of your present, unable to connect, unable to explain, and utterly terrified of what came next.

The silence hung heavy, thick with their unspoken questions and your own suffocating dread. You couldn't do this. You couldn't stand there and watch their hope curdle into confusion, their joy into sorrow. The ache in your chest, a dull throb that had become a constant companion, intensified, threatening to crack the fragile facade you'd constructed.

You turned your head, meeting Nami's worried gaze for a fleeting second, then Usopp's. "The Sunny is in Grove 42," you stated, your voice flat, devoid of any warmth. You gestured vaguely in the direction of the coast. "Rayleigh-san is there. Franky too. You should... you should go."

Your words hung in the air, a clear dismissal, a stark contrast to the inviting warmth they remembered. Nami and Usopp exchanged another glance, their expressions a mix of hurt and bewilderment. They wanted to ask, to understand, to reach out, but your posture, your distant eyes, screamed a warning.

Before they could respond, before the silence could stretch into another agonizing moment, you turned and walked away. You didn't run, not exactly, but your pace was swift, almost a march, a desperate escape from the suffocating presence of their love and concern.

The Panic Sets In

The world outside your immediate focus began to blur. The vibrant colors of Sabaody became a chaotic kaleidoscope, the chatter of the crowds a deafening roar. Every step felt like a hammer blow against your skull. The carefully constructed walls around your emotions, the detached numbness that had been your shield, began to crumble.

The air grew thin, too thin. You gasped, but no matter how deeply you tried to breathe, your lungs wouldn't fill. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat signaling impending doom. The familiar smells of the archipelago—sea salt, bubble sap, human sweat—became overpowering, cloying, trapping you.

Images flashed behind your eyes: the sterile white walls of the facility, the cold glint of instruments, the detached faces of your captors. You could hear the muffled screams, feel the phantom prick of needles. The scar on your jaw began to burn, a vivid reminder of the living hell you'd escaped.

You stumbled, your legs suddenly weak, threatening to give out. You needed to get away, to find a place where the air wasn't so thick with ghosts, where the ground didn't feel like it was shifting beneath your feet. Your vision tunneled, the edges of your sight darkening, threatening to swallow you whole. This was it. The breakdown you had been fighting so desperately to suppress. The two years of terror, the forced changes, the suffocating burden of your secret—it was all erupting, an unstoppable wave of raw, primal panic. You pushed through the throngs of people, a silent scream building in your chest, desperate for an escape that seemed to recede with every frantic, gasping breath.

The panic attack hit you with the force of a tidal wave, dragging you under. It wasn't just fear; it was the raw, unfiltered terror of post-traumatic stress disorder, every sensory input from Sabaody now a trigger, every memory a fresh wound.

You stumbled blindly, the familiar path dissolving into a swirling vortex of light and shadow. The vibrant hues of the bubble groves twisted into the sterile, blinding white of the facility's labs. The cheerful shouts of vendors morphed into the echoing screams that had haunted your two years of hell. The sweet, sap-scented air became thick with the metallic tang of fear and antiseptic.

Your breath hitched, each gasp a desperate, failing attempt to pull air into lungs that felt compressed, crushed. Your heart hammered so violently it threatened to burst through your chest, a frantic drumbeat urging you to run, to escape, to somehow sever the connection between your mind and the inescapable horror unfolding within it.

Your hands flew to your head, gripping your temples as if to silence the cacophony of phantom noises. The scar on your jaw throbbed, a fiery brand searing your skin, reminding you of every brutal touch, every cold incision. Your vision tunneled, the edges of your world closing in, leaving only a pinpoint of agonizing awareness at the center.

You couldn't distinguish between past and present. Was that the glint of a Celestial Dragon's cloak, or the white coat of a scientist? Was that the terrified cry of a bystander, or the agonized scream of a fellow captive? The lines blurred, the two years of torment merging with the current reality of Sabaody, trapping you in a terrifying loop.

You felt a scream building in your throat, a primal, guttural sound born of pure anguish, but it remained trapped, suffocated by the overwhelming tide of panic. You collapsed, your knees hitting the hard ground with a jarring thud, your body curling in on itself, desperate to become small, to disappear, to escape the inescapable prison of your own mind. The world spun, a dizzying, terrifying kaleidoscope of your worst nightmares come to life. All you could do was hold on, desperately waiting for the storm to pass, for the brief, fragile moments of reality to return.

Slowly, agonizingly, the storm began to recede. The vivid hallucinations flickered, then faded, leaving behind only the cold, clammy residue of terror. Your ragged gasps for air gradually deepened, though your chest still ached. The world, though still a dizzying blur, slowly regained its distinct shapes and colors. You were lying on the rough paving stones of Sabaody, curled into a tight ball, your arms wrapped around your knees, head buried.

The immediate, visceral fear began to give way to a profound exhaustion. Every muscle in your body trembled, and a crushing wave of shame washed over you. You, who had faced so much, had just collapsed in a public place. You, who was supposed to be strong, had fractured under the weight of your own mind.

Taking a few more shaky, deliberate breaths, you slowly uncurled, pushing yourself onto your hands and knees. Your vision swam for a moment, and you squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When you opened them, the vibrant, chaotic world of Sabaody returned, but it was muted, distant, as if you were observing it through a thick pane of glass.

There was only one place you could go. One place that felt like a sanctuary, even if its inhabitants were still a terrifying prospect.

You pushed yourself to your feet, your legs wobbly beneath you. Each step was a conscious effort, a battle against the lingering tremors and the profound weariness that settled deep in your bones. You didn't look at anyone, didn't acknowledge the curious stares you might be receiving. Your gaze was fixed forward, a singular, desperate focus: the Thousand Sunny.

You walked, slowly at first, then picking up a more determined pace, putting one foot in front of the other. The panic had drained you, leaving you hollow, numb. The need to find the rest of the crew was still there, but it was overshadowed by an overwhelming desire for safety, for a place where you could simply be without the constant threat of your own mind betraying you.

Finally, the grand mast of the Sunny came into view again. Rayleigh was still there, a steadfast sentinel, standing guard. He saw you approach, his expression remaining one of quiet concern, devoid of surprise. He didn't speak, didn't move towards you, understanding the invisible boundary you carried.

You reached the gangplank, your feet heavy on the wood. You didn't look back at the chaos of Sabaody, didn't spare a glance for the fleeting figures of Nami and Usopp you'd left behind. Your only thought was to get aboard, to find refuge.

You climbed the gangplank, your movements slow and deliberate, as if each step required immense effort. The familiar deck stretched before you, vast and welcoming. You walked past the lion-head figurehead, past the observation deck, and stopped. You didn't go to the galley, didn't head for the infirmary, didn't seek out any specific spot.

You just... stood there. In the middle of the deck, bathed in the soft, fading light of the evening. Your shoulders slumped, and you simply remained, a still, small figure against the grand backdrop of the ship. You had come back to the Sunny, not to prepare for a journey, not to reunite with your friends, but simply to exist, to find a place where the world might stop spinning, where the memories might finally, mercifully, quiet down. It was a place to stay. For now.

An hour passed. Or perhaps more. Time had become a fluid, indistinct thing since your escape. You stood on the deck of the Sunny, a silent sentinel, the gentle rocking of the ship the only soothing rhythm in your chaotic mind. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, but you barely noticed the beauty. Your world remained a muted, internal landscape. Rayleigh, a quiet, reassuring presence, occasionally glanced your way from his spot by the railing, but he didn't approach, respecting the fragile boundary you maintained.

The Crew Arrives

Then, the silence shattered.

A cacophony of sound erupted from the direction of Sabaody. Not just the usual distant chatter, but distinct, familiar voices, raised in excitement, argument, and pure, unadulterated chaos.

"OI! LUFFY! DON'T JUST EAT IT ALL, YOU IDIOT!"

"GET OFF ME, YOU STUPID MARIMO!"

"I AM A BRAVE WARRIOR OF THE SEA! I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP!"

"YOHOHOHO! A new song is brewing, my dear friends!"

Your head snapped up, your body tensing, every nerve ending screaming an alarm. It was them. The full, noisy, magnificent force of your crew.

A figure burst onto the gangplank first, propelled by a boundless energy that could only belong to one person. Luffy. He took one look at the Sunny, his eyes sparkling, and then let out a joyous, stretched-out laugh. "SHIIIPPP!" he bellowed, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Right behind him, a flash of green and a sharp retort: "MARIMO! WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING, YOU LOVE-COOK BASTARD!"

And then, Zoro. His three swords still at his hip, his bandana tied firmly, his expression as stoic as ever, but with a clear glint of relief in his eye as he took in the Sunny.

"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME, SHITTY MARIMO?!" Sanji's furious voice followed, a trail of floating hearts still intermittently escaping him despite his anger. He was limping slightly, a clear sign of a recent skirmish, but his gaze was already scanning the deck, looking for...

They were all there. Nami, looking exhausted but relieved, her hand already reaching for the map in her bag. Usopp, still wide-eyed and jumpy, but with a triumphant set to his jaw. Chopper, a small bundle of anxious energy, darting between the others. Robin, serene and elegant, her eyes already taking in every detail of the reunion. And Brook, his signature "YOHOHOHO!" echoing across the grove, his skeletal frame dancing with delight.

The deck, once your quiet sanctuary, was now a swirling vortex of familiar faces, booming voices, and uncontained joy. They hadn't seen you yet, too caught up in the sheer exhilaration of being back together, of seeing their beloved ship again. The sound of their voices, the sheer life radiating from them, was overwhelming. Your heart, already a frantic drum, now hammered with a terrified, dizzying speed.

This was it. The moment you had dreaded, the reunion you had both yearned for and feared. The full force of their recognition, their memories of the "sunshine" you once were, was about to collide with the cold, distant reality of the person you had become.

The deck erupted in a whirlwind of motion and sound. Luffy, with a joyful yell, launched himself towards the Sunny's mast, ready to claim his favorite perch. Sanji and Zoro immediately clashed, their familiar insults ringing out. Nami was already inspecting the ship's navigation equipment, while Usopp did a triumphant jig, his spirits soaring. Chopper, a whirlwind of adorable panic and joy, darted excitedly between them all. Robin smiled serenely, taking in the scene with her usual calm. Franky, a beaming "SUPER!" on his lips, had already started examining the ship's outer plating with proprietary pride.

They were a whirlwind of life, a cacophony of their old selves, and for a terrifying moment, you simply stood there, a still point in their vibrant storm, utterly forgotten amidst the joyous chaos of their reunion. The knot in your stomach tightened, and a cold dread settled over you. This was it. The moment of reckoning.

You took a shaky breath, the words forming a brittle lump in your throat. You had to do it. You had to face them.

"Everyone," you said, your voice barely a whisper, yet it somehow cut through the din. It was devoid of your usual warmth, a flat, almost hollow sound.

Slowly, the joyous pandemonium began to subside. One by one, heads turned.

Luffy, mid-stretch, paused, his rubber arm extending towards the mast. Zoro, his hand already on the hilt of Wado Ichimonji, stopped his bickering with Sanji. Nami looked up from the logbook, her brow furrowing slightly. Usopp froze mid-jig, his grin faltering. Chopper, who had been hopping excitedly, stiffened. Robin's serene smile softened, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly. Even Franky’s boisterous inspection trailed off, his super-sized grin slowly disappearing.

Their eyes, filled with the boundless joy of reunion, landed on you. And as they did, the recognition that had flickered in Rayleigh’s, Franky’s, and Sanji's eyes solidified into a collective, stunned silence.

The Revelation

Luffy's infectious smile slowly dissolved, his wide eyes taking in the stillness that radiated from you, the absence of the vibrant warmth he remembered. His head tilted, a silent question in his innocent gaze, before a flicker of confusion, then concern, settled over him.

Zoro's sharp gaze, already aware of the shift from his earlier reunion with Rayleigh, hardened with an immediate, grim understanding. His eyes swept over your face, fixing on the new scar, then settling on the guarded emptiness in your eyes. His hand, instinctively reaching for his sword, slowly relaxed, replaced by a tense stillness in his posture.

Nami's initial relief drained from her face, replaced by a dawning horror. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes welling up as she took in the stark changes: the lack of your usual comforting smile, the distant look in your eyes, the subtle way you held yourself, as if bracing for a blow. "Y-Y/N?" she choked out, her voice barely audible.

Usopp, ever expressive, recoiled slightly, his jaw dropping. The easy relief that had characterized his earlier greeting vanished, replaced by wide-eyed shock and a visible tremor. He saw the coldness, the distance, the stark contrast to the friend who had always been there to soothe his fears.

Sanji, already reeling from his earlier encounter with you, simply stood frozen, his earlier anguish deepening into a profound, heart-wrenching pain. He took a hesitant step forward, his hand clenching into a fist, a silent testament to the fight he wanted to wage on whatever had done this to you.

Chopper, his small body trembling, looked up at you with wide, tearful eyes. The pure, innocent joy he had felt at seeing you was replaced by a deep confusion, then a frightened whimper. He recognized you, but the comforting warmth he associated with you was gone, replaced by an unsettling cold.

Robin's serene expression remained, but her eyes, usually so calm, held a profound sadness. She, more than anyone, understood the weight of trauma, the way it could reshape a person. She saw the ghost of the girl she knew, haunted by shadows only she could truly comprehend.

Franky, having already witnessed the change, could only hang his head slightly, his "SUPER!" dreams of your reunion now crushed by the undeniable reality before them.

The air hung heavy with the weight of their collective shock. You stood exposed, every hidden scar, every internalized wound laid bare under the gaze of your bewildered nakama. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the joyous clamor that had filled the deck moments before. The question of whether they would accept you, the shattered person you had become, hung in the air, a terrifying, unanswered plea.

The heavy silence on the Sunny's deck was thick with their stunned disbelief, their bewildered gazes fixed on you. The weight of their collective shock was crushing, threatening to splinter the last fragments of your composure. You saw the hurt, the confusion, the dawning sorrow in their eyes, and a bitter, self-deprecating humor bubbled up, cold and sharp.

A sound escaped you then, a soft, dry chuckle. It wasn't the warm, genuine laughter they remembered, the kind that used to bubble up from a place of pure joy and empathy. This was a forced sound, a brittle, almost sarcastic rasp that seemed to grate against the vibrant air of the ship. It was devoid of mirth, a hollow echo, as if your vocal cords had forgotten how to properly produce such a carefree noise.

The sound, so out of place, seemed to break the spell. Luffy, who had been staring, head cocked, suddenly frowned deeper. Zoro's eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening. Sanji flinched, as if the sound itself were a blow.

You looked at their faces, one by one, seeing the confirmation of your greatest fear. They saw it. They saw the change, the dark, the absence of the "sunshine" they cherished. And in their stunned silence, you heard the unspoken question, the one that had haunted your every step back to them: What happened to you? And can we still accept who you are now?

The forced chuckle died on your lips, replaced by the familiar, cold detachment. The moment of revelation was complete.

The brittle, forced chuckle died on your lips, leaving an echoing silence that felt colder than any ocean trench. Their faces, once lit with the euphoria of reunion, now held a bewildered hesitancy. They stared, not with accusation, but with a profound uncertainty that felt like a gaping chasm opening between you.

The Unspoken Question

Luffy's usual bright curiosity dimmed, replaced by a slight furrow of his brow. He didn't understand, and for him, that was a rare and unsettling feeling. He glanced at Zoro, then at Sanji, a silent plea for an explanation his simple heart couldn't grasp.

Zoro's eyes, sharp as his blades, had already registered the full extent of the change. He didn't ask, didn't demand. Instead, his posture became a fraction more rigid, his hand subtly shifting closer to his swords – not in threat, but in an almost protective, guarded readiness. He saw the damage, understood its depth, and seemed to instinctively sense that pressing for answers now would only shatter the fragile peace.

Nami's hands, which had been raised to her mouth in shock, slowly lowered, trembling slightly. Her eyes, usually so expressive, were now wide with a mixture of confusion and a deep, aching concern. She desperately wanted to reach out, to ask, to bridge the distance, but your stillness, your impenetrable silence, held her back. The cheerful Navigator had no map for this new, unsettling emotional territory.

Usopp, ever the empath, visibly recoiled, his shoulders hunching. He saw the coldness, the distance, and a familiar fear, different from his usual anxieties, flickered in his eyes. He didn't voice a question, perhaps too afraid of the answer, or perhaps sensing that it was a question you weren't ready to confront.

Sanji, his initial grief still raw, simply looked away, clenching his fists at his sides. The sight of your forced chuckle, the absence of your warmth, seemed to be a physical blow. He didn't question it. Instead, his gaze became distant, his own pain too overwhelming to process further.

Chopper whimpered again, a soft, heartbroken sound. He recognized your face, your scent, but the "you" he knew, the one who offered comforting candy and endless smiles, was simply gone. He just stood there, his small body trembling, too innocent to fully grasp the horror, but aware that something vital had been irrevocably lost.

Robin's serene expression remained, but a shadow passed over her eyes, a deep understanding of the trauma she witnessed. She looked at you, then at the bewildered faces of her crewmates. She knew that some wounds could not be immediately questioned, that some pain needed space, and that the only response was a quiet, enduring presence.

Franky, having already processed some of the shock, simply crossed his arms, his mechanical eyes fixed on you with a profound sadness. He had seen enough of the world's cruelties to know that some things couldn't be fixed with a "SUPER!" hammer.

No one spoke. No one questioned. They simply stood there, an entire crew, united in their shock and uncertainty, gazing at the altered version of their beloved nakama. The joyous reunion they had all yearned for had become a silent, poignant moment of profound realization: the person they remembered was gone, replaced by a stranger who wore her face.

The silence on the Sunny's deck was thick, suffocating. No one broke it, no one dared to ask the question that hung heavy in the air. The joyous reunion they had anticipated for two years had dissolved into a profound, aching uncertainty. Luffy, for once, didn't demand an explanation. Zoro, Sanji, Nami, Usopp, Chopper, Robin, and Franky all simply stood, their eyes fixed on you, searching for the vibrant light that had once defined you, and seeing only the guarded distance.

A Journey to Fish-Man Island

Eventually, it was Rayleigh who, with a quiet nod, broke the standoff. He guided them through the necessary preparations, a silent signal that, despite the crushing emotional weight, their journey had to continue. The Sunny needed to be submerged, a bubble coating applied, for the treacherous descent to Fish-Man Island.

The process of preparing the ship was a stark display of the crew's unspoken understanding. They moved with a quiet efficiency, the usual playful banter and loud directives replaced by a somber focus. No one asked you to help, no one asked for your input. It was as if they instinctively understood that any demand might shatter the fragile composure you barely maintained. You stood by the railing, a silent observer, watching them move around you, a phantom in your own life.

As the Sunny began its slow, deliberate descent into the inky depths of the ocean, the pressure building around the bubble coating, the true weight of your change became undeniably apparent to them all.

The Unmistakable Shift

The descent to Fish-Man Island was usually a time of shared awe, of excited exclamations at the bizarre and beautiful creatures of the deep. But this time, it was different.

Luffy, normally glued to the observation deck, pressed his face against the glass, eyes wide with childlike wonder. But his usual joyous shouts were muted, almost whispered. He would glance back at you, standing by the railing, your face devoid of wonder, your gaze distant, and a flicker of confusion would cross his face.

Zoro, usually resting or polishing his swords, found himself watching you more than the passing deep-sea fish. His keen eyes observed how you remained still, your body tense, not moving towards the observation deck. He saw the cold, sharp focus in your eyes as you scanned the dark waters, a hunter's vigilance rather than a nakama's shared awe.

Nami, often clutching Usopp in fear during the descent, found herself glancing at you instead. She remembered your comforting presence, your reassuring smiles. Now, you were a silent, unreadable sentinel. She saw the new scar on your jaw, stark against the ethereal glow of the deep-sea creatures, and a shiver went down her spine that had nothing to do with fear of the ocean.

Usopp, despite his own anxieties, usually found a strange comfort in your shared fear. But as he watched you, he saw no fear, only a chilling detachment. He remembered clinging to you during storms, your gentle touch a steadying force. Now, you were like a statue, unmoving, unreachable.

Sanji, normally gushing over any fleeting glimpse of beauty, found himself consumed by a different kind of anguish. He watched your reflection in the glass of the observation deck, seeing the dark, empty space where your "radiant glory" once was. His heart ached, a silent lament for the vibrant, kind woman he had adored, now replaced by this silent, guarded figure.

Chopper, his small hooves pressed against the glass, would instinctively look for your comforting presence, for the candy you always had. But you weren't there, or if you were, you were a silent, distant form. He whimpered, his small heart confused by the absence of the warmth he remembered.

Robin's eyes, insightful as ever, lingered on you. She saw the profound PTSD in your stillness, the way you held yourself, the shadow that clung to your every movement. She understood, perhaps more than anyone else, the invisible chains that still bound you. She didn't press, but her gaze was filled with a quiet, sorrowful empathy.

Franky, despite his initial shock, tried to inject some of his usual "SUPER!" enthusiasm into the descent, pointing out features of the ship and the marvels outside. But his voice lacked its usual booming conviction. He would glance at you, his mechanical eyes dimming with sadness as he saw that your face remained impassive, devoid of the awe or excitement he expected.

The journey continued, deeper and deeper into the ocean's embrace. And with every passing moment, every glimpse of the new you, the crew felt the undeniable, painful truth settle into their hearts: the person they knew, the one who had been their sunshine, their comfort, their emotional anchor, was fundamentally changed. And no one knew how to bring her back.

The Thousand Sunny finally reached the luminous dome of Fish-Man Island, the vibrant colors of the coral and the bustling life of the merfolk and fish-men a stark contrast to the deep-sea gloom they had just traversed. The journey had been a silent testament to the chasm that had opened within their crew. The awe and joy that usually accompanied their arrival at such a fantastical place were muted, overshadowed by the palpable tension surrounding your presence.

Arrival at Fish-Man Island

As the bubble coating dissipated and the Sunny settled gently into the waters of Fish-Man Island, the crew emerged onto the deck, their usual boisterous energy still subdued. Luffy, despite the wondrous new world before him, was unusually quiet, his eyes occasionally flicking towards you.

"Fish-Man Island!" Usopp finally managed, a weak attempt at his usual enthusiasm. "It's even more amazing than I imagined!"

Nami, however, barely glanced at the vibrant scenery. Her gaze was on you, a deep worry etched onto her face. Sanji, too, had forgone his usual ecstatic gushing over mermaids, his eyes clouded with concern.

You, meanwhile, remained by the railing, your posture still rigid, your eyes scanning the teeming underwater city with a distant, almost analytical gaze. There was no wonder, no awe, no recognition of the sheer beauty unfolding around you. Just a cold, calculating assessment, as if you were cataloging potential threats rather than admiring a new world. The vibrant colors of the coral, the graceful movements of the merfolk, the shimmering light filtering through the dome – it all registered, but left no impact on your impassive face.

Rayleigh, ever the silent observer, watched the crew's reactions to your detachment. He knew this would be difficult.

The Unspoken Distance

"Alright, everyone!" Luffy finally declared, snapping out of his quiet contemplation. His voice, though still enthusiastic, lacked its usual carefree thunder. "Let's go explore! And find some meat!" He started to run towards the gangplank, then hesitated, glancing back at you.

You didn't move. You simply stood there, a still point in their eager energy. The others were already heading for the gangplank, drawn by the allure of a new adventure. But they paused, their eyes flicking between Luffy and you, a silent plea for connection in the air.

Nami stepped forward, a tentative hand reaching out towards you, then pulling back. "Y/N, aren't you coming?" she asked, her voice soft, almost pleading. She wanted the old you, the one who would be just as excited, just as eager to explore.

You finally turned your head, meeting her gaze, though your eyes held no warmth. "No," you stated, your voice flat. "I'll... I'll stay here. On the Sunny."

The word "here" hung in the air, weighted with unspoken meaning. It wasn't just about staying on the ship; it was about staying within the confines of your own shattered existence, away from the overwhelming vibrancy of their joy and the painful contrast it highlighted within you.

Usopp swallowed hard, his usual bravado completely gone. "But... but it's Fish-Man Island! It's amazing!"

You offered no further explanation. You simply turned your gaze back to the glowing city outside, a silent wall erected between you and them.

Luffy, surprisingly, didn't argue. He looked at you for a long moment, his usual boundless energy subdued by an unfamiliar concern. He saw the coldness in your eyes, the distance in your posture, and for the first time, he didn't demand, didn't push. He understood, in his own simple way, that you were hurting, and that forcing you wouldn't help.

"Alright," he said, his voice quiet for him. "We'll go then. You... you stay safe, Y/N."

And with that, the Straw Hat Pirates, their usual boisterous departure replaced by a muted, uncertain silence, disembarked from the Thousand Sunny, leaving you alone on the deck, a silent sentinel in the heart of a vibrant, unfamiliar world. You watched them go, a small, hollow ache in your chest. You were safe from the world, safe from the memories, but you were also safe from their love, safe from their comfort, trapped in a silent, self-imposed exile.

Fish-Man Island. It was, in many ways, like all your past adventures. A new, fantastical place, teeming with unique inhabitants. Something went wrong, as it always did, a threat rising to endanger the innocent. And, as always, the Straw Hats, your nakama, fixed it. They rallied, fought, and emerged victorious, their bonds strengthened by the challenge. But it was different. Profoundly so.

You remained on the Sunny, a silent observer to their heroics. You heard the distant roars of battle, the cries of the fish-men, the familiar sounds of your crew fighting for justice. A part of you, the old you, yearned to be there, to join the fray, to comfort Chopper when he was scared, to patch up Luffy’s inevitable injuries. But the new you, the one forged in the fires of a hidden hell, kept you rooted to the deck. You watched the unfolding drama through the Sunny’s observation bubble, a detached witness to a world that no longer felt entirely your own.

When they returned, triumphant but weary, the air was still thick with unspoken questions. They tried to bridge the gap.

The Unspoken Conversations

Nami would approach you tentatively, a plate of food in her hand, her eyes pleading. "Y/N, you haven't eaten properly. Please, just a little." She'd sit beside you, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking about the day's events, her voice soft, trying to coax a response, a flicker of the old warmth. You'd usually just nod, perhaps take a few bites, but your gaze remained distant, your replies monosyllabic. She missed your shared quiet moments, the comfort of your presence.

Usopp, after recounting a particularly exaggerated tale of his bravery, would always cast a glance your way. He’d try to make you laugh, to draw a smile with a silly face or a ridiculous dance. He remembered your genuine, comforting laughter. When you only offered a ghost of a smile, or nothing at all, his own enthusiasm would falter, and he'd eventually retreat, his shoulders slumped.

Sanji would prepare your meals with even more meticulous care than usual, each dish a silent offering of his concern. He'd bring it to you, his heart-eyes replaced by a deep, aching worry. "Y/N-chan, you need to nourish yourself. You're too thin." He'd stand by, watching, longing to see the light in your eyes, to hear your gentle voice, but you rarely offered more than a quiet thank you, your gaze often fixed on the horizon, miles away.

Chopper, in his childlike innocence, would bring you a piece of candy, his large, tearful eyes begging you to take it, to show him the old comfort. He'd sit beside you, sometimes for hours, simply holding your hand, hoping his presence alone would bring back the warmth. You'd accept the candy, sometimes even pat his head, but the genuine interaction, the shared moment of innocent joy, was missing.

Luffy, surprisingly, was often the quietest. He wouldn't demand answers. Instead, he'd sometimes just sit near you, his presence a silent anchor. He'd watch you with a profound sadness in his wide, innocent eyes, as if trying to understand the invisible chains that bound you. He missed your bright presence, your easy smile, and the unspoken comfort you brought to his chaotic world.

Zoro, ever the stoic, would occasionally find himself near you during his training. He'd observe your silent watchfulness, the almost predatory sharpness in your gaze, and he’d recognize the raw strength and controlled anger that simmered beneath your distant exterior. He didn't speak of it, but his presence was a quiet acknowledgment of the transformation, a silent respect for the warrior you had become, even if the cost was clear.

Robin was perhaps the only one who truly understood the nature of your struggle. She would simply sit with you, often reading a book, her presence a calm, non-judgmental comfort. Her eyes, filled with a deep, silent empathy, would occasionally meet yours, a shared understanding of past trauma passing between you without a single word. She didn't press, didn't ask, but her unspoken support was a steady presence.

Franky, despite his initial shock, tried to be his usual boisterous self, hoping his "SUPER!" energy would somehow reignite your "sunshine." He'd talk about the Sunny's new features, his latest inventions, or his future plans, always trying to draw you into the conversation, but your responses remained minimal, your engagement distant.

Through Fish-Man Island and the next few adventures, they tried. They tried to talk to you, to reach you, to pull you back from the shadows. Their attempts were gentle, hesitant, born of love and deep concern. But every time, you retreated further, a silent wall guarding the unspeakable horrors you carried within. You were on the Sunny, you were with them, but a vast, silent ocean still lay between you and the crew who desperately longed for their old nakama to return.

Night had fallen, cloaking the Thousand Sunny in a blanket of stars. The sounds of the ocean were a gentle lullaby, but in the galley, a different kind of storm was brewing. You were there, at the dinner table, surrounded by your crew. But you weren't the silent, distant figure they'd grown accustomed to. Not tonight. Tonight, you were drunk. Blackout drunk, the kind where inhibitions evaporated like sea mist.

You were laughing, a loud, almost unhinged sound that echoed strangely in the familiar space. It wasn't your old, gentle laugh, but it was laughter, something they hadn't heard from you in months. You were making jokes, crude and witty in equal measure, something you'd never dared to do before. You were gesturing wildly, spilling sake, and occasionally leaning into Usopp with exaggerated affection that startled him.

The Straw Hats were chuckling, a nervous undercurrent beneath their amusement. They laughed with you, but their eyes, when they met yours, held a subtle fear, a mixture of relief and unease. This was the most open you'd been since your return, a raw, unfiltered version of you that was both fascinating and unsettling. They shared glances, a silent consensus that this was a rare moment, a bizarre glimpse of the "old" you, or at least, a version of you that wasn't encased in ice.

Sanji, who had been refilling your cup with a worried frown, watched as you roared with laughter at one of Franky's outlandish stories. Nami, though still wary, found herself smiling, a genuine smile, at your uncharacteristic antics. Even Zoro offered a rare smirk as you stumbled over a word, only to recover with a surprisingly sharp retort.

Then, the laughter died on your lips, replaced by a strange, knowing glint in your eyes. You leaned forward, sloshing sake onto the table. Your voice, though slurred, dropped to a chillingly clear tone.

"You know," you slurred, gesturing expansively with your cup, "you guys always ask about the two years, right? Where'd I go? What happened?" You giggled, a hollow, unsettling sound. "Well, let me tell ya! It was a real blast! Like a spa retreat, but with more... needles. And screaming. Lots and lots of screaming." You paused, then added, your eyes wide and unfocused, "They really wanted to know what makes a 'sunshine' tick, you know? Like, what happens if you break all their pretty little wires?"

The air in the galley froze. The laughter died, replaced by a stark, horrified silence. Nami's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief and dawning understanding. Usopp choked on his drink, sputtering, his face paling. Sanji dropped the bottle of sake he was holding, the glass shattering with a deafening crash on the floor, unnoticed. Luffy, who had been reaching for another piece of meat, stopped, his hand suspended in mid-air, his innocent eyes now clouded with a deep, chilling dread. Chopper whimpered, burying his face in Robin's side.

Robin's serene expression finally broke, her eyes filled with a profound sorrow as she closed her own, as if the images you were conjuring were too much to bear. Franky, who had been mid-sentence about a "super" upgrade, looked as if all the cola had been drained from his system, his mechanical jaw hanging slack.

You, oblivious to the terror you had unleashed, simply giggled again, leaning back in your chair. "Good times," you mumbled, taking a long swig from your cup. "Real character building. Highly recommend it."

The galley was still, silent except for the gentle lapping of waves against the ship's hull. The joke, if it could even be called that, had ripped open the carefully constructed facade you'd maintained for months, revealing the raw, festering wound beneath. And in your drunken, fragmented confession, they finally, horrifyingly, began to grasp the true extent of the hell you had endured.

The shattered glass of the sake bottle on the floor was the only sound in the galley, a sharp echo of the silence that now enveloped the Straw Hats. Your drunken confession, so stark and chilling, had ripped through their carefully maintained pretense of normalcy. They looked at you, their nakama, their sunshine, and finally, truly understood that the void wasn't just sadness or distance—it was something far more monstrous.

Luffy’s rubber arm, still suspended mid-air, slowly dropped to his side. His usual boundless energy seemed to drain from him, replaced by a profound, unsettling stillness. His eyes, usually so bright and carefree, were clouded with a depth of concern they rarely held. He didn't understand the words "needles" or "screaming" in the way an adult would, but he understood the raw pain and terror in your voice. He just looked at you, a silent plea in his gaze for you to be okay, for you to be you again.

Zoro's jaw tightened, his expression grim. He didn't speak, but his eyes, sharp and intense, were fixed on your face, particularly the scar. The casualness with which you'd mentioned "good times" and "character building" grated on him. He instinctively understood that pushing too hard now would only cause more damage, but the urge to find whoever had done this, to make them pay, was a palpable tension in his shoulders.

Nami, tears already brimming in her eyes, slowly reached out a trembling hand, hovering uncertainly over yours before pulling back. She saw the forced chuckle, the distant gaze, and the horrifying truth of your words. "Y/N," she choked out, her voice raw, "what... what did they do to you?" She didn't press for details of the "needles" or "screaming," intuitively understanding that the mere mention of it was torture enough. She just wanted to understand the depth of your pain.

Usopp, pale and wide-eyed, finally found his voice, though it was a shaky whisper. "Y-Y/N... is that... is that true? About... about the experiments?" He couldn't quite bring himself to say the word "torture." His mind, usually so quick to invent lies, struggled to comprehend the horrific reality you had just unveiled. He instinctively looked around, as if searching for something, anything, to distract from the terrifying truth.

Sanji, still frozen, finally moved, slowly bending down to pick up the shattered sake bottle, his movements stiff and deliberate. He didn't ask a direct question, but his entire being radiated a raw, desperate need to understand, to somehow absorb your pain. He simply looked at you, his eyes filled with a grief so profound it mirrored your own emptiness. "Sunshine..." he whispered, his voice thick with unspoken anguish.

Chopper, his small body trembling, didn't ask questions. He simply climbed onto Robin's lap, burying his face against her chest, muffled whimpers escaping him. He was terrified, not just for you, but by the dark implications of your words, which his innocent mind couldn't fully process.

Robin, her eyes now open, rested her cheek gently against Chopper's head. Her gaze was soft, filled with a deep, sorrowful empathy. "Y/N-san," she said, her voice calm but firm, "you don't have to talk about it now, if you don't want to. But... are you hurting?" It wasn't a demand for details, but a gentle offer of acknowledgment, an invitation to share only what you were ready for. She understood that sometimes, just naming the pain was a way to begin healing.

Franky, his initial "SUPER!" deflated, remained quiet, his gaze fixed on the table. He simply watched you, his posture radiating a heavy, concerned silence. The idea that his "sunshine" had been subjected to something so unspeakably cruel, something that had stolen her light, was a horrifying blow. He didn't know what to say, what to ask. How do you fix a broken spirit?

The galley remained in a state of suspended animation, filled with the raw emotion of your crew. They didn't push, didn't demand a full explanation, but their silent questions, their profound concern, wrapped around you like a suffocating blanket. The truth was out, not in a controlled revelation, but in a raw, drunken confession, and now, they had to grapple with the terrifying reality of what had been done to you.

The air in the galley was thick with unspoken questions, heavy with the weight of their profound shock. Your crew, your nakama, sat in stunned silence, their eyes fixed on you, desperately searching for understanding. The raw, unfiltered truth of your drunken confession hung in the air, undeniable. You had ripped open the wound, and now, despite the haze of alcohol, you felt a chilling clarity. You couldn't leave them in this agonizing uncertainty.

You took a shaky breath, the alcohol still dulling the sharp edges of your pain, but lending a strange, detached courage to your voice. "It... it wasn't a joke," you began, your voice raspy, a stark contrast to the slurred, joking tone moments before. You looked at their faces, one by one, your gaze lingering on Nami's tear-filled eyes, Usopp's pale face, Sanji's anguished expression, Luffy's profound confusion.

"After Sabaody," you continued, your voice gaining a strained, faraway quality, as if recounting a nightmare that belonged to someone else, "I... I landed on an island. It was... they were scientists. Not pirates, not Marines. Just... scientists." You paused, a shudder rippling through you, despite the alcohol. "They were trying to understand... what makes people 'shine,' what makes them... kind. What makes them resilient." You almost scoffed, a bitter, humorless sound. "They used me as an experiment."

Your eyes drifted to the scarred line on your jaw, and your fingers instinctively brushed against it. "They kept me for a year, five months, and ten days. Isolated me. Deprived me. They... they manipulated my emotions, forced me to witness things..." Your voice hitched, the words catching in your throat. You didn't elaborate on the "screaming" or the "needles," sensing that the implication was enough. "They wanted to see what would happen if they broke all the 'wires.' If they took away the kindness."

You looked at them again, your gaze meeting theirs, seeing the horror deepen in their eyes. "It was hell," you stated, the words flat, devoid of the emotion that should have accompanied them. "But... but I got out. There was a breach. Chaos. I just... ran."

A moment of silence stretched, broken only by Chopper's muffled whimpers against Robin's side.

"The healing... the speed, the senses," you continued, your voice a little stronger now, the detachment returning like a shield. "That's... that's them. Their experiments. They made me stronger, yes. But it was..." You trailed off, searching for the right word, "It was a cost. A trade." You didn't specify the cost, but your hollow eyes, your distant posture, your very being, spoke volumes.

"I tried to recover," you confessed, your voice softening infinitesimally, a flicker of the old you. "I really did. But... the nightmares. The panic. I... I couldn't be the same. I'm not. I'm not who I was." Your gaze swept over their faces again, searching for something, anything, a sign of rejection. "I was afraid... afraid you wouldn't accept me. That I wouldn't... fit anymore."

You finished, your confession hanging heavy in the air. The alcohol was still coursing through your veins, numbing the pain, but the stark truth of your words was undeniable. You had laid bare the shattered pieces of your soul, leaving them to grapple with the horrifying reality of what had been done to you.

The air in the galley was thick with the weight of your confession, a raw, undeniable truth laid bare. Their faces, a mixture of shock, grief, and dawning comprehension, swam before your eyes. You had told them, finally, about the hell you'd endured, about the shattered pieces of the "sunshine" they once knew. The alcohol still hummed in your veins, dulling the edges of the pain, but the sheer exhaustion of having unveiled your trauma was overwhelming.

You watched their expressions, waiting for judgment, for rejection. But there was none, only a profound, silent sorrow. Nami's hand was still hovering, trembling. Usopp looked physically ill. Sanji, silent and grim, was staring at the shattered sake bottle. Chopper was still whimpering against Robin. Luffy's eyes were wide, unblinking, filled with a depth of concern that was almost unbearable.

The silence stretched, filled only by the distant lapping of waves against the Sunny's hull. You had given them the horrifying truth, and now, you couldn't bear to witness their reaction any longer. The strength, the detached courage the alcohol had lent you, was rapidly draining away, leaving behind only profound weariness.

You slowly pushed yourself back from the table, the scrape of your chair a harsh sound in the quiet galley. Your movements were sluggish, heavy. You didn't meet anyone's gaze. You couldn't.

"I..." you began, your voice a rough whisper, "I need to... sleep." It wasn't a question, not a request. It was a statement of absolute necessity, a desperate plea for escape, if only into the temporary oblivion of unconsciousness.

No one spoke. No one tried to stop you. The shock of your confession still held them captive.

You turned and walked towards the galley door, your steps unsteady, your shoulders slumped. The familiar space felt alien, the silence of their shared shock a tangible weight. You felt their eyes on your back, a silent, burning presence as you made your way out.

You stumbled through the ship's quiet corridors, the gentle rocking of the Sunny a constant reminder of your presence aboard, yet your mind felt miles away. You reached your cabin, the familiar door a welcome sight. Pushing it open, you stepped into the darkness, the faint glow of the deep-sea outside filtering through the porthole.

You didn't bother with lights. You didn't change out of your clothes. You simply moved to your bunk, the soft mattress a sudden comfort beneath your aching body. You curled in on yourself, drawing your knees to your chest, your arms wrapping around your trembling frame.

The alcohol, which had momentarily released your demons, now threatened to plunge you into a deeper, more terrifying darkness. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to stave off the impending nightmares, the vivid replays of the hell you'd described. Sleep, usually a refuge, felt like a dangerous descent into a world where the monsters of your past lay waiting.

But the exhaustion was too profound, the emotional toll of the confession too heavy. The sounds of the ocean outside, the gentle creaks and groans of the ship, slowly faded into the background. Your breathing deepened, evening out, and despite the lingering terror, the world finally, mercifully, slipped away into unconsciousness.

The first rays of dawn filtered through the porthole, painting the cabin in soft, shifting hues of blue and gold. You stirred, a dull ache throbbing behind your eyes, a testament to the alcohol and the emotional explosion of the night before. Consciousness crept back, bringing with it a familiar dread. The memories of your confession, raw and unbidden, surged to the forefront of your mind. You had told them. You had shattered the fragile peace, unveiled the horrifying truth of your two years, and now, there was no going back.

The Morning After

You pushed yourself up, the rough blankets tangling around your legs. The silence of the cabin was profound, amplifying the frantic beat of your own heart. Every creak of the ship, every distant splash of water, felt like an accusation. How could you face them? How could they look at you, knowing the depths of the darkness you now carried? The old you, the one who would have bounded out of bed with a cheerful greeting, was a distant memory. This new you, the one who had confessed to screams and needles, felt utterly alien.

You dressed mechanically, your movements stiff and precise, devoid of thought. Your fingers brushed against the scar on your jaw, a stark, jagged reminder of the reality you had unveiled. The reflection in the small, polished surface on the wall showed a face that was yours, yet wasn't. The light in your eyes was still absent, replaced by a deep-seated weariness.

Stepping out of the cabin, the Sunny felt different. The usual vibrant energy that pulsed through its decks was muted, replaced by a quiet, almost reverent calm. The sun was higher now, illuminating the main deck. You saw them.

Luffy was sitting on the railing, not perched on the lion's head, but simply sitting, his knees drawn up, staring out at the vibrant underwater city. His usual boundless energy seemed contained, contemplative.

Zoro was polishing his swords, but his movements were slower, more deliberate than usual. His gaze occasionally flickered towards Luffy, a silent communication passing between them.

Nami was by the navigation table, but she wasn't charting. Her head was bowed, her shoulders slumped. Usopp sat beside her, his shoulders touching hers, his head in his hands.

Sanji was in the galley, but the usual sounds of his bustling morning preparations were absent. A faint clinking of dishes suggested he was cleaning, but without his usual flair.

Chopper was nestled against Robin, who sat quietly on a bench, a book resting unread in her lap. Chopper was awake, but unusually still, his small body pressed close to Robin's.

Franky was by the mast, not examining it, but leaning against it, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the deck, a somber stillness in his super-sized frame.

They were all there, your crew. They were all quiet.

The Unspoken Embrace

As you stepped fully onto the deck, their heads slowly lifted. One by one, their eyes met yours. There was no shock this time, no confusion. Just a profound, quiet understanding. The raw sorrow from last night lingered in their gazes, but beneath it, something else had solidified: an unwavering, unwavering acceptance.

Luffy slowly uncurled himself from the railing. He didn't smile, didn't laugh. He simply walked towards you, his rubber legs carrying him with a gentle, deliberate pace. He stopped before you, his wide, honest eyes meeting yours. He didn't speak, didn't ask a question. Instead, he slowly reached out, his rubber arm stretching, and gently, carefully, wrapped it around you.

It wasn't a bone-crushing hug, not his usual boisterous embrace. It was soft, hesitant, yet utterly firm. A silent, unwavering hold. He rested his head against your shoulder, a comforting, familiar weight.

And in that moment, the dam broke.

The cold detachment, the fear, the shame, the profound emptiness you had carried for so long – it all crumbled. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, streamed down your face, the first genuine tears you'd cried in two years, five months, and ten days. You didn't sob, didn't wail. It was a silent, profound weeping, the release of an unimaginable agony.

You slowly, hesitantly, raised your arms, wrapping them around Luffy's back, clinging to him. His familiar scent, the warmth of his small, sturdy frame, was an anchor in the storm of your emotions.

One by one, the others joined.

Nami was first, her own tears flowing freely as she wrapped her arms around you both, her touch gentle but firm. Usopp followed, his trembling hands finding a purchase on your arm, his face buried against Nami's shoulder, silent sobs shaking his body. Sanji, his face etched with a profound sorrow, reached out and gently placed a hand on your back, a silent promise of protection. Zoro, his expression still grim, reached out and placed a large, calloused hand on your head, his touch surprisingly soft, a silent acknowledgment of your pain. Chopper, sniffling, joined the huddle, burying his head against your side, his small body trembling. Robin, her face softened with empathy, laid a hand on your shoulder, a quiet presence of understanding. Franky, his eyes surprisingly wet, gently patted your back, a silent "SUPER!" of unwavering support.

You were engulfed in a group hug, a silent, powerful embrace. There were no words, no questions, no demands for explanation. Just the warmth of their bodies, the steady beat of their hearts, the undeniable presence of their love. They didn't try to fix you, didn't try to bring back the "sunshine." They simply held you, acknowledging the fractured pieces, accepting the scars, both seen and unseen.

In that quiet moment, surrounded by your nakama, you didn't feel fixed. The pain was still there, the darkness still clung to you. But for the first time in an unimaginable eternity, you didn't feel alone. You were broken, yes, but you were still loved. And perhaps, just perhaps, that was enough to begin again. The journey to the New World, and the journey of healing, had just truly begun.

[lvmimis]

Senku exhales deeply and releases the small screwdriver he’s holding in his right hand, and as the metal clatters quietly on his work surface, he admits to himself that for the first time possibly in his entire life, he’s having issues with concentration. 

Taking a swig of long-cooled coffee in his left and smoothing out a blueprint that he’d normally have committed to memory on the desk before him, he pores over the details of his newest invention again, but as the acrid taste of double shot espresso, taken black, hits his tongue, a flash of your wide smile comes to mind instead. The vision of you practically sweetens the aftertaste. He sighs, downs the rest of his coffee, then rubs his face with both his hands. Tilting back in his chair, he crosses his arms over his chest, jittery hands that now yearn to hold something soft and warm instead of being made to work. 

Love is the most irrational thing on Earth, really. 

Glancing at the digital clock just above his work desk, he finds that it’s late, close to 1 am, and you’re probably long since snoozing with far better sleep hygiene than he can ever afford (although he knows better, he always does). Perhaps if he just spoke to you, he’d be able to get that natural, primitive urge for companionship out of his system, that evolutionary shackle that keeps people fitting the mold rather than breaking through for societal advancement, but he only knows that feeding that desire is akin to throwing fresh meat to an endlessly hungry horde of dogs - never satisfied, always wanting more… a loud and wanting demand in his chest that doesn’t wane. 

His curious nature finally proves to be a detriment because rather than uncover the laws of the natural and advanced world, he wonders if he could know you to the very atomic level. What your likes are, your dislikes… how your heart stays tender and pliable even at the worst of times… how kindness is communicated from your thoughts to words spoken sweetly through soft lips… how you decide what to wear, what gives you comfort… if you think you’re as pleasing to the eyes and soul as he finds you…

He shakes his head as he contemplates himself wasting precious time thinking about a woman, but you’re not just any woman, are you? You’re that person who generates that specific neurochemical cocktail that keeps him preoccupied, distracted - sitting in a chair in the middle of the night wondering if you’ve slept well and if you’d be interested in him picking your brain. 

He looks at his phone, then looks away. He picks up his wrench, then places it back down. 

His heart races for a moment, and he looks upset at the coffee cup, now consumed to the dregs. If he could make another cup, perhaps he could regain his focus, perhaps…

He rises for a moment, sits back down, and in a split, uncalculated decision picks up his phone and calls. 

And you pick up on the second ring.

“... Senku?”

Your voice lacks the grogginess that would engender guilt for waking you up in the middle of the night. His mouth opens then closes for a moment, pulse quickening faster than any stimulant could hope to accomplish, and he quickly comes up with something to say. Anything, before you lose interest and question him just as badly as he questions himself.

“I need to run something by you. Do you mind?”

He can practically sense your smile on the other end of the line and it warms him from inside out.

Whether you understand his newest contraption is moot because you listen enthusiastically and you ask the right questions and he’s delighted just by the sound of your breathing on the other end of the phone -

Appetite for you whetted, satiated, and yet never truly full. 

[knoepfl]

I if requests are open, do you think you can do a syndrome x reader, a continuation of the Christmas special. Maybe he sees the reader interact with kids or babies, and starts to realize what she meant, and becomes an angsty/fluff.

Thank you!

Ohh I had so much fun writing this! Thank you so much for this request. I just love writing for Buddy and I hope you enjoy it.

Family Syndrome ||

Characters:

• Syndrome (Buddy Pine): A former superhero fan turned villain, focused on world domination. Highly intelligent, manipulative, and often self-centered in his pursuits. He initially dismisses the idea of having a family but gradually begins to feel the absence of his wife’s affection and realizes what she truly meant.

• Reader (Wife): Syndrome’s loving and supportive wife, who yearns for a more personal future with him, including raising a family. She is compassionate, hopeful, and patient but also deeply hurt by his initial rejection. Over time, she distances herself emotionally, finding comfort in moments with children, which unknowingly sparks a change in Buddy.

• Various Children & Babies: Represent the warmth and love that the reader desires, unknowingly influencing Syndrome’s realization of what he might be missing.

Trigger Warnings:

• Emotional Conflict: The reader and Syndrome experience a deep emotional rift due to differing desires for the future.

• Dismissive Behavior: Syndrome initially disregards his wife's feelings and aspirations, creating emotional pain.

• Isolation & Loneliness: The reader begins to pull away emotionally, and Syndrome starts to feel the emptiness of her absence.

• Angst & Regret: Syndrome struggles with the realization of how much he has neglected his wife’s emotional needs.

• Soft Manipulation: Syndrome’s past tendencies to prioritize his own plans over their relationship contribute to the tension.

• Bittersweet Realization: Themes of longing, self-reflection, and unspoken love create a slow, aching emotional shift before leading to a heartwarming resolution.

Masterlist

Part 1

Words: 1249

--- Days passed since the conversation, and something had changed. His wife was still there—she still kissed him in the morning, still sat across from him at dinner, still brushed her fingers through his hair absentmindedly when passing by. But there was something different in those gestures, something subtle yet impossible to ignore. She lingered less. She smiled, but there was a flicker of distance in her eyes. And worse, she wasn’t as present in the spaces they used to share.

Buddy didn’t want to think about it. He buried himself in his work, throwing himself deeper into his plans, into new inventions, into every little thing that kept his mind moving so fast he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the unease settling inside him. He told himself he was just imagining things. That she would get over it. That this was just some fleeting phase, a passing thought, and soon enough, everything would go back to normal.

But then he started to notice the silence.

It crept in slowly, so subtly that at first, he didn’t realize what was happening. The quiet hum of their life together, the way she used to sit beside him while he worked, asking about his latest designs even if she didn’t fully understand them, the way she used to press against his side while he ranted about heroes, offering a quiet comment that made him feel heard—it was all fading. And in its place was nothing.

She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t cruel or distant in any obvious way. But he could feel it in the way she moved around him, in the way she seemed to be somewhere else even when she was right beside him. And he hated it.

He wouldn’t bring it up. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of thinking she had shaken him. He would just wait.

And then one evening, he saw her.

It wasn’t planned—he had just been walking through the estate when he stopped in his tracks, his attention drawn to the courtyard. She was there, holding a baby, laughing softly as the child cooed and reached for her hair. Buddy froze. He had never seen her like this before. She was always beautiful, always captivating, but this was something different. There was a warmth in her eyes, a quiet kind of joy, something so tender and real that it made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand.

He should have walked away. He should have shaken it off. But he stood there for too long, staring, something unfamiliar twisting inside him. He had never seen her look at him like that.

That night, lying in bed beside her, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way she had smiled, the way her voice had softened when she spoke to the child, the way she had held them so carefully, as if she had done it a thousand times before. He turned onto his side, glancing at her. She was still awake, staring up at the ceiling, lost in her own thoughts.

“I saw you today,” he muttered, voice quieter than he intended.

She turned her head, blinking at him. “What?”

“In the courtyard.” He hesitated, then admitted, “With the kid.”

A flicker of something passed across her face before she sighed. “Oh. Mirage asked me to watch her cousin for a little while.”

“You looked happy.” The words felt foreign in his mouth, strange and uncertain.

She didn’t answer right away. Then, with a small smile, she said, “I was.”

It was such a simple answer, yet it landed like a weight in his chest.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing at all.

But in the following days, he couldn’t get the image out of his head.

And suddenly, it was everywhere.

At a coffee shop in the city, he saw a father lifting his daughter onto his shoulders, making her squeal with delight. The sound grated on his nerves more than it should have. At one of his warehouses, a woman rocked a baby in her arms while speaking to one of his men, her voice soft and soothing. Buddy turned away before he could look too closely. He went about his life as he always did, but for some reason, it was all starting to feel… hollow.

The worst part was that it followed him even in the quiet of their home.

At night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the thoughts creeping into his mind. He imagined little footsteps echoing through the halls, small giggles filling the empty spaces of the mansion. He pictured his wife sitting on the floor, a child in her lap, reading some ridiculous bedtime story with that same warmth he had seen in the courtyard. He imagined that child looking up at him with her eyes, grinning at him with his smirk.

And the idea didn’t repulse him the way it should have.

He still didn’t understand it. He still wasn’t sure what it meant. But when he looked at his wife now, he could feel the weight of everything unspoken between them. She wasn’t pressing the issue. She wasn’t trying to change his mind. But she was still waiting. And he didn’t know how long she’d wait before she stopped altogether.

One night, he found her sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, flipping through an old photo album. He wasn’t sentimental, didn’t care much for looking back, but for some reason, he sat down beside her. He glanced at the pictures, old memories frozen in time—years ago, when they were younger, before everything had fallen into place. Before he had become this.

“You miss something, don’t you?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I miss what could be.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. But when she looked at him, there was something so honest in her expression that it made his throat feel tight.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “…I don’t know how to be that kind of person.” His voice was quieter than usual, almost hesitant. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.”

“You don’t have to be perfect, Buddy.” She squeezed his hand, voice softer now. “You just have to be you.”

He swallowed hard, staring at their hands.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. It was the first time he had ever said those words out loud.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t laugh or scoff. She just leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. “Me too,” she murmured. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it.”

He didn’t say anything else. He just sat there with her, listening to the quiet crackling of the fire, feeling the weight of something shifting between them.

That night, as they lay in bed, he pulled her closer than he had in weeks. He wasn’t sure where this was going, wasn’t sure what it all meant yet. But as he buried his face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her, he whispered, “Maybe we can talk about it. Someday.”

She tensed for just a moment before looking up at him, eyes wide. “…Really?”

He hesitated, then gave a small, crooked smile. “Yeah. Really.”

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a commitment.

But it was something.

And for now, that was enough.

---

[mewo777]

i so desperately yearn for an episode of gravity falls where stan and ford just get to talk. it feels like there was so little development between them, and ford not getting a chance to breathe before immediately being thrust into weirdmaggedon just makes his character seem rushed. he seriously needed a few more episodes to be fleshed out. not his character, exactly, but rather his interactions w other characters, specifically stan and mabel. i think they did an incredible job characterizing him but its so hard to appreciate that when the character who is literally the most closely intertwined with his story barely gets to interact with him at all.

it didnt even have to be much, just a small interaction to show them growing closer, or even to show that theyve grown so far apart that theyre not even in the same world anymore. something that would make the final scene with stan getting blasted with the memory gun seem genuine and meaningful. not that it wasnt, but it wouldve been so much more impactful if we’d gotten to see that ford loves stan as much as we’ve seen how much stan loves ford.

another issue i have is fords “redemption” at the end, where he tells stan to sail the world with him. again, it just feels a little.. shoehorned in there i guess? like, it doesnt feel “earned” exactly, more like the writers just decided that it was time for ford to make it up to stan and thats the only reason it happened. again, a few extra heartfelt scenes between them wouldve solved this problem. i just hate that it seems like ford never confronts the unjustified anger he had towards stan. it wouldve maybe even been justified if he was mad about stan pushing him into the portal, but being mad about the PROJECT from THIRTY YEARS AGO is insane hes truly playing the long game of grudges like brother you literally lived the most fullfilling life you couldve(prior to getting pushed into another dimension for 30 years… through his own invention…) in SPITE of what stan did like i just think maybe now that youve had time to think it over we can all be adults about this… sigh….

alright i need to write a fic where ford apologizes to stan and they hug or something idgaf

[l0vesecretsociety]

KEEPING TABS

“For some stupid reason, I keep on believing.” 

tags: ekko x fem! reader, angst. oneshot. warnings: none. art, not mine.

Ekko should’ve seen this coming. For all the ways he has been treating you, how he’d wrong you, he knew you’d eventually drift away and the both of you would soon break. But the thing was,  he’d still be pacing back and forth over at his worksop, thinking about all the ways he could’ve done something. Something to prevent this, instead of tinkering with a new invention to prosper his home. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he bangs his head lightly on the bark of the tree. He tells himself to move on, that it’s your loss, not his. He tries so hard to go back to work but his brain just automatically malfunctions because it's flooded with your image. He’s angry at every little mistake he makes and throws it away to make up for it. 

Then a bulb pops up above his head. No. He shakes his head, let’s not do that. 

But he does anyway. Ekko flies over in the middle of the night while everyone is fast asleep,  the sound of his engine clunks as he zooms through Zaun. He had to know what you were up to these days. Logically, you would’ve been asleep now, but knowing you, you’re probably buried your nose deep into a book. And he just had to know you were doing what his mind imagines, maybe then he’ll work better. Seeing you was close enough. And when he does arrive at his destination—aka your small apartment, he sees you and as he guessed, sleeping on top of your book, a pen still in your hand. Ekko purses his lip at the sight, he wants to place a blanket over you to make you feel warm, but he knows he’s already crossed the line. He swallowed hard, at truth—at the reality of it all, that you were no longer his.  He sighs, taking one more look back at your figure before leaving to go back home. 

Funny is that word, home. Where is that now, when there is only a cold room he traps himself in and nothing of you. He could no longer feel your warmth, he desperately yearned. He clenched his jaw and ran back to work. Work. That’s all he ever does even as you were there beside him, and you’ve been there for him, always, and he appreciated so much—but then you slipped away from his grasp. Took him long enough to realize that. He really needs to get over you, but the ghost of your warmth hovers over him in a constant  cycle. 

Everyone could tell he was out of it. Scar tries to leave him alone for a while, letting him cope on his own. Scar has been through that kind of heartbreak before and he knows what’s best. Even the kids are bothered, and kids can see through lies, you know. They’re more honest than the law, and they’re not shy to point out what's happening with Ekko right now. Ekko just brushes them off with a smile and a good excuse (not really), but the more he lies to them, the more they ask. 

“You’ve been distracted lately.” Scar says, arms crossed, leaning on to the door frame. 

“I’m fine.” Scar thinks, no, knows it was bs. What started as one night thing, something for closure, now became a nightly thing. Mission after mission, he’s been disappearing into the fog. If he wasn’t out on the mission, he took the night when everyone else was asleep. Scar knows where he was going, where he was running back to. It’s truly spine chilling what you’ve done to him, a guy whose painfully and awfully focused on his work—on his goal of building a wonderful community, now going around town looking for you causing bits of mishaps here and there. He thought it was just one of your quarrels, a small trouble in paradise, not a full on separation. Scar felt guilty of not being able to help out Ekko and convince you to stay.  Why should he? It was not his to begin with, but it was driving him to the edge the way Ekko was acting right now. 

“I’m serious, Ekko.” 

“Well, I am too.” That he was, he’d become humourless the past few months. “Could you just… leave me alone,” he says, calling back his focus on his new ‘invention,’ and knowing him, it was just another crap idea he pulled out of his ass.  It was true, there was no lie to that. Ekko, despite his circumstances, was smart. He was a bright engineer who embedded all sorts of science and math into his work, but now- at this point, he’s just glueing cogs together. Everything he created reminded him of you. Your favourite flowers, your little book idea, and your nerdy phrases on the books he reads. It frustrated him because deep inside, he kept on believing that you felt the same too. That you pretend you were there with him on the bed, snuggled together, sharing each other’s warmth the same way he did.  That your ear perks up too, every time you hear his name like he does. 

He really needs to get over you. He tries, he does, really. But he can’t help but want to see you all time, when wearing your Academy uniform and the cute bow completing your look or in your own outfits. You were glowing, flourishing, without him. He wants to talk to you, and get this over and done with. He wants his heart to stop clenching every time you talk to another guy or smile at them, he wants his head to think straight, he wants to rid himself of you. The troubling thing was, he can’t and a part of him doesn’t want to. Ekko knows he should move on, he knows that he’s hurt you, he knows he shouldn’t be keeping tabs on you—that he should let go of you. He could only wish you back, will you to walk the same path towards the firelight tree as him because he knows, you’ll never do anymore.

[awakenedevildays]

hi love! may I request some angst with art where family friend!reader gets invited to the Donaldson’s yearly fundraiser gala and they spend the night yearning and pining over art. if you can, make it as heart wrenching as possible ♡ thank you and keep up the great work!

「wrong choices」 Art Donaldson x F!reader

I'm so exited, this is the real first fic I write under request, thank you so much for requesting love, hope this is good enough for you! 🩷(didn't know if you wanted a sad or happy ending and I got carried away with an happy one, if you want an angst ending let me know)

info: angst, fluff, kissing, mentions of cheating (on reader), happy ending.

you can read the other parts here!

━━━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━━━

You love galas, you always did: ever since you were little you and your family had to attend many galas and you would always be head over the heels at the idea of dressing with cute dresses and beautiful shoes. Yes, you love galas, especially the Donaldson's.

You've been to the Donaldson family's galas for ages and they never disappoint. No, truly, they know how to put on an event. With beautiful dresses to wear (always wearing the latest from fashion designers), incredible music- every year different- and even the best food in the state; these galas always excite you.

Another thing that made you exited about their galas was the only child of the family: the blonde, blue and brown eyed, sweet guy you met at the first gala you attended at the sweet age of six years old, Art Donaldson.

You've always liked him, when you were little he would take you around his huge villa to play whatever game you two would invent at that moment and at the end of the night your dress and his little tuxedo would be all wrinkled, sometimes dirty, hair all out of place that caused your moms to lightly scold you... but to tell the truth, neither your mother nor his cared much if at the end of the evening you both looked like you had just returned from a day of planting flowers with your bare hands. 

Things obviously changed as time went on: after Art's 17th and your 16th birthday, at least at the beginning of the evening, you seemed determined to pay attention and talk to the other guests... but it never lasted too long before Art dragged you away with him to share a bottle of wine with your feet immersed in his outdoor pool.

The last year the same thing happened. 

"Art, you can't always kidnap me when I'm talking to someone" you wanted to sound serious, you really did, but his boyish smile was too cute and the expensive wine bottle he had in his hand was too tempting. 

"Come on! don't act like you really wanted to listen to those boring conversations with those boring business men" he said, his hand dragging you by your wrist towards the pool. 

Once you were close enough he released your wrist and took off his shoes and socks, his feet in the water immediately after while you stood there, he looked at you. 

"please" he said and you scolded him with your eyes before shaking your head and taking off your heels before lifting your dress up to your thighs to avoid getting it wet, you sat down next to him, your feet touched the cool water and a sigh left your mouth, you didn't realize how bad they were hurting in the shoes.  

Art grinned at you and you looked at him skeptical "what" you ask, a fake annoyed look on your face .

"see? even your feet are thanking me" he said and you met his left shoulder with your right one. 

"shut up, you're getting ruder and ruder with each passing year" you joked and Art passed to bottle to you to take the first sip, always the gentleman. 

Art chuckled and watched as you took the first sip, the cool, smooth liquid sliding down your throat. He knew you better than almost anyone and could tell when you were being serious and when you were just acting tough to save face. 

"Don't worry, I know you secretly love me" he teased, nudging your shoulder with his own. Art took the bottle back from you, taking a small sip before speaking again "and besides, I'm not getting ruder, I'm just becoming more charming and witty."

You raised your eyebrows at him and decided not to indulge him any further "so, how is the tennis school going?" you asked and Art shrugged.

"good" he answered with a shrug. 

"and Patrick?". 

"still the same asshole" he laughed "he won't be coming to Standford with me in fall".

 "he's going in another college?" he shook his head. 

"he plans on going on a tour".

"mhhh" you said and Art looked at you suspiciously.

"you seem really interested in Patrick" his tone not as light as it was before and you raised your head to look at him, but he was already looking at the water of the pool, jaw clenched. 

There was something in Art's demeanor change that caught your attention. It was subtle, but palpable. The relaxed and playful atmosphere between you two had shifted, and Art's jaw was now tense. You knew him well enough to realize that something was bothering him, and judging by his comment about Patrick, you had an idea of what it might be. You decided to tread lightly with your next words, wanting to understand what had triggered this sudden change in his mood "what makes you say that?" you asked, trying to keep your tone casual.

"every time we see each other you always ask about him, you saw him only once like what, 3 years ago?" he asked ironically and your eyes widened "okay, slow down Donaldson, where is this all coming from? I'm just trying to have a conversation with you" you said as gently as possible. 

Art leaned back a little, taking another swig from the bottle before responding. His tone was still a little on edge, but he knew you enough to understand you were just trying to calm things down "I know you're just trying to have a conversation, but seriously, why are you so interested in Patrick all of a sudden?" he questioned, his gaze still fixed on the water.

"I'm not interested in Patrick" your tone was serious and suddenly maintaining eyes contact with him was harder. 

Art turned to look at you, his gaze intense, searching yours. He could see the conviction in your eyes and hear it in your tone, but something was still bothering him. He paused a moment before speaking again "then why are you always asking about him?" he asked, his voice a bit softer now.

"Because I care about your life, I care about you and Patrick is a part of your life, that's all, I swear" you didn't know why, but the thought of Art thinking that you had feelings for another man felt wrong but somewhat satisfying.

Art sighed, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a little. He could see the truth in your words, and his own jealousy subsided a little. "Sorry" he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I guess I just got a little..." he admitted, his gaze darting from you back to the pool.

"...Jealous? aw aren't you the sweetest friend ever?" you pinched his cheek with your fingers and Art laughed, his hand grasped yours to take it off his cheek, but once away from his face his hand stayed wrapped around your, his thumb caressing the back of it. 

Art's laughter filled the air, breaking the tension between you. The warmth of his hand enclosing yours sent a shiver up your spine, his thumb gently stroking your skin. There was something intimate about the touch, something that defied the boundaries of mere friendship. For a moment, you were both silent, the only sound being the gentle lapping of the water against the sides of the pool. 

Art looked down at your joined hands, his thumb continuing its slow, soothing motion.

"I'm sorry" he said again and you shook your head. 

"It's okay" you muttered and your eyes met, the blue light of the pool shined on his face, hands still intertwined on his thigh and his eyes looked briefly at your lips. 

"what if, what if I don't want to be your friend" your heart skipped a bit.

"u-uh?" you asked.

Art swallowed hard, his gaze locked with yours. The air around you suddenly felt charged, the casual setting of the poolside now seemed intimate and intense "what are you... what are you saying?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. Art's grip on your hand tightened, his thumb still tracing small circles on your skin.

Art leaned a little closer, his eyes still fixed on yours. "What I'm saying is..." he began, his voice low and serious "I don't want to be just your friend anymore" he paused, taking a deep breath before continuing "I don't want to watch you talk and laugh with other men, I can't stand it, it makes me sick".

His words hung in the air between you, the atmosphere thick with tension. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, your mind racing with the implications of what he was saying. Art's hand still held yours tightly, almost as if he was afraid to let go, afraid that you might pull away.

"oh" you felt stupid, utterly and absolutely stupid, the guy whom you had a crush for since forever, just confessed to you and the only thing you can say is...'oh'? Art laughed. 

"Don't laugh you asshole!" you exclaimed pushing him away from you, him almost falling in the pool. 

"Can you not like... push me in the pool just cause I confessed to you?" he said between laughters and your cheeks flushed red. 

"I'm sorry you caught me off guard!" you said bringing the bottle to your mouth and taking a big sip, you couldn't have this conversation sober. 

Art finally managed to regain his balance, still laughing as he held onto the side of the pool for support. "It's okay, it's okay" he said, his laughter slowly dying down as he regained his composure.

"But seriously, you can't just say 'oh'" he teased once again, his tone turning playful again as he splashed a bit of water at you jokingly. 

You stayed silent and Art waited for you to answer, it took you all the strength you had to maintain eye contact with him "I like you too" you said, face serious and cheeks red and Art nodded. 

"oh" his tone light was clearly teasing you. 

"ok, now I'm pushing you in the pool on purpose" you said. 

Art burst into laughter at your words, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He held up his hands in surrender "No, no, no, please don't" he said between chuckles but his tone was full of teasing. 

As he spoke, he shifted closer to you, his thigh now touching yours. He reached out and lightly pushed your shoulder, the playful gesture causing a ripple in the water between you.

Art's teasing expression quickly vanished at your expression, his hand that was still on your shoulder froze "what?" he asked, his tone slightly sharper than it was before.

"I should ask Patrik if he's single I don't think h-" your joking sentence is interrupted by his lips on yours, a hand behind your head and the other on your thigh made you immediately rest yours on his cheeks. 

Art's lips were soft and firm against yours, the taste of the expensive wine still lingered on his tongue as he kissed you passionately. His hand on your thigh moved to your waist to pull you closer to him, his fingers digging slightly into your skin through the fabric of your dress. He wanted you as close as possible, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

Your hands moved from his cheeks up to thread through his hair, slightly tugging it and eliciting a low groan from him. He deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing yours. The world around you seemed to disappear as the two of you surrendered to the moment, the cool water of the pool forgotten as the heat between you grew increasingly intense.

Art pulled away from the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting slightly. His eyes searched yours, his expression a mix of desire and disbelief. "You're really gonna mention another man while I'm trying to kiss you" he whispered, his voice hoarse and filled with a hint of jealousy.

“I thought you needed a little push to do that" you teased and Art kissed you again briefly "never do that again" he whispered 

The moment in the pool didn't last long after that, your parent messaging you a while after to tell you to get back to the car to go home. 

You and Art kept in contact through his first whole year at Standford but too busy to see each other, you with your last year of high school and him with exams and his tennis matches. 

So now you have one more reason to be exited about the gala of this year, you would see Art again and you couldn't wait to see what would happen this time. 

"You look beautiful" your mom says and you smile at her.

You are standing in your bedroom in front of a full-length mirror admiring yourself in your dress for the gala tonight. The dress is beautiful, hugging your curves perfectly and highlighting your features. You turn and twirl in front of the mirror, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves about tonight.

"Thank you, Mom," you say as she enters the room, a smile on your lips. "I just hope Art likes it too" you add, casually tossing the comment, before mentally kicking yourself for it.

"Please, he's already head over heels for you" she jokes and for the whole drive towards the Donaldson house your legs can't stay still, your hands fussing and stirring your dress over and over again making your parents smile teasingly at you, but you pay them no mind. 

Finally, the car pulls up to the Donaldson's house and your heart beats faster at the sight of the grand, familiar building. You take a deep breath, gathering your courage and excitement, before stepping out of the car, your dress flowing behind you like a gentle whisper on the ground. 

You walk with your parents toward the entrance of the house, the sound of your stilettos echoing on the paved path. 

You step in the garden of the house and Art's parents are already there to greet your family lovingly, Art still nowhere in sight as you walk around with your parents to greet their colleagues and friends and you're only waiting for Art to sweep you off your feet like every year. 

As you continue to mingle with your parents and their friends, you keep an eye out for Art, hoping to catch a glimpse of him among the crowd. The anticipation is driving you insane, and just when you're starting to wonder where he could be, you finally catch sight of him across the garden, talking to a group of people, a girl right beside him.

She is beautiful, dark skin and long black hair that reaches her lower back, long legs and thin body wrapped in a blue short but elegant dress... but what really shocks you is his hand, clearly resting on the small of her back. Your heart stops. Your breath short and you have to grip the champagne glass tighter in your hands to avoid letting it fall on the floor. 

You couldn't believe what you were seeing. Art, your Art, was standing there with another girl, his hand comfortably resting on the small of her back. You couldn't tear your eyes away from them, your thoughts racing as you tried to make sense of the situation.

Arts eyes meets yours from the other side of the garden and his grin disappears when he sees your sad face "oh there is Art" his mom says and gestures for him to come where you are. As he approaches, you can feel his gaze fixed on you, but you don't meet his eyes, looking anywhere but his face until he stops in front of you, his smile faltering when he sees the expression on your face. But before he can say anything, his mother speaks up.

"Art brought one of the promises of the future female tennis tonight" she says and she smiles, you don't. 

Art's mom gestures towards the girl beside him, a proud look on her face. The girl smiles sheepishly, looking shyly at you. Art shifts uncomfortably, his hand dropping from her back as though he's suddenly aware of what it looks like.

You force a smile on your face, despite the churning feeling in your stomach.

"this is Tashi, we met at Standford" he says, his eyes don't meet yours and the lump in your throat is too big to swallow. 

The introduction feels like a dagger twisting in your chest. Tashi smiles at you gently, her eyes soft as her gaze flicks between you and Art.

"Nice to meet you," she says, her voice soft and clear. You nod awkwardly, the sound of your own heartbeat ringing in your ears.

"The pleasure is all mine" the exchange of pleasantries feel like nails scraping on a chalkboard. Your parents politely greet Tashi like they do with every important guest at these events, but even you can see the fake smiles plastered on their faces. They know. 

She is gorgeous and you feel small next to her... you don't get it, your dress is more elegant than hers, more beautiful but she looks so effortlessly gorgeous in hers and you feel like crying. 

The silence that follows feels like a never-ending void. Tashi doesn't speak and Art doesn't as well, his eyes finally meeting yours and you look away immediately, the betrayal in your eyes makes Art's heart clench. Your parents try to make small talk with Tashi, Art's mom jumping in as well but you just stay quiet, your chest tightening and your breath short.

As the conversation turns to the weather, the upcoming year's tennis matches and other mundane topics, your thoughts spiral out of control. Your mind is a mess of thoughts and insecurities. Why did he bring her here? Why is his hand on her back like he owns her? And why, why is he looking at you like neither he knows why he did this?

"I think everyone is gathering in the lounge for the auction," your mom says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. She glances at you, noticing the tension in your shoulders "come, let's go find our seats" she adds, gently placing a hand on your back to lead you away but as the other, Art included, starts to move you stay still and your mom does too.

"actually mom, I think I'll go home" your voice trembles and your mom doesn't know what to answer. 

"you want me to come with you?" she asks but you shake your head.

"no you stay with dad, but I need to go" and she nods. 

"we'll be home as soon as possible baby" you nod and in a moment you're outside waiting for your driver to come pick you up, you feel so lost. You thought everything was going well with Art, he's been nothing but sweet for the past year and he never, ever mentioned Tashi while talking about his life at Standford.  

As the air hits your face outside, you take a deep, shaky breath... You feel lost, confused, betrayed even. Art, the guy you've been in love with for so long, the guy who kissed you the last summer, is now bringing another girl to this event, acting like they're together.  

The minutes seem to stretch on forever as you wait for your car. You don't make any attempt to wipe the tears from your face, letting them flow freely down your cheeks. You feel like a fool, standing outside the Donaldson's house, dressed up for a night that quickly turned into a nightmare.

The sound of footsteps behind you is like a punch in the gut. You know it's him without even turning around. Art's presence is unmistakable and you feel him standing behind you even before he speaks.

"Can we talk?" he asks, his voice soft and full of hesitation. You can feel his eyes on your back, studying you, but you don't turn around. The tears keep rolling down your cheeks and you don't have the strength to look at him right now.

Still, you shake your head in a no. 

Art's sigh echoes behind you, the disappointment he must be feeling evident in the single breath. He waits for a moment, maybe hoping you'll change your mind, but when you make no attempt to turn around or speak, he finally does. "Please, just a minute" he tries again, his voice pleading.

The desperation in his voice tugs at your heart, but you remain resolute, refusing to turn around. The memory of his hand on Tashi’s back and the sight of the two of them together flashes in your mind and you shake your head in silent answer once again.

"okay, fine" he says and you hear other footsteps, a moment later he is in front of you.

you huff in annoyance "you don't understand the signs, do you?" the tone of your voice is aggressive.

Art's eyes widen in surprise at the tone of your voice, clearly caught off guard by your sudden aggression. He opens his mouth to speak, but he seems unable to find the right words, unsure of how to respond to the hostile attitude. He takes a step forward, trying to reach for your hand, but you take a step back, preventing him from touching you.

"I understand you're upset-" he tries to speak, his voice measured but you cut him off. 

"Upset? Is that what you think I am?" you say, your voice a mix of anger and disappointment."upset that you brought another girl to this event, acting like she's the one you should be with? I'm not upset, Art. I'm hurt, hurt cause I thought what happened last summer meant something to you, hurt that in a whole year you made me believe that my feeling were reciprocated, hurt that in all those months you never, ever, mentioned a girl named Tashi and I'm hurt because I wasted a whole year of my life waiting for you!" you shout, and you think that for someone who didn't want to talk, you said a lot.

Art flinches at your words, your voice filled with pain and disappointment. He tries to speak but you don't let him, the words pouring out of your mouth like a dam breaking. "And you know what's funny? I actually thought that something would happen between us tonight. I was looking forward to seeing you again and then you come here with her like she's the one you've been waiting for all this time, fuck I feel so stupid right now" your laugh turns into a sob as you realize how foolish you feel. 

Art takes a step closer, his expression pained as he sees you unravel in front of him "you're not stupid" he says gently, his hand reaching out to cup your face instinctively, like he used to do a year ago.

"don't touch me" you say and swat his hand away.

Art's hand freezes and he retracts it quickly, the pain on his face is clear but he doesn't argue "I'm sorry" he says softly, his eyes watching you, unsure if he'll try to touch you again, "I never wanted this to happen, I mean it" he says, his eyes locked on yours, imploring you to believe him.

He takes another step towards you, now standing closer than before but not actually touching you "after we kissed that summer, I swear I couldn't stop thinking about you. I was looking forward to this night so bad" he says, his voice genuine and full of yearning "but then you told me you chose Harvard instead of Standford and... I don't know, we would be so far away and- me and Tashi, it's nothing serious" if when he started talking he felt stupid, now by looking at your face, he is sure of it.

"so you thought that keeping me on the hook for the whole year would solve everything, that you could have both of us?" 

He shakes his head "no that's not what I wanted" he answers immediately "I want you, only you... I'm sorry" Art's confession is honest and raw, his words a mix of desperation and regret "I never intended to keep you on the hook, I swear, I just didn't know how to handle things... I wanted you, I still want you" he hesitates, looking down for a moment before meeting your eyes again "but now I've messed up, I know. I really screwed up" he admits, his expression pleading for forgiveness.

Your car pulls up and you thank the god for the only good thing happening tonight "well, the good news is that I'm still going to Harvard so you can keep having... whatever thing is going on with Tashi" you say dismissively, the tears are still falling and right now you would love to be one of those strong women that can keep emotions under control, that can keep the eye contact with an emotionless expression and resist until they're alone to finally cry... but you're not, and you're sure you look like a mess right now. 

Art watches as your car pulls up, the sight of it bringing a new wave of desperation to his face. He takes a step forward, his hand reaching out for you again, but he stops himself, realizing that his touch is not welcome right now "please, we can talk about this?" he pleads but you brush him off. 

"Like I said, keep having whatever thing you have with Tashi" you say, your voice trembling, the tears keep falling down your face as you grab the handle but Art moves quickly, closing the door of the car before you can open it again. He stands in front of it, blocking your path, his expression determined "you're not going anywhere" he says firmly, his eyes locked on yours "we need to talk" he repeats, his voice steady despite the mess of emotions inside him. 

You can see in his expression how much he doesn't want you to leave but your heart feels like it's shattered into a million pieces and right now you're just tired "there's nothing to talk about" you say, trying to sound strong but the tears streaming down your face betray you "you were right Art, you have every right to live your college life with someone you can be close to, and I do too" you don't mean that, you know you don't. You want to be with him. But now you just want to go home and cry until you fall asleep. 

Art's expression falters at your words, hurt and disappointment etched on his face. He takes a step closer, the proximity making your body react despite the anger and pain "I don't give a damn about my college life" he says frustrated, his emotions raw and unfiltered "I wanted to be with you, I still do. Don't do this, please don't leave like this" his voice breaks slightly as he pleads you.

He reaches for your hand, grasping it in his, the feeling of his touch sending a shiver down your spine "don't run away from this, please" he says, his grip tightening slightly "we can work this out, just don't go" he repeats, his eyes pleading you to stay and talk.

"Art- please, I really want to go home" you sob and Art stills at that, his heart aches at the sound of your sob, the desperation in your voice breaking something in him. You sound so desperate and he doest know what to do anymore, if only he had talked about his insecurities sooner... 

He releases your hand, taking a step back to give you space, the conflict and pain visible on his face "I'm sorry" he says softly, his voice low and full of guilt. "If I could go back in time, I would do things so differently" he admits, rubbing a hand on his face in frustration.

You're not listening to him anymore, that much he can tell, he steps back, allowing you to climb into the passenger seat without another word. The defeat in his expression is clear, but he doesn't try to stop you anymore. The sight of you on the passenger seat, tears streaming down your face, is enough to convince him to not hurt you any further.

"I-I'll call you, ok? o-or you could call me when you're ready" he stammers but you don't say anything, you don't even shake or nod your head. 

Art stands there helplessly, watching as you refuse to respond to his words. The silence between you feels like a physical barrier, the pain and hurt creating a void that neither of you knows how to fill. He takes a deep breath, looking down for a moment before meeting your eyes again. "I really am sorry" he says again, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. Still nothing, your eyes are fixed in front of you, "okay.. goodnight" he shuts the door and watches your car drive away, the taillights growing smaller and smaller until they disappear from sight. His hands curl into fists at his side as a mixture of frustration and sadness washes over him. He had messed everything up and now he was standing there alone, his heart shattered along with yours.

Art spends the rest of the summer trying to contact you: he sends text after text, voicemail after voicemail, begging for you to talk to him and try to fix things, but every time you see his name flash on your screen you feel a pang of pain in your chest and you end up deleting his messages without opening them.

At the same time, you're busy preparing for your move to Harvard and throwing yourself into the tasks at hand, anything to distract yourself from the thoughts of Art that keep creeping into your mind.

Despite your best efforts, the thought of Art is always there, lingering in the back of your mind. Every time you pack a box or organize your new room, memories of the times you spent together flash before your eyes. And even when you're with your new college friends, sharing excitement about the upcoming year, a part of you can't help but wonder what Art is doing and if he's just as wrecked as you are.

Every time your fingers hover over Art's name on your phone, a mix of longing and fear washes over you. You want to hear his voice, to pour out your heart and ask if he's feeling the same ache you are, but the fear of finding out that he has moved on, that he's happy without you stops you every time. You feel stuck between the need to reach out and the fear of what you might find.

The first two months at Harvard are a whirlwind of new experiences, but they're also marked by the new, completely absence of Art that stopped calling since the start of the college year. The silence from him is deafening, and the realization that he's moved on stings more with each passing day. Every time you think about him, your heart clenches as if the wound is still fresh. You try to push the thoughts aside, but the memories and the ache for him persist, refusing to let you fully move on.

It's a sunny October day, the sun is shining brightly, a warm contrast to the slightly chilly autumn breeze that brushes against your face as you're walking with your new friends, everyone chattering away excitedly about the upcoming autumn break. Your eyes are fixed on the path in front of you, as you're listening to your friends speaking, laughs loud and your smile genuine

"ok girls don't look now, but a really cute guy is looking at our Y/N right now, on the left, the one leaned against the wall" your friend's words catch your attention and you try hard not to look but curiosity gets the best of you and almost instinctively, you and your friends simultaneously turn to the left, your heads swiveling to catch a glimpse of the guy leaning against the wall.

The moment you turn, your heart stops. Your steps falter and your eyes widen as you recognize the figure standing there. It's Art. His eyes immediately connect with yours and time seems to freeze.

He smiles, clearly insecure, but smiles and you can see a mixture of nervousness and anticipation in his eyes, yours rakes over his body to take him in: he is wearing a dark blue quarter zip, a white shirt underneath, light blue jeans and white sneakers, his hands in his front pocket and his hair are messy from the wind going through them. 

"Do you know him?" your friend's question breaks the intense moment of eye contact between you and Art and you're snapped back to reality. You try to speak, but your mouth seems to have forgotten how to form words, the words are stuck in your throat, along with all the emotions that are now swirling inside you.

Your friends are looking at you, a mix of curiosity and confusion on their faces. One of them repeats the question, nudging your shoulder slightly to bring you back to the present. You swallow hard, still unable to find your voice, your eyes darting back to Art who's still standing there, watching you with a mixture of hope and nervousness in his eyes "uhm yeah, he is an old friend" you mutter.

Your voice comes out soft and a bit shaky as you finally manage to speak and they exchange a knowing glance as they realize that there's more to your relationship with Art. 

"we should leave them alone, we'll save a place for you" one of them say and the others nod, you feel a mixture of nervousness and anticipation as you watch your friends walk away, their forms shrinking in the distance in the orange Harvard park.

 As you take a tentative step towards Art, time seems to slow down, each movement feeling weighted under his intense gaze. Your heart is beating faster, and you can feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You try to keep your expression neutral, but it’s difficult to hide the mixture of anticipation and anxiety that you feel.

His gaze never leaves your face, watching your every move as he moves away from the wall "what are you doing here?" you ask breathless and it's a miracle Art heard you. 

"I called you" he says. 

 You nod "I know". 

Art takes a few steps towards you "You never answered" there is no accusation in his voice and you nod.

"I know".

The silence hangs heavy between you "college life suits you, you look beautiful". 

"what are you doing here?" you ask and Art looks at his shoes before forcing himself to maintain eye-contact.

"I missed you" he answers immediately and suddenly the wall behind Art is really interesting. 

"you could have sent me a message, it would have been less expensive". 

"would you have answered me this time?" you open your mouth to answer him but nothing that would be the truth comes out.

"probably not" he laughs at that, but there's a hint of melancholy in that laugh, mixed with a tinge of understanding. 

"I guess that's fair" he says, rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. He takes a moment to collect himself before continuing "I thought coming here was the only way to see you" he confesses, his voice softer now.

Your arms are crossed, a subtle barrier between you and him as you listen to his words. He looks sincere and a pang of guilt twists in your stomach when he mentions that he thought this was the only way to see you. You know you could have answered his messages or calls, but something in you wouldn't allow it.

"You could've answered one of my calls even if to just scream at me or to tell me to fuck off". 

You chuckle weakly "maybe I should have. But I was... I was really hurt and confused" you admit, your voice slightly shaky. He takes a step closer to you, the distance between you shrinking even more.

"I'm sorry" he mutters, he takes your face in his hands and you let him, he missed your skin in his hands, you nod, again.

"I know you are" you murmur.

"I love you" your eyes widens. 

Art's hands feel warm and familiar on your face, and you let him hold you. Your hands grip his sweater, holding on to him as if you're scared he might disappear. Tears start to form in your eyes.

"oh" you mentally facepalm yourself and close your eyes as tight as you can, you can hear Art suppress a laugh. 

"yeah... 'oh'... you should really work on a better way to react to good news".

"Art... what you said that night is true, we are so far away now and I don't want us to suffer the long distance" he shakes his head as you speak. 

"No, no I was wrong, never been more wrong. If there are two people who can do it is us" he assures you. 

"but what about Tashi?" you ask and Art takes a deep breath, his hands still holding your face. The mention of Tashi's name hangs in the air for a moment, and your insecurity is almost palpable to him. He looks into your eyes as he tries to find the right words to say. 

"I don't care about Tashi, I never did" he says firmly, his voice filled with conviction "all I care about is you and only you. You're the one I love, you're the one I want to be with. Tashi is nothing to me" Art's grip on your face tightens slightly as he speaks. His eyes search yours, attempting to convey the sincerity behind his words.

"I'm sorry about everything, I swear I'll do anything you want me to do! I can come here every week-end and we'll spend the vacations together or I can transfer here, I can play tennis here too-" your lips interrupt his ramble but he doesn't waste time to return it. Art's lips move against yours with a mixture of passion and desperation, as if he's finally found what he's been searching for.

As the kiss deepens, Art's hands on your waist pull you impossibly close, closing the already small gap between your bodies. You can feel the hunger and need in his touch, the months you've spent apart making the kiss even more intense.

"god- fuck, I missed you so much" his words against your lips are even sweeter than the kiss itself and you feel like melting in his arms, you missed him too "you have no idea how much I missed you" he mutters before capturing your lips again in a bruising kiss. 

Your cheeks are not cold anymore, your entire body feels hot with affection and you mutter an 'I love you' that makes Art pull back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as he listens to the words you whisper. A soft smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he repeats them "I love you too". You can feel the heat radiating from his body, his hands on your waist keeping you closer than ever.

"you don't have to move here for me, we can make this work" you reassure him and finally a genuine and wide smile takes space on your face for him again. 

Art visibly relaxes at your words, the tension leaves his shoulders and he lets out a small sigh of relief "really?" he asks, his eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt. Your reassurance washes away some of his worries, and he allows himself to believe that it could actually work, that you could make it work despite the distance.

"really". 

"so we're okay now- ow!" Art winces as your hand connects with the side of his head, a mix of surprise and amusement on his face. 

"Now we're okay" you smile in victory. 

"I guess I deserved that" he says rubbing the spot where you slapped him. Despite the gentle reprimand, his eyes are filled with relief and happiness as he nods "yeah, we're okay now" he affirms, a warm smile spreading across his face.

━━━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━━━

Do not copy or repost.

[persimminwrites]

which evanuris is your inquisitor* most like?

*originally which evanuris is your rook most like buT BEAUTIFUL MAE MENTIONED THIS FOR LAYLA AND IM HAPPY TO PROVIDE <33333333333 (blowing you a million kisses) @zaahvi

RULES: Color the words that most resonate with your Rook (Inquisitor). Count where you collected most words, and then search for the corresponding Evanuris codex and add it to the post! Add a pic of your lovely Rook (Inquisitor) as well (if you want).

im tagging : @dreadfutures @hollytree33 and truly anyone else if you see this and want to do this for your rook (or inky) please do it and tag me so i can seeeeee

layla lavellan

Andruil the Huntress, also known as the Lady of Fortune, is the elven goddess of the hunt. To the Dalish, she represents their very survival.

Mythal (5)

maiden-mother-crone, diplomacy, motherly instincts, supportive, extinguishing fires, deeper meanings, idealism, resilience, survival, fine leathers and fine silks, silver filigree, raven feathers, driftwood, the iris flower, overwhelming yet restrained power, the dark moon, ultramarine fire, double meanings - double desires, hope, the Hawthorne, undeterred belief in oneself, veiled yearning for power

Elgar'nan (4)

the black sun - the blood moon, Patriarch archetype, possessive protection, authoritarian, hunger for power, relentless yet sometimes passive, subjective, strategic, leader, restrained emotions, tradition, heavy leathers and heavy golds, envy and desire, retribution, a fiery temper, conditional generosity, consuming fire, thorny roses, wings of gold, birds of prey, domination, manipulation and temptation, obsessive, abundance

Falon'Din (5)

black waters, myrrh, dark soil, hushed sounds, white, dark side of the moon, rebellion, vanity, the fade, journeys, shadows and reflections, illusions and deep knowledge, arcane, the dark arts, immortality by looking at the abyss, owl calls through the darkness, mania, desire to be admired, the Undertaker's hands, Nightshades, easily corrupted, deep emotions, ambition and competition, onyx

Dirthamen (3)

ravens and bears, hunger for knowledge, whispers, mercury, thick fog through pine forests, North, mountains, blacks and purples, books and libraries, deep blue ink, matters and facts, initiation through knowledge, masters and disciples, order and discipline, loyalty, delve deep, power through knowledge, know-it-all, teacher, curiosity

Andruil (19)

the hunter's moon, fur, iron, anger, spilled blood, dense woods, swamps and dark lakes, the beating of hooves, autumn rains, moose racks, thick moss, the thrill of the hunt, courage, determination, sensual desires, will to possess, purpose, strength and clarity, bluntness, blind to nuance, restless, victory through blunt force, physical prowess and flexed muscles, strained bows, blood-red

Sylaise (3)

harvest moon, flowers and herbs, warm bread and home, everlasting fires, tales around the hearth, healer and protector, hiraeth, the call of the home, beauty and warmth, respite and refuge, potions and balms, intoxicating scents, flower crowns and white gowns, sensuality, fertility, a large family, deep devotion to a partner, hidden devastating power, high goals, underestimated yet beloved, glory and creation, dreams come true, pink gold and apple flowers, sun rays filtered through leaves

June (6)

creation and invention, bronze and quartz, puzzles and labyrinths, lyrium, leather and wood, smoldering embers, anvils, geometric shapes, innovation, mastery, desire for progress, technology, high tech, logic, hard work, diligence, bolts and oil, welding sparkles, practical outfits, protective gear, sharp blades, mechanic whirring, sharp logic, discovery, technical drawings, teamwork

Ghilan'nain (9)

devotion, mystery, fearless, experimental, direction and motivation, medical knowledge, objective morals, orchids and hallas, love for animals, deeper understanding, emotional and sensitive, delicate, persuaded by loved ones, blurred lines, hyper focus, cruelty, ruthless, childish, shrewdness, flesh, blood and bones, creator, perfector, blood garnets and trembling sinews

Fen'Harel (7)

the wolf moon, pride and vulnerability, wisdom and mania, sharp teeth, furs and leathers, rebels and isolationists, planet Pluto, the great change, uproot, unearth, fixations and deep knowledge, paradoxical subjectivity, hypocrisy, eyes that see it all, silent judgement, adaptability, revenge, blind purpose, grey morality, unfulfilled purpose, ether and dreams, mournful howls, thwarted purpose, thwarted heart, Loki arketype, well laid plans that fail, sharp tongue, sharp mind

[brucestalia]

okay, this is so random, but i need to let the brainrot take over after writing 5000-something coherent words!!! ra’s al ghul is just so vaguely dad-shaped to me, and i can’t even explain why??? like, how am i supposed to tell people my favourite batman rogue is his father-in-law (it should be self-explanatory but whatever).

dc, hire me. i will fix everything wrong with you by giving the al ghuls the character arcs they DESERVE. give me a 12-issue solo ra’s comic with flashbacks to his origin, his relationships with talia, nyssa, and dusan, and his regrets. show the man behind the title. make us feel for him, even as we fear him.

they INVENTED complex father-daughter relationships. the family ever, truly. i yearn for a solo ra’s comic run because it is downright criminal how little we know about him. centuries of history, political intrigue, wars, personal tragedies—and yet, he’s reduced to a comically evil caricature in live action. i’m sorry, but every time ra’s pops up in live action, they turn him into some guy™. like, where is the gravitas? where’s the centuries of despair? this is a man who calls batman “detective” like it’s a term of endearment. give him some respect. ra’s isn’t just a villain; he’s a visionary stuck in his own hubris. centuries of watching humanity destroy itself, and still, he’s clinging to his flawed idea of salvation. that’s so tragically poetic??? [ "I have been called criminal and genius... and I am neither! I am an artist! I have a vision of an Earth as clean and pure as a snow-swept mountain... or the desert outside!" ] dc needs to do some serious damage control here. and when are we getting an al ghul family reunion? dusan! mara! nyssa! sora! melisande! rúh! like, how have the comics not done anything with them? the material is right there. dark knights of steel teased us with what could’ve been. the al ghuls in a medieval setting??? we were robbed. imagine the drama, the betrayal and the heartbreak. they're the blueprint!!!

obviously, the writers can do them justice—they just need to carry that energy into live-action and modern comics

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch10

chapter ten: departure

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no physical descriptors or pronouns are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 10, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-9, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

author's notes: Frederick is so cunty. He INVENTED cunt. This man stared down Abel Gideon and didn’t even flinch. He just said “see you in court.” 💅 This man left Hannibal a copy of the book he wrote *based on him*. That shit was crazy!! I don’t care what anyone says. Frederick is cunty.

Anyway. This chapter has been eluding me for a while. I wanted to live up to the intensity from the book, but I felt like that was impossible for me to accomplish. I also didn’t want this to be a straight replication of the book scene, so… I tried to make this deviate a bit more. So, here goes. It’s a bit shorter as far as chapters go, but whatever.

I also made small edits in the first installment of this series, changing the writing from Hannibal giving you his clothing to Hannibal just giving the reader clothing in their size. I realized it wasn’t inclusive to all body types so I wanted to change it. Plus, imo, it’s even more homoerotic to think that Hannibal specifically bought clothing for you and kept it at his house. That’s very gay. Anyways. Back to regularly scheduled programming!

Warnings: typical violence/blood; kidnapping, death, vomiting. Lots of gore for this one. To avoid spoilers, I’ll put more in-depth warnings in the endnotes.

Frederick Chilton wants to pick you apart. And he isn’t the only one—far from it. That’s the danger of being in a position like yours—a federal agent tasked with chasing after killers and criminals. The thrill of the chase… It forms a relationship between cat and mouse, predator and prey. Frederick may be a predator, but you are not his prey; you have a much larger carnivore on the prowl nearby, haunting your shadows and waiting for you to slip. Frederick may be intrigued by you, but Hannibal Lecter is utterly fascinated by you. There’s no denying the harsh shift in his behavior, from silent and nearly despondent in your absence to verbose and enigmatic upon your arrival. Frederick had tried to pull that energy out of him through their sessions, but he was entirely unsuccessful. Lecter was well aware of his research interest, and seemed perfectly content with keeping his lips firmly closed in the first years of his captivity. 

The thought interests and infuriates Frederick in equal measure. After all, having unrestricted access to an intelligent, self-aware sociopath is a very rare opportunity. The sheer strides Chilton could make in the field of abnormal psychology from even a single test score from Lecter… Frederick has to actively push himself away from those thoughts. They are nothing more than a deluded fantasy, for Hannibal Lecter completely defies quantitative reasoning. 

Frederick muses on the nature of Hannibal Lecter as he approaches the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The building is still a bit of an eyesore. Since his promotion to Head Administrator, he’s made efforts to both repair the space and modernize many of their practices. Whether those efforts have done much to improve the institution’s reputation is another story altogether. 

He’s looking forward to sitting down at his desk and getting through the mountain of paperwork waiting for him. The thought has been bearing heavily on his mind over the weekend, and Frederick is eager to do something with the restless energy that he can’t seem to suppress. 

He’s one step away from the stairs leading up to the entrance when a sudden harsh pain erupts in the back of his head. Frederick topples to the ground as his blurring vision slowly fades to black. The last sensation he can register before succumbing to unconsciousness is a vice grip on his ankle. 

______

A harsh ringing sound forces Frederick to acknowledge his hazy new reality. His head lolls forward and he blinks open his eyes, only to be met with an unrelenting darkness. It takes him a few seconds to realize he’s been blindfolded, and a few more to register the bindings around his wrists and ankles. He seems to be restrained in a chair. 

Frederick isn’t new to being kidnapped—not after Abel Gideon. But this particular situation feels different. Something deep in his chest—an inexplicable yet unwavering conviction—tells him he won’t survive this particular encounter. Because if his captor is who he suspects… he will show no mercy. 

He immediately starts fidgeting and struggling, but the effort is pointless. Frederick has been tightly and effectively restrained. Fear strikes at his heart as his senses work to interpret the space around him. Darkness camouflages the majority of the space, but Frederick can just barely make out some sort of projector screen in front of him. There’s a projector situated right next to him, tauntingly close and within reach. But what good would it serve?

The sound of footsteps sends Frederick’s heart roaring in his ears. He almost feels trapped in the foreign room, time moving like a slow sludge as another presence makes itself known. The person—evidently his captor—steps behind him, their breath practically hitting Frederick’s neck in their proximity. 

“Frederick Chilton.” His captor’s voice breaks through the stiff air and sends a shiver down Frederick’s spine. It sounds like he has some sort of speech impediment, as his S’s are drawn close together. Frederick has very little time to dedicate to that observation, as his blindfold is roughly yanked off. “Lay your eyes upon me. If you don’t wish to look, I will make you look.”

Frederick’s eyes water and he blinks a few times, only to find himself staring at a blindingly white projector screen. Before it stands a shadowed figure, towering over him in near darkness. The man takes a step forward and Frederick just barely stops himself from inhaling sharply at what he finds.

The man is wearing an elegantly patterned kimono; he has a cleft lip, his face slightly disfigured. His knuckles are cracked and bloodied. The man looks at him with gleaming eyes, almost appearing to salivate before him. Frederick’s heart drops to his throat as he remembers everything the FBI deduced about this killer and his personality. The Tooth Fairy stands before him entirely unmasked… and Frederick is assailed with the unshakable conviction that he is not going to live to escape this nightmare. 

“Do you understand?” his captor asks after a few minutes. 

Frederick doesn’t understand anything that’s happening. But he has the wherewithal to recognize the answer the man is looking for. “I understand,” he says through gritted teeth. His mouth is growing dry and his stomach is aching. Just how long has he been confined here? 

“Do you understand who I am?” the man insists. 

“I understand,” Frederick repeats. The only thing he is able to adequately understand is the pulsing fear running through his bones, cementing his fate to die a slow death behind these crumbling walls. Frederick can’t even begin to understand or comprehend the man before him. 

“I am no man,” his captor says, as if somehow sensing his thoughts. His voice echoes in Frederick’s ears, igniting goosebumps along his skin. “I am many things, but never a man. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Frederick is too terrified to say anything else. He can’t deviate from his agreement, for fear of losing his life to this behemoth standing before him. Indeed, his captor is inhumanly tall—looming over him with a far too intent gaze. Every rational part of Frederick’s mind is reminding him of the likelihood of his own impending death. 

“Do you see?” his captor demands.

“I see.” Frederick chokes out. The man quickly breaks the distance between them, his large hand crawling up Frederick’s neck and cradling his jaw. It takes an immense amount of effort from Frederick to remain pliant under the killer’s grip. His touch is deceptively light, almost gentle. Frederick’s breaths are shaky and shuddering. He is forced to be frozen in his bonds, as this man’s thumb carve paths along his face. 

“Once upon a time,” his captor murmurs, his voice almost a whisper. Frederick is terrified of this man—terrified of the juxtaposition between his purported cruelty and the delicacy with which he’s touching him now. Frederick nearly chokes on a breath when the man’s thumb glides over his Adam’s apple, before sliding up to his cheek once more. “I would’ve killed to be like you.” Frederick doesn’t need to think about that statement too much to understand the gist of what he’s saying. He can’t imagine the kind of cruelty and harsh treatment this man has been faced with on account of his facial disfigurement. And while that is no valid excuse for the crimes he’s committed, it contextualizes the desperation behind them. The desire to be seen. The need to be perceived. 

“But not anymore,” he continues. Frederick swallows past the acidic feeling in his throat. The man’s hand keeps rising higher, higher, higher. Now, his right hand stops at the edge of Frederick’s cheekbone, his thumb close enough to make Frederick’s eye flutter instinctively. “Bear witness to my Becoming.” 

It happens in a dizzying blur. His captor’s hand twists, his fingers locking into sharpened hooks. Frederick doesn’t even have the time to flinch before the man is digging his hand into his eye socket and yanking, dragging his eye out in a brutal move that rips a horrified scream from Frederick’s lips. He has never been in so much pain before. It feels as if his captor is digging deeper and deeper into his eye socket, ripping at anything and everything. Frederick’s vision goes dark on the left, deep red tears streaking down his face. In a harsh, disgusting snap, his eyeball is firmly ripped out. His severed optic nerve hangs out of the cavern that sits on the left side of his face. Someone has been screaming in a raspy, broken voice—and it takes Frederick several moments to realize the sound is coming from him.

The killer holds Frederick’s eyeball in his hand. Frederick feels nausea bubbling up his chest and into his throat with frightening speed, barely giving him a chance to prepare before he’s lurching forward in vain and promptly throwing up. Within seconds, he’s dry-heaving as saliva drips down his lips. He’s shaking and trembling, as the vision from his right eye almost pulsates in time with his heart. 

Frederick wants nothing more than to sink into unconsciousness. But the killer is shaking him roughly by the shoulders and hitting him every time his eye threatens to slip shut. At some point, Frederick’s exhaustion is temporarily at bay. “I want you to repeat after me, Frederick,” his captor demands, a camera in hand as he stares at him. “You can do that for me, can’t you?” 

Frederick can hardly respond. He manages a jerky nod and the man hums, starting his camera and giving him the words to say. Frederick is horribly delirious, the words falling to mush on his tongue. He’s slurring through the blood in his mouth and what he’s saying holds absolutely no meaning to him. 

His captor is cruel and merciful in the same breath, for once Frederick truly starts to lose the battle against unconsciousness, he is freed from his bonds and led to collapse on the floor. His cheek meets the scratchy carpet and he blinks tears from his uninjured eye, the man before him morphing and swirling in darkness. 

A wet wipe is rubbed harshly over his face, roving over his cheekbones and following the path the killer  had made with his fingers only moments ago. Frederick lets out a pained whimper and the pressure stops, replaced with an achingly tender swipe along his skin that still seems to hurt. His mind is buzzing, a dull hum that refuses to leave him in solitude. As much as he tries to stay awake and aware of his surroundings, the pain ripping through his face is enough to drag him into the shadows once more. 

He does not wake as he is bound to a wheelchair and thrown into the back of a van. Frederick does not wake, even during the horribly bumpy car ride that ensues. If he were able to pull himself from the unseeing void, he would recognize the fate that awaits him. But he is unknowing of the horrors that have not yet ended. 

Frederick is only broken from his slumber by the harsh screeching of the van arriving at its final destination. He blinks and the doors slide open, revealing his captor standing outside with a mask secured over his face and gloves covering his hands. Frederick can discern little of the environment around him, save for the inky black night devoid of stars. The man then steps into the back of the van and rolls Frederick out onto the pavement.  

“A mortal cannot witness the transformation of a god without dying,” he remarks, his hands gripping the handles of the wheelchair. Frederick desperately tries to escape, despite knowing it’s no use. His vision is still adjusting to the loss of his left eye; he’s exhausted; and the ropes binding his ankles and wrists are rather tight. The killer seems to know this, as a strange sort of smile rises on his lips. “This has always been your fate.”

It is only then that Frederick notices the red gasoline canister he’s holding. Even through his exhaustion, his mind rapidly connects the canister to the box of matches poking out of the killer’s pocket. The Tooth Fairy is going to burn him alive. Frederick begins to writhe and squirm as his adrenaline spikes, but his struggling is futile. There is nothing human in the monster’s face as he upturns the canister, coating Frederick in gasoline. Frederick is nearly hyperventilating now, as flashes of significant moments in his life come to mind. 

He stares up into the eyes of his captor, searching for a hint of humanity to appeal to. But there is only an unfeeling abyss. Terrified, Frederick watches in mute horror as the Tooth Fairy circles around him and stops behind him. He hears the telltale sound of a match being lit; a searing warmth greets the side of his face, before a match crawls down his shirt and his entire body is consumed with flames. At some point, Frederick is shoved forwards—sending the wheelchair careening down an incline with increasing speed. He screams until his voice dies in his chest. Fire paints his tunneled vision a remarkable orange-red, with the air around him flickering and waving with the sudden heat. His last breath ripped from his chest, Frederick Chilton slumps back in the wheelchair and surrenders to the relentless flames.

warnings: gore involving eyeballs/eye sockets & ensuing blindness; kidnapping and captivity.

next chapter

endnotes: Did I have to make that so homoerotic? No. Do I regret it? Also no.

Wow. I really made Frederick go through it. *Sigh.* I love hurting characters I like.

anyways, thanks for reading! <3

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[moonshynecybin]

it’s probably been said already but rosquez howl’s moving castle

INSANE!!!!!!! vale's tiny earring vaguely androgynous wizard swag... old man marc... this got long?? under the cut

and see the thing is. i think this is a unique kind of torture for someone like marc. truly. like marc knows he's hot. marc enjoys people thinking he's hot. even in this universe, where he's sadly running the family shop so alex doesnt have to, i simply must believe he has six pack abs and is in fact invested in making people look at them. like he views his body as a machine, hes very active, he would NOT enjoy all of the new aches and pains and limitations that come with being magically EIGHTY. so after the witch of the wastes (uccio?? someone jealous and in love with vale LMAOO) brushes in to the hatshop that night and hates marc on sight/fundamentally alters his body, i think he IMMEDIATELY starts militantly looking for a solution.

the solution: the wizard valentino is this oft elusive but INCREDIBLY charismatic wizard known by whisper and rumor to a. be insanely powerful and b. eat the HEARTS out of his young suitors. and marc (CRAZY MAN.) goes oh well im not hot anymore so he wont do that to me. i will make him fix me! and then he invites himself into vale's home and refuses to leave! says i am your new HOUSEKEEPER. and you will help me break my curse thank you :)

BUT: instead of a mystical and powerful wizard, hes confronted with the HOT GUY that he met several weeks ago that he helped escape from the witch of the waste's GOONS. he was like. walking home. and vale (in his big poofy shirt) whisks him into a scheme... looks at marc all bright eyed mischief... and marc hasnt had any enrichment in his enclosure in so long and just feels LIT UP from the inside, falls into step with vale immediately, matching him as they go. feels ALIVE for the first time since alex took his apprenticeship in another town... so he helps vale escape, flirts with him a LOT and laughs even more. smitten. but crucially and unfortunately, he also has NO idea who vale is throughout this. so later when he walks in the door and finds out that the guy he has a major crush on is also THE WIZARD VALENTINO. who also has a small FLEET of HIGHLY SKEPTICAL teen boy apprentices that marc is now kind of in charge of coparenting and like. convincing to clean their rooms, its a bit of an insane time to be marc.

so some WILD but highly amusing control freak behavior from marc ensues.. lots of little frictions as he arrives... pushback from the kids, vale acting cold and dismissive, a brand new body that doesnt do what he wants it to do... but after a while, marc MAKES space for himself. forcibly improves their lives. settles in to a FAMILY and CRUCIALLY starts emotionally fulfilling the little feral animal inside him that yearns to throw himself off of motorcycles at high speeds. get this many adrenaline seeking freaks that know MAGIC in one place and they are inventing new types of danger Know This. marc is with vale and the kids doing insane shit. and for the first time since he took over his family's shop, he is allowing himself to do what he LOVES. find his purpose. enjoy a community. relieve some of the crushing weight of familial responsibility. its literally the best hes ever felt. and he is. SO in love. so so in love.

BUT im gonna pull something from the novel here: marc is also an incredibly powerful sorcerer. has been forever. he just has NO IDEA. like i see marc literally his entire life using magic in little ways to influence all of the crazy thrill seeking stuff that he's done, but entirely unintentionally. but vale fucking knows. could see it the second they met. in FACT. marc has already broken his curse (marc doesnt know that). but he likes sticking around vale. so he's unconsciously keeping himself old so he can avoid leaving. truly, like when he isnt thinking about his body and hes normal and happy he looks like his actual age. marc with silver hair just laughing with vale and the boys... smile lines staying there but wrinkles fading more and more as time passes... he doesnt want to go back to his old life!!! back to being unremarkable in the hatshop like he knows he should!!! and everytime he remembers he looks decades older... but vale doesnt want to lose him either. so he doesnt tell him. but he also vant make a move with it hanging over them like that... so they live in a fraught equilibrium of pining that is also lowkey a marriage LMAO. like you are coparenting. jesus.

EYE THINK. that the breaking point here is alex returning at some point. talking with marc. and marc is. SO happy to see alex. smiling as hard as he can. but also he looks older than he's looked since he first arrived. all of that responsibility and guilt rushing back for abandoning his life at the hatshop. and it TEARS into vale like omg i am keeping him here selfishly away from his brother.... so he sends him away, "breaks" his curse. and marc thinks hes being DUMPED. and thats how the divorce happens....

[whatt-the]

Gift for @single-eutanasia

Don't gotta tell me twice‼️‼️ on it boss‼️

Young Fiddleford x reader

I do think it would be interesting. To be a new citizen at gravity falls and quickly growing a connection to the nerdy looking country man that got a hold of your heartstrings. He was funny, relativelly charismatic (it may just be you alone standing on that hill- he's.. passionate let's say. I wouldn't call it charismatic by any stretch of the imagination), shy in a way that made flirting with him absolutely delightful, and, most of all, incredibly smart. What was there not to love?

Though things got weird when you questioned why he was often gone for long periods of time on certain days of the week- it would be a perfectly reasonable response to say that he is simply working on his research, crafting something- something more prone to exploding, which he wouldn't want you to be around, thus explaining away your concerns for him. But he can see the pain in your eyes. He may be shy but he's by no means oblivious: he knows you've been through things you'd rather never have gone through. Everyone has.

And who is he to deny you the peace of mind you so clearly deserve?

So he comes somewhat clean; tells you all about how he invented something truly revolutionary, how it could change lives in seconds, improve things years of work wouldn't come close to doing, how it's saved his life much more than once, and how it's been by far his best creation.

A memory wiper.

You were taken off guard, though you let him continue: he tells you about how he knows you've been through so very much, how he knows you could reach your full potential if you weren't held back by your past experiences, he holds your hand as he rambles on and on about how wonderful you are, how much better your life would be if you gave his invention a chance, how happy you both could be, you with your new, more capable mind, and him, with the peace of mind of knowing that you felt safer than you ever felt before.

It was a tempting offer.

You allow him to take you to one of his meetings: a cult, clearly, but you wouldn't tell him that. He was much to excited to have your trust. If you didn't want to have your traumas wiped away, he'd simply delete the memory of the whole encounter off your mind, and everything could go back to normal.

Though things didn't go as he'd planned, they don't tend to go his way in most occasions.

He felt deeply comforted by having your belief in him- you were the only person he truly considered himself to be close to that never hurt him in any way, you were someone he could rely on for any of his social needs, and, you were someone he was immensely attracted to, despite how immoral it felt to be that way, even moreso to admit to it.

Everything about you got to him, really. Your glances at him, your hands on his, your care for his wants, your hugs, your smell, your sleeping face-- gods how he loved to have you on top of him, even if he knew (thought) you'd never do it while fully conscious.

And that brings us to his fantasies, which are just as frequent as your encounters. The kisses you'd never shared, the intimate touches he could only ever crave. It all led him to be head over heels for you, lost completly in all that is you.

And to know he was going to bring you the peace of mind of not even knowing of the horrors of this world that you'd seen? It brought him pride, joy, butterflies to his stomach. He was going to make you truly happy.

He didn't think he'd be the one with his brain emptied by the end of the night, he never thought it possible. But his fantasies were brought to life! Everything he'd ever wanted: your approval, your sweet words, your appreciation, your trust, your touch, your love. All given to him on a silver platter. All he had to do was make a choice.

Throw away his morals, do everything he's been yearning for so desperately, ignore his family back at home. You didn't want him to forget about his family, no, you wanted him to live with the fact he'd betrayed their trust to have yours. That you were worth more to him than the woman he's had children with.

How he was brought to this predicament he knows all too well: you caught him as he spiraled down a rabbit hole of increasingly sick thoughts about you and him, saw him in his most vulnerable state, nearly cowering before you as he begged for your forgiveness and attempted to hide how hard he was, all for you.

Your sickeningly sweet tone betrayed your offer, it was worded virtually in the same way as his offer to you. Live his best life, do everything he's been holding himself back from doing, you know he's been through a lot, a lot you didn't want him to bother himself with: ditch the ring, have his dreams.

And he couldn't deny you, he was most definetly not god's strongest soldier when it came to matters regarding you.

And he let you ruin him- defile him, do as you pleased with him: and he begged you to not erase your memory of this. To not erase his, even. He needed to remember this. He needed you to remember it, he wanted to commit every single detail about the night to memory and never have it go away. Oh how he held onto you like you were his only tether to reality.

And this scenario of him begging for you to keep your memory of this repeated itself for every other time he needed you. And let me tell you, you'd come to hear his desperate sounding voice as he pleaded with you much more often than you'd expect.

HAHA 2 SKETCHES THIS TIME! HOW GENEROUS OF ME

[lilitaqa]

Max Thunderman: Why He Was Never Meant to Be a Hero or a Villain

As I mentioned, I want to share my idea or simply my thoughts.

So, once I read a fanfic that I'll try to find (I found it, it's Just grab a hold of my hand (I will lead you through this wonderland) by tea_drinking_bitch), and the plot revolves around Max not understanding why he needs to be a hero. (I don't remember very well anymore) but all I remember is the overwhelming sadness that filled this text. In the end, he met a lost girl, took her home, and the girl's mother called him 'her hero'...

It was beautiful....

(He also fixed something in their house, which really helped them since they didn't have to call a repairman/buy a new one).

Because of this event, he finally understood why he needed to be a hero...

But the whole time I was reading, I was mentally screaming, 'You don't have to be a hero for your family! You can be what your soul yearns for!'...

And yes, I cried the entire time I was reading, and for at least 20 minutes after finishing, tears kept welling up in my eyes....

That's when I finally realized completely that the path of a hero doesn't suit him, just like the path of a villain....

I've always seen that the path of an inventor is the best for him, because it's what he truly loves and is passionate about.

You know how he loves his inventions? I'm sure he would have genuinely enjoyed living that life. Although, isn't he living it now? We see him inventing, inventing, and inventing again, and it's obvious he truly enjoys it. So why don't we think that it's as an inventor he's meant to be?

Because he was born into a family of heroes? And based on that, he can only choose two paths....

A hero like everyone in his family, or a villain, which his 'best friend' is clearly pushing him towards.... (I won't talk about the rabbit now, since that's well covered in this post @sunsetcurve).

The 'Hero' profession, it seems to me, is not for him, but he supposedly *has* to be one because he was born into a family of heroes. And he wanted to be a villain only because it was the only alternative for a boy not even 15 years old, who was definitely psychologically influenced (read: manipulated) by an adult villain who was bitter towards his father....

Don't you think Max was meant to be an inventor?

Or am I the only one haunted by these thoughts?

Thank you for your attention. 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

(Adding:

Here I want to explain some thoughts because after re-reading my post, I realized I phrased it a bit inaccurately.

Yes, I re-watched the TV show. Like many noticed, Max's actions when he was a villain from the very beginning resembled more like petty mischief than what a truly malicious character with his genius intellect *could* have done. He was a rebel, like many teenagers his age. And I'm not saying this was just a phase he would grow out of, as his family constantly claimed. I'm saying he didn't *want* to be truly villainous. This isn't the path his kind heart would have chosen. It's just as imposed a path as heroism.

As you probably understood, I belong to the group that believes the 'hero' profession was imposed by his family and their family business. He most likely consciously didn't want to be a hero for his own reasons (I don't remember exactly what they were... Probably due to his family's behavior, but honestly, I don't recall the exact thoughts I had when pondering this. It's about 4 AM as I write this, and my brain isn't working well.). Basically, he didn't want to be a hero. But because he was a child (I honestly don't know how old he was, but we all acknowledge that kids under 14, and sometimes older, don't think clearly. Don't hit me, I'm 16 and I don't think clearly either.) who grew up in a family of heroes, constantly told he *must* become a hero... and then he had his "friend" sitting in a rabbit cage in his room – an inventor who was a supervillain embittered towards his father. And so this friend offered him an alternative path! He could be a supervillain, not a hero! And Max was inspired by this idea.

That, in my opinion, is how Max chose the path of villainy. And this is only *my* vision, it doesn't have to be yours! And when I thought about what path would be best for him, I realized that the path of the Inventor would be the best. He could use his great mind to create countless inventions that would help people not just in one city or country, but in many countries. This kind boy could help so many people in the role of an Inventor that it's beyond words. And in my view, this is the best path for him.

Thanks again for your attention.)

Anyway, I went back to reread the fanfic I mentioned earlier, and while scrolling through the comments, I found a like-minded person. (Below is part of her wonderful comment):

P.S: In my mind, Max is going to therapy and understand that being a super hero or a villain isn’t his way, and he’ll become an inventor for the Hero League, maybe a rocket scientist or a theorical physicist.Phoebe, as a cover career, could be a great magistrate, but… this is for a post on my blog, so, shhht! :) @cpffd

And after reading this, I couldn't resist adding to my post. When I said I wanted to see him as an inventor (scientist), I don’t want him working for the League of Heroes. The League of Heroes in the series is too narrow/specialized to unlock Max’s full potential. Not that he couldn’t work there if he wanted to. But as far as we know from the show, it's secretive, and Max’s inventions—which could help so many people—wouldn’t reach as many if he didn’t operate more... openly (I suppose). And for some reason, I really dislike the League of Heroes. I don’t know why; I’m just left with this weird negative feeling about it.